by Prometheus
The infinite throne room of the so-called Castle of Crossed-Destinies stood silent, save the conversation of two very powerful beings.
"I'm still not sure I understand everything that happened..."
"It's really straightforward if you think about it."
"But... what did he truly want in the end?"
"What any obsessed maniac wants... attention... revenge..."
"Okay. I can accept that. Still, take me through it. I want to understand the details."
"Well... quite simply, it began like this..."
The granite quarry quaked with heaves of shuddering force. The claps of impossible mass, colliding with time-hewn shoulders of rock, came at a paced interval. To the far eastern section of the desolate, maze-ridden terrain, a haze of gray, smoky dust hung with a swirl of turbulence as the thundering continued unabated.
Impossibly large fists, clenched tighter than gravity would believe, kept the chaotic beat, ramming with a focused ferocity into the side of one of the small mountains of rock. Large pools of smoking, gray powder, along with millions of granite fragments, littered the area around the enormous man, his fists diamond-hard, digging a fissure into the mass through sheer strength. His size 47 black boots remained locked with a steadied stance against the inertial backlash from such a show of power. The tightly hewed mass of his arms mimicked the trunk of a small oak tree in absolute volume. A bone-white skull face sat etched perfectly where a human visage would normally be. Pale, ivory skin bled off from the side-edges of the skull; a slight crop of black hair, freckled with dust and rocky pebbles, wafted against the turbulent gust.
And this man, this giant known only as Grimm, continued to pummel the rock before him.
His loud, focused meditation finally halted after almost an hour, culminating in one final punch, which literally shook the area within a half-a-mile radius.
The silence came with only the echoes of his final punch, rolling out over the lands, and the drizzling rain of debris that fell with a muffled scatter of sand and granite. Grimm stood there a moment, the sizzling heat of his smoking fists slowly fading with an audible hiss and crackle. Stretching his back out of what seemed to be more habit than fatigue, he surveyed his carnage with what could almost be considered a smile.
But wasn't. It was never considered a smile, you see. As Grimm, the leather-clad giant of La Perdita's metahuman consulting agency, never ever smiled.
There was a brief, unnoticed flash of red and gold as Tobias Christopher blurred into the area and back out in under a picosecond.
Walking with crunching footsteps over to a small cleft of rock jutting up from the gray earth, the island's normal evening sunlight began to fade quickly, a thick band of clouds smoothly dominating the sky. Grimm grabbed his large leather jacket off the cleft, sliding it back over him like skin. The handle of his double-edged war axe slipped into a familiar palm groove as he hoisted it from its leaning position. The tight, ancient leather of the handle wrap pressed firmly in his grasp, the mirror of the rolling, gray clouds above bearing a perfect reflection in the sheen of the wide, silver blades.
Grimm heaved it over his shoulder, reaching to fit it back into its usual back-scabbard, when he suddenly stopped. As with all of Grimm's facial features, there was no face, skin, muscle, or sinew to express any given emotion. Yet, for some reason, expression could generally be made out with ease. Whether it was a visual illusion on the part of the organic brain to fill in the gaps, or maybe how the natural shadows played and melted with the tilt of his head along his skull features, there was no true certainty. Either way, expression was apparent when needed. Just as a look of curious surprise etched across his features, slowly bringing the axe back down to eye level.
He looked it over, twisting it around as if trying to locate some area of interest. When, in fact, the only area of true interest at the moment was how it sat vibrating with intensity in his palm.
His neo-weapon of choice was capable of many things, metaphysical or otherwise. However, as far back as he could remember, the axe had never vibrated before.
His curiosity grew, rolling the blade over and over in his palm, when he suddenly halted it, catching something in the metallic reflection. His eyes seemed to narrow as he focused in on the mirror reflection from behind him. Far off in the distance, near the edge of the quarry itself, a figure was watching him.
Standing in a perfectly neutral stance, a slender Asian male dressed in a simple black kimono stared at him. Short, slick black hair remained unaffected by the constant breeze that had kicked up with the cloud front. Merely a single black sash flailed in the gusts, whipping to the dance of wind. And the man stared at Grimm, any possible eyes hidden by black-tinted, wire-rimmed spectacles. Black-gloved hands hung at his side without movement. Ivory-skin wrapped an expressionless face as the man stood like a statue, forever intent on his one point of interest.
As Grimm processed this, there was suddenly movement as a shorter, elegant woman walked out from behind the man, as if she had been there the entire time.
Long, curly red hair, golden like volcanic magma, fluttered in the breeze as she walked in front of the still-staring man. Barefooted with obvious ankle bracelets adorning, her simple field-green skirt, matching haunting eyes, rustled as she paused, directly obscuring the man and staring at Grimm as well. Then, with nothing more than a warm smile, she slipped her hand into her companion's and began leading him off into the opposite direction. The man in black's stare never left Grimm.
And even as Grimm spun around to face them, they were gone.
Suddenly, Grimm encountered something completely new for the second time this day. He felt what it was like to have a chill run along his spine.
"Looks like bad weather, huh?"
Two figures stood side-by-side, staring out the deep-framed window, the shaded light from the blanket of clouds the only source of illumination within the expansive, make-shift conference room.
A thin, short-sleeved gray T-shirt wrapped tightly against highly toned biceps and a smooth-ripped abdomen of one of the men. Smooth-fit blue jeans sat on his hips, leaving room at the bottom for a simple pair of white Nike's. A very short cut of sandy brown hair cemented his head, complementing a young, handsome face.
His name, as far as you know, was Philip Smith.
The other voyeur, the short stub of a half-smoked cigar tightly nestled in the side of his mouth, leaned against the edge of the large window, his eyes never leaving the third-story view. A thick mass of auburn hair sat ruffled, cutting just above deep-brown eyes. His face, while not haggard, was weathered enough to tell a few stories, with a chin of intimidating dominance. A navy-blue wife-beater hung loosely against a larger chest and shoulder frame than his current companion. Scars from wars man had never heard of marked in random inflections along his back, a half-faded U.S. Marine tattoo lining the thick bicep of his left arm. Dark tan khakis, a wide, black leather belt, modified with multiple pouches and effects, and military-black boots finished the ensemble.
His name, much to your regret, was Dirk Bell.
There was a brief, unnoticed flash of red and gold as Tobias Christopher blurred past the building three stories below in under a picosecond.
"For some reason, I like bad weather," Phil continued. "Don't ask me why, or anything..."
Bell, not only not asking him why, never even offered any form of gesture or signal that he even heard a word the man said. As he had been doing so for approximately ten minutes.
"...I mean, I like Frank Sinatra, you know? I like his stuff a lot. But don't ask me to name any of his songs," Phil said with a bit of personal anxiety.
Bell continued his silence.
"It's like that, really. This amnesia stuff. It's like loving Sinatra without knowing any of his songs... Does that make sense?" he asked.
Silence.
Phil, standing with his arms crossed, looked over at the leaning Bell. Bell simply took a drag from his stogie and continued to stare out. Watching the man for a moment or two, Phil finally turned back toward the window.
"You know..." he began, a hint of irritation forming in his words, "...you could at least give me a fuck off or something."
Finally, there was an audible sigh as Dirk's head dropped a bit, a look of seeming concern coming over him. He stared back up into Phil's eyes with an understanding air.
"Listen, it's not that I'm ignoring you, honestly," he began, a warm smile coming over his features. "It's just that, your memory problems, view on life, and weather predictions are so completely uninteresting to me that I think, if I were to try to care on any level, I would simply scatter a large portion of my gray matter on the wall using only the ramming force of my skull, honestly trying to beat the actual memory of even talking to you -- PHYSICALLY -- out, freeing large, fresh smears of my blood to run and hide, in hopes of never again having to encounter these personal, time-of-the-month problems that you wail on and on about, Patricia..."
Dirk paused to take a breath.
"...you know?" he asked with a hint of desperation in his voice.
Before Phil could even open his mouth to respond, Dirk spun him around, hand on his shoulder, and moved him along with a graceful force across the room.
"Of COURSE you know what I'm talking about, sweetheart," he said, beginning a hearty fake laugh. "I mean, hell, you have to live with yourself on a day-to-day basis... the rest of us only having to tolerate this nauseum at tortuously spontaneous intervals..."
He suddenly brought them to a halt in front of the junction of hallways.
"...kind of like unprotected sex, wouldn't you agree, Priscilla? I come downstairs every morning, and sometimes it's memories of golden honey nights mixed with sweat and sighs," he continued, one arm wrapped around Phil, Bell's eyes looking off into the distance. "But, then, sometimes, I'm forced to remember that there you are, rattling on with a sickeningly infectious bleeding heart, simply tainting me to my very soul. And, I really have to say, sometimes I just want to wrap myself into a fetal position and wail my swollen eyes out until I simply vomit."
Phil jerked away, opening his mouth to respond.
"There, there, Penelope, there, there..." Dirk interrupted before he could respond. "I know it's tough on you, with us breaking up and all, but I really think, if we try, that we can still be friends... but, I'm keeping your class ring for the memories."
He spun Phil around in place, giving him a little slap on the ass, pushing him toward the kitchen door. "Oh, and fuck off." And with that, Dirk Bell walked off in the opposite direction.
Phil just stood there for a moment, a few hundred delayed responses trying to find root in his mouth.
Mick Harrison walked out of the kitchen, carrying a freshly cooked batch of fish sticks.
"What... a... prick..." Phil finally muttered to Mick.
Mick's face sank. "Hey! How was I supposed to know that you didn't like fish sticks?! I was just trying to be nice!" he replied with a hurt tone, then quickly turned with a slight whimper of hurt feelings and retreated into the kitchen.
Phil just stood there for a moment. Then, with a very deep sigh and irritated expression, walked away.
The outside of the cafe bristled with the low evening traffic of La Perdita's workforce. The occasional bicycle or even scooter was as common as the automobiles and those trudging through the sidewalks on foot. Del Mar wasn't necessarily as much a busy city as it was a very large, excitable village.
"I do hope you are certain about this, as I was hoping for a glass of shiraz," the slender man said, a light British accent apparent. The sleeves of his white button-up, rolled up to the forearm, complimented the tan expedition vest that lay across his chest. Tan trousers of a tighter fit hugged his legs. Worn brown leather boots sat cocked together under the table, looking as if recently having trudged through a dozen ancient deserts. A flock of blonde hair sat normally ruffled with the breeze on this gray day.
His companion gave a quiet smile, with two warm, green eyes nodding at the waitress who sat glasses of water onto the outdoor table.
"Anything else?" she asked in her native tongue, gum popping in her mouth. And, for some reason, she simply couldn't stop staring at the green eyes.
The blonde man slipped two very long, singular digits around the cool glass of water, eyeing it with disapproval. "Has this glass been cleaned within, say, the past few years, my dear?"
The tone came with a British air of civility, tinged with a dry, sardonic wit that could not be ignored. Champagne dreams being the norm, the ex-thief and ex-mercenary Grissom Montag sat back fully in the metal cafe chair, dismally admiring the plainness of the liquid.
There was a brief, unnoticed flash of red and gold as Tobias Christopher blurred past the cafe in under a picosecond.
"Trust me, water is all we need. Thank you," his companion responded to the waitress, who had begun to sweat a bit. After a brief moment of personal ecstasy, she finally turned, walking away very fast.
A shoulder-length shag of caramel strands of hinted red covered his head. Twin green eyes of crystal clarity and piercing intent sat nestled comfortably above a smile that made women everywhere squirm with excitement. A light, golden sweater casually covered a very average frame, deep-blue jeans rolled loosely at the ankles. His shoulder blades, however, appeared to be slightly broader than usual, more defined than most.
"You really should learn a bit more tolerance, Grissom," the newly mortal angel known only as Tayden began. "Your arrogance will be your undoing."
"Balderdash, my boy!" Montag responded with a haughty furrow of his brow. "There is no sin in having a fully defined palette."
"And how would you know that?" Tayden asked with a calm smile.
"A bit o' common sense, wouldn't you say?" Montag said, smirking.
Tayden snorted with amusement, raising his glass of water into the air. "A toast to the arrogance of man, then," he announced.
"Please..." Grissom replied, eyeing his water. "I couldn't possibly do any toast such an injustice with something you can find in a small puddle on the side of the road."
Tayden's eyes narrowed a bit. "Shiraz, you say?" the ex-angel asked.
"Preferably..." the Sandcrawler said, nodding.
"What year?"
"A 1603, really..." he thought out loud.
Tayden's smile broadened as he muttered a prayer. "Then... enjoy your drink..." he finally said, "...and thank He who gives it..."
Grissom had opened his mouth to question the nonsense he had heard, when he suddenly noticed his glass. Within it, a deep burgundy wine sparkled against the gray light of the evening.
Slowly, he cut his eyes toward the golden man sitting opposite, also now holding a glass of wine. "Impressive, old thing." Montag nodded with sincere admiration.
Tayden shrugged. "Old party trick I learned from Him," he responded casually.
"Him? As in... Him him?" the once-thief said, cocking an eyebrow.
"Oh, yes..." Tayden said with a heartening smile and glance upward, "...Him him."
Grissom stared briefly, then without pause raised his glass. "I'll say this, Tayden: you're never boring."
Tayden raised his own glass. "To Him, then."
Montag nodded. "Indeed."
The glasses clinked together, melting perfectly into the noise of the afternoon traffic.
"Fascinating! Absolutely fascinating!"
The voice came muffled with sincere awe. Short, wavy, sandy blonde hair, streaks of bronze-like red creeping in and out, hid a face that was too busy being buried against the eye-scanner of a PIDA (Phase Induction Defragmentation Analyzer) to be seen. His lean, fit body bent over, shaded by the temporary white lab coat, Kristofer Schanz was, indeed, completely fascinated. By everything.
"It only took you a week to cobble this together?" he asked, continuing his close inspection of the highly technological scanner.
"Cutting the outside base took five days," the large black man, leaning against the wall of the makeshift lab responded. "The cannibalization of four of my temporal scramblers for the guts only took two."
The voice was precise and authoritative, a deep resonance and heavy emotional weight finding home within the tone. Dark skin was smooth along his bald cranium, a full body armor gleaming with a flex-metal not yet invented covering his upper torso. Yet the parts of his bare arms that showed ran with a jagged, and sometimes random, topography. Somewhat faint blinks of light could almost be seen just below the first layer of skin, where technological weaponry sat surgically implanted in broad knuckles and both palms.
Chance looked up finally from his inspection, a satisfied expression flashing through his eyes. "Temporal scramblers? I assume that, as a part of your futuristic stockpile of artillery and technology, these scramblers did not rank high on useful applications?"
The foreboding figure of one Gabriel Thomas -- the Priest -- stared back with curious eyes. "Why... would you say that?" he asked.
Chance shrugged his shoulders. "Logic. Why would you support and arm yourself with anything other than proactively useful devices and weapons? Anything that cannot be used or applied toward any given situation in a positive manner should, given your obvious militaristic efficiency, be removed or re-modified to serve a purpose that benefits your greater whole," he rattled off in a clinical tone.
"Tactical thinking of you, Professor Schanz," Priest said, nodding. "That is exactly right. The scramblers were only useful for my initial temporal jump to this century. They are worthless to me now." He casually rubbed the still-healing slits along two of his left knuckles where he had dug the scramblers out.
"Kind of like taking the barf bag with you once the plane has landed?" he asked.
Gabriel's expression wrinkled. "I'm not sure I understand the analogy," he said. "What is a 'barf bag'?"
"Never mind," said Kristofer, just dismissing the question with a wave of his hand. "So, why did you decide to build this scanner for me?"
"I reasoned that it may help to smooth relations with this group if I were to offer something that can be singularly useful in some fashion."
Schanz shook his head, sitting back into one of the metal fold-out chairs that had been set up in the small closet of a laboratory that he and Dr. Henry Quantos had put together.
"Well, you'll probably have to go a bit further than a scanner, soldier," he replied with a crossing of his arms. "You did try to kill one of our team, you know."
Thomas shook his head with a roll of his eyes, sighing. "What part of 'it was my job' don't you and your group understand?" he asked with a tone of irritation.
"You tried to KILL Danny, for God's sake!"
"And how is that any different than what you do?" he countered. "At what point do you feel responsible if, say, a family member of someone the MBL was hired to take down came to your doorstep demanding retribution?"
"We are a consulting firm -- a think-tank -- NOT a squad of mercenaries," Chance stated firmly.
"Oh, and you speak for the group, do you?"
"I think I speak for the spirit of those within the group, yes."
Priest nodded with a look of curiosity. "I see. So, that's what the guy with all the guns -- Bell -- that's what he would say?"
"What Bell has to say has no real importance in my book."
Priest leaned up from the wall, turning to walk out. There was a brief, unnoticed flash of red and gold as Tobias Christopher blurred past the lab door in under a picosecond.
"Then, may I suggest you glance at the books of the rest of your staff. You may find that it is not so cut and dried as you would wish." And with that, Priest turned, walking out of the lab.
"Thanks for the scanner," Chance muttered with an air of discomfort.
"We just got out of JFK. Traffic is heavy today," the voice of Kit Piper chirped over the cell phone, the occasional blaring of horns in the background.
"What time's your appointment?" the young man asked, crouching in a half-squatted kneeling position, worn denim jeans clung tightly to his form. The sky-blue short sleeve hugged his shoulders, the tilt of his head-against-shoulder wrinkling the Soccer emblem along the chest as the cell phone sat sharply against his ear. Bare toes crawled absentmindedly outside the perimeter of his worn brown Birkenstocks, digging lightly against the fluttering blades of grass. As did his fingers, tracing imaginary symbols along the tips of the lush green. Light brownish-blonde hair tossed in the breeze, the bangs fluttering past his hazel eyes with random gusts.
"Three p.m., New York time," Kit's voice hushed with a muffled yawn.
"Jet lag?"
"Eating me alive, Dan-o. Shirley's worse than I am."
Daniel Hearn's eyes drifted into the rolling gray clouds as a man with wings flew past, eighteen stories above. "Have you seen him?" Danny asked.
"No. I think he's still somewhere in Europe."
"Fuck!" Danny bitched, standing up and taking the phone in hand. "So, he's making you deal with his fucking lawyers?!"
"Don't sweat it, Dan. They're the caretakers of the estate, not his legal eagles."
"Uh-huh," Dan said with a nod, pacing back and forth. "And what, exactly, are these caretakers of his estate?"
There was a brief pause. "Well... uh... lawyers," Kit finally answered.
"I knew it!" he half-yelled. "That son of a bitch. I cannot believe he's making you do it this way."
"Dan, the contract he signed is as valid as the one you did, okay? Sam doesn't want to be contacted? Then Sam isn't contacted."
"And meanwhile, we have to go through his fucking committee for the insurance coverage."
"It won't be a problem, trust me."
"Kit, we cannot afford to rebuild this thing ourselves," Danny spoke earnestly.
"The Dawson estate is as aware of that fact as you are," Kit reassured him. "This won't get messy, okay? Sam's a good guy. It's his home. Trust me, he'll cover the rebuilding cost."
"Damn well better," he grumbled.
There was a brief chuckle on the other end of the phone, the mumblings of a female voice in the background. "Shirley wants to know when you started giving so much of a shit, anyway?" Kit asked with amusement.
Danny suddenly realized that he had been pacing. He abruptly halted. Then, with a sneer, turned the phone directly toward his mouth. "CAUSE I'M TIRED OF SLEEPING IN A GODDAMN FISH FACTORY!" he yelled with a flat tone.
Laughter could be heard from the phone. "We're nearing our hotel. Take care of the boys for me, Dan."
"Yeah," he sighed. "See you Tuesday."
The phone chirped as he closed the line. Taking a few steps forward through the grass, he slowly stopped in front of a cordon of police tape. Staring up before him, their old apartment/office building sat quiet and dark. More than half of the western side of their home had been gutted and crumbled. The half-formed structure, still standing in one part all the way to the roof, howled endlessly with deep, sad moans as the breeze funneled through the broken windows and missing walls.
"I hate fucking lawyers," he finally sighed, staring over at the two figures standing next to him.
"I've got a few friends in D.C.," the older, rugged man said, his five o' clock shadow outlining a rock jaw. "Maybe pull a few strings."
Dan shrugged, running his palms across the edges of the bright yellow tape. "Probably won't come to that," he replied. "Just wish it wasn't all so damn... personal."
"Dawson has his reasons, I'm sure."
Dan glanced over at the man, dressed down in black and gray military fatigues. A black flack-jacket covered his chest, bulging along his ribs where two 9mm's sat nestled in duel shoulder holsters. Perfectly cut and maintained black hair rimmed his head, inflections of graying white spotted at the temples.
"Why are you always so damn sure about everything?" Danny asked, sarcasm rolling.
Marv Velo cracked a light smile. "Because I'm the best, Hearn," he began with a hint of amusement. "And you hope you can grow up to be me."
Danny just snorted with a smirk.
"Oh, men and their egos," the young female interjected, standing just behind the two. "Just whip your cocks out and get it over with already, would you?"
Danny actually began laughing a bit. Instead, Velo simply turned and stared at her with folded arms and a disapproving look. "Where did a lady learn to talk like that?" he asked with a cocked eyebrow.
Jackie Munroe smiled, a saucy look creeping into her eyes. Her shoulder-length brown hair ruffled with the breeze. Her simple white tank-top cut just above the navel along her perfectly tan six-pack, a small gold hoop navel-ring sparkling. Palm-sized breasts pushed freely against the fabric, the braless features evident with the cool evening air. Dark-olive pseudo-fatigues, military-cut, sat loose and baggy, with a low, uneven tilt on tight hips. Black combat boots laced all the way up set her over an inch taller than her natural five-foot-eight-inch height.
"Boarding school," she said. "And who said that I was a lady?" And when Ameristar smiled, even Velo had to blink. With that, she slipped under the cordon, walking toward the ruins.
Danny nodded with a smile. "I like her."
"Shut up."
There was a brief, unnoticed flash of red and gold as Tobias Christopher blurred past the men in under a picosecond.
Above the thirteenth floor, Edulcore Cicciotto soared past. His wings spread wide, he glided with a slow dance through the running breeze. The now-cooling air whisked through his dark beard over his bare chest and along the iron scabbard of Ladnikia, the blade itself almost whistling against the wind. Eyes, narrowed more in thought than against the turbulence, scanned the devastation with a precision aerodynamic analysis.
Without warning, a deeper shadow, blocking out what little light the clouds left, suddenly howled past him. The enormous bursts of turbulence left in the wake of two massive wingspans jostled Raptor just a bit. He cut his eyes up at the enormous dragon, his large body mass cutting through the sky with flaps of feathered wings.
"This is pretty cool, huh? You and me?" Drax stated loudly, the words brushing by Cicciotto's acute hearing.
"What do you mean?" he asked with an Italian accent, this newcomer still an enigma for him.
"To be able to chat with someone... while flying!" the dragon explained, his face almost contorting into humanlike expressions. "It's so... pleasant to have someone to share the skies with."
Raptor thought briefly on this, cutting left as Drax, above him, cut right. "I've never really thought about it, actually," he finally responded as the two criss-crossed again.
"I have! Man, talk about boredom," Drax said, his long tail whipping past Raptor at a safe distance.
"Usually, I just enjoy it as... quiet refuge," Raptor said, giving knowing eyes at the dragon.
Drax could almost be made out to smile. "Message received," he said, nodding. "Shutting up now."
Raptor merely grinned. But as he cut hard left again, his grin began to fade. His eyes scanned and darted along the perimeter of the trees lining the back of the estate. Sharp, focused pupils had caught something he had not expected.
Movement.
Something... someone had been watching him from the treetops, then, like a fading dream, was gone.
Raptor curled his flight pattern, gliding away from the crumbled masonry, cutting quickly down, skimming the tops of the green trees at excessive speeds. Looking -- scanning -- for any sign of repeated movement.
"What's this?" Jackie asked, squatted down next to a pile of masonry inside a still-standing corner of the condemned apartment offices.
Poking his head through a hole in the side of what used to be the laundry room, Danny looked down at the woman below. "What?"
Jackie dug at a small pot, pulling it from under a few falling pieces of mortar. Handing it up to Danny's arm, his upper torso now stretching through the opening, he turned it over and over.
"I don't know. Looks like a flower pot to me," he replied. And it was, indeed, a flower pot.
"Well, no shit, Boy George," she retorted. "I'm asking you why it's here."
"I guess it must have been Naecken's," he said, shrugging.
"Why do you say that?"
Danny cut his eyes down at her. He slowly rotated the crimson-brown flower pot around in his hand, revealing the word Naecken inscribed on one side.
"Oh." A very flat expression covered her face.
Velo stood in his normal attentive stance, arms folded across his broad chest, next to the outside portion of Danny's body. And, while he listened to every word spoken, his eyes had begun staring off to the far right.
"Okay. Assuming I believe that it survived the hurricane -- the one that leveled this entire building, I remind you -- how do you explain the flower?" Ameristar asked, coming around the other side of the wall, as Danny pulled himself out, flower pot still in hand.
The exotically blue plant, still firmly nestled within the pot, seemed to flourish and shine, even under the gray blanket rolling the skies.
Danny just shrugged, throwing his arms up in an exasperated manner. "Who fucking knows?" he half-yelled with impatience. He immediately tossed the pot to Jackie.
"Maybe it's some sort of -- I don't know -- demon plant," she spoke, eyeing the plant at arm's length. "Wasn't this guy some kind of, like, Lord of the Underworld type?"
Velo continued to stare out.
"Jaysis..." Danny sighed, rolling his eyes. "Jackie, it's not a fucki--"
The gust of wing turbulence from Drax interrupted as he flashed back into humanoid form, coming into an almost-running stop. Dan just gave him a go-to-hell look as he attempted to brush his hair back out.
"WHEW!" Drake exclaimed, clapping his hands together a few times in an excited manner. "Hot damn, I love flying!"
His expression suddenly switched, his eyes narrowing into a passionate stare at Jackie. "So... how you doin'?" he spoke in a quiet tone of intent.
Jackie's face bore a mock-serious stare. "Better than you can handle," she shot back with a subtle flirt.
"I'm going to marry you. You know that, right?"
"Like being shackled down, do you?" she asked, hand cocked on her hip. "I've got some handcuffs..."
Drake began laughing, suddenly giving Danny a few shadow boxing shots to the ribcage. "See, Hearn? See?" he grunted with a playful excitement as he continued to dance around Dan, throwing a few jabs here and there. "Women know I am cool-and-the-gang!"
Danny just stood there, watching him with a blank expression. "Dude..." Danny began, "...that hydrogen compound you build in your lungs for that... fire... does it get you high or something?"
"No, no, no..." he laughed. "I'm high on life, man! Or, endorphins, really..." He suddenly stopped, stepping up next to Dan. "It's like bungee-jumping, or sky-diving," he explained. "You get that fight-or-flight panic going on... brain releases pleasure endorphins to compensate. Like that runner's wall all the Olympic runners talk about."
He leaned in close with a weird smile. "Now take that, and imagine how many endorphins it takes to satisfy something the size of a dragon," he said with glee.
"And they're still in your system when you switch with the Drax form," Danny said, nodding.
"That's why you're the leader, man. You're just too damn smart!" Drake exclaimed with a smile.
"I am NOT the lead--" Danny began.
"Marshall..." Velo spoke up, still staring off.
"Yeah?" Drake spun around, facing the man. He began looking off along Velo's line of sight.
"Why is Cicciotto holding his pattern over those trees?" he asked after a momentary pause, pulling a sleek black set of binoculars out of his hip pack.
Far out to the western horizon of the estate, Raptor soared in a wide circular flight path, searching the trees.
"I don't know..." Drake replied. "He was acting kind of moody..."
Dan and Jackie both walked over to the two. Hearn's eyes narrowed. "Hal, eagle eyes..."
Genetic imprint... uploading, his secondary set of algorithmic neurons fired back into his language centers. In tandem, precisely grafted designer genes, downloading from his ganglia, synched into his dominant visual traits.
He widened his eyes, dark pupils flaring abnormally large. Raptor raced into visual clarity as Danny's eyes compensated for the distance.
"He's... staring at the trees," Danny spoke, following Euro's flight pattern with his eyes. "I think... I think he's... looking for something."
Danny cut his vision down into the massive treeline that dominated the edge of the estate. Lush green foliage swayed to the growing breeze, tossing with a life of its own. He scanned slowly, trying to pinpoint the source of Euro's fascination. A leg.
"Wait!" Danny suddenly exclaimed, everyone looking at him with question. Danny's eyes froze as he locked onto a slender leg, high up in one of the taller trees, perched out from behind one the trunks. Then, just as suddenly, the leg disappeared back into the growth.
"Hal..." Danny yelled out loud, cutting into a full sprint across the field, "...cheetah legs."
His sandals flew from his racing feet. Long splits ripped down the legs of his jeans, his natural musculature increasing to compensate for the genetic grafts pumping into the tissue. The soccer shirt hugged his upper torso, the sound of muted slaps coming from the rhythmic procession of his bare feet striking the soft canopy of green grass.
The wind sheared against the naked skin of his face, his legs pumping furiously as he reached up to forty-seven miles an hour crossing the wide, open field.
"We've got a visitor," Velo mumbled, tracking Danny's sprint. He slung the binoculars back into his belt pouch, smoothly unholstering a black 9mm pistol.
"I'll go--" Drake began, stepping forward.
"No..." Velo interrupted, throwing an arm up to block the man, "...you're with me. Jackie, back up Dan."
"On it," she said. She took a hard step forward, her body disappearing with a sizzling pop of air.
Velo cocked his pistol, Drake opening his mouth to protest. "Drax is seventeen times bigger than Ciccioto. You would be of no use under that canopy of limbs. Besides, those endorphins will be wearing off soon." Velo glanced down at the folded cane sitting on Marshall's hip. Drake just sighed with a nod, knowing the fatigue from the nerve damage would return.
With another snap of air, Jackie appeared in the edge of the small forest that lined the estate. Gray light decorated the ground under the canopy at random, peeking through the thick growth with muted spotlights. Dan was already there, his nostrils flaring. Fatigue toxins burned out of his system at an exponential rate, his olfactory senses as sharp and acute as a wolverine.
"Anything?" Jackie asked, looking around.
Dan never made eye contact with her, completely intent in his search for a scent, his breath quick, primal pants of air. "They're staying downwind..." he quietly replied, "...but I think... I've..."
He suddenly stopped, jerking his head right.
"...got it!"
With that, he suddenly sprung forward into another sprint, heading deep into the woods. With the leap of a gazelle, his forearms and biceps immediately swelled into simian proportions. Catching a firm hand onto a lower limb, he began swinging palm over palm, rising up and into the trees. The swings came quick and natural as he glided through the tops of the trees with the ease of any primate.
Small sprigs of leaves washed against his body and face, randomly cutting into his view. He suddenly paused one-handed on a particular branch as someone cut past him in a similar swing. But faster. Much faster.
Danny turned, swinging to his right, hand reaching for another branch. The rough bark never met his palm as another hand, strong and slender, clasped his in mid-air. Wind tore past the back of his head as he was hauled backward with a sudden jerk. Colliding against the trunk with his back, his body tumbled down the edge of the enormous tree, landing hard.
"Hearn!" Jackie yelled, running through the thick canopy of the tropical forest.
Danny coughed a bit as he rolled over with an audible strain. The dry powdery earth clung to his form in a gray film of dust. Jackie ran, crouching next to him as he hoisted himself precariously up onto two elbows. Without a word, they both looked straight up, staring at the figure above them.
Standing with a comfortable ease along one of the higher branches, a tall, slender woman stared back. Brown leather knee-high boots wrapped a pair of light-tan safari pants, the form-fitting material bulging around the upper thighs. A white long-sleeve, buttoned up enough to barely cover a firm, healthy set of breasts, rested comfortably along graceful-yet-broad shoulders. A thick explosion of auburn-red curls draped down her back with a wildness all its own. And, tucked neatly against her waist, a long bullwhip sat rolled with precision.
She stared back at them, her eyes a vivid and luminescent panther yellow. "Want to play?" she almost whispered as she crouched down on the branch like a cat ready to pounce. And a wicked grin crossed her face.
Suddenly, the limbs above her seemingly exploded as Raptor dove straight through the top of the trees, tackling her dead-on into her back. Instinctively, she rolled in mid-descent, the entirety of their hard collision with the earth taken directly into Euro's back.
Danny jumped up as she immediately flipped forward onto her feet, Euro dazed.
Without warning, her brown bullwhip whisked with life. Cracking it a few times, keeping Jackie and Dan at a distance, her wild eyes jerked back and forth between them like a caged animal. Then, with one motion, she dragged the tip along the dry earth, cracking it a bare inch from Jackie's face. Ameristar yelped, stumbling back a few steps, her hands digging at the sand that struck her eyes like needles.
The auburn beauty whirled the whip around her head with grace, rolling it into an immediate snap at Dan... who merely caught it with the speed of a striking cobra.
There was a pop of air, and Jackie, swollen eyes and all, was on the woman. Her arms wrapped around her from behind, the two women struggled for no more than a few seconds. One hand still pulling her bullwhip taut against Dan's grip, the woman threw her head backward with a sharp jerk, Jackie catching a hair-cushioned skull directly in the face. Ameristar hit the ground dazed, her nose gushing blood.
Dan yanked hard against the whip with gorilla arms, the woman suddenly stumbling forward. Dan's fist met her face in one center shot. Taking advantage of the momentary assault, he dived, tackling her to the ground.
Everything went silent, save the dual beat of the two figures panting from exertion.
Danny lay almost flat against her, his large, dominant gorilla hands clamped tightly around strong but supple wrists. Their faces merely a few inches apart, Dan found himself somewhat comfortable with her hot breathy pants wrapping down along his throat. She stared into his eyes with a look of something... wild. That's when Dan noticed the pupils of her exotic golden eyes, split vertically like a primal feline. And he could swear that he heard a low, guttural growl emanating from her throat.
Without warning, she lifted her head up from the ground, her full red lips planting into his with a very deep kiss. "Yummy..." she spoke back, the light hints of an authoritarian British caressing her every word. "So, are you adapting a rhinoceros horn on your hip, or are you just happy to see me?"
Her words came slow, heavy like emotion. Dan's eyes widened a bit, not sure whether he was more embarrassed or excited. There was a low groan as Jackie sat fully up again, clutching her blood-ridden nose.
"Ummm... Who... are you?" he began, his voice quiet and dry. "Why did you attack me?"
"Oh, luv..." she whispered back, "...I thought you wanted to play with me."
Dan's brow furrowed as he began to feel pressure against his palms.
"Now..." she said, her wide smile slowly distorting into gritted teeth, "...get your hands off of me... you damn, dirty ape."
Dan suddenly began to feel himself slowly lifting up against his will. "Holy... whoa... shit..." was all he could muster as he pushed back with more mass, his position still losing ground.
Her face began to strain hints of red, her arms pushing against his with incredible strength. Dan struggled to keep her down even as she was slowly rising.
The struggle halted immediately, as she felt the cool blade of Ladnkia against her throat.
"That will be just about enough..." Raptor stated, standing next to her still covered in dust-encrusted nicks.
Jackie stood fully up, supporting herself against a tree, one hand still on her nose.
The auburn beauty sat frozen for a moment. Her expression began to degrade down into that caged, primal narrowing of eyes, a broad sneer adorning. Suddenly, she jerked her head back a bit, clamping her teeth hard against the flat-edge of the blade. With a toss of her hair to the right, the sword flung out of Ciciotto's grasp. Before he could respond, she face-planted a head-butt into Dan, sending him sprawling back. At the same time, snapping her left hand out, she gripped Raptor's ankle and flipped him off his feet.
Leaping into a full, forward roll, she came back up onto her feet, the bullwhip once again in her hands.
"O-tay..." Jackie mumbled through her palm, "...dat's it..." She quickly threw her arms open, muttering one word: "Solomon."
Her gold navel ring suddenly pulsated, quickly melting along her stomach. Liquid gold began spreading across her body, neo-silicon nanites building the morphing technology at the molecular level. Within seconds, her entire body was covered with the sleek-cut sheen of a dirty bronze sealing in a clear-blue transparent titanium faceplate.
"Gilgamesh armor online," a cold, synthesized male voice hummed in her ear. Neural gelpacks ignited anti-grav generators, the forest humming with a muted wave of bass. Ameristar floated up off the ground, her arms stretched forward toward their attacker.
"Shite..." the woman mumbled, her expression growing serious as she narrowed her eyes.
She leaped from her standing position, the bullwhip cracking in a wrap around a high tree limb. Pulling against it, she cut into a quick swing up toward the limbs.
Twin, paper-thin ruby beams sliced in perfect unison past her. Suddenly, she felt her whip lose tension, the support tree lurching forward in a groaning splintering of wood. She landed quite undignified on her back, the enormous tree collapsing a few feet away with a bushled crash; the stump of the once-tall tree smoked lightly from the incision of the lasers.
"Bweathe wong... ah dah you..." the voice of Jackie cut through the armor speakers. Inside the helmet, she rolled her eyes, giving neurological commands to the nanites. Instantly, the suit began reconstruction on her nasal cavity.
Any thoughts of an attack from the woman quickly died away as a 9mm subtly nestled cool metal against her right temple.
"Do not move," Marv Velo commanded from behind her. "Keep your hands where I can see them."
"Dan? You okay?" Drake asked, making way with his cane over to the rising man.
"No. I'm pissed off," Dan replied, staring with an obvious snarl at the woman.
The auburn beauty stood there for a brief moment, her eyes making note of the situation. Raptor pulled Ladnkia back into his grasp with a quiet anger. Ameristar sat hovering with a deep hum, her wrist cannons still pointed directly at the attacker. Dan, covered in dirt, sweat, and a light trickle of blood from the corner of his mouth, stared at her with irritation, Drake by his side. And Velo simply held the gun frozen to the right side of her head.
The woman finally sighed, rolling the whip back onto her side. She smiled, her hands slowly rising up in a submissive posture.
"Who are you?" Velo asked.
"Well..." she began almost hesitantly, "...if you really have to -- Z!"
A spatial wormhole suddenly erupted to her left. The momentary thunderclap enough of a distraction, Velo's shot barely grazed past her temple as she cartwheeled left, falling perfectly into the waiting rift.
Instantaneously, the rift sealed with a faint breeze.
"Watch it!" Velo yelled, the ground on either side of him smoking from Ameristar's lasers.
"Sorry."
Dan just took a deep sigh, throwing his hands down against his side forcefully. "Goddammit..." he mumbled.