🚀 go-pugleaf

     Commodore Amiga groaned slightly, his mind submerged deep in
nightmare. Wearily, Night Owl took a reading.
     "He's still unconscious and in REM sleep," she announced, pushing back
a loose strand of hair that had fallen into her eyes. "Now's as good a time
as any to try this."
     Healer nodded, gesturing to several medtechs who scurried off. They
returned wheeling a cart laden with equipment. "It looks as though you have
everything you need to complete your side of the cure. I'll go and review
the troops for my half."
     Night Owl looked up, and in spite of her fatigue, smiled slightly.
"Troops? I think you've been around these military types a little too
long."
     Healer returned the smile. "Chalk it up to my Commandant role coming
to the fore in times of hope." Night Owl nodded, catching the meaning.
     "This will work," she said, "In retrospect, it's the only thing that
could. I just wish I hadn't been so damn blind..."
     "Hindsight is 20/20 and self-defenestration is nearsighted, Night Owl.
We were under a lot of stress over the past few days. I'm surprised we did
as well as we have."
     "Maybe," replied Night Owl, unconvinced, "But that's for later. Right
now, let's get this started,"
     Healer nodded, and spoke quietly, "Let's destroy this abomination once
and for all."

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

               Chris Angelini/Frobozz Magic Productions

                             -and-

                       Mademoiselle Muse Inc

                       -in association with-

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

                              -and-

       The Overworked and Underpaid Lisa MacDougall (producer)

               -with characters shamelessly stolen from-

                         Eric Alfred Burns
                          Louise Freeman
                         Brendan LeFebvre
                            Gary Olson

                            -present-

                      TASK FORCE AURORA #24

                        "An Hour of Dawn"

                 Decline and Fall - Part Nineteen

                    Winner Take All - Finale

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

     Only days after near-apocalypse, one would think that telepaths could
be found aplenty, as they and their superguy brethren would be swarming
over the place like ants. Unfortunately, real mentalists were a rare breed,
and on this morning, only three were available. Two looked at the third
skeptically.
     "While we're very grateful for your offer to help," began Healer,
looking at the lump of crystal that floated in front of her, "we're not
entirely sure what you can... well, what you can do." From her safe perch
on Grey Leopard's lap, Synapse didn't add anything to this but simply gaped
at the softly pulsing mineral.
     "Shard was responding to your call for telepaths," replied Angel -
Shard's friend and teammate - as she favoured several wounds that she'd
taken earlier. "It thinks that it has a qualification that suits it
perfectly for the cure that you're trying out."
     "That being?" asked Healer, looking at Shard again. She smiled a hair.
"I'm not trying to exclude anyone. This is, however, a delicate and rather
intimate procedure that we're about to try. I'd like to know a little about
the others who will be working with me."
     Shard pulsed lightly and after a moment, Angel nodded. "Shard believes
that it is the best one qualified to guide you. You do still intend on
confronting and telepathically eliminating the group mind, don't you?"
     Synapse continued to gaze up at Shard. "It's pretty," she said softly,
"Can I play with it now?" Shard pulsed indignantly.
     Healer nodded. "That's one of our two objectives. Once we've
accomplished them, we'll be able to use a drug treatment to eliminate the
symbiotes in Commodore Amiga. We believe that since the group mind will be
scattered, they'll go dormant and won't fight back," She smiled a bit more.
"It'll be nice to be working against something that doesn't, for once."
     "Shard can help you navigate and understand the group mind," replied
Angel. "It would prefer that you didn't make this information public
knowledge, but Shard was once a member of such a thing itself."
     "He was?" asked Healer, raising an eyebrow. "I've had trouble
communicating with the mass-mind, I admit. If Shard can provide help for
Synapse and myself, we'll gladly welcome him aboard."
     Shard pulsed again and Angel nodded. "Shard's glad to be helping and
wants to know when you start."
     "After lunch there's a briefing, and then we begin," replied Healer.
"We'd start now, but I'd hate for one of us to pass out from low blood
sugar in the middle of this."
     "Besides," said Synapse, "Daddy said I could have *TWO* desserts
today, no matter what the Commodore says!"
     "Can't argue with logic like that," said Healer, with a grin.
"Briefing's in one hour. I'll see everyone then."
***
     Maladroit sat in his cell, staring at a cockroach as it crawled along
the floor, while in the back of his mind a million voices buzzed. Voices
that once sang to him of his grandeur in awed tones now chortled to
themselves sporadically, chaotically. Amiga made no effort to keep the
minds in order. Try as he might, the minds were beyond him. They were
Amiga's now. Maladroit hunched over in his tiny cell and tried to remember
how to live without the power of a million servants under his will.
Deliberately, he crushed the cockroach underfoot. That much, at least, he
could still control.
     "Well, well... there he is," came a voice from outside the cell.
Maladroit looked up angrily, wondering who had come to gloat over him in
his time of weakness. No visitors had been yet admitted - because of how
dangerous he was, ran the party line. The truth was quite the opposite.
There were far too many people willing to happily tear Maladroit apart with
their bare hands to get revenge for what he had done. Being a
megalomaniacal tyrant occasionally brought with it certain occupational
hazards.
     "Sad sight, isn't he?" asked the other voice, mockingly. "Who'd have
thought that sack of potatoes could've driven the story for so long."
     "Who's there?" asked Maladroit, standing up. He was damned if he would
show weakness to anyone, even in his darkest hour. No matter how diminished
he had become, he was still Maladroit... the singular. Somehow, despite
that thought, he remained standing.
     "Oh, just your friendly neighbourhood international superguys,"
replied one of the two gaudily costumed heroes who stood in front of
Maladroit's cell. "Eco-Man and Earth-Man, at your service. We're your
escorts out of here."
     Maladroit grinned slowly. "So, they've sent you two here to break me
out? Excellent. I have a plan which will allow me to--"
     "Break you out?" asked Eco-Man, incredulously. "Hell(tm) no! Didn't
you hear? We're popular international _heroes_ today. You must've confused
us with two other guys."
     Earth-Man snickered. "We're the guys who make sure you get to trial
alive, Maladroit. It's going to be a tough job, even for us. There's a
loooootta angry people out there screaming for blood. Your blood. The stuff
pumping in your veins? Not very pretty, is it?"
     "You sinned against the world, Maladroit," continued Eco-Man. "Not a
good enemy to make when you've gotta live there, you know."
     "I will not be stopped," stated Maladroit, evenly. "Though I reside in
the depths of my defeat I _shall_ reclaim victory from the... um...
metaphor for victory thing that goes with depths of defeat. I haven't been
beaten... I've only just started! I've lost my battle across three Earths,
I can--"
     "Lose it again on a fourth?" asked Earth-Man. "Nope, you've had your
chances already, Maladroit. It's time for you to fade to black. Time's up."
     "No. It isn't," snarled Maladroit. "You'll see. I will have my
ascendance again!"
     "Didn't you hear what he said?" snapped Eco-Man, "You're _done_, man.
I can't believe you drove things this long! Your chapter's over, Maladroit.
It's time to close the book."
     "I won't listen to your babbling. Haven't you heard me? I will make
myself and the woman I serve gods!"
     Earth-Man sightly lightly. "Maladroit. You're sitting behind bars,
without a world-wide superhuman army with the remnants of three cosmic
failures behind you! You're powerless, impotent and your ABC's considering
turning your life into a Movie of the Week! Maladroit, your story is
_over_! Clear the damned stage!"
     "Never."
     Eco-Man shook his head. "Sorry you couldn't see things our way,
Maladroit. You could have had a long life out-of-shot."
     "But I'm afraid you're going to have to be written out now," continued
Earth-Man. "Just remember, we didn't choose this."
     "You did."
     "There's a bigger tale to be told, Maladroit. You're not a part of it
anymore. Except as backhistory."
     "Just shut up," spat Maladroit. "You're both crazy."
     Eco-Man shrugged. "Maybe we are. But you're the one in jail and we're
the ones who can walk out of here whenever we want. We'll leave you alone
now."
     Earth-Man smiled predatorily. "Enjoy the scenery, Maladroit. I sure
hope a warm climate suits you."
     The two men chuckled at some private joke and walked out, leaving
Maladroit alone with his thoughts. He lifted his foot from the crushed
insect and considered it for a moment. A shadow fell across his cell,
prompting him to look up again.
     "Maladroit." rumbled General Anaesthetic. "You're looking good. Too bad."
     "Ah, the General," said Maladroit, with a tired smile. "I was
wondering when you'd drop by. Did you enjoy delivering my little bundles of
joy?"
     "You know," began General Anaesthetic, his gaze locked on Maladroit's
own, "I've almost come to terms with being your accomplice in this little
game of murder. It's just too damned big for me to get my narrow little
soldier's mind around. But you know what I can understand perfectly,
Maladroit? You know what's the thing that keeps coming back to haunt me? DO
you?"
     "I'm sure I can't imagine," sighed Maladroit, "I have so much trouble
limiting my mind to one dimension. Do tell me. You know that you want to."
     "You made me violate my duty. Again. Hell(tm), I'm not even sure I've
done my duty since I ran out on my wife, daughter and army to protect them!
But I tried to recover, and do you know what happens? _You_ drag me back
into the damned slime that I thought I'd climbed out of!"
     "You'll never be clear of the slime, General. It's your natural
habitat. You'll always return to your home."
     "Whatever," snarled Anaesthetic. "I just want to know two things."
     "I'm not under obligation to tell you my name, much less give you
information," replied Maladroit dryly. Anaesthetic narrowed his eyes.
     "Let's just pretend you didn't say that, asshole," muttered Maladroit.
"First question: were you responsible for the 'group' I joined that led to
this shit that I've been put through?"
     Maladroit chuckled and shook his head. "Not entirely, General. Your
little gentleman's club was a gift to me from a concerned party. It had
already served its purpose for him."
     "Damn. Two, do you know who this 'concerned party' is?"
     "No," replied Maladroit, "Certainly not. My associate can be quite
anonymous when he so chooses. He so chose with me."
     "Right," said Maladroit, with a sigh. "I'll find him when I get out."
     Maladroit raised his eyebrows, alarmed by the note of utter
hopelessness that had crept into the General's voice. "What do you mean,
'when you get out'?"
     "I don't owe you an explanation, do I?" asked Anaesthetic, with a
sigh. The large man seemed crumpled and deflated. "'Course I don't. There's
something else I owe you."
     Slowly, meaningfully, the General drew his sidearm from its holster
and considered it for a moment. "I've lived my life by the gun. I'll
probably die by it. But you live like you know, understand?"
     "General, put that away," said Maladroit in what he hoped was a
comforting voice.
     "I lived by my oath, Maladroit," continued Anaesthetic. "I swore I'd
serve my country and protect it. You know what?"
     "You're trying to frighten me, aren't you?" asked Maladroit, stepping
to the back of his cell. "Well it won't work."
     "You turned that oath into a load of manure. That's what you did. You
turned my damned LIFE into a COMPOST HEAP!" The General raised his gun,
levelling it on Maladroit's head. "This is what I owe you, Maladroit. One
tiny sliver of lead and and end to my job, my freedom and that joke that I
call a life. Pretty good trade, hunh? I think you're getting the good end
of the stick."
     "General..." whispered Maladroit, his eyes fixed on the barrel of the
gun. "Please... it can't end like this..."
     Anaesthetic laughed sharply, though the gun never wavered. "Why not?
Is this beneath you?"
     "It's not _supposed_ end like this! I'm destined for greatness! You
can't take that from me! I... AM... MALADROI--"
     One sharp retort put an end to the word. One sharp retort ended the
cyclical man who had taken and lost Earth three times. One sharp retort was
followed by the dull clatter of gun on the hard metal floor, the ringing
closing a chapter in another man's life.
     "I thought I heard a gunshot in here... General?" asked a stunned STOP
trooper, as he rushed into the jail to which he had been assigned as guard.
     "Trooper." said the General, in a low, powerless voice. "You will
raise your rifle and point it at me. You will then lock me in prison, on
your own authority, as the warden is currently in medical bay. Finally, you
will report everything that you've seen to Mr Ray, noting that the suspect
has confessed to the wilful and premeditated murder of this... sorry excuse
for a man."
     "General?" asked the confused trooper, looking from gun to corpse to
man. Anaesthetic's eyes grew stormy, and a last fragment of his terrible
power returned.
     "Soldier, you have a duty. I had mine. See to yours." He stared at
Maladroit for a moment. "I didn't."
     "I..."
     "Do. Your. Duty. Soldier."
     The trooper finally nodded, raising his rifle. "Yes General. Please
step into this holding cell."
     Anaesthetic complied, standing at attention while the trooper
activated the force field in front of the General's cage. He paused for a
moment, then looked at Maladroit.
     "His field wasn't up," commented the trooper.
     "It was necessary to take it down," replied Anaesthetic, almost
tonelessly. The soldier nodded mutely, still stunned by the sight that he
took in. Morbidly, his mind began to pick at the little details.
     "He's... got blood all over his tie," commented the soldier.
Anaesthetic shrugged.
     "Goes with the ketchup."
     Again the trooper nodded. He spotted a cockroach struggling out of
Maladroit's cell, half-crushed and crawling painfully for a dubious
freedom. The trooper stomped down on the bug, smashing it into the floor.
Anaesthetic shook his head slightly at the sight.
     "Some things will go on forever if you let them," he noted.
     The trooper glanced from insect to corpse. "I almost wish I hadn't
done that," he said, looking daggers at Maladroit. "The 'roach was the
better life form. Now they're both the same."
     "You crushed the bug," sighed Anaesthetic, sitting down on his cot and
letting the feeling drain from him. "Who's the same as who?"
     The trooper blinked in confusion for a moment, then shrugged. "I'll...
go tell Mr Ray now. If you'll excuse me?"
     "I'm your prisoner. You don't ask me leave."
     "Yes sir," said the trooper, hurrying out of the room. Anaesthetic
stared at the crushed cockroach for a few moments before shaking his head
and laughing a little.
     "Know just how you feel," he said, settling down to get a few moments
of sleep.
***
     Portia Jennings' eyes slowly opened as the trooper worked her tongue,
trying to find moisture somewhere in her mouth to make it feel less like a
lump of cotton. As though on cue, a glass of water was pressed into her
hand, which she drank gratefully. Blinking sleep from her eyes, she looked
up at her benefactor who sat by her medlab bed.
     "Morning," said Peterson with a tired, ragged smile. "How's it going,
sleepyhead?"
     "'m married..." muttered Portia, following her usual hello to Peterson
with a tiny, weak grin. "What're you doing here?"
     "Making sure you're not alone," replied Peterson, refilling Jennings'
glass. "You've been drifting in and out of sleep for days."
     "I'm not alone..." muttered Jennings, leaning against her pillow.
"Even when I shut my eyes, I'm not alone. I can't be alone..."
     "Porsh, hey," said Peterson, wondering exactly what to say and feeling
too far out of his depth for comfort. "Hey... they're talking about a
cure."
     "Hope they find one soon," muttered Jennings. "All that talk in my
head gives me weird dreams."
     "Any about me?" grinned Peterson, the innuendo slipping naturally to
his tongue. Jennings rolled her eyes.
     "I said dreams, not nightmares, Peterson," shot back the woman. "When
can I check out of this place?"
     "Whoa there," replied Peterson, holding up a hand. "You just went
through a really tough time. You're not going anywhere for a while.
Besides, the doctors think you should stay here for your rehabilitation."
     Jennings blinked at the word, then turned her head to look at
Peterson. "What do you mean, rehabilitation?"
     Peterson bit his lip, realising what he had let slip. He realised that
he couldn't hold the information from his friend and just leave her to
worry. "There... was an accident during battle, Portia. Your spinal
column... "
     "My legs?" whispered Jennings. Peterson nodded slightly.
     "When you expressed, the damage to your spine got repaired," continued
Peterson slowly. "But your brain... still isn't sending signals to your
legs. The doctors don't know why. They're optimistic, though..."
     "Oh god," sighed Jennings, leaning back against her pillow. A tear
trickled down her cheek, onto the bed below while she shook with ironic
laughter. "Oh god, the joke's really on me, isn't it?"
     "Hey, Portia?"
     "Go away, Al," laughed Jennings, tears rolling down her cheek. "Just
go away and leave me alone, okay?"
     Peterson considered for a moment. "No," he said firmly. "I'm staying
right here. Because you're a friend of mine, and you're hurting."
     "Al?" asked Jennings, as the tears slowly rolled to a stop. "Could you
do something for me?"
     "Pretty darned near anything, Porsh," replied Peterson. "What do you want?"
     "I'm... going to tell you a story. It's not a pretty one. It's about
what I did in battle, and the choice I made. When it's over, I want you to
look me in the eyes and tell me exactly what you think of it, okay?"
     Peterson nodded. "I think I can manage that, Porsh." He shifted
slightly in his chair, resting his head in his hands, clearly listening.
     Jennings smiled, very slightly. "Thank you. It all started... when I
was very scared of going on..."
***

[Continued In Part Two]