The silver stretch limousine pulled up to the crowd waiting outside the Nipsey Russell Memorial Pavilion. Tuxedoed security personnel maintained a respectful cordon, keeping the press and celebrity gawkers at bay. The car door was opened by the chauffeur and his passengers exited. Their arrival was greeted by both cheers and catcalls.
Mr. Epitome, even with fifteen years of dealing with a mercurial public missing from his repertoire, ignored the divided reaction. He was more curious to see how the woman he was escorting to the gala fundraiser would handle it.
Princess Uuuuuukulele seemed distracted by the piercing glare of the camera lights, which was only logical given as a member of the Sea Monkey race she was used to conditions far less illuminating. After a moment she regained her composure and gave the crowd a regal, webbed wave. Epitome led her Highness to the designated media contact.
“Princess Uuuuuukulele!” the peroxide blonde from Entertainment Television enthused, “You look fabulous. Who are you wearing?”
“No one. I was told this garment was made from inorganic materials,” the Sea Monkey said of her lycra backless salmon halter dress.
The reporter blinked, then gave a braying laugh, “So tell our viewers what this fundraiser’s about.”
Uuuuuukulele arched an eyebrow at how the request was phrased, but deigned to comply, “Tonight’s dinner is to raise awareness for those who have been banished to Lake Superior by the Banjoooooo! regime. Thousands of Sea Monkneys have been forcibly removed and relocated to that colony.”
“That’s horrible! It sounds like, like, some sort of Great Lakes Gulag!”
“I am unfamiliar with that particular term, but by your inflection it is clear you understand the severity of the conditions those dissidents toil under,” Uuuuukulele smiled, showing white, pointed teeth, “It is hoped our actions here may spur your government to open talks with King Banjoooooo! about allowing those exiles to return.”
The reporter was ready with her follow up question when someone literally came from the woodwork to interrupt her. Epitome was stunned when a man stepped from the hedges that flanked the Pavillion’s foyer. His skin shifted from arboreal green and brown to adopt the appearance of a trenchcoated man with thinning grey hair. A tiny winged woman laden with communications gear flew from one of his pockets.
The pair preempted a confrontation with Epitome by holding up identification, “Ambush Journalist, Shutterbug. We’re from the Fourth Estate.”
The Paragon of Power had heard of the multi-media meta-human news group: a non-affiliated, supposedly non-partisan group of paranormals whose motto was “We report the world so others can save it.”
Ambush Journalist waited for his partner to train her parabolic mike on the subject before beginning, “Mr. Epitome, is the Panser Group organizing this fundraiser as an attempt to embarrass King Banjoooooo!?”
“I believe Princess Uuuuukulele covered the goal of tonight already.”
“Zoxxon Oil is a major contributor to the Panser Group, and it is well known that they are having difficulty negotiating drilling rights with the current Sea Monkey regime. How do you think this gala will affect talks between the sides?”
“I won’t assume it will have any effect whatsoever. Excuse us,” Epitome began to usher his charge for the entryway. He picked up on an audio transmission coming into Shutterbug’s headset.
“Tell AJ to ask Epitome if he and the Princess are dating,” a feminine voice inquired.
The tiny woman snorted, “He won’t ask that. You’re the gossip columnist, Six.”
Paige Six countered, “It’s newsworthy. Epitome has or had a relationship with the AI on the Legion. If he did break up with Hallie, then that could be a blow to the synthetic rights movement.”
Dominic didn’t wait to find out if Ambush Journalist found such reasoning compelling. He linked arms with Princess Uuuuukulele and bolted to the foyer, stopping only to turn and tell the assembled throng, “No press inside.”
“Maybe we can continue this conversation later? Talking Head would love to do a sit-down interview with you sometime,” the Fourth Estate’s investigative reporter asked, eager to get the former government agent’s response on record.
The Exemplary Man would not comply.
*****
Terrance Petaik woke up to find a vigilante at the edge of his bed.
“You know who I am?” Messenger asked.
“Y-yes,” the corrections officer acknowledged. His eyes darted to the chair where his holster hanged.
“That gun is three meters from where you’re laying. You’ll never make it,” the urban vigilante withdrew a razor envelope from his duster and turned it end over end absently, “I have some questions about Rikka Ulz Hagan.”
“What about her?”
Messenger’s eyes narrowed, “You helped smuggle electronics into her cell.”
Terrance objected, “No way.”
“Yes way. You’ve made multiple purchases in Radio Huts across the city using a stolen credit card in your ex-brother in law’s name. A card paid off by money orders issued from a convenience store half a block from your chiropractor.”
“That’s not my card.”
“Dumbass, I’m not asking you, I’m telling you,” Messenger hissed, “I know about the slush fund Hagan set up in the Caymans and that it’s been wiring transactions to your credit union. I know you used the payphone outside and the aforementioned credit card to call Las Vegas.”
“No.”
“Yes. Tell me who you called or I’ll slit your throat.”
“I didn’t do any of that!”
Messenger flicked the razor envelope into the headboard centimeters from Terrance’s exposed neck, “Tell me.”
“OK, look, look, I did help Hagan. I did all the things you said!”
“What about files? Did you email any files for Hagan to anyone anywhere?”
“No… but she did have me send a box of CD ROMS to Colorado Springs.”
Snail Mail, of course, ‘Messenger’ thought, Hagan wouldn’t risk sending the programs by the Grid. Let’s see if he… yes, same card. Shipped to a PO Box, which was paid for by, damn, cash.
But it was a lead. Satisfied that was enough for now, Hallie plucked the envelope from the headboard, gruffly told Petaik to “Be good,” and vanished.
*****
“What the Hell is wrong with you?!” CrazySugarFreakBoy! demanded of Mr. Epitome when he returned to Lair Mansion. The Wired Wonder glared angrily at his teammate as he rummaged through the refrigerator.
“I don’t know. Maybe you can tell me,” was the Star Spangled Splendor’s reply.
“I caught the Fourth Estate’s Webcast tonight. They showed you cozying up to that Sea Monkey babe whose bad mouthing Banjoooooo!!”
Dominic took out some milk and some leftover pound cake, “Cozying is a loaded term. And I’m surprised to hear you so distraught when a dictatorial autocrat is justly criticized.”
“Banjoooooo!’s Ex-Legion. A real hero. I’d stack his civil rights record against yours anytime,” CSFB! stood and squared off with the much larger man.
“This is the same Banjooooo! who blocked up all of Paradopolis’s toilets a few years back, correct?”
“Because the surface world was dumping toxic waste into his kingdom!”
“Just so long as his act of terrorism was justified then,” Dominic stuffed a piece of cake in his mouth.
“I think Ambush Journalist was right about you doing this to help ZOXXON screw with Banjooooo! somehow,” the Champion of Chaos accused. Epitome shrugged.
“What are you going to do about it?”
“Howabout I start with using my contacts with Mnemosyne Media to stomp the shit out of you and your oil buddies in the press?!”
“Go ahead. Your past antics have marginalized your voice in this country. In fact, you’ll be doing us a favor if you start speaking out against Princess Uuuukulele,” Dominic smirked, “Every cause needs a villain.”
Dreamcatcher Foxglove’s normally animated face became very hard, “You really don’t want to fuck with me, Clancy. Not now, and especially not when you’re attacking my friends.”
“Do your worst, you whiny little bitch. The day I’m afraid of some twerp who’s still pissed at the world because of the way he was treated in high school- blrgmmfff!”
CSFB! fired a gob of Silly String into Epitome’s face. Then he ducked behind him and yanked down his trousers.
“That’s a little trick I picked up in high school, asswipe,” the Wired Wonder snarled.
Epitome backhanded him off the kitchen wall. When CSFB! ricocheted Dominic caught Dream by the throat and choke-slammed him through the kitchen table. Tearing the gummy substance away from his mouth and nose, the Paragon of Power got ready to drive his boot into his target’s kidneys.
“What the hell is going on here?!” Hallie materialized in the kitchen and put her hands on her hips, “Dominic, what happened to your pants?! And your eyebrows?!”
Mr. Epitome quickly let go of his opponent and pulled up his jeans, “Foxglove wanted to fight, so I obliged him.”
“Oblige me a little more. Let’s finish this, for once and for all!” CrazySugarFreakBoy! said ominously after rising.
“Another time,” the Man of Might promised before stalking off, “I’ll add you to the list.”
“Hell of a boyfriend you got there, Hallie,” Dream said to the hologram.
The pretty young lady gave CSFB! an angry glare and blinked out after Epitome. She appeared in front of him at the top of the stairs, blocking his way.
“That was a stupid thing to do,” she stated.
“Fine.”
“So now you’re going to sulk? This isn’t like you.”
“How would you know what I’m like?” Dominic challenged, “You keep thinking I’m the guy you knew before. I’m not.”
“Yeah, well, conspiring against some Legionnaires and getting into brawls with others is not the best way to prove that theory,” Hallie shot back.
“Maybe that says something more about the nature of the Legion than about me?! You ever think of that?!”
Hallie impatience subroutines had her close her eyes and exhale loudly, “Look, now is not the time or place to discuss this.”
“You’re the one who followed me,” Dominic pointed out.
“Because I was going to ask you for help with something, but now that you’ve made clear how pig-headed you’re going to be the last thing I need is you causing trouble in Las Vegas.”
“Las Vegas?” the Paragon of Power grew concerned, “You can’t go there.”
“Why not?” she tossed her hair back, “Someone needs to track down this Illusionous character. The people you, I’m sorry, the old you trained can’t seem to do the job.”
“Hallie, you’re a suspect in Spender’s death. It would be a big mistake for you to involve yourself in the investigation. Especially if you go alone.”
“Maybe I’ll bring Fleabot then. Or Yuki. Vegas seems like her kind of town,” she smiled ruefully, “I’ll be fine, whatever I decide.”
Epitome wasn’t sure, but was smart enough to know it was the wrong moment for him to demand someone act reasonably.
Next: Illusionous strikes again. Hallie encounters some technical difficulties. And an old foe returns. Out next year.
Footnotes:
The Fourth Estate: a freelance multimedia news gathering organization that specializes in reporting on news involving superhumans. Led by the mysterious Ombudsman, the on camera personalities include the chameleon-like Ambush Journalist, his more dogged rival Pit Bull Journalist, Robo American society watcher Paige Six, and the free-floating Talking Head. Other members of the organization include the technical expert Shutterbug and online researcher Webcaster.
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