Agency 13 # 10
Wizardyne Assault, Part 1
Feast your eyes upon the sight of Mike 013, Agent Deathmonger, and Seņor Barnett as they huddle together in what appears to be a medieval drinking hall, complete with furniture (and walls) made entirely of bark-stripped logs. All around them, various biker thugs in makeshift armor and horned helms are drinking the night away, and the press of their joyous, brutish imbibing seems to be pushing closer and closer to our uncomfortable, yet intrepid investigators.
(That should do for a 'cover', shouldn't it?)
Notice: for those of you that are faint of heart, the following tale isn't exactly what one would call G-rated in nature. It contains a plethora of bad language, excessive violence, sexual innuendo, and of course, things that would get this story burned, were it in a printed form, by the more fanatical elements of just about any religion on earth. In other words, if these things offend you - you've been warned.
(That should do for a 'disclaimer', shouldn't it?)
***
Mike 013 surveyed the crime scene with more than a little disdain. It'd been over twelve hours since his sources had identified this town as a test site for a new sort of weapon system, and his operatives have been going over it for two, now. He was deeply disturbed that somebody would be so brazen that they would wipe out an entire steak house and all of its customers with advanced weaponry, in plain sight of the nearby interstate.
As local, Texan law enforcement looked on, Mike inspected the remains of five chromed-out motorcycles, half of which seemed to have been blown apart, the other half of which looked like they'd been physically torn to pieces. He picked up one of the corpses' sundered helmets, inspecting its wrought iron construction, the exaggerated horns sticking out the front, and of course, the steel wings jutting out the sides, towards the rear of the odd headgear.
It would seem that these bikers were, in fact, Warriors of Thor, an odd sect of devotees to that ancient Norse entity who didn't practice religion so much as drink and fight as his would-be representatives on earth. In other words, they were a bunch of biker thugs who rode around the country in home-made armor, randomly assaulting cars with their elongated ball-peen hammers, and generally making nuisances of themselves.
However, this particular bunch seemed to run into something bigger than they could handle - something strong. Two of these three bikes had physical indents roughly corresponding to fingers on them, indicating hands strong enough to rip chrome motorcycles to shreds. Alternately, those that were blasted apart had fine cuts in them, almost as though they were chopped apart with a laser or particle beam, or a similarly deadly weapon of mass destruction.
Though he was sure of this, Mike looked at his fellow investigator, Seņor Barnett, and asked for his opinion. Shrugging, Barnett stooped down and touched the bike. Recoiling at first, he then replaced his hand upon the wrecked vehicle and reached out with his mind. The bike then relayed a tale of utter horror, describing how a man who was apparently made entirely of steel picked it up with his bare hands, and ripped it in two.
Barnett then sat down, shaking his head with discomfort after having stressed his psyche by talking with that sundered mechanical beast. Once he recovered, Seņor Barnett told Mike 013 what he'd found, and then went to get a beer out of the remnants of the steak house despite the dead bodies within. Watching him curiously, Mike was interrupted by Sticks McLellan, who had just read the recent past in this area thanks to her priestly magic, and had learned a lot.
***
Reaching through time, the consciousness of Sticks McLellan witnessed six of these Warriors of Thor riding up to the steak house, hoping to get a decent steak and a whole lot of beer. They walked in and, other than causing a few wary looks from their fellow patrons, the Warriors actually did their business without incident. It was when they prepared to leave that the trouble had actually started.
When the Warriors stepped out of the steak house, full of meat and beer, they saw three shiny folks sitting on their bikes! Instantly flying into a rage, the six-pack of Warriors pulled out their trademark war hammers and went to smite these fools, fools that would defile the sanctity of their mobile shrines to Thor, when the one in the red suit fired a similarly hued beam from his left hand, cutting their leader in half!!
Though most sensible folks would simply flee at the sight of this, the other five Warriors cried out and went to work on these heinous foemen. Two worked on the strange steel-bodied fellow with the chrome surf board, two jumped the man in the red suit, and the last jumped on the girl with the robotic arm and leg, and the fight was on. Needless to say, however, the bikers were exceptionally outclassed, and the fight was short.
Luckily, one of these Warriors managed to actually shove his opponent, the girl mentioned earlier, off his bike. Seeing his fellows being literally torn to pieces, he started up his hog and took off as fast as possible, thinking of nothing other than his own life. He couldn't be faulted, really, as he and his compatriots really weren't powerful enough to deal with state of the art cyborg warriors. Besides, if he'd have stayed, he'd have died like his pals.
***
"A red suit, you say? I don't like this." Looking at her boss quizzically, Sticks tried to connect the dots.
"You don't think Frankologists are behind this mess, do you? I know they hate religious folks and all, but I've never heard of them using cyborgs to kill people, or do any of their dirty work." Mike pondered this idea for a few seconds, and decided against it's likelihood.
"No, the Frankologists aren't big on technology.
"I think somebody's setting them up for a fall. I tell you what - give Agent Deathmonger a call, and have him and Storey meet me in New York City. Tell him to bring my gear. Also, tell Sir Tophat to meet you down here. I want him to go over the... evidence... in greater detail, to help us figure out who really sent these monsters." Mike paused, and looked at the steak house. "Man, now I've got to go collect Barnett."
Sticks nodded. "I'm on it. As soon as me and Tophat come up with something, I'll give you a call." With that, Mike made his own way into the burnt out steak house, and after about fifteen minutes, he managed to rouse Barnett out of his depressed stupor, and got him shambling towards the rental car. Of course, he muttered and complained all the way.
"Don' wanna go to New York City, ya big jerk..."
***
After they got off their plane, Agent Deathmonger and Chase Storey met their fellow investigators, one of which who looked particularly surly - but that may simply be because of the time. Checking his watch, Deathmonger verified that it was, in fact, five thirty in the morning. He inwardly grinned at the discomfort that both Seņor Barnett and Chase Storey were feeling, as he loved it when non-morning people got their comeuppance. Even if it was only a little payback.
"So what's the drill, boss?" Taking another sip of his martini, Chase continued. "What's the scoop?" Collecting his notes, Mike 013 laid his theories out on the proverbial table.
"We've basically got a case of cyborgs. Three of these machines wiped out a six-pack of Thor's favorites, and one of 'em was conveniently wearing a red tuxedo. My operating theory is that this might be some plan to set the Warriors and the Frankologists against each other."
"Gotcha." Finishing his martini, and handing the glass to a nearby flight attendant who wasn't too happy about it (not being in a plane, you see), Chase went on. "So, what do we do first - check on the Frankologists or the Warriors of Thor?" Mike thought about this as he walked out of the airport, his crew of investigators in tow. Feeling the rush of people walking about in the morning, Mike apparently found his center.
"Okay. I want you to find Frankowitz, Chase, and figure out what his angle is on all this. He's most likely not in on this mess, but you never know. I don't care what it takes, but I need you to make sure we're barking up the right tree. Meanwhile, I'll be heading to the Warriors of Thor's local office with these guys," indicating Agent Deathmonger and Seņor Barnett, "so we can see if they're about to perpetrate some righteous vengeance or something."
With that, the investigators split up, and Mike led his contingent to a nearby hotel. Once inside, he took the special stealth suitcase from Agent Deathmonger and, opening it up, pulled out his personal equipment. After a scant minute of quick changing action, Mike donned his special, force-field generating body suit, his unique shotgun (secreted underneath a suitably long coat), and his omni-scanner.
Meanwhile, Agent Deathmonger picked up his personal hand-cannons, a twin set of pistols that the Agency had cooked up for him. Though they didn't have the same feel as his ordinary guns, these man-killers had some sort of special, extra dimensional hookup in their magazines, allowing them to provide a truly heroic amount of ammunition, should Deathmonger need to shoot down an ocean liner, or something similarly obstinate in its avoidance of mortality.
As Agent Deathmonger became accustomed to his new weapons of mass destruction, Seņor Barnett pulled out a baseball bat. A simple, galvanized steel slugger that would most likely not be allowed in an organized ball league of any sort. It had spikes. The sheer look of it implied menace, and the occasional concussion. Best of all, it was all one piece - no moving parts, no subtle electronics, nothing electromechanical that might try to talk to Barnett.
He liked the bat.
Armed thusly, the three investigators made their way to the nearest enclave of the Warriors of Thor. Appropriately, the place was a bar, nestled within a three story brownstone that seemed too big for its neighborhood. Of course, that may be because all of the homes around the Warriors' office had been demolished and converted into a huge parking lot for the hordes of motorcycles that belonged to the quasi-religious thugs within.
Walking in, the three investigators felt as though they had stepped through time, for they passed through the brownstone's doors only to enter what appeared to be a medieval inn, complete with 'log cabin' trim and a rough-edged look all around. Flagons of mead and ale, along with more modern drinks, were being passed out with reckless abandon by the barkeep, who didn't seem to be getting paid for his mixtures, both modern and arcane.
And the ambience! About a dozen drunk thugs were doing something akin to singing, apparently regarding Thor, though it was arguably an ode to booze in general. Others were simply playing darts - with lawn darts - or were similarly passing time in very good-natured, destructive humor. The cheap, simple look of the bar made more sense at that point, as you could see that the furniture (and the walls, etc.) needed regular replacement.
Though watching this moving train wreck was fascinating to them, the three Agency men were eventually interrupted when one stumbling imbiber of bubbly decided that they shouldn't, in fact, be there. He came running at them with a chair (log stump), and swinging mightily, missed completely. The poor drunk biker then spun out of control, his trajectory carrying him clean out the double-door entrance - with a loud crash.
Things got a bit quiet, suddenly, and the barkeep gave them the hairy eyeball. "Who the heck are you guys?" Seņor Barnett took over at this point, adopting his best brutish look - and it wasn't too hard, truth be told.
"We wanna talk to the manager." The two locked gazes for about fifteen seconds, neither moving a micrometer. Then the tension broke when, out of nowhere, the barkeep started up a full belly laugh.
"Ha ha ha! Third floor, last door on the left!"
Making their way past the thuggish drinkers, the three investigators climbed the stairs. Avoiding various detritus along the way, like unconscious Warriors, found the office of the 'manager' of this establishment. He was a small man in, not home-made armor, but a stereotypical 'cowboy' ensemble, complete with a ten gallon hat. "Howdy, pard'ners! Come on in and take a load off!" The Agency men did so, having a seat on the crude, half-log seat. "What can I do fer yer?"
After internally translating the man's heavily accented speech, Mike answered the question. "We came to ask you about an... incident that some of your boys were involved in yesterday. Down in Texas. You know, an incident involving a steak house and some robots." A student of human nature, Agent Deathmonger could sense the switch in the man's demeanor despite no apparently visible clues, and he had his guns out and trained on the would-be cowboy just in time.
Having each other covered simultaneously, Deathmonger and the ersatz western man stared each other down. "Aha! You bastards came to kill us all, did'ja? I shoulda known!" Agent Deathmonger just shrugged.
"No, you ignorant inbreed, we didn't come here to kill you. If we wanted you all dead, we would've just bombed the place. Hello?!" The little man gave this some considerable thought, and agreed that it was a sensible conclusion.
After all, nobody in their right mind would want to take on a bar full of Thor's own. Putting the gun down, he smiled. "Right. Sorry 'bout that, gentlemen, but things aren't goin' too smooth for us right now. We gots problems all over the place, what with the fuzz just thinkin' us a bunch of criminals. We only want to follow our faith the only way we know. It's not our fault if we're not what you'd call a centralized religion, now, is it?"
After a pause, the man continued. "Of course, now I know you're not Frankie's boys, otherwise you'd have argued about that one. What do ya want to know?" When Agent Deathmonger was silent, Mike replied in his stead.
"Well, I'm assuming that your Warriors were just minding their own business right now, so the one thing I want to know is why would a bunch of cyborgs take a crack at you? It's not like you guys are into the high tech market... or are you?"
Fingering an advanced concussion hammer under his desk, the little would-be cowboy lied. "Nope. But I'm guessin' them Frankologists sent 'em. Nobody else really has it in for us... which is why I sent them a little payback present. I'm sure they'll like it. Ha ha ha ha ha!" Mike 013 just nodded with that, and smiled.
"Makes sense to me. We're just interested in the cyborgs, ourselves, so we'll just be on our way... pard'ner."
The little man smiled back, a toothy grin that made the rest of his head look insignificant. "No problem, guys! And if you ever find yerselves back here proper, drop by for a free drink on Tex Goldberg!" Sidestepping their way back out of the Warriors' haven, the three Agency men compared notes.
"A present, huh? How much you want to bet that Tex's little present's something like a whole box of kicks in the head?"
Mike scowled at the thought of that. "You're probably right, Barnett. We'd better get to the Scientific College of Frankology before the Warriors do. If they start something, the Frankologists will just see this as an excuse to declare all-out war. And the thought of these two groups duking it out doesn't really appeal to me all that much. Taxi!!" About a minute later, Mike finally got a cab, and with that, he and his fellows were on their way.
To be continued...
***
Next month, all out war breaks out between the Scientific College of Frankology and the Warriors - or does it? And just who is behind these cybernetic terrors that are plaguing our intrepid investigators of the unknown - and why are they being used to stir up so much trouble? Tune in next time to see the various pieces of the puzzle start to come together, - and if anything else, you can at least show up to see Chase chilling out in the Caribbean.
***
Agency 13 # 10 - Wizardyne Assault, Part 1
Copyright 1999, 2004, 2012, 2023 Denny Hill 2
All rights reserved and so forth.
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