Anime Mundi: From Bad To Mangaverse |
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| [The Foundry]
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Issue #31, “Woke Up This Morning, Got
Yourself A Gun (Anime Mundi, Part VI)” THURSDAY 27 June 2002 Assembly Chambers, Ravensgate City Hall U.S. House Infrastructure Protection Subcommittee: “Again I ask the question, Mr. d’Aubaine,” snaps Rep. George Taxmeier (R-Ill.), chairman of the subcommittee. “What reason have you for attacking The Foundry in an editorial the day after the June 10th incident, after their valiant attempts to stop the cyber-terrorists?” “They are too secretive, and they are too close to our corrupt and controversial local constabulary. Team Hyperion was and is willing to make public appearances to reassure the populace and to make known their crime-fighting initiatives.” “Mr. d’Aubaine,” says Rep. Milton Ganymede (D-N.H.), a stooped and graying gentleman seated to the opposite end of the dais from Hellman Jessup and Dave Gavriel, “weren’t the members of Team Hyperion once mind-controlled by one of their own, and wasn’t it The Foundry who broke that control?” “Yes,” d’Aubaine sighs, “but even after The Foundry broke that mind control, they made no public appearances. While I understand that anonymity is a vital crime-fighting tool for metahumans, especially after 9-11, I find their aloof nature alarming.” “You seem to contradict your daughter regarding the local constabulary,” says Ganymede. “However, I note that The Foundry was sanctioned by COMETPRO rather than register under a quaint local law your city council has temporarily repealed. If they were as close to the local constabulary as you claim, then why didn’t they register?” “You mean, why didn’t they obey the law?” d’Aubaine snorts. “Good question, sir. Then, I ask you, if they were sanctioned by COMETPRO, then why are they so secretive toward the DEA’s Victor Rodriguez? After all, he’s their current liaison agent after the FBI placed Antonio Marcoli under review in the wake of the June 10th incident.” Jean-Pierre d’Aubaine surveys the gallery with a smirk before turning back to the podium and adding: “Mr. Marcoli, it seems, is the son of none other than Giuseppe ‘Sloppy Joe’ Marcoli—of the Chicago Marcolis, no less—and has served a total of 13 of his 25 years with the bureau right here in Ravensgate. His personnel file is highly classified, noting only a—ahem—close encounter with an alleged UFO in 1976, but it is publicly known he is one of three survivors of the task force that investigated the murders of the original Team Hyperion.” Jessup, as if on cue, interjects with, “Aren’t the other two survivors from the local police contingent to that task force?” “Yes, Mr. Jessup, they are. In fact, they are none other than Inspector Matthew Shinmen, who is Superintendent Philip Snow’s right-hand man, and Captain Wilton Franklin.”
TUESDAY 11 JUNE 2002, 10:16 P.m. Pacific Time CHECKERHEADQUARTERS: Sean Thomas “Tommy” Gunn, Chief of Operations for the Ravensgate Bureau of Public Safety, enters the drab Central Precinct squad room and takes in the smell of ammonia industrial cleaner. Despite the fact that he hasn’t been in a regular police squad room in years, he knows the night’s business will require another heavy application of solvent in the morning. Witnesses and perps flank him on all sides, the only difference between the two being that the witnesses aren’t the ones handcuffed to their chairs next to the uniforms and detectives taking their statements. Off to Gunn’s left is a bleached Goth hunched over next to a detective’s desk, his pointed canines exposed as he snaps, “This is an outrage! Why can’t you do anything?! This was cold-blooded murder!!” The detective sighs and leans back in his chair: “Look, pal, you know the law: No body, no blood, no physical evidence, no case. A pile of dust doesn’t count. Now, we can have Patrol keep an eye out for the assailants. Now, what did they look like?” The Goth sighs, “One of them was a girl about 20 to 25, five-foot-three, blonde, kinda SoCal cheerleader type. Another one was a mousy-looking redhead . . . .” Gunn looks at his watch and stops lingering. Off to his right is the “Fishbowl,” a bullet-resistant glass enclosure where perps sit awaiting processing. Gunn passes the Fishbowl and heads straight for the back of the squad room and a door marked interrogation rooms, called The Box by street cops. He opens the door and surveys the hallway. Eerily enough, the only closed door among the eleven in front of him is the far one on the right. He knocks on it. A shadow is cast over the fisheye lens in the door, and it opens. A rather worn and bruised Inspector Matt Shinmen greets him: “Tommy, come on in.” Seated around the stark gray metal table are Jeopardy and Tabula Rasa from The Foundry—and a ghost. Nikko Wylde’s diaphanous form flickers in her chair, and the cold spike of recognition hits Gunn for the second time in two days. He had met her once, when she applied to join the Rapid Armed Intervention Division. Her body language and her seat in the far corner of the room betray her uneasiness with Shinmen. “Sorry I’m late,” Gunn says, his voice betraying both his uneasiness and his awareness of it. “Officer Wylde, it’s, uh, good to see you again under the circumstances.” He turns to the two superheroes and says only, “Gentlemen. Uh, how are your comrades doing?” Tabula Rasa breathes in and out sharply, but Jeopardy answers, “Right now that’s a difficult question to answer.” Gunn nods and mumbles an apology. Jeopardy and Tabula Rasa return the nod. “Look,” says Gunn, “regardless of what d’Aubaine says about you, or what the powers that be say about the Registration Law, you’ve done very well.” “Thank you,” says Jeopardy. “We feel the same about you.” Gunn nods in acknowledgement. “Yeah, personally, I’m a big fan of Vic Charlton. He’s the only reason to read the Weekly.” “Tommy, I called you in because I want to make sure I’m not having a concussion-induced hallucination,” Shinmen says as he sits down and opens his laptop. “You saw Officer Wylde yesterday and you see her now, right?” “Yes.” “And Jeopardy, Pyro and Tabula Rasa, I ask the same question.” “Pyro?” interjects Gunn, to which a disembodied voice responds, “I’m right here and, yes, I answer the question in the affirmative.” TR and Jeopardy nod. Ignoring the startled Gunn, Shinmen continues: “Okay, we’re not hallucinating. Now, what shall we do about it? I’m thinking of the weight the law usually places upon deathbed statements by witnesses and perps. Except it’s been a year. Tommy, any suggestions?” “Where are you going with this, Matt?” “Well, we certainly can’t use a statement from a ghost,” Shinmen says, to which Nikko glowers. “However, Bill Durden was alive at University General long enough for a plausible statement to have been extracted by somebody.” “Are you suggesting we fabricate a deathbed statement?” “’Fabricate’ is too harsh a word, under the circumstances,” Shinmen snaps. “I want to be able to run it by the suspects in order to confirm its veracity.” “Aren’t you assuming a great deal?” says Gunn. “Officer Wylde, did Detective Bill Durden even know the suspects?” Yes, Nikko’s voice echoes through the minds in the room. He was one of them.
THE STATEMENT OF OFFICER NIKKO WYLDE: I had been working undercover for Gang Enforcement for two and a half years, most of it going back to high school and collecting intelligence on youth gangs for my sergeant, Alia Shabazz. Then, in August of 2000, two GU detectives, Roy Siegfried and Leon Spaszniewski, needed someone on the inside of a meth-dealing motorcycle gang known as The Black Mass. Apparently they had been suspected in drug-related attacks on local Wiccans and on medical-supply wholesalers. I’d spent ten months on the inside of the gang and its inner-circle. They were a bunch of occult-crazed kids from the ‘burbs or from Astor Key. Yes, rich kids. Their leader, who wore a hockey mask painted like the British flag and called himself Ghoul Britannia, was a shirt-tail relative of the Throckmortons—Josias Throckmorton Moore Jr. During my time on the inside, I was able to establish that they ran crank for the mob but that they hired themselves out to do odd—and I mean really odd—burglary or smash-and-grab jobs. Whoever hired them was known only to Ghoul Britannia, and only Ghoul Britannia’s identity was known to his gang. Also during my time on the inside, I was reassigned to Street Crimes Unit. Widespread corruption in GU led Superintendent Snow to dissolve the unit and place it under Inspector Shinmen—back then, he was just a lieutenant—and SCU. However, I was so deep down that I was not aware of the change for three weeks. I’d never even met Lt. Shinmen. Despite the depth of my cover, I was not privy to the inner circle of The Black Mass until my last month with them. One night during Roaring Twenties Days, the gang met at The Cave. At that party I met Josias Throckmorton Moore Jr. in a back room at The Cave. It took me two weeks to get ahold of my contact officers so that I could corroborate any surveillance tapes they had—and to tell them who Ghoul Britannia was. I also had come across a copy of a very odd shopping list of mystical items. The list had been handled by multiple people, including one or two outside the gang, and the fingerprint evidence might have proven useful. So I absconded with the main copy. I hid it in the bustier of my gang outfit; this ensemble I’m wearing now—bustier, poncho, motorcycle pants—is a reverse image of that costume. I had arranged to meet my contact officers at Hamilton Point, after the gang’s summer solstice blow-out. The date was June 21, 2001. It took me until 3:30am to get away from the gang. Rains had put a damper on their party at the Reservoir, and they drank themselves into a stupor early. Despite the heavy rains, I hopped on my bike and immediately hit 101. I made it to the Baum State Park exit by 3:40. It was almost four when I rolled into the parking lot. Batty—Detective Siegfried—was leaning against his car. As I approached, he asked me why I’d been keeping him waiting all night. At that point, a car started speeding down a side-trail toward us with its headlights off. Then somebody shot me from behind; it was Detective Spazsniewski. I’m not going to describe to you what it’s like to have your lungs torn out by gunshots. You have access to the autopsy report, I got to watch the damn thing first-hand. Spaz shot me in the back so that the Teflon slugs would travel through me and out to sea. The rain was one of those Oregon Coast gully-washers, so it washed his spent brass down the nearest storm drain. The oncoming car turned out to be Moore’s hearse, driven by Bill Durden. He was upset with Spaz for shooting a woman in the head, but that was his mistaken observation. One of the bullets had hit me in the neck, and there was a hole in the hood of my rain slicker. So, Durden said to Spaz something to the effect of, “You don’t shoot women in the head, dumb-ass,” to which Spaz said that he was still getting the hang of the H&K MP5. I believe the model he used was the MP5SD3, which you guys “recovered” from Centanni’s a few days ago, because I certainly didn’t hear any gunshots. Batty was yelling the 10-88 into his radio while Spaz and Durden loaded my bike into the back of the hearse. Then Durden took off. At the same time as all this was happening, I kept drifting between my own body and watching from above. I saw the Life Flight chopper land—in fact, it passed right through me and landed right next to my body. Batty accompanied me onto the chopper, while Spaz stayed behind to direct the uniforms at the crime scene. One of them said Captain Rey Allemande was on his way to the scene. I went into full cardiac and respiratory arrest before the chopper had even passed over 101. The EMTs didn’t give up on me until after we’d landed on the roof of University General. As I said, I had to endure watching my own autopsy, which is deep into TMI territory if you ask me, and I’ve been here between worlds ever since. I’ve been shadowing former colleagues in attempts to contact them or, in the cases of Batty and Spaz, exact revenge. Somehow Spaz and Batty have mystical protections placed upon them that prevent me from touching them. Trust me, it’s taken me almost a year to learn how to affect the physical world, but those two bastards are among very few people I can’t touch. And I don’t know why. Only recently can I affect the physical world, and that is with the assistance of others who are as trapped in the ghost realm as I am. It’s also why I have this vast array of knowledge that far outstrips what little education I had. I mean, a college degree is nothing to scoff at, but the vast knowledge I can access from just talking to other dead people is amazing. You’ll find mention of vampire attacks at the Ravensgate Totem and Commerce Park on May 16th, 23rd, 27th and 29th where the intended victims said something stopped the vampires. That was me. You could say that I was killing time—poor word choice, I know—as it seems time is all I’ll ever have. It’s how I also stumbled across Jeopardy. I’ve been following him for about a month now. Before I arrived at yesterday’s devastation, I’d been following Bill Durden’s plight with some amusement. Tabula Rasa and Pyro had captured Durden and two Vishenko wiseguys as they attempted to plant evidence in Shinmen’s house. This evidence included the silenced revolver that killed James Smithson and the H&K submachinegun used both in my murder and in the attack that set off the City Hall Massacre. TR and Pyro turned Durden over to Shinmen, who had Frank Franklin and two Homicide detectives work him over for information. Getting nowhere, TR and Shinmen decided to use Pyro to plant evidence on the Spanno-Torchia mob and finger Durden as the snitch. (That was the intent of the Centanni’s raid.) When Durden’s role as an alleged snitch was “leaked” to the press, TR won his bet regarding Durden’s incontinence. You’ll be happy to know, Inspector, that Durden added a new dimension to the term “leak” when he saw the news. Durden eventually decided to name names and was then whisked away to a safe house under Batty and Spaz’s supervision—which is how a Vishenko assassin named Rurik Kirilenko knew where to launch a rocket-propelled grenade. The resulting explosion killed Durden and sent four detectives to ICU. This incident happened about five minutes after Dr. Morii’s virus caused the COMETPRO powered-armor suits to run amok, and a very classified defense satellite to cause Paladin Noir to drill into a mountainside in southwestern China. Don’t worry about Paladin Noir, he’s okay. I overheard him telling Brother Knight that he’s in DC doing some explaining, probably about why that satellite is in need of repair. I’m certain if you ask him, that will help establish my veracity. Anyway, back to the main story. The tire tracks matched the tires of a 1963 Cadillac hearse, but that was established long after the Bureau decided upon Moore as a suspect. Surveillance saw my bike in the back of the hearse, and that was considered enough probable cause to go after The Black Mass at their Astor Key hideout. That little episode reminded me of Gary Oldman’s line from The Professional, “Get me everybody!” SCU, RAID, ECM, just about everybody pounced on that house. Somebody, likely Iridia “Half-Pint” Kiwafunda, fired the first shot at the cops, and the cops put five thousand holes in the house—and a few hundred in Moore and ten of his followers. In short, the evidentiary trail dried up and allowed Spaz, Batty and Durden to continue to act as Police Guild sleeper agents. I do know that Batty had said something to Spaz after he shot me, something about having to take over the shopping list or something about them either being “Plan B” or having to enact it.
TUESDAY 11 JUNE 2002, 10:36 P.m. Pacific Time CHECKERHEADQUARTERS: Tommy Gunn watches Nikko, Jeopardy and Tabula Rasa from the other side of the one-way mirror. He leans against the opposite wall of the darkened observation room and stews before glowering, red-faced, at Matt Shinmen: “That Centanni’s raid was a sham, wasn’t it? You didn’t tell me you were into planting evidence, too, you little f#$%.” “Durden and his Vishenko buddies planted guns in my house!! I have video The Foundry took while they were tailing Guild fugitives!!” “Oh, so you decided one good turn deserved another, committed umpteen felonies, and made eleven dozen other officers unwitting accessories to your Wild West show!!” “Get off your high horse, Tommy!! I’ve seen that flicker of doubt cross your face every time you’ve ordered men to take the shot: Is this person an innocent so set up they can’t trust the cops to take ‘em alive?! Dominic Spanno shot Phil and walked—then he sued us! After the Centanni’s raid, he dropped the suit because we established we had good reason to pop him and, gee, his brother got popped with guns and heroin—and I never knew jack about the heroin!!” Gunn crosses the room and begins jabbing his finger in the diminutive Shinmen’s chest. “You and I will have a long talk about rank, procedure and the law. In the meantime, I talked to Phil. He says we play things your way. For now.” The observation room door opens and Tabula Rasa enters: “Uh, I hate to break up your love-fest, but how are we proceeding? We need to know.” Gunn glares over Shinmen at TR, but Shinmen turns to face. Shinmen pauses, looks at one wall, grins ear to ear, and returns his gaze to TR: “Bill Durden confessed his complicity after the safe house blew up. If Nikko’s recollection of events matches Batty and Spaz’s, it ought to rattle at least one of them. And to think I trusted those $@%&*!s with my life.” “Well, now you know who tipped off the Rust City Union Hall,” TR replies. “Yes, T, now I know,” says Shinmen. “And now we know what to do. Spaz hangs out at the Pig Pen, it’s a dive on Dayton Avenue just a few blocks from Grand Theft Otto’s chop shop. Used to be a cop bar, now it’s an ex-cop bar. A lot of the old RPG crowd’s still there, excellent place to make an example of someone.” “Do we know he’s there?” asks TR. “Jimmy and a couple of his boys are watching the Pig Pen right now, Joey and Rube should be here—“ someone knocks on the door “—any minute now. Come on in!” Franklin, Joey Meaaloa and Rube Cody enter the room. They are dressed in full body armor and have shotguns or assault rifles slung. Shinmen turns to TR and says, “What we have planned is something we refer to as a ‘Car-54.’ It’s a bit intense. You and your friends shouldn’t be along.” “I have a strong stomach, M,” TR replies. “I’d like to ride along.” “Yes, T, I know,” says Shinmen, “and I appreciate all you do for us. But I want to make a point with the RPG crowd. They killed three fellow officers—Durden, Wylde, Smithson—so it’s a matter of ohana.” Gunn, crowded to the back of the room by the equally imposing frames of Meaaloa, Franklin and Cody, clears his throat: “When I talked to Phil, he gave me a message for you, Matt. It was, and I quote, Don’t do anything nuts.” Shinmen grins from ear to ear. “I’ll keep that in mind, Tommy,” he says, turning to Franklin and adding: “Bring me Roy Siegfried. I think he’s upstairs.”
THURSDAY 27 June 2002 Assembly Chambers, Ravensgate City Hall U.S. House Infrastructure Protection Subcommittee: “I find it rather amusing that we’re wasting subcommittee time on a UFO sighting I made as an FBI cadet,” Marcoli snaps at Jessup, “and that we’re discussing my estranged family.” “Well, Mr. Marcoli,” interjects Gavriel, “I find it interesting that the FBI would employ a man who’s related to hard-core mobsters and who chases flying saucers and urban myths. Then again, didn’t J. Edgar Hoover claim the Mafia was a myth because Lansky, Giancana and Luciano knew about Hoover’s affairs with Clyde Tolson and their cabana boys?” “Hoover died before I graduated from high school, Mr. Gavriel, yet unfortunately I have no alibi for JFK,” Marcoli hisses. The gallery laughs. “Mr. Marcoli, I will ask the chairman to find you in contempt of Congress if—!!” “You do that and I’ll arrest every #$%^^&*in’ one of this subcommittee for obstruction of justice, influence peddling, espionage and—!!” “Mr. Chairman, I ask that the sergeant-at-arms—!!” “Stick it, Gavriel!! Mr. Chairman, I have FBI, CIA, DIA and NSA analyses of the Internet sound file where Jean-Pierre d’Aubaine boasts to his daughter about how he’ll get even with all his political enemies!! They sound file is authentic!! Also, I have phone records which indicate he called two of the members of this subcommittee before he made the recorded phone call to his daughter the mayor!! The records clearly show d’Aubaine delayed legitimate police action long enough to remove the element of surprise and endanger countless police, FBI, civilian and superhero lives!!” “This is an outrage!!” thunders Jessup. “This is the last gasp of a corrupt and incompetent agency infiltrated by the mob and in bed with local corrupt cops!! They bungled Waco and Ruby Ridge, and they failed to protect us from the Unabomer, the anthrax scare and 9-11!! Mr. Chairman, remove the witness and find him in contempt!!” Taxmeier removes his glasses, rolls his eyes, and slams his gavel down a dozen times: “ORDER!! ORDER!! Sergeant-at-arms, remove Mr. Marcoli but do not place him under arrest!! We will review the evidence he has assembled. Messrs Gavriel and Jessup, I ask that you meet me in the nearest conference room and explain yourselves.”
WENESDAY 12 JUNE 2002, 12:11 a.m. Pacific Time CHECKERHEADQUARTERS: Lieutenant Roy Siegfried, swing shift commander of the Homicide and Special Intelligence Division, reads the last line of the statement attributed to the late Detective William Durden: This I swear to be true, as I have been advised of the gravity of my medical condition and thus have no reason to further perjure myself. Siegrfied, his hands trembling, sets the pages down on the gray metallic table in the center of The Box. He stares down at the empty holster on his belt, and the empty case for his badge, both of which Captain Wilton “Frank” Franklin confiscated. Siegfried looks up at Franklin and Detectives Brim and Wiseguy: “I’ll corroborate, but I’d like to cut a deal.” In the observation room, Matt Shinmen hangs his head, pauses, and utters into his radio, “Joey, we have confirmation. I’m on my way.”
WENESDAY 12 JUNE 2002, 12:51 a.m. Pacific Time The Pig Pen, Rust City: Sergeant Leon Spazsniewski drains another brew and looks at the photos of Bill Durden and Nikko Wylde on the memorial wall behind the bar. He leans back on the barstool and stretches his limbs as pool players behind him break to begin a new game of 8-Ball. As he leans back, a blued metal revolver slides down the bar and stops in front of him. A sudden chill of realization jolts his heart into jackhammer mode when he spots the etched-off serial numbers and the silencer. Then a sudden gunshot silences the bar. Something slams into Spaz’s left knee with enough force that it bends sideways and his head slams into the next barstool and then the floor. As he loses consciousness from the two blows to the head, Spaz reflects upon how he’s lucky he can’t feel his left leg anymore. He knows what has happened to it. “POLICE!! NOBODY %#&^&*ING MOVE, NOBODY %#&^&*ING GETS KILLED!! WE ARE SERVING AN ARREST WARRANT!!” Inspector Matt Shinmen stands in the back hallway of the bar, the .40-caliber Glock in his left hand still smoking, as he hands an empty evidence bag to Lieutenant Alia Shabazz. Checkerheads in full riot body armor pour into the main room from all entrances. About two-dozen bar patrons, a bartender, and two waitresses find themselves staring down the business ends of M-16s and shotguns. Two officers grab Spaz and begin stripping him of weapons and identification. “Leon Albert Spazsniewski,” announces Captain Jimmy Meaaloa, reading partially from the warrant, “you are under arrest for the capital murders of James Smithson, Nikko Wylde and William Durden. You are also under arrest for the solicitation to murder, and the attempted murders of, Homicide Detectives Meyers, Krueger, Knox and Voorhies.” Then he strays from the text: “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be use against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney, not that you really deserve one, you $¢§°*¥¿#! sack of $#^*.”
WENESDAY 12 JUNE 2002, 12:53 a.m. Pacific Time 0116 Moebius Avenue W., edge of L. Frank Baum State Park, one mile from Hamilton Point: Nikko surveys the two-story custard-colored stucco structure and its attached carport and garage. Nobody’s home. Something prevents me from entering, she says from her vantage point on the curbside as Jeopardy (Oscar) walks the perimeter of the foundation. “Yeah, I see it,” says Jeopardy. He points down at the symbols carved into the basement windowsill:
“What are those?” Pyro asks, to which Jeopardy replies, “Signs and sigils of the Watchers and Nephilim. They’re designed to keep the Cherubim, the celestial bodyguards, at bay. That means Nikko is one.” “What are you doing?” Pyro asks as Jeopardy goes feline—displaying the purple-spotted blue form not unlike his anime persona—and claws one of the inscriptions into an unrecognizeable hash. “I’m allowing Nikko entry, perhaps save us the trouble of cracking a security system,” Oscar says, reverting to human form. Thank you, says Nikko as she floats past and into the house. Agent Cazaril and Tabula Rasa stare in amazement. Seconds later, the front door opens. Security system is disabled, Nikko says, an old Native American chief sees Spazsniewski type in the alarm combo every day. “Oh, which one?” asks TR, to which Nikko responds, Sadly, he’s not in any history books, but he does have a few choice words about the casino out on 18. “Does he know any other secrets?” Yes. You’ll find some floorboard stashes in each corner of this living room. Just move the stereo speakers and the couch. Also, there is a gun safe in the bedroom behind a bookshelf, and the Daylight Gun—the particle rifle that killed Lilith Romanescu—is buried in the backyard.
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Agent Cazaril smiles, surveys the sparely-furnished living room, and says, “Okay, we’ve satisfied probable cause. The door was ajar, and he’s a suspect in several murders. Let’s toss this place before the Checkerheads arrive.” Pyro looks at the framed photographic print above the fireplace: “Jeopardy, what is this? Tell me if I'm wrong, but I have a feeling it has some occult significance attached to it.” |
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“It’s the Horologue of Prague,” Oscar replies, “an astronomical clock that’s kept time since 1410. Some occultists are fans of the clock, since the figure of Death pops out every hour to ring the bells.” “Oh, so it’s one of those happy clocks,” snarks TR as he tears away at some floorboards. Within minutes, the quintet has completely tossed the place. And they have not been gentle with their work, either. The refrigerator’s contents are spilled out onto the floor, various kitchen drawers are upside-down on counters, and the living room is a mess. The back is off the television set, four large panels of oaken flooring are open, and the fruits of their search are strewn onto the living-room couch: thousands of dollars in various denominations in plastic bags, an unknown amount of Czech Republic currency in an equal number of plastic bags, a map of Prague and some Czech currency in a lockbox from the bedroom closet, a Czech phrasebook from the den desk, The Necronomicon of Simon from the den bookshelf, an odd postcatd, and the Black Mass shopping list taken from Nikko’s body last year:
Nikko visibly shudders and steps back from the couch. Jeopardy puts out a calming hand. “I have it on good authority, Jeopardy, that you are quite the occult expert,” says Cazaril. “What can you make of the list?” “Well, the 13 crystals do not necessarily need to come from Wiccans; any crystal would do. The only purpose stealing crystals from Wiccans would serve, would be two-fold: (a.) divert attention away from the rest of the list and (b.) disrupt the Wiccans’ confidence in their own powers enough to prevent them from presenting an obstacle to the overall plan,” Jeopardy says, pausing long enough to add, “Can someone please get me a fluorescent lamp?” “You see something?” Cazaril asks. “Possibly. I’ll need the lamp to confirm,” Jeopardy idly tosses out as he surveys the list. “Miss Cleo’s crystal ball also is a diversion. Crystal balls are fairly uniform, but this one certainly is a cheap plastic prop. Its place on the list seems to draw attention toward mystical dilettantes obsessed with 13-item lists. Same for Harry Houdini’s water tank. Why? It was reputed by others to have certain mystical properties—this often varied with the source of the lore—and Houdini was superstitious enough to convince himself of its properties.” A fluorescent lamp floats in the air, its cord snaking toward a wall outlet. “Thank you, Pyro,” says Jeopardy, to which a disembodies voice replies, “You’re welcome.” Jeopardy continues: “Any escape artist’s water tank would do—Penn and Teller’s perhaps?—but this one serves only to draw attention away from mystical experts who really know what they are doing. The same can be said for any recording of Bach’s Toccata & Fugue, that sinister-sounding organ riff you’ll hear in old B-grade horror movies.” You’ve found some hidden ink, haven’t you? Nikko asks.
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“Yes,” said Jeopardy. “Items 1, 6 and 10 contain hidden text. For instance, Alexandre Dumas had plenty of ritual swords in his collection, but the list specifies swords engraved with the Hebrew letters alef, beit and pe. Those are the first, second and seventeenth letters of the Hebraic alphabet, but in cabalism they are 0, 1 and 16. “Apparently the Dadaist painting Harlequin girl Armed With Shield And Trumpet is reputed to have some mind-altering properties due to the hypnotic patterns on the girl’s costume and shield. Its painter, Yod Tzadeyi, died in Vienna in 1920 after producing 13 paintings in one year. Those in his occult-loving artists’ clique included a young former Austrian army corporal who eventually went on to bigger things.” |
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“Hitler?” ventures Cazaril. Jeopardy merely nods and continues: “Item 10 is actually The Golem of Prague, a mysthical creature which is believed to be hidden somewhere in Prague’s Old Jewish Quarter. Whoever compiled the list apparently has no need for a vial of soil from Stonehenge.” “Hey, Jeopardy,” says Tabula Rasa, “didn’t our illustrious mayor used to live in Prague?”
WENESDAY 12 JUNE 2002, 12:53 a.m. Pacific Time DEVEREAUX MANOR: Joshua Caine emerges from his study and is drawn to the main kitchen by the faint light emanating from it. Sitting at one of the food-preparation counters is Danielle, idly dipping and stirring the bag of tea dangling in some steaming water from her finger. She turns away from the window and its view of the moonlit Pacific Ocean when she hears Joshua approach. “It’s good to see you’re awake. How are you feeling?” Joshua asks. “Better,” Dani replies, breathing in the vapors from the herbal tea. “I’m still weak, but I think I’ll kick the bronchitis in a day or two. Max’s metabolism being what it is, his lungs are already clear but I wouldn’t suggest reactivating him until Namor and I get better.” “That’s not what I meant,” Joshua mutters as he sits down next to her. “Is there anything you want to talk about?” “If you’re referring to experiencing a violent death, even in a VR,” Dani says, her gaze meeting her uncle’s, “you and Willy prepared me well. I’ve got your stories of The Uni-Mind turning you and Romanyi inside out, Willy’s stories of Doktor Heinrich von Klapsch getting into her head in the 1940s, . . . . Well, they don’t compare to first-hand experience, which I’d rather not repeat, but I knew the risks when I signed up for this.” “I’m sorry.” “Don’t be. You gave us full disclosure, we all know the risks. We went through that charnel pit, then finished the mission as best we could when Jason came in with reinforcements.” “No. I mean I’m sorry I gave Morii the program Jason and Eric wrote. Oscar and I checked the logs; it was uploaded sometime in January, when I was under her control. We’re purging and reformatting Deepthinker just for good measure.” Joshua puts his arm around his niece, she rests her head on his shoulder as he continues. “I’m very proud of you, and I was extremely terrified I would lose you. If you want to take a couple of weeks off, go right ahead. Brother Knight said he and Halitosis and Paladin Noir can pick up the slack.” “That might not be a bad idea,” Dani said. “I’ve been looking at our blood samples—.” “You’re supposed to be resting.” “Joshua, for me, simple gene-mapping is rest,” Dani laughs. “Somehow, those autosurgeon tables re-wrote our genetic code—Namor, Vic, Max, even Oscar. And Oscar was uninjured.” “Rewrote your genetic code?” “Rewrote it. The only way to explain it is that Jason’s EMP wiped the mainframes and shunted the anime VR to the autosurgeon tables. The tables compared us against our anime selves and then performed the repair work they thought they needed to do.” “What are the effects?” “Well, Joshua, Oscar can no longer stretch, but he can turn into leopards of varying sizes and he has a reserve of psionic energy he can tap. Namor’s displacement powers have been altered somewhat, as has Max’s ability to divert and metabolize energy.” “What about you?” “I tried to create my cryo-carapace. Failed. Then I tried to fill a fifty-cubic-foot refrigerator by creating a big enough ice block. Failed. In fact, we need a new refrigerator downstairs, because I freeze-dried it into the consistency of glass. In short, Joshua, we have our anime selves’ powers—as designed by Jason.” “How is Jason taking all this?” “I don’t know, he’s out clubbing. He won’t even look me in the eye, so I think our view into his male fantasy world embarrassed him. Not that he’d admit it,” Dani says, getting up from her chair. “He’d probably rather make a show of reveling in it.” “I still can’t understand what he sees in that dreck.” “Nor can I, Joshua. It’s way too violent,” Dani sighs, drawing the mug of ea closer to her as she leaves the kitchen. “Good night.” “Good night, Dani.”
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