Gunshots

The section of town is poorly maintained; the street lights aren't on, the streets have potholes, and there's no shortage of boarded windows. You ask an obvious question, “Why here?”

“The duly elected officials have made it clear that paid police patrol budgets are allocated according to how much money we get from taxing the territory in question...” that makes you stop for a moment, and Carla continues after a short pause to let that sink in, “...but you're not a paid police patrol. It's a nice little loophole that lets me allocate something to these folks. Do you have a problem with that?”

You consider your answer… recording in progress, after all… “I have no qualms patrolling here.” You breathe slowly and deeply, “I have no problems with your choice of actions.” Another deep, slow breath, “...and I'm going to stop there.”

“Good call,” Carla comments, chuckling, “Anyway… just wander the streets and remember your priorities: People over property. I'm going to go on mute for a while, but you have my ear if you need anything.”

“Thank you,” you answer as the line goes dead.

You look around… the area is a dump. And just… walking through helps? You get the logic, Carla just walked you through it… but still: Just walking doesn't feel like doing anything. After an hour, you subvocalize to your intelligent ring, ‘Why aren't I tired?’

“Oh, that,” your body mate sounds a little sheepish, “You've been growing much faster than my estimates. You've been powering the transformation entirely on your own for about a week. I've actually been dropping… let's go with ‘weights’… on you to keep the challenge up so you'll keep growing. I turned those off for today's exercise so you'd get this idea.”

‘Does that mean I'm ready to fly on my own?’ You consider.

“No,” your trainer contradicts, “You’re funding the change itself, but it'll get more expensive when someone…”

He's interrupted by a loud bang, and you feel something pressing on your back for a moment… and yes, that makes you feel a bit more like yesterday's training, but the feeling fades quickly.

“What happened?” The radio crackles to life with Carla's now no-nonsense voice as you turn around to see a young man holding a gun making a dash for an alley.

“Shot in the back,” you answer as you run after him. “Pursuing, as that was attempted ****.”

“Fair. Be careful,” Carla comments.

As you rush after the young man, you catch up really fast, and soon pick him up by his coat… which he slips out of quickly, but you're right there and have far more reach: You have your fingers wrapped around his actual neck before he hits the ground.

After he shoots you again, this time in the belly, accompanied by that same briefly-dizzy feeling, you grab the gun and immobilize it in your hand, and you give your needed speech, "Shooting someone in the back is attempted ****. This is a heroes’ arrest. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to talk to a lawyer for advice before we ask you any questions. You have the right to have a lawyer with you during questioning. If you cannot afford a lawyer, one will be appointed for you before any questioning if you wish. If you decide to answer questions now without a lawyer present, you have the right to stop answering at any time.”

“Car in route, lights and sirens, ETA five minutes,” Carla fills in through your earpiece.

Which gives you some time to look over the man. Early twenties, maybe eighteen or nineteen, but no younger than that; scruffy, dirty hair, pale skin, blue eyes, blonde hair that could use a wash down to his shoulders, a brown leather jacket, and dirty blue jeans with holes at the knees.

The guy is smiling, why is he…

“Duck,” the Ring instructs… and having followed his words during exercises over and over, you find yourself crouching on the ground before you even process what he said… and you hear a whoosh as a baseball bat goes through where your head used to be.

“Sweep,” is the next command, which you also follow without thinking, your leg running a big, fast circle around and behind you, meeting some resistance which you identify as three guys’ legs when your eyes catch up to what your body is doing on autopilot as the guys behind you come crashing down. You kind of feel sorry for the idiot who's neck you're holding, given then you're swinging him around like a sack of potatoes.

Then again, he did shoot you, twice.

You don't need further instructions, quickly scooping the idiots up and using a nearby mostly-empty dumpster as an impromptu holding cell, taking their guns and weapons as you toss them in. And of course, you update your handler, “Hey, Carla? It was a lure for an ambush. I now have four ruffians to process.”

“Sending a full wagon your way,” She confirms. “Oh, and you forgot the Miranda warning for the new guys.”

“Oh, right…” you read it off to them, and then notice something: They look identical. Clothes, weapons, even the dirt in their hair and the holes in their jeans.

“Why do you guys all look the same?” You ask them… but they don't answer.

The ring does, “Minions. It's a category of super power, which… well, builds and maintains servants. They're not real people, their existence tied to their maker: If the source soul moves on, the minions almost always soon follow. No soul, no parents, no family, no sense of self-preservation; basics like these have no initiative, low intelligence, and are very weak.” He sighs, “Also, arresting them is pretty pointless: They're completely disposable, and will expire via some means in jail after a short time, probably before they even reach trial… at which point their source will simply form more.”

Ugh. You consider as you wait for the wagon, speaking just to the ring, ‘What about the ones that don't ‘soon follow’?’

The ring on your finger actually shudders, “That's where most undead come from. Minions require magic to sustain them, but being soulless bodies, do not generate any. Very rarely, the minion of a deceased master figures out that they can get the magic they need by killing people that do have a soul - usually because they're already in the process of killing when their master dies, and manage to finish the job after. When this happens, a stupid run of the mill minion like one of these becomes a stupid psychopathic murderer that runs around finding and killing anyone it can catch. A lieutenant becomes a smart sociopathic murderer that goes around killing anyone who isn't useful to it that it thinks it can get away with killing. Both will slowly warp and grow as they age, provided they ‘eat’ enough to survive.”

‘Most?’ You subvocalize, adding, ‘Also, since when can you move?’

“Occasionally someone deliberately makes an undead… never a good idea, but it IS one of the few ways around the Inverse Law of Ninjas, more formally the Inverse Law of Minions.” The Ring pauses, “and since always, I just generally don't: I can't do much without a host anyway. The ability does let me, say, play the part of a hairpin or a pendant on a necklace if I have a blind host who needs the sight.”

And Carla answers too, although slowly, “When you say they look the same…”

“Same hair, same torn jeans, same clothes, same gear, same dirt, and they could be twins except that there's four of them,” you confirm.

“Oh. Minions. Ugh. I HATE minions,” you can hear the rant coming, “we have to arrest them just like real people, because we can't prove that they're not. But then they dissolve into foam bubbles in the holding cell. Or turn to clay. Or melt into a pool of stinky slime. Or drop dead and leave a corpse that we have to pay the coroner to check out. Or worse: They wait until they're at trial to die. SO EXPENSIVE. Ugh.”

“So next time, I should just kill them?” You ask, raising an eyebrow.

“If you're certain,” the ring confirms.

“I am legally required to say ‘no’. Also, I will remind you that this is a recorded line,” Carla confirms as well.

“Good to know…” you muse as you wait for the pickup.