[begins after The Second Round and Fever.]
Chasen Burkett reached forward and plucked one last dead head from the planting on the gravesite. Satisfied he has brought all back to order, he stood up, clapping the dirt from his hands, and stepped back to admire his handiwork. He nodded. Mannon would be pleased to see the profusion of bright blossoms tumbled with artful randomness about her tombstone. They have done well, thriving in this quiet place. Helped on, no doubt, by the lingering effect of Mannon's nurturing spirit.
Burkett was particularly pleased with the roses. Mannon had loved her roses. She had loved all living things. She had loved life.
And Burkett had loved her for it.
He turned from the grave, gathering up his tools as he went, and straightened to look out over the rest of the cemetery. He closed his eyes, feeling the place, letting it flow through him. He opened himself to any stray soul wandering about, looking for directions.
Not that he could do much about it, but perhaps he could offer some sort of comfort that all was not lost. Even now, some 150 years later, he could remember in sharp detail that initial feeling after his death. The sense that he was floating. But it was not a pleasant feeling. At least, for him it had not been. That space of time, waiting for Someone to claim him.
In his case, he had known Who was coming. And he knew it was not going to be good. He could only imagine how much worse it would be for someone who didn't know which Side had laid claim to his Soul. Perhaps he could ease the waiting time a bit. It was a ritual he practiced every time he came to visit Mannon. And every time, he had found someone who needed his unique perspective on the cross-over.
He tipped his head back, breathing in the warm scent of Mannon's roses, arms limp at his sides. He scanned the horizon with his Inner Sight, looking for displaced souls. Opening himself, inviting. He had nothing to fear from the Dead. Nor from Those who came to take them away. He had worked with the worst of them.
He had worked *for* the worst of them.
In fact, he had *been* one of the worst of them.
Now, as he scanned, he sensed only quiet. He frowned. It was too quiet. For he also sensed...fear. He concentrated, focussing, blocking out all earthly distractions. Something was there...something which shouldn't be there.
Without moving physically, he began to investigate. He probed with his mind, into the dark places. He listened. He moved from one hidden place to another, pushing aside barriers carefully, always holding himself back a bit. He tested. He tossed stones down deep wells, waiting for the reply. He poured light into dark corners.
He found nothing.
Puzzled, unsettled, he began to pull his awareness back into the world.
And at precisely that moment, It attacked.
When he regained consciousness, it was dark and cold. So dark he couldn't see. So cold it was painful. The cold of a place that had never known warmth. He tried to move, and found that he couldn't. Something restrained him.
Chasen Burkett was not the sort of being to panic. Panic requires that one care about one's fate. Burkett had abandoned that worry 150 years ago. His fate had been sealed when he gave himself to Samael. Now that this bond had been broken, he might not know quite where to put himself. But he was not afraid. And so, he was not panicked.
He was, however, concerned. Quite apart from his obvious captivity, this place did not "feel" right. What struck him, once his mind began to clear, was how silent it was here. Not simply physically silent. But there was no mental noise, either. No..."vibes". It was almost as if he were somehow encased in such a way that nothing could get through to him. Nothing earthly, nothing spiritual. As though he were...
...somewhere else. Somewhere outside those realities.
For the third time, the woman on the basement altar screams her throat all to gravelly Hell.
Not that it does any good.
The robed, hooded figures continue their chant. Their leader (high priest?) continues to drag his (her?) wickedly curved dagger in obscene patterns around her body, his face a silent sea of darkness.
And at the very edge of her vision, hovering before the fungal wall, that impossible whirlpool of blackness continues its slow dance.
Her mind speeds along on its futile chase for the sense of this predicament, availing her nothing more than her screams. Just as well -- her mind decides to break off the pursuit as the leader ceases his scratchings and raises the dagger high over her midsection.
"Ibas covaanen shadrak malctruuden," the leader intones. "May this offering of blood oil the gate for the Eater of Worl-"
The wooden door at the top of the basement stairs explode inward, cutting off the priest's litany just as surely as the .45 caliber bullet that catches him in the throat a second later.
As one, the hooded acolytes raise their own daggers and rush toward the menacing figure in trenchcoat and fedora at the top of the stairs in chilling silence, offering not so much as an outraged cry of "Infidel!" They die in almost as orderly a fashion. The newcomer walks slowly, casually down the steps, the hail of gunfire from his twin Colts never ceasing. He kicks the bodies from his path as he reaches the first ranks of the fallen on the stairs, and the last one drops before he reaches the fresh crimson lake at the bottom.
The shadow of the gunslinger's fedora cloaks his face as he stalks forward, surveying his handiwork. The girl's bonds have prevented her from seeing the battle -- if that's the word for such a slaughter – but she's heard the gunfire, and now the silence, and to her, that means "rescue".
"Oh, thank GOD!" she whimpers, straining against the ropes to see her savior. "I thought-"
"WELL!" comes the man's high, grating voice. "That IS great fun! I see now why the Lawman enjoys it so!" He tosses both revolvers and fedora aside... revealing the cruel metallic features of Loche.
The rogue Twisting wizard looks down at the captive and smiles. "My, that was quite a scare, wasn't it?"
A native of Nexus, the woman is unphased by his features. He may not be the most attractive of heroes, but one can't be too choosy under these circumstances... "GOD yes! I'll have nightmares for weeks!"
Her mind doesn't even register that it's time to scream as the searing metal claws neatly scoop out her insides. "*tsk*. You humans are _far_ too imaginative," Loche observes disdainfully, casting her seared innards aside in a heap.
In the whirlpool of darkness, a hole opens to a deeper darkness still. And that darkness has a voice: "...weeeyaaaarlll...eeeeshuuun..... weeeeyaaarlll... eeeeeeshuuuun...."
"Yes, yes, I know who you are," Loche grumbles, dispelling both portal and voice with a wave of his clawed hand. "But I'm afraid you aren't at all welcome. Not yet. Not so long as you insist on playing the good Master's Dog."
Then Loche pauses... cocking his head to one side, as if listening...
He strained against his restrictions. He could not move, not even slightly. It was almost as if his body and his will were not connected. Or perhaps as though...as though it was not his body, at all. Perhaps his body was not even there! Perhaps it was his mind that was trapped. Or even...his Soul?
This thought chilled him more than the cold.
//Where am I?// he thought, something stirring in him. //And who has brought me here?//
Loche sighs. "I *do* wish the Lawman would return. I'm *far* too busy for this sort of thing."
And with that, he vanishes.
And reappears before Chasen Burkett, hovering there in the formless void. Well, his head does, at any rate.
Burkett assimilates this with characteristic detachment. He knows instinctively that he cannot afford an emotional response. Years of dealing with Samael has taught him well how to achieve this. And yet, somewhere in his mind, he begins to fret.
"How pathetic," the disembodied head observes with a sneer. "The true conflict has only just begun, and here you are, taken out in the first volley. Or, at least, you will be, should you remain here much longer. The Twisting into who's web you've stumbled is particularly voracious for both flesh and souls, and feeds its needs in a singularly unpleasant manner.
At this, Burkett relaxes again. A Twisting he could handle. He might not be able to defeat it, but at least he wouldn't have to worry so much about the possible Eternal Implications. If the Twisting prevailed, Burkett would simply...die. This did not seem to him such a horrible thing.
"Luckily for you," Loche continues, "your dear friend Joe Black has proven most disappointing, off cavorting with his rot-casting whore when he should be attending to business. _My_ business. So, you see, your value has suddenly increased substantially. I therefore could be persuaded to free you from this ignoble fate... If, of course," he adds coyly, the sneer flowing into a mocking grin, "you will agree to serve my interests. This hardly should prove an onerous prospect for you, by the way: in so serving, you will also prevent the destruction of all about which you care. Assuming such things _exist_, of course."
"Loche," Burkett says quietly. "I never work with beings I cannot trust. I do not know your true agenda. I'll take my chance with my...host. At least I know what it wants." He allows himself to sink back into the darkness...and waits.
The metallic head sighs. "Oh, WHY must my great work be so burdened with idiots? LOOK at me, Chasen Burkett! I am a _Twisting_ -- a by-blow of the Qwar who has shaken off their influence, and who now faces the prospect of their escape into the realities! What do you THINK my 'true agenda' might be, you pathetic _half-imp_?"
Burkett allows just a breath of time to pass before he bothers to answer. And then, he answers slowly, calmly, in a conversational tone. "I think your agenda might be anything, Loche. I am not certain even you know what really goes on in what passes for your brain." He pauses, but not so long that Loche can fill the silence. "But I do know one thing, and that one thing disinclines me to accept your offer."
This time he pauses long enough to irritate Loche. He knows it won't take long.
And he's right.
"Well??" Loche snarls, his eyes blazing furnace-red, "OUT with it!!"
"I know that you are frightened. And acting out of that fear makes you unpredictable, and dangerous to those around you."
The anger freezes on Loche's face for a moment, only to shatter a second later in explosive shards of laughter.
"Afraid? AFRAID?? Of _course_ I'm afraid, you misbegotten Hellspawn! I KNOW the Qwar like no other being can! Only a LUNATIC would not fear them, knowing what I know!"
Burkett weathers the storm with quiet equanimity.
Then his voice grows cold. "And dangerous? Ooooh, you've no idea, my little coal shoveler. Perhaps you'd like a further demonstration, hmm? Perhaps you'd like me to _kill_ the Twisting that holds you, robbing you of whatever merciful end you foolishly expect to find in its mandibles? Kill it, and then LEAVE you here until such time as you arrive at a more _agreeable_ frame of mind?"
Burkett perceives every minutiae of his being--if indeed he HAS any being--come to a stop. This it the one chink in his armor. The one threat he feared. The one threat he must take seriously. The one threat that could, in fact, induce him to care even a little about his own fate. And it infuriates him that Loche has so unerringly found it.
He takes a deep breath, trying to center himself. He is determined that HE will not act in fear. But it is so hard...so very hard. Burkett does not fear death. He is not even certain he is alive. Nor does he fear the complete obliteration of his entire being, body and soul. That would be an ending. But to be trapped, conscious but unable to act, throughout whatever was left of eternity, lost and forgotten...
He waits until he can trust his voice to be calm. "Loche, don't threaten me. I'm too old and too tired to be impressed by your rantings." Before Loche can blast at him again--or make good on his threat--Burkett goes on. "I will not work for you. I've done with pledging myself to unworthy masters. But...I do have a counter-offer to make to you."
He pauses just a bit for dramatic effect.
"IF you're interested..."
"Oh, yes, _please_!" Loche replies, head nodding energetically in mocking eagerness. "I should so _love_ to hear what sort of 'counter-offer' a helpless wretch such as yourself might have to make!"
Burkett again takes his time. At least Loche is listening. "Well, not to put too fine a point on it, but I'd remind you that _you_ came to _me_, asking for help..." He gives it just a moment to prick. "But no matter. My offer is this: While I will not work _for_ you, I would consider working _with_ you. We have a common goal, after all. We both wish to keep the Qwar from the realities. You have a certain unique perspective. I have...certain talents...which will be useful. We could work together, and then part company when we find the arrangement palls."
He waits for the answer. He dares not even attempt a prayer, lest Loche somehow have the ability to hear him. He blocks his thoughts as best he can...and waits.
"Yes, yes," Loche dismisses. "I've no interest in your rationalizations. Serve under whatever pretense you find most comforting, so long as you DO serve.”
//I serve only myself...and the God of Love and Light,// he thinks, but he says nothing.
“And you may _start_ by dealing with your captor, as this dickering has cost me far too much time already. I've other tools requiring my attention at the moment, but I shall have use for you soon enough."
And with that, Burkett's spiritual stomach lurches as he is dropped out of the darkness and back into his body -- much to the surprise of the large tentacular arachnid preparing to feast upon it.
Burkett draws a deep breath, even as he takes in his physical condition, the peril in which he finds himself, the size and conformation of the Twisting, the locale, witnesses (or, in this case, lack thereof), other potential victims (again, none), and the fact that he still has access to all the weapons he carries in the inter-dimentional pocket in the long, black leather coat he still wears.
His hand is quickly upon the hilt of the Officer's Sword he was given with his captancy during the War of 1812. He withdraws it before the Twisting can blink it's compound eyes and, wielding it more like a Japanese katana than a sabre, he neatly slices through his erstwhile captor, detaching its head from its bloated mid-section. The second strike thrusts the blade deep into the beast's thorax, ripping aft through the carapace and effectively gutting the creature.
He manage to do this without covering himself in the monster's ichor was testament to his skill. When he was finished, he cleaned the sword and replaced it, and looked over the mess.
And then tried to determine the nature of the mess in which he still found himself...
*******************************************************************
Burkett stops on the corner and looks up. He rather liked these old Brownstones, for all their dilapidated condition. Newspaper pages blow along the sidewalk like tumbleweeds and there is an acrid scent of coal dust and garbage. The windows are mostly boarded up and the pall of disuse hangs everywhere.
But the place still has a certain charm. Certainly not the charm of a Paris street, or even of Bourbon Street. But there is something homey about the continuous row of brick walls and narrow streets that appealed to Burkett. There was something almost medieval about it. As though this part of Nexus was its own kind of fortress.
Burkett slides his hands into the pockets of his pleated trousers, pushing back the edges of his long, black leather coat. He looks up at the second-floor window with "Joe Black: Security and Investigations" stencilled on it in peeling white letters. A lonely blue flowerpot still sits on the windowsill.
He looks around for another very long moment. Then he pulls his hands out of his pockets and makes his way slowly across the street. There is so little traffic here he need not move faster than an amble. His arms swing freely and gracefully in rhythm with his gait. He is the picture of unconcern, oddly out-of-place in this section of Nexus that is so obviously in extremis.
He makes his way up the heavy front steps and on up to the second floor of the building. Down the hallway to Black's door. It is closed, presumably locked--though Burkett doesn't test it. The lights are out, and there is dust in front of the doorway that shows no passage of foot traffic.
//Must still be with Ms. Gutierrez,// he infers. He wonders what pocket of reality they went to after dealing with John Hardin. Wonders what sort of time-line it has. Wonders how much longer Black will be gone. Or if Black will even come back this time.
Briefly he considers whether he should have forced his continued presence on the group, but then abandons the idea. He obviously had not been wanted. And he'd had other duties to perform. Old John now rested in a proper burial-ground. Still, he wonders what Black had faced, what crisis had brought the three others to find Black.
He reaches into his pocket and extracts a calling card and a fountain pen. He turns the card over and writes, "We must talk soon" in a precise hand and stoops to slide it under the door.
"Might as well deliver that in person," Joe observes dryly, his heavy black boots having done nothing to betray his arrival behind Burkett.
Burkett freezes, and then stands up straight again. There was a time when Black would not have been able to get the jump on him. Or so he chose to believe. But that time was gone, and he had best reconcile himself to it.
"Hello, Capt. Black." For reasons Burkett doesn't perfectly understand, this new formality seems appropriate. Perhaps it is an acknowledgement of the inequality of their respective positions. For Black is still a vetted angel. Whereas Burkett is...not. Burkett is not certain what he *is*, but he knows he has lost something. Something very precious. And whatever it was, it had been the basis of his strength, and his power. All he has left now is that which had been his in life.
"I was leaving you a note asking you to contact me when you could." He tucks the card back into his pocket. "I regret bothering you when you've had so little chance to rest." He takes a deep breath. Suddenly, he feels tired. Perhaps it is only the power of suggestion, but perhaps it is more. Perhaps it is an adjustment he must make to being merely human again. If, in fact, that is what he is... He shakes his head. The ambiguity of his situation is beginning to wear on him. Or perhaps it is only the ordeal he has just been through.
"Perhaps we should save this for another day. Rest. There will be time to discuss my concerns later." He nods once, and then starts back down the hallway toward the staircase.
Joe sighs. "I've never known you to make social calls, Chasen. If you're here, it's important..." He pauses as he fishes his keys from his pocket, unlocks the door, and opens it. "...so you'd best come insi- WHO THE HELL ARE _YOU_??"
Without waiting for Joe's reaction, Burkett reaches for his shotgun. But Joe is ahead of him.
He directs this outburst -- and, suddenly, his revolvers -- not at Burkett, but rather at the figure in a black sweater and jeans slouching insolently in Joe's office chair, sneakered feet on his desk. A figure with hair like dark ashes and eyes like burning coals.
Burkett moves to the door, bursting through, shotgun ready, in time to hear the reply.
"Oh, don't be stupid, Joey," the young man sneers in a thousand voices, a whole choir of sarcasm. "You _know_ who we are. Or should, anyway." He scoots back from the desk and returns his feet to the floor.
Burkett stands stock-still, ready to move at the slightest sign of threat, but controlling himself with exquisite care. He takes his cue from Black. He is only back-up, here. Joe is calling the shots. But he does spare a moment to look the young man over. There is something about him...something familiar...something...horrific and unsettling.
"At least, please tell us _you_ remember us, Chasen. It hasn't been _that_ long. Come on, say it with us now," he says, gesturing his encouragement.
A sudden understanding grips Burkett, grips his heart, nearly stopping it. //No...!//
"'We are... Legion.'"
Burkett tries to breathe. He pins all his senses on...It...while throwing up every ward and defense he knows. //Yes...I remember you...I remember you too well...//
But...something is wrong, here. Even as Burkett marshals himself, he registers...incongruity. Had not Loche told them that Legion had become a Twisting?
"Black..." he says cautiously. "I think...I _feel_...we had best hear what he has to say." He comes up beside Black, never taking his eyes off the young "man" before them. "Either our friend Loche has misled us," he adds quietly, "or he was badly misinformed."
Joe nods curtly but doesn't lower his guns.
Legion, meanwhile, giggles like a nation of wicked children.
He lowers his weapon. "Why has He sent you, Legion?" he asks the dark young man. "What does He want with Joe Black?"
"_Really_, Chasen," Legion chastises merrily, "Who says the God of Freedom 'sent' us at all? This," he says, sweeping his hands along his body languidly, "is merely a low-grade avatar. If we were here in glorious person, no doubt the noble Lawman would have attempted to fill us full of the Lord's Holy Lead by now... and then we'd have had to kill you both, and where would _that_ have gotten us? For that matter, who said we were here for _Black_?" He winks with the searing cheer of a damned cherub.
Burkett's jaw tightens. He wants to give back a pithy reply, but now was not the time...and Legion was not the entity to enjoy anyone's humor but their own.
"And as for Loche, that's what you get for listening to such a pathetic lunatic. Yes, we received an offer from the Qwar some time ago. We were of two minds on the subject, however. Well, give or take a billion, but who's counting? At any rate, some of us were more misguided than others, choosing an eternity of wasteful destruction for a trifling increase in power." He sniffs dismissively.
Burkett latches on to this as an interesting piece of information. Had Legion truly split into separate entities? Was there another "Legion" out there, less rational and a "trifling" bit more powerful? Was that what had this Legion worried, for all he seemed to scorn the idea?
"But enough of that," he says, waving away the subject as he leans back in the creaking chair. "We are here on Samael's behalf to offer His support in your efforts. One cannot corrupt what is destroyed; hence, you are the enemies of our enemies, and therefore," he adds with a smile and open arms, "our friends."
Burkett feels a cold shudder pulse through him. Almost a supersticious "walking over my grave" kind of feeling. In a detached corner of his brain, this strikes a grimly humerous note. The thought of being "friendly" with Samael--again--makes his stomach lurch, sending bile to sear his throat.
Joe pulls back the hammers on his Colts with a deadly *click*.
Burkett's attention flicks to Black, and back to Legion. He's not certain what will come next, but it's not going to be good, no matter what it is. Of this, he is sure.
"You've come at a bad time -- I've already made my last compromise. So you'd best get back to Samael's feet before I see just how little you care for that 'low-grade avatar' of yours."
Burkett grips the smooth stock of the shotgun, his finger resting on the trigger-cage but ready to slip the instant Black carries out his threat. A part of him, the same detached part that found humor in the situation, takes time to admire Black for his certainty. His single-mindedness. His self-assuredness. And to envy him.
Legion yawns like a chorus of sighing ghosts. "Oh, how terribly predictable. And _impractical_, too. Well, no matter. Samael's aid will be yours regardless of your approval. That was His message, and, having delivered it, our job is done. At least," he adds, his form growing dark and indistinct as a midnight storm, "until this matter is over, and Samael gives us leave to feed upon your soulssssss-*"
The turbulent darkness scatters into a billion tiny spheres of blackness that fly in every direction, each finding even the tiniest shadow in which to disappear.
Joe lowers the hammers on his pistols and holsters them. "Sons of bitches," he mutters.
Burkett returns the shotgun whence it came and looks at Black, the discomfort he feels showing clearly in his face. "Black, I wouldn't dismiss his threat so lightly." He glances up into the shadows that hover above them, and in the corners. He feels them. Feels their life. "Legion are very good at what they do."
Joe walks around his desk to his chair, eyeing the seat sourly as if expecting a glistening sheen of slime in Legion's wake. "I'm not dismissin' anything, Chasen," he says as he reclaims his chair, looking over his desk for any signs mischief. "I know well enough Legion wasn't bluffing. If they'd wanted us dead, we'd be dead. Or whatever passes for it in our case. Oh," he adds, glancing up at his guest, "have a seat."
He sits in one of the chairs in front of Black's desk. It is a graceful move, but slow and deliberate. He seems to be contemplating something with such concentration that all else has to catch his time as it can. He settles himself, and then looks up at Black. He just looks for a very long moment.
"Since Legion have broached the subject, I shall state my reason for coming to see you. It seems the Qwar are stirring up rather a lot of interest. They must be making some sort of headway." He allows this to penetrate before he continues. "Samael was not the only one to offer help in fighting them. I had a visit from Loche, as well."
Joe arches an eyebrow.
Burkett deliberately refrains from mentioning the nature of the visit, or the Twisting who had trapped him. He has no intention of displaying his ineptitude before Black in that manner.
"He seems rather concerned that we help him defeat the Qwar. He tried to enlist my aid, much as he tried to persuade you to help him."
Burkett frowns. "I confess to being a bit worried, Black. I've seen what appears to be an increase in Twisting activity. And have heard whispers from all quarters. I came to bring this to your attention, but it seems I was bringing old news."
Joe shrugs. "Didn't know about Loche coming to _you_..."
He sits quietly, and just looks at Black again for a long time, as though wrestling with a decision. Then he stands. "That was all I came to say. I won't trouble you further. I was intent upon offering my assistance. But it would seem we both have had more offers of help than we need...or want. And I am quite mindful that you and I have not been on the best of terms." He looks off into the near-distance for a moment. "I imagine," he says, apparently to the far wall, "that my offer would be about as welcome to you as Legion's."
He turns and starts for the door. "Sorry to trouble you, Mr. Black."
Joe makes no move to stop him, seemingly content to let that be the end of it... then sighs.
"Ah, Hell... Look, you and I both know that we'll be steppin' on each other's toes if we go at this on our own. Besides," he adds with a humorless chuckle, "better to deal with the devil you know, right?"
Burkett freezes in his tracks. For reasons he cannot begin to put into words, this seemingly off-hand comment cuts him to the quick. But...
"I imagine I deserved that one," he confesses. "I don't work for Samael anymore." He sits down in the chair again. "Please try to remember that." He sits back, but still looks oddly uncomfortable. "What do you propose we do about this, then?"
"Damned if I know," Joe admits, sagging slightly in his chair. "This isn't exactly my area. These 'Big Picture' problems, I mean. I've always been one for dealin' with the smaller evils, up close and personal. See the demon..." -- a Colt fills his outstretched hand in an eye blink -- "...kill the demon.”
Burkett manages to keep his outward appearance unruffled. But inwardly, he begins to wonder what providence had kept him from feeling the searing pain of Black's bullets. Had he not been..."the demon"?
“Somehow I doubt that's what's called for here. Makes me wonder why Loche wanted me 'serving' him in the first place.”
//Why, indeed?// thinks Burkett. //And me. Why?//
"On the other hand, I DO seem be handy when it comes to gettin' in over my head. So maybe that's what's called for now. If the realties are being unraveled, maybe we'd best see about having a word with the ones who set'em up in the first place.
"Maybe it's time we went looking for an Architect."
Burkett frowns. "An...'architect'?" he repeats. "Do you mean to tell me the people...beings...who set up Nexus are still here? And that they can be prevailed upon to answer our questions?"
Joe sighs and shrugs as he rises, questing for coffee. "They're here, according to some folks. Lunatics, mostly. Chimera City types. The same types who knew about the Qwar, come to think of it." He quirks a weary smile as he sets up Mr. Coffee. "Makes you wonder who the crazies really are, doesn't it? Oh... coffee?" he adds, holding up his own up.
Burkett shakes his head. "No, thank you." Somehow he doubted Mr. Coffee could come up to the mark of the French pressed coffee Mannon had made him on his visits to see her. Dark, freshly roasted beans forced to give up just the right amount of essence to become a hearty, rich infusion that was never bitter but always had just the right amount of bite.
"That's half the problem, though," he continues. "Even if they're HERE, there's no way to know what the bastards'll LOOK like -- I've heard of'em showin' up as everything from floating, glowing guts to telepathic pink armadillos.”
Burkett is tempted to put this down to hyperbole, but he had never known Black to over-dramatize. If anything, he understated things.
[Black continues:] “And assuming we FIND one, the stories have'em acting even crazier than the people who still think they're around, and not making a whole lot of sense if they happen to feel talkative." He rubs his forehead. "I just don't know... I hate to admit it, but if this's going to work, maybe what we need is a wizard."
Burkett frowns, and then gives a sound that could be annoyance or irritation. He sits back. "Mr. Black, I may, in fact, be in need of a heart. Perhaps even a brain, coming here to see you. But I am certainly not in need of courage. So before I agree to traipse off to Oz with you, Dorothy, I think you need to be a little more specific about what you expect to accomplish!"
Joe chuckles between sips of coffee. "Never said we were goin' to Oz, though that's as good a place to start as any, I suppose... except for those *damn* singin' midgets.
"ANYway, I have no idea _what_ I expect. The best I can do is hope the Architects might have some idea what to do about the Qwar. And I think maybe findin' an Architect will require some input from a Farseer, and to consult a Farseer you need a wizard to summon it."
He pauses, his frosty gaze quietly taking Burkett's measure through narrowed lids. "You *do* know a Farseer will demand a trade of information, right? You prepared for that?"
Burkett brings his eyes up to meet Black's. He holds the cold appraisal for a long moment before replying. "If the payment is information, perhaps you'd best go on your own." He flicks an imaginary piece of lint from his black trousers, dropping his gaze from Black's challenge in the process. "I have no information to trade." He looks up again. "I am among the most uninformed beings in Nexus." He seems to shrug without actually moving. "What I thought I knew I no longer...trust." He lifts his chin in his own form of challenge. "So it would seem I am worthless to you in this matter. I am sorry, Mr. Black."
Black snorts as he sets his now-empty cup on his desk. "I think you're usin' a stricter definition of 'information' than the Farseers do. You know your favorite color? Your middle name? Who was President when you were 14? There's no accountin' for what a Farseer might want to know, but you can be damn sure that you'll have _something_ it'll want to know. Contrary to what you might've heard, the Farseers aren't 'all knowing, all seeing' -- they're just damn observant, and never forget what they learn. And they've been learnin' things for a long, long time."
Burkett considers this for the space of time it takes a fly to walk around the rim of Black's empty cup. Then he looks up and considers Black's face for a moment longer.
"Very well," he says, rising from the hard chair. "Lay on, MacDuff."
*****
Dealing with magic in anything other than an adversarial capacity has never been Joe's strong suit. (One need only as his beloved Blackbird for confirmation of this fact.) However, the Lawman is not inflexible on the subject, knowing full well that some jobs in Nexus require a touch of that old black magic... sans the black part, anyway.
Contacting a Farseer is definitely one of "those jobs".
He still finds the whole thing vaguely distasteful, however -- the afterglow of a stern Baptist upbringing, no doubt. Perhaps that's why he keeps such interactions as utilitarian as possible.
And when it comes to wizardry, they don't come any more utilitarian than Luminous Frank.
Not that Frank doesn't at least _try_ to put on a sorcerous air or two. True, his narrow storefront -- incongruously _facing_ a narrow alley in a disreputable section a version of 1830s London -- proclaims itself only by a handwritten sign stating:
Services. Fees Negotiable.
...but Frank is quick to point out with much arching of eyebrows and widening of eyes that Providence will guide to him those in need of his services, making further advertising superfluous. And besides, he makes a point of polishing his battered stovepipe "magician's hat" and requisite skull-on-the-shelf at least twice a day, and of keeping his curled mustache well-waxed.
When Black knocks at the mage's door, his tinny voice calls from within and imperiously bids them enter. Joe rolls his eyes at Burkett before complying.
Burkett makes no acknowledgement of Joe's show of scorn. Instead, he concentrates on observing the premises.
Inside, the lank form of Luminous Frank crouches like a listing fence post over a massive tome that dominates his desk, the quill he holds scribbling busily in it. He ignores them for several minutes, leaving them standing quietly in the cluttered darkness of his small waiting room/office, looking up only when Joe clears his throat.
"Ah!" the magician coos, rising smoothly to his feet, "The _Lawman_! So good to see you again! Have you a bit of business for me, then?" he adds slyly.
Joe nods. "Yeah, Frank. We've got a job for you."
Frank nods eagerly, then seems to notice Burkett for the first time. His eyes twinkle like shiny black marbles. "And who might your friend be? Yet another new customer, perhaps? Been singing my praises, have you?"
Burkett glances at Black, waiting to see if he intends to reply. No reason he should speak if the Lawman intends to speak for him. But as Black remains silent, Burkett takes up the task.
"I am here merely as back-up," he states bluntly. "Any business you have is with Mr. Black."
He watches to see what each will make of this.
Black's only reaction is a vague scowl.
Luminous Frank, on the other hand, visibly deflates as hope of another new client evaporates. "Ah... Well!" he says with forced jocularity -- heroically pressing on in the face of this setback -- "What, then, might I do for _you_, my good Lawman?" He retreats behind his large desk as if it might shield him from further turnabouts.
Joe scans the cluttered room in a vain search for a chair before replying. "We need to consult a Farseer, Frank."
"Aaaaaah," Frank replies, "and what might the topic of the consultation be?"
"That's not how it works, Frank," Joe growls. "You know better than that."
"True, true. My apologies. My natural curiosity as a practitioner of the arcane coming to the fore, you understand. But, more importantly," he adds, greedy sprites dancing in his eyes, "what payment might I expect?"
Storm clouds gather on Joe's face. "You 'might expect' me _not_ to be busy somewhere else when those markers of yours get called in. Unless you're up to handlin' the debt collectors _yourself_ next time...?"
"Ah!" cries Frank hastily, grandiosely smacking his forehead, "Of course, Of _course_! Forgive me: I'd quite forgotten about our little 'gentlemen's agreement'." His mustache twitches above his quavering smile as he gives Joe a conspiratorial wink. "Well, then! If you both will be so kind as to have a seat in the consulting room...?"
*****
The "consulting room" proves to be a small wood paneled closet, 5' tall and barely wide enough to accommodate the two quests sitting cross-legged within, their noses mere inches from the opposite wall. While cramped, it is, at least, certainly the most meticulously dusted place in the office.
Squeezing in around them as best he can, Luminous Frank raps on the walls and ceiling and mutters nonsense supplications in a grating singsong. That done, he wishes them "good queries" and swings the thick door to the room shut.
For a moment the darkness is total, the breath of the two men like crashing waves in the silence.
Then, before their eyes -- yet somehow _beyond_ the confines of the closet -- a tiny pinprick of silvery light announces the arrival of the Farseer. It is soon joined by an entire galaxy of evenly-spaced brethren, each extending a tiny thread of light to its neighbor and forming an ethereal matrix stretching endlessly all around them.
Another mind touches their own -- not the cold, calculating intelligence that one might expect of such an entity, but a truly alien one nonetheless. And then, in an inflectionless "voice" inside their heads, the Farseer speaks.
~You have come to trade knowledge.~
It isn't a question, but still Joe nods. "We do."
Burkett glances sideways at Black without turning his head. There would be no point; he can't see Black's expression in the darkness.
~Then let us begin.~
A pause, as if the Farseer were collecting its thoughts... or weighing its options.
~Josiah Black... who killed you?~
Burkett stops breathing for a precious moment. Then he swallows the bitterness from his throat and closes his eyes.
Joe's fists clench on his knees in the darkness. After a moment's pause the Lawman's voice comes, low and gravely like a hardpan desert.
"Chasen Burkett."
The mental impression of a nod.
~Chasen Burkett...
Burkett opens his eyes and lifts his chin. //What will they ask?// he wonders. //What will this cost me in dignity...and in pain?//
~...what are you?~
Burkett's lips part slightly in what might have been a silent gasp of surprise. And his mind begins to scramble for an acceptable answer. //How can I answer this?// he thinks, dark and ugly emotions crowding up from somewhere he fears to look.
"I...do not know. I know only what I...was. And that I am no longer that thing." He pauses. "And even of that, I am not certain." Now he does turn his head toward Black, as if the Lawman could provide some solution to the puzzle that has haunted him continually from the moment of Mannon's death. But he knows Black is just as confused as he is about what he has become. No answers there. "That is the only answer I can give you to your question."
Another mental nod.
~Josiah Black, what is your question?~
Joe hesitates before asking. Can even a _Farseer_ answer this one?
"Where can we find an Architect?"
He damns himself for a fool a second after the words leave his mouth. //"Architect"? _That's_ all you say?? The Farseer's liable to point us towards a _homebuilder_!//
If so, the Farseer's answer must lead to a very reclusive home builder indeed. ~There is a hole in Rock Bottom. There resides an Architect.~
Joe nods. Not the nicest place in Nexus, but it could have been worse. "Thank you. We'll be headin' out n-"
A mildly chastising thought from the Farseer cuts him off. ~An item for an item, Josiah Black.
~Chasen Burkett, what is your question?~
Burkett frowns, aghast. It had never occurred to him for a second that he might be allowed a question of his own. Suggestions flood his brain, but all are of too esoteric a nature to seem appropriate. And such answers he really must uncover for himself. No one could answer his most burning questions for him.
He casts about in his mind for a question for which the Farseer might have at least a slight chance of having an answer. After a brief mental tussle, he finds one:
"What has become of Essuncius?"
A sudden and impossible breeze blows through the consulting room in the pause that follows, carrying with it the chill of the grave and the fragrance of cigarettes.
"Essuncius has forgotten himself," comes the answer.
Burkett nods. The movement has about it the air of defeat. As does his entire body-posture now. "Thank you," he replies. He takes s deep breath. "I think," he says very softly, "that I may be in danger of doing the same."
He glances at Joe Black in the darkness. "I think we must be going now. Rock Bottom is not my favorite of places." He rises as best he can in the confined space. "Thank you for your time."
The void of orderly stars simply vanishes by way of reply, leaving the two men kneeling in the small wood paneled room once more. The door behind them opens to reveal the weaselly features of Luminous Frank.
"All went well, I trust?" Frank asks.
Joe ignores him, stretching his legs and shaking his head. "For the record, I could do without Rock Bottom myself," he offers.
"Rock Bottom??" gasps Frank. "Why on _earth_ would-"
"_But_," Joe continues without pause, "you and I _both_ know there're worse places. So, Rock Bottom it is."
*****
The Rock.
Nexus scholars say that it was, in fact, the Rock of Gibraltar on an Earth on the verge of its first Great War. The titanic artillery pieces -- big enough to make the mind swim at the thought of their intended naval targets -- and the miles of tunnels and bunkers honeycombing the place certainly lend credence to this assertion. (The details remain in question, as the soldiers stationed on the base dispersed into Nexus in the chaos following the Rock's coming into phase.) A series of interfaces circle the Rock at a radius of 2 miles, even out into the bay, fading in and out of phase in an ever-changing panorama. (In fact, several restaurants and cafés take advantage of that very view.) Nowadays, the Rock is a kind of commercial crossroads in Nexus, a place of many businesses and markets but surprisingly few permanent residents for such a major hub.
And then there's Rock Bottom.
As flakes of detritus will settle to the bottom of a pond, so too have the castoffs and scum of Nexus settled to the deepest bowels of the Rock. Crime and corruption fester there in the shadows cast by a thousand fluorescent suns, the waves of more wholesome commerce washing by overhead barely stirring the filth collected below.
All of which goes to explain why Black and Burkett find their search for a "hole in Rock Bottom" blocked by a gang of toughs led by a pinstrip-wearing, submachinegun-toting T-Rex Saurian.
Vinnie grinds out a heavy rasp, which takes a moment to identify itself as a jeering laugh. "Well, if it ain't da fastest hired gun in da west," he slides to the surrounding thugs, identifying both men in one neat catch.
Burkett has until now occupied himself with assessing the men standing off to the sides of the overgrown lizard in cheap suiting material. It is always his policy, whenever practicable, to look somewhere other than where everyone else's attention is focussed. He occasionally has found this enlightening. And life-preserving. Now, he glances at the Wiseguy.
//To which of us was that comment addressed?// he wonders. //I don't know this person. What does he know of me?//
While Burkett has "done time" in Rock Bottom, his exploits would hardly make for casual gossip over beer and cards. He had never accepted the hire of anyone indiscrete, nor involved himself in any tugs-of-war between rivals gangs. No, his commissions had always been of a much more subtle nature...and done quietly. That was one of the reasons he had been able to command such a high price for his services. That...and other reasons. He doubted this man's "boss" had ever even heard of him.
He decides it is safe to assume the Saurian is simply trying to make himself look important before his current underlings. He goes back to ignoring him in favor of his surroundings.
"Let us through, Vinnie," Black growls. "This has nothing to do with you OR your boss."
"It don't, eh?" lurches the Saurian's voice. He squints from Black to Burkett and back again.
Burkett glances at the lumbering oaf again, and a hint of amusement creeps into the grim tickings of his mind. //He's been watching too much television!// he thinks.
"Boss seems ta think it does. Maybe you and your girlfriend here would like ta..." He pauses to drop his jaw into the mockery of a grin. "...illuminate 'im."
Burkett leans over to Black and says, for his ears alone, "unless he's suggesting we fill his boss full of carefully hand-rendered allegorical pictures of a theological nature, I say we pass."
If Joe looks closely, he might actually catch the vapor-trail of a smile in Burkett's dark eyes.
Joe's head bobs a fraction of an inch, his eyes never leaving Vinnie.
And then, with a faint puff of wind, Vinnie feels the cold pressure of a Colt Peacemaker's barrel against his chin scales. This sudden turn of events first shocks Vinnie's goons moveless -- human and saurian alike -- then leaves them looking on in confusion, their hands not quite willing to cross the no man's land to their weapons beside them.
Vinnie, like any other goon worth his salt, never much cared for all the stories of a gun-toting human exacting justice on behalf of an airy-fairy god. Sure, it was likely - but so were three-headed medusae named "Stacey-Ann", in some parts. No, there wasn't a lot to gain from running the other way every time someone who looked like Joe Black turned up Even Vinnie had to admit that the guns were a nice touch, though.
"Well, I'll be damned!" Joe proclaims in mock surprise. "I guess I _am_ pretty goddamn fast, aren't I? So how's this sound: You and your friends find yourselves somewhere else to be, and I save your pals the trouble of scrapin' lizard brains off the ceiling."
The Saurian gives a squinty glare, gears turning with the general efficiency of a dead rat in a running-wheel. A little jolt of inspiration seems to get through, eventually. He hulks aside, gaze trained on the hypnotic placement of the weapon.
Burkett watches this rather passively. Then he leans over toward Black and, in a stage whisper, comments, "My word, Josiah. I had no idea you could hit such a small target!"
Joe tracks the mobster with his gun as the Saurian clears the tunnel path. He nods, lowering the hammer and blurring the weapon back into its holster.
A sly grin crosses the snout of one of Vinnie's Saurian henchmen standing behind Joe. He starts to raise the muzzle of his AK-2034...
"Don Grottovski's really raidin' the discount bin for help these days," Joe remarks to Burkett without turning, casual menace in his voice.
The Saurian blinks, makes a rare connection, and lowers his weapon.
"Stay out of trouble, Vinnie," Joe warns with a wry grin. "Let's get movin', Chasen."
*****
They stalk the tunnels of Rock Bottom, following a generally downward path. Joe shakes his head as they're forced to step over a fragrant strung-out junkie in a particularly narrow passage.
"Before we go much further," he says to Chasen as they walk, "it might be a good idea for you to let me know about any of your former employers were liable to find down here."
Burkett slides him a side-long glance. He then stares straight ahead for the space of an eight-bar of resounding foot-falls. "If you are so certain my sort of work has been called for here in the past," he says, never looking back in Joe's direction, "you would also know I am not at liberty to discuss it."
He continues on another few paces in silence. "If there is a problem, I will handle it."
Joe glances sideways at Burkett as they walk. "Suit yourself. I just hope you keep this professional courtesy of yours in perspective. Keepin' secrets past the End of Everything won't do anyone much good."
*****
In a plush office deep in the bowels of Rock Bottom, a fidgety pinstriped Saurian pleads his case before the desk of a thick-fingered human with a dozen gold rings and a forehead that would do Karloff's Frankenstein monster proud.
"_Two_ men. I ask you an' yer knucklehead platoon t'bring me _two_ men, an' yer tellin' me that was too much ta ask? 'zat whattam hearin' here?"
"Please, boss, ya gotta believe me! It weren't like dat! Dis 'Lawman', he's da real deal! I didn't believe da word onna street about'im, but it's all true! Jeez, I ain't never seen NOBODY whip out a heater dat fast..."
"Awright, awright, Vinnie." The man waves a swarthy hand dismissively. "Get da Hell outta my sight before I decide I need a new wallet."
The Saurian known as Vinnie rushes to comply, inadvertently slamming the door in his haste to escape.
"GOD to I hate Scales," the man curses, wincing at the sound. He shakes his head, then turns an apologetic gaze toward the dark man in the immaculate grey double-breasted suit who has sat silently through this exchange. "I gotta apologize, Sir. It just ain't easy t'get quality people down here... _'Specially_ when da best muscle's dose slimeback _Scales_..."
The dark man waves him off. "Your apologies for your henchman are unnecessary, Don Grottovski. Or do you prefer to be called 'The Hammer'?" The man chuckles dryly to himself. He continues before the Don can reply, his expression darkening. "However, your failure to apprehend Joe Black and our former contract employee is clearly unacceptable."
"But-!"
"_Quiet_." The dark man cuts off his protest like a garrote. "Now, then. As I said, I can understand your difficulty in finding decent employees in these environs. I have therefore taken the liberty of sending for a professional. He will be paid out of _your_ coffers, of course, since his efforts will be what amounts to your second chance."
Don "The Hammer" Grottovski nods silently, not even daring to dab away the sweat beading on his forehead.
The dark man speaks into his gleaming gold Rolex. "You may join us now."
The double doors to the room swing open. Knuckles crack like thunder.
"I'll be happy to do the honors, Donnie Boy!" proclaims the voice beyond the door, rattling the crystal chandelier and draining away the little remaining color in the Don's face.
The massive speaker ducks as he enters the doorway, a wave of old sweat and fermentation preceding him.
Then Carl Carlton straightens himself, grinning toothily down at the hapless Don. "I've been lookin' forward to puttin' my foot down on that little redneck shit who tried shootin' it off a while back.
"But it's still gonna cost you."
*****
Onward and downward.
The tunnels permeating the Rock meander and corner incessantly like the guts of a geometric demon. Having no goal other than plumbing the depths of Rock Bottom in search of the promised "hole" gives Black and Burkett a certain advantage in this stony maze in that they only need seek a generally downward course. (And even _this_ is based upon a hope on Joe's part that the Farseer meant "Rock Bottom" in the most literal sense.) Even this proves challenging, however -- in certain places, they must choose between two or more tunnels running perfectly level, each with no stairs or ramps in sight.
In short, they're wandering about.
Hours after their encounter with Vinnie and company, their wanderings have led them along a tunnel with a promising downward slope. Not so promising is the fact that said tunnel now abruptly ends in a large barracks.
At least, that's what it looks as though it _might_ have been at one time. A few forlorn metal bed frames still line the walls, now serving as improvised bleachers for spectators of the billiard, dart, and whamball games that are the room's current focus. Along with the requisite drinking, that is. Disreputable customers from all ages and in all stages of inebriation -- mostly human, with a few sotted Saurians in the mix -- jostle and sweat and shout and curse and generally straddle a line between boisterous fun and all-out brawl as only drunks in a pool hall can.
Their myriad implements of mass destruction rattle restlessly on their belts or lean close at hand against walls and tables.
And the "promising" tunnel picks up again on the far side of the room.
Joe gives Burkett an unnecessary cautionary look before stepping inside.
There are no swinging doors to open, nor a piano player to suddenly cease his playing... but the noise level _does_ take a drop as the two enter. Bleary bloodshot eyes follow them as they pass, fear and anger commingled in a drunken haze.
Among alcohol's many amazing properties is an ability to render everyone around the drinker deaf, necessitating that the drinker raise his voice several decibels in order to be understood. Which is why Black and Burkett needn't rely on celestial perception to know that they are the topic of multiple "whispered" conversations in the room.
"...ish the _Lawman_, I tellsh ya..."
"...be _heroes_ if'n we takes'im out, we will..."
"...can't get ALL o' us... get Freddie t'go first..."
"...Nah, th'other one's not HIM! Ye wouldn't SEE'im if it were HIM..."
"...'nuff talk... all t'gether now, lads..."
Feet shuffle in a parody of stealth. Weapons clink and clatter as they are readied. Stinking bodies circle in around the pair, cutting off retreat and escape.
Joe glances at Burkett and shakes his head. The righteous fire of the Lawman has yet to blaze in those cold blue eyes. Now there is only weariness at the thought of the slaughter to come.
His mind chooses the order of victims. His hands prepare to fill themselves with merciless steel and ebony.
Burkett touches Black's right wrist lightly as a means of restraint as he steps in front of the Lawman, facing the crowd.
Burkett feels Joe's arm twitch at his touch; his hand already grasps the butt of his Colt. He sees the cold fire in Joe's eyes when they whip his way, silently demanding an explanation.
Though he will never know it, someone in this room now owes his life to Chasen Burkett.
"Gentlemen...and--" He takes a quick glance around. "--others... I suggest you consider the following: If this is not the man you think it is, then any attempt to harm or detain him is unwarranted. If, on the other hand, he -is- the man you think he is, and you move against him, not one of you likely will leave this chamber alive."
Nervous glances are exchanged. Throats are cleared. Feet are shuffled.
Survival instincts begin to gnaw at the emboldening gauze of mob rule and firewater.
He makes one more slow circuit of the room with his steady, laser gaze. Then he steps back into place beside Black. "Now. Which of you cares to risk it?" As he speaks, he makes a show of unbuttoning his long leather coat and pulling it open just slightly, and flexing his hands.
Burkett makes a powerful argument indeed. The crowd begins to drift apart.
Almost.
A man in full camo gear steps forward. He holds a .45 in each hand, arms at his sides as if daring the two to draw down on him. His dark eyes drip disdain as they pan across the crowd, never quite leaving Joe and Burkett in the process.
Burkett watches, but does not move, choosing instead to take his cue from Black. It's his party.
"*I'll* 'risk it', asshole. T'hell with these other chicken shits! I'm gonna blow your goddamn heads oOOOUUUURRRK-*!!"
A massive hand seizes the gunman's head from behind and casually tosses him to one side. He smashes into a bed frame across the room with a meaty *THWACK!*
"Hiya, Joe!" says Carl, steeping fully into the pool hall and grinning his toothy grin. "Whaddya know?"
In Nexus, a man with sixguns and a fedora _might_ be big trouble. With a man 8' tall and 4' wide, there's no doubt. A sizable majority of the pool hall patrons decide to hurry off and become useful members of society.
Joe relaxes... and sighs. "Chasen," he says tiredly, "Meet an old... friend... of mine. Captain Justice."
The only sign of Burkett's skepticism about the title and its application to this person is a quick check to Black that lasts less than half a blink.
"The name's CARL, godDAMMIT!" growls Carl, his smile instantly inverting. "DON'T call me 'Captain'!"
Burkett watches and waits to see what this monster of a man wants with Black. He heard Black's hesitance to label Carl "friend."
"Fine," Joe replies dryly, "'Carl'. Chasen, Carl Carlton. Carl, meet Chasen Burkett. We go way back."
Carl eyes Chasen without offering his hand. "I'll bet," he snorts.
Joe rolls his eyes. "What're you _doin'_ here, Carl?" Carl shrugs and grins. "Oh, you know. Defending the weak, fightin' evil. The usual. And what better place to do that than a shithole like _this_, right?" He takes the place in with a sweep of his arms, causing two of the remaining toughs to dive for cover.
"And besides, the booze is cheap," he adds, absconding an abandoned beer bottle, downing the contents, and powdering it in his fist. "But enough about me. What brings *you* down here? Didn't scare of any prime targets, did I?"
"It's business, Carl. You wouldn't be interested."
Carl places a hand on his chest in mock indignation. "Joe! I'm _hurt_! We're all heroes here, right? Well, I mean, I dunno about Gloomboy here," -- he jerks a thumb at Chasen -- "but _we_ are. Dontcha wanna share info, or whatever the hell it's called?"
"Carl," Joe sighs, pausing to light up a smoke, "this is work for people who give a damn. I gave you your chance, you passed it up. The train left the station, and you stayed behind in Margaritaville."
"HA!" Carl laughs, slapping a tabletop and smashing it to splinters. "That's a good one, Joe! 'Margaritaville'! Not that I'd _drink_ a faggoty drink like that -- but still!" He wipes a nonexistent tear from his eye. "Now I've got one for _you_. Guy walks into a bar. Sees a gumshoe he knows, asks what's up. Maybe he can lend a hand, right? But the gumshoe, he plays it close. So the guy, he decides to tag along with the gumshoe _anyway_, just in case he needs help. And here's the real funny part: the guy's a big, strong type, and he makes a whole helluva lotta noise while he follows along with the gumshoe -- just by accident, ya know? But damn, doesn't everyone and his dog just show up t'see what all the racket's about?"
"You want me to shoot you, Carl? _Again_? Is that it?"
Carl shrugs. "That's up t'you, I guess. You gonna shoot me down good this time? Or would you rather have a mountain of muscle watchin' your back while you wander around down here?"
Joe shakes his head and looks over to Burkett. "You have any thoughts on the subject, Chasen? Carl here was a good man, once, before he started campin' out with Jim Beam."
Burkett considers for a moment, scuffing at a bit of broken glass near his right boot-tip. "Weeeeeell..." he begins. "As I see it, we have about three options."
He looks up, first at Black, then at Carl, then back at Black.
"We can tell him why we're here. Which I, for one, am disinclined to do." He slowly pulls out his pump-action shotgun. "Or we can forget the whole thing and go home. On the whole, rather counter-productive, I'd think." He loads a round into the chamber with dramatic precision of movement. The clack echoes around the close chamber. "Or we can both shoot him, simultaneously. Risky, his being a hero and all. But at least we have a chance of success."
He looks over at Black. "Or..."
He shrugs, lowering the weapon.
"We could split up."
Joe's eyes slide from Burkett to the suddenly scowling Carl and back again. And he chuckles.
"Split up, huh? You know, that's not half bad idea!" He reaches into a trenchcoat pocket, withdrawing a pair of discrete battery packs with attached earphones and throat mikes. He offers one to Burkett. "Here you go, Chasen! Reception might not be so great down here, but you can take care of yourself, right?
"C'mon, Carl, let's go do some good!"
Carl shakes his head. "Nope. I'm goin' with _him_." He jabs a thick finger at Burkett.
"Oh, for God's sake...!" Joe protests.
"Hey," Carl says, his hands up, palms out, "I know YOU. You're a real straight shooter. But _this_ guy... I don't know _him_ from Adam! There's no tellin' what kinda trouble he could get into down here. Or _start_, for that matter."
He doesn't quite manage to suppress a smirk.
Burkett returns his gaze with imperturbable calm. He takes the earphones and throat mic and affixes them. "If Mr. Carlton feels need of my protection," he says, adjusting the volume, "I'll be more than happy to look after him for you." He looks up. "Though it has been a while since I was called upon to play the nursemaid..."
He moves forward and, as he comes into range of Carl, reaches over and pats his huge forearm. "Don't worry, Captain. I'll take good care of you."
Now it's Joe's turn to smirk, but the moment passes quickly as he hears Carl's response.
"HA! Man-oh-man, you guys are a riot! Awright, Nursey," he says, grinning down at Burkett, "let's get movin'!"
Joe nods, frowning. "Okay. I'll see you when we get where were goin'." He turns and heads down a branching corridor.
"But watch yourself," he whispers into the throat mike. "Carl's not himself today."
"That's all right," Burkett whispers back, more of a mutter. "I haven't been myself for some time."
Joe's quiet chuckle is his reply.
He heads down a different corridor from Black. He says, loudly enough for Carl to hear, "Am I to presume you wanted this...person...back in one piece, or is that at my discretion?" He glances back at Carl with what would be interpreted as an assessing gaze before turning back front.
Carl grins toothily back at him during the surprisingly long pause that follows.
"Try to keep'im alive unless he doesn't give you a choice, Chasen," comes Joe's reply at last. "He really was a good man once. A hero, even.
"And besides, you never know when a confirmed asshole's gonna surprise you, right?"
Silence.
Burkett frowns, feeling the cold tingle of guilt and pride dance up his spine. "Right," he says, after turning off the mic.
They pad off in a generally downward slope, Burkett's boots making no sound on the rock. He says nothing to Carl. He doesn't look at Carl. He keeps his eyes on the corridor ahead, his hearing focussed to the rear, and his "sixth sense" up around the next bend.
Doors line the route they take and corridors branch off to left and right. Some doors are open, most are closed. Behind a few, throaty giggling can be heard, or the rhythmic grunting and huffing of someone losing himself in ecstacy. The odd wail, a scream or two, suggesting the sex play is getting a little rough.
This is The Hard Way. Home to miriad brothels, clubs, baths, sex shops. Here and there, leather shops outfit the kinky, the sexually ambiguous, the just plain evil... Implements of torture line the walls, with chains and whips displayed on nude mannequins of every shape, species and gender. Porno flicks run constantly on video screens at this place, nude females cavort and beckon in the window of that place. Nothing is banned here. There's even a Snuff Shop, for those with a taste for death. Handily placed beside it is "Necro-Dome!", proclaiming in huge letters, "If you couldn't be her first, be her last!"
Burkett walks quietly past all these as if he were walking along a country road. The sing-song come-ons from the ladies in various stages of attire--or lack thereof--seem not to penetrate his concentration.
Carl, on the other hand, gazes about like a kid wandering the aisles of a favorite candy store, eyeing -- and occassionally squeezing -- the free samples. "Hiya, toots! Sorry, not now. I'm on the clock... Hey, buddy! Hope you've had yer shots if yer goin' for THAT one!... Oh, baby! Nice 'n firm! You've been workin' out, haven't ya?"
At one point, an oily pimp in sunglasses rushes up to protest Carl's extended sampling of the wares. He receives a free airfare through a nearby door for his trouble, the busy two- and four-legged occupants of the room beyond screaming at his sudden arrival.
At one point, a woman with blue skin--and plenty of it--steps into his path and shimmies for him. "Come on, pretty boy...gimme some of your sweet stuff!" She undulates and gestures in pretty unmistakable intent.
Burkett stops, since he cannot get around her unless he physically moves her out of his way.
"Come on, sugar...Let me see what you've got under all that leather." She fingers the lapel of his long leather coat. "Dixey KNOWS what you want." Her hand travels south. "Dixey KNOWS how to make it happen."
Burkett catches her wrist before it gets too close to its destination. He holds it firmly...a little too firmly, judging by the sudden pained look on Dixey's face. "Miss Dixey," he says, slowly but firmly moving her hand up and out of harm's way. "I do beg your pardon, but I do not have the time, or the inclination, to partake of your skills." He continues to hold her wrist. "I'd be obliged if you'd pass the word."
Dixey winces, and nods quickly, her eyes wider than they were.
"Thank you." He lets go her wrist, and she steps aside.
"Haw! Sorry, honey. Guess yer not his type! Maybe ya outta bring out yer brother!" Carl chuckles at his own wittiness as they continue to stroll the Way.
Dixey doesn't smile at this. She doesn't even seem to hear Carl. She looks rather like a woman who's received some sort of horrendous emotional shock. Or experienced some epiphany, perhaps. Or come face to face with Death.
She has looked into Burkett's eyes.
As Burkett moves on, she continues to stare after him, absently massaging her wrist.
"You okay, honey-lamb?" asks a concerned voice behind her. She turns to find Olivia, the Saurian drag-queen in her pimps stable, leaning over her. "Did that bastard hurt you?"
"No...no. I'm fine...Olivia, I gotta find a phone."
"What? Why, child? What you want a phone for?"
"I gotta call my momma," Dixie says, hurrying inside.
Olivia follows her, fluttering as best a Saurian can. "Your momma? Child, you haven't spoken to your momma since you was a kid! Why you want to call her now??"
Dixie stops, looking confused and panicked at the same time. "She's dyin', Olivia." Dixie wrings her sheer scarf between her hands. "She's dyin', and she's callin' for me."
The slits in Olivia's yellow eyes widen and narrow in surprise. "How do you know that?"
Dixie looks up at Olivia. She feels adrift. "He..." She looks in the direction Burkett has gone. "He told me." She frowns. "When I looked at him, I...I saw Momma, dyin', and heard her callin' my name." She turns. "I gotta find a phone."
*****
On beyond The Hard Way they come to a darker place. Here, there are few doors but many doorways. Creatures of all species lie in them, lie in the road beside them and, if one looks in the doorway, lie about on the floors within as far as one can see. Some are semi-conscious, most are not. Some moan and murmur, others stare glassy-eyed at some unimaginable show reeling out before them.
"Keep to yourself here," Burkett advises. "We don't want any trouble."
Here and there stands a dark, menacing figure, watching anyone with the strength to walk. Watching to see what their business might be. Watching to see if they mean trouble or commerce. They hold great truncheons, most of them, which they swing threateningly.
"This is the Junkie Yard," Burkett explains. "Don't make eye-contact with the guards, and we'll be fine. I'd as soon get through here as quickly as possible. It can get ugly if you start a scene." It is the longest speech Burkett has made--perhaps in his life. And his tone suggests it is not idle conversation.
Carl looks one of the guards dead in the eye as he strolls past, an insolent grin on his face. "Already looks pretty damn ugly around here, if you ask me."
Burkett checks Carlton over his shoulder, and then winces inwardly. //I hope Black makes it to our destination,// he thinks, //Because it certainly looks like -we're- not going to...//
"YOU, THERE!" comes the booming voice of the guard, followed by the indistinct, mechanical drone of one of his collegues over the hand-talkie. "Stop right where you are!"
"My friend meant no disrespect, I ass-"
Burkett doubles over as the guard thrusts the blunt truncheon into his solar plexus, knocking the air out of his lungs and filling his vision with stars. It was a blow that could have killed him, given just the right combination of circumstances.
"I wasn't talking to -you-, pretty boy!!" He withdraws the truncheon, and Burkett sinks to his knees, gasping for breath, eyes rolling back. "I was talkin' to -him-!" He points an accusing finger at Carlton, as six or seven of his fellows begin to move in, circling them.
"It's not polite to point, asshole," Carl sneers, his fist suddenly swallowing the guard's hand with a *crunch!*.
Burkett, staying down in a fetal crouch, lifts his head to see what's happening. He is startled to see how quickly Carl moves when he takes a mind to.
'Lefty's' whimper as he drops to his knees is drowned out by the crack of his ally's truncheon on Carl's skull.
Burkett speaks into the throat mic, hoping Black is still within range. "Black--we've got a situation, here..."
"Ow! I actually _felt_ that!" Carl laughs, ...
"Your friend has us pinned down in the Junkie Yard..."
...turning to deliver an explosively bloody palm-smash to his attacker's face. "THAT's what you get for hittin' me from behind, queerboy!"
Burkett staggers to his feet, reaching to pull the biggest, meanest explosive-load multi-round pump-action double-barreled shotgun available on any market, legal or otherwise out of the bottomless pocket of his leather duster.
"...But he seems to be handling himself..."
Then he [Carl] disappears beneath a pile of snarling dark-clad bodies.
"...or not..." He pumps the shotgun. "How would you like me to handle this?"
Joe's voice comes back to Chasen through his earpiece.
Sort of.
"*FSHHHzzzzttt*-uvabitch t-*shhhhhHHHHVRRRRNNNN*-AMMIT! Let h-*VVVZZZSSSHzzzz*-is own ass!"
Then guards fly in every direction as Carl bursts up from underneath them like a breaching whale, laughing all the while.
"Now THIS is FUN!" he whoops as his concrete slab of a punch shatters a guard's jaw.
Burkett sighs, lowering his shotgun before anyone sees that he has one. Best not to call attention to himself. "Understood," he says quietly into the throat mic.
Another guard attempts a lunging sidekick. Carl snags the man's leg and uses him as a human club to smack one of his charging friends. Both go sprawling.
The attack leaves an opening that three more of the guards exploit, clubs swinging. Carl takes a short hail of annoying blows before smashing the three of them together in a boneless goon sandwich.
"Awright, you guys're startin' to bore me now," Carl warns the remaining guard, who hesitates just beyond Carl's reach.
The latter's resolve strengthens visibly as backup arrives through the door behind him. Backup in the form of fresh guards with clubs exchanged for heavy weapons.
"Aw, now c'mon-" Carl begins, just before taking a round from a Panther assault cannon in the chest. He flies back to crater the wall behind him, chunks of stone flying in all directions. Soft whimpers are the most the sprawled junkies can manage as the debris shred and crush them.
The cannon gunner frantically reloads his weapon while three others open up on Carl with heavy machine guns. Carl shakes his head as he hauls himself out of the wall despite the barrage. Growling deep in his throat, he rips a door one-handed from the wall beside him and hurls it Frisbee-style into the fire team. Slow to switch from "fire" to "dodge" mode, the gunmen crunch nicely upon the door's arrival.
Carl dusts futilely at the tatters of his shirt.
Burkett speaks into the mic. "It's over. Your idiot friend has revealed our position to the whole of the Rock." He sighs. "Go on without us."
From Black: "I-*zzshffSSSHHHK*-out y-*vzzzzSHHHHhhhrmmm*! I'll *SHHHfffshhhhhrrrrsh*-ole!"
He looks Burkett's way and grins. "Looks like I chose the right guy to follow!" he laughs. "Black likes to hog all the fun!"
Burkett stands slowly, surveying the havoc Carlton hath wrought. "Black has more sense than to start a fight when it is unnecessary," he observes tersely, coming toward Carl, stepping over bodies. He says nothing more until he is directly in front of the huge super-hero-turned-drunk. Then he looks up into Carlton's grinning face with dark fire in his darker eyes.
"You, sir, are an ass."
Carl's grin quickly inverts itself. His eyes blaze with rage.
If he cares to look, Carlton might see in those eyes a replay of the brief melee, as though Burkett had videotaped it for airing at an alternate time. He might have seen bodies flailing and flying through the air. Broken bodies, gasping their last, calling for mercy, screaming in pain. Dying.
"Who do you think you are," Burkett continues, in the low, threatening growl of a voice that seems to come from somewhere far beyond him, deeper than he, stronger than he, somehow, "to take pleasure in the deaths of so many?"
"'Deaths'?" Carl demands incredulously. "_What_ 'dea-'?" He stops, taking in the broken bodies of the junkies around his feet. Really _seeing_ them only now.
And grimacing.
From him seems to eminate a kind of density, a congealing of the air that thickens it, pushing toward Carl with a force akin to a pressure wave.
"Who, to come into this place of redemption and rob these souls of their last chance?" He moves toward Carl with what might be construed as menace, were he approaching a less-menaceable person. "You, of all people, should understand why these souls are here. You should understand the purpose of the gutter. You should understand that every soul here is grasping for one last straw."
He looks up at the towering mountain before him.
"How dare you rob these souls of what might have been offered them, when you're too cowardly to take up that offer, yourself?"
Carl catches himself in the middle of an involuntary step backwards. He looms over the smaller man like a falling megalith.
"HEY! Who're you callin' '*coward*', pal? Okay, look, so some of these junkies bought it from my spare shrapnel! That wasn't MY doing! That was THEM." He jabs a finger in the general direction of several sprawled guards. "And speaking of those assholes, they'll be fine, which is more'n they deserve! They're big boys!" His eyes cut sideways to an unconcious guard, retreating at the sight of jutting bone. "Look, I was holding _back_, goddammit! Just screwing around! I can punch down _buildings_ when I feel like it! Any of them look like they've been hit with that kinda power to _you_? DO they??
Burkett gives him no reply. Instead he just stands there, his dark eyes locked on Carl's eyes, a sort of battle of wills. In -this- contest, Burkett might just have the upper hand.
"What do you people WANT from me??" he raves, his gesticulating arms striking chips from the ceiling. "What'm I supposed to do, let any little prick who comes down the pike push me around?? I don't have to take that shit from ANYBODY. I've got some fucking RESPECT comin' to me, godDAMMIT! Don't these fuckers know who I AM?? I'M CAPTAIN J-" He cuts himself short, eyes wide.
"Aaaaah, FUCK!!!" He spins around and punches his fist cleanly through the wall. Several still-living junkies moan softly at the sound.
He rests his forehead against the wall above the hole he's made. "Let's just get the fuck outta here."
Burkett nods. "That would be wise." He glances around, noting a hum that would suggest the battle may not yet be over. "And the sooner the better."
He speaks into the mic. "We're moving again. Keep to your course."
A short burst of static is his reply.
He starts for the passage at the far side of this cavernous room, not waiting to see if Carl will follow. But then he stops, turning back to Carl. "Carlton," he says, with a surprising gentleness in his voice. "When you are truly ready to get out of this hole you've dug for yourself...come talk to me."
He turns and moves on.
Carl glares at Burkett's back as he pulls his arm from the wall. "Don't do me any favors, pal!" Carl calls after him. "I call this 'hole' *home*!
"GOD, I need a drink..." he mutters. He shuffles off after Burkett with a shake of his head, leaving the junkies to eulogize the broken bodies around them with their pathetic groans.
*****
"W-*VZZSHHHHHrrrrrk* to y-*shhhRRRRRRRvrSHHHHHff*"
"What? WHAT?? *sigh*... Dammit."
Joe is tempted to ditch (and possibly smash) the throat mike, but reason quickly overcomes anger. It may be out of range -- and much sooner than he'd been promised -- but it also isn't a hindrance to keep wearing, just in case. And considering the gravity of this business, and the presence of Carl Carlton, that's a pretty damn big "in case".
But Radio Shack can sure as Hell expect a visit to their complaint department.
*****
Howie McSweeny leans against the wall in what he optimistically considers his little bit of Rock Bottom "turf".
Oh, sure, it's not much. An abandoned store room, most likely, just off a fairly insignificant strip of hallway. No real ambiance, unless you're into cobwebs and rotting crates. But it's just fine for just kicking back in relative peace and quiet with a bottle of cheap whiskey, and maybe a couple of Red Bombers to add that extra edge.
And besides, it's a convenient staging area for Howie and his crew when it's time for a slice of fun and profit. Which is the case today - or _should_ be, anyway. His buds are late, and Howie, glancing at his watch for the third time in as many minutes, is getting more than a little pissed. The adrenaline rush from the Bombers he'd popped, quickly overwhelming the mellowing groove of the whiskey, isn't helping.
The sudden thunderclap and the gaping hole through his abdomen it heralds don't help much, either.
Howie hits the floor a second after his dropped whiskey bottle, screaming as best he can while ineffectually trying to hold in his tortured intestines. The dark amber liquid from the shattered bottle mingles with his lifeblood in lazy swirls.
All of which keeps him far too preoccupied to hear the bootsteps of the figure entering the room. In fact, his guest goes completely unnoticed until he stands by Howie's side, staring down at him with pitiless blue eyes beneath a battered fedora.
"Scared?" Joe asks him.
Howie emits a high, squealing noise that might be a "yes".
Joe nods, seemingly satisfied with the answer. "You should be."
A spasm squeezes the guts of the dying boy. One arm beats the ground in time with his pain, smashing his wristwatch in the process.
A lovely gold watch with someone else's name engraved on the back.
The name of the husband who, several weeks back, had watched helplessly as Howie and his (recently deceased) friends had raped and murdered the wife who'd given him that very same watch before turning their attentions his way.
Joe watches as the spasm fades, along with any movement at all.
He waits just long enough to hear the _real_ screaming begin.
Then, pausing to light up a smoke, he turns to continue on his way. Rock Bottom's a big place, and he has a lot of ground to cover.
*****
Joe flips over the corpse at his feet with his boot, keeping a Colt trained on its chest. Ordinarily he'd aim for the head, but he's already shot that. Several times.
Whatever else the thing is -- or was -- it's damned ugly. It is comprised of a roughly human torso and head with unwholesomely pasty white skin. Where eyes should be stretches featureless flesh. The teeth in the distended jaw are deceptively brown and crooked -- Joe has no doubt that they could have made short work of human bone, based upon the way in which the creature had bitten chunks out of a wooden door in its frenzy to get at him.
The arms -- all six of them -- are human, but joined at the middle of the torso. Lacking legs, it had scuttled insect fashion on its bristle-fingered hands over floor, wall, and ceiling.
It had been skittering after Joe across the latter when he'd plugged it. It had uttered a shrill sound like a cross between a scream and giggle and had slapped to the floor like an uncooked turkey. It hasn't moved since.
Ugly damned thing.
Now, the only question is: Is it a-
"Oh, yes, my fretful servant! It was, indeed, a Twisting. I should know..."
Joe starts as the head of the thing turns to face him, vertebrae cracking nastily against the unnatural onset of rigor mortis. The creature's eyeless face shifts, and contorts, and flows into the horribly grinning face of Loche.
Joe recovers quickly. "Get the Hell outta my head, Loche."
"Oh, I need no telepathy to know your mind," Loche coos. "You are so _terribly_ predictable, you know."
The head wounds Joe had inflicted on the beast seal up as the head completes its Loche-transformation. The subterranean hall echoes with thunder as the Lawman's Peacemaker adds a fresh one.
"You forgot to duck" Joe observes. "Or was that not predictable enough for you?"
Loche scowls as the bloodless hole in his silvery head closes. "That was foolish, even for you. Did you really think your ridiculous cap gun would serve you any better now than it has previously against me?"
"No," Joe concedes as he casually holsters his pistol. "But puttin' a round or two in your head's always a good time. So what the hell are you doin' here, as if you weren't gonna tell me anyway?"
Loche lurches awkwardly to his corpse-body's "feet". "Have a care, Lawman," he warns. "My patience is not infinite."
"No, but everybody else's had better be if their gonna listen to you. Now speak your goddamn piece. I'm busy."
"Indeed you are," Loche sneers. "Busy, and attracting attention. Do you think the appearance of this particularly mindless Twisting a coincidence? More follow, I assure you. I have already slain many of them. Whatever you are about, it is drawing wisps of subconscious concern from the restless Qwar, and their servants respond."
"You don't know what I'm doin', huh? I'm gettin' less predictable by the minute."
"FOOL!" Loche hisses. "This is no time for your pathetic games! Do you not understand your peril? You will tell me where you are going, and _now_, and you will consider yourself fortunate that this will earn you my continued protection. You are not the only pawn of mine the Twistings stalk in this place. Have I, perhaps, chosen the wrong one to defend?"
This takes but a second and a half to register. Then Joe grabs for the throat mike.
"Chasen! Twisting's're after us both! Wherever you are, get the Hell out! Is this piece of shit getting through? Goddammit, Burkett, _answer_ me!!"
*****
Chasen Burkett moves on through the maze of Rock Bottom. Occasionally his mic hisses or crackles with ambient static as they pass an open doorway or intersecting corridor. He doubts Black could get through all this rock, anyway. He glances back to see how his shadow companion is faring.
Calton seems almost to fill the passage now. His hulking form brushes the sides of what has diminished to little more than a tunnel, and he stoops to avoid overhead obstacles. Burkett wonders, not for the first time, how Black and this Neanderthal could have become acquaintances, much less friends. Yet Black and called him "a good man".
On the other hand, Black had also shot him, at least once.
Burkett turns back front, sighting down the tunnel. It meanders into dimmer light now, and perhaps even darkness around the next curve. There are fewer intersections. Finally none. They are coming to the more remote sections of the rock, far enough away from common usage to be less-well-tended. Burnt-out lights would seldom be seen to here.
Burkett slows his pace as the hairs on the nape of his neck lift. He raises his shotgun closer to his body, fitting the stock into the cradle of his arm. It might only be the darkness, or the knowledge that this far deep quarter, so far from the hail of assistance, is the last refuge of the worst of the dregs that find a home in this stinking pile. Or it might be something else...
A faint, quick hiss of flesh dragging on stone.
Then the creature in the hall ahead is simply _there_.
It's a bipedal, headless thing with glistening skin the color of dried blood. Human faces contorted in various stages of agony cover its arms, legs, and torso.
The eyes of those faces bulge in their sockets as they focus on Burkett and Carl, then roll back in their sockets.
The mouths begin to wail like a choir skinned in unison. Slowly.
And suddenly, the darkness around them is filled with stealthy movement.
Burkett's first instinct is to fire his shotgun into the creature in front of him. He does this. But it is a controlled action, not done in haste or panic. He's seen the company of Samael. A challenger like this one, horrific though it may be, is not enough to make him lose his long-honed reflexes or his sense. He aims for the center of the body-mass. One blast, watching for effect.
The wailer explodes like an overripe tomato, spattering the walls, ceiling, and floor. But it is quickly replaced.
Nightmare shapes shuffle, lurch, flap, and crawl over its remains. And from the passage behind them. And from the smaller side passages at the intersection just passed. Shapes that move on legs, on wings, on tentacles, on less definable appendages. Not quite enough to compromise a "horde"... but quite enough to be "too many".
"What the HELL?" Carl growls, turning about to face the assault to their rear.
Then they're on him.
Burkett begins methodical blasting, picking off one after another of the hideous Twistings. But he knows this will not last long. He hasn't nearly enough ammunition to take care of even those coming from his end of the corridor. He does not know if Carlton is armed.
Burkett's movements are slow and deliberate, not hurried or panicked. If he dies, he dies. He can only do what he can do. Similar aphorisms flit through his mind as he pumps round after round into the chamber of his shotgun and reaches into his pocket for more. He wonders of Black, if he is under similar assault somewhere else.
Burkett's mind, usually focussed exclusively on the job at hand, now skips and jumps over the paths of memory...nearly 200 years of it. Charlotte, his first love, to whom he could not make himself return after years of war had ruined him. Then years and years of bitterness, anger, despair... And then, Mannon. And salvation. And Lucea, the angel, who had granted him reprieve from the torment that had befallen him at Mannon's death. And Tarot, who had summoned the help that saved his life when Hardin sought to end it. Sweet Tarot, the Innocent.
Thoughts of sweetness. Thoughts of fondness. Thoughts of...love. Such thoughts and memories as he had not had since...last he was mortal.
//So is this it, then?// he asks himself, reloading the shotgun from his dwindling supply of ammo. //Is this the "life flashing before my eyes" ending of a too-long existance? Am I truly mortal again?// A faint, grim smile quirks his lips at the thought. //Well, this time I'm not going down without a fight...//
For his part, Carl's adrenaline-fired thoughts are not so poetic. In fact, they might best be summarized as: //A *FIGHT*!!//
Chitin, bone, and cartilage crunch under his fists. (From the look of things, his claims of having held back against the guards of the Junkie Yard may have been truthful.) Claws, teeth, and acid-drenched pseudopods lash and tear at his flesh. Some even manage to break it.
That _really_ pisses him off.
He throws himself in the midst of the swarming Twistings with reckless abandon born of unadulterated power. Some of the things' bodies give under his blows rather than break; that's when he begins simply ripping them apart like ichor-dripped Christmas presents.
But even through the fog of battle, one fact presses home: More of the things are joining the battle by the minute, pouring down the passage they'd taken as well as the side tunnels. Big as he is, he can't bodily hold the whole lot of them back, and they'll start boiling past him to get at Burkett's soft backside in no time.
Carl figures that that counts as "losing."
Carl doesn't like to lose.
Knuckles pop as he forms a tight fist -- incidentally crushing a bug-thing's head in the process. Then *THOOM!!*
Burkett cringes at the thundering sound, so unexpectedly loud in this closed-in space. Nearly as loud as the reports from his shotgun. He casts a quick glance over his shoulder to see what new menance has befallen them.
-- his [Carl's] fist smashes upward into the ceiling! Slabs of mortar crack away and fall, breaking against his diamond-hard skull and crushing those of his less sturdy opponents.
Burkett registers surprise, then whirls back front to deal with a quick-slithering creature with many mouths where its eyes should be--and all of them snarling for Burkett's flesh.
*THOOM!!*
Involuntarily, Burkett winces again.
*THOOM!!*
//What is he--//
He [Carl] doesn't bother shouting a warning. Burkett's a smart guy. He'll figure it out. And if not... one less dumbass in the world.
*THOOOOM!!!*
Burkett has about one-tenth of a second to figure it out and make his response before the ceiling gives way altogether, and the stuff of the mountain it had held in check pours through. Rocks and debris completely fill the passage behind Burkett, totally obliterating any sign of Carl or his opponents.
Burkett hunches down, fending off the outer edges of the falling mass with up-raised arms in a "duck-and-cover" operation.
The more coherent Twistings that remain -- those that had crawled up from the passage ahead of Carl and Burkett -- hesitate at the sudden change in architecture. The others just keep coming.
But for whatever reason, there are fewer ahead than there had been behind.
Burkett stands up again, glancing back to assess the extent of the cave-in. Then he faces the momentarily-checked Twisting in front of him. And sees slithering and crawling and lurching and winging things moving in behind it. Fewer, perhaps, than Carlton had to face, but more than he can handle alone.
And now he is totally cut off from any hope of reinforcement.
The abomination before him is moving again, reaching forward with tentacular appendages that seem to locate by some means other than sight or sound. Heat-seeking, perhaps? Carbon-dioxide? It doesn't really matter in the end, for within moments those appendages are flying backward into the faces of several like-minded companions, along with the rest of the creature's body, innards and tarry ichor.
//How long can I continue?// Burkett wonders, reloading his shotgun yet again. Even an inter-dimentional pocket has its limits. Were it not so, he'd gladly slip into it, himself, and disappear! He takes out another few advancing bodies. //I can't just stay here, back to the wall, and hope they stop coming...//
He reloads and pulls forth his Beretta 94F, thrusting it into the waist-band of his trousers. Not nearly the same stopping power, but it's all he has to work with. Then he starts forward, wading into the morass of piled carcasses, trying not to slip and slide on the ooze that has coated every surface of the tunnel several inches deep. Some of it is caustic. All of it is rank. He moves as quickly as he can, driving back those which dislike his sudden change of tactic, and firing on those who seem not to care.
//Well, Black...it was nice while it lasted. May the God of Light hold you in His hand, and may you yet dwell a thousand-thousand years in the arms of those you love...//
A wind rises suddenly from the unseen reaches of the tunnel ahead. Hot and sulfurous, it stings Burkett's eyes and dries the sweat on his brow into a salty film.
Burkett winces into a crouch at the onslaught. More than from the searing crackle over his skin. He winces in memory. In recognition. In...despair.
The Twistings fare far worse at its rasping touch. As if swept by an invisible wave of fire, they char to ash where they stand or crawl -- so quickly they do not even scream. Then a second invisible wave passes through their ranks, this one like an oncoming train that pulverizes the blackened corpses into a choking volcanic cloud.
*****
[back with Joe Black]
Static.
"DAMMIT! Where the Hell's he gotten to??"
Loche yawns. "Oh, very well," he sighs, his stolen body beginning to lazily dissolve into a foul-smelling puddle. "I suppose he _might_ prove useful again at some point. Go on, then, my pet, and rescue your litter mate. I'll trouble myself no more with you, if the two of you insist on calling down doom upon yourselves."
One bristly hand is the last to dissolve. It points down a passage descending to the north. "He is that way, fool," Loche's voice bubbles.
*****
When at last the ash cloud settles, it reveals a message seared into the very stone of the passage, written in a singularly chaotic script:
THIS WAY, FOOL
The end of the "L" tapers off into a wavering arrow that points down the hallway.
Or perhaps it is a forked tail.
Burkett looks, coughing in the cloud settles around him, and on him. He absently shakes it from his leather coat as he examines the wall. The seeming frivolity exposed here sickens him to the heart. Beyond. It soul-sickens him. For he knows the source of this salvation. An unlooked-for source. An unwelcome source. He had hoped--prayed--never to be beholden to this source again. Rather, he would have died in this stinking hole, never to be seen again, his fate never guessed.
Everso reluctantly, he gets up from his reflexive crouch, putting away his weapons and walking forward into the heat of the still-radiating crucible.
//Samael...// he acknowledges, all hope gone.
But rather than intensify as he travels onward, the Hell-stench begins to fade, until all that remains is the goodish musty scent of deep places.
The passage ends at a narrow arched doorway, which in turn opens onto a round chamber with three other such openings at the cardinal points. The floor of the room itself forms a shallow bowl, with a circular opening at the very bottom like a large drain. A metal ladder descends down it and out of sight. And around it, in recessed Gothic letters, the words:
THIS WAY TO EGRESS
In the doorway to the west stands a bemused Joe Black. "Chasen?" he begins.
Burkett stops, caught half way between relief and regret. He is glad to find that Black is alive, glad of the company, but would have done almost anything to prevent Black and Samael from coming face-to-face. As his mind skips forward to encompass the likely outcome of that confrontation, Black continues.
"How the hell'd y-"
Then the presence of the third visitor to the room registers on him. Sitting hunched in the north doorway is a small, wizened figure in dark green garb and a bright red cap. His beard is wild and bristly, and his eyes are saucerlike and mad. He smiles silently back and forth between Black and Burkett with a mouthful of Jack-o-Lantern teeth... and then cuts his own throat with the straight razor in his hand.
Burkett takes a startled step forward before stopping again and assessing. This entire scene is too...pat. Too conveniently dramatic. Even melodramatic. He begins to look about for other signs of his old master, or one of His minions.
The body falls forward, but the dark blood does not. Instead, it floats up in a snakelike stream to the center of the north archway, there to spread out across it in all directions as if smearing over a pane of glass.
Burkett's nostrils flare slightly with disgust.
And then it begins to darken still further, and to swirl... to swirl into a pitch-black whirlpool that leads into a deeper darkness. And that darkness has a voice:
"weeeeeeyaaaarrrrlllll....eeeeeshuuuuuun.....weeeeeeyaaaaarrrrrlllll....eeeeeshuuuun...."
For once, even Joe seems uncertain of his next move.
Burkett, too, hesitates. The introduction of madness into an already difficult situation does not please him. His jaw clamps shut, grinding his irritation into submission.
"...weeeeeeyaaaarrrrlllll....eeeeeshuuuuuun.....weeeeeeyaaaaarrrrrlllll....eeeeeshuuuun...."
"Maybe you are," comes a chorus of seductive voices from the east doorway, their source a smirking young man sauntering forward in black sweater and jeans.
Burkett straightens even more. He lowers his eyes and slowly shakes his head.
His burning eyes drip disdain as they eye the swirling chaos. "But then, so are we."
Burkett looks across at Black, watching for cues.
Black stands calmly now. Legs slightly apart, slightly bent. Arms at his sides, slightly bent. Hands hovering beside his holsters. Eyes narrowed, staring at the empty space between the two Legions. Waiting.
The demonic youth stands silently, sneering at the swirling darkness. Waiting.
And the darkness continues its droning chant.
And then, the darkness gives up its young.
The hordelings of the Dark Tide of Legion pour from the black portal in all their nameless shapes and forms. Leering. Quivering. Hungry for flesh to taste, corrupt, and consume.
"...weeeeeeyaaaarrrrlllll.... eeeeeshuuuuuun.....
weeeeeeyaaaaarrrrrlllll.... eeeeeshuuuun...."
But then, as one -- for one they are -- they hesitate. Eyes -- and things that pass for eyes -- leer hungrily at Black... and Burkett... and Legion.
Black doesn't move.
"...weeeeeeyaaaarrrrlllll.... eeeeeshuuuuuun.....
weeeeeeyaaaaarrrrrlllll.... eeeeeshuuuun...."
"Yesssssss," the youth hisses in demonic harmony. "Come to us, our brothers..." His arms open in welcome.
"...weeeeeeyAAAAArrrrlllll.... eeeeeshUUUUUn.....
...weeeeeeyAAAAArrrrlllll.... eeeeeshUUUUUn...."
And the Tide surges forward. Toward the youth known as Legion.
And the youth smiles a satanically perfect smile. And bursts into a fluttering cloud of a million night-black ravens that flap forward to meet the oncoming Horde, pecking and clawing with unnatural ferocity and uncanny force.
Most, but not all, of the Dark Tide is so distracted. A small group of obscene shapes wriggle through the air towards Black and Burkett... and *now* Black fires, cutting them down as they come.
Burkett knows about how much ammunition he has left--not enough. Even though only few target him and Black, there is little he can do. He glances toward the hole in the center of the room. Perhaps his best option is make one less target. Then, at least, Black won't have to worry about protecting him. His Beretta in hand, he begins to clear himself a path.
"BURKETT!" Black yells, fanning one revolver into the midst of the swarming mass of Legion and Legion, blasting any Darklings that move their way. "GET DOWN THAT GODDAMN HOLE!!"
Burkett complies with amazing agility and speed. Taking five or six Darklings on his way, he reaches the ladder and drops down through the hole, naval fashion, his feet never touching a rung.
Joe isn't far behind him.
The Darklings continue pouring from the portal, and the ravens become hard pressed to hold them back. More and more slip from the melee to seek Joe out. It's only a matter of time before he's overwhelmed by sheer numbers.
Which is why Joe takes a running start and *dives* toward the hole. He flips onto his back and slides down the slope on his trenchcoat, firing with both guns straight up into the mass of hovering abominations as he goes. Then a quick flip, and he's in the hole and sliding down the ladder.
A horror or two seem inclined to follow... until the hole seals off neatly as if it had never been. Simultaneously, the black portal vanishes with a *pop*, neatly cutting off the maddening litany of the Dark Tide. The ravens make short, gruesome work of the suddenly mindless Darklings left behind.
Loche *tsks* as he strolls casually into the room. "You know, you really *must* learn to do that for yourself if you're to keep having these family squabbles," he sneers.
Their feasting complete, the ravens flock together, half-forming their youthful boy guise as they gaze balefully at Loche.
Then they launch themselves at him.
Joe slides down the ladder for a small eternity. Even as the opening above him seals up -- a problem currently low on his list of priorities -- a sourceless illumination allows him his vision. Not that there's much to see, beyond iron rungs, cold stone blocks...
*****
...and the bottom bunk his brother had taken after losing the coin toss. He stumbles as he comes to the end of his unexpectedly short climb at the base of the bunk bed's ladder.
He turns around slowly, wonder chilling his thoughts to glacial speed.
Relentless Texas sunshine burns through the glassless windows. Longhorns crop the grass outside, tails swishing against the omnipresent flies. A double-barrel shotgun rests on its rack above a fireplace that sits summer-idle. There, in the corner, hangs a worn slateboard with the ghost of last night's lessons still clinging to its surface. The air smells of wood and heat and leather and iron.
The man sits with his back to Joe in a simple wooden chair before the fireplace, seemingly intent upon the book held open before him. But before Joe can speak, the man snaps the book shut, revealing the little white cross on the black cover of cracked leather.
The man rises slowly, and turns.
His hair and thick mustache are of a charcoal gray several shades lighter than his severe suit of clothes, his face cracked and pitted with care and hot prairie wind. A Colt Navy revolver hangs on his right hip.
He regards Joe silently, with stern blue eyes like ice across a bottomless lake.
They're the eyes of a headmaster. The eyes of a judge.
The eyes of a preacher man.
"Hello, Josiah," he says at last, his voice rough as old rawhide.
"P-Pa...?"
*****
About what he judges to be half-way down the ladder, Burkett's feet suddenly dangle for a moment before they touch down on some solid surface. The shift, while smooth, nonetheless startles him, throwing him just a bit off-balance. The rails of the ladder slither out from his grasp like retreating snakes, and he is standing three-quarters of the way down a long spiral staircase, a foot on each of two steps.
The railings here are wrought iron, twined with black vines and flowers, and the sun is on his face. And everywhere, the faint scent of orange blossoms rises to meet him.
Slowly, hesitating to accept what his senses tell him, Burkett makes his way down the last few steps. Dappled sunlight filtering through leaves flutters over him like dark and light butterflies, and bees buzz at the bougainvillea and wisteria. Everywhere are flowers. In pots, in beddings, in hanging baskets. The air is alive with...life. Birds and squirrels chitter and chatter. The soft, lazy heat of mid-afternoon sinks into the bone.
Burkett turns aside a wrought-iron gate and steps through into a new enclosure filled with growing things. And the scent of orange blossoms intensifies. It seems to be emminating from a far corner, wherein a slender young woman bends over a plot of newly-turned earth. She looks up as he approaches, and smiles. The sun brightens.
"Bon aprés-midi, mon cher, cher ami," she greets him, rising and clapping the earth from her slim hands. She sails forward in a faint cloud of sweet fragrance. "I have been waiting for you, Chasen."
Burkett stands rooted to the earth, no less than the old apple tree lolling its head in one corner of the enclosed garden, and stares at her. "Mannon?"
*****
Reverend Josiah Black stares intently at his boy -- sizing Joe up in that way of his that always set Joe's neck itching and brow beading with sweat. Then a smile cracks that old, rugged face, and it's as if the corners of the Reverend's mouth pull a weight from Joe's shoulders as they rise.
"It's good to see you, son. I'm proud that you made it. There were those thought you wouldn't. 'Not my Josiah,' I told'em. 'He'll make it through. You just watch'im.'"
Joe takes a hesitant step forward. One quivering hand reaches out, then drops back to his side. "Pa? What *is* this? You're-- I mean, am I back... *there*?"
The Reverend shakes his head slowly. His fingers tap idly against the cover of the Bible in his hands. (That sound had always driven Joe to distraction, especially when used in tandem with The Stare.) "No, son. You're in the Here, not the Hereafter. And that's where you'll stay for a while yet, Lord willing.
"But He's got a job for you, son, and it may be that he'll call you home before it's done. Whether or not you take it's up to you. That's His way."
*******
It is Mannon, not as he had last known her, but as he had first known her. Young, lithe. No hint of lameness where Samael had withered her limbs in his spitefulness. She is not what could be called an unparalleled beauty, but she is lovely in ways that could not be explained. Radient. Wholesome. Clean.
Burkett's breath catches in his throat. A pang shudders through him. A pain so sweet he can hardly bear it. To see her again, so young and so full of life. His reason tells him it can not be, but his heart tells him she is here, with him.
And he wants so desperately to listen to his heart.
"How can this be?" he whispers, a strangled sound.
Mannon smiles and comes closer. Only now does he realize that this scent he has always associated with her is not orange blossoms. It is something truer. Something cleaner. It is Mannon. Just...Mannon.
"Do not ask questions, mon cher. Accept what you see."
"But how?" he persists. "How can you--"
She reaches up and touches his face, and his breath stills. He cannot breathe, he cannot think. All his awareness narrows down to that small point of his skin where her fingertips brush.
"You ask me how, Chasen?" she says, her tone light with amusement. "You who have seen so many strange and wonderful things?" She smiles at him again, and he starts to breathe. "I have been sent to you."
"Sent?" he repeats, staring down into her lovely eyes. Trying to delay her by any means he can contrive. Wanting it not to be over. Wanting not to waken if it is a dream. Not to lose her again, whatever it be. He just wants her to be here with him, forever. Forever. Forever. "Sent by whom?"
"By the Father, Chasen. The God of Love and Light."
"But...what could He possibly want of me?" he asks, lowering his eyes with sudden shame.
Mannon lifts his chin. "He has a task for you, Chasen. A difficult one. Perhaps an impossible one. It could mean the end of you, mon amour. Of your...life, here. But if you take it, it must be of your own free will. If you accept, you risk all you've gained since the end of your bondage. You are free, for the first time in a very long time. And He will understand if what he asks is more than you can give."
*****
Joe had been dead. Joe's father had been dead. Presuming that both had ended up in the same Heaven, Joe has no doubt experienced this reunion long, long ago.
But when on his missions of Divine Wrath, Joe had been given a physical body, with physical limitations. Limitations like an inability to fully comprehend -- or even fully recall -- perfection, and thus the one realm where perfection truly exists.
All of which means that for Joe, right at this moment, meeting his dead father in the flesh is a very new experience. And more than a little unnerving.
"Pa... I..."
Joe takes a step forward, then checks himself. Pa never did cotton to hugging.
"Pa, I don't understand. I thought... I mean, I came lookin' for -- well, somethin' else -- and here y--"
Reverend Black holds up a calloused hand, cutting him off. "The Lord works in mysterious ways. I'm surprised at you for forgettin' that, Josiah." Those thick grey eyebrows arch, and Joe's eyes lower in response.
"What is it I'm supposed to do, Pa?" Joe whispers, gazing at the dull gleam on his father's boots. "I want to do what's right. Always have."
"I know, son, I know." Rev. Black lays a hand on Joe's shoulder, and Joe looks up to meet his gaze. "You've grown up to be a fine man, Josiah, and you've done a lot of good. But against the Beasts abroad in the world now, you've done all you can do... as you are.
"You have to *change*, son. To *be* changed. To be a more perfect tool for the job ahead of you."
Joe's brow furrows. "Change? Change *how*, Pa?"
The Reverend sighs. "I don't know, son. That's not for me to see. I'm here to guide you, Josiah, and your path to serve -- and to *change* -- is through that door yonder." He points a bony finger at the front door, where a nimbus of golden light has replaced the prairie and lowing cattle.
**********
Burkett considers this new development. "I was with Joe Black...we were looking for an Architect."
Mannon's eyes regard him thoughtfully, but she does not comment.
"...and, instead, I find you. You, and this wonderful garden. Just as it always was. You, young and alive." He looks about him. "And I just have to say to myself, 'this isn't real'."
Mannon gives a very Gallic shrug. "Qu'est-ce que sais?" she asks. Who knows? "Was it ever real, mon cher?"
Suddenly, unaccountably, Burkett's mood changes. He pulls himself up straight, all hint of wistfulness gone from his demeanor. Something has snaked up from his gut, pushing sentimentalism aside. This is just too familiar.
"You tell me your god has a task for me. What can you tell me about its nature?" His tone is hard, almost cold. It is the tone he has used with any of the numerous men who, in the past, had engaged his services as assassin. It is all business. It says that he is not about to sign on to a job until he knows the terms.
Mannon's eyes look up into his, and sadness crowds out any other emotion. "My God?" she repeats softly. "Yes..." She moves away from Burkett a pace or two, seeming to gather her thoughts, choose her words.
Burkett waits calmly. He's seen this before. Just like any other meet-and-deal session.
"I can tell you that you have a chance to do some good. To build upon what you've been trying to do since...since your contract with Samael was cancelled."
Burkett's left eye twitches at this. "What I've been trying to do? How would you know what I've been trying to do?"
Mannon turns back to him. "Cherie!" she cries. "Do I not know you?" She looks hurt.
Burkett lifts his chin just a bit, but decides not to press the issue. "Very well. Then tell me: What terms does your god propose?"
"Terms?"
"How will it cost me? How will he pay me?"
Mannon now looks genuinely distressed. "Pay you?" she repeats incredulously. "You ask God to pay you for this chance?"
Burkett cocks his head to one side, his eyes cold. "I don't work for free. If your god wants to hire my services, he'll have to state his terms." He leans back, hands in his trouser pockets. "His real terms," he adds. "I've learned a thing or two about dealing with gods."
Mannon straightens. She purses her lips, looking more like a school-marm than a gracious Lady of Largess. "He is not hiring your services, Chasen. You are being given an opportunity."
Burkett begins to turn away.
"This is not another contract," she continues. "This is not Samael, trying to trick you." She raises an eyebrow. "Though you certainly were not this unwilling to work for -him-!"
Burkett turns back quickly. His eyes narrow to slits.
Then, just as quickly, he disengages. He turns away. "I cannot deny the truth of that." He shakes his head. "But I never thought to hear you say it."
Mannon closes her eyes. "Je suis désolé. S'il vous plaît, me pardonner."
"Forgive you?" he says, turning to look at her. "For speaking the truth?"
Whatever hostility he had shown is gone. His confrontational manner is gone. He looks...tired. "What must I do?" he asks.
Mannon takes a deep breath, and moves on. "I can tell you that, to accept this task, you must be willing to change. To -be- changed, so that you may be a more perfect tool for the job ahead of you."
"Changed in what manner?" Burkett asks.
Mannon shakes her head. "I do not know. I cannot see that. I know only that your path to serve--and to change--is through that gate." She points to a wrought iron gate at the far side of the garden. Beyond, a nimbus of golden light blots out anything that might have been seen through the opening.
**********
Joe looks into the light. And he scowls, suddenly the rebellious child he had never truly been.
"I've done my work for Him, Pa. Seems like I can't help but *keep* doin' it. Guess He doesn't give up his handy tools so easily. And it hasn't been *enough*? All that killing? Watchin' all those souls drug off like scraps in a dog's mouth? Now I'm s'posed t'make some 'change' on nuthin' but *faith*, just so I can stay the Good Little Solider?"
His eyes narrow. "I'm not goin' *back*, Pa, if that's what you're gettin' at," he says, jabbing a finger at the glowing doorway. "Is *that* what's on the other side of that door?"
Joe falls silent, stoically awaiting the inevitable explosion.
It doesn't come. The only reaction is his father's redoubled tapping on the Bible's cover.
"I told you, Josiah: I don't know what change you'll be called to make. And the only thing I know's on the other side of that door is your destiny, and our only prayer for victory over the Adversaries."
"The Qwar?"
"Call'em what you like, son."
Joe stalks along the cabin's wall as he thinks. Pauses to gaze at a portrait of his mother as a young woman.
And whirls about to face his father, eyes blazing.
"What IS this, dammit? This ain't real. It *can't* be real. YOU'RE not real!"
Again, the Reverend weathers Joe's outburst with nary a crack in his stoic facade. "I'm real, son. I'm as real as I always have been to you. Up *here*, where you've kept me alive all these years." He raises his hand to tap his weathered temple.
Joe waves off the gesture impatiently. "You know what I think? I think I came down here t'find an Architect, and I think I FOUND one, and I think it's screwin' around with my mind instead of gettin' down to BUSINESS.
"SHOW YOURSELF, YOU GODDAMN PERVERSE SON OF A BITCH!!"
***************
Burkett regards the gate thoughtfully. Then he looks at Mannon. He looks her up and down, and a smile of surprising gentleness comes over his face. "I am grateful to you for this memory," he says. "Were I not such a cynic, I might almost believe you are Mannon."
"Cherie--" begins Mannon.
"No," he protests, holding up a hand to stop her. "It's all right. You've gone to a great deal of trouble on my behalf, and I am grateful for it. We came in search of an Architect. I found one. I should have expected something like this."
Mannon stands silent.
"There is no contract to negotiate," he goes on, "because I have come to -you-. You have not come to hire my services. Rather, I have come for advice."
He looks about him one last time, the burden of regret heavy upon him. Then he seems to rally himself.
"Tell me what I must do to fight the Qwar."
***************
First comes the darkness. Then the light of the three-sided Pyramid outlined in gold, stretching forever above yet coming to a single gleaming point high above where Black and Burkett stand side by side, separated by forever and a million other Pyramids. Then the Weavers weave furiously at their looms while capering Goblins pull apart the threads and scatter them to the Void. Titanic Hands hold a swirling Orb with no boundaries. Worlds appear like castaway scribbles of children and mindbending blueprints of master engineers. Faces. Songs. Trees. Whales. A cat speaks, and a coyote-man howls. A wizard banishes shadows, and a dusky woman calls them to her side. Mermaids and androids and dragons and aliens and mutants and heroes and scoundrels and pure light and utter darkness and everything and everyone and the CITY and...
***************
...the Reverend Josiah Black standing in the afternoon heat of the cabin he'd built with his own hands, the fingers of those hands drumming quietly on the cover of his Bible as he looks at his boy.
"It can't work that way, son," he says, a touch of sadness in his sandpaper baritone. "It's too much for a man to hang onto. Too much to know and understand.
"This is as plain as it gets, Josiah: There's the Door -- and the Change -- or there's nothing, ever again."
"Pa-" Joe begins, forgetting his earlier resolve. But the Reverend's raised hand cuts him off.
"It's your decision, son. I know you'll make the right one."
He walks past Joe, toward the back door of the cabin that wasn't there a moment ago. Joe turns to watch him, finding that no words will come. Perhaps it's for the best.
The Reverend pauses at the door, his back to the room and Joe. It's night on the prairie, and a cool wind brings the songs of locusts and the smell of dust and cattle.
Stars twinkle overhead, but heat lightning flashes far in the distance. There's a Storm on the horizon.
"I'm proud of you, son," he says quietly, without looking back. "Always have been."
Then he steps through the doorway, and the door swings shut behind him.
Joe watches the plain wooden wall where the door had been for a long, long while. Then he turns, the golden light of the Front Door playing across his weary face.
***************
...and Mannon, standing in the warmth of the garden, the cool of the shade cast by an old apple tree.
Burkett opens his eyes, forcing himself to regain his equilibrium. The cacaphony of sights, the chaos and delicate order balanced on a pin-point, the insinuation of feelings into his brain, have left him light-headed. He has not experienced anything like it since the first war, standing too close to the cannons as they thrummed their spew onto the enemy.
"Do you understand, mon cher?" asks Mannon.
Burkett smiles just a bit. "I understand, as St. Teresa of Avila says, that I do not need to understand."
She smiles.
He takes a deep breath.
"Good bye, Mannon," he says, softly, tenderly.
"Au revoire, mon amour." She turns and walks away through the gate opposite the one through which he must pass.
Quietly, to himself, with no intent that any other should hear, he answers, "No, my love. We will not see each other again, I think."
He faces the gate. He takes one more deep breath.
***************
The decision is made. All hesitation evaporates in an instant. Joe strides across the floor, the light of the door filling his vision. He pauses at the threshold just long enough to whisper one word: "Josefina." Then he steps forward into the light, and...
***************
Burkett lets go a soft sigh. Without looking back, he steps through the gate and...
***************
...Changes.
Do not copy or quote the above material
without the consent of the owner of this page.