Chapter 25
"Well, it certainly took you long enough to return, didn't it?" Edgar muttered, obviously displeased by his lack of company, even after what said company had done to him.
The captive tech-expert looked down, and then nodded at Charles' right arm, still held hostage by a black sling. It was the last of his injuries to heal, and actually stemmed from the scarring wound in his back, which causing "nerve discomfort"- though, he felt "agonizing nerve death" was a more fitting description.
"Hmm. Disgruntled fangirl hit you with her purse, Charlie?" Charles ignored him, tapping his foot.
"Alright. You know, Charles, you're no fun. I might be a little more cooperative if you showed a sense of humor once in a while." the handicapped man scoffed, rolling his eyes.
"I, ah, still have another hand, Edgar. It only takes one to kill you." Edgar studied Dethklok's manager seriously for a moment, part of him wondering just how long he could stay alive once the information gravy train ran dry. He conceded, tapping his keyboard and bringing up an image on the largest screen in the room.
Charles' good hand was tucked below his chin, his fingers thrumming against his jaw as he studied the documents Edgar conjured out of the information super highway, a magician in his own right. The CFO's brows knitted together.
"What is it?" He asked, the schematics that comprised one image rambling out across the screen and making little sense to him on their own. Edgar waved his hand, sacking Charles' question.
"Not a what. A who. A very interesting who. I was practically tickled to find out exactly who this person is and how they're connected to you, Charles. It was titillating." Edgar's eyes fluttered shut, and he looked as though he had just ingested LSD.
Charles continued to stare hard at the documents, green eyes roving the monitor in search of a hint as to whom this person was so he could beat Edgar to the punch. One by one, more documents materialized. Criminal records, school transcripts, none of which were very good. Of course, as part of his game, Edgar had blurred the name of the person whose records were on display in every single instance.
The face of a young man stared back at Charles as he read. Strong jaw. Thin nose. Hair down to his shoulders. Definitely younger than himself, by quite a few years. Well built, too. An unruly jock, the high school transcript said, though in far more words than necessary.
Ah. Junior-year drop out. Detained numerous times for bullying and defacing school property. Caught with small amounts of marijuana. A life of petty crime, mostly revolving around drugs and gambling, followed suit. Suddenly the charges jumped, Charles noticed. From shoplifting, he moved to store hold-ups and grand larceny. From DUI's and joyriding to grand theft auto. His undoing appeared to be an armed bank heist that had gone horribly wrong. He was supposed to be serving time in a maximum security prison for the resulting murders, but had escaped. Warrants had gone out for his arrest, and everyone from the local police in the area to the FBI had been looking for him, but it was thought that he had fled the country. Charles scrutinized his face again. It looked very familiar, in an off-beat sort of way.
"Have you figured it out yet, Charles? Come on now- use that brain of yours." Edgar prompted, pleased with his work.
"No, I haven't." He answered flatly. Edgar huffed, the images changing with a single keystroke. This time, it revolved around the sensitive information Charles hated to think about, but needed to know. Again, those names he'd seen and heard so many times before jumped out at him.
"This is more recent material." Edgar announced, watching Charles' face carefully. He needed to know what would get a rise out of him and what wouldn't. Charles skimmed it, looking at the pictures, disgust written clearly on his pale features.
"How recent?"
"Last week."
"So, they are connected." He said slowly.
"Yes, that's what I'm showing you. Keep up, man."
Once more, Edgar changed the display, bringing Charles back to familiar ground.
"She's a Revengencer. Sweet woman, really. But it seems as though she has defected." Edgar mused, blowing a mocking kiss at the screen.
"Name?"
"Viktoria Metzger. She was one of Lavona's extra vessels when I knew her. Perhaps she just wanted her moment in the spotlight. Pity. She was bound to replace one of the girls if they were killed, and we both know what the turnover rate is like in that business." He offered, the frowning face of the German-born terrorist hovering in the background.
"And, ah, him?" Charles jabbed a finger at the minimized documents. Edgar acquiesced without much prodding. He didn't think his fingernails were ever going to grow back, and didn't want to lose anything else. He brought them back up on the screen, and slowly phased out the mosaic pattern obscuring the man's name.
General Crozier looked over his shoulder for the fourth time that night since arriving. He wasn't usually prone to paranoia, but he couldn't shake the discomforting feeling that he was being watched. As with the previous three times, no one was there. The military man shrugged to himself, taking a drag off the uncharacteristic cigarette he'd felt the ungodly need to light up. He waited.
His companion arrived, finally, fifteen minutes late. Crozier shot him a glare, and the man shrugged, escaping the pouring rain by ducking under the same awning that shaded the general.
"Didn't know you smoked, man."
"I don't. And it's sir."
"Whatever. You got it?"
Crozier indicated the box below him and nudged it over to the other man with his foot, in the privacy of the alley.
"Why here?" Crozier was curious. The man, kneeling by the box, looked around, almost startled by the question.
"What, the alley? I used to shoot up here as a kid. Always pretty empty."
Crozier watched the man tear open the box with vigor. He likened it to the image of a starved wolf being encaged with a flock of sheep. The man exhaled sharply when his knuckles rapped against the contents of the container, a metallic noise echoing against the buildings surrounding the pair. A whirring sound followed.
The man pulled the weapon out of the box. It was a gun- just not the likes of any gun he had ever seen. An electric blue glow emitted from between the machining lines and the various standby lights, glittering against the black matte metal. He grinned, teeth dark under a blacklight-style glow from the deadly machine.
"Is it to your specifications?" Crozier mumbled, the cigarette down to the filter. He flicked it into the rain.
"Fuck yeah. It's perfect." He seemed elated, and held the gun up to look through its attached scope.
"The rest will be shipped to the specified drop point. I trust you'll use them well?" Crozier was getting ready to shuffle out into the armored car that waited for him down the street, though he wasn't much looking forward to getting soaked.
"Of course. The bitch and her boyfriend die. I get what I want out of the deal, you get at Dethklok unobstructed, and everybody goes home happy. Well…almost everybody."
Crozier started walking, but then turned back, watching the man take aim once again at a dumpster farther back in the alley.
"What's your name?" Crozier realized he didn't know and hadn't asked anyone, not even Orlaag. The man looked over his shoulder.
"That's classified, man. I mean, sir. My…colleagues, they call me Rawhide. Sort of a nickname I've picked up over the years." Rawhide replied, squinting one eye. Crozier scoffed silently. Kids today. They always closed their eyes when they fired. Big mistake, he knew. He had an odd feeling that even so, Charles would have a run for his well-managed money on his hands.
"Well, if you get the opportunity to take out Dethklok, or even part of them, do it."
"Yeah, sure. Whatever you say. You're the guy with the guns- I just shoot 'em."
Crozier was halfway down the street, shoulders hunched against the onslaught of rain, when everything around him flashed brilliant blue for a moment. He smirked to himself, sliding into the backseat of the non-descript car that carried him away.
Zoe worked her fingers through the knots in Toki's hair, who was blissfully sprawled out in the lounge chair.
"Come on, guys. Please? For me?"
"No! I'm sick of all these fuckin' fans fuckin' attacking us and shit! Why can't they just listen to the music?" Nathan roared, still pissed about the more recent attack. Zoe rolled her eyes when Toki sighed.
"Well, first off, Skwisgaar?"
"Ja?"
"If you ever put oatmeal in Toki's hair again while he's sleeping I'll kill you myself. It's a serious bitch to get out. Second, don't punish everyone because of the actions of a few bat-shit crazy losers."
"Why the feck naht? It's our lives at stake!" Pickles commented, frowning.
"And did any of you get hurt?"
"Well…no…" The drummer looked sheepish.
"Exactly. So at least consider the idea of working up some new material, okay? I mean, who would you rather have breathing down your neck. Me? Or Charles?"
The band pondered for a moment, and then collectively made a decision.
"Charles." Came the unanimous reply. Zoe was surprised.
"…Really?"
"Yeah. You nag us. He just prods us. Like, uh…like cows." Nathan pushed his reading glasses up his nose and returned to his book.
"Uschally." Murderface added.
"Yeah."
Zoe reflected on this for a moment, rather boggled.
"So, you want me to send him out here? Because he's in a really bad mood, last I saw him, and he's likely to kick your ass with one arm in a sling and a hole in his back the size of freakin' Alaska."
"Buts isn'ts dat Teskas place biggers?"
"No, Skwis. Here's a little geography lesson for you all. Alaska is the largest state in the union."
Murderface clicked his tongue.
"Zschoe, I'm, uh, pretty schure you might be juscht a, juscht a bit confusched on that one, schweetheart. You schee, I happen to own a map. And I would have to schay Tekshas is definitely the bigger shtate."
"Why would you say that? And don't call me sweetheart ever again." She finished with Toki's hair and looked at him curiously.
Nathan suddenly turned his laptop towards her, displaying a map of the United States.
"Explain, Murderface." He ordered. The bassist licked his lips.
"Schee? That'sh Tekshas right there, and there'sh Alashka." He pointed at the screen.
"…And?" She was confused.
"What, can't you schee it? Alashka ishn't even in the country! It'sh part of freakin' Canada! And you could fit three Alashkas inside Tekshas." Murderface measured the size of the drawing of Alaska in the inset and between his fingers, and then held it up to Texas to prove a point. Those within reach of the laptop followed suit.
She resisted the urge to grind the heel of her palm into her forehead, opting instead to shake out her curls violently.
"No, no, you guys, listen. Alaska is part of the United States. The country bought the land from Russia in eighteen sixty-seven. Charles would probably know much it was for- I don't remember."
"Ah, Seven-point-two million, if memory serves." A voice called out from beyond the door. Zoe snickered.
"Just waiting your chance to talk about money, hm?"
"No, actually, just, ah, passing by." His voice was fainter as he continued down the hall. The lawyer grinned and stood up, striking a pose and judgmentally pointing at the door.
"A likely story! I'll need proof. Where were you just on the night of the twenty-fourth?" She yelled, and Nathan chuckled when Charles didn't answer. Not that anyone expected him to.
"Huh. Lawyers. Who knew they had a sense of humor?"
"Buts Alaskas is ins Canadas! Why woulds Russias has it? I don't tinks you knows what you's talking about." Skwisgaar returned them to the great Alaskan debate suddenly. The redhead looked at him, as if to say, "are you really that stupid?"
"Because of Russian Americ- this is getting more detailed than I meant it to be. Nevermind. Just, suffice it to say that Alaska is the big-"
Zoe's dethphone suddenly rang and cut her off. She answered without checking the caller ID.
"Hello?"
"Do you think you'd go to heaven or hell if I killed you right now?"
"W-what? Who is this?" The tone of her voice caused the band to look up in sudden attention. The click on the other end of the line made her ear ring, and slowly, she let her arm drop from the side of her head.
"What was that all about?" Pickles raised an eyebrow at her, and she paled.
"I-um, look, just… look up what I was talking about online or something. I gotta go." She ducked out the door, hands shaking, looking to catch up with her lover, and seeking the comfort her friends could not give.