CHAPTER 3
WHITE RABBIT
It was late that
night, well past eleven, and the year's last remnants of snow
crunched underfoot as Doctor Oliver Carlson hurried home.
"Never take
short cuts", he'd always said before. "If you know a
certain route, take it. It might take longer, but that's a fair price
for certainty." He applied this philosophy not only to literal
travel, but to his work, his personal life, and almost everything
else, as well. But on that night, he disregarded his own advice as he
climbed into the old abandoned warehouse through an open window. "Why
go around?" he thought to himself. "It's as wide as a city
block, and nobody even owns it anymore." He had gone around
countless times before, but on that night he was in a great hurry.
That night, delays could not be
tolerated.
The inside was one enormous room. Once full of industry and
working men, the place had since been left empty, save for the
support pillars and a few abandoned packaging machines. He could see
a window on the far side, and hurried towards it.
There was never
anyone in the old warehouse. No one ever bothered.
And yet, on that
night, there was.
"Where ya
goin', old man?" came a gruff voice from behind.
Carlson turned and
saw a burly, disheveled man in a heavy winter coat. Carlson was only
in his late forties and took personal offense at the remark.
He turned away from
the brute, planning on making a break for the window, but he then
found another man blocking that escape route. This one was taller and
leaner than the first, wearing an unfriendly grin.
"What's in the
briefcase?" asked the first, approaching his quarry.
"It's... it's
nothing." Carlson said, grasping it defensively. "Just
leave me alone. I don't have anything you want."
"You know
what?" asked the second, also drawing nearer. "Now I'm
curious. Why don't we take a look."
The briefcase he
held contained his life's work, and it meant more to him than any
amount of money. He looked around in a panic, desperately trying to
find some miraculous escape from the peril in which he found himself.
But sometimes the
escape finds you.
"Hey! Stop
right there!" shouted a voice from behind the bigger man. All
three looked to see who had spoken, and found a woman wearing a blue,
pink, and orange costume climbing in through the same window Carlson
had entered by. Once fully inside, she stood upright and struck a
heroic pose. She looked to be about six feet tall, yet slight of
build.
The big man sneered
at her. "It's one of 'dem meddlin' heroes."
"Yeah,"
said the lanky one, though a shade less confidently. "One of
them Defenders of Justice guys, I guess."
"Justice
Team!" she snapped. "I'm a member of Justice Team!
Defenders of Justice is a different group entirely!"
The taller man nodded, and said to his partner-in-crime, "that's
that one up-start team that's been tryin' to make a name for
themselves. I saw 'em on the news the other day. Bunch of newbies is
all they are, though."
Looking like a
pouting child, she pointed at him and a narrow beam of light shone
from her fingertip. In midair, the ray refracted as if through an
invisible prism, shining colored rays directly into both his eyes.
He covered his eyes
and fell to the ground. “I can't see!” he shouted. “I can't see
a thing!”
The other man began to pull a gun from inside his coat, and
immediately received a double-dose of the same treatment, yielding
similar results.
"And the name
is Prism," she informed them as they crawled about on the
ground. Then, to Carlson, "you'd better get going."
He nodded nervously,
and ran across to the far window. He climbed out and disappeared into
the night.
As she gathered the
weapons and went to follow Carlson-- she could see that his ability
to avoid misfortune was clearly lacking-- she heard the bigger man
get back to his feet.
"You... you..."
he muttered, squinting teary eyes.
"'Me... me...'
what?" Prism replied, sounding unimpressed.
Fists clenched, he
ran clumsily at her. Or rather, in her general direction. The
afterimage was still confusing his perception.
She sighed, and
pointed at him as if her finger were the barrel of a gun. As her
fingertip began to glow brightly, the man was suddenly enveloped in a
burst of smoke.
Prism almost jumped
in surprise, and stared at the scene. After a moment, she looked at
her still-glowing finger, as though she might find the answer there.
When she looked
back, the last of the smoke was dissipating into the air. Where the
man had been was only a pile of clothes and a fat, scruffy-furred
rat.
"Who's there?"
Prism asked out loud, scanning her surroundings; a light beam at the
ready.
There was another
puff of smoke, and the second man was changed into a rodent as well.
Out from the
shadows, stepped the sorceress Sycorax.
Prism gasped and
aimed a brightly glowing finger at her. "Don't move!" she
commanded, feigning confidence.
"Relax,"
said the witch. "I come in peace." She held up her hands in
front of her. This was merely a symbolic gesture, as being unarmed
meant nothing to a master of the mystical arts.
"What do you
want?" Prism asked.
"I just have a
favor to ask of you," the sorceress said. She looked at the
rats, and threw a tiny ball of fire at one of them, singeing its
tail. They both scampered and squeezed under a door to the outside.
"Oh. Is that all?" Prism replied, though she kept her
finger aimed. "Sure, I can help out. You can tell me all about
it on the way to the asylum."
As if out of nowhere, a mirror appeared a couple of feet
in front of Sycorax's face. Prism fired the light beam, and it split
into an array of colored lights that, once past the mirror, rebounded
again, directly into the witch's eyes.
Sycorax staggered
back as Prism pressed a button on her wrist communicator.
"HQ, this is
Prism! I need--!"
With a wave of the
sorceress's hand, there was a burst of smoke, and the transmission
ended.
Casting a spell of
recovery, Sycorax began regaining proper eye sight. She blinked her
eyes a few times as she approached the fading smoke cloud. She kicked
the com-unit aside, then reached into the brightly colored heap of
costume and pulled out a green, long-limbed tree frog.
"That one's
always been a favorite amongst my kind," Sycorax said to Prism.
"It's a classic, don't you think?"
Prism stared at her,
wide-eyed, and made a squeaky sort of ribbit.
"This spell
will wear off soon. When it does, be a dear and give this letter to
Paragon, would you?" She reached out with one hand and seemed to
pluck an envelope from thin air, and set it down next to the costume.
"Could you do that for me?"
The frog hesitated.
It wasn't easy for a frog to look skeptical, but she managed decently
well.
"I suppose it's
no secret that I... you know... like him. So rest
assured--It's not going to hurt him. I just need to give him a
message."
Contemplative wasn't
any easier than skeptical, but she got the point across.
"Could you do
this? Please?" Her casual tone had given way for one of
reluctant, yet open sincerity. "If not for me, then for him.
It's very important."
The frog hesitated,
but finally nodded.
"It's magically
sealed, by the way," Sycorax said, her tone casual once again,
"so don't even think of trying to open it yourself, or keeping
it from him. Got it?"
Again, the frog
nodded.
"Thanks a
million. It really means a lot to me," Sycorax said. She gave
the frog a pat on the head, and set her down by the costume, next to
the envelope.
"Oh! I almost forgot!" She then set another envelope next
to the first. "While you're at it, could you give this one
to Photon Man?"
The familiar bleep of his wrist communicator alerted Paragon of an
incoming call.
"Paragon here," he said as he answered it.
But instead of a
face appearing on screen, he was presented with an image that was
half cement and half brick work.
"Um... hi. It’s
me, Prism," came the reply, presumably from behind the
communicator’s camera. "I need to see you about something. Can
we meet somewhere? It's important. I think."
"Very well.
What’s the matter?" he asked, already using the wrist-com
tracker to head in her direction.
"I just ran
into Sycorax, and she wants me to give you this letter."
"Sycorax?"
he said, not meaning to interrupt. "How did she escape the
asylum?"
"I don’t
know," Prism replied. "I’m sorry. I really tried, but she
got away, and--"
"It’s fine,
don’t worry about it," he reassured her. "Are you
alright? You’re not hurt, are you?"
"I’m fine,"
she said.
He could hear some
kind of shuffling movement just behind her wrist-com’s camera.
"I can’t see
you," he said, tapping the screen of his communicator as he
landed and approached the door of the old warehouse.
"Yeah. I’m
getting dressed."
"You’re…
what?" he said, his hand stopping over the doorknob.
"Long story
short, I was turned into a frog. I’ll explain later, just, are you
coming or not?"
"I’m right
outside," he said. "Do you need a moment?"
"Ah, yeah," she answered. "Just one second...
Okay, now you can come in."
The door knob
rattled briefly, but it was locked. Instead of forcing his way in, he
climbed in through a nearby window. It was an entrance less
impressive and dignified, but needless property damage wasn’t his
preferred method of entry.
"Good of you to
show up," she said to him as she finished adjusting her
suit. Her gloves, wrist com, and an envelope, lay on the ground
nearby, which she gathered as she spoke.
"Of course,"
was his reply. "Now, you said something about a--"
He was interrupted
by her wrist-com, which started
bleeping as soon as she picked it up.
"Hello~!" she answered in a manner that was cheerful,
but not entirely professional.
Photon Man's face appeared on screen. In the background was the
interior of the photon jet’s cockpit. The vehicle’s quiet rumble
was just enough for Prism to hear. "You alright? We got
your signal, but there was an EMP, and, well, never mind. So what’s
the buzz?"
"I’m fine
now," she explained. "Paragon’s here."
"The big man
himself?" He smiled slyly. "Should I leave you two alone,
then?"
"It’s not
like that," she told him. "Besides, I do need a ride back
to base, and Paragon’s only seats one."
"Sure, I’ll
be there ASAP."
"See ya,"
she said.
And with that, the
call ended.
"So... the
letter?" Paragon asked.
"Right."
Prism nodded. "But it could be a trap, don'cha think? A bomb or
something?"
"Can I see it?"
She handed him the
envelope, and he examined it. "I don't think she'd do that. She
doesn't hurt people without cause, and she’s had no reason to
attack me."
Still, Prism took a few steps back, and Paragon opened the
seal with his back to her.
But there was no
explosion, no toxic smoke, no evil incantation: just a piece of
paper, which he began to read in silence.
"What is it?"
she asked.
"Hm..." he
said as he continued reading.
"Well, what is
it already?"
"She wants to
pay for the damages she caused. You know, the dragon incident."
"Oh. That's
nice, I suppose. I mean, it's better than nothing. If she's for real
about it."
"I'm supposed
to meet her at a specified location," he explained. "Come
alone, no cops, etcetera. The usual."
"Well then
that's probably a trap," Prism figured.
"Maybe."
He nodded, but seemed doubtful.
"Should I come
with you?" Prism asked hopefully. "I can watch your back."
"No, she said
to come alone," he said, checking his wrist com.
"Oh, come on! I
can help," he pleaded.
"I don't doubt
your ability," he said, which was mostly true. "But it
won't be necessary. Nothing's going to happen."
Prism crossed her
arms. "What makes you so sure?"
"I just know,"
he told her.
"You," she
began, and poked him in the chest with one finger, "are going to
get yourself killed one day."
"No, I'm going
to die peacefully in my bed at a hundred and five, surrounded by my
closest friends and family."
"I hope you're
right," she said, no longer joking.
"You worry too
much," he said, giving her a friendly jab to the shoulder.
Despite his great strength, he had the self-control to be
surprisingly gentle.
"I know,"
she admitted. "Still, don’t let your guard down. You never
know."
He nodded. "I’ll
be careful."
"And look both
ways before you cross the street." She smiled at her own joke,
trying to cover the worry she couldn’t help but feel.
"Don't worry.
Out of all of my nemeses, she's the one least likely to try something
like that."
Lights flooded into
the windows, and they both turned
to see the photon jet landing outside; its rider stepped out and
approached the building, leaning in the window that had so far served
as the building’s primary entrance.
"Someone call for a ride?" Photon asked.
Prism waved. "One second!"
"Well, looks
everything is settled here, so
I’ll be on my way," Paragon said and went to the window.
Photon gave him room to climb out.
Once Paragon had gone, Photon hooked a thumb over his
shoulder as Prism came forward to exit as well. "What’s he up
to?"
"I just had to
give him a letter," she explained. At the mention of it, she lit
up with recollection. "Oh! That reminds me!"
She ran back and picked up the second letter and handed it to
Photon.
"There’s one for you, too."
"Why, thank you!" he said as he opened it. "I
didn’t know it was Valentine’s Day."
"It’s not
that kind of letter! And it’s not from me."
"Oh, too bad."
He stopped. "Then, who is it from?"
"Sycorax."
He stared at her in
surprise for a moment. "Sycorax?"
"Yeah. I mean,
that’s what-- oh, you weren’t here when we were talking about
that. Sorry."
Holding the envelope
a little further from him as if it had a spider on it, he eyed it
suspiciously.
"Well...
nothing happened to Paragon’s," she informed him.
"Yeah, but we
all know she's got a crush on him. Anyways, I’d rather--"
She didn’t find
out what he’d rather, because the letter glowed for an instant,
then enveloped him in a burst of bright orange smoke.
"I guess your
letter was different," Prism suggested as the smoke began to
fade.
That night, at a
quarter to twelve, Paragon waited atop the domed roof of the Planet
Theater. He had in hand the list given to him by the city.
The night air was
cool, but pleasantly so. When Sycorax was still a few minutes late,
he hardly even noticed. Most of
the big cities suffered so much air and light pollution that few
stars could be seen. And yet, the stars above Argent still clung to
the high ground, refusing to surrender.
When Sycorax finally did arrive at the scene—a full eight
minutes past the specified meeting time—Paragon did not notice her
arrival, nor was he bothered by the time he’d had alone with the
sky.
"You weren’t
followed, were you?" she asked said from behind him. "You
came alone?"
"You know I
did," he replied, turning to face her. "I'm sure you have
ways of knowing."
She closed her eyes
for a moment, then nodded. "That’s why I had to get the letter
to you in particular. Most of the others would have set a trap for
me."
"I can’t say
I didn’t consider it," he admitted. "You are a wanted
criminal. But if what you said in the message is true, then I have to
comply. I have to give you a chance." He handed her the list.
She looked at the
total owed at the bottom of the page, and her eyes widened.
"Is something
wrong?" he asked.
"It's... a
little more than I was expecting."
"It's less than
I was expecting," he countered. "You did attack the city
with a dragon."
"Excuse me?"
she retorted. "I didn't 'attack the city'. It was practically a
parking violation."
He swiped the paper
from her and looked over it. "Let's see… well, there’s the
damages to the library roof…"
"Some scratch
marks," she said, dismissively. "Barely even visible."
"Right. Then
there’s the fire damages to a number of surrounding buildings…"
"Superficial
damage," she clarified. "Nothing even burned down."
"Removal of the
dragon's corpse--which was enormous, by the way. Cleanup of the
dragon's..." he looked up at her from the paper, "'flaming
stomach bile'?"
"Fire doesn't
just come out of nowhere," she explained. "Biology has to
make sense, even with dragons. It’s all a matter of chemical
reactions and the like."
"Are you-- a
sorceress-- trying to explain the scientific logic behind the biology
of a dragon's fire breath?"
"Don't act like
magic is nonsense or something," she said defensively. "Magic
makes perfect sense once you understand it. Magic has rules and laws
just like everything else."
"Alright,
alright. I'll take your word for it."
"Thank you."
He went back to the
list. "So, damages to the park grounds, disaster response
personnel, time spent, labor paid, interest, and so on and so forth.
You get the idea."
He handed it back to
her.
"Very well.
I'll have the funds delivered via courier."
"Well then
that's settled," he replied.
"Good."
He wondered briefly
what kind of courier she had in mind, and hoped it wasn’t what he
was imagining based on recent events.
For a minute,
neither spoke. Even the commotion of the restless city seemed distant
and faint. Finally, Sycorax broke the silence.
"By the way, I
wanted to thank you for visiting me while I was in the asylum."
"I’m sorry?"
he replied, a look of puzzlement crossing his face. "I think
you’re mistaken."
Sycorax laughed.
"Are you really so embarrassed about it that you’re going to
pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about? Did you think I
wouldn’t see through some a thinly veiled disguise like that?"
Paragon hesitated.
"I was wearing top-grade facial prosthetics and complexion
altering makeup. I wouldn’t call that ‘thinly veiled’."
"You might as
well have come in wearing glasses and a hat," she explained.
"But how?"
he asked. "You couldn’t have cast any spells; your cell was
anti-magic sealed."
"Come on.
Really?" she teased. "After our little good bye before they
locked me up? It didn’t take magic to know you’d come to see me.
Besides, you didn’t even disguise your voice."
Having the sorceress
flaunt the ease of her victory was irritating. He crossed his arms
and turned his head to look away from her.
"Congratulations,"
he said sarcastically. "I bet you’re really proud of
yourself."
"Oh, come on
now," she replied in a conciliatory tone, "what I meant to
say is..." She stepped forward and lightly placed a hand on his
arm. "Thank you. Most of the time, they just throw you in and
leave you there, like you don’t even matter. But you’re
different. We’ve been adversaries for a long time, but you’ve
always had a sort of chivalry to you."
"That’s
because what I do isn’t about hurting you, or anyone else; it’s
about protecting them," he made a sweeping gesture towards the
city around them. "And yet, you’re different than the rest of
the villains. You were always better than them."
"That’s
because what I do isn’t about hurting you. Or them." She
nodded over her shoulder. "It’s just about achieving my goals.
I’m just glad someone understands me. That’s also why I had the
letter given to you; I wanted to see you again."
She stepped towards
him. He opened her arms, and she hugged him. He brushed her hair out
of her face, and drew her closer to him. As soon as he kissed her,
however, they were interrupted by a ground-shaking explosion, less
than two blocks away.
Sycorax turned from
him. "What is that?"
What they saw was a
pod-like, bubble-domed vehicle emerging from the side of a building,
surrounded by a shower of glittering glass shards. The contraption
had ten long limbs like the hybrid of a spider and an octopus. Or the
mechanical approximation of such a thing, at any rate.
"Doctor
Nefarious, I presume?" Paragon muttered under his breath.
Sure enough, the
doctor's voice boomed from the machine's speakers. He said something
generic about greatness and feeble attempts and domination, etcetera.
One of the limbs picked up a pretty blond woman in its steel claws to
take as a hostage. Typical, really.
"You endanger
innocent people," Paragon grumbled through his teeth, "in
my city," his fists clenched at his sides. "And on top of
that, you had to do this at the worst time possible!"
As the flying sword
arrived at his side, he turned to face Sycorax. "Sorry. I need
to take care of this."
"Don't worry,"
she replied. "I understand."
"It’ll just
be a moment." He made a sweeping motion with one hand, and the
sword flew at the machine, spinning like a saw blade. In a flash, it
severed the claw holding the woman, releasing the hostage who was
then enveloped in a transparent force field. The bubble descended
slowly, releasing her gently on the ground below where she was
escorted to safety.
Nefarious could be
seen in the vehicle's domed cockpit looking frantically around for
what had interfered. He finally spotted Paragon atop the edge of the
roof down the street, and understandably panicked.
Sycorax put a hand
on Paragon's shoulder. "Go get him, tiger."
The sword came back,
and Paragon stepped onto it, and flew towards the nine-legged machine
as it hastened to flee the scene.
Satisfied that the
situation was under control, Sycorax decided to make her leave before
her presence was discovered. She knew that Paragon would be
disappointed to come back only to find that she had gone, but he'd
live. Besides, she was anxious to check
up on Photon, and hoped he had gotten the letter. She was
quite eager to see how he looked with a beak and feathers.
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(I'm not sure why Blogger ruins the formatting when I try to upload it here. There are supposed to be proper paragraph breaks and indents. I'm not okay with this, but there isn't much I can do about it right now.)