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Our Paranormal Chernobyl
Scene 23: Modes of Communication
Tuesday, 12:50 pm, Chicago Police Department Evidence Lab

Waters was wrong: the Motorola Communications System Analyzer arrived in nineteen minutes, not twenty. In that time, Jonathan had been hitting the website of the Chicago Area Packet Radio club (CAPeR), and had printed out several sheets of paper with packet radio network numbers and locations. There were a surprising number of networks and digipeaters in the city—the pellet may not have needed to use cell phone receivers after all.

Jonathan hummed to himself as he read over the printouts, then fanned them out on the desk. I need some sleep, he thought, rubbing at his eyes. I need a shower and I need to change into my spare costume. I need to find my parent’s killer, and he’s in this city. I need to know what happened to Darius. I need... Crossfire sat up and stretched out his back, glancing over at Ed. The kid looked bored out of his skull, but he was still here. Jonathan decided what he really needed was to stop feeling sorry for himself and get on with business.

Ed looked at the clock hanging on the wall and sighed. They’d been there for like, an hour, and all that had happened in the last thirty minutes was Red looking into that microscope thing and blathering on about crap that Ed didn’t know shit about.

At least Red was saying something. The cop was as quiet as Ed was. I mean, I’m glad Red figured it out and all, but damn... boring boring boring. He stared at a few blinky lights on some of the boxes. There was shit he needed to do. He needed to find a place to live. He needed a job. He wasn’t acquiring any of this shit by lazing around here.

He wondered what Quickbeam was doing. Supercop was ok in his book, and he hadn’t even been pissed at Ed for calling his wife a bitch. Not that he’d known it was Quickbeams wife. And not that she wasn’t being a pushy bitch at the time. But still... He also wondered how Meg was doing. He felt a twinge of guilt at having left her to fend for herself. She’d really enjoyed it when Ed had spent time with her, piercing the layers of insanity that she’d wrapped herself in with his telepathy. Now she had nobody.

Crap.

He sighed again. Too much shit for one kid to handle.

A man in stepped into the room with the analyzer and another plastic box in his arms, looked around at the three men in the room, and then finally set the equipment on the nearest table with a bang. He wore a ripped Pogues sweat-shirt and dirt-encrusted jeans. The skin of his face had the baked and beaten quality seen only in black and white portraits of Keith Richards.

Thank God, Ed thought.

"Who wanted the R-2680?" he asked. His voice was surprisingly smooth. He looked slightly familiar to both Jonathan and Ed, but they couldn’t place him.

Ed pointed at Red. "Him," he said calmly. "Man, you look kinda familiar," he added as he tried to remember where he’d seen the guy before.

Jonathan looked surprised as he made room for the analyzer. If he looked familiar to Ed as well... "You mind bringing that over here?" Jonathan asked as he shuffled the radio packet pages into order. He wanted a closer look at this guy.

He studied the courier's face as he brought it over. "You look familiar to me too." Jonathan thought back to where he’d been today with Ed. "Were you downtown today? Around the Art Institute? Or perhaps at Mike’s Tavern?"

"Hey, you know Mike’s? Cool." He reached into his jacket and pulled out a bundle of black cords. He paused. "I was on TV once. And I’m big on the web." He didn’t sound happy about it.

"’Most Amazing Meta Videos,’" Waters said.

"What?" Ed said, looking momentarily confused. Then it clicked.

Last spring, Fox TV had aired an old video of Gazelle, one of Chicago’s few superheroes before she died mysteriously a couple years ago. The video, recorded a dozen hidden police cameras, showed the speedster interrupting a drug shipment. The dozen buyers and sellers opened up with full automatics. Gazelle became a blur, taking them out by ones and twos with her thunderous kicks. But then she fell to the floor—tripped up by the debris, perhaps, or knocked down by a lucky shot. A dealer leveled his gun at the prone woman to blow her away, and at that moment one of the dealer’s own gang members swiveled his aim and shot his colleague. The traitor, face blurred by computer took out several more of dealers.

Unfortunately, the unedited video made it to the internet. Thousands downloaded it to see the unexpurgated violence—and as a bonus they got the undisguised face of the "traitor." On camera, he looked a lot like Keith Richards. He was a covert narcotics cop, and after the internet, his undercover days were over.

Jonathan was taken aback. He wondered what it would mean to his life if his secret identity was public knowledge. The thought scared the hell out of him.

"Here, let me get those from you," Crossfire said. He leaned over to help him with the bundled electrical plugs. Once done, he held out his free right hand, "It’s a real honor to meet you, I’m Crossfire."

"I know. You’ve pulled some righteous shit in New York and down south. I like that." A grin split his weathered face, and he shook Jonathan’s hand. "Name’s Richard Stokel. Everybody calls me Stokes." He nodded to Ed.

Goddamn... Ed thought. I thought I had it fucking bad, but this guy has like, half the bastards in the U.S. narcotics trade out to fry his ass. Jesus.

He watched as Crossfire shook hands with the narc, eyes narrowed. Just when Ed thought he’d been brave, or done something heroic, he met someone like this - some baseline who survived on nothing but balls and smarts. Ed could cheat, he was an esper. The thought of facing down his old posse scared the shit out of him as it was, but to do so without his esper talents? It made his blood run cold.

He didn’t know what to say to such a man. So he stayed quiet, and watched, letting his shields die out with a flicker of copper light.

Crossfire regarded Stokes thoughtfully. The drug cartels were still thorns in his side, especially since Jonathan was spending a lot more of his time down south. "We should compare notes later," he said to the narc. At least this guy wasn’t crooked.

Crossfire plugged in all the cords and got the analyzer up and running, while Stoke worked on the computer. He connected the TNC unit—the second box he’d brought in—to the back of the computer.

"What’s that?" Waters asked.

"Terminal Node Controller," Stokes said absently, as if this would explain everything. Jonathan had never worked with one, but he knew they were basically specialized modems to translate between the radio and the computer. Stokel withdrew a floppy disk from his breast pocket and started installing the communications software.

"You guys have everything," Waters said.

"That’s why you call the narcs, my man," Stoke said chuckling. "We got all the toys."

"You know your tech stuff." Jonathan liked that. A lot of cops regarded the use of computers and what not as a necessary evil. It was necessary, but learning how to do it was evil. "Let me guess. ‘Follow the money’, right?" Crossfire winked conspiratorially to Stokes.

Stoke paused. "Uh, yeah. JFK right? I saw that one."

Ed had no idea what the two men were talking about. Again. He wondered if that was a bad thing briefly, then decided it probably wasn’t. Most of the time people yammered just so they could make noise.

Crossfire activated the Motorola’s self-test feature, checking its calibrations, then tuned it onto the beeping signal that emanated from the pellet. It locked on and, as designed, started to spit back the data Jonathan needed on the signal. The numbers started to scroll down the screen. Jonathan printed the first page and started cross-referencing the numbers.

Waters’ cell phone chimed, and the detective stepped away from the desks to take the call.

"Whaddya got, my man?" Stoke asked Crossfire.

"The address of the first node." Jonathan pointed to the line on the printout. "Where’s that located?"

Stokes thought a moment and laughed. "That’s the fuckin’ Sears Tower, man."

Crossfire had only seen the Sears Tower once before today. While watching "Ferris Bueller’s Day Off". Maybe the detective had seen the same movie, otherwise he wasn’t sure what was funny about the Sears Tower. "Uhm, okay. How about this next one?"

Waters turned to the group, tucking his phone away. "Problem. Unknown meta ripping apart a grocery store." He looked at Ed, then Crossfire. "If you want to help."

Ed sighed. If this suit got ripped, there’d be hell to pay. Maybe there was something to wearing jammies after all. At least your own clothes didn’t get ripped to hell and back. On the good side, at least it meant he didn’t have to stand around in here any longer. If this was what being a cop was like, screw that.

"Sure," Ed replied. "Uh, do you like know how he’s ripping the store apart? Is he like, super strong or something?"

Crossfire stood, checked his quarrel and bow the slung them both over his back. It was Ed’s last comment that got his attention. "Did they give you a description at all Waters?" If they did, Jonathan wondered if it would look like Stranger.

"The guy who called 911 said he’s big and eating everything in sight. Evidently has a very large mouth." He shrugged. "I’ll drive."

"Duty calls," Crossfire said, leaning in to Stokes. "Uhm, are you free to keep at this?"

"Got it covered, man. Go kick some ass."

Waters led them quickly up the stairs and out to where they’d left the unmarked car at the curb. The man was almost jogging—it was the fastest either of them had seen the man move.

"I might know who this guy is," offered Crossfire as they got into the car. He told Waters and Ed about what had happened up on the roof of the Art Institute and after, as Iggy came up out of the ground, on the street below where he’d first met Stranger. "...and then I turned around, and he was gone, saying something about needing something to eat. I was hoping to keep him around for the cops, but... all I know is, he called himself Stranger and put his own life at risk saving the other patrolman that was down there with us. This guy is strong—he held a car over his head to protect him and the cop as Iggy came crashing down. Right on top of them."

"He’s tough too, which means a lot of people could get hurt taking him down. All we may need to do is talk to him."

Waters grunted and started the car.

"Uh, you don’t know that his life was at risk Red," Ed said. "Like, if the guy can pick up cars and shit, it’s probably not like he’s gonna be easy to hurt. So maybe he just didn’t feel like having a prowler dropped on his ass." He shrugged. "Or maybe it’s like you said, maybe he’s just messed up. But that still sucks hard, cause crazy people are unpredictable as shit."

He thought of a couple of his ex ‘friends’ from the gang and shuddered.

That was pretty much all Crossfire knew except one other thing: Stranger might also be Theo August, and the cops had a hard-on for this guy. I need someone else I can trust to talk about this with, he thought, and nudged Ed with his elbow.

"What?" Ed said, wondering what the hell the archer was poking him for. Then he saw Red point at his skull.

What? he repeated.

Waters glanced back at Ed, eyes narrowed. Ed simply shrugged back, and the detective turned his attention back to the road.

I definitely think this guy is crazy, Crossfire sent. And I definitely think he’s unpredictable. Did you hear anything from a press conference they held earlier today about all this metahuman madness going around Chicago?

Yeah, I heard it. Ed replied. Some serious messed up shit man. It’s what got me involved in all this in the first place. He sighed.

They mentioned an escaped mental patient named Theo August, Crossfire projected. They think he hurt a cop real bad. They said you could recognize him because his body was severely scarred in a fire. This Stranger I’m talking about wore a metal mask, but underneath, his face was mess. Looked like burn scars to me.

Hell yeah, I can talk to him. Ain’t nobody I can’t talk to. I even got through that bitch Mercy's shields. There was a trace of defensiveness in Ed’s voice. You just got to be careful when messing around in a psychos head. Cause you don’t know what's gonna grab you, and if you pay to close attention, you start understanding whatever it is that made em crazy in the first place, and you start seeing the world the way they do. It’s a trip.

Once again, Crossfire marveled at the burden of responsibility telepathy presented. It was a gift, but one Jonathan never wanted. I could never do what you do Ed. I gotta admit, it's frightening when you describe it. I just wanted you to know what we’re really up against. If I tell the cops, I’m afraid they’ll overreact. Thanks Ed, I knew you could help, because I’m not sure I can if it is Stranger.

Ed shrugged. No problem. 's what I’m here for, I guess. The teenager flushed slightly.

In ten minutes the were pulling in to the parking lot of the grocery store, a big place called Jewel Food Store. Five squad cars were already there, and a paramedic truck pulled in right behind them. Waters parked near the police, about thirty yards from the glass front of the store. A crowd of people stood around well back from the cops.

As Crossfire, Ed, and Waters stepped out of the car, a big piece of metal—a shelving unit, maybe—crashed through the plate glass and landed on the pavement. Something was inside the store, tossing shelves around, but whoever was doing the tossing was too far back in the store to be seen.

Oh great. Ed thought as he watched the metal slide across the pavement and slam to a stop against a potted tree set in the sidewalk. Just great.

He sighed as he peered out at the gathered police, the crowd of spectators that were being held back by cops, and shattered glass that lay scattered across the sidewalk like diamonds. What the hell was he doing here...

One of the officers hustled over to Waters. The other cops were staying behind their vehicles, guns out. Crossfire and Ed didn’t recognize any of them from this morning at the Institute.

Ed looked at the archer. "Well, I can probably drop the big doofus pretty fast if I can just see him. You got any smoke arrows or knockout thingies in there? Anything that would make him leave the store?"

"I sure do, but we don’t know who else is in there. That could just make matters worse, he’s already pretty pissed off from the looks of things. Tell you what..." Crossfire walked around in front of the car. "I’ll bring him out myself. If I’m right, Stranger may just walk out with me. If I’m wrong, well, I’ll get whoever’s in there to follow me out, believe it."

Jonathan turned to Waters and Ed, "If I come out with my thumb up, everything’s okay and everybody can just hold their fire. If not, go crazy."

Waters seemed to think about this. "It’s my duty to stop you." He paused. "Stop. Don’t." He voice had all the passion, sincerity, and conviction of a deeply medicated telemarketer.

Ed laughed. "Yeah, right," he said, chuckling.

Crossfire turned and walked towards the storefront, quietly avoiding the glass. His muscles were tense so at the entrance, he breathed deeply to relax and find his center. Taking a defensive stance, he thought, I have to trust my instincts.

Waters turned to Ed. "You’re my witness. I tried to stop him."

Ed nodded. "I’ll tell the judge you guys argued about it a lot."

He watched Red stroll toward the joint and wondered if the archer would come flying back out, sans arrows. And with some broken bones. He sighed. Tough guys were such a pain in the ass.

Crossfire stepped on the mat and the door swung open for him. All was silent except for the Muzak version of Strawberry Fields playing over the loudspeakers.

Taking one step inside he called out, in what he hoped was a calm voice, "Stranger? It’s me, the guy with the arrows from this morning. You okay?"

In answer, he heard a male voice roar: "PIZZA!" Then, a noise like a small tornado: a whoosh and moan, then the crash of breaking glass and a tumultuous clatter that like a hail storm of baseballs.

The roar had emanated from the other side of the store: Crossfire guessed that it was the frozen foods aisle. Which made sense—Jonathan only hoped he could find a microwave in here. The voice didn’t sound particularly familiar that he could tell, but the vocabulary seemed simple enough.

He moved down the long space in front of the empty checkout lanes, checking each aisle. It looked like a tornado had gone through here. Torn boxes, dented cans, and spilled food were everywhere. Weirdly, there seemed to be a lot more food missing from the shelves than could be accounted for by the mess; many of the shelves were completely emptied.

As he approached the frozen food aisle, he heard what sounded like crunching. Was Stranger eating the stuff uncooked? As he crossed in front of the aisle, he called out again as he stepped out. "Stranger? It’s me, your friend from this morning."

Jonathan only hoped the face in the aisle would match with up his sentence.

It didn’t.

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