Nivi's journal Entry 3
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“Uncle” Kwong used to make me watch old-style, two-D videos – the predecessors of our trideo movies, I suppose. They are clumsy things, but they can be strangely appealing. There is a costumed super-hero called Superman (not kidding, those people had no imagination) in one series. He stood for all sorts of unbelievable twen-cen ideals and could withstand bullets, fire, drowning, hanging, stabbing and getting killed in any other lethal way.
Anyhow, I was so bored with watching those things, that I never did see how they end. Our latest adventure made me wish I had paid more attention. How do villains actually threaten someone who can’t be hurt in any way?
It started at a wedding. By the way, my new rule number 1: Never accept a wedding invitation from an incontinent troll. It does not go well. The troll’s friend, Bernie found us heaping nutrisoy salads on our plates and offered us a job. I must have been drunk to accept. He told us he would pay our expenses for it, but is that really worth risking my life over?
Bernie told us that his good friend, Binky had gone missing. Binky, apparently, was a philanthropic mage. The name sounded vaguely familiar to me, and I suddenly remembered hearing that he moonlights as a clown, at children’s parties. Despite my better instincts, I was interested – maybe he knew my dad, in the old days. Torgo, the troll, seemed happy for something to do and the Stabinator was, as always, eager to get into a fight. So we agreed to look into it. I changed my clothes, cursing when I realized I had left my street shoes at home. (Note to self: Bernie owes me ¥100 for a new pair of Kinjo pumps.)
Binky’s home was in a grungy apartment building, in a very seedy part of the slums. Outside, there were a few friendly locals who told me that they liked him and were worried about him. He had been acting strangely before he vanished about a week ago. Of course, “strangely” to people who pee on street corners may either be “he came out dressed in plastic wrap, hopping like a kangaroo and yodeling” or “he came out dressed like a normal person and took a job for one of the Big Ten”. Or anything in between.
We climbed the stairs to his apartment. Without considering the noise or mess, the crazy troll smashed the door. I wish he would warn me before he does that – he almost took my eye out. We went in cautiously and searched the place. It was a small place, with a strange design on the floor – a design which looked identical to summoning circles in one of those introductory magic books. I stayed as far from it as I could but the troll muttered something about it not being the type of magic Binky was known to use and wandered up to examine it closer.
Our other companion searched the sleeping area and suddenly exclaimed “Guys! You gotta see this thing!” which made me jump. He was staring, transfixed, at one of those ancient “magic eye” posters. Sighing, I went back to searching the apartment. At almost the same instant, the troll and I spotted a book on the shelf. It was much newer than the others and hadn’t absorbed much of the surrounding griminess yet.
The troll snatched it from the shelf and declared, “It my magic!” which I interpreted to mean that it was from his same tradition. Or that Binky had swiped it from the troll. Or that it was now his. I wondered if it was somehow related to Binky’s disappearance.
His apartment told us that he had not been around for some time, with rotting food in the fridge and garbage. Naturally, the smell of the garbage drove the troll to root around in it. The stink just forced me outside again. I wondered if I might be able to get a bit more information from his neighbors or the vagrants outside.
When I got outside, the vagrants had gone. Perhaps one of the soup kitchens had opened. I wandered around, looking at the filthy street and back up at the apartment building.
Mr. Stabby was babbling into our communicators, “I’ve figured it out! It’s a schooner and some dolphins!” I sighed again. My feet ached in those shoes and I’d need to bathe for an hour to get the street smell off. The troll was peering down from the top of the apartment building and announced over his comm., “Some people coming. Businessmen.”
He sounded concerned about them. I couldn’t blame him. Businessmen in this neighborhood stand out as much as a dragon would. Had some of the vagrants told someone we were checking Binky’s apartment? Could it be a coincidence?
I’m not sure what Torgo thinks business is, but as they approached, it was clear they weren’t normal businessmen. They were five of them, male humans, dressed in scuffed black leather, with suspicious weapon-shaped bulges. I ducked inside the front doors before they saw me. Peeking through a front window, I could see them reading building numbers and street names. They were searching for this one, I was sure. I hobbled up the stairs as fast as I could, which left a large scratch across one of those fancy shoes. But I defy anyone to run to a roof in pumps faster than I did.
The troll was still up there, pacing and watching the gang. They had spread out on the street while one of them headed towards the door. Mr. Stabby had rushed downstairs towards the door. I think they caught a glimpse of him at the door because they stopped, pulling out weapons. A few of them used the cars nearby for cover. I couldn’t see what Mr. Stabby was doing, but a loud bang caused the one closest to the door to fall and not move again, his head lying against a tire.
I readied my sniper rifle, loaded with gel rounds. Cautiously moving to the edge of the roof, I aimed and fired at a large man who was fumbling with his pistol. All my practice with that rifle paid off. I hit his chest easily without him seeing where the shot came from and he fell, stunned by the flattened ammo. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Torgo fiddling with his prized knife. To my amazement, it lifted from Torgo’s huge hands and flew down, attacking the gang members. One of them screamed and ran away. I could understand the feeling. (Note to self: Bolt the cutlery down if Torgo ever comes to visit. Or better still: pretend not to be home.)
The ganger it attacked reflexively parried it with his own knife, but seemed too astonished to attack. He exchanged a glance with the last remaining ganger and they took to their heels. Wise goronit.
We gathered on the street, checking over the two gangers lying in the street. The unconscious one looked asleep, his scarred face relaxed and his neck twisted at an uncomfortable angle. Surprisingly, it was the troll who pulled out a med pack to patch up the other, injured ganger. He also told us he could question the sleeping ganger, without having to awaken him.
The story he told send chills down my spine. Binky, the part-time clown we were seeking, had taken over the YDU gang. Idly, I wondered if any of them could read English. Their jackets, decorated with a large “Y-D-U” logo turned out to have painted “Young”, “Dumb” or “Ugly” beside each letter.
It seemed impossible that this charitable mage was leading such a group of thugs. Torgo said he had learned where their hideout was, and that there were twenty remaining gangers inside, holed up with their new leader and his chosen lieutenants. What could have happened to turn someone the homeless people spoke of so warmly, into a cold-blooded killer? For it was clear from Torgo’s explanation that the gangers had been sent to kill us.
We reported back to Bernie, who sounded even more worried, telling us over and over again that something had to be seriously wrong with his friend. Binky would never lead gangers and he would never hurt innocent people on purpose. So the mystery deepened. I remembered hearing that spirits could possess an unprepared summoner, and Torgo and Mr. Stabby said they had both heard similar stories. Torgo sounded positive that something like this had happened to poor Binky.
My compassion for him did not last long. We followed the unconscious ganger’s directions to the gang’s headquarters. An ugly, plastcrete building with a lifeless, neon sign reading “The Salty Seaman” outside, the naval theme had come here to die. And good riddance. Not kidding, the place was hung about with dirty flags, sails and broken anchors. Through the boarded windows, we could see slits of light. The troll threaded an endoscope through one, and reported that there were 25 or 30 men, drinking and talking loudly. I wondered if knocking on the door and offering to sell them some cleverly disguised neuro-stun grenades would work. Would they believe a flower delivery for Mr. Binky?
The troll kept saying “Burn it! Let’s burn down and take escapes.” I knew that if we didn’t devise a better plan soon, he might act on his own, the pyromaniac. To my surprise, Mr. Stabby didn’t seem any more eager than I was to kill the helpless gangers with fire (a singularly painful death, from all I hear). Besides, any chance of recovering Binky would be lost.
I proposed that we throw in a neuro-stun grenade. The gas from one of those could almost fill the entire building, making everyone harmless. We’d only need to sort out who we wanted, afterwards. Mr. Stabby did something to the lock and then moved to the far end of the building, near the rear exit. Opening the door, I armed and threw my grenade.
A babble of voices and the hiss of gas. Torgo shoved past me to slam the door shut. Sudden quiet behind the door.
“The back door!” yelled Mr. Stabby over our comms. I eyed the door. What if Binky tried to leave this way? Torgo didn’t hesitate for a second. He ran along the side of the building and around the corner, faster than soymilk through a straw. How can someone that large, be so quick?
I heard muffled bangs and yells from around the building. Glancing at the door again, I decided that if they were going to try to escape that way, I’d know by now. So I hobbled after the troll, around the side of the building. There was a thin gap between that building and the next, but day was dying and gloom had settled between the walls. I could see light coming from the open rear door and watched as Mr. Stabby rushed inside. The light glanced off his extended spurs and I tried to move faster. There was going to be a blood bath unless I got there fast enough to stop them. I could already see two prone bodies bleeding into the dust.
I got to the door and looked inside. Binky was directing five of the gangers at us. They darted in, slashing at Torgo. Some of them had spur claws, like Mr. Stabby.
“Run!” I screamed at them. If they fled, I might be able to stop my companions from the slaughter that seemed inevitable. Torgo had seized his exotic knife again and I almost imagined he was shining.
They hesitated and then turned to run. Immediately, all five stumbled to their knees and then collapsed in the middle of the bar. For a moment, I thought it had something to do with Binky’s control over them. Then I remembered the neuro-stun gas filling the building.
Binky himself seemed not to notice their defection. He turned with a vicious punch at Torgo, which Torgo barely noticed. I pull out one of my taser darts from the cunning holder in my jacket.
I still think it hit him solidly but it must not have. The dart fell useless to the ground. Mr. Stabby slashed at him, but that too seemed to do nothing. It was as if Binky was coated in plastcrete – all our scrabbling efforts didn’t even nick him. Torgo hacked at him and Binky jumped easily aside.
In his pictures, he looks old and frail, but he moved like a cat. Really.
We kept trying to strike him. All our efforts, all my best ideas seemed to glance off him. He was as impervious as that ancient super-hero. I’m still not sure why he didn’t strike us as hard as he might have. Perhaps the real Binky was struggling for control.
Finally, I screamed, “Get down!” as if something was about to strike his head. To my amazement, he bought it, the oldest ruse in the book. He sat down abruptly and Mr. Stabby smacked him hard. For the first time, Binky seemed to feel the blow and he reeled back, momentarily dazed.
I don’t quite know what happened next. Something manifested in front of us, with a message. I think Binky surrendered to us. Somehow, we loaded him into Mr. Stabby’s car and drove him to see the other magician.
The new magician, a shaman who called himself Mr. P., lived in a much nicer house, and had several friends with him. Fortunately, there was no battle there, although I watched my companions carefully. So far, they have shown no scruples about taking anything that is not nailed down and I wasn’t sure how our host would respond to that. But they were on their best manners.
His explanation about Binky confused me, but perhaps Lau Lin, my mentor, might be able to explain further. At any rate, he paid us well and we left Binky in his care. I hope his clowning career won’t suffer.
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