Grey & Stone: The Red Queen (Chapter 1)

Doctor Theodore Westmoore sat at the rather cluttered table at the center of his laboratory. Electrical machines buzzed all around him, humming at different frequencies that he was constantly keeping himself aware of. The grey-haired man was hunched over a set of papers, the nub of a quickly evaporating pencil held tightly in a claw-like grip as he scribbled notes along the borders of the readouts.

The entire workshop looked to be in a state of chaotic perfection, what with the variety of odd gadgetry emitting bursts of steam or little coughs of smoke. Some items seemed to teeter uneasily, while others spun harmoniously. Overall it would have been a wondrous and all together terrifying sight to anyone from the outside, this little glimpse into the heart of modern age sorcery.

“God damn it,” he swore quietly to himself. “Still not right.”

“What’s wrong, Sir?” A younger man popped his head up from his own workspace a few feet away, where he had previously been hidden behind a tower of blinking and whirring pillars.

“The field isn’t right. It still isn’t stabilizing!” Westmoore dropped the stub of wood and charcoal he had been holding so fiercely and sighed, raising his hands to his temples. “I thought we had it this time, Stewart.”

“You’re almost there, Sir. You’ll have it in no time.”

“That’s what your father told me. Before he retired.”

“Sir?”

“Five years ago, Stewart. It was five years ago that you took your father’s place on my team. And guess how close I was then?”

“You’re closer now, Sir.” Westmoore’s assistant offered a friendly smile, wiping the soot from his face. “You’re on the verge.”

***

Alexander Grey was a simple man who lived a rather complicated life. And what was worse was the fact that it was never seemingly complicated by his own actions, but rather by the complete lack of thoughtfulness of those individuals that he did not even know.

Now was just such an occasion, where the greed and hubris of those completely outside of his knowledge were impeding what would have been a rather pleasant afternoon. What was worse, Grey thought, was that after all was said and done, the wealth of his current tormentor would keep them out of any serious trouble.

He did so despise the rich.

And yet, here he was, saving yet another estate, earning yet another invitation to another ball, and overall ingraining himself deeper into the cultural circle in which he was completely uncomfortable. But Alexander Grey was not nearly brave enough to do anything else. Which was quite funny considering what job he was currently about to undertake.

Removing his hat and coat, Alexander set them carefully aside. He returned to them only momentarily to withdraw his Pinkerton badge from an inside pocket.

The agent looked at the brass-plated symbol of his position, shaking his head a bit once more at his current predicament. It was always the innocent who suffered, it seemed.

Without much light in the room, Grey took a few extra moments to triple-check that everything he needed was in place. The conditions only served to remind him, however, of his annoyance. For this room, he had discovered, was not properly equipped with gas lightning, and there was no window from which to draw any illumination from the outside world. The study had been completely run by electricity, it seemed.

Such selfish, greedy men. To them, a black market generator and a house buzzing with illegal and potentially dangerous--or rather, in this case, provably dangerous--electricity was absolutely fine so long as it allowed them to work their clerks late into the night, further expanding their already considerably vast fortunes. And even now, after a young woman’s life had likely been ruined, her mind likely warped beyond all recovery by the alien presence that had possessed her, as soon as Alexander Grey left the property, he was absolutely sure that the lights would all come humming back to life.

***

Jonathan Stone leaned back against the dingy alley wall. The sound of five men talking amongst themselves drifted to him on the foul air. Why was it, he wondered, that would-be criminals always had to pick the filthiest places to commit their crimes? Then again, truth was that if he wasn’t here, he’d likely be in a bar that wasn’t that much cleaner.

“All good to go?” he heard one of the men ask.

“No sweat,” answered another. “Gonna be like candy from a baby.”

“Well then,” chortled a third, “guess that means we better give you two guns then, eh?” A loud guffaw was cut short by the sound of a chest being impacted by the back of a hand.

“Enough,” demanded the first voice. “Just be ready. We got a small window to make the jump.”

The man known as Agent Jonathan Stone silently wondered to himself if he just stepped out around this corner and flashed his badge, if just maybe the entire gang would simply give up and come with him peacefully. He rolled his eyes--he didn’t need to see the future to know that was about as likely as him taking a nice scenic cruise on Lake Ontario.

Stone closed his eyes, tapping the back of his head lightly against the filthy brick. He could see the train coming. He could see the gang of misfit bandits readying themselves to pounce.

He reached down to silently ready the guns hanging from either hip, releasing the little leather straps that kept them secure and pulling back the hammers.

***

“I’m just tired, Stewart,” Dr. Westmoore sighed. “If we could do this...” he shook his head. “If I could do this,” came the correction, “then we could fix everything that happened. The world could truly advance again.”

“But the world has advanced, Sir. Hasn’t it?”

“You don’t understand. You’re just a pup--you don’t know what it was like before the Catastrophe. The world was full of promise, and great men were rising to fulfill it. This isn’t the world as it was meant to be, Stewart.”

“I can’t imagine things any differently, Sir.”

Westmoore simply nodded.

“I know,” he said. “But if you had only seen what it was like. What could have been.”

“I’m sure I will, Sir.” Stewart offered another friendly smile to his employer. “You’ll stabilize the field, I have no doubt.”

“Thank you, Stewart,” Westmoore replied, feigning a smile of his own. “You and your father are good men. I’m lucky to have had you both by my side.”

***

Alexander took one last deep breath before entering the dimly lit room. Only a pair of candles shed their light within, casting everything in orange-tinted shadow. He could see a small figure huddled in the far corner, apparently weeping softly, from what he could hear.

The Pinkerton detective now had a silver contraption strapped to his back, with dials and valves and the sound of whirring coming from deep inside. It made the hair on the back of his neck stand up as it generated so much electricity so close to his skin.

“Laura?” Alexander whispered. “Laura? Are you alright?”

The sounds of crying ceased immediately.

“I’m not here to hurt you, Laura.” He attempted to sound as honest and reassuring as possible.

“Why?” came a tiny, distant voice. “Why am I here? Why does it hurt? Why can’t I go home?”

“That’s why I’m here, Laura. To help you get home.”

The teen-aged girl lifted her head from her knees, revealing eyes that had gone completely black--Alexander could see them even through the darkness, theirs being so much more complete. The agent took another deep breath.

“Will you let me help you, Laura?” As Grey spoke, he unhooked one of five rods that hung from his belt. He pressed it against the floor at his feet and then twisted it; it emitted a sudden, sharp noise as it was anchored firmly into the wood. “Let me help you.”

***

“Alright boys,” Jonathan called, stepping around the corner. “Let’s all just calm down.” His badge flashed from the breast of his coat while his hands rested on the hilts of the revolvers hanging from his belt. The train was only a few feet away. It was now or never.

“What in the hell?” It was the man who had sounded like the leader who spun around the quickest--a big man with narrow eyes surrounded by dark circles. Jonathan didn’t quite like the thought of having to fight that one.

“Just come along nice and easy, and none of you boys need to get hurt.” The group as a whole laughed at the suggestion. Stone knew that they would, of course, as thugs always liked to make things more difficult than they needed to be. But such was life, and the agent got at least a little satisfaction from beating criminals senseless when they interfered with his afternoon drinking schedule. Besides, in about two more seconds the men would have lost their chance to board the cargo train that was currently passing behind them.

“God damn it,” shouted the ringleader as he himself realized the situation. “Get on there.” The brute grabbed one of the smaller men in front of him and spun on his heels, hurling the man through the air. Scrambling frantically, the thrown bandit only just barely managed to grab the rear-most railing of the last car, pulling himself up with a shout of relief.

Jonathan gave a dramatic sigh and shrugged his shoulders.

“Alright,” he said, pulling his guns from their holsters, “let’s get this over with.”

***

Before the kind words could even fully evaporate off the air, the entire moment was forgotten as the world suddenly stopped making sense and pandemonium ensued. A massive explosion rocked the western wall of the laboratory, throwing both of its occupants to the ground.

“Wha--What in the wo--” Dr. Westmoore’s eyes went wide as powers of comprehensible speech escaped him. Standing there in the hole where a block of generators had previously been was a massive man made of metal.

The creature stood nearly ten feet tall, with broad shoulders and a vulture-like head set low between them. Black smoke escaped from the various gaps in its form, along with an eerie blue light that the doctor immediately recognized as electric. Clawed hands flexed at its sides as it towered there, glowing eyes scanning the room. The golem’s gaze stopped upon Westmoore and it took a step forward.

The scientist heard a startled cry from his assistant, and risked a glance to see the young man attempting to find his feet and run. The metal monstrosity’s head quickly snapped to the new target, with speed similar to that which it was modeled after. Westmoore watched in horror as the creature effortlessly lifted one of the wrecked machines that had come to rest at its feet and let it fly. The doctor looked after his protegee and then instantly away, as the thrown chunk of debris caught the fleeing man handily, smashing him mercilessly against the opposing bank of gadgetry with a sickening sound like that of a cart of melons colliding with a train.

***

The girl laughed in a voice that did not match her features as she climbed to her feet with jerky, unsettling movements. She set her black eyes on Alexander, her head tilting to one side. And then she smiled.

Grey knew what was coming next and braced himself for it. He slowly reached back, retrieving what appeared to be a metal fork with two prongs; it was attached to the machine strapped to his back by a long cord.

All at once, the uneasy calm within the room was gone, along with the possibly salvageable Laura. As the girl leapt through the air, her body transformed, her bones popping out of place and becoming distorted in terms of size and shape. The child-turned-monster lashed out with fingers that were now more like needles, attempting to shred the flesh from the Pinkerton agent’s face.

Alexander had already begun to move as soon as the beast had. He deflected her blow with the tool in his hand, and, when her limb made contact, he squeezed the handle, causing a sudden surge of electricity to tear through her deformed body.

The girl who was once Laura screamed in pain, and for a moment, her hand seemed to shrink and retreat towards a more normal appearance. But such hope quickly faded, and the monster was soon whole again. The detective, however, had already given up any such fancies, and so, while the demon had faltered, he had continued moving, planting another rod into the floor a few feet from the first.

***

Agent Stone quickly fired a shot from each of his guns as he fell back around the corner once again. Each of his bullets had found their marks, however, colliding with two of the thieves’ own weapons just as they had drawn them. The cursing and the sound of heavy objects hitting the floor let Jonathan know that he had managed to disarm them.

“Come on now, Kids,” he called from behind his cover of brick and grime, “can’t we play nice?”

“You got nowhere to run, Pinkerton,” growled the leader. “And we still managed to get a boy on the train. How does that make you feel?”

“Well,” Jonathan called back, “it makes me feel pretty bad, actually. Because now your odds are even worse.” More laughter sounded from around the corner.

“Get him.”

***

As the golem advanced on Westmoore, the man closed his eyes and began to pray. He hadn’t prayed in years, and, he had to admit, given what he had done since that last time, he doubted anyone would be listening.

“Please,” the doctor whispered, whether to the metal man or to God, he didn’t know. “Please.”

Westmoore opened his eyes and looked up at the massive iron form that stood above him. It could crush him without any trouble, just as it had Stewart. And yet, it hadn’t yet. Perhaps that meant he was wanted alive? That meant he had a chance.

Moving very slowly, Dr. Westmoore pulled himself up to his feet, making sure to keep his hands out in the open at all times. He kept his eyes locked on those of the creature, making sure to give no sign of which direction he planned to run.

“Please,” he pleaded, “don’t hurt me. I’m just an old man.”

The mechanical vulture cocked its head to one side, and the doctor could hear a faint whirring from within. The noise abruptly stopped and the golem snapped its head right again. Westmoore took that as his cue and turned instantly to run for the door.

The aging scientist made it about halfway across the room before he found himself on the floor, screaming from the pain of his mangled leg--a rather large piece of equipment having collided with it quite forcefully. Yet even over the sound of his own cries, he could hear the steps of the mechanized giant closing the distance.

***

The monster lunged a second time, enraged only further by being denied on its first attempt. Alexander, however, had played out this same scene too many times before, and his reflexes held him steady.

Using the transformed girl’s momentum against her, the Pinkerton agent ducked to the side, and with another threat from the electrified weapon in his hand, the demon went more than wide enough to allow him passage around her. A third loud thunk now sounded, as the another of the rods he had attached to his belt was now firmly planted in the hardwood floors.

Laura turned on him, hissing aggressively as black blood trickled out from the corners of her eyes. She crouched, like an animal, staring at the man with the sparking fork.

“Murderer,” she taunted him. “Killer,” she sneered, “whose hands are stained with blood.”

“I’m sorry,” Alexander whispered, extending the tool that he gripped tightly. “I really am.”

He had placed the three rods in a triangle around the girl, and now, as she squatted there in the center, he closed his eyes. As the fork neared the rod, miniature lightning erupted from both of the objects, connecting them with a crackling light. It took only a moment after the bond was forged for similar bolts to arc to and from the the other metallic pylons as well. The air filled with static electricity, and Alexander winced as he felt the hair all over his body stand on end--he knew what was coming next.

That was when the girl began to scream in a way that only someone having the very soul ripped from their body ever possibly could.

***

“They never take my advice,” Jonathan said, somewhat bemusedly to himself. He had tried, though, and that’s all it really took to assuage any guilt he might have garnered from his conscience for what was about to take place.

Giving his guns a cocky twirl, the detective stepped purposefully out of his hiding spot, and the world around him seemed to flicker. As his opponents moved, they seemed to blur--moving just a split second before they actually did. Jonathan watched as his own revolvers seemed to rise a moment before his arms actually did, causing a small delay before reality came into sync with the ghosts he saw.

The Pinkerton agent darted forward, quickly dropping two of the four men with just as many shots. The third quickly followed, trailed by another flash of shadow across Jonathan’s field of vision; he felt more than saw the leader of the thugs raise a gun and pull the trigger, and felt his own wraith step to the side just in time. Jonathan followed suit, suffering only a rather loud ringing in his ears as a result. And then he spun around, catching the brute in the temple with the butt of his revolver, dropping him to the ground like a sack of potatoes.

Stone looked around to check that all of his fallen foes had indeed been put down for at least the next few minutes. One had taken a bullet to the chest, while the first two howled in pain due to the holes blown through their knees. He then shook his head to try and clear the haze.

“Stupid sons of bitches,” he said to himself, before turning and making his way to the edge of the platform. Jonathan peered down along the track, making out his final target--a scrawny little man prancing his way shakily along the tops of a series of train cars.

As the agent went to raise his gun, reality as he saw it once more began to shift. He shut his eyes tightly for a moment to try and clear it, but knew it wouldn’t do much good in his current state, and so surrendered to the premonitions.

Jonathan watched as the idea of a bullet exploded from the barrel of his gun and cut through the wind; he watched as it was pushed ever so slightly to the left, and as it tore through the last thief’s thigh. He heard a distant scream of mixed pain and surprise and then witnessed the man tumble to his death on the tracks between the cargo containers upon which he had been skulking.

And then Jonathan actually pulled the trigger, forced to experience it all for a second time.

***

“Please,” Westmoore begged, looking up into the passive electric eyes of the giant. “Please. Don’t kill me. I am trying to make a difference!”

“Oh, you’ve already made a difference, Doctor.” A new voice--that of a young woman, drifting on the dusty air--responded from behind the looming construct. “Such a difference.”

“What? Who’s there?” Westmoore squinted into the gloom, struggling to look past the pain-induced tears. “What do you want?”

“What do I want?” asked the voice, followed by the sound of careful footsteps drawing closer. “Oh. What do any of us want, Good Doctor?”

“I--I don’t understand. Who are you?” He managed a bit more force into his tone, not that he was really in any position to demand anything, after all. But he hadn’t quite yet given up.

“Don’t you remember, Doctor?” The woman moved closer, partially out of the haze and shadow. Red-painted lips pulled back in a smirking smile, setting her face in a cruel light when matched with the disdain in her hard stare.

“You.”

“No, you, Doctor!” the woman practically screamed, pointing an accusing finger. “All you. All of this, because of you.”

“What do you want?”

“There’s only one thing you need to know, Doctor,” she said, moving over to crouch down beside the fallen scientist.

“And what is that?” he asked, his former hope seeming to melt away, being replaced once more with honest fear.

“That after I kill you,” she whispered, “your daughter will be next.”

***

Alexander knelt beside the charred and half-naked body that had once belonged to a girl named Laura. He checked her pulse, though it was more out of service to regulations than any actual hope she might still be alive. She had been a pretty girl, he thought to himself, as he took an extra moment to examine her face. Now, though, it had all been taken away. If her former employers even bothered to pay for a funeral, it would have to be one with a closed casket.

Rage began to boil up inside him at the image, but he struggled to force it back down.

“Master Grey?” came a withered voice from outside the sealed chamber, knocking the detective from his introspection at just the right time.

“Yes?” Alexander answered, turning to make his way to the door.

“Is she alright, Sir?” asked the elderly butler, as Agent Grey opened the door.

Alexander instinctively narrowed the crack just a bit more, the answer to the other man’s question being etched on his face.

The servant closed his eyes, letting his chin drop to his chest.

“She was such a good girl,” he said, weakly.

“I’m sorry,” Alexander replied, “I tried to save her.” The butler nodded.

“I know, Sir. Your reputation precedes you.” The grey-haired man looked up then, tears beginning to wet his cheeks. “Perhaps that is why we all held on to more hope than we should have.”

“I’m sorry.”

Again the butler nodded, but then simply changed the subject, wishing the entire previous one out of his memory.

“I came because we received a message for you, Sir.”

“A message?”

“Yes, Sir,” answered the servant, holding out a folded bit of paper. “From a Miss Westmoore, Sir. She said it was urgent.”

***

Jonathan returned to the man who he had knocked unconscious, rolling him over with an audible groan of exertion.

“Good god, man,” the gunslinger commented to himself, “did you eat one of your friends before I got here?”

The detective rifled through the man’s pockets, looking for some clue as to why they had been here. He had simply gotten lucky spotting them on their way in. Though, perhaps it was a bit more than luck--looking around now, at the bullet holes he himself put in most of them, he remembered seeing them before guns were even drawn.

The discovery of an envelope in one of the brute’s many pockets, however, saved him from any further reverie.

“Ah, thank god for stupidity,” he said, tearing into the letter unceremoniously. And then, after a few moments of scanning the paper’s contents over and over again, his smile morphed into a frown.

“Cargo Train 854,” the letter read, “three o’clock. Platform behind Old Rail Suppliers. Car 12, crates five through thirty-two.” Jonathan shook his head at the simple, straight-forward message. There was no information on where to deliver the goods, or even what was in the crates. But yet, it was also incredibly specific at the same time.

“Specific cases out of a specific car on a specific train?” The detective eyed the note suspiciously. “Something’s missing.” Jonathan took one final look at the signature--a kiss from painted red lips--before folding the letter back up and stuffing it in his pocket. He needed to ask these boys a few questions, and then he needed to have a few drinks.