A Bar Called O'Malley's #1

Rain hammers the alley behind O'Malley’s. The hooded intruder is pinned to the brick, the red pulse in their pack blinking like a warning heart. Scott squares up on one side, Darcy on the other, and the cut cable lies across the threshold like proof of sabotage.

Patrick moves first, a blur of wet boots and crackling speed, snatching the wire cutters before the intruder can twitch them higher. In the same motion, he spots the device in the pack, its light synced to something deeper in the pub’s systems.

The intruder’s head jerks between them, trapped and breathing hard. Then Patrick’s hand flashes, a sharp bolt of lightning snapping into the soaked cable at his feet. It spits blue-white sparks, and Scott and Darcy both stare at him, seeing exactly what he is.

For a beat, the rain and the buzzing wire are the only sounds. The attack is no longer just outside the pub, it is already inside their lives.

Patrick lowers the lightning from his hand and points with the seized cutters toward the red-glowing pack. Darcy steps in on the other side, grabs the intruder by the collar, and yanks them upright against the brick.

Darcy tightens her grip, but the intruder coughs out one more detail, eyes fixed on the glowing device. The signal is already armed, and the rain-slick alley suddenly feels too small for whatever is coming next.

Patrick keeps the charged hand steady, blue sparks crawling over his knuckles. The cutters hang low in the other hand, a threat without motion.

The alley goes tight and silent except for rain. The red glow in the pack pulses once, like it just heard its own name.

Scott gives one sharp nod and moves in, already fishing rope from a wall hook by the back door. Darcy loosens her grip just enough to haul the intruder upright without letting them slip free.

The intruder is cinched at the wrists and marched toward the rear entrance, rain hissing off their hood. The red beacon keeps pulsing on the alley floor, untouched for the moment.

Inside, the pub feels suddenly vulnerable, all dark wood and half-secured doors. Scott heads for the cellar stairs with the captive, while Darcy throws a glance at Patrick and the back hall.

A distant roll of thunder shakes the windows. Somewhere beyond the alley, the night keeps its appointment, and the beacon still glows for whoever is answering it.

Patrick snatches the beacon from the floor before Scott can get below it, sparks already crawling over his fingers.

He crushes the pulse in one sharp burst of lightning. The red glow snaps out, and the intruder flinches at the crack of ozone.

The shock kicks back hard enough to sting Patrick’s palm, and the beacon leaves a blackened mark on the boards.

From the cellar stairs, Scott turns back with the rope in hand, while Darcy tightens her grip on the captive and waits for the next name to fall.

Patrick drops to one knee beside the captive and yanks at the rope on Scott’s wrist, but the knot holds stubbornly. The intruder twists hard, and the whole bundle jerks out of line before Patrick can cinch it tight.

He lunges for the cellar door instead, one hand on the handle, the other still clutching the charred beacon. The warped latch catches halfway shut, then rebounds with a dull clack.

The intruder plants their boots and wrenches free just enough to drag the rope against the stair rail, leaving Patrick with a half-tied captive and a door that will not stay shut.

For a beat, the cellar mouth sits open to the pub, dark and exposed, while Scott steps in from the landing and Darcy tightens her grip, waiting for Patrick to choose what gets secured first.

Patrick hauls the rope tight, and the intruder’s wrists lock together at last. Darcy releases them just long enough for him to cinch the knot, then plants them back against the stair rail.

He turns to the cellar door, braces a shoulder to it, and drives it inward until the warped latch bites against the frame with a hard, final scrape.

The cellar mouth shuts on the dark, and the pub feels smaller for it. Smoke from the beacon thins across the floorboards, drifting past Darcy’s collar trinket as she keeps the captive pinned.

The cellar door holds firm against the frame, but the wood groans under the pressure of the intruder's frantic, muffled kicks from the other side. The lock is secure, yet the rhythmic thudding against the door suggests the containment is far from absolute.

Patrick gets to work fast, dragging a table into the front window and wedging another under the rear door. Scott hauls over a crate of bottles, then stops only long enough to snatch the bat rack and set it on the bar.

Darcy is already at the windows, hammering boards across the glass with quick, efficient strikes. The pirate trinket at her collar flashes once as she leans into the work.

Patrick gathers the sword, the wrapped bat, and the rest of the usable gear in one sweep, stacking it behind the bar within arm's reach. The cellar door gives one last hard jolt, then settles back into the frame as the room locks down around it.

By the time the last board bites into place, the pub has changed. Doors are blocked, windows are sealed, and every weapon is accounted for. From inside the cellar, the intruder slams again, trapped, while somewhere outside the next move waits for permission.