Warriors... Come out to Play-ayy!
Well now…
I guess it’s high time we find out whether people still read this stuff. ‘Cause I was thirstin’ for some blood. And this party was WAY past due. So I invite you all to kick it up a notch. If you so choose.
STORMING THE CASTLE
“Thank you! I’m glad you enjoyed it. Have a good day, now. Yes, you can go right through there. Pardon? … Well, you can see it right across the way, sir. Not to mention its reflection! Ha ha ha ha. That’s quite alright. Happens all the time. Have a pleasant evening!”
Her face ached from smiling. She’d been walking and talking with the same silly, inane smile all day. And for all of yesterday. And the day before that. She was tired of it, but it was her job. Tour guide. Poor, poor Debbie.
There was only one last evening tour group, and then she would return home in her yellow H2. To the suburbs and her husband. And another night of strange dreams, which she secretly cherished above all else. But first, one last tour. She glanced in a mirror and put on the winning smile that had landed her the job in the first place.
The tall man in the black duster stood watching her from a few feet away. He followed close behind as she walked out to meet the last tour group. She would never know that he had been there. He was somebody else’s problem.
Debbie approached the tour group, sizing them up. She liked to tailor her tours to the interests of the tour group members. Two elderly women in flowery dresses. A young couple with a young child in a stroller. Four high school students, probably local. She paused for a moment as she looked at the last two people. A tall man in a sleek black suit with a green iridescent sheen, and a slender blonde woman in an equally sleek black business suit with pink highlights. But the clothing was not what gave her pause. It was the undeniable familiarity that she suddenly felt with them. She was certain she had met them before… almost certain. Perhaps she had seen pictures.
…or maybe it had been in a dream.
______________________________________________________________________
“… until his assassination at the hands of John Wilkes Booth.”
Debbie paused as the man in the black and green suit muttered to his companion.
“Remember Booth?”
“Sure. He was very rude. Stubborn as hell, too.”
Debbie laughed nervously. “Actually, John Wilkes Booth died many years before any of us were born. You could not have met him, ma’am.”
“We tried to explain that, but the guy just would not listen! What was it he wanted?”
“The flesh of the living,” the man in the suit replied quietly, with a thin smirk on his face.
“Yeah. And he didn’t want to hear about being dead and buried. I finally had to persuade him.”
“This is true. You ‘persuaded’ him all over the walls, which we had to repaint, and that priceless rug that I had just purchased. With the stains, it was both worthless and irreplaceable.”
“…not even real fur,” the young woman muttered.
“That was the point.”
At this moment, the child in the stroller started to cry. Debbie sighed but kept her smile bright. She turned politely to the mother, who had a slightly embarrassed look on her face before she spoke.
“She’s in one of her moods. Sorry about this. I should take her outside.”
“Not a problem, ma’am. It happens all the time.”
“I’ll be fine. Honey, you should stay with the group.”
“No, I’ll come with you. The tour can go on without us. Thank you for understanding, Miss…”
“Just Debbie. Well, try and come back sometime if you can. There’s a lot to see.”
The father flashed a smile. “We won’t miss a thing.”
Gwynne stopped crying as soon as they turned the corner. Pete glanced up and down the corridor. Nobody was there. But nobody was a friend. The SEP field was in full effect.
“Have you got anything?”
The man in the black duster frowned in thought as he stared at the wall, about two inches from his face.
“A hangover and a hunch.”
“Well, feel free to share the second one with us,” Heather said with a laugh.
“I think it might be through here, but I would ask your strange friend.”
Pete looked at him with a puzzled expression. “You might have to clarify, Pairodox. Strange is relative with us.”
“Fair enough. The really strange one. He… or she… well, it went to investigate.”
There was an electronic humming sound from behind the wall next to them. And a series of staccato clicks.
“Chamber located. Entry via Column E. Internal elevator and passageway.”
“There’s an elevator in one of the columns?” Heather sounded incredulous for a moment. “Well, actually, that figures. Shall we?”
“And Gwynnie?”
“She’ll stay in the chamber when we go in. Probably safer than outside, with a good blanket spell.”
“If it holds.” Pairodox said this with a friendly smile, but Heather’s look wiped it off.
“I will keep my child safe. Before all others. Remember that.”
“Take it easy, guys.” Pete was watching the changing colors of the fading sunset. The moon had already risen in another corner of the sky, bright and full. He cracked his neck and flexed his shoulder muscles. “It’s time for the other kids to come out to play.”
______________________________________________________________________
“You felt uncomfortable? You?” Pete Mahoney was stunned by the Pistolero’s admission as the Chicos Perdidos and Mariposa emerged from the transport pod to join the others.
“Let me explain. I am an immortal warrior, a vampire born of ancient black magic. I am familiar with most forms of combat, but I prefer the precision of pistols and throwing knives. And since I’m a Mexi-CAN, I can do whatever I want. I expect respect, hombre, and people give it to me. I am ruthless. A killer. Like someone we both once knew. And I fear nothing. But Mariposa… she is…”
“Creepy!” Misterio cut him off with a wide grin on his masked face. Heather looked at him.
“I beg your pardon. Did you just call somebody ‘creepy’?”
The Pistolero spoke softly, shaking his head.
“She never blinks. Ever. Trust me, I was watching. Ella tiene los ojos muertos. Dead eyes.”
Curare and Flamenca rejoined the group. The tour was over, and their window of opportunity had arrived. Curare looked at them each in turn before speaking softly but clearly.
“We each have our reasons for being here tonight. For some, this is an adventure. For others, this is personal. I began this journey with the sole intention of capturing a wayward friend and bringing him back safe. Along the way, I lost another dear friend who sacrificed herself for the cause.” At this, Flamenca and the Chicos Perdidos bowed their heads. “I also learned of the captivity of a most singular and distinguished alum of the Invisible College. Deep within the recesses of this fortified stronghold, the Interest is holding the Psychedelic Illuminate himself. Wheel.” Pairodox and the Mahoneys nodded solemnly.
“The moment for decisive action has come. Regardless of your motives in undertaking this mission, I have asked a great deal of you in coming here. We have organized our strategy, and now we must face our destinies. Know this: it is an honor to fight alongside a group of warriors such as yourselves. We will meet again, come what may. In this realm or another. I salute you.”
“For Wheel,” Pairodox placed his hand in the center of the circle.
“For Eva,” the Pistolero put his hand in the center.
“For Bandito,” Curare barely whispered as he put his hand in.
“For Honor.” An insectoid claw was gently placed upon the other hands. The others put their hands in as well, with looks of determination.
“There will be blood tonight,” said Montoya with a sly grin.
“Are you ready, Doc?” The Pistolero stared intently at his friend after the group had split up into two teams.
“Of course. It is time,” Curare replied reflexively. The stare did not let up.
“You risk more than most of us, hermano. You are not fully yourself. Few of our companions know what is at stake here. If we lose Bandito completely…”
“We will succeed. There is much at stake here besides my personal affairs. It is time for me to place my life on the same line where others have been in the past for me. I may be weaker than normal,” Curare said as a pistol slipped into his waiting hand from inside his jacket sleeve, “but I still have a few tricks...”
______________________________________________________________________
The young Marine stood at attention in front of the sliding glass door. He felt the reassuring weight of his AR-15 rifle and hummed softly. It was not his business to ask questions about what lay behind the door he guarded. His responsibilities were clear. Every few hours an anonymous man in a suit would enter through the elevator doors opposite him and speak a codeword. The correct codeword would authorize the Marine to provide the man with his security clearance keycard. The codeword was never wrong. It was not always the same man who came, but the faces were so eerily similar that his memory would often form a single generalized image for all the individuals he had seen. This generalized image was not at all like any of the faces the Marine now saw stepping out of the elevator.
The first man, clad in leather, had a heavily scarred face framed by slicked black hair. Behind him was a thin man with shoulder-length curly hair and a sculpted mustache. Next came a muscular man with a richly decorated mask covering his entire head. The mask did nothing to hide his pale blue eyes, which shone through as if they glowed. The next man had a short curly ponytail and held two guitar cases. A short Japanese woman followed, wearing a shimmering black silk kimono with intricate designs traced in yellow. The final figure, a tall man in a sleek tailored suit, was not easily identifiable. His face was… hidden by shadow. In the same moment that the Marine watched these figures slide into the room, one of his hands shifted to his rifle. A silver throwing knife slipped between his fingers and jammed the safety switch. The Marine’s other hand moved to hit the alarm button on the wall, but a second knife securely fixed his sleeve to the wall. The Marine gaped at the handle of the knife sticking out of the wall, molded in the shape of a cross. The Pistolero had a sense of humor. The thin man with the mustache lazily strutted over to the guard and placed his arm over the man’s shoulder. He smiled broadly and leaned toward him, speaking in a soft, conspiratorial tone.
“Give us the keycard.”
“I have no keycard.”
“Misterio, tear his arms off.” The guard watched the masked man with the pale blue eyes slide toward him with a manic grin. For a moment the guard swore he saw fangs.
“Oh… you mean this keycard.” The guard nodded toward the electronic card in his side pocket, attached to a chain. Montoya smiled and took the keycard, slicing through the security chain with a dagger that slid into his hand from nowhere in particular.
“Gracias,” Montoya whispered. Misterio’s hand flew up and smacked the guard in the temple, knocking him back against the wall before he slumped to the ground. “Vamos, muchachos.” Curare knelt and deftly slipped a syringe into the Marine’s arm before following the group.
______________________________________________________________________
Eight agents stood at attention in the hallway. They each guarded separate doorways, leading to secret offices, glass-walled laboratories, and additional hallways. Places so secretive that one might wonder what all the fuss was about, seeing as this place was a top-secret subterranean labyrinth deep underneath the Lincoln Memorial to begin with. But the agents were not inclined to wonder. They simply followed orders extremely well. And they were used to long hours of solitude. Their attention was therefore immediately captured by the sounds of deep growling from around the corner.
Two of the agents turned and walked in unison toward the sounds, drawing their gleaming pistols. A blur of movement passed in front of them faster than they could fire and vanished around the opposite corner. Then there was silence. One of the agents crossed to the opposite side of the hallway and stepped to the corner. The second agent crouched and shifted into position, following standard protocol. He turned at the sound of rasping and barely caught a glimpse of the first agent being pulled bodily into an open doorway around the corner, trailing viscous fluid. The agent’s hand swiftly rose to his earpiece, but was caught in an iron grip from behind and pulled viciously backwards, shattering the bone and metal composite within. A sharp claw tore across his throat and the agent’s sensory matrix faded as blood and lubricant poured down his formerly spotless suit jacket.
The agents in the hallway watched their compatriots vanish around opposite corners of the hallway, but there were no alarm signals sent. Two of the agents moved towards the end of the hallway to investigate and stopped. From around the edge of the hallway, twin rivulets of green flame flowed across the metallic floor. The two agents drew out pistols and touched their earpieces. The next pair of agents pulled out long rifles and took up positions behind the other two. At that moment she appeared. Long, flowing black hair streamed behind her as she advanced with a look of grim determination. She wore light body armor that gleamed silver and gold. She held a long, thin sword before her, and it shimmered with an unearthly green glow from the intricate runes running along its blade. The Lady Hawke. Heather Mahoney. The rivulets of green flame that preceded her footsteps suddenly raced forward to engulf the first pair of agents. One of the agents behind them fired his rifle, but she deflected it easily with her blade. The glass wall next to the agents with the rifles exploded as Pete burst forth with animal fury, clawing them in the throats in passing. The next agent drew his pistol, only to watch a glinting blade slice through his wrist from behind. The pistol flew away, and the agent was left fumbling to catch his own severed hand.
“It’s just you and your hand tonight,” the blonde woman muttered as she stepped lightly around him and drove her sword upwards though his chin.
The last agent turned to retreat and send a broadband distress signal. He fired back at the mysterious foes while rounding a corner, and passed through a shimmering blue spider web. The strands passed through his body without snapping, and the agent experienced a split second of confusion before his body collapsed into uniform slabs of flesh and synthetic tissue. The web folded in upon itself and was drawn back into one of Tarsala’s biowands as the creature snapped its wings twice and turned away. The insectoid mage skittered down the corridor until it spotted another duct entrance and flitted up into the darkness. Heather followed around the corner, a blinding green light emanating from her long sword. Pete and Pairodox followed in step, still breathing hard from their transformations. Flamenca brought up the rear, her blade sheathed and an irrepressible smile upon her lips.
______________________________________________________________________
“LUCHARAAAN!!!”
Misterio sprinted toward the squad of agents with inhuman speed. They barely had time to draw electrified batons before he reached the first one. Misterio clotheslined the agent’s throat in passing before flipping over the next agent and grabbing his suit jacket by the lapels. He landed across the shoulders of the agent behind and bent forward, flinging the agent he held across the room and into a wall as he pulled the agent below him into a roll, snapping his spine. He whipped around, sweeping the legs from under two agents before springing to his feet and crushing the windpipe of one of them. He picked up the other and used him as a shield against the electrified batons of the other three agents. The man doubled over in pain, and Misterio casually snapped his neck before leaping onto his back, using the slumping body to leap up and deliver a savage dropkick to the next agent’s face, slamming him into the opposite wall. The remaining two agents stepped back and pulled out sleek silver pistols. Misterio tilted his head and leapt aside, springing against the wall with both feet and flying into a backflip faster than the agents could aim. He landed with both knees on the shoulders of one of the agents, compressing his spine. He rolled off and pushed the stunned agent in front of him as he ran for the last agent. At the last moment, he pushed the body aside and ducked under the aim of the agent, wrapping his arm around his neck. Using the agent’s weight, he swung around his body and kicked the stunned agent in the face. He sunk his fangs into the last agent’s neck as the stunned agent flipped backwards, dead. Misterio landed neatly on his feet as he twisted, ripping the last agent’s throat out and releasing him into a violent spin. The agent collapsed in a spray of blood and white viscous fluid. Misterio looked at the fallen figure and spat on the floor.
“Mal sabor.”
Two more agents slipped around the corner, firing at Misterio. He flung himself backwards into a handspring as the agents’ heads exploded. There was a flash of silver as the Pistolero flipped his guns back into their holsters. Nobody had seen him draw. There was only one known to be faster. But he was dead, if one believed in such things. The Pistolero had his suspicions.
“I think the secret is out,” said Carlos softly. He walked to the mouth of the adjacent hallway and placed one of his twin guitar cases on the floor, the neck facing toward the dimly lit corridor. He pressed the handle downward and a soft hum reverberated from within the case. He turned and followed the others in the opposite direction, the second guitar case held lazily at his side. The adjacent hallway was filled with the footsteps of approaching agents alerted to the intruders. As they appeared around the last corner, a piercing whine burst from the guitar case and narrow beams of light shot forth to strike each of the agents in turn. They crumpled to the ground with gaping holes burned through their chests.
“Mariposa,” Curare spoke a few minutes later. She joined him and they stepped into a side elevator. Curare punched in the code he had seen in his spirit vision and turned to the others. “We will meet at the surface level. Saludos, Chicos. Vaya con Dios.” He smiled and shot them a wink.
“Buena suerte, Doctor,” the Pistolero said as the doors shut, and then grinned. “Smartass pendejo.”
______________________________________________________________________
“Athanatos ae psychae.”
The air sparked around a cloud of inky darkness as Pairodox drew his mystical broadsword from the realm of chaos. He peered toward the end of the hallway, his jaw set.
“You’re not shifting this time?” Pete stood next to him, equally unsure of what lay ahead. They had both sensed something, and it had not felt like more agents.
“I have the feeling I shall want my wits about me. Such as they are.” Pairodox smiled for a moment, then tightened his grip on Athanatos. “Whatever is there waits for us. I wouldn’t want to keep it waiting.”
“Quite so. We don’t want to seem rude.” Pete nodded as he turned to Heather. “What do you say, honey? Shall we dance?”
“Only if I get to lead,” she said with a grin and walked forward. The light from her sword bounced off the metallic walls and illuminated their path. Suddenly there was an explosion and a burst of red light above them, shining through the ceiling panels. They ducked instinctively as the explosion was followed by an object rolling heavily above them. One of the ceiling panels collapsed, and the smoking form of Tarsala struck the floor hard and rolled. The creature rose to its haunches slowly, its left side badly burned. A sickly black liquid dripped onto the spotless floor as its wings twitched weakly.
“Tarsala! Are you alright?”
“Element of surprise lost. Recuperation period required.” The electronic voice kicked in with the staccato whirring of the creature’s voice. “Be alert. Enemy is here.”
The group turned. At the end of the hallway, there were two agents holding gleaming high-caliber rifles. Between the agents stood a tall, gaunt man in black robes. He had long, flowing blonde hair and an extremely pale complexion. He smiled thinly at the strange group of intruders.
“Greetings and salutations, my esteemed guests. It would be unseemly to continue without proper introduction. My name is Quentin Lucius Adams III. You may call me Quentin Lucius Adams III. I would introduce these two companions of mine, but frankly I cannot keep track of these pawns.” The man laughed with a sickening combination of disdain and malice. “And now would be the proper moment for your introductions, dear strangers. That is, of course, assuming that you are versed in ‘proper’ manners.”
“We shall make our introductions loud and clear,” muttered Pairodox. Heather fell into step next to him as they advanced, their blades vibrating with energy. Pete and Flamenca pulled Tarsala around the corner to relative safety.
“Enemy is strong. Support necessary. Immediate.” Flamenca nodded and climbed into the ceiling duct overhead, crawling back toward the impending fray. Pete took out pouches of ointments and powders that had helped him on many an occasion. Tarsala stopped him with one of its claws. “Efforts appreciated. Biology… incompatible. Time remains only solution.”
The agents opened fire on the two blade-wielding mages with fierce blasts of plasma rounds. The blades deflected the blasts, although each one shoved Heather and Pairodox back a few feet. Heather began to chant under her breath, and green fire leapt from her blade toward the two agents. The blonde sorceror tilted his head and raised an eyebrow as the streams of fire dissipated short of their targets. Then one of the agents collapsed, a kukri dagger sticking out of his chest. Pairodox grinned and sprinted at the second agent as Heather sent a whirling chain of fire at the sorceror. Flamenca dropped silently from the ceiling behind him, her blade naked and thirsty.
Quentin Lucius Adams III smiled…
______________________________________________________________________
The pair of technicians in white labcoats worked feverishly over the electronic circuitry laid out on the operating table. The laboratory was walled in glass, and it was linked to a long series of laboratory rooms. Most were vacant, save the occasional suited agent patrolling with a steady, artificial gait. The two agents standing at attention in the lab with the technicians simultaneously touched their earbuds and moved to the exit. Another agent in the next lab performed the same actions.
“It’s about time. Those guys make me nervous.”
“You would think they might be gracious for what we do for them.”
“Yeah. Not in their programming, I guess. Sometimes I think…”
An agent flew through a glass wall into the adjacent lab, followed by a muscular man with a bizarre mask covering his head. He moved with a ferocious agility, nearly defying gravity as he leapt up onto a metallic table and launched into the air. The agent had rolled onto his feet and reached for his pistol in one swift motion, but the masked man was already coming down hard on the agent’s shoulders with his knees. The man landed in a crouch over the broken body of the agent, and his luminous blue eyes swiveled to meet the eyes of the technician.
“Uhh…”
A solid stream of fire in his peripheral vision caught the attention of the second technician. A man, holding what appeared to be a flamethrower in the shape of a guitar case, advanced on a pair of agents and utterly incinerated them. He pulled an Uzi from a side compartment in the case with one hand and sprayed bullets down an adjacent hallway.
“Whoa.”
An armed agent suddenly appeared next to the technicians and paused, verifying their identities. Then he turned to leave through the doorway, pistol held steady at eye level. A thin rapier blade was thrust through the barrel and split the gun in half before slipping into the agent’s eye socket. The agent collapsed as Montoya sauntered into the laboratory followed by the Pistolero. The technicians found themselves staring down the barrels of twin silver revolvers, while Montoya and Misterio stood flanking them. Carlos stood watch in the doorway of the lab with his heavy weaponry.
“Hello. We are interested in finding the control room for local surveillance.” The technicians were confronted with both the guns and the gravelly voice of the intimidating Pistolero. “It is strange, but nobody wants to help us. You two seem different. What do you say?”
“Well… sir…. it seems that we have no choice.”
“If you wish to live…”
“We do. We can show you the control room for the closed-circuit camera system,” the technician pointed up at a wall-mounted camera, which was swiftly skewered by Montoya. “Honestly, we are not involved in the com systems of the operatives.”
“Bueno. I would know if you were lying. Show us the room.”
The technician pitched forward suddenly, shot in the back. The second technician’s head ruptured and he fell shuddering to the floor. The Pistolero cursed as he saw a suited figure drift out of sight beyond the row of laboratories.
“That was strange,” muttered Montoya. “That one shot these two men and did not fire on us.”
“Two difficult shots. A marksman. This one is different from what we have seen, chicos. I don’t like it.” The Pistolero frowned.
“Un momento,” said Misterio as he leapt through the first shattered barrier and moved through the laboratories.
“Mierda. Rey! Don’t be a fool.” The other Chicos followed fast on the luchador’s heels.
The Pistolero ran along the hallway, Montoya just behind. He passed an adjoining corridor containing several agents and dropped three with head shots. There was no time for a proper showdown. Carlos, bringing up the rear, played sweeper with his Uzi and the flamethrower. Just ahead of the Pistolero, a flash of light and a concussive tremor from around a corner sent Misterio hurtling across his field of vision and through a plaster wall. The Pistolero rounded the corner in a slide, both guns blazing. He caught sight of the same agent slipping away, a second pulse grenade flying through the air toward them. He shot the grenade without thought, sending it ricocheting into a side corridor where it exploded and sent vibrations through the walls. The Pistolero turned back to the hole in the wall where Misterio had disappeared, and where Montoya was now peering. He was almost knocked off his feet as Misterio burst forth in a cloud of dust and insulation fibers, his thin jacket in ribbons.
“Hijo de mil putas!,” he rather calmly remarked.
“I imagine that hurts,” Montoya said with a grin. Misterio glared back for a moment, then smiled as well.
“Un poco, cabron. But I’ll be fine. Vamos!”
“Watch yourself, chico. This piece of shit is playing a new game. We have to take him down together. Agreed?” The Chicos all nodded in response to the Pistolero’s words. He glanced up to see a bank of security cameras trained on them. The same type of cameras he had seen in the labs. They were certainly being watched. He shot the cameras out and they raced down the hall.
A few minutes passed before they caught sight of their quarry. The lone operative stood at the end of a long, empty passage, punching a code into a wall console. The Chicos raced toward him, with Carlos and the Pistolero in the lead firing away. A transparent bulletproof partition slid down between them and their target. Simultaneously, a second partition dropped in the hallway behind them, isolating them in the hallway. The walls of the corridor dropped away, and they were in a wide room with mirrored walls. The lone agent stared at them through gleaming black shades and then spoke through an intercom system in a cold, metallic voice.
“It has taken some time to isolate your biosign readouts. One individual is unique from the others, and was more difficult to characterize. This individual will be dealt with soon. The other three individuals have … exceptional biosignatures, but a similar signature was already on file with top security clearance. That particular signature is no longer active, as the carrier was recently terminated.” The agent’s voice was dispassionate, but carried a hint of malice that was chilling. He entered a code series into the console and parallel ceiling strips above them rotated to reveal several narrow banks of lights.
“Protocol had already been established for the balance of power, in the event of any inappropriate actions on the part of the aforementioned carrier. This protocol has been deemed appropriate as a solution to your presence. The unique individual in your group will now witness the termination of the others. A solution is pending for this individual.”
The rows of lights abruptly switched on, filling the mirrored chamber with an unmistakable light.
“I will kill you all!” Montoya started to yell but was drowned out by the agonized screams of his companions as they collapsed to the cold metal floor, smoke already rising through their clothing.
______________________________________________________________________
The four agents ran down the hallway as a steady stream of intelligence poured into their cold, calculating minds. They ran swiftly and at matched pace, their steps falling as one on the perfectly sterile floor. The lead agent was suddenly aware that the echoes of their footsteps had changed. He stopped and turned. Two of the agents were slumped against opposite walls, gleaming obsidian knives protruding from their foreheads. The last agent was dangling from the ceiling by a length of black cord that had broken his neck. In the same instant the lead agent processed these images, he became aware that a blade was sticking through his chest from behind. He had felt nothing. Mariposa twisted the blade.
He felt it.
Doctor Curare dropped to the floor from the ceiling duct, uncoiling his blacksnake whip from around an agent’s neck. He retrieved his knives and walked silently down the hall with Mariposa. They were close. They reached the door marked “42” and Curare punched in the access code from memory. His pistols slipped into his waiting hands and Mariposa drew her blade discs as the door slid aside with a hydraulic hiss. They slipped inside like shadows.
The room was empty. The gleaming metallic chair sat perched upon a gray pedestal, as he had seen it. But there was no fallen Invisible slumped in it. There were no open wall panels full of the nightmarish devices that made even the Doctor’s skin crawl. He glanced around and felt as hollow as the room. The room was absolutely, spotlessly devoid of any presence. Or was it?
Curare felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. It was a familiar feeling. It used to be a comforting one. He turned slowly to Mariposa, who was watching him with unblinking eyes. She knew. She was waiting for the word.
“Con cuidado,” he whispered. Without looking, he became aware of the two glowing yellow eyes that had appeared on the opposite side of the room. Mariposa shifted her weight and advanced in a single, fluid motion. Curare slipped two syringes full of a glowing, green chemical cocktail into each hand and turned.
This was not going to be easy.
To be continued…
(Hell, I didn’t write that whole Valley dinosaur storyline to have this thing just fade away! I’m just sayin’…)
I know I took a few liberties with some characters that aren’t exclusively mine. But hell, I got impatient and you can always write your own version! Heh heh heh.
I guess it’s high time we find out whether people still read this stuff. ‘Cause I was thirstin’ for some blood. And this party was WAY past due. So I invite you all to kick it up a notch. If you so choose.
STORMING THE CASTLE
“Thank you! I’m glad you enjoyed it. Have a good day, now. Yes, you can go right through there. Pardon? … Well, you can see it right across the way, sir. Not to mention its reflection! Ha ha ha ha. That’s quite alright. Happens all the time. Have a pleasant evening!”
Her face ached from smiling. She’d been walking and talking with the same silly, inane smile all day. And for all of yesterday. And the day before that. She was tired of it, but it was her job. Tour guide. Poor, poor Debbie.
There was only one last evening tour group, and then she would return home in her yellow H2. To the suburbs and her husband. And another night of strange dreams, which she secretly cherished above all else. But first, one last tour. She glanced in a mirror and put on the winning smile that had landed her the job in the first place.
The tall man in the black duster stood watching her from a few feet away. He followed close behind as she walked out to meet the last tour group. She would never know that he had been there. He was somebody else’s problem.
Debbie approached the tour group, sizing them up. She liked to tailor her tours to the interests of the tour group members. Two elderly women in flowery dresses. A young couple with a young child in a stroller. Four high school students, probably local. She paused for a moment as she looked at the last two people. A tall man in a sleek black suit with a green iridescent sheen, and a slender blonde woman in an equally sleek black business suit with pink highlights. But the clothing was not what gave her pause. It was the undeniable familiarity that she suddenly felt with them. She was certain she had met them before… almost certain. Perhaps she had seen pictures.
…or maybe it had been in a dream.
______________________________________________________________________
“… until his assassination at the hands of John Wilkes Booth.”
Debbie paused as the man in the black and green suit muttered to his companion.
“Remember Booth?”
“Sure. He was very rude. Stubborn as hell, too.”
Debbie laughed nervously. “Actually, John Wilkes Booth died many years before any of us were born. You could not have met him, ma’am.”
“We tried to explain that, but the guy just would not listen! What was it he wanted?”
“The flesh of the living,” the man in the suit replied quietly, with a thin smirk on his face.
“Yeah. And he didn’t want to hear about being dead and buried. I finally had to persuade him.”
“This is true. You ‘persuaded’ him all over the walls, which we had to repaint, and that priceless rug that I had just purchased. With the stains, it was both worthless and irreplaceable.”
“…not even real fur,” the young woman muttered.
“That was the point.”
At this moment, the child in the stroller started to cry. Debbie sighed but kept her smile bright. She turned politely to the mother, who had a slightly embarrassed look on her face before she spoke.
“She’s in one of her moods. Sorry about this. I should take her outside.”
“Not a problem, ma’am. It happens all the time.”
“I’ll be fine. Honey, you should stay with the group.”
“No, I’ll come with you. The tour can go on without us. Thank you for understanding, Miss…”
“Just Debbie. Well, try and come back sometime if you can. There’s a lot to see.”
The father flashed a smile. “We won’t miss a thing.”
Gwynne stopped crying as soon as they turned the corner. Pete glanced up and down the corridor. Nobody was there. But nobody was a friend. The SEP field was in full effect.
“Have you got anything?”
The man in the black duster frowned in thought as he stared at the wall, about two inches from his face.
“A hangover and a hunch.”
“Well, feel free to share the second one with us,” Heather said with a laugh.
“I think it might be through here, but I would ask your strange friend.”
Pete looked at him with a puzzled expression. “You might have to clarify, Pairodox. Strange is relative with us.”
“Fair enough. The really strange one. He… or she… well, it went to investigate.”
There was an electronic humming sound from behind the wall next to them. And a series of staccato clicks.
“Chamber located. Entry via Column E. Internal elevator and passageway.”
“There’s an elevator in one of the columns?” Heather sounded incredulous for a moment. “Well, actually, that figures. Shall we?”
“And Gwynnie?”
“She’ll stay in the chamber when we go in. Probably safer than outside, with a good blanket spell.”
“If it holds.” Pairodox said this with a friendly smile, but Heather’s look wiped it off.
“I will keep my child safe. Before all others. Remember that.”
“Take it easy, guys.” Pete was watching the changing colors of the fading sunset. The moon had already risen in another corner of the sky, bright and full. He cracked his neck and flexed his shoulder muscles. “It’s time for the other kids to come out to play.”
______________________________________________________________________
“You felt uncomfortable? You?” Pete Mahoney was stunned by the Pistolero’s admission as the Chicos Perdidos and Mariposa emerged from the transport pod to join the others.
“Let me explain. I am an immortal warrior, a vampire born of ancient black magic. I am familiar with most forms of combat, but I prefer the precision of pistols and throwing knives. And since I’m a Mexi-CAN, I can do whatever I want. I expect respect, hombre, and people give it to me. I am ruthless. A killer. Like someone we both once knew. And I fear nothing. But Mariposa… she is…”
“Creepy!” Misterio cut him off with a wide grin on his masked face. Heather looked at him.
“I beg your pardon. Did you just call somebody ‘creepy’?”
The Pistolero spoke softly, shaking his head.
“She never blinks. Ever. Trust me, I was watching. Ella tiene los ojos muertos. Dead eyes.”
Curare and Flamenca rejoined the group. The tour was over, and their window of opportunity had arrived. Curare looked at them each in turn before speaking softly but clearly.
“We each have our reasons for being here tonight. For some, this is an adventure. For others, this is personal. I began this journey with the sole intention of capturing a wayward friend and bringing him back safe. Along the way, I lost another dear friend who sacrificed herself for the cause.” At this, Flamenca and the Chicos Perdidos bowed their heads. “I also learned of the captivity of a most singular and distinguished alum of the Invisible College. Deep within the recesses of this fortified stronghold, the Interest is holding the Psychedelic Illuminate himself. Wheel.” Pairodox and the Mahoneys nodded solemnly.
“The moment for decisive action has come. Regardless of your motives in undertaking this mission, I have asked a great deal of you in coming here. We have organized our strategy, and now we must face our destinies. Know this: it is an honor to fight alongside a group of warriors such as yourselves. We will meet again, come what may. In this realm or another. I salute you.”
“For Wheel,” Pairodox placed his hand in the center of the circle.
“For Eva,” the Pistolero put his hand in the center.
“For Bandito,” Curare barely whispered as he put his hand in.
“For Honor.” An insectoid claw was gently placed upon the other hands. The others put their hands in as well, with looks of determination.
“There will be blood tonight,” said Montoya with a sly grin.
“Are you ready, Doc?” The Pistolero stared intently at his friend after the group had split up into two teams.
“Of course. It is time,” Curare replied reflexively. The stare did not let up.
“You risk more than most of us, hermano. You are not fully yourself. Few of our companions know what is at stake here. If we lose Bandito completely…”
“We will succeed. There is much at stake here besides my personal affairs. It is time for me to place my life on the same line where others have been in the past for me. I may be weaker than normal,” Curare said as a pistol slipped into his waiting hand from inside his jacket sleeve, “but I still have a few tricks...”
______________________________________________________________________
The young Marine stood at attention in front of the sliding glass door. He felt the reassuring weight of his AR-15 rifle and hummed softly. It was not his business to ask questions about what lay behind the door he guarded. His responsibilities were clear. Every few hours an anonymous man in a suit would enter through the elevator doors opposite him and speak a codeword. The correct codeword would authorize the Marine to provide the man with his security clearance keycard. The codeword was never wrong. It was not always the same man who came, but the faces were so eerily similar that his memory would often form a single generalized image for all the individuals he had seen. This generalized image was not at all like any of the faces the Marine now saw stepping out of the elevator.
The first man, clad in leather, had a heavily scarred face framed by slicked black hair. Behind him was a thin man with shoulder-length curly hair and a sculpted mustache. Next came a muscular man with a richly decorated mask covering his entire head. The mask did nothing to hide his pale blue eyes, which shone through as if they glowed. The next man had a short curly ponytail and held two guitar cases. A short Japanese woman followed, wearing a shimmering black silk kimono with intricate designs traced in yellow. The final figure, a tall man in a sleek tailored suit, was not easily identifiable. His face was… hidden by shadow. In the same moment that the Marine watched these figures slide into the room, one of his hands shifted to his rifle. A silver throwing knife slipped between his fingers and jammed the safety switch. The Marine’s other hand moved to hit the alarm button on the wall, but a second knife securely fixed his sleeve to the wall. The Marine gaped at the handle of the knife sticking out of the wall, molded in the shape of a cross. The Pistolero had a sense of humor. The thin man with the mustache lazily strutted over to the guard and placed his arm over the man’s shoulder. He smiled broadly and leaned toward him, speaking in a soft, conspiratorial tone.
“Give us the keycard.”
“I have no keycard.”
“Misterio, tear his arms off.” The guard watched the masked man with the pale blue eyes slide toward him with a manic grin. For a moment the guard swore he saw fangs.
“Oh… you mean this keycard.” The guard nodded toward the electronic card in his side pocket, attached to a chain. Montoya smiled and took the keycard, slicing through the security chain with a dagger that slid into his hand from nowhere in particular.
“Gracias,” Montoya whispered. Misterio’s hand flew up and smacked the guard in the temple, knocking him back against the wall before he slumped to the ground. “Vamos, muchachos.” Curare knelt and deftly slipped a syringe into the Marine’s arm before following the group.
______________________________________________________________________
Eight agents stood at attention in the hallway. They each guarded separate doorways, leading to secret offices, glass-walled laboratories, and additional hallways. Places so secretive that one might wonder what all the fuss was about, seeing as this place was a top-secret subterranean labyrinth deep underneath the Lincoln Memorial to begin with. But the agents were not inclined to wonder. They simply followed orders extremely well. And they were used to long hours of solitude. Their attention was therefore immediately captured by the sounds of deep growling from around the corner.
Two of the agents turned and walked in unison toward the sounds, drawing their gleaming pistols. A blur of movement passed in front of them faster than they could fire and vanished around the opposite corner. Then there was silence. One of the agents crossed to the opposite side of the hallway and stepped to the corner. The second agent crouched and shifted into position, following standard protocol. He turned at the sound of rasping and barely caught a glimpse of the first agent being pulled bodily into an open doorway around the corner, trailing viscous fluid. The agent’s hand swiftly rose to his earpiece, but was caught in an iron grip from behind and pulled viciously backwards, shattering the bone and metal composite within. A sharp claw tore across his throat and the agent’s sensory matrix faded as blood and lubricant poured down his formerly spotless suit jacket.
The agents in the hallway watched their compatriots vanish around opposite corners of the hallway, but there were no alarm signals sent. Two of the agents moved towards the end of the hallway to investigate and stopped. From around the edge of the hallway, twin rivulets of green flame flowed across the metallic floor. The two agents drew out pistols and touched their earpieces. The next pair of agents pulled out long rifles and took up positions behind the other two. At that moment she appeared. Long, flowing black hair streamed behind her as she advanced with a look of grim determination. She wore light body armor that gleamed silver and gold. She held a long, thin sword before her, and it shimmered with an unearthly green glow from the intricate runes running along its blade. The Lady Hawke. Heather Mahoney. The rivulets of green flame that preceded her footsteps suddenly raced forward to engulf the first pair of agents. One of the agents behind them fired his rifle, but she deflected it easily with her blade. The glass wall next to the agents with the rifles exploded as Pete burst forth with animal fury, clawing them in the throats in passing. The next agent drew his pistol, only to watch a glinting blade slice through his wrist from behind. The pistol flew away, and the agent was left fumbling to catch his own severed hand.
“It’s just you and your hand tonight,” the blonde woman muttered as she stepped lightly around him and drove her sword upwards though his chin.
The last agent turned to retreat and send a broadband distress signal. He fired back at the mysterious foes while rounding a corner, and passed through a shimmering blue spider web. The strands passed through his body without snapping, and the agent experienced a split second of confusion before his body collapsed into uniform slabs of flesh and synthetic tissue. The web folded in upon itself and was drawn back into one of Tarsala’s biowands as the creature snapped its wings twice and turned away. The insectoid mage skittered down the corridor until it spotted another duct entrance and flitted up into the darkness. Heather followed around the corner, a blinding green light emanating from her long sword. Pete and Pairodox followed in step, still breathing hard from their transformations. Flamenca brought up the rear, her blade sheathed and an irrepressible smile upon her lips.
______________________________________________________________________
“LUCHARAAAN!!!”
Misterio sprinted toward the squad of agents with inhuman speed. They barely had time to draw electrified batons before he reached the first one. Misterio clotheslined the agent’s throat in passing before flipping over the next agent and grabbing his suit jacket by the lapels. He landed across the shoulders of the agent behind and bent forward, flinging the agent he held across the room and into a wall as he pulled the agent below him into a roll, snapping his spine. He whipped around, sweeping the legs from under two agents before springing to his feet and crushing the windpipe of one of them. He picked up the other and used him as a shield against the electrified batons of the other three agents. The man doubled over in pain, and Misterio casually snapped his neck before leaping onto his back, using the slumping body to leap up and deliver a savage dropkick to the next agent’s face, slamming him into the opposite wall. The remaining two agents stepped back and pulled out sleek silver pistols. Misterio tilted his head and leapt aside, springing against the wall with both feet and flying into a backflip faster than the agents could aim. He landed with both knees on the shoulders of one of the agents, compressing his spine. He rolled off and pushed the stunned agent in front of him as he ran for the last agent. At the last moment, he pushed the body aside and ducked under the aim of the agent, wrapping his arm around his neck. Using the agent’s weight, he swung around his body and kicked the stunned agent in the face. He sunk his fangs into the last agent’s neck as the stunned agent flipped backwards, dead. Misterio landed neatly on his feet as he twisted, ripping the last agent’s throat out and releasing him into a violent spin. The agent collapsed in a spray of blood and white viscous fluid. Misterio looked at the fallen figure and spat on the floor.
“Mal sabor.”
Two more agents slipped around the corner, firing at Misterio. He flung himself backwards into a handspring as the agents’ heads exploded. There was a flash of silver as the Pistolero flipped his guns back into their holsters. Nobody had seen him draw. There was only one known to be faster. But he was dead, if one believed in such things. The Pistolero had his suspicions.
“I think the secret is out,” said Carlos softly. He walked to the mouth of the adjacent hallway and placed one of his twin guitar cases on the floor, the neck facing toward the dimly lit corridor. He pressed the handle downward and a soft hum reverberated from within the case. He turned and followed the others in the opposite direction, the second guitar case held lazily at his side. The adjacent hallway was filled with the footsteps of approaching agents alerted to the intruders. As they appeared around the last corner, a piercing whine burst from the guitar case and narrow beams of light shot forth to strike each of the agents in turn. They crumpled to the ground with gaping holes burned through their chests.
“Mariposa,” Curare spoke a few minutes later. She joined him and they stepped into a side elevator. Curare punched in the code he had seen in his spirit vision and turned to the others. “We will meet at the surface level. Saludos, Chicos. Vaya con Dios.” He smiled and shot them a wink.
“Buena suerte, Doctor,” the Pistolero said as the doors shut, and then grinned. “Smartass pendejo.”
______________________________________________________________________
“Athanatos ae psychae.”
The air sparked around a cloud of inky darkness as Pairodox drew his mystical broadsword from the realm of chaos. He peered toward the end of the hallway, his jaw set.
“You’re not shifting this time?” Pete stood next to him, equally unsure of what lay ahead. They had both sensed something, and it had not felt like more agents.
“I have the feeling I shall want my wits about me. Such as they are.” Pairodox smiled for a moment, then tightened his grip on Athanatos. “Whatever is there waits for us. I wouldn’t want to keep it waiting.”
“Quite so. We don’t want to seem rude.” Pete nodded as he turned to Heather. “What do you say, honey? Shall we dance?”
“Only if I get to lead,” she said with a grin and walked forward. The light from her sword bounced off the metallic walls and illuminated their path. Suddenly there was an explosion and a burst of red light above them, shining through the ceiling panels. They ducked instinctively as the explosion was followed by an object rolling heavily above them. One of the ceiling panels collapsed, and the smoking form of Tarsala struck the floor hard and rolled. The creature rose to its haunches slowly, its left side badly burned. A sickly black liquid dripped onto the spotless floor as its wings twitched weakly.
“Tarsala! Are you alright?”
“Element of surprise lost. Recuperation period required.” The electronic voice kicked in with the staccato whirring of the creature’s voice. “Be alert. Enemy is here.”
The group turned. At the end of the hallway, there were two agents holding gleaming high-caliber rifles. Between the agents stood a tall, gaunt man in black robes. He had long, flowing blonde hair and an extremely pale complexion. He smiled thinly at the strange group of intruders.
“Greetings and salutations, my esteemed guests. It would be unseemly to continue without proper introduction. My name is Quentin Lucius Adams III. You may call me Quentin Lucius Adams III. I would introduce these two companions of mine, but frankly I cannot keep track of these pawns.” The man laughed with a sickening combination of disdain and malice. “And now would be the proper moment for your introductions, dear strangers. That is, of course, assuming that you are versed in ‘proper’ manners.”
“We shall make our introductions loud and clear,” muttered Pairodox. Heather fell into step next to him as they advanced, their blades vibrating with energy. Pete and Flamenca pulled Tarsala around the corner to relative safety.
“Enemy is strong. Support necessary. Immediate.” Flamenca nodded and climbed into the ceiling duct overhead, crawling back toward the impending fray. Pete took out pouches of ointments and powders that had helped him on many an occasion. Tarsala stopped him with one of its claws. “Efforts appreciated. Biology… incompatible. Time remains only solution.”
The agents opened fire on the two blade-wielding mages with fierce blasts of plasma rounds. The blades deflected the blasts, although each one shoved Heather and Pairodox back a few feet. Heather began to chant under her breath, and green fire leapt from her blade toward the two agents. The blonde sorceror tilted his head and raised an eyebrow as the streams of fire dissipated short of their targets. Then one of the agents collapsed, a kukri dagger sticking out of his chest. Pairodox grinned and sprinted at the second agent as Heather sent a whirling chain of fire at the sorceror. Flamenca dropped silently from the ceiling behind him, her blade naked and thirsty.
Quentin Lucius Adams III smiled…
______________________________________________________________________
The pair of technicians in white labcoats worked feverishly over the electronic circuitry laid out on the operating table. The laboratory was walled in glass, and it was linked to a long series of laboratory rooms. Most were vacant, save the occasional suited agent patrolling with a steady, artificial gait. The two agents standing at attention in the lab with the technicians simultaneously touched their earbuds and moved to the exit. Another agent in the next lab performed the same actions.
“It’s about time. Those guys make me nervous.”
“You would think they might be gracious for what we do for them.”
“Yeah. Not in their programming, I guess. Sometimes I think…”
An agent flew through a glass wall into the adjacent lab, followed by a muscular man with a bizarre mask covering his head. He moved with a ferocious agility, nearly defying gravity as he leapt up onto a metallic table and launched into the air. The agent had rolled onto his feet and reached for his pistol in one swift motion, but the masked man was already coming down hard on the agent’s shoulders with his knees. The man landed in a crouch over the broken body of the agent, and his luminous blue eyes swiveled to meet the eyes of the technician.
“Uhh…”
A solid stream of fire in his peripheral vision caught the attention of the second technician. A man, holding what appeared to be a flamethrower in the shape of a guitar case, advanced on a pair of agents and utterly incinerated them. He pulled an Uzi from a side compartment in the case with one hand and sprayed bullets down an adjacent hallway.
“Whoa.”
An armed agent suddenly appeared next to the technicians and paused, verifying their identities. Then he turned to leave through the doorway, pistol held steady at eye level. A thin rapier blade was thrust through the barrel and split the gun in half before slipping into the agent’s eye socket. The agent collapsed as Montoya sauntered into the laboratory followed by the Pistolero. The technicians found themselves staring down the barrels of twin silver revolvers, while Montoya and Misterio stood flanking them. Carlos stood watch in the doorway of the lab with his heavy weaponry.
“Hello. We are interested in finding the control room for local surveillance.” The technicians were confronted with both the guns and the gravelly voice of the intimidating Pistolero. “It is strange, but nobody wants to help us. You two seem different. What do you say?”
“Well… sir…. it seems that we have no choice.”
“If you wish to live…”
“We do. We can show you the control room for the closed-circuit camera system,” the technician pointed up at a wall-mounted camera, which was swiftly skewered by Montoya. “Honestly, we are not involved in the com systems of the operatives.”
“Bueno. I would know if you were lying. Show us the room.”
The technician pitched forward suddenly, shot in the back. The second technician’s head ruptured and he fell shuddering to the floor. The Pistolero cursed as he saw a suited figure drift out of sight beyond the row of laboratories.
“That was strange,” muttered Montoya. “That one shot these two men and did not fire on us.”
“Two difficult shots. A marksman. This one is different from what we have seen, chicos. I don’t like it.” The Pistolero frowned.
“Un momento,” said Misterio as he leapt through the first shattered barrier and moved through the laboratories.
“Mierda. Rey! Don’t be a fool.” The other Chicos followed fast on the luchador’s heels.
The Pistolero ran along the hallway, Montoya just behind. He passed an adjoining corridor containing several agents and dropped three with head shots. There was no time for a proper showdown. Carlos, bringing up the rear, played sweeper with his Uzi and the flamethrower. Just ahead of the Pistolero, a flash of light and a concussive tremor from around a corner sent Misterio hurtling across his field of vision and through a plaster wall. The Pistolero rounded the corner in a slide, both guns blazing. He caught sight of the same agent slipping away, a second pulse grenade flying through the air toward them. He shot the grenade without thought, sending it ricocheting into a side corridor where it exploded and sent vibrations through the walls. The Pistolero turned back to the hole in the wall where Misterio had disappeared, and where Montoya was now peering. He was almost knocked off his feet as Misterio burst forth in a cloud of dust and insulation fibers, his thin jacket in ribbons.
“Hijo de mil putas!,” he rather calmly remarked.
“I imagine that hurts,” Montoya said with a grin. Misterio glared back for a moment, then smiled as well.
“Un poco, cabron. But I’ll be fine. Vamos!”
“Watch yourself, chico. This piece of shit is playing a new game. We have to take him down together. Agreed?” The Chicos all nodded in response to the Pistolero’s words. He glanced up to see a bank of security cameras trained on them. The same type of cameras he had seen in the labs. They were certainly being watched. He shot the cameras out and they raced down the hall.
A few minutes passed before they caught sight of their quarry. The lone operative stood at the end of a long, empty passage, punching a code into a wall console. The Chicos raced toward him, with Carlos and the Pistolero in the lead firing away. A transparent bulletproof partition slid down between them and their target. Simultaneously, a second partition dropped in the hallway behind them, isolating them in the hallway. The walls of the corridor dropped away, and they were in a wide room with mirrored walls. The lone agent stared at them through gleaming black shades and then spoke through an intercom system in a cold, metallic voice.
“It has taken some time to isolate your biosign readouts. One individual is unique from the others, and was more difficult to characterize. This individual will be dealt with soon. The other three individuals have … exceptional biosignatures, but a similar signature was already on file with top security clearance. That particular signature is no longer active, as the carrier was recently terminated.” The agent’s voice was dispassionate, but carried a hint of malice that was chilling. He entered a code series into the console and parallel ceiling strips above them rotated to reveal several narrow banks of lights.
“Protocol had already been established for the balance of power, in the event of any inappropriate actions on the part of the aforementioned carrier. This protocol has been deemed appropriate as a solution to your presence. The unique individual in your group will now witness the termination of the others. A solution is pending for this individual.”
The rows of lights abruptly switched on, filling the mirrored chamber with an unmistakable light.
“I will kill you all!” Montoya started to yell but was drowned out by the agonized screams of his companions as they collapsed to the cold metal floor, smoke already rising through their clothing.
______________________________________________________________________
The four agents ran down the hallway as a steady stream of intelligence poured into their cold, calculating minds. They ran swiftly and at matched pace, their steps falling as one on the perfectly sterile floor. The lead agent was suddenly aware that the echoes of their footsteps had changed. He stopped and turned. Two of the agents were slumped against opposite walls, gleaming obsidian knives protruding from their foreheads. The last agent was dangling from the ceiling by a length of black cord that had broken his neck. In the same instant the lead agent processed these images, he became aware that a blade was sticking through his chest from behind. He had felt nothing. Mariposa twisted the blade.
He felt it.
Doctor Curare dropped to the floor from the ceiling duct, uncoiling his blacksnake whip from around an agent’s neck. He retrieved his knives and walked silently down the hall with Mariposa. They were close. They reached the door marked “42” and Curare punched in the access code from memory. His pistols slipped into his waiting hands and Mariposa drew her blade discs as the door slid aside with a hydraulic hiss. They slipped inside like shadows.
The room was empty. The gleaming metallic chair sat perched upon a gray pedestal, as he had seen it. But there was no fallen Invisible slumped in it. There were no open wall panels full of the nightmarish devices that made even the Doctor’s skin crawl. He glanced around and felt as hollow as the room. The room was absolutely, spotlessly devoid of any presence. Or was it?
Curare felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. It was a familiar feeling. It used to be a comforting one. He turned slowly to Mariposa, who was watching him with unblinking eyes. She knew. She was waiting for the word.
“Con cuidado,” he whispered. Without looking, he became aware of the two glowing yellow eyes that had appeared on the opposite side of the room. Mariposa shifted her weight and advanced in a single, fluid motion. Curare slipped two syringes full of a glowing, green chemical cocktail into each hand and turned.
This was not going to be easy.
To be continued…
(Hell, I didn’t write that whole Valley dinosaur storyline to have this thing just fade away! I’m just sayin’…)
I know I took a few liberties with some characters that aren’t exclusively mine. But hell, I got impatient and you can always write your own version! Heh heh heh.