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Our Paranormal Chernobyl Maggie looked at the big blob of protoplasm and blinked, her mind working furiously. What done me? the thing had said, in a quavery voice with elongated vowels. She was surprised that it had the apparatus to speak at all. "I haven’t done anything," Maggie replied. "Those people who were fighting probably did," she continued tentatively. "They’ve stolen a metahuman creation formula and they’ve been testing it on random people." I doubt he still has the pebbles, she thought. "By the way, my name’s Maggie, Maggie Thorin." "Y-e-e-e-s," the goo replied, rolling toward her. "M-a-a-gg-ie. "W-o-o-m-a-a-n. F-e-e-nce. M-a-a-n. H-e-l-l-l-m-e-t. M-a-a-gg-ie Th-o..." The goo cut itself off, as if it had just noticed something. It drew itself into a tall, wobbly pillar and leaned toward the convertible. Maggie could tell that the goo was deeply interested in… what? The convertible itself seemed unremarkable. Earlier, Maggie had seen a gooey, humanoid figure slumped in the back seat, but the figure wasn’t in the car any longer. The only items of interest were the leather-and-denim outfit, left behind by the figure and strewn about the back seat, along with the bag lady’s clothing. But, no. The goo was focussed upon something on the driver’s door. The mirror. It was looking at its reflection in the mirror. "Th-a-a-t," it asked, "Me-e-e-e? "Goo-oo-oo?" "I’m afraid so", Maggie said quietly. "Hm-m-m," it said. "R-a-a-nd-o-m. B-a-a-d l-u-u-ck. F-i-g-u-u-res." The goo pivoted away from the mirror, toward Maggie. "W-a-ay. Ch-a-a-a-ange b-a-a-ck? Ba-a-ck to-o-o. To-o-o. Wh-a-a-t I..." It seemed to direct its attention inward. "Wh-a-a-t w-a-a-s I? Bo-o-oy? N-o-o. G-i-r-rl. "N-o-o. Y-e-e-e-s. Wa-aiii-t. "Um-m-m-m. Both?" "I don’t know", Maggie said. "I can try to change you back, but I don’t think I can find a way. I’m sorry." "S-s-s o-o-k-a-ay. M-a-a-gg-ie Th-o-o-r-i-in. Not f-au-ault. Ha-a-a-p-e-ens." Although its disappointment was apparent, it seemed that the goo was taking events surprisingly well. Of course, how could Maggie tell, really? For all she knew, the goo was in a state of shock. The telltale symptoms of shock—moist and clammy skin, paleness, rapid pulse, shallow breathing—didn’t seem to be available as diagnostic indications with this particular patient. Abruptly, the goo straightened up. "Cro-o-sssss-fi-i-ire," it said. "’Mo-o-st fo-o-rgot." It wriggled itself into a stream and headed over to the overturned pickup truck. Maggie followed, a little worried about this new development. "Goo" seemed friendly enough but she had no idea whether he’d retain his sanity in this new form. She also wondered how the thing was even able to talk, but shrugged that away—she’d seen a lot weirder in her day. Compressing itself into a much shorter puddle, Goo slid half of its body under the edge of the truck. "Bre-e-e-athing," said Goo—or rather, said the back half of Goo. (Where was that sound coming from?) "Get ba-a-ck, M-a-a-gg-ie. Do-o-og, ma-a-an ba-a-ck. "I’ll try-y flip tru-u-ck." "Are you sure about this? I can do it if I get in my armor, for sure." "No-o. Archer hu-u-urt." The goo waited until Maggie was in the clear. "’Si-i-ides. Seem stro-o-ong. Wa-a-ant kn-o-ow." With that, the goo pulled the rest of itself under the overturned truck. Being careful not to step (Step?) on Crossfire, it took a position along the far side of the truck bed and began to stretch upward. It was this simple: The goo needed more strength. More. Straining, the goo became taller still. Four feet. Four-and-a-half. Five. Maggie observed that, oddly, its base remained the same size. Differential equations danced through Maggie’s head as she observed goo’s shape. Irregular ovoid … quadratic … volume differential. Yes, the goo had become larger. It had grown from twenty gallons to eighty gallons in volume, give or take. The truck tipped up on its side, then the goo gave it a final shove. The truck crashed down on its wheels, rocking on its springs. Crossfire lay in the afternoon sunlight, unmoving. "Ye-ea-ah," the goo said. Its wet, low voice carried a hint of self-satisfaction. "Stro-o-o-ong." DuChamp appeared in the entrance where the gate had stood, gun out, aiming at the huge, translucent glob. Without moving his gaze from the goo, he shouted, "Maggie! You all right? We’ve got support on the way." Indeed, in the distance, sirens were wailing. "Co-o-o-ps!" the goo exclaimed. "Ru-u-un, Ma-a-ggie. I bri-i-ing Cro-ssss-fire." It moved toward the fallen archer. "Wait!" Maggie yelled. "They won’t hurt you. I came here with them." She turned to DuChamp. "DuChamp, I’m fine. Stokes and this gentleman—" She waved towards the fat man, who was edging away from her. "—may need medical attention, though." The goo quivered to a standstill. "Du-u-Cha-a-amp? Co-o-p? Ma-a-ggie co-o-op? Bu-u-ut tho-ought… " "I’m not really a cop, I’m helping them out," Maggie explained. "We’re trying to find who’s behind the spread of the formula that changed you." Somehow, the mass of goo conveyed a sense of personal confusion. "Me-e-e? Co-o-op?" The goo was awash in emotions and watery memories. Definitely, once, it was and was not a cop. Something like a cop. The substance could feel the surge of pride/ disgust/ confusion at the idea of wearing a uniform that marked him as a protector/ fool/ bully. DuChamp lowered his gun. "I’ll take care of the civilian," he said to Maggie. "But what about... that?" Meaning the goo. Maggie shrugged. "Another victim of our Plastic People, I’d surmise, and a very interesting case. He seems friendly enough." She turned towards the goo. "Though I’ll want to take a look at you to see if there’s any hidden danger to your mutation. And see if it’s reversible." "He-e-e, de-ea-arie?" The goo chuckled. It was a moist, not-entirely-pleasant sound. "No-o-ot ‘he-e-e’. I’m a-a-a sh..." It trailed off in thought. It was a she, wasn’t it? It could—dimly—recall having "that time of the month". Also, hadn’t it worried, more than once, about becoming pregnant? But that wasn’t the whole story. Something told it that it was a man. Had been before this day, anyway. It strained to bring up some memory, some thought which would answer this seemingly important question. Pink. Pink? Did that provide the answer? Pink disc. Disc. That wasn’t what it was expecting. Pink disc, white basin. Oh. The memory was now clear enough to understand. It saw itself, standing up, peeing on one of those antibacterial discs in a men’s urinal. "Bo-o-oth," it concluded. "A-a-and ne-ei-ither. "Goo-oo-oo. Ju-u-ust sa-a-ay Goo-oo-oo." "Goo?" Maggie looked at the... goo... and nodded. "I’m afraid you don’t really have a gender anymore. At any rate, we met with the Plastic People, but they got away." She frowned. "Crossfire got a truck thrown on top of him. He seems in bad shape, hasn’t woken up yet, and Stokes was hit badly." "Ma-a-aggie. How fi-i-ind me-e? Yo-ou sa-ay o-o-others. Can fi-i-ind the-e-em? Can fi-i-ind pla-a-stic?" Maggie grinned. "We’ve got a trick and we can find other victims, yes. With luck we might even manage to track one down inside their lair." She frowned and mentally kicked herself yet again. "But I’ll wear my armor this time." "Tri-i-ick. La-ai-ir. "Yea-a-ahhh. "Le-e-et’s get ‘em." "All in good time, Goo," Maggie said. "Rushing into action got us in this mess, and I don’t want that to happen again." DuChamp, meanwhile, was trying to get the fat man to hold still and tell him if he was all right, but the man wasn’t complying. "Jesus H! Just lemmee alone!" he said. Behind them, Heckle and Jackson appeared next the office, Heckle still holding the boxy radio receiver. Both men had their guns out, aimed at Goo, but when they saw DuChamp and Maggie standing in the open, they lowered their weapons—but didn’t put them away. The sirens were getting closer; the nearest one seemed to be only a block away. Stokes was standing now, leaning against the post that had once held up the gate, holding his bloodied hand to the side. "It’s okay, guys," he said. "He doesn’t seem violent." He caught Maggie’s eye. His words seemed more intended to soothe Goo than to warn Maggie or his team. "You’re really bleeding, Maggie." She glanced down. The bleeding she’d noticed on her shin when she was binding Stoke’s hand had gotten worse. Her pants leg was soaked from knee to ankle. She’d ignored the pain, but now that the adrenaline rush of the battle was over, she could feel a deep stinging in her calf. Maggie bent and rolled up her pant leg to survey the damage. There was a good bit of blood, some of it starting afresh as the cloth pulled the clotting blood away. "I think I’m going to need some disinfectant and a good bandage." She looked again, past the blood, trying to see the wounds. It looked like the exploding gate had thrown like splinters like a frag grenade. Several pieces of wood were embedded in her shin, and one long piece had gone deep into her calf. "And at least four stitches," she said, more quietly. Stokes walked slowly over to Crossfire, eyes watching Goo, and knelt down. The man was breathing, but he was knocked out. There was blood on the back of the man’s neck, seeping from underneath his mask. "Shit," he said. He looked back at Maggie. "You don’t already happen to know his, uh, secret identity, do you?" "I’m afraid not," Maggie replied. "Just pull his mask off. His secret ID won’t do him any good if he dies." "Good point." The detective work his thumbs along the side of the archer’s mask and tried to slip it off, but the telescopic site was attached in some way that made it difficult. While the sirens wailed closer and Stokes worked, Goo tried to think of better days. Or of any day at all, other than this one. That’d be a start. It looked around at the parking lot of cars with a tingling of deja vu. It’d been here before today, hadn’t it? Yes, it seemed so. He’d come here before, and walked out with.... Goo struggled with the feeling, hauling it to the surface. Something cool and dry, full of promise. He could feel it in his hands. He’d come here before and walked out with... cash! That was it. Cold hard cash. Stokes finally managed to unscrew Crossfire’s telescopic site, and set it aside. Then he slipped his mask over his head. The man was blond and ruggedly handsome. "I don’t recognize him," Stokes said. "A relief, actually." He gently lifted Crossfire’s head an inch and peeked underneath. "He banged his head on the pavement, I think. A little surface blood, not as bad as I thought." He quickly patted the man down, trying to press through the hero’s padded armor for signs of other wounds or fractures. "Maybe a concussion, maybe bruises, but I don’t see much else. If he got hit by a truck, he took it well. The docs will have to look him over to make sure, though." A squad car pulled into the lot, lights on. The siren cut off with a squawk, but a dozen other sirens were still wailing as police cars and an ambulance jammed into the street and parked. Stokes looked up. "The cavalry has arrived. Better late than never, I guess." He directed the paramedics to Crossfire, and they carefully moved the archer onto a stretcher and carried him toward the ambulance, just as another ambulance arrived. Briefly, and inexplicably, Goo felt guilty about Crossfire’s injuries. Then Goo dismissed the guilt. It wasn’t like Goo wonked Crossfire upside the head, was it? Or was it? Hard to remember. One of the paramedics from the second ambulance was trying to convince Stokes to get in the ambulance with the archer, but the detective was refusing. "Just wrap me up. I got work to do." They kept arguing. "What about you, Miss?" another med tech asked Maggie. "That leg looks serious." "Just clean and stitch it, please," Maggie replied. "It’s not like the hospital could do much more than that." While the med-tech wrapped the fresh bandage around her calf and shin, Maggie looked over at the creature calling itself "Goo." It was staring off toward the gate where they’d just taken Crossfire. "Thanks for your help out there," she told… it. "We-e-elcome." "Do you mind if I ask you a few questions? It may help figure out what happened to you." "Su-u-u-ure. Shoo-oo-oot." "What’s the earliest thing you can easily remember?" Goo pondered the question. Easily? What did she mean, easily? It was a task to remember anything. But Goo was game, so it gave it a try. Or rather, it tried not to try too hard, and to see how far back it could go. Don’t try. Don’t try. Trying just makes for confusion. Goo’s thoughts crystallized on the one thing that it could recall with both ease and clarity. "Ma-a-aggie," Goo concluded. "Befo-o-o-re tha-a-at. Mu-u-usic. Ca-a-a-alling. "Lo-o-o-onely." Maggie nodded at the cryptic answer. Between his apparent amnesia and the obvious confusion wrought by his condition, she hadn’t expected much better. "Can you remember what kind of music? Who was calling?" "Me-e-e. I wa-a-as. Ca-a-alling. Be-e-eing ca-a-alled. "Fo-o-ollowed." Definitely looks like he’s an amalgam of several people, Maggie thought. It’s gonna be a mess to try and tell them apart. "Do you remember why you were calling?" After a pause, the upper third of Goo wobbled from side to side. "N-o-o-o." "Hmm. Do you remember what happened exactly before the music?" Goo stiffened. "Pa-ai-in. "Sho-o-ot. No-o, not sho-o-ot. Inje-e-ected. Pla-a-a-stic. "Inje-e-ected twi-i-ice. No-o, fo-ou-ur. No-o, si-i-x ti-i-imes. "Ummmmm. Just twi-i-ice." Maggie did the math. Six times, but just twice per person. So he looks like he might be three people. "Lo-o-o-onely," Goo continued. "Then pla-a-astic, pa-ai-in. Then mu-u-usic. Bea-u-u-u-utiful. Nee-ee-eeded. Fo-o-llowed. Ca-a-alled. Fo-o-llowed. Then…" Goo seemed to soften slightly. "Then Ma-a-aggie. "No-o-ot lo-o-onely." He’s not making a lot of sense, Maggie thought. He was probably confused as hell right after it happened. "Can you remember anything about the music?" she asked the creature. "Was it all instrumental?" Goo considered for a moment. "No-o-t mu-u-u-usic. No-o-t—" The top of Goo elongated and stiffened slightly. "Do-re-mi-fa-so-la-ti-do-o-o!" It sang a perfect scale in a lovely contralto. No where did that come from? it wondered. The it resumed its previous state, and said, "No-o-t mu-u-u-usic. But beau-u-u-u-utiful. Ha-a-a-ad fo-o-o-llow. No-o-o choice." "Hmm. That’s very odd. Where did you follow to?" Goo paused. "He-e-e-e-ere." While Maggie and Goo talked, Stokes went to his car to make some calls, and uniformed officers began taping off the area. Heckle and Jackson showed several of the cops the back area where the plastic people had disappeared. DuChamp was still interviewing the fat man, whose name was Harry Drzeciak, pronounced "Dreeze-ee-ack." He was the owner of Cutlas Autobody, and evidently he’d been in trouble with the cops before for receiving stolen goods. He kept claiming in a loud voice that he didn’t know what the hell was going on, didn’t know who those plastic people were, and didn’t know what they wanted. Harry’s yelling seemed to draw the Doberman out of hiding, and the dog had gotten its nerve back. It came up from behind a car and starting growling at DuChamp. Goo broke off its conversation with Maggie to move between the dog and the detective. "Shu-u-u-ush, Fle-ea-agle," Goo said, and the animal suddenly panicked again and ran off to the other side of the lot. "You know the dog’s name?" DuChamp asked Goo. "Fle-ea-agle? No-o-o. Do-o-on’t know na-a-a-ame." Goo declared, confidently. "No-o-o, wa-ai-it," it corrected itself. "Fu-u-unny. Kno-o-ow Fle-ea-agle, ne-e-ever met Fle-ea-agle." Maggie glanced at the fat man. "Is that dog yours?" "I’m his owner," he said gruffly, and stared at the gelatinous creature standing next to Maggie. "And I don’t know how in hell he knows my dog’s name." "Kno-o-ow o-o-owner?" Goo rolled toward the fat man, halting before it got too close. "Yo-o-ou fa-a-milia-a-r. Kno-o-ow yo-o-ou? Kno-o-ow me-e-e-e?" "Hell no!" Drzeciak yelled. "Keep that thing away from me!" Goo was about to object to this harsh treatment. After all, it could recall something about doing business in this lot. Something about cold, hard cash. Then Goo glanced around at the various officers of the law who were doing their business here, and decided that the less said, the better. "So-o-orry. Mu-u-ust so-o-omeone e-e-e-else." "Are you sure?" Maggie asked. "It could be important." Did he just sound hesitant? Goo leaned toward Maggie and spoke in a conspiratorial, and somewhat wet, whisper. "La-a-ater, Ma-a-aggie." Maggie frowned. "Okay." Goo attempted to change the subject. "Pla-a-astic pe-e-e-eople. We-e-ent tha-a-at way." Goo leaned toward the back of the yard. "It’s going to be hard to catch them now," Maggie pointed out. "But we can use our trick again." Heckle and Jackson emerged from the office, Heckle studying his radio receiver. Jackson caught the end of Maggie and Goo’s conversation. "Yep, they’re gone. And no radio hits from that direction." "But we’ve still got two blips nearby," Heckle said. He looked at Goo. "He—or she, whatever—is clean." "Just ‘it’, ple-ea-ase," Goo asked Heckle. "Ma-a-aggie says n-o-o ge-e-ender." "I think you’re going to need to pick one," Maggie put in. "Calling you ‘it’ implies that you’re an animal, and you’re not. Besides," she added, "in French there’s no ‘it’, everything’s a ‘he’ or a ‘she.’ So you have to pick if only so I can keep my diary." "Ca-a-an’t choo-oo-oo-oose. Both wro-o-ong. Both n-o-ot me-e-e-e. "But th-i-i-ink I’m figu-u-uring who I a-a-am. Le-e-e-et you kno-o-ow." Heckle had been studying the receiver, shifting his direction every few seconds. Now the indicator was pointing northwest of the gate. "Somewhere near here," the detective said. "The blips are a few seconds apart." The highest portion of Goo leaned toward Heckle, extending itself more than twenty feet from Goo’s base. Drawing close—uncomfortably close—to Heckle, it stared at Heckle’s receiver. "Bli-i-ips?" Heckle blanched, but held his ground. "Uh, yeah. Tracking signals. We’ve been following radio signals from pellets that seem to be injected in—" He stopped and looked to Maggie. "I think Ms. Thorin should explain." "He means there’s two more victims close by," Maggie said to Goo. "When the Plastic People infect someone, they also put some sort of radio tracking device inside them. And we’ve been using that signal to track them down." "Give me a minute to get ready before we go." She took up her suitcase to find a more secluded area to put it on. While it could be that the tracers they were tracking were Goo’s, forcibly ejected thanks to the mutant’s new physical structure, she wanted to be ready if they were going to face something more dangerous. Fool me once… Maggie disappeared around the side of the building, leaving Heckle and Jackson with the viscous creature. Heckle tried his best to ignore Goo, and concentrated on following the signals on the receiver. After a minute, he said, "They’re coming from that car." He nodded toward the black convertible. Goo craned over to the car, its base remaining rooted where it stood. Its extended appendage (head? neck?) peered inside. The front two front seats were empty, but in the back seat was a bundle of clothes: a woman’s dress, a sweater, a leather jacket, thick tights, a t-shirt, jeans, and two pairs of boots: one pair of shiny black cowboy boots, and one pair of orange-brown rubber workman’s boots. Goo stretched its appendage into the back seat and waved it about, peering closely at the clothing. "Yoo-oo hoo-oo-oo! Vi-i-ictims," Goo chanted in a sort of sing-song. "Co-o-ome o-ou-out!" It turned its appendage into a U shape and looked back at Heckle. Behind the detective, Maggie emerged from behind the garage, now wearing her body armor and boots, the helmet tucked under one arm. "Ma-a-aGIE!" Goo said, punctuating the second syllable. "Lookin’ tou-u-ugh." "Thanks, Goo. I sure feel tougher now." Goo tilted toward the convertible. "Do-o-on’t see-ee-ee. Are vi-i-ictims ti-i-i-ny?" "I think," Maggie said, "that the victims are right here." She pointed at Goo. Goo bent over and, not comprehending, stared at the spot where Maggie was pointing. Was she suggesting that Goo had eaten the victims? This was all very confusing. Putting on some latex gloves, Maggie began carefully rummaging through the clothing, looking for the radio pellets. She found two gold pellets and one silver nestled in the clothing. After a few minutes searching, she found a second silver ball under the driver’s seat. Goo noted the care with which Maggie was conducting her search, and wondered why these baubles were so obviously important to her. Were they connected to Goo’s past? Maggie opened her palm and showed Goo the pellets. "My guess is that you used to be these people—all two of them, maybe more—and that you turned into your new shape because the plastic men injected you," she explained. "These would be the things they injected you with." "Maybe m-o-o-ore?" The words caused Goo to stagger backwards. Goo had been more than one person. That’s what Maggie was saying. And if Maggie said it, it must be true. This explained a lot. The knowledge of motorcycles, memories of receiving money from the autobody yard, the singing voice—they could have come from different people. The apparently conflicting memories—being a woman but being a man, being some sort of a cop but fearing the police—made a little more sense, now. Prior to this news, Goo had been piecing together the story of its past as an individual. It had been, Goo thought, a motorcycle policeman who longed for a sex change operation. But, Goo’s explanation continued, the police union wouldn’t pay for the surgery so Goo had to take bribes from lowlife lawbreakers like the autobody yard owner. Eventually, and despite the disgrace such bribe-taking had caused, Goo achieved its dream of becoming a female lounge singer. But that explanation would have to be set aside in light of this new information. More than one. "Wo-o-owwww," Goo mumbled. It nodded toward the car. "Ma-a-aggie, save clo-o-othes? Not familiar, but re-e-ember later, maybe-e-e-e?" "Of course," Maggie replied. "My guess is that the evidence lab people will save everything, but I’ll be sure to tell them to be extra careful with anything that might have belonged to you. Although…" She went back to the open car. "I wonder if they have any ID?" She began to rummage through the clothes, looking for a wallet. The black t-shirt, with "No Empathy 99" in white letters on the front, didn’t have any pockets. The blue jeans held only thirty-five cents in change, a half-gone roll of spearmint Certs, and copper-colored key that looked like a house key. Then she went through the black leather jacket and came up with a crumpled pack of Marlboros, a cigar still in its cellophane wrapper, and a matchbook with the logo of "Mike’s Tavern." Decorative smoke curled from the "i" in "Mike." But no wallet. Not much in the way of clues, here, she thought. The key might help once there’s a missing person report—just try the key in the person’s home. Maybe he used to be a regular at Mike’s Tavern—might be worth going back. Or look for cigar shops. She looked over the still-wrapped cigar. I wonder if this is a rare kind? She paused and looked at the card again. Iggy was there, and now this. Maybe their base is somewhere around there? I'll have to look at a map with the discovery points of all these metas. "Do you recognize any of this?" she asked Goo, showing him the things. Goo stared intently at the bric-a-brac, wavering from item to item. "No," Goo said with a hint of disappointment. "No-o-ot familiar." Stokes walked up to the group, his hand now bandaged from fingers to wrist. He looked like Keith Richards after a bar fight. He glanced at Goo, then turned to the armored woman. "Maggie, can I talk to you for a sec?" "Of course." Goo didn’t appear to notice as Stokes and Maggie stepped aside. Goo was staring at the convertible and trying to recall whether it had ever driven something like it. Goo pictured itself, a blob of protoplasm sitting behind the wheel of the convertible and cruising down the street, its outer layer rippling in the breeze. "Vroom," Goo said to itself in a soft voice. "Vroo-oo-oom." Somehow the image didn’t seem quite right. Stokes, one eye on the pensive protoplasm, dropped his voice and addressed Maggie. "PRIMUS says it doesn’t have any more resources to send us—they’re all tied up with something a couple miles from here. It sounds bad. Probable fatalities. The kid ESPer is involved, as well as Theo August—Hammersmith told me you two had met." "We have. I owe him a good bruise." Stokes chuckled. "I don’t even want to know. Anyway, the paramedics are telling me I have to go with them—they want to try to sew my fingers back on. So the team’s at your disposal. Heckle’s the senior guy. First question is, without PRIMUS, what do you want to do with, uh, the goo there?" Maggie shrugged. "He—technically they, I guess, but I’ll just call ’em he—looks friendly enough. And he might be useful to deal with more paranormals. I’m not sure I want him out of my sight until I’ve had a chance to look at him, anyway, in case his condition begins to degrade." Stokes’ weather-beaten face showed concern, but then he nodded. "Okay then. Good luck. I’ll try to get back as soon as I can." He called to Heckle, and the older detective edged past the curious Goo and came over. "Heck, I gotta go get fuckin’ re-digitized. You’re in charge of the guys, under Maggie’s direction—like it was comin’ straight from Hammersmith." Heckle absorbed this, then nodded at the woman, who despite her power armor looked too young to drink. Then the paramedics dragged Stokes away to the ambulance, and he waved goodbye with his bandaged hand. In the distance, sirens wailed, but now they seemed to be heading away from them. "So what now?" Heckle asked her. "We go see if Pender and company needs our help," Maggie replied. "From the sound of it, she probably does. And if that paranoid nutcase Stranger’s involved, she certainly does." "Right. I’ll get the car." Heckle gestured for Jackson to follow him, then headed across the back of the lot. The lanky DuChamp had been standing a few feet away. "You want me to drive you and the Thing over there?" He nodded toward the garage. Goo stood on the roof of the building, leaning this way and that. The handsome stranger had stood on this very spot, Goo thought, yet no memories surfaced. Where had it come from? Where had it been? It saw Maggie looking its way, and so Goo dropped back to the ground. On the way down it attempted to spread itself into a graceful, aerodynamic shape. The attempt was unsuccessful, however, and Goo landed with a weighty splort. Goo stood up, seemingly none the worse for the fall, although something about its posture suggested embarrassment. Maggie noticed that Goo had resumed a smaller size; something on the order of 18 gallons. Approximately the volume of a normal man. What had become of the extra matter? Extra density? she wondered. Or maybe he’s one of those metas who gleefully violate conservation laws? That’ll be a good test—use a scale and see what happens. DuChamp led the way through the crowd of cops to the street. Goo looked back at the area where the explosion had occurred. The policemen had applied copious amounts of bright yellow "CRIME SCENE" tape, roping off the two gates as well as a fire-damaged shopping cart. A shopping cart. Just a battered old thing that had gotten in the way of the explosion. Whatever contents it had once held were now either burned up or scattered to the winds. Just an old shopping cart. So why did the cart seem significant to Goo? "Ready to go, big guy?" DuChamp asked. "Er, I mean, ‘Big goo?’" Goo stared at the cart for a moment longer, trying to recall something which would explain its odd significance. But nothing came to mind. It was just a cart. With a shrug, Goo turned away from the explosion scene and flowed into the back seat of the car. Goo fumbled with its seatbelt and somehow managed to buckle itself in. It wasn’t long, though, before the belt started to pass through Goo’s body. Soon the belt was resting on the seat, with Goo sitting on top of it. "Hmmmm," said Goo, hardly noticing the seatbelt situation. It was focussed upon another problem. "Ma-a-aggie, pla-a-astic finding victi-i-ims again, right? Pe-e-e-ellets?" "That’s the idea." "So we-e-e find pe-e-e-ellets, find pla-a-astic." "Hopefully, yes. Maybe we can find them before the plastic people. Then we can lay in an ambush." "If I’m two-o-o, then no mo-o-ore pellets me. Two-o-o in car. "But suppo-o-se three-ee-ee. Or mo-o-ore. Then, pellets! Then, pla-a-astic! "Then, then . . . Ge-e-et ‘em!" "Calm down, Goo. We’ve got friends who need our help first." "You he-e-elp re-e-emember? Re-e-emember before? Where pla-a-astic injected me-e-e? Me-e-e three-ee-ee?" "I’ll try, Goo," Maggie said. "I promise." Goo nodded to show that it understood. "Friends nee-ee-eed? O-o-okay, but why? Wha-a-a-at? "Who Du-u-uChamp? Who Heckle? "De-e-etails." "That fellow I was talking to back there is Heckle, and this is Duchamp." Maggie indicated each officer in turn. "We’re off to help a PRIMUS agent and a metahuman who’s been helping us. The situation sounds like it’s very confused, so I’d like it if you followed my lead—God knows what we’re going to fall into and you don’t know who’s who. Sounds good?" "Goo-oo-ood. Fo-o-o-ollow." |