Episode #3: Diverging Pathways
Or, How I Spent My Weekend Doing Superhero Stuff
"Any luck yet?"
Josh looked up from where he was working on one of the supercomputers that littered the Dungeon and glanced over at Jen, who was pacing. "Not in the two minutes since you last asked."
"I’m just worried, that’s all!" Jen said.
Josh sighed. It had been one incident after another tonight: first, their intern, Anne, had arrived, and they’d had to prepare her *coughcough*; then Brian had been sucked into mallet space and was, as far as anyone could tell, still trapped there without any way out; and to add to it all, the Baron AlVair had gotten away with the museum’s treasured nugget of pyrite to boot, and Flip hadn’t returned and had not responded to any of their signals. They had arrived back at the Dungeon exhausted; Keibert and Anne were currently asleep at a nearby table, and it was nearly sunup. As for Josh and Jen, their exhaustion clearly showed: they both had dark circles under their eyes, and Josh himself was finding it harder to concentrate on the information on the screen.
Finally, he pushed a certain button on the keyboard and entered a pass code. There was a burst of static, and then the A.R.G.O. logo and dragon symbol appeared on the screen.
"What now?" Jen asked, suppressing a yawn.
"I’m communicating with Headquarters. This is going to take more effort than I thought; we might need some help." He stopped talking as a small window appeared in one corner of the logo screen. It wasn’t video, though, just a line scope that jumped and wobbled as the person on the other end spoke.
"This is HQ. What is the situation?" said a voice that wasn’t the Commissioner, but probably a lesser officer of the organization that gave them their orders, the group known only as A.R.G.O.
Josh hesitated only a moment before saying, "HQ, we’ve lost our leader. He was sent into mallet space by the latest target, and we have no way of getting him back at this time."
There was a very long pause. Josh and Jen looked at each other. Josh was about to comment on the delay when he was interrupted by the voice again.
"The situation will be investigated. Transmission ended."
"Wait, but what do we do in the meantime—" Josh began, before the screen disappeared. Static returned.
"Wow," said Jen, "that was weird."
"Hmm…I could understand if the Commissioner wasn’t on duty that time, but you’d think that they’d still try to be a bit more informative."
There was a long pause as they both regarded the staticy screen.
"Come to think of it," Jen said after a moment, "other than the Commissioner giving us our orders, A.R.G.O. has never really given us that much information about its workings."
"True," said Josh, following her train of thought. "We’ve always just followed their orders, assuming that they only wanted to help us stop crime."
"Ah, but you know what happens when you assume," said Keibert, who was suddenly awake. He pulled Josh and Jen into a huddle. "Come on, guys, think really hard. Why would an organization like this work so hard to provide us with so much to fight crime?"
"Keibert," Jen said, "it’s not completely unheard of for an organization to genuinely want to do something good. They don’t all have ulterior motives, geez!" She rolled her eyes.
"True," Keibert said, "I never said they were evil or anything. However," and he raised one finger to indicate a point, "there are lots of philanthropic not-for-profit organizations. But none of them have nearly the technological advancement or the access that we do. And why, I ask you? Surely, if all this could be bought," and he indicated the Dungeon and its contents with a wave of his arm, "purely on the donations of volunteers, then how come Greenpeace doesn’t have supercomputers and mechas? Or the American Heart Association?"
"So you’re saying…?" Jen asked.
"I’m saying that that money has to come from somewhere, and somewhere obviously isn’t a public not-for-profit volunteer organization. No; it’s bigger than that. Much, much bigger. Currently, as far as we know, we are the end product of that organization and all of its efforts. But how come we know next to nothing about it?"
"Keibert," Josh began, "you’re not suggesting…"
"Yes," said Keibert. "I say it’s time we did a little investigating of our own."
"You mean, infiltrate A.R.G.O.?" Jen gasped.
"Exactly."
There was a long pause. Finally, Josh spoke up. "Keibert," he said slowly, his deep voice rumbling with mental and physical exhaustion, "you do realize we are standing in the nerve center of our wing of A.R.G.O. operations. This place, for security purposes, has recorders. They’ve probably already heard us."
Keibert smiled his mysterious Keibert smile, and opened one hand. Onto the table dropped miniature recording devices—bugs—all deactivated.
Jen’s eyes widened, and she turned pale. Josh raised an eyebrow.
"How long have you been awake?" he asked.
Keibert shrugged. "Longer than you thought, apparently."
"This is…is this illegal?" Jen asked. "I mean…I feel like we’re committing treason just by suggesting this."
"It’s not treason, Jen," Keibert reassured her. "We’re still on their side; we’ll still fight crime for them. But we have a right to know, don’t we?"
"You have a very good point there," she admitted. "You know, while we’re on the subject, I’m mighty peeved that I’ve been working for them and never stopped to ask a question."
"Exactly. So," and Keibert looked at both of them in turn, "we’re in on this, right?" He held out a hand, palm down.
"Right," said Jen, and put her hand down on top of his.
Josh followed the others. "Right."
* * *
Mallet Space—Day 20
I’ve been here for . . . three hours, now. Nothing but blackness and mallet space objects floating by. When I first arrived here, I tried flailing my arms wildly, but stopped when I realized I wasn’t getting anywhere. But hey, at least I was making good time! Gee, I wish the Baron were here . . . so I could float over and hit him! Man, this sucks. And there’s no Sobe! I hope I’m not stuck here for a while. I’m starting to get bored.
* * *
Flip was awake for two minutes before he opened his eyes. The moment he regained consciousness, every nerve tensed as he took in data from his surroundings, trying to judge where he was. It became quickly apparent that he was in the back of a truck or van of some kind, moving along a paved but not well-kept road. He was not in the same compartment as the driver—most likely Oouchi, possibly another man. Flip doubted that the rogue martial artist had more than one accomplice in this mission. He was blindfolded, too, with his hands tied behind his back (Flip, not Oouchi). And, as far as he could tell, he was alone in the back.
Slowly, he opened his eyes. A whitish square slid into his vision, moved from one side of the compartment to the other and disappeared. It was the light cast from the headlights of a passing car. There was a window allowing him to see into the driver’s compartment. He cautiously pulled at his restraints, testing them, and stopped. Something wasn’t right.
He tried again, and again stopped. For some reason, he could not draw on his full strength. Something was blocking him. He gazed down at the ropes that bound his arms to his sides; in the dim light, they appeared to be ordinary. He rubbed a bit at them; the texture was strange.
It couldn’t be . . . ?
He’d only heard rumors of it, a plant that grew in the Far East, and only in difficult mountain terrain, a plant that could inhibit chi. If these ropes were made of that plant . . .
He had to focus. Any time now, Oouchi would arrive at his master’s headquarters, and his chances for escape would drop. Very slowly, Flip rolled over so he could see forward. At his angle from the floor, he could not see Oouchi’s head, but he could see the window to the cabin. Well, that was a start.
He struggled again at the ropes, to no avail. Flip frowned; to think that he was defeated! Him! And here he was, trussed up and going quietly like a lamb to slaughter. He twisted and turned at the ropes, no longer caring about being discreet. Something was bubbling up inside him, a rage, a resistance to fate, that cried out for freedom. He pushed against his restraints, pushed against the force that was blocking his chi. The thought of a villain like Oouchi getting his way infuriated the Argonaut, until in a burst of blinding rage, he snapped free of the ropes.
He could see through narrowed eyes as Oouchi turned to look at him through the window, saw the rogue’s smile form and quickly fade as a black-gloved fist slammed itself through the window. A screech of tires cut through the air as the truck swerved, its headlights making wild arcs in the black night. There was a jolt, a loud metallic crunch and the sting of broken glass.
The door of the truck swung open, and Oouchi stumbled out. His mind only had a moment to register the front fender hugging a thick tree, and the quiet platter of rain, before a streak of night leapt from the vehicle and tackled him.
Flip was stronger now; whether it was from sheer determination, or a release of something he had been holding back, Oouchi couldn’t tell, but the Argonaut was on top of him now, releasing a series of punches that impacted solidly before his target could block. Lightning splattered across the sky as Flip continued his merciless assault; he could already feel ribs cracking under his fists before Oouchi even had a chance to bring up his arms in a hasty defense. But even that didn’t slow him down; all he wanted right now was to make this villain pay, to make him suffer.
A boot crashed into his gut, shoving him back. Oouchi scrambled back and got quickly to his feet, raising his hands, palms outward, in front of him. Through the haze of blackness and rain, Flip could smell pine and feel the stronger winds; so, Oouchi had been driving them up a mountain. In the near-darkness, he could sense the cliff off to one side, and the gaping void beyond. But that didn’t matter; all he wanted right now was an end to this evil that stood in front of him. A corner of his mouth slid up into a slight smile, before he launched himself again.
The superhero couldn’t remember more than impressions of what happened next. He remembered gathering his chi and slamming his fists into Oouchi—and the gratifying feel of their solid impacts against flesh. He remembered explosions of pain behind his eyes as the rogue got in a few good punches of his own. He remembered the totaled truck’s engine exploding, throwing them both forward several feet. Oouchi had been fast in regaining his footing, and Flip had been almost as fast at resuming the fight, launching himself at his opponent with the fury of a tempest.
Fist met with fist; kick met with kick. And then, Oouchi got an attack in, striking at Flip’s head in a succession of three quick punches, one after the other. Flip fell back.
Oouchi grinned, and laughed. "Heh, I don’t care what you pull out of your hat now," he said. "You’ll never have a chance against—"
But he never got a chance to finish his sentence before the force of a cannon smashed into his gut. Oouchi’s eyes widened in surprise; Flip grinned. The rogue martial artist staggered backward several steps, bent forward and gasping for breath.
The only sound was that of soil and rocks falling away as his foot came to rest at the very edge of the cliff. Time slowed, and there was only the sensation of ground falling away beneath his foot, and him sliding backwards into that gaping void of night.
Flip’s eyes widened as his rage subsided. No—he couldn’t let anyone die. Not even in the name of justice. He allowed himself to dole out punishment, yes, but not death. His hand instinctively reached forward to grab Oouchi—
Let him die.
He hesitated.
He deserves to die.
Oouchi gasped; a pathetic noise escaped his throat, the sound of a man becoming spontaneously aware of his approaching mortality.
With a chill feeling in his gut, Flip realized what was happening—what he was allowing to happen. His hand shot forward to grab Oouchi—
It was too late. With a scream and a helpless wave of his arms, Oouchi tumbled from the cliff into the darkness.
He was dead.
For a long moment, Flip stood in the rain, his stunned mind trying to grasp the situation. If he had not hesitated, if he had not held back at that crucial moment, he could have saved the rogue. He could have taught him a lesson without destroying him. But now—now it was too late. He had allowed someone to die.
He could not return to the Argonauts. Not now. His mind filled with darkness, he turned away from the direction of the Dungeon and disappeared into the pouring night.
* * *
Brian was continuing to float in the not-quite-empty void that was mallet space. Looking around, he sighed and continued to scribble writing on a notebook he managed to find.
I wish I could find Washuu’s lab; it should be around here somewhere, after all. And maybe I could find some help there. But so far, I’ve run into no intelligent life . . . except for that old man in the floating Chinese restaurant, who gave me a bowl of ramen. He seemed nice enough . . .
He looked around at the various objects that floated by him. Other than those, the blackness seemed to stretch on forever. He sighed.
To keep from dying of boredom, I’ve decided to catalog all the items I see in here. Let’s start with:
562 ordinary hammers; 1,084 mallets (standard and squeaky); 27 tea kettles; 301 red roses; 54 black roses; unlimited supply of black-and-yellow bandannas; 462 cannons and guns of various sizes; 65 mechas of various sizes; 20 unlit cartoon bombs; 6 lit cartoon bombs—
BOOM!!!!!!!!!
Brian brushed the soot off of his face.
6 0 lit cartoon bombs . . .
* * *
"So," said Jen, addressing Josh, who was still typing away in the Dungeon, "what are we going to do about Brian? We still don’t know how to get him back."
"Not a problem," Josh replied. "We have that covered." He pulled out a key, and unlocked a small drawer. Reaching inside, he pulled out three CD’s. "Follow me." He got up from his chair and led Jen and Keibert to a section of the Dungeon they’d never accessed before. It was a large room, with three supercomputers set on raised diases at one end. Josh went up to each in turn, inserting the discs into their respective slots. There was a bleeping as the three booted up, and a large screen above the diases turned on. Technical text scrolled by quickly.
Josh turned to the others. "Luckily, we have Brian on back-up disk."
There was a pause. Then, "WHAT?!"
"Yup!" He smiled and waved an arm at the three supercomputers. "The three aspects of his personality were downloaded onto three computers, each representing a different aspect of himself. It’s called the Stooges System: Moe, Larry and Curly," and he pointed at the three supercomputers in turn, "representing, respectively, Brian as a guy, Brian as a student, and Brian as—um—a weirdo."
Jen blinked. "Do you realize how many anvils he had to take to make this system?!" she demanded, staring in surprise at the huge setup.
"Just keep quiet about this," Josh said, lowering his voice. "We’re only allowed to do this by the divine grace of Author-sama."
"Sounds good enough to me," Keibert said. Turning to face the screen, which now sported the words STOOGES SYSTEM, he asked, "Okay, if Brian were here, where would he be?"
MOE:> CHEESE.
LARRY:> CHEESE.
CURLY:> CHEESE.
Jen glared at Josh, both eyebrows raised.
Josh sweatdropped. "Um . . . okay," he said. "Calculate probability of Brian’s proximity to cheese."
MOE:> 10%
LARRY:> 50%
CURLY:> 90%
"You know," Keibert remarked, "I get the feeling this isn’t getting us far."
"Well, I suppose it does have a few bugs to be worked out," Josh said.
"Darn straight!" Jen sighed. "And we’ve gotta get him back soon. Who’s gonna lead us into battle? Who’s going to spout debatable moral lessons at the end of every epi—um, battle?" she corrected, eyeing the ceiling suspiciously.
Josh shook his head. "We’ll do what we can. For now, though, I think we could all use some sleep." He checked his watch. "Hopefully Flip’ll be back soon. Tomorrow we can reconvene and try to think of what to do about Brian."
Jen yawned. "You’re probably right. I’m dead on my feet." With that, she turned to leave the dungeon and walk back to her dorm room, looking in dismay at the sky, which was already beginning to lighten with the approaching dawn. She stopped and gazed dramatically into the sky. "Brian," she said quietly, "where are you?"
* * *
Unfortunately, however, Brian was in no position to hear her, being that he was at that very moment still floating in mallet space, as previously mentioned.
"Dum diddy doo diddy doo…" he hummed, twiddling his thumbs. "Yup, just floating here in mallet space…dum diddy dum…"
And what the really frustrating part of this entire incident was, was that he had the feeling that he should know how to get out of a scrape like this. I mean, come on, he’s the hero of this series, right? He’s the leader! And leaders, when confronted with some terrible situation, don’t just glide right through it, twiddling their thumbs and going dum diddy dum doo dum!
But, he reasoned further, there was one thing he’d forgotten.
And what was that? he asked himself.
He was Brian.
Oh. Now it made sense.
Feeling fairly satisfied with that bit of logic, he continued floating, twiddling his thumbs and humming—
BOOM!
Another nearby cartoon bomb had exploded near him, sending him flying through a random pile of yellow-and-black bandannas and past a collection of fruit stands and jumbo panes of glass (reserved specifically for chase scenes). He waved his arms frantically to slow his wild movement, when a gleam of light caught his eye. Arching his neck to see around the corner of a large mecha, he could see something hovering in the distance, something which seemed to be drawing him closer. Grabbing ahold of the mecha, he stopped his movement and pushed himself in the direction of that object, whatever it was.
As he approached, he couldn’t help but shake the feeling of rightness, that this was something he was meant to have. A chorus of angelic voices seemed to swell in the distance as he drew nearer, and the object revealed itself in all of its glory, a wonderous mallet!
Brian was almost close enough to touch it now. He reached out for it, leaning forward in anticipation of this great moment, when it would become his. His hands closed around the handle—
There was an ear-splitting roar, and mallet space shook as if it were being torn apart. Brian was thrown back in the thundering turmoil, right before an icy chill and total blackness enveloped him.
* * *
Cut to: a figure standing on top of a building somewhere in the middle of Moadville’s business district. His red-and-black cape flaps like a shadow in the stiff breeze, and a large red ‘E’ is emblazoned on the front of his outfit.
"Nyah ha ha…soon, this entire town will be under my iron fist of evil!" he declared. "Soon, the name ‘Mr. Evil’ will strike fear into their hearts! And only I shall rule supreme!"
A hand reached out from the shadows, holding a business suitcase. With a ‘click’, the suitcase’s latches open and the top swung up to reveal stacks of money, along with brochures advertising comfortable retirements in the Bermudas.
"But then again," Mr. Evil amended, his eyes lighting up with greed, "who wants the trouble and effort of ruling, anyway?" He took the proffered suitcase, put a hat on (which looked rather silly, overtop his villain’s costume…but then again, who was going to argue with him?) and exited in the general direction of the train station.
The person who had offered the suitcase pulled out a piece of paper and a pen, and crossed off the name ‘Mr. Evil.’
* * *
Sshff. An automatic door slid open. Footsteps echoed in the bare room, each one ringing painfully in his ears. There was a bright light glaring in his eyes, relieved only when a shadow of a person (presumably the one who had just entered) bent over him, interposing himself between him and the glare.
"Are you awake?"
The response seemed to flip the switch, as it were, of his brain; but the flood of consciousness that swept over him was a black chaos that yielded to him no tangible sense of knowledge or stability. He tried to concentrate on the basics, until the disorientation passed: I am…
I am who?
He cast his mind into that elusive, fading chaos, but it all slid away like water through his fingers.
I am who…?
"Who…who am I?" His throat was gravelly; there was a funny taste in his mouth.
There was a pause, and he could sense that the man standing next to him was smiliing. "How terrible," he muttered, more to himself. Louder, he answered, "You have been through a terribly traumatic experience. You were trapped in mallet space; however, through much effort, we were able to bring you back safely."
The young man on the table opened his eyes, wincing as they took their sweet time adjusting to the light. "Yes, well, that doesn’t answer my question."
"Why, you are the leader of our group, of course. You are the Caped Avenger, intrepid leader of the Odyssey, the group of superheroes which we sponsor."
The young man thought about this. It sounded…strangely right. Yes, something about a group of superheroes. Then, this must be where he belonged.
His hand involuntarily clenched. As if he had been about to grasp…something…
"Can you get up?" the man asked, breaking into his thoughts.
"Yeah, I think I can…" The young man who was being called the Caped Avenger, leader of the Odyssey, slid his legs off the table and gingerly set his weight on them. They held. Well, that was a plus. And, now that the storm that was his consciousness was beginning to ebb away (although still not revealing anything in the way of tangible memories), he was feeling a bit more confident. He looked at the man who had addressed him; now that he wasn’t a mere shadow against the glaring ceiling lights, the Caped Avenger could make him out more clearly. He was a tall man in a neat black business suit, his face thin and with a pale yellowish complexion of one who could use a good couple of weeks on a beach; his black hair was slicked back neatly from his high forehead.
As for himself, he noticed what he was wearing for the first time. It was a blue superhero suit, with an eye emblazoned on the front of it. A matching blue cape swung from his shoulders. And there seemed to be a pair of goggles pushed up on his forehead.
"Welcome back, Caped Avenger," the man said, grasping his hand. "Although we fear you have contracted amnesia due to your recent trauma, so you might not recognize me. I am the agent of Odyssey who acts as a go-between for that organization and our sponsor, the Odyssians, who are led by you. I am your commissioner, if you will."
"Rurouni Kenneth—" the Caped Avenger blurted out, before he grasped the meaning of what he was saying. He tried to remember why he’d said it, but no meaning attached itself to the name.
A shadow of hesitation passed over the man’s face, then disappeared. "No, that is not my name. I am just the Commissioner. But we’ll get to that later…right now, we need to reunite you with your group." He led the Caped Avenger from the room and down a few sterile hallways before he stopped before one door.
"Your team is right in this room," the agent said, opening up the steel door to reveal four people standing in another featureless room. "They’re from all the different areas of anime: Sailor Moon. Dark Schneider. Rurouni Kenshin. And Rei Ayanami."
"Hai." The solemn girl just looked at the men standing in the door, her eyes blank.
Sailor Moon blinked. "Who’s this guy? Man, this thing gets weirder every minute!" she wailed in her squeaky, annoying dubbed voice.
"Hai."
"Don’t you say anything besides ‘hai’?"
"Hai."
The Caped Avenger blinked. Something snapped. "NNNNNOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!"
Another agent ran up and whispered something to the first agent. "Oh, sorry," the first agent said with a used-car-salesman smile. "Wrong door! This isn’t your team!" He slammed the door shut on a shocked Avenger.
Inside the room, Dark Schneider growled. "What the &$#@% was that all about?!" he demanded angrily.
"Oro?" was Kenshin’s stupified reply.
"Man, I don’t know, but I sure want something to eat right now!" Sailor Moon squealed. "How about you, Rei?"
"I’m not your doll."
"Okay, your team is in this room! Sorry about the mix-up!" The man opened another door, which looked exactly like the first (in fact, every door in this building looked alike. The Caped Avenger was beginning to suspect they were reusing footage).
"They represent the different areas of anime. Pretty Gina." A young woman, her black hair done in pigtails which hung down her back, nodded stiffly at the Avenger. "Beldrad the Great." A man in medieval garb, a sword hanging at his hip, smirked. "Lash." A man in dark, dark clothes and an even darker cape (I mean, this guy looked like walking night) stood in the corner, arms folded in front of him, his handsome features belying his dark past and terrible secrets. He was so distantly, darkly cool that the Avenger found it hard to look directly at him. "And Turbo." This person was a big hulking brute, who looked like a cross between a brick wall and a rhino and a brick wall. His arms were like clubs, and his posture belied an even more mystifying origin than Lash’s, but more along the lines of primate ancestors than a terrible personal history.
"I drive the mech," he boomed in a slow, Neanderthal drawl. "Hechk. Hechk. Hechk."
"Um," the Caped Avenger asked, "is he laughing, or coughing up a hairball?"
"A little bit of both," Pretty Gina said.
The agent stood in the doorway, smiling his weak used-car-salesman smile. "I have already informed them of your tragic case of amnesia. So, for now, I will leave you all to get acquainted." With that, he shut the door, and the Caped Avenger looked at his new teammates, who were apparently his old teammates.
They looked back at him.
Except Turbo, who seemed to be vaguely staring, rhino-like, at nothing in particular, and grinning like he wanted to smash it. He seemed to be the type who didn’t use any cerebral functions unless prompted to do so. Well, hey, at least the Caped Avenger could admire someone who didn’t waste.
"So," said the Caped Avenger, "read any good books lately?"
* * *
The next day, the Commissioner, also known as (to himself, at least) Rurouni Kenneth, woke up in his house, as usual, walked down the stairs (the stairs creaked again…but a man on his budget couldn’t really afford stellar surroundings) and made coffee. His cat, Grendel, a cantankerous yellow tabby, lay on the top of the couch and regarded him for several moments before lifting a paw to wash it.
"Good morning to you too," Rurouni Kenneth said dryly, half-asleep. He sighed. Another day of routine, working at one job only to go to A.R.G.O. Headquarters later and relay messages to the Argonauts. He might have some difficulty getting them into shape—like assigning an essay, indeed! He was still annoyed by the comment that the recorders had relayed just moments after he’d ended his transmission to them—but he thought that, with time, and a little help on his part, they’d become a really great and effective group.
He lifted the paper to read the headlines. Unfortunately, as is often the case in a dramatic work, he happened to have a mouthful of coffee when his eyes lit upon the rather unpleasant headline.
And, of course, nearly choking, he spit his coffee onto the table as the words registered on his unbelieving eyes: ‘Villain AlVair Purloins Pyrite! –Incompetent Argonauts Fail to Foil Dastardly Deed.’
"What?!"
Grendel, startled from his perch, gave an indignant "Mreowr!" and scampered out of the room. The Commissioner, not noticing the cat, scanned the article, the color draining from his face as he took in more and more.
"Museum decries loss of not-particularly-pricy nugget of iron pyrite, the largest of its kind in the world . . . ‘And I got away with it, too, despite those snooping kids! Mwahahaha!’ the villainous Baron AlVair declared as he leapt from rooftop to rooftop, evading the police . . . Argonauts, despite appearing on the scene in time, were unable to stop even one measly villain from accomplishing his evil task . . . ‘constitutes a gross breach of trust,’ says the chief of police . . . ‘But mommy said the Awgonauts would pwotect us,’ says an innocent and adorable six-year-old girl, who no doubt represents the innocence and trust of this good city, right before hugging her worn teddy bear and bursting into tears . . ."
The paper dropped to the table. The Commissioner stared at it for a long moment.
"This is not good," he said.
And, still in his bathrobe, he dashed to his computer, which was networked to the A.R.G.O. Headquarters, and slid into the chair, his hand fumbling for the ‘on’ switch. The computer gave a low, slightly petulant whine as it booted up; the Commissioner, Rurouni Kenneth, leaned back in his chair and put his fingertips together in front of his nose.
It was time he took matters into his own hands.
Author’s Notes
Hi, faithful readers! As you might have noticed, there has been a slight delay between last episode and this; that’s because I’ve gone over to England for the semester, and, after several weeks, can finally say that I’m settling in!
Although you’re probably not interested in my personal life, you’re interested in the Argonauts. So I’ll move on.
Anyway, all I can say about this episode, is "Phew!" Juggling all these plotlines is tougher than it looks. But, really, it’s all important, so make sure you pay attention. There will be a quiz ;) And I promise, I will bring all these dangling plot strings together! Even if it kills me! Which, at this rate, it probably will…