posted
OUR LEGION AT WAR PART TWO In which the Phantom Princess seeks assistance from the Lightning Lord and his associate the Sunman.
"Where is Imra?"
Lord Garth Ransom blew a lazy smoke ring, tossed back a finger of Glenfiddich, and paused for dramatic effect. "Oh, I don't know." He shrugged with practiced indifference. "Doing whatever it is ladies do."
Princess Tinya Vazzo's eyes narrowed at Ransom's impertinence. His resistance to her suggestions that even in their mutual American exile he should continue to acknowledge her superior rank irked her, but not more than his feigned disinterest in the activities of his paramour. While Garth was rumoured to be a shameless philanderer, he watched Imra like a hawk, not that it was necessary given her frosty and detached demeanour. "You know exactement where she is, milord Ransom. Do not try to 'ide zis fact." Italian warred with French in her accent, a natural state for a Princess of Monaco.
Ransom smiled and placed another cigarette in his holder, an affectation his smoking partner did not share. The Princess had not deigned to acknowledge the Texan. "And why would you want to know, Princess?" His insolent British accent twisted the title into an idle pleasantry to be bestowed on any tavern wench or comely barmaid.
She pouted internally. He knew, the sly... limey? Was that what they called him behind his back? The Lightning Limey? Americans had no respect for titles either; they were hardly as savage as the Bolsheviks, but they had no love for royalty. She tossed her mane of black hair and steeled herself. Best to get it over with quickly.
"Ain'tcha gonna say howdy, Princess-ma'am?" The mangled and twanging phrase was followed by a snort and the tilt of a ridiculous - to Tinya's eyes - American hat. It was one of the kind favoured by their cattle ranchers and oil moguls, oversized and decorated with a large golden star upon a red band above the brim. He was well-tanned but also naturally swarthy; the American-Mexican border, and social niceties alike, were fluid in the days the cowboy's forefathers had settled in Tejas Country. A bright red shirt and yellow leather vest gave him the air of a gambler, the holsterless gun belt at his waist - buckled again with a golden star - would be a source of confusion to one that expected the cowboy attire to extend to shooting irons. Dirk Morgan didn't need hot lead - his fingers brought fire that seared more than any bullet could.
Tinya skewered the Texan with a withering stare, to no effect. These Americans! Such insolence! She huffed imperiously. "A good day to you, Mister Morgan." She looked back to the British Lord and opened her mouth for another salvo.
"Mighty fine day, ain't it? Sun's got powerful warmth to it." Dirk removed a toothpick from between his lips and replaced it with a cigarette lifted from Garth's ivory holder. "Powerful warm." He clicked his fingers and a spark of flame leapt forward to combust the end of the cigarette, which flared into light as he drew inwards.
Princess Vazzo grimaced, willing herself not to react with sudden violence. There was a reason her embattled father had been unable to find her a husband from the royalty of Europe before war had curtailed the search for an heir, and swiftly, the sovereignty of Monaco. Her gloved fingers curled into claws and her white mantle trembled. "In-deed. While zis is indeed a parlour, I 'ave no time for games."
Dirk opened his mouth but the Lord Ransom raised his hand languidly. He was used to dealing with high-strung women and those whose mindset was more... composed. "Are you sure? I play a mean Parcheesi.* He smiled as bright spots of redness flared in her ivory skin. "I notice you never did answer my question, your Highness. All's fair in love and war and all that, eh what? And I suspect while you're looking for my little snowflake now, you'll be looking for someone very different shortly afterwards."
The Texan Fireslinger leaned over to nudge the English Lord with a bawdy grin, but Ransom remained irritatingly nonchalant. He cocked a head as Vazzo weighed the relative merits of asking for assistance versus admitting Ransom was right. Her hands clenched into tight, angry fists.
"Fine!" Her exclamation echoed throughout the parlour that the Legion men had claimed as their 'Boys Club'. The heavy curtains and plush furniture muted the echoes somewhat, but Vazzo was pleased to note the start it had inspired in the Texan, who leaned back into his high-backed chair with a flush. Ransom remained unflappable, the faintest hints of a smile playing at the edges of his lips. "I am looking for Giovanni, if you must know. And as if it is any of your concern."
"Well don't that beat all?" Ransom looked with exaggerated surprise towards his smoking partner. "Giovanni, she says!"
"Giovanni? Hot diggity dog!" He slapped his thigh. "We woulda never thunk'o that! Giovanni Nave! Though, I spose you Eye-talians have'ta stick t'gether these days. Last I heard Mussolini was beggin' for us to try another assassination attempt, things are so bad in Wop-land."
She leaned forward, lips thin and white. "I am a Princess of Monaco. Monaco is not a part of Italy." She ended with a smatter of muttered insults in Monegasque.
Dirk smiled evilly. His humour sometimes took a nasty turn. "Last I heard, it was part'o Krautland, along with the rest o'Europe."
As the Phantom Princess gasped, Garth spoke quickly to forestall yet another heated 'discussion' between Legionnaires. While he had a reputation as a fop and a dandy, the Lightning Lord was a prime representative of the hardy British male that had spread the Union Jack to form an Empire upon which the sun never set. He was had not been appointed Legion second-in-command for naught. "Imra is in the Command Centre, assisting with final preparations for D-Day. She will help you find Giovanni, I am sure." He stood, resting a light hand upon Tinya's gloved arm. "You should spend time with him. From what I gather from the reports we get from the green chap, it seems as though all sorts of malarkey will ensue shortly. We'll be all nerves and no time for bill and coo, so you best run along before the good Colonel summons us all to action. There's a girl."
She sniffed dismissively. "Hmph. I am a Princess. You can tell your collaborator that he is un dao méchant." She shook her arm free of the Lord's touch, secretly grateful that she had allowed her such an exit. Since the death of her father, her moods had been wilder than ever, she knew. She knew and did not care. She spun on a heel and exited, ghosting straight through the wall like the phantoms of her code-name.
The blonde and the redhead sat silently for a moment.
"Do you think we could have just told her where Giovanni was?"
"Well, she never rightly asked such? And we wouldn't want to presume with a Princess and all."
"Oh rather. She will be with Imra for quite a while. You certainly distressed the poor lass."
"Never said I wasn't a sonnova bitch. And that'll give us time to 'ave a bender and some bang times with Gio before Princess Perfect ties him back to the apron strings."
"Capital idea!" The Lightning Lord stood from his chair and clicked his fingers. The electric lightbulb in the centre of the room winked out. "Shall I drive?"
"Not likely. I'd have t'be bonkers t'let a Limey drive my hotrod. Maybe when y'learn t' drive on th' proper side o' the road."
They left, trailing cigarette smoke and good-natured insults behind them.
posted
OUR LEGION AT WAR PART THREE In which Le Héros de La Libération assault the hated German occupiers of France.
The night air was crisp and clear, just as Seymour had predicted.
Bats and moths circled above like dog-fighting planes, not that there had been any serious aerial opposition to the Allemands for almost a year. The moths were more numerous in number, yet dwarfed by their flitting predators. It was a contest Soleil would not see the conclusion of. It was a struggle she was not even interested in, given the circumstances.
She crouched silently behind a rockwall, her maschinenpistole held loosely before her, eyes locked onto those of the choking Nazi sentryman entrapped before her. He writhed and struggled, clothes tightening and constricting about him, his helmet strap gagging his mouth like a horse's bit, the very metal of his identical assault rifle - after all, hers was stolen German materiel - now twisted and distorted to hold him in place and to the ground. The barrel looped about his throat like a constrictor, slowly pressing ever more tightly and inspiring the sentry's purplish hue and pop-eyed features.
Soleil leaned forward to whisper into his ear. "I wanted you to know. A shot in the dark - that means nothing. There is no reaction - no time for understanding. But now I think you understand. You thought this would be easy. You thought La France was dead." She cocked her ear on the wind, and then looked back to the sentry's terrified features. "Now what do you think?"
The sentry's boot-sheathed knife wriggled forth, and brassy legs wriggled forth from the end. It danced its way along the length of the guard's body, deftly maintaining a relatively straight line despite the increasing struggles that wracked his enwrapped form.
She smiled. "I think now you know differently. La France will never be dead while Les Héros de La Libération continue to fight." Her eyes narrowed and the knife jumped forward to sink deeply into the sentry's throat. She watched until his struggles ceased and the blood flow started to cease. Once they had called her "La Fille de Vie". As she watched another man die - not by her hand but definitely by her doing - she knew that nom de guerre was a lie. Even L'Animateuse was proving only partly true, given the corpse's swift immobility.
Motion from above and behind brought her to swift motion, MP44 swinging to bear upon a figure that materialised from the darkness where only bats and moths had circled. Only familiarity, foreknowledge and razor-sharp combat reflexes prevented her from sending a hail of bullets into the new arrival, surely killing him and any chance of their plan succeeding. Success depended upon silence. She shuddered as the figure twisted and grew; when she commanded the motion and metamorphosis of objects, she had little concern. To see such changes worked upon a living being was a different matter. While she had recently envisaged the broomsticks of Fantasia through her walking blade, she now recalled the horrors of Nosferatu.
Ilya shuddered, the last vestiges of his bat-form melting away and leaving him the handsome figure his mother had birthed. Of Russian Jewish ancestry, his family had fled persecution of one form or another, discovering that France soon posed little refuge in a Europe gone mad. While his family had little escape, Monsieur Norov had possessed other options since a boyhood fall down a cave near his home village of Lascaux had changed his life forever. When first he whispered, his voice still carried some traces of the piercing squeak of the bat he had recently mimicked. "Les Nazis are over in that direction, bonbon."
Soleil lowered the automatic rifle, nose twitching in distaste. "Why couldn't you have chosen to fly as a moth? Bats..." She shuddered. "Some things I cannot stand." She reached down to remove the knife from the German's throat. The miniature legs retracted as soon as turned the animating force of her ability to it.
"Animaux only, ma attrayant animateuse. Les insectes futile? Non." His nose twitched in more dramatic fashion than hers did, and she knew he channelled the olfactory capabilities of some wolf or St Bernard to test the wind for any other sentries. "We are free to begin the operation. The sentries on the north side discovered that the local fauna was far more dangereux than they could have dreamed." He toed the fallen guard. "I suspect there is another equally startled sentry somewhere hereabouts?"
Soleil pointed a section of the nearby rockwall. It was smooth and featureless, without any of the crags and roughness shown on other sections of the low fortification surrounding the Axis supply depot. Ilya's eyes slitted, became cat-like, and he suddenly saw that which Soleil pointed at. A gloved hand emerged from the rockwall; Ilya could imagine it suddenly flowing forward like melting bakelite to envelop, smother, then withdraw and entomb the hapless sentry. He had seen and been forced to try to forget similar things many times during Le Héros' struggle to combat the occupation forces.
"Terminally startled then." He locked eyes with her grimly. "Let us start the show then, Mademoiselle. The ordnance trucks are in perfect position. We can take them out without destroying the food supplies. Seymour was right." His whisper betrayed no surprise at this last sentiment yet divulged considerable bitter sadness and anger.
"He should have been here." She returned Ilya's righteous nod, then turned back to look towards the German supply depot. A crawl along the rockwall the road leading through the now-unmanned sentry-point revealed the scene was unchanged since her last survey. Once a cluster of farm buildings, the structures now sheltered German rations, ammunition and war materiel; supplies the Héros de La Libération needed to continue their campaign against the occupying forces. Every day that passed saw the Allemands dig in further, and with Seymour and his prodigious intellect lost to the group, their prospects waned even as those of the Nazis waxed darkly brilliant.
”I agree.” Le Bête-Garou shivered and shook, membranous growths rippling forth from the undersides of his arms and a fine fur sprouting across his form. Before his features elongated to the point where conversation was impossible, he squeaked, “For Seymour Chapelle, l’Homme d' Évolution.”, and soared upward into the night air, soon indistinguishable from the other moth-eaters on wing.
Soleil breathed deeply, staring intently at a supply truck parked alongside the ordnance depot shed, trying to remain aware of any guards closer to the building that might be alert enough to note her or their fellows’ disappearance from the sentry posts. She visualised her objective, seeing the images cascade forth in her mind like those sent flickering to illuminate the screen at the picture-houses of her Paris childhood. A blink. A mental ‘click-whirrrr’, and then… action.
In the distance, the supply truck bucked, chassis twisting like a gas can in the hot sun, then settling back into place. A startled shout from a guard rang out, but then the scream of tortured metal dwarfed any sound a human throat could produce. The supply truck lurched, undercarriage twisting and hoisting the truck upwards as it bent and deformed to settle into place as a pair of stubby legs. The cabin twisted over with more metallic screeching, now a breastplate of sorts for a headless Colossus, arms composed of suddenly twisting and gathering supports from the former canopy. Shouts of alarm, terror and command rang out in German, to be met contemptuously by the blaring honk of the supply truck-turned-avenging automaton. It swayed slowly as a foot swung forth, thick tyres providing the perfect tread for what feet there were, and headlights sparked into life, illuminating the supply sheds.
Soleil remained crouching near the rockwall as her creation lumbered forth with metallic screeches and honked assertions of supremacy. The tangled mass of canopy supports that formed a right arm swung a crumpled fender-fist at a shed wall, even as German bullets danced across its flanks. She nodded as the fist tore a gash in the wall, and willed the behemoth to tear open the ordnance depot and stride inside. It was met with more shouts, gunfire and panic. The tattered canopy fluttered behind it in cape-like fashion.
From the west, from where a brisk wind carried the scent of the Aquitaine coastline, a roiling mass of yellow began to billow. Thick, noticeable even in the night sky by the way it blocked out the stars and diffused the light of the searchlights winking on from the rooftop of the central depot building, it floated towards the depot so swiftly and purposefully that the German guards not too concerned with the attack of the automotive colossus would surely think it possessed of its own whims. Soleil knew it did. Yellow like the mustard she loved so, streaked with grey and white, the nebulous mass swelled forth to envelop and settle about the buildings.
The sounds of the colossus could not mask those of the Germans, turning from alarm to terror to choking death. She looked back at the guard she had slain with his own knife. She had given him a far better – cleaner – death than Tallis and Orville were rendering unto the depot guards. She didn’t know whether this concerned her or not. She liked to make sure the Germans she killed had at least some measure of suffering before they died, but… The sounds of the Germans were growing more desperate and isolated; a lone figure staggered forth from the choking mass, clutching at his throat and bleeding face. Tallis has stated if mustard gas was effective, then change was unnecessary, but Orville took great pleasure in turning the effects of Zyklon B upon those that had made its use infamous for more than crop fumigation.
Soleil leaned forward and squeezed off a round from her rifle, ending the German’s torment with his life. Another guard-come-escapee found himself the victim of 300lbs of angry wild boar dropped from the sky to smash him to the ground and gash his face and throat asunder. Soleil looked away as the boar swiftly metamorphosed into the form of Le Garçon de Lascaux before it leaped upwards in bat-form once again to circle above the death-cloud.
The choking clouds slowly settled, separated, the yellows and whites becoming variegated stripes and then individual funnels and streams of gas that rushed earthwards, solidifying into a couple of figures dressed much as Soleil was, in sturdy but unremarkable clothing. Madame Miasme’s ability to self-transmute into any gaseous form had been duplicated by Capitaine Copie, and their twinned gas warfare assault had proven inescapable for the Nazis, as Seymour had also predicted. They strode towards her position, flushed with success. She rose as they joined her, and Le Bête-Garou swooped down to land upon the rockwall and assume amidst a writhing of fur, the impudent form of an organ-grinder’s monkey, sans fez and coat.
Soleil nodded towards the ordnance dump, now exposed to the moonlight by the rampaging efforts of the animated supply truck. The quartet wisely sheltered behind the sturdy fortification, and Soleil closed her eyes. The colossus turned searching beams upon German-labelled crates as it swung about, and raised a balled-metal fist above its headless form. With swift motion, the coiled, cable-like arm swung down to strike wood, which gave way effortlessly and give birth to sudden light. Explosives erupted and detonated those in the nearby crates, and the depot building convulsed in a maelstrom of fire. A rumbling series of explosions echoed through the valley and fragments of wood and metal rained across the former farmstead, whines and whistles crossing the air as projectiles radiated with light and fire from the German ordnance.
The central command building – once the home to honest French peasantry – shivered as the nearby dump flared with destructive force, and swiftly caught alight. They remained crouching as the fuel stores they knew were located in the central buildings’ extensive cellars erupted with another roar of hellfire. The ground shivered in protest as the underground stores blasted forth to consume and drag down the command building into the smoking and flaming earth.
Once the worst was over, they stood, carefully.
The rations depot building, a former dairy, still stood. Their bellies would be full, and German guns and planes empty. The mission had been a complete success.
Just as Seymour had predicted.
[ March 12, 2006, 09:09 PM: Message edited by: Star Boy ]
posted
EDE's story made me hungry for some Gharlak fries! Star Boy, love your details and accents and stuff!
From: Alameda, CA | Registered: Dec 2003
| IP: Logged |
"Did you see this, gentlemen?" the man in the wheelchair demanded, waving an open newspaper around. The headline across the top of the paper reads "PAPER BOYS (AND GIRLS) CRACK SPY RING!"
"Even with all the mystery men and women who've ever put on a mask or a cape or a trenchcoat signed up for the ALL STAR SQUADRON, there's still more to be done." He slaps the hand that isn't holding the newspaper against the open page, emphasizing his point.
"We should follow these kids' lead." President Roosevelt holds the gazes of generals. "If untrained children can contribute, imagine what they could do with some backing..."
"But sir--" an uncomfortable general interrupts.
"I know what you're going to say. They're underage. Too young to even pretend to join the army. We can't set a precedent for the entire generation. We *can* start small."
The president picks up a folder and opens it. Photos of masked men and women are visible. A list is taped to the back of the folder's front.
"We'd have to anyway, given the number of mystery men that bothered to answer my request."
"Your- request, sir?"
"To take apprentices, man! Keep up!" The president shakes his head and runs his finger down the list. "We've got more candidates than volunteers, thanks to Herb. Drake Burroughs, Jacques and Danielle Focquart, Garth and Gail Rand, Andy Nolan, Zoe Sawyer... these kids'll have their time in the spotlight. I'm sure of it."
"But *these*..." he tears off the names at the bottom of the page. "We'll match up with *these*," he pulls out a group of photos that are paper-clipped together from the main pile.
"Tina Wazzio... apprentice to Phantom Lady." He scrawls the girl's name across the established heroine's photo. "Hopefully, the Lady'll design a costume a bit more-- becoming-- to Miss Wazzio's tender years."
The generals laugh. One of them leers. President Roosevelt eyes him the way an owl stares down a field mouse. The general blanches and takes a half-step back. Behind him, a curtain rustles. The president and the assembled generals don't notice a man in a purple trenchcoat and matching purple fedora pulled down to shadow his face edge around them, approaching the desk. A white, gloved hand quietly reaches out and touches the torn portion of the list. No one but him notices the typed words becoming letters breaking out of their formations and skittering about the scrap of paper like magnetic dust in an etch-a-sketch. The hand lifts and the letters snap smartly into place, the regiment restored in a new order.
"Dirk Morgan... charge of Firebrand." Another well-known heroine's photo receives the president's scrawl.
"Lucky kid." One of the generals says, trying unsuccessfully to keep any hint of a leer out of his voice. The president ignores him.
"Tommy Kellor... trainee of Starman."
"Now *him* I've heard of," The third general beams, nodding with satisfaction.
"You *should* be acquainted every mystery man and woman in this file, General. They risk their lives for this country most every day."
"Mia Miller... intern to Dr. Mid-Nite." He scrawls across the JSA stalwart's photo.
"Will that fly, Mr. President? A girl working so closely with a grown man?" The general who had leered ventured.
"You didn't complain about the Morgan boy working with Firebrand, General."
"Not the same thing. We'll have to keep this Miller girl's connection to a grown mystery man in the dark."
"That won't be a problem." The president dismisses his advisor's concern and examines the final photo.
"Joey Nah... to be taught by The Hourman."
He hands the batch of photos to a general.
"Call in the five mystery men. Contact the families of these kids. Get their signatures and fly these boys and girls in. Tell them their country summons them. And they're but the first young all-stars to shine in this time of war."
"Yes, sir." One general replies, quickly echoed by his compatriots. As one, they pivot and exit.
A hint of purple shows, then disappears behind the gold curtains as they move with the generals passing.
********
In wartime Washington, things happen quickly. In a few weeks, a handful of newspaper headlines captures the country's interest as they describe the heroics of a new batch of costumed adventurers, acting in concert with their already well-known mentors. Libby Lawrence, a radio reporter, somehow secures interviews with the intrepid pairs. Phantom Lady urges her partner, Phantom Girl, to speak up when speaking into Miss Lawrence's microphone. Libby, tongue firmly in cheek, asks the girl if she feels a draft in her daring white jump-suit. Behind her black mask, Tina Wazzio laughs.
Dr. Mid-Nite clears his throat and mentions the time. Miss Lawrence apologizes and asks his charge, Shady Lady, how she feels working for such a demanding taskmaster. From behind her voluminous blue-black cloak comes a laugh that briefly silences even the usually unflappable Miss Lawrence.
Noting that the girls are an uncommunicative pair, she turns to the boys. Starman and his trainee, Star Boy give predictable answers. As does Firebrand and her apprentice, whom she calls Sunny Boy. When she chucks him under the chin, he looks at her with a horrified expression while his cheeks turn as red as his hair and the mask he wears. Hourman introduces his charge, The Second, boasting that his 'kid' has the power to take on 'just about anyone', Miss Lawrence, already thrown off balance by the spookiness of Phantom Girls and Shady Lasses, is further nonplussed by the brazen flirting the brash Second throws her way.
Luckily, she's spared from rebuffing the boy on national radio waves by a frantic engineer. The 'on air' light goes out as he rushes into the room. "They're attacking Boston Harbor! A gang of gals flying around on horses...!"
Miss Lawrence turns from her panicked coworker to ask the assembled heroes what they intend to do-- only to find herself alone. She quirks an eyebrow, then pats her bespectacled engineer on his shoulder. She reminds him that the gals on horses are the Valkyrie, Nazi maidens sent to harass America. Saying she has a story to follow, she runs out of the room.
In Philadelphia, the liberty bell spontaneously begins to peal.
From: Knoxville, TN | Registered: Jul 2003
| IP: Logged |
A collective release of breath presages a riot of applause, hoots, hollers and whistles. A small audience of soldiers stomp and clap the darkness away.
A spotlight hits a section of tattered purple curtains. The curtains part and reveals the visiting troupe of the junior version of the USO. Leading the company, is a nine-foot tall Colossus (SEE! THE AMAZING GIANT OF RHODES COME TO LIFE!), decked out in a cross between a circus strongman's outfit and the fevered dream of a Hollywood costume designer's rendition of a Greek soldier's tunic.
He bows, then backs away, appearing to shrink a bit as he reveals the two feminine stars of the Tour. Mademoiselle Imra (GASP! IN AWE AS SHE PENETRATES YOUR MIND!), swathed in bright red silk and pearl, stands back-to-back against Princess Projectra (OUT! OF THE MOVIES AND INTO YOUR HEARTS!).
A one-time starlet, Projectra affects the illusion of the silver screen. Her hair, complexion and dress all appear in tones of silver and white. Her headdress, exaggerated eyelashes, rope of pearls and cigarette holder recall the fads of a bygone day. She looks as if she is appearing in a black and white movie while the rest of the world continues on in pedestrian color.
The trio clasp hands and bow, bursting apart in obviously feigned surprise as a boy wearing a headband pops into being in front of them, as if out of nowhere. The Invisible Kid (NOW YOU SEE HIM, BEWARE WHEN YOU DON'T!) joins the four as they reconfigure and resume their bows, only to be interrupted once more. This time, by a mugging kid who pulls off his werewolf mask... his Frankenstein mask... his Dracula mask... ending with an orange-skinned alien face, complete with wriggly antennae. (CAN YOU SPOT THE REAL FACE OF THE CHAMELEON?!)
The completed company accepts their tribute and the curtains close. After the soldier boys file out, an unnoticed section of the curtain moves mysteriously; a human-shaped figure separates from it. A fedora is pushed forward over the figure's head, hiding his face. He holds a handful of USO programs in his hands. He leafs through one, then shuffles the programs like a deck of cards. After a second shuffle, the programs drop to the ground in an arc. The purple curtain waves as if in a strong wind. Then, the stage is empty.
Backstage in a tent is still backstage. Stage door johnnies, even if they're GI Joes, have to be greeted and discretely dispatched. Producers, even if they wear stars in their lapels instead of diamonds, must be humored.
Finally, the moment comes when the performers can relax, stripping away their glamour.
"It's for the boys, Imra. I just keep telling myself 'It's for the boys'," Mademoiselle Imra pauses in her ablutions. "All the miles... all the bad diners... all the inhaled gnats..."
"I figured we'd be touring in Europe, not North Carolina," the Invisible Kid broke in. "With the real stars..."
"I am a real star," Princess Projectra exaggerates as she removes her feathered headdress, shaking her shockingly white hair.
"How long since you've made a movie, Princess?" The Kid cocks his eyebrow.
"Now, Lyle... At least they're still making movies. There's no more vaudeville to go back to for us," Imra sighs.
"There's always the circus, kids!" The Colossal Boy grins as he wipes off the oily greasepaint that covers his-- generous-- expanses of skin.
"The circus--!" Imra and Projectra react in harmonious distaste.
"The circus... hmmm." Lyle's reaction does not blend in.
After shaking her short, curly hair, Projectra plucks out her eyelashes. Actually, an observant eye would note that she merely raises her hand up and down, never quite touching her face. Yet, the eyelashes disappear.
"What are boys doing in my- our- dressing room, anyway?" She sighs dramatically and leans back in her folding chair, her limbs draped as if she endured the most wracking case of world weariness. "I just vant to be alone."
"Save the Russian Garbo bit, Princess," Lyle rolls his eyes. "We know you were born in Hensbottom, Nebraska."
"Indulge her little secrets, Kid. We all indulge yo--" Lyle's sudden jerk and glare silence the Colossal Boy.
Imra's rejoinder, the Princess's complaint, Lyle's snap are cut short by the Chameleon's entrance. He genuflects and mimes a story, the meaning of which escapes the company.
Finally, he pulls off his orange-skinned face, revealing a purple-fedora wearing shadowy one. He holds out a rolled up newspaper and extends a begging palm.
"Does he want our money?" the Princess asks.
"I think... I think he wants us to read the newspaper." Colossal Boy scratches his head.
Lyle stands and takes the paper. The Chameleon pulls off the fedora-mask, revealing another orange-skinned one. He points with one hand and touches his nose with the other, grinning and nodding wildly.
"How does he do that?" Imra asks as she puts the finishing touches on her tightly confined, demure 'do.
"We all have our secrets," the Princess intones.
"Some more than others," Lyle looks up with his eyes to regard the Princess, but his head stays bent as if still reading the newspaper.
A photograph of three uniformed young soldiers fills much of the page. A strawberry-blond with a rakish grin, a clean-cut, confident brunette and a serene-appearing Asian comprise the trio.
THREE GI'S MISSING IN MYSTERIOUS INCIDENT, reads the headline.
"Privates Garth Rand, Rick Crane and Val Armor... we ought to be where they are," Lyle smacks the newspaper.
"Missing?" Colossal Boy grins.
"In Europe!" Lyle smacks the paper with each syllable. "Where the action is!"
The Chameleon nods and mimicks Lyle's smacking motions.
"What kind of name is Val Amor?" the Princess asks as she grabs the paper, avidly looking it over.
"That's 'Armor'. As in 'suit of...'" Lyle turns away in disgust. He notices Imra has gone pale and is silent. Her lips move, though. She repeats the word 'Garth' over and over.
Lyle looks back at the paper, still in the Princess' silvery hands. He then sharply turns back to Imra. His eyes narrow. He has the look of a hawk circling his prey. Slowly, tenderness overcomes the hawk.
"He is handsome, isn't he?" the Princess continues. "If only there was something we could do for him--er-- them."
"There is, " Lyle says urgently. "Aren't you all tired of playing? Of guarding your 'secrets'?" As one, the company turns towards Lyle. Various retorts, denials and lies form on each pair of lips (but one-- and that pair of lips pinches shut as the hands connected to them began a complex dance that would've amounted to the same thing).
Heading them off, Lyle rushes on. "I know I am. We can make a difference. I know it. And so do all of you."
He strides towards the tent-flaps. "I'm going to the General's tent. It's time he makes good on that promise of his that we'd see the world. Who's with me?"
Boys Colossal and Chameleonic hurry to the side of a once-invisible-but-invisible-no-longer Kid. Imra hesitantly stands, dropping her silver-plated hairbrush. She steps on it as she moves to join the trio of boys. With each step, she gains confidence. Color returns to her cheeks.
"A mind-reading act... a circus strongboy... a disappearing act... a master of disguises... and a screen siren working a tired illusionist's act..." She shakes her head. No one needs to add the words, "what can we do?" No one needs to answer, "Plenty", as they all would.
"There are no acts here," Lyle says decisively. One by one, each member of the company nods. "Unless we act together, he finishes, somewhat cryptically.
Projectra watches impassively as one-by-one, "her" company exits. Finally, only the sharp-eyed Lyle remains. He holds out a hand, standing taller. The Princess regards him through lids half-closed, with eyes wide open behind them.
The locked gaze between them lengthens with purpose... through definition... into meaning.
The Princess rises, her silvery illusion dispelled. A flesh and blood girl takes Lyle's hand. "OK, Mickey and Judy... Let's put on a SHOW!"
From: Knoxville, TN | Registered: Jul 2003
| IP: Logged |
Jeepers! It's the first of the month here in OZ, and I'm nowhere near finishing my story! Maybe I'll have to move it to another thread and continue it at leisure... Or maybe I'll be lazy.
Fire flickered in the hearth of chimney that had stood for centuries. A piece of the last log sustaining the blaze broke off, awakening the young woman stretched out on a rug in front of the hearth. She pushed herself up, rubbing her stiff neck behind a fall of luxuriant silver hair.
Her eyes shot open. Her spine stiffened in sudden wakefulness.
"They're here..." she whispered, her face frozen in calculation.
She leapt to her feet, grabbing a log from the stack near the hearth. She threw it onto the fire, then grunted as she muscled a large, heavy pot onto a hook fixed in the hearth. She then rushed to a shabby armoire, from which she pulled a stack of blankets. Dropping them on the lone table in the room, she picked up a red beret. She maneuvered it into a jaunty angle atop her head as she sped to the door.
"Come in," she said as she opened the stout wooden door. Her voice rang out. It was as silvery as her hair and was loud enough to be heard over the strong winter wind that blew snow into the cabin.
"Entre vous. There's stew warming," she looked not at all surprised to see a young man with his fist raised in the beginning of the act of knocking on her door. He, however, looked stunned at her precocious welcome.
Surprise soon faded. The young man nodded in acceptance of the proffered greeting. He stamped his feet, then gingerly entered the cabin.
Behind him, two small figures followed. Both bundled against the cold, one immediately pulled her hood back and her scarf off, revealing delicate feminine features. The second figure edged into the cabin, keeping her back to a wall, making no move to divest herself of her outer wear.
A third figure lumbered into the room. Taller than most men, and broader, he wore no protection against the weather. A monochromatic grey, he appeared a massive statue brought to life. In his arms was a more fleshly burden wearing the uniform of an American soldier. The young man dangled between arms as large as tree trunks.
"Wilkomen," the hostess spoke, nonplussed by the unusual nature of her guests. She took coats and scarves, exchanging them for plain, dry blankets as she herded her charges into the worn, but still comfortable stuffed chairs grouped around the hearth.
The stony giant gently placed his charge upon the lone couch, and then stepped back as the hostess unbuttoned the unconscious youth's uniform jacket.
"Help me get him out of these wet clothes, comrade." The giant looked down at his huge hands, a doubtful expression stealing slowly over his face.
The bolder of his female companions knelt by the sofa. "I think that she meant me, Blok..." she turned meaningfully to the hostess. "...but I'm nobody's 'comrade', she spat out.
One second the two women blinked at each other. One angry, the other absorbing a rare occurrence. The rarity? That she was in error. Conflict... or at least the possibility of conflict... charged the air. The next second, impossibly, the less stony male of the group was kneeling between the two women.
"Mademoiselle Nura," he addressed the hostess, her name a question to which she nodded 'yes' in response. "Forgive Talia's temper. She... we... have been through so..." he shook his head unable to complete the sentence. His voice was scratchy.
"I know. I know," she made comforting noises, patting the arms of those who knelt beside her. "You aren't the first who've stopped her on their journey."
"Then it's all true?" Talia cried. "This isn't another cruel trick? We aren't being sent back? Or somewhere worse?" Tears glittered in the girl's eyes, though hardness soon replaced them. Stony hardness that had a little crack of hope in it.
Mademoiselle Nura squeezed Talia's arm. "If you follow our instructions and luck runs with us... "
"Ben!" Talia drooped in relief. "He wasn't lying! Dru was right!" The young man grinned wolfishly while the silent member of the party, still covered head to toe in winter wear, shrank even further into herself at the utterance of the name 'Dru'.
"Tonight, eat and rest," Mademoiselle Nura addressed the company. "Tomorrow, too. When night falls, the next steps to freedom can begin."
The young man on the sofa groaned, attracting the attention of the little group. After a few seconds in which he didn't awake, conversation resumed.
"We found him in the woods," Ben said. "A few kilometers from here. Talia wanted to leave him there..."
"How do we know he wasn't there intentionally?" The edgy girl snapped. "How do we know who we can trust? How will we ever know again?" The questions were, of course, directed at much more than a bruised and battered American soldier.
"*I* know," Mademoiselle Nura said softly, her gaze lowered.
"How!?" Talia responded, almost in spite of herself.
"The same way I knew you were at my door before the first knock," Nura answered.
Silence, except for the crackling logs in the fire, reigned.
A curtain pulled across a shadowy doorway rippled and a yawning young man in an elegant smoking jacket worn over longjohns entered. His sleep-spikened hair stood in all directions and was a surprising shade of pale green.
"Nura, old girl," he chided around his yawns. "Why didn't you wake me? You know I like to greet our guests..." he ambled towards the fire with an awkward grace.
"Size them up, you mean..." Nura smiled, adjusting her beret.
"That, too," he smiled. His smile froze in place as he looked up... and up... at the face of the stone giant.
"You needed your sleep. You've been up for days... preparing the paths."
"A gardener's work is never done," he said, holding his hands out in front of the fire.
After a short stretch, he turned to Ben. "Raleigh Brennan, gardener" he held out a hand. Ben looked at the outstretched hand as if he'd never seen such a thing before; as if common civility were a thing of some long passed age. He then grinned wolfishly and enthusiastically returned the hearty handshake.
"Ben Londo... tumbler," he responded. Suspicion bloomed as he felt the 'gardener's touch. "Pretty smooth hands for a gardener," he said with a little growl in his voice.
The amiable man ran his free hand through his spiky green hair. "Don't jump to conclusions. *Some* gardener's don't have to use their *hands*..." He gestured and a log in a stack of wood by the hearth grew a living, green twig. He gestured again, and the twig sprouted leaves. . Ben let the man's hand go abruptly. He sniffed.
"Parlor tricks," he growled, though his eyes contained doubt at his own words.
Raleigh cocked a green eyebrow and grinned.
He then addressed each of the guests in turn.
"Talia Sev... ballet dancer," said with an air of appraisement and a lingering handshake.
"Uh-oh," Mademoiselle Nura thought to herself. "*That* I did not see coming..."
"Dru Sept.." there was more to the last name, but it was lost to the folds of the scarf which still wrapped around her face. The tilt of her head showed that she was staring at Raleigh's hair.
"Blok..." the stony giant said simply when his turn came. Raleigh tilted his head in questioning encouragement. But no reply came.
"...head. Pile of rock," Talia finished for the stony man. She giggled.
"Talia!" Ben scolded.
Raleigh and Talia exchanged a conspirational glimpse.
"Take it back! We wouldn't be here if not for Blok..." Ben started, though he stopped suddenly, as if thinking it better to keep quiet the thought he'd almost expressed.
"We *all* played our part, Beennnn," Talia drew out his name as her carriage became seriousness again.
"But so many will never play any part in anything again..." Dru breathily squeaked out from behind her scarf and hood. Anguish tightened her voice. Everyone's eyes were cast down, sharing knowledge of the costs of this group's presence in this cottage in this part of the world at this time.
"I meant no offense," Talia offered.
"...buster," Blok said slowly, as if he was just now finishing his answer. "My nanny used to call me 'Buster'. So Blokbuster." It took him many seconds to deliver his line.
The mood of the room changed as he spoke, from flinty and full of sparks ready to ignite in anger or grief to warmth and comfort. Slowly, Blokbuster's head turned to Ben. He winked a wink that only Ben, who grinned an even more wolfish grin, could see.
The young American solder on the sofa suddenly sat up and coughed. He clutched at the blanket.
"Where? Who?" He looked around him in panic. "Where?" he repeated. The panic turned into shock as he took in the stony giant... the wolfish grin... the green hair. "Who? Who *are* you characters?" he said raspily. The sparks were backed.
Mademoiselle Nura placed her hands on his bare shoulders, leaning in to whisper into his ear. The boy's eyes widened at her words. Then, he nodded.
"I made it then. You had the password." He looked around at those gathered. Even Dru had inched closer to the sofa.
"You can rest easy now, folks. I'm a-here to rescue you..."
Stunned silence filled the room. Finally, Blokbuster pinched at the blanket covering the G.I. A slow rumble of laughter filled the room. Every one of them felt the deep vibrations in their intestines before actually hearing it. Ben joined it, followed by Talia, Raleigh and even Dru. Nura never laughed. She gazed expectantly at the door.
The boy peered up at them, hurt in his eyes. Then he looked down at the blankets covering his bare torso. Memory flooded back. He shook his head ruefully and then reluctantly joined in the laughter.
"Don't laugh too hard, Garth Rand," Nura spoke distractedly. "You spoke truer than you know."
"How'd you know my name?" Garth asked suspiciously?
Mademoiselle Nura fluttered her eyes and tossed her hair. A sly eyebrow was cocked. She looked as if she was about to reveal an age-old secret as she slowly and with a dramatic flair raised a hand from her lap. She opened it, revealing Garth's ID papers.
He grinned, while she smiled indulgently.
"I never saw her open those papers," Ben whispered to his stony friend, who rumbled an indeterminate response.
Mademoiselle Nura turned suddenly towards the door, which flung open. Sharp wind blowing snow chilled the room. A man in hat and coat clomped in, shutting the door behind him. He leaned against that door in exhaustion. He flung his hat and scarf onto the floor, opening his coat. His uniform was revealed.
"Nazi rat!" Garth exploded. He sprung from the sofa, throwing himself across the room. He grabbed the latecomer's lapels and shook him violently. He then struck the man with one hand twice in quick succession. Whap! Whack! First with his palm, then with the back of the same hand.
"Lady, I don't know how, but you knew this... scum... was rising," he snarled. Flashes of energy? sparks? little lightning bolts? seemed to emit from his hand... and from Garth's eyes.
"No!" Nura yelled, coming to herself. She stood, but stayed in one spot, dazed. Raleigh looked at her quizzically as he passed her. He rushed to Garth's side, joined by Ben and Talia, who worked together to pull the American from his attack. Blokbuster stepped forward and captured the boy in his mammoth arms.
"What's going on?" he asked, his head turning from side to side in agitation. "Are you all sympathizers? Was intel wrong?"
"No, no, no," Talia answered as she helped the latecomer to his feet. "You cannot trust appearances..." she began.
"Shush, Talia. I understand why our... friend... attacked," the uniformed man spoke with a thick Germanic or Austrian accent. His short blond hair and fair skin completed an image perfectly in tune with the clothing he wore. He might have stepped right out of a Nazi party propaganda poster. Except for the one thing that struck a chord of disharmony. Compassion and grief were alive in his eyes.
"It's this verdamnt uniform!" he yelled and snarled as he began to violently pull if from his body. "I cannot *bear* to wear it for another second!" A button popped and rolled across the floor to land at Dru's feet. She pent to pick it up.
"We're going to have to mend that," Nura chided, as she retrieved the uniform, studiously ignoring the young man who now stood before them naked and unconcerned about it.
His face *was* red, but not with shame at his nudity. His shame was far deeper.
"Cover up, fella," Garth said as he tossed a blanket to the boy. "Sheesh!"
The boy caught the blanket and gravely arranged it around his shoulders, nodding to the G.I.
"So, is he a Nazi or not?" Garth asked, exasperated. His frustration made him sound much angrier than he really was.
"Garth, this is Jan. He's been... oh, what do you call it?... undercover," Nura began.
"I'd say he's more like *without* cover," Garth cracked.
Talia jumped in, missing the American's humor. 'He's been posing as a Nazi..."
"It took us awhile to believe him, Tal, don't forget," Been added.
"He sure looks the part," Garth said somewhat snottily, as he raked his eyes over the blond young man.
"Well, now, so could you..." Nura said at first matter-of-factly. "So could you..." she twirled a lock of silvery hair between her fingertips as she considered some unspoken possibility.
"How can you all be so heartless?" Dru leapt into the midst of the company. She rushed to confront Garth, standing uncomfortable inches into his personal space. "Jan is no Nazi! He saved our lives! And yours!" She pointed a gloved finger at him. A greenish flush came over Garth's complexion. He clutched his stomach.
She then whirled to face Talia. "He told us they exterminated every soul in his village but him!" She flung herself at Ben. "How he hid and made his way to the forest, where the Resistance found him," she turned violently to Raleigh. "How *you*," she stabbed a gloved finger at the gardener, "convinced him to adopt this guise," she kicked at the folded uniform. "He came to Auschwitz... to Lallorwitz and found us!"
Jan hunched in on himself as if he'd been hit. "Not enough of you. Never enough..." He let the blanket drop, then slunk from the room in despair. He turned back to face Nura as he pulled the curtain open. "I don't think I can wear that uniform again..." he whispered. He then disappeared behind the folds of the curtain.
Dru yelled to the fire, pulling off her scarf and hood, revealing a bone-white face, still beautiful for all its strangeness. Long, straight hair the distinctive cover of lilacs spilled down her back. Two quivering stalks rose from her brow. They turned and bobbed in agitation. A blue tattoo mimicked a butterfly-like mask that stretched across her face.
"They did this to me... to all of you!" She cried. "Don't you know what was next? What was coming? What he saved us from?" She sniffed, wiping tears from her face with an ungloved, white hand.
"The gas chambers," Ben hissed.
Reigning it in a bit, Dru once more addressed Garth. "Jan carried you over two kilometers in a blizzard. He risked his own life, all of our lives, for you."
Dru caught a ragged breath as she trembled by the fire. Everyone looked nauseous. Dru touched the tattoo on her face. The nausea passed with the silence that entwined the room.
"Must've been that stew..." Garth muttered.
"We haven't had any!" Ben whispered to him. "Sparky!"
Garth's eyes widened in surprise. Ben's grin also widened, revealing fangs. His eyes shimmered oddly in the firelight. Garth turned his gaze to the statue man, Blokbuster, who rumbled agreeably. He looked down at the bone-white face of Dru... then over at Talia, whose hair had dried and now floated about her head like a blondish cloud. What he had taken to be curls, now looked like puffs of gas. She cocked an eyebrow and the 'cloud' turned pale blue.
"I was in one of those gas chambers when *this* happened," she pointed to her hair.
Garth tore his gaze away from Talia to Nura, who regarded him with a supremely confident, all-seeing expression. Folded in her arms was the Nazi uniform, now spun out of steel. He touched it, amazed at its cold, metallic hardness. It had been ordinary wool when he'd grabbed Jan. "Who changed it? He wondered to himself. "The mademoiselle or the Nazi-- make that resistance fighter?"
Garth sighed and slide back to the sofa. Everyone but Blokbuster followed suit. A few moments later, a red-eyed Jan returned to the room, now wearing a turtleneck sweater, and some ski-tights and boots.
He settled beside Dru on the hearthstone, draping his arm around her shoulder. She was uneasy, but eventually settled in.
Over cups of steaming stew, hot chocolate and cold milk, conversations ebbed and flowed like steam in a sauna. Comfort was sought and found in the exchange of histories.
Raleigh, a British gardener, told of his uncanny way with plants that the Resistance used to create a hidden labyrinth in the Black Forest. He mentioned a family legend of an ancestor who'd wed a member of the 'Fair Folk'.
Dru, a Scandinavian medical student, told of experiments conducted upon her in Lallorwitz.
Ben, a gypsy acrobat, and Talia, a Russian dancer related to the Romanovs, told of their suffering in Lallorwitz. Blokbuster rumbled about his awakening in Auschwitz, unsure of much of his previous life.
Garth remembered the lightning that struck him at a high-school football game. Nura spoke of seeing what wasn't there but would be... as she knit.
Purple yarn disappeared between her needles. The purple matched the curtain... and the trenchcoat of a figure that lurked behind it, holding an hourglass in which the running sand was frozen in place. It had almost run out. He stepped back into the shadows and faded into darkness.
Somewhen/where else, a purple-gloved hand held a snow globe with flakes frozen into place over a wintry cottage. The gloved hand shook the globe, and the snow began to move. Light inside the cottage went out... then flickered to life once more. Days and nights passed. The glove matching the hand holding the globe raised the frozen hourglass. The sand within it remained still. Tiny figures in the globe ventured outside as the glow melted. Chores were done... the figures played games... games with a serious intent behind them as strange colors flared and faded within the globe.
Finally, the pair of purple gloved hands shook the snow globe and the hourglass. Sand flowed and snow stopped. Time snapped.
The purple trenchcoat transformed into a robe, as its wearer swelled and filled the sky. He flung the snow globe onto the ground. He reached into the voluminous sleeves of his robe for another globe, which he also dashed to the ground. Followed by another. Then another. And another.
Figures among the shards of broken globeglass began to stir. They expanded, like dried worms exposed to water. The Newslad (and lass) Legion... the LSH in the USO... the sidekicks... the L'(SH) Resistance gradually reached their full sizes.
The purple-robed figure laughed, pulling back his hood to reveal the snarling face and red hair of Per Degaton.
He faded into the sky. The assembled heroes introduced themselves, shaking hands, helping the slower to recover to their feet. Behind them, stood the Brandenburg Gate.
"Too soon, my Legion. Too soon. My plan will come to fruition! Hitler's forces are at their peak! They will overwhelm you, now! Your countries will be demoralized! The outcome of this war will shift! That fool, Adolph, and his minions will still lose. But, I! I, Per Degaton, will step in and crush your All-Star successors!"
"In this time, the world will be mine!"
Laughter was thunder across a purple sky. Mademoiselle Nura snarled. She alone heard Degaton's soliloquy. She turned to Imra, the mind-reader, and squinted. Hard. Imra staggered backwards, stunned. She reached out to the Invisible Kid and grasped his hand. He, too, reeled. But quickly regained himself.
The trio separated, speaking quickly and urgently to the milling young heroes. Small groups formed. Hangers-back were drawn in... the small groups coalesced. Many became one.
Garth Rand, lightning in his eyes, yelled, "Let's go, Legionnaires!" as he sent a bolt of lightning to topple a statue of Hitler.
The Legionnaires roared, then surged forward together for several yards. Then, they melted away in small groups once more.
History, in this time and this place, was theirs to champion.
The purple in the sky gradually drained away, materializing on the Berlin street in the form of Per Degaton, who looked surprised.
He turned in every direction. He lifted a foot, about to take a step. A green spot under his boot grew and grew quickly into the form of Midge, Shrinking Violet of the Newslad (and lass) Legion. She pushed Degaton's foot as she expanded, tripping him.
Scowling, he caught himself. He gazed about to find his attacker. But Midge had shrunk back down smaller than she'd ever been.
So intent was he upon finding Midge, Degaton almost missed the giant shoe that loomed above him, ready to stomp him into the pavement. Just the attack Per had envisioned for Midge, ironically.
Degaton made a fist and vanished... only to reappear seconds later, now facing the lightning bolts of Garth Rand. Again, a fist was tightened and again he disappeared.
Over and over he rematerialized, each time facing a different Legionnaire.
Snarling in anger, he picked a moment at the Brandenburg Gate, filling the sky as the Legionnaires first scattered. He pulled snowglobes from his cloak, flinging them to the ground.
Dinosaurs and mutated beasts from the future arose, attacking the heroes.
One of them stopped in her tracks and closed her eyes.
Nura, seer of the future, began to chant.
"Unborn sister, shadow twin, guardian and guide... this is *your* cue!" she uttered. Tears began to trickle down her cheeks. "I know what I must do... live in me...release your power!'
A voice hissed in Nura's mind. Imra, the mind-reader, paused as she swatted off a winged squid. Concern was etched upon her face. "No!" she mouthed. The squid stung her, making her stagger. Garth, who never left her side once he'd seen Imra among those on the abandoned street in Berlin, caught her and kissed her brow. She briefly kissed him back, then calmly pointed at an approaching miniature Tyrannosaurus Rex.
"Nura... Nura... big sister. I will not hurt you... the price you think you'll pay is just a fear." Imra stopped glancing at Nura, her concern lifted. She fully engaged in linking up the assembled Legion.
"I see what you've shown me. A I always have," Nura muttered.
"No, no, sister. Your gift is your own. I merely tapped you on the shoulder," the voice in Nura's head warmed. "So to speak."
Taken aback, Nura pushed her surprise to the side. "This isn't the time..." she began.
"Time is not time..." the voice deepened. "Release me! Speak my name!"
"Your-- name!" Nura had no memory of her sister's name.
"You've dreamt it! I've whispered it in your mind often enough. SPEAK... MY... NAME!"
Images of her childhood filled Nura's mind. Dolls she'd loved, blankets that had comforted her, the way her room looked in daylight and at night... the way it smelled...
"My-sa! Mysa!' she pulled the name from half-remembered girlhood daydreams.
"Yesss!!" An arc of pure white light sprung from Nura, filling the purple sky. It swirled about, eventually forming into a young woman dressed in a white gown. Long, equally white hair spilled down her back. Her eyes glowed a warm red. She gestured and a book on a column appeared. The pages began to turn by themselves.
"One!" she cried.
And then gestured again.
A fire appeared, with a cauldron hovering above it. Sickly green clouds of smoke bubbled over.
Two!" she yelled.
And gestured once more.
A slowly spinning centrifuge appeared, test tubes visible around its inside rim.
"Threeee!" Mysa screamed and screamed and screamed.
The pages in the book stopped turning. One of the pages rose into the air and then dropped into the cauldron. The sickly green smoke became vivid red. A red cloud billowed, entering the test tubes in the centrifuge, which began to spin more quickly. It blurred with speed, and then stopped dramatically. A single test tube appeared in Mysa's giant white hand.
An equally giant Per Degaton loomed beside Mysa. He smiled.
"Nice show, White Witch," he snarled. "But theatrics won't stop what I've set into motion."
"White Witch, eh? I could do worse." Mysa responded. "But theatrics? Wrong metaphor, Trapper!"
She made a line in front of her with her toe. She went into a semi-crouch, then looked behind her and ahead of her. She spit, then shrugged one bare shoulder. She lifted a leg high, wound up her arm...
... and threw a screwball. The test-tube had morphed into a globe. Mysa's pitch struck Degaton square in the face.
The globe shattered. A red cloud with horns and teeth reduced Per Degaton into crumbs in seconds.
The cloud dissipated, all evidence of Per Degaton's existence, with it. The dinosaurs and mutants vanished, returning to their own times.
Mysa, hand to her lips like a coquettish child, burped. And then said with a strong Brooklyn accent, "And yer out!"
Mysa collapsed into white light once more, falling back to Nua's body. Nura convulsed, and then the light once more arced, disappearing into the distance, leaving a feeble, but living Nura, Mademoiselle of Dreams.
"What just happened?" Garth asked, his arms around Imra.
"I think we... she... just saved the world," Lyle offered. The newslads and lasses, sidekicks, USO performers and resistance fighters... Legionnaires all, now... gathered round.
"Not the world," Nura whispered. "Millions more could-- will-- die," she choked. Jan and Ben hurried forward, glaring a bit at each other as they each supported an arm.
"But I think we *have* saved the future!"
From: Knoxville, TN | Registered: Jul 2003
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posted
Sorry that last installment was so late-- I got busy, I guess.
Now I can read other's contributions to this forum... and think of something to contribute to the Sun Boy gallery. It'll probably be late, too!
From: Knoxville, TN | Registered: Jul 2003
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Hyperpath: Email this page to someone!
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Maybe I'll have to move it to another thread and continue it at leisure... Or maybe I'll be lazy. ![[Wink]](wink.gif)
