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In tearing up her outfit and sacrificing it to Satan's pyre, would swear to a throbbing in her throat, a clamminess crashing in waves through her skin.
Couple of flashes had to cuddle her boots close—those of kindness traded for a knifing, twice, and failure to settle accounts sooner, in spite of all evidence. Every step as she thought these to track with trails of fatality; even to pick up paces through those halls, they to follow just as fast.
Wrung and washed down communal drains, endless streams of evidence; shower of particular length to precede a jittery raid of the janitor's closet. Never dared to dream she'd clutch armfuls of buckets and mops, of taking such severe demotions, but such was the price of keeping her seat, potentially her life.
Scrutinising every wall and every tile—page out of Ms. Proctor's book—was soon scrubbing right down to the minutiae; not even time itself to notice over this particular obsession. Punishment perhaps, to kill off further impulses, surges to electrify insides, instincts to become further infamous.
Blackest night by the time she'd bolt out the hangar, where she wouldn't discriminate who'd she shove aside or to the gutters; gawkers to forget the city's golden rule, far as she cared. Block after block to blur past, a sprint to stop only upon reaching the rocket rinks—nary a skater nor queuer game enough to get close, as she'd soon drop to her knees upon the ice.
Only a figure like a friend's—shadow if anything—to spark a sense of belief, a hopeful stretch and fingertip reach that'd grab just a burst of wind. Tearing at lavender locks, pleading for nightmares to end, would somehow reach her front door and bed, collapse upon the latter with blinded eye.
Toss, turn, toss, turn—in that time, thoughts of friends before, rookies tonight, to penetrate and paralyse her spirit; how dare they, how could they, obliterate her future after all she'd do to ensure theirs? That idea, above all else, to light up her back wall with crosses while wailing, leave it as little more than Swiss cheese.
"Morning light my ASS! Kid's gonna fly right now, and once he's adrift, it'll be Amy and I just as it's always been. Teach me to welcome these wannabe heroes again."
An actual change of clothes to neglect in rushes to return, only to discover that the body that should've been there, somehow wasn't. Gripped her skull at first, thinking of certain testimonies, until a wicked idea within madness started to stir.
"See how they like their own medicine," was all she had to say, as she'd finally commandeer the lounge for want of at least forty winks.
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Rumours of storms and cold fronts overheard, yet the comfiest rest to enjoy in some time; sweat, drool, and twisted lies notwithstanding.
Hopes had that it'd remain so, only for murmurs of colleagues to buzz closer, even begin to poke and prod. No typical June morning, again dashing hopes, when in place of an Express summary, was instead given excuses of everybody needing to talk.
"Well what are we waitin' for, some galactic sale? Let's get it done people, on the double now."
Dirty looks even before she'd barge past, and all to ignore as she'd grab an emergency outfit and roasted up a coal-black coffee. Senses to launch with long sips once more, and put any sordid business out of mind—only a matter of when, her promise, of finishing what was started.
In the meantime, a new zest for flying, though it wouldn't be a mood that literally anyone else would meet in that moment.
"Heaven's Gate guys, what's wrong? We gotta file for bankruptcy or—"
A toss of a local newspaper—Daily Supernova, hot off the press—to derail any thoughts, and only the barest peep as her gaze drew to its bottom-right corner. Whatever bliss was had in her deed, it'd corrupt real quick, over the headline of "MOANING LEELA HAUNTS AGAIN!"
"Yuh mind tellin' us what's goin' on?"
"Of course I do Hermes, son-of-a-bitch shot me when I wasn't looking. Hate when they get my NON-nonchalant side."
"As if any of that matters," Amy chimed in. "Can't be alright anymore to lie naked, of ALL places, on Central Park ice…"
"If you were a witness as I was, idiot, wouldn't be so mocking. You want the truth? Go prise it outta Zoidberg's shell, axe HIM how EDB Mayfield met his end. All 'cause he'd gotten a little too hungry."
"What? Must be a mistake. Was sipping a cup of dumpster juice until I'd—"
A whiplash of necks, and talks among themselves, to bring out his familiar monstrous side as he tried to explain—cockatiel fin, rising hormones and more, to hope her trap would take him alive.
"Clamp it yuh dumb crab, yuh've got no permission to butt in. Now shall we get business—HRK!"
Claw to snap precise to and press upon the neck, "Hermes, you're my best friend, but speak again and I'll cut your heart out."
Such a threat to prove an effective silencer, trash and entrails be damned, as Zoidberg stood up and straightened his lab coat.
"Real doctors, the Earthican MA, don't define me with disgust for nothing. In my claws, I'd turn many a crewman's shirts real red, ready 'em for the morgue… but NEVER outside of my operating room!"
"Just who do you think the cops are gonna believe, hmm? Your words, isn't any feast a feast, after you'd mistake toenail clippings for potato chips?"
"Must stand to reason, then, that I ain't finicky when it comes to chowing down—free buffets, fish bait, flags, I could go on. Think I'd say no to fresh, raw meat were it offered?"
"There it is, folks, straight from the freak's mouth. Shall I put on my—"
Claw to almost whack her nose, "You shall be silent, good sir! As I was saying, aren't we all witnesses to what I'm capable of? Have I not cut through flesh and bone like butter, with backs to the wall and lives on the line?"
"What are you saying, Johnny? And how does it have anything to do with Leela's accusation?"
"I'll answer those by axing this, Hubert… Does anyone think, were I actually so starved, that I'd have bothered breaking said bones or cooking the skin, in so methodical and thorough a manner? That's the cruelty of mankind, and I speak from experience."
Glares around the room, clacks of a subtle confidence, to turn all murmurs against her, widen her eye; so much for a guilty charge from word go.
"For how frequently I'd fail my Oath as doctor, at least I've always believed, tried to respect it. Indeed I confess, Captain, of looking to you as inspiration, as that very champion of your cause… Not anymore, not as of recently."
From day dot, crucifying that crab to take for granted, for any feasible thing. High hopes had by all, maybe, of terminating his licence and making a thermidor—however terrible—of his remains. So of course all eyes would fall upon her, as if Lady Luck didn't forsake her enough.
"Now I've worn the rags you—ALL of you—have thrown my way, but these lies and slander? I will NOT let that be the thanks I get for granting back your precious freedoms, the very ones your stupid army squandered to us so easily, and which I only got back by betraying them to end the war you'd start."
Hardest she bombed and knew it, as her accused shimmied back and sat again—nobody to say a word, but everyone's glares to get the idea.
"Okay, that takes care of that then. Let's go get our checks in order, get us all—"
"Us?"
Even to betray the tiniest quiver, co-pilot to stand and stare her down.
"Did I stutter or misspeak, Wong?"
"Must've, Ma'am. I get it, want crew in line, sometimes gotta get hands dirty… But this, this stain makes even the mutants seem decent. Never cared a great deal for the guy, but to know YOU were his murderer, gruesomely so by good account? What's to say you won't turn on me either, over some other capricious impulse?"
No doubt a vote of no confidence, and not her first by any means, "You saying what I think you're saying?"
"I'm sorry, but clear as I can be, there's no 'us' anymore."
Newest misguided mutiny to get flashes circling, strong enough to, on a whim, launch a knee that might've cracked the table.
"Fine, stay outta my ship! More money for me, and no problems—go break a nail you vain stupid bimbo!"
"Excuse me? Stupid?"
"Sweet raging bull of Liverpool, 'de hell's wrong wid' yuh madwoman?"
"Alright Hermes… You want a list?"
Eerie calm to set everyone on edge, as up she stood to walk her own laps.
"Fine. How's everybody's circle of friends, hmm? Are they the types who expose secrets and take you for rides, screw you at every opportunity, then ghost or abandon your naïve ass the second it's convenient? Virtually from the moment you'd meet them, in fact?"
A rant to fear would escalate, before an atom bomb rippled out from the chief's command centre. Madness silenced by its sound, but for just a brief moment.
"And you STILL get called the villain, for giving them the justice they deserved?"
"That's enough, ENOUGH I say!" her chief would thunder. "My company, my orders, my choices to make… Amy, unless you want Mars U to fail you outright, you'll shut up and do as you're told."
Foreign spats to flash a smirk, only to be rounded on next, "As for you eyeball, I am DONE waving aside your PMS, emotional slavery or whatever it's called. Of all the breaches of conduct a Captain could make."
Table phone to then interrupt; one quick chat later, a clear breath, but still an awesome apoplexy bubbling within.
"You've got two weeks, young lady—bring your crew back together, sort out this situation you started, and you can stay on… Gods help what'll happen, should you fail."
Taking a big gulp of blackened brew, would get itches to hurl the mug into the chief's skull; better options heard to instead break away, and begin the day in earnest. First contract in hand well within the hour—more she'd inspect it, the fiercer her shiver, over rumours at O'Zorgnax's to replay.
Among old crewmates, competitors, even the odd civilian, many a story heard and assumed fact of Angra-7, of an angel's boasts and blasphemies that'd exile them from some sacred circle, then right out the domain without delay. Corrupted by hatred, then tempted by spite, would reinvent himself as the Demon King; in so doing, began a personal mission to subjugate whoever'd spurned him.
Was said that in just days, with an army of mere hundreds, maybe a thousand, would claim the whole planet as his prisoners, enslave those countless souls without delay. Ever since, minions to break them via overwork, or kill for twisted recreation, in His glorious name… And God help the hands using theirs to fight back, try to resist instead.
Flashes of Osiris-4—no greater bastardry in memory—and slavers recent to toss the clipboard and take for her locker, until a certain hover-chair sped to block her.
"Going somewhere? I didn't give you time off, so get that big butt in your—"
"Or else what? As if I care to seek your approval anymore, when I'm toast in two weeks anyway."
"Shall I call the cops to come axe some questions? Or are you gonna forget these little fantasies right now?"
"Hubert, buddy, before you demand that I shut up and take my seat, like a good little girl, here goes some good advice… Beware the lady to outlive all the others you've ever brought on board—won't think twice about sending much worse crawling right up your ASS."
Could've named a planet, a galactic war, an invention or some adventure, and place safe bets on her Chief hearing about it, or even having a hand in it. Not a decade among his seventeen, which anyone could call ordinary by any definition.
And in knowing so, even for yesterday evening, she knew her closet was comparably empty, as did he to offer only a nod, and silent wave away. Rushing out the lobby, her obvious first port of call to be Taco Bellevue, where the reveal of no records would put any theories of recovery to rest.
Reception's call to security to care nothing for, as she'd sail through the city tubes thinking about routines; believed it a lock to hit up their local diner, only to again leave without answers or clues.
Rotating outfits in memory—observed only for staying still—to soon hustle for Garment Districts upstate; merchants lost for general records or good ideas, to round right back for AO&T. Memories of a day without deliveries yet still fraught with danger, and all over a tin of awful anchovies—no accounting for taste, she'd learn that day.
Offering his mugshot, one salesman of several to just roll their eyes, "Please lady, I'd rather see his back. Good riddance to poor trash, I'd call it."
Thoughts had of dinting that face, but instead dashed for her Dumbbell Club, hailing the head trainer by the free weights. Gaining his attention, same shot to hand over—much more profound effect when, without saying a word, would excuse himself in a bailed-fist hurry.
"Jeez, what'd he do here, or against him? Was making people mad his specialty?"
From second homes of athletes to that of academics, didn't discover a whisker of him in the public library—options running out fast, to really furrow her face.
"Where else would he wander, if not his only loves out here? God damn it."
Didn't imagine him at some dancehall or legalised fight club, so confident that she'd checked off virtually everything, would hurry all the way to Cookieville to finish up. Every bed, every building, everywhere of those haunted halls once inside—over, under, to and from, but again not a sign.
No salute to bother with while trudging for old bedrooms, again the lady of a long-dead past to stare straight back at her. Everything to fully fester up to now, and finally boil over here; chair leg ripped off to beat her mirror into crystals, before resigning to watch the abrupt rain leak through her roof.
"I deserve this… I really do deserve this."
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No coffee black enough, she'd believe, upon morning's return to HQ, for to confront what she would upon clocking in, be tempted something awful to return home, maybe book a holiday.
First, swathes of thick muddy trails—for forgetting intruders, bit her knuckles—to begin stepping a lot lighter, lest her prints got mixed in the trespass. Origins from alleys and hangars aside, would find them everywhere and every direction; as if that weren't enough, second, an odd wretched sound would continue to redirect her private eye.
Always imagined it, but didn't dare conceive the eventual reason; offering only feeble kicks, over bruises of puce and many a bone broken, her Chief to cry out and piteously so. Under starlit skies, an actual hit carried out, and for want of time or names, got only groans—reminders of how she handled matters, to instead wrist tap for emergency services.
Assured of his treatment and survival, would return to her search—questions over that mystery machine, at first another of Farnsworth's follies, to now pique her curiosity.
"Ahhh, crap, hot to the touch! Guess it got used and just a while ago. But for what, and why a week to wait again?"
But as she began piecing reasons out of piecemeal evidence, a greater annoyance got her attention; Chief's clean bill of health, and upon the declaration, a raving and ranting to culminate in grabbing his gloves, goggles and driving thong, ordering an already resentful Amy to accompany him.
Wrinkles barely across the windscreen before she'd climb the decks and sprint for bridge, got to dragging the guy out with next to no resistance.
"Like hell I'm hopping THOSE hurdles again; stay outta my seat!"
Still didn't care—perhaps never could again—to occupy it, as with many a thought spinning a mile a minute, she'd start wondering about her next moves at the Widow's Walk, pacing back and forth.
"If I can't find that son-of-a-bitch, and he could be anywhere, have no choice but disappear out of observation range. Either that or crawl back to Ipji—wonder what the real estate's like?"
As defeat continued to close in, would replay a quick mission log in mind, cross off certain locations even quicker. Even to discount any prior encounters, events leading up, just couldn't imagine that boy surviving the intense gravity and storms, or any hostile cavities, or such searing heat, or perhaps a world of eternal music, servitude were he so desperate.
Might've been Moon-bound to not associate anything with it, but knew from her experiences that, even in having hatred, just wasn't worth even a thought of jettison. Twice beyond the bounds of Luna Park was bad enough, for how closely she'd court Death, so never in doubt that he'd never last.
"Ooohhh, there's a woman for you!"
The yell out of nowhere to startle her from the railing, facing who else but her boss.
"Enjoying your tan on my dime, I hope?"
"Spare me, would ya? Either you want me figuring out crew morale, or you want me running things entirely by myself. And frankly, that'd take a certain set of skills that I just don't possess."
"I didn't make you Captain just to give me excuses."
"What choice did you have? Really? Now if you'll excuse me, got a search to continue—let everybody wait a few days for their worthless crap."
Maybe much more than days, would whisper, to eventually trace a trail to the lockers, and find taped upon hers a note inked with blood, mostly caked on by then.
"Ahhh, seems I'm gonna get answers. Creepy as hell delivery, gotta say, but should be a start."
No helping certain memories again as she'd hustle home; Mercury and Trisol off the top this time. Whether by tragic accident or predictable result, a constant theme of rescuing those who couldn't or wouldn't do so themselves—no better example to emphasise the former, than Amy's 'double' date with Gary.
"One little talk, real good deed, was all it took that night. Wanted to save each other ever since."
Wishes had to cast aside, once she'd arrive, adventures under three-sun planets; began the belief that rage applied righteously would lead to everybody's rescue. Insult enough that her rookie created no shortage of danger, for refusing to follow orders, but to earn everybody's rancour this time? Doubly so, without a doubt.
That in mind to almost rip the mysterious note from her pocket and tear it to shreds, before she'd search her other pocket and grab the sidewalk quarter found in her travels.
"Real rash choice got me here, so alright—heads I hear this out, tails I let my laser do the talking."
A flick of the thumb, a tinkling of metal, a clap to her wrist… Palming her very own, the face of Coolio.
"Oh crud, of all the—dammit, alright then."
A clean of her contact, a deep breath or two, and the paper to unfold; markings of a child, almost, but certainly no innocence within upon a careful read.
"One gets what one gives, Leela.
And one way or another,
the man Time lorded over
shall deliver."
No name nor signature given, but to be called out by this sobriquet of sorts, had a real clear idea of its writer, and likely intruder too.
"Snake's got a spine, huh? Some fancy name too? And he's actually planning to put the Fear of God into me?" A derisory snicker, as she'd crumple the paper and bin it, "Does he really know where I've come from, what I've done, who I am? How's he gonna promise a Hell that I haven't seen before?"
Her promise then to survive as she always did—was doing, had done—and return right back to sender, the minute a chance came knocking. Matter of how, though, to put off briefly, over a growing commotion from within the walls.
The faintest splashes and whispers to spring her for a bedside pistol, for she was often warned of worlds of the damned by colleague or neighbour, of mutants of many stripes lurking beside her bed.
"They dare try dragging me in, I'll send 'em even deeper south."
Content she'd scared them off, for hearing nothing else, would disarm and get under covers, her Queendom for a quick nap. Didn't count however on the grate's careful release, nor the tentacle to ooze and slither out, one point close enough to stroke her ponytail.
"Mmmmmm, so soft, cooling, tender… Wait a minute, what the?!"
Big eyeful of suction cups, upon quick turn, to react as anybody might've; bouncing out of bed, could only scream while she let her lasers loose. Many a hole made and much to condemn, yet the tentacle to escape unharmed—slickest moves in quite a while, to remind her of herself.
"What'd I tell ya, huh? Just 'cause they're above us, doesn't mean they have better manners."
"Manners nothing! Who are you to blacken my Sabbath, and what the HELL do you want?!"
"No-one, and nothing if we're gonna get that kinda greeting again!"
Rough twang to recognise, oddest reason, but nowhere near enough to acquiesce, "You dare talk crap after intruding my space? How 'bout I climb down in yours and cook up some calamari?"
"If that in any way ends your pain, then please, eat hearty."
Tentacle to then present itself with a hand of zombie green, then grip it tight in a declaration of solidarity, daresay a solemn love. Threats of flashbacks to nearly blow those apart—only admiration for dignity in death, to perhaps hold back.
"We'll live with ourselves, long as that's made sure. You may fire when ready."
Still kept aim, though her hands now shook, "How can you say that, and be sure you mean it?"
"Because all we ever cared about, believed in, argued to deserve better… was you. That was what drove our ultimate decision, near thirty years ago—for the struggles since, for knowing what'd happen, we never forgave ourselves. So, time's come to right wrongs, and get our just reward."
"Y'know, actually"—pistol to again empty, holster—"rather you stay right here. Rolling deep in tides of shit, and—"
"Oh, watch the mouth, would ya?"
Quick apology before another accent piped up, one quite unlike 'da Bronx' or any borough she knew.
"Hung plenty of twenties here, riding tides like those. There a way we can pull ya back?"
"I, I…" Could only sigh, rub her forehead, "Jeez, where to start and what to say?"
"How 'bout from the beginning?" came his chuckle. "We're in no rush, that's our word."
Tentacle's follow-up of "Go for it", to then unload her Captaincy, any hustles as well, upon that captive audience. Absolutely no telling of time, and barely pauses for breath, to detail whatever entries she'd logged in or locked inside—several kept just above whispers, but could've sworn to floating by the time she'd finish.
"Galloping gators, and still you wonder why we're so proud of you?"
"Psh, no reason nowadays. So what's with that accent?"
"Parents made me on the intercept of HighCal, LoCal, and Nukevada; passionate lovers of surf life, and coast-to-coast aficionados. Tell ya, couldn't get enough of chasing winds so ripe, those waves rancid. By the time I'd carry my own board, must've crossed the country hundreds of times."
"A life I could only imagine, maybe wish to try once."
"Best we made of real bad situations. Even then, it wasn't all grand. Still remember the double-up wave that'd wipe us out; hearing of their loss, would cry for days straight. If it wasn't for wise voices saying that broken hearts mend, but quicker with self-belief and grace, don't think we'd be having this chat."
"Never believed I deserved that, and it's belief I cannot seem to gain. Question, how did you know I lived here?"
A little humming, then an answer, "Laws forbid us from walking your streets, so learned to make do with sounds and gossip. And sweetie, even for these outbursts, we've often heard good things, indeed seen them too. Far as we're concerned, you've always been our little miracle."
"More monster than miracle… Outbursts could've taken lives, and these days, not sure when they actually will."
"Ohhh for—can you hear yourself? Monsters end up down here, and without crossing borders, can promise it's not a paradise. Would we have called you our miracle if you didn't merit it? Can always strive for better, of course, but sacrifice your sanity for it?"
"Dunno how much worse it can get. My crew'd rather wish I were dead, or wishes to make it happen. And apparently, if I don't make peace within two weeks, gonna be wishing I was."
A sudden gasp and rapid spits to follow a splash; thoughts had too nasty to imagine, even as they'd trigger an immediate, and encouraging idea.
"Saayy, speaking of borders… I've got buddies 'round the systems, owe me a couple favours—might I keep an eye or five out?"
"Are you serious? You'd actually volunteer such a thing, for me?"
"We'd walk the universe in bare feet, if it made things better. Besides, no harm having a go, right?"
"Okay, crossing fingers here… I'm after one Thomas Mayfield; six foot even, 230 or so, blue eyes, smooth head, neat beard. Strange accent—I think Oz-tralian—but don't quote me. Default outfit is a t-shirt and jeans, real blue-collar stuff. Here's his headshot, only one I've got unfortunately."
Leftover from her heavy bag to hand off—was left massaging her hair to hear a wind-drawn grimace, and hushed questions.
"Ohhh boy, even to search every network and pipeline of the five boroughs, can't promise anything solid. Still, least I can dust off the old deerstalker."
"Maybe it mightn't help"—her chin to cradle—"but sure can't forget those middles he'd flip at me. Rude-ass motherfu—"
"Middles? Why didn't you SAY he was a five-finger? Sure can't hide that forever, bet on it."
In that instant, an otherworldly surge to course inside, something beyond miracles somehow.
"You two have no idea the weights you've lifted off me—how could I ever pay you back?"
That moment to realise what EDB Mayfield might've been saying, and in so doing, cuss herself out.
"Take your burdens more in stride, for starters. The makings of greatness don't come without mistakes, sacrifice, truest pain—how one handles the suffering, that'll decide how you're defined. Understand me?"
"I'm starting to, and it's been a long time since I've told anyone that."
Gentle grip of shoulder, to let herself be brought close, "And hey, just knock upon this grate when you can. If by chance we can't answer then, just check your wrist."
Heard strange whimpers while she'd inspect her bracelet; silver with some alien inscription carved into it. Many a war to have, as many losses as wins, but somehow always returned, even to never know its origins or what it symbolised.
"Our small way of saying we'll always be with you, even if it doesn't seem like it."
Tentacle to then pop up and point, "Now sleep tight, dream good tonight, and seek to do right. I better not hear otherwise, got it?"
Dame's final words and their pitter-patters to signify their leave—right then, a sense of all pressure, the sort greater than known in undersea Atlanta, to just vanish into vapour.
"Man, and they say the sewers were only full of crap and monstrous creatures…"