DarkBeast.com :: Forums :: Post New Message :: Board
This message Further Adventures of the Lair Legion #4: The story of what happens when the future you always wanted sneaks up behind you and strangles you two death. And two twisted love stories. And supercriminals being exploited. And a patented Big Giant Action Scene (tm)! was posted by Fin Fang Foom on Monday, December 31, 2001 at 21:45.
Further Adventures of the Lair Legion #4
Plague of Opportunities
---------
I can't get any stronger
I can't climb any higher
You'll never know just how hard I've tried
Cry a little longer
And hold a little tighter
Emotions can't be satisfied...
--Boston, "A Man I'll Never Be"
---------
In those rare times when the mind, body, and soul were in alignment, hope could be shot into the sky. The imagined, idealized existence would eventually come crashing back down, but in theory, a little of it would survive the fall, and things would be somewhat better than before. But it didn't always land on the person who fired it off--what if billions of utopian dreams crashed on one man, drowning him in too much of a good thing? Consider a certain politician, who was about to see a positive future hold both himself and the world hostage...
But, he didn't know it yet. In fact, the car was the only thing keeping him awake. Flesh met cool glass, as a well-dressed man leaned his head against the vehicle's window, slumping. His right temple jittered along with the car; he could feel its movements much more clearly now. That slight discomfort was the perfect thing to keep his eyelids from drooping. Sturmbach Prison still loomed in the background, but it didn't seem to be growing any closer. It was like they were on a treadmill--always moving, but never going anywhere. Someone was talking, but he wasn't listening. His mind was occupied by two things: the view, and opportunities. Or rather, his lack of both.
The interstate wasn't very picturesque; especially with a damp grey sky weighing down on it. And if he didn't at least hear this prisoner out, he'd look bad in the media, so he had to grin and bear it. The view, and opportunities...he didn't know that, within the hour, he'd have more of those two things than he'd ever wanted.
Of the side-by-side four-lane highways, the one going towards Parodiopolis was still moving. Late morning traffic plummeted down it, splashing fresh-fallen sleet everywhere. But on the other side, most of the traffic had actually pulled over to the far right and left lanes. Normally-irate drivers were quieted at the sheer size of an approaching convoy. Sirens pierced through the angry horns and squealing tires. In what arguably registered as a miracle, drivers slowed down and got out of the way.
Two motorcycle cops fronted for the group, giving dirty looks to anyone that looked like trouble. A pair of sleek, black-and-white police cars followed, with a stretch limo close behind them. Two more pairs of black-and-whites followed the limo, and a single motorcycle brought up the rear. A police helicopter and a SPUD Apache sliced through the air above them, scouting ahead with multi-angle camera arrays. Behind them was a caravan of media personnel; a half-dozen news-vans hoping for a photo op.
They were all ignoring the speed limit, moving at a good eighty miles per hour. The sleet had stopped, but everything still looked dreary and sharply-cold. Low-lying buildings, emtpy lots for sale, and construction sites dotted both sides of the eight total lanes. The wind was trampling all over the limo's roof: this far outside the city, there just wasn't anything tall enough to block it.
Inside, two individuals sat in the limo's passenger section, which consisted of two grey-cushioned seats, facing each other. There was easily three feet worth of legroom--certainly not cramped. Both of them had taken a side, so they could look at each other while they talked.
Senator Bryans wore a navy suit and tie, with a white shirt. He was well past fifty, with a wrinkled face, and brown hair that was gradually going grey (though he still had a lot of it). He kept fidgeting with the beeper that his wife had given him, staring at it as if it were some exotic, foreign object. He gingerly held it with his fingertips, making sure not to brush up against anything that might be a button. A hangdog look was plastered on his slightly-sagging face; he clearly didn't want to be there. He sat up straight--given all the cameras that'd be there, the last thing he needed was a mark on his forehead, from leaning against the window...
Accompanying him was Rita Laoson, a Filipino-American fresh out of law school. She'd actually been interning with Bryans' office for the past few years, so she had a good deal of experience. Today, she was acting as a general legal consultant. Her hair was short in back, and somewhat long in front--dark bangs hung on either side of her eyes. She was modestly dressed, in black slacks and a heather-colored turtleneck. A leather attache case sat next to her on the seat, and she was meticulously going over some paperwork.
"He's gotta be lookin' for a deal," Bryans mumbled, with a slight Midwestern accent. "Don't even know why we're coming out here. Let 'im bug New Parody's senator! Can't see how I'm involved in this, none of the crap he pulled was in my state...what, since I'm a ranking Senator, does he want me to use my influence for him?"
Rita shrugged, putting her papers back into her attache case. "I doubt it...he violated international science-ethic laws. Even if you wanted to, you probably couldn't get him out."
That didn't get a good response--he just glared at her, his ego thorougly wounded. But it passed, and a more docile expression settled on his features. "Sorry, sorry." His voice took on a flustered, fed-up tone. "This just seems like a waste of time. He's a supercriminal, these people almost never change..."
"Not really--I mean, you're right about them never changing, but he isn't really a career criminal. Dr. Scaving is a scientist, he just broke the wrong rules. And that led to two...encounters...with the law."
"Cloning, right?"
"Attempts at it, yeah. But it was mainly other stuff, other genetics-related projects. They were mad at him because he was experimenting on, um, people. Against their will. After he was blacklisted from the scientific community, he actually used himself as a test subject, and got powers. I don't know, some kind of biological-modification thing. He used them to rob a few banks."
Bryans looked surprised. "Banks?", he said, with a note of disbelief. "Really? I thought this guy was a supergenius or something..."
"At genetics, yeah. At crime...probably not. Anyway, he robbed them because he needed funding for his research. But Goldeneyed stopped him. One of those wanna-be dictator-terrorists broke him out, and offered to give him all the money he needed, if he'd do a few things for them. That lasted a few months, but NTU-150 brought down most of their organization."
"Mmm." Bryans checked his watch, and looked out the window. "Almost time." He gave Rita a meaningful glance. "What do you think he's after?"
"If his pattern of behavior holds, he just wants to do his experiments and be left alone."
"Fat chance." Bryans looked over his shoulder--out the rear window--and saw all the media vehicles. "Human rights issues aside...God knows we can't look soft on crime, so this guy doesn't have a chance. Besides, some of his crimes took place in other countries...the international community would have a fit."
Rita was tempted to point out that ticking off other countries had never stopped America from doing anything before, but kept her mouth shut.
"Maybe we'll luck out, and he just wants to do any science that we'll let him. Y'know, safe stuff. Maybe he's desperate and has some weird need to follow his 'passion'. Since the superheroes don't want to share their, their secret science knowledge with us, maybe we can play the other side...might as well put the prison population to good use. They can get all rehabilitated and use their skills for the common good..."
Rita said nothing. Bryans decided that what he'd just said must not be something that attracted moderates...her reaction tended to be a good gauge. He'd better shut up about that, and play another angle. But before he could, the limo's intercom buzzed. "We're here."
Sturmbach Prison looked more like a castle than anything, with a series of pseudo-stone walls, all topped off with barbed wire. Guard towers were at the corners, and announcer-booth-like compartments lined each wall. There was a tall, stone-bricked building in the center of it all: it was ugly, windowless, and vaguely resembled an upright rectangle. It was surrounded by mostly-barren hills, colored a very sick green.
As they drove through an elaborate system of high-tech metal gates, Rita tried not to laugh at Bryans' behavior. She'd done work for both parties, and most politicians were virtual children--out of their depth, and trying to play on the world stage. If you left them alone for too long, they'd start building robots and picking on the "weirdos". It was like watching kids pretending to be grown-ups, they just didn't have any clue as to how things really were. We have a complex social problem, so let's throw giant, gaudy robots at it and hope for the best! Anything other than a direct-but-useless solution was beyond their grasp.
When Bryans used her as a sounding board, it reminded her of her little brother. He'd relay his "imaginary friend's" questions, which involved doing possibly-wrong things. Both her brother and Bryans honestly weren't sure whether or not something was right or wrong...they just saw their own interests. Both suffered from a lack of true experience in life...
"But, Scaving just wants to talk. And we can do that," Bryans stated. He then spat out "for now".
The media was parked outside the prison's main wall, reporters lined up with their cameramen. The limo was pulling into the horseshoe-shaped driveway, which had the prison's main entrance at the tip of its curve. The driveway was snaking around patches of half-heartedly-grown grass.
Security personnel opened the limo's door, and Bryans got out, followed by Rita. "They're ready for you, sir."
Bryans looked around, and harshly mumbled to the Secret Service agent. The agent nodded, looking embarrassed. Rita stood on her tiptoes, but didn't see anything unusual. Bryans' face turned red, and he stomped through the steel double-doors.
When they entered the front lobby, Rita saw quite a few security people loitering around. They were government-issue...black suits, sunglasses, etc. They matched the darkness of the prison's interior--grey-tiled floor, walls that consisted of stone blocks, stacked up and stretching down the hallways. She suspected that they weren't actually stone, but something more high-tech inside. But the security guys...they looked like they'd been waiting there for awhile. Were they with someone else?
Bryans' shoes clacked on the floor, echoing through all the empty space. He walked just a bit faster than he needed to, and still looked upset. Then, someone was blocked their path--a remarkably tall redhead, with very pale skin and large, emerald eyes. She wore black jeans and a tucked-in, dusty-green long-sleeved shirt. Judging from Bryans' reaction, she had to have been adorable.
"Warden Colby," he said, with an acknowledging nod. "Is the prisoner ready?"
Rita couldn't mask her surprise: that was the warden? She looked anything but tough...
"Senator Bryans," she said, with a Southern accent. "He's ready to see you now."
The Senator plowed on, heading for the conference room. Rita started to follow him, but "Ms. Colby" wanted an introduction. After Rita explained who she was, the warden smiled.
"Only time we see lawyers 'round here are after they already lost...nice to see one full of youth'n'energy, for a change."
Southern-style hospitality always threw Rita off--she had relatives in Alabama, and she still wasn't used to how polite some of them could be. But she quickly caught up with the Senator, who had made his way into a glass-partitioned white room--the transparent wall divided it in half. There was a table and chairs on their side, and a table and a single chair on the other. But they weren't the only people visiting this particular prisoner...
"Senator Rhobert", Bryans said, forcing a casual tone into his voice. The black-suited African-American rose to his feet, running a hand down his red-and-black-striped tie. He had grey hair that was more like stubble, and a friendly look about him. In his semi-old-age, he'd put on a few pounds, but Bryans was the same way.
He had a thin white man next to him, who was wearing a button-down blue shirt, grey slacks, and a black tie that was too big for him. He looked far younger than he actually was. Based on his floppy brown hair alone, Rita recognized him instantly.
"Carter," she said, questioningly. "What are you--"
"Guess you didn't expect to run into the competition, huh?" Carter stood alongside Rhobert, nudging him. Whether he was addressing Rhobert, or Bryans and Rita, they had no idea--and he didn't seem to, either. Rhobert kept smiling, but his eyes told a different story. Carter saw them, and shut up.
Rita sighed...just what she needed. Another young hotshot for a political party--another lawyer, at that. An over-achieving preppie who was fascinated by pointless political minutiae, and had delusions of grandeur because he attended upper-class, in-crowd DC parties. She was the same way, but still.
At least she knew why Bryans was upset--that Secret Service guy must've told him that Rhobert was there. The two of them were facing off like wild animals, gunning for dominance of the pack.
A knuckle tapped on the glass. "Gentlemen? If you're quite through, I'm ready to begin."
The voice sounded very intelligent, and almost smarmy. They all turned to see Dr. Scaving, who was wearing a blue jumpsuit. He was surprisingly well-built for a scientist, though Rita suspected that he'd biologically modified that aspect of himself. His manacles had been taken off, and he stood on the other side of the glass barrier, sitting on his table. His hair had been shaved off, and a small, black ring stretched around his neck.
"Where's your lawyer?" Rhobert asked.
"I don't need one," Scaving calmly stated. "He's busy at the moment, anyway. Don't worry, though...I had him sign a note. Abby?"
The door to their side of the room was open, and Warden Colby walked in, with a sheaf of paper. "It's true--whatever he says here, you can use against him, whenever you want. His lawyer signed it, and so did he."
Bryans gave him a cockeyed look. "What's this all about?"
Scaving shrugged. "You can help me, and I can help you. Kind of."
Rita wondered why a supercriminal was on a first-name basis with the warden...
"Alright, let's hear it," Rhobert said, sitting down. Carter did the same.
"First of all, I'm sorry for the surprise. I had to invite ranking members from both parties, and if one of you knew the other was coming, well, you might have gotten cold feet. Again, my apologies."
"Get on with it, Scaving," Bryans muttered.
"Oh--since this is strictly business, you should call me The Scavenger. You know, picking and choosing from DNA, that sort of thing...rather fitting. But, that's what this is all about. I assume that you're aware of the cloning controversy? Stem-cell research, human embryos, some countries outlawing it, some not..."
"Go on," Rhobert nodded.
"America already has quite a few issues like this...things that split the population right down the middle. You can't avoid it, and it's nothing but a headache. Over the next few years, you'll pour billions into research for it. And even if you can get a working model, doing actual cloning will involve glitches, death...well, more like failed life. But you get the picture. It'll drive people apart, cost a lot of money, maybe mess up your relations with countries who have a different stance...God knows you people won't be able to handle it."
Scaving circled his table, gesturing to himself, apparently working out the next part of his speech. Rhobert was looking a bit frustrated, and Bryans was rolling his eyes. Carter was frozen still in his seat, shocked by the man's audacity. Rita--who'd sat down, though Bryans was standing--kicked Carter underneath the table. He proceeded to close his mouth. However, Rita was just as stunned at the man's arrogant theories...she couldn't imagine anyone talking like that to two Senators, especially when they might have the power to get him out of prison.
"I can help you avoid all that, though. See, I figured out how to clone people. Without them disintegrating later on, thank you."
Rhobert shook his head. "Except for a few isolated incidents, that can't be duplicated, no-one's been able to do that..."
"...that you know of," Scaving added. "If you want proof, look at me."
Bryans took a few steps forward. "What do you mean?"
"You never caught me! You just caught me--a clone."
"No...we did tests!" Warden Colby blurted out. "We check for hidden powers, for--"
"You really think I can't hide it?" Scaving shrugged. "As I said, I can help you, but you can only kind-of help me. See, I don't need freedom--I already have that. But if you want, I can show you how to tell the difference between regular people and clones."
Bryans didn't believe that for a second. "Yeah, but you'll find some other way to hide it..."
"Well, of course. But still, this should help you catch all the people you think you've caught."
The room went silent. Scaving's confidence was becoming more apparent.
Scaving continued. "Anyway, I don't like it here...for reasons I'd rather not go into." Warden Colby scowled at him. "I'm technically free anyway, so letting me loose won't hurt. Here it is: you get me out of here, I show you how to clone people. That'll make organ transplants obsolete...you can just clone a new one. And there's a dozen other medical uses for it. I can help you save millions of lives a year."
"What else do you get out of this?" Rhobert demanded. "You're not telling us everything..."
Scaving smiled widely. "Of course I'm not. But I'll tell you this much: I get bored. I need fun. And there's two fun parts coming up. Here's the first one--I'm only making the offer to one of you."
Rita gaped. "Uhh?"
"Either the Republicans get it--" Scaving motioned to Bryans. "--or the Democrats do." He spread his arms, like he was presenting an award to Rhobert. "Whichever one is first."
Both Senators looked petrified.
"So, the first one to accept--and get me out of here--you get the prize. Your party gets a surefire win in the next election! Think about it...health care is a big issue with senior citizens, and they're consistent voters. For Mr. Rhobert, this'll help public health care. Medical research will shoot light-years ahead, and medical technology will improve greatly, thanks to my work. It'll be more effective and cheaper. And less money into public health care means lower taxes, Mr. Bryans. Plus, hospital bills will go down...surely a plus for all those hardworking families out in the heartland. And the people on the coasts and in the cities might appreciate that too, Mr. Rhobert. I'm generalizing, but you get the point."
"What...what's the second, um, fun part?" Carter asked.
Scaving gave him a congratulatory nod. "I'm glad you remembered that, young man. You'll recall that I said my lawyer was busy. He just issued a press release, about how I made this offer to you."
Pointing up to the clock on the other side of the room, Scaving mouthed the time.
"It went out about ten minutes ago, actually. So, whoever wins gets to be the Big Successful Political Party, and the loser gets to be the people who are against saving millions of lives. And if you're thinking of calling in the Lair Legion...the two things that superheroes avoid are politics and clones. They can't help you here, anyway. This is a PR battle."
Bryans stood about an inch from the glass. "Why?"
"Why am I doing this?" Scaving frowned slightly, looking apathetic. "As I said, I'm bored. And, I like being the center of attention. I'd love to show up the scientific community. Plus...I just miss sleeping in my own bed. Though I imagine that another one of me is already doing that."
The room emptied, as the Senators ran back to their political parties, hoping that someone would tell them what to do. Their legal assistants tagged along.
Only the warden was left. She crossed her arms and walked over to the glass. "Come on...this'll tear the country apart, even more than years' worth of controversy..."
Scaving sighed. "That's kind of the point, Abby."
Her voice was growing nastier with each word. "You listen to me...you shouldn't have given them this choice. It's too big."
"I just offered them a view of what their future could be...don't blame me if they take advantage of the opportunity."
"You want to talk about taking advantage?" She picked up a metal chair, and crushed it into a small, crumpled ball between her hands. "You should've told me!! A clone...a clone!! You were--when we--!" The metal was ground into powder. "If you thought I made you hurt before..."
Scaving backed off, until he was on the other side of his room, as far away from her as he could get. "Um, now, dear, I'm all high-profile now, you can't leave bruises this time..."
"Trying to leave me? Is that what you're doing?" She pointed an accusatory finger at him. "I guess I'd better enjoy the time we have left...I'll see you tonight. And if you don't want bruises, you'd better play nice. You can have your little game with the politicians...for now. I don't care about that. But you lied to me. God, I thought you loved me."
With that, she was gone. Scaving's heart returned to a semi-normal rate. Any woman that driven to become a warden just couldn't be healthy. The only thing he knew about her was that she'd grown up in some weird, overly-strict orphanage...he could've sworn it was the same one that Lisa was supposed to have been in.
Soon, he told himself, soon you'll be free of her. Of course, she'll just pick a new prisoner to be obsessed with, but that would be someone else's problem...
---------
That one last shot's
A Permanent Vacation
And how high can you fly
On broken wings?
Life's a journey, not a destination
And I can't tell
Just what tomorrow brings...
--Aerosmith, "Amazing"
---------
A second ago, everything had been normal. Relatively speaking.
It was like being in the Pyramids, or the Taj Mahal...or even the White House, though Amber St. Claire actually worked out of that particular building. But this place, it was different. She couldn't help but see the tabloid headlines, when she'd be in line at the grocery store. She knew what was supposed to have gone on behind these closed doors. But the only way to really know was to be invited in.
People had tried to bug it, in the past--emphasis on "tried". And there'd been that fiasco with the CIA trying to use remote-viewing psychics, but that hadn't gotten them anything but headaches and government hearings.
She had to admit, it felt strange; being in the Lair Legion's island mansion. These people, and other superheroes like them, were often major factors in humanity's continued survival. It was assumed that they knew things no-one else did. For better or worse, they had a good deal of power and influence...but they weren't directly responsible to the people. A few million voters couldn't force them into opening up their home for public inspection, even if that could somehow be put up to a vote. If anything went wrong, other superheroes could keep them in check, as could SPUD and Sentinoids...but still, there was a feeling that they were distant, aloof.
In a society where almost everything is allowed and out in the open, that one last bastion of secrecy and forbidden-entry was naturally fascinating. As cliched as it sounds, people tend to want the one thing they can't have. And less than a few dozen people knew what went on inside the mansion, while the entire world was aware when the President had sex in the oval office.
And now, Amber was inside. For some reason, she thought it'd be cold and musty, so she'd worn an off-white sweater, and a thick leather skirt. But it was just the opposite--almost too warm. Fin Fang Foom was giving her a tour of the place. Instead of being excited, she was almost too calm, and tiny details exploded into the front-lines of her senses. For instance, she could feel her high-heels crunching down on the carpeting. The grandfather clocks were ticking, sleet was pounding on the windows, and she was all too aware of her own breathing.
This average girl who'd grown up in an average town was standing next to one of the deadliest predators in the universe--one of the last two of his kind. This was where she wanted to be. Chairing the cabinet seat for Superhuman Affairs, acting as a liason, proving that her weird childhood fascination was actually something vital and important. God help her, she had to resist the urge to act like a complete fangirl and act silly, stupid questions. But people tended to get that way around celebrities, so it was OK. Or so she told herself.
She was on a high. It was happening, but as each moment passed, she could barely remember what had gone before. All those years, and she was finally there. Here! The now overwhelmed her. The weird design style, their eclectic collection of art, flying hover-vacuums and muttering hunchbacks and roaming cosmic powers...
But that all seemed like a million years ago. They'd been walking through the mansion's second, residential floor. At some point, she heard shouts echoing down through distant hallways. The sound of something banging around. She turned so fast, strands of her reddish-brown hair ended up slapping across her face. The windows blacked out, everything went dark, and orange and blue lights started flashing.
It took her a few moments, but she remembered the mansion's color-coded alarm system (which was actually CSFB!'s idea, which he'd stolen from a comic book called Astro City). Orange meant the threat was mystical in nature, and blue meant that something "foreign" had gotten into part of the mansion's technology. But it was a light blue, roughly the color of the summer sky.
She looked up at the dragon--he was staring intently at the right wall. As his eyes moved, so did a blurry body, which came into view at the other end of the hall, near a large picture-window. He took a step forward, and held an upright arm in front of her, effectively blocking most of her torso. His claw went from closed to open, and as she stared at his one-inch-away knuckles, his hand literally eclipsed her head. She felt one of his leathery wings gently press against her from behind. Brief memories of her father's large arms, and how they shielded her, flickered through her mind.
Peeking through the backs of his fingers, she saw a crimson-and-silver, winged being float onto the ground. The chainmail-like red wings were attached to the undersides of his arms, and held together by a similary-colored X-shaped harness on his chest. He also had crimson on his anklebands, and on the strip that went around his eyes, creating a sort of domino mask. Blank silver eyes stared out amidst the blood-colored design.
She recognized him from the government work that he'd done--it was SuperFalc. But he wasn't going by that name, anymore. Nor did he have the same costume. Recalling the alarms, she assumed that someone had taken over the suit--something mystical, maybe?
Spinning crimson blades followed close behind him--they seemed to move of their own accord, and were attacking a shadowy figure, who was fighting them off with what sounded like a sword. Metal struck metal, or at least, that's what it was like in the movies. The Dark Knight? But "SuperFalc" didn't seem very concerned with him, and just kept walking forward. Soon, the silhouette vanished from sight, moving further down the intersecting hall.
She glanced at the dragon. Makluans were capable of a wider range of facial expressions than humans, and his current one said it all. It actually reminded her of the tired look that Mel Gibson got, when he'd be facing off with a criminal in one of the Lethal Weapon movies. His gaze was rock-hard, his huge jaw was firmly entrenched, and he looked like he was ready to devour someone. Still, his features just look...weathered.
Amber had read countless books about superheroes, and probably had an unhealthy amount of trivia stored up inside her. Her job demanded it of her. But in that one second, when she saw the look on his face...for the first time, she really understood.
An electronic-tinted voice emitted from the suit. Though it was disguised, Finny recognized the Southern accent in it. The words were bold, and full of confidence. "Where is she?"
The dragon was still shielding Amber with his arm and wing. She felt Finny's tail wrap around her waist. A female presence sounded off in her head--without words, she understood that if anything happened, Finny was going to yank her out of the way, while keeping his hands free. It also told her that there was a ghost inside the suit, possessing it in the same way it might take over a person. The ghost had come from a WWI-era biplane, which had somehow appeared in the mansion's underground hangars. Presumably, the ghost was the pilot...
Finny sounded as friendly as he could. "Why don't you tell me who you're looking for?"
The suit shook its head. "She wouldn't want to be here with you freaks, so you must've taken her..."
That, Finny decided, was enough. "Either start acting rational, or we put you down."
Laughter. "Oh? You think you can--"
A cascade of electricity exploded behind the ghost, and his back arched, as he was thrown forward. There was a shimmer of light, and Ziles went visible. Waves of distortion rolled off of her silver bodysuit.
He lurched to his hands and knees, but was already rising--the electricity hadn't actually gotten inside his suit. He's insulated, Ziles empathically implied. Traditional electrical attacks won't hurt him. My scrambler-grenades will throw him off for a few seconds, but we can't short out his suit.
Not from outside, anyway, Finny shrugged. He then called out "Assist!"
Ziles tossed another grenade into the air--but it missed the ghost by a good three feet. A bouncing, green-and-orange figure vibrated through the wall, grabbed the grenade, and phased it inside the suit.
The ghost felt his stomach uneasily, and then screamed as electricity ate at him, from inside-out. He motioned frantically, not sure how to keep this pain from happening. Falling onto the floor, he twisted in agony.
Finny gestured at CSFB!, who ricocheted off the walls, landing next to him. He passed Amber off to him. "Get her out of here--shield her, if you have to!"
CSFB! looked her over. "Bodily-shield? Don't mind if I do..."
He scooped her up, apologized for the wild ride they were about to have, and was then interrupted when she nearly broke her foot, kicking him with the back of her heel. She'd forgotten that his Sillysuit was like teflon--he was incredibly fast and agile, but also fairly invulnerable. No matter how hard you hit him, the impact would be deflected, and he'd just bounce around, riding out the impact. But at the moment, she wasn't about to lose the chance to see a fight, close-up. "I want to stay and watch! "
"Women say that to me all the time!"
The ghost had finished writhing around--he was straightening back up, and though his eyes were nothing but lenses, he looked decidedly angry. A series of clicking noises popped out from his wrists. In seconds, a flurry of crimson projectiles were flying everywhere. They were tri-bladed shurikens--a trio of angled talons, attached to each other. Must've been what DK was fighting before, Finny thought.
Finny spread his wings, filling up the hallway. CSFB! and Amber were behind him. Ziles quickly ducked back there, as well. The shurikens pinged harmlessly off his wings and body, dented beyond recognition. "CSFB!, if you're not on defense, make yourself useful!"
"Easier done than said, Cap'n Kirk." CSFB! vibrated through Finny's right wing, and then went solid, charging ahead as he dodged the shurikens. As he got closer, a few clipped him, sending him bouncing off the walls. "Oww, oww..."
Finny rolled his eyes. "Oh, for...just do it, dammit!"
CSFB!'s hands blurred, and silly-string erupted from them. The material gobbed up the ghost's wrists, poofing up as shurikens tried to break through it.
Pouring on more silly-string, CSFB! nodded to himself. "Well, that takes care of--"
The suit's wings spread, and feathers started flying off. They were thin, metallic, and just as sharp as the shurikens. The only difference was that there was a good deal more of them...
"Yipe!" CSFB! went intangible, and Finny sighed. They needed more people...but Hattie and Sorceress were clear down in the hangars, Donar and Troia were in another sub-level, Goldeneyed was at work...Exile was on monitor duty, though, so he'd probably show up soon. And, according to Ziles, Nats was just waking up...one of the shurikens had passed through his cane's fire-wall, and impacted on his forehead. And Trickshot had vanished...
Ziles nudged him. "I've been building up an empathic attack...stand back..."
Finny raised an eyebrow--or where an eyebrow would have been, if he had any. "What kind of--"
The ghost grasped his head in pain, doubling over so fast that his head banged into the floor. Ziles lobbed a few scrambler-grenades at him, over Finny's shoulder. They sent him sprawling onto the ground. CSFB! vanished through one of the walls, re-appearing behind them.
Finny grinned, getting the plan. "What's that setting him up for?"
"This," The Dark Knight commented. He was standing at the other end of the hall, far behind the ghost. He'd have gotten there sooner, but he had to do something first. His sword was covered in cement.
A creaking, shifting sound moaned above them. Then, a crack ran down the ceiling, and metal strain reverberated through the walls. Finny winced. "Uhh..."
A smooth, stone-colored edge pierced the ceiling--it was as long as the hall, at least twenty feet. The Dark Knight held up a small remote-control and detonated several exposives.
Then, an Olympic-sized swimming pool fell on the ghost.
"I always wondered why we had that on the third floor,*" CSFB! said, as water sloshed around his feet.
(*--no, really, the pool is on the third floor! Look at the blueprints!)
Only half of the pool had actually hit the ghost. Half was down in the hall, the other half was still on the next floor up--which was lucky for the LL, as if the whole thing had come down, it would've crushed some of their rooms. But DK had planned it that way...
Finny saw his chance. He stopped blocking the hall, and pointed at Ziles, glancing at Amber. He was about to explain that, if he didn't have to worry about protecting someone, he could take out the ghost in less than a minute...but, of course, he didn't get the chance.
Razor-sharp wings sliced through the debris, and a hail of talon-shurikens ricocheted through the remains of the hall. In moments, the ghost was hovering above the soaking-wet debris. The SuperFalc suit was banged up, but still online.
"Screw it, let's just--" CSFB! let an action complete his sentence, as he charged the ghost, phasing as he went. The ghost held completely still, until CSFB! was within punching distance. Then, his gloves charged up with purple energy, and despite the fact that CSFB! was still vibrating, he backhanded him, causing him to fly up through the next floor.
Finny went back to blocking off the end of the hallway that contained Amber. Ziles was there too, but her empathic powers couldn't easily affect the ghost--screwing with the minds of the living was one thing, while the dead were quite another. She could hurt him, but only if she had time to charge up an attack. That meant that, at the moment, there weren't any free hands...and the ghost was walking towards them.
Then, a message sparked across the team's mind-linking empathic network, and Finny grinned. "Do it."
Nats dropped through the hole in the ceiling, landing squarely behind the ghost. He placed both palms on the sides of the ghost's head, and simultaneously fired off telekinetic force-pulses. His TK mainly consisted of pushing and pulling--and in this case, he was pushing his powers at each other, with the ghost's head stuck in the middle.
The eye-lenses of the SuperFalc suit sparked in pain, and the ghost spun on his heels. Nats flew backwards, narrowly avoiding being cut in half by a rapidly-moving wing. Metallic feathers fired off at him, but he stopped them in mid-air.
"Should've done that with the stupid talon-thingy," Nats muttered, rubbing his head, and sending the feathers flying back at the ghost, literally nailing the suit's boots to the floor.
Surprised, the ghost didn't notice the black-clad Exile, who threw a crimson energy bubble around him. By the time the ghost had pulled his feet free, he didn't have anywhere to go. It looked shaky--Nats' TK attack had done more damage than it was letting on. CSFB! vibrated through the ceiling, looking a bit miffed.
"If I hadn't grabbed the roof, I'd still be going...how'd he hit me when I was intangible?"
Finny nodded. "Speaking of which--Exy, pin his hands at the wrists." Energy-manacles snaked out of the bubble's interior, instantly pulling tight. "I think it's some kind of energy-disrupting thing, implanted in his gloves."
The ghost was writhing against his bonds, and his electronically-enhanced voice kicked up a few decibels. "WHERE IS SHE!?? WHERE'S GATHY!?!"
"Cathy?" Exile asked.
"No...wait a second..." Finny had heard that name before. The ghost noticed the newly-arriving Hatman and Sorceress. Hattie was wearing his usual bluejeans, white t-shirt with an H on it, baseball cap, and homemade cape, while she had on long, flowing blue robes, which went well with her brown hair.
"Gathy!!" The ghost's eyes locked onto Sorceress, and despite the SuperFalc suit's lack of a traditional face, he looked happy.
Whitney shook her head. "...you mean grandma?" She was referring to Hagatha Darkness, the woman who had helped train her in the use of her mystic abilities.
"Grandma?" The ghost shook it off. "You look just the same...I must've only been gone for a year or so...my God, it's really you..."
"Uhh, no...I'm Gathy's granddaughter."
"No." The ghost was moving in quick, jerky motions, like he was panicking. In an eager voice, he said "We grew up together! The same town, the same high school, the same everything...don't y'remember? You said you'd wait for me...that after I got back from the war, we could get married. Remember that summer, right b'fore I got drafted? You said I'd have to hurry back, 'cause you might already be pregnant..."
"I'm not...she..." Whitney gulped--her throat was raw and grating against itself, like sandpaper. "She...she never said anything..."
You could see the wheels turning in the ghost's head. "You're not...? But, if she never said anything, then I'm not--" He went silent. He looked down at his hands, and realized that he was missing his usual body. Almost offhandedly, he said "She didn't wait."
He was shaking, now. Water was dribbling out through the long hole in the ceiling. Nats and Exile were hovering a few feet away from him, and Amber was still behind Finny. Ziles and CSFB! were actually crouching on the walls, sticking to them. The ghost was mumbling the same thing, over and over.
"She had a life without me."
No-one replied.
"It's been...what'd you say before?" He looked at DK. "Almost a hundred years, right? And I must've died in 1914...God..."
He'd stopped moving. For a minute, they thought he was dead--or rather, that he'd gone on to a hopefully-better place.
Then, the suit was alive with motion once again. "But, but, I was drawn here! It woke me up! I could feel it--the magic, the personality...just like Gathy!" He shot a glare at Whiney. "All the life inside of you...just like her."
The weight of the truth crashed down on the ghost. He was dead. If she'd never mentioned him, he couldn't have fathered any of her children. The existence that they'd been planning for, that wonderful, glorious future...it was already over. Someone else had gotten it. It was like he'd blinked, and the woman he wanted, the life he wanted, it had all vanished.
A noise came from him--it started as a gasp, and then morphed into ragged, shallow breathing. It upgraded to loud panting, and then a kind of pained groan. It kept rising and rising, in both loudness and frequency. Seconds later, it was a full-fledged scream. Not of horror, not of any physical pain...he watched as what should've been his future evaporated into the morning sun.
Smoke started filling up the energy-bubble. A rumbling poured out through the floor beneath them. Micro-turbines roared to life, and the SuperFalc suit's boot-jets were activated at full-power. While they pushed him, he was pulled back down by the energy-manacles, which still kept his hands chained to the bubble's sides.
Ignoring the damage to himself, he nearly tore his own arms off as he snapped the restraints, and crashed through the energy-bubble with his disruptor-gloves. He fired a volley of shurikens at the nearest window, and flew into the sleet.
The feedback sent Exile reeling, but after slamming against the wall, he regained his bearings. Finny motioned for the team to gather around him. "Nats, Exy and I are going after him." He put a hand on Hattie's shoulder. "Take everyone else onboard a Lairjet, and get ready to back us up if he starts attacking people on the ground."
"You don't think he'd do that...I mean, he's just a normal guy, even if he's dead," Nats said.
"Everyone has their breaking point," Finny said quietly. "And I think he just found his."
--------------
"I'll just come right out and say it: I'm sick of having people take advantage of me."
The mercenary, assassin, and general hunter known as Trackster looked out of place in the penthouse. Clad in khaki-colored pants and a long coat, with a black shirt and facemask, he was sitting on a fluffy, powdery-white couch. The living room's decor was off-putting for him: all modern art-esque; so trendy it hurt (his eyes). Smoked glass covered the walls, and a pristine white carpet was sleeping on the floor. He felt like he was sitting in an issue of Yuppies Monthly . The discussion topic didn't make him feel comfortable, either.
The Impressionist sat across from him, at a glass table. He was sipping cinnamon tea, listening and nodding. His wavy blonde hair hung over his ears, and between his goatee and his earring, he looked a bit like a pirate. He wore black slacks, and a long-sleeved white shirt.
Trackster paused for a moment, gathering some words. He was definitely in rant-mode, going a million miles a minute. "Look, we're supercriminals, right? We all wear our agendas on our sleeves. There's this new guy I'm supposed to be doing a job for--the guy that's building the perfect body, that wants me to kill Hatman and take his head. He figures, I'm just in this for money and the challenge, and that's all I care about."
"But it's not," The Impressionist said.
"Of course not! You know how it is...we set out to do one thing, and then people think that if they can help our agenda, we'll do whatever they want. They think, I'm a professional killer and hunter, so as long as I get to do that, I must not care why they have me do it. They find out what we wanna do, and then give us an opportunity to do it--so it benefits them, of course. It's, it's exploiting us or something. That's how superheroes beat us, half the time. Our interests are threatened somehow, and we gotta lay off."
The Impressionist agreed. "Pop culture seems to reflect that...think about fictional supervillains. They live and die by their agenda, and like you said, they wear it on their sleeves. Darkseid just wants the Anti-Life Equation, Ultron wants to replace humanity with robots, and Magneto wants to do the same thing with mutants. Dr. Doom and Lex Luthor want to rule the world, because they could do it more efficiently than anyone else. Because of what they want, the heroes can put them between a rock and a hard place, using their agendas against them."
"That's exactly it...the heroes figure, once they've got your motivation, they can just play with you and somehow hold it over your head."
"Won't be changing that," The Impressionist sighed.
"I know, but it's bad enough without our own kind doing it to us. They want an alliance, they find some way that we'll benefit from it...and then they take advantage of what we want outta life. Yeah, I like money and the thrill of the hunt. But God, when they keep using it as a carrot, dangling it so I'll kill people for them...I love my job, but I hate their attitude. They act like they're the only ones with an interest in how things turn out."
The Impressionist nodded. "All I ever wanted to be was the Shaper of Worlds--using my creative powers to make whole planets. But, no, they can't give me the job. Instead, I'm stuck making places for idiots who think they can take over the world. That one terrorist organization--I'm not saying their name, it's beneath me--I just got done making a new island for them. Completely boring and generic...a normal island on the surface, a high-tech hideout underneath. Yeah, no-one's ever done that before...my talents are being wasted on these people."
Trackster was jabbing his index finger into the couch, as if he were making a point. "I don't think we need another major player now, anyway. I like the way it is. It's a small pond, and if we get too many big fish, they'll start fighting. Supercriminals fighting each other for territory, gahh...it just kills my market. I need most of these guys to be getting along with each other, because when they get paranoid about other supercriminals, they stop hiring anyone from outside their organization. Let alone a mercenary that might've been hired by the opposition..."
"So, short-term, killing Hatman would help...money and a challenge. But long-term, it'd just screw up your client-pool."
"And it'd bring the LL down on us. I can understand that some of us have a score to settle with 'em, but if you don't, it's stupid to challenge them..."
"We need to be in charge. It's that simple, really." The Impressionist twisted his mouth in thought. "In a sane world, when a supercriminal said that he wanted to take over the world, he'd be dismissed as a lunatic."
"Yeah, these guys...no-one else has been able to do it, but they think they can...and they're always wrong. I hate being stuck with 'em, they're perpetual losers...yeah, they're all powerful and intelligent and stuff, but they've got a hopeless mission."
The Impressionist set his empty tea-cup on the table. "So...are you killing Hatman or not?"
"I have no idea. I wish we could just, what do you call it...boycott! Just boycott this new guy...I mean, if we get too many major players, and they all start fighting, where will I be in twenty years?"
"Right where you are now," The Impressionist grumbled. "And right where I am. Living from paycheck to paycheck, doing pointless work for pointless supervillains...unless we stage a mutiny." The Impressionist's right hand motioned briefly, and he pulled a laptop out of thin air. "The next time the heroes put our big guns down...I say that we make sure they stay there. And then we fill in the gap. This list should be interesting...it has like-minded supercriminals. You know: underpaid, no respect, their talents are wasting away...I think they'd be open to this. We've been complaining about this for years, might as well do something about it."
Trackster hungrily grabbed the laptop, his eyes dancing down the screen. "This is...oh, yeah."
"And, to solve your Hatman problem...I think you should at least try to kill him. It'll bring the heat down on your new client. And while he's under attack by them, we'll sneak in the back door. Time to expand our career options..."
---------
You and I
I know that we can't wait
And I swear, I swear it's not a lie girl
Tomorrow may be too late
You, you and I girl
We can share a life together
It's now or never
And tomorrow may be too late
--Boston, "Amanda"
---------
Birds are often recognized by their cry. So, it was fitting that the winged, red-and-silver man created a sonic boom, as he flew over Parodiopolis' harbor. Seconds later, a good deal of the East Side heard the electronically-enhanced scream of a dead man, which actually drowned out the first noise. It didn't take long to realize that both sounds had come from the same source.
The ghost plunged into the grey sky, racing upwards through the sleet. By now, he'd realized that nothing could bring his life back. Even so, it felt wrong just to stand there and admit it...he had to be moving, to feel like he was doing something. Flying was his best option.
The sky...things had made sense there, once. The world had become involved in a war like none before. Weapons took the form of airplanes and gas. Despite those radical, exotic dangers, America called upon its everymen. His country needed him to step up and be a man--a pilot. At the age of nineteen, he left behind his girl, his family, and his hometown. The sky was the place where he could hurt the people who wanted to hurt them. He was sure of two things: the world's enemies wouldn't win, and he'd go home and live the life he'd fought to protect.
He was half-right.
Ripping through the sky, his thoughts initially turned towards revenge. To find the person who'd killed him, and return the favor. But no, whoever it was, he had to be long-dead by now. Oddly, he didn't remember much about his death. It was like Rip Van Winkle...he woke up one day, and time had gone on without him. He could remember his basic schedule, what his life was like...but no final showdown.
For some reason, the ghost was thinking about his father. He'd hardly ever seen him...after his mom got pregnant, the old man had vanished. Growing up, he swore that he'd never abandon his loved ones. But he'd done just that. There could've been times when Gathy needed him, and he wasn't there to help...how much had she suffered, before she decided to find someone else? How much pain had he caused her?
He couldn't even remember what he'd been doing before he got to the mansion. Had he woken up in the plane? Before he could put much thought into it, something in the suit started blinking, and he saw some of the strange-looking people from before. A dragon, an orange-clad redhead with a cane, and a jet-black man, who was outlined by glowing red energy.
The dragon was speaking. "Just calm down--there's no reason to fight us! Come back, and we'll--"
He had no idea how to work the suit, but his thoughts seemed to be doing it automatically. At the moment, he just wanted to be left alone. While they were still flying up to him, he pointed his arms down, and shot off a series of talon-shurikens. This time, they were the "homing" ones...they swerved in the air, instinctively seeking out their targets.
The dragon and the redhead sent streams of fire at him--he swerved between the blasts, only to be shot in the back by the red-energy man. They'd set him up! The form of the weapons had changed, but he recognized the basic aerial tactics...his old rules still applied. And he had lots of new weapons in his suit...
But his shurikens were quickly taken out--the dragon just ignored them as they shattered against him, the redhead somehow stopped them from moving, and the red-energy man put red fields around them, turning them into ash.
All three took some more shots at him, trying to catch him in the crossfire...but he dodged it easily. Exile tried to block him in with interdimensional-energy walls, but he smashed through them with his disruptor gloves.
Dammit, Finny thought into the empathic network, This guy's a natural pilot, and that suit's more maneuverable than any of us--except for Nats. You don't need to aim to get someone in a TK hold, right? You just reach out and lock on?
Kindasorta, Nats replied. But I already tried it, and whenever I do, those energy-disrupting gloves make me, uhh, slip. So, I can't pull, but I can push...it's not like he's immune to energy blasts or anything.
Okay then...Exile, you're on defense--watch his back. Nats, you just need to get one hit in, and stun him. Focus entirely on hitting him, and let Exile handle whatever he throws at you. I'll do the rest.
Nats charged him head-on, ignoring the fact that the ghost had shot a flurry of razor-sharp metal fathers right at him. He decided that this might not be the best idea in the world...but the feathers bounced off a flickering tunnel of energy, which always seemed to surround Nats. Surprised, the ghost fired some explosive shurikens at it...and that proved fruitless. Judging by how fast and agile Nats' flight was, he figured that he shouldn't waste time trying to outrun him...he'd have to stand and fight.
He charged up a glove, and waited for him to get close. It had worked on that bouncing green-and-orange guy, maybe it'd work on this one...
When he got within three feet, Nats casually tossed his cane at the ghost. Though it was moving at a few hundred miles an hour, the ghost instinctively reached out and caught it--with the charged-up glove.
Nothing happened, of course; as the cane wasn't currently giving off any energy. But the surprise gave Nats time to hold out his palm, and give him a healthy TK-shove, at close-range.
It had a "repulsor" effect...an explosion of TK-force detonated on his chest, and the ghost went flying backwards, head over heels. He let go of the cane in the process, and Nats caught it in mid-air.
Before the ghost could escape from the momentum, Finny caught him from behind, pinning his wings down in a bear-hug. Without them, the ghost couldn't steer at all--his boot-jets propelled him upwards, with the dragon still hanging on.
Finny didn't want to do this--the guy was had suffered enough already, but he wasn't exactly in his right mind, either. Everything he'd ever lived for had just been taken away, so he was probably having some kind of panic attack. Like it or not, he might lash out at anything that he viewed as a threat...including innocent people. Given how good a flier he was, they couldn't risk letting him get away while they tried to talk him down...they had to restrain him, ASAP.
With one squeeze, Finny crumpled the suit's arms and torso--so much for the shuriken-launchers. His tail snaked around the suit's ankles, getting a good hold. If a living person had been inside the suit, they'd have passed out on the spot. But it was still going...all of the suit's power was flowing to the boot-jets.
But, apparently, he'd saved some of it for the feathers.
With the suit's wings pressed against his chest, Finny couldn't dodge an onslaught of explosive feathers. The ghost didn't even have to shoot them, as they exploded on contact. He just activated them, and when they touched Finny, they went off. And at the moment, he had both wings bunched-up between his arms. A chorus of orange-black clouds went off between Finny's chest and the ghost's back, trying to separate the two...
They didn't let up. He seemed to have an endless supply of metal feathers...and as Finny kept the suit's arms and wings pinned, they kept going off.
Their flight-speed became stilted, and Finny felt the bursting of the micro-turbines in the boots. One by one, the ghost was overloading them. But he increased the speed even more, not caring about the damage he was doing to himself. The suit's silvery legs were turning dark, as the high-powered energy current that flowed to the boots started to burn through. Dozens of explosions went off every second, biting into the dragon...
Quickly thinking about the situation, Finny came up with a solution. He could destroy the suit, he was sure of that--but it wasn't the main problem. The anger was. Tightening his hold, he screamed "LET IT OUT!!"
The ghost, on the other hand, had been screaming the whole time: a combination of death-wails and electricity. That close, it was like having a few dozen loudspeakers blaring in your ears. Hearing Finny's request, the explosions increased tenfold, and the boot-jets' speed doubled. The "skin" below the suit's knees had been reduced to slag.
Lacking a traditional body, the ghost didn't have eyes to cry with, and since he was dead, he couldn't feel tired or exhausted. He didn't have a way to express or physically experience his pain--except for the suit. The more fuel he pushed through his boots, the more it hurt. The more he attacked the dragon, the less rage he felt. As he cried out, he could feel the suit's vocal-enhancer wearing thin. And at the moment, hurting himself, and others, felt good. Without the suit, he just couldn't get the pain out of him...and he had more than enough.
Going higher than he'd ever gone before, the ghost allowed excesses of energy and hatred to burn through his makeshift body. Some of it was hatred against himself--for dying, for failing his country, for turning into his father, for abandoning Gathy. Some of it was hatred against others--at Gathy, for falling in love with someone else. At the person who'd killed him. At Gathy's granddaughter, who looked so much like her, making it seem like Gathy was still there, unchanged. At all the people who'd told him that, as long as he did the right thing, things would work out in the end.
As the air thinned, he started to feel his boots shaking. Most of the back of his suit had been blown away, from the backlash of its own explosive feathers. Speaking of which--he could feel his supply dwindling. He couldn't even see the dragon; it was masked by smoke and flashes of light. The suit felt less like a body, and more like a deteriorating piece of clothing.
They'd gone so high, they were above the clouds--they couldn't see the city, or anything. Nothing else was there: just the sky. An eerie sense of calm descended on the ghost. Something in his boots stalled, and momentary bursts of ignition were coughed up thereafter. The firing of his feathers was replaced by an empty clicking noise--and since they'd been going off at close range, the explosive feathers had blown away his normal ones. The bursts of propulsion became less and less frequent, until they stopped altogether. A floating sensation settled upon the ghost's consciousness.
A simple realization entered his mind. "I don't want to be here anymore."
The suit's cybernetic control system interpreted that as a command to self-destruct.
---------
Every time I see you falling,
I get down on my knees and pray
I'm waiting for that final moment
When you say the words that I can't say
--"Bizarre Love Triangle", New Order
---------
The psionic equivalent of static overwhelmed the LL's empathic network.
A calm, reassuring thought pattern, coming from Hatman: Anyone see them?
A young voice: There they are! Exy and I can--
Something interrupts: Don't catch us.
But--
DON'T CATCH US!!
Ziles taps into the conversation: You're over a mile--
He's already dead, and I can take it. Besides, he needs it--he needs to feel it. I don't think he remembers his death, that's why he can't let go...after this, he'll know.
-------------
Damaged wings guided their descent to an unpopulated area, upstate. It didn't slow them down, but it was enough to keep them from hitting anything that wouldn't grow back. Which was a good thing, as their impact left a quarter-mile-wide, smoke-filled crater...
Wisps of smoke curved into the grey sky, as the sleet slowed to a gentle patter. Animals ran across the countryside, trying to escape from the sudden danger. The SuperFalc suit was in tatters--only a few flimsy threads kept its humanoid shape. Both the ghost and Finny were sprawled out on the charred ground, just a few feet apart. What remained of the boots was on fire. They were in a forest clearing, surrounded by tall trees.
"No," the ghost coughed, as the vocal-enhancer finally sputtered out. Flat on his back, he stared up into the clouds, shell-shocked. Anger had given way to wide-eyed exhaustion. Normal-voiced, he said "This isn't how it works. I do my best, and if we win, I win. We beat the Krauts, and then I go home and marry Gathy. I fought for it, so I get it."
Using his hands, wings, and tail, Finny propped himself to a sitting position. He looked at the ghost, confused. Did he really believe that? Finny knew that helping society didn't mean helping yourself...it was almost the exact opposite. If you became a hero, you'd suffer. "We...we don't do this for personal gain. We don't do this to get a better life...we give up our shot at a normal life."
"No, that's...no." The ghost shook his head weakly. "What's the point, then? What was I fighting for? America is, is built on it...you can help yourself and everybody else at the same time."
Finny was about to yell at him...but then he remembered that the ghost was from a time before the Great Depression. Before Nazi experimentation and genocide. Before the darkest moments of WWII, when humans faced the choice of whether or not to use atomic warfare. Before the world had to live under the fear of instant nuclear death, at any moment. Before a paranoid non-war, before society's failures were brought out into the open by a new generation, before Presidents were implicated in major crimes...before September 11th, for that matter.
He doesn't know, Finny thought to himself. Society can't get everything it wants. We learned the hard way, over a matter of decades...he found out in an instant. No wonder he's acting the way he is...he has no idea how vulnerable humanity is.
Less angry, the ghost finally remembered to ask an important question. "There's a happy ending, right? I mean, we win the war..."
"Yeah, we won it."
"And that was it? Happy ending?"
From the look on the dragon's face, the ghost knew what the answer was. "We're supposed to go somewhere better after we die...how come I ended up here?"
Finny caught the dead man's gaze, and shrugged. "Welcome to life, huh?"
--------------
Ten minutes later, the LL showed up. Hattie, Whitney, and Ziles all gave Finny several speeches, including the "Being self-destructive isn't healthy" one. DK pointed out that it worked, so they really shouldn't complain. Finny was told that Donar was using his storm-controlling abilities to get the water out of the mansion. Trickshot was still missing--until Nats heard his voice on the radio.
"He's a shock-jock or something!" Nats exclaimed, genuinely surprised. "He says he's doing it to get out of the mansion more, because we're all a bunch of stick-in-the-muds..."
"Huh. That explains the phone call he got," Finny mumbled. "I don't suppose he's doing it full-time?"
"Uhh, no..."
The dragon sighed. "Probably better off...I hate to admit it, but we actually need him..."
CSFB! kicked the remains of the SuperFalc suit. "Hope he didn't want that back. Uhh, is there supposed to be a ghost in here?"
Whitney shook her head. "I don't sense anything in there..."
"Gahh, he's gone?" Hatman took off his cap, and ran a hand through his dark hair. "Think he's still a threat?"
"I doubt it," Ziles said. "I'm not picking up any hostile emotions."
Finny nodded. "He got most of the anger out of him, all at once...like rapid detox or something."
"He took most of it out on you ," Exile pointed out.
"Yeah, I could've won the fight--but that wouldn't have solved anything, long-term. I'd rather save the person. He had to lash out at something...better me than someone else. Since he missed a lifetime, he could've been angry for just as long--but now, I think he's pretty drained."
Hattie was about to order Finny to go to the team's doctor, but he saw Whitney wander off. He quickly caught up with her, and noticed that she looked upset. "What is it?"
She drew her arms around herself, and looked at him. "I...I love my grandma, okay? But...I'm not ending up like that. I had no idea that she used to be like...like me. I'm not living out the rest of my years in a drafty old house, all by myself..."
"Of course you won't," Hattie said, squeezing her hands.
One by one, the team started to climb into the Lairjet. Finny and CSFB! were the last two to go. Right before the dragon climbed in, CSFB! tapped him on the shoulder. "So, after the Trickshot thing, are you up for another sudden piece of news?"
The dragon felt every muscle in his body tense. "Umm..."
"Well, the thing is, I'm--"
Continued...
Next: Find out more about CSFB!'s situation! Find out more about Dr. Scaving, and how the LL plans to deal with his plot! Find out more about Ziles' fan (remember her from last issue?)! Find out more about the angelic billionaire! Find out more about The Impressionist and Trackster! And how about an attempt on Hatman's life? And all the other stuff I keep running out of room for! Next month, dammit!
This poster posed from 63.171.208.177 when they posted
Message Thread
Post A Message
DarkBeast.com :: Forums :: Post New Message :: Board