Guns. Blood. A disbelieving everyone and the beginning of the beginning of the End are the main plot points of this chapter. Beginnings and finales entwine in a pretty freaky dance and the entire causality of life is torn open. Which is amusing. No Washu. Very, very sorry. Her contract has expired and well, y'know, I promise episode 3. I wanted a grandly humorous entrance, unlike everyone else's'.
Prepare for Chapter 2!
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- Advertisement in Arkham Newspaper
It is a mildly bemusing fact that humanity has been able to not only drag itself from the primordial mud, but also flourish in a rather disgusting way. It is a lot more than bemusing to notice that humanity has also been able to go through this evolutionary process without being smashed, stomped, gored, impaled, squidged and then swept under the carpet by an alien race larger, and probably more important, than themselves.
You see mankind is nearly the most cynical, uncaring, hate-filled, xenophobic, downright power hungry race to have ever had the misfortune to come around. When other races developed space travel, they quickly deduced that there were probably a lot of other races who were bigger, nastier, more advanced and had bigger spaceships then them. Cleverly, these races kept a low profile until such a time when they could be the bigger, nastier, more advanced race with bigger spaceships. Humanity, after getting a spaceship, quickly says that they're alone ("No aliens on the moon. Therefore no aliens anywhere."), then sends a probe to the nethermost regions of the galaxy. Affixed to it is a little road map back to Earth and a diagram demonstrating the tastiest bits of the human anatomy. If man actually unwrapped itself from its pathetic little existence for the barest moment, it would probably go into the biggest hissyfit the Universe has ever seen.
Why the long monotonous spiel, you might ask? Well, it is an unfortunate and downright ironic fact that mankind is practically sitting on the biggest extraterrestrial powder keg ever, while at the same time being under the thumb of the Juraian Empire.
Billions upon billions of years ago Earth was ruled over by various alien races who vied with each other for total dominance (or in some cases just a place to stay). The most hideously mind-bogglingly of these were those who are now known as the Great Old Ones. Even today they still exit, some trapped beneath the sea or soil, others banished, while some still walk free. Which is a pretty big embuggerance I can tell you. Then you've got the fact that most of the allies and foes of these monstrosities are still on Earth, engaging in activities that are better left to themselves.
Of course, not everyone on Earth is in complete and utter ignorance of this situation. I mean, there is you and I, and we're getting along rather well with this whole thing aren't we? You haven't collapsed into a wailing, moaning, gibbering mass of flesh, have you?
Good.
A history lesson, if you will. Back in the Autumn of 1872 there was a man named, Sir Joseph Falkenham. He lived in England, in a big house, with a lot of servants. He was a bit of dabbler in the unknown and used to buy strange black bound books that were inked with blood. Then one day he was accidentally savagely mauled to death by something with big claws and dripping pulsating teeth. His nephew, being an odd sort of fellow, made it his ambition to find what happened to his poor deceased uncle. He too was savagely mauled to death by the same beast that did in his relative.
After going through half the family tree, the second cousin of Falkenham's step-sister's wife, finally succeeded in getting somewhere and heroically killed the beast by burning down half the county. This could have been all for nought if the lad, Anthony Rexham, had died. However, he didn't and so he brought together men from around the country and told them what he had found.
Up until the First World War, investigators as they were now known, were divided into two classes. The upper class people, authors, artists, antiquarians and other toffs who had money and upstanding were known as Investigators. It was their lot in life to pootle around in automobiles, poke their noses into mysteries, then see something horrible and go stark raving bonkers. The lower class of investigators were those with less money (plumbers, telephone-repairmen, postmen, policemen, servants etc.) and they were called Under-Scrogsmen. The reason for this name lies in the Celtic word "Scroog" meaning, "to be killed horribly"... the more intellectual of Investigators taking it upon themselves to get a sense of humour. It was the Under-Scrogsman's task to walk about or, if they were lucky, get a lift in an Investigator's car. They would assist the Investigator with poking his nose into mysteries and, instead of going insane, they were the people who got eaten or zapped or splatted just to make said Investigator see how scary the creature was and then go nuts. Understandably, nobody liked being an Under-Scrogsman.
After World War I and America had cut its teeth on the world stage, U.S Investigators popped up. During the 1920s America was the cultists favourite hangout. Occultism was chic and mythos cults were two a penny. Things continued like before until 1929, when there was the biggest documented case of Mythos activity ever known (up until then at least). The small New England town of Innsmouth was wiped off the face of the Earth by a joint Marine, Navy, Army and FBI raid. The population of the town had been interbreeding with the strange creatures that lived off the coast and under the waves. The children of these obscene couplings turned into replicas of the monsters that had spawned them or in some obscure cases had left the town to become politicians or evangelists. After this the United States Government set up a special branch of paranormal stopping soldiers that was to be known as Delta-Green. Over time pretty much every country set up a counter-paranormal agency and everything to do with weirdness and spooky stuff slipped back into Urban Legend.
This didn't, however, stop certain individuals setting up their own monster hunting groups, and today there is a massive group of people around the world who assist each other in the saving of the world. They are known as the 'Miskatonic Few'...
This is the story of one of those men. And his Under-Scrogsmen.
The Cat Goddess of South Nippon
And with strange aeons even death may die."
- Abdul Alhazred ; The Necronomicon
When they had finally arrived back at their apartment, Kiyone and Mihoshi got straight to work. Whereas Mihoshi got ready for the coming TV spectacle, Kiyone decided on trying to fix the dents and dings that littered the Yagami's hull. She was still picking bits of metal from the engine turbines a half hour before they were ready to go. She was, quite understandably, not in the least bit chuffed that the Bubble Head had ignored all pleas for assistance and in the end told her they weren't going.
Mihoshi cried.
Eventually a compromise was reached, and they soon set off for the homey confines of Tenchi's mountainside retreat. Someone had earlier had the aforethought to set the living room up into a ramshackle bedroom. Blankets and duvets littered the sofas and floor, ready to be used as the night wore on. The police officer's arrival was quickly acknowledged and within an hour of their arrival Mihoshi and Sasami were huddled beneath blankets on the sofas, watching The Galaxy's Most Dangerous Police Chase Show's presenter, Coogan Dermeti, introducing the first batch of episodes. The other members of the household quietly sat around the table, casually talking, until Washu pointed out that the conversation was going stale and promptly fled to the bowels of her lab.
Throughout the entire time she had sat at the table, no matter how much her mouth made casual banter, Kiyone's mind was working overdrive as to when to ask Tenchi about the satellite.
"Detective Kiyone hasn't said much, has she?" said Ayeka, taking another sip of her tea.
Ryoko just crammed another teacake into her mouth and shrugged. "She doesn't say anything interesting anyway."
Kiyone didn't say anything. "Ayeka's right. She does look a bit… preoccupied." nodded Tenchi staring at her blank face.
"In this bunch of clips," crooned the ever-smiling Coogan, "we'll show you the terror that faces our officers every day." The television screen flicked to a view from inside a two man police speeder. In front of it another speeder was weaving across the road, scattering pedestrians in its wake. "This is the planet Adelphi. The driver and passenger of the speeder ahead were earlier involved in a hideous bank heist that left six people dead. See how GP Officer Pososl, tries to ram the vehicle."
"Are you okay?" asked Tenchi, patting Kiyone gently on the hand.
"Hmmm?" came the reply.
Ryoko rapped her knuckles on the police officer's head. "Knock, knock. Anyone home?"
"Stop that!" snapped Ayeka.
"Yeah, stop it!" echoed Kiyone, realising what was going on.
GP Officer Pososl stood on the bonnet of his police speeder. The scenery was whipping by at a phenomenal rate and he was having trouble keeping his balance. The Coogan voice over started up again, "With the ramming tactic failed, the brave police officer puts the vehicles controls into the hands of his partner, and engages in a spectacular stunt. A jump from one vehicle to another at speeds of up to 90 mph." Pososl swung his arms, preparing for his leap. The criminal speeder dropped back slightly, and that was when he made his move. He jumped. He overcompensated. There was a slow motion shot of his horrified face as he landed a good six feet in front of the criminal's vehicle. Without slowing it ran him down, spraying a plume of viscous, stringy ichor from its repulsor lifts as it did so. "GP Officer Pososl, run down and brutally slain by the men he sought to capture. Grim irony or amusing pathos? You decide!"
The group at the table watched the screen in disgust. "Sasami," cried Ayeka, "that's horrible. Go to bed this instant."
"But Ayeka-"
"That's really sick. I'd go to bed, Sasami," agreed Ryoko. She looked distastefully at the screen.
"Okay." mumbled the Princess, who quietly crept upstairs, Ryo-oki on her head. Kiyone winced and looked at her partner who was partially hidden by the sofa's back. "Do you have to watch that?" she asked.
"Snore," snored Mihoshi.
Kiyone shook her head ruefully. She turned back to Tenchi. "This afternoon, Mihoshi and I… well, we had a little accident." The three others around the table stared back at her.
"Well, Mihoshi crashed the Yagami into a satellite." Tenchi opened his mouth to say something. "It really was an accident. It had the letters CNN on it and we wondered whether it was important." Everything she'd thought about saying had suddenly left her and she sat there spilling her guts out like a fool. She shut up.
"CNN," thought Tenchi aloud. "CNN. It's a news channel. It probably wasn't that important."
"Wahey!" laughed Ryoko while elbowing the officer in the ribs. "Racking up a few points on your licence?"
"Only a simple minded criminal such as you would take pleasure in this." sniffed Ayeka.
Ryoko cocked an eyebrow, "And you didn't laugh when Mihoshi fell in the lake?"
"You bring that up! Are you saying I'm a hypocrite?"
"Well if the crown fits," hissed Ryoko standing up, eyes glaring.
And it was then that the doorbell rang, which was rather uncharacteristic considering the time of night. Everybody turned toward the sound. "Who could that be?" asked Ayeka, who had forgotten about the impending threat of violence. Tenchi got up and went to the font door. He then did something incredibly unwise.
He opened it.
The single most ironic fact is that if he opens the door something bad happens, but if he doesn't open it the entire history, future and present of EVERYTHING would instantly cease to be and never therefore technically the of existence be. (The grammar in that sentence is correct. It's just working on multiple synaptic levels.)
There have been incidents in the history of the universe where time has actually stopped and the future has, not only been in the question but rather, gone backwards. The reason is quite simply known among scientific and New Age circles as the 'Backwards Gene' theory. The idea revolves around the principle that no matter what happens to change the future it will always right itself, so as to make the incident occur. The most famous of these 'backward gene' jumps was the Kennedy Assassination. In 1993 a team of technicians sent a man back through time to kill David Phillip Kline, who was the murderer of Kennedy, before that fateful Dallas day. The experiment was a complete and utter failure.
When the deed was done, and the man returned the only thing they found was that the name of the person who assassinated the President had changed. Same history, same woes, same death at the hands of Jack Ruby, but still a different man with a different name. The scientists, being clever people, realised that the past couldn't be changed because of a single unbreakable law. The past was the future at one point and therefore can't be changed because changing it would mean going off the script. Because the script is time and everything in the scenes is space, removing one is tantamount to removing the other resulting in a complete breakdown of pretty much everything, ever.
Rules are always bendable. That works with the 'Backward Gene' theory but the things that it does are so minute as to be unintelligible. That is of course, unless you planned out every tiny detail of every single 'Backward Gene' jump, so as to set up a continuous string of incidents that would lead up to a totally future changing jump. Any person doing that would need a lot of time on their hands, but as the old saying goes, "A million monkeys on a million typewriters…"
"Where are we?" moaned Spender, trying to get a clear view around the driver's seat and at his passengers. He and his entourage were parked in their people carrier. If they had been somewhere with the remotest hint of civilisation he'd have been happy, but they were sitting on a road, flanked by dense woodland and mountainsides. Japan was turning out to be not the adventure he was craving for. Not to mention the time there was just bordering ten o'clock at night and the darkness was smothering them like a fog.
"Where are we?" he moaned again. In the back seats sat Dr. Heinkel and the hulking form of Lance Burton. The imposing New York taxi-driver, Burton, shook his scarred head; "No idea. I think it's the south-east though."
"I am not knowing ver ze are. Zis country iz of ze silliness," said Dr. Heinkel in his thick German accent.
"What did he say?" asked Adam Adams, one of the London Herald's most hated reporters, who was sitting in the front passenger seat.
"I don't know." said Spender, "Dr. Heinkel, give me the map please."
The doctor slapped it into his outstretched palm, "Take zit. I am not understanding zis country's silliness."
Spender unfolded it on his lap. He turned it 90 degrees left. He turned it 180 degrees right. He turned it upside down, and then realised what was the problem.
"Dr. Heinkel," he began, folding the map carefully, "did I not ask you to get a map of this country?"
"Ja, you, Herr Spender, did ask of zat."
"Why'd you pick up a map of China? This is a flaming A-Z of Beijing, you stupid Jerry berk!"
"Ve are not in China?" asked Dr. Heinkel.
Spender wound down his window and tossed the map out. It disappeared into the darkness. Proceeding that he banged his head, slowly, carefully and loudly on the steering wheel.
"You're an idiot!" cried Adams leaning around his seat and waving his finger at the upset doctor.
"I am a doktor of ze Okkult! I am sorry about ze map being of ze wrong kind. I teach at ze Miskatonic University, not at ze posh 'let us all speak English well' Cambridge!"
There was a heady silence only interspersed by the dull pounding of temple to dashboard. "Wait a minute," said Burton, "we're in the Orient. Right?"
Spender ceased his headbanging. "Nice to see someone noticed." He went back to his task.
"Well, what about the," Burton whispered conspiratorially, "The Order of the Bloated Woman. Couldn't they have something to do with this?"
Everybody in the car stopped breathing. If only for a second. Somewhere in the distance, far away, the sound of a large plane droned. The dark somehow seemed more pervasive due to Burton's hushed words.
Adams grimaced. "Yeah. I heard about them. They cut off Investigator's… well… erm." He blushed.
"Goddamn it!" screamed Spender. "Stop worrying. We're investigating, not bloody raiding strongholds. The next house we get to, we stop and have a chat."
"So." he said, "Which way's north then?"
In Stockholm, Sweden, it was only just the break of dawn and in one of the large buildings that was sitting in its commercial district, a thought totally the opposite went through a number of people's heads. It was a big building, that looked very similar to some kind of hi-tech bank. Thirty-three floors of glass, concrete and metal. Around it, perhaps fifty yards in perimeter, a mesh fence had been situated, that to the naked eye would look nothing new. Neither would the handful of security guards who sat in the main gate's guard hut, or who leisurely meandered the fence interior. No one except those in the know would have guessed that these men, dressed in blue uniforms with their company's (TOFREE-ILLUMINATION & POWER) logo emblazed on it, were actually fanatical, zealous cultists with orders to kill. If you were to make it past these patrolling madmen and into the building, no small feat in itself, you wouldn't last much longer. Once past the normal foyer with the normal innocent looking secretary (actually a karate trained ninja assassin), you would find yourself inside a corridor with a pair of heavy machineguns cocked and primed and pointing at you.
Beyond that deadly bottleneck, it wouldn't get much easier. At every third junction security guards with MP5s stand silently, waiting. On the top floor, though, is the jewel of the crown. As you step out of the elevator you would find an artillery piece, its crew behind bullet proof glass, aimed at waist height. A single shell being enough to blow a tank to pieces, let alone a human being. After the crew check your pass, you'd be led by a pair of black clad woman along a corridor set with various offices, up to a large pair of oak doors. That is where the head sits. It's where dreams are smashed. Threads are weaved. The plotting of life is done and the twisted skein of reality is checked, double-checked and then casually spit-balled around the room in an obscene parody of humanity. This is the BOARDROOM.
Josef sat in the chair across from the desk and tried to keep his head hidden. On the television on a table a guard had wheeled in, Sweden's number one news channel was playing. "And in other news; CNN's latest satellite, Eris 1, was destroyed in a freak meteor shower." The anchorman smiled at the screen in mock sincerity. "Too bad CNN. Shame about the ratings."
Josef grabbed the remote control on the shiny desk surface and turned the television off. He stood up and bowed his head to the Man in the swivel chair on the other side of the desk. "I'm really sorry sir. I'll have the entire staff of Swede News 1 killed in a freak lightning strike."
The Man in the big swivel chair toyed idly with a Newton's Cradle before him.
"That was our most expensive Mind-Control satellite, sir," said Josef, the sweat standing out on his brow. He was little older than eighteen and although he looked at least a year younger, his once jet black hair was streaked with grey. Maybe from the stress of his work, but probably from something far worse. "Sir? Should I have the head of NASA crash his car into an oil tanker? Sir?"
The Man in the chair, shuffled about tiredly and let the little ball bearing drop.
PLINK
"Sir. I have a report from our agents in Colorado. Majestic-12 have got the latest information on the object's trajectory."
PLINK
Josef swallowed. A year in the service and never, never, before had he been ignored. It was rather unsettling to say the least.
PLINK
"Tell MJ-12 to ignore it," said the Man. "Have the head of NASA sent to that radar station in Alaska and have the entire Swede News 1 station swallowed by a freak landslide." He placed his finger between two of the ball bearings on the cradle. The plinking noise stopped.
Josef breathed a sigh of relief. "Sir." He clicked his heels together smartly and strode for the door. The Man coughed loudly, and Josef felt an icy prickle at the back of his neck. He turned around again.
"Josef, my boy," said the Man, all the while scratching his nose. "Tell me why you're here."
"To see the continuation of the Cult, sir," cried the boy.
"Wrong, young Josef. You're waiting for the End. Aren't you?" The Man stared intently at a spot between the boy's eyes.
"Yes." muttered Josef.
"Take a look at this." The Man reached under his desk and pushed something. Behind him the entire wall rolled upwards to reveal the rising sun, and above that the stars.
"What do you see, Josef?"
"The city," said Josef.
The Man nodded. "And above the city," he asked.
"The sun," answered Josef.
"HIGHER YOU FOOL!"
The boy flushed and looked a little higher. "Stars," he said. "And some very bright stars in a wavy line."
The Man smiled, the scar running below and above his right eye lifting slightly. "Those are not stars Josef. That is the CNN satellite. Our satellite. The 'Eris'." He waved his hand toward the glittering bits of debris. "They are reflecting the light from the sun. That's why they are so bright. Now, tell me, does it look familiar?"
Josef shook his head. The Man held out a pocket mirror to the boy, who quickly took it. "Have a look."
Josef had a look. "I need a shave," he said solemnly.
"THE STARS, YOU IDIOT!"
"Yes, Sir."
The boy held the mirror up and stared at the debris, "It looks familiar… but… is it writing?"
"Look at it from upside down… NOT THE MIRROR YOU FOOL! THE WRITING!… That's better. See what it is now."
The mirror landed with the barest of thuds on the carpeted floor. Josef's hand clenched and unclenched convulsively. "It's ancient Arabic." he said uncertainly, "It's ancient words."
"Quite right. What does it say?"
"It says, 'I'm right.' Is that correct, sir? My Arabic's a bit rusty." Josef already knew he was right, though. He needed no approval.
The Man smiled. A shark like, toothy grin. "The stars say they're right. THE STARS ARE RIGHT." The Man did a sort of sitting down jig and clapped his hands together. "Bring me the Heads of Departments. All of them, but don't tell them why."
Josef nodded and once again strode purposefully through the doorway. Their solid oak closed heavily behind him.
"Yes. Thirty years unto the end." said the Man taking in the spectacle. "Yes, the time is near." He stood up, grabbing his walking stick from under the desk and carefully tottered closer to the window. He was laughing now, hard and heavy. Maniacal.
"MWAHAHAHAHAHAH!!! CTHULHU YOU ARE NO MORE!!! MWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAA!!!"
"Are you okay, sir? I heard insane laughter." Josef peered around the door.
"GET OUT!"
Josef nearly dodged the paperweight. Nearly.
Tenchi opened the door. Unwise as it was, he did it. Although the complete stupidity of his actions were lost to him, it must be known that someone felt the strange otherworldly feeling of dread. Unfortunately it was one, Kishumu Oifko, of the Juraian Battleship 'Jus-di Tylla' that was doing its rounds of the Manjari sector at that time. One minute he was sitting there drinking Juraian Tea with the ship's captain, the next he was writhing on the floor, spewing half his stomach contents across his superior's shoes. It didn't improve his promotion chances a jot.
Tenchi opened the door. Tenchi opened the door. Tenchi opened the door. Three universes opened the door.
In the first, a man stands there. Hair mussed, pencil-moustache ruffled. Eyes blinking like a lizards. He grabs Tenchi and drags him close. "You have to help me," he whispers, "I have to help you."
In the second, no-one stands there. Fire rages, the sky is alight. Overhead, fighter planes dance in weaving spirals. Their plumes of vapour tying knots in the sky. In the distance gunfire can be heard. He takes one look, sighs, and closes the door.
The final door. The hand closes on the handle. It opens.
"Yes?" asks Tenchi, surveying the men who stand there. The three men smile, the fourth tilts his fedora cheerfully. The closest man nods, "Hello, my name's Charles Spender and we-"
"Ve are from ze Vest," says a tufty haired old gentleman carrying a leather briefcase.
"Yes, we are," smiles Spender, the subtle hint of menace lurking behind it. "We're from the West-ern Society for the Understanding and Study of Preternatural Phenomena." He extended his hand.
Tenchi shook it, noticing the way the people tugged nervously at the bags they were carrying. A handsome young-ish looking man with a press badge attached to his lapel hefted a golf bag across one shoulder. Another man, no shorter than 6'2 and ruggedly scarred, carried a heavy suitcase with casual ease. The man he was shaking hands with carried nothing but a sickly smile. "It's late. Is something the matter?"
"It's strange you should say that," said Spender wiping his hand on his trousers. "You see, we've been stopping at various houses in the area. Asking questions about recent events. We're investigating alien activity, 'spooky' stuff, its ilk. Understand? Anyhow, there's been a lot of talk about this area and UFOs. So… can we come in?"
"There's NO ALIENS in here," stated Tenchi. "I don't know why'd you think there'd be ALIENS IN MY HOUSE."
In the living room the occupants glanced at each other. Ryoko phased through the wall into the kitchen. Ayeka and Kiyone sat at the table silently. Mihoshi snored.
"We didn't believe there was any aliens here-" Spender said.
"I did," muttered Adams.
"-But we would like to ask some questions." He smiled again in that most shark-like manner, and then suddenly raised his arms and hopped about on one leg like an old man whose bunions are playing up. "L'SKOEA R'LYEH!" he wailed.
Tenchi took a step backwards, "Gusendheit?"
The group of men nodded at each other. Tenchi opened the door wider and beckoned them in.
"Question One: What is your name?"
"Tenchi Masaki." said Tenchi.
Spender noted that down on his clipboard. They were sitting around the living room table. Ayeka and Kiyone stood back a little bit further toward the kitchen. Maybe it was something to do with Adams lustfully intent staring. On the other hand it might be they liked the kitchen door.
Somehow that didn't seem right to Spender.
"Question Two: Sexual Orientation?"
"Hetero," said Ayeka firmly. Tenchi nodded, albeit jerkily.
"Good... Question Three: Any mental difficulties in you or your family?"
"No."
Kiyone smiled. "Unless you count lechery."
Spender eyed the teenage boy calmly. "My father," it squeaked.
"Question Four: Have you ever seen an alien or other supernatural or extra-natural creature? As in a creature that appeared human but could… fire bolts of energy from its palms. Float. Teleport. Communicate telepathically with another. Hell, make little logs appear from thin air! It's farfetched I know, but, have you?"
"Well... er… not really," blushed Tenchi.
"He means 'No'." said Kiyone.
Ayeka was getting annoyed. These men had barged in and now were asking the most personal, if strangely pertinent, questions. Not to mention the man with the golf bag kept trying to catch her eye. She shot daggers at him, but all he did was wink. Once again she went back to listening.
"Question Seven: If I said 'Ithaqua is here' what would you say?"
"I don't really know."
"Well, it is a multiple choice question..." Spender steepled his fingers and clicked his tongue. "The first choice is jump about and yell YIPEE!. The second choice is hide."
"I wouldn't do either. I don't know what an Ithaqua is."
Spender tossed the pen over his shoulder and put on his best scowl. It was sort of a cross between Gene Hackman's angry face and Brad Pitt's mildly bemused face. "I'm going to be honest with you, Mr. Masaki. You are a cultist, and I know this from the evidence that you are so carefully hiding."
Tenchi stood up, the chair falling behind him. "I don't understand."
"You have been blatantly abusing my questions that are there to determine your guilt. You keep on circumventing Question Seven!"
"But I don't know what an Ithaqua is?!?" cried Tenchi. The two women behind him stared on.
Spender raised his eyes. "Well of course you wouldn't admit to knowing it. If you answered to any one of the two choices you'd be instantly proven guilty."
"SEE!"
"And you have a dead woman on your sofa," hissed Spender.
Tenchi pointed at Mihoshi. "She's breathing! She's asleep!"
"Burton, is that woman on the sofa dead?"
"Probably," said Burton picking at his teeth.
"Good enough for me," said Spender. "Now, Mr. Masaki. Would you care to accompany me to the nearest Church or holy site so that I can brutally kill you and then burn your corpse?"
The men, still carrying their bags, walked forward. Dr. Heinkel pulled a pair of handcuffs from a trouser pocket.
Ayeka threw herself in front of Tenchi. "He's not a cultist. He doesn't know anything! WHAT'S WRONG WITH YOU PEOPLE?"
The men stopped. "He isn't a cultist?" asked Adams.
"Of course he's not. Just because you've got some idiot questions means nothing," said Kiyone, stepping up beside Ayeka.
Spender and his troupe stood glumly. "Well." He looked at Tenchi. "Very sorry. We get a bit caught up in… well y'know." Dr. Heinkel tipped his hat.
"Sure you aren't a cultist?" quizzed Burton.
"No," said Ayeka. "He isn't."
There was a very long pause. "Well," said Spender again. "Do you need any exorcisms? Anything like that?"
"No."
"Shoggoth shooting?"
"NO."
"We do a nice line in normal investigation; 'Messy divorces a specialty'. Need any lost cats found?"
"NO!" screamed Ayeka and Kiyone in unison.
"Right. We'll go then. No need to show us out." Spender jerked his thumb back at the corridor and smiled an embarrassed smile. The group swiftly turned on its heels and made a beeline for the front door.
Situations could have been different if the next event didn't occur but, unfortunately, it did. There was very little chance of it not happening, because with Tenchi and Spenders' lives bordering on the highly improbable, it could be said that it would be very unlikely that it wouldn't happen. That is, if someone were to write out the whole sorry story on paper, or perhaps in some other form, it would seem like a pretty contrived and poorly thought out excuse to get everything running.
The plot point that would hang itself. The reverse Deus Ex Machina.
But of course this is real and so anything that happens isn't some contrived and barely functioning plot point, but rather is a true turning point in a very real story.
But why do these situations keep on cropping up? Is it because Earth is one giant improbability machine or is it something far more sinister?
It has oft been wondered among the same scientific community that deduced 'Backwards Genes' and 'Why Radioactive Waste Always Makes Monsters Theory', how come Japan is like a big magnet for freaky temporal anomalies or alien incursions. From orbit does Japan have a big sign saying, "Aliens land here!"
The answer is 'yes'. It's also 'no'. Yet at the same time it is also 'sort of'.
Although it may appear this way, every country (bar Colorado. Yes it is a country. You'll find out why soon enough) has its own reason for being involved in various strangeness. Britain has always been under attack or involved in strange activities, War of the Worlds and Dr. Who being the most obvious. America has always been there to see conspiracies and alien visitations, while France has always been… well, strange.
Colorado in particular has borne the brunt of conspiracy theories for years. Why were the Rocky Mountains bought by Rockefeller? Why are certain sections of said mountains closed and guarded by government forces that wear no insignia? Why is it so bloody snowy? All of them rhetorical questions, never to be answered.
Ryoko opened the kitchen door and sauntered into the living room. She looked at the investigators. They looked at her.
"Oh," she said evenly. "I thought you'd gone."
Oh God, thought Spender, here comes trouble. He pulled his collar up and waited for the fireworks.
Dr. Heinkel smiled warmly and tipped his hat yet again. Burton cracked a huge smile and hid the suitcase behind his back. Adams just stood there mouth open, tongue lolling.
"Ryoko, is this entrance truly necessary?" whispered Ayeka trying to keep in front of Tenchi and shuffle toward Ryoko.
"Anything for the crowd," the pirate quipped. She turned toward Adams, who was doing his best not to drool.
"Have a problem?" she asked.
Adams shook his head and took a tentative step forward. "Oh no, madam." He held out his hand. "Adam Adams from the London Herald."
Ryoko stared at the outstretched extremity and wondered whether to cut it off.
"Adam, I think we should go," said Spender into the other man's ear. "We don't want to annoy the people do we?"
"You have lovely eyes," Adams crooned. "Such lovely, feline, eyes." His golf bag dragged the floor. "I love that dress you aren't wearing."
"Oh spit," said Spender.
"And your teeth. And your ears. Pointed… ears. Pointed teeth." He slowed down and blinked. "Hang on, that isn't right."
"What the hell do you mean, 'isn't right'?" Ryoko's fists clenched.
"Okaaaay. She's a… cat," said Adams. He turned back to Spender. "That I wasn't expecting."
"IT'S BASTET!" screamed Spender.
"What did you call me!" screamed back Ryoko.
Spender was pointing and jumping up and down. "I TOLD YOU! I SAID WE'D GET SOMEWHERE! IT'S BASTET!"
Ryoko stood, shaking from head to toe. "You called me Bastet. I don't care what that is. You... Will... Die." She raised her hand and brought it down, her energy blade forming before her arm was at her side.
"Boys. We got her covered," laughed Spender. The other men beamed happily at each other.
Then they drew.
The golf bag hadn't hit the floor before the shotgun was in Adams hands. He pumped the action and aimed. Behind him Burton was ripping through the suitcase and dragging out an M16 assault rifle. Dr. Heinkel was hefting a huge leather-bound book which had come from his briefcase. The cover had a very big and very occult-looking pentagram on it.
Spender had the pistols in his hands, John Woo-style. Two pistol blood-soaked shooter of Doom. He cocked them and pointed them at Ryoko's head. "Bastet the Cat Goddess. So, we meet at last."
Ryoko grinned. "You think those things will stop me."
Spender just shrugged. "Don't do this, please!" cried Tenchi from behind one of the sofas.
"Yes. She's the evil cat Goddess, Bastet! Shoot her now!" cried Ayeka happily.
Kiyone popped her head up from behind the sofa. "Ayeka. Do you have to?"
"She was holding us against our will!" cried Ayeka again, grabbing Spender by the arm. "Shoot her. Quickly!"
"Wait! Wait!" Tenchi was standing up now, arms held high, "She isn't Bastast."
"Bastet," said Burton.
"Prove it," said Spender.
Kiyone stood up. "What can this Bastet person do? Can she call up swords?"
Spender thought about this. "No."
Police psychology. Now this was something Kiyone could use to her advantage. It never worked on criminals because they were too stupid to understand. But these people…
"What can she do then?"
"Well," thought Spender aloud, "she can kill people. And she can go places. Oh, and she can call cats to her aid." He nodded at a job well done.
"Most people can kill people," Kiyone started, "And lots of people can go places. And I don't see any cats around, do you?"
"No," said Spender. Then he pointed at the stairs and began to scream. Everyone opened fire.
- - - - - - - - - -
Tenchi:- Where's Washu? She's never around when you need her.
Washu:- I've been here. I've just been bus- Who's this?
Adams:- Hi kid. What you doing in this story?
Tenchi:- She's the scientist.
Adams:- Huh? What do you mean 'She's the scientist'? Cobblers!
Washu:- Do you know what it's like to have a plant pot fall on your head from a great height?
Adams:- Yeah, whatever you say little girl. Anyway tune in next episode. This kid's in it. And I'm in it. What more could you ask for?
Spender:- Sick bags.
Burton:- More guns.
Ayeka:- A meaningful plot, interesting characterisation-
Ryoko:- Less Ayeka.
Kiyone:- Mihoshi's severed head.
Mihoshi:- Yes, my sev- HEY! That's not nice Kiyone.
Dr. Heinkel:- Speaking partz for me, I am but a little doktor, and I iz very poorly.
Sasami:- What's that thing with the claws?
Spender:- Bugger.
- - - - - - - - - -
COMING NEXT EPISODE:-
What will become of those in the Masaki household? Will amends be made? What does TOFREE-ILLUMINATION & POWER have to do with all this? This chapter is meaningless. I'm very sorry. Stay tuned for episode 3. Washu's in it. I mean it.
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The Call of Cthulhu RPG (on which this is based) is the property of Chaosium Inc. Tenchi Muyo is the sole responsibility of the company known as Pioneer. Many characters and ideas are also based on Pagan Publishing's excellent supplement 'Delta Green', and it also has to be said that many Mythos monsters/characters are not from H.P Lovecraft but from other just as able writers. If I knew your names, guys, I'd write them but until I remember who from who… I'll just not take any niceties from people. The Guide to being a Cultist is from RPG.net. I couldn't find the original author. Everything else is mine. Got it. I hope so.