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Post by soldierboy81 on Oct 15, 2014 22:34:42 GMT -6
C: Timeless?
Liddell Central Park, a national landmark. A place teeming with memories; most of them negative, especially for those who recall “the rumors” of the playground.
Don’t pay it any attention; rumors are just rumors. Silly fairytales told by bratty middle and high school students. Heh. Nothing like a little idle gossip to pass the time away. Those were the days ... Before the Inquisition that led to the Downfall of 2020 that is.
The Niflheim Administration investigated an occult item called “The Cloud Drive,” a magical engine or “cauldron” said to harness the powers of the 5th Dimension. The investigation, led by Niflheim Scientist Jayce Lee, saw the convergence of the 5th Dimension with our world, which led to the inevitable fall of modern technology and the erasure of 1/3 of the world’s population.
According to Cultic Science, should humanity transcend the 3rd Dimension ... You guessed it, there will be dire consequences. Reality itself would become malleable, and the fabric of existence would crumble. Only a fool would transcend the 3rd Dimension, and the Niflheim Administration learned firsthand ... that you should never, ever trifle with the natural order.
After 35 years of reconstruction and research, the Niflheim Administration bandaged the bleeding gash they induced on the world by building “Midgard;” the new “United States,” a convergence of all seven continents. Yes, you heard correctly ...
... the sins of the Niflheim Administration ...
... combined a-l-l seven continents into one. The once “united nations” became “one nation,” a true definition of “peculiar people”. Only these people aren’t singing the praises of some deity in the sky. No, it’s the total opposite ... Midgard is suffering, enduing and rebuilding a world that was turned upside-down by human ignorance. The world capital of this super continent is none other than my hometown:
Accrue City, 1st Hierarchical Colony of Neo-America.
Accrue City may be the world capital, but living here ...
... Yeah. It sucks.
Most of the world’s media, technology and entertainment is mass-produced by the Unified Hierarchical Colonies of Eurasia. Distribution is bi or tri-quarterly, but the “Eurasians” as they became known are, well ... They’re a bunch of greedy little punks.
Ironically, our ominous client hails from Eurasia, and has chosen Liddell Central Park as a rendezvous point for obvious reasons: The Park is the boundary between Neo-American and Eurasian soil. It’s a meeting center for the youth, where they play and socialize with their neighbors. Unfortunately, throughout the years, lowlifes have turned Liddell Central Park into a haven for delinquency.
“What the hell is this *A.G.* guy thinking?”
“Stop complaining, Roman.”
As you can see, working with Roman is like having a toddler at your tailcoat. Complain, complain, and complain some more, that’s all he does. Unfortunately, without his assistance, I can’t properly carry out my investigations.
He’s special, very special, and having him around makes living all the more easier.
“I don’t like this, Elias.” His nervousness becomes quite apparent, “Liddell ... isn’t a safe place, you know.”
“Heh. And what is complaining about it going to do?”
This isn’t normal. Usually, I don’t answer Roman, but given the situation ...
... Well, I must admit, I’m just as nervous as he is right now. “Let’s just keep a cool head, partner,” I encourage despite my unease. “It’s not *that* bad, you know. Everyone seems to be minding their own business anyway.”
“Um ...” Roman uneasily motions towards the north, “I wouldn’t be so sure about that.”
Of all the parks in the world, our client had to come sauntering into this one; an ominous figure with a shady disposition. I mean seriously, who marches into a public park wearing a hooded black overcoat in the late-afternoon?
“Sorry for the late entry, gentlemen.” The mysterious A.G. arrives with haunting presence, “You’re the detectives from the Allister Agency, Crane and Blade, am I correct?”
“Right on the money,” I respond. “And I take it you’re this ‘A.G.’ character?”
“I am.”
“Great. So, how can we be of service, and ...?” I motion my right hand, as I observe the area. “Why *this* place or a-l-l the great hotspots in Midgard? Close to your home or do you have something else to hide besides your identity?”
“Rendezvouses in Liddell are of little consequence to me,” A.G. explains through a vocal-altering mask. “These kids ... are my employees, and that’s why I had our meeting here; because I know they wouldn’t *dare* part their lips about my personal matters.”
Hmm ... This A.G. character seems to have control over the delinquents that hang around Liddell Central Park. Interesting ... To have some sort of dominion over the meeting grounds of Neo-America and Eurasia, A.G. is undoubtedly a person of power. What “power” that is ...
... well, that is the question.
“On to more important matters.” A.G. hands me a sealed file, “Take this and read it. I’ll contact you tonight, after you’ve researched the contents.”
I take the sealed file. “Why the secrecy?,” I wonder. “I thought you had nothing to hide in front of your ‘employees’. Was that nothing but a crock, A.G?”
“I’m a businessman, Mr. Crane. And as a businessman, I’m entitled to uphold my right to confidentiality.” A.G. motions his right hand to the file, “This contains vital information. Wonders the Niflheim Administration would literally *die* to get their hands on ... Heh. As if they haven’t ‘died’ enough already.”
“Hmph. Fine, if you say so.” I hand the file to Roman, who stores it in our briefcase for safe keeping. “But before I forget ...”
I give A.G. the famous stare ... That hardboiled stare that branded my mother as a legend.
When a Crane gives you “the look,” you better be on your P’s and Q’s. I have ways of knowing when someone’s a “crock;” that’s lingo for “a liar” or “a lie”.
“... tell me, A.G.” My stare intensifies, “What time should I expect your call?”
“10:30 PM sharp. If you don’t hear from me by then, my phone number is in the file, call me.”
“Alright, it’s a date.” I depart, and Roman nervously coattails me, “Talk to you later, A.G.”
He or she flinched when I asked that question. This A.G. character is obviously up to no good, but the Allister Detective Agency never turns down a client, especially when he or she promises $$50,000 for our services. That’s enough money to cover the bills for at least half a year ... Hmph. Even if this A.G. character is shady, at least he or she’s more than willing to compensate our hard work.
Remember this place well, Liddell Central Park.
This park is where Jayce Lee and his band of morons stationed their research, in the large building found at the northeastern end of the playground: The Alice Liddell Laboratory of Paranormal Research.
These days, Liddell Lab is a graveyard for memories of the Inquisition; the epicenter of “Carnage”. Carnage is a supernatural entity, a force of inexplicable power that traversed and reshaped the entire planet. Not much is known about Carnage other than what Niflheim leaks to us every few years, but “C-Research” played an important role in the advancement of Midgard:
Groundbreaking advanced technology. New and improved currency. Better living conditions. Innovative nutrition and dietary supplements. Yes, C-Research is the new “mother of civilization and creation,” especially in m-o-r-e ... “attractive” locations, and Accrue City isn’t one of them.
Refocusing on the mentioning of Liddell: This place is where everything begins and ends ...
... a meeting place of fate, so to speak.
When things get a little more serious, you’ll understand what I mean. Until that happens, fix some coffee, grab a donut, sit back and relax because we have a long ... l-o-n-g way to go.
When my partner Roman and I have research to do, we don’t head to the office, we head to the “Indigo Lounge;” Accrue City’s #1 hangout spot. It’s where we began our agency a decade ago, when we were nothing more than knuckleheads in our junior year of high school. We were always good at uncovering the truth—sleuths of the highest caliber, willing to do any and everything possible to crack the case at hand. Junior year was also around the time when we ...
... Well ...
... You’ll figure that out soon enough.
“Do you r-e-a-l-l-y trust this A.G. creep?” Roman’s voice seeps with unease, “I mean seriously, Elias, this guy’s a total *weirdo*. He pays well, but—”
“That’s just it,” I interject, thoroughly examining A.G.’s file. “He’s paying us $$50, 000. That’s the highest price offer we’ve *ever* had, Roman. And from the looks of things ...”
I pass the file to Roman, “... peep this, kid.”
Roman pulls the file closer to him, and examines it as I explain my findings. “It’s an item called ‘Freyja’s Dial’,” his eyes widen with shock. “Apparently, this A.G. crock and his group ‘Valhalla’ had dibs on it before a rival group called ‘Hel’ stole it several weeks ago. They want it back. Pronto. That’s why their price offer is literally ‘shooting through the roof’.”
“Incredible!” Roman nervously shifts his eyes at me, “But ... In order to get this ‘Dial,’ we would have to infiltrate Hel and take it from them, and ...”
“... right. That means we may have to smash ‘em.”
“Again?,” Roman shudders. “You know I hate it when we have to fight ... Isn’t there another way?”
“It’s either that, or ...” I draw a can of oil from my jacket, “I’m using the spicy kind. Permanently!”
“Yikes!,” he panics. “You maniac! You know what that does to my gears ...”
Okay, fangirls and perverts, erase those naughty thoughts. We don’t have that type of relationship.
As I said before, Roman’s “special;” v-e-r-y special, and without him, I can’t carry out my investigations. Oiling is a special treatment I give him; it keeps Roman “n-i-c-e and shiny” ... Still haven’t figured it out?
Good ... Heh. I was always a sucker for guessing games.
“It’s up to you, kid.” I shake the oil can in my fingertips. “Smash or sting? Your choice.”
“M-m-m ...” His face steams red, “Fine! But you better not go overboard this time.”
“Hmph. Do I ever?” He gives me an annoyed stare, making me giggle. “Hee-hee! Guess that was a dumb question.”
His ears steam with annoyance, “Rr ~ ah! Elias, you’re impossible!”
“I’m back, gentlemen.” Our waitress, Cassandra, arrives with two creamed and sugared coffees on a tray, “I see things ‘picked up’ while I was gone. Having trouble in the office?”
“Not necessarily,” we reply in unison.
“Oh, I see ...” Cassandra sets the coffees on our table, “There we are—two coffees with cream and sugar, just like you wanted. Can I interest you gentlemen in anything else?”
“No thanks,” I give Cassandra a clever stare. “Unless you have some coffee cakes back there.”
“Splendid choice!” Our waitress seems delighted to be of service to us, “We have several different selections: almond and chocolate chip blend; raisin oat; coconut praline; and my favorite, caramel crumb cake delight! My suggestion would be the lattermost ...”
“... then, the lattermost it is,” I smile. “Be sure to make them n-i-c-e and toasty for us.”
“Okay! Two caramel crumb cake delights, coming right up!” She departs for the kitchen, hopping and a skipping like a merry grade school student.
When I inherited Allister from Morrigan, Cassandra was seven-years old. Time sure passes by quickly, especially when you’re busy solving everyone else’s problems. Look at her now ...
... A spitting image of her parents ... I bet she doesn’t even remember us, or perhaps that’s just her putting on “a professional face” in front of her employers.
“Hey, Elias.” Roman’s calm voice regains my attention, “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine. Why?”
“You look ...”
My eyebrow arches with suspicion, “I look what?”
“... hungry,” my face angrily distorts. “You know, like you haven’t eaten in days.”
“I’m naturally this pale, metal-head!” My explosion sets him back with nervousness, “Geez, for the love of ...! H-a-h. Leave it up to you to be so *freaking* obvious ...”
“I’m sorry, just saying.” I rub my temples with annoyance.
Lunch with Roman is always a hoot and a headache, but after we were done, we left to initiate the harder part of our investigation: Finding “Hel”. We don’t know anything about Hel, and even if people know something about these goons, there’s no way they’re ratting for free ... Hmph. Getting leads out of Accrue is like trying to fly an airship without a ventilation engine: Pointless, no matter how hard you try.
So, when you run over a nail in the road, always have “a spare tire” in your trunk. Any expert detective knows that, so take it from me—it comes in handy.
Our “spare tire”: Jimmy the Weasel. Some goony nose from the southern outskirts of Accrue, close to Amass Town by a few minutes. Jimmy knows e-v-e-r-y-t-h-i-n-g that happens in Neo-America; the “eyes and ears” of the street. If it goes down on our turf, he’ll sing like a bird for a reasonable price.
His meeting place is in the dark alleyway between the tailor and the metal wielder on Colleen Boulevard. It’s always dim there; never a speck of sunlight.
In order for the Weasel to appear, you have to recite his verse:
“Do you see yonder cloud, that's almost in shape of a camel? By the mass, and 'tis like a camel, indeed. Methinks it is like a weasel. It is backed like a weasel. Or, like a whale? Very like a whale.” And with those words, the Weasel leaves it burrow of darkness, to grace the light of men ... Feh. Look at him—a bucktooth, balding, four-eyed schmuck in better threads than most noses out there, and that’s only because he knows his business. “Right on time, old friend.”
The Weasel adjusts his glasses and improves his perception. “Ah, well, well, w-e-l-l ...” Having caught a good eye on his clients, the Weasel approaches us with jovial character. “If it ain’t my two favorite customers—Accrue’s # 1 gumshoes, Elias Crane and Roman Blade!” A gentleman to all his customers, the Weasel extends his right hand to us, “Heh. Put it there, boys!”
After a little manly handshake exchange, we get down to business. “Alright, we know you don’t work for free, so ...” I reach into my jacket, pull out a wad of $$500 bills and hand them to the Weasel, who gladly accepts our “generous” offer. “There you go, Jimmy.”
“Hmm ...” The Weasel flips through the double-dollar bills, damn near disgusting us to death with his excessive display of mortal greed. “N-i-c-e. This here’s the good stuff, boys.” A nose to the end, the Weasel places his earnings inside his coat, puffs his cigar and smirks, “So, boys, word on the street is you two ‘looking for some dirt’. Heh. You should’ve visited to me sooner; would’ve saved you a lot of time. Now then ... Dish and I’ll grant your wish, eh?”
“Alright, Jimmy ...” My inner hardboiled gumshoe shines, “Tell us what you know about Hel.” My demand gapes Jimmy’s face with shock—something my partner and I have never seen until now. It’s ... as if the Weasel has a past with Hel; a tough one. “Heh. They’re *that* bad, huh?” Jimmy turns away from us for a second and digs into his old Catholic roots, pressing his chest with the sign of the cross. “Hmph. Never took you for a believer.”
Jimmy turns around, his character doused in fear. “You damn near made me a believer again, boys ...” He adjusts his glasses and wonders, “How the hell did you hear about *those* maniacs? Nobody spills that name on the street and walks away in one piece.”
“Our client claims these Hel bums have the Dial; Freyja’s Dial—an artifact that has the power to revise, reshape and ruin space, time and history.” The Weasel is intrigued by my response, made apparent by his folding arms and his habit of grazing his chin with his top hand. “Morrigan told me that playing with spacetime requires ‘a sacrifice,’ which means these bums are willing to do anything to accomplish their goal. We need this information not just to solve a simple case—it’s for the sake of mankind and reality itself.”
Jimmy puffs his cigar and looks off for a second, as if he’s lost in deep thought. “You know what, boys ... this sounds w-a-y too familiar. Heh. It really does, and I don’t like shit that puts me in this type of mood, you feel me?” My partner and I nod in understanding of how the Weasel feels. Nobody likes being placed at unease, especially those in his line of work. “... I’ll tell you everything I know, no additional charges. “Safety and security are everything to a nose, so Jimmy’s “generous” offer is a natural reaction. Besides, the effects of Freyja’s Dial are equivalent to that of the Cloud Drive, and the world is in no shape to endure a second apocalypse. “These goons you’re looking up has connections with the Wsvelgr Corporation—the ‘biggest cheese of the cheese’ in Neo-America. Word on the street: Hel holds all their operations in Warehouse 41 of the WC Headquarters in Cumulus City ...” The Weasel’s dirt comes with gold; an informative jackpot—Wsvelgr and Hel are business partners ... Hmph. Makes you wonder why Midgard’s # 1 financial powerhouse is cooperating with a bunch of faceless lowlifes. “You said they’re working with this ‘Dial’ thing, yeah? Heh. I heard what it’s all about, boys ... Peep this: The head honcho of Wsvelgr and the big boss of Hel are related—father and son. They’re holding this so-called ‘ceremony’ to resurrect a lost loved one.”
Roman is intrigued by the Weasel’s information. “Resurrect a loved one? You mean ...?” My partner’s eyes widen with shock, before he looks to me with that very same expression. “Elias ... Sounds like these people are playing with fire. The dead should remain dead.” My eyes close with suppressed empathy; for, I understand what these people are trying to do, but ... Roman is absolutely right.
When someone dies, his or her soul should remain at peace. Resurrecting the dead means relieving the deceased of their afterlife—meaning that there’s no promise they’ll return to their resting place ... in one piece. You see, when a person dies, a large part of them is left behind here in the human realm; their former life and a-l-l the “hell-raising” or “heaven-sending” they committed pre-mortem. These inconsistent endeavors are recorded by “the Watcher,” an entity many confuse with the Christian god and several other deities of the Old World. The Watcher then sends the deceased to one of the Afterworlds, basing their fate solely upon their pre-mortem endeavors: Paradise, haven of the righteous; Purgatory, the valley of atonement; or Inferno, the burning abyss of the wicked. I want to believe all people go to Paradise, but unfortunately ...
... They’re way too many creeps in Midgard these days. “We need to know the best way to infiltrate Wsvelgr,” I break away from deep contemplation, to continue our business with the Weasel. Jimmy bucks his chest and places his arms behind his back. “The Rites can only be done under a full moon, which means we have approximately 24 hours before ‘doomsday’.” Jimmy lowers his head and nods, realizing the urgency of his cooperation. “Please, Jimmy. P-l-e-a-s-e tell us you have some leads.”
Jimmy giggles at the desperation in my voice. “... They don’t call me ‘the Weasel’ for nothing, kid.”
“So you know a way in?”
“The best, kid. Now here’s what you got to do ...” For the first time ever, Jimmy trashes his Dougal cigar and focuses his attention solely on us. “The southern gateway is your best bet. Due to all the construction, Wsvelgr and a-l-l their little goons won’t be showing face there for quite some time. Word on the street is: Wsvelgr is working on assimilating Hel into their ranks; in other words, making them an actual subdivision. The hardhats will be too busy to even notice you, but be sure to maintain a low profile.”
“Security, I’m guessing?”
“Bingo, kid. That means no ‘showboating’. Nobody likes an exhibitionist these days, capiche?”
“Capiche ...” I look to Roman whose countenance has since returned to its normal concerned state. “Phone the Lieutenant and tell her we’re going to need ‘the good stuff’. This may very well be our biggest gig yet.” Roman confirms his understanding with a nod. I return my attention to Jimmy, whose presence has somehow lost its initial repulsion. “Thanks a mil, Weasel,” I smile. “We owe you one.”
Jimmy adjusts his glasses and blushes. “No problem, kid. And if you see Mamacita, tell her the Weasel said, ‘Smooch smooch’.” Roman and I are tickled by the Weasel’s obvious crush on our personal trainer and upgrade dealer, NA Lt. Adina Lopez-Walden—the owner of the Walden Underground training facility. But before we can comment on his silly adorations, the Weasel ... is gone. Once the Weasel crawls back into its burrow of darkness, it’s hard to get him out again without some extra dough. That’s the life of the greatest nose this side of the Liddell Park boundaries ... Still, the Weasel’s backstory is a lot sadder than most people would want to believe.
“Montelli’s Pizzeria,” the best pizza joint in the Old World ...
... Before the Cloud Drive Incident and the subsequent Carnage Outbreaks, both of which had their fair share in ruining and reshaping the world, Montelli’s was the biggest culinary hotspot in what used to be known as “New York City”. James “Jimmy” Montelli, Jr. was the owner of the little place, the inheritor of his father’s legacy and the friendliest guy on that side of the Big Apple. Montelli’s was incredible: Good food, fast and friendly service, cheap prices, speedy delivery, open at even the most convenient hours; “you couldn’t go wrong with Montelli’s,” that’s what everyone would say about the joint. When I was a little boy, before the Cloud Drive Incident that took my right arm, left leg and right foot, I used to visit Montelli’s on a daily basis, and admire the many pizza rolls Bunny, his wife, would make. So sweet and juicy-looking ...
... I never realized how much love and sacrifice went into baking, until I saw Bunny and spoke to her myself. She explained everything—from the toils to the rewards of the pizza-making business. It was through Bunny that I became close to James, or “Jimmy” as he became known to me, as well as their three children—three girls: Joanne, the oldest daughter; Myrna, the middle daughter; and Rachael, the baby girl. Apparently, Jimmy was “better at making little dolls” than he was at “siring an heir”. Despite his genetic inadequacy, he loved his family with all his heart ... They were his “world,” and being with them was his reason to exist—not just Montelli’s and the good money it made.
The Cloud Drive Incident ...
... When that damned cauldron turned the Old World into Midgard, everything changed ... Smalltime and top-dollar corporations were put out of business, and the Old World saw a mass financial decline that truly marked “the end” for everyone. Montelli’s was one of those corporations. Apparently, Jimmy’s old man had several chains around the northeast and some parts of the northwest. He was a millionaire ... That meant Jimmy was also a millionaire, and yet he never carried himself as an uptight asshole—at least not in public. In time, the Montellis were forced into poverty, and were assimilated with the large population of vagrant souls on the streets of the New World, Midgard. That’s where Jimmy learned how to “use his nose,” and eventually began amassing information that new corporations and enforcers would pay big money to get their hands on. Due to his “generous words of advice,” Jimmy nosed his family into a decent little apartment on Belleview Road ...
... but then ... Carnage broke free, as a result of the recent Cloud Drive Incident! Millions were taken by Carnage into the alternate dimension beyond, where god-knows-what happened to them. That included Jimmy’s family, an abduction that happened during an important meeting with a cheese wheel from DOA Underground Inc., the New World’s top independent fighting circuit. When poor Jimmy, who garnered the nickname “Weasel” overtime, arrived home, his heart was shattered when he found his wife’s wedding ring abandoned on the kitchen floor ... Bread was burning in the oven, and the house was apparently going aflame because of it. One of the effects of Carnage: The deadly acceleration of the “what-ifs” and “what-could-happens” of reality. Once those otherworldly bastards come through, it’s “instant hell unleashed on earth”.
So ... those unfortunate events led Jimmy to his current life—nosing around on the streets, dishing the best information for a specific amount of double-dollars. It makes sense why the Weasel would offer all that inside information for free: The Cloud Drive Incident and the subsequent Carnage Outbreak that destroyed his entire life. Tell me ... How would you bounce back after having everything, and I literally mean e-v-e-r-y-t-h-i-n-g taken away from you? Just think about it for a second ...
... Yeah, I know. Not the easiest rhetorical question out there. And if you say you have a plan in that amount of time, you’re a crock.
Freyja’s Dial is just as powerful as the Cloud Drive, and it’d be a miracle if the New World survived a second apocalypse. Hell, I’ll go as far as to say “having another Inquisition would be a blessing in disguise”. Imagine how fucked-up the world world be then ... No, you can’t—because the world would no longer exist. To delve into dimensions beyond the 3rd is a direct violation of the natural order, and from what we learned during our consultation with the Weasel, this father-son duo plans on resurrecting the dead. Not only would that place the deceased at unrest, it would also open portals to the afterlife that would surely leak Carnage or malevolent spirits.
It’s possible to access the afterlife through spacetime, by invoking “the lost time” of a specific person. You know that old saying, “Your time is up,” right? Well, that’s literally the whole gist of it—lost time. So by using the Dial, an invoker can actually resurrect the dead. It’s crazy, it’s suicidal, but it actually works ... at the cost of your soul, that is. That’s right—one soul for one resurrection.
Wsvelgr and Hel ... They don’t realize the danger behind what they’re plotting. To play games with the afterlife and fuck with the natural order a second time ... They need to be stopped, but first—I need to phone A.G. and follow-up with him or her. I may not care too much for the crock, but a promise is a promise. A real detective’s all about punctuality; arrive too late or too soon, and you may miss out.
10:30 PM sharp, just like A.G. requested. I ring him or her up from my office landline. A few buzzes, and ... “Good evening, Detective.” The crock taunts me with sarcastic laughter typical of crocks, “How fares the research?”
“We found some dirt on the objective. Good leads, the best in town—no joke there.”
“Ah, I see ...” A.G. giggles delightedly. “Great job, Detective. Confidential I hope?”
“Yeah. Not over the phone. You know how hackers are these days—can’t even talk to your old lady without a snooper on the line.” Suddenly, my inner hardboiled gumshoe surfaces once again. “So tell me, ‘A.G.’ ...” My character firms, “How do you know these goons?”
The crock sighs and takes a moment to gather his or her thoughts. It’s not easy for punks like this to spill the dirt, give a little dish on their so-called “private lives,” but when they do spill ... “I used to be in league with them a while back.” That’s right, you get results—positive or negative, but results still. The best thing for a gumshoe to do in this situation is “the 2LR Method”: Listen, Learn and Remember. “I can’t reveal too much information, but let’s just say ... I was one of their ‘biggies’. A cheese. But I left for personal reasons ...”
“Personal reasons, eh? How ‘personal’ are we talking here?”
“Simple ...” A.G. huffs resentfully, exuding a strong sense of annoyance and aversion towards the objective. “I *don’t* negotiate with assholes. They wanted me to do something that would put Midgard on the verge of extinction—the shit they’re pulling right now.”
So this A.G. crock has tips on the reason behind the resurrection. That’s information that’ll come in handy. “Tell me what you know about this resurrection bull.” Upon hearing that question, A.G.’s entire demeanor does a 90 on me—he or she begins acting a bit timid, made apparent by the sheepish grunt in his or her voice. Don’t jump to conclusions, fellas—some guys are softer than most, so there’s no concrete proof it’s a dame.
“Adelheid Marie Folkerts-Sonnenberg ...” The uttering of this name seems to have awoken a sense of sentimentality within A.G., yet another quality unseen until this conversation. “She was my mentor and close friend; the wife of Wsvelgr CEO Schwartz Martin Sonnenberg, and mother of their only son Christian. She disappeared with ‘the Mist of Oblivion,’ the spiritual excess from the first Cloudway.”
“The Cloud Drive, huh?”
“Yes, the Drive. Seems that thing has an adverse effect on people containing high amounts of spiritual energy. At least that’s what C-Research has uncovered in the past few months.” It’s true—entities possessing high amounts of spiritual energy are easier to influence from alternate dimensional planes. The Cloud Drive has origins connected to alternate realms undiscovered and unseen. Unsolved disappearances are only the bud of what happens when a cauldron is accessed outside of its original plane. “Adelheid was an avid believer before the CD Incident, and she attempted instilling these beliefs in her husband, but ... He never listened to her. Schwartz loved Adelheid, but he took her beliefs as nothing more than ‘popularized children’s stories’. Christian was only a baby when his mother disappeared, so the desire to meet his mother and be held by her—that’s what motivated him to begin ‘you-know-what’. His band of thugs has terrorized Neo-America for nearly seven years, from darkness; the thing that seemed to encompass most of his life.”
“So this is all a game of chance to resurrect this Adelheid dame? Our objective’s reason for accessing the afterlife is ...?” All to revive a long-lost family member—Adelheid Sonnenberg. Schwartz and Christian are putting the entire planet at jeopardy for this? This is insane! As a believer, the one thing you want most is to be on high with “your god,” not remain here—on this ass-backwards post-apocalyptic hellhole! “... I have some leads on when and where they’ll hold the ceremony,” I determinedly leak. “Tomorrow. The only thing my nose failed to mention is the core of ceremonies invoking elements of darkness—the full moon ... at its highest peak in the sky. Midnight is when the ceremony starts, so thirty minutes after that ...”
“... it’s game over.” A.G. is apparently on the same page as I am. “Adelheid must not and cannot be resurrected. If that happens, she’ll return as a vengeful spirit. Invoking spirits during the midnight hour is *dangerous*. Doing so will only revive the innermost evils of the deceased, not the good.” Nice. This A.G. crock has some knowledge of cultic and paranormal science. He or she is telling the truth—moonlight ceremonies are dangerous, especially when it comes to alternate-plane invocation. The Afterworlds are “final resting places,” one of them being an “in-between,” so making contact with one of them is dangerous. One should never rob someone of peace, no matter what the issue. “You know who to get in, right?”
“Yeah. My nose gave me some valuable info. We’re already preparing for ‘Operation: Doomsday’.”
A.G. huffs amusedly. “Operation: Doomsday, huh? Cliché ... But I like it.”
“It goes either way—doomsday for us, or the end of this fool’s game of change.” Suddenly, the sound of gunfire is heard, and A.G.’s voice huffs with fear! “Huh! Shit! Wsvelgr?”
I panic! “Holy ... They’re on your tail *already*?”
“I have to go, Detective. Forewarning: You better be prepared. *Damned* well prepared!” The call is ended, and the only thing heard is a disconnection tone ... Damn it! I can’t believe those punks figured everything out that quickly. We did mouth off a little too much, but hacking takes a little more time than that in this day and age ... So it doesn’t make sense. Accuracy of that level would take ...
... Suddenly, my contemplation is interrupted by the deafening sound of static coming from my receiver—noise that causes me to toss my phone onto my desk, and hold my ears to calm my aching head! “Hello! Please, if you can hear me, pick up the phone!!” The voice ... of a woman? A dame is speaking to me over the phone, her voice resonating from the receiver like a cry of long-lost hope. “Hello? Anybody there?”
I pick up the receiver and place it to my left ear. “Yeah ... Someone’s here. How can I help you?”
“Could you ...” The voice is crying. Bawling. The dame’s heartbroken—for what reason, I’m not so sure. “... Tell my husband I love him. *We* love him. And we miss him. We know it’s hard out there, but ...”
“Yeah, I’m listening. Go on.” Then, without warning, the static disappears and the disconnection tone returns. I’m taken by surprise, having come close to helping this woman—this vague white noise from the Afterworlds. Seeing no other reason to remain on the line, I hang up my receiver and take a moment to absorb what just happened. “Not even as much as a name ... Morrigan, I want to help this woman, but ...” I lean on my office desk, cup my mouth in my hands and close my eyes with frustration. My head lowers into my hands, and all I can see is the polished wood in front of me. “Shit. How can I help someone I don’t know a thing about?”
I took a shower and slept it off. When I awoke the following morning, Roman phoned me and gave good word about the Lieutenant: She said she’d do “any and everything possible” to shape us up for Operation: Doomsday. Adina’s the type of woman that never gives up on people; the diligent and stubborn kind. That’s military background for you—trained to be tougher than tempered steel, a shield in time of need and a servant to his or her hierarchical colony through thick and thin ... “Alright, you maggots, get on your feet!”
Our training course is comprised of endurance, collaboration and individual tactics. A three-part hellish conditioning session made to prepare us for a death-defying contest against the heartbroken Sonnenberg Family: Schwartz and Christian—a father-son duo who wishes to resurrect the beloved wife and mother of their family, Adelheid. “Crane, more fluid! I said ‘fluid,’ not sloppy!” Adina does her very best to beat us into shape, but my mind’s somewhere else right now. The only thing I can think about is how much grief a man has to endure, to stoop so low—playing games with the Afterworlds. “That’s it, Blade, keep your partner in sync! You two are starting to pick things up out there! Keep it up, boys!” Adina ... I can hear concern buried beneath the persistence in her voice. There’s a good woman behind that tough-as-nails outer shell of hers. “Yo, boys, take a break,” she suggests, entering the training ring from the northern ropes. “You made it through two courses. That’ll be enough for at least an hour or so.”
I collapse onto the ring backfirst, beside myself with fatigue. Roman, who’s always full of energy, looks down at me with concerned eyes. “Damn, Deedee, that took a lot out of me ...” My words close Roman’s eyes with an unsaid sense of guilt. You see, Roman’s not like other people—as I said before, he’s “special,” so succumbing to human weaknesses such as fatigue is beyond him. “Hey, partner ...” The exhausted manner of my voice reopens his eyes, to the image of me smiling up at him. “You did great ... like always ...”
That smile ... Heh. When Roman smiles, it’s like the sun’s coming out for tea and cakes or something. “Thanks, Elias. You did great yourself, but ...” He kneels down and gives me a helping hand. “Man, all puns and jokes aside, you look like you’ve been through hell and back. Come on, I’ll get you some water.” I take his hand and he gives me enough leverage to stand up in one go.
Adina approaches us with that straight-laced, army brat saunter of hers. “Hey, you boys know people are talking, right?” We look to her with curious expressions, as she continues on with some valuable information. “Word on the street is you two are looking for trouble. So this morning I got a little suspicious ... Elias, Roman, *why* are you boys nosing up on Hel? Those bums are bad news.”
“Our latest client has connections with them. He or she says they have Freyja’s Dial, and as a retired war veteran, you know how serious artifact instances can get.” Adina folds her arms, physically exhibiting a sense of intrigue towards my explanation. “They’re working in collaboration with Wsvelgr.”
Adina stops me for a second, beside herself with disbelief. “Whoa, wait, did you just say ... Wsvelgr?”
“Yeah. Apparently, the bosses of both sides are father and son. They’re plotting to resurrect the lady-of-the-house for personal reasons, but as we all know ...” I place my hands on my hips, loosening my breathing muscles to let a little more oxygen into my system. In a few seconds, I’m able to finish my sentence. “Fucking around with the Afterworlds is suicide. To top things off, accessing the spacetime continuum requires a sacrifice.”
“Do you think they’ll off one of their men for such an occasion?”
“No. Considering the extremity of their purpose, they’ll need the soul of someone linked to the invoked. Using the souls of one unlinked would result in a dimensional explosion, and the planet would be ruined once again by worldwide Carnage Outbreaks.” Adina looks off and curses under her breath, realizing how serious this case has become. “We’ll need an upgrade dealing with dimensional magic.” My business personality earns her undivided attention, “If we’re going head-to-head with something like Freyja’s Dial, we’ll need ‘the good stuff’ ... Got anything in mind, Lieutenant?”
Adina turns around for a moment, holds her chin and ponders. “Hmm ...” An idea comes to mind. She turns back around and faces us with character that seeps good news. “Just the thing. Skip the last session, boys—I got something that’ll silence this dramatic bullshit for good. Hands down.”
Acting upon the Lieutenant’s word, Roman and I head to the shower to clean up. Upon finishing “our little scented getaway from training,” and redressing ourselves in our day-suits, we head straight for the Underground’s “personnel only” entrance, where we stumble upon the idling Lieutenant. “Alright, boys. Hope you did your cool-down exercises because what I have in store for you is ‘top quality’ good. Follow me, boys ...” Adina seems excited about giving us this upgrade. Then again, that’s how she’s always been—a total tech nerd behind her usual bust-your-guts profile. Halfway down the staircase to her “secret abode,” I’m reminded how avid a weapons collector Adina became post-discharge. “Don’t get too fascinated, Elias,” her witty sarcasm earns my attention. “These are my babies, don’t get me wrong. But trust me, my ‘little newborns’ are going to knock the socks right off your steppers.”
At the end of the staircase is a fortified door with a combination lock. Since we’re her closest friends and business associates, Adina told us the code a few weeks back: 12-21-05; her birthday—December 21, 2005. That was over thirty years ago ... Compared to her, we’re just kids. Knuckleheads trying to make it in this ass-backwards steampunk junkyard. “Alright, in we go ...” She opens the fortified door and allows us into her humble abode of W.M.D.s. “Hope you boys like pineapple soda because ...” She grabs two bottles of her favorite brand of the drink, Lummis’ Delight. “It’s all I got right now. Just got finished paying the bills—now, if you’ll follow me to the display table ...” We comply, ready and raring to see what she has in store for us ...
... When we arrive to the table, we notice a briefcase patented with the Walden symbol. “Nice case there, Adina.” I notice the quality of it, and surprise her a little. “Heh. Mercia’s Blend 20XX-Year 2. I like it.”
“Ah, but the surprise ...” The Lieutenant opens the briefcase and introduces us to something Niflheim would boil their dead old mum’s underpants to get their hands on: Our upgrade. “The Driver Glove and the Gear Shifter!” For the first time in years, my partner and I are completely astounded! These upgrades are ... “Military Classified, boys. I got these babies as a going-away gift from my old commanding officer, Captain Barnes. You said you wanted something that could deal with issues like Freyja’s Dial, right? Then these lovelies here—they’re your best bet.” The Lieutenant steps aside and allows us to partake of these incredible devices, made and ready for heavy-duty usage. I place the Driver Glove on my right hand, and immediately ... I can feel its energy—like a soothing wind cleansing every last vessel in my body! Roman places the Gear Shifter on his left forearm, and feels the same sensation ... The power we’ve been given is beyond belief! “I wanted to give these to you boys sooner, but ... I had to wait until you were ready.” The concern in Adina’s voice regains our attention, and we’re introduced to her “more womanly” side. “You see, boys ... You two have been coming here since this place was owned by my husband—since you were kids. I’ve noticed how well you progressed throughout the years, and I must say—if he were still with us, Gregory would be proud, r-e-a-l-l-y proud to give these to you. I’m honoring his memory with this, so be sure to take good care of them. Alright?”
We observe our new items for a few moments, before some questions come to mind. “So ...” I commence our obvious enquiry session with the Lieutenant. “How do these gadgets work, Deedee?”
“Morrigan taught you everything you need to know, kid. They’re miniature cauldrons made solely for power containment and amplification. All you have to do is focus your willpower into them and BOOM—baddies got one hell of an ass-whooping coming their way.” Heh. That’s Adina for you—always into her “babies”. Can’t blame her, though ... With these beauts, there’s no telling the amount of smashing we could dish out. “But you better be careful, boys ...” The sound of precaution in her voice regains our attention, “Even with your abilities, use these too much and they could have adverse effects. Captain Barnes said ‘they have a few minor glitches, but other than that—they’re A+ quality’.”
Roman looks to me with that concerned expression, as if he’s afraid but unable to speak up about it. I look back at him, but immediately lower my vision a bit, and return my attention to Adina. He does the same ... Once again, Roman and I are on the same page: These items are powerful, but they’re prototypes—that means they’re not fully tested. However, that’s the fun part ... “We’ll take them, Lieutenant.” Roman speaks up, earning our lady-friend’s impressed attention. “Danger is what we live for. The pursuit of danger is the pursuit of mystery—something that’s become the bread and butter of our agency. So even if these ‘babies’ aren’t the best, we’ll *make* them the best.”
A smile decorates my face, as I pat my partner on the back. “Likewise, bud.” The Lieutenant seems pleased to witness how well we’ve matured over the years. When we first visited the Underground, Roman and I were just a couple of curious sleuths looking to make ourselves “stronger and faster”. Over time, we became “the stars of the Underground,” and even DOA Underground Inc. knocked up our doors throughout the years. So, even though we can be a bit of an “odd couple” at times, Roman and I are a team—we walk, live and die together, no matter what. And with a tough cookie like Adina on our side, a nose who knows, and a few other connections, we’re never alone. Accrue and everyone else who steps against us can suck rocks, bite dirt and eat shit for all we care ... “We need to be shoving along, Deedee.”
She exchanges hugs with us, of which we’re more than delighted. Hell, she just gave us an early birthday present for crying out loud. “You boys be safe, you hear?” The Lieutenant steps away and salutes us. “Stick it to ‘em, big time!”
Roman and I harmoniously salute the Lieutenant. “Yes, ma’am!”
Wsvelgr HQ in Cumulus City, the financial superpower of Neo-America; a place that helped revive and reshape the New World ... It’s now 11:59 PM, and the final shift is set to begin in approximately 39 seconds. Following the Weasel’s nose, we’re presently waiting in a hiding spot on the southernmost parts of the building—behind a set of bushes.
Yeah ... Jimmy was right. Wsvelgr’s literally putting their guards down. Security is shit on this side of the Corporation—not a damn camera in sight, and that’s speaking lightly about the situation. Roman keeps an eye on his pocket watch, which chimes midnight! He presses the stem wind to deactivate it, and exits the car from the passenger seat. I do the same from the driver’s seat ... Looking at Warehouse 41 from our distance, Roman and I already know the deal. “Things are going to get ugly from here.” He turns and looks at me with that concerned expression, “You ready?”
“Yeah ...” I close the driver’s door, and head off towards destiny. “Let’s go, partner.” Roman does the same to the passenger seat door, and follows after me. Determination seeps from the marrow of our bones. “In this damned city, in this day and age ...” Resolve somehow illuminates the Gemstones on our upgrades. Roman’s body automatically distorts, reshapes and relocates into his true form ... The Magia-Gauge! “Roman, old bud ... We are the law!” My cybernetic parts do their magic, as I take to the skies with a great leap of faith!
The ceremony is underway ...
... Tonight’s full moon is at its highest in the sky, and I can smell the faint scent of ambrosia candles. No doubt, this smell is stronger from the ceremony room, where Christian approaches the Dial laid upon a holy alter. “Oblitus temporis, oblitus anima ...” Freyja’s Dial is activated by these words, uttered by the leader of ceremonies himself—Schwartz Sonnenberg. “Obsecro te, revertere ut terra viventium—Adelheid Marie Folkerts-Sonnenberg.” Christian, donning ceremonial robes, arrives to the alter and kneels before it—a ceremonial dagger in his right hand. His proud father becomes magniloquent, believing the time of his wife’s return is at hand. “Ab ultuma desperatione recreatus, ex oblivionem cinerem, exsurge Adelheid. Cum isto sanguine ...” Upon his father’s word, Christian slits his left forearm with the ceremonial dagger, and allows his blood to drop upon the Dial! The artifact further excites and opens a gateway to the Afterworlds, where wails of suffering emerge—terrifying all spectators! “Sanguis filium tuum unigenitum ... Revertimini ad nos, Adelheid. Revertimini ad nos, Adelheid! Revertimini ad nos, Adelheid ...!!”
Schwartz’s incantation accesses the innermost boundaries of spacetime, and expands the gateway to the Afterworlds threefold! The wails and suffering of the deceased sound vibrantly, painting the midnight sky as far as the ear can hear ... By this time, Roman and I have already smashed several aggressors with the Magia-Gauge’s Brave Mode. In my partner’s Magia-Gauge Form, he can automatically change into several unique Modes per accordance with his wielder’s willpower. The only Mode we haven’t realized is “Caster,” which is the most powerful Mode out there. His A.I. can’t sustain the strain of being in Caster Mode, as it requires over 90% of his overall Magia Capacity. In his present state, Roman can only operate at 85%, which is above average for most Magia-Sapiens.
Yeah, you heard right—“Magia-Sapiens,” humans created from C-Technology, whose sole purpose in life is to operate under a “Wielder;” people like myself. The Magia-Sapiens are war machines, but they conduct themselves like any ordinary Joe Schmoe or Mary Jane on the street, so it’s hard to tell them apart. The thing that makes Roman stand out: He was built for defense, not offense. That’s why he’s the perfect partner for me; I want to protect the peace, not destroy it—and, he feels the same way. “You think they’ll get up any time soon?” Hmph. Hearing my partner’s concern for even our aggressors is a little tickling. “What? I was just asking ...”
“It’s all right, Roman ...”
I twirl my partner in my right hand, making him whine with fright. “*M-m-m-!* Hey, I thought I told you to ‘take it easy’!”
With determination shining brightly from my Driver Glove, I set my sights on Warehouse 41 in a few yards east from our current position. It’s happening ... I can see the marbled spiritual excess of spacetime and the afterlife! “... This isn’t an ‘easy’ job, Roman. Sorry.” I proceed towards the objective point. “Hang in there. We’ll be done in no time, promise.”
“*M-m-m!* Tell that to my shaft gears ... Ouch!”
Accessing the Afterworlds using spacetime as a medium—a task not many survive, especially when the costs of doing so are severe. The Sonnenbergs managed to make it this far, but what they fail to realize is ... “B-l-o-o-d!” The price for their abominable endeavors requires more than the blood of the Sonnenberg heir. The price is—death. “More b-l-o-o-d ...” You see, when an inexperienced dumbass plays with the afterlife, shit like this happens: The soul of their “beloved” returns, seeking more than what they have to offer—their life ... Adelheid emerges from the gateway, her skin discolored, her hair whiter than snow, her eyes redder than rubies. Schwartz is beyond himself with marital glee, but what he fails to realize is—this resurrected creature of darkness, she’s not the “Adelheid” he longed to see again.
“M-my love ... It’s you!” Adelheid gazes down upon Schwartz, whose presence awakens a sense of aversion. As it was said before, when a person of great faith dies, they don’t want to return to this hellhole. They want peace. Schwartz, consumed by greed and longing, failed to realize that in his widowhood. Or ... Perhaps he just chose to forget, seeing nothing else besides reclaiming his deceased love. “... Adelheid, my angel, don’t you remember me?”
“... Hmph. How could I forget?”
“Are you not pleased to see me?”
“... Where is my son?” Yeah, she avoids that question; for, this woman desired peace. The only reason she wants to see Christian is because she never got the chance to see him age into manhood. “My son, where are you? Come to your mother!” Christian steps forward, his forearm still bleeding. Adelheid notices her beloved son, and hovers down to him upon a cloud of silver mist ... Upon arriving to the self-injured Christian, she takes his bleeding arm and caresses it. “Christian, my son. You’re the one who spilled blood upon the Dial, correct?”
Christian lowers his head, ashamed yet pleased to see her. “Y-yes, Mama. I ... always wanted to see your face.”
“You want to see my face, and yet you can’t even look me in the eyes?” Christian lifts his head and looks his mother in the eyes, realizing what she said was true. When you want to see someone, you don’t turn away—you embrace them, and take their presence as “your special something”. It’s all about love, so let your eyes speak for you. “You remind me so much of myself when I was your age ...” Adelheid takes her son into her cold arms, loving him, despite the grave sin he and his father committed to see her alive once again. “Christian, my son ...” Unfortunately, this life, this love—it’s counterfeit! Adelheid’s eyes are that of a demon; the evil within, unleashed and untamed! “Christian, cry no more ... I shall allow you to see my face for a-l-l eternity, by taking you with me to the depths of Inferno!” The evil of Adelheid’s resurrected spirit excites the gateway, and unleashes an outbreak of Carnage!
Demons ... Imps ... Monsters ... ... There are so many ways to describe Carnage, but the way they’re addressed depends on the victim in question; his or her mindset, how they perceive the New World and the corruptions that be. There are several different types of Carnage, and this type is typical of such cases—C: Flyers. Winged dragoons donning armor and spears, much like the “demons” popularized by religions of the Old World. These winged freaks attack is groups, since their individual powers are lackluster compared to other Carnage breeds.
Unfortunately, for the Sonnenbergs and their lackeys, Roman and I are currently preoccupied with a few aggressors a minute or two away from the ceremonial chamber. These punks are easy work but they come in large numbers, sometimes five and sometimes more than that ... Their technique is sloppy, much sloppier than what I pulled back at the Underground. My partner and I smash them up good, attacking pressure points and loosening their bodies with precision tactics. Our mission is to solve this case, not off a bunch of meaningless payroll pansies. “This is taking up way too much time ...” My partner does have a point. If we don’t make it to the ceremonial room in time, who knows what will happen to the Sonnenbergs and their lackeys. I don’t like the schmucks, but nobody deserves to die. “Okay, fine, I take back when I said earlier,” Roman’s permission ignites a rascally fire on my usually collected mug. “Take them down, man. Just watch the shaft gears, okay? You know how you get when you—” But before my partner can finish his sentence, I’m already ten steps ahead of him, smashing skulls and breaking bones with ruthless aggression! Amidst my rampage of martial insanity, Roman begins spitting words he usually doesn’t use. “Oh shit! Whoa, hey, slow down! I said, slow the fuck down, you maniac! Ouch! That fucking hurt, you crazed piece of shit! Damn, I said s-l-o-w d-o-w-n!”
The last goon falls, blood dripping from his cracked mush! “Sorry about that, Roman. But you did give me permission to go all right, remember? Or was that a bunch of ‘for the sake of time’ mumble-mouth crap, eh?” If my partner were in his human form, he’d be giving me a shitty stare right about now. Still, he gave me permission, and since we’re pressed for time—heh, a man’s got to do what a man’s got to do. “Now, this ain’t a spectator’s sport, so ...” I rush off into the distance towards Warehouse 41, realizing we’re running out of time. “Off we go, partner!”
Roman’s rod fumes with anger! “Damn it, watch the shaft gears, you bozo!”
“Hold out for a while. The worst is yet to come.”
“... I r-e-a-l-l-y *hate* you sometimes ...” His rod puffs smoke, indicating his level of irritation. “Asshole!”
Sadly, the Sonnenbergs’ lackeys had to put up a fight against the C: Flyers—a feat that spelled sudden destruction from the get-go, especially since Carnage are products of the Mist of Oblivion ... Yes. Carnage has origins tied to the Cloud Drive, or so C-Research has proven over the years. The Magia-Gauge was created for the purpose of repelling and expelling Carnage, a means of military defense against the otherworldly bastards. Without a Magia-Gauge, taking on Carnage is virtually impossible. “M-y, how quickly they fell ...” Adelheid stands proud, her son horrifying in her cold arms, as he looks on at his father—a man cowering away at the sight of the approaching C: Flyers. “O-h ... Schwartz, hear me well, my love: Another side of me forgives you, but me ...” Adelheid caresses her horrified son’s chin with her free left fingers that have become long and bony, like the claws of a serpentine fiend. “I am ‘the other side,’ the Adelheid that *you* created throughout the final years of our marriage!” Schwartz looks in the distance, and notices what his beloved has become: A specter of unimaginable, uncontainable vengeance, whose sole purpose for being in this world ... is to destroy any and all who oppose her thirst for peace. That peace—this “new peace” conceived from the burning rage within—she will find it, through the spilled blood of humankind! “Tell me, my love ... Does this look like a ‘fairytale’ to you?” B-u-r-n! Heh, talk about sticking it to ‘im good!
“Adelheid ... please ...” Schwartz cowers in fear, as the C: Flyers close in on him, gaining and gaining by the second upon their fleshy wings of oblivion. “Call them off, my love ... please ... I only wanted us to be a family again! Christian and I both! We only wanted you to ... Adelheid, please, spare me!” One of the C: Flyers points the arrowhead of its spear at Schwartz’s throat, overflowing his mortal soul with fear! “Aah! A-a-a-h! No, please ... Don’t do this, I beg of you!”
“Shut your fucking mouth, you greedy, heartless, *insatiable piece of urban street trash*!” Adelheid’s damaging words silence the C: Flyer’s wrath for a spell, proving she’s been given dominion over them for a set amount of time. Her soul ... Her soul full of anguish and despair, it overspills with ire and annoyance! “You, you, *you* ... It was always about you from the very beginning—never about *us,* only about you! Schwartz, the reason I died wasn’t because of the Cloud Drive or a-n-y of those ‘worldly excuses’ you vomited at those weaklings in the past. No ... I died because of you!”
“No ... No, that’s not true!”
“You *dare* deny your creation, Schwartz?”
“It ... I didn’t mean to ...”
“Hmph. R-i-g-h-t ...” Adelheid laughs upon her husband’s desperation in the face of death. “You ‘didn’t mean to’ ... That’s what a-l-l sinners say, Schwartz. But I’m afraid it’s f-a-r too late for repentance.”
“Adelheid, please ... please, Adelheid, please ...” The leading C: Flyer slashes its arrowhead across Schwartz’s chest, opening a small crevice of blood that silences the coveter’s begging, and awakens a time of pain! “A-a-a-h! Gah ... Fuck!”
“Please, please, please, *motherfucking* please!” Adelheid lifts her free left hand, and snaps her fingers, unleashing her C: Flyers upon her covetous husband! “Scream that in the afterlife, my love! But I warn you, my master will not your hear your words, only your suffering!” Christian closes his eyes and turns away, afraid to look upon what will happen to his father. “No, son, don’t look away ...” He opens his eyes and looks up at the monster that used to be his mother—a demoness whose likeness is that of a bat, and whose countenance no longer holds any quarter for sympathy. “Watch and learn, my dear ... *This* is what happens to men whose faith, pride and loyalty lie solely with their cocks!”
Schwartz dodges the spearhead of the leading C: Flyer, rolls out of the way and makes a run for freedom! The leader then tosses its spear at the fleeing coveter, purposely missing his head to scare him off balance! Schwartz collapses to the ground facefirst ... The C: Flyers close in on the petrified coveter, awakening fear in his onlooking son. “Mama, why ...?” Christian’s pain earns Adelheid’s attention. “Why are you doing this to us? Daddy and I ... we just wanted to see you again, and ...”
“Christian ... The dead should *remain* dead, always.” Adelheid’s stare is like that of a million blizzards upon her son, whose presence is diminutive compared to hers. He wants to speak, he wants to scream out and let her hear his voice. Unfortunately, the only thing Adelheid can hear ... are voices of indignation; far-cries of the innermost bowels of rage buried in her resurrected body. Although she’s only “half” the person she used to be, Adelheid still harbors the pain and suffering of her former self. This pain has become her new form—Vespertilia! “Let’s leave your father to the Flyers, my son. We have no further use for him ...” Vespertilia spreads its mighty wings, casting a razing gale across the chamber! “Come. A better life awaits us, beyond the gateway.”
Christian looks on and beholds the slaughtering of his covetous father, at the hands of the C: Flyers! Stab after bloody stab, Carnage mercilessly impales its victim—a man who desired to reclaim his long-lost love, only to have his soul taken in the end ... Vespertilia takes Christian into her wings, as her colossal body begins to vaporize! The poor mug’s trapped in there, bundled tightly in the vengeful spirit’s embrace. He wants to move, but ... No matter how hard he tries, Christian can’t move an inch ... It’s his blood ... When Christian poured his blood upon Freyja’s Dial, it initiated an unintended blood pact with the invoked. That means—yeah, you guessed correctly: Christian belongs to Vespertilia, mind, body and soul. “I ... don’t want to leave ...” Christian’s defiance does little to move his mother, despite the annoyed distortion upon her beastly mug. “I want to stay here ... and be a family ... just like it should’ve been from the very beginning!”
Suddenly, the entryway to the ceremonial chamber is kicked open—by yours truly, of course! “Huh?” Vespertilia looks on and aversively notices us, “Who the *fuck* are you?”
“Hmph. Would you believe me if I said ‘housekeeping’?” The vengeful spirit screeches at us, provoked by my wry sense of humor! I hold onto my hat, as this winged tootsie’s screech is enough to rip the scabs off your elbows ... “Heh. Guess I’ll take that as a no. Anyway ...” I pull my official agency badge from my jacket, and display it for everyone to see. “Detectives Elias Crane and Roman Blade, here to not only put you out of your misery, but also ...” I peer to the left, to notice Schwartz’s brutally impaled corpse and his murderers. “Well, well, well ... Roman, looks like we’re going to have to off these bozos first.” With flash, flair and a whole lot of pizzazz, my partner and I steal the show by engaging the C: Flyers! “Bada bing, bada boom a-l-l across the room!” The trick to taking out a legion of C: Flyers is “expansion”. As I said before, these winged dingbats attack in groups, so the more you space them out the better. And believe me, that’s no easy task. You’ll work up a good sweat in the process, but after the deed is done ... Yep, you guessed it! You get positive results: One pile of winged bumble-cunts on a platter; no sauce, hold the refreshment! “Heh. Baba boom, ziggy zoom!” I turn to the idling Vespertilia and the captive Christian, the former glaring me down with red eyes that look like they’re on fire. Despite her obvious brutal intent, I invite her with a provoking right hand. “Don’t leave ... Just bring it!” Vespertilia laughs upon my battle-built gusto, inciting a little amusement from my hardboiled soul. “Heh. What do you know ... I must be ‘the next Rodney Dangerfield’ over here.”
“Feh. Brash little schmuck ...” Vespertilia releases her hazy hold on Christian, and advances towards us as a steaming cloud of mist! Luckily, Roman’s Magia-Gauge comes with a Form made for such an occasion: Sentinel Mode! Acting in accordance with his wielder’s resolve, Roman’s Gear Shifter Gemstone illuminates and creates an impenetrable circular shield—a defensive powerhouse! In this Form, it’s damn near impossible for Carnage to touch us, and with Adina’s upgrade—oh yeah, it’s party t-i-m-e, baby! “Hmph! You think that mangy little shield is going to protect you against me ...?” Vespertilia crashes into us with colossal force, but only manages to push us back a few inches! It’s astounding—a force of unimaginable power pales in comparison to us! “Im ... impossible! How are you still able to stand? Who are you? *What are you?*”
“O-o-h ... Curious, are we?”
“Damn you! Stop avoiding the question!”
“... Heh. You want to know the truth, tootsie?” I firm my stance and heave the hazy Vespertilia away, using my auto-mail arm to amplify my thrusting force! “Ha! No give!”
Roman’s defensive power forces Vespertilia to solidify, as her colossal body helplessly flies through the air and plummets through the gateway! “Damn it! W-a-a-h!”
“Elias, close the portal before she comes back out!” Roman hastens my footwork with urging tone, “Do it now!”
“Alright ...” My auto-mail leg and feet do their duty, as I take to the air with a single bound! “Bada b-i-n-g, baby!” Roman automatically reverts to his Brave Mode with a flash of his Gear Shifter Gemstone, as I lift him above my head. “Alright, partner! Do your stuff!”
“No problem, Elias! Burst Finale: Steam Shiner!” The Gear Shifter exhausts an expansive, illuminating cloud of steam from the Brave’s Rod, creating a ghostly atmosphere amid the bringing down of pain! Er, well, that’s going a bit overboard—after all, we’re just closing a gateway for crying out loud. Roman’s Brave Rod cuts through the dimensional energy quite nicely; however, the sound of screeching comes from within the gateway! Vespertilia’s coming back! Roman panics, “Oh, shit! Elias, cut faster!”
I hasten my cutting with a little jerk of my good arm, and the Brave Rod steams through the dimensional energy in no time flat! “No, no, n-o!” Vespertilia’s pissed. Her connection with the realm of the living has literally been severed. “You damned gumshoes!!” She curses from inside the dissipating portal, “This isn’t the last you heard from us! No matter how many times you close the door in our face, we’ll a-l-w-a-y-s find our way back! From now on, you *better* watch your backs, you meddling pieces of shit!!!” And just as quickly as her tongue flaps, the dimensional gateway to the Afterworlds is closed ... The threat of Vespertilia has been silenced. Bada bing, bada boom! Unfortunately ...
... Man, oh man. The damage done by that winged tootsie is enough to put a man out of commission indefinitely. Christian’s free from Vespertilia’s control, but he’s now fatherless and has to carry on the family legacy, or else all of Neo-America is in for one h-e-l-l of a recession. “Father ...” The poor kid runs up to his old man’s cadaver, rolls it around and takes it into his arms, beside himself with tears. “Father ... Father, wake up, please! Father ... F-a-t-h-e-r!!!” Roman automatically reverts to his human form, and we’re placed in an awkward position—the bozo and I are holding hands. We release each other, and I pat him on the back to silently telling him “job well done”. Right now, we don’t have time for congratulations—Christian needs some male support, and we’re just the guys for the job. “Mother, why ...? Why did you do this ...? W-h-y ...?”
We approach the mourning kid, knowing how he feels. When we lost Morrigan, it felt like the entire world was collapsing around us, but ... In this situation, things are extremely different. Adelheid was resurrected against her will, and that led her to commit the unthinkable. “... That monster wasn’t your mother, kid. She died a long time ago.” I kneel next to him, adjust my hat and gaze into his watery baby blues. “We know a few people who know a few people who know a few people, you know what I mean?” I manage to spark a little hope in the kid, despite how deeply rooted his pain has become. “My partner and I never leave our objectives hanging by a thread. We’ll talk things over with the APD and get you some help. Meanwhile, you should think about cutting the whole Hel bid; that shit’s in the dumpster, especially with your boys’ towels permanently on the rack. Capiche?”
Christian looks off, embarrassed to know he’s been figured out. “... Right. Thanks.”
“No problem, kid.” I retrieve my Gear Phone from my jacket, flip it open and dial the APD. A few rings, and ... “Hey, Chief Balder. This is Crane. I got a proposition for you ...”
I spoke with Chief Balder about the outcome of the Freyja’s Dial Incident, and his response was as expected: Christian’s off-the-ice about the whole thing, but as far as his endeavors with Hel ... Yeah. That isn’t flying with the APD. The kid’s looking at about 9 to 15 years for his crimes, and that’s taking it lightly on him. As far as Schwartz is concerned: His body’s been moved to the morgue at the Accrue City General Hospital. Adelheid, or should we say “Vespertilia,” is probably somewhere in the Afterworlds nibbling at her wings, plotting her revenge against “the gumshoes” that ruined her “motherly plans”. I mean yeah, Schwartz is dead ... But that doesn’t mean a thing—she didn’t get to take her “precious little boy” back with her to the Afterworlds, where they can spend eternity together as “mother and son”. Hmph. Borderline perversion if you ask me, but that big tootsie wasn’t the real Adelheid ... Vespertilia is the anger and indignation Adelheid suffered during the final years of her marriage with Schwartz. Half the shit she called Schwartz before the C: Flyers offed him were emotional reflections—and, ironically, many of them were about herself. Heh ... Talk about biting your own tongue, right?
Oh, the cruel irony of it all: Today would’ve been Adelheid’s 49th birthday and the 18th anniversary of her marriage. Rethinking the situation, that’s one hell of an anniversary/birthday present and we aren’t talking about your average “take it or leave it” over here ... Still, that’s the life of a detective. You never know when you’re going to cross unfortunate cases like this—and, when you do, be prepared for the worst. All in all, this was one for the books I tell ya. “Hmph. Wonder what happened to that A.G. crock ...” Yeah, speaking of which, I haven’t heard of or seen that bum since that crazy phone call. Wsvelgr’s out of commission for now, so the crock’s definitely out there ... somewhere. Regardless, he or she didn’t leave us hanging—$$50, 000 bills were waiting for me in my mailbox downstairs. I plan on splitting 25, 000 with Roman A.S.A.P. For now, I’ll leave our pay in the safe for “safe” keeping. Heh. Wordplays. Got to love ‘em ... “And that white noise from before ...” Yeah, that’s right—the call from the Afterworlds—the one from the dame asking me to tell her husband that she and some set “still loves” him. What was that all about? I wonder ... “Man. What a day ...” I retire to my bed in my jams, and take in the night air.
Then, suddenly, my landline rings ... “Huh? At this hour?” I leave my bed and hurry to the landline in the next room ... When I arrive, I quickly answer the phone. “Good evening. Alistair Detective Agency. Detective Crane speaking. How can I help you?”
“Hey, it’s me again ...” Oh shit! It’s the dame from the Afterworlds!
“I was just thinking about you. Ma’am, I want to help you, but I don’t know where to start looking. Any leads?”
“... Yeah.” The white noise begins weeping. “My name ... is Jocasta. Jocasta Leanne Neville.”
“Beautiful. What’s your husband’s name, Mrs. Neville?”
“... Gordon. Gordon Thomas Neville.” The weeping white noise begins pleading, “You must tell him for me! You must!”
“Don’t worry, Mrs. Neville. You can count on me.”
“... Thank you. Thank you so much ... You’re a good kid, really. Oh, and one more thing ...”
“Yeah. What’s up, tootsie?”
“... Tell him ... to take care of my babies. They ... mean the world to me ...” The phone call ends, and I receive a disconnection tone.
I hang up the landline and record the given names in my notepad: “Jocasta Leanne Neville” and “Gordon Thomas Neville”. Okay, I got that down, but ... What the hell was she talking about—“take care of my babies”? What’s that supposed to mean? Do they ... have some little ones? I mean obviously, but ... Oh hell! I don’t know what I’m going on about ...
... I need some rest. I’ll figure this out in the morning. For now, I close this chapter with a little moral. And it goes something like this: “The dead should remain dead.” No matter how much you love someone, never rob them of their freedom; their peace. “Time” is what you make of it, and as humans—we take time for granted. When we have something special in our hands, we subconsciously allow it to slip through our fingers ... Don’t lie. Don’t deny. Don’t make up any lame excuses. Humans are a-l-l the same ... Hell, I’ve done it myself, and I’m not ashamed to admit it. Now that Morrigan’s gone, I have a lot of regrets, but I be damned if I rip her from her afterlife. That’s just fucked up, seriously. You see, what we need to learn is how to value that time we have with others, especially when tomorrow’s not promised. That’s where Schwartz screwed himself and now the schmuck’s freezing on easy at the General Hospital—oh, and we’re not talking about your average “easy breezy”. Know what I mean? Ah, and let’s not forget about Christian ...
... Man. That poor kid was literally robbed of his time with Adelheid, his mother, and that cost him his sanity. He was literally willing to do a-n-y-t-h-i-n-g in his power to get her back, and the lack of a woman’s nurturing hand had an adverse effect on his social life. Christian turned to the streets, and now he’s doing 9 to 15 at Folsom Penitentiary. You know, for the sake of the poor kid, I’ll stop by there from time to time—check up on him, you know, see how he’s doing. No man should be forced to live a tragic life like that ... I know. Roman and I have seen a lot of cases like his, and all of them are the same: Troubled kid, troubled life, troubled outcome, bada bing, bada boom, seal your doom, we move in like “zoom” and secure the room, and there you have it—we save another one from “a final resting place” in a dirty backwoods tomb.
For those of you following along, I hope you got something from this ...
... This is Detective Elias Crane. Cased Closed!
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