The strangest aspect about the building was the fact that it had no windows. It was in the middle of the brownstone-filled district of Parodiopolis called Shelton, a blue-collar residential area of the city that had a few small businesses and a couple factories. The building was built of brick, and had but one single door as any potential ingress or egress. It was quite mysterious.
It was not mysterious, however, to the inhabitants of said building. They claimed to be a secret government faction trying to overthrow some kind of terrorist cell, but would not divulge their true purpose to even their main covert operator, their star employee, the walking corpse named Dead Boy.
“Play the tape again,” said a figure. He sat in darkness on a solitary chair, facing a lone monitor. A tape rewound itself, and then played out for him.
“Name?” a voice from off-camera asked. The only figure visible on the tape was a pale man with stringy hair and a nervous demeanor.
“I don’t know,” the young man replied. “I can’t remember…much.”
“Do you remember anything?”
“Not really,” the young man said. He swallowed noisily. “All I know is that I woke up one morning in a shallow grave with three bullet holes in my chest. How I got there? I…I really don’t know.”
“You’re a nobody,” the voice told him. “You have no identity, no life. You match no missing persons profile and your fingerprints are unidentifiable.”
The young undead man shifted uneasily in his seat. “What are you getting at?” he asked, with a mix of frustration and quietly reserved anger in his slightly hoarse voice.
There was a sound as if papers were being shuffled and tapped against the top of a desk. “You do not exist. And therefore, you are perfect for our purposes.”
“Who are you?” the young man demanded. “What purposes? Why did you bring me here?”
“You agreed to come with one of our agents.”
“I agreed to come because you said you could help out my neighborhood,” the young man explained. “You said you could find out who I was…”
“We work for the government; that is all you need to know. We’re recruiting field agents for covert operations against deadly science terrorists.” The voice cleared its throat. “You’re perfect for our needs.”
The young man sighed, and placed his head in his hands. “Why me?” he said.
“You don’t exist,” the voice elucidated. “You are untraceable. No one would be able to find you or track you down. You are also, as it seems, quite impervious to harm. You can be injured, but it won’t hurt you much, or kill you, as you are already dead. You are the perfect candidate for our agency.”
“And why should I go along with you? I’m not really good at fighting terrorists…”
“You’ve already proven yourself adept at fighting, as evidenced by your…transgressions…with local gangs in the docks areas of Seedy Town. We can train you further. You will also need to be skilled in stealth, and armed fighting. Do you know how to fire a gun correctly?”
“I…don’t know. But--“
“We can help you,” the voice responded. “If you agree to work with us, we will work with you to discover your identity, who you really are. And also,” the voice said, “we will give you this.”
A gun-shaped object slid into view of the camera. It was an injector, filled with some kind of liquid. “What is this?” questioned the young man.
“You may be able to walk, breath, and speak, but you are still, in scientific terms, dead. We believe your body will soon begin to decompose. Injecting this into your bloodstream should keep your body from rotting. It will also heal recent and minor wounds.” The voice paused. “The liquid is filled with special serums and nanites to keep your boat afloat, as it were. And, of course, there is copious compensation for your assistance.”
“So…” the young man began. He paused. “If I…if I agree to…to work for you, you’ll keep me existing? And find out who I am.”
“And we will pay you,” the voice added. “Don’t forget that.”
The young man looked at the injector in front of him. “So what do I call you?”
“That depends. What do we call you?”
The young man stopped again. “I hadn’t really thought about that,” he said.
“You may call me Mr. White,” the voice said, “a pseudonym in reference to the color of my tie.” The young man nodded. “And may we call you by the codename of Dead Boy?”
The young man thought about this. “Do you have to?”
“Do you have a better suggestion?”
The young man thought again. “Not really.”
“Dead Boy it is, then. That is, if you agree to work with us. Will you?”
There was a pause.
“I’m in,” Dead Boy replied.
The tape stopped.
The solitary figure in the chair tapped his fingertips together, contemplating something. “I’m still not so sure about this,” he said to himself. “The repercussions if something goes wrong could be…”
Just then, at that exact moment, the door to the room burst in, and the lights came on. “Damn you,” Dead Boy hollered, tossing a box at the figure. “Damn you to hell.”
The figure had quick reflexes, catching the box. “Thank you,” he said.
Dead Boy collapsed on the floor and leaned against the wall. “Damn you…” he muttered again. “I quit. I damn well quit…”
“I see you’re under distress,” Mr. Black observed. “Thank you for bringing the box,” he added. “We need this for our plans to be worthwhile.”
“Didn’t you hear me, Black?” Dead Boy replied angrily. “I. Quit.”
“Why, did something go wrong in the field?”
Dead Boy shouted. “You know what’s going on! You already know what happened in ArachKnight City! That damn Paper Cut almost killed me, and the Yakuza…I barely got out of there alive!”
“Or a close facsimile thereof,” Mr. Black smirked. “It seems you are fine, after all. I trust you followed the agreement by not looking in the box? Well?”
“I didn’t see what was in it,” Dead Boy told him. “I was too busy getting shot at to notice. Japanese buggers. I’m not going out there again.”
“But you’re contractually obligated. Danger is your profession with us.”
“I don’t care! I’m not going to keep putting myself in danger for reasons you don’t even feel like telling me about!” The living corpse bashed his hand against the wall. “If you’d just let me in on what you’re getting at---“
“It’s secret,” Mr. Black said. “Government business only. A need-to-know basis.”
“I need to know!” Dead Boy retaliated. “If you’re going to keep sending me out there in mortal danger to risk un-life and limb, I better damn know what’s going on! You’re a bunch of vague jargon-speaking guys in suits with your little codenames and hideouts and shady motives and sunglasses and that…that smell of a dentist with too much cologne...”
“Do you really want to know?” Mr. Black asked.
“…and if you would just let me in on…wait, what? I…well, yeah.” Dead Boy was a bit confused now. “I just need a reason to work for your shady little organization.”
“Besides the pay, the serum that keeps you alive, and the agents we’ve got working on the mystery of your identity?” Mr. Black almost laughed. “We employ you for a very specific reason. We’re not really fighting terrorists here.”
“We’re not?”
“No, terrorism is for Tom Ridge and straight-laced white-collar apple-pie-eating crew cuts that don’t even know which way they’re facing. No, we’re after something much bigger than simple terrorism or even your average super-villain.”
“Then what is it?”
“There’s a war going on, you see, and we plan to solve it.”
“What? Tell me, damn it!”
“Aliens, Mr. Dead Boy,” Mr. Black declared. “Aliens. They’re building their forces, biding their time, getting weaponry and running crime on earth. They think they can take over our planet, but we won’t let them, you see. No, America doesn’t back down from interstellar scum like them.”
“Like who?”
Mr. Black continued. “The Skree,” he said. “You may have heard of them.”
Dead Boy looked at him blankly. “Not really.”
“They almost conquered the Earth a few times…probably before you became undead, which might involve your inability to remember. Yes, the Skree are planning something terrible, and we’re not exactly sure yet. But the contents of this box you delivered to us should help us greatly with information.”
“Why? What’s in it?”
“I’m afraid I can’t tell you,” the man with the black tie said. “It’s confidential. Even to you.”
Dead Boy sighed. “Fine,” he said. “Whatever. I just need…I need a break. I’m going.”
“Fare thee well for now, Mr. Dead Boy,” Mr. Black said. “We will see you tomorrow.”
“Yeah…” Dead Boy mumbled. “…tomorrow…”
Dead Boy didn’t even register himself leaving and walking in the direction of his current home. It was a crappy little room in a crappy little “apartment building” which resembled something of a bathroom if a tornado had run through it and dropped it in the middle of a cesspool. And, fittingly, it was near a cemetery.
Dead Boy collapsed onto his ratty little bed and tried to sleep. Eventually he succeeded. He may have almost gotten killed, again, that day, but then, tomorrow was always another day, and always just one day away.
Dead Boy realized the TV was on, and Little Orphan Annie was playing. He turned it off and then fell asleep again.
“Well?” Mr. White asked Mr. Black. “What do you think?”
Mr. Black watched Dead Boy sleep through the mini-camera they had his hovel bugged with. “I’m not sure,” he said. “He may prove to be too…uncontrollable.”
“Do you think he believed you today?”
“Oh, I’m almost sure of it. It seems too weighty for him to comprehend, but then, he should expect it. This is Parodiopolis, after all.”
“We shouldn’t let him get too rebellious. He can prove to be a useful weapon in the war.”
“I think so too,” Mr. Black replied. “As long as he continues to believe the lies.”
“Indeed,” said Mr. White. “And the experiments are proceeding apace. Once they’re complete we won’t even need him anymore.”
“And no one will miss him when we eventually dispose of him,” Mr. Black added. “No one misses a nobody. Especially one that’s already deceased.”
To Be Continued…
Next issue: A special guest-star narrates a meeting betwixt himself and our star Dead Boy. Three hints: He’s old, British, and is the Keeper of the Chronometer of Infinity. And no, it isn’t Santa.
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