Meltdown, Orbis & Whirligig
VAGABOND
A tremor, he thought as the stylist made headway through the tangle of his hair. What else could have shaken the earth like that?
Funny that nobody else seemed to notice it. He had been having that eerie feeling all day, that nobody seemed to be noticing anything.
Combed out, it was almost to his waist. He never cut his hair, after all. It had be so long since he had seen the near white-gold shade, he had almost convinced himself he had been a brunette. He had never cut it since since since since since sincesincesincienissccceeeeeeeeneee
And he could have sworn he could still hear that man screaming. It was just off in the distance, like birdsong, or the collective cry of crows. It vexed him—he didn’t know why—while he got his hair tackled.
Clothes, he thought. I’m going to have to get some of them—
OW!
Damn knots. He was still woozy. Still overwhelmed by the senses. Even the most minute things, a bump, a stubborn knot in is hair, was enough to nearly send him over the edge. He saw stars; tried to play it off. Actually it was a miracle he was able to get out the door. He spent half the day just trying to get out of the bathroom. Muscles and sinews that had not been used for….however long it wasSssEEEEEEEEEEEEE…suddenly found commands and bio-electrical impulses coursing down their nerves. And his body woke up. It was too much.
And now he was sure of it: he could still hear that man screaming. No one else seemed to notice, though, in their blithe, accommodating manner. What, is he following me? This has got to stop.
OhGodOhGodOhGodOhGod
Oh
GOD.
Bo was on the floor. He just…crumpled. He put the key in the lock. He opened the door. And he just…crumpled.
He’s been shot. Oh god. He’s on the floor. He’s been shot. He’s been shot. Oh god oh god oh god. He’s been shot. Oh god. Oh Jesus.
Nash Thibideux, transfixed, could only stare at Bo’s body. This was a Navy SEAL. Weapons specialist. Martial arts master. And he could generate a few inches from his fists spheres of pure, diamond-hard energy that could grind through steel. Deflect bullets. But only if he saw them coming. Now he was spawled, ugly, on the floor of the hall.
Whirligig, who had followed Bo from the day he fell out of the sky and landed in the bay, was in there, in the apartment. Total puppy, but a total blank-slate, a complete amnesiac. Bo even had to give him a name, ‘Colton Grabowski.’ The last name was his mother’s maiden name, the first from Bo favorite porn star. Colton was an “anthroid,” a living being completely saturated with a nearly impervious liquid computer. He could spin around the center of his gravity so fast he could fly or grind his way through anything. But he was out cold. The fight with Vagabond damaged him so badly he lapsed into a stasis-state while his body repaired itself.
And Nash himself, he was MELTDOWN. He was Heat Incarnate. He could fly, could vaporize stone and metal. There was no limit to how hot he could get. He was probably the only female-to-male transgender thermophile. And he could hear his brain screaming. Fire danced down his arms and legs. And he could not move. God help me, I can’t move. He’s been shot. He’s been shot. He’s been shot. He’s been shot. I can’t move. He’s been shot.
That’s when he saw the silencer and barrel emerge from the doorframe.
Move, Nash.
He had been standing off to the side of the door while Bo unlocked it.
Nash, move.
The killer didn’t know another was there. He was coming out to look at the body. The gun was coming out of the door.
NASH! MOVE!
He’s been shot.
He’s been shot.
He’s been shot.
He watched Vagabond go through the whole ritual, blearily. He wasn’t even sure if he was really seeing, or it was just some sort of haze. He’s done something to me, he knew. He knew he was terrified, and yet it was all like looking at something from so far away. He knew he had to run. He knew he had the power to do it. But it was all so far away in his mind. He couldn’t reach anything, couldn’t touch anything.
so
far
….a…way….
So he watched Vagabond. He was vaguely aware where they were. Warehouse. Screaming. Ruined. Burned out. Raining. Screaming. Water falling through the roof. Vagabond, naked, standing in the falling water. Using his power to change his black hair blond. Screaming. Pieces of wood, metal flying, raking through his hair. Took all day. Screaming.
And then Vagabond turned. Looking right at me. Coming up to me help no picking me up with his mind screaming no no things flying everywhere no no help Mirrorball Scepter help help oh god help speaking in my mind
“Time to go, Benji Whitcombe called Tug-of-War. Time to go forever.”
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