Story #51 - Deacon First II

Deacon First - II

Bishop-Captain Lars Venman had more problems than he could count. Fortunately, he’d never been particularly found of counting so it didn’t matter; even if they’d been of a reasonable number he wouldn’t know it.

"Deal with what’s in front of you, son, and you’ll do alright," his dad had always said, and damned if he hadn’t been right.

Eggheads, thinkers and number-crunchers had been fine when the only problems the local authorities were dealing with included hopped-up scumbags and streetwalkers, but real men of action were needed once the supernatural hit the fan.

Vampires. Werewolves. If he hadn’t seen both in the pale or furry flesh he’d never have believed it. Corpses sucked dry and men torn to shreds were one thing; something that could be explained by a psycho killer or a twisted bitch with a passion for suffering. But seeing one of the monsters looming above him, dripping fangs only inches from his face or watching rippled silver hackles rising as its four-legged gait carried it away, well, those things tended to make a man into a believer.

It had been the army before the force, and he’d been bored out of his tree until all this came along. Criminals had one important trait in common, no matter how they chose to ply their trade: they were stupid. Stupider than most cops, at any rate, and that gave the boys in blue the advantage. No one could out-do his performance, top his arrest records or find enough ways to properly recognize him for his contributions to “safety and the civil defense of the city”, but Lord Above, he’d been bored.

Now, he had problems.

Fortunately the most immediate was also the easiest to solve. More vamps down at the Gate Bridge meant two cadres on duty there at all times and double shifts for all the Firsts in both of them. They’d make a little money and feel like they were protecting the poor and innocent so he’d get no complaints from the inside and get the standard “atta-boy” from the brass up top.

Internal issues were harder to solve – Grosman had an issue with how Reiner was doing business in his cadre, something about “fostering elitism”, and he’d have to be set down hard. Taking up the mantle of Deacon was something few were cut out for and fewer lived long doing, so they’d damn well better think they were elite. That, or he could expect a pile of bodies at his door and a host of weeping mothers wanting answers. The men needed to feel powerful. Special. Invulnerable.

Granted, he’d seen more than one Deacon First gutted by an off-hand claw swipe or punctured by the too-perfect teeth of this generation’s “problem”, but that wasn’t information he was going to make widely available. His men were the best. Period.

The last problem he was prepared to deal with immediately was also the most troubling. He’d been surprised to see that it was someone from Trammel’s crew; the man was one of the best in the business. No one questioned the Bishop’s authority and the man was adored – adored! – by every man on his crew. Eliminating Trammel would be easy enough if need be so he posed no real threat to Venman himself, but destroying a tool simply out of spite spoke more of a smith’s inability than an implement’s failure, and he was no apprentice.

No, Trammel wasn’t the problem – he was steadfast in his devotion to eliminating the undead – it was one of the men under his command. Venman read the brief again: Barry Howe.

He’d been disturbed to first hear of it and seeing it again in black and white made it all the worse. The boy had been seen – on several occasions – in the company of the undead and without his pistol drawn or Chastiser ready. Three separate reports described his inability to address the gravity of these situations, to pull the trigger when needed and destroy the filth that had infected the city.

A simple dismissal could be arranged but that lacked impact, did nothing to show others the folly of Howe’s ways and how it could affect the Department as a whole. No, something more was required, something – appropriate.

Only the sound of expelling air warned him that the Master had arrived. For a being with such power, Venman had always been surprised the Master wasn’t more forceful, more obvious in his displays. Power concealed was power wasted as far as he was concerned, but he spun his chair quickly and prostrated himself on the ground as required.

- You have a problem. – To call it a voice would be a disservice; it was a reverberation in his soul, a hammer of force in his mind. A staggering excitation of his being. Painful, reverent.

He didn’t bother to answer. If the Master knew enough to mention the problem, he did not want commentary on it.

- I will provide a solution, as you seem incapable of doing so. – It was vastly unfair; he had just learned of the issue himself, but defending his pride would bring pain, something he would have to endure and that served no purpose.

- This one must die, but it is crafty. I will provide an opportunity that you will not waste. Look up. –

He steeled himself. The Master did not always choose to reveal his true form, but when he did the results could be – unpleasant – for the human body. His head came up, stomach clenching in anticipation, but only a black cloud hung in front of him, one of the many states of being the Master favored. In front of it was the hazy image of a standing form, though not the one Venman had expected.

Instead, it was a large brown ‘wolf, fur combed to sleekness and with eyes that showed a marked sharpness, a heightened perception the others of its kind typically lacked. A throwback.

- You will kill this one. It no longer pleases me. You will find it here. – He stifled a scream as information was forced into his brain. The first time the Master had touched him so directly he had woken half of the Division and had been forced to create the fiction of post-combat stress in order to explain it away. Fortunately, it had only added to his appeal.

He hit the ground hard as the Master’s touch left him; the removal of sensation was always draining, and when he looked up his office was once again empty.

Climbing back into his chair he crumpled his list and tossed it into the waste bin. Howe could wait, as could Grosman and the bridge. He had not known of the problem the Master had presented, but it was his now to deal with – and he would see it quickly resolved.


- D