The Shit-town Saga:

Midnight Rider part 1

The charity organization had happily raised thousands of dollars for people affected by the Resurgence. New York was hit worse than most cities during the invasion which resulted in severe poverty and homelessness. Unfortunately, it also resulted in a spike in criminal activity as evident by the group of men breaking into said charity organization to steal as much money as they could carry. They exited the building with their loot, initially relieved by the sight of the empty street but that relief vanished when they heard the sound of a revving motorcycle engine. After they scrambled into their car, they peeled away without looking back. It wasn’t long before a motorcycle headlight turned the corner and pursued them.

“Is it the Knight?,” the driver asked while glancing in the rearview mirror.

One of the men in the backseat turned to look out the window, “I don’t think that’s him.”

“He’s got a motorcycle, right?”

“Sometimes but I don’t-”

The figure on the chopper pulled a sawed-off shotgun from the long holster running along his front wheel. Catching up to the car was easy enough and despite the high speed chase and the darkness of the night, the shot was perfect. The back right tire popped, sending the car into a fishtail. The men inside were jostled once they hit a curb and the driver tried his best to control the vehicle but they hit a streetlight nonetheless. They wasted no time getting out of the car and headed to the nearest dilapidated building: a plaza that had been bombed out during the Resurgence. The figure performed a power-slide on his bike while firing off another round. One of the thieves screamed and fell to the asphalt once the back of his knee exploded. “Leave him,” the driver shouted as he led his partner inside the empty building. The thief, meanwhile remained on his belly, leaving a bloody trail as he tried to crawl away. A few seconds later, a black boot calmly but purposefully stepped on to his back, holding him down before the shotgun was aimed squarely at the back of his head.

Inside the darkened plaza, the remaining two men could hear the shotgun going off once more. They had been hiding behind an overturned shelf since they entered the building and dared not move once they heard their former partner getting murdered in the street outside. Soon, the figure entered through the broken glass door. He wore a black motorcycle helmet with a black padded jacket, protective gloves and leg-pads commonly used for motorcyclists; as he was geared-up from head to toe, his identity was as protected as his vitals. Calmly, the biker stepped into the debris-filled room while removing spent shells from his sawed-off shotgun and flicked them to the ground. He stopped momentarily to snap his shotgun open, remove two more shells from the cartridge on his belt, reload his weapon, then give the shotgun a sturdy pump before continuing the hunt.

Knowing they would be found soon, the driver came out from around the shelf with a crowbar firm in his hands. When he took a swing, the biker used his shotgun to block the attack, then swung the short rifle into his face, knocking him to the floor. Now dazed, the driver found his crowbar removed from his grasp with a swift kick and it disappeared into the shadows. Instead of pressing the attack, the biker spun around and fired a shot through the overturned shelving unit which sent splinters into the air; a second later, the driver’s partner fell into view with a large portion of his head missing. The driver stayed on the floor, sure that he was next but running or attacking seemed equally pointless. The biker stepped over him, his black gear nearly blending him into the shadows.

“When the cops question you, let them know the Horseman is still in town,” came a gravely voice from beneath the helmet. He raised his weapon once more and shot the driver in the shoulder, eliciting a painful scream. As the driver lay bleeding and clutching his wounded limb, the Horseman casually left the building, got on his custom motorcycle and rode away.

“So who’s the Horseman?,” Michael used his armor’s helmet to converse with Commissioner Reins while in his apartment.

“The Horseman is a psychotic vigilante,” Reins answered, “He wears full biker gear so no one can identify him and his bike is a custom job: a chopper with no license or registration. He’s been operating all over the Tri-State area for a little while but he most recently showed up in the city and took part in the fight against the U’ntari, not that anyone would stop him, all things considered.”

“But he stayed in New York after the Resurgence?”

“And he’s making sure the cops know that. He left one of the goons alive last night so we’d know it was him.”

“I’m sure your officers aren’t too pleased with the guy?”

“Some are and some aren’t, as these things usually go,” Reins paused, “I’ll be honest, if we send you after the Horseman, the consensus will probably favor him.”

“It’s that bad, huh?”

“He was last seen riding his bike down the block, picking off U’ntari footsoldiers with a shotgun. It’s hard to hate that. Then there’s you who disappeared from the city during the fight and next thing anyone knows…”

“… I hand Rex Robinson over to the U’ntari.”

“Hey, I trust you did what you had to do but you knew that shit wouldn’t fly with a lot of people, especially law enforcement. We all looked up to Rex so it’s hard to believe he ever did anything wrong.”

“Yeah, I know. It wasn’t an easy decision.”

“I don’t doubt it… And y’know, it doesn’t help that you never really said anything to the public. The IMD director and Ryan Bennings did all the talking and those guys are pretty divisive as it is.”

“Me joining The Commission with Ryan Bennings doesn’t help, I guess?”

“You guys actually have one of the aliens on your squad so no.”

“I have some PR work ahead of me. Noted. Going back to the Horseman, do you have any idea how to find him?”

“No idea but considering his bike is obviously a custom job, he’d have to have connections to a chop shop to repair or modify his bike if he doesn’t actually own or operate one himself. Since he feels comfortable staying in New York, it’s likely he has a hook-up in the city.”

“I’ll look into it.”

Michael disconnected the call and momentarily stared at the unfinished work on his laptop. Because of the Resurgence, the company hiring him for an ad campaign had to place his contract on hold as their offices had been destroyed. The New York economy was taking a hit and with Michael being a freelance graphic designer, he was hoping for more work. Unfortunately, the only work that was coming his way was from his night job.

He closed his browser and set about trying to find a motorcycle garage that the Horseman might be connected to. Michael had a custom bike of his own in the Castle: the Knight Cycle. It was built by his father and Rex Robinson so he had no immediate connections to any chop shops. He did, however, have access to a custom car garage. Or at least, his great grandfather did.

Clumsy Carl’s Garage was a car shop that had been in business since the 40s. The original owner was “Clumsy” Carl Cousins who was the mechanic that helped Reginald Hawkwood build the Knight-Mobile: the first Cavalier vehicle. It was a modified wartime Jeep which was bought at an army surplus. Clumsy Carl was a short, heavyset man who, as the nickname implied, was very clumsy and would often trip or drop things with a trademark, “Oopsie-daisy” following the mistake. Despite his demeanor, he was very skilled at metalwork and customizing vehicles, much like Reginald Hawkwood. They had a garage together before Reginald opened his own hardware store while Clumsy passed away in the 60s after supplying Hank Hawkwood with his own version of the Knight-Mobile. Despite keeping the name, the garage was under different management so they would likely know nothing about the Hawkwood family or its connection to the Cavalier; going to the business in “civvies” wasn’t too bold.

“How ya do’n,” the friendly woman behind the desk greeted Michael as he came in.

“Not bad,” Michael took a look around the garage, noticing a lot of car parts and photos of souped-up muscle cars but little else that caught his attention, “I was just wondering if you guys did bikes by any chance…”

“Yeah, sorry. No motorcycles.”

“Okay. I just moved here and I was wondering where to go to get a custom job. I searched online but I didn’t like what I saw. Have any recommendations?”

“I know some guys,” she took out a pen and paper and began writing the address, “They’re pretty good.”

“Cool… Also, do you know of any places to shy away from? I went to one place and I got some weird vibes. I don’t want to end up somewhere that’s gonna scam me or sell me stolen parts or something. Know anything about those places?”

“Yeah,… the only place I know of is The Eighth Circle. It’s a chop shop that’s owned by the Hell’s Trespassers.”

The name was familiar to Michael, “The biker gang?”

“Yeah. It might not be noticeable at first but there’s some shit that goes on there so stay away from it.”

“Alright, thanks for the tip,” once he got the lead, Michael began to leave but turned back one last time, “By the way, I’m a graphic design artist. If you need anything-”

“Oh, we got our own guy, in-house.”

“Okay, worth a shot.”

Across the city, Arthur Hawkwood performed a beautiful upward swing, sending the ball over the net to his opponent. Despite being in the lead in the match, his mind was elsewhere. When he saw reports of the Cavalier returning to fight street gangs and metahuman threats, he knew on some level that it was his son Michael but he convinced himself that Rex Robinson had found someone else to fill the role. Months later, when learning of Rex’s betrayal in the Invasion of 1981 and subsequently being delivered to the U’ntari during the recent Resurgence, he was devastated but accepting of the punishment. On a subconscious level, he blamed Rex for getting Michael into action as the Cavalier (a conclusion that was not entirely unfounded) and being handed over to the aliens was justified. With Michael admitting to his actions and Rex being taken off-world, Arthur was able to openly recognize the situation but no less ready to accept it. He expected Michael to give up being the Cavalier but instead, he continued to do so, going so far as to request access to the Castle and the Dragon. Because of this, Arthur felt used and foolish.

His opponent returned the ball.

Arthur took a hard swing, his frustration boiling over in the moment as he sent the ball back into his opponent’s face. “What the hell, Artie?,” the older gentleman shouted out as he rubbed his cheek. The Pickle ball club for retirees normally wasn’t the place for on-court aggression but Arthur was not his usual self.

“You leaned into it,” Arthur fired back defensively.

“Oh, come on!”

“You were halfway over the net.”

“No, I wasn’t!”

“Maybe I’ll come back tomorrow when you learn to play,” Arthur threw his racket to the gym floor which got the attention of all the other players on the court and when he felt all eyes, he straightened up. Embarrassed, he picked his racket back up. “Sorry, everyone,” he apologized quietly and took his leave.

****

The large biker’s pistol was removed from his hand by a shield-disc before the Cavalier hooked an arm around his throat and leapt into the air, delivering a choke slam against the edge of the desk. Another biker picked himself off the floor as he started to come-to a little earlier than planned but the Cavalier spun around and the kick sent him crashing through the door. Michael wasn’t able to find much evidence after breaking into the Eighth Circle chop shop but the good news was that enough gunshots were heard that he knew the police were called and that gave them an excuse to search the building. An hour later, Michael faced Reins on the street while uniformed officers loaded the bikers into cruisers.

“Well, we got criminal evidence,” Reins told him as he lit a cigarette, “Besides the firearms, we got illegal mods and some kind of street racing thing. Fast and Furious kinda shit.”

“Anything that could link to the Horseman, though?,” Michael watched as a detective team left the building.

“Nothing at the moment but keep your eyes peeled.”

The hard shoulder-check drew Michael’s attention to the man passing by far-too-closely to be considered an accident. He turned and saw a uniformed police officer feigning ignorance. “Sorry, didn’t see ya there, …Cav,” the officer was tall and bulky with a haircut short enough that he could almost be considered bald.

“Officer Drake,” Commissioner Reins seemed to take note of the purposeful accident, “Have you found anything useful at the scene?”

“No, sir,” he locked eyes with the Cavalier, “I don’t see anything of use.”

“Keep looking then,” Reins’ voice took a more serious tone.

Drake said nothing but continued to lock eyes with Michael as he joined his fellow officers at the scene and there were similar glares from them as well. “So we’re back in high school,” Michael said to himself.

“Like I said,” Reins warned, “… The consensus doesn’t favor you.”

Continued…