Post by jackalope on Mar 17, 2014 22:34:14 GMT -5
Ultimate Ex Machina #12
The Twelve Days of Christmas
The Twelve Days of Christmas
13th of December
12 Dead Deadbeats
“How many?” Commissioner Angoitti asks.
“Twelve,” Olsen repeats. “A dozen, half found washed up near Southside, the other half in alleyways and rubbish tips.”
“Forensics says they were dumped all in the last week.” Turpin scratches his arm near his nicotine patch while he waits for the commissioner to process. She's seemed strained lately, rumours flowed about trouble at home, but office gossip was no better than speculation and Chinese whispers. Even detectives had a habit of making up bullshit, especially when it came to others in their unit. Still, Turpin had to admit, she did look stressed. “We've I.D.ed ten of them, mostly small time, several of them worked as informants for cops in Narco.”
“Revenge killing?” Angoitti looks over the morbid photographs. “Someone talked? Do we have a leak somewhere?”
“I don't know,” Turpin replies, “it's possible, there was clear signs of torture on most of the bodies.”
“We're thinking...” Olsen begins and then stops.
Angoitti looks at both of them. “What?”
Olsen looks to Turpin, who just raises his eyebrows. He points back at the photographs. “These two were at the club on the night of that Rainbow Archer's death.”
The Commissioner narrows her eyes as she thinks it through. “So who are you thinking- Mannheim or your 'Trouble'?”
Turpin shrugs. “Fucked if I know.”
* * *
14th of December
11 Pole-dancing Politicians
“Well, I'm not sure if I'd call it pole-dancing,” Mayor Hundred says.
Smiling, Susan Padilla points to Councilman Havlock who is grinding one of the structural beams on the edge of the dance floor. “Really?'
“OK,” Mitchell admits, “you may have a point there.” Both find themselves laughing and sniggering. “I think I may have had a bit too much.”
“Hush,” Susan says, “you've been far to hard on yourself, way too many late nights at the office. Too much on your plate.”
“You are dating the Mayor of Metropolis you realise...” Hundred says, “balancing plates is kind of my job.”
“I know, I know,” Susan reassures, slipping a hand in his suit jacket and resting it on his chest, “but it's the Mayoral Christmas Party, and you're the Mayor so I think you have permission to relax.”
“OK,” Hundred says, sighing, “No, you're right.” He looks over to see his Deputy Dave Wylie with his wife, approaching. “Merry Christmas!”
* * *
15th of December
10 Lying Losers
“We ain't lying, Mr Mannheim, 'onest.” The man looks ready to cry. Blood runs from a blackened eye, a mingles with a stream flowing from a split lip.
Bruno Mannheim wipes his bloodied knuckles and hands the towel back to the guard standing nearby. He rubs his thick black beard and looks back at the ten men hanging from the ceiling from chains, “Like pigs in a butchery,” he shakes his head, “and none of you are ready to squeal.”
A young blond man at the end of the lets out a moan, a mix of fear and blood. Mannheim walks up to him, looking into red, swollen eyes. The man's head lolls to the side. Bruno lifts his chin, directing it towards his own face. “Do you have something you want to tell me?” he asks in a soft whisper.
“I... don't... know.” The man starts crying, snot and blood drip from his nose. Mannheim drops the man's head and turns away.
He walks to the doorway as he unrolls his sleeves. A guard hands him his suit jacket, which Bruno puts on. “Dispose of this lot and scoop up the next round of scum. Someone has to have seen something.” Doing up the buttons, he waits for the door to be opened for him. “I want that bitch found.”
* * *
16th of December
9 Leaked Documents
“Leaked?” Zee stops whisking cream for a moment. “What, about Metropolis?”
Matty Roth nods, looking up from his laptop. “Leaked today, all about off-the-books funding being funnelled through various high-level corporations operating here.”
“Money laundering?”
“Looks like it. Released by some hacker group called the 'Newsboy Legion',” Matty says, closing his laptop. His cellphone vibrates; a text. Matty quickly looks at his cell-phone.
'ANRKY: how did you like my Xmas present?' The text self-deletes.
He stands and walks through to the kitchen where Zee is preparing food. When she pulls open the oven, Matty smacks her behind. “Holy crap that smells good, why don't you cook apricot pies everyday?”
“Because my parents aren't coming over everyday to meet my live in boyfriend for the first time ever.” Putting the pie down on the table, she tucks a loose dread back behind her ear and smirks. “Besides, then you'd get fat and I'd have to leave you. I like my white boys skinny.”
Licking the cream from the whisk, Matty raises an eyebrow. “I thought you were going to say scrawny.”
“That too,” Zee replies, stepping forward to kiss him. Matty taps her nose with the whisk, leaving a spot of cream on it. They both find themselves laughing. Zee shakes her head, “I think this is the happiest I've seen you in months.”
“Yeah, life got a little...” He shrugs. “But I'm better now.”
“Good.” There is knocking at the door. Zee walks over. “Hold that thought, now remember my parents are kind of religious so I might have told them you were a practising Catholic...”
“Uhh,” Matty's mouth hangs for a moment.
“You're too easy,” she laughs as she opens the door, greeting her parents with a huge hug.
* * *
17th of December
8 Missed Messages
Hundred looks at his cellphone and sighs. He still can't get use to having to actually look at the damn thing. He once had to hide his cellphone to stop hearing its inane stream of communications, now he can barely hear a whisper. A couple of messages from his mum; she was off travelling around Europe- his gift to her. Scanning through her pictures, a grinning grey-haired woman beside the museums and monuments of the world; now he wonders whether she will ever come back.
The next few messages are from various officials, obligatory Christmas messages, wishing him happy holidays and the like. He makes a mental note to return the favours, ideally before Christmas. He looks at the final message. It's a mixture of numbers and letters, letting him know the time and place of a meeting.
At the sound of the knock on the door, he quickly turns the cell's screen off. Journal pokes her head in. “Oh. Not interrupting anything?”
He shakes his head. “Journal – I thought you had finished up for the day. Yesterday.”
“I.. I just ducked in to finish up a few last minute things.” She tucks a strand of her blond hair behind her ear.
The Mayor smiles, “Me too. Come in.” He pulls out a red wrapped present and places on his desk. “Merry Christmas Ms Moore.” She steps forward and takes the gift. Holding it, she hesitates. He scratches his temple, “You can open if you want.”
She shakes her head. “I think I'll wait... Thank you sir.”
“Please Journal, Mitchell, we've known each other long enough.” For a moment she stands as if she is waiting for something. Hundred asks, “Was there something you wanted to talk to me about?”
“The recent leaks..,” she starts.
“Don't worry about it, we've got a team on it. Most likely just a grumpy technician trying to pull a Snowden or something.” The Mayor checks his phone again and stands up. “The implications of the leaked documents are dubious at best, and outright lies at worst.” Putting on his suit jacket, he starts to the door. “Now, I've got somewhere I need to be. Have a good break Journal, and get some rest for once, you work far too hard.”
“OK but..,” she calls as he leaves, but the door is already closing. “...I'm the leak.”
Only she hears her confession.
* * *
18th of December
7 Sexy Secrets
“...for a happy marriage.” Detective Olsen holds up the woman's magazine to his partner, Detective Turpin. “Do you want me to rip it out?”
Turpin smirks. “Whoever wrote that has obviously never been married before.” He puts down the 3-month old sports magazine. “...To me at least.”
The secretary presses a button on her switch board, and looks over at the two detectives. “He's free to see you now.”
“Thank you ma'am,” Olsen says as they stand and walk to the office door.
Opening it, they find Parco Delgado, Borough President of Southside, sitting at his desk. “Gentlemen, I hope you don't take it as affront if I don't stand when you enter, my back has been playing up, you see.” His voice is even, hard to read, polite enough but with a certain hardness. Turpin suspects the reason he doesn't stand is because they're cops.
“No problem Mr Delgado, I know you're a busy man. We're hoping to take only a moment of your time.” Turpin sits, followed shortly by Olsen.
“Of course, what can I do for Metropolis's finest?” Parco tilts his shaven head back, leaving his hands rested on the table.
“Well as you probably know, there have been some bodies washing up alongside Southside, and some others further downstream,” Turpin starts.
“Terrible, terrible,” the Borough President say shaking his head, “especially since so much work has been put into cleaning up that area's reputation.”
“We just wondered if you might have some insight into what could be happening?” Turpin asks.
“Insight?” Parco strokes his trimmed beard thoughtfully. “Even with the outreach problems there, it's still a rough neighbourhood. Crime, gangs, and of course suicide...”
“Crime? Gangs? Suicide?” Turpin turns to Olsen. “How did we not consider those?” His red-headed partner shrugs. Turning back to Parco, the older detective drops the sarcasm. “Thing is, we were hoping you might be able to help a little more than that...”
“Is there something you're not telling me, because otherwise it sounds like Metropolis P.D. is accusing a City official of... what?” The Borough President's voice stays steady, as if he's more curious than afraid.
“Mr Delgado, Parco,” Olsen begins. “Date of Birth August 3rd 1980. No criminal record.”
“But we know that Parco Delgado was accused of manslaughter at age 18, stabbing a man with a switch-blade.” Parco's demeanour suddenly freezes. “Now there is no recoded evidence of this conviction, no crime reports, but it turns out there are a few old cops around whose memories haven't been erased, who filled us in. Now removing something like that from a record takes some clout, and getting a job like yours requires some powerful friends.” Turpin crosses his legs. “We just want to know if any of these powerful friends may have anything to do with the bodies.”
“I'm afraid I have no knowledge of what you're talking about.” Delgado's voiced simmered with barely controlled rage. “I'm going to have to ask you to leave, as I have a meeting now.”
“Sorry to hear that. You have a good Christmas, Parco.” The detectives stood and made their way to the door.
* * *
19th of December
6 Green Leaves
“Doesn't seem like a lot does it?” Woodrue asks. Hundred shrugs. The Professor continues, “Well, take my word for it, six leaves in four hours is astonishing. By channelling chemical energy into the cube we have found we can affect the amount of light it generates, and in turn the rate of growth to the surrounding plants.”
“It's very impressive Professor,” Mayor Hundred says, looking over the plants, “but I was wondering if there was any schedule in regards to the food programme we were hoping to roll out.”
“I show you a miracle, and he wants dates,” the Professor mutters. He stops and turns back to the Mayor. “The advances we are making will be revolutionary, not only for this city, but the world.”
Hundred looks over Woodrue. The man looks more dishevelled than the last time he saw him, with a slight glint in his eye. It was a look he could recognise. Obsession. The Mayor nods. “I'm glad to hear that Professor. What you're working on truly is impressive.” He walks to the door and turns back. “Make sure to take some time off over Christmas, to recharge and all.”
The Professor nods, slightly stiffly. “Of course.”
The Mayor makes his way back to the elevator.
Susan Linden-Thorne, Professor Woodrue's assistant and co researcher, quickly got onto the elevator. He turns to her. “Going up?”
As the doors close she steps towards him. As the elevator starts moving up to a lesser used floor, her hand takes his and places it on her lower back. They kiss. As they pull apart, she whispers in his ear, “When you you hear the name Susan- do you think of her or me?”
He frowns, caught out by the question. She smiles, watching his mind turning. “You,” he replies. “But I don't feel proud about it.”
Her hand moves up his chest. “Then leave her.”
“I'm midway through my term, it would kill my rating.” He looks up at her, feeling doubly guilty.”
“Then don't.” She continues smiling. “And don't worry about it.” She kisses him again.
* * *
20th of December
5 Golden Rules
“...for staying alive,” says Anarky. He stands looking over the city, all lit up by neon signs and street lights. “One; know your City.” He jumps off the old apartment block.
Without looking, Trouble jumps after him. Her black leather boots hit the small balcony of the apartment below, as he walks into the flat, passing a $20 note to the bouncer standing just inside of a sliding door. He turns back to her. “Two; know who you can buy, and how much they cost.”
He walks onwards, and she dashes after him. The bouncer puts his hand out to stop her, but she smoothly shakes it, leaning in and kissing him on the cheek. Continuing past, she see a long line of people waiting in a hallway. Anarky explains, “This is a community clinic. Local doctors and nurses volunteer here. Mostly it's immigrants they look after- those without social security, and the homeless.”
As she walks past a door she catches a glimpse of a doctor, a brown skinned woman with white dreadlocks, who looks familiar to her. When she looks back, the masked boy leading her has disappeared. She runs after him, turning a corridor and out through the apartment's door. Outside the evening air is cool. She flinches as a baton appears from behind her, hovering under her chin.
“Three; always be aware of your surroundings.” He moves swiftly in front of her, running onwards and leaping onto a metal fire escape ladder, and climbs up to the top. She follows, grunting as she pulls herself on to the roof. He points to a security camera and a small laser do hits the lens. “Four; Leave no trace.”
She points to another camera behind her. “ERASE AND SHUT-DOWN” It clicks, the iris on it shuts.
Anarky leads her across a couple of long corrugated iron roofs, before dropping onto a lower level. Motioning her to crouch, he points through a low window. She sees a car being loaded up with bricks of what she guesses is cocaine. In exchange, a man is handing over 4 large shuffle-board of money. “One; know your enemy.” He pulls out a small technical looking telescope. “All of Mannheim's business moves through Chinatown. The guy who runs this is named Wilson. He gets a quarter of the cut from running the trafficking side of things, making him the third richest man in Metropolis.”
She scans the scene once more. “This is the only way he imports his product?”
Anarky nods his plain white mask. “This is where you hit.”
* * *
21st of December
4 Cylinders of Blood
Professor Woodrue looks at them, then removes his glasses and rubs his eyes. “What are they?”
“Come on.” Susan Linden-Thorne pushes open the doorway through to the restricted area. “This will change everything.”
The older professor follows, scratching his greying hair. “What are they?” he repeats.
“Blood.” She walks up to the red door and holds up her thumb to the scanner.
“Blood?” Following her into the observation room where the glowing red cube thrums. “I still don't understand.”
“Simple, really.” The door hisses as she open the door through to the overgrown experimental chamber. As she approaches the red cube, the pulsing red light becomes brighter and brighter. “Where warriors died on battlefields, the ground grew larger plants. Their blood fertilized the soil.”
“Blood...” he says, remembering the cubes strange reaction to the Mayor's presence. “You got his blood.. how...?”
She shakes her head. “Does it matter?” She moves towards him, holding out the case containing the cylinders. “What matters is this is the breakthrough you have been looking for.” Leaving them in his hands, she kisses his cheek. “Merry Christmas Professor.”
She leaves him bathing in the red light.
* * *
22nd of December
3 Free Hours
“...And where do I choose to spent them.” Mayor Hundred opens his arms and looks around at the gravestones surrounding him. Pulling out a small flask he sips some whiskey, and coughs. Looking at his watch, it's just turned past 3 am. He can see his breath in the cold air.
“I don't know what I'm doing any more,” the Mayor admits. “I thought if I could just hold onto the goal I would be alright, but recently it feels like I'm loosing myself.” He takes another swig and replaces the cap.
“Every year I end up back here.”He crouches down and runs his hand across the tombstone, tracing the name carved in it. Ivan "Kremlin" Tereshkov. “I guess I never really could forgive myself, you remind me of that.”
He stands, pulling his black coat more tightly around him. At the edge of the graveyard his bodyguard, Ray Bradbury, guards the entrance to this area, facing away as to respect his privacy. The Mayor flashes a brief look of resentment. “This is partly on you – you encouraged to become this.”
He looks down at himself. “Well, maybe not this...” He clenches his jaw. “No, you're right. I made my choices.” He touches the headstone once more before turning away. “Merry Christmas Kremlin.”
* * *
23rd of December
2 Tired Detectives
“...standing on the street,” Detective Turpin whispers under his breath. “When they could be home, getting some sleep.”
Detective Olsen knocks again. “Ma'am, please, I assure you you're not in trouble. I just want to ask if you've seen anything strange lately.”
There's no movement from behind the door. The young detective knocks again. “Ma'am.”
“Leave it.” Turpin looks around the street. All the same, doors shut, curtains closed. “No one here is going to talk to us.”
Olsen drops his hand. “So what the hell do we do? Mannheim's got this city wrapped up tightly and tucked in his pocket.” As they start walking down the pavement it starts to rain. “Perfect,” Olsen complains. “No one will talk to us, we can't even keep hold of anyone who works for him. Mannheim himself is a fucking ghost- no records of birth or social security. The only thing we've got that suggests he exists is how scared everyone is to actually talk to about him.”
They continue down the cramped Southside street and the rain gets heavier.
“Like the Bogey Monster,” Turpin pushes open a door into a small coffee shop. “The Bogey Mobster.” The two detectives get out of the rain. Turpin takes off his hat, and looks to the slightly nervous looking cashier. “Two coffees please, one black, one white.” He chucks a note on the counter and turns back to his partner. “Maybe we're going about this the wrong way. Mannheim is real, so he must have some sort of alias he works under, if not more than one. We know he owns a lot of politicians and has dealings with a lot of businesses in Metropolis.”
“Follow the money?” Olsen shakes his head, “I don't think it'll work, money-laundering would be impossible to track without Federal input, and we hardly get them involved without something resembling evidence.”
“No, what I mean is that if anyone has going to have actually met the man in the flesh, it's not going to be someone living around here, it'll be someone who has actual power. Now, we can't know who is afraid of him and who is loyal to him, but I know one person who I bet is neither...”
“Coffees.” The coffee-shop worker holds up two take-away cups.
“Keep the change,” Turpin says, taking them and handing one to Olsen.
His partner narrows his eyes. “You want to try and set up some sort of meeting with..?”
“Yes.” Turpin pushes his hat back onto his bald head. “I think we need to see Mayor Hundred.”
* * *
24th of December
and a Professor in a Parliament of Trees
Professor Woodrue is alone in the building, alone and naked. It's Christmas and the interns and researchers are at home with their friends and families. Using his clearance Woodrue had made his way through the darkened corridors, to this experimental lab. The red light calls him, reaching through his dreams, pulsing like a heartbeat. There is a whispering from around him.
He kneels down and opens the black case. Picking up one of the cylinders of blood, he takes a step towards the red cube. The red light becomes more intense. His barefoot moves him closer. A faint word is being chanted around him.
grow grow grow grow grow grow grow grow grow grow grow grow grow grow grow
He reaches out to the cube. The light seems almost touchable, warm and liquid. Instinctively, he opens the vial, and lets the blood pour from it on to the red box. The red blood hits but instead of sliding down the side of it, the blood flows back upwards, pooling on the top of the cube. Woodrue drops the cylinder, letting it smash on the ground below. His hand trembles as he moves it towards the dark red square of blood.
His fingertips make contact. Slowly the blood starts trailing up his arm, twisting a wriggling like vines growing at super speed. Suddenly, he's afraid, as if waking into a nightmare. He tries to pull away but the red vines have enveloped his arm. The red light is shining brighter and brighter. He can feel the blood trailing up his neck. He screams but he can't seem to make any noise with the liquid light flooding his throat. The blood moves onto his face, it feels sharp like small cactus needles gripping to his face. Intense pain grips him as a blood red thorn grows into his temple.
Everything is red.
He opens his eyes. He is flying through an open sky. Either side of him flies some sort of green-skinned angel, holding his shoulder. His eyes see their wings, out-stretched, with leaves in place of feathers.
“The Greenskeeper has been waiting for you,” the creatures words flow from its mouth in some sort of glowing liquid, making alien symbols that fade.
“Oh,” he replies, not knowing what else to say.
The angels drop, lowering towards a vast forest, with trees as large as buildings, in fact some look like buildings, complete with pale green windows and electrical cables of green vines. Wind turbines like giant flowers spin in the distance. The jungle itself below seems to hum like a great choir.
He is gently lowered to the ground, his weight be absorbed by the soft moss which coats the ground. He wiggles his toes and enjoys the feeling.
“Gardener, we meet at last.”
Woodrue looks up to see... well he can't explain who he sees. There is a figure there, beautiful; his brain registers, but he cannot describe him. “Who are you?”
“I am a Greenskeeper,” the figure replies, “and I have a task for you.”