A.N.: Playing with the perspective a bit this chapter. It'll mostly be in the 3rd person because I think the scenes work better that way.
Chapter 13
Just Like Riding a Bike
Late Night of the 15t / Early Morning of the 16th
Outside the Broken Neck, a dive bar on the south side
The bouncer, a burly man in his early 40s, ex-Navy (due to a dishonorable discharge for certain indscrations), with a shaved head and multiple tattoos, stood outside the establishment, a necessary first line of defense to make certain only those of sufficient (i.e. low) character gained entrance.
It had been some time since anyone had approached, and he was beginning to nod off, but was roused by the tap of booted feet.
"Welcome to the Broken Neck, how tough are y-" he started, trailing off when he saw just who it was that was attempting to gain entrance.
"I think we can dispense with the formalities, can't we?" the newcomer said, lips curling away, revealing her fangs.
"Uh… s-sure," he said, stepping aside. Tough he was, no question… but not tough enough. Not to deal with that.
[A. N. Why, yes, this guy is based on a certain character from a certain classic Spongebob episode.]
Inside, the Broken Neck was exactly like how you would imagine it. Filthy, loud, full of roughnecks one wrong word away from turning the place into a murder scene.
So you can imagine the scene when every light, every TV, every phone… every single device that ran on electricity, in fact… suddenly shut down. And the hush when the double doors blew open, revealing a most unusual woman. A beautiful one, to be sure, but beautiful women were hardly rare in Hillwood. Six-foot-five, mauve-skinned, winged, tailed, four-armed women, clad in skin-tight uniforms with lightning trim that glowed in the darkness of the pitch-black bar, were not.
"Hello, boys," she spoke, in a tone equal parts flirty and intimidating.
Rhonda Robinson-Lloyd possessed many skills, but one she had learned very early on was how to make an entrance. Her only regret was that life didn't come with a soundtrack. Something with heavy percussion and an intermittent grinding guitar rift, perhaps. It would've made this scene just that much cooler.
"Thought you moved to New York," the bartender commented.
"Can't a girl drop in on her old hometown?" she asked.
"I'm tryin' ta run a respectable establishment here," he said, "so if you can get whatever business you have done and get my power back on, I'd be most appreciative."
"Believe me, I intend to spend as little time in this dump as possible. I'm looking for information regarding the recent attacks at the museum and the police station. So if one of you, I use the term loosely, gentlemen would oblige me, I can be on my way and out of your hair."
"Oh, yeah," a particularly sleazy-looking individual at the end of the bar suggested. "I got some information for ya."
"Really," Rhonda asked skeptically.
"Yeah, but I'm gonna need somethin' from you." He said. "A little… tail, if ya get my meaning."
"What do you…" she said in feigned confusion, then suddenly smiled. "Oh! Because I have a tail and you want – yes! Oh, isn't that clever!" Her expression went serious. "Yeah, here's my counter offer."
She flung a tiny stream of electricity at the offending patron, just enough to stun him without doing any lasting damage. "FYI… when I do that to someone, they tend to lose control of their bladders and sphincters."
Those closest to the particular customer immediately smelled the results of that particular side effect. "A,h, jeez, Ox!" one complained. Rhonda grinned. It was never not funny.
"So, unless the rest of you invested in adult diapers recently, I think it would be in your best interests to cooperate." Rhonda knew her stunt would yield results. These types bragged about how they didn't fear pain or injury. Humiliation… that was another story entirely.
Five minutes later, Rhonda had a lead. "Phoebe," she said into the communicator built into her visor. Praise be to Bridget, the woman thought of everything.
"I take it your fishing expedition was successful?"
"I have a name. Not much else, but it's something. Also, I made a guy crap himself, which is, of course, its own reward."
Phoebe giggled. "Rhonda, you're terrible."
"What can I say, something about this suit brings out my naughty side. Not that Nadine's complaining… Anyway… Guy's an expert in acquiring certain hard-to-get items. He tends to do business in the alley behind the old fish warehouse down near the docks. That's close to where you are, so if you could oblige."
"Roger, Rhon… acquiring target now. Wish me luck."
"Luck has nothing to do with it. It's just like riding a bike. It'll all come back to you."
The aforementioned alley
The individual in question, a short, thin, ratlike man with a very distinctive W-shaped monobrow that ran in the family, was at that moment finding cause to regret the line of work he'd chosen.
"Now, gentlemen…" he said, nervously, eyeing the large, sharp knives the two wielded, "I'm certain we can come to an understanding here. If you could just calmly express your grievances, I'm sure we can negotiate an outcome that is beneficial to both our parties."
"Express our grievances," one of the men, a very large Asian with a scar on his left cheek and a missing pinky finger that suggested Yakuza ties. "Yes, I believe we can do that. How about we start with your violation of the understanding we had already come to. The one that is the very basis of our economic system… the exchange of money for the promised goods and/or services."
"Ah, yes… I believe that was done…"
"Not exactly. You see…. When one exchanges money for goods, one expects to receive the goods one was promised."
On cue, his associate, an even larger man with dreadlocks and a goatee, slammed an enormous plastic bag full of white powder on the crate in front of the weedy individual.
"Mr. Kimura, if you can just calm down…" he protested.
"Now, if I had wished to obtain sixty kilograms of baking powder," Kimura continued, ignoring his attempted interruption, "I could have simply purchased it, fairly and legally, at PriceCo. Their rates are quite competitive, you know. The annual membership fee practically pays for itself. However, baking powder was not what I purchased, was it, now, Mr. Wachowski."
Mick Wachowski gulped. "Look, I fully intended to deliver the goods, honest, I just… ran into some supply issues. If you'd simply be patient, I'm sure…."
"I'm afraid my patience is limited. However, I am feeling generous."
"Oh, thank you. You will not regr-"
"Malachi," he addresses his Rastafarian companion. "Do not cut off his manhood. His hand shall be quite sufficient."
"Nothin' personal, you understan'," Malachi said, unsheathing his very large knife. "Personally I find you quite charming."
"You know, I can actually use the baking powder," Kimura said, nonchalantly turning aside. "Baking happens to be one of my hobbies. In fact… just to show there are no hard feelings, I believe I'll send you a batch of my special salted-caramel brownies after you recover."
"That's… eh… very generous of you, Mr. Kimura, sir," Mick said, slowly backing away. He knew there was nowhere he could run, but maybe there was still a chance he could talk his way out.
He was still attempting to suss out his gameplan when he felt something long and flexible wrap itself around his midsection and yank him upward.
"What in Babylon-" began Malachi as his head snapped up to follow Mick's motion, only to trail off as he spotted just who had snared his target. Like most criminals in this town, he knew; if it had wings, stay away.
"Boss…" he said.
"Indeed. Perhaps it is best we table this discussion for a later date. Send Mr. Wachowski my regrets. Oh, and bring the baking powder."
Phoebe smiled as she reeled in her catch. The retractable steel-foil strips built into her costume's gauntlets had done their job brilliantly. Bridget had loaded their costumes with all sorts of useful little gimmicks like this one, designed to complement and enhance their natural abilities.
"Mick Wachowski. AKA Mickey the Weasel."
"Magnetica," he replied, attempting to ingratiate himself with his captor/rescuer. "I had no idea you had come out of retirement. Might I say, the law enforcement community lost a very attractive member the day you hung up your tights."
Phoebe would have none of it. "Flattery will get you a one-way ticket to the dentist, Wachowski. The only thing I require of you is information."
"Well… seeing as I owe my continued health and possession of both my hands to your timely intervention, it would be most rude of me to refuse cooperation, wouldn't it." He squinted. "You know… there's actually something really familiar about you…"
"I have that kind of face," Phoebe smoothly replied. While the two of them had gone to PS118 together, they had been in different grades and had not had much in the way of interaction, and Wachowski had graduated by the time her mutation had kicked in. Only those in the 2017 sixth grade class and a few trusted others like Patty and Torvald were aware of the Weird Sisters' secret identities.
"My mistake, then. Now, what is it you require of me?"
"I am told that you recently had dealings with an individual claiming to be the Memory Master."
"Ah, yes… I believe I can help you with that. The said individual in question came to request my services Saturday morning. He wished to acquire a certain hard-to-obtain substance."
Phoebe could feel her apprehension beginning to mount. "What substance?" she asked, maintaining the poker face that had her banned in Vegas.
"A rather unique mineral. Its street name is, I believe, Unacquirium."
Her fears had been confirmed. Unacquirium, named by Helga for the MacGuffin substance in the film "Proxy", was an extremely rare substance indeed. It occurred in only one form, the crystals lining a series of geodes found in remote locations. The geodes were actually meteorites that had fallen to Earth thousands of years ago, originating from an unknown location beyond the solar system. The geodes had contained one other thing…. Extraterrestrial spores produced by a species of dragonlike creatures known as the Ka'Thaari. It had been those spores that had turned Phoebe and her friends into what they were today. In an odd twist, the crystals lining the geodes had proven to be toxic to the newly-created species.
"Let me guess," she asked, trying to keep the hopefulness out of her voice. "You took the buyer's money and passed off some cheap amethysts you bought at Kacjynszki's Natural Wonders as the real deal."
"Oh, no. I sold that guy the real deal." Mick said proudly. "You do not double-cross supervillains. Tommy Too-Small tried to double-cross Professor Miniscule, and, well, he wasn't called Tommy Too-Small until afterwards, if you get my meaning."
"Unfortunately, I do," replied Phoebe, rolling her eyes behind her visor. "What else can you tell me?"
"Not much. The guy wore a robe, gloves, and a hood the whole time, an' he was usin' one o' them voice-changers, so there was no way to tell who he was. An' the money came from a numbered, off-shore account in the Caymans. Untraceable."
"I see." This was not good. Not good at all. "Well, thank you for your cooperation. Now, there is the matter of being caught in the middle of a narcotics transaction…"
"Whoa, now, hold on! I helped you out! There's no reason we can't look the other way, is there?"
"True, I suppose. I'll just drop you off at Mr. Kimura's, then?"
"…on second thought, perhaps it is time I reconsidered my profession."
"Very well. If you will accompany me to the local precinct, then…"
As the blue-skinned woman carried him off, Mick resolved that he would seriously reconsider his uncle Walter's offer to work at his watch factory. It paid less, but it was good, honest work… mostly. Above all, though… it was safe.
Back at the precinct where Gerald worked, Arnold was seated at his vacant desk, while Helga, in her Temper guise, stood off to the side, leaning against the wall. The two were waiting for Officer Doone to return with the DNA results.
"I don't see why we have to stay here," he protested. "I don't like hiding."
"Tough," Helga said, lower fists on her hips and upper arms crossed over her chest. "This place is safe and you're staying here. And I'm keeping every eye I have on you the entire time."
"I'm a grown man," he insisted, scowling. "Physically, anyway. I can take care of myself. Anyway, isn't Campfire Lass gonna get suspicious?"
"I'm a superheroine protecting a potential victim of a supervillain. There's nothing suspicious about it. It's not like we're gonna start ripping off our clothes and making out behind Gerald's desk or anything." Great, she thought. Now that I've brought it up, that's all I wanna do. The blush on Arnold's cheeks suggested that the possibility was now occurring to him, as well, and was not a completely unwelcome possibility.
They stood there awkwardly for a few moments, the tension hanging in the air. What would it be like, he wondered. Had they ever? Of course they had, there were two children that existed as proof of it. But… had they ever while she was in this form? Was it the same, or somehow different? Or was it something that couldn't be done, due to the vast difference in strength between the two?
His pondering was interrupted by the return of Officer Doone, holding what he hoped were the results.
"Well?" asked Helga.
"First, for th'record, let me state theht I am still uncomfortable with working with a knoown vigilante."
"Well, for the record, let me state that I was fully deputized by Mayor Winifred Dixie, twenty-three-years ago, as an adjunct to the department, and that relationship has been continued under Mayor Martin Green, so for the record, your objection means squat. Now, continue."
"Ahem… very well then." She scanned the results. "I regret teh say that the results of the DNA test are inconclusive. They match noo knoown criminal in oor database. The only thing we could determine is that the suspect is female."
Helga grinned. "Well, whaddaya know. Score one for Akiko."
Doone sideyed Helga suspiciously. "How d'ye knoow the detective's daughter?"
"Oh, you know him," Helga replied, expression giving away nothing. "Guy won't stop going on about her. He's so proud of her. I totally understand, y'know… I'm actually a mom myself."
"Ye are?" Doone asked, surprised. She'd never thought of the alien vigilante as, well… a person.
"Uh huh. I have a daughter and son. That's why I still do this, y'know. I want to make this world safe for them."
"Aye, well… I suppoose I can understand theht." She glanced from Helga, to Arnold. A connection began to form in her mind. "This isnae just a bodyguarding job for you, is it."
The look on Helga's face told her everything.
"D'ye know why I joined th'force?" Doone asked. "I ran with a pretty bad croowd in high school. Petty theft, vandalism, drug dealing, the whole bloody works. I was on a bad rood that was gonna lead me to ruin. And then I saw me boyfriend die in froont of me froom a heroin ooverdoose and I knew it joost as easily could hehve been me. I knew I needed to clean meself up. Geht on th'right track. Moostly… I knew I wanted to do whatever I could to make sure that noo oone ever went through what I did. That's what you want too, isn't it. You just want to protect people."
Quietly, Helga took off her visor, fully revealing her face.
"My name's Helga," she said. "Helga Pataki."
"That cannae be right," Doone said. "I've met her and she's…" looked again, closely. "Sitting right here in front o'me."
"Surprise. One of your city councilpeople is an alien."
"Ye realize this could be very bad for ye… if I were to tell anyoone."
"Yeah, I know. But you shared something very personal with me. I figured you deserved the same consideration."
Doone smiled back. "My name's Hannah, by the way. Ye know… ye have very nice eyes. Why d'ye hide 'em?"
Putting her visor back on, Helga replied, "Partly to protect my identity, partly because a lot of people just find the third eye off-putting. Plus there's all sorts of handy stuff in here. I got a heads-up display, a communicator…" …which suddenly beeped. "Speak of the devil. Magnetica, talk to me." She tapped a control on the visor that activated the external speaker."
"Bad news, I'm afraid. It seems our adversary has managed to obtain a chunk of Unacquirium."
"What's Unacquirum?" Arnold asked.
"Kryptonite, basically," Helga answered. "As in, a rock from space that can kill me. Mags, I want you return to the Sunset Arms. I had Rhia and Trudy bring Robbie there so that everyone's together. Keep an eye on them. Tell Joule to fly to my sister's house and shadow her. I'll stay here."
"Eye-keeping!" Phoebe said, disconnecting.
"Looks like you're in just as much danger as I am now," Arnold said, getting up.
"Maybe you'll get a chance to be my hero," Helga replied, on edge now.
"What's this stuff look like, anyway?"
Suddenly, something came crashing through the window. It was a chunk of rock, rough and grey on one side, encrusted with small purple crystals on the other.
"…like that," Helga said, suddenly collapsing.
A. N.: And so, we enter the home stretch for this story! As it stands, there'll be two more chapters, plus an epilogue.
I always thought there was some kind of a connection between Mickey the Weasel and Mr. Wacko, what with them both having that very distinctive zig-zaggy monobrow. So I decided to make Mr. Wacko Mickey's uncle.
Rhonda is channeling a [PG-Rated] bit of Midnight from MHA in her scene. I see her using her hero identity as an outlet for some of her less wholesome impulses.
Jose: Arnold's gonna need that resourcefulness and wit now that things are about to come to a head.
Guest: IT'S NOT LUPUS, I MEAN, SUMMER! Sheesh!
Next: Showdown!