Disclaimer
Charlie's Angels and its respective characters © Sony Pictures/Flower Films, 2000-2003.
Author's notes
The Thin Man is not dead. I whole-heartedly disallow it. Neither is Seamus, because I am an emotional masochist. This story reflects a new writing style that I am experimenting with, as well as some disgruntlement with regards to the ending of Charlie's Angels:Full Throttle, which I unabashedly declare as my favourite film of the year.
I swear, it's been a long time since any fandom-based couple has gotten me so CRAZY.
This fanfic attempts to emulate certain aspects of the movie novelisation, hence the little sub-headers here and there. I know that my tardy arrival into this fandom leaves me with little plot matter to expound upon, however, I strive to make this as original as I can. Please feel free to review or submit any form of constructive criticism, that I may improve and present to you readers a better quality of writing.
Thank you, and I hope you like this. :)
P.S. Happy Birthday, Mistiec!
THE FALL OF CRONUS
By Scarr C.
June 3rd, 11:07 P.M.
Location: A dingy alley, downtown L.A.
Status: Not quite deceased.
He liked noise, but not discordant ones like these. Someone was driving his nails into the mound of flesh above his eyebrows and pulling with utmost ferocity. It disturbed him, thus, when the visage of a gigantic reptilian creature wrenching the hood off a car with practised ease spilled across the dark of his irises.
He concentrated on a smattering of curses that was intended to drive the above-mentioned, forehead-dismembering entity away, but those blasted sounds were a most distracting thing, and a tiny voice at the back of his mind insisted that sitting through half an hour of fustian opera was definitely a more attractive option as compared to lying flat on his back on a very uncomfortable bed in wet denim, with an orchestra of hammers taking up a liberal portion of his senses.
It actually took him a few minutes to register that the bed was actually gravel, and that his clothes were limp with coagulating blood. Also, the lizard-like beast was nowhere to be found, and he discovered that the throb of blood pressure in his temples was responsible for those dreadful noises.
Similarly, it was at this particular moment where the pain decided to kick in, more viciously than a badly aimed hatchet to the skull. This time, he was positive that the fragment of dirty glass in his eye was really a fragment of dirty glass in his eye. Two fingers, grime-encrusted and stolid thus proceeded to dislodge the source of aggravation in his line of vision, and he was rewarded with the defeated gurgle of a sticky liquid that stemmed from his cornea and rolled off his left cheekbone.
The other eye was vigilant, calculative and sheathed with an unpleasant quantity of dementia that betrayed his physical immobility. The cursed giant lizard had taken to squatting on his ribs, and to make things worse, the damned beast was, well, invisible.
He tried to alleviate the situation by taking in his surroundings, and the first object his good eye rested upon was a huge letter "E" lying to his right - a piece of the dismantled LOS ANGELES sign that served as an ironic backdrop to-
Wait a second. Now, the recollection process was taking effect, and his mouth began to represent a gnarled sort of smile, an emaciated twist of lips that most tend to identify as a grimace.
Light bulbs.
Yes, there were light bulbs, their contact with a desperate foot quite to blame for his present condition. The ricochet of bullets upon steel networks, the slide of reinforced metal through plunging flesh. And more lucid than the rest, more enraging and enrapturing than all these was the triumphant snare of an American flag lighter, and an inscrutable face that was framed by a colour he could never quite put his finger upon.
July 11th, 9:20 P.M.
Location: New York City
Status: Lurking
It was a colour akin to the red of an overused lipstick. Or that of a sidewalk leaf, pure October in its swan-song glory. Sweet and tangling, pleasant to an aquiline nose and perfect as a metaphorical gash on his palm.
The weather was poor, and he feared for the lock of hair that was currently making its way along the contours of his acerbic features. With an almost child-like affection, he tucked the auburn strands into a breast pocket and stalked along the undisturbed avenue with the bearing of a shadow.
Angels could wait, assignments could not.
July 12th, 8:03 A.M.
Location: Natalie and Pete's Beachfront Condo
Status: Mortal peril
Dylan Sanders was out of ammunition, medical supplies and patience. The guerrilla resistance was bearing down ruthlessly, and even as she fumbled with her dagger she felt a bullet graze the back of her knee.
Natalie Cook was in an equally uncompromising position; to be more specific, Natalie was dead.
Yes, she was dead.
"NO!" The sudden revelation of her partner's fate sliced into her consciousness like raw acid as her mouth formed a perfect oval, her cry of anguish silenced by a thrust to her abdomen.
Caught by horrifying surprise, her legs promptly crumbled.
Stand up. STAND UP! Don't you dare close your eyes-
But the venom from the poison-laced knife had amalgamated with the blood in her circulatory system, and the thud of her cheek against the dirt-beaten track signalled the termination of her last life.
"GOD DAMN IT!" Dylan hurled the Play Station controller viciously at the television screen, where it hit the CRP panel with an excruciating crash.
Alex raised an immaculately shaped eyebrow. "I don't know whether to be pleased or not, honestly. For once it isn't my muffins you're throwing."
Natalie, very much alive and in the pink of health, observed Dylan's tantrum bemusedly from the couch, her own controller still intact, just as Pete ambled into the living room and witnessed the fate of his beloved game console system.
"Nat…? Dylan? Didn't you guys enjoy the latest version of Metal Slug?" He shifted the pieces of broken plastic on the floor with a mournful toe, his voice faltering.
Dylan paused in her vociferous outburst and thrust him a contrite smile. "I'm so sorry, Pete. I think I might have enjoyed it a little too much."
Despite of himself, Pete broke into a nervous laugh, which developed into a hearty chuckle as the hilarity of the situation washed over him.
"One thing's fer sure, though – no more video games for you, Dylan!" A familiar voice rang from the patio, and three heads promptly whipped around, broad grins emerging on each of their radiant faces.
"BOSLEY!"
"Hey, what's up Angels?" Bosley flashed his three favourite ladies in the world an equally warm smile and snapped off his sunglasses before tripping unceremoniously over a small, capering object on the floor.
Pete looked scandalised. Bosley motioned weakly from his twisted position on the rug. "An' you too, Spike." He grunted with as much dignity as one could muster lying on his stomach with his limbs sprawled wildly in every direction possible. The overjoyed puppy responded with a victorious bark and hurried to the sanctuary of Natalie's arms.
"Aw, Bosley, that's so cute!" Natalie gushed, apparently not seeming to mind the fact that Spike was licking a hole in her face.
"I swear, girl, that dog of yours hates me." Bosley pouted. Naturally, the other Angels saw fit to pacify him, and before he could react, his lap was bequeathed the weight of a set of legs belonging to Dylan, while Alex's manicured hands grazed his arm in an assuaging fashion, her other hand coaxing into his mouth a slice of brownie cake that tasted distinctly like industrial rubber. Not that he was complaining, of course, but there was another task to effectuate.
"You know, much as I'd love to hang around and chill with y'all, we have to get our asses back at the headquarters." He managed to disentangle his hand from Dylan's waist and deposit a mouthful of chewed brownie into his palm as surreptitiously as he could.
Pete gave a resigned shrug. "Charlie?" He knew the question was rhetorical before it was even voiced.
"That's right, Pete. Sorry the girls can't stay for breakfast, but there's a little briefing they have to attend."
Natalie shot the love of her life an apologetic look, but his pleasant nature had banished any sense of disappointment as he waved her on to the garage. Gratefully, she threw her arms around his neck and planted a kiss on his lips as Dylan and Alex rose unquestioningly from their seat and followed Bosley out of the front door.
July 12th, 9:00 A.M.
Location: The Charles Townsend Agency
Status: Pre-mission
The speaker box crackled to life just as the oak doors to the office swung open, revealing three confident, attractive women and an African-American man with enthusiastic beams on their faces.
"Good morning, Angels." A deep, personable voice resonated around the room as they assembled on the sofa, Dylan's legs propped candidly upon the coffee table before them.
"Good morning, Charlie!" Four voices chimed in response, and Charlie wasted no time in expounding the details of their next operation. Bosley took his cue to press the button on the desk-remote, and the portrait to their right morphed into an enormous plasma screen, where they came face to face with a bespectacled male in an ill-fitted tweed suit.
"Angels, this is Desmond Fending, renown archaeologist and cartographer." Fending offered a timorous smile in acknowledgment. His blue eyes were watery and blanched, and his moustache quivered visibly, which was unnervingly reminiscent of -
"A rat." Alex muttered into Natalie's ear. "I smell a rat."
"You know the deal about not trusting a man with a moustache." Dylan affirmed. Natalie suppressed a giggle.
"As you may have heard from recent news reports, Mr. Fending has stumbled upon a trove of ancient burial jewels from the elusive catacombs of Alexandria. Upon amassing a few of the treasures, he has decided to auction a percentage of his share for the benefit of several charity organisations, while donating the remainder to the Garrington Historical Museum." Charlie continued. "He is throwing an exclusive showing of the jewels at his house tonight, and this is where you Angels come in."
"Ah, uh, yess." Fending gave an uncoordinated nod. "You see, Angels, I'm afraid that something…nasty might happen tonight. You see, two years ago, I had a fellow researcher with whom I explored the ancient regions of Egypt. His name is Thomas Maulkin, and –"
"Had?" Natalie interrupted.
"Yes. He is no longer a partner, nor a friend, much to my regret. Thomas and I had conflicting opinions when it came to the fate of the jewels. He had strong intentions to divide the newfound wealth between the both of us, and I'm afraid that my insistence on donating a majority of it to public causes more than affronted him. I suppose he thought I was trying to harbour most of the jewels secretly to myself, and as a result he left the partnership."
The screen shifted a frame to the right, and the still image of a grey-haired, floridly attired man appeared next to Fending's box. His eyes were on the verge of being engulfed by dark pouches, and his cheeks possessed a flaccid, weathered quality to them. Thomas Maulkin, Dylan voiced inwardly while consulting her folder.
"I'm pretty sure that Thomas isn't the violent type, but from the years I've known him, he's prone to rash actions and has a flair for the dramatic. If his aim is to publicise his discontent with me, then I can think of no better time for him to strike other than tonight's party. There will be representatives from the news front as well as distinguished guests attending, and I fear for the safety of my visitors, as well as my own."
Bosley shut his file a little too cheerfully for Fending's preference. "Don't you worry a thing about it, Sir. I know these girls, an' I can tell you that they're pretty damn good at what they do."
"Yeah," Natalie chimed. "I'm sure whatever Maulkin has up his sleeve cannot possibly be much of a threat. Judging from his profile, that is. Of course, we're not one to underestimate the enemy, but this event should pass without a hitch."
Fending failed to look mollified by this, and a curt nod was all he could muster before his eyes shifted austerely to an object behind him, and then his screen went blank.
"Well, goodbye and have a nice day." Dylan shot back, a little more than piqued by his erratic behaviour, but Charlie was swift to conciliate her.
"Now, Dylan, you mustn't blame him. Mr. Fending has good reason to be anxious. One of his top bidders for a rare Anubis emerald had drowned unexpectedly in his own bath two days ago. According to the coroner's report, the man had suffered a stroke while soaking in the bathtub, although Fending himself believes that this was a case of foul play."
"Actually, I'm not even sure if we can trust this guy. Fending, I mean." Dylan blurted out. "You know, it's not the first time our client has turned against us. Outstanding examples would include Knox." – She felt her innards twist with angry disgust- "And Raymond Carter."
"I second that." Alex declared, looking to Natalie for support.
"Well, I don't know," The blond shrugged helplessly. "He looks a little pitiful to me. If there's anything significantly fishy behind it, I'll opt for the theory of blackmail."
"Primary suspect or desperate client, there's only one place to find out." Charlie concluded. The Angels exchanged meaningful winks and turned to face Bosley simultaneously.
"Say, Bos…B." Natalie slipped her arm around his own, her bedazzling smile a promise to fun-filled adventure. "What do you say to a little chaperone fun tonight?"
July 12th, 7:02 P.M.
Location: San Pedro Docks
Status: Short of a few bolts.
Mission: Revenge is a dish best served cold.
They say the last place you'd look is usually where it's at, and Seamus O'Grady took that piece of advice to staunch degrees. If he weren't such a soulless brute, he mused, he would have felt a sense of nostalgia promenading the salt-stained decks abroad The Merkin, five weeks after the ship was abandoned since the previous showdown between his men and those three girls.
As a matter of fact, he wasn't grousing as much over his ravaged eye over the past few days. It served to affix a pirate-like flamboyance to his brashness, and he would not have liked to admit it, but Seamus could prove to be a narcissistic man.
At this very moment, however, he was not given to thinking about such frivolities. There was a guarded ire within him, a gnawing furore that consumed every bone and vessel in his body with unbridled abhorrence. Only God would judge him, he swore. Not some brat-pack bunch of girls who tired too hard to fit into pants that were obviously not made for them. And definitely not some ex-girlfriend who had committed the ultimate betrayal against him eight years ago.
"I'll make you sorry, Helen," His voice was akin to a singsong, powerful jaws flexing with manic vengeance. "I'm going to make you realise that all you are, and all you'll ever be is Helen Zaas, the stupid little twit who made the mistake of crossing my path. And you'll be sorry, oh you will…"
His henchmen uttered nary a sound as their leader crowed deliriously to himself, the weather a stark emblazonment of red; a sailor's warning sky.
"…And first, Helen, we're going to start off where you thought we ended."
_______________
To be continued