Chapter Three: Carry On My Wayward Son
The brilliant yellow ball of superheated plasma blazed down upon the roofless, black corvette, from out of a crystal blue sky, as it races down the sparsely occupied side street. A stunningly beautiful girl, with long red hair that streams out behind her, abruptly, but smoothly guides the pristine sports car to within inches of the curb as she comes to a stop. Slipping the car back into first gear she shuts the engine down as she sets the parking brake. A moment later she slips her foot of the clutch.
Plucking the keys out of the ignition Michael grabs the large leather duffel bag, that held nearly a weeks worth of his newly acquired clothes, from its spot on the passenger seat. Swinging the driver's side door open Michael, displaying far more confidence then he feels, slips out of the car. The black platform boots, it had taken him nearly four days to get use to wearing, add a few more inches to his petite five foot five frame as he stands in the middle of the road next to his car.
A denim jacket covers the black midriff top he was wearing. A top that when combined with the low riding pants he had on left over a foot of tender, young female flesh open to public view. A view that included his tight muscled abs, the long snout of the Chinese dragon tattoo, and the diamond studded hoop ring that pierced his naval. It had taken him quite a few hours but he had finally managed to get the thirteen earrings Madison wore in. Seven in the left ear, six in the right. A small silver cross now hung from around his neck, nestled just above his ample cleavage. A light sheen of make-up highlighting his slightly exotic features made him even more exquisite to those gazing upon him.
Standing in the middle of the road however he felt self-conscious in the tight, revealing clothes he now wore. He knew he shouldn't. He knew that the body he now possessed was, in a word, hot. It was the type of body that most men, not to mention quite a few women, would die trying to get their hands on.
In a way that was why he felt so uncomfortable. He had absolutely know desire to be ogled at by every ham fisted, beer swilling slob whose eyes happen to see his killer body. It wasn't like he had asked for it, or stole, or did anything other then be in the wrong place at the wrong time. He couldn't exactly go and get his body back since Madison, the bitch that had stolen it, had gotten herself killed within minutes of obtaining her desired possession.
At the same time, as much as it shamed him to admit it, he did want to be noticed. After all he did have this magnificent body. He wanted to look not just good, but exceptional. So long as the people doing the noticing were women. That was one thing he was extremely grateful for. Finding out his sexual orientation hadn't changed along with his body.
That was one of the few amusing aspects of this entire situation. Like Flotsam had pointed out, "most teenage girls would be going through all kinds of angst discovering they were gay. For you Mikey it's got to be one of the greatest moments of your life."
And it was. Being a woman, worse being a teenager again, was just going to take some time to get used to. It was something that he was coming to terms with, slowly to be sure, but he was making progress at accepting everything that it entailed good, bad, and indifferent.
That was why he had gone to the salon a day ago. First he had needed to get his hair out of the braids Madison had kept it in without hacking the fiery red locks off. Second he needed to learn how to apply make-up, nail polish, and a dozen or more things he hadn't even thought of. He had tackled the problem with all the grit and determination he assaulted any obstacle with. Six hours later, and nearly a thousand dollars poorer, he had walked out of the salon with nearly as much confidence in his ability to apply a coat of make-up as he had in retuning his corvette's engine. None.
With a deep sigh Michael slings his heavy duffel bag over his shoulder. Following the concrete walkway he makes his way to the front porch. Climbing the steps he taps the doorbell causing an actual bell sound to chime inside the house. He settles back on his heels as he waits for someone to answer the door. A minute or so later he presses the button again, and then again a few moments after that.
"Figures," he grumbles darkly while turning around. He drops his bag to the wooden floor. A moment later he plops down on the top step, "your life gets turned upside down, inside out, knocked off kilter, cock-eyed. You spend days traversing a continent and when you finally get to where you might be able to get some help there isn't anybody home." Michael complains as he settles into the classical thinker pose: feet separated, knees spread wide, shoulders slumped, back hunched over slightly, right elbow planted into his leg, head cock to the side supported by his right hand, left forearm draped across his knee. "It's official. My life sucks."
The erratic cadence of nearly a dozen clocks marking the passage of time with their rhythmic tick-tocking sound as their heavy counter weights swing, pendulum like, back and forth inside their wood, glass, or metal casings. The soft sound each clock made would have been relaxing if there had only been the one clock. With twelve clocks, not one in sync with the other eleven, it was like listening to a symphony of lunatics cackling loudly inside the antique shop.
It was a sound Michael found extremely reassuring as the door swings shut behind him. The cavernous front room was filled to bursting with glass display cases of every shape and size imaginable. It was a hodge podge of artifacts, relics, and trinkets both ancient and modern.
The shop was exactly how Michael remembered it, only with a completely different inventory then the last time he had been in the store. In all the years Michael had known the eccentric collector called Omiga the elderly man's collection was never static. His merchandise was always in a constant state of flux.
Michael easily glides through the narrow, maze like corridors the array of display cases created. Pushing the thick sleeves of the white sweatshirt up over his slender elbows he weaves his way around the glass cases as he searches for the shop owner, Omiga. Not that it was much of a search. The old man like always was at the back of his shop, sitting behind his massive wrap around desk.
The old man's intelligent, rat like green eyes had followed the incredibly beautiful girl from the moment she had first stepped through the stores front entrance. It wasn't unusual for people he didn't know to come into his shop. He did, after all, have a reputation for knowing things other people didn't know. The people who normally did step through his door looking for his services were; older, harder, with an edge of danger that this young, attractive girl just didn't possess. She was determined though. That was easy to see with the set of her jaw and the way she maneuvers her way through the shop as if she knew exactly where she was going.
Omiga could also tell the girl was trying to hide herself, with the baggy sweatshirt and the too large jeans she was wearing. It was as if she was ashamed with herself for some reason. Her features almost look too large in her small oval face. Her round, hazel eyes that glinted blue or green depending on how the light took them were her most prominent feature, followed closely by her deep bronze complexion, and her dark fiery red hair.
She was petite despite standing five and half feet tall. Her body was slim, narrow through the hips and shoulders, but long. She could almost be called sleek with curves in just the right places. As far as Omiga was concerned anybody that saw the girl for anything other then what she was, a brilliant beauty of a girl on the verge of blossoming into a radiant star was a blind fool.
If Omiga was the kind of man to make furtive wishes then right at that moment the hunched over old man would have fifty years taken off his seventy year old body for half a day. The lust filled thoughts pass out of his head nearly as quickly as they had entered it. Sighing softly he satisfies himself by simply watching her body sway as she makes her way to him.
Michael was watching Omiga watch him as he strolls up to the counter. He sees the glint in his shrewd eyes and the lazy half smile that cracks his leathery skin. Suddenly it felt like maggots were eating their way out of his guts as he realizes what the look was for. He had seen it often enough when he had taken the old man to breakfast or lunch and they would sit around admiring all the beautiful women they saw. Omiga would quite often keep a running commentary of what he was planning on doing with each and every one of them.
Having a man look at him as if he was a treat that he was getting ready to unwrap and enjoy disgusted him. Made him feel like ripping the persons head off and displaying it so all men would see what will happen to those fool enough to check him out. "What can I do for ya' missy?" Omiga inquires, his voice a rough, crackling, hoarse whisper.
Suppressing a groan Michael stops in front of the ancient mahogany wrap around desk Omiga sits behind. Reaching into the small hand bag, he had forced himself to take when he had finally left Jacob's blocky three story town house this morning when he had managed to finally pull himself together after the fiasco in the shower, he produces the intricately worked silver bracelet and linked rings. "What the hell is this?" He demands roughly, but his girlish voice makes the demand sound more like a whine, as he holds the finely wrought piece of jewelry out to Omiga in the of her long fingered hands.
Omiga's intelligent brown eyes go wide in fearful shock at the sight of the relic in the girl's small hand. Standing up he takes a step back while giving the impression of moving closer. His normally warm eyes are cold as he looks into Michael's multi-colored eyes. "Where did you get that?" His old voice not as brittle as it had been a moment before.
"It's just something that I found," Michael lies easily. He doesn't like the way Omiga's eyes light up as he looks at him.
"This isn't something you just find girlie," he rasps strongly. Straightening slightly the right corner of his lips twitched upwards, "not unless you happened to find it in a vault?"
"You know what it is or not?" Michael pushes hoping Omiga will just forget about where he had found the damn thing and just tell what the hell it is.
Omiga frowns at the girls response. "Put it down here," he snaps pointing to his heavily polished mahogany desk.
Michael hesitates for a moment before relenting and putting the artifact down on the desk. He didn't like the idea of letting the intricate ring and bracelet set out of his possession, but he didn't really see where he had that much of a choice in the matter. Omiga was a fount of information, obscure and trivial at times to be sure, but always vital. At seventy years of age his mind was as clear and sharp as it ever had been, but he had a habit of doling out his knowledge in little driblets and the more irritated he became the more infrequent his doling.
Omiga snorts as his gnarled fingers poke at the delicate device, "stuff of myth is what you got here."
"It's real enough," Michael mutters earning himself a sharp glance from the old man. "I'd imagine," he hedges slightly.
Omiga snorts at the girls comment before going back to his examination. He knew the girl was lying, or at least not telling him the truth. Not that he cared if she was or not. The only thing that concerned him was the knowledge.
"What is it?" Michael demands anxiously.
"A draconian katra," Omiga answers indifferently without looking up.
This time it's Michael's turn to snort, "and that helps me because I'm fluent in obscure references?"
The old man chuckles at the comment, "if you want to pick my brain girlie you're need something other then a sour tongue and hot temper."
Michael glares at Omiga, but the old man isn't even looking at him. He stares at him for nearly a minute while he does nothing more then fiddle with the odd piece of jewelry. "Fine," he sighs defeated. "What do you want?"
Omiga looks up, "what does any old man want from a pretty young girl?" Michael feels himself flush at the old man's suggestion. His temper rising just as fast as temperature, but before he's able to say or do anything Omiga continues with his request. "A simple kiss," he finishes modestly.
"A... A kiss?" A flustered Michael's fumbles. "You, you want me? To kiss you?" He finally manages to finish pointing back and forth between the two of them.
"You don't have to sound so disgusted," the old man grumbles angrily.
"I... I'm a tw- fifteen... You're like a seventy year old decrepit fossil," Michael splutters. It wasn't quite as bad as what he had originally thought Omiga was suggesting, but it was still kissing another man. It wasn't that he had anything against homosexuals, what two people wanted to do was none of his business, but the thought of him kissing another guy made him want to empty his stomach were he stood. Then it was like a light bulb coming on inside of his head, "I'm gay!" He practically shouts out in a relieved breath, "a lesbian, dyke, queer, homosexual. Whatever you want to call it that's what I am," he says proudly.
Omiga glares at the young girl beaming in front of him, "look if you don't want to give an old man a simple peck on the cheek then you don't have to," he cuts in gruffly. "And you didn't have to insult me by pretending to be gay," he adds in an ever harsher tone.
"I'm not," Michael answers in an ever frostier tone of voice. "I would never... I don't?" He asks in confusion. It wasn't like Omiga to just give up once we got something in his head.
The old man shakes his head, "no," he says pushing the katra back towards the young girl. "But just like with any transaction no payment no product," he informs her. "In other words no kiss, no info," he concludes with a smug little grin.
Michael gapes at the old man, "you little bastard!" He stammers angrily.
"With language like that I might have to charge you double," he responds with a foolish little chuckle.
"One kiss," Michael says quickly. "On the cheek, and if your information is just some diluted fairy tale you lose what's left of those pearly white teeth your so proud of."
Omiga smiles broadly, "kiss first information second," he states setting the terms of their agreement.
"I think I'm getting ripped off here," Michael grumbles as Omiga leans forward turning his head to the side. Summoning all of his courage Michael tilts his head up. Darting in quickly he places quick kiss on the old man's cheek having to fight his gag reflex the whole way in. Taking a step away from Omiga he uses the back of his hand to wipe off his lips. "I think I'm going to be sick," he mumbles softly to himself.
The old man harumps loudly as he settles back, "that's got to be the shortest kiss on record. To bad Guinness..."
"I told you already. I'm..."
"Right, right, right. Gay, lesbian, dyke. Got it," he interrupts her back.
Michael scowls at the old man. It had been so much easier to get information out of him when he had been a man. Buy him dinner, a little bit of booze, and a cheap, twenty dollar, whore and Omiga sang like a canary. A very happy, slightly inebriated canary, but still a canary. "The katra," he insist.
"It's use to transfer essences between bodies," he states as he sits back down in his comfy leather chair.
Michael waits for a minute. "That's it?"
"In a nutshell," Omiga replies with a slight nod.
Michael glowers at the old man, "that's not a hell of a lot of information."
"It wasn't that much of a kiss," Omiga tells her smugly.
Michael lowers his voice as he speaks again. His words come out in a harsh whisper, "what's the rest of the story?"
Omiga swallows at the deadly tone in the her voice, "there old," he says softly. "Nobody knows how old, when they were first created, what they were originally made for. There's a lot of speculation about them, theories, a few hints but nothing solid. The best guesses out there say they were originally made to extend a persons life, draining one persons life energy while giving it to the one wearing the katra only it didn't work right. Instead of draining a person's essence it switched them. Again useful in extending ones life. Jump into a young body, live in it until it begins to grow old and then switch again, again, and again. Virtual youth, never ending life. Who wouldn't sell their soul for something like? Some people think that is how some of the early empires lasted so long, just one ruler hoping from body to body. Then there are those that think these were originally created as tools for infiltration and assassination. Take the place of a trusted advisor, a personal servant. Somebody that would never be searched. The last time I heard of one in use was nearly three years ago. Some wanna be demon lord had it made for his pet assassin or some such thing."
Michael blinks as Omiga runs down. He had never heard the old man say so much at one time before. It sounded like another one of his fantastic stories he was always telling and if he hadn't experience it first hand he probably wouldn't have believed a word of what he had just said. "What do you know about the term slayer as it refers to mystical warriors chosen to fight the forces of darkness?" He inquires not sure if he wanted to know the answer or not.
Omiga shrugs, "that pretty much sums it up. Though there's this part about them only being young girls, one dies another's called or so the stories go. Demons think they're real but I've never had it confirmed from a source I trusted." Michael nods picking up the katra, "that isn't any good," Omiga says quickly. "See these links, how they've separated. Useless now."
Slipping the device back into his purse he withdraws the thousand dollars he had withdrawn from his account earlier in the day. "Thanks a lot old timer," he says tossing the roll of bills onto the desk top. With that he turns and walks away. The entire time he can feel the old man's eyes glued to his ass as he winds his way through the cluttered display cases.
Michael sits on the cold steel of Flotsam's countertop. He presses the heel of his hands into the hard surface as he drums his long nails into the underside of the lips edge. His feet swing back and forth slowly as he leans forward slightly.
Flotsam on the other hand leans his dark frame back into his overstuffed leather couch, his lanky body is almost engulfed within the thick cushions, with a smirk on his lips and a glint in his hard brown eyes. He watches the girl sitting on his countertop with curiosity, speculation, and just a little touch of mirth. She had shown up in his complex, bypassing his security with ease, and claimed to be one of his long time friends. She had spun a relatively simple story of a young girl who had used a device called a draconian katra that had put their minds in the other's body.
She knew details about his life, things he was positive Michael wouldn't have told a single living soul. It however didn't mean that she was telling the truth. It was far more likely that, despite her rather innocent appearance, she was effective at extracting information from people.
"You don't believe me?" Michael asks his long time associate.
Flotsam shrugs, "it's not that I don't want to believe you. It's just that that's quite a tale you got there," he says as he leans forward.
"If it didn't happen to me I wouldn't believe it either," Michael admits. "I'm not the kind of person that believes in this kind of stuff without proof. Me being in this body is that proof," he finishes hopping off the counter.
"Fine," Flotsam replies resting his forearms across his long, too thin legs just above his knees. "Lets say I believe you, that you are Michael. Why are you here? Why tell me?" He questions watching her as she pulls a couple of Michelob's from out of his fridge.
"Because I need your help," Michael says walking over to him. With barely any effort at all he twist the caps off the bottles. Handing one of them over to Flotsam he continues, "I need specialized weapons. That stuff that you made me before doesn't really work with this body, too big," he shrugs. "You're the best in the business when it comes to this stuff. You're the only person I trust," he finishes before taking a small swig from his beer. Over the past few days he was finding that his taste were changing almost as rapidly as his body had. He grimaces slightly at the beer's flavor. Looking down at the bottle in his hand he sighs softly.
"Wow," the tall man says mockingly wiping a false tear from his cheek. "That was so, so... I'm touched."
Michael's middle finger flips up as he leans back against the counter. "Besides I need a secure location to create myself. Set up accounts, transfer funds."
"So you're just using me," Flotsam jokes almost sounding hurt.
Michael smiles, "of course I am. But you're going to make a lot of money," he says as his smile turns into a devious grin.
Michael turns around as he hears the car pull into the driveway. He watches as the small red four door sedan comes to a stop. The man driving the economy sized car, Michael doesn't recognize. The two women on the other hand he had made sure to memorize their likeness during the four days he had spent at Flotsam's dwelling creating his new identity.
He smiles broadly watching the sister's climb out of the car. Seeing the older sister felt like having a huge weight being lifted off his shoulders. Of course there were also other things happening to him as his eyes drink in both women's beautiful bodies. Thankfully being aroused in a teenage girl's body wasn't anywhere near as noticeable as being aroused in a teenage boy's body. It was still no less uncomfortable if for an entirely different reason.
It was as he was walking down the concrete walk towards the group that he first paid any attention to the large man that had gotten out of the small car from behind the steering wheel. Michael found it slightly amusing at what he now considered a large man. In his old body he would have been a couple of inches taller then the over weight man scowling at him. He had obviously seen the way he had been looking at the women he considered his own and he didn't like it much.
Not that Michael cares. He simply ignores him, as he ignores Dawn for the moment so he can focus his attention on the shorter blonde, Buffy, as she smoothly, but quickly moves around the front of the car placing herself in front of the two people she cares for. Now all he had to worry about was weather or not Buffy was this legendary, mythical warrior known as the slayer. If she wasn't then he had no idea as to what to do next.
"Buffy Summers..." He begins.
"Yeah," Buffy answers, "who are..."
"...The slayer?" He finishes asking his question.
Buffy's face hardens at the title he just added to her name. Michael senses Dawn ready herself to move at a moments notice as the man's hulking frame suddenly looms over the two small women. "Who the hell are you?" She demands harshly.
Michael flinches slightly at her tone but it doesn't deter him, "my name's Madison Rose," he begins quickly falling into the cover story he spent a week making as real to himself as his own life was. "I was sent by my watcher."
"What?" The man blurts out a moment before Buffy asks.
"Why would he do that?" The tiny blonde questions suspiciously.
Reaching into his pocket he pulls out the slip of paper Wyatt Jacob had been holding when he found the body. "He was killed the same night I was attacked by half a dozen robe wearing lunatics," handing the paper to Buffy he continues. "This was clutched in his hand."
________________________________________________________________________
Carry On Wayward Son - Kansas
Once I rose above the noise and confusion
Just to get a glimpse beyond the illusion
I was soaring ever higher, but I flew too high
Though my eyes could see I still was a blind man
Though my mind could thnk I still was a mad man
I hear the voices when I'm dreamin', I can hear them say
Carry on my wayward son,
For there'll be peace when you are done
Lay your weary head to rest
Now don't you cry no more
Masquerading as a man with a reason
My charade is the event of the season
And if I claim to be a wise man, it surely means that I don't know
On a stormy sea of moving emotion
Tossed about I'm like a ship on the ocean
I set a course for winds of fortune, but I hear the voices say
Carry on my wayward son,
For there'll be peace when you are done
Lay your weary head to rest
Now don't you cry no more
Carry on, you will always remember
Carry on, nothing equals the splendor
Now your life's no longer empty
Surely heaven waits for you
Carry on my wayward son,
For there'll be peace when you are done
Lay your weary head to rest
Now don't you cry no more
