Sparks

Chapter 1

         The smell of salt hung thick in the air. Pitch black waves brushed against the docksides, the seafoam shining in the moonlight. Lights flickered across the empty dock, grazing stacks of shipping containers sitting idly around the cement.
         A slender shadow flit across the face of one stack. It slipped through the gaps between crates, quickly yet aimlessly. It chose new rows seemingly at random, turning on whims and heading towards anything that caught its attention. It rarely slowed, keeping up a quick pace. Yet the shadow still kept a manner of subtlety. It skirted around the edges of lights. It made only the barest whispers of sound. And it moved with the gait of one prepared for unexpected encounters.
         Suddenly, it stopped against the end of another row, looming over the smaller figure it was connected to. Said figure shivered in the cold, then scanned the immediate vicinity. As usual, the docks remained bleak, grey, and silent. Except for a single spot of light in the distance.
         The figure paused, unsure if what it saw was real. Nothing but darkness in that direction, until another flicker of gold sliced through the night. It was only there for a second before fading, but it was there. The figure headed towards it, curiosity guiding its actions now. It headed down the pier, cautiously staying near the crates as it approached. Which is the only reason it didn’t immediately collide with the first guard.
         He wasn’t too attentive, the rifle he carried loose in his hands as he gazed around the dock with less than ideal focus. His uniform didn’t belong to any military the figure knew of, yet it was unmistakably a uniform of some sort, and a high quality one at that. It was stark white, only broken by grey bands and stripes along the arms and legs. When the guard shifted his shoulders, an emblem present on his shoulder became visible. But no, that couldn’t be right. The figure slinked around the guard with ease, but still concerned about the icon he had seen. Why would that have been on his shoulder? And does that mean…
         This train of thought was interrupted by heavy footfalls, definitely made by the tread of combat boots. Two pairs of footsteps, accompanied by low chatter. Stacks of shipping containers still littered the area, even becoming denser the closer the figure got to the light, so it was simple enough to hide above as they strode past. Climbing up the sides of these containers wasn’t particularly difficult. With interest, the figure noted how quietly the guards spoke, barely a low whisper, and they didn’t seem to carry any sort of flashlights or other reflective surfaces on their bodies. So they didn’t want to be seen or draw any attention to themselves. The figure saw this mentality reflected in the other guards’ demeanors as he leapt over crates and valleys, silently working his way to the stocky warehouse that seemed to be the origin of the light.
         Over the whole trek, not a single guard came close to noticing him vaulting by over their heads. Funny how rarely humans looked up.
         Eventually, the shadow was crouched on the last column of containers, gazing across the vast span of empty space to the warehouse. The large double doors were occasionally opening and closing quickly, allowing some sort of secure crates inside. Unlike the rest of the stacked containers around the docks, these ones were pristine. White, slightly smaller, and lacking any signs of wear or rust as well. The same icon emblazoned on the shoulders of the guards was clearly displayed on the sides of these crates, further reinforcing the figure’s puzzlement. Looking to his left, he could make out a ladder leading up to a catwalk that could be used to see through the upper floor windows.
         The figure carefully studied the patrol routes of the passing sentries. This wouldn’t be easy. There was absolutely no cover on the concrete between him and his destination. However, their desire to remain secretive meant that there were no spotlights or other aids for detecting intruders. Even dogs ran the risk of being too loud at unpredictable times. And the fact that the guards weren’t too terribly focused on their task meant they had been doing this for some time; do the same job long enough with nothing happening, and you wouldn’t expect anything to.
         So, easy job. Just like a thief. The figure frowned to himself. No, wrong mentality. He didn’t see himself as a criminal. Like a spy? Yeah, that was better.
         With the correct mindset in place, the figure stole across the dark expanse. His worn sneakers hit the ground heel to toe, no flat-footed falls to create sound, allowing him to make his way across without alerting anyone. When he stopped by the base of the ladder, he took a moment to catch his breath and congratulate himself for wearing nothing but black clothing tonight, before swiftly making his way up rung by rung. He could see the next patrol round the corner as he heaved himself onto the catwalk.
         The figure crept up to the windows peering into the warehouse. Only a handful of lights were on, which meant that no light leaked out through these windows; only the door would allow any illumination to escape.
         There was no upper level to block the view, so the figure had an unobstructed view of the ground floor. There was another Vision labeled container here, which was consistent with the other ones coming in. The figure found this very odd. If one were to use a warehouse, why only have a few containers inside? Milling around these containers, only a handful of bodies were present. Outside of the ones moving the crates, and the pair of guards, only two others stood apart. Both of them stood in the center of the floor, discussing something very fervently. One of them wore a uniform similar to the other guards, except their outfit was black instead of the others’ white, and had more markings on it to further differentiate it. This wasn’t a captain or chief. The figure recalled that those positions still wore white uniforms. So how was this one related. As the figure studied the movements and realized that it was definitely a woman. And the man she was talking to was…
         The figure had to pause to see if what it was seeing was true. The man currently speaking was very plain in appearance. And that wasn’t referring to his clothing. He had the kind of face that you could see in a crowd and never notice. His hair was cropped close, but the coloration and way it fell around his head was entirely forgettable. All in all, this was a man who rarely drew attention to himself without any effort. This was reflected in his clothing, a simple three-piece business suit, like one of a million all over the city.
         There was no denying it. That man standing there was Vincent Maghold. At least that explained the Vision logo on everything. The head of Vision Corporation’s Seattle division would certainly relate to that. The question was, what would require his personal attention this late at night?
         Speaking of which, how late was it? The figure pursed his lips and glanced at the sky, where he saw the moon well past its peak. 1? Maybe 2 in the morning? The figure looked down at his wrist to confirm this, only to find himself staring at his bare arm. Huh, should probably get a watch, getting back late might cause some issues tonight…
         This train of thought was interrupted by the sound of heavy footfalls. The figure froze. Odd, those sounded closer than before. Yet they weren’t hurried, so whomever the boots belonged to wasn’t alerted. The interior of the warehouse caught the figure’s attention again. One of the crates had been opened, and the strangely-garbed female was beckoning for something to be drawn out of it. Maghold was peering intently into the interior, obviously expecting something important. The figure frowned. Why would the man who seemed to be overseeing this whole operation need to inspect the contents of his own cargo?
         Out of the crate came another container. Still plain white with grey trimmings, with another insignia identifying it as Vision property. Except this container was eerily coffin-shaped. A pane of glass was set above the symbol, where the head of the inhabitant would be, allowing one to look out. Or in.
         Which is what Maghold did, although the angle the coffin was resting at prevented the figure from seeing inside from his vantage point. The figure debated whether or not he should move, if his curiosity was worth satisfying.
         The decision was made without his input. A loudly barked, “Hey!” from below sent the figure’s heart racing. Resisting the urge to spin around, he dove to his left, narrowly avoiding a searching flashlight. Too late, the figure remembered that the ladder was to his right. More footsteps were pounding on the concrete, and they were definitely alerted. These guards were too trained to dismiss something like a dark figure to imagination.
         As he heard the metal rungs of the ladder rattle, the figure cut back on thinking and went straight to action. He continued on his course to the end of the walkway, then leapt up onto the guardrail and pushed off, not even hesitating for a second. Doubt would only serve to slow him down.
         The figure threw his right hand out as he fell through the air. There was a small flash of pain as a cold drainpipe met his palm. Keeping his grip loose, the figure slid down the drainpipe, listening to the beating of both heavy boots and his own heart. This may have been exciting, if the threat of capture wasn’t so terrifying.
         The ground rushed up to him faster than he expected. A jolt of pain shot up through his legs as he collided with the ground, followed by an onset of numbness. The figure rolled with the impact on the ground, hoping to reduce the severity of the landing. Failing this, he hopped around a few times, desperately trying to inject some feeling back into his legs. But the now ever-present sound of shouting and running forced him onwards, heading towards the shipping crates in weird, loping strides. He just made it into cover when the crate next to him erupted into a hail of sparks. The figure stumbled forward with a surprised squawk. The guards had been carrying weapons, but the thought of them actually shooting at him had never crossed his mind.
         What followed was a hellish game of cat and mouse. The figure scampered over crates, ducked through corridors, and generally tried to move away from any noise that he heard. The guards had gone silent, outside of a few whispered words over communicators. These guys were definitely trained, changing their footfalls so as not to give away their position. All the figure could hope to do was head towards the skyline of the city, and hopefully make it out.
         Which he did do, just barely. The guards were tightening around him like a noose, their whispered footfalls coming closer with every breath. The figure backed away from one such sound and stumbled out into a cone of light. Looking over his shoulder, he could make out a streetlamp past the chainlink fence. Allowing himself a short sigh of relief, the figure turned and sprinted towards the fence. He stopped just short, careful not to touch the fence. The rattling would draw the exact type of attention he was trying to avoid. Atop the eight-foot high fence, a row of barbed wire halted his progress.
Bracing himself, the figure leapt up the face of the fence and began climbing rapidly. There was no way to be subtle about this, and the shaking of the chains screamed through the night, almost as loud as, well, as loud as gunshots.
The figure’s stomach quailed as that simile came to mind.
         Their reaction was immediate. A single order was shouted, and the silent treads became a storm of predators. The figure scrambled to the top and took stock of the barbed wire that adorned the fence. Taking a calculated risk, the figure removed his jacket. He had to do this quickly, lest the guards get a good glimpse of him in the streetlight. Brushing his dark hair out of his eyes, the not-so-dark figure threw his jacket over the barbed wire and gingerly pushed down on it, matting the wire. He winced as he saw the points breaking through the fabric. With this “safety” set in place, the figure grabbed hold of the links and pushed off the fence. His lower body was pushed back enough to where he was parallel with the ground, before swinging back down. As his feet connected with the chain again, the figure pushed with increased strength, adding more momentum and force. Pulling with his arms, he managed to swing in a lazy arc over his jacket and the wire, crashing into the fence on the other side. With a flick, he removed his jacket from the wire, almost sobbing as the sound of tearing cloth reached his ears. His jacket didn’t deserve to be treated like this.
         He abruptly released the fence, landing on his side on the ground eight feet below. Almost instantly, a spattering of rifle fire struck the top of the fence where he had been. The figure noted the excellent grouping of shots before leaping to his feet and sprinting across the street, tugging his jacket back on along the way. He circled another corner as a second round of bullets struck the ground at his feet. He didn’t stop running until he was in the city proper, where he could blend in with the Seattle nightlife. He slowed down to an inconspicuous stroll, and worked on slowing his panting and getting the pounding in his ears to stop.
         By the time he reached his destination, his heart rate and breathing had slowed to acceptable levels. The figure looked up at the sign poking out into the street. It was a cheerful sign, nondescript, simply proclaiming “Common Grounds” for the world to see. The figure studied the sign before making his way around to the back. Reaching behind himself, the figure fished a key out of one of his numerous pockets and used it to access the rear entrance. Stepping into a kitchen, the figure locked the door behind him as quietly as possible. Leaning against the door, Leonidas Cayle pulled the hood of his jacket back, ran a hand through his hair, and let out a long exhale. What a night. And still back in time for the first day of school tomorrow.