“No rafters in George's Square anyway,” says Jamie, nudging Mark and trying to get a smile out of him.
“Good enough for me,” says the Trespasser. “You're dismissed, Mark. Jamie, stay a moment longer?”
Mark and Jamie give each other a nod as he leaves, the door creaking shut and finally clicking behind him. There's a brief silence as they wait to see who will talk first.
Trespasser One breaks the silence.
“He's drinking more.”
“I noticed.”
“Do you know why?”
“Boredom. Frustration. He's been in here months and the team still can't function together. They look at him like he's an idiot.”
“They'll learn. Tomorrow I'm going to need you to keep a close eye on him, Jamie. Anything starts to go amiss, you calm him down; or you stop him.”
“I don't know about stopping him -”
“I mean – just do your thing. Stop time, remove him from the environment. Masked people with powers is one thing – drunk people with powers is another; and he's hard to explain. The public don't know him like we do, they'll assume the worst in him. It's a headline waiting to happen.”
“I get it. I'll keep an eye on him. He just wants to help, you know. He feels like he's wasting his power, otherwise.”
“I know. I'll see you bright and early tomorrow, Jamie.”
Prison Cell
Dumbarton Emergency Detention Centre
The man known as the King sits on his hard wooden bunk, cross-legged in a lotus position, his eyes closed and his breathing so shallow that he appears lifeless and frozen.
Time seems to pass around him as though he were an inconvenience, leaving him sinking deeper and deeper into a meditative state. Thoughts as clear as glass slide through his mind's eye, plans and plots for the future, connected like a web.
Only when a muffled coughing sound comes through the wall does he stop breathing and open his eyes. Another, similar sound reaches his ears as he concentrates, listening; it sounds like a sneeze cut short.
Then silence.
Then footsteps.
He remains on his bunk, staring at the door as soft metallic sounds tip-tap on the other side. The door shakes so hard and suddenly that he jumps, as though a wild beast were knocking on the other side. With a wisp of smoke trailing in, the door creaks open.
A man dressed entirely in black – his face hidden behind a mask – stands in the doorway, holding a silenced pistol in his hand. Stepping forward into the room, he takes the mask off and reveals a young face, clean-shaven, with grey eyes focused on the King.
Looking from the pistol to the young assassin’s face, the King clears his throat.
“I assume you're here on behalf of what's left of my investors. The Kingdom Project is over. Killing me accomplishes nothing – they're all going to prison.”
The young man says nothing; he raises the pistol, drops the magazine into his palm, and swaps it for another on his belt. Ramming the magazine home with a click, he racks the slide and turns it around, holding it by the suppressor.
He offers it to the King.
“The Kingdom Project may be over,” he says, “but there is still a Kingdom. And a King.”
The King stands from his bunk and takes the pistol being offered, checking the safety catch is off.
“As far as they're concerned, I'm a guard,” the youth goes on. “Your way out is clear: the doors leading to the exit are unlocked, and a car is waiting outside to take you back to the city. Cameras are down, it'll seem like a squad blew their way in and got you out.”
“And you?”
“I am yours to command.”
The King nods, a smile spreading across his smooth-skinned face.
“Ok then son,” the King takes a step forward and plants a hand on his shoulder. “I want you to stay here. Remain in character, don't let them know who you are: I need a man inside this prison. I have a very important job for you when the time comes, but you need to wait until then. Can you do that?”
“Of course, sir.”
“Anything else?”
“Arrival has been brought forward sir. Our sources tell us that the fire has accelerated. It's heading for Glasgow again. Four days.”
“Timing means nothing; if the arrival is happening at all, then I can work with it.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Now, you understand I have to make this look authentic.”
“Do what you have to do sir.”
The King nods, and the youth fixes a blank stare at the wall as the King pulls the pistol back and smashes the grip across the man's forehead, knocking him to the ground where he lies, slumped against the door.
The King steps over his unconscious body and out into the corridor, stretching his neck and shoulders. Taking a deep breath of the air outside his cell for the first time in months, he begins walking down the corridor, taking care to step over the bloody bodies of the guards that litter the path to the exit.
Freedom beckons – and he has much work to do.
Episode 2
War Zone
“You've got that look on your face, Mark,” says his mother. “I know that look.”
Mark pulls his black overalls up over his legs, adjusting the tightness at the knee pads for comfort, before zipping it up to his chin and tapping the ceramic plating on his chest.
“I don't know why they've given me body armour. It's not like I need it.”
“Don't change the subject.”
His mother sits on her bunk, the scrubbed-clean floor stretching like an ocean between them. On the desk between their beds sit very different things: assorted bottles of alcohol, pens and paper on his side; on hers, pictures of family – pictures of him and their home.
Mark picks up the mask from his bed and turns it over in his hands to find the fastenings. He stands up, trying to fit it on.
“These look just like the masks that the Trespasser units wear.”
“Mark, what did I just say?”
He stops and looks up. “What?”
“Stop pretending you can't hear me.” She stands and folds her arms, pacing across to him. Although she is far shorter than him the indignation in her tiny frame makes him step backwards. “You can quit the bloody act right now. I know that face, and I know that look.”
Mark says nothing – no point in lying to the one woman who knows him best.
“It's the same look,” she says, “that you had when you knew that project of yours was failing, and refused to sell it. The same look you had just before you announced you were leaving school. It's the 'stubborn bastard' look.”
Turning aside, Mark puts the helmet on the bed.
“I know what you're thinking,” she says.
“What am I thinking then mum?”
“You aren't going to come back from Glasgow.”
He laughs. “Don't say it like that. I don't plan on dying for Christ's sake. I can help -”
“You can help later. You've already given that city years of your life that you'll never get back. One hour, Mark, then home.”
“You can't fix the problems that city has in one hour, mum.”
“Exactly. So come home when you're supposed to, and fix it over time.”
“I can't just go there, and then leave again. Especially not if the King's men are still roaming the streets.”
“You've already brought the bloody King down, leave it to the soldiers. That's their job – yours is doing what the Trespasser tells you.”
“Why put soldiers' lives at risk when I can do it for them? How many soldiers have been gunned down in the streets trying to bring these guys in? And here I am, Mark Mcbulletproof, sitting with my thumb up my arse in a secret base getting drunk.”
“Those are your orders Mark. You have to follow orders, now: you're part of a team.”
“You know that isn't how I work.”
“It'd be a nice change though.”
He gives her a frustrated sigh and turns
, picking up the helmet again.
“I'm going to keep everybody waiting,” he says, and slides it over his head, hiding his features behind the mask and tinted visor, the dark head-gear stretching back over his skull like a soldier's helmet.
“Ok Mark.” His mother puts her head in her hands and groans. “Go and charge in without thinking, same as always.”
He takes a step away and stops, turning back. “What's that supposed to mean?”
“How many times have people told you you're about to make a mistake? How many times have I told you? Or your uncles? But every single time, you just charge off and do it anyway.” She puts her hands on his shoulders and her eyes fix on his through the visor, as though she can see straight through it. “Just make sure you come back on that helicopter – and please, please: try to think before you act, ok?”
He concedes, nodding.
“Love you, mum,” he says, giving her a brief embrace before turning and leaving.
“Two minutes till we land,” the voice comes through the comms units in their masks over the rhythmic boom of the helicopter's blades.
Sitting in the back of its bulbous body are seven dark figures, each wearing the smooth black overalls and matte black face mask of an elite Trespasser squadron; of course, only one of them actually bears the title.
Strapped into their seats along the side of the helicopter's red-lit interior, one of the black-clad figures raises a hand to its mask, pressing in the comms unit.
“I've forgotten which one of you is Donald,” the voice comes over everybody's radio: it's Cathy, her older, curt tone unmistakable. Her voice sounds like something off the radio. “These masks make it impossible to tell anybody apart.”
“I'm Donald,” comes the reply, from the younger, thinner figure beside her.
“Gary, you're half my size and you're fooling nobody,” says Donald, leaning forward in his seat and waving to Cathy. “I'm here, Cathy.”
The Trespasser – the only one standing up – turns around, activating his own comms.
“You should all have memorised the seating, like I told you – and don't use first names, remember. Call signs only.”
“Call signs?” asks Stacy, her pony-tail hidden under the helmet now. Her nasal voice, however, is harder to disguise.
“Your Trespasser number, Stacy.”
“Which number am I again?”
“You're six. It starts with the same letter as your name, Stacy. Easy to remember.”
“Eh, that could be seven too?”
“I'm seven,” says Mark, breaking his silence.
Jamie laughs. “We're not going to forget you any time soon. None of us have a flask full of whiskey on our belts.”
“We should have worn different colours or something,” says Stacy, folding her arms. She can't see the Trespasser rolling his eyes beneath his mask, the black visor hiding his exacerbation.
Gary leans forward. “Then we'd be the power rangers, Stacy.”
“I'd be the red one,” says Mark.
Jamie laughs. “Of course you would.”
“It beats all being dressed in overalls like painters,” says Stacy, still adamant.
Gary taps his chest. “How many painters line their overalls with bulletproof plates?”
“Ones that work in Drumchapel?” asks Mark.
The Trespasser sends a quick burst of static through their radio, causing them to flinch and clutch their ears, swearing.
“That's enough. We're landing.” They all fall silent as they feel the helicopter begin to descend, their stomachs lurching in the dimly-lit clutches of the cargo bay. “Remember the briefing. Stay close to me, stick to formation, don't talk, don't acknowledge questions, and if it all goes to hell then stick together and listen for my orders.”
They all nod, quietened now as the realisation sets in. With a sudden heave the helicopter touches down and they tense up in their harnesses. As the engines whine away to nothing, the clamouring riot of the crowd outside pierces the helicopter's body.
“Don't be scared. We're a team. Just remember your training.”
“What training?” asks Mark, his mask muffling him enough that nobody hears him.
The King inhales, turning his nose up in disgust: the stench of damp concrete and rotten wood knots his stomach. He reaches for a light switch in the gloom and a single cold bulb stutters on.
Wincing at the sudden brightness, he gazes around the room:
One bare desk that looks as though it has been stolen from a high school, with a red plastic chair sitting behind it.
“I realise, sir, that it's not what you're used to,” says a suited man behind him. “Under the circumstances, it's the best that we could do.”
“Is that a chair from a hospital waiting room?”
“A community centre, I believe.”
“You couldn't just buy a better one? What happened to our funds?”
“Our funds, sir,” the suited subordinate shuffles into the room, closing the door behind himself, “were tied into the city and its workings. The systems that generated our revenue streams are gone now – as are our backers, as you know.”
The King takes a deep breath to calm himself, then scrapes the red chair out, sitting down and smoothing out a suit that is still a size too large for him.
“My suits?”
“Taken along with everything else, sir. Most of our safe-houses were raided by the military. They did quite a number on us.”
“Men? Cars? Weapons?”
The man in the suit, his insect-like eyes trying to find a place to settle in order to avoid the King's gaze, gives a nervous shake of his head.
“Nothing.”
He jumps as the King slams his fist on the desk, the thin aluminium legs almost buckling under his blow. Flexing his knuckles, the King regains his composure and runs his hand through his short dark hair.
“Tell me what we do have.”
“A few dedicated men and women: those who truly believed.”
“You'll all be rewarded for your faith, of course. In time. What happened to the others?”
“The people of Glasgow knew who we were– when the military and the Agency troops came round, the civilians just pointed us out. Most of us fled underground – we can't build the Kingdom in death, after all.”
“Thinking long term; good.”
“The rest fought the soldiers in the open, like idiots. We're not infantry. They were cut down, of course. Those that remain in hiding may return if we put the word out.”
“What word?”
“Word of your return, of course.”
“No.” The King clenches his fist in front of his mouth, thinking. “Those who have strayed from the path: they're useless to me.”
“With respect, sir, we need the manpower.”
“No we don't. We need dedicated followers.”
“Controlling the city with our current numbers, sir, is next to impossible -”
The man trails off upon seeing the King's expression, his brow lowered and his eyes blazing. His voice drips with malice.
“Can you imagine trying to write an equation where the numbers keep changing?”
“No sir,” whispers his companion.
“I cannot do the calculations if I have to account for disobedience. The system only works when everybody does as they are told, do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Now listen: these aren't the golden days any more. We no longer have the backing of the Kingdom Project. We no longer control the law enforcement; we no longer have the unflinching obedience of a populace. Things have to work differently now, and as far as manpower is concerned, quality is preferable to quantity. A second fire is coming. In four days, there'll be a whole new batch of super-humans to exploit.”
“Sir, that plan already failed us once.”
“I learn from my mistakes, son. In four days, we won't need followers; we'll have gods walking among us. We can't control the city; but a sufficiently t
rained group of super-humans could – and if we can control them, we do control the city. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
The King sits back at his plastic chair. “Anything else I should know?”
“Everything else is in the documents stapled beneath your desk.”
The King feels under the desk and smiles, ripping the cardboard folder free and leafing through it.
“I'll get reading this. I trust you will take care of my other request?”
“Which one is that, sir?”
“The George's Square refugee camp. I don't want the people thinking that the military can protect them from us. Fear comes before submission, son. See to it.”
“Of course, sir. Some of our men are already in the camp – I'll have what explosives we can spare sent over to them. You realise, of course, that the survivors of Operation Firefall will be there today? The, uh, 'super-humans'?”
The King laughs – he doesn't even look up from his reading.
“Why do you think I chose it as a target?”
“Shall we attempt to include them in the blast?”
“Might as well,” he looks up, giving him an earnest smile. “Make it personal. Really, I just want them to know that they aren't safe. Nobody is. We need to become an enemy that can't be fought with soldiers and tanks – and certainly not an enemy that can be fought by anybody with powers.”
“Yes, sir. I'll have it done. We have a few willing participants who wouldn't mind wearing a heavy coat, if you catch my drift.”
“Suicide bomb? Gregor, twenty seconds ago I told you that we need to keep the devoted around, not blow them up.”
“With respect sir, not all of the faithful are worth keeping around. Two birds, one stone.”
“I'll leave it in your hands then. Good man. Good man,” mutters the King, shuffling through the papers. “Shame to have to do it, of course, but the people should all have known better than to forget about me. They've shown their true colours.”
“Will that be all, sir?”
“Get me a roll and egg or something, too. Prison food is atrocious.”
Kingdom: The Complete Series Page 19