A walk in the Nightside

Chapter 24: Implementing the Plan

Michael stood in the shadow of the run-down store, his bare chest streaked with soot and dried blood, his tattered pants barely holding together. His swarm clung to him like a living blanket, their tiny bodies creating a faint layer of warmth against the night's chill. It wasn't much, but it kept him moving, kept him from freezing in the cold air that bit at his exposed skin.

He glanced through the cracked window of the store. The place wasn't much—a small, poorly lit shop with flickering fluorescent lights and shelves stocked with everything from canned goods to cheap talismans. A clerk sat behind the counter, leaning on one elbow and scrolling through something on a battered phone. Two customers wandered the aisles, their muffled footsteps barely audible over the faint hum of the lights.

Michael exhaled slowly, the warmth of his breath visible in the chill. He had nothing but the swarm and his will to survive. If he was going to make it through the night, he needed supplies—clothes, bandages, food. And he wasn't going to get them by asking nicely.

Focusing his mind, he sent out a pulse through his swarm. Flies, beetles, and small wasps flitted into the building, invisible to the casual eye as they scouted the store. Their simple senses fed back to him, painting a clear picture of the layout and its occupants.

The clerk sat near a small heater, oblivious to the growing number of insects gathering in the corners of the room. One of the customers, a woman, stood near a rack of clothes, flipping through a few hangers without much interest. The other, a man, was examining a shelf of canned goods, his movements slow and aimless.

Michael adjusted the swarm around him, sending a few dozen insects to the light fixtures. With a whispered command, the flies landed on the bulbs, their bodies dimming the flickering lights and casting the store into uneven shadows. The first stage was in motion.

The woman near the clothes let out a startled cry as a cloud of gnats swarmed her, darting around her face and crawling into her hair. She stumbled back, waving her arms wildly. "What the hell is this?"

The man by the canned goods cursed, swatting at his arms as ants poured out from the shelves, skittering across his hands and legs. "What the—this place is infested!"

The clerk bolted upright, nearly dropping his phone. His eyes widened as a cluster of beetles scuttled across the counter, their glossy bodies gleaming in the dim light. "Oh, hell no," he muttered, grabbing a broom and smacking at the counter. The beetles scattered, only to reappear from the edges of the shelves, their numbers multiplying.

Michael stayed outside, his focus sharp as he directed the chaos. "Out," he muttered under his breath, his tone low and commanding. "Get out before it gets worse."

The woman was the first to bolt, shrieking as she ran for the door, slapping at her hair. The man followed, his curses echoing as he stomped out, shaking his legs to dislodge the ants. The clerk hesitated, swinging his broom at the beetles again, but when a buzzing swarm of wasps appeared from the ceiling, he dropped the broom and ran, yelling obscenities as he disappeared into the night.

Michael stepped inside, his bare feet cold against the cracked tile floor. The swarm moved ahead of him, obscuring the lenses of the security cameras with a mass of flies. He moved quickly, grabbing a plain black hoodie and a pair of pants from the rack the woman had been browsing. He tugged the hoodie on, sighing as the fabric covered his raw, cold skin, then pulled on the pants, rolling them up slightly to fit.

He grabbed socks and a pair of boots from the corner, slipping them on with a grunt. His feet throbbed in protest, but the protection was a welcome relief. Next came supplies: a basic first-aid kit, antiseptic wipes, and gauze from a small shelf near the counter. He added a couple of water bottles and protein bars, along with a pack of matches and a flashlight.

The shelves of talismans caught his eye. Most were junk—cheap charms for tourists—but one seemed different, etched with faint runes that glowed faintly in the dim light. He slipped it into his pocket, not entirely sure what it did but unwilling to leave it behind.

The swarm buzzed softly in his mind as he finished, their hum a constant reassurance. He sent them back to the corners of the room, cleaning up the chaos they'd caused. The cameras remained blocked, and the floor was littered with discarded items, but nothing suggested a specific culprit.

Michael slipped out the back door, the stolen supplies tucked into a makeshift bundle under his arm. The cold air hit him, but the swarm wrapped closer, their faint warmth and protection giving him a small sense of security. He moved quickly, keeping to the shadows as he disappeared into the labyrinth of the Nightside.

He had what he needed. For now, it was enough to keep going.

Michael crouched in the shadows of a narrow alley, the faint hum of his swarm a constant reassurance in the back of his mind. The Pembrokes had drawn their battle lines, and now it was his turn to strike back. His insects were scattered throughout the district, mapping out their properties, listening in on conversations, and probing for weaknesses.

This wasn't about brute force; it was about precision. Fear, confusion, and sabotage would be his weapons. The Pembrokes were powerful, but they weren't invincible.

Michael began with a Pembroke-owned textile mill, a large, imposing building with heavy security. Guards patrolled the perimeter, their movements slow and methodical. The mill's windows glowed faintly, a sign that its operations were running deep into the night.

He directed his swarm toward the building, sending flies into the ventilation system and beetles through cracks in the foundation. Spiders crawled along the walls, weaving intricate webs in the corners of windows and doorframes. Inside, workers began to notice the infestation—flies buzzing around their faces, beetles skittering across their desks.

Michael watched from the shadows as the chaos unfolded. One of the guards swatted furiously at his face, yelling about a cloud of gnats that seemed to materialize out of nowhere. Another stumbled back, shaking his leg as ants poured from his boot. The commotion grew, workers abandoning their stations as the swarm spread through the building.

But Michael wasn't done. He directed his tarantula hawks into the factory floor, their bright orange wings and ominous buzz sending the workers into a full panic. Screams echoed as the insects swooped low, their stingers poised but never striking.

Finally, he sent one final message. A cluster of flies gathered on a glass pane near the main office, forming the words: "You can't hide from the swarm."

Michael smirked as the factory emptied, its workers fleeing into the streets. The guards cursed and shouted, their flashlights cutting through the gloom as they tried to find the source of the chaos.

The next target was a Pembroke-owned casino, a gaudy establishment tucked into the heart of the Nightside. Michael slipped through the crowd outside, his face obscured by the hood of his stolen jacket.

He directed his swarm inside, sending flies to the card tables and roulette wheels. The insects perched on chips and cards, creating subtle but undeniable disruptions. Dealers began to falter, their movements stuttering as the swarm unsettled them.

At the bar, beetles crawled along the shelves, knocking over bottles and causing a cacophony of shattering glass. Patrons jumped back, startled by the sudden commotion. Michael's swarm moved with precision, creating small, deliberate disruptions that escalated into chaos.

Then came the final touch. A single tarantula hawk landed on the chandelier above the main floor, its imposing form visible to everyone below. A collective gasp rippled through the crowd as it began to buzz loudly, its wings creating an eerie hum.

When the chandelier suddenly flickered and the lights went out, the casino descended into panic. Patrons stumbled in the dark, their shouts mingling with the sound of breaking glass and crashing furniture.

Outside, Michael blended into the fleeing crowd, the faint hum of his swarm in his ears. The casino wouldn't forget this night anytime soon.

Michael's next move was personal. The Pembrokes had lieutenants—key figures who managed their businesses and enforced their will. He needed to send a message, and he'd chosen one of their most trusted enforcers: a man named Conrad.

Conrad was holed up in a private office above a nightclub, a gaudy, pulsating place filled with thumping bass and flashing lights. Michael slipped in through the back, his swarm scouting the area as he moved.

The office was guarded by two men, their eyes scanning the crowd below. Michael sent his swarm ahead, directing a wave of flies to their faces. The guards stumbled, cursing as they swatted at the insects, their vision obscured.

Michael took advantage of the distraction, slipping past them and into the office. Conrad was sitting at his desk, a cigar clenched between his teeth. He looked up in surprise as Michael stepped inside, the swarm buzzing ominously around him.

"What the hell—" Conrad began, but Michael cut him off.

"Consider this a warning," Michael said, his voice cold. The swarm moved closer, filling the room with the sound of thousands of tiny wings. "Stay out of my way, or things will get worse. Much worse."

Conrad tried to stand, but Michael directed his tarantula hawks to hover inches from the man's face. The enforcer froze, his eyes wide with terror as the insects' stingers gleamed in the dim light.

"You think you can scare me?" Conrad growled, but his voice wavered.

"I don't need to scare you," Michael replied. "I just need you to understand. You come after me, and the swarm will come for you."

With that, he turned and left, his swarm trailing behind him. He didn't need to see Conrad's reaction to know the message had been received.

As Michael moved from target to target, he made sure his actions weren't hidden. Rumors spread quickly in the Nightside, and the story of the mysterious man with the swarm began to grow.

At Strangefellows, Alex gave him a knowing look as he cleaned glasses behind the bar.

"Word is you've been busy," Alex said, sliding a drink across the counter.

"Just evening the odds," Michael replied, pulling the glass toward him.

Alex smirked. "You're making waves, kid. People are starting to talk."

"Good," Michael said. "Let them."

He downed the drink in one gulp, the faint hum of his swarm buzzing in the back of his mind. The Pembrokes had made the first move, but now it was his turn. And he wasn't stopping until the family was brought to its knees.