by Scott Bennie
It’s not long trip from Liverpool to London, even by a small military transport plane. Everyone with a metahuman gene who thinks of themselves as a "hero" is on the way here. One fucking nuke strike, and the bad guys win. No one says that out loud, but we’re all thinking that. Any time there’s a major gathering of capes and cowls, you gotta think that.
"So how’re you feeling?" Old Glory is huddled next to me -- the flight’s almost as cramped as Martin Wiens’s bashed up '82 VW van was back in high school, when we packed in as many members of the wrestling team as possible to see if we could survive a trip to the State Invitationals.
"My back feels like shit. And my ribs still fucking hurt," I say. "I don’t usually ache this long after a fight."
"But you never fought Avatar before."
"No, but I wrestled Shane Barlow," I reply. It isn’t entirely a joke.
"Who?" Old Glory says.
"An old high school wrestling rival, now a freshman at Iowa State," I explain. "You just gotta hate those big, musclebound shitheads," I reply, making all too sure Blockade, who’s sitting in the next row with Dr. Wight, can hear me. Cavalier’s been doing his best to keep us separated, but Blockhead’s still been doing his best to ride my ass since the moment we were introduced. It’s pretty obvious that he wants a piece of me, and truth to tell, beating someone up might be just the tonic I need.
"For what it’s worth, I’m in just as much pain right now as you," Mr. Stars and Stripes tells me. "Only I don’t have your recuperative powers."
"At your age, you’re fucking lucky to be able to get out of bed in the morning." I grin.
Old Glory just looks at me and gives me the ol’ graveyard stare. Heh. I finally put one over on the antique fucker.
We land in London and finally exit the sardine can with wings -- I don’t think anyone has ever seen so many superheroes stretch at the same time in your life. A government bus is waiting for us, and we’re driven for about a half-hour through some of the narrowest streets I’ve ever seen. Everything looks fucking old. My eyes are mostly on Glory, who’s looking at the streets with a distinctive déjà vu expression; even with his government-issued half-mask, I can see it.
"Memories?" I finally work up the nerve to ask.
"Not really," Old Glory replies. "After awhile, everything looks the same." I don’t know if he’s bullshitting or not. "So what do you and Dr. Wight have planned to rescue your Canadian friend?"
"Oh, the usual combination of brute force and trickery," I say. "He’s an alchemist, I’m a stud, and we both know what kind of asshole the Priest is, so there are a few tactics that naturally present themselves. Doc Wight’s got at least one major surprise concocted. Have you ever fought the Priest?"
"Back in World War II, I fought beside the Priest," Old Glory admits, to my horror. "He was running this cult in a backwater village in France, and the Nazis didn’t like it. Of course I knew about the Priest’s little outfit in Boston from the 20s and 30s, but I didn’t recognize him as the man behind it; I thought he was just an innocent village priest. Imagine my surprise when I discovered him summoning these horrors from Hell, capturing poor sixteen-year-old German soldiers, cutting out their hearts and I guess sacrificing them to the Prince of Darkness. And here I’d risked my life defending him! It was the only time during the war that I protected a Nazi. Well, except for that one time I fell under the spell of Der Fesselnder, the Spellbinder..."
It’s about the only time I pry any serious war stories out of Old Geezer, but he’s not boring, and it’s a long ride. We make our way to a gathering of superheroes. It’s being held in a small building that’s been designated by the British Government for the gathering of metas, it’s been sequestered away from the city, near some parkland. I don’t really know where we are. London is huge; it’s like Los Angeles, but older and cleaner, with narrower streets. I’m beginning to think Americans build wider streets than anyone in the world, but that’s probably a false impression I’ve picked up from flying over Los Angeles freeways.
We’re led into a large room that’s been set up as a meeting place; I guess the idea is that we’re supposed to get to know each other and become comfortable with each other before taking on the Royals. Of course, I’m not fighting the Royals -- I’m here to join with Cavalier, Dr. Wight, and Blockade to track down Permafrost -- but it makes a good cover for us to be in London. I can’t help but walk around with a star-eyed stare, stopping only to apologize when I accidentally step on some troll-like Norwegian meta’s tail. There are the Canucks, me and the Doc, Old Glory, Red Lion, and over a dozen other people in costume that either I don’t or barely recognize. This includes former members of the Nighthawks, the US military's covert wetworks super-team that was supposed to have been disbanded a few years back, and the perfectly coordinated Red, White, and Blue Ensigns, a recently assembled team of Brits that’s starting to attract a lot of attention. White is male and athletic, Blue is female and athletic, and Red is male and yet another fucking muscle-machine. One thing they do have going for themselves is manners, not that this farmboy was ever big on etiquette. With my rep, I’ll bet they’re expecting me to start shiting on the carpet, but they still manage to be pleasant, even the big guy.
"Which one of you is Arthur?" I ask them with a grin. They look at White Ensign and then at each other. "Y’know, King Arthur, destined to return in England’s darkest hour?"
"Is he supposed to be droll?" the woman, Blue Ensign, asks in an accent that’s so British I suddenly have visions of appearing on an episode of Masterpiece Theater.
"Be kind to him, Blue Ensign, he’s trying very hard," White Ensign replies.
I skulk away, and spend most of my time around Dr. Wight. Wight’s had promised to brief me and the Canucks on the Black Priest operation in a few hours. I’m sulking a little that Sarah didn’t make the jump across the pond with him. After the fourth time I bring up her name, Dr. Wight sighs and asks me flat out: "I take it that you’re missing Ms. Steiner."
"Hell yeah!" I say. "This party’s so fucking boring. The only cool thing is watching Blockade staring at me like a faggot from across the room."
"I really don’t appreciate such language, Mr. Champion." Wight says.
"Sorry. Sometimes I forget to click on my idiot filter. Don’t take it too seriously," I say. "It’s not like I’m not grateful to you or the Canuckleheads in helping me look for John. Especially you. But yeah, I do miss Sarah."
"Does she know how you feel?" Wight asks.
"I don’t know how I feel," I say. "I like her a lot. She’s really very funny, and caring, and not a bimbo or a tomboy, which is what you’d guess from the look. But I’m such a -- well, you know"
"Yes, you are," Wight says.
"I don’t think girls really go for guys like me. The smart ones, that is," I say. "And then there’s this superhuman musician! Like that’s gotta be the epitome... the ultimate chick flick fantasy, isn’t it? When you have jock vs. arts guy, the smart ones always go for the arts guy. It’s like a law of nature."
"Are you drunk, Mr. Champion?" Wight asks me.
"Fuck no!" I exclaim. "It’s been months since I last got shit-faced. I never drink around people, and lately I’ve had so many people fucking surround me that it’s hard to breathe." I pause and sadly reflect. "I must be getting boring."
"I hardly think so," Wight observes. "Perhaps you can compete with your rival in his arena. Do you play an instrument, Mr. Champion?" Wight asks me.
"I can’t even sing in the fucking shower," I admit. "I’m so bad that I can’t carry a tune performing hip-hop."
"Well, in all likelihood, that’s not the problem," Wight suggests. "Mr. Champion, despite your poor manners and self-destructive habits, you’re a born fighter. You just went toe-to-toe against Avatar, and you did not flinch."
"Big deal. I fucking lost."
"You’re proving my point," Wight insists. "You’re born to the profession. In a year, I’ll wager you’ll be living on the Protectorate Monolith. Ms. Steiner, on the other hand, is a caring and talented woman, but hardly seasoned in a fight."
"What are you discussing?" Old Glory walks by, leans over, and asks, a cracker in hand.
"Women," Dr. Wight replies.
"Bye," Old Glory says with a smile, and he walks away.
"Is he divorced or gay?" I ask, referring to Sergeant Slobber.
"Mr. Champion, if you complain about how the tabloids treat your personal life, you should avoid such shabby, prurient interests," Dr. Wight observes. But then he whispers in a deadpan: "I’ll bet he’s been divorced at least twice."
"Cool," I say, and I catch Wight’s face sag as he spots someone coming behind us.
"Why hello, Doctor... Tommy...," a smooth voice says. I recognize the speaker. "We’re certainly far from home today."
"Why Avery," Wight tells Stone, in a voice dripping sarcasm like fucking venom. "You decided to ignore the fatwa that follows you when you leave the United States. How courageous of you."
"It’d be hard for a bunch of Arabs to kill a sorcerer," I state.
"Not when you have Mujahideen death spirits tracking the globe, waiting for you to lower your guard," Wight says. Stone shrugs as if he couldn’t fucking care less.
"By the way, I’m real glad that Philadelphia worked out for you," Stone tells me. "Too bad about Ireland, though. So round one goes to Avatar?"
"Weren’t the Chosen supposed to be fucking invincible?" I glower at Stone.
"Prophecy says that you’re destined to shed oceans of blood and cry tears without number." Stone says. I stop and stare at him. "Well, actually, prophecy doesn’t say much of anything, other than when you’ve gathered the Seven -- boom! I’m afraid it’s up to you to chart your own destiny. But if you want some advice, you need to do some serious training before the rematch. Try Old Glory" He turns and walks away.
"You know," Dr. Wight says, "I think that’s the first time I’ve ever heard him tell a joke."
"It was almost the last time," I mutter. "So what do the Arabs want him for?"
"Not the Arabs, the Taliban," Wight says. "Something about participating in a spell that transported a Fuel-to-Air explosive three hundred meters above a terrorist training camp in Afghanistan."
"What’s fucking wrong with that?" I ask.
"The terrorists didn’t like it," Dr. Wight says and he sighs. "I have a few things to discuss with other people, Mr. Champion. Do try to stay out of trouble; it wouldn’t serve Mr. Wolfe any good if you get kicked out of the country before we can affect the rescue."
Fine. Dr. Wight doesn’t want to fucking hang around me anymore. Whatever.
I walk away and head to the bar. I spot Red Lion there. Shit, I’ve been avoiding the guy, and I’m not even sure why. I walk over to the bar.
"You’ve been quiet," I say.
"It’s the footage out of Ireland," he explains. "I’m sorry, Tom, I shouldn’t even be here. I’m just not in the mood for a social gathering, even one with good intentions." He’s on the verge of sobbing. Shit. I put my arm around his shoulder.
"I heard you came to my rescue. Thanks man."
"Well, it’s not like I didn’t owe you," Red Lion replies. "Tom, the way you left, was everything alright?"
"I had a call to head back to Philadelphia," I bullshit. "Sorry if I terrified you."
"You left me on the beach in Ireland!" Damon exclaims. "I could have been recaptured by the Royal Elite."
"Fine!" I snap back. "I fucked up. Again. I’m sorry!"
"Apology accepted," Damon replies, in a voice that’s full of Irish soothing and wisdom. "And calm down. It was Avatar. Stop being so hard on yourself."
"Fuck!" I shout in a voice loud enough to bring the entire room to a screeching halt. "Will everyone please stop being so fucking understanding! I lost! I got my ass kicked! I was Avatar’s goddamn bitch!" I swallow a sob. "Will people please stop saying that it’s no big deal, because it fucking is! Losing to Avatar does not help all those poor sons of bitches in Ireland! Losing to Avatar isn’t going to help him break free of the Royals’ fucking mind control! Will somebody please tell me that I fucked up!"
"Tom, those guys over in the corner," Red Lion says, pointing at a couple of civilians. "They’re the press"
I just give him an I-don’t-give-a-shit look and walk away. Damon has a sad, knowing smile that’s really fucking irritating.
"Is he cracking up?" I hear White Ensign ask Old Glory on the way out.
"Nah. The kid just hates to lose." Old Glory smiles.
I don’t give a fuck what that senile old flaggot has to say about me. I stomp away into a small area of parkland. It’s deserted -- we must be on private property. I sit down on a bench and just look around at the birds and the squirrels and the other flora and fauna. I’m surprised I’m not bothered by scavengers, y’know: dogs, pigeons, the press. I expect Blockade to come over and challenge me to a "rasslin’" match (which I’d fucking welcome right now, just to deal with the boredom), but apparently he’s under strict orders not to fight me. If I wasn’t so miserable about the whole Avatar thing, I’d seek him out and see if I could provoke him.
After a half hour, getting my ass kicked by Avatar doesn’t feel quite as bad as it did, and I make a return visit to the party, which has now shorn itself of its social aspects and has degenerated into a tactical briefing. Wight, myself, Blockade, and Cavalier are officially designated a "B-Team" operation, meaning we’re reserve forces that Old Glory will move to the active list when needed. In truth, it’s just a cover for our real operation -- attacking the Black Priest’s base in Oxford. Doc moves us into a small study to discuss our mission in private. He also places a ward over the door to safeguard our privacy. Once he’s sure no one can spy on us, the briefing begins.
"Our objective is the Botanic Gardens outside Merton College, located near the Magdelan Bridge," Dr. Wight informs us. "We believe that Permafrost is being held in a small chapel on the edge of the gardens here." He points out a small building on a map. "We have no idea how many how strong the Black Mass is in the area, or how many metahumans are in the Priest’s complement. I only hope we’re not undermanned."
"No one outmans me." Blockade smiles. We all catch a double meaning in the statement, and I laugh my ass off. Even Wight and Cavalier look amused.
"Doc, after what you did for us back in Philly, I’d follow you through the gates of Hell," I say. Unexpectedly, Wight shudders at the statement. "But how do you know where Permafrost is?" I finally ask.
Wight pulls out an envelope with a pair of chess pieces in it -- a black bishop and a white knight.
"Wait a minute, isn’t that," I stammer.
"Yes, the information comes from Orchid," Dr. Wight says.
My mouth drops open. "Surely you can’t trust that bitch! My god, all that woman ever did was act bitter, murder people, and set obvious traps, and not in that order!"
"Well, aside from the fact that we know Orchid abducted your friend, I have (of course) confirmed the information with divinations," Dr. Wight says. "Regardless of the source, the information is reliable. Permafrost is here."
"Yeah, but in what condition?" Blockade wonders aloud.
"Not good, I’m sure. I gotta admit, having just faced Red Lion and Avatar under mind control, I’m really not looking forward to making it three in a row." I pause. "I kinda wish we had ol’ John Wayne on our side."
"Hey! We’re not exactly chopped liver," Blockade says, pissed that we haven’t compared dick sizes yet.
"Keep your shirt on, Blockade," I say, smile, and pointedly examine the virtually topless singlet that’s his costume. "Guess I was too late on that one."
"Omega," Dr. Wight says.
"Don’t worry, as much as I’d like to show Omega the five letters of the Greek alphabet that follow his name, I’m gonna be good," Blockade growls.
Cavalier looks pretty uncomfortable with the subject. "About Permafrost" It’s so obviously he’s trying to change the subject it’s not even funny.
"Far be it from me to interfere when someone wishes to avoid a needless confrontation," Dr. Wight interrupts him. "But I would feel far more comfortable going against a foe of the Black Priest’s caliber knowing that Mr. Champion and Mr. Roberts," Dr. Wight says, referring to Blockade’s actual name, "were in the same library, let alone on the same page."
"Don’t sweat it, doc. I can work with Northern Exposure here, no problem," I say.
"Northern Exposure?" Cavalier wonders aloud.
Blockade doesn’t respond directly to the insult. "I don’t think that me and Mr. Champion will have too many problems, provided that he can stop obsessing over my superior looks and strength," he boasts.
"What planet are you from, musclehead?" I reply. "Yeah, you’re stronger than shit, but I don’t think working out until women can trace the contours of my circulatory system is particularly sexy," I snap back.
"I give up," Cavalier says, literally throwing up his hands. "I should know better by now than to get between two meatheads who are searching for Mr. Goodbrawl."
We both look at Cavalier, and then bust our guts laughing. Cavalier just gets more fucking annoyed. "What! Now you’re laughing? Make up your minds! You guys want to fight, have at it!"
"You wanna go wrestle?" I ask Blockade casually. He nods.
So we do it. I figure we need it. We head out into a secluded back area, and I bulk up, and we let off some steam. The match quickly degenerates into friendly mauling (much like practicing with Kenny) testing each other’s strength and pain resistance. At my full muscle (once I add a few inches to my frame to cancel out his height advantage) we’re pretty close to dead even in terms of physical strength -- okay, maybe he has a slight edge. Either way, it means that if we didn’t respect each other before, we’re sharing a condo in fucking Respectberg now.
Interestingly enough, when I hoist him off the ground, his strength advantage evaporates, hard. It seems like he’s the fucking modern day Antaeus, son of the earth in Greek mythology, and loses a lot of his strength when his feet leave the ground. (Antaeus was killed wrestling Hercules when Herc lifted him off the ground with a bearhug and crushed his ribs -- death by homoerotic asphyxiation.) Fucking mythology! I decide not to try to recreate the incident -- I’ll save it for when he gets mind controlled.
After ten minutes of exchanging throws and "wrasslin’" holds without going for a serious pin, we call it quits. It’s odd, given how much testosterone driven we are, that we both keep our cool and feel the need to goof around. "This has been one fucking week for fights," I tell him. "Avatar, Mastiff, Hack (twice), and Red Lion. Is there anyone else I should look forward to on my macho world tour?"
"Probably Mastodon."
"Cool," I say. "I want to rip that mother fucker apart real bad, after what he did to Sarah."
"Sarah?"
"Knock-out," I explain. "Sorry. I’ve been told it’s less than kosher not to use code-names."
"I didn’t think she was trying to hide it. And I’ve met her. She’s got a lot of pluck," Blockade says.
"Where’d you meet her?" I ask.
"Musselman’s Gym in New York City. It’s one of the few places on earth
that has the equipment to put guys like us through a real workout." I think
to myself that a crossword puzzle would give Blockade conniption fits,
but for once I keep my fucking mouth shut. "You should drop by there. We
could get serious there."
"I’ve been looking for an excuse to drop into New York and see Knock-out. I could do that," I say.
"And Mastodon’s tough, but you’d take him. I always figured me and Avatar were the only real heavyweights," Blockade says.
"I’d add Sandstone," I say. He doesn’t say a thing, either in protest or support. "So who’s better between you and the A-Boy?"
"I dunno. Avatar’s never fought me. Our paths have rarely crossed," Blockade says, unconsciously rotating his massive shoulders and working out the kinks. "And I know he beat the crap out of you, but I envy that you got a crack at him. At least you know." The unspoken end of the sentence, the "who’s better," sticks in my craw.
I never trust a person who says crap instead of shit, but that’s beside the point. "Yeah, I can see that’d suck," I tell him. "So do I rank as a heavyweight?"
"If I give that to you now, it’ll make our next scrap less fun," Blockade answers. "You’re pretty good -- for an American. But we Canucks have very high standards."
It’s amazing how obnoxious every Canadian can get when they start doing the whole Canada vs. U.S. thing. Fuck them. It’s almost as bad as the Catholic/Mennonite thing between Milford High and Kearney. "We better get back to Wight and Cav. They might get attacked by a wren or a swallow, and they’d be up Shit Creek without a real man to protect them."
"In my case, I’m worth five real men," Blockade says, adopting his pro wrestling bravado.
"And me?"
"Four and a half." Blockade smiles. I suppress the urge to jump him, and we return to the group. Wight and Cavalier exchange glances as we approach. I reach up and hang my arm on the big guy’s shoulder. "Blockade and I are planning to hop over to Amsterdam and get married." I joke. Blockade looks at me and bats his eyes. (Shit, he could’ve done something a little more physical to set up the joke -- the whole eyelash thing was old when Some Like It Hot was playing its first theatrical run.)
"Congratulations," Dr. Wight deadpans. Cavalier looks completely disgusted.
"But we were hoping to get our wedding presents now. How about the Black Priest’s head on a platter?" I say.
"Anything to shut you two up," Cavalier says. You can never tell if he’s joking or not. "Okay Doc, where’s the first stop?"
******
We make our way in secret to Merton College in Oxford. Wight gives me some mind boggling spiel about this place being over two centuries old when Columbus discovered America. "Aren’t you a little short to be playing tour guide?" I joke.
"I wasn’t aware of the height requirements of the job," Wight says back. "Now quiet. I need to cast a spell"
That’s when I lunge down and grab Wight and dive with him, preventing him from getting impaled with a heavily barbed spear.
"Macha!" Cavalier’s sword is drawn as sharply as his voice. The Black Priest’s warrior woman strides out of a clearing, and Sandstone trundles out of the earth beside her.
"No further shall you advance," Macha declares in very bad grammar. "My spears shall ward the passage."
I burst out laughing. "How many experience points do you get for mangling the English language, lady?" I mock. "And what level are you?" I add, referring to that old geeky Dungeons & Dragons pastime.
"Far higher than yours, false Cuchulain," she announces. Fuck, is she comparing me to the biggest goddamn brat in the history of Irish mythology, the so-called hound of fucking Ulster? "Never have I been more insulted when that woman mentioned you in the same breath as him. Shall I prove what a liar she is?"
"Huh?" I say. "Who the hell’s a liar? Who are you talking about?"
"The woman Orchid," Macha says.
What the fuck? "Lady, 'liar' is the least of that woman’s problems," I reply. I’m getting a shut-the-fuck-up look from Cavalier, but Wight looks interested in how the conversation’s going to evolve. "And shouldn’t you be over in Ireland, doing whatever the Irish do when somebody fucks over their country? You’re supposed to be one of their gods, so what the fuck are you doing hanging around with the goddamn Black Priest when there’s a job to do?"
"How dare you!" Macha hisses, throwing a spear at me full force. I grab it in mid-flight and break it over my knee.
Sandstone lunges at me, but Blockade’s on him the moment he starts to move. Cavalier interposes himself between me and Macha. I move to intercept, but Wight holds me back.
"Don’t commit yourself yet," he says, wisely. "All the players have not arrived."
He’s right of course, though that’s a real tough order to follow. I nod. "She’s quite the banshee, isn’t she?" I smile, and then focus my attention on the matter at hand. I can’t commit myself fully, but I can lend a helping hand. As usual, it’s hard for Blockade to land a solid blow on Sandstone because of his shifty sand form, so I use my mojo and crystallize the sand a little, making it easier for Blocks to land a solid punch.
"You didn’t need to do that," Blockade snarls. But the only reason I beat Sandstone was because it was hard for him to connect with me -- Blocks is a bigger target than me, and he ain’t nearly as maneuverable. He needs an edge.
About thirty seconds into the fight, Cav takes the third of three nasty stab wounds and goes down. He’s helpless, so I’ve gotta intervene. I step over his prone body and challenge the Black Mass’s Xena clone.
"Again, the false Cuchulain." Macha sneers. "I challenge you to prove who you really are!"
"Okay," I say, glad for anything that’ll give Cav a little bit more time to recover. I pull my wallet out of my costume (actually, I just summon the damn thing magically, but I pretend to use pockets). "Check out the driver’s license."
"Do you think I’m so easily mocked!" Macha hisses.
I’m tempted to flip her off and say yes, but there’s something weird going on here. "Lady, why the hell are you even listening to someone like Orchid?" I may as well be questioning her sanity, but that woman always got to me, and I gotta know what she said. "And just what did she say to you?"
"She said that you were the reincarnation of Cuchulain. She pointed out many parallels between your life and his," Macha stated. "That you obtained your power in your seventeenth year, your connection to the gods of sun and water, obtaining your powers from a lightning strike"
"Orchid is living proof that you can read way too fucking much." I sigh, briefly glancing at the disapproving Dr. Wight. "If she’d lived in the real world instead of fantasy book land, she might have been able to deal with her issues, instead of becoming a demon-possessed psycho bitch."
"Be it as it may, I will destroy her." Macha smiles. "And you as well, for her false claim."
Cavalier begins to stir. Macha kicks him in the face, and wards me away from him with her spear. I’m trying to keep an eye on this, an eye on the fight between Blockade and Sandstorm that’s tearing up the gardens about fifty meters away, and any hint of other Black Mass members on the scene.
"Lady, you do realize that Orchid and I are mortal enemies, don’t you? And that killing me to spite her would be like, well, killing Fomori to get at Nuada." I hope I’m remembering the mythology right
"I’m not the fool you think I am. The child loves you," Macha states. Holy shit! Where the fuck did she get that idea? "I see you don’t believe me. How blind can you be?"
"Where the fuck did you get that impression?" I say, not believing what I’m hearing.
"She slew your former lover. Only love is powerful enough to kindle such hate. One look at your image, and she became obsessed with you, even though you dwelt nearly a thousand leagues away from her. Look at the elaborate skeins she wove to ensnare you. What else could it be but love?" Her face wears a very sad, but still very condescending look. "And, then there is the second of the child’s two great insults, comparing you to my beloved Cuchulain."
Yet another fucking mythological loony tune. "She got to you, didn’t she?" I say with a smile. Her obsession with Cuchulain is definitely her weakness. "You don’t know for sure, do you?"
"Of course I do!" Macha snarls. "The true Cuchulain was a force of nature. No one could restrain him from joining battle, as this dwarf has done! And surely no mere godling such as Avatar could have bested him!"
"Jesus!" I snap. "Is everyone going to shove fucking Avatar in my face?" I turn to the self-satisfied woman. "Despite your bullshit, I can see you still have doubts. Not that I really care, but I can think of one way to prove whether or not I’m your Celtic Warrior Asshole."
"What’s that?" Macha says, ignoring the insult.
"I’ll show you if you let me," I promise.
"Do you worst!" Macha snarls, giving me permission, and lowering into a combat crouch. She’s obviously expecting me to attack her.
Of course, I have the opposite idea in mind. I grab her, and I kiss her, a long, passionate fucking kiss that lasts for about fifteen seconds. She struggles for the first five, then she melts until we catch our breath.
"You, misbegotten swine!" she snarls as I let her go.
"No one fakes a kiss, Macho Girl," I say. "It’s like a fingerprint. If I’m the guy you knew reborn" (And I hope to fucking god I’m not!) "that should give you a fucking clue."
Macha stares at me, uncertain of what she’s feeling. "Macha." An all-too-familiar-voice calls out. "To my side, now! This one is not for your talents."
"I would swear vengeance, but it is unnecessary," Macha spits at me. "An evil eye watches you boy. It shall guide you to your doom."
"If somebody’s eye offends me, I’ll fucking pluck it out," I paraphrase. Cavalier and Wight, who weren’t exactly impressed to see me kissing on the first date, get to my side. Sandstone and Blockade untangle themselves. "And that asshole’s entire fucking body offends me," I say, pointing at the Priest.
"It is good to see you again, Chosen." The Black Priest smiles. "The sight of you is like dark prophecies sung sweetly in my ear."
"Where’s Permafrost!" I shout.
"Near. Very near," the Black Priest says calmly. "And do not fret. You are destined to find him. Take comfort in it."
"Comfort? From you? Why the fuck would I do that?" I declare.
"Have you told him about the challenge, Doctor?" the Black Priest asks.
"Ah, you noticed me," Dr. Wight doesn’t reply directly. "How disappointing to see you in your current condition." I give the Doc a questioning look. "I had rather fondly hoped that one day, you would depart from the ranks of the living," Wight clarifies. The Priest seems amused by the insult. "As for the challenge, if you wanted to rub Omega’s nose in it, you should have made it a little more obvious."
"What now?" I sigh. "What bullshit does he have in mind this time?"
"All heroes must perform certain deeds." The Black Priest smiles. "It is part of their story, a natural progression toward an apocalyptic climax."
"How fucking post-modern of you," I say. "So by making me do all this Joseph Campbell shit, you’re accelerating Armageddon?"
"Precisely," the Priest answers. "I bring you the labyrinth, Chosen. At its core is your missing comrade."
"And let me guess, I’m supposed to jump through a lot of hoops, perform mythic deeds, yada yada yada, only to discover that once I’ve reached the center of the maze that you’ve done something horrible to him -- and to save my friend, I must beat the shit out of him," I mock with a snarl. "Oh, the pain and suffering. Oh, the tragedy." I cross my arms and scowl. "Don’t you assholes have anything new to offer?"
The Black Priest starts roaring with a laugh that’s so long and so fucking evil that I nearly shit myself.
"Thomas," Dr. Wight says in a low voice. "I know you’re tired of playing this bastard’s games, but if there is any hope to find Permafrost."
"I know," I say with a quick swallow. "But do these assholes have to be so fucking blatant about their manipulations?"
"Take pleasure in beating them at their own game, Omega," Cavalier says, in a voice that drips sagacity and wisdom like a senior year history teacher’s. "When you can take the full measure of their schemes and break them, then you have achieved the greatest victory of all."
"Huh?"
"Perhaps you would find the words of Vince Lombardi more comprehensible," Dr. Wight elaborates. "He said never to attack your enemy at his weakest point, always attack him at his strongest. If you can defeat his strengths, then a complete victory will be yours."
"I get it. Cool," I say. "Lombardi was a tyrannical asshole, but he was a smart tyrannical asshole."
"This place is ancient, Omega," the Black Priest says with a leer. "And it houses forces that are more ancient than its walls. Are you prepared?"
"I hate you," I tell the Priest. "Let’s get this mythic bullshit over with."
"Are you certain that is what you want? A mythic ending?" the Priest asks me. "In four-color dramas, in comic books, in these comfortable little fight stories that you so doggedly recreate, the hero wins nearly every time. But in mythology, victory is far more uncertain, and tragedy abounds." He turns to Macha, and then to Cavalier, and smiles faintly.
"I realized that after I fought Brazos," I say, not willing to let him know he’s spooking me. "But I promise you this, Priest, every fucking hoop you make me jump through, and every second of pain you make me experience, I will remember. Because if this is myth, you and I will have a reckoning."
"So speaks the cornered tiger, barely realizing what all the guns that are trained on him will do to his glorious tiger form once the hammers drop," the Priest replies.
"Jesus Christ, now you’re William Fucking Blake," I snap. "Let’s just do it." The Priest nods.
The Merton Botanical Garden is not normally a hedge maze, but it is today, as the Black Priest’s spell engulfs the area, and a large, thick, dank maze of ivy-entwined hedge. And just what plants are hedges anyway?
I walk into the maze, and I don’t look to see that it’s sealed behind me -- I know the asshole I’m dealing with. I make marks in the floor of the labyrinth, but the instant they appear, they vanish. To my surprise, I don’t hear the Priest’s voice gloating about my ignorance. I fly up to get some altitude, but naturally, that way’s barred to me too; there’s an invisible barrier above me. The Priest must have spent quite a bit of time preparing this little encounter. Of course, this begs the question of why he’s even allowing me a shot at John, but we’ll handle that in the post game analysis.
My first obstacle is a fucking big door, set square in the maze. On it, there’s an inscription: "Only through violence can this door be opened, but the violent cannot pass through it."
I guess that leaves me out.
I think about the riddle for about five seconds, and I think I come up with an answer. I create a violent force field around the door that pries it open, and then try to calmly walk through it. I bounce off an invisible barrier.
"Hey!" I protest to no one in particular. "My solution does meet the conditions of your fucking stupid riddle!"
No one answers me. I pace a bit, trying to think of a secondary solution, and when nothing comes to me, I use brute force against the opening and after about fifteen seconds of sweat, I’m through.
"So much for riddles," I say, and I continue through the maze.
After twenty more minutes of wandering around shrubbery, I come to an opening. Unfortunately, as soon as I step through, I get a feeling of intense danger where I’m about to step. I manage to keep my foot from stepping on the precise spot, and instead I twist and throw myself backwards. There’s an explosion where I stepped, and something comes shooting out of the earth, a dark force that wails with the most hideous fucking sound you ever heard, clutches with occult talons at what would have been there, and then sinks with a moan back into the earth.
"Demon land mines," A man’s voice informs to me. I can’t pinpoint the source. "A pity you didn’t fall for them. I prefer easy victories."
I turn around and look for the source of the voice -- whoever it is must be a fucking ventriloquist. I look for heat signatures in the shrubbery, then try to see if I can find a mental presence, and abruptly I receive the most painful headache I’ve ever had. A thousand masks, hidden in the brush, light up on the combined infrared-psionic vision like fucking Roman candles. They’re like masks from the movie Scream, only animated, and they bring to life every fucking nightmare and bad experience I’ve ever had.
The pain of getting hit by lightning. Crying for six hours after seeing mom pick up her bags and I finally realized that she meant it this time. The moment Steve told me I’d never see Rachel alive again. Getting my collarbone broken by Barlow. Avatar’s bearhug. Granddad’s funeral. Getting the shit beaten out of me by Noah Doerksen when I was five because he caught me tresspassing on his farm. And, worst of all, the first time that Buck lost control, fighting with him while Mr. Dyck’s barn burned around us.
"Asshole!" I snap, and I block the knife thrust that’s heading for my throat. It’s Hellblade, a mercenary wearing demon camo paint over a hirsute body and a costume straight out of Gladiator. His knife is huge, its size is psychological as well as physical. It’s another fucking demon weapon, just like Hack’s chainsaw.
"You didn’t like my surprise," he purrs as I catch his wrist and (despite resisting with strength that’s well into the superhuman) casually break it. The pain doesn’t even register on his face. He drops his knife, kicks it before it hits the ground, catches it with his other hand, and slashes my face with a smooth, continuous motion. The knife burns me when it hits the fucking thing’s poisoned, and almost immediately my vision’s blurring. Shit, this is so goddamn painful I can barely describe it. "I really love skinning the spandex off you boys," he says. "It’s like a second skin."
Hellblade lands a knee to my balls, and tries to plunge the knife deep into me. I remember the footage I saw of how he nearly killed Halcyon in San Diego ten years ago, and that’s enough to get me really pissed off. I grab him by his throat, and shake him down. My left hand grabs the wrist of his knife hand and shakes the blade loose. "You shouldn’t get ‘the spandex’ mad, Hellblade," I say. "The Spandex is pissed, and so’s ‘the boy’ inside it."
"Core," Hellblade calls through a choke.
I turn around and face a beautiful evil. He’s a humanoid figure, seven feet tall, basalt-skinned, with veins and cracks of molten gold illuminating his body. His face is a living mask of pure gold. "I wouldn’t take another step, Core, unless you want his throat crushed."
"That threat comes too easily, boy," Core says. "I don’t need to play poker to know when you’re bluffing."
"What’s with all this ‘boy’ bullshit?" I scowl. "Who taught you English -- the Klu Klux Klan?"
"No," Core says. "Just the normal cesspool of humanity. You were so eager for us to learn your language, so you could hear our voices fawn all over you, tell you how superior you are."
Us. Core still harbors the delusion of being Prince of the so-called Mantle Men, a subterranean civilization that was wiped out because of the evils of nuclear testing. Yet another tragic, pulpy supervillain origin, just like child abuse, or the size of O.J.’s alimony payments. Underneath the sob story, he’s just another criminal asshole. Who the fuck programmed this bullshit into him -- Stan Lee?
I throw Hellblade to the ground, he takes a misstep, and gets sucked into the earth when another demon land mine explodes under his feet. His scream seems to echo everywhere around us. Holy fuck!
Core launches at me before I can react; Hellblade’s accident has definitely left me flat-footed. In fact, I don’t even feel his punches until the third blow lands. Part of it is the numbness in my face from Hellblade’s poison, and part of it is just me stopping to consider what happened to my enemy. But whatever happens, I better do something quick. The longer Core stays in the same spot, the stronger he gets, and he’s thoroughly dug himself in.
"You may call yourself the Omega, but I am the ending!" Core declares.
"Bullshit," I say, and I lift him off the ground. Shit, he’s heavy, but at least I’ve broken the ol’ kinetic cascade trick
Then he slams me with a solid basalt fist, and it’s stronger than his previous blows. Shit, this ain’t supposed to work like that!
"Did you think I’d have the same weakness forever?" Core snarls. "Or that I lent my services to the Priest because I enjoyed his company? I came to him because he’s given me the ability to keep increasing my powers even after I make major expenditures of kinetic energy. You don’t have a prayer."
"Fine." I land, and remember what Dr. Wight and Cavalier told me, about beating people at their strength. "Give me your best, because even with Hellblade’s fucking venom running through my veins, my best is better than anything you’ve got to fucking offer any day of the week."
So we slug it out, with me giving it my all, and Core getting stronger with every passing second. Once again, I have the maneuverability advantage, but Core’s also amazingly resistant to my blows.
"This time I am going to win!" Core snarls determinedly as we fight, beginning to land punches a little more frequently as I get tired. "And all the defeats all the demons get put to rest"
I don’t know if I can take much more punishment, but something he’s said has given me an idea. "You want demons?" I smile. I touch him, and allow Core to see both into the infrared and into the psychic plane, so he can see the masks. "Say hello."
I expect him to be distracted, but if anything, the sight of a thousand masks of madness does too fucking good a job. The sight of Hellblade’s forest of psychic masks brings the so-called destruction of his people to the fore, and he can’t cope. Not to mention ten years of defeats against people like Avatar, Echelon, Blockade, Seneschal, Mike Muscleman, and even the Forgotten (or at least I think he beat Core, everything gets a little hazy when I try to remember the details about that guy). Core goes completely catatonic.
"Sorry, you son of a bitch, you were just doing too fucking good," I say, and I leave him to stand there like some art deco statue. I head toward what I think is the center of the maze. It’s hard to navigate when any landmark you make is instantly removed. I guide myself more by the fluctuations of magic than anything else; the Priest has to reinforce certain places more strongly than others, so I’m guided not so much by the physical as the mystical; it becomes, by my perceptions, what magicians would call a ley line maze.
Fuck, I’m getting a little too deep into the occult, aren’t I? Mom would have a heart attack if she knew -- if she still gave a shit about me.
Every once in awhile, where the magic’s weak, I try to test the maze’s defenses, fly above for an aerial view, or try to project my senses high above me. Neither trick works. There’ll be no clever victories for this boy today. Or so the Priest thinks.
I’m beginning to get tired. The venom effects are beginning to fade, and my mind’s less clouded, but it’s a bitch trying to keep track of the maze’s features on two levels of reality. But finally my patience pays off: the hedges are turning from green to brown, and then get white with frost. The ground gets ice slick, and finally, is covered with a thick white snow blanket. Rejuvenated, I stride for a clearing, where I spot several snowmen artfully decorating the glade, mouths agape in joyful surprise, their fingers pointing in one particular direction.
"Alright!" I shout. "I can take a hint, John."
One of the snowmen shuffles and moves, and John steps out of it. "Boo," he says.
"That fashion show in Philly really sucked, didn’t it?" I say. "I told you that you shouldn’t have wasted your time there."
"Yeah, it was boring," John answers. "I was almost glad when Hack and Orchid showed up."
"By the way, I’m not fighting you," I say.
"Given how you like to fight, that’s a real insult," John replies.
"No, ‘fuck you’ is an insult," I reply. "Coming here after so much has happened, not giving up on you despite the rest of the world going to fucking shit, well, that should tell you how much you mean to me."
"No. You came here so you could tell yourself what a big man you are," Permafrost counters. "And it’s because you hate the Priest, you didn’t want him to win. You never did a good deed in your life that wasn’t driven by greed or ego."
I look at him and smile. "You know, you’re probably right. But what about you? What’s Mr. Black and Bad done to you? Made you more powerful? What’s his bullshit line?"
"I get to survive the end of the world," John says.
"Fuck!" I laugh. "John, you idiot, do you really want to stick around for the clean-up on that bash? And even if that party’s coming, what makes you think the Priest can make good on the promise?"
"If you can’t have faith in a Priest, who can you have faith in?" John asks.
"Don’t talk to me about Priests," I snarl. "Not only do I have to worry about that black clad asshole, I’ve got Reverend Dykstra having an affair and fucking my mother in his basement on Christmas when she should be with her family. So don’t talk to me about Priests."
"Man, you need a shrink," John says.
"Show me someone who doesn’t," I reply. "By the way, if there’s anybody here who hears voices in their head, raise your hand."
John does, grinning wide. We both know about the tornaq, the Inuit spirits that give John his powers, and who also talk to him. I wonder if the Priest has negated their influence? "And I’m still more sane than you, Tommy," He boasts.
That’s it, John, lower your guard I start to inch closer. For the plan that Doc Wight and I concocted to work, I need to get close. Every fraction of a second is an advantage I’ll take.
"It ain’t always bad to be a little crazy," I say.
"Oh yeah? Two words: ‘Jaguar Grill.’" It’s not like John to reopen old wounds like that. "You can lie to yourself all you want. At least I’m honest," he says.
"Well, that depends on the fucking subject," I reply. "Did you really get religion, or did the Plaque Beast get into your head and fuck it up? Is what you’re telling me free will, or is it memorex?" John doesn’t say anything. "What’s the matter? Haven’t you got a fucking joke for that?"
"That’s all you ever thought of me. Or anyone else," John accuses. "We’re just jokes for you to laugh at."
"Really?" I take a step closer, estimating the distance between us as about a tenth of a second rush. With John’s reaction time, I need to cut that at least in half, and get him upset, to take him by surprise. "If the jokes bugged you, why’d you enjoy telling them?" John doesn’t say anything. I take another step forward. "C’mon, man. Piss on the goddamn brainwashing, and come on back to us. Whatever he’s done to you, we’ll find a cure! You’ve got a whole pantheon of gods ready to help you! What the fuck is he gonna do about that?"
John looks up at me and gives the most fucking disturbed laugh I’ve ever heard, a laugh that’s just this much fucking shy of complete despair. I know I’ve lost him now. Oh, what the fucking hell
I rush him. He immediately becomes a cloud of frost, untouchable, and starts to snowblind me. Shit, that’s gonna make our plan a fucking lot harder to implement. "No fight, eh?" he says.
"You know how I like to bullshit." I shoot back. I can’t see even see to the edge of the fucking maze, and shit it’s getting cold, colder than anything I’ve felt since I got my powers, even outer space -- John’s powers aren’t exactly science friendly. I remember seeing the Tyrannical Trio treated for hypothermia -- now I know how they must have felt.
The ground beneath me hardens, and cracks, and ice spikes are erupting everywhere. All as John maintains his ice storm form. "You shoulda done this to Hack and Orchid!" I shout.
"I wasn’t thinking straight in that fight!" a voice carried on the wind answers.
I smile, concentrate, and I use my magic to flood the area around us with warmth. Now John’s way better at this than I am, and I ain’t trying to compete with him in his arena. But he’s getting burned by the energy, and I’ll bet I can take his punishment better than he can handle mine.
After about ten seconds, John realizes this, and changes his tactics. As I expect, he solidifies -- and I’m on him in milliseconds. The instant he’s solid, I grapple him, and I pour a concoction that Doc Wight gave me down his throat. The hard part is forcing him to drink. But after an uncomfortable two seconds, he finally swallows it, and I get into his mind and I’m on him like a bad hangover, just screaming at him to shake off the Priest’s influence.
"All right!" John snaps. "Get out of my head, Tommy! And man, that stuff was vile! What was it?"
"A potion brewed by Doc Wight," I answer. "Designed to negate outside mystical influences on the mind. We used your favorite beer as a base -- Moosehead."
Heh, John hates that shit. "You bastard," he says.
"I ain’t a bastard," I answer. "My parents were legally married. John, you have got to stop getting ‘bastard’ confused with ‘asshole’."
"Man, I feel sick." Permafrost shakes his head and fights an urge to throw up. "The Priest put something inside me, to control me. Now that the link has been broken, the tornaq are eating it now."
"We’d better get you to a hospital." I surround John with a regeneration field -- for all I know, the Priest may have fucked up his vital organs so the tornaq would literally eat John alive if he lost control of him, because that’s the way the Priest thinks.
John and I manage to combine our powers on the barrier on the edge of the maze, and immediately it shatters. I spot Doc Wight and the others in the distance, and immediately head toward them. Wight immediately holds up a special lense, inspects John and nods. He was worried that Permafrost might actually be the Black Priest’s pet shapechanger, Doppleganger. But I’d give an Oscar for Best Bullshitting to anyone who could fake Permafrost’s performance that convincingly.
"It’s him," Doc confirms.
"This is not over, Chosen." The Black Priest makes his non-requested appearance. He’s looking real pissed at the moment. Of course, "drama queen" is at the top of the fucking list in a supervillain’s job description.
"Of course it isn’t," I tell him. "You’re still breathing, asshole."
He stews on the insult for about five seconds, his arms drawn at his sides long and tense, his hands this close to balling into fists. "Enjoy your triumph, Omega," he finally says. "It’s as short-lived as life itself."
"Oh, go have an apocalypse or something!" I tell him.
"You shall not mock me again," the Priest promises, and he and the rest of the Black Mass vanishes.
John collapsed into Cavalier’s arms, and he and Blockade are supporting him. Doc’s calling for an immediate evacuation, and informing the British authorities about the damage to the gardens. I mention Core and Hellblade’s "demon mines", and he starts to grumble about the amount of extra shit he has to do, and he wanders toward the garden, casting some sort of spell as he walks. It ain’t politically correct (meaning it’s sick and wrong), but watching him waddle as he walks is pretty fucking funny.
And finally, for the first time since I visited the Protectorate satellite, I have a chance to sit back, take a deep breath, and actually think about everything that’s happened. There is no way we should ever have gotten John back alive. No fucking way. I really don’t buy the whole "let’s make him walk in a hero’s shoes" bullshit either, although I have to admit that’s a possibility. This thing has got to be some sort of trap, and I gotta be ready for it when it closes.
But I’ll worry about it tomorrow. Today’s just been too big of a bitch.
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