Fragile Hope

Chapter 1-3

The gray sky was beginning to darken. Evening came early at this time of year; he would need to get home to make sure that Claire had something to eat. Though, of course, she could order Michael to prepare her dinner.

Harry walked under his umbrella, humming softly to himself as his shoes squished in the puddles. A part of him wanted to call Sora and see if she was free this evening, but it was probably best to have a quiet night on his own.

Hair stood up on the back of his neck.

Cop instincts made him listen for the sound of footsteps behind him, and there were several. He counted at least four people – maybe more – all moving rather noisily. It was probably nothing to worry about. Just some kids walking home from class. Still, he didn't like having people behind him.

He turned.

There were six in total, four young men and two young women, all about Melissa's age. And they were a perfect rainbow of hues. One boy had a strong chin, a pale face and short, blonde hair. Next to him, another young man with dark-brown skin and curly hair glared daggers at Harry.

One of the girls was short and petite with tanned skin and long honey-coloured hair. The other was strikingly pale with blue hair cut boyishly short. The diversity in their little wouldn't have mattered much to Harry – this was Leyria, after all – except that they were all dressed alike, each one in a formal high-collared shirt under a dark sweater. “You're right,” Blue-Hair said. “That is him.”

Clenching his teeth with a hiss, Harry shook his head. “Whatever you're thinking,” he said, stepping forward. “Put it out of your minds right now. I'm not a religious figure, and I have no intention of becoming one.”

“No, you're not,” the blonde boy agreed.

“Who says we want you to be one?” Blue-Hair added.

Harry blinked, then took a moment to recover his wits and smother the anxiety that made his heart beat a little faster. “Well, then. So long as we agree.” He turned to go but caught motion in the corner of his eye.

It was one of the young men, a short, olive-skinned fellow with closely-cropped dark hair and a thin mustache. “You're what's wrong with this planet.” His voice was ice cold. “Foreigners. You move in, spreading your ideas.”

“I thought Leyrians had evolved beyond talk like that.”

The long-haired girl practically sneered at him as she came forward to stand beside her friend. “It's hard to evolve,” she spat, “when savages like you keep trying to drag us back into the Stone Age.”

Harry shut his eyes, his head sinking with the weight of his dismay, and rubbed his brow with the back of one hand. “I get it,” he said. “This is Leyria. Prejudice, bigotry, it's all ancient history to you kids.”

Lifting his chin, Harry let his gaze linger on the young woman. “But it's not ancient history for me,” he went on. “For me, it was cold, hard reality since the day I was born. I have seen first-hand what prejudice can drive people to do.”

They were hanging on his every word, watching him with guarded expressions. But he could see that he had piqued their curiosity. “It's a poison of the mind,” Harry went on. “You let it in – even just a little – and it will twist you into-”

He cut off when the blue-haired girl pushed her way through the others and faced him with a snarl that belonged on a rabid dog. “You see what he's doing?” she snapped. “He says he doesn't want to be worshiped, and yet here he is. Trying to lead us out of our ignorant ways.”

“That's not what-”

The young man with blonde hair was the next to approach Harry, and though his cheeks were flushed, he managed to effect an outward calm. “You don't belong here,” he said. “This is our world, not yours.”

“I beg to differ,” Harry countered. “This city is my home.”

“Not for long.”

Mr. Blond strode forward without a moment's hesitation as if he were absolutely certain that his companions would back him up. The others waited only a second before falling in behind him.

Panic welled up inside Harry, but it vanished in an instant. The N'Jal was singing in the back of his mind. All he had to do was reach into his pocket and take its power. These young idiots were no threat to him.

But he didn't take the N'Jal.

Instead, he flung open his trench coat and drew the small pistol that he wore on his hip. A good thing that he had obtained a concealed-carry permit just last month. If he was going to be working with the Justice Keepers, then there was always a chance that one of Slade's lackeys might decide to attack him on a routine trip to the park. And the next time one of them tried it, he would be ready.

Harry pointed the gun at Mr. Blond's leg. The kid was in such a rage that he just kept coming anyway. “Crowd Control!” Harry yelled. All three LEDs on the barrel turned green.

Mr. Blonde tried to rush him.

Harry fired.

A bullet struck the young man's left shin, then bounced off and fell to the ground. Mr. Blond yelped, hopping on one foot and clapping a hand over the wound. “Damn it!” He tumbled over, landing on his side, stretched out on the rain-slick sidewalk.

The others converged on Harry.

He swung the pistol in a wide arc, pointing it directly at Blue-Hair. She froze, then backed away from him with her hands up. Once again, Harry adjusted his aim, this time pointing the gun at Mustache.

That guy took two more steps and froze.

“Go home,” Harry said.

The five of them were slinking away, moving cautiously as if they thought that the sight of them running away might provoke Harry to start shooting. Mr. Blond was still on the ground.

He was sitting now, clutching his wounded leg and hissing from the sting. The kid would have a nasty welt but nothing more. Good cops learned how to defuse a situation with minimal force. Harry had not forgotten his training.

“Come on,” Harry said. “Let me have a look at your leg.”

“Stay away from me!”

“Fine!” Harry growled. “But a word of advice. Maybe you want to rethink who you spend your time with. This group will get you into trouble.”