4

He knew, at some point, he would have to pull over again. And that was when he was going to blast him.

Seriously, Marcus was asking for it. He was being deliberately irritating, and clearly enjoying every second of it. Scott knew from the outset that Marcus would be trying to get on his nerves, so he had vowed not to let him get to him, but Marcus figured it out and went that extra mile.

It started with the driving - too fast, too wild - and while it was annoying, he was mostly concerned that he’d lose control of the vehicle while showboating.  Of all of them in the car, only Saddiq would be unharmed by an accident.

When he refused to get angry at him for it, Marcus turned on the radio, headed for a station that seemed to play nothing but death metal. Scott gritted his teeth and did his best to ignore the unearthly growling and screaming set over dissonant chords and machine gun drums, and was secretly thankful that he couldn’t understand a single damn word the theoretical “singer” was grating out like a bone stuck in his throat.

Before Scott broke and blasted the radio out of the dashboard, Saddiq leaned up and asked him if he could turn it down, and because it was Saddiq who asked, Marcus politely turned the station. (Scott just knew if he had asked, Marcus would have turned it up.) Marcus then found a radio station that played nothing but comedy bits, with the bad language mercifully bleeped out, but no so much that you couldn’t tell what they were saying, and some of the topics remained rather adult anyways. Was any of Dave Attell’s stand up material suitable for airing before eight pm? But of course he made everyone laugh the hardest, although Scott thought Eddie Izzard’s generally clean bit about a kitchen worker’s befuddling confrontation with Darth Vader on the Death Star was funnier. (God, he was such a geek.)

They had to stop eventually, and the search for a fast food joint should have been the easier part since they were everywhere, but no, as Marcus was apparently a vegetarian (?! Him?!), and was very specific about where he would stop. He could do a ten minute rant about McDonald’s - quote - “sucked ass” - unquote, and five minutes on how Burger King was little better, and even being downwind from a White Castle gave him a headache. He had to ask Logan about this, just to see how much Marcus was making up.

The kids went off to their respective gender’s bathrooms, leaving him sitting alone at a window booth with Marcus, who had just gotten himself an absurd sized pop, the kind that was just short of a big gulp, and had to be served in a plastic cup, as a paper one would soak through or break with frightening rapidity. Since the kids weren’t here, he felt he could say it. “What’s your problem with me?”

Marcus poked a straw through the top of his cup, and gave him that reflex grin that was instantly untrustworthy. “Your problem with me is my problem with you.”

“So this is philosophy bullshit?”

“Ah, so the Chuckster told you what I got my degree in.”

“Chuckster?”

“It’s the truth, man. Deal with it or not. You hate my fucking guts.”

“I don’t … hate is a strong word.”

“What word would you pick?”

He didn’t expect to get put on the spot, but since it was Marcus, he should have anticipated that. “Dislike.”

He gave him a mocking “thumbs up”. “So much better.”

There was a headache named Marcus forming right behind his eyes. He rubbed his forehead, and wondered if he should also blame the awful fast food coffee, which tasted like boiled mulch. “Look, we don’t have to like each other to -”

“Why?” Marcus interrupted. “What the fuck did I ever do to you, Boy Scout? Need I remind you, last time I saw your pasty ass, I nearly got my fool ass killed keeping motherfucking Alien looking demons from stomping down your mansion and killing your kiddies while all the rest of you guys were in other dimensions. If I’m such a nightmare, why was I trusted with such a job?”

“I didn’t make that choice.”

“And after everything, you still wouldn’t make that choice?”

Scott sighed and glanced out at the parking lot, wondering how far ahead of them Logan was. Knowing him, he went straight there, and they’d arrive just in time to save his butt. “What do you want me to say? Thank you for helping?”

“I just want to know why you got a mad on for me. It’s ‘cause of Logan, isn’t it?”

He scrubbed a hand through his hair, and wondered if the truth would help. “You’re an arrogant asshole who uses violence too much and too easily.”

He made a rude noise and shook his head. “It is ‘cause of Logan.”

“Logan and I have our own set of difficulties.”

“’Cause he was sniffing around your girl.”

Scott glared at him, aware the effect was lost due to his visor. “Because he’s too rash and too violent, and he doesn’t seem to care about anyone but himself.”

“So why does he show up when you guys call? If I was him, I wouldn’t.”

Scott glanced down towards the bathroom, not really wanting to discuss any of this. (Marcus had a degree in philosophy? So how did he end up a mercenary?) “The kids should be out of there by now.”

Marcus pointed across the restaurant. “Rogue’s giving Saddiq a hand at the salad bar, as he doesn’t recognize half the stuff. I think they’re flirting away from the downer adults.”

Scott swallowed a groan, but just from general body language, he could tell Marcus’s assessment was correct.

“Shit.”

“Aww, what’s the harm? They’re what - sixteen, seventeen? It’s a hormonal age.”

“But that’s not why they’re here. Why did I let Logan talk me into letting them come?”

“Because they can help.” Marcus took a noisy drink from his pop, and then said, apropos of nothing, “You know, he wasn’t responsible for the problems between you and Jean. She was kinda fucked up before that.”

The subject change nearly gave him whiplash, and the topic made him flush with rage. “You didn’t even know her, so shut the -”

“I know her kind; Spider was kind of like her at times.”

He scoffed. “Spider?”

“Afraid of her power … or his, in his case. It’s a horrible way to live.”

He couldn’t believe the audacity of this man. But then again, why was he shocked? “You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. You didn’t even know her.”

“Dude, I don’t need to. She was a telekinetic who was working on developing her telepathy. ‘Nuff said.”

“What? She was a telepath too.”

“Yeah, but her money power was telekinesis. So why didn’t she want to work on that? I mean, tk is a kick ass power, but she seemed to prefer to pretend she didn’t have it, choosing to stick to the mundane, passive power of telepathy. Why? ‘Cause she must have freaked herself out. She got scared by what she could do, and decided to ignore it unless she couldn’t. You must have known, man. In spite of what Logan’s told me, I don’t think you’re that dense. She thought she could pretend to be a nice, good girl schoolmarm who couldn’t actually make someone’s heart explode inside their chest. She was harmless and cool, and not at all wicked powerful. Didn’t that bother you?”

He opened his mouth to call him the most arrogant and ignorant person he had ever met, but he instantly closed his mouth, deciding that causing a scene here wouldn’t be good. (And wasn’t he right? In a way … ) Finally, he said, “It wasn’t like that. She could control her telekinesis -”

(Except every once in a while, and then it started to grow …)

“ - and she couldn’t explode someone’s heart in their chest. She really wasn’t that powerful.”

“Oh really? Could she move small things, like a teaspoon?”

“Well, of course. But -”

“Do you know how big the valve of a heart is? Not even as big as the round end of a teaspoon. All she would have to do is take a single one out, and boom, dead city. She was a doctor, right? She knew that - she had to know that. No matter how big Humans are, we are really a microcosm, a collection of small bits adding up to a greater whole. Take out the right small bit, and we cease to function; block a single correct nerve, and we can’t walk; remove the fine lining within our lungs, and we can’t process oxygen. A single tiny blood vessel explodes in our brain, and we drop like a hundred pound sack of shit. She could have stopped an army by theoretically concentrating on a single thing within all their bodies. There’s no such thing as a weak tk - it’s all how you use it. She knew that, I can’t believe she wouldn’t know that, so why did she think she could ignore it?”

“You like to hear yourself talk, don’t you?”

“Hell yeah, I got an Isaac Hayes thing going on with my voice.” Was there any way at all to phase this man? Logan you could upset at some point, but Marcus seemed annoyingly unflappable. Maybe that was the only way a degree in philosophy could help you in real life. “But you can’t answer me, can ya?”

“Yes I can. She didn’t ignore anything; she used it on a daily basis. She had it under control. She never wanted to use it to hurt people … unlike someone at this table.”

That made Marcus flash him that annoying grin again, all white teeth and a type of subversive smugness. “So why did she go hog wild when she finally let go, huh? When she finally let herself realize what she could do? From self-discipline to self-indulgence in the blink of an eye. Why?”

“She didn’t … it wasn’t like that.” (Was it?) “She saved our lives, okay? She did what she felt she had to do to save us.”

“And with all that power, she couldn’t save herself too?”

There it was. The question that Scott had been secretly obsessing about all this time, but he had never dared asked the Professor, because he was afraid of the answer. He was still afraid of the answer, and he didn’t want to think about it, and certainly didn’t want to discuss it with this man, who really was a stranger to him in spite of their semi-frequent run ins. “It was … you’re forgetting about Camaxtli, okay? That bastard influenced her in ways we can’t imagine. I’m sure Jean didn’t even realize it either.” He slid out from the booth, suddenly eager to get back in the car, in spite of Marcus’s jackass driving and shitty music.

“From what I understand, Camaxtli had her as an avatar only, so he wouldn’t have given a shit if people thought she was alive or whatever. She went nuts, let go, and really enjoyed it, freaking herself out in the process. Do you think that’s why she tried to kill herself?”

He spun on his heels, and snapped, “She did not!” Belatedly he realized he had shouted it, and now everybody in the restaurant - Rogue and Saddiq included - were staring at him. With the black wraparound goggles hiding Marcus’s eyes, it was impossible to read his expression - and Scott wondered if people felt this way about him too - but his jaw was set, his mouth a grim line, like Scott had just confirmed something for him. Had he? Had Marcus said out loud his most secret, persistent fear?

He leaned in and whispered hastily, not bothering to conceal the acid in his tone, “You don’t mention Jean again. I will put up with the rest of your shit, but if you bring her up again, I’ll blast you into Utah. Do you understand?”

“I’m sorry, man.”

He didn’t want to know if that was an answer, or a continuation of something else. He just walked away, heading out the door to avoid the continuing stares. He wasn’t sure what he hated more: Logan’s shady “friends” or doubts that did nothing but kill him inside.

5

By the time they got back to the Quik-Mart, there was a new clerk on shift, a young woman with an acne problem even worse than Amundson, so Srina didn’t have to make them invisible the whole time they were there. Still, they parked out of sight from the front of the store, and Sri was ready to make them go invisible if any jeep came driving by.

A few people came and went, but no one that came from the Killdeers area, and really the amount of traffic was ludicrously anemic. Did anyone live out here? Besides evil bastards, that was.

Finally he heard Marc’s car coming: it was the sound of a well tuned engine coming towards them at an outrageous speed, as if he too was trying to speed through North Dakota before the ennui got him. Finally he started to slow down as he came into view, and by the time the car turned into the Quik-Mart lot, it was almost going a decent speed. “You know what I came to realize about Marc?” Srina offered, as the car angled in to park.

“What?”

“He’s a complete lunatic. But, a great cook.”

“Oh yeah. Did you try one of his omelets?”

She didn’t get a chance to answer before Marcus opened his door, and got out, proclaiming cheerfully, “I have just upped this state’s black population to one. Yaay me! Who wants to dare me to go into the store and pretend to shoplift?”

Rogue climbed out of the back laughing, and Scott, who was helping the kids out of the back, scowled at her for it.

“You remember that we’re not supposed to be attracting attention yet?” Logan said, aware this was just Marc being Marc.

He replied, deadpan, “Does this mean I can’t yell ‘Where all the white women at’?” Rogue was laughing so hard it sounded like she was having trouble breathing. No wonder Scott looked so annoyed - Marc must have figured out early on that she was a fan of his brand of comedy, and milked it for all it was worth the whole way here.

“No, you can’t. Besides, I didn’t think you were that into white women.”

He shrugged a single shoulder, glancing around in reflex paranoia. “Hey, I ain’t that picky about women. I’m pickier about my men.”

“Well yeah,” Srina agreed. “You’re generally pricks.”

Marc chuckled, and Rogue continued to laugh.

“Do we have a plan, or are we putting together a comedy act?” Scott griped.

He might have been a buzz kill, but he was right. “We’ve been to the base, such as it is. A soldier came in to the store, and Srina did her thing and never saw us. We followed him back home. Mirror Lake, such as it is, is just Southeast of what probably passes for a forest around here, and is marked as a munitions depot. The place behind the security fence is pretty damn small, so unless we’ve been totally suckered, the real base is probably underground.”

“Of course it is,” Marc agreed easily. “Since when do these fuckers work aboveground?”

Scott made a noise of exasperation, probably because it was clear that neither Srina nor Marc had any intention of cleaning up their language for the kids. “Fine, but that puts us at an instant disadvantage. We have no idea what the layout is like, nor the number of people within, not to mention what security measures they have. We could be walking into a trap.”

“All I need is a soldier,” Rogue interjected. “Let me touch them. I’ll absorb all the info we need.”

Scott shook his head. “I don’t want you using your powers indiscriminately.”

“It’s not indiscriminate! It’s why I’m here, right? To get information.”

“The girl has a point,” Marc agreed.

“I think the problem might be in drawing a soldier out,” Logan said, before Marc and Scott could get in a fight. Scott seemed so tense he almost seemed to want to get into a fight. (Marc got that far under his skin, huh?) “We watched the place for a while, and no one left. We were lucky the one soldier who came out actually did.”

“So that plan’s screwed anyways,” Scott replied, not appearing that disappointed by it.

“Not really,” he said, somewhat hesitantly. He figured he could get Srina to get him inside the fence, and he could pull someone out, giving Rogue the shot she needed, but it was an inherently risky plan that he couldn’t see Scott agreeing to, and to be frank, he wouldn’t blame him. He wasn’t wild about it either. But what were their other options?

It was just then that there was a strange noise, a muted kind of pop, and ten feet away from them, Helga, flanked by the Sisters, popped into existence. Helga shook her head and smacked it with the heel of her hand as if her ears were bothering her. “Shit, I hate cross country transports,” she muttered, her tail twitching angrily.

“Hello -”

“ - Logan -”

“ - and Scott.” The Sisters said with their usual false, eerie cheerfulness.

“Oh god,” Scott moaned, rubbing his forehead like the three of them had given him an instant headache.

“Great timing,” Logan told them, and said to the others, “I think our options just opened up.”

Now that they weren’t limited to the realm of Human physicality, there was little they couldn’t do.

6

Once you got used to the idea of dimensions being whatever the creator wanted them to be, there wasn’t much room for being shocked. Everything from a created solely from cinnamon red hots to ones full of free ranging boobs, Bob felt he had seen it all.

He had just learned he hadn’t.

He entered the dimension not expecting much, since the gods referred to colloquially as the “Senior Partners” were not known for their imagination, except of course when it came to evil - then they could be fucking brilliant. This dimension was known as a “buffer zone”, a place where other divine beings could meet with them without triggering a full scale war, or at least an escalation in the conflict. Because the war had never quite stopped.

How could it stop? Usually there had to be a winner, or some kind of ultimate goal. Technically there was a goal - wiping out the other side - but when you were both collectives of gods who were nearly impossible to kill, wiping out the other side couldn’t be done. So there may have been a secondary goal, but whatever it was had been lost to time, and nobody cared what it had been. The war had become a beast all its own, a self-fulfilling property and a perpetual motion machine, a runaway train on a Mobius strip - it kept going because it did, because it always had, forever and anon amen. Reasons had taken a backseat to the tradition of it all.

Buffer zones were in between dimensions, pocket realms where truces were called, and gods on opposite sides of the conflict could meet without having to kick each other’s asses. They were rarely used, though, as talking to each other seemed wildly pointless.

Bob hadn’t been to one before, so he really didn’t know what to expect, but nothing in his broad array of experience had prepared him for this.

It was an Indian restaurant.

Red flocked wallpaper matched the thick piled crimson carpet, and gold light fixtures cast a dim, romantic dinner illumination over the whole of the cavernous restaurant, pooling around the circular oak tables. On the far left, an entire back wall was actively on fire, but no one seemed overly concerned about it. In fact, he could see the silhouettes of two people looking through a binder full of wallpaper swatches near the flaming wall, apparently selecting the new wall covering before the old had even burned itself out.

Bob walked on in, wondering how it could be a proper Indian restaurant without a representative of Ganesha somewhere (but, then again, the bad guys were probably not fond of him, as he could put the kibosh on most of their powers simply by showing up), and a waiter in a tight black and white uniform, carrying an empty tray, slowed his walk as he passed by. He was a short man with aggressively slicked back black hair, and a mustache that was probably in style briefly during a dark time in the ‘70, and Bob was honestly startled at how much he resembled the actor who played Manuel on Fawlty Towers (surely that was on purpose). “We’ll need the table at seven,” he said, betraying a hint of an English accent.

“What table?” Bob asked, but the waiter swept on by without responding. There were very few people at the tables, and no one was eating. There were several similarly dressed waiters, all sweeping back and forth, from kitchen to dining room and back again in some strange ballet of starvation, as they never carried anything but empty trays. No wonder no one came here - what kind of restaurant dimension wouldn’t serve food? And, of course, have part of it be actively on fire.

He saw the being he was looking for seated alone at a table near the near right wall, within spitting distance of a kitchen surely uncontaminated by food. Its guise of choice was a rail thin, tall man in a Saville Row style double breasted charcoal suit with navy tie, distinguished silver hair just starting to thin at the temples, and he had a long, slender face. He looked more than a little like Peter Cook, the late British comedian, and Bob wondered if that was on purpose. As far as he knew, the Senior’s had no sense of humor, save for a sadistic streak that surfaced at odd times. There was nothing inherently sadistic about manifesting Peter Cook, so Bob just figured it was a strange coincidence.

“Oh dear,” the Senior said, finally looking at him full on. “You’re still going with that surfer boy look? How does any being with higher nerve functioning take you seriously?” His black, featureless eyes narrowed, bringing up impressive crow’s feet. “What is that supposed to mean?”

He was staring at his t-shirt, which was black and said across the chest, in orange block letters: “Think Testicles.” He honestly had no idea what it was supposed to mean, but it made him laugh, so he had to get it. “It’s a Zen thing,” he lied, pulling out a wooden chair and sitting down. “So how’ve you been, Buzz?”

He scowled at him. “I’ve told you not to call me by that idiotic moniker.”

“Well, what do I call you then? ‘Hey you’ is so impersonal.”

“The Senior Partners are above such mundane and childish things as name. We are what we are; we are everywhere. Would you name every single molecule in the air?”

“I think quantum physicists already have.”

Buzz glared at him, not appreciating the facts or his sense of humor. He never had. “Is this why you contacted me? To make your lame jokes?”

“No, not this time. I had a request.”

“Oh? Is this related to your incursions on our lesser territories recently?”

For some reason there was silverware and red ceramic plates on the batik dyed cotton tablecloth. Bob had never seen such sparkling clean tableware in his life; not even a fleck of ash from the burning wall was visible.

“Ah, so you noticed.”

“We have, and if we didn’t know the Powers can’t control you either, we would have reacted quite violently. Also, you haven’t done anything that we can tell. What are you doing now, you brain damaged, imbecile god?”

Bob laughed, aware he should be insulted, but he wasn’t. The Powers and the Seniors hated each other, but frankly he hated them both, so he didn’t care. “I’m looking for somebody, Buzzy. As far as I can tell, he ain’t in your lower realms, so I figure he’s in your higher, locked off realms. I want him back. Give him to me and I’ll go away, never to darken your towels again.”

He sniffed imperiously. “We don’t have any of your types of beings there. You’re mistaken.”

“He’s not one of our beings. Well, not technically. I guess the Powers recruited him for some extra-curricular activities, but you guys tried to steal him back. I really don’t care about that shit, I just want him back. He doesn’t belong there, and I don’t think he should have been recruited in the first place, so give him to me, and I’ll call it square.”

Buzz glared at him across the empty table. “Being on Earth has damaged your brain even more, hasn’t it?”

Oh boy, this was going well, wasn’t it?