Chapter the Second
***INTERLUDE***
The fleeting years brought domestic peace to the war-weary Wagner of
Schloss Adler. On May 5, 2004, Bismarck became Chancellor not only of
the Iron Clan of Bavaria but of the Adler Republic-a small nation-state,
about the size of San Marino, comprised of Schloss Adler, its surrounding
forest, and the handful of outpost castles once controlled by the
Bavarian Illuminati. A thriving town sprang up around Schloss Adler,
populated by gargoyles from all over the world. While open to all, the
Adler Republic was generally known as the first gargoyle nation.
Proud, contented, Wagner occupied himself with raising his new family
and observing Schloss Adler transform itself from former Illuminati
headquarters to the main building of a new democratic government. The
situation was far from idyllic-Grendel's Insurrectionists made sure of
that, planting car bombs and raiding the outpost castles-but the newly
organized Adler Militia, under Aldrich's command, was strong and
effective in controlling the problem. Wagner himself remained
uninvolved. Many still did not know that the dreaded assassin Wagner and
the Renegade hero Patriot were one and the same, and he preferred it that
way. It was easier to live the quiet life of a Renegade veteran.
Finally, after a century of war, it appeared that his battle was over.
Elsewhere, the battle was only beginning.
July 4, 2008, marked the beginning of the Clone Wars. Mutates and
clones under the control of Anton Sevarius swept down on Long Island and
claimed it for their own. Only a rag-tag band of gargoyles and humans,
led by Goliath of the Manhattan Clan, dared stand against the
onslaught.
In Bavaria, the Insurrectionists were quiet, having slunk into hiding to
lick their wounds and gather strength for their next assault-strength
that would be years in coming. Meckler and Kyrie were four in human
years, Bismarck was in the middle of her first term in office as
Chancellor of a country, and an old soldier was debating whether it was
worse to return to his bloody ways of the past, or to stand idly by while
the armies of darkness marched...
***END INTERLUDE***
December 2008
Adler Republic
"I don't want to go to war," Wagner said softly.
"You keep saying that," Bismarck noted, "and you keep bringing it up.
Repeatedly."
"Aren't you thinking of sending aid to the gargoyle rebels?"
"It's feasibility-study-only at the moment. We've got only scattered
information from the disputed area and we're not going to go rushing into
anything. Our hold on the Adler Republic is recent and not without
dispute. Better that we consolidate at home before sending troops
abroad." Her brown eyes pierced into his. "You're going to go, aren't
you."
It wasn't a question.
"I don't want to go," he said again.
She stroked his cheek. "So much of your life has been things you did
not want to do. Now, though, you have the freedom to choose for
yourself. No one here will make you go."
He sighed bitterly. "Freedom to choose. That's no freedom at all. It
means only that I am captive to my own conscience rather than someone
else's."
"You feel you should go, don't you."
Wagner hung his head. "I think I have to, Biz. To see for myself if
it's really as bad as they say. If it is, that Manhattan clan is going
to need help." His head swung round to the window, his eyes far away,
and snorted. "At least you'll get an accurate report."
"What else?" Bismarck pressed.
"Mauser's there," Wagner said quietly. "He phoned me the other night.
Asking for help."
She raised an eye ridge. "I would never have taken Mauser for a
soldier."
"Me neither." He shook his head. "I called him in Winslow in the fall.
Talked to Eddie for a while before Mauser got to the phone. She told me
she couldn't believe it herself, how eager he was to join up and do his
duty."
"Perhaps Mauser has finally grown up."
"War will do that to you," the blond gargoyle retorted grimly. "Maybe I
don't want my son learning some of the lessons combat teaches."
"Go," Bismarck whispered softly.
He looked at her quizzically.
"All you ever need to do," she murmured, "is follow your own heart. You
will do right. I know it."
He smiled, endlessly grateful for his mate's loving understanding, and
wrapped her in his arms and wings, kissing her deeply.
January 2009
New York
Patrol had taken on different qualities these days.
Brooklyn looked at Angela on his right and Broadway on his left.
Broadway's normally genial face was set in an angry snarl-no doubt over
the laser weapons that seemed to be proliferating everywhere. Clones and
mutates carried them as standard issue, and human thugs were more than
happy to pick up any weapons they could gather from the bodies of
Sevarius' fallen troops.
Not that there were enough fallen troops, Brooklyn thought grimly to
himself. Goliath had long given up hope of reclaiming Long Island and
was now working strictly on a policy of containment. The red gargoyle
thought back to the good old days when the worst he'd had to face was a
flight of Steel Clan robots or Demona's clone clan. He remembered how
frightened they'd all been, that day when they met their 'evil twins':
Malibu, Brentwood, Burbank, Hollywood.
~What I wouldn't give if they were the only clones we had to worry
about.~ They'd proved good allies in the end. Sevarius' monkeys were
much less redeemable, and there were so many more of them.
At least, Brooklyn hoped they were less redeemable. ~They were!~ he
raged inwardly. ~They had to be!~
Or how would he cope with the guilt of killing them?
In that moment, the skies lit up with laser fire, and suddenly guilt
became the last thing on his mind. A large patrol of clones-at least
ten-was swooping down on them, shooting.
Broadway rolled left. Angela swooped right. Brooklyn flapped his wings
to go overtop of the enemies.
Something hit his right wing, burning like fire. Pain screamed into his
shoulder blade. He jerked his head backwards.
Three mutates, also carrying weapons, diving from the opposite
direction. There was a ruined church steeple across the block-evidently
the cat-creatures had been holed up there, waiting for a target of
opportunity. Like Brooklyn.
He tried to turn, but his wing flared with agony and refused to work.
He felt his body starting an involuntary roll as his good left wing
developed more lift than his injured right one. The red gargoyle
struggled to level himself out...
...and a burst of electricity crackled across his body. His wings
folded, and he fell to earth. The shadows of the alley below enveloped
him.
The mutates grinned their cat-smiles, diving after their prey.
"Where's Brooklyn?" Angela yelled, jinking to avoid the clones' fire.
"I thought he was with you!" Broadway called back.
Angela shook her head. "I lost sight of him when the clones jumped us."
A laser burst singed the end of her ponytail. "We can't fight them
all!" she cried.
"We can't leave Brooklyn either!" Broadway attempted to dodge into a
side street and evade the clones, but his stratagem was unsuccessful.
Angela was right. There were just too many.
"Goliath says not to fight when we're outnumbered and outgunned," Angela
said breathlessly into his ear as she took formation beside him.
"Brooklyn's smart. He won't go patrolling alone. He'll make his way
back to the Eyrie Building."
Broadway sighed. "I guess you're right."
More laser fire rained down on them with dismaying accuracy. The two
gargoyles rolled and looped, throwing off the clones' aim.
"So how do we lose these bozos?" Broadway asked.
"They won't follow us too far," Angela retorted. "Lex says their
patrols are limited to certain neighbourhoods and they don't go beyond
the boundaries of those areas. It's programmed into them."
Broadway nodded. In his inner heart, he prayed his rookery brother was
all right.
Brooklyn's senses returned before he hit the ground, giving him time to
stretch his wings and check his fall. He ignored the pain in his wounded
limb, forcing the wing to its full span. The red gargoyle plowed into a
pile of debris at the side of the alley.
Shaking his aching limbs, he forced himself onto all fours and crawled
behind the heap of garbage that had softened his landing.
At the mouth of the alley, the three mutates touched down.
Brooklyn crouched behind the pile of debris, clutching his wounded wing
limb, trying to stop the bleeding as best he could. He could hear the
three mutates moving in the alley and wished he could quiet his
thundering heart. He bit his tongue hard, struggling to keep from
moaning.
Noises. Coming closer.
~Please don't let them have found me.~
A furry hand on the top of the garbage pile shattered his hopes.
The mutate's head appeared. Brooklyn lashed out with his tail, slapping
the mutate across the face. It went falling backwards. The red gargoyle
staggered to his feet-no point in hiding now-as the other two mutates
charged around the pile, bearing down on him. He growled, raising his
intact wing, prepared to go down fighting.
Thud. Softly, barely louder than a cough. One mutate's head jerked
back in a spray of blood.
Thud again. The last one dropped its gun, hands rising to its chest as
it fell over and died.
Brooklyn's head swung around, looking for his mysterious rescuer.
The figure stood on top of a dumpster lid, black wings folded behind it.
A bronze coloured sniper rifle, decorated all over with odd burnished
swirls, was in its hands. Despite the wings, the stranger's body was
human. It wore knee-high black boots, black jump pants, a black leather
jacket and black T-shirt underneath, a grey glove on the right hand, and
a medal in the shape of a German cross around its neck. The
five-fingered wing hands were covered with silver gauntlets. It jumped
off the Dumpster, flaring its wings behind it and landed lightly right
beside Brooklyn.
"You all right?" The voice was tinged with a German accent.
Brooklyn nodded, staring at his rescuer, trying to figure out whether he
was looking at a mutated human, a humanlike gargoyle, or a hybrid. The
stranger seemed distracted and Brooklyn suddenly realized why-the first
mutate, the one that had found him, was still alive. He could hear it
scrambling to its feet on the other side of the garbage.
In a blink, the bronze sniper rifle somehow...shifted...into a bronze
handgun. The stranger went down on his knees, waiting. As the mutate
leaped to the top of the heap, the newcomer fired a bullet right between
the mutate's eyes. Rising, Brooklyn's rescuer casually tucked the weapon
into the waistband of his pants, as a driver might pocket his keys after
locking his car.
"What the hell..." Brooklyn said.
"Richard S. Wagner, at your service," the newcomer said with a smirk.
"Get your gun and let's get out of here."
Brooklyn stared at him.
"I said hurry up and get your gun," the stranger repeated, shifting his
weight from one leg to the other, his eyes darting around the alley. "We
shouldn't be in one place too long."
"I don't have a gun," Brooklyn managed.
The head snapped around, blue eyes boring into his. "What kind of idiot
would come out in a place like this, alone and unarmed?"
"I got separated from the others," the red gargoyle replied, trying to
justify himself, "and we don't carry guns."
"Don't...Mein Gott. You all have a death wish." The eyes glanced from
Brooklyn's face to his wound and back to his face. "You're not gonna die
on me, are you?"
"No. It's..." He smirked,quoting the unofficial Resistance motto.
"It's only a flesh wound."
"Good. Cal would never forgive me if I let his son die on my watch."
"Cal?" Brooklyn repeated blankly, and then an idea made its way into his
head, an idea that caused his chest to clench and his eyes to narrow.
Granted, he had never heard his father referred to as "Cal" before,
but...
"You're Caligo's boy," the newcomer said.
Brooklyn immediately snapped back on the defensive. "Yeah? What if I
am?"
"I know you are." He smirked and gave the gargoyle a wink. "The
profile's a dead giveaway."
"What do you know about Caligo?" Brooklyn demanded suspiciously.
"Well, for one thing, he never shuts up about you."
Brooklyn's jaw dropped like a rock.
Wagner continued, "God, you should hear him. It's always Brooklyn this
and Brooklyn that." The humanlike gargoyle eyed him up. "I've heard so
much about you that I feel I know you already."
Despite Brooklyn's troubled relationship with his father, he couldn't
help but feel a little flattered by the German's words. "Well...um...you
I haven't heard about."
"Be glad." A smirk. "I'm the Master Assassin of the Iron Clan of
Bavaria." He drew the bronze handgun and bowed; as he did so, the gun
shimmered and re-formed itself into a four-foot sword with a curved edge.
That curve was broken by four long, back-curving serrations that gave
the blade a hungry look.
Brooklyn gestured questioningly at the sword.
"Assassin's Blade," Wagner said. "Much as I hate magic..." He winked,
and in doing so, Brooklyn noticed something that made him rather
uncomfortable-the centers of the newcomer's eyes were not black, but
dark burnished bronze, the same colour as the swirls carved in the
sword.
Wagner smirked and transformed the sword again...this time into a
full-scale missile truck with a launcher on the back. Brooklyn's eyes
goggled as he ran his hands over the vehicle. The tires felt like
rubber-the seat felt soft-but the entire vehicle, inside and out, was
bronze with those black swirling patterns.
The German was nonchalantly seating himself behind the wheel, grinning
at the gargoyle's astonishment. "Hop in."
Brooklyn took a look around the area and did so.
Wagner threw the truck into gear and adopted an obviously fake British
accent. "Where to, my good man?"
"What?" Brooklyn replied, shaking his head, still trying to get used to
the magical weapon Wagner had called the Assassin's Blade.
"You know this city better'n I do, so where's your base?"
Could this be a Sevarius plot?
Brooklyn gave partial directions, enough to get them halfway there, and
considered running a mind probe on his new comrade. It would be better
to learn here and now if the German was a traitor. The red gargoyle sent
out a tentative mind probe, just to make certain he wasn't giving away
the location of the base to one of Sevarius' men.
SLAM. It was like walking into the psychic equivalent of a brick
wall.
Could the humanlike gargoyle-or gargoyle-like human, or whatever he
was-be psi-blind? Brooklyn concentrated carefully and tried again, more
delicately this time, and Richard S. Wagner's mind loomed up like a
fortress. The structure shimmered and solidified. It was built of stone
and concrete, adorned with lasers, iron bars, and gun turrets, and
emblazoned with insignia that had been defaced and re-carved several
times. One carving looked as if it might once have been the Illuminati
eye-in-the-pyramid. Another sign had a haunting familiarity, though
Brooklyn could not say from where. It had originally depicted a hub of
eight arrows, each pointing in a different direction, but now only the
arrow pointing straight up remained sharp and clear-the other seven
appeared extremely weathered, or sandblasted, as if an attempt had been
made to obliterate them.
Brooklyn took hold of the outer door and opened it gently. This castle
was Wagner's inner mind, and any violent disruptions would give away
Brooklyn's presence. He doubted that the German would take well to such
an intrusion.
The inner sanctums of Wagner's mind were stone corridors, decorated with
draperies of red and black. The air was cool and slightly damp.
Brooklyn's head turned as he noticed a portrait on the wall, hanging in a
gold frame. The image was one he did not recognize-a khaki green male
gargoyle with long spiral horns-though the face bore a rather eerie
resemblance to Mauser.
Brooklyn paced the corridors. The place was designed very simply;
hallways joined the main corridor at regular intervals and branched off
at ninety degree angles. Rooms on both sides of the halls contained the
symbolic contents of Wagner's brain. Other portraits lined the walls-a
human in German uniform, a peach hatchling with a muzzle, a female
gargoyle whom Brooklyn recognized as the Chancellor of the Iron Clan of
Bavaria. There were no signs of Sevarius' foul tint here.
Slowly, surely, Brooklyn worked his way ever inward. Once he looked up
at a portrait with surprise as he recognized Mauser's face; another time
he frowned at Caligo's image done in oils. As he travelled, the
character of the place began changing. The light dimmed; the draperies
darkened to shades of black. The portraits became sinister; dark
gargoyles with Illuminati insignia, held in burnished frames. All of the
room doors were closed now, and access was barred not merely with locks,
as in the middle sanctums, but with lasers, touchpads and armoured
plating.
The red gargoyle thought carefully, trying to interpret the allegorical
images. Judging by the layout of the fortress, Wagner was efficient,
orderly, and practical, though he tended to be a private person and
suspicious of others. He obviously loved his family and friends
deeply...but he also had long-running grudges against enemies. People
who'd marked him; people he could not forgive.
In the center, Brooklyn found a staircase, leading down.
For a moment, he hesitated. Probing this deeply into the mind of an
individual who was currently driving a vehicle...a vehicle Brooklyn
himself was riding in...was probably unwise.
Though he'd come so far...perhaps he'd never get this close again...
Brooklyn descended. He stepped carefully, fighting a rising sense of
paranoia, as if Wagner himself would be walking these halls and might
possibly catch him.
It was almost pitch black in the...basement? No. Dungeon.
The corridors were distorted here, warped on wild angles. The rooms
more closely resembled bomb shelters than anything else. Brooklyn
doubted that his powers would be enough to force those doors open even if
he needed to. Briefly, he wondered if even Wagner himself could open
them without permanent damage.
The German had secrets. Ghosts hidden even from himself.
The walls crumbled here, were fireblackened there. They were the
psychic scars of a man who'd lived through several kinds of hells.
Brooklyn shuddered. In places the devastation was enormous, and yet,
there were remarkably few signs of insanity. Rather, the walls had been
shored up around the wreckage; in places, the debris had even become the
wall itself... After experiences that would drive many men mad, the
German had somehow succeeded not only in surviving but in thriving, in
taking what had been done to him and turning it into a part of his
defences.
And the corridor still led down.
Brooklyn still couldn't sense anything linking the German to Sevarius.
He was convinced that Wagner's allegiance to the Resistance was honest;
yet something drew him onward. A form of double-checking, perhaps...a
desire to know just what sort of individual he had become allied to.
A waft of air came through the ruined hallway, smelling of moisture
and...
Gasoline?
Brooklyn walked forward, into the darkness. The blackness was absolute
and he was forced to feel his way along the side of the wall. Abruptly
the corridor opened up. In the light of a single torch, Brooklyn's
cheeks went pale at what he saw before him.
In the catacombs beneath the fortress sat a vast pool of gasoline, black
and thick, waiting. Bubbles squeezed up slowly, spluttering as they
popped. Crude oil oozed around pillars that were made of...it looked
like plastique...high explosive...
The whole structure was built on a massive underground bomb, and it
needed only one spark to explode.
Brooklyn withdrew rapidly. He realized his retreat should be as
cautious as his entry, but he didn't care. If the German were to realize
that his mind was being probed...an individual as paranoid and guarded as
he was...well, that just might be enough to spark off that great
subterranean pool in the bottom of Wagner's mind.
The red gargoyle came back to himself, blinking his eyes rapidly as he
awoke in the shotgun seat of the Jeep. Wagner was looking over at him
with a little smirk on his lips.
"How the hell can you doze off in a place like this?" the German
asked.
~How the hell can you live day-to-day with that buried rage, that
capacity for destruction?~ Brooklyn thought, but did not ask.