moral revolution

8/13/2019 Moral Revolution

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~Prologue~

Demon Z woke up with a start. He glanced around him nervously; the burning of

the nightmare had felt too real. It was all gone now; just the grimy walls of the dark

alleyway that he called home. He took a couple of deep breaths, like he did every cursed

morning. Slowly, the feeling of panic receded from his heart.

As he crawled out of his sleeping bag, he took in the all-too-familiar scent of

smog and rotting trash as he brushed a lock of his black, unkempt hair to the side of his

face. The smell didn’t bother him the way it used to; after over ten years of waking up to

the same thing, it had become an aura whose presence gave Demon Z a feeling of home

that he hadn’t felt since…

He quickly banished the thought. This is no time to think about the past , he told

himself as a bead of sweat ran down his brow. He swore for the umpteenth time never to

allow the thought to resurface, though he knew that it was only a matter of time before it

came back anyway.

Z was just grabbing his old leather jacket when he heard some loud shuffling

somewhere deeper in the alley, followed by a muffled cry. He froze for a moment; he had

read newspapers stating that alleyway muggings were on the rise, but had never given

thought to such a thing happening so close to home.

Nobody else would have heard the noise; if someone was in trouble, Demon Z

was their only hope. He rushed to the noise to find two hooded figures holding a young

woman to the hard concrete ground. One had a pen knife.



“Hey, you two boys leave her alone!” Demon Z called out to the two muggers in a

voice he hoped was intimidating.

The mugger with the knife got up and looked at Z. “And who the hell do you

think you are, punk? You’d better back off or I’ll gut you like a fish.” He held the blade

so that it caught the alleyway’s light.

Demon Z held his ground; he’d dealt with worse than this. “That letter opener

don’t scare me. Y’all better lay off that lass if you ever wanna see the light’a day again,

kunk.” The accent always seemed to come out just before a fight.

“Oh, you’ve got it cumin’, bitch.” The young woman and the unarmed mugger

watched with wide eyes as the thug slowly advanced on Z.

In times like this, time seemed to slow to a crawl for Demon Z. As the knife

slowly came at him, he noticed the mugger’s inexperienced grip on the knife, whose

blade glowed in the dim light of the alley.

Z deftly ducked under the blade, coming back up with a double-fisted uppercut to

the armed mugger’s chin with a satisfying p-crack . Blood and spit sprayed from the

mugger’s mouth as he fell, unconscious, to the hard alley floor. Z grabbed the

unconscious mugger’s knife and approached the other mugger, who still held the young

woman to the ground.

“I’ma give you ten seconds to start running. See if you can reach another

continent. I hear South America’s lovely this time of year.” Z brandished the blade for

effect, and the mugger scurried off like a cheetah on amphetamines.

Demon Z dropped the knife and turned to the girl. She had golden-brown hair that

was curled into a bun on the back of her head. Demon Z’s drab gray eyes met hers, a



beautiful hazel with a fire burning inside. She wore bleached-white jeans and a green

shirt with the letters “CN” scrawled on it in white.

As Z helped the girl to her feet, she looked up at Z’s dirty, emotionless face with a

weak smile. “Thank you,” she said weakly. “I think they were going to kill me. Who…”

She hesitated for a moment. “Who are you?”

“You can call me Demon Z.”

“That’s not your real name.”

“No, it isn’t. Can you walk?”

She nodded yes. “I’m Trish.”

“Trish who?”

“Trish Crucible.”

Well, shit.

~1~

Demon Z cursed himself over and over as he walked alongside Trish. What was

he thinking when he offered to walk her home? He knew that once they reached her

house, he’d have to face the same man who…

God damn it. Just hours ago he’d sworn never to think about that, and yet the

memories kept coming back. They always did.

“Okay, what’s going on?” The query broke Z’s thoughts, clearing the haze of his

mind.

“I’m sorry, what?”

“You’re afraid of something. I can tell,” Trish pressed. “Don’t act like something

isn’t bothering you.”



Z sighed. There was no avoiding the truth here. “All right, you got me. There is

something that’s bothering me. Your dad owns UniSteel, right?”

Trish looked at him blankly. “Yeah.”

“I lived on a farm with my uncle from when I was born till I was eight.” Z’s eyes

began to tear up, and he wiped at them angrily. “And then… somebody came to the farm.

Said his name was Crucible, owned a huge steel company. He wanted to buy the farm so

he could build a factory on our land. We said no.”

A shadow passed over Trish’s face. She knew where this was going.

“Less than a week later, somebody set the whole farm on fire. The barn, lofts,

wheat fields, everything.” Tears were flowing freely down his face now, leaving two

telltale streaks of clean skin across his otherwise grimy face. “Everything was burning.

My uncle told me to run, run as fast as I could. I barely got out alive, came here to New

Ithaca, but my uncle…”

“It’s OK,” Trish whispered. “You don’t have to finish.”

“I’m sorry,” he managed to choke out. “I hate having to think about it, and when

you told me your last name was Crucible…”

“Hey, kid,” Trish put her hand on his shoulder. “I may be Everett Crucible’s

daughter, but I don’t like him any more than you do.”

Demon Z had his concrete face on again; the emotion was gone. “I find that hard

to believe. I doubt he burnt your house to the ground. I doubt he murdered your uncle.”

“He isn’t your father. You don’t have to deal with him every day. You get to live

by yourself, and you know how to do it well. I wouldn’t last a single day on my own, so I

have to wake up every day to the voice of a murderer.”



“At least you get to sleep in a proper bed. I have a freaking sleeping bag in a

smelly alleyway.”

“He pushed my mother into a vat of molten steel over an argument about whether

or not I should go to school.”

“Damn,” Z stammered; that was the last thing he was expecting to hear. Of all the

reasons to hate your father… “How can you bear to live with him?”

“You mean other than the fact that a teenage girl like me doesn’t even have a

choice in today’s society?”

“Well, when you put it that way…”

Trish changed the subject. “You never told me your real name.”

Demon Z didn’t reveal his name to just anyone. He wasn’t sure he wanted to do

so now, but he sighed and said it anyway: “Blake. Blake de Monza.”

“de Monza… Is that why people call you Demon Z?”

“Pretty much, yeah.”

They both walked in silence for a couple of minutes. The clouds were beginning

to thicken above them, and the first droplets of rain began to fall sparsely from the sky.

Trish eventually broke the ice after what seemed like a lifetime.

“Dad and I fight a lot. Honestly, I’ll never forgive him for the people whose lives

he’s destroyed. And it’s not like anyone can call the cops on him; he can buy his way out

of anything. Just gives the local police a couple thousand dollars and they forget all about

the atrocities he’s committed.”

“You lost me at ‘a couple thousand dollars.’”

“Very funny. Oh,” Trish finished, “and I never went to school.”



The adolescent duo finally arrived at the doorstep of Trish’s house, just as the rain

began to pour, washing away the grime on Z’s face. A new wave of anxiety rushed over

him. Did he really want to face the corporate murderer who took everything from him

like it was going out of style?

Trish rang the doorbell. She wasn’t giving Z a choice.

Within seconds, the gilded metal door was flung open, and Everett Crucible

glared down at both of them. “Okay, Patricia, where the hell have you been all day, and

who is this bum you brought with you?!”

“Nice to see you too, Everett,” Trish retorted with her hands on her hips. “And for

the record, this kid saved my life this morning.”

“Don’t bullshit me, Patricia,” Mr. Crucible snapped. “This punk couldn’t find his

own cock with both hands. Get inside, now.”

The door slammed behind Trish with an audible c-chunk as Crucible yanked her

inside, leaving Blake de Monza alone, in the rain, on the front steps of the mansion

owned by the greatest corporate asshole known to man, doomed to trudge through mud

and rain to the decrepit rat hole that he called his home.

~2~

Blake gazed longingly through the Sleight of Hand Shop’s window, past his

reflection in the well-polished glass. The shop had closed about an hour ago; in the

absence of the shop’s lights, Blake could hardly see the stacked playing cards and spring-

loaded boxes filled with powder tricks and hidden compartments. Some days, he would

fancy spending what little coin he had on little magic tricks instead of food, but his



stomach would always catch up with him and drag him back to the farmer’s market.

Magicians had it so good these days; making things disappear and turning wood to gold.

Blake closed his eyes and sighed. He opened his eyes to find that his breath had

fogged up the glass, and he drew a happy face with a grimy finger and chortled lightly to

himself. How he wished that he could share in that magic…

As he began to trudge home, he took one last look at the shop, and he just

couldn’t resist the urge anymore. He walked back up to the shop, with real purpose this

time. He pulled out two rusty bobby pins from his back pocket. It was time to try his hand

at making things disappear.

With deft hands, he carefully inserted both tools into the brass lock, and began to

work his own kind of magic. Move pin, twist other pin, move lock. Move pin, jiggle

other pin, move lock the other way. Eventually he was rewarded with a satisfying click-

krack , and the door creaked open.

Blake silently shuffled inside, back arched and light-footed. The wooden floor

was soundless as he moved down the aisles, effortlessly melting into the shadows. Hrm,

he thought to himself, his lips silently echoing his thoughts. Deck of cards? Nah, nothing

special about those. I need to find something meaningful, he mused. Something that the

shopkeeper won’t miss.

He came upon a jack-in-the-box that had recently been sprung by a customer.

From the look of the toy, it was crafted by hand; there was no sign of telltale creases and

seams. This was not the work of an assembly line.

It was perfect.



Blake carefully pocketed the device, careful not to make too much noise, and

silently crept out of the store, leaving the store just the way he found it.

~

Demon Z sat down on the rusty Dumpster back at the alley and studied his new

toy in the dark shadows. It was truly a work of great craftsmanship – the little

imperfections of the hand-carved jack reminded him of his uncle’s farm. For once, Blake

found comfort in the reminder of who he once was. It occurred to him that even at

nineteen years old, he still was like an eight-year-old in some ways. Blake slipped the

box behind the Dumpster, where no one would bother to look. Things tend to get stolen

in alleyways like this.

“Blake?”

Demon Z nearly jumped out of his skin. He whirled to see Trish, of all people,

standing in the alley entrance. She was drenched in sweat and was panting heavily. She

had a black eye and a split lip.

“Trish! What happened?” Blake rushed to her.

“Everett wasn’t too pleased with you walking me home. He gave me a beating, so

I ran away. I ran as fast as I could, thinking I could get back here.”

“What took you so long?”

“Tried to lose Dad in the area first. Didn’t want him to chase me all the way back

here.”

“Good move. You OK?”

“Never better.”



Blake smiled weakly. “Sounds like you’ll be here for a while. Let’s get you

settled.”

~3~

Everett Crucible sat alone in his office, leafing through every resource he had on

Patricia’s location. It wasn’t much; that girl sure knew how to duck under the radar, a

quality that Everett despised with a passion. What good can a father do if he can’t find his

daughter?

He thought about that filthy kid she had tried to bring into the house. No doubt

they were sleeping together somewhere now – that rebellious little shit would have some

explaining to do when she got back home.

A single tear ran down Everett’s cheek. First Avery, now this? He had tried so

hard to keep his daughter safe, obedient… but all he managed to do was scare her off,

maybe even permanently.

He couldn’t hold back the tears anymore. He was all alone, and it was his own

fault. For hours he wept for his daughter, for his wife, and for himself. He wept and wept

until there were no tears left, leaving only the anger burning eternally within his heart. No

matter what, there was always that anger, festering within his soul. He didn’t know why it

was there, and he had a feeling he’d never really find out.

Everett put down the sheaf of papers. He had thought about the problem for far

too long. It was time to think about the solution.

“Anne!” Everett called. “Get over here! I need your help with something.”



~4~

Blake woke up to find Patricia was already wide awake and sitting on his

Dumpster, lost in thought, her bruised face showing no emotion.

“Morning, Trish.”

She snapped out of her stupor, and grinned. “The creature lives!”

Blake smiled back. “Sleep well?”

“Kinda sorta,” she replied. “Going straight from a thousand-dollar bed to an

improvised sleeping bag in an alley is kind of a big jump.”

“No shit, girl,” Blake chortled.

“I think it’s about time we took the fight to Crucible, don’t you?”

A shiver ran down Blake’s spine. Patricia’s words echoed through his skull. Is she

serious? Blake thought to himself. I really hope she isn’t serious about this.

“Uhm…”

“Come on, kid,” Trish snapped. “This isn’t the time to lose half your brain cells.

Are you with me or not?”

Oh God… she is serious. She is really this pissed off at Crucible? Damn. But how

can I—

“Blake!”

“S-sorry,” Z stammered. “It’s just all a lot to take in all at once. I mean, it’s

UniSteel. How are we going to stop him?”

“We may not be able to,” Trish said bitterly. “But we can hurt him. Non-

physically, of course.”

“How?”



“Think about it, kid. We already have hurt him. Me running away from home?

That would hurt any parent, even an abusive one.”

“That’s true.” Blake shrugged on his leather jacket. “All right, I’m convinced.

Count me in on your little plot. So, what now?”

“You’re the survival guru out here, Z. I was hoping you could tell me.”

Blake’s shoulders sagged. He wasn’t expecting to be put in charge of anything.

“I… I guess we should find some other people to help us. After all, two people against a

monopolistic steel mill…”

“I was thinking the same thing. Which is why I joined the Centurions a couple

days ago.”

“What are the Centurions?” Blake had never heard the name before.

Trish pointed to her “CN” shirt. The white letters had already faded to a yellowish

lichen color. “The Centurions of Nature. They’ve got a problem with the growing

industry here in the United States; they say it’s polluting the natural world.”

“So you think they’ll help us fight UniSteel? Won’t that be, you know, illegal?”

“Lawful means haven’t exactly worked for them. They want to sabotage

UniSteel’s production, lower its reputation enough that the revenue drops. Then Crucible

won’t be able to clear his record with cash anymore, and we can deliver the killing blow

with legal means.”

“So why haven’t they done it yet?”

“UniSteel has the kind of security that they just don’t know how to bypass.

Armed guards, locks, hydraulically sealed doors… it’s practically a fortress. They need

someone sneaky, someone who knows their way around security systems. Somebody



who apparently has a passion for making things vanish, or he wouldn’t have shoplifted at

the Sleight of Hand shop last night, about an hour after it had closed.”

Oh, crap. “H-how did you know that?”

“The police found somebody’s fingerprints on the doorknob. You’re a wanted

man, Blake.”

~5~

The taxi pulled up to a nondescript warehouse deep in the industrial district of the

city, and let the two odd passengers off. Demon Z and Trish stepped out into the warm

afternoon air, and strode up to the building.

Trish nudged Z. “You brought your lockpicks, right?”

“Never leave home without e’m.”

“Good,” Trish nodded. “You’re probably going to need them. The Centurions

won’t just take your word for it when you tell them you can get through a door.”

From outside, the building looked recently abandoned – rust was starting to form

in patches on the iron hinges of the heavy wooden door. Trish grunted as she pushed it

open, with some effort. Z followed her inside.

The inside of the building seemed much larger on the inside. The ceiling stretched

high above Z’s head, reminding him of some World War One motion pictures that

showed the insides of airplane hangars. Blake didn’t quite remember when or where he

saw those movies, but they came to mind nonetheless. A couple of women sitting at a

round table looked up from their books to peek at the new visitors, but returned to their

reading after seeing Trish’s CN shirt.



Blake followed Patricia past some metal shelves stacked with books, and into

some offices. She stopped in front of a door, and turned to Z.

“You’re about to talk to the boss of pretty much every Centurion in New Ithaca,

kid,” Trish whispered sternly. “It’ll just be you and her in there. So you’d better be on

your best behavior, or she’ll throw us out and you’ll have to deal with Crucible on your

own, m-kay?”

Blake ran a hand through his hair, smoothing it down. “Sure, okay.”

Trish cleared her throat and rapped on the door. “Ma’am? It’s Patricia Crucible. I

think I found our guy, ma’am. Is now a good time?”

A pause.

“Sure, I have a few minutes. Send him in.”

Trish ushered Demon Z into the room and closed the door behind him.

~

Blake was greeted by a stern-faced woman who looked about fifty years old. She

had short blond hair that was beginning to show streaks of silver. The glint in her icy

blue eyes matched the nail polish on her long fingernails. She reminded Z of a dragon,

ready to tear him apart at the first sign of hostility. The plaque on her desk read L A U RA

WRIGHT .

“Good morning, young man,” she drawled. “Please have a seat.” She gestured to

the office chair nearest to Blake. “My name is Laura Wright, supervisor of the

Centurions. And you are…?”

“Blake de Monza, ma’am,” Z uttered as he sat down in the chair. “Patricia told me

the Centurions could use someone sneaky.”



“That we do,” Wright affirmed. “However, as I’m sure Patricia has already told

you, we would like to see your skills for ourselves. This is sabotage of a high-security

steel mill, after all.”

Wright placed a small strongbox on the desk, in front of Blake. It was secured by

a single, steel lock.

“This lock is identical to the ones at the factory,” Wright declared. “You know

what to do, Mr. de Monza.”

Demon Z pulled out his tools, and began to work. As he moved, jiggled, and

twisted the bobby pins through the fine steel innards of the lock, he began to gain an

understanding of the lock’s anatomy. Wright sat perfectly still, staring at Blake’s hands,

judging him silently with those cold, blue eyes, listening to the c-click click, tc-tc-tclick,

ticktick-ticlickityclick of the bobby pins navigating the lock’s secrets.

Blake finally twisted the lock, and was rewarded with that satisfying click-krack

of victory. The strongbox sprung open, revealing a pair of black spandex gloves. This

surprised Z; spandex was very hard to come by since it had only just been invented.

These must have cost quite a lot of money.

Blake held the gloves up for Wright to see. “What are these for, ma’am?”

“You’ll be wearing those during the sabotage. The flexible material will provide

maximum mobility of your hands, while entirely eliminating your fingerprint. We can’t

afford to have another Sleight of Hand Shop incident, if you know what I mean.

Especially not at a factory owned by the richest man in New Ithaca.”

Z pocketed the gloves. “Yeah, about that, ma’am…”

“Yes?”



“Why haven’t the police found me yet?”

Wright leaned back in her chair. “The fingerprints were smudged. As a direct

result of this, the police aren’t entirely sure who perpetrated the crime. They have been

asking around to find evidence, and a few people have said a thing or two, but the

authorities still do not have enough information to call you the perpetrator.”

“So how do you know that I did that?”

“Patricia saw you slip inside. Do you have any other questions?”

“Uh, no, ma’am.”

“Good.” She leaned forward again. “Our plan is to launch a full-on protest right in

the factory’s front yard tomorrow morning at noon, which should provide a sufficient

diversion for you to get inside the factory. Once you’re inside, you will close the coolant

valves around the main steel vats, causing overexposure of the iron to carbon sources,

and making the steel more brittle. This will take a very long time for UniSteel’s engineers

to rectify, and will cause a sizeable drop in customer satisfaction.”

Blake only understood about half of what she was saying, but he nodded in

affirmation.

“Good. Now, back to the matter at hand. Do you know why the Centurions are

based in such a large warehouse?”

“No, ma’am.”

“The truth is, we’re not. This warehouse is a temporary installment. We picked it

because its structure is the closest we could get to the inside of UniSteel’s central

production center. It is ideal for someone like you to show us that you are actually

capable of performing the task at hand.”



“Didn’t I already pick that lock for you?”

“Yes, and you did well. However, there are three requirements for an infiltration

of this gravity. Lock picking, which you have already proven yourself capable of, is the

first. The other two are stealth and pickpocketing.”

“Pickpocketing? How is that going to help me?”

“Some locks are simply too advanced to pick. A key would be required to get

through those doors, and the guards at UniSteel often carry master keys for the

compound.”

“So I’d have to get the key from them without being noticed.”

“Precisely.”

“I suppose you’re going to test my stealth and pickpocket skills now.”

“Yes. Please go to back to the entrance and prepare for the test. Patricia will meet

you there. Dismissed.”

Blake got up and exited the office wordlessly. He was beginning to wonder what

he was getting himself into.

~6~

“Explain it to me again.” Beads of sweat were already forming on Blake’s

forehead, and the test hadn’t even started yet. The nerves were running high.

Trish sighed. “Okay. Your goal is to get into the warehouse, and into Supervisor

Wright’s office. The other Centurions will be playing the part of the guards. If you’re

discovered, they’ll blow their whistles.”

“And then?”

“And then they’ll have to find someone else to infiltrate UniSteel.”



“So I get one shot, and then they’ll refuse me.”

“Yeah. So don’t screw up.”

“Thanks for the encouragement.”

“You’re welcome.” Trish smiled as she said it, in that I-could-kick-your-butt-so-

you’d-better-do-a-good-job kind of way. “Okay, that’s everything I can tell you. Are you

ready to shadow-warrior your way to success?”

“Ready as I’ll ever be.”

“Then go.”

Blake took a deep breath, pulled on his new gloves, and slipped into the belly of

the beast.

~

Blake quickly ducked behind a shelf to avoid being out in the open, just as a

Centurion stepped into the first room.

“Hello? Is someone there?”

Oh crap.

The Centurion glanced around the room, remaining where he was standing. “Hrm,

just getting jumpy I guess.” Blake let out a relieved sigh as the “guard” moved on to the

next area on his patrol route.

Blake moved silently to the door that the Centurion had entered through, and

peeked into the next room. This one was guarded by two Centurions – one man and one

woman – who were having a conversation. Neither guard was facing in his general

direction, and Blake was able to scurry from the door to a dark corner of the room, where



he was hidden in the shadows. He paused and listened in on the conversation while he

calmed his nerves. He only caught snippets of the conversation:

“…Isn’t a single place for a hero in this city anymore. Crucible’s brought a lot of

cash into New Ithaca… doesn’t have any dignity, though…”

“…You’re right, Agnes… sumbitch needs to get some sense if you ask me…”

“…Can say that again… Tired of seeing plumes of black smoke blocking the

sunrise every morning…”

Blake moved from the shadows, keeping as much hardware between him and the

two guards. The less of his body that was visible, the better chances he had.

He couldn’t believe he was actually doing this. He was more used to, well,

sneaking into unoccupied stores, not guarded buildings. And pickpocketing? He’d never

picked a pocket in his life. Guess I’ll have to learn really quickly, he thought to himself.

Just as he was about to get to the other side of the second room, the female guard

broke from the conversation and headed in the direction of the same door Blake was

headed to. Oh shit, he thought to himself. She’s going to see me for sure. I need a

distraction…

Z grabbed a book from the shelf next to him, and tossed it in the direction of the

door behind him. The book clattered to the floor with an audible thunk , drawing the

attention of both guards, who ran towards the sound with their hands on their whistles. As

Blake ducked into the third room, he heard one of the guards say, “Trouble?” However,

there was no whistle blow.

The next room had only one guard, stationed right in front of the door to the

offices. Again, Demon Z kept to the shadows, trying to get a look at the door. When he



got close enough to see the door clearly, he noticed that it was locked – it would take

almost a full minute to pick the lock, and he’d be caught for sure. He’d need the key in

order to get inside.

The guard shuffled in place nervously, and for just a moment, Blake noticed a

glint of brass sticking out of her back pocket. That must be the key.

Blake carefully snuck around, behind the guard. He reached up, and –

Tweeeeeet!

~7~

“Blake! What happened?!” Trish was furious. “You just botched your first run,

kid. Now the guards will be more alert than before!”

“I’m sorry!” Blake yelled back. “I’ve never picked anyone’s pocket before! Just

because I’ve been living next to a Dumpster for ten years doesn’t mean I’m perfect at

everything illegal!”

Trish’s face darkened with guilt, but Blake was too upset to stop there. “I’ve had

to suffer for ten years, Trish! Ten years of living in a dark, smelly alley with nothing but

the rats for company.” His face was red with anger. “Ten years of begging on the streets

every day, just for a couple of rusty coins to spend on stale bread and Carrot Bites! And

where have you been all that time? Sleeping in your own gold-plated double bed in a

fucking MANSION!”

Trish turned away with a sob and ran, down into the depths of the city, leaving

Demon Z all alone once again.



~

That night, Blake stared up at the stars from the dark of the alleyway, mentally

kicking himself over and over. He’d probably never see Trish again, and the Centurions

were obviously right out. Any chance he’d ever had of ending this story happily had just

been dashed. The Centurions would launch their protest tomorrow, and Blake wouldn’t

be allowed to take part in the plan. It was over, before it even began.

The stars winked out of Blake’s vision as his eyes blurred with tears. Silently, he

wept and wept until he fell asleep.

~

Blake woke up the next morning with anger burning in his heart. He didn’t know

what the anger was directed at, but it was there nonetheless. Just like every other

morning, he ran a hand through his hair as he went to get his jacket. And then, out of the

corner of his eye, Blake caught a glint of light on the ground. He turned towards the glint,

walked over and got a closer look at the item.

It was the pen knife that one of the muggers dropped. After three and a half days,

it was still sitting there. Blake picked it up and examined it carefully. It was one hundred

percent steel, and it was well-oiled; Blake could flip it open and closed almost

effortlessly. It was truly a fine blade.

And then Demon Z saw the name, scrawled on the handle in permanent marker:

CRUCIBLE

Blake screamed out of pure rage and pain, and threw the knife at the wall so hard

that the blade embedded itself half an inch into the bricks.



Everett Crucible had sent those hoods to kill his own daughter .

There was no question about it now. UniSteel needed to be sent to the chopping

block… and Demon Z was going to be the headsman.

~8~

The Centurions were already starting to gather in front of UniSteel’s main facility

when Demon Z arrived. The first person to notice him was Patricia, who strode over to

him purposefully.

They stared at each other wordlessly for a moment. Finally, Trish pursed her lips

and spoke.

“Blake, I’m… I’m sorry for running off yesterday…”

“Don’t be sorry, girl.” Blake put his hand on her shoulder. “Everyone’s going

through hard times these days.”

Trish smiled weakly. “So why are you here, then?”

Blake held up the spandex gloves for effect.

“Are you going to…?”

“Hell yeah, girl. I don’t need the Centurions’ permission to make Crucible pay for

what he’s done to me,” Blake declared. “I’m going in there, and the only thing that’ll stop

me is a guard’s bullet.”

Trish’s face went pale. She didn’t like what she was hearing. As the Centurions

began to gather en masse, though, Trish took a deep breath, and then said the one thing

that Blake wanted to hear.

“Go get ‘im, Demon Z.”

And then the cries of protest rang out.



~

Blake easily snuck around to the back door of the steel mill; the guards had all of

their attention focused on the protest. Some guards were yelling out, telling the crowd to

disperse. Others stayed on their post with a hand on their guns. But the Centurions

remained stubborn, not taking even one step back. Blake had a gut feeling that the guards

would begin clubbing the protesters soon; he had better get into the compound before

everything went to shit.

The back door was used as a method of removing various items from the building

that weren’t of use anymore, from the look of it – empty coolant canisters were stacked

against the wall next to the door. Blake remembered that the Centurions wanted to shut

down the coolant system; if coolant canisters ended up here, then the coolant valves

shouldn’t be too far into the building, right?

Z slipped on his gloves and tiptoed in through the door to find himself in an

unguarded storage room. It was dimly lit by a green bulb that looked like it needed

changing. The shelves were loaded with steel ingots, tools and various other doodads. Z

could just barely catch the stench of boiling steel coming from the rooms ahead.

He moved on to the next room. This one was also unguarded, and Blake

immediately saw why: there was a heavy steel door that sealed the vat room from the

outside. Well, crap, Blake thought. Now I have to get through this?!

Blake examined the door. Judging from the fancy pistons and latches that held the

door shut, it was hydraulically sealed. Short of ramming the thing with a runaway train, it

wasn’t going to open from the outside.



There was a pipe protruding from the door and down into a hole in the wall,

though; maybe he could shut off the water supply to the door somehow?

He looked around the dimly lit room, feeling his hands along the walls and floor;

there had to be some kind of maintenance access – wait, was that it? Yes, there was a

hatch down into the inner workings of the factory. It was worth a shot.

Blake lifted the hatch, and dropped down into the factory’s bowels, silently

praying that he’d make it out alive.

~9~

Blake landed on the floor of a dimly lit, all-concrete hallway. It was a symphony

of industry down here; Z could hear the pitter-patter of water droplets on the hard stone

floor, which rang out in tandem with the faint sound of hydraulics, and the occasional

metallic clang.

Demon Z followed the water pipe down the hallway. The pipe was marked

“B861” in blocky red letters every five meters or so, so it wasn’t hard to identify amongst

the other pipes that ran through this labyrinth.

Blake could hear the hydraulics louder now. He was no connoisseur of

hydromechanics, but he postulated that the sound was coming from a water pump. If he

could find it and shut it off, he might be able to…

Suddenly, he heard a new noise. When Z turned to the sound, he caught a brief

flash of movement.

Z nervously lowered his stance and glanced around the hallway. There were

plenty of places to hide in here, but there were no signs of life to be seen or heard. He

wasn’t even sure if he had really –



A gloved hand grabbed his shoulder from behind.

~

Blake whirled to face the new threat, to receive a hard punch to the cheek. Z fell

to the ground with a cry. He stared up at the attacker, hands up, ready to defend himself.

“Did he send you?! You can both go to hell. No one crosses me!” The attacker

lifted his foot into the air, and Blake rolled away before the man could stomp his head

into the floor.

Blake shot to his feet. The man threw another punch, but Blake was ready for this

one. He sidestepped and grabbed the man’s hand, and punished him with a roundhouse

kick to the ribs.

The man doubled over with a painful grunt, but Demon Z wasn’t about to have

mercy on him; this guy, whoever he was, was a threat. Z kneed the man in the face, and

flecks of blood and spit sprayed from his mouth as the man fell backwards. Blake

mounted the man, sizing him up as he pinned his arms to the ground.

The man couldn’t have been much older than Z, but he was unnaturally short; he

looked to be about five feet tall or so. His wiry burgundy hair had been clipped short; his

pronounced cheekbones and jaw gave him a hardened look. Combined with the caked

blood on his face, he could easily have been a hitman.

“Alright, kunk,” Blake growled in that accented voice that only came out during a

fight. “I d’no who you are, but you ain’t stoppin’ me from gettin’ my revenge on

Crucible. Anything to say before I klunk ya unconscious?”

The man grinned, and his teeth were red with blood. “Ah, so you’re the has-been,

hm?”



Blake was surprised and confused. “Has-been? What are you talking about?”

The man turned his head to the side, and spat out a mouthful of blood. He then

turned his head back to face Z.

“Name’s Chafe. I’m the guy that the Centurions hired to replace you… Demon

Z.”

~10~

Blake was stunned. He wasn’t counting on finding his replacement. Z dismounted

Chafe, more out of bewilderment than mercy.

“Hrm, so I guess ya aren’t gonna ‘klunk’ me now, huh?” Chafe mumbled as he

stood up. “Well, we’re both after the same thing, so I guess I can’t blame ya.”

Blake grunted in affirmation as he snapped out of his stupor. “Uhm, yeah. So,

uh… do you know where the water pumps are?”

“Trust me, kid,” Chafe murmured, reading his mind. “I thought about getting

through that door too. The problem is, there’s another hydraulic door leading into the

room we’d need to get into. The only way to shut it off is from inside the room.”

“So you’re saying that we won’t be able to get through the door upstairs.”

“Yep.”

“So we can’t get in?”

“In case you haven’t noticed, kid, this place is a goddamn labyrinth.” Chafe

gestured to the complex around them. “There has to be some other way to get into the

foundry.”

“So which way do we go?”

“Dunno. I was just beginning to figure it out before we, uh, met.”



“Well, we know that there’s a door to the room that way –” Z jerked his thumb in

the direction he had come from – “so it would make sense to have another door over that

way.” He pointed down another hallway.

“I was thinking the same thing. Let’s give it a try.”

The pair made their way to the end of the hall, to a solitary steel door. They had

gotten lucky this time; this one was locked mechanically. Chafe reached down behind

him and pulled out a small hammer.

“What are you doing?” Blake stammered.

“I’m going to smash the lock,” Chafe replied, as if it were obvious.

“You shouldn’t try that.”

“Why not? It’s what I did to get into Wright’s strongbox.”

“I’m sure it made a lot of noise,” Blake declared bitterly. “It’s one thing to break

into a strongbox while under supervision. It’s another thing to break into a steel mill

protected by armed guards, Chafe. Making that much noise is just asking the guards to

shoot you.” Blake kneeled in front of the lock. “I’ll take care of this.”

Within minutes, that familiar click-krack of the lock’s defeat rang out in Z’s ears.

As he carefully eased the door open, he took a glance at Chafe, who wore an expression

not unlike that of jealousy. It occurred to Z that Chafe might have a leadership complex.

The air in the main foundry was scalding hot, and the smoky steam scalded Z’s

skin. The only light in the room was the sunlight sifting through the smoky atmosphere,

and the blood-orange glow of molten steel. The metal clang, clang, clang of guards’

footsteps on the overhead walkways mixed with the hissing, grinding and sizzling sounds

of the Industrial Revolution.



Blake looked for the valves, and spotted a couple of them near the same catwalks

where the guards were patrolling. This was not going to be easy.

“I say we get in there, close the valves, and book it,” Chafe whispered into

Blake’s ear. Z had the impression he was trying to maintain leadership.

Blake wasn’t going to let him botch this operation, though. “Look, there are

guards up on the catwalks. Hey, I know you want to be the leader here, but –”

“Okay, fine,” Chafe spat. “I’ll go in myself. Have fun being the guy who never

did anything!”

And before Blake could stop him, Chafe had rushed into the room of fire and

corruption, doomed to his own plan.

~

Blake crept in after Chafe to find he was already up on the catwalks, and in the

process of closing the first valve. Z waved from below, but Chafe didn’t slow down.

Meanwhile, the guards trotted around the catwalks, still unaware of the two intruders, yet

getting inevitably closer to Chafe. It was only a matter of time until Chafe was

discovered, and all Blake could do was watch. Chafe was already onto the third valve

now, with one more to go. The tension mounted as the guards closed in on him.

Just as Chafe finished with the third valve, though, Blake heard a “Hey!”

accompanied by the mechanical sound of a rifle bolt sliding a bullet into the chamber.

Chafe was out of time.

Blake saw him get up, with his hands in the air.

“On the floor! Get on the floor, now!” The guard gestured with his weapon,

continuing to advance on Demon Z’s new partner in crime.



“Okay, relax,” Chafe responded softly, though he remained standing. The other

guards had begun to converge on him, leaving their posts. Blake took that chance to

quickly climb the metal staircase to the catwalks, where he began to sneak around to the

final coolant valve, keeping one eye on the developing situation.

The first guard had come within striking distance. Chafe was on him immediately,

and within seconds he had KO’d and disarmed the guard. The other guards were almost

on him.

Just as Blake reached the valve, Chafe stood up, and Blake saw the unconscious

guard’s pistol in his hands. Z watched Chafe point the gun at one of the incoming guards,

but it was already far too late.

The sound of a gunshot reverberated throughout the smoky room, and spray of

crimson erupted from Chafe’s chest. He staggered for a moment, and the pistol fell from

his grip.

As the guards continued to close in, Chafe collapsed right there on the catwalks,

and then he was gone.

~

No, no, no, this can’t be happening. This isn’t happening!

The guards had gathered around Chafe’s motionless body, checking him for

weapons, evidence, anything they could find.

Blake couldn’t believe it. Chafe didn’t have to fight . He chose to die. Why did

Chafe choose this? Why didn’t he just let the guards detain him, let him live?

Blake looked down at his own hands, clasped around the final valve. In a way, he

was holding a weapon, too. If he turned this valve, it would hurt UniSteel in ways only an



intentional sabotage could. Did he dare point this weapon at the Industrial Revolution?

This would affect New Ithaca’s whole economy. Was revenge really worth doing

something like that?

The guards had spotted Blake now. They advanced on him, yelling at him to get

on the floor.

This isn’t about revenge. This is about justice. This is about honor, and Everett

Crucible has none.

Blake turned the valve, and then obeyed the guards’ orders, lying facedown on the

warm steel catwalk with his hands on the back of his head.

~11~

Blake sat in the dank, smelly cell room, his knees to his chest, accompanied only

by the rat that made its home there. Occasionally, a rat would carefully approach him,

sniffing the air to catch his scent before scurrying back to its hole, where it would watch

him through beady, black eyes. Blake ignored the creature; rats were a common thing to

see back in the alley. This one was rather curious, though.

There was no natural light down here; the only light came from a dim cage lamp

hanging loosely from the ceiling, casting a yellowish-orange glow throughout the room

that flickered like a candle. The place smelled not unlike home – rat droppings, dust, a

little bit of smog. The cell room was unfurnished save an old cot and the steel cell door.

There was a small window crisscrossed with iron bars, however even without the bars it

would be hardly large enough for a bird to crawl through, much less a desperate prisoner.



Blake had been relieved of everything but his clothes – the gloves, the

lockpicking set… it was all gone. Blake wasn’t about to try picking the lock with his

fingernails, so there wasn’t much to do here.

The door creaked open, and two armed guards walked in, followed by the last

person Blake wanted to see.

“Hello, Mr. de Monza,” Everett Crucible murmured with a confident countenance

that Blake couldn’t help but despise. “I wasn’t expecting to find my daughter’s little

accomplice here at UniSteel. Honestly, if I had known you’d just walk right up to my

doorstep, I wouldn’t have gone to all the trouble of finding you in the first place.” He

chuckled.

Blake remained silent.

“I should have known you’d rebel against the Industrial Revolution,” Crucible

continued. “I should have let you burn right next to your uncle all those years ago, for all

the economic good it would have done.”

“Did you plan this speech out in advance?” Blake was on the verge of losing his

cool, and it showed.

“Mr. de Monza, you are in no position to question me.”

“NO ONE IS!” Blake erupted into a conflagration of rage he’d never experienced

before as he shot to his feet. “No one can question you, because everyone who does gets

brutally MURDERED! You threw your wife into a vat of molten steel. You burned my

home to the ground when we tried to assert our property rights. You tried to have your

own daughter ASSASSINATED for questioning you!” Blake was grinding his teeth to a



pulp. “You are a horrible person, Crucible, and a horrible father. Hell, you couldn’t father

Trish if someone injected three gallons of oxytocin into your veins!”

Blake saw the bodyguards tense up. Everett raised a hand to his mouth, shocked

by what he was hearing. Maybe Trish was right – Crucible could be hurt.

“You’re a murderer,” Z growled under his breath. “You’re a murderer and you’re

a psycho and you deserve to suffer for your crimes against humanity!”

And that was it. Blake sat back down on his cot, which creaked in the new silence

as it bore his weight. Z put his head in his hands and sobbed. There was nothing more to

say.

After a minute of this, Blake looked back up at the tense guards and a troubled-

looking Crucible. Z could just barely discern a slight quivering of the man’s lower lip. In

that very moment of eye contact, Blake saw Crucible in an entirely new light.

Trish really was right – the man could be hurt. Because, even though he had done

horrible things for monetary gain, even though he bribed his way out of the worst

punishments possible, he was human too.

~

Patricia was shoved into the cell room just as Blake was getting ready to go to

sleep. She looked at him with wide eyes and a stifled gasp.

“Oh no, Z…” She put her hand to her lips. “Not you, too…”

“It’s OK, Trish,” Blake mumbled. “I was able to finish the job before the guards

found me.”

“Glad the Centurions could buy you enough time.”

“It certainly helped.” Blake shrugged. “How’d you get in here?”



“Well…” Trish looked down at her faded green shoes. “The protest kind of went

to shit. The guards were yelling at us to disperse, but we didn’t. They started beating us

with their clubs. Shots were fired into the crowd. I was one of the few people who wasn’t

hurt or killed.”

“Well, shit.”

“Yeah… when the gunfire started, I tried to get into the foundry via the back

door, same as you. Let’s just say the guards recognized me and threw me in here. So here

I am.”

“Chafe got shot,” Blake blurted all of a sudden.

“What?”

“Chafe, the guy you Centurions hired to replace me. I saw him get shot up there.”

“Son of a bitch!” Trish flared up in anger. “What happened?”

“The guards found him a minute or so before they found me.” Blake recounted

the details of that dreaded moment in the foundry. By the time he was done, his voice had

become gravelly with grief.

Despite her desire to comfort Blake, Trish couldn’t find anything to say.

Blake broke the silence. “What was he like?”

“Chafe?”

“Yeah, Chafe. I only knew him for a couple of minutes.”

Trish looked down at her shoes again. “He… he wasn’t at all like he tried to

seem,” she stuttered. “He always tried to be strong, to stand out from the crowd. It’s

convincing, too; he always seems to get people to see him as, well, a thug. But I’ve



known him for years, and I’ve seen enough to know better. Sometimes he would talk

about his father, about how he beat Chafe sometimes.”

Blake nodded. He understood. “How’d you meet him?”

“He joined the Centurions the same day as I did. He used to joke that we were

soul mates.” Trish smiled bitterly as she sat on the cot next to Z. “He only lasted four

hours there, before he got into a fist fight with another member and got himself kicked

out.”

Z remembered Chafe’s mysteriously short stature. “Do you know why he was so

short?”

“He used a lot of steroids throughout his life. It stunted his growth.”

“Sounds like he was kind of insecure.”

“He was. When he left the Centurions, he gave me his address, told me to meet

him there. I went there, to find what looked like an abandoned shack. Turns out that’s

where Chafe lived.”

Blake leaned back against the hard concrete wall. “So what happened then?”

“We became fast friends. He told me all the things he never told anyone – things

about how he really felt about himself and the world around him.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. The truth is, Chafe didn’t want to be lost. He acted tough and everything

because he didn’t want to disappear. He wanted people to notice him, to remember him

as a person. He said he knew he didn’t have much time left, that he could feel like he

would be lost forever in the near future. He didn’t know when it’d happen, so he wanted

people to see him, to recognize his existence in case that day was the day.”



“Wow. That’s dark.”

“I said the exact same thing when he told me that. I guess today was finally that

time for him. He must have decided he’d rather die than be locked up down here. He

knew that this cell would be the place where he’d finally disappear.”

Blake felt a guilty pain in his chest that he hadn’t felt since… since his home

burned to the ground. So that was why Chafe chose the bullet instead of the shackles. It

was the better way to disappear.

“Are we going to disappear down here?” Blake inquired.

“I don’t see why we wouldn’t,” Trish answered bitterly. “We don’t have much

going for us anyway.”

“So you’re basically saying we’re going to rot down here.”

“Basically,” Trish stated, “unless we can escape.”

“Trish…” Blake stammered. “There’s something I really should have told you

when I first saw you, over at the protest…”

Trish looked at Blake with wide eyes.

“Those muggers, a few days ago…”

“What about them?”

“They… they were…”

“Blake, what is it?”

“They were… sent by… um, by…”

“Blake!” Trish was getting frustrated. “Just spit it out!”

“…your dad.”



“No…” Trish stood up and backed away from Z. “You’re lying. Dad wouldn’t do

that. He loves me!”

Blake didn’t have the patience for her denial. “Yeah, just like he loved your

mother when he pushed her into a vat of molten steel.”

Trish gasped, putting her hand to her mouth.

At that same moment, Crucible and the two bodyguards entered the room. Blake

gestured towards the new arrivals.

“Still don’t believe me, Trish? Ask him.”

Trish bit her lip, turned to her father, and before he could even utter a word, she

had already gotten in his face. She confronted Everett with a glare that must have burned

straight into his soul.

“Is it true?”

“Patricia…”

“Did you send those bastards to kill me? Did you?!”

Everett shuffled nervously where he was. That was all the answer Trish needed.

“You’re a monster ,” Trish growled. “You’re a savage and a scourge to humanity.

You’re the closest thing to the devil incarnate that anyone’s ever met, and I’m ashamed to

call you my father!”

Crucible recoiled in disbelief, and Blake’s eyes grew wide. A tense silence hung

over the cell room like a fog, wafting down Blake’s gaping mouth and making his throat

feel dry. No one had ever heard such hatred coming from the lips of, well, anyone. Not

even the guards, one of which almost dropped his rifle.



Everett looked down at his feet, hiding his facial expression. When he looked

back up at Patricia, however, his expression was twisted up into that angry, devilish

scowl Blake had already become familiar with.

“I do not –” Here Crucible yanked the pistol from a surprised guard’s holster –

“have to take that from you!”

He lifted the gun to Patricia’s head.

~12~

Blake was on his feet in a flash, and came at Crucible with a cry of pure

adrenaline and fury. He cleared the gun away from Trish as he pushed her to the floor,

and the gun discharged a single round into the ceiling before falling out of Everett’s

grasp… and into Blake’s.

Demon Z took four long steps back, getting some distance between himself and

Crucible, as he aimed the gun at the man. The guards were too confused to even aim their

rifles at Blake. That, or they weren’t quite sure whether they should, given the new

revelation.

“You are not going to kill Patricia, you dirty bastard,” Blake snarled. “Not today,

not tomorrow, not in a billion years. Welcome to the real world, a world where you don’t

always hold all the cards.”

He lowered the muzzle of the pistol, and fired the gun. Everett Crucible screamed

in pain as he toppled to the cell floor, clutching the bloody wound where the bullet had

torn through his ankle. The bodyguards lifted their rifles now, but Blake wasn’t about to

share Chafe’s fate. He fired the pistol twice more, and both guards fell, dead before they

even hit the floor.



Blake was too full of adrenaline to be shocked about the people he’d just killed.

He approached Crucible, who was whimpering in agony, and aimed the gun down at his

head. Crucible gazed up at him with a pained expression.

“Mr. de Monza…” he croaked. “If you’re going to kill me, do it. End my misery,

my pain. Do it!”

“No,” Blake calmly replied. “I’m not going to give you the satisfaction.” He

shoved the gun into the back of his jeans and turned to a shocked Patricia. “Come on,

Trish. Let’s get out of here.” He grabbed one of the guards’ rifles as the two captives left

the bloodied, concrete room.

As Blake walked down the hall towards freedom, he addressed Crucible for the

last time.

“Keep the pressure on the wound, and you’ll live. I’ll see you in hell.”

~

The two escapees were almost out of the prison complex, and luckily for them, no

guards had shown up yet. It was only a matter of time until they did, though; they must

have heard the gunshots. Blake’s ears were ringing from the shooting, but he could still

hear all right.

Blake took a good look at the rifle in his hands. It was a Browning Automatic

Rifle, caliber .30-06, the same rifle that many brave American soldiers were probably

using against those filthy Krauts at that very moment. Blake wasn’t just holding a rifle;

he was holding what would likely become a historical treasure.

Z didn’t have time to admire the BAR for long, however, before he heard a

somewhat muffled “Go, go, go!”



He pulled his pistol, and tossed it to Trish. “Hide somewhere. We’ve got

company!”

Trish ducked into an empty cell to the right, and Blake ducked into one on the

left. Trish looked down at the pistol in her hands, the same one that had already claimed

two lives. Blake could tell that she didn’t want to have to use the gun, but she would if

she had to. This was a matter of life or death, after all.

The sound of a door being kicked open jerked Z back to his senses. He slunk into

the shadows of the cell, rifle ready to fire.

A group of guards in full armor ran right past the cells, on the way to the wounded

Crucible. Blake waited until the footsteps had receded, then emerged from the shadows

and moved on down the hall with Trish right on his heels. She could be a real soldier

when she needed to, that one.

They came out into the same foundry where Chafe had met his end. Indeed, the

blood still dripped to the floor from the catwalk, and Trish looked away when she saw it.

Tears began to form in her eyes as the duo moved on, through the hydraulic door and into

the open air of New Ithaca, where they cast away their weapons and sprinted all the way

back to Blake’s home.

~

“No…” Blake was stunned when he saw what had happened to his home. “This

can’t be happening. This isn’t happening!”

The alley was clean and spotless. Everything Blake had – the sleeping bag, the

spare clothes, everything – was gone. There was nothing left but a note, sitting on the

Dumpster. Blake picked it up and read it:



Dear Demon Z,Dear Demon Z,Dear Demon Z,Dear Demon Z,

I know what you diI know what you diI know what you diI know what you did over at UniSteel. I know that you succeeded where thed over at UniSteel. I know that you succeeded where thed over at UniSteel. I know that you succeeded where thed over at UniSteel. I know that you succeeded where the

“replacement” failed. If you’re reading this note, then I owe you a debt of gratitude.“replacement” failed. If you’re reading this note, then I owe you a debt of gratitude.“replacement” failed. If you’re reading this note, then I owe you a debt of gratitude.“replacement” failed. If you’re reading this note, then I owe you a debt of gratitude.

You have achieved a great feat, child, and I wish to see you once more.You have achieved a great feat, child, and I wish to see you once more.You have achieved a great feat, child, and I wish to see you once more.You have achieved a great feat, child, and I wish to see you once more. As I fear for my As I fear for my As I fear for my As I fear for my

security, I cannotsecurity, I cannotsecurity, I cannotsecurity, I cannot put e put e put e put everything down on paper.verything down on paper.verything down on paper.verything down on paper. Meet me at our previous location. I’mMeet me at our previous location. I’mMeet me at our previous location. I’mMeet me at our previous location. I’m

sure you’ll know where it is.sure you’ll know where it is.sure you’ll know where it is.sure you’ll know where it is.

Regards,Regards,Regards,Regards,

A friend A friend A friend A friend

Blake didn’t know what to make of the letter. He had no idea who it was from, or

how it had gotten here. He glanced at Trish, who looked like she knew the answer to both

of those questions. She didn’t say anything, though.

Suddenly, without any context, Z remembered the jack-in-the-box he’d hidden.

Indeed, it was still behind the Dumpster where he’d left it. He admired the flawless

carving of the wood, as if for the first time. It was truly a masterpiece.

“What’s that?” Trish peered over his shoulder.

Blake smiled. “It’s freedom.”

~13~

The sun was just beginning to set when the exhausted pair arrived at the

warehouse, out of breath from the five-mile jog. The clouds were already settling in for

what would be a long, rainy night.



There was no one in the warehouse this time. The spiders had already taken over;

the inside of the warehouse was coated in fresh cobwebs and dust. The few remaining

books on the shelves seemed a thousand years old; the fake gold titles etched into the

front covers had lost all their luster and color, leaving dull gray words on dull gray

leather covers. Even the sunlight sifting through the dirty skylights seemed ancient,

unbroken by the cleansing touch of civilization. Within less than a day, the Centurions’

warehouse had faded to nothing more than a pitiful shadow of its former self. The only

sign of human life left here was the glow of Wright’s desk light, clashing with the

shadows of the offices.

Demon Z wordlessly knocked on the door to Wright’s office. There was no reply.

He entered the office to find Wright, sitting in her office chair, breathing heavily, face

pale and contorted in pain, both hands pressed against a bloody wound in her side.

“Oh my God, Wright!” Blake rushed to her. She likely was hurt during the

protest; the wound was ragged, and Wright’s hands were stained with streaks of blood

that her hands could not contain. Blake grabbed a pair of scissors and a coat off the rack

near the door. He quickly fashioned a makeshift tourniquet using the coat and an

umbrella frame. It wasn’t much, but it’d have to do.

As Trish watched in horror, Blake peeled Wright’s hands off the horrid, sticky

mess of flesh to apply the crude tourniquet. The wound was long and thin; likely a bullet

had grazed her side, ripping through the flesh. As he applied the tourniquet, Wright

pressed her lips to his ear.

“Blake… I knew you’d come…”

“Shh,” Blake cut her off. “Don’t speak. Save your energy.”



With Trish’s help, he lifted the weak woman to her feet, with Blake bearing most

of her weight. Wright gasped in agony as they did so, but nobody slowed down. Wright

needed medical attention, and soon.

As soon as the group was out of the building, Trish broke off and ran for help.

Blake laid Wright down on the ground on her good side, to help slow the bleeding. It

would be about an hour before help arrived; Wright needed all the help she could get

until then.

Wright mouthed something, but Blake couldn’t quite make out what she was

saying. He moved his ear close to her mouth to hear what she was saying.

“…Protest…Crucible shot…”

“I know,” Blake assured her. “He’s going to pay for what he’s done.”

“Doesn’t… deserve to… die…”

Blake hadn’t expected that to come from someone who was mortally wounded,

but she was right.

“I’m not going to kill him. I won’t sink to his pathetic level. He’s going into the

least comfortable jail cell that New Ithaca’s got, and he’s never going to see the light of

day again.”

“Good…” That was exactly what she wanted to hear. Wright smiled with weak

lips as she drifted off into unconsciousness.

~

The nurse walked into the waiting area of the emergency clinic, where Demon Z

and Trish waited, breathing in the tension-infused atmosphere of the hospital.

“Is she going to live?” Trish blurted. She was coiled like a snake on steroids.



“She’s lost a lot of blood.” The nurse’s facial expression was undecipherable

through her surgical mask. “We’re doing what we can to close the wound and transfuse

blood back into her body, but we’re not entirely sure if she’s going to make it.”

“Can you tell us what her chances are at this point?” Blake was almost as tense as

Trish.

“The doctor seems pretty confident that she’s going to live, provided there are no

unexpected developments. If you two hadn’t made that makeshift tourniquet, she’d have

absolutely zero chance of survival. If she lives through this, she’ll have you to thank.”

“How is she now?”

The nurse pulled off her latex gloves, and proceeded to throw them into a disposal

bin before grabbing a fresh pair. “She’s regained consciousness. You can go in to see her,

though we’ve urged her not to talk too much.”

Trish got up. “Thank you, ma’am.” Z followed her and the nurse into the hospital

room.

“We’re getting ready to cauterize the wound. You’ll have about five minutes, and

then Dr. Mustoe will come get you to ask you some questions, okay?”

The nurse hurried from the room, leaving the two alone with Mrs. Wright.

The wounded woman smiled at Z as he approached her. Some color had begun to return

to her cheeks. She seemed to be recovering.

She put her hand on Z’s shoulder. “You saved my life, Mr. de Monza,” she

murmured. Her voice was slurred from the effects of morphine, further exaggerating her

natural drawl. “Thank you.”



“You’re welcome.” Z knelt down so Wright wouldn’t have to crane her head to

see him. “How are you feeling?”

“I feel like I’ve been shot, lugged into a hospital and injected with morphine and

blood that isn’t mine.” She chuckled pitifully.

Blake raised his eyebrows. He’d never thought it possible for a serious person like

Wright to express a sense of humor. Near-death experiences can have revolutionary

effects on people, Blake realized.

Trish, who had been nervously watching the interaction from the corner of the

room, had worked up enough courage to come and stand next to Blake. Laura Wright

took one look at her, and her smile melted.

“…I’m sorry, ma’am…” Trish shuffled in place.

“Patricia, your orders were to remain with the Centurions by any means

necessary,” Wright scolded. “You should not have tried to go in after Blake. Because of

your reckless actions, the Centurions as a whole have been labeled as an extremist group.

Do you have any idea what that means?”

“I’m afraid not, ma’am.” Trish’s voice had become wobbly with anxiety.

“Authorities have been instructed to arrest and imprison any Centurions on sight.

We’re officially a terrorist organization in the eyes of the police force.”

Their time was up. Trish and Z were ushered from the room, those final haunting

words burning into their hearts.



~

A man in a white doctor’s coat and reading glasses greeted the two teenagers with

a tired-looking smile as they entered the doctor’s office. His dark red hair and jaw shape

looked somewhat familiar to Z, but he couldn’t quite discern who it reminded him of.

“Good afternoon. I’m Dr. Mustoe,” said the man as he shook Trish’s hand, then

Blake’s. “I’d just like to ask you some questions about the patient you’ve brought in

today, and then you’ll be free to go.”

The doctor settled into his chair, and gestured for Trish and Blake to do the same.

“What can you tell me about the wound?”

Trish had anticipated the question. “Looked to me like a bullet graze.”

“A really deep bullet graze,” Blake added.

“Exactly,” Trish continued. “The wound was a couple days old. She was at the

recent UniSteel protest; I suspect that’s how she got hurt.”

Mustoe nodded. “So she’s a Centurion of Nature, then?”

Trish and Blake looked at one another, both wondering the exact same thing:

Should we tell him the truth?

Blake spoke first. “Um, yeah. You aren’t going to turn her in to the police, are

you?”

“Only if they come for her. It’s not really my business who the police want to

imprison. Anyway, what condition was Mrs. Wright in when you found her?”

“She was sitting in her office, clutching her side, trying to stop the bleeding,” Z

began. “She was in a lot of pain. I made a tourniquet for her, and that seemed to help a

bit.”



“Indeed,” Dr. Mustoe affirmed. “It actually helped much more than a little bit.

Without it, she would have bled out by the time we could get her here.”

All Z could come up with was “Cool.” Suave, Blake.

“One last question,” the doctor went on, ignoring the awkward response. “Does

this have anything to do with anyone by the name of Ian Mustoe, or Chafe?”

Trish froze. Blake tensed up. The room sat in a tense, utter silence for what

seemed like an eternity.

Dr. Mustoe broke the silence: “I’ve been trying to figure out his disappearance.

He left home the same day as the protest, and no one’s seen him since.”

Blake now knew who the doctor reminded him of.

“I’m his father.”

It’s a small world.

~14~

Everett Crucible was sitting in his office, favoring the bandages on his injured leg,

when Anne hustled into the room. She wore a grim expression. Well, shit, Crucible

thought to himself. Just when I thought my day couldn’t get any worse.

“Sir? You need to take a look at these.” Anne handed him a couple of sealed

letters and some kind of chart. Everett picked up the chart and scanned it.

The chart depicted the graph of UniSteel’s income over the past month. The graph

looked normal at first glance: a small dip here, a brief spike there, but generally stable.

But at the very end of the graph marked “Today,” the graph dipped sharply; within the

past day and a half, UniSteel’s income rate had dropped by almost half.

Everett waved the graph in Anne’s face. “What the fuck is going on here?”



Anne looked down at her shoes. “I… I don’t know, sir.”

Everett angrily slapped the graph onto the desk, and picked up one of the letters.

He broke the seal and read the letter:

Dear Mr. Crucible,

I am writing from my work organization, Peterson’s

Steel Works, and UniSteel has been a valuable client of

mine for many years. However, I have recently encountered

an issue I think you should be aware of.

I recently ordered several ingots of your fine steel

for a project of mine. As I went to work on shaping one,

however, it shattered under the impact of my hammer,

rendering several minor lacerations on my person.

After I had the wounds treated, I studied the ingots

and found that they were not, in fact, steel at all; they

instead resembled pig iron. I suspect that the order may

have been written down incorrectly, or UniSteel might be

experiencing production difficulties. I expect to receive a

shipment of replacement steel ingots as soon as the problem

is resolved.

Many thanks,

A Concerned Customer

The other letters addressed similar situations: a carpenter whose new set of tools

was brittle and easily broken; a gunsmith whose products always seemed to explode



when fired; a construction worker who was injured when the steel supports of some

scaffolding snapped under his weight.

“Anne, bring me an ingot,” Crucible snapped, “and not one of the old ones. I want

a freshly made ingot.”

“Yes, sir.” Anne scurried from the room, and came back a couple of minutes later

with an odd-looking steel ingot. It was still somewhat warm to the touch.

Everett examined the ingot closely, feeling its texture with his seasoned fingers.

Indeed, there was something off about this metal; it weighed a bit less than normal, even

though it was slightly larger than average. As he pressed his thumb into the metal, he

noticed something else: the metal didn’t have as much give as the steel he’d known for so

long.

This wasn’t steel. This was pig iron. The steel vats had been sabotaged. So that

was why those filthy bastards had broken in. They’d messed with the goddamn coolant

valves, causing overexposure to carbon and turning steel to pig iron.

This was quite distressing; those pipes would already be so full of coolant that the

valves would be impossible to turn. In order to fix it, engineers would have to manually

drain out the coolant until the pressure in those pipes was back to normal. Clever little

maggots…

“Anne, stop all steel production until the coolant system is restored. In the

meantime, let’s double the bounty on what’s left of the Centurions. They need to suffer

for this.”

“Sir, that’ll cause our revenue to deplete even faster –”



“Revenue isn’t relevant here!” Crucible exploded. “This is about revenge. I don’t

care if we lose a hundred thousand dollars; I will not rest until UniSteel’s doorstep is

adorned with the heads of every last Centurion in New Ithaca, including Demon Z’s.”

~

“So what you’re saying,” Dr. Mustoe stammered, “is that Ian took a job for the

Centurions, and got himself shot?”

“Yes sir,” Blake affirmed. “He got reckless, ran ahead without me. By the time I

caught up with him, it was too late.”

“You’re lying,” Mustoe snapped. “Ian wouldn’t have fought back like that. He

acts tough, but I’m his father. I know him.”

“Sir,” Blake pleaded. “You have to believe me!”

“NO!” Mustoe blurted. He leaned forward over the desk, getting in Blake’s face.

“Ian was a fragile child on the inside. I know that because I’m his father. Now tell me,

you little brat. What did you do to Ian?”

“Sir, I have no idea what you’re talking about! I’m telling you the truth!”

“Please,” Trish interjected. “Can we all just stop screaming at each other and calm

down for a moment?!”

“Stay out of this, kiddo,” Dr. Mustoe snapped at her, but he sat back down in his

chair.

“Sir, I know it’s hard to hear this,” Blake pleaded. “Ian meant a lot to you. I know

that. But you need to accept what I’m telling you, because it’s the truth.”

Mustoe looked down at his shoes. When he looked back up, his countenance was

that of pain and hatred.



“Get out of my office. Now.”

~

The duo were just about to leave through the front door when a police car pulled

up to the hospital. Blake grabbed Trish and led her back into the building.

“The cops are here,” Blake whispered into her ear. “We need to find another way

out. Remember, we’re terrorists now.”

The duo sprinted through the labyrinthine hospital, stopping only to check the

maps posted on the walls. Blake followed Trish unerringly, since Trish seemed to be able

to read the hospital maps faster.

Eventually they burst out a back door, into the busy streets of New Ithaca. They

didn’t stop there, though. They ran as fast as their exhausted bodies would let them, all

the way to what was left of Blake’s home.

Exhausted from the three-mile run, Blake leaned against a wall to catch his breath

while Trish bent over with her hands on her knees, breathing heavily.

Once Trish had recovered, she looked up at Blake. “I think I’m going to turn

myself in.”

“I’m sorry, what?” Blake was stunned to hear that.

“It’s my fault that the police are after us. I don’t want anyone else to suffer

because of me.”

“Trish, please –”

“Look, the Centurions are done for. They’ve already gotten Wright, and I’m the

one responsible for our ‘extremism.’ If I turn myself in, they might ease off of the

others.”



“You don’t seem too sure of that.”

“I’m not a criminal, Demon Z,” Trish snapped. “I have no experience in running

from the police all the time. All I’d achieve by staying with you is getting us both

caught.”

“Trish, don’t do this.”

“It’s not up for discussion. I’m done with this. I’m going to turn myself in, and

you can’t stop me.” She walked right past Blake, and out into the streets.

Just before she walked out of sight, though, she turned back to Blake. “See if you

can get Dad into a cell next to mine, all right?”

And then she was gone.

~15~

Blake sat on the Dumpster, the only furniture left in what was once his home,

staring at the wooden jack-in-the-box in his hands. He caressed the item with gentle

hands, eyes closed, memorizing every dimple, every curve and corner there was to feel.

After nearly an hour of this, Blake stood up, pocketing the device. His legs carried

him to the sidewalk, where his hands hailed a taxi. His voice gave the directions to the

driver, and the taxi was off to goodness knows where. Blake wasn’t paying attention to

where his body was telling him to go, and for once he wanted it to stay that way.

In silence they drove, through twisted city streets. Blake watched the scenery

transform as they traveled, from concrete to farmland to fields. Occasionally the river

would try to strike up a conversation, to no avail; Blake was lost in his own dream.

Eventually the taxi came to a stop at the end of a dirt road, and Blake wordlessly

got out without paying the driver, who scowled as he drove off.



Blake found himself at the edge of a golden field that smelled like wheat, ash and

turmeric plants. He trod through the dried grass, the worn soles of his shoes crunching on

grass and dry dirt alike. His instincts brought him to a large clearing in the field, in the

center of which was littered with small piles of ash.

Blake stood in the center of it all, his face turned skyward, eyes closed, breathing

in the ashes of home. This was the place where Blake had lived for the first eight years of

his life. Somewhere here, the ashes of his uncle lay, side by side with those of what was

once the farm.

Blake opened his eyes. Resting at his feet was a solitary iron washbasin that had

survived the fire, lying on its side, partially buried in the ash.

Blake unearthed the basin with a grunt. The bottom of the basin was perfectly flat,

and engraved with the name “de Monza.” No doubt his uncle had made this engraving so

many years ago.

Blake propped up the basin upside down in the ash, forming a small table. Upon

this makeshift table he placed the jack-in-the-box, such that it seemed to be guarding the

engraving.

Blake stepped back to admire his handiwork. Satisfied, he turned away and strode

confidently away from his ashen childhood home, leaving his symbol of defiance for all

the world to see.

After eleven long years, the void in his heart left by the burning of his uncle’s

farm was finally filled.



Now, it was time to prevent any more tragedies from happening. It was time to

take the fight to UniSteel’s corruption. It was time to put Crucible away for life, and end

this once and for all.

And nothing was going to stop Demon Z from being the guy to do it.

~

“Sir? I have something to report,” Anne said as she entered Everett’s office.

“What is it this time?” Everett snapped. “I am not in the mood for more tales of

UniSteel’s suffering.”

“Actually sir, I believe you will be pleased to hear this.”

“Go on.”

“Local authorities have managed to take custody of both Laura Wright and your

daughter, Patricia.”

“What are they being charged with?”

“Wright is being charged with inciting a riot, sir. She has been sentenced to four

months in prison, which runs concurrently with any time spent recuperating from her

injuries.”

“Excellent. And what of my daughter?”

“Patricia has been charged with high-security trespassing. She has been sentenced

to three weeks in prison.”

“Just three weeks?”

“She turned herself in, sir.”

“Ah.” Everett leaned back in his office chair. “So they decided to go easy on

her?”



“Yes, sir.”

“I suppose we’ll have to focus on Demon Z, then,” Crucible mused. “We can

ignore Trish right now, considering she’s not going anywhere. Call up our mercenary, tell

him everything he needs to know about Demon Z. And tell him not to get cocky; that

slimy little bastard is harder to take down than he looks.”

“On it, sir.”

~16~

Blake leafed through the local papers at the downtown corner store, searching for

anything related to UniSteel’s current plans, income rates, anything. He’d need all the

information he could get before he did anything reckless. Come on, UniSteel is

practically the government of this city! There has to be something in here about – ah,

found it!

He came upon an article about a string of production anomalies coming from

UniSteel. According to the article, there had been several cases of so-called “steel” ingots

shattering when struck, and that these ingots appeared to have been made of pig iron

instead of steel. The article also stated that UniSteel had temporarily stopped all steel

production and sales until the issue was resolved. So this is what happens when you shut

off the coolant, Blake thought.

He came upon another resource in the economics section of the paper. It was a

graph of UniSteel’s income over the past couple of days. Blake was no economist, but it

didn’t take a genius to see that UniSteel’s average income was now negative.

It was only a matter of time before Crucible couldn’t clear his bounty anymore.

Then all Z would have to do is get Crucible to commit a crime… hopefully one that



wouldn’t hurt anyone. Until then, Blake needed to get Crucible angrier, to make him

spend more money.

As if on cue, a strong pair of hands grabbed his shoulders. Blake cried out in

surprise as he was violently dragged into a nearby alley. Within moments, he found

himself pinned to the ground, with a jagged blade against his neck. He stared up at his

attacker, and could hardly believe his eyes. Those cheekbones and reddish hair gave it all

away.

It was Dr. Mustoe, holding a bone saw to his throat.

~

“Well, hello there, Demon Z ,” Mustoe snarled. A fiery anger burned within those

deep brown eyes. “Everett Crucible sends his regards.”

“Wha…” Blake stammered. “Why? Why you?”

Mustoe grinned. “Guess my innocent doctor act was pretty convincing, huh? You

see, I’m Crucible’s hired mercenary. Everett posted me at the hospital to get answers

from you and Trish without either of you knowing.”

Blake had to admit, that was pretty clever.

“Boy, did I get paid for that job. Now he wants me to shut you up. I expect to be

raking in the cash by tomorrow afternoon. Anything to say before I end your miserable

little life?”

Demon Z wondered what he could say to get himself out of this. If he acted

defiant, Mustoe would kill him. If he pleaded for mercy, that wouldn’t do him much good

either. He had to say something that would make Mustoe not want to kill him. And so he

decided to just say what was on his mind.



“I learned more about Chafe – sorry, Ian – in those few minutes that I knew him

than I’ve ever learned about anyone within the past week or so,” Blake began, his own

words giving him strength. “He was such a vulnerable person. Hard on the outside, but

gentle on the inside. Ian acted tough, but not because he wanted to be somebody he

wasn’t. He felt insecure about how other people saw him.” Blake swallowed, and then

continued. “He didn’t want to be ignored. He wanted to be remembered long after he was

gone.”

Blake felt the bone saw ease up a bit, but he went on. “When those UniSteel

guards first found him, he yielded. It was perfectly characteristic of the Ian that you know

and love. But then he started to fight, and I never really understood why. But now I do.”

Mustoe sucked in a breath. His eyes began to water and tear up. His grip on the

bone saw began to tremble.

“He knew the guards weren’t going to let him go. He knew that if he went into

those cells, he’d be forgotten forever. He was right. I don’t know if I’d remember him by

now if he had given himself up. He would have died down there, with no one to see it

happen.” Blake closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “He knew that if he fought back,

there would be somebody there to watch him go. There would be someone who

remembered him. And so that was the way he decided to go out.”

Blake opened his eyes now. “Ian didn’t die alone, Mr. Mustoe. He died the exact

same way he wanted to – with someone there to see it. Ian will be forgotten by everyone

he’s ever passed on the street. But I remember.

“There, that’s all I have to say. Now do what you have to do.”



Mustoe let out a loud sob. The bone saw lifted from Z’s neck and clattered to the

pavement next to him. Blake sat up to see Mustoe, sitting against the brick wall, hugging

his knees to his chest, sobbing like a child.

Blake meandered up to him, and to the man’s surprise, threw his arms around

him, hugging him tightly. “It’s okay,” Blake assured him, doing his best to ease Mustoe’s

pain.

Mustoe sniffled. “I think… I think I need some time alone. Thank… thank you.”

“Okay,” Blake whispered, standing up. Wordlessly, he left the alley, and set off

on the long walk to his next destination.

~17~

Blake stood at the front gates of Everett Crucible’s estate, pondering what to do

once he got inside. Stealing something valuable wouldn’t work out too well; there’d be

nowhere good to hide it. He had to do something to piss Crucible off, though. Maybe he

should just break some stuff? Yes, that seemed like a good plan. Blake strode through the

front gates, and through the gilded metal door.

His entry triggered a bell, whose ring resounded throughout the house. His cover

was already blown. He made a split decision to wreck as much as he could.

Blake sprinted into a large kitchen, where several ornate china dishes were

stacked on the central countertop. They must have cost hundreds of dollars. With a

powerful swipe, Blake sent every dish crashing to the floor. It felt awesome.

Blake moved on to a hallway, knocking valuable paintings off walls and toppling

granite sculptures. He was really getting into this. Eleven years after his childhood was

taken from him, and it was finally coming out again.



“Hello? Who’s there? What the hell is going on down there?” Everett Crucible’s

gravelly voice echoed down from upstairs.

Blake responded by turning a vase upside down over a perfectly good carpet.

He’d have to wreck as much as possible before Crucible caught up with him.

The living room was lined with bookshelves. Blake began grabbing books and

tossing them into the burning fireplace.

“Demon Z, you fucking swine!”

Blake whirled to see Everett Crucible standing in a doorway, dressed in a pink

bathrobe, a cricket bat in one hand. Blake stifled a childish giggle. A pink bathrobe?

Really?

Crucible stared at the carnage around him – shattered dishes, broken glass, wood

splinters, flecks of chipped paint, torn fabric – and then looked back up at Blake. His face

turned purple with anger.

With a guttural battle cry, Crucible rushed Blake, though it was really more of a

zombielike shamble than a run, thanks to his injured leg. Blake easily ducked away from

the cricket bat, which instead knocked a picture frame off of the mantle above the

fireplace.

Blake broke into a run down one of the hallways. Crucible tried to follow, but at

such a slow shamble he couldn’t keep up. Giggling manically, Blake sprinted through the

house, causing hundreds of dollars’ worth of destruction as he went, Crucible’s audible

curses driving him on.



Eventually, Blake burst through the gilded metal front doors, and out into the

world. As he left, he did Crucible the courtesy of raiding his mailbox, then sprinted off

into the distance, already planning where his next hideout would be.

~

Blake sat on an empty trash can in a brand-new alleyway, and began to leaf

through Crucible’s mail. Most of the envelopes contained complaint letters about either

the shattering steel issue or the subsequent shutdown of steel production; there was

nothing that Blake could use to shut Crucible down. That is, until he opened the last

letter:

Dear Mr. Crucible,

I am writing to inform you that I have successfully

taken care of Laura Wright, however I assume that, with all

your influence, you have already caught wind of this. She

managed to get away from the protest when your guards

opened fire, but I was able to track her to the Centurions’

base of operations. I believe she sent out a letter to

someone while she was inside, so I entered the base and

delivered a grazing bullet wound to her side. She should

die from blood loss, if no one finds her first. I expect to

receive my cut for the operation soon.

Regards,

Dr. Mustoe



Blake smiled. This was the letter that would put Crucible away forever. The final

nail in the coffin. Z got up, pocketed the letter, and began the long walk to the police

station, unsure whether it would be Crucible to go to prison… or himself.

~18~

The police station was in sight now; a drab concrete-brick structure that could just

as easily be a meth lab, or even a love shack. Barbed wire was messily strung over a

chain-link fence that only guarded three sides. In all, it was a pitiful sight to see by any

standards.

Blake noticed a sleek, all-black automobile parked up at the station, and it wasn’t

a police car. Oh, no, Blake thought. Crucible’s here.

Blake broke into a full-on sprint towards the station. The fifteen seconds it took

him to close the distance felt more like two hours. With a huff, Blake elbowed through

the door to find Everett Crucible, in the process of having a conversation with a deputy.

Both turned to face the new visitor.

“Hey, that’s him!” Everett yelled. “That’s the guy! Get him!”

The next thing Z knew, he was facedown on the floor, hands held firmly behind

his back, a pair of hands patting him down for weapons. Blake felt the incriminating

letter slip from his pocket, and he smiled on the inside.

“Let’s see what’s in here…” The deputy unfolded the letter, and began to read it.

Blake and Crucible watched as her face transformed from an expression of apathy, to one

of confusion, to one of anger. Once she was done, she looked up at Crucible, and shook

the letter in his face.



“All right, Mr. Crucible. You’d better have a really good story to tell about this.

Talk. Now.”

Crucible’s eyes widened. “Look, Deputy, I can explain…”

“I suppose you want to make your bounty go away now?” The deputy’s words

dripped with poison.

“Um, yeah… how much?” Crucible fumbled frantically for his wallet.

The deputy shot him a look. “Five hundred thousand dollars. I trust that’s not too

rich for your blood?”

Z tensed up. This was it. If

Crucible stared into his wallet, one hand covering his pale lips. “Um… how does

seventy-five thousand dollars sound?” He looked up at the deputy anxiously.

“Sorry, no,” the deputy spat. “Everett Crucible, you are under arrest for

conspiracy, manslaughter, grand theft, arson, assault, and destruction of property. Do you

have anything to say in your defense?”

Crucible drew in a sharp breath. “Uh… I own one of the greatest steel mills in the

world right now?”

“Very funny.” The deputy leaned in close to Crucible, a scowl on her face. “Last I

checked, UniSteel experienced a string of production anomalies that caused injuries to

innocent civilians. And because of this, you shut UniSteel down. New Ithaca is now in an

economic recession thanks to UniSteel’s failures. You actually own one of the worst steel

mills in the world, Mr. Crucible.”



The deputy snapped her fingers in the direction of a couple of beefy officers.

“Take this man to his cell. In the meantime –” she turned to face Blake now – “let’s see

about the consequences for your actions, kid.”

~Epilogue~

(two weeks later)

Blake and Patricia walked out of the police station, and into the fresh air of New

Ithaca, as free people. Both were dressed in the same clothes that they were wearing

when they first met.

“So, Z,” Trish wondered aloud as they walked. “What are we going to do now?”

“I don’t know,” Blake answered. “But I’m sure whatever comes next is going to

be another great adventure.” He wrapped his arm around Trish’s shoulders, pulling her

closer to him.

“You have no idea how right you are.”

The couple turned towards the voice to see a tall, thin woman dressed in a long

dress and perfectly applied makeup. She approached them with a nervous gait.

“My name is Anne Wilson. I’m – well, I was – Mr. Crucible’s assistant while he

was still CEO of UniSteel. That title now falls to me. I had heard you were being released

today, and I would like to ask you something.”

Blake tensed up, taking his arm off of Trish. “And what’s that?”

Anne began twiddling her thumbs behind her back. “Blake, seeing as your uncle

perished in the unfortunate burning of his farm, and Trish, seeing as your father has been

sentenced to life in prison, I would like to ask if I could… adopt both of you.”



“Oh…” Trish began. “I… I don’t know what to say…”

“It’s okay, Patricia,” Anne soothed. “If you don’t want to live with me, that’s

okay.”

“No, it’s just…” Trish stammered. “I’d…” She paused for a moment, struggling

to find the right words. “…I’d love to!” She rushed to Anne and gave her a bear hug so

tight she nearly choked.

“What about you, Z?” Anne asked.

Blake smiled so wide his cheeks hurt. He couldn’t turn down this opportunity.

Eleven years living on the streets, and it could all end if he

“Sure… Mom.”

And so the new family of three happily skipped off to their new lives, talking and

laughing all the way home.

FIN

moral revolution

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