Catwalk: Messiah

by Nick Kelly

  “You seem edgy. How can I assist?”

  Cat rolled his eyes. “Just tryin’ ta put together a few loose ends on some cases. The armor’s better’n I thought so far. Ain’t had cause ta try it out yet, but the night is young.”

  Delambre paused before replying, as if seeking a second opinion. “You have my assurance it will meet your needs, Catwalk.”

  “I’ll keep ya posted.” Cat clicked the comm dead and twisted his wrist, burning more kilometers beneath him. The price tag on the armor was more than he had anticipated, and he would demand a back-up suit, given the pace of some of his investigations. He was going to need to cash from a few other outstanding jobs.

  Fortunately, there was one he’d been trailing for a while, and tonight might prove the perfect outlet for a little recreation.

  The Paradigm Shift was founded by two lifelong virtual world gamers who had decided on a permanent meeting place for those who logged more minutes in a fantasyland than reality. A neon display above the entrance boasted a myriad of colors, and the doors flanked by eight-meter high guardians. A red dragon reared on its hind legs on one side, perfectly crafted from reinforced steel. Opposite the dragon, a large robot with chain-guns instead of hands faced off against it.

  The bouncer and his correspondents inside sported some formidable armor. After all, the clientele here was only half composed of meek gamers playing dress up. The other half had the resources and funds, usually through gaming, to undergo surgery to closely resemble their in-game personas. Everyone in the place represented some sort of fantasy rendition of reality…a character.

  The main areas of the club weren’t potentially hazardous. It was in the VIP section where the real money flowed. The inhabitants there were revered by the common crowd. These virtual power brokers often decided on a whim how to change the very dimensions where hundreds of thousands clung to every imaginary facet of their lives. In this restricted area, the wardrobe ranged from custom tailored suits to armor and shields. Each player had their own idea of how to represent the money in their deferred off-world accounts.

  There was a portion of the gamers who chose to represent their investments through appearance. They sported uniforms identical to what their avatars wore in the virtual world. Some did so by choice. Others were so physically altered they’d become the very character they’d once invented.

  Cat grinned to himself at the notion. He’d been no different, really. The surgery he’d undergone made him into the character he’d become. The difference was that when he killed an opponent, they didn’t get to reset somewhere. They flatlined, regardless of what game they thought they might be playing.

  He set the half-empty glass of bourbon on the small tabletop. Sweat dripped from the glass to the rectangular surface, dripping onto the chessboard set into the mahogany. The chair across from him was empty. There would be no opponent tonight, merely a job to be done and a paycheck to collect.

  He had pieced together the backstory, a high-level rivalry amongst the gaming companies. The man who called himself DoB, aka Descendant of British, had jumped ship to start his own firm, leaving one of the leading gaming companies without a head designer. Then, DoB decided to show up at Paradigm to celebrate with a few of his close friends.

  Cat grinned at the irony. There was a benefit to identifying your friends solely by virtual renderings. It meant that in real life they could look like anything. In this case, they could even look like a scarred and tired ex-cop who’d moved west to make a living in theft, murder, extortion and other odd jobs.

  DoB was a slovenly man, who clearly chose indulgence over self-preservation. His dirty blonde hair was unkempt, and the cheap suit he wore had been tailored for him long before he’d put on the excess weight of sloth and greed. His skin was a mess and his tie looked as if he knotted it together with his teeth.

  The developer was the kind of man Cat took pleasure in hurting before the kill. There was simply too much self-satisfaction evident on the fat man’s face for Cat to let him go quickly. From here, he had a clear shot, which had never really been the hitman’s best exercise of assassination. Even after years as a cop and now as a killer, he was far from a marksman.

  Instead, Cat had gone a different route, following DoB’s limo to the Paradigm on the HS motorcycle. Once DoB had gone inside, Cat bugged the limo, then went back a second time and wired it. The detonator rested nicely in one of the compartments of his new prototype armor that Delambre had crafted. For now, Cat could pick the cocky gamer off up close or blow him into a few million pieces later. Which option he chose would depend on how his night went.

  Bored with the supposedly rich and powerful clientele, and nearing the end of his glass of underwhelming bourbon, Catwalk looked out to the main room through the one-way mirrors down at the “regular” folks. There were grinding bodies, plenty of misfits to be certain, and a lot of liquid courage creating flirtation and lousy pick-up lines. Elves danced, wrapped around vampires. Golems and cyborgs exchanged heated glances across the dance floor. Orcs and werewolves were heavy petting in the corners. A knight of the round table had his hand halfway up the wicked witch’s dress. A mermaid was riding a unicorn in a manner that should have been anatomically impossible. The entire place was a buffet of dream-driven fantasies. Cat chuckled to himself, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it while scanning the outside bar.

  Several women appealed to him instantly. He ruled out two after seeing their profile and identifying Adam’s apples. He shook his head, took a drag and double-checked on the loudmouth developer he’d been sent to retire. The man hadn’t moved, still holding audience at the far end of the VIP section, boasting about past accomplishments and future triumphs. In one hand, he held a glass of something that glowed an unnatural blue, with the other he was typing code into a virtual keyboard, changing the worlds he’d created without thought to the lives he affected.

  Cat returned his gaze to the outside bar and felt a paralysis wash over him when he caught the form of one woman near the end of the bar. She wore a manly outfit, almost exclusively urban camouflage and Kevlar. Beneath her hat, her deep auburn hair was pulled into a tight ponytail, and her otherwise flawless face was marked with dark eye shadow and eye black.

  Try as she might to hide her identity, Cat could pick her particular face out of an adrenaline-fed riot throwing Molotov cocktails at his face. He’d seen her face before on billboards, vidfeeds, digital stills, and in his own drunken lust.

  That woman, as much as she would deny it, was fashion model and designer Delilah DuPree.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Cat headed out of the VIP section immediately, the cigarette dangling from his lips. He strode with purpose through the writhing crowd on the dance floor, making an unnatural slice through the drug-fueled incarnations of warriors and wizards. He emerged on the opposite end, confirming in a split-second what he’d originally thought or hoped. The subject of a thousand photo shoots, five hundred interviews, and an immeasurable number of his own fantasies, was sipping from a tumbler a few meters away.

  He watched for a moment as she looked just past the brim of her faded cap and caught the unsteady advances of a potential suitor stumbling up behind her. Taking a drag, he let the drunken man get closer. The man wore a full-fledged ogre outfit, dyed his skin green and wore a torn shirt, leather kilt, and boots. He reached to tap the woman on the shoulder and instead landed a hand on the bar next to her. She shifted to her left, revealing more surprise than she had intended. The man belched involuntarily and then asked her to slow dance with a crooked, awkward smile.

  The woman graciously thanked him for his offer, stating she was waiting for her other half, and patted his cheek. That alone satisfied the would-be ogre, who eventually regained his balance and stumbled away. Relief was evident on her face as she exhaled a deep breath and reached past the ice-filled tumbler for her cigarettes.

  “Le Courvoisier, I presume,” Cat offered, lighter in hand, faux accent on his lips.

  Th
e woman looked up at him, startled for only a fraction of a section. She smiled and allowed him to light her cigarette. “Thank you,” she stated with a note of dismissal.

  Cat smiled back, with no intention of letting so little a tone dissuade him. “The pleasure is mine, Miss?”

  “Mrs.,” she replied coldly.

  He nodded. “But of course,” he said, leaning closer. “Madame Dupree, as it were.”

  The woman’s insightful green eyes flared slightly then settled with a deep breath. “It’s Mrs., as I said. Mrs. Raul Azuria.”

  Cat smiled. “Of course it is.” He dropped the accent, going back to his own delivery, “Listen, Mrs. Razawhateveryouthinkyouwannacallit, you’ve got at least six separate parties in this particular little chithole of a bar who are infightin’ over which of them is going to come over here an’ get you to dance. So, how bout you an’ I either entertain ourselves over a nice glass a’ real-world natural liquor in the VIP section, or you let me escort you safely to whatever transportation you swindled inta gettin’ you into this joint?”

  Her eyes flared with the challenge as she blew smoke in his face. “And why should I trust a yellow-eyed stranger like yourself?”

  “Because,” he smirked, “despite the fact I share their appreciation of that body a’ yours, I’m the only one here who knows yer technically still married to a multi-billionaire off-world investor.”

  Delilah’s face didn’t betray the change in her emotions, but her body language shouted profanities at him. “How sweet, I believe I’ve had enough of your banter.” She reinforced her statement by suggesting he perform a self-servicing sexual act.

  “It’s Leon,” he said confidently, leaving a small card on the bar near her drink, “Leon Caliber. Payin’ parties call me Catwalk.” He took a step away, paused and leaned back toward her. “By the way, when the vampires in the corner start stalkin’ you tonight, feel free ta call me.” With a smirk, he disappeared into the crowd on the dance floor.

  How long had it been since she left the bar? A minute? Two?

  The shadows shifted behind her, filled with mechanical catcalls and laughter. She knew those voices. They belonged to the vampires from the bar. She pulled her coat tighter around her. No one was supposed to follow her. This was a research trip. Damn it, where was her driver?

  She rushed forward on quick steps, heading east on Rampart for the brighter lights of Beverly Blvd. She’d be safe there, hidden among the tourists and fashion-famined crowds who walked those streets all hours of the night.

  Voices spoke, no, howled in the distance behind her. Delilah’s pace picked up, though she told herself to maintain the façade of control. The boots had barely any lift. They were comfortable and warm compared to the heels she wore the majority of her typical week. She stepped up her pace, walking quickly, fighting the urge to break into a run. Her breathing quickened. Even in the cool air, she was sweating openly. The snap of leather trench coats joined their caterwauling. She knew they were closer than she’d thought. She spun, bearing pepper spray in her right hand. “Stop right there.”

  The four vampires moved as if in slow motion for a few moments before laughing in unison. The tallest, with his blonde hair cut in a Mohawk, grinned from behind his dark sunglasses. “Pepper spray? I’ve never had a meal that came with its own spice rack before.” His supporting cast broke into a laughter as uniform as their black leather apparel.

  Delilah backed away slowly, as two others circled her. She couldn’t get between them and onto the main road. They would be too quick. The open pavement to her right led to a small, ruined community park. That would only provide more privacy for their attack. To her left, there was an alleyway between the buildings. It was dark, pitch black, except for a flicker of light.

  No, not a flicker at all. Delilah’s breath caught as she saw the faint outline of two yellow triangles meet her eyes and then disappear.

  She blinked and the vamps picked up on her suddenly focused attention. The blonde turned his gaze to the alley. A brick slammed into his face, shattering his glasses and breaking his nose. He grabbed his face, howling in pain.

  The others raged quickly. The one closest to the blonde, a dark-skinned black man, moved to help his fallen leader. The other two, dark-haired and donning the typical leather trench and pants, moved toward the alley. In appearance and action, they could have been clones.

  The slight glimmer of metal rolled from the alley, a simple cylinder that looked like a soda can. Three meters past the alley’s edge, it erupted into brilliant white light. Delilah tried to avert her eyes, falling to her hands and knees, facing away from the illumination. Even squeezing her eyes tight, the brilliant light flashed in her brain. She could only imagine its effect on the vampires.

  She struggled to make out the shapes. Everything was a blur. Her heart was in her throat. To her right, she saw three figures, heard a scream, and then could find only two. She blinked repeatedly to clear her vision. There was a loud snap and then only a solitary figure remained upright. The other fell, its silhouetted head gone from its body.

  The remaining figure leapt in her direction, and she prayed it wasn’t attacking her. She squeezed her eyes tight. Every breath felt like forever. She wanted to scream, but couldn’t. The combination of shock and fear paralyzed her.

  She opened her eyes again. The brilliant light was gone. She could make out figures, but her head still shook with fading fireworks. What had happened and was it over?

  “This is all your fault, you shocking cunt!”

  She swung her attention to her left, getting a foot under her and standing up, disoriented and afraid. Though the stars and flashes still pounded against her skull, she saw the bloodied, angry face of the lead vampire. Fangs bared, he screamed as he approached.

  Raising her hands in self-defense, she realized she still had the pepper spray. In a fury, the vampire batted it away. One quick shove and she fell backwards. As she struggled to sit up, the blonde vampire was atop her. He made a sound, half hissing, half growling, his mouth open just a few centimeters away. His face had been punctured by the glasses, the blood filling the creases of his skin.

  Suddenly, he was gone. His sound was cut short as he was yanked backward. There was a sickening sound of flesh impacting something solid. It was repeated, with interspersed cries and howls.

  Finally, there was silence.

  Delilah told herself to breathe. Her chest was tight. She could still smell the foul breath of the vampire on her skin. She had regained her ability to see, but wasn’t certain anymore that she wanted it. Forcing herself to exhale, she turned in the direction of the sounds.

  The blonde would-be vampire lay dead in the road, his skull cracked in several places, leaving a mosaic of blood and grey matter to cover his jacket and the pavement. Standing above him was a black and yellow figure. As it turned to face her, she stilled in the glow of its yellow eyes.

  These were the eyes of something mechanical and feline all at once. She gulped in the potential fear that she’d just seen the frying pan murdered by the fire. The figure approached, snapping something on its hip loudly.

  The figure knelt on one knee so they were face to face. With a flip, the face of the Cat disappeared.

  Delilah blinked again, her gaze met by the man who had approached her at the bar, calling himself Catwalk. He smirked slightly. “Bon soir, Madame Dupree.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Delilah was two cigarettes and a tequila shot in before she remembered to thank him. She was three cigarettes and three shots in before she gathered the courage to start the interrogation. Before that, it was simple, short, nervous sentences about her attackers. She stared at her glass for most of the conversation during the rare moments she opened her eyes.

  Cat had witnessed shock countless times before. In the past, he had watched it manifest in the form of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, like when one of his fellow officers had to shoot someone, or when answering the occasional domestic dispute that ended
in bloody violence. He’d take PTSD over its cybernetic equivalent, Post-Cybernetic Episode Disorder. With the right treatment, a person could be treated for PTSD. PCED was the equivalent of cutting the last chord to humanity and succumbing to the subject’s technological implants. The only cure was permanent incapacitation. That was his career back east, respond to acute incidents of cybernetic psychosis, and terminate the target. Retirement. Termination. Assassination. He shook his head. They were one in the same, and the only end he could imagine for himself.

  Delilah brushed a strand of red hair from her forehead, tucking it behind her ear. She began to ask another question, paused, and took another drag from her cigarette. She had asked a dozen questions. Cat’s answers were short and informative, letting her digest everything she’d seen. He had his own questions to ask, but it was too soon.

  “Who were they?” Delilah asked for the eighth time he could recall. She had even mouthed his answer along with him the last time, but once again the acknowledgement failed to reach her conscious mind.

  Cat exhaled the smoke from his cigarette. “Well, it wasn’t Robin Hood an’ his merry shockin’ men, but it wasn’t anyone who really knew who you were. It was a small, tight-knit group of gamers who want desperately to be the walkin’ dead.” He chuckled internally. He’d granted them half of their wish at least.

  She took a swig of vodka, the best that the cheap hotel bar had to offer. It wasn’t the preferred spot for either of them, but it was close, and it was safe. There was one other couple in a booth nearby, an obvious affair with twenty years age difference between the participants. A quiet man sat at the bar, contemplating his life with imported beer as a unit of measure. The bartender was washing glasses, silently praying for an early closing time.