The Intro: Comparison
Aug. 29th, 2009 11:59 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
unforth(first: I'm going to start trying to use tags more often; second: this post was apparently too long, so I've split it...)
I mentioned maybe a week or two back that I wanted to post the three versions of the "Introduction" to my book. I'm rather curious about this, though I suspect few other people would be, so consider it for my own benefit. If you're just curious about my writing style...skip to the current version, since hopefully - after all the times I've edited this beginning part, at least four or five - it's the best. ;)
Re-reading the below, I keep making minor changes. It's funny to note - I left in things that now would have been chopped - I'm getting better at this revision thing. :) They're chopped now...
The Revised Version
I revised it about two weeks ago. I've already made one change just while transferring it over here...so far from perfect yet. ;)
Introduction: The Future is Prologue
June 2nd, 1956
John Smith always knew that he’d reached a new world because of the smell. No matter how similar two dimensions appeared to be, when he first arrived there was a distinct quality to the air which marked the transition and made him keenly area of the fact that the two places were fundamentally different. When he first started world jumping, he had thought that the scent was due to pollution, the change in climate, or even something inherent in the jumping process, but with experience he had learned that had no fricken clue what it was. It simply was a sure sign that he’d jumped successfully, and he’d come to find it rather comforting. This world reeked of mud, or damp soil after a rainstorm. Like the freshly turned dirt of a newly opened grave, he thought cynically. It didn’t mean anything, though, and even as he decided to ignore the smell, he grew accustomed to it. Time to figure out why he was here.
Doc Hollywood had asked for his help, the usual trans-dimensional demon nonsense that attracted Doc like fish brought bears. In typical fashion, no indication had been given of where in the world the help would be needed, what day the crisis would take place, if the dimension would be safe or not, if the air would be breathable, or any of a number of other insignificant details. After the number of times they had worked together, it shouldn’t have surprised John that Doc was just as cryptic as he had ever been, but that didn’t make it any less frustrating.
He put a nickel in a meter and pulled out a newspaper. He’d left home that morning on May 13th, 1944, but here it was June 2nd, 1956. The news was a great way to get a sense of a dimension, and he could learn a lot based on what was reported – and what wasn’t. Today’s headline was emblazoned across the entire top of the first page. “THE WANDERER STRIKES AGAIN! POST OFFICE BOMBED IN NEWPORT, ARKANSAS. LINK TO PREVIOUS ATTACKS UNKNOWN.” Articles related to this dominated the entire first page, describing this latest attack, the history of the criminal, the deceased and their families, and other facets of the crime spree that the editor had thought might interest readers. With a twinge of nerves, John looked around and noted with relief that wherever he was, it was definitely not Arkansas. The landscape was all wrong. John didn’t know what would happen if he met the Wanderer, but it wasn’t a chance he was prepared to take.
Even though he knew better, John felt responsible for the victims of this Wanderer. He reminded himself that there was nothing he could do to help them. This wasn’t his world. These weren’t his problems. He made himself read with detached interest, allowed himself to be intrigued by how often the name of the Wanderer was writ large in the events of other worlds. The same genetics, born into different circumstances, different places, but no matter how different their start, each fell prey to anger, hostility, and resentment of the establishment. Each felt driven to tear that establishment down. It made John wonder how much of what anyone did in any world was driven by fate. It made him wonder about his own future.
Shaking off the dark thoughts, John glanced down the street on which he stood. It was a dusty main avenue in a small, scrappy-looking town – the newspaper suggested that it was Lansing, without indicating what state that might be in. Wherever it was, John didn’t think it warranted a second visit. No, he amended, it didn’t warrant a first visit. Down the street, a filthy car was parked in front of a classically rundown diner. John walked over, kicking up clouds of brown powder at each step, intent on reading the paper out of the glaring sun. The waitress looked at him as if she’d never seen a customer before, but she brought him a cup of coffee and a plate with runny eggs and burnt toast without taking his order. He ignored them as he paged through the news.
Nestled among stories about foreign countries that no one cared about were the bits and pieces of information that would enable John to figure out what was actually going on in this world. Few people in any dimension would have been able to recognize the signs for what they were, but John had a knack for identifying the underlying patterns buried among the irrelevant reporting. His intuition rarely steered him wrong, and he had honed it with experience. The biggest news in Lansing was drought, but big news didn’t matter. “Nasser Vows End of Military Rule,” a short article being published with permission from the New York Times, contained some interesting food for thought. “Jesse H. Jones, 82, Former Governor” was the feature on the obituary page, but more interesting were the two sentences on “Joseph Biddler, 90,” a “beloved father” and “community founder.” Union unrest – the upholsterers were unhappy again – suggested more leads of interest. One headline caused John to cringe – “Nixon Declares Apathy of Voters Peril to G.O.P.” If only Nixon knew how very dangerous Apathy was!
Doc was right; something was definitely going to go down. Through a process he understood implicitly, but could never have explained, John considered the information that had caught his attention, and came to the only possible conclusion. The Black Man was going to make an appearance in California. It took another run through the pages to figure out where and when. He found another hint in a shoe ad on page 4. San Francisco. The schedule for the nearest movie theater made it clear that he’d better get going, because he’d have to get there by midnight. Muttering a curse, he reached in his pocket and withdrew a twenty that hadn’t been there a moment before, tossed it negligently on the table, and left.
It didn’t take him long to find a car for sale, and only little longer for him to purchase it. John found that few people wasted time arguing when he offered them a wad of cash twice what they were asking for. Money didn’t matter much to John; he could always get more. Within the hour, he was on his way to sunny California.
It was raining when he arrived in San Francisco. Night had fallen long since, and the city was eerily dark under the leaden sky. Driving up Haight, he parked just by on Ashbury. It wasn’t a legal spot, but that didn’t matter, he’d never need the car again. If he was going to find Doc anywhere, it would be at the crossroads. Low buildings cast long, rain-obscured shadows across the street. John waited.
The rain was an annoying drizzle, rapidly evolving into a downpour, and that, combined with the late hour, left the normally busy intersection deserted. He could really use an umbrella. It bothered him to use his powers pointlessly, but the idea of spending the rest of what was likely to be a long evening sodden through was utterly unappealing. It wasn’t as if he didn’t have a choice. He didn’t know how his powers worked, but he could envision something he needed, and provided it wasn’t too big or heavy, he could somehow reach across the dimensions and instantly bring to hand an item like the one he had thought of. The things that he grabbed would return to their dimension of origin once he stopped thinking about them – the man who sold him the car was probably already cursing and wondering who had robbed him – but in the interim it was as real as everything else around him. It didn’t always work the way he intended, though. This time, he’d tried for a sleek, large, black, business-like umbrella, but instead he got a bulky, brightly colored beach one. He tried to ignore the giant bright neon pink and green daisies on it. At least it would keep the rain off.
“It suits you, Scout,” said a suave male voice laced with unsuppressed humor. A man stepped out of the shadows. It wasn’t that John hadn’t seen him there; he simply hadn’t been there a moment before.
“It keeps me dry,” replied John. “I thought I’d find you here.”
Doc Hollywood smiled, flourishing a bow. Watching him in the downpour was disconcerting because, thanks to Doc’s own peculiar super power, the rain didn’t seem to hit him. No shield kept the rain away from him, no magic, no psionic barrier, it was just luck. Luckily, not a single drop landed on him, mussed his suit, or damaged his suede shoes. To say that Doc was lucky would be like saying that World War II had been a minor dispute. “You know me too well, Scout.”
“Yeah, I suppose I do,” John said dryly. “What’s different about this time? You don’t usually ask for help with the Black Man.”
“I don’t need help with the Black Man,” Doc sounded hurt by the suggestion. Doc had once been a hero like John, but when he learned more about the Demon of the Crossroads it had become clear that thwarting the Black Man was his true calling. Chasing the Demon across dimensions was a full time job, and meant that Doc rarely got to visit the Golden Age anymore. Only those like John, who tended to visit other dimensions, ever crossed paths with him.
“Then why the hell am I here? Enigma needed my help, though she lied her face off, saying she didn’t, when she found out that you needed me.”
“Now, now, Scout,” chided Doc, wagging a finger at John. “She’s a big girl; she was taking care of herself before she ever met you, she’ll be fine. You’ve been over protective recently.”
“I have a right to be,” snapped John. Doc’s nonchalance always rubbed John just slightly the wrong way.
“Why did you tell her, anyway?” asked Doc with rolled eyes and an air which indicated that he thought John was completely whipped. Doc’s background as an actor always spilled over into his regular behavior. He did everything big: grand gestures, expressive tones, and a heap of melodrama. It turned out such behavior worked for heroing as well as Hollywood.
As if I could have kept it from her, he thought, keenly aware of how very far away she was. “Doc,” John smiled, determined to force the conversation along, “are you going to tell me why I’m here? It seemed pretty fucking important that I get here by midnight, and that’s coming right up.”
“Oh, fine,” Doc sighed. “I don’t need help with the Black Man, but there is a powerful demon currently in San Francisco who would complicate things if she gets wind of what’s going on. I need you to keep her busy until I’ve finished at the Crossroads.” Doc gestured at the sign marking the intersection of Haight and Ashbury.
“No problem. Anything I should know about this demon?”
“Nope. You’ll know her when you see her. She’s not very subtle. And you’re uniquely suited to deal with her.”
John arched an eyebrow but said nothing. Doc enjoyed playing games a bit too much. John wished he knew what the current game was, and why Doc masked behind his good humor such a strange mixture of amusement and sadness. After a moment, Doc sighed emphatically. “You aren’t going to ask, are you. You’re not any fun at all.”
“Yeah, I know,” John said as dryly as he could. It wasn’t like Doc to try to use him, and it convinced John more than anything else had that the situation was serious.
Doc quirked his head to one side as if listening for something. In answer, the sound of gunfire echoed loudly through the streets, mingling oddly with the pitter-patter of the steady rainfall, and lights began to flip on in nearby windows. Smiling secretively, he gazed at John, waiting.
John was tempted not to say anything, but the shooting didn’t stop, and for all that he hated playing Doc’s games, there were lives at risk. “What’s that?” he asked as if reciting a scripted line.
“Your cue,” replied Doc dramatically with a flourish of his hand. “And thanks,” he added with a wink.
“For dealing with it?”
“No, for saying your line,” Doc turned and disappeared back into the shadows.
Chuckling, John looked around for a moment and spotted what he wanted. A motorcycle was sandwiched in between two huge clunkers nearby. Tossing aside the umbrella and ignoring the water that instantly soaked him through, John reached into his pocket, grabbed the keys from an obliging dimension, and stole the bike.
In the few moments it took for him to get moving, the gunfire became sporadic and then stopped. Muttering a string of curses as he urged the bike on, John hoped that the scene and the culprit would be as obvious as Doc had indicated, for without the echoing sounds to guide him, his chances of finding his destination in the maze of streets was slim. The bikes small engine was not well suited to San Francisco and the rain-slicked streets only made it worse. In retrospect the motorcycle might not have been the best choice, but it had by far been the coolest vehicle in sight. He didn’t slow down, taking the turns at high speed, choosing his direction on guess work, deduction, and intuition. As he did, he tried to think if he’d seen any omens or portents since he’d arrived which might suggest which demon he was dealing with. He couldn’t think of any. The clouds kept him from seeing if moon be obscured by an ominous shadow, or if the stars were shining blood red. Could the rain itself be a sign? That seemed unlikely. Overcast skies in San Francisco weren’t exactly end-of-the-world material. The headline alluding to Apathy came to mind, but John thought it much more likely that it was just Nixon being a douche bag, as usual. The bike sped down a hill, and then struggled to go up another. At least it was only drizzling again.
He came around another corner and he nearly flipped the bike as he slammed the brake. A wall-mounted flood light suffused the wet streets with hard light, illuminating a broad area in front of a police precinct. More than a half dozen police cars sat in the street, lights flaring and reflecting off of the rain drops in a rainbow of blues and reds, sirens silent, though in the distance echoes spoke of approaching ambulances. They would be too late to help the cops who lay on the ground, their blood thinning as it mixed with the puddles, painting the pavement crimson. John began to feel uneasy, thinking of the headline about the Wanderer. This was the sort of thing he would do. But Doc had been clear about one thing – the demon would appear to be a woman. It was a silly concern anyway. John couldn’t have come so close to the Wanderer without feeling something.
John hopped off the motorcycle and headed confidently towards the precinct door. There were police officers all around helping their fallen comrades, but no one stopped him as he walked past and through the open door of the building. No one sat at the front desk in the lobby, and nearby lay a single officer, eyes closed, blood leaking from the corner of his mouth and from the bullet wound in his chest. There was nothing John could do for him, and he didn’t stop. Indistinctly, he could hear a muted female voice from down a hallway to his right. He couldn’t make out the words, yet there was something familiar about it. That was his target.
Hurrying down the hall, John descended a flight of stairs and encountered his first obstacle – a locked grate door blocking the way to the basement where the holding cells were. “…It’s been a while since I’ve been arrested,” he could finally make out the words as the sensual female voice spoke conversationally. A horrible creeping feeling set John’s hair on end, caused goose bumps on his arms. Would Doc really have asked him for help with this? John couldn’t believe it. It couldn’t be. “It’s really so,” she paused for emphasis, “so stimulating to be arrested from time to time. And I’m so glad it was you,” the sexy pout that accompanied these words was clear even with the speaker out of sight. It couldn’t be. John grabbed the keys to the locked grate out of thin air and walked on through in to the line of cells in the holding block.
“If I’m really bad,” the woman continued teasingly, “will you take me to Alcatraz?”
“Anything you want,” panted a clearly-smitten man.
“Anything at all.” A second man’s voice echoed the tones of the first.
It couldn’t be.
Down the line of cells to the last one, and a window near the ceiling, at street level, showed the scene in the darkened cell starkly in shades of gray and red. Water dripped down the wall to form a puddle, stained slightly with blood from the fallen officers lying on the street above. The woman was stunningly beautiful. Long, smooth, shining, raven black hair framed her face and rested around her shoulders. Rich, lipstick-red lips were curled in a smile, amused and sensual and begging to be kissed. She was tall and perfectly proportioned, and she wore a slinky black dress and heels that said it all – she was gorgeous, she knew it, and she wanted everyone around her to know it. Her eyes were terrifying, completely dead, completely calm. Her pupils were bottomless pools of blackness that surveyed everything around her with the certain knowledge that it was all beneath her concern. The two policemen at her feet were no exception. Judging by the handcuffs that she wore, they had arrested her, for all the good it had done them. Now they were groveling, staring up at her with adulation. John felt sick.
It couldn’t be.
“Oh,” she realized, with a moue of sadness and over-exaggerated tones of despair. “I can only have one of you right now. However shall I pick?” She finished with an innocent air, eyes averted skyward as if considering, a finger at her lips.
The officers didn’t hesitate. Both scrambled for their side arms, and gun shots echoed, painfully loud, through the cramped cell block. The officer on her right fell over, gasping, trying to rise, trying to shoot his partner; a moment later he stopped moving, blood leaking from his chest, his back, his mouth. John should have moved. He should have stopped it. He couldn’t. All he could do was stare at her.
It couldn’t be.
“Oh! My white knight,” she exclaimed with delight and a cruel smile to the victorious officer, whose face was contorted with a sick combination of lust and hatred. With a swift motion, she knelt, wrapped her handcuffed arms around his neck, and all the hatred left his face; he only had eyes for her and worship played in his every feature. She kissed him deeply and thoroughly. From her body language, she was really enjoying it, but her eyes were a million miles away. Then, with sudden intensity, they focused directly on John.
She moved shockingly fast, seizing the survivor’s gun, rising to her feet, handcuffs still no hindrance, stepped to the cell door, held the gun to John’s head. The muzzle pressed painfully into his skin. “Hello, John,” she said breathily. “It’s been a while.”
“It can’t be,” he mumbled. Scrambling to bring some kind of order to the chaos she had thrown his thoughts into, John reached for something he could focus on. When was the last time I was this off balance? I dealt with the Omega Man. I dealt with Bela Jot. I faced the Warlock. The fucking King of Color. Never. I’m never this off balance. Except maybe that once. Focus. Get it together, asshole.
“Nonsense,” she said dismissively. “You can’t expect me to believe you could possibly have had any reason for coming here other than to see me. We haven’t fucked in a while. Is it that time again? You picked a good moment, actually. I’m really in the mood.” She licked her lips suggestively, and her eyes flashed a challenge that John didn’t understand, but the gun to his head didn’t waver for a moment.
I’m gonna kill Doc. Next time I see him, I AM GOING TO KILL HIM, John vowed. He was out of time. He had to answer her. It can’t be, but it is. “Hello, Marie,” he said with icy calm that didn’t betray any of the thoughts roiling in his mind.
“And here I was beginning to think that you’d been so busy bombing post offices that you’d forgotten common civility. Seriously, John – post offices? It’s so…pedestrian,” she clicked her tongue with distaste. “We used to have much more fun than that.”
“Did we?” What had happened to her here? What had happened to him?
“Well, I always thought so,” she sighed, “but you were always more interested in the destruction than in the toys.” Her eyes flicked to the officer, who drank up her glance like it was his first sight of the sun after months of darkness.
“What did you do to him?”
“The usual,” Marie shrugged. The muzzle pressed further into the skin in John’s forehead. “He was a strong one; he thought of his lovely wife, his three adorable ittle bitty kiddies, and he didn’t want to play with me. Can you imagine, not wanting to play with me?” She held the cops eyes, gave her torso a suggestive wiggle, and he moved a step closer to her, lust his only concern. The instant her attention went back to John, hatred for his perceived rival contorted the man’s face. “The little darling, he held out for a few long seconds. But I convinced him easily enough that none of them had anything to offer that I couldn’t exceed a million times over. I thought to have a fun evening of it. If I’d have known you were coming, I’d have spared myself the trouble.” Her tone made it clear that it hadn’t been any trouble at all and that she would have done it anyway.
“Get away from her,” interrupted the officer, rage twisting his expression. He moved towards John with murder in his eyes.
“I’m done with you,” she snapped without even a glance in his direction. “Go away.”
All emotion left the officers face, and, as John watched, held captive by the pistol pressed against his forehead, the policeman listlessly moved to his murdered companion, pick up the gun that lay by the corpse’s hand, and splattered his own brains across the back wall of the cell. The body fell heavily. There had been a compelling command in her words, and the officer had obeyed. John recognized the signs that some kind of power or magic had been used that he hadn’t been able to detect. He’d never seen the Marie he knew do anything like that, but it reminded him of Artemis’ emotion manipulation. He fought to keep his expression from betraying his swirling emotions. Marie made no such effort; she looked disgusted, and she rolled her eyes. “Useless bastard, I meant that he could go home. Ah well,” she continued casually. She had already forgotten both the death that she had caused. “So, John, you’re not acting like you want to screw. What are you doing here?”
I wish I knew. “I’m here to see you,” he replied. “I need your help.” Thinking fast, he tried to figure out what he needed her help with. He’d have to say within seconds, and he hadn’t the faintest idea. Something involving bombs.
“You never come just for fun,” she pouted, and he was struck by how none of the over the top expressions ever touched her eyes.
“I think you’ll have fun,” he stalled for time.
“Oh?” How long till midnight? How long did Doc need her distracted? He wanted nothing more than to leave immediately. Except…
“How do you feel about Washington DC?”
“Boring,” she sighed, “senators are so stodgy, and even if you break one or two it never really goes right and it draws so much attention. Not that I mind,” she added, preening slightly. “Did you see? I was in the papers yesterday.”
“Does that mean you don’t want to go with me?” Except that he couldn’t leave without learning what had made her like this and why the John Smith in this world hadn’t done anything to stop it. He wanted to help her.
“I didn’t say that,” she pursed her lips in consideration. She lowered the gun, and John was sure there was an imprint on his forehead. The tension left his shoulders as the possibility of instantaneous death passed. The relief only lasted an instant, though, as she brought the barrel right back, pressed even harder than before. “Let’s try this again. Who the fuck are you? What do you really want? I know you’re not the Wanderer – you’re ten years too young, you show way to much disgust, and we haven’t gotten naked yet. Your self-control is terrible – you’re all over the place.”
“I’m John Smith,” he replied honestly.
“No, you’re not,” she cocked the gun, and her finger tensed on the trigger, and John began emergency calculations. He had looked death in the face too many times not to recognize the warning signs. Could he jump to another world before she pulled the trigger? He didn’t think he could, not deliberately, not when he’d already jumped that day, not without risking ending up lost in space and time. That would be far worse than being dead. If she didn’t like his answer, she really would shoot him in the head. He met her eyes, and with all the conviction he could muster, said: “Yes I am. I’m just not ‘your’ John Smith. But I know you – and I know you don’t want to shoot me, Marie.”
For the first time, an expression touched her eyes. Astonishment. And, John thought, something that must have been even more alien for her. Hope.
“You’re John Smith. You’re not the Wanderer. You’re the Scout. You’re actually the fucking Scout.” The gun fell away as the strength went out of her arms, her body sagging. John nodded, relieved. “Why are you here? Does he know? If he figures out you’re here, he’ll try to find you.” She sounded afraid.
“He would? Crazy son of a bitch…” It was John’s turn to express astonishment. Could the Wanderer, the incarnation of himself native to this dimension, truly harbor so much hatred that he would seek an encounter that would cause a portion of the multiverse to cease to exist? “What the hell went wrong here? How did this happen?”
Marie laughed.
__________________
Lesson learned from re-reading this? I think my revised chapters would benefit from a quick read through and touch up once I "finish" revising them. :)
I mentioned maybe a week or two back that I wanted to post the three versions of the "Introduction" to my book. I'm rather curious about this, though I suspect few other people would be, so consider it for my own benefit. If you're just curious about my writing style...skip to the current version, since hopefully - after all the times I've edited this beginning part, at least four or five - it's the best. ;)
Re-reading the below, I keep making minor changes. It's funny to note - I left in things that now would have been chopped - I'm getting better at this revision thing. :) They're chopped now...
The Revised Version
I revised it about two weeks ago. I've already made one change just while transferring it over here...so far from perfect yet. ;)
Introduction: The Future is Prologue
June 2nd, 1956
John Smith always knew that he’d reached a new world because of the smell. No matter how similar two dimensions appeared to be, when he first arrived there was a distinct quality to the air which marked the transition and made him keenly area of the fact that the two places were fundamentally different. When he first started world jumping, he had thought that the scent was due to pollution, the change in climate, or even something inherent in the jumping process, but with experience he had learned that had no fricken clue what it was. It simply was a sure sign that he’d jumped successfully, and he’d come to find it rather comforting. This world reeked of mud, or damp soil after a rainstorm. Like the freshly turned dirt of a newly opened grave, he thought cynically. It didn’t mean anything, though, and even as he decided to ignore the smell, he grew accustomed to it. Time to figure out why he was here.
Doc Hollywood had asked for his help, the usual trans-dimensional demon nonsense that attracted Doc like fish brought bears. In typical fashion, no indication had been given of where in the world the help would be needed, what day the crisis would take place, if the dimension would be safe or not, if the air would be breathable, or any of a number of other insignificant details. After the number of times they had worked together, it shouldn’t have surprised John that Doc was just as cryptic as he had ever been, but that didn’t make it any less frustrating.
He put a nickel in a meter and pulled out a newspaper. He’d left home that morning on May 13th, 1944, but here it was June 2nd, 1956. The news was a great way to get a sense of a dimension, and he could learn a lot based on what was reported – and what wasn’t. Today’s headline was emblazoned across the entire top of the first page. “THE WANDERER STRIKES AGAIN! POST OFFICE BOMBED IN NEWPORT, ARKANSAS. LINK TO PREVIOUS ATTACKS UNKNOWN.” Articles related to this dominated the entire first page, describing this latest attack, the history of the criminal, the deceased and their families, and other facets of the crime spree that the editor had thought might interest readers. With a twinge of nerves, John looked around and noted with relief that wherever he was, it was definitely not Arkansas. The landscape was all wrong. John didn’t know what would happen if he met the Wanderer, but it wasn’t a chance he was prepared to take.
Even though he knew better, John felt responsible for the victims of this Wanderer. He reminded himself that there was nothing he could do to help them. This wasn’t his world. These weren’t his problems. He made himself read with detached interest, allowed himself to be intrigued by how often the name of the Wanderer was writ large in the events of other worlds. The same genetics, born into different circumstances, different places, but no matter how different their start, each fell prey to anger, hostility, and resentment of the establishment. Each felt driven to tear that establishment down. It made John wonder how much of what anyone did in any world was driven by fate. It made him wonder about his own future.
Shaking off the dark thoughts, John glanced down the street on which he stood. It was a dusty main avenue in a small, scrappy-looking town – the newspaper suggested that it was Lansing, without indicating what state that might be in. Wherever it was, John didn’t think it warranted a second visit. No, he amended, it didn’t warrant a first visit. Down the street, a filthy car was parked in front of a classically rundown diner. John walked over, kicking up clouds of brown powder at each step, intent on reading the paper out of the glaring sun. The waitress looked at him as if she’d never seen a customer before, but she brought him a cup of coffee and a plate with runny eggs and burnt toast without taking his order. He ignored them as he paged through the news.
Nestled among stories about foreign countries that no one cared about were the bits and pieces of information that would enable John to figure out what was actually going on in this world. Few people in any dimension would have been able to recognize the signs for what they were, but John had a knack for identifying the underlying patterns buried among the irrelevant reporting. His intuition rarely steered him wrong, and he had honed it with experience. The biggest news in Lansing was drought, but big news didn’t matter. “Nasser Vows End of Military Rule,” a short article being published with permission from the New York Times, contained some interesting food for thought. “Jesse H. Jones, 82, Former Governor” was the feature on the obituary page, but more interesting were the two sentences on “Joseph Biddler, 90,” a “beloved father” and “community founder.” Union unrest – the upholsterers were unhappy again – suggested more leads of interest. One headline caused John to cringe – “Nixon Declares Apathy of Voters Peril to G.O.P.” If only Nixon knew how very dangerous Apathy was!
Doc was right; something was definitely going to go down. Through a process he understood implicitly, but could never have explained, John considered the information that had caught his attention, and came to the only possible conclusion. The Black Man was going to make an appearance in California. It took another run through the pages to figure out where and when. He found another hint in a shoe ad on page 4. San Francisco. The schedule for the nearest movie theater made it clear that he’d better get going, because he’d have to get there by midnight. Muttering a curse, he reached in his pocket and withdrew a twenty that hadn’t been there a moment before, tossed it negligently on the table, and left.
It didn’t take him long to find a car for sale, and only little longer for him to purchase it. John found that few people wasted time arguing when he offered them a wad of cash twice what they were asking for. Money didn’t matter much to John; he could always get more. Within the hour, he was on his way to sunny California.
It was raining when he arrived in San Francisco. Night had fallen long since, and the city was eerily dark under the leaden sky. Driving up Haight, he parked just by on Ashbury. It wasn’t a legal spot, but that didn’t matter, he’d never need the car again. If he was going to find Doc anywhere, it would be at the crossroads. Low buildings cast long, rain-obscured shadows across the street. John waited.
The rain was an annoying drizzle, rapidly evolving into a downpour, and that, combined with the late hour, left the normally busy intersection deserted. He could really use an umbrella. It bothered him to use his powers pointlessly, but the idea of spending the rest of what was likely to be a long evening sodden through was utterly unappealing. It wasn’t as if he didn’t have a choice. He didn’t know how his powers worked, but he could envision something he needed, and provided it wasn’t too big or heavy, he could somehow reach across the dimensions and instantly bring to hand an item like the one he had thought of. The things that he grabbed would return to their dimension of origin once he stopped thinking about them – the man who sold him the car was probably already cursing and wondering who had robbed him – but in the interim it was as real as everything else around him. It didn’t always work the way he intended, though. This time, he’d tried for a sleek, large, black, business-like umbrella, but instead he got a bulky, brightly colored beach one. He tried to ignore the giant bright neon pink and green daisies on it. At least it would keep the rain off.
“It suits you, Scout,” said a suave male voice laced with unsuppressed humor. A man stepped out of the shadows. It wasn’t that John hadn’t seen him there; he simply hadn’t been there a moment before.
“It keeps me dry,” replied John. “I thought I’d find you here.”
Doc Hollywood smiled, flourishing a bow. Watching him in the downpour was disconcerting because, thanks to Doc’s own peculiar super power, the rain didn’t seem to hit him. No shield kept the rain away from him, no magic, no psionic barrier, it was just luck. Luckily, not a single drop landed on him, mussed his suit, or damaged his suede shoes. To say that Doc was lucky would be like saying that World War II had been a minor dispute. “You know me too well, Scout.”
“Yeah, I suppose I do,” John said dryly. “What’s different about this time? You don’t usually ask for help with the Black Man.”
“I don’t need help with the Black Man,” Doc sounded hurt by the suggestion. Doc had once been a hero like John, but when he learned more about the Demon of the Crossroads it had become clear that thwarting the Black Man was his true calling. Chasing the Demon across dimensions was a full time job, and meant that Doc rarely got to visit the Golden Age anymore. Only those like John, who tended to visit other dimensions, ever crossed paths with him.
“Then why the hell am I here? Enigma needed my help, though she lied her face off, saying she didn’t, when she found out that you needed me.”
“Now, now, Scout,” chided Doc, wagging a finger at John. “She’s a big girl; she was taking care of herself before she ever met you, she’ll be fine. You’ve been over protective recently.”
“I have a right to be,” snapped John. Doc’s nonchalance always rubbed John just slightly the wrong way.
“Why did you tell her, anyway?” asked Doc with rolled eyes and an air which indicated that he thought John was completely whipped. Doc’s background as an actor always spilled over into his regular behavior. He did everything big: grand gestures, expressive tones, and a heap of melodrama. It turned out such behavior worked for heroing as well as Hollywood.
As if I could have kept it from her, he thought, keenly aware of how very far away she was. “Doc,” John smiled, determined to force the conversation along, “are you going to tell me why I’m here? It seemed pretty fucking important that I get here by midnight, and that’s coming right up.”
“Oh, fine,” Doc sighed. “I don’t need help with the Black Man, but there is a powerful demon currently in San Francisco who would complicate things if she gets wind of what’s going on. I need you to keep her busy until I’ve finished at the Crossroads.” Doc gestured at the sign marking the intersection of Haight and Ashbury.
“No problem. Anything I should know about this demon?”
“Nope. You’ll know her when you see her. She’s not very subtle. And you’re uniquely suited to deal with her.”
John arched an eyebrow but said nothing. Doc enjoyed playing games a bit too much. John wished he knew what the current game was, and why Doc masked behind his good humor such a strange mixture of amusement and sadness. After a moment, Doc sighed emphatically. “You aren’t going to ask, are you. You’re not any fun at all.”
“Yeah, I know,” John said as dryly as he could. It wasn’t like Doc to try to use him, and it convinced John more than anything else had that the situation was serious.
Doc quirked his head to one side as if listening for something. In answer, the sound of gunfire echoed loudly through the streets, mingling oddly with the pitter-patter of the steady rainfall, and lights began to flip on in nearby windows. Smiling secretively, he gazed at John, waiting.
John was tempted not to say anything, but the shooting didn’t stop, and for all that he hated playing Doc’s games, there were lives at risk. “What’s that?” he asked as if reciting a scripted line.
“Your cue,” replied Doc dramatically with a flourish of his hand. “And thanks,” he added with a wink.
“For dealing with it?”
“No, for saying your line,” Doc turned and disappeared back into the shadows.
Chuckling, John looked around for a moment and spotted what he wanted. A motorcycle was sandwiched in between two huge clunkers nearby. Tossing aside the umbrella and ignoring the water that instantly soaked him through, John reached into his pocket, grabbed the keys from an obliging dimension, and stole the bike.
In the few moments it took for him to get moving, the gunfire became sporadic and then stopped. Muttering a string of curses as he urged the bike on, John hoped that the scene and the culprit would be as obvious as Doc had indicated, for without the echoing sounds to guide him, his chances of finding his destination in the maze of streets was slim. The bikes small engine was not well suited to San Francisco and the rain-slicked streets only made it worse. In retrospect the motorcycle might not have been the best choice, but it had by far been the coolest vehicle in sight. He didn’t slow down, taking the turns at high speed, choosing his direction on guess work, deduction, and intuition. As he did, he tried to think if he’d seen any omens or portents since he’d arrived which might suggest which demon he was dealing with. He couldn’t think of any. The clouds kept him from seeing if moon be obscured by an ominous shadow, or if the stars were shining blood red. Could the rain itself be a sign? That seemed unlikely. Overcast skies in San Francisco weren’t exactly end-of-the-world material. The headline alluding to Apathy came to mind, but John thought it much more likely that it was just Nixon being a douche bag, as usual. The bike sped down a hill, and then struggled to go up another. At least it was only drizzling again.
He came around another corner and he nearly flipped the bike as he slammed the brake. A wall-mounted flood light suffused the wet streets with hard light, illuminating a broad area in front of a police precinct. More than a half dozen police cars sat in the street, lights flaring and reflecting off of the rain drops in a rainbow of blues and reds, sirens silent, though in the distance echoes spoke of approaching ambulances. They would be too late to help the cops who lay on the ground, their blood thinning as it mixed with the puddles, painting the pavement crimson. John began to feel uneasy, thinking of the headline about the Wanderer. This was the sort of thing he would do. But Doc had been clear about one thing – the demon would appear to be a woman. It was a silly concern anyway. John couldn’t have come so close to the Wanderer without feeling something.
John hopped off the motorcycle and headed confidently towards the precinct door. There were police officers all around helping their fallen comrades, but no one stopped him as he walked past and through the open door of the building. No one sat at the front desk in the lobby, and nearby lay a single officer, eyes closed, blood leaking from the corner of his mouth and from the bullet wound in his chest. There was nothing John could do for him, and he didn’t stop. Indistinctly, he could hear a muted female voice from down a hallway to his right. He couldn’t make out the words, yet there was something familiar about it. That was his target.
Hurrying down the hall, John descended a flight of stairs and encountered his first obstacle – a locked grate door blocking the way to the basement where the holding cells were. “…It’s been a while since I’ve been arrested,” he could finally make out the words as the sensual female voice spoke conversationally. A horrible creeping feeling set John’s hair on end, caused goose bumps on his arms. Would Doc really have asked him for help with this? John couldn’t believe it. It couldn’t be. “It’s really so,” she paused for emphasis, “so stimulating to be arrested from time to time. And I’m so glad it was you,” the sexy pout that accompanied these words was clear even with the speaker out of sight. It couldn’t be. John grabbed the keys to the locked grate out of thin air and walked on through in to the line of cells in the holding block.
“If I’m really bad,” the woman continued teasingly, “will you take me to Alcatraz?”
“Anything you want,” panted a clearly-smitten man.
“Anything at all.” A second man’s voice echoed the tones of the first.
It couldn’t be.
Down the line of cells to the last one, and a window near the ceiling, at street level, showed the scene in the darkened cell starkly in shades of gray and red. Water dripped down the wall to form a puddle, stained slightly with blood from the fallen officers lying on the street above. The woman was stunningly beautiful. Long, smooth, shining, raven black hair framed her face and rested around her shoulders. Rich, lipstick-red lips were curled in a smile, amused and sensual and begging to be kissed. She was tall and perfectly proportioned, and she wore a slinky black dress and heels that said it all – she was gorgeous, she knew it, and she wanted everyone around her to know it. Her eyes were terrifying, completely dead, completely calm. Her pupils were bottomless pools of blackness that surveyed everything around her with the certain knowledge that it was all beneath her concern. The two policemen at her feet were no exception. Judging by the handcuffs that she wore, they had arrested her, for all the good it had done them. Now they were groveling, staring up at her with adulation. John felt sick.
It couldn’t be.
“Oh,” she realized, with a moue of sadness and over-exaggerated tones of despair. “I can only have one of you right now. However shall I pick?” She finished with an innocent air, eyes averted skyward as if considering, a finger at her lips.
The officers didn’t hesitate. Both scrambled for their side arms, and gun shots echoed, painfully loud, through the cramped cell block. The officer on her right fell over, gasping, trying to rise, trying to shoot his partner; a moment later he stopped moving, blood leaking from his chest, his back, his mouth. John should have moved. He should have stopped it. He couldn’t. All he could do was stare at her.
It couldn’t be.
“Oh! My white knight,” she exclaimed with delight and a cruel smile to the victorious officer, whose face was contorted with a sick combination of lust and hatred. With a swift motion, she knelt, wrapped her handcuffed arms around his neck, and all the hatred left his face; he only had eyes for her and worship played in his every feature. She kissed him deeply and thoroughly. From her body language, she was really enjoying it, but her eyes were a million miles away. Then, with sudden intensity, they focused directly on John.
She moved shockingly fast, seizing the survivor’s gun, rising to her feet, handcuffs still no hindrance, stepped to the cell door, held the gun to John’s head. The muzzle pressed painfully into his skin. “Hello, John,” she said breathily. “It’s been a while.”
“It can’t be,” he mumbled. Scrambling to bring some kind of order to the chaos she had thrown his thoughts into, John reached for something he could focus on. When was the last time I was this off balance? I dealt with the Omega Man. I dealt with Bela Jot. I faced the Warlock. The fucking King of Color. Never. I’m never this off balance. Except maybe that once. Focus. Get it together, asshole.
“Nonsense,” she said dismissively. “You can’t expect me to believe you could possibly have had any reason for coming here other than to see me. We haven’t fucked in a while. Is it that time again? You picked a good moment, actually. I’m really in the mood.” She licked her lips suggestively, and her eyes flashed a challenge that John didn’t understand, but the gun to his head didn’t waver for a moment.
I’m gonna kill Doc. Next time I see him, I AM GOING TO KILL HIM, John vowed. He was out of time. He had to answer her. It can’t be, but it is. “Hello, Marie,” he said with icy calm that didn’t betray any of the thoughts roiling in his mind.
“And here I was beginning to think that you’d been so busy bombing post offices that you’d forgotten common civility. Seriously, John – post offices? It’s so…pedestrian,” she clicked her tongue with distaste. “We used to have much more fun than that.”
“Did we?” What had happened to her here? What had happened to him?
“Well, I always thought so,” she sighed, “but you were always more interested in the destruction than in the toys.” Her eyes flicked to the officer, who drank up her glance like it was his first sight of the sun after months of darkness.
“What did you do to him?”
“The usual,” Marie shrugged. The muzzle pressed further into the skin in John’s forehead. “He was a strong one; he thought of his lovely wife, his three adorable ittle bitty kiddies, and he didn’t want to play with me. Can you imagine, not wanting to play with me?” She held the cops eyes, gave her torso a suggestive wiggle, and he moved a step closer to her, lust his only concern. The instant her attention went back to John, hatred for his perceived rival contorted the man’s face. “The little darling, he held out for a few long seconds. But I convinced him easily enough that none of them had anything to offer that I couldn’t exceed a million times over. I thought to have a fun evening of it. If I’d have known you were coming, I’d have spared myself the trouble.” Her tone made it clear that it hadn’t been any trouble at all and that she would have done it anyway.
“Get away from her,” interrupted the officer, rage twisting his expression. He moved towards John with murder in his eyes.
“I’m done with you,” she snapped without even a glance in his direction. “Go away.”
All emotion left the officers face, and, as John watched, held captive by the pistol pressed against his forehead, the policeman listlessly moved to his murdered companion, pick up the gun that lay by the corpse’s hand, and splattered his own brains across the back wall of the cell. The body fell heavily. There had been a compelling command in her words, and the officer had obeyed. John recognized the signs that some kind of power or magic had been used that he hadn’t been able to detect. He’d never seen the Marie he knew do anything like that, but it reminded him of Artemis’ emotion manipulation. He fought to keep his expression from betraying his swirling emotions. Marie made no such effort; she looked disgusted, and she rolled her eyes. “Useless bastard, I meant that he could go home. Ah well,” she continued casually. She had already forgotten both the death that she had caused. “So, John, you’re not acting like you want to screw. What are you doing here?”
I wish I knew. “I’m here to see you,” he replied. “I need your help.” Thinking fast, he tried to figure out what he needed her help with. He’d have to say within seconds, and he hadn’t the faintest idea. Something involving bombs.
“You never come just for fun,” she pouted, and he was struck by how none of the over the top expressions ever touched her eyes.
“I think you’ll have fun,” he stalled for time.
“Oh?” How long till midnight? How long did Doc need her distracted? He wanted nothing more than to leave immediately. Except…
“How do you feel about Washington DC?”
“Boring,” she sighed, “senators are so stodgy, and even if you break one or two it never really goes right and it draws so much attention. Not that I mind,” she added, preening slightly. “Did you see? I was in the papers yesterday.”
“Does that mean you don’t want to go with me?” Except that he couldn’t leave without learning what had made her like this and why the John Smith in this world hadn’t done anything to stop it. He wanted to help her.
“I didn’t say that,” she pursed her lips in consideration. She lowered the gun, and John was sure there was an imprint on his forehead. The tension left his shoulders as the possibility of instantaneous death passed. The relief only lasted an instant, though, as she brought the barrel right back, pressed even harder than before. “Let’s try this again. Who the fuck are you? What do you really want? I know you’re not the Wanderer – you’re ten years too young, you show way to much disgust, and we haven’t gotten naked yet. Your self-control is terrible – you’re all over the place.”
“I’m John Smith,” he replied honestly.
“No, you’re not,” she cocked the gun, and her finger tensed on the trigger, and John began emergency calculations. He had looked death in the face too many times not to recognize the warning signs. Could he jump to another world before she pulled the trigger? He didn’t think he could, not deliberately, not when he’d already jumped that day, not without risking ending up lost in space and time. That would be far worse than being dead. If she didn’t like his answer, she really would shoot him in the head. He met her eyes, and with all the conviction he could muster, said: “Yes I am. I’m just not ‘your’ John Smith. But I know you – and I know you don’t want to shoot me, Marie.”
For the first time, an expression touched her eyes. Astonishment. And, John thought, something that must have been even more alien for her. Hope.
“You’re John Smith. You’re not the Wanderer. You’re the Scout. You’re actually the fucking Scout.” The gun fell away as the strength went out of her arms, her body sagging. John nodded, relieved. “Why are you here? Does he know? If he figures out you’re here, he’ll try to find you.” She sounded afraid.
“He would? Crazy son of a bitch…” It was John’s turn to express astonishment. Could the Wanderer, the incarnation of himself native to this dimension, truly harbor so much hatred that he would seek an encounter that would cause a portion of the multiverse to cease to exist? “What the hell went wrong here? How did this happen?”
Marie laughed.
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Lesson learned from re-reading this? I think my revised chapters would benefit from a quick read through and touch up once I "finish" revising them. :)
