by Adam Carter
“Hold on a moment,” Firearm said. “Someone’s only just begun inspecting that van. Even if they phoned you straight away, how could you have arrived so quickly?”
“I travel at the speed of goodness,” the hero replied, “for wherever there is injustice, wherever there is evil, there shall now and forever be Dark Thorne.”
“Well, Dark Thorne,” Gunman said, drawing his pistols with the speed of a cowboy gunslinger, “you’ll be a dead thorne once I’m through with you. Yee haw!” And he proceeded to rapidly open fire with his guns, laughing all the while. The bullets, however, did not penetrate the hide of Dark Thorne, did not even pierce his costume.
“The guy’s invulnerable,” Firearm told him. “Why is it you always try to shoot him when you know he’s bullet-proof?”
“Now it’s my turn,” Dark Thorne said, leaping forward and smashing a fist straight into Gunman’s chin. Gunman reeled backwards, collapsing against the far wall, and Firearm watched him go before turning back to Dark Thorne.
“Fair cop,” she said. “You win.”
“Hey, what’s the big idea?” Dark Thorne hissed quietly at her. “You’re supposed to use the villain/hero jargon and continually refer to yourself in the third person, not just give up when there’s the chance of a fight.”
“I said I was giving up?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, maybe I was just distracting you.”
Dark Thorne spun about, but it was too late, for C4 had sneaked up behind him and planted a series of plastic explosives upon the hero’s back. “You know this isn’t going to hurt me,” Dark Thorne said.
“Sure it’s not,” C4 said, “but when it goes off, it’ll hurt them.” He indicated the hostages. “Time to fly, hero.”
“Oh no,” Dark Thorne said, charging for the door and taking to the air.
“Scratch one hero,” C4 laughed, and the villains cackled as one.
And abruptly ceased when another image appeared within the doorway. She was tall, well-built, with eyes downcast in a serious poise. She wore a tight, filmy material which was as hard as diamond, and there were two feathered wings sprouting from her back. She stood staring into nothingness, her legs slightly apart, and slowly did she speak.
“Transgressors of the human race,” she said, “know that you have been judged and have been found wanting. Know the punishment for your crimes, know the name of the death that shall be dealt unto you this day.”
“Do her,” C4 said to Firearm quickly. “Burn her already.”
Firearm raised her flamethrower and shot off a burst of fire, although the creature within the doorway seemed only to absorb the blaze. She did not make any move to avoid the flames, and once Firearm shut off her cannon-arm, she appeared none the worse for wear because of it.
“If that is the best you have to offer,” the strange creature said, “then you shall feel the flame of Seraphim.” And in one fluid motion she leapt forward, drawing a sword whose very blade was formed of molten metal. The sword carved a wide arc in the air, came down sharply, and C4 emitted a gasp of sheer horror as Firearm was cloven in twain.
“You can’t do that,” C4 said. “You’re the good guy.”
“I’m neither good, nor a guy,” Seraphim said. “Go figure.” She slashed out again and C4 fell backwards with a shriek of pain. Seraphim stood over him and turned about to search for Gunman, although he was already struggling to his feet in a vain attempt to get away. “There is no escape, evildoer,” Seraphim declared heatedly. “Not from the Angel of Death.”
“Hey!”
Seraphim turned her head as two more people entered the bank. One was shorter than the others, wearing a thin mask across his eyes and garbed in bright material, his hands crackling with inane electricity; the other was dressed in flowing robes and wearing an even darker expression. It was she who had spoken.
“What have I told you about killing people?” she asked.
“Don’t do it?” Seraphim said.
“Precisely.” The robed woman was named Far-Seer and, as her name suggested, she was not a fighter. She was able to see into the future and held limited psychic powers, just like any heroine worth her salt. Her companion was Sparky, and his electric powers spoke for themselves. “Now go wait in the van.”
“I am not waiting in the van,” Seraphim said. “That van smells.”
“Any worse than the stench of charred flesh?” Far-Seer said, striding boldly over to C4. “He’ll live if we can get him an ambulance, although I’m not so sure about the other one. You cut her arm off, damn it.”
“I thought it was a robotic weapon,” Seraphim said, losing her dark edge as she spoke too often. “How was I supposed to know there was an arm in there somewhere?”
“Well, you look for one thing.” A sudden explosion rocked the entire bank then, and Far-Seer alone did not fall to the floor.
“What was that?” Sparky exclaimed.
“Dark Thorne exploding a bomb in the air,” Far-Seer said.
“You foresaw it?” Sparky asked, impressed.
“No, I saw Dark Thorne flying off as we arrived. Now come on, let’s call the police in and get out of here.”
“What about the hoods?” Sparky asked.
“Oh Jeez, I don’t care about hoods. Seraphim, burn them.”
“We surrender!”
“Great,” Far-Seer said, having already expected their fearful answer, “now can we please get out of here?”
“Well that was a shambles,” Tarne said as she tore her eye-mask free and deposited it angrily upon the floor of the manor. “Gunman? We had trouble taking Gunman?”
“We didn’t have any trouble taking him,” Seraphim said, concentrating hard so her body slowly began to change colour and the wings retracted into her now-human form.
“I noticed, Sara,” Tarne said. “Being Far-Seer, I suppose I should have foreseen you hacking everyone to pieces.”
“There are some people who simply crave judgement, Heather,” Sara Kiel said simply. “If you cannot see that, then perhaps you are in the wrong business.”
“They were a vanguard for the Vicious Circle,” Sparky said, changing into his ordinary clothes. “We really should do something about their boss, you know,”
“Where’s Darkthorne?” Tarne asked angrily, too emotional to be able to talk of the future she should have already seen.
“Probably dry-cleaning his suit, after getting exploded upon,” Sparky said.
“And that idiot is the cause of all our problems,” Tarne said savagely.
“And all our money,” Kiel pointed out. It was true. The four of them comprised what the media termed the Darkthorne Legion, although it had been Darkthorne himself who had coined the name. Darkthorne came from rich parents, who had been murdered before his eyes. The manor was the perfect place from which to operate, for it was both secluded and large, and no one had any idea as to their true identities, despite Jagrad Darkthorne, aka Dark Thorne, being a complete moron.
“I swear that man shall be the death of me one day,” Tarne said, holding her temple with thumb and forefinger, feeling a headache building.
“Well you should know,” Kiel said.
“That’s what worries me.”
“I’m gonna hit the shower,” Sparky said.
“Be careful,” Tarne said. “Remember what happened last time. Water and electricity just don’t mix, Sparky.”
“Oh, they mix; I think that’s the problem. Ciao.”
“Sometimes I worry about the men in our team,” Kiel said.
“Just the men?” Tarne asked. “You know, I often think I’m the only sane one here.”
“If my brother was not killed before my eyes, I would not even be in this team fighting to avenge him.”
“And if my two sisters weren’t murdered because I failed to act, I wouldn’t be here likewise.” Tarne paused. “Do you know what’s keeping Sparky here?”
“He witnessed a truly horrific hit-and-run incident against a
fox and vows to one day bring the unnamed villain to justice.”
“And you don’t find that strange at all?”
“I find life strange, Heather. But then I am above life, since I was born beyond the Pearly Gates.”
“You know you’re not really an Angel, Sara.”
“No, but I was once bitten by a radioactive seraphim and acquired his extraordinary powers.”
“I really don’t want to know what the two of you were doing when he bit you.”
Heather Tarne had never believed the origins her colleagues supposedly held, although they were entitled to their own individual insanities. Supposedly, Sparky was struck by lightning whilst holding a radioactive goldfish he was in the process of returning to the pet shop (since it was radioactive and he hadn’t been told that when he’d bought it the day before), and as for Darkthorne ... apparently the planet of his birth was destroyed by solar flares one day and the radioactive fallout bestowed him with special powers whilst at the same time re-forming the world and an entire race of people oblivious to its previous destruction. Tarne would have believed him more were he to have said he was from another planet, not just the Earth prior to the one upon which they now lived.
Nor could she understand why everything had to concern radiation. After all, the Cold War was over, it wasn’t the sixties any more.
The door opened and Darkthorne trudged in, shivering slightly as he removed and neatly folded his cape. “It’s cold out there.”
Kiel took his cape, although he pulled it back and shot her a stern glower. “Don’t tug on Dark Thorne’s cape.”
“You really are insane,” Kiel said, shaking her head and walking towards the kitchen.
“So,” Tarne said, folding her arms, “what are your mighty plans on bringing down the Vicious Circle, Jagrad? Going after their smaller agents really doesn’t seem worth it.”
“By thunder, you’re right! We’ll strike at the source and burn the nest of vipers from within their slimy mass!”
“Not literally, I hope. Sara’s been getting a bit ahead of herself lately.”
“I’ve noticed, although I’m sure she’s only being enthusiastic!”
“We should see what the Master Computer’s turned up since we’ve been out.”
Darkthorne nodded and the two of them moved into the living room. It was a vast area accommodating comfort and pleasure, although as they turned a secret dial, a large landscape oil painting flipped about to reveal the greatest computer system the world had ever seen. “Flick the switch and let’s get started!” Darkthorne said.
“You do realise you’re not allowed to say the F-word? And stop shouting every time you say something.”
“Sorry,” Darkthorne offered meekly. “I’m not shouting, I’m actually just exclaiming.”
“Well it’s driving me nuts.”
“Noted.”
Tarne tapped several pieces of information into the computer and a map of the city appeared on the monitor screen. Several red blips indicated recent activity for the Vicious Circle. “We’ve taken out a lot of their second-stringers lately,” she said, “although the Vicious Circle seems to be able to churn them out, no end.”
“You call Gunman a second-stringer? More like D-List, surely.”
Tarne shrugged. “Either way, we still have their main players to contend with, which is why I reckon we should strike immediately. We know their leader is a creature known as the Nagas, we just have to find him.”
“Slime like that always lives in the sewer.”
“Right, but even the sewer’s a big place. We need to pinpoint his position before we make any move against him.”
“Then get the computer to pinpoint.”
Tarne stared at him as though she considered him an idiot, which of course she did. “It can’t actually do that without us first feeding it information.”
“For what I paid to have the thing built, it darn well should!”
“Jagrad, you’re exclaiming again.”
“No, I’m shouting.”
“Who installed the computer to begin with? Aren’t they a security risk?”
“Nah, they just thought I was loaded. Which, incidentally, I am.”
“Oh. By the way, you always told me your parents were murdered in front of you, but you also told me your planet blew up in a radioactive explosion. How can they both be true?”
“One explains why I do what I do, the other explains how I can. What, can’t a guy have two origins?”
“Sure, but most have to wait about forty years first.”
“Mistress,” a voice said, and Tarne saw a small, wispy being float through the air. Cynch was a genie Tarne had released from confinement some months earlier. Since it was she who had released him, only she could see him, and he would only help her so long as she did not reveal his existence to anyone else. Once she did, he would be freed from his contract and would go back to doing what he had been imprisoned for to begin with: dragging the earthly realms down into Hell. Tarne was resolved, understandably, to never tell anybody about him.
“Hmm?” Tarne asked, trying to make it sound as though she was just humming to herself.
Cynch laughed, his large green belly rolling up and down. Ordinarily he did not possess much of a form, being wispy green mist as he was, although when he laughed he did so like to be able to belly laugh. “Almost lost the Earth that time,” he said. Tarne stared at him and he continued. “Oh yes, my reason for coming here. The Nagas is housed directly beneath the old Royal Theatre of Piccadilly.”
“The old Royal Theatre,” Tarne said, turning to Darkthorne with determination in her eyes. “Uhm, that’s where the Nagas is to be found.”
“How do you figure that?” he asked. “Oh, I see.”
“You do?” Tarne asked, startled, believing he had seen her genie.
Instead, Darkthorne moved across to the computer and, taking a marker pen, joined the red blips of Circle activity. They formed a perfect circle (not that anything was ever perfect, as Buddha so eloquently presents it), and he added a large red smile and one dot for an eye. “There’s an eye missing,” he said, “although if we dot the Royal Theatre, we get ... one smiley face.” He stood back to admire his handiwork, then tilted his head. “A bit lopsided, but it’ll do.”
“You do realise you’ve just drawn in permanent marker on the screen of the most advanced computer on the face of the planet,” Tarne said.
“Yeah, loaded.”
“Oh. Anyway, shall we gather the others and head for the theatre?”
“Why? What’s showing?” Darkthorne received a stern glare and realised he had said something stupid, then thought very hard, and thankfully came up with the answer without any further prompting. “Oh, the Nagas, right. You think we should barge right in?”
“What, you want to stop to get a warrant now?”
“That’s the way Police Man does things.”
Tarne closed her eyes and counted to ten, although it didn’t help her any. “Jagrad, policeman means someone who is a man and who works for the police department. There isn’t a man running around out there in a skin-tight costume calling himself Police Man.”
“I saw him. He wears a uniform. He must have super speed, because he sure manages to get about. Also has chameleon powers, because he can be short, fat, black, white, bearded, anything.”
“And I suppose his partner is named Police Woman?” Tarne asked tiredly.
“Oh aye, and there’s also Police Dog, Police Horse, and they all gather together at the Police Station to discuss their plans.”
“Jagrad, do yourself a favour and shut up.”
“Hey,” Kiel said, entering rather speedily, “I just saw Police Man on the news, and he seemed like he was in trouble.”
“Don’t encourage him,” Tarne said. “Now what’s the problem?”
“Not sure. There was a fire, reporters were all over the scene.”
“Then Fire Fighter shall be there also,” Darkthorne said ch
eerily. “Good, we’ll be able to liaise with him.”
“So there’s only Fire Fighter?” Tarne asked, for purposes of clarification. “Whereas there’s Police Man and Police Woman, there’s only one Fire Fighter?”
“Of course there’s only one,” Darkthorne said in the tone of one speaking to a particularly dense child. “He happens to be a self-cloner, remember?”
“Oh, how silly of me.”
“Self-cloner,” Kiel coughed, trying not to laugh.
“I think someone should fetch Sparky,” Darkthorne said. “Where is the little lightning fellow?”
“Taking a shower,” Kiel said, moving off. “I’ll get him.”
“Actually, maybe I should ...”
“Don’t worry,” Kiel said. “I’m sure he doesn’t have anything I haven’t seen before.” She disappeared out the door, although a few moments later returned wearing a frown. “Actually, maybe you should go, Jagrad, just in case he does have something I haven’t seen before.”
Tarne waited for Darkthorne to leave, then clenched her fists. “That man ... I really just don’t have the words, Sara.”
“I got ‘em all, but they’re not very ladylike.”
“I take it we’re hitting the theatre?”
“How’d you know that’s where the trouble was?”
Tarne smiled coyly. “You got your powers, Sara, I got mine. Come on, let’s get this show on the road.”
And so they went to face their mortal enemies.
TO BE CONTINUED ...
PAST CHAPTER
Within the arena below the balcony upon which Reptant and Rathbone stood with Darkthorne, Tarne, Kiel, Sparky and Old Man Robes, two humans fought for their very survival. Darkthorne did not pay them any mind and was far more interested in the nature of their hosts.
“Pardon me,” he said, “but if you don’t take this question as somewhat rude, just what are you people?”
