🚀 go-pugleaf

	New Jersey really isn't as bad as most people say it is. In fact,
it's a good deal nicer. Most of the state is absolutely beautiful, and
people who say otherwise are bloody fools. Either that or they've never
been there.
	However, it's not the place to go to if you're a new superguy
without even the faintest clue of how the altiverse works. It's especially
not the place to go if you're looking for a quiet place to gather your
shattered sensibilities. Let me place the emphasis on the word 'quiet'.

			   %N #5 - "Spiral"
			      by ACrash
			  In Accordance With
			ShadowyPlot Productions	
		    "Must go faster! Must go faster!"	

***** Newark Airport, NJ

	Dusk was completely silent. At the moment, she was being held
aloft about fifty feet in the air by her teammate Sonic, also known as
Mary Anne. Had circumstances been normal, they would have fallen and
splatted like ripe melons on the sidewalk as soon as she stopped talking.
	Wait. Scratch that. Had circumstances been normal, the two girls
would be in school, around fifth period. But we digress.
	The reason for this odd state of affairs was that Mary Anne,
however silent Jen might be, was floating fifty feet up in the air over a
very busy, very dangerous, very _loud_ airport terminal.
	"Mary Anne?" asked Jen presently.
	"Yes, Dusk?" replied Sonic.
	"How the nass are we going to get down from here?" she asked
calmly.
	"Umm..." said Sonic.
	"Thought so," sighed Jen.
	"Umm...hold on tight, okay? But not too tight. We're going to try
that hypothesis of yours from last issue," said Mary Anne, looking down at
the busy terminal.
	"Bloody Hell(tm)," said Jen, hanging on tight as Mary Anne clapped
her hands over her ears.
	The two Brainpack members plummeted, and landed rather jouncily on
someone's luggage. The bag they landed on flew open, spilling a garish
spandex costume out all over the polished floor. They quickly scurried off
the luggage belt, and found themselves face-to-face with a Very Large Man.
	"I'M sorry, sir," said Jen smoothly, "Was that your luggage? You
look like a very heroic superg- *cough* I mean, you look like a famous
actor! I believe I recognise you - didn't you star in that movie, _The
Kingdom of Cabbage_? May I have your autograph?"
	The Very Large Man, in addition to being very large, recognised an
opportunity to escape an embarrassing predicament when he saw one. "Who,
me?" he asked innocently. "I'm not a superguy! You're right, I'm just a
mild mannered famous actor, on my way to my next film! I'm honored that
you recognised me! Here's your autograph, miss, and it's no problem at all
about my luggage."
	Meanwhile, Sonic had been looking around the terminal for some
sort of gift shop where she might buy a set of earplugs to block out the
sounds of the city. She spotted a store near one of the ramps and scooted
over to it quickly, keeping her hands over her ears. Somehow, she managed
to buy her earplugs without taking her hands off her ears, and went back
over to Jen and the Very Large Man.
	"LET'S FIND SOMEPLACE TO GO," yelled Sonic.
	"Sure, right," said Jen, "Quit yelling."
	"WHAT?" yelled Mary Anne.	
	"STOP YELLING!" yelled Jen.
	"She can't hear you," said the Very Large Man, trying not to laugh.
	"WHAT?" chorused both girls.
		
*****

	"Oh...gods..." groaned Buddha. "My head..."
	"Ah, the effects'll wear off soon," assured a cheerful, familiar
voice. "At least, the uncomfortable ones."
	Buddha opened his eyes and saw a variation on the standard
institutional ceiling tiles. He smelled antiseptic, so he figured he must
be in a hospital.  Slowly he analyzed the sensations he was feeling - his
head pounded with a headache the likes of which he'd never seen; his
throat hurt, and felt sort of scratchy when he tried to swallow; his head
and back were cushioned by a mattress of some sort.  Finally, he placed
the voice. Before he could say anything, though, she spoke again.
	"Don't try to move - you're strapped down. You've been delirious."
	"...Gina? Is that you? What's happened? Was I in an accident? I've
been having the -weirdest- dream..." he mumbled, eyes searching the room
as best he could, and head turning from side to side in an attempt to
locate the source of the voice.
	"Please keep your face where I can see it," said the voice. "Can
you repeat what you just said?"
	"Gina? Where are you?" asked Buddha, starting to get worried.
	Suddenly, a silouhette blocked Buddha's view of the ceiling. A
smallish hand grabbed his shirt front, and lifted him slightly off the
bed. The girl's voice hissed, "Where did you hear my name, punk?"
	Buddha whimpered, "Gina? What's going on? What the Hell(tm) are
you doing? Leggo of my shirt!"
	She shook him. "Where did you hear my NAME?"
	"First day of freshman year when you got lost and they had to call
you to the office?" offered Buddha in a tiny little voice.
	The girl dropped Buddha disgustedly, and stepped back a bit. "So
I'm Gina. It's not like I'm Ernest Borgnine or something...why should you
care? Actually, why should I care if you care?"
	At that moment, he saw that it was indeed Gina, but not quite as
she should be. She was dressed in a navy blue jumpsuit over a white
turtleneck, and her long hair was pulled back into a ponytail. She had
some sort of electronic device in her pocket, with a wire leading up to
her ear. Most notably, though, she had a look of utter contempt on her
face.
	"You're useless, you know that? Well, not quite useless. From the
tests so far, it appears that you're a teleport. So that means I can't
kill you outright;  you're too valuable. It doesn't, however, mean that I
can't break you," said Gina, "and I will. Oh, I will..."
	At this, she drew a wicked-looking weapon from a holster at her
side and calmly fired it directly at Buddha's chest. "See you later,
loser. And when I do, you're -mine-."
	The last thing Buddha heard as he slipped into the firey
unconsciousness provided by a pure energy weapon was a low, bitter laugh.

*****

	"And so, you see, you can rejoin us at no additional cost, with
the same low monthly rate of risk that you enjoyed when you worked with us
before, and with the additional bonus of your own computer lab, running
UNIX," said V, his thick, horn-rimmed glasses glinting in the flourescent
zombie-lighting of the tiny office.  He tugged at his sweater, in an
unconscious mimic of the famed Picard Manuver, and smiled what he hoped
was pleasantly at the sullen teenager in front of him.
	"You sound like a phone company commercial," muttered the teen.
	"Come, come, Fogarty, don't be difficult. The Company -wants- you
back!  You're a wonderful asset. And think of the pay! Why, you could buy
an island with what we're willing to pay you. And the lab! You could run
your own BUSINESS with the equipment we intend to give you," assured V.
	"I did," pointed out Fogarty. "And it wasn't legal, which was more
fun."
	V stood up. "Look, kid, we can do this the easy way or the hard
way."
	Fogarty shrugged. "Well, I'm not going to join you, whatever you
offer me.  I mean, it'd be like...like...like working for the government,
but worse. And I don't care what you do to me, I'm not going to tell you
where the TI-82 is."
	"We have telepaths," said V.
	"You also have trained 'interrogators'. I know what you have, V,
and I don't care. I used to work for you, remember? I'm only glad I got
out when I did.  Too bad the others didn't make it - they're probably dead
by now, right?" asked Fogarty emotionlessly.
	"Some. And some of them are our best agents," added V smugly.
	"They'd kill themselves if they were in their right minds, and
knew what they'd been, and what they've become. I sure hope you can sleep
at night, V. I know I couldn't, if I were in your position," sighed
Fogarty, standing.
	V pressed a button on his desk, and the doors behind Fogarty
slipped open noiselessly. A pair of armed guards were standing outside.
"You have one more chance, kid. Will you join us?"
	Fogarty turned around, and studied the guards for a moment.
Turning to V, he asked seriously, "Will you get a sex change and join a
convent?"
	V turned bright red with rage, and motioned viciously to the
guards behind Fogarty. One of them knocked him over the head with the butt
of his gun, and the other one caught him as he fell to the floor. "You
know what to do, boys," said V, dismissing them.
	As the doors slid shut behind the rebel and the guards, V sat down
again, opened a drawer in his desk, and took some aspirin. He sighed,
pushed his glasses up on his nose, and turned on his computer monitor. The
green screen once again lit his face, and he basked in the gentle glow of
CRT radiation...here, finally, was something he -could- control
unconditionally...

*****

	"No."
	"Yes!"
	"No, absolutely not."
	"There's no other way!"
	"No."
	"Are you dense?"
	"No."
	"No that you're dense, or no that we can't?"
	"Both."
	"I think you're both crazy."
	Stinky and Mike turned to Taryn. "What??"
	"You're stark, raving mad! Stinky, Mike is right on one thing - we
can't hijack a plane. There -are- several reasons...the first one is, do
you -see- a plane anywhere? No, I didn't think so. The other thing is,
even though I don't know how we got here, I'm -sure- hijacking planes is
illegal in Kansas. You don't want to get arrested, do you? Now, Mike,
you're wrong, too. We can't -walk- to Jersey, it's just too darn far
away," explained Taryn calmly, like one addressing a small child.
	"Do -you- have a better suggestion?" asked Mike.
	"I still think we should hijack a plane..." mumbled Stinky.
	"Don't make me have to HURT you," threatened Mike, glaring at
Stinky.
	"*AHEM*? Thank you! Will you please just shut up long enough for
me to explain?" asked Taryn, exasperated.
	Both boys looked sheepishly at Taryn.
	"Much better. Now - as I was about to say before I was so -rudely-
interrupted...! I can call someone to come pick us up!" said Taryn,
pointing to her head. "I mean, I can hear you two, loud and clear. And I
can also hear someone else, -really- close, and closing in on us, really
fast. He can fly us to Jersey!"
	Stinky stared at Taryn. "Girl, what are you smoking? And can *I*
have some?!"
	"I am NOT high!" said Taryn indignantly. "I can hear --"
	*FWOOOOOSH!*
	A brightly-clad, built-like-a-fridge, heroic-looking figure
swooped into sight, knocking them all over with the wind from his passage.
Yelling from the ground, Taryn said, "Well, THAT was uncalled for!"
	"Sorry, Empathy," boomed the hero-guy, alighting gently in their
midst.  "I thought you might have had warning...you know..."
	Taryn got up, brushed herself off, and said, "No. You were acting
on impulse. I couldn't read what you were going to do!"
	Mike and Stinky looked at each other. "Taryn?" asked Mike, "Do i
want to know?"
	"'Course. This is Fiato di Cavolo, the reknowned Italian Superguy,
and he's gonna give us a lift to Jersey."
	Fiato di Cavolo bowed, and said "The pleasure is all mine. Shall
we depart?"
	Taryn grinned at the two guys. "What're you waiting for?"

*****

	"Hmm," mused Ted, "Wish Mike were here. Maybe later I'll stop by
Jersey to see them all..."
	Landing amidst the wreakage of what had once been an electronics
store, Ted surveyed the damage. There wasn't much left of Montreal,
apparently...or rather, New Montreal. Something, or someONE, had leveled
the city, leaving nothing but debris, junk, and homeless people. Ted was
slightly annoyed, but figured there must be another way to go about taking
over Canada, other than holding Montreal hostage.
	"Actually," he thought aloud, "That prolley wouldn't have worked,
anyway. I dunno that Canada really wants Montreal, even." He wandered
off, looking for something...he didn't really know what, and he didn't
really care. "Maybe I should just go join the others..."

WHEN IS THIS ARC GOING TO END? (Good question...)
WILL ACRASH HAVE THE ATTENTION SPAN TO FINISH IT?
WHO IS THIS WEIRDO AND WHAT HAS SHE DONE WITH GINA?
YOU THOUGHT FOGARTY WAS GONNA CRUM OUT, DIDN'T YOU?
IS BUDDHA GONNA DIE? DOES HE DESERVE TO?
WHAT THE HELL(TM) DOES FIATO DI CAVOLO MEAN?
WHY WAS THIS ISSUE SO SHORT?

FIND OUT NEXT TIME ON...

	Superguy! It's one in a googolplex!


Stuff (c) 1996 by Author Crash Productions, and some stuff (c) ShadowyPlot
Talk to me. I'm not that scary. If you ask to crossover, I might even
listen to you before I blow your head off with an AK-47 Terrorist Special.


Author Crash -- acrash@nac.net -- brainy9@eyrie.org -- Apparition@LSH.Org
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"Visne spectare me faciendum bullam cum meo sputo?" - Wakkus Warnius