Manic Monday: (Dane Monday 1)

by Dennis Liggio

  "How much of that has happened so far?" said Abby.

  "We have better phones these days. So maybe? And the world peace stuff? We did just have two buildings destroyed to stop us. You do the math."

  There was another conversation lull as they watched the news. Abby flagged down a bored waiter to order a sandwich. She wasn't having any more of that appetizer. Luckily, that meant the food came out pretty quickly.

  “Awesome!" said Dane suddenly. "They have Special Agent Jameson on this one! He’s practically the certification that this is a major case of mine!”

  "What?" said Abby, her mouth half full of her guacamole and sprout sandwich. Channel 5 News was showing a stern-looking man in a light gray suit addressing reporters at the crater that was Avalon's Hope. Though the man looked to be only in his forties, his hair was prematurely gray. He had light blue eyes and wide shoulders. He didn't look like a man to be messed with. The sound on the TV had been turned off by one of the waiters as they prepped for the after work rush and the subtitles were so far behind that Abby had no idea what he was saying.

  “’Although there will be a full investigation,’” said Dane, putting on a stern frown like Jameson, “’Our leading explanation is that this was a simple gas leak and nothing to be alarmed about.’”

  Strangely, this conformed almost exactly to the agent’s lip movements. “How do you know what he’s saying?” asked Abby.

  “Because he says the same things every time!” said Dane. “No matter what I’ve blown up, nearly been blown up in, or otherwise have been related to the destruction of, Jameson always suggests it’s a gas leak! I’m not sure if he has a fetish for gas leaks, or that’s the all-purpose cover-up excuse. But it’s always a gas leak! Always! I bet he thinks both explosions are gas leaks! But I guess thank goodness for gas leaks, or else they'd have to find some new explanation for all the explosions that follow me!”

  "So he's the one covering things up," said Abby.

  Dane winced and sort of shook his head tentatively in a yes-no-yes-no sort of gesture. "Jameson's the one who shows up on TV to give the official explanation, but he's not really the one covering it up. I think the truth is stranger."

  "What do you mean?" asked Abby.

  "Remember how I said that the news is often reporting just the external parts of strange events? Well, even if that's true, there's a lot of them! Robot attacks, mutants, magic, etc. Random people see that stuff in person because they were the wrong place at the wrong time. Even if it's called a gas leak, there should be some people going, 'Remember those six times that we saw something that looked like robots but they just said it was a gas leak?'"

  "Nobody says stuff like that," said Abby.

  "Exactly," said Dane. "It's not just Jameson covering it up. There's something else. People seemed to forget stuff they probably shouldn't, especially the firsthand witnesses. Someone or something is making people forget things."

  "What, like some memory erase..." Abby quickly tried to think of something that fit Dane Monday's world, "...ray?"

  "No... well, not as far as I know," said Dane. "But I do know that anytime something is big, if I look hard enough at the pictures and video of the footage, I see some strange guys. Pale in dark suits. Maybe they're a government agency I don't know, but after that, things are normalized. Gas leak, possible terrorist attack. Nobody finds strange tech, monster bodies, or magical implements. It's always just a gas leak and straight faces."

  "That's some freaky conspiracy stuff there," said Abby. "You believe that?"

  Dane shrugged. "I don't know. All I know is I've noticed that happening and I've seen those guys. And I don't think it's Jameson. I honestly like the guy, though I doubt the feeling would be mutual. He's doing the best he can with the information given. I think he's just given very cleaned-up info."

  “So have you ever met this Jameson?”

  “No, I’m just an admirer of his work. In my head, I imagine a chart of my collateral damage, and every time Jameson has to go on TV there’s a gold star. Ah, if only I was the crafty type and wanted to leave a paper trail, I'd have made this chart already!”

  “Do you think he knows you?” she asked. "Or even suspects they're related to a single person?"

  "I guess it's possible," he said. "But would he think I was stopping evil or just a mad bomber? Either way, a Dane Monday file would be huge and not make sense. Most of it would be in New Avalon, so you'd think he'd have noticed my trail or found me on enough traffic cameras to show up at my door. He hasn't yet. Perhaps I'm being protected by the same force of the universe that gets me involved - maybe that's who the forget-stuff guys are. Either way, my aftermath has yet to lead someone to me." Dane began to take a sip of beer and paused. "And I feel like I just jinxed myself."

  "What type of aftermath are we talking?" asked Abby. "I was thinking two explosions in a twenty-four hour period, I guess maybe three with the death ray, would be kind of rare. But you talk like it's not rare. You talk like you're a one man demolition squad or a humanoid typhoon."

  “It’s not that bad!” said Dane, “Maybe I’m blowing it out of proportion. But when you work with mad scientists with highly destructive prototype inventions, they have a tendency to malfunction and explode, even when I'm not actively trying to disable or destroy them. It's the Avalon Brass. Death rays and robots in particular are just rather explosive for reasons I haven’t figured out. Also, magical backlash is just as bad as those. Sorcerers summoning demons typically use lots of candles and fire. The demons themselves are also often on fire. And admittedly, once you swap a few things on their ritual tables in a clever form of sabotage, the aftereffects are just as explosive as mad science malfunctions. It’s always crazy to me how similar those two are. Who knew magic and science were uneasy bedfellows?”

  "What? One is science and backed with facts and peer review," said Abby. "The other is magic and relies on... well, things that we don't understand."

  "You'd actually be surprised how much mad science might as well be magic," said Dane, taking another drink. "So let's compare! Both use unstable constructs that are typically needed for a single instance, rather than something stable that can be mass produced by anyone with the schematics and the machinery. I mean, how many death rays and robotic hovercrafts do you actually need? Typically you just build a single one, so you don't need a bunch of prototypes and iterations. You just keep the really good one that works and will destroy your enemies - you usually don't keep building more once you got the one you need. Well, magic is almost the exact same way. It's about instances. How many times do you need to reach out to the secret masters of Kalgoth for wisdom and visit the plane of Shalmorrigath? How many times do you need to open the door to the blind god with a million mouths? Really just once. More than once and you've probably made some sort of mistake."

  Dane paused to take another sip of beer, while Abby looked on, her face that of shock and confusion. Dane continued.

  "And even their methods for interaction are similar. I'm not saying that mad science consoles are the same as a magical artifact or ritual table, but they follow similar templates. No mad scientist reinvents the wheel when it comes to user interface. They like old fashioned crap like switches, buttons, knobs, and levers. Their focus isn't on UI, it's on robots, destruction, world domination, revenge, and occasionally resurrecting a dead wife or something. So instead of creating a whole new console, our example mad scientist just grabs parts from mad scientist Radio Shack. So if you've seen one, you've really seen them all.

  "Again, magic's the same. Sometimes it's even worse! Magicians love to combine and adapt systems of magic. They're too arrogant to just follow instructions. They have to do something new or interesting! So they're all about the previously unknown ritual found in a thousand year old book or some new spell they invented by rearranging Enochian tables. But even with this new ritual, they're not going to design a whole new system of magic for it. No, they're going to use what they know and adapt it to the new
ritual. So the ritual implements are always so similar. Everyone loves the crap out of candles. Nearly everyone draws a circle or pentagram. Nearly everyone gets screwed in the same ways, say, by someone like myself using their foot to scuff away a slight part of their circle or pentagram. Oops.

  "But yeah, magic and mad science are really similar and more importantly, similarly volatile."

  “I can’t believe you’re comparing science and the centuries of progress it has brought us to magic," said Abby. "You’re saying that the methods to discover my camera were about the same as a magician with a spell?”

  “No, no, no, you don't understand,” said Dane. “I think you're missing my point. I’m not talking regular science. I’m talking mad science! When you have crazed men singlehandedly designing and building death rays, robot armies, and making insectoid-human hybrids, they really belong in a whole other class than regular science.”

  “It’s a strange world you live in, Dane.”

  “Don’t I know it!” he said. "But it's exciting and lovely and I wouldn't trade it for anything!"

  Another lull and they watched the TVs. They had changed from Jameson to a younger man in a suit. Whereas Jameson was the tough but fatherly federal agent, this man was in his twenties and had an air of action.

  "Who is that?" said Abby.

  Dane took another look at the TV. "I have no idea. Maybe he works with Jameson?"

  The news called this new man Agent Will Voss in the subtitles. He was involved in the investigation, but how was unspecified. Abby admitted that her initial interest was that he was very handsome. But even moreso was that he seemed to combine Jameson's look of capableness with youth. Voss looked a man of action. He looked a hero. She looked across the table. Voss looked far more a hero than Dane Monday. Dane looked like the cute but average coworker in the next cube over. Will Voss looked like the man who would walk away from an explosion with the villain in cuffs.

  "It doesn't seem like he's saying anything of note," said Dane. "Might just be a random government flunky."

  Abby glared at Dane like he had insulted her. She calmed in a second as she realized Dane didn't know he was raining upon her internal crush on the handsome young agent. She let it slip. Voss was just some agent on the news and he probably would not go well with her present company.

  Dane took another drink. The pitcher was about empty.

  "What now?" asked Abby.

  "Now? I say we call it a day."

  "Already? It's just mid-afternoon," she said. "And we don't know anything about why Avalon's Hope blew up."

  "Oh, true," said Dane, "but I think two explosions and an attempt on your life are enough for you."

  "That's it?" said Abby. "My fancy chance to follow around Dane Monday and see what's really going on ends early because he thinks I can't handle it?"

  "You did seem very annoyed at the dangers after the second explosion," he said.

  "I was a little freaked out," she said. "Anyone would be. But I want to see this through. Even if I can't ever publish it, I want to see this story. I want to know why someone would blow up a historic building like Avalon's Hope just to cover something up."

  "That's the spirit!" said Dane. "I guess then we'll just get going?"

  "Where to? And don't tell me we're taking a cab."

  Dane sighed. "Well, I guess then we're taking the bus over to Alastair's."

  Alastair

  Dane was still pretty sure Honnenheim only had one Robotic Cab of Death outfitted due to the scientist's arrogance and limited resources, but Abby preferred to not take any chances. They decided instead to take a city bus to Alastair’s loft.

  The bus from the Ville into downtown took a long time and had many stops. As they crossed the bridge into Avalon proper, it was approaching rush hour and the bus was starting to get crowded. As more and more people got on, the air got heavier and the general temperature in the bus a little higher. Abby would have probably under normal circumstances complained about the stink of the other passengers, but she realized that she and Dane were probably the smelly passengers. They still smelled strongly of ash and soot , though of course that was a more common scent in the city today. Though the bus was full, it was more silent than usual - the possible terrorism had not prevented people from going about their days, but it did dampen the mood citywide.

  “Have you ever had a case that took place on a bus?” asked Abby, trying to pass the time, not really expecting a positive answer.

  “Well, there was the midnight ghost bus!” said Dane.

  “For real? I was just messing with you. I didn't think you actually had a bus-related case," she said. "So the ghosts were haunting a bus? That’s odd.”

  “No, the ghost was a bus! It was a ghost of a bus.”

  “How do you have a ghost of a bus? It’s an inanimate object,” she said. "It wasn't alive."

  “How do you have a ghost of a person?” countered Dane. “Nobody really knows how that works either.”

  “I saw a ghost once,” said a helpful old lady sitting near them.

  “Oh really? Was it a bus? Or on a bus?” asked Dane.

  “No, it was my beloved cat, General Purrs," said the old lady.

  "Oh," said Dane. "Was it scary? I hope it wasn't scary."

  "No, it was rather nice," she said. "General Purrs was always a good cat." She wiped a tear at her eye with a sleeve, though she smiled. "Always a good cat."

  "Great, Dane," whispered Abby. "You've made a nice old lady cry."

  "I'm sorry!" said Dane. "I was just trying to talk about the ghost bus!"

  Stepping off the bus was a breath of fresh air. Abby flexed her arms as she looked over the street. Alastair lived on the edge of historic Old Avalon. These buildings were great monoliths of stone and steel erected before newer construction gave everything an endless glass facade. Alastair lived in a loft on the fourteenth floor, a massive space intended more as an art studio, but he had filled it with bookcases and furniture, turning it into his own library and fortress of solitude.

  Alastair’s door was unmarked, the numbers having been removed by Alastair himself. He had explained to Dane once that numerologically it was not a good number, and even if he himself was not an adherent of numerology, he did not want to invite negative influences. So those who’d walk the corridor would see just a blank door with a peep hole. It was fortunate that Alastair rarely received packages at his door.

  Dane knocked, a particular patter of knocks that Alastair had taught him as a secret code. This sequence was most assuredly not Shave and a Haircut, even though Dane had repeatedly pointed out the similarity to Alastair.

  The door opened a crack. Two eyes peered out of a dim room and focused on Dane.

  “Monday,” said the voice flatly.

  “Yeah, it's me!" answered Dane.

  There was a long pause and the door did not move, nor did the man within say anything.

  "So, do you maybe want to let us in, Alastair?” said Dane.

  “Who’s she?” said the voice, but the eyes remained on Dane. “I don’t know her.”

  “She’s with me,” said Dane.

  “Are you sure?” said the voice.

  “Yes, I’m sure," said Dane tiredly. "Can you let us in?"

  The door closed and there was the laborious sound of chains unlatching, as well as a few other noises they could not identify. Dane had a pained expression and turned his palms upwards to Abby with a shrug, saying, "I'm sorry."

  The door opened and Alastair stood before them in his dark suit. Dane had only ever seen Alastair wear two things: black ritual robes, or this drab black old-fashioned suit and tie that made him look like the host of a late night horror program on some forgotten cable network. Dane could have sworn he saw Alastair for real on one of those programs in rerun during a late night cable network binge, but he hadn’t had the foresight to record it and Alastair categorically denied such an allegation.

  Alastair Konstantin had black hair with a shock of silver on t
he left side. He had a pale face with thin lips and a Roman nose. He had impressively bushy eyebrows, perpetual dark circles under his eyes, and deep brown eyes that often looked black. In Dane's opinion, he was perpetually paranoid, pretentious, and, unfortunately, creepy. Alastair practiced the dark arts, which never made Dane happy. Alastair claimed it was only for research, but Dane wondered how many sorcerers he’d fought against had started their careers with that same claim. Either way, Alastair was Dane’s only source for information on Western magic, demonology, and magic history. Wong was a great resource for natural magic and the magic of the East, but he had little experience with Western sorcery. For that reason, Dane reluctantly put up with Alastair, wondering when he'd eventually have to fight against him and his own dark designs. That was why Dane tolerated Alastair, but Dane had no idea why Alastair tolerated him.

  Alastair’s loft was overflowing with bookcases, though the shelves were not always full of books. An assortment of random magical artifacts, implements, charts, and souvenirs were placed in between the books. Sometimes there were jars with things floating in strange liquid. Other times there would be a skull or a mirror. Dane had sometimes suggested that Alastair had knocked over an antique shop for all of it, which the latter replied to with only a sour expression.

  Abby took out her camera and started filming the shelves, but then Alastair freaked out, stepping in front of her.

  “No! You can’t film any of this!"

  "Oh come on!" said Abby, but she dropped the camera. "What is it with you guys and cameras?"

  "No, that's not it," said Alastair. He gently grabbed Abby's wrist. She recoiled at first, but his touch was gentle, respectful, and his skin was surprisingly soft. He delicately walked her over to a part of the loft that was less a library and more of an office. Here were elegant couches around a short antique table. Near them was an impressive wooden desk covered with strange objects. On quick inspection, these objects appeared to be more dangerous and authentic versions of cheap Halloween props.