Chapter 13: The World Tree
The place where Old Roger led Spock and Crow wasn't too far from the site of their first encounter. They cut straight through blocks via alleys, weaving between buildings and crossing streets. They passed other vagabonds on their way, and many seemed to know Old Roger, either waving or addressing him by name, where he would address them back; twice, he stopped to trade with the stock he carried in his cart, and the vagabond took the liberty to elaborate on the 'trade enterprise' he had set up, thereby explaining why his was a familiar face among the homeless of Manhattan.
The trio ended up at the heart of a block whose location Dan couldn't place, enclosed by the graffiti-adorned backs of the several buildings clustered there.
"Well, here we are," announced Old Roger. "This is my place, for the time being. Hold on a minute while I put this stuff away."
Against the brick wall lied a dingy mattress; some rubbish and junk lined the wall as well, pressing against a dumpster. There was also a rusted barrel propped nearby, whose use as a fire source was evidenced by its charred rim. After parking the shopping cart beside the bed, he made an inventory of the day's catch before storing what he desired to keep underneath the junk pile, which he said didn't belong to anyone, making it ideal as a place to stash his things.
Following this, he chucked some wood broken from discarded furnishing into the barrel and lit it up using gasoline and a match, causing flames to erupt for a brief flash before dying down the next moment. Now crackling at a modest intensity, the smell of smoke and burning wood soon won over the more unpleasant aromas clinging to the homeless man's living space. Old Roger fetched some chairs for his household guests from the assorted junk pile, a rocking chair for Spock and a swivelling desk chair for Crow; Old Roger chose a camping chair for himself, as well as a bottle. After placing his hands near the fire and exhaling in satisfaction, he brandished the bottle of whiskey whose first third had previously been consumed, offering some to his visitors, who declined.
The cacophony that was the many sounds of the city could be heard in the distance, but they were insulated by the narrow passages that surrounded them, so the only sounds of note were the steady crackle of the barrel's fire, the periodic swill of the vagabond's bottle, and their own voices.
"Right, Shapeshifters," said Old Roger after a hearty swig. He gazed at the bottle in his hand. "I usually drink to drown my sorrows, but it looks like I'm also drinking to forget what I've seen in recent times. Probably explains why I drink twice as much nowadays."
He chuckled at his own joke. Dan didn't find it all too funny, but he gave him a smile nonetheless; his smile faded when he saw the long shadow the man cast against the wall, half-hoping that no other shadows would be dropping from above anytime soon.
"Now's probably a good time to start remembering, though," said Dan. "So tell me, Old Roger. What have you seen?"
"Stuff you boys wouldn't believe." The old man channelled the ethos of the Campfire Storyteller as he spoke. "Crazy things are going on in the world, a lot of 'em brewing right here in the NYC. Seen my share of strange and unexplained deaths, more than any one person should. Uh, what else? Seen one or two shady business deals with weird Latin-speaking fellas in nice suits, all secret society-like. Hell, I saw a group of men appear right out of thin air just a few months ago. Now that was something."
He took another swig of the bottle before stuffing additional fodder in the barrel for the fire.
"What about Shapeshifters?" prodded Dan.
His weathered face fell dark.
"Let me tell you boys something. When you live the way I do out on the streets, you notice things. At first, I didn't know what I was seeing, but then I started making out patterns and piecing things together. I've seen them kill people and steal their faces with those little black boxes of theirs. And they're fighting some kind of war, too, taking on fellas with strange energy guns."
Spock and Crow exchanged a glance, the imagery most definitely familiar.
"After one battle, I went up to look at the bodies, me and my friend Higgs; something silvery was coming out one guy's neck. That's how I found out about the mercury blood. But that ain't all. They tend to gather underground, like rats. That's where I see 'em most often, anyway."
Dan felt stupid, suddenly; of course Shapeshifters were all underground. Not that the Liberation Front could have searched every single sewer tunnel and subway line in New York on their own, but he should have at least considered the possibility, given their past dealings with Hybrids. Looking to Spock, he could see that his partner felt the same way.
"How do you know what you're seeing are Shapeshifters?" inquired Spock.
"When you see folks of various age groups and genders and race and whatnot all gathered underground to talk, you know something's up. See stuff like that mostly during the winter, when a lot of homeless people take to the underground to get away from the cold. But I've seen enough of them to be able to spot them off the street. It's the way they look at people."
He pointed two fingers to his two eyes, trying to emulate a Shapeshifter's glare. Spock seemed rather immersed in Old Roger's tales, swallowing with widening eyes as the old man peered at him from across the flaming barrel. Dan, however, had to shake his head; that the universe decided to send them a boon in the form of Old Roger was amusing to no end. Yet the man was already proving more useful than all of their home-owning conspiracy contacts combined, and so all the misgivings he initially held about Old Roger were melting away like sorrows after a good swig of whiskey.
"Definitely sounds like Shapeshifters," agreed Dan. "But I'm kind of curious. I don't doubt what you're saying. I'm just wondering why you'd want to help us."
"Fair question, I suppose." He took a swallow of his bottle, divorcing himself prematurely from its beak to cough. "I've made my peace with my fate a long time ago. Maybe if I live long enough, they'll end up calling me Very Old Roger –" He paused to chuckle. "– but one day I'll die out here on the streets. I got no home, no real place in the world, and no one's gonna cry for me when I pass. But even so, I figure this old man can still do at least one last good thing in his life, right?" His smile was tinged by sadness. "You know, now I'm curious as to how you boys got caught up in this whole Shapeshifter business yourselves."
"We're fighting them," stated Dan. "Or trying to, anyway. Spock and I formed a resistance movement of sorts, and we've made some decent progress so far. We call ourselves the Liberation Front."
"You're with 'em Front fellas?" exclaimed Old Roger. "Well, I'll be. Why didn't you say so in the first place?"
"You've heard of us?" asked Spock, just as surprised as his partner. "How?"
"Like I said, when you live on the streets as long as I have, you see and hear things. I know full well of the good work you boys do, and I'd be glad to lend you guys a hand."
Dan's brows burrowed. Had word of their exploits already spread to New York? Or was Old Roger caught in a drunken ramble? Spock interceded before the ambiguity could be resolved.
"If you'll allow us, I'd like to confer with my associate for a moment."
"Oh, sure, go ahead," said the vagabond. "Not like I'm going anywhere."
Spock took Crow aside some distance from the barrel, at the edge of the light it produced.
"So, what do you think of this guy?" he asked. "He sounds pretty legit, if you ask me. Kind of crazy how we just happened to bump into him."
"Crazy and fortunate," stressed Crow. He still had trouble believing their rapid reversal of luck. "I say we take him up on his offer."
"Agreed."
They returned just as Old Roger fed the barrel a small plank of wood.
"Alright, Roger," addressed Dan, "we'll take you up on your offer. And there's money it if for you if all goes well."
"Wonderful!" He set his half-empty bottle beside his seat. "So, when do you want me to give you the grand tour?"
"Could you take us tonight?"
"Tonight?" He was taken aback by Crow's bold proposition, though promptly reconsidered. "Sure, why not? The night's still young."
XxXxXxXxXxX
The assembled Liberation Front met with Old Roger at the foot of the Barkley Hotel. They were all wearing casual clothing and lugging backpacks stocked with essentials, though Spock had insisted in wearing his aluminum-lined tuque. And beneath their inconspicuous exteriors were concealed firearms, ready to be unleashed at a moment's notice.
Concealing firearms was easier than concealing perplexity, it seemed; the rest of the gang were taken aback that the miracle contact Spock and Crow found turned out to be some homeless guy. After quick introductions, the team huddled a few feet away from a waiting Old Roger, with the others raising their concerns about the plan – or lack thereof. Crow was quick to remind them that it was either this or going back home, tortured with the thought of what they might have missed by passing on this opportunity.
All in agreement, the group approached Old Roger, who perked up at their sight.
"Okay, Old Roger," said Dan. "Where's our first stop?"
"I was thinking we'd go down the Rockefeller Center Station on 47th and 6th," he suggested. "From there, we can take an access tunnel to the lower levels. The place is a sort of hub, with a lot of old sewer tunnels connecting to it. That's where we'll be heading first. "
"Alright, then. Lead the way."
The sextet set off by foot, Old Roger leading the way. By night, the city was a thing alive, a complex interplay of lights and sounds that made the whole of Crow's native Boston seem a quaint suburb at best. The interminable stream of compacted cars and taxis were a macrocosm of high cholesterol, and files of people lined the sidewalks. Every storefront they passed was as unique as the last, and klaxons and inter-driver shout-offs served as the soundtrack of their journey. It was a buffet for the senses, though after nearly a week, the novelty was starting to wear off. Even so, there as always something new to see, and the trek was made a little more entertaining as a result.
The group reached the staircase leading to the station after a good half hour, descending into the cool tunnels below. Their guide led them away from the fare control, however – their destination was a place no subway train could reach. In a city so big with its fair share of colourful individuals, such a rag-tag group didn't draw much attention, especially since Old Roger was walking several paces ahead, and so they moved without suspicion.
Navigating the station, they found what they were looking for: an unassuming door in an unassuming place, observed by what Crow hoped was his unassuming crew. Thankfully, there weren't many people around, and there were no signs of security cameras or anything of the sort, which was always good when performing activities of circumspect legality.
"Huh. They replaced it."
"Replaced what?"
"The door," said Old Roger in answer to Crow. "They must've replaced it since the last time I went this way, which was quite awhile ago. Hopefully, this'll still work."
He removed a hair pin from beneath his tuque and went to work, everyone else on lookout. After several seconds of fumbling, the lockpicker's grip slipped, and the pin fell to the floor.
"Ah, damn it!"
"What's the problem?" asked Crow.
"It's this lock. Can't open it."
Spock approached them. "Here, let me try."
Old Roger moved aside to let the man work. Removing his lock-picking kit from his coat, he went to work.
"Like Vulcan nerve pinches," said Spock, hands moving ever slowly, "picking locks requires intuitive knowledge of how and when to apply the right... amount... of... pressure. And voila!"
The door was opened to reveal a descending staircase where no light dwelt. Spock took out a flashlight from his backpack, shining the beam down into the void.
"Handier than a lighter, I'll give you that," said their guide at the sight of the flashlight, using the illumination to navigate his way down the steps.
The rest also took out their own lights and made their way inside, and Spock, last to enter, gave furtive glances before sliding inside, the door resting shut behind him. In the light of five crisscrossing flashlight beams, they were led further underground, coming to a cramped concrete corridor whose ceiling was veined with pipes.
"We'd better get a move on," said Old Roger, voice made hollow by the confined acoustics. "It's a big place down here. And it's easy to get lost, too, so no straying."
The vagabond shot down left surprisingly fast, and the team quickly fell in line. Placing their trust in the homeless man, they followed him where he went, pausing when he did, which he did often, conferring with himself before resuming his path. Though the Liberation Front members held their tongues, there was no suppressing the sense of vague anxiety from wondering if Old Roger truly did know the way, an anxiety no doubt accentuated by the unfamiliar territory they traversed.
The farther they went, the older things became, modernity fading with each successive turn. Eventually, they entered a sizeable tunnel of grey brick, where the air was cool, their breath frosting.
"This here's one of 'em old sewer tunnels," explained Old Roger. "Hasn't been used in decades. There's a whole network of shut-down, forgotten tunnels under the city, and you can get almost anywhere in the NYC from here, if you know the way."
The group walked in these places seldom touched by human soles, their every footstep playing queer tricks on their ears. Though as was the rule with the Liberation Front, the more time passed, the likelier it was that its eclectic members would engage in wildly bizarre conversations.
"So I know Shapeshifters like to hang underground," said Nelson out of the blue, "but I wonder what else might be livin' down here."
"Like what?" said Keane. "Mole people?"
"Nah, mole people live in Chicago," corrected Dan. "New York's all about Reptilians."
"We're not deep enough to encounter Silurians, dude," said Spock.
"No, no, I meant the Alpha Draconis kind. You know, unseen alien lizard-men controlling the masses through their government puppets, and so on and so forth."
"Think they might have anything to do with giant sewer gators?" asked Druid. "I mean, who knows where they come from. Maybe they're all juvenile Reptilians or sumthin'."
"Or females," interjected Rebecca. "Reptilians are like orb-weaver spiders, with the female ten times bigger than the male, and all the males compete amongst one another for mating rights."
"So a race of ancient saurian extraterrestrials from a distant star that have come to Earth to enslave all of mankind spend their leisure time trying to get a piece of that sweet sewer croc tail?" asked Enigma. "Sure, I can dig that."
"Oh, you'll dig it alright," said Druid. "Especially after you get a look at the 2009 Sewer Gator Pinup Calendars the Draconian overlords hang in their lofty mansions."
Spock made some guttural growls followed by a lewd whistle, marking the inception of an increasingly perverse discussion about Reptilian courting and mating habits; from there, they touched upon whether Reptilians thought dinosaur crackers to be offensive, then proceeded to wonder if beings from other stars enjoy human-themed cookies, and before they knew it, they were discussing plans to create a Homo Sapiens merchandise line to make billions on the interstellar market.
Crow thought it peculiar how they had grown to become a seamless unit over the past few months. When had that happened? He wasn't quite sure. Yet for one who at no point in his life could have said to possess any close friends, he was glad that it did.
"Keep your voices down, fellas," said Old Roger, interrupting Enigma's tirade on the merits of Violet Sedan Chair in relation to their contemporaries. "We're close."
Twenty minutes of walking in dark tunnels had brought them there. The crew silenced themselves and tensed up, wielding their flashlights with greater caution, straining their ears for any noise not of their own making.
"Saw some 'round here this past winter a few times," hushed the vagabond at the mouth of a perpendicular tunnel, wiping his nose. "At least, I think they were. It's hard to tell them apart from people, you know? Anyway, better stay close."
Crow nodded before turning back to the group, lifting his pistol in the air to signal the rest to be prepared for danger. In the weeks preceding their trip to New York, Enigma had taken them to a forest in the middle of nowhere to practice their marksmanship, being the only one besides Druid who possessed any pre-Liberation Front experience with firearms (though Druid did learn a thing or two about proper handgun techniques).
Hopefully, what Dan had learned then would serve him well now.
Following Old Roger, they began their ascent, returning to more modern maintenance tunnels. The gang entered what appeared to be the basement level of some building, a moderate-sized concrete room where water mains stained the floor below with the steady drip of their contents; what appeared to be a boiler sat in a corner, and other essential regulatory appliances were found there.
"Well, no one's here," stated Old Roger over the humming of the machinery. "Better head back."
Once returned to the old sewer-ways, Crow addressed their guide.
"That didn't strike me as a place where Shapeshifter gather on a regular basis."
"I've been doing circuits in the tunnels during the past few winters. The places where I've seen 'em don't look all too suspicious, but I guess that's the point."
"How many more places do we have left to go?"
"Depends," said Old Roger, scratching at his grey beard. "How far you wanna go? Have they changed their meeting places since the last time I came down here? Are they gonna be there tonight?"
"Will they?" asked Crow, not too keen on making investments with no returns.
"How am I supposed to know? Don't know what you're expecting outta this, Mister Crow. I can only show you their holes and hope that maybe we'll find something worthwhile."
Crow conceded, the man's outlook a sensible one, even if he wasn't pleased with the truth in his words. He was growing tired of hope at this stage; what they needed were results, not the promise of them.
As the night progressed, however, they found this promise stretching thin. The second location, the third, the fourth; all were devoid of Hybrid activity. At one point, they stopped for a rest, no one in the group save Old Roger contributing much in the way of endurance, and they snacked on the goods they brought for the trip, of which Old Roger was allowed to partake.
One hour and thirty minutes into their subterranean venture, after the sixth scouting, the limits of collective patience and stamina were beginning to wear out, to the point where Crow halted the group.
"Alright, guys," announced Dan. "I don't think we'll be finding anything down here tonight. Besides, I'm getting kind of worn out." The expressions of the team showed they had been thinking the same thing for quite the while. "I think it's time we cut our losses and head back."
The chances of a breakthrough had been slim from the onset, yet Dan couldn't help but bemoan their lack of progress. Seeing the humanoid shadows cast by their light stretching on the ancient brick walls of the tunnels, he wondered for a moment if things would have gone better if Gary were with them; and in that moment, the thought of Watchdog managed to compound the failure of this current initiative even further, and Dan fought to suppress the guilt and anger rising from within his being.
In a tone of resignation, he addressed their guide.
"Old Roger, I appreciate you helping us out. Here's something for your troubles."
Dan took out his wallet and handed the man a twenty, which he accepted without complaint, rarely ever coming across so large a sum all at once.
"Thanks a bunch," he said, waving the bill in the air before stowing it in his coat pocket. "Sorry I wasn't of greater use to you folks. Can't always win, though." The vagabond stared up at the ceiling, counting on his hands and seeming to retrace the route they traversed in his mind. "We should be somewhere under Hell's Kitchen by now. Nearest way up is about ten minutes. This way."
Seven minutes later, while navigating the higher maintenance corridors, Druid stopped.
"Guys...Hear that?"
The other stopped. "What is it?" asked Polaris.
George went to investigate an adjacent passage, holding up a finger as a sign to keep quiet.
"I think I hear...voices."
They reached for their weapons.
"You sure?" asked Enigma.
"Positive. Listen."
They took a few tentative steps inside the mouth of the corridor; it was faint over the sound of electricity and piping, but it was there.
"Alright, we'll check it out," said Crow. "Roger, you stay at the back, in case things get heavy."
It was clear that the man had no love of potentially dangerous situations, but he swallowed whatever fear he might have had. "You got it."
"Let's go."
Book-ended by Dan and Old Roger, the Liberation Front inched forward, stepping lightly, their weapons held firm in their hands. The sounds were growing louder; it was a single voice, suggesting a briefing, or the administering of orders. It occurred to Dan as the voices grew louder that he had no real clue as to what they were going to do once they got there. Should they take them all out before they could react? Should they leave one or two alive to question them? What if the team was to be discovered first? Were these even Shapeshifters? Maybe it was too soon to be formulating plans of action.
Before anything, they had to see what they were dealing with.
The corridor bent right, with the opening before them serving as the entry to the room the voices were coming from. Crow stopped beside it, crouching, and the rest followed, forming a line behind him that rested against the wall. He brought a finger to his lips – by all means a redundant gestures, seeing as none of them would dare make a sound – before peering into the room.
It was a large room with a high ceiling, lit by fluorescent fixtures overhead. From what Dan could tell, they were at the center of the longer sides of the rectangular area, in an open passage found in an indented portion of the chamber's side walls; there might have been another similar doorway directly across, but crates arranged in the center of the room were blocking the view. Dan crouched inside, huddling against the left corner of the indent, and the rest moved forward, Spock occupying Crow's prior position.
From here, Dan could see behind the crates, looking down the length of the chamber to see an exit. Then, with no end of caution, he inched his head forward, peeking out to see a group of six individuals, men and women, with two reviewing a wide piece of paper, presumably a map or blueprints.
"How many can this site house?" asked one of the men.
"There's enough room for sixteen, arranged in two rows of eight," replied one of the two women, gesturing to where the objects of interest were to be placed. "It should take a week to set up the receptacles."
"Good, good. And this is a secure location, I trust?"
"Of course. They'll be safe and sound here. There might be a slight fluctuation of power when they're sent across, but other than that, we should be fine."
Crow arched back. He tilted his head to the doorway, place the gun on his knee, then held up six fingers.
Six Hybrids.
Spock relayed the message to the rest, who nodded to signify their understanding, and Crow resumed his spying of the meeting. He supposed they could be human, but something told him otherwise. It was the way they held themselves, the way they spoke, the six united in their unspoken intents. They were all paying attention on one individual in particular, whom Dan surmised to be the leader; even from where he hid, the man's aura had a distinct quality to it, a commanding presence which became even more evident moments later.
"Alright, listen up," said the Hybrid in a clear, direct voice. "You five will be responsible for the installation of the receptacles. I'm giving you authorization to use as many people as you need. When the Yggdrassil Seeds are sent from the other side, it'll take about nine days for them to grow. You'll need to post sentries twenty-four-seven until they mature. Under no circumstances must they be damaged during the growing process, or they'll come out malformed and compromised. You have your orders."
Yggdrasil... The name rang a bell for Dan. Where had he seen it before? Must have been somewhere in the Shapeshifter Intel he and Spock lifted from that Hybrid lair. He would have to search through them again to see what these people were plotting. Assuming they survived, that is.
The thought of mortality enlightened him to the fact that his heart was pounding. The odds were good, weren't they? Six on six. But Old Roger had no weapons, he suddenly remembered, making them slightly outmatched. Still, seeing the five subordinates nod, and getting the sense that this meeting would soon be over, he knew the time to strike was now.
Dan raised his weapon, asking silently that the others prepare themselves. He lifted his arm, and time seemed to slow to a standstill, the team waiting for his mark. One second, two. A bead of sweat contoured his eyebrow. Three, four. The Hybrids rolled up their documents.
Now or never.
He gave the go ahead, and the Liberation Front entered the chamber, weapons at the ready.
"Stop right there, Gottfried."
The Liberation Front halted at the sound of a voice that was not Crow's. They looked to those who had entered the room from the furthest entrance, whose weapons were drawn. All the Hybrids save Gottfried drew their weapons, and Gottfried addressed his interlocutor, both the Hybrids and the new arrivals totally ignoring the individuals gathered at the mouth of one of the side entries.
"Why, if it isn't our friends from ZFT!" he said. "Lenny, you're looking thinner. What can we do for you today?"
"Cut the crap, Gottfried," said Lenny. "You know why we're here."
"That I do."
Crow didn't care who these eight party-crashers were; he wasn't about to let them interfere with the Liberation Front's only catch in their time at New York. Holding out his gun, he moved forward.
"Hey–"
Gottfried was the first to fire, whipping out a pistol just as Crow entered with blinding speed and shooting at the ZFT crew as he leaped back with superhuman agility over a stack two crates high, wounding one of the interlopers and narrowly evading the zinging pellets of blue-white energy that rocked the crates they collided with. Lenny took cover behind the crate nearest to the way ZFT had entered, with most of his squad shooting from the doorway, two men lugging their wounded comrade to safety. Gottfried was similarly encamped, returning fire, with his Hybrid goons aiding him, though both sides were evenly matched.
As for the Liberation Front, they remained in the cover of the doorway, steering clear from the heated fray. They watched as both factions slowly retreated to their respective exits, the firefight terminated almost as soon as it began, leaving the room empty save for overturned crates, scorch marks, and the Liberation Front, whose presence had gone unnoticed for the duration of the altercation.
As the six sidelined humans entered the former battlefield, Druid gave voice to their shared confusion, shock, and vexation.
"...What the hell was that?"