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Post By The Hooded Hood offers this additional interlude catching up on a few missing cast members Sat Oct 09, 2004 at 08:36:08 am EDT |
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#177: Untold Tales of the Transworlds Challenge: Pit Stops | |
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#177: Untold Tales of the Transworlds Challenge: Pit Stops It was a dingy cellar bar in Reno, filled with smoke and loud jukebox music and drunken bikers in a mean mood. She was a sleek brunette in leathers, and her high heels clicked on the stairs as she made her way down into the room. Apart from two worn and wary barmaids and a couple of hookers crouched in dark corners she was the only woman there. “Sorry boys,” she told the first men who approached her, “I’m here on business, not leisure. And also I have a sense of smell.” They didn’t like that, some rich bitch from uptown strutting past them like a fetishwear fantasy come true and ignoring them like they were lowlife scum. Women who strayed into this establishment quickly learned their place in life, which was pretty much held down on the pool table. The bikers made the mistake of reaching out to seize Lisa L. Waltz. She moved with ruthless precision. Her first elbow jab slammed into a beer gut, then her other palm came up and dislocated a jaw. She spun and a razor-sharp stiletto punctured the biker behind her. She punched backwards and a nose crumpled into a bloody flower. Then the fight began in earnest, as bikers seized up pool cues and broken bottles and bike chains and weighed in to the melee. Lisa lashed out with fist and boot, and when the fifty-to-one odds started to tell she relented and uncoiled the long black leather whip from her hip. She hurled the men around and pommeled them with the bulbous metal end of her lash-handle. She ducked low so they would gash each other with their furious lunges, rolled under the pinball machine and came up with a neat left hook. The fight took around five minutes, and then she stepped over the piles of unconscious bodies and groaning injured men and reapplied her lipstick. She made her way to the bar, where the one customer who hadn’t got into the fight was still sipping his whiskey sour. “Thanks for the help,” she said to him. “You didn’t need it. And if you had needed it you’d have summonsed someone to aid you.” “True,” agreed the first lady of the Lair Legion. “I’ve been looking for you.” “I know,” answered the Chronicler of Stories. “And now you’re going to help me,” Lisa told him.  It was a quiet café in Tel Aviv, with small check-clothed tables spreading out onto the crowded sidewalk. A harried waiter rushed from customer to customer, trying to do too much and getting it wrong. The pavement crowds milled past on their way to work. She was a lithe raven-haired beauty in a jogging leotard, her long tresses gathered into a pony-tail behind her by a bright pink scrunchie. She came up beside the waiter and steadied his tray just as it began to wobble. “Not like that,” she advised him, adjusting his hold on the metal disc. “Like this.” The waiter started to thank her but she’d already moved on to the people at the tables. “Please be patient,” she said to them. “Can’t you see this poor lad’s trying his best under difficult circumstances? I know you all want your breakfasts, but try to be considerate to him as well, okay? After all, you might be hungrier and thirstier for half a minute more, but you’ll have done something nice for another human being.” Although not all the customers present understood English, improbably they all got the gist of what she was telling them. “Oh, and be sure to tip generously,” Dancer added A young woman with short bottle-blonde hair looked up from her croissant. “I take it you’re here to see me?” the Shaper of Worlds recognised. “I will be in a few moments,” Sarah Shepherdson acknowledged. “In the meantime can you arrange for people to understand what I’m saying to them for a little while?” “I guess so,” agreed the keeper of beginnings. “What else do you have to say to these poor customers?” But Dancer wasn’t speaking to the customers. Instead she pressed through the crowd and talked to a young woman who was pushing her way forward despite her heavy shopping bags. “No!” called the Shaper, but it was too late. “You really don’t want to do this,” Shep said to the woman. “I know you’re hurting and desperate but this isn’t the solution.” The suicide bomber looked up in alarm and reached for her detonator, but Dancer’s hand caught her wrist. “I know they’re promising you a place in heaven and a pension for your family and free education for your children and all that, but you have to know deep inside that killing other people’s children is deeply wrong.” Shaper almost rose from her table. “Dancer, don’t…” But it was too late. The woman was handing over her bomb-filled shopping bags to Sarah Shepherdson, turning round, going home. “You weren’t supposed to avert that,” Shaper observed as Dancer returned to her table and ordered a latté. “That was the start of something horrible and huge.” “And you have to supervise beginnings,” Dancer acknowledged. “But I don’t have to follow the rules you do, and I bet there’s a part of you that’s relieved that’s so, isn’t there?” “A part of me, yes,” agreed the Shaper of Worlds. “Thanks” “You’re welcome,” answered Sarah Shephersdon, her face dimpling as she smiled. “And now I need your help.”  It was a sleazy ship-stop on a desolate asteroid somewhere near Orion. The bar was lit with cheap neon strips that only made it look more dingy, and cast unpleasant shadows on the women who danced naked on the counters. The thug at the door was nine feet tall, and he had tusks pushing up from his lower jaw. He stopped the stranger in the black denims from going inside. “Not tonight, pal. Private party.” “Really?” the tall man with the shock of red hair asked. “Because I heard they were recruiting.” “So? You don’t have a rep, you don’t go in. And if you had a rep I’d know you.” The stranger nodded as he considered this, then smashed a fist into the bouncer’s gut and a second into his descending face. The tusk-jawed muscle folded like a deck chair. “Now you know me,” said the stranger. The recruiting officer near the door observed this and beckoned him in. “Name?” the clerk asked. “Don Thursday,” answered the newcomer. “Go wait on the floor. Get yourself a drink, the bar’s free tonight. Get ready, because only the survivors will get the jobs.” The big man shouldered his way to the counter and demanded an ale. It clearly wasn’t to his liking. “Pfaugh! What is this swill?” Since there wasn’t any point in waiting he decided to start the fight now. Ten minutes later there was a crash like the breaking of heaven and a Zoom Tube burst open at the bar’s entrance. Dark Thugos, Destroyer of Tales, stalked through the time/space rend, his hands behind his back, and observed the carnage. Every warrior in the bar was piled into a heap, and none of them was moving. Sitting atop them Donar cheerfully greeted the archvillain’s arrival. “Heilsa, foul fiend! I hast sought thee out at the behest of mine lady Lisa and mine lady Dancer to demand of thee a boon!”  It was a plush reception lounge, and the bar glittered with ornate gold panelling. One wall of the room was transparent, showing the glittering starscape and the blush of a nearby nebula. The steward scanned the new arrivals and announced them. “Nitz the Bloody, Priest of Zeku, of Terra, in the Sol System, and his party.” “Now just walk in,” Ebony of Nubilia whispered to the young man who everyone was staring at. “Don’t rush, and don’t look uncertain. You’re proud and powerful and we can face whatever they throw at us.” “That’s right,” agreed Falcon, acting as security for the clerical delegation. “And I’m fully loaded for bear.” Nitz did as he was instructed, hoping his metal mask was able to hide his sweating forehead. This reception was one of a series of social events on the Gameship, a formal gathering of the various spiritual leaders who has received the challenge and designated world champions. Nitz was willing to bet that none of the clerics, shamen, inquisitors, imperial wizards, cult leaders, living personifications and bone-pointers present had to cope with a talking rhinoceros. He was almost at his table when his way was blocked by the Heirophant of Frammistat Eight. “Heretic!” he shouted at the young Priest of Zeku. “You consort with an unclean creature!” “Well, he’s a rhino,” Nitz pointed out. “They kind of wallow, y’know.” “Her!” the Heirophant screeched, pointing a webbed finger at Ebony. “The bride of the abomination!” “It’s purely honorary, I assure you,” Ebony answered coolly. “The Manga Shoggoth is happily married. I just sort out his memorabilia needs, and sometimes read stories to C’thandra.” “Recusant! Heretic! Servant of the Nether Spawn!” “Hey, back off buggy,” Falcon warned. “The lady’s with us.” “It’s quite alright,” Ebony assured her companions as more clergy came over to join in the accusations. “There’s a perfectly simple way of clearing all this us.” She reached for the amulet around her throat. “I’ll just summon the Shoggoth here to explain things, shall I?” The collected priests went rather quiet. “Or we could just sit quietly back at our tables and practise some ecumenical tolerance?” she suggested. Nitz staggered to his table and plumped down. “Boy am I glad that my leather pants are brown,” he noted.  “I can’t interfere with anything to do with the Resolution War,” the Chronicler of Stories told Lisa bluntly. “Early on in the game when Resolution used the genetic command imperatives built into humanity by the Celestians he took control of me and the other major office-holders. He set all our power to aid him. When we got free, we had to exert all our power to neutralise what we’d already done. Sum result: zero.” “I’m not asking you to stop that Resolution War, whatever it is,” Lisa told him, making a mental note. “I’m asking you to stop the Gamesmaster.” The Chronicler, the being responsible for maintaining the multiple narratives that made up the Parodyverse, sipped his whiskey. “Not my responsibility,” he answered. “I didn’t ask if it was your responsibility,” the amorous advocatrix told him. “I asked you to stop him.” “Endings are in the domain of Dark Thugos, the Destroyer of Tales,” the Chronicler answered. “I’ve got him covered,” Lisa replied. “But right now I’m asking you.” The Chronicler slammed down his glass and glared at her. “Who the hell do you think you are to ask me? Who the hell do you think I am?” “I think you’re a different future of the Dark Knight, where he got promoted to this big-ass cosmic office,” the first lady of the Lair Legion answered. “I think you’re somebody who cares about things, and wants to make a difference. So drop the sour drunk act and make one.” The Chronicler shook a finger at her. “First, I am not the bloody Dark Knight. I’m not your friend, and you can’t sleep with me to get me to do what you want! I’m not even human any more, and I know things you can’t begin to comprehend.” “You know how to be an ass, that’s for sure,” Lisa told him. “I could wipe you out with a gesture, you know that?” “Only if you’re tired of living,” Lisa shot back. “Or do you really think the Lair Legion wouldn’t find a way of taking you down?” The Chronicler of Stories took a deep breath and emptied his glass. “I can’t help you. I’m not the Dark Knight. I don’t try to change the universe, just to keep it from ending.” “You keep saying you’re not DK,” the advocatrix noted. “So you wish you were?” “There is no Dark Knight,” the Chronicler hissed. “Just a sad little echo of memory clothed in flesh, running in ever-decreasing circles round the same hamster treadmill.” “But he makes a difference,” Lisa said ruthlessly. “And you just empty the cosmic trash bins.” “You’re trying to rile me,” Greg Burch told her. “You’re transparent.” “And you’re avoiding the subject. Look, the Gamesmaster will wipe out thousands of races – again! He has to be stopped. Help us do it.” “And if he’s a fundamental regulatory part of the Parodyverse?” “Then he has to be stopped. Help us to do it.” “And if stopping him would cost me my existence, and yours too?” “Then he has to be stopped. Help us to do it?”  “So they sent you because you didn’t sleep with my boyfriend,” the Shaper of Worlds observed. “Er, no,” answered Dancer, guilty by reflex. “I’m sure I didn’t.” “Very diplomatic,” the Shaper scowled. “That’s me. Fully diplomatised.” “You never slept with my true love before my body was cold in its grave,” the Shaper of Worlds observed. “Probably not,” Sarah Shepherdson answered. “Although actually I haven’t the first idea what you’re talking about.” Jury sighed and brushed her hair from her eyes. “All cosmic office-holders were mortal once, before they took office. You know that, right?” “Like Lisa being Keeper of the Book of the Law?” “Lisa,” hissed the shaper. “That’s… a minor office. The Shaper of Worlds is a major office, one of the three most powerful.” “The Triumverate.” “Yes. Shaper of Worlds, to start the narratives, Chronicler of Stories to maintain them, Destroyer of Tales to end them. And to be Shaper, the personification of new beginnings, the candidate has to have no beginnings left to herself. She has to be dead.” “You’re dead?” “I was. I died in an accident, a while ago now. I died and Lisa Waltz comforted my boyfriend Jarvis.” “Ah. Well, if it’s any help, she’s his sister now.” Jury smiled malevolently. “I know,” she said maliciously. “I am the Shaper of Worlds.” “Ah. Anyway, this isn’t about, um, Lisa…” “Of course it is,” Jury told her. “She sent you. To try and convince me to help out against the Gamesmaster, to save all those races from annihilation.” “Well, pretty much,” conceded Dancer, “except that we were both sent off by Sir Mumphrey Wilton. You’d like him.” “The Gamesmaster is one of the Oldsters of the Parodyverse. He existed before the current laws came into being, and as such I have no authority over him.” “See, that’s useful information,” Dancer told Jury. “You’re helping already.” “I am not helping.” “I bet Jarv would be proud of you, slipping us info like this.” “I no longer have feelings for Jarvis. He is dead and gone too. I can’t bring him back.” “But you can save all those races the Gamesmaster’s going to wipe out.” Shep patted the Shaper of Worlds on the back. “Here’s a chance to feel good about yourself again.”  Dark Thugos’ annihilation eyebeams seared towards Donar. The hemigod braced himself and swung Mjalcolm to intercept them. A primal force that could destroy anything met a primal artefact that was indestructible. There was inevitably a big explosion. Dark Thugos picked himself up out of the fifteen mile crater. “Ouch.” Donar dug himself from the two mile trench he’d carved. “Verily.” The Destroyer of Tales looked at the shattered asteroid where there had previously been a space-bar. “I’m not going to be getting any recruits today, am I?” “Not unless thou needest dust to cast in thine enemies eyes,” the hemigod of thunder told him grimly. “Death is the natural consequence of life,” Thugos told him. “Tis why life art so precious, rock-hued one.” The two beings met in the centre of the devastation. “Why are you disturbing my schedule, little godling?” Dark Thugos demanded. “I hast an errand, foul scion of the pits of evil,” Donar replied. “Tis now meet to taketh down yon Gamesmaster, and we wouldst have thy counsel and aid in smiting him.” The Destroyer of Tales chuckled. “And why should I stop one who does so much of my work for me?” “He does not thy work,” the Oldmanson replied. “Tis his doing that the Skree Empire didst begin. For every story he terminates there art more he beginneth. He cares naught for thy work, only his own twisted amusement.” “True,” conceded Thugos. “You have to admire him for that.” “Besides,” Donar added confidentially, “wouldst thou not like to take the big ponce down just because thou couldst?” Dark Thugos’ eyes narrowed. “You are not as stupid as you appear at first, and indeed second glance. Keep talking.”  “You mustn’t think everyone here just hates you and wants you dead,” the Eyrie-father of the Shee-Yar Empire assured Nitz. “Some of them are jealous of you as well.” “Probably the stylish homemade metal helmet,” suggested Falcon. “They’re jealous of me?” Nitz checked. “Why? If not the helmet thing.” “Because of the Nexus of Unreality shifting,” the Eyrie-father explained. “It went from Nosferia eons ago, when the cosmic axis tilted a little. Of course, many worlds claim it shifted to them.” “Nexus? Axis?” Nitz felt more strongly than ever that there needed to be some kind of instruction manual issued to Priests of Zeku. “The Nexus of Unreality marks which planet in the universe will be the focus of events for the next epoch,” Ebony explained. “The major cosmic office holders are often drawn from that world, and major changes seem to involve beings near to the Nexus.” “We got a Nexus?” Falcon asked. “Good for us.” “Many worlds claim to possess it now, anyone with a local dimensional anomaly really,” the Eyrie-father told them. “But some of us have long suspected it is on your Earth.” “That’s why so many alien baddies and dimensional conquerors keep targeting us, to get the Nexus?” Falcon suggested. “I’m sure that is why there’s so much trouble,” admitted the Eyrie-father, “but I don’t believe many of them consciously seek it. It’s a... a spiritual thing, and most conquerors don’t have that discernment within them.” “Yay us,” Nitz declared weakly. “From a clerical point of view the Nexus is important,” Ebony noted. “Earth’s Mythlands are very developed because of their proximity to it. We have far more and far more diverse sets of gods and belief beings than most worlds, and it is much easier to interact with them. Why, the Lair Legion had a hemigod as a member, and a Mythlands Pegasus.” “And a talking racoon,” Nitz added helpfully. “He was an entirely different problem,” Ebony explained. “You certainly have a high level of theological interaction,” the Eyrie-father admitted. “That’s why so many clerics here hope to see you annihilated. If your planet is reduced to rubble the Nexus will probably move on, maybe to one of our worlds. “ “We’re past the stage in the contest where our planet gets deleted if we fail,” Nitz pointed out. “I wasn’t talking about your planet being eradicated by the Gamesmaster,” the Eyrie-father told them pleasantly. “I was talking about the crusade that’s being discussed.” He rose and bowed slightly to them. “Good day.”  “You have dared to call together the Three Keepers?” demanded the Chronicler of Stories. “Looks like,” admitted Lisa. “No mortal may summon the Triumverate,” objected the Chronicler of Stories. “Well, maybe just this once?” asked Dancer brightly. “For a good cause?” “We are the arbiters of narrative,” argued the Shaper of Worlds. “We do not do good causes.” “Then mayhap tis time thou starteth?” suggested Donar. There was an awkward pause there at the Nexus of Unreality. “So,” Dancer said to Thugos to break the silence, “you’re an alternate-version spiffy then?” The Shaper of Worlds sprayed her diet coke across the room. “I am not any kind of version of spiffy,” growled the Destroyer of Tales. “Really?” checked Lisa. “Because we heard…” “My sister Kumari and I are the children who would have been born to the Hooded Hood,” answered Dark Thugos, “had he spawned with a woman other than Rigantona of the Amazons.” And he looked significantly at Dancer and Lisa. “Um,” said Sarah Shepherdson. “Oh,” said Lisa Waltz. “He shouldn’t really exist,” Jury pointed out, “but then again, you have to be marginal to qualify for the Destroyer’s job. So as long as he holds the office, reality can’t do anything about it.” “Much as we might wish otherwise,” muttered the Chronicler. “Which other woman?” puzzled Donar, oblivious to the nuances of the conversation. “Doesn’t matter,” snapped Lisa. “And I’m sure if there was any other woman, she only slept with the Hood to save the Parodyverse from his villainous plots,” Dancer added hurriedly. “Um, yes. Or because he asked her to,” added the amorous advocatrix. “Or looked like he was going to.” “Was there a point in you three breaking all the rules and bringing the Triumverate together?” asked the Shaper archly. “Oh, sure,” Lisa answered, pulling herself together. “We want you to stop the Gamesmaster.” “Not possible,” the Chronicler replied promptly. “I already told you it’s out of our jurisdiction.” “Then we want you to help us stop the Gamesmaster,” Dancer qualified the request. “At least show us how to do it.” “Mayhap twould help if I were to smite him most wrothfully?” suggested Donar. “I would pay real money to see that,” admitted the Chronicler. “And what do you offer in return for our assistance?” demanded Dark Thugos. Jury’s eyebrow quirked bitchily. “Ask the Hooded Hood, apparently,” she suggested. “Didn’t you once agree to offering the Hood some personal services in exchange for his help?” Lisa asked bitchily. “I kissed him,” flushed Jury. “To save the universe.” “What, is there a bloody club?” snorted the Chronicler of Stories. “We don’t offer you any kind of bargain, Dark Thugos,” Dancer answered the Destroyer of Tales. “We just want you to help us because it’s the right thing to do.” This seemed a novel idea to the former Tyrant of the Solar System. “The right thing.” “You’ll be able to wake up tomorrow knowing you did one good thing today.” “Just say unto us how me might smack yon Gamesmaster upsideth his head and leaveth the rest to us for the nonce,” Donar offered. “And the fact that he’s been doing this since the dawn of existence and has wiped out the whole species of anyone who’s opposed him doesn’t bother you at all?” suggested the Chronicler. “You’d miss the coffee shops, wouldn’t you, Chronicler?” Dancer noted slyly. “If we got wiped out, I mean.” “You said he was an Oldster, one of the beings who existed before the current rules of the Parodyverse were created,” Lisa remembered. “Is that how he’s so powerful? Because he can ignore the rules?” “I suppose so,” admitted the Shaper. “It’s like a human on the moon, able to leap further because of less gravity working upon them. He doesn’t have to struggle through narrative to do what he wants. He’s free to just act.” “And how canst we knobble yon felon?” asked Donar. “His weakness is his passion,” answered Dark Thugos. “He cannot resist a game.” “His weakness is his arrogance,” answered the Shaper of Worlds, “He could never imagine mere mortals could seriously threaten him.” “His weakness is his Gameship,” answered the Chronicler of Stories. “Penetrate to its heart and see what you find there. Lisa Waltz smiled. “Gotcha.”  Next time: It’s back to the races as we watch the third leg of the Transworlds Challenge, the scavenger hunt. Join Vizh, Hatty, AG, Tricky, Blackhearted and, um, Natsy, as they scramble to piece together the collection that can win the game. Also more on the awful fates of G-Eyed and CSFB!, a moment of truth for Xander and Cleone, an X-file for Pigeon and the Contessa, a heart-to-heart for Whitney and Keiko, and the next casualties amongst our brave boys. Of course that’s a lot for one issue, so it’ll all be printed very small. That’s UT#178: Scavenging The Hooded Hood's Homepage of Doom Who's Who in the Parodyverse Where's Where in the Parodyverse Original concepts, characters, and situations copyright © 2004 reserved by Ian Watson. Other Parodyverse characters copyright © 2004 to their creators. The use of characters and situations reminiscent of other popular works do not constitute a challenge to the copyrights or trademarks of those works. The right of Ian Watson to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the UK Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. |
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