Fourteen years ago, Erik Sorenson runs through the rain. He’s not focused on the downpour, however, but rather the text messages flashing through his mind. ‘White Chimney. Building C. Top Floor. 1:15am.’ ‘Don’t get followed. Don’t get caught.’ As he careens through the empty streets and back alleyways of Stockholm at speeds impossible for an ordinary man, the warning chills his blood. Coming to a chain link fence blocking the entrance to a new laneway, he leaps upwards, bouncing of the brick wall in front of him, using his momentum to propel himself up and over, twenty feet in the air, and deftly lands, like a cat, halfway down the alley, the white chimney of a distant building now in sight.
He pauses a moment to look upwards into the night sky and the rain which drenches his pale face, dark hair, and long navy blue coat. In that moment he wonders how many Lucent are capable of even spotting him right now, let alone catch him, in a storm like this? He can think of only one. Le Maréchal. He checks his Breitling, 1:12am, and speeds off towards the building with the white chimney.
As he arrives at a pair of large, arched wooden doors marked with a white 'C', it occurs to him that if Le Maréchal is out there, it’s won’t be matter of if he picks up his trail, but when. How will they escape then? And even if they could hide from these people, where would they possibly go?
The door is chained closed with a padlock, but by using his foot as leverage, he’s able to wrench it open by hand, the metal screeching as he does. The large door too, squeals in protest to being opened, sounding like a stuck pig. He wonders if that will be him, before the night is over. Or worse. Her.
Light streams through the windows into the empty dark space of the abandoned warehouse in front of him. He rushes up a stairwell past an office area, to a door above. Through the door he finds a large room, half of which is cluttered with boxes of files, stacked chairs, wooden crates and other office supplies. Above him, a triangular glass roof covers almost the entire length of the room, its glass panels positioned on supports that lead up to ornate wrought iron buttresses at the peak.
A third text message runs through Erik's mind. 'Upstairs, plug up the sink and turn on the taps.' It makes no sense to him, but he knows better than to question Alexander. If only he'd listened to him from the start, maybe things would be different. Maybe his daughter wouldn't be missing, and her mother wouldn't be dead.
He spots a white hand-basin against the wall over to his left, plugs the sink, and turns on the taps. The water quickly pools and overflows, splashing on the floor in front of him. Suddenly, there's a burst towards him like an explosion of water, drenching him from head to toe in a forceful blast, and where the basin was affixed to the wall, there now stood two men, one young, tall and muscular, and another old, slight and shorter. In the arms of the tall young man, nestled Erik's six-year-old daughter, Ella.
"ELLA!" yells Erik, springing toward her, arm outstretched.
"PAPA!" she replies in desperation, leaping to the floor and sprinting toward her father.
"It's alright, I'm here," he whispers into her ear, their faces pressed against each other as they hold each other tightly. It's only when he pulls back to look at her, does he see the horrific bruise over her left eye and cheek, which had swollen the eye closed.
"My god, what did they do to your face?"
The tall man begins to explain what had happened, but the shorter man interrupts him sharply.
"Alexander! Are you forgetting something?" He says, his old voice weakened with age, yet undeniably commanding.
Quickly, Alexander apologises, closing his eyes, and placing two fingers to his left temple, as though deep in thought. Or searching for something in his mind.
"I see him," he says, "About nine miles out. Looks like he hasn't picked up a trail yet"
The old man gazes upwards, as though speaking into the aether.
"Nine miles, Jonathan? Lost your edge?"
Erik snaps his head toward him.
"Jonathan... Biram?", he says, snatching his daughter back up into his arms, "As in, Le Maréchal? We need to get out of here. Now!"
"Not yet," says the old man, "We have at least ten minutes."
Aghast, Erik backs away.
"Look, whoever you are, my daughter and. are getting as far from that psychopath as possible."
Behind him, Alexander points to where the basin stood just moments ago.
"Whoever he is? Did you not just watch us all appear out of that sink?"
"Only our strongest convictions can hope to lead us through such darkness," says the old man, stepping forward, his right arm reaching up in front of him in a pleading gesture. He's wearing a dark pin-stripe suit, over which hangs a long shawl. His matching hat obscures casts deep shadows over the top of his face, but his short beard can be still be seen. On his right ring finger, he wears a gold band with a dark line running along it's centre. Everything about him exudes wealth and power.
"And that hope must be paid for in full," he continued. "This is not a reunion, it's a payment. Ten short minutes in exchange for a lifetime. We're not here to return her to you, Mr Sorenson, we're here because we made a promise to her mother that you could say goodbye."
Erik struggles to comprehend the old man's words.
"I'm so sorry Erik, but you know what she is," added Alexander, his muscular arms out on front of him, his face full of remorse, as he approached him.
"No!" rebukes Erik, shoving him back. "Get away from us!"
"They're hunting her right now," shouts Alexander back at him. "All these years, he's the only one they've never been able to find."
Erik stands firm.
"She just lost her mother, and now you want to take me from her too?"
"He'll keep her hidden," pleads Alexander, "He can protect her."
Erik points directly at himself.
"I'm her father," he yells, "It's my job to protect her."
The old man's calm, aging voice cuts through their argument like knife.
"You would die protecting her. What will become of her then? The Order does not leave loose ends, you were marked for death the moment they realised what she is. Even I cannot stop that now."
Erik places Ella down onto the floor.
"I'm her father," he says again, kneeling down in front of her and wiping a tear from her cheek with one hand. With the other, he reaches for a piece of the basin's piping which must have come loose in the blast. Suddenly he springs up and leaps towards the old man, screaming like a beserker, the pipe high above his head.
But when it hits, it lands with a thwack. Instead of striking its target, the old man's arm had reached out faster than Erik's eye could see, and his hand grasps onto the pipe with a strength he'd never before witnessed. With nowhere else for the force of the blow to go, the shock sends Erik to his knees, leaving him kneeling in front of the old man in defeat.
"That will never change," says the gravelly voice from underneath the downturned hat.
"Don't do this," pleaded Erik, "Take me with her."
"I cannot protect you without revealing myself, and I cannot hide her if they discover who I am."
"They know you too well, Erik," adds Alexander, "They'll find you wherever they go. The only hope she has is if they don't know who they're looking for."
Suddenly, his body stiffens, and his head snaps to the side, his eye wide, as though he were seeing something no one else could.
"What?" asks the old man, panic in his voice, "What is it?"
"I was wrong," answers Alexander, "Le Maréchal. He's found us."
Back at the chainlink fence that Erik had leaped over mere minutes ago, an ominous looking man in a plain black suit, black neck tie, and white shirt. His black hair has been slicked back over his head by the downpour. Like Erik did before he, he peers up at the night sky, as though seeing something no one else can.
In the warehouse, the old man shouts in a commanding tone.
"The child. Now! Nothing is more important."
"Erik," yells Alexander, "Run!."
Eric does run, but straight to Ella, who grips tightly to his arms as he presses his forehead to hers.
"It's alright," he says, "Papa's here. You'll be safe now, okay? I promise. Never forget, I'll always–".
In that instant, Ella is torn from Erik's arms, Alexander sprinting away with her held tightly under his arms. In front of them, the old man reaches his hands down towards the floor. All the water that had been spread across the room in the explosion of their arrival, now rushes towards him, and rise up under each hand, drawing it all back up and around him. The water pools and swirls around him in a fast moving, undulating vortex that's picking up a the last of the remaining water in the room.
"PAPA!" screams Ella, as Alexander carries her right into the miniature maelstrom.
In a flash, and with a quickly drowning 'FFWWWWP' sound, all the water, and the old man, and Alexander, and Ella suck into a single point of light, and vanish out of sight.
Erik stares wide-eyed at the place where his daughter had been just seconds ago. He staggers forward, arm outreached in front of him, but all he finds is water vapour, coalescing into droplets, and falling to the floor. He turns and collapses to the floor, landing on his knees with a thud. He arches his back and neck up to scream into the air, but no sound escapes him. Eventually he slumps forwards, and speaks directly to the man he knows must surely by now be present.
"You're too late, "he says. "She's gone."
The voice that answers back is authoritative and articulate, yet tinged with an unplaceable accent.
"And you just let him take her? What kind of father are you? What did they sell you? Hope? Revenge? Just to snatch her away again and leave you here for me. How cruel. And foolish."
Erik peers back over his shoulder to the silhouette of the man standing in the doorway. Rainwater from the storm raging outside still dripped from his hair and fingertips.
"None of that matters anymore," says Erik, "She's safe now. So you can start pulling fingernails or whatever it is you do."
"You needn't concern yourself with torture, Mr Sorenson," says Le Mareéchal , "You've already told me everything I need to know."
"And you people cost me everything I ever loved, "snaps Erik, "So I don't care one way or another."
"In that case," replies Le Maréchal, "I suppose that we have nothing left to discuss."
Faster that the eye can see, he leaps into the air, legs first, poised to strike. At the exact same moment, Erik snatches up the pipe lying on the floor next to him, and spun up to his feet, ready to attack.
"Then I'll see you in hell!" he bellowed.
But Le Maréchal is too fast for him, and lands a foot with all his force square into Eriks abdomen. The flying kick shoots him backwards, sliding across the floor, and blood explodes out of Erik's gaping mouth. Lying on his back, arms limp beside him, he cranes his neck up to see his attacker. Le Maréchal looms over him, the pipe firmly grasped in his hands. Erik coughs up more blood.
"You... think... you can catch... a ghost?," he chokes out. "You'll never... find her."
Le Maréchal twists the pipe in his grip.
"Now, you know what they say about never," he says calmly.
Then his face twists into a rage, and he swings the pipe up behind his head, and in an instant, everything turns to black.