Eye of the Monster

Ivan's voice came out as a guttural croak, a clear sign of his ill mood. "Where is she?"

"Dunno boss," Mul'thon said in reply. Ivan Ionfist was a menacing fellow at the best of times--one couldn't be the regional warboss of the Bloody Tusks if they had a sunny disposition. The only light in the barren apartment room where they'd come to meet Calista was the streetlights outside, filtering through the blinds. That, and the dull blue plasma oscillating in Ivan's chrome hand.

"If that thin-horned whore doesn't have something good," the warboss muttered, "I'm gonna break her scrawny neck."

Mul'thon grinned. "You oughta do that anyway," he suggested, "Even if she does know who Neon Justice is." Ivan chuckled darkly in response.

"I just might," he mused. "We'll call it a sacrifice to the new dominion." His foul mood hadn't gone away--it had merely turned towards a violent desire, as it often did. Ivan's violent desires had taken Mul'thon pretty far in the last year and a half. From street-pusher to right hand of the warboss... And who knew where next?

"She ought to be here by now," one of the others grunted from beside the windows. "But ain't nothin' on the street 'cept that car that was here last time I looked."

Mul'thon and Ivan looked up at the same time. "What car?" the warboss questioned. There had been no cars on the street when they'd shown up! They scrambled up to their feet, Ionfist doing so with such force that the couch he'd been seated on flipped backwards to the floor. The warboss used his ordinary hand to adjust the dial beside the window, turning the blinds entirely horizontal and granting a mostly unrestricted view of the street down below.

Parked across the road was a sleek black car. And then as if it had been waiting for them to notice it the gull-wing doors opened up and a cacophony of sound spilled out, so loud that it made the windows rattle in their frames.

"Everyone's watchin'... to see what you will do! Everyone's lookin', at you... Oh!!"

"She set me up!" Ivan shouted. Mul'thon could barely hear him over the horrible noise blaring on the street. "She's dead! Dead!" His notorious fist came up and smashed into the plate-glass window, a casual half-hearted motion that nevertheless put a crater into the material, grievous cracks and fissures surrounding the point of impact.

Beneath the noise there were sirens as Lone Star cruisers tore onto the avenue in front of the apartment building.

"Everyone's wonderin', will you come out tonight? Everyone's tryin' to get it right... Get it right!"

Ivan screamed some command but Mul'thon couldn't hear him over the racket. Bloody Tusks didn't need to be told to grab their weapons and the half dozen other orks in the room did so then, axes and harpoons finding their way into hands. Mul'thon's club--fashioned from a bumper torn off a looted big rig--came out of its crude holster on his back. The warboss pointed at the at the door to the apartment and began to bellow.

Before anyone could make sense of what Ivan was saying, the metal door burst inward, instantly wrenching free the crossbar they'd set over it when they arrived. In the frame left behind was a figure in jet black combat armor holding the pneumatic battering ram that had just turned a barricade into a breach.

Dropping it, she drew from a holster on her side the biggest hand cannon Mul'thon had ever seen.

"Everybody's workin' for the weekend! Everybody wants a new romance!"

From outside someone on a bull horn started shouting, briefly overlapping the music and further drowning out whatever Ivan was howling. "This is the police! We have you surrounded, surrender immediately!"

"Everybody's goin' off the deep end! Everybody needs a second chance... oh!"

Ivan's cybernetic fist flared as he launched into a charge across the apartment, roaring loud enough to compete with the sirens and the noise. The cop took aim with her handgun at Ivan and pulled the trigger.

"You want a piece of my heart?!"

A steel rod nearly a foot in length flew from the barrel, moving far faster than Ivan himself. It struck the ork in his shoulder but he was a monster of a metahuman and the projectile barely caused him to stumble. The cop ducked gracefully under his wide and reckless swing and his fist vaporized the concrete beside the doorway. Ivan's arm went through it and out in the hallway.

"You better start from the start!"

The warboss was screaming something as he sought to wrench his arm back out of the wall but Mul'thon couldn't make out the words. His default course of action had always been to violence and it had gotten him this far so he set off in Ivan's footsteps, adding his cry to the barely-audible chorus that the others had thrown up.

"You want to be in the show?"

Over the course of ten seconds the breaching cop laid waste to the inner circle. Mul'thon registered someone hitting their axe against the hardened neck-shield before a point-blank shot from the revolver sent him flying backwards into the bathroom. He arrived a moment later and struck downward with his club but she caught it in one hand, spun around and used the ork's own momentum to drive his upper body towards the floor. An armored elbow hit him hard in the side of the head and he staggered to one knee. A second later there was another fhumph from the hand-cannon and Mul'thon screamed at a terrible pain in his right leg, which thereafter collapsed under his weight. She'd shot him and broke the limb with blunt force.

"Come on baby, lets go!"

Others tried and fared no better. She was like a valkyrie, an angel of war that Mul'thon could only marvel at while he clutched his shattered leg with both hands. When Ivan ripped his arm free of the wall he swung at her furiously with his deadly limb but she avoided his blows seemingly without effort.

"Everyone's lookin'... To see if it was you! Everyone wants you, to come through!"

She loosed a shot from two feet out that struck Ivan right in the jaw and sent him staggering backwards across the room. When he'd regained his bearings he put his normal hand on his wrist and spun the bracer that turned his chrome into a shock emitter. He'd bragged once that it ran at 10,000 volts. They'd all be riding the lightning today.

"Everyone's hopin', it'll all work out! Everyone's waitin' to hold you out!"

As it was powering up, the breach cop spun a dial on the side of her revolver, then pointed it at the warboss and pulled the trigger. A red-hot rod flew forth like the wrath of an angry deity, hissing as it cut the air and then right through Ivan's outstretched arm, right above the wrist. It continued over his shoulder and thudded into the wall to his right; his dreaded cybernetic fist dropped to the ground, molten hot on one side and dark as the night sky on the other.

"Everybody's workin' for the weekend! Everybody wants a new romance, hey yeeaa!"

The ork looked at his hand for a few moments, and then seemed to lose his footing. When he fell it was to his left, right through the damaged plate glass which gave instantly. And over the edge went Ivan Ionfist, down three stories to the waiting asphalt below.

"Everybody's goin' off the deep end! Everybody needs a second chance, oh!"

At that moment the music cut out, and a parade of Lone Star SWAT police filed in through the busted doorway, shouting orders and breaking out handcuffs.

The valkyrie walked to the window, rolling her shoulders. Mul'thon wondered if she'd even broken a sweat.

= = =

Ivan Ionfist stirred, groaning and feeling at the shard of plate glass stuck in his right leg. The cocking of a shotgun beside his ear forced his eyes open to find the associated barrel tucked into his neck.

"Go ahead you crazy bastard," Sokoth muttered. "Give me a reason. I'd love to send you to hell right now."

A half dozen other cops gathered around Ivan on the ground, pointing their own weapons at him. He thought for a moment, then raised his remaining hand in surrender.

Ten minutes later the go-gangers were being stabilized and tossed into the backs of armored trucks and police cruisers. Now missing his trademark, Ivan Ionfist had to be restrained with an upper body medical stockade usually reserved for trolls having psychotic episodes.

Her helmet removed, Dawson stood with Sokoth and Brandt beside the Firebird, the doors now shut and the interior silent.

"It's over," Maximillian said incredulously. "We got the son of a bitch. The looting, the firebombings and the gang warfare, it's all going to come to an end now. This whole crime wave is going to be a thing of the past. Won't even be in the news trids this time next month."

"Then you won't mind if let Brandt go back to doing the heavy lifting," Dawson ventured. Asher directed a friendly grin at her. Before Sokoth could say anything, all three of them received chimes from their commpads. Dawson didn't bother to check hers; she could gather what it was about from the expressions the others made.

"Good news?" she said innocently.

"Neon Justice was just sighted in Seacliff! We got to get over there now, while our cops are mobilized."

"Great idea," Dawson said, "But I need a breather after that performance. Ride without me?"

Sokoth reached out and set a gloved hand on Dawson's shoulder. "After that," he said, "I'm recommending you for a damned medal." He let go and turned away. "Let's roll, Brandt."

Asher lingered for a moment, examining Dawson with a critical eye. "We went to the same academy," he observed, "For the same amount of time. Two years apart, yeah, but the curriculum didn't change. So where'd you learn to do what you did in there, Dawson? Knight Errant?"

Running the fingers of her right hand through her long black hair, Dawson sighed. "I wish I could say so," she admitted, "But all Knight Errant ever did was pay me to do it. Stick to what they tried to teach us, Asher. You'll live longer."

As she settled into the Firebird, Dawson began to remove pieces of her outfit. That had been quite the workout; she'd have been better served with the powered armor she'd been using, but that was serving a host of even nobler purposes at the moment, not the least of which was putting her above suspicion.

At her presence the stereo flicked back on, far quieter than it had been when the doors were opened. As it often did, the tune that started summoned a flood of bittersweet memories that mixed eagerly with the absence of adrenaline.

= = =

Today she's one year old, but there are no gifts today. Today she's the gift, the one that no one wants. Her crying brings out her uncle Oliver, who hobbles from the office in the old garage that is his home. He's mortified to see her here, discarded between an old engine block and a desk stuffed with loose bolts and screws. A minute later he's coughing outrage into a commpad. "Hank, why is your daughter here?" There's a pause, and then he's growling. "You can't just dump her here like a sack of garbage! Hank, you know I'm... My days are numbered! You need to come and get this girl--" The line goes dead.

Today she's nine years old. She's a quiet kid, brooding and intense like her uncle. He has little to share, and some days she doesn't eat as much as she'd like to. Oliver spends most of his time sleeping and when he's awake his mood is foul. But he always gives a gift, because it's an occasion. He sits her down in a filthy chair beside the engine block and speaks in a gravelly tone. "Listen to me, Impulse. Listen to me good, girl. You need to know how to take care of yourself, because I'm not gonna be around for much longer. Do you understand?" He reaches into the desk and from among the bolts and screws he pulls out a balisong, which he unfolds with just one shaking hand. "I'm gonna show you how to use this and if you're lucky you'll never have to do anything but pull it out and show it off."

Today she's eleven. She's just made someone hers for the first time, but it won't be the last. It's the next step in her evolution as a bully, a person who takes what she wants from others because they lack the power to stand up to her. After the boy runs off, she goes inside the office to find that her uncle Oliver won't wake up no matter how hard she shakes him. His breathing had always been noisy and ragged; now, it's completely silent.

Today she's seventeen. She puts her butterfly blade into the throat of a man who has everything, and it's only a moment later she sees the girl and boy on the other side of the windshield watching her deprive them of their father. She has no idea what to do with the guilt, so she turns it into anger. Later the manager will scream in her face, tell her that if she's just some psychopath who wants to kill people then she'll never make it in the Cutters. She hits him in the stomach and the others have to come to his rescue.

Today she's twenty. A fellow in a suit and tie asks her, "Do you like weapons, young lady?" She does. "Do you like money?" She likes that, too. "Then I've got an offer for you. Have you ever been to the California Free State?"

Today she's twenty-one. The man seated behind her asks, "How come they made you captain?" His name is Jason Pickers and he has three tattoos, none of them any good. "Because," another man says in a heavy Mexican accent, "She got the best scores. Marksmanship, fitness, tactical thinking. Plus she's the youngest--doesn't know not to volunteer to be in charge!" His name is Victor Reyes and he has an easy smile. She asks, "Knight Errant issue you that gut?" He laughs with good nature. "Too many tamales," he admits, patting his stomach. Jason laughs, and so does the elf. None of them can help it.

Today she's twenty-four. The speaker inside of her helmet emits a cool, easy tune that meanders its way up in tempo. It's meaty, sexy, greasy. Just how she likes it. "Here's lookin' at you! What do you think, chances are we're gonna make it together?" The gun in her hands is weighty, clean and deadly. Just how she likes it. She would kiss it, if she wasn't wearing her helmet. When she rounds the corner and assesses the hallway there's an imperial marine walking her way. His shock is delicious.

"Here's callin' your name, 'cause I have to - Do the things I have to do..." She aims, pulls the trigger without hesitation. Not so easy when it's not a kid, is it you fuckin' jap? "What's a poor boy to do, when he's fallen in love with you?!" She steps over him, kicks his gun away. The Yamaha Raiden--one of those new ones the corps gave them. Good for filling ditches with little bodies, not so good against a heavy. "Help me make it through the night! Everything's gonna be alright!"

Into the barracks cafeteria she strides, setting the weapon to fully automatic and making a sweep from the hip. Eight of them go down before they even look up. "Comes to me deep in the night, I look at you I feel alright!" One returns fire but she doesn't even flinch; later she'll see that the bullet grazed the right side of her head and the vibration of the music kept her from feeling it. Privately she'll wish it had hit her, and she'll never tell anyone else.

"Crazy little things you do, make me wanna be with youuu tonight..." The ones who try to take cover behind overturned tables get scoped rounds in the dome. "Oh, what's a poor boy to do when he's so in love with you?" One charges at her with a bayonet, saying something in Japanese. She grabs him by the throat and slams him into the concrete wall to her left.

"You take me to the top! Take me to the top! Take me to the top... Yes you take me! Take me to the... Take me to the... TOOOOP!!"

The barrel fits under his chin easily and there's no recoil when she pulls the trigger. And oh, the world is even a better place! HOW ABOUT THAT!

"Just give me your hand, hold it out, close your eyes, move up close to me..."

A high-caliber round strikes the wall above her left shoulder and she drops the corpse, rolling behind one of the overturned tables and putting her back to it. Off of her belt she pulls a fragmentation grenade and slots it into the tube. One pump is all it takes to prime the thing and she lifts the Ares Alpha up above her head before pulling the trigger. There's a rattle, and then a frenzy of overlapping foreign voices. Her music drowns out the explosion and the screams.

"Just talk to me in the tone of voice! You really don't leave me any choice, you see!!"

Her heart is hammering. She's young, well-armed, and she wants to die. She wants them to kill her but they can't. What sort of world is this? Where the bad fight the worse and only the innocent get hurt? She isn't allowed to die because this is already hell and she is a demon!

She rises from cover with the Alpha in her hands. There's a marine in one corner, spattered with what's left of her comrades. Her Raiden is well out of reach. Not so new anymore is it? Her hands come up, trembling, making a sign of surrender. The Alpha spits a bullet at her that lands between the eyes. Demons don't get second chances! And they don't give them!

"What's a poor boy to do, when he's fallen in love with you?"

= = =

"Help me make it through the night, everything's gonna be alright!"

She put the Firebird in park and cut the engine off. Since she didn't get out right away, the music continued to play, softer and more intimate than before.

Dawson examined the Ares Accelerator laying in her lap.

"Just let me lay my hands on you, that's the thing I wanna do..."

It was beautiful, as guns went. And Dawson had seen a lot of them. Used them all, at some point or another.

"Wanna spend some time alone, give me a chance and I'll take you home..."

She wondered if it would hurt. She hoped so. It deserved to hurt.

She picked up the gun and held it in front of her face, nearer to her in a way than any lover ever had been. It lacked the stench of gunpowder and oil that other guns had. It was clean, unlike its user. Her eyes slipped shut as the music resonated in her very bones.

"What's a poor boy to do, when he's fallen in love with you?! Help me make it through the night, everything's gonna be alright!"

"Dawson?"

Her eyes opened up quickly, hand flying to the volume knob out of habit to turn it silent. Looking to her left she was startled to see Alenia standing beside the car, peering in through the lowered window.

"What are you doing outside, sweetheart?"

The elf adopted a pouty look. "I missed you."

"I'll be in the apartment in three minutes!"

She crossed her arms. "That's too long to wait! I wanted to see you now."

"You're not wearing pants!"

Alenia made a playful effort at pulling down the stolen shirt she was wearing to pretend to cover some of her ass, which of course left her crotch entirely exposed. "Are you gonna arrest me, star? Huh?"

At a touch on the panel the gull wing door started to open up. "I just might," Dawson warned, getting up out of the driver's seat. After holstering the Accelerator she picked Alena up in both arms and cupped her beneath the buttocks in an attempt to make her as decent as possible.

"Your hands are so warm," Alenia said affectionately.

"You're naked below the waist, anything would feel warm."

"I could be naked above the waist too," she suggested.

"Wait until we're back inside."

= = =

"What you got to drink in here, Imp?"

"You say that like you haven't had enough already," Dawson said evenly. "I know your liver is synthetic but you still have to get the filter replaced if you drink like a fish."

None of the others were in the upstairs area and that combined with her obvious inebriation made Vayger's true feelings fall out of her mouth for Dawson to hear. "Gotta do something to ease my heartache, Imp."

Dawson looked up from her commpad to peer at the elf. Her rainbow-pattern hair was a mess, stuck to her neck and face in random places with sweat and a thin but tangible layer of road grime built up from a night of hard riding.