Necessarily Evil- Apocalypse

by Shad N Freud

  The next morning, L’Orange staggered down the stairs, and sat down at the breakfast table. He chalked up the crazy story he’d heard last night to the drugs he’d undoubtedly consumed with his drinks causing him to hallucinate. He grabbed his cup of coffee, sipping the slightly too hot beverage as he reached for his morning paper, finding an odd manila folder instead. He looked at the folder in confusion, saw the red D.I. in big, bold letters, then looked up from his coffee to ask Jeeves what the meaning of this was when he saw a huge orcish-elfish man staring at him as he smoked his cigarette. L’Orange’s spittake of surprise could be forgiven, sure, but that didn’t mean Carl was going to let him off easy.

  “Good morning, Cardinal. Up late last night?”

  L’Orange’s pistols snapped up and Carl found himself staring down the barrels of a pair of .45LC pistols, the faint sound of a spaghetti western’s titular tune fading as Carl smiled, and gently directed the pistols away from his face. He removed his glove and flashed his brand.

  “Greed and Sloth. And, lest you think this is a trick, you always keep your first cylinders filled. Foolish thing to do, normally, as you might accidently shoot yourself in the foot,” Carl nodded downward, “like in 1939 when you were fighting the Bastard of Berlin. That is what you called him in your report, isn’t it? Read the damn dossier, your graceless. I’ll wait.”

  Carl shook his head as he chuckled and poured himself a cup of coffee. He took a sip, and almost spit the swill out of his mouth, tears forming in his eyes as he choked down the topsoil improperly labeled as coffee. “Rationed coffee? Really? Surely, as a Grand Inquisitor-”

  “Black market coffee rations are too expensive. Also, the best beans are currently either under Nazi control or the shipments are being sunk by the kraut U-boats, the bastards.” L’Orange snarled, and spit on the floor, “So, I’m ever so sorry, Cardinal Beaumont, but we’re making do with what we have. Deal with it.”

  “Lucifer’s twinkling eyes, but I missed that.” Carl laughed at the confused look on his old mentor’s face as he lowered his pistols. “Mate, I’m not some greenhorn you’re gonna scare by giving them a pair of .45 binoculars. I’m a Grand Inquisitor, you swot, and I know you’re newly minted into that second pitchfork. I’ve had mine six years, ever since my predecessor got too old to keep being a badass and challenged me to a duel. He’s currently sitting in front of me.”

  Carl slowly reached into his coat and pulled out an identical pair of pistols.

  “Look familiar? They were yours. Of course, I use one of these meself,” Carl said as he pulled out a Colt Elite 10mm and gently set it on the table. L’Orange eyed the pistol, noting an automatic fire enchantment on the slide and a conjuring rune on the magazine that would conjure a copy of whatever bullet was loaded into it. Carl smirked as he ashed his cigarette. “Of course, I have an entire armory here in my coat. Including,” Carl smiled as he pulled out a brick of white material with a blinking light on the side, and sat it on the table, “enough C4 to level the Vatican and a containment orb filled with enough anti-matter to vaporize a city block on my keychain. If I wanted to start trouble, boyo, I’d have done it already. Now stop being so green and read the bloody dossier.”

  L’Orange holstered his pistols and sat down at the table. He opened the glossy black folder and perused its contents. As he did so, Carl put his weapons away and lit up a fresh smoke before braving the coffee again. He thought of cream and sugar and placed his hand against the table. Neither came up. Carl rolled his eyes, and reached into his coat, pulling out a handful of sugars and another of creamer cups. He mixed a couple of each into his coffee, grabbing the attention of the Grand Inquisitor in front of him. His eyes became the size of dinner plates as Carl offered some to his younger mentor, who greedily snatched them up and began fixing his own coffee’s flavor.

  “So, you were ordered to take a rag-tag band of gestalts on a suicide mission to fulfill a Prophecy? One that required you to go back almost seventy years to get Bahamut’s blessing? Hoo boy, that must have been one Hell of a battle if it killed Bahamut.”

  “Iwo Jima was enough that the Yanks went a bit unconventional. They decided not to risk any more soldiers and decided to go with a plan B. I can’t say much, but I will tell you this: mankind figured out a way to kill a god. So, yes, we need Bahamut to bless a hatchling so we can go back and finish this bloody Prophecy. Then I…well, I’ll figure things out from there.”

  Marcel came down the stairs, catching L’Orange by surprise. His hands went for his pistols, only to pause when he heard the safety of the 10mm pistol get thumbed off and the hammer cock as it pressed gently into the back of his head. He lowered the pistols back into their holsters before he slowly turned to glare at Carl.

  “I know what you’re thinking, but Marcel Beaumont? Not a traitor. Matter of fact, he’s planning on scuttling the submarine we’re aboard. But he had to sell his defection to give the Pope an ace in the hole. So, kindly don’t shoot my dad, yeah?”

  “It’s true. I’m on a mission of Dire Importance and can’t divulge the specifics, other than I must sink the ship we’re currently embarked upon. I had to go deep undercover, and…I get the feeling I won’t be walking off this submarine alive. My son will have to grow up in an orphanage. He will be reviled by our fellows for my ‘betrayal.’ And I know it must be so, as it will be the only way Carl will grow strong enough to become your successor. What we do is necessary, regardless of our personal feelings. No matter how much it hurts to know that my son will be an outcast. Now, we have a quandry, and perhaps we can save numerous lives. We just need to borrow your Cold Storage Room.”

  Carl looked at his father in surprise at this proclamation. “What Cold Storage? There isn’t one in my time.”

  Marcel smiled as he pointed upward. “The missing ‘attic’ is a hidden part of the demiplane that requires the butler to open it. Jameson did that on purpose, in case the butler needed to hide something from the owner, like assassins the golems dispatched, or with the owner’s permission, to hold perishables indefinitely. Inside the room, time passes differently, whether at ten thousand times normal time or at one ten-thousandth. The room is a demiplane within a demiplane.”

  He shrugged and continued, “I read the owner’s manual from the other mansion last night. Apparently, the black stone was incomplete, missing the cold room, staff, greenhouse, and livestock pens. This mansion, on the other hand, was equipped with a few redundancies, like an oversized cold room, a fishery, and an automated farming system for vegetables and livestock. This,” Marcel said with a touch of awe in his voice, “was Jameson’s true masterpiece, the second to last stone. The black one could be argued to be more valuable, however, as it was the prototype. He actually lived in that one himself.”

  Marcel held up a black notebook. “It’s all in here. His notes. This is probably more valuable than anything he ever made, as it has his rune schemes, personal notes…and is a comprehensive journal of his debauchery. Honestly, I’m impressed he lived as long as he did without needing a penicillin shot every other week.”

  Carl smiled as his father expounded on the vices of the greatest enchanter of the modern era, a genius on the level of DaVinci, Einstein, Newton, or Holmes. Mycroft, that is, as Jameson was far more reminiscent of the rotund Holmes than the investigator. In fact, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle had personally known the artificer, and had used him as the basis for the older brother of the Great Detective.

  This notebook was priceless and Marcel smiled reverently as he handed it to L’Orange. “As it hasn’t been discovered in the present, I’d assume, I recommend we place the book in Cold Storage rather than the library. Also, if you plan on saving Bahamut, and possibly his children, I’d recommend you have them step into the room. It doesn’t register on any kind of scan, Carl. I’ll get Jeeves to help me test the theory but I think that, if you want to convince the world that he’s dead, you need to put him in the room.”

  Marcel looked up as Jeeves walked into the room. “Ar
e my ears burning, or did you call, Sir?”

  “I need access to Cold Storage.”

  Jeeves stood stock still as he processed the request. “Master Jameson applauds your reading of the instruction manual. The cold storage, livestock pens, greenhouses, fishery, and staff are now fully functional. Warning, the golems have enacted their ‘randy’ protocols.”

  “Randy?”

  Carl cursed profusely as he stirred his second cup of coffee. “Hoist by me own petard on that one. It means the golems are going to be more…affectionate. Jameson had a bit of a sense of humor on that one. I just wish I could turn it off.”

  Jeeves blinked. “You can. Set your room to ‘prude’ and they won’t bother you unless beckoned.”

  Carl’s eyes started to take on a slightly pink tinge before he shook his head, causing the red curtain to pass. “You mean I could have shut it off at any time?”

  “You didn’t know that? It’s in the manual,” Jeeves said as a copy materialized in his hand and he opened it to the exact page concerning the golems.

  Carl stared at the page, looked up at Jeeves, and laughed ruefully as he slid a cigarette into his mouth, lighting it with his zippo and catching L’Orange’s attention. “Why the lighter?” L’Orange asked as he tilted his head in confusion. Carl chuckled and ignited his hand, the black flames causing L’Orange to scoot back away from the table. “Black flames? Wait, that’s not the Baneflame, is it?”

  Carl nodded, then sighed before explaining how the flames worked, and that the price was far too great. Only those that have lost everything they hold dear can use the flames, and it can’t have occurred due to personal sacrifice, but due to tragedy. It required too great a loss to describe, and L’Orange simply nodded, unwilling to press it further.

  L’Orange finished reading his folder, then looked Carl square in the eye. “What do you need me to do?”

  Chapter Fifteen

  “Colonel Hans Gruber.” The Captain of the Dreizack stood as Cenere walked into the wardroom. “Your presence has been a great honor for the officers and enlisted aboard this ship. You, a decorated war hero from the future, here aboard this experimental warcraft to fulfill a mission to save the timeline, to ensure that the right side wins the war? You and your, ah, subordinates… you have been a great inspiration to us all!” Captain Klink said as he adjusted his monocle.

  “We will redouble our efforts, and if our mission is a success, this will be the first of an entire fleet of Dreizacks! With that fleet, we shall sail towards the sun and conquer the world beneath these seas of green. We, the sailors of the Fuhrer’s greatest navy shall live beneath the waves, all of our shipmates living in harmony! All within the yellow submarines!”

  If one could see inside Cenere’s mind, they would see Restraint, Common Sense, and Iron Will straining against the chains that held Mirth, Booger Eating Idiocy, and Rampant Hysteria at bay. The keepers of Order were trying desperately to keep the ravening idiots away from the controls, barely restraining the moronic emotions. All the while Lust, Apathy, and Rage watched from the sidelines, taking bets as to who would finally fail, Order or Chaos.

  Meanwhile, Mischief was whistling cheerfully as he filled up a pressurized water gun with medical grade personal lubricant and pumped the air reservoir. He smiled sadistically as he shot the floor in either side’s path to make things nice and slippery. Mischief looked up at the reader, shrugging with a devil may care smile on his face. “Some people build monuments to greatness; others burn palaces and eat the rich. Me? I just shit in paper bags and light ‘em on fire on people’s doorsteps. And yes, that was a fourth wall break.”

  Cenere was sweating lightly as he fought like mad to keep any errant emotion from his face while Captain Klink prattled on, unwittingly paraphrasing lyrics to one of the most popular songs that would be written a couple decades later by the Beatles. Luckily, Carl was maintaining his cool, if only just, while Klink’s lips metaphorically crawled ever further up Cenere’s ass while he prattled on. The half-orc seethed as he fought the incredibly attractive urge to put a 10mm slug in the stupid kraut’s head, if only because Marcel’s plan was too big, too important to fail.

  Carl cleared his throat to get Cenere’s attention, then pointed towards the loo. Cenere nodded slightly, then went back to staring at the Captain, jealous that the big oaf had a good reason to leave the room. Carl smirked fractionally as he left the room, headed for the nearest head to splash his face and calm down. Being in close proximity to so many Nazis for so many days in a row was getting to him.

  He strolled back to the wardroom just in time to hear Cenere instructing Klink as to the next step of the mission. “Captain, when we get to the waters of our ally, Imperial Japan, you are to surface. My group and I will disembark aboard our inflatable raft and quietly slip ashore at night. Our colleague, Major Beaumont, will remain on board to ensure that the mission is a success, as he has orders to ensure this proud vessel gets to its destination from the Fuhrer himself!

  “I fear, however, that while your mission will no doubt succeed, we will never meet again. After ensuring that the correct side wins this war, we will be returning to our own time. So,” Cenere said as he pulled a flask out of his greatcoat. “I’d like to toast the valiant crew of the Dreizack! To the brave enlisted men keeping this tub sailing! To the Officers guiding her, leading her through Neptune’s domain! To the noble, stoic Herr Schultz, the First Officer of this worthy vessel! And last, but certainly never the least, the wise and powerful Captain Klink! Until my dying day, I shall always think of this crew, these people, whenever I hear the song about the Yellow Submarine.” Cenere took a long pull on his flask with his eyes closed to hide the fact that he was rolling his eyes.

  Klink’s monocle glinted in the dim light of the officer’s mess. “There…there is a song about us? About our ship?”

  Cenere looked over at the door, where Carl looked somewhat murderous. Cenere motioned for him to leave the room, and Carl rolled his eyes as he mouthed, “Gee, thanks.”

  Cenere smirked as he pulled out a guitar pick, and muttered a spell under his breath, summoning a guitar. He then began playing the acoustic six string and sang Carl’s least favorite song for the gullible idiots listening in rapt attention as Cenere belted out the lyrics to the once and future classic song, albeit the German version.

  As the song drew to a close, Carl strode back into the room wearing a pair of earplugs and leaned down to whisper in Cenere’s ear. Cenere nodded as he dismissed the guitar, then looked up at Klink with a barely concealed look of contempt for the idiot that sat, spellbound by Cenere’s song.

  “Herr Klink, it has been a pleasure, but my…associate has just informed me that there are last minute preparations that require my immediate attention. We will be departing as soon as we surface.”

  Klink nodded, a tear in his eye threatening to escape its moorings as he stood and saluted the pair as they left the wardroom. “Heil Hitler!”

  ∞∞∞

  The door to the mansion opened, and both Carl and Cenere made their way in. They managed to close the door and look at each other before losing their collective shit, laughing their asses off like a pair of morons. Within Cenere’s head, the chains finally broke while Mischief snorted his third line of cocaine, offering Will and Sense a bump as Mirth and Idiocy rabidly fought over who got to push all the buttons. Sense grabbed the mirror, rolled up a hundred-pound note, and finished the line, rubbing her teeth with her finger. She then grabbed Will by the back of his shirt and dragged him to her chambers, the sound of a riding crop striking bare flesh and Will’s startled yelps raising in volume as the sound of a mattress’ springs being stress tested came from within.

  Jin looked up from his calculations and stared at the pair of idiots in front of him. “Care to share what’s so funny with the rest of the class? I could use a good laugh right about now.”

  “Well, I just got the send-off from Captain Klink, and his First officer Commander Schultz-”

&
nbsp; Jin paused and carefully closed his ledger with a hand raised to stop Cenere’s story. He then stared Cenere right in the eye with the most incredulous look on his face. “You can’t be serious. Klink and Schultz? Really? They…” Jin fought the urge to laugh but failed miserably. “Their names are actually Klink and Schultz? Bahamut’s scales, but they should have named you Hogan instead of Gruber!” Jin bent over at the waist, tears rolling down his face as he fought to breathe, mirth racking his body with paroxysms of laughter.

  “As I was saying,” Cenere said with a broad smile, “Klink and Schultz blubbered like babies as I played Yellow Submarine after der Commandant was so kind as to paraphrase half the song for me. Carl nearly ripped his head off before I had him leave the room to go cool off.” Cenere grinned as Carl rolled his eyes. “Though I’ve got to say, big guy, I wouldn’t have blamed you if you’d put one right between his eyes the way he was kissing my ass.”

  Carl shrugged. “Part of the mission.”

  Jin wiped a tear away and smiled broadly. “Thank you, Fancy. I needed that. Because we are so humped, I’m worried we’re going to turn into camels. The car? She’s toast. I can try and cobble together a working temporal drive using components found in this time period, but…well, at best it’ll be able to generate a rift about the size of a marble. And a small one at that. So, yeah. Humped. Although…”

  Carl glared at the little man. “Although…what?”

  Jin smirked. “Well, as I recall, everyone who went into the maze got one of these, right?” Jin held up a small slip of paper with an odd symbol on the front. He put his hand on the table, “Pencil, please.” A pencil rose up out of the table and as soon as Jin put the tip to the paper, a shrieking portal to an Abyssal plane opened and Ghallorican stepped through, dusting himself off. “I swear, every time I go visit Pops in the Abyss, I get gray dust everywhere. And believe you me, I do mean everywhere. I mean, I’ve got about an ounce and a half of the gray silt up my-”