Deathstalker 06 - Deathstalker Legacy

right in front of the cameras, and looked like you were enjoying every minute of it. That wasn't duty. It wasn't even law. It was retaliation."
    "Paragons had been murdered. I was avenging my fallen comrades."
    "Paragons are supposed to be about justice, not vengeance." The journalist's voice was full of bitter resignation now, as though he expected to die, so nothing he said mattered anymore. He could tell the truth, because the worst had already happened. "We all saw it, Deathstalker. You went after the people who killed your friends, and you cut down everyone who got in your way, whether they were guilty of anything or not. And you smiled while you did it. There was other people's blood on your face, and you smiled. We've been running coverage of what you did in the riot pretty much nonstop ever since. Not just 437, all the news channels. No one could believe what you did. That you could be so vicious, so ... out of control. The famed Deathstalker rage, turned on civilians. No one trusts you anymore. What's the matter, Deathstalker? You said you wanted the truth. Don't you have the stomach for it?"
    "I didn't kill anyone who wasn't trying to kill me," said Lewis.
    "We all saw, Deathstalker. We all saw what you did. We all saw the real you."
    Lewis jerked the dagger out of Pryke's sleeve and out of the wall, and the journalist flinched, clearly expecting a killing thrust. Lewis put the dagger back in the top of his boot, and stepped away from the journalist.
    "Thank you, Adrian. You can go now."
    Pryke looked at him dubiously. "You mean it? You're not going to kill me?"
    "No, Adrian. I'm not going to kill you."
    "Oh good," said Pryke. "Then, if you'll excuse me; there's a toilet calling my name really loudly."
    He edged sideways across the wall until he was safely out of Lewis's reach, and then he turned and ran for the exit, his camera chasing after him. He didn't look back, as though afraid Lewis might change his mind and come after him. Or shoot him in the back. Lewis watched him go, and then turned slowly to look out over the Court again. It had all gone very quiet. Everyone was watching him. As Lewis looked back at them, they all avoided his gaze and went about their business again. The general noise and hubbub slowly resumed, but nowhere near as loud or as lively as before.
    Lewis leaned back against the wall, suddenly tired. He scowled, his ugly face uglier than usual. This was why Douglas had sent him to the Court. What Douglas had wanted him to see, to know. To learn the truth that Douglas hadn't been able to bring himself to say in person. That everyone was scared of Lewis Deathstalker now. That no one trusted him anymore. Not because of Jesamine, but because of what he'd done, what he'd let himself do in his rage, during the Neuman riot. They all thought he was a monster, and perhaps they were right. No wonder Tim Highbury didn't want to run his site anymore.
    He wasn't just a monster. He was a pariah.
    That was what Douglas had sent him here to learn. One last gift from an old friend? Or one more twist of the knife from a new enemy?
    Lewis Deathstalker strode out of the Court, head held high, and everyone there was glad to see Em go.
    Brett Random and Rose Constantine were back in Finn Durandal's apartment again, sitting in their usual chairs, waiting for instructions. The Durandal was off somewhere playing the good Paragon with Emma Steel, but he'd promised to be back as soon as he could credibly slip away and leave his new unwanted partner to her own devices. So Brett and Rose waited, not looking at each other, not talking. Brett had already dosed his aching stomach with everything in his and Finn's medicine cabinet, and none of it had done a damned bit of good. Brett rubbed soothingly at his tormented stomach with both hands, and wondered dismally if perhaps he should contact Dr. Happy and use Finn's line of credit to beg a little something. The ache kept him awake at night, and drove him from his bed far too early in the morning, and he was getting really bloody tired of it. No amount of promised money or power was worth this, and Finn's threats on what he would do to Brett if he even thought of leaving were seeming less and less intimidating by the hour. Sometimes Brett thought he would sell his soul, or what little was left of it, if his gut would only stop hurting so badly.
    He sat slumped down in his chair, his knees almost on a level with his chest, and looked morosely around Finn's place in