by Jeremy Flagg
The man grabbed the sides of his head and screamed.
“Calm down now,” Conthan said, “Nobody’s here.”
“No. No. No.”
The gun lowered until Conthan stared down the barrel of the weapon. Seconds dragged. His thumb pulled back the hammer. His pointer squeezed the trigger. For a moment Conthan swore he saw the word in monotone, every color stripped away from reality.
He fell before he realized something crashed into him from behind. The ground raced up to meet his face. He landed with a thud. He rolled on his side and saw Gretchen on her hands and knees, staring up at the man holding the gun. Conthan swung his leg, hitting the man hard him to make him stumble. He fired harmlessly into the air.
Conthan grabbed at his wrist, dragging him to the pavement. As the firearm moved closer to his head, he thrust his forehead into the man’s groin. He reached for the gun, determined to snag it. The thief stepped back, screaming at nothingness.
“You’re one of them.”
Resting on his knees, Conthan shielded his face with his hands. A loud bang echoed through the confined space. The contents of his stomach fought to unload and succeeded. Tino’s bacon and eggs spewed across the ground. Between heaves, Conthan touched his chest, unsure of where the bullet hit.
Thud. Behind Conthan, the thief collapsed to the ground without a word. His eyes remained vacant, staring off into space. An inch above his right eye, a red hole pumped blood down the man’s face onto the pavement. The body fell backward, propped up by the fence, the ghostly expression on his face almost as terrifying as the one he had the last seconds he was alive.
“Conthan,” Gretchen called out.
He wiped off his mouth, the flavor of eggs consuming his senses. The officer from earlier stood at the entrance of the alley. The man holstered his sidearm, a smug grin spreading across his face. If minutes ago, he had stopped the pursuit, the thief would still be alive. If the cop had not been preoccupied with his goddamn phone, there wouldn’t be a lifeless body.
“You motherfucker.”
Conthan’s legs wobbled as he took his first step toward the officer. Gretchen sat with her back against a wall, her expression nearly as pissed as his. She reached into her pocket, pulling out her cell phone. She pointed it at the officer, documenting the incident. The footage would either keep him alive or be used to send him to jail. Conthan would thank her for the attempt when he was done with the piece of shit human being carrying a badge.
“You lazy motherfucker.” Conthan got close enough that the man reached down to his gun again. “What are you going to do? Shoot me too? You could have done your job—”
His hand moved too fast to follow. A snap of the wrist brought out a three-foot baton. Conthan was too angry to give it a second thought. Two more steps and he’d be chest to chest with the man, his leather jacket rubbing against the tactical vest.
“Stand down, citizen.”
He was going to say, “Or what?” but his clenched fist struck the officer in the face. The man spun with the punch, clutching his jaw. Conthan ignored the numbing pain in his hand. The sting paled against the bite at the back of his knee as the baton struck his leg. Agony erupted across his face as hard plastic knocked blood from his mouth.
His forearm caught the next strike. The officer’s other hand struck him in the chest. The sensation ignited his blood, forcing his hands to clench and his knees to buckle. The muscles in his body convulsed, jittering as he shook uncontrollably on the alley floor. The charge from the Taser forced him into a fetal position.
Gretchen’s expression hovered between terrified and angry. The officer didn’t seem to notice her punching in a number on her phone. “Sent.”
He wanted to call out to her. She should run. She should bail him out of jail. She should snatch his wallet. Instead he tried to keep his teeth from clenching so tight it they may break. As his dignity vanished in a piss-covered crotch, he watched Gretchen back farther into the alley.
He closed his eyes as his muscles fought to pull away from his skeleton. When he opened them again, his newfound friend had vanished. As the officer rolled him over and pulled at his arms to secure his wrists in handcuffs, he saw the dead man again. The tremors from the taser surged through his body, preventing him from moving.
At the end of the alley, the corpse continued staring into the sky. Conthan had witnessed the man’s terror, his conviction that the Children of Nostradamus were coming for him. Ghosts haunted the man until his dying breath. Instead of fearing a potential encounter with a Child, he should have been terrified by the government sanctioned police force. He might have been scared of the uprising of superpowered beings, but it was an average man with a badge who killed him.
Conthan only had experience with a single Child of Nostradamus. They might be people with uncanny abilities, but it was a man with a god complex who terrified him. The knot his stomach may have been a muscle convulsing, but he imagined it was from the realization the world was changing around him, and not for the better. The only Child he had ever met was his personal hero. As a cop car pulled up and they tossed him into the back seat, he suspected the world needed more unconventional heroes.
“Sarah,” he whispered.
Gretchen
February 13, 1992
My Dearest Gretchen,
Art school will hold wonders you never imagined. I am delighted to know a young woman with such a fiery passion for life will be leading the way for the next generation of creatives. Be bold in your pursuits and you will find a tribe willing to support your endeavors. While at times you feel detached and separated from those closest to you, understand they will rally and carry you forward.
Once, many years ago, I too was a rebel, a young woman with a need to change the world. As I pen this letter, I understand I am passing on my legacy to another who will take up my cause. The future is dark and it holds many perils for those like us. Do not let that fire turn dark, nor let it ever extinguish.
I assure you, even four decades before you read this, I have seen the beauty underneath your thick exterior. Much like the art you admire, you should not hide. The moments when you believe you are truly invisible are when you shine, Child of Nostradamus.
They are coming, Gretchen. Await the Nighthawks.
With Regards,
Eleanor P. Valentine
April 22, 2026
“Are you sure Needles had the right directions?” asked Trish.
Gretchen nodded.
The dark alley ended with a single man standing in front of a large metal door. No signs revealed the hottest night spot in Manhattan. Word of mouth created hype, packing the unsuspecting location night after night. If you stopped walking, held your breath, and listened, the distant sound of techno music lured you in like a siren’s song.
“We could still hit up the creature feature on campus.”
Gretchen scowled at Rocks. “No. No college tonight. I want to get fucked up on tequila and dance close enough to the speakers so my heart skips.”
“Sorry, boo.” Trish smiled. “I’m with her.”
“I know, I know, she said the magic word.”
“Tequila!” cheered Trish.
Another painter with the proclivity of getting trashed on a Friday night—it served as the reason the two of them remained friends. Rocks hadn’t come into the picture until later, a drunken mistake that wouldn’t go away. Gretchen liked the guy, and she was relieved when Trish finally broke and accepted a date. Since then, they had become inseparable. They were good people; they would last forever.
The burly man guarding the door eyed Gretchen, her own eyes barely meeting his chest. He didn’t move or make any indication he was going to speak. The man more closely resembled one of Rocks’s statues than he did a human. With those bulging biceps under his black t-shirt, she imagined the bouncer wouldn’t have any difficulty tossing them aside if necessary.
“Needle’s invited us.”
The man let out a sigh, causing his
whole body to decompress. He stepped to the side and pulled at the metal latch sealing the door. The moment the massive metal barrier opened, the bass got more distinct. The bouncer didn’t acknowledge them as they passed by, stepping onto a small landing and down a set of metal stairs.
The first subfloor housed heaters, large industrial size boilers used to provide hot water to the office buildings above. The walkway between them was narrow. Gretchen held her arms in close, starting to wonder if Needles had been serious about a party being hosted in the space underneath the building. She had imagined an elevator taking them down and opening to sea of dancing bodies, not this many stairs, nor this much grunge.
Another door greeted them. This one reminded her of submarines. Instead of a handle, a wheel rested in the middle. With a fast spin, Rocks pulled at the door. As it opened, music emerged, nearly deafening as it echoed off the giant metal containers.
The bass rippled along the floor, tickling her feet through her boots. A smile spread across her lips. She stepped through the door, not quite sure what might be on the other side. It wouldn’t be the first sketchy invite she received. It wouldn’t be the first alley with an ominous bouncer. It wouldn’t be the first time she arrived to a lame bunch of trash, high on synthetic drugs.
Rocks and Trish joined her on the landing, giving them full view of the room a floor below them. Stairs led down, through a small makeshift lounge area and to an expansive area for dancing. Nested on a platform across the room, a DJ bounced up and down as he continued to work the crowd. Unlike the last shindig she attended, where the DJ was a geek with a computer and a few dim overhead lamps, this was a rave. She felt alive.
Hanging from the rafters, lights pulsed to the music, and soft neon pink and blue lights lined the bar area. A bar. The last party was BYOB. Gretchen decided to never take a chance on a venue again, but Needles lured her in, promising her an experience she wouldn’t forget. The mysterious man of the hour delivered on his promise.
Gretchen watched the half-naked bodies writhing on the dance floor. The area didn’t have any defined space, just a mass of people grinding to the beat. The conservative females wore fishnet, while bolder individuals let their breasts shake as they bounced to the beat. No doubt, a beautiful woman would wind up in her bed, squirming in ecstasy before the morning sun.
Her people filled the room. It didn’t matter who they were when they got out of bed in the morning or what unfulfilling jobs they worked to pay the bills. Coaxed by the electronic music produced by a master of ceremonies, they surrendered to the music. For tonight, they became sinners, and she needed reasons to confess.
She stopped in the middle of her descent, causing Trish to knock into her back. She pressed herself against the railing as a man with blood coating his face climbed the stairs. A girl in a fishnet shirt and neon blue bra followed, pushing the brutalized man along. Gretchen noted the weapon in the girl’s hand against his back as they passed by. Trish’s eyes went wide and Gretchen put her arm up, keeping the other artist away from the two exiting the rave.
“Tough crowd,” Trish said.
“At least they’re taking their business elsewhere.”
At the bar, three bartenders worked furiously to produce drinks for a dozen patrons. Gretchen pointed to the bottle of tequila and held up three fingers. Seconds later the three of them licked their hands, slammed the shots, and bit down on lime wedges. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.
Gretchen pointed to Trish and flapped her arms like a bird, signaling her friend to play wingman. For the next two hours the sweat soaked through her sleeveless flannel. She went from dancing with Trish to being sandwiched between two bronzed women. One of the women put a white pill between her lips, smiling as Gretchen leaned in and kissed her, snaking her tongue around the synthetic drug. Within minutes, the light grew brighter, the music more intense, and she had a burning desire to feel both women pressed against her skin.
The techno silenced and the room seemed eerily empty of energy. The women on either side of Gretchen continued moving to melody she couldn’t hear. For the first time, Gretchen saw the small bulge below the ear of the one who had given her the drug. Each of the people continuing to dance had a similar bump.
“What’s going on?” asked Rock.
“They have implants. They’re hearing music in their heads.”
Trish raised an eyebrow at the statement. “Well, we’re officially lame.”
“I told you we should get the audio implants. No more using headphones,” Rocks said.
“If you start wasting money on turning yourself into a cyborg, you’ll be on the couch,” Trish said.
Gretchen agreed with Trish. Body Shops grew increasingly common as the technology lowered in price; the modifications, not just for the pristine elite anymore, now reached the common folk. People upgraded their eyes to see further, their ears to hear better, and laced their muscles to become stronger. Earlier in the week some sports league made an announcement banning all enhancements while another revealed an “enhanced only league.”
Gretchen thought every enhancement sold a piece of your soul. She indulged with too many piercings and covered her body in ink like a canvas, but at some point, she worried people traded in their souls for superiority. But as the people danced to music only they could hear, she understood the appeal. In the future, being 100% human meant being obsolete.
“Is that dude blue? Do you see him?” asked Gretchen.
Trish leaned forward, peering past the curtains to the bar. She shrugged her shoulders. “Are you still high?”
Gretchen dismissed her. She wasn’t wrong, it could be the drugs burning through her veins. However, in her years of taking synthetic recreational narcotics, she never once tripped to the point where she hallucinated blue men. But there, waiting for the bartender to fill his martini glass, a man only a shade darker than teal sipped his martini like he was the most important person at the party.
“Holy shit,” Trish murmured.
“So I’m not high?”
“No, you’re high.”
“I’m going to go talk to him.”
Rocks laughed. “Trish, we have to be getting home. I have a calculus exam in the morning.”
“God, you’re sexy when you sound smart.”
Gretchen ignored the lovers, captivated by the man annoyed by the slow service. She stepped out of the small alcove, around a woman spinning around to a silent beat. The DJ continued jumping about on his platform while the people filling the floor responded, occasionally cheering or shouting back. With her artificial high fading, the halos around the lights started to dim, and the swaying people became nothing more than a mound of sweaty flesh.
The man’s tastes ran expensive. Not long ago she lived in a small mansion, filled with expensive decor, and designer clothes lined her closet. She knew a Gucci suit from a mile away. The cufflinks were tasteful, but the silver studs with dark blue jewels cost more than the entire collection of booze behind the bar. She knew his type, and after a year of living among the “poor” at art school, she loathed his audacious need to flash his worth.
“Nice suit.”
“Thanks.” His tone walked the fine line between dismissive and uninterested. She eyed his hand, admiring the color. It was common for her to be dosed in paint but whatever he was into stained his skin an almost perfect blue. Small gaps near his eye remained a soft milky white, but the blank spots were few and far between. Her eyes continued to dart back and forth as she resisted the urge to gawk.
She leaned on the bar, following the bartender as he mixed a cocktail for a young woman wearing a bright pink tank top with an even pinker ponytail. The man worked quickly, swishing liquids and tossing down the drink. The raver passed her palm over a glass panel on the counter, paying her bill, and sipped her drink.
“If you’re going to stare, at least have the fortitude to do it properly.”
“I wouldn’t want to give an attention-seeking whore the gratification.”
�
��Touché,” he said before ordering another dry martini.
“But I must know, why would you come to a place like this?”
His eyes almost glowed white against the blue paint. He clearly wanted people to ogle; from the suit, to the cufflinks, to the color of his tie, he stood out against the provocative ravers. The only item on him seeming out of place was a metal choker far too industrial for his slick sense of style. She let out a slight gasp. The media made sure she could identify the accessory, a tracking collar forced on Children of Nostradamus allowed to partake in society.
“You mean my kind?”
“If douchebag is a demographic, sure.”
Art taught her to accept a thousand different people from all walks of life. It forced her to respect people who had varying points of view and be willing to open a line of dialogue to reach common ground. Yet her dislike for attitude, especially from those who believed themselves above others, rested at the core of her being. She failed Understanding 101.
“I see you work with blue dyes.”
“Really?” Gretchen swore she heard his eyes roll back in his head. “That’s the best pickup line you have?”
“Pickup line? I’m sorry, tonight’s a ladies night for me.” She gave him a wink. “Besides, I don’t think you’re man enough for this ride.”
The edge of his lip turned upward. It lasted half a second before he returned to his grumpy face. The bartender returned with a fresh martini and the Child took a sip, savoring the booze.
“I’m an art student,” Gretchen continued. “I’m a fan of the unusual. Not so much your holier-than-thou attitude, but I’ve dealt with men far richer than you.”
“The renegade rich brat, off to art school to stick a pin in her parents’ side one more time.”
“Did you just try to read me?”