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Our Paranormal Chernobyl
Scene 51: Voices in the Dark
Tuesday, 7:50 pm, Cook County General Hospital

Laura Pender jogged up the steps from the hospital basement, hoping she hadn't made a mistake by giving Carl the PRIMUS rifle. The boiler room didn't make a bad holding cell—it was surprisingly clean, and there was only one way in—but she couldn't leave the security guard defenseless. Though maybe she shouldn't worry: Mavis was a force unto herself, and the mother and child had already survived more than they'd had a right to.

Come to think of it, so had she.

Laura had cheated death four times today, each escape more miraculous than the last. Her survival over the last hour was particularly unexplainable: not only had B's mini-missiles failed to kill her and the baby, but when the robot's pink gun had gone into overload, the explosion had thrown Laura halfway through a wall, but somehow failed to break her skin.

She should have been exhausted, but instead she felt energetic, invigorated. She wasn't even hungry, thanks to the heavy slices of Giordano's she'd down back at headquarters.

She pushed through the first floor exit door, and stepped into the ER. For being the recent site of a metahuman battle, the place was remarkably calm. The patients were back in the rooms, and two janitors were trying push the shattered nurses' desk and the fallen ceiling lights into one pile. Crossfire was probably under the knife right now, and who knows what was happening with the Maggie, Stranger, and the other people who'd been in the fight.

Pender turned left, heading toward the lobby and the parking lot. The hallway ended in a ragged, man-sized hole. Beyond the hole was the night and a human figures illuminated by the building's lights.

As she drew closer, Pender could make out a large crowd of people standing between the hospital and the parking lot. And beyond the crowd, was a large cloud of smoke that obscured the stars. Somewhere else beyond the smoke was what sounded like a Chinook-class helicopter.

What the hell? she wondered, and started to step through the rubble to the grass beyond.

The crowd gasped as one, and Pender looked up. Stranger was arcing through the night sky, heading straight at her, but at an approach that would land him about ten feet over her head. Odder still, Maggie was rocketing after him on a collision course.

The whole thing was over in a few seconds. A flurry of PRIMUS nets, a game of catch between Maggie and Goo, a round of Sonic Stunners, and Stranger was down.  

Edward.

He was not asleep, and not quite awake. Some time ago they'd moved him to a new cage, a confining space with solid walls and no window, and the air stank of some chemical. The cage had been hoisted into the air; the whole thing had swayed like a pendulum, and with his arms bound he'd banged from one side of the box to another. The walls felt springy and strangely slick, as smooth as his force fields, but there was no light to tell him what they were made of.

At some level he knew he was aboard a helicopter. His inner ear felt each tilt and lift, and rhythmic thrumming penetrated the walls of his cage. The chemical stink never went away, and his head hurt. They'd taken the credit card thing off his forehead when they moved him, but he still found it hard to keep his thoughts in order.

But that was okay. He didn't want to think. He just wanted to shut it all down.

Edward!

His own thoughts were a mess, but there was Gram's voice again, clear as if she was standing next to him in the dark. He'd been hearing her all day, ever since he'd stepped off the bus this morning. At first it was just a game he was playing with himself, imagining what she'd think of what he was doing. He'd always done that, because Gram always seemed to know the right thing to do.

But all day her voice had grown clearer and clearer. And at the end there, when the JigSaw Man's madness threatened to overrun him, Gram had snapped him out of it. He could practically feel her shaking him, telling him she loved him, that she'd never let him become something bad.

Listen to me, Eddy. There ain't much time.

"Hey Gram." Ed replied softly. His tongue felt like it was wrapped in cotton. What was the crap they were pumping into him anyway?

"There sure ain't much time. I think they're going to send me to jail, Gram. They've got me in this box, and I can't see or think or feel anything. I figure I've really screwed the pooch on this one, pardon my French."

He rested his head on the funny wall behind him and stared up into the darkness. Further back, in the darkness of his mind, he could see the door marked "Pender." There was a light beneath it, and he could see the memories it contained casting shadows as they crossed back and forth behind it. Sometimes the doorknob rattled, but he'd put a pretty good lock on that one. Yesirree Bob.

"Do not open 'till Christmas." Ed whispered, and shivered.

"Oh Jesus, Gram… What am I gonna do? How do I fix it now? How come I'm so fucking stupid?"

Edward! Mind your tongue!

Even though she was just a voice in his head, he felt himself flush. Jesus, shamed by an imaginary voice. He was going nuts.

Gram's tone softened.

You'll find a way, Eddy, she said in a softer tone.

You'll have to. I didn't raise you to be no coward. You're a man now, and I only wish—

The voice went silent for a moment.

—I only wish. Oh, Eddy, there's not much time. I don't know how I found you. I was gone, gone into the dark, and I reached for you, but now I can feel the dark all 'round me—

"Not much time…"

"I was gone…"

"Gone into the dark…"

"Not much time…"

No… It's not that. It can't* be that. I need her. I NEED her!

Fear tried to grab him, but there'd been so much of that in the building he was numb to it.

"She's just sleeping, that's all," Ed whispered fiercely to himself in the dark. "It's happening in her sleep, just like it happened to you when you first got the power remember? Ain't nothing more than that you dumbass. She ain't leavin' you, she ain't dy—" 

But oh the suspicion, the not knowing if this was madness or desperation or… He tried to gather his talent, use it to seek her out, find her in the dark. But it was like trying to herd cats. Whatever they were pumping into him, into the box, had scrambled his ESP like breakfast eggs. Maybe she wasn't here at all. Maybe he'd finally snapped. Maybe Maybe Maybe…

"Gram? Gram, don't be afraid. It's just the dark, that's all. Nothin' wrong with the dark. That's when we sleep, and sleep is good. It was always dark when you'd come into my bedroom to tuck me in. There'd be that hall light on, and you'd come in and ask 'How's my boy,' and I'd say 'I ain't sleepy,' and you'd say 'Hush, yes you are,' and you'd kiss me and I knew I was safe and everything would be ok. You're just sleepin' is all, and dreamin'."

"Don't you worry 'bout me ok? I'll do the right thing and I won't run. No more running Gram. I swear it. I'll make you proud."

He brought her face into his mind, opened all the doors of memory he could that held her behind them. And he knew he'd do whatever it took to become in truth what she saw when she looked at him.

"I'll do it. I will. I promise."

A warmth ran through his body. His mind was wide open for her, and suddenly he saw her, with him, more alive than any memory.

Oh! Her eyes were wide with surprise. There you are.

She touched his cheek, and he felt her.

My strong boy. You're shining, do you know that? Like a bright copper penny. Bright as a lighthouse, even in this place.

She looked around at the dark that surrounded them. I don't know what's happening, Eddy. I don't know what it is you're doing to me. I'm feelin'… clearer, somehow. The dark don't feel so cold.

Then she looked up at him, and her eyes turned suddenly sad.

Oh, Eddy.

She lifted a hand to his other cheek, so that she held his face in her hands. Her eyes searched his own.

I remember now. I have to tell you somethin', somethin' important. Quick, before I forget.

She pulled his face down to her, and ran a hand across his eyes. He closed his eyes, and she whispered something into his ear. Then she turned his head, and whispered something into the other ear.

When he opened his eyes, she was gone.

"NO!" Ed shouted. He lurched forward, trying to reach out to his grandmother. He smacked his forhead into the wall of the cage, then slumped to the floor. He was pissed, and he was confused, and more than anything he wanted her back here with him in this horrible place. 

This had never happened before. He knew it was more than memories, more than a ghost he'd conjured to hold the monsters at bay. Something real had occurred, something he couldn't explain. He sneezed, the chemical taste thick in the back of his throat.

"God-dammit" he whispered as he lay in his cage. "God-dammit-all-to-Hell."

"Jonathan."

He opened his eyes, but saw nothing. He lay on his back, staring into darkness. Pain throbbed from his knee to the base of his spine, but it was more distant than it had been a moment before. The air was smelled of straw and lacquer and some perfume he couldn't name. The surface under his back was hard and wooden.

Ah. The Christmas Pageant. He remembered it all now, more clearly than he could when he was awake. He was dreaming again. And now the play was over, the players departed, and the lights extinguished. He was alone.

No… that wasn't true. Someone had spoken his name.

"Dad?"

A familiar laugh came to him out of the dark, somewhere to his right. "Time to get up, son. You can't sleep all day."

"Dad!" He knew he was dreaming, but he didn't care. It was so good to hear the old man's voice. He sat up, ignoring the pain.

He could feel himself in his uniform: the bow solid in his left hand, his uniform tight against his skin, the telescopic sight heavy over his right eye. He wasn't in a child's body anymore.

"Where are you?" Jonathan called. "I can't see you."

"We're right here, Jon." His mother, sounding as young and alive as when he'd last seen her.

They'd been watching the play, he knew. They'd seen the performance, they'd clapped for him, and now they were waiting for him.

He used the bow like a staff and pushed himself to his feet. The pain made him gasp, but he knew this was only a dream, so he set the pain aside.

Jonathan took a step toward the edge of the stage. He still couldn't see them, but caught a whiff of his dad's aftershave. That itself caused a new hurt and he swallowed hard at the lump that rose. He didn't move any closer, just stood awkwardly, shuffling his feet. "Was I any good?"

Just asking that made him mad. He knew that other kid would have done a better job, but he just backed out and said he was okay with being a wise man. Jonathan never wanted the part, didn't even know what he was supposed to do. They were all laughing at him now. He hoped his parents weren't disappointed.

Jonathan took a step backwards and looked down at his feet. "I mean, I worked real hard. I practiced and practiced with Uncle Darius, really I did, but…" He looked back into the empty theatre, "I don't think I was very convincing. I just couldn't get the part to go right. I let everyone down."

"Oh, son, you didn't let us down," his mother said to him from out of the dark. It was maddening to have them so close, yet be unable to see their faces. "Besides, there will be other performances before the night's over."

"You've been hurt twice today in the same way," his father said. "Charging in before you knew the environment, or knew your targets."

"Just like your father," his mother said dryly.

"You have to be better than me. You're playing in a tougher league than I ever faced. I was a brawler, and I was lucky. But you're an archer. Your discipline is one of speed, foresight, and deadly accuracy. You've got to analyze the battlefield, take the high ground, and strike before they know you're there."

"Just look before you leap," his mother said. "It's that simple. You've always been able to see more than you allowed yourself."

They sounded like Uncle Darius in stereo. Jonathan realized how much he'd come to depend on his uncle to fulfill the role his parents had left suddenly open. Something else that was also that other kid's fault, yet everyone seemed to think he was the perfect child. All Jonathan could think about was how to get back at him, but other things kept getting in the way of that.

His parents had always told him revenge was an unsuitable avenue for guilt to follow. Uncle Darius had said that anyone who didn't believe in revenge had never been seriously fucked over.

The problem for Jonathan was that he always saw both points of view but he just couldn't see the right way, the way that felt comfortable for him. Which brought him back to what his mother had said. 

"How can I see more than I already do?" Jonathan asked. "I can't even see you."

"Sure you can," said his father. "This is only a dream, after all. You could make a dozen pink elephants dance through here if you wanted to."

His mother made a shushing noise. "Don't let him distract you, Jonathan. Relax. Think about this morning, outside the Art Institute. Do you remember that moment?"

Jonathan leaned on the bow and thought hard. He was on a field trip with Uncle Darius to a museum. There were a lot of other kids there, including one with a really bad haircut and even worse attitude (but, Jonathan had to admit, he liked him. Maybe even a little envious as well. He was never allowed to wear his hair like that). He thought back to outside the gallery and the images flickered past again, with the same resulting rage that made him dizzy and flush with the suddenness of it. And he recalled a name to call the anger.

"That kid," he almost savored the syllables as he spoke them, "Woodbridge. He was there." The rich little snot was getting out of a limo, wearing some fancy suit, but for a split second, he wore… "Armor. I saw him in a suit of black armor."

"Yes! You weren't trying to see it, and so you did," his mother said. "It's not something you can force. As soon as you tried to concentrate on what you saw, it went away."

"Think of it like a bow shot," his father said. "That 'Zen' thing Darius is always going on about."

"Yeah, and Uncle Darius watches 'Iron Chef' too. How can I see anything when what I hear makes no sense? You never told me the truth and now I don't know what to believe!"

"We can't tell you anything that you don't already know," his mother said.

The voice seemed close, only a few feet away. Then his father spoke, just as close.

"You'll have to feel your way through the dark," he said. "Or use whatever gifts you've been given to see more clearly."

Jonathan peered out into the darkness, trying hard to see them. He thought about what his mother and father said and closed his eyes. When he opened them again, he didn't think about what he expected to see, he simply looked.

Light burst in from a hundred directions.

A voice said, "Crossfire?"

"He may be playin' possum, so be careful!" Buck said. "Move in and fire at will with the stunners." Stranger, trussed in the net, didn't move as bolt after bolt struck his body. 

Eli stopped and stared, amazed at the amount of firepower they were concentrating on just one man. But would it work?

He took a few more steps closer to the Stranger, the harmonics of the weapons fire caressing his stone body like waves lapping at the shores of Lake Eerie.

Finally the sonic barrage ceased, and Stranger still lay in the net, inert.

"I'll take a closer look," Maggie offered on the radio, landing and slowly edging forward with her taser dart ready. "I have a better chance of taking a hit and walking away." 

Buck had the men hold their fire, and Maggie moved close enough to see the skin at the man's neck. She could see his chest moving, so he was still breathing. She knelt and felt the pulse at the man's neck. His heartbeat was strong and steady.

"I think he's out," Maggie said finally. "Best pack him up quickly, before he comes to."

F.M. Buck, up on his ludicrous stilts, stumped across the parking lot like the bastard child of a penguin and a whooping crane. In the sky behind him, the helicopter angled closer, and the little man had to raise his voice to be heard. "We're bringing down a GodBox—the only one we've got left up there, what with the other two in the Chinook occupied by a pile of rubble and the psycho psychic. But it ought to hold him, if we get him into it before he wakes up."

"Ma-a-aggie," Goo said. "A word?"

Goo motioned Maggie off to one side.

Maggie nodded quietly and followed the plasmatic meta.

The PRIMUS agents in the helicopter had dragged a rectangular box, about ten feet high and and six feet wide, to the open cargo door. They attached a cable to the top of it and pushed it out. The big container was lowered, swinging, to the pavement.

"What are you going to do with him?" Eli asked. But his voice was lost in the backwash from the chopper. The box looked… well… really really horrible. Like a giant coffin or pressure cooker. And was he next to go in the shiny little box once they'd taken care of Stranger?

Hrmm…

He stepped away from the action, putting at least twenty feet between himself and the box. If he had to run, he wanted at least a fighting chance.

"Ma-a-aggie," Goo whispered. "PRI-I-IMUS. Don't trust. But what to do-o-o? Cops can't hold Stranger."

There was another reason that Goo didn't mention. With only a little bit of reflection, Goo had discovered in itself a deep-seated dislike of the police. It nurtured similar feelings toward PRIMUS, but they were tempered by a defensive fondness toward the organization.

"Think we should let PRI-I-IMUS take Stranger, but must get to bottom of PRI-I-IMUS mystery, right away," Goo concluded. "First thing, need old job back."

Maggie couldn't be sure, but it seemed that Goo was looking in the direction of acting Silver Avenger Laura Pender.

"Well, considering what happened to you, I don't think it will be easy or quick to get your job back." Maggie flipped up her visor, tossed a piece of chewing gum in her mouth, and rubbed her chin. "I think Stranger will be safe enough in PRIMUS' custody, but I think I'll suggest to Hammersmith that a policeman be sent to watch over him, just in case. I don't think it's the whole of PRIMUS that's rotten here, just some particularly nasty bits." 

She clasped her hands behind her back and began pacing. "It's difficult to figure out who we can trust. I'm pretty confident in Hammersmith. Agent Pender doesn't strike me as being party to the conspiracy; considering the risk she put herself in, I'm inclined to say she's on our side. As for Mr. Buck…" She stopped, and looked with narrowed eyes at the small man on his stilts, wondering for a moment whether he was listening in with another of his gadgets. "I can't say, really. He hasn't shown much leaning either way, yet. He's been acting professionally and with nothing untowards so far, so I'm inclined to give him the benefit of the doubt for the time being."

Still standing in the Stranger-sized hole, Pender shook her head as she took in the scene before her. She had no idea what was going on, but it didn't surprise her. First Crossfire's attack on Ed, then Ed's attack on her, and now this. They spent more time fighting each other than the bad guys.

Not that this came as much of a surprise; metas were characteristically unstable, each thinking he or she was the end-all solution to whatever the problem might be, so it was almost inevitable that when a few of them got together they didn't immediately form committees and pass bylaws. It was something else entirely—something Goo had shouted to Stranger, the context lost on her—that had stopped her in her uncertain tracks.

"I'm Silver Ave-e-enger!"

Maybe it had been lying. Or maybe it was the truth. Either one seemed equally likely, all things considered. Whatever the case, its glance in her direction was unmistakable, and then it was engrossed in conversation with Maggie. Goo kept itself in one place, while the young woman paced and chewed gum thoughtfully.

"Raj?" Pender asked, stepping towards them—tentatively at first, then with increasing confidence as she sorted out her priorities. "Ms. Thorin," she called out, "did I hear you friend there claim to be a Silver Avenger?"

Maggie stopped her pacing, looked at Pender, then looked at Goo questioningly. "I think he can speak for himself," she said laconically.

Goo formed something like a human head and turned it towards Pender.

"Acting Pender," it said. "I a-a-am Silver Avenger Raj Pirhu. Among others.

"A-a-and I require my job ba-a-ack."

Maggie looked curiously at Pender, wondering how she was going to react to THAT.

"Then I hope you are Raj, because as far as I'm concerned," Pender replied, looking from side to side at the chaos of the parking lot, "you can have it. Not that PRIMUS is going to make a giant amoeba Silver Avenger, no matter how much of that amoeba may or may not actually be a Silver Avenger. No offense, of course, but Raj would be thinking the same thing."

It was hard not to laugh from the absurdity of it all. Chicago takes a day off to go to Hell, she thought, and in the middle of it a great ball of goo tells you it's your boss, and a few other people besides. And that's supposed to be a good thing.

"Guess I should call Ferreras," she added, for her own benefit.

"Raj thinking same?" Goo queried, rhetorically. "Ma-a-aybe. Maybe not. True, Pri-i-imus has thing against metas. Discrimina-a-ation, even. Corporate suits, fear change. Fear di-i-ifference.

"But Silver Avenger? Does right thing. Fights goo-oo-ood fight.

"This. This!" Goo made a motion that, Pender supposed, was an wave indicating its own body. "Workplace injury. Ee ee oh cee-ee-ee. Ay dee-ee-ee ay.

"Pri-i-imus can't take job away. They try. They e-e-even try, I'll shove Johnny Co-o-ochran up their corporate a-a-ass!"

Pender offered no immediate response, but instead produced her cell phone. "Ferreras," she said, after a pause, eyes still locked on Goo as she spoke. "We found SA Pirhu. Cook County, and yes."

She clicked the thing shut, then cracked a rare smile. "You had me at 'corporate ass.' Good to have you back, Raj. I'd shake your hand if you had one."

A few feet away, the grey-haired dwarf directed the squad of PRIMUS agents as they scrambled to contain Stranger before he came to. Three agents were covering him with their big rifles, and two others were rearranging the panels of the large metal box they'd lowered from the helicopter.

These weren't regular MCTs, Pender realized. On their shoulders they wore the Black Rook patch of the Stronghold specialists. What looked like standard armor and weaponry was definitely not: the ceramic plates under the fabric looked thicker, and the helmets were bulkier. And those rifles. At first glance they looked like Brick-Busters, but the stocks were twice as thick, and two metal canisters hung under the barrel like grenade launchers.

The Stronghold contingent explained the dwarf. Pender had heard about the consultant but had never met him.

The box was ready. Two of the crew lifted the unconscious Stranger, still wrapped in white nets, and carried him to the box, which resembled nothing so much as a high-tech porta-potty. There was a little metal seat there, and big straps to keep the unconscious man upright. It was much smaller inside than out, hinting at thick armor or technological gadgets between the walls. It better be both, Pender thought, if they expected to keep Stranger in that thing.

When the masked man was inside, the crew closed the fourth panel, and F.M. Buck walked over to the group. He nodded politely at Pender, evidently not recognizing her, and addressed Maggie. "All righty, he's rocked and locked. I can wake him gradually if you want to talk to him, or I can take him out with the others. I'm setting up a temporary containment center at the Chicago headquarters, but as soon as we can we'll want to get him to Stronghold."

"I don't think he'll be very inclined to talk to us after this little fracas," she said. She looked to Pender and added, "Unless you have something you want to ask him, but Raj here saw everything that happened in the van."

Pender blinked. The van? "As long as SA Pirhu was a witness, I don't think we need to hear from August." Which suited Pender—the less she had to do with him, the better. He may have saved her life from Jigsaw, but in the last few hours it had become clear he was just as likely to take it if the fancy struck him. "The sooner he's in Stronghold, the better."

Maggie unhooked her helmet and took it off, then popped a bar of chewing gum in her mouth. "We need to hear that story, and compare notes, I'd say. There are too many threads mixed up in this whole story, we need to untangle this skein a bit. All this action must not make us lose track of the other issues at hand."

"Agreed. I have a feeling that we could've sorted this out earlier today if we'd only had time to put the pieces together."

"Haven't had much time to stop and take a breather lately," Maggie concurred.

"Alrighty, then," Buck said. "Hoist her away, boys!" Two of the PRIMUS crew picked up the cable and hook still dangling from the chopper and dragged it toward the box. The dwarf turned to the group. "I'll get him squared away. Now, about the other three weirdos from the van. I want them locked down as well, and Reinhardt-Mapes needs to get that hand looked at."

"Given their PRIMUS history", Maggie suggested, "maybe it would be best if they were left in police custody. Even if that's a red herring it would look better for the conflict-of-interest hawks, and after all, they don't require any special containment measures."

Pender nodded. It was becoming increasingly clear that she had missed some significant developments while tending to the baby, but all of this would be Raj's call now. The baby, she suddenly remembered—the reason she'd come out here in the first place. This was not the time to broach the subject, however. Buck was still an unknown variable as far as she was concerned, as was, unfortunately, Raj. She had no idea if his thoughts or actions were always his own, or if they were influenced by the others stuck in that amoebic mass with him. It would have to wait.

Instead, she asked, "What about the androids? Still inactive, I assume?"

"Very," Maggie said. "Since we've hauled away their controllers. Of course we should be careful and disable them more permanently, in case there is another control system that could be used to retrieve them by our suspects' accomplices."

"Accomplices," Goo nodded in agreement. "That's the thi-i-ing. Missing piece of pu-u-uzzle. Who are accomplices?"

"I think I may have an idea," Pender ventured, "but until we all have a chance to confer at length, I can't be sure." She paused, then shifted gears. "Things seem to be under control out here—at least, it doesn't look like they're getting any worse." Turning to Maggie, she asked, "Ms. Thorin, could I speak to you inside for a moment?

Maggie looked at her thoughtfully for a moment, blowing a large bubble of gum, before she answered. "Very well. Lead the way."

"Be right back, Raj," Pender said, trying to cover up their awkward departure. "Girl stuff."

Goo watched the two women walk away, confused. But Goo is a girl, it thought. Partly. Probably.

The "girls" walked toward the hole Stranger had left in the hospital entrance, already talking. The roar of the helicopter masked their words.

"Nobody tells Goo anything," it said quietly.

Above, the steel box that held Stranger was pulled through the door of the helicopter, and the aircraft turned toward the southern end of the parking lot.

Down by the ambulance bay doors, two agents were pushing the inert form of the Ken robot into another one of those boxes. And behind Goo—or rather, in front of it, now that Goo had turned it's attention in that direction—F.M. Buck and the PRIMUS agents on the ground had moved back to the van. Two agents were stuffing the Barbie robot into one of the ubiquitous steel boxes. Another agent was hooking an IV to Reinhardt-Mapes, who was strapped down into a stretcher. His handcuffed cohorts looked on with worried expressions. The dwarf stood on the hood of the car, watching all of this with a satisfied smile.

Crossfire looked toward the voice that had called his name. 

Next to him, the reverse of a silhouette—a man shaped in hard light, defined by shadow. The light held its shape, but continuously shifted into colors he couldn't name. At first he thought it must be his father, but the silhouette did not match his father at all. And that was in a dream. He was awake now,

Still, he recognized that shape. It belonged to someone—no, the silhouette was someone he knew.

Beyond this shining man, two other human-shaped lights, walking away from him. These new lights were dimmer, more hazed, as if some scrim lay between Jonathan and them. As sure as he had recognized the shining man beside him, he knew these others were strangers. Two women; he could tell by the way they carried themselves.

He glanced down, and wasn't surprised to see his own arms and legs glowing, though perhaps his left leg burned less bright than the other. He'd left the dream, and woken up to something stranger.

"Crossfire!" said the voice, and it belonged to the burning man.

And all around in the far darkness glowed dozens of other lights, some near and bright, others barely visible. He turned his head and saw others. Turned again, and winced against a sudden flare.

Behind him, and somewhere below him, burned a fire that outshone everything else. There was distance between him and the fire, and a substance between them that diffused its light. He sensed that if it weren't for that distance and diffusion, he wouldn't have been able to look directly at it.

He turned away, and saw another bright light, this one approaching the fire. It was too far away to see clearly, but the way the light moved seemed familiar.

"Dude! Talk to me! You all right?"

Jonathan ignored Stokes' voice—Stokes, how had he known it was Stokes? He just did— and fought the urge to cup his hand over his eyes to shield them from the glare so he could see better. The archer knew that wouldn't work, that he wasn't really seeing anyway and thought about it no further.

Christine McVie sang to him not to break the spell, but it also sounded a little like his mother. Jonathan watched for an infinite second longer, colors cascading all about him, then he suddenly saw. And a room came into view.

"The baby. We have to save him," Jonathan said. And he knew they'd have to save him from Woodbridge.

His bed was surrounded by machinery, most of it connected to him by tubes and wires. One wall of the room was glass, and beyond that was a a nurse's station. A few doctors and perhaps a dozen nurses hurried about their tasks.

Jonathan was sitting up in the bed. Stokes, looking as haggard as ever, had his hand on Jonathan's shoulder. The detective's other hand was heavily bandaged and supported by a sling.

Jonathan himself was in much worse shape. His costume had been removed, and he wore a hospital gown—what Darius called a Mandatory Humiliation Garment*. His left leg was above the sheet, secured to a plastic board. Large squares of thick gauze, some tainted with pink blood seeping up, covered most of the leg. His toes, however, looked fine, and he was relieved to see them move.

He felt a dull throbbing in the leg, but it was nothing compared to the searing pain that had racked his body while he was talking to Pender, and knew that he must be on some serious pain meds.

"Man," Stokes said. "You look like you saw a ghost."

"The baby, we have to save him," Jonathan said. And he knew they'd have to save him from Woodbridge.

Stokes regarded him, then seemed to decide that Crossfire wasn't delusional. "What baby? Where?" he asked seriously.

Jonathan knew it was a good sign that Stokes took him so seriously right away. Then again, maybe not. Jonathan was pretty hopped up and had no way to trust what he was feeling. But the detective was right—he had seen a ghost. Two of them in fact.

"I'm not sure where exactly, at least a floor or two down and behind me. A lady was brought in from where Jigsaw was found. She gave birth and there's something about that baby that's more important than anything else that's happened today, although how I don't know."

Crossfire looked around for his bow and arrows. "The only place I'd trust that baby, and her mother, to be safe is right here with us. There's someone after the child, his name is Woodbridge, and he's bad news."

"Okay," Stokes said. "Got it. And your stuff is under the bed."

Stokes knew the archer well enough to understand that he wouldn't take this lying down. Jonathan twisted up on his elbows, grimacing as much from the pun as the stiffness in his joints. "Fine, hit the panic button and get a nurse over here to unwire me from this mess."

The detective reached out and pressed the button. "So, who's this Woodbridge?"

Jonathan thought about that for a moment. Who was Woodbridge, really? First, there was a fleeting glimpse one night only a year ago. The meeting had told Jonathan nothing, yet it revealed the path it looked his life would take. Each month thereafter, he filled his days with constant training, each exercise sharpening his thirst for vengeance.

But what did he know about he man? A series of stories: The vague references his parents had made while alive… the "secret history" lesson Darius had given him on the plane this morning… the bland equivocations Woodbridge had provided at the Art Institute. Each story was elaborately detailed, but each rang false—not from obvious lies, but by what was left unstated, or else twisted by each teller's own perceptions of the truth. 

Even the message from the dream he'd just awoken from couldn't be trusted. Had he really spoken to the ghosts of his parents, or merely to drug- and failure-induced phantasms?

Yet in the dream he'd found at least a way to get at the answers. He had to look with his own eyes, and find the truth with his own heart and mind. No one could tell him what the reality was. He'd have to assemble the story for himself, and there was at least one piece of the puzzle already in place.

"Who's Woodbridge?" the archer finally said. "He has my job, and my family wants it back." He looked over at the scarlet scraps of his costume that hung over a metal chair. "Woodbridge is a knight, a champion for the whole world, and old enough to have been there when civilization was just getting out of the cradle. Problem is, the job isn't supposed to be his. He's remained alive all this time, but not without taking some good people out along the way. Including my parents."

"I don't really know who Woodbridge is anymore than I know what I've become now." He reached out and picked up his mask, looking at it in his hands. The telescopic lens stared coldly back at him. With it, he could sight down the crosshairs and read the date on a coin flipped by someone fifty yards away. Without it, he could truly see. 

He tossed it away, and the mask skid across the floor and into the corner. 

"But I know who I am. I'm Jonathan Blake. I'm the guy that has to stop Woodbridge, and saving that baby is number one on my agenda." He nodded toward the wheelchair parked outside the glass doors. "Once a nurse frees me from this spider's web, grab me that chair and get me into it. Time to tilt us a few windmills."

Knowing what he did now, Jonathan was no more sure that he could continue on as Crossfire than he was sure he had what it took to be an actual knight. But, as he watched Stokes awkwardly steer back a wheelchair with one hand, he knew he had a squire he could count on.

A nurse followed Stokes into the room. She quickly scanned the readouts on the machines, then looked toward the two men. "Is there something wrong?"

Jonathan raised his hands so it got caught up in the various tubes and wires. "Not if you get me unhooked from all this stuff."

"I'm afraid that's just not possible—you've just had major surgery, Mr.… Crossfire."

"You can either get these off and help get me mobile, now, or I start doing it myself. Stokes, flash her your badge or something." For added emphasis, the archer pulled off one of the wires from his chest, and an alarm began to sound.

The nurse backed away from him and called back over her shoulder. "Doctor? Doctor!" She turned and hurried out through the glass door. Crossfire began to pull the I-V tubes from his arms.

"Hope you know what you're doin', man," Stokes said, laughing. He held the wheelchair steady.

"Did you know what you were doing every time you went undercover?" Crossfire yanked the last tubes free. "Me neither, so let's just go with the flow."

Crossfire tried to ignore the high-pitched alarms and concentrate on the best way to get into the chair. Then he recalled his gymnastics training. Using the metal rails of the bed like parallel bars, he levered himself up by his arms, then crossed one arm over to other bar, rolled his hips, and twisted his legs across and down. That couldn't be good for the leg, but it was a booster shot for his ego. Both of them needed to heal.

Jonathan marveled at the painkillers; a move like that should have at least popped a few beads of sweat from his brow. He grinned up at Stokes. "Grab my bow and arrows, would you?" The grin was partly bravado, but he didn't know if he was doing it for the detective's benefit or his own. "And I'll need you to push."

"You got it, m'man." The detective put the weapons on Crossfire's lap, and shoved off. 

There was some commotion outside the door. The wheelchair almost ran over the doctor's foot as they came out of the room. Jonathan looked past the doctor to the elevators, and oriented himself to where he'd seen the lights below. The elevators put him further away from the lights by another ten yards, but there was no helping it: he had to get down at least a floor.

"Where do you think you're going?" the doctor bellowed.

"For a second opinion." Jonathan barely spared him a glance as he pulled a blanket off the bed to cover his lap. The bow was folded down by his thigh and the quiver was across his knees; he could tell the difference between the arrows by the notches on the fletched end. 

The doctor, flustered now, turned and stalked toward the phone by the nurse's station.

"Let's get over to the elevator, Stokes. If anybody tries to stop us, arrest them."

The detective wheeled Jonathan quickly to the elevator and pressed the down button. "Okay, so if we run into this Woodbridge guy, you expect a firefight?"

"Not sure what to expect, so expect anything. Listen, this guy killed my parents. He comes off like the valedictorian at a high school." He looked up at Stokes, "In fact, he looks like he's still in high school. But trust me, things aren't always what they appear to be."

The elevator dinged and slid open, and Stokes turned Jonathan and backed into the compartment. The doctor, the surgery nurse, and two male staffers were hurrying toward them. The door slid closed on their shocked faces.

Jonathan looked up at the row of numbers across the top of the doorway. They were on the first floor, so he pressed the button for B1, and the compartment lurched into motion. Standing, he would never have noticed the jolt, but in the chair the sensation seemed magnified. 

Time had passed since he'd awakened from the dream, and he knew he had to be sure about this. The archer closed his eyes and allowed his will to drop away, a meditation exercise Darius had taught him. The Zen of the moment carried everything else away and he opened his eyes.

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* MHG courtesy of another story entirely. Back to Text.