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Date Posted: 03:35:00 08/04/03 Mon
Author: snip-it!
Subject: WB Game Part II
In reply to: snip-it! 's message, "WB Game Part I" on 03:30:12 08/04/03 Mon

Gabriel Bowman’s left eye cracked open into the early dawn’s light spilling from a high window onto the worn, somewhat dusty Persian carpet that covered the hardwood floor directly to the side of his bed. In the sun’s ray, the air in the room took on a visible consistency; tiny motes of dust and who-knew-what-else whorling and spinning like lazy dervishes in thick honey. Watching their slowed, floating progress, he was forced to admit--Yep, his head definitely hurt.

Looking away from the sunlight into a darker corner to orient himself and keep whatever was in his stomach mercifully still, he saw his turtleneck from the night before, spiked on one of the tines of his devo-garde coat rack, fashioned reminiscent of several halberds roped into a giant metal sheaf. The violence that had staked the knitted sweater there had also caused the bottom three rows of knitting to unravel, the yarn’s end falling almost to the floor.

He noticed the squeal of his shower at about the same time the memory of the sweater’s punishment the night before spilled from wherever it had been hiding back into his conscious mind. He could say he was going to kill Sly all he wanted. He knew he wouldn’t. Besides, after last night’s paid lecture on vampyre lore and counter-talismans (which he was pretty sure went very badly), it had been he (not Sly) who returned home with a ‘tortured creature of the night’ groupie on his arm.

Not that Kaeris had been such a bad date—or nocturnal partner, for that matter—but she had been a groupie. And he had sworn off groupie sleepovers. Or at least he had meant to.

Now, the morning after, he was faced with the familiar dread such encounters engendered. He wasn’t a ‘dark’ guy, after all. He didn’t shun daylight or children or flowers or life for that matter. Talismaniac was his business, and in a way his hobby—but not his credo. And ‘the morning after’ always seemed to bring that into the light in a way death and darkness obsessed girls like Kaeris never seemed to care for.

The squeal of the shower ceased and he heard the stall’s door fall closed.

Leaning up on his elbow, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand and yawning, he looked around. Seemed like she’d taken her multi-layered dark clothes in with her, even her shoes and nettled hose. Always puzzling, he thought, the sudden modesty of dawn.

The door opened into the room. But the woman that stepped through was not the woman he had brought home the night before. Gone was Stevie Nicks couture, gone the abundant silver jewelry, gone the piercings (he had thought they were real), and gone the heavy whiteface and midnight black hair.

He sputtered at the strawberry blonde woman before him, sputtered further to notice her freckles. “Kaeris?” he asked the air between them. “You—you’re—“

“Oh, please don’t,” she asked him, stuffing the protruding toe of last night’s granny boot shoe deeper into the shoulder bag she was carrying. The bag that perfectly matched her bright, Pucci A-line skirt and vintage go-go boots. “I just came to say I’ll see you around. Gotta go, though,” she shrugged. “I’ve got an early call.”

“But,” he continued to sputter,” you’re—you’re Kaerista.” He struggled to recover from the revelation. He’d spent last night not with the Goth groupie he had gone home with, he’d spent it with one of the world’s top international supermodels. And she was standing here, in his doorway. He smiled like an absolute idiot.

“You have freckles,” he proclaimed, in his shock unable to rise from the bed.

“And you have a hangover,” she smiled back. “Take something,” she gestured to some packets of herbal remedies she had left beside the bed. He recognized the wrappings from a store in Chinatown he liked to frequent himself.

“Thanks,” he said, acknowledging them. “I, uh, don’t know what to say.”

“Don’t say anything,” she suggested, consulting her Palm Pilot. “Tomorrow night I’ve got a soiree to attend for the Boucher Agency at the Met. Maybe I’ll see you there.”

“But—I--” he was going to say he wasn’t invited.

Kaerista—THE Kaerista, coveted by men planet-wide, envied by women of every creed and color—turned with a slow smile and left his house.

A string of curse words rattled through Gabriel’s head, trailing just behind his headache. If only he could remember more about last night he might actually know if there was anything in his mind, or his heart—and not his pants--that wanted to see her again. As it was, he had rather more the feeling that he had endured drinking a knock-out potion and just woke, rather than having spent the night in a beautiful woman’s arms.

He had some sorting out of last night to do. Eyeing the herbal remedies she had left for him, he stood from his bed and walked to the medicine cabinet in the bathroom, the mirror still wet with condensation from Kaeris’ shower, a towel somewhat worse for wear (she had rinsed the black out of her hair, staining it) hung over the shower door’s top. Opening to the cabinet behind the slick mirror, he grabbed for his trusty aspirin and filled his hand with water from the tap to swallow the dosage down.

Probably a good idea to call Sly.

In the other room his clock radio switched on, as programmed, and he heard the morning’s headline loud and clear. “Police are reporting a body found last night in Central Park. Although as of yet unidentified, the body has been confirmed to be female, late to mid twenties. And get this,” the DJ on the alt. station crowed, “seems the young lady lost her head. That’s right folks, straight outta Highlander. Seriously,” he said, clearing his throat, “’lotta bad junk out there, kids, take care of yourself—and if you have any information on what happened, or even any suspicions, the 11th is ready to take your call.”

Weird killing, freakish M.O., Gabriel thought. Yeah, he gave it about two hours before Pezzini knocked on his door. He just hoped his head would be clear enough by then to sort out his own late night before assisting Pezzini with hers.

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

Slinking along the sidewalk like a mangy dog, Orlinsky followed a half-step behind his equal/opposite, Dante, who walked like the frickin’ Emperor. Bruno glanced briefly at the donut shop (Jerry really hoped they’d stop in, he was in serious exhaustion mode after this latest all-nighter), but he continued toward the station, a sardonic smile now on his lips after seeing Pezzini with that brain-washed idiot Irons kept on a short leash. Orlinsky panted behind him, trying to keep up, but Dante kept his stride.

Across the street from the station, Dante abruptly stopped and Orlinsky nearly bumped into him. There was nothing unusual he could see, the cruisers were in and out, uniforms were back and forth, a few guys waved, one or two glared in his direction, but something was off; something was up, and he was sure it would somehow wind up tied to the events of the last six hours.

Orlinsky’s smoke-damaged voice interrupted his thoughts, “Think Cousin It was sent to reconnoiter with the nosy broad?” Dante slid his eyes at Orlinsky, pursed his lips for a moment, and nodded. “So… damage control, yes?” Again, the affirmative. Orlinsky nodded assent, and headed around the corner to the station garage, while Bruno, ever-confident, strode into the domain that would be his one day quite soon – if Joe Siri would just get off his lazy ass and admit defeat.

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

In all the years he had worked for Kenneth Irons, Dr. Immo had seen and heard many odd things, performed many questionable “services”, committed “duties”, all for the price of freedom to test and research freely, to work in a protected environment that would not go away or lose funding – not stifled as he had been when working for Pol Pot, not running for his life as he had from Mao. He would continue, and his work would live on; not only in legend, for he would also benefit, he was certain, from a prolonged life – he would be a living legend. He was not insane enough to think he could be immortal – nor did he truly wish to be – but five or six hundred years, he felt he would enjoy that.

Time was becoming a problem, he was beginning to feel some pangs of age, but, thanks to the progress of his work, not so rapidly as the average man; certainly, he had not had the potential lifespan of his benefactor – not yet, at any rate, perhaps an additional fifty years or so – after all, Irons had the unique experience of wearing that odd bracelet and acquiring an affinity to the bladewielder’s DNA; but though he tried, Irons could not seem to maintain the power it gave him, he did not remain ageless, and the chromosomes Immo had been able to isolate within himself, the pieces which limited his lifespan, oddly enough, while he found them in Irons, they could not be controlled the same way.

Dangerous, that: Irons was certain the issue was the drastic alteration of his DNA by contact with the blade, he maintained that perhaps the necessary molecules had shifted to a different strand, that the typical aging limitations were managed elsewhere, and Immo had directed some of his studies to determine if that was the case, but Irons was also aware that his charge had successfully slowed his own aging process, while he received only temporary respite. And Immo was very much aware of Irons’ power, even after death: he was certain if he did not succeed, he would be punished.

So, he persevered, his integrity was in his core, he had a goal, he was determined through continued research he would one day break the codes, and as had been promised so many years before by the legendary billionaire, the world would recognize him as the man who prolonged life, who eradicated aging, and debilitating disease – he would be revered, he would be rewarded, he would live a long life of prosperity and joy.

Occasionally, his experiences in this house were distasteful, but this was beyond a mere exception: the creature had been in his lab. For years he had known of this man, this sorcerer, this spinner of fables who had first introduced Mr. Irons to the legend of the Witchblade. The tale Mr. Irons had told him, so many years ago, now, was that he had been a priest, a philosopher, and a teacher, but he had fallen out of favor with the church, for his many of his studies followed a blasphemous road, what he taught his students in the seminary had reached beyond Christianity, he had encouraged beliefs in black arts and the supernatural; he maintained that the church had hidden many objects in fear that the power of Christ would be lost in what he professed was the truth, that there were stronger powers than that of God. Ultimately, he had been excommunicated, shunned, and he wandered, a beggar, feared, and hated, but Irons, once his pupil, tracked him down, and continued to learn from him. And as Kenneth Irons rose in the ranks of the military, he brought the man along with him, and thus obsessions with collecting religious artifacts were introduced to many in power.

Now, in the modern world, where genocide was not just condemned for the human factor, but also recognized as supreme foolishness (who could one rule if they were all dead?), Irons’ ambitions were nothing less than absolute power of the earth and all its people – not their deaths, but their total subservience – and of course, immortality, with a concubine bladewielder at his side to do his bidding, to give birth to his progeny, to adore and worship him. To achieve that end, he would use any means necessary, and so, this fallen priest was here, directing Irons, and he, the apt pupil, followed his lead.

And once, Immo mused, he had been the one accused of being insane.

Bending to the task at hand, he continued the extraction of the necessary components of the remains of Elizabeth Bronte for Irons’ injections. Cleansing the additional samples he had from other “donors”, he had been able to stretch his supply, and ultimately he had been able to lengthen the time between injections by eleven days. He had been disappointed, however, when he was told he was not to use the head brought to his lab earlier. She had been pretty, he could see, with long brown hair and green eyes, but the blood had been drained; he was to given permission to use her brain matter in this new project (the priest knew all about it), but it was not a priority – Mr. Irons was due.

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

“…reached the HQ for Parricide. If you think we’ve got the money to pay someone to sit around and answer the phone, then you’re shelling out more for your comics than you should. Leave a message if you’re not a stalker and someone might call you back this year after they finish coloring a month’s-worth of issues, solving their own existential crisis, and scoring enough smack to get them through the week.” The digital recorder spat Sly’s voice out into Gabriel’s ear from the cordless receiver at Talismaniac.

Sly clicked in, seeing Talismaniac’s digits on the Caller ID. “Gabe?”

“’Sup, Sly?”

“Didn’t think you’d be,” his friend snickered, “yet.”

Gabriel let it slide. He’d have the last laugh on that account soon enough. “How ‘bout lunch later?”

“Can’t,” Sly said, and Gabriel could hear the receiver against his shoulder, as Sly sketched and spoke simultaneously. “Feng-Wa’s dad’s down at Sacred Heart.”

“How’s that?” Gabriel knew Mr. Han was not a young man, but still.

“Remember that old piece of—“

“That she asked me to appraise for her dad? Sure,” Gabriel cut him off.

“Well, last night seems like someone broke into the shop and stole it. Han tried to stop him—big guy, he said, all in black. Han got the bad end of the deal. I’m going down later—you should come, too. Mr. Han really likes you.”

“Dunno,” Gabriel said, feeling bad about not really wanting to hang out at the hospital, no matter what had happened to Feng-Wa’s dad. Besides, if she had Sly there, she’d be doing good. Sly was good at that kind of thing, even if Mr. Han would have preferred Gabriel be involved with his daughter. The door creaked open, just beyond the shelves that separated him from the rest of the space, and he stepped around the towering shelves to see who his visitor was.

“That’s some seriously messed up stuff, Sly,” he commented into the phone. “That old thing wasn’t even valuable—just some generic old Chinese puzzle box.” As the words ‘puzzle box’ left his mouth, he rounded the corner and came face to face with Pezzini, just as he had predicted earlier.

Having heard just the tail end of his sentence, she cocked an eyebrow and inclined her head, like his words had stirred some distant memory inside her.

“Customer just arrived,” Gabriel quipped in the phone, “later.” And he hung up before Sly had a chance to ‘later’ him as well.

Gabriel turned toward Sara as his hand left the receiver of the phone and immediately recognized the vacant look on her face. "Vision," he muttered to no one in particular. He sat down at his desk, rocking the swivel chair back and forth, and waited. There was little else he could do.

Her hands reached beneath the straw mat and she felt them close upon the cool surface of the lacquered box. She brought it out and stared at it for a moment, somewhat transfixed. The decoration was beautiful if somewhat overdone. Tiny birds of paradise perched upon willow limbs, their long plumage trailing down behind them. Intricately linked cherry blossoms wound their way around the sides of the box, eleven total, the cardinal points marked by the xiang. The green dragon, red bird, white tiger and black warrior were so detailed they were simply breathtaking.

The sound of approaching footsteps caused her heart to beat wildy and feel as if it were to leap from her throat. If she were to be found here it would surely mean her death. She pressed the box into the silken folds of her clothing, her eyes darting around for a place to conceal herself.

Four warriors burst into the room, the smell of masculine sweat and leather pouring off their strong leather-armor clad bodies. The largest of the group, Sima Yi, barked terse orders to the others and they systematically moved around the room, tossing open the blanket chest, the wardrobe and pushing aside the writing desk. She had to stifle a yelp when she felt the silks being pulled away from her face. The dark warrior who had found her remained silent, however, his eyes locking on to hers in a moment in which she dared not breathe. Leather gloved hands gently laid the silk back across her and she heard him move away.

Their search thought to be fruitless by their leader, they turned to leave the richly appointed room, the leader pausing on the threshold, his cruel eyes scanning the room one more time. She exhaled a breath she wasn't aware she'd been holding, and lifted the bundles of silk off of her and made her way out of the bottom of the wardrobe. The brightly colored silks had blended with her own outfit flawlessly and concealed her position from all but the one warrior. Why he had not betrayed her remained a mystery. She silently vowed to remember him with a parchment tied to the prayer tree. A quick glance out of the window told her she was safe for the time being, the warriors now talking amongst themselves in the courtyard below, the autumn leaves rustling around their feet. As she peeked out, she saw the one who had found her slowly turn his head to the window. She withdrew from the opening quickly, her heart beating madly.

Once again she held the small box before her, her fingers playing across its surfaces. As she pressed particular points on the top and sides, the lid sprang open. She gasped as she gazed in wonder at the bracelet resting within, the jade and white gold seeming to glow softly from within.

Sara blinked, twice. "Did you say "puzzle box"?"

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

Orlinsky approached the scene in his cruiser, smoking, and looking annoyed with Burgess in the passenger seat. Stopping just short of hitting the guy, he met McGrath, who was first on the scene, and had called it in. "Watcha got, George, another DOA?" he asked amiably. Burgess stood silently by, looking bored.

George McGrath looked up from the cracked and greasy cement of the alleyway, making notes, and grunted in reply while he continued writing. He already held a bag with a shell casing in his gloved hand; his partner, Tony Cimarrano, was taping off the ground where the body was covered, his nose wrinkled in disgust. Another cruiser arrived, and two more uniforms Orlinsky only vaguely recognized got out to start clearing the scene of the early morning crowd trying to play look-see. George handed Orlinsky the bag, "There was another murder tonight, Central Park, I heard it was similar -- someone went on a spree last night, I guess." Tony looked up, somewhat alarmed, Orlinsky could see.

"Don't sweat it, kid," Orlinsky smiled, appearing the seasoned pro. "I don't think it is," he continued confidently, "Let's see what we've got here." Tony was standing, but at a nod from McGrath, he bent to uncover the body for Orlinsky to view -- he didn't look down as he did it, his mouth twisted rather squeamishly, Jerry noted in amusement, but then he felt sick as well: neither he nor Bruno had taken her head.

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

For about the tenth time that morning, Jake wished Danny were there, not out for two more days; as soon as she’d brought him coffee (lukewarm, no less), Sara disappeared again, following up on one of her mysterious leads. Despite the fact he’d been told to watch over her, but not get involved, he found himself caught up in the strangeness that made up her reputation, the reveries, the aloof personality, the solitary management of caseloads, the tireless energy that seemed more a plague than a virtue – and he found something else out as well, he found he was falling for her, something wholly unprofessional – and unbelievably dangerous. True, his superiors did not doubt Sara would be innocent of any activity by the White Bulls, but his growing attachment to her could very well prevent his involvement if any of the covert unit believed he would not betray her – his purpose in being there would be moot, and he did not wish to leave. Danny was a good cover, another “guy” he could hang with, as well as being someone else he could commiserate with over Sara’s moods – and one of only four others the FBI was certain was not affiliated with the White Bulls.

As he sat, pondering his situation, sipping at the bitter coffee in his hand, Bruno Dante poked his head in the office and smiled at him. Jake turned his attention to him, but did not stand up, only gestured amiably to his guest to come in. “Where’s your partner?” Bruno asked politely, a predatory gleam in his eye.

“Out,” Jake sighed, rolling his eyes in what he hoped appeared to be annoyance, “following up on some lead somewhere, I think. We got a headsman who likes medieval torture before dawn.” He yawned, and patted the pile of papers on his desk.

“Well, you know, you’re a rookie,” Dante grinned, “But that’s no excuse for senior officers to just leave you behind. Even if,” his eyes glinted as he glanced at the keyboard before Jake, “you are a great little typist. Especially with Woo out for a couple of days, Pezzini should have you on a short leash.”

Jake smiled. Maybe it was a good thing Sara had left him behind.

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