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Date Posted: 12:20:49 08/16/02 Fri
Author: Or is that The Re-education of Rita?
Subject: The Re-animation of Irons

The episode begins with a very dark, Goth Ian sitting in the posh Faust street mansion. "Ian, we're ready," Dr. Immo says calmly. Ian rises from his chair and heads back to the lab where Immo has a Kenny prototype lying on the table. "It took a lot of work, but I believe I have successfully re-created Mr. Irons," Immo tells Ian. Ian nods. It is hard to tell whether he is happy or sad, perhaps a little of both.

Taking the clone by its hand, Ian noted the texture of the skin, cold, slippery, almost rubbery, not quite real. Not unlike Irons before he died, he thought sardonically. Turning the hand over, he observed with a start Immo had not included the mark of the Witchblade. Looking to the doctor, Ian found him watching with a small smile. "It's OK, I expect the brand to form when the memories are loaded. If not... well, we'll have to see if this Irons is more or less perfect; shall we?"

Sara, oblivious to the clone of Irons was busy working on a case with Danny and Jake. It seemed that they were backlogged again and so far this case had not made any sense at all. "Typical". She mused to herself, nothing seemed normal since the WB had found itself on her wrist. Though this one had to be the craziest yet. The museum was having a few paintings restored when suddenly a woman jumped out of one followed closely by an older looking man. The man pulled out a thin dagger and slit the throat of the guy restoring the painting when held back from the chase. The lone eye-witness to the events was a grizzled old woman who had been cleaning out the trash cans.

Jake was derisive, and even Danny seemed skeptical, but since things were so weird in her life, Sara was willing to bet what the woman had seen may not have been so far off the mark -- that is, if it didn't turn out to be the old woman who was really the killer? The cleaning company contracted to the museum had not yet responded to her queries about her work history.

Meanwhile, back at the mansion, Immo and Ian were greatly startled when the yet-to-be-reanimated Irons likeness began to cough.

"Dr. Immo do something!?" Ian commanded the doctor. The Irons clone began to thrash about, a massive seizure rocking his entire body. Using his strength Ian was able to keep the clone from doing itself any harm. Immo rushed over a syringe needle in hand and inject one of his many chemical concoctions into the clone's arm and it soon quieted down. Hesitantly Ian let go of the body. "That was close, we nearly lost him" Immo said.


"What do you suppose caused that? I was under the impression you had yet to animate him." Ian scrutinized the doctor closely.

"I should have had to. The only thing I can think of is that the brush with the Witchblade Kenneth survived changed him somehow, though I saw nothing unusual with his genetics."

Ian barely heard the doctor's words. He was staring at the figure before them, watching the newly created Kenneth Irons begin to age before his eyes. "Is there any of Sar...is there any of the wielder's blood left? I do believe we will need it."

Dr. Immo sighed heavily. "Ian, please understand, I am a geneticist, not an aging specialist. Though I have seen things in this household that I cannot begin to explain, perhaps this was just not meant to be."

Ian straightened to his full height, "You WILL make this happen, doctor. Do I make myself clear?"

"I will need more of the wielder's blood in that case."

Ian sighed...he did not want to have to cut Sara. "Perhaps I can find Skanky Sara," he thought, wondering where to find his lady's doppelganger (sp).

Nottingham appears to be lost in thought for a protracted period of time and, when the silence grew uncomfortable, Immo asks: "Is something wrong, Ian"?

"No, simply thinking, Doctor." Ian replies, then glances at Immo: "Is it your understanding that I am the sole and exclusive heir to his fortune, including controlling stock in Vorschlag"?

"Well, yes. No question about that, Ian".

Nottingham smiles and inclines his head to one side. "Good, Doctor. Replace the blood in this body with an incendiary liquid. We have a cremation to arrange."

Confused at his own suddenly conflicting emotions, Ian turned away and whistled for his Rottweiler.

"I need some air. I'm going for a walk," he growled at Immo, not meeting the doctor's eyes. "Come here, Vito." The dog bounded happily out the door with Ian.

Immo sighed, then relaxed for a moment -- an all-too-brief moment. He stiffened in surprise at the hand suddenly gripping his elbow in implied threat.

"Follow that last order and you won't live to see Season Three," whispered a female voice, too close to his ear for comfort. Immo turned slowly to see DL smiling viciously at him. She nodded to Wormie, who flanked him on his other side. "We'll take it from here, doctor," DL continued. "Why don't you just take the rest of the day off?"

"I believe I will," gulped Immo, who grabbed his coat and fled the lab; then stuck his head back in the doorway gingerly. "Um...ladies...all my notes are on the desk. And please...clean up afterwards? Mr. Irons does so hate it when I leave a mess..."

DL practically hissed. Immo left a good portion of his shoe leather sizzling in the doorway. The ladies cracked up...then bent to the task at hand...

Nottingham wandered around the grounds aimlessly, the huge dog wagging its tail beside him. Growing bored he ventured out of the gates and headed for the nearby park. As he turned a corner an old man stepped out of the shadows. His dress was early medieval and a slim dagger hung by his belt. "Are you the one they call 'Nottingham'?" He asked. Vito began a thunderous growl, which turned to a whimper when looked at by the stranger.

Meanwhile, back at the mansion, DL's eyes began to grow mischievous as she and wormie bent to the task at hand.
"You don't suppose we could--" she began to ask, starting to tug back the sheet covering the clone. "I mean, just to--you know, for--science--"
"No," said wormie.
"But--"
"No."

Suddenly, the Witchblade began to burn Sara's wrist as it give-off its usual amber glow. This had never happened before. Yes, she had been used to its warning signals by now, but this time, a terrible pain came with it. A chill crept up her spine. And it wasn't the newly-experienced sensation of pain from the Witchblade that initiated it. It was the voice.

For, like the pain, a haunting voice came out of the Witchblade this time. Vester cruor inimicus est. Vester anima soter est.

What could it mean? Sara was both amazed and terrified at the event that had transpired just a few moments ago. She had to know what the words mean. She had to know how these words - a verbal warning from her mythical bracelet - will affect her destiny. She had to call Gabriel.

***************************************************************
*** Notes from Scimitar:
1. Because my Latin is hideous at best (actually, I don't really speak Latin. I just understand words), I feel that I have to provide the translation. The WB said, something to the effect,

Your blood is the enemy. (Or your blood is your enemy)
Your soul is the savior. (Or your soul is your savior)

I know that someone on the board is good at Latin, so feel free to correct any Latin grammatical errors I may have incurred while writing this. The second translation is really more appropriate for the story. So, help!

2. Another thing, Sara's redeemer (savior) is a person. Guess. =) Of course, she hasn't got a clue what the message means or that the last part of it pertains to a he.

***************************************************************
*** Notes from Wormie:
I feel the need to point out two things...

(1) Phoenix, if you are going to use, im, "adult language" you should put a warning in the subject heading.

(2) er, um, "Excrement" in Spanish is mierda (not meirda)

***************************************************************

Sara reaches for the phone and begin to dial Gabriel's number but before she can finish dialing, a women dressed in a green medieval dress burst into her office. Sara looks at her dumfounded.

"Wielder, I come to bring you warning and to seek your protection," the woman falls at Sara's feet and she feels the Witchblade burn in recognition of this woman.

As Sara is punching Gabriel's number into her cell phone, the WB radiates again, causing her to gasp in pain. Another voice, this one reverberating and disjointed, spews forth. "Meirda de Toro". The bracelet goes dark and turns cool on Sara's wrist.

She immediately phones Gabriel and a throaty female voice answers in Bulgarian, sounding as if she had been asleep when the phone rang. Sara feels intense jealousy for a moment, then swallows the emotion. "What the hell was that all about"? she reflects momentarily, then asks for Gabriel. Silence, then Gabriel's voice, "Yeh, Sara"?

"Your little girlfriend could have done me the courtesy of an acknowledgement before putting you on the phone, Gabriel".

"What"?

"Forget it, OK? I'm sorry, it's late, I'm tired and I need something translated. It can't wait".

"Do you know what time it is, Sara"?

"Sorry about that, Gabe".

"Yeh, whatever. Let me find something to write with".

Sara gives him her best recollection of the three phrases spouted by the bracelet and after a few minutes, during which she can hear what sounds like the woman's muffled complaints in the background, Gabriel returns to the phone.

"OK, the first two sound like Latin. The closest I can..."

"Sorry I woke the princess of all of Europe, Gabe. I could hear her bitching at you in the background" Sara interrupted.

"What's going on, Sara? What am I missing"?

"Nothing. I clearly upset your little honey and I'm offering an apology, OK? Please tell her I'm sorry".

"Right. Well, as I said the first two are Latin and the closest I can get is this: 'Your blood is your enemy'. Could be 'can be your enemy'. OK"?

"Got it".

"The second is either 'Your soul is your savior' or 'Your soul can be your savior'. Where'd this come from, Sara"?

"I'd rather not say right now, Gabe. How about the third"?

Gabriel chuckles. "Well, it's kinda' slang Spanish of a sort. The literal translation would be 'excrement of the bull'".

"Huh"?

"Bullshit, Sara. It means bullshit".

"Hmmm..." muses Sara.

"Sara"?

"Yeh"?

"Goodnight".

"Goodnight, Gabe - thanks. Tell Sweetcheeks I said sweet dreams".

Gabriel chuckles and rings off.

Sara tilts her head to one side as she looks at her cell phone and says aloud "Actually, tell that Bulgarian bitch to eat shit and die, Gabriel"!

After Sara finally managed to compose herself, she eyed her bracelet thoroughly.

"What are you trying to tell me?", whispered Sara in a desperate frustration. Your blood is your enemy. Your soul is your savior. The words kept spinning in her head like a silent tornado. And what about the last words she heard, Sara pondered on. It definitely didn't come from the Witchblade, though the voice sounded familiar.

"Stercus tauri"

Sara whipped around in fright and came face to face with the mirror on her apartment wall. It had a face. A familiar face.

"Hello, Sara", greeted Irons wearing his familiar grin. "Long time, no see.... I'm baaaaack!"

"Irons!", was all Sara could mutter under the shocking circumstances.

"I've come to haunt you, Sara. I've come to haunt my executioner, my killer", whispered Irons inside the mirror. Clearly, he was enjoying the moment like a child in a candy store. Although, it would be hard to imagine Irons as a child.

"I was never your executioner!", yelled Sara as she finally managed to control her faculties. Sara gleaned the Witchblade for some sort of comfort, support and protection.

Irons saw it and knew exactly what she was thinking.

"Come, come, Sara. You don't actually think that you didn't have a hand in what happened." Irons' laughed heartily and with a face full of rage and sarcasm slowly muttered, "Pun definitely intended. Stercus tauri. Quemadmoeum gladis nemeinum occidit, occidentis telum est." Irons laughed again. This time wearing triumph on his face. "Why don't you call your sidekick and find out the truth of what really happened the day you killed me." Irons slowly dissolved into the black shadows of the night. "Be seeing you, Sara, when you least expect it."

*******************

Three hours later, Sara drummed her fingers on her desk, thumbing through the casefile from the museum. Dark circles rimmed her eyes, her skin was pale, with a papery, dry appearance, her shoulders hunched in a defensive pose.

Danny entered with the first rays of sunlight, but his smile faltered at sight of his partner's gaunt appearance. Sara didn't even look up at him when he greeted her, she appeared completely absorbed by the file before her -- from the museum where that pathetic woman was deceived by a couple of thugs in elaborate costumes. Sara seemed to be taking it way too seriously.

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