Page 70 of The Brotherhood

Spook stared at him, then watched Harlow step over to his station, looking at the readout. He let out a single breath of, “What thefuck?”

“Now what?” Spook demanded, sick of being the last person to know. “He’s not done, what does that mean? He has todieagain?”

Quantum aimed his stare at the monitor while Harlow paced, while holding his head. “Yes, he has to die again. Five more times. Every hour.”

Shock had Spook immobile for nearly a full minute before he finally asked. “Why? Why is this happening?”

Harlow made his way to the far wall and began throwing a tennis ball at it. “Good fucking question,” he called, winding up and fast pitching the ball at the wall and catching it. “What the fuck does he know that we don’t?” he wondered with another throw.

****

Fetch looked around at the empty city park. A few scattered tents remained, their fabric flapping against a wind that seemed to only exist within a perimeter. Streetlights flickered unnaturally, their glow struggling against a strange atmospheric pressure that pressed down on the scene. The air smelled sharp—like static before a lightning strike, but there had been no storms in the forecast.

Fathom, and Fin stood next to him, eyes locked on the unnatural figure before them. A human form, twisted into hardened matter, veins of black threading through the structure like a corruption frozen mid-spread.

Fetch reached out, brushing his fingers over the surface. The material was rough but brittle, flaking under his touch. A fine layer of grit crumbled between his fingertips. He rubbed it, testing the texture. It broke down easily, dissolving slightly at the moisture on his skin, leaving a distinct dry, sharp residue. The taste in the air—faint but unmistakable—confirmed it.

“Salt,” he said. “Not pure. Something else in it.”

Fathom crouched for a closer look, his electric field extending slightly as he ran a gloved hand over the hardened exterior. “No natural weathering. This was shaped deliberately. Etched.”

Fetch stood back and pressed his fingers to his temple. His electromagnetic field synced with the small drone near his shoulder, sending a live feed, back to Bart. “You getting this?”

Bart’s voice came through the encrypted comm. “Yeah, seein’ it clear. Y’all ever seen somethin’ like this before?”

“No,” Fetch answered simply.

“No burn marks, no real external trauma,” Fathom noted. “But—” He pointed to the forehead of the figure. Just above the brow, a circular mark, barely darker than the salt itself, sat like a brand. “Point of contact. Whatever did this? It started here.”

Bart exhaled. “Means it wasn’t random. Someone did this on purpose.”

Fetch scanned the area, eyes moving over the abandoned tents and empty fire pits. The park was eerily vacant, but it had been occupied recently—too recently for the place to feel this deserted. His gaze landed on a figure slumped under a streetlamp, whiskey bottle clutched loosely in one hand. An old man, huddled there, muttering to himself. His eyes wereunfocused, his lips moving in quiet conversation with someone who wasn’t there.

Fetch approached, crouching beside him. “You saw what happened.”

The man gave a wheezing chuckle, lifting the bottle in a mock toast. “Saw it all, boy.”

Fetch nodded. “Tell me.”

The drunk squinted, lips working around words his brain hadn’t fully decided on yet. “A man—naw, more like...nothin’. Ain’t nobody saw him. He walk’d up, all quiet-like, while ever’body was talkin’, standin’ ‘round the fire. Look like he just stroll’d up, all easy.” He took another swig, then smacked his lips. “But nobody paid no mind. Nobody but me.”

Fathom narrowed his eyes. “And what’d he do?”

The old man’s voice dropped, turning conspiratorial. “Put his hand righ’ ‘ere—” He tapped his forehead clumsily, mirroring the mark on the salt figure. “Like he was blessin’ him or somethin’. But then...” He shuddered, his slur thickening as his nerves got the better of him. “Then that fella, he lit up, like...like he swallowed lightnin’. From the inside. Bright—like the damn sun, but white, white like it wasn’t real. Folks saw that part. Ever’body turned ‘round then. But by then it was too late. Man was...like that.” He pointed a shaking finger at the crystallized form.

Fetch and Fathom exchanged a look. Fin spoke first. “Nobody saw the killer?”

The old man hiccupped. “Nothin’. Jus’...gone. Like he wasn’t never there.”

Bart’s voice cut back in, more serious now. “Y’all better get some samples. This ain’t somethin’ we ignore.”

Fetch flexed his fingers. “Agreed.”

Fathom stood, brushing the salt dust off his gloves. “One person did this.”

Fetch turned back to the figure, watching as the unnatural weather still hung just at the edge of perception, reality fighting against whatever force had carved this man into stone. He exhaled slowly. “How’d that drunk see it when no one else did?”

Fathom crossed his arms. “Either he was looking at the right place at the right time, has sharper instincts than the rest, or something let him see it.”

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