The Comedian stood on the ledge overlooking the Russian jeeps. "Kid, you do not belong here."
"I think you'll find that I do." A young man with a slight French accent in finely pressed clothes stood beside him. "And I will thank you not to address me as a kid."
The Comedian chuckled and shook his head. "A Frenchman, a Russian, and an American walked into a bar. The Russian ordered vodka. The American ordered a beer. The Frenchman ordered a glass of water. The other two had to carry the Frenchman home, stone drunk."
"I do not get drunk from a glass of water." The kid said, annoyed.
"No, you don't understand." The Comedian said, flicking the kid's stylish lapel. "The place where Russian and American drank was famous for its drinks being so strong, that even the glass of water had alcohol in it. And you can't hold your liquor."
The kid fumed, as the Comedian silently chuckled. Missing out when a pair of hands pulled a couple of mercenaries behind a corner.
The Russians were loading three trucks full of crates. They were beginning to leave, piling into their jeeps, laughing to themselves and stretching out comfortably. They knew they were professionals, the likes of which nobody could take anything from.
Indiana Jones watched from behind a hill of excavated dirt.
As the last of the Russians began to pack up, Indiana and Jackie snuck out dressed in the mercenary's uniforms, and into the jeep where they'd seen the Russians put the crate with the knife. Indiana fumed as he slid through the boxes in the compartment. "Look at all of this." He said. "All of this treasure from one tomb, and they'll box it up and keep it to themselves." He shook his head in disdain. "Come on. Let's hurry up about this."
Suddenly, a small man shot out of his hiding place and shot a fist out. Jackie blocked it, but retreated backwards, shaking his hands in pain. Jackie brought his fists back, and Rorschach quickly grabbed Indiana by the Jacket and used him as a human shield.
"Ow!" Indiana yelled as Jackie's fist connected.
"Sorry Indy." Jackie said. Jackie quickly ran up the sides of the crates, trying to get behind Rorschach. But Rorschach was quick too, and he kept Indiana between him and Jackie.
"Call of your bodyguard." Rorschach growled.
"I don't need a bodyguard." Indiana chuckled. The truck started moving forward, and Rorschach temporarily lost his balance. Indiana moved forward and head-butted Rorschach. Rorschach kept his grip though, so Indiana shifted his arms out of his jacket and slipped away while Jackie delivered a flying kick.
Rorschach kept up the charge, but Jackie quickly put him in a variety of holds until he was pinned against the crates with Jackie's hand over his mouth.
"Let's get out of here quickly." Indiana said. He prepared to take the lid off a crate.
Rorschach snarled, and bit the hand covering his mouth.
"Ah!" Jackie removed his hand, shook it, and punched Rorschach. "Hurry up Indy. He bites."
Indiana removed the crate's lid. He was expecting the Golden Wedge. It wasn't there.
Just a box with several wires.
"Get out!" He yelled.
The Comedian watched as the trucks began to move. He was on high alert.
Not that he needed to be. A smile came to his lips and a chuckle to his throat as the beeper connected to the crates in the truck went off, signaling somebody else was in there.
"Jones is here." He told the French kid. "Good thing I switched the crates."
He ruffled. "I assume you're going to say something horrible like 'who's laughing now'?"
"Nah." The Comedian said. "I'm more of a Loony Tunes man." He motioned to the red box on the ground with a lever sticking out the top. The French kid smiled, and pushed down on the bomb.
Indiana Jones pushed Jackie out of the truck. Rorschach saw what had them in a hurry, and decided to follow them. He felt the heat at his back as he jumped, and went limp.
The truck exploded behind them as the three of them leaped out of it.
Indiana saw the convoy pull away, but one jeep split off and drove back towards them. Two Russians stood up in the back seats, pointing machine guns at them. He got up as machinegun fire ripped through the ground.
The Comedian watched Jones run like a chicken across the desert, followed by a steady stream of fountains where the bullets kicked up dirt. He hefted a rocket launcher and pointed it at Jones. "Time to finish what you started."
Suddenly, something glinted in the corner of his eye. It was a silver grappling hook. "What the…"
Rorscharch kept a tight grip on the device, and pushed the button to start reeling him in. He was pulled up, and he swung across. He'd never been comfortable with acrobatics. He wasn't afraid of heights or anything, it just felt wrong. Especially in combat scenarios. Who needed to flip around when all you needed to beat your enemie was stick a knife in there eye?
Still, it did come in handy to know, every once in a while.
He let go of the grappling hook (making a note to get it back later) and flipped in the air for momentum, landing on the hood of one of the jeeps.
"What was that?" The French kid yelled as he watched Rorscharch tear into the jeep's occupants. "I thought you figured out all the angles?"
"Rorscharch has a way of bending angles kid." The Comedian launched his rocket but came just short of hitting his intended target.
Because they were on a motorbike.
The Comedian swore. "Looks like we're doing this the old fashioned way." He said. "Slapstick."
The trio roared forward on Mutt's motorbike. "I told you, you guys would need me." Mutt yelled over his bike's engine.
"Just drive!" Indiana yelled behind him. He'd already seen the precariousness of the situation. Three trucks, now two since one just blew up. There were four jeeps, each loaded with Russian mercenaries. One was slowing down to meet up with them, the other was swerving wildly as the mercs tried to combat Rorscharch, and the other two were guarding the trucks and their leader in the bulletproof sedan. The road from the excavation site into town had a Cliffside along most of its right side, dropping off when it met an actual cliff, and from there it was just a bridge away from the nearest town. Indiana had no doubt in his mind that somebody who had thought to set a trap with a fake wedge would be prepared enough to blow up a bridge if it came down to it.
"We have to get to it before they reach the bridge!" He called out to Mutt.
"You got it old man!" As the jeep drew close enough that the two Russian soldiers readied their guns at the trio, Mutt reached into his pocket and pulled out a knife. He said a quick apache prayer, before he threw it.
Somebody on the move, aiming for a moving target, both going several miles and hour.
The knife hit dead-on.
The left tire of the jeep burst, and it veered wildly out of control, throwing the soldier's aim askew. Instead of doing the smart thing and stopping, the driver tried to regain control. The jeep veered wildly, sand flaring up from underneath the axel grinding on the ground, before finally flipping onto its side.
"Woah!" Mutt turned the steering on his bike hard, and the three of them swerved underneath the truck as it flipped through the air. As soon as the danger passed, he steered the bike upright. "You alright old man?"
"Just catch up to that truck!" Indiana yelled.
"Yeah, you're alright. What about you Short Round?"
There was no reply from behind them.
"Jackie?" Indiana spun in his seat, and watched as Jackie ran behind them, doing his best to try and catch the high speed chase.
"We got 'em!" Mutt shot another knife into the truck, and the latch fell open. Mutt closed in on it, trying to time it right so no bumps in the road interfered, then drove up the ramp and into the truck. "Safe!" He called out.
The carts burst open, and three Russian mercenaries pointing machine guns at them.
"Wrong truck." Indiana noted.
"Wrong truck." Mutt agreed.
He reached for a knife, and Indiana shot out a fist.
Blow after blow rained in on Rorschach. The Russians hit hard. Good thing… "AAAAAARGH!" … that there was only one left now.
The car bumped over the body of the mercenary Rorschach just threw out in front. The last Russian was holding a gun, but he couldn't get a shot off because of the bump. Rorschach grabbed the gun and crushed the fingers around it. The Russian screamed – not KGB apparently, - and Rorschach decided to use it. A simple twist of the wrist, and the barrel of the gun would find its way into the russian's mouth, like somebody tying to commit suicide. Blood would be a pain to remove from his glove though.
Once the last Russian was finished, Rorschach turned his attention to the road. One sedan, two trucks, two jeeps. The Joneses had entered into the back of one of the trucks. Judging by the Russians flying out of the back, it was another trap.
So the trap was set for them. They want what they Russians found. And the Russians know this, so they set traps for them. No matter. Rorschach wasn't going to fall into those traps, because he wasn't concerned with the prize; he wanted Nikolas.
He accelerated the jeep. Another jeep closed in. like a Vulture. The lined themselves up to Rorschach and he didn't wait for them to shoot before he rammed into them. Hopefully, he could grind them against the cliff face.
Rorschach banged into them again. And again. But the Russians were good. Rorschach couldn't keep attacking them when they were trying to shoot him in the head.
Suddenly, the canvas on the truck to his right was torn open. Jones Junior looked around, then swung onto the back of Rorschach's jeep on a strip of the clothe. He leaped from Rorschach's jeep onto the back of the Russian's jeep, tossing something at the one who came closest to shooting him. Russian ignored it of course. Big mistake.
Junior leaped again, over the soldier's heads and onto the hood of their jeep. And then again, into the back of the third truck. Rorschach wouldn't have bet on him making it, if he hadn't thrown a grenade into the Russians beforehand. Fortunately, the explosion propelled him forward.
Good. Now Rorschach could focus on Nikolai.s
The thick hand held phone rested on the Comedian's shoulder as he sped forward on a motorcycle. "What am I paying you for!" A thick Russian voice screamed through the phone. "My entire personal army, and they're being torn apart by three men! THREE MEN! Get down here and…"
The Comedian tossed the phone away. "You know, it's a good thing these portable phones aren't popular yet." He said. "The world's so small already, I think it'd crack under its own weight if it got any smaller."
The young French kid riding behind him didn't think this was funny at all. He was too busy hiding in the Comedian's leather jacket. What a lousy audience.
They sped through the wreckage strewn on the path, and past the asian man still trying to catch up to the chase (he had a good laugh at that one).
They caught up to the road battle quickly. He could see Jones driving one of the trucks. Figures. Nikolai should have let him put explosives in all of them. But no… he's gone for a little while and suddenly everybody gets delusions of grandeur. Everybody has to think they're some sort of comic book serial villain.
If the world is a joke, then they would be the punch line.
He sped up alongside Indy's truck. He waited until Indy was finished beating up the guy riding shotgun, and then waved. Indy's eyes suddenly became the size of tea saucers. Ah, it was that moment of dawning comprehension that the Comedian lived for. With a final jaunty wink, he lobbed a grenade through the window and sped up, leaving Indiana behind him in a truck that soon became a ball of fire.
"I told you, Jones was mine!" The Frenchie yelled behind him.
"You can have the other one!" The Comedian laughed. "I doubt that grenade killed him anyway, I just wanted him away from the fight."
"How could he have possibly survived that!"
"Indiana Jones is one of two people I know who survived an atomic bomb. Trust me, I only slowed him down. Now, why don't you take your little pigsticker and get in there?"
The French kid leaped off of the back of the bike, and into the truck with Jones Junior.
The Comedian sped up his bike, and went after Rorschach.
Rorschach saw him coming. As well as the last jeep full of Russian soldiers. The Comedian gave a signal, and the jeep rammed against Rorschach's vehicle, pinning him to the side of the cliff. The bridge was coming up, and if he stayed pinned, Rorschach wouldn't make it. He'd drive off the edge into his doom. The Comedian laughed, and drove his bike over to the truck.
Rorschach struggled regain control of his steering. "Stupid! Stupid!"
He suddenly noticed a lot of guns pointed at him, and took out his own gun. It didn't have a grappling hook in it any more, but the pneumatic frame would be effective enough even if, say, it was loaded with human fingers.
KGB training involved crawling through a pool of blood, guts, and razorwire, in order to prepare their soldiers for the harshness of war. But Rorschach was worse.
He had crawled through the ashes of a little girl. He once had his guts spill out of a fresh open chainsaw wound, and he stitched the wound up himself with what he found at a nearby knitting club, while pursuing the madman. The Russians may have tried to acclimate themselves to war, but even they began to grow scared as fingers flew at them, sinking in through their ribcages, slashing their necks, spraying blood in their eyes.
The one most damaged was the driver, just as Rorschach had aimed for. He leaped over to the other car, pulled the drive from his seat, and with a roar of effort tossed the brute into his jeep.
He jumped behind the wheel, Russians screaming and pointing guns at him, and he steered sharply to the right. Most of the mercenaries didn't have their seatbelts on. Their mistake.
The remaining Russian saw his friends fall, and with an roar that was half afraid and half angry, he grabbed the steering wheel and drove for the cliff's edge. Rorschach went for the fingers. Then the eyes. Then the throat. Then the genitals. And then, he decided he should leave the vehicle because none of this slowed the mercenary down or steered the car away from the cliff.
By the time Rorschach had decided to leave, the two jeeps were already over the edge.
Mutt opened up three cases before he knew that this was the truck with the wedge in it. All three cases had wedges, or wedge replicas. At least there were no bombs, and no…
He felt something cold and sharp press against his neck. "Stand and be recognized." Said somebody with a French accent.
Mutt stood, and face somebody around his age, maybe older, with blonde hair and a very nice rapier. "Is this seventeenth century?" Mutt asked interestingly.
"Oh yes." The Frenchie smiled. "It was a gift from Hernan Cortez to the King of Spain who put it in his private WAIT!" The smiled disappeared and the grip on the rapier grew firmer. "I know what you were trying to do Mr. Jones. No tricks. My name is –"
A jolt in the road, and Mutt pulled back, drawing his own sword. "My name is Mutt." He said. "Mr. Jones is my father."
The two engaged in ferocious sword combat. Mutt thought he knew what he was doing more; he knew the styles and the forms. The French kid knew them too, not as well but he knew them, and he was fast.
One particularly vicious thrust got past his defenses, and Mutt barely had time to duck out of the way, the blade slicing his cheek. He grabbed the Wedge of Ophir, or at least one of its replicas, and started going into two weapon stances.
"You're good." Mutt said, as they continued their lethal dance. "Do you have a name? I want to know what to carve onto your tombstone."
"Gladly." The Frenchie said through gritted teeth. "My name is –"
Bullets ripped through the sides of the tent, and the two of them ducked. "Comedian!" The Frenchie yelled.
"Your name's Comedian?" Mutt asked. "You know, you're not very funny. Of course, it sounds like your parents definitely had a sense of humor."
"SHUT UP!" The Frenchie's sword flew like lightning, cutting into the sleeves of Mutt's jacket, no matter how hard he tried to block.
"Didn't like that parent crack huh?" Mutt gasped. "Well, looks like I'm fighting a mama's boy."
"I SAID SHUT UP!" He was becoming unfocused, and Mutt parried quickly, sacrificing his fake golden knife to steal the sword out of the Frenchie's hand, and ran him through with his own sword. The Frenchie screamed, but he pulled himself in on the sword and grabbed Mutt's sword, unimpaling himself and taking Mutt's sword with him. He lunged, and knocked his sword out of Mutt's hands and out onto the desert floor.
The Frenchie eyed him triumphantly, like a wolf. Mutt frantically patted down his jacket, and brought out a knife, flipping it open… to reveal his comb. He smiled apologetically, and ran it through his hair, before putting it back in his jacket and putting his fists up.
The Frenchie found it all very amusing. "And now, Jones Junior, now you know my name. You know who I am, and why you are not fit to lick the dirt off of my boots, or even speak my parent's names. I am –"
"Mutt!"
At the sound, Mutt leaped out of the back of the truck. He was caught by Jackie Chan, riding his motorcycle, with his dad in the backseat.
The Frenchie glared out of the back of the truck, enraged. As the truck drove across the bridge, The Frenchie screamed at the top of his lungs;
"My name is François Belloq! And I will have revenge for my father!"
He took out a grenade and threw it at them. Jackie clumsily steered the bike away, and the three of them tumbled off of it into the desert sand, the grenade blowing up nearby.
The watched as the truck stopped in the middle of the bridge. Belloq, and the two Russians driving it got out and ran for the other side. Once there, the truck blew up, taking the bridge with it.
"Well." The Comedian chuckled. "That went well."
"How so?" Asked the shadowy figure inside of the Sedan.
"Well, you still have two guys left." The Comedian said. "You hired me to protect you from Jones, and I would have. But Rorschach can do some damage too, and when he let Jones loose… well to be blunt, Jones could have wiped out your whole personal army and you only brought a squad."
"We have reserves." Nikolas said dismissively. "You're right about one thing though, this hasn't been a complete disaster. At least that Rorschach man is dead."
"I wouldn't take that seriously until you see the body." The Comedian said. "Rorschach can be a persistent little %$#."
"Must you destroy every silver lining?"
"I don't destroy silver linings, I just point out that it's only tin. I gotta ask though Ruskie… why did you blow up the truck with the prize in it?"
"What do you take me for, some sort of serial villain? Why would I paint a big bull's eye on my prize when there's even a chance he might hit it? Blake, the Wedge has been with me, in my car the entire time."
And the window rolled up, and they drove away.