02-06-2007, 12:02 AM
(I love writing Lethal. While there is a lot of Thibor in her make-up, she is excitable and puppyish in a way her father is not, and far more random. Thibor always has a plan, Lethal always makes it up as she goes along.)
Despite what you think, danger isnt my middle name. Papa says Im not allowed to change it until I turn 18.
Liesel Lethal Sawchyk
The rising sun peeked over the war walls, its soft yellow rays dancing off the gigantic globe that Atlas bore aloft on his broad shoulders. It lit the neat and orderly streets of Atlas Park, creeping along the darkened boulevards. Then it hit the windows of the third story of a five story walkup; lifting the darkness with the golden light. The light streamed through the window and onto the face of the teenager who slept, curled up nose to feet, in the center of a queen sized futon. This is when the bad things started happening. Mostly to other people. Had these people known, a dozen interior designers would have been dispatched, to shroud the window in question in blinds, drapes, and perhaps heavy ironwork with enough space to allow the egress of a mouse, but not much else.
But they didnt know. Their morning horoscopes spoke only of potential business windfalls, romantic complications and the shadow of Jupiter rising in the house of Mars. Not one mentioned Liesel rising in the rented apartment of Sawchyk. Well perhaps they did, but rather than being published in the morning papers, the prognostications were bantered around the morning cup of tea leaves in Magi headquarters and caused no small amount of giggling on the part of the seers.
Liesel awoke as the errant sunbeam crossed her face. She uncurled from her decidedly canine position, going through a series of languid stretches that would have had the average person screaming for a swift and slightly less painful death at the hands of an unmerciful god of an unrelated, and likely hostile faith. Thus refreshed, she ran her hands through the long, silky blonde hair that fell well past her waist. She grabbed a handful and brought it in front of her face, sniffing at it tentatively; her eyes did not quite cross or water at the smell, but it definitely triggered a strong, negative reaction. A similar investigation of her armpits merited the same response.
Breakfast! Shower! Danger! Liesel announced her intentions to the room. She ran for the door to her small apartment, stopping short of turning the knob before amending her list. Clothes! Breakfast! Shower! Danger!
The various piles of clothes scattered haphazardly around the apartment yielded a faded halter, comfortable, well worn sweats and a pair of battered flip flops. Thus attired, Liesel made another leap for the door and charged down the three flights of stairs, making only slightly less noise that an empty, metal trash can traversing the same route. She burst through the front door of the apartment building and sprinted across the street, oblivious to the possible presence of traffic and pushed through the door of the small Greek caf. Behind the counter Andrea Pappadimos was industriously scraping the grill, his huge, hairy arms moving back and forth with metronome precision.
You wan breakfast? Andrea rasped, the toothpick tucked into his mouth making the long journey from one side to the other.
No breakfast. Cheeseburger! Liesel hopped over the counter to the fridge and retrieved a double-handful of drinks; three bottles of orange juice, a two liter bottle of water and a six pack of Red-Bull. Andrea made an inarticulate grunting sound and began flipping burger patties onto the grill; only stopping when a half dozen were spitting and sizzling. He hefted his considerable bulk over to the fryer and dumped a huge portion of frozen French fries into the hot oil. Liesel smiled intently, not quite drooling, her left leg tapped the floor excitedly. Papa was not a fan of most American food, but Liesel had embraced it wholeheartedly and in huge quantities. It was necessary; the sheer level of her energy, combined with her ability to regenerate damaged tissue and her willingness to put herself in the path of that damage; required a phenomenal intake of calories. Papa and Mama were the same way, though their habits had matured slightly and were not subject to the added burden of teenagers hopped up metabolism. Andrea dealt a line of buns across an oversize platter, topping each with a rare, grease-beaded burger patty, a slice of cheese, and a generous dollop of tsatiki. The bun tops were slapped on and the platter slid to within arms reach of Liesel who had reclaimed her seat on the other side of the counter. She immediately fell upon it with furious energy, interspersing dangerously large bites of cheeseburger with huge swallows from the variety of drinks spread out in front of her. Andrea sighed as he dumped the fries into a basket and upended most of a bottle of ketchup over them. He approached slowly, carefully.
Grrrr. The growl started in the back of Liesels throat and her arms moved reflexively to cover all possible avenues of approach to her plate of food. She shook her head slightly and offered up a slightly guilty smile. Sorry, old habit.
Andrea placed the basket of fries on the counter and gave it a push to send it the rest of the way. His regular morning patron always paid her account promptly, tipped generously and had not yet bitten him hard enough to draw blood. There were other benefits to. It was rapidly becoming known that she favored the caf and that alone was enough to keep most of the riff-raff a healthy distance away. The initial encounter had been within the first week of her arrival. The small, blonde girl with the British accent had been enjoying supper when a group of Hellions had dropped by for their protection money. Being ear deep in a triple-sized gyros platter with extra everything, she hadnt even noticed; or at least had pretended not to notice. Then one of them made a mistake. The sort of mistake that starts wars, end lives and nominates you for a Nobel Prize in incredibly poor judgment. He had cadged a French fry. It had not been the most efficient beating that Andrea had ever witnessed, Paragon being rather cosmopolitan in that regard, but what it lacked in subtly of technique, it made up for in pure feral intensity as the small blonde had latched onto the back of the Hellions neck and proceeded to knock all his teeth out on the edge of the counter. A process that took three individual impacts. Andrea never learned if she had actually recovered the French fry, and had no intention of ever seeking out the answer. The remaining Hellions had taken it upon themselves to seek redress for the dental distress of their comrade.
Faced with an assortment of knives and baseball bats, the blonde had extended her hand and plucked a sword out of thin air. The blade was straight, double-edged and almost five feet long, but she wielded it with a single hand as if it were a baton. She had turned, slashed, nodded, and resumed her seat and her dinner, leaving the bloodied sword propped up against the counter next to her. The sight of her adding an extra dollop of ketchup to her meal had almost turned Andreas stomach. How anyone could taint a gyro with it was mind-boggling. After that he reached for the mop to clean up as best he could until the police arrived.
So the problems the diner had died out almost entirely. Occasionally a group of Hellions would show up. The new ones. Young, brave, stupid and usually hungry. In these situations Andrea did the sane and logical thing. He fed them. It was always at the same table. The one with the picture of Manticore presenting the Defender of Truth medallion to Lethal Sawchyk. They were standing in front of that very table. Manticore had his arm around Lethals shoulder. Andrea has his arm around Lethals other shoulder. Lethal had her arms around the thirty pound gyros that Andrea had made in honour of her accomplishment. The photo was signed. Woo! Danger! Danger! Gyros! Danger! The Hellions usually took several long minutes to notice the photo. After that they got very keen to leave, at which point Andrea delivered the bill to the table, which always included the 30% tried to shake down the wrong Greek tax. They paid. They always paid.
Urr-Urrr-Urrrp! Lethals burp was resonant, and she pounded a fist against her chest twice in order to ensure that every resonant gastro-intestinal syllable was given full release. Andrea nodded approvingly at the compliment to his cooking. It had taken him some effort to convince his patron that a heartfelt burp was a compliment to the cook, but trying to get through the entire Greek alphabet was not only futile, but robbed the compliment of its full effect.
See you Later Mr. A. Lethal hopped off her stool and tossed down a handful of bills on the counter. Danger awaits.
Shower awaits. Andrea reminded her. Even the perpetual cocoon of frying smells that permeated his establishment could not mask the unmistakable taint of sewer that permeated Lethal. She must have been hunting zombies in the sewers. Again.
Shower! Then danger! Lethal nodded in agreement and then sprinted through the door, the hinges strained as it banged open, but it stayed in one piece. Barely. Andrea cleared the dishes and then turned his attention back to scraping the grill. Cute girl, he would have to introduce her to his nephew Miros.
* * *
Lethal turned off the hot water and shook herself violently, splattering the inside of the shower stall. She glanced at the cold water tap and silently wondered if it worked. She had never actually tried it. The trials and tribulations of a good old fashioned sewer slog required much higher temperatures to achieve anything even vaguely resembling spring freshness. Lethal attacked the problem with the same gusto that she attacked every other problem. Pumice soap and a shampoo that bordered on industrial strength were enough to get rid of the even the most persistent stink. For the moment she was clean. Yay. Victory. Tallyho. She stepped out of the shower and wrapped a towel around her body.
Liesel glanced at her reflection in the mirror, turning her head slightly from side to side. Her finely boned features mirrored mamas but her nearly black eyes were definitely Papas. She used to joke that she had her fathers eyes, but it was okay, because he grew them back. The rough, jagged, scar that traced across her cheek and crossed her nose gave her a feral, dangerous look. Liesel shook her head. Everyone assumed that she had gotten it through some bizarre, torturous set of circumstances, involving supernatural evil, supreme peril, vampires and possibly clowns. She was deliberate in not telling the actual circumstances around it. They were kind of lame. At age five she had decided that she wanted a scar on her cheek, just like mama had. Her plan; Papa always told her to have a plan, involved a very sharp knife that was a little too large for her hands, and a bottle of India ink. Unfortunately a mirror had not been part of the plan, and the result was far more ragged, and elongated than Mamas. Still she had been very proud of it when she presented her still bloody face to her parents for their approval. Mama was aghast; doubly so when Papa suggested that it could be easily removed with a few minutes on the belt sander. While Papa seemed upset; Liesel always felt he had somehow been proud of her. Probably because she hadnt cried at all. Like that was an option. Mama almost never cried; royal weddings or the death of a friend were it; and it was always silent and very reserved. Papa never did. Ever. Period. Full stop. She could still remember watching Mama pull silver bullets out of Papa after a mission, digging the forceps into his chest, and then cutting away the poisoned flesh with a knife. No tears. No whining. Nothing. Crying wasnt an option.
William and Doru hadnt figured that out until much later, especially as their little sister was quite capable of getting them to roll onto their backs and offer up their throats. They might have been full blooded Sawchyk werewolves; but she was alpha bitch and unwilling to relinquish the position. Okay, mama was alpha to her; so was Papa, only his had a capital A. She had tried to challenge dominance with Papa. Once. He had sat her down and explained calmly and patiently that it was one thing to play at such things, but she was never, ever, to make a serious dominance challenge to another wolf unless she was absolutely, one hundred percent, willing to back it up. Did she think she could do it? Overconfidence and a combination of teenage rebellion and the perceived immortality of youth answered before the rest of her brain had a chance to catch up. Papa had smiled gently at her and then rolled back his sleeves and visited a thorough and savage beating upon her. When Mama had found out she had been appalled; and had delivered a second beating; although she had described it as training. The sad thing was that they were both right. The world was filled with hideously dangerous things, and while little Lethal Sawchyk thought she was unstoppable, there were any number of equally confident individuals who would be all too happy to prove her wrong.
A sad smile blossomed as she was combing out her long blonde hair. She missed her parents already. Especially when it came to dealing with her hair. She could manage it on her own, but it was nice to have one of them brush it out. She missed it the same way that she missed wrestling with her brothers. Wolves were pack animals and the need to congregate socially was buried deeply in her bone and sinew. So was the need to mark territory, but she left that one to her brothers. She would try and remember to call them tonight, but for now, there was danger to be fully embraced. She had another pack to hang with and the Little Legends had been tasked with dealing with a disturbing upswing in Skull activity. It was time to break heads, take names, stop for lunch and then continue.
* * *
George Heisman moved the wad of gum to the other side of his mouth and chewed reflectively. The skull continued to charge forward, a nail-studded baseball back cocked behind his shoulder, ready to deliver a huge swing. Dad always said that timing was key in sports, and crimefighting. The fist sized rock that George held in his right hand felt good, the air was slightly humid and there was a slight wind from the east. The time was right. George kicked up his leg and snapped his arm forward. Throwing the heater was out, a curve was in order. The rock left his hand with a slight back-spin, arcing slightly to the left and slamming into the white painted forehead of the charging thug. Forward momentum of the forehead was halted as the rock effectively transferred energy. The Skull flipped over backwards. The ground reached up and smacked the skull in the back. Normally this was a figure of speech, but not where George was concerned. The ground actually did reach up and smack the skull, wrapping tendrils of earth around him and pinning him helplessly to the ground.
The skull blinked several times and re-evaluated his situation. He had been stealing a purse when some high-and-mighty hero douche had intervened. As said aforementioned douche had been wearing a baseball uniform, it had seemed deliciously ironic to smash him with a baseball bat. Shortly thereafter he had been struck in the head by a fist sized rock and then grabbed by the earth itself. The situation sucked; and was likely to get worse before it improved.
Danger! Danger! Go! Tallyho! The voice was filled with enthusiasm. The manifestation of the situation getting worse from the skulls perspective, were the enthusiastic voice, flavored with an overseas accent, and a pair of legs in loose camouflage pants. Worse was also wearing well-worn combat boots. The final injury added to insult was the fact that one of the boots was currently on his face.
Please move. The skull managed as best he could under the pressure. The owner of the boots was unlikely to tip the scales at 130 lbs, but that was still not a weight that one would relish when applied bootfully to the face. The boot wiggled slightly and then lifted as the owner assessed the situation. Nice dark eyes, white teeth, a cute, delicate nose, high cheekbones, and a long, ragged scar crossing cheek and nose.
Danger! Danger! Danger! Liesel jumped up and down, adding a second boot to the enthusiastic stomping. She paused for the barest of seconds; perhaps stomping someone while they were held helpless by geological forces was not fair. It wasnt fair, fair was where the pony rides were. It wasnt supposed to be fair. Kicking someone when they were down was the right thing to do; far better than waiting for them to get back up and then knocking them down again. Far better than giving them a chance to return the favor. Her karma re-aligned with the universe, Liesel continued to jump.
Get the heroes! More skulls. Liesel considered the numbers. Was doing a headcount of skulls redundant? What did you call a group of them? A gang of skulls? A flock of skulls. Visually appealing. A flock of Seeskulls. There certainly were a lot of them. There was a rusty, shaking rattle as a nearby warehouse door rolled up on neglected tracks, the dark and dingy maw vomiting forth a spew-tastic stream of death themed miscreants.
This is going to be bloody great! Lethal enthused happily; jumping up and down in anticipation. Roight then! I call bagsies on the ten on the left, you get the ten on the right.
George considered the situation. Careful evaluation was the key to victory. They were about to get stomped. The cons were apparent. A solid beating, teeth knocked out, ribs kicked in and a long talk from dad and mom about not biting off more than you can chew. Pros. It was 4:00pm and it was possible that the pretty blonde nurse who always forgot to button her blouse all the way to the top was on duty at the medical center. That pretty much covered it. Running like a bunny was also an option, just not a very good one. Lethal might survive. No, Lethal would survive; civilization could end and all that would remain scuttling across the face of the blighted earth would be cockroaches and Lethal. Fortunately even the worst of the gypsy curses she could inflict on him were on par with the danger of hanging with her normally. No fear there. Or at least a consistent level of fear. That was reassuring.
Whos winning! Englands winning! Lethals costume abruptly changed, the fatigues vanishing completely, giving way to a short, white blouse, long red and white scarf and black slacks, decorated with elaborate red beadwork. George winced. Unlike most superheroic transformations, Lethals lacked gratuitous flashes of flesh, it was entirely modest. So much for the home team advantage.
Okay you lot. As you might ave noticed, these are me clubbin clothes. Lethal smiled savagely and plucked her wicked blade out of the air. So the lot of you can get changed into yer baby seal suits and we can get started.
Shes crazy. One of the skulls said with a touch of reverence colouring his voice.
You have no idea. George shook his head, letting his senses dive under the pavement to the tectonic forces of the earth itself. It was a simple thing to twist the strata, turning solid asphalt into a sticky morass that slowed the charging miscreants as the suddenly hungry earth sucked at their sneakers. He figured that he had delayed the inevitable savage beating by at least 15 seconds. Fifteen whole seconds. Enough time to say goodbye to each of his teeth individually. Enough time to contemplate the taut muscles of Lethals abdomen as she jumped up and down excitedly at the prospect of the upcoming fight. His teeth would have to do without their tender goodbye. Priorities.
At fourteen seconds Lethal disappeared under a wave of bats and knives. At thirteen seconds a high-pitched, girlish scream echoed across the street as skulls flew back in various directions. Some landed with the boneless sprawl of the mercifully unconscious, while others cried out to their deathly patrons; impassioned pleas for a few moments more of life. Only one skull was begging for death, and given where the sword had struck him, the high-pitched prayers, and in fact the cause of the high pitch itself, were wholly understandable. There was no doubt that modern medicine could fully repair the damage, but such thoughts were absent from the mind of the skull, who was suddenly thinking with one fewer brains than he had been employing minutes before. George sent a cautionary thought down to his own second brain and returned both to the task at hand. The street buckled again as fountains of rock erupted, grasping and pulling at the skulls. This arrested the motion of the skulls charging towards him, as well as stymieing the efforts of the ones who were trying to flee the five foot circle of whirling steel that encircled Lethal.
Woo! Bring it on you bloody tossbags! Lethal enthused, hefting her sword menacingly. The group attacking her had been shattered and the few stragglers were exercising what little sense remained to them and fleeing. Lethal made to pursue, but stopped herself and turned back to the group that was slogging towards George. It went against all her instincts. Prey that ran was to be chased to the ground. It was a rule treasured highly on the list of wolfly commandments; topping the ones about greeting friends with a polite sniffing and never giving up an opportunity to stretch gloriously. Still George was a mate, and you didnt leave a mate to get the claret tapped out of him. Besides, she knew she could run faster and far longer than any of the skulls. They just thought they were going to get away. They were wrong.
Ten seconds away from the predicted dental apocalypse, George turned his senses back to the pavement. The trick was keeping it squishy where the skulls were, while solidifying it wherever Lethal stepped. It meant keeping one eye on her feet and legs. To be safe he used both. The five slowest skulls were down before they even knew what hit them, and the next four managed to turn around just in time to see the flashing silver blade that dropped them to the earth. The last one turned and held his ground. He was larger and presumably stronger and more experienced. He held the double-barreled shotgun with the casual ease of long use. He didnt seem scared, or if he was, he hid it better than the others had. George gathered up another fistful of rock and threw it, but the skull caught the motion out of the corner of his eye and jerked his head back, bringing it out of line with the hurtling stone. The skull inhaled, held the breath for a moment and then gently squeezed the trigger of his weapon.
Danger! Danger! Dang-whoof! Lethal doubled over as the discharge from both barrels caught her squarely in the midriff. George winced as the pale white skin erupted into a geyser of blood and shattered pink muscle. The skull laughed, a thin, evil chuckle that carried the dark hint of the grave. Then Lethal laughed. George did too, though his held a relieved tone. The terrible wound closed up almost instantly. One second a grotesque, gaping hole, spraying blood and bile, the next, smooth white skin under which powerful muscles played. The blood and various bits of viscera had been drawn back into the wound, so only a slight splatter of blood on her blouse and slacks gave evidence to her having been hurt at all. Lethal paused in her charge and rolled her tongue around briefly in her mouth in a strange, questing motion. Her eyes lit up and she thrust her tongue out. The two solid steel slugs rested on it for a moment, then fell to the pavement. The skull watched them fall. They hit the ground at the same time he did.
Despite what you think, danger isnt my middle name. Papa says Im not allowed to change it until I turn 18.
Liesel Lethal Sawchyk
The rising sun peeked over the war walls, its soft yellow rays dancing off the gigantic globe that Atlas bore aloft on his broad shoulders. It lit the neat and orderly streets of Atlas Park, creeping along the darkened boulevards. Then it hit the windows of the third story of a five story walkup; lifting the darkness with the golden light. The light streamed through the window and onto the face of the teenager who slept, curled up nose to feet, in the center of a queen sized futon. This is when the bad things started happening. Mostly to other people. Had these people known, a dozen interior designers would have been dispatched, to shroud the window in question in blinds, drapes, and perhaps heavy ironwork with enough space to allow the egress of a mouse, but not much else.
But they didnt know. Their morning horoscopes spoke only of potential business windfalls, romantic complications and the shadow of Jupiter rising in the house of Mars. Not one mentioned Liesel rising in the rented apartment of Sawchyk. Well perhaps they did, but rather than being published in the morning papers, the prognostications were bantered around the morning cup of tea leaves in Magi headquarters and caused no small amount of giggling on the part of the seers.
Liesel awoke as the errant sunbeam crossed her face. She uncurled from her decidedly canine position, going through a series of languid stretches that would have had the average person screaming for a swift and slightly less painful death at the hands of an unmerciful god of an unrelated, and likely hostile faith. Thus refreshed, she ran her hands through the long, silky blonde hair that fell well past her waist. She grabbed a handful and brought it in front of her face, sniffing at it tentatively; her eyes did not quite cross or water at the smell, but it definitely triggered a strong, negative reaction. A similar investigation of her armpits merited the same response.
Breakfast! Shower! Danger! Liesel announced her intentions to the room. She ran for the door to her small apartment, stopping short of turning the knob before amending her list. Clothes! Breakfast! Shower! Danger!
The various piles of clothes scattered haphazardly around the apartment yielded a faded halter, comfortable, well worn sweats and a pair of battered flip flops. Thus attired, Liesel made another leap for the door and charged down the three flights of stairs, making only slightly less noise that an empty, metal trash can traversing the same route. She burst through the front door of the apartment building and sprinted across the street, oblivious to the possible presence of traffic and pushed through the door of the small Greek caf. Behind the counter Andrea Pappadimos was industriously scraping the grill, his huge, hairy arms moving back and forth with metronome precision.
You wan breakfast? Andrea rasped, the toothpick tucked into his mouth making the long journey from one side to the other.
No breakfast. Cheeseburger! Liesel hopped over the counter to the fridge and retrieved a double-handful of drinks; three bottles of orange juice, a two liter bottle of water and a six pack of Red-Bull. Andrea made an inarticulate grunting sound and began flipping burger patties onto the grill; only stopping when a half dozen were spitting and sizzling. He hefted his considerable bulk over to the fryer and dumped a huge portion of frozen French fries into the hot oil. Liesel smiled intently, not quite drooling, her left leg tapped the floor excitedly. Papa was not a fan of most American food, but Liesel had embraced it wholeheartedly and in huge quantities. It was necessary; the sheer level of her energy, combined with her ability to regenerate damaged tissue and her willingness to put herself in the path of that damage; required a phenomenal intake of calories. Papa and Mama were the same way, though their habits had matured slightly and were not subject to the added burden of teenagers hopped up metabolism. Andrea dealt a line of buns across an oversize platter, topping each with a rare, grease-beaded burger patty, a slice of cheese, and a generous dollop of tsatiki. The bun tops were slapped on and the platter slid to within arms reach of Liesel who had reclaimed her seat on the other side of the counter. She immediately fell upon it with furious energy, interspersing dangerously large bites of cheeseburger with huge swallows from the variety of drinks spread out in front of her. Andrea sighed as he dumped the fries into a basket and upended most of a bottle of ketchup over them. He approached slowly, carefully.
Grrrr. The growl started in the back of Liesels throat and her arms moved reflexively to cover all possible avenues of approach to her plate of food. She shook her head slightly and offered up a slightly guilty smile. Sorry, old habit.
Andrea placed the basket of fries on the counter and gave it a push to send it the rest of the way. His regular morning patron always paid her account promptly, tipped generously and had not yet bitten him hard enough to draw blood. There were other benefits to. It was rapidly becoming known that she favored the caf and that alone was enough to keep most of the riff-raff a healthy distance away. The initial encounter had been within the first week of her arrival. The small, blonde girl with the British accent had been enjoying supper when a group of Hellions had dropped by for their protection money. Being ear deep in a triple-sized gyros platter with extra everything, she hadnt even noticed; or at least had pretended not to notice. Then one of them made a mistake. The sort of mistake that starts wars, end lives and nominates you for a Nobel Prize in incredibly poor judgment. He had cadged a French fry. It had not been the most efficient beating that Andrea had ever witnessed, Paragon being rather cosmopolitan in that regard, but what it lacked in subtly of technique, it made up for in pure feral intensity as the small blonde had latched onto the back of the Hellions neck and proceeded to knock all his teeth out on the edge of the counter. A process that took three individual impacts. Andrea never learned if she had actually recovered the French fry, and had no intention of ever seeking out the answer. The remaining Hellions had taken it upon themselves to seek redress for the dental distress of their comrade.
Faced with an assortment of knives and baseball bats, the blonde had extended her hand and plucked a sword out of thin air. The blade was straight, double-edged and almost five feet long, but she wielded it with a single hand as if it were a baton. She had turned, slashed, nodded, and resumed her seat and her dinner, leaving the bloodied sword propped up against the counter next to her. The sight of her adding an extra dollop of ketchup to her meal had almost turned Andreas stomach. How anyone could taint a gyro with it was mind-boggling. After that he reached for the mop to clean up as best he could until the police arrived.
So the problems the diner had died out almost entirely. Occasionally a group of Hellions would show up. The new ones. Young, brave, stupid and usually hungry. In these situations Andrea did the sane and logical thing. He fed them. It was always at the same table. The one with the picture of Manticore presenting the Defender of Truth medallion to Lethal Sawchyk. They were standing in front of that very table. Manticore had his arm around Lethals shoulder. Andrea has his arm around Lethals other shoulder. Lethal had her arms around the thirty pound gyros that Andrea had made in honour of her accomplishment. The photo was signed. Woo! Danger! Danger! Gyros! Danger! The Hellions usually took several long minutes to notice the photo. After that they got very keen to leave, at which point Andrea delivered the bill to the table, which always included the 30% tried to shake down the wrong Greek tax. They paid. They always paid.
Urr-Urrr-Urrrp! Lethals burp was resonant, and she pounded a fist against her chest twice in order to ensure that every resonant gastro-intestinal syllable was given full release. Andrea nodded approvingly at the compliment to his cooking. It had taken him some effort to convince his patron that a heartfelt burp was a compliment to the cook, but trying to get through the entire Greek alphabet was not only futile, but robbed the compliment of its full effect.
See you Later Mr. A. Lethal hopped off her stool and tossed down a handful of bills on the counter. Danger awaits.
Shower awaits. Andrea reminded her. Even the perpetual cocoon of frying smells that permeated his establishment could not mask the unmistakable taint of sewer that permeated Lethal. She must have been hunting zombies in the sewers. Again.
Shower! Then danger! Lethal nodded in agreement and then sprinted through the door, the hinges strained as it banged open, but it stayed in one piece. Barely. Andrea cleared the dishes and then turned his attention back to scraping the grill. Cute girl, he would have to introduce her to his nephew Miros.
* * *
Lethal turned off the hot water and shook herself violently, splattering the inside of the shower stall. She glanced at the cold water tap and silently wondered if it worked. She had never actually tried it. The trials and tribulations of a good old fashioned sewer slog required much higher temperatures to achieve anything even vaguely resembling spring freshness. Lethal attacked the problem with the same gusto that she attacked every other problem. Pumice soap and a shampoo that bordered on industrial strength were enough to get rid of the even the most persistent stink. For the moment she was clean. Yay. Victory. Tallyho. She stepped out of the shower and wrapped a towel around her body.
Liesel glanced at her reflection in the mirror, turning her head slightly from side to side. Her finely boned features mirrored mamas but her nearly black eyes were definitely Papas. She used to joke that she had her fathers eyes, but it was okay, because he grew them back. The rough, jagged, scar that traced across her cheek and crossed her nose gave her a feral, dangerous look. Liesel shook her head. Everyone assumed that she had gotten it through some bizarre, torturous set of circumstances, involving supernatural evil, supreme peril, vampires and possibly clowns. She was deliberate in not telling the actual circumstances around it. They were kind of lame. At age five she had decided that she wanted a scar on her cheek, just like mama had. Her plan; Papa always told her to have a plan, involved a very sharp knife that was a little too large for her hands, and a bottle of India ink. Unfortunately a mirror had not been part of the plan, and the result was far more ragged, and elongated than Mamas. Still she had been very proud of it when she presented her still bloody face to her parents for their approval. Mama was aghast; doubly so when Papa suggested that it could be easily removed with a few minutes on the belt sander. While Papa seemed upset; Liesel always felt he had somehow been proud of her. Probably because she hadnt cried at all. Like that was an option. Mama almost never cried; royal weddings or the death of a friend were it; and it was always silent and very reserved. Papa never did. Ever. Period. Full stop. She could still remember watching Mama pull silver bullets out of Papa after a mission, digging the forceps into his chest, and then cutting away the poisoned flesh with a knife. No tears. No whining. Nothing. Crying wasnt an option.
William and Doru hadnt figured that out until much later, especially as their little sister was quite capable of getting them to roll onto their backs and offer up their throats. They might have been full blooded Sawchyk werewolves; but she was alpha bitch and unwilling to relinquish the position. Okay, mama was alpha to her; so was Papa, only his had a capital A. She had tried to challenge dominance with Papa. Once. He had sat her down and explained calmly and patiently that it was one thing to play at such things, but she was never, ever, to make a serious dominance challenge to another wolf unless she was absolutely, one hundred percent, willing to back it up. Did she think she could do it? Overconfidence and a combination of teenage rebellion and the perceived immortality of youth answered before the rest of her brain had a chance to catch up. Papa had smiled gently at her and then rolled back his sleeves and visited a thorough and savage beating upon her. When Mama had found out she had been appalled; and had delivered a second beating; although she had described it as training. The sad thing was that they were both right. The world was filled with hideously dangerous things, and while little Lethal Sawchyk thought she was unstoppable, there were any number of equally confident individuals who would be all too happy to prove her wrong.
A sad smile blossomed as she was combing out her long blonde hair. She missed her parents already. Especially when it came to dealing with her hair. She could manage it on her own, but it was nice to have one of them brush it out. She missed it the same way that she missed wrestling with her brothers. Wolves were pack animals and the need to congregate socially was buried deeply in her bone and sinew. So was the need to mark territory, but she left that one to her brothers. She would try and remember to call them tonight, but for now, there was danger to be fully embraced. She had another pack to hang with and the Little Legends had been tasked with dealing with a disturbing upswing in Skull activity. It was time to break heads, take names, stop for lunch and then continue.
* * *
George Heisman moved the wad of gum to the other side of his mouth and chewed reflectively. The skull continued to charge forward, a nail-studded baseball back cocked behind his shoulder, ready to deliver a huge swing. Dad always said that timing was key in sports, and crimefighting. The fist sized rock that George held in his right hand felt good, the air was slightly humid and there was a slight wind from the east. The time was right. George kicked up his leg and snapped his arm forward. Throwing the heater was out, a curve was in order. The rock left his hand with a slight back-spin, arcing slightly to the left and slamming into the white painted forehead of the charging thug. Forward momentum of the forehead was halted as the rock effectively transferred energy. The Skull flipped over backwards. The ground reached up and smacked the skull in the back. Normally this was a figure of speech, but not where George was concerned. The ground actually did reach up and smack the skull, wrapping tendrils of earth around him and pinning him helplessly to the ground.
The skull blinked several times and re-evaluated his situation. He had been stealing a purse when some high-and-mighty hero douche had intervened. As said aforementioned douche had been wearing a baseball uniform, it had seemed deliciously ironic to smash him with a baseball bat. Shortly thereafter he had been struck in the head by a fist sized rock and then grabbed by the earth itself. The situation sucked; and was likely to get worse before it improved.
Danger! Danger! Go! Tallyho! The voice was filled with enthusiasm. The manifestation of the situation getting worse from the skulls perspective, were the enthusiastic voice, flavored with an overseas accent, and a pair of legs in loose camouflage pants. Worse was also wearing well-worn combat boots. The final injury added to insult was the fact that one of the boots was currently on his face.
Please move. The skull managed as best he could under the pressure. The owner of the boots was unlikely to tip the scales at 130 lbs, but that was still not a weight that one would relish when applied bootfully to the face. The boot wiggled slightly and then lifted as the owner assessed the situation. Nice dark eyes, white teeth, a cute, delicate nose, high cheekbones, and a long, ragged scar crossing cheek and nose.
Danger! Danger! Danger! Liesel jumped up and down, adding a second boot to the enthusiastic stomping. She paused for the barest of seconds; perhaps stomping someone while they were held helpless by geological forces was not fair. It wasnt fair, fair was where the pony rides were. It wasnt supposed to be fair. Kicking someone when they were down was the right thing to do; far better than waiting for them to get back up and then knocking them down again. Far better than giving them a chance to return the favor. Her karma re-aligned with the universe, Liesel continued to jump.
Get the heroes! More skulls. Liesel considered the numbers. Was doing a headcount of skulls redundant? What did you call a group of them? A gang of skulls? A flock of skulls. Visually appealing. A flock of Seeskulls. There certainly were a lot of them. There was a rusty, shaking rattle as a nearby warehouse door rolled up on neglected tracks, the dark and dingy maw vomiting forth a spew-tastic stream of death themed miscreants.
This is going to be bloody great! Lethal enthused happily; jumping up and down in anticipation. Roight then! I call bagsies on the ten on the left, you get the ten on the right.
George considered the situation. Careful evaluation was the key to victory. They were about to get stomped. The cons were apparent. A solid beating, teeth knocked out, ribs kicked in and a long talk from dad and mom about not biting off more than you can chew. Pros. It was 4:00pm and it was possible that the pretty blonde nurse who always forgot to button her blouse all the way to the top was on duty at the medical center. That pretty much covered it. Running like a bunny was also an option, just not a very good one. Lethal might survive. No, Lethal would survive; civilization could end and all that would remain scuttling across the face of the blighted earth would be cockroaches and Lethal. Fortunately even the worst of the gypsy curses she could inflict on him were on par with the danger of hanging with her normally. No fear there. Or at least a consistent level of fear. That was reassuring.
Whos winning! Englands winning! Lethals costume abruptly changed, the fatigues vanishing completely, giving way to a short, white blouse, long red and white scarf and black slacks, decorated with elaborate red beadwork. George winced. Unlike most superheroic transformations, Lethals lacked gratuitous flashes of flesh, it was entirely modest. So much for the home team advantage.
Okay you lot. As you might ave noticed, these are me clubbin clothes. Lethal smiled savagely and plucked her wicked blade out of the air. So the lot of you can get changed into yer baby seal suits and we can get started.
Shes crazy. One of the skulls said with a touch of reverence colouring his voice.
You have no idea. George shook his head, letting his senses dive under the pavement to the tectonic forces of the earth itself. It was a simple thing to twist the strata, turning solid asphalt into a sticky morass that slowed the charging miscreants as the suddenly hungry earth sucked at their sneakers. He figured that he had delayed the inevitable savage beating by at least 15 seconds. Fifteen whole seconds. Enough time to say goodbye to each of his teeth individually. Enough time to contemplate the taut muscles of Lethals abdomen as she jumped up and down excitedly at the prospect of the upcoming fight. His teeth would have to do without their tender goodbye. Priorities.
At fourteen seconds Lethal disappeared under a wave of bats and knives. At thirteen seconds a high-pitched, girlish scream echoed across the street as skulls flew back in various directions. Some landed with the boneless sprawl of the mercifully unconscious, while others cried out to their deathly patrons; impassioned pleas for a few moments more of life. Only one skull was begging for death, and given where the sword had struck him, the high-pitched prayers, and in fact the cause of the high pitch itself, were wholly understandable. There was no doubt that modern medicine could fully repair the damage, but such thoughts were absent from the mind of the skull, who was suddenly thinking with one fewer brains than he had been employing minutes before. George sent a cautionary thought down to his own second brain and returned both to the task at hand. The street buckled again as fountains of rock erupted, grasping and pulling at the skulls. This arrested the motion of the skulls charging towards him, as well as stymieing the efforts of the ones who were trying to flee the five foot circle of whirling steel that encircled Lethal.
Woo! Bring it on you bloody tossbags! Lethal enthused, hefting her sword menacingly. The group attacking her had been shattered and the few stragglers were exercising what little sense remained to them and fleeing. Lethal made to pursue, but stopped herself and turned back to the group that was slogging towards George. It went against all her instincts. Prey that ran was to be chased to the ground. It was a rule treasured highly on the list of wolfly commandments; topping the ones about greeting friends with a polite sniffing and never giving up an opportunity to stretch gloriously. Still George was a mate, and you didnt leave a mate to get the claret tapped out of him. Besides, she knew she could run faster and far longer than any of the skulls. They just thought they were going to get away. They were wrong.
Ten seconds away from the predicted dental apocalypse, George turned his senses back to the pavement. The trick was keeping it squishy where the skulls were, while solidifying it wherever Lethal stepped. It meant keeping one eye on her feet and legs. To be safe he used both. The five slowest skulls were down before they even knew what hit them, and the next four managed to turn around just in time to see the flashing silver blade that dropped them to the earth. The last one turned and held his ground. He was larger and presumably stronger and more experienced. He held the double-barreled shotgun with the casual ease of long use. He didnt seem scared, or if he was, he hid it better than the others had. George gathered up another fistful of rock and threw it, but the skull caught the motion out of the corner of his eye and jerked his head back, bringing it out of line with the hurtling stone. The skull inhaled, held the breath for a moment and then gently squeezed the trigger of his weapon.
Danger! Danger! Dang-whoof! Lethal doubled over as the discharge from both barrels caught her squarely in the midriff. George winced as the pale white skin erupted into a geyser of blood and shattered pink muscle. The skull laughed, a thin, evil chuckle that carried the dark hint of the grave. Then Lethal laughed. George did too, though his held a relieved tone. The terrible wound closed up almost instantly. One second a grotesque, gaping hole, spraying blood and bile, the next, smooth white skin under which powerful muscles played. The blood and various bits of viscera had been drawn back into the wound, so only a slight splatter of blood on her blouse and slacks gave evidence to her having been hurt at all. Lethal paused in her charge and rolled her tongue around briefly in her mouth in a strange, questing motion. Her eyes lit up and she thrust her tongue out. The two solid steel slugs rested on it for a moment, then fell to the pavement. The skull watched them fall. They hit the ground at the same time he did.