Castling

by Jack McGlynn

  Pinned, assailed, Rook slid the kitchen knife from his back pocket unnoticed.

  The third blow cocked back, fist clenched, grey forearm pulsing. A haggard wheeze hissed through the respirator’s honeycombed nozzle. The whirr and squelch of tawny fuel rung painfully in Rook’s ears. He twisted his grip, resting his thumb securely on the knife’s base.

  And waited.

  The face sized fist descended.

  Rook twisted, throwing his left forearm up to parry the blow. Punch redirected, cracking off the hard floor, his right arm reached up behind the juicer’s neck. His knife sliced through the tubing bunched at the skull’s base.

  Orange paste slopped down, splashing the aisle with a gummy sheen. The thug jerked upright. Back arched, hands clawing desperately at the severed pipes. A terrified shriek obscured the mask’s gurgling.

  Hoping to add injury to injury, Rook kicked upward. A rising shoe forced its way into the massive diaphragm, hidden beneath the harness.

  The pulped juicer reeled. Rook retreated, rolling over his shoulder. Before his opponent could so much as steady himself with a bracing hand, Rook was on his feet, wrenching the handle to the nearest fridge.

  His whole form coiled into the effort. The transparent door swung faster than its hinges catered for and was ripped free. The sheet of thermoplastic smashed across the juicer’s head, its hard frame catching his neck.

  The hoodlum toppled in a hail of bent hinges, cracked plastic and squirting fuel.

  Kitchen knife spinning in his grip, Rook settled his thumb on the blade’s grind. He strode toward the scrambling giant, his pace casual. Despite the swelling around his right eye and the blood dripping through his teeth, he was the picture of serenity.

  The juicer’s flesh was sapped, all that vein bulging might almost drained. His muscles had already begun their inevitable sag into atrophy.

  “Alright. How ‘bout we call it a draw?” Rook coughed through a crimson grin.

  A huge arm lashed out.

  Rook’s caught it, looped under the offending elbow and jerked. As the hoodlum yelped at the dislocated limb, a knife snuck under his tricep and severed more tubing.

  Rook hopped forward, thrusting with his knee. The respirator shattered, falling in pieces from the juicer’s dripping, swollen face.

  “Okay, so sarcasm’s a little beyond you,” he sighed, snatching a handful of harness and dragging the young man’s face but inches from his own, “No harm, I’ll clarify. If you do me the favour of staying down, I’ll do you the service of calling a ruddy ambulance.”

  A scarcely perceptible nod conveyed the juicer’s concession, hoses jutting askew from a broken nose. Rook slackened his grip and smiled warmly. Beads of dribbled red stained his sleeve.

  A moment later he bounced off the ceiling.

  Even as he fell, crashing to earth, tumbling across the cold floor, he still had no recollection of being struck. Nose gushing, jaw aching, Rook had thought the juicer unable to summon the speed, let alone power, to almost put him through the roof.

  “That’s what I get for thinkin’!” Rook groaned, prone, lifting his head to find the berserker barrelling down on him.

  Better do something about that...

  His hand flashed. Steel hummed. The giant collapsed mid-stride, a kitchen knife jutting from an already damaged knee.

  Rook’s chest heaved, his face bled, his body shook from the dying adrenaline. Seven months? What was I thinking? Groaning, he permitted himself a well earned moment, luxuriating on the cool floor.

  Eventually, he spared a glance for the shrinking brute. Vigour depleted, body broken, the lad lay dying in a pool of the same toxin which had made him beyond human, just moments earlier.

  Normally a staunch fan of irony, Rook felt oddly depleted.

  “Well, I can certainly fix that...”

  Surging upright, he limped over to his safely deposited tub. Rook pulled the spoon free and gorged. It was less than dignified.

  Calmed, Rook strolled to the nearest checkout and liberated a plastic bag. Hobbling over to the felled juicer, he knelt alongside the young man. Gripping the handle of the protruding blade, Rook advised, “Deep breath.”

  Rook pulled the weapon free. Overwhelmed, the giant sagged into a lump of unconsciousness. Artificial blood was already coagulating about the wound, damming it shut.

  “Gross!” Rook winced, licking the back of a chocolaty spoon.

  Carefully wrapping the ooze coated, blood stained cutlery in the plastic bag, he slid it in his back pocket and returned to Alison.

  “Consider yourselves thoroughly helped. Now, one of you be a dear and phone for an ambulance... or a forklift. Not you Alison! Hand over the goods.” Rook smirked, the corners of his mouth black with crusted blood.

  Slack jawed, wide eyed, Alison passed him a brown paper bag stuffed tall with cholesterol. Rook took it into his left arm and motioned with his right. She placed a long screened Smartphone into his palm.

  He had one new message. Thirteen minutes old.

  “I’m presuming you meant ‘Droll’ and not ‘Drool’... :P”

  A witty retort not forthcoming, Rook opted instead to let her stew until he reached work. Pocketing his mobile, he passed the half finished tub to Alison.

  “Finish it. The sugar will help with the shock. Also” he added, stealing a final spoonful, “you know, it’s delicious.”

  He turned to leave then, before the authorities, human or otherwise, demonstrated their appreciation for his civic charity by wrapping steel poles around his face.

  Alison stopped him, slinging both hands about his arm, her clawing grip urgent.

  “Wait. You’re a, you like some kind of.... You’re a hero.”

  Rook stole a final glance at his three victims. One pale from blood loss, another slumbered through a bruised windpipe. Finally he stared down at the mass of torn flesh, dislocated joints and poisoning chemicals. The juicer about clung to life, body slowly choking itself from within.

  “Actually Alison, I think I’m the other thing.”

  *

  Leaning on the doorframe, arms crossed, lips drawn thin, Molly waited.

  And as a rule, waiting was not her thing.

  A half hour had elapsed since she messaged the team’s newest addition. She had yet to be graced with his reply and didn’t exactly welcome the role reversal. Then she discovered, third hand, how he was actually on his way in, a significant lead in tow. The Boss had charged her with seeing this evidence processed and ushering him down to the briefing room.

  This stoked no small rage in Molly. She certainly didn’t mind playing messenger. It was a small team. Everyone pulled their weight. But she resented being the last to know.

  And as a rule, knowing was her thing.

  Behind Molly rose a fairly innocuous two story semi-detached house. Roof tiled, walls painted white, front door thick, oak and a vibrant red. The gated garden rustled with life, bordered with hedges, lined with daffodils.

  Housed within, a trio of sub-basements, several million Euros worth of hardware and ten of the most impressive Meta-Humans in the northern hemisphere.

  An uncontrollable grin dimpling her round face, Molly made eleven.

  Eyes welted, lips caked black with dried blood and a veritable sack of sugary delights in his arms, the hunched figure limping up the garden path rounded out an even dozen.

  Rook stopped at the doorstep, sallow eyes level with Molly. Deadpan, he drew a rough hand down across his bloodied mouth.

  “I clearly meant drool.”

  Molly cursed herself for being so easily cheered up.

  “Morning Handsome. So, this is what you get up to on your days off?”

  “Aye” Rook confirmed, returning the bag’s weight to both hands, “It’s been a slow day.”

  “That’s allowed. You’re getting on in years.”

  “You might be right there. I think some of my floating ribs are actually floating.”

  “Just as well the Boss hired
you for more than simple grunt-work. You have something for me, I believe.”

  “Oh what gave it away, Mol? Right what flavour you fancy....”

  “How very drool. Where are the samples?”

  “Oh right, yeah,” Rook shook his head, genuinely mistaken, “In my pocket.”

  Molly cocked an eyebrow.

  “Back pocket.”

  Molly cocked another eyebrow.

  Sighing, Rook shifted his weight, forced to extract the plastic wrapped blade himself. He handed it over, hilt first.

  “Aww, Rookie! You really shouldn’t have. Really. This is yuck.”

  Rook shrugged, sheepishly, “I’m a romantic. So what? You sendin’ that down to the lab boys?”

  Molly giggled, laying a playful punch into his shoulder,

  “Ha! You think we actually have lab boys?!

  I’ll run these down to Ron and ask him nicely to have a look see. I’m assuming you had the common sense to upload the captures from your phone? Or did that bruiser knock it all out of you?”

  “I managed to scrape some off the ceiling, yes. He should already have them.”

  “You’re getting the hang of this,” Molly teased, leading him inside, “Now if we can just get Hatch to teach you to keep that guard up...”

  Inside the house was similarly pedestrian.

  The living room had previously been converted into an extended kitchen. Travel guides, trashy novels and classified documents littered the study. A tiered staircase led to bedrooms above.

  And a host of illegal fixtures below.

  Rook veered left into the kitchen and hoisted the freezer’s lid. A frosty haze wafted upward.

  “See you down there?” He asked, unceremoniously dumping the contents of his paper bag.

  “Oh yes. I’m to grab Ron and lock us down. Big Family meeting!”

  “I hardly think what happened in Tesco qualifies as-“ Rook started.

  “Oh, oh I’m sorry. I couldn’t quite hear you over the sound of your massive ego!” she gesticulated, cupping a hand to her ear. She continued, “Something else came up. Something actually important. Um, did no-one tell you?” Molly smirked, gleaning more than a little satisfaction from his ignorance.

  “Evidently not.” Rook supposed, as he moved to the sink. He splashed his face with warm water, adding in a resigned tone, “Ah well, it’s not like today was my day off or anything...”

  “Chin up now, punching bag” she consoled, slapping him on a still spasming back, “It’s not like you had anything planned.”

  He turned on her then, soap suds cascading off his brow, his nose. He held her gaze for a long moment, before marching over to the long freezer. He yanked it open, pointed inside and hissed,

  “How can you look at that and tell me I didn’t have plans!”

  Jaws clenched, lips thin, they locked eyes for an instant, wills clashing.

  Rook cracked first, his cheek creasing slightly. Victorious, Molly let out another musical laugh. Gripping the doorframe, she swung out of the room and marched upstairs.

  *

  Cranking its handle, Rook shouldered the conference room door. Darkness greeted him. The four walls were relatively bare, the room’s sole dissecting feature, a long chrome table. A cyan dome was moulded into the metal’s centre and this obscenely expensive holographic projector proved the only source of illumination.

  “Chilly out” he grunted at the nine souls within. A tremor of subdued acknowledgement responded. Meetings tended to instil this effect.

  Only eleven chairs bordered the lengthy fixture: One tall, wide and dark, a throne at the head with five smaller, less elaborate seats on either side.

  Rook didn’t get a chair.

  This wasn’t mere hazing nor was it symbolic of any inexperience. He had experience dripping out his ears. And washing-up liquid, probably... But unlike everything else in their surreptitious crew, chairs at the conference table did not need to be earned.

  Rook’s posterior was denied respite because he stood apart from the basic command chain. He worked with the Boss and with her alone. Aide, consultant, sounding board... Pit-bull: His was simultaneously the most coveted and unenviable station on the squad.

  Reputation aside, Rook was a stranger to her. He could be relied upon to drop truths, however brutal, without heed for their kinship. And quite unlike those seated, some looking through him with thinly veiled disapproval, it was precisely this unfamiliarity that had secured him the position.

  That and his knack for taking a beating, Rook imagined.

  Passing weapons racks and blinking doodads, he marched the table’s length to take his place at the Boss’ side. Once there, Rook sunk his shoulder into the far wall, body tilted, arms crossed.

  “This whole ‘low profile’ lark might take some getting used to,” Rook hissed to his employer, who had shot his blood stained attire a questioning glance, “But I gotcha present to make up for it.”

  The Boss turned, inclined her head. Cropped auburn locks scraped back, features severe, the ice of her green eyes never thawed. Her beauty had been meticulously crafted to impose, to intimidate; the kind honed, not diminished, by a relentless singularity of purpose.

  A curt nod to Rook, both greeting and approval. The upturned corner of her mouth hinted at her mood.

  “I gather you went easy on them.” She stated, eyes pinned on his lacerated face, which knit closed before her. Her voice, rolling with the faintest Scottish twang, always seemed gentler than expected for a woman of such obvious martial stature,

  Rook shrugged, “It’s my day off.”

  “It was.” She corrected, turning back to the table.

  The seats to her immediate left and right should have been empty. Rook could hear their occupants marching down the stairs. Second lieutenant, Ron sat on the left, directing the investigative, analytical members of ‘Team Look’.

  And defying a mess of curly brown locks and charming disposition, Molly had earned her stripes. The Boss’ second in command, she controlled ‘Team Leap’. Mostly.

  But their seats already had asses in them.

  To the left Gil reclined, a mountain of sculpted, coffee flesh. More than six feet high and almost that again across, his colossal shoulders and hulking arms almost bowed the table they rested on. The most physically potent being in their little family (if not Europe as a whole) the legendary Lebanese tank sat, a true giant. Just not an intellectual one... Gil seemed oblivious to the irony of seating himself at the fore of ‘Team Look’.

  And to the Boss’ right sat Breaker.

  God knows how she convinced this pair to join her little crusade. But they sure as shit don’t appreciate being outranked by a pale ginger computer programmer and a hundred and sixty pound girl!

  As if on cue, the door swung open. Ron and Molly entered the darkened chambers through a shaft of light, blinding the half dozen at the table’s far end. Secondary lieutenant, primary thinker, Ron silently took his seat beside the Middle-Eastern colossus. Wholly indifferent to the slight, he locked eyes with his leader and waited.

  Conversely, Molly strode up to her occupied chair, dark eyes burning holes in the back of the intruder’s shaved scalp. An awkward moment crawled by, punctuated by the rhythmic smack of Breaker chewing on... something.

  In a pinch, Rook would have put money on rusty nails over tobacco.

  “Looks like a comfortable seat, old man.” She snapped, hands bracing her hips, staring down at a goateed face that might have been anywhere between mid thirties and late fifties.

  Features hale yet weathered, Breaker turned to his ‘superior’, his chillingly quiet voice scarcely audible over the glowing table’s whir.

  “Precisely why I sat in it.”

  Giving up, Molly angrily slumped into a seat beside the wizened killer. She cast Rook a sidelong glance. He motioned to his wrist, a finger tapping the empty space where his watch wasn’t. Her tongue snaked out.

  Then the Boss stood.

  Nodding at her pale l
ieutenant, Ron’s digits traced a series of sharp geometries on the chrome table.

  The conference room burst into light, holography shaping the bust of a gaunt, well groomed man.

  “I know the bulk of you don’t actually watch the news, so allow me to introduce ‘Lancet.’

  Ye might snigger, but with a C.V. like this, his chosen alias is a pretty good fit. He’s something of a penchant for cutting people. Delightful. And not only has this skinny bugger out-thought and out-fought some of the world’s finest, most expensive bruisers, he’s just broken free of Tartarus for a third time.

  And the charmer butchered eight prison guards doing so.”

  A hiss of disapproval swept the conference room. Beside Molly, TG’s hair rose with her hackles, static jolts dancing across blonde locks. Next to her Hatchet’s bearded throat released a low guttural sound.

  How the Boss had convinced such a disparate group of talented, strong-willed individuals to unite suddenly became clear.

  Bunch of softies!

  “This compounds the couple he butchered on a first offence and the busload of women and children for his second stay.”

  Gil flexed anxiously at the mention of the bus. Rook studied his unease. Eyes tightened. Jaw set. Thick fingers closed about their armrests, threatening to rip them free. His neck tensed, looking not entirely unlike a tree trunk.

  The Boss continued, striding to-and-fro, hands clasped at the small of her back,

  “Ron reliably informs me we don’t know where he is, we have no idea what he’s got cooking and, for all we can tell, he could have a small army of resources at his disposal... Good to see those hundreds of thousands we spent on intelligence equipment paying for themselves!”

  A ripple of laughter peeled through them, dry charisma an obvious antidote to the gravity of civilian loss.

  “We’ve worked plenty of jobs before this, but we’ve been waiting on something with a higher profile to announce ourselves.

  This is the sod that got the jump on Cracker, folks. Let that sink in. He’s also bested the likes of Claymore, that big Russian girl with the eye-patch, and even our Gilgamesh.”

  “Is that so?” Hatch interrupted, matted hair flopping as he turned to sneer judgement across the table.

  “He dropped a crane on me!” Gil thundered defensively, unused to defeat, less so having it paraded in front of him.