 |
|
|
| Morbius 2099UG Issue #12 "Mark Of The Vampire Part 2: Bacchanal" 2099: The Crusade T-Minus 3 Written by Gary M. Miller Plots by Jason C. Smith, Thomas Imboden II and Gary M. Miller |
| The 2099 Underground is a project whereby a group of fans are putting together a series of stories continuing from Marvel's fantastic futuristic 2099! Ignoring the ignoble and inaccurate "2099: World of Tomorrow", we're exploring what we feel is the true spirit of 2099 as envisioned by then Editor-in-Chief Joey Cavalieri. Participation is open to all. Comments about this issue should be sent to the author. Or you can visit our message board and post your thoughts on the issue. Anyone wishing to join the mailing list should do so by signing up at Yahoo! Groups. It's free and easy! Simply type in the keyword "Ghostworks" and you're good to go. |
 |
| And now, the 2099 Underground presents, with a tear in its eye and a song in its heart, the final issue of MORBIUS... ********************************************************************** PREVIOUSLY IN "MORBIUS": Less than half an hour ago, the teenaged misfit called The Son met a face from out of the distant past. Together with his ragtag team, Le'Osha the voodoo priestess; Jerry Fielding, homeless brother of the accused Morbius Project primogenitor; and Marie Laveau, voodoo queen of New Orleans, he met with an impossibility: Vlad Dracula had come to New York, singling him and all pretenders out. To this end, the vampire slew Jacen Boone, the Angel of Death, before Morbius' astonished eyes. Not even a half an hour has passed since that event, yet much has changed. So much more will change over the *next* half an hour. You've been warned. ********************************************************************** A homeless teenager known formerly as The Son finds himself the victim of a macabre project that had been carried out by Alchemax in the years shortly after his birth. By day he hides in the confines of a Downtown church, but by night he metamorphoses into a ghastly creature -- predatory, beastlike, stealthy and highly intelligent. He hunts those who made him what he is, and will not rest until he has exacted ultimate vengeance -- and become human. His new name, in the vein of his savior, is MORBIUS. ********************************************************************** From a sixty-sixth floor window of Drekk Industries, subsidiary of Euromax, the body of Alchemax R&D co-chair-cum-hospitalized-lunatic Michael Fielding falls, down, down, down into oblivion. To anyone who might want to watch, the scene plays out absurdly, almost too quickly, as he spins outward several feet from the building, then suddenly takes a sharp downward turn, blood running in scarlet trails behind him that desperately try to cling to Drekk Tower like mucilaginous strands of an arachnid's webbing. Plummeting faster, further, Fielding will impact in a matter of seconds. At the ground floor, former head of Alchemax R&D, Tyler Stone, stands proudly, like the king his twisted, inferior intellect believes himself to be. He has been an unwilling participant these past weeks, having initially come to Drekk to serve as its R&D head; however, being a paraplegic, his legs rendered useless in an unfortunate assassination attempt, he was less than useless to Drekk unless certain...alterations were made. And so Drekk struck a--some might say fateful--deal with some eastern European company, which sent in an agent--my agent, actually--whom Stone thought an animal in human form, as proxy to rehabilitate him--to make Stone rise, as a phoenix, from his own ashes, not just healed, but also healthy, virile, powerful for the first time in far too many years. Stone nearly chokes on the acrid atmosphere; it has, after all, been weeks since his last exposure to the outside world--that, and London was never well-known for its air quality. The fog has grown thick with pollutants, and they shift and blow closest to the ground. But it wouldn't be long until the craft was here to take him back. Back to New York. Back to the company Miguel O'Hara--Mike--his son, his heir to Alchemax--had just enabled to collapse into so much shocking excrement. (* Yes, of course, Miguel, AKA Spider-Man 2099. --GMM) Abominable, he must think, how he could mold someone for years, watch over him, and still, the son doesn't do what you think he'll do. Wrongs you in the worst way possible--a bitter betrayal of the soul. Was that why, Stone? Was that why Drekk suddenly changed its mind about your involvement in their company? It would seem that the vultures are still circling the death valley your former company has become. They're nowhere near done. Don't you see what they want, what they need? You're going to go back to New York, Stone, and you're going to battle Mike as best you know how for the fate of Alchemax, and you're going to win! At this point, it's a foregone conclusion, you think as you feel dribbles of what must be rain upon your shoulder. As a grim shadow casts itself above, you don't even consider that Drekk wants Alchemax for itself, to reintegrate it into its family of businesses--but this time, Euromax will be on top and Alchemax will become the bottom-feeder. Someone at Drekk, whoever it was that chose to hire you, will receive a hefty bonus of several hundred billion credits, stocks will soar, and where will you be? Happy at Alchemax, but used. You'll feel used, Stone, but do you know something else? You won't give a damn because you've dethroned Mike, you're back where you belong, you've won. The equilibrium will have been reestablished, and nobody will be in your way. You can set about conquering the competition, the shark you are, and everyone over in Europe will be cheering you on and placing bets amongst themselves to see if you can or can't do it. They set you loose, with your new vitality, and they know you won't turn on them because they've been too good to you. Or maybe you won't turn on them until every other corp in America is ground beneath your heel. Power corrupts, Tyler. And with my help, you've just received a terrific boost. But nowhere near as much power as I have tasted, sir. I've been at this game much longer than you have. I own you. But, why express such statements when I should probably find some way of warning you of your impending doom? If you haven't seen the shadow of the falling dead man by now, if you haven't recognized the liquid on your shoulder as crimson lifesblood, then shouldn't I tip you off? The failsafe neural disabler my employees have implanted within your cerebral cortex surely would give adequate warning...but then again, perhaps your nervous system would be so shaken by the preternatural buzz that you wouldn't be able to react to the trouble until you were already crushed beneath poor Dr. Fielding. Perhaps, or perhaps not, I imagine. "Merriem, do you read?" I say through the communications relay. She's the operative I've sent to London, in anticipation of the matters which now unfold. My eyes and ears in the dark city. "Loud and clear, sir," her response comes--a deep, thick tone but still eminently feminine. "Stone had best watch himself." "Mind him, Merriem. And keep an eye out on street level for anything else unusual. I've been taking readings from Drekk Tower and the tachyon emissions are well off the charts. *They* may be coming through." "Yes, sir," my agent replies, and via the camera mounted on her eyepiece, I see her flip off the high tower, flitting downward. She lands on an adjacent parapet just five stories above street level, and gazes with her ocular enhancement board to see a strange electrical arc explode from the well-hidden Transmat in the Drekk lobby. The camera follows her eye, zooming as necessary. Perhaps I won't have to warn you at all, Stone. The surge builds to tremendous heights, a wave echoing outward in both light and sound, a roar growing to deafening heights. From the power output Merriem is receiving, there's no way the TransMat was built to contain what's coming. And we know what's coming. We've been waiting for it, for them. The express TransMat was installed for travel for one. And Vlad Dracula came through a similar TransMat in New York only days ago (* That was what you saw in MORBIUS #8. --GMM)--Vlad, son of the dragon, Lord of the Vampires--now admittedly out-of-date, behind the times in this century. No doubt, he wanted--wants to re-establish himself in this world where science can even replicate that which originally made him unique. And now, Dracula has used the TransMat again, returning now to Europe, to London, a city which has always held an obscene fascination for the bloodsucker. But to this city he's brought--not friends; enemies. From the echoes and feedback being received, captured by the equipment I've given Merriem, whereas one was sent to New York, four times the amount of emanations now register--three beings have returned in addition to the vampire. I'd have only expected one. Suddenly, the chamber overloads, and an explosion blows out all the windows on Drekk's lobby, showering the street with glass shards and pebbles, knocking Stone several feet, just as Dr. Fielding's body impacts several feet into the pavement with a perverse crunch--the breaking of nearly every bone in the corpse, no doubt...the splitting open of flesh, the rending asunder of muscle, every internal organ bursting outward even as the glass slashes through whatever's left. Stone, pushed to the sidewalk on the far end of the street, turns, his white suit soiled, his face bloodied, and stares at the mass of flame erupting from Drekk. "Merriem," I say, "I'm transferring the feed to holographic view for better analysis, and beginning the recording. The video is coming through just fine, but please, increase the range on the audio receiver, now. The moment they come out of that inferno, and I have no doubts they will, I want to hear everything as well as see it." "Got it," she responds, and immediately the tableau unfolding on the panel before me is enhanced a thousandfold, with the benefits of sound alone. In my lab, thousands of miles away, I can view the entire situation, as it is happening, from Merriem's point of view. "Anything else?" The picture skitters ever so slightly, then readjusts itself and all is fine. "Stay still unless I tell you. The vertigo caused by the slightest fluctuations in your movement is annoying." No response, and perhaps it's all the better that Merriem turns her attention to the task at hand, though I know full well what she is getting herself into. The Son, clearly, has arrived alongside Dracula; that much is clear without even seeing those creatures crawling from the debris. If he were not here, then all my orchestrations, my eavesdropping on transmissions from across the corporate network, would be for naught. The fact that already, Merriem's heartbeat and respiration are well above the normal, demonstrating early pangs of euphoria, proves my hypothesis. Who is the Son? As the wreckage begins to shift, I see him out in the street, a lithe form, six feet tall, skin a sickly pale. Wind blows through the long strings of blue hair upon his head and at his shoulders and forearms, peeking through his leather uniform. His face, sunken-in yet distinguished, wears emotions only too well--one could fairly read this "Morbius" like a book. The boy is a mystery, even to himself, and will enlist anyone he can on the quest for the missing chips of his past, wherever they may be. He has no patience for those with different agendas than he. If one were to come along and offer all those answers to his past--how he was created, what the full extent of his freakish mutations will be; how it is that he is so young and yet so vastly intuitive and intelligent, far beyond his years; how he is enchanted by the supernatural world and how it in turn is enchanted by him--if one offered him all that, then that being would be his best friend and closest confidant. The Son stands at the forefront of the wreckage and matches gazes with Tyler. And there's a body in his arms--a pale, lifeless body clad in ornate orange-and-black dress, with twin teethmarks upon the neck. I know this woman, from my previous surveillances, to be Le'Osha Montego, voodoo priestess of New York. She became, over the course of her months beside the Son, akin to a mother, helping him try to learn his identity--but could not, would not succeed. The Son shakes his head at Stone, as though trying to convince the cretin of his non-involvement. He shuts his eyes forcibly and shakes his head as he continues to stride forward. Opening his eyes anew, he cries: "Stone! Look at your handiwork! Look what you've done! Look at what pain your messenger has felt free to show me!" How interesting...it would seem that Morbius believes Stone sent Dracula to fight him. A fair assumption, seeing as Tyler was the first person Morbius saw when he emerged from the TransMat. But, wrong. "Stay where you are!" Tyler says, indignantly rising to his feet. "What makes you think I'm responsible? Just because you crash into Drekk's lobby in a blaze of shocking flame, doesn't mean--" A roar stirs from behind as Dracula, in his wolf form, pounces from the blaze, grey fur streaking through the air. The beast tackles Morbius, and its mere presence scares Stone, who in spite of his pain, forces himself to flee down the block, where the blue lights of the Icy Eye swim amid the murky city streets--appearing less like sharks to Stone, and more like dolphins, eager for passengers--after a fashion. The holovid quivers for a moment. "Let Stone go," I tell Merriem. "The Icy Eye will know of his predicament and rush him to the air haven. He'll be back on the American continent in hours. Your duty is here. Keep observing." The camera again settles, and Morbius and Dracula roll across the street, each clawing at the other mercilessly. His hunger awakening anew, Morbius begins to change, his body growing, adding muscle and bulk and a coat of fine blue fur. His face stretches into a more lupine expression, marking the dominance of the animal and suppression of the analytical human. Before his intelligence slips away, he yells, "I'll kill you, Dracula! I'll kill--!" and then once more slips into pure animal aggression. As Morbius claws at Dracula, grasping him by the wolf's fur and yanking him off, the last of the four who made the trip to London floats from the debris. Her dark skin marking her as much a Creole as Le'Osha, she exudes a beauty far and above nearly any on the planet. She wears a long flowing skirt made from dyed purple silk, which flutters teasingly across her perfect body. Long black hair, with faint patches of gray, splays upon her shoulders and along her backside down to her knees. She is the vision of perfection for the Vodun community; she is Marie Laveau. Another of Morbius' associates, though more recently than Le'Osha, she has more than likely been colluding with him because he's the closest thing to a vampire she's seen--until the last hour, that is. Why seek vampires? Marie Laveau is, the legends attest, over three hundred years old, and she has kept her youth these past centuries by mixing one of her special potions with the blood of the vampire (* As revealed way, way back in DRACULA LIVES! #2. --GMM). Once before, vampires were eliminated from the world via a spell, called the Montesi Formula (* in DR. STRANGE vol. 2 #62. --GMM), and Marie tried, and ultimately succeeded in speaking the Vampiric Verses, another spell that returned vampirism to the world so she would not have to grow old and die (* DR. STRANGE, SORCERER SUPREME #18. --GMM). Marie would likely have Morbius believe she was helping him, but her real plan--as Le'Osha too probably knew--was to see how well the young creature's blood would satisfy the requirements of her life-sustaining potion. To envision anything else was-and still is--wishful thinking on Morbius' part. Truth to tell, Morbius probably doesn't even know about Laveau's intentions or those old potions. And just now, he's too busy to care. Morbius' world, as he knows it, has, in true cliched form, come down around his ears, and as it goes, "he is helpless to do anything save watch, in abject horror." The irony that I have seen this situation, in ages past, with countless other parties, is not lost upon me. He retreats into the persona of the animal, but Dracula is not quite so easily immersed within his aggression, sliding out of the youngster's deathgrip, metamorphosing in a wisp of smoke into a giant bat. His leathery wings flap wildly as wind flies under them, lifting him higher and higher in the air, directly above and past dear Merriem. Jolted, she whips her head around to see the master vampire's departure; in turn, the holographic display distorts, sending me reeling in a wave of nausea beneath my helmet. "MERRIEM!" I shout, my own disorientation getting the better of me. My legs buckle and sickness burns its way up my throat. Another wave of nausea wracks me as without warning, Merriem turns her gaze back upon Morbius and Laveau, the latter furiously trying to soothe, to comfort the former. "My apologies, sir," my agent says, her voice never wavering, never showing the slightest hiccup of emotion. I take a moment to readjust the video feed to a more two-dimensional analogue, not wanting my visor display to be overwhelmed again. Below, the conversation continues between Laveau and her lupine companion. She places her hand upon his back, softly rubbing his shoulders. "Get past this, Morbius! Let the anger go. We'll find him. We'll make him pay." Such obvious words, one could fairly read them from a book. The voodoo priestess herself flaunts cliches. "NO!" the man-animal then yells, swatting her hand away. Through gritted teeth, will he give the all-too-obvious reply? "He killed Boone. Killed Fielding. Killed...!" The beast howls furiously, claws balling into fists which collide upon the asphalt, making terrific indentations therein. He pounds, and smashes, and pounds yet again as the flesh of his back suddenly begins to move, to writhe, to grow anew. His body not content having gone through one series of changes at a genetic level, quickly sprouts a pair of demon-like wings that dwarf Dracula's by far. Those wings carry him upward after his quarry, and Laveau is just quick enough to jump upon the young one's back before he fully takes flight. Together they race directly past my Merri--my agent. For a smattering of milliseconds there is abject stillness. Upon the display I see Morbius and Laveau become mere shadows in the narrow corridors of the great city of London, the other vampire having long ago disappeared. They are all but gone when the alarms connected to Merriem's body scream out like banshees--her pulse races, adrenaline surges, every sense is heightened to almost absurd levels. Quickly I note the hormonal imbalances--impossibly fast rises in estrogen, progesterone, FSH, GnRH, LH--all of which I must move to counter via stimulation of a series of patches sewn along the inside of her uniform, on the one-in-three chance such an event would take place--however, I didn't expect the response to happen outside tactile stimulation. If she is to follow, I might do well to pay even closer attention to her levels, and sedate them heavily as can be done. In time, the sensations will fade...but even still, I curse myself for a fool, not having seen the immediate ramifications. Perhaps I should have sent another agent in Merriem's stead. No, I tell myself as I flick a switch and already begin to see her vitals diminish to levels only slightly higher than baseline. Merriem is a good agent. My best...although, if the current mission is successful, perhaps she'll be second-best. "You're doing fine," I reassure her. "But you need to--" "--follow them?" She's quick, of course. Through the camera I notice her shake her head from side to side, vigorously, as though trying, unsuccessfully, to rattle something out of it. "I will. Just...feeling really odd all of a sudden, sir. Warm, then cold, just as your man--and that woman--passed by. Not catchy, is he, sir?" I start to chuckle, then think better of it. "Eye on the prize, girl. All will be well. You know what to do." I watch her spin up over the nearest building, then extend a line from her vibranium wristlet and start swinging her way into the labyrinthine corridors of old London. Meanwhile, I punch up a display on the computer monitor, overriding the signal from her cameras for a moment. "I'll download old London's specs into your camera eye. It'll be a scalable 3-dimensional model of the entire quadrant of the city where they've gone. Tell me when you can see the holographic display on your right contact lens." "Done. And...wherever the red dot goes...?" "Subcutaneous tracer emitting an ultra-high frequency pulse only you and I can read. Should be pretty well indestructible. My design, you know." I can almost hear her smirk. "Do you know what to do if the man finds himself in a situation he cannot control?" Her voice cuts like a knife--cold, pristine, clean, as she swings deeper still into the old territory--her sight now matching on the map I have given her. "Intervene. With all deliberate haste. Make sure the woman gets her hands on the body." A proud angel, she is. Intelligent. Soulful. Cunning. Loyal. * * * * * By the time Merriem arrives, the battle between Morbius and Dracula has escalated into an all-out blood feud in the streets. They freely throw each other into buildings made of old brick and mortar--little shops and homes, centuries old, in varying stages of decomposition. Laveau tries her best to fight directly alongside Morbius, but it appears he cares little for her being there. Just as often as Dracula does so, the young faux vampire tosses her away, giving in to the baser instincts of battle. She now lies limply--as though unconscious-- It would appear that all is lost, that the creature Dracula has turned battle's tide as he claws savagely at Morbius' chest, when one slash brings with it a rush of revelation. For upon clawing at Morbius' vestments, the long chain around the youthling's neck presents its noble, gleaming prize: the shining, golden emblem of all that such an evil, decrepit creature as Dracula should hate--a crucifix. A crucifix! Where would one who surrounds himself with pagan practitioners as the Vodun pick up a crucifix? Immediately, the Lord of Vampires shoves himself away from Morbius, and in so doing, accidentally presses his hand against the cross in his haste to retreat. The effect is like trying to put out a fire with gasoline: Dracula's hand literally explodes into flame. Morbius steps back in disbelief, all the fury of the last several minutes bleeding away as though it were never there at all. Wings that extruded from his back now fold in upon themselves; the blue fur patches shrink from sight; and once more, he looks like an ordinary human, save for the chalk-white skin and sunk-in complexion. "Jennifer, thank you!" he says to no one in particular, and I can only guess it was this 'Jennifer' person who gave him the cross to wear (* In MORBIUS #7, natch! --GMM). I want to tell Merriem to stand down, to wait to see how this new element will play out--now that Morbius has discovered one of the vampire's weaknesses--but I cannot find the words, and simply watch, caught in the splendor of the moment. Then, just as quickly, I ponder the obvious question. It's been very nearly an hour since the battle began, and yet, this incident with the crucifix proves to me that Marie Laveau has informed Morbius on next to nothing about the nature of the vampire. He obviously doesn't know the ways to kill such a creature--not sunlight, not a stake through the heart. Not entirely surprising, however, knowing what Laveau wants from the creature. If Dracula is the only vampire she's met in the last few years of searching, then surely she'd make every effort to get her prize and leave the good count to his devices. None of what she's doing now is about Morbius--he's a tool, a means to an end, nothing more. I almost pity him for not realizing the fact. As Dracula stamps his crimson cape atop his hand to extinguish the flames, Morbius takes full advantage of his condition, and removes the cross from his neck--which, one has to admit, is a pretty by-the-book (re: bad) thing to do at this stage. He dangles it from his fingers and moves it closer, ever closer to Dracula, who raises his cape to try and block out the sight of it. Closer Morbius comes with the cross, until finally, Dracula lifts his leg and kicks the cross out of Morbius' hand, sending it through the air. It lands only a short distance away, but Morbius is so surprised he can only stand still as Dracula transforms into his lupine form and charges directly into his breast, forcing the both of them across the avenue. So much effort does the vampire lord put into the thrust, that both are knocked directly through the building's unsteady facade! They disappear within. "Merriem!" I cry. "Reading you loud and clear, sir." She focuses in on the action, but seeing as I am using her view of events as my own, it affords us little. Without warning, she begins bounding down the side of the warehouse building where she sat perched. Three touches, and she's on the ground, moving silently, swiftly toward the gaping hole in the side of the three story building that already seems on the verge of collapse, so heaving side-to-side is it as within, obviously, Morbius and Dracula continue their fight at a level of such ferocity that neither can continue for long. "Get in there, Merriem!" I yell as through her eyes I see the supporting structure begin to shift around. I hear the punishing blows within the building--brick, mortar and who knows what else taking a severe beating, bones and muscle impacting like wrecking balls against the walls, such is the superhuman speed and strength behind the efforts. "Get in there NOW, before--" Too late. As I struggle to finish the sentence, the entire two-story structure collapses atop itself in one swift motion, kicking up a plume of dust and debris. Screams are heard from the upper floor as it caves into the main floor, which in turn, I imagine, thrusts itself down into the basement. The people who were living in the tenement--or rather, those who at the very least were partaking of the accomodations for the evening--obviously died. But, Dracula would live. Would--could Morbius? "Vous! Fille!" A voice comes from behind Merriem--one whom, judging from the French dialect, must belong to Marie Laveau. Merriem turns as Marie lays her hand upon her shoulder. Her chalk-white hand grips the Voodoo Queen's hard; I hear a sickening crunch, but the elder woman doesn't flinch, in spite of her obvious injury. "You were watching us the entire time? Following us?" Laveau's voice sounds perfectly smooth, natural, stirringly deep, hypnotically sensual in its tonal quality. It's the first time I've truly heard her speak up close to the microphone on Merriem's person. She's a beautiful, dark-haired raveness, but it's obvious that the effects of her youth elixir, born of the vampire's blood, are wearing off. Ordinarily, I'm told, she looks like a woman of no more than thirty; however, this woman looks closer to fifty--an unnaturally attractive and virile fifty, but fifty nevertheless. How slowly, I wonder, do the effects of her serum wear off? Has she steadily been growing older in appearance these past hours? It would seem so. "Don't be stupid and force a confrontation, girl!" I fairly yell through the audio transceiver. "You can't accomplish anything here. Make sure Morbius is alive!" The girl's adrenaline surges. She's ready to pounce like a cat. "Hoodoo witch, you've no idea what you're dealing with." Then, she straightens her tone considerably: "I'm here to help him. Your friend." "As you can see, you're a trifle--" The rubble begins to shift, and as a mist congeals about the top of the fallen-in house, out breaks a single, pale hand with long fingernails. The stones shift left and right, thrown every which way as the well-dressed arm flays about, seeking escape. Finally, the cape-clad Count Dracula emerges from the debris, pulling a very battered, nearly unconscious Morbius along with him. He drops the body at his feet, then takes special note of both women twenty yards from his person. As the vampire licks his fangs, he makes the first of several bold steps this direction, toward the women. "Marie Laveau," the count speaks, cocking his head to one side. His scarlet-and-black cape waves behind him as he trudges forward on the cobble street, its shadows rising and falling like flowing blood. "And one other." He sniffs in the air. "A virgin child." Grinning, the pencil-thin mustache above his lips rising at one edge, he continues his deliberate forward stride. Behind him, I see the young Morbius stirring as power lines, lain bare from the onslaught the building endured, begin to arc their waves of electricity around him, infusing him with just enough strength that he may just be able to stand. I must tell Merriem. As I do, she turns her gaze in that true direction, advised to not pay too close attention, for fear Dracula will realize what is happening before there is time to act. I instruct Merriem to follow through on a modification of our original plan, as we'd discussed before she left the mountain. She cannot respond, but I trust she understands the intent fully. The next few moments may as well have occurred in slow motion. Merriem stands back from Laveau and removes her weapon of choice from the holster on her belt. Dracula, still several yards away and in no particular hurry, merely scoffs at what is, to him, an ordinary gun. "Morbius!" my young charge yells, and the other young one springs to attention as Merriem chucks the apparent firearm far in the air, above Dracula's head, to fall nearly straight into the boy's hands. "Aim for his heart!" The Lord of Vampires figures out the reason for the gun's exceptionally long barrel only too late, turning as Morbius aims and fires. A single, pencil-thin shaft of wood bolts forth from the gun barrel--its aim, true; its speed, too fast for the vampire to dodge. It strikes Dracula in his shoulder, but Morbius fires again, undeterred, and this time, the second wooden shaft strikes its target, the heart of the beast. Immediately the vampire quivers and tries to grip the long shaft. His eyes fill with red blood, he shudders, and falls straight forward, collapsing onto his stomach. Success. Morbius walks forward, dropping the gun, eager to catch up with his partner Laveau and this apparent new girl, my charge. I take care to empty the stores of anti-hormones within Merriem's suit to ensure that nothing here happens that shouldn't...at least, not until later, when I can dictate terms. "Who are you?" Morbius asks Merriem, looking at her strangely as he perches himself above Dracula's body. "Why did you save me?" Merriem is stunned, speechless. It's the first time she's actually been able to look at Morbius up-close. I can't tell her facial expression, but I'd be willing to bet it's halfway between conveying confusion and absolute happiness. "I... I..." She runs the few steps to his side and presses her body to his in an embrace--I'm not sure whether it's one of joy to be face to face with him, or something else. I pray she's been dosed enough with my controlling cocktail. Meanwhile, Laveau hovers above the body of the vampire. She reaches inside a sack on her shoulder and pulls out a long knife and a glass bottle containing a strange powdery mixture. After being apparently lost in thought for a moment, perhaps debating the puzzling notion before her--namely, that the Dracula body shows no signs of decomposition after being hit with a stake through its heart, she discards the notion as trivial and begins tearing at the creature's clothing, after which she carves long slits down the arms and across the wrists, proceeding to collect the last rivulets of blood into the jar. The contents within bubble and froth, and Laveau says a prayer in French before pouring just a taste of the rich, viscous fluid down her throat. She begins to laugh as blood runs down the edges of her mouth, and the others turn their attention away from themselves and toward her. "I've done it! The formula is completed, my friend Morbius! Dracula's blood mixed with my potion will enable me to live yet more lifetimes! I owe this all to you, mon ami. I owe it all to--***GAKKKKKKKKK!!!!!!***" Immediately, Morbius and Merriem look on--I presume with horror, since I cannot glimpse their faces--as she chokes up rivulets of red. The tainted blood within Dracula's body has its desired affect, accelerating the changes within Laveau's body, aging her hundreds of years within instants, effectively killing her. Her body slumps to the ground and dissipates into a pile of dust that seems to scatter as though blown by a preternatural wind. Just as quickly, then, Dracula's own body reacts in much the same fashion, collapsing to dust that also simply gusts away. Morbius and Merriem stand, alone, holding each other, looking downward at the spot on the street where only moments before stood the Voodoo Queen of New Orleans and her quarry, the creature Dracula. It's done. Well, not wholly. There's still one more task to be done, one that I must attend to personally--and soon, before the regulatory steroids I've pumped into Merriem's system wear off. "Merriem?" I deliberately ignore the words they speak to one another, and shut off the video feed. Introductions. Paltry words, small talk. I have no need for it, no desire to see it. "There's a TransMat ten blocks east of your location. I need you to bring him there. We're going to welcome him to our family." No response, then, I hear her talk to him: "Let's go someplace, Morbius. I'll show you a place where you don't need to be afraid...you'll fit in. I fit in there, you will too. I'll introduce you to the greatest man in the world." Morbius tries to avoid the issue--you can tell by his silence for several seconds that he's at war with himself--his rational half and his...baser instincts. He's just lost four people he knew rather well, and this one--my Merriem--comes forth and fairly declares she knows of a safe haven. She gave him the means to save his own life and her own as well, or so he has reason to think. She's made a hero out of him. How can he repay her? "All right, Merriem. We can go to this place. It must be a good sight better than here." The ten-block walk passes uneventfully. I hear the noises, of them getting into the TransMat booth; I feed them the numbers and suddenly, the TransMat installed in my chambers hums and glows. They have arrived. From the booth I see first Merriem, beautiful Merriem, her lithe form fairly springing from the TransMat. She's small, but nimble, and extraordinarily beautiful in her own way--beautiful, I should imagine, to any man, with her long red tresses, pale yet supple skin, high cheekbones, full lips and green eyes...she's at once exotic, elegant, and down-to-earth, and that makes me proud to call her daughter. Behind her, Morbius comes. He, too, cuts an imposing figure, although he is frightfully tall and gaunt. He is truly the perfect complement to my Merriem. "Welcome to Wundagore, Morbius," I say, extending my crimson-gloved hand for a shake. I notice that he's a bit put off by my appearance, but I've no immediate way of changing it. The armor I wear, in its hues of crimson and silver, I have worn for over a century and a half. It has sustained me far beyond the normal human lifespan as long as I have worn it--protected me from the environment, from virtually any attack. At once, upon coming in close contact with "Morbius," I feel compelled to employ my scientific aptitudes to make myself appear in my prime--to evolve myself to a point where age was but a number. That wasn't who I've been for many years. Of late, I am become but a humble laborer--the driving force behind the eastern European conglomerate known as Klonetek, with my fingers in many a corporate pie--government contracts, the like. I manufacture on demand. It's a living...a far cry from my old 'business,' but I get by. Removing my crimson helmet, I show Morbius as well as Merriem my face, my true face: clean kept, chiseled, straight brown hair, all confirming my Welsh heritage. I smile warmly--almost too warmly, for these days. Will he know just how much his presence here means? "I am Dr. Herbert Wyndham. People here used to call me the High Evolutionary. You may call me either, such as you wish. I hope you'll enjoy your stay here." A handshake, and I know, I feel it in my bones, that he will stay. Stay, and doubtlessly thrive, as, no doubt, will I too--this I feel in every erg of my being. My heir and I are, at long last, together. THE END (Stymied? Confused? The story continues in PART II of "Countdown to The Crusade," 2099 PRESENTS: IRON MAN VS. MORBIUS #1!) ********************************************************************** The countdown to 2099: THE CRUSADE has begun: ( X ) T-minus 3: MORBIUS 2099UG #12 (Now) ( ) T-minus 2: 2099UG PRESENTS: IRON MAN VS. MORBIUS #1 ( ) T-minus 1: 2099UG PRESENTS: SPIDER-MAN & TENSEN #1 ( ) Ignition: 2099: THE CRUSADE #1 ********************************************************************** Special note to the fans: Well, this is it...the FINAL issue of Morbius. A couple years in the making, and certainly some of you might think due to the severe lag between the last issue I actually scripted (#8) and/or the last issue and this, that one of two things happened. Certainly you might think that I could conceivably think Jason Smith screwed up with his three issues (#9-11) so badly I had no choice but to pretty much throw everything he did out the window--which I'll freely admit, I did this issue. That, or I had a revelation that everything I was doing with Morbius was just wrong beyond belief, and I had to reconceive the whole shebang pretty much from zip. That couldn't be further from the truth, fellas. I always intended to have Morbius delve into Voodoo--to skirt the line between science and the supernatural month in and month out. I also fully intended to have Dracula in there. As hard as it may be to believe, the way I wrote this last issue of Morb's adventures is exactly the same as it would have been had I scripted those last issues myself. I've changed very little from the original idea. Introducing Merriem, freeing Tyler Stone, and yes, even killing off Le'Osha, Marie Laveau and the brothers Fielding was all part of my (rather sinister) master plan from the get-go. Even the High Evolutionary's presence was well-choreographed, even if the choice to use him as narrator really wasn't. I really haven't compressed the eight issues' worth I had planned last this story into just this one, despite the fact some things may seem cramped here. Sometimes, a lot of stuff happens in a little time. A life can turn around in a heartbeat. Such is the case with Morbius. I of course need to thank everyone involved in making MORBIUS a success in its 13-issue run (yes, including #0). Thanks to Joey Guerra for scripting and co-plotting #1 and 2 and Jason Smith for doing the honors on #9, 10 and 11. And to the mighty Drillnot--thanks for listening to my insanity and letting me know which direction I should go. Kudos, all! Since you've no doubt finished the story, you know that it's a beginning, not an ending. The entire volume of MORBIUS has been a primer for what follows. The past is prologue. C'est la vie. See you in IRON MAN VS. MORBIUS. -Gary Michael Miller tensen2099@yahoo.com 10/12/2002 |