Back to Gatefold
Issue #3 by Alan Strauss
Dec 2012 |
The body struck the floor with a thud.
MODOK grinned nastily and surveyed her face for any sign of discomfort. Of course she refused to give him such a gift. Nor did she pay any mind to the three women standing dutifully behind him, pale thin statuesques in blue PVC bodysuits with hair so perfect and elaborate in construct that it looked like molded plastic. Her face conveyed nothing but the mild contempt appropriate to her station.
“I believe this is yours,” he said.
Number Two used the tip of her boot to turn up the corpse’s colorless face. “Ah, yes. Number Eleven. Mr. Johan Winston Abrams if I recall correctly. I see he was unsuccessful in becoming the new Number Eight…”*
* (And he seemed so confident! See Lady Liberators #1 - Al)
The creature snorted. “Except for the way his eyes bulged while I strangled him, he was boring. So far all these tests have bored me.”
“They are necessary. Each of the Empire’s prospects must go through them. How else are we to discover if you are truly fit for entry to Elysium?” Just the name brought the light of curiosity to his eyes. That was good. She had learned over the months just how important it was to keep control. Their candidates were all predators by nature. They sniffed out weakness and hesitation like hungry wolves, and would not hesitate to attack at the first scent. Which was at should be of course. “We will also need you to clean up any loose ends that Mr. Abrams here may have left behind upon his…unscheduled termination.”
“My girls will see to that.” MODOK indicated the ones behind him with a dismissive gesture. What were they, Number Two wondered, with their unnatural pallor and unblinking eyes? Surely something fittingly dangerous as servants to the former director of AIM. “You received my latest delivery?” he asked.
She nodded. They had and mostly intact too, which had surprised her. Despite the impression the creature made, he could apparently act with subtlety as well as brutality. Three of AIM’s top minds now resided safely in their custody.
Or rather, in Number One’s custody. Whatever it was he did with them. Even she was not privy to that.
“He was most pleased. You have done well.”
MODOK scowled, the copious flesh of his overly magnified face contorting into a horror-scape of displeasure. “Hmph. I would have preferred killing them myself. AIM has not yet begun to suffer at my hands. They have crossed me one too many times…”
“I wonder then if you are not approaching this from the wrong perspective, Number Eight.” She crossed her arms and hardened her voice. “We of the Secret Empire are not about vengeance. We are--”
“Yes, yes,” he barked. “The future! A brave new world where the strongest shall rule unshackled by the weak. I believe, rest assured. Oh, yes, indeed, I do. I wonder something myself though…”
Number Two arched a brow.
“I wonder if your so-called Number One is truly the most deserving of that title…”
If this was meant to shock her it failed. She had heard such bluster before and she would surely hear it again. They all thought that way at first. Before they’d seen it. Before they understood. So Number Two merely smiled at his boastful threat.
“That you can decide for yourself. You will be meeting him soon. All you need to do now is follow me. Elysium awaits us.”
She stepped over the limp body of Abrams, the former Number Eleven, now of no more concern to the Empire than the human refuse and parasites they sought to overcome. MODOK floated along on his hover chair, his girls trooping silently in his wake. Upon a hand signal from Number Two, the disciples who manned the gate tower hurried to the stone clapper and rang the immense bell thrice in succession. It’s ungodly thrum filled the entire valley and swallowed all sound, until at last the massive doors swung open as if by their own volition.
And all the cynicism, superiority, and hate dropped at once from her guest’s grotesque face. This too was expected. For there was only one possible reaction to Elysium.
Unabashed awe.
“Welcome. Your true test begins now.”
MODOK grinned nastily and surveyed her face for any sign of discomfort. Of course she refused to give him such a gift. Nor did she pay any mind to the three women standing dutifully behind him, pale thin statuesques in blue PVC bodysuits with hair so perfect and elaborate in construct that it looked like molded plastic. Her face conveyed nothing but the mild contempt appropriate to her station.
“I believe this is yours,” he said.
Number Two used the tip of her boot to turn up the corpse’s colorless face. “Ah, yes. Number Eleven. Mr. Johan Winston Abrams if I recall correctly. I see he was unsuccessful in becoming the new Number Eight…”*
* (And he seemed so confident! See Lady Liberators #1 - Al)
The creature snorted. “Except for the way his eyes bulged while I strangled him, he was boring. So far all these tests have bored me.”
“They are necessary. Each of the Empire’s prospects must go through them. How else are we to discover if you are truly fit for entry to Elysium?” Just the name brought the light of curiosity to his eyes. That was good. She had learned over the months just how important it was to keep control. Their candidates were all predators by nature. They sniffed out weakness and hesitation like hungry wolves, and would not hesitate to attack at the first scent. Which was at should be of course. “We will also need you to clean up any loose ends that Mr. Abrams here may have left behind upon his…unscheduled termination.”
“My girls will see to that.” MODOK indicated the ones behind him with a dismissive gesture. What were they, Number Two wondered, with their unnatural pallor and unblinking eyes? Surely something fittingly dangerous as servants to the former director of AIM. “You received my latest delivery?” he asked.
She nodded. They had and mostly intact too, which had surprised her. Despite the impression the creature made, he could apparently act with subtlety as well as brutality. Three of AIM’s top minds now resided safely in their custody.
Or rather, in Number One’s custody. Whatever it was he did with them. Even she was not privy to that.
“He was most pleased. You have done well.”
MODOK scowled, the copious flesh of his overly magnified face contorting into a horror-scape of displeasure. “Hmph. I would have preferred killing them myself. AIM has not yet begun to suffer at my hands. They have crossed me one too many times…”
“I wonder then if you are not approaching this from the wrong perspective, Number Eight.” She crossed her arms and hardened her voice. “We of the Secret Empire are not about vengeance. We are--”
“Yes, yes,” he barked. “The future! A brave new world where the strongest shall rule unshackled by the weak. I believe, rest assured. Oh, yes, indeed, I do. I wonder something myself though…”
Number Two arched a brow.
“I wonder if your so-called Number One is truly the most deserving of that title…”
If this was meant to shock her it failed. She had heard such bluster before and she would surely hear it again. They all thought that way at first. Before they’d seen it. Before they understood. So Number Two merely smiled at his boastful threat.
“That you can decide for yourself. You will be meeting him soon. All you need to do now is follow me. Elysium awaits us.”
She stepped over the limp body of Abrams, the former Number Eleven, now of no more concern to the Empire than the human refuse and parasites they sought to overcome. MODOK floated along on his hover chair, his girls trooping silently in his wake. Upon a hand signal from Number Two, the disciples who manned the gate tower hurried to the stone clapper and rang the immense bell thrice in succession. It’s ungodly thrum filled the entire valley and swallowed all sound, until at last the massive doors swung open as if by their own volition.
And all the cynicism, superiority, and hate dropped at once from her guest’s grotesque face. This too was expected. For there was only one possible reaction to Elysium.
Unabashed awe.
“Welcome. Your true test begins now.”
“THE MOJO GAMES”
She awoke with her head throbbing.
Distantly, at the far edges of Moondragon’s hazy memory, she recalled a similar pain. A psychic blow that had left her mind reeling and her body shattered. Yet she could not conjure images to supplement these recollections. That remained blocked to her even now. All that was available was a face, wan and smiling, with empty eyes that opened onto --
Randal Taggart.
The man’s name had been Randal Taggart. He had defeated her, humbled her, drove her from her own body and trapped her in this one. But how or why Moondragon did not know.
What she did know is that there was nothing psychic about the way her head was hurting right now. Running her hand along the curve of her scalp she found a goose egg the size of a golf ball. Bruises of similar size and diameter covered her arms and back. She’d taken quite a thrashing at the brutal hands of Clegg’s men.
Now she was here. But where was here? An Earthen jungle of some sort judging by the lush vegetation below and thick leafy canopy above, preventing all but a few errant rays of sunlight from breaking through. The air was humid and thick enough to chew, made resonant with the chorus of life, insects chittering and exotic birds warbling somewhere just out of sight.
Interesting, she reflected. As was the cage. Moondragon was suspended fifteen feet off the ground in a stifling metal pen five foot tall and roughly as wide. It swayed on its hemp fastenings with every movement she made. There was no sign of any guards.
Good morning, contestant!
The voice, sudden and shrill, erupted into Moondragon’s ears. She flinched at the volume and carefully explored the source, discovering twin ear buds fastened securely onto her lobes. They would be difficult to remove without the proper equipment. Someone must have clipped them on while she was out cold.
You have been selected for a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to participate in a Mojo Games pay-per-view event! Prizes, glory, and the adulations of millions -- or at least a few hundred, depending on the buy rate -- are yours for the winning. If, of course, you survive!
“Who are you?” she demanded, carefully steadying herself on the metal floor of her cage. Her telepathy detected nothing in the vicinity save for the aforementioned birds, a nesting squirrel, and a curious lemur monkey. “You will release me now or you shall regret it, that much I promise you.”
Rowr! I told you this was going be a feisty group, loyal viewers, and does your humble host ever lie? (Lawsuits pending). And the games have only just begun! Call your friends! Text your relatives! Steal your mom’s credit card! The action is sure to be fierce today!
“To whom are you speaking? Show yourself, coward!”
A click sounded from somewhere below and suddenly she was gazing at a bloated figure floating in the air before her cage. He bowed then grinned sadistically, all teeth, his tiny black eyes twinkling deep within the folds of his flesh.
As the lady commands, so the servant obeys. Now, if you would only reciprocate, please introduce yourself to our viewing audience.
A globe, no larger than a softball, came whizzing out of the jungle to hover next to him. One of a dozen different lenses extended from its circumference in her direction.
Directly into the camera, if you will. Name, age, and biography. No more than one paragraph. Try to make it snappy for the people at home. What makes you you, contestant?
Moondragon growled and with the speed of a viper her fingers shot through the bars and struck the spherical robot center mass, sending it spiraling into the brush. She repeated the same move on the man, striking a fatal blow to his trachea, but her hand merely passed through his throat as if a mirage.
Tsk. Tsk. Assaulting a crewmember and refusing to provide color commentary? I’m going to have to dock you twenty-five points for that. You’ll never win the jet-ski this way, contestant!
“If I find you, I kill you. Slowly. Do you understand me, monster?”
I suspect that’d be rather difficult on a number of levels! But worry not, there’s plenty of others to kill! His head bobbed merrily up and down, as he grasped his vast stomach in a display of humor, although no actual laughter could be heard. And there she is, True Believers, mystery contestant number two, sure to be a pip! Cast your wagers now. How long will she survive? Who will strike the killing blow? It’s Femme Fatalities night here on the Mojo Games!
Suddenly the bottom of her cage dropped out and Moondragon barely managed to catch onto the bars in time. If she’d toppled straight down, a few bumps might have been the least of her worries. A sprained ankle or a broken leg would have placed her at a distinct disadvantage in whatever was coming next, she knew.
Still grinning at his prank, the host shifted form, a bronze helmet with a red horse hair mane appearing atop his head, as he slapped one hand against his breastplate.
You who are about to die, I salute you!
This was the last thing he said before disappearing altogether and Moondragon was thankful for the renewed silence. Carefully extending herself by her arms, she dropped safely to the ground and steeled herself for combat.
The game was afoot.
# # # # #
Tigra had been in motion from the moment she’d awoken.
First, finding herself collared and tied to a wooden post, she’d put aside her humiliation to make a quick escape, instincts kicking into overdrive. A part of her -- a big part of her -- relished an opportunity to let loose in such a manner. To rely wholly on her innate senses and superb reflexes.
It was also a little scary.
For as Tigra leapt expertly from tree branch to branch, gliding swiftly through the densest part of the jungle overgrowth, she realized how little of what she was doing required her active involvement. The muscles in her arms and legs responded naturally to the situation, doing what they’d been bred to do. Her eyes judged height and distance with no need for any internal calculation. It was liberating, sure, but also fraught with bad memories. She’d lost herself to her other nature more than once. Her powers, if that was really the right word for them, only ever seemed partially her own. They belonged to her body more than her mind.
And her body was something she couldn’t always control. Even when she had to rely on it.
Yet whatever Tigra’s misgivings, the danger of losing control paled in comparison to other more immediate threats. Such as the people tracking her. There were so many unfamiliar scents in this place she hadn’t been able pinpoint them yet but she was certain they had her trail. Those wolf howls she kept hearing weren’t just figments of her imagination. Somebody was hunting her and she was fairly certain their numbers were growing.
It would help of course if she could stop and listen. But that wasn’t likely, not with --
Look at her go, ladies and gentlemen! Such speed! Such animal grace! You wanted the best, you got…well, okay, maybe not the best, but she’s famous and she’s furry and that’s sure to excite the fetishists in our audience!
Tigra had known as soon as she’d heard the voice that there was no point in conversing with it. Her efforts at peaceful negotiation hadn’t worked terribly well lately at any rate. Tigra wasn’t even certain the speaker was a real person. Somehow he didn’t sound real.
The next branch Tigra landed on gave way beneath her weight with a crack. Before fear could even begin to take hold, her body instantly readjusted, leaping up to catch another limb and swing herself onto it. Time to catch her breath. Time to figure something out.
Or not. No sooner had she slowed than a shaft came whistling out of the brush below to plunge deep into the trunk below her perch. A crude javelin of some kind. The deadly projectile had been thrown with enough force that the entire blade had disappeared into the wood. Tigra tested it with a quick tug but it wasn’t coming loose without some serious pull. As much as a weapon would be a welcome addition, she had neither the time nor leverage to work it free.
So she began to move again.
Sorry, hunters, but you‘ll have to improve your aim if you want to win tonight’s big score! Don’t let her reputation fool you, viewers, this is one pussy cat who won’t be easy to bag!
“Oh, drop dead,” Tigra muttered, ignoring the growing stitch in her side, as she flung herself from one limb to another. Just keep moving, girl, that’s the only option open right now. Keep moving.
But just how long could she keep this up?
# # # # #
Bethany Parker-Taggart stretched her arms above her head and considered the possibilities.
Not so bad. Not so bad at all really.
She had pieced together the situation in her head. Tricked into an ambush, knocked on the head by pirates, delivered up to a secluded tropical locale, and now placed in a scenario where she would be subsequently killed for the amusement of others. All standard enough. She was fairly certain she’d seen a movie or two with similar plotlines. The real puzzle was the first part, how she’d been misled, but that she’d have to figure out later, at a moment less crucial to her immediate survival.
First thing’s first was to slip out of her bindings. That was easy enough. The knots were perfunctory and she was able to wiggle free of them in short order. Her second task was to figure out how not to die. That was admittedly tougher. Fortunately, she had a plan.
As soon as she’d opened her eyes an obnoxious greeter had started gabbling directly into her ears through a pair of irremovable ear buds. When she failed to pay him much mind, he had appeared in the form of a pasty overweight avatar that was trying way too hard to be funny in her opinion. What had really struck her was how he made himself visible in the first place.
He was a hologram. An actual honest to God hologram in the middle of the jungle.
This gave Bethany an idea. 3-D holographic images of such complexity were extremely difficult to create, she knew. There was a reason that holographic movies and videogames were not yet the wave of the future. The technology necessary required a massive amount of computing power. That meant for her captor to be appearing in this way a suitably advanced projector must be somewhere nearby.
So, coolly ignoring his manic ravings, she bent her mind towards finding it. Which didn’t take long. The source of the hologram proved to be a white plastic cylinder roughly thirty inches in diameter buried in the ground adjacent where she’d awoke. Probably programmed to meet, greet, indoctrinate and disorient all of their unwilling players. With a little work she pried off the top panel to discover what was inside.
Bethany was suitably wow-ed . As much by what she didn’t find as what she did. Clearly this was not Earth-based technology circa early twenty-first century. For one, whoever had built this thing had solved the problem of limited processing space. They must have discovered some means to create micro-chips on the subatomic scale. Which was impossible, but then here it was, so apparently not.
The holo-disc really was a work of art.
And now to dismantle it.
The array of miniature high-powered lasers and portable power source were suitable for Bethany’s needs. For starters, she hotwired the generator to run a current through her ear-pods, shorting them out and allowing herself some quiet time in which to think. Next if she could just figure out a way to increase the beams’ intensity and rearrange the mirrored surfaces so as to focus them onto a single spot…
Her mind raced. Her fingers moved quickly but delicately. Her attention remained riveted on her work.
So it was that the squat shape resting in the shade of the branches above went unnoticed. He cocked his head, luminous purple eyes watching his prey curiously, as something burbled at the back of his throat. A razor-sharp shard of metal glinted between his webbed fingers as his legs tensed.
And then he leapt.
# # # # #
Tigra came up sharp as the tree line ended abruptly in a seventy foot drop off a sheer cliff. Her heart raced as her claws dug themselves into the bark of her perch. Fur bristled up the back of her neck. Just one more leap, just a few feet further…and she’d have been gone, hurtling into the void, dashed on the rocks below.
Can’t think about it now, Tigra told herself, no time for that. She needed to backtrack, find a new route before her pursuers caught up. Never mind that her muscles were screaming. Never mind the fact she had no idea how far this cliff extended and in what direction.
Tigra took a deep breath and in it caught a musky scent in the air. She leapt, just in time, a spear passing through the air where her head had been moments ago. Unfortunately, the jump had been mere instinct, not planning, and she found no new purchase to grab onto, instead dropping down from the high branch into the undergrowth below.
She landed on her feet naturally, the pain of the impact shooting up her already weary calves. Tigra was hurt and tiring fast, and untangling herself from the dense tangle of jungle vines and tropical ferns sapped more precious energy from her body. By the time she was free her enemies had blocked off her escape. It was either face them or the cliff’s deadly drop.
Uh oh, puddy tat! End of the line! Fight or flight, and for this kind of flight you need wings. And since we at home all know human-cat-bird hybrids are against the laws of science and good taste, things are about to get exciting, viewers!
Tigra counted seven. Two men, one small and feral looking, the other an ungainly block of muscle and sinew with no less than four arms, biceps bulging like over-inflated footballs. The other five were massive dire wolves with mottled black and gray coats. They began to snarl and clash their teeth as their yellow eyes latched onto her feline appearance.
The big one hefted one of his spears causing the little one to shake his head.
“Let my wolves handle her Barbarus! They’re hungry, yes they are, aren’t you my babies?”
The giant scowled. “Hrm. You’re just trying to hog all the points again, Lupo. I’m not stupid.”
“You can have the next one, I promise, assuming the others leave us anything to play with of course...”
The two seemed to reach an understanding and, with a vicious smile, the small one let loose an eerie lupine-like howl. The wolves’ ears perked up and as one they launched themselves at their prey. Tigra hissed, catching the first with a painful kick to the snout, then springing backwards to dodge the charging pack. Most went bounding past, racing heedlessly into the brush, but not all.
The largest, a sold black monster that stood level with her abdomen, quickly readjusted and hurled its shaggy body in her direction instead. She fell backwards and, joining with its own momentum, used her knees to take it up and over. The wolf somersaulted through the air and over the cliff side, its yips receding into the depths below.
First kill! A glorious first kill, ladies and gentlemen! That means you earn the first kill bonus life, contestant! In the case of your untimely demise you may cash in your 1-Up for an extra life! May not work on actual living beings. Some restrictions apply.
A nice start, she reflected, but there was still four more wolves, already circling back to renew their attack. Lupo was hopping up and down in anger, globs of spittle flying as he screamed at Barbarus. “Kill her! Kill her! The murderous slut is hurting my babies!” The big man shrugged, going for one of his javelins.
He heaved the first and she dove aside, the shaft whistling past her head. She managed to repeat this feat a second time, landing nimbly on all fours, when something dropped heavily on her back. One of the wolves, now twisting its way on top of her, as she struggled to keep its snapping maw from her neck. Mustering all the remaining strength in her arms Tigra heaved it aside. Struggling back to her feet, she could already see the glint of the next spear sailing through the air, impossible to dodge, its tip hurtling towards her breast.
And then it stopped. Mid-flight a hand had reached out and snatched it as casually as a child might grasp a firefly. For perhaps the first time in her life -- indeed, perhaps the first time in anyone’s life -- Tigra felt a bolt of joy at the sight of its owner. Moondragon now stood in the midst of the clearing. She twirled the spear in a tight arc with precise martial grace, tucking the shaft beneath her left arm as her right hand focused her chi.
And contestant number two joins the fray! But she’s not the only one viewers…
Other shapes emerged from the foliage to join with the two freakish hunters. One versus seven soon turned to two versus ten. A marginal increase of odds but hardly in their favor.
“Where is the annoying one?” Moondragon yelled, jerking Tigra back to her feet, eyes never leaving their opponents.
“Bethany?”
As if in response a strangled scream emerged from the depths of the jungle then faded. There was little mistaking the owner, nor was there any chance of their rushing to her aid. The grinning visage of their host appeared in the branches above in guise of a calico-striped Cheshire.
And now… the Sudden Death Round!”
Lupo howled, his remaining wolves slowly edging around behind them while Barbarus prepared another spear. Others drew weapons of their own preference as more and more hunters merged with their numbers, the odds shifting further against the women with every passing minute.
Finally with a savage snarl of a battle cry the mutates closed in.
# # # # #
Elsewhere…
“…blow the man down, laddies, blow the man doooowwwn…”
Deep within the Antarctic Circle a lone dingy floated on the iceberg laden waters of the Weddell Sea. It’s sole occupant was rocking back in the forth with the motion of the choppy waves. In his hand he lofted a half-empty flagon, its contents sloshing over the edges with every fresh bump. From time to time he would refill it from the spigot of his only companion -- a wooden keg of fine Jamaican rum.
“And, ah, then something about a cabin boy and an amorous whale and…well, the song goes on like that, I suppose,” he said, his breath emerging in thick plumes of condensation from between his chattering teeth. He appeared to be addressing a knot of seals gathered on a nearby glacier, their black eyes peering at him curiously. “What’s that? Calling for another round, eh? A musical bunch then. That’s just how I like my crews! Let’s try Spanish Ladies next, shall we? Now how did that one go…”
Captain Barracuda had been floating wherever the current carried him for some time now. He had started out in something of a foul mood, but the rum had since mellowed him. This wasn’t such a bad way to die really. A pirate’s end was supposed to be interesting and he had always secretly feared it would be something far more painful.
Treachery among one’s crew was still hard to forgive though. He blamed Clegg mainly. He’d given the man too much independence and his men always had been an easily swayed lot. That normally worked to his advantage for it took a certain…well, openness to new ideas to spend one’s days manning a flying pirate ship built like a eighteenth century man of war under a captain who called himself Barracuda. Their own articles even allowed for switching captains provided there was a plurality of votes. Barracuda had simply never foreseen it actually happening.
He was, perhaps, getting old.
Still his men had maintained enough fondness for him that they’d refuse to outright kill him. Clegg, the rat, being rather fixated on an icy keelhauling. His mutinous first mate knew it’d be too risky to keep him onboard. At the first sign of trouble the men would be apt to revert to their old captain. So they settled on a comprise. A spare dinghy, a keg of a rum, and a fond farewell.
A death sentence but slower and cleaner than a firing squad. Also colder, he reflected, hugging his pea coat tighter about his body. Clearly more rum was required, if only for insulation purposes.
“Well, we’ll drink and be jolly and drown melancholy,” he sang drunkenly, reaching about to refill his tankard when a sudden bump, this even greater than the others, sent him crashing face first into the boat. He pushed himself up spluttering, searching for his cup and quickly realizing it had gone overboard. “Cursed fates! Must you deprive me even that small comfort! Or tis a terrible lamentable end for poor old Captain B…”
He paused. The dinghy was no longer moving. He had apparently gone aground. He also realized he was no longer alone.
Five figures wrapped in heavy furs were peering down into the boat at him. Once the initial shock had passed through his system, he tried to sit up, hanging a crooked smile on his face as he smoothed down his drink-stained clothing. “Well, well…I wasn’t, um, expecting guests. You fellows are in luck though. For you see I am a famed and very wealthy man and if you assist me, I may j-”
For the second time in nearly as many sentences, he was cut off, this time by the pointed edge of a spear thrust under his nose. The owner of the blade pulled back the scarf from his face and scowled. His face? No, her face. Perhaps he truly was deliriously drunk for Barracuda now found himself staring into the deep blue eyes of a blond haired angel.
He started to smile again when a prick from the spear wilted it.
“You are one of them. One of the outsiders from the flying ship recently come to the Savage Lands. Answer!”
Barracuda hadn’t realized those were questions but he nodded amiably. “Aye, although we are a bit separated at the moment, a temporary parting, surely, but - “
Another interruption and another poke. He was starting to miss the seals. As conversations went this was already leaving something to be desired.
“You will tell me what you poachers are doing in our homeland! You will explain why you are kidnapping my people and others! You will do this now!”
“Funny story that…”
“Do you see us laughing outsider?” she growled.
In the excitement of shouting at him, the tip of her spear had lodged itself in his left nostril. He carefully removed it and smiled as disarmingly as a half-frozen rum besotted pirate could manage.
“Then why not let me start from the beginning…”
# # # # #
NEXT ISSUE: What is Elysium!?! Where is Randal Taggart?!?! Who is behind the Mojo Games?!? And how will anyone survive long enough to find out?!? The gratuitous violence escalates in Battle Royale!
# # # # #
Lady Libel
Oh, hey, those of you with the torches and the vats of boiling pitch may be wondering what Mojo is doing in this issue being as he’s dead and all. Allow me to explain!
In the next issue, that is…
So, yes, you may want to keep those torches ready at hand, only please hold off on igniting them for another month at least, okay?
And, as always, thanks for reading (you bloody-minded sociopaths)!
- Alan
Distantly, at the far edges of Moondragon’s hazy memory, she recalled a similar pain. A psychic blow that had left her mind reeling and her body shattered. Yet she could not conjure images to supplement these recollections. That remained blocked to her even now. All that was available was a face, wan and smiling, with empty eyes that opened onto --
Randal Taggart.
The man’s name had been Randal Taggart. He had defeated her, humbled her, drove her from her own body and trapped her in this one. But how or why Moondragon did not know.
What she did know is that there was nothing psychic about the way her head was hurting right now. Running her hand along the curve of her scalp she found a goose egg the size of a golf ball. Bruises of similar size and diameter covered her arms and back. She’d taken quite a thrashing at the brutal hands of Clegg’s men.
Now she was here. But where was here? An Earthen jungle of some sort judging by the lush vegetation below and thick leafy canopy above, preventing all but a few errant rays of sunlight from breaking through. The air was humid and thick enough to chew, made resonant with the chorus of life, insects chittering and exotic birds warbling somewhere just out of sight.
Interesting, she reflected. As was the cage. Moondragon was suspended fifteen feet off the ground in a stifling metal pen five foot tall and roughly as wide. It swayed on its hemp fastenings with every movement she made. There was no sign of any guards.
Good morning, contestant!
The voice, sudden and shrill, erupted into Moondragon’s ears. She flinched at the volume and carefully explored the source, discovering twin ear buds fastened securely onto her lobes. They would be difficult to remove without the proper equipment. Someone must have clipped them on while she was out cold.
You have been selected for a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to participate in a Mojo Games pay-per-view event! Prizes, glory, and the adulations of millions -- or at least a few hundred, depending on the buy rate -- are yours for the winning. If, of course, you survive!
“Who are you?” she demanded, carefully steadying herself on the metal floor of her cage. Her telepathy detected nothing in the vicinity save for the aforementioned birds, a nesting squirrel, and a curious lemur monkey. “You will release me now or you shall regret it, that much I promise you.”
Rowr! I told you this was going be a feisty group, loyal viewers, and does your humble host ever lie? (Lawsuits pending). And the games have only just begun! Call your friends! Text your relatives! Steal your mom’s credit card! The action is sure to be fierce today!
“To whom are you speaking? Show yourself, coward!”
A click sounded from somewhere below and suddenly she was gazing at a bloated figure floating in the air before her cage. He bowed then grinned sadistically, all teeth, his tiny black eyes twinkling deep within the folds of his flesh.
As the lady commands, so the servant obeys. Now, if you would only reciprocate, please introduce yourself to our viewing audience.
A globe, no larger than a softball, came whizzing out of the jungle to hover next to him. One of a dozen different lenses extended from its circumference in her direction.
Directly into the camera, if you will. Name, age, and biography. No more than one paragraph. Try to make it snappy for the people at home. What makes you you, contestant?
Moondragon growled and with the speed of a viper her fingers shot through the bars and struck the spherical robot center mass, sending it spiraling into the brush. She repeated the same move on the man, striking a fatal blow to his trachea, but her hand merely passed through his throat as if a mirage.
Tsk. Tsk. Assaulting a crewmember and refusing to provide color commentary? I’m going to have to dock you twenty-five points for that. You’ll never win the jet-ski this way, contestant!
“If I find you, I kill you. Slowly. Do you understand me, monster?”
I suspect that’d be rather difficult on a number of levels! But worry not, there’s plenty of others to kill! His head bobbed merrily up and down, as he grasped his vast stomach in a display of humor, although no actual laughter could be heard. And there she is, True Believers, mystery contestant number two, sure to be a pip! Cast your wagers now. How long will she survive? Who will strike the killing blow? It’s Femme Fatalities night here on the Mojo Games!
Suddenly the bottom of her cage dropped out and Moondragon barely managed to catch onto the bars in time. If she’d toppled straight down, a few bumps might have been the least of her worries. A sprained ankle or a broken leg would have placed her at a distinct disadvantage in whatever was coming next, she knew.
Still grinning at his prank, the host shifted form, a bronze helmet with a red horse hair mane appearing atop his head, as he slapped one hand against his breastplate.
You who are about to die, I salute you!
This was the last thing he said before disappearing altogether and Moondragon was thankful for the renewed silence. Carefully extending herself by her arms, she dropped safely to the ground and steeled herself for combat.
The game was afoot.
# # # # #
Tigra had been in motion from the moment she’d awoken.
First, finding herself collared and tied to a wooden post, she’d put aside her humiliation to make a quick escape, instincts kicking into overdrive. A part of her -- a big part of her -- relished an opportunity to let loose in such a manner. To rely wholly on her innate senses and superb reflexes.
It was also a little scary.
For as Tigra leapt expertly from tree branch to branch, gliding swiftly through the densest part of the jungle overgrowth, she realized how little of what she was doing required her active involvement. The muscles in her arms and legs responded naturally to the situation, doing what they’d been bred to do. Her eyes judged height and distance with no need for any internal calculation. It was liberating, sure, but also fraught with bad memories. She’d lost herself to her other nature more than once. Her powers, if that was really the right word for them, only ever seemed partially her own. They belonged to her body more than her mind.
And her body was something she couldn’t always control. Even when she had to rely on it.
Yet whatever Tigra’s misgivings, the danger of losing control paled in comparison to other more immediate threats. Such as the people tracking her. There were so many unfamiliar scents in this place she hadn’t been able pinpoint them yet but she was certain they had her trail. Those wolf howls she kept hearing weren’t just figments of her imagination. Somebody was hunting her and she was fairly certain their numbers were growing.
It would help of course if she could stop and listen. But that wasn’t likely, not with --
Look at her go, ladies and gentlemen! Such speed! Such animal grace! You wanted the best, you got…well, okay, maybe not the best, but she’s famous and she’s furry and that’s sure to excite the fetishists in our audience!
Tigra had known as soon as she’d heard the voice that there was no point in conversing with it. Her efforts at peaceful negotiation hadn’t worked terribly well lately at any rate. Tigra wasn’t even certain the speaker was a real person. Somehow he didn’t sound real.
The next branch Tigra landed on gave way beneath her weight with a crack. Before fear could even begin to take hold, her body instantly readjusted, leaping up to catch another limb and swing herself onto it. Time to catch her breath. Time to figure something out.
Or not. No sooner had she slowed than a shaft came whistling out of the brush below to plunge deep into the trunk below her perch. A crude javelin of some kind. The deadly projectile had been thrown with enough force that the entire blade had disappeared into the wood. Tigra tested it with a quick tug but it wasn’t coming loose without some serious pull. As much as a weapon would be a welcome addition, she had neither the time nor leverage to work it free.
So she began to move again.
Sorry, hunters, but you‘ll have to improve your aim if you want to win tonight’s big score! Don’t let her reputation fool you, viewers, this is one pussy cat who won’t be easy to bag!
“Oh, drop dead,” Tigra muttered, ignoring the growing stitch in her side, as she flung herself from one limb to another. Just keep moving, girl, that’s the only option open right now. Keep moving.
But just how long could she keep this up?
# # # # #
Bethany Parker-Taggart stretched her arms above her head and considered the possibilities.
Not so bad. Not so bad at all really.
She had pieced together the situation in her head. Tricked into an ambush, knocked on the head by pirates, delivered up to a secluded tropical locale, and now placed in a scenario where she would be subsequently killed for the amusement of others. All standard enough. She was fairly certain she’d seen a movie or two with similar plotlines. The real puzzle was the first part, how she’d been misled, but that she’d have to figure out later, at a moment less crucial to her immediate survival.
First thing’s first was to slip out of her bindings. That was easy enough. The knots were perfunctory and she was able to wiggle free of them in short order. Her second task was to figure out how not to die. That was admittedly tougher. Fortunately, she had a plan.
As soon as she’d opened her eyes an obnoxious greeter had started gabbling directly into her ears through a pair of irremovable ear buds. When she failed to pay him much mind, he had appeared in the form of a pasty overweight avatar that was trying way too hard to be funny in her opinion. What had really struck her was how he made himself visible in the first place.
He was a hologram. An actual honest to God hologram in the middle of the jungle.
This gave Bethany an idea. 3-D holographic images of such complexity were extremely difficult to create, she knew. There was a reason that holographic movies and videogames were not yet the wave of the future. The technology necessary required a massive amount of computing power. That meant for her captor to be appearing in this way a suitably advanced projector must be somewhere nearby.
So, coolly ignoring his manic ravings, she bent her mind towards finding it. Which didn’t take long. The source of the hologram proved to be a white plastic cylinder roughly thirty inches in diameter buried in the ground adjacent where she’d awoke. Probably programmed to meet, greet, indoctrinate and disorient all of their unwilling players. With a little work she pried off the top panel to discover what was inside.
Bethany was suitably wow-ed . As much by what she didn’t find as what she did. Clearly this was not Earth-based technology circa early twenty-first century. For one, whoever had built this thing had solved the problem of limited processing space. They must have discovered some means to create micro-chips on the subatomic scale. Which was impossible, but then here it was, so apparently not.
The holo-disc really was a work of art.
And now to dismantle it.
The array of miniature high-powered lasers and portable power source were suitable for Bethany’s needs. For starters, she hotwired the generator to run a current through her ear-pods, shorting them out and allowing herself some quiet time in which to think. Next if she could just figure out a way to increase the beams’ intensity and rearrange the mirrored surfaces so as to focus them onto a single spot…
Her mind raced. Her fingers moved quickly but delicately. Her attention remained riveted on her work.
So it was that the squat shape resting in the shade of the branches above went unnoticed. He cocked his head, luminous purple eyes watching his prey curiously, as something burbled at the back of his throat. A razor-sharp shard of metal glinted between his webbed fingers as his legs tensed.
And then he leapt.
# # # # #
Tigra came up sharp as the tree line ended abruptly in a seventy foot drop off a sheer cliff. Her heart raced as her claws dug themselves into the bark of her perch. Fur bristled up the back of her neck. Just one more leap, just a few feet further…and she’d have been gone, hurtling into the void, dashed on the rocks below.
Can’t think about it now, Tigra told herself, no time for that. She needed to backtrack, find a new route before her pursuers caught up. Never mind that her muscles were screaming. Never mind the fact she had no idea how far this cliff extended and in what direction.
Tigra took a deep breath and in it caught a musky scent in the air. She leapt, just in time, a spear passing through the air where her head had been moments ago. Unfortunately, the jump had been mere instinct, not planning, and she found no new purchase to grab onto, instead dropping down from the high branch into the undergrowth below.
She landed on her feet naturally, the pain of the impact shooting up her already weary calves. Tigra was hurt and tiring fast, and untangling herself from the dense tangle of jungle vines and tropical ferns sapped more precious energy from her body. By the time she was free her enemies had blocked off her escape. It was either face them or the cliff’s deadly drop.
Uh oh, puddy tat! End of the line! Fight or flight, and for this kind of flight you need wings. And since we at home all know human-cat-bird hybrids are against the laws of science and good taste, things are about to get exciting, viewers!
Tigra counted seven. Two men, one small and feral looking, the other an ungainly block of muscle and sinew with no less than four arms, biceps bulging like over-inflated footballs. The other five were massive dire wolves with mottled black and gray coats. They began to snarl and clash their teeth as their yellow eyes latched onto her feline appearance.
The big one hefted one of his spears causing the little one to shake his head.
“Let my wolves handle her Barbarus! They’re hungry, yes they are, aren’t you my babies?”
The giant scowled. “Hrm. You’re just trying to hog all the points again, Lupo. I’m not stupid.”
“You can have the next one, I promise, assuming the others leave us anything to play with of course...”
The two seemed to reach an understanding and, with a vicious smile, the small one let loose an eerie lupine-like howl. The wolves’ ears perked up and as one they launched themselves at their prey. Tigra hissed, catching the first with a painful kick to the snout, then springing backwards to dodge the charging pack. Most went bounding past, racing heedlessly into the brush, but not all.
The largest, a sold black monster that stood level with her abdomen, quickly readjusted and hurled its shaggy body in her direction instead. She fell backwards and, joining with its own momentum, used her knees to take it up and over. The wolf somersaulted through the air and over the cliff side, its yips receding into the depths below.
First kill! A glorious first kill, ladies and gentlemen! That means you earn the first kill bonus life, contestant! In the case of your untimely demise you may cash in your 1-Up for an extra life! May not work on actual living beings. Some restrictions apply.
A nice start, she reflected, but there was still four more wolves, already circling back to renew their attack. Lupo was hopping up and down in anger, globs of spittle flying as he screamed at Barbarus. “Kill her! Kill her! The murderous slut is hurting my babies!” The big man shrugged, going for one of his javelins.
He heaved the first and she dove aside, the shaft whistling past her head. She managed to repeat this feat a second time, landing nimbly on all fours, when something dropped heavily on her back. One of the wolves, now twisting its way on top of her, as she struggled to keep its snapping maw from her neck. Mustering all the remaining strength in her arms Tigra heaved it aside. Struggling back to her feet, she could already see the glint of the next spear sailing through the air, impossible to dodge, its tip hurtling towards her breast.
And then it stopped. Mid-flight a hand had reached out and snatched it as casually as a child might grasp a firefly. For perhaps the first time in her life -- indeed, perhaps the first time in anyone’s life -- Tigra felt a bolt of joy at the sight of its owner. Moondragon now stood in the midst of the clearing. She twirled the spear in a tight arc with precise martial grace, tucking the shaft beneath her left arm as her right hand focused her chi.
And contestant number two joins the fray! But she’s not the only one viewers…
Other shapes emerged from the foliage to join with the two freakish hunters. One versus seven soon turned to two versus ten. A marginal increase of odds but hardly in their favor.
“Where is the annoying one?” Moondragon yelled, jerking Tigra back to her feet, eyes never leaving their opponents.
“Bethany?”
As if in response a strangled scream emerged from the depths of the jungle then faded. There was little mistaking the owner, nor was there any chance of their rushing to her aid. The grinning visage of their host appeared in the branches above in guise of a calico-striped Cheshire.
And now… the Sudden Death Round!”
Lupo howled, his remaining wolves slowly edging around behind them while Barbarus prepared another spear. Others drew weapons of their own preference as more and more hunters merged with their numbers, the odds shifting further against the women with every passing minute.
Finally with a savage snarl of a battle cry the mutates closed in.
# # # # #
Elsewhere…
“…blow the man down, laddies, blow the man doooowwwn…”
Deep within the Antarctic Circle a lone dingy floated on the iceberg laden waters of the Weddell Sea. It’s sole occupant was rocking back in the forth with the motion of the choppy waves. In his hand he lofted a half-empty flagon, its contents sloshing over the edges with every fresh bump. From time to time he would refill it from the spigot of his only companion -- a wooden keg of fine Jamaican rum.
“And, ah, then something about a cabin boy and an amorous whale and…well, the song goes on like that, I suppose,” he said, his breath emerging in thick plumes of condensation from between his chattering teeth. He appeared to be addressing a knot of seals gathered on a nearby glacier, their black eyes peering at him curiously. “What’s that? Calling for another round, eh? A musical bunch then. That’s just how I like my crews! Let’s try Spanish Ladies next, shall we? Now how did that one go…”
Captain Barracuda had been floating wherever the current carried him for some time now. He had started out in something of a foul mood, but the rum had since mellowed him. This wasn’t such a bad way to die really. A pirate’s end was supposed to be interesting and he had always secretly feared it would be something far more painful.
Treachery among one’s crew was still hard to forgive though. He blamed Clegg mainly. He’d given the man too much independence and his men always had been an easily swayed lot. That normally worked to his advantage for it took a certain…well, openness to new ideas to spend one’s days manning a flying pirate ship built like a eighteenth century man of war under a captain who called himself Barracuda. Their own articles even allowed for switching captains provided there was a plurality of votes. Barracuda had simply never foreseen it actually happening.
He was, perhaps, getting old.
Still his men had maintained enough fondness for him that they’d refuse to outright kill him. Clegg, the rat, being rather fixated on an icy keelhauling. His mutinous first mate knew it’d be too risky to keep him onboard. At the first sign of trouble the men would be apt to revert to their old captain. So they settled on a comprise. A spare dinghy, a keg of a rum, and a fond farewell.
A death sentence but slower and cleaner than a firing squad. Also colder, he reflected, hugging his pea coat tighter about his body. Clearly more rum was required, if only for insulation purposes.
“Well, we’ll drink and be jolly and drown melancholy,” he sang drunkenly, reaching about to refill his tankard when a sudden bump, this even greater than the others, sent him crashing face first into the boat. He pushed himself up spluttering, searching for his cup and quickly realizing it had gone overboard. “Cursed fates! Must you deprive me even that small comfort! Or tis a terrible lamentable end for poor old Captain B…”
He paused. The dinghy was no longer moving. He had apparently gone aground. He also realized he was no longer alone.
Five figures wrapped in heavy furs were peering down into the boat at him. Once the initial shock had passed through his system, he tried to sit up, hanging a crooked smile on his face as he smoothed down his drink-stained clothing. “Well, well…I wasn’t, um, expecting guests. You fellows are in luck though. For you see I am a famed and very wealthy man and if you assist me, I may j-”
For the second time in nearly as many sentences, he was cut off, this time by the pointed edge of a spear thrust under his nose. The owner of the blade pulled back the scarf from his face and scowled. His face? No, her face. Perhaps he truly was deliriously drunk for Barracuda now found himself staring into the deep blue eyes of a blond haired angel.
He started to smile again when a prick from the spear wilted it.
“You are one of them. One of the outsiders from the flying ship recently come to the Savage Lands. Answer!”
Barracuda hadn’t realized those were questions but he nodded amiably. “Aye, although we are a bit separated at the moment, a temporary parting, surely, but - “
Another interruption and another poke. He was starting to miss the seals. As conversations went this was already leaving something to be desired.
“You will tell me what you poachers are doing in our homeland! You will explain why you are kidnapping my people and others! You will do this now!”
“Funny story that…”
“Do you see us laughing outsider?” she growled.
In the excitement of shouting at him, the tip of her spear had lodged itself in his left nostril. He carefully removed it and smiled as disarmingly as a half-frozen rum besotted pirate could manage.
“Then why not let me start from the beginning…”
# # # # #
NEXT ISSUE: What is Elysium!?! Where is Randal Taggart?!?! Who is behind the Mojo Games?!? And how will anyone survive long enough to find out?!? The gratuitous violence escalates in Battle Royale!
# # # # #
Lady Libel
Oh, hey, those of you with the torches and the vats of boiling pitch may be wondering what Mojo is doing in this issue being as he’s dead and all. Allow me to explain!
In the next issue, that is…
So, yes, you may want to keep those torches ready at hand, only please hold off on igniting them for another month at least, okay?
And, as always, thanks for reading (you bloody-minded sociopaths)!
- Alan