Note: This is very rough at the moment and kinda cheesy lol, but it's a first attempt to flesh out an idea that popped in my head about Tommy the son of Otis all grown up. This may go off on a tangent too far to really be called a House of 1000 Corpses fan fiction, but since he's Otis's son I guess that makes it one...now my brain hurts lol.Parts of this have actuall been written but I didn't know what to do with it. Anyways, ya'all know I'm an Otis freak by now and he's liable to make an appearance somewhere sooner or later. I just gave myself an idea methinks...

-June, 2002-

The young man rolled over in bed, arm going across the unmoving slender body laying next to him. He sat up, suddenly fearing that she was dead. A brown-haired girl deep in slumber greeted his vision, not a dead blonde cheerleader on blood-stained sheets. Letting out a deep breath he ran his fingers through matted hair dyed black, showing near-white roots for a strange surreal effect. He still had the dreams, the visions at times which is why he hated sleeping alone.

They weren't even lovers, Linny and him; and there was no end of speculation about their relationship. They worked well together, they played well together. They even...well, slept well together, but as to a physical consumation there was none. The number of girls he'd fucked he could count on one hand and at twenty five years of age he'd had plenty of chances. He knew he had issues which is why he is good at what he does.

Agent for the Bureau of Paranormal Investigation. An agency which officially doesn't exist. Dedicated to the wacked-out, unsavory tasks the other organizations wanted nothing to do with.

Sighing he settled back down in the covers wondering if he'd ever have a semi-normal relationship with a woman. Then he considered if he really wanted one. Linny stirred, smacking her lips and stretching. "Ryan, what time is it"

"3:15 AM," he replied.

"MMmm," she said groggily. "I should go ahead and get up." The woman's shoulder-length hair fuzzed out in all directions and tickled the man's nose as she got out of bed. She was wearing the purple underwear set this time, he noted with interest but as usual didn't pursue the matter. He blamed it on his frustrating separation of his beloved cousin he hadn't seen in years. Idly he thought about where she might be and what she might be doing. Ryan knew it was no good, contacting her would be disastrous to them both, children of a sociopathic clan of killers.

Rattling of cups and pans came from the kitchen...Linny must be brewing that thick-assed uber-coffee she seemed to love. She had an assignment to work on today, but he was currently free. Maybe he'd call Jim and see how he was doing. His cell phone started beeping, and he'd left it in the living room. "Ryan, your cell phone's ringing," Linny hollered to him. Grumbling, he blearily stumbled into the living room and answered the insistant ringing.

"Ryan," came a well-articulated man's voice.

"Yes."

"Ryan Baker," the voice asked.

"Uh, yeah."

"You're the Chosen. Wait for the signs, you won't miss them" the man hung up.

"What the hell was that about," Linny asked him.

"Haven't a clue. Probably some nut," he replied casually, but he had bad feelings about the call. And his feelings were rarely wrong.

Then BPI called with some lovely news of some ritual killings. At the crime scene were documents with Ryan's real identity: Thomas Orion Robins. Only Ryan himself and a handful of those in charge at the Agency knew his background; it had been hidden very carefully for everyone's benefit. Now some two-bit religious cult was proclaiming it to the world, and guess who's the best person for a case like this? Thomas Robins, aka Tommy Driftwood aka Ryan Baker.

Linny was working on her second cup of uber-coffee as he relayed the information to her. She offered to come with him. "I like breaking rules ever now and then," she drawled. It shouldn't be surprising he would feel comfortable with a southern gal, after all.

"That's ok," he told her, spreading butter on some toast as he stood at the counter. "I think I can handle these bozos."

"Those are the most ridiculous pair of underwear I've ever seen," the woman declared. She was referring to the silk burgundy boxer shorts he with flaming hearts was sporting at the moment. He chortled as he approached the small kitchen table and set down the toast. Linny finished her coffee and put her arms around his neck and kissed him lightly. He was immediately aroused but couldn't find it in himself to respond. "No" she breathed, looking in his golden brown eyes. She felt safe and comfortable around him at all times, but sometimes she wondered if he liked girls at all. "Did someone hurt you?"

"It's-complicated," he replied.

Yes, his life was nothing if not complicated. Later that day he pulled up to the unobtrusive building that housed the Bureau for Paranormal Investigation kicking himself for not giving it to Linny but good. He definately stuck out among the smart-dressed bunch there with his Gothic hair, jeans and Converse All-star tennis shoes. His mentor Arthur Santos briefed him on the particulars of the case.

The Church of the All: a religion meant to include all beliefs and peoples. Originally started as a Christian sect, it now spoke to Muslims, Pagans, Shamans and Jews to join in peaceful brotherhood. Sounded good on paper, but what it boiled down to was a group who felt they were right and everyone else was wrong. They subscribed to the New World Order idea of overthrowing all the world's governments and setting up one run by followers of the All.

A triple homicide, two women and one man, arranged in different ways. One was splayed as if being crucified, another had been executed in the pagan Threefold Death: strangled, drowned and throat slit. The other had simply been shot in the head. What was most disturbing to Ryan was the message in blood written in Aramaic.

Behold, the Pale One comes, harbinger of chaos. Truly of chaos born, bringing death upon seeds of evil. To unleash his power his blood must be spilled.

Cleansing.

Thomas Orion Robins.

Ryan sat in silence after he read the files. "Pretty specific, aren't they?"

Santos nodded his graying head, stubbing out a cigarrette in the ashtray, one of the few items gracing the stainless steel table in the spartan room. Ryan asked if there were any leads, to which Santos answered tehre were none. "This is where your intuitive powers come in" he spoke, pacing the room.

The scene was an abandoned warehouse, everything left as it had been found. Photos had been taken but the investigators were awaiting Ryan's arrival. Slowly he made a circuit around the perimeter then entered the large structure, making an inside circuit as well. The violence of the unfortunate peoples' deaths smacked him in the face. Opening himself up often did that, and this time he was nearly blindsided. Pete Bell, another agent on the scene, kept Ryan from falling and inquired if he was all right. "I'm fine," the pale-skinned lad assured him. "I'm still learning to control it."

"That bignosed Greek will fuck you up royally one 'o these days," Pete declared. "Crazy unnatural shit."

"Forget it, I'm ok," Ryan told him, feeling defensive about Santos. Art had seen to his training and looked after him, after all. The bodies were laying in the manner they had been dispatched by the killers, and Ryan discerned there had been many at this site. A ritual, perhaps? A powerful prescence had been here, directing them all. The cult leader, probably, and the young man had never felt a psychic imprint so strongly. Excitedly he made his report to Santos.

The clean-shaven man opened his steel grey eyes which darted about the room like flies. Attendants were observing him intently, waiting on his word. "It seems I've misjudged our quarry's prowess," he intoned, soft voice quite powerful despite it's lack of volume. "He'll be onto us sooner than I planned. It doesn't matter. Summon Electra." One of the attendants hurried to obey. The visions were coming more often and more strongly these days. The time of reckoning would soon be upon them.

-Victims unrelated and didn't know each other.

-Were murdered elsewhere and brought to crime scene. First victim, female preacher of a Freewill Baptist church, crucified. Second victim male member of so-called group of witches, strangled, submerged in water then throat cut. Third victim a female biological researcher and notorious atheist, shot in the temple with a small-caliber bullet.

-The message on the warehouse wall was written in all three persons' blood.

-No fingerprints or DNA evidence found other than the victims'.

Arthur finished the report then tossed the files on the desk before him, rubbing his large dark eyes. "There's something else, Ryan. We can't prove the Church of the All perpetrated these crimes, but we do know they've begun a feud with a 'coven' of Satanists. Might wanna get down to their hangouts and see what's happening. I have a feeling you'd fit right in" he smiled at his protege. "But wait a day or so, and go in disguise."

Ryan accepted the suggestion and departed Arthur's office rather cheerily. That boy was always eager for a new challenge, he thought proudly. Santos was one of the few who knew the young man's albino psycho heritage, a long line of monsters and madmen. How was this sweet, hardworking lad the end result of such a lineage? Only Heaven knew, he supposed. He was only glad that he was on their side and not a loose cannon running amok on an unsuspecting world.

A decrepit old camper sat forlornly between a couple of scrubby trees, somewhere in the Midwest. Well, you could say it was officially the Middle of Nowhere. A late model Chevy Blazer wound its way down the dirt road, coming to a stop in front of said decrepit camper. Ryan exited the vehicle in sunglasses and long-sleeved shirt to protect his half-albino er, assets from the glaring sun. He was a Chevy man through and through like his mother, much to his peers' chagrin. His feet echoed off the dried-out ground, kicking up dust as he approached.

A man emerged from the camper clad only in his underwear and brandishing a double-barrelled shotgun. His greying hair was back in a loose ponytail, wearing a patch over an empty eyesocket. He sometimes wore a glass eye so as to not unnerve folks, but it didn't match his pretty grey-blue eye that remained. "Jim, it's me" Ryan hollered to him, voice calm. The man lowered his weapon and smiled at Ryan. "What the hell you doing?" Ryan asked him.

"Well, I was entertaining," he gruffly replied. "Weren't expecting you up." Well, that could explain the fact he wasn't wearing any pants. Jim opened the door to his domicile. "Honey, my boy's here and we need to talk in private. Take the truck up to the grocery store if ya don't mind."

After the trashy-looking woman had left the premises they sat down together, adopted son and caretaker. "That's a different one" the young man observed as he took off the sunglasses.

Jim Baker snorted with mirth, pouring them both a drink. Whiskey, of course. "A man needs a pleasant diversion every now an' then." He handed a glass to Ryan. The lad noticed the scars riddling the older man's body, the wrinkles and the pain in his good eye as if for the first time. Jim was getting old, he realized, and he didn't know what to do with the knowledge. His foster-father had been in the Vietnam war, had a run-in with Ryan's real father's murdering family, been institutionalized and had looked after him when he lost his parents. "Yes, I think I deserve to relax now," he answered Ryan's unspoken thought. Such it was with them since they'd been changed by the experiments.

"I wasn't accusing you of anything," protested Ryan, knocking back the shotglass.

"So what you doing up here at the moment"

"I...well, I miss you."

"And?"

The pale man sighed. A soldier's way, short and to the point with Jim. Against the Agency's rules he told Jim about the case he was working on, and how it scared him that the message was aimed at him personally. He knew he could trust the man, as far as the world was concerned the old vet didn't even exist. The old man sat in thought for a few minutes, finishing his drink. "This is big, kid. Very big, but I think you can handle it. I'll be in mind-contact with you. And what about that girl you've taken up with, she got your back"

"Linny's on another case at the moment, but she always finds a way to be there for me," Ryan answered.

"When you gonna marry her," the man grumped.

"Jim," Ryan groaned and rolled his eyes.

"I don't have any premonitions about your cult buddies, but I'll keep you posted," Jim snickered at the young man. "And you really need to fuck the shit outta that nice southern belle."

"Dammit Jim, you know I'm all messed up in the head about it. And stop being so vulgar, you with those lot lizards you bring home."

"Hey, nothing better to clear the head than a good lay. And you know I don't mean it, Tommy."

The use of his true name made his blood run cold but he gave no outward sign, and shielded his mind from Jim's scrutiny. They'd learned to do that long ago when they saw things in each other's minds that neither wanted seen, especially after Ryan caught Jim's memory of the passionate night he'd had with Ryan's mother Stacy. The boy felt icky for days.

The drive back to eastern Virginia was a long one-Ryan hated to fly and drove his trusty Blazer everywhere he went nearly. As soon as he got home he got out his gear and strapped the arsenal he wore all over his body. His tall, well-built frame distressingly often got a lot of attention no matter how he done himself up. His platinum hair he'd dyed black and the roots were growing out which added to his overall appearance. When he was in high school he dyed it auburn which was the color of his mother's and uncle's locks, and it looked quite natural. In fact he resembled his uncle Tom (his namesake) even more with his hair that color.

Early that morning he tailed a small group of purported Satanists, listening intently. These were the junior members, the dabblers, and they were the cliche all black wearing depressed teen types. The Church of All wouldn't have a problem finding these morons, but they weren't the whole truth obviously. Dark alleys and seedy corners they threaded their way across, and Ryan stuck to them. This was his element, the cool dark of night, and he was at home. Jack the Ripper found this time to be the best for murder, and that blood flowed through the young man's veins as well. The satanic gang would be impressed if they knew.

From their conversation he learned the names of the leader of the All, Eric Logan and confirmed that they were indeed at odds with them. Several names of key players were also dropped and Ryan committed them to memory. Silent as an owl Ryan slipped away and took a circuituous route home in case he was being followed. The suburban house's lights were off when he arrived and Linny was already in bed. He washed off the makeup he'd been wearing and began taking off the myriad weapons he was packing. The woman's training was not less than his own and she was awake in a few heartbeats. She smiled when she realized it was him and relaxed back in bed again. "Oooh, the goth look. You bad boy." There was the hillbilly accent again. Her dark hair was frizzed as usual and she was wearing her skimpy yellow nightgown. Gods, but she was fascinating.

Ryan snorted as he deposited his boots by the bedside. Would he ever tell her the truth about his past, his heritage? Was that what his hangups were about? He was living on borrowed time anyway, so does it matter? Aw, hell with it. He crawled into bed and to Linny's surprise planted a big kiss on her. She responded with enthusiam, gladly helping him out of his black clothing. She didn't understand why he felt he was a freak, she thought he was beautiful. He was big without being fat or too muscular, his features pleasing to the eye, his skin and eyes unusual to look at. He jerked her flimsy gown up and her panties down as the excitement built inside him.

With pleasure she opened her tanned thighs to him, and he was amazed at the desire she had for him. He let go of his inhibitions at last and enjoyed her warm embrace, a long sigh escaping his full lips as he entered her. She was a short but well-proportioned girl, lean from Bureau training and the targets she chased in her line of work. She moved with him and bit her lip in ecstacy. She climaxed first and he came soon after, rolling off her but arms still around her. They fell asleep in that passionate embrace, sated.

The man sat bolt upright in his bed drenched in sweat and gasping for air. Stormy grey eyes began registering what they saw: his own bedroom draped in nighttime. Blank walls stared back at him as he calmed down and considered what he'd been Shown tonight. Oh, the Deity was good to him. "Electra" he yelled to the door of his chamber. Within seconds a huge blonde woman appeared.

"You wanted me, Brother?" She was concerned. She would be, considering he was the only parent she'd ever known.

"He has spoken to me again," he wiped his forehead and threw the bedcovers aside. "Those Devil-loving twits are getting in the way again, but I know how to kill two birds with one stone. Get Gauthier, we haven't much time."

"Yes, Brother Logan," the powerful-looking lady turned on her heel and obeyed. His faithful second and bodyguard was brusque and effective in everything she did.

Eric gazed out the curtainless window that looked out on the nearby forest and tried to still his thoughts. The Pale One appeared in his dreams and visions more and more often and it was clear that he held great power. Power needed by the Children if they were to transform the world, to turn it from its path of indulgence and destruction. His church grew daily but there were still so many who were not of the All. My work is never done, he thought. There was no sexism, racism, or the like in this group and they promoted hardworking, simple ideals which appealed to a lot of people. Most of the faithful, however, had no idea of the underlying agenda of their organization.

"So what's with the Threefold Death," asked the lady, tapping her fingernails on the desk. "Is that for enemies or traitors"

"It's a pagan thing" responded Ryan. "It was usually someone of noble birth who was sacrificed, and it was an honor. It's sort of a last-ditch plea to the gods to hear their prayer."

"Brutal way to pray," she said as she pored over the photos of the bodies. Her name was Anne Dobbs and she was part of the Support Team, better known as Clean-up and at times Cover-up Crew. She aided and recovered agents, concocted cover stories and courted the press. She still ventured forth into the field due to her no-nonsense nature and unerring aim. She was in her late 30's, divorced, and the closest thing he had to a mother now.

"It was done in extreme times of famine or war, and never against anyone's will. Except for this time, of course. And the man was a pagan, and the Christian was crucified. Definately a message there." Anne nodded her agreement with that.

Director Swanson sat quietly absorbing everything said. "From what you've told us Ryan, one of the Luciferians' High Priests is a target. We want you to tail him and apprehend the culprits. We're almost sure they'll be members of the All, and once we have them we can work on the evidence we need. Agent Dobbs will cover you, and one of our telepaths will be monitoring you. Good luck and be careful," said the soft-spoken black man. It wasn't often that the Head of the Bureau gave you orders in person.

Yeah, thanks a lot, Ryan said to himself.

Flitting from shadow to shadow Ryan observed the well-dressed fellow as he went on his errands, just like anyone else except for a trip to an occult bookstore.

Notice anything, spoke Mary in his mind, one of BPI's telepaths.

Nothin' yet, he replied. He could detect her joy at dealing with someone else with the Talent; it was so much harder trying to link with someone who didn't over long distances. He mentally grumbled it must be nice sitting in a comfy chair safe at Headquarters. She laughed.

If they thought it would help they'd send my ass out with you, she mind-spoke to him. I ain't special.

Agent Koontz you're distracting me. He was sent a picture of her sticking her tongue out at him. Ryan went back to watching his quarry, all his senses straining to see if there were any danger to the priest. His reddish-blond hair was cropped short, was dressed in a tailored suit and appeared completely unaware of anything. He turned a corner and Ryan unobtrusively did the same, melting into the urban environment. Just then something tickled Ryan's awareness-someone was moving in, several someones in fact. Then he noticed something.

They were being shielded! He could detect nothing of their thoughts. You got that, Koontz? She responded in the affirmative. The four intruders moved closer so Ryan blasted a challenge to them telepathically and was met with surprise, but they didn't desist. The Luciferian finally realized something was wrong and turned, eyes going wide. "Down, Sanders," yelled Ryan, pulling his gun, but the man had already hit the pavement. Gunshot cracked through the city air, and both men were amazed that this could be happening in an area like this in broad daylight.

The dark-clad man dove behind a parked car, returned fire. Then he found he was in a crossfire; somebody ELSE was shooting at him. Shit! At this close range it was deafening; back at the Agency Mary winced as she experienced everything in Ryan's head. He poked his head up for a second and was pleased that the priest had taken cover behind a dumpster. He brushed against the other group's minds and saw they were Sanders' men. "You All motherfuckers," screamed one of them. "We knew you'd be coming," Semi-automatic fire richocheted off the car.

"Hey" shouted Ryan. "I'm not with the All, I'm trying to help. Goddammit, stop shooting at me." To his relief Anne started laying down cover fire from her position, driving everyone to shelter for the moment. The two Satanists were dressed like businessmen and they dashed to the refuge the priest had taken amid a hail of bullets.

"Come out, Baker," came a female's voice across the street. "We know it's you. You're the one we want anyway. Come on, ya monstrous bastard"

"Who are you," questioned Ryan, stalling for time.

"We are the Children," the woman hollered back. "We have blocked our prescence from everyone in the city, no one knows what is happening. You have no one to help you, Pale One. We can always shoot the lady who came with you, the Satanists, and anyone else on this block."

KOONTZ I NEED SOME HELP HERE, he declared.

I'm on it, I've told Santos already.

The young man decided to take his chances with the Satanists and made a mad dash for the dumpster. Anne began shooting again, trying to keep them off Ryan but a tearing sensation ripped through his upper arm as he gained cover. "Fuckballs," he said between clenched teeth. The priest and his followers gawked as this strange-looking man ripped off a section of his overshirt and using his teeth tied it around an arm spewing blood.

"Who the hell are YOU? What's going on," Sanders demanded, his brain whirling.

"Ryan, pleased to meet you. The others must be the All-I've been investigating some crimes linked with them."
The followers reloaded their weapons while keeping an eye on their enemies. "They're coming closer," one informed them.

"Ok, Sanders I need you to trust me," spoke Ryan earnestly. He told him to get himself and his companions the hell outta dodge, and to go to BPI and tell them everything they knew and everything that happened. They would recieve temporary protection. Sanders wanted to know what Ryan was going to do. "Kick ass and take names" he replied grimly. The Satanist noticed his arm had stopped bleeding and that he didn't seem to feel discomfort now. No, I'm not...normal, Ryan sent to his brain. GO! The men complied without further ado.

Hang in there, Mary reassured him. Hey, what are you doing? Baker? RYAN?

"I'm comin out," he yelled to the attackers. He could feel Anne cursing from across the way. Stay back, Anne! This is too much for us. I may have a chance, they want me alive. Stay back!

He stepped around the corner, holding his hands up. "Drop the gun" ordered the woman, coming into view. Boy was she an Amazon, with a scowl to match. He did as she commanded (never mind he had several sidearms strapped to his person). The three others appeared, weapons trained on him as he walked slowly toward them. Almost funnily the big woman was wearing a plaid mid-calf length skirt and a sleeveless green blouse, sporting a whopping automatic rifle. She smiled, could there be a slight bit of relief in the expression? Whoever's blocking their minds must be powerful, indeed. The pleased expression began to fade off her rugged face when he pulled out the small-calibre pistol and put two bullets in one of her henchmen's heads...shouts and screams resounded and as he aimed for one of the others diving to the ground a small, sharp pain entered his neck. His arm immediately felt like two tons, the gun clattered to the pavement out of wooden fingers. In desperation he leapt at the blonde woman who was swearing and screaming how come the Son of Evil hadn't went down yet. His large fist connected with her cheek, her head snapped back. She pushed against his chest and he overbalanced, connecting hard with the ground.

His eyelids fluttered another time or two then shut.

Shit, went Mary as Ryan's consciousness slipped through her fingers. He was still alive but other than that he was lost to her.