If you believe that Vigilantism can help a dying world, while also helping the underworld. You’re just another problem that’s need to be removed. If you truly believe that you can change your destiny, alter your fate. You better be ready to face the consequences. I’m not doing this for you, in doing this for the innocent lives you destroyed. -- Anon Guest
"Which ones were innocent?" said the vigilante. Their costume was a patchwork of police, special forces, and army equipment[1]. Practical in all ways except for the fact that parts had been altered to mimic the common brown rat. Clearly, they were not entirely sane, but that was not going to stop Jon Law.
When all other tactics failed, when tear gas, explosives, armed tactical strikes, or 'spray and pray' could not stop crime, they sent in Jon Law. He was the morningstar of justice, so that all proper citizens could sleep soundly in their beds. The fact that he had actually stopped to debate with a genuine whacko was something of a minor miracle, all things considered. Nevertheless, Jon Law would stop this vigilante. And their friends. And their family. And their family's friends...
"Which ones?" said Jon. "You just killed Elie Bandervandt. She was sixteen." If anything could be said about the young up-and-comer with such a promising future, it was that her end was quick and painless. She never knew it was coming. Nevertheless, her still body was cooling between them, and only the need to preserve the scene stopped an epic battle in the making.
"Sixteen, true," allowed The Rat. "Not innocent. Her portfolio contains controlling stock in Get-O Housing. You know. The one that builds drywall out of asbestos and plumbing out of unprotected lead. I have an executive order with her signature on it, outlining a new initiative to evict families of workers who have died from asbestosis. There's another from months earlier to cut costs on worker protection gear."
"She was sixteen. She may not have known what she was signing."
"Dude, check her computer. She wrote them. There's draughts of another one cleverly outlining a workers' compensation plan that's just another money funnel into her bank account." The Rat kept their hands on their head. "Go ahead. I'll wait."
Jon knew better than to turn his back on The Rat. That had been their usual cue to vanish into the night. He turned the monitor so he could see it and wriggled the mouse. The document open was rife with Elie's trademark spelling errata and slanguage, highlighted by her grammar checker, which was set to 'heavy legalese'. There were bullet points.
Tell them it's for their medical expenses, like insurance, said one. Put money in shell game, said the next. Shell game feeds to me, was the third. Down at the bottom of the list was, Tell them they're not covered by their policy and have party.
Sixteen, she may have been, but she was far from innocent. She had been feeding people -admittedly, most of them were criminal- through a mincing machine and making money out of it. There was even a plot to harvest the organs of the civil obedience forces to extend the lives of Elie's upper-crust friends.
"I'm on that medical plan..." said Jon Law.
"I'm sure Regis Lentworthy will thank you for your heart if you die with it intact," said The Rat. "He's signed up for it in advance, by the way. The most you can do about it is die so messily that there's nothing useful left. Even then, they'll turn you into blood and bone for their rose gardens."
It was a moment that could have changed the world. It was something that could have changed everything. Jon Law should have felt disgust at what the wealthy and privileged were doing to everyone that was not. He should have woken up and seen the evil inherent in valuing money over people.
Instead, he had pride. Pride that someone of the glittering ivory towers had reserved pieces of him in advance. That someone deemed him worthy of their extravagant and elegant lives. The thought of becoming part of their paradise gardens was enough to make him weep with joy. He had been chosen.
"You say that like it's a bad thing," said Jon Law, and shot The Rat with less than the requisite fifty bullets. He would get a reprimand for that, in due time. Once again, justice was served. A death for a death.
The perp would be examined, dissected, traced, and otherwise investigated by forensics. For Jon, the case was over. Still, there was a trace of human curiosity left in him. He broke protocol to walk over and take that ratty mask off.
A face like any other kid in the gutters. The fading marks of Pellagra on their skin. Hair shaved off, likely to sell it for drug money. What few teeth remained were too bad to sell. Another kid from the gutters. Anonymous and interchangeable, not like Jon Law. Jon Law knew he had been chosen.
Forensics would later tell him that the only identifying mark on the body was a tattoo, maybe a handful of weeks old. It was of a circle of rats, tails tied together, and the words, Where one falls, ten rise.
In less than a handful of days, the glittering elite would start dying again. Again, the calling cards with a rat on them would appear. All with the same words.
This time, the rats are killing the plague.
Jon Law would face another one. Or another dozen of them. He would face them again and have the same kind of conversation. It didn't matter. He would end them all. He, after all, had been chosen.
[1] Though on this world, it takes a practised eye to tell the difference.
[Image (c) Can Stock Photo / Xochicalco]
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