.|. COHERENT COMICS PRESENTS ----X----------------------------------------------------------------------- '|` =====, ======== ====. ===. ======= ======= // // // )) //|| // // ===== // //===< // || //=== //=== // // // \\ //==|| // // `===== o // o // // o // || o // o ======= o Superhuman Tactical Resources and Affiliated-Field Experts original concept by Dave Van Domelen development by Marc Singer and Terrone Carpenter "Hot Pursuit" Part I of THE BONFIRE by Marc Singer Copyright 1999; a Legacy House production ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- [Cover shows the agents of STRAFE, including Lana Smith, standing proudly against the New York skyline. Tiny flames lick around the edges of the cover, burning it.] ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- Pavement pounded under running feet. Crumbling nineteenth-century tenements and vacant twentieth-century art galleries flashed past the mob of sprinting paragangers. East Village residents, unaccustomed to this kind of paragang violence spreading into their neighborhood, were perilously slow to shut off lights and duck away from windows. The wilding paragangers squeezed off bursts of gunfire and blasts of energy, striking anyone foolish enough to catch their attention. One lone NYPD squad car shot down Second Avenue, sirens blaring. A magnetic-powered paraganger crushed the non-ceramic parts of the squad car's engine block, while laser bursts and lightning strikes shredded its tires. Officers Rani Chavez and Ben Whitman immediately returned fire with assault rifles. The rifles were standard issue for all the cops who'd remained in the precinct...their captain had "misplaced" a couple of crates they'd confiscated from a Cyber-Nostra warehouse. With the government refusing to clean up the paragangs, the situation in Manhattan was so bad that even the cops were forced to steal. The rifle fire bounced off a shimmering cobalt forcefield. The paragangers howled with laughter, raising their guns and hands to fire back. Officer Whitman silently cursed himself for not leaving Manhattan when his former partner had; Officer Chavez prayed that someone would watch over her family. In the brief lull before the execution, a small coughing noise barely sounded over the paragang's laughter. Three tiny perforations appeared in the forcefield and one of the paragangers, a huge black man wearing a bulky tech-harness, keeled over. The forcefield collapsed in a crackle of static electricity that left everyone's hair standing on end. Four figures assaulted the mob of paragangers. They wore black jumpsuits, with no markings save for the white circular emblems on their black leather jackets. The woman wearing the bird emblem dropped into the gangers from above, scattering them like tenpins and then curving up for another pass. The tall man with the dragon rampant ran right past Chavez and Whitman, rushing the paragang's front lines and drawing their fire; the volley of bullets and fireballs slowed him, but he didn't fall. A shorter man with an arrow-and-bullseye emblem stood on the roof of the Ukranian Catholic church, shooting the paragangers with the guns he twirled in each hand. And the man with the gearwheel leaped into the thick of the gangers, striking with blindingly fast martial arts maneuvers. A fifth figure, a small and terribly thin girl in a jumpsuit but with no jacket or emblem, rose from the center of the street. This terrified the startled paragangers most of all, and several of them fired on her. Their attacks passed through her and they shot each other. The girl did absolutely nothing, but dead bodies blossomed in a circle around her. Chavez and Whitman knew a good chance when they saw it. They ducked around their open car doors and fired on the paragangers, being careful not to hit their rescuers. The battle was already over, though; two dozen paragangers had been taken down in less than two minutes. The officers crept from behind the car, and saw the gearwheel man hunched over one of the few conscious paragangers. "...swear I don't know where she is," the paraganger moaned. "Try the junkies, I heard she took a Jaz club from them." "You'd better be right," the gearwheel growled. His voice was deep, hard-edged, somewhat stagey but effective. "You're Satan's Eyes, aren't you? Wilders from out of town?" The paraganger nodded. "Well tell your friends to stay out. Manhattan doesn't want you." "Says who?" barked Officer Chavez. The gearwheel dropped the paraganger, turned as he stood up, and stared at her. "Says STRAFE." The flying woman buzzed the street again, grabbing the gearwheel and the dragon and hauling them into the air. The girl sank back into the street, and the bullseye sniper waved a jaunty farewell before disappearing behind the church's dirty copper dome. Only then did Chavez and Whitman sink against their wrecked squad car and exhale. "Who the hell is Strafe?" Chavez said. Maybe she'd heard the name before, but it hadn't left any lasting memories. Like so many who stayed in Manhattan, she tended to focus on local problems...unfortunately, now Strafe *was* a local problem. "I don't know about Strafe, but that girl looked familiar. Like one of those people from TV." He tried to slow down his heaving chest. "You know...the super-villains." * * * * Two days earlier: Air traffic was thick over Ellis Island; the Eurasian Union helijet had to jockey past all the rising North American Combine ones as it landed. A few more aircraft sat on the clearing, still being loaded. The Ellis Island field station was almost evacuated before Jay Teller and Tony Drake even got there. The Eurasian pilot brought his helijet to within a few feet of the ground and Tony and Teller hopped out. The co-pilot tossed their duffel bags after them, snapped a brief salute, and then returned to her seat. They didn't want to stay in Manhattan any longer than was absolutely necessary. The helijet rose again, weaving through the larger and less aesthetically streamlined American aircraft, heading for a safe refueling in Newark. Teller shouldered his duffel bag and looked around the island. He spotted STRAFE ground crews loading helicopters with dismantled scientific equipment and crated weapons. Paramedics gingerly lifted Richard Hendrick's stretcher and life-support systems into a medical helijet, along with several human-shaped bundles wrapped in white shrouds. "Jesus," Teller said, for once at a loss for sarcastic comments. "So it's all true." "I hope it's not *all* true." Tony grabbed his bag and stalked toward the old immigration center which had been STRAFE's Manhattan command post. He found their teammates inside the old brick building. Dan "Grind" Tracey and Jen Kleinvogel stood at the center of a knot of officials in identical black business suits. C.J. Brown, of course, was nowhere to be seen. They caught Jen in the middle of an argument. "We have to engage the paragangs," she told the suits. "Bathory and Cockatrice are the only names left on Dumont's list. When she tries to kill them, we need to be there... Tony!" She perked up when she saw her returning friends. "And Jay!" she added as an afterthought. "Thank God you're back from Rome." "A little too late, it seems." Tony had been thinking about rejoining the team for weeks, about what he'd say to Jen. He had played out a dozen imaginary conversations, rehearsed a dozen opening lines. He forgot every one of them and barked, "What's this I hear about Burnout?" Dan Tracey, the only person in the room who would make eye contact with Tony, stepped forward. "C.J. is Burnout now," he said. "She's been possessed by an enemy psionic named Tyra Dumont." "You know that's not what I mean." The two men were about the same height, but somehow Tony had always regarded Dan as taller. Now he drew himself up to his full stature, and if anything he thought he was staring down at Dan. Dan felt Tony's harsh, unblinking gaze. "Dumont's lost control, Tony. The only way to save C.J. is to call in someone who knows Dumont, someone who can think like her." Tony raised his voice. "Have you lost your *mind*?" "Tony?" The soft soprano voice brought the entire room to silence. "M-mister Drake?" Everyone turned to see the speaker walk into the huge hall. Lana Smith had trained briefly at the Academy and served in the Conclave of Super- Villains, but something about her made everyone in the hall label her a young girl. Maybe it was her soft, high-pitched voice, her stringy blonde hair, her frighteningly thin body. Maybe it was her total recklessness, her dead boyfriend, her illegitimate child, her easy manipulation by Tyra Dumont. It sure as hell wasn't the way she'd shoved a bomb into Tony Drake's stomach. "Mister Drake? I just wanted to say I'm sorry." She stepped forward, meekly clutching her hands in front of her and staring up at Tony through her bangs. It was a look of sheer girlish innocence. Or, Tony thought, a look calculated to show innocence to the sort of man who believes whatever little girls have to say. "I know you got hurt pretty badly," Lana said, "and even though it was Mr. Strings...Dumont...who made me do those things, I still...I wish I had been able to fight her off sooner. I wish I had been stronger." "So do I, Smith. So does Hendrick, I bet. And those agents out there." Beyond the huge doors, the last shrouded bundle was loaded. Teller stepped up beside his friend. "And I made a little promise to myself back in Haven. I still owe you a meal. To make up for Tony's." He planted his hands on his hips, pulling back his leather jacket and revealing his twin shoulder holsters. "Those are Tyra Dumont's crimes," said one of the suited officials, "not Ms. Smith's. She's going to be a valued advisor. This way, Ms. Smith." He shot Tony and Teller an evil glare and led Lana away by her elbow. * * * * Chavez and Whitman sat in an Automat on East Sixth. It was about two blocks from the precinct house and had been relatively safe from the paragangers. At least until the past couple of days. Now the East Village was a no man's land; no paragang owned it but it kept about half of them from expanding into midtown. That half wanted to take it as a stepping stone, while the others were moving in just to block their rivals. Anyone walking through the East Village might as well have worn a sandwich board with targets painted on it, front and back. But there was safety in numbers, and the Automat was safe for now. Chavez took a long drag off her cigarette. It was a new habit. "I don't get it," she said. "Those Strafe people didn't act like criminals. They didn't even kill the paragangers...not directly, anyway. Why would they hang out with a super-villain?" "God, I feel so stupid just *saying* that." Whitman got fussy and waved her smoke away from his face and clothes. That was *his* annoying new habit. "'Super-villain.' We're sitting here talking about a super-villain, like it was a normal career choice. I took Job-O in ninth grade guidance counseling and a lot of weird crap came up, but 'super-villain' was not part of it." "You had to do Job-O too? What'd you get?" He took a sip of his decaf tea. "Lawyer and forest ranger. You?" "Doctor and musician." They dug into their slices of pie. "So," Whitman said. "A super-villain." * * * * Two days earlier: "A *super-villain*!" Tony screamed. "A member of the damn *Conclave* of Super-Villains!" The STRAFE team stood in a small room off the central hall. The bricks were badly charred and the room stank of burnt metal and flesh; C.J. must have torched it on the Dumont-driven raid that had devastated the command post. A petite blonde leaned against one wall, and a tiny black-and-white TV sat on a cart in the middle of the floor, but the room had otherwise been emptied. The TV showed Lana Smith's debriefing in the room next door. "I don't think she's a Conclaver any more," said the blonde. She detached herself from the wall and shook everyone's hand with a bouncy vigor they didn't share. She wore a laminated plastic badge with a familiar logo: concentric circles emanating from a silhouette of an androgynous human head. "Gene Clark," she said, "MetaPsych. I've been screening your agents for any traces of Dumont." "And...?" Teller asked. He wasn't sure whether to trust Clark; she had high credentials but looked all of eighteen. About the same age as Lana. And she seemed too damn happy to be on Ellis. "Everyone's clean," she said. "Of course, C.J. Brown had been screened and she showed up clean. Smith tells us that Dumont...whom she calls 'Mr. Strings'...likes to slowly play on a victim's hatred and fear. Convince them to voluntarily give up control. So early detection may be impossible." "She snared Agents Johnson and Rohe pretty quickly," Dan said. "A more blatant and easily-detected psychic attack. She's not in Rohe or Johnson anymore...although she left her mark." The two former puppets had been packed into a helijet, straitjacketed and babbling, bound for a nice long rest. "What about Smith?" Tony asked. "Any marks on her?" Clark gestured at the TV monitor. "See for yourself." Lana sat primly on a hard metal chair. One of the interrogators slumped backwards on his chair, with his arms folded over its back. The other interrogator paced manically around her. "I wanted to break free after STRAFE and EUROPA rescued my son," Lana told her interrogators. "Those poor men. We hurt them so badly, but they saved Carl..." "You wanted to break free," the tired interrogator said. "I wanted to before, especially when they tried to kill Howie and Jen...and C.J. I guess that was when Mr. Strings first approached C.J. But he let me save them from the Conclave's trap... he wanted Howie to cure Tyra." "I thought Tyra *was* Mr. Strings," Teller said. Tony shushed him. "After you rescued Carl, the Conclave had nothing to hold over me any more," Lana continued. "But Mr. Strings still held my mind. So I stepped up my escape plan." "Escape plan?" said the manic interrogator. "Mr. Strings needed food to maintain the psionic link. Calories to burn. So I'd been starving myself ever since he got me." She stared down guiltily at her waif-thin body. "I was purging Mr. Strings along with the food. But the weaker his hold got, the weaker my connection to the other puppets was." "Connection?" the tired interrogator droned. "We sometimes knew what the others were doing. I knew she had a puppet named Andrew who worked for some crimelord named Umbrae. Umbrae was going to help cure Tyra...but the paragangs found her. A fight broke out and Tyra died. That was when the hold really got weak...Mr. Strings needed a new host body, but I'd been purging myself. So he chose C.J." She shuddered and rubbed her arms. "But he didn't just tell C.J. to kill his enemies. He told her to find Carl...so he could get his hold back on me. And then I was in a hell of a bind...oh, pardon my language." The interrogators didn't care. They were riveted by her story. "Because I was purging Mr. Strings, I couldn't tell what C.J. was up to. So I freed myself in a hurry...by ghosting all the food out of my body." Clark received a brief, vivid, unwanted image: Lana, crouched in a dingy bathroom. Her hands pressed against the grimy tiles. Grunting. The food, digested and otherwise, spilling out of her body in a wet green splash between her legs. "I let Labyrinthe and Conflicto think I was still with them, and we went out to find STRAFE. I figured if I couldn't find C.J., I'd tail you, and you'd lead me to her or Carl. You did both. And I saved Carl." Then Lana displayed her first signs of animation. She leaned forward and said, "Can I see him now? Please? I've answered all your questions and I know he misses me...." Clark folded her arms across her chest. "She's clean." Dan frowned. "As clean as she gets." * * * * Chavez and Whitman cruised through the East Village. Getting a new squad car hadn't been a problem; even the police department was starting to depopulate now. All leave had been cancelled, but some cops were deserting. The highest traffic on the island was at the tunnels and bridges, and it was all headed out. "So what do you think of these checkpoints?" Whitman said. He took a final sip of his rapidly-chilling tea and added, "You think they're really only to keep paragangers from leaving the island?" Chavez tapped the steering wheel. "All I know is they pull a lot of cops out of the neighborhoods. If the Combine wants to seal off the island, they could damn well use their own goons." "But that would mean admitting there's a problem." He ruminated as he took his next sip. "I hear Captain Wu's refusing to send his people to the bridges. Kelly, too." "Yeah, well, Wu and Kelly can get away with shit that you and I never could. Anyway, I bet most uniforms are glad to be transferred out of the Bowery. You never know when some caring cyborg is gonna decide to 'convert' you to Sister Christian's church." She scanned the street for any signs of trouble, found none. "So you really think the checkpoints are for something else?" Whitman shrugged. "All I know is that I haven't heard from anyone who made it across." "Once someone makes it across, why the hell would they think about Manhattan again? Christ, I wish I could get the family to leave." "Why don't you take them? They'd leave if you did." "I'm beginning to understand why Harkins ran out on you." "Harkins was a scared little prick, okay? And I think he stopped making book once the Snakeaters folded. But you have a family. Why are you *here*?" The car's headlights picked up a dozen homeless men, women, and children packed between two storefronts. They slept atop suitcases; probably families chased up here from the Lower East Side. In a few nights, the cold would drive one of the parents to forget his or her principles and break into an abandoned apartment. Maybe Chavez would come back and tell them which ones were empty. The families tried to duck under her beams and she drove past, pretending not to see them. "Because someone has to stay." Whitman shrugged again, rolled down the window, and chucked his styrofoam cup out onto the street. "Hey," Chavez shouted, "you just littered!" Whitman raised an eyebrow. "Like anyone cares." Chavez thought about it, and drove on. The cup spun in the road behind them. * * * * One day earlier: "You can't take him away so soon!" The suits marched past Lana Smith, carrying Carl Smith into the helijet. Except for a tiny speedboat anchored to one of the mooring posts, the helijet was the last vehicle on Ellis Island. Lana spun around and appealed to the STRAFE agents. "They're taking Carl...I fought so hard to save him...can't you do something?" "I don't think you understand the situation, Smith," Dan Tracey said coldly. "Burnout has already tried to kidnap Carl once. New York just isn't safe for him. We're sending him back to STRAFE headquarters in D.C., where he'll be well cared for. With lots of walls and Anchors to protect him." "Then send me along with him!" She turned to Jen. "He's my *son*!" "We need you here in New York," Jen said, without her usual warmth. "Right where we can see you," Teller added. "But then, you're just...you're just holding Carl hostage, too!" Nobody answered her. They didn't have to, since Dr. Ellen Cortes, Agent Mulholland, and the last of the suits walked up to the team. "Well, we're off," Ellen said to Dan, ignoring the others. "Wait a minute," said Teller. "If everyone's gone, who's our support crew?" "I'm your support crew," said Mulholland. "So, are we getting this show on the road or what?" "One final bit of ordnance," Dr. Cortes said. She opened a small briefcase which held six bracelets. "This is our absolute latest in supertech...they detect psionic energy. If you are contacted by any psychic forces, or if you remove the bracelets, an alarm sounds." "So you know if Mr. Strings is trying to possess you?" Teller asked. "Not exactly. The alarm sounds on the other five bracelets." All the agents looked at each other nervously. Particularly at Lana. The agents strapped on the bracelets, although Dr. Cortes tried to help Dan fasten his. Teller and Tony rolled their eyes at each other. "So that's it," the suit observed. The helijet's engines fired up and the artificial wind blew debris across the clearing. "You know the Combine can't give you any sanction for what you're about to do. If you get caught, with an international felon no less, we will deny all knowledge of your actions." "That's what it says in the opening credits," Teller drawled. "And I remind you, your job is to rescue Brown and capture Dumont. You are to avoid the paragangs." "In so far as that's possible," Dan said calmly. "I mean that," the suit snapped. "Hell, I don't know why you're staying anyway. Dr. Cortes, let's go." He ran to the helijet. Dr. Cortes lunged forward, gave Dan a quick and awkward kiss, and ran after the suit. Dan peered at his feet while Teller, Tony, and Jen rolled their eyes. A few minutes later, the helijet lifted off. The stiff wind from its engines rippled through the STRAFE agents' hair and jackets. "Just like Saigon," Mulholland shouted, "only without the Broadway musical." The helijet rose and rotated above them. The pilot dipped its nose in salute to the six agents, then roared south. The agents watched the helijet's lights disappear over New Jersey and the burning clouds from the factories. Then they turned around, to face the city. * * * * Chavez and Whitman were heading back to the precinct house for the shift change when they saw the lamppost. A squirming, cursing man was duct-taped halfway up it. Chavez rolled up under the lamp and Whitman leaned out his window. "Well, if it isn't Giorgy 'the Orgy' Lakvasos. Working a new corner, Giorgy?" The Jaz dealer nearly spat on him. "Screw you, Whitman! I got jumped! Six guys in black looking for a Jaz club." "Which one?" Chavez blurted. Giorgy looked like he wasn't going to talk, but Chavez said, "We'll get you down. Which one?" "Alphabet City. Avenue D." The run-down East Village neighborhood took its name from the lettered streets. Whitman slid back in the car and called for a narcotics detective to come collect the cursing Giorgy. He also called in a Code 998, Possible Paranormal Involvement. He switched off the radio and stared at his partner. "It could be your Strafe." She stared back. "Or your super-villains." They hit the siren. * * * * That night: Eventually, they all passed in front of the windows: seven probable paranormals, eight mundane gangers with heavy firepower, and a building full of Jaz junkies. The low-light lenses turned all of them a bright green. Dan lowered the binoculars and raised his wire-mike to his lips. His warm breath turned to fog in the cold February air. "Go." Jen buzzed the tenement, carrying Tony. She pulled up at the last instant but let go of Tony, flinging him through the a window on the upper floor. Like a lot of the East Village the tenement had been on the verge of gentrification once, but it became a loss the minute it turned into a Jaz club. Any physical damage at this point would be a mercy killing. Tony rolled into the loft, reminded himself *not* to shout "STRAFE, you're under arrest," and tackled the nearest Snow Leopard. Jen buzzed the loft again, this time flinging Dan through the broken window. He angled his fall so the momentum carried him into a Snow Leopard, catching him in the back in mid-shapeshift. The lycanthrope screamed and went down with a cracked spine; Dan kicked the next one. Nine dazed Jaz junkies and a mangy orange tomcat scattered out of the room. Lana ghosted through the ceiling. The four standing paragangers hissed and dropped into battle crouches, directing their attentions to her. They were smart enough not to harm each other when their claws swung through her, but the intangible Lana kept them occupied. The other windows shattered as Teller and Mulholland rappeled down from the roof and fired on the Snow Leopard gunmen. Jen's flight power was severely limited by confined spaces so she circled the brownstone, dropping down to body-slam any ganger who tried to escape it. Dan felled one shapeshifter with a savage rabbit-punch and surprised another by ducking behind Lana, then punching him *through* her ghostly body. Tony slammed a third Snow Leopard's head into the wall, repreatedly, until he collapsed. The final Snow Leopard, a steroidal Indian man, completed his transformation into a Bengal tiger and pounced on Tony. The tiger quivered and dropped as four darts from Teller's gun lanced into his back. Teller swung into the room and unhooked his harness. Then he helped roll the tiger off his friend. "Glad I could still find his veins, man. I'd hate for you to get killed by a cereal mascot." "Especially with my name being 'Tony' and all." "Yeah, I'd have to chalk that up to death by irony." Mulholland swung into the room as well, but skipped his usual repartee. He marched over to a conscious Snow Leopard, the one with the broken back, and pressed his gun into his face. "Talk," Mulholland said. "Where's Burnout?" The crying paraganger blinked at looked behind Mulholland at Lana. "She's right there, man! She's *right there*!" Mulholland slapped him. "Not the Conclave one. The black woman." He sighed. "The one who burns people. She's been looking for Bathory and Cockatrice? Collecting Snow Leopard pelts?" "N-no, man. She's been around, but she only chars payzans who tamp her...." Mulholland slapped him again. Tony, Teller, and Dan all looked to one another, unsure how to react. "Speak English, you brat!" "...she, she only burns people who mess with her. She really torched up the Nostra who had this place, though." "Where is she now?" Mulholland shouted. The crying paraganger swore he didn't know. "It's too bad we don't have a psi," Lana whispered. Dan, Teller, and Tony all covertly checked their bracelets. No alarms yet. "And she's not trying to kill your bosses?" "She doesn't care, man. Please, call an ambo...I swear, I've never tamped the Conclave...." Mulholland drew his hand back again, but Dan grabbed it. "You think we're the Conclave of Super-Villains?" The paraganger swung his head around. It moved in a frightening lack of synchronization with his flailing legs. "Burnout...." He glanced at Tony. "Peryton, I guess...Sultry flying around outside...." He stared at Dan. "And you're Rebus. I swear I would never cross you...." "This guy doesn't know anything," Dan said. A siren was bleating in the distance. Instinct told him they should run from it. * * * * Chavez and Whitman were the first officers on the scene. They watched over the Jaz club until the paramedics hauled away the bruised, broken bodies of the paragangers. Whitman leaned against the front stoop. "Busy night," he remarked. "Almost makes me nostalgic for the days when Warden was the only vigilante we had to deal with." Chavez lit another cigarette. "I don't know if they are vigilantes." A screaming Snow Leopard was carted past them. His legs were shifting back and forth, human and feline, independently of his body. "It was the Conclave," he shouted, "please, hide me, it was the Conclave!" Whitman turned his head, following the paraganger into the ambulance. "You don't really think...?" "I don't know what to think. They saved our asses." "But they have Burnout." "And they *act* like criminals." She took a long drag and watched the ambulance depart. "Let's put out an APB, Whitman. For a new team of super-villains going by the name of Strafe." * * * * That night: It wasn't a base, exactly. Not even a field office or a command post. It was an abandoned artist's loft they'd broken into and stashed their gear in. Dan sat on a crate of ammunition and began the strategy session. "So Burnout isn't going after the last of her list." "I'm so glad we brought in an advisor," Tony chirped. "*I* am," Dan replied. He assumed Lana was looking grateful, with saucer-wide eyes and an eager smile, but Dan didn't know because he didn't bother looking at her. "Burnout is consistently unpredictable and we're having trouble keeping up with her moves. She already broke off the murder list to grab Carl...we should've guessed she wouldn't go back to it. Smith," Dan barked, "what is Burnout doing now?" "She's...she's starting a gang war!" "Exactly. Perhaps she *is* returning to her murder list, but in a way that lets her kill *all* of them in one stroke. I'd say she wants every paraganger in New York dead." "Then why not let her do it?" said Teller, sprawled on his bedroll. Jen threw a very stiff inflatable pillow at him. She was about to say something, when Dan said, "If Burnout wants a gang war brewing in Manhattan, then we want to stop it. And maybe we can still find a way to close down the paragangs in the process." "That's not our job, is it?" Lana said meekly. Dan slumped back against his crate. "If it had been, we might not have gotten into this mess." Then he perked up again and paced around the room. "But it's our job now. And that Jaz club was our first message. The East Village is officially off limits to the paragangs." Jen smiled at him. Lana still looked scared and Tony didn't trust her. Mulholland kept his reactions to himself. Teller looked up at Dan and said, "It sounds good, Grind. But I can think of a couple of people who won't like it...." * * * * That night: The tomcat finished his report and shifted back to his true form, that of a grubby little boy. Bathory dismissed him with a wave. "You heard that?" she said to the bathroom door. Cockatrice, wrapped in a thick white towel, stepped out of the shower. The temperature dropped a few degrees when she entered the room. Behind her, the tile walls were coated in frozen droplets and an icy sheet had formed over the shower curtain. "It sounds like those people from the other night. The Combine killers." Bathory warmed herself by spreading and rubbing her furry skin against the satin bedsheets. "They couldn't have picked a worse time, given our current troubles with Umbrae." "Maybe that's not a coincidence. Umbrae has connections. Maybe he called them in." "It hardly matters. The Combine can dispense punishment. Let's see how well they can take it." TO BE CONTINUED... ============================================================================ Next issue: Three gangs, one neighborhood, and a grocery store full of drugs. And a certain blind avenger makes an appearance.... ============================================================================ Notes: Lana Smith created by Dave Van Domelen/Tony Pi. Gene Clark created by Dave Van Domelen. Cockatrice created by Tony Pi. Bathory created by Matt Rossi. STRAFE #9 written by and Copyright 1999 Marc Singer. A Legacy House production.