Agency 13 # 11
Wizardyne Assault, Part 2
Picture if you will, standing atop the corpses of several would-be Viking bikers, the battered, bruised, and gun-toting forms of Agent Deathmonger, Mike 013, and Seņor Barnett, having just fought before a battle-scarred yet classy New York edifice. Closing in on their positions, yet shrouded in shadow, we see but a vague glimpse of their opponents, all of which seem to have steely, metallic parts and pieces. And they look angry.
(That should do for a 'cover', shouldn't it?)
Notice: for those of you that are faint of heart, the following tale isn't exactly what one would call G-rated in nature. It contains a plethora of bad language, excessive violence, sexual innuendo, and of course, things that would get this story burned, were it in a printed form, by the more fanatical elements of just about any religion on earth. In other words, if these things offend you - you've been warned.
(That should do for a 'disclaimer', shouldn't it?)
***
As their cab pulled up to the international headquarters of the Scientific College of Frankology, Mike 013, Seņor Barnett, and Agent Deathmonger found themselves in the midst of a massive protest. It would seem that the Knights of the Moral Majority and the Plebian Federation have teamed up to picket against Frankology in general; both organizations, after all, would benefit if the atheistic Frankologists would simply go away.
Stepping out of their car into the Manhattan fog, the three Agency men were buffeted by members of both organizations, the Knights in their standard, garish costumes, and the Plebians in their spiffy black, custom-tailored suits. As they approached the steps, Agent Deathmonger caught sight of Jacob Cross.* Unable to resist the urge, he lunged in Cross' direction for about half a second, causing the man to fall backwards, screaming.
"Hi, Jacob!"
As Agent Deathmonger leered at the man, Jacob suddenly became conscious of the fact that everybody was watching him, so he picked himself up and ran away, feeling rather humiliated. Looking away, Agent D found himself under the scrutiny of Mike 013, who was scowling. "Was that really necessary, man?"
In his usual, deadpan manner, the former FBI man said "Yes. Yes it was." This caused Seņor Barnett to start cackling uncontrollably.
Trying to rally himself, Mike made for the stairs that led into the Frankologist building, though two burly minders barred their way. "Sorry, fellas, but the building is closed to non-members today, for reasons that should be obvious. Even if you DID make that nuisance, Cross, look stupid. Heh heh." The investigators merely traded looks, and sat down on the stairs.
"Fine," said Mike, "We'll just wait here for the fireworks to start, then."
***
Having finally arrived in Texas, Sir Tophat took a long look at the dusty, tired, and generally surly Sticks McLellan as he stepped out of his taxi cab and paid the driver an extraordinary amount of cash. Seeing that she wasn't very happy in general, he tried to lighten the mood by smiling. This didn't work. "What took you so long, Tophat? I've been waiting here for twelve hours, dangit, and I'm hungry. Let's get out of here."
"Sorry, t'was a layover in Denver. Nothing I can do about it. I assume that you have the... materials I need?" Sticks nodded. Using her Nike-given power to peer into the past, she had singled out a particular sample of biological material that belonged to the man the two investigators were looking for. It was a small splatter of blood given off during the still-living Warrior of Thor's struggle with that female cyborg - before he ran, that is.
Caring not for those who might see him at work, Sir Tophat began to use his incantations over the sample, having a prepared candle at the ready. He performed his chanting for approximately one hour, at which point he lit the candle. "He is west of our location, approximately one hundred miles away. This candle will be good for one hour, so we must move fast." Cursing, Sticks made her way to the nearest state patrol car.
While the normal occupants were occupied with reporters and other curious onlookers, Sticks hot-wired the vehicle, motioning for Sir Tophat to hop in on the passenger side. She just knew that she should have had Mike send her another rental car. Of course, it was quite likely that a mere rental car wouldn't have the speed that this cop cruiser could generate. At any rate, once Sir Tophat and his precious candle were in the car, she took off.
***
He sat there on a expansive Tobago beach, sipping a martini and generally enjoying the weather. After all, his usual work tends to see him in what you might refer to as calamity zones. Here, however, you could hardly believe that something bad could happen, what with the gentle gurgle of waves as they wash up on the beach, and the peaceful cries of seagulls as they endlessly search for lunch. And he had Harry nearby to hurt any would-be troublemakers.
Harry was a really, really big fellow. He's over six foot six, and seemingly as wide. His crimson colored zoot suit contrasted with the local backdrop, as everything else here is a smorgasbord of healthy greens, deep blues, and sandy yellows. However, Harry's conspicuous nature is exactly what Alan Frankowitz likes, as the man could naturally discourage any curious onlookers. Besides, one could easily find the bodyguard in a pinch.
Keeping all this in mind, you can imagine Frankowitz' surprise when a large electrical crackle came from Harry's general area, a blast of Taser ™ power that would flatten an elephant. When the massive bulk of Harry finally hit the sandy ground, Frankowitz could see the man that felled him, a much smaller sort wielding a collapsible metal staff, one with a potent electrical emitter on the end. Its wielder smiled as he looked at Harry.
"Wow. I sure am glad the guys cooked me up this bad boy. This beats a stupid baseball bat any day. Professor Alan Frankowitz, I presume?" Like greased lightning, Frankowitz pulled a dagger out of some not-so obvious place, and brandished it like a pro. You can tell the difference between a person who simply menaces you with a knife, and one who's used one with skill to hurt people. Alan Frankowitz is one such person.
"What do you want? I'm not here for your personal pleasure, so I recommend you get to the point - fast - before I'm forced to dispose of you, my good man." Smiling, Chase circled the Professor even as the man rotated counterclockwise around himself.
"I'm just here to ask you some questions. Questions about a little incident involving a cyborg in a red tuxedo and several innocent bikers who were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. Ring a bell?"
Looking uninpressed, the Professor continued to circle, looking for any signs of attack. "I assure you that I know nothing of the sort. I don't employ killers, and I definitely don't employ cyborgs. If I could afford such beasties, I sure wouldn't waste them on mere road trash. I assume you refer to the Warriors of Thor?" Chase spun his new staff around on his fingers, attempting to grow accustomed to its weight and balance. And the Taser ™ on each end.
"Yep. Okay, then. You don't tell your little power-atheists to kill anybody, but can you think of any that might take on such a job of their own initiative? You know, somebody with a specific axe to grind against the Warriors? Maybe one who got beat up in a bar brawl, perhaps? Or just likes to play with really lethal toys?" Chase didn't take his eyes off Frankowitz as the two men circled each other, but he couldn't help but notice Harry's groaning. He was waking up.
"Well... I can't say that I know anybody in our group who is specifically robotic, as it were, but I do know a few adherents to a high tech philosophy to be within our ranks. All I can recommend is that you look up Evan Pittney, who works for Priestech, Leland Renault, employee of Wizardyne, or possibly even that fine gel Eunice Wendy, a munitions developer over at Ariel-Shijitzu. Other than that, you're on your own, my good man."
Chase smiled. "Thanks, Al. Be seein' you!" With that, he ran away before Harry could get up and pound him into a new shape, most likely a lumpy one. Grunting in his displeasure, he turned to his boss.
"You want me to go get him for you?" Frankowitz grinned, putting his titanium blade away.
"No, that won't be necessary. After all, why kill the brute when we can use him to locate our missing man? This should work out nicely..."
***
Sirens blaring, Sticks McLellan had crossed the New Mexico border over half an hour ago, and was just now pulling up to Ass Hole, a small town with a curious name that, though it had a lot to do with donkeys and a cave in the past, is now something of a joke in these parts. Of course, the town itself doesn't do anything to dissuade you from its current, notorious reputation, as it currently consists of two bars, a hotel, a gas station, and a motor home.
The abandoned buildings here and there don't really count. As she approached the hotel, Sir Tophat pointed in its direction, stating most emphatically that "You might want to slow down - right here." Slamming on the brakes as she turned the wheel hard to the right, Sticks caused the police car to spin into the hotel parking lot, an action that drew several folks clean out of their hotel rooms - including a greasy thug with a horned helm.
"Hey, dirt bag!" Leaping out of the car before Sir Tophat could even make an attempt to restrain her, Sticks was on the hapless Warrior before he had registered her movement, and she had him on the ground by the time he figured out she was trouble.
"Hey, lady, lemme go! I got enough problems as it is!" Applying pressure on her fighting stick as she lay it across his throat, Sticks adopted a hyper-cool tone that implied that she wasn't going to repeat herself.
"You were attacked by three unpleasant people last night, yes? One of them had a red suit on, if I recall right. What exactly did he look like?" It is a curious side-effect of all true Frankologists that, should they wish to be, they are effectively invisible to any sort of powers granted or used by deific beings. As such, though Sticks was able to make out a red suit in her reading of the past, she couldn't positively identify the man wearing it.
This was the part that was bothering Sticks. You see, had this merely been an attempt to set the Frankologists up for a conflict with the Warriors of Thor, how would a body fake this particular power? After all, it wasn't like anybody knew that she would show up to read the past, right? "The guy was tall, and all crazy-looking. Pale, about six foot three, with nut-ball hair, you know, like that guy on Seinfeld ™?"
While Sticks held the man down, Sir Tophat made his way to her side. "My good man, I do apologize about our rough treatment of your person, but we are under considerable pressure to produce results. After all, if my calculations are correct, an appreciable amount of law enforcement personnel will be upon us momentarily. Oh, my, what's this under that ghastly gash on your beautiful leather jacket?"
Utilizing a pair of tweezers, Sir Tophat removed a portion of broken fingernail that most likely didn't belong to this Warrior, unless he preferred Lee Press-On Nails ™. Especially those with a tiny bit of skin stuck on the glue-laden bottom. "What have we here? My, my, my, won't this come in handy. Now, where was I? Ah, yes. We have need of your motorcycle. Now. Since we are trying to help you, you won't mind if we, well, borrow it for a bit?"
Under any other circumstances, the man would most definitely not hand over his personal shrine to Thor. However, Sticks had her rattan stick firmly planted on his Adam's apple, and he didn't want to cause any additional pressure to appear. "Sure." He produced a set of keys in reckless time and, in spite of years of vehicular convention, he asked the two investigators "You're gonna be careful with my Bessie, now, aren't you?"
Sticks smiled as she mounted the hog, and as Sir Tophat got on behind her, she answered the man. "Of course we will, big guy. We'll even leave Bessie in New York City for you to pick up once we're done with her. Ciao!" Peeling out, Sticks sprayed the poor man with a heaping helping of road dust, leaving him to watch the two Agency operatives disappear in despair, as he had this horrible feeling that he'd never see his precious hog again. Funny, that.
***
Having grown bored three hours ago, Seņor Barnett had left the entryway of the Scientific College of Frankology to order a pizza at a nearby pay phone. Once the thing finally showed up, he carried the pie (along with a six-pack of refreshing, carbonated citrus soda) back to the stairs, to share it with his fellow investigators and the Frankologist door minders. This brought all kinds of longing stares from the protesters before them.
They'd been there all day, through fog, rain, and now chilly winds, and hadn't eaten a thing. This alone, after all this time, demoralized the protesters enough to cause them to slowly break up, moving off in small groups to be inconspicuous in their own, personal quests for dinner (most likely involving pizza). "Hey, that was pretty good, Barnett!", said Mike.
Through a mouthful of pizza, he mouthed something that might've been "Thanks."
Just then, as the other groups had finally dispersed, all hell broke loose. A low roar carried over the nearby traffic, and a squad of thirteen Warriors practically came out of nowhere, brandishing their war hammers as they charged the College proper. Snapping to action instantly, Agent Deathmonger and Mike 013 pulled their guns, while Seņor Barnett hefted his heavy bat, preparing to keep these two groups from starting a conflict they'd both regret.
They didn't really have to worry about that, however. Blasts of energy erupted all around the three Agency men, felling the thirteen or so Warriors as they ran, causing them to roll to a smoking heap at the feet of our intrepid investigators. Looking on past the smoke, which was being whipped up in the wind all around them, all three Agency men saw the forms of the cyborgs advance upon them. The chromed man and the girl with a fake leg looked on silently.
The third, however, the one in the red suit with the wild hair, wasn't so modest. "You clowns weren't supposed to get involved in my plan. You're screwing everything up, so now I'm gonna have to kill you." With that, he leveled his right arm at the men of Agency 13, though he stopped short of blasting them with the hand laser Sticks indicated he possessed. As if listening to an inner voice, he shook his head several times and shrugged.
"Lucky you. Looks like I've got better things to do than kill you lot. But this isn't finished yet, 'cause I now know what you guys look like. I'm gonna look you up and come after you when I'm good and ready. Ta taa." Motioning to his fellow cyborgs, the man followed his partners in hopping on the all-chrome guy's surf board, which promptly levitated them up, up, and away. Scowling, Mike agreed that this was, in fact, far from over.
After all, if he knew his men (and woman), they knew exactly who this idiot was by now, as well as having a street address, credit history, medical records, and anything else Mike would need to nail him to the wall. As far as he was concerned, this goon and his compatriots were responsible for at least eighteen deaths, and they weren't going to cause more. Even if he had to take them - and the people that built them - apart, piece by piece.
To be continued...
* Last seen in Agency 13 #2.
***
Come back next month to find out exactly what the Cyborg in the Red Suit is up to - and why! To see who manufactured these ultra-lethal combat machines, and what their ultimate purpose with these man-made man-weapons is! To see who lives and who dies, and who might possibly be the last addition to our intrepid cast for quite some time! And, if anything else, to simply get the last part of the story - don't you just hate multi-part tales?
***
Agency 13 # 11 - Wizardyne Assault, Part 2
Copyright 1999, 2004, 2012, 2023 Denny Hill 2
All rights reserved and so forth.
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