by Adam Carter
“I know someone’s in here,” the voice said.
Before she could think what to do, Tarne heard the door explode inwards and peered over the edge of her seat to see a feather-winged glowing figure land upon the man with the torch. Tarne rose slowly and waved across to Kiel.
“Hey, Seraphim,” she greeted her friend and colleague. “Nice entrance.”
Seraphim – Kiel – hauled the man to his feet, then lifted him into the air. She stood clearly two heads taller than him and cut a far more striking figure. She regarded him with utter contempt. “I know you,” she spat in his face. “They call you the Loser, right? And those are your friends.”
“He has no friends,” Tarne reminded her. “That’s why they call him the Loser.”
“Please,” the man groaned, “I’ll do anything, tell you anything, just don’t hurt me.”
“Nice offer,” Seraphim said. “Not sure if I’m going to take it, though.”
“Ask me whatever you want,” the Loser wailed. “I promise I’ll tell you all I know.”
Tarne could see that her companion was still considering whether she should beat him around a bit first. “We’re after the Nagas,” Tarne said. “Where is he?”
“The Nagas?” the Loser asked, craning his head to look at Tarne. “What makes you think the Nagas is here?”
Seraphim shook him violently. “Don’t play games with me, Loser, or I might just show you my mean side.”
“Oh, that Nagas,” the Loser said, managing a slight and nervous laugh. “He’s in the cellar. Easiest way to reach him is via the main staircase.”
“And where might that be found?” Tarne asked.
“Through those doors,” he said, indicating the doors through which Seraphim had just burst.
“Truth or death,” Seraphim said, shaking him angrily.
Tarne frowned, “There isn’t a staircase out there, Seraphim?”
“Well,” she shrugged, “I did pass one, yeah. But who’s to say it was really there?”
Tarne shook her head. “I think we have enough information from this loser. Set him down and we can be on our way.”
“Sure,” Seraphim said, dropping him ungently into one of the seats. She then took the two seats either side and scrunched them together so they formed a temporary prison. The Loser did not even struggle, he was such a loser.
“And don’t scream out for help,” Seraphim warned him, “else I’m coming back to slit your throat.”
“S ... sure.”
“Loser,” Seraphim mumbled as she strode past him.
They started down the staircase, Seraphim taking the lead since she was the most able to defend herself. Tarne followed, wishing her far-seeing powers actually counted for anything, when in actual fact she had just made the whole thing up. They reached the bottom of the staircase and looked about themselves cautiously. There was no sign of trouble, indeed there was little sign of anything. Just a lot of crates stacked about the very large room, which itself appeared to be some form of storage warehouse located beneath the theatre.
“I don’t like this,” Tarne said.
“That your powers talking?”
“Yeah,” Tarne lied. It was her powers of simple observation which were telling her what the trouble was, and the trouble was that no one was trying to kill them.
“The Nagas must be here somewhere,” Seraphim said. “Just stay alert, Far-Seer.”
A noise came from the crates a few metres away and both women tensed. They could see one of the crates rocking slightly and readied themselves to face whatever was behind it. The crate rocked more violently before it ceased altogether. Then they heard a familiar voice mutter, “Ah, to hell with this,” and the crates exploded as Darkthorne came up through the floor with a vengeance. Sparky crawled up after him.
“Well that sure was quiet,” Tarne said. “Sparky, I thought you were going through the front door?”
“I tried; it was locked.”
“No matter,” Darkthorne said proudly, “for we’re all here together. Dark Thorne and his merry men.”
“Two thirds of which are women,” Seraphim noted sourly. “Let’s just get on with this.”
Suddenly, light erupted as a large spotlight shone down on their positions. They shielded their eyes and even Seraphim, whose eyes were not affected by bright lights, seemed momentarily shocked by the strange assault. A booming voice shook the very room, rasping with every word. “Welcome, Dark Thorne. Welcome, one and all.”
“Nagas, you fiend!” Dark Thorne declared.
“I wass wondering how long it would take you to find me, Jagrad Darkthorne,” the faceless voice continued.
Dark Thorne took a step backwards, “You ... you’ve seen through to my secret identity?”
“Well, you’re called Dark Thorne and you refer to yourselvess as the Darkthorne Legion, sso it wasn’t too much a sstretch of the imagination.”
“Fair point,” Seraphim said aside to Dark Thorne. “But then, you are an idiot.”
“Doesn’t matter that you know who I am,” Dark Thorne said, stepping forward. “You’re going down, Nagas. Tonight your reign of tyranny comes to an end.”
“Bravado shall get you nowhere,” the Nagas promised him. “I am retiring to the roof. Join me there, if you can. Exit, stage left!”
Silence descended upon the room and Sparky said, “I think he’s gone.”
“Then we follow,” Dark Thorne said, strutting forward.
“Not so fast,” a voice declared, and the spotlight extinguished, being replaced by the real lighting of the room. There were four people standing before them, if people they could be called, and Dark Thorne tensed for battle. He recognised all four and knew instantly that they were designed to slow the heroes rather than stop them entirely.
The first was Toxic Tim. The sole survivor of a tragic aeroplane crash which had caused him to walk a terrible guilt trip, Tim had crawled out of the wreck only to discover that the plane had crashed into a government facility housing an experimental nuclear waste compactor. His body had been burned terribly and radiation soaked through his skin and now his pores exuded toxicity on demand. Needing help more than punishment, Tim had been searching for the death which had been denied him the past two years, and had left a horrific trail of radioactive death in his wake.
Their second adversary was the Sombrero. A man wearing traditional Mexican attire and a long thin black moustache, the Sombrero had at his command handsful of palm-sized jumping beans which could, upon impact, shatter bones. He spoke with a thick Mexican accent and seldom removed his hat. Unknown to most, he was actually from Birmingham.
The Ragamuffin was third, and more a living mess one had never seen. He walked slowly, but with purpose, and his clothes hung raggedly from his bones. He was old and slow and most likely senile, and his bones were brittle and malformed. He also stank terribly. He was a harmless old man and no hero ever dared strike him for fear of killing him with a single blow and making the tabloids the following morning.
And finally there came Jargon. Little was known of the origins of Jargon, although all knew her deadly power. Hers was the ability to befuddle the brain, to confuse the mind, and to annoy the hell out of everybody. She never shut up, and nothing she said ever made any sense. She was also a Leo, because her birthday was in August.
“Not so easy an escape after all, eh amigo?” the Sombrero enquired, twirling his moustache.
“No racial stereotype is going to stop me reaching the Nagas,” Dark Thorne declared. “Now stand aside or get hurt.”
“We choose to get hurt,” Toxic Tim said, and launched himself at the Darkthorne Legion.
Dark Thorne found himself instantly assailed by the Ragamuffin, and he back-pedalled to escape the foul stench. “Great Scott of the Antarctic, you stink, old man!”
“Heh heh heh!” Ragamuffin cackled through an insane face. Dark Thorne turned and fled.
Sparky meanwhile was facing off against Toxic Tim. Tim pointed a fin
ger and fired a concentrated beam of noxious fumes towards the young man, and Sparky barely managed to leap aside in time. He came to a crouch and blasted off a stream of electricity, which Tim evaded, despite electricity moving at the speed of light. Electricity-based characters seldom work.
Toxic Tim recovered quickly, holding out both hands and sending a wave of evil towards his foe. Sparky dived behind a crate and held his head low to avoid the blast. “This just isn’t my day,” he muttered.
Tarne, meanwhile, had been assailed by the Sombrero. He laughed as he tossed a handful of beans. The beans bounced as they struck the floor, shooting straight for Tarne with deadly intent. Tarne dodged, although one struck her on the shin and she cried aloud in pain.
“Arriba!” the Sombrero shouted in triumph. “My jumping beans have spelt the recipe of your fall, Far-Seer. They are to cook you and leave you to cool. They shall have you for supper, Far-Seer.”
“Man, don’t you ever shut up?” Tarne said, rubbing at her wounded shin. “And what’s with the stupid beans anyway? What, couldn’t you afford a gun or something?”
“At least I did not come to the fight unarmed.”
He had a point of course and, when the beans came for her again, Tarne leapt behind a nearby crate. She almost collided with Sparky, who was crouched there with his hands held protectively over his head. “What are you hiding from?” she asked.
“Radioactive waste being shot out of a man’s fingertips. You?”
“Jumping beans.”
“Go figure.”
The final member of the Darkthorne Legion was Seraphim, and she was currently being mentally assailed by Jargon. Jargon stood calmly before her foe, staring intently into her eyes, and spoke all the while. “The operational faults of the sublime shall never stand to reason or go against the grain in this highbrow society of glass-ceilinged companies, whereupon the average state of being would wish for nothing better than to ...”
“Shut up.”
“... move up the chain of command via the ladder of progress, without the asymmetrical need to drag any others along with them. The conciliatory measures inherent within the ...”
“Shut up!”
“... unknown factors of the time-delayed non-transferrable bonds show a steady decline in the value of the tax placed upon the ...”
“Shut up!”
Jargon did indeed shut up at this point, although only because Seraphim had drawn her flaming sword and sliced the woman in two.
“Finally, a bit of peace and quiet,” Seraphim sighed.
“She’s killed Jargon,” Toxic Tim said, shocked.
“Arriba, she cannot, how you say? do that. They are supposed to take prisoners.”
“Like I’m in the mood for tosh like that,” Seraphim glowered. Sombrero and Toxic Tim ran then, heading for the hole in the ground leading towards the sewer. Ragamuffin ran in circles about the warehouse, although it was only a matter of time before he would make contact with someone, and even one touch might prove deadly.
“Come on,” Dark Thorne urged, and together the Darkthorne Legion ran as well.
As they broke onto the roof, they were confronted by the steady thrum of a helicopter’s rotor blades. They could see two figures, and beyond them there stood the Nagas, turning, startled, as he was stepping into the helicopter. A tall, cloaked individual wearing the mask of a snake, the genuine shock of the Nagas showed even through his mask.
“Sso, you have made it thiss far,” the Nagas hissed. “I must say I am ssomewhat ssurprised by this turn of eventss. However, I am not a man without resources. You have but to pass my two final minionss in order to reach me, although I sshall be far from here by then. My chopper is equipped with enough nerve gass to bring this entire city to its kneess. Within the hour, all of London sshall be bowing before me and I, the Nagass, sshall be proclaimed King of England!”
“Slightly barmy doesn’t really do him justice, does it?” Tarne muttered.
“This is no laughing matter,” Sparky said. “Let’s take ‘im!”
“Eagerness does not a capture sspell,” the Nagas laughed as he stepped into the helicopter. “Ssee you in the funny papers, heroess.”
The two minions of the Nagas rushed forward, blocking the path of the Darkthorne Legion. The first of them was the Uttering Nutter, whose insane babblings only underscored the fact of his insanity. The other attacker was known as the Shambling Cadaver, and with good reason considering he (it was assumed to be male) was a walking corpse.
Dark Thorne grabbed hold of Tarne and took to the skies. “Seraphim, bring Sparky once you’ve taken care of our adversaries.”
Seraphim was clearly not happy with this dividing of their resources, although did not voice her complaint, and Dark Thorne soared through the skies after the rapidly retreating Nagas. The helicopter had already gained a fair distance, although they closed the gap almost immediately.
“You ready for me to drop you?” Dark Thorne asked of his burden.
“Uh, I’d prefer if you didn’t.”
Dark Thorne seemed to think a moment, then said, “I was talking to your invisible friend earlier.”
“What invisible friend?”
Tarne did not know whether he believed her lie, and wondered what had made him suddenly bring up the subject of her genie. She did not know why, but was overcome with the intense feeling that she should not reveal the truth to him. She wished she knew what was making her not trust him and promised herself she would speak with Cynch about it afterwards.
“Get ready,” Dark Thorne said. “Now!” And he dropped her directly onto the open side of the helicopter. The Nagas, startled, turned and shrieked at her.
“Not my idea of a good time either, pal,” she confirmed, hauling herself inside.
The Nagas lunged for her, pulling a combat knife. Tarne deflected the blade and grabbed hold of his wrist, forcing the knife from her body. The Nagas attempted to punch out with his other hand, although she caught the fist and held his arms apart.
“You cannot win,” the Nagas taunted through his mask. “Even if you succeed in sstopping me, the chopper sshall crash and the gas sshall be released. We sshall both perish and the city shall sstill be doomed.”
“That’s why I didn’t come alone,” Tarne told him, realising at last that she had been brought along only as a distraction. The helicopter lurched and both of them staggered, Tarne releasing hold of her foe as she fell into the back of the helicopter’s seat. Above them, Dark Thorne had at last made his move.
“What’s that dang fool doing?” Tarne said, rubbing her sore head.
The Nagas popped his head out the door. “The idiot’s torn the rotors free.”
“What?”
“We’re gonna die!”
“Step away from the door. This is going to be a bumpy ride.”
“Can we please dispense with the cliché?” the Nagas asked, exasperated. “Your Dark Thorne out there’s trying to kill us both.”
“I see you’ve lost your lisp, Nagas.”
“You bet I have.” He clutched the wall as the helicopter lurched again, although as yet did not fall. Dark Thorne still held onto it. “It’s all fun and games when I’m robbing banks, but when a cape tries to murder me, it’s a different matter, girl.”
“Dark Thorne won’t murder anyone,” Tarne assured him. “Let alone a member of his own Legion.”
“And you trust him? I mean, you really trust him? You trust him with your life?”
“Well, now you come to mention it, I really don’t trust him all that far.”
“Then I suggest you start praying to God, girl, because we’re about to plummet, and I don’t think your man Darkthorne really minds that on his conscience.”
“He needs to be called Dark Thorne when he’s in costume.”
“Oh, to hell with that. A rose dipped in tar is still a rose, girl.”
“He’s not going to kill us.”
“Oh no?”
“No.”
Suddenly, the helicopter tumbled into free-fall as Dark Thorne released it. “That’s it,” the Nagas said, feeling the G-forces tearing at his face behind the mask. “That’s it, this is the end.”
“Sweet Jesus, he’s not gonna let us die,” Tarne cried out, the pressure tearing through her brain, the wind threatening to suck her into the outside world. “He’s not.”
“The hell he’s not, girlie.”
And then, as quickly as the descent had begun, it ended. They both lost their grips and tumbled into one another. There was a rough bump as the vehicle was set to the ground, and they scrambled out.
“He didn’t kill us,” Tarne gasped, relieved more than words could say. “I knew he didn’t mean to kill us.” But as she rose on unsteady legs, it was to see Seraphim, not Dark Thorne, before her.
“What happened?” Seraphim asked. “I just saw this copter in the air, and ... where’s Dark Thorne?”
“He dropped us,” the Nagas said. “He left us to die.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Seraphim snapped. “Far-Seer?”
“He’s right,” Tarne said, still not quite believing she was even still alive. “Jagrad tried to kill us both.”
“Then it could be he,” the Nagas said thoughtfully, and suddenly Tarne was given the impression of a voice she had heard before. The voice of someone no one seemed to know.
“What could be he?” Seraphim asked.
“Nothing,” the Nagas said, “because I’m not certain and cannot say before you, Sara Kiel.”
“You know my name?”
“I know all. I know far more than you four shall ever know, no matter how many lives you lead.”
“I’ve had enough of this,” Seraphim said, tearing the mask from their foe. Seraphim’s angry expression disappeared in an instant and she took a fearful step backwards at what she saw beneath the mask. “It’s not possible,” she said, shaking her head, unable to move her eyes. “It’s just not possible.”