We clear? Now gimme five.
~THE SCARLET EAGLE, UNITED KINGDOM, EARTH ZF-035~
It had been a while since Dallas Cohen had put on a proper performance.
Oh, there'd been shows, certainly. Shows that, more often than not, involved money mysteriously vanishing from banks, of the safes of too-rich companies or millionaires. But those were performances in the same way a night looking at a relative's holiday photo slideshow was stand-up comedy - you only laughed if you were in on the joke. No, this was to be a performance, something that meant something not just to Dallas, but to the entire audience that was to sit before her tonight. Something that spoke on so many levels you'd need a spelunker to find them all - a metaphor that, whilst crude, was effective in Dallas's mind.
At that moment, she was applying the last of her makeup to her face, singing quietly to herself.
"When the night has come...
And the land is dark,
And the moon is the only light we'll see..."
Ah, that song. It brought back memories, that one - memories of the first time that gold-haired hero had confronted her, so many years ago. He was much younger, then, and clearly had no idea what he was doing - simply walked right up to her, pushing the massed Kingsguard surrounding her and her boys aside, and told her in no uncertain terms that he was going to put a stop to her. Of course, he used a lot more crude words than that, but even so, Dallas had looked down upon the blond youth glaring up at her, wearing that silly outfit and clutching a sword too big for him, and knew that she was going to have a lot of fun with him.
She started quite quickly. It was this very song, actually, that she had sung as she'd pirouetted around the town, the entranced soldiers doing all the work of carting the bags of money back to the waiting jeep. And Dallas herself had kept the hero - Sam, she learned his name was - occupied by... well, things tended to happen whenever she sang. Like sudden stampedes of animals, Gillmen rising from rivers to choke people and inexplicable moon landing pods falling from the sky. That last one nearly made her burst out laughing as the blond boy clambered out of the wreckage, dazed and bewildered.
Right, mascara on. Dallas put the brush down and reached for the blusher.
"No, I won't be afraid,
Oh, I won't be afraid.
Just as long as you stand, stand by me."
Of course, being in the Magpies meant they'd come into contact rather frequently. And that had meant Dallas had been able to watch him grow up and develop, from rather dumb boy who didn't really want to do his job to a more determined, yet equally cynical man. Their encounters had been wildly varied over the years - the early days had been the bog-standard, over-the-top fights that most Ubers got into whenever a disagreement arose, and as was the custom with him being the Destined Hero, he tended to win most of them. But as he grew up, and things started to get more complicated in his line of work... well, then their interactions started to get more personal. The brunette had to hold back a giggle at the memory of the first time it happened - she'd practically had to lead the poor boy through it!
But now she'd left. And would that mean...?
No. It was for the best. Godfather had often had crazy, madcap schemes - Dallas privately wondered if the woman ever had to take pills to stop her imagination from running away with the rest of her brain. But then she'd called all the senior Magpies to her side, and had spun a tale of bruised pride, misplaced patriotic nationalism and corruption that had sent ice down the back of the neck. The Brit hadn't been fooled a bit - she could see that it was going too far, that the boundaries it was overstepping were never meant to be overstepped to begin with. Some would say she was "dismissed" after that, but she believed it was closer to "exiled".
At least she couldn't hurt anyone, now.
"So darling, darling,
Stand by me! Oh, stand by me!
Oh, stand... stand by me!
Stand by me!"
A growl caught her off-guard for a moment, and made her cast a glance down at herself. Then she caught sight of the red fabric of her dress rippling like jelly, and groaned. Of course. Israfel just had to start getting hungry right about now, wouldn't it? Not that she could place complete fault upon the demon - in a way, she owed it quite a bit. Whilst it might not have seemed like it, she'd been in a bad place when she was a child, ostracized by the others for preferring the ponies to the robots and trapped with a father permanently living in the 50's mindset of beating out "problems" from his own child with the buckle end of his belt. In a way, being fused with the living shroud had been a blessing - she could simply deafen anyone who insulted her, she could do things most other Ubers couldn't...
Not to mention, she added mentally as she daubed the last of the eyeshadow on, I get to keep my looks. The benefits of the merger were startling - even without the makeup, she still looked the pinnacle of mid-20's, with dainty cheekbones, intense brown eyes and a slim body that was surprisingly feminine. Viewed from the back, it was easy to mistake her as being an actual woman, instead of one trapped in the body she was having to make do with, and she'd weathered more than her fair share of wolf-whistles and inappropriate hands - and left the guilty parties with some scars for their troubles. Of course, it wasn't perfect, but Israfel had assured her that she would get there soon enough.
She wondered, briefly, if maybe white would go better with red than gold-
Growwwwl.
"Alright, alright," she muttered, barely paying attention as she swiped the lipstick across, left to right and back again. There. The ensemble was complete and the crowds were waiting - all that was needed was the star. And then, afterwards, she could find dinner for the tetchy dress. Maybe another homeless bum had OD'd on Nightbalm leaves again, and then she could sit back and enjoy the buzz that came afterwards. No-one could say she didn't deny herself the pleasures of life.
With a final flourish of the fur scarf (actually one of Israfel's limbs) and an encouraging message to her reflection ("Go get 'em, tiger."), Dallas Cohen turned and sashayed from the dressing room, down the corridor and into the bright lights of the waiting stage. They were all there - those few among the Showmen who had shown enough spine to follow her lead and get out whilst the going was good. Her heart swelled as she took in the sight of the eager faces looking up at her, as well as the torn pieces of plating where some had ripped off the insignias in a brash show of loyalty, and knew that tonight was going to be a special one.
As the spotlight swung down on her, Dallas cocked a hip and let a smile cross her face.
"Friends, boys and girls..."
"Who wants to stop a war?"
-------
"Come on, Jimmy," hollered the stouter of the two men as they dragged the box indoors. "Let's get dis boy in here, where we's got da tools ta open it!"
"I dunno, Ross," grumbled the shorter man, staring at their cargo apprehensively. "Kind of short notice, this delivery, eh? You'd think Godfather would have said something before-"
"Eh, Godfather's a whackjob." Another grunt came from Ross as he hauled backwards, the wheels of the trolley the box sat on scraping along the concrete floor of the garage as it traversed it's slow way to the center of the room. The garage itself was a grimy affair, rarely used by the Showmen unless a vehicle was needed to perform some sort of heist - and even then, the specifics of vehicle repair and managment were left to the Ironsides, who knew more about that sort of thing.
The box soon reached the middle of the garage floor, and both men stepped away from it. Ross immediately headed for the tool shelf, rummaging through spanners and hammers and the like in search of something that could open a massive wooden crate.Himmy, meanwhile, paused to look at the logo imprinted on the side - a very large 'W' in cartoony red fond, spangled with stars and framed by scenes of child-like characters chasing each other.
"W..." he mused. "I keep thinking I've seen that before, somehow..."
"Dat's cause ya 'ave, ya palooka!" was Ross's retort as he brushed aside some wrenches and found what he desired - a sturdy crowbar. "Wacko Industries, remember? You weren't a kid unless ya 'ad one of dem Wacko toys in the playground! Like the Funny Foam, or Dafto the Dancing Dog!" Despite the joviality from his stouter cohort, who was currently approaching the box with gleeful intent, Jimmy continued to remain apprehensive about the whole thing.
"But..." he tried at last, "didn't they go out of business years ago? So why would-?"
Timing is one of the key moments of comedy, as anyone will tell you. So a good comedian would have been able to appreciate the timing with which the top of the box erupted outwards just as Ross was shoving the crowbar into the gap. The fat man's yell of surprise as he flew several feet backwards and crashed into a rack of spare piping was also rather funny - at least, to someone who had that sort of sense of humor - and the way Jimmy nearly wet himself in shock was also a nice touch, in a crude way.
"That's right!" yelled the figure that scrambled out of the crate like a gaudy monkey. "I did go out of business, and it's all that Destined Hero's fault!" And before anyone could protest, it started leaping about the garage as though it were made of springs, knocking over everything and anything unfortunate enough to be in it's path. It even trampolined off of Ross's stomach at one point, winding the poor New Yorker as he lay dazed amongst the discarded parts he'd cannoned into earlier.
"He," ranted the stranger, "has better looks!" He seemed to be working himself up into a frenzy of anger, despite all the bouncing around. "He has a legendary sword! He has a world-wide following of impressionable young children, aspiring youths and heart-throb ladies that, no doubt, laments his blessed dissaperance from the face of this planet! But Wacko Industries has..."
An old tin whistle was pulled from the pocket. A crazed giggle echoed off the walls.
"TOOOOOOYS!"
The shrieking whistle made both Magpies cover their ears with shouts of horror. And when they opened their eyes again, their new leader was suddenly surrounded by walking dolls, train sets, balloons and things that looked as though they'd walked out of a museum for children's nightmares. And only when did they actually look upon the face of this intruder did they make the connections, and the color went out of their faces until they were almost as pale as he was.
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| Art by Retromissile |
CLOWN MAN
Mirthful Lord of the Magpies
Designation: DWN-060
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