🚀 go-pugleaf

[[Continued from Part One]]



     "I'm truly, deeply, utterly unsure about this," Elizabeth said to
Trashman, as they walked down the hall.
     "Eliza, he's the best detective I've ever met, admittedly
discounting myself.  He's capable of discretion.  He's an old friend.
He's inexpensive.  As I haven't the time to pursue this with the
diligence Transit deserves-"
     "Yes, I understand.  But he's still... something of an experience
for the old and jaded, much less someone as innocent as Trans--"
     "She'll have to learn sometime, won't she?  Better now than in
the field.  Besides, they've got a lot in common.  She's a spliced
construct, he's an accidental mutation from medical waste."
     "This is something in common?"
     "From one frame of reference."
     Elizabeth rolled her eyes.  "I still think we should approach
this psychologically.  We don't know what the Dreamquake triggered in
Transit, but if we can work out the why of her nightmares -- I could
ride with her for one of them, for example.  Experience it while she
is.  Maybe figure out why she's forgetting a recurring nightmare so
completely when she's awake."
     "Is that unusual?"
     "Painfully so."
     "Mmm.  Perhaps you could.  At the same time, the Armadillo can
try and work out where she's from.  Honestly, Elizabeth -- what does
it hurt?"
     "I don't know," Elizabeth said quietly.  "I just feel like... we
should have worked this out ourselves.  Like we shouldn't have to go
to other people for help."
     Trashman paused, and turned to Elizabeth.  "Do you want me to
dismiss him," he asked quietly.  "I can take a leave of absence and
give Transit's past the attention it deserves."
     "A leave?  You'd have to--"
     "I've got rather a full docket.  There's the renewed gang
activity in Dark City.  There's the Affair of the Brass Spittoon I'm
still caught up in.  There's a breaking situation in Megapolis that
Percy Grey asked me to look into.  There's the increased Scorn traffic
going through Boston Harbor.  There's the--"
     "You haven't even touched on A.L.U. things yet."
     "I'm aware of that."
     Elizabeth looked at Trashman for a long time.  "You think this is
the best way to go about it?"
     "I do.  And... one thing I don't agree with.  Eliza... part of
dealing with things ourselves is knowing when to ask for help."
     Elizabeth nodded slightly.  "All right," she said.  "But he'd
better be mindful of her age.  She's not some forties moll or femme
fatale.  She's a child in a teenager's body."
     "Then perhaps we shouldn't be training her to be a superhero.  In
any case, I'm fully confident in Dillo-Man."
     "Dillo-Man?"
     "It wasn't my idea."

                           * * * * * *

     It was a dirty place, that's what I remember first.  Walking down
Commonwealth Avenue, wishing again I could put a leash on Bunny and
not get picked up as a pervert.  The cops never believed you when you
said you really *were* just trying to keep her attention on where you
were going.
     And here it was.  Three hideous towers rising off a hideous load
pan bay with a hideous lobby down below and a few hideous convenience
stores and a hideous Taco Hell that all had leases from before Rogers
Industries bought out the lease.
     "Wow," Bunny said, "Dillo-Man, that's the ugliest place I've ever
seen!"
     "Yer command a' the obvious remains astounding, Doll," I said.
"C'mon.  Let's get this over with.  If we hurry I can still have time
to get drunk."
     Bunny giggled an agreement, and we opened up the door to the
lobby and walked inside.
     <<Welcome to the Adjusted League Unimpeachable Central
HeadQuarters for Morally Outstanding and Upright Superheroes,
Exclusively,>> the mellowest digital voice I'd ever heard intoned over
hidden speakers.  This guy had a voice that put you in mind of the
third day of a Woodstock reunion -- psychedelic beige.  He spoke the
way Musak played.  <<Despite our appearance, we are not currently
doing renovations.  To your left, you will see some neat artists'
renderings of-->>
     "Armadillo and assistant, we got an appointment," I snapped.
You'd think a superintelligent computer would see a seven foot tall
armadillo walkin' on two legs and wearing a trenchcoat and hat and
correlate that with the theoretical seven foot tall armadillo walkin'
on two legs and wearing a trenchcoat and hat it had on file as showin'
up.  But then, maybe it figured it had to play it safe.
     <<Oh yeah.  Cool.  The escalator will bring you to the main
lobby.  Get in the open elevator and I'll take you up to thirtieth
floor B tower -- they're waitin' for you.>>
     "Gotcha.  C'mon, Bunny."
     "Wait," Bunny said, biting her lip.  "Um... Mister Ay?  You...
you said... you said *I* could come with you and meet Trashman an' the
Adjustable Wrench an' all that--"
     "Yeah?"
     "But... you said you and Assistant were goin' up... an' you said
*I* could go up--"  Bunny looked about ready to cry.  People sometimes
asked me why I never had sex with Bunny.  There were two pressing
reasons.  One involved something a little more serious than an S.T.D.
The other was my deathly fear of having to explain the process to her
step by step, over and over again....
     "Bunny... that's you.  You're my assistant."
     "But... no, silly!  I'm your secretary!"
     "Bunny... that what a secretary is.  An assistant."
     Bunny blinked.  "Then... I'm your assistant?"
     "Yah."
     Bunny burst into tears.
     "Whoa... whoa whoa -- Bunny -- aw Jeez... Bun, what is it--"
     "I... I spent all that time gettin' business cards an' stationary
an' a plate for my desk an' calling all my friends an' relatives an'
tellin' everyone I was a secretary an' now I have to do it all over
agai--"
     I sighed.  "Bunny!" I shouted over her breakdown.  "You *are* my
secretary!  You are.  Assistant's just another word for it."
     "Then... I'm not your assistant?"
     "You're both," I said.  "You're both."
     "Oh..." Bunny considered this.  "I want a raise.  Seems if I'm
doing two jobs, I should be getting twice as much."
     I sighed, and patted Bunny on the face -- as gently as I could.
I'm not exactly built for gentle caresses.  "Bunny... I'll see you get
three times what I pay you now."
     Bunny dimpled.  "Okay!  Hey, we're late!"
     I sighed and led her up the escalator.

                           * * * * * *

     Healer smiled as Transit, Memorex and Frigid Girl filed into her
office.  "You have an honor guard, I see," she said, eyebrows arched.
     "They wanted to be here," Transit said, smiling.  "And I wanted
them here."
     Healer nodded.  "I can't say I'm surprised.  I'll mention at the
outset that we're going to be discussing some rather personal things.
I'm sure you already know that and you, Fridge and Mem are expecting
it, but I have to say it."
     Transit nodded, not in the least uncomfortable.
     "All right... let me explain to Fridge and Mem exactly what we're
concerned about.
     "The past several nights, as I'm sure you've heard, Transit's
been having recurring nightmares.  She first started having them some
time ago, on the night of the Dreamquake--"
     Frigid Girl shuddered.  Well, Healer could understand that.  From
all reports, she'd gotten out of the Dreamquake lightly, and it still
frightened her.
     "--and they've started increasing in frequency since then.  Now,
recurring nightmares are actually not all that uncommon.  As dreams
are, among other things, a way for our brains to process the
information we take in during the day -- a chance for our subconscious
to react to and deal with all the things we don't consciously deal
with -- it's not uncommon for similar dreams to recur.  With recurring
nightmares, it usually is a sign that there is something truly
horrifying that the subconscious is trying to deal with, but the
conscious mind simply cannot.
     "The problem here is... I've done rather extensive telepathic
analysis of Transit, with her permission.  I simply can't find any
evidence of a hidden fear of any kind.  Similarly, I can't find any
evidence of the dream itself.  It's as though she simply doesn't know
what she's dreaming about."
     "Wait," Frigid Girl said.  "Healer, that's impossible.  How can
she have a recurring dream that she doesn't remember *somewhere* in
her brain?"
     Healer shrugged.  "We don't know, Fridge.  That's the problem.
Here's what we do know.
     "During R.E.M. sleep, Transit is shifting, moving and reacting.
This is atypical -- R.E.M. sleep generally has no discernable motion
beyond eye movement.  The movements she displays generally suggests
she is being held against her will, or bound, or otherwise forced to
remain somewhere she is desperate to escape."
     "Um, Healer," Memorex asked, "how... *why* would she dream that?
Trans can teleport.  Nothin's ever blocked her.  So who could force
her to stay someplace she doesn't want to?  Why doesn't she just--"
     "I have thought of that, Memorex.  The answer is -- again -- that
we don't know.  Part of the nightmare might be a loss of her powers,
or else part of her natural control over her teleportation might be a
mental block against doing it while she sleeps, which her subconscious
mind remembers.  Or it might be something else.  But to continue...
Transit's nightmares generally take between six and eight minutes to
come to a full reaction -- which is to say she wakes up in an agitated
state.  Words she says during sleep and immediately upon waking follow
a general pattern -- Transit is being forced to hear something she
doesn't want to.  At least once, she said something we could interpret
as `I don't want to understand.'"
     "How do you have these records?" Frigid Girl asked.
     "I asked that too," Transit said.  "It was JOEL.  He's in privacy
mode when we sleep, but he makes a record.  I gave Healer permission
to access the records."
     Fridge nodded, apparent anger mollified.  Healer could understand
*that* too -- there were days she felt a bit uncomfortable with the
Adjusted League's rather constant surveillance herself.
     "Anyway... that's the background.  Transit, we'd like to suggest
some courses of action to you."
     Transit nodded.  "What are they?"
     "Well... first off, I'd like your permission to ride with you
while you sleep.  Don't answer yet -- this is a rather personal thing
I'm asking of you.  But if I can observe the nightmare, we can at
least know what's scaring you, and perhaps start figuring out why."
     "No problem," Transit said.  "That's fine."
     Healer blinked.  "Trans... you don't want to think it over at
all?  Maybe you don't--"
     "You want to watch my dreams," Transit said.  "I understand,
Healer.  No problem -- it sounds logical to me."
     "I... all right.  Anyway -- secondly, we'd like permission to
have Dreamweaver investigate your nightmares.  We haven't yet
discussed this with her, but she is an expert on the... metaphysical
side of dreaming.  She might be able to learn something we can't."
     Transit nodded again.  Healer didn't comment this time -- at
least not vocally.  Transit's lack of sense of privacy had disturbed
Healer before.  There was so much she didn't understand about the
girl's psyche.  So much they didn't know about how she was brought to
life... and why she was....
     "Finally," she said out loud, "we're going to step up our
investigation into your birth, Transit."
     "Step it up," Transit asked, "why?"
     "Well... we know you were given general knowledge before you
`woke up' through some form of transfer.  We don't know what that
transfer was, though.  It's possible that there was an error in the
technique that's causing the nightmares, or fragmentary information
that you weren't fully given or fully understand.  Or you may have a
memory of the information transfer itself -- and it might have been a
traumatic experience for you -- so you're only now beginning to deal
with what you went through.  Or...."
     "Or?"
     "Or it's possible that you're subconsciously recognizing some
kind of hypnotic trigger in your mind."
     Transit bit her lip.  "Oh," she said.
     "Anyhow... we're calling in an expert investigator for this.
We'd like you to meet him.  I'm sure he's going to want to interview
you for this."
     "All right," Transit said brightly.
     "Great... I'll be right back."  Healer smiled, and walked out her
office door.
     Transit giggled.
     "What?" Mem asked her.
     "I'm telling you," she said, grinning, "her muscles contract, her
skin temperature goes up a little and she gets these tiny little
tremors in her back.  It's like a semaphore signal."
     "Kids," Healer said, walking in followed by Trashman, "I'd like
you to meet our expert--"
     The three blinked, almost in unison.  He was over seven feet
tall, and roughly barrel shaped.  He was bright orange with mottled
brown and yellow `highlights.'  Every square inch of his body was
armored.  He wore no shirt or pants or shoes -- in fact, the only
clothing he *did* wear was an old, battered brown trenchcoat and the
largest Fedora any of them had ever seen.  His lips were stained with
cigar smoke.  He smelled of bad bourbon and cheap dives.
     "Transit, Memorex, Frigid Girl -- this is the Armadillo."
     "Right," the Armadillo said.  "Can we get on with this?"
     "A-aHEM!!!!"
     "Oh," Healer said, stepping out of the way, and letting a truly
staggeringly voluptuous platinum blond in a tight ruffle blouse and
skirt step from behind the Armadillo and Trashman.  Next to Transit,
Memorex made a slight gurgling sound, blushing out of general
principle.  Frigid Girl rolled her eyes.  "And this is his Secretary,
Bunny Wabbyt."
     "Ahem," Bunny said again.  "That's `Assistant-Secretary.'"
     Healer blinked.  "You're not his--"
     The Armadillo slapped his forehead with his palm, with the crack
of ceramic slapping ceramic.  "Just... agree with her, Healer?  All
right?"
     "Um... fine."
     "Bunny... Wabbyt?" Trashman asked the Armadillo.
     "Her parents thought it'd be funny," the Armadillo responded, in
a voice that said he'd said it before.
     "It's... nice to meet you," Transit said, eyes wide.
     "Right.  Look, we're gonna get started, which means I gotta ask
you some questions.  C'mon."
     "Um," Transit said.  "That's all right.  Anything you want to
ask, they can hear."
     The Armadillo looked down at her like he stared at dogs who
thought he was a hydrant.  "I didn't *say* we were goin' somewhere for
*your* convenience," he said.  "Let's.  Go."
     "Uh..." she looked at Healer, who nodded slightly.  "Okay."  She
got up, and followed the behemoth out of Healer's office.
     "So... where are they goin'?" Memorex asked, concerned.
     "Knowin' Dillo-Man?" Bunny asked.  "Probably a bar.  He thinks
better in bars."
     Healer turned to Trashman, mouth opening.
     "Don't tell me," Trashman said.  "You're *really* unsure about
this.  Trust me.  I know."



     DOES HE KNOW?
DOES HE CARE?
DILLO-MAN?
BUNNY WABBYT?
WHO WAS HIGHER, FRANK ORZECHOWICZ FOR COMING UP WITH THEM, OR SABRE
     FOR ACTUALLY USING THEM?
OH, AND WHAT'S THE DEAL WITH TRANSIT?


Superguy.  Remember it.


--
Beta-Cit Eric Alfred Burns    | "You're Persky the Great?" Kugelmass said.
<sabre@awenet.com>            | "The Great Persky. You want a tea?"
(sabre@eyrie.org>             | "No, I want romance, I want music,
Writer Type, Poet Boy         |  I want love and beauty."
Maine Expatriate              | "But not tea, eh? Amazing. O.K., sit down."
Gadfly-for-Hire               |    --Woody Allen, "The Kugelmass Episode"