The Omission Index, Ch 4- Fulminating Heart Pt. 1

Southall, 1977. A public humiliation ignites terrifying latent powers, unleashing chaos and attracting SHEPARD. As a young man's abilities escalate, Hale must decide between containment and catastroph

1977

Mr. Rashid Ali prided himself on the quality of his silks, the vibrant dyes a small rebellion against the grey London sky that often pressed down on Southall Broadway. The Saturday market hummed, a familiar cacophony of Jalandharan pop, the sizzle of jalebis from a nearby stall, and the haggle of a thousand voices. He was carefully unfurling a bolt of sapphire blue, the morning's takings already worryingly thin after the disaster with the import licenses, when Mr. Choudry’s voice, sharp as a snapped bone, cut through the relative calm of his stall.

His son, Sameer, stacking boxes of cheaper cotton nearby, flinched as if struck. Choudry, a man whose paunch strained the buttons of his waistcoat even in the mild May air, wasn’t one for quiet words. He planted himself before Rashid’s stall, arms akimbo, his voice pitched to carry over the market din, each word a fresh stone cast at Rashid’s already crumbling izzat.

"When are you going to pay me, you old cheat? You haven’t been a proper businessman for years, but this is a new low. If you can't afford to run your stall, that's your own fault, and no business of mine. It's not as if I haven't warned you!"

Rashid tried to smile, though his face felt hot and his stomach roiled. "Choudry Sahab, you must understand—"

"What I understand is that you can't keep up with your debts, and I've a family to feed." He glanced meaningfully at the boy, whose cheeks darkened in shame, then raised his voice still louder. "You can't be trusted with anything! I can't wait forever for what you owe me, Rashid, and neither will the others. Your debts are stacking up, and your time is running out."

It was true. The other stallholders knew better than to trust a man with such a bad reputation, and Rashid was running out of favours to call in. If he could get the silk through, make some sales, pay his debts... But the import licenses—they had cost him far more than he had planned for, the bank hadn’t been kind, and there had been the repairs, the fines, and—

"Choudry Sahab, surely we could work something out? Perhaps a payment plan, or an interest reduction? Or—"

"I don't have the time or the patience for your excuses. I want my money, Rashid." Choudry jabbed a finger into the air just above Rashid's nose, the sharp movement almost striking him, his face hard and set. "And I'm not the only one."

Sameer stared at his shoes, his face a sickly green. Rashid wished he could reach out to him, pull him close and reassure him. He had never meant for any of this to touch his boy.

"Not in front of the boy, Sahab. Please."

"Why not? He'll need to know how the world works if he's to inherit a bankrupt business." Choudry turned toward Sameer, and Rashid felt the cold grip of fear. "You're just as useless as your father, aren't you? Can't do anything right. You should be grateful, boy, that a man like me is willing to do business with someone so—"

"Don't, please," Sameer whispered, his voice shaking.

"What, have you gone soft?" Choudry scoffed. "You should learn from your father. You're not going to get anywhere in this world without the courage to stand up for yourself. I should teach you a lesson."

He stepped closer, and Sameer took a step back. "Stay away from me!"

Choudry's hand was raised. "You can't tell me what to—"

The air cracked like a snapped cable. Choudry’s sneer froze mid-syllable as an invisible fist slammed into his chest. Ribs popped audibly. For one impossible second, his polished leather shoes hovered inches above cobblestones before he crashed through Rashid’s display table in a spray of splintered wood and tangled silks.

A sympathetic shockwave seemed to punch upward through Rashid’s own gut, and his knees buckled. He crumpled against stacked cotton bales, vision swimming with fractured images—Choudry’s body bent at angles cloth shouldn’t fold, jalebi syrup dripping like blood from an overturned cart, and Sameer…

His boy stood rigid, palms outstretched as if pushing against the sky. A high whine keened from his throat—not fear now, but raw animal panic. Marketgoers screamed in Urdu and English, scattering as spice sacks burst open in ochre clouds around them.

“Beta—” Rashid choked on turmeric-laced air, fingers scrabbling for purchase on smooth fabric bolts.

Sameer’s eyes met his—wide, black pools reflecting shattered glass and worse things—before he spun and bolted into the maze of stalls. A crate of mangoes exploded beneath someone’s fleeing foot as Rashid struggled upright, silk clinging to his shins like desperate hands. Across the wreckage, Choudry moaned wetly, one arm twitching beneath a shroud of sapphire cloth now blooming crimson at the edges.

Sameer, his sweet boy, was gone.

Rashid couldn't follow; he had to fix this. He staggered forward, the ground sliding beneath him, and grabbed the edge of the broken table. His hand slipped on the silk, slick with Choudry's blood, and his forehead struck the edge. He crumpled into darkness.

Rashid had never meant for any of this.

***

There was something about the UK that unnerved Hale. Perhaps it was the way the locals kept looking at him, the outsider from the American Mid-West, or the persistent damp that seemed to seep directly into his bones. Whatever it was, it was a low hum of discomfort beneath the surface of his focus.

But this was where the mission had led him. He approached the cordoned-off crime scene, his eyes lingering on the shattered remnants of the stall. The whole area reeked of blood and curry, the sweet, heavy aroma of mangoes mingling unpleasantly with the bitter scent of violence. The mangoes themselves were gone, crushed into a thick carpet beneath the feet of the investigating officers.

Kwan, Knopff, and Reid were already there. Kwan was concluding a conversation with a local police officer, while Knopff squatted beside the wreckage, his specialized scanner whirring softly. Reid stood nearby, tablet in hand, cross-referencing preliminary witness statements with their agency’s database for similar energy signatures.

Hale stopped before the young officer, waiting for a lull in his exchange with Kwan. The policeman had a nervous air.

"And the witnesses agree that it was a single suspect?" Hale asked.

"Yes, sir." The officer pointed into the market, and Hale followed the line of his arm to a small knot of men gathered behind a pair of police cars, talking animatedly, a few on the verge of hysterics.

"The victim was assaulted, and the suspect fled. Witnesses are unsure about the exact details, but several are quite clear the suspect was male, Shahistani, and about seventeen."

"And no one is sure of his current whereabouts?"

"No, sir."

Hale cut in smoothly before the man could elaborate. "The victim?"

"In the hospital, sir. We've got a man guarding the room. Hospital staff say he'll live."

"What do you know about the suspect so far? His name?"

The officer hesitated, a hint of nervousness entering his expression. "I've seen him around the market a few times, sir. He's a good kid, wouldn't hurt a fly."

"A good kid yesterday doesn't preclude a dangerous one today," Hale said, his tone flat. "What do you know about him?"

"His name's Sameer, and he lives with his dad over on Davenport. I can give you the address, if you want, sir."

"Excellent." Hale nodded and stepped past the policeman, who watched him go, frowning slightly.

Hale approached Knopff at the stall. Knopff, examining a shard of wood, looked up, his expression sour.

"Done chatting with the local talent, Hale?" Knopff’s voice was a low rumble.

"Yes." Knopff pocketed the shard and stood. "No detectable Auracium traces, which is odd for this kind of power output. But there are faint signatures of a quantum paradox event. It's messy—not a clean observation, lots of interference. Suggests the Super might have barely controlled the outburst, or it's an unstable new emergence. Can't definitively tell how much raw power was involved, though."

Hale surveyed the remains of the stall, trying to picture the scene. "Do you think he wanted to kill the victim?"

"Intent? That’s your department, Hale, not mine." Knopff gestured dismissively. "My readings are just energy signatures and material stress. If he's on the upper end of the projected power range based on the damage, he could've easily killed him. But he might have held back." He gave a short, sharp exhalation. "Just tell me what you need from the physical evidence."

Hale sighed internally. Knopff was abrasive, a specialist who tolerated little outside his field of expertise, but his analytical skills with anomalous phenomena were second to none. "Alright," he said, peering down. "Anything here the boy touched that survived? Something with his DNA we can use?"

Knopff pointed to the back corner, where a cardboard box of clothes stood, mostly intact. "Likely. Kid must've packed it. Should be prints, maybe some skin cells."

"Great." Hale went to the box and knelt, taking a cotton shirt from the top. A slight discoloration on the inside caught his eye. He examined the fabric, then closed his eyes. A faint thrum of psychic static, a dull ache behind his temples he’d learned to manage over the years, accompanied the influx of impressions as he searched for an echo of Sameer's actions and emotions.

At first, nothing. Just frustration, the image of a fat, sneering man, a flash of anger. Then, something else: dread, shame, a powerful urge to escape.

Hale dug deeper. The emotions were jumbled, confused. He heard words in a foreign tongue—Urdu, most likely. His powers, unfortunately, didn't come with a built-in translator. He tried to gauge the emotions tied to those words. Fear, mostly. The kind of fear that came from a situation that couldn't be fixed, a problem that wouldn't go away. And something else, a sense of deep disappointment, of having failed, of letting down a parent.

Hale let go, the vision fading. "He was angry. Scared. Wanted to escape. But he also felt guilty. Like he’d done something terribly wrong."

"Doesn't have to mean much," Kwan said, joining them. "Could've been defending himself. Or his father."

"We'll see." Hale folded the shirt and put it back. "Reid, your cross-check turn up anything?"

Reid looked up from his tablet. "Not much more on the family. Witnesses confirm the father runs this stall, has debts. Victim was here to collect. Pretty standard fare, apart from the obvious anomaly."

"Standard collection tactics," Kwan mused, "but in this community, public humiliation of a father, especially in front of his son? That hits different. The shame factor is huge."

"So the victim was harassing the father, and the boy, seeing his father humiliated, lashed out." Hale summarized.

"It's a strong possibility," Kwan said. "Fits the profile of a reactive emergence, especially for a latent Super."

The young officer approached again, looking anxious. "Agent Hale, sir? We spotted the suspect at the bus station. Uniformed officers are attempting to contain the area. We're ready to go."

"Great." Hale turned to Kwan. "Ready?"

Kwan grinned. "Let's get this guy."

They hurried out of the market, leaving Knopff and Reid to continue processing the scene and coordinate with local forensics. Hale followed the first officer into a police car. The engine started, its siren cutting through the traffic as they drove out of the market.

Was this right? Chasing a terrified boy who might not even understand what was happening to him? No time. They had a job to do.

The station came into view, and the officer parked. "Here we are."

The two men exited the car and headed into the bus station, the policeman leading. They approached a small cluster of officers. A few people had stopped, looking at them with confusion and concern.

One of the uniformed men noticed Hale and approached. "We've located him, sir." He pointed.

Hale scanned the station. He saw him: Sameer, beside a pillar, dressed in jeans and a hoodie, hair unkempt, a shadow of stubble on his young face. He looked tired, confused, and very, very young.

"That's him?" Hale confirmed.

"Yeah."

Hale took a step, but Kwan put a hand on his shoulder. "Let me handle this," Kwan said, offering a disarming smile. "I can talk to him, see if we can calm him down."

Hale frowned. "Are you sure? He looks ready to bolt."

"He is scared," Kwan said. "Precisely why your direct approach might not be best right now. Come on, I know what I'm doing. Let's just see if we can get him to come peacefully."

"Alright," Hale conceded. "If you think you can."

"Hey, if he panics, at least I can take the blast," Kwan said with a grimace, a hint of something unreadable in his eyes. "Trust me." He strode forward, the local police parting for him.

"Hey there," Kwan said, voice low and friendly.

Sameer jumped, turning. His eyes widened. "Hey," he stammered, backing away. "Who are you?"

"My name's Agent Kwan. I'm here to help you. Can you come with me?"

Sameer shook his head, eyes darting. "I can't."

"I think it's for the best, pal. I promise, no one's gonna hurt you. You're safe, okay?"

"I can't."

"Look, I get it. This whole thing is confusing, scary. You feel like there's nowhere to go. But it's not true. There's always somewhere, and people who can help. You can't run from this, pal. We just want to help you, get this sorted. So what do you say?"

Sameer paused, biting his lip, considering.

Kwan kept talking, voice calm, soothing. "Listen, I've been where you are. It's tough, isn't it? Feeling like you can't control your own life, can't fix things. But you can. All you need is to take the first step. That's what I'm asking. Take the first step, and we can help."

Hale watched, skeptical but hopeful. Kwan had a knack for this.

Sameer swallowed hard. "You can help me?"

"We can."

He hesitated, then nodded. "Okay." He walked toward Kwan, hands balled into fists.

Two uniformed officers came forward, one holding out a pair of handcuffs. Sameer froze. "What are those?"

One of the officers began, "Sorry, pal. Standard procedure—"

Kwan cut him off with a sharp glance, then turned back to Sameer, his smile strained. "Just a precaution, Sameer. Gotta make sure everyone's safe."

Sameer looked back at Kwan, fear stark in his eyes. "Come on, pal, it's alright," Kwan urged, though a flicker of doubt crossed his own face. "We just need to keep everyone safe, okay? We'll get this sorted, don't worry."

Sameer backed away. "I can't. I can't."

"It's okay. No one's gonna hurt you."

"You're lying."

Kwan glanced over his shoulder at Hale, a raised eyebrow conveying the shift. "He's not gonna come willingly. Be ready."

"I've got it." Hale stepped forward, the policemen moving aside. As Sameer spotted him, his desperation ignited into raw panic.

The air didn't just crack this time; it detonated. A wave of invisible force, far more potent than at the market, erupted from Sameer, a silent scream made manifest. Plate-glass windows of the nearest bus bay shattered inwards, a crystalline rain mixing with a blizzard of dislodged timetables. The concussive shockwave hit Kwan like a runaway lorry, lifting him off his feet and slamming him against a row of hard plastic seats with a sickening thud. He crumpled, unmoving.

Constables and officers went down like ninepins, some crying out, others collapsing. Fluorescent lights flickered and died, plunging the area into dim, dust-choked twilight. The metallic shriek of tortured girders echoed as a section of the roof buckled, showering debris.

Hale, braced but unprepared for this magnitude, threw an arm up. The force staggered him, driving air from his lungs, ears ringing with a deafening, high-pitched whine. He tasted grit and metal. Through settling dust, he saw Sameer, a small, trembling figure silhouetted against fractured light from a distant entrance, staring at his own hands in pure, unadulterated terror.

Then, as the first groans of injured men cut through the ringing, Sameer turned and fled into the deeper shadows of the damaged station, towards the bus platforms.

"Kwan!" Hale pushed himself forward, legs unsteady. He reached the agent, who was groaning, trying to push himself up, one arm at an unnatural angle.

"My… shoulder," Kwan gritted out, face pale. "Damn. Kid packs a wallop."

"Stay down," Hale ordered, scanning the chaos. Local police were dazed or injured. The bus station was a wreck—twisted metal, shattered glass, the smell of fear and ozone. An uncontrolled weapon.

"He went that way," Hale said, nodding towards the platforms. "Can you move?"

Kwan tested his good arm, grimacing. "Give me a sec. Radio Knopff. Tell him… kid’s a Class Three, maybe higher. Unstable."

Hale was already pulling out his cracked but functional comm unit. "Knopff, Reid, status. Suspect engaged, significant power display, Southall bus station. Multiple injuries, officer down. Request immediate medical, containment backup. Suspect mobile, heading towards bus platforms." He shoved it back in his pocket, helping Kwan to sit against an intact wall section. "Local response will be a mess. I need to go."

"Don't… underestimate him, Hale," Kwan said, voice strained. "He’s not just scared. There's something… broken in there."

Hale nodded, gaze fixed on the dark corridor Sameer had vanished into. "I know." He drew his sidearm, the click of the safety disengaging unnaturally loud in the eerie quiet, punctuated by moans and distant sirens. He took a breath, air thick with pulverized concrete, and started after Sameer.

He made thirty steps before a vicious internal recoil buckled him over, the psychic aftershock of the blast—far worse than the faint thrum he usually experienced. He spat blood, the world spinning. Right, he thought, gasping. Nasty aftereffect, like a psychic sonic boom. Disorientation clawed at him.

The boy was terrified, his panic making his powers dangerously erratic. If Hale couldn't get close, his own abilities were largely useless. He had to try.

He pushed upright, head swimming, and followed the corridor, gun held low. Lights flickered, casting strange shadows. The stink of ozone and fear was overwhelming.

"Sameer," Hale called, voice soft. "It's alright. No one's gonna hurt you."

Nothing.

"Sameer, I'm here to help. I want to talk. Will you let me do that?"

Still nothing.

Hale paused, gathering himself. The corridor stretched before him, air heavy with tension. He pressed on, his own footsteps echoing urgently. Another wave of disorientation hit, less intense but still sickening. He leaned against the wall, bile rising, fighting it down. His vision swam; the taste of iron filled his mouth. His mind felt sluggish. Then, it passed. He wiped his mouth, took a breath, and continued.

A muffled boom echoed from ahead, like an impact behind a wall. He ran, his boots pounding the concrete.

Ahead, a collapsed section of ceiling. Steel beams, ripped apart. Shattered concrete, a spiderweb of cracks radiating outward.

Shit. The kid was learning, blocking his path.

Hale scanned the debris. Mangled steel, pockmarked concrete. No way through. He cursed, turned back, radioing. "We need to regroup. Suspect is adapting, getting more dangerous. Path blocked. I'm returning to Kwan's position. Advise."

He put the radio away and retraced his steps.

Emerging from the corridor, he saw Knopff and Reid had arrived, along with more local officers. They looked grim, taking in the scene. Kwan was slumped against the wall, looking marginally better but still in obvious pain.

"Catch him?" Kwan asked, his voice rough.

"No."

"Shit."

Hale grimaced, pushing down his frustration. "Let's switch tracks. We need to meet his parents, figure out his triggers, his weaknesses. We have to talk him down." He paused, his next words carrying a chilling weight. "If we can't, we'll have to neutralize him before he sets off another blast. The damage is already too high. We have to contain this before the media gets wind."

"Neutralize him? You want to kill a kid?" Kwan asked, his expression incredulous, a mix of pain and anger.

"If it comes to it, yes." Hale’s voice was devoid of emotion. "Better one than dozens. Or hundreds."

Kwan spat on the dusty floor. "You're an asshole, Hale."

"I'm pragmatic. I don't want to kill him. But if it's him or innocents, there's no real choice, is there?" Hale met Kwan’s glare. "Look, we try to find another way first. That means talking to the parents. Now."

Kwan pushed himself up straighter, wincing. "Fine. Let's go."

"You need a hospital," Knopff stated, approaching, his usual bluntness now tinged with something that might have been professional concern.

"Later," Kwan bit out. "Let's get moving."

Hale led the way out, heading toward the car. The acrid smell of destruction hung heavy. They had to find Sameer before he, or they, made an irrevocable decision.

***