Chapter 21: Misdirection

The streets of Olstrum were a labyrinth of shadows and smoke, the air thick with the acrid scent of coal and fear. The city, once a bustling hub of industry and progress, had become a hunting ground. The witch hunt had begun, and the police, clad in their thick asbestos jackets, moved like mechanical specters through the fog. Their steam-powered guns hissed faintly, and their batons, also powered by steam, hung heavy at their sides. Strapped to their hips were strange devices, glowing faintly with an otherworldly light—countermeasures, it was said, against the fiery abilities of the one they sought. Alika.

The mystery hung in the air like a curse, whispered in fear and spat in anger. Alika, the fiery figure who had appeared in the town square during the apparent witches' execution last Wednesday. Alika, who had turned the square into an inferno, leaving chaos and ash in her wake. The police had learned their lesson that day. They would not approach her with mere artillery again. They were armed now, prepared, or so they thought.

Posters plastered every available surface—walls, poles, even the grand halls of the city. The image was blurred, distorted, but unmistakable: a figure wreathed in flames, her form barely discernible amidst the fire. It was the only glimpse the city had of Alika, captured in the chaos of her first appearance. Beneath the image, bold letters screamed: WANTED. DEAD OR ALIVE.

The police moved in formation, their boots thudding against the cobblestones in unison. Their faces were obscured by smoke-filtering masks, giving them an eerie, inhuman appearance. They moved door to door, their mission clear: find Alika, no matter the cost.

At the door of a prestigious house, one officer stepped forward and knocked sharply. The door creaked open to reveal a woman of refined bearing, her dress immaculate, her expression one of polite curiosity. The officer cleared his throat, his voice muffled by the mask. "Excuse me, ma'am. Might you have the slightest idea of the identity of the fiery creature that attacked the people of Olstrum at the town square during the witches' execution last Wednesday?"

The woman's face paled slightly, but she maintained her composure. "Afraid not, officer. I was merely a juror. Quite a terrifying scene, I must say."

The officer nodded, his posture stiff. "Apologies that you had to endure that. We will bring justice and vanquish the foul beast. Thank you for your time." He stepped back, and the woman inclined her head.

"Thank you, officer, for your bravery," she said softly, closing the door as the police moved on.

Their next target was a stark contrast to the grandeur of the previous house. Tucked away in one of the darker corners of Olstrum, the dwelling was small and dilapidated, its windows grimy, its door hanging slightly askew. The officer who approached it didn't bother with a polite knock. He banged once, and when no answer came, he kicked the door open with a force that sent it splintering off its hinges.

Inside, the scene was one of poverty and despair. A mother and her children were roused from their sleep on a cramped, rickety bed. The children clung to their mother, their eyes wide with fear as the officers stormed in, guns raised.

"Get on the floor now!" one of the officers barked, his voice sharp and commanding. The mother froze, her arms tightening around her children. "Are you a witch?!" another officer demanded, his tone accusatory.

The woman stared at them, confusion and fear warring in her eyes. "What? No! What are you?" she stammered, her voice trembling.

The children began to cry, their sobs echoing in the small room. One of them, a boy no older than ten, tried to slip away, darting toward the door. But an officer blocked his path, swinging his steam-powered baton with brutal force. The blow connected with the boy's lower jaw, the sickening crunch of bone audible even over the hiss of steam. The boy crumpled to the ground, his jaw dislodged, half of it hanging grotesquely from his face. His eyes were open, but unseeing, his body limp and paralyzed.

"Joshua!" the mother screamed, her voice a raw, anguished wail. She lunged toward her son, but another officer intercepted her, driving his knee into her stomach with such force that the air rushed from her lungs. She collapsed, gasping, her consciousness flickering in and out.

The officers exchanged glances, their expressions unreadable behind their masks. "No witches here," one of them said curtly. "Move out."

They left as quickly as they had come, their boots echoing on the cobblestones. Behind them, the mother lay on the floor, her hand reaching weakly toward her son. Joshua's face was a mask of blood, his breathing shallow and labored. No one called for medical assistance. No one cared.

Outside, the streets were no safer. The police had adopted a tactic: beat the poor, the homeless, the vulnerable, and wait for a supernatural reaction. If someone was a witch, they would defend themselves with magic, revealing their true nature. If not... well, too bad.

Street children and beggars were dragged from their hiding places, their cries of protest met with brutal force. Steam batons hissed and crackled as they struck flesh, the officers' faces impassive behind their masks. "Tell us that thing's identity!" they demanded, over and over, as if the downtrodden of Olstrum held the answers they sought.

But there were no answers, only pain and fear. The city had become a place of shadows and suffering, its streets stained with the blood of the innocent. And somewhere, hidden in the chaos, Alika waited. The fiery figure who had ignited the hunt, the one they sought to destroy. But as the police continued their brutal campaign, one question lingered in the air, unspoken but undeniable: who were the real monsters in the streets of Olstrum?

Axle crouched in the shadows, his glowing orange eyes narrowed into slits as he watched the scene unfold below. The police moved like a pack of wolves, their steam-powered batons hissing and crackling as they struck down the helpless. The sound of flesh meeting metal, the cries of the innocent, the metallic tang of blood in the air—it all filled him with a rage that burned hotter than any flame. His hand gripped a brass pipe beside him, his fingers tightening until the metal groaned and crumpled under the pressure. The sound echoed faintly, a metallic crunch that reached the ears of one of the officers.

The man turned, his masked face scanning the darkness. Axle held his breath, his body still as stone. For a moment, their eyes might have met—the officer's cold, mechanical gaze and Axle's fiery, slitted stare. But before the officer could investigate further, a voice called out. "Jean! Come on, we have too much ground to cover."

The officer hesitated, then turned away, rejoining his comrades as they moved on to their next target. Axle exhaled slowly, smoke curling from his nostrils like a dragon's breath. His eyes glowed brighter for a moment, casting faint rays of light into the shadows before he closed them, plunging himself back into darkness. The anger within him simmered, threatening to boil over. He couldn't stay here. He couldn't just watch.

With a fluid motion, Axle scaled the side of the nearest building, his movements swift and silent. His fingers found cracks and ledges with ease, his body moving with a superhuman grace that defied his young age. In moments, he was on the roof, darting across the uneven surface, his glowing eyes scanning the streets below. The city stretched out before him, a maze of smoke and shadows, but he knew it well. He had grown up in these streets, learned their secrets, their shortcuts. And now, they were his refuge.

It didn't take long for him to reach home— the nondescript building tucked away in a quieter part of Olstrum. He dropped to the ground and knocked on the door, a series of quick, rhythmic taps. The peephole slid open, and a pair of familiar eyes met his. It was Kyle, the man who was with Alika when he informed them of Dinah's death.

The peephole closed, and Axle heard the sound of locks being undone, followed by the faint hum of a spell being cast to reinforce the door. When it finally opened, Kyle stepped aside to let him in, his expression a mix of relief and concern.

"They're hurting people, the police," Axle said as he strode into the room, his voice tight with anger. The space was dimly lit, the air heavy with tension. Alika paced near the far wall, her fiery hair a tangled mess, her eyes red from crying. She turned to face him, her gaze sharp and accusing.

"And what were YOU doing outside?" she demanded, her voice like a whip. Axle flinched, his shoulders hunching slightly under her glare. She was taller than him, her presence commanding, and right now, she radiated a fury that made even him—a boy with fire in his veins—feel small.

"I was just looking around, making sure we're safe," Axle muttered, slumping into a chair. He avoided her eyes, focusing instead on the floor. She bore a striking resemblance to him with the difference in present emotions.

"Like you did Dinah?" Alika shot back, her tone dripping with disdain. The mention of Dinah's name was like a knife to the heart. Axle's hands clenched into fists, his nails digging into his palms. He opened his mouth to respond, but no words came out. He didn't have an excuse, not one that would satisfy her.

"I... I..." he stammered, his voice breaking.

"You what?" Alika pressed, stepping closer. Her eyes glowed faintly, the orange hue intensifying as her anger grew.

"Calm down, Alika," Kyle interjected, his voice steady but firm. He stepped between them, his broad frame a barrier. "That's not something we should get into right now."

Alika turned her fiery glare on him, but Kyle didn't flinch. His chest puffed out slightly, his eyes narrowing as he met her gaze head-on. For a moment, the room seemed to hold its breath. Then Alika looked away, her shoulders slumping as she realized the effect her anger was having on the others. The children huddled in the corner, their wide eyes filled with a subtle terror. It was enough to soften her, if only slightly.

She turned and strode out of the room, her footsteps heavy. The sound of a door slamming echoed through the house, followed by the faint sound of sobbing.

Axle wiped at his eyes, his own tears threatening to spill over. "I wanted to help Kyle, I really did," he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

Kyle sighed and walked over, pulling the boy into a hug. "I know, Axle. I know you did."

The embrace was brief but comforting. When Kyle stepped back, Axle looked up at him, his expression haunted. "There are posters everywhere. They're attacking random people just to check who's a witch and who isn't."

"A witch hunt," Kyle muttered, his jaw tightening. He ran a hand through his hair, his mind racing. "Any plague doctors?"

"I didn't see any," Axle replied. "But the police seem prepared as it is."

Kyle nodded, his expression grim. "Well, just stay indoors from now on. Your sister was really worried about you."

"Worried or disappointed?" Axle asked, his voice bitter as he turned away.

"She's just angry, and sad," Kyle said gently. "Any more stress, and you get that. So all of you—" he looked around at the children, his gaze sweeping over each of them—"avoid going outside unless it's absolutely necessary. And keep your abilities a secret, alright?"

The children nodded, some murmuring their agreement. Kyle gave them a small, reassuring smile before turning and heading toward the basement. The stairs creaked under his weight as he descended into the darkness. At the bottom, he struck a match, the flame casting flickering shadows on the walls. The basement was cold and damp, the air thick with the scent of decay.

Kyle moved carefully, his footsteps slow and deliberate. He bumped into something—a body, recently dead, its skin pale and waxy. He knelt beside it, placing a hand on its chest. His eyes glowed green as he began to chant, the words low and guttural, in a language that seemed to twist the air around him.

The corpse twitched, its limbs jerking unnaturally. Bones snapped as it rose, its movements stiff and awkward. The smell of decay grew stronger, but Kyle didn't flinch. He stood, watching as the reanimated corpse straightened, its empty eyes staring into the darkness.

"Hmm," Kyle murmured, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "You'll do nicely."