Volume VI: And Introducing Harley Morrow As - Herself

        Doyle was dead, that’s the point. That’s the most relevant event of the time. It’s possibly the only truly relevant event from here on out. The boss was dead. Long live the King, right? Now what?

        Cassidy was a street demon. He was too young, too small to handle it by himself. He couldn’t just take over the whole operation. Times like these I miss Draven and Vagrant. They’ve been gone for half of forever. God I miss them. We’re lacking in legends these days. They’re too busy killing one another.

        I went back to work. It gave me something to do. We played; the makeshift band that is. Lacking Requiem, Grey and Cassidy would pitch in from time to time, depending on Serkis’ presence. She was missing more and more these days. I never saw Sylum at all. I think she dealt with him, so things got taken care of. It took a bit of time, compiling rumors, but eventually there was a meeting of the remaining family members. And the story was set straight.

        Doyle was at home alone. Pandora wasn’t there that night. It was pointed out that she spent massive amounts of time at Doyle’s, so her lacking presence was suspicious in itself. Cassidy was telling the story. He’s assumed a role as authority figure. He was instructed to start and rant until Serkis got there. He gave us the set up. Doyle was home alone. It was early in the evening. There was a knock at the door. There was no proof of a struggle or forced entry. Someone he knew came in. There was a fight of some kind. And Doyle went down.

        Cassidy looked around the room. “No one in this room killed Doyle. Pandora had been staying away because she’s been feeling sick and figured it was from him.” We all looked around at each other. Serkis still hadn’t shown up. Cassidy was building tension; he purposely said this now.

        Doyle was beaten with some sort of blunt object until he passed out. And then he was tortured, slowly, for hours, using various methods and techniques. He died sometime late in the evening, after surviving a number of cuts, gunshots, burns and toxins. Officer Bishop produced the perfect cover story. It was an open and shut case. Plain and simple.

        “Then who killed Doyle?”

        Cassidy merely smiled.

* * *

        How I got recruited for this little side trip, I’ll never know. All I know was that I was sent to pick up a traveler. I had my license, I’d had it awhile, purely as a “just in case”. It’s always good to have options. A back up plan; it’s necessary in this game.

        I took a car that the family found for me. From where, I didn’t ask. I didn’t really want to know. They had their methods. I drove the limit the whole way, watching carefully for my turn. I almost missed it, whipping the car around into the opening. I pulled in and parked abruptly, suddenly eager to get out of the suffocating interior. I got out and paced wildly.

         There was a desolate feeling here; memories of long lost farewells and victorious welcomes. The sign was red and white, faded from wear and weathered. Time had taken its toll, kids had grown old in this desolate place.

         I pulled a deep breath into my lungs, feeling oil and gasoline. The loud grumble of engines unnerved me as I stared at the vacant metal beast sitting resolved before me. Maybe I’m just insane, but sometimes the simple things got to me. I checked my watch.

         His bus came in at 8:23; he should be inside, waiting. I wrapped my arms around myself to guard from the cold, realizing too late that it was on the inside. I pulled the door open, sliding into the empty station. The place was quaint, small and blank. My entrance raised no attention; I faded into the ugly green walls. Walls the color of medical uniforms. Or patients. The color of my madness.