Anime Mundi: From Bad To Mangaverse |
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| [The Foundry]
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Issue #27,
“Anime Mundi, Part II” MONDAY 10 JUNE 2002, 3:15 p.m. Pacific Time LOCATION UNKNOWN: Danielle Devereaux surveys the crowd from the platform upon which she and her companions stand. A few thousand faces are distinct, bearing the same anime-or manga-style big-eyed faces. Faces further back in the crowd appear as if an artist stippled them in. Behind the crowd is a towering futuristic cartoon skyline. In the arena, at a booth draped in purple and bearing the logo of Throckmorton Ravensgate OtakuCorp, Dani spies her cousin the mayor. And standing next to her is a cyborg version of Jean-Pierre d’Aubaine. Dani shakes her head at the costume the mayor is wearing. |
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“Interesting to see that power can’t override the double standard,” she remarks to Max, who appears deep in thought. He does not reply. “Max is not in this zip code right now,” Vic replies, “but I noticed it, too. The costuming definitely conforms to genre.” “And it’s very drafty if you’re a female,” snarks Dani. “Hey, this is really cool,” blurts out ‘Porter. “Yeah, you would think that,” retorts Vic, to which Max replies, “On some levels, it is.” “I see you’ve rejoined the living. Or caricatures thereof.” “This type of VR was nagging at me, Vic. I’d heard about it somewhere before—um, before by my temporal cognition, not actual linear time.” “Don’t tell me,” says Vic. “The future?” “Yes. Intelligence on the Republic of Borneo, Davao, Siam and Myanmar is sketchy. For example, we never quite figured out where they disposed of their political prisoners and criminal class. We never quite confirmed the rumors that they hooked up their prisoners to VR sims for entertainment and practical purposes.” |
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“Entertainment?” says Dani. “Yes. Gladiator matches, wagered upon by the general public. The house invariably received their share of the wagers, which explained why the BDSM tax rate was so low.” “Gladiator matches? Do you mean to tell me that, two hundred years from now, jailers haven’t figured out better and more intelligent amusements?” asks Vic. “History shows that human nature adapts to its technology,” says Max. “And the practical uses of VR?” asks Dani. “Well, it’s like we deduced earlier. Prisoners’ brains are appropriated to assist with mainframe memory allocation, maybe even run the municipal power supplies. Or perhaps . . . .” “Perhaps what, Max,” Vic snaps. “Perhaps crunch the numbers necessary to operate temporal gates,” murmurs Max. “I was wondering why Morii needed us to supplement her mainframe. Remember how I used the school’s LAN to locate ThetaXi1138? The same principles apply here.” “Hey, there’s Jack!!” shouts ‘Porter. “JACK!! HEYY!! JACK!!” Entering the arena and taking the opposite platform is an amorphous but vaguely humanoid blob of darkness. It does not reply to Namor’s shouted greetings. Judging by the height of the blob of darkness, the next man onto the podium must be at least seven feet tall. The crowd goes wild as the PA announces Red Doug: |
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“I doubt that’s Jack and Oscar,” says Max, “but Morii may have separated us to distract us from thwarting her program.” “How do we?” mutters Vic. “Do what?” says ‘Porter. “Thwart the program.” “Good question,” Max replies as a large cage rises out of the arena floor. “If we can keep these guys busy long enough for me to multi-task my thinking process, I might be able to answer that. I’ll need to determine if we can opt out of a sim in which we’re not voluntary participants.” “In English, please,” snaps Vic. “In English, Vic, we are so screwed.”
WEDNESDAY 26 June 2002 Assembly Chambers, Ravensgate City Hall U.S. House Infrastructure Protection Subcommittee: Antonio Marcoli approaches the podium with a poker face and his characteristic black duster and dark suit. He places his left hand upon the Bible, raises his right, and tunes out the Congressional clerk’s recitation of the oath. In 20-plus years as a Federal employee, he’s been through this drill as often as ballplayers who scratch and spit during the National Anthem: And it’s a charade for a Parliament of Whores, echoes through his mind as he sizes up the seven Congressmen on the subcommittee. He spends a few moments longer staring down Ravensgate’s representation on the committee, jowly polemicist Hellmann Jessup and well-coiffed 36-year-old policy wonk David Gavriel. Then the clerk finished with the oath. “I do solemnly swear,” snaps Marcoli. “Please state your full name for the record,” says the clerk. “Antonio Ray Marcoli.” “Mr. Marcoli, what is your current status with the Federal Bureau of Investigation?” “I am a Regional Special Agent In Charge for the Counter-MetaCriminal Project, or COMETPRO. Currently I am on administrative duties pending the outcome of both internal and external investigations of the cyberterrorist attack.” Hellman Jessup makes his first rhetorical strafing run. Glasses perched on the end of his nose, he sights down that nose as if taking aim: “Mr. Marcoli, how did theoretically-impregnable powered armor suits get taken over?” “Cyberpathic incursion, Mr. Jessup. One of the terrorists was an extremely powerful telepath capable of operating on the same electromagnetic wavelength as computers. Artificially intelligent computers don’t exist yet, so it was easy for this powerful metahuman to override the less complex mechanical minds.” “Kind of ironic, isn’t it? The ‘experts’ get neutralized by the metahuman?” “I fail to see the irony or the humor, Mr. Jessup. What is your point?” “If this is a telepath as you so claim, then how is it that he or she took over all the suits? Come to think of it, Mr. Marcoli, can you identify for the committee who this metahuman is?” “I cannot identify the meta’ for security reasons, as it is now an intelligence resource. Its mind is much more complex than those of the machines it can target, enabling it to control more than one. This is what happened June 10th.” Now it was Gavriel’s turn: “Given your position at the time of the attack, Mr. Marcoli, why did you send a single subordinate into the utility tunnels? Doesn’t that speak to a certain recklessness, given that four members of The Foundry already had fallen and a fifth barely escaped the initial battle with his life?” “The agent of which you speak had passed all the requisite training and could function without reliance upon equipment. For reasons of national security, I shall refer you to your briefing materials rather than identify him by name. As for the resources I allocated to the threat, well, the latest trend in terrorism is to target the initial emergency responders.” “The witness is directed to answer the question,” snaps Jessup. “I haven’t finished, Mr. Jessup! Mindful of the latest terrorist strategies, I responded appropriately to the threat by keeping forces in reserve.”
MONDAY 10 JUNE 2002, 3:15 p.m. Pacific Time Oregon Journal MediaCorp Building: Harald Lipshitz cracks his knuckles and his neck while members of COMETPRO and The Foundry discuss strategy with a ghost. He checks his makeup in the mirrored etched glass of the building’s lobby; some shards remained in the steel frame. Then he checks out the ghost, who peers back at him with murderous disdain. Harald smiles, and the makeup creases with each laugh line and wrinkle. Brother Knight spoke up, adjusting his goggles nervously. Harald, the dinosaur-rocker superhero known as Halitosis, looked down at him with concern. Minutes ago, Brother Knight’s wife Caballera was among the injured carried away in a fleet of ambulances. The tone of the younger man’s voice spoke to Harald of an equal concern. “Do we really have time to debate all this?” Brother Knight snapped. “I never knew you kids discussed strategy this much.” Kids, snorted Halitosis inwardly. BK’s not much older than the COMETPRO man, and I’m old enough to be everybody’s father. Hell, maybe I am. Nineteen seventy-six was a good year for groupies. The Man From COMETPRO quietly rests his guitar case on the reception desk, opens it, and begins handing out wooden stakes, grenades, and a couple of Super Soakers marked Holy Water. “Normally we don’t discuss strategy,” replies the invisible member of The Foundry. Which one is he? Pyromania? No, that’s a Def Leppard album, thinks Halitosis, not a superhero name. The disembodied voice adds, “Maybe this is the time we made a change. I’m sure Team Hyperion talks strategy all the time, right?” “Yes we do,” interjects Halitosis, “but it’s usually as far as the question, ‘What’s our game plan?’ So, uh, what is our game plan, anyway?”
MONDAY 10 JUNE 2002, 3:19 p.m. Pacific Time LOCATION UNKNOWN: “Game plan, right,” mutters Vic, looking over at the quartet on the opposite end of the field. “Has it occurred to anyone that our abilities in this cartoon world might not match ours in real life?” “Yes, it occurred to me,” Dani and Max reply in unison, but Max continues the thought: “This is why we fight defensively early on. We need to find out what we can do as well as what they can do. They have the advantage.” “Exactly,” says Dani. “They’re programmed to respond to whatever we do, which is why we should work as a team.” “Or two teams in concert. Max, you’re fast enough to cover Namor when he teleports, so the two of you watch each other’s backs.” “But how do you know I teleport?” Namor asks, to which Vic replies, “Our cellblock security is designed with you in mind. Since we’re in a free-for-all cage match, we’ll need you to get us to that high ground over—.” A powered armor guard turns to face the four and interrupts: “Okay, listen up! I’m only saying this once, so it’s your funeral if you miss any details! That over there—!” he points to the 10-foot-wide door with the wide flat-screen monitor on it “—is your entry into the cage! Once you pass the threshold, your power-arrestor cuffs will deactivate and an escape-proofing force field will activate! The field of battle is divided into grids!” The guard motions toward the screen and it displays a map of the cage: “You will begin in Sector A-11, your opponents in A-1! The white circles are concealed tunnel access ports! The dark circles are tactical equipment caches, or TEC’s! In the TEC’s, which are concealed, you’ll find weaponry, stealth shells or first aid kits! The black squares are pillboxes in which you can hide! The climbing rock in Sectors F-1 through F-4 and G-2 through G-5 is up to 60 feet tall, the ridge in the middle of the field varies between five and 25 feet tall! The ridge has jagged ‘surprise bricks’ which can change elevation or explode! Okay, now the ground rules: You will fight until no one from either side is left standing, whether that means they’re dead or unconscious! You may now enter the field of battle!”
WEDNESDAY 26 June 2002 Assembly Chambers, Ravensgate City Hall U.S. House Infrastructure Protection Subcommittee: Victor Rodriguez shaved for this public appearance, but he kept the black Ray-Bans. The tailored blue suit and the scar down his face and neck put him in the Thug From Central Casting category, but for the DEA badge hanging from his handkerchief pocket. He removes his hand from the Bible and folds both hands in front of himself at the podium. “Please state your full name for the record,” says the clerk. “Victor Montaña Castillo Rodriguez y Sahagun.” “Mr. Rodriguez,” asks Rep. Gavriel, “what is your current position with the Drug Enforcement Administration?” “I am the Assistant Special Agent In Charge of Homeland Security Intelligence for the Ravensgate Regional Office. Currently I am the interim Region Nine COMETPRO commander pending the outcome of internal and external investigations of the June 10th cyberterrorist attack.” “And your prior COMETPRO experience is why you were called to the scene of the June 10th attack?” “Affirmative.” “Mr. Rodriguez, I direct you to the enlarged Ravensgate Oregon Journal front page and editorial projected on the screen behind me. They are Exhibits 13A and 13B. Do you agree with the newspaper’s assessment of the COMETPRO strategy and leadership, and why?” “Well, for starters, I wouldn’t have sent a solitary agent down there,” Rodriguez replies, “and especially not one accompanied by two groups of superheroes who had not worked together previously.”
MONDAY 10 JUNE 2002, 3:22 p.m. Pacific Time Utility Access Tunnel, Downtown Ravensgate: COMETPRO Agent Lupe Cazaril draws the BFG from inside his duster as Halitosis and Energon lift away the access panel. Brother Knight peers inside the access tunnel. The dim light reflected off the inch or so of standing water, and cast stark shadows in the alcoves that were spaced every 40 feet. “How do you want to play this?” Brother Knight asks Jeopardy. “Vampires and cyborgs are old hat for Hal and I, but what can you tell me about the Atlanteans?” “They can assume a liquid state, they’re very agile out of water, and they carry poison dart guns.” “Invisible or intangible in water?” asks Cazaril. “Both. That’s why Halitosis holds the center,” says Jeopardy, “Pyro and Energon behind him. Whoever is in front—.” “The front rank clears each alcove and hugs the wall to create a power alley for the energy projectors,” interrupts Cazaril. “What about the ghost?” “I can sense the minds,” answers the gleaming gossamer figure of Nikko Wylde. “How?” asks Halitosis. “Other ghosts tell me.” “Other ghosts?” “Yes, other ghosts. Many of them were killed down here. Vampires. Your compatriots, however, are roughly 200 feet ahead. Alive” “How many other minds are near them?” Cazaril asks. “Seven. Two vampires, two merfolk and three humans.” Cazaril and Brother Knight take the lead, with Halitosis and Pyro behind them. Energon, Jeopardy and the Ghost of Nikko Wylde enter last. Roughly thirty steps in, the standing water begins to roil. Then it subsides just as quickly. Cazaril tracks the waves with this BFG as the team presses on. “Stay sharp, people,” whispers Brother Knight. “They’re playing with us.” At that instant, a half-dozen robots vaguely resembling giant pepper shakers roll out from alcoves on either side of the tunnel: “Ex-ter-minate! Ex-ter-minate!” “You have got to be kidding me,” mutters Brother Knight.
MONDAY 10 JUNE 2002, 3:25 p.m. Pacific Time LOCATION UNKNOWN: The four members of The Foundry keep low to the plateau and mobile as Max looks about for any hidden caches or tunnel hatches. Vic and Dani keep toward the front, watching the ridge, as Namor watches the back corner. Much to her consternation, Dani begins emitting a vague dissipating frost. Her characteristic clear icy carapace does not form, but a layer of white crystals causes her skin and sparse costume to gleam in the arena lights. “This is not good,” Dani informs Vic. “I don’t know if this is the VR or the after-effects of the cuffs.” “Can you project?” Vic asks as he peers over the ledge of the climbing rock. “I don’t know,” Dani responds. Suddenly, explosions rip across the ridge line. Each one is preceded by a bright green flash. Two of the explosions trigger land mines, kicking up brick debris. “What the—?” mutters Vic. “Someone’s using bio-energy to clear land mines,” says Dani. “It’s Bob.” “Distraction!!” Vic yells at Max and Namor. “Watch out for flanking maneuvers!!” Red Doug emerges from a hidden tunnel hatch, right next to Namor. He swats the teenager off the plateau with a backhand from his lower left hand as the upper left hand steadies a rifle and his upper right hand reaches for the trigger. With two sharp reports, the rifle sends hot lead tearing across Max’s right leg. Max does not slow down. Red Doug’s lower right arm reaches back and throws an exotic-looking sword with a hilt in the middle and a blade at each end. The leading blade slams into Dani’s chest, but the sword shatters in a shower of frost. Somewhere over the ridge, Jack shouts, “INSANITY OF DARKNESS!!” and jagged shadows play over the crest of the ridge. As if on cue, a snarling invisible leopard leaps onto the plateau—right at Vic, who attempts to dive out of the way. The big cat’s pounce almost snags him; the front claws slice off the top half of Zazen Raja’s ridiculous Mohawk crest. Then five jagged, elongated tendrils of darkness whip out from the shadows playing over the ridge and snare Dani. One of the tendrils forms an opposable thumb as the stretched-out Jack The Prince of Darkness yanks Ice Princess Frisson to the ground with a painful and sickening thud. The hand of darkness, upon the shouted cue of “INSANITY OF GRAVITY!!”, clenches in a vise-like grip.
MONDAY 10 JUNE 2002, 3:25 p.m. Pacific Time Utility Access Tunnel, Downtown Ravensgate: Halitosis lays down a screen of fire, hoping to overload the robots’ heat sinks. Two merfolk pop out of the roiling water behind Cazaril and Brother Knight, trapping them in their alcoves. Or so they think. Brother Knight kicks his way through the merfolk facing him, while Agent Cazaril casually points the BFG under his opposite arm and fires a blast of bright blue energy upward into his opponent’s face. The concussive force of the discharge sends the creature flying over Halitosis’ head and slamming into the corner of the next opposite alcove. It slumps to the floor. Energon can’t help but notice that the BFG’s energy discharge matches one of his: Wonder if that’s Mom and Dad’s R&D… It’s also similar to the magnetic repulsor bolt that strikes him from somewhere inside the fireball. The Sum of All Fields, his seven-foot-tall chrome exoskeleton glowing, saunters out of the firestorm and takes aim again. Energon, however, fires before the android: “Is that the best you can do, you steaming pile of crap metal!?!?” The merfolk Brother Knight struck, reforms as a solid and punches him. Halitosis looks back in the direction of Pyro—or where he thinks Pyro might be—and yells out, “Hit me, baby!! Power me up!!” “How?” “Look, I can handle it!! Just torch me and I’ll—.” “Stayyy on tar-get!! Stayyy on tar-get!!” A fusillade of energy bolts flies down the hallway at the heroes. Nikko Wylde disappears into a nearby wall.
MONDAY 10 JUNE 2002, 3:26 p.m. Pacific Time LOCATION UNKNOWN: Danielle Devereaux concentrates with all her might as tendrils of darkness puncture her skin, opening wounds in her back and legs. An oversized bead of sweat appears on her forehead. Somehow, Jack is unaffected by her icy sheen, but she is able to counter Jack’s pull and burst out of his grip. Cartoon blood flows out of her wounds, yet she does not lose consciousness the way her cartoon bleeding would indicate. She doesn’t have that much blood in her system in real life. She reminds herself that it’s just the genre’s artistic license—and ignores the tendons screaming in her back and legs. Namor attempts to get up, but a green bolt of energy slams into him and sends him flying into the cage at the edge of the playing field. He slumps to the ground. The leopard makes another attack run at Vic, who kicks it in the head as it rakes across his stomach, and Jack tries to crush Max with an enlarged obsidian fist on a 60-foot elongated arm. It misses. Max is a blur of motion, leaping—and creating some awesome speed lines—right into the back of Red Doug’s head. A discharge of kinetic energy happens upon impact, sending Red Doug dazed and staggering. Max runs right down the face of the plateau. Vic breathes in sharply, then exhales with a shout as he drives his fist into the leopard’s face. He is amazed by the crackle of discharged energy that transforms his punch into an explosive piston drive between the cat’s eyes. The eyes cross, and the leopard staggers backward. Vic staggers away, buckets of cartoon blood pouring out onto the ground. The wounds sting, and the grinding together of severed tissue sends paroxysms of searing pain straight up through his skull like a jackhammer. Max, nearing the opposite cage wall, makes a high-G turn back toward the plateau as Jack screams out, “INSANITY OF LOGIC!!” Then some very thin tendrils of darkness snake out from Jack’s elongated fingers, playing directly into Max’s path. He feels a slight pop, but no searing pain, as his field of view begins to tumble in free fall. Max hits his head on the ground, but he does not hear the impact. He sees his headless body running full tilt up the sheer wall toward Red Doug, a geyser of cartoon blood trailing behind him. The body misses badly and falls off the opposite edge. This definitely is not going well, Max muses, as everything fades to black.
TO BE CONTINUED
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