Chapter 63: False Security
The cards felt smooth between Garfield Lynns' fingers as he arranged his hand, a satisfied smirk playing across his face.
The recreation room of the federal minimum security facility was a far cry from Blackgate's concrete hellscape—soft lighting, cushioned chairs, even a decent television mounted on the wall.
The other inmates weren't hardened killers or psychotic freaks; they were white-collar embezzlers, tax evaders, and small-time drug dealers. Sheep, really.
"Full house," Lynns announced, spreading his cards across the table with flair. "Kings over eights."
The other players groaned and tossed their cards down. Jack Daniels, a former stock broker doing eighteen months for securities fraud, shook his head. "That's the fourth hand you've won tonight, Garfield. I am beginning to think you're cheating."
Lynns chuckled, "Just good at reading people, Danny boy. It's all about understanding what makes them burn." He gathered the pile of commissary items that served as their pot—candy bars, cigarettes, and even instant coffee packets. "Besides, where I come from, this isn't even a real game. Back in Gotham, we played for bigger stakes."
That drew attention. Several inmates had drifted over during the card game, forming a loose circle around the table. Lynns preened under their focus. It had been weeks since he'd had a proper audience for his stories, and the isolation was starting to eat at him more than he cared to admit.
"Tell us about Gotham," said Rodriguez, a nervous man from the Narrows who'd been caught running drugs for the Falcone family. "I heard some crazy stuff goes down there."
Lynns leaned back in his chair, savoring the moment. "Crazy doesn't begin to cover it. You've got your standard psychos—Joker, Ivy, the usual carnival of freaks. But none of them understand artistry like I do." His eyes took on a distant gleam. "Fire is the purest form of expression. It strips away all the pretense, all the lies. In those final moments, when the flames are licking at your skin, you discover who you really are."
"Jesus," whispered someone from the back of the group.
"The retirement home," Rodriguez pressed, "Is it true what they said on the news? Twenty-three people?"
Lynns' smile widened. "Twenty-three elderly souls liberated from their suffering. You should have seen how the flames danced through those corridors, Danny. Like liquid gold flowing through the halls. And the sounds..."
He closed his eyes, as if savoring a fine wine.
"Each scream was different. A wheelchair-bound granny had this high, keening wail. Then another old man—his was more of a growl, like he was still fighting some battle."
The circle of inmates had grown uncomfortably quiet. Several men shifted nervously, and Lynns could practically smell their fear. Good. Fear was almost as intoxicating as flame.
"You know what the beautiful part was?" Lynn continued with an almost reverent voice. "They couldn't run. Oh, some tried—this old lady even grabbed her walker and tried shuffling down the hall like she was in a race. But fire… fire's quicker than age. Doesn't care who you are. Rich, poor, young, old—once the smoke's in your lungs, you all go the same way."
Rodriguez cleared his throat nervously. "Speaking of Gotham... you hear about that maniac back there? The one they call the Architect?"
Lynns paused in organizing his winnings, looking genuinely confused. "The what now?"
"The Architect," Rodriguez repeated, glancing around the circle. Several other inmates nodded anxiously. "Some kind of vigilante or serial killer, depending on who you ask. Been taking out criminals all over the city. Real brutal stuff."
"Heard he tortured Vincent Torrino for hours before killing him," added Jack Daniels. "Cut him up piece by piece."
"And that psycho Zsasz," chimed in another voice. "He even got to Maroni and The Roman."
Lynns shrugged dismissively. "Listen, I was working contracts in Hub City and Coast City for months before my Gotham job. Some new player making noise? Please." He waved a scarred hand. "Probably just Batman cleaning house and the media making up ghost stories. You know how Gotham loves its urban legends. The Bat, the Joker, now this 'Architect'—it's all theater."
"But the crime scenes—" Rodriguez started.
"Crime scenes can be staged," Lynns interrupted. "Trust me, I know something about dramatic presentations. Besides, I torch a whole retirement home and suddenly everyone's an expert on 'real criminals.'" His laugh was harsh and bitter. "Whatever this Architect is supposed to be, he's probably just another cape trying to out-crazy the competition. Gotham's got more masked freaks per square mile than anywhere else on Earth."
The truth was, Lynns had been so focused on his arson contracts in other cities that he'd barely paid attention to Gotham's local news. Fire was a demanding mistress—it required complete devotion.
"Besides," he continued, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it with a small torch lighter, "I've got bigger concerns than some wannabe serial killer. Agent Crawford and I have an understanding. I provide the feds with my expertise—and they make sure I serve my time somewhere civilized." He gestured around the comfortable recreation room. "Win-win situation."
"They're actually letting you build weapons for them?" Some one asked in surprise.
Lynns took a long drag from his cigarette, exhaling smoke through his nostrils like a satisfied dragon. "Not weapons. Tools. Educational materials. The federal government wants to understand modern arson techniques for investigative purposes & some military operations. Who better to teach them than the best fire artist in the business?"
It was a beautiful arrangement, really. Crawford was desperate for a career-making case, something that would get him noticed by the brass in Washington. Lynns was happy to help—for the right considerations. That minimum-security facility was just the beginning. With the resources he receives, he can grow his arsenal in peace.
"What happens when you're done helping them?" Rodriguez asked.
Lynns smiled, and there was something evil in the expression. "Well, that's the beauty of fire, Rodriguez. It's renewable. There will always be more buildings to burn, more people who need... purification. And with federal-grade equipment and training?" He chuckled. "Let's just say I'll be able to work on a much grander scale."
The other inmates exchanged worried glances. Lynns didn't care.
He began shuffling the cards for another hand, his mind already racing ahead to future projects. Retirement homes were just the beginning—there were schools, hospitals, apartment complexes full of families. Maybe he should try a kindergarden next time.
"Fire is the ultimate equalizer," he continued, "Rich or poor, criminal or innocent, when those flames start climbing the walls, everyone becomes equal. That's what makes it so pure, so honest. In those final moments, all burn away."
The room had grown eerily quiet except for the soft whisper of cards being distributed. On the television, a news anchor was discussing budget appropriations, the sound muted but the closed captions scrolling across the bottom of the screen. Normal, boring federal facility life. Nothing like the chaos of Gotham.
"Of course, the feds don't understand the artistic aspect," Lynns admitted. "They think it's all about property damage and casualty statistics. But fire... fire is about transformation. It takes the old, the corrupt, the diseased, and burns it away to make room for something new. It's almost spiritual."
"You're completely insane," Jack muttered.
Lynns looked up from his cards, eyes glittering with dangerous amusement. "Sanity is overrated. Sanity is what keeps most people trapped in their little boxes, afraid to reach for something greater. Me? I embraced the flame. I let it remake me into something pure, something honest." He touched one of the burn scars on his face almost lovingly. "Each mark is a reminder of what I've learned, what I've become."
The heavy metal door to the recreation room opened with a sharp clang, interrupting the card game. Agent Jim Crawford stepped inside, his usually organized suit wrinkled and his tie askew. The man looked like he hadn't slept in days.
"Lynns," Crawford called out, his voice tight with stress. "Need to talk. Now."
Lynns sighed theatrically and set down his cards. "Gentlemen, duty calls. Don't touch my winnings—I've got excellent memory for inventory."
He followed Crawford out of the recreation room and down a sterile corridor lined with administrative offices.Crawford's office was small but expensively furnished-leather chair that cost more than most federal employees made in a month, imported Italian coffee machine, artwork that screamed "I have connections."
Crawford closed the door and immediately loosened his tie further.
"We need results, Lynns. Fast ones." Crawford slumped into his desk chair, rubbing his temples. "The brass is breathing down my neck about this arrangement. They want something concrete, not some theory about combustion temperatures."
Lynns settled into the visitor's chair. "Rome wasn't burned in a day, Crawford. Good work takes time."
"Time is what we don't have!" Crawford snapped. "The Director wants a comprehensive report on your 'consulting contributions' by the end of the month. If I can't show substantial progress..." He trailed off, staring at a stack of performance evaluations.
"What you need to understand," Lynns said patiently, "is that fire is both an art and a science. The technical specifications you want—sure, I can give you those. But the real value is in understanding the psychology of arson, the tactical applications."
Crawford looked up hopefully. "The psychological profile work you mentioned?"
"Exactly. Any federal fire investigator can tell you how a building burned. I can tell you why the arsonist chose that specific target, that particular method. I can help you get inside their heads." Lynns leaned forward conspiratorially. "For instance, there are three primary motivations for arson: financial gain, mental gratification, and ideological statement. Each category requires different investigative approaches."
"That's... actually useful," Crawford admitted.
"Of course it is. I'm not some common criminal, Crawford. I'm a professional with decades of experience. But expertise like mine doesn't come cheap, and it certainly doesn't come fast." Lynns examined his fingernails casually. "Good thing you've got me in such comfortable accommodations. Really helps with the creative process."
Crawford's phone buzzed. He glanced at it and his face went pale. "The Deputy Director wants to see my preliminary report tomorrow evening. Tomorrow, Lynns. I need something concrete I can put in front of him."
"Then you'll have it," Lynns said smoothly. "A detailed technical manual covering residential arson investigation techniques. Twenty pages of pure art. But in return, I want some assurances."
"What kind of assurances?"
Lynns smiled. "I want guarantees that this arrangement continues beyond my sentence. Federal consultant status, proper credentials, access to law enforcement databases. Think of how valuable an asset like me could be in the field."
Crawford thought for some time and nodded. "Done. Just get me that report."
"Consider it handled." Lynns stood and headed for the door. "Oh, and Crawford? You might want to consider expanding our scope. Arson investigation is just the beginning."
After Lynns left, Crawford sat alone in his office, staring at the stack of paperwork threatening to topple over. His lifestyle required constant cash flow-house mortgage, the imported car payments, the expensive clothes that maintained his image. This Firefly consultation was supposed to be his golden ticket but now Internal Affairs was sniffing around.
He pushed the doubts aside and began typing up a memo, embellishing Lynns' capabilities even further. His career hung in the balance, and he'd hitched it to a complete psychopath. But if the reports were good enough, if they impressed the right people...
He pushed the doubts aside and began typing up a memo. Success required risks, and Crawford had already come too far to back out now. Besides, what was the worst that could happen? Lynns was locked up, contained, supervised. The man might be insane, but he was their insane arsonist.
Crawford saved the document and gathered his files. The clock on his desk read 9:47 PM—another late night at the office. At least he could work on the preliminary report from home, maybe get some actual sleep before tomorrow's meeting with the Deputy Director.
The drive to his suburban house took thirty minutes through empty highways. Crawford lived alone in a modest two-story building. His only companion was Rex, a massive German Shepherd he'd adopted from a retired K-9 unit. The dog was getting older but still served as an excellent guard animal and decent company during lonely evenings.
Crawford pulled into his driveway and fumbled for his house keys. The porch light was on a timer, casting a warm yellow glow across the front steps. Everything looked normal, peaceful even. Maybe he could salvage this disaster of a career move after all.
As he approached the front door, Rex started barking from inside the house. Loud, insistent barking that echoed through the quiet neighborhood.
Crawford sighed and inserted his key into the lock. "Rex! Quiet down, boy. It's just me."
But the barking didn't stop. If anything, it grew louder, more frantic. Crawford could hear the dog pacing back and forth in the living room, his claws clicking against the hardwood floors.
"Rex!" Crawford called out more sharply as he stepped inside. "Stop the barking! What's gotten into you?"
The barking grew even more intense, desperate now, as if Rex was trying to warn him about something. Crawford dropped his briefcase and flicked on the hallway light, frowning. The dog's behavior was completely out of character—Rex was usually calm and obedient.
"Rex, what is it? What's wrong, boy?"
The barking reached a fever pitch, echoing through the house like an alarm. Then, as suddenly as it had begun, it stopped.
Complete silence.
Crawford stood frozen in his hallway, briefcase at his feet, the house eerily quiet around him. The silence felt somehow wrong, unnatural. Rex never stopped barking mid-alert unless...
"Rex?" Crawford called softly, his voice barely above a whisper.
No response. No sound of paws on hardwood. No familiar jingle of dog tags.
Nothing at all.
Crawford's hand instinctively moved toward the service weapon on his hip as he realized something was very, very wrong in his house.
Suggestion :- Warhammer : Bound by Time (a new one, but nice)
If u guys know any good WH40K fanfic do suggest.
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Advanced chapters on patre*n
DC : Architect of Vengeance
patre0n*c*m/Lord_Meph1sto