Balance - Book 2

by Marc Dickason

  *****

  In the central area of the city is a dance club named ‘Snow’. It was here I was sent on my first assignment just days after graduation. The journey was made in my very own spanking new D.O.M provided generic black vehicle.

  In the days leading up to the assignment I had made official my specialisation in Manipulation and Influence, after which I had been assigned to a D.O.M; or rather, been allowed to choose from the half dozen who had put in requests. None seemed more appealing than the other so I had chosen the one where Gill was Chief Commander, simply for the comfort of a familiar face.

  As a Manipulation and Influence specialist, my inevitable career peak would be bouncing around Rehabilitation halls in various parts of the city. But this was only upon achieving Senior Enforcer status, when dangerous field work was no longer compulsory. Up until that time, a Junior Manipulation and Influence Enforcer was a flexible entity, hence my assignment at Snow.

  The first knee slapping joke about Snow was that it soon became clear how the club got its name. And it was not because the drinks had stylishly frosted glasses, but because the patrons had stylishly frosted nostrils. And, of course, trying to spot people who have been manipulated in such an environment is like trying to spot the ‘suspiciously hyperactive person’ at a children’s birthday party.

  I did finally find the suspect, after searching through cigarette smoke fog and enduring two hours of bone rattling music. He was seated at the rear of the club in a beanbag furnished ‘chill out’ zone. The gentleman in question, Sidney Houston, turned out to be an early twenties man who spent at least half of every day doing sit-ups. Around him, in a semi-circle, sat a collection of attractive girls, some I judged to be barely out of high school, if that.

  The group stared at me in guilty silence as I took one of the girls aside. I found her to be under a domination spell and broke it. She threw her drink in my face and accused me of ‘ruining her buzz’.

  She and all the other young ladies in the group, I was informed, attended the club every Saturday to be put under Houston’s control as an act of recreation. During this time they participated in sexual acts that would make priests drop dead and mothers burst into tears.

  “Not a crime if we’re doing it of our own free will,” the girl shouted above the endless thump of music.

  “Yes it is,” I replied.

  Houston was arrested and a team called in to attend the girls, this done via the radio in my car. I escorted young Houston to the D.O.M. It was after 1AM.

  Upon arriving at the D.O.M Houston was booked in at the front desk with the assistance of a late forties desk clerk. The man shook his head at me repeatedly. Following the booking I sat with Houston and entered his details into a computer, after which he was detained and escorted to a holding area. I then completed forms that specified the reasons for the arrest, detailing which laws had been broken and in what fashion. Plus, a detailed description of the events surrounding the arrest, in my own words, and arranged under the correct headings. Then came the form that listed the persons directly involved in the Manipulation based crime; the group of girls. Their names had been taken at Snow, in my new little black book.

  At just after 6AM the following morning the paperwork was completed and I submitted it. Follow-up paperwork would be required. Immediately upon leaving the D.O.M, I spotted Sidney Houston climbing into a taxi across the road. He gave me a friendly wave. The significance of the desk clerk’s head shake now registered.

  Back in the D.O.M, the desk clerk explained that the girls had all refused to press charges. This meant Houston could not legally be held.

  “Those girls done the exact same at least a dozen times,” he said, “all we achieved is giving Houston free board and a meal. Kid basically lives here on weekends.” His shoulders rose in an enormous shrug. “The case is closed now. Better get started on your finalisation paperwork. And keep in mind you might be called to explain why your case didn’t go to trial.”

  I hung my head. Every muscle ached with fatigue.

  “Or, Clarence,” he added, leaning forward and lowering his voice, “If you want my advice tell the filing clerk you made a mistake and ask for your booking papers back. Then lose them. Preferably in a paper shredder. Just a suggestion. Learn good habits now.”

  I considered the idea a long time before returning to a computer station and beginning the finalisation paperwork. When that was filed it was 10:30AM. I changed into my backup uniform, threw back two cups of coffee, and stayed on for the next day’s shift.

  My second assignment occurred later that same day and was not so knee-slappingly funny as the first. It had me at a pool hall not far from club Snow, and tasked me with investigating a petty hustler who won his pool games via devious means. I spotted the young man easily and approached. Since the crime was minor and punishment no more then a slap on the wrist, I intended on escorting him back to the D.O.M with a minimum of fuss. I even decided on going as far as to not take him by force, in an attempt to spare his dignity. This, seeing as how committed he was to his ‘nonchalantly cool’ façade.

  “Good morning sir, Junior Enforcer Clarence. May I have a word?”

  As his pool cue fractured across my head I remembered that ‘nonchalantly cool’ could also be achieved by ‘sticking it to the man’.

  Dazed and face covered in sticky moisture I looked up as he bolted from the establishment. Around me the pool hall exploded into cheers of delight. I leapt to my feet, wiping blood from my eyes, and gave chase, bursting through the doors with fists clenched. Ahead, he dodged between the traffic of a four lane road. My hand raised and I took aim.

  The target was difficult and a more restrained Enforcer might not have taken the risk of hitting a civilian vehicle. I took the shot. And, fuelled by the knowledge blood was now streaking down my only clean uniform, added a little something extra in the Spirit department.

  The aim was good and the bolt hit him square on the back of the head. He was sent into a clumsy improvised somersault. Unfortunately improvised gymnastics were not his strong point, and the landing resulted both in a broken wrist and putting him into a lane of oncoming traffic. A vehicle slammed on brakes. Its tires shrieked and spewed clouds of smoke. A second vehicle followed suit, and a third, until a full conga line of cars snaked up the road. Each blared on its horn.

  Content that justice was served, I marched forward to finalise the arrest. It was the first moment of real job satisfaction in my life. This satisfaction waned a second later.

  Eyes, dozens of them, began to turn in my direction as agonised screams rose up from the perpetrator. The young man likely believed he could squeeze through some kind of legal loophole by making the most of his injury. Little did he know attacking me had granted almost any courtesy in bringing him down. Either way; as his screams met ears and civilians began to stop and watch the scene unfold, satisfaction became overwhelming vulnerability. I was surrounded by a sea of angry faces.

  I gazed around uneasily. The growing crowd of civilians gazed back, watching, waiting. Beside me the downed hustler continued to scream.

  And there it was again; the Crowd Surfing Spell. A tiny, lingering voice unmistakably the same as in the hall, hospital and park. Only stronger. But even if I had not felt the spell, something would have seemed amiss. The random people were too focused, as if organising to meet beforehand, having rehearsed intimidating stares for hours.

  I stood rooted to the spot feeling tension mount. The faces waited.

  Words returned to me, heard in lecture by a large bespectacled woman: Something about the Enforcer uniform and its magic only working if the wearer adopted a stance of confidence.

  I squared my shoulders and found my Place of Calm, then began pushing out an Ambience Tweak. Too large an area for such a spell, I knew. Too many targets for effective results by a single person.

  “This man is guilty of multiple magical transgressions,” I announced, “Including attacking an Enforcer. It is in the best in
terest of everyone I get him off the street immediately. I understand all of your concern, and I know you are only worried for the safety of a fellow citizen. But I ask you all too please disperse and not obstruct justice.”

  The words were delivered with the most unflinching confidence I could muster. Gradually the spell took hold, my uniform acting as the finest magical ally I could ask for. Aggressive postures melted into uneasy relaxation. One by one the crowd lost interest and drifted away. Soon what remained was only a crowd of loiterers.

  Likewise, the presence evaporated with the crowd. And as I had expected those that remained seemed to have no clue there had been any unwelcome magic at all.