Duodecimus Gradus

Tightening the straps until they hurt, Vasco Voll stands upright to glide into a confident stride out of the weeping alley and into the flickering light of the street. His black jacket grows unevenly damp in the night’s rain as he picks up his stride, deciding his movements according to a map on his phone. Picking up speed, he slides around a sharp corner, kicking up a small cloud of rainwater. He switches his phone from the map to his camera, presses record, and takes off sprinting into the darker street. Flicking the phone against a garden box such that it captures a clear view of the street, Vasco pounds the sidewalk and leaps just as a bald man spins around the corner of a building. 

Having caught the man entirely by surprise, Vasco slams into his chest and drives him into the cement with a crack of the skull and a slosh of the puddle. Springing back to his feet, Vasco turns and thrusts his arm out from his side to produce a baton from his sleeve as a second man with a blue sweatshirt rushes into the camera’s view. Blue swings right at Vasco, clearly telegraphing his move, then cuts it short and attempts an uppercut with his left. Vasco, predicting the feint, steps to his opponent’s right. 

In one motion, he raises his baton to catch Blue’s right forearm with enough force to bruise, then drops it down into the path of the left uppercut; Blue’s knuckles meet the metal rod and suffer terribly for it. He yelps in pain and stumbles backward. Vasco raises his baton, preparing to crash it into Blue’s skull, when he feels a pressure around his ankle. Before he can react, his leg is yanked out from under him. He falls onto his face, barely able to turn his head in time to avoid breaking his nose.

Blue, sensing the advantage and the opportunity for revenge, lumbers over to Vasco and delivers a sharp kick to his upper back, then another, now a curb stomp to the back of the head. Vasco’s legs are still gripped by the bald man’s huge hands, which remain clamped even after Vasco’s desperate attempts to escape. Presently, Blue still wailing on Vasco, the bald man stands without letting go of his prey. As a result, Vasco is pulled upside down. While being raised up, he manages to drive the end of his baton into Blue’s stomach. Blue recoils, coughing, and Vasco feels himself get thrusted downward.

Blood spurts out of his mouth as he coughs himself awake. His eyelids flicker as he struggles to process the world around him. It slowly returns to clarity as he pushes himself to his knees; it’s still nighttime, it’s still raining, he’s on the same corner. And his body is screaming.

Vasco grunts as he forces his quads to thrust him toward the building. Sirens wail a couple blocks away.

Are those…?

Yes, they are.

Red and blue lights dancing in alternation on the buildings down the block, growing brighter. The sirens grow louder.

Stumbling the way he came, Vasco plucks his phone out of the miniature garden and turns the camera off. The battery is almost dead; that was a long time of recording.

His jog-with-intermittent-walking-breaks home is unusual. His whole body is numb. His muscles do as they are told, but they seem to be two or three commands behind Vasco’s orders. And they work slowly, very slowly. Or his brain is working overtime. He can’t tell for sure.

The door groans. Vasco’s keys fall to the ground, clattering next to the baton. He barely squishes his way out of his sweatshirt, stumbling toward the couch, and collapses into darkness.

“I’m still going to have plenty of time to get the whole project wrapped up today, Mart! Come on, when have I ever let you down?” Vasco is on speakerphone. Talking himself out of tardiness is second nature by now, so he’s multitasking on the phone, watching that blue upload bar push itself toward the right side of the screen.

“Vasco, I’m not just calling to rip into you for being late—again,” Mart sighs through the phone. “You’re fired.”
“Fired?” Vasco’s eyes snap away from the phone screen, and his legs flex. He winces in pain. “Mart, my track record is flawless. You can’t be serious,” Vasco counters. 

“I am serious. The company can’t tolerate it, Vasco. Your record is impressive, but it’s not enough. I… I’m sorry.” Blo-oop.

Vasco’s mouth pries itself open slightly. He works his jaw. The phone snaps onto his coffee table. He groans as he bends over to untie his shoes. Ba-ding!

His eyes snap to the screen. Reminder: Dinner with Merry tonight.

He groans again, dialing Merry’s number. “…please leave a message after the tone.”

“Hey… I have to cancel for tonight. I—I woke up really sick. Don’t want to pass it on.”

Vasco is laying in the bathtub, the water steaming into the room. He holds his phone in front of him, watching his most recent video on repeat. He evaluates the motions. All good, he just forgot about the bald guy. To be fair, he played the role of Knocked Out After a Heavy Fall really well.

He rotates the phone and scrolls to evaluate its statistics. The video had a healthy stream of likes until right before Vasco started drawing the bath water. It was now sitting between two and three hundred, with only a handful of comments. He flicks the video away and returns to his home page, scrolling slowly through the scores of videos sitting there, which range dramatically in view count. His channel barely maintains even a quaint repeat audience.

“The Nightwatchman of Lakewood” has a few great moments, Vasco thought. He scanned the deep red scar that snaked from his wrist to his elbow, wincing as he remembered that night. But he doesn’t make money.

The phone buzzed, producing a banner on the top of the screen with the headline “Miscreant street activity swells in upper Lakewood, robberies up in commercial zones.”

Vasco drops his head too hard against the acrylic tub.

And he doesn’t make a difference.