MVI Fanfiction / Vigilante Branch / Super Villain Teamups
POWERS LONG FORGOTTEN
Part 2: Threats and Omens
A Super Villains Team Up
By Colin Rankine
MIDNIGHT, in a side street in Beijing. One side of the street is taken up with tenements, crumbling apartment buildings huddled together against the wind pouring off the avenue. The other side is an anonymous government building, graffitied with various Tong symbols.
A shadowy figure stands in the shadows of a tenement, gazing up across the street at the upper windows of the government building. There is a peculiar pair of goggles strapped to his head.
~No cameras on this side,~ he thinks. ~Looks like the roof is the best way in…~
He takes a complicated-looking device, something between a crossbow and a rifle, from his cloak and points it toward the roof. POOF! A hook is propelled by compressed air into the night sky, trailing a silk cord behind it. The cloaked figure hooks the rifle to a loop on his bandolier and presses a button on its side. The cord is reeled in, pulling the figure into the air. He lands deftly with his feet against the opposite wall, and runs the rest of the way up.
At the top, the grappling hook has grasped the base of a sensor mount with robotic fingers. The sensor is immobile, and there are dozens of them placed at intervals around the rim of the roof. The shadowy figure taps a button on his goggles, and his vision shifts into the infrared. The roof is crisscrossed with motion detectors, and he can dimly see the minute discharge of pressure sensors under its tarpaper covering.
~Hmm. Not unusual, but tricky.~
He sweeps the roof visually, and sees a cluster of pigeons in one corner, their huddled forms giving off dull waves of warmth.
~Aha. First, one must make his presence less than that of the pigeons…~ and he concentrates, seeming to dim and blur against the night sky. He takes a caltrop from a pouch within his cloak and, taking careful aim, throws it overhand like a grenade. It bounces off the head of one of the dozing pigeons, which, startled awake, sets to thrashing its wings. The whole pod of pigeons is upset, and they flounder about, pinfeathers flying. By the time they've settled down, the dim outline of his cape has vanished across the roof, to the inner lip of a courtyard.
Now, he is looking down into another world. Below him, a glass roof covers a nearly tropical atrium. Landscaped hillocks, crouching trees and bamboo copses, a pagoda standing beside a winding artificial stream, which is crossed here and there by foot-bridges. It is a scene from the tropical southern borderlands.
He takes off his cloak and the strange goggles, and hangs them from a protruding nail. He is a Chinese man, bare-chested, wearing black silk breeches, a bandolier laden with pouches, and tabi socks. The grappling rifle is hung from his back. He eases himself to the glass roof and, using a suction cup and a small hand-laser, cuts a hole in it. He sets the panel aside, lets himself into the hole…
… and drops thirty feet, landing nimbly on a large boulder.
The garden is shrouded in darkness. It's warm, and smells of incense and summer blossoms. The trees sway their dry fingers in an artificial breeze, and the stream bubbles against smooth rocks. The interloper creeps off his rock, careful not to leave footprints in the gravel surrounding it. He heads for the stream, where large, smooth rocks will make it easier to leave no trace.
A cry pierces the air: EE-EEE! EE-EEE! A bird? A monkey? He rushes forward, to get in the shadow of a bamboo colony across the stream from him. From here, he can see the pagoda, around a bend in the stream, above a slight landscaped rise. A bronze bowl holds a guttering fire, sitting before an open teak cabinet; a shrine. He slides toward it along the shoulder of the stream.
Now he can see clearly into the pagoda. The shrine, and a large cushion. Beside the cushion, a low table spread with papers and a laptop computer, its cables snaking away into the darkness. There is a tea set on the floor beside the table, one small ceramic cup still steaming on the tray…
~No!~ is all he has time to think, as he leaps for the shadows. Too late! A green and silver blur strikes from above, dealing him a glancing blow across the shoulders. He rolls with it, hurling himself to the ground in a controlled spin, bouncing back to his feet facing his attacker. He feels blood, at once hot and cold, rolling from the slashes across his back. His attacker is still just a blur, circling left. He tries a kick, more to stop the attacker's maneuver than to strike him, and it works. The green blur stops, becomes a tall man in a silken dressing gown over tight silver breeches, his gleaming pate, the deep lines in his face, and his white mustache belying the limber and well-muscled physique of a karateka, a martial artist. His expression is dower, his skin of a sallow, golden, unnatural hue, and his outstretched fingers are incredibly long, malformed, tapered to cruel points. The tips of the fingers on his left hand are red with blood.
"[State thy business, intruder,]" the strange figure says, his accent arcane, his dialect anachronistic. His voice cracks with age. "[Or I shall simply kill thee where thee stand.]"
"[I have a package for you, Great One,]" the interloper says, taking a small wooden box from his belt. "[But you must sign for it.]*"
*Once again, translated from Chinese.
The ancient with the body of a young god nods, advancing.
"[It is fitting. Guard thy life.]"
"[It is an honor, my Lord,]" the interloper says, and bows. Coming up from his bow, he strikes, a flurry of attacks with fist and foot, knee and elbow. Wherever he strikes, the ancient is ready, blocking with the flat of his hand or the side of his leg. The ancient moves like angry water, twisting and swooping around the interloper's own defensive maneuvers. After mere seconds in which a double-dozen blows are exchanged, the ancient plunges his deformed fingers into his opponent's side.
"Aaaah!" the interloper cries, falling to one knee, clutching his wound. The ancient wraps his fingers in his opponent's hair and raises the other hand to strike, but the interloper rolls away, leaving a wad of his hair in the ancient's fist.
"[I have your signature now, Great One,]" he pants. He tosses the box at the ancient's feet and unslings his grappling rifle, pointing it at the ceiling. Blood runs down his back, down his side, from his scalp. He bows again, fires the grappling hook, and rises into the night.
The ancient straightens, watching the interloper vanish, and shakes his head. He wipes his bloody fingers on the hem of his robe, and takes up the box. Shaking it next to his ear, he hears only a faint rattle. Opening it, he finds a folded card, bearing a chop that he recognizes.
"[Ah, Lord Zhiang,]" he breathes, smoothing his mustache as he returns to the pagoda, where his tea awaits him. "[Still the angry exile, spinning webs in the desert. We shall see what thou hast woven now, and how best to cut thy strings.]"
ELSEWHERE, at his new base in the Gobi Desert*, The Mandarin is seated on a stone bench at the edge of a tranquil rock garden, itself perched on the lip of a wide mesa. His legs are crossed beneath his green gown, and his hands are composed in his lap. Beside the bench, there is a low table holding a smoking brazier, a blackened iron rod, and a large tortoise shell, which is scorched in several places. Before him a desert canyon stretches from horizon to horizon; a blue river winds through the bottom of it, its banks shrouded with mist and bamboo.
*See Iron Man #346 to find out what happened to his old one! -- Iron Colin
~Would that I could bring such peace to the world,~ he thinks. ~Such irresistible order. Would that I were not constantly frustrated by the clamorous rabble of the West.~
He watches a desert hawk wheeling above the canyon.
~If I could reverse-engineer the alien armor I discovered so long ago*, I could arm a legion of righteous Manchu warriors and become a true Lord again, instead of shaming myself among the worst of humanity…~
* See last issue - Revisionist Colin
Behind him, across the rock garden, is a concrete shed with a steel door. The door slides open, interrupting his contemplations and revealing a large elevator chamber, replete with couches, tapestries, and an aquarium. Ling steps out, wearing a red gown and a broad-brimmed hat against the desert sun.
She walks along a curving path toward the Mandarin. Her shadow falls across his back.
"[Meditating, my Lord?*]"
*Translated from Mandarin Chinese.
Mandarin smiles, a little bit wistfully.
"[Merely thinking. There was a time when you called me Uncle, not Lord.]"
Ling smiles, too.
"[I was a child then.]"
"[Yes... A sweet one.]" He turns away from her, producing a carafe of water and a set of cups. "[Sit. Refresh yourself.]"
She seats herself beside him, taking the carafe and a cup. Filling his cup first, then hers, she says,
"[My Lord, I wish to apologize for my impertinence yesterday. It is not my place …]"
Mandarin dismisses her apology with a gesture.
"[A woman's words are light things, Ling. If a man is not strong enough to bear them, he is not much of a man.]"
He is still watching the circling hawk, so misses her tight-lipped look of frustration.
"[You have been consulting the Oracles,]" she says, taking the scorched tortoise shell up off its table and examining it. She traces cracks upon it with her finger. "[Yi, changing: Faith is the source of my strength. Kui, changing: What is lost will return of its own accord, and the exile will serve a new master. Zhen, changing: the rebel will be thunderstruck by the righteous king. Sheng, unchanging: He rises high in the service of a great ruler. These would all seem good omens, Master.]"
"[You don't know what my questions were,]" Mandarin chuckles. "[The trouble with I Ching is that, while many things happen to 'him', it rarely tells you who 'he' is.]"
Ling's frustration persists.
"[Since you say it, master, it must be true.]"
"[You are angry with me because I have refused to take your advice and call your grandfather, the Golden Talon, and beg his assistance in restoring the Galadorian technology.]"
"[To direct my anger thus would be impossible, my Lord.]"
"[Even so, there is no reason to be angry. I have placed a call to the Golden Talon. If he is amenable, I will meet with him.]"
"[Your wisdom is without limit, Master.]"
"[Oh, stop it, Ling. You know well the reason I have warred with your grandfather, the reason you were given to me as my hostage. He is faithless to the old ways. No, do not object. Though I have used foreigners and criminals as a basis for power, I have always fought for, sacrificed for, a righteous Confucian China. Those that I have used as pawns are likewise victims of an unjust and unnatural system of government. The Golden Talon compromises with the corrupt Socialist government; therefore, he treats with the evil influence of the West. He gains his power by preying upon the people, not by leading them with righteousness. Our goals can never be reconciled, because I am just and he is corrupt. Your durance here has purchased a period of respite, but eventually, inevitably, our conflict will resume.]"
"[If you feel this way, Master, why do you seek his aid now?]"
"[I believe he will help me now, hoping to exploit me later. Rest assured, I will be well armed against him.]"
Ling rises, setting the tortoise shell carefully beside him on the bench.
"[I cannot counsel you against it, my Lord. As your subject, a member of your household, I am not permitted to lie to you. It is true that he will seek to make himself your master, and it is true that he has allied himself with elements of the Socialist Chinese government. He measures his life in centuries, Mandarin. He has seen the world change its face many times. Why should it trouble him if the people are temporarily influenced by Western political theories? A wise man does not silence a fool. But I wish you would be less guarded against him. You want the same things.]"
"[You have the luxury of wishing, girl.]"
"[And I avail myself of it. Good day, my Lord.]"
"[Good day, Ling.]"
She returns along the path toward the elevator. Above the canyon, the hawk dives suddenly, its scream echoing across the mesa.
A Shanghai nightclub filled with Chinese in formal clothes. A tall, burly blond man in fatigues and a pea coat shoulders past the DOORMEN.
"Sir," one of the doormen cries. "One requires the appropriate attire…"
But the white man is already past him. Reaching into his breast pocket, he heads straight for the bar. Three men, who were inconspicuous revelers a moment before, rush toward him, reaching for weapons of their own.
Reaching the bar, he slaps a large, folded card down in front of the BARMAN. It is an invitation, written in gold ink on fine paper.
"I have been summoned," he says darkly. As he says it, one of the tuxedoed GUARDS, gripping a cattle prod, rushes at him… and bounces off an invisible force field! The revelers gasp as the cattle prod flies through the air, but the white man doesn't even seem to notice.
The barman examines the invitation and looks the white man over, then signals to the guards to back off. He presses an intercom button by the cash register and says,
"The Russian is here."
As the barman leads the white man toward the back room, the over-eager guard picks himself up off the floor, wiping blood from his nose.
They come to a private lounge. At the door, an enormous guard in a tuxedo makes to search Nikolai, and it looks like he's asking for a fight when a voice comes from inside.
"Don't bother to search him," it says. "He needs no weapons - not the kind you could take away from him, anyway. Just show him in."
"This way, sir," says the guard, bowing.
In the richly appointed lounge, the Mandarin, wearing a western suit with the tie pulled loose, is sitting with his ankles crossed on a sumptuous couch, smoking a long calabash pipe. A man in a porter's uniform stands to one side with a towel over his arm. Mandarin extends his arm in a sweeping gesture.
"Please, Nikolai. Make yourself comfortable. Chun here will get you any refreshment you desire."
Nikolai steps forward, ducking under a low-hanging drape.
"What do you want, Mandarin? I thought we'd had done with each other the last time."
The Mandarin chuckles, shaking his head.
"Ah, Nikolai. I've been away from the West for too long. Of late, I spend all my time scrupulously observing traditional Chinese etiquette. Your shameless lack of manners is quite refreshing. Please, sit."
Vanguard sneers and balls his fist at his side.
"You called me here using a particular KGB code that, although obsolete, makes me very uncomfortable. I won't ask how you came by it, but I will ask you to state your business."
The Mandarin examines his pipe and says,
"Chun, please leave us."
The porter bows, and backs out behind a drapery.
"I believe you know how I got it, Vanguard. I was a KGB informant from 1964 to 1978. The KGB helped me secure my place in the Kuomintang. You know this because you are one of two or three people yet living who know the location of the Autonomous Intelligence Database, built in 1947 by Oleg Potinezcu, the late Gargoyle and one-time spymaster of the Soviet Super Squadron."
Vanguard is stunned for a beat, but then it is his turn to laugh.
"Mandarin, are you listening to faerie stories now? The A.I.D. is what super villains and anti-Stalinist dissidents used to scare their children with. 'Don't reveal daddy's secret identity to anyone, or the Gargoyle's Aide will take us all away to Siberia.' Of course, I don't know what they told their children in Siberia."
Vanguard crosses the room as he speaks, until he is towering over the Mandarin. His pea coat falls open, revealing a red spandex shirt, with the edge of a yellow logo peeking out.
"There was a proposal before him," Vanguard continues, his expression darkening. "But poor Oleg died before he ever really considered it. You brought all the way me here for nothing."
Mandarin gives him a deadpan stare. One of his rings glows dully.
"Vanguard, I convened our little tête-à-tête here in Shanghai for your convenience. You see, the diesel fuel you purchased this morning, you purchased from my black market."
Vanguard is shocked; his force fields flare up about him. Mandarin lifts a calming hand… a hand dripping with rings…
"Relax, Nikolai. When I heard about your new nautical base, I knew you would need fuel, and you couldn't buy it through traditional venues for fear of alerting the Crimson Dynamo and his Remont-4. I know that you are a hands-on type of man, who would not relegate the more dangerous administrative tasks of your fledgling resistance movement to underlings, not while there was nothing better for you to do. I wanted to talk to you, so I cornered the market. Besides, the episode in the Attila's Arm served as an object lesson to the man you know as the Mongol. He is a promising racketeer, but entirely too wild and ambitious. He does not know, yet, who he works for, but soon it will be time for him to learn it and he must be properly humbled."
"So you see," Mandarin continues, now staring intently at the Russian hero. "For all the shields you throw up, I can still reach you. That is an important thing for you to understand. Now, listen to me…"
"You Soviet Supers never made much of a show against the Western dogs, but I have seen first hand the terror you inspired in the Soviet-dominated Eastern world. It was rumored that Khrushchev employed an army of telepaths, and that no secret was safe behind the Iron Curtain. Through my contact with the KGB, and independent observation, I came to believe that Khrushchev was simply very well informed. I too had heard of Gargoyle's Aide, a computer designed to gather, collate, and interpret intelligence data independently and autonomously of any one agency. In the old days, Vanguard, the Aide's powers seemed limited to the Eastern Bloc, but since the fall of the politburo and the rise of the Internet, it seems likely to have expanded its capabilities around the globe… possibly beyond."
"Have I assessed the situation correctly?" Mandarin pauses a beat. "Don't bother to answer - you couldn't anyway." He lifts his hand again - his mind control ring is humming.
"In the corrupt and paranoid hierarchy of the Stalinist state, a universal informant like the Aide would be jealously guarded. The Gargoyle, like the rest of your Squadron, acted autonomously, but the highest levels of Soviet leadership must've been aware of the Aide. Men who are all dead, now, as is the Gargoyle himself. I deduce that there were only three men alive who knew of its location: yourself, Ursa Major, and the Crimson Dynamo. Since the Dynamo has not managed to capture you, you must have moved the Aide from its original location. Tell me, Vanguard, how is it that the most extensive store of sensitive intelligence in the world lies in the hands of a two-bit resistance movement in the hinterlands of Russian power? Doesn't that seem odd to you? Ah, you may speak."
The ring shuts off.
"We made it look like Yeltsin's loyalists had destroyed it," Vanguard hisses, sheepishly rubbing his neck. He's outraged but cowed by Mandarin's power. "We have been keeping it quiet; for years, it has been our most terrifying secret. We wouldn't be able to protect such a valuable instrument… It was you who betrayed me to the Crimson Dynamo."
"Well, yes. I had information that his entire team would be unavailable; he would have to come alone, and I was confidant that you could escape him. If you couldn't, you weren't much used to me anyway. As I indicated, there were a number of reasons to arrange things thus, not all of them revolving around you."
The Mandarin uncrosses his legs, sits forward with his hands clasped between his knees. His expression is almost friendly.
"You are in a tremendously insecure position," he continues. "I've known about your secret for years, and I'm don't even have a telepath or super-level genius at my disposal. Vanguard, I will exert my influence over the Chinese and Japanese intelligence community, as well as my underworld apparatus, to protect your secret and your resistance… if you will tell me everything the Aide knows about the man called the Yellow Claw. If you don't…"
The Mandarin tosses a Russian newspaper on the coffee table. On the cover is a publicity photo for Remont-4.
"Remont-4 has a public hotline, you know."
WEEKS LATER, a yellow streak moves across the cloudless desert sky, above multi-layered canyons and mountain ranges blurring to grey and gold. At the heart of the streak is Vanguard, seated in a nest of semi-visible energy shields. He has formed a bullet-shaped compartment to protect him from the building air-pressure, but still his jaw is clenched in strain and concentration. On either side of the energy-compartment are what look like two horizontal tornadoes, trapped in energy fields of their own.
~My control of moving energy-forms increases,~ he thinks. ~A year ago I could not have maintained so many moving parts at once. Composing the jet turbines at all would have been impossible. Still, it requires all my concentration to fly at such speeds. Telepathic therapy was required to help me recover from my brainwashing at the hands of the Red Ghost,* and that therapy seems to have swept the cobwebs from a part of my mind I have never really used before. Still, it takes a great deal of concentration."
* See Crusaders: Shadows #16 - 18. - Dr. Colin
Far ahead of him, merely a speck above the horizon, is the black military helicopter he is following.
~Ah… the Golden Talon's helicopter is banking. We must be approaching his destination.~
The Vanguard's invisible jet banks as well, heading toward a ridge of hills to the north of the wide mesa that is the apparent destination of the military helicopter.
On the mesa, several trucks and vans are clustered around a large pavilion tent. The Mandarin stands before the tent, his robes and turban blowing in the wind. Around him, technicians and guards scurry around. One of the guards listens to a crackling radio, and says,
"[They arrive, my Master. From the northern quarter.]"
Mandarin nods, turning his attention to the horizon. Presently, a large helicopter approaches and lands nearby. More guards appear out of the helicopter, standing at attention while an OLD MAN is helped to the ground.
Ling rushes out of the pavilion toward the old man. The guards react, but the old man waves them aside. He is bald, with a white beard and a dark suit, but his body doesn't match his wizened face. It is tall and broad-shouldered under its conservative Western attire. Ling runs to him, and throws her arms around him.
"[Ah, my granddaughter,]" he murmurs. "[The sun is the jewel of the air; the jewel of the household is the child. I hope that old tiger is treating you well.]"
"[He does, grandfather. He is honorable, in his way.]"
The Golden Talon nods.
"[Yes, this I know. Come, let's not keep him waiting.]"
They approach the pavilion, the Golden Talon holding Ling's arm, the other old man supported by one of Talon's guards. In a long shot from the distant hills, we see Vanguard watching through powerful binoculars.
In the pavilion, Mandarin and the Yellow Claw sit across from each other, a low bench between them holding a tea set. Ling kneels to the side, serving them. The Golden Talon's guards and Mandarin's guards are arrayed around the pavilion, glaring at each other.
"You know that I dislike calling you Mandarin," the Golden Talon says, his voice reflecting his bizarre combination of decrepitude and youthful vigor. "I was once called by that title; we all were."
"Of course," the Mandarin smiles formally. "I implore you call me Lord Zhiang, as you did before."
"You have explained to me the nature of your problem over the video link. Peculiar modern device. I shall do my utmost, Lord Zhiang, but I am an old man. I have no great genius with contemporary powers."
"No, my lord, it is not for this that I beg your aid and advice. Indeed, if my problem were technical, I doubt anyone could help me. The articles I possess are of a technology far advanced of anything the science of our earth could produce, but I am educated in the use of advanced, alien technology. I have determined that that which hinders me is mystical in nature. The technology uses the most advanced science in conjunction with the most exquisite magiks. It is in this regard that I beg you to act."
The Golden Talon takes up his cup in his elongated, deformed fingers, and ponders it.
"You have told me this, too." He strokes his long white beard. "There has been blessed peace between us in recent years. I assume that this peace will continue, unabated.
"Yes, my lord. It is my fervent dream to restore the Celestial Kingdom to her former glory. We should not bow to Western power, to Western thought. We are the Great Race, the most highly evolved of all the people of the earth. We should rule ourselves, and the world. It is toward this end that I require the armor."
"We should rule ourselves - I agree. As for the world, it should only be ruled to the extent that it is unable to trouble us. But one foot cannot stand on two boats, is it not said?"
Mandarin smiles.
"You are as proverbial as your granddaughter. 'When the cooks fight, the roast burns,' she told me."
"Indeed. It is quite a roast we are cooking today. Lord Zhiang, I do not want to arm my enemy against me. How will you assure me that we will not quarrel?"
"Golden Master, that which is righteous does not quarrel with that which is also righteous. Only evil is the enemy of righteousness."
"You are always so shockingly blunt. Western manners, the etiquette of dogs. It seems they are everywhere today, penetrating even this Great Desert of our ancestors." He sets his empty cup on the table between them. Ling moves to refill it, but he makes the subtlest gesture with one long finger and she stops. "I fear the Middle Kingdom will be overrun by dogs before long."
"And you do not see the part you played in this?"
"No, Lord Zhiang, I played no part in it. I declined to place myself at odds with the People's Republic, for they have tanks and missiles at their disposal, and resistance would be pointless and destructive. You would have been destroyed long ago, had your alien technology not kept this base, as well as your valley home, hidden from their spy planes. Nor have I exerted myself greatly on their behalf. Mostly, I have failed to do them small favors. In return I keep a castle in Beijing, near the heart of their command apparatus, and a state-funded private army."
The Golden Talon nods to Ling, who refills his teacup. He takes it with his long fingers and blows across the top of it before continuing.
"When we struck our accord, it was agreed that you would remove your foreign powers from Mainland China. To assure you that I would not attack you unguarded, I rendered unto you my only surviving descendant. Now, you are on the verge of arming yourself again. Incredibly, you want my help to do it."
Mandarin grins like a wolf.
"Indeed, Great One, and you shall because…" He snaps his fingers, and Chun enters the pavilion, carrying a red cushion in both hands. On the cushion is a laptop computer, its screen giving of a dull blue glow. "You must."
Chun sets the cushion before the Golden Talon and backs away, bowing. The Golden Talon scowls deeply and leans forward to study the laptop's monitor. He brushes the Teflon mouse pad with a sharpened fingertip, clicking from file to file.
"I see," is his only comment.
"Yes, O Golden Talon. Documentation of your influence in Beijing. Every officer, delegate, minister, and politician you control. I have more than enough assassins to rid you of all of them. Every anonymous and pseudonymous bank account. Even now, a full account awaits my signal to be transmitted by courier to any number of undesirables; the International Hackers Alliance, Interpol's Forensic Accounting Division, a Singapore law firm with whom you have been recently entangled. Several others, against whom I will not warn you. I could, by nightfall, cripple your influences in the People's Republic, as you once crippled mine."
The Golden Talon does not appear to react, though his very stillness is a reaction in itself. At length, he draws in a deep breath through his nose and lets it out. When he speaks, his voice is cold, hard, and low as a crypt cover.
"I commend you: you have bided your time and, when you struck, struck absolutely. It would seem that your victory over me is complete."
At his back, Ling conceals a little smile.
WEEKS LATER, in a strange underground laboratory. Lit by smoking fires in stainless steel braziers, the walls are smooth naked stone. They have been carved wholesale from the earth, and are draped with fulgent cloth and smeared with blood, the blood tracing arcane sigils. Countering this Stygian atmosphere is a series of neatly arranged worktables, holding all manner of scientific apparati. Scattered about the tables are the pieces of a Space Knight's armor; the spiked red armor of Firefall. A large computer cabinet stands at one end, humming steadily to itself.
There is a fire pit at the far end of the room, coals smoldering redly. Crouched over this pit is a tiny, decrepit Chinese man. His grey beard is greasy and singed, his face pocked by old diseases, his shoulders hunched under his sooty tweed jacket.
"Yesssss…" he hisses in English. "Ever deep and ever black/wash the bright with ruin and rack/silver and gold, golden and gore/glimmering, burning, Galador…"
Insane cackling rings about the chamber. Standing near the door, as far from the old man as possible, the Mandarin flinches.
"Fast work, Great One."
Standing beside him, the Golden Talon smiles without mirth.
"Lord Zhiang, I have influence that even you cannot threaten. I was able to find this one, the last survivor of his race, the Dire Wraith called The Wyggand, using agents from the Underworld."
The Mandarin makes a sound of disgust.
"It is mad."
"Nevertheless. He is the only one on this earth familiar enough with its native magiks to restore the Galadorian armor. I pray you remember how it was you came by him."
It is Mandarin's turn to smile.
"O Golden Talon," he murmurs, using the Yellow Claw's true title. "At long last I have a weapon against which you are powerless. I will remember that you helped me when you had no choice, and also how you treated me when you did."
The Golden Talon nods as he turns away. The Wyggand throws its arms in the air - they are too long for such a tiny man, and thicken as they proceed from shoulder to wrist. Its skin is warty and loose and its tongue, a red greasy tube, thrashes the smoky air as it screams again.
"I had figured as much. If you are through with me, I will retire."
"Stay within the residential area, my Lord," the Mandarin calls after him. "This is a dangerous place!"
The door closes behind the Golden Claw with an automatic shwoosh.
A sudden as a striking snake, the Wyggand lashes out across the room - its arm stretches to cover the three yards between the fire pit and the scrap of machinery it seeks; a green metal drum the size of an apple, with a silver casing. The Wyggand lifts the device above the smoldering fire and chants, beginning to pulse with grey light, caressing the drum with its tongue.
The Mandarin shudders.
End, pt 2
TO BE CONTINUED NEXT ISSUE....
Will the Mandarin succeed in reactivating the defunct Firefall armor? Will the Golden Talon accept his defeat? Find out in the conclusion to
POWERS LONG FORGOTTEN Part III: The Ghost of the Machine coming next issue!
What did you think? The author would love to hear from you.
crankine@bintinc.com
