🚀 go-pugleaf

     Commodore Dan Amiga couldn't sleep.
     He wasn't allowed.
     They hadn't mentioned that until *after* he'd been infected with the
mastermind symbiote. He couldn't sleep, because that would make his
thoughts wander. They'd only told him this once he'd been rushed to the
Beanstalk for his own safety. And who knew what strange behaviors that
might stir up in the linked army that now slumbered peacefully?
     He only hoped that this mess with the pseudo-demons would end quickly.
They would come looking for him eventually, once their master realised that
there was still a mastermind with which to contend. The heroes in Ottawa
and around the world would distract them... keep them busy and from
noticing... He hadn't had much sleep in the past few days, and the fatigue
was weighing heavily behind his eyelids. Surely it couldn't hurt to let
them fall for a few brief seconds....
     "Commodore? May I speak to you for a minute?"
     Dan Amiga opened his eyes and looked up at the new arrival.
     "Good evening, Mr Ray. How is it out there?"
     "It's not looking good. Let me get right to the point, Amiga. I'm here
to ask you to awaken the new superguys and send them into combat."
     Amiga's mouth hung open. "But... so many minds... I'm not sure I can
hold on to them all."
     "There's no time for this," Doyle - aka Ray - replied curtly. "We're
getting crushed out there. We have all of this extra manpower at our
fingertips, enough perhaps to give us a chance at victory, and they're all
napping. Because *you* told them to. And only you can bring them back
on-line."
     Amiga swallowed hard. "All right, then. If it's the only way... let's go."

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               Chris Angelini/Frobozz Magic Productions

                             -and-

                        Eric Alfred Burns
                            Don Cook
                          Mike Escutia
                         Greg Fishbone
                         Louise Freeman
                        Brendan LeFebvre
                          Gary Olson
                         Jon Robertson

                          -also with-

                        Keiran McManus
                        Eric Sturgeon

                 -through inspiration provided by-

                       Mademoiselle Muse Inc

                       -in association with-

           'We Didn't Mean To Colour The Sky Pink, Honest!'
               Computerised Special Effects and Magic

                              -and-

       The Overworked and Underpaid Lisa MacDougall (producer)

                              -with-

                    Memorable Stunt Choreography

                            -present-

                      THE TRIBE OF BEHN #36

                        "The Happy Ending"

                      Winner Take All - Dirge

%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%

     You came close
     Close but no cigar
     You didn't miss by far
     You know you came this close
     Close but no cigar

     -Thomas Dolby "Close But No Cigar"

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Continuity is not a path to the door, but a road stretching
off to the horizon.

     Travelling Man's first thought upon stepping into the home dimension
of Gggthxtsth the Hard To Pronounce Without A Second Tongue was that he had
surely died and been damned to Hell(tm).
     His second thought was that Hell(tm) could not possibly be this
twisted and vile.
     Aphra Behn looked around at the place to which her husband's portal
had brought them and gasped in abject horror. Overhead, stars could be seen
in the perpetual night sky. But they did not twinkle brightly, shimmering
through the planet's atmosphere. Instead, they writhed and twisted, jumping
and blurring before the eye as though the very act of shining brightly was
a torture without surcease. Each breath that she drew was so fouled with
noisome gasses and fumes that she wanted to cough it out before extracting
the bare amount of oxygen that could be present in such a noxious soup. A
blasted moon, gibbous and blood red, hung overhead as though threatening at
any moment to fall onto those below. But by far, the worst was the
landscape. For in that, Hell(tm) nearly paled in comparison.
     A million skulls, femurs, rib bones and parts of creatures that did
not have names in the English language littered the ground, arranged in a
grisly asphalt of conquered and blasted life. Canals cut through this
horrific landscaping, each pushing through twisted floodgates a congealing
reddish liquid which smelled nauseatingly familiar to Aphra.
     Living sculptures dotted the landscape - creatures who were still
horribly alive arranged with pin, spike and truss into a collage of
sorrow-filled art. Their moans and shrieks filled the air, causing Aphra to
wince as they rang in her ears. As she walked, bloated insets scuttled
under her feet, mandibles trying to tear at her shoes. One, a ten legged
horror with spiky spider-like fur leaped at Gaskell, tearing for her eyes.
Reacting with a speed born of numbed horror, Grey Leopard's tail lashed out
at the insect, smashing it away.
     "Good lord..." muttered Milton, his eyes wide with what he was taking
in. He searched his mind for some way to express exactly how he felt.
Suddenly, he had it. "It's... worse than Detroit!"
     "Oh my god," moaned Gaskell, her face green. She shook her head, as
though to clear it of what she saw. Grey Leopard slipped his hand into hers
reassuringly, though his face too had turned pale beneath its mask. The
hours he had spent patrolling AlgernontopoliS's infamous Slime Alley had
not prepared him for this.
     "Oh wonderful," said Spenser, voice muffled by full helmet, his
attention caught by something in the distance.
     "What is it?" asked Aphra, turning to him. She was glad of the chance
to take charge; to actually do something besides absorb the grisly scene of
their opponent's home universe. If this was where Gggthxtsth of the Too Few
Vowels hung his hat then she certainly did not want to think of what the
hat itself looked like.
     "As if it weren't ugly enough here already," muttered Spenser, coming
out of the numbing shock that all of the dimensional travellers were
feeling, "We've got a welcoming committee."
     "We can't afford to engage them," said Travelling Man, glad to lose
himself in the discussion. His eyes were continuously drawn back to the
hellish landscape that spread out before him... that way lay madness. With
a mental effort he dragged his attention back to Spenser. "We have to find
Gggthxtsth while we're still in peak form. Anything less would turn this
into a suicide mission."
     "As though it weren't already," moaned Dickens, only half present. He
shook with a thinly controlled fright, eyes wide and roaming over every
square meter of the landscape that they could.
     "Run or fight?" asked Aphra, speaking sharply to draw everyone's
attention. She gave them something other than the universe on which to rest
their attention, for which they were extremely grateful.
     "We've only got a few seconds to decide," estimated Spenser,
unconsciously checking the straps that held his armour in place. If even
one were out of place, he would feel vulnerable; and in this alienating
realm, vulnerability was a defencelessness worse than nudity.
     "We're no good against anyone until we've had some time to adjust,"
pointed out Grey Leopard.  "And possibly down a few pints of Pepto-Bismol."
     "You know my opinion," stated Travelling Man. The others nodded,
glancing over their shoulders at the approaching horde of pseudo-demons
which was drawing close. The creatures dotted the sky like dark, steady
stars - almost more real than those which already hung in the sky. The
assembled heroes looked to Aphra for a decision before the tide crashed
over them.
     "Run!" she shouted, leading the retreat. "Spenser, see if you can
manage to get us somewhere else... anywhere else!"
      The heroes ran. They tried to ignore the crunching, powdering,
splintering sounds which rang out underfoot; desperately they averted eyes
as they rushed past groaning sculpture. Twisted constructs which resembled
morgues and eyries built from scavenged organic material slammed together
by a mad doctor jutted out of the ground; the group tried to keep these
between themselves and the screaming masses which flew towards them.
      Then, suddenly and without warning, Milton toppled over and clutched
his leg which had been jarred by an irregular step. The group stopped;
Aphra knelt beside him. With a flick of her head, she looked behind herself
at the encroaching pseudo-demons and estimated their advance. Their air
speed had been certainly faster than the group's land speed; but while they
had been able to move there was always the hope of finding some sort of
cover from which to make a stand.
      Now the group was immobile. They would have to engage the
overwhelming, blasphemous multitude in the open with no cover. Nothing to
prevent a hundred pseudo-demons from sacrificing themselves that one could
rip each hero to shreds.
      The mission had ended before it began. Aphra straightened, mentally
preparing herself for the fight ahead. The others closed ranks behind her.
      It had been a valiant attempt, Aphra thought. If anyone on Earth
survived Gggthxtsth's coming... perhaps they could one day forgive her.
***
     Doctor Stevens didn't step from TFA's troop transport so much as vault
into a fast run from its hatch. The two startled attendants who had come to
meet him shrugged at each other and took off after him, keeping pace with
the youngish, tall, dark skinned doctor.
     "I hear," huffed Stevens in a quiet voice which was laced with a
subtle power, "That we have quite a medical emergency on our hands."
     "Yes sir," replied one of the attendants from beside him, annoyingly
not out of breath in the least. "This way! We're sorry to have cut your
vacation short, but Mr Ray felt that you might be a big help in this
emergency."
     Stevens said nothing, but continued running in the direction of the
Beanstalk's medical lab. He skidded to a halt in front of the door and
raced in to see the place abuzz with frantic activity. Selecting an orderly
who seemed to be doing nothing more than fretting the good fret, Stevens
turned her to himself and calmly asked what the matter was.
     "Resuscitation emergency, doctor Stevens!" cried the orderly, suddenly
recognising the man. "Over on bed three!"
     "Re--oh hell(tm)!" cried the doctor, leaving the confused and
frightened orderly to her own devices as he raced to the third bed.
     "What's the situation?" he asked of the first doctor he saw. Healer
shot him a 'not now' glance and turned back to assisting Night Owl in the
stabilisation of the convulsing Lieutenant Stoner.
     "I thought I'd ordered this room sealed off!" she yelled, handing
Night Owl a syringe filled with Haloperidol. The Guardian of Rectitude took
the needle and quickly injected Stoner with it, hoping to block the
threatened symbiotes.
     "I can help," said Stevens with a calm that he didn't feel. He knew,
however, that it would be worse than keeping silent to raise the tension
level in the room, "I'm doctor Emanuel Stevens, and I can assist."
     "We're a _little_ too busy to brief you at the moment, doctor!"
snapped Night Owl, grabbing another syringe from Healer, "If you would
_kindly_ stand clear..."
     The man sighed and then reached forward, to place his hands on
Stoner's shoulders. Healer's eyes widened.
     "Don't touch him!" she shouted, grabbing Stevens' arm. "He's infected
with an incurable plague!"
     But Stevens would not be deterred. Closing his eyes, he reached out
through his hands... past his skin... and searched out Stoner's life force.
There. Faint... very faint... and fading too. A thousand tiny life sparks
seemed to be drifting away into oblivion. Steven felt his body slumping
slightly as a cool, comforting energy began slipping from him and grounding
itself into Stoner's soul. The energy flowed through the young naval
officer's form, spreading to touch all points in an attempt to heal and
repair. For a moment, the room fell silent, as patient and victim froze
into a strange tableau.
     And suddenly Stoner convulsed, shattering the moment. Angrily, the
symbiotes within his body lashed out at the poisons in his body, trying to
change it - as was their way - so that it could continue to serve as host.
But the antidote which had been injected into Stoner had confused the
symbiotes and they struck out randomly at their host's weakness. Finally,
Stevens realised that Stoner's body could take no more stress. The
lifeforce began to fade... and recede... and slip from the world...
    Stevens felt Stoner's last moment through the bond of healing that they
shared. It was as though both were submerged in a deep, dark pool, and
Stoner had been pulled under, his lifeforce extinguished. For a moment, the
superguy doctor hesitated. Then he remembered his oath, and waited no
longer. With a suddenness born of necessity, his powers plunged after
Stoner's departed spirit, following it down... deeper... into that dark
place that was cold as ice and he shut his eyes against what he might see
there becausetherewasnothingbutdarknessandcoldanditwaswhereheshouldn'tgo
...
    Night Owl and Healer only saw Stevens slump for a moment, as Stoner's
vital signs monitor flatlined. Both rushed to resuscitate, only to have the
monitor freeze dead in time. Neither hesitated, and both simply assumed
that the fault was with the machine. That's when the fourth doctor in the
room spoke.
     "Kindly stop your frantic thrashing about, please," muttered the
balding doctor, frowning with a good natured condescension. He wore a long,
white doctor's coat and an old fashioned reflective mirror on his head. In
his hand was a clipboard, black as night. With a wry amusement, he turned
to the slumped Stevens, while the two doctors looked on, unable to disobey
this newcomer who had slipped in unseen. "So, Asclepius was it?"
     Stevens opened his eyes and frowned slightly at the newcomer. His
attitude was entirely formal, however. "I've been given that code name,
yes."
     "Funny, you and he don't act a thing alike," muttered the doctor,
paging through his clipboard. "He was so much more fun. Made a lot of good
jokes, you know. Have you ever heard this one? Oh, how did it go... 'Three
Bacchae walked into a tavern...'"
     "Could we please just get down to business?" asked Stevens, his face
stoic. The new doctor sighed and nodded.
     "People these days," he commented, "No sense of humour." He glanced
over at Night Owl and Healer who had recovered from his injunction and were
checking Stoner's vital signs. "You needn't worry about him right now."
     "We're his doctors," returned Healer cooly, feeling for Stoner's
carotid artery. "It's our duty to worry about him."
     "Suit yourself. But you're wasting your time, you know. He's neither
alive nor dead at the moment, and he'll be staying that way for... oh, just
a little while longer."
     "Well?" asked Night Owl.
     "His pulse is back," said Healer, with a frown, "But it's incredibly slow."
     "His respiratory rate is far too slow as well," nodded Night Owl. "I
don't understand any of this."
     "Doctors," muttered the newcomer, the grumble slightly incongruous due
to his outfit. "And speaking of which, what might I do for you today,
Asclepius? Maybe you've called me here to have a nice little chat? So few
people want to do that when they meet me, you know. They just want to go on
and on about how it isn't their time and how unfair it all is and..."
     Stevens waved his hand in irritation. "How much?" he asked sharply.
The new doctor raised an eyebrow, then glanced at Stoner.
     "For that one? Hmm... let me consult his records." the doctor made a
show of examining his clipboard once again, before looking up at Stevens
and grinning. "Quite expensive, I'm afraid. He's young, it seems to be his
time, and he might've had the most _interesting_ of destinies."
     "I'm not interested in that," said Stevens.
     "Bottom line. Typical. Absolutely typical. Tell you what, I'm feeling
generous today. I'll refrain from taking young Stoner in exchange for...
three months of your life. And I'm being _extremely_ generous here. Don't
ask what's gotten into me, please."
     "Done," replied Stevens, closing his eyes. Healer could sense an
intense mental anguish in the man, and stepped forward. She was blocked by
the balding doctor, however, who laid a hand on Steven's shoulder.
     "Why _do_ you do it?" asked the balding doctor, almost incredulously,
"You don't even know this man, do you? Why did you just cut short your
life... again?"
     Stevens opened his eyes, and started at the doctor's face for several
moments. Finally, with a preternatural calm, he spoke. "I'm a doctor. I'll
save a life at any cost. And I can catch so few at the moment of death..."
     "They'll add up, my boy, I guarantee that," smiled the balding doctor,
consulting his chart. He clucked his tongue. "My, my, you've certainly
given a lot of good years in the line of duty, haven't you? Would you care
to know how much you've got left?"
     "Of course I don't," snapped Stevens, "You know that. We go through
this every time. Please, just take them, will you?"
     "All right," the doctor shrugged, laying his hand on Stevens' chest.
"Try to be personable, and what do you get?" Stevens suddenly spasmed and
fell to the floor; Healer completed her motion and moved to the man's side.
     "Give him this, will you?" asked the doctor, handing the woman a small
slip of paper. With a wink and a smile, the man faded away, leaving the
stunned doctors and medtechs alone once more.
    "Stoner's vital signs are increasing!" exclaimed Night Owl
unnecessarily, as the sounds of the life monitoring equipment filled the
room. She turned to look at her partner and Stevens, focusing on the paper.
"What's that?"
     "A receipt," replied Healer, handing it to Night Owl, her attention
focused on Stevens. "He's deeply exhausted. You," she said, pointing to an
orderly, "Get a partner and a stretcher, and carry this man to a spare bed.
Night Owl, we still have a patient to attend to."
     "Right," nodded Night Owl, standing and pocketing the receipt. She
would only remember it days later, when she was cleaning out her pockets
and would come across it.
     It was an old fashioned bill... the goods received being three months
of life to never be lived... and the name of he who took possession of said
years was signed simply 'Death'.
***

[Continued In Part Two]