21

It was really hard to do your job when you were carrying a half dead guy over your shoulder. A heavy half dead guy on top of that. But it wasn’t like he could hand Logan off to someone else - who else could press three hundred pounds?

But Hover was hovering around (so to speak), and was able to confirm that the airstrip looked clear before Yukio brought the chopper down. It seemed like a clear shot (oh, not a good term) to Tony’s jet, but as he made his way across the tarmac, he had a gun in his free hand, safety off an ready to fire. The bad thing about a private airstrip was you had to look everywhere at once, which he tried to do, but he knew he did a piss poor job. Still, no one shot at Tony as they reached the jet.

Once inside, he went to the back cabin where there were retractable beds, and waited for one to fully emerge from its hiding place in the bulkhead as Tony lingered in the doorway, looking nervous, guilty, and useless. Tony hadn’t totally done what he came here for, but fuck it - he was aborting the job. Logan was just too fucked up - everything was too fucked up - and he was calling it; it was over. He wasn’t sure if his entire association with Tagawa was over too; he hadn’t made up his mind yet.

He put Logan down on the bed, as carefully as Humanly possible, which wasn’t that gentle at all. But he didn’t seem to care. He couldn’t be more out if he was in a coma (a possibility that had occurred to him). He seemed to be healing, as he couldn’t see the slice of metal rib anymore, but that was it : he was still marked with cuts and bullet holes, and blood still seeped from a couple of them. Also, you could still use him to boil water, if you were so inclined.

“I never meant for it to get this bad,” Tony said, once again making an excuse. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

“Stop the fucking mind games,” he snapped. Looking down, he noticed Logan had bled all over him. Shit. He wondered if he could take his dry cleaning bills out of his payment. Would Logan even notice? It wasn’t like he counted the money.

“I apologize. I’m just accustomed to keeping my own council.”

“When you hire us, we’re in on the council - clear?”

He nodded, still chagrined and small. As he should be. But he wasn’t sure he could storm out in a huff, even when they landed in Canada, and even if Logan was okay and back to normal.

Because the gangsters probably weren’t done with any of them, and anodyne, whatever it really was. And now all the Yakuza knew Logan was still alive.

He was going to venture out on a limb and guess that wasn’t a good thing.

***

Although it might be considered bad form, his guest didn’t mind if he turned the back of his chair on him during their negotiations. In fact, he was often relieved, as it meant he could peel away some of the veils that he used to cover himself, to shelter the world from his “condition”. And Sanjiro could still watch his reflection in the window, if he so desired.

Nakamura burst in, apparently unaware he had company. “Sir, the helicopter Woo secured for us was spotted on its way to the airfi-” he stopped so abruptly, he knew the young man had just seen his guest. “Uh, um, a thousand pardons. I- I didn’t realize -”

“Did Tagawa get away?” He said, staring at Nakamura’s reddening expression in the window. It was partially embarrassment, and partially fear.

“Um, uh, y-yes, it seems so. Early reports have them all getting away. We’re still uncertain as to how the helicopter was secured -”

“Logan Yashida,” he snapped, swiveling his chair around to face his aide. Nakamura was subtly edging towards the door, as far from his guest as possible. “The Triad fucked up. Did they not read the reports we were able to secure? He is a freak capable of astounding acts of violence. Or was the slaughter of two well armed families just not enough evidence for them?”

It was pointless to lash out at Nakamura, as it was hardly his fault - it was the Triad who screwed up, who were so damn sure they could recover him they got cocky. (What a shock.) But the Triad weren’t here, so Masao would just have to do.

“I-uh … the Triad reports several dead operatives, and others missing -”

“I’m sure they do. Well, if they’re heading back to Canada, we still have an operative in play.”

“We do?”

He fixed him with a glare that would have meant death if he was anyone else. “Our friendly neighborhood bomber. Perhaps he can intercept them at the airport, have a “welcome home” present waiting for them.” Not that that would take care of the Logan problem, but that was okay ; that was something he wanted to do himself anyways. That animal had robbed his name of prestige, of honor, of power - no one got away with that so lightly. He had worked too hard to restore his name, and no gaijin freak was going to tarnish it further. “Well? Why are you standing there like a moron? Call him and patch him through to me at once.”

“Y-yes sir,” he squeaked nervously, yet looked almost grateful as he fled the room. Did he find the appearance of his guest that disturbing?

His guest was still wearing most of his concealing layers, hiding his unfortunate, extreme skin condition. Considering how much he hated mutants, he didn’t think he was one, but he could have been. His skin was gray and layer with thick scales - when the veils and robe were off, he looked not unlike an aardvark or anteater in Human form. His eyes were storm cloud gray, matching his scales. Right now, only his eyes were visible above his dark blue veil, and his black hood covered the rest of his head. But what was visible of his skin looked like clots of dirty stucco. He said it was rare skin condition related to scleroderma, but Sanjiro didn‘t think so. “Will this be a problem?” The guest croaked. It always sounded like he was speaking through a mouthful of gravel. “We can offer assistance.”

Sanjiro made a dismissive gesture with his hand, looking back out at the water. It was hard to look directly at Farik after a while - it was like staring at the sun.( A hideously disfigured sun?) “They’re just men. Easily taken care of.”

He was silent for a long, insulting moment. “If you say so.”

Swallowing a disgusted sigh, he asked, ”Are the shipments ready?”

“Of course. The anodyne is ready for distribution. The rest is up to you. I trust that you will not let us down, like Tagawa.”

“Tagawa was a fool; drugs addled his mind. If he hadn’t died, we’d have killed him anyways.” He didn’t trust Farik - how could he? - but he really didn’t need to. Anodyne was a gold mine, a fortune waiting to be made, and it would be his. Theirs.

And if Farik didn’t exactly live to see it … well, accidents happened, didn’t they?

It was a dangerous world. For some more than others.

22

Bob sat on the stairs inside his Sydney house, wondering why no one had figured out that Murphy’s Law was a universal constant. Everything that could go wrong generally did, and with such frequency that he didn’t know why people hadn’t woken up to that fact yet. Also, the road to several hells was paved with good intentions, but they were also paved with bad ones. Sometimes there was no way to win.

He knew by slightly de-powering Jean, he’d made her hate him more. It couldn’t be helped, but he knew he would probably pay for this somewhere down the road. He just hoped she didn’t take it out on Logan.

The phone started to ring, and the noise startled him. It was too damn quiet here, that was the problem. With a thought, he turned his stereo on, and just let the phone ring. It could go to call messaging - he just didn’t feel like talking to anyone at the moment.

But the CD that came up was loud, so he skipped it ahead to a mellower track, wondering why he couldn’t bear silence right now. Maybe not thinking was good - sometimes it was better just to be on auto-pilot.

He’d have to talk to Logan before Jean got in contact with him. Gods knew what she would tell him … but would he understand the truth? If Jean claimed he hurt her, Logan would strike out - of course he would. Bob would too, given the same circumstances. Goddess or not, you still felt some strange, macho imperative to “protect” the woman you loved, even when she didn’t need it. “Say hello to everything you left behind,” he sang, resting his face in his hands. He did good, he knew he did - so why did he feel so shitty? “It’s even more a part of your life now that you can’t touch it.”

And that’s when the atmosphere shifted, and he felt a sickening, lurching feeling in his gut. Oh no - oh hell no.

He looked up, and saw Kali standing in his living room. She looked like she was made of night: midnight black, with familiar constellations of stars on her limbs, spread across her abdomen and breasts, only distorting slightly upon her face, where her mouth and her eyes - two white/silver discs, like full moons on the horizon - broke up the flow. She was long and lean, her face so slender it was almost elongated, and reminded him vaguely of ancient Nefertiti busts - or Edvard Munch's "The Scream", but not so ugly or anguished. No, he wasn't sure she even knew what anguish meant. "Hello, lover," she said with cheerful malevolence. When she opened her mouth, you could see she glowed yellow inside, like she had swallowed the sun.

He could have erected some kind of field against her, but nothing he could conjure up would last long. Even if he wasn't slightly depowered himself, Kali was always strong enough to wipe out Powers. That's why she ended up the way she did. "Let me guess - you didn't claw your way out of the Underworld to invite me to tea." Her power seemed to crawl along his skin like statically charged insects. He now wondered if that ringing phone was someone trying to warn him she was back. Not that it would do any good at all, but just the thought was nice.

She smiled, in her way, but it was as sharp and cold as a knife. Perhaps this was instant karma. "You know what your biggest problem always was, Bob? You talked too much." And with that, she made a flicking gesture with one long, thin hand, as if swatting a fly.

He felt the power hit him square in the chest, a battering ram with megaton force, and then he didn't feel anything at all.

****

One thing you could say about letting Rags teleport you somewhere - as bad as it could be, it was still usually better than flying Delta.

Helga did her best to keep that in mind as reality reform around them, spitting them out and making them stumble around the living room like drunks on a waterbed. "I don't know wha' it is," Rags said, steadying himself by grabbing the back of the nearest sofa. "Teleportin' to Australia is always hard."

"Maybe Ammy did something when she was in a bad mood," she suggested, waiting to see if her stomach was going to complete the journey up her throat, or settle back down. It settled down. "Bob, you here?" She shouted, knowing instantly it was a stupid question: the stereo was playing, A Perfect Circle, so hell yes Bob was here.

That instantly annoyed here, though. Why didn't he pick up the goddamn phone if he was back now?

"Oh," Rags said, making it sound like two syllables. "This ifn't good."

Whenever his Cockney accent grew more pronounced, it was bad enough. What was worse was the smell in the air, like burned flesh and ozone, and a feeling like ... well, she didn't know. It just made her skin prickle, like lightning was about to strike. Rags must have felt it too. "No kidding."

"I fink we should go."

"Without Bob? Fuck you." She glanced in the kitchen, saw nothing, and headed for the stairs. "Goddamn it, old man, you'd better -" She stopped dead when she came around to see what was laying at the bottom of the staircase.

"What is it?" Rags asked, his anxiety palpable. He was about a second away from doing a runner.

What it was was a hand, that led right back into the rest of Bob, who was laying on the floor in a rough half-circle, curled up as if kicked hard in the stomach. "Bob," she said, quickly crouching down beside him, hoping he was just being funny.

But he wasn't. He was all dead weight, body as loose as a rag doll's, with something curious on his chest. It was an odd symbol, kind of like the Greek symbol for rho interposed with a curly cue, and it had burnt through his shirt and into his torso, through several layers of skin. It was both a brand and a tattoo, and when she touched it, she immediately had to pull her hand away. It was like the symbol was trying to rip the energy right out of her.

She heard Rags come around, keeping a cautious distance, and finally he asked, "Is he alive?"

And she didn't know how to answer that.

_____

To Be Continued.....