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| Morbius 2099UG Issue #8 "Viewpoints" Written by 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. |
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| "You are today where your thoughts have brought you; you will be tomorrow where your thoughts take you." --James Allen -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- ONE: DOWNTOWN From the small temple called The Loa, the woman named Le'Osha finds herself swamped by work. The climb upward has been slow this past day. Her Voodoo was not intended to be such as it is now, a means by which to initiate Morbius's followers; nonetheless, that is what her Hounfort, her altar, has become. In fact it has become busier still through the destruction of Saint Patrick's Cathedral mere blocks away; whether that may be attributed to loss of that church in the material world, or simply that the people of this time feel that they can freely substitute one religion for another, is trivial. Le'Osha watches as many new followers file in the doors and pass by her and her fellow priests and priestesses, her houngans and mambos, on their way to receive the sacraments that will formally induct them into the Vodoun, or Voodoo, community. They still, however, will have a long way to go before they are ready for the canzo, the formal member initiation. For now they shall merely be hounsi bossale, workers and servants honored in the name of Damballah and the other, lower Loa. The mambo, Le'Osha, has her other servants, her hounsi canzo, the initiated, perform the ceremonial lighting of the Boucan, or fire. The ceremoni is about to begin, and she motions for Aiesha, her female assistant and houngenikon, and Elgan, her male assistant and La Place, to begin the chant. Le'Osha invokes Legba, loa of the gate and crossroads: **Papa Legba, ouvri barrie pou nous passer.** As the initiation rites are performed around the Hounfort, Le'Osha cannot help but think of the way things are going; Morbius should come to these ceremonies, she thinks; it has been he who needed help, always him. Perhaps the power of the loa can aid him in his quest for humanity, and perhaps by initiating him into her societe along with all the others he may finally find peace away from the temptations of the modern world. It would only be fitting. Along with her upper servants she calls the loa, the gods to order in the service. Meanwhile each new memebr of the societe comes by her and receives the sacrament of initiation and baptism, laver tete, the washing of the head. She thinks of those who have done this before, and wonders if such mass initiations were necessary in the past. What might the mother of Voodoo, Marie Laveau, say to this? She would decidedly be pleased with the initial turnout, but what would she and the loa find within the souls of these people? True want for the sacraments, true need for the lifestyle of Voodoo? Probably not. But it is currently all that she can give. All Le'Osha's life she has grown up to praise the priests and pristesses that practice these teachings. It was all that she had ever known. All the others in her part of New Orleans were easing out of the practices of this religion many thought ancient and passe; but Le'Osha knew much, much better. her father was a houngan, her mother a mambo, each at their own separate place of worship. And they never received any true fulfillment as a result of the turnout of people, which was rather small. More and more of a stereotypical shadow was cast upon their lives and they were shunned away, away to New York. It had been a long and perilous journey, during which Le'Osha's mother grew sick and eventually died, but her father still gave her hope; the old ways were the best, and she should do her best to preserve them at any cost. She still remembers her father, who now rests with Damballah up above. And she knows that Voodoo is not the superstitious lot that many have made it out to be; it virtually disintegrated over the last few years and only now is she singlehandedly bringing the teachings of the loa back to society. She remembers the way others used to comment about her religion -- of the possibilities of zombies (which Le'Osha, by chance, had seen only once, and even then it wasn't so big a shocking deal) and of voodoo dolls (again, she had done this, but only under the cautious supervision of her father; it really isn't what everyone believes it is, she says). It is also said that those who practice Voodoo have a proficiency to read Tarot and thus predict the future. This is exactly as the naysayers say; this Le'Osha may do occasionally for the soul in need of guidance. More men and women file into the center, and Le'Osha says prayers of Christian origin as well as others. For instance: "Eh Ye Ye Mamzelle Marie Ya Ye Ye le konin fon, gris-gris Li te kouri leka aver veux koko dril Oh ouai, ye Mamzelle Marie..." As this song is sung, something stirs in Downtown. It is unnatural, not of this earth. Le'Osha trembles as she rememebrs the encounter in the Catholic church against Tetragrammaton, and how Morbius had defeated the creature within. She feels a similar feeling of something deadly and terrible in the air. Is Morbius returned? Has he not fully rid the world of that foul beast? Has it transferred itself to this very church, insinuated itself into the Voodoo community? Or is it something different? Le'Osha steps out of the ceremony to find out. And when she opens the doors she sees the thick gray mists rising up from the ground, rising all around like a dense fog, through the air, up further, further, further still. As she opens the door she also spies several men running around blindly in the streets. And to think, Morbius is in the middle of this all! Where could he be? He should have returned from his journey by now! And yet... Now the men run into Le'Osha's place of worship freely, many of them piling in. They seem to be filing in blindly, listlessly, not at all like those who should show panic in a time such as this. What can be going on? What indeed, Le'Osha wonders as she closes the doors and rushes back to the Hounfort to begin the prayers anew. She can't help but think that Damballah and the other loa may be trying to punish her for giving them such a wealth of new followers -- followers who may or may not believe or belong. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- TWO: UPTOWN Morbius's mother told him never to talk to strangers. So he never talked to her. That's the kind of life he's had since birth. He can't really even remember those years, and perhaps it's best that he doesn't. After all, Downtown isn't exactly the kind of place you want to grow up in. Years wasted, years gone, and what does one have to show for it--absolutely nothing, that's what. He's not afraid of death--only life. Never had anything to live for, and never even had what you can call a real family. Not likely to have one either. The man known formerly as The Son grew up, a sickly little child for most of the time, and it was years before anybody even paid any attention to him at all. He had to struggle for that first friend. She was quite older than he, and he guesses that's why he called her "mother," but it was more than that soon. She raised him along with the blind woman, did the best job she could under the horrendous circumstances. He would try and gather food, and for awhile they lived in the old church five blocks over. He would capture the rats there and they would eat them. It was terrible living, really, but was all they knew. The two of them were kicked out eventually, and spent a few more months together before the anger of their position overwhelmed her. She killed herself, and Morbius buried her. Buried her like old twentieth century people used to. The old woman helped him recover from the loss. She died not one year from that date. He's been on his own ever since that point six years ago. It used to be that no one knew him, no one cared who he was. He guesses he liked it best that way. Don't get him wrong, he would really want to have a life, a family, but it isn't going to happen, not with what he's really like. He's been called a freak by the denizens of this place. But finally as he stands here above it all he feels he's beginning to belong. But he must always wonder if he is destined to go back to the way things were. Yes, he has friends in this city, as he looks down from the highest tower in Midtown New York City. He has Le'Osha, who's been a good trusted friend. He has his followers, who trust him blindly and do what he wishes them to do; they are a mystery to him, they who have first followed Thor, then Spider-Man. Several of them were lost recently in battle with the Specialists, and many of them had their beliefs shaken by the Tetragrammaton last night, but they still stand behind him in crisis. And then there is the man known as Jerry Fielding. The man whom he had just met before the religious madness ensued. He was part of Alchemax Research and Development around the year 2080. The year of Morbius's birth was 2083. He wonders if there is some connection between him and the project which made him what he is -- the energy-sucking leech that he has become. It is the first of many thoughts put into his head by Tetragrammaton. The Tetragrammaton claimed to know Morbius's true origin. His origin! Where he came from, who was responsible; why his parents had deserted him and why he had been dumped into such filth in Downtown. What were the clues? "I shall prove your quest to you. One you have already encountered and let slip through your fingers. Another you have seen a pale and younger reflection of recently. Another has knowledge far beyond your ken, yet of another, older age; and still another guards the sacred place from which you came." He believes he knows each. But what else was it that the demon had said about his own condition? "It is only a matter of time before one of these days you shall take too much energy from the person you attempt. You shall even perhaps drink of the sweetest wine there is, the blood of a human being." Never! Morbius thinks it over to himself. He feels his fangs and rejects the merest thought. Never shall he drink the blood of a human being to stay alive! And never shall he drain someone so completely of the energy that he shall die! This is what he vows to himself. And what about the gods whom Tetragrammaton said he worshipped? The false god -- Morbius of the latter twentieth century, he supposes. The true god, God the Father. Who, he thinks, did he let slip through his fingers? He thinks the one might be any of three: Miguel O'Hara, the Spider-Man of 2099; Jerry Fielding, the scientist; or Tyler Stone, ex-CEO of Alchemax. Miguel tried diagnosing the condition and helping Morbius, and in addition the scientists at Alchemax were only trying to develop a potential cure for the Vamp-X, manufacturing it for research purposes. Fielding he told to wait until he returned, and since he has taken him to Le'Osha's church. He is not far removed from his grasp. So it only remains that Tyler Stone is one "god" whom Morbius secretly worships. One of the men who had a hand in creating him. Damn him. Another he has seen a pale and younger reflection of. Morbius wonders, what if it is Fielding? He will have to ask if the man has an older brother. If he even remembers anything about his past and his family. Otherwise who could it be? It would not be the Dealer, even though he certainly was the "younger reflection" of Halloween Jack, his brother. No, what Tetragrammaton implied was that he had met and currently knows the brother of the man, not the man himself. Asking Fielding is the only action which comes to mind. The other two, then, are the hard ones to figure out. One has technology which comes from an earlier age. One generation ago, or many? Could that person be from the Heroic Age, or does the man merely use tools from long ago, even alchemy? Morbius dares think that one of these men to whom Tetragrammaton refers may actually be his real father. But the other clue would not make sense then: the one who guards the place from which he came obviously denotes his mother. But are any of them still alive? Morbius cannot say, but he must know. He must know! As Morbius watches through the spaces between the maglev tracks at Downtown, he notices a thin stream of mist seep up through. More of it fills his line of vision, rising up higher and higher in the night sky. What, he wonders, would bring this gaseous material up from Downtown at such an hour? It is late, and there has been no radical change in temperature, nothing to cause a dew such as this to rise up. It rises further still and Morbius inhales deeply through his nostrils. He abruptly sneezes the stuff out and finds himself ejecting blood from his nose and mouth. Could this be the remnants of the energy that was Tetragrammaton? It seems so, for it has the same acridity to it, the same taste as the church had. The energy he had sucked in from Tetragrammaton had been astounding when it happened. Then he wished for Father Jennifer, the Goblin, to blast him with all her power. The energy built to supreme levels, enough to disperse the energy of Tetragrammaton and make the beast unsure, immaterial, confused of its own identity. It had become one with the energy used to defeat it. Morbius had then filtered the energy out of his system, as it was simply too much to contain. The feeling was intense and Morbius would not soon experience it again; however it did leave him with a fullness, the hunger apparently gone, not to return for some time. During that time he could be normal, or at least as normal as he could be. Then Morbius notices what the mist is doing to him. It fills his senses to overload and he can feel his bestial urges coming on again. They wax and wane as he watches for something to come up from the cracks. Nothing comes. His powers fade once again and he wonders exactly what it is he is experiencing. It is horror and euphoria all at once, seeping into every pore of his being. He feels discomfort and pleasure at once, and trembles at the thought of it. Morbius can't help but breathe deeper, letting it filter through every pore of his being. The energy seems familiar somehow but Morbius cannot place it. There is nothing to fight or touch. He jumps downward acrobatically, masterfully, going toward the center of the disturbance. He grows weaker and weaker. What is it about this energy, if it is not Tetragrammaton's? He feels like a normal man. A normal human being, not a mutant freak. Not a vampire freak. Then he sees a woman rise up and into the sky. She is dark-skinned and dark-haired, wearing a long black dress covered with many an exquisite pattern. Her eyes glow and flicker. She is incredibly beautiful, and utterly a sexual creature. Morbius feels his young nerves twitch as he watches the woman ascend up to the stars, carrying the strange aura of mist with her. It seems to disperse itself over the city. Morbius can do nothing about it. He cannot fly, cannot think. Cannot concentrate. He merely falls asleep, and feels the mists blanket over him. He is content. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- THREE: LONDON, ENGLAND A man in the medical facility of the corporation known as Drekk Industries tries desperately to awaken. He has been asleep and unable to awaken for roughly two weeks, and frankly, his subconscious was getting tired of working all the time. It was about the right moment for a comeback into the real world. Into the world from which he had been deprived since that infernal man in white gave him that synthinjection to his neck. He feels his neck, rubs it, and decidedly turns his attention to more immediate concerns. Ten women all wearing white are sitting around him. He feels his body and looks around to find himself in a bed, connected up to all sorts of new-age electrodes and such that monitor every little function his body has ever performed or is ever likely to. He groans and tries looking beyond the women, but they block his vision. Tyler Stone never had it so bad. "Don't try to move, sir," one of the women says in a rather high-pitched tone. "You've been under nearly a week in this condition. You'll need time to re-adjust--" "I don't care, miss. All I care about is getting out of here. Where am I, anyway? The last thing I remember is touching down in London at Drekk. What's happened since then, and who the shock are you?" "Who I am is none of your immedaite concern, Mister Stone. But what has happened since then, a whole lot. Take a look for yourself." And the blond woman reaches for a switch that activates a holovid in the air before him. Three-dimensional wonder. The man on the holovid speaks and it is obvious to Stone that he is reporting the news from the past few days. Or has it been weeks? He has no way of knowing. He can only listen. The name of his former company, Alchemax, comes up in the right-hand corner of the vid. Some news that O'Hara may actually have done something right in the R&D world? Not bloody likely. "Now the latest reports from New York. After the destruction of Alchemax Tower in Midtown on the thirtieth of last month, there is still no word on the future of the company, or even if a future for the company exists. Alchemax CEO Miguel O'Hara said in an interview, 'At this time I see no reason to assume that Alchemax is completely old news; but then again I see no reason to bring any sort of life back to the company at present. My board of advisors and I will review any proposals that come by, but again, there is no official word on the fate of Alchemax from me. We have lost a lifetime of achievements and technology in the explosion, and it is doubtful that much of the technology we have used to get us this far will be replaceable.'" Off. "This is deplorable. What the shock have you let happen? Do you see, the corporation I left has self-destructed! I demand to know more! I demand--" "You have no right to demand anything, Mister Stone," someone says from the edge of his bed from in almost-total shadow. "And just who the shock are you?" Stone asks, seething with rage. He begins to bang his fists against the bed over and over. "I can't be kept in the dark like this!!! I am Tyler Stone!" Before anyone can do anythiong to prevent him, he quickly leaps from the sitting position in his bed to a defensive stance on top of the bed, ripping tubes and pads and all sorts of connective devices from his skin in the series of quick moves that bring him to his-- --feet? "If you'll just sit right back down, Mister Stone, we'll explain everything to you. Don't get scared." Tyler thinks for a moment, staring down at himself -- at his body? It can't be, it simply can't be possible that he, Tyler Stone, cripple at the hands of Conchata O'Hara, his one-time lover and mother of his son, Miguel, can at this time be standing up straight, on an act of pure instinct, an animal impulse. He had the desire to stand, and so he stood! What the shock is going on? Tyler waits for another few moments, then lets his fists drop to his sides, limp. The man at the foot of the bed takes out a device. "Don't make me use this," he says. "You think a little toy such as that can bring me back down to my knees again? Have you gone absolutely insane?" Tyler then is rewarded for his bold statement as the man presses the button on the device. Tyler is immediately wracked with pain, his nerves somehow exploding with pain. His body twists and contorts and finally falls back down onto the bed as limply as his arms had voluntarily just seconds earlier. "Does that answer your question, Mister Stone?" the man says in a voice unlike anything Tyler has ever heard. He steps from the shadows. Tyler gasps. The man removes his pink hood and stands in robes of purple, blue and silver. He is exceptionally long-haired, and his teeth are shaped into fangs, his fingers twisted into claws. "You aspire to be part of the conglomeration known to the world at large as Drekk. Now you shall know the inner workings of the company as only one who has received the treatments can." "You're talking madness, sir, if you don't mind my saying so," Tyler says, gaining the control of his body enough to speak. "I joined Drekk to gain the upper hand over Alchemax, which rejected me! I didn't come here to be drugged, and poked, and prodded like some animal!" "We know that, Mister Stone. In fact, Drekk knows that. I am but an officer, an agent if you will, of the man who has found the technology to save your body. We sensed your need. That is why you had been 'poked and prodded', as you so delicately state it. As evidenced by this device," he holds up the gun-like apparatus with the button, "we can just as easily remove our handiwork, and leave you as crippled as before." "What have you done to my body, you cretins? What have you done?" He looks to the nurses, then to the man again. He feels the nerve impulses between his brain and the rest of his body being reconnected. The gun's effects are wearing off. "You say I needed this. Why, you monsters?" "Patience, and all will be explained in due time," the cloaked man says. "Agents of Drekk will be along shortly to help you in step two of your regeneration. You have a new body to get used to." The man takes something from his pocket -- an antique mirror to be held in the hand. "See for yourself." Tyler looks and is astonished at the sight he sees. What he views through his own eyes is not Tyler stone, the sick, dilapidated thing he had become after the encounter with Conchata. He looks at the left side of his head and finds a whole ear instead of the one lasered off years ago. He looks at his skin and finds none of the wrinkles associated with a man his age. He even looks at his hair, which is crew-cut, but showing more brown than whiteness -- in short, more youth than before. He thinks he can even see a hint of his old mustache coming back in very nicely. He feels himself, his body, and finds instead of flabby, normal tissue, he is a new man -- filled with the strength and vitality he knew many years ago. Strength -- ah, yes, he feels muscles, thick cords of them, all over. He flexes his arms, feels his chest, and looks down at his legs -- everything is remarkably intact. "How--?" "This is why Drekk wanted you, Mister Stone. This is phase one of the payment plan they have for you. They have hired my employer and gave him this task to perform. He sent me as his proxy. It was a ... minimal effort. We could have done anything we wanted to you. Think of it as a minor showing of power." "And all you ask in return--?" "Not me. All Drekk asks for having spent as much time and money as they have in you is for you to serve them admirably just as you had served Alchemax all that time. You will have your chances to get even. More than that, or so they promise. "Now if you'll excuse me, sir, I have many other errands to do for the Master. For the corporation. Have a pleasant day. And here," he holds out a holopen and a computer pad with a contract, pure and simple. "All you need to do to become part of the Drekk legend. They wish you to sign and give it to one of the nurses when finished. Cheerio, Mister Stone." The man leaves, and he takes the entourage of nurses with him. The room is empty and silent as Tyler examines the computer contract in his hands. It is so very simple, isn't it? So bloody simple. Tyler Stone begins to laugh. Slowly at first, it builds through his vocal chords until at last an insane cackle bursts from his lips. So very simple. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- FOUR: SOMEWHERE IN EUROPE The factory is in the mountains. People can hear it throughout the night, sense the hard labor going on every day. The screams, the howls, the yells of success and of failure. Victory and defeat all in one place. As is, as was, as always will be, this place stands a testament. Its purpose is unlike any other. It is a flesh factory. People are born here, people live here, and people die here. By their own hand, by someone else's hand, it matters not. All is sacrificed for the work. The animals are sacrificed. The men are sacrificed. The women are sacrificed. Even the plants, the bacteria, the algae, the virae are borne, are killed in search of the higher, the better, the fitter. Charles Darwin would not be more happy than in this place. And in this lair, the machinations of one man among a cast of millions are brought to light. In this worker's den, in what some might consider a hive, the work continues, an endless process of creation and destruction, two sides of the same coin. It is one that the Master finds challenging, and more than that -- a little fun. Fascinating. He scans over the vats and caskets, over the activity a-buzzing down below. No one has seen him over the past several years. His seclusion is mandatory to the success of the work. Very few have even been granted privileges to speak with the Master. This is again for reasons of success. It creates fear, it creates loathing, but most of all, it produces capital the one way he and his men can. Indeed, it is something to see when the workers in this place succumb to disease, to rigors of the job environment, to whatever, for the others react not knowing whether it is the work of nature or of the other forces above, of a vengeful, wrathful god, or may it even be the one behind it all, whom they have never seen, whom they perceive may hold some power, or in fact a great degree of power, and is not afraid to display that power. It is something to chill one's soul. The Master laughs at this. He may have the Power, but rarely must use it. It has been so since the lair's inception, since his instatement as director of the work. Work has never gone better than now -- and perhaps, he thinks, it is always so, no time being like the present. Perfection races closer. The menial work goes on. He is content. And no one at all knows his real name. They are asked to disregard that fact. But is it a fact anymore? It has been decades since he truly went by his original title, and he wonders if perhaps he shall ever assume that title ever again. For now he is the Master. For now he is a nobody. An effortless little nobody. A powerful nobody, but nonetheless such a worthless being. He has sent his officers, his proxies, all over the world. It is these men and women who report to him day and night. They report into electronic journals which he then watches in this private lair, his private room. They subtly influence the masses to the way of thinking that he himself learned. Sooner or later all will know of the presence of his company and what they do. They shall accept it as right, as just, and as such they will become his. It will not be as some of his previous minions have attempted ages prior. This time no one knows his identity. The players have changed. The players are new and virgin to these plans of his. But they will learn soon enough. They will learn, and it all will be his once again. No longer a stooge, no longer a nameless, faceless enigma. No longer impotent in power. No longer a nobody. On that day where he is on the verge of giving his science to the masses, he will unveil himself. On that day he'll know why he waited so long. At least, that's what he secretly hopes. None have been privy to his thoughts until now. The man walks back into his private ready room and sits in his own comfortable hover chair. Holovids play all day. They are stationed all over the world, from New Berlin to Saint Petersburg, from Hollywood to -- New York??? The man stands once more at the sight of the men he sees in Downtown, the lower area of New York. Can this be? Men with characteristics of ancient beings, of vampires? It cannot be, and yet it must. And if it must then--! No. Not the past. Coming back to haunt, to pursue, to instill fear. Never again. A tear falls from the Master's eye as he examines the footage. That was then, damn it! That was then, and this is now. Now, a time where he is far removed from the affairs of man. A place where new men are born every day. A time where once more he may be called upon. Better to be prepared for the onslaught. After all, forewarned is forearmed. And he shall need to be forearmed to take the commanding position he so desperately wants. Now, after a long period of solitude. He wonders if he is truly ready. The day is yet young, and there is much he must ponder. The Master will scheme. Perhaps there is a way. He issues his orders to the underlings at his flesh factory. There is more work than ever to be done, and so little time. Indeed, less time than ever before. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- EPILOGUE: NEW YORK CITY The Transmat opens at night, fresh from its point of creation in Europe. The men, the workers, constructed it overnight the moment they received such orders. It is no sooner assembled than a bright flash overcomes it. The men step back but cannot take their eyes off the booth. Suddenly the mists above take hold of their senses. What madness is this? They look inside at what the Transmat booth has brought, and try to open it. Once they succeed, they see nothing -- only an astonishing amount of dust -- mist, whatever it is. It seeps out of the booth, and joins with the mist already blanketing the city. No one is more astonished than the workers. Then the terror hits them both. From the sky above a streak of red and black swoops down, and with it is the horror they felt. The mist forms into hands, then a body, then feet -- and then a face, unmistakeable, causing tremendous fear in the hearts of the two technicians. Blood pumps faster through their veins. Blood pumps. Blood. The red and black fades then to paleness, whiteness -- then to red again, and the last thing either man sees is a man, black hair, pale skin, and the oddest set of fangs they have ever seen on anything living or dead. They try taking quick breaths, try moving away, but the fangs are too fast. The blood splashes on the street. The men lay dead. And the other ... thing howls triumphantly before dissolving into the mist and rising up into the New York night. Beware, for something hungry lurks in the technological world of 2099 tonight. A phantom from beyond time. NEXT ISSUE: All these months, you were doubtlessly wondering when we were going to introduce a great, true arch-villain for Morbius now that Alchemax is out of the way -- well guess what, kiddies? The time has come! Wait no longer! You won't find this guy in any old comics of the twencen because he's ALL-NEW, and NOT what you would expect! What am I talking about? For the answer to this riddle, and a whole lot more (Just who *was* that woman who Morbius saw this ish?), read MORBIUS 2099UG #9 in just one fortnight! |