Titan City 1914,
Anson stopped a block from his tenement at the sight of a Department of Monster’s Affairs truck and two police cars parked out front. A young officer in a thick wool coat stood watch over the sidewalk, his thick blonde mustache filling the space just beneath his cap. The ache in Anson’s feet and the stench of burning ooze in his nostrils were signs of an already grueling day. Although, given the choice between hunting another swamp slime gone amok and talking to the government, he preferred his chances with the goo monster. Anson sighed and made his way up the street.
The officer stood up straight as Anson approached. He slapped a hand to his hat and puffed out his chest. “Mister Mysterium.” His brass name tag read Withers. Withers took a deep breath and recoiled. “Dear God, what is that smell?”
“That’s not my name. Even when it was my name, it wasn’t Mister Mysterium. It was Professor.” Anson rolled his eyes and moved to brush past Withers. “And for your information, that would be the putrefying odor of the swamp slime I was hired to remove this evening.”
“Apologies, I grew up watching you and the Lovely Assistant protecting the city.” Withers coughed and looked away before snapping back to reality. He stepped into the doorway, blocking Anson’s path forward.
“I don’t think you’ve quite finished growing up, how old are you seventeen? Eighteen?” Anson cocked an eyebrow. “Do you need something? Or is the city paying you to stand between me and a nice hot bath?”
Withers’ cheeks flushed. “Yes, of course. Sorry, Mr. Walker, sir. This DMA guy asked a few officers to escort him here to have a meeting with you.”
“What the hell does the DMA want with me? I’m not a monster and they aren’t the kind of clientele that pays for executions.” Anson crossed his arms, but quickly moved them as he felt damp slime against his chest.
“He didn’t say, but he thought you might not be keen on a bunch of us ambushing you in your office.” Withers rubbed the back of his neck. “I’ll take you up there now.”
“Good choice.” Anson gestured for Withers to lead on and followed him upstairs.
A few moments later the pair were standing in the hallway leading to Anson’s office. Sure enough there were three other cops standing in the hall in front of Anson’s door. A young man with a thin face and a sharp-toothed smile leaned against the opposite wall holding a briefcase. Anson had seen a lot of trouble in his life and this kid definitely fit the bill. His suit was well-tailored, more so than an agent of the DMA should have been able to afford. The man’s wavy blonde hair was combed to one side and he had an over-sized revolver holstered on his hip. It looked like one of those new Jupiter Enterprises models donated to the police by the company for the policing of monsters. Something that could put a hole in one ogre and out another. Nasty piece of work. Anson didn’t know this kid, and he knew most of the DMA agents in the area. He must have been from out of town, somewhere swanky like Independence or maybe the home office in DC.
This little visit seemed more serious than Anson was expecting. The police, Withers notwithstanding, were on edge, their hands resting on their batons or the grips of the pistols. They couldn’t possibly be here to cause trouble for Anson, magic gun or no, these guys wouldn’t be able to do any lasting damage to him. No this was something different. Something dangerous.
“Gentlemen, I have office hours for a reason. You should have sent a courier to my secretary and made an appointment like everyone else.” Anson smirked and stepped into the group of toughs. He pulled his keys from his pocket and slipped them into the lock.
“That’s the thing, Mr. Walker, you don’t have a secretary. For a man trying to run a business, you make it hard for potential clients to get a hold of you.” The DMA agent rocked on his heels to stand from the wall.
“What can I say, it helps filter out the people who can and can’t afford my services.” Anson pushed the door open and stepped into the office. It was a dingy affair, with smoked stained windows looking down over the street below. A pair of worn chairs and his weathered old desk were the only furniture in the front room. Anson waved his hand and the gas lamps flickered to life.
“I assure you, my client can afford you, and I have a feeling you’re going to want to take this case on for your own personal interests.” The DMA agent gestured to the officers to wait outside. Withers cast his gaze down, clearly disappointed that he wouldn’t be entering Anson’s office.
“Your client? You mean the government?” Anson sat behind his desk and gestured for the agent to sit opposite him. He reached into the bottom right drawer and pulled out a bottle of cheap Scotch along with two dirty glasses. He poured one for himself and offered one to the agent.
“No thank you.” The disgust on his face was plain to see, something that prompted Anson to pour another one and place the two drinks in front of himself. The agent said, “I’m Agent Simpson and yes, the United States government is interested in hiring you.”
Anson drained one of the glasses, breathed in the turpentine vapor in his mouth, and smiled. “You’re aware I kill monsters right? I didn’t know the government was in the killing its own citizens business.”
“Quaint.” Simpson’s amused smile didn’t reach his eyes. “You and I both know better than that.”
Maybe this Simpson guy was going to be alright. “Of course, I’ve killed a lot of things over the years on behalf of this government. I just thought they were moving away from that with the whole Department of Monster’s Affairs thing.”
“If it eases your conscience, I’m not here to discuss a domestic issue. How familiar are you with what’s happening in Europe these days?”
“The war? What are they calling it, the Great War?” Anson chuckled mostly to himself. Every war he’d ever fought in thought it was the greatest war, but most had the decency not to call themselves that.
“Yes,” Simpson nodded and placed his briefcase on the desk. “A conflict that seems to have pulled every major European power into an unprecedented cycle of destruction and death.”
“I wouldn’t say unprecedented. Merlin killed a lot of people in his day.” Anson looked into the second glass of Scotch, his mind mulling over a distant memory.
“Perhaps, but this is a perfect storm of exotic new weapons, monster soldiers on all sides, and wizardry.” Simpson stuck the last word to Anson’s forehead with the weight of implication.
Anson sat up, yanked from his musing. His body tensed at the mention of wizards, the ancient curse tugging at his subconscious. It took everything he had to mutter a response. “What do you know about wizards? What does the government know about wizards?”
Simpson leaned back against the chair. He seemed in control of the conversation and as happy as a cat with a canary in its mouth. “We know a lot more than you think. We know there used to be a lot more of them, until you got rid of them, and we know that you can’t stop killing them when you hear about them.”
“I don’t know how you found out about that, but I’m not someone you want to mess with.” Anson grit his teeth. His knuckles were white as he gripped the arms of his chair.
“Wouldn’t dream of it, Mr. Walker.” Simpson lowered his gaze to match Anson’s eyes. “As a matter of fact, we just want you to do what you do best.”
“Which is?”
“Kill wizards.” Simpson shrugged and sat up. He pulled a set of photographs from the briefcase. They were grainy, but seemed to be aerial images of a string of mountain fortifications.
Anson couldn’t make out much detail. The photograph clearly wasn’t taken by a magic camera, probably another Jupiter Enterprises gadget. “What am I looking at here?”
“This is a string of Austro-Hungarian defensive points they’re using to waylay the Russians in Galicia. It also happens to be the biggest nest of necromancers anyone has ever seen.”
That explained how they avoided the purge. Necromancers weren’t allowed in “polite” wizard society when Anson came of age. They were hidden beyond his reach during the earlier killings, and apparently spent that time building connections in Eastern Europe. Anson sighed. Even if he wanted to refuse Simpson’s request, he could already feel the curse propelling him forward. There was no choice in the matter.
“And you want me to go over there and kill the bastards?” Anson steepled his fingers and scanned Simpson’s face for motivation. “Why do you care about a bunch of Huns killing a bunch of Russians? That seems like a win-win for the government as far as I can tell.”
“Ordinarily yes, but these necromancers have been using the war to build an army of the undead that we fear will escalate the conflict beyond the borders of Europe. President Hawkins wants to cut the head of this snake before it becomes our problem.” Simpson pulled another paper from the briefcase. “We’re prepared to offer you a considerable sum should you accept this contract.”
“How considerable are we talking?” Anson narrowed his eyes. He was going to accept either way, but a cash reward would ease the blow.
“How does a hundred thousand dollars sound?” Simpson smiled and slid the sheet across the desk.
“It sounds made up.” Anson laughed to himself. The contract had the amount listed, along with the terms of the agreement. “But I’m in.”
“Perfect. We can get you on a boat right away.”
Anson held up a hand. “Not just yet. I need to wash off this slime. And I’m going to need one other person to accompany me on this job. I’ll meet you in Bayside tomorrow at sunset.”
Simpson frowned, but his face cooled to neutral. “As you wish. We can’t delay much, but I’ll wire a message along to DC. Hopefully he’s worth the time.”
“Oh trust me, she is.”