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Post By The Hellraisers continue to Ascend, as told by... the Hooded Hood Sat Nov 27, 2004 at 06:24:52 am EST |
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#192: Untold Tales of the Lair Legion: Full of Sound and Fury | |
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#192: Untold Tales of the Lair Legion: Full of Sound and Fury What Has Gone Before: The extraplanar marauders known as the Hellraisers have taken Herringcarp Asylum, captured and blinded the Hooded Hood, and imprisoned Sorceress, Lisa, and Dancer there. Grace O’Mercy, unwilling vampire, has saved Hatman’s life despite being commanded to kill him. The Lair Legion struggle to assist with a growing epidemic amongst Paradopolis’ population, but do not yet realise the forces amassing to destroy them. They will soon. "To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow, Creeps in this petty pace from day to day, To the last syllable of recorded time; And all our yesterdays have lighted fools The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle! Life's but a walking shadow; a poor player, That struts and frets his hour upon the stage, And then is heard no more: it is a tale Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, Signifying nothing." Macbeth (V, v, 19) The Sorceress’ cell was six feet six inches wide, long, and high, and the walls were seamless Inquisition Iron enchanted to restrain the powers of a witch. There was no light, because a true worker of magics might be able to do something clever with that. There was only the cold, and the darkness, and the waiting. When the torch flicker painted the bars of the cage door Whitney Darkness didn’t know whether to celebrate or be terrified. “Hello Whitney,” the Chain Knight bade her. He thrust a filthy rag through the grating. “I thought you might by chilly, so I brought something to warm you up.” Sorceress recognised the bloody garment. “The Hooded Hood’s robe and cowl?” “Yes. I wanted to thank you for delivering him to us.” “You’re welcome,” the Darkness witch answered coldly. “Is he dead?” “Suffering,” Sir Lucian promised. “It will be many, many months before he dies. He’s proving to be a very interesting subject. It took us the better part of two hours to wring his first scream from him. That’s a new record. I’m very much enjoying breaking him.” Whitney Darkness swallowed. “If you’ve got Herringcarp, and got the Hood, and got your mad Bloodreaper then why am I imprisoned here?” “Our Pact spoke of no harm befalling you, Whitney,” the Chain Knight replied. “It never mentioned freedom. No, you will remain in this cell, safe from all harm, for the rest of your natural life. You will be fed, and guarded, and clothed,” he gestured to the Hood’s bloody rag, “but that is all. Much like your friends Dancer and Lisa.” The Sorceress scowled. “What do you mean? Speak clearly.” “Unbeknownst to you, at the time you admitted us to the Hood’s stronghold your two former friends were visiting the archvillain. The Hood actually surrendered to us on condition that they were not harmed either. I’m collecting quite a harem.” “You swore not to harm them,” Whitney reminded the cruel knight. “I swore not to harm them unless they agreed otherwise,” Sir Lucian corrected her. “I can envisage a number of scenarios in which each of you would plead to renege your immunity given the right stimuli. And then, my beauty… ah then our revels will begin.” “I will not be manipulated again,” Whitney replied. “Besides, we have friends. Powerful friends, who will come for us.” “The Lair Legion?” the Chain Knight suggested. “Yes, I am sending word of your plight to Sir Mumphrey Wilton even as we speak.” “Say your piece,” said Sir Mumphrey Wilton tersely. He stood on the doorstep of the Lair Mansion and glared down at the shabby emaciated dead musician. Chronic stared back at him through cold tormented eyes. The emissary shifted Steve’s weight on his back. Sometimes the devil’s guitar could be very heavy. “I’m sent by the Chain Knight, leader of the Hellraisers who now claim this dimension as their spoils,” the addict guitarist began. “He’s the force behind…” “We know what he’s been up to,” interrupted the Librarian. “We’ve had time to conduct some research. He was Prisoner Zero at the Safe.” “Yes. Well he and his ‘homies’ have some big plans, but they don’t have to affect the Earth for a few generations yet,” Chronic explained. “This universe is a big place, and there’s plenty of other planets to despoil. So they’re willing to cut a deal with the Lair Legion.” “Hmph,” grunted Mumphrey. “And why would be make a deal with these blaggards, eh?” “Because they will spare the Earth, for a while,” Chronic told him. “And because they’ve got your women.” “They what?” Visionary puzzled. “They have hostages. Dancer, Lisa, Sorceress, all tied up at Herringcarp Asylum and ready for torture. If the LL don’t roll over and beg then things could get very nasty for the girls.” Mumphrey looked pale. Visionary looked angry. “Listen,” the possibly-fake man warned, “You tell your Chain Bozo that if he harms one hair…” “Thank you, Mr Visionary,” interrupted Sir Mumphrey. “What do you masters propose, Chronic?” “A formal surrender of the Lair Legion. They’ll neutralise your powers, confiscate any items of interest you might have, and curtail your movements. But you’ll get to live, and so will Earth.” “You expect us to place a very high value on three hostages, to hand over the planet to you like that,” observed Lee Bookman. “We do,” Visionary argued. “Thank you, Mr Visionary,” Sir Mumphrey snapped. “Chronic, we’ll need some time to talk this over.” “Don’t be too long,” the dead musician warned. “The Bloodreaper’s already feeling horny, and Phleglethor is planning some interesting recipes for human body parts. And neither of them’s as inventive as the Chain Knight.” Chronic paused for a moment then added urgently and in more confidential tones. “And don’t think you can try a last minute rescue. They’re expecting that. It’s a trap. They’ll kill the hostages then slaughter you.” Sir Mumphrey Wilton frowned. “Chronic, tell your masters we will consider their offer.” “They’re not my masters,” the musician answered sullenly. “You’re doin’ their bidding and bein’ their lapdog, what?” the eccentric Englishman accused. “Just make your mind up fast,” Chronic advised him. “Before they decide to spread any more pandemics in major population centres.” “That was them?” the Librarian frowned. “We’ve had the first fatalities in the last hour.” “Then you’d better think quick,” Chronic replied. Al B. Harper stood up, grabbed the microscope he’d been peering into, and hurled it into the wall with an oath. “So not good then,” reasoned Nats, scooping up the debris telekinetically. “Not,” agreed the Lair Legion’s resident scientist. “Something very strange is going on here.” Bill Reed dropped the fragments of the equipment into the contamination bin. After all, the slide contained traces of the virus that was threatening the city. “What did you see?” he wondered. “When you got me to pare apart that virus strand for you with my TK?” Al B. keyed up the replay on the monitor screen. “This,” he said. “Look. It adapts. Each half of the strand redesigns itself and becomes viable. It evolves. It learns.” “Is that normal?” Nats worried. “No. That’s far from normal. That’s borderline supernatural. I don’t know if we need a vaccine or an exorcist. And it’s going to make this epidemic virtually untreatable.” “Communications status?” demanded Mr Epitome. “There’s a level of disruption inconsistent with even a storm of the magnitude we’re suffering,” Hallie admitted, running a systems-wide diagnostic. “There’s wide-range electromagnetic static. Conventional telephones lines are down, radio and TV transmissions disrupted, unshielded computer systems failure.” “An attack?” the paragon of power frowned. “more interference from these Hellraisers?” “Could be. What telemetry we’ve got left suggests the whole east coast is taking a beating,” the Legion’s resident artificial intelligence warned. “Even police band frequencies are blocked. Add in that the state’s under medical quarantine with interstate travel forbidden and it’s making it very hard to co-ordinate aid.” “We still have outside comms?” “For now. We’re diverting some signals traffic for the armed forces and emergency services too,” Hallie reported. “But we’re blinded and crippled.” “But the storm is the cause of the interference?” “Not the only cause,” warned the Manga Shoggoth, slurping into the Comms Room. “There are turbulences on the dimensions beyond your casual perception.” Mr Epitome glanced at Hallie. “Do I want to understand what he’s talking about?” “The Manga Shoggoth perceives timespace very differently to us,” the computer intelligence explained. “If he says there are disturbances…” “A blockade, I’d say,” the Shoggoth considered. “Paradopolis and Gothametropolis may be under siege. Forces are being concentrated here. Very powerful forces.” Mr Epitome glared out of the window at the lashing rain. “Wonderful,” he hissed. “Could things get any worse?” “Flapjacking?” Yo demanded, stopping the mansion’s major-domo in the hallway. “Under the sound of the big storming. Can you be to be hearing… sobbing?” The hunchbacked butler stiffened and went pale. “Oh crap,” he said. “Sorry, master or mistress. The technical term you’re looking for is keening.” Chronic crossed the long causeway bridge from the Lair Island to Paradopolis rather than directly shifting back to Death’s realm. There were strange dimensional tides around the old house on the island bay that made it dangerous to plane-hop from there, and the musician wasn’t feeling suicidal today. That’s why he stopped when he felt the razor-letter across his throat. “They tell me you’re dead,” Messenger told him. “Want to bet I can’t find a way to make you deader?” The anarchist musician considered this. “Y’know, when I was alive you were real scary. Now, after the stuff I’ve seen, the stuff I’ve done? You’re just small potatoes. When the time comes I’m gonna take down you, Donut, and every person who ever gave me grief.” “You’re going to stop giving me lip or you’ll be taking all these people down without a head,” the postman warned. Chronic glowered and the Devil’s Guitar on his shoulders strummed a Chord of Fear. Nobody had touched Steve to make the sound. Messenger hesitated as he overcame the effect, just long enough for Chronic to jab an elbow in his midriff, unsling the guitar to take the offensive. “You should have had a better plan than scare the punk kid, old man,” he sneered. Then he discovered there was another blade at his throat. “He did,” Keiko pointed out to the surprised musician. “Say hello to the better plan. And don’t twitch or make a sound now because I won’t cut your throat, I’ll hack off your fingers.” Chronic stood motionless, his eyes bitter and resentful. Messenger smiled grimly and pressed his face up to the undead anarchist’s. “Better,” he hissed. “Chronic, you little piece of crap, welcome to the team.” “Team?” the junkie puzzled. “Oh yes,” Keiko told him. “You just got drafted.” It was almost morning, but the pelting rain and thick thunderclouds held back the dawn as Hatman pulled off his eagles cap and set his passenger down on the doorstep of the Zero Street Mission. “Mac knew?” Grace O’Mercy realised. “He knew you were dating me?” “Yeah,” agreed Jay Boaz. “And he didn’t mention that you happened to be a vampire.” “You should have destroyed me,” the Night Nurse shivered. She felt nauseous from lack of blood. “C’mon,” Hatman told her. “Mac Fleetwood will know what to do. He’ll help us work this stuff out.” “What’s to work out? A pointed bit of wood, a sharp thrust to the heart…” “You weren’t hurting anybody,” Hatman pointed out. “Hell, you were saving lives every night in the ER until that Nosferos bastard made you his undead slave. I figure that’s got to buy you one chance.” “I can’t go back,” Grace answered. “I’m finished…” She fell silent as she followed Jay into the vestry. Now it was clear where Laurie Leyton had run when she’d left Beth’s apartment, and to whom she had come for help. Lisette and Mac Fleetwood were sprawled on the floor in their own filth, in the last stages of the Black Death. Maladomini dropped the sticky flayed mess that was the Hooded Hood onto the dirty cell floor between Lisa and Dancer. “You can amuse yourselves with him while we deal with more important matters,” she suggested. “How about I just beat you to a pulp and escape?” suggested Lisa Waltz. “Anytime you want to negate your amnesty, go ahead,” the Chain Knight’s mistress smirked. “It would delight me to cut off that pretty face of you, you cheap knock-off, and to reclaim my office.” Lisa blinked. “What?” “You think you were the first bitch ever to be Keeper of the Booke of the Law?” Maladomini smirked. “You think you were the biggest?” “I’d love to find out.” Lisa hissed malevolently. “Lisa, not now,” Dancer called out, cradling the Hooded Hood on her lap. “He’s really hurt!” “Oh no!” mocked Maladomini. “And we were being so careful with the little lamb!” When the Hellraiser had shut the oubliette door again and left to tend to business, Lisa dropped to her knees beside Dancer and examined the cowled crime czar. “Is he…?” “They really did blind him,” Sarah Shepherdson reported in an appalled whisper. “And… all this other stuff. Oh Lord, how could anybody...?” “He didn’t have to surrender,” Lisa swallowed. “He was putting up a good fight. He could have…” “I did what I had to,” the Hooded Hood said in a small rasping voice. “I could not allow them…” Dancer tried to control her panic. “What do we do?” she asked. She dragged off her sweatshirt and tore strips to bandage the worst of the Hood’s lesions. “When they come back to take him we can’t let them. We have to…” “You have to let me go with them,” the Hood winced. “The gambit is to make you fight, to goad you to vitiate the sanctuary I have so painfully won you. Then the Chain Knight will ravage you before me, so that I will know my pain has been for naught.” “Ioldobaoth,” swallowed Lisa, shivering in the darkness. “Please tell me that this is somehow, some way all part of one of your plans.” “This is not part of one of my plans,” the Hooded Hood croaked, and there was a catch in his voice. He coughed up blood and phlegm and apologised for his rudeness. “What are we going to do?” Dancer repeated. “The Legion,” Lisa answered. “They’ll come for us.” “We have to go for them,” Visionary argued. “End of story.” “If we go for them it will be the end of the story,” Falcon objected. “You heard Chronic. It’s a trap. We’d be attacking a prepared position with an enemy expecting us. We’d just get massacred.” “We could go in sneaky,” Trickshot argued. “Take ‘em by surprise. Maybe a diversion or something?” “We just surrender,” CrazySugarFreakBoy! contributed. “Let ‘em think they’ve got us, then make a comeback in the final chapter.” “Without powers and from inescapable jail cells,” Nats scorned. “And meantime the bad guys can do whatever they want.” “Resistance is better than slavery,” rumbled the Manga Shoggoth. “Resistance is to be getting of cute-Lisa, cute-Sorcy, and cute-Dancer to be dead!” pointed out Yo. “There’s no logic to simply surrendering,” Al B. Harper objected. ~~We cannot really oppose them while they can release plagues that can devastate the population of this planet, can we?~~ noted Cressida. “We cannae not oppose ‘em, Cressie,” dull thud contradicted his sentient stomach parasite. “If we leave ‘em be they can do this stuff whenever they like.” “This nation does not give in to terrorism,” declared Mr Epitome. “We do not back down, and we do not compromise. Our captured comrades-in-arms knew the risks of the business when they signed on. With regret and respect, we have to…” “No!” shouted Visionary. “I am not being any part of any plan that’s going to hurt Lisa, Dancer, and Whitney!” “But you’re okay with letting the Hellraisers terrorise the rest of the universe if your friends are safe?” accused the Librarian. “That’s not fair,” objected Hallie. “All he meant was…” “We’re not some friendly family unit,” Falcon exploded. “We’re a military fighting force!” “We’re also human beings!” Nats called back. “At least those of us who can drag the sticks out of …” “Nobody’s sayin’ sacrifice the universe fer the good a’ Earth, just that we…” chipped in Trickshot. “I can not allow this team to betray our country and planet by…” boomed Mr Epitome. “Enough!” barked Sir Mumphrey Wilton, rising to his feet. “Sit down the lot of you! You’re doing the enemy’s work for him.” The meeting room fell silent. “You elected me your leader,” the eccentric Englishman reminded them. “Went to a good deal of trouble about it, if you recall. And you invest your leader with a lot of power, including the responsibility to make decisions in a crisis like this, when democracy can’t. So I’ll make a decision.” He stared round the room of fraught, tired, worried, frightened people. “Meet back in an hour,” he told them. “I’ll have my decision then.” Princess Uhunalura pushed back the orange tresses that had escaped her hairband and handed the tray of samples over to Mindy Pyrite. “Get these back to Al B. in the Lair Lab, okay,” she instructed. “And hurry. I think the virus is mutating to avoid the treatments that used to work on it.” “On it,” the robot girl assured her, and hurried away. “This is an impossible task,” Temporary Death complained, stepping back from the bed where harried nurses were drawing a cloth over another victim. “There is no way to stop this.” “Well you might think so,” Uhuna snapped, her temper flaring. “You might be happy to see all these people slipping away into whatever happens when they go to your stupid realm, but I’m not going to give up! I’ve battled you all my life and I’ll fight you until I die!” “It’s not me,” Temporary Death objected. “I don’t decide who lives or dies – usually – I just make sure it happens when it should. And sometimes it’s a mercy.” The Abhuman princess pointed round the overcrowded hospital ward. “Well this isn’t one of those times, okay. So either help out or back off and let me do my job!” “You’re exhausted too,” the plump dark-haired woman who had decided to be called Tricia pointed out. “You have been working all night at this.” “And so far it’s Nasty Disease 12, stupid Abhuman girl nil,” Uhuna conceded. She straightened up her stiff back and set her jaw. “Well I’m going to score some points for the good guys,” she resolved. Tricia watched her stalk over to the oxygen frame where Beth Shellett lay on the verge of death. Bry Katz lay stretched out on the pallet beside her, blurring in and out of consciousness. “What are you going to do?” asked Temporary Death. “I’m going to make a terrible choice,” Uhuna answered. “And then I’m going to have to live with it for the rest of my life. Step back.” Temporary Death watched as the princess laid her palms on Beth’s forehead; and as she touched the stricken schoolteacher the black livid veins on Beth’s flesh smoothed away and the boils and sores vanished. Onto Uhuna. “Hey wait!” Tricia objected as the Abhuman staggered over to Goldeneyed. “What are you…?” A similar transference lifted the sickness from Bry, leaving him sleeping peacefully. Uhuna staggered with pain and groped past G-Eyed’s bed to the next patient along. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, and laid all the infections she’d gathered into him. The man shuddered once, and died. “And that,” said Uhuna, biting back her tears. “is how we can save people. Now it’s 13-2.” Temporary Death’s head jerked suddenly as she became aware of what was happening outside. “Someone in the corridor just died!” Phleglethor the Pestilent burst through the wall, spraying debris across the ward. Tricia went down under a heavy pile rubble. “Ah,” he gurgled, spotting Princess Uhunalura. “There you are.” “We are having to just got word from Hatty,” Yo told Sir Mumphrey Wilton urgently. “He is to be having been attacked, but he is surviving. And he is to have been finding cute-Lisette, at Reverending Fleetwood’s, but both are to be being very sick.” Mumphrey scowled some more. “This is all far from random, Yo,” he reasoned. “The epidemic’s shut down Paradopolis, quarantined it and us. Gothametropolis has sealed the bridges but already they’ve got cases manifesting over there. Communications blackout along the whole coast. What are the enemy doing while we’re tied down here worrying about hostages and disease body counts?” “They are to be holding Herringcarp Asylum,” Yo answered. “And they are to be setting of traps and waiting for us.” “So far this Chain Knight that Nats and Al B. encountered has been two steps ahead of the game,” the eccentric Englishman worried. “The travel lockdown’s denying us reinforcements, keeping our people running ragged trying to save lives. The attack on young Boaz has cost us our liaison officer at a time we need him the most. Holding Lisa, Dancer, and Whitney not only depletes us of some of our most effective people but distracts us from thinking the problem through clearly.” “We are not to be having of enough information, is true,” Yo agreed. “But is maybe why we have to be thinking of what we can be doing, such as saving of our friends?” The pure thought being looked worried and unhappy. “Yo is willing to be swapping of places for prisoners,” s/he offered miserably. “It to be more fun for them of torturing of Yo.” Mumphrey Wilton shook his head. “We won’t surrender. Epitome was right about that. We can’t give in to terrorists. If once we allow a hostage threat to work then every villain on the planet will use that forever afterwards. I’m sure Lisa, Dancer, and Whitney wouldn’t want us to surrender to save their lives.” He stuck his jaw out defiantly as if waiting for Yo to contradict him. “Then we are to be trying to save them by attacking of baddies, yes?” “That’s what they’re expecting too. And either they’re working with the Hooded Hood or they’ve captured his stronghold, but either way we’ll be going against the one place on the blasted planet most designed to repel Legionnaires with all the cunning that devious mind can conceive.” Yo looked close to tears. “But we have to be doing of something.” Mumphrey nodded. “We have to go in, even if it is a trap, even if it endangers the hostages” he agreed. “Into the valley of death.” Hallie flashed into the room, ignoring protocol because of urgency. “We’ve just got a call from Don Graham on the comm-card we gave him! Very garbled, but there’s some kind of disturbance down at the Phantomhawk Memorial Hospital!” “Who’s responding?” demanded Sir Mumphrey. “Epitome, CSFB!, Falcon, Nats,” the AI reported. “I… I can’t contact Uhuna and Tricia.” And then the storm clamped down, buffeting the Lair Mansion with gale force, slowing the heroes, costing them time, seeking their dooms. Uhuna fled through the patient rooms of the Phantomhawk Memorial Hospital. Phleglethor came through the walls behind her. He was alarmingly fast for all his corpulent bulk. And then Uhuna ran out of rooms. “Hello, princess,” he belched as he cornered the Abhuman healer. “I hear you’ve been interfering with my performance art.” “I am Uhunalura, of the Royal Family of the Abhumans,” Uhuna warned. “I will not yield, to your great cost.” “What, you’ll infect me with a disease?” snorted the plague-master. “Go ahead. I’ve got the set.” Uhuna’s face tightened to a grimace as she lunged forward and laid her hands on Phleglethor. The fat red monster’s confident expression vanished as his kneecaps shattered. “I’ve been carrying that one round for a while,” Uhuna told him. “Glad to get rid of it.” She tried to skip over the toppled demon but he regenerated far too fast. He seized her by the ankle and dragged her to him upside-down. “Not so fast, princess,” he gurgled. “Old Phleglethor’s got a test he wants to try.” Uhuna squirmed but couldn’t get free, and nothing else in her internal arsenal of ailments had any effect upon the brute. Phlegelthor squeezed some caustic substance from his rear end that dissolved a hole down to the floor below. Still holding Uhuna he jumped down into the children’s ward amidst the screaming patients. “Now, for the test,” he declared, shuffling his vast paunch to block the door so that three slow-moving children were trapped with him. He held Uhunalura before him and licked her from toe to head with an enormous warty tongue. Then he dropped her. Uhuna felt unwell, and it was more than nausea at Phleglethor’s obscene kiss. “Yes,” the plague-master told her. “I have infected you with a number of my favourites. You’ll be dead in twenty minutes, slowly, painfully, melted and rotted as your flesh drops from you in maggoty mounds.” Uhuna staggered but couldn’t keep her feet. She retched. “I quite like you like this,” Phleglethor admitted, “but your boyfriend might not fancy you much when you’re disfigured and mouldy. But fortunately, you have a chance to survive. Even to carry on your work and end my plague. I won’t stop you.” He pointed to the children. “All you have to do is shed your diseases somewhere.” The screaming infants huddled into the corner furthest away from the blubbery red demon. “That’s all,” Phleglethor told Uhuna. “One child’s life to save yours, so you can save so many more.” “No,” answered Uhuna, shaking as the palsy started. “I won’t do it.” “Simple mathematics, Princess. A small sacrifice for a greater blessing.” Uhuna retched, her bile already reddened and clotted. “No,” she repeated. “Never.” “Then I’ll watch you die,” replied Pheglethor the Pestilent. And he did. The girl pleaded and wept as her skin decayed and the pain became intolerable; but she would not slay a child to save her life. It took twenty-three minutes and it was gory and excruciating, and the plague-master enjoyed every moment of it. And then Uhunalura of the Abhumans was at peace. Phleglethor slaughtered the children and went on his way just before Nats and the Legion arrived. “We all labour against our own cure; for death is the cure of all diseases.” T.E. Brown, Religio Medici Next Issue: The Chain Knight’s plan! The second siege of Herringcarp! Chronic and Killer Shrike! Hatman and Grace! Keiko and Messenger! Mumphrey vs Visionary! Nats vs Falcon! But mostly it’s the Lair Legion vs the Hellraisers in a fight to the finish and no holds barred. Coming next Saturday in the double-sized UT#193: The Worst Five Minutes. 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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