Well Mr. Dark, your Cole index is progressing faster than we had originally predicted; this is not unheard of in subjects who make extensive use of their abilities.
Mr. Science was remarkably chipper and dapper. His pressed white coat carried the slightest scent of starch. His glasses were so clean they sparkled. The steel clip on his clipboard glinted brightly, as if it had been recently polished. He made me feel rather poorly turned out and rather uncomfortable.
The poorly turned out part of it was entirely understandable. Being at ground zero of a triple Vaz embombed corpse detonation does not do wonders for personal hygiene. A couple of minutes under the attention of a fire hose had stripped the worst of the organic muck; but my clothes looked like they had been well blown up in an organic explosion of semi-rotten body parts, cleaned with a hose and then air dried on the frame of a fat bastard.
That covered the poorly turned out part of the equation. The uncomfortable part of it was the large drill that was trying to pierce the skin of my palm. It hurt; but I was getting increasingly used to that. I was spending an increasing amount of time being hurt; and a smaller, but still significant portion of it being injured. Thankfully the Paragon Hero License, for active heroes at least, comes with a very effective medical plan. I had been making quite a bit of use of it. The drill tip began to smoke and small fragments broke away from the steel, the now jagged point catching in the skin and twisting.
Excellent, at least 40% more resilience over our last readings. Mr. Science continued. It wasnt his name; OBannon was his name, but he resembled Joseph Campanella from Science International; I must not have rated Tiiu Leek. That corresponds to the readings that we took on the tensile strength of your muscles and reaction speed.
That is very interesting. I noted with as much control as I could muster in the situation. Now please stop the drill.
The drill? Oh yes. Oh No! Mr. Science was notably distressed. He had several reasons; the least of which was that his immaculate white coat was now liberally splattered with dots of crimson. I had more reasons to be distressed as the drill had passed entirely through my hand and was happily chewing through the table. Mr. Science hit the control panels and the drill stopped and withdrew, dragging my hand up with it. This capped off what had been a complete and utter cluster of a day. He stared at my hand and I could see that he was deeply considering the implications. What would Jesus do? He would have preferred Jesus. Jesus didnt have the reputation I was slowly gaining. He didnt have a meek and mild prince of peace option; he had a large, dimensionally displaced man who was leaking stigmata juice and calling himself Excalibastard. Gritting my teeth I got up, and with something approaching grace, slapped my free hand down hard on the opposite wrist. My hand slid free of the drill with an uncomfortable ripping sound, and a considerably more uncomfortable ripping sensation. I reached for a first aid pack and pressed a bandage against the wound. It was already healing, but it would still be some time before the hole closed up fully. A week ago I would not have been so blas about a hole in my hand. A lot can happen in a week. I had been shot, stabbed, pummeled, blown up, perforated, folded, punched, kicked and puked on. Thankfully several more pleasant things had also happened, but the details of those shall remain between my lovely wife and I.
Several minutes, and a half dozen apologies later, I was leaving the Atlas Medical center. My hand was fully healed, but my mood remained somewhat grim. Did I say somewhat grim? No. It was rather more than somewhat grim. I was not in emo territory; the world didnt understand me and all that self-indulgent crap. No world understands you. Its not even in the world job description. Tectonic shifts, that is on the world job description; making sure that you are understood and that your oh so tender feelings are acknowledged? No. Not just no; hell no. It didnt help my mood, but I would rather be grounded in reality than happy. I have seen what sort of evils the not-grounded-in-reality-but-happy crowd were capable of.
This thought carried me to the tram and the tram started carrying me to Steel Canyon. I like the tram. There was a lot of thought put into it; especially as it served as a primary transportation means for the citys super heroic protectors. We get free passes. The windows are mirrored. On the inside. From the outside, you can see inside; but from the inside you cannot see outside. I would estimate that over the course of the year, this saves the Paragon Transit Authority a sum on money that approaches a billion. Imagine it. Every time a hero sees a mugging; they leap from the tram, smashing through the windows to fight crime. Ignorance is bliss only to the ignorant, but I appreciated this small, forced ignorance. It allowed for reflection, both good and bad. Mostly bad. I was homesick; I missed my parents, who I didnt call as much as I should; I missed my dog; I missed many of my friends. I didnt miss my fish; a small victory that I savored. A small, ugly, part of me wished that the transfer had been fully physical, that my loved ones, missed me as much as I missed them; but that was a thought beneath me. I was still there, still living the life I had led. It was unfair; but as one of my alter egos had so succinctly put, fair was where you went on the pony rides. It didnt make me any less angry though. Angry at the situation. Angry and the helplessness. Angry at myself for being angry. It wasnt a bad anger; but it needed redirection.
If you cannot do anything about one problem, do something you can about another one. I flipped open my cell phone and made a few calls. Paragon Heroic Liaison officers are go betweens between the hero community, government, industry and law enforcement. I had been introduced to several; liked a few of them; and respected all of them. While their jobs, job skills and social skills were widely disparate, they shared a single ability. They could all multitask like motherfuckers. Where did that phrase come from? On reflection it is probably not apropos, and conjures oedipal visions that could permanently scar the mind.
No, the Paragon Heroic Liaison officers are all able to handle two phones, three conversations and a constant stream of police intelligence through an ear bud while giving you your marching officers. Incredible. On the third call I hit paydirt. Willy Starbuck was chasing down a particular line of drug pushing and had a hot tip. The Skulls were putting the boots to a new Kings Row dance club; but there was a catch, one of their big guns was along for the ride. The Grave Raper. That got my attention. Was it supposed to sound tough? I bet he wanted to be called the Grim Reaper, but the Paragon Printing Company screwed up his business cards. The Grave Raper; just the sort of guy invite out for a cold one.
I think I might have horrified Willy; I was doing a pretty good job of horrifying myself. Look hotshot. He said, You watch yourself, this guy is no good news.
Ive got the file. I was scrolling through the description. Thanks Willy.
* * *
I made it too Kings Row on the tram. As I walked down the ramp a file of Longbow agents walked patrol. Hard bodies, taut muscles and gravity defying bosoms all parading about in the thinnest coating of bullet-proof spandex. I dont wear spandex; I have standing orders. If I ever parade about in spandex, Acyl is allowed to shoot me. As many times as it takes. There are some things that the eyes should not see and the mind should never be forced to forget.
Kings Row at night is not a place you want to be. It is dark; there are lights, but a small, highly active part of the criminal community enjoys using them for target practice. I didnt fear the dark; but I respected the horrors that it could hide. Dum! Dum! Duuummm! That sort of pretentious thought I didnt need. A lean and hungry rat waddled past a sewer grating; glancing up with beady red eyes. I glanced back. The rat didnt react to my glance. The rat had bigger problems. A tendril made of slightly fluorescing green goo snaked out from between the bars of the grate and wrapped itself around the rats torso. In a moment, the rat was pulled back through the grate. It did not go gracefully, it went crosswise. Whatever was pulling had sufficient strength to snap the rat half with a fatal sounding popping noise. Tendril and crudely folded rat disappeared into the darkness. Kings Row after dark. Great.
My destination was ahead and I concealed myself in the best way possible. I didnt move. Motion, any motion, draws the eye. If you can be still and silent then the job of stealth is already three quarters won. The club was located in one of the messed up tenement buildings that dotted the row. The entrance was almost level with the road, but around three quarters of the building was a two story deep alley. Perhaps in one day and age, they were seen as mini yards, where the children could run, safe from the streets. Now they were just receptacles for dumpsters and trash.
Grave Raper might have been of questionable taste, but he wasnt a complete muppet. There were two guards outside the club, chortling as they took turns kicking the ribs of someone who writhed on the ground. Probably a bouncer; reduced by circumstances to being a twitcher and a groaner. I relayed my position to the base, along with a brief message for my wife; who was at a meeting with city officials, negotiating on our behalf.
The movies have it all wrong. Fights are not long and drawn out affairs. When done correctly, they are short, fast and brutal. While strength, skill, speed and ability all play their part; there is one key factor that can never, ever, be ignored. You have to be willing to injure your opponent. Defeating someone without injuring them is possible, but it is foolish; it increases your risk astronomically. I waited until both Skulls had turned their backs to me and then moved. No games. No sense of fair play. I slammed into the first one with both blades, left blade met right blade with his head between them. He went down soundlessly. His partners reflexes were good, his instincts were wrong. He went for his gun. I tossed my swords away and stepped inside his arms, pinning the gun in his pants by grabbing his hand. I met the dark eyes of his skull mask. The yellowing bone had been stolen from a grave. Whoevers skull that was, the reality of their death was the conduit through which the thug channeled dark energies. I didnt think they would mind what I did next.
A head-butt, Liverpool kiss, or Kiss-off Glaswegian style is a short, efficient move. I used it. The mask held, but I heard the nose behind it break. Break someones nose and their eyes fill with tears and their brain is temporarily short circuited by intense pain. The Skulls hand slackened on the gun. Mine found the trigger, which I pulled twice.
Important tip. The package, wedding tackle, or carrot and two veg of your average Paragon street demon makes an adequate silencer. The retorts from the pistol were muffled considerably. I shift my grip, releasing the gun and grasping the Skulls rapidly darkening groin. I lifted and threw, tossing him into the sunken alley that ran beside the building. He didnt scream. His abused brain was still processing the head butt; by the time he reached the bullet wounds, gravity would not-so gently remind him that he had additional problems. I doubted he would be up for anything as vigorous as screaming for mommy to make it better. I prodded the bouncer, he was still conscious, though he could not have been too happy about it.
Give me five minutes and then call the police. I told him. I glanced at the unconscious Skull. If he starts to move, stomp on him.
The bouncer nodded his agreement. As I slid through the doors to the club, I did notice a change in the game plan. The bouncer didnt feel up and able to the stomping, but he had found a brick. Good improvisation.
Mr. Science was remarkably chipper and dapper. His pressed white coat carried the slightest scent of starch. His glasses were so clean they sparkled. The steel clip on his clipboard glinted brightly, as if it had been recently polished. He made me feel rather poorly turned out and rather uncomfortable.
The poorly turned out part of it was entirely understandable. Being at ground zero of a triple Vaz embombed corpse detonation does not do wonders for personal hygiene. A couple of minutes under the attention of a fire hose had stripped the worst of the organic muck; but my clothes looked like they had been well blown up in an organic explosion of semi-rotten body parts, cleaned with a hose and then air dried on the frame of a fat bastard.
That covered the poorly turned out part of the equation. The uncomfortable part of it was the large drill that was trying to pierce the skin of my palm. It hurt; but I was getting increasingly used to that. I was spending an increasing amount of time being hurt; and a smaller, but still significant portion of it being injured. Thankfully the Paragon Hero License, for active heroes at least, comes with a very effective medical plan. I had been making quite a bit of use of it. The drill tip began to smoke and small fragments broke away from the steel, the now jagged point catching in the skin and twisting.
Excellent, at least 40% more resilience over our last readings. Mr. Science continued. It wasnt his name; OBannon was his name, but he resembled Joseph Campanella from Science International; I must not have rated Tiiu Leek. That corresponds to the readings that we took on the tensile strength of your muscles and reaction speed.
That is very interesting. I noted with as much control as I could muster in the situation. Now please stop the drill.
The drill? Oh yes. Oh No! Mr. Science was notably distressed. He had several reasons; the least of which was that his immaculate white coat was now liberally splattered with dots of crimson. I had more reasons to be distressed as the drill had passed entirely through my hand and was happily chewing through the table. Mr. Science hit the control panels and the drill stopped and withdrew, dragging my hand up with it. This capped off what had been a complete and utter cluster of a day. He stared at my hand and I could see that he was deeply considering the implications. What would Jesus do? He would have preferred Jesus. Jesus didnt have the reputation I was slowly gaining. He didnt have a meek and mild prince of peace option; he had a large, dimensionally displaced man who was leaking stigmata juice and calling himself Excalibastard. Gritting my teeth I got up, and with something approaching grace, slapped my free hand down hard on the opposite wrist. My hand slid free of the drill with an uncomfortable ripping sound, and a considerably more uncomfortable ripping sensation. I reached for a first aid pack and pressed a bandage against the wound. It was already healing, but it would still be some time before the hole closed up fully. A week ago I would not have been so blas about a hole in my hand. A lot can happen in a week. I had been shot, stabbed, pummeled, blown up, perforated, folded, punched, kicked and puked on. Thankfully several more pleasant things had also happened, but the details of those shall remain between my lovely wife and I.
Several minutes, and a half dozen apologies later, I was leaving the Atlas Medical center. My hand was fully healed, but my mood remained somewhat grim. Did I say somewhat grim? No. It was rather more than somewhat grim. I was not in emo territory; the world didnt understand me and all that self-indulgent crap. No world understands you. Its not even in the world job description. Tectonic shifts, that is on the world job description; making sure that you are understood and that your oh so tender feelings are acknowledged? No. Not just no; hell no. It didnt help my mood, but I would rather be grounded in reality than happy. I have seen what sort of evils the not-grounded-in-reality-but-happy crowd were capable of.
This thought carried me to the tram and the tram started carrying me to Steel Canyon. I like the tram. There was a lot of thought put into it; especially as it served as a primary transportation means for the citys super heroic protectors. We get free passes. The windows are mirrored. On the inside. From the outside, you can see inside; but from the inside you cannot see outside. I would estimate that over the course of the year, this saves the Paragon Transit Authority a sum on money that approaches a billion. Imagine it. Every time a hero sees a mugging; they leap from the tram, smashing through the windows to fight crime. Ignorance is bliss only to the ignorant, but I appreciated this small, forced ignorance. It allowed for reflection, both good and bad. Mostly bad. I was homesick; I missed my parents, who I didnt call as much as I should; I missed my dog; I missed many of my friends. I didnt miss my fish; a small victory that I savored. A small, ugly, part of me wished that the transfer had been fully physical, that my loved ones, missed me as much as I missed them; but that was a thought beneath me. I was still there, still living the life I had led. It was unfair; but as one of my alter egos had so succinctly put, fair was where you went on the pony rides. It didnt make me any less angry though. Angry at the situation. Angry and the helplessness. Angry at myself for being angry. It wasnt a bad anger; but it needed redirection.
If you cannot do anything about one problem, do something you can about another one. I flipped open my cell phone and made a few calls. Paragon Heroic Liaison officers are go betweens between the hero community, government, industry and law enforcement. I had been introduced to several; liked a few of them; and respected all of them. While their jobs, job skills and social skills were widely disparate, they shared a single ability. They could all multitask like motherfuckers. Where did that phrase come from? On reflection it is probably not apropos, and conjures oedipal visions that could permanently scar the mind.
No, the Paragon Heroic Liaison officers are all able to handle two phones, three conversations and a constant stream of police intelligence through an ear bud while giving you your marching officers. Incredible. On the third call I hit paydirt. Willy Starbuck was chasing down a particular line of drug pushing and had a hot tip. The Skulls were putting the boots to a new Kings Row dance club; but there was a catch, one of their big guns was along for the ride. The Grave Raper. That got my attention. Was it supposed to sound tough? I bet he wanted to be called the Grim Reaper, but the Paragon Printing Company screwed up his business cards. The Grave Raper; just the sort of guy invite out for a cold one.
I think I might have horrified Willy; I was doing a pretty good job of horrifying myself. Look hotshot. He said, You watch yourself, this guy is no good news.
Ive got the file. I was scrolling through the description. Thanks Willy.
* * *
I made it too Kings Row on the tram. As I walked down the ramp a file of Longbow agents walked patrol. Hard bodies, taut muscles and gravity defying bosoms all parading about in the thinnest coating of bullet-proof spandex. I dont wear spandex; I have standing orders. If I ever parade about in spandex, Acyl is allowed to shoot me. As many times as it takes. There are some things that the eyes should not see and the mind should never be forced to forget.
Kings Row at night is not a place you want to be. It is dark; there are lights, but a small, highly active part of the criminal community enjoys using them for target practice. I didnt fear the dark; but I respected the horrors that it could hide. Dum! Dum! Duuummm! That sort of pretentious thought I didnt need. A lean and hungry rat waddled past a sewer grating; glancing up with beady red eyes. I glanced back. The rat didnt react to my glance. The rat had bigger problems. A tendril made of slightly fluorescing green goo snaked out from between the bars of the grate and wrapped itself around the rats torso. In a moment, the rat was pulled back through the grate. It did not go gracefully, it went crosswise. Whatever was pulling had sufficient strength to snap the rat half with a fatal sounding popping noise. Tendril and crudely folded rat disappeared into the darkness. Kings Row after dark. Great.
My destination was ahead and I concealed myself in the best way possible. I didnt move. Motion, any motion, draws the eye. If you can be still and silent then the job of stealth is already three quarters won. The club was located in one of the messed up tenement buildings that dotted the row. The entrance was almost level with the road, but around three quarters of the building was a two story deep alley. Perhaps in one day and age, they were seen as mini yards, where the children could run, safe from the streets. Now they were just receptacles for dumpsters and trash.
Grave Raper might have been of questionable taste, but he wasnt a complete muppet. There were two guards outside the club, chortling as they took turns kicking the ribs of someone who writhed on the ground. Probably a bouncer; reduced by circumstances to being a twitcher and a groaner. I relayed my position to the base, along with a brief message for my wife; who was at a meeting with city officials, negotiating on our behalf.
The movies have it all wrong. Fights are not long and drawn out affairs. When done correctly, they are short, fast and brutal. While strength, skill, speed and ability all play their part; there is one key factor that can never, ever, be ignored. You have to be willing to injure your opponent. Defeating someone without injuring them is possible, but it is foolish; it increases your risk astronomically. I waited until both Skulls had turned their backs to me and then moved. No games. No sense of fair play. I slammed into the first one with both blades, left blade met right blade with his head between them. He went down soundlessly. His partners reflexes were good, his instincts were wrong. He went for his gun. I tossed my swords away and stepped inside his arms, pinning the gun in his pants by grabbing his hand. I met the dark eyes of his skull mask. The yellowing bone had been stolen from a grave. Whoevers skull that was, the reality of their death was the conduit through which the thug channeled dark energies. I didnt think they would mind what I did next.
A head-butt, Liverpool kiss, or Kiss-off Glaswegian style is a short, efficient move. I used it. The mask held, but I heard the nose behind it break. Break someones nose and their eyes fill with tears and their brain is temporarily short circuited by intense pain. The Skulls hand slackened on the gun. Mine found the trigger, which I pulled twice.
Important tip. The package, wedding tackle, or carrot and two veg of your average Paragon street demon makes an adequate silencer. The retorts from the pistol were muffled considerably. I shift my grip, releasing the gun and grasping the Skulls rapidly darkening groin. I lifted and threw, tossing him into the sunken alley that ran beside the building. He didnt scream. His abused brain was still processing the head butt; by the time he reached the bullet wounds, gravity would not-so gently remind him that he had additional problems. I doubted he would be up for anything as vigorous as screaming for mommy to make it better. I prodded the bouncer, he was still conscious, though he could not have been too happy about it.
Give me five minutes and then call the police. I told him. I glanced at the unconscious Skull. If he starts to move, stomp on him.
The bouncer nodded his agreement. As I slid through the doors to the club, I did notice a change in the game plan. The bouncer didnt feel up and able to the stomping, but he had found a brick. Good improvisation.