Millennium Ahab

Archived Post

"ow ow OW!"

Cursing fluently in a guttural language few would even recognize, the young woman stumbled through the hidden door from the alley and kicked it shut behind her, hand pressed to the seeping wound in her flank. She might have passed for nineteen or twenty, but, of course, the boiled-carrot skin, glowing red eyes, claws, and massive wings made it hard to tell. Oh, and the tail, now lashing nervously in her distress. Not even the oddly-styled suit of armor which kept her juuuust barely street-decent could distract an onlooker from the fact that she very definitely was NOT a Millennium City native.

"Jon! Blast it, Jon, you tosser! 'ELP!" She took her hand away, looked at the three inches of metallic spine that was sticking out of her skin. A few exploratory tugs, accompanied by more swearing and quasi-reptilian hissing, confirmed her fears. Barbed, and stuck. Grabbing hold of the arm of a chair with one hand, she laid the palm of the other on the exposed weapon, took a deep breath...and shoved.

"GRAAAAAH! bloodybloodybloodyOW! JON!" Claws bit deep into the wood of the chair as she drove the thing through. Painful as it was, it did the trick. Dripping deep-reddish ichor, the barbed head of the spine now protruded an inch from her lower back. Grasping it firmly, she twisted it once, twice, snapped it off, then pulled the thing back out of the wound. "Oi...tha's a bit better." Fumbling- the room was poorly lit, one more bit of camouflage- she grabbed hold of a box of bandages.

"Sanj. You're back late. Was he there?"

She dropped the box as she whirled, the cadaverous voice startling her. The man it belonged to, the secretive quasi-hero who called himself Thaumatrigger, seemed to fade into the room from the shadows. Nearly as corpse-like in appearance as in sound, the only bit of color he bore was his ubiquitous gunbelt, the leather polished to a high reddish gloss, the heavy silver pistols gleaming.

The odd girl glared at him, eyes sparking in the half-gloom. "Oi. 'Yer late', 'e says. Na' 'Sanjan, I was worried.' Na' 'Girl, you look 'urt, you need an hand'?"

"You'll heal. You always do. Was he. THERE?"

"I'm bloody LEAKING 'ere, boss."

With a disgusted snort he crossed the room in a sudden glide, grabbed up the box of bandages, unrolled one, slapped it to the wound, winding it tight. Sanjan hissed again, but held very still, letting him work. "You know," he growled, "if you wore REAL armor, instead of that 'look at me' mess, you wouldn't get hurt so often."

"Like you ever even notice it? Or wha's in it, ey?" She smirked, moved her hand to the fastening of the metal harness. True to form, the man turned his back and stepped away. With a sigh, and more than a little difficulty, she shed the skinlike garment, leaving the bandage undisturbed, and wrapped herself in a light robe that she always kept in the foyer. "Aight. You can turn 'round again. Prude."

As he did, she went on. "You know the score, Jon. More I wear, slower I move, ey? You think I like wanderin' 'round lookin' like a Picadilly tart?" She shrugged, winced. "Part o'the package."

"So you say. I think differently. But that's not important. Did you SEE him, for God's sake."

"Pour us a drink, Jon, an' we'll talk."

"Sanj, I swear, I WILL banish you..."

Orange lips parted in a friendly smirk, revealing pearly needle fangs. " Na, ye won't. First off, you don't know enougha me name to do the job. Second, since I'm only 'alf succu, we both know anythin' you do is just as like ta turn us both inta frogs or sommin. Third- you love my curry an' my stir-fry. Ye'd likely starve ta death wi'out me. Fourth..." With a groan, she sank into the chair that bore the marks of her claws. "Fourth, Jon, luv, you need me. If only ta take the 'its your puny human frame can't. So, for th'love of all Holy and un-...pour us a bloody drink, ey?'

Once she was settled, tumbler in hand, and 'Trigger had checked the locks and wards on the door, she sighed and shook her head. "False alarm, luv. Allat was there was a buncha larvae, and a couple Drangei. Oh, an' a Voidworm."

"Drangei? What kind?"

Sanj grimaced. "Th'bloody SPINY kind, tosser! What, didja think I got tha' little souvenier walkin' barefoot on the beach?"

The man glanced at the spine, picked it up, passed hands over it. "Unbound," he sighed, heavily. "So...just another random infestation of your distant cousins." Narrowing his eyes, he moved his gaze to where her armor and gear was laying. "Where's your rifle?"

The sorta-pretty orange face screwed up into a picture of 'are you KIDDING?'. "Aight now? 'bout 'alfway down th'bloody worm's colon. Frell, luv, I barely got outa the bloody ROOM."

"You always seem to escape certain death, Sanj. You should have been an actress." Brooding, eyes far away, he thought as she drank. "Bound Drangei or not, if there was a worm, there had been a major demon there."

"Aye." She nodded. "Or the Drangei're smarter than we think, called it them sel's. Or there's a bloody ninth-order conjunction. Or maybe the git was deliverin' pizza." Leaning forward gingerly, she laid a remarkably fine-boned hand on the man's black-robed arm, being careful not to scratch with the claws. "Jon...'ow many years 'as it been? I'm all for the 'send the infernals 'ome' bit...but don't you think the White Whale hunt 'as gone on long enough? 'E's gone, mate. At least, he's not gonna show 'is face while you're still above ground. Le'it GO, Jon."

Angrily, he yanked away. "Get some rest. I've got a line on another nest. You go out again tomorrow."

"Wha'...?" She stared, stunned, but he was already moving away, towards the hall that led deeper into the maze of abandoned apartments they used as a lair. "I got a 'OLE in me side, mate. I wanna day off."

"You can have a vacation when you're dead," was the reply, snapped back across a receding shoulder.

"When I'm...you bloody sod, tha's like...nine HUNDRED bloody years from now..."

[Edited, because apparently a common English word meaning 'to poke with something sharp' is a nono according to the 'protect the kiddies from the world' filter.]

Archived Post

Neither doors nor walls stayed his angry passage through the deserted apartment complex. If something small was in his way, he went around it; if it was too large to bypass, he faded and reappeared on the other side. He did it the same way he shot, without conscious thought. His mind was totally shrouded in crimson waves of anger...

How DARE she? White whale? Call me an Ahab, an obsessive, a madman? As if he wasn't real, as if he hadn't butchered my family in front of my eyes...

What should I expect. Only one step from the pit herself. One of them. No different, underdressed little demon tramp...

Reaching his inner sanctum, the workshop deep inside the building, which noone had ever seen, not even his guardian/assistant/ward, he slumped to the floor, shaking, drained by his anger. One short, shaky laugh escaped his lips.

No. No. Not fair. She's not like them, like HIM. She can't help what she is, she's a victim. Like me. And she's right. You have to get this anger thing under control. Or it will get you killed. He will feel it, he will use it, he will turn it against you.

Or she'll get fed up and leave. And admit it, fool. You'd miss her.

Stay. Calm.



On the other side of the building, Sanjan slumped back into her chair, staring at her glass. With a sudden, angry motion, she tossed it against the wall.

Why do I stay with the git? Sullen, surly, obnoxious tosser. 'Ardly ever a kind word, works me like a bloody slave. And always lookin' at me like I was some sorta street rat. Me girlfriends- if I HAD any; near everyone's like that Pryd wench, all "eww, succubus, steal your soul! Killit!"- would say I had a pash for him.

Oh, as BLOODY if? I'd walk away this second if...

If I had somewhere to go. If he hadn't took me in, when he needn'ta. Whatever bloody idiot thought it would be a good idea to take the abandoned little half-blood, left in a friggin' CHURCH PEW, for the love of all holy and un-, take her to a man whose wife and sprog had just been offed by what? A demon? You don't say? THAT git deserves a roasting. Askin' Jon what should be done with me.

He coulda said 'Drop her in the baptismal font. If she don't burn, she'll drown, at least.' Maybe he oughta have.

But he didn't. So I stay, an' I put up with 'is moods, an' his snarls, and I try an' jolly 'im outa his dark times.

So who's the bigger nitwit, ey?

Archived Post

Erall wrote:

"I got a 'OLE in me side, mate. I wanna day off."

(( ))

The exchange between them is endearing and this line is simply priceless.

Archived Post

For the fourth time I checked my loadout, even though I knew by weight and handling exactly how much ammo I had left. Jon, surly git, has trained me well. Some folks look sideways at the AK, tease me about the size of the slugs. Bloody idiots. Sure, 5.5 doesn't make a big hole- it also doesn't tend to blow through junk and hit bystanders. And with our loads, it doesn't have to be big- technique over size is the order of the day. Alternating hollow-cavity silver iodide, half-jacketed white oak, and cold-hammered iron dum-dums will chew up anything we're likely to come across. Sometimes I even add a few white phosphor tracers to the mix; I like the color, and hey, fire is a good thing to share, right?

Expensive as all blazes, though.

Lucky, then, I hadn't needed any this trip. Not that it made me feel any better; the open door and empty building just screamed 'trap', and even if it hadn't I had that creepy feeling that told me, one hundred percent of the time, that something from out of town was watching me. Ick.

So of course, Jon sent me in alone. Far more important he be off away doing...whatever. Men. Every bloody man in my bloody life was a bloody problem, one way or another. As if it weren't enough living with Jon, now this Frank fellow kept popping up, every bit as surly and half as talkative. I'd think he was stalking me, except for him going out of the way to make me feel like bread mold when I see him. What. Ever.

Gun held way out in front, like a divining rod, I gave the door in front of me a little nudge with my free hand. There are a few advantages to being half-demon- the latch squealed once and gave it up as a bad job. I waited a second, then peeked in....stairs, of course. Going down, of course. Again. Like some mad RPG designer had built the place from the top down. I HAD to be in the third basement by now.

Once more into the breach, and all that rot. Down I went.

And at the bottom, he was waiting. The room was lit by one hundred and twelve red and black candles, arranged on the ground in the pattern of the Third Conjunction- a gate-pattern. And my hair would've stood up on end, if it wasn't already spiked. So, Jon wasn't completely daft.

Look, I'm not Arthur, or one of his knights, OK? No way on any plane was I going to give a bloke who was obviously at least a real bigtimer black mage, and maybe a middle-tier demon, any sort of warning. So I pointed the trusty AK at the middle of his unimpressive robed back, and unloaded.

Plan B involved tossing the rifle away very, very, very quickly, as the first round hung in the barrel, impossibly; as the old banger flew half across the room the rest of the mag, jammed in some inexplicable way, detonated, sending shards of iron, steel, silver, and wood everywhere. Not a scrap of it touched the git in the robes, of course. I resigned myself to having small bits of bandage taped all over my left side. Again. Ow.

He turned, small and wizened, apparently nothing more than a very old man in a bad costume. But his voice when he spoke, was rich, amused- and what he said got my attention right quick.

"Ahh. Sanjanitikkakaritkal. I wondered if you'd come."

Mouth open, I stopped moving, my hand halfway to my sword. "Aight, then. You know eight of 'em. That buys you a extra few secondsa breath."

He laughed, and stepped towards me, careful to not disturb the candles in their precise, glowing rows. "Actually, I know all but the last five, my dear. The ones that come solely from your mother. Otherwise I would have just called you up for our chat."

Everything in my head screamed 'trap, tosser', but I couldn't smell any offensive spells. Of course, I hadn't seen what he'd done to my gun, either. Maybe a passive warding. Or maybe I should really be that scared. What I was, mostly, was curious. I've lived with and around Jon for nearly twenty years, and he'd never gotten more than about six of the syllables of my name on his own. Never would, either, git. Not the way he acted. And this guy knew eight for sure, claimed to know six more. More importantly, he knew how it worked, the structure of my name, something hidden carefully from mortals...

I swallowed, tried to keep my game face up. This could be very, very bad. It didn't look like the Prince that had killed Jon's family- but then, it didn't have to. It could still be him. No matter what, I was not going to let some medieval fashion disaster turn me against the one person I could call family...annoying as he is. "Funny, that. Mum never mentioned you."

Another laugh, another step closer. If I was going to do anything, now might be a good time. "You never met your mother, Sanjanit. And the fact that I know that, and all else about you, should tell you who I am."

"Rates collector?" It was a struggle, keeping my voice nonchalant. " Sorry, mate. The telly's not in my name, so I ain't been gettin' the bills."

He clucked, shook his head...lowered his cowl, letting me see his so beautiful, so wrong eyes. "I am your father, Sanjanit. You knew that from the moment you set foot in my lair."

"You don't LOOK like James Earl Jones..." With a single motion, I drew my blade, listening to it sing as I chopped him dead in half.

THIS time Plan B involved giving myself a nasty yank to the shoulder, and looking like a git as the bloody sword stayed right where it was, all cozy in her back sheath thank YOU. No amount of tugging would budge it. At least he had the grace not to laugh, this time.

"Daughter- the blade recognizes her lawful master. I loaned her to you so you could defend yourself, not so you could attack me in a fit of misplaced zeal."

Could it be? The sword was the one thing, supposedly, my folks had left me, besides my name...he was gesturing, the gate was forming, in amongst the candles...he smiled gently, extended his hand. "Come, Sanjanit. It's time to go home."

Almost, almost I was ijjit enough to swallow it. I care about Jon, I really do, but he's not father material. Or brother. Or lover. As bloody if. And every other bloody human git has treated me like either a child, a monster, or annoyance...I admit it. I was tempted.

Then I looked back in his eyes. The glee, the desperation, the need.

Oh, yeah. A few guys have treated me like a tool. Or a toy.

"Sorry, mate. I already am." The grenade- nothing fancy, just half a pound of plastic boom and nasty razor sharp iron bits- wasn't thrown at HIM, so his ward missed it. Stupid bugger.

I threw it at the candles. And watched as the gate imploded, pattern shredded, sucking him into it. The last thing that went was those odd glowing violet eyes. And a whisper, promising it wasn't over, he'd find me again...

Men. Bloody obnoxious, self-centered, manipulative, blind...I SWEAR I'm going to lock Jon and Frank in a room. With any luck they'll snerk each other to death...

Aw, blimey. How was I going to break this bit of news to my boss and guardian? He was gonna be miffed about the gun...again...

Archived Post

Erall wrote:

Men. Bloody obnoxious, self-centered, manipulative, blind...I SWEAR I'm going to lock Jon and Frank in a room. With any luck they'll snerk each other to death...

((Or, with her luck, they'd get along just fine. :P ))

Archived Post

"Tell me again."

Hands wrapped around a steaming mug of tea, Sanj sighed. " 'Ow many bloody more times, ey? Aight. Place was empty, except down below. One man, old. Candles, gate, black magick, cheesy robes, yadda yadda, ey? Tosser had a Warding strong enough to cook off me rifle. Claimed to know all but th'last few secret syllables of me name- for sure, knew as much of it as you do. Said 'e was me Da, wanted me to go along for a joyride. Bloody sword wouldn't bloody budge, fickle tart. So. Boom, grenade, good-bye gate, good-bye old pederast. I ran like a cheerleader at a frat rush. Ye Olde Bloody Ende. Which part o'this is confusin' ye, luv?"

Thaumatrigger paced wildly in the small antechamber, where he had braced Sanjan the instant he returned. the questions had started instantly- he hadn't even allowed her to change out of her armor. "The sword obeyed him?"

"Well, she sure d'int obey ME. Wouldn't come outa the sheath."

More pacing, face working. Inside, he could feel his anger rising- not at her, never at her, but he also knew if he didn't get a grip, if would be directed at her. And that would be bad..."And you're SURE he was alone?"

Her snarl was weary. "No, ya git. 'E 'ad the bloody Rockettes wi' 'im. I'm still there enjoyin' the Christmas show, aren'I? Told ya, whole place smelled like family. But just the one old creepy gent."

She had a right to be mad at him, he knew. His behavior was out of line. But this was the biggest lead they'd had since...he stooped right in front of her, leaned down so he was eye to eye with his half-demon ward. "Did you BELIEVE him?"

Kissing-close, she didn't blink. "Step back, Kincaid." Shaking himself, he did, a little, and she continued. "What, about 'im bein' me father?" She shrugged. "I dunno, 'struth. He knew more about me thanne shoulda- not like I take out Personals ads wi' me name spelled out, now izzit? Honest, Jon, I dunno. He...yeah." Another nervous shrug. "He coulda been. Maybe. He smelled sorta...dunno."

Icily, he stared down at her. Beneath the thud of his pulse in his ears, he could hear his better sense saying, no no no..."And you let him get away."

"LET 'im..." The girl stared at him. "Wha' should I 'ave done, ey mate? No weapons. You're the bloody sorcerer, not me. I blew 'im back through his bloody gate, to wherever he felt like takin' me."

"You're the big, tough demon, aren't you? You could've used those claws, or your teeth- you're the strong one, so you keep saying..." No, Jon...don't say it..."Or you could have shed what little you're wearing and let him..." His tongue froze, far too late, mirrored by her face. Long seconds passed before she responded, voice cold and trembling.

"Wha'ever you think of me, Kincaid. Wha'ever you think of my parentage- wha'ever goes on in that fevered li'il brain of yours- I'm not a tramp. Don't even think it, not once."

Jon swallowed, trying to undo the damage. "I know, Sanj. I'm...I'm sorry. This was just so big...angry, I was angry..." Far too little, way too late. She was shaking her head, slowly.

"No. We're done. I've 'ad it up to 'ere with the jokes an' the snerk" In a rush, she stood, spilling the tea, shattering the cup on the floor. "You saved me life, an' I'm grateful. Bu' I think me debt's been long paid, 'avin' to listen to you rant an' snarl every bloody day for the last six bloody years."

This time it was she leaning in close, fangs half-bared. he stood very still, took it like a man."News flash, tosser. Wasn't me killed your wife an' sprog. Wasn't anyone I know, neither. I've spent my 'ole life 'elping you try an' find the git that did. No more."

"Sanjan...I know. really, I do. I'm sorry..."

She stepped back, again shaking her head. "No. We're done, Kincaid. 'Ave a nice life. I'm sure mine'll be a frelling lot more fun." And she burst out the door and into the alley.

For a moment, pride warred with conscience. Just a moment, before it registered that the last real good thing in his life had just left him- and it was his fault. An instant later, he was in the alley, shouting her name...

Wings, fool. She has wings. And she's strong, and fast. She's miles away. Fool, fool, fool...

Archived Post

Erall wrote:

"I dunno, 'struth. He knew more about me thanne shoulda- not like I take out Personals ads wi' me name spelled out, now izzit?

((This little line really brought the accent to my inner voice as I was reading her lines. In particular, the Idunno and the izzit. Also, ouch. Poor John.))

Archived Post

Third day, dead drunk. The first day he had looked for her, and started drinking when she was nowhere to be found. The second day he had waited for her to come home, and had drunk to fill the empty time.

The third day, he said bollocks to it all, and just drank. At least, he thinks it is the third day. Maybe it's the fourth.

He is confused, shaken out of his sodden sleep by a bright light and a gentle sound. Glance at the clock: 4:30 AM. Far too early to be light. Shouldn't be any, anyway, his rooms are deep in the center of the abandoned building, hidden and safe from the world. And for sure, there shouldn't be a whispery noise, like a quiet sigh, coming from all around, nor a soft, sad woman's voice.

"I can't turn my back on you for a moment, can I, Jon?"

"Sanj?...That you...? No, not Sanjan. The woman is floating over the foot of his bed, tall, very tall, long-haired, pale. Pretty, beautiful, maybe, though the light, the white light streaming from her eyes and skin makes it so hard to be sure. The voice sounds so familiar...

"You're better than this, Jon Kincaid. Stronger. You should be looking for the girl, apologizing, not lying here like a navvy on the dole, feeling sorry for yourself."

He sits up, partway, shields his eyes. "Jo...Joelle?"

The light fades to tolerable levels, and she smiles, the old smile, the one that had captivated him years before. "Hello, love. I've missed you."

Her smile, her voice her face, now visible in the soft glow that comes from nowhere and everywhere around her. But that's not right, it can't be. Jo is...

In that instant, he wakes fully, and remembers, and begins to howl.

Archived Post

(( ))

Oof... That was an unhappy reunion. We gonna see what happened to her? Do I gotta beg or be patient? :P

Archived Post

[Begging is flattering, but doesn't make me write any faster...

Patience, yeah, yeah. How long will that take? ]