by Alex Gabriel
The tune sounded way nicer from a distance, Pat reflected as the heroes burst into the lair through the new skylight Star Knight had created, raining down rocks and soil amidst a sudden chaos of descending aircycles, blaring music and terminal righteousness. He tried to take cover behind Star Knight’s frozen form, but since most of him was left out in the open no matter how he contorted himself, it ended up being more of a symbolic attempt. He did manage to avoid one small rock that pinged off Star Knight’s chest instead of his, though. Probably the most useful the man had ever been.
Nexus was the first to descend. She spun her aircycle once, stabilizers whining, flinging out a patter of dirt and debris; Pat imagined he could see her steely gaze even through the obscuring cowl, sweeping the throne room with a piercing intensity that missed nothing. She stopped her spin facing Serpentissima, hovering immobile in the center of the cavern for a single split second. The picture she made in that infinitesimal interval seared itself onto Pat’s pupils — crouched forward over the handlebars, shoulders bunching as though about to spring forward like a panther; her costume of black and blood melding with the shadows that, by rights, shouldn’t even have been there, turning her into a predatory creature straight from a nightmare. Across from her reared Serpentissima, looming in terrible glory on her onyx throne, half-naked minions at her feet… as massive, alien and incomprehensible as an ancient goddess reincarnated into flesh.
Pat gasped as the aircycle’s motor howled suddenly, dramatically. The sound ricocheted through the contained space of the cavern as Nexus shot forward, speeding straight towards the looming shape of Serpentissima.
The instant before they clashed, the entire throne dais was swallowed by a billowing pillar of darkness, impenetrable and featureless. The Pall of Night — one of Serpentissima’s favorite ways to disorient and demoralize enemies.
It was a harrowing moment, okay? So yeah, Pat may have shouted something like “no”, or maybe even “Mom”. Just as well the volume of the music was now at near-deafening levels, drowning him out entirely. Strident strings chords and a resolute clacking rhythm fairly blasted their way into Pat’s skull; several minions in the vicinity were covering their ears with their hands. Good thing Cat was defending the labs with Hell. With her hearing, this would have been sheer agony.
“Ayaiyayaaaiya yaaaai!” warbled the source of the infernal din. Mariachi was clinging onto the back of Ariadne’s aircycle as it descended in a swirling vortex of too-loud music, white linen and black curls. Pat had never seen the dude in person before, and truth be told he was even less impressive live than on TV. He was just a little shrimp in a tasteless shirt, his ill-advised mustache ganging up with the hat dangling on his back to make him look like a total douche. The trumpet-heavy music radiating from him didn’t help, either.
Ariadne’s tunic fluttered as she leapt off her vehicle in mid-air, whirling gracefully. A red web of string was already growing between her outstretched palms. Her golden belt and sandals gleamed, her ebony hair fanning out behind her in glorious abandon, perfecting the image she made: hero to the rescue, from Serpentissima’s throne room straight to luxury-edition posters and the bedroom walls of adolescent boys everywhere.
It took no more than a flick of her wrist to entangle the two minions who immediately tried to rush her. Meanwhile, behind Ariadne, the aircycle listed under the suddenly uneven weight. Mariachi woke to his peril seconds before crashing into a wall; the haste of his fake-casual dismount inserted a harsh jangle in the rhythm of his thrumming guitars.
Zen stormed up at the head of a small troop of minions brandishing Serpent Blasters, spreading out to herd Ariadne and Mariachi away from the dais and the unseen battle of Nexus and Serpentissima. Pat couldn’t spot Dad, but Zen looked like she was having the time of her life, all wide grin and glittery crazy eyes.
A venom-green blast caught Ariadne in the side as she spun on nimble feet. She stumbled, but never faltered, quickly weaving a shield of yarn that caught the barrage of blasts that followed. Neon-bright green and yellow sparks splashed against the dull red of her shield as she wove and dodged, ducking out of cover briefly to fire off a barrage of string that knocked down a swathe of minions and caught one of them up against the cavern wall, ensnaring her inextricably with the wall hanging and a potted tree.
Wow, she was good. Looked good, too, not that Pat noticed. But in this moment, watching fire-eyed Ariadne square off against Zen’s small troop, watching the exchange of blasts and strings, the push and pull, the passion and excitement of it all — in this moment, for the first time, Pat caught an inkling of why challengers and heroes did this. Conquest wasn’t the only reason, might not even be the deepest one. Changing the world, doing away with injustice, protecting the innocent and all that might be your underlying motives, but they didn’t make you fling yourself into combat with this kind of fire. At its core, the attraction was nothing more than this: the exhilaration of pitching yourself against a worthy opponent. The burn of adrenaline when you faced someone glorious in their power; when they forced you to rise above yourself, becoming more than you had dreamed possible.
It was a beautiful moment, tarnished only by the fact that Pat couldn’t hear the slap of Ariadne’s sandals against the stone, the sizzle of Serpent Blasts splashing against her shield or what she and Zen were calling to one another — the ultimatums, threats and slights that were an integral part of this kind of battle (and one of the most entertaining, in Pat’s considered opinion). It was a wonder any of the combatants could concentrate on what they were doing. Pat could hardly hear himself think, what with the infernal noise Mariachi generated. What kind of a power allowed you to emanate the sound of a Mariachi band, anyway?
Mariachi wasn’t doing much apart from being horrendously noisy and staying safely behind Ariadne. And then, he wasn’t doing even that. Hero’s Bane spurted at him from nozzles hidden in the stone, simultaneous streams coming at him from above and below. He tried to throw up his arms to protect his face, but they didn’t even make it all the way up before the amber set into a large, gleaming crystal.
And then, there was silence; blessed silence. Pat could have kissed Cea. What excellent aim! What supreme judgment! Seriously, he was going to buy her a whole gift basket full of the crazy herbal teas she loved, and maybe even give her his non-autographed copy of Demon Soul. Mariachi might not have been the greater threat in absolute terms, but he’d been a danger to Pat’s sanity. Maybe if he hadn’t been Mariachi but Excellent Gangsta Rap or something instead… but even then, probably not.
“Hah!” cried Zen, triumphant (and slightly hoarse; evidently she hadn’t let the music stop her from trying to engage in the requisite banter). “Witness the might of Serpentissima! Now we shall see how you fare without the help of your lackey, Ariadne.”
Quite well, as it turned out. In the next moment, Ariadne had flung up a hand to unspool a thick rope of string all the way to the ceiling of the lair. Before Pat could blink, she’d vaulted up and over Zen and her minions, somersaulting to land securely on her feet in their back. Not one of them got the chance to fire again before they were all encased in thick layers of string, stacked next to and over each other on the floor like some kind of bizarre modern sculpture.
“Uhm,” said Pat, as Ariadne’s narrow gaze swept the cavern and landed on him. Her eyes caught on the frozen form of Star Knight for a mere instant, and widened in astonishment as they found Pat’s face.
“You!”
Pat blinked. What the hell? Obviously it was him, but it wasn’t like he’d tangled with Ariadne before, or drawn anything onto her sleeping face. What on earth could have put that expression on her face?
He’d never thought of Ariadne as scary before. Hot, yes; impressive, powerful and dedicated, definitely. But she was a reasonable kind of hoagie, not one of the insane ones like Nexus (who might do anything just because she could), or the ridiculously overpowered ones like Star Knight (who rained inadvertent destruction on the world every time he sneezed).
> His mistake. Now, when Ariadne advanced on him with the kind of deliberate prowl more commonly associated with tigers just before they pounced, her face pale and set with anger, dark eyes flashing… now, he realized just how wrong he’d been.
Pat looked towards the throne in a vague hope of rescue. The darkness that hung over the dais was dissipating, allowing glimpses of movement and light to escape — a thrashing serpent’s tail, the baleful red streak of laser fire, an unidentifiable blur of metal or scale — but it was clear Serpentissima wouldn’t be sliding to the rescue anytime in the immediate future.
“It was you on that rooftop with Doctor Destiny,” growled Ariadne. “Did you think I wouldn’t recognize you?”
Gods, they really were all working from the same hackneyed script. It was sad. It was also absolutely hilarious. Should have been, anyway; under different circumstances, Pat would have laughed and laughed. Really, any circumstances where no pissed-off hoagie was advancing on him while his hand was stuck to Star Knight’s crystallized crotch would have done.
“You were Doctor Destiny’s accomplice, weren’t you, and not a hostage at all. I should have known. Her trickery is legendary! Her evil, treacherous plots —”
“Dude, come on. We just happened to run into each other, no evil treacherous plots involved, honest. I was shopping! I bought a hat!” Pat tried to edge further behind Star Knight’s immobile form. His range of motion was pretty limited, but he did manage to drag the stand the knightsicle sat on around a little.
“What wickedness have you bestowed upon Star Knight and Mariachi, villain?”
“Oh, that? That’s Hero’s Bane,” said Pat, with pride. “Wicked cool, huh? They’re safe and sound, but trapped in stasis for as long as the Dread Serpent wills it. Don’t pretend you’re not glad, either. Those two are a nuisance, they should never be let out of the house.”
Ariadne darted forward to grab Pat’s shoulder. There was nothing he could do to escape, although he tried; he only managed to wrench his trapped fingers by yanking too hard on unyielding amber. Ariadne’s steel hand closed on Pat — but only for an instant. Pat shrank away, twisting to the side, and her painfully tight grip slipped right off. Her fingers made an audible squelching sound as they slid over his oil-slick skin.
Pat wrenched his fingers again when he tried to leap back, away from her. The crystal jerked, the stand’s small metal feet scraping over the floor.
Desperate inspiration sprang into Pat’s mind. When Ariadne made to grab for him again, he scrambled backwards around the knightsicle and just kept going, dragging the crystal around in a tight circle. The backs of his fingers felt as though they were about to rip off, but Star Knight was actually mostly between him and Ariadne now, so he ignored the pain and kept tugging and backing away.
The hoagie tried to duck around the other side of the crystal, but Pat hadn’t been the West family tag champion for nothing. He switched directions in the blink of an eye, only stumbling over his feet a little bit.
“Stop, vile minion! You cannot escape justice forever.”
Sadly, Pat couldn’t think of a snappy comeback, probably because he was kind of busy. Making Ariadne chase him round and round the knightsicle wasn’t exactly a long-term solution, but at this point, Pat was willing to take what he could get. His alternative was a fight, and he was holding that in reserve as a measure of last resort, because he was bound to lose in the first microsecond. Pat could do a lot of crunches and push-ups, and he swam a damn fast kilometer, but he’d seen Ariadne throw punches before.
“You will tell me what Doctor Destiny’s true purpose was that day,” Ariadne spat. She wasn’t even short of breath. “Nothing about that scheme made sense. I know she’s plotting something. You will tell me what it is, or so help me…”
Pat almost fell over his own feet when the hero lunged for him again, her scrabbling fingers slipping against his back and chest. He regained his balance quickly, though, and kicked and twisted away before she could gain a firm hold on his oily body. What was with all the grabbing, anyway? Pat was going to have a word with Serpentissima about the Slut collars; with all these grabby hoagies around they were a real safety hazard. What if —
The weight of the crystal he was straining against vanished. He had no time for surprise, let alone any chance of recovery. He’d been scrambling backwards, trying to yank the knightsicle between him and Ariadne, boots sliding as he pushed his feet into the ground for leverage while pulling for all he was worth. Now the counterweight was gone, and Pat was pitching straight backwards.
Before he could smack skull-first into the stone floor — before he could even process what was happening — something strong and unyielding caught him. He hit the ground anyway, but with way less momentum than he should have… and something cushioned him from the ground.
Ariadne stood over him, mouth set in a grim line. Pat blinked dumbly up at her as yarn spooled from her outstretched arms to weave around his legs. Belatedly, he realized it had been Ariadne’s net of string that caught him — and that now bound his arms tightly to his sides. Enveloped his shoulders…
“We shall speak more of this,” said Ariadne, ominously, just before the yarn cocoon swallowed his head.
A brief burst of panic later, Pat discovered he could breathe normally inside the string. Which he’d known before, in theory; had people regularly suffocated inside her cocoons, Ariadne’s reputation would have been very different. It was one thing to know this kind of stuff theoretically, though, and quite another to experience it.
It wasn’t that uncomfortable inside Ariadne’s cocoon. Confining, yeah, but fortunately Pat didn’t have a general problem with that, and the string expanded enough to allow him to inhale as deeply as he wanted. And to look on the bright side: He’d finally torn free of Star Knight’s crotch. His fingers felt like they were on fire and he was kinda afraid he’d ripped the skin clean off, but sacrifices had to be made, he guessed.
Not exactly the ideal way to bow out of a showdown. Far from the worst, though; ask Star Knight.
Pat wriggled a little to test his range of motion. The string was very restricting, but not completely unmoving against his body. He noticed it actually seemed to slide against his skin a bit when he moved a certain way.
Hey now, here was an idea…
He wriggled with more purpose, and yes, the yarn did slide, he was sure of it. He kept squirming about like a sidewinder until he was completely out of breath, overheated and feeling more than a little silly, and — yes. Yes, that was a hint of cool air brushing against his chest. It was; it had to be.
At first, he worried his imagination might be playing tricks on him. Before long, though, he could move his arms and shoulders a bit — nearly enough for a tiny shrug. Maybe his run-in with Ariadne’s ball of string didn’t have to be the end of Pat’s participation in the showdown. If he could loosen the cocoon enough to allow him to move an elbow just a little, he would be halfway to freeing a hand. And with a free hand, he should be able to peel off the confining yarn…
Should, and could. It took a while, but finally Pat slithered out of the cocoon of yarn like a well-greased hatchling emerging from an egg, leaving behind a mound of oily, wine-dark yarn.
The main part of the cavernous throne room was deserted, occupied only by the hard-edged amber shape of Mariachi and the less clearly defined yarn-wrapped bundles holding Zen, her minions, and probably Dad (though it was hard to tell for sure). By contrast, the throne dais was a seething mass of drifting swathes of darkness, writhing serpentine coils, energy bolts and tangles of string. Ariadne had joined the fight against Serpentissima. The aural shield was up again, although Pat had no idea for what purpose; whatever the reason, not a sound from the battle raging on the dais emerged into the main throne room. It made for an eery effect.
The first thing Pat did after checking the lay of the land was to check his hand. His fingers were reddened and swollen where they’d been caught in amber, but they moved in all the ways the
y should, and — thank the gods — his skin was still in place. So, no real harm done. Maybe they were even half an hour younger than the rest of him now, having been in stasis and all. Or maybe that wasn’t the way it worked.
Nick would have known about the age of Pat’s fingers relative to the rest of his body. He would probably have had some dumb-ass conclusion to offer, too. Or maybe he’d have recycled the matter as one of his conversation-starting questions. Something like: If you could lock any one body part into stasis during the night to stop it from aging along with the rest of you, which part would you choose?
The stasis question was way cooler than most of the stuff Nick came up with, and now that he’d thought of it, Pat kinda wanted to know what Nick would answer. If he’d had his phone, Pat would have texted him. Too bad Cea had ordered them into radio silence, insisting that mobile phones were a security hazard.
Where was Nick, anyway? Shouldn’t he have been here by now? And for that matter, where was Hell?
Pat wished this were over already. He wished it with a sudden, fervent intensity that made him scowl and kick at the floor in discontent. It was childish, yeah, but whatever, there was nobody around to see.
The huge bottle of body oil had rolled against the wall behind the dangerously tilting knightsicle. Pat snagged it and jogged over to Zen’s yarn cocoon, where he wasted an annoying few minutes tugging fruitlessly at the tightly-wound string. Zen really should have oiled up before going into battle, because as it was, Pat wasn’t getting anywhere — the yarn was as secure as a vault. Pouring oil over it from the outside didn’t help; it only made it harder to get a grip on the strings (and probably ensured he’d be getting an earful from Zen later about ruining her outfit).
Pat gave up on freeing Zen just as a particularly bright explosion flashed soundlessly on the dais, the afterimage in Pat’s vision dancing teasingly against obscuring drifts of magical night. Damn it, why were they still fighting? What was taking so long?