They Just Fade Away, Part V

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f_edward_icon.gif f_john_icon.gif myron_icon.gif

Scene Title They Just Fade Away, Part V
Synopsis Richard Myron finally catches up with Tyler Case, but the situation is one of predestination, not free will.
Date May 29, 2009

Red Hook

Before annexation into the 12th Ward of Brooklyn, Red Hook was a separate village. It is named for the red clay soil and the point of land projecting into the East River. The village was settled by the Dutch colonists of New Amsterdam in 1636. Red Hook is part of the area known as South Brooklyn, though it is northwest of the geographic center of the modern borough. It is a peninsula between Buttermilk Channel, Gowanus Bay and Gowanus Canal at the southern edge of Downtown Brooklyn.

Red Hook is connected to Manhattan by the vehicles-only Brooklyn-Battery Tunnel, whose toll plaza and approaches separate it from Carroll Gardens to the north. Subway service in the area was cut off after the bomb de to flooding and collapse of the connecting Manhattan tunnels, and no present plans to reinstate them are yet under effect. The B61 bus, formerly a trolley line, runs as a 24-hour service from Erie Basin Red Hook through Downtown Brooklyn, Clinton Hill, Williamsburg, and Greenpoint, terminating at Long Island City, Queens.

Through the 1980s and 1990s Red Hook began a steady decline from an industrial complex like Long Island City, to a notorious neighborhood known for being rife with drug trade, specifically cocaine and crack. Following the bomb, the drug problem in Red Hook became progressively worse, with a recent influx of Chinese Mafia institutions in the very low income neighborhood muscling in on territory formerly belonging to the Civella crime family.

With the only full-frontal view of the Statue of Liberty, Red Hook has the dubious honor of being so close to the shadow of lady Liberty, while being a haven of criminals and crime activity. Private ferries operate out of the Red Hook ports going to and from Staten Island while operating under the Coast Guard's radar. Some residents have even gone as far as to dub Red Hook "Little Staten Island."


"Haven't we circled this block before? I mean—really, I remember the same crazy old lady on the bench the last two-hundred times?" Leaning his head against the window of Richard' Myron's beat up old Pontiac, Officer Oliver Wilson lets out a tired sigh as he watches an old woman with wild, unkempt hair sing to herself on a bus stop bench. It's the same surreal thing he's seen every time Myron rounds the block.

"We're canvassing the area." Myron retorts, his unlit cigarette bobbing up and down between parched lips. "This is Tyler Case's old stompin' grounds. Everywhere between here an' Queens, and I know he's just walkin' 'round the city. That means if he's lingering at his old haunts—well hell—we might just run into him." Wilson turns his head slightly, giving Myron a side-long look.

"And…" His brows knit together, "what exactly are we going to do if we run into him? This guy twists people's genetic codes into pretty little bows, I mean—Myron—I have nothing but respect for you, but we're outgunned here on this." There's not just logic, but also fear guiding Wilson. After hearing the horror stories of melting bodies, swapped evolved powers, and awakened Evolved powers, there's just no telling what to do with Tyler Case, aside from run.

Richard abruptly slows the car down and jerks the wheel to the side, pulling the car halfway up onto the curb before cranking it into park and turning to look directly at Officer Wilson. "You want out?" Myron's unlit cigarette flies out of his lips to land in the center console, "Because I sure as fuck can just open that door and kick your ass out, Wilson." A vein throbs on the side of Myron's head as he speaks, voice getting louder, Brooklyn accent getting thicker, "You wanna' just roll over an' let this nut-job run free? Fine. But you told me—" Richard points one thick finger at Wilson, "You told me you were on board, that you trusted my judgment."

"So which is it, Ollie?" For the first time in his career, Officer Oliver Wilson has seen what older officers have spoken of, the uncontrollable temper and determination of a young Richard Myron, a fire that had burned away in him so many years ago. "Are you with me? Or are you getting' out here?"

Tense is the best way to describe Oliver's silent reaction. He just stares— gapes— at Richard's reaction. The younger man slouches down some in his chair, eyes closing and one hand rubbing across his forehead. "Myron—you know I've got your back, man. You're like—you're a hell of a detective. I just—" he doesn't want to say it, "you're—"

"Obsessed?" Myron finishes Oliver's sentence for him. "That's what everyone said about Chang Ye—that I was obsessed with the case. That's what they said about Frankie goddamned Civella!" One weathered hand slams on his steering wheel, and Myron looks ahead out the windshield, scowling. "Kid, when you get to my age, maybe you'll understand… That 'ventually your life's gonna' be so short that there's only so many things left you can accomplish in it."

Myron's eyes wander back to Oliver, "I ain't as young as you, Ollie. I'll be lucky if I got ten years left." Myron's expression softens some, "This is all I got. I ain't got no kids, no wife, no family." Then he slowly, shamefully, looks away. "This is what my life's come down to—I'm married to my job, kid." Sighing gently, Richard leans forward and rests his head on the steering wheel.

"You want out, I ain't gonna' think less of you." It takes a while for Myron to come to that decision. "You got a career ahead a'you. This? This extra-jurisdictional bullshit I got you doin'? It ain't good for a long career in law enforcement." Punching the bridge of his nose, Myron leans back in his seat, tilting his head back to stare up at the torn upholstery of the roof.

Silence hangs in the car, so much so that the distant chiming of a railroad crossing is the only sound to be heard, not even the usual static and pop of Myron's terrible car radio; Just the distant ping, ping, ping of the bells at a train crossing. "What good's a career you aren't proud of?" Oliver asks with a crooked smile, looking up to Myron with a new found earnest expression. "Come on, put this old broad in drive and let's go… canvass the area some more."

"Case." Myron mutters. Oliver quirks a brow, nodding slowly as he runs one hand over the top of his head.

"Yeah, yeah we'll go look for—"

"No" Myron points out the windshield, "Case!" Oliver's eyes jerk to the front of the car, and there about a half a block away, a man in a faded white t-shirt and worn jeans moving through a crosswalk is unmistakably Tyler Case. "Son of a bitch Ollie you lucky charm!" Myron moves a hand down to the switch by his steering wheel, "Put that fucker on the roof!" He waves of an already flashing light on the floor of the passenger's side.

Oliver fumbles with the mounting light, leaning out the passenger's side window to slam it onto the roof. Blue lights flickering back and forth. Myron jerks the car into drive, peeling out off of the curb, the car coming down with a loud clunk and a scrape of the undercarriage.

The sound of the squealing tires causes the man who calls himself John Doe to look up over his shoulder abruptly, seeing the undercover squad car barreling through a red light. John's eyes grow wide, and he breaks into a sprint, rushing across the street. Inside of the car, Oliver grabs Myron's CB radio, clicking through channels before speaking into the mic. "This is Officer Oliver Wilson! Repeat, this is Officer Oliver Wilson! Off duty officers in pursuit of person of Tyler Case – subject is fleeing on foot down South Street in Red Hook!"

Myron's car blasts through another intersection, the wheel yanked to the side as the old Pontiac swerves into a fishtail, wheels howling and smoke issuing out from the wheel-wells. The car swaggers from side to side before moving down the street. Tyler, having the advantage of distance that is slowly closing in, runs down a narrow alley between two tall, brick buildings.

«Be advised Officer Wilson there are no other officers in the immediate area. A call has been put into dispatch, SCOUT will be mobilized immediately. Response time estimated at twenty minutes.»

"Son of a bitch," Myron hisses as he watches Tyler dart down the alley, and the Pontiac follows parallel, Myron watching out the driver's side window, catching glimpses of Case running from narrow spaces between brownstone residences. Pressing the pedal to the floor, Myron cuts ahead of where Tyler is running, blowing through another red light as cars swerve around Myron's old Pontiac, honking horns and squealing breaks louder than even the roar of the engine.

As he blows through a red light at an intersection – horns blaring, sirens wailing and tires screeching – Myron jerks his steeling wheel to the left, causing the bulky old Pontiac to drift in a wide, sliding turn before peeling out onto the next street. Slamming the pedal to the floor, Myron lays on the gas and swerves into oncoming traffic as Ollie breaks out into a shout, covering his face as Myron grazes past another car, then hops the car up onto the sidewalk, snapping a Yield sign off and up over the hood, shattering the windshield before he finally brings the car sideways across an alley.

John Doe comes to a skidding stop as Myron's car blocks off the alley in front of him, and Myron comes bursting out of the driver's side door, brandishing a pistol. "Freeze!" he shouts, and John does the exact opposite, scuttling to one side before leaping up onto the fire escape of a nearby building, beginning to climb up the ladder as fast as he can before managing to start running up steps.

"Son of a bitch," Myron hisses out, getting back into the car as Oliver bursts out from the passenger's side, breaking into a sprint as he charges down the alley, leaping up to grab onto a chain-link fence to pull himself up, and then spring off of it and grab onto the rungs of the fire escape ladder, climbing up onto the stairs. "Hey!" He shouts down to Myron, "Circle around! He's headed up to the roof!"

Myron can only gape in awe as Oliver does what an older cop can't, and a broad smile causes Myron's stubbled cheeks to dimple as he man-handles the column shift to throw the car into reverse, peeling out as he backs out towards oncoming traffic again, then bursts out into the proper lane, trying to round the block.

On the fire escape, Oliver begins ascending the stairs, hot on John's heels. The young officer reaches for his side-arm, whipping it out to hold in one hand as he clambers up the fire escape to the roof, dropping to one knee as he shouts out, "NYPD, Stop!" John does nothing of the sort, continuing to run as he vaults over a ventilation duct, causing Oliver to spring back up to his feet and give chase.

John keeps running straight, turning to glance down at Myron's car following them on the road below, weaving in and out of traffic. Reaching the edge of the building, John doesn't stop, springing into the air in a jump as he clears the alley between the two buildings in a near suicidal jump, rolling on his shoulder as he lands before rising up into a crouch, looking up to see if Oliver is following.

When Officer Wilson reaches the edge of the roof, he skids to a stop, arms wind-milling around as he comes to a halt, unable to force himself to jump such a huge gap between the buildings. "Fuck, fuck!" His hand comes up to the walkie on his shoulder as he watches Tyler take off running again. "Myron it's Wilson! He jumped to the next building!"

«Yeah I saw, I'm on his ass!»

"Myron just waitfor me, I'll be down in a—" The static crackle of Oliver's walkie cuts him off as Myron interjects.

«Catch up» Myron insists, and Oliver watches as Myron's car continues to weave in and out of traffic. The younger officer lets out a litany of curses, scanning the side of the building for another fire escape.

Myron continues to drive, following John's movement across the roof, eyes darting back and forth from John to the road and back again. Eventually, John disappears out of sight as Myron takes a sharp turn towards the harbor, and then is forces into an off-ramp onto the interstate. "Son of a bitch, son of a bitch!" Looking over his shoulder as he watches Red-Hook begin to disappear behind him, Myron spots Tyler emerge from one of the buildings back doors, sprinting across four lanes of traffic, dodging oncoming cars, but where's he—

That building.

Spotting an ancient and decrepit factory laying on the harbor facing the Hudson, Myron jerks the wheel to the right and pulls the car around in a tire-squealing U-Turn, barreling back down the onramp to the highway, squeezing between the concrete divider and the oncoming cars so close that his passenger side mirror rips off in a shower of sparks against the median barricade.

Myron makes it back down on to street level, turning in the direction of the factory as he watches Tyler disappear through a door in the front. The place looks like a fortress, like a castle. Not seeing exactly how to access the road the factory is on, Myron drives up onto the curb and over it, shearing off a sign for the interstate as his muffler scrapes on the underside with a flash of sparks and a grinding of metal, coming down off of the median and onto another road, crossing directly across it into the dirt parking lot in front of the factory. Huge, towering gates remain closed, save for a small access door constructed in one side of the double gates.

Pushing out of his car, Myron reaches inside of his brown trench coat, whipping out his revolver as he snaps it to the side, checking the ammunition inside before clicking it closed. He's target focused now, to get to the heart of what's going on, his heart races, his blood boils, he feels young again.

As Myron moves to head into the factory, Oliver watches from the overpass, shouting unheard over the roar of traffic for Myron to wait for him, feebly trying to radio to him, but he's too far away from the car. Oliver hisses under his breath, running to try and get down off of the overpass and out to the factory.

Myron emerges into a large cobblestone courtyard surrounded by high bailey walls, passing beneath a wrought-iron sign that proclaims Textile Factory 17. Looking up to the sign, Myron's brows furrow, dark shoes carrying in slow steps as he keeps close to the wall, looking up at darkened windows, around to an enormous warehouse, then to a stone tower rising up from it.

The sound of a door clunking shut catches Myron's attention, a side door that leads into the central production building. Cutting across the courtyard, Myron slides into the building through the same door, presented with decades old textile looms draped with tangled and spidery white threads all knotted together.

Each footfall creaks on the old wood floor as Myron traipses across the entryway, listening for the sound of something, the sounds of anything. Finally, out from behind one of the looms, the man he knows as Tyler Case steps out, hands raised and brows knitted in a consternated look of defeat. "NYPD, down on the ground, hands behind y'head, now!" Myron barks out the orders, motioning to the ground with his revolver.

"I'm… sorry," John murmurs, and the words cause Myron to look at him with a crooked brow, only before catching a shadow drawing closer out of the periphery of his vision. Myron turns around, squeezing off a shot at the looming figure drawing closer, only to have it deflect harmlessly off of his solid iron body in a shower of sparks. Myron's eyes grow wide as he recognizes the face – through the scarring and the warped, molten look to one side of his countenance – there's no mistaking the face of the man who was once set to be president.

"Jesus Christ," Myron murmurs before an iron fist sends him sprawling to the ground in a single swipe. The old man collapses like a sack of bricks, gun skittering across the floor where it comes to a polished black shoe that lightly steps down on the revolver to halt it.

Reaching down, pale fingers pick up the gun, open the cylinder and check the ammunition, then close the cylinder back. "John," the calm voice of Edward Ray states as he begins walking towards Richard Myron, "could you please take Allen and head to our fallback position I told you about?" There's a quirk of one brow as Edward watches the younger man stare at the gun in his hands.

"Edward I—" John looks down at Myron's form on the ground, at the way his hands rub at the side of his head where Rickham struck him. "Edward I—I'm sorry, they—he spotted me when I was following your directions to—"

"It's okay, John." Edward enunciates slowly and calmly, looking up to Rickham. "Allen, could you escort John to the Library?" Metallic brows furrow, and then the deformed head of Allen Rickham nods slowly, as he circles around Myron's prone form, moving to John's side before winding fingers in his jacket.

"Come on," his horrible, metallic voice groans out with the scraping quality of a broken engine. John stares up at Allen for the first time in weeks, looking at the acid scarring on one side of his iron visage, he wordlessly gapes at the taller, wiry man, before nodding awkwardly and taking a few stumbling steps away, eyes averting away towards Edward and the gun.

All Edward can do is stare back at John with a what expression on his face. The withering stare makes John look away, turning to face Rickham's scarred back as the iron giant leads him towards a side door to the factory floor, feeling Edward's eye son his back the whole way out until the door closes soundly.

"Alone at last," Edward states as he circles around Myron's prone form, loking down as the detective glares up at him. "I'm sorry about this…" his eyes find the badge pinned on his jacket, "detective, I truly am." Myron spits down on Edward's shoes, a pale pinkish spittle blob mixed with blood.

There is quote by General Macarthur given at his retirement, a line spoken in quotation of a song by Gene Audrey. It has become famous in the variations that have been given to it…

"Go to hell you psycho." The words may as well be rain that rolls down off of Edward as his brows crease together, a stern look coming over his face as he raises the pistol up slowly in one hand. There's a long, piercing stare from the slightly bruised mathematician, still showing signs of the savage beating his younger self had delivered to him.

It is a bittersweet remembrance of all things that were, and the world that will be. Fitting, in its irony, for the life of one man cut short of the future that could have been — should have been.

"I'm sure that's where I'll go, when I'm done."

"Old soldiers never die…" he said,

Then, all it takes for Edward to ensure that one more facet of the future never comes to pass, is to pull the trigger.

"They Just Fade Away"


Previously in this storyline…
Mundus Vult Decipi

Next in this storyline…
From A Distance

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