From the personal journal of Braeden Wren, also known as The Warlock:
May 15th 29 AA (2095 AD)
I had the poor sod cornered in a grimy alley in the slums of Haven. The parts where no one would come to help even if you screamed till your lungs ran out of air, and your body of life. He had a snowball's hope in hell against me in single combat, let alone the heavily armed squad of para-military Urban Security Units at my back.
So if he was cornered, if I had the entire situation under control and my target completely helpless, why did his dirty, unshaven face sport a small confident smile? One in my profession finds looks of terror and dismay far more comforting.
We'd been chasing the b*****d all night, after the Squad coming up behind me now had spotted him loitering in the downtown area where all the bigwigs were sleeping peacefully in their penthouses. The squad, recognizing a possible ne'er-do-well, tried to bring him in to question. Forcefully. Before they could however, the target bolted, confirming him in their limited minds as worth chasing. So they notified me. I arrived on the scene and took up the chase, and over the last four hours, had been led all over the bloody city. All my senses told me this was a "live one", a Psych, so I kept up. Hell the fact that the b*****d had avoided me for so long was an indication of Talent. Finally we ended up here, in an alley in the slums.
Now when someone smiles like that at me, my first instinct is to look for the knife at my back. Which is probably the only reason I saw the one at my neck, in the form of a large, old-fashioned semi-automatic handgun. This sudden revelation gave me a quicksilver moment to dive out of the way and the blunt, dull weapon gave a small cough - a silencer - releasing a flash of brilliant white that illuminated the grimy corridor for a split second. I absorbed the impact of my dive with a roll and came up to the gunman's right, and a little behind. That smile saved my head a hole it really, really didn't need.
The alley was tiny, barely two metres across and ended by a high chain link fence that bisected it about six metres in. The fence was piled high with refuse - the residue of the subhuman detritus of this district of the city. I had thought my target's sudden turn here the product of panic, but the previous gunshot was a powerful argument to the contrary. The squad I had thought at my back, I now realized was engaged a block behind and I, so intent on the pursuit, hadn't even noticed.
The squad barely held its own against the assault of their hidden opponents. Even in the single glance I cast in their direction I saw one their number thrown into the air like a rag doll caught in a fan - torn apart by the concentration of the cross-fire centred on him. I estimated the squad's complete annihilation at several minutes at the most and turned my attention back to my own private ambush.
The speed of my diving roll had blindsided the the gunman - it's one thing to be warned of the Witch Hunters, its quite another to have a personal demonstration in your face. Just wait, I hadn't even pulled out the big guns yet - The gunman wasn't as surprised as my target however, who had managed to catch the bullet intended for my Medulla with his left shoulder.
I recovered my wits first. My only avenue of escape, I realized, was to subdue the gunman before he could bring the backup - who were, by the lack of auto-fire from the street, finished with my erstwhile squad. So, I subdued him.
I called on my will, the energy lying dormant in the back of my mind, and a lance of pure heat, perhaps two fingers wide, whipped from my extended hand and took the stunned idiot through the torso. It entered under the ribcage and ripped through stomach, liver, lungs and heart - withering and searing all, before exiting above his left collarbone. Blood, evaporated by the beam, misted out of the cauterized wound as the gunman stood, uncomprehending - his brain unaware that his body had died. For one instant I could see straight through him before he fell.
I didn't stay to enjoy the view, instead turning to sprint from the alley before my expenditure of energy could attract unwelcome company - I'd be an easy target in the dark - my eyes were glowing like violet flares I'm sure.
A slight scuffing sound brought me up short, but before I could turn, a strong grip was on me, holding me in an armlock. I tried to twist around to see who held me, but my captor was out of sight, apparently diminutive. What I did see was the gate, hidden in the refuse, that was built into the fence. It was now swinging shut, and my target nowhere in sight. Then the grip that held me pushed me to my knees, introducing them painfully to the pavement.
"s**t." I swore, my throat thick with anger. Not only had I allowed myself to fall into a rather rudimentary ambush, but the target had escaped as well. Son of a b***h!
"That's right." replied a laughing female voice with a cruel edge to it. I didn't get a chance to snap a comeback, or do much of anything: the next thing I felt was the sensation of a super-heated sliver of ice rammed into the back of my neck and the spinal cord found therein. I had the time for one thought before all went black.
Oh <********>.
And without further ado, I died.
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Part II: Genesis
The Final entry in the journal of Gen. James Talbot, - from a copy sent to a close friend, whose name has been withheld, before the incineration of the original.
In writing this I acknowledge that my life is now forfeit. This shall be my last entry, as I expect the Urban Security Forces to arrive this evening. I write this so that the truth of my greatest sin shall not die with me.
As the likelihood of this journal surviving my own execution is slim, I will attempt to collect my story into this one document, which is to be sent to a colleague of whom the military knows nothing. This will be my confession, but also, I hope, a vindication of those most harmed by General Blackmore's iron fist on this city, and by my own part in his rise.
Years ago, when Edmund Blackmore was still my friend as well as my commander, we were in dire need of a weapon to combat the psychics in the service of the various gang lords who ruled the "free city" of Haven. The solution arose from a little-known breed of psychic known as Energy Vampires, whose bodies "fed" on the mental and emotional energy of those around them. Expanding on this concept, we reasoned that perhaps a vampire strong enough could actually render null the Psychics' sole advantage over us - their gift.
The idea proved difficult to implement however as, for one, no Gifted persons would knowingly work with us against his fellows and, more importantly, no vampire strong enough existed - most were simply destroyed by the building energy (usually electric current) we fed them during testing, as it overloaded their gift and their bodies could not divest itself of the excess. The ultimate resolution found its way into our hands on its own however, in the form of a foundling child.
I do not know the circumstances of how Edmund came by the child, only that he was found, and placed in my care. His name was Caleb, and he would become the first Witch Hunter. What set the boy apart was that by some happy accident of evolution (or not so happy, depending on your point of view) Caleb's vampiric gift was tenfold, one hundredfold even, that of anyone we'd ever encountered, even at the age of four. His body practically breathed energy, taking in a portion of any that touch his skin and building it until he released it into the surrounding environs. This power was exceptional and completely unheard of, allowing Caleb extraordinary flexibility in the applications of his Gift.
I would spend the next two decades training and preparing Caleb and a group of twelve other children - eight male, and four female - cloned from Caleb's genetic stock - the process was differentiated enough to produce individuals, though all expressed their brother's dark hair, pale skin and light eyes. They also inherited his power. For fifteen years they lived and grew under my care, led by Caleb as the Eldest. I did my best within the circumstances to be a father for, but always they were taught loyalty to Blackmore first and foremost. Finally we released them to fulfill their foul purpose - to hunt down and exterminate their own kind.
Even now, only six years since, the Witch Hunters have become the bogeymen of Haven, their names used to threaten children into obedience with threats of heinous violence, while the parents keep fearful watch, half convinced that their threat will prove the reality. Such is the power of my students and it cuts me to the quick, for they are my children. No father can bear to see his progeny cursed so, forever apart - being of two worlds - that of the Gifted and the Law - yet belonging to none. Not one will ever have the chance to simply live. These unfortunate thirteen are the most tragic victims of all, and it is for them that I write this.
To any of my sons and daughters, should any of you read this, remember me please, and forgive me my sins against you all.
Note: On April 24th 29 AA (2095 AD) at approximately 11:45pm James Talbot was arrested and summarily executed for sedition. The Officer in charge of the USF squad sent to take the general into custody was Witch Hunter Braeden Wren.
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Part III: Next of Kin
A transcript of the video recording of Braeden Wren's autopsy: Stolen in an insurgent raid on the morgue May 15th, 29AA
The camera is positioned above an autopsy table, which sits in the single island of clear light in a sea of dim, flickering fluorescent. Upon the table lies the corpse of a young man - pale, with his long, dark hair in an unruly ponytail. Standing at the edge of the light the forensic pathologist, Scott Ramsay.
Ramsay: (Muttering) Jeez, pulling me out of bed for another homicide out in the slums? What's the bloody point...(Sighs) Oh well, might as well get it over with.
Ramsay looks up at the camera.
Ramsay (cont.): The time...(looks at his watch) jeez...2:52am, on May 15, 29.
Returning to the corpse, Ramsay begins a preliminary examination of the body, paying close attention to its skin condition, finger and toenails, and other surface details. He also takes fingerprints and sets a computer to scanning them.
Ramsay: The victim was male, early twenties. No ID, and his prints don't show up anywhere - not even in the City's Citizen or Visitor databases - so officially this man doesn't exist...Gang related maybe? If the gangs are trying to make a comeback, they may take great measures to remove their people from possible reprisal...Note to self - look into other recordless corpses found. Moving on. There is no evidence of defencive wounds, so its most likely the attack was unexpected. Now, what's this?
The pathologist turns his attention to a marking on the inner left forarm of the corpse, which he turns to the camera.
Ramsay: Thee appears to be some kind of brand or tattoo on his arm - clearly visible - it resembles...tribal markings maybe? Or a sort of labyrinthine pattern. Let's see if this is what I think it is...
Ramsay retrieves a small skin sample, and taking into the dark, leaves the frame for several minutes. He returns with a readout.
Ramsay: No traces of ink at all - the tissue closely resembles scar tissue, or burns, but isn't dead. This confirms my suspicions - the Vic. was Psion. The markings on his arm are the energy paths through his body taken by his gift, leaving a sort of burn that fades between uses. I guess that closer examination of the body will reveal a faint permanent buildup from prolonged use of his abilities. From the darkness of the mark on his arm, he used his powers shortly before death.
Ramsay looks at the camera again
Ramsay (cont.): To be clear for the Record. Victim was a Psion. (To himself) And good riddance - we don't need any more of these freaks around anyway.
Using an old, worn camera, Ramsay photographs the markings, and then refocuses the frame on on the shoulders and neck of the body.
Ramsay: Alright, this appears to be the CoD here - (Pulls the corpse into a sitting position to expose a stab wound at the base of its neck, just above the shoulder blades.) a stab wound to the base of the neck placed, very neatly too, between the C5 and C6 vertebrae exiting between the victims Clavicles. Paralysis and death would be near instantaneous. Whoever pulled this one knew what they were doing. (He pauses.) Now that's odd...the edges of the wound appear to be...cauterized, and the apparent ease with which the attack passed through his spinal column, oesophagus and windpipe suggests an extremely sharp blade about, oh, four, four-and-a-half centimetres across. What kind of weapon was this?
Ramsay takes a few more photos, this time of the wound and its surroundings, and moves the frame to its original position above. He then turns to a selection of medical tools, singling out a scalpel. He then begins to make a "Y" shaped incision in the corpse's torso - extending down from the shoulders, meeting just below the sternum and continuing to slightly above the pubis.
Ramsay: Lets see what secrets you hide psych.
He begins to peel back the skin of the corpse's chest back, but is interrupted by an abrupt voice from off the frame.
Unknown Male: Stop! Haven Intelligence Division! That corpse is property of the Haven Military, and will be given into our custody immediately.
A tall man enters the frame, a man with features strikingly similar to those of the corpse and the same dark, curling hair. Following him are others - two male and one female, with the same familial look.
Ramsay: As far as I was told he's just a gangbanger, what's this guy done that would involve the Witch Hunters at all, let alone the Captain himself? The dreaded Kael Wren I presume?
Kael: You should know better than to say that aloud, Ramsay.
Ramsay: (Turning to face the group) Which? Your name or your profession? If you're actually HID I'll eat my scalpel - Everyone who's got a brain knows they just let you folks borrow their name once in a while - not that they have much choice.
Kael: I may just arrange that if you don't shut up and cooperate Doctor. (Kael's eye flick to the tray of tools and back to Ramsay. Then several of the scalpels begin to rise into the air and float about Ramsay's head. Faint designs begin to glow green under Kael's skin - similar to the markings on the corpse.) Just forget I was here - we just wish to collect the body.
Ramsay: (Remarkably cool, considering the circumstances) I repeat my earlier question - What interest do you have in this worthless piece of detritus?
The group of strangers stiffens, almost as one - the air almost crackles audibly with tension and hidden power held barely in check. Ramsay begins to realize just what he's putting himself up against.
Kael: I think you already know why we're here Doctor. (Looking pointedly at the victim's arm.) Why else would we be involved? Don't play dumb - I know you aren't - if anything, you know too much. There's a reason you were transferred down here, and not kept in the HID.
Ramsay: Alright, but don't try telling me this is just another Psion - I'll admit the markings are complex and dark for his age - he was strong and active. But no matter his strength, you...people normally sign off when the poor b*****d's dead. So what interest have you got in this one?
Kael: (Glaring furiously as the scalpels shake and dance beside Ramsay's head.) You wouldn't be asking if you didn't already have some idea, so just drop it - Trust me.
Ramsay: The "Poor b*****d" is one of you - your brother.
Kael seems to sag, and the revolving medical tools clatter noisily to the floor.
Kael: Perhaps...but that is none of your concern. We will collect his body and you will forget our presence. Understood?
Ramsay: Fine, but let me stitch him back up first.
Kael: Fine.
Ramsay turns back to the table, and begins to stitch the cut made in the corpse's torso. The task is completed in absolute silence from both parties.
Ramsay: (Tying off the last stitch) There. Good as new. Well, close anyway - he's all yours, and good riddance.
Ramsay moves out of the light to find a body bag and Kael makes to move for the autopsy table. From the back of the group however, comes the tremulous voice of the one female - a strikingly pretty girl who looks far younger than her twenty-odd years.
Pretty Girl: Kael! Before you...put him away. Could I...have a moment - to say goodbye.
She looks a bit surprised that she spoke up at all, as do the others.
Kael: (Nods) Alright Maya. Just a moment though.
One of the remaining men bursts out
Second Male: What?! Kael, come on - we've got a job to do! Just because she spent more time in his bu- (He is cut off by smile
Kael: Darian! That will be enough! Outside. Now.
Darian: (Sharp, but sullen) Yessir!
Darian exits, and with one last look at Maya and the corpse, Kael follows with Ramsay.
Maya: Braeden you idiot. You told that you wouldn't leave me without a fight. Now look at you. They got you from behind - no struggle, nothing. Did you surrender? Did you give in at the end?
Maya, tears now running down her cheeks leans over to place a lingering kiss on Braeden's cold lips.
Maya(cont.): (Hushed but fierce.) You told me you'd protect me! You said you'd stay with me no matter what! And what do you go and ******** do?! You ******** die, you b*****d!
Energy spent, Maya collapses, sobbing quietly, onto Braeden's chest.
Maya: Who'll hold me now? Who will keep me warm and tell me it'll be alright? Who will keep the nightmares at bay? (She sighs, wiping tears away) I'll miss you Braeden.
From the direction the others left by comes a previously unheard voice. The third of the males, who has not, until now, spoken enters the frame. He is older than the others, somewhere in his late twenties or early thirties, but careworn, with eyes that seem older still.
Newcomer: I miss him too Maya, however, it is almost time that we go.
Maya spins to face the newcomer Oh! Caleb! You startled me - I didn't hear you come in. Have you been here long?
Maya is blushing furiously, and there is a note of panic in her voice. She holds Caleb's gaze though, almost challengingly.
Caleb: Not long. (Maya relaxes slightly) Not long enough to hear anything I didn't already know at least.
Maya's eyes flach back to Caleb's and she opens her mouth to speak, but Caleb cuts her off
Caleb: I've not come here to reproach you Maya. We are alone, each of us in this family. All we have are one another. We must-
Maya: But what about Darian? He-
Caleb: Is jealous, sister. In each other, you and Braedan found someone who completely accepts you, loves you. Darian doesn't have that, thus his fanatical devotion to our duty.
Maya: What, killing others like us?
Caleb looks troubled by the unpleasant nature of his duty stated so bluntly.
Caleb: (Spoken flat, as if by rote) They are not like us. They are uncontrolled. We are not a threat to humanity. Psions brought about the Apocalypse. We cannot allow them to do so again. That is our duty.
Caleb trails off, staring into space past Maya, as she shakes her head sadly. Caleb stirs himself and puts an arm around Maya's shoulders. They turn to leave, and Caleb casts a glance back at the body lying still and cold on the slab, his eyes pits of sorrow.
Caleb: (Whispered.) I'm going to miss you, brother.
The pair exits. The camera rolls for another minute or so, before two brilliant flashes illuminate the room from the right - where the group had previously gone - followed by gunfire. Shouting is heard, and then several figures wearing ragtag armor, and metal face-masks stumble into the frame.
Insurgent 1: (Removing his mask - which is a blank silver oval in the outline of a face with small eyeholes) Come on! This is the place! Look - they've even got him out on the slab waiting for us! Now move! Lark - cover fire. French and Galliard - get him in the Coldcase! We're in and out.
As Insurgent 1 gives orders, the others immediately leap into action, the one called Lark firing back at the doorway along with the Captain, and the other two - French and Galliard, maneuvering the corpse into a bulky case that releases waves of fog upon openning.
Galliard: (the voice issuing from a radio speaker on her chest) All done Captain Tyrel!
Tyrel: Alright! Let's move out! French! Grab the camera and video tape on your way out! I don't want my face on the morning news got it?
French: Yessir!
Tyrel makes for the door, as Galliard and Lark grab the case carrying Braeden Wren's corpse, and French first grabs the camera lying on the slab and then reaches up at the recording. The last shot is of a blank silver mask looming up at the frame before it cuts off and goes to black.
