🚀 go-pugleaf

     Spandex Babe faced the wall of the cell.  Concrete.  Taupe.  Spandex
Babe hated taupe.
     With one good solid hit, she could shatter it.  Get outside.  Go all
the way.  She was already a criminal -- why accept her fate?  Why accept
anything?
     Spectrum was chatting with a guard.  Spandex Babe didn't really
listen. Why bother?
     They had failed.  What was worse, they had been wrong.  How many were
dead right now, in the name of 'protecting' the people?  Scholarman wasn't
evil, but he was dead, right?  And that crazy mage, with the long hair and
the beard -- he looked like Christ.
     'I was wrong' he said.  'I survived!  There's hope.'
     And then she killed him.  She beat him to death, and then cremated the
corpse.
     She was sore -- both from the night's exertions, and from the Masked
Bruce's hammering.  She would be bruised for weeks.  But she was still
alive.
     There was a tap on her shoulder.  She looked up--
     Spectrum, dressed in prison fatigues, was holding a styrofoam cup of
coffee to her.  "You said I could buy you a cup of coffee when it was all
over."
     Spandex Babe managed a weak smile.  "Thanks," she said, taking the cup.
     "So... what do you think will happen to us?"
     "Probably a tour in the Really-Really-Hard-to-Get-Out-of-Place.  And
some news coverage for a couple of months."  Spandex Babe sighed and sipped
the bitter coffee.  It was black and instant.  She didn't like either.  She
drank more of it.  "Then we'll become a footnote.  That crazy hate-group.
We'll be remembered about as strongly as the Jonestown cultists."
     "Who?"
     "James Jones and his cult?  Oh, it must have been fifteen years ago,
more or less.  Jones was a Charismatic Cult leader, preaching a warped
version of the Gospel.  He preached that enemies of the Cult were always
circling -- and ran drills where the cultists would drink Kool Aid they
thought was poisoned, so that they could die rather than be taken.  And
then one of the drills wasn't a drill.  Hundreds of men, women and children
killed, including Jones.  All for nothing."
     "Yeah, I remember that now.  It's been a while."  He drank his own
coffee. "That's unfair, though."
     "Why?"
     "We weren't the bad guys.  Things got out of hand, but they attacked
us, not vice versa.  And we were fighting for a reason -- for everyone on
Earth. To prevent another Radian from arising."
     Spandex Babe stared across the hall, though the bars.  On the other
side of the hallway, in the overcrowded jail, the Masked Bruce, Unorthodox
Lass and Rainy-Day Woman were being held together.
     The Masked Bruce wouldn't look at her.
     "Scholarman was right," she said quietly.  "There was only one Radian,
and even she's not the same any more."
     "Scholar-who?"
     "You didn't hear the speech?"
     "What speech?  I spent a lot of the battle buried in a hill, and then
I was ripped apart -- well, my armor -- and then I was punched out by a
close friend and then our own revolutionaries beat me for a while."
     "Oh, he was a Mage -- not a major player, but he saved Figuremaster's
life and had an argument with Bulletproof."
     "That's not bright."
     "No, it wasn't.  Scholarman surrendered.  In fact, he surrendered in
the name of all the Magi."
     "Then... we won?"
     "No... Bulletproof shot him in the back.  He's in critical condition,
I guess.  Probably won't live."
     "Oh.  Well, one less."
     Spandex Babe looked at Spectrum sharply.  "Scholarman wasn't evil."
     "Yet.  It's like those alien magic tricks."
     "The what?"
     "The ones who were going to blow up the Earth?  When I was fighting
Radian--"
     "The Magestrix.  They're some sort of Guild of Magic in space."
     "Oh."  Spectrum looked thoughtful.  "Well, I guess the
Really-Really-Hard- to-Get-Out-of-Place won't be so bad."
     "Oh?"
     "Sure.  You have to take responsibility for what you do.  Otherwise,
it's like admitting you were wrong, and I don't think we were."
     "Take responsibility...." Spandex Babe murmured.
     "Huh?"
     "Nothing."  Spandex Babe rolled over and tried to go to sleep.

        *       *       *       *       *       *       *       *

     Richard and Scholarman stopped amid the rolling clouds and beheld the
majesty that was the Pearly Gates.
     "Wow," they both said at once.  They had no choice in the matter.  It
is literally impossible to behold the Pearly Gates without saying "Wow."
The mute gain the ability to speak, language stops being a barrier.  You
see them, and "Wow."  Cause and effect relationship.
     "Cool," Scholarman said, and then paused.  "Wow.  Neat echo trick."
     "Yeah.  It's really cool."
     Scholarman glanced over to the side, and saw his body through the
clouds. He was in post-op, and on life support.  He could see it clearly.
"Is that going to follow me around?" he asked.
     "Is what?  Oh, your body?  Yeah, as long as it's still alive, you'll
be able to perceive it.  It's a fail-safe, in case you don't die."
     "What are the chances I won't die?"
     "In your case?  None.  It would take a miracle."
     "We're in the right place for that."
     "So you think.  Come on, I'll show you."
     Richard walked through the gates and into heaven.  Scholarman followed
him.  They then beheld the majesty of Heaven.
     "Wow... it's so... white."
     "Yeah."
     "So utterly and completely white."
     "Right."
     "It's so white you ask, how much more white could this get, and the
answer, of course, is none."
     "Yuppers."
     Scholarman looked all around himself.  "So what is there to do?"
     "You're looking at it."
     "Just... that?"
     "Yup."
     "Bummer."
     "Well, you can talk to people, if you want."
     "Great, where are they?"
     "They all left, because it was so dull."
     "Oh."
     The two stared at the white for another ten minutes or so.
     "Where did they go?"
     "Who?"
     "The other people?"
     "Well, a lot of the less imaginative went to Hell, figuring it would
be more interesting.  Which I guess is true, but it's a pretty stupid
move."
     "It sounds it."
     "Yeah.  You could almost say everyone ends up in Hell, but it's not
really true.  There are lots of alternatives.  And you have eternity, after
all."
     "What do you suggest?"
     "For right now?  Well, I know a popular place."
     "Let's do it."

        *       *       *       *       *       *       *       *

     Floyd yawned, wandered out of his room in Force Ten headquarters as
stock prices flashed on various computer displays, obediently following him
down the hall. Floyd, having lost his super-powers, was not an 'active'
member of Force Ten -- it was his job to keep track of the team's treasury,
investing some, banking most, and paying the various bills. A boring job,
but it gave him an opportunity to watch the team train -- and seeing
Burnout and Prizm in their tight spandex costumes was enough pay for him.
     <Phone call.> a nearby monitor commented, annoyingly using the old
Speech M00se software that Roger had found on a System 6 macintosh.
<Tracing... Call is from the Bob City Jail.>
     Floyd raised an eyebrow. Bob City? "Put it on."
     "Floyd?"
     "Yo." Floyd replied. "Roger, 'sup?"
     "You're not going to believe this..." Roger said. He sounded harried.
"Ah... We're in, ah, jail..."
     Floyd's eyebrows snaked up close to his hairline. "Jail?" he asked,
fighting the urge to snicker.
     "Jail, Floyd."
     "_Jail_?" <snicker>
     "Jail, Floyd."
     "What did they get you for, illegal possesion of She-Devil underoos
within city limits?"
     "She-Devil underoos?! FLOYD! We're in jail, here!"
     "Uh, I think we established that already..."
     "Oh, shut up. Just get down here and bail us out, ok?"
     "Right, boss." Floyd chuckled.
     "She-Devil underoos?" he heard in the background from the other end.
"You wear She-Devil underoos?"
     "I do not!" he heard Roger protest.
     "Hey, Sam! This guy wears She-Devil underoos!"
     "Hm. Maybe we should tell She-Devil... I think she's just down the
cell block..."
     "Auugh! No! Wait!"
     Floyd signalled the computer to hang up, grinning. He had forgotten
the other reason he hung around with Force Ten: underoo jokes. Definitely
the underoo jokes.

        *       *       *       *       *       *       *       *

     The Masked Bruce checked Unorthodox Lass again.  She had a big
goose-egg on the back of her head, where the Extreme Team heroine
Thieftaker had nailed her.  She seemed all right, all told, though he was
getting a bit nervous.
     "You seem pretty concerned about her, considering she was the enemy."
The woman's voice was soft, even if the words were harsh.
     The Masked Bruce looked up at the third occupant of the cell.  The
cell was only meant for two people, but the jail was more than a little
over-full.
     "She's had a bad time recently, Rainy Day Woman.  I'll give her the
benefit of the doubt."
     "*She's* had a bad time?  What about--"
     The Masked Bruce pulled the back of Unorthodox Girl's uniform down.  A
long, ugly scar peaked out, crossed by another.  "Careful what you say," he
said quietly.
     Rainy-Day Woman stared at the scar tissue, until the Masked Bruce
slipped the uniform back up.  "What happened to her?" she asked.
     "P.O.W. camp.  A bad one.  But she survived."
     Rainy-Day Woman shuddered, and tucked her arms around her feet.
"Yeah.  I can't really hate the Revolutionaries anyhow.  I don't think I
have any hate left in me."
     "I never did.  They were trying to do what they thought was right.
They just happened to be horribly wrong, and some of them are beyond
redemption, maybe."
     "Right.  That fight... I don't think I can ever forget it."
     "I plan on trying.  I plan on using Scotch to help."
     Rainy-Day Woman laughed.  "Beer's better.  You ever been to the Big
Time in Seattle?"
     "I've never even been to Seattle."
     "Oh -- you should try it.  It's a Xolchaport away.  Stouts to die for."
     "Really?  Cool."  He grinned and offered a handshake.  "Mike, by the way."
     Rainy-Day Woman stared at the hand for a moment, then took it.
"Nora," she said.  "But keep it under your hat.  The name's been bandied
about so much lately, I'm beginning to wonder if I shouldn't take out an ad
in Variety announcing it."
     The Masked Bruce laughed.  "So, what's next for you?"
     "What do you mean?"
     "Well, assuming we don't do fifteen years of jail time?  What's next?"
     "Well, I guess I'd go back to Seattle and hook back up with Team Cynical."
     "Team... you're still together?  That's great."
     Rainy-Day Woman stared for a moment, then heaved a put-upon sigh.
"The question is, will we get that chance, or are we headed for the
Really-Really-Hard so on and so on."
     The Masked Bruce shrugged.  "I called the A.L.U.C.H.Q.M.O.U.S.E., and
they said they'd get Kid Solipsism out here with the bail money as soon as
possible. After that, I'll take whatever comes as it comes."
     "Yeah."
     There was some shouting down the block.  "Things are getting tense,"
the Masked Bruce said.
     "Yeah.  We better watch out for a riot."
     "Well we--"
     There was a groan, which interrupted them.  "She's waking up," the
Masked Bruce said.  "Hang on, this could be trouble."

        *       *       *       *       *       *       *       *

     The two walked through the mists.  Down below, Scholarman could
perceive his body being resuscitated again.  That made three times that his
heart had stopped, not counting the time it was obliterated by a bullet.
     "How often do they do that before they give up?" he asked.
     "Years, sometimes.  You just sort of have to ignore it."
     Scholarman nodded, and then heard what sounded like a dog barking.
     A few seconds later, he realized it was a dog barking.  His dog,
barking. He looked through the mists, and began to whistle.  He was out of
practice, but he was sure--
     Yes!  It was Polly! "C'mere girl!" Eric shouted, and the dog bounded
to him, doing the Happy Dance of Joy At Seeing The Master all dogs knew so
well. Eric let her knock him down, though sh wasn't that big a dog, and
petter her furiously, while she grunted pleasure and tried to drown him by
licking his face.
     "You weren't that glad to see me," Richard said.
     "You... good girl... I expected... oh that's a sweet girl... to find.
Not... oh yes, she's a good dog... Polly...."
     "Ah.  Why is it people always talk baby talk to their dogs."
     Scholarman didn't answer.  He waited until Polly was calm, before
getting back up.  "Ready," he said.  Polly barked her agreement.
     "Right."  The three walked through the mists, until they came up to a
large, wooden building, with murky lights coming through dirty windows.  An
old sign with what looked like a lizard painted a faded reddish color hung
in the breeze, creaking.  Over the doorway, the words "One Hundred and
Twenty-Five" were cut into the ancient, worm-eaten oak.
     "This is a popular afterlife?" Scholarman said, disbelieving.
     "Just wait."  He pushed open the door and they went in.
     The place was packed, with people at tables all over the room.  A
Jukebox was playing an Elvis Costello tune.  Gregorian Monks clinked mugs
with Hell's angels.  The room was full of talk.  Some people danced, others
danced on tables, and at least one pie went flying across the room.  At the
long bar, a tall blond man who looked a little like Nouveau Skunk was
dropping improbable ingredients into glasses for drinks, while a blond
woman with pointy ears -- looked like a vulcan -- was serving them.
     "Welcome to the Pink Iguana Tavern," Richard shouted over the din.
Polly barked.
     "You mean the afterlife... is a BAR?"
     "Yeah.  A really good one.  Come on, I'll buy you a beer."
     "Aren't you underage?"
     "C'mon, Eric -- we were born on the same day.  How could I be underage
and you not?"
     "You died."
     "So have you.  Come on--"
     "Excuse me," said the woman -- she looked more elvan than Vulcan, on
reflection.  "Scholarman party of two?"
     "BARK!"
     "Three?"
     "Yeah," Scholarman said.
     "Your table's in back.  You'll know it."
     Scholarman looked at Richard.  They both shrugged.  They started to
make their way back, when Scholarman noticed a wooden table with a pitcher
of amber beer and five people sitting around it.  Two he knew -- Miche and
Skids.  There was also a woman in a cricket player's outfit, and two men.
Both were old -- one wore a lab coat, the other a red and blue uniform with
a lightning bolt.
     "So I thought mine plans ver doomed, ja?  I vas standing dere, und
Lightnin' Hopkins vas running for me like a steam train--"
     "Oh right.  I was running for my life -- your Hopkins-buster missile--"
     "No interrupting!  Zis is my story."
     The woman in the cricket player's outfit gave the Scholarman and
Richard a smile, while Skids petted Polly.  Scholarman moved on -- he
wanted to meet them, especially the legendary heroes and the pretty blond,
but as he was dead he figured he had time.
     He glanced at his body, down through the floor.  Well, not quite dead.
But close.
     "Scholarman!  Over here!"
     Scholarman turned -- who did he know who would know him by that--
     Oh, of course.
     "C'mon Rich," he said, walking through the crowd and sitting at his
table. Polly jumped into another chair, and Richard joined him too.  They
looked at the other two people there.
     "Richard," Scholarman said, "This is Doctor Vincent Von Bizarre and
the Decrepit One.  Doctor Bizarre, Decrepit One, this is Richard Grindle
and my dog Polly."

(Continued in Part Three, Following)


===========================================================================
| "There were promises to break and dreams to kill."                      |
|                                          -Elvis Costello, "20% Amnesia" |
|                                                                         |
| "He'll rekindle all the dreams it took you a lifetime to destroy."      |
|                                          -Nick Cave, "Red Right Hand"   |
|-------------------------------------------------------------------------|
| William R. Dickson, M00se Illuminatus...................wrd@beer.wa.com |
| Co-Author, Internet Explorer Kit for Macintosh..........iek@tidbits.com |
| Author, "Team Cynical," Superguy Digest......listserv@ucf1vm.cc.ucf.edu |
===========================================================================