*Rated "S2" for Season Two. May contain information in direct conflict with previously well-established mythos.
The Ghost of Christmas Past
Danny Woo was dead to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about that. The register of his burial was signed by the clergyman, the clerk, the undertaker, and the chief coroner. Vicky Po signed it. And Vicky Po's name was good for anything she chose to put her hand to.
Old Danny was dead as a door-nail.
Mind! I don't mean to say that I know, of my own knowledge, what there is particularly dead about a door-nail. I might have been inclined, myself, to regard a coffin-nail as the deadest piece of ironmongery in the trade. But the wisdom of our ancestors is in the simile; and my unhallowed hands shall not disturb it, or the Country's done for. You will therefore permit me to repeat, emphatically, that Danny was as dead as a door-nail.
Pezzini knew he was dead? Of course she did. How could it be otherwise? Pezzini and he were partners for I don't know how many years by the time of the funeral.
The mention of Danny's funeral brings me back to the point I started from. There is no doubt that Danny was dead. This must be distinctly understood, or nothing wonderful can come of the story I am going to relate. And so I conclude: Danny Woo, detective formerly assigned to the 11th Precinct, was dead.
Which had never yet kept him from talking to his partner whenever the urge took him.
"Peace on Earth, Pez," he said, peeking 'round the heavy bag at Sully's Gym. His hair was pulled back in a low ponytail, and he was dressed in an off-white, boat-necked sweater that looked like cashmere. Not that Sara Pezzini, New York detective, wearer of the Witchblade, took any notice of such things.
"Yeah," she scoffed at his holiday salutation. "Let me know where I can get me some of that." Mid-workout her biceps were slick with sweat; her calves tensed for action, and inside the tight cuff of her red Everlasts, the Witchblade throbbed with the pleasure of physically violent exertion.
"'S Christmas, Sara," Danny's brow drew together with concern, his voice hesitant with skepticism. "Why the 'tude?"
"Oh, I don't know," she threw out, landing a punch to underscore her sarcasm. "Captain's got me on the job in a few--thought I'd try and sleep some before going the whole night without--but old Ken Kringle had other ideas."
DISCLAIMERS: Witchblade the show/comic and its characters are property of Top Cow and Warner Bros. I mean no disrespect, and am not making any money or profit out of their use here.
Additionally, the first five paragraphs here are a riff on/homage to the opening of Charles Dickens' short novel A Christmas Carol. I do not own that work (or its characters) either--and do not mean to represent that I do.
This story belongs to Alias Superspy, as my holiday gift to her.
Neftzer 2003(c)
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