🚀 go-pugleaf

[Continued From Part Two]

     In Manchester (New Hampshire, before you ask), the original/current
Hero Patrol struggled against the pseudo-demons that had suddenly dropped
from the sky.  The heroes were joined by Magnetic Personality, whose help
saved the Hero Patrol's several times... and yet, they barely acknowledged
his assistance.
***
     There are some choices that the mind does not make consciously.
They're the decisions which trip a person's most deep seated instincts,
stripping them of the caution and reluctance that society teaches,
prompting them to do things which make little sense in retrospect. Jean
Renaulle quietly ran a small martial arts studio in the middle of Toronto,
and lived a contented life with Himiko, his wife. He donated anonymously to
charity, volunteered his time at local walk-in centres and donated blood
every three months, because of his rare typing. Heroing wasn't even a
thought or desire, just a simple life of helping any way he could.
     And on the day when the skies opened up and demons from a false
Hell(tm) rained down, Jean's first instinct to help was to jump from his
comfortable, safe home and rush to the street where a small clutch of
children were being escorted from curb to curb by a crossing guard. Calling
on Savate skills long polished and practised, the aging man kicked and
pressed his attack, knocking aside the pseudo-demons which raced for the
children. Taking advantage of the brief lull, Jean turned to the crossing
guard, and spoke what was likely most important command he'd ever given.
     "Get these kids into my house now!" he sounded, pointing to the
building from where he'd raced. "Tell my wife to get them into the basement
and shut the door... go!"
     The crossing guard hesitated for a moment, then nodded and led the
frightened children into the relative safety of the house. Jean covered
them, punching and kicking for all that he was worth, using every trick,
ever unfair advantage that he had ever learned. He became more than a
simple teacher of the martial arts at that moment, nor even the prize
winning master he had been in yesteryear. - he became an expression of the
Art Incarnate , visceral and fluid, acting on instinct and ignoring pain.
     Out of the corner of his eye, Jean saw his wife slam the door after
the last of the children.  He allowed a small smile come to his lips, even
as the demons crowded him, claws lancing through as they simply overran
him.  Jean knew that Himiko and the children would have a chance, now. And
as the scene around Jean faded to black, he knew that it was enough.
***
     STOP trooper Vedding's armour groaned in protest as its rider dodged
it away from an oncoming horde of demons. Vedding threw himself to the
ground with a loud thud, aggravating the damage to systems already very
near to dysfunction and jarring his battered body within. But, he realised,
at least the bone-jarring manoeuvre had ensured that he was still alive.
     Not that this was a particular consideration for Vedding, except in
the sense that he still had a debt to work off to his betrayed comrades.
Every pseudo-demon that he could decoy away or wrestle to the ground or
(heaven forbid and then replenish his armaments) shoot was another one
which could no longer menace those to whom he had sworn a fragile oath of
loyalty and brotherhood. Suddenly, the trooper's HUD bleeped warningly and
the man spun around. To his horror a demon was streaking at him, talons
outstretched, ready to punch through his battered armour. Vedding tried to
bring up his gun like a bat to swat away the extra-dimensional creature,
but there was just no time. He saw his end reflected in two bloodshot,
endlessly black eyes.
     Then there was a flurry of motion in front of Vedding. A suit of
Tornado armour, as battered and damaged as Vedding's own, rushed between
pseudo-demon and prey. Powerful servos reached out to smash armoured skin;
angry, hopelessly sharp claws slashed out to rend metal and pink,
vulnerable skin. Two figures locked each other in a deadly embrace before
both toppled over in each other's arms. Vedding recovered from his shock
and knelt down by the trooper, lifting off his helmet.
     "O'Rourke?" said Vedding, quietly, looking at the man's face. A
trickle of blood ran from a corner of the saviour's mouth and Vedding could
hear the frantic beeping of the suit's emergency medical systems trying
everything within its power to save this man. O'Rourke did not, in this
moment, resemble anything close to the fallen hero of legend, his death
foreshadowed in ages past and met with a grim dignity. Instead, he was just
a man who had - in one sudden moment - done his duty, damning the cost. His
face was ruined, as was his life, and he moaned slightly as he looked up at
Vedding's helmet, then at his identification decal.
     "Vedding," said O'Rourke flatly, the pain and drugs being pumped into
his system leeching all trace of emotion from his words. "I..." O'Rourke
trailed off, wracked by a coughing fit, spraying tiny flecks of curpric
blood as he did so.
     "Yes, it's me," replied Vedding, just as flatly. He had only
circumstance to blame for the flatness of his voice. "Why did you do it?"
     "Had to," said O'Rourke, with a strain, "Duty. Would've done it... for
anyone," he finished, looking directly into Vedding's visor. Some emotion
attempted to struggle past O'Rourke's induced haze, but just what, Vedding
was hard-pressed to see. Was the look one of accusation, that O'Rourke had
traded his spotless life for that of a turncoat's? Was it forgiving,
granting absolution at the last? Or was it something else entirely? "See...
you on the other side... tr--"
     O'Rourke coughed again; his armour whirred once and fell quiet.
Vedding looked down at the fallen man with wide, almost horrified eyes.
     "What?" he quietly implored the still form, "What were you going to
say? 'Trooper'? _'Traitor'_? Which? WHICH WAS IT?"
     Not a sound answered Vedding, who stared at the downed comrade for a
long, long time. With a scream, he threw his rifle to the side and snatched
up O'Rourke's, switching to single-shot mode and taking aim at the head of
a demon who had been attracted by the display.
     "This is for O'Rourke," yelled Vedding, squeezing off a shot which
felled the angry creature. He sighted another, and repeated his
performance. "This is for Peterson," another shot, "This is for Clarke,"
and another, "This is for Jennings..."
     Deep within, Vedding knew that he would run out of bullets before he
ran out of troopers, but he really didn't care. This would only be the
second time that he had come up short, and when he did he would resume
repenting in hand to hand combat, moving closer and closer to death with
every step towards salvation.
     If he achieved either, he thought, he would have earned them both.
***
     Heat burning through her.  Julie Baker's powers normally protected her
from their own effects she wielded, but sometimes when she turned the heat
up to full, she could feel it rushing through her. And she was as hot as
she'd even been right then.
     Julie preferred to take to the air and attack down from above. Sure,
it made you a better target, but it just felt so right. But in this fight,
she was stuck close to the ground by the press of the pseudo-demons.
Anything else would have been suicide.
     Lee Stands was beside her, mostly because they happened to wake up
from a short little foe-induced nap at the same time and place. Julie had
this little thing about working with people who'd been on the 'Other Side'
a while back.  She also had this little thing about being killed by a large
army of nightmares.  Guess which one was taking precedence right now.
     The two superguys were taking the 'Friends Had Better Stay Away'
approach to fighting.  In other words, they just blasted the bejeezus out
of anything that had the misfortune to get in their way.  Sure, it wasn't
the most disciplined approach.  It wasn't the prettiest approach.  It sure
wasn't the safest approach for their allies.  But it worked as well as
anything could right then.
     Lee broke off a long attack of needlepoint blasts of force and heat to
drop and roll away a falling pseudo-demon.  The demon's body was already a
mass of cuts and bruises from the Authors only knew who, but it was still
moving.  And it was big enough to take Lee out just by falling on her, if
it came to that.
     It didn't.  As the pseudo-demon crouched for a Lee leap, it suddenly
let out a roar of pain.  Having your insides raised to about once and a
half their normal temperature will do that.  Before it could whirl on its
new target, the demon felt hundreds of burning pins hit his neck and slowly
separate head from body.  The body slowly fell to the ground, twitching
just a bit.
     "Vicious," Julie panted.
     Lee took a deep breath of her own and let it out slowly.  "Like you're
much kinder?"
     "Hey, it's them or us.  Don't like it, but I'm shedding no tear--"
     Julie's words ended suddenly when yet another pseudo-demon charged out
from behind a building and smashed Julie from behind. She was only saved by
the fact she was still letting out heat, which kept her force field up.
Even so, the demon was strong and she hadn't been braced.
     Lee winced at the thud Julie made against a brick wall.  She threw her
hands out before her and sent a larger blast through this demon's chest,
and he too fell.  But there were already several more pseudo-demons coming
in her direction, hoping to take advantage of the failing defences here.
     `Gods, this would be such a stupid death,' Lee thought.  `Killed
because I didn't have the sense to go over and fight near Trashman or
someone who had the sense to watch their own backs.  Ah well, no use in
crying over it now.'  Lee threw her arms forward and tried to gather what
strength she still had.  Only thing to do now was to hold on and pray for a
miracle.
***
     "I think this is a mistake!" insisted Night Owl as she followed Healer
to the Commodore's bedside.  "Our experience with Stoner has already shown
that drugs can gave unpredictable effects if you give them to someone with
an active symbiote link.  And the effects could be even worse with the
mastermind variety!"
     "Your point is well, taken, doctor," said Healer, holding a pill and a
glass of water out to the aging sailor. "Unfortunately, the Commodore is
near exhaustion, and we need him as alert as possible right now.  Here,
sir. We've run as many tests as we have had time for. There should be no
interaction between the symbiote and this stimulant."
     Amiga dismissed the medication with a harsh wave. "Young lady, I
survived nearly four decades in the Navy without ever turning to anything
stronger than coffee, and I'm sure as Hell(TM) not going to start now." A
wave of relief crossed Liberty's face at the refusal.
     Healer nodded, feeling a touch of relief herself.  "Very well," she
said. "Just a minute...." She left the room and returned shortly with a
steaming cup of coffee.
     "Thank you," said Dan, accepting it.
     He sipped a bit, studying the various pieces of lab apparatus, the
frantic wanderings of the medtechs as they scrambled for a cure to the
Windsor plague, the number of ceiling tiles above his head, the--
     "We're running out of time, Commodore," Doyle said, quietly yet
insistently.
     Amiga nodded. "You're absolutely right. My apologies."
     He promptly chugged the rest of the coffee, trying not to wince as the
hot liquid scalded his throat.
     "All right, let's do it," he rasped.
***
        "I-Man, duck!" Barmaid shouted as she fired a burst from her
alcohol pistol over his head, causing the demon sneaking up behind him to
explode in a shower of ichor.  Grimacing, he wiped the slime off his mask
and gave Barmaid the thumbs up signal, before moving off to face the next
creature.
        Five minutes ago, at the first sign of the demon attack, the
commuters who had been waiting at the train station had staged their own
reenactment of the Annual Running of the Bulls, scattering to the four
corners of the city, taking some of demons with them.  When Team Mate had
leaped down off the roof of the garage they had been hiding on, the
remaining creatures had taken a definite interest in them.
        "I knew I should have stayed in bed." Switch shouted, and then
battle began in earnest.
        Injuryman turned and prepared himself as the next demon bore on
him, lashing out with its claws.  He rolled off to one side and the
creature only managed to kick out at him, striking his hip. Using his power
Injuryman absorbed the pain from his hip, leapt up and channelled the pain
out through his foot in a perfect double roundhouse kick to the demon's
head which collapsed like a rotten pumpkin.
        Meanwhile, the Switch had grabbed a discarded briefcase and was
using it to defend himself against a solitary demon as it drove him
backwards across the street. Reaching the kerb, Switch put his foot down on
the edge of the gutter and began to fall. With a look of malicious demonic
glee the creature tore the briefcase from Switch's hands and raised its
claws to strike. The demon was not prepared at that moment for the signpost
that erupted through the middle of its chest.
        Half a dozen Switches who had been wrestling with the signpost for
the last two minutes now stood behind the demon with post firmly planted in
it. From his position on the ground, Switch looked up at the demon.
        "I think you take that as a bad sign!" he said in
Schwartzenager-style voice.
        "Aiieeee!" Switch and Injuryman turned to see Barmaid perched on
top of a shopping cart, rolling down the middle of the street towards the
remaining group of demons. The cart was loaded with bottles of Jack Daniels
Old No. 7, which she pitched at the group like grenades. Explosions tore
through the group as each bottle impacted, and with about twenty meters to
go she thrust her hands down into the bottles then dived off the cart as it
plowed into the group. The explosion tore through the group, throwing
demonic body parts all around the street.
        Switch and Injuryman watched as the smoke cleared and Barmaid came
stumbling towards them, looking very much like Winona Ryder did at the end
of 'Heathers'.
        "I think that's all of them." she mumbled sinking to her knees.
        "This the last time I get up this early." Switch said to no one in
particular.
        "Um guys?" Injuryman said, looking down the other end of the street
"I don't think we should relax now."
        Barmaid and Switch turned to see a new group of demons advancing on
them from the other direction.
        "Oh, crap."
***
     Trashman ducked, raising his trashcan lid above his head. Muscles
protested, claiming they were far too weak from constant overuse to bear
the burden. There came no reply from Trashman other than a simple focusing
of willpower. The lid was held, a pseudo-demon collided with it and the lid
was lowered. Not a trace of the strain which he was placing upon his body
showed on Trashman's face.
    To his left, the Grimy Knight saw that Unorthodox Girl was barely
holding her own against a cluster of netherworldly nightmares. He loped
towards her, carefully husbanding his energy with an efficient, quick trot.
Seconds before he could reach his comrade-in-arms, a knot of half a dozen
twisted, wretched creatures fell from the sky, buffeting and clawing at the
embattled hero.
     As Trashman fought, his mind began to calculate the odds of the
battle. This was, he realised, a fight that the heroes were not destined to
win. It was a simple matter of resource allocation. The heroes had been
overstretched by their first battle, having pinned their hopes on the group
that was to have confronted Gggthsxth to spare them from the second. The
wisest course of action would be to leave the battle, as it would resolve
itself, find a place of relative security and enjoy one's last moments in
peace, waiting for the end.
     Again Trashman ignored the protests of his battered body, swinging his
trash lid around to smash one demon into another. The wisest course of
action was not always the right one.
***
     Unorthodox Lass leapfrogged over a flying pseudo-demon, pushing down
as she leaped from its back to guide it into the path of another ghastly
creature. The two collided with a satisfying thud, though Unorthodox Girl
couldn't help but wish that there were some animated stars or at the very
least a few singing birdies circling the two creatures' heads as they
plummeted to the Earth. She flipped in the air and straddled another
creature, holding tightly with her legs for balance. The pseudo-demon
noticed its rider and immediately pulled into a climb, soaring far up into
the air while snarling its hate at Unorthodox Lass.
     "Aw, shaaaadap," drawled Unorthodox Girl, whacking the creature across
the skull with a frying pan. She watched in satisfaction as the demon's
eyes crossed, then eeped as the two of them began to plummet in roughly a
downward direction at roughly way too fast a speed. "Hey!" exclaimed
Unorthodox Lass to herself, with a grin, "That was really dumb, wasn't it?
I gotta get a new stunt girl... oh wait, I do my own stunts. Never mind."
     "Yeeeeeee haaaaaaaawwww!" Unorthodox Girl cried, waving a Stetson in
the air as the two fell. Down below she noticed Trashman fending off the
last of the umpteenth pseudo-demon wave. Tensing slightly, the woman sprang
from her plummeting mount, landing one-footed on Trashman's lid, driving it
with even greater force into its demonic target. Again she sprang, flipping
in the air and smashing her knees into the chest of the reeling creature.
Unorthodox Lass smiled up at Trashman from where she'd landed.
     "Would you believe that I planned that whole thing?" she asked with an
impish grin. Trashman raised an eyebrow.
     "No."
***
        "They're everywhere!" Mr. Morbid yelled out to no-one in
particular.  He spun around in a calculating method, trying to defend
himself from all sides at once.  A feat which he quickly learned was an
impossible task.
        A large claw cut a gash in the side of his face.
        Mr. Morbid reacted on instinct, slamming the severed arm of a
pseudo-demon he had defeated earlier down over the head of his assailant.
There was a slight effect on the demon, but not nearly enough to finish the
job.  He then grabbed the arm with both hands and took a desperation swing.
Morbid connected and sent the pseudo-demon tumbling away.  He wasn't sure
if it was dead, or only stunned.  There
wasn't time to find out as two other pseudo-demons took his place.
        The first demon hit Morbid unaware and caught him with a giant
backhand.  The force of said blow, sent the D.J. skidding across the
ground.  And his only weapon, the severed arm, fell a disheartening
distance away.
        The second pseudo-demon pounced on top of Morbid and brought a
large claw down.  As a reflex, Mr. Morbid blocked the strike with his left
arm, which was quickly impaled by several sharp claws.  Not knowing what
else to do, he bit his lower lip and hoped some measure of escape would
present itself.  The pseudo-demon raised it's other clawed hand for the
killing blow.
        Thinking fast, Mr. Morbid grabbed the longest claw which was
currently piercing his arm and broke it off.  It was another action which
didn't feel that great, but which was far more preferable to the messier
alternative.  Morbid adjusted the claw in his hand and lunged forward as
far as he could.  His aim was true and nailed the pseudo-demon right
between the eyes with the broken claw.
        Morbid rolled the dead demon off of him and prepared to continue
the fight.  As he looked down at his wounded arm, he mind began to drift.
He wondered if he would see any of his friends again.  Amber.  Jay.  Or
would they be seeing what was left of him at the funeral?
        *Morbid.  Do not lose your concentration,* Eugene scolded.
        It was too late though.  Mr. Morbid didn't even see the fist that
slammed into his forehead.  Involuntarily, his battered body fell backward
to the ground, even though he struggled unimaginably against it.  He
watched the sky from the ground.  Now that he was no longer a threat, the
pseudo-demons moved on to the remaining targets.
        "Get ... up ... now!" he told himself.  But nothing happened.
"Won't ... leave them.  Must fight."  Suddenly, the sky became blurry and
despite his protests, he didn't want to hurt anymore.
***
     Because Judy had been a good girl and said her prayers every night as
a child, she had managed to get Battletank safely to the Rectijet, those
several pseudo-demons were in hot pursuit.  "Legend!!"  Open up!  Let us
in!"  cried Windswimmer, pounding on the door of the atomic-powered
aircraft.  The hatch opened and Tony assisted them inside, slamming the
entrance shut again just in the nick of time and crushing a talon or two in
the process.  The creatures' cries of anguish only served to anger them
further, and they beat furiously on the outside of the plane, their screams
attracting ever more of their ilk.
     "We have to get out of here!  And get Fred back to the doctor!" Judy
insisted.
     Steadying himself in the rocking plane, Legend groped his way back
into the cockpit and seized the controls.  "Unfortunately, returning to the
Beanstalk is not an option!"  He shouted to be heard over the din.  "That
would mean leading our friends back to where Commodore Amiga is!  He must
be protected at all costs!"  Not to mention, Marty Agnes is there, as well,
Tony added silently, as he started the plane.  The Rectijet soared off into
the sky.  Legend executed a series of loops and spins in an effort to
dislodge the attacking pseudo-demons, but with little success.  "There's a
first aide kit in the back!  Do what you can for him!" he ordered.  "And I
apologize for the bumpy ride!"  Windswimmer braced herself and did her
best, and Legend struggled to keep control of the aircraft, which wasn't
easy with the monsters sitting on the wing-flaps.
     Tony could see only one choice, and set a course due north.  "So where
are we going?" shouted Judy, struggling to spray Bactine in the bedlam.
     "Fortunately, there's considerable blizzard activity in the Northwest
Territories!" Legend called back.  "I'm going to fly into the heart of the
storm and attempt to crash-land.  With any luck, our adversaries  won't
survive!"
     "What about US?" cried Judy.
     "With any luck, we will!"
***

[Continued In Part Four]