The Rising Dawn, # 26— "The Wulf's Rising Anger"

The failure of an entire brigade of New Marines (super-soldiers, also called Guns) to win in an ambush against a handful of Outliers rested poorly with Derrick Wulfgang, a General of the Unofficial Government of the Federal United states.

They referred to themselves broadly as The Shop, but that extended throughout a massive, sprawling institution of facilities, personnel, and connections that was all made possible by limitless government spending. When a pleb needed money, they needed to hustle or chain themselves to a corporation in an endless debt cycle. When the Wulf or his cohorts needed money, they just wrote down a number. Even a little typing of a keyboard, and they had what they needed.

The Sentinels were different; frailer. If enough disruptions occurred in their business model, Wulf could break their backs. But they had some cunning heads of their so-called Society, The Rising Dawn. Wraith, a vigilante who had been groomed to inherit a multi-billion dollar corporation. Parse, a computer freak closing thousands of loopholes, and exploiting those of others. The Philosopher, a prized healer and who perfected the art of shrewdness. Gallant, sponsored by many outfits who desired his capacity of being a bullet train with wings.

Dozens of other Outliers were in their keeping. There was one who could induce the feelings of an opiate for six hours, with no itch at the end. He had a backlog of customers numbering in the hundreds. Another had a hyper-metabolism that produced the next echelon of fertilizer biomes— disgusting, yet lucrative. Another could see ten-minutes into the future, with no earthly explanation. The clientele never ended, for him. Slews could count poker cards with such expertise that only computers could best them, and they gathered a steady flow of revenue for Freedom Tower, gaming all day. Once they paid off triple a month of steady losses.

There were other slews that were no less than a squandering of Outlier blood, their talents serving no earthly purpose. Ping-pong savants, logicians, math wizards, prolific chefs, jugglers, archery maestros. A steady flow of their plasma could produce fifteen New Marines a month, a conservative estimate. Wulfgang’s domain could win a land war in Asia, if he was allowed to do his job.

“The Grecian’s cornering the market on the Drive,” said Baron Marks, The Track.

“Market?” said The Wulf, “God, tell me he doesn’t mass-produce the real stuff.”

“It’s a two-pronged assault,” said The Track, “He has a contact that makes our formula look like girl scout cookies.”

“How much?”

“Their doses are prime real estate. The Grecian could only secure half a dozen.”

“I want that contact,” said The Wulf.

“Can do,” said The Track, “it just ain’t easy to do yet.”

Wulfgang was familiar with The Track’s double-talk.

“Plus, you know, they have The Ice. She’s souped up on Drive.”

“Damnit,” said Wulf, burning with jealous rage, “Where’s that AC!?”

In less than nine seconds, cool air was directed at The General.

“What did you say, about a two-pronged assault?”

“The Grecian is starting to push Drive cut with something else. It creates super gangsters, but it don’t last long. And it’s already more addictive than when he first had at it. Supposedly.”

Wulf calmed himself down. “Zane Frederick will be encumbered with his drug business. We have no such weights around our neck.”

“He actually stuck it to the Dawns, you know. Showed them a dead body.”

“Is that so?”

“Five dead bodies. Sends a real message.”

Wulf silently boiled at The Track’s candor.

But that’s why he was his Top Gun.

“If I get my hands on some Drive, we can take this to the next level.”

“Next level?” said Wulf. He abhorred the suggestion he wasn’t already the highest echelon.

But The Track was The Track.

“Maybe we should coordinate with the Magister,” said Wulf.

“I got history with The Ice. Bad idea. Especially with Drive pumpin’ through her veins.”

“The Ice is one person. How many News did we lose to that witchcraft?”

“Twenty five. The rest were out of commission.”

“We were taking our time, before. But now we’re moving in a new direction.”

“Do tell.”

“We’ll be striking out in Hades District and South Whitehall. The Dawns have no presence there.”

“We haven’t cleaned them out yet?”

“There’s at least seven Outliers every three blocks. I don’t care if they can only talk to goldfish— I want them found.”

The Track sighed. “The Magister knows how to source his formula. If we want the real stuff, we need a Sentinel.”

Wulf pondered this for a moment.

Then he said, “We made twenty News from our facility in Whitehall. They were first, second, and third tier.”

“Gallant is a five tier.”

“I know what Gallant is!” spat Wulf.

“So what’s your point?”

“The Magister’s making a two pronged assault. So will we.”

The Track beckoned him to continue.

“We’ll source low-grade Outlier blood from the slums. Meanwhile, we’ll need a professional to bag a tier four.”

“A professional? Do you know such a guy?”

“It’s you, Baron.”

“Well,” said Baron, “Don’t call me late for hot chow.”

“You’ll be rewarded if you succeed,” said General Derrick Wulfgang, “Once we purify our own Drive, the first dose goes to my Number Two.”

“Bingo,” said The Track.