Number: 46 Title: A Wind Called Vengeance Type: Original Fiction ---------- Scenes: ---------- Thursday. Rain. Lots and lots of rain. The apartment was small but well appointed. It's two occupants didn't mind the close quarters, in fact they preffered not to have much extra space around them. The layout was simple; a slim kitchen/living room area with the door on one side and the floor-to-ceiling windows on the other. At one end there was a rectangular bathroom and a nicely-sized bedroom (this prevented the occupants from having to run in front of the aforementioned floor-to-ceiling windows in their pajamas during a midnight bathroom run). The L-shaped living room area was separated from the kitchen by a large bar that doubled as a dining table when the pair actually chose not to eat in front of the television. A couch and two chairs were appointed to the living room space, the dark blue couch currently occupied by a distinctly female figure in her late twenties. Carrie Welch, bored. She wore only a pair of men's boxers and a white T-shirt that had seen better days. A book was held carefully in front of her face, the title obscured by strong, callused fingers. She was taking the volume's contents quiet seriously, her face screwed up in concentration. The phone, ringing. Three rings went by Carrie before she even let her eyes look briefly at the hated plastic contraption sitting on the kitchen counter. "I'm not getting it." From across the apartment's main room, deep inside the shower stall in the bathroom, a voice rang out. "Pick up the phone!" Carrie counted fifteen rings after that before she got up and answered the futuristic-looking telephone on the kitchen counter. "Hello?" "It's the Traveler. Can I come over?" Pause. "Uh... no." "You don't know who this is, do you?" "Actually, yes, I do." The voice from the bathroom called out again. "Who is it?" Carrie put her hand over the reciever and yelled out a reply. "That fucker who got us killed fighting God a few years back." "Oh..." Was the response. Carrie shrugged to herself. "What do you want?" "It's easier if I explain in person." Said the voice from the far end of the line. After taking a quick inventory of her clothing status (slight), Carrie sighed and answered. "Give me about five minutes." "Thank you." ---------- Two days later... "LET ME IN!!!" "James, that's not our apartment." The dimensional savior stopped his banging and yelling, and looked closely at the number of the apartment he had been abusing. "Are you sure? It says right here, number 305." Carrie leaned against the doorway of the next apartment down, smirking slightly. "I know. We moved yesterday to confuse you." A lone sweatdrop rolled down the back of James' head. "Oh." "Come in, James." He did so. ---------- In a galaxy not so far away, just a little bit into the future... James, wearing a black trenchcoat, stood before a set of immense steel doors that one usually associated with nuclear weapon containment areas. The symbol on the doors was not, however, the expected radiation warning. Instead, a seal was carved into the center of the doors. It was comprised of a circle cut into four equal pieces. Each pie section had a single line in an apparently random pattern. The traveller, reaching into his coat, pulled out a small piece of paper, mumbling to himself. "I wish they hadn't taken my computer for that... it was only one skyscraper... it's not like Seattle didn't have enough of them... ah! Here we go, access codes!" A finger extended, reaching for the ingeniously disguised control panel, drawing closer... closer... The doors opened. "Who the fuck are you?" James looked up, having just enough time to register a pair of sunglasses before he found himself embedded several feet into the wall that he had previously been standing in front of. He rolled out of the impact crater, the pain of his injuries like water off a duck's back. "Seth Grayson, I presume?" He said in a voice as smooth and suave as a used car salesman. "That would be me. James, isn't it?" "It's been a while." James said, the paper in his hand igniting and flittering away into ashes in a matter of seconds. "I need your help." The figure standing in the ridiculously large doorway didn't move. Not even an eyebrow twitched. Yet, behind the super-dark sunglasses, James had the impression of gears turning before the figure answered. "What does it involve? James shrugged, entering a praticed lecturing mode as a wind tugged at the fringes of his Coat dramatically. "A big explosion if you're not successful, a big celebration if you are. Lots of assassins either way, should you decide to accept." "I accept." "But this will be a..." James stuttered. "--did you say `I accept'?" "Yes. Is there a problem?" "Uh, no. Cash, check, or credit card?" The figure sweatdropped. "What?" "Old joke. Apparently too old to be funny any more... Well, time to get going, my boy!" ---------- "I'm not saying you shouldn't go, I'm saying that you should be careful." Sunday. Sunny and clear. "I understand, but..." "You want to." Carrie was pacing the tight confines of her apartment absently. Walking outside would have allowed prying ears to follow their conversation. Liz lay on the couch on her side, idly playing with her hair with her free hand. "It's the right thing to do." "You want to?" "Well, yeah. I mean, what do you expect. It's like asking somebody to stop a car wreck because you got a time machine or something, and what are you gonna do? Say no?" A sigh. Liz rose from the couch with a look on her face that said `I should be getting paid for this.' "Do. You. Want. To. Go?" Liz said, standing face to face with Carrie, poking the black haired girl in the chest to emphasize each word. Carrie stopped in her tracks. "Um... I'd like to g-g-go." Liz smiled, and the room seemed to get a little brighter for a moment. "Okay." "It's not that I don't care about you, but you're a big girl and this place isn't the world we used to live. Now, I--" Freeze frame. Listen to clock tick. "Okay?" Carrie asked, as if expecting a horde of ninjas armed to the teeth to jump right out of the walls at the mere utterance of the word. The smile came back. Nearby plants, plants on their deathbed throughout the apartment complex, sprang back to life with a vigour that would mystify scientists for years to come. "Yeah. My exact words." Un-freeze frame. "Okay. I can do this. I can DO THIS!" Carrie pumped a fist in the air. "You're scared out of your mind, aren't you?" "No, actually. I'm fine." "Good. Now, about your clothes..." ---------- The Traveler had to have a base of operations. Since billions of these ultra-elite agents were in action at any given (relative) instant, it only made sense that a kind of safe haven was a necessity for such a demanding job. This safe haven was known as the home of the Dimensional Task Force. The DTF Headquarters. And it defies description. Imagine a base that must keep several billion people from harm by any means, 24 hours a day, seven days a week, for all of eternity. Also, imagine that most of these people have to coexist and communicate with each other, even though they exist in different dimensions. Really, getting a two-dimensional being to talk to a fourth-dimensional being was a task to boggle even the boldest genius. So, the DTF HQ was not, by any means, your ordinary office headquarters. And again, it defies description. Since gravity is a relative concept, it's easy to pick a random semi-flat surface and call it the floor. However, the armory that James, Seth, and Carrie were standing in had a defined floor. It also had three doors, neatly labeled 1, 2, and 3. James, dressed to the nines in his black trench coat, was given a run for his money by the outfits Seth and Carrie had chosen to wear. Carrie was wearing a dark duster, that was close enough to black to be an easy call. She wore a white long-sleeved shirt underneath the coat, and a grey pair of dress slacks. Her shoes looked like Italian leather, though James could not say for sure. Seth was dressed in an out-and-out leather trench coat of simple design. What was odd was his `normal' clothes that he wore under his trench coat. All three present were practicing martial artists to some extent, but Seth actually wore a set of kung-fu "pajamas," made of black silk with a white collar and white cuffs. "Well, gentlemen..." Uncomfortable pause. Nervous cough. "Er, and ladies." Second uncomfortable pause. "People? Other?" "People is fine." Carrie said. James continued as if nothing had happened. "People, I give you door 1!" The door whooshed open in a dramatic flourish. It wasn't necessarily fancy, just a large sliding door, like an aircraft hanger. The dramatic part came from the tinny sound that emerged from a set of poorly-hidden speakers. Note dramatic atmosphere has been ruined. "I give you guns." James gestured at the interior that spread beyond door number 1. A plethora of every projectile weapon ever built in the third dimension. Railguns capable of putting a sizeable dent in the moon stacked next to a row of Uzis that seemed to extend into nowhere. Heckler & Koch MP5 submachine guns of every concievable trim lined the walls like Christmas decorations. The two guests took one look at the armory and shook their heads in synch. "I hate guns." Carrie said. "I don't want to use 'em." Half of James' salesman smile fell. "I don't know how to use them." Seth commented. The other half of James' salesman smile fell. "Okay." Door number 1 closed with no cerimony at all. "Let's try door number 2!" A repeat of what happened at door number 1 followed, right up to the point where Carrie and Seth laid eyes on the weapons inside. The woman cracked her knuckles. "Now this, I can work with." Seth hmm'd to himself. As he walked inside, he added, "This shows promise." James remained at the doorway, watching the pair wander into a dense but well-organized room full of melee-type weapons. Racks of swords in literally a million different types stretched into the distance. A full quarter-mile square was devoted to bladed implements that strapped onto the wrist. Carrie was soon balancing an unusually long katana in one hand, eyeing the finely-made blade critically. Besides being slightly longer than Carrie was tall, the blade was completely straight. A custom-made sheath lay on the gunmetal-gray floor at her feet, matching the fine wooden handle of the sword. With the sheath, it would look like a wooden staff, unusual only because of its weight. She called the Traveler over. "Is it all right if I take this one?" The Traveler thought to himself for a moment. "Depends on your disposition. This is the Sword of Heavenly Vengeance. It has a spirit of its own, delivering vengeance to un-just souls and working for the 'common good' as the user sees it. If the user is not true to his or her heart, the sword will seem to fight the user. When the goals of the user and the sword match exactly, it is possible for the blade and the user's soul to resonate, greatly magnifying its power. In this state, the user will be all but invincible, no blow delivered with this blade will be anything but fatal, and the collateral damage will be... excessive." He smiled. "It is sometimes called the `Demon Blade'." Carrie quickly sheathed the sword. "I like it." James shook his head and moved over to Seth. The shorter man was admiring an image that floated in space like a wistful dream. A twin pair of swords, enormous in girth and linked by a chain with links large enough to pull down skyscrapers. "What are those?" James returned to his mode of inner-consulting for a moment, then answered. "Built by the scientists of an ancient civilization, this is an `aether weapon.' It does not technically exist in our world, but rather in a pocket dimension linked to the user's existence. It can't be stolen or turned against you, and cannot materialize until you call for it." He blinked. "Aren't they a little big for you?" James could have sworn the man smiled when he answered, however faintly such an expression would have shown on his face. "I'm used to dancing around large things." Seth was adamant he keep the aether weapon, and Carrie was content to have the long katana at her side. Neither bothered with additional weapons, despite James' warning that they might end up facing an army carting around enough firepower to insult most nations. They did take notice of the comment he made while closing up door number 2. "What is it with you martial artists and those weird-ass weapons?" ---------- The final stop was the landing room, although it was actually used to send people off. The returning room was used to recieve people, but the recieving room was for cargo. Obviously, engineers had built the DTF HQ. Seth, Carrie, and James stood in the landing room, looking solemnly at one another. "I wish I could go with you too, but it's all your game from here on." James said, facing the other two. "I understand." Seth said. Carrie seemed lost in her own world, holding her sword next to her like a walking staff. Her face was troubled, and a frown set upon her brow like it was to become a permanent part of her. "I'm ready to go." She looked at James, locking eyes with him for a moment. "I don't like it, but I can't keep my back turned from everything." "I know." James said quietly. "You're an okay guy, Rahn. Maybe we'll meet again, after this is all over." She said, smiling ever-so-slightly. "Hey, my treat." A reassuring grin marched on to James' face. "You can tell me all about it when you get back." "Let's go." Seth said. "Right," James' face turned stern. "I'll be seeing you later, and remember, don't waste any time while you're there, you only have three days." The tattoo on his arm began to glow brightly, then everything went white. ---------- The room smelled of vomit and alchohol. It was the kind of smell that reminded you odors could bond to any surface at the molecular level if allowed to. As Seth stared the eight-by-ten foot space through his dark shades, he thought that the smell might come loose after sacrificing only a quarter of an inch of the concrete floor. "There's nothing to see here." Behind him, a woman stood in the doorway in a posture of casual disregard. Arm folded over her chest, shoulders slumped, her back arched so that her feet could fit on the far side of the door frame while she leaned against the opposite side. The close-fitting black trench coat she wore flowed around her more like a liquid than a cloth, extrodinarily flexible for something with its amount of protection. She had cast aside the customary pair of extra-dark sunglasses, her chosen excessory the pair of black fingerless gloves adorning both hands. Just inside the room, a long black staff leaned against the wall with the same casual impression as its owner. Seth was dressed in matching atire, minus the gloves, where he instead wore his sunglasses. "I disagree." "He was here a week ago." Argued Carrie without lifting a finger. "It would take an act of God for us to get lucky here. We'd better get back to the streets, back on the trail... hope it's still fresh." "Do you mind not using that word?" Seth asked quietly. It was not the kind of slight request a normal person made. The way he said it implied that a lot of people would die in a very short period of time if said request was not followed to the letter--immediately. Carrie half-shrugged in response and rolled her eyes. "Are we leaving?" "No." Seth answered, knealing on the floor. "There's something here." Carrie returned to the proper standing position wordlessly and snatched her staff from the wall. "Well, I feel like leaving. We know he's been down at that bar. It's worth checking out." Seth stood. "Okay." Carrie let the short man lead the way, watching his back as they made their way out of the basement level `apartment' and on to the street. The crowds parted almost imperceptibly before the pair as they worked their way up the busy street's sidewalk at a leisurely pace. "So, in two weeks, we've been able to establish this guy exists. He calls himself `Murphy.' And... that's it. We're supposed to be looking for a bomb, right?" "I suspect that the Traveler meant explosive in a more figurative manner." Seth stated levelly. "Well, most chunks of metal don't sprout legs and go wandering off with a mind of their own." Carrie said, omitting the single most obvious violation to this rule. "I'd rather be looking for a bomb than some guy who supposedly has the trigger. If he was smart, he wouldn't be anywhere near that thing. " Seth didn't reply. "Well, where would he be?" ---------- "Arrest me." Blue eyes met brown and the officer put his pen down with a sigh, lovingly eyeing the last doughnut in his stash. Before him stood a tall, slim gentleman in a nine-thousand dollar suit. Everything about the man was done in subdued colors--the moderate tan coloring of his suit combined with the pale blue eyes and pale white skin. He made no sudden movements. Indeed, the police officer sitting at his desk had not noticed that the man had placed his hands directly in front of the officer, ready to be cuffed. The cop put the image of a fat-saturated doughnut covered in a delicious sugary glaze out of his head and leaned back in his chair, a smile curling his lips. "Arrest you, eh?" The cop scratched his head. "Why?" The man nodded in ascent. "I suppose I should tell you why." Three minutes later: "I want this guy under full survallence! Call in the SWAT team! Clear out the whole cell block! Chief, you'll never believe who we have in Interrogation room four!" ---------- The street was like a cold hallway in Hell. Litter rode the twisting currents of violent winter wind around peoples' feet like a band of midget thieves. Two figures dressed in black