Author: Okay, its been over a year since I last posted a chapter. The main reason with the long delay would be that this chapter proved to be very hard to write, I just never seemed to get it the way I wanted it to be. So, one day I decided to take a break, only as time went by other things got in the way; School, work, lack of interest, World Of Warcraft, among other personel reasons. But, I'm now trying to get back on the saddle, to continue what I started and only hope that I still got readers out there and that I'll be able to write future chapters more quickly.
And so, without further delay, I hope that you all enjoy and very special thanks to Dierdre and Reinbeauchaser who still want to be my beta-readers.
Have you ever dealt with people who have lost everything in just an hour? In the morning you leave the house where your wife, your children, your parents live. You return and find a smoking pit. Then something happens to you - to a certain extent you stop being human. You do not need any glory, money anymore; revenge becomes your only joy. And because you no longer cling to life, death avoids you, the bullets fly past. You become a wolf.
- Russian General Aleksander Lebed, veteran of Afghanistan.
If anyone had been near that warehouse, he would have thought he was in the middle of a war zone. Which, in retrospect, wouldn't have been that far off. But the warehouse district was one of many that had become derelict in New York City, so everyone within hearing range was already inside, and there was no one left to call the police to tell what was happening. In other words, no outside help was coming.
The sound of over a dozen automatics discharging came from the warehouse, almost drowning out the returning fire from simple pistols. Anyone with good hearing would have heard the screams of betrayed gangsters, of people fighting for their lives and losing. Those kinds of sounds are hard to forget, so perhaps it was a mixed blessing that no one outside heard what happened that day.
Or…what the consequences would be of this betrayal...
At the back of the warehouse was a simple door that the owners and workers had used. It hadn't been in operation for years, though, and a simple lock had kept it closed.
Three shots went through the door, the third blowing away the lock, and the door was kicked open. M.J., with his right arm wedged under Dennis' left arm and shoulder, stumbled out, while Dennis fired a couple of more shots back into the warehouse. Dennis' shirt was soaked in his own blood and as he grit his teeth in pain, blood slowly seeped from his mouth. Gunshots still rang out in the warehouse, although it was less intense, and it sounded more like the Dragons were now simply enjoying themselves.
As both gangsters passed through the door, M.J. kicked it closed, spotted a nearby dumpster, and walked as fast as he could towards it with Dennis in his grip. Without either of them speaking, Dennis leaned against the wall, while M.J. pushed the dumpster as hard and fast as he could to block the door. And not a moment too soon, for some Dragons immediately tried to open it on the other side.
"That won't hold 'em off forever. Let's go!" M.J. moved to get a hold of Dennis again, but the other shrugged him off.
"You're right, man; they'll catch on in no time. Someone's gotta hold 'em off for one of us to escape, an' I never was much of a fast runner anyway, man."
M.J. just looked at Dennis with a stunned expression. "W-what the hell are you talkin' about? We gotta get you to a hospital. You've been shot!"
"Yeah, an' it sure as hell ain't like the movies. You barely notice it 'till all the ruckus has quieted down. You'll see, if you ever get shot," Dennis replied while checking how much ammo he had left.
"But...but…" M.J. suddenly ran out of words and simply opened and closed his mouth, his eyes slowly showing his fear and the shock of what had just happened inside the warehouse. Then, the Dragons stopped trying to open the door and instead started shooting through it.
"Get movin', ya dumb white boy!" Dennis snarled as he shoved M.J. away. "'da Head Families gotta know it was B.B. 'dat betrayed us! Gotta know 'cause 'da fuckhead knows every damn thing 'bout us! Safe houses, contacts, suppliers, you name it!"
M.J. stumbled backwards from Dennis' shove, looked away from the warehouse, and then helplessly back at Dennis. He opened his mouth to say something, and Dennis yelled, "Gawd damnit, move!" He fired his weapon at M.J., the bullet hitting the wall above M.J., showering him with debris splatter.
Startled, M.J. turned and ran away, never looking back.
Dennis watched M.J. go and then took a deep breath, which caused him to cough up more blood. Sounds of breaking wood came from behind the dumpster and the container slowly started to move away from the door. When the first Dragon stepped through, Dennis fired his gun at him, and the bullet tore into the side of the man's neck.
"Yee-haw! How do you like 'dat, bitch?" Sounds of yelling and curses sang out, as three more Dragons rushed through the door, stepping over the twitching corpse blocking the threshold. Dennis fired four more shots, one hitting a Dragon in the leg and another in the shoulder, as the third jumped back inside. The two Dragons fell on the ground, screaming in pain, and Dennis aimed his gun at one of them and pulled the trigger.
CLICK
"Aw, fuck."
Even though the warehouse district had fallen into disarray, the fences surrounding it were still top-notch, and the only way to escape the area was the same way everyone entered. The only problem was that the warehouse was right in front of it and the long distance in-between offered next to no cover.
M.J. carefully peeked around the corner and saw the two large doors that had once trapped the gangsters inside now almost completely ruinedMJ saw that Zero and some of his crew had got back into their car and drove through the doors, while the Dragons opened fire. Not that it had done much good for them, since the car had stopped halfway to the exit of the warehouse district. He could see bloody corpses inside the car, as well as several bullet holes, but the vehicle was still running and so it became M.J.'s best chance to escape. It was still some distance away, however, and there was a good chance M.J. would get spotted.
For a split second, M.J. could have sworn he heard Dennis cursing, before the chatter of discharging automatics sounded behind the warehouse. At that moment, he somehow knew, felt it deep within himself, that he had no more friends left.
As if trying to escape that truth, M.J. ran towards the car, expecting at any second to hear a shout or feel a bullet hit him. But neither occurred and he made it safely to the car. The driver's door was open and half of Zero's body lay on the street, the rest of him still inside the vehicle. A pool of blood mixed with flecks of brain matter was slowly forming, courtesy of a bullet that had gone through Zero's left eye. The one in the backseat looked even less prettier.
Tamping down a scream of revulsion, M.J. shakily grabbed Zero's body and started to pull it out of the car, but the corpse's legs were tangled in the belt.
"C'mon, c'mon!" M.J. hissed as with each pull his panic grew, his gasping breaths beginning to sound like he was on the verge of crying.
A sudden shout of "Hey! There's one!" was the only warning M.J. got, but it was enough. Letting go of Zero's body, he hurled himself into the driver's seat as Dragons opened fire on the car.
Getting shot at in a car with couple of bodies for company would have made just about anyone freeze with fear and panic, no matter what movies they might've seen. Fear was truly in M.J., an almost absolute terror… and yet, through that fear, he gained a moment of clarity. At least, that was the best word to describe it.
He pushed the pedal to the metal, aware to keep his head down to avoid getting shot, while ignoring the sound of Zero's body dragging on the ground. Just as he passed through the gate, Zero's legs untangled from the belt, and the car lurched as the back-tires rolled over the body. M.J. managed to ignore that, too, but the shaking caused the body riding 'shotgun' to fall on M.J. The bloody face touched M.J.'s, the cold lips of the corpse brushing MJ's cheek like a lover.
That, M.J. could not ignore.
Screaming incoherently, M.J. pushed the body away from him and, at the same time, lost control of the car, causing it to drive directly towards the wall beyond the gate. He tried to grab the steering wheel again, but the blood on his hands made gripping nearly impossible. At the last second, he got a grip and pulled the wheel sharply to the left, the driver's side of thecar scraping against the wall as he drove pell-mell down the street away from the warehouse district.
M.J. had gotten away.
And no matter how hard he tried, he just couldn't stop shaking, couldn't stop crying, as the shock finally settled in.
Dennis gave his life so that I could get away, and all he asked of me was to tell everyone of B.B.'s betrayal.
Only I didn't.
I was just so scared. Of everything.
For the rest of that day I just drove around aimlessly. When night came, I used what little money I had to rent a cheap motel. When I ran out of dough, I went to one of the places where I stashed money that I had won street racing.
And after that, I just continued hiding.
Days turned into weeks, weeks into months.
And I just watched as Grove got wiped out. I tried a couple of times to attend the funerals, but I just couldn't do it. Couldn't face them, not after what I had done.
And what does that make me? Not only a coward, but a traitor to boot.
To this day, I have tried to tell myself that even if I had warned them that one of our own, who knew Grove's inner workings intimately, had turned, it still wouldn't have made a difference. That Grove would still have been defeated.
Want to know another secret? When word reached me that Grove had truly fallen, for one moment I was happy. I thought that with Grove's death, what I had seen and done had died with it. That now a fresh start opened for me. A chance to do something with my life.
However, the moment had passed as quickly as it appeared.
Because, as I've said before, guilt has a chilling feeling.
Slowly and feeling rather unsure, Frank walked into the saloon. It was almost noon and already some people were inside, drinking, smoking, and playing poker. Next to the bar, the pianist played a slow tune, increasing the already classic western atmosphere.
"Can Ah help ya with sumthin', stranger?" The Texan voice startled Frank a bit and he glanced over to where it had come from. Leaning against the bar was a man who looked like he had been removed from a sixties western movie and placed here in the room. A glass of scotch was in his hand and a sheriff's badge was pinned to his chest. Although his face was friendly, his eyes gave Frank a subtle warning not to be a troublemaker.
"I, ah..." Frank began, but petered off as his mind went blank. The sheriff beckoned him over to the bar and he complied before attempting to rally himself, "...well, to be honest, I don't know what I'm doing here. Or how I got here, for that matter."
"A lost soul, eh? We get 'em here from time to time. Like those four over there." The sheriff nodded towards the corner. Looking, Frank saw four figures huddled around a table, the darkness almost engulfing them completely. Through the shadows, he could just make out their hats, which were of the strangest colors. One wore a blue hat, the second a red one, third a purple and the fourth an orange hat.
"Why are they..." Frank trailed off as he noticed something else. "Hey, there's an empty seat with them." A dumb thing to say for sure, yet Frank just couldn't shake the feeling that it was very significant, that a fifth person was supposed to be there.
"Yeah, someone very near an' dear to 'em is missin'," the sheriff replied, taking a swig of his glass of scotch. "Been searchin' for their old man for weeks now. Emotions are high an' they're as tense as one can git, 'specially the red one. Which reminds me, an' this is important, kid, so pay attention." The sheriff leaned closer, commanding Frank's complete attention. "When yeh meet 'em again, don't take red's reaction to yah too personal, son. Red won't never admit it, but he loves his da' more'n anythin' in this world."
"Uh...okay," Frank replied, unsure on just what the hell the sheriff was talking about. "I...I still have no idea what I'm doing here, though."
"Hell, kid, yeh still haven't figured it out yet?" When Frank shook his head, the right corner of the sheriff's mouth curled up. "Well, 'den, 'ere's a hint; name one thing 'dat the Ol' West is infamous for."
"High noon," Frank answered without thinking, then blinked when he realized what that meant. "Aw, no, please don't tell me that I gotta-"
"Hate to be 'da one breakin' it to yah, kid, but yeah, yer gonna face yer demon."
"My... my demon?"
"Yup. Every Goddamn livin' person has their own demons, each one different shape an' form, an' all are beaten in their own way. In your case, kid, starin' it straight in the eyes as you literally kill dat part of you is what is required."
"B-but..." Frank stuttered, his mouth gaping open like a fish, "I've never... shot anyone before."
"Uh-huh," the sheriff replied sarcastically. "Look, kid, Ah ain't gonna hold yer hand an' tell you what to do. That you gotta figure out yerself. But what Ah am gonna do is tell you that if you don't do this, then all you can do is continue lookin' in 'da other direction an' foolin' yerself that everythin' is fine. An' only a bloody fool would do sumthin' like that," he said, his tone not unkind. The truth in the words was cruel enough.
Outside, the clock tower started to ring, informing everyone that noon had begun.
"I'm..." Frank took a shuddering breath. "I'm scared."
"Courage is being scared to death, kid, but saddlin' up anyway."
"Right." Frank looked towards the exit, looking so far away and yet too close to him at the same time. The clock tower was still ringing as he slowly started walking, and then paused and looked back at the sheriff. "Ah, Mr. Way-"
"John, kid, call me John."
"John. What, ah, well...what's it like... b-being dead?"
"Hell, kid," the Duke grinned as he finished his drink, "if I told yah that, the whole damn thing wouldn't be so much of a mystery, now would it? Now git outta here an' face yer monster."
No one in town was in sight as Frank stepped out, save one, who stood in the middle of the street, waiting for him.
"Took you long enough," M.J. grumbled.
"I... got sidetracked," Frank replied, earning a snort from M.J.
"Yeah, I bet. So, we gonna do this or what?"
"I don't have a gun."
"Oh, yeah? And what do you call that, a fuckin' dildo?"
Frank blinked and looked at his right hand, which now held an old gun. It looked like it was ready to fall apart, and Frank couldn't quite suppress a shiver when in holding the gun felt so familiar.
"Showtime."
Hearing those words, Frank looked up and saw to his horror that M.J. was reaching for his gun, and for one horrible second he didn't know what to do.
Then, just as M.J. was about to aim his gun, Frank's survival instincts kicked in.
BANG
Both of them stood frozen, both pointing their guns at the other, neither of them moving.
Then, M.J. shuddered and fell down.
Frank stood frozen for a long time, not believing what he had just done. And then slowly, he walked up to M.J.'s body, his eyes never looking away, never blinking. For a long time he just stared, his mind as numb as his emotions.
Frank took in a gulp of air, feeling like he was breathing for the first time in a long while, and that made him realize what he had just done.
"I...I did it," he whispered. M.J., his worst part, who had been in control for so long, who had done such horrible things, was now gone. Dead. Now, all his actions and decisions were his. Now he-
"God, enough of this bullshit," grumbled a terribly familiar voice.
Frank screamed and jumped backwards, his heart pounding in sudden shock, as the corpse at his feet shuddered and began to move. M.J.'s hands pressed against the ground and blood pattered to the dirt like crimson rain. He levered himself to his feet; his chest a gaping wound, but his eyes filled with an impossible, horrid life.
"Shit, with a scream like that, no wonder you created me," M.J. laughed as he inspected his gunshot wound. "Damnit," he mumbled, "how many times is this gonna happen to me?"
"B-but y-you're dead! I shot you! You're suppose to be…" Frank stammered, but became silent when M.J. looked at him.
"Dead? Gone? Vanished? Exorcised? Sorry, but you've been 'me' for too long, 'fraid you're stuck with me."
"But...but..." Frank faltered again and M.J. sighed deeply.
"Lemme guess. You confront your inner demon 'whatever' in a classic psychological coma scenario, lay everything that you have done wrong or fucked up at his feet, kill him, and then you're Scot-free. Is that what you were hoping for with this charade?" M.J. asked sarcastically and Frank looked away, his shoulders slumped.
"...yes," he whispered.
"Well, for what it's worth, you did a heck of a job creating the setting," M.J. replied as he looked around. "Ol' West vibe an' everythin'. And the thing with the Duke? Fuckin' brilliant."
"Yeah...dunno why I placed him here, really. Only seen a movie or two with him in it," Frank answered. He gave M.J. a pointed look. "Still, can't blame me for trying to get rid of you, can you?"
"Nope, I'm that kind of bastard. Or, we are, to be more realistic," Frank opened his mouth to argue, but M.J. silenced him by pointing at the gunshot wound in his chest. "See this?" He then pointed mutely at Frank's own chest, and Frank looked down automatically.
A bullet wound marred his body in the exact spot as M.J.'s.
"Yup, that proves it," M.J. went on, ignoring Frank's horrified gasp, "no matter how hard you try that psychological bullshit, in the end, you only end up hurtin' yerself." He finally noticed Frank's stricken expression, and continued in a slightly gentler tone, "If you had tried this about a year or so ago, you probably would have succeeded. But now," M.J. paused for a second, searching for the right words, "...now, I'm as much you, as you are me."
Neither Frank nor M.J. said anything for a while, not due to lack of words, but because there was nothing left to say.
"Is it me," Frank finally said, "or is everything turning orange?"
"Nah, I'm seeing it, too," M.J. replied, looking around as the town and surrounding desert landscape seemed to melt away, slowly turning into orange goo, "which probably means you're gonna wake up soon."
"Here's hoping everything was just one big nightmare," Frank said dryly, although both of them knew otherwise.
"Yeah," M.J. agreed. "Oh, and I'm not really suppose to tell you this, but sometime in the future, there's a good possibility you may find yourself in a... situation."
"What kind of situation?" Frank asked, as the orange goo slowly oozed closer towards them.
"The kind of situation that gives ya two choices; roll over an' snitch on some people you know, or spit in their faces and tell them where to shove it. 'Course the second choice is gonna get you in some massive pain, but... well, at least you won't feel as disgusted as usual when you look in the mirror."
"That's more than I deserve," Frank stated as the goo slithered to his waist and slowly rose upward.
"No doubt. But, hey, what can you do?" M.J. asked rhetorically.
Frank may have intended to reply, but he never had the chance, for he was drowning in the orange slime, the stuff filling his lungs, making it impossible to breathe.
As M.J.'s senses refocused again, he became aware that he was on all fours, coughing and puking that orange gunk all over the floor.
"That's it, keep going, just let it all out," said a voice that sounded like it came from a distance. M.J. was distinctly aware of a hand gently but firmly tapping him on the back. He continued coughing and drawing breaths as the rest of his senses gradually returned, although his mind was still foggy. Slowly turning his head towards the source of the voice, M.J. saw Mr. Mortu's face, and in that moment, the memories came rushing back, reminding him where he was and why.
He couldn't help but groan as he looked away, causing Mr. Mortu to raise an eyebrow and look questioningly at the Guardian, who only shrugged.
"Well, Mr. M.J., I'm afraid I have some good news and bad news."
"I'd say the bad news is pretty obvious," M.J. mumbled as he held a hand in front of his eyes, the palm faintly illuminated by the glowing blue eyes.
"Yes, I'm sorry to say that we acted too late. The nano-probes had been inside your body for too long, and they are now too integrated into your systems. The best we could do was to…nudge them into the right places," came Mr. Mortu's voice as he wrote something into a small data-pad he held in his hands.
"So, what? They're finally doing what they're supposed to?" M.J. slurred, trying to keep himself awake, though for some reason he felt like he hadn't slept in days.
"More or less," Mr. Mortu replied and then quickly added after seeing M.J.'s look, "There are still a few things unclear, since you are quite literally a special case because of how the nano-probes were injected into you. You are no longer in a life-threatening condition, although there is still a chance the nano-probes may… do more harm."
"What kind of harm?" M.J. asked in irritation when Mr. Mortu didn't continue.
"Well," Mr. Mortu paused, no doubt trying to think of a way to explain to a simple gangster how highly sophisticated and advanced micro machinery worked inside the human body, "how do you see if there's anything wrong with a car? You start it and drive it around."
M.J. didn't speak a word, since his expression alone was sufficient.
Mr. Mortu slowly took a deep breath and stepped a bit closer to M.J., then spoke more quietly, "Mr. M.J., we are still debating on just how much we should reveal to you, what would be a proper amount of knowledge for you to know, and what is…not. So, I am going to take a risk." Mr. Mortu's expression reminded M.J. yet again of Splinter. The Guardian said nothing and not even his expression held any hint of his opinion on the matter. "The primary function of the nano-probes are to enhance your body; to boost your stamina, endurance, and, with the right training, your reflexes and hand-to-eye coordination. They also serve other purposes, but," Mr. Mortu raised a finger, as if to stop M.J. from speaking, "that is something I am not at liberty to say. The only way to actually see if everything is working as it's supposed to is to put them to the test."
"Which falls into the category of need-to-know," M.J. finished and Mr. Mortu nodded. None of them said anything for a few seconds, until a wave of drowsiness hit M.J. big time. "Man, I feel like I haven't slept for over a week. Is that normal?"
"Well, there was a bit of stress on the body while we reprogrammed the nano-probes, so yes, I'd say the tiredness is quite normal," Mr. Mortu said assuredly, though his voice was just a little bit too light, as if trying to silently prevent M.J. from asking something related to the subject.
"Uh, huh," M.J. replied. "So, tell me, doc, is it," M.J. hesitated a moment before he continued, "is it… normal to have dreams while sleeping in those pods?"
"Dreams?" Mr. Mortu tilted his head to the side, looking curious, as he picked up what looked like a medical scanner from Star Trek and started moving it around M.J. "What kind of dreams?"
"Well," M.J. paused, considering just dropping the subject while at the same time trying his best to ignore the scanner thingy and the annoying, high-pitched beeping sounds it emitted, "I…I can't really recall what exactly happened in it. It's all pretty fuzzy an' shit, but…I remember having some kind of argument with myself, I think, and my other self was pretty dammed pissed, if I recall correctly."
"Do you recall if there was any particular reason for that?" asked Mr. Mortu as he went over the scanner's readings.
"Well…I think because I shot him. Me. Or whatever." M.J. shrugged as Mr. Mortu gave him an odd look.
"Yes, I can see how that would be…annoying," Mortu slowly said, "but sometimes the environment of dreams can be more important than what is actually happening. Do you remember where it all happened?"
"Uh," M.J. tried his best to remember, but all he got were foggy images. "I think I was in one of them saloons. Y'know, those western bars." Mr. Mortu nodded, but didn't say anything in response. "I think John Wayne was there, too," M.J. added as an afterthought, "which is weird, since I'm more of a Clint Eastwood type of guy when it comes to western movies."
"Well, I'm sure it will come back to you in time," Mr. Mortu said as he finished with the scanner. "I'm not detecting anything out of the ordinary as far as I can see. That is a good sign, but like I said before, more direct tests are required." Mr. Mortu paused as M.J. let out a huge yawn, "which we can do after some well needed rest."
"Uh huh," M.J. mumbled, looking like he hadn't heard a word of what Mr. Mortu had said. And then, amidst the sleepiness, a random thought suddenly occurred to him. "Hey, what's his name, anyways?"
"Who's?" Mr. Mortu asked as he placed the scanner where it belonged.
"Y'know," M.J. slowly said and lazily waved his hand, as if searching for the correct words, "that big croc… thingy. He never told me his name."
Both Mortu and the Guardian looked at M.J. with very odd expressions, as if not believing what they had just heard.
"…what?" M.J. asked.
Both shared a look before Mr. Mortu answered, "Ah, nothing, Mr. M.J. Just," he paused, choosing his words carefully, "he didn't tell you?"
"No," M.J. answered, starting to feel a bit irritated as he realized he was missing something, "hence the question."
"Well," Mr. Mortu said, "I, ah, I think that is something he would want to tell you himself."
Something is going on hereM.J. instantly thought, though careful not showing his suspicion, Hell, even in my state I can spot it. But I have a feeling I won't get any answers from these two, which is the only reason why I'm not going to push it.
"Well," Mr. Mortu stated, quickly changing the subject, "I believe we've done what we can, for now. Guardian," he turned to the silent Neo-wannabe, "please take Mr. M.J. to his room for some well needed rest."
"Yes, Mr. Mortu," the Guardian said, making a bow.
Fuckin' ass kisser, M.J. thought as he staggered to his feet, feeling a momentary dizziness. The sensation quickly passed, but before he could move, the Guardian walked up to him and pulled out a familiar blindfold.
"Aw, come on," M.J. groaned, but already knew it was pointless.
The elevator doors closed and a slight lurch indicated that they were moving up. A couple of seconds passed in silence, until M.J. broke it.
"So how long was I out, anyways?"
"Pardon?" came the Guardian's voice on his right.
"You know, how long was I in that pod-thingy?"
"It took some time to do a thorough search for all the nano-probes," the Guardian said carefully, and, no doubt due to the blindfold, M.J. detected a hesitance in the man's voice, "and after that was done, manually checking every single probe was necessary to…"
"Yo, I asked for how long I was out, not what you guys did to me," M.J. said with a bit more force than he intended, as a growing dread slowly formed in his stomach.
A tense silence was in the air while the Guardian debated how to answer, then with great hesitancy, answered bluntly.
"….four months."
For a couple of seconds, the only thing breaking the silence was the sound of the elevator moving.
And then M.J. ripped off his blindfold.
"Four months!? Four fucking months?!?" he screamed into the Guardian's face, who showed no surprise at the expected reaction. "What the fuck!" M.J. shouted again and then tried to pace back and forth in the small moving enclosure as curses and yells spilled from his lips.
"If it is any consolation," the Guardian said calmly, after M.J. had run out of breath, "we slowed down the workings of your body. So, to you, only four days, a week at most, have passed."
"It ain't no fuckin' consolation!" M.J. yelled. He looked like he was about to continue cursing, when the elevator stopped and the doors opened, revealing a long hallway riddled with doors. "And what the fuck is that!?" M.J. pointed, as the Guardian calmly stepped out of the elevator.
"Your new quarters," he said as M.J. ran to keep up. There were no visible markings or signs on any of the doors, making it look like a random choice when the Guardian stopped in front of one. A second passed and then the door opened all by itself and the Guardian stepped through. M.J. paused for a moment, before hesitantly following.
It was a simple room, with no decorations or pictures on the metal walls. There was a bed in the corner where M.J.'s clothes were neatly folded, all cleaned up, along with a desk that contained a built-in keyboard. Another door near the desk was opened halfway, through which M.J. could spot a shower and a toilet.
"Until your fate is decided, you will stay here," the Guardian said calmly, his tone leaving little to argue with. Before M.J. could say anything, he pointed at the desk. "The computer here has an internet access, where you can catch up on what has transpired during your absence. We are monitoring it twenty-four seven, however, and any attempts to send messages or make contact with the outside world will result in complete cut off, and you will not be given such a privilege again."
"Will I get cut off if I try to access porn sites?" M.J. asked. Not the wittiest remark in the world, but his tiredness was affecting him somewhat.
"Especially porn sites," the Guardian replied, in such a way that M.J. couldn't tell if he was being sarcastic or deadly serious. But before he could decide which it was, the Guardian made his way out of the room and turned around to face M.J. "Food will be delivered to you in a few hours."
And with that, the door closed just as mysteriously as it had opened.
"…asshole," M.J. muttered, turning around and looking longingly at the bed, and then back at the keyboard.
I'll just take a peek at today's headlines and then I'll go to bed, M.J. decided. He walked up to the desk and was about to sit in front of it when he realized something.
"Hey!" he shouted, stalking up to the closed door, which did not open for him. "Hey! Where the hell is the computer screen?" He hit the metal door a few times, but it didn't open, nor was there a reply.
Dumb bastards, M.J. grumbled as he walked away from the door and, for no reason whatsoever, slammed his fingers on the keyboard. The instant it happened, a small burst of light appeared just above the keyboard.
"Fuck!" M.J. yelled as he jumped back in fright, grabbing the chair and holding protectively in front of him.
There, hovering just above the keyboard was something that looked like what one would see on a computer screen, only there was no frame around it to support it. Without thinking, M.J. carefully stepped closer and reached his hand out, gently poking at the 'screen'. It caused a slight ripple, along with an electric tingling sensation in his finger, but nothing else happened. He slowly pulled his hand back and stepped to the side of the desk. On the wall, he spotted what looked like a built-in camera, and it appeared to be the source of the 'computer screen.'
The weird factor has officially blown through the roof, M.J. thought as he placed the chair back on the floor and sat on it, facing the keyboard. For a few minutes, he looked over the keyboard, until he spotted a small black square next to it, resembling a laptop's touchpad. Pressing, he slowly traced a finger down its length, and the arrow on the screen moved as well.
What kind of place is this? M.J. thought. A feeling slowly grew inside him, a mixture of horror and dread, as he now realized that whatever was going on, he was way out of his league.
Okay, okay, just calm down. Check today's news and then go to sleep. Yeah… like that's gonna happen now, he brooded as he checked the news. The headlines read, 'Detective Richards Soap found guilty for obstruction of justice!'
Thirty minutes later and M.J. had found out that crime still happened in New York, an idiot was still sitting in the White House, Iraq was messed up more than ever, politicians whined and bitched about the world's problems, yet were too lazy to fix it themselves. Pollution was at an all time high and somebody had attacked some building belonging to some big time Japanese corporation here in New York couple of weeks ago.
With the exception of the Red Socks winning the World Series, nothing earth shattering had happened during these four months.
Hell, its like I never left, M.J. concluded as he stood up and stretched. He was about to go to bed when a gentle knock suddenly came from the door. He paused for a moment and then made his way over to it, only to discover that there was no knob or a button or anything that looked like it would open the door.
"Hey, how do I open this…" but M.J.'s yell cut off abruptly when the door hissed open. He blinked in surprise, then very slowly turned his head up to look at the visitor's face, "…door?"
"I brought you some soup," the giant crocodile said with a slight nervous tone in his voice. M.J. just stared at him for a few seconds and then blinked as the words sunk in. He looked at the tray the big reptile was holding, which held a bowl of greenish colored soup and a glass of water.
"Uh, th-thanks," M.J. stuttered as he accepted the tray. None of them said anything for a few seconds, creating an embarrassing silence. Finally, M.J. shrugged slightly and said the first thing that came into his mind, "So, ah, wanna come in?"
"Certainly," the croc said and, unless M.J. was mistaken, in an oddly happy tone, too. But he dismissed it and headed back to the desk to place the tray on it. At the sound of rough leather scrapping against metal, M.J. turned to see that the big croc had to slightly bend his knees and turn sideways so he could make it through the door. Once inside, all of a sudden the room looked very, very small.
"…So," M.J. slowly said, resisting the great urge to take a step away from the very big mutant croc, "what kind of soup is this?"
"Basically, it holds what proteins, vitamins and nutrition the body needs daily," the croc stated matter-of-factly. M.J. nodded as he sampled the soup, which tasted like it was made out gym sock sweat and some battery acid thrown in for extra taste. It took every ounce of willpower not to instantly spit the foul stuff from his mouth, and ten times as muchnot to show on his face how disgusting it was. Which was nothing compared to what it took to swallow.
"G-good stuff," M.J. whispered as he achieved the impossible, all but breaking into a sweat in the effort of not throwing up. The croc's face lit up, however, confirming M.J.'s suspicion that the 'big guy' had personally made the foul thing for him.
Which means I gotta finish the damned bowl or I'll end up hurting his feelings, M.J. concluded, most unhappily, although he honestly didn't want to risk hurting or insulting the croc, as strange as that might have sounded. Didn't mean he was going to jump on the bowl, however.
"Say, I didn't catch your name," M.J. said casually as he slowly stirred the soup, intent on delaying eating the slop for as long as he could. After some seconds passed in silence, M.J. looked up at the croc, whose face held an odd expression.
"Yes…my name," he slowly said, looking like he was debating with himself about something. And then, even stranger still, he took a deep breath and looked squarely into M.J.'s eyes. "My name is Leatherhead."
"Leatherhead?" M.J. blinked, "Hey, ain't that a funny coincidence. I once had this baby croc who I also…named…" M.J. trailed off as he looked into the croc's eyes, now realizing why they had looked so familiar. Last time he had seen them was several years ago on a small hatchling that he had cared for.
"Leatherhead…" M.J. whispered without realizing, and the croc nodded. Silence filled up the room, the soup completely forgotten.