Monolog

What the hell are you thinking? That I'm some kind of fucking parasite? I provide a simple service. I organize and run the largest criminal syndicate in this country. Do you even know what that means?

Of course not. You probably think all I do is have my underlings set up schemes to steal from people so that my cut keeps me in a decadent lifestyle. That perspective is shortsighted... and borderline retarded. If the head of an organization does not contribute, it gets replaced. I have to provide a service to the people under me, or they won't have me. I perform a useful service to the city too, of course.

Oh? You don't think a criminal syndicate can do some good? You're not really aware of what the fuck we do around here, are you? Yes, we bring drugs into the city. There's a market for it. Simple economics will tell you that you can't outlaw a good, you can only affect availability and price. We control that market. We keep it... quiet. There's no dealer hanging outside the high schools. Little old church ladies don't see a bordello across the street from the library. The good people of this city only have to see the seamy realities of life if they want them, and only when they want them.

And it's not easy. Last month, this kid was caught selling dope in his own school. Tragic story, of course. He was found dead of an overdose in his family home. I mean, of course the DA was curious about where he'd gotten the drugs. Of course the kid was willing to cut a deal. Which... made him a narc, an independent, a kid-pusher, and not part of the family. I think you take my meaning here.

Since I keep things quiet and give the local government plausible deniability, I'm providing a service. If I go away, crime rates appear to go up; nothing gets hidden. Out of sight is out of mind.

Different proposition for the folks working under me. Most of them just want to make a shit-ton of money, and to hell with the consequences. Not an uncommon mentality in this day and age, but one that tends to destroy the business. Sure, our various rackets are pretty easy to rebuild. Drugs just require a new batch, a hitman gets replaced, a prostitute finds a new corner, and shit rolls on. But the benefit of organization is fronts.

You know, a front? I rent an office, file taxes, everybody gets social security, health care... all the benefits of living in society, instead of against it. Income gets laundered. Legbreakers can tell their parents they're working collections for that bright and shiny new firm. Proud parents, happy psychopaths.

Some people, of course, don't give a shit. They think it's gotta be all about the cash. Young shits who never had anything to live for. Old fucks who never saved for retirement suddenly doing the math. I can give 'em the carrot of easy money. But they'll always need more. They could own Ohio and think they should also buy Michigan. They could take over France and Italy and still think it was a smart idea to invade Russia in winter. They will not learn from someone telling them.

So, them... they get the stick. They gotta get burned. Maybe I don't stop a police raid that'll catch 'em with their pants down. Maybe I just have a fellow in jail give 'em a bit of a talk. Probably with lube. People need to understand they are not invincible, even if they are, for a moment in time, powerful. People are some dumb shits tho. Some can be scared straight, or at least back on our crooked little path. Others... too dumb to live.

Sheesh. You know, I lose about a third of my manpower that way? I get some that make it to retirement, but, boy... they are some rare ones. I've been paying some of them to do workshops for the young shits and new hires. Don't know if it helps or not, but anything that makes a kid think "Hey, I have a future if I don't fuck up."

Ah well, I'm rambling. Tends to happen when I have to kill some time. Heh, get it? Ah, right, it's not all that funny when you've got cement drying around your ass. But, hey, you tried to shoot me in my own home, in front of my kids. That's your ass, you know?

Now, sure, you're dead. Give or take a few minutes, right? You get to call in one favor though. You get to tell me what drove you to this point, where you thought you had to kill me. Maybe I gotta whack one of my boys, since someone's stepping on some toes, eh? Maybe your family's in peril, and you're not even really my enemy. I'll saddle up a posse and rescue what I can of your people. Maybe you're just an idiot who picked the wrong house to burgle... but you got through my security somehow.

You tell me how the fuck you ended up here, and maybe you get to go to your imminent grave satisfied that your death wasn't in vain. You make it a secret you take to your grave, and I will find if you have any living relatives, and I will involve them. Oh do not give me that look. You waved a gun at my fucking children. You don't tell me, and you can find out how little it helps you in this world and the next.

Every day, you must learn a new thing. You grow old when you fail to learn more. Learning keeps you young, keeps a sense of wonder about you... but some lessons age you anyway.

If I tell you the sensation I had was a headache, you will think of a migrane, a throbbing sensation localized in the head, likely to the point of incapacitating the sufferer. I felt like my nervous system was on fire. It wasn't still on fire, but every nerve wanted to let me know that they'd all felt the worst pain ever a few seconds ago.

I found out later that you can never truly remember the pain of that sort of telepathic assault. It was a feedback loop. My 'captor' had brought in a mind-reader to help sort out my language problem. He probed from outside, trying to get a sense of what he was dealing with. And evidently, not only did he feel the same pain of my bruises that I did... I could feel him... feeling my pain. It's a feedback loop. Whenever someone capable of telepathy comes across someone else, they usually need some sort of device to dull their powers. I would call this "Psion's Friction".

I opened my eyes, and walked out of the cell... again.

"Ah, you recovered! Excellent." The tech-girl spoke.

"Ah. Yes. You... figured out my language?" I asked, knowing somehow that wasn't the way I understood her.

"No. You'd only gotten as far as showing me the dictionary before you passed out and Claudia had me call her friend an ambulance."

"Claudia? The lady... with the bow?"

"Yes. I'm Lacey." It sounds like Lay-See, and I could just about see how it'd be spelled... in a language I never actually learned.

"How... okay, first, pleased to meet you, Lacey. I'm... call me John. I understand your language?"

She'd gone back to her workbench. "It would appear so, yes."

"After I passed out... I learned your language? What happened?"

"Oh! Of course you wouldn't be familiar... um, we brought in a customs agent. He's a mind-reader, and one familiar with minds that don't share a common language reference."

I can't say I was thrilled at the notion of a place where the government employed mindreaders... but it at least made sense to use them as customs agents. If you had to use them. But then, if you didn't, wouldn't someone else? I was getting sidetracked. "He taught me your language then. Not sure I like having my brain messed about that way... something could go badly. Is that why I passed out?"

She kept her eyes on... some sort of novelty arrow she was messing with. Like she was winding floss inside a thimble and occasionally tightening something with an allen wrench. "No. That sort of power is probably impossible. No, you learned his language, while he was trying to read your mind. And you both... sort of short out after a bit. pfzzt." She finished with the arrow-thing, and moved on to some other device. "Brightside, you don't short out like meltdown circuitry. Brain goes shutdown, reboots. Bit like hangover, perhaps."

"Wow. Okay, I know I got every word you said... I think I understand you, but..." How the hell do you ask someone holding a soldering gun if they're talking crazy or if it's just your new language having some growing pains? I've never seen an ettiquette guide for this. Maybe this world would have, what, a 'Miss Manners' for superheroes? Manner-Lass! Okay, not by that name, sure. "Are you understanding me clearly?"

For the first time, she paused in her work to consider what I was saying. She resumed even before answering. "Yes, as clear as anyone. Your accent is, of course, unplacable. You pause oddly, but some of that is likely the circumstances. Most people, when dealing with matters fully outside their experience are given to caution and rigorous testing of thought process. You act very human, and appear to be in lousy health. Likely some sort of desk job, by my analysis."

"Um, yes." I blinked a bit in surprise. "I do a lot with business and computers. Contract accounting, generally."

"Yes. Well, you also outran Claudia, and caught up with a man who robbed a bank with superspeed. Then countered the psionic who tried to figure out your language. This suggests you are remarkably dangerous, and likely unpredictable. To ensure you are not a threat, I have already made provisions for everything I have learned about you to be transmitted to the world at large if anything happens to me or Claudia. I will not tolerate any threat to my family," She turned around, brandishing something like a cattle prod with a pulsating glow at the end that might have looked pretty if it weren't aimed in my direction. "Do you understand me?"

"Very clearly!" I backed away. "Just don't shoot. I'll go back in the cell, whatever you want."

"Good." She put the baton away. "Oh hell. My meds." She took a pill and seemed to calm. "I get a bit... emotional off these. I... it's nothing personal. But you're clearly an alien that passes as human, likely from the rifts we've seen around town." She picked up the baton again and... sharpened a shaft with it. I'd just been threatened with an arrow sharpener. "See, I also wanted to be sure you weren't still reading minds. If you were, and were a threat, you'd know I wasn't bluffing about telling the world about you. And that I was bluffing about the 'weapon'." She smiled.

"Um. If I were a threat, and had read you properly, wouldn't I want to show fear anyway? To delay, if nothing else?"

Lacey shrugged. "There is a reason I take these pills and do not make the tough decisions. I do better with machines than politics and people. Still, you do not object to the threat of scans and tissue samples of your person being used against you?"

"Well, I wasn't planning to take over your planet. I wasn't planning on coming here either. Um, I had to trust Claudia with my life, just being... you know, not from here. This changes nothing. And if it turns out I carry some cripping disease, or if you guys have some nasty bug I can die from... medical data could save lives."

Just Ice

The hand gripped his shoulder from the gloom surrounding our table. It was gloved, in a hot, sweaty room, on a day that I remembered as warm... many beers and cards ago. The voice hissed from the darkness for what I realized was the second time.

"Tell them."

"What?" The man in the grip of that hand was no friend of mine, though it was not the first time we had played together.

"Tell them... what you did." A pause, and then a further rumble, "To her."

A photograph fell to the table, near the pot. Some pretty girl, backpack and youth suggested a college kid. None of us knew her, but the man in the clutches of that dark hand seemed to recognize her after a bit. "She... how did you get this? What do you want?"

Even now, details stand out as I think back. I did not see the fingers clench, but I knew their grip tightened as the flesh of their victim's shoulder whitened. "I want you to tell them... what you did... to her. Now."

"Alright, alright. She's a... a hooker. Paid her a few times and... fuck. Aaah!"

The thumb of the hand had moved slightly, I think probing a nerve. The next nerve was struck by another photograph. This showed a naked corpse... repeatedly stabbed. I couldn't tell if it was the same girl as the first photograph. One of the other players turned from the small circle of light... I heard retching. Maybe he puked, I don't know.

The fingers relaxed their grip, and I saw an arm shoving the... he wasn't really a victim, if this was true... the guy. He was shoved face down over the photograph, struggling with the hand on the back of his neck until his cheek touched the picture. All the fight went out of him. Not that there'd been much to begin with. I think... he could have moved the table, or kicked at the dark figure holding him... but he wasn't afraid of being caught anymore, I guess. He just... just didn't want to look.

None of the rest of us moved. We just watched the life drain out of this guy, and he started sobbing. The voice came again. "Tell them. You have to say the words or it'll never ever end."

The guy blubbered out a confession, of course. I knew from the moment that second photo appeared. Whatever excuse he had, I can't say I was really listening. No, that's not right. I didn't want to. He was saying it felt so good, like, better than sex, the power... and... I was glad the voice cut him off.

"The rest of you have a choice. Do you stand with him, knowing what he's done... or do you walk away, knowing what I will do?" The guy was hauled back in his chair, and I heard a click as he was cuffed to it. "Think about... if you have a sister, or a cousin... some family you never see, and she was... selling herself. Perhaps drugs were involved. Maybe she had a child to support. And someone cut her face, her breasts... cut her hamstrings when she tried to run, and stabbed her crotch when she tried to crawl. Left her to bleed." The guy sobbed once. "Would it be fair to leave him to my... tender mercy?" The hand grabbed the guy's hair.

The guy who gagged was the first to leave. I... I was the last. I had to know... "What will you do?"

"Castration, and then, if he chews and swallows it fast enough, he'll live to get medical attention."

I nodded, a little bile rising in my throat. "That seems... mild, by comparison."

Another photograph fell. A woman, heavily bandaged, in the hospital. "She lived."

I thought for a moment. About friends, and years past. "You're doing it here? Do you... need anything?"

"If he chews? Just ice."

Waking up is hard to do...

I came back to consciousness with a ringing in my head, bruises on my groin, and as a result, my will to live was conspicuously absent. After a while, curiosity overwhelmed misery and I examined my new surroundings. 6' by 10', small toilet, cot attached to wall... one door. Ah, great. A cell.

I tried to remember any useful advice for this sort of situation. The closest I remember is the medical advice of a softball coach. "Walk it off." I question his medical expertise, but, it seemed unlikely that anything was going to involve either of my heads hurting any worse. I was, of course, as wrong as you would expect. But at least everything seemed intact; if a bit loudly complaining.

The door was unlocked, rather to my surprise. A strange woman looked up, waved, and went back to... it looked like she was soldering something to an arrow. A nearby groan alerted me to another cell, like my own, but containing my old "friend", the bank thief.

I limped over to the woman. She looked me over, and produced an ice pack. Knowing the language barrier, I bowed low. She seemed... rather unmoved by my presence otherwise. Skinny, pale... goggled... something of a lab geek. I suspect she could also kill me with any of a dozen implements she had within easy reach.

I had questions, but... well. Some difficulty posing them. I pointed to my head, made "beep beep" noises and mimed the impact of the truck. Then pointed at my groin, shrugged, and put the ice in my lap, trying for a facial expression asking a question, rather than implying constipation.

The woman... I'll call her Labbie for now, seemed to understand. She held up a metal sphere, with a cord attaching it to... another sphere. Ah, bolo... oh. Right, that would rack me pretty good. I nodded my thanks.

Trying to find out what was going to happen to me after this... proved a bit more difficult. I did succeed in making enough of an ass of myself that this stone-faced mystery girl smiled... for three seconds. Then I had the best idea I had since coming to whatever hell I'd landed in. I gave her my cellphone.

The idea was, that these things have to be easy to use. And one of the functions in this one was a dictionary. She could possibly figure out what english was, and maybe be able to start teaching me the local lingo.

After a few minutes of going through the menus, she seemed to realize something, and tapped... I swear it was her belt buckle; before talking into space, fairly excitedly. After a bit, she stopped, nodded, and swallowed... some pill. I noticed over the next little while that she got less excited, although she didn't really slow down her speech.

Of course, I didn't spot details like that normally... but if you can't understand the words, and your life might be on the line? You find things that do make sense. A pill to curb hyperactivity, for an adult? Had to be a psychoactive medication... which meant I could be in trouble if she forgot to take her meds again. Or maybe that just meant she'd be really calm if she decided I was in dire need of dissection.

After a while, she stopped talking, and smiled stiffly at me. She brought up a computer display of an analog clock. She drew a couple lines on it... if it were like the time I was used to, she was saying it'd be about half an hour before... whatever it was we were waiting on.

I nodded, and pointed to the symbols around the edges... and held up fingers to match, if they were the same as the numbers I was used to. She nodded, patted me on the head, and went back to whatever she was doing to the arrows, effectively dismissing me.

Who watches...

The corpse was still warm. The fire probably had something to do with that. It didn't take a genius to figure out that this was the same vigilante serial killer that had been touring the country. I could see the writing on the wall as well as anyone.

"Oh, gods. Boss. Whew. Um. We've got a tentative ID on the victim..."

"Right, the Fire Chief? Caught taking bribes to gloss over safety regs last month... charges dropped, of course."

"Uh, yeah. How'd... how'd you know?"

I stared at the kid. I pointed to the wall, where the motive was written... possibly with the victim's blood, or the killer's bile. I'd later find out it was trace amounts of naptha, so the words would scar themselves in the wall when the fire started. The kid was better than average. He didn't move his lips too much as he worked through it.

"You, uh... you think it was the same killer as... as the police chief?"

"Yep. Doesn't take a genius kid. Same guy or group. I'm still not sure it's just one guy. It's like some kind of a movement... or organization. Big on poetic justice, hoisting by their own petard." I saw the kid's eyes glazing at the advanced concepts. "They kill the corrupt with the things they're corrupt about."

"Huh. So... how'd they find out the guy was corrupt?"

You have to love nepotism. If this guy didn't share genes with someone in city hall, he'd have to study to ask people if they wanted fries too. "Watching the news." Hmm. I wonder... "If you think that's a way to narrow the field, better start working that angle. How many people could there be who pay attention to the news?" I didn't bother holding the edge of irony out of my voice. If he caught it at all, he'd think I meant it the other way.

"Oooh. Good idea. I'll get right on that." And the kid took off. Ahh, the silence. If he didn't give up hope... he might just finish that errand sometime after I retire.

I toasted the CSI flaks with my coffee and surveyed our handiwork. I wasn't too worried about catching the guy responsible for this death. A really careful vigilante that targets white-collar crime? Nah, I had bigger fish to fry.

Like arranging for this little pissant aide of mine to shoot his uncle the mayor. Poetic justice is a lot more fun than procedure.

Not necessarily relevant.

"Okay, doc, I'm sure you've had to operate in far worse conditions than this." MacKenzie said, closing the blinds to the small hotel room. "Bright side, you shouldn't have to do any surgery. But you're the most discrete and well-trained that I could find..."

The doc looked a bit pityingly, "I'm here as a favor. I won't say to whom; neither will you. But usually, if a man needs a veterinarian, and there's no animal, he's trying to get a bullet wound treated and has seen far too many crime dramas... and not nearly enough first aid training. If you don't need me for surgery, what do you need?"

MacKenzie finished fiddling with the blinds, locking the door... and turned to the doc. "Well, I'm the patient."

"Naturally."

"Right, right... um. Ok, this isn't easy for me. I'm not..." The small, swarthy man stopped fidgeting, and flexed... growing a couple inches, a couple breasts, and a very fine figure. "Human." He... she? MacKenzie spoke with a softer, more melodious voice... though all of the anxiety remained.

"Holy... shit! How... what?" The doc dropped his case, composure, and into a chair.

"Yeah. I know. I'm some kind of shape-shifter. I guess." She held up an arm and bent it in ways no bones can tolerate, and grew a few thumbs, then a lot of hair, and finally shook it back to a more photogenic appearance. "As far as I know, my folks were human. I had a very happy childhood for the first twelve years... but that's beside the point."

"I..." The doc blinked a bit. "Okay, you're... maybe human, but not... okay, why me?"

"Well, I've got an itch, and I was wondering if it could be some kind of allergic reaction... or if I need to take an antibiotic... or antifungal. I mean, I guess it could be some form of jock itch."

"I mean," through gritted teeth, "Why me? If this isn't some trick or hallucination, you are not human, and should be studied for..." He stopped and blinked a bit. "I just answered my own question, didn't I?"

"I'd rather avoid dissection. It's pretty much the definition of a last resort. I suggested a veterinarian, because... well, I could be some form of alien, and you'd be the closest thing to a practicing xenobiologist. Of course, I also happen to be something you or anyone with a PhD would love to molest in the name of science. So, in addition to you needing to stay on the good side of our mutual friend, I'm going to make sure I leave here looking like this." She posed, showing off her altered physique. "And a private investigator friend of mine will have some nice photos to show to your wife."

"This is just to keep you honest, alright? Nothing personal, just... I am putting my life in your hands, and, well, if you can't handle a patient that can cripple you for life, you've no business working with horses either." The 'woman' removed her t-shirt and jeans. "Now the affected area is right here." She gestured to a patch of skin with an assortment of welts.

"Ah. I... erm." The doctor leaned in to look. "You are probably the second most distracting patient I've ever... hmm."

"I could turn into someone else? Still going to leave like this. Or I won't fit in the dress I picked out."

"Well, I don't know what it is just by looking. Let me get some swabs of this, a bit of blood..." He sighed. "Christ, this is why I never went into biological research."

"Blackmail from shapeshifters?"

"No." He ticked off items on his fingers, "I don't know: what you are; what can cause this; what can grow on you; what you're allergic to; or even if there's a medication that is safe to use on you."

"Ah." She wiggled her way into a tight red dress. "At least you're handling this pretty well."

"Er, I suppose? I'm just trying to ignore the implications for now. But... why are you getting dressed? I need to swab those welts if I'm going to study anything."

MacKenzie handed the doc a large envelope. "Blood drawn early this morning. There's a urine sample there too. And you can probably guess what's on the cotton swabs in the little baggie." The vials of fluid clinked within as the doctor opened the envelope.

"Ah, good. Hopefully that will be enough blood. Um. Right. You know how to get in touch with me if symptoms progress. Not sure what I'll do, exactly, but as long as you don't melt, I suppose I'm better than nothing. How do I get in touch if I find anything?"

"I left a number in there too." MacKenzie primped a bit in a mirror, adjusting the length of her hair. "After you've had a chance to check the bloodwork, I'll submit to a more thorough examination."

The doc looked at her, and at the envelope. "Ah. Yes. I... guess you thought this out in advance."

"I had to. Like I said, I really do not want to end up dissected. And, hey, if you tell... well, it's about as believable as saying you had a sasquatch in for arthritis."

The doc left shortly after MacKenzie. And waved at the PI with the camera.

Three days later, the doc called the number.

"MacKenzie." A man's voice answered. "Good news?"

"I guess. I assume you're certain you provided the samples. Everything came back pretty normal. Type A- blood, human. Normal cholesterol levels, even."

"Right... I assume it's not my diet that's the issue?"

"Well, it'll be more important later. See, the white cell count was normal too. Can't be an infection or an allergic reaction if the immune system isn't involved. Have you encountered any nausea?"

"Not really, why?"

"Morning sickness. See, the urine did come up positive on a pregnancy test. And the swabs have rather a lot of estrogen." The doc droned on a bit about other things he tried to test with what he had. "I really hope you don't expect me to be a midwife..."

"No. No... I... shouldn't need you for that. Just... I'm going to need some time to digest this."

"I'll bet. Figure the reason it turned into a rash is that it had to go somewhere when you turned male... hopefully, you can work it back into a better spot for the remainder of gestation. Anyway, you know where to get me if anything comes up." And the doc hung up the phone.

The veterinarian grinned, and dumped the unopened vials from the envelope into a trash bin. "Sheesh. No payment, threaten my marriage... and I'm supposed to risk these samples in a lab? Suck my malpractice." After lighting the contents on fire behind his clinic, he touched his wedding band thoughtfully.

"So, that's when you first realized the world had superpowers and started using them yourself?"

"Hell no. From my perspective, my adrenaline kicked in, traffic slowed for the two... well, three idiots in the road, and I tuned out the sounds of the city to run."

"Ah, yeah. Most people have trouble remembering details in a fight, or traffic accident."

"Nah. It's hard to observe everything. You never really forget, and you never know what was going on the way someone watching from the sidelines might. But that's my opinion."

"Your opinion as the... Overlord of humanity?"

"Heh. Sure. But anyway, from my perspective..."

-----------------------------------------------------

I ran down the street, and thought "Oh, wait, I might be getting in the way of that trained policeperson... or whatever. Then again, that means I'm ahead, and... gaining." I learned a few things in the next few minutes. I learned that having no combat training, and jumping a guy who's running for his life... is as bad an idea as it sounds.

I tried grabbing his shoulder and pulling him backwards to the ground. He grabbed my arm and pulled forwards... and I tripped, he dragged me bodily for a bit, and then his bag got under the wheel of a passing car. He let go of it and started punching me in the face.

I grabbed his wrist, tried to get my feet under me, tried to throw him off balance... tried not to fall under the cars that I suddenly realized weren't actually stopping where they could be dented...

Then a bolo whipped around us, calling a merciful end to the pummelling, and adding bruises to my bruises that used to be ribs. The man I was now bound to, after a moment, stopped, and screamed in my face. Which seemed rude, but it made a lot of sense when the minivan caught me in the rear.