London

The next morning found me awake (if not a little murky) two hours before my alarm, sitting cross-legged on the hotel bed with a thick comforter wrapped around both shoulders. London's sunrise streamed in through the slider window and its off-white blinds reminding me cruelly that my internal clock still wanted it to be very early. Mrrph. Good morning, Marriott.

At that moment, the biggest thing weighing on my mind was the stupid television remote. I fumbled with all the colored buttons for a while before discovering the instruction card tucked cleverly in the bedside drawer. Oh. Right. When the television finally clicked on, I groped behind me for my glasses just in time to see Near's smiling, charming smile coming into view.

Near was one of those rare Outcross specialists who spent almost all of their time in the public eye. Some knew her as Kathleen Lesser, CBS reporter with short, curly red hair and bright green eyes while others knew her as Marissa Lieu from BBC evening news, long blonde hair and light blue eyes.

I was watching her be Marissa right now in a replay of last night's Convention Center coverage. Every hair was in place, her slight frame wrapped nearly against the cold in a gray peacoat, which made me (hair a mess, stuffed in some tangled sheets) feel rather savage. She held the microphone and spoke with the same confidence that any of our firearms specialists might have. What's she saying? I turned up the volume.

It's a cold, gruesome scene here downtown London. Yet another body was discovered hidden in plain sight, 34-year-old Erica Stanmyre ..

There was no mention of any letters from the rest of the report. Good. No one needed a PR specialist to understand that releasing the info on the letters would just cause a clusterfuck of panic, and copycat writers. I watched Near effortlessly reassure the viewing public that much headway was being made on the case, and that no one had anything to worry about. Sometimes I got chills at how easy it was for her to lie to people.

Another glance at the clock told me that I had a hefty chunk of time before needing to head out and over to Trafalgar Square to meet this Vyral. Last night, I had tried texting the Administrator for further information about this character, but there was no reply. And the Administrator always replied.

Guess I'll have to find out ..

I let the news report trickle into sports and domestic-related news, thinking idly about breakfast being held downstairs. All the complimentary breakfasts at various Marriott's started to taste the same after a while, but I knew I had to eat something, as today was going to be a very long day. Outcross was good for arranging food, boarding, that sort of thing -- but oftentimes, you didn't really have a choice for your diet.

Eh. Another thing was the fact that there'd be people down there. If I were to so much as open my mouth and say "thank you!" to the servers, I'd be branded as an American right away. Dialectic things weren't a strong suit of mine, and neither was blending in as an American in London. Tourists were one thing, but teenager snooping where she shouldn't? That was something else entirely.

Which was, unfortunately, why I needed Deb around.

Bzzzp.

My phone chirped, and I swiped it off the nightstand. The Administrator was texting me back. Was this some more information about Vyral, and the meet happening later on this morning?

Evidently not.

EAT.

Hrnng.

Not quite. Throwing my phone across the room to the other bed, I shrugged out of the white comforter, ready to dig through my suitcase and start this stupid thing called my job.

"Hello?"

"Afternoon."

"Are you Outcross?"

"I am. Come in."

I did.

He called himself Cyclops; not for any resemblance to the towering monster, but for the magnifying lens held in front of both eyes by a metal headband. He was a forgery specialist and a master of calligraphy as well as a gem purveyor tucked all wrapped into one, tucked away in the top floor of a downtown London apartment. He lived alone. He had taste in sherry wine and thick, colorful carpets. I observed all from the small kitchen.

"How are you enjoying the city so far?" he rasped, reaching out to take my coat.

"Oh. It's good. Busy. I haven't had a chance to enjoy it much, thus far," I shrugged out of it, making sure to keep my phone with me however.

"Bloody terrible weather for that sort of thing."

This sort of smalltalk was what I was used to. It was always trivial, and always a bit awkward. It was best to just stagger through it. There was a job to be done in any case. Cyclops took my coat, hung it up, asked softly that I take off my shoes on the linoleum, and then he shuffled away, leading me down the narrow hall to his workroom.

Aha! There were stacks of reference books against the wall, cabinets overflowing with papers and diagrams. You could hardly see the floor from clippings and other paper items. You could hardly see at all, really. The light was so low in the room save for one bright desklamp -- that was where the illumination came from, and that was where Cyclops headed, at once.

I was here to inquire about the letters themselves. Deb, Vyral and I were growing increasingly suspicious that the letters were being written before the actual crimes were being committed -- a worrying occurrence, to be sure. The Administrator was having the items looked at closely, but they needed to be returned to evidence within the next few days -- I wanted to see the findings. I had to see the findings.

If I don't get a vision by the next time a body shows up ..

Well, I didn't want to think about that.

Cyclops slid onto the stool, and took up the letter with one gloved hand. "They're written calmly. Carefully. Embellished. Strange -- such a stylized hand, and I can't match it. Very frustrating, but very interesting. Whoever your man is, Twenty, he's good."

"Yeah," I licked my lips, trying not to think of the mutilated bodies. "Too good. Anything interesting about them?"

"Written with the same pen, if it matters. A very old-fashioned stylograph."

"Stylograph?"

Cyclops rummaged around a pile of folded maps, and procured a stylograph. It appeared to be an ordinary pen, but with a conical nib for the ink to run out of, rather than a flat one.

"Can you get anything from it?"

"Types? Brands? No. The flow is very, very smooth. I've examined the type of paper, however. Printed from a press in London itself."

"A sign? Does that help us?"

"You could look into it if you wanted, I suppose, but it's nothing concrete. Here."

Cyclops scooted away, beckoning that I step forward and into the light. I did so, reaching out with trembling hands, afraid to brush the edges of each paper, spread out so carefully on the bench.

"Well, alright. Not sure how much good it'll do .. "

I began to read. It was slow at first. Signed the same. Then I started looking at who each letter was addressed to ..

Dear Mr. & Mrs. David Engrall .. Dear Mr. Joasine .. Dear Mr. Benjamin Stanmyre .. DEAR ADMINISTRATOR --

.. What was that last one?

The words (real or not?) leapt out at me from the page, and slammed into my mind like a frying pan. My head jerked back from the force of the vision. Sights, sounds, feelings, sensations came in that rip-roaring tidal wave and I think I hit the ground, but I don't remember.

-- however fond you are of your young Specialist, I fear that her time ended rather quickly. She tried to run, but despite her most champion of efforts, she was captured. Next time, I would advise finding yourself an American who has spent more time preparing herself for such --

And then, a scream.

Was I reading words, or hearing voices? Was I seeing things, or was I just hallucinating?

I saw Cyclops in this room, pouring over this letter.
Looking for clues. Reaching for another light.

-- my greatest pleasure to address you by your name, sir. Will you not do me the honor of --

Worse.

This vision was worse than the others.

I'm not seeing, I'm only

feeling and hearing.

-- I struck her with the butt of the pistol, a bit too hard I'm afraid. Her skull was fractured before she fell, and she struck each stair solidly before reaching the bottom. Upon retrieving the body, I hooked a shoe under her chest and flipped her over. She was already gone. I decided to take her with me instead.

I saw a tall staircase with white walls. Winding upwards. The only reason I saw upwards because I was falling; the world pitching this way and then --

Oh God.

A horrible, horrible taste blooms in the back of my mouth.

-- She did not stir again until after we had returned to a more private place.

Help me.

Trying to move my mouth, speak. Trying to.

-- Piano wire does wonders as a binding tool. The more you struggle, the more it cuts into the skin. One thing that must be said for your young Specialist is that she is indeed persistent. Panic made her fight 'till her wrists bled. The blood moistened the binding, until she could slip one hand free.

A light.

Help me. Oh, for the love of God. If someone is there, please ..

HELP ME!

-- From the look in her eyes, I don't think she realized that there was quite so much blood inside of her. She had completely soaked the mattress before I could attend to other matters.

No, no, no, no, NO!

It's a vision. A vision, Twenty. Just --

It ended as soon as it started, but I didn't return to reality right away. At least, I didn't think I had. I blinked a few times, furiously before realizing that the room was dark and Cyclops was at my side, sitting me up.

"Th .. There's .. " I couldn't breathe. I couldn't think, I couldn't move. My phone was pinging on the table. It kept going off, shrieking, demanding to be picked up. Cyclops stared at me with three very wide eyes.

"There's going t .. to be another letter."

I felt very alone.

"And it's written for me."

Cyclops handled the affair with remarkable poise. Once I gathered myself enough to stand, he gave me a once-over (perhaps to make sure I was myself?) before reaching out to squeeze both my shoulders in assurance. I licked my lips. He didn't say anything, really. I don't think he needed to.

I learned later that this old man was rounding off a lifetime of active service as a field Specialist for Outcross, so the sudden high-octane flash was nothing new -- but in the moment, all I could think about was the fact that I was alone in a cramped apartment with a guy who smelled vaguely of prunes, dust, and ink while a faceless killer made plans to very much make me bleed. Oh my God.

Snatches of the vision were still chasing themselves in my mind, but I think it was the dark that gave them cobwebs to spin into. Cyclops stepped away, rummaging in a nearby drawer. I watched him blearily, until he revealed a Smith & Wesson clenched firmly in one fist. The pistol's hammer was already cocked. Without no further ado, Cyclops wedged an arm through mine, and compelled me from the room out to the hallway. I had just enough time to grab my phone from the desk before the door snapped shut.

The Administrator had texted me six times in the span of forty seconds. By the time I shuffled dumbly to the kitchen, three more messages were received. At least the brighter light here caused me to be more aware. I scrolled through my inbox with shaking fingers.

CALL.

CALL NOW.

REPORT

DO NOT LEAVE.

BRIAN IS EN ROUTE. LEAVE THEN.

SPEAK TO NEAR.

STAY AWAY FROM WINDOWS.

ALL OF THE WINDOWS.

THAT WAS WHAT WE CALL A WINDOW.

Window? I turned my head. There was a plate glass window in the quiet living room, the entrance to which Cyclops and I strolled past. Oh. I hadn't even seen it. It was dark. Someone could have been watching from outside, or worse. Oops. The Admin had a nasty sense of humor. Stuff like this was going to get me killed one of these days.

Bad choice of words, Twenty ..

My temples started to throb.

When the Administrator said "call", he meant that I was to contact his secure line and speak at length about the vision. He never picked up, of course. It was more like an answering machine; great way to pass on messages to other Specialists if their numbers weren't preprogrammed into your phones. If Brian was on his way, then I'd have time to do so.

"My Control is on his way," I unstuck my throat, and addressed Cyclops, who was pacing the kitchen as only an armed, gnarled old man can. "He's a DI. I don't know where they're taking me from there."

Cyclops didn't ask any more questions. I think he knew the procedure at this point with events like these. I licked my lips one more time, dialed the call-in number, and waited not for a ring but for a --

Click.

"This is Specialist Twenty reporting a new vision. It was sparked by touching all the evidence letters in a row, chronologically. By the time my fingers left the third one, they closed around a new one. One that doesn't exist yet. It was addressed to the Administrator. I .. I .. "

Oh, I was used to it. I had rattled off (in fairly minute detail) other visions in the past, but none had been as graphic as this one. None had been about me. I faltered a bit in the middle, but I got out the information that I could remember, the information that was important. The words fell dully from my lips. I'm calmly, cooly describing the circumstances of my own death.

" .. The letter was not dated. This could be at any point in the future. All London-area Specialists are advised that, um. Whoever M is, he may be a lot more dangerous than we had first anticipated," I licked my lips one final time before ending the call. There. It's done.

Bzzt. I glanced down.

GO.

There were two light knocks on the door, and then it swung open on its own accord. Detective Inspector Brian Something (his last name wasn't important) stepped into Cyclops' apartment with an urgent but puzzled look on his face. The other DIs from the Convention Centre weren't with him. I hadn't expected them to be. I stared at Brian. He stared back.

Cyclops coughed into his sleeve, which jarred me from my stupor. I scooted back to the welcome mat for my shoes, jammed them on quickly as best as I could, exchanged knowing (fearful) glances with Brian, and then was out the door into the London evening.

"Her skull was fractured before she fell, and she struck each stair solidly before reaching the bottom .. "

Lord save me. I really am going to get myself killed ..

So it turned out that finding a single guitar in a city was exceptionally hard work. I tried asking around the Gardens to begin with – I figured that buskers would know if someone had turned up with a new guitar, and that they were the most likely to have found it. Apparently not, either that or nothing of the sort had happened.

Damien had, after some deliberation and a brief consultation of an old photo with a group of guitarist friends, identified the guitar as a ... shit. I pulled my iPhone out of my pocket and checked the note. There we go. He identified the guitar as a Yamaha F370, which meant absolutely nothing to me, but I assumed meant something to other people. The most I could tell from the photo was that it was black.

I was currently waiting in the reception area of the Metropolitan Police Station. Apparently Brian was expecting me – at least, that’s what the Administrator had said when he responded to my lacklustre report about a guitar, but hey, I had something!

“Mr. Walker?” Fake name. You couldn’t introduce yourself to everyone as ‘Debonaire’ after all. “The Detective Inspector will see you now.”

Finally. It had only been ten minutes, but I was impatient. I guess it came with the whole teenager thing.

Inside Brian’s office, I got the feeling that he felt slightly put out to be having a serious interview with a sixteen year old about a murder case.

“A guitar?”

“Yep.”

“And where did you find out about this?”

“One of the girl’s friends. Damien Scot. Said he’d talked to you, but he hadn’t mentioned the guitar ‘cause he didn’t think it was important.”

“I’ll take a look at the system and see if anyone’s handed a guitar in. You never know, in Covent Gardens it’s as likely to have been picked up by an over-eager tourist as by someone who’d just nab it for themselves.” Brian turned in his chair and started tapping away on the keyboard.

There was an awkward pause while I stared around the room. Lots of medals and certificates. I think I have a few certificates at home myself. GCSEs, mostly, though, so nothing quite as admirable as a veteran policeman’s various honours.

Still, I got quite a few A*s.

“You’re in luck.” My attention went back to the older man as he swivelled his monitor around. “Yamaha black guitar was handed into Agar Street police station three days ago by one of the RNLI folks from the Tower Lifeboat Station. Apparently they found it in the river while they were out on the water.”

I blinked. “That seems unlikely.”

Brian shrugged, “I’ll have it sent to the lab to see if they can find anything. Don’t hold your breath, mind. Forensics isn’t as flash as CSI would have you think.”

Nodding, I tapped my fingers awkwardly on the arms of the chair. “Right. So...”

“So at this point, you can leave it to the police.”

“No, see, that’s not-“

“I’ll report to the Administrator if we find anything. If he tells you, that’s his business.” Okay, so it was really obvious now that Brian didn’t like working with a kid. Just because he was actually a police officer.

“...’kay.”