{ I'm here to talk to you about the Attendance Initiative. There was an idea to bring together a group of remarkable readers, to see if they could become something more. But first, I need to know who actually showed up... Attendance Please!!}
You can read early chapters in on my
[P].[A].[T].[R].[E].[O].[N].
Link: [email protected]/Arson09
----------------------------------------------------------
It was the afternoon of Christmas by the time Ethan finally finished dealing with the Rosalind Dyer situation. He was currently back in his Los Angeles safe house—a place where he spent whatever time he could carve out of his tight schedule.
He had begun browsing for furniture and had even researched a new design for an outdoor fire pit; he was excited to express his creativity, a luxury he never possessed in his previous life.
Back then, both his apartment building and the orphanage had maintained strict regulations against altering any part of the interior or exterior.
Ethan lay down on the living room sofa, mentally retracing the day's events. He had left Rosalind Dyer alive—for now. A part of him felt he should have simply finished the job and been done with it.
But then, Tora's words came back to him. While performing the memory extraction spell, Tora had also surfaced Dyer's recent medical records and the grim reality of her diagnosis: Second-stage ovarian cancer.
Now, early-stage (Stage I or II) ovarian cancer is often curable, with success rates reaching up to 90% for cases confined to the ovaries, which was true in Dyer's Case. Furthermore, the state of California is constitutionally required to provide necessary medical care—including cancer treatment—to prisoners, covering all associated medical bills. Incarcerated individuals have a right to healthcare, and the correctional system is responsible for the costs of treatment.
That made him realize exactly what Rosalind wanted: she wanted him to cure her. She didn't want to take the chance with standard medicine, even though the odds were overwhelmingly in her favor. She had orchestrated the murder of one person and the kidnapping of another without even giving standard medicine a chance, She wanted his attention—and now she had it.
Ethan had a specific plan for Rosalind Dyer, but that plan would have to be enacted once she was back in Chowchilla.
Dyer was a narcissist who craved attention as desperately as an addict craves their drug of choice. By refusing to even acknowledge her existence, Ethan was depriving her of her most fundamental need.
Ethan stood up abruptly and glanced at the living room clock: 12:34 pm. Miss Andler had called him the other day, asking if he could show his face at the orphanage for Christmas Eve.
Originally, he had planned to spend the holiday with Wong, discussing the new book of Olestro that the sorcerers had managed to uncover from an abandoned valley in North East India—perhaps over bowls of boiling hot soup dumplings.
As for why he wasn't spending the holiday with someone of opposite gender, He had tried dating in the past; Guinevere, the girl he saw right after the Battle of New York, had lasted the longest. They made it three months before his constant absence on exorcism missions became too much, and she broke it off, stating he was "too closed off" for a relationship.
Maybe Guinevere would have understood if he had told her what he was actually doing during his time away—exorcising curses—but he had not. After the breakup, he had only gone out twice; he wasn't someone comfortable with a "playboy" lifestyle.
It had become significantly more difficult knowing that every woman he spent time with could become a potential target for people or curses wishing him harm. But he couldn't live that way forever. Perhaps that was the real reason he always kept them at arm's length.
Ethan glanced toward the concrete wall and began walking toward it as Tora's arms emerged from his shadow, transmuting a heavy, brown wool trench coat over his shoulders. Simultaneously, he opened a shimmering Sling Ring portal in his path. Stepping through, Ethan Park found himself back in the Big Apple.
He looked up at the midday sky; snow was already blanketing the city. As the portal sparked and closed behind him, nearby pedestrians immediately reached for their phones to start recording the elusive Avenger.
Ethan gave a sharp side-eye to a man filming him and projected his voice through the mental link. 'Tora, next time... open the damn portal in a dark alley.'
In response, Tora let out a mental sigh. 'You need to get used to the attention, Ethan. The lengths you go to avoid social interaction are becoming mentally unhealthy.'
'Huh. I must be hearing things. Is the ancient Tiger actually preaching to me about mental health?' Ethan replied, eyebrows raised, as he approached the entrance of the orphanage.
'A strong warrior must be both mentally and physically resilient,' Tora proclaimed.
That made Ethan pause. 'Fair point, I guess.'
As he crossed the threshold, he was greeted by the sight of children of all ages in the yard, bustling with Christmas preparations.
The main group was busy with the towering Christmas tree, while others focused on the side-wall decorations; one particularly ambitious group was even constructing a giant snowman.
"HOWDY, KIDS!" Ethan shouted to get their attention. At first, only one child turned, then two, until suddenly Ethan was swamped by children on all sides, each group trying to pull him toward their specific project.
"STOP! Get back to your work," Miss Andler's voice rang out from the back. She had just arrived and took a few seconds to admire the comedic sight of Ethan being pulled in opposite directions before intervening.
This was far from Ethan's first visit. He stopped by this orphanage whenever he was in New York, which had been frequent since the Chitauri Invasion. The invasion itself might have ended, but the lingering fear it produced far exceeded any other trauma by a massive margin.
Ethan had already exorcised and absorbed two Special Grade Curses born from the fear of outer space, not to mention the countless Grade 1 to Grade 3 curses that had manifested globally following the attack.
Even the New Mexico outbreak this past summer was a direct byproduct of the terror seeded in New York.
As the various groups returned to the tasks at hand, Miss Andler approached Ethan.
"You actually came!" she exhaled, her relief evident.
"Of course I did," Ethan replied with a warm smile. He leaned in closer, his voice dropping as if sharing a whispered secret.
"And Santa gave me a lot of gifts to bring here , too."
Andler looked at him, then glanced behind him. Realizing there were no bags or vehicles in sight, her eyes dropped to his feet—specifically to the dark, shifting shadow pooled there. She made a face that suggested a flicker of mild disgust.
"What's with the face?" Ethan asked, sounding a little confused.
"Are you sure... it's sanitary to keep things in there?" Andler asked, her tone deeply skeptical.
"Why wouldn't it be? I keep things I eat in my shadow all the time," Ethan replied without thinking. He caught her expression and immediately winced. "Okay, that came out wrong. I don't keep edible things in there for too long."
"Let's just head inside," Andler told him, shaking her head. She turned toward the busy yard and raised her voice. "CHILDREN! Lunch is in ten minutes!"
Five days Later: 31st December, 2013.
Rosalind Dyer
She was bored. It had been five days since Christmas—five days since Ethan Park had arrived at the Mid-Wilshire Police Station and departed without ever seeking her out.
Did he truly not care for the kidnapped women? Rosalind wondered, but something felt different. No one had returned to her cell to beg for her assistance.
The police were incompetent. Despite the trail of breadcrumbs she had instructed Caleb to leave behind, they were likely still fumbling through their investigation. Caleb Wright had been a reliable pawn thus far; perhaps he had simply encountered unforeseen complications.
From what she had personally observed at the station, the LAPD was utilizing every resource at their disposal to locate him. She also knew it was only a matter of time before the federal agencies intervened.
Rosalind had been transferred back to Chowchilla though to a new cell as a precaution, and she was left without books to pass the time. She was growing impatient, feeling the sudden, familiar urge to kill again. She studied the youthful face of her new guard.
What kind of expression would he wear once she severed his hands and legs? She closed her eyes, reminiscing about her past murders, focusing on the fear and dread that clouded her victims' faces as she slowly removed their limbs, piece by piece.
They were always alive—paralyzed, only able to moan as tears tracked down their faces. It was glorious.
Rosalind's head snapped to attention as her sharp hearing caught footsteps approaching her cell. She smiled when she saw it was Nick; he was always so predictable.
But why was he smiling? It was unsettling.
"Nick, having a good day?" she fished, searching for a crack in his armor.
"A great couple of days, actually," the detective replied. "I told you at the station that catching you was worth missing my wife's deathbed. After these last few days... I'm certain she would have understood."
"It seems you have finally made peace with your demons," she observed. This was no fun; a settled mind was harder to break.
"I did. Though, unfortunately for you, poor Caleb did not." She stilled, raising her eyes to meet Nick's. She saw an expression she had never before seen on his face: pure satisfaction.
Had Caleb failed? Or was this merely a fishing expedition? She remained motionless, her gaze trained on Armstrong.
"You lost, Rosalind," he stated. "We found Caleb. And though he was dead, the boy sang like a canary. You see, he kept meticulous notes on everything you instructed him to do—including the location of the last gravesite and all the bodies."
Rosalind remained frozen, dissecting his expression. He wasn't lying.
"Oops, clumsy me." Armstrong accidentally dropped a full-page photo of Caleb. She saw his bloodied face and his abdomen impaled by a metal pole; he looked terrified in his final moments.
"That's disappointing," she replied coolly. "What happened?"
"I'm not telling you," Armstrong countered. She wanted to lash out at his smug smile. "You are finished, Rosalind. You'll never leave this cell again. No more deals from the DA. You have nothing left, and you'll be gone within a month's time."
"I know your secret," she hissed, pushing herself up to stand against the cold metal bars.
"I don't care. No one will listen to you—it's just the last desperate act of a disgruntled serial killer."
As Nick turned his back and exited the cell block, Rosalind flinched. She had to know what had happened. The control she craved was slipping through her fingers.
That night, she imagined every possible variable that could have led to Caleb being dead in such a fashion and the only answer she could come up with is that The only way this scenario could have occurred was if Ethan Park had orchestrated it.
But if Ethan had, why was she still...? She didn't finish her thought when she heard it—a tune? Someone was playing music? The song had a certain pull to it.
She snapped out of her trance and focused.
Something wasn't right. Why was everyone so quiet?
Normally, Chowchilla was a hub of noise; even at night, the cacophony never truly stopped. This was especially true for her, as she possessed hearing far advanced than that of an average human.
She shook her head, narrowing her focus to the lyrics being played.
London Bridge is falling down,
Falling down, falling down,
London Bridge is falling down,
M-y f-a-i-r l-a-d-y!
As the final octave of the song faded, she heard the distinct click of her cell door unlocking.
She took a cautious step back, peering outward. The young guard who had been stationed directly in front of her cell lay unconscious on the floor. Rosalind didn't understand what was happening, but she pushed the door open and stepped toward the fallen guard—only to hear the melody begin again.
Her sharp ears picked up nothing but that song; it was as if the entirety of Chowchilla had suddenly fallen asleep.
She followed the melody almost unconsciously until she reached a closed hallway, where the security doors of the facility unlocked automatically to grant her passage. In no time, she found herself in the facility's lunchroom.
There, she saw "him."
The man possessed a sharp, somewhat handsome face, accented by a distinctive thin mustache and a small soul patch. His hair was a messy, silver-white color, falling over his forehead in long bangs—a shade she realized was not the result of age.
He was dressed in a high-collared, blood-red and deep-purple Victorian suit, layered under a long, tattered trench coat with a fur-lined collar. A classic black top hat rested on his head. He also wore white gloves and a monocle over his right eye and a small pocket watch hung from his person.
His most striking feature, however, was his right eye, which glowed with an eerie red light. The "man" continued singing and as the song drew to its conclusion, his head snapped suddenly in Rosalind's direction.
"M-y f-a-i-r l-a-d-y!" he finished with a flourish.
----------------------------------------------------------
A/N: So how was the chapter?
( Don't Shoot me! This arc will last only one more small chapter)