2: Archangels
Well…it had to happen sooner or later. Seriously people, reviews encourage me to write faster. Seriously. So you know…do it. Seriously. T (if that is your real pen name) thanks for the review and the guys will certainly give Al a hard time and if your confused by anything else just tell me and I'll email you an answer if I can. Also don't worry about Leo. A lot is riding on him. Then again…no. Be very afraid.
Guy
11:00 am
He lived for moments like these, he really did. Bandana tails whirling like a mad butterfly in a perfume shop, Raphael landed on the next roof paused next to a Stark Solutions bill board, waiting for Casey. Still two gutters behind. And a convenience store.
"C'mon man. Can't expect me to wait around for ya every couple of roofs."
"Just cause…some of us weren't…getin ready to be the next…Jackie Chan at birth…doesn't mean this old pro can't jump a couple of brownstones…"
The answer was slow, panting. Wary. And with good reason. A squeakshriek of trainer on rusting metal, a startled "whoa!", the mad clacking of bats and clubs, and Casey was suddenly travelling vertically downward.
Green blurred through night air, a manacle of reptilian skin clutched a human wrist.
Casey, breath coming quick yet sharp and rhythmic, managed a relived sound. Raph pulled him up seemingly effortlessly, and propped him against the board.
There was a gasping pause as they both lent against firm cardboard and steel. Then Raph said "Okay…one: that's a grocery store. And two…"
The slap carried hardly any weight, yet Casey still felt something run up his shoulder.
"…Jackie Chan? Never insult me like that again."
Another pause. Then laughter, clear and heartfelt. Raphael was still winding down as Casey wiped an eye, stood up abruptly. " C'mon. We still got a couple of blocks to go before we get there. And eh…"
Another effortless jab. "…next time I'll make sure it's Bruce Lee." The laughter came harder this time.
I need this, Raphael realised, I need this like I need to breath. Hell, more than that.
Not just the jokes, which came easier than with the others, but the rooftops. The numberless surfaces which festooned the horizon. The reassuring carpet of stone and concrete, all the more comfortable for its firmness. And Casey. The forces that made them kindred spirits, which drove them both.
And made it one hell of a wild ride.
"So where are we going exactly?"
"I told ya, rat cit…"
"Yeah, I got that but…where? I mean it's a bunch of different alleys ain't it?"
Probably, should have asked this before. Instead, I just followed Casey out on what's goanna be one very long boring goose chase. But he was what he was.
Still, Casey surprised him.
"We're goanna sneak in through what's technically the front door, rooftop style of course, then we're goanna get the lay' a the land a little, look for someone. Ninja style. Don't want to spook the natives."
"And who are we looking for?"
Casey took the lead, eyes grim behind the mask. "There's a guy called Count."
11:15
The lights of the hotel shone amidst the New York skyline, any number of earthbound diamonds in darkness. The lobby, still open even at this hour, was the virtual wasp nest, the drones that were porters, bellhops and maids moving here and there, obeying orders of the hive minds that were the management. The leather of the chair folded easily, moulding comfortably as Lucifasa reclined back. Even he needed the chance to relax after a Swedish/American overnight flight. The arrival had gone as anticipated. Of course. The particular factions of Hydra and Cobra who monitored Kennedy airport had felt no need to make any surprise moves on the Latverian diplomat who had paced down the isle with crowds of other VIPs and businessmen. The others, at least two of them, were keeping to their part of the bargain.
Bargain.
It was an almost laughable term for what he had just done. He'd been human for too long. A millennium too long. It was different for Vandal Savage and his like. On some level they knew how to handle it. They had never risen to the heights he had, dreamed of achieving the higher ones. Tried to.
Still, maybe that bastard backstabber Mephisto had done him a favour, slipping him under the radar like he had. Long ago, far too long ago, the notion of this would have been laughable. They didn't consider him a threat now though. Some had even forgotten of his ever existing. And that was going to be the most stupid thing They had done since putting the tree in the garden.
"Sir."
The man's voice was like a polite cough. Lucifasa held the rim of his sunglasses, pulled down midnight black, revelling terse and piercing blue. What had become terse and piercing blue.
"Yes?"
"Hthere is a young woman on the phone for you sir."
Ignoring the disapproval the waiter was trying to slip into his voice, Lucifasa pushed the glasses back. Finest white Italian silk rose from the recliner, shifted across the room as though he had a second skin. Before he reached the phone corner of the bar he paused.
The air was alive with alcohol and potential misdeeds just waiting to happen. And somewhere unseen, the PA system was playing Devil may care. He couldn't resist.
He turned; smile half hidden, to the balding waiter, who bore a damnable resemblance to Shaun Connery sans the beard.
"Tell me my good man… what would you do for a ninety nine million dollars?"
Elderly eyes flashed. The man nearly blew up right there. Lucifasa couldn't help but smile with knife thin lips.
Unholy fire, he's going to cough politely any minute now.
"Well sir…" the man began. He stopped.
He coughed politely.
"How much was that…again…sir…?"
Ah the trailing away voice, the shock setting in nicely and…was that just a hint of a lower east London accent?
"A million." said Lucifasa tacking care to say it as though he were a 15 year old with a toy bear "It's just a question, you understand. Standing around with stuffy businessmen, executives with faces like a pit bull's backside…some times it just feels good to receive an answer that doesn't involve upper management consultation, or inter company portfolio procedure…what ever that is."
"Well sir…I…ah…"
And now, Lucifasa reckoned, for the final pitch.
"Anything?"
The man didn't answer, he didn't have to. That's what eyes were for.
"Oh you don't have to answer now of course. An I.O.U will do. I'll have my people call yours, we'll do lunch, I'll call in the favour when ever it's convenient."
The man's face was red as though burnt by air friction.
Sometimes mortality really was worth it. Especially when you weren't mortal. You had time to know the species and what they couldn't predict. How do you get a real poker face? Remove your eyes. Or better yet your opponents.
"Miss Walker."
The knife flashed across again at the satisfying sound of indrawn breath, something that could have been hidden had it been anyone else. To her credit she recovered well.
"Yeah big boy it's me. I prefer Typhoid when I'm doing a big job. You got a big job for me?"
Very nice, even though the tone of dripping honey was dulled slightly by electronics.
"Yes Miss Walker, I do. I believe you were once involved with the supernatural."
An annoyed and startled pause.
"Well I've had a run in with a devil or two…"
"That's public record. I am not, let me be perfectly clear, talking about a deluded, hypocritical, redemptionalist lawyer."
Ah, the indrawn breath. The only sweeter sound was a death rattle.
"Hmm…good info baby. I'm saying nothing though."
A platinum blonde brow was raised.
"Oh no?"
"I'm a pyrokinetic and a telekinetic. I see a lot of strange things."
She was pouting now, playing harder to get, to try and see the extent of his knowledge. He was not one to disappoint.
"You became part of the demon Mephisto's attempt to conquer all earth, while being hired by Wilson Fisk to kill Matthew Murdock."
No gasp this time. She was growing use to the game.
"Hmm…Come to think of it, yeah I have met a very horny guy. Leathery too. Skin like blood and wine and those eyes …"
The line rattled with a burst of pleasure.
"…like my soul, baby."
"That's the fellow. Since we're getting into the topic how about we discuss what that involved." She was interested now; he could feel it through the line.
"Brimstone and death and fire…oh the smells. The fun! The streets full of corpses, the writhing damned…every little detail. Like New Year only with decent music. Good times…"
She was also getting horny. This woman wasn't a God send. She wasn't the result of the darkness ether, except the dying light of her own universe…remerging in constant Armageddon. He'd made the right choice.
"How would you like to be part of something bigger?"
She was his.
"Blunt. I like that. Is this business or pleasure? I would love to see your face…and one or two other fun parts."
"Both." Said Lucifasa.
"Oooh. And all for only one million dollars? You're my kind of guy babe. Big on money, gore and glory…wonder how you taste."
"You read the files?" Lucifasa was seated now, down but straight. Business, not pleasure.
Not yet anyway.
"Strict too. Yeah, I read your Sci-Fi novels. Almost wet myself, but it ought to be worth it. One thing though."
"Hmm?"
"Aren't the animal rights guys' goanna go crazy?"
Hells bells, but he loved this woman!
"When the overall scheme is set into motion, they will hardly be in a position to care."
"You say when? Confident aren't you?"
"I have nothing to loose. Quit literally. Because I will not loose. You know your target?"
"From the ass up baby. Every scar on his little green back. His styles like a dirty book to me."
"And what to do if any of the other specific individuals get involved?"
"Yeah but it won't come to that. Typhoid's sly, you dig?"
"So it is him and only him."
"Gotcha."
A lock of hair was pushed aside, the Brandy sipped by perfect lips.
"You also know you will be working with a partner."
"I'm more than enough for you baby, but I'll try anything once. She cute?"
"A gentleman actually. Not much to look at…but talented. You will meet him at the specified time."
"So I'm goanna have two play mates when you let me out of this hotel room. You ever going to let me see your handsome face?"
"Be good my dear…or don't, I need you at your sharpest. But when everything is underway, this visage will be cast across existence."
"I'm seeing stars all ready and I'm tingling just thinking about it! You sure know how to show a girl a good time babe!"
"Then our business is concluded. Enjoy yourself."
"One last thing. What are you wearing?"
"Goodbye, Miss Walker. And don't call me babe."
The phone was slammed down, a blonde main cast back, and the brandy was downed in one shot. Lucifasa smiled, snow white teeth shining and everything.
He was in the bar, had just set up a relationship with a deliciously evil woman, who he knew from the tone of her voice had been wearing nothing at all, and the song had changed to living la Vida loca. He was indeed, going to have a good time. But first…
11:29
Flatiron
In her dream, everything was fine. The air was warm like water, just as difficultly easy to tread through. And her family was their…then the dream shattered. Leo rolled from the window, like a leaf in a hurricane, and even though he stood up she knew, she just knew, and he turned to her as if to say oh my God you're right and then he fell apart, and Raph was screaming and bending and suddenly the room was on fire and something black was rising out of the floor and Casey rushed it , and it ripped his head off and underneath was the mask, that awful white mask, except she knew it was his skull and then the thing was coming towards her, opening a blood black mouth and shouting like a phone…
April O'Neal jerked out of bed, some small strands of brunet hair finding their way to her eyes. She brushed them away in half asleep annoyance, but there was no real point. The room was pitch black.
Just a dream. Just some crazy dream.
The phone rang again, the three sharp and high notes echoing throughout the apartment. She heard stirring in the next room and sighed. She was going to have to see to Shadow whenever she'd finished with the lunatic who had decided to call at-she glanced at the red numbers-Christ, 14 minutes before midnight.
Well damage done, the sooner she got rid of the idiot, the sooner she could be back in bed. Owing to the fact this was New York it was probably a wrong number.
Beep
"Hi this is the Jones, O Neil residence. This is April speaking…"
And now the answering machine, mother of God the answering machine.
"Honey I'm hoooome…"
"Casey! Not now, I'm…What is that?"
"Huh? Oh just something Donny lent me. Doesn't smell too good what with the oil and all, but he wanted me to check the inside, see what else it needed. Obviously he couldn't…wasat?"
"That was the answering machine before you…"
Enough was enough.
"Yeah, hi this is April O'Neal." Somehow she managed to keep the irritability and yawn out of her voice. They always said she had a greater disposition towards people. Apparently even idiot phone people who called at almost midnight. She sighed. It was too late at night to be late at night.
"Ok you just heard the weirdest answering machine in the tri state area, and I know we should probably try to get it changed, but…"
The voice when it came was deep, and awful, the kind added by voice cloaking technology.
"It's almost midnight Miss O'Neal. Do you know where your husband is?"
Fire crackled away in poorly lit October night, consuming damp copies of the Daily Bugle. The smell wasn't bad…but not great either. Raphael watched the rags and tatters huddled around it, bathing in the little comfort of its light. It was hard to think of them as people from up here, in the open hiding place of the roof, especially when a creature of feeling of indifference gnawed at him. And somehow…a feeling of resentment. These were shells, displays of people who had been stupid enough to waste their lives and bring the foundations down on them selves as a result of what was purely suicidal ,yet left them alive. They were different. But they were human. They didn't have to hide.
A clatter behind him made him break his unconscious monitoring. The clatter of wood, plastic and steel. He half turned, almost unable to break his gaze from the creatures below.
"Jesus Casey…you wanna let 'em know were up here?"
Casey ignored the berating, continuing to rummage through his bag. A trench coat and fedora were removed, while the damn bats and clubs banged off one another, each sound slicing on Raphael's nerves.
"Very Bogart. Should cover up that stupid Knicks sweater you got on."
"Ha ha. It's not for me genius."
The fedora was tossed towards Raphael. It was snatched out of the air, suddenly at Raph's side without appearing to have really changed direction at all.
"No." Resigned answer, resigned opinion.
Here we go.
"I don't need it cause some of these guys know me." Casey shrugged.
He didn't add "And I'm human."
By Raph's expression he didn't have to. He brandished the coat as if it were an AK 47.
Damn.
"Casey. I .Am .Not .Wearing .This. You can go down there and play PI all you want, but I'm sticking to the shadows. Ninja style, remember? Not "spooking the natives?"
And yet, Casey noted, you've got it over your arm now.
"Look what's more likely, them explaining something to a couple a guys, or them explaining something to one guy and a turtle?"
He wanted to explain just because these people ended up outside society didn't mean they stopped watching it, that in the quiet of an alley way, where life in the real world consisted of curses and car horns, the noise of lives moving on right by them, how the senses became sharper, how old ears picked up the sounds of rats, how just because they stopped for the real world didn't mean it stopped for them. Invisible though they were made they learned to flow between the lives like salmon in a stream. Except although they shouldn't have to, the stream always lead down river.
What he actually said was "These guys are sharper than you think."
There was the sound of vomiting below, then some of the bundles moving away from the offender, who promptly burped. Raph threw him a glance.
"Oh yeah…real Harvard graduate material. You think this Count guy'll actually have anything we can use?"
Casey raised an eyebrow. "We? I thought you were just here to "Keep an eye on me"? Don't tell me I actually managed to make you feel guilty." It was stupid but he couldn't resist, and the way Raph had been acting lately, well… frankly he deserved it.
"I am watching your ass wise guy, but lets face it, these people have had a tough time making it this far. I doubt staying in circulation with the rest of the world was a real issue for 'em." Raph said, practically River Dancing around the subject, taking another look over the roof. In a warped fascination, he realised he was trying to pick up the smell of the vomit.
It was hard, what with the smell of the over stuffed dumpster the bums seemed to have used as a bathroom, and the cocktail of other aromas hiding in the alley.
Raphael continued to watch the one who had vomited, like a bug hunter, who was now being consoled by a friend. Laughter floated up through the night air, accompanying the stink.
Casey coughed, the suddenness breaking Raphael out of his naturalist observations. His eyes shone, knowing exactly what Raphael was doing.
"Put it on and come down. You need to"
"Hey, don't worry Sammy…coulda happened ta anybody."
Bobby Gareth leaned back, not because of the smell, but because the boy clearly had no more need for comforting. Or at least tried to convey it by nodding. In the alleys that could mean anything.
Or he could just be drunk. In which case he could have at least passed the bottle around before this.
Old worn cotton meeting familiar warm damp stone, Bobby leant against his part of the alley. Because it was almost all he had. Almost. Not that Al would ever admit it.
Tin clinked, pulling him from half begun musings and a constant half not there wish that he had a bottle. Every one was alert, not quite alive…but alert. Things in the alleys some times got crazier, more often than not connected to Al, as if dragged along behind him, like one of those damn stupid pieces of chain…
…poor guy.
"Al?"
"'Fraid not Mr Garret."
Nope. Not Al. Definitely not Al.
"Ya still got to introduce me to this Al guy. What is he: shy? He got some kind of skin disease or something?"
Ohhhh…Al would appreciate that. Then again…no. No he wouldn't. Bobby almost burst into pant wetting laughter. "Or something. How are ya doing Arnold?"
The dark long haired Knicks fan (He should get that cut. Bobby thought) blushed with what was more embarrassment than October cold.
"It's Casey please sir. Casey. Please call me Casey."
"Then call me Bobby son. "Mr Garret" was my old man." Bobby gestured, tipping an invisible bottle of finest uptown ale in salute.
"You know this guy?" Sammy asked. Defensively.
Oh yeah, Bobby thought, biting back a wince, he got thrown out of his place by a social worker.
"Sammy Romano meet Casey Jones, works part time on the 23rd street kitchen. Best beds, stews and booze a guy could ask for." The salute again.
"And one of the few guys actually interested in finding these poor bastards before something screwed up happens to them."
"More screwed up than this?"
Oh yeah, it had been an upstate house too, 5 bedrooms, huge garden. Expensive …and close enough to Sammy that he cried about it at night along with the other poor slobs huddled in rags and trash that could serve as bedding. Then again Sammy sometimes showed signs that he wasn't…all there.
A temper, bitterness that had been there long before he arrived in the alleys, crying out at night in his sleep, screaming even…
Bobby didn't like rumor, could get a fella real hurt, but Sammy was said to have had a wife. One that was spoken of in bitter tones. One that had shown up with a crushed trachea. That kind of explained the need for a social worker.
"Err look Mr. Romano…the guys at the center try to help out where we can. Ever since Mary went missing…well, some people have tried to …investigate the situation. We wanna show that people still care…"
"Yeah…you care enough to throw me out of my damn house!"
"Easy!" Bobby rose suddenly, towering over the lanky blond, eyes intense.
The younger cringed, shrank back. Snake green gazed into nut brown…and found no malice there.
"I'm just saying man…what can these bastards do to help?"
"Watch it punk."
The voice could have been from Brooklyn, if it hadn't been so …hard. Young but hard. Probably with cold steel to back it up.
Wary eyes turned to shadows, where something stood, trench coated.
And, Bobby thought with the new cynicism that allowed every one to survive in Rat city, only visible now cause he wants us to see him.
And that shine…was that metal? Did the guy have on one of those bullet proof vests or something? It was sort of glossy, scaly. Reptilian. All over.
The bum glanced from Sammy (who had shrunk into a numb crouch), to the shadow, to a Casey who was, clearly if the way he rubbed the back of his neck was anything to go by, agitated.
"You uh…you goanna introduce us to your friend Casey?"
The hand moved up to the mane of black hair, nothing to do with an itch.
"Ok, ok um…this is …Raph. He's a friend."
Blue eyes scanned the alley, searching for any sign of belief or confirmation in the faces shifting in and out of the nervous light. Found nothing.
"A friend. Yeah."
Silence. Long and uncomfortable.
Enough, Bobby decided, was enough.
"Y'know son…folks round here have all kinds of differences. If you got one, ya don't want us to know about, or you just like sitting in the dark…well we're all good at keeping secrets.
The shadow swung towards Sammy.
"All of us."
Another pause.
"Better yet…why don't I show you?" It wasn't really a real question. Raph stepped out of the shadows, and pulled off the fedora.
Cold rancid water lapped against stone, giving way to lukewarm and the overhead drone of purifying plants. Leonardo moved swiftly, silent as a leaf in a summer breeze, tacking every turn, every passage way, every route with practiced ease, every single path burned into his memory.
A right, a left, down a route of drainage systems …Splinter had made sure every passage way of the underground world was recognizable to each of them, what couldn't be walked on or climbed was ignored.
What you couldn't go around, over, under or through wasn't worth your time, an obstacle. And what lay ahead, blocking out light from the aging over head utility lights definitely counted.
Leonardo paused, taking in twisted pipe and crammed steel mesh, preventing water logged stone and unidentifiable garbage from simply falling into the current of the sewer trickle.
One hell of a blockage. A quick glance took in rusted pipes and fading brick work for confirmation. This part of the sewer isn't in that much use, compared to the other systems its ancient. But how can this much damage just lie here without someone noticing it? Nostrils flared: the smell of stale concrete disturbed by air. Correction, they did. They just knocked through a couple of walls and let the out flow drain into one of the other systems. Water levels lower here, which must mean it works as a temporary method until they can get some heavy machinery down here.
Another scan, this one focused on the centre of the blockage.
Whoa.
Rust glinted among rubble and mesh, a large sewer pipe, no different from any of the others nestling above. Each one of those leaned straight ahead, no matter what direction. In a life of shadow and chaos, Leonardo felt they provided some sense of direction, of purpose, of order. Seeing one like this was discomforting.
It lay there, and if Leonardo knew anything about weapons, had been cut out of the ceiling. Smashed off to by the look of the other end. Rust was growing in small patches in a few areas, one large patch at the smashed end, probably happened recently, maybe a few months ago.
Why was he even stopping to think about this?
A wrecked sewer pipe and …God knew what up in the city. Not much of a contest.
But something about the wreckage pulled at him, called at shadows, itching.
Water rippled lightly as Leonardo took a few steps forward, bent down in front of the blockage.
What am I now? A detective? Still…something strong enough to cut and tear down a sewer pipe…we're not in natural territory anymore. Then again when are we ever?
A look at the clean cut, then the damaged part again.
And this is New York. Home of urban legends, mutants and superheroes. One of those minorities probably got in a brawl with one of the others…or their own group. The news says as much every day.
This was starting to get annoying, and he didn't know why. Which was more annoying.
Now what?
A look at the rest of the debris, another at the pipe. He hesitated, tentatively raised a hand, and pushed through the mesh. Touched metal.
Chains danced in shadows, survival backed up by fury. He couldn't breathe, but he could smell. Rancid flesh, ancient brick and decay. Claws slashed at him, spindly arms with a steel cable grip flailed at him, going for the neck. The thing danced before him, wide mantis eyes wild. It charged forward suddenly at chest height, ramming him. He felt something shift but sluggishly, as if steel was pushing against steel. The thing was talking, impossibly it was talking, too wide jaw snapping and dancing but he couldn't hear it, his ears were full of cotton and whatever it was might as well have been whispering. No feeling, no hearing. But there was sight. And emotion. Rage. There was a vague sensation of a weight on his back loosening through the steel, and something so crimson it was almost black flew past him, fast and sharp joining the chains in a frenzy as they beat the hellish thing back. Something dripped into his eye, water and rust. Then vision was obscured as something crashed down between them and he was moving in a drowning chocking rush of water, pushing him back and away from the nightmare.
Water crashed around Leonardo as he fell back. He'd been there, part of the darkness behind another pair of eyes. Tinted slightly, in green.
The experience was terrible, yet danced before him just out of reach, drizzling out of his mind like a sieve, hiding behind frustration at not being able to recall understanding, or understanding to recall.
What the hell?
The chamber echoed with something that echoed like a bats wing flapping, and it took him a while to realise it was his breathing, coming sharp. He shivered. His head felt terrible. As bad as when he'd been above ground. On the roof.
A wrecked sewer pipe and God knew what in the city. Not much of a contest. But they seemed almost tied together, bound by the white hot ropes of whatever had happened to him. Whatever was happening to him.
These…attacks (they struck so hard and fast there really was no other name) were linked together in something dangerous. Something dangerous to his family.
Protect your family. That is what you do. It is why you breathe, so they may breathe. Even if you do not.
That had kept him going through every fight; that he could make the world safer for them, even if he wasn't there to rest in it with them. That was why he had to get back home. To start the journey to that world.
He took one last deep breath.
"Whatever" He said to the wreckage. Then turned away and ran down the passage.
11.36
A mist hung over the river, harsh salt smells dancing out of it and burying themselves amid the shadows of the docks. A mixture of urban decay and utilitarian sterilisation was washed in the October night and fog. Almost completely hidden.
Which suited Spawn .
Hopefully though he wouldn't be here too long. Just long enough to send a long loud message to this Sahara bastard.
If he ever showed up.
The costume shifted subtlety around his muscles, danced irritably through his skin. It was growing tired of waiting. The cape was eager to smother and break, the chains probed the air, steel snakes out for blood.
STOP IT.
It was like this in any guerrilla mission. Sit. Wait. Strike.
This situation was no different. Except camouflage and briefings had been replaced by the Malibolgia's uniform and stolen glances at Burke's files.
He had read the address, reading quickly as only black ops could teach.
But that didn't mean he had to like staring at it for a good 20 minutes.
The main problem was still there: he didn't know what to expect going in or what he was looking for. Other than the remains of some alley way bums.
He'd only found out about the deliveries and trucks through eavesdropping and interrogation, and had been unable to find the trucks drop off spot until tonight's little conversation with Burke gave him a name and an address. But still no reason or warning. No motive, nothing. That was going to change tonight though, if he could just hold out till he knew what he was up against.
The wait was playing against military discipline but he'd wait all night if he had to.
However he didn't have that long.
He'd spared enough time to grab one of the two standard issue government cannon's he kept hidden in the alleys and pounded across the rooftops like a living shadow, crouching here waiting , cradling the weapon and irritably aware of the clock ticking.
Burke and Williams would be moving soon and he wanted the warehouse open to spill any and all secrets for them to go over in the lab while he hit the underworld right in the under belly with something sharp, trying to get something on this Swedish meatball that would tie him to the kidnappings and remind all that rat city was Spawn territory.
Then, maybe, he'd find out what caused that pain in the ass head ache which still lingered slightly at the back of his mind.
Hidden in the cold shadow of colder steel beams and chimneys, a soldier's gaze, washed in hellfire emerald, searched the cracked concrete and wooden shadows.
Found nothing.
Not yet any way.
Perimeter looks clear enough. Sounds like it too. This is the correct address…doesn't seem occupied…
A purr of tires in night time air.
…yet…
Amber dock lights flared on, probably automatic because as far as Spawn could see no one was actually inside the building. These guys on the outside though…laughter and pounding music burst out of the cab, something he didn't recognise. Sounded something like, switching back, no time to look back. That was all he could make out. Loud as hell though.
Idiots, Spawn though vaguely, light up a neon sign, why don't you.
He drew back slightly; light would still catch black plastic reinforced metal.
"C'mon man…lighten up fer God's sake!"
The passenger was wearing a bulky hooded shirt, an unidentifiable colour in the night, and seemed to be banging his head in time to the music. If you could call it that.
Another one, completely identically dressed, except for the dreadlocks and Rastafarian hat, slipped out after him, giggling irritatingly. The one packing heat from the obvious bulge in his pocket. Fairly small heat by the look of it too, but it could have been a tank and it wouldn't have mattered to Spawn.
Then again pistols were often the best mask for a sub machine gun.
"Aww leave him alone man. If Pete wants to look like he's high on anti depressants or something all the time then that's his problem. More boozes for us!"
More laughter.
Two guards and a driver then.
Not much but presumably if Sahara had kept these drop offs quiet for this long then security was seen as surplus to requirements. Foolish.
Possibly too foolish
A garage door trembled open and the truck rumbled in slowly, the sounds of hydraulics and wheels adding to the music.
Spawn slithered from his perch, using it all to conceal any sound of his progress to the warehouse roof. Not that he made any.
"Hey, what are we getting paid for again?" A thumb was jerked to the garage, where that damn music still echoed through the fog. Port authority had to have been bribed away; there was practically no other way anyone would not ignore this. The lights maybe but the noise!
"Sure ain't the company."
Rastafarian boy shrugged. "Dunno man but with 200 grand per night waiting ta get dumped on us? S' worth it. Hey, maybe we'll be able to get some solid gold sticks to shove up our asses…we'll get em from the same place Pete got his!"
Moronic laughter and that giggle…vaguely similar to Chapel's. Could have been Chapel too if not for the small beer belly.
"What's up with him though Tom? I mean…you've been doing this longer than I
have. He always like this? And why is whatever's in there so frigging cold?"
"Long as I've known him. Guess the chill keeps …whatever it is fresh. Anyway Jude, you wanna get the guys together this Saturday?"
Pete, Tom, and Jude. Spawn was not very religious, but he knew enough to see the subtle and sick disciples joke that was going on here. Someone had tried to yank his chain. And he had a hell of a lot of chain.
Then suddenly, the dock was quiet. Pete had turned off the music. There was silence. Demanding shadow. And one pissed off hell spawn.
Enough.
Shadow wrapped around hell born black and blood red, slipping slowly closer to the truck. The warehouse drive way was surrounded by shipping containers, technically illegal but no one in this cesspool would care. They provided enough cover for the truck. Enough for him.
Chains banged once off earthly metal. Then twice.
"What was that?"
Another strike, to the left. The cloak caught the wind and knifed out, flashing hellfire crimson once in the dock lights, before darting back to the shadows.
"Maybe…maybe it's…the bat!"
Okay, that was just insulting.
A spike covered fist obliterated the fuse box, metal flashing sharply in the instantly dead after glow of the sparks.
The armed guard drew his piece, waving it chaotically at the shadows. Amateurishly, no hope of hitting a target if he could see it.
"I-I'm warning you man! I'm armed!"
A rattle of chain in the darkness. The sound of leather cutting through air. The hands holding the gun shook.
There was a whimper from the second guard. "Oh God…"
"You hear! I'm armed! I got a weapon!"
Emerald eyes burned with eager magic
I AM A WEAPON.
They didn't have a chance to scream.
He left them alive though, they might just have something to tell the rest of the class. From a hospital bed.
The safety clicked off. Spawn made sure it echoed into the storage room, bouncing through the room. His eyes burned like sickly green comets. The cloak wrapped tight around his shoulders, strong but light as gossamer. The chains danced ahead, whispering metallically to each other. Ready to bludgeon.
Time to get some answers.
COME OUT PETE. WE NEED TO TALK.
A shade, so grey it stood out against the warehouse darkness, stood with its back to him. He brought the gun up a few inches from the back of the shades neck. It still didn't turn.
Then…
"Yes. Yes we do…"
The man turned. And soulless black met surprised emerald.
Well THAT was overdue. Next chapter youll find out what demented old me is doing to poor little Leo, and the moment you've all really beenwaiting for scince I started: four mutant ninjas, one hellspawn and a hell of a lot of violence. Then the real story begins...