HARBINGERS
1: FIRST BLOOD
You people! I ask you to Read and review and to tell me whether the guys and spawn should play the "misunderstanding fight" game or not and do you? LIKE HELL YOU DO! Any way no more waiting. I'm updating this thing. But be warned this shall not be forgotten! In fact I think I'll update my plans to conquer the world as well! Muhahaha…Ah screw it. Read.
This takes place after words and warlocks and contains spoilers.
New York
9.30 am
Sunday October 11th
"What is it?"
Donatello sighed loudly, hopping to deter his brothers umpteenth (10th actually, he'd been keeping count) question. In vain as it turned out.
"Don…What is it?"
"Let's go over this again."
Green hands rubbed at a faint liquid ring imposed on ancient leather(or something very similar),not so much removing it as spreading liquid streaks across the cover. Not satisfied, but not wanting to drag it out, Donatello placed the book back admits the metallic clutter spread across the dust coated, polished surface of the work table.
"It is a century's old magic tome with access to several major audio respondent extrademensional power sources, or "spells" as the rest of the world would have them, and the works of some sort of ancient despot, conducting major experiments into the presences we would best describe as a "soul". I do not know why Strange gave it to me, but he did. It is not, and let me be perfectly clear about this…"
Don's voice raised slightly, the tones of some one clinging to the edge of exasperation.
"…a coaster!"
Michelangelo lowered a yellowing mug from a cappuccino ringed beak.
"Yeah…but what is it?"
His shell preventing his shoulders from quite hitting the back of the chair, Don sagged.
Come in number 11. Your time is up.
Silver glinted in black, untraceable, unhindered, cutting early evenings shadow. Leonardo had been doing this for so long he was only half aware of what he was doing. The mutant's mind wondered slightly, half way into thought, never quite out of range of lessons that became a part of life as learning to walk did.
Focus.
He swung elegantly, one, twoand turning he…
…winced as the blades found a soft target, slipped across the blood soaked alley, breath burning through his lungs. The cold bit at his cuts with the blades ferocity but he ignored the burning salt and copper screams running from his side. Keep running, that was the important thing, forget the blood, forget the cold, forget the pain. Keep running…
…jump and kick, turn, one, two, bring the flat of the blade across…
…slash at the nearest foot ninja, keep running, a side kick to the throat of the next. A clattering behind him, a chain link fence giving way into the snow as even more foot solders forgot about stealth and subtlety, just attacking. He fled through the slashing mass, lunging eyes shut against the storm of sharpened steel and wood, the biting metallic coldness of the first rung of the fire escape strangely warm in his hand. Something thudded off his shell, the hollow swelling sensation quickly lost in the catalogue of other wounds and sensations he gathered on this fools errand. He kicked down, his foot coming into contact with something, most likely a human skull, he couldn't tell, he'd lost all feeling in it. Keep running. He began to climb…
…sweep around, one, two, kick, jump, swing. He opened his eyes, then shut them, trying to turn the movements into a lifeline, some form of saviour from the tilde wave of memories…
…the pale light of the construction site lamps blurred bloodied vision. His head swam, he wasn't sure if he was breathing anymore. It was too bright here, too cold and burning and bright. Dust, steel, light, stone, the air blocked by bodies. Behind him. Why fight when you can run? Steel hissed and he spun round, katanas held firm in cold, bloodied, nerveless hands. And when you can't run? The foot solders formed two rows, a shadow red sea parting. And he was there. Muscle and mind, peace and typhoon, Calculation and steel determination. It couldn't be. Not him. But it was. Anyone could put on the armour, but no one could march like a storm cloud: still air and unbound raw power. He couldn't run. Not even if he wanted to…
…Left, right, one, two, cut, thrust, back. His muscles became weights, cast iron he could barely move…
…The beating (to his eternal embarrassment) took merely 20 minutes. His last actual thought before he was tossed limp and spent through April's window wasn't worth repeating. The world dissolved around him, hands propping him upright. Or trying to. But he had to give the message, surly the only reason he was still alive.
"He's…"
His throat was dry, an empty reservoir he barley managed half fill with swallowed saliva and blood.
"…back…the shredder…"
Dust and stone flew, came close to breaking in the grip of spider web cracks, as Leonardo slammed the hilt of the katana straight into the rooftops ledge.
No!
His hands were shaking, damn it, his hands were shaking! The pressure came hard and fast, the world was wrong. Something was here with him…whispering, biting, dragging…Wrong…a sensation like he was a cylinder in a world of squares…
This is not then! Forget it! He told himself, the blind leading the blind, this is not that day when you were foolish enough to take on an entire army by yourself! This is not the day you were tossed through April's window, helpless as a babe!
Turmoil filled eyes focused for the first time on the three fingered vices, digging, actually digging into the ledge. No pain…which probably meant he'd crushed all nerves. Yet…no blood. Leo stared at his hands, lifting them to blank stunned eyes. There wasn't much else he could do.
A dull roar overhead. Like water in his head.
He collapsed onto his shell, the sound of armour plaiting sliding on cinderblock. Above an airliner, a thundering arrow in the star lit night descended slowly vanishing into the horizon.
The pressure…released.
Leo felt the exhaustion desert him, the sensation in his head an echo.
And yet…
It made sense in an impossible sort of way. Something on that airliner was wrong. It was the cause of this somehow. And he felt it, like he'd run a finger over a smooth glass surface, blind folded…found a crack. Something was evil.
And it was in New York.
Reptilian feet hit the other roof, started running.
10:30 am
"I dunno nothin'…I swear I dunno nothing!"
Chains rattled, annoyed, eager to let go.
All too eager.
So was Spawn.
TURK…YOU KNOW WHAT'LL HAPPEN IF YOU LIE.
"I ain't lying man, I swear!"
Emerald slits narrowed. Metal swayed this way and that a little more. Turk, like a lot of stool pigeons, was unpredictable at times. He could use a little coxing occasionally…apparently Daredevil coxed him a lot. A lot like this.
Still, maybe the whiney little bastard had grown use to being suspended over a 4 story drop. Spawn would have chosen 20 but (a) This was the Bronx and (b) information was needed in a hurry.
A couple of nights back the disappearances started. It wasn't noticed in the alleys at first and God forbid New York's finest take an interest in the homeless, missing or other wise. Rumours started that some had become tired of the rule of the alleys and simply hitched a box car to Gotham. As far as Spawn was concerned the Bat could keep them. Some suspicion had risen however, a few regulars at the shelters absent from the usual crowd, a drinking buddy missing here and there.
Back when he was alive, Simmons's wouldn't have spat at one of these derelicts, continued a life taken far too much for granted. But when he'd returned, a husk, clad in living liquid black and red, the new poster child for Night of the undead, friends and family had been out of the question. Spawn had qualms about acknowledging the denizens of rat city as "friends"… but combat taught you about territory.
How the people in it belonged to you no matter how much you whished it other wise.
How if they were taken, it was a mere matter of time before your territory was taken.
How losing your territory was unacceptable.
A week or so of frustrating searching allowed him to trace the earliest disappearances to somewhere on the borders of rat city, close to the abandoned section of the docks, full of convenient warehouses. Various unmarked vehicles had been noticed close too the area and heating places were common.
Spawn was eager to discover what was so interesting about this cargo that it required the abduction and murdering of his people from refuge. Rip the door off and slaughter the bastards eager. But the first thing every marine instructor did was to tell each and every rookie never, never, go in without briefing. Or the correct information.
Blood rushing to his head, the October air biting at his unshaven face, Turk briefly considered trying to pry the chains loose.
Briefly.
TURK. I'M GOING TO ASK AGAIN. LAST CHANCE.
That voice was more terrifying than Daredevil, death forcing it's way through his chest.
He didn't need this.
He'd been ready to join Grotto and the rest of the rabble at Josie's.
Then this God damn freak had landed behind in a rustle of red leather, a flash of metal.
And now…
TURK…
Warehouses. The freak needed dock side warehouses.
"Okay…okay lemme think man…"
A rattle, the horizontal street shook.
THINK HARDER.
"A…A…couple weeks ago…oh man…some…some guy…Swedish rich guy…Swedish… yeah …called…called…t…t…the cartel…yeah…"
Air rushed past and Turk was face to face with those eyes.
HE WANTED TRANSPORT RIGHT? PICK UPS?
"Y…yeah…"
WHAT OF?
"Dunno…needed trucks…lotta trucks…real sec…secret…oh man…"
WHY?
"I …I got no clue man…no clue…aw man…the docks…the docks…secret pickups…secret…S'allI know man…I swear thas all I know!"
A pause of consideration.
Then a metallic whip crack.
Turk was thrust out into a windy abyss and he screamed all the way down.
Or through.
Dust rose as a human body bounced off the roof of the adjacent building. Metal resonated as Turk banged against an air conditioning unit. He picked himself up, jabbering. He should have expected this: never waste a good stooile if you can avoid it.
On the plus side, the freak was gone, as night people so often were.
On the negative side, he was 4 stories up with no roof exit.
10:37
Flatiron
"So how's Shadow doing in school?"
"Great, great."
Casey Jones was too old for this. Which was probably why he loved it so much.
Life was easier to handle with a baseball bat in hand and a nine iron for back up.
Except small talk.
He hated small talk: he suffered no illusion to the inadequacies which festered and hid inside his words and those of others for his behalf.
Luckily his best friend wasn't good at it either.
"So you dragged me from my spire cause…?"
Casey grinned with everything but his mouth.
Raphael was worse.
"C'mon Case man…I was ready to check in with the guys and Splinter, do a couple rounds of the 'hood…maybe the kitchen. And then you call with no explanation, no nothing. Then make me wait a couple more minutes while you grab your gear. Excuse me if I sound a little P.O'd but I had plans."
Casey nodded, hockey mask fidgeted from hand to hand, took a deep breath.
"Last Friday…at the shelter…we got a lot smaller bunch than we normally do."
"So? Not every bum can get off his ass after a bottle of hooch."
"Hey, hey!" Desperate gestures to the bedroom door. "This ain't like old times…we got a kid in here!"
"A sleeping kid," Raph said (which was as close to an apology as Casey was going to get) ", who has you for a dad. Anyway, a few bums don't show up, what's the beef?"
Okay. Here came the hard part.
"Raph…their all from rat city. Spawn territory."
"Aww Christ…not you too!" Hands and head in the air, exasperation thick as city smog…yep, that was Raph. An urban legend which didn't believe in an urban legend. Ironic. Typical. Expected.
"You actually believe that crap?"
"Hey I hang out with "the leprechaun men of the sewers" and I get this?"
Bandana tails trailing, Raphael shook his head.
"You read it in the Bugle Casey. The Bugle!"
"The Planet ran a story on it!"
"Oh so you trust Lois Lanes opinion over mine now?"
Casey stood up from the chair, face to face with reptilian stubbornness.
"That ain't the point! Look they all agree that this thing, if it exists…"
"Which it doesn't!"
"If it exists…" Casey pushed frustration back. Arguing with Raphael was like throwing rocks at a tank. "If it exists, it hangs out around some alleys somewhere in the city. For a couple of months, people have been crawling out of there with broken hands, some missing entire body parts. Then, the kind of people who live, yeah you heard right, live there are gone. No explanation, gone."
"So?"
"There's this…this thing…crawling around mutilating people. Do the math!"
"Why do you care?"
"You mean you don't?"
The apartment air rang with tension. Casey was aware of a pulsing sensation, hot like a blow lamp in winter.
"Back at the shelter…their was an old girl. Mary. Always helping when she could…never did nothing to nobody. Then she went missing. Just like all the rest. Cops couldn't give a damn if you paid them. Some drunk …it ain't acceptable but it's understandable cause its easier."
Casey swallowed, breathed, looked Raph right in the eye.
"An old lady he only ever wanted to help life…got a dozen different shit breaks…and still wanted to help…that's different."
Payback different.
"The only ones who are remotely interested in these cases…and there are roughly a dozen in this neighbourhood alone …are a couple of PIs who have their own reasons for looking into them, I'm not sure if there the right ones. So I was gonna put the mask n clubs together, see if this Spawn guy did have anything to with it. Thought you might like to help. Thought you cared. Guess I was wrong!"
Raph was avoiding eye contact now.
"Look…that came out wrong…"
"No it didn't, did it?"
It wasn't an actual question.
Casey just stood their for a few minutes, unsure. Then headed for the window.
"Does April know?"
Casey froze, didn't turn around. When he did a guilty glance was cast towards the door.
"She doesn't."
"No. I figured…Y'know…"
"She doesn't want you involved."
"No."
Silence. Then Raph walked slowly to the window, undid the catch.
"C'mon Jason. Some ones gotta keep an eye on you."
Casey's smile was hidden behind the mask.
The air was cold but ignored, abandoned by the thrill of leaping rusting gutters and fire escapes, jumping the gaps between one roof and the next , the horizon in front, behind and around , endless.
"So who'd you stick on the case?"
"Aw I dunno…Burke and…Burke and Wilis…?
10: 40
"…an a side a fries while your out."
"Super size sir?"
"Ah I'm onna diet but what the hell."
Various files stacked with almost terrifying care and tidiness, Twitch Williams rose from his small well kept chair (an anniversary gift) and crossed to the office door. Out of all the office, Sam Burke decided, that door was the most neutral. Simple aged wood. Twitch's desk was an island of organisation in a sea of his crap. There was an almost visible line in the office. If you knew what you were looking for. For example, Sam's side contained the remains of an entire weeks worth of snacks, the walls and floors a slightly stained colour. Twitch's was so damn neat.
A nugget butter bar treat clasped in one hand, Sam sent another broad slab (which had K.Od many a perp) after the latest file already trying to catalogue itself in the almost yellowing land mass of past cases. Arnold Jones. Experienced eyes scanned the script for the 5th time that day. Same story as the other shelters. Only this one hadn't gone to Burke and Williams old pals in the prescient. Smart. And observant. Most of the file contained a search that suggested the disappearances occurred some where close to rat city. So they weren't the only ones who'd noticed. And if they'd noticed…
BURKE.
The bar jumped, fell, broke, spilling nugety goodness across the floor .
"Geez…Simmons …gimme a heart attack why…"
SHUT UP.
Sam's mouth slammed shut, with no conscious effort. Briefings, the interrogation room, he could take. This guy…
YOUV'E BEEN LOOKING INTO THE CASE?
"Yeah…," Careful with this guy, you're talking to Spawn. Don't forget it. ",…we were asked to. Some guy does part time work for some shelter. Got interested and did some investigating. I say some but…"
Air blurred , metal clanked.
"Shit!"
The chains shifted, dancing snake like, lifting the file to black talons.
Emerald showed no blink of surprise, the cape denied all body language.
Spawn was unreadable, unpredictable.
And probably preferred it that way.
HAVE YOU LOOKED INTO THE WAREHOUSE ON THE DOCKS WHERE THEY MEET THE ALLEYS? THERES BEEN SOME ACTIVETY INVOLVING A CARTEL SPONSERED TRUCKING COMPANY. A SWEDISH BUYER.
"The warehouses with the heating vents? Plenty of steam release tubes?" Bulk rose, swivel chair spinning , and crossed to one of several dominating fileing cabinets. Sam drew a medium sized file, flicked through it. "Okay I think we got something. Lucas Sahara. Swedish business trading genius. Clean. Very clean. Owns a couple of harbour side warehouses. What…"
Piggy eyes turned to living shadow…
…and went wide.
Leonardo was half way to the lair before his brain was slashed in half, blood bursting from under his eyes. The agony was closer this time, intense. He fought, struggled…
…hit the next ledge head first, and let the flailing lead weights of his arms and legs drag him down.
"Hey…you ok? Cut it out…aw jeez…"
The cape raked.
The chains slashed.
Simmons bled.
"You uh…you want I should get a tissue? Or something?...er…"
Liquid night sealed shut, the pool of necroplasma ignored. Ostensibly.
JUST BE THERE IN HALF AN HOUR, MAKE SURE THE COPS DON'T SCREW THIS UP, FOLLOW UP ON ANY LEADS I FIND.
"That's breaking and entering buddy."
SO FIND SOMEONE WHO GIVES A SHIT.
Leather stretched, like blood spreading, draining from an exit wound, and Spawn was gone.
Shit.
The chair rattled, let out a death squeak . Sam Burke was too old for this.
Which was probably why he loved it.
Hinges creaking the door opened and Twitch was inside the office. Surrounded by the smell of salt, fries, ooh, ooh and the BBQ special inna bun.
"Sorry I'm late sir. There was only one squeaky toy left. I had to race an old lady for it."
Trained eyes took in the office, the almost invisible tell tale signs.
"He was in here…wasn't he sir?"
Sam undressed the food ,glanced at the clock.
Damn you Simmons, I'd swear you do this to me deliberately.
"Up we get young sir."
Hands.
Old hands.
Warm and comforting.
Like Splinters.
"Wha…?"
"Easy now, easy. Wouldn't want to hurt your… back now."
Leonardo stirred, felt cold New York air. The shroud of his brain stopped smothering thoughts , like flies in a web. Traffic tooted its way back in to his scenes and the feeling of sweat began to set in. So did pain.
"Ow. Ow. Ow Ow Ow Ow. Ow."
"Easy."
Leo looked up. And up again, into a beard.
Quick eyes took in the rags, frayed yet still discernable as a respectable evening suit.
Long beard, starting at a living moustache, which spawned many a new hair .
Probably not the kind the media would believe not right away any way.
"Thanks mister…"
"Cagliostro my dear boy. But call me Count. Everybody does."
"Yes, well…I'm not everybody …"
"Count" pushed the overkill brim of his hat a few more inches up his bald head.
"Your secrets safe with me."
"Er…thank you."
A manhole cover. I need a manhole cover. Good God in heaven I need a manhole cover.
Skilled hands cleared away the dirt and garbage, found circular metal.
"One moment."
Leo paused, turned.
"Do you believe in God?"
"I'm sorry?" It was almost too…simple. And yet so complex.
There was a pause. After all the violence, the injustice, the blood…
…the Shredder…
…did he really, could he really believe?
"I believe in …something."
"So you have faith?"
"Sort of."
"Ah."
Old eyes twinkled, stars in shadow.
"Thank you. I shall take up no more of your time."
As he vanished into familiar urban darkness, Leonardo didn't hear: "You're going to need it."
All right I've had time to think about this and I've decided. The stage is set; most of the players are out. I still believe in listening to readers opinions, I am one. So please…RnR. I still want to know if you want the guys (especially Raph) to take on Spawn. Adios.