The first body we found was impaled on a wrought-iron spike, part of a fence, with a crude cardboard sign hanging from it's neck. KEEP OUT! Said body's former resident was I suppose around thirty, blond, and wearing the remains of a blue suit I suspect would mark him as solidly middle-class. He had also been disembowled, and was missing chunks from the thighs, buttocks and one cheek.
Well, if nothing else I can appreciate the efficiency of the display. With one stroke it's makers both claim a territory and outline the terms of their challenge. And challenge it most assuredly was. They could have kept to themselves and been none the wiser, instead, they were using human warning signs to stake off a corner of my city.
Well, challenge accepted.
"What do you think, Freddy? Do we sneak in and reconnitor, or just wander on over and see if anyone shows to back up this territorial display?"
He cracks his neck. Funny how after everything I've seen and done, those popping noises still make me wince a little.
"I'm good either way."
"Well, fun as it is to get out of the office, I think we've both got too much to do today to linger on the extra time of a stealth run." I nod to myself. "And if we get in trouble.. did you eat your atium like a good boy?"
"Yes, Ma. I washed my hands and face too."
I punched his arm.
"Jerk. Teach me to worry for you. Let's do this thing."
As it turns out, I wasted a dramatic statement, we were wandering the neighborhood, I don't know, at least ten minutes before Freddy casually bumped my shoulder. Alright then, people nearby and not huddling in their homes or going about their daily business. Let's see what they do.
The worst tactical position is not to be ambushed, but to be a failed ambusher. People who are ambushed are shocked and disorganized, they hesitate. But if the intended victims don't hesitate, if they have turned the ambush into a trap, even in just being prepared for it, the loss of that shock and hesitation comes itself as a terrible surprise and blow to the morale of the attacker. I read that in a book, once, and life experience has generally borne it out since.
Still takes them a minute, are they just getting organized? I wish I had a way of discreetly asking Freddy for more information, he can hear better than I can even before he starts burning the tin. Hmmm... maybe if I-
crack-pop!
There's a gunshot and a small explosion in the brick wall ahead of us.
"Don't move! That was a warning shot!"
I look at Freddy.
"I don't think it was, really. That seems more like poor aim. I don't have any proof though, it's just a feeling"
Freddy held out his hand and waggled it. With his closer hand, he flashed fingers at me and pointed. Ten on the left, eight on the right.
"Could've been a warning shot, I guess. Kinda dumb, when nobody is making new ammo. Hey! You can come out. We probably won't hurt you."
"Worry about yerselves!" Sounds like he's... there, behind the old Buick parked at the corner. "We got you covered! Now don't move!"
I disobeyed by putting my hands up. Not full 'touchdown!' up more 'I washed for supper,'
"Hey, take it easy buddy, we don't want any trouble. Just passing through." How many cliches can we pack on before these yahoos realize they're being mocked? Only one way to see.
"This is our turf now! Outsiders have to pay a toll."
Freddy shifted.
"We don't have a lot of money..."
"Money's just bits of paper now. Have you got food?"
"Some. They're just handing it out at the police station and camps, you know."
"Won't last, son. It's always like this in a crisis. People hope things will go back 't the way they used to be, blow through all the supplies trying to give every pig a full trough. Give it three months and they'll be eating each other to stretch out their dying a couple more days."
"But not you." I said.
"That's right. Whole world's flipped, rich boy. Suddenly your money ain't worth shit an' what skills've you got? Golf? Dodging sexual harrasment suits? None of it means a damned thing in the new Gotham. Suddenly it's all of us who worked all our lives, bustin our humps who are valuable. Important. None more than us who were ready for this day."
"Oh God," I said, with a dawning sense of realization, and an impending headache. "you're not a street gang at all. You're freaking preppers"
"That's so." he replied as we heard a ruckus from a building across the street from the car. "Couldn't hear you boy!"
"It's the wizard! Bookworm!"
There's a general shifting behind cars. I see movement in a second story window, so at least a couple of them set up in elevated positions. We really need some kind of a hand-signal for that.
"Guilty as charged." I step forward. The old game again. Watch this colorful supervillain, pay no attention to Freddy's hand while it wraps around your throat.
Seriously though, they didn't know? Eighteen is an unreasonable number for a simple mugging/patrol, unless these guys have a lot more manpower than I imagine they do.
"The question is, what do you plan to do about it?"
"I've half a mind to shoot you right here and now."
"Wait! Wait, Steve!" New voice, from behind the corner. "This is a gold-plated opportunity, and you don't want to throw it away."
"How do you figure that?"
"The idiots in Old Gotham want him, Lord alone knows why, and all the sheep in those death-camps. We can ransom him back to them for at least three or four months worth of supplies."
"Fun as that sounds, I'm going to have to decline."
"Don't listen to him. He can't do anything without his books!"
"You sound awfully sure of that."
Freddy jumped at least fifty feet into the air, towards that window, he threw out his arm and a car and several people went flying away from him at speed.
This is how Freddy fights, even before I gave him spider powers. He's highly mobile and controls the field, easily getting elevation or odd angles to blast away with his pistols or hop into melee range where he can take advantage of a generous strength and speed edge.
It helps, too, that he can attract and repel metal objects, throwing people around like ragdolls or herding them into clusters. I think he's going to have to relearn the skill though. The problem with steelpushes and ironpulls is they only come in one strength, as much as your throwing your whole strength and weight into the thing. In the Mistborn books, they were able to take advantage of this, buffing their strength with pewter to increase the force. In Freddy's case, I honestly don't think he meant to hit anyone this hard, I hear more than a couple of cracking, crunching noises as people hit the pavement or buildings.
For my part, my hand flashed to my pocket and came out with a phaser. bip bip my finger danced over the setting controls.
TSEEEEW!
The car my chatty friend hid behind melted into orange light.
bip bip TSEEEEW! TSEEEEW!
The two guys in hunting gear behind the car went down unconscious. I'm guessing the one with the white beard was the one shouting at me, but a short scream and a thud from behind me reminds me I have no time for woolgathering.
TSEEEEW!
I disintegrate a second car, and with a moment's fiddling of the settings, stun the man behind with no real effort while he gapes at me.
Braaaaapapapapapapapapa!
Shit! They have automatic weapons!? I dive for cover behind a standing car myself. What? Just because it won't kill me and I'll heal in a few seconds doesn't mean getting shot doesn't hurt.
I hear a scream from behind. Of course, there are civilians in these buildings while the idiots are spraying fire around.
"Well, this ends right the hell now."
I fish out a worn, dog-eared copy of Mutineer's Moon it's an old favorite so it's quick and easy to put myself into the scene, the raids of Stalking Horse. I plunge my hand into the pages and come back with a glossy black item the size of an apple. I click the arming trigger three times and hurl the warp grenade into a window where the shooting is coming from.
There's no flash, no sound. Well, beyond an inrushing wind. When one of these babies goes off, everything in a ten-meter radius just vanishes forever. Concrete, steel, people... parts of people. Pretty sure I got three of them, but there must have been another just on the edge of the field's effect and is now missing an arm and screaming fit to wake the dead. Since he's in the same hunting camo and vest, I'm not too worried about all the blood gushing from his arm.
Then I look again.
Small, higher-pitched voice. Not a woman, a teenager. Younger even then the guys who tried to hold up my office. Fifteen or sixteen.
Now I can and have done a lot of things over the years that would shock and repulse you. But as a general rule? I don't make war on children. It's not a high bar as far as morality goes, and there's a pragmatic streak to it too, children are the future, a resource to be shaped and tapped. Real loyalty comes when you take someone with nothing, and give them a future, show them trust and respect.
Besides, treating the lives of children cheaply garners one a poor reputation. A crime boss, or I suppose a politician, lives and dies by his reputation. My territories have always been quiet and productive because everyone knows the rules, and knows I enforce them on my men.
On a deeper level, that's just how it is. When I first got a permit to learn driving, my father took me aside to explain that this was a man's responsibility, to take responsibility for a two-ton steel ram and anything it might smash. One day, he says, you might skid around a corner and see a child playing in the street. If the only way to avoid that child is to slam your car into a tree, well, you slam it into that tree and don't even dare hesitate, lest you be lost. If you ever have to choose between your life and that of a child, the child's life is simply worth more than yours. This, too, is what it is to be a man.
So, I shout a rude phrase in Gaelige, shout at Freddy ("Finish it!") and sprint over, ignoring the bullets still whizzing about. Got at best a couple of minutes til he bleeds out. Well, maybe a bit more, I remember reading once a clean cut artery will sort of curl in on itself to slow the bleeding, just not if it's at any kind of angle.
I reach him and whip my belt off as quick as I can, which takes an endless couple of seconds where the end catches on each loop. Then I loop it around his arm and pull it as tight as I possibly can. Tourniquet done. Should buy time anyways.
Pulse is fast, can't tell if it's stronger or weaker than normal, I'm not a nurse.
No, I'm a wizard. Now where did I leave...? Not that pocket. Not that one. Ah! Inside pocket. Someday I need to develop a better system of organizing my books, I sort of have one and it works, just not always when I'm stressed or in a hurry. Ah well, Goblet of Fire.
One of the hardest tricks to pull with libriomancy is duplicating not an item, but a spell. I can just barely sort of manage on a good day, and that only because I went through this enlightenment ritual and spent a whole afternoon trapped in a witch-ball a few years back. It's certainly not something I'd do for, say, an Expelliarmus. But today is just going to have to be a good day. Here we go, start of chapter 33, the Death Eaters.
Fear, desperation, despair. In my mind's eye, I see the scene clearly, the Dark Lord reborn. Still doesn't look like the movie, in my head. The wrong arm, he's calling... there we go. I sink my left hand into the book, fingertips just grazing the inside of the pages, my right over the wound, and focus. I picture the scene in perfect clarity, I run it through my head, and again, and again. I see it as they all see it, little Harry so scared, Wormtail, more frightened yet, and the triumphant arrogance of Tom. I focus on making that scene real, rejecting this shadowy illusion some call reality and imposing my own.
I'm not sure I can ever describe exactly how this bit is done or what it feels like. It is so willed, where will and power are one, and ask no more.
My vision goes dark. I hope it won't be long in coming back this time. Oh look, some idiot has gone and replaced my bones with coals. I blink away tears and I can see again, sort of. There's still dark splotches across my vision, and things start getting fuzzy after fifteen, twenty feet or so. I see the boy, whimpering, and for a moment I'm torn between the impulse to punish him for his sniveling cowardice and the knowledge I need him to summon my wayward servants.
…
Didn't I do that already? I don't recall. One for the road then.
"Cruci- cruxis? Crucify 'em? Cruxshadows, Crookshanks..." I suddenly giggle. The man lying beside me has a silver hand. There's a name for that condition, it's important. Silverscale? Chimericism? Mithril? No, think older, argentum. Argetlam! That's it. I had a dragon once, I haven't seen him in forever, and what's the weather like in Hannah-Lee this time of year? I've forgotten. "I shall call you Lefty, and you shall be mine."
"What?" His confusion was immensely entertaining to me. I laughed and felt the ground jump a little. My friend must be done with his playmates.
==
"Boy boss, you were really out of it. I haven't seen you like that in.. years."
"I may have overreached a bit. Besides, doing way too much magic in a short time anyways." My eyesight hadn't fully returned and wouldn't for a day or three. Good thing I had a couple pairs of glasses tucked away, one each for far and nearsightedness, though the prescription was pretty ballpartk, they generally helped at least some.
"Then maybe you could take it easy for a bit?"
"Questioning first, relaxing later. I want to make sure we have a clean sweep here."
Freddy nodded. We had four prisoners, counting the kid with the silver hand. He had a phial of veritaserum. He went at it while I just sat, closed my eyes, and focused on being myself, my memories and feelings. It was a lot more work than it sounds.
After an uncertain time, he came back, dragging someone by the scruff of the neck.
"We've got trouble. Tell him what you told me."
"In our settlement, you work for your food. Those who can't fight or build fortifications stay at the plant and do detail work, at gunpoint if need be."
"And?"
"...And some do sex work, our boys work hard to secure the community, and they need relief after."
I sat up.
"You do that at gunpoint too?"
The truth potion compelled him.
"Yes."
"Lovely." I stood, and very carefully walked to where the other prisoners had been secured with zip-ties. They all had the blissy look Veritaserum gives you.
"Show of hands, who here knows about the brothel at the plant?"
Every hand raised, except the kid. This started the men to sniggering.
"Tell me all about it."
And they did.
'The Plant' was an old meat-packing plant they'd adopted as their headquarters and secure compound, on the basis that it had only a few metal doors, lots of internal space and only had windows on the second and third floors. They slept in the management office, and had turned the floor into some kind of weird sweatshop producing warm clothes for the winter and other sundries they think they'll need. Including black powder since they reasonably concluded they couldn't produce more advanced munitions, someone had the bright idea of "gearing down" to musketry. Mostly this meant collecting a mass of human waste and turning it constantly.
Fun.
The women they kept in a few sheds when not working. Sounds like a good first stop. The kid I'd disarmed- for some reason I kept feeling compelled to call him Lefty, volunteered to show us the way and we left the other dingbats restrained. Freddy ran to the nearest ENCOM phone to call for them to be picked up.
Kid had a gleam in his eyes that I know well. I'm thinking he's unhappy with his situation, impressed and more than a little scared after we casually stomped over a dozen of the adults who had such authority over his lives, and still a little surprised to be treated with something like respect and kindness. I've seen it a lot, useful in new recruits.
Plus he keeps staring at and flexing his shiny new metal hand. I should really try and retain him if only to keep an eye on it. Maybe have Freddy or Vinny mention discreetly what happened to the last guy who had one and left/betrayed the service of it's maker. The fact that it hasn't already tried to kill him and possibly me suggests it isn't really running on Riddle's instructions. Still, I'd feel better with him staying where I can keep an eye on him.
For now, he's happy enough to lead us to the plant.
"Hey, there's something I don't get." Freddy said.
"Yeah?"
"Why were the living signposts gnawed on? Those weren't animal bites."
"Oh." the kid looked down. "That'd be Jerry. Tom Orisson is the one running this chapter, he was big on the forums and even wrote some books, but Jerry... he's just crazy. Got a hair-trigger temper and a sadistic streak a mile wide. Day after the quake he was talking about rounding up fat people to eat and stretch out our supplies, but he got voted down. Still gets away with a lot of crap against m- against anyone the bosses don't really care too much for. I guess he thought it would be even more intimidating? 'Step over the line and we won't just kill you, we'll fucking eat you' sort of thing."
Ah. The psychotic enforcer, attack dog straining at the leash. A classic of the genre. Pretty rare outside Gotham, in real life. Problem with crazy people is they're showy and draw attention, which most criminals don't want. Also, they can hurt your own assets and opportunities, and while they inspire fear, they break Machiavelli's rule by also arousing hatred and resentment.
Myself, I've always preferred Freddy's quiet professionalism. A quiet word from my enforcer can make the folly of crossing me just as plain as any amount of knife-wielding theatrics. He's also never needed to prove that he's dangerous, just keep getting shit done in his own efficient manner. Case in point, we reach the plant and without a word needed, Freddy and I both go invisible to down the sentries without any fuss. Now we see if these bozos are professional/paranoid enough to want regular check-ins.
Let's have a little look-see while we wait.
Sheds are where the kid (need to get his name) said, three of them. Locked, of course. Like that could even slow Freddy down.
Inside each is nearly a dozen women in filthy clothes. Revealing ourselves didn't help calm them much, but saying we were getting them out of there did.
One woman was reluctant to leave however.
"My child! One of them took my daughter into the large building! Please, please help!"
I shot a look at Freddy, and only belatedly realized he had no idea what she was saying. Right, Babel fish. I focus a little on tuning out the specific words and hear... Arabic, I'm thinking?
"She says her daughter is inside. Might be working, or 'working.'"
"Can you get any details out of her?"
"Not without help. I can understand what she's saying just fine, but my vocabulary for speaking to her amounts to 'hello' 'goodbye' 'bread' 'water' a couple mathematical and chemistry terms and 'your mother is a whore.'"
Freddy gave me a very flat look.
"Well, technically it's 'a thousand dicks in your mother' but I'm pretty sure that's the gist of it. What? Are you going to tell me you never memorized insults in all the major world languages when you were a kid?"
"No, I'm pretty sure that's just you, boss."
It took a little pantomine to make it clear that I could understand her, we were going for their daughter and she should leave... hmmm.
"Left- Kid! Can you walk all these ladies to the ENCOM phone and call for a ride to Old Gotham? And I'm sorry, I didn't get your name?"
"It's Buck, Buck Amperand. And yeah. Can do."
Yeesh. I didn't think there were any people named Buck this side of the Mason-Dixon and the Rockies. Lefty is looking better and better.
Freddy threw me a quizzical glance, I tried to convey with my eyes that I trusted young Buck this much, and didn't want him around if this got as bloody as it might. Not sure how well I pulled it off, but he seemed to settle down, so I'm guessing he got some of it.
Wasn't there a bean-thing in RIFTS that gave the people who ate them telepathic communications with each other? Note to self, search every book with Atlantis I have from that game later.
While they snuck out, I turned to Freddy who scooped me up in his arms and casually leaped up to stick to the third-story wall outside a window. I twisted my ring for invisibility again, as Fred forcefully poked out a small pane and reached in to open the window.
Inside was a large floor, with some huge and heavy looking doors, I'm guessing loading bay out back and a freezer over there. You'd need one at a place like this, right? Anyways, it's got the look of a huge walk-in freezer. There's various conveyer belts and rails, a couple of pig carcasses still dangling in a corner, that's going to get real unsanitary real fast. There's another group of women working on the floor with sewing machines, looks like twenty armed guards in corners or roaming around. Stairs leading up to a haphazard collection of office modules, including one separate from the rest, suspended where it can overlook the floor. I'm guessing that was management before the quake, and the most likely place to find Tom and Jerry now.
I can't really point while invisible, or otherwise gesture to Freddy, but he's ahead of me and with a little hop and a sudden midair rush, we're hanging from the ceiling right next to the office and then he swings his arm propelling us right through the window.
I'm about to grumble about the noise and giving up on stealth, but the words stick in my throat when I see a middle-aged man in flagrante delictio with a sobbing and very young girl.
Freddy is a lot faster with his loose change than I am drawing my phaser. In the world of Mistborn, people who could only repel metal objects were called Coinshots, pretty much exactly because of their ability to turn small coins into bullets. With Freddy's new strength and backed by pewter, I'd not be surprised to learn he could outdo a railgun. In any case, the bastard's head all but exploded which didn't do the girl's state of mind any good I think.
Good. A good subordinate should anticipate his boss' desires. Could have been handled more gracefully, but I should really give the man a raise at some point. Sometimes I manage to forget he has super-hearing when he wants it.
For now I twist my ring so I can be seen again and try to take on what would normally be Freddy's job.
"It's okay! It's okay. We're here to rescue you. You're going to be safe now, I promise. Your mother sent us." I cocked my head. "Too much to hope you know more English than her? Freddy, find her some clothes."
Pretty sure you can't just hug the rape victim, at least if you're a big scary man. She looks twelve, maybe thirteen, olive skin I can see way to much of. So I look away and sit by the wall and talk, telling her it's going to be alright. Whether or not she can understand the words, she should get the tone, right? It works with dogs and horses anyways.
Look, I'm not great with this, okay? When someone in my territory crosses the line, Vinny comforts the victims and pays the weregilt, I make the bloody examples.
In the distance I hear a couple of meaty thuds. Eh, no screams of alarm, so I'm sure Freddy is handling himself just fine. We may have not even blown stealth, but again, I doubt they're getting past Freddy to us in any case.
Eventually Freddy gets back with some oversized clothes we give her. The kid, after calming down, does speak English and usually translates for her mom. She also said the really scary man I give her my ring and show her which way to twist to turn invisible.
She didn't notice the hard look on Freddy's face, but I sure did, and tried to focus on keeping my expression pleasant.
"Alright, little Alliyah. Twist that ring, and Freddy will see you to the door. There's no more guards outside so run straight along. Your mom should be eight blocks south, corner of Dimatto and Claremont with the phone. Just turn invisible and run there. Your mom should be able to get you to Old Gotham." I looked up at my associate. "Freddy, should I assume his scary friend won't be joining us?"
He nods and pointed at his arm and mouth, throwing me a significant look. Ah, Jerry really was a cannibal, and he didn't want to say as much in front of the girl.
"Then get her to the door and play the red cape. Time we ended this miserable tale."
He dropped down to the floor, and levered open the big loading bay doors, catching the attention of all.
"Ladies and gents! This place here is in violation of so many city ordinances, we're closing it down! Everyone here working against their will, please leave by the main door. Anyone conscripted into this band of loonies, drop your weapons and file out neatly. Everyone else, please, by all means resist."
Utter shock. Several of the milita folks tried to shoot at Freddy, but he casually danced between the bullets, headed off to the side so they weren't shooting at the door. As people realized he wasn't going down, there was a general rush. I, with my high position and phaser, ignored the people shooting at Freddy, he can handle himself, and focused on the camo-boys trying to run or take hostages.
A minute, two at the outside, and it was only us and them. Freddy jumped back to the door and slammed it shut so we could put this place back to it's accustomed use. Killing animals.
Freddy was highly mobile, almost flamboyant, leaping from one side of the plant to the other, turning all manner of things into projectiles, always attacking from an unexpected angle. I was methodical, taking people down in the most efficient manner I knew how.
Didn't make much difference how we went about things. Both of us were clad in demon skin, and bullets were as useless as begging against us.
When Freddy waved me down, confirming there were no more people here, we met at a smaller door. I dug around in my pocket for a book, then dug around in the book for a pot to give him.
"No fuse?" he had an odd tone. I started to answer, than stopped as I remembered and understood. I nodded to him instead and started to walk out.
Wildfire doesn't need a fuse. It barely needs an excuse.
=====================================
After herding a group of traumatized women and children to safety in one part of Gotham I was sure I directly controlled, I got to collapse in my chair and have myself a proper stressed freakout.
Bad enough to have to effectively rebuild civilization in Gotham. Bad enough the entire Rogues Gallery was out in force and looking to carve out their own fiefdoms and beat me down. Bad enough to have those military choppers circling above, looking for any excuse to show off their firepower. Now I had to deal with the knowledge that however hard I tried, some people had already given up on civilization, and more were falling through the cracks.
Well, there's at least something I can do about that. In my copious spare time.
Libriomancy is kind of weak in the areas of scrying and teleportation. Not that you can't do these things, it's just that they tend to show or operate on principles of the settings they came from and don't always apply those to the real world. In other words, the default assumption for most libriomancy is that it works exactly like in the story. The default assumption for teleporters or scrying devices is that they don't work.
But that just means I had to work harder to identify all those that do. Aletheiometer works fine, for instance, though in a world without Dust it really logically shouldn't. But it suffers from considerable limitations of bandwidth and vague answers subject to interpretation. For this I needed something specific and actionable, and ah! The magic mirror from WorldWeaver.
I pull it out very carefully, it's a big book, but also a large mirror and it takes way too much effort and char. Still, I think (hope) this should work.
I have soda to help me stay up, and a fresh ream of paper for notes. My nose is already a little sore from the glasses, but I'll need them for some time.
"Mirror! Show me all the children in Gotham who are in danger, or being exploited. Tell me precisely where to find them."
Images of human suffering start playing through. Well, this will be unpleasant.
====================================
Two hours in, I'm interrupted by Gordon.
"We need to talk, Mr. Mayor."
"I'm sure we do. Can it wait? I'm trying to figure out how to get all the children in the city to some kind of safety." I pointed at the mirror. Which undercut my point by showing kids picking seaweed at the beaches. The problem with such open-ended requests, the mirror felt child labor counted as exploitation which... is fair, but there's a crisis on and I'd rather have them doing useful, non-strenuous things.
"For the moment, I guess. But you might want to think about it. We picked up those guys you asked for," I searched my brain. The militia ones we captured along with Lefty! Buck, I mean. If I'd remember, I might have doubled back and slit their throats first. "At the moment, though, there's no court to sentence them and no facilities for holding them long-term. We've got them in the jail here in the basement, but we're going to run out of space real fast."
I huffed.
"I get what you're saying about the courts and rule of law, and I'll try and set something up when I have the time. As for the prisoners, can't we hold them in Blackgate?"
"Blackgate isn't taking orders from us anymore, the prisoners broke out again and drove the warden and half the guards out in a boat. The lunatics are running the asylum, and asking for supplies so they don't have to run amok getting them."
"Well, that's surprisingly forward-thinking. Who is calling the shots over there?" I'm not fussy about a criminal history, whoever this person is he or she wasn;t bad enough for Arkham and if they can keep the prison running and keep the prisoners out of my hair...
"An old friend of yours. Bolton."
I froze.
===================================
"Now what did I say about all these literary references?"
The hardest part was knowing it was coming, but not when or where.
THWACK!
My shin hurt, quite a bit. Still, I'm surprised it was so light- And right into my guts. Damn his eyes.
"They're just a way of making yourself feel better than other people. But you're not better, are you?"
=====================================
"I'm sorry. Did you say Lyle Bolton?"