An ancient sailing ship glides through the mist.
Its sails flap in the cold breeze.
A few weary henchmen walk the top deck, keeping a lookout.
Beneath the rudder wheel where a shifty-eyed thug is piloting the vessel, the emblazoned words: 'HMS Victory-II' appear in rudely cheap brasswork.
There is an eerie quiet on deck as the ship plows its way further into the thick fog.
Down, down into the cabin—a different world altogether resides in the dark depths of wooden compartments and crossbeams.
A dazzling array of computer stations, flickering video monitors, and radar devices fill the lengths and breadths of the place. Nestled in the center of the cobweb of digital madness is a lanky, redheaded Briton dressed in a frilly jacket of red and blue fit for a dandy. He violently sweeps aside a mess of computer cables and input devices to make room as he slams down a faded parchment, whips out a quill and ink jar, and melodramatically clears his throat before scribbling forth his nightly ramblings in an air of pompous self-importance.
"Your most holy, revered majesty.. …," he speaks aloud in a decaying accent framed by yellowing teeth. "… …my appointed holiday of grace has succumbed to its final day of transpiration, and there remains no more time for these Colonial ingrates to flaunt forth their chance at redemption. They refuse to adhere to the wisdom and kindness of their all-knowing Mother Country, and so it is with a heavy hand—and a heavy heart—that I must administer to them the royal retribution fit for an Empire such as ours. It is high time that these sinful secessionists learn the lesson for their over-inflated egos' irresponsible flaunting of Lockean Liberty. The only law of the land is the King and Queen's law. They shall adhere to the greatest democracy of the world, even if it takes the greatest mod of the world to act as mediator. With the blessed grace of your majesty and the Divine liberator above all things, I shall henceforth begin my campaign at regaining the respect and admiration of these youthful ruffians—starting with their most exemplary symbols of beauty, ingenuity, and charm. The ladies of the pageant. Sincerely, your most loyal and respectful subject… … ….Mad Mod."
He exuberantly signs his name, plops the quill pen into the ink, and leans back in the flickering light of his computer monitors.
"…. … …. …."
He smiles a yellow grin. He cackles.
"Snkkkt-Hehehehehe! GUESS WHAT, DUCKIES?.?.?.? IT'S ARSE-WHIPPING TIME!.!.!.! HAH HAH HAH HAH HAHHHHHH!"
Noodly, frilled arms flailing….
He spins and spins and spins….
Giggling his redhead off in the center of the mist-sailing ship…..
-T-T-T-T-T-T-
Morning, the next day.
Main Street.
Jump City Hall.
The stage is set.
The people are slowly gathering.
Families and kids and teens and old folks alike.
People with lawn chairs and drinks and many more with cameras.
They arrive with very little trepidation. Enjoying the day. Enjoying the cool weather with partial cloud cover.
Music plays gently over the speakers as the banner reading: "Annual Jump City Beauty Pageant" is raised up high by various workers in blue.
"Watch it—WATCH IT!" Detective Decker grinds up a cigarette and shakes his fist at a few of the workers towering above him on a ledge. "We're gonna have enough stress on our hands with all of Mad Mod's threats without you nearly raining down signs on us! YES! Yes, I'm talking to you—Whoah! Keep it easy on your end! Hey! Hey you in the blue collar!"
"Yes?" "What?" "Yes, sir?" "Huh?"
"… …. ….," Decker blinks. ".. … …well, then. Now that I've got all of your attention—"
Walker strolls up. "Carry on, men. Before Decker here orders your testicles mailed in to the department by morning time."
"H-Hey!"
"Yessir. Heave—" "Ho!" "Heave—" "Ho!"
Walker turns to Decker and smirks.
Decker icily glares at him. "You just love being a bigger showman, don't you?"
Walker lifts a thermos of coffee to his mustached lips. "I'd say I'm better made for these kind of entertainment venue things."
"Oh really.. …."
"Yeah really. The closest you've ever been to a 'three-ring-circus' is your bathtub."
"Hardy har har. I thought you were supposed to be the stressed one, Mister Single Father."
"Eh…," Walker shrugs. "I figured that the fact Holly hasn't blown her brains out or killed a next door neighbor after sixteen years of existence is a true testament to her blending into modern society." He sips again and smirks. "Whatever fate bestows upon us in the next twelve hours, I can be satisfied I raised her relatively right."
"Whatever. I just hope the contestants don't slip through the cracks in the stage."
"Heh heh! I hear ya! Well, my daughter sure ain't gonna have to worry about that!"
"… … …. …."
"… … ..that.. …. …th-that was a compliment comin' from a father. Honest."
"Riiiiiight," Decker smirks. A motor noise. Then a grinding of tires. The two detectives turn to look at the sight of a familiar black car riding up. "Hoo boy…."
Walker gulps. "Well, so much for keeping it 'cool'…"
"Down, boy…."
The engine cuts off. The car door opens. A pair of black, faded sneakers touch down to the asphalt.. ….followed by the legs of a tall, fully-grown woman. She's attired in a modest, darkly-threaded dress uniform. A tan skirt under an open jacket of matching color. A green undershirt—then no jewelry or adornments whatsoever. Just a pair of hard blue eyes that stare out from a frame of short, dark-blonde hair. Like chestnut melted over an Appalachian glade. She stares out with the tyred face of ages—though she is barely past her mid-thirties. Young and old and dead and alive at the same time. She is the City's valued knight. The elected overseer. A savior by coffee cups and magnum rounds.
"C-Commissioner Ashley," Decker breathes and performs a half-mock salute. Half. "Erm…. ….Y-You're early."
"… .. ….," she says nothing. She shuts the car door. She marches into the two detectives' midst. She gazes around, her hard eyes thin in examination of the scene.
The two detectives shift and stir in their places with quasi-apprehension.
A few seconds pass. A minute.
She finally turns and gazes at them directly. Her voice is neither hard nor soft. Only alive: "What's wrong?"
"… …hmm?"
"Commissioner?"
She blinks. "Neither of you are cussing."
A beat.
"Oh.. …sh-shit…."
"Well, damn… …."
"Hell, I dunno—We…."
"Got crap to work with! Just look at this mess!"
"… …." She glances at the pageant-in-the-making. "… … …" She looks back at the two officers. "Then take the shit and make shit salad! Move it!"
"Yes, ma'am!"
"Righto, Commissioner. Walker—Drag your mustache over here and help me talk some sense to the Blue Collar Comedy Tour we've got here—"
"For the last time, they're doing a good job! Get off their backs!"
"I'd get off their backs the soonest you get off the coffee!"
"Why of all the stupid—
The two men march off.
Commissioner Ashley stands by herself. She adjusts her jacket and exhales long and hard. "…. … …." She glances skyward and closes her tyred eyes. "Titans… .. …do be good kids and show up. Soon."
-T-T-T-T-T-T-
Slam!
Cyborg shuts the driver's side door of the T-Car and buckles up as Raven slides into the front passenger seat. He flicks a switch of an intercom and speaks: "Okay, Titans! It's showtime! Let's get downtown and get ready to… … … …guard a whole bunch of skinny girls in skirts."
"Snkkkt—Hey! Watch it, Cy! You're talking about Terra, ya know!"
"… …okay, fine. Not all of them will be in skirts."
"Grrrrr-SNKKKT!"
Cyborg smirks and flicks the intercom switch off. He exhales long and hard. A beat. He glances aside at Raven. "…. …. …Rae?"
"… … …," she stares out the side window.
He leans his head a bit more. "… …Yo, Earth to Rae?"
"Hmm?" She turns and glances at him. She snaps out of it: "Oh, yes. Right. Pageant. Sure thing."
Cyborg smirks slightly. "It's not like you to be distracted."
"It's not like the Titans to take part in boring watch-duty."
"Heh heh…I know a lot's pressing on your mind," Cyborg shrugs. "Hell, it's bugging me too. I mean—Red X is on the loose, and now we can rule out the possibility of the suit being stolen. Rather, the suit is alive. And Robin doesn't seem all that happy about it, nor is he letting up on any of his stubborn secrets that might help make tracking down Red X infinitely easier and—"
"It's not just about Robin, Cyborg."
"What, then, Raven?"
"… …. …," she sighs. She shakes her head. "Never mind. I must be losing my mind, that's all."
"That's a paradox and a lie. What's bothering you, Raven? Tell me."
She furrows her brow. She looks at him oddly. "Have you felt—as of late—that there's been something wyrd about the Tower?"
"Wyrd? How?"
"Like—I dunno—a problem with the lighting or something."
"Heh! I sure as Hell hope not! I run diagnostics on the system everyday!"
"Then maybe it is my imagination… …"
"What is, girl?"
"I feel like… .. …like there are shadows, Cyborg… …"
"Shadows?"
She nods. "In the edge of my vision. Shadows, darting away. Like some fog's moved into the Tower and—everytime I turn my head—it disappears."
"Sounds like a certain violet-haired girl has been reading Poe way too many hours into the night."
"Feh. Forget it. I knew you wouldn't understand."
"Well, of course I don't, girl! But I doubt that's what you wanted when you even mentioned it to begin with!" Cyborg winks with a smirk. "I bet—if anything—you just want YOU to understand."
"… ….. …. …."
"Anywho, another conversation for another time," Cyborg presses a button and the door to an underground/underwater tunnel opens before them and aims its subterranean way north towards the Main Land. "Boo-ya! Go time!"
Vrmmm! Vrmmmm!
Raven glares. "You travel this tunnel every morning," she drones. "What's the big deal?"
"Heheheh—Every day is worth making exciting, don't you think so?"
"No, but apparently Mad Mod does."
"Well, here's hoping for your sake, Raven, that neither he or I get our wish."
"Heh… …I hear you—ACK!"
VROOOOO-OOOOOOOOOOO-OOOOOOOOOOM!
The T-Car thunders forward… …and into the day.
