The Works of Nick Hayden

Three levels up, in a flurry of fire, din, explosions, and shouts. Bullets whizzed past his head; flame throwers singed his hair; shrapnel from crudely constructed bombs streaked over his body as he hit the floor. The picture-commands from Molly came in swift sequence, showing him his next action before he took it. Three precise shots of a first-generation pulse pistol to knock a chunk of ceiling onto two Gemini mutants, spin, a spray of bullets to send the Anarchists United foot soldiers ducking for cover, a quick spurt forward, launching off the struggling Gemini mutants, a spin kick into a Yang pupil, touch solid ground, roll for cover as a rocket raced down the hall, exploding against the hasty barriers of tables, cabinets, and electronics set up by who knows who.

In the momentary rest, Clint found himself disoriented. Where was he—or, more accurately, when was he? He focused so powerfully on the flood of picture-commands that for a second he did not know whether he was in the first timeline, which was happening, or in the second, which would happen presently. It was like watching a film with the audio out of sync and wondering which was ahead, the picture or the sound.

He let the moment pass him by, let the predestined decision go unmade. His head cleared. A anxious hush, full of muttering and maneuvering, filled the hall. It was time to move again.

He flung the empty pulse blaster into the hall—three shots was all it had, hence the first-generation moniker—using it for a distraction, and rushed out immediately after. An immense sense of disapproval came through the link. Molly did not like him making his own decisions. Well, at least when his life was on the line, he supposed. But when wasn’t it?

The bolt of a crossbow struck him in the shoulder just as the command to dodge came. The blow knocked him off balance. He caught himself before he smashed into the ground, rolled out of the path of a second crossbow bolt. The pain would begin when he had a chance to feel it. He sprang to his feet, unloading his gun on the Merry Men who had injured him. He was surrounded on every side, in the middle of the wide hallway, with little in the way of shelter.

Gritting his teeth, he unleashed a boom of sonic disturbance, a burst of high-pitched din so grating his brain wanted to shut down. It disoriented his enemies for a moment. He loaded the scorched earth device, his fingers fumbling, the circuitry jiggered up by his injury, but the gunfire started up again before he had finished. He crammed himself against the wall, holed up behind a dead body, and finished readying the device.

The commands from Molly had ceased after the noise bomb. He hoped it hadn’t whatever connection linked their thoughts. He hesitated a moment before firing, hoping she would give some indication of what to do next. If he fired this shot, it only left him with one, and this time he had no cover.

Suddenly, the image came—his body spread across the floor, dead.

He disarmed the device, quickly.

Another image—a great arc of electricity, crackling madly.

“What the—?” He had no idea what it meant. But before he could finish his thought, a third image, hallways, with men falling to the ground in convulsions.

He acted immediately. The dead man in front of him wore leather boots. He yanked one off, keeping low, cut a wide strip with his micron blade, and wrapped his extendable hand in it. An overpowering nausea of danger washed over him just then. He shot his arm into the hole in the ceiling, grabbed on, and hoisted himself into the air in the middle of the hallway, spinning like a twisted up swing. He fired recklessly as he spun, a pinata for the shooting.

Then it came, rushing through the walls and floor and ceiling, a great burst of electricity. Clint had no way of knowing its cause, but he’d bet the rest of his ammo that Doctor Destructo had initiated the shock, using the Island’s immense generators and his own brilliant mind for destruction. The men all around him shuddered and fell to the floor. He swung precariously, his hand sheltered by the leather, waiting for the charge to dissipate.

He wondered how Molly had managed, but she had had forewarning and she was resourceful.

He hung waiting until the command came, this time is words: All clear. He dropped down to the floor, the commands already returning.

He took the steps three and four at a time, jumping over limp bodies, dead or unconscious, he didn’t know. The silent, empty stairwell was disquieting, and almost disappointing. The hallway filled with rag doll men flopped about darkly humorous. Clint bit off a bitter laugh. The Doctor had twice now shown no compunction in slaughtering whoever got in his way in vast shows of power and cruelty.

Levels passing with quick, unhindered ease. He once saw some of the Doctor’s own men leaning Weekend-at-Bernie-like against doorways.

Two levels beneath the control room, Clint realized a simple fact. The elevator would no longer be guarded, and if it was, the better the surprise. He punched the button, stepped in, chose the floor, then thought better of it at Molly’s insistence. He waited and thought he heard heavy gunfire above, where the elevator would have opened.

“At least I’m expected,” he said. He bolted up the next round of stairs, stopping long enough to pull the crossbow bolt out of his shoulder. Luckily, it had hit mostly machinery. His arm responded sluggishly, but what was new? He’s been breaking down all day.

“Are you in?”

“Give me some time, Clint. Even with these schematics, hacking into the Island’s systems takes time.”

“Be careful. Just the survelliance system. Be gentle. Be invisible. Be—”

“Be quiet,” Molly interrupted.

“I’m just antsy. I’ve been sitting still too long. I gotta get moving.” Clint checked over his guns again. He had managed to snag one loaded with three shots of scorched earth. A beautiful weapon. Extremely dangerous, but beautiful. Also, he had reloaded his arm missiles. “Almost there.”

“Go talk to Darnov,” Molly said dismissively.

The Mystic was fastened to the cot. He hadn’t bothered to resist. Clint liked to think he saw that it wouldn’t help matters. Foresight was helpful making bad guys compliant.

“Anything else I can get you?” Clint asked. “A soda?”

“Seriously, Clint, just be quiet.” Then, after a moment’s thought. “A soda would be great.”

Eagerly, Clint ducked out of the room into the empty hallway. He’d managed to snag Molly a laptop a half hour ago without encountering anyone. He heard noises, shouts, and gunfire all around now. They’d be in the middle of a fire fight soon. Clint smiled. It was about time.

He jogged to the vendor cubby, pounded the machine with his fist until something came out. He turned at a movement at the door way. A single man stood in the doorway, uniformed in green and yellow, like something out of a Zelda game. One of the Rangers of the intergalactic being Xerlon. Weird, weird cult. He hadn’t expected one of them here. Probably just on the bandwagon so they could be taken seriously.

Clint lifted a machine gun in each arm, feeling a twinge of pain in the previously injured shoulder. “Well, what’ll it be?”

The other dropped his gun and raised his hand.

“That’s smart. Tell you want, you run along and tell everyone you meet I’m coming. Showdown time. Sound like a deal?”

The Space Ranger nodded and ran off.

As Clint stepped back into the dormitory where they had holed up, Molly said, “Almost there. Don’t ask again.” He handed her the can. “Thanks. I really need some caffeine.” Her fingers flew over the keyboard, her eyes darting rapidly from screen to Darnov’s handwritten instructions. She was tailoring them to their particular plan on the fly. “This really is incredible,” she said. “Whatever he is, Darnov’s no idiot.” Finally, she leaned back, rubbing her eyes. “Done. We should have access to all the camera feeds without the system’s AI noticing. You ready?”

“Are you kidding?”

“Hey, Clint?”

“Oh, Molly, don’t start with the good luck speech.”

“Hey, I always give that speech before you go on a mission.”

“I know, but, really—” Her expression stopped him in his tracks. “Fine, go ahead. It’s a lovely speech.”

“I don’t want to give it now.”

“Look, I don’t have time for this. A block down there’s a battle raging. You said yourself whole sections of main level are filled with air poisoned by chemical weapons.”

“I know. I just…” She stared at her computer. “Just, good luck, okay. And come back.”

Darnov stirred on the cot. “This is intensely painful. Just kiss her, man. This is why I live in solitude,” he muttered. “Idiotic posturing.”

Molly stared red-faced at Clint, and he decided to check his ammo again.

“Bold on the battlefield, timid everywhere else,” she teased, flashing him a smile.

“It’s not really proper. I mean, you practically created me.”

“Stop it!” She turned away, half-angry.

He knelt down, turned her face toward his, and kissed her forehead. “A promise. I’ll return.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“I love you, too.” He stood. “So, Arturo, you’ll do what we agreed upon?”

“I am less likely to suffer at your hands than at any of theirs.”

“Exactly. Well, that’s that.” Clint tapped his temple. “Keep in contact, Molly.”

“Three of Valhalla’s Sons will come around the corner when you exit.”

Clint nodded, slipped out the door, and started blasting away, sparks flying off the corridor walls. He heard the Sons of Valhalla scrambling back, shouting to one another in their outrageous battle cries. Clint crossed the intersecting hall, showering the enemy with bullets, and continued on without a backward glance.

Elevator’s disabled. Marco’s men and some Feministas in the nearest stairwell.

The words came more as images and certainties than words.

Clint threw two grenades in before he entered the stairwell, then blasted through the door.

Right.

At the speed of thought, Clint received the command given to Molly by the prescient Arturo. He pressed himself against the wall. A knife clanged against the wall near him.

Up, now.

He took the steps three at a time, releasing his extendable hand. It grasped the shoulder of one of Marco’s men. He slammed the man’s head against the railing, bullets lancing through the other who still stood. Leaping over the bodies, Clint reached the door to the next level.

Flashes of information.

Big to-do. Yang’s guys, Unified World goons, handful of lesser thugs. You’ll be right in the middle. Stay low.

Clint hurled himself out into the hallway, skidding along the ground, throwing a grenade each way. By the time his shoulder butted against the far wall, he had his guns blazing.

“Old Star Wars routine,” he said as he ducked into a doorway. “You know, the droids avoiding all those laser blasts at the beginning of New Hope.”

Concentrate.

The image came through as Molly’s eyes, stern and disapproving. Clint laughed.

The gunfire began again, more furious than before. Several sonic blasts whizzed by, the choice weapon of the Unified World Organization. It was going to get hairy.

Flare shell wall to next room.

Clint loaded his first scorched earth device, closed his eyes, said a quick prayer, and unloaded it into the hallway. The blast knocked him to the ground, and the subsequent wall of flame forced him into the back corner of the room he had taken refuge in. The air ignited in a flash, streaming through the hallway as if it were dry tinder. In a few seconds, it passed, and the air that rushed in on Clint seemed frigid by comparison.

Silence.

He sat up. The arm that had covered his face bore scorch marks on the metal. He whistled.

“I took care of it. Wanted to save the flare shells.”

Get going. Up.

“Yes, ma’am.”

He stood, entered the hallway that had been scorched clean, and headed to the next stairwell.

[note]Author’s Note: Well, this is the last official day of National Novel Writing Month. In respect to the goal of 50,000 words, I’m a miserable failure at 22,000, but that doesn’t matter much to me. 22,000 is still more than I ever managed in a month, I believe, and I never really expected to reach 50,000. I’ve really enjoyed the project. Buckethead is the sort of story I don’t think I could have written under other circumstances. The looseness and frantic pace are partly derived from the constraints of the method in which it was written.

I’ll continue to work on it at a good pace, but perhaps not daily, until it’s finished. Thank you for putting up with the numerous grammatical errors and free-form plot creation. I hope you’ve enjoyed the story as much as I have writing it. Someday, perhaps, I’ll even revise it, fill in plot holes, smooth out rough patches, and make it presentable.

Here’s to the ending I’ve yet to write![/note]

“I shot him,” Molly said, her voice quiet. “I shot him.” The words had a ragged edge.

Clint saw where this was going. He grabbed Molly by the shoulders, forced her to look directly into his face, away from the man she had shot, and spoke slowly. “Look at me. Look. You did good. This man once told the authorities he knew the location of a bomb, and when they followed his information, the ended in an empty building just as another went off across town, killing more than a hundred. You know other stories as well. If you want him to come to trial, you need to bandage him up. Trust me. He was going to use us.”

Molly wide eyes stared into Clint’s for a long moment. Then she nodded. “I’ve just never shot someone…”

“Don’t think about it, not now. If you do, he might bleed to death. Get to it.”

Molly’s expression normalized. She shook herself. “Of course.”

Clint pushed her to the edge of senses and focused intensely on Arturo Darnov. The robed figure leaned against the wall, hand pressed against his wound. Slowly, he lowered himself at Molly’s insistence and sank into the cot. Clint pushed the hood away from Arturo’s face.

No one knew what Arturo Darnov looked like, and Clint was rather disappointed to discover that he seemed perfectly ordinary. Light, short-cropped hair, an angular face, with a well-trimmed beard. Startling blue eyes. Arturo met Clint’s gaze and smiled bitterly. “I am not sure I like surprises,” he said.

“Don’t talk,” Molly said.

“I will live, at least.”

He grimaced in pain as Molly enforced her no talking rule.

“I’ve heard rumors,” Clint said. “Some of the eggheads conjectured that you could see the future. I guess you can. Do you read thoughts as well?”

“Intentions,” he muttered, then glanced at Molly. “Possibilities rooted in personalities.”

“And who grants you these visions? God?” Clint asked skeptically.

“The Universe,” Arturo answered.

“Clint,” Molly said sternly. “Stop distracting my patient.”

“I want to know how he knows what he knows. It’s not from God, given what I know of the consequences. A demon? A supercomputer?”

“I opened my mind to the Universe, and it whispers its secrets in my ears.”

“The human brain has corners we don’t understand,” Molly said, resigned the conversation. “Some think because tachyons travel faster than light, they could transmit information outside of normal channels of causality. Or maybe he’s an X-Men.”

“Or a god.” Arturo smirked.

“I’m done with him. Stop him from bleeding. I have to think.”

“Are you all right, Clint?” Molly asked.

“What? Don’t I look dandy? I mean, besides the battle scars?”

“I mean—you’re going to think? Normally you just barrel in. Or let me do the thinking.”

“Funny. Now, quiet. I’m a little rusty at this cogitating thing.”

Molly flashed him a private smile. It didn’t help him concentrate. Neither did Arturo’s stifled groans as Molly did her thing, using the regulation first aid kit stuffed under the cot. But it was necessary to get this right. He was only going to have one shot.

Arturo had risked exposure because he had believed Clint would want what he was offering: a method of taking out or capturing a large swath of the world’s worst villains in one quick offensive. If Clint wired into the Island’s systems and took control of all the movers, sealed doors, automated weapons, and emergency procedures, he very well might be able to contain or kill the majority of those who wanted his head. America, and many other nations, would be thrilled.

Even without a comprehensive knowledge of the Island’s systems, though, Clint saw two problems. The first was the system itself. Perhaps Arturo’s codes disabled the many anti-infiltration firewalls and AI interceptors programmed into the mainframe, but Clint doubted it. Whatever prophetic powers and hi-tech wizardry Arturo possessed, it would take near infallible information, coupled with a top-notch caliber hacker to manage complete takeover. Probably.

Second, Doctor Destructo still had his EMP ray, and if he pieced two and two together when the Island started rebelling—and he would—he’d likely sacrifice a great deal to wipe out Clint’s systems with the Island’s. Perhaps Arturo knew that and didn’t care.

No matter how he looked at it, Clint was convinced he was meant to be a pawn in someone’s game. Arturo meant to use him to rid himself of competitors, or was it chaotic elements in his view of the unfolding future? Doctor Destructo had thought himself the only one privy to Clint’s transponder code. He had planned the take over of the Island. But someone had given him the information and double-crossed him. Who? And what did that person have against Clint?

Clint pushed these questions from his mind. They didn’t help him at the moment. What was necessary first was a simple question. Did he still mean to face Doctor Destructo and all the rest.

Absolutely.

Question two was trickier. How?

He surveyed what he and Molly had snatched from the armory. A good start, and he was cocky enough to believe he could tackle all the factions with a half-dozen guns and innumerable explosives. But they would slaughter Molly. If he went full throttle, he wouldn’t have the ability to protect her as well. And she wouldn’t stay and hide, not without a reason. Well, she might, if he pleaded, but he wouldn’t ask her.

He pondered as Molly removed the bullet, stopped the bleeding, and sewed the Mystic up. When she finally turned to him, hands and clothes bloody, trying to move a stray strand of hair behind her ear without touching it, he was grinning foolishly.

“Oh no,” she said. “You have been thinking.”

“Yes, yes I have.”

“Will it work?”

Clint laughed. “I haven’t any idea. But it’s clever, and a little bit fabulous. Arturo, you want to live, I suppose? Or do you want to join the Universe?”

“It is not time for me to join the Universe.”

“Politic answer. Look, I won’t ask you if it’ll work, because I don’t really want to know, and I wouldn’t believe you anyway. But I will say this, just so you can add it to all the strands of the unknown you’re weaving together in that block of yours. Molly shot you once, and if need be, she’ll do it again. Trust me. She’s made of stronger stuff than she looks.”

“Oh, thanks. So I look weak,” Molly said.

“What? I said you were—never mind.” Her eyes flashed mischievously at his flustered response. “So, Arturo Darnov, great mystic of the universe, about that proposal I promised….”

Clint whirled around, gun ready, but he hesitated, not knowing what he might hit if he let the bullets fly. Not everything stored in the armory was stable.

The man before him was thin, his face hidden in a cowl. He stood with his hands folded before him, a thin shadow of a smile just visible.

“Who in the blazes are you?” Clint demanded.

“Come, Clint McCleary. Do you really not know? I’ve waiting some time for this meeting. Your handler will get it, just about now…”

“Arturo Darnov!” Molly exclaimed, grabbing Clint’s arm. The most enigmatic and unpredictable of the great villains. Rarely seen, sporadically coming to the surface, motives unknown, actions often terrible, but occasionally beneficial, bold, coldly fervent, sterilely passionate.

“The Mystic, yes.” He bowed slightly. “We have seven seconds before they bombard that door. Perhaps we should take precautions so we can talk in safety.”

Clint rushed forward, swinging his fist, but Arturo moved smoothly out of the way. “Five seconds, Clint,” he said. Clint answered with three ore swings, which Arturo dodged just as easily.

“We’ll go with you,” Molly shouted. “Clint—we’ll go with him.”

“Are you insane?”

A grenade exploded outside the door, blasting it off its hinges. Clint reacted instantly, pulling Molly to the ground. Suddenly, a succession of explosion burst the world into chaos outside the armory.

“That will hold them for another 15 seconds,” Arturo said calmly. Amidst the smoke, Clint saw the villain’s hands slip effortlessly into the folds of his robe. “Perhaps 20, depending on their courage. Come with me. We have mutual interests. I need your…assistance, and you need mine.”

“Clint,” Molly prodded.

“Yeah, yeah, out of the frying pan, and all that. You got a way out of this, Mystic Man?”

“Follow me.”

Arturo Darnov turned with a swirl of his robe, and walked quickly and efficiently along the row of guns, explosives, and partially tested hardware. Clint pulled what he could off their racks as he passed, handing three guns to Molly, taking an armful for himself, hanging several rings of explosives around his neck, and grabbing a box of mini-missiles he thought he could use in his built-in missile launcher. Before Molly could even think of commenting, he stopped her. “Hey, I’m not leaving without getting what I came for.”

“Through here,” Arturo added, walking straight toward the end wall; he seemed to pass through it and disappeared.

“This is a really bad idea,” Clint said.

“What hasn’t been, today?”

“Coming back for you.”

“We’ll see.” She was smiling. “Ladies first?”

“No way—stay behind me.” Clint walked forward, scanning the area with his sensors. The readings were fluctuating wildly. Just as he should have hit the wall, he passed through it as through an open doorway. They were in an unused dormitory room.

Clint turned in time to see Molly enter in through a solid wall. The readings leveled out.

“You are amazed. Don’t be. You understand so little of the intricacies of the world. With the proper mental concentration, one can accomplish feats once only attributed to gods.

It was definitely some new tech, Clint tried to tell Molly. He didn’t know if she heard. It was a complex thought. Deep-seated emotions, direct imperatives, seemed to transfer most clearly.

“Sit,” Arturo motioned with his delicate hands to one of the two regulation cots. Clint lowered himself slowly, unloading his supply of weapons and taking one handgun, holding it ready. He helped Molly unload her arms. Arturo sat across from the on the other cot, strangely bent, more the ghost of a man than a physical form.

“Is this going to be quick?” Clint asked. “I’ve got a lot of butts to kick. Starting with yours.”

“I will take no more time than is necessary and available. I discovered the location of this military base more than a year ago, but I have only now had reason to visit. Do you know how many of the great villains have congregated on this spot? Please, don’t try to answer. It takes unnecessary time and I find it redundant. All of them are here, right now. Seven of the minor organizations have representatives here. In the last four hours, the last of the players have walked onto the stage. It is nearly the moment when you must act.”

“I was already acting when you—”

“Quiet. Take this.” From the vast expanse of his sleeves, he presented a small data pad. “Actually, give it to your handler. She will need to make certain changes to your programming.”

“I’m here, you know.”

Clint took the pad, touched the screen to wake it up, and saw a collection of settings. He handed it to Molly.

“With these instructions, you will have the ability to use your electronic processing power, coupled to your frenetic pace of thought and reaction, to control the entire Island,” Arturo explained.

“For what purpose?”

“For the purpose of eliminating everyone. My foresight is long, but it is often unclear because of the actions of these power-hungry men. You can rid of the world of them, and we will both benefit.”

“This has been your plan all along!” Molly accused him. “You are the one who broadcast Clint’s transponder code to the world.”

Arturo gave a look of slight surprise. “No—that was quite unexpected. I believe it was an opportunity someone took when chance smiled upon him. But I am willing to use chance as well as fate in my designs.” He paused, looking hard at Clint. “Will you…will you do as I suggest?” He sounded uncertain, and eager for his uncertainty to be assuaged.

“Don’t you know?” Clint taunted. “You seem to know everything else.”

“This, I don’t know.”

Clint nodded, a plan of action entering his head.

Shoot him. Shoot him. Shoot him. He repeated the thought over and over in his head.

“Please, Clint, let’s not have violence,” Arturo cautioned. It will fare you no better than before.”

Suddenly, Clint leveled his gun at the Mystic. Shoot him, shoot him, shoot him. Arturo raised a hand. The gun flew from Clint’s grip as if Arturo had grasped it with the force.

The next moment a shot rang out. Arturo grunted in pain. A spot of blood stained his short. Molly held a gun in her trembling hands.

“I never—expected—” Arturo muttered.

“Help him,” Clint ordered, pulling the gun from Molly’s hand. “We want him alive.”

“How?” Arturo asked. “The idea never entered her head. I know. It was in yours….”

“Oh, it entered her head, just not in the normal way. Now, I have a proposal for you.”

Clint stopped suddenly, backtracked, and took a different turn.

“Clint,” Molly warned.

“Trust me.”

“I know where you’re going.”

“I’m sure you do. Great minds think alike.”

“You want to alert the whole Island to our presence?”

“I can be stealthy.”

“Like a hippo—”

“Okay, that’s enough of that. We’ll need firepower to get out of here alive. The armory’s the best place to firepower. It’s only a auxiliary armory. How many guards could there be?” Suddenly, gun shots rang out down the hall. “Get down!” Clint yelled, covering Molly with his body.

“You had to ask….” Molly muttered. “You’re suffocating me.”

“Give me the rifle.” Clint scanned the hallway. The hallway ended in a T about thirty feet from them. Whoever had shot at them had taken cover.

Clint let off a short burst as he stood, crouching low. “What’s on the walkie?”

Molly listened. “They’re talking fast. There’s action somewhere.”

“It’s going to be here in a minute. Here, keep firing in short bursts. I’m going to rush them.”

“Are you nuts?” she hissed, but he broke into a sprint. Bullets from Molly’s firing whizzed past his shoulder. He caught the emerging figure at the first moment and launched himself toward the far wall, landing hard and disoriented as the spray of bullets rattled air. Molly answered, tucked away in the frame of a doorway now. Clint stumbled to his feet, legs almost too fast. He hoped Molly had the sense to let off before he ran straight through her line of fire. He barreled ahead, the fire ending just as he reached their path. The other gunner started to round the corner; Clint slammed a fist into his face, splaying him on the ground.

Come now, come quick, Clint thought, trying to direct the words to Molly.

Three other suited men—the Doctor’s—waited tensed in the hallway. They hardly spared a second for shock before pulling their triggers. He released three flare shells in succession. They were barely warmer than a splash of hot water, but the soldiers’ instinctive reactions to get out of the way gave him another second. He kicked of the near wall, engaged his thrusters full blast, and flew through the air toward the closest soldier. The tumbled together, and Clint held him down low.

Now! Now!

Bullets filled the corridor as Molly opened fire. She hit one, who fell to his knees. The other ducked into a doorway and began to fall back as soon as the barrage ended.

Clint subdued the soldiers beneath him, keeping low as Molly opened up again. The injured man fell dead.

“That’s it,” Molly gasped, discarding the gun. “No more bullets.” She was breathing heavily. She knelt down beside him, wiping the sweat from her face. “There’s not really time to worry about dying, is there?”

Clint indicated the suited man he had taken out slugged. “Take his gun, and search him for other weapons.” Molly nodded and obeyed.

Clint did the same to the man beneath his knee. He found a small, oddly shaped pistol with a pointed projectile inserted in the barrel. A spike of joy illuminated his being. New weapon. He didn’t have any idea what it did. Even better.

“Do you like this?” Molly asked.

“Like what?”

“Being a maniac?”

Clint shrugged. “You get used to it. When I say go, we start down the hallway, full speed, firing as we go.”

“You’re insane.”

“You’re the one who assigned me to jump on a nuclear missile.”

“That was different.”

“Because you weren’t on the nuke with me?” He grinned. “No worries. Quick lesson: Live like you’re invincible. You’re not, but you’re more likely to survive if you don’t hold back. That’s why they fear me, Molly. Because I don’t flinch when we play chicken. Ready?”

“What do you think?”

He took her hand, squeezed it. “If you were anyone else, I’d tell you to hide and wait until the action died down. But I trust you.” He stood. “Ready?”

“Stop asking me that. Just go.”

“Okay—go!”

He bolted forward, releasing a primal shout that filled him with a sort of visceral triumph. Molly added her own voice, higher, wilder, slightly unhinged. Clint heightened his thermal sensors, piercing through the metal walls, warned Molly and turned as he passed open doorways filled with waiting men.

The hall ended with a final turn, that ended at the door to the armory. Stay hidden, he commanded, heating a flare shell. He dove low around the corner, firing his pilfered rifle with one hand and firing the unidentified weapon with the other.

Six men hunkered behind makeshift defenses, the locked armory door behind them. Their fire blazed over his head as he came around the corner. The ducked behind their barriers of metal crates and tables.

The strange projectile collided with one of the crates burst into a web of fine filaments that landed like a net over the men. Then a jolt of electricity pulsed through the many fibers. The men dropped limply to the ground.

“Come on, Molly!” Clint launched the flare shell at the armory door. It blasted a small hole though the locking mechanism. He took his micron blade and finished cutting through the lock, heaved the heavy door open, and closed it as soon as Molly was in.

“I saw them coming,” Molly said, catching her breath.

“From behind?”

Molly nodded.

“I figured as much. We’ll be ready for them.”

“Perhaps,” came a new voice. “But are you ready for me?”

[note]Author’s Note: I wasn’t sure I’d manage a full-length entry today, since I had a Church Council meeting that lasted two-and-a-half hours. The rest of this week will be spotty, too. Tomorrow is my son’s and my nephew’s birthday, and Thursday’s Thanksgiving. I’m going to try to finish Buckethead still by November 30, but it may have to be continued for a bit afterward. We’ll see.[/note]

The staircase was not a continuous unit; certain parts of the Island’s design had been encouraged by extreme caution bordering on paranoia. The single staircase that connected all floors seamlessly allowed an intruder to move between levels with ease, they the builders constructed the stairs so that each connected with only one other level. It took some time to get clearance to violate fire code, but since the Island was ultra-covert, the Powers That Be finally caved.

Clint and Molly sat at the landing between the two levels and planned. Also, Clint had nearly tumbled down the stairs; his legs hadn’t re-mastered the stair step yet.

“I’m telling you, we knock out the guard, take his clothes, find some clothes for you, and we’re set. We’ll walk right into the control room without any trouble. I should have thought of this when I was trying to rescue you.”

Molly raised an eyebrow but remained silent.

“What? You don’t think it will work?”

“Does Doctor Destructo employ women?”

“One of the men’s suits will fit.”

Both eyebrows went up this time. “Really.”

“You have a better plan? There’s no use over thinking it. It’s not my style.”

Molly nodded reluctantly. She carried the automatic rifle, a little unsure of its weight. She held the walkie-talkie up to her ear. They had dialed the volume down. “They’ve switched to some sort of code.” Clint listened: “The mass optimization of quantifiable elements 9.12 is completed. Scheduling marketing campaign for 8.1 immediately. Goal of market saturation going as planned.”

“Turn it off,” Clint said. “Navajo would make more sense. Ready?”

“As a hippo in a tutu.”

Clint bounded up the stairs, letting quick bursts of his thrusters cushion the sound. Molly followed more slowly after.

At the door, Clint listened, amplifying the sounds to get the best sense of what lay on the other side. Breathing. A slow sway of feet. One guard, alone. Glancing back at Molly, who waited a few steps down, he nodded. Then he swung the door in, grabbed the man in his arms, and wrenched him back. As the door was closing, he saw two bare-chested men turn a corner. They saw him. The door shut.

“We’ve got company,” Clint said, wrestling the guard to the ground. “Yang foot soldiers!”

He hated to kill a man unawares, so he cut off the struggling guards air to black him out. Killing in battle was part of the game, but you should face the enemy head on.

“What do I do?” Molly asked, the pitch of her voice rising.

“Shoot the door! I need a few seconds!”

The fury of the rifle echoed through the confined staircase. Holes peppered the door, Molly shouting half in fear and half in exhilaration. A few bullets flew close to Clint as the guard began to succumb. “Watch you aim!”

“Sorry!”

The guard was out. “Stop!” Clint shouted to Molly.

Before he could make a move, though, the two Yang foot soldiers blasted through the door with a tandem flying kick. It smashed into the wall with a tremendous crash!, almost ripping off the hinges. Clint came at them with a fist, which the first leaned away from and the second caught in his palm. Quickly, Clint released the fist, letting loose the cord. The second Yang’s attempted flip became a ribbon dance. But the first Yang grabbed the cord with a lightning grasp and, spinning around Clint, wrapped it around his neck. Clint launched himself back into the wall, smashing the little, muscular man hard.

His grip loosened a hair, so Clint followed up with two more heaves into the wall, pushing away a sudden disorienting sense of vertigo. He stumbled on the third try, fall toward the railing. The unintended move cleared him from the second Yang’s flurry of punches. He caught the movement out of the corner of his eye and forced himself limp. Flat on the floor, the Yang on his back took the axe kick meant for him. The impact still knocked the wind out of him. But the cord had loosened enough to let him draw it back in.

He managed to catch a glimpse of Molly on the staircase, swinging the rifle back and forth to follow the action. When she saw him glance at her, she lowered the weapon. He thought she muttered, “Stupid.”

He rolled over, simultaneously removing the cord from around his neck and pulling his hand back in. He caught the standing Yang’s leg with his returning hand and pulled it out from under him, giving him the moment he needed to find his feet.

They all three squared off again, the two Yangs exchanging knowing glances. Clint was cornered against the railing. The ground seemed to tilt beneath his feet.

Attack.

The command came as a thought. Clint didn’t hesitate but rushed forward as if hoping to shoulder through a brick wall. The two foot soldiers spun, the one leaping into the air, the other remaining grounded, to catch him in the pincher of their iron-clad feet. He took a blow across the face, another in the gut. He staggered back, head spinning. He raised his hands to block his head from the next assault, but his arms responded sluggishly. He barely deflected the blow. He threw himself into a roll, closing his eyes and letting his internal heat-sensors show him his situation. Three bodies. One in the air above him. He flashed out his legs, hitting the attacker above him. The attacker collided against the railing, his graceful movements disrupted. Clint jumped to his feet, barreled full-bore toward the cornered foot soldier. The railing ripped from the wall at the impact. Clint caught hold of one of the support bars as it flew out into the open air. His opponent landed hard on the steps below. He hung above as if from a rung of a dangling ladder.

He dropped down on on the unmoving body, gave it a quick, suspicious look-over, then ran up the steps. Molly stood at the top of the platform, holding the rifle like a club, her hands around the barrel.

“Thanks,” she said breathlessly.

“The distraction was your idea.”

“Did it hurt?”

“Everything hurts today.”

“Not much hope of wearing their uniforms for disguise.”

She was right, of course. Yang foot soldiers always went shirtless, with loose red pants.

“There’s still the other.” Clint grabbed the handrail as he took the last steps. Now that he had slowed down, his vertigo was worse.

“I don’t think so.”

Clint looked at the man who had been pressed up against the wall during the fight. He was six-eight and remarkably thin.

“Well, it sounded like a good idea,” Clint said. “All right, new plan. I want some missiles. And some explosives.”

“Before or after we find EMP ray, take out Doctor Destructo and three other evil organizations, and escape with our lives?”

“Before, preferably.”

“Anything else?” Molly asked.

“Get Doctor Destructo to tell us who gave him my transponder code.”

“Gotcha. No problem. You do understand that if the Yang Brothers’ forces have made it this far down, we could encounter anyone.”

“It’ll makes life interesting.”

“My idea of interesting is watching video feeds as you beat people up.”

“Then stay behind me and imagine you’re watching a iMax in 3-D.”

“Thanks.”

Clint stepped into the hallway. “Coast is clear. Let’s go.”  He took Molly’s hand. “By the way, good job with knocking that guy out.” And he led her swiftly down the hall.

The transition from unconsciousness to reality was confused, jarring, and unpleasant.

“What? What?” he muttered. From his point of view, Molly had been screaming at him to come to for ages and eons, taking form after form in her eternal persistence.

“Quiet,” she cautioned. “I wanted to let you rest longer, but there isn’t time.”

“There’s never enough time.” He felt oddly detached from his own body. “Where am I?”

“None of that, now. Think, and you’ll remember. I’ve been listening in on communications going in and out of the Island. The Yang Brothers have breached the defenses.”

“The Yang—-they haven’t that kind of firepower. They basically foreswear the use of all weapons that don’t involve a punch in the face.”

“They aren’t alone. The Sons of Valhalla and Marco’s cabal are both in on the assault.”

“Let them duke it out with the good Doctor. We’ll be rid of them all.”

Molly sat in one of the ergonomically correct comfy chairs the government had had designed to encourage efficiency and creativity. Molly used them mostly for twirling in circles. She stared at him, exasperated. “You do know why they’re here, don’t you?”

“For the Island.”

She stood suddenly, and started backing medicine, syringes, and other supplies into a black duffel bag. “We don’t have time for this. Stand up. We have to move. The sweeps are getting close.”

Clint decided to obey. She had the pain pills he’d need later. He awkwardly sat, his center of gravity titling uncertainly back and forth, like a top ready to stop spinning. His entire body was numb. Sitting, he felt as if he were hovering just above the operating table.

“Careful,” she said. “You’re systems are screwed up, and the rest of your body is heavily drugged.”

“What did you do?”

“I dumped some half-completed, backward-engineered Doctor Destructo nanites into your chest. We were trying to get them to repair cells and microchips. They haven’t been tested fully. Hello, guinea pig.”

“Hello.” Edging off the table, he found that his balance settled to a near equilibrium after a few seconds of motionlessness. “What are the side effects, doc?”

“Nausea, constipation, sudden shocks, loss of balance, unplanned restarts, unresponsive limbs, pestilence, famine, and death.” Molly zipped close the bag. “You ready?”

“As a hippo in a tutu.”

“That doesn’t make any sense, Clint.”

“You’ve never seen Fantasia?”

“I’ve seen it, but I don’t see what that has to do with—”

“I was just saying whatever popped into my head. It’s funny. Cheer up. We’re not dead yet.”

The first few steps ended with Clint face first on the ground. Even after he hit the floor, he felt he was still falling. “I think I liked it better when I was bleeding to death. At least that was dignified.”

“As a hippo in a tutu.” Molly helped him to his feet. “That’s how you use that particular simile.”

“Well, call me an uneducated lout and get it over with.”

“All right. Let’s go, you uneducated lout.”

The next steps, more tentative, almost glacially slow, went smoothly. He was learning to compensate for his lack of balance. The trick was not to trust his eyes, but the firm resistance of the floor beneath his feet. He slid his boots across the floor, hardly lifting them as he moved forward.

“Really, we don’t have any time.”

“And how do you know that.” Slide—slide—slide.

“While I was patching you up, I used your communications system. With the right tweaking, I caught most of the transmissions in the area.”

“You used me for my mind.”

“If you want to put it that way.”

He’d managed to exit the lab, and he thought he was really getting the rhythm of walking again. He was afraid to stop now that he’d got started. Molly glanced at him. “Segway?”

“I can make it.”

Molly nodded. She understood. He wanted to be able to move on his own again, and taking the easy way wouldn’t help him do that.

“What’s the plan, Molly?”

“I thought I’d leave that up to you.”

“Have you contacted General Hugh?”

“No. I couldn’t find a way to do it that wouldn’t be tracked. They have the Island’s sensors at their disposal. Listening in took some creative approaches not to be detected.”

“Why are they here, Molly? You conveniently dodged that question.”

“Yes I did. I thought you were smart enough to figure that one out. Maybe you need more processing power installed.”

A sudden notice pinged in Clint’s brain. He knew the information rather then heard it. “Someone’s just entered this block.”

“Oh, and I hooked you into the security network. Up?”

Clint absorbed the details he’d not realized were at his fingertips. They’ve been searching for us, starting at the bottom, forcing us to the surface.”

“They want you Clint. All of them. That’s why they’re here. You’ve made a lot of enemies. They’ve all been defeated at one time or another, but you haven’t been. How many times have different groups tried to kill you since yesterday afternoon, counting the nuke? And you’re still here, almost in one piece.”

“I take a lickin’ and keep on tickin’.”

“It makes them mad, Clint. It makes them furious.”

They slid into a small lunchroom. Across from where they entered was a second door, leading to a parallel hallway. Peering through it’s window, they saw the door to the staircase guarded by a single soldier.

“Only one,” Clint said.

“There’s fighting up above. That there’s on here and probably at every other staircase or elevator door despite that shows how much Doctor Destructo wants to be the one to tear you to pieces.”

“Do you have your access card?”

“You can’t run it. They’d track it.”

“Fine.” Clint scooted over to the vending machine, unsheathed his micron blade, and cut through the glass. He quickly ate a turnover, a Snickers bar, and two bags of chips. “It’s mostly air,” he said when Molly watched him take the second. She helped herself as well, starting with a bag of M&Ms. Clint then cut a hole in the pop machine and drank down two. Then he took a third.

“Watch this,” he said.

He held the can in his fist, swinging his arm in large circles to satisfy himself he had the control he needed. The feeling was beginning to return. Dull pain hovered beneath the skin.

He grabbed the handle of the door, turning it carefully, and edged the door open as the guard looked the other way. With a snap of his arm, he released the full pop can. It collided solidly with the guard’s head. He fell limply to the ground.

“Show off,” Molly said.

“That’s why they hate me, I guess.”

They quickly crossed the hallway, pushed the unconscious guard aside, took his rifle, knives, and walkie-talkie, and ducked into the staircase.

Molly continued to stare at him with an unfathomable expression. She looked disheveled, but not much worse for the wear. Actually, Clint thought she looked absolutely stunning, like something solid in a world of mirages. He didn’t much worry about the way her face continued to contort. He had been overcome with a certain sense of accomplishment, and as he lay on the floor, his body a collection of pulsing wounds, he thought that he had done a good job after all.

Then she began to speak: “You—You stupid, stupid, stupid man!”

Her eyes were full of water. He could not understand what she meant by the words.

“What happened to you?” she asked accusingly. “Look at you. You need a doctor.”

“You’re a doctor.”

“Don’t be smart with me!” she barked. Then she began to weep. She buried her face in her hands.

Clint stared incomprehendingly at her. Groaning, he moved toward her, half dragging himself across the floor.

“Don’t move!” she said hysterically. He didn’t listen to her, but drew close, wrapping his good arm around her. She leaned her head against his chest.

“I’m bloody,” he said.

“I…I know.” She was regaining control of herself and scrubbing away tears furiously. “I’m sorry.”

“You’ve been through a lot.”

The edge returned to her voice. “Not about that. I’m sorry that you had to come.”

“I wanted to come. I had to come.”

She pulled away, not angrily, but to display her independence. She was a short woman, and a little chubby, but she could exude the command of an Amazonian when she wanted to. “I sense a whisper of your thoughts in my head now. You kept trying to get ahold of me, didn’t you? You reestablished the connection.”

Clint let himself slide to his back. “Who knows? It’s your tech, not mine.”

“Thank you.”

“I can’t deal with this Molly. First you yell at me, then you thank me. I’ll be unconscious for a moment. Wake me up when you start making sense.”

“You’re the one who let yourself almost get killed—twice. I don’t want you dying unless it’s under my orders.”

Clint laughed weakly. That was the Molly he knew. She didn’t mean a word of it and he didn’t believe a word of it and it worked because they both knew the other didn’t take it seriously.

“They’re going to find us any moment,” Clint said. In his mind, he willed himself to sit, but his body didn’t obey.

“No they won’t.”

“Fine. I love wishful thinking. While we’re at it, let’s wish for a stake dinner and some Vicodin.”

“I heard you shouting the code I left you. They won’t find us.”

“It didn’t do anything.”

“It shut off your transponder. They won’t find us.”

“Come here, Molly. I want to plant a giant, bloody kiss on that cheek of yours.”

In direct contradiction, Molly stood, walked away from him, and peered out into the hallway. “What a mess, Clint. How many were there?”

“Too many.”

“I can see that. We need to get those wounds tended before you pass out. My short little legs aren’t going to drag you anywhere.” She knelt down near him. “Can you get up?” She held out her hand.

“If I have to.” He took it. Gritting his teeth, he struggled into a sitting position. Then, with more help than he wanted to admit, he stood. Molly supported him, his limp arm hanging over her shoulder. “I’m not faking you know. Wanted to have your arm around me.”

“You’re delirious.”

“I might be.”

They entered the hallway unsteadily. Looking back at the destruction he had caused, Clint caught sight of something discarded along the wall. “Over there,” he said. “Let’s use that.”

Molly set the Segway upright and tested it. It seemed functional. Helping Clint lower himself to a seat on the platform, Molly pulled the Segway behind her, towing Clint along.

“Hey, Molly?”

“Yeah, Clint.”

“Where we are going?”

“Doctor Heinlen’s lab.”

“Oh.” A moment later. “Molly?”

“Yes, Clint?”

“How’d Doctor Destructo manage to get past the main defenses?”

“Some sort of EMP ray. Knocked out everything for a few minutes. Like those shock guns he used on you once, remember?”

“Yeah, I remember. You weren’t paying attention the first time I almost died apparently.”

“I could hear what was going on. I couldn’t see it.”

“Molly?”

“What, Clint?”

“Are we there yet?”

“Shut up, Clint.”

“Molly?”

Molly stopped. “Look, I know you’re dying and you’ve had a hard day, but mine hasn’t exactly been cake, either, so no more useless question, deal?”

“It wasn’t a useless question.”

“Okay, fine. What did you want to ask.”

“Do you suppose that EMP ray’s still around?”

“Maybe. Why?” She sounded suspicious.

“I’d like to use it again. I mean, while we’re here, we might as well take out Doctor Destructo. Maybe we can take out the Yang Brothers, too. What do you think?”

Molly began pulling him along again. “I think you’ve lost a lot of blood.”

“So you think it’s a wonderful idea. I knew you would.” He was starting to feel light-headed. “Molly?”

She refused to answer.

“You were totally worth saving. I’d do it all again. Three times even. But there I draw the line. Three’s the limit.”

“You’d do it a fourth time.”

“True. You’ve caught me. I’m madly, madly in love with you. Madly. Insanely. So on and so on. Ad naseum. Are we there yet? I’m feeling really out of it…. Molly?”

“What?”

“You better catch me.”

He passed out.

[note]Author’s Note: Just wanted to say I discovered I totally mispelled Segway a few chapters back. And I’m so glad these two are back together.[/note]