#Rally Co. | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

antics-pedantic · 12 days

Text

RALLY CO. #11: THE FALSE THUNDERER LIVES!

“Stop him! If the Golden Shadow reaches that skull, he’ll become invincible!”

Everyone had converged on a point in the Mediterranean, as far as they could remember. Solomon Callahan—their mentor, and world-famous occult detective, had told them they were looking for a skull. Everyone had assumed it would be something they could hold in their hand, a replica or perhaps a real human or animal skull given some arcane design. The steel grey haired man with the eyeglasses, silver-headed cane, and green three-piece suit was hurling mystical arcs, like lightning harnessed. But as his nemesis Othulok, the dread necromancer, descended into an open chasm, an odd dome began to lower itself, without wires or a crane. Seemingly on its own.

The ground shook violently with quakes. Everyone had to evacuate the chamber. Once out of the ruins, they could see the horror that the undead crime lord now commanded: An enlarged skull that crackled with overwhelming voltage, patches of some artificial flesh in a torrid gray. Solomon’s various students stood by his side: The aspiring detective Felix Basra, eminent bio-chemist Esmerelda Broughton, zoologist Tycho Gallagher, and the powerful psychic, Katrina Kafka.

“What is that?!” exclaimed Felix, raising one of her coat-clad forearms to shield her face.

“The skull of a giant made to fend off hostilities from planes beyond—the False Thunderers of the ancients!”

“Big whoop!” bellowed the short, stout, and most importantly steadfast scholar of the wilderness. “I’ll crawl in through the eye socket and give that Othulok bum what for! Katriner, toss me up there, sister!”

“Tycho—”

Tycho looked to his umber-toned colleague: Esme normally had some joke in store for him. But this time, her mirth was lost. Just an overwhelming desire to prevent any of her teammates—her friends, from charging Othulok’s flying fortress directly. Solomon’s magic contended with it, and Katrina was trying to assist him with her vast telekinetic power. But try as they might, the skull continued its nightmarish march. Firing a mystical bolt of its own, that no thunder god could take lightly. The resultant explosion sent everyone flying. Felix was in a daze, lasting perhaps the longest in terms of consciousness, before facing a blackout.

Last time, on Rally Co. …

Our intrepid investigators and ambitious adventurers learned their mentor was once their predecessors’ greatest enemy, responsible for creating their current threat: Othulok, the dread necromancer crime lord. And still, they followed Callahan across the globe to deny the Golden Shadow the secrets of the ancients.

They succeeded in preventing Othulok and the fascists of the nation-state Arkavalia from stealing the secret of manufacturing the miracle metal, orichalcum, which could magnify any energy directed at it many times over. In Arcadia, Blockhouse and The Junker protect Rally Co.’s hometown and various allies against past enemies returned for revenge.

But Othulok has found the last secret. Rally Co. has been defeated.

All hope is lost.

Othulok had never felt so blessed!

The glorious, decayed brain was intact enough that he could commandeer it, the cranium shielded from attacks both physical and psionic, on top of an electromagnetic field that could intercept and soak up the majority of projectiles before they even connected. Beginning with a quick jaunt through Rhodes, where he terrorized the land minutely. The same was done during detours through fledgling Arkavalia and Sicily. Enough that he could rile the likes of France and England to attempt combat.

On the land, the skull of the False Thunderer scorched tanks and disintegrated mortal men. At sea, he sank the prized English fleet. The Royal Air Force and the Armée de l'Air put up a better fight, but were hopelessly unprepared for the caliber of enemy they were up against. If they had their own occult experts in the service, or some local inhabitant with the means to even try to oppose Othulok’s powers, it was too late to mobilize them effectively. Soon, the False Thunderer’s skull would carry him across the Atlantic, where he would prepare to ravage North America and Canada, preferably until they might submit.

At the shores of Maryland, where sat Arcadia, news bulletins from overseas were being relayed immediately over the radio:

“—What was once a series of scattered sightings and reports have escalated into military conflict—”

“—The British Navy has been forced into a retreat after heavy casualties—”

“—Algeria and Egypt are amassing defense forces in case the flying death should return, advising other nations across Africa and West Asia to do similar—”

“—other nations have issued statements, be it also for self-defense, or surrender and subsequent offering as vassals of the flying death—”

The Haddock Street Hooligans sat around a home radio set at one of their family apartments, as their elders began packing in a hurry, others arguing. Ribeye Renzo was trying to convince old friends trying to pull off crimes during the commotion to run and hide too. Communications with Honest Li and his sister Nuo were impossible.

The kindly clay construct Blockhouse had heard the proceedings while shopping in the city. Afterwards he went to see that vigilante, The Junker. The avenging scavenger was dutifully working on his personal fighter plane, trying to cobble together what he could in preparation for what he thought to be inevitable.

“You’ll not go alone, lad. You’ll catch your finale out there.”

The Junker continued working. But Blockhouse did not relent either. As far as either of them was concerned, they may very well have been the last line of resistance.

*CLANG*

As much as it might have pained them to think that way. Blockhouse wandered over to put a reassuring hand on the mystery man’s shoulder, as Junker attempted to cease the shaking of his own, unsteady hands. He had dropped a wrench, after faltering in silence.

Solomon had chartered for a private plane, the fastest they could receive. Othulok was likely to attack other places first—the capital, the other major cities. Arcadia, that was saving the best for last. Felix was going over maps on the global and national level, marking the places Othulok had attacked so far for reference. Esmerelda was seated across from her, trying to formulate some sort of counter to Othulok’s defenses, and failing that, calculating what she’d need for a potent artillery shell or a bomb to be dropped from a fighter plane. Tycho and Katrina were wrapped in blankets, taking to coffee from a thermos.

It was when Solomon returned from the wash closet that Felix set down her things. The man’s face still had some moisture to it, after splashing water on a few times. The quest had taken a toll on him, and it would only take a toll further.

“Sir. Please: Tell us what we’re dealing with.” pleaded Felix. “What the devil are these False Thunderer beings?”

Solomon wished he had the tome on hand, with illustrations and direct notes. He recalled leaving it with a colleague in Paris—but there was no time to double back. Not when the threat was in the present.

“Mystics of the ancient world had to formulate a great many defenses. Against physical and metaphysical forces. They needed something… of a scale enough, to give even the gods themselves true pause. Fortunately, the body of the construct is not whole, otherwise this would be completely hopeless.”

“Yeah? And this is the best we’ve got to work with?” said Esme, scribbling out an incorrect chemical formula in her notebook. “You and Katrina are our heavy hitters, and I’m sorry—I truly fancy you both, but even combined? THAT didn’t do enough.”

Felix looked over the map while the others conversed. She thought back to her aunt Malika. To her darling Georgia at home. She could only hope they could get away from Othulok’s all-out attack. But where in the world would they go?

“Wait. Where in the world.”

Felix got out of her seat just as the plane experienced momentary turbulence, holding up the global map and slapping it with her opposite hand.

“Don’t you all see? Othulok may be able to terrorize the Earth’s surface, but even he would be hard-pressed to navigate the bowels of Subterranea!”

“Them beasties could put up a real fight, if there’s enough of ‘em around. Maybe some could even get past the electromagnetic field. Just gotta have a gate big enough to fit that nefarious noggin.” mused Tycho. In that moment, Katrina perked up.

“And that is not all there is to the Subterranea plan: The lost-gates themselves… I experience a most puzzling feeling when I go through. Perhaps the EM field could be impacted by the journey?”

“Yes… yes, that’s a good idea, Katrina!” said Solomon, familiar with what she referred to. “We may be able to create a temporary lost-gate of our own. It won’t last beyond a battle with the False Thunderer’s skull like an actual lost-gate, but it doesn’t have to!”

“And we’ll lure him in ourselves.” said Esme. “My concoctions should crack that giant cranium once the defenses are lowered.”

Everyone seemed enthusiastic. Solomon knew it had the potential to work, but in each of these young faces, he remembered something different…

In Felix, he remembered a shy little girl hidden behind her aunt Malika, clinging to the smartest, bravest woman she could think of. Eventually becoming brave herself: Enough to ask Solomon how to find the hidden things of the world. To see if Georgia felt the same way she did. And although she had her doubts, the others had come to respect her investigative acumen.

In Tycho, he recalled his former boisterous opponent in the young man’s father, George Edward Gallagher. Even after Solomon joined the previous iteration of Rally Co. they argued. Only improving after he helped Gallagher reconnect with his wife, and in his research of cryptids and legendary beasts. Research that the young Tycho took to heart, from bringing home farm animals to wrestling more carnivorous denizens. To see the boy grown into a loyal, honorable man who stood by everyone on this team when they were at their lowest.

Esme, he’d met during her admission to Century University’s science department. She had arrived with honors before she was even eighteen, and she had a desire to challenge the magic of old with her dogged attempt to learn more of the Alchemy of old. A project that Solomon warmed up to. Her irreverence did not anger, but instead delighted. A light through thick fog, the joy that follows after hardship.

Maybe that was why Esme and Tycho ‘got along’ the way they did. Tycho was serious at heart, and Esme was one for humor. They counter-balanced one another.

Although he wasn’t here, Solomon also felt something more than just the spectre of regret. A respect he should have afforded more of to that mystery charge of his. The one that Felix had determined to be The Junker, that Archangel of Arcadia for whom Tycho and Esme were eternally loyal. Solomon could only hope that in time, they could have some kind of friendship again.

Katrina. Last, but not least. Solomon had reservations about being a teacher to anyone. A guardian, perhaps-- But a teacher? He hadn’t the patience for that. Not until he met someone who was also unusual, who some went as far as to have called unnatural. What fiend could say that about a child? One who felt afraid, as if the world were ending because she could rend the flesh of others with a thought, never to know the gentle caress of another person ever again?

Wasn’t that where his wrath and his shame came from, as acolyte to Othulok’s path? Some kind of love for the things that lingered in the dark, and guilt that he wasn’t doing more to protect them? Yes, but only now he was starting to feel as though he’d finally achieved something real, with their revival of this old lot and its journeys, righting wrongs. On that, even his old companion Blockhouse would have agreed.

It was time to put a halt to Othulok. Everyone here vowed to do nothing less than that.

The plane landed. When they made it home, too few of their neighbors remained. Even Blockhouse was nowhere to be seen. They would have to look for him later: Right now, Esme had to get to her laboratory to work on her arsenal, Tycho assisting with what he learned from her about her field. When he had done his part there, he went to help Katrina and Solomon in constructing the temporary lost-gate.

Felix had taken the roadster to check on Georgia and Aunt Malika. To her deepest concern, she found neither of them had evacuated!

“Auntie, pack your damned things!” exclaimed Felix, before being shut down. Although in peaceful times Malika had no issue with swearing, she would not tolerate her niece’s speech if it kept her out of action.

“The hell I will! I’m not leaving you all to deal with this alone.”

Felix looked to Georgia. But her portly darling only played at having been defeated by Malika. Truth be told, Georgia wanted to stay as well.

“Your friend, Renzo—” said Georgia. “He helped Malika convince some teen-agers against looting the local storefront, just before the military police started showing up and acting tough. We’re going to help out with things like that. The things you all did before you went globetrotting to try and stop that nasty magician. It’s the least we can do.”

“… A peach from your namesake state couldn’t be sweeter.”

Felix looked ever so deeply into Georgia’s eyes. Malika was gathering her things and leaving early, to give Felix and Georgia some time alone before the big finale.

The False Thunderer’s skull had been attacking Washington D.C. when Othulok was suddenly diverted by a distant calling:

“Yes, I survived! You’re not all-powerful, you cad.”

Othulok began to grit his teeth.

“Callahan! I was going to save your precious Arcadia for last, but I see now I must expedite my plans.”

The Thunderer’s skull raced upwards along the eastern seaboard until it found the concrete jungle that those mortal fools held to. A volley of inconsequential mortars had been fired, to give the tanks time to roll in. Of course, an alternative was on its way. Katrina arrived on one of the rooftops after climbing the stairwell. There was a plan now, not just a full-frontal, last stand attack. That entailed her using her telekinesis not to try and smash the False Thunderer’s cranium, but instead to concentrate on the electromagnetic field.

What people failed to realize about telekinesis, was that it was more than mere levitation. It could be exerting a force with such precision, it could reach out and direct the very atoms and particles, building blocks of existence. Othulok’s magic resisted, but energy was energy—whether wielded by sorcery or science at the time. And Katrina’s psychic power was tremendous. Not just when she let her emotions take over, but through Solomon’s lessons, she could wield it in ways that would make alchemists gasp, and give pause to the mortal-mocking gods themselves.

Of course, to ease her burden, Esme was not far off. She and Tycho had commandeered a biplane.

“Ye made sure this wily bird’s got bomb bay doors, yeah?!” exclaimed Tycho.

“But of course, my irksome orangutan!” scoffed Esme, unable to keep from her humor with Tycho. “I wouldn’t want you reaching back and trying to throw the thing yourself.”

Tycho didn’t holler back. He just had the most devilish grin. Esme couldn’t see it, but she knew her colleague was itching to get at the Golden Shadow once more. When they received the telepathic signal from Katrina, they pulled up and delivered their alchemical payload: something to weaken the integrity on top of the skull.

“Take the stick, will ya?” exclaimed Tycho, pulling a mallet with a long handle. “Unless yer too busy preening—we ain’t won yet!”

“Only because your flying is second to mine!”

Tycho jumped from the plane, preparing to bring down the mallet. The chemical had weakened the bone of the great giant’s floating skull. Tycho’s mallet hammered down, beginning to crack through the weakened skull. But as he regained his footing and raised the mallet to strike again, some stray electrical volts began to strike him repeatedly, each time from a different direction.

And still, he raised the mallet to strike again.

The mallet fell at last. But not onto the skull: It fell behind Tycho, down to the street below. The only reason he didn’t fall, was because Katrina diverted some of her focus to catching him. From the False Thunderer’s skull, Othulok lashed out with greater fervor against the assembled forces of mankind on the ground, before turning his attention towards Tycho, who was being slowly levitated to the nearest rooftop.

“You can’t save him, girl-child!” cackled Othulok, through mystic transmission of his voice. “But you can prop him up for me when I post him upon a rebar pike!”

“Dégage!-- Misérable salaud! Coeur sans amour!”

But just then, Katrina could sense a power behind her. Enchanted thunder firing from the hand of her mentor, as Solomon Callahan staved off the skull.

“She shall, fiend.”

Katrina looked to Solomon. The two nodded to each other, and once Tycho was out of harm’s way, refocused their efforts upon the False Thunderer’s skull. Forcing Othulok to concentrate on them. But without the opening to breach the skull and damage Othulok within, this was merely stalling.

Gilligan Diligent was gathering his things and ushered Wrap towards an outgoing train. He’d managed to secure the both of them tickets out of the city, along with countless others attempting to evacuate. But the older man found his young charge outside, as if drawn to the dismal skies.

“C’mon, fellah.” said Gilligan. “You’re in need of a vacation, if you ask me! Why the long face?”

Wrap didn’t often laugh or offer the most obvious signs he favored Gilligan’s company. The man had tried to keep him at arm’s length away from Othulok. As far as Diligent knew, Wrap wasn’t just another assassin. He was two other things: a friend who saved his life, and a revenant created by that damnable sorcerer.

The man thought back to a time when he was in a log cabin, caressing the hand of one of his various siblings. The eldest, for whom always stood by him in making decisions and looking out for the family. They were gone now, and the others were sent to live with relatives. Scattered at the edge between two countries. He’d gotten into this line of work as a mercenary to support them all. Spread thin, only ever able to send so much out at a time given the criminal status of the work he often did.

“Maybe this is my last chance to be rid of the Golden Shadow once and for all, sir. Rally Co. are the big guns, and then perhaps I’ll use my magic to combat Othulok’s…”

Gilligan shook his head.

“Let those roughnecks sort it out themselves. You can’t be certain this is the end for him.”

But Wrap didn’t agree. In fact, he started to run. Gilligan was in peak physical condition and could catch up. At least, until Wrap used some of his mystical bandages to swing away from there. Gilligan could barely get his grappling hook out in time to give chase effectively, never having known Wrap to travel in such a manner up until now.

“Come back, Wrap!—”

Felix was pulling a body from out of an armored truck with a machine gun affixed to the top. Preparing to fire when she spotted something—or rather, someone swinging towards the skull of the False Thunderer. It was none other than The Wrap! Attempting to extend an impossible length of mystical bandages in an attempt to help stifle Othulok’s power over it. As the strips of enchanted cloth did their part, the levitation of the cursed cranium had been halted somewhat.

Felix stared down the iron sights of her latest weapon. The Wrap was right there: She could pick him off right there, and then resume firing upon Othulok and the giant skull. But she hesitated: she had seen this undead at his most pitiful before. Caught in Shanghai and nearly vaporized by Katrina’s telekinesis. Alongside Gilligan Diligent during the Golden Shadow’s attack on their home. There was something missing in all of this, for Felix was trying to determine why Aunt Malika’s would-be assassin was this weeping welp.

Just then, something tore through part of the bandages over one of the eye sockets. From within, came the golden, equally skeletal form of Othulok himself! Clad in his maroon robe. Hurling his own necromantic thunderbolts to duel with Solomon and Katrina. But when it appeared he was losing, he turned a hand towards The Wrap, and ushered him towards Rally Co.

“Attack, child! I did not imbue you with a herald’s power for NOTHING!”

Some of that occult lightning diverted to put The Wrap in agonizing pain until the boy submitted to the will of the undying warlock. Then, he directed his bandages towards Solomon, catching him by the wrists and putting an end to his magic, leaving Katrina straining to keep up with Othulok on her own. The giant skull shifted around Othulok as Felix opened fire with the turret of the armored truck. Cracking the bone somewhat as Tycho did through the wonders of high caliber rounds, but ultimately their greatest foe was still shielded.

“It is OVER Callahan!” howled Othulok. “The secrets of the ancients will be mine—the WORLD will be mine! At last, my rightful ascension is at hand!”

Felix had departed the armored truck. The timing couldn’t have been better: Othulok had begun directing the False Thunderer’s skull so that its pseudo-divine wrath rained down upon the conventional weapons of the mortal world. Once again, Felix Basra found herself in a situation seemingly beyond her ken, much like the grief she felt trying to make sense of Subterranea. She had her revolver in one hand, the other was the impellet gun for which all of Rally Co. carried, and a shaky deathgrip on both that had to serve as a substitute for confidence.

She knew why she was here. She had led this team more than once into danger. Learning the strengths and weaknesses of each member—each comrade of hers, and applying them where they might have had the most effect. Ask anyone, and they would say those past victories on the part of the group had been her masterpieces of planning and determining the truth.

Othulok did not spot her right away. Thankfully.

…Alas, The Wrap was a different story.

While the sorcerer was doing away with the rest of Rally Co. and the False Thunderer’s skull was repelling any larger military forces, The Wrap was searching for individual stragglers, in the hopes of catching Tycho or Felix. Othulok knew they were still out there on-foot, all by their lonesome. Felix recognized the sound of those mystical bandages, having encountered them enough times by now to mistake them for nothing else.

And there, Felix struck: having climbed a fire escape ladder of some nearby building, and jumping down to kick Wrap in the head. The blow knocked him to the ground, and Felix could not help but feel a certain satisfaction at her initial success.

“Hrrrnnn…”

In retaliation, The Wrap raised his arms and offered lashings of his mystical bandages. A couple of them hitting Felix before she really started to dodge. She used her impellet gun to stun him—lethal rounds from her revolver, he could probably regenerate from if given the chance. Putting him down for good meant whittling down his stamina and defenses first.

And for a moment she saw the fear in his eyes. Much as they tried to appear vicious and cruel. One part, because of Othulok’s will being exerted upon the lad. In another part, it was his own attempt to welcome finality. Felix wanted to think he had some dignity before the ultimate end and get this over with.

“Haven’t you the sense to break free of that sorcerer?” said Felix “Why must you skulk around so pathetically?!”

Wrap winced.

“I tried. Many such times, detective aspirant. The Golden Shadow—Othulok, does not release his charges so easily.”

Felix thought to Solomon, from his time as the self-styled heir to the sorcerer. He had accomplished it, broken free from his own role and done something with his life. But then again, he too was a practitioner of magic. She knew virtually nothing about The Wrap other than the fact his dread master commanded him to attack Aunt Malika.

“Felix!”

What terrible timing! There was Malika now, as well as Felix’s girl, Georgia. They had just helped someone escape the city street that had become a battlefield just now. They hurried over beside Felix, and she could feel her resolve slipping. Not that her loved ones made any move to stop her.

“You’ve done it.” said Malika. “You caught my would-be assassin. I’m proud of you, dear. Where are the others? We should regroup--”

“…”

Georgia’s eyes widened, and she held onto Malika’s arm. Felix wasn’t responding to anything just then. The firing pin on her revolver pulled back as she aimed directly at The Wrap, and fired. Just as Gilligan Diligent spotted them from afar. Running forward to stop Felix, as the weapon’s report came before he could rouse his vocal chords into crying out a plea for mercy.

*BANG!!*

TO BE CONTINUED…

#web fiction #antics-pedantic #rally co.

0 notes

antics-pedantic · 3 months

Text

RALLY CO. #10: ARCHANGEL OF ARCADIA

Last time, on Rally Co….

The crime-lord sorcerer Othulok, nemesis of world-renowned occult detective Solomon Callahan, attacked the Rally Co. team directly at home with help from the assassins Gilligan Diligent and Othulok’s own unwilling thrall, known only as ‘The Wrap.’ When Tycho and Esme struggled against the assassins, Solomon used deadly magic—not unlike those of Othulok’s to save them. In the process, revealing that he in fact was once a follower of Othulok himself!

With assistance from Blockhouse the construct and vigilante treasure-hunter The Junker, Rally Co. was able to repel the attack. Now, the group races to deprive Othulok from the secrets of the ancients, to prevent him from conquering the world. They have succeeded in obtaining the energy-amplifying miracle metal called ‘orichalcum’ from a withering vampire lord, defeating a contingent of troops from the dictatorship of Arkavalia, and forced to remain overseas to try and hinder one more potential weapon Othulok seeks.

Which leaves but one question: In their absence, who will keep an eye on Rally Co.’s beloved hometown, the city of Arcadia?...

Snowfall touched the east coast. Arcadia’s art deco fixtures would be capped by soft slush, and detailed by icicles. Uptown was for the toast of the upper crust, the well-to-do in their ritzy suites and lofty penthouses. And throughout the rest of the city, all others, from the storefronts and tenements to the alleyways and those desperate enough to try and spring for sewer crevices, steam tunnels, or unattended spaces where the subway rail was being perfected. And on a street corner, cried a newskid:

“EXTRY, EXTRY! Read all about it: Prison break at the big house! Hoosegow horror show! Spillane Jailhouse’s celebrity inmates sprung as of last night!”

Various inhabitants of the city already had copies of the paper, as they’d rushed to acquire it elsewhere. The more common, penny-ante criminal element were split between skipping town and considering to audition as lackeys. Among other citizenry, many were frightened, some found it terribly novel to imagine danger lurking around every corner, and as for Arcadia’s hometown heroes: Rally Co. was still overseas, racing to prevent total catastrophe at the hands of some necromancer or dictator.

But they had those they could count upon.

Just as the newskid was about to call it quits, they had discovered two rolls of quarters, and their stacks of newspapers more than paid for. The child could only lift their cap slightly and scratch their head. They would later notice some vagrants from further along the street reading the paper, throwing it onto their alley-fires within repurposed metal barrels or between cinderblocks propping up camping grills, which were notably accompanied by foods fresh and canned. Woe to the beat cop that took issue with the bounty of the hobos, for they had likely disregarded urban legends told to them moments before their ill-intentioned effort to disperse those lost on the wayside: One young up-and-comer in the blue uniform and sterling badge was found hanging upside down from a building’s flagpole by the window, his screaming alerting an amused neighborhood.

Among the members of that neighborhood was one “Rib-Eye” Renzo, known to most as a would-be hoodlum, and a purported mystic known for his ability to see small stretches of the future if he utilized a freshly cut steak to divine with. Formerly in the employ of the respected Gramps Toretti, who was all too immediately replaced by his power-hungry underling Thorpe Malvoli, a pitiful fellow Toretti had taken pity on. Perhaps too much pity: Malvoli had inspired the most wretched members of Toretti’s operations to break free from their order and rule as though the state were open to feudal conquest.

“Well, whaddya know…”

He found a deli order with a label that had his name on it. Wrapped in the latest newspaper detailing the Spillane Jailbreak, waiting for him inside a phone booth. He read the article so that his divining could focus on more unknown details, since he could fill in some of the blanks. There was an entire section devoted to naming the escapees and observed accomplices, with a few prisoner photographs included:

“BE ON THE LOOKOUT FOR, MALVOLI – GANG BOSS

IRVIN WHEELER – MENTALIST / ANIMAL TRAINER

DUKE LUKE – SOLDIER OF FORTUNE

ARMED, DANGEROUS, DO NOT APPROACH. DIAL FOR POLICE IMMEDIATELY, SAYS MAYOR!”

Renzo scoffed. Following that section was little mention of Rally Co.’s part in defeating most of these ne’er-do-wells. He took up the steak, putting it over one eye, and focusing himself, so that he might channel enchanted force through the invisible mechanisms of magic once again. What he saw caused him to drop the steak in terror, despite typically preserving it for later cooking. With haste, he dialed a familiar phone number.

“Blockhouse? Thank goodness you’re there! Listen—have you heard the news? Alright, forget it, we’ll talk soon. But you’d better gather up Rally Co.’s other friends. They could be in big trouble. I’ll be over after I’ve tried my usual sources.”

Renzo hung up the phone. He could have sworn he felt a chill, like something, or someone passed by his phonebooth. He produced a switchblade from one of his pockets, along with a small holdout pistol, finally hopping out, ready to fight. But by the time he did, he found a grown man laid out on the icy ground, another man and a woman he recognized as being from a rival syndicate running. That could only mean one thing, as only every cutthroat and con artist understood.

The Junker was back in Arcadia.

Blockhouse was a construct of clay, able to become malleable or as tough as stone in no time at all, even though he detested violence. And at this moment, he was in the estate of the world-renowned occult detective, Solomon Callahan, a home on the outskirts of Arcadia alongside others at the edge of the concrete jungle, and the beginnings of the countryside. It had become even warmer than ever before when joined by Callahan’s previous students: The aspiring detective Felix Basra, eminent Bio-Chemist Esmerelda Broughton, Cryptozoologist Tycho Gallagher, and the timid telekinetic of great potential—Katrina Kafka, who he had the good fortune of being guardian for when Solomon became her teacher years ago, when she still lived in her native Paris.

He lamented how they had all traveled together to stifle the machinations of the Golden Shadow—Othulok, a necromancer who sought to steal the secrets of the ancients in order to conquer the entire world. It was entrusted to Blockhouse to keep an eye on Arcadia, as well as Rally Co.’s various allies. But not all of them could be counted on to fight: Rib-Eye Renzo was passionate, but meek. The information broker from Shanghai, Honest Li and his sister-secretary Nuo could be reached by telegraph, telephone, and teletype terminal, but were still in their own city trying to keep a low profile after Othulok directly attacked the Callahan estate. And while they were very clever and noble, Blockhouse would never entertain the idea of ordering the Haddock Street Hooligans to perform too extreme an errand: they were children. And Blockhouse was reputed in countless folktales and picture books as a friend of children. He wanted to keep them out of danger as much as he could.

There was only one recourse.

After fending off Othulok all too recently, Blockhouse was entrusted with a special radio transmitter, tuned to certain frequencies upon which Rally Co.’s most mysterious benefactor could be contacted: a former member, with all the skills, means, and methods any investigator or adventurer of the group had. But his approach was different. In the process, he had to become a whisper on the wind, a myth among the masses.

To reach such a being, Blockhouse had to utilize a special code cipher, entered via a peripheral keypad that had been integrated with the living room radio set. A loud, confirming click indicated that the message was correctly delivered to its intended recipient. A reassuring thing, as Blockhouse was still reeling from the warning Rib-Eye Renzo had provided: That a gaggle of Rally Co.’s previous enemies had fled their incarceration and would soon descend upon the city!

Blockhouse fetched a borrowed fedora and scarf from among Felix’s things. The tailor had struggled to make a large coat for him, and suggested in the meantime that he wear hats. And in this moment Blockhouse not only wanted to look more remarkable, but he wanted to feel that way, was much as his friends did. They were counting on him, after all.

“Oh, bother…”

Of course, just as quickly as he put it on, a stray wind had blown the hat off. He scrambled to grab it and keep it from flying off again. But at least some of the neighbors were sincerely cheering him on, those who were not afraid of him or of Rally Co., not even with the recent hullabaloo.

The warehouse was kept dimly lit. Workers sent home early for the day. They couldn’t chance someone recognizing the malicious menagerie accumulating around the table brought down from the foreman’s office. The stout shape of Don Malvoli was accompanied by a couple of gangsters still loyal to his promises of riches and power over the city. The psychic beastmaster Irvin Wheeler looked like he was suffering a chill, for he had no creature to command with his telepathic rapport. And off to the side, the self-styled soldier of fortune, Duke Luke, was frantically using a crowbar to open a crate full of weaponry. It was like he simply couldn’t get enough.

They had all been assembled by a businessperson. One Abigail Horne. Sister to the injured corporate giant, Randall Horne. She had been known as having started her own company after her brother locked her out of the family business. At last. it was all hers, but Horne’s foolishness had ruined the good name of their brand. And there was only one thing left to do.

“You all understand why you’re here, yes?” said Abigail, circling the table. “Malvoli. You’re all about business, profits as well. And you’re still walking, much more than I can say for Randall.”

“Oh yeah, yeah absolutely!” gasped Malvoli. “And if all goes well, I wanna sign exclusively with you. We’ll navigate the underworld for ya. Count on it.”

Abigail watched Malvoli for a while. He was a wounded animal—now, and maybe for all his miserable life. But he had connections. Expendable bodies that were off the books. She turned aside to approach Duke Luke. The mercenary lifted up a weapon, but did not fire—Abigail reaching over to the weapon to study its components. Including the safety switch, that had been left on. She turned it off, and trailed her finger along the barrel. As if she knew for certain he wouldn’t fire on her.

“Big gun for a big man, Mr. Luke.”

“Yeah, yeah! They ain’t gonna survive this, no sir—ma’am.”

A boy playing grown-up as far as she was concerned. But if she appeared sympathetic, he’d focus on gunning for their shared enemy first, and then he’d be so high on his own success he’d think himself invincible. An easier target, really.

“Wheeler. I’ve got something extra special in store for you.”

Irvin Wheeler was the only one at the table who gave Abigail any pause. Psychic potential was odd to her. And the fact he could command an animal to attack for him, even more eerie.

“I want something formidable, Ms. Horne. Something that will pick off each one of those do-anything do-gooders in a most Promethean fashion! Anything less, and they’ll be after you shortly after. Then I wonder: What will your conquest be worth then?”

Abigail Horne narrowed her eyes. She gestured for Duke Luke to return to the streets with Malvoli to begin patrolling for their enemy, and all their friends. She would only trust Wheeler, and the other assassin stepping out of the shadows to do this work.

“Great day in the morning!” came the boisterous laugh of a man who lived and dressed like a lumberjack, and moved—struck like a viper. Gilligan Diligent, as his nom de guerre went. “No need to fret now, sir. Caught’cha a real nasty one to work with. My recon tells me them Rally Co. kids had trouble with a Gevaudane back when they were just starting out!”

Irvin had sneered at the bearded brute, before his eyes widened, and he put his hands together. But not before asking one question:

“Your associates. The mystical ones. Where are they?”

Gilligan just chuckled.

“No need for that! The Golden Shadow’s busy, the tip on the beastie I overheard by chance. As for Wrap, he’s around. Just on support duties for now, I suppose.”

The jolly hitman beckoned Abigail Horne and Irvin Wheeler along. His companion, the dead boy wrapped in bandages that had seen arcane treatment, stood beside the cage where the Gevaudane was being kept. A growl from the cage gave the Wrap a fright, and he instinctively extended some of his magic bandages to clamp the beast’s powerful jaws shut. Irvin Wheeler flew into a rage, trying to tear the bandages away.

“Imbecile! Irredeemable cretin!” hissed Wheeler. “You risk damaging my potential for bonding with the beast’s psyche!”

Of course, for rattling the Wrap, Gilligan Diligent had drawn out a sharp Bowie knife in no time at all, holding it to Wheeler’s throat.

“I’d leave the lad be, pal.” said Gilligan, leaning in. “… It is pal, isn’t it?”

Abigail Horne had to step in with a stern look before Irvin Wheeler relented, and let Wrap out of his grip. Gilligan didn’t laugh for once: He gave Wrap a look over for any damages, before dusting him off with a handkerchief and having him keep his distance from Horne and Wheeler. Although he spoke in a stern voice, Wrap did not require it to listen to the older assassin: Just as Wrap once saved his life, it was in attempts like this that Gilligan wished to repay the young undead. Bitterly, Irvin Wheeler remained there while Horne directed the assassins to get going.

“I want all of Rally Co.’s allies captured. Killed if they see fit to resist.” said Abigail. “We’re to hold all the cards. We’re to strike fear into their oh-so-noble hearts.”

And with them defeated, she could carry on her brother’s work in her own name, without any obstacles ever again.

Ribeye Renzo almost wished Malvoli knew that it was Renzo himself that betrayed the new gang. Because now, Malvoli had reached out to Renzo and his strange form of fortunetelling to find the allies of Rally Co.

“What’s taking so long, Renzo?!”

Ribeye Renzo was in a difficult position. Either Malvoli would eventually find out Renzo defected to Rally Co., or he’d be putting Rally Co. in danger and trapped in Malvoli’s clutches again. They were holed up at an upstate mansion Malvoli purchased before he clashed with Rally Co., ending up in prison before he could make use of it.

“The magic ain’t what it used to be, boss.”

Malvoli just laughed at the thought, and insisted Renzo get back to work.

“You lazy sack o’ crap! Hahaha!” snickered Malvoli. “Hey, where’d everybody go?”

Renzo had only noticed it in passing: One of the guys out on guard duty had called a couple others outside to help with something. Someone should have been back to report on it. In a way, there was.

*WHAM!*

A grown man was sent flying back inside with a single strike. Sliding up to Malvoli’s desk, for him to lean over the edge and see. He turned his head to see Renzo using another steak for his divining, only to duck for cover.

“What did ya see, Renzo?!”

“Nothing!”

“Don’t be a wiseguy! Tell me what it was!”

“LITERALLY. NOTHIN’! NO CULPRIT, JUST OUR GUYS GOIN’ DOWN. SOME OF ‘EM SCREAMIN’!”

Malvoli paled. A grandfather clock he had brought in yesterday for his return began its heavy gong to signal the new hour. The shadows seemed to grow longer, and Malvoli could feel himself noticing the little sounds around him: whistling from outside winds, and the skitter of a puny little roach. The damnable little thing was driving him to madness while someone, or something was out there doing away with his men.

“Renzo—a piece! Grab a gun before they get in here. We’ll fill the sucker fulla lead!”

Renzo started searching for a weapon. If not to adhere to Malvoli’s orders, then perhaps to give himself some shred of safety to cling to. But when he got up to show Malvoli what he’d found, his expression dropped to one of pure terror. Malvoli turned around to see the rain had started.

“Pull yerself together, Renzo! It’s just the rain!” howled Malvoli, before appearing shaken by the sound of thunder and lightning. Renzo pointed a shaky finger towards the window: Malvoli turned around slowly, and at the next surge of the storm, he saw in that flash of light, two unblinking viridian eyes, trying to get in. Get at him.

But Malvoli would not wait! He jumped over his desk and tried to tear the gun out of Renzo’s hand. A stray shot hit the ceiling, Ribeye Renzo releasing the weapon and escaping while Malvoli turned to aim the gun at the window, waiting for the prowler to enter. The next lightning flash revealed nothing. The mobster raced to the telephone, and started on the circular dial, nearly nicking his finger in the hurried process.

Unfortunately, he only remembered one phone number. It was not the one that would save him.

“Yeah—yeah, get over here! Bring all the guns you want, just hurry!”

Especially not from the gloved hands reaching out to pull him back by the throat, before he could hang up the phone.

Duke Luke was scrambling over to Malvoli’s place with a mess of holsters, rifles strapped to his back, and in his hands, a Bren Light Machine Gun imported from Britain. He jumped out of the driver’s seat with the weapon at the ready. It was there he saw someone running off into the woods. The self-styled soldier of fortune snickered to himself: He’d fought in jungle landscapes beset by extreme weather conditions far more unforgiving than this, despite his prominent self-preservation instincts. He clipped a couple of flashlights to a military harness on his chest, and started after his prey. Holding the machine gun by his hip, and firing it off. Yes, he was certain he winged his target, he’d shifted in the way he moved, how he carried his weight after a debilitating surge of pain from the machine gun. Duke Luke followed into the woods. His prey no longer on the ground, but he knew better.

“Squirrely bastard.”

Just as he had done before to rebel guerilla fighters overseas to earn his almighty dollar and a pouch of the vicious salt, Duke Luke started firing on the tree line. The enemy shouldn’t have been able to move so fast if he was injured. But he followed in a rough spin, making sure no tree around the merc was left unscathed. And with the gunfire came the roar of a war-wager, ready to take any life. To empty the whole of his current clip through sustained fire that would have overwhelmed anyone else.

If only he could take this one as quickly.

Duke Luke huffed, and he puffed. He waited a moment to see if his enemy would retaliate. When nothing happened, he scurried behind a large tree to reload the machine gun. But not before something flew towards him: a piece of metal in the shape of a mechanical cog had embedded itself in the barrel, another knocking the spare ammunition out of his hand. Abandoning the weapon, Duke Luke took to a carbine rifle, and rolled for another tree to use for cover. He took aim, and fired when he saw a pair of bright, emerald peepers in the distance, against the darker green of tree leaves in the night.

As he looked around for his prey, he failed to notice something landing until it touched down on his collar bone, and tightened: It was a noose! He was being pulled up to a high branch. The rifle fell out of his hand, and he was scrambling to get at his knife to cut himself loose. Sure enough, he did: and when he landed on the ground, he went for one of the multiple holsters affixed to his harness. His flashlight beams were unsteady—but he could make out a shape overhead. One leveling two .45 caliber handguns of his own, the only part of himself visible besides those large and unblinking ‘eyes’ of his.

This wasn’t right. Duke Luke was never on the receiving end. His mind flashed back to forgotten scenes where he’d cut down soldiers in surrender, or non-combatants he’d stumbled across. But they didn’t have what he had: grit, and a short-fused stick of dynamite. He rolled aside, grabbing at a book of matches in his pocket, and lit the explosive before tossing it up and ducking for cover. The confirmation of his actions, being that his prey’s weapons had fallen to the ground.

“Well.” said Duke, dusting off his hands and starting up on lighting a celebratory cigar. “That takes care of that.”

The set of gloved knuckles that collided with his face threatened to shatter his jaw, just as he bit down on the cigar. The emerald-eyed fiend had survived, dropping his own weapons simply to lull Duke Luke into a false sense of security. He cursed himself, before picking up a flaming tree branch, and charging at his attacker. Forearms raised in defense as Duke Luke repeatedly bashed into the object of his ire. Until he wasn’t: The burning branch was ripped from his grip, leaving mere splinters to hang onto. The improvised weapon had come from sturdy oak, and was broken over a knee like a child’s plaything and tossed aside. The same hands caught Duke Luke, tossing him to the ground, and unclipping the military harness. Smashing his flashlights, and jamming his remaining guns.

Even with his eyes mostly adjusted to the dark, it was hard for Duke Luke to take notice of the figure before him, only his silhouette and the glow of his eyes—halted briefly by an effect like that of a camera shutter. He’d ‘blinked’ at Duke Luke, and then pointed to the deeper woods. Where animals, and terrible things of myth roamed. Without weapons or supplies, Duke Luke’s odds of survival were slim.

“You can’t condemn a man to that…!”

The alternative came in the form of the pointing hand, gesturing with a thumb back at himself. And then with his index and middle fingers, he pulled them from one side to the other, in front of his throat. Duke had the option of remaining here and taking his chances with his tormentor.

So, he fled. Like he always did.

Back at the manor, Malvoli had been hogtied. His men either unconscious or dead, save for Ribeye Renzo, who had taken one of the cars to escape. Just as he did, something rose up from the backseat of the automobile: emerald-eyed and all.

Blockhouse was searching the streets. He had every intention of collecting the Haddock Street Hooligans and returning them home until the ordeal was concluded. It did not take long before he found some of the group: Chiara, Gunther, and ‘BLT’ (Bobby-Lionel-Torvic). Chiara was the leader of the group, and her confidence was everyone’s reassurance. But not this time: Franklin and Slinky Kevin were still missing.

“I toldja we shouldn’t have let Slinky Kevin follow us!” exclaimed BLT. “He’s gone and gotten Franklin caught by the demon-thing! He’s got no skills to keep up with us!”

“Irvin Wheeler.” said Chiara, correcting BLT. “And Franklin is nearly as clever as I am. He’s probably looking out for Slinky Kevin, like you should have!”

Thankfully, the little gentleman Gunther pointed ahead to Blockhouse, and all three children ran over. In particular, Blockhouse gave Gunther a hug.

“Blockhouse, sir!” sobbed Gunther. “It is being most terrible, sir! Wheeler came looking for us. We scattered to escape, but we have abandoned our own!”

“We didn’t!” said BLT, nearly on the verge of tears at the thought. “We practice this sort of thing all the time! They should have been ready.”

They looked to Chiara, who was slapping at them for such talk. Blockhouse had to stop her.

“You two be bellyachin’ all this time!” she hissed. “Don’t go wailin’ to Blockhouse or anybody! If you’re wanting somenone to blame, point the finger at me! Ain’t I in charge of us?!”

“That’s enough.” declared Blockhouse. “I won’t have you accusing yourselves or each other. That blight of a beastmaster Wheeler is as much a cheat as they come. The Haddock Street Hooligans on the other hand, have always had my awe, my respect! And you’ll be whole once again.”

Just as Blockhouse spoke, Ribeye Renzo had arrived in his car, albeit without any passengers.

“Renzo! You’re alive, sirrah!” said Blockhouse, enthusiastically. “But how did you escape Don Malvoli’s manor?”

“It’s a hell of a story!” said Renzo. For a moment he covered his mouth in front of the children, but they just laughed. He should have known they too had grown up on Arcadia’s streets and knew much, by now. “Malvoli and Duke Luke both got licked, taken right off the board. But that leaves Wheeler and Diligent at least!”

“We’ll worry about the lumberjack later.” said Blockhouse, ushering the children into the vehicle. “See to the safe return of these children to their families, and advise them to bolt their doors.”

“Nothin’ less than that!” promised Renzo.

“But what about Franklin and Kevin?” asked Chiara.

Blockhouse furrowed his hairless, clay brow. Renzo gave him a look: One that seemed to suggest there was a factor in play that they could count upon.

“Never fear, Chiara…”

Slinky Kevin wouldn’t leave. Because Franklin couldn’t.

He watched from a distance at the walled yard of the old building where he and Franklin had gone to hide. Irvin Wheeler and his monster were there, a bigger and more fearsome thing than the jaguar he once commanded. And he knew Franklin had been caught, because the other boy had pushed Slinky Kevin towards a hiding spot. Now his friend was caught: Kevin was so desperate to be part of something, but now he thought he’d rushed in too quickly. It was his fault that Franklin was in this mess, a hostage for that miserable man to try and lure the others with. The rest of the Haddock Street Hooligans, and Rally Co.

Just then, he could have sworn someone, or something was there. Wheeler’s monster?

No. It wasn’t the monster. It had to be a person: Maybe someone who could help.

“Puh-please…” stuttered Slinky Kevin. “My friend’s in there. You gotta go find help. Rally Co.’s all gone. Everyone else got away buh-but…”

The boy looked around. He hung his head in shame. But then, he saw something fall to the ground, and picked it up: It was a little prize like from snack boxes, a small piece of metal shaped after a locomotive. He couldn’t place why he was given this trinket, but it made him feel better. When he turned to look back at the building, he saw something out of the corner of his eye: the trail of a white scarf, like an airplane pilot.

“Yes… tremble! No one’s coming to save a bad seed, not anyone that CAN save you. And once I have the whole set…”

Franklin was huddled up in a room where Irvin Wheeler had cornered him. Scaring and threatening the child with his promises of revenge. A short stride away, his latest ‘aide’ keeping back interlopers.

“I see you snickering at me. Thinking you’re better. But you’re not!” spat Wheeler. “Your puny tricks can halt me no longer, for I will cast off my afflictions and take my rightful place among the masters of this world!”

Franklin didn’t argue. Wheeler twitched, and roared, making the poor boy curl up even further, inching back for a hiding space that wasn’t there. Wheeler just scowled and left to sort out other matters. There was a long and uncomfortable silence in his absence, that Franklin expected would be broken by actual harm, or his friends being lured into a trap.

Just as Franklin relaxed a little, he flinched: Someone was in the room: The emerald-eyed fiend that had terrorized Malvoli and Duke Luke! Who to Franklin, only seemed like one more of their evil ilk.

“No! Stay away!!”

Franklin shut his eyes and swung his fists. But the ghost-like figure who walked into the room stopped just in front of Franklin. Glancing aside for a moment with the lens shutters halfway closed to dim the glow of his viridian gaze, as if contemplating his next move, and opting to crouch down so that he was at eye level with the child on as equal terms as possible instead of looming over him. So that when Franklin slowly opened his eyes again, he would give this weird figure a chance.

Franklin sniffled. “You’re not with him?”

“Never.”

“I haven’t been good. He’s out for revenge, he said so.”

The figure in the shadows let off a long, coarse sigh.

“Men like that, love to decide the order of things… because they’re the ones who hold all the cards, afterwards. Will you be like that, one day?”

Franklin shook his head no, quickly.

“Then it doesn’t matter to me if you’ve been good or not.”

Just then, there was a screech and the smashing of furniture. Irvin Wheeler was stomping back towards here, no doubt to drag Franklin with him to whatever remaining allies he had.

“He’s coming. He might hurt you too.”

“Let him. He won’t see me.”

Franklin was still afraid, shaking terribly. Eventually, the emerald-eyed mystery man relented and offered something over: his scarf.

“Hold this for me. It’s magic.”

“Magic? Like Mr. Callahan does?”

The figure in the shadows froze for a moment, before nodding.

“Yes. It makes you braver: Once… I was able to fly a fighter plane through a typhoon.”

Junker wrapped it around one of Franklin’s forearms, in case Wheeler tried to grab him harshly again. Just as the psychic beastmaster appeared, the figure in the shadows had vanished into thin air.

“Come along, whelp. The boss says everyone must regroup. I won’t lose my bargaining chip so easily, though.”

When Franklin stood up, he actually swatted away Wheeler’s hand. When the psychic tried to grab Franklin, only the scarf caught, and he cursed. Causing Franklin to laugh for the first time in a while. Enraged, Wheeler leaned down to get into the boy’s face, but not before he took a haymaker punch that left his nose bleeding. Thinking it was just a headbutt from Franklin, Wheeler howled, only for the boy to jump aside, while the figure in the shadows kicked him out of the room. At which point Franklin returned the scarf, receiving a hushed thanks.

It was only once the figure in the shadows stepped into the light of the hallway that he revealed himself: It was that treasure hunter vigilante, The Junker!

But before he could strike again, the hefty gallop of the Gevaudane was upon him, tackling the mystery man off of Irvin Wheeler, who issued one harrowed order to Franklin:

“RUN!”

The last thing the child saw was The Junker trying to keep the beast’s teeth away from his head, as swipes of its claws started to dig in. Then he was running through the halls, slipping into an elevator just before Wheeler could catch up with him. He was only able to make it to the next floor down before Wheeler activated an emergency mechanism to halt the elevator carriage, before running down the stairwell to catch up. Through the floor they were on (and from the ceiling of the building floor Franklin arrived at), went the avenging scavenger and the dread of the French countryside. Battling between debris and through smoke.

Wheeler got at the elevator door, trying to force it open so he could get at his hostage. He could sense his beast searching for Junker, having wounded him. It turned around and lunged when it seemed to have found him again in the halls still beset by smoke.

Franklin slipped out of Wheeler’s grasp just barely. But eventually he found a hallway with a dead-end. There was a window, but they were still a few floors up.

“You little nuisance!”

Wheeler approached Franklin slowly. Although he wanted to take him alive, he was angry enough to strike.

“I nailed him. That cowboy packrat from the news.” said Wheeler. “In the end, he was a mere mortal! And eventually, all mortals die! I prosper! I—"

Franklin saw the very life drain from Wheeler’s face when he heard the noises: The first, a terrible *CRACK!* followed by the whimper of a large animal. And then, a huffing, and a puffing, of an injured man.

“Irvin.”

The former high and mighty beastmaster did not turn at first.

“IRVIN!”

Finally, he turned. Lo and behold: there stood Junker, with his jacket torn in places, and what little was visible of his face, there were cuts. And held overhead by the strength of both arms, was the lifeless corpse of a Gevaudane with its jaw broken. Connection severed, and he hadn’t picked up a signal alerting him to that miserable development.

It was Wheeler’s turn to be on the verge of a breakdown. Slinky Kevin appeared at the end of the hallway and meeting up with Franklin.

“You stayed?”

“Of course! Haddock Street Hooligans stick together.”

Then, they watched Junker put his aching sinews into hurling Irvin’s own monster at him. Sending him smashing through the window, and breaking part of the wall off.

“…”

Junker looked back at Franklin and Slinky Kevin. The two boys had been through a great deal today, but they appeared to be alright. He gestured for them to follow him, as they returned to the ground floor and headed out the door. While the boys were ordered to wait by the street, Junker returned to see where Wheeler had landed: He had been saved, cushioned by the body of his late beast.

The Junker took him up by the collar.

“Wait! You don’t have to finish me off, I sense it in you as well! The ESP— I see now! I bow to you! Please god, don’t kill me--” pleaded Wheeler.

“Kill you? Life is a gift, Wheeler!” said a markedly more theatrical Junker, mocking in his tone. “Your survival means we can do this again, and again, and AGAIN. Fun, fun, fun.”

“No, no…” he whimpered.

“No?”

In that moment, Wheeler felt a very, very deep regret.

“Did you give any of your other victims a choice? Were you going to give Professor Homme a choice? The children? Oh yes, I know, Wheeler… Just like I knew you’d be here. I’ll always be right behind you...”

Silence. And then Junker pulled him in closer.

“--AND IF YOU *EVER* GO NEAR THOSE KIDS AGAIN, I’LL GUT YOU FOR THE VULTURES TO FIND!”

Wheeler panicked.

“Alright! Alright! And Abigail Horne—I answer to Abigail Horne! She wants to take over her brother Randall’s operations.”

Junker released Wheeler.

“I told you, Wheeler. I know. But perhaps Horne would be interested to know how quickly you’d sell her out.”

In his current state, Wheeler would never be able to get out of town in time to escape Abigail Horne’s retribution. Junker snickered at his predicament, before returning to check on Franklin and Slinky Kevin. With directions from the rest of the Haddock Street Hooligans, Renzo was able to find this street. But he never expected to encounter the archangel of Arcadia himself.

“You’re…”

The Junker simply nodded solemnly.

“And you, Renzo, are a friend of Rally Co.”

Without a word, Renzo beckoned the kids to climb into the car. Before anyone could issue a thanks, The Junker had vanished once more. Renzo was right there with Franklin and Slinky Kevin, awestruck.

It was time to finish this.

Abigail Horne was in her office. It was her brother Randall’s once, but no more.

Gilligan Diligent stood at the ready. As did his charge, The Wrap. But even Abigail herself had grabbed a crowbar and a snubnosed .38 revolver. While the three fools, Malvoli, Duke Luke, and Irvin Wheeler were occupying Junker and the other allies of Rally Co., she was in the middle of proceedings to take over the company, and any fronts Randall once operated. When the detritus devil finally appeared.

“The spookier they are, the harder they—EEAUGH!”

The Wrap’s eyes widened, with his black sclera and grey pupil-ring. Junker had angled towards an overconfident Gilligan with a flying kick, caught by the ankle. But before he could slam Junker into the ground, the mystery man twisted around to swing his shin into Gilligan’s head, sending them both into the ground. Abigail Horne was not far off, firing her snubnose revolver in a haste to press her advantage. Trouble was, Wrap had extended long strips of his mystically treated bandages to try and hold Junker in place, some of the bullets interfering with their course, leaving only a single arm caught.

“I owe you one, kiddo!”

Gilligan jumped back to his feet, and started swinging his fists into the vigilante. A good portion of his strikes were blocked by Junker’s free arm in a demonstration of martial arts techniques that the lumberjack assassin had not expected. It was when more bullets whizzed by Wrap that Gilligan grabbed Junker by the arm, and Judo tossed him aside. He nodded to Wrap to abort mission.

“What’s the meaning of this?! I’m paying you two top dollar.” said Abigail. “You said you wanted to take a crack at Junker yourself, if we ran into him!”

“You take a shot at Wrap, we’re through here.” said Gilligan. “Keep your filthy money. As for you, cowboy packrat—hope we can try this again sometime!”

Abigail raised her revolver to fire, grazing a grunting Gilligan and causing The Wrap to yelp, evidently still capable of pain despite being undead. She moved to reload and started firing again, nearly emptying another six shots before Junker kicked the gun out of her hand, forcing the woman to go at him with the crowbar. And she didn’t let up: She must have swung three—no, four times, catching him on the side and still hurting him a bit with his forearm blocks.

“Randall. Dead?” said Junker.

“Hospitalized.”

Abigail started on a big swing, Junker weaving out of the way and chopping at her hands to make her release the weapon. She wasn’t opposed to fisticuffs if she had nothing else and started trading blows, she’d done some boxing. Compared to Randall, she seemed ready to fight for her empire. Ruthless too, if her firing on her own talent was anything to go off of.

“Radio news says Malvoli was—hrnnh!—hogtied, the law nabbed him.” noted Abigail Horne. “What about Luke and Wheeler?”

Junker did not enjoy making conversation. That, and he could tell Abigail’s communication was a new tactic.

“The merc’s on the run. Wheeler tried to sell you out.”

“Pity, can’t find good help these days. Don’t worry. I’m not going to try to bribe you though. I won’t beg, either. In fact…”

Abigail and Junker’s forearms were pressed against each other, constantly trying to snake through and find the advantage, until they both jumped back a moment.

“… Seems like you’re waging your wars alone. Or with too small a pool of help to say you’ve got your own army.”

“Don’t need an army.”

Abigail didn’t smirk or laugh. This was business, and even if she didn’t like him very much, she was going to succeed where Randall had failed.

“Claimed and heard. But I’ve noticed you haven’t wiped out every gang. Some of them get to remain, provided they don’t cross certain thresholds. Like maintaining an ecosystem. You seem to understand the dangers of an immediate power vacuum now.”

Junker nodded.

“Here’s my deal: I take over the family business unimpeded. As for everything else, I want a controlling stake in Arcadia’s criminal underworld. In return you get someone on high regulating everyone else.”

“…”

“Oh, don’t fret. There will be alliances with other bosses. We must try at balance, yes? Democracy? Not a single patriotic bone in your body? I digress. There is a natural inclination for us to be enemies—and we are. But when we clash, I refuse to see buffoons like Malvoli, or a weird menace like that Golden Shadow do anything about it.”

She extended a hand to shake. Junker stared at it for a while. Eventually, he just offered a silent thumbs up.

“Excellent. Now, next time we’ll oppose one another. But should you find an invitation, or a common irritation… let’s find time to meet up. That goes for your Rally Co. as well.”

“I’m not their keeper.”

Abigail held her hands up defensively.

“Loud and clear.”

A frown found its way onto Junker’s face, as he departed. The fact there were more survivors from his actions recently than not. That had to have been Katrina and Felix’s influence. Though he wasn’t certain they’d have agreed in cutting a deal with a new crime lord in the making, this was no time for another major conflict. Not when the Golden Shadow was trying to enact the plan to end all plans.

Abigail Horne took a seat in her chair. And she couldn’t help but laugh. For Junker, it was a compromise in terms of both his efforts in the field, and perhaps of his personal principles. If she could get something like that going with Rally Co., they’d all be putty in her hands, one day. And she herself could finally become something like an empress, of all the commerce and crime in this fair city, clad in deco stylings.

Back at Solomon’s estate…

The phone was ringing, nearly about to fall from its place until Blockhouse returned to answer it.

“Hello?”

“Blockhouse! It’s Nuo— from Honest Li’s in Shanghai?”

“Ah, long distance call. But you sound troubled?”

“Yes! It’s awful: Rally Co. wasn’t able to beat the Golden Shadow to the last site! They say he’s found his final superweapon! Hello?... Hello?!”

Blockhouse had dropped the phone. He knew of the quest to stop the orichalcum heist in the Alps, but even he and Solomon didn’t know what was next. Only where it might have been. And a warning:

“False Thunder Sleeps.”

TO BE CONTINUED…

#web fiction #antics-pedantic #rally co.#rally co. 10

1 note · View note