Merston High School, Salem, Oregon, September 201-
Crazy Train…
"Allllllllll abooaaaarrrrddddddd! (Ha-ha-ha!)"
Steel claws out, Puck launched herself at Officer Sargent, the sound of her favorite battle song blasting out from her internal speakers. Jax had been taken from her, she'd be damned if it happened a second time with Mike.
Mike picked up where Jax left off in teaching her how to fight. She'd always relied on surprise – a real opponent who knew what they were doing would figure this out fast and flatten her in spite of her titanium frame – Mike'd been drunk at the time she, Maggie, and Vinnie had murdered him; drunk and wanting to die.
So, yellow rabbit watching, they'd obliged.
But when what was left of him rose the next night, angry and insane, Mike took her on a second time, leaving her in pieces all over Circus Baby's Pizza World along with Maggie and her asshole boyfriend within seconds, their heads contemptuously left displayed on the front counter among the plushies for the morning custodian to find.
Reassembled, Maggie fled into the air-conditioning ducts, taking Vinnie with her. Puck stood her ground; demanding Mike show her everything he knew.
What had once been a man happily obliged, figuring out fast that Puck had no sense of physical rhythm or timing, teaching her how to box to music, 4/4 time, casually adding Ju Jitsu, karate, and others as she improved, demanding he show her more, dragging Maggie and Vinnie out of hiding and pounding it into them in turn, relishing Maggie's whining and Vinnie's hitting the tiles time after time.
"Crazy, but that's how it goes." Good ol' Ozzy and his crazy train, he understood.
"Mental wounds not healing," Puck ricocheted off of a bank of lockers, taking half of the cop's dreads with her on her way past, landing on Mike's torso, using it to launch herself at the cop who lunged at her, "Life's a bitter shame, I'm goin' off the rails on a crazy train..."
It felt good, fighting back, after months of insults, of Maggie betraying her… of everyone betraying her… this whole piss ant town that made nice-nice to your face… while stabbing you in the back…
"…I'm goin' off the rails on a crazy train!"
1,2,3,4
Puck's traditional challenge was unexpected. But what did you expect from unpredictable oomans?
In a blur Sargent re-holstered her ooman sidearm and the iPad as her cut dreads pattered heavily to the tiles, casually blocking Puck with one arm, non-regulation spring loaded wrist blades engaging with a flick of the other, snagging the maiden's clothing, breaking her trajectory so that she landed on the floor on all fours to scoot between Sargent's legs, coming on the other side before scrambling up the Matriarch's back, using Sargent's duty belt and Kevlar vest for leverage, clawed hands and feet shredding the black uniform shirt beneath as the tough body armor gave way, lightening Sargent's load.
Sargent grabbed Puck by the back of her baggy shirt, easily tossing her down the school hallway – scanning her small attacker through her breathing mask: mostly titanium, with a head that was organic encased in the same light, tough metal – all built for speed and balance.
Exhilarated, Sargent let Puck charge, catching her by the ankles as she sliced past, spinning her so that she landed on her back, skidding across the slick, water and blood-stained tiles.
Goin' off the rails…
1-2-3-4. Tail lashing free of her loose sweat pants, Puck flipped herself upright, hissing, internal gyros straining as they steadied her. She feinted a swing, and leapt, landing solidly on the torso of the big cop, who rocked, nearly toppling over backwards, catching himself on the palm of one huge hand on the same surface, using it to launch himself upright.
1-2-3-4.
This was easy, too easy. Puck cartwheeled, flipping past the cop's silver breathing mask, steel claws tagging the dull metallic surface.
1-2-3-4.
Take this for hitting me with one set of rules for you and another for me!
1-2-3-4.
Take this, for trying to take one of the few things I've ever loved away from me!
1-2-3-4.
How about a little bit of this for turning my sister against me? And a little of this? And a little more of thi… oh shit.
1-2-3-4…5?
Rhythm broken, Puck felt herself being sliced in half and then pulled apart joint by joint as Officer Sargent, tired of sparring and with a job to do, used the recording loop built into her twin wrist knife mount, blasted out confusing beat of her own, disrupting Puck's flow.
"I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I didn't mean to let you down, Uncle Mike!" was Puck's last thought as Officer Sargent casually pulled her head off her shoulders and the world went dark, the Maze finally sweeping up what kept her moving protectively.
Father Tom
Across town in front of the altar of Queen of Peace, a kneeling Father Tom switched off the little radio that he'd taken with him from his office.
He'd been listening to the news on NPR with half an ear while going over the upcoming holiday season Mass schedule when a report of an active shooter situation at one of Salem's high schools had broken in, interrupting the morning stock report.
As Father Tom began the Apostles Creed for the third time, the local announcer went silent. She then announced that somehow the SRO had fought back, going down in the process, taking the shooters with him before they could reach the classrooms.
Contemplating this, Father Tom finished the Rosary, and began a fourth.
Whoever the SRO officer was, Catholic or not, he or she, had his gratitude.
In the shadows
Pen set aside, Vlad Tepes, uncrowned king of the monsters, no RADS, sat in his dimly lit office, unblinking eyes hooded, chin on steepled fingers, listening to the events at his daughter's school unfold.
He had been correct in his insistence that the new SRO at Marston High be one of them. Schmidt, by his own admission, was a monster.
A big one.
But when dealing with monsters, you had to put a bigger monster on the chess board.
And the normies, well the normies never saw it coming.
Dismissively, Tepes shut off the radio from the console built into his huge mahogany desk, and in the silence went back to writing out the upcoming year's projected profits in longhand.
Draculaura would undoubtedly tell him all about it this evening during breakfast over her tomato juice and his steak tartare.
With pickled garlic on the side.
Pickled garlic always added to the interest of the experience.
Behind Bars
Charlie looked up from where she'd been loading dishes into the big industrial dishwasher in time to see Mike's face, or someone who looked an awful lot like Mike, flash across the screen of the big tv in the FPC Alderson dining hall.
Getting nailed for income tax evasion right after declaring Fazcorp's bankruptcy had been one more insult added to injury.
It was her money. Why should she have to hand a big chunk of it over to Uncle Sam to pay for social welfare programs that were a waste? Give the poor money and free housing and what did they do with it? Tear up that free housing and then spend the money on $300 sneakers and fake nails while screaming about the unfairness of it all when hard working business women like Charlie had to claw for everything they got so that a bunch of unemployable ingrates didn't have to earn their keep, that's what!
Uncle Sam, obviously disagreed.
So, here she was, somewhere in Buttfuck, WVA, washing dishes in the same Federal facility Martha Stewart had once cooled her heels for insider trading.
Charlie slammed the door of the dishwasher shut, staring out through the serving hatch at the face on the big screen and all the big whoop-whoop about yet another boring school shooting.
Yep, that was Mike, all right.
Somewhere in the English Countryside
Vaguely amused, the dark-haired man, tall, spare, fluidly graceful, sat watching the flatscreen that took up nearly an entire wall in his master's bedroom.
It was amusing how fast news traveled these days.
So fast that the antics of the obviously mentally ill, armed with weapons they had no business owning, could literally, in the blink of an eye, have their mediocre lives splashed all over the globe.
In seconds.
As well as the inevitable ritual garment-rending and fruitless opinion spouting that inevitably followed. To be eclipsed by the next set of stupidly vicious antics as performed by still another equally mediocre, but miserable life badly wanting to be noticed as painted in blood.
"Show me, sinners, show me something new. Your lack of originality ceases to amuse... Ahhh, But this…" The tall man leaned forward, a thin grin all but splitting his near-angelic visage, "…this, is interesting!"
The face that flashed across the screen, blonde, younger than it should be, was familiar.
All the way down to the intense blue eyes and near-unnatural perfect symmetry, marred by a broken nose, an old injury.
"Interesting, indeed!"
The owner of that face in the shape of an absurd, cartoon bear and four other equally absurd toys, the dark haired man's master's property, had eluded the dark-haired man for two years.
Amused, the dark-haired man leaned back, resting his pointed chin in one narrow long-fingered hand – he nearly caught them twice, only to have them bolt into a pocket dimension both times before he could claim them for his master.
And it had all been, very amusing.
Perhaps, it was time to book a flight to, where was it? Ah, Oregon.
Salem.
After all, three's a charm.
The tall, dark-haired man smiled faintly, eyes glittering red. The leaves there were quite spectacular this time of year, as was the full moon, with the snow just starting to dust the peaks of the Cascades.
He would make sure Tanaka packed the correct rice cakes, tea, and cups for their observation and enjoyment.