She looked at him. “This doesn’t concern you.”
“Bullshit.” He stood up from the chair. “If Zombress comes back and you’re gone but I’m not, I will be dead.” To emphasize the point, he dragged his thumb across his throat. “This way, I can at least pretend I was temporarily insane.”
She smiled, faintly, probably for the first time in days.
Jack Cleese lay on the pool table, a glass of scotch in one hand and a cigar in the other. Above his head, the bottle of booze offered barely a finger’s worth of the amber liquid, most of it having ended up in the glass, in his mouth, or on the table. Sunlight streamed through Fisticuffs’ windows, but quickly lost its strength through the haze of smoke that provided a cloudy layer of weather on the bar’s ceiling. The building was as squat and ugly on the inside as it appeared on the outside, an aggressive affront to any upstanding villain who wished to imbibe spirits there. The floor was scratched and stained with years of fights, and even before power had been leeched from this part of town, the jukebox never worked. But, having squandered the paltry remnants of alcohol from the nicer abandoned bars, he was left with nearly no other choice save sobriety, and he’d be damned if he’d allow that to happen.
“Mr. Marsh,” he called to his compatriot, the equally drunk man semi-passed out on the bar counter itself. The noise made Weston grunt in response, and he groaned slightly as he shifted his weight. “You were in that musical some years ago, weren’t you?”
Marsh expelled a wheezing breath. “I don’t remember.”
“Yes, it was the one where you…” He had to gesture in the air with his cigar to mentally push his brain forward. “… You were a soldier in World War One.”
“Oh… Ypres.”
Cleese laughed and let go of his scotch to clap his hands together. “Yes, that’s the one.” His hand fell down to the table and nearly knocked the glass over. “It was terrible, you know.”
“Yeah, it was,” Weston said in a way which betrayed no embarrassment. “If I didn’t show up wasted, I didn’t show up at all.” He turned his head to look at Cleese. “My agent at the time said that if I did the picture, I’d be throwing my career away.” His head lolled back to stare up at the ceiling.
Jack picked up his head to look at him. “And where is the insufferable prick today, hm?”
“Lying on a bar without a career.”
Cleese laughed, harder than normal thanks to the liquor in his system, and brought the back of his head down, hard, on the table. The laugh continued for a moment before petering out and ending with a cough. “Ow.” He brought the cigar to his lips and pulled off it before spouting a great cloud of smoke up into the swirling mass on the ceiling.
“Alright, my turn,” Marsh announced after the lull in conversation turned toward the suffocating. “What happened to you? You were this badass fighter pilot and now you’re some paper pushing bureaucrat.”
The villain guffawed. “Well, to be fair, I am unemployed at the moment, so my prospects are looking up.”
“You didn’t answer the question.”
He wobbled his head, trying to think of an appropriate response. “Prop planes were my shtick, dear boy. As time moved on, my Bestowed ability did not move along with it.”
Marsh scratched behind his ear. “Want to get tank… even more tanked and take that news helicopter we saw for a spin? Maybe ram it up Arbiter’s ass?”
For the briefest of moments, Cleese looked lost in thought. “I’m afraid my flying days are over, Mr. Marsh.” He brought the cigar to his mouth and took a long drag. “I heard through the grapevine,” he began with an ‘O’ of smoke, “about your sister.”
Marsh sat up on the bar and swung his legs over toward the racks of remaining cheap alcohol. “Less talky, more drinky.” He pointed to a bottle of whiskey and lurched toward it, grabbing it around the neck roughly and scanning the label.
“I had a sister once, too.” Jack picked up his glass and hovered over his chin. “Wish I knew what happened to her.”
Content with the label’s description, Marsh untwisted the cap. “I have never seen someone drink as much as you and only now, after days of being completely blitzed, enter the melancholy phase.” He put his mouth on the bottle and tilted it up violently, feeling the room temperature but surprisingly burning liquid hit his mouth.
Cleese lifted up his head and downed the scotch in the blink of an eye. He let out a hiss of satisfaction as he sat up to look at Weston. “Four days? My boy, you truly have no idea who you’ve been traipsing about with.” With surprising grace, he rolled off the pool table and landed in a crouch, only to stand to his full, impressive height. “I don’t think I’ve been sober since Churchill came back from Gallipoli.” He smiled as he grabbed his glass from off the table and crossed to the bar, leaving only the nearly empty bottle behind. “And he, despite his legendary consumption, was but a lightweight compared to the glory of Spitfire.” He gestured to himself in pseudo-introduction.
The actor shook his head and laughed coughingly. “I’ll have to work harder to impress you, then.” Marsh motioned for the glass to be brought forward and filled it once Cleese offered it up.
“Anyway, the reason I asked, ages ago now, about the truly awful musical…”
“Don’t hide your feelings, now.”
“… Is that I’m in the mood for song. And, unless you used a voice double, I know you can carry a tune.” He smiled and gestured with the glass before downing the contents is one gulp.
Marsh bobbed his head in contemplation. “You’re a weird guy, Mr. Cleese.”
“I will take that as a compliment.”
The actor set the bottle on the bar and leaned back. He pushed himself off the wall and made his way toward the door leading to the back. “I don’t perform on an empty stomach.”
Cleese laughed and pounded the table with his fist. “Good man!” Marsh disappeared into the kitchen, the door wobbling on its hinges. As Cleese waited for his compatriot, he grabbed the bottle from off the bar and downed an impressive amount while an equally impressive amount dribbled down his chin. Satisfied for the moment, he hissed and wiped his chin clean before setting the bottle down with a clunk. Then, after a moment of thought, he poured himself a shot in his glass.
The sound of a door opening didn’t come from where he expected it to. Rather, the hinge squeaked behind him along with the jingling of noisemakers on the door frame. Despite alcohol subdued senses, Cleese whipped around toward the source. He had to squint at the sun’s intrusion into the bar, a lone figure throwing a human shadow onto the floor.
“Jack ‘Spitfire’ Cleese,” a feminine voice, youthful and attempting to be authoritative, called out.
A smile creased his face. “Well, hello there,” he said with an emphasis of his accent. The door shut and the young lady stepped further into the bar. “You have me at a disadvantage, my lovely…” His eyes adjusted, and his come-on stopped dead. White body armor on her five foot four frame came marked with a sword-pierced caduceus on her shoulder, proclaiming her allegiance. Her face revealed she was young, but those youthful qualities were overwhelmed by deep green eyes, almost glowing in ferocity. Lightly sun-kissed skin provided stark contrast to the short, spiky white hair on top of her head. “Shit.”
“I am Siren of SERAPHIM.” The introduction was curt, formal but irritated. “It is in your best interest to come with me.”
Jack smiled and set his drink on the counter. “My lady, what makes you think I would come with you?” He folded his arms and smiled warmly. “I very rarely give interviews. And I think you’ll find my tongue is more than a bit…” He pretended to struggle with the words. “Immobile.” He reached for his glass and toasted her. “At least when it comes to interrogative matters.” Cleese winked.
“Mr. Cleese,” Siren stated firmly, “there is reason to believe that you are traveling with fellow fugitive Weston Marsh.” She took a few steps toward him, trying to be threatening. “Care to debate the claim?”
Cleese smiled widely. Villains weren’t exactly renowned for their willingness to band together, even under the most extreme of circumstances. He debated the merits of selling Marsh up the river, denying knowing the lad altogether, or merely saying yes and giving a numerical advantage to his side. Even if Cleese was fairly sure that advantage would cut and run as soon as the trollop in front of him rolled out her ability, it was better than facing a threat alone…
“I assure you…” Subtly at first, he became aware of his own heartbeat. Not the sensation of it, but the actual sound of it pushing blood through his veins. He cleared his throat, the sound apparently echoing off the walls and making a beeline for his ears. “I’ve traveled with…” With a wince, the blood itself became audible, squelching through his body in rhythm with his heart. His iron stomach gurgled petulantly with all the alcohol in it, the sound ferociously loud. The woman was walking toward him as his hands shot up to protect his ears, each step a miniature explosion. The glass he had been holding in his hand hit the floor and shattered, the impact such a tremendous blast that Cleese fell to his knees. Every sound, every mote of dust that landed on a surface, filled him with physical pain. “What…” he tried to ask, but his voice was so violent he had to stop.
“I scrambled your body’s ability to interpret sound,” she said, her own voice calm and modulated for him. It was an oasis, the eye of the storm while everything else was being shattered by a hurricane. “Essentially making you so sensitive that you’d sooner rip out your own eardrums than move an inch.” She moved to him, putting her back to the bar, and knelt by his side. “It’s a handy attention getting device.” Siren rolled him onto his back, the scraping and sifting on the floor making him cry out. She grabbed his face, and, for the first time ever, he knew what flesh sounded like when it was plied: a sick, rubbery noise of wet slapping wet. “Do you know where Weston Marsh is?”
“No, you daft bint!” His voice reverberating in his head made him slam his teeth together.
She cocked her head, looking at him like a curiosity. The door to the back thundered open and the scuff of feet coming to a stop burned into Cleese’s ears, but Siren didn’t turn. “Aeschylus Brown. Have you had contact with him?”
He had to swallow to bring himself enough focus to answer. “No. I haven’t seen him since the night of the escape.”
Siren frowned at him. “Zombress?”
It took a moment for Cleese to focus on her question, dragging himself back to the bar. Marsh had probably high-tailed it out of there the moment he saw trouble. Probably for the best. Better that only one got captured versus the both of them. “I swear on my life, I have had no contact with any other escapees.”
Siren leaned down and grabbed his shirt before yanking him upright. Her eyes flitted over his features carefully. “You are proving to be a bit disappointing,” she snarled, a twitch betraying her annoyance. The sounds suddenly died out, replaced with their unaltered variants. She released him and he promptly fell over, never having been more relieved to be on the dirty floor of a bar.
That relief quickly turned to irritation when he heard Marsh growl, “Don’t. Move.”
“Shit,” Cleese muttered, turning to look.
Marsh had indeed come out of the back room. Instead of turning and running like proper survival instinct should have told him to do, he opted to grab the Enforcer’s gun he had stolen the night of the escape and point it at Siren. “What is it, Mr. Cleese?” Siren asked, as though oblivious to Marsh’s entrance.
“Hands where I can see them. Now.” Siren didn’t appear to hear Marsh’s order.
Jack gave a small head bob in Marsh’s direction. “I believe a compatriot of mine, who I in no way knew was here, wishes for you to put ‘em up, as it were.” He smiled politely as Siren’s face slacked less like someone had gotten the drop on her and more like a fly had died in her lemonade.
“Weston Marsh, so good of you to join us,” she said, her hands up and palms outward.
He circled around her. “Jack, you alright?” Weston knelt by Cleese’s side, offering a hand while maintaining a firm grip on the trigger with the other.
Cleese brushed the offered grip away. Slowly, he rolled onto his stomach and pushed himself upright with a grunt. “Marsh, you’ve killed us both, you know that, right?” Once upright, he leaned against the nearby pool table, rocking the bottle of cheap scotch.
Marsh gestured with the gun as he rose, his face unreadable. “SERAPHIM, right?” Siren nodded. “Do you want to give me a reason to not blow your brains out?”
She cocked an eyebrow. “You don’t have the balls, Marsh.”
“Fuck you,” he growled, thrusting the gun forward. “You led him straight to her.”
Siren seemed just as confused as Cleese was. “I-I assure you that I have no idea…” she stammered.
“My sister didn’t just throw herself out of a window.” He swallowed, his hands shaking the gun in increasingly violent tremors.
“This seems to not really concern me at the moment,” Cleese said with a clap of his hands. “So, if you’ll excuse me–” he began as he turned to the exit.
“Stay put,” Siren said firmly, halting Cleese.
“Shut up!” Marsh inhaled deeply, then let out a long breath. “You’re the reason she’s dead. Best villain hunters in the world, right?” A pause. “Right?”
“That’s the rumor,” Siren agreed.
He swallowed again, nodding to himself. “She was supposed to be left out of this. It was me he wanted.”
Siren blinked, her eyes darting around the room for a moment. “Our PMC employs countless agents, Mr. Marsh.” She shook her head. “I assure you that I had nothing to do with this.”
He chuckled, bitter and hollow. “Yes, well, what’s one more dead hero to the pile?”
Before he could pull the trigger, she darted toward him, pulling the gun muzzle upwards with her left hand as she grabbed the stock with her right. The gun reported once into the ceiling before Siren swept her elbow, followed by the butt of weapon, across Marsh’s face. Once down, he scrambled to get back to his feet, only to be hit with her ability, rendering him a huddled yelping mass on the floor.
In the split second it took for her to put her boot on Marsh, Cleese noticed why she hadn’t heard his entrance and why it had taken his would-be rescuer to enter her field of vision before she had put her hands up: she had a small, apparently high-tech device plugged in her ears. They probably served to dampen ambient sound. Or, that’s what he thought until the gun was swept up into his face. He cocked an eyebrow before calmly leaning back and grabbing the bottle of scotch. “I’ll be along in a moment, dear,” Cleese cooed as he brought the bottle to his lips. In one quick motion, he finished the contents and set the empty container on the felt. “Shall we go?”
Siren took a step back, and immediately Marsh stopped rigidly wailing and went to whimpering limply. “Pick him up,” she ordered. Cleese crossed to Marsh and grabbed his arm, helping him upright. The actor staggered upright, his free hand flailing wildly as Jack finally got him to his feet. “Stay in sight, walk straight out the door.”
“This isn’t the first time I’ve been captured, madam.” With a tug, he was leading Marsh toward the exit when his hearing spiked enough to make him wince. He turned to face her as he walked so she could read his lips. “Is there something amiss?”
“Just want to make sure you know who’s in charge.”
He turned and gave her a grim smile, then resumed facing forward. The actor groaned. “We’re screwed aren’t we?”
“Yes, Mr. Marsh,” Cleese answered.
Daylight washed over them, blinding in its contrast. As soon as his vision cleared, Jack became all too aware of the too-quiet street and the vacant buildings. It wasn’t anything unusual compared to the last several days, but his current situation made it less post-apocalyptic and more… well… current apocalypticky. The clear blue sky and blazing sun were brilliant in their simplicity, like the
atmosphere had been blasted away by a super weapon gone amok.
In his peripheral vision, he saw Siren move past him and bring her hand to her ear. “This is Siren, reporting that escaped villains Jack Cleese and Weston Marsh have been captured. Requesting a helicopter transport at present location.” She brought her hand away from her ear.
“How can you use a radio if your hearing’s so sensitive?” he asked when she turned her attention to him. “I’m assuming that’s why you have earplugs in.”
She stared at him for a moment, worked her jaw in thought, then looked at the ground. “Surgically implanted to stimulate the bones of my inner ear.”
“Fascinating.” Jack nodded approvingly. Surprisingly, she smiled, then resumed looking quite serious. “I won’t tell your superiors.” He winked.
“Could you shut up?” Weston mumbled.
“You act like you’ve never been tortured, my boy,” Jack said with a laugh.
Siren’s face immediately turned from serious to shocked. A distant whump of compressed air, followed by a sharp whistle drew the captives’ attention. A canister went whipping by them fast enough that they could feel the air displaced by its presence. Without even a second of warning, it burst in a brilliant display of light and a terrific roar which blew them backward from the source.
Jack couldn’t hear anything except the panicked thrashing of his own thoughts. His eyes were open but all he could see were the burned-into-his-retinas vision of the canister just before it burst, the brilliant blue sky, the abandoned street, and Siren looking very angry. Despite his familiarity with flash-bang grenades, it wasn’t any easier to mentally cope with. Just as his vision started to clear, he felt something sting his eyes, and the familiar sensation of tear gas crept onto his skin. A hand, firm and much larger than he expected from someone like Siren, snared his upper arm and dragged him backward.
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