Drake took a couple of steps forward into the living room, eyes flicking across the television set that, even with no one in the room, displayed the capering antics of The Muppets. The sound was muted. Above it, a trio of video monitors showed ever-changing images of the exterior of the house. An enormous plastic cup sat unattended on the low coffee table, its contents a mere shadow within its bright red walls. It sat beside a plate loaded with oatmeal cookies, leading Drake to the conclusion that the cup probably held milk.
“Francis! You’re home!” said Monster as he dashed into the living room.
Drake grinned widely at the sight, his teeth flashing in the light from the television. Monster was nearly six feet in height, and at least as broad across the shoulders as his brother. Legs as strong and large as tree trunks propelled him across the room. His black hair was trimmed neatly into one of the cuts that was, of late, fashionable, and the cut framed his wide, round face well. Eyes the color of milk chocolate sparkled with excitement from within epicanthic folds that gave him an almost Oriental look. It was evident that he had shaved - or, more likely, been shaved, Drake thought - that morning, though a bit of stubble was beginning to poke its way into the air. He was dressed in loose Levi’s jeans. A t-shirt silk-screened with the image of a dancing chicken was stretched across his massive torso. His feet were bare. One ham-sized fist clutched a Patriot action figure, while the other was outstretched to wrap around Drake.
Monster hit Drake like a moving van, the impact nearly enough to knock the reptilian booster off his feet. A fiery pain lanced through his chest in response to the contact, but he forced the pain back and happily hugged his brother. They stood like that for nearly a minute until finally Drake pushed free and held Monster at arm’s length. He laughed aloud. “Yeah, kid, I’m back. For a while, at least. How ya doing?”
“I’m great, Francis,” Monster said. “I got the new Patriot!” He held up the action figure for Drake to see, half-turning back toward the area of the house from which he had come. “I’ve got Lady Justice, too, and Bonebreaker and Annihilator, and…and, um, Elment…Elem…”
“Elementaire,” Drake finished, mussing Monster’s hair with a hand. “I gave you that one.”
The French booster had, many years ago, been part of Lady Justice’s own team, along with the legendary Patriot, but his slightly lower popularity meant that the manufacturer had made less of his particular figure. They were consequently somewhat harder to find. When he had seen it, Drake had immediately purchased the toy and shipped it to Monster.
“Yeah. I was playing Boosters. Patriot and Bonebreaker was fighting and there was a giant rabbit, and it was gonna eat New York unless Patriot stopped it.”
“A giant rabbit?” Drake asked, cocking his head in curiosity.
“Fuzzy slipper,” Sala explained in a stage whisper. Drake nodded in understanding as Monster continued.
“You wanna come play with me? You can be Lady Justice if you want. I’m Patriot, though,” he said with a frown that was all challenge. Drake raised his hands in mock surrender.
“You got it,” he told Monster. “You can be Patriot. Let me get something to drink, first.”
As he turned toward the kitchen, Monster caught Drake’s arm and pointed to the bandage on his chest. “What happened?” he asked.
“I, uhhh, I got cut the other day.”
“Does it hurt?”
“Yeah, it hurts a little bit,” Drake admitted. “But it gets better all the time.”
“I cut my foot once,” Monster said with a nod of understanding. “I stepped on a nail and it hurt. I cried. Did you cry, Francis?”
Sala looked at Drake from the corner of her eyes, a grin starting to spread across her face. “Yeah, Francis. Did you cry, too?” she asked in a too-sweet voice, winking as she did so.
Drake took in a breath through his nose and then sighed as if the admission was costing him dearly. “Yeah. I cried,” he said softly. Sala’s teasing grin vanished instantly as she recognized the pain in his voice.
“It’s okay,” Monster said, reaching out to take hold of one of Drake’s hands. He held it in his own, which was warm and moist in direct counterpoint to Drake‘s own cool dry scaled flesh. “It’s okay to cry, Francis.”
“I know it is, you little monkey,” Drake said a moment later, pasting on a smile and gently head-butting his brother. “Now let me go get a drink so we can play.”
Monster cheered and ran back to his room. Sala looked at Drake. She held up a hand, palm out and fingers spread in a gesture of apology.
“Look, man, I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “I didn’t mean - “
“S’okay,” Drake said, waving her off. “Just having a rough time dealing. Don’t mean nothing.”
“Still…I mean…you know I’m here if you need me, right?”
“Yeah.” There was a moment of uncomfortable silence. “How’s he doing?” Drake finally asked.
“Seems to be all right. His nurse thinks he’s a bit hyper today, but she decided not to try to adjust any of his meds. I told her it’d be okay. Hope you don’t mind.”
“I appreciate it,” Drake said with a nod. “Kid’s got enough problems without being doped up like some zombie in a nuthouse. There any coffee made?”
“You know it. Pot’s in the kitchen. Look, you have fun. I’m gonna run a sweep of the property. I’ll be back in a few.” Sala said, loosening her pistol in its holster and exchanging a knuckle-to knuckle gesture of friendship with Drake before she left.
Drake worked his way through the living room, passing through a doorway into a wide room with a heavy table and five chairs. There was a pile of coloring books spread across the table, and a large plastic pail filled with crayons sat waiting for Monster to return. Drake smiled and continued into the kitchen. The tantalizing smell of hot meat drew his attention to a large roast that was slowly cooking in the oven. He licked his lips before returning to his hunt for caffeine. On the counter beneath a cabinet-mounted microwave was a large Bunn coffeemaker. Almost a half-pot remained in readiness, and Drake lifted it from the hotplate. He took down a large ceramic mug from the cabinet and filled it, tossing the contents back in one quick swallow. He refilled and drained it once more, then topped off the mug and turned to find a woman leaning against the doorway leading into the utility room. She wore a set of lime-green nurse’s scrubs, and had he entertained any doubts as to her identity, the woman wore a pair of laminated cards on a breakaway cord around her neck. One identified her as a Justice Department employee, while the other was her nursing credentials. Her skin was pale and freckled, and she had her red hair pulled back into a tight ponytail. At the moment, her eyes were wide in shock at the sight of Drake so casually drinking coffee that was hot enough to leave burns on skin.
“Howdy,” Drake said, toasting the woman with his mug. “Francis Drake. I’m Monster’s brother.”
“They told me about you,” she said. “My name is Margaret Hutchins. I’m one of Chris…Monster’s nurses,” she added, stumbling over the nickname.
“All lies, I promise you,” Drake said with a wink. Margaret chuckled politely at the ancient joke. Drake smiled, keeping his teeth as hidden as possible. No point frightening the poor woman this early into the meeting, he figured. “Well, if you’ll excuse me, Monster’s in his room playing Boosters and wants some company. I promised I’d be Lady Justice. With luck I can pull off the voice,” he added dryly.
“It was nice meeting you,” Margaret replied automatically, but Drake noted the way her eyes never left him as he turned to leave the kitchen. She even flattened herself further against the door frame to avoid the outstretched tip of one wing as it approached.
“All right, monkey-man, who’s winning?” he asked as he entered the chaos that was Monster’s room. Toys and comic books were scattered haphazardly around the room, and Monster was on his knees in the center of the floor. Several action figures lay in various poses around him as the Patriot figure seemed to be having a co
nference with Bonebreaker rather than fighting him.
“Patriot told Bonebreaker they needed to work together to beat the giant rabbit,” Monster explained, looking up from the unfolding drama and smiling innocently. To Drake’s left, one of Monster’s size thirteen slippers took up its own space in the grand scheme.
“That the rabbit?”
“Yeah. It’s gonna eat New York.”
“Well, we’d best see what we can do about it, huh?” Drake remarked, curling his own legs beneath himself and settling to the floor. He let his tail stretch out behind him, and angled his wings forward over his shoulders so the bottoms would not catch. The raised wings shaded the play area a little, but everything was acceptable in the eyes of both brothers. Drake pulled out the plastic bag he had brought in with him. “Maybe these will help Bonebreaker make up his mind,” he said, upending the bag. Packaged action figures in the likenesses of famous geneboosters from around the world poured from the plastic with a rustling sound. Monster’s face lit up and he grabbed for them with a delighted cry.
Forty minutes later, after the joy of the new figures had merged with the fun of simply playing with them, and with New York safely protected from the ravenous fuzzy slipper-bunny, the brothers took a break. Monster dragged his brother around the house by the hand, showing him the various items he had accumulated since last Drake had been present. Each was accompanied by a story of how and why it had been obtained, as well as by noises of appreciation made by Drake for Monster’s benefit. There was a lengthy discussion on the subject of which Muppet was ‘cooler’ - Grover or Elmo - with no apparent winner. After a while, the pair was interrupted by Margaret, who informed them that dinner was ready. For the first time in weeks, the two dined together, with the company of Margaret and the recently-returned Officer Sala. Drake opted for the roast he had smelled in the kitchen rather than the Spaghetti-O’s his brother wolfed down at a phenomenal rate.
“Time for your meds,” Margaret told Monster as he finished the inch-thick brownie that was his dessert. She stepped away from the table for a moment and returned with a small metal tray. A plastic cup of water shared space on the tray with two disposable paper pill-cups. One was filled with a pair of enormous beige capsules, while the other held a half-dozen smaller tablets in a variety of colors.
“What’re those?” Drake asked, speaking around a mouthful of his own brownie. He pointed vaguely toward the medications with one hand. The other was wrapped around his coffee mug, preparing to lift it to his lips.
“These,” Margaret said, tapping at the varied tablets with a crimson-painted fingernail, “are his vitamins, anti-hypertensives, anti-spasmodics, and relaxants. The others are his blockers.”
“Blockers?”
“Myostatin enhancements to retard further muscle growth, combined with a CNS depressant to prevent hyperactivity,” she said in a quiet voice. Her eyes went involuntarily to Monster as she used the word ‘retard’, but then back to Drake when she realized that Monster had either not heard it or simply tuned her out.
“So you’re basically knocking him out?” The words held a hint of challenge, and for the moment Drake was gratified to see a flicker of apprehension in the woman’s eyes.
“Well, no, not really…Um, you see, we have to…” she stammered.
“You have to sedate my brother. That’s what you’re telling me.”
“Not so much sedate as…we’re trying to control his Emergent factors so as to prevent him from becoming a danger to himself,” she hastened to assure him. The hand holding the tray had a noticeable tremor now. Monster, obviously accustomed to the routine, had already snagged his pills and swallowed them with a large drink from the cup.
The cracking sound of Drake’s coffee mug shattering filled the room for a second, followed by the sounds of the pieces falling to the floor. He never even looked at the remains of the mug in his hand. His eyes were fixed on the woman who now sat in abject fear across the table from him. His upper lip quivered and his eyes narrowed as he battled to control himself. He slowly raised the coffee-dripping hand, bringing the talons on his thumb and forefinger together until they almost touched.
“You know what that is?” he asked icily. Margaret shook her head almost imperceptibly from side to side, afraid to break the eye contact. The act of moving her head seemed to be an effort.
“That’s how close you are to having me snap you in half and throw you through the wall right now.” He was shaking as much as Margaret now, but from rage rather than fear.
Sala leaned forward in her chair, about to say something, but a sharp look from the reptilian booster caused her to fall silent. Beside her, Monster looked at Drake with confusion in his eyes.
“What’s the matter, Francis?” he asked. “Did Margaret do something bad?”
“Yeah, bro. She sure did,” was Drake’s reply. He looked at his brother for a moment, pausing to take a breath. “Why don’t you show Sala how Patriot and Bonebreaker beat the rabbit?”
“Is she gonna go to jail? Don‘t you put bad people in jail?”
“Not right now. I’ve got some questions for her, that’s all. Now I need you to go, okay? Sala? If you would?”
“Okay,” Sala said, taking Monster’s hand and standing from the table. “Come on, buddy. I was gone, remember? I didn’t get to see what happened.”
“Margaret’s nice,” Monster declared as he stood. “Don’t be mad, Francis.”
“It’ll be okay,” Sala assured him as she escorted him away from the table. She looked over her shoulder as they moved, speaking directly to Drake though the words were chosen carefully to soothe Monster’s fears. “Nothing’s going to happen to Margaret.”
“How long have you assholes been doping him?” Drake demanded as soon as the pair was out of earshot.
“We’re not -" she began, but Drake cut her off.
“No more bullshit doublespeak,” he snapped. He slammed his palms down, causing the table to creak in protest. “Answer the question.”
Forcing herself to speak, Margaret answered stiffly. “Chris receives a measured dose of blocking agents once a day. He has for just about a year.”
“Why?”
“According to his charts, his Emergence seems to be still ongoing. It’s believed that if he does not take the medication, he could advance to a state of strength so great that, given his mental condition, he could pose a threat to those around him,” she said, her entire body now visibly trembling with strain. “As well as to himself.”
“His ‘mental condition’,” Drake mocked. He spat on the table in front of the woman, turning away from her in disgust. His hand snaked into his pocket, nearly tearing the fabric of his pants as he retrieved his cell phone. He glanced at the screen. The legend, ‘21 MISSED CALLS’ greeted his angry gaze. He ignored the message and stabbed at the speed dial button. “Can’t believe I didn’t catch this shit before now," he growled as he listened to the tones on the other end. After seven rings, Colleen Hart answered in a tired voice.
“Agent Drake. I’ve been trying to call -”
“You’ve been doping my brother, you slickskin bitch!” he thundered, interrupting her in mid-sentence. “You guys’re supposed to be taking care of him and you’ve been turning him into some kinda damned junkie!”
“Look, I don’t -”
“You look! Think. This kid is the only thing in the world that matters to me any more, and you’d better understand just what that means.”
“Be silent,” Hart ordered, actually raising her voice. That had never happened to the best of Drake’s recollection, and that fact alone was enough to give him pause. “Now listen carefully. I have more important things to deal with right now, and so do you.”
“More important?” Drake started to say, but this time Hart cut him off. Her words and the urgent tone with which she spoke them sent a shudder down his spine and made him forget for the moment everything he had meant to say when he placed the call.
“Patriot is down,
possibly dead,” she announced.
Chapter Seven
For a brief moment of time, Drake stood in stunned silence, jaw hanging open. He still held the phone to his ear as the words seemed to reverberate in his head. Patriot is down. Possibly dead. The mere thought of it was something he had never considered. What could kill Patriot? Dozens, possibly hundreds, of boosters and norms had tried through the years to accomplish that one task, and none had so far succeeded. No one thought they could stop Lady Justice, either, Drake thought with renewed horror. Was this how it had felt to receive the news of Her death firsthand?
“What do you need from me?” he asked.
“You’re on a pickup mission,” answered Hart in her more usual emotionless tone. “Emile duChamp. He’s in Wyoming, in a cabin near Devil’s Tower.”
“That place from the movie? The space monkey flick?”
“Yes. You can count on his non-aggression, but he will most likely not be willing to leave. You must tell him only that Patriot needs him. You are not to give him any details.”
“Like what? I don’t know the damned details!” he snapped, holding the phone away from his face and glaring at it as if Hart could see his expression.
“All that I can tell you at this time is that someone or something has attacked him. He is in a comatose state and being attended by the best that there are. We actually don’t know very much right now,” she said, and Drake picked up on the mix of shame and desperation in her voice when she made the admission.
“You’ll figure it out,” he said, surprised to hear the words of encouragement coming from his own mouth.
“Y-you have transport en route,” Hart stammered, and it was obvious that Drake was not the only one shocked at his statement. “Cargo truck to take you to the airport, then a flight in to Wyoming. You’ll airdrop over Devil’s Tower and make your own way in. Once you have acquired your targ… your objective, he will transport you out.”
The insertion was threatening to become the standard for Drake these days. Though he had wings and was more than capable of his own flight, he did not have the speed or endurance in the air necessary for a protracted journey. More than fifty miles of supporting his bulk in the air left him wheezing like an asthmatic, and even the most unseasoned of boosters just discovering their flight ability could easily outdo him in a situation requiring speed. Dropped from an aircraft, however, he could allow his wings to spread and simply glide most of the way down. It still did not make the concept of stepping from the plane any more pleasant.
Firedrake - Volume 1 Page 6