Chapter Text
One thousand years ago, superstition and the sword ruled. It was a time of darkness, it was a world of fear, It was the age of Gargoyles.
Stone by day, warriors by night. We were betrayed by the humans we had sworn to protect. Frozen in stone by magic spell for a thousand years. Now here in Manhattan, the spell is broken... and we live again!
We are defenders of the night. We are Gargoyles!
The late night chill of New York burrowed into the bones of pedestrians scrambling to get home before the chill robbed them of further warmth. Some were coming home from a busy day at work, ready to relax with their families. Others were thinking of the late night stocks and wishing their bosses were dead. Furthermore hoped to make it home before those monstrous gargoyles made their appearance.
The gargoyle menace had been the subject of headlines all month. The Tabloid Tattler frequently published interviews with those claiming to have spoken with these mysterious beasts as well as regular sightings in the cookie aisle of the supermarket.
More reliable were the news reports from WVRN where the lead reporter, Jon Castaway, held the NYPD and other leaders to account on what they were going to do about the beasts wrecking havoc on their city.
"The destruction of the clock tower, and the subsequent damage to the NYPD building has cost the city upwards 70 million dollars. Tax-payer dollars!" Jon stated, boring down at the camera with barely restrained hate.
"NYPD has proven itself incompetent in corralling the monsters.
Maria Chavez, the Chief of Detectives of the 23rd Precinct has refused to respond to complaints from the city, and the so-called Gargoyles task force headed up by Matt Bluestone and Elisa Maza have done more to shield the gargoyles than help the average New Yorkers. Calls to not interact with them and to not initiate contact does nothing when they are coming into our city, hurting our people and interfering with our way of life. They've added more danger to these streets than Draco and his gang. They are killers."
"Will you turn it off, Morgan? I'm getting a headache," Elisa said when she walked into the precinct to hear that the radio was being commandeered by WVRN's 24/7 anti-gargoyle rhetoric.
She remembered when they used that radio to hear crimes in progress.
"Sorry, Maza, but gargoyles take priority," Morgan said, giving a tired smile that softened the refusal. She understood. Most of the senior cops at 23 were tired of the gargoyle mania. She knew the gargoyles didn't cause as much damage as people claimed. She knew they never hurt anyone.
But their pagers were clogged up by overexcited tourists and citizens calling in false alarms. Or if they did see one of the Manhattan Clan it was from a distance faraway, not interacting with anyone much less harassment.
But the media amplified the worst fears about these mythological creatures, and people were more likely to blame the high crime rate on the gargoyles rather than Draco's gang having free rein since the gargoyles had to stay low. It was frustrating and it rankled Elisa more when some of the rookies sided with the WVRN's biased reporting or were more concerned with getting glory for taking down the gargoyles rather than focusing on their beats.
If only she could share the reason for Jon Castaway aka Jon Carter, real name Jon Canmore's rage against the gargoyles. Fueled more by his own blind hatred and guilt rather than the self-righteous zeal he portrayed to the public.
She had just returned from visiting Jason at rehab. He was building up more arm strength and learning to maneuver in his wheelchair.
"It's frustrating," he admitted, "Having to think about bumping into objects I never really thought of before."
But he was adjusting surprisingly well compared to the mission-driven determination she experienced when she first interfered with his hunt for the gargoyles. He had realized the actions of Demona were not related to the actions of the clan and that he shouldn't continue the cycle of his family.
"Unfortunately, Jon doesn't get that. I've tried calling him, but. . . He hasn't visited."
It was like a punch to the gut to see the loneliness in his eyes. His brother was using Jason's paralysis as fuel for his anti-gargoyle crusade, yet he wouldn't visit or listen to what Jason had to say. He didn't want to forgive.
"I know this might not help right now, but I've been in a similar situation with my own stubborn little brother," Elisa said, squeezing Jason's shoulder, "Sometimes you have to let them make their own path and hope someday they'll be ready to listen."
"They're hunting down your children. They're raising costs. They're terrorizing the homeless!"
Not that it made it easier to listen to Jon's tirades.
"Oh, they're terrorizing the homeless. Now, people care about the homeless," Elisa muttered.
"What?" Morgan asked.
"Nothing," Elisa forced a smile, "I'm going to head out."
She tugged her jacket closer against herself, doing little to defeat the biting wind. Her head was down, but her eyeline kept pace with her surroundings, observing for suspicious shadows, unmarked vans and the like as she headed to Xanatos' building.
When she hit the doorbell, Elisa had to fight the urge to reach into her back pocket for a nonexistent warrant.
Damn it was strange to go to Xanatos' domain as a mutual ally.
"Guess politics isn't the only place for strange bedfellows." If there was anything she had learned during her time with the clan, it had brought a lot of surprising allies and even more sinister enemies.
"Miss Maza, you may come up," Owen's bored monotone crackled through the speakers and she entered the Eyrie Building, going up the ultra-modern elevator to the crumbling castle to the clan's old/new home.
Xanatos never came to greet her when she visited the gargoyles, which is how she preferred it. While she could accept Goliath's belief that Xanatos had some heart in him, hell she had seen it herself, she was still suspicious of the billionaire's newfound friendship. Perhaps it came from genuine gratitude for the clan's help in protecting his son, but she was sure he'd find other uses for the gargoyles at a later date.
She peeked into the rooms in the castle. First she saw Hudson catching up on Celebrity Hockey with Bronx sleeping by his feet. The elder gargoyle was getting as riled up as a regular New Yorker at the Yankees game.
Smothering a chuckle, Elisa moved on until she heard murmuring behind another door.
There was Broadway and Angela cuddled close over A Tale of Two Cities.
"Can you believe she would condemn him like that? Madame Defarge is just awful," Angela said indignantly.
"I know, but I think that's what Dickens is trying to say about justice based on one person can turn quickly into just revenge. Not justice," Broadway said.
"A universal theme today," Elisa thought to herself. "Hopefully, we won't have a bloody revolution before people come to their senses."
The image of Jason's injured, prone form struck her mind, freezing her for a moment before she banished the thought away.
She hurried up the steps to where she knew Goliath took his perch.
She took a moment to admire his muscular visage, croached as he observed the city skyline. It had been intimidating when she first met him. Stole her breath with images of how he could break like a twig with his claws.
However, it only brought her comfort now because she knew that big body held an ever bigger heart and nobler spirit. He was a true leader, commanding strength, respect and integrity. She trusted him with her life, as a true partner.
For life. . . she had doubts about that sometimes, but those were small compared to how her heart swelled when she saw him.
"Goliath," she said softly and he turned to face her. The hard face, stone by day, softened with a smile and her own heart skipping a beat. Once more she was glad that her darkened complexion and the night meant he couldn't see her blush.
"Elisa," his deep timber coiled deep in her and she approached him for a hug and a kiss. His skin was never soft, but it was smooth and his strength translated to the power in his kiss like a tide threatening to take her out to sea and she loved the rush of it.
"How are you?" she asked when she took a breath,
Goliath sighed deeply. She knew. He never complained but she could see the frustration in his brow.
"Brooklyn took watch for the night, at a distance. We didn't help anyone," he said, the disdain at that restriction evident in his tone.
"I know, but now that people are aware of your existence it isn't like before. They'll take your help the wrong way. Or it could be a trap by-" Elisa said.
"The Quarrymen," Goliath finished for her.
The Quarrymen were a new group. Basically the Ku Klux Klan hunting down the mythological with their black hoods and perchent for carrying contraband weapons. They wore them with pride, ignorant or perversely proud of their similarities with a known hate group.
It didn't help that news outlets like WVRN glossed over their obvious overlap and praised them as "vigilantes willing to do what the cowardly leaders of our city will not." Margot Yale, the new ADA practically gave the group the district's seal of approval to continue their activities with impunity.
All the clan could do was try to keep their distance. Help only if there was threat of death or bodily harm to an innocent. Otherwise. . .
"I had to let a woman lose her purse with all money. She had been hoping to get a real meal instead of going to the soup kitchen," Goliath said bitterly, "Broadway told me that Draco's been selling guns to some high schoolers who can sell them to buyers because police won't suspect them as easily as Draco. It's easy money for them."
"Thank you for the tip," Elisa said, hoping to soothe him.
"It's not enough!" Goliath interrupted, "This is our purpose. We must defend the defenseless even if we may become a target ourselves. We can handle it."
"It's not the same world," Elisa said, repeating the argument they've had the past few weeks, "You may be able to handle it, but how can you help someone who doesn't want to be helped by you. The media, the Quarrymen will twist your actions for the worst."
"Why should that matter? At least those we saved will know the truth. We do not do this for the thanks. We do this to help," Goliath said, his wings spreading in an echo of his own wish to explode.
"I know. I know. I want you to help, but New York has survived without you for a long time. I'm not saying that this will be forever. But for now, you must lay low. Matt and I are trying to turn the tide. Xanatos too. This is a war. We have to let the public calm down or else they will always be hunting you. How can you continue your mission if you constantly have to be alert to enemies? Can you retreat in order to win the greater battle?"
Goliath growled, looked out in the distance and sighed.
"I promise it's been working. Bluestone has been fielding calls from his former FBI buddies and they said that although there's some interest, not enough for them to formally investigate you. You're safe from their forces. We'll protect you. I'll always be on your side."
That's how their arguments usually ended. Goliath understood the stakes despite his exasperation. They've repeated this arguement so often that Elisa suspected he knew all the reasons, he just wanted someone else to insist that their current actions were the only way to succeed. That this was a strategic retreat, not cowardly self-preservation.
Once she saw Goliath's breathing even out, she came close and leaned her head on his shoulder. She felt his arm slip around her waist with its comforting weight.
"If Brooklyn's out, where's Lexington?" she asked.
"Watching over Alexander with Owen. They're trying to teach him chess," Goliath answered.
"He really likes that little guy," Elisa commented.
"It gives him something to do than watch television. Hudson is becoming addicted to hockey," he said.
"I saw," Elisa said, "What about you? I hope you've found a hobby besides brooding."
He snorted, "I've joined Broadway and Angela's book club. Although sometimes, I wish for more."
"Maybe we can go on another world tour? That will definitely keep us out of the Quarrymen's way, and we can visit the other clans. Griffin was eager to reconnect," she said.
"A flight in Paris would be nice," Goliath's baritone rumbled in her ear.
"I'd love that."
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Xanatos' Meeting Room
"What else do you know about Intracom?" Fox queried, clicking through the Powerpoint presentation Owen had arranged.
"Intracom works exclusively in the technological sector, looking to cutting edge innovations in bio-pharma-engineering. Electrical outlets, data centers, biology labs, what have you. They tried to poach Dr. Anton, but the man reported to me which is how I learned of their existence."
"He knows who pays, and who holds his secrets," Fox smirked.
Xanatos returned the self-satisfied smile, "It was the right move as Intracom has little presence in public records despite being a private company since 1965. Based in California by a Mr. Hanek, leadership has transferred to Dorn, no records for either one, who is moving operations to the East Coast."
"A shadow company led by ghosts. Intriguing," Fox said.
"A slithery mercenary ghost. Other companies who've gone into partnership with them have mysteriously lost their leadership or shuttered completely. Assets going to Intracom in the liquidation. Who knows how much they've amassed and what."
"Worthwhile assets considering the means they went to seize investments. If we play it right, we can subsume Intracom under our own banner," Fox said, a crafty scheme entered her eyes as she calculated how to best play Intracom's propensity for hostile takeovers to their advantage.
"Especially if a shady company like theirs is violating monopoly laws, it would be all the better if their work was transferred to an upstanding one like ours," Xanatos said, already dreaming of new resources to elevate his company and his standing in the Illuminati.
"Owen, make a call to Dorn to discuss negotiations on how we can help each other in the cut-through business of technology. An exchange of insider knowledge and resources is paramount before we consider investing in a partnership."
Unbeknownst to them an unmarked fighter jet was speeding across the moonlit sky. Pass the shaded, bullet-proof windows a swarthy brunette male, albino female, a yeti, a blonde man and Egyptian woman were seated and reviewing blurry footage of the gargoyles from the local NY station.
The brunette man cocked his laser gun with a distinct click.
"Alright, STAR Team, time to bag us some gargoyles."