Assassins
Chapter 1
"Happy birthday to me! Happy birthday to meeeeee!" Meow Monkey sang
enthusiastically, if off-key. The female rocked her chair back and forth on it's
legs, threatening to topple over at either end of her travel.
"Okay! Okay! I'll buy you another Stali, just PLEEEZE stop that!" Red
Lioness said with a wince. "Skat! Vodka, quick!"
Silvercat, owner and operator of the pub where this informal celebration was
being carried out, hastened over with a fresh bottle of clear liquor. She
filled Red and Meow's glasses, and turned to leave.
"Ahem?" Alan said, tapping his shot glass.
"Riiiight," S’kat said. "Let's see some ID, junior."
Alan sighed. "I've already shown you the bloody thing three times," he
complained, digging it out of his jeans pocket.
"And I still think it's a fake. No way you're 32 and look 13," S’kat said
dourly. She took the card and squinted at it, cursing herself for the third
time for forgetting her glasses at home. Finally, she snorted, dropped the
card on the table and filled Alan's glass.
"If you guys are taking rooms, let me know. It's late, and that storm
outside is getting worse by the minute," the tigress commented.
As if to punctuate her remark, a burst of thunder pealed outside with
enough force to rattle the celebrant's glasses on the table. S’kat looked
warily at the door, then returned to the bar.
"You should feel ashamed of yourself, passing off a fake ID like that," Red
whispered to Alan. The thunderan lioness was dressed in a camoflauge
tank top, matching pants and combat boots. Her flak jacket was draped
over her chair, her service colt tucked into a holster on her hip.
Alan smirked. A human teenager, he had the whole smirking thing down pat,
and rather enjoyed showing it off. "It's not fake. See for yourself," he
said, sliding the card to Red.
The lioness took it and examined it. "According to this, you're fifteen
years old. Then where'd she get the 32?"
"Inches, luv. Right there under hair and eye color," he smirked some more.
"Now I know it's a forgery," Meow said soberly, which she herself was
anything but.
Thunder shook the club again, jostling them all. Outside, the rain poured
down in torrents, turning the soft dirt track into a muddy river and
swallowing the manicured lawn in a shallow lake that stretched
from the doorway to the main road. The window itself was obscured by sheets
of water sluicing across it's surface, the drops hitting the glass with
violent force, as though the elemental fury outside were clawing at them,
straining to reach in and lay hold of those hiding within the bar.
"Damn!" Alan complained. "We got a pikachu out there or what?"
At that moment, the club door slammed open, making everyone jump. Alan was
poignantly reminded that he had his back to it, particularly when the girls
gaped in shock at whatever was behind him. With great care, he turned and
looked over his shoulder.
Framed in the doorway was a figure wrapped in a sodden cowl of coarse cloth.
The stranger's size was imposing, nearly seven feet tall, with broad shoulders
hinting at tremendous strength. But more imposing was the huge battle-axe slung
across his back. The weapon was notched from heavy use, and not even the
storm had succeeded in washing away all of the blood stains the weapon had collected.
The hood turned left and right, taking in the environment. Then the stranger
stepped inside and closed the door against the efforts of the wind to hold
it open. He crossed the floor in three long strides and arrived at the bar.
Coins clattered on the wooden countertop.
"Stout," the stranger said, in a suprisingly soft voice. Silvercat
swallowed, nodded, and set a pint of Murphy's on the counter.
Each swept up their half of the transaction, and the newcomer
made his way to a secluded table in the corner of the bar, near
the fireplace.
Alan looked at Red. She shrugged, watching the stranger carefully. They all
knew the stories; lawyers, Puritans and evil Undictators abounded in this
cock-eyed universe. This newcomer could be a threat as easily as a friend.
Alan looked at Meow. She looked back, her gaze unfocused, and belched
loudly.
Alan looked back at the stranger. The new arrival had removed his cloak and
laid it across the table, out of the way. He was a green-furred caninoid with a
head like a german shepard, a greenish-black mane that ran to mid-shoulder,
and large golden
eyes. He wore a torn chain mail baldric over a black leather
jerkin, and purple leggings ended in black leather boots that rode to mid-calf. A weasel
skull hung from a cord around his neck like a primitive trophy. A single
strip of blue terry cloth, like something torn from a robe, was tied around
his upper left arm.
When he sat, the chair groaned under the press of over three-hundred pounds
of muscle and steel. The dog stretched his legs out in front of him, took
his cup in both hands and began to nurse his drink slowly.
Alan got up.
"What are you doing?!" Red hissed in alarm, but he waved her down. He
crossed the floor and stopped, grinning, in front of the caninoid.
"So this knight walks into a bar, and behind him comes this huge german
shepard--"
The caninoid shifted his gaze from his mug to Alan's eyes, and the Brit
stuttered to a stop. The two locked stares for a long moment and Red was
half out of her chair before the caninoid looked away, returning his
attention to his mug.
Alan knew a staring contest when he was in it, but this wasn't how it was
supposed to go. When your opponent looked away first, you were supposed
to win. But Alan didn't feel victorious - he felt dismissed.
Trying to regain the offensive, he said, "So, you ever play Duel Monsters?"
The dog sipped his stout, then said softly, "After a fashion."
About then, enough of Meow's brain cells resuscitated from their
vodka-induced shock to realize somebody else was in the bar.
She got up and wobbled towards the pair before Red could stop
her. She lurched to a halt, leaning hard on Alan's head, and
said cheerfully, "It's my birthday! Happy birthday to me!"
The dog looked at her, raised his cup in salute and nodded. Meow
straightened up, plastered a somber look on her face, and raised her
own hand in imitation of the gesture. The effort proved too much,
and she toppled backwards, crashing into Red, who had slipped up
behind the others. Both of them landed on the floor, Red cursing,
Meow laughing hysterically.
Alan grimaced. He was getting irritated with this uppity mutt. He turned
back to the dog and said, "This is a writer's club, mate. Writers only. Do
you write? Do you know HOW to write?"
"You want a story?" the dog asked. He looked past Alan to the bar, where
Silvercat had her hands clasped. She seemed to be praying. He looked at Red
and Meow, still tangled on the floor in a heap.
The cur looked back at Alan. A hint of a smile touched his lips.
"Alright. I'll give you a story."
***
The land car was nothing special to look at, a typical family vehicle,
typical styling, painted a typical shade of beige. The driver, like the
car, was average, with dishwater blonde hair in a typical style.
Average build, average looks. Nothing out of the ordinary.
But a deeper look inside the vehicle would reveal heavy armor plate welded
to the exterior panels, an advanced suspension, and an engine with more
horses than the Kentucky Derby. And a look inside the driver would reveal
the calculating, precise thought process and incredibly honed skills of TCATGR's
most lethal killer. Few people chose to get that close, however.
Axelle held the accellerator to the floor, pouring on the speed. Her mind
was still ringing from the phone call that had snapped her awake just
minutes earlier.
"Ax? It's Zhy." His voice was strained, filled with pain and fear.
"What do you want, Zhyan? Aren't you supposed to be in Madrid with Sparky?"
"We... we need you at Cat's Lair," he said. Then he broke down, weeping
openly into the receiver.
Obviously, something was wrong, probably with Spark, and obviously, she
wasn't going to get any useful information out of the distraught archangel.
"Who else is with you?" she demanded.
"Tygra is here, he says..."
"Give the phone to him, Zhyan. It will be easier on all of us if you aren't
playing middle-man."
She waited a moment, then the felinoid came on the line. "Axelle? Lion-o
sends his regards," he chuckled.
"I bet he does," she said. "What's happened?"
Axelle abandoned her reverie as Cat's Lair came into view. She stomped the
pedal again, shot across the drawbridge and into the vehicle bay. She stopped
the car, grabbed the leather case on the seat beside her and ran from the vehicle,
through the Lair and up to the infirmary.
Zhyan stood up as she came through the waiting room door. "Thank God!" he
exclaimed. "Please, you have to do something!"
"I'll do my best," she said briefly. Then she pressed by him and into the
ward beyond.
The ward was a circular room, with four beds arranged like spokes towards
the center. On the bed nearest the window, lay Spark. The Azteca was pale,
her breathing governed by a ventilator in the corner of her mouth. IV tubes
stuck out of the backs of both her hands. An EKG machine by the bed emitted
beeps at intervals too far apart for comfort.
The sight of the latina shook her. When Tygra had described his test
results, she hadn't wanted to believe it: a cocktail of deadly poisons
coursing through the young woman's body, responding to anti-toxin for just a
few moments before some new, more virulent substance appeared. Tygra had
been dumbfounded, but to the professional killer, it was entirely too
familiar.
The Cat's Lair medical officer came into the ward just as she finished
drawing blood from the shunt in
Spark's neck.
"She's in a deep coma," he said. "She's healing as fast as ever, but the
poisons keep beating her down. I've tried everything in my knowledge to get
a diagnosis, and I thought, given your specialty, that you might have some
ideas."
Axelle did not answer. She took an empty bottle from her kit and drained the
blood sample into it. Then she took a dropper bottle of clear solution from
the same place and drew some into the tube. She took the blood sample,
held it before her eyes, and began to count drops into the blood, pausing
after each.
"One," she said. "Two, three, fo- oh hell."
Tygra stared in amazement as the blood in the tube began to smoke and
bubble. In seconds, it was reduced to a dry powder in the bottom of the
bottle.
"Pantoxin," she said quietly. Her face was inscrutable as ever, but inside,
she quailed. Her worst fear had
been realized.
"Should I get Zhyan?" Tygra asked.
"We'll go out there," Axelle said, and led the tiger from the ward. He
closed the adjoining door and went and stood beside the young groom.
"Do you understand how the HIV virus works?" Axelle asked.
"She doesn't have bloody HIV!" Zhyan yelled, livid.
"No, of course not," Axelle said neutrally. "But it's simpler to explain
pantoxin if you understand the AIDS virus, because they work in a
similar way."
"Pantoxin is a synthetic poison with a loose molecular base. When introduced
to a living body, it mutates periodically, changing it's formula and how it acts
on the victim. Sometimes it imitates other poisons, like strychnine or arsenic.
Sometimes, it's completely random."
Tygra nodded grimly. "No anti-toxin will work, because it keeps changing
form."
"But why would someone use it on my wife?" Zhyan agonized.
"Pantoxin does one thing very, very well," Axelle answered. "It kills
regeneratives. Every time the organism's immune system figures
out how to counteract the poison and begin repairing the damage- or
anytime an antidote is administered- the toxin changes form and attacks
from a new direction.
Eventually, the organism's body runs down too
much to recover."
"Is there a treatment?" Tygra asked.
"Normally, we would destroy her body and Zhyan could write her back in, hale
and whole. But thanks to the crazy rules we operate under, the poison would be
present in her system upon reappearance." She paused and shook her head.
"Whoever did this to her knew exactly how to do
it."
Zhyan was almost hysterical.
"That's not what I'm fucking talking about!" he yelled. "I mean, why would
somebody want to hurt HER?! Everybody likes Spark! WHY?!" The angel reeled,
then fell onto the floor, sobbing uncontrollably.
Axelle looked on while Tygra helped Zhyan into a chair. The Thundercat left,
then returned a few moments later with an injection, which he put into Zhyan's
upper arm. After a few more minutes, the angel began to calm down,
although he continued to cry quietly.
Tygra put the hypo in the sharps container and turned back to Axelle. "Is
there anything we can do?" he asked quietly.
"The poison can be detected by it's core makeup, the mutagenic array," the
assassin answered. "There's never been a successful anti-toxin designed to
attack it, but perhaps--"
She was interrupted by a ring from the wall phone. Tygra held up a finger
and answered.
"Hello? Yes? I...see. Mm-hmm. We'll be waiting for you."
He hung up. Axelle looked at him and raised an eyebrow in query.
"That was Nakur Na Chanur," the felinoid answered. "He's bringing in
TygrisHawk. It seems she's been poisoned."