ANTICS PEDANTIC

          “Um. Well, I think they should get to know me first. And then we can tell them more once we’re all friends! Then we’ll become even better friends—”

          But before Earl could continue her justifications, she froze in her tracks. She had made eye contact with a swarthy ogre of a fellow: One she had heard about between her own personal life and magical adventures, that alien invasion scout who had posed as one of Earth’s new superheroes, just when she’d moved in around here too.

          Just as he attempted to say something, Earl let off a terrible, frightful scream!

          “aaaaaAAAAAAAAAAA!!”

               She prepared to swing her wand. Various holographic shapes— dynamite, hearts, onions, flowers, and garlic cloves, emerged as the magic began to activate. The wand bashing the Earthborn alien in the face, followed by a point-blank explosion that sent him flying through the air. When he was far away enough, he twinkled like a star.

          And Earl just skipped merrily on her way. She felt like she’d shaved off a great deal of her anxiety just then! If she could handle a brute like Rex, what couldn’t she do?

X

          Within no time at all, something—or someone, entered the solar system. A being possessed of the ability to detect, generate, and channel cosmic energy. Though there were many styles of energy-slinging in the universe, this one was noteworthy because it was the same as a certain Earthborn Alien’s own skills. The superluminal figure slowed down, disengaging a personal warp field and approaching Earth at a calmer near-light cruising speed, before issuing a summons of sorts. Perhaps astral, or telepathic in nature.

          “Surya Aruna.”

          Silence at first. And then, the distant sound of explosions, as if muffled by a semi-liquid membrane. The presence was not pleased, as if expecting the altercation in the physical plane to have been resolved quicker. Another moment, and then Rex himself fell backwards through this quasi-aether. A trail of afterimages following him from one position in space into this next one.

          “REX!! YOU #$%&ED UP BIG TIME!”

          “Big Rutler…”

          Rex lay on the ground, frozen in place with an open mouth, as if issuing an exclamation that never came. The lifeform called Rutler manifested—a metallic humanoid with a cyan shade with accenting patterns to distinguish himself, and three bulbous eye lamps, the third present on the forehead. For a moment, a cascade of a hundred arms extended from his body, before settling down into six. Four of the arms maintaining meditative gestures, while the original two arms went to his sides, as if displeased with Rex’s efforts.

          “Remember yourself, boy: Although you have been allowed to remain on this planet, you owe a duty to the Galactic Volunteer Reserves. One you’ve shirked!”

          “How?! I was just in the middle of it!” responded Rex, with a louder telepathic tone. His body remained inert, while Rutler stood over him. Starting to point a finger.

          “Wrong! The immediate coalition of worlds in this space sector are growing increasingly restless.”

          Rutler produced something akin to holographic, real-time representations of the worlds and their star systems to visualize the opposition. These images were followed immediately by windows into various corners of the globe. Humanity’s various scientific endeavors.

          “Because of your lax approach, the Earthlings have made strides in conducting warfare and off-world colonization. They repeatedly demonstrate extreme aggression! At this rate, Earth will be named an enemy of the entire cosmos!”

          “That’s not fair, Rutler.” said Rex. “You can’t condemn them all for the failings of their rulers—”

          “—Nor can I excuse the fact, that the way you go about… warring with the local metaforms has yielded little progress. Have you no other avenues to consider?!”

          “I could say the same about other planets you’ve had a hand in, boss.”

          Rutler went silent. Over the years, he had often reminded Rex that their actions had to be carefully calculated: For the sake of other lifeforms. Too much, and it would be infringing upon the right of self-determination. Too little, and it would allow catastrophe to rob the universe of entire cultures where they could have, and should have tried to intervene.

          “Remember your promises.” said Rutler at last. “There is much tension. To untangle it will mean a supreme effort.”

          If Rex could nod just then, he would have. For all the strict drudgery that Rutler had considered an adequate way to administer education, there were still certain things Rex had hung onto in his lessons. Even the lessons that Rutler didn’t always consciously instill.

          “Always, to the last.”

          Finally, Rex was released from the commune of mind and spirit. Back to Earth. Back to the never-ending battle.

X

          All of a sudden, Earl didn’t feel so confident again. She couldn’t really place why: She’d fended off a strong foe, shared a few words with a trusted friend, and made it to the building where she’d be formally trained. It was reminiscent of the sort of afterschool tutoring she had to attend sometimes, middle to high school, before an exam if there was even the slightest doubt that her grades were entirely in order.

          There were certain areas from which the great echoes of things being hurled around or broken occurred suddenly, without much warning. With intervals of inaudible intent: the vocal cords of praise, of a rough and rapid joke uttered within the confines of that group, and small talk in colossal tone.

Was her batch going to be next? Would she find her place there?

          Earl eventually found the floor and the room set aside for her batch. She was pleasantly surprised to see someone else there: a magical woman. Someone who had been where she had been. Who from the looks of things, still held the same interests at heart. It gave her stride a confident march, towards a desk filled mostly with official papers, highlighter markers. There was more Earl had yet to identify.

          “Name or alias.”

          The voice was a weary one, uttered by a mouth adorned with mature black lipstick, the colors on her costume-dress were faded somewhat, a replacement outfit lingering in the plastic packing dry-cleaning laundries provided, as if it were meant for a certain appointment. Earl stood there for a moment, before murmuring her introduction. The magical woman seemed unimpressed, which made Earl buckle a bit more. On closer approach, she’d cracked open a window and started smoking a cigarette wrapped in a lavender rolling paper. Courteous enough to blow the smoke aside to join the urban smog of Delta Bay.

          “Unsettling Magician… Blightina!”

          To regain some of her confidence, Earl struck a pose. The magical woman at the desk raised a brow.

          “I’ll just put ‘Blightina’ on the forms, kid. Makes it easier to process.”

          “Oh…”

          The cigarette was put aside. As Earl’s eye followed to the ashtray the magical woman kept for herself, she saw some colorful gel pens she’d used to sketch away on a set of post-it-notes with borders themed after sleek race cars, and cute stickers with musical notes and butterflies. A computer on the side boasted a full-color cascade glow from its keyboard.

          “But you can still tell people your full title in-person. If you like… want. It’s all yours, y’know?”

          The woman tried to stave off her unintentionally dour demeanor, putting on a weak smile that didn’t jump out frequently. Earl nodded back a few times, swearing she would carry it proudly. That earned a chuckle from the magical woman, who sent her on her way. As she headed in for her official matters, she couldn’t help but notice on the edge of the magical woman’s face, a sad look. One Earl felt guilty over.

Even though it wasn’t really her fault. Not Earl’s, not even the magical woman’s own, either.

There was an auditorium full of other young, aspiring superheroes. Some were even magical girls in their own right. There were those too far off among the crowd to address. Those nearest trying to focus on the main event. And one that smiled back when Earl smiled. Before the curvature of that lip fell into a frown, barely hidden. It made Earl wonder if anyone else nearby and trying to concentrate on the proceedings did similar. It was easy to imagine them replicating that singular performance, all the more difficult to picture anyone feeling positive about it. Utterly impossible to imagine neutrality, now.

There was a pristine podium carved from marble. A microphone adorned it. These were put in place for the veritable goddess that graced the stage: Unlike the magical woman at the front desk, the colors on this one were not faded—she was known the world over for the promise that hers never faded, not while anyone required her services. The outfit itself was an embellishment of a sailor-style school uniform, compared to Earl’s poofier, more ‘otherworldly fantasy’ oriented garb she’d worn for most of her career as Blightina. Though its colors might have been called sickly or gross, they were just as bright, constant in their promise to restore joy.

“We love you, Lady Pastella! Alignment Angels for life!”

“Do the Harmonious Golden Tide! It’s your best move!”

Pastella brimmed with so much youth and vigor, and yet in her years she was everyone else’s senior. She was accompanied by the Enforcer Shootsuit, who postured as if some of that applause was for himself. Likewise, a cadre of veteran Pithy Randos representing the superpower-share app were not far off. Those in the audience who did not immediately appear to be superpowered metaforms or vigilantes were welcome to their recruitment table being set up on the sidelines, once the main event was over.

“Let me just thank each and every one of you for being here.” said Pastella, in a calm lullaby, sing-song sort of voice. “Once upon a time, we just broke into the business as soon as we received our blessed, fabulous gifts, these brutal and destructive curses, whatever you’ve come to call your abilities. It’s high time that changed… Shootsuit, darling?”

Shootsuit stepped up to plate, receiving his share of applause. Removing his helmet with intricate nanotechnology. It was like his headpiece was never really there. Something about that bugged Earl. Better to dwell on meager gripes like that than to suppose the absolute worst.

“Ahem!... How you kids doin’? Stickin’ it to the man? Well, courtesy of Quark International assets, we’re giving you all the chance to be among the first to register with our Freshcut Initiative: If you’ve worked solo all this time, only ever worked with other fresh-faced metaforms, or just need a few pointers—you’ll now have access to state-of-the-art training facilities, lessons from us experienced super-types, and no shortage of opportunities to be part of the true blue field: To bring something unique to teams like my Enforcers, become a VIP among uniformed like the Pithy Randos, the sky’s the LIMIT! Say it with me: I made it! And it only gets bigger from here!”

There was a chant. Earl joined in at first, but settled down as the rest of the crowd got to hooting and hollering louder and more fervently with each new round.

“Now THAT’S what we like to hear! My good friend Pastella’s gonna be one of the top brass for the Freshcut Initiative. I mean, I’m cooler than cool—but Pastella’s not half bad herself.”

Pastella offered a gleam from one of her pieces of enchanted jewelry to delight the crowd.

“And I also bring my wisdom, my experience. You’re all going to learn how to throw down, and then you’re gonna look incredible doing so. Now… who’s with me?!”

The crowd went wild. Earl clapped her hands, as much as she could as some of the other newcomers in the audience started colliding with her. Hard: The way they pronounced their apologies didn’t sound entirely right. But they offered them, right? That had to mean something. She couldn’t see their faces before they disappeared among the crowd in a tremendous hurry. Everyone was funneling out of the auditorium. Some sticking around to confer with the recruitment tables, or Initiative faculty to learn more about their offerings.

But Earl would have to look into that stuff later. It was going to take far too long to navigate, let alone to overcome the long lines. First thing tomorrow after her regular college classes, she was going to begin her training with the legendary and beloved Lady Pastella!

X

          Rex was soaring across the skyline of Delta Bay. Careful not to shatter any windows as he accelerated, nor the neon lighting that culminated in the plentiful advertising across the city. Specifically, what he was looking for were things a person could have put together: potential scientific doomsday devices, cataclysmic rituals forbidden in the practice of magic, anything of such advancement and capability that it would go virtually unopposed. Especially if given the opportunity to thrust all potential detractors back to the stone age.

          Not if he could help it.

          Rex listened with his hyper-hearing, preparing himself to zero in on unusual noise. When he had a suspicion as to something dangerous going on, only then would he employ his hypervision to scan. With multiple layers of functionality—telescopic or microscopic zoom, frequencies from infrared to x-rays and beyond, he could observe far more than most. Its potential in an exploratory capacity had to be kept in check by a desire to avoid wielding it to completely obliterate the privacy of others.

          But nothing hidden was brought to light this time. Worst thing he did was catch someone going through their smartphone on the toilet, and police on the streets calling for attack helicopters and mecha to standby for launch, at the merest passing glance of the cosmic contender. One even became so impatient they sought to ‘plug’ Rex right between the eyes. A 9mm bullet bouncing off of his brow, earning naught but a wince. But it was the thought that counts, and the sheer contempt lingered with Rex while the bruise on his skin faded in no time at all.

          “Bzzz Bzzz!”

          Just then, Rex spun around in a jolted hurry. Looking to see the form of none other than the magic insect called Zealzee!

          “Bzzzzz…!!”

          Like a mundane housefly trying to escape a swatter, the smaller Zealzee attempted to fly around Rex. The cosmic contender did not mean to resist, but in his attempt to get out of the aerial arthropod’s way, he ended up nearly swatting poor Zealzee out of the sky.

          “ACK!!... Sorry!”

          Zealzee was the one spinning out of control now. At least, until Rex zipped around through the air. Going from collision to offering a living landing pad to the magic bug. That seemed to calm poor Zealzee into realizing Rex was not here to harm her.

          “Are you alright?”

          Zealzee nodded. But Rex could tell something was wrong.

          “I have to go. My friend is waiting for me…”

          “Would your friend happen to be a wand-baton wielding magical girl who likes onions and garlic?”

          “Yes! How did you know?”

          “She knocked me clear across the city skyline with one blow.”

          “Oh.”

          Zealzee muttered an apology. The cosmic contender sheepishly tried to reassure the magic insectoid that it was alright. The two hovered towards a building still under construction, seating themselves upon a steel girder to catch their breath.

          “She’s been bzzzzsy lately. With university classes, with starting her hero training and making friends. Real friends, I mean.”

          Rex perked up.

          “But you went to the trouble of looking for her. Not that she shouldn’t socialize… but you’re being too hard on yourself. She’s made it this far because she had your support.”

          Zealzee seemed taken aback. Thankful to have had that pointed out. But the magic bug didn’t want to hold Earl back.

          “I wish I knew some way to… not just cheer her up, y’know?” said Zealzee. “It’s nice to be bubbly and positive, but what good is that without actually affecting anything? I wouldn’t be a very good friend otherwise.”

          “Ah. That’s a doozy…”

          Rex set one hand on his own chin in thought. Trying to think of something that might help. It was a tricky situation, one that would require time and a little research. The Earthborn Alien hopped off the girder they sat on together, going into a mid-air hover.

          “I’ll get back to ya on that, Zealzee. I promise.”

          “W-Wait! Rex—if you run into her. See if she’s okay? She asked me not to follow her when she goes to her hero stuff, but… I just worry so much. She may seem loud or gross or whatever people say. But she’s more than that!”

          Rex offered back a quick two-fingered salute and a small smile.

          “That’s another promise, then. Extra special kind.”

          And with that, Rex darted off through the air. Still thinking, trying to figure out the best possible way to help without worsening the situation. Like Zealzee, he didn’t have all the answers. But they could be found. In some form.

X

On the first day of training under the Freshcut Initiative, Earl— Blightina, had triple-checked her things before arriving at the facility. Education here consisted of physical challenges, as well as a quick classroom session to go over tactics and watch recent news reports, the ones that were flagged as important for the likes of elite supergroups like the Enforcers. Color-coded freelancers from the Pithy Randos powershare app trained with them, but had a separate certification course to eventually jump up to intermediate operations.

No one really talked much unless they already knew each other from somewhere. Maybe with future assignments and a more relaxed atmosphere brought on by familiarity, there would be more opportunities to just chat.

Day 2 dispelled that notion. It was not unreasonable, as Earl had seen it in mundane schooling before. But the demands of her new mentors only dialed up. The coaches and scribes on the faculty here started getting louder, snippier whenever they were given a question. Obedience was the way to win their favor, if it could be called winning. Still, no one really reached out. Not even when Earl said hello, or tried to make small talk about everyday things. She was the one being normal this time, and everyone else was being bizarre. That didn’t feel any better than being the odd one out.

          Day 3 was much of the same. Earl had to keep her head down. She knew for a fact she could keep up with the Freshcut Initiative. It wasn’t much more challenging than the advanced placement classes in high school, and she had a handle on her university homework for the most part. But it was during the physical training seminar, dodging an array of stun-turrets and cybernetic armatures leveling spinning padded discs with sawblades drawn on them for psychological effect, that something happened. Someone reached out.

          She’d been hit in the head with a disorienting red rubber dodgeball and failed the course, painfully. It wasn’t included in the obstacle course before. The coach wouldn’t—no, the coach was too distracted to bother going that extra mile, Earl had come to notice that as of late. She tried to figure out who had thrown it, but the one responsible was nowhere to be found.

          There was only giggling and snickering. They sounded so very much like the half-hearted apologies she received at orientation.

          Day 4. There were some other girls here that kept looking in her direction, but never actually saying or doing anything. Not to be welcoming, at least. Earl didn’t understand it, especially when she saw another magical girl among their number. One who she could have sworn had altered her uniform style with each new day. Matching with the rest of the clique. If they had weapons, they didn’t wield them openly. If they had color, it was muted. No frills, nothing poofy, no fantasy to it. Yet the cruel couture was constant in its reminder that it was still a sleek and uninviting femininity, neither wanting to give the sense it was terribly masculine either. Earl had even seen them throw out brand new articles of clothing and accessories.

          Suddenly, everything capable of going wrong—that did end up going wrong, the clique was there out of the corner of her eye. She was afraid to run into them again.

          Day 5 was much of the same. Keeping up with lessons, avoiding the attention of instructor or supposed peer. Except that Earl ran into someone famous in the hallway: The spectral metaform known as Ectoette! Brimming with pep in her step. Seeing that Earl was less than enthused, she approached without delay. The magical girl regaining some faith at the sight of a graduated superhero, a full-fledged member of the Enforcers. And one of their most optimistic heroes on the roster, no less.

          “Why, hello! Looking a little lost there, hun. Need some help?”

          Earl gave the best flourish she could as Blightina, offering a pose back that Ectoette didn’t offer much of a reaction to. In some fairness, not being a magical girl herself, Ectoette was not familiar with the cultural significance. But that only went so far when Earl incorporated it into her introduction, moving with a profound passion.

          “I’ve been waiting so long for this! I’ve kept caught up with the material, but the schedule is a little tricky to figure out. And there’s these other girls who keep—”

          Just then. Ectoette put a hand on Earl’s shoulder. Not threateningly, but it was an attempt to help reassure her. Earl thought Ectoette understood completely. If only she did.

          “It sounds to me like you should go even farther than ever before. 110%, no fear, gather up all your courage, and push forward!”

          Earl’s expression tried to remain a smile. To be polite, well-mannered. But something inside her that kept her hanging on was losing its threading, ferociously. The holographic images of her favorite things seemed to dissipate beside her.

          “That’s not—”

          “Not something you’re capable of? Don’t talk like that! You can do anything if you set your mind to it.”

          “B-But the other girls. They keep messing with me, like during training. I got hurt--”

          Ectoette backed off before Earl could finish speaking, and thought about that. For all of two seconds, to the outside observer.

          “I’m sure they’re just as nervous as you are. It’s a coping mechanism some people use, y’know? Given time, I’m sure they’ll open right up! If you want to get them in trouble, you’d be no better than they are! Right?”

          “Wh—”

          Ectoette could see she was losing Earl. Only with a sigh did she finally decide she could try to do something about it.

          “I’ll talk to the faculty. You clearly just need an… intermediary! A go-between, that’s it. A third-party with no bias to help clear things up.”   

          “What about Lady Pastella? Or Shootsuit?”

          Ectoette involuntarily laughed. Tried to play it off as natural mirth.

          “No need to bother those two. That seems a bit much, don’t you think? Now get on out there and show everybody what you’re made of! Glitter and romance and everything!”

          Earl didn’t understand what that last part meant. Ectoette was guessing at what Earl did despite her costume-dress and the iconography of her magic. And then Ectoette went as far as to use her powers to phase through a wall just to get away from the conversation. Unsettling Magician Blightina—Earl, just stood there a moment longer. Only the hum of the fluorescent lights overhead filled the dead air, just then.

          Day 10. Earl was starting to fall behind on her training. She tried to leave early during the lecture portion, but she wasn’t allowed. That would allow the clique to catch up with her. They were lead by Syrena-X, a fangirl of some wormy little spy on Shootsuit’s payroll, that Tabkeeper guy or something. The other magical girl just went by LeFay now, and it was harder to tell that she was ever one herself, the way she gave up everything. The others she’d heard about in passing. As long as they were Syrena-X’s groupies, they had more or less thrown away their own identities in order to leech off of the success of the meanest one there.

          “Hey, pukemaster.”

          Syrena-X had cornered Earl. Deactivating an optic camouflage gadget she was using. The others who followed her approached gradually from the ends of the hallways, as if to say there was no route towards freedom.

          “Coach had a talk with us. Said that you’re still a hero too. Even if you started out misguided.”

          “Yeah, no matter how gross you are!” spat one of her groupies, with unrestrained vitriol. By comparison Syrena-X spoke calmly and clearly. Shooting a glare that made her underling regret piping up. The others scolded that underling in hushed whispers, before quickly returning their attention to Syrena-X and Blightina.

          “What they mean to say is. Work on yourself. Fix things. We could use a girl like you on our side. Wouldn’t that be nice? All of us actually being friends.”

          Syrena-X turned away. Despite not getting far, she seemed to act like she’d just conducted ugly business. LeFay made it more obvious, turning back to make a disgusted expression.

          Day 15. Nothing happened. But Zealzee couldn’t find Earl. Tried to have faith that she was putting everything into keeping up with the Freshcut Initiatiev. But the magic insectoid searched the environment with nervous compound eyes. Feeling as though she were being watched.

          Day 20.

          Lady Pastella herself finally came to see her. Earl didn’t feel like her prayers were answered. But there was still something in her heart that saw what Pastella was, at least in terms of her appearance, and yearned to be considered as much. By the public perhaps, but also to be deemed worthy enough to be a peer.

          “Ohhh, my poor darling…” hummed Lady Pastella, putting the gentlest of caresses onto Earl’s cheek. “What promise, what potential you had when you started. And now you’ve fallen into such disarray after all that beautiful progress.”

          No question of what ailed her. Earl didn’t think to ask at this point. Her magic no longer emphasized her love for entomology, for the strong ingredients that gave sharp flavor to her favorite foods. All that remained were the little holographic hearts. Gone was their vibrant lime green, replaced with standardized pink.

          “Blightina, darling?”

          “Yes, Lady Pastella? Anything for you, your majesty. I don’t think I’d have been allowed here if the Alignment Angels hadn’t cemented their place in the world.”

          Lady Pastella’s lashes fluttered. Her eyes almost closed at all times, only cracking open slightly to offer a look at a void with multiple shine-spots that made her feel more like a legendary fae than a magical woman. Likewise, her skin was flawless, make-up hiding pores, her lips glistening as if they could never truly be dry, not for a second.

          “You’ve come to a major fork in the road that is your life, dear. Everything hinges on your decisions here. And I warn you, that none must be made lightly… this path, being a hero, and following the tradition of mahou shojo at that. It requires dedication. To endure every hardship with a smile—”

          Perhaps. But Earl wondered why suffering was a necessity. At least, heaping it on in bulk. Why no one bothered to help her. It didn’t feel like they were telling her to stand up for herself either, more like she had to surrender. It didn’t feel like she was championing herself, nor anyone else. Let alone other girls, magical or otherwise. Like they were all just playing back into the very thing that was confining them. Trying to bargain.

          “You might even have to seriously contemplate whether this path is for you. Or not, Blightina.”

          Earl thought that was it. She had to get out of here. And she had to perform the ultimate surrender: To get away from this before it consumed her completely. But not before the hole was dug deeper: Syrena-X and her clique had returned. And they weren’t alone.

          They had Zealzee, captured. Earl tried not to let the horror on her face show. She couldn’t, but Lady Pastella interpreted that purely as fear of leaving the program. What baffled Earl though, was the fact that Zealzee didn’t scream, buzz in terror, or even call out to Earl. The magic bug just offered a smile, in spite of all the pain twitches and aches. Blightina’s poor familiar had been hunted with extreme prejudice, before being slated for capture instead at the last moment.

          Without you, thought Earl. There’s no magic.

          If Zealzee could respond, the friendly fly would have said something like: I just ignited it. It was always yours. And how thankful the bug was to have gotten to see her make it her own. To make new friends, and face the future unafraid.

          That chance was lost.

X

          Earl was sick of it. She didn’t want to be the Unsettling Magician Blightina anymore, or whatever it was everyone wanted to turn that role into. These weren’t just suggestions, no mere editor’s notes, but the rules to be allowed to exist. She didn’t fly, she didn’t skip, she ran, the run became a sprint, and then she felt her stamina burn through into nothing. She manifested her wand. Watching the associated images it manifested. It stung to look at, the things that she cared most for. To share with others, and show them it didn’t always have to be scary. These things inhabited the world as much as anything else.

          She lobbed the wand-baton forth, never wanting to see it again.

          “--YEOW!!”

          Earl was brought out of despair for a moment. There, she saw Rex of all people. Rubbing his head. Bringing back over that accursed wand. And all he could do was offer it back. Confused when Earl only seemed to recoil.

          “Huh?? But this is yours, ain’t it?” said Rex. “I remember being hit with this exact baton before.”

          “It’s nothing but trouble.” said Earl. “Get it away. I don’t want anything to do with that horrible thing. Or what I have to be to get allowed to even use it!”

          There was silence. Save for the sounds of the city of Delta Bay around them. Rex watching. Noticing that Earl was choking back a sob. This was what Zealzee had asked him to help with. Rex feared he’d arrived too late. His brows furrowed: though he didn’t know precisely what happened, he had to do something.

          “… I went to Magical Girl Island, and they said they’ve heard of you.”

          Earl blinked. Mouth agape as she glared at him. What nonsense was that?!

          “You’re just making fun of me too.”

          “No, for real! I searched for it all this time. Zealzee said--”

          “Shut up. SHUT UP, SHUT UP! IT DOESN’T EXIST!”

          Blightina took hold of her wand-baton again. Rex braced himself. He didn’t go flying this time, but the force of her blows was nothing to scoff at. They generated shockwaves whose residual kinetic energy reverberated through the area, while the bulk poured right into the target. That being Rex in this case. They were also accompanied by showers of sparks and bursts of pseudo-pollen. Constructs that mimicked the flight of bees and wasps. Cloves of garlic flying every which way.

          It continued for a while. No longer staggered back, Rex tried to stand steadfast. The rapid barrage finally gave way as Earl exhausted herself. She expected a reprimand, some stern lecture, but these things never came. Instead, there was just a wistful look on Rex’s face. The bruises and other signed he’d been bashed didn’t hurt quite as badly as seeing someone at their lowest.

          “… I’ll tell you something I know for sure, then.” said Rex. Gesturing for Earl to slow down. “That training you were doing. Freshcut Initiative?”

          Earl just nodded slowly. Unsure what this was leading up to.

          “I’ve been where you’ve been. It wasn’t as official, but the Enforcers took us in. Me and some others I joined up with.”        

          “Did they fit in? Did it all make sense to them?”

“Oh yeah. Yeah. Cripes. They passed with flying colors.”

          “And they said you would too.”

          “They said I had to. No alternatives. Did they tell you the same? Looked the other way when you tried to ask for help?... and then it all fell apart.”

          Earl just nodded. Rex could only grimace: What happened to him before was not the first time. And with the magical girl’s confirmation, it was far from the last. She held the wand-baton in her hands. Trying to wipe away a teardrop that landed on it. That had never happened before.

          “… Well, they’re wrong.” said Rex, getting his second wind. “About costumed adventuring and whatnot. It’s more than fighting or justice, getting one over others. And it’s not about strict adherence either. It’s an intersection of… of generosity and self-expression. Charity infused with art. You found inspiration, and cultivated it in others. That’s how we make the world a little better than we found it.”

          Rex put his hand over Earl’s. His aura had a certain quality to it: Like being out in the tropics, a summer day that wasn’t oppressively scorching. Just warn enough to go to the beach or run through the woods at night to catch lantern-flies. He retracted his hand after a moment: his outreach meant not only to offer genuine comfort, but to make sure she didn’t drop her wand. The familiar holographic symbols her magic manifested came back to being. They needed a moment to form the shapes correctly. Earl wanted them to, so badly.

          “Tell me about that ‘Magical Girl Island’ or whatever.” said Earl. “What’s that supposed to be?”

          Rex seemed flustered by the question. Like he didn’t completely understand it himself. Every part he talked about, like disjointed rumors slapped together:

          “Well. From what I gathered… it’s where magical types of all ages and styles go to.”

          “So… what,” said Earl “Any old sorcerer can go there?”

          Rex shook his head.

          “They called it Magical Girl Island. That’s their priority first and foremost. The little ones can learn their magic unfettered. Princesses can be princes if they want. And there’s even grannies who retired there. They can be gentle, they can be fierce, but they do so together. Sometimes their greatest champions come out into the world to do the same for the rest of us. That’s how they know about you: I met them on the shore since I wasn’t allowed deeper into the island where their sacred shrines were. I asked if they could help you. You should have seen the way they lit up when they recognized your name. They were excited.”

          Earl tried to picture it in her mind. To some extent she could. The visual aspect at least. But if there was truth to what he said, she had a difficult time buying into it. Maybe if someone told her about it a month ago, she’d have been excited herself.

          “The Enforcers have Zealzee.” said Earl, going back to something she knew for certain. “I failed her. I was selfish and that left her at their mercy.”

          Rex seemed to gain a bit of vigor. Throwing off some of the sorrow.

          “Doing your best to belong, to be wanted, to live. That isn’t what’s wrong here: Zealzee wanted that for you too. You’ve gotta get her back, and share that with her. That’s how you make this right.”

          There. The spark had returned to Earl’s eyes.

          “I won’t wait any longer then…!”

          She levitated off of the street. Fixing her costume and bringing back its rightful colors and patterns. Earl buzzing as she gathered the sum total of her magic…

X

          Zealzee woke up slowly. She found herself in a laboratory, suspended inside of a large tube filled with a strange preservative. It lessened the pain that came from being poked and prodded. Syrena-X stood in front of the capsule, interrupting the work of the Enforcers’ R&D department. Disgust on her face. Wondering why anyone would bother to carry an abhorrent pest like this around. At least, until she was called away to another task. For her efforts here, she was on the fast-lane to early graduation as a Freshcut.

          It was in that moment that the magical woman who served as the receptionist—Delinquent Diviner ‘Delilah Fino’ noticed Syrena-X had departed. With a gleam in her eyes, she knew it was now or never to strike. To do one good thing in her miserable time here: freeing the enchanted familiar of that poor girl, Earl. Delilah had overheard Ectoette mention the clique and and the difficulty—not so much what Earl was dealing with, but framing it as if she was bringing it onto herself. As if her tormentors could be expected to show her pity. But the last straw was the wailing of Lady Pastella herself. She, whose team—the Alignment Angels, had spurred Delilah to enter this field herself. Sold her these promises, these poetic dreams. It was bad enough they crushed Delilah’s, but to see it happen again to Earl made something snap within her.

          “Who’s there?...”

          Zealzee tried to regain consciousness. A sedative had been introduced. Just as something else was about to be activated, the lab techs dropped. A mist that was equal parts the sands of sleepiness and metaphysical nostalgia for something they never actually experienced before, not in its true totality. Then, the holding capsule opened: A towel offered to Zealzee. Delilah wasn’t enthused by the goopy preservative getting on her outfit, but this slight inconvenience wasn’t the important thing right now.

          “It’s okay now. Just stay with me, until we clear the front doors—”

          But at the lobby, some of the Freshcut recruits were already waiting for them. Syrena-X appearing to put Delilah into a chokehold. Zealzee fell out of the magical woman’s arms, while the superspy enacted her violence. She and Zealzee were surrounded!

          *CRRRASH!!*

          The glass windows and the front doors smashed open. Thousands of purple glowing locust constructs came smashing in, engulfing these would-be Enforcers, and the ilk of the other elitists of this era. In flew none other than Earl, embracing her theme to the fullest. Zooming in as her swarm forced off Syrena-X. Delilah landed on the ground, trying to catch her breath as she scrambled to catch Zealzee before anyone else could. Even with the swarm, some of the Freshcut recruits could still power through to join the fight.

          *WHAM!* *WHAM!!*

          With a left and a right hook each connecting with different opponents, Rex had arrived after Earl! Forcing back the wave of stragglers so that Delilah could pull back the familiar to safety. Syrena-X produced a pair of silenced submachine-guns, firing on Earl. Thick masses of the locust constructs flew into the way to shield her, swathes of them vanishing after being hit. To that, a wave of her wand-baton manifested a pair of large mandibles fit for the finest stag beetle! Then, she landed on the floor. Sprinting ahead to catch Syrena-X, and clamping onto her with herculean force. Once, twice, and a finale THRICE!

          What prevented it from being a quadruple clamp was the sudden collision of an ice ball that mimicked the appearance of a stellar comet. Lady Pastella herself had emerged! Bearing down with a tundra pummeling, solar beams, and Venusian magma. Earl valiantly kept up her forearms at first, before deflecting oncoming projectiles with her wand-baton. A final flourish, and a spell was cast to release onion-sulfur so potent, Lady Pastella’s eyes burned until she shed tears of her own.

          “You INGRATE!” exclaimed Pastella, waving her own wand every which way, failing to land her own magicks on her former student. “You couldn’t make the cut, floundered at making friends, and now you want to REBEL?! I have given EVERYTHING to see that people actually welcome you, instead of turning up their noses! Where’s your shame?! That you could be so… so ODIOUS. So VULGAR. Throwing in with lesser women and callous freaks! I don’t GET IT!”

          “I don’t think you WANNA get it!” thundered back Earl. With a nod from Zealzee, the two prepared to pose in unison. “Even if these things stay in the zeitgeist of humanity as being icky and scary… the Unsettling Magician Blightina will, to the last breath—make them a lot less scary. They’re natural!”

          “—YEAH! everything has a time and a place! Even if it ain’t always cutesy or fits your strict idea of what’s cool!” bellowed Rex, joining Blightina’s side. Karate chopping someone away, which lead into a pose of his own. “Anybody that’s got a problem with an honest magical girl like Blightina’s an enemy of Asuraman DAYBREAKER!!”

          That Rex felt comfortable enough to embrace his old moniker too instilled hope within not only Earl, but Delilah too. None of them had to face this alone.

          “That is the dumbest thing I have EVER HEARD!”

          It was LeFay! Running to Lady Pastella’s side. Red in the face. Consumed by rage. She had sacrificed too much to fulfill the vision Pastella, Syrena-X, and all the other elitists, to let it all come crashing down.

          “Your bugs are GROSS! Making that hag from the front desk buy into this crap. And that frumpy little supermanlet?”

          Rex blinked. He wanted to say something in his own defense, but the important thing was seeing this through, on Earl’s terms. Though they shared in this wretched experience, this was her time. Her chance to take back what was hers, and make things right with Zealzee. While everyone was taken aback by LeFay’s interjection, Lady Pastella started subtly charging up her mystical force, and transferred it into LeFay!

          “Go!” howled Lady Pastella “Your spirit burns for justice, for order! To return proper peace to this place!!”

          “Peace for WHO?!” exclaimed Earl, as she raced forward. Zealzee combined her power with that of her patron magical girl. Racing forward to catch LeFay off-guard with the force of a bull stampede. Scoring one heavy strike before being blasted aside. Rex flew forward to swing a kick that was dodged with a swift slide, after-images left in LeFay’s place. But not before Delilah gathered debris from the building being damaged around them, and creating her own planetary ring, its revolutions rapid as she tackled into LeFay from behind. LeFay responding by using an overpowering well of manipulated gravity to throw everyone through the ceiling, and into the lower atmosphere.

          All save for Rex, whose own personal ‘warp factor’ and a lot of grit allowed him to remain grounded, a crater around himself. Flummoxed by the fact everyone was gone! He saw Lady Pastella fleeing, and opted to give chase. But not before Shootsuit himself arrived!

          “Sorry bud. Cinderella’s gotta leave the ball on time! How’s about you start laying off our recruitment drives, huh?!”

          Rex turned to swing an elbow right into Shootsuit’s helmet. Disorienting the wearer and throwing the onboard sensors into momentary chaos. A hail of missiles and laser beams forcing Rex into a retreat. In the distance, he could see the other Freshcut recruits being suspended in mid-air alongside chunks of architecture. Delilah and Earl trying to mix-up their attack patterns to prevent LeFay from unleashing her newfound full-power onto either one of them with arcs of golden lightning. The surrounding area afflicted by torrential winds that made maneuvering difficult.

          “FULL-NELSON, BROTHERRR!”

          Shootsuit came up and caught Rex by the arms, hooking onto his shoulders and planting his steely mitts on the back of Rex’s neck. But at that moment, Rex wasn’t sure what was worse. The physical pressure being put on his neck and upper spine. Or the fact Shootsuit could be so flippantly glib at a time like this.

          “This isn’t even your fight! Why do you bother?” said Shootsuit “You keep butting in where you’re not wanted! It just makes things weirder and harder for the rest of us.”

          “I. WANNA. GIVE A DAMN!!”

          Rex forced off Shootsuit. Weaving past the armored offender’s heavy concussor bolts, Rocketing in to slam his forearm against his chest-mounted power source, followed by a barrage of body blows, like a boxer trying to get out of a corner.

          “I LIKE being INVOLVED!! If other people can’t feel welcome on this planet, then I never truly will, either!”

          He reached down to catch Shootsuit by the ankle. Shootsuit diverted all available power to the flight boosters, vast jets of flame from his boots right in Rex’s face. They singed viciously, but Rex started on a hurricane motion, like a spinning top. In the distance, Earl was raising her baton. Infusing it with a passion that called forth the essence of a kaiju-sized stick bug. The mythic Monkey King, Sun Wukong, couldn’t have done it better himself. It was as epic a finish as anyone could muster, but Shootsuit threatened it: Just as he locked onto Rex with his power armor’s suite of weaponry, he was alerted to Earl’s finishing move to stop LeFay with once and for all. Delilah was already firing some lightning arcs of her own to keep LeFay stunned.

          All of that meant one thing. Rex had to do what he did best: be the shield.

          With a sonic boom erupting through the sky, heavy rainfall and natural thunder booming behind him, he raced to intercept the oncoming wave of firepower from Shootsuit. It was shaping up to be the full-force of the arsenal he brought with him today. And as soon as he could feel the impact of the munitions, he shut his eyes and started to grit his teeth. Feeling his flight failing him as he started to fall from the sky.

          His last glimpse was of a rainbow-segmented stickbug shape brought backward, then raised high overhead where the improvised insect curved against the great gusts that tried to halt it. Earl screamed, putting everything she had into her counterattack, as Zealzee flew to put her hands over Earl’s.

          “I’m sorry. I’m sorry—” Earl grunted. But Zealzee just gave her a peck on the forehead, and started rubbing her fly-feelers together. Generating an extra static boost. Now, there was more magic left to give beyond that. Only the wish to see Earl be able to find happiness in this life. Without kowtowing to what anyone else deemed acceptable for her, when she was already on her own track towards being her best self.

*BA-DOOOOOOM!!*

The giant rainbow stickbug collided with LeFay, forcing the magic Lady Pastella had given her either back up to the stars, or towards the Earth, where the waiting presence of Gaia and the likes received the gift. Not the amount of power lost, but Earl and Zealzee’s will to return what was taken. A wide flash of light exploded outwards.

And Rex closed his eyes. Content to crash once he knew Earl, Zealzee, and Delilah had broken free. The future was theirs once again.

X

          Through the thick of an ocean fog, cut the bow of a modest sea-cruiser. At the helm, a guide was going over a nautical map with Delilah’s oversight. She and Earl were in casual clothes for the moment, but their wands weren’t far off. Being tended to by Zealzee, who had yet to find her sea legs. Beside her, lazing away atop some crates, cushioned by cargo sacks that were passable pillows. Delilah came down and around.

          “Rex. We’ll need you to scout ahead again for the island.”

          A thumbs up from the Earthborn Alien. Earl wasn’t far off, offering some medicine and a small water bottle to Zealzee. But before Rex got back up to a stand all the way, Earl stopped him. Delilah was confused, before Earl elaborated:

          “You said before that you went through the same thing I did.”

          Rex nodded. Delilah took a seat to listen, and Zealzee scooted over to do the same.

          “Lost my secret identity against my will and everything.”

          “And they said you came here to invade the Earth.” said Earl. “But you’re not. They took that from you the way they tried to take our magic. I mean—I believed it! Enough to hurt you, And I’m sorry. I…”

          “It’s fine, Earl. You know better now, and you acted on it.”

          “No! No, it’s not fine, not yet...” said Earl. “… I wish it was okay for you to be your whole self too. Messy, honest, earthling and alien. Every facet. You were there for us when we got that back. You should be out there soaring high. W-With somewhere safe to come back to… to feel like you’re home.”

          Rex sat there for a moment. Trying to remember when someone talked to him like that. Not just with sympathy, but with such indignation. Not merely the desire to punish, but extending something nice to the downtrodden.

          “One day. Until that dream comes true though, I’ll keep at this.”

          He got up to a stand. Earl couldn’t help herself, and hugged the cosmic contender. Burying her face in his shirt. Delilah came over to pull Earl back so Rex could ascend into the air, swooping off to perform an aerial sweep. Earl sniffled, while the magical woman Delilah gave her hand a squeeze.

X

          As Rex waded through the fog at a swift, but calm pace, he could sense another thoughtform projection from Big Rutler.

          “Complete your secondary objectives soon, Rex.”

          “Call them what you think them to be, Rutler: diversions.”

          Big Rutler said nothing. He was not completely unaware of what had transpired as of late. Lady Pastella’s mystical disruptions were difficult for even the more veteran of the two honed energy-slingers to ignore.

          “You put it best once, boy: To all things, a time and place. Simply… take care to wield the force of the cosmos with distinction. And honor our Nypardia, always. Alongside your precious Earth.”

          Rex realized he’d been scowling. But Rutler’s final words caused his features to soften. He looked back forwards, the glow of his eyes indicating the use of his hyper-vision to try and find the landmass he claimed to have come across before, from his initial attempts to cheer up Earl.

X

          Eventually, Rex returned. He gave his instructions on the coordinates for Delilah and the guide at the helm, before waving farewell for now, and rising skyward to clear orbit, some other matter to sort out. A lighthouse helped indicate land ahead. Earl and Zealzee made for the bow of the cruiser boat, hanging onto the railing as they saw the fog clear enough to spot the shore.

It was empty in that moment.

Then, someone arrived to spy for approaching boats. The yellow of a long raincoat and hat indicating there was at least one person. As they got closer, several more mundane individuals arrived. Delilah was just glad that this wild goose chase at least had taken them somewhere with people. Before being taken by surprise, as distant lights further inland flashed from one point to another, until their source was realized: Tenacious swordfighters, elegant ballet dancers, and small children still finding their niche. There were even some whose themes were as offbeat as Earl’s own, old and young. Engaging in an impromptu celebration. One themed after the Loch Ness Monster even went as far as to dive into the water, nearly swimming towards the boat just to get a better look at the newcomers.

Delilah and Earl were only going to be here for a week or two before they’d have to return to school or finding a new job. But for the time they were here, they felt more alive than they had in a while. The magical woman watched as Earl and Zealzee were the first to transform and take flight. Turning back to extend an open hand to Delilah. They could all try again. And they’d share it with the world, inviting those in similar predicaments to live authentically, too.

          In the beginning, there was a total dweeb. His name was Clark Raut, and as far as he could remember he was destined to rage. His ideal was to become a critic and thoughtfully analyze media. But as time went on and he was forced to offer reviews on mainstream pop culture, his driving principle was whittled down to a more primal directive of trying to make people realize their favorite things were not underdog productions, in the loudest, most spiteful ways he could achieve.

          That finally caught up with him recently: The rabid, right-wing fan army of some primordial influencer lead a campaign against much of North America for dominance. A campaign that included arguing live on their respective shows—Clark’s “Speakeasy Station” talk & variety show, and the fiend’s livestream. And subsequently, a bunch of fanatics showing up at Clark’s studio to beat the living man-shit out of him. Now, normally because of his mutation, Clark’s flesh melted into a green protoplasm. Or ectoplasm. Some kind of a ‘plasm. Usually after a while he would reattach himself to his skeleton and resume having a human shape. Except he couldn’t this time.

          “AAAAUUUGGH!!”

          He’d changed permanently. Now he was just a featureless green humanoid with pupil-free white eyes, no longer able to return to even an illusory humanity. And he realized this as he traversed the sewers, avoiding the countless medieval LARP feudal societies that lived in the tunnels, until he finally returned to the shared secret housing in the Triumph Studios lot. Housing that had been built up in the 1930s, and maintained since then for crews and talent to lay low. The talk show host grabbed an extra pair of glasses and a clean set of clothes. But something still didn’t feel right about all this.

          “Heya poindexter! Where the hell have you been?”

          He whipped his head around. There was Lounge Lizard, one of his acquaintances in this Mutant Media Club alliance. LL was clad in a moss green suit with red tie and a once-white shirt that had been worn down by the years, glasses of their own, a head of lengthy dark hair, and a large crocodile tail. She was also a mutant, though that was debated at first since her changes were the result of a magic curse.

          “Dying at the hands of dirtbags.”

          “Tsk tsk! Gosh, you’re really getting soft in your old age. You shoulda just let those knuckleheads have it!”

          “… Have what?”

          “I dunno, Clark!”

          Just then, the talk show host scowled, and hunched over in his posture.

          “No… that’s not me anymore… I’m CLOG now!”

          But despite his attempts to reinvent himself on an inward level, Lounge Lizard just let off a great big guffaw, and went on their way with the same wide-stance swagger they always had.

          “Seeya later Clark! Scrapsap and I are gonna need help stealing hubcaps. You’d better be there!”

          But Clog just seethed. That was when the rusty robot his father invented (around the same time Clog was born) arrived, extendable arms, legs, and BBQ grill core. Scrapsap got along well with LL, was a friend to Vcook (and it helped that she was dating LL). Scrapsap’s connections to Clog however, would vary.

          “Hey CLERK!”

          “I’m… I’m Clog. I got mutated even more after I almost died.”

          “Ohh shit! I heard about that.” said Scrapsap with a nod. “You still good to steal hubcaps later, Clog?”

          Clog thought about it for a moment, before ultimately nodding. Scrapsap gave the slime man a pat on the back, before shuffling along towards a piano, where he proceeded to play the best piano solo imaginable. But only as long as he was singing.

          “For we haaaaaave, the multitudes of all tiiiiiime, yooooouuu and IIIIIII…”

          Unfortunately, Scrapsap sang songs very badly. LL didn’t care, it was just funny watching everyone else agonize over it, so they were right there beside him doing a little dance. And Clog was gathering his toolbox for the hubcap theft.

X

          Years ago…

          Under the tutelage of a chef at an upscale restaurant, Volcanicook was learning gourmet cooking. But the owner of the place—Soyer Toutain, ruled over the kitchen staff and the folk on the dining floor with a cruel streak. To Vcook in particular, if she offered food to hungry strangers outside the backdoor, he would force her to cook it first, to exactly the quality of the head chef—without the help of anyone mentoring her. Toutain seemed to know that this would make the taste wretched and drive off those desperate vagrants.

          But even when she worked within the rules, Toutain still found ways to torment her. When she had managed to perfect her gourmet cooking, Toutain would demand she learn to increase the volume of her output, claiming that she had to be able to serve the entire seating capacity if everyone else suffered heart attack or stroke.

          And harshest of all, as Vcook found it within herself to stand up to him for all those other things, Toutain would call back Vcook’s failed orders so they could berate her personally. And being young, she thought it was a matter of endurance. But all people have a breaking point, and Volcanicook’s involved an eruption that put Toutain out of business. And possibly injured some of her co-workers.

          It was then that one of her co-workers, the sous chef—in their forgiveness, gave Volcanicook the keys to a vehicle. A food truck. Promising that one day they would return in a truck of their own, or a stall, maybe even a modest café. For the love of cooking had to push forward. And the best way Volcanicook could make it up to her co-workers was to lead her own enterprise.

          And thus, she did. In time making friends within that community. Finding new openings for her old comrades, meager as they could often be. But where there was success, they shared it. But now, there was nothing to share. Not unless Vcook did something!

X

          There was nothing to indicate the building was any kind of restaurant. No signage or other advertising, it pretty much resembled the sort of place marked as “FOR LEASE” with a real estate firm. Could have passed for an office space. But the address Vcook found for multiple restaurants operating out of the same area—the same building. She put on a trenchcoat and a lava-proofed, wide-brimmed fedora before entering. Couldn’t let these people recognize her.

          Or they would have recognized her if anyone was actually there. There was maybe one guy at a large opening with an inner side countertop. Paper bags with stickers slapped on for each of them. One read “DUN-DUN-DUMPLINGS!” and had a halloween font, another sticker indicated a batch of burgers were officially licensed by some kind of sport racecar association. Now it was time to see the quality of their cooking, and if it matched up to the clever names people tried to give the restaurants.

          What Vcook saw next was absolutely mortifying. There were a few cramped kitchens. Each equipped for different kinds of food prep depending on the style of cuisine, but they were filthy. Finished batches sat out in the open, crudely made and handed off for delivery as quickly as possible rather than to meet some standard of quality.

          Vcook made her way towards the head office in the hopes of getting some answers. But when she arrived, the desk was manned by some kind of grinning puppet.

          “…”

          “WELL, WHADDYA WAITING FOR?”

          The mutant flinched. She couldn’t tell if the puppet was alive, being controlled from elsewhere, or what. Just that hearing it talk was highly unsettling. She went forward by a couple more steps, but kept her distance from.

          “NOBODY BOTHERS TO LOOK IN THE KITCHEN, LET ALONE TO COME BACK HERE. WHAT’S YOUR DEAL?”

          “This place. You sell food here?” said Vcook. The Puppet just chattered its teeth a bit. Vcook could have sworn she saw it move slightly, as if adjusting its posture.

          “ALL KINDS.”

          Vcook wasn’t sure how far she could get in terms of answers. She wanted to ask why anyone would conduct a business like this. But after the silence, The Puppet just kept talking:

          “IT’S PRETTY BRILLIANT. I OPERATE OUT OF HERE. I CAN CORNER MULTIPLE MARKETS. HIRE STAFF AT A MINIMUM. THE HEALTH INSPECTORS WOULD NEVER THINK TO LOOK IN HERE.”

“It’s NOT. That’s disgusting!”

          The Puppet did not respond for a time.

          “… YOU’RE NOT YOU WHEN YOU’RE HUNGRY.”

          The puppet started to move. Jerky motions, as it traveled across the top of the desk, gathering an unreasonably clean paper bag with some wretched contents inside. Rather than letting the puppet overlord bring the food to her, Vcook stepped out and slammed the door shut. At which point, the utensils and equipment within each cramped little kitchen space began to rock violently. As the mutant walked by each kitchen, she should see screaming spirits crying out for release, before being forced into piloting ghoulish bodies, grown cheaply from within vats of green glowing fluid and minced people meat. They all got to cooking as rapidly as they could—sloppily, as they created bio-weapons incorrectly marked for human consumption.

          And now they were gonna feed this slop to Vcook!

          The mutant started to run. An errant volley of slop was flung in her direction with a wobbly spoon. Stale tortilla chips were drenched in a wretched excuse for salsa before being tossed at her. There were dumplings being launched from medium-sized catapults, steamed till scalding and painfully dry once airborne. There were rancid cheesesteak submarine sandwiches being swung at her like caveman clubs. All while the spirits trapped here wailed in agony.

          *KRRRASSSH!!*

          Vcook didn’t have to smash through the front glass doors at all, but bashing something with a steel chair was the first relieving thing she did all day, as she fled from that nightmare factory.

X

          Scrapsap, Lounge Lizard, and Clog weren’t far off, currently working their way through a parking garage for the best possible hubcaps to steal. Clog would identify popular makes and models of cars, Scrapsap would pry the caps, and then Lounge Lizard would hide the caps in the sewers—after making sure no one followed them down there, nor any pre-existing dwellers appearing. The medieval LARPing Sewer Doers faction sometimes swung their swords in the gang’s direction.

          “C’mooooon already!” said LL, waving up to Clog and Scrapsap. “Make with the dishes, fellas! My buyer’s not gonna wait all day.”

          “Give us a sec, we’re keying someone’s Edison truck.”

          Scrapsap had some car keys duct taped to his fingers, as he raked them along the driver and passenger doors of a vehicle with a polygonal shape. But instead of a vintage video game intention behind the design, it ended up just being a safety hazard since the vehicle had virtually no crumple factor. And the windows didn’t shatter easily, trapping its occupants inside during a fire or if the car fell into a body of water and started sinking, what with all the heavy metal that went into the frame.

          “Hey wait a sec, isn’t that Vcook?” said Clog, spotting the cook running down the street with pure terror etched onto her features. LL perked up, and scrambled over to see what was wrong, with Scraps and Clog not far behind. A shaking Vcook relayed recent events to her friends.

          “—That place was an affront to all cuisine!” howled Vcook. “It needs to be DESTROYED! But it’s full of the spirits of the eternal damned. They’re being made to… to power everything. And they animate these horrible ghouls that don’t even wear hairnets!”

          Lounge Lizard looked back at Clog and Scrapsap. They were trying to figure out if the part about the hairnets was a good thing or a bad thing, to which Clog and Scrapsap conferred with eachother in silent gesturing, before Lounge Lizard waved them off and figured out the gist of what Volcanicook was saying.

          “There there… You’re safe now. It’s over!” said LL. “I think.”

          “No, no I’m not. No one is! Not while that festering hellhole is still active!” exclaimed Vcook. “Clog, are you still a little psychic?”

          “What, like enough to dispel ghosts?” said Clog. “I can try, I guess.”

          “And I ain’t no snitch, but maybe there’s a health inspector around.” said Scrapsap. “Just don’t tell anybody I went to ‘em for help.”

          “And where you go, I go.” said Lounge Lizard.

          “That’s what you always do.” pointed out Clog.

          “Call that consistency, slime boy! Nyuck nyuck!”

          Vcook couldn’t help but chuckle at LL’s attempts at levity. The plan was forming.

X

          In this near-future where mutants ran around in droves and weird science was afoot, law enforcement alone was no longer enough. Now, a new breed of marshal was needed to bring order to the chaos. Unfortunately, one such example came in the form of the United States Department of Agriculture being allowed to prepare heavily-armed super-soldiers for the now vaunted role of health inspector. And none were as vigorous about the job as one Judge Piotr Bread. A man deeply devoted to clean food prep spaces and thorough dental care, who put on his colander-helmet, white jacket, and golden cow’s head shoulder pad on every morning to dispense hygienic justice. Such as he did just now, overzealously nearly murdering someone with a lead pipe for selling sodas mixed with candy and other unspecified additions.

          “Judge—Judge, please!” cried the offender in question. “The syrup—the completely legal non-medicinal MAPLE syrup wasn’t part of the regular recipe, it’s a mistake!”

          “No mistake, scumbag!” bellowed Judge Bread “That soda already had exorbitant amounts of sugar, and you thought dropping in a hard candy would lower it? Do you even have a license to push that Canadian tree sap crap?! That’s TWENTY years in the slammer, bucko!”

          Judge Bread slapped on a pair of cuffs, and tossed the guy into the back of an armored food truck for depositing at a maximum-security facility. Just as Judge Bread was about to write a ticket for a mutant that was leaving a slime trail on the sidewalk, Scrapsap was approaching the man suddenly.

          “Hey hey, Judge Bread! You uh. You remember me? We played video games together once.”

          But Judge Bread recollected no such thing! He hadn’t played with this robot in ages. Clog might have jogged his memory after talking for a bit, but the gooey critic had no intention of socializing with Judge Bread again. Scrapsap had a gun pointed at him for his abrupt approach.

          “And I can taste the rust on you from all the way over here. I could SENTENCE you for that.”

          “Buh-but—” stammered Scrapsap, before a lightbulb activated inside his head, behind his eyes. “You’ll be letting all those filthy freaks over at the new ghost kitchen run free.”

          The firearm was lowered.

          “Tell me more.”

          “Oh yeah sure. There are all sorts of… health code violations! They got undead douchebags cooking the food without hairnets, they’re hidden in a building where you can’t immediately see any of that either. Rotten as they come, Judge!”

          Judge Bread scowled. He’d never heard of a worse place than this so-called ‘ghost kitchen,’ the burning desire to tear it down and prevent others from starting up was taking root in his soul. Taking the address from Scrapsap, Judge Bread returned to his USDA-provided chopper motorcycle with its massive tires and long handlebars, racing to the ghost kitchen building and smashing in the front doors. He jumped off the bike, drawing his sidearm, and unloading a dozen shots into the poor sap working the pick-up counter before they even knew what was going on.

          “BOOT SPORK!”

          And for good measure he stabbed some delivery drivers that walked in after the introductory carnage, getting them repeatedly between the ribs, by using his trusty boot-holstered survival spork. Scrapsap wasn’t far behind, waving Clog over. And Clog in turn was pressing his fingers to his temples, trying to using what little psionic power he had to try and shoo any tormented spirits they found towards the afterlife.

          Because as Judge Bread would find out, the ghouls in his path would not stay down permanently unless the spirits forced to work in this building were able to move along.

          “Hurry up, Clog! He’s trying to kill eleventy-gajillion guys!” said Scrapsap, as he slapped at Clog.

          “I’m trying, this is giving me a horrible migraine!”

          Every time Clog helped a handful of spirits pass on, he needed a moment to recover. Lounge Lizard tagged in, spinning around so her 48.44 kilogram crocodile tail would collide with a group of line cook ghouls, buying the rest of the group some time to catch their breath.

          “Jeez, Clog!” said LL, shaking their head. “It’s like you’ve never faced down the legions of the damned.”

          “I’m not built for exorcisms!” exclaimed Clog.

          “Pathetic… now handle these peons, I’ve used too much of my energy.”

          “Wh—”

          Clog tried to focus on the oncoming enemy with both mind and his fists. Scrapsap was laughing while being dragged off by a swarm of the fiends.

          “Bring it on, chumps!” howled Scrapsap. “I’m made of METAL and I don’t DIE easily! You guys may as well swim in hot dog water!”

          But once Scrapsap realized they were trying to use the core of his frame as a BBQ grill again, he started screaming for help. One of the ghouls was bringing over a mess of listeria-ridden ground meats, and moldy bread they were going to heat up by converting his head into a toaster oven. Just then, Judge Bread burst into the room, ghouls latched onto his body, trying to hang on and dogpile the brute as he drew his sidearm—

          “CAYENNE PARTY!”

          And then, an automated voice from Judge Bread’s gun repeated the words:

          “CAYENNE PARTY.”

          An incendiary round shot off into Scrapsap’s open center. Although this was probably bad for his computer components, his BBQ grill physiology meant he could endure the flames for a while, as he started charbroiling ghouls with spewing flame jets. They fought their way back to Clog and Lounge Lizard, as the four stood back-to-back, trying to fend off the hordes. Lounge Lizard having pulled a shotgun, and Clog with his homemade ray gun.

          They would soon be overwhelmed if the decisive blow was not yet landed…

X

          Vcook had snuck in past the fighting in the kitchen area. Trying to make her way to the rooftop to enact her part of the plan. On the way up, she wasted a perfectly good machete by embedding it into the head of a ghoul, and then firing a large magma chunk from her cranial mutation. On another enemy, she would squirt two bottles of oil, followed by her tossing a lit zippo lighter in their direction. Using bottles of pepper on bandoliers she’d worn into the building as smoke bombs.

          Now she was down to her last weapon. A spatula hidden underneath her forearm, that could be extended using a mechanism affixed to her wrist. She meant to wear two, but could only find one before the big showdown with the puppet ringleader.

          “Milk, milk…”

          Volcanicook whipped her head around, glancing from one side to another at the sound of that childish tone, uttering an odd choice of nursery rhyme.

          “… Lemonade…”

          Nothing. There was a rumbling from Vcook’s cranium, as smoke billowed out of her volcano-head nervously.

          “Round the corner… fudge is made…”

          Around a corner up ahead, someone or something was there. The shadow of a brute, apparent. Until the figure in question emerged, revealing they were actually a short fellow, covered from head-to-toe in puffy winterwear, sporting a backpack for “OOPER Delivery.” Guided here by the tormented spirits under the puppet ringleader’s control.

          “Am your Ooper… You’re not going to the roof without a bite.”

          Volcanicook turned to try and run, but the Ooper delivery guy used a hose attached to a canister from the delivery backpack to spray nacho cheese over the floor, causing Vcook to slip and fall. Ooper drivers and other delivery folk were loyal to whoever was paying them the most. The mutated cook hurried to pull out her phone and put in an order of her own. But not before the delivery guy pulled out a re-usable straw. Large and sturdy enough for boba tea or slushies and milkshakes, certainly. But it also had potential as a blowdart gun. One loaded with an after-dinner mint, made in bulk by a confectionary factory. And mixed in with deadly neurotoxins.

          Vcook kept her mouth shut, but she had nothing to cover her cranial volcano opening. The optimistic interpretation was that she could generate enough lava before she absorbed any of the neurotoxin. But her physiology, like many mutants, was not always so absolute in its conveniences. And the rest of the world was equally weird, so she had to operate on the assumption she couldn’t be frivolous about these things.

          The blowdart straw fired with a *PTHWOOT!*

          And just after that, a ringtone from the Ooper Delivery Guy’s phone. He checked his new order while Vcook tried to generate lava to offset the dose of neurotoxin, as the perfectly aimed shot deposited the mint within her cranial volcano mutation. She focused as much as she could, feeling the poisonous projectile burning away. Trace amounts got through though, and she still ended up having a blackout.

          The Ooper Delivery Guy grabbed Vcook by the back of her apron, and started dragging her upstairs.

X

          Scrapsap was terrified. They were preheating his insides to cook whatever rancid slop they were going to serve once the others were captured. Judge Bread had been decapitated, and they were Frankensteining his head onto a small body made of a potato-ginger root hybrid as part of some twisted experiment.

          “No! That meat looks all wet and mushy!” cried Scrapsap. “Looks like Ardbeez and their soggy ass sandwiches!”

“That’s because it IS Ardbeez, you dolt!” cackled a skeletal ghoul “They outsource some of their orders to us… AND SOME OF OUR ODORS!”

          *BLAM!*

          A shotgun went off, and the ghoul’s vital organs were reduced to meaty bits. Lounge Lizard (as carried by the struggling Clog) was taking aim while the gooey critic concentrated on mobility. As much as he could achieve, at least: he felt like his spine was going to break any second now. On top of that he was using what little psionic power he had to exorcise more tormented souls.

          “Why did we have to enter the room like that!?” exclaimed Clog.

          “Clog, old chum. Buddy-pal o’ mine.” said LL, helping Scrapsap up. “Ask me no questions, and I’ll tell you no lies.”

          “You ALWAYS lie to me!”

          “Uh. Cheetah spots, Clog. Cheetah spots.”

          The three grabbed Judge Bread and tried to follow Volcanicook. The path was littered with leftover ghouls, Clog desperately using his limited psionic abilities to dispel and help the trapped spirits here move on. They made their way up to the rooftop, where they saw the Ooper Delivery Guy dragging Volcanicook. The puppet ringleader of this horrible place was trying to scramble into a helicopter. High-power executives and rich bosses just loved buying helicopters so they could get around town.

          “Let her go!” hissed Lounge Lizard, loading the shotgun in hand. “Or else we’ll—”

          But just as LL was about to make a threat, the Ooper Guy held up his phone to indicate he was now fulfilling a new order. Volcanicook’s order of antidote, and to be dragged to the rooftop. And being that the Ooper guy wasn’t finished with the mission from the owner of the ghost kitchen, she was brought along to kill two birds with one stone. The Ooper Guy proceeded to leave—squeezing past a horde of ghouls, while the group reunited.

          “Now what?” said Scrapsap. “We’re about to get swarmed and the puppet bastard is getting away.”

          LL proceeded to rest the barrel of her shotgun on Clog’s shoulder. Despite Clog’s protests, LL managed to hit the fuselage of the helicopter. They were aiming for the pilot, but didn’t calculate the shot whatsoever. Driven by his newfound frustration, Clog began to crackle to life with jolts of static. His forehead lines that appeared during strain began to wobble like waveform lines as his limited psionics sent out a burst that exorcised the last of the tormented souls trapped in this building. But the last remaining ghouls were still shambling along to the tune of the puppet boss’s orders.

          “Go.”

          Volcanicook stood up. Now it was her turn to finish this once and for all.

          “Babe, you’re not thinking of—” gasped Lounge Lizard.

          “Oh, but I AM.” said Vcook, as her eyes started to glow. And her cranial volcano mutation started to bubble. Clog just shrugged, and jumped off the roof, landing on the street below with a *SPLAT!* before gradually reforming, and inching away as quickly as he could. Lounge Lizard was scuttling along the side of the building, trying not to slip and fall before they got closer to the ground. Scrapsap jumped over to the helicopter that was spinning out of control. When the craft finally crashed, he was inside the building across the street.

          At last. Volcanicook could finally erupt!

          The lava flowed freely, trickling down across Vcook’s form, as she could endure her own power. Chunks of magma served as artillery, launching with prodigious force into any ghoul that tried to halt her destruction. Just as when Toutain spat on her dreams once, not so long ago. The floors below were totaled, from rentable office space and false condos, to the ground level kitchens, the puppet ringleader’s office, and the pick-up window upfront. Broken down by passionate wrath until she was back to ground level, waltzing out of there in a daze.

X

          The sound of the food truck door slamming shut was music to Volcanicook’s ears. She waved her friends goodbye, as Clog headed for his building on the Triumph Studios lot where his show was filmed, Lounge Lizard was commuting to the comedy club, and Scrapsap did miscellaneous crew work around the place, shooting spitballs at people just to tick them off. Life was finally back to normal, as Vcook went back to her usual routes.

          Or she would have, if not for the long arms in pencil-thin suit sleeves trying to strangle her: The Puppet Ringleader had survived and broken into her vehicle.

          “DON’T SUP FROM THE PUP’S CUP!”

          The Puppet’s ambush caused Vcook to swerve the truck out of control. Barely weaving through oncoming city traffic as she attempted to find some safe harbor where she could slam the breaks. No such luck: that left it to one last trick.

          *KA-SHING!*

          She was still wearing the hidden spatula. The mechanism protruded the kitchen implement forward, as Vcook used it to decapitate The Puppet Ringleader. After a session of screaming prolonged by the fact Vcook couldn’t find good parking, she eventually parked and gave her vocal chords a chance to relax. The nightmare was over.

For now.

X

          Scrapsap was practicing with a deck of cards. A harrowed Volcanicook had returned to the secret underground housing within the Triumph Studios lot, currently watching television with Lounge Lizard. Clog was wheeling out a cart full of broken devices that he couldn’t salvage. That is, until Scrapsap accidentally tossed the entire deck at the slime man, followed by his being tripped up by Lounge Lizard’s tail. The commotion was so startling, Volcanicook accidentally launched a chunk of magma that Clog landed on with a yelp.

          The green slime that made up his ‘flesh’ now melted into a pile of protoplasm, leaving a skeleton behind. Everyone just looked at each other for a moment, before continuing what they were doing. Clog putting his glasses back on, and extending a slime-feeler to grab his ankle and drag the skeleton with himself to the bathroom to reattach himself, and put his physical form back together.

THE END…?

          “It #$%&in’ BETTER be!” exclaimed Vcook and LL in unison, slapping away the question mark on that prior line of the story.

X

          Elsewhere, a group of interns training to become Health Inspectors piled into a classroom to the sounds of a marching band. On the desk, the altered Judge Bread was raising a Food & Drug Administration flag on a small metal pole, signaling his students to salute with him as the three initials came into view, and a bugle sounded off.

          “At EASE, future HYGIENE DEFENDERS.”

          Until his bosses could get him a new body similar to that of his old one, Judge Bread was being assigned to other duties. He proceeded to take up a heavy-duty handgun, marching towards the firing range. His students followed, arming themselves with similar such accoutrements, as the bugler played them in.

          “Ready. Aim…”

          Everyone was sweating a little. But Judge Bread was as cool as a cucumber. Even as the recoil on his sidearm knocked him flying back and through an indoor window into one of the offices of the Health Inspectors’ Academy. His students all looked at each other, before receiving one final order in the distance:

          “Back to it, MAGGOTS!”

The Warmaker Todan—Wrap’s older sibling, had no more wars to make, no challenge to his brains or sinews that lay in wait under a russet complexion. For that he was lost at first, but would busy himself with crafts. Their eldest, Sister Muigara, sat on the throne after the passing of their parents and mostly operated as an ambassador to former foes of the empire. Wrap had been the middle child and could not recall his own name. And although it was not required of him, he spent the days studying the laws of the Atlanteans and eagerly awaited import of writing from other lands to compare and contrast against his own. By night and chambered lantern-flame, he drafted his works. At times accompanied by his friend Eoddo the climber—Eoddo the merrymaker, who offered the commoner’s eye to all matters. Even Todan would visit when he struggled to sleep, and marveled. And Sister Muigara would not have slept at all yet, looking forward to the day that Wrap’s works were finalized. Then he would prove himself an early successor.

“And how gloriously irritating,” Todan once said. “That you understand how best to crush the conflict within the hearts of we mortals. And my talent will have no place. You would leave your brother destitute?—”

The name was static to his ears. But still, the younger, more human Wrap smiled.

“There will always be some conflict of interests. The warmaker will simply have to bide his time better.”

“Perhaps.” said Eoddo, nursing both wineskin and hollowed gourd. “We might take up wooden swords as the smallest children do, albeit with more technique. And at the tables we’ll put pieces to the map and debate the matter of journeying and challenging one another upon separate climates, rather than traveling blindly on the Over-Emperor’s will, with nary a detail spared!”

“A fantastic possibility.” said Muigara, borrowing the hollowed gourd for its contents, and hastily gulping a quarter of its contents. “But I fear there are those who will always yearn for true warfare. Othulok’s reminder.”

Todan frowned.

“Whisper his name by night, and he may spirit away our little kindred, sister. It was to that warlock’s wisdom to which we can credit father’s bloodied defeat. And perhaps to the grief that slew mother?”

“Where would we be if failure made demons of us all, brother?”

Muigara and Todan scowled at one another. Eoddo and Wrap looked to each other in that way they once did, before the elder siblings joined them some nights, and it seemed the weight of their responsibility had taken them. The process, was still gradual as this argument demonstrated.

In the afternoon of a new day, Wrap would approach the court and offer his reports in an official capacity. Othulok hovered beside Muigara’s seat, scrutinizing every word. Ready to offer his contemplations in hurried whispers and promises of fear. Warnings against trust and generosity, as it would be taken for granted by fledgling nations—which Todan struggled to deny, from the biases life in the army had impressed upon him. With which Wrap argued against most every chance he could.

“Never forget what they took from us in both the Northlands and the scorching South.” Othulok would confidently spout directly next to Muigara’s ear. “Nor the massacre they doled out to us on the isles. They still call it your father’s shame.”

“I will never forget, magician.” hissed Muigara. “Back to your place. Brother—restart your estimations on the new forums.”

But just as Wrap began to speak, he felt a terrible dryness in his throat. When he went to fill a chalice with water, he saw his face beginning to decay. Scraps of his flesh falling and poisoning the ornate pot of clean freshwater. Muigara screamed and began to torment the palace staff, Eoddo appeared to help Wrap stand—but had a violent illness about him—not unlike Wrap’s mother, and Todan was girding himself for battle again, never to return.

“You are the thorn in my side.”

Othulok. He was decaying as well, but into greater power. The sheen of his skeleton was of perfect metal, almost golden. Not a pound of flesh left, for he had given himself utterly to the necromancy. No longer a mere court magician, the vicious warlock began to pursue Wrap through a mausoleum with fewer and fewer windows, until it was a true tomb. He could see holding a torch, his mother and father, ushering him to a sarcophagus alongside their own. And for a moment there was peace. Without muscle, Othulok could not lift the great slab underneath which was the decorated casket.

But the Golden Shadow could.

The return to life was a haze after that. The chambers were smaller, and always attention had to be placed upon the warlock as he directed a new batch of barbarians, and enslaved those who thought themselves too sophisticated or intellectual with challenges of how to inflict greater misery, and dependency on the vicious salt, and other vile concoctions.

And he would join them. His drug was to be the full scope of his mind returned to his undead self. And the magic that enchanted his mummy’s bandages to protect him. Both in their durability, as well as in their ability to destroy any who endangered him. Save for Othulok himself.

“You don’t have to do this.”

He recognized the voice calling to Felix in the waking world. It was the same: A lone detective, known famously on the INTERPOL circuit, sporting a gun she purchased on her own. But it was not leveled at The Wrap. Malika Basra had discovered him after thwarting some prior assassination attempt. And she had assisted the occult detective, the former acolyte of Othulok.

Maybe she could end this nightmare.

He pleaded with her. Swore that she had to attack now, in the same way father or Todan might have insisted while the empire had not yet been completely felled. In her unfamiliarity with the situation, Malika wanted to talk. The thing that Wrap had tried a thousand times with Muigara, only to lose her to Othulok’s influence. To which he might have even considered himself Eoddo’s murderer, seeking him out after Othulok swayed Todan to fight again. Directing the False Thunderer to slay the warlock, only to siege the city and slay any intervening gods Othulok lured there.

And then Wrap remembered extending his bandages to keep Malika in place. To force her to fire on him, and then perhaps she and Solomon might have done away with the curse to eliminate him at last. But the shot missed, and the startling sound, the muzzle flash of the gun startled Wrap so terribly, his hold upon Malika was nearly a deathgrip.

He fled.

The warlock would find him again. But he fled, and hid until Othulok finally reached him. Spitting on his name, howling at him for robbing him of a meager kill, for costing him a resurgence of the Atlantean glory. But also, of Gilligan Diligent. The frivolous lumberjack who also turned out to be an assassin. Unprepared for an ambush that awaited him. Only by the Wrap’s intervention did some of the sharpshooters fall, and with a careful pull of the bandages, did the jolly fellow continue to be as such.

Perhaps even more so. For when he promised to pay Wrap back, The Wrap aided him in some of his work, and refused the majority of the payment on their illicit work.

X

          By the time Felix Basra snapped out of it, she had already fired on him. Gilligan tackled into her as he intended. But neither continued into a brawl. Nearby, Katrina Kafka had not only peered into the mind of The Wrap, but she had evidently projected it outwardly for all to see. And perhaps, to make their own judgements. Although it would not change the fact she still fired, something tore at her very spirit. And the happy-hearted Gilligan had rolled aside to lay on his back. Trying to see the sky past the destruction unfolding there and then, in the art deco metropolis of Arcadia. Georgia raced to help Felix up, while Malika knelt down to Wrap. Slowly, because of old injuries. Watching how she moved made The Wrap feel miserable.

          “She was finishing it. Once and for all.”

          Malika frowned.

          “Blazes to that, boy. She had the same fear and shame you did, when I first met you. You think that the Golden Shadow wouldn’t have sent someone else to do the job? It never ends.”

          “Then… we are doomed?”

          “No. Choose otherwise.”

          She ran a hand across his forehead, before settling on his cheek. Even the memory shared was false, Malika wasn’t certain she’d have had it in herself to harm this lad. Undead or not.

          “Auntie…”

          Felix held the revolver by the middle, the ammo cylinder prevented from moving. Thus, from firing. Malika shook her head, though.

          “There is still a fight to be had. And you must live with the weight of your actions.”

          Georgia held Felix a little closer when Felix tried to fight off a bout of tears. Katrina could feel that too, while she and Solomon held off Othulok, in the skull of the False Thunderer. As long as they were there, barely keeping the dread sorcerer at bay, Solomon could not attempt to assist The Wrap. They could barely lure Othulok into their Lostgate trap.

          Until at last, the sound of a fighter plane propeller could be heard. It was faster than any other, bearing no markings to indicate it as belonging to any nation’s military. A hail of machinegun fire to the front of the skyward cranium. Within, Othulok scoffed and directed his eldritch lightning to crush this new gnat: but it was more of a hornet, actually! The unmarked fighter plane pulled up sharply, a set of bay doors beneath the craft releasing a surprise payload: None other than the clay construct, Blockhouse!

          “Hark, brigand!!”

          It was pure relief as Katrina watched her old friend collide with the top of the False Thunderer’s skull, the force of collision allowing him to land within and clash with Othulok. The False Thunderer’s skull began to swerve out of control.

          “Katrina—the gateway!” exclaimed Solomon. “I’ll tend to The Wrap. Begin the preparations as I instructed.”

          “I’ll do my best!”

          Solomon hovered over to Katrina, to put his hands on her shoulders.

          “You always have. No matter what happens, I’m proud of you. We all are.”

          Katrina wiped at her eyes with a sleeve of her shirt, and flew off first to assemble the extra-large lostgate. It had to be large enough to catch the False Thunderer’s skull. Solomon arrived not long after to tend to The Wrap’s injury.

          “If he weren’t undead, I wouldn’t give him the odds I’ve got now.” said Solomon, running a glowing hand over the point where the bullet entered his body. “I only hope you can show this sort of aptitude for battling revenants in the future.”

          Malika shot Solomon a glare, and gestured for him to get back to work. Felix took her place next to The Wrap. Gilligan approached as well. Keeping his distance, and taking a discarded military rifle, while he watched the skies for Othulok’s return.

          “I saw what happened to your family. I’m sorry.”

          “That… was the work of Othulok.” wheezed Wrap. “Everything which Imperial Atlantis took meant more plunder for him. And I fear the legend of our society has not only spurred him, but others to try for the same.”

          He offered a bandaged hand to hold in her gloved one. Malika nodded, and Felix took it, leaning in to listen.

          “I renounced the spoils of my forefathers, as I did in life... My project was to try and undo some of the harm they had committed. So that Atlantis could become more. Not simply a place bordered… or a people exclusive. But a guiding principle for any society.”

          Felix gave his hand a little squeeze.

          “Then hang on. We could use a fella like you around.”

          The Wrap actually chuckled. Gilligan had his head turned away, but even he couldn’t help smiling. Felix had shot Wrap—but so had others. They all paid in one way or another. But few wanted to set things right. Let alone to offer him true sanctuary. Somewhat more stable than the care of one drifting hitman.

          The unmarked plane managed to get in behind the False Thunderer’s skull, firing its machineguns again. Keeping the aim tight so that the cracked cranium would swerve towards the lostgate. Katrina saw this, and attempted to gather her wits, and her psychic energy. The gate began to crackle and hum to life, as Solomon put the finishing touches on Wrap, and hurried to join Katrina.

          “I’ll go with them.”

          Gilligan whipped his head around. Georgia and Felix were helping him towards the gate.

          “You’ve had enough fun for one day, fellah. Tomorrow is a new day.”

          “We still may not see it yet.” said Wrap. “… Please. You owe me.”

          Gilligan blinked. Of all the times to really and truly cash in this favor, this had to be the worst. But Gilligan had some honor in him. So, he took Wrap onto his back, as he had done many a time with his own family in the past, and ran him to the gate. Tycho was hobbling over, with Esme running after.

          “—And I told you, you wretched little capybara, ostentatious orangutan!” exclaimed Esme, shaking a fist. “You really ought to lay down and take some painkillers!”

          “Nuts to ye, Esme! We’re this close to finally lickin’ that Golden Shadow right-good!” said Tycho, swinging his fists around, before hopping over by Felix. “Oi, Boss Lady. Looks ya seen a ghost! What’s those two killers doin’ with Katrina and Solomon?!”

          “They’re helping us.” said Georgia, extending a hand to shake Tycho’s, as well as Esme’s, taking the two by surprise. “Felix mention me at all, fellas? I’m Georgia! Her #1 gal.”

          “Just whenever she looks at the winder all longingly-like.” joked Tycho. Felix blushed for a moment, and Esme only seemed to agree.

          “Well, if one must be honest…” joked Esme. “She could have told me after our second date.”

          Georgia just nodded, and looked over at Felix, who just about looked like she’d been thrown to the Gevaudanes. But not before Georgia smirked and gave her a kiss on the cheek.

          “Malika, darling.” said Georgia. “Did you hear Tycho and Esme?”

          “Loud and clear. We shall have words later.” said Malika. This was also her way of letting Felix know that for her error, she was not hopeless. The group hurried to the sidelines, while Katrina, Solomon, and The Wrap reinforced the gateway with their psychic and magical power. Gilligan all the while, shouted at the False Thunderer’s skull. A thousand swears for the thousands of times he manipulated Wrap’s family.

          At last, the cracked cranium flew through the portal, the False Thunderer’s already broken skull chipping further against the edges of the emergency lostgate, which strained to carry the flying skull through its unstable portal. The vortex could not hold. On the otherwise, in some region of Subterranea, the False Thunderer’s skull was spinning out of control. Bashing against the armored head of something that might have evolved from the mighty triceratops, as worms camouflaged to resemble the giant stalactites from the high ceiling dropped into the cracked cranium.

          Back in Arcadia, the gateway was slowly closing. Felix and the others who took cover were emerging again. The portal was sheathed with a layer of energy as a kind of shielding. Suddenly, something emerged from the unstable vortex, pushing against the shield as if it were shrinkwrap.

          “I finally had the WORLD!” howled Othulok. “You denied me once, Callahan! And you—the wretch who whined, ‘no more victories to Atlantis!’ All of you worthless maggots! My empire would have known furious glory, and now it will be lost to the chaos of lesser lords! You’ve DAMNED OUR ENTIRE WORLD!”

          Everyone stood ready in the event Othulok could not be contained. That was when another figure emerged from the vortex: Blockhouse! He took ahold of Othulok, even as the force of the vortex threatened to vaporize them both.

          “Blockhouse, NO!” cried Katrina.

          “It’s no skin off my nose!” said Blockhouse, between the struggles of Othulok to escape. “Alas, I have neither nose nor skin to speak of… but I can, and I shall escort this devil to oblivion!”

          Katrina tried to help him, but in doing so she nearly released the shield. For a moment, Othulok’s gnarled, claw-like hands almost reached out and slashed her, until Blockhouse tossed him into the vortex. The arch of the lostgate fragmented, and Blockhouse disappeared into the unknown.

          Katrina fell to her knees. She could not help but sob and wail, telekinetic crackles in the air. It was in that instant that Felix, Esme, and Tycho all raced to hug her. She had not lost everyone, just yet. And all the rubble, all the metal parts strewn around, that she held with her psychic power, fell to the ground.

X

          Several weeks later…

          Other countries were finally starting to relax, save for those hit the hardest by Othulok’s attack, including the U.S.A. and England. France was in somewhat better condition by comparison, but it too would feel the aftershocks. Elsewhere, the dictatorship of Arkavalia had little harm—its rulers attributing this to a nationalist sentiment of superiority that raised their global profile, earning them some allies fresh from the paranormal terror inflicted upon them.

          For Arcadia, the military’s last order was to clean up the place. Construction efforts were finally underway to restore the city. Through all of this, the mayor insisted on hosting a very special event. Materials normally reserved for major holidays and electoral campaigns were repurposed to celebrate, as they spoke into a microphone.

          “Testing… testing… ah! My apologies. I appreciate each and every one of you here. But among all my constituents, today we shall honor our very own hometown heroes, for their efforts in rescuing our fair city, and perhaps the world, from the damnation of the flying death. Now, if Rally Co. would please—”

          The crowd went wild with applause as each member was announced and allowed on-stage. Felix would lead the charge, wearing one of Malika’s old suits and hat. Tycho shuffled along in a freshly ironed raincoat, as his suit jacket was torn on the way here. Esme and Katrina were fixing up a pair of gowns they bought brand new just before leaving the house. Solomon was in another three-piece suit, albeit instead of green he opted for a violet hue today, as he stood by the mayor in congratulating his young wards, before the mayor returned to the microphone stand.

          “Rally Co., we here of Arcadia can’t even begin to count the thanks we feel for you. And on behalf of the President, I have the honor of bestowing these hallowed ribbons to each of you.”

          “Ribbons! Not even medals.” muttered Tycho, as Esme leaned in to hear Tycho, and then again to receive her ribbon.

          “Everyone will need all the precious metal for rebuilding, eh?” said Esme. “Perhaps we’ll get a discount on a new car at least. Though that may require us to endorse them on the radio or on posters…”

          Katrina looked excited, even if it was just a ribbon. Though she’d noticed that when she received it, the mayor seemed uneasy. She chalked it up to his re-election campaign needing to start up. But for a moment, she did wonder if the fact that she was now a known psychic in the public eye had something to do with it. Solomon could see her discomfort, as did Felix. They looked to each other with some muted concern. The future seemed bright enough, but there were some things they had to get ready for.

          Back at Solomon’s homestead, Gilligan Diligent and The Wrap had arrived. The Wrap remained close to Gilligan—he looked even less jolly than during the battle against the Golden Shadow. Solomon welcomed them inside. Malika and Felix weren’t far off. It was per Malika’s wishes that her niece not only be present, but involved.

          “Mr. Diligent. Thank you for stopping by, before you headed out of town.”

          “Get to it, Callahan.” said Diligent. “I told the boy what has to happen next. He won’t hear of it. Not from me, at least.”

          Solomon looked to Wrap, who looked aside at the ground. He had been resistant to the idea. But at the same time, he couldn’t outright say no, now that he was in the presence of Malika who had never resented him, Felix whose vengeance once and still paralyzed him, and Solomon—once Othulok’s acolyte, now having saved him. Even if he remained undead.

          “Please try to understand—you would not only learn more of the magic involved in your continued existence, but we’d like to also help you learn your name and more about the ancients.”

          “Why can’t Mr. Diligent stick around?” asked Wrap. “I don’t want to stay here without him."

          “Fellah, I’ve got to keep up my reputation, send more of the doubloons back home. A life like that is no place for ya.”

          Wrap clenched his fists for a moment. But relaxed his hands. Gilligan put a hand on his shoulder.

          “There is one stipulation, Callahan.”

          “Name it.”

Wrap clenched his fists for a moment. Gilligan put a hand on his shoulder. Only then did The Wrap relax.

          “You’ll bring the boy to visit my kinfolk one of these days. They’re as much his family as mine. Y’hear?”

          Solomon nodded. Wrap perked up: This wouldn’t be goodbye. He looked to Malika, who seemed glad that Wrap could finally have some more support, once he’d gotten away from the Golden Shadow. And an unarmed Felix would show him around.

          “… We didn’t really have anyone specialized in magic before you.” Felix pointed out. The Wrap could tell that she was uncomfortable, trying to focus on objective details to avoid the elephant in the room.

          “I suppose it will be nice. Learning from an expert in it, such as Mr. Callahan. He’s done well enough with you lot.”

          Felix actually let off a snort. Wrap was confused, but Felix waved him off.

          “Stories to share later. Around the living room. Perhaps a campfire, if Tycho gets his way.”

          Communicating was going to be difficult. But not impossible.

X

          There was a corkboard on the wall of a room bathed in a low, red light. Freshly developed photos from a chemical dip were pinned to it. Sightings of new crime bosses in the wake of Don Malvoli’s latest defeat, suspected saboteur-spies from places like Arkavalia, and sightings of monsters. There were also some shots of the extra-large lostgate before its destruction, as well as of Blockhouse before he disappeared.

          Ongoing cases, as far as The Junker was concerned.

          For now, he’d have to start from the bottom, and work his way up whenever opportunities presented themselves. Like getting the drop on some gangsters while they were extorting people into paying for protection from looters, loans to get businesses back up and running again.

X

          Esme and Tycho’s choice of celebration was to find a worthy pub, alongside Rally Co.’s allies, the former mobster-mystic, Ribeye Renzo, and the informant Honest Li. Plus his sister (and secretary), Nuo. The latter duo had flown out to Arcadia after things had calmed down somewhat. Katrina also joined them for a time.

          “Three cheers for us! You fellers, and the neo-dinosaurs beneath the Earth’s surface!” said Tycho. “Hip hip, hooray!”

          “The WHAT—” said Honest Li. But before he knew it, he was already clinking glasses with the others.

          “Just keep an ear out, they’ll tell the tale in full.” said Renzo. “Hey, Esme, you hear from those Haddock Street Hooligans? I worry about those kids, y’know.”

          “They’re having their own celebration at our favorite pharmacy soda fountain, my treat.” said Esme. “A few drinks, some snacks, a dozen rounds on the pinball machine, and a stack of some of our old magazines.”

          “Ye didn’t give ‘em the dime novels I was still readin’ did ye?!” said Tycho, before sipping.

          “Nonsense. Only finished novels, comic books and popular mechanix monthly.”

          Tycho was almost going to rest easy, but spit his drink, irritating the others as they cleaned up.

          “Those little ghouls are gonna come up with better ways prank me if they got popular mechanix! May as well enroll ‘em under the tutelage of the Junker.”

          It wasn’t long before everyone else was in hearty spirits. Getting the bartender to run their record player, and a couple of tables were set aside for dancing space. Katrina participated too for a while, but she hadn’t had much to drink beyond a sip of Esme’s champagne. So, she excused herself, wanting to check on the Haddock Street Hooligans. Just before she went, Tycho wrapped an arm around her. He was a great deal steadier than the others, when it came to liquor, but his heart and mind were a little less stoic just then.

          “Yer the sister I never did have. Ma and Da too. If you’re ever on the isle and you’re in a pinch, look ‘em up. Professor and the Druid Madame Gallagher.”

          “Oui.”

          Tycho shut his eyes for a moment, visualizing home. And old friends. And then he ushered Katrina along.

          “You tell those wee monsters I’ll be on the prowl, that’ll get ‘em home at a reasonable hour.”

          “But of course, Tycho.”

          Esme and Nuo were talking in front of Li’s face about some embarrassing detail. Renzo gestured for Katrina to wait, having wanted to divine the future for her with one of his namesake steaks. But Katrina gestured that it was alright.

          “Another time, my friend.”

          “You promise not to precog… precog-ignition without me?”

          “C'est impensable, mon ami!“ exclaimed Katrina, shaking her head playfully. “Let the thought perish. Now have a seat before any slipping or falling.”

          “*HIC!* You got it, boss!”

          With one last wave goodbye, Katrina took to the dark streets. They were so quiet. She looked up to the buildings where steel girders were being put into place, and in the morning the construction crews would resume their critical work. She used the nearest payphone to check in on the soda fountain the Haddock Street Hooligans had taken to, and spoke to each one of them. Ribeye Renzo’s words stuck with her. That sense she needed to be elsewhere, just now.

X

          The Pratt & Marlin automat didn’t see much business at the moment. Most people had sought their dinner at regular restaurants, or with what they had at home. Still, the door was open.

          *Ting-a-ling-a-ling~!*

          One of the servers was stocking a few of the ports. There were walls with many such ports and money slots, mostly for taking coins. The lone server peered through one of the empty ports, but did not see anyone enter.

          *Chk-chrr-chrr-chk!*

          A quarter to the slot for a bologna sandwich. And then again to receive a coffee cup and access to the dispenser faucet, as soon as the server was finished double-checking to make sure everything was at the appropriate temperature before allowing the customer to take it. Once again, the server looked through another empty viewport, and witnessed a man in an aviator’s jacket and white scarf. Glancing back in the server’s direction with flight goggles that bore glowing green lenses, that seemed to ‘blink’ with the shutters of a camera.

          Needless to say, The Junker would be allowed to eat his late dinner in peace. The lone server would not be stepping into the dining area anytime soon. But someone else would: Katrina saw him through the window, and hurried in to join him.

          “Bonsoir, Mademoiselle Kafka.”

          Katrina was astonished that Junker made no move to obscure himself, nor to leave. He was far from tired, but he remained where he was, only moving slightly to offer to pull up her chair. She gestured that it was unnecessary, moving it slightly with her telekinesis, and levitating a quarter of her own for some coffee and creamer.

          “Is this telepathy, or are you really speaking another language?”

          “The latter. If… it should be desired.”

          Katrina shook her head this time. But she would have to remember to test his fluency later.

          “May I ask you something, that I believe only you may know, monsieur?”

          Junker took a bite out of his sandwich, and a sip from his own mug.

          “What would that be?”

          “The shape of things to come.”

          The two focused on their selections from the automat’s offerings for a moment. They had not interacted telepathically, and Junker could detect nothing resembling an attempt at precognitive ESP. No, she was referring to the tabs Junker kept around the city, and elsewhere.

          “New enemies on the horizon. At home, afar, and beyond.”

          Katrina sighed. She could only nod: Arcadia would not always be so safe. And considering they had defeated one previously unknown, occult force just now, that too was to be expected.

          “Tell me about the ones from afar.”

          Junker drank from his coffee. There was silence for a moment.

          “You have encountered some. Spies for the likes of dictatorships, such as Arkavalia. My information tells me that things are worsening there for the populace. The fascists have used the battle against Othulok to propel their propaganda to new extremes.”

          “They will send more agents. They may even feel bold enough to invade their neighbors, once they have the strength enough to do so.” said Katrina, saying the part he did not. The avenging scavenger merely nodded.

          “… I have not found Blockhouse. His fate is uncertain.”

          But Junker did not offer a definitive answer. Although his exterior was stoic, Katrina could tell he held some guilt over that. It was The Junker who flew the unmarked fighter plane before.

          “He is a friend to all of us here. Blockhouse understood what could happen. Do you?”

          There was a small frown on the mystery man’s features.

          “I operate as I do… to prevent that. Rally Co. fights the battles… the world must witness. Rejuvenates their spirits. That which must be done…”

          And then, it was Junker’s turn to point something out.

          “The award ceremony.”

          “You saw us? Where were you? Among the crowd? Alleyway?”

          “Rooftop. Was nice.”

          But there was something there he wasn’t saying. Katrina could feel a certain anxiety as they built up to it.

          “The mayor. He’s up for re-election, isn’t he? Is everyone endorsing him?”

          Katrina shook her head.

          “We are all eager to learn about the new candidates before we are inclined to make a decision.”

          “Wise. Especially after how he looked at you.”

          There was that pallor. That sleeplessness in her eyes. It was always there, but now it just seemed pronounced. While Katrina Kafka had her own doubts and fears about her own self, she loathed to see such fright in another person. And after finding her place among Rally Co., no less.

          “A momentary discomfort, I hope.” said Katrina.

          “…Perhaps.” said Junker, pointing the remainder of his sandwich in her direction, before finishing it off. “But common folk can barely tolerate each other, Katrina. It is something your comrades have faced for their identities, and will for a while yet. You must be cautious.”

          “I have lived my life in ENOUGH caution!”

          Katrina paused. Although she did not use her telekinesis, she had slammed one of her palms onto the table. She checked herself for the pace of her heartbeat, and the way in which she was breathing.

          “Was it not enough to have helped to defeat Othulok?”

          Junker wiped his gloved hands off with a moist towelette. With his eyes hidden, and a certain rigidity to the lower half of his face, he did not let every single expression slip so easily. But in that moment, there was a somber air about him as well.

          “It should be.”

          Katrina reached over to his hand. Junker kept his sight trained on the gesture, unfamiliar with it.

          “If no one else recognizes it, we all do. Solomon as well. I cannot think of a better place to begin.”

          She finished her own coffee, and stood up. Her hand trailing up along the arm of this detritus devil. Junker recoiled when he realized Katrina wanted to put a hand to his face. She pulled back, stopping at his shoulder. And by then Junker seemed to process she only meant to reassure him.

          Katrina had known from all the sorcery, and all the ESP, that violence could occur without touch—she had felt it, and inflicted it in equal measure by now. Although Junker had survived his own infernal trials, his spark of life had given way to a biting flame.

          “If we do not try…” said Katrina. “We would not be worthy of being… exemplars, is that not the correct word? The thing which you see in us.”

          “… The best possible choice.”

          Katrina offered a bittersweet smile. And Junker stood up. Although he had been wary of her touch, he gave her a handshake to try and show his support. At first with one gloved hand, and then both. Though a small gesture, Katrina welcomed it as though it were as grand as a hug.

          “I fear I must still find my own path. But if you all have need of me… I will be there.”

          “Merci.”

          And with a nod, it was Katrina’s turn to disappear into the dark. And Junker thought about it: he wasn’t lying when he said he’d be there for Rally Co., and perhaps now he could try sitting down and talking to every one of them. Even his former mentor.

X

          At last, a statue of bronze had finally been erected.

          There was a figure of a small child in, walking hand-in-hand with a round giant. Although it was made of metal, it still evoked the construct’s malleable clay form, which could become as strong as iron, or as gentle as mud made by a fresh rain. Standing at the center of one of the parks.

          Felix could see that someone had paid respects, with an old paint palette tray that carried the remnant pigment of several shades. The aspiring detective was handed a bouquet by her darling Georgia, and set it beside other offerings, including old children’s storybooks and albums of newspaper funnies-- comic strips.

          For him. For Malika, and even The Wrap. She had to become the leader this team deserved.

          The Wrap was not far off. As were Esme and Tycho, whose lack of bickering was explained by the sunglasses they wore, obscuring red eyes from late nights and flights sponsored by liquid courage. Katrina stood by them to make sure they didn’t stumble, or if they needed to find a trash can post-haste, if their stomachs were not feeling agreeable.

          “He was favorable.” said The Wrap, who walked up beside Felix. “I did not know him long. I haven’t any memories of my past of him either. But he radiated kindness.”

          “That he did.” said Felix, with a nod.

          “I agree.” said Georgia, holding her hands together longingly. “I’ve read so many of those stories about him. He was an absolute delight in the few visits I’ve been able to make.”

          Felix and Georgia shared a kiss, before Georgia had to hurry to work. Having paid their respects, The Rally Co. group headed back for Solomon’s roadster back on the curb, near the entrance to the park. Esme and Felix took to the front as passenger and driver, as the others climbed into the back.

          “Felix, fearless and most fabulous leader—” Esme attempted to speak in a sing-song voice, as she pulled a magazine from the glove compartment. “Any recommendations for the new car? We were thinking something sleek, something fast.”

          “Spacious.” chimed Tycho, raising an index finger. “If Blockhouse comes back. Or we get some other members taggin’ along.”

          “I’ll consider it.”

          Just as Felix started up the ignition, there was an explosion nearby. Everyone in the vehicle looked at each other. Tycho was climbing out to stand on the roadster’s running board so he could jump out into action. Esme was double-checking her array of test tube grenades and on-hand chemicals for split-second mixing in the field, before passing out impellet guns for everyone—including The Wrap, who was preparing to swing from building to building using his mystical bandages. And there were a few words on the tip of Felix’s tongue.

          “Let’s go, Rally Co.!”

          And thus, they took off together. Vigor renewed, a future to meet rather than wait for.

UNTIL NEXT TIME…

X

          AUTHOR’S NOTE:

          To those who have been reading from the start: Thank you for joining me on this ride. It’s taken a lot longer than I’d have liked, life has had its ups-and-downs lately, but it has always been my goal to try and get this story ‘cycle’ of Rally Co. up to 12 entries.

          As you can see, this may not be the definite end to all things adventurous and investigative. I’ve got ideas for one-off episodes and a new arc for Rally Co. I may write someday, but for now I’m going to let the gang have some rest for making it to a dozen stories. Some broken up into multi-part readings, others posted in full. Though I’m not sure when I’ll write Rally Co. again, but it’s my hope that I can bring the same energy I’ve put into this series on my other stories, maybe something in Mutant Media Club or Quick On-It—but definitely more Dynaura.

          Stay tuned, stay classy, and stay alive, Far-fetchers. Your next great adventure awaits.

          Tycho looked to his umber-toned colleague: Esme normally had some joke in store for him. But this time, her mirth was lost. Just an overwhelming desire to prevent any of her teammates—her friends, from charging Othulok’s flying fortress directly. Solomon’s magic contended with it, and Katrina was trying to assist him with her vast telekinetic power. But try as they might, the skull continued its nightmarish march. Firing a mystical bolt of its own, that no thunder god could take lightly. The resultant explosion sent everyone flying. Felix was in a daze, lasting perhaps the longest in terms of consciousness, before facing a blackout.

X

          Last time, on Rally Co. …

          Our intrepid investigators and ambitious adventurers learned their mentor was once their predecessors’ greatest enemy, responsible for creating their current threat: Othulok, the dread necromancer crime lord. And still, they followed Callahan across the globe to deny the Golden Shadow the secrets of the ancients.

They succeeded in preventing Othulok and the fascists of the nation-state Arkavalia from stealing the secret of manufacturing the miracle metal, orichalcum, which could magnify any energy directed at it many times over. In Arcadia, Blockhouse and The Junker protect Rally Co.’s hometown and various allies against past enemies returned for revenge.

But Othulok has found the last secret. Rally Co. has been defeated.

All hope is lost.

X

          Othulok had never felt so blessed!

          The glorious, decayed brain was intact enough that he could commandeer it, the cranium shielded from attacks both physical and psionic, on top of an electromagnetic field that could intercept and soak up the majority of projectiles before they even connected. Beginning with a quick jaunt through Rhodes, where he terrorized the land minutely. The same was done during detours through fledgling Arkavalia and Sicily. Enough that he could rile the likes of France and England to attempt combat.

          On the land, the skull of the False Thunderer scorched tanks and disintegrated mortal men. At sea, he sank the prized English fleet. The Royal Air Force and the Armée de l'Air put up a better fight, but were hopelessly unprepared for the caliber of enemy they were up against. If they had their own occult experts in the service, or some local inhabitant with the means to even try to oppose Othulok’s powers, it was too late to mobilize them effectively. Soon, the False Thunderer’s skull would carry him across the Atlantic, where he would prepare to ravage North America and Canada, preferably until they might submit.

          At the shores of Maryland, where sat Arcadia, news bulletins from overseas were being relayed immediately over the radio:

          “—What was once a series of scattered sightings and reports have escalated into military conflict—”

          “—The British Navy has been forced into a retreat after heavy casualties—”

          “—Algeria and Egypt are amassing defense forces in case the flying death should return, advising other nations across Africa and West Asia to do similar—”

          “—other nations have issued statements, be it also for self-defense, or surrender and subsequent offering as vassals of the flying death—”

          The Haddock Street Hooligans sat around a home radio set at one of their family apartments, as their elders began packing in a hurry, others arguing. Ribeye Renzo was trying to convince old friends trying to pull off crimes during the commotion to run and hide too. Communications with Honest Li and his sister Nuo were impossible.

          The kindly clay construct Blockhouse had heard the proceedings while shopping in the city. Afterwards he went to see that vigilante, The Junker. The avenging scavenger was dutifully working on his personal fighter plane, trying to cobble together what he could in preparation for what he thought to be inevitable.

          “You’ll not go alone, lad. You’ll catch your finale out there.”

          The Junker continued working. But Blockhouse did not relent either. As far as either of them was concerned, they may very well have been the last line of resistance.

          *CLANG*

          As much as it might have pained them to think that way. Blockhouse wandered over to put a reassuring hand on the mystery man’s shoulder, as Junker attempted to cease the shaking of his own, unsteady hands. He had dropped a wrench, after faltering in silence.

X

          Solomon had chartered for a private plane, the fastest they could receive. Othulok was likely to attack other places first—the capital, the other major cities. Arcadia, that was saving the best for last. Felix was going over maps on the global and national level, marking the places Othulok had attacked so far for reference. Esmerelda was seated across from her, trying to formulate some sort of counter to Othulok’s defenses, and failing that, calculating what she’d need for a potent artillery shell or a bomb to be dropped from a fighter plane. Tycho and Katrina were wrapped in blankets, taking to coffee from a thermos.

          It was when Solomon returned from the wash closet that Felix set down her things. The man’s face still had some moisture to it, after splashing water on a few times. The quest had taken a toll on him, and it would only take a toll further.

          “Sir. Please: Tell us what we’re dealing with.” pleaded Felix. “What the devil are these False Thunderer beings?”

          Solomon wished he had the tome on hand, with illustrations and direct notes. He recalled leaving it with a colleague in Paris—but there was no time to double back. Not when the threat was in the present.

          “Mystics of the ancient world had to formulate a great many defenses. Against physical and metaphysical forces. They needed something… of a scale enough, to give even the gods themselves true pause. Fortunately, the body of the construct is not whole, otherwise this would be completely hopeless.”

          “Yeah? And this is the best we’ve got to work with?” said Esme, scribbling out an incorrect chemical formula in her notebook. “You and Katrina are our heavy hitters, and I’m sorry—I truly fancy you both, but even combined? THAT didn’t do enough.”

          Felix looked over the map while the others conversed. She thought back to her aunt Malika. To her darling Georgia at home. She could only hope they could get away from Othulok’s all-out attack. But where in the world would they go?

          “Wait. Where in the world.”

          Felix got out of her seat just as the plane experienced momentary turbulence, holding up the global map and slapping it with her opposite hand.

          “Don’t you all see? Othulok may be able to terrorize the Earth’s surface, but even he would be hard-pressed to navigate the bowels of Subterranea!”

          “Them beasties could put up a real fight, if there’s enough of ‘em around. Maybe some could even get past the electromagnetic field. Just gotta have a gate big enough to fit that nefarious noggin.” mused Tycho. In that moment, Katrina perked up.

          “And that is not all there is to the Subterranea plan: The lost-gates themselves… I experience a most puzzling feeling when I go through. Perhaps the EM field could be impacted by the journey?”

          “Yes… yes, that’s a good idea, Katrina!” said Solomon, familiar with what she referred to. “We may be able to create a temporary lost-gate of our own. It won’t last beyond a battle with the False Thunderer’s skull like an actual lost-gate, but it doesn’t have to!”

          “And we’ll lure him in ourselves.” said Esme. “My concoctions should crack that giant cranium once the defenses are lowered.”

          Everyone seemed enthusiastic. Solomon knew it had the potential to work, but in each of these young faces, he remembered something different…

X

          In Felix, he remembered a shy little girl hidden behind her aunt Malika, clinging to the smartest, bravest woman she could think of. Eventually becoming brave herself: Enough to ask Solomon how to find the hidden things of the world. To see if Georgia felt the same way she did. And although she had her doubts, the others had come to respect her investigative acumen.

          In Tycho, he recalled his former boisterous opponent in the young man’s father, George Edward Gallagher. Even after Solomon joined the previous iteration of Rally Co. they argued. Only improving after he helped Gallagher reconnect with his wife, and in his research of cryptids and legendary beasts. Research that the young Tycho took to heart, from bringing home farm animals to wrestling more carnivorous denizens. To see the boy grown into a loyal, honorable man who stood by everyone on this team when they were at their lowest.

Esme, he’d met during her admission to Century University’s science department. She had arrived with honors before she was even eighteen, and she had a desire to challenge the magic of old with her dogged attempt to learn more of the Alchemy of old. A project that Solomon warmed up to. Her irreverence did not anger, but instead delighted. A light through thick fog, the joy that follows after hardship.

Maybe that was why Esme and Tycho ‘got along’ the way they did. Tycho was serious at heart, and Esme was one for humor. They counter-balanced one another.

Although he wasn’t here, Solomon also felt something more than just the spectre of regret. A respect he should have afforded more of to that mystery charge of his. The one that Felix had determined to be The Junker, that Archangel of Arcadia for whom Tycho and Esme were eternally loyal. Solomon could only hope that in time, they could have some kind of friendship again.

Katrina. Last, but not least. Solomon had reservations about being a teacher to anyone. A guardian, perhaps-- But a teacher? He hadn’t the patience for that. Not until he met someone who was also unusual, who some went as far as to have called unnatural. What fiend could say that about a child? One who felt afraid, as if the world were ending because she could rend the flesh of others with a thought, never to know the gentle caress of another person ever again?

Wasn’t that where his wrath and his shame came from, as acolyte to Othulok’s path? Some kind of love for the things that lingered in the dark, and guilt that he wasn’t doing more to protect them? Yes, but only now he was starting to feel as though he’d finally achieved something real, with their revival of this old lot and its journeys, righting wrongs. On that, even his old companion Blockhouse would have agreed.

It was time to put a halt to Othulok. Everyone here vowed to do nothing less than that.

X

          The plane landed. When they made it home, too few of their neighbors remained. Even Blockhouse was nowhere to be seen. They would have to look for him later: Right now, Esme had to get to her laboratory to work on her arsenal, Tycho assisting with what he learned from her about her field. When he had done his part there, he went to help Katrina and Solomon in constructing the temporary lost-gate.

Felix had taken the roadster to check on Georgia and Aunt Malika. To her deepest concern, she found neither of them had evacuated!

“Auntie, pack your damned things!” exclaimed Felix, before being shut down. Although in peaceful times Malika had no issue with swearing, she would not tolerate her niece’s speech if it kept her out of action.

          “The hell I will! I’m not leaving you all to deal with this alone.”

          Felix looked to Georgia. But her portly darling only played at having been defeated by Malika. Truth be told, Georgia wanted to stay as well.

          “Your friend, Renzo—” said Georgia. “He helped Malika convince some teen-agers against looting the local storefront, just before the military police started showing up and acting tough. We’re going to help out with things like that. The things you all did before you went globetrotting to try and stop that nasty magician. It’s the least we can do.”

          “… A peach from your namesake state couldn’t be sweeter.”

          Felix looked ever so deeply into Georgia’s eyes. Malika was gathering her things and leaving early, to give Felix and Georgia some time alone before the big finale.

X

          The False Thunderer’s skull had been attacking Washington D.C. when Othulok was suddenly diverted by a distant calling:

          “Yes, I survived! You’re not all-powerful, you cad.”

          Othulok began to grit his teeth.

          “Callahan! I was going to save your precious Arcadia for last, but I see now I must expedite my plans.”

          The Thunderer’s skull raced upwards along the eastern seaboard until it found the concrete jungle that those mortal fools held to. A volley of inconsequential mortars had been fired, to give the tanks time to roll in. Of course, an alternative was on its way. Katrina arrived on one of the rooftops after climbing the stairwell. There was a plan now, not just a full-frontal, last stand attack. That entailed her using her telekinesis not to try and smash the False Thunderer’s cranium, but instead to concentrate on the electromagnetic field.

          What people failed to realize about telekinesis, was that it was more than mere levitation. It could be exerting a force with such precision, it could reach out and direct the very atoms and particles, building blocks of existence. Othulok’s magic resisted, but energy was energy—whether wielded by sorcery or science at the time. And Katrina’s psychic power was tremendous. Not just when she let her emotions take over, but through Solomon’s lessons, she could wield it in ways that would make alchemists gasp, and give pause to the mortal-mocking gods themselves.

          Of course, to ease her burden, Esme was not far off. She and Tycho had commandeered a biplane.

          “Ye made sure this wily bird’s got bomb bay doors, yeah?!” exclaimed Tycho.

          “But of course, my irksome orangutan!” scoffed Esme, unable to keep from her humor with Tycho. “I wouldn’t want you reaching back and trying to throw the thing yourself.”

          Tycho didn’t holler back. He just had the most devilish grin. Esme couldn’t see it, but she knew her colleague was itching to get at the Golden Shadow once more. When they received the telepathic signal from Katrina, they pulled up and delivered their alchemical payload: something to weaken the integrity on top of the skull.

          “Take the stick, will ya?” exclaimed Tycho, pulling a mallet with a long handle. “Unless yer too busy preening—we ain’t won yet!”

          “Only because your flying is second to mine!”

          Tycho jumped from the plane, preparing to bring down the mallet. The chemical had weakened the bone of the great giant’s floating skull. Tycho’s mallet hammered down, beginning to crack through the weakened skull. But as he regained his footing and raised the mallet to strike again, some stray electrical volts began to strike him repeatedly, each time from a different direction.

          And still, he raised the mallet to strike again.

          The mallet fell at last. But not onto the skull: It fell behind Tycho, down to the street below. The only reason he didn’t fall, was because Katrina diverted some of her focus to catching him. From the False Thunderer’s skull, Othulok lashed out with greater fervor against the assembled forces of mankind on the ground, before turning his attention towards Tycho, who was being slowly levitated to the nearest rooftop.

          “You can’t save him, girl-child!” cackled Othulok, through mystic transmission of his voice. “But you can prop him up for me when I post him upon a rebar pike!”

          “Dégage!-- Misérable salaud! Coeur sans amour!”

          But just then, Katrina could sense a power behind her. Enchanted thunder firing from the hand of her mentor, as Solomon Callahan staved off the skull.

          “She shall, fiend.”

          Katrina looked to Solomon. The two nodded to each other, and once Tycho was out of harm’s way, refocused their efforts upon the False Thunderer’s skull. Forcing Othulok to concentrate on them. But without the opening to breach the skull and damage Othulok within, this was merely stalling.

X

          Gilligan Diligent was gathering his things and ushered Wrap towards an outgoing train. He’d managed to secure the both of them tickets out of the city, along with countless others attempting to evacuate. But the older man found his young charge outside, as if drawn to the dismal skies.

          “C’mon, fellah.” said Gilligan. “You’re in need of a vacation, if you ask me! Why the long face?”

          Wrap didn’t often laugh or offer the most obvious signs he favored Gilligan’s company. The man had tried to keep him at arm’s length away from Othulok. As far as Diligent knew, Wrap wasn’t just another assassin. He was two other things: a friend who saved his life, and a revenant created by that damnable sorcerer.

          The man thought back to a time when he was in a log cabin, caressing the hand of one of his various siblings. The eldest, for whom always stood by him in making decisions and looking out for the family. They were gone now, and the others were sent to live with relatives. Scattered at the edge between two countries. He’d gotten into this line of work as a mercenary to support them all. Spread thin, only ever able to send so much out at a time given the criminal status of the work he often did.

          “Maybe this is my last chance to be rid of the Golden Shadow once and for all, sir. Rally Co. are the big guns, and then perhaps I’ll use my magic to combat Othulok’s…”

          Gilligan shook his head.

          “Let those roughnecks sort it out themselves. You can’t be certain this is the end for him.”

          But Wrap didn’t agree. In fact, he started to run. Gilligan was in peak physical condition and could catch up. At least, until Wrap used some of his mystical bandages to swing away from there. Gilligan could barely get his grappling hook out in time to give chase effectively, never having known Wrap to travel in such a manner up until now.

          “Come back, Wrap!—”

X

          Felix was pulling a body from out of an armored truck with a machine gun affixed to the top. Preparing to fire when she spotted something—or rather, someone swinging towards the skull of the False Thunderer. It was none other than The Wrap! Attempting to extend an impossible length of mystical bandages in an attempt to help stifle Othulok’s power over it. As the strips of enchanted cloth did their part, the levitation of the cursed cranium had been halted somewhat.

          Felix stared down the iron sights of her latest weapon. The Wrap was right there: She could pick him off right there, and then resume firing upon Othulok and the giant skull. But she hesitated: she had seen this undead at his most pitiful before. Caught in Shanghai and nearly vaporized by Katrina’s telekinesis. Alongside Gilligan Diligent during the Golden Shadow’s attack on their home. There was something missing in all of this, for Felix was trying to determine why Aunt Malika’s would-be assassin was this weeping welp.

          Just then, something tore through part of the bandages over one of the eye sockets. From within, came the golden, equally skeletal form of Othulok himself! Clad in his maroon robe. Hurling his own necromantic thunderbolts to duel with Solomon and Katrina. But when it appeared he was losing, he turned a hand towards The Wrap, and ushered him towards Rally Co.

          “Attack, child! I did not imbue you with a herald’s power for NOTHING!”

          Some of that occult lightning diverted to put The Wrap in agonizing pain until the boy submitted to the will of the undying warlock. Then, he directed his bandages towards Solomon, catching him by the wrists and putting an end to his magic, leaving Katrina straining to keep up with Othulok on her own. The giant skull shifted around Othulok as Felix opened fire with the turret of the armored truck. Cracking the bone somewhat as Tycho did through the wonders of high caliber rounds, but ultimately their greatest foe was still shielded.

          “It is OVER Callahan!” howled Othulok. “The secrets of the ancients will be mine—the WORLD will be mine! At last, my rightful ascension is at hand!”

          Felix had departed the armored truck. The timing couldn’t have been better: Othulok had begun directing the False Thunderer’s skull so that its pseudo-divine wrath rained down upon the conventional weapons of the mortal world. Once again, Felix Basra found herself in a situation seemingly beyond her ken, much like the grief she felt trying to make sense of Subterranea. She had her revolver in one hand, the other was the impellet gun for which all of Rally Co. carried, and a shaky deathgrip on both that had to serve as a substitute for confidence.

          She knew why she was here. She had led this team more than once into danger. Learning the strengths and weaknesses of each member—each comrade of hers, and applying them where they might have had the most effect. Ask anyone, and they would say those past victories on the part of the group had been her masterpieces of planning and determining the truth.

          Othulok did not spot her right away. Thankfully.

          …Alas, The Wrap was a different story.

          While the sorcerer was doing away with the rest of Rally Co. and the False Thunderer’s skull was repelling any larger military forces, The Wrap was searching for individual stragglers, in the hopes of catching Tycho or Felix. Othulok knew they were still out there on-foot, all by their lonesome. Felix recognized the sound of those mystical bandages, having encountered them enough times by now to mistake them for nothing else.

          And there, Felix struck: having climbed a fire escape ladder of some nearby building, and jumping down to kick Wrap in the head. The blow knocked him to the ground, and Felix could not help but feel a certain satisfaction at her initial success.

          “Hrrrnnn…”

          In retaliation, The Wrap raised his arms and offered lashings of his mystical bandages. A couple of them hitting Felix before she really started to dodge. She used her impellet gun to stun him—lethal rounds from her revolver, he could probably regenerate from if given the chance. Putting him down for good meant whittling down his stamina and defenses first.

          And for a moment she saw the fear in his eyes. Much as they tried to appear vicious and cruel. One part, because of Othulok’s will being exerted upon the lad. In another part, it was his own attempt to welcome finality. Felix wanted to think he had some dignity before the ultimate end and get this over with.        

          “Haven’t you the sense to break free of that sorcerer?” said Felix “Why must you skulk around so pathetically?!”

          Wrap winced.

          “I tried. Many such times, detective aspirant. The Golden Shadow—Othulok, does not release his charges so easily.”

          Felix thought to Solomon, from his time as the self-styled heir to the sorcerer. He had accomplished it, broken free from his own role and done something with his life. But then again, he too was a practitioner of magic. She knew virtually nothing about The Wrap other than the fact his dread master commanded him to attack Aunt Malika.

          “Felix!”

          What terrible timing! There was Malika now, as well as Felix’s girl, Georgia. They had just helped someone escape the city street that had become a battlefield just now. They hurried over beside Felix, and she could feel her resolve slipping. Not that her loved ones made any move to stop her.

          “You’ve done it.” said Malika. “You caught my would-be assassin. I’m proud of you, dear. Where are the others? We should regroup--”

          “…”

          Georgia’s eyes widened, and she held onto Malika’s arm. Felix wasn’t responding to anything just then. The firing pin on her revolver pulled back as she aimed directly at The Wrap, and fired. Just as Gilligan Diligent spotted them from afar. Running forward to stop Felix, as the weapon’s report came before he could rouse his vocal chords into crying out a plea for mercy.

          *BANG!!*

          Various inhabitants of the city already had copies of the paper, as they’d rushed to acquire it elsewhere. The more common, penny-ante criminal element were split between skipping town and considering to audition as lackeys. Among other citizenry, many were frightened, some found it terribly novel to imagine danger lurking around every corner, and as for Arcadia’s hometown heroes: Rally Co. was still overseas, racing to prevent total catastrophe at the hands of some necromancer or dictator.

          But they had those they could count upon.

          Just as the newskid was about to call it quits, they had discovered two rolls of quarters, and their stacks of newspapers more than paid for. The child could only lift their cap slightly and scratch their head. They would later notice some vagrants from further along the street reading the paper, throwing it onto their alley-fires within repurposed metal barrels or between cinderblocks propping up camping grills, which were notably accompanied by foods fresh and canned. Woe to the beat cop that took issue with the bounty of the hobos, for they had likely disregarded urban legends told to them moments before their ill-intentioned effort to disperse those lost on the wayside: One young up-and-comer in the blue uniform and sterling badge was found hanging upside down from a building’s flagpole by the window, his screaming alerting an amused neighborhood.

          Among the members of that neighborhood was one “Rib-Eye” Renzo, known to most as a would-be hoodlum, and a purported mystic known for his ability to see small stretches of the future if he utilized a freshly cut steak to divine with. Formerly in the employ of the respected Gramps Toretti, who was all too immediately replaced by his power-hungry underling Thorpe Malvoli, a pitiful fellow Toretti had taken pity on. Perhaps too much pity: Malvoli had inspired the most wretched members of Toretti’s operations to break free from their order and rule as though the state were open to feudal conquest.

          “Well, whaddya know…”

          He found a deli order with a label that had his name on it. Wrapped in the latest newspaper detailing the Spillane Jailbreak, waiting for him inside a phone booth. He read the article so that his divining could focus on more unknown details, since he could fill in some of the blanks. There was an entire section devoted to naming the escapees and observed accomplices, with a few prisoner photographs included:

          “BE ON THE LOOKOUT FOR,           MALVOLI – GANG BOSS

          IRVIN WHEELER – MENTALIST / ANIMAL TRAINER

          DUKE LUKE – SOLDIER OF FORTUNE

          ARMED, DANGEROUS, DO NOT APPROACH. DIAL FOR POLICE IMMEDIATELY, SAYS MAYOR!”

          Renzo scoffed. Following that section was little mention of Rally Co.’s part in defeating most of these ne’er-do-wells. He took up the steak, putting it over one eye, and focusing himself, so that he might channel enchanted force through the invisible mechanisms of magic once again. What he saw caused him to drop the steak in terror, despite typically preserving it for later cooking. With haste, he dialed a familiar phone number.

          “Blockhouse? Thank goodness you’re there! Listen—have you heard the news? Alright, forget it, we’ll talk soon. But you’d better gather up Rally Co.’s other friends. They could be in big trouble. I’ll be over after I’ve tried my usual sources.”

          Renzo hung up the phone. He could have sworn he felt a chill, like something, or someone passed by his phonebooth. He produced a switchblade from one of his pockets, along with a small holdout pistol, finally hopping out, ready to fight. But by the time he did, he found a grown man laid out on the icy ground, another man and a woman he recognized as being from a rival syndicate running. That could only mean one thing, as only every cutthroat and con artist understood.

          The Junker was back in Arcadia.

X

          Blockhouse was a construct of clay, able to become malleable or as tough as stone in no time at all, even though he detested violence. And at this moment, he was in the estate of the world-renowned occult detective, Solomon Callahan, a home on the outskirts of Arcadia alongside others at the edge of the concrete jungle, and the beginnings of the countryside. It had become even warmer than ever before when joined by Callahan’s previous students: The aspiring detective Felix Basra, eminent Bio-Chemist Esmerelda Broughton, Cryptozoologist Tycho Gallagher, and the timid telekinetic of great potential—Katrina Kafka, who he had the good fortune of being guardian for when Solomon became her teacher years ago, when she still lived in her native Paris.

          He lamented how they had all traveled together to stifle the machinations of the Golden Shadow—Othulok, a necromancer who sought to steal the secrets of the ancients in order to conquer the entire world. It was entrusted to Blockhouse to keep an eye on Arcadia, as well as Rally Co.’s various allies. But not all of them could be counted on to fight: Rib-Eye Renzo was passionate, but meek. The information broker from Shanghai, Honest Li and his sister-secretary Nuo could be reached by telegraph, telephone, and teletype terminal, but were still in their own city trying to keep a low profile after Othulok directly attacked the Callahan estate. And while they were very clever and noble, Blockhouse would never entertain the idea of ordering the Haddock Street Hooligans to perform too extreme an errand: they were children. And Blockhouse was reputed in countless folktales and picture books as a friend of children. He wanted to keep them out of danger as much as he could.

          There was only one recourse.

          After fending off Othulok all too recently, Blockhouse was entrusted with a special radio transmitter, tuned to certain frequencies upon which Rally Co.’s most mysterious benefactor could be contacted: a former member, with all the skills, means, and methods any investigator or adventurer of the group had. But his approach was different. In the process, he had to become a whisper on the wind, a myth among the masses.

          To reach such a being, Blockhouse had to utilize a special code cipher, entered via a peripheral keypad that had been integrated with the living room radio set. A loud, confirming click indicated that the message was correctly delivered to its intended recipient. A reassuring thing, as Blockhouse was still reeling from the warning Rib-Eye Renzo had provided: That a gaggle of Rally Co.’s previous enemies had fled their incarceration and would soon descend upon the city!

           Blockhouse fetched a borrowed fedora and scarf from among Felix’s things. The tailor had struggled to make a large coat for him, and suggested in the meantime that he wear hats. And in this moment Blockhouse not only wanted to look more remarkable, but he wanted to feel that way, was much as his friends did. They were counting on him, after all.

          “Oh, bother…”

          Of course, just as quickly as he put it on, a stray wind had blown the hat off. He scrambled to grab it and keep it from flying off again. But at least some of the neighbors were sincerely cheering him on, those who were not afraid of him or of Rally Co., not even with the recent hullabaloo.

X

          The warehouse was kept dimly lit. Workers sent home early for the day. They couldn’t chance someone recognizing the malicious menagerie accumulating around the table brought down from the foreman’s office. The stout shape of Don Malvoli was accompanied by a couple of gangsters still loyal to his promises of riches and power over the city. The psychic beastmaster Irvin Wheeler looked like he was suffering a chill, for he had no creature to command with his telepathic rapport. And off to the side, the self-styled soldier of fortune, Duke Luke, was frantically using a crowbar to open a crate full of weaponry. It was like he simply couldn’t get enough.

          They had all been assembled by a businessperson. One Abigail Horne. Sister to the injured corporate giant, Randall Horne. She had been known as having started her own company after her brother locked her out of the family business. At last. it was all hers, but Horne’s foolishness had ruined the good name of their brand. And there was only one thing left to do.

          “You all understand why you’re here, yes?” said Abigail, circling the table. “Malvoli. You’re all about business, profits as well. And you’re still walking, much more than I can say for Randall.”

          “Oh yeah, yeah absolutely!” gasped Malvoli. “And if all goes well, I wanna sign exclusively with you. We’ll navigate the underworld for ya. Count on it.”

          Abigail watched Malvoli for a while. He was a wounded animal—now, and maybe for all his miserable life. But he had connections. Expendable bodies that were off the books. She turned aside to approach Duke Luke. The mercenary lifted up a weapon, but did not fire—Abigail reaching over to the weapon to study its components. Including the safety switch, that had been left on. She turned it off, and trailed her finger along the barrel. As if she knew for certain he wouldn’t fire on her.

          “Big gun for a big man, Mr. Luke.”

          “Yeah, yeah! They ain’t gonna survive this, no sir—ma’am.”

          A boy playing grown-up as far as she was concerned. But if she appeared sympathetic, he’d focus on gunning for their shared enemy first, and then he’d be so high on his own success he’d think himself invincible. An easier target, really.

          “Wheeler. I’ve got something extra special in store for you.”

          Irvin Wheeler was the only one at the table who gave Abigail any pause. Psychic potential was odd to her. And the fact he could command an animal to attack for him, even more eerie.

          “I want something formidable, Ms. Horne. Something that will pick off each one of those do-anything do-gooders in a most Promethean fashion! Anything less, and they’ll be after you shortly after. Then I wonder: What will your conquest be worth then?”

          Abigail Horne narrowed her eyes. She gestured for Duke Luke to return to the streets with Malvoli to begin patrolling for their enemy, and all their friends. She would only trust Wheeler, and the other assassin stepping out of the shadows to do this work.

          “Great day in the morning!” came the boisterous laugh of a man who lived and dressed like a lumberjack, and moved—struck like a viper. Gilligan Diligent, as his nom de guerre went. “No need to fret now, sir. Caught’cha a real nasty one to work with. My recon tells me them Rally Co. kids had trouble with a Gevaudane back when they were just starting out!”

          Irvin had sneered at the bearded brute, before his eyes widened, and he put his hands together. But not before asking one question:

          “Your associates. The mystical ones. Where are they?”

          Gilligan just chuckled.

          “No need for that! The Golden Shadow’s busy, the tip on the beastie I overheard by chance. As for Wrap, he’s around. Just on support duties for now, I suppose.”

          The jolly hitman beckoned Abigail Horne and Irvin Wheeler along. His companion, the dead boy wrapped in bandages that had seen arcane treatment, stood beside the cage where the Gevaudane was being kept. A growl from the cage gave the Wrap a fright, and he instinctively extended some of his magic bandages to clamp the beast’s powerful jaws shut. Irvin Wheeler flew into a rage, trying to tear the bandages away.

          “Imbecile! Irredeemable cretin!” hissed Wheeler. “You risk damaging my potential for bonding with the beast’s psyche!”

          Of course, for rattling the Wrap, Gilligan Diligent had drawn out a sharp Bowie knife in no time at all, holding it to Wheeler’s throat.

          “I’d leave the lad be, pal.” said Gilligan, leaning in. “… It is pal, isn’t it?”

          Abigail Horne had to step in with a stern look before Irvin Wheeler relented, and let Wrap out of his grip. Gilligan didn’t laugh for once: He gave Wrap a look over for any damages, before dusting him off with a handkerchief and having him keep his distance from Horne and Wheeler. Although he spoke in a stern voice, Wrap did not require it to listen to the older assassin: Just as Wrap once saved his life, it was in attempts like this that Gilligan wished to repay the young undead. Bitterly, Irvin Wheeler remained there while Horne directed the assassins to get going.

          “I want all of Rally Co.’s allies captured. Killed if they see fit to resist.” said Abigail. “We’re to hold all the cards. We’re to strike fear into their oh-so-noble hearts.”

          And with them defeated, she could carry on her brother’s work in her own name, without any obstacles ever again.

X

          Ribeye Renzo almost wished Malvoli knew that it was Renzo himself that betrayed the new gang. Because now, Malvoli had reached out to Renzo and his strange form of fortunetelling to find the allies of Rally Co.

          “What’s taking so long, Renzo?!”

          Ribeye Renzo was in a difficult position. Either Malvoli would eventually find out Renzo defected to Rally Co., or he’d be putting Rally Co. in danger and trapped in Malvoli’s clutches again. They were holed up at an upstate mansion Malvoli purchased before he clashed with Rally Co., ending up in prison before he could make use of it.

          “The magic ain’t what it used to be, boss.”

          Malvoli just laughed at the thought, and insisted Renzo get back to work.

          “You lazy sack o’ crap! Hahaha!” snickered Malvoli. “Hey, where’d everybody go?”

          Renzo had only noticed it in passing: One of the guys out on guard duty had called a couple others outside to help with something. Someone should have been back to report on it. In a way, there was.

          *WHAM!*

          A grown man was sent flying back inside with a single strike. Sliding up to Malvoli’s desk, for him to lean over the edge and see. He turned his head to see Renzo using another steak for his divining, only to duck for cover.

          “What did ya see, Renzo?!”

          “Nothing!”

          “Don’t be a wiseguy! Tell me what it was!”

          “LITERALLY. NOTHIN’! NO CULPRIT, JUST OUR GUYS GOIN’ DOWN. SOME OF ‘EM SCREAMIN’!”

          Malvoli paled. A grandfather clock he had brought in yesterday for his return began its heavy gong to signal the new hour. The shadows seemed to grow longer, and Malvoli could feel himself noticing the little sounds around him: whistling from outside winds, and the skitter of a puny little roach. The damnable little thing was driving him to madness while someone, or something was out there doing away with his men.

          “Renzo—a piece! Grab a gun before they get in here. We’ll fill the sucker fulla lead!”

          Renzo started searching for a weapon. If not to adhere to Malvoli’s orders, then perhaps to give himself some shred of safety to cling to. But when he got up to show Malvoli what he’d found, his expression dropped to one of pure terror. Malvoli turned around to see the rain had started.

          “Pull yerself together, Renzo! It’s just the rain!” howled Malvoli, before appearing shaken by the sound of thunder and lightning. Renzo pointed a shaky finger towards the window: Malvoli turned around slowly, and at the next surge of the storm, he saw in that flash of light, two unblinking viridian eyes, trying to get in. Get at him.

          But Malvoli would not wait! He jumped over his desk and tried to tear the gun out of Renzo’s hand. A stray shot hit the ceiling, Ribeye Renzo releasing the weapon and escaping while Malvoli turned to aim the gun at the window, waiting for the prowler to enter. The next lightning flash revealed nothing. The mobster raced to the telephone, and started on the circular dial, nearly nicking his finger in the hurried process.

          Unfortunately, he only remembered one phone number. It was not the one that would save him.

          “Yeah—yeah, get over here! Bring all the guns you want, just hurry!”

          Especially not from the gloved hands reaching out to pull him back by the throat, before he could hang up the phone.

X

          Duke Luke was scrambling over to Malvoli’s place with a mess of holsters, rifles strapped to his back, and in his hands, a Bren Light Machine Gun imported from Britain. He jumped out of the driver’s seat with the weapon at the ready. It was there he saw someone running off into the woods. The self-styled soldier of fortune snickered to himself: He’d fought in jungle landscapes beset by extreme weather conditions far more unforgiving than this, despite his prominent self-preservation instincts. He clipped a couple of flashlights to a military harness on his chest, and started after his prey. Holding the machine gun by his hip, and firing it off. Yes, he was certain he winged his target, he’d shifted in the way he moved, how he carried his weight after a debilitating surge of pain from the machine gun. Duke Luke followed into the woods. His prey no longer on the ground, but he knew better.

          “Squirrely bastard.”

          Just as he had done before to rebel guerilla fighters overseas to earn his almighty dollar and a pouch of the vicious salt, Duke Luke started firing on the tree line. The enemy shouldn’t have been able to move so fast if he was injured. But he followed in a rough spin, making sure no tree around the merc was left unscathed. And with the gunfire came the roar of a war-wager, ready to take any life. To empty the whole of his current clip through sustained fire that would have overwhelmed anyone else.

          If only he could take this one as quickly.

          Duke Luke huffed, and he puffed. He waited a moment to see if his enemy would retaliate. When nothing happened, he scurried behind a large tree to reload the machine gun. But not before something flew towards him: a piece of metal in the shape of a mechanical cog had embedded itself in the barrel, another knocking the spare ammunition out of his hand. Abandoning the weapon, Duke Luke took to a carbine rifle, and rolled for another tree to use for cover. He took aim, and fired when he saw a pair of bright, emerald peepers in the distance, against the darker green of tree leaves in the night.

          As he looked around for his prey, he failed to notice something landing until it touched down on his collar bone, and tightened: It was a noose! He was being pulled up to a high branch. The rifle fell out of his hand, and he was scrambling to get at his knife to cut himself loose. Sure enough, he did: and when he landed on the ground, he went for one of the multiple holsters affixed to his harness. His flashlight beams were unsteady—but he could make out a shape overhead. One leveling two .45 caliber handguns of his own, the only part of himself visible besides those large and unblinking ‘eyes’ of his.

          This wasn’t right. Duke Luke was never on the receiving end. His mind flashed back to forgotten scenes where he’d cut down soldiers in surrender, or non-combatants he’d stumbled across. But they didn’t have what he had: grit, and a short-fused stick of dynamite. He rolled aside, grabbing at a book of matches in his pocket, and lit the explosive before tossing it up and ducking for cover. The confirmation of his actions, being that his prey’s weapons had fallen to the ground.

          “Well.” said Duke, dusting off his hands and starting up on lighting a celebratory cigar. “That takes care of that.”

          The set of gloved knuckles that collided with his face threatened to shatter his jaw, just as he bit down on the cigar. The emerald-eyed fiend had survived, dropping his own weapons simply to lull Duke Luke into a false sense of security. He cursed himself, before picking up a flaming tree branch, and charging at his attacker. Forearms raised in defense as Duke Luke repeatedly bashed into the object of his ire. Until he wasn’t: The burning branch was ripped from his grip, leaving mere splinters to hang onto. The improvised weapon had come from sturdy oak, and was broken over a knee like a child’s plaything and tossed aside. The same hands caught Duke Luke, tossing him to the ground, and unclipping the military harness. Smashing his flashlights, and jamming his remaining guns.

          Even with his eyes mostly adjusted to the dark, it was hard for Duke Luke to take notice of the figure before him, only his silhouette and the glow of his eyes—halted briefly by an effect like that of a camera shutter. He’d ‘blinked’ at Duke Luke, and then pointed to the deeper woods. Where animals, and terrible things of myth roamed. Without weapons or supplies, Duke Luke’s odds of survival were slim.

          “You can’t condemn a man to that…!”

          The alternative came in the form of the pointing hand, gesturing with a thumb back at himself. And then with his index and middle fingers, he pulled them from one side to the other, in front of his throat. Duke had the option of remaining here and taking his chances with his tormentor.

          So, he fled. Like he always did.

          Back at the manor, Malvoli had been hogtied. His men either unconscious or dead, save for Ribeye Renzo, who had taken one of the cars to escape. Just as he did, something rose up from the backseat of the automobile: emerald-eyed and all.

X

          Blockhouse was searching the streets. He had every intention of collecting the Haddock Street Hooligans and returning them home until the ordeal was concluded. It did not take long before he found some of the group: Chiara, Gunther, and ‘BLT’ (Bobby-Lionel-Torvic). Chiara was the leader of the group, and her confidence was everyone’s reassurance. But not this time: Franklin and Slinky Kevin were still missing.

          “I toldja we shouldn’t have let Slinky Kevin follow us!” exclaimed BLT. “He’s gone and gotten Franklin caught by the demon-thing! He’s got no skills to keep up with us!”

          “Irvin Wheeler.” said Chiara, correcting BLT. “And Franklin is nearly as clever as I am. He’s probably looking out for Slinky Kevin, like you should have!”

          Thankfully, the little gentleman Gunther pointed ahead to Blockhouse, and all three children ran over. In particular, Blockhouse gave Gunther a hug.

          “Blockhouse, sir!” sobbed Gunther. “It is being most terrible, sir! Wheeler came looking for us. We scattered to escape, but we have abandoned our own!”

          “We didn’t!” said BLT, nearly on the verge of tears at the thought. “We practice this sort of thing all the time! They should have been ready.”

          They looked to Chiara, who was slapping at them for such talk. Blockhouse had to stop her.

          “You two be bellyachin’ all this time!” she hissed. “Don’t go wailin’ to Blockhouse or anybody! If you’re wanting somenone to blame, point the finger at me! Ain’t I in charge of us?!”

          “That’s enough.” declared Blockhouse. “I won’t have you accusing yourselves or each other. That blight of a beastmaster Wheeler is as much a cheat as they come. The Haddock Street Hooligans on the other hand, have always had my awe, my respect! And you’ll be whole once again.”

          Just as Blockhouse spoke, Ribeye Renzo had arrived in his car, albeit without any passengers.

          “Renzo! You’re alive, sirrah!” said Blockhouse, enthusiastically. “But how did you escape Don Malvoli’s manor?”

          “It’s a hell of a story!” said Renzo. For a moment he covered his mouth in front of the children, but they just laughed. He should have known they too had grown up on Arcadia’s streets and knew much, by now. “Malvoli and Duke Luke both got licked, taken right off the board. But that leaves Wheeler and Diligent at least!”

          “We’ll worry about the lumberjack later.” said Blockhouse, ushering the children into the vehicle. “See to the safe return of these children to their families, and advise them to bolt their doors.”

          “Nothin’ less than that!” promised Renzo.

          “But what about Franklin and Kevin?” asked Chiara.

          Blockhouse furrowed his hairless, clay brow. Renzo gave him a look: One that seemed to suggest there was a factor in play that they could count upon.

          “Never fear, Chiara…”

X

          Slinky Kevin wouldn’t leave. Because Franklin couldn’t.

          He watched from a distance at the walled yard of the old building where he and Franklin had gone to hide. Irvin Wheeler and his monster were there, a bigger and more fearsome thing than the jaguar he once commanded. And he knew Franklin had been caught, because the other boy had pushed Slinky Kevin towards a hiding spot. Now his friend was caught: Kevin was so desperate to be part of something, but now he thought he’d rushed in too quickly. It was his fault that Franklin was in this mess, a hostage for that miserable man to try and lure the others with. The rest of the Haddock Street Hooligans, and Rally Co.

          Just then, he could have sworn someone, or something was there. Wheeler’s monster?

          No. It wasn’t the monster. It had to be a person: Maybe someone who could help.

          “Puh-please…” stuttered Slinky Kevin. “My friend’s in there. You gotta go find help. Rally Co.’s all gone. Everyone else got away buh-but…”

          The boy looked around. He hung his head in shame. But then, he saw something fall to the ground, and picked it up: It was a little prize like from snack boxes, a small piece of metal shaped after a locomotive. He couldn’t place why he was given this trinket, but it made him feel better. When he turned to look back at the building, he saw something out of the corner of his eye: the trail of a white scarf, like an airplane pilot.

X

          “Yes… tremble! No one’s coming to save a bad seed, not anyone that CAN save you. And once I have the whole set…”

          Franklin was huddled up in a room where Irvin Wheeler had cornered him. Scaring and threatening the child with his promises of revenge. A short stride away, his latest ‘aide’ keeping back interlopers.

          “I see you snickering at me. Thinking you’re better. But you’re not!” spat Wheeler. “Your puny tricks can halt me no longer, for I will cast off my afflictions and take my rightful place among the masters of this world!”

          Franklin didn’t argue. Wheeler twitched, and roared, making the poor boy curl up even further, inching back for a hiding space that wasn’t there. Wheeler just scowled and left to sort out other matters. There was a long and uncomfortable silence in his absence, that Franklin expected would be broken by actual harm, or his friends being lured into a trap.

          Just as Franklin relaxed a little, he flinched: Someone was in the room: The emerald-eyed fiend that had terrorized Malvoli and Duke Luke! Who to Franklin, only seemed like one more of their evil ilk.

          “No! Stay away!!”

          Franklin shut his eyes and swung his fists. But the ghost-like figure who walked into the room stopped just in front of Franklin. Glancing aside for a moment with the lens shutters halfway closed to dim the glow of his viridian gaze, as if contemplating his next move, and opting to crouch down so that he was at eye level with the child on as equal terms as possible instead of looming over him. So that when Franklin slowly opened his eyes again, he would give this weird figure a chance.

          Franklin sniffled. “You’re not with him?”

          “Never.”

          “I haven’t been good. He’s out for revenge, he said so.”

          The figure in the shadows let off a long, coarse sigh.

          “Men like that, love to decide the order of things… because they’re the ones who hold all the cards, afterwards. Will you be like that, one day?”

          Franklin shook his head no, quickly.

          “Then it doesn’t matter to me if you’ve been good or not.”

          Just then, there was a screech and the smashing of furniture. Irvin Wheeler was stomping back towards here, no doubt to drag Franklin with him to whatever remaining allies he had.

          “He’s coming. He might hurt you too.”

          “Let him. He won’t see me.”

          Franklin was still afraid, shaking terribly. Eventually, the emerald-eyed mystery man relented and offered something over: his scarf.

          “Hold this for me. It’s magic.”

          “Magic? Like Mr. Callahan does?”

          The figure in the shadows froze for a moment, before nodding.

          “Yes. It makes you braver: Once… I was able to fly a fighter plane through a typhoon.”

          Junker wrapped it around one of Franklin’s forearms, in case Wheeler tried to grab him harshly again. Just as the psychic beastmaster appeared, the figure in the shadows had vanished into thin air.

          “Come along, whelp. The boss says everyone must regroup. I won’t lose my bargaining chip so easily, though.”

          When Franklin stood up, he actually swatted away Wheeler’s hand. When the psychic tried to grab Franklin, only the scarf caught, and he cursed. Causing Franklin to laugh for the first time in a while. Enraged, Wheeler leaned down to get into the boy’s face, but not before he took a haymaker punch that left his nose bleeding. Thinking it was just a headbutt from Franklin, Wheeler howled, only for the boy to jump aside, while the figure in the shadows kicked him out of the room. At which point Franklin returned the scarf, receiving a hushed thanks.

          It was only once the figure in the shadows stepped into the light of the hallway that he revealed himself: It was that treasure hunter vigilante, The Junker!

          But before he could strike again, the hefty gallop of the Gevaudane was upon him, tackling the mystery man off of Irvin Wheeler, who issued one harrowed order to Franklin:

          “RUN!”

          The last thing the child saw was The Junker trying to keep the beast’s teeth away from his head, as swipes of its claws started to dig in. Then he was running through the halls, slipping into an elevator just before Wheeler could catch up with him. He was only able to make it to the next floor down before Wheeler activated an emergency mechanism to halt the elevator carriage, before running down the stairwell to catch up. Through the floor they were on (and from the ceiling of the building floor Franklin arrived at), went the avenging scavenger and the dread of the French countryside. Battling between debris and through smoke.

          Wheeler got at the elevator door, trying to force it open so he could get at his hostage. He could sense his beast searching for Junker, having wounded him. It turned around and lunged when it seemed to have found him again in the halls still beset by smoke.

          Franklin slipped out of Wheeler’s grasp just barely. But eventually he found a hallway with a dead-end. There was a window, but they were still a few floors up.

          “You little nuisance!”

          Wheeler approached Franklin slowly. Although he wanted to take him alive, he was angry enough to strike.

          “I nailed him. That cowboy packrat from the news.” said Wheeler. “In the end, he was a mere mortal! And eventually, all mortals die! I prosper! I—"

          Franklin saw the very life drain from Wheeler’s face when he heard the noises: The first, a terrible *CRACK!* followed by the whimper of a large animal. And then, a huffing, and a puffing, of an injured man.

          “Irvin.”

          The former high and mighty beastmaster did not turn at first.

          “IRVIN!”

          Finally, he turned. Lo and behold: there stood Junker, with his jacket torn in places, and what little was visible of his face, there were cuts. And held overhead by the strength of both arms, was the lifeless corpse of a Gevaudane with its jaw broken. Connection severed, and he hadn’t picked up a signal alerting him to that miserable development.

          It was Wheeler’s turn to be on the verge of a breakdown. Slinky Kevin appeared at the end of the hallway and meeting up with Franklin.

          “You stayed?”

          “Of course! Haddock Street Hooligans stick together.”

Then, they watched Junker put his aching sinews into hurling Irvin’s own monster at him. Sending him smashing through the window, and breaking part of the wall off.

          “…”

          Junker looked back at Franklin and Slinky Kevin. The two boys had been through a great deal today, but they appeared to be alright. He gestured for them to follow him, as they returned to the ground floor and headed out the door. While the boys were ordered to wait by the street, Junker returned to see where Wheeler had landed: He had been saved, cushioned by the body of his late beast.

          The Junker took him up by the collar.

          “Wait! You don’t have to finish me off, I sense it in you as well! The ESP— I see now! I bow to you! Please god, don’t kill me--” pleaded Wheeler.

          “Kill you? Life is a gift, Wheeler!” said a markedly more theatrical Junker, mocking in his tone. “Your survival means we can do this again, and again, and AGAIN. Fun, fun, fun.”

          “No, no…” he whimpered.

          “No?”

          In that moment, Wheeler felt a very, very deep regret.

“Did you give any of your other victims a choice? Were you going to give Professor Homme a choice? The children? Oh yes, I know, Wheeler… Just like I knew you’d be here. I’ll always be right behind you...”

          Silence. And then Junker pulled him in closer.

          “--AND IF YOU *EVER* GO NEAR THOSE KIDS AGAIN, I’LL GUT YOU FOR THE VULTURES TO FIND!”

          Wheeler panicked.

          “Alright! Alright! And Abigail Horne—I answer to Abigail Horne! She wants to take over her brother Randall’s operations.”

          Junker released Wheeler.

          “I told you, Wheeler. I know. But perhaps Horne would be interested to know how quickly you’d sell her out.”

          In his current state, Wheeler would never be able to get out of town in time to escape Abigail Horne’s retribution. Junker snickered at his predicament, before returning to check on Franklin and Slinky Kevin. With directions from the rest of the Haddock Street Hooligans, Renzo was able to find this street. But he never expected to encounter the archangel of Arcadia himself.

          “You’re…”

          The Junker simply nodded solemnly.

          “And you, Renzo, are a friend of Rally Co.”

          Without a word, Renzo beckoned the kids to climb into the car. Before anyone could issue a thanks, The Junker had vanished once more. Renzo was right there with Franklin and Slinky Kevin, awestruck.

          It was time to finish this.

X

          Abigail Horne was in her office. It was her brother Randall’s once, but no more.

          Gilligan Diligent stood at the ready. As did his charge, The Wrap. But even Abigail herself had grabbed a crowbar and a snubnosed .38 revolver. While the three fools, Malvoli, Duke Luke, and Irvin Wheeler were occupying Junker and the other allies of Rally Co., she was in the middle of proceedings to take over the company, and any fronts Randall once operated. When the detritus devil finally appeared.

          “The spookier they are, the harder they—EEAUGH!”

          The Wrap’s eyes widened, with his black sclera and grey pupil-ring. Junker had angled towards an overconfident Gilligan with a flying kick, caught by the ankle. But before he could slam Junker into the ground, the mystery man twisted around to swing his shin into Gilligan’s head, sending them both into the ground. Abigail Horne was not far off, firing her snubnose revolver in a haste to press her advantage. Trouble was, Wrap had extended long strips of his mystically treated bandages to try and hold Junker in place, some of the bullets interfering with their course, leaving only a single arm caught.

          “I owe you one, kiddo!”

          Gilligan jumped back to his feet, and started swinging his fists into the vigilante. A good portion of his strikes were blocked by Junker’s free arm in a demonstration of martial arts techniques that the lumberjack assassin had not expected. It was when more bullets whizzed by Wrap that Gilligan grabbed Junker by the arm, and Judo tossed him aside. He nodded to Wrap to abort mission.

          “What’s the meaning of this?! I’m paying you two top dollar.” said Abigail. “You said you wanted to take a crack at Junker yourself, if we ran into him!”

          “You take a shot at Wrap, we’re through here.” said Gilligan. “Keep your filthy money. As for you, cowboy packrat—hope we can try this again sometime!”

          Abigail raised her revolver to fire, grazing a grunting Gilligan and causing The Wrap to yelp, evidently still capable of pain despite being undead. She moved to reload and started firing again, nearly emptying another six shots before Junker kicked the gun out of her hand, forcing the woman to go at him with the crowbar. And she didn’t let up: She must have swung three—no, four times, catching him on the side and still hurting him a bit with his forearm blocks.

          “Randall. Dead?” said Junker.

          “Hospitalized.”

          Abigail started on a big swing, Junker weaving out of the way and chopping at her hands to make her release the weapon. She wasn’t opposed to fisticuffs if she had nothing else and started trading blows, she’d done some boxing. Compared to Randall, she seemed ready to fight for her empire. Ruthless too, if her firing on her own talent was anything to go off of.

          “Radio news says Malvoli was—hrnnh!—hogtied, the law nabbed him.” noted Abigail Horne. “What about Luke and Wheeler?”

          Junker did not enjoy making conversation. That, and he could tell Abigail’s communication was a new tactic.

“The merc’s on the run. Wheeler tried to sell you out.”

          “Pity, can’t find good help these days. Don’t worry. I’m not going to try to bribe you though. I won’t beg, either. In fact…”

          Abigail and Junker’s forearms were pressed against each other, constantly trying to snake through and find the advantage, until they both jumped back a moment.

          “… Seems like you’re waging your wars alone. Or with too small a pool of help to say you’ve got your own army.”

          “Don’t need an army.”

          Abigail didn’t smirk or laugh. This was business, and even if she didn’t like him very much, she was going to succeed where Randall had failed.

          “Claimed and heard. But I’ve noticed you haven’t wiped out every gang. Some of them get to remain, provided they don’t cross certain thresholds. Like maintaining an ecosystem. You seem to understand the dangers of an immediate power vacuum now.”

          Junker nodded.

          “Here’s my deal: I take over the family business unimpeded. As for everything else, I want a controlling stake in Arcadia’s criminal underworld. In return you get someone on high regulating everyone else.”

          “…”

          “Oh, don’t fret. There will be alliances with other bosses. We must try at balance, yes? Democracy? Not a single patriotic bone in your body? I digress. There is a natural inclination for us to be enemies—and we are. But when we clash, I refuse to see buffoons like Malvoli, or a weird menace like that Golden Shadow do anything about it.”

          She extended a hand to shake. Junker stared at it for a while. Eventually, he just offered a silent thumbs up.

          “Excellent. Now, next time we’ll oppose one another. But should you find an invitation, or a common irritation… let’s find time to meet up. That goes for your Rally Co. as well.”

          “I’m not their keeper.”

          Abigail held her hands up defensively.

          “Loud and clear.”

          A frown found its way onto Junker’s face, as he departed. The fact there were more survivors from his actions recently than not. That had to have been Katrina and Felix’s influence. Though he wasn’t certain they’d have agreed in cutting a deal with a new crime lord in the making, this was no time for another major conflict. Not when the Golden Shadow was trying to enact the plan to end all plans.

          Abigail Horne took a seat in her chair. And she couldn’t help but laugh. For Junker, it was a compromise in terms of both his efforts in the field, and perhaps of his personal principles. If she could get something like that going with Rally Co., they’d all be putty in her hands, one day. And she herself could finally become something like an empress, of all the commerce and crime in this fair city, clad in deco stylings.

X

          Back at Solomon’s estate…

          The phone was ringing, nearly about to fall from its place until Blockhouse returned to answer it.

          “Hello?”

          “Blockhouse! It’s Nuo— from Honest Li’s in Shanghai?”

          “Ah, long distance call. But you sound troubled?”

          “Yes! It’s awful: Rally Co. wasn’t able to beat the Golden Shadow to the last site! They say he’s found his final superweapon! Hello?... Hello?!”

          Blockhouse had dropped the phone. He knew of the quest to stop the orichalcum heist in the Alps, but even he and Solomon didn’t know what was next. Only where it might have been. And a warning:

          “False Thunder Sleeps.”

          W4 looked around. Something clearly hadn’t been sealed properly. He wondered if it was those damnable blue barrels again, or one of those big, new-fangled containers with seven or more different locking mechanisms that had to be activated in a certain order or the whole thing would explode. W4 approached the particular container that was making the offending rumbling noises, and sure enough it was one of those multi-lock nightmares. The service android proceeded to access the shipboard database, used authorization codes to acquire the access information, and promptly entered in a simple enough pin number of four digits.

          Then everything immediately went to ruin, as W4 was then made to work with some kind of glorified rhythm toy: including pressable buttons, pull handles, twisting cranks, spinnable wheels, and flickable switches. Following the patterns set forth by the device was difficult enough for an organic, but it even managed to tax W4’s robotic dexterity. At least, he thought-computed, that it would be over after this. It had to. Until a screen offered an unforgiving message:

          “PLEASE CREATE A 52 INPUT PASSWORD FOR FUTURE USAGE.”

          W4 looked at the input device. It offered no sound, no lights. Nothing charming. And then the locking mechanism activated a self-destruct with a 2-second window to escape, W4 only able to hop away just far enough that the explosion would only send him flying through the air, with small flames all over his jumpsuit. And then there before him, emerged some kind of hostile mutated alien animal.

          And just when there were no organic lifeforms around, one crew member strolled right into the cargo bay with audio-cubes over their square, ear-like structures. This meant that W4-114CE had to adhere to the Asimov subroutines and make sure the organic wasn’t killed. To that end the android put up his fists, and started swinging at the creature. This eventually resulted in an arm being torn off by a claw that could vibrate at high-frequencies to enhance its cutting power. With W4-114CE’s remaining arm, he grabbed onto the creature, and dragged it towards the next nearest holding container. A fool’s gambit, as the creature’s thagomizer-equipped tail started smashing boxes marked with warning stickers for explosive hazards—and eventually, opened the nearest airlock.

          Sounds were muffled in the void, as the service android and mutated alien animal went at it. W4 kicking the creature repeatedly in the hopes of hitting some sensitive area that would have earned a serious foul from the referee of a Dysonball game. Likewise, the creature tried everything it had: acid spit announced by head-frills flaring, the aforementioned high-frequency claws, and some kind of egg-based missile. The egg of course was the creature’s undoing, as W4 caught the projectile and used it to bash the creature over the head, encasing it within an amber-like yolk while W4 was brought back aboard by a slew of loyal buffers.

          “WHAT-A DA HELL HAVE YOU DONE?!”

          It was one of the galley cooks. The human looked like they were about to explode while W4-114CE was trying to reattach his arm.

          “That-a creature was gonna be the crew’s dinner! It was gifted to us by one-a the Dagarian Kingdoms!”

          W4 looked back. The amber-yolk encased creature was probably long gone by now. It was at times like these an intrepid INTERPLAN crew member had to think fast.

          “Let’s check the uh… the star charts. There’s gotta be some place we can rustle up some ingredients.”

          The galley cook stared at W4-114CE for the longest time before pulling out a portable teledex screen, with which he began to press buttons and turn dials. Examining nearby planets, moons, and other places for potential replacements.

          There was no time to argue.

X

          On a ship like the UFV Wishbone, there should have been a captain. In lieu of that, was an administrative adjutant. Tasked with all the responsibilities of the captaincy, but minus its perks. Respect was not guaranteed whatsoever. And worst of all it was a title conferred to someone already working. In this case, the inimitable technician second-class Nero Pathan was selected for the duty.

          The personal terminal at the desk of his quarters hummed to life with the gradual start-up. Immediately, a communication program activated before any other. On-screen were coordinates for a distant star system, followed by the frog-like face of a politician. The amphibious one’s camera was zoomed in too closely, rather than keeping his face in frame.

          “Is this thing on?” asked the frog-like politician.

          “Mayor L-Mes, on behalf of the INTERPLAN fleet, I’m honored that you would invite our humble ship and crew to—”

          Just then, Nero had to cover his ears. A horrible sound began to fill his room as Governor L-Mes fiddled needlessly with his microphone of choice—which resembled one of Earth’s early telephones of the 1890s, as L-Mes held up a stand with a speaker and held up a wired receiver to the side of his head.

          “Is this ruddy thing on?” sputtered L-Mes. “Hallew. Hallew~? Is that the correct word? Grief upon grief, is my universal translator working? Is yours?!”

          “More than well.” said Nero, through grit teeth, turning some dials to focus the image and an attempt to soften the audio. “If you wouldn’t mind going easy on the mic, maybe knock down outgoing volume a bit?”

          “Ah, but of course. It is our honor to be the first stop on your latest mission, Captain Rickles! The USS Hebe is welcome here, along with that delegation from the Minoazoans, and the roller coaster people to survey for a new amusement park—”

          Nero cut off L-Mes with a teeth-sucking sound that went ‘Tssss!’, to preface some unfortunate development.

          “About that: The USS Hebe is conducting field research in… some nebula some ways away from here. They’ll only arrive after we’ve scouted in advance for them.”

          “… Who’s we, exactly?” asked L-Mes, taking on a sour tone.

          “That would be our University-Fleet joint Vessel—UFV Wishbone. We’re part of the preliminary survey and reconnaissance initiative with a few other ships.”

          Silence at first. Then, L-Mes consulted with one of his advisors.

          “So. You mean to say we don’t have to roll out the red carpet? Or really, use any of our exceptional preparations for you lot? It costed us a considerable amount.”

          “They would be nice—”

          “Ha! But unnecessary, understood. We shall receive you shortly.”

          The screen shut off. Nero stared at the screen for a good minute, and his reflection within it before sauntering out of his quarters and onto the bridge of the ship. Watching as others in INTERPLAN fleet uniforms, prison jumpsuits, lab coats, and casual clothing all attempted to find their appropriate stations. He’d have to take a shuttlecraft down to the planet soon, the tele-pad array onboard the Wishbone was unreliable right now.

          The shuttle itself was given the unofficial designation ‘Hodgson-class,’ meaning it was potentially going to be a screaming metal deathtrap, or *somehow* the arrangement of miscellaneous spare parts would work together well enough to safely transport people from ship-to-planetary surface. He stared long and hard at the captain’s chair, before traveling to the appropriate launch bay and boarding. Here he would take attendance of the crew members he buzzed.

          “Jenndy Klortho?”

          “Here!” exclaimed a chipper woman’s voice. “You think we’re gonna shoot at anybody, sir?!”

          “With that attitude, I’m sure someone will want to hurt us.” said Nero, offering a thumbs up. “Next up, we’ve got… Bolso Torbiton?”

          “Spare me the zapcrap and drive the ship, tek-boy.”

          Nero looked around the shuttle interior, offended. Jenndy was just bouncing in her seat. Nero resumed checking his attendance datapad. No one would support him here.

          “Okay. Lint Corpuscule? Is there a Lint Corpuscule here?”

          No response.

          “There’s like two other people here instead.” Said Nero “Who are you two?”

          “I’m Gurt,” said a mutant, before gesturing at another mutant. “And he’s Gort.”

          “Alright. Awesome, very flavorblasted.” said Nero, kicking the shuttlecraft into gear languidly. “And awaaaaay we go.”

X

          Lint Corpuscule rose from his cabin bed in a fright, bashing his quadruple forehead alien cranium against the empty top bunk of an only slightly more dutiful crewmate that had already left the room to begin on ship duties five minutes ago. There was no possible way he could spin this in such a way that he wasn’t disregarding his responsibilities.

          Unless.

          Lint Corpuscule raced to a certain room, one of a few aboard the UFV Wishbone. Doing so in spite of the fact there was an ‘OUT OF ORDER’ sign in large, intimidating red ink and given a marker outline for better readability, in as much as a crew member trying not to put too much effort in all at once could provide. For this was the room where an array of telepad platforms were located. Lint would start slapping buttons and levers, before diving onto a platform that began to glow and hum. He was certain he could make it to the planet in advance of the shuttlecraft.

          Trouble is, he was telepunted.

          Teleporting was an apt description for successfully transporting every little iota of matter from one position to another safely. Telepunting on the other hand, was more like something, or someone on another plane of existence kicked a person in the pants in such a horrendously forceful manner that they were quantum-propelled somewhere. Maybe not even the target destination. To Lint Corpuscule’s credit, he at least landed on L-Mes’s planet. Simply erring due to the fact that he manifested with grazed asscheeks in some random part of the desert, on the outskirts of L-Mes’s settlement if coordinates from the mission briefing were to be trusted.

          Well. This was what INTERPLAN was all about, wasn’t it? Exploring the cosmos.

          Lint Corpuscule marched for a time across the arid land, as purple clouds rolled in, thunder and lightning cracks occurring in shades of brilliant, unsettling red. The Wishbone crewmate could spot a village in the distance.

X

          Immediately after landing, the Wishbone’s Away Team was almost immediately ambushed by L-Mes’s security forces. The group was beaten soundly about the sensitive areas and got tossed into the settlement sheriff’s jail.

          “What is the MEANING of this?!” demanded Nero, rattling the bars with a tin cup. “I demand to speak with Mayor L-Mes at once! We’re INTERPLAN!”

          “Oh, I damn well know you’re with INTERPLAN.” said the Sheriff, some kind of a mutated lifeform with craggy stone-like calcium protrusions all over his body, one of which was shaped like a handlebar mustache, just over what was probably his nose. The only clothing he could wear was a pair of swim trunks and a sash for his badge.

          “Then let us go?”

          “Shut up, Gort.”

          “I’m Gurt.” said Gort, trying to play mindgames on Sheriff Cragg. “He’s Gort.”

          Gurt mischievously waved hello with fingers wiggling. Sheriff Cragg scowled at them and looked to Jenndy.

          “And what’s your game? Huh?”

          Jenndy sashayed over from her bench-cot. After a delicate twirl, she proceeded to reach through the bars to try and strangle Sheriff Cragg. Nero halfhartedly tried to pull her away, weakly saying things like ‘nooo stop, please,’ and ‘don’t kill him, pleeeaaase’ among inaudible murmurs. Sheriff Cragg eventually broke free of Jenndy’s grasp, with the help of the only member of the crew not in jail: Bolso Torbiton!

          “Bolso! Bolso, let us outta here and I’ll promote you to lieutenant!” exclaimed Nero.

          “You won’t.” said Bolso.

          “Okay, okay, lieutenant-COMMANDER!”

          “You don’t have that power, idiot!” said Bolso. “You’re just an administrative adjutant, not a real captain. But with L-Mes’s recommendation I’ll bet I could jump up the INTERPLAN ranks. Or I could take my talents to some other space faction.”

          “Jenndy, go for the jugular!”

          Jenndy Klortho reached through the bars again. But Bolso, devious fiend that he was, was standing just out of her reach. She grasped at air and nothing more. Just then, Mayor L-Mes arrived.

          “L-Mes! What is this zapcrap?!” hissed Nero.

          “I ought to be askin’ you that exact question, boy!” hissed L-Mes. “Sheriff, chain these chumps. We’re gonna show ‘em our evidence.”

          The Wishbone Away Team each got tazed, and then once too weak to fight back, they were shackled to one another. At first, they were transported through the desert aboard a hover-skiff, but once there was a quarter of the distance left to go, the group was forced to march the rest of the way there, where they found a more rural village, accompanied by local specialists in anthropology and paleontology.

          “We’ve also contacted your ship’s chief medical officer to confirm.” said Sheriff Cragg, offering up a portable viewscreen, on-call with the disheveled Dr. Hwan.

          “Not that you really needed it, but I have a DNA match with one of our crew members, sir.” said Dr. Hwan. “A Lint Corpuscule?”

          “That dipstick was supposed to be part of our Away Team!” exclaimed Gurt.

          “He was plotting some kind of a SCHEME!” screamed Jenndy. Though less in terror, more in gleeful delight that there was a conspiracy.

          “Now hold on a minute—” said Nero, pointing a finger. “Let’s not jump to conclusions until AFTER we’ve seen the remains.”

          L-Mes and Sheriff Cragg waved to one of the archaeologists on-site. Lo and behold they found one of many skeletons, only this one wore an INTERPLAN uniform shirt. Tattered now, but still bearing a legible name tag. No uniform pants, however: Lint Corpuscule insisted that only one article of clothing was necessary for himself. ‘If only,’ thought Nero. ‘If only he chose to wear only pants instead of uniform shirts,’ and perhaps they would not have been in this mess.

          “Wait. How did he get there? Lint Corpuscule is a present-day member of the INTERPLAN fleet.” said Nero, probing for answers. “I literally have him marked on my crew manifest with birthday and everything.”

          “We detected tachyons, among other curious particles.” said one of the archaeologists. “Don’t look at me funny, you’ve seen some weird, anomalous bullshit out there too. We have reason to believe Lint time-traveled.”

          “How in the blue blazes—” hummed Nero, before realizing what they were getting at. “You think we sent him to—to what, plant some kind of a trap? Sabotage your settlement? Are you daft? Have you been in contact with mind-bending moon rocks? Or both??”

          “Wouldn’t you like to know, ass-tronaut.”

          Nero looked over at the rest of his Away Team, trying to garner some sympathy and support against these accusations, but no one leaped to dispute any of this.

          “Now listen, if you just contacted Captain Rickles already, I’m sure we can hash this out minus any retribution—”

          “Tell it to the judge, INTERPLAN man.” said L-Mes.

“With your luck you’ll be put on the cerebral scrambler.” said Bolso.

          And then Nero and his cohorts were clubbed about the head, or similarly disorienting bodily regions until rendered unconscious.

X

          A fog machine filled the stone-like chamber. Really, all the large stone bricks were actually purely cosmetic, like a 20th century recreational laser tag facility’s approximation of an even more ancient culture. Strange iconography adorned the place, from truly alien designs to the familiar, such as a “SIGN ON FOR PRODUCT LAYAWAY TODAY!” sign, or a spinning blue light, used in the ancient commerce temples to indicate a clearance sale on discounted items. Devout followers traveled the aisles and corridors in the sacred vestments. Which in this case were single color vests adorned with at least one pin to indicate the retailer of goods they were employed by. But these practitioners did not serve any surviving company: Instead, they mourned for the demise of others, and the quality they guaranteed. Even if it was only marginally better than anything they had today in the near future of the 22nd century.

          It was in the great council conference room that the Prime Mall Santa, Vice Councilor Easter Bunny, and other gaudy figures addressed their muscular visitor.

          “Hark, and be readied: Are you prepared for the undertaking upon which ye shall have to embark?” asked Prime Mall Santa. “Are you tired of waiting for your greatest quest of all? Do you find yourself possessed of superior skill and dedication? Could you benefit from exploring the greater cosmos?”

          “Aye, Prime Mall Santa.” said the muscular visitor.

          “But that’s not all: It may also throw in an exceptionally long time away from here.” said an arcade mascot themed after a narwhal. “But don’t delay: If you do not order transportation now, the sabbatical may be tripled for the price of one altercation.”

          The muscular visitor did not hesitate, and began entering the sacred numbers—made even more sacred through the use of a device modeled after an old Earth-style cash register combined with a home telephone. He felt a brief comfort as his fingers pressed each button, which yielded an equally satisfying *BEEP!*, *BOOP*, or the rarely heard *BUP!* followed by the ‘hum of establishment,’ in which everyone opened their mouths to offer the sacred Dial-Up Cry.

          “He is ready.”

          “They will need him soon.”

          “Go now!”

          The muscular visitor turned to see something. It was like the edges of a public swimming pool, as the archaic symphony behind him wordlessly foretold of mystery, great danger, and opportunities for storied heroism. The swimming pool archway began to glow, as chlorinated water gushed outwardly, then back in, after a device blew a giant lifeguard’s whistle to regulate the poolwater flow. With no further hesitation, he kept a steady grip on his lacrosse stick and plasma grenades.

          The muscular visitor burst from a strikingly similar portal arch on L-Mes’s planet. He proceeded to pummel the tar out of a couple of Sheriff Cragg’s deputies, and sprayed their resting place with air freshener. In the distance, the settlement was not far off. A bell had begun to ring out as the Wishbone’s Away Team was being carted off to the courthouse with burlap sacks over their heads. This, the muscular visitor saw with a pair of binoculars he ordered from a ‘wun-ayt-hundred-numb-barr,’ in the short span of time afforded to him by a vid-screen commercial.

          He could only hope he wasn’t too late to intervene.

X

          L-Mes activated the town’s robot judge. It seemed to just be a figurehead for his orders. But by the looks of things even the jury had some idea what to expect, if their scowls and obscene hand gestures were any indication. The Wishbone Away Team huddled up together to figure out a plan of attack.

          “Alright. Any idea why they might be doing this to us?” said Nero.

          “Maybe it’s a secret AN-XR scheme to subtly conquer this sector?” said Gurt.

          “No no, it’s a scheme alright. But it’s clearly being perpetrated by some kind of semi or fully technological culture that absorbs anything and anyone it comes into contact with.”

          Nero just stared at everyone, exasperated.

          “Lint used the telepads, didn’t he.”

          “Wow! You must be some kind of detective, boss!” said Jenndy. “Alright, we’ll just show our telepad records to Mayor L-Mes and that should clear things right up.”

          “I don’t think that’s a good idea--” said Nero, raising an index finger. The trial began, and everyone urged Nero to start tapping at his wristcomm to get the telepad data as the others insisted. The robot judge seemed to nod and offer an approving *DING!* sound.

          “This just proves you achieved a form of time travel!” bellowed L-Mes. “And even if you didn’t order your crew member, they might have gone AWOL, or started acting on orders from higher up at INTERPLAN command. Can you honestly say that’s not possible?!”

          Nero was about to speak. Usually in these situations an experienced leader like Captain Rickles would read aloud a legal disclaimer and be absolved near instantly. Trouble was, Nero had no such disclaimer. Just workplace culture (and stacks of over-exacting rulebooks, more composed by HR to absolve the organization than adhere to moral tidings with clarity) whose only guarantee that INTERPLAN recognized self-determination as an inherent right to all lifeforms, was all sentiment and assumed standard operating procedure. Claiming to operate purely on vibes would not hold up in court whatsoever and would in fact cause an uproar.

          “Errm. Well…”

          Where was a definite answer he could cite when he needed one?

X

          The worst part, was that Bolso Torbiton was approaching to testify on that very point, in his swanky new five-piece suit made from megarachnoid silk as he walked through the halls. Or he would have made it, if the muscular visitor hadn’t arrived, accompanied by a handful of the planet’s native inhabitants.

          “… The hell?”

          “I have witnessed infomercial visions foretelling of secret actions,” said the muscular visitor. “If you or your loved ones have gone back on your oath to the Interplanetary Fleet, you may be entitled to a sound beating.”

          “Dude,” said Bolso Torbiton. “Eat a piece.”

          Bolso swung a fist at the muscular visitor, who rolled from weathering the blow, to kneeing Bolso Torbiton in the groin, and tossing him through the doors into the courtroom, where he would use his lacrosse stick to lob plasma grenades, forcing Sheriff Cragg and L-Mes away.

          “What is the meaning of this?!” spat L-Mes. “Sherriff, call the marines!”

          “We don’t have marines, sir. But we could wheel in the cannon from Fort Gordie.”

          “You will do no such thing,” said the muscular visitor, pointing his lacrosse stick. “Not while Bowflex draws breath. I bring with me the rightful population of this planet to protest this farce you call a fair trial. Mayor L-Mes seeks to extort INTERPLAN.”

          “That’s right.” said one of the local aliens, who resembled a classic style little grey-greenish humanoid with bulbous black eyes and a large head on a short, gangling body. “We have been here since time immemorial, with artifacts held by the local museum putting us within hundreds of thousands of years, minimum. L-Mes’s settlement is barely thirty years old. He’s been trying to build all sorts of tourist traps around here in all that time after we allowed him to build this township. The one called Lint Corpuscule was killed by birds before he could even meet our ancestors. All they could do was bury him.”

          “Indeed.” said Bowflex. “And as a potential INTERPLAN member world, you must treat other lifeforms with a certain modicum of respect and dignity. The crew of this visiting ship would not be remiss to pummel you about the sensitive areas for your works against the Muuldarian Greys, L-Mes.”

          Nero looked to Bowflex, who nodded back. Just as Lint Corpuscule chose to use the malfunctioning telepads and L-Mes set about his scheme, so too did other lifeforms retain the power of choice, and the potential to use it for purposes beyond harm, greed, or snitching on each other over emulating rare old video games. Maybe, just maybe, not everything in this universe sucked after all.

          “Hey, he got away! And funny thing, I remember seeing Bolso’s new suit in a store display on the way over—for fifteen thousand credits.”

          Jenndy pointed at the recently departed Sheriff Cragg and Mayor L-Mes, who hopped aboard a hover-skiff and raced for the Star Portal that Bowflex entered the planet through. Bolso was still writhing in pain when he dropped a receipt that indicated the credit utilized was under L-Mes’s bank account.

          “We’ll sort out things here in town in case they come back.” said another member of the local alien group—Seftar. “If you wish for the planet Muuldar to join your coalition, then bring Mayor L-Mes to us.”

          Nero pointed and nodded to Seftar.

          “You got it. Let’s move it, people!”

          On the way out, everyone each took a turn kicking Bolso in the ribs.

X

          L-Mes and Cragg were fiddling with the cash register/telephone styled interface that activated the Star Portal. They had just emerged on one of their neighboring planet’s moons, where a disgruntled chef and an android were hunting for some big game in the form of the wild ‘Dodecapus,’ that with just one body’s meats, could feed many.

          “Hey.” said the chef. “Aren’t you-a that mayor our adjutant was-a supposed to meet?”

          “It is.” said W4-114CE, before taking out a handheld device. “Oop. Just got a long-range, subspace communique. Shoot this guy. I repeat—eighty-six this toad.”

After that they ran like cowards, and tried dialing a random sequence, which briefly deposited them on a world conquered by the AN-XR empire, with its chrome-brutalist architecture. Regal-uniformed commandants led troops in armor-vests with an abundance of extra pouches as they interrogated pedestrians in an attempt to root out anything they deemed seditious.

          Sure enough, being chased by imperialists with electri-knives and particle projectors in the form of pistols and rifles wasn’t their idea of a good time. Cragg and L-Mes’s attempt to dial for a pleasure planet of some sort had also failed, and landed them in the middle of a battle between two Dagarian Kingdoms, part of a larger feudalistic structure that yearned so much for the clash of blades, like their isosceles swords with two grips at the center of the awkward triangular sword. Harrowed by the failed Star Portal attempts and currently pursued by several goose-stepping stormtroopers and chainmail chic honor-lusted warriors, they returned to planet Muuldar, where the Wishbone Away Team was waiting for them. Gurt and Gort both simultaneously attacked a Dagarian warrior by pinching two exposed areas on his body, causing some kind of electrical overload within the nervous system, using some esoteric technique. Jenndy Klortho was having a standoff with an AN-XR commandant, twisting his arm so that the electri-knife went around her—coincidentally stabbing L-Mess in the gut, or some other organ.

          Bowflex was lobbing plasma grenades and throwing an Olympic discus to prevent anyone else from entering through the Star Portal. Nero was trading punches with Sheriff Cragg, before remembering he could also use at least one of his legs at a time to kick, sending the Sheriff backwards through the Star Portal with an unforgiving boot sole back to the Dagarian battlefield he thought he’d escaped. It was at that point that Nero was tired, yet bitter enough that he produced his particle pistol from his side holster and fired. On the other side, Sherriff Cragg was mostly vaporized, stray chunks of himself flying out in every direction, unintentionally slaughtering a dozen warriors via high velocity shrapnel.

          In any case, the mortally wounded L-Mes was apprehended.

X

          Back aboard the Wishbone…

          Dr. Hwan was not an engineer. She was a doctor. But in a pinch, she proved she could fill in on other tasks. Like when she saw Lint Corpuscule—who had been the INTERPLAN officer in charge of boarding and customs checks the morning of departure—racing towards a telepad room. Without hesitating to consider the Hippocratic oath, she tore a panel off the corridor wall and tampered. Mostly in the hopes that he would explode right then and there. But using the longe-range scanners aboard the UFV Wishbone to confirm he’d died during planet Muuldar’s distant past would suffice.

          As Dr. Hwan poured herself another light blue liquid—some manner of ale, Technician-Adjutant Nero, the newcomer Bowflex, and Jenndy Klortho were all seated together for a dinner meeting with her. Jenndy was burning an effigy of Bolso Torbiton, the poppet seated within a diorama of L-Mes’s courtroom back on the non-grey Muuldar settlement. She really wanted Bolso harmed further, maybe more chaos erupting as a general thing. Bowflex took to his protein shake, having joined the crew as evidenced by the badge he wore over his regular garb. Gurt and Gort were fidgeting in their seats.

          “… So, wait. You didn’t know I interfered with Lint’s telepad?” said Dr. Hwan, incredulously. “I could have kept that a secret?”

          “No, I didn’t know.” said Nero, not waiting a moment to respond. “Yes, you could have literally gone the rest of your life without having told anyone that. Under anyone else’s command you’d be court-martialed.”

          “And I’d take you bastards down with me. Every. Time.” said Dr. Hwan, raising up her ale. “Cheers. And here’s to honor among thieves.”

          “Technician-Adjutant Nero, I believe this is not entirely unsatisfactory.” said Bowflex, leaning in to address the INTERPLAN crewman. “Lint still made his choice. As did Dr. Hwan when she attempted to slay him. I would dare even say this is cause for celebration, along with the fact that your Away Team was not disembowled, disintegrated, or stretched out over a—”

          “THANK you, Bowflex.”

          “Indeed.”

          W4-114CE had personally offered to wheel in the grilled Dodecapus, and after delivery plugged himself into the room’s audio system to start playing some fast-paced techno. Bowflex took up a barbell and started doing an intricate dance he picked up at the gym back on Adworld. Jenndy just rested her elbows on the table, and put her hands on the cheek as the colors of the diorama fire deepened. And at last, Gurt and Gort just played patty cake.

          Nero just slumped in his seat.