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Boom-Boom Blues.; EN fanfic. Updated 4/26.
Topic Started: Apr 15 2005, 10:58 PM (815 Views)
The Virus
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Keepin it odd like a motherfucking gastropod
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Rust,Apr 17 2005
03:35 PM
Tee hee.  I've actually got reasons for that sucker popping up.  All in good time. =P

My apologies then. It only seemed gratuitous. But if you are indeed weaving a deeper context, then excellent ^^

Nice chapter. Changed gears again - you've done funny, you've done action, this is atmospheric Grim Darkness. The final sentence was most intriguing.

Yeah, sorry about the site... Some of that stuff was out of date and potentially misleading though, so it's probably for the best. I'll send you a PM.
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Rust
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Chapter 8: Another Go

“Mr. Schaefer, sir? Zuviel’s team is ready.”

“Right,” he grunted, sitting back in his chair. Simmons watched passively.

“Would you like me to take my leave, sir?”

“No, no. I’d like your help with the debriefing.”

“Very well, sir.”

Schaefer closed his eyes and breathed deep; the events of last week had still left his mind reeling. Zuviel’s warband had blazed into their headquarters with a mission-failed declaration and two members that needed a trip to the infirmary posthaste. The commander had been hoping for Gaebles to eliminate the four, but hadn’t actually thought that something this disastrous would happen.

Hex’s injuries were relatively minor; the echidna had suffered a sprained jaw and a cracked rib. He had actually regained consciousness in time to pilot his own vehicle back to the base, but Rogue was in considerably worse shape. He had a serious concussion as well as severe blood loss from flying shrapnel, and it had taken him a week in intensive care before he was back on his feet. In the meantime, Schaefer had been forced to detain the other three in the base, leading to a series of colossal mishaps.

Zuviel had insisted on having that murderous daemonic Chao escorted in, for one. The technopriests had managed to develop a way to contain it two days later, but before that happened Inquisitor injury and casualty counts had shot up quite far. Eastwood, meanwhile, had crushed their budget by consuming approximately two hundred gallons of coffee and various other caffeinated beverages. Not only was it a drain on Schaefer’s wallet, but it made the other Inquisitors very irritable without their own caffeine fix. Hex had simply continued on his typical stints of belligerent mayhem.

The door to his office opened and the four walked in, Rogue still looking rather under the weather. The cat was going to be suffering from persistent headaches for a while.

They took seats in front of the commander’s desk, Eastwood with a mug in one hand, Virus with Blasphemy snoring on his head.

“I suppose,” Schaefer said slowly, “that I should reprimand you for letting Gaebles escape. But I’m not so blind as to see that you haven’t paid the price for your failure in spades already.”

Lothar snorted. “If that daemon hadn’t come along then I’d have gotten to him again anyway.”

“That actually is a very likely situation,” Simmons said coolly, “but what’s done is done. Now our only focus is to intercept the target before he inevitably leaves Mobotropolis.”

“Virus,” Schaefer said clearly. “Did Gaebles drop any names at any point during your chase with him?”

The rat narrowed his eyes. “I think so…but it was just one time. Give me a-”

“He mentioned somebody named Joey,” Rogue said dryly. “Ad verbatim.”

“That confirms our suspicions, then,” Simmons said. “Sir?”

“Yes, of course.” Schaefer activated a small holo set on his desk, which promptly displayed a mug shot of a graying, watery-eyed badger. He had a look in his eyes that suggested the typical weariness of the elderly combined with a get-off-my-lawn fire.

“His name is Joseph Atrius Monohan, age 68,” Simmons said. “This shot of him was taken three years ago, when he went up for a receiving-stolen-property case – a case that he beat, as a matter of fact. We had to do a little rummaging in Mobotropolis’ police database to root it out, of course.”

“He’s probably one of the most eminent black marketers in all of Mobius,” Schaefer said. “He mainly deals in weapons, but it’s been told that he also sells illicit vehicles, drugs, false papers…basically every manner of illegal goods you can think of. There was a call intercepted by Gaebles to the junk shop he owns on the outskirts of Mobotropolis. We suspect that Monohan might be a key player in this case, one who’s privy to a great deal of Gaebles’ secrets.”

“Your mission is simple,” Simmons cut in. “Get to Monohan’s shop and question him about Gaebles. That’s all.”

Lothar snorted. “With the luck we have he’ll probably greet us with a railgun or something like that.”

“He’s an old man, Lothar,” Eastwood said, slurping his coffee. “Looks like a strong breeze would knock him over.”

“You wanna make a bet?” the echidna shot back.

“Why not?” The fox grinned. “I could always use some more credits for my java fund. Two hundred.”

“Focus,” Schaefer growled. “This is the last lead we have towards finding the Yss’garoth, and even now we’re grossly overstepping our jurisdiction. Monohan is the business of the police force, not us. Any screwups are going to lead to a series of highly embarrassing situations in the eyes of what few superiors we have.”

“And accidentally shooting the target in the head,” Simmons said, staring directly at Lothar, “would most likely be considered a quote-unquote screwup.”

“Fine,” he said, and smirked. “I’ll be good.”

“Zuviel, you leave that…thing…here,” Schaefer said, looking at Blasphemy. “We’ll detain it until you return, then send you all home.”

“Sounds fine to me,” Virus replied.

“Glad to see we’re seeing eye-to-eye,” the commander said flatly. “You’re dismissed.”

* * * * *

Three hours later, they were standing outside of Monohan’s junkyard, cordoned off by barbed-wire fence that seemed to go on for miles. Eastwood craned up his head and felt his knees go weak.

“Gruss have mercy,” he wheezed.

“He’d better,” Virus muttered back. “I can only imagine what kinds of fun Fernex could have with a place like this.”

Calling the area behind Monohan’s small squat shanty of a shop a ‘junkyard’ would not do it justice. The place was a Shangri-La of shattered toasters, the absolute epitome of every scrapped piece of machinery under the sun. Metal winked dully in the cloudy light of late afternoon, and piles of scrap stretched up to geometrically impossible heights. The machines composing the piles were so multifarious that the word ‘junk’ was their only possible title, and though the ground beyond the fence was nothing more than barren hardpan, the word ‘yard’ had to do.

“I wonder how long this guy’s been in business?” Rogue wondered aloud.

“Though I know how much you buggers love staring at shiny things,” Lothar said flatly, “I’d like to get this over with quickly, if you don’t mind.”

“Yeah, sure,” Virus said, still goggling at the Escher-esque mounds of metal. They walked over the front door and the rat rapped on it sharply.

A small peephole was pulled open near the top of the door and two watery blue eyes stared out. Virus drew his rosette.

“Mobian Inquisition, sir,” he said, trying to sound friendly. “If it’s not too much trouble, we’d like to-”

Monohan gave a little scream and slammed the peephole shut. There was the sound of a series of heavy locks being closed.

“Oh, bugger this,” Lothar spat, and blew the door open wide.

The inside of the shop was cramped, dusty, and dimly lit. More spare parts were scattered in every corner; the only clear spot seemed to be the counter, upon which there was a cash register, two chairs, and a pot of bubbling coffee. The badger must have put it on mere minutes before his unexpected guests.

There was a door in the back leading out into the junkyard. It was open.

“Let’s go, everyone,” Virus said grimly. “Weapons at the ready, just in case.”

They ran out.

Moments later Rogue poked his head back in. “Eastwood, ‘everyone’ includes you.”

“Just a second,” the fox said as he polished off his mug. “Ahh, that hits the spot.”

* * * * *

The junkyard looked even more dazzling from up close. As they followed the sound of Monohan’s wheezing respiration and rattling metal, they could see scrapped cars, rusted-out tank turrets…even an ancient roboticizer buried in the rubble.

Finally they turned past a small pile of engine parts and saw the badger digging frantically through the base of one of the junk mountains. Virus leveled his Glock at his back.

“We have no intention of hurting you, Mr. Monohan,” he called. “All we want are some answers.”

“Answers, huh?” the badger said in his dry, wheezing voice. “Ha. Sure. Nothing but answers is all you people ever want.”

With a tremendous heave he yanked something that was the size of a bazooka out of the pile of rubble. Sharp teeth grit from the strain, Monohan propped it up on his shoulder and took aim.

Lothar turned to Eastwood. “If we live through this,” he said calmly, “then you, my friend, are going home poor.”

“Here’s your answers, you Inquisition bastards,” he snickered, and pulled the railgun’s trigger.
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Lothar Hex
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A damn good Chapter. Thing is, you are really over doing the East loves coffee thing.
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Jeffk38uk
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You got to admit though, he does love his coffee.
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Rust
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I can't help but play that quirk at every possible opportunity. Though that's probably going to be the last time I make anything more out of it. =P
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Chapter 9: Junkyard Jam

Virus didn’t even need to give the command to scatter; when one is peering down the barrel of a railgun one moves quickly if one isn’t interested in how chunky kibbles must feel. The round discharged soundlessly, but all four still felt the wind of its lethal passing.

A millisecond later one of the junk piles seemed to cave in on itself and then exploded outwards, sending a kaleidoscopic shower of metal shards into the air. Monohan, incapable of reloading the gun on his own, threw it aside and went scrambling up the pile behind him.

Lothar, teeth bared in a spitless grin, was already readying his cannon. “Don’t!” Virus warned. “If you’re going to shoot, then don’t do it to kill!”

The badger, meanwhile, was scurrying his gaunt self up the hill with great success…almost too much success, as a matter of fact. Through the recurring pain in his head Rogue couldn’t help but think that these piles had to be extremely unstable; how could that old guy get up that high without breaking his neck?

Then it clicked, like those optical illusions with the two-toned cubes. Rogue just blinked and the junkyard’s insidious design was right in front of him in black and white.

The arrangement of scrap wasn’t random. There were places on the mounds of metal that were more tightly packed than others, the layers of broken machinery expertly arranged to form…what? Staircases. Walkways. All but impossible to fully exploit…unless you happened to be the guy who owned the place, at least.

And Gruss knew what other toys Monohan might have hidden away in those camouflaged fortresses.

“Guys,” he said, surprised at how calm he sounded, “I think we have a serious problem on our hands here.”

Ignoring Eastwood’s quizzical look, he got to his feet and chased after Monohan, making sure to take the same route that the old man had. The gap between them was closed quickly, but Rogue didn’t take out his beam sword. One sharp rap to the back of the geezer’s head and he’d probably go down like a ton of bricks.

Monohan stopped running, wrenched another gun out of the mass, and spun around sharply.

Rogue yelped and came to a screeching halt. Hellblaster!?

By the time that the old man’s fingers had carefully clicked off the safety and leveled the gun, the Daemon Hunter was already at ground level again. However, that didn’t stop the laser rounds from kicking up dirt all around his feet. He dove into cover along with the other three.

“I’d say that went well,” Lothar smirked.

“Cram it,” Rogue muttered irritably. “This hasn’t been a good week for me.”

“It looks like Schaefer wasn’t exaggerating when he said this guy was a serious arms dealer,” Virus said anxiously. “Every second we hide and wait is another second he gets the chance to dig up something really nasty.”

“Like…oh, I don’t know,” the echidna replied conversationally, his bionic eye whirring. “A Kaminari User-Guided Bolt Launcher, maybe?”

“Yeah, I guess. Why do you…” the rat’s eyes widened. “Ah.”

“Permission to run for our lives?” Eastwood said, raising his hand.

“Yes. Permission granted.”

They went flying away from their current position just as the missile slammed into said position. There was another rocking explosion, followed by more falling junk.

“I’ve had it up to here with that senile old bugger,” Lothar snarled. Drawing down his hat to block the sun, he fired off three quick shots from his cannon arm. Monohan’s dim figure went running again as the plasma turned chunks of his hideout into slag, but not one made contact.

“Keep up the pressure!” Virus yelled, drawing his Glock. “We can’t give him another chance to take aim!”

They all ran to the badger’s former location, being sure to keep their heads low and swerving just in case he had another shot left in the Kaminari. However, the old man seemed to have vanished entirely from the makeshift walkway of his junk pile.

“Where did he-” Rogue started, then saw the two small spheres falling from above. They hit the dirt…and then began to spin rapidly.

“Ravagers!” Eastwood cried. “Take cover or we’ll all be pulped!”

“No time,” Virus murmured, and took aim. “Lothar, give me a hand here.”

“Gladly,” he grinned, and both blasted the grenades into scrap before their lethal wires could slice all of them into ribbons. They hadn’t stopped for a second, though, before four more grenades came raining down from the badger’s latest hiding place. The furthest one promptly exploded into a flash of energy followed by a wave of boiling heat. Plasma grenades.

There wasn’t any way to gun them down this time; all four were forced into retreat again. Lothar was enraged, as usual, but couldn’t help but be impressed at the arsenal the guy had accumulated. With weapons this hot it was no wonder he was so afraid of Inquisitors knocking at his door.

“Look,” Virus gasped – the heat from the plasma explosions was almost unbearable even at this range. “It’s pretty clear he’s not going to run out of gear anytime soon. We need to shoot the junk out from underneath him; if he’s on the ground he’s as good as ours.”

“I can do that,” Eastwood said, checking his Magnum's load.

“Then move. And watch out for any more surprises.”

Me and my big mouth. Yes, Mr. Zuviel, I’d love to get mowed down by a guy more than twice my age! Damned senior citizens…what good you do for Harry?

“Fine,” he sighed, and went in. There was the slightest glimpse of Monohan, more than twenty feet up. He stopped and shot off all six rounds at once.

There was a small avalanche of junk, carrying a shrieking badger down with it. Both junk and badger hit the ground hard, rolling; Monohan didn’t take long to start running like mad towards another pile. He dove into it like a gopher (those neurotic little bastards) into its hole.

Eastwood waved the others over and they followed, weapons at the ready.

That was when Monohan surfaced again.

Behind the controls of a good-sized military issue plasma turret.

“This has to be the most embarrassing mission ever,” Eastwood whimpered. “I’m going to run and scream now.”

He did. The others, eyes wide, followed as Monohan slammed his thumb down on the turret’s trigger. A rain of white-hot plasma energy battered the ground and garbage, the heat from his cooking their feet inside their shoes (minus Lothar’s, of course – he just inwardly snickered at the others’ misfortune).

Rogue’s foot unfortunately caught on a junked blender and he went sprawling as the turret’s trail advanced on him.

“No!” Virus yelled, trying to go back. Lothar caught him.

“He’s done,” the echidna snarled. “Bastard’s been a pain in the neck lately anyway.” He dragged Virus, kicking, back to Monohan’s shop.

Rogue squeezed his eyes shut as the others fled…then opened them again and blinked as the turret wound down.

“Hey!” Monohan called out. He peered at the downed cat. “What’s your name, huh?”

Rogue heaved himself back up and stared hard at the old man. “Why do you want to know?”

“Just answer it, kid. You that Daemon Hunter that Charlie squeezed? Nekittou?”

At the mention of that unpleasant incident, Rogue’s head gave another hard beat of pain. He winced and gingerly touched his temple.

“Guess so,” Monohan muttered, and hopped out of the turret. “Damn, sonny, if you had just come alone we could’ve avoided all that unpleasantness. Instead you show up with two of them Inquisition spooks. And Lothar Hex, of all people. That bastard Charlie didn’t tell me jack about any of them. Hell, there are still some nights when I can convince myself that echidna’s just a myth. Not happening anymore.”

Still a little put off by the suddenness of Monohan’s rambling peace offer, the Daemon Hunter could only gape.

“Still confused, huh?” the badger asked dryly. “That’s fine. Charlie told me to answer any questions you might have if you swung by, cat. Clear your buddies out of my shop and we’ll talk. Over coffee, if you’d like; you prob’ly noticed it when you blew down my door.”

“Hold on,” he said, shaking his head. “Why me?”

“Why not?” Monohan shot back. Then he smiled. “C’mon, Nekittou. The day’s short and we’re gettin’ colder nights.”
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Lothar Hex
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Heh, thats pretty much how Lothar, a (literally) born soldier, would react to a collegue being killed. If a squadmate dies, you continue on, live now, grieve later.
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Rust
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Good to hear I didn't fudge his design again, then.
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Rust
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Chapter 10: Monohan Says His Piece

“You must be one helluva tough guy, you know that?” Monohan muttered as he and Rogue walked into his shop. “Charlie’s always lugging those bombs around day and night, and when he’s not he’s busy making more. Guy’s prob’ly about as fit as a man can be without bein’ like that nickel-plated nut outside. That head-squeeze is what he always does to the saps that get close enough. Knocks ‘em out easy, but he doesn’t kill ‘em for the most part. But you managed to stay on your feet. Must’ve earned his respect for that, cat.”

The other three had been more than a little skeptical when Rogue relayed Monohan’s message, but the particle gun that the badge had in his hand was enough to persuade them out easily enough. He walked over and ripped a good-size piece of wood from one of the piles of litter in the corner and fit it into the frame where the front door used to be, blocking off most of the draft.

Rogue had already taken a seat on the customer’s side of the counter when Monohan picked up the coffeepot. He stared at it. “Someone helped himself,” he said incredulously. “Son of a bitch.”

He poured. “Prob’ly a dumb question, but do you take cream?”

“Yeah, thanks.”

He set the mugs down and both drank before Monohan spoke again.

“So,” he sighed, “what do you wanna know?”

“Gaebles,” Rogue said. “Everything you know about him.”

The badger shook his head and said:

“I don’t care what you’ve heard about him; Charlie’s a decent guy. We’ve been friends ever since he got started, back a decade or so. Coupla guys working for one of my rivals decides to stop by to take a look at my shop. Tries to convince me I’d find the climate nicer in Downunda. I drove ‘em off, same way I did with you, and they said they’d be back soon with a less friendly crowd. The next day, Charlie – I sold him a coupla frags last week, you see – fires off an evac notice to their own base. The day after…wham! Bam!” He slammed a fist on the counter for emphasis. “Ashes to ashes. Too bad none of those guys took his warning seriously.”

“Does he always give evacuation notices to his targets beforehand?” Rogue asked, running a finger up and down the handle of his mug.

“Oh, ayuh. Charlie’s a weird guy, I’ll tell you that much. I like him because he doesn’t try to hide behind any sorta ideals or good intentions or any of that happy crappy, but he’s weird. Spends almost all of his time in that warehouse livin’ off of contraband supplies I ship to him. We rely on each other. He gives me protection from any unfriendlies and I give him everything else.”

Rogue was a little taken aback by how well the guy talked. His rattling, wheezing voice seemed to stretch on until the end of time. “Look, what we really want to know is if you got any more calls from him in the last week. Did he?”

Monohan thought for a second. “Ayuh. One.”

“What did he say?”

“Said that he collected his payment from his clients, if I remember correctly. It was damned hard to hear with all that noise in the background.”

Rogue raised an eyebrow. “Noise…?”

“Rock music, sounded like. Surprised that the poor guy could hear anything with it turned up that loud.”

The cat snapped his fingers. Paydirt. “I know where he was calling from, then. Only one place it could be.” And it was a bad thing as well as a good thing. If he had collected his pay then it meant he had skipped town. Bye-bye, Charlie.

The badger took another sip of his drink. “Where would that be, sonny?”

“The Yss’garoth base,” he said grimly. “It’s a Soulthirster cult. Your buddy’s latest clients.”

“That so?” he said nonchalantly, smacking his lips. “Good for him, then.”

“Good for…” Rogue shook his head. “Doesn’t something like that, I don’t know, make you think he might not be such a good guy?”

Monohan looked at him sharply. Very sharply. It made the Daemon Hunter uncomfortable.

“Tell me, boy,” he said softly. “Do you want to know why Inquisitors are so hated in this town?”

Rogue shrugged.

“This is a hurtin’ city, sonny. It was hurtin’ even before the plague of 3021, but now it’s nothing more than a collection of suffering folks drawn together by self-interest. Nobody here gives a damn about good intentions in this town, cat, and they’re all sick of the world and of livin’. They’re tired of self-righteous idiots who say they’re going to help out Mobotropolis when the only ones they help are themselves. And here we’ve got the Inquisitors. Bunch of daemon-hunting nincompoops who don’t just say they’re the good guys, hell no. They go under holy intentions. And the hypocrisy of that just makes us so mad we can spit.

The Daemon Hunter didn’t say anything, but averted his eyes.

“Everything but hope’s for sale in this town,” Monohan continued tiredly. Then he looked up with a gleam in his eyes. “Hell, during the plague every kind of contraband medication must’ve been at a premium. When the Melchiah mania swept Mobotropolis a man could get rich openin’ a souvenir shop for charms to the Plaguelord. What you call sufferin’, we call business. That doesn’t change that fact that people are still hurting, but it’s not like I can much care as long as I turn a buck.”

“That’s a pretty damned materialistic way to live.”

Monohan leaned back and grabbed his coffee mug. He stared into it like the secrets of life, the universe and everything might be waiting in its reflection, reflected in the exhaustion-ridden snaps of red in his eyes.

“No, boy,” he whispered. “The whole world runs just like this city does. Don’t you see that?”

“No. I don’t.”

“That’s because you’re young and you can afford to keep stupid ideas like that,” he answered in the same soft, implacable tone. “Young enough to think that there’s still such a thing as right and wrong. But there ain’t. Whether you’re sellin’ to a king or a peasant, an Inquisitor or a Soulthirster, they shell out the money and it goes into your pocket, and that’s all that matters. The world’s just a bunch of wheels that spin one way or the other, and if a bunch of wheels spin the same way they help turn each other, and if they don’t then the renegades get spat out and find others. There’s no walls for a man to lean on in these days, no ground for him to make a stand; there’s just sellin’ the product, all day, all night, swing shift, tomorrow and the day after and the day after, and someone’s going to buy eventually. Someone always does. Charlie thinks he knows that, but he doesn’t. He hasn’t settled into the job yet. Hasn’t gotten this stinking world to grind him down.”

His expression was starting to resemble one of trapped damnation.

“But he will. Same as you.”

Rogue stood up abruptly, making the chair legs screech across the floor. “Look, I have to go.” He did, too. He couldn’t stay another minute in this dusty old shop, listening to Monohan patiently explaining the utter futility of all systems everywhere in tones of utter conviction.

The back door opened and slammed shut. Rogue was gone.

“The right thing,” Monohan said to himself, not looking up from his mug.

“Man, you kids. That’s all you kids know.”
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RedFox742
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Lothar Hex,Apr 18 2005
09:04 PM
Heh, thats pretty much how Lothar, a (literally) born soldier, would react to a collegue being killed. If a squadmate dies, you continue on, live now, grieve later.

Hmm. I guess so, but it didn't really seem like Rogue was doomed in that scenario. And like you told me, Lothar also sticks up for his friends. He seemed almost callous in (what seemed like) blowing off Rogue's life. If a colleague died, yes, Lothar would keep his common sense and worry about it later. As you said: they're not the best of chums, but they are squadmates, and Lothar seems to take the death of someone close to him... very personally.

In fact, I think to some degree, Lothar and Rogue have a mutual respect, and their banter is just how they express it. Would Lothar even bother verbally sparring with someone whom he didn't think was worth it? They're both arrogant--they share at least that quality. It's a quality that often repels rather than attract, but I think they see at least a bit of themselves in each other. It's a very interesting play-off.

Back to the story, of course... I can't give much praise past what I've given, except that the moment I got a chance, I dropped everything and raced to catch up on the twenty-odd pages I've missed. Strong, strong stuff. Great action--that long sequence has finally ended, but the drama has not. Whoo. Keep eet up!

Trademark negative comment: Monohan seems like a very textbook villian. There just seems to be very little distinguishing about him. He has that Voldemort-esque "there is no right or wrong; there is only power," except for the badger, it's "there is only money". I mean, that's been done. Many times. Villians with some distinguishing trademark are the best type. I will give you that you've come up with an awesome base for this bad guy, though: a semi-organized trash dump. Another stroke of genius there.

Whoo again. I'm still readin'! (And writing... I am NOT going to keep up with this.)
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Lothar Hex
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OK now, the Daemon thing has become FAR too gratuitous, people TRADING in daemons? Wouldn't happen. A single mid level Daemon like a Ravenor could level New York city in a day or three.

The only ones that could possibly be contained are low level ones, and as soon as they got out it'd be damned near impossible to capture them again.

Theres an new EN storyline comeing up in after issue #100, and you find out exactly what happens when you get too many low level daemons in one place.
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RedFox742
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Eh, probably impossible, but I found it a cool concept.

... hey, spoiler! *spreads everywhere*
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Rust
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Well, then that's just going to necessitate a few rewrites, eh? It wasn't gratuitous, but if it contradicts the rules of EN, then its immediate nukeage is a no-brainer. =P

As a sidenote, I just finished Brave New World and will thusly be struck by insomnia tonight. Freaky book.
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Chapter 11: Secret Talk

Deep within the labyrinthine base of the Yss’garoth resided the private quarters of Cameron Granser; true, it was still decked out in the dreary cold stone that such underground living necessitated, but it was also plush with velvet carpeting, fine mahogany furniture, and a positively enormous (and quite comfortable) four-poster bed. In other words, it was the typical living space of the sophisticated individual with a great deal of time on his hands.

The reptile was seated in an overstuffed reading chair at the moment, the cozy glow of a goosenecked lamp casting its creamy light over the pages of a highly regarded Soulthirster text (which, of course, possessed many intriguing illustrations). Granser was wearing small spectacles propped up on his snout; the look changed him from a respectable and fearsome individual into someone who looked almost laughably fastidious. He was still wearing his robe, as well, which didn’t help the image.

There was a single small knock at his door. “Yes, come in.”

It creaked open.

“Well, hel-lo, Cameron. That’s a pretty picture of you right there, I must admit. Very…intellectual.”

He chuckled heartily. “Your mind runs on just one track, doesn’t it, Tessa?”

“What’s wrong with that?” the Siamese asked, pouting. She crossed the room over to Granser’s bed and sat down, crossing her legs primly - the juxtaposition just made him laugh harder.

“Nothing at all,” he said, grinning wide. There wasn’t, either. One-track mind or not, there had never been any cause for him to doubt Tessa Somnolei’s skill or intelligence; she had served as his personal bodyguard for almost three years, and damn if she just stayed the same as ever in both body and mind. Her physical capabilities were excellent, her reliability unwavering, and she was more than sexual enough to be induced as an honorary member of the Yss’garoth. The men got one look into those ice-blue eyes and turned into putty at her feet.

“So,” he said conversationally as he returned to his book, “what’s the news?”

“I just got word that those Inquisitors checked out the badger, as a matter of fact,” she said, laughing airily. “Oh, I know they couldn’t get anywhere close to it, but that Lothar Hex’s ship is so customized that it’s hard to mistake.”

“Do you know if they received any information about us?” he asked, not sounding very perturbed.

“I doubt it.” She leaned forward, eyes dancing. “Don’t forget, one of our conditions to Charlie was for him to never breathe a word about who he was working for. And now he’s out of town, so…”

“Excellent,” he said distractedly as he turned another page. “That only leaves the Inquisitors to take care of.”

“Of course. Would you like me to herd another renegade over to them, hmm?”

“No, no.” Granser laughed heartily. “I have to say, though, that was quite a trick you pulled off, Tessa. I’ll admit, I was dubious about your chances of outrunning a Ravenor, but you pulled it off splendidly.”

“You can’t keep a good girl down,” she giggled. “Though, really, the tracer in Charlie’s backpack helped. It’s a good thing the poor wolfie never has the time to clean it out. And you wouldn’t believe how fast that daemon ran once it got wind of the scent of blood. I was losing the race to begin with; I’m just glad there weren’t any teeny little scrapes on me when I put a few bullets in its flank.”

“That’d get its attention,” he agreed. “But like I said, the Gaebles case is closed as far as they’re concerned. I was hoping to maybe save some money and do away with Charlie earlier…but, I underestimated his resourcefulness. Mistake on my part. If he comes back, I’ll have to recommend him for a position nearer to me. He’s quite a man.”

Tessa just threw herself down fully on the bed and closed her eyes. “Mm…and that physique. The scar only makes it more exciting...but he was always soooo shy around me. Shame.”

“Anyway, we can just start up a typical sacrifice ritual tonight; with Charlie gone there'll be no one to find the appearance of a Soulthirster daemon suspicious. Twenty-four hours from then those Inquisitors should be taken care of and we’ll have nobody to connect us to all of these messy events. I want you to make sure the daemon does its job, Tessa, but don’t get too zealous.”

“Yes, of course,” she said softly, not opening her eyes. “I’ll just take three or four ready candidates for sacrifice from our main stock, is all. There’s no shortage of them, as you know.”

“Yes, I’m aware of that. You’re dismissed.”

She got up and, hips pivoting back and forth, moved to leave.

“And Tessa?”

She turned, smiling gently. “Hmm? What is it now, sugar?”

Granser’s teeth shone in a wide, decidedly malicious grin.

“Take ten.”

* * * * *

“Tell me what you want,” the voice on the phone said wearily.

Names couldn’t be spoken. They didn’t want any more taps.

“My house? My car? If you want my wife, I’ll go dig her up right now. Anything to make you leave me out of all this. Please.”

“No can do. This is the last thing, I promise.”

“Tyrus! Gruss! Ahriman and Mort!” he ejaculated suddenly. “And while we’re at it, let’s trot out Fernex and the Hound and the Patterner and Soulthirster. And the Plaguelord, why the hell not? In every damn one of their names, why can’t you just leave me alone?”

“Because you have what I need. You always do.”

“I have what everybody needs, all the time. And now I wish that I didn’t. I should’ve retired ten years ago, spent my remaining years sippin’ tropical drinks instead of having to deal with a fruitcake like you.”

“You could have, but you didn’t. It’s time to own up to whatever responsibilities you think you still have.”

“What about you, huh?” he said derisively. “What good’ll this do you?”

“You know what good it’ll do me. None. But I want to pull this off anyway.”

“You make no sense to me,” he said, resigned. “Why the hell did I have to decide to like a guy that makes no sense to me?”

“Maybe you’re the senseless one. Or maybe it’s just the whole world that’s senseless, and you just figured it out. That ever occur to you?”

“Screw, buddy.”

Click.
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Retrogamer!
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IT'S HERESY
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I've just read through em all and I admit I was skeptical at first, but this has turned into an awesome fanfic.

It is positively laugh-out-loud hilarious at points and you dont make the mistake of making a story people can't follow.

Keep it up.
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Rust
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Rank of Some Significance
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Yikes! This puppy almost slipped my mind at a point. O_o

Guess that spring break can do that to you.
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Rust
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Chapter 12: R&R

Click, ratta-tat, et cetera, et al.

Virus whistled tunelessly as he perused his files, making the sounds that computers in action were wont to do. The computer room of his warband’s outpost was also quite typical – large, spotlessly clean despite the fact that it hadn’t been dusted since the day it was erected, and filled to the brim with many shiny beeping things. Not to mention Eastwood’s nigh-mythical collection of pornography.

The doors suddenly slid open as the fox in question strolled in nonchalantly. He was wearing his off-work clothes, which consisted of an open-throated collared white shirt and nothing else. Virus still didn’t get why he went through the effort of putting on pants every morning; he just didn’t like the draft.

“What are you looking at today?” Eastwood asked, leaning in close to the screen. Virus was shuffling through their personal CABAL database, which possessed information on everything associated with the Inquisition that existed …and some things that didn’t.

“Just a little self-indulgent research,” the rat said distractedly, bringing up a window. “When we took Gaebles’ profile from the Mobotropolis police records, it gave us a nice security hole to tap into their own computers with. These files are the other recorded hits that Charlie pulled off in the city.”

“Sounds pretty dull.”

“Not really. And I’d like to know more about the one that got away, personally.”

“Not me,” Eastwood said flatly. “I’m going to be repressing memories of that assignment, too. Along with Monohan’s. I just hope Lothar doesn’t kill me when he finds out his supply of happy juice is going down.”

Virus snickered as he entertained notions of mentioning Dead Men Walking again. He decided against it; the results might end up causing nasty collateral damage.

“Either way, have you even found anything interesting?”

“A few things, yeah,” he replied. “Remember when Rogue told us how Monohan said that Gaebles always gave evacuation warnings to the places he was going to blow up?”

“No, but go on.” All that Eastwood’s cloudy memory could recall at the moment was the cat being in a seriously bad temper after their conversation had ended. Not even Lothar had bothered to jibe him about it. But then again, the echidna was probably still miffed about being outgunned by a senior.

“Well, the four places he hit before that weapons plant were just residential districts,” he said, bringing up a map of the city. Four spots on it slowly glowed red. “The thing is, the population should’ve spread out from those spots after the warnings were handed out. But the latest mass-census data shows a dip in city occupation. Why anyone would bother taking a census of that place is beyond me, but…”

“Well, maybe they just didn’t listen and got blown up,” the fox said, not sounding too concerned.

“Yeah,” Virus mumbled, closing the windows. “Maybe.”

Awkward pause.

“So..." Eastwood started hesitantly.

He smacked his lips.

"Well, then. Porn?"

“Yes," Virus agreed. "Porn.”

“Mm.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Indeed.”

* * * * *

“Gods damn it! What cheats are you using this time, Hex?”

“Looks like the shoe’s on the other foot now, cat,” Lothar said, grinning fiercely. “My playing’s just as pure as virgin snow.”

“Yeah, probably right before you plow it,” Rogue spat vehemently. His fingers worked madly on the controller, ducking and weaving desperately.

To no avail. Lothar threw down his own controller and shot up the horns – an intimidating gesture, considering his fingers.

“Again,” the Daemon Hunter said, leaning back.

“Losing your cool a little, huh?” the echidna gloated waspishly. “Pissed that these plus-sized sausages are kicking your arse?”

“Again,” he repeated.

Lothar just snickered and picked his controller up. “Your funeral.”

They resumed. The results appeared to be tipping in the same direction when Lothar said, in a much more subdued tone, “I’ve been thinking.”

“Want me to call the papers?” Rogue said, not paying a great deal of attention.

“Watch it, cat,” he snapped. “I’ve been thinking about that whole thing with that bomb-happy mutt we had to chase.”

“Gaebles? What about him?” The dull thud in the back of his head answered indignantly.

“Harry and Virus said that when that bugger knocked me out, a Ravenor showed up. Right?”

“What about it?”

Lothar put the game on pause and stared at Rogue with unnatural intensity. “Two Inquisitors, a Daemon Hunter and a very fetching mercenary are chasing one of the most wanted criminals in Mobius, and right when we’re all on the ropes a chainsaw with legs decides to bust through a wall. Doesn’t that strike you as a little bit Daemonicus ex Machina?”

“Does it even matter?” the cat said petulantly. “He’s gone. Monohan said so.”

“Judging by your face, that old bastard said some other things you didn’t like.” The echidna’s voice had gained back its original sharpness in spades.

Rogue’s eyes narrowed and he squeezed his controller tight. “Unpause it. I’m going to beat you into the ground.”

Lothar smirked. “You keep whining about whatever came out of that bugger’s mouth and you’re just going to get your arse kicked."

He was right.
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Mechka
Citizen
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Hey, this story is just too awesome! I loved the jokes and cusses. You're so darn talented! I hope you haven't finished! Please continue! I must know what happens!
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