🚀 go-pugleaf

[Continued From Part Seven]

     "Whoa," Thermostat said from the air as the pseudo-demons that had
been attacking him and J-Girl suddenly fell to the ground. Even more
surprising was the piles of goop they became as they fell.
     "What's going on?" J-Girl asked.
     ++I think something big just happened,++ Bodyslam/Mark 'said'. From
his detached point-of-view, he watched as the left arm of the demon that
had been confronting Bodyslam fell off.  The demon took one look at the
arm, and one look at its opponent, then bolted.
     "That one's getting away!" Bodyslam/Steve exclaimed as he began
chasing after the one-armed demon.
     "Leave it," Kinelectric said as she blasted one demon to shreds before
it could land on her.  "It probably won't survive much longer."
     "They're fading!" J-Girl exclaimed as one demon that had been
attempting to attack her faded out with a groan.
     "I guess the other group defeated Gggthsxth," Roboguy said.
     "Gezundeit," Kid Virtual replied.
***
        "Legend?  Mr. Steelwood?!"  Judy shook him by the shoulders. "Look,
it may be my imagination, but it sounds almost _quiet_ out there!. Either
we've been completely buried in snow or..."
        "It's _stopped_!"  Tony finished for her, getting up from the
pilots seat and making his way to the back of the plane, which was jutting
up out of the snowbank.  Together, they breathed and scratched a peephole
through the layer of frost that coated the window.
        "The demons!  They're dead!" cried Windswimmer with delight at the
sight of the frozen black puddles that dotted the otherwise snow-white
landscape.
       "Cory!  They must have pulled it off!" added Tony.  "And on top of
that, the storm's cleared!"  Quickly he dug a flare gun out of their
survival pack and handed it to Windswimmer.  "Pop the rear hatch , get as
much altitude as you can and fire this off!"  he instructed. "I'll try to
activate our emergency homing signal!"
***
     "At lasts!" Bizarre Guy declared, as MeltDown finished pulling
pseudo-demons from him.  "It be clobberizing times!"
     "Too late," MeltDown noted.  "Look."
     Pseudo-demons were falling faster than IQs on an Aaron Spelling
program. Everywhere they looked, they were crumbling into dust, doing bad
imitations of the Wicked Witch of the West, or simply falling apart where
they stood.
     "Hey, guys!" a voice from farther on down the field exclaimed.  "There
you are!"
     "Shade!" MeltDown yelled.  "Where's the others?"
     "Right here!" Badass called.  He arrived where MeltDown and Bizarre
Guy were sitting, followed by Criticalman, HotFlash, Willwarp, Microvax,
Shadebeam, Spatial K, Commander Frank, Baffled Boy, Mammalimal, Kid Gothic
and various and sundry others.
     "Templar, are you okay?" HotFlash asked.  "I mean, are you... yourself?"
     "I'm fine," Criticalman told her.  "Do you have a mirror on you?  I
think my hair's mussed."
     "Do *I* have a mirror?" HotFlash inquired.  "Um... just a sec.  No, I
don't.  Damn, and I bet I'm just a *mess*, too...."
     "Come on, guys," Willwarp said.  "There are more important things to
address at this point."
     "Yeah," Shadebeam noted.  "Like, does anyone have a cigarette?  I am
dying over here...."
     "Dohw."
***
     The battlefield was littered with still or barely moving forms. The
survivors picked their way amongst the bodies, finding friends, helping
comrades and trying desperately to heal the wounded. The toll that day was
high and there was no one who did not throw his or her all into the job of
recovering what could be salvaged.
     Across the world, terrified citizens and normals crawled out of their
hiding places, to see what sort of world Gotterdamerung had left behind.
Many cities had been 'lucky'. A few skyscrapers destroyed, a block of
houses levelled to the ground and comparatively few dead. These people did
not have the nerve to consider themselves fortunate, however. Wearily they
wandered from their homes and wondered whether or not a dress rehearsal for
Judgment Day had been called down on them without warning. Elsewhere,
others had no need of that question. Some cities, towns and hamlets had
been utterly razed, their entire populaces scattered or killed.
     And what of the defenders? Though many stood, weary but victorious, so
many more had fallen. Too many heroes had been made that day, at the cost
of too many tears and drops of blood. A swath had been cut through Amiga's
army, a price of humanity that was far too dear and yet which had to be
paid. Mothers and fathers, lovers and siblings and friends... how many
would shake their head in horror and wonder at the toll that survival had
exacted?
     Many found that they did not have the heart to pay it, though it had
already been levied.
     Moving across its appointed route, the sun set and rose upon a world
that had survived a nightmare, a world that would be forever changed by the
blood which had been spilled across its face. But the sun also rose upon a
world which had proved that, whatever the adversity, it would survive.
     And the people looked once more to the uncertain future, carefully
treading back onto the forward path that all life took.
     There had been no winner. Perhaps that was for the best.
***
     Quietly, the Masked Bruce sat by the Dash's bedside in the Beanstalk's
medical bay, tenderly stroking her hand as she slept. Every moment he
wanted more and more to tear off the latex gloves which he was required to
wear and throw his arms around her, reassuring her that everything would be
all right. Perhaps reassuring himself of the same thing, too.
     "How long's Green-a-reeno been doing his best hawk imitation?" asked
Unorthodox Lass, as she and Trashman watched their comrades through the
temporary medlab's observation window.
     "Ever since she was brought back," replied Trashman evenly. "They've
yet to find a cure for her condition. Until they do, she must remain here,
and he is quite adamant about staying until then as well."
     "Right, right, right," replied Unorthodox Girl, turning to head back
down the corridor. "Guess I'll go see if they need more help in the
infirmary. Damn, it's been too long... almost forgot how to tie whoopee
cushions with hospital corners."
***
     His name was Patrick Crawford, and he had some thinking to do. He'd
been possessed, attacked by his friends, and then quietly stuffed in some
cell while a large crossover raged on around him.  Not the most
ego-gratifying experience, but now his mind was all his own again.  At
last.
     Now he only had to explain his decision to his teammates.
     "Come on, Lee.  You've got to be the one to break it to Tina,
okay?"
     Lee rolled her eyes.  "Nope, I'm not getting this shoved off on me."
     "I'm not going back to Atlanta, okay?  So *somebody*'s got to tell
Tina I'm taking a vacation."  Patrick looked over at Gerry and Ted, who
were doing their best not to be seen.  "You want them to tell her?"
     "Why not?  It'd be good for a laugh," Lee grinned.
     "Lee.  I need to go be by myself for a while.  Wander the roads,
trying to rediscover who I am.  Recover from this horrific, traumatizing
experience.  Contemplate the meaning of what is, what was, and what will
be.  Dream the impossible dream!  Sing the unsingable song!  Finish off the
unfinish-offable All You Can Eat Buffet!"
     Gerry sniffed a bit.  "That was beautiful, man.  Just.. beautiful."
     Lee slowly facepalmed, while Ted clapped in the background. "Bravo!"
     "You three are so high..."
     "So you're tell her?"  Patrick looked over at Lee with a puppy dog
face.  "Please?"
     "Aargh.  Right, okay, whatever.  You've got enough money in the bank?"
     "Yup.  Tell Tina to stick my money from this job in my account, and
I'll be able to live off my ATM card for a few months."
     "Whatever," Lee sighed.  "We've got to go, Patrick.  Flight to
Atlanta's leaving in an hour, and we've got to get going.  At least Michael
got us all in first class."
     Patrick nodded and said his goodbyes, looking noble as his friends
left him on his journey.  A single tear slowly travelled down his cheek as
the cab started pulling away.  Patrick watched solemnly until they were out
of sight, and then began laughing.
     "Free!  I'm free!  Vacation time is mine!!! Muahahahahaha!!!"
     And so it went.
***
     Peterson paced back and forth outside a temporary medical lab. Walking
seemed to sooth his mind; it was such a simple action, yet he could put all
of his concentration behind it. Besides, nearly everyone else in the room
was pacing, and he certainly did not want to feel left out.
     "Al," said Clarke, quietly slipping next to his friend. "How is she?"
     Peterson sighed and turned to look at Clarke. "Shouldn't you be in
quarantine?"
     "I've been sprayed, so I'm safe for a while," replied Clarke. "How
_is_ she?"
     Peterson looked back at the window. His expression was distant and
alone. "She expressed during battle, John. She became part of the group
mind."
     Clarke looked through the window at his fallen friend and teammate.
Quietly, he nearly sighed. "Damn it."
     Peterson nodded once, also looking at Jennings, asleep on her cot.
After a quiet moment he turned back. "She can still talk... her mind isn't
completely controlled, John. Not completely... Amiga isn't suppressing her
will..." He trailed off and looked at his friend with an expression of
complete loss.
     "Al..."
     "It's not supposed to be like this, damn it," he swore, quietly,
"We're soldiers. We deal with death. We learn to accept that. We fight the
good fight, we come home, we work hard, we play hard..."
     "Al," said Clarke, a bit more insistently. Peterson's focus seemed so
distant... so lost.
     "When did all of this start happening? When did we start worrying
about public view and insane gods and plagues and mind control? Why can't
we just live and die? Why can't it just be black and white, John? Why
doesn't it make any sense any more?"
     "Al, listen to me..."
     Peterson looked up, then closed his eyes. He spoke with a small, quiet
voice. "Why did it happen to her, John? Why her? Anyone else... Vedding,
the bastard, survived this, why didn't she? First Carol, now Portia..."
     "She'll make it," said Clarke, quietly. "Al, you _know_ why we fight."
     "No. I don't."
     "Yes. You do. We fight because there's always something to fight
_for_. Hope. We fought for the world today, Al, because there was hope for
it. No matter how bad things looked, we didn't give up because we knew that
somehow, we had a chance to make a difference!"
     "But..."
     "Al, listen to me. Whatever happens, no matter how bad things get for
you or me or TFA or the whole damn human race, we _will_ jump back onto our
feet and keep going. Trust me. Have hope. That's what we need to give to
Portia now. The hope to keep on fighting."
     Peterson sighed, then nodded.
    Clarke smiled, slightly. "I have to go now, Al. Karen's around here,
somewhere. I should find her."
    "Yeah... go, find the lucky girl," replied Peterson with a small smile.
"I'll... stay here. Until Porsh's husband can make it. I'll stay with her."
     Clarke nodded. "I'm sure she'll appreciate that, Al."
     "John?"
     "Yeah?"
     "Thanks."
***
     "There," Dr. Richards told Willwarp.  "Be careful on that for the next
few weeks."  She patted his cast-wrapped foot and smiled as Willwarp winced
slightly.
     "Hey, Eivandt, what happened?" the Masked Bruce asked, stopping as he
was walking past.  "I didn't know you got injured in the battle."
     "I didn't," Willwarp grumbled.  "I slipped on an empty bottle of Choke
cola on the way in.  Damn litterers.  How's the Dash doing?"
     "Better, fortunately. Speaking of whom, I've got to get back to her,"
he smiled slightly, "She's conscious and talking again. Hey, have you seen
where Trudy got to?"
     Willwarp blinked.  "No.  Why do you ask?"  The Masked Bruce pointed at
Willwarp's cast, which now sported multiple violently-bright colors and a
number of colorfully obscene sayings.  "Oh."
     "Man, she's fast," the Masked Bruce said, appreciatively.  As he moved
on, Shadebeam, HotFlash and MeltDown walked up to Willwarp, who was trying
to get to his feet.
     "Here, let us help you," MeltDown told him, getting on one side, while
HotFlash got on the other, lifting him up by his arms.  A number of heroes
nearby who had escaped the fight uninjured started looking about for ways
to inflict minor injuries on their feet.  Shadebeam, meanwhile, examined
the sayings on the cast.
     "Weird," she commented.  "I didn't know you could express that
sentiment in Arabic."
     "What sentiment?" Willwarp asked.
     "Never mind," Shadebeam said, shrugging.  "But if anyone asks you for
a rum punch, say 'not in Mexico, you don't.'"
     "What?"
     "Just trust me on this."
     "We came to bring you back to the Star Yacht," HotFlash said.
"Everyone's ready to go."
     "Then so am I," Willwarp said.  "Ow."
***
        Mr. Morbid slowly made his way down the hallway to the infirmary
where his best friend Bonehead was being cared for.  It was too painful to
move much faster than that.  The D.J. had just barely survived the fight of
his life, and it showed openly.  The cuts across his face had been treated,
but still seemed as if he had been on the losing side of a shoving match
with a barbed wire fence.  His left arm was bandaged heavily as well as
both of his hands.  He wasn't too concerned about his current state of
being, however.  With a little time, Eugene would have him all healed up
and as good as new.  Morbid considered himself lucky, because there were
quite a few that didn't walk away from the fight at all.
        Morbid gently pushed the door open with his right hand, an effort
which spawned a slight grimace of discomfort.  "Hey," he called out to the
closest person who looked important enough to be a doctor or nurse.
        "Yes?"
        "I'm here to see Bone -- I mean, Jay.  Jay Stanson."
        "Oh, yes.  Mr. Stanson is doing well.
***
     Darkness. Cool, soothing darkness. No sounds, no hustle, nothing. No
world. Nothing to deal with.
     "Karen?" said a soft voice in the darkness. Karen Moire looked up, a
ridiculous action in an unlit room.
     "John?" she asked, her voice small. A light flared above and a shape
moved close.
     "Karen, someone said they saw you coming into the morgue here, what's
wrong? Are you okay?"
     "Not really," replied Karen. John sat down next to her, taking in the
grisly scene around them. The room held many of the fallen, in repose and
awaiting their turn to be recognised and remembered, one last time.
     "What is it, Karen?" asked Clarke, putting an arm around her. She
sighed and relaxed slightly at the touch.
     "Today... John..."
     "I'm here," said Clarke softly, "I was there too. It's over now..."
     "John... today, I collapsed, John. I couldn't keep going," Karen said,
taking him by the hand and leading him to a body, covered by a sheet.
     "Karen, Karen, I saw you," replied Clarke, quietly, "You fought harder
than any three people there. You fought like an unstoppable juggernaut.
Karen, you were inspirational. You--"
     "John, please, just listen to me?" Karen's eyes were pleading.
"Please?" Clarke looked at Karen for a long moment, then nodded.
     Karen looked down at the sheeted figure. "John... I woke up after I
collapsed... and found one of Amiga's army there. With me. He'd fought,
just like I had."
     She reached over and pulled back the sheet. Clarke let out his breath
in a rush as he saw the figure beneath. A young boy - no more than fourteen
- lay there, still and unmoving.
     "Only he didn't make it, John," she continued, shaking her head, "He
didn't even have a choice. We made him fight, John, we made him. How could
we?"
     Clarke stared at the boy, then gently took Karen's hand. For the
moment, he had no words for her. Karen grasped Clarke's hand tightly and
continued. "Did we really win, John? Did _anyone_ really win?"
     Clarke looked at the child, then back at Karen. He had seen war and
combat at its ugliest. He understood that sometimes in war, there were
sacrifices. But they were made by people with a choice. Those who had stood
up and realised that they might never be coming back from their fight, but
went anyway, aware of the risks.
     "We didn't give him a choice," said Karen, quietly. "He fought for us,
because we told him to. That's how we 'won', only we didn't win. No one
did. John... hold me..."
     Clarke nodded, and put his arm around Karen. The two sat amidst the
wreckage of the hope which they had hoped to keep alive and tried not to
think about anything beyond the room.
***
     David stared out the window in one of the many observation lounges
that were being used to temporarily house the Amiga controlled superguys.
Even though he wanted to go home, he knew he couldn't till the leaders
figured out what to do with everyone in the time before a cure was found.
Amiga could have commanded them to stay in the Beanstalk, but didn't want
to; they were people, not slaves.
     The superguys who had pitched in to help out in the crisis, on the
other hand, were free to go whenever they wanted to.  At John Ray's
suggestion (backed by Trashman), however, many of them had stayed to help
in the cleanup and help transport the new superguys home once it was deemed
safe for them to return to their homes.
     Which had yet to happen.
     "Penny for your thoughts?" a familiar voice said.  David turned to see
Roboguy -- the robot body that currently housed his friend Arnie --
standing a few feet behind him.
     "Hey, Arnie," David said, then hesitated.  "Um... I wanted you to
know... I'm sorry for what I did."
     "Don't be," the I said as he squatted down to be at eye level with the
boy.  "It wasn't your fault you were being controlled."
     "Well, I'm still sorry."
     "If you want to be."
     "Hey, guys," Sam Daylin said as he and Jenni Willis walked in.
     "Heya," Arnie replied.
     "We missed you at dinner, David," Jenni said as she walked over to
where they were.
     "I'm not hungry," David said.
     "Well, we were," Mitch said as he and Mark walked in.  "Don't worry,
they've got a lot of vending machines in this place."
     "Cafffeeeeiinnne," Mark intoned.
     "Heh," Arnie said.  "Where's your friend?"
     "Steve?  Oh, he's trying to get a date with Janet."
     Out in the hallway, there was a fzapping sound, followed by someone
yelping "Owchie!"
    "The operative word being 'trying'," Mark added with a smile.
***
     Across the hallway, Travelling Man watched the group of superguys that
had called themselves Team Temporary fraternize, relax, and just plain hang
out.  Most of them he didn't know, save for when they had attacked his
company back in Emerton Falls, but three of them were all-too-familiar
faces.  He wondered how their lives would change after this point,
particularly David, the youngest of the group (not counting Arnie).  He
hoped and prayed the changes would be positive.
     And yet, a small voice in the back of his mind told him that this was
just the beginning of their adventures.
     Silently wishing the group luck, he turned and continued walking.
***
     "Any sign of her?" asked Dickens quietly, his arm in a sling. Milton
shook his head sadly.
     "Not a one," he sighed, "She's gone, Chuck. I feel responsible. I
shouldn't have let her..."
     "Stop that," replied Dickens, quietly, "I miss her too. But if you
start guilting yourself, you sully her memory. Stop. Right. Now."
     Milton sighed again. "Right," he said, walking off to be alone.
Dickens sighed and shot a glance at Elk, who sat desolately alone on a
private couch in the Beanstalk's lounge. He hesitated for a moment, then
stood and walked over to the man with whom he'd never willingly traded more
than three words at a time.
     "Excuse me," he said quiet, sitting down. "Elk?"
     "What?" asked the man, staring at the floor.
     "Want to talk?"
     Elk looked at Dickens for a moment, then nodded. "Yeah. I do."
     Dickens nodded in return. "Then let's talk," he said.
***
        Cory removed the ice pack from his forehead and winced at the gash
that marked it before gingerly slipping his mask pack on.  The medics in
the lab would be able to stitch it up soon, but in the meantime there were
more serious injuries to attend.  Besides, going up to the mediacal
facility would mean running into Mary Agnes.  Eager as he was to see her,
he didn't want to frighten her in his bedraggled state, and he needed to
dispell a considerable quantity of angst before he could give her any sort
of support.  Support she would need. badly, if they didn't hear some word
from the rest of the Guardians of Rectitude soon.  Furiously, he attacked
the torn patches in his fur with a small comb in a vain attempt to disguise
them.
        "Wouldn't it be easier just to lick that?"  Aphra Behn appeared
beside him.  Grey Leopard glared at her, annoyed that she would have the
poor taste to joke at a time like this.
        "Sorry, just trying to lighten the mood," she hastened to add, her
voice softening a bit as she laid a hand on his shoulder.
        Cory turned away, almost (but not quite) shrugging off her touch.
"That'll teach me to leave all my spare costumes in the Rectijet!" he
muttered, and winced as the phrase reminded him.  "There's still been no
word?"
        "I'm afraid not," sighed Aphra.  "I spoke to Doy..  er, Ray myself,
and he promised to make the search for them a top priority, but you must
understand, our rescue resources are being stretched to the limit now..."
        "I know.  I'm just not looking forward to explaining the situation
to Synapse."
        Aphra nodded sympathetically.  "Look, what I came here to do was to
thank you for your help.  From all of us.  Liz included.  She knew we could
depend on you, even at the worst of times."
        "Depend on me!" Cory spat out the words bitterly.  "As I see it,
every time I've tried to 'help' you guys, she's wound up dead!"
        "I don't suppose you'd feel any better if I pointed out that at
least it wasn't all of us this time?" Behn offered helpfully.  Sure enough,
it did not help in the slightest.
        "Well, consider this, then," she continued.  "Liz promised she
wasn't really leaving, and she's a woman of her word.  Maybe, someday, some
way..."
        "No one could be that lucky twice!"  Grey Leopard retorted.
        Aphra shrugged.  "There are more things in heaven and earth _and_
wherever the hell (tm) _that_ place was than are dreamt of in your
philosophy...   Cory."
        There was a long silence as the young feline let Aphra's words sink in.
Then a harried pilot  burst into the room.  "Grey Leopard!  We've just
picked up an
distress call from the Northwest Territories, with the Rectijet's homing
frequwncy.  Ray pulled some strings and got us a helicoptor, but we're
short-handed.  Would you care to..."
        Grey Leopard didn't wait for him to finish.  "Let's go!" he
snapped, with a lash of his tail. Suddenly, he stopped, feeling an odd
weight in his hand. He looked down as he unclenched his fist, to see a
small golden locket within, the kind which held a picture,  currently open.
He gaped at the picture for a moment; it was the face of the woman he
thought dead, winking at him. Grey Leopard had never seen the locket before
in his life, and he had been watching Aphra carefully. She had surely not
had time to create it and slip the piece of jewlery into his hand.
      "Are you coming or not?" asked the pilot, impatiently. Grey Leopard
blinked, then smiled slightly, his thoughts back to the present.
     "Let's go get them!" he replied, with a nod of his head, following the
pilot to the door. He stopped and looked at the locket before slipping it
into a pocket. "See you soon?" he said to the air, which didn't answer him
back.
     It didn't need to.
***
                         FINALE IN
                      WTA Epilogue (TFA #24)

***
All characters, places, and situations in this episode belong to their
respective Author, and are used in this story only with their express
permission. If you think that I'm going to list them all, you're high. All
rights reserved to those Authors.