CHAPTER 14: UNDERARBITER

  GARLAND HEIGHTS, CITY HALL—NOVEMBER 18th, 1992 | LATE MORNING

  ?

  “You’re sure about this?” Captain Holmes asked.

  Minister Rostavich’s office was exactly what Cameron expected it to be. So too was Garland Heights, city hall, and the decorated corridors he was ferried through. Everything was pristine, clean to the point of uncanny, and entirely unlike the South End. The only constant in Brinehaven that united the boroughs was the fog—and even that looked cleaner in Garland Heights proper. It felt cleaner, too.

  But Cameron wasn’t about to be charmed. Everything here was built on the backs of people like him, people like his mother. If not South Enders, then people who were willing to risk their lives building high rises for the sake of the rich man’s smile.

  And that was exactly what Minister Rostavich wore on his face. A rich man’s smile.

  Earnest as he tried to convince himself he was, Cameron saw right past it. The gray suit, the red tie, the academic, rectangular glasses that made him appear more esteemed. Standing between Leroy and Captain Holmes, Cameron must have been an oddity to a man like Minister Rostavich: raven-black hair, cut close to the scalp, pocketed eyes that looked forever sleepless, a black tee and black pants courtesy of Sterling Yard, and Drychus cuffs that let everyone know he wasn’t to be trusted with his hands.

  “Certain,” answered Minister Rostavich. “Though this arrangement does not come without stipulations. Mr. Kessler—”

  Cameron furrowed his brows. “Cameron.”

  “Cameron, then. You’re aware of the severity of your crimes, and I need not repeat to you what others have already said. But you stand here today, rather than in Blackpool Penitentiary, because Mr. Waters has taken it upon himself to elect you as his underarbiter,” said Minister Rostavich.

  “And if I refuse?” Cameron’s question sounded more like a declaration.

  Leroy laughed at that. Anger stirred in Cameron’s stomach, building in his throat like bile that had nowhere to go but out. Tried as he did in that moment, he knew that the more he attempted to resist it, the stronger it would become. Eventually, he’d give into that instinct. There were times when Cameron felt like he had no control over it; like the promise of chaos, if that was truly even the right word for it, overruled any semblance of discipline he thought that he had.

  Part of him thought it began with his killing of Germaine, when, in the moment, he’d foolishly assured himself that people cut from the same cloth deserved to die. People like Germaine, blud dealers—people who deserved it. Deaths like his served a purpose. But then it became a matter of survival. Striking first, shooting first; doing anything he needed to if it meant getting out of whatever David got him into. Blood spilled as a reaction rather than for some noble reason.

  “Then you go to Blackpool,” Captain Holmes stated.

  Before Cameron could think of a response, Minister Rostavich cleared his throat. “You would be wise to accept, but no one here can force you to do so. To be an underarbiter, Cameron, is a great privilege, and not one afforded to many, and Lero--.. Mr. Waters, is offering you a chance to make something of yourself. A fresh start.”

  “And this fresh start suddenly, what, erases my fifty-fucking-something-year sentence?” Cameron asked.

  “Not quite,” Leroy interjected. “You’ll get your pardon once you become an arbiter. In the meantime—”

  Cameron didn’t even look at him. “Didn’t ask you. I asked him.”

  “Easy,” said Captain Holmes, nudging him. Cameron’s weight shifted to one side and he suppressed a groan.

  Minister Rostavich straightened his tie and cleared his throat. “What he said is true, with a few stipulations that must first be mentioned. First, you must pass the preliminary assessment required of all prospective underarbiters. Think of it as an aptitude test; upon completing this, you will then be issued your underarbiter’s permit."

  "Much like an arbiter’s license," Minister Rostavich continued, "it would grant you functional immunity from prosecution while working the tasks outlined by your arbiter’s arbitration notes, and similarly, this immunity is only valid while you are in the presence of said arbiter. And in this case, that would be Mr. Waters.”

  “Leroy’ll do just fine, Mikel,” Leroy chimed.

  “Right. So, if me and Mr. Waters happen across someone who gets in our way, I can beat them to death? Or, maybe, maybe, I don't know, shoot them in the fucking head?” Cameron asked, venom in his voice. He took a step forward, and another, until he arrived front and center at Minister Rostavich’s desk. He slammed his cuffed hands onto the polished wood. Captain Holmes didn’t stop him; if he had eyes behind the back of his head, he would have found that Leroy prevented him from doing so.

  “This whole thing you’ve got going on with your arbiters is—... it’s twisted, backwards, and you know it,” Cameron continued, “and you want me to work with the guy who killed my friend. I’ll bet you don’t even know her name. Do you?”

  Minister Rosatavich leaned forward. “Cameron—”

  “Mercedes Garcia. Her name wasn’t even fucking mentioned when your blackjackets hauled me into Sterling Yard, and neither the one of the man who killed her. She was like a damn sister to me. She was a citizen of this Commonwealth, same as you, same as me, and all it takes for her name to be forgotten is a damn license?”

  Leroy’s voice prompted Cameron to turn his head. “Warned her. Twice.”

  “Shut up!” snapped Cameron.

  “Look,” began Captain Holmes, crossing his arms over his chest. “Constable Briggs and Constable Heathcliff submitted a case report after that whole incident, and—”

  “Incident? He murdered her!” Cameron exclaimed.

  Captain Holmes matched his tone and surpassed him in volume. “And you murdered Theodore McCormick! Now, listen, and listen real fucking close, kid, ‘cause you’re being offered an opportunity of a lifetime. If it were up to me, you’d be rotting behind a cell, but for whatever reason, Leroy saw something in you. You know, this whole whining thing you’re doing is almost funny, Cameron, ‘cause license or not, you’re more alike to this asshole than you realize.”

  “I’m nothing li—”

  Captain Holmes approached the desk, and picked up Cameron by the collar of his shirt. His oxen eyes pulsed in an irritation so righteous that made all of his features fuller. “Quiet! Did I say I was done? Did I say you could speak? No, and no. Christ. What I was getting to—what you already know—is that the case report specified that your friend, or sister, or whatever the fuck she was to you, made a move on Leroy after he’d warned her to step down. She didn’t. And now she’s dead. Same as the man you killed, who, whether you want to admit it, had his own Mercedes Garcia.”

  Cameron opened his mouth, but closed it as Captain Holmes’ ire grew more tangible.

  A lump emerged in his throat. Even if he wanted to speak, to counter, to vomit up a set of words in protest of what he was saying, there were none that Cameron could find. None sufficient. None that would make sense.

  Leroy stood unmoved by the words of Captain Holmes, and if there was anything strong enough to spur Cameron into further resistance, it was the look on his face; still and unbothered—like none of this mattered to him.

  “Look,” Captain Holmes continued, “Leroy did what he did, I’m not going to sit here and tell you that it was okay. I’ve got my own problems with it. But you’re no different, so quit acting like you are. Everyone in this room has killed for one reason or another, save for the minister, and we all have our own reasons for doing it. I’m no arbiter, but if Leroy and I share any iota of a fucking similarity, it's that we’re shot at, clawed at, and chased. Every. Damn. Day. Same as you were, probably, over in the South End. I don’t like you, kid, but I don’t need to like you to tell you that what you are being offered is your only chance. You’d be stupid not to take it.”

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  Minister Rostavich removed his glasses. He took his time folding them, and placed them down onto the table in front of him. “An arbiter in the line of fire, just as any other person in this city, has a right to defend themselves when they feel that their life is threatened. The death of Mercedes Garcia is a tragedy, but so too is the death of the man you have killed, as Captain Holmes has aptly pointed out. Now, I will ask you again, Cameron. Do you accept?”

  Cameron took a moment of pause.

  He knew, somewhere outside of the depths of his stubbornness, that what Captain Holmes said was true. But it could be true, and Cameron still didn’t have to care. He knew that the people he’d killed, either by choice, or, by the command of David, had others in their lives that didn’t want to see them dead and gone.

  But none of that had ever mattered to him.

  Guilt was something he had to unlearn, same as the blackjackets who killed the people who wanted to kill them, same as Leroy. The only time loss mattered was when it happened to you—and the great irony of this whole thing, Cameron knew, was that if the roles were reversed, they’d be doing exactly the same as him; shouting to the skies with their fists raised, prepared to do the worst to right what they thought was wrong.

  It was in that moment of quiet realization that Cameron felt his nerves cool, and slowly but surely, he tamed whatever was left of his outburst. It had to be redirected. It had to be made useful. They were all right. This was an opportunity of a lifetime. The closer he was to Leroy Waters, the better.

  “Yeah.”

  ?

  Cameron sat in the back of a black SUV and tried not to move his hands too much.

  The Drychus metal burns weren’t healing, and by now, the excess of movement half-flayed his flesh into a raw pink. The interior of the car smelled like old leather and takeout that had been left in the back, even though there was nothing by his feet or by his side.

  In front of him, Leroy twisted a knob on the car’s dashboard and changed the station. He’d been doing so for the last several minutes, ever since Captain Holmes had escorted them to Leroy’s vehicle. Cameron glanced to the side, and saw his cruiser with the black and ugly yellow paint job of the Occult and Civic Authority. They were being followed, but Cameron knew that the moment he was put into the back of Leroy’s car. A Cadillac.

  “Where are we going—”

  “Hold on,” Leroy interrupted, turning the volume up. He found what he’d been looking for; Black Sabbath’s 'War Pigs' played through the stereo, and Cameron saw him smile through the rearview mirror. “Alright. Go ahead.”

  He’d never admit it, but the music wasn’t all that bad—it was the kind of rock he’d listen to with Mercedes and David over at their warehouse before everything went to shit. There was an echo of a smile that came to his face that Cameron quieted before it had a chance to show. “Where are we going?”

  “You’ll see.”

  “What the fuck does that mean?”

  The car behind them honked, and Leroy honked back. “The preliminary assessment. We’re going somewhere for that.”

  Cameron glanced back at the side mirror. “Why does he need to be there for it?”

  “Need a spectator to verify the results. And before you ask why, just know that’s how it is, and how it’ll be. If you pass, you’ll find that’s how a lot of things are. Weird damn rules. Lots of red tape. More than you would think for what you’re allowed to do as an arbiter.”

  “I’ll get out of these, you know,” Cameron stated, nodding down towards the Drychus cuffs.

  “Yup. Sooner than you realize.”

  “I will, and when I do—”

  “Ah-huh. We’re almost there.”

  Cameron set his jaw and leaned back in his seat. Leroy turned the volume up, probably in some effort to dissuade him from asking any more questions. Cameron didn’t have any more of those, just statements. Declarations of intent that, in reality, didn’t need to be said. He felt stupid for making idle threats. He just had to do what he needed to do when the chance made itself clear.

  They sat in traffic for a while longer.

  Four or five turns later, the congestion cleared up, and Leroy followed the street and parked the car in front of an active construction zone. New apartments, it looked like. He got out, and opened the door for Cameron not long after, nodding him out the door. Wherever they were, there weren’t many people around—save for a few pedestrians here and there, and the odd passing car or two. Most people must’ve been at work, or otherwise occupied at this time in the day, but they weren’t in the most lavish area of Garland Heights by any stretch of the imagination either.

  Behind them, Captain Holmes exited his parked cruiser and joined them. “Really? Here?”

  “Yeah, here,” answered Leroy. “Passed it the other day. Gives us enough space, don’t need to worry about collateral.”

  “How the fuck am I going to explain the property damage, Leroy?” Captain Holmes asked.

  “Work-related losses.”

  “Right. You, come on,” Captain Holmes grabbed Cameron by the arm and pulled him along.

  Cameron shrugged him off; or tried to. Upon noticing that he was following suit behind Leroy, Captain Holmes withdrew his grip and grunted under his breath. They passed through an open area in the tall fencing that surrounded the construction zone, through posted signs that warned against trespassing and falling objects. It wasn’t an ambitious build—far from it. From what Cameron could tell, it was a four-to-five story mixed use building that was behind schedule. A concrete husk that stood arm-in-arm with an unmanned crane.

  “This’ll do,” Leroy noted to himself.

  A small work trailer sat at the front of the open entrance, and around them were wooden palettes, large windows waiting to be installed, and a collection of pipes that waited to be put into place. Power generators fed into floodlights that were still on, offering some semblance of visibility in the thickness of the fog.

  “Hands,” said Captain Holmes.

  Cameron furrowed his brows. “What?”

  Captain Holmes reached for something on his belt. A key with the etchings of sigilmasonry. “Give me your hands, kid. But don’t try anything, you hear me? I’ll gladly take any reason to haul you back to Sterling Yard.”

  The key worked its way into the Drychus metal cuffs and for the first time in what felt like ages, Cameron was free.

  Temptation washed over him in droves. He saw the gun on Captain Holmes’ utility belt, the strange short blade sheathed along his lower back. But Captain Holmes wasn’t daft—he caught wind of Cameron’s recklessness before he himself had the chance to act on it.

  “Not a chance. Turn around.” Captain Holmes grabbed him by the shoulder and twisted him, and with his opposite hand, pushed him forward into the dirt.

  Cameron fell onto his elbows and cussed him out under his breath, rubbing his wrists as he worked his way up to his feet again. The marks and skin-stains of the Dyrchus metal cuffs receded from his wrists soon after they were removed, and he could feel his strength returning to him.

  In front of him, Leroy had already removed his brown leather jacket, and tossed it to the side. The arbiter wore a black turtleneck, and had a utility harness that housed a familiar and hefty handgun on one side, and rows of waterskins on the other. On his belt were extra ammo magazines. A knowing smile stretched across his face, and the sight of it made Cameron want to implode, and Leroy held up a single hand with all fingers raised.

  “Preliminary assessment. You've got five minutes.”

  Cameron clenched a fist. His stomach burned with power. Demonic energy leaked from his features; pre-emptive dredges of a hellish scarlet leaking from his eyes, ears, nose, and mouth. “Five minutes for what?”

  Leroy tipped his flat cap, smiling that smile of his. “To survive. Holmes, set the timer.”

  Captain Holmes looked down at his wristwatch and held a thumb up.

  Cameron closed his eyes and reached deeper inward.

  Clusters of veins along his face erupted in a dim scarlet. Then it came; the violent outpour, forced and painful from all of the orifices on his face. A miasma of red washed over all of his features, vomited from his mouth, flooded from his eyes, ears, and nose—enough of it in excess to cover his body in an instant.

  The waxy material hardened into something just shy of bone, a deep ivory that glistened like steel. It covered all of Cameron, leaving only his face and the top of his head exposed.

  “I’ll only need three."

  LEROY WATERS

  MINISTER ROSTAVICH

  CAMERON KESSLER

  CAPTAIN HOLMES

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