#Rally Co.

[antics-pedantic]

RALLY CO. #12: THE FALSE THUNDERER LIVES!, PART 2

Last time, on Rally Co.

          The Golden Shadow—Othulok, has unleashed the remnants of an ancient weapon upon the globe: The skull of an artificial giant, created by alchemy to defy even the gods themselves. The False Thunderer.

          Rally Co. has been defeated once by his dread power. This is their last stand…

X

            Once, there was an age known only in the nightmares of the ancients. When the upstart Atlantis expanded, the Earth’s ultimate empire. One that took the secrets of magic and miracle machines advanced before they were ready to be properly wielded. Only powers deemed those of the very deities of the world brought a halt to the conquest—lightning from the celestial heavens to do away with doomsday devices, favor and fortune unto the lands that offered resistance.

          This was the era that The Wrap lived in. At a time when he was not an undead thing, wrapped in his mystical bandages. This was the time when he knew the crime lord called the Golden Shadow, when he was merely the court magician Othulok. And Wrap was an adolescent, with aspirations aplenty, in the realm of politics.

For a while the empire of Atlantis receded, its outposts still littered the world. Some adopting isolation, be it for want of stability, self-serving pity-guilts, or from doubling down upon heinous xenophobia. But others knew that they still held the means to provide repatriation: All that they took, they could return. All that was once theirs, their wealth, their knowledge, shared instead of hoarded. And then their songs could be sung once more, the amusements to follow.

The Warmaker Todan—Wrap’s older sibling, had no more wars to make, no challenge to his brains or sinews that lay in wait under a russet complexion. For that he was lost at first, but would busy himself with crafts. Their eldest, Sister Muigara, sat on the throne after the passing of their parents and mostly operated as an ambassador to former foes of the empire. Wrap had been the middle child and could not recall his own name. And although it was not required of him, he spent the days studying the laws of the Atlanteans and eagerly awaited import of writing from other lands to compare and contrast against his own. By night and chambered lantern-flame, he drafted his works. At times accompanied by his friend Eoddo the climber—Eoddo the merrymaker, who offered the commoner’s eye to all matters. Even Todan would visit when he struggled to sleep, and marveled. And Sister Muigara would not have slept at all yet, looking forward to the day that Wrap’s works were finalized. Then he would prove himself an early successor.

“And how gloriously irritating,” Todan once said. “That you understand how best to crush the conflict within the hearts of we mortals. And my talent will have no place. You would leave your brother destitute?—”

The name was static to his ears. But still, the younger, more human Wrap smiled.

“There will always be some conflict of interests. The warmaker will simply have to bide his time better.”

“Perhaps.” said Eoddo, nursing both wineskin and hollowed gourd. “We might take up wooden swords as the smallest children do, albeit with more technique. And at the tables we’ll put pieces to the map and debate the matter of journeying and challenging one another upon separate climates, rather than traveling blindly on the Over-Emperor’s will, with nary a detail spared!”

“A fantastic possibility.” said Muigara, borrowing the hollowed gourd for its contents, and hastily gulping a quarter of its contents. “But I fear there are those who will always yearn for true warfare. Othulok’s reminder.”

Todan frowned.

“Whisper his name by night, and he may spirit away our little kindred, sister. It was to that warlock’s wisdom to which we can credit father’s bloodied defeat. And perhaps to the grief that slew mother?”

“Where would we be if failure made demons of us all, brother?”

Muigara and Todan scowled at one another. Eoddo and Wrap looked to each other in that way they once did, before the elder siblings joined them some nights, and it seemed the weight of their responsibility had taken them. The process, was still gradual as this argument demonstrated.

In the afternoon of a new day, Wrap would approach the court and offer his reports in an official capacity. Othulok hovered beside Muigara’s seat, scrutinizing every word. Ready to offer his contemplations in hurried whispers and promises of fear. Warnings against trust and generosity, as it would be taken for granted by fledgling nations—which Todan struggled to deny, from the biases life in the army had impressed upon him. With which Wrap argued against most every chance he could.

“Never forget what they took from us in both the Northlands and the scorching South.” Othulok would confidently spout directly next to Muigara’s ear. “Nor the massacre they doled out to us on the isles. They still call it your father’s shame.”

“I will never forget, magician.” hissed Muigara. “Back to your place. Brother—restart your estimations on the new forums.”

But just as Wrap began to speak, he felt a terrible dryness in his throat. When he went to fill a chalice with water, he saw his face beginning to decay. Scraps of his flesh falling and poisoning the ornate pot of clean freshwater. Muigara screamed and began to torment the palace staff, Eoddo appeared to help Wrap stand—but had a violent illness about him—not unlike Wrap’s mother, and Todan was girding himself for battle again, never to return.

“You are the thorn in my side.”

Othulok. He was decaying as well, but into greater power. The sheen of his skeleton was of perfect metal, almost golden. Not a pound of flesh left, for he had given himself utterly to the necromancy. No longer a mere court magician, the vicious warlock began to pursue Wrap through a mausoleum with fewer and fewer windows, until it was a true tomb. He could see holding a torch, his mother and father, ushering him to a sarcophagus alongside their own. And for a moment there was peace. Without muscle, Othulok could not lift the great slab underneath which was the decorated casket.

But the Golden Shadow could.

The return to life was a haze after that. The chambers were smaller, and always attention had to be placed upon the warlock as he directed a new batch of barbarians, and enslaved those who thought themselves too sophisticated or intellectual with challenges of how to inflict greater misery, and dependency on the vicious salt, and other vile concoctions.

And he would join them. His drug was to be the full scope of his mind returned to his undead self. And the magic that enchanted his mummy’s bandages to protect him. Both in their durability, as well as in their ability to destroy any who endangered him. Save for Othulok himself.

“You don’t have to do this.”

He recognized the voice calling to Felix in the waking world. It was the same: A lone detective, known famously on the INTERPOL circuit, sporting a gun she purchased on her own. But it was not leveled at The Wrap. Malika Basra had discovered him after thwarting some prior assassination attempt. And she had assisted the occult detective, the former acolyte of Othulok.

Maybe she could end this nightmare.

He pleaded with her. Swore that she had to attack now, in the same way father or Todan might have insisted while the empire had not yet been completely felled. In her unfamiliarity with the situation, Malika wanted to talk. The thing that Wrap had tried a thousand times with Muigara, only to lose her to Othulok’s influence. To which he might have even considered himself Eoddo’s murderer, seeking him out after Othulok swayed Todan to fight again. Directing the False Thunderer to slay the warlock, only to siege the city and slay any intervening gods Othulok lured there.

And then Wrap remembered extending his bandages to keep Malika in place. To force her to fire on him, and then perhaps she and Solomon might have done away with the curse to eliminate him at last. But the shot missed, and the startling sound, the muzzle flash of the gun startled Wrap so terribly, his hold upon Malika was nearly a deathgrip.

He fled.

The warlock would find him again. But he fled, and hid until Othulok finally reached him. Spitting on his name, howling at him for robbing him of a meager kill, for costing him a resurgence of the Atlantean glory. But also, of Gilligan Diligent. The frivolous lumberjack who also turned out to be an assassin. Unprepared for an ambush that awaited him. Only by the Wrap’s intervention did some of the sharpshooters fall, and with a careful pull of the bandages, did the jolly fellow continue to be as such.

Perhaps even more so. For when he promised to pay Wrap back, The Wrap aided him in some of his work, and refused the majority of the payment on their illicit work.

X

          By the time Felix Basra snapped out of it, she had already fired on him. Gilligan tackled into her as he intended. But neither continued into a brawl. Nearby, Katrina Kafka had not only peered into the mind of The Wrap, but she had evidently projected it outwardly for all to see. And perhaps, to make their own judgements. Although it would not change the fact she still fired, something tore at her very spirit. And the happy-hearted Gilligan had rolled aside to lay on his back. Trying to see the sky past the destruction unfolding there and then, in the art deco metropolis of Arcadia. Georgia raced to help Felix up, while Malika knelt down to Wrap. Slowly, because of old injuries. Watching how she moved made The Wrap feel miserable.

          “She was finishing it. Once and for all.”

          Malika frowned.

          “Blazes to that, boy. She had the same fear and shame you did, when I first met you. You think that the Golden Shadow wouldn’t have sent someone else to do the job? It never ends.”

          “Then… we are doomed?”

          “No. Choose otherwise.”

          She ran a hand across his forehead, before settling on his cheek. Even the memory shared was false, Malika wasn’t certain she’d have had it in herself to harm this lad. Undead or not.

          “Auntie…”

          Felix held the revolver by the middle, the ammo cylinder prevented from moving. Thus, from firing. Malika shook her head, though.

          “There is still a fight to be had. And you must live with the weight of your actions.”

          Georgia held Felix a little closer when Felix tried to fight off a bout of tears. Katrina could feel that too, while she and Solomon held off Othulok, in the skull of the False Thunderer. As long as they were there, barely keeping the dread sorcerer at bay, Solomon could not attempt to assist The Wrap. They could barely lure Othulok into their Lostgate trap.

          Until at last, the sound of a fighter plane propeller could be heard. It was faster than any other, bearing no markings to indicate it as belonging to any nation’s military. A hail of machinegun fire to the front of the skyward cranium. Within, Othulok scoffed and directed his eldritch lightning to crush this new gnat: but it was more of a hornet, actually! The unmarked fighter plane pulled up sharply, a set of bay doors beneath the craft releasing a surprise payload: None other than the clay construct, Blockhouse!

          “Hark, brigand!!”

          It was pure relief as Katrina watched her old friend collide with the top of the False Thunderer’s skull, the force of collision allowing him to land within and clash with Othulok. The False Thunderer’s skull began to swerve out of control.

          “Katrina—the gateway!” exclaimed Solomon. “I’ll tend to The Wrap. Begin the preparations as I instructed.”

          “I’ll do my best!”

          Solomon hovered over to Katrina, to put his hands on her shoulders.

          “You always have. No matter what happens, I’m proud of you. We all are.”

          Katrina wiped at her eyes with a sleeve of her shirt, and flew off first to assemble the extra-large lostgate. It had to be large enough to catch the False Thunderer’s skull. Solomon arrived not long after to tend to The Wrap’s injury.

          “If he weren’t undead, I wouldn’t give him the odds I’ve got now.” said Solomon, running a glowing hand over the point where the bullet entered his body. “I only hope you can show this sort of aptitude for battling revenants in the future.”

          Malika shot Solomon a glare, and gestured for him to get back to work. Felix took her place next to The Wrap. Gilligan approached as well. Keeping his distance, and taking a discarded military rifle, while he watched the skies for Othulok’s return.

          “I saw what happened to your family. I’m sorry.”

          “That… was the work of Othulok.” wheezed Wrap. “Everything which Imperial Atlantis took meant more plunder for him. And I fear the legend of our society has not only spurred him, but others to try for the same.”

          He offered a bandaged hand to hold in her gloved one. Malika nodded, and Felix took it, leaning in to listen.

          “I renounced the spoils of my forefathers, as I did in life... My project was to try and undo some of the harm they had committed. So that Atlantis could become more. Not simply a place bordered… or a people exclusive. But a guiding principle for any society.”

          Felix gave his hand a little squeeze.

          “Then hang on. We could use a fella like you around.”

          The Wrap actually chuckled. Gilligan had his head turned away, but even he couldn’t help smiling. Felix had shot Wrap—but so had others. They all paid in one way or another. But few wanted to set things right. Let alone to offer him true sanctuary. Somewhat more stable than the care of one drifting hitman.

          The unmarked plane managed to get in behind the False Thunderer’s skull, firing its machineguns again. Keeping the aim tight so that the cracked cranium would swerve towards the lostgate. Katrina saw this, and attempted to gather her wits, and her psychic energy. The gate began to crackle and hum to life, as Solomon put the finishing touches on Wrap, and hurried to join Katrina.

          “I’ll go with them.”

          Gilligan whipped his head around. Georgia and Felix were helping him towards the gate.

          “You’ve had enough fun for one day, fellah. Tomorrow is a new day.”

          “We still may not see it yet.” said Wrap. “… Please. You owe me.”

          Gilligan blinked. Of all the times to really and truly cash in this favor, this had to be the worst. But Gilligan had some honor in him. So, he took Wrap onto his back, as he had done many a time with his own family in the past, and ran him to the gate. Tycho was hobbling over, with Esme running after.

          “—And I told you, you wretched little capybara, ostentatious orangutan!” exclaimed Esme, shaking a fist. “You really ought to lay down and take some painkillers!”

          “Nuts to ye, Esme! We’re this close to finally lickin’ that Golden Shadow right-good!” said Tycho, swinging his fists around, before hopping over by Felix. “Oi, Boss Lady. Looks ya seen a ghost! What’s those two killers doin’ with Katrina and Solomon?!”

          “They’re helping us.” said Georgia, extending a hand to shake Tycho’s, as well as Esme’s, taking the two by surprise. “Felix mention me at all, fellas? I’m Georgia! Her #1 gal.”

          “Just whenever she looks at the winder all longingly-like.” joked Tycho. Felix blushed for a moment, and Esme only seemed to agree.

          “Well, if one must be honest…” joked Esme. “She could have told me after our second date.”

          Georgia just nodded, and looked over at Felix, who just about looked like she’d been thrown to the Gevaudanes. But not before Georgia smirked and gave her a kiss on the cheek.

          “Malika, darling.” said Georgia. “Did you hear Tycho and Esme?”

          “Loud and clear. We shall have words later.” said Malika. This was also her way of letting Felix know that for her error, she was not hopeless. The group hurried to the sidelines, while Katrina, Solomon, and The Wrap reinforced the gateway with their psychic and magical power. Gilligan all the while, shouted at the False Thunderer’s skull. A thousand swears for the thousands of times he manipulated Wrap’s family.

          At last, the cracked cranium flew through the portal, the False Thunderer’s already broken skull chipping further against the edges of the emergency lostgate, which strained to carry the flying skull through its unstable portal. The vortex could not hold. On the otherwise, in some region of Subterranea, the False Thunderer’s skull was spinning out of control. Bashing against the armored head of something that might have evolved from the mighty triceratops, as worms camouflaged to resemble the giant stalactites from the high ceiling dropped into the cracked cranium.

          Back in Arcadia, the gateway was slowly closing. Felix and the others who took cover were emerging again. The portal was sheathed with a layer of energy as a kind of shielding. Suddenly, something emerged from the unstable vortex, pushing against the shield as if it were shrinkwrap.

          “I finally had the WORLD!” howled Othulok. “You denied me once, Callahan! And you—the wretch who whined, ‘no more victories to Atlantis!’ All of you worthless maggots! My empire would have known furious glory, and now it will be lost to the chaos of lesser lords! You’ve DAMNED OUR ENTIRE WORLD!”

          Everyone stood ready in the event Othulok could not be contained. That was when another figure emerged from the vortex: Blockhouse! He took ahold of Othulok, even as the force of the vortex threatened to vaporize them both.

          “Blockhouse, NO!” cried Katrina.

          “It’s no skin off my nose!” said Blockhouse, between the struggles of Othulok to escape. “Alas, I have neither nose nor skin to speak of… but I can, and I shall escort this devil to oblivion!”

          Katrina tried to help him, but in doing so she nearly released the shield. For a moment, Othulok’s gnarled, claw-like hands almost reached out and slashed her, until Blockhouse tossed him into the vortex. The arch of the lostgate fragmented, and Blockhouse disappeared into the unknown.

          Katrina fell to her knees. She could not help but sob and wail, telekinetic crackles in the air. It was in that instant that Felix, Esme, and Tycho all raced to hug her. She had not lost everyone, just yet. And all the rubble, all the metal parts strewn around, that she held with her psychic power, fell to the ground.

X

          Several weeks later…

          Other countries were finally starting to relax, save for those hit the hardest by Othulok’s attack, including the U.S.A. and England. France was in somewhat better condition by comparison, but it too would feel the aftershocks. Elsewhere, the dictatorship of Arkavalia had little harm—its rulers attributing this to a nationalist sentiment of superiority that raised their global profile, earning them some allies fresh from the paranormal terror inflicted upon them.

          For Arcadia, the military’s last order was to clean up the place. Construction efforts were finally underway to restore the city. Through all of this, the mayor insisted on hosting a very special event. Materials normally reserved for major holidays and electoral campaigns were repurposed to celebrate, as they spoke into a microphone.

          “Testing… testing… ah! My apologies. I appreciate each and every one of you here. But among all my constituents, today we shall honor our very own hometown heroes, for their efforts in rescuing our fair city, and perhaps the world, from the damnation of the flying death. Now, if Rally Co. would please—”

          The crowd went wild with applause as each member was announced and allowed on-stage. Felix would lead the charge, wearing one of Malika’s old suits and hat. Tycho shuffled along in a freshly ironed raincoat, as his suit jacket was torn on the way here. Esme and Katrina were fixing up a pair of gowns they bought brand new just before leaving the house. Solomon was in another three-piece suit, albeit instead of green he opted for a violet hue today, as he stood by the mayor in congratulating his young wards, before the mayor returned to the microphone stand.

          “Rally Co., we here of Arcadia can’t even begin to count the thanks we feel for you. And on behalf of the President, I have the honor of bestowing these hallowed ribbons to each of you.”

          “Ribbons! Not even medals.” muttered Tycho, as Esme leaned in to hear Tycho, and then again to receive her ribbon.

          “Everyone will need all the precious metal for rebuilding, eh?” said Esme. “Perhaps we’ll get a discount on a new car at least. Though that may require us to endorse them on the radio or on posters…”

          Katrina looked excited, even if it was just a ribbon. Though she’d noticed that when she received it, the mayor seemed uneasy. She chalked it up to his re-election campaign needing to start up. But for a moment, she did wonder if the fact that she was now a known psychic in the public eye had something to do with it. Solomon could see her discomfort, as did Felix. They looked to each other with some muted concern. The future seemed bright enough, but there were some things they had to get ready for.

          Back at Solomon’s homestead, Gilligan Diligent and The Wrap had arrived. The Wrap remained close to Gilligan—he looked even less jolly than during the battle against the Golden Shadow. Solomon welcomed them inside. Malika and Felix weren’t far off. It was per Malika’s wishes that her niece not only be present, but involved.

          “Mr. Diligent. Thank you for stopping by, before you headed out of town.”

          “Get to it, Callahan.” said Diligent. “I told the boy what has to happen next. He won’t hear of it. Not from me, at least.”

          Solomon looked to Wrap, who looked aside at the ground. He had been resistant to the idea. But at the same time, he couldn’t outright say no, now that he was in the presence of Malika who had never resented him, Felix whose vengeance once and still paralyzed him, and Solomon—once Othulok’s acolyte, now having saved him. Even if he remained undead.

          “Please try to understand—you would not only learn more of the magic involved in your continued existence, but we’d like to also help you learn your name and more about the ancients.”

          “Why can’t Mr. Diligent stick around?” asked Wrap. “I don’t want to stay here without him."

          “Fellah, I’ve got to keep up my reputation, send more of the doubloons back home. A life like that is no place for ya.”

          Wrap clenched his fists for a moment. But relaxed his hands. Gilligan put a hand on his shoulder.

          “There is one stipulation, Callahan.”

          “Name it.”

Wrap clenched his fists for a moment. Gilligan put a hand on his shoulder. Only then did The Wrap relax.

          “You’ll bring the boy to visit my kinfolk one of these days. They’re as much his family as mine. Y’hear?”

          Solomon nodded. Wrap perked up: This wouldn’t be goodbye. He looked to Malika, who seemed glad that Wrap could finally have some more support, once he’d gotten away from the Golden Shadow. And an unarmed Felix would show him around.

          “… We didn’t really have anyone specialized in magic before you.” Felix pointed out. The Wrap could tell that she was uncomfortable, trying to focus on objective details to avoid the elephant in the room.

          “I suppose it will be nice. Learning from an expert in it, such as Mr. Callahan. He’s done well enough with you lot.”

          Felix actually let off a snort. Wrap was confused, but Felix waved him off.

          “Stories to share later. Around the living room. Perhaps a campfire, if Tycho gets his way.”

          Communicating was going to be difficult. But not impossible.

X

          There was a corkboard on the wall of a room bathed in a low, red light. Freshly developed photos from a chemical dip were pinned to it. Sightings of new crime bosses in the wake of Don Malvoli’s latest defeat, suspected saboteur-spies from places like Arkavalia, and sightings of monsters. There were also some shots of the extra-large lostgate before its destruction, as well as of Blockhouse before he disappeared.

          Ongoing cases, as far as The Junker was concerned.

          For now, he’d have to start from the bottom, and work his way up whenever opportunities presented themselves. Like getting the drop on some gangsters while they were extorting people into paying for protection from looters, loans to get businesses back up and running again.

X

          Esme and Tycho’s choice of celebration was to find a worthy pub, alongside Rally Co.’s allies, the former mobster-mystic, Ribeye Renzo, and the informant Honest Li. Plus his sister (and secretary), Nuo. The latter duo had flown out to Arcadia after things had calmed down somewhat. Katrina also joined them for a time.

          “Three cheers for us! You fellers, and the neo-dinosaurs beneath the Earth’s surface!” said Tycho. “Hip hip, hooray!”

          “The WHAT—” said Honest Li. But before he knew it, he was already clinking glasses with the others.

          “Just keep an ear out, they’ll tell the tale in full.” said Renzo. “Hey, Esme, you hear from those Haddock Street Hooligans? I worry about those kids, y’know.”

          “They’re having their own celebration at our favorite pharmacy soda fountain, my treat.” said Esme. “A few drinks, some snacks, a dozen rounds on the pinball machine, and a stack of some of our old magazines.”

          “Ye didn’t give ‘em the dime novels I was still readin’ did ye?!” said Tycho, before sipping.

          “Nonsense. Only finished novels, comic books and popular mechanix monthly.”

          Tycho was almost going to rest easy, but spit his drink, irritating the others as they cleaned up.

          “Those little ghouls are gonna come up with better ways prank me if they got popular mechanix! May as well enroll ‘em under the tutelage of the Junker.”

          It wasn’t long before everyone else was in hearty spirits. Getting the bartender to run their record player, and a couple of tables were set aside for dancing space. Katrina participated too for a while, but she hadn’t had much to drink beyond a sip of Esme’s champagne. So, she excused herself, wanting to check on the Haddock Street Hooligans. Just before she went, Tycho wrapped an arm around her. He was a great deal steadier than the others, when it came to liquor, but his heart and mind were a little less stoic just then.

          “Yer the sister I never did have. Ma and Da too. If you’re ever on the isle and you’re in a pinch, look ‘em up. Professor and the Druid Madame Gallagher.”

          “Oui.”

          Tycho shut his eyes for a moment, visualizing home. And old friends. And then he ushered Katrina along.

          “You tell those wee monsters I’ll be on the prowl, that’ll get ‘em home at a reasonable hour.”

          “But of course, Tycho.”

          Esme and Nuo were talking in front of Li’s face about some embarrassing detail. Renzo gestured for Katrina to wait, having wanted to divine the future for her with one of his namesake steaks. But Katrina gestured that it was alright.

          “Another time, my friend.”

          “You promise not to precog… precog-ignition without me?”

          “C'est impensable, mon ami!“ exclaimed Katrina, shaking her head playfully. “Let the thought perish. Now have a seat before any slipping or falling.”

          “*HIC!* You got it, boss!”

          With one last wave goodbye, Katrina took to the dark streets. They were so quiet. She looked up to the buildings where steel girders were being put into place, and in the morning the construction crews would resume their critical work. She used the nearest payphone to check in on the soda fountain the Haddock Street Hooligans had taken to, and spoke to each one of them. Ribeye Renzo’s words stuck with her. That sense she needed to be elsewhere, just now.

X

          The Pratt & Marlin automat didn’t see much business at the moment. Most people had sought their dinner at regular restaurants, or with what they had at home. Still, the door was open.

          *Ting-a-ling-a-ling~!*

          One of the servers was stocking a few of the ports. There were walls with many such ports and money slots, mostly for taking coins. The lone server peered through one of the empty ports, but did not see anyone enter.

          *Chk-chrr-chrr-chk!*

          A quarter to the slot for a bologna sandwich. And then again to receive a coffee cup and access to the dispenser faucet, as soon as the server was finished double-checking to make sure everything was at the appropriate temperature before allowing the customer to take it. Once again, the server looked through another empty viewport, and witnessed a man in an aviator’s jacket and white scarf. Glancing back in the server’s direction with flight goggles that bore glowing green lenses, that seemed to ‘blink’ with the shutters of a camera.

          Needless to say, The Junker would be allowed to eat his late dinner in peace. The lone server would not be stepping into the dining area anytime soon. But someone else would: Katrina saw him through the window, and hurried in to join him.

          “Bonsoir, Mademoiselle Kafka.”

          Katrina was astonished that Junker made no move to obscure himself, nor to leave. He was far from tired, but he remained where he was, only moving slightly to offer to pull up her chair. She gestured that it was unnecessary, moving it slightly with her telekinesis, and levitating a quarter of her own for some coffee and creamer.

          “Is this telepathy, or are you really speaking another language?”

          “The latter. If… it should be desired.”

          Katrina shook her head this time. But she would have to remember to test his fluency later.

          “May I ask you something, that I believe only you may know, monsieur?”

          Junker took a bite out of his sandwich, and a sip from his own mug.

          “What would that be?”

          “The shape of things to come.”

          The two focused on their selections from the automat’s offerings for a moment. They had not interacted telepathically, and Junker could detect nothing resembling an attempt at precognitive ESP. No, she was referring to the tabs Junker kept around the city, and elsewhere.

          “New enemies on the horizon. At home, afar, and beyond.”

          Katrina sighed. She could only nod: Arcadia would not always be so safe. And considering they had defeated one previously unknown, occult force just now, that too was to be expected.

          “Tell me about the ones from afar.”

          Junker drank from his coffee. There was silence for a moment.

          “You have encountered some. Spies for the likes of dictatorships, such as Arkavalia. My information tells me that things are worsening there for the populace. The fascists have used the battle against Othulok to propel their propaganda to new extremes.”

          “They will send more agents. They may even feel bold enough to invade their neighbors, once they have the strength enough to do so.” said Katrina, saying the part he did not. The avenging scavenger merely nodded.

          “… I have not found Blockhouse. His fate is uncertain.”

          But Junker did not offer a definitive answer. Although his exterior was stoic, Katrina could tell he held some guilt over that. It was The Junker who flew the unmarked fighter plane before.

          “He is a friend to all of us here. Blockhouse understood what could happen. Do you?”

          There was a small frown on the mystery man’s features.

          “I operate as I do… to prevent that. Rally Co. fights the battles… the world must witness. Rejuvenates their spirits. That which must be done…”

          And then, it was Junker’s turn to point something out.

          “The award ceremony.”

          “You saw us? Where were you? Among the crowd? Alleyway?”

          “Rooftop. Was nice.”

          But there was something there he wasn’t saying. Katrina could feel a certain anxiety as they built up to it.

          “The mayor. He’s up for re-election, isn’t he? Is everyone endorsing him?”

          Katrina shook her head.

          “We are all eager to learn about the new candidates before we are inclined to make a decision.”

          “Wise. Especially after how he looked at you.”

          There was that pallor. That sleeplessness in her eyes. It was always there, but now it just seemed pronounced. While Katrina Kafka had her own doubts and fears about her own self, she loathed to see such fright in another person. And after finding her place among Rally Co., no less.

          “A momentary discomfort, I hope.” said Katrina.

          “…Perhaps.” said Junker, pointing the remainder of his sandwich in her direction, before finishing it off. “But common folk can barely tolerate each other, Katrina. It is something your comrades have faced for their identities, and will for a while yet. You must be cautious.”

          “I have lived my life in ENOUGH caution!”

          Katrina paused. Although she did not use her telekinesis, she had slammed one of her palms onto the table. She checked herself for the pace of her heartbeat, and the way in which she was breathing.

          “Was it not enough to have helped to defeat Othulok?”

          Junker wiped his gloved hands off with a moist towelette. With his eyes hidden, and a certain rigidity to the lower half of his face, he did not let every single expression slip so easily. But in that moment, there was a somber air about him as well.

          “It should be.”

          Katrina reached over to his hand. Junker kept his sight trained on the gesture, unfamiliar with it.

          “If no one else recognizes it, we all do. Solomon as well. I cannot think of a better place to begin.”

          She finished her own coffee, and stood up. Her hand trailing up along the arm of this detritus devil. Junker recoiled when he realized Katrina wanted to put a hand to his face. She pulled back, stopping at his shoulder. And by then Junker seemed to process she only meant to reassure him.

          Katrina had known from all the sorcery, and all the ESP, that violence could occur without touch—she had felt it, and inflicted it in equal measure by now. Although Junker had survived his own infernal trials, his spark of life had given way to a biting flame.

          “If we do not try…” said Katrina. “We would not be worthy of being… exemplars, is that not the correct word? The thing which you see in us.”

          “… The best possible choice.”

          Katrina offered a bittersweet smile. And Junker stood up. Although he had been wary of her touch, he gave her a handshake to try and show his support. At first with one gloved hand, and then both. Though a small gesture, Katrina welcomed it as though it were as grand as a hug.

          “I fear I must still find my own path. But if you all have need of me… I will be there.”

          “Merci.”

          And with a nod, it was Katrina’s turn to disappear into the dark. And Junker thought about it: he wasn’t lying when he said he’d be there for Rally Co., and perhaps now he could try sitting down and talking to every one of them. Even his former mentor.

X

          At last, a statue of bronze had finally been erected.

          There was a figure of a small child in, walking hand-in-hand with a round giant. Although it was made of metal, it still evoked the construct’s malleable clay form, which could become as strong as iron, or as gentle as mud made by a fresh rain. Standing at the center of one of the parks.

          Felix could see that someone had paid respects, with an old paint palette tray that carried the remnant pigment of several shades. The aspiring detective was handed a bouquet by her darling Georgia, and set it beside other offerings, including old children’s storybooks and albums of newspaper funnies-- comic strips.

          For him. For Malika, and even The Wrap. She had to become the leader this team deserved.

          The Wrap was not far off. As were Esme and Tycho, whose lack of bickering was explained by the sunglasses they wore, obscuring red eyes from late nights and flights sponsored by liquid courage. Katrina stood by them to make sure they didn’t stumble, or if they needed to find a trash can post-haste, if their stomachs were not feeling agreeable.

          “He was favorable.” said The Wrap, who walked up beside Felix. “I did not know him long. I haven’t any memories of my past of him either. But he radiated kindness.”

          “That he did.” said Felix, with a nod.

          “I agree.” said Georgia, holding her hands together longingly. “I’ve read so many of those stories about him. He was an absolute delight in the few visits I’ve been able to make.”

          Felix and Georgia shared a kiss, before Georgia had to hurry to work. Having paid their respects, The Rally Co. group headed back for Solomon’s roadster back on the curb, near the entrance to the park. Esme and Felix took to the front as passenger and driver, as the others climbed into the back.

          “Felix, fearless and most fabulous leader—” Esme attempted to speak in a sing-song voice, as she pulled a magazine from the glove compartment. “Any recommendations for the new car? We were thinking something sleek, something fast.”

          “Spacious.” chimed Tycho, raising an index finger. “If Blockhouse comes back. Or we get some other members taggin’ along.”

          “I’ll consider it.”

          Just as Felix started up the ignition, there was an explosion nearby. Everyone in the vehicle looked at each other. Tycho was climbing out to stand on the roadster’s running board so he could jump out into action. Esme was double-checking her array of test tube grenades and on-hand chemicals for split-second mixing in the field, before passing out impellet guns for everyone—including The Wrap, who was preparing to swing from building to building using his mystical bandages. And there were a few words on the tip of Felix’s tongue.

          “Let’s go, Rally Co.!”

          And thus, they took off together. Vigor renewed, a future to meet rather than wait for.

UNTIL NEXT TIME…

X

          AUTHOR’S NOTE:

          To those who have been reading from the start: Thank you for joining me on this ride. It’s taken a lot longer than I’d have liked, life has had its ups-and-downs lately, but it has always been my goal to try and get this story ‘cycle’ of Rally Co. up to 12 entries.

          As you can see, this may not be the definite end to all things adventurous and investigative. I’ve got ideas for one-off episodes and a new arc for Rally Co. I may write someday, but for now I’m going to let the gang have some rest for making it to a dozen stories. Some broken up into multi-part readings, others posted in full. Though I’m not sure when I’ll write Rally Co. again, but it’s my hope that I can bring the same energy I’ve put into this series on my other stories, maybe something in Mutant Media Club or Quick On-It—but definitely more Dynaura.

          Stay tuned, stay classy, and stay alive, Far-fetchers. Your next great adventure awaits.

Donk

[christiangeistdorfer]

henri toivonen being very helpful to opel teammate ari vatanen during practice for 1983 monte carlo rally

[vv-ispy]

nameless bard ameno archon au.............

[raceweek]

alex albon worst podcast host ever... took like 5 minutes for me to figure out who leah was... gonna need him to sharpen up for his future gig at sky

he is the worst podcast host ever truly but also. statistically there are maybe more people who care about seventeen year old rally sensation who has just switched to single seaters for the first time lia (1.1 million instagram followers) than formula one driver logan (770k instagram followers)

[superblyeffective]

Frank Turner - 1933 (Visualiser)

"If I was of the greatest generation I'd be pissed Surveying the world that I built slipping back into this I'd be screaming at my grandkids: "We already did this" *

Full Lyrics:

"Stop asking musicians what they think" He said softly as he poured himself a second drink And outside, the world slipped over the brink We all thought we had nothing to lose That we could trust in crossed fingers and horseshoes That everything would work out, no matter what we choose

The first time it was a tragedy The second time is a farce Outside it's 1933 so I'm hitting the bar

But I don't know what's going on anymore The world outside is burning with a brand new light But it isn't one that makes me feel warm Don't go mistaking your house burning down for the dawn Don't go mistaking your house burning down for the dawn

If I was of the greatest generation I'd be pissed Surveying the world that I built slipping back into this I'd be screaming at my grandkids: "We already did this" * Be suspicious of simple answers That shit's for fascists and maybe teenagers You can't fix the world if all you have is a hammer

The first time it was a tragedy The second time is a farce Outside it's 1933 so I'm hitting the bar

But I don't know what's going on anymore The world outside is burning with a brand new light But it isn't one that makes me feel warm Don't go mistaking your house burning down for the dawn Don't go mistaking your house burning down for the dawn For the dawn

Aren't you ashamed of this? I surely hope that you are We live in a society that's maybe heading for Mars But down here we still have a shower of bastards leading the charge Outside it's 1933 so I'm hitting the bar

But I don't know what's going on anymore The world outside is burning with a brand new light But it isn't one that makes me feel warm Don't go mistaking your house burning down for the dawn Don't go mistaking your house burning down for the dawn

Don't go mistaking your house burning down for the dawn Don't go mistaking your house burning down for the dawn

[yooniesim]

Not the antiblack, transphobic troll blog doing a classic dirty delete... Can't delete dumbassery love, that stays on the internet forever 😂

Dumbass already forgot the teen life stage exists, misgendered me in a random post showing both they ass cheeks, doubled down about it with a classic "he/she/it whatever they are", made fun of a black person's black sim's lips being "too big" while randomly hyping up a black sim made by a white simmer, posted 90% black sims making fun of their features while reblogging posts w/black celebrities like ice cube and Rihanna (probably the only black ppl they know) to add to their lil act, said "i don't only make fun of blacks" and blocked when confronted about it (soooo obvious), which was all pretty boring and expected and not worth acknowledging... but then they deleted all of that cos the big bad honest troll blog got no spine! which has me fucking rolling HELP 🤣

How ya gonna act like the voice of the ppl and delete all your bad takes? Didja get too many mean asks about them, baby boy? 🥺 can't stand by all ur meaningless dick swinging? feeling insecure about having no comeback skills on top of that? 🥺 every time someone bucks up at you you do a delete and stop acknowledging them and its so damn funny for someone pretending to be so hard and real. I mean I knew you were gonna mention me once you saw I said you have no skills, I was waiting to see what you'd come up with, but I didn't expect it to be this weak... imagine being a troll and taking obvious bait 🤭 just to confirm u got no talent. soooo sorry 😂

So much for "honesty" 😢

[antics-pedantic]

RALLY CO. #11: THE FALSE THUNDERER LIVES!

“Stop him! If the Golden Shadow reaches that skull, he’ll become invincible!”

          Everyone had converged on a point in the Mediterranean, as far as they could remember. Solomon Callahan—their mentor, and world-famous occult detective, had told them they were looking for a skull. Everyone had assumed it would be something they could hold in their hand, a replica or perhaps a real human or animal skull given some arcane design. The steel grey haired man with the eyeglasses, silver-headed cane, and green three-piece suit was hurling mystical arcs, like lightning harnessed. But as his nemesis Othulok, the dread necromancer, descended into an open chasm, an odd dome began to lower itself, without wires or a crane. Seemingly on its own.

          The ground shook violently with quakes. Everyone had to evacuate the chamber. Once out of the ruins, they could see the horror that the undead crime lord now commanded: An enlarged skull that crackled with overwhelming voltage, patches of some artificial flesh in a torrid gray. Solomon’s various students stood by his side: The aspiring detective Felix Basra, eminent bio-chemist Esmerelda Broughton, zoologist Tycho Gallagher, and the powerful psychic, Katrina Kafka.

          “What is that?!” exclaimed Felix, raising one of her coat-clad forearms to shield her face.

          “The skull of a giant made to fend off hostilities from planes beyond—the False Thunderers of the ancients!”

          “Big whoop!” bellowed the short, stout, and most importantly steadfast scholar of the wilderness. “I’ll crawl in through the eye socket and give that Othulok bum what for! Katriner, toss me up there, sister!”

          “Tycho—”

          Tycho looked to his umber-toned colleague: Esme normally had some joke in store for him. But this time, her mirth was lost. Just an overwhelming desire to prevent any of her teammates—her friends, from charging Othulok’s flying fortress directly. Solomon’s magic contended with it, and Katrina was trying to assist him with her vast telekinetic power. But try as they might, the skull continued its nightmarish march. Firing a mystical bolt of its own, that no thunder god could take lightly. The resultant explosion sent everyone flying. Felix was in a daze, lasting perhaps the longest in terms of consciousness, before facing a blackout.

X

          Last time, on Rally Co. …

          Our intrepid investigators and ambitious adventurers learned their mentor was once their predecessors’ greatest enemy, responsible for creating their current threat: Othulok, the dread necromancer crime lord. And still, they followed Callahan across the globe to deny the Golden Shadow the secrets of the ancients.

They succeeded in preventing Othulok and the fascists of the nation-state Arkavalia from stealing the secret of manufacturing the miracle metal, orichalcum, which could magnify any energy directed at it many times over. In Arcadia, Blockhouse and The Junker protect Rally Co.’s hometown and various allies against past enemies returned for revenge.

But Othulok has found the last secret. Rally Co. has been defeated.

All hope is lost.

X

          Othulok had never felt so blessed!

          The glorious, decayed brain was intact enough that he could commandeer it, the cranium shielded from attacks both physical and psionic, on top of an electromagnetic field that could intercept and soak up the majority of projectiles before they even connected. Beginning with a quick jaunt through Rhodes, where he terrorized the land minutely. The same was done during detours through fledgling Arkavalia and Sicily. Enough that he could rile the likes of France and England to attempt combat.

          On the land, the skull of the False Thunderer scorched tanks and disintegrated mortal men. At sea, he sank the prized English fleet. The Royal Air Force and the Armée de l'Air put up a better fight, but were hopelessly unprepared for the caliber of enemy they were up against. If they had their own occult experts in the service, or some local inhabitant with the means to even try to oppose Othulok’s powers, it was too late to mobilize them effectively. Soon, the False Thunderer’s skull would carry him across the Atlantic, where he would prepare to ravage North America and Canada, preferably until they might submit.

          At the shores of Maryland, where sat Arcadia, news bulletins from overseas were being relayed immediately over the radio:

          “—What was once a series of scattered sightings and reports have escalated into military conflict—”

          “—The British Navy has been forced into a retreat after heavy casualties—”

          “—Algeria and Egypt are amassing defense forces in case the flying death should return, advising other nations across Africa and West Asia to do similar—”

          “—other nations have issued statements, be it also for self-defense, or surrender and subsequent offering as vassals of the flying death—”

          The Haddock Street Hooligans sat around a home radio set at one of their family apartments, as their elders began packing in a hurry, others arguing. Ribeye Renzo was trying to convince old friends trying to pull off crimes during the commotion to run and hide too. Communications with Honest Li and his sister Nuo were impossible.

          The kindly clay construct Blockhouse had heard the proceedings while shopping in the city. Afterwards he went to see that vigilante, The Junker. The avenging scavenger was dutifully working on his personal fighter plane, trying to cobble together what he could in preparation for what he thought to be inevitable.

          “You’ll not go alone, lad. You’ll catch your finale out there.”

          The Junker continued working. But Blockhouse did not relent either. As far as either of them was concerned, they may very well have been the last line of resistance.

          *CLANG*

          As much as it might have pained them to think that way. Blockhouse wandered over to put a reassuring hand on the mystery man’s shoulder, as Junker attempted to cease the shaking of his own, unsteady hands. He had dropped a wrench, after faltering in silence.

X

          Solomon had chartered for a private plane, the fastest they could receive. Othulok was likely to attack other places first—the capital, the other major cities. Arcadia, that was saving the best for last. Felix was going over maps on the global and national level, marking the places Othulok had attacked so far for reference. Esmerelda was seated across from her, trying to formulate some sort of counter to Othulok’s defenses, and failing that, calculating what she’d need for a potent artillery shell or a bomb to be dropped from a fighter plane. Tycho and Katrina were wrapped in blankets, taking to coffee from a thermos.

          It was when Solomon returned from the wash closet that Felix set down her things. The man’s face still had some moisture to it, after splashing water on a few times. The quest had taken a toll on him, and it would only take a toll further.

          “Sir. Please: Tell us what we’re dealing with.” pleaded Felix. “What the devil are these False Thunderer beings?”

          Solomon wished he had the tome on hand, with illustrations and direct notes. He recalled leaving it with a colleague in Paris—but there was no time to double back. Not when the threat was in the present.

          “Mystics of the ancient world had to formulate a great many defenses. Against physical and metaphysical forces. They needed something… of a scale enough, to give even the gods themselves true pause. Fortunately, the body of the construct is not whole, otherwise this would be completely hopeless.”

          “Yeah? And this is the best we’ve got to work with?” said Esme, scribbling out an incorrect chemical formula in her notebook. “You and Katrina are our heavy hitters, and I’m sorry—I truly fancy you both, but even combined? THAT didn’t do enough.”

          Felix looked over the map while the others conversed. She thought back to her aunt Malika. To her darling Georgia at home. She could only hope they could get away from Othulok’s all-out attack. But where in the world would they go?

          “Wait. Where in the world.”

          Felix got out of her seat just as the plane experienced momentary turbulence, holding up the global map and slapping it with her opposite hand.

          “Don’t you all see? Othulok may be able to terrorize the Earth’s surface, but even he would be hard-pressed to navigate the bowels of Subterranea!”

          “Them beasties could put up a real fight, if there’s enough of ‘em around. Maybe some could even get past the electromagnetic field. Just gotta have a gate big enough to fit that nefarious noggin.” mused Tycho. In that moment, Katrina perked up.

          “And that is not all there is to the Subterranea plan: The lost-gates themselves… I experience a most puzzling feeling when I go through. Perhaps the EM field could be impacted by the journey?”

          “Yes… yes, that’s a good idea, Katrina!” said Solomon, familiar with what she referred to. “We may be able to create a temporary lost-gate of our own. It won’t last beyond a battle with the False Thunderer’s skull like an actual lost-gate, but it doesn’t have to!”

          “And we’ll lure him in ourselves.” said Esme. “My concoctions should crack that giant cranium once the defenses are lowered.”

          Everyone seemed enthusiastic. Solomon knew it had the potential to work, but in each of these young faces, he remembered something different…

X

          In Felix, he remembered a shy little girl hidden behind her aunt Malika, clinging to the smartest, bravest woman she could think of. Eventually becoming brave herself: Enough to ask Solomon how to find the hidden things of the world. To see if Georgia felt the same way she did. And although she had her doubts, the others had come to respect her investigative acumen.

          In Tycho, he recalled his former boisterous opponent in the young man’s father, George Edward Gallagher. Even after Solomon joined the previous iteration of Rally Co. they argued. Only improving after he helped Gallagher reconnect with his wife, and in his research of cryptids and legendary beasts. Research that the young Tycho took to heart, from bringing home farm animals to wrestling more carnivorous denizens. To see the boy grown into a loyal, honorable man who stood by everyone on this team when they were at their lowest.

Esme, he’d met during her admission to Century University’s science department. She had arrived with honors before she was even eighteen, and she had a desire to challenge the magic of old with her dogged attempt to learn more of the Alchemy of old. A project that Solomon warmed up to. Her irreverence did not anger, but instead delighted. A light through thick fog, the joy that follows after hardship.

Maybe that was why Esme and Tycho ‘got along’ the way they did. Tycho was serious at heart, and Esme was one for humor. They counter-balanced one another.

Although he wasn’t here, Solomon also felt something more than just the spectre of regret. A respect he should have afforded more of to that mystery charge of his. The one that Felix had determined to be The Junker, that Archangel of Arcadia for whom Tycho and Esme were eternally loyal. Solomon could only hope that in time, they could have some kind of friendship again.

Katrina. Last, but not least. Solomon had reservations about being a teacher to anyone. A guardian, perhaps-- But a teacher? He hadn’t the patience for that. Not until he met someone who was also unusual, who some went as far as to have called unnatural. What fiend could say that about a child? One who felt afraid, as if the world were ending because she could rend the flesh of others with a thought, never to know the gentle caress of another person ever again?

Wasn’t that where his wrath and his shame came from, as acolyte to Othulok’s path? Some kind of love for the things that lingered in the dark, and guilt that he wasn’t doing more to protect them? Yes, but only now he was starting to feel as though he’d finally achieved something real, with their revival of this old lot and its journeys, righting wrongs. On that, even his old companion Blockhouse would have agreed.

It was time to put a halt to Othulok. Everyone here vowed to do nothing less than that.

X

          The plane landed. When they made it home, too few of their neighbors remained. Even Blockhouse was nowhere to be seen. They would have to look for him later: Right now, Esme had to get to her laboratory to work on her arsenal, Tycho assisting with what he learned from her about her field. When he had done his part there, he went to help Katrina and Solomon in constructing the temporary lost-gate.

Felix had taken the roadster to check on Georgia and Aunt Malika. To her deepest concern, she found neither of them had evacuated!

“Auntie, pack your damned things!” exclaimed Felix, before being shut down. Although in peaceful times Malika had no issue with swearing, she would not tolerate her niece’s speech if it kept her out of action.

          “The hell I will! I’m not leaving you all to deal with this alone.”

          Felix looked to Georgia. But her portly darling only played at having been defeated by Malika. Truth be told, Georgia wanted to stay as well.

          “Your friend, Renzo—” said Georgia. “He helped Malika convince some teen-agers against looting the local storefront, just before the military police started showing up and acting tough. We’re going to help out with things like that. The things you all did before you went globetrotting to try and stop that nasty magician. It’s the least we can do.”

          “… A peach from your namesake state couldn’t be sweeter.”

          Felix looked ever so deeply into Georgia’s eyes. Malika was gathering her things and leaving early, to give Felix and Georgia some time alone before the big finale.

X

          The False Thunderer’s skull had been attacking Washington D.C. when Othulok was suddenly diverted by a distant calling:

          “Yes, I survived! You’re not all-powerful, you cad.”

          Othulok began to grit his teeth.

          “Callahan! I was going to save your precious Arcadia for last, but I see now I must expedite my plans.”

          The Thunderer’s skull raced upwards along the eastern seaboard until it found the concrete jungle that those mortal fools held to. A volley of inconsequential mortars had been fired, to give the tanks time to roll in. Of course, an alternative was on its way. Katrina arrived on one of the rooftops after climbing the stairwell. There was a plan now, not just a full-frontal, last stand attack. That entailed her using her telekinesis not to try and smash the False Thunderer’s cranium, but instead to concentrate on the electromagnetic field.

          What people failed to realize about telekinesis, was that it was more than mere levitation. It could be exerting a force with such precision, it could reach out and direct the very atoms and particles, building blocks of existence. Othulok’s magic resisted, but energy was energy—whether wielded by sorcery or science at the time. And Katrina’s psychic power was tremendous. Not just when she let her emotions take over, but through Solomon’s lessons, she could wield it in ways that would make alchemists gasp, and give pause to the mortal-mocking gods themselves.

          Of course, to ease her burden, Esme was not far off. She and Tycho had commandeered a biplane.

          “Ye made sure this wily bird’s got bomb bay doors, yeah?!” exclaimed Tycho.

          “But of course, my irksome orangutan!” scoffed Esme, unable to keep from her humor with Tycho. “I wouldn’t want you reaching back and trying to throw the thing yourself.”

          Tycho didn’t holler back. He just had the most devilish grin. Esme couldn’t see it, but she knew her colleague was itching to get at the Golden Shadow once more. When they received the telepathic signal from Katrina, they pulled up and delivered their alchemical payload: something to weaken the integrity on top of the skull.

          “Take the stick, will ya?” exclaimed Tycho, pulling a mallet with a long handle. “Unless yer too busy preening—we ain’t won yet!”

          “Only because your flying is second to mine!”

          Tycho jumped from the plane, preparing to bring down the mallet. The chemical had weakened the bone of the great giant’s floating skull. Tycho’s mallet hammered down, beginning to crack through the weakened skull. But as he regained his footing and raised the mallet to strike again, some stray electrical volts began to strike him repeatedly, each time from a different direction.

          And still, he raised the mallet to strike again.

          The mallet fell at last. But not onto the skull: It fell behind Tycho, down to the street below. The only reason he didn’t fall, was because Katrina diverted some of her focus to catching him. From the False Thunderer’s skull, Othulok lashed out with greater fervor against the assembled forces of mankind on the ground, before turning his attention towards Tycho, who was being slowly levitated to the nearest rooftop.

          “You can’t save him, girl-child!” cackled Othulok, through mystic transmission of his voice. “But you can prop him up for me when I post him upon a rebar pike!”

          “Dégage!-- Misérable salaud! Coeur sans amour!”

          But just then, Katrina could sense a power behind her. Enchanted thunder firing from the hand of her mentor, as Solomon Callahan staved off the skull.

          “She shall, fiend.”

          Katrina looked to Solomon. The two nodded to each other, and once Tycho was out of harm’s way, refocused their efforts upon the False Thunderer’s skull. Forcing Othulok to concentrate on them. But without the opening to breach the skull and damage Othulok within, this was merely stalling.

X

          Gilligan Diligent was gathering his things and ushered Wrap towards an outgoing train. He’d managed to secure the both of them tickets out of the city, along with countless others attempting to evacuate. But the older man found his young charge outside, as if drawn to the dismal skies.

          “C’mon, fellah.” said Gilligan. “You’re in need of a vacation, if you ask me! Why the long face?”

          Wrap didn’t often laugh or offer the most obvious signs he favored Gilligan’s company. The man had tried to keep him at arm’s length away from Othulok. As far as Diligent knew, Wrap wasn’t just another assassin. He was two other things: a friend who saved his life, and a revenant created by that damnable sorcerer.

          The man thought back to a time when he was in a log cabin, caressing the hand of one of his various siblings. The eldest, for whom always stood by him in making decisions and looking out for the family. They were gone now, and the others were sent to live with relatives. Scattered at the edge between two countries. He’d gotten into this line of work as a mercenary to support them all. Spread thin, only ever able to send so much out at a time given the criminal status of the work he often did.

          “Maybe this is my last chance to be rid of the Golden Shadow once and for all, sir. Rally Co. are the big guns, and then perhaps I’ll use my magic to combat Othulok’s…”

          Gilligan shook his head.

          “Let those roughnecks sort it out themselves. You can’t be certain this is the end for him.”

          But Wrap didn’t agree. In fact, he started to run. Gilligan was in peak physical condition and could catch up. At least, until Wrap used some of his mystical bandages to swing away from there. Gilligan could barely get his grappling hook out in time to give chase effectively, never having known Wrap to travel in such a manner up until now.

          “Come back, Wrap!—”

X

          Felix was pulling a body from out of an armored truck with a machine gun affixed to the top. Preparing to fire when she spotted something—or rather, someone swinging towards the skull of the False Thunderer. It was none other than The Wrap! Attempting to extend an impossible length of mystical bandages in an attempt to help stifle Othulok’s power over it. As the strips of enchanted cloth did their part, the levitation of the cursed cranium had been halted somewhat.

          Felix stared down the iron sights of her latest weapon. The Wrap was right there: She could pick him off right there, and then resume firing upon Othulok and the giant skull. But she hesitated: she had seen this undead at his most pitiful before. Caught in Shanghai and nearly vaporized by Katrina’s telekinesis. Alongside Gilligan Diligent during the Golden Shadow’s attack on their home. There was something missing in all of this, for Felix was trying to determine why Aunt Malika’s would-be assassin was this weeping welp.

          Just then, something tore through part of the bandages over one of the eye sockets. From within, came the golden, equally skeletal form of Othulok himself! Clad in his maroon robe. Hurling his own necromantic thunderbolts to duel with Solomon and Katrina. But when it appeared he was losing, he turned a hand towards The Wrap, and ushered him towards Rally Co.

          “Attack, child! I did not imbue you with a herald’s power for NOTHING!”

          Some of that occult lightning diverted to put The Wrap in agonizing pain until the boy submitted to the will of the undying warlock. Then, he directed his bandages towards Solomon, catching him by the wrists and putting an end to his magic, leaving Katrina straining to keep up with Othulok on her own. The giant skull shifted around Othulok as Felix opened fire with the turret of the armored truck. Cracking the bone somewhat as Tycho did through the wonders of high caliber rounds, but ultimately their greatest foe was still shielded.

          “It is OVER Callahan!” howled Othulok. “The secrets of the ancients will be mine—the WORLD will be mine! At last, my rightful ascension is at hand!”

          Felix had departed the armored truck. The timing couldn’t have been better: Othulok had begun directing the False Thunderer’s skull so that its pseudo-divine wrath rained down upon the conventional weapons of the mortal world. Once again, Felix Basra found herself in a situation seemingly beyond her ken, much like the grief she felt trying to make sense of Subterranea. She had her revolver in one hand, the other was the impellet gun for which all of Rally Co. carried, and a shaky deathgrip on both that had to serve as a substitute for confidence.

          She knew why she was here. She had led this team more than once into danger. Learning the strengths and weaknesses of each member—each comrade of hers, and applying them where they might have had the most effect. Ask anyone, and they would say those past victories on the part of the group had been her masterpieces of planning and determining the truth.

          Othulok did not spot her right away. Thankfully.

          …Alas, The Wrap was a different story.

          While the sorcerer was doing away with the rest of Rally Co. and the False Thunderer’s skull was repelling any larger military forces, The Wrap was searching for individual stragglers, in the hopes of catching Tycho or Felix. Othulok knew they were still out there on-foot, all by their lonesome. Felix recognized the sound of those mystical bandages, having encountered them enough times by now to mistake them for nothing else.

          And there, Felix struck: having climbed a fire escape ladder of some nearby building, and jumping down to kick Wrap in the head. The blow knocked him to the ground, and Felix could not help but feel a certain satisfaction at her initial success.

          “Hrrrnnn…”

          In retaliation, The Wrap raised his arms and offered lashings of his mystical bandages. A couple of them hitting Felix before she really started to dodge. She used her impellet gun to stun him—lethal rounds from her revolver, he could probably regenerate from if given the chance. Putting him down for good meant whittling down his stamina and defenses first.

          And for a moment she saw the fear in his eyes. Much as they tried to appear vicious and cruel. One part, because of Othulok’s will being exerted upon the lad. In another part, it was his own attempt to welcome finality. Felix wanted to think he had some dignity before the ultimate end and get this over with.        

          “Haven’t you the sense to break free of that sorcerer?” said Felix “Why must you skulk around so pathetically?!”

          Wrap winced.

          “I tried. Many such times, detective aspirant. The Golden Shadow—Othulok, does not release his charges so easily.”

          Felix thought to Solomon, from his time as the self-styled heir to the sorcerer. He had accomplished it, broken free from his own role and done something with his life. But then again, he too was a practitioner of magic. She knew virtually nothing about The Wrap other than the fact his dread master commanded him to attack Aunt Malika.

          “Felix!”

          What terrible timing! There was Malika now, as well as Felix’s girl, Georgia. They had just helped someone escape the city street that had become a battlefield just now. They hurried over beside Felix, and she could feel her resolve slipping. Not that her loved ones made any move to stop her.

          “You’ve done it.” said Malika. “You caught my would-be assassin. I’m proud of you, dear. Where are the others? We should regroup--”

          “…”

          Georgia’s eyes widened, and she held onto Malika’s arm. Felix wasn’t responding to anything just then. The firing pin on her revolver pulled back as she aimed directly at The Wrap, and fired. Just as Gilligan Diligent spotted them from afar. Running forward to stop Felix, as the weapon’s report came before he could rouse his vocal chords into crying out a plea for mercy.

          *BANG!!*

TO BE CONTINUED…

[christiangeistdorfer]

RONNIE PETERSON and his co-driver TORSTEN PALM at the 1973 SWEDISH RALLY

[welcometogrouchland]

"lol they should make Steph spoiler again she's basically not even a Batgirl" look I'm not too jazzed about the current state of Batgirl lore either rn but if I have to suffer through another decade of terrible babsgirl content PLEASE AT LEAST LET ME HAVE BATGIRL STEPH, IF ONLY IN NAME

[ghostzzy]

i was coping pretty well with the bad sleep Until Today.

[hanlight]

Good to see Hyundai end rally Croatia with a podium with Esapekka and a powerstage win with Thierry after everything that happened…

[6-epigraphs]

Slowly learning about WRC and I'm going through the same rabbit hole of learning that the silly rabbits you post here had horrible deaths. again

[maraczeks]

+

[angle0fthegourd]

Respectfully, your point of "... hateful people have weaponized it successfully enough and broadly enough that there are now MORE people using it hatefully than the number of Palestinians who even exist in the world. There are not many Jews or Palestinians left in the world at all right now," just seems blatantly false considering the amount of large scale protests we've seen around the world for Palestine. I think it's, at worst, hard to make a definitive call as to who there's more of or, at best, there's more people using "From the river to the sea..." as a hopeful rallying cry than there are using it hatefully.

I don't think jews have the right to try and censor Palestinian resistance, and, in my opinion, that includes not censoring non-Palestinians echoing their rallying cries. Saying FtRttS as a non Palestinian is an act of validation and support that I've seen many Palestinians say they appreciate. That is enough to warrant its use to me. FtRttS is no different than Land Back, and if people using it bothers you, I think that's something you need to deal with yourself. Learn to hold space for the idea that it can be both something that's been used to hurt and threaten you, and thus makes you uncomfortable, and that its current widescale surge is being done mostly in good faith to rally around the Palestinan people.

just got a second official warning for my use of "from the river to the sea, palestine will be free" on the OTW volunteer slack

people are also currently asking board to ban saying that the founding of israel was colonialism—equating this to saying racial slurs—and were complaining about my status back when it was "palestine will be free", too

suffice to say, fuck that place, don't give the OTW your money, and don't fucking volunteer there

(the second screenshot is from the warning I got a few days ago)

[antics-pedantic]

RALLY CO. #10: ARCHANGEL OF ARCADIA

          Last time, on Rally Co….

          The crime-lord sorcerer Othulok, nemesis of world-renowned occult detective Solomon Callahan, attacked the Rally Co. team directly at home with help from the assassins Gilligan Diligent and Othulok’s own unwilling thrall, known only as ‘The Wrap.’ When Tycho and Esme struggled against the assassins, Solomon used deadly magic—not unlike those of Othulok’s to save them. In the process, revealing that he in fact was once a follower of Othulok himself!

          With assistance from Blockhouse the construct and vigilante treasure-hunter The Junker, Rally Co. was able to repel the attack. Now, the group races to deprive Othulok from the secrets of the ancients, to prevent him from conquering the world. They have succeeded in obtaining the energy-amplifying miracle metal called ‘orichalcum’ from a withering vampire lord, defeating a contingent of troops from the dictatorship of Arkavalia, and forced to remain overseas to try and hinder one more potential weapon Othulok seeks.

          Which leaves but one question: In their absence, who will keep an eye on Rally Co.’s beloved hometown, the city of Arcadia?...

X

          Snowfall touched the east coast. Arcadia’s art deco fixtures would be capped by soft slush, and detailed by icicles. Uptown was for the toast of the upper crust, the well-to-do in their ritzy suites and lofty penthouses. And throughout the rest of the city, all others, from the storefronts and tenements to the alleyways and those desperate enough to try and spring for sewer crevices, steam tunnels, or unattended spaces where the subway rail was being perfected. And on a street corner, cried a newskid:

          “EXTRY, EXTRY! Read all about it: Prison break at the big house! Hoosegow horror show! Spillane Jailhouse’s celebrity inmates sprung as of last night!”

          Various inhabitants of the city already had copies of the paper, as they’d rushed to acquire it elsewhere. The more common, penny-ante criminal element were split between skipping town and considering to audition as lackeys. Among other citizenry, many were frightened, some found it terribly novel to imagine danger lurking around every corner, and as for Arcadia’s hometown heroes: Rally Co. was still overseas, racing to prevent total catastrophe at the hands of some necromancer or dictator.

          But they had those they could count upon.

          Just as the newskid was about to call it quits, they had discovered two rolls of quarters, and their stacks of newspapers more than paid for. The child could only lift their cap slightly and scratch their head. They would later notice some vagrants from further along the street reading the paper, throwing it onto their alley-fires within repurposed metal barrels or between cinderblocks propping up camping grills, which were notably accompanied by foods fresh and canned. Woe to the beat cop that took issue with the bounty of the hobos, for they had likely disregarded urban legends told to them moments before their ill-intentioned effort to disperse those lost on the wayside: One young up-and-comer in the blue uniform and sterling badge was found hanging upside down from a building’s flagpole by the window, his screaming alerting an amused neighborhood.

          Among the members of that neighborhood was one “Rib-Eye” Renzo, known to most as a would-be hoodlum, and a purported mystic known for his ability to see small stretches of the future if he utilized a freshly cut steak to divine with. Formerly in the employ of the respected Gramps Toretti, who was all too immediately replaced by his power-hungry underling Thorpe Malvoli, a pitiful fellow Toretti had taken pity on. Perhaps too much pity: Malvoli had inspired the most wretched members of Toretti’s operations to break free from their order and rule as though the state were open to feudal conquest.

          “Well, whaddya know…”

          He found a deli order with a label that had his name on it. Wrapped in the latest newspaper detailing the Spillane Jailbreak, waiting for him inside a phone booth. He read the article so that his divining could focus on more unknown details, since he could fill in some of the blanks. There was an entire section devoted to naming the escapees and observed accomplices, with a few prisoner photographs included:

          “BE ON THE LOOKOUT FOR,           MALVOLI – GANG BOSS

          IRVIN WHEELER – MENTALIST / ANIMAL TRAINER

          DUKE LUKE – SOLDIER OF FORTUNE

          ARMED, DANGEROUS, DO NOT APPROACH. DIAL FOR POLICE IMMEDIATELY, SAYS MAYOR!”

          Renzo scoffed. Following that section was little mention of Rally Co.’s part in defeating most of these ne’er-do-wells. He took up the steak, putting it over one eye, and focusing himself, so that he might channel enchanted force through the invisible mechanisms of magic once again. What he saw caused him to drop the steak in terror, despite typically preserving it for later cooking. With haste, he dialed a familiar phone number.

          “Blockhouse? Thank goodness you’re there! Listen—have you heard the news? Alright, forget it, we’ll talk soon. But you’d better gather up Rally Co.’s other friends. They could be in big trouble. I’ll be over after I’ve tried my usual sources.”

          Renzo hung up the phone. He could have sworn he felt a chill, like something, or someone passed by his phonebooth. He produced a switchblade from one of his pockets, along with a small holdout pistol, finally hopping out, ready to fight. But by the time he did, he found a grown man laid out on the icy ground, another man and a woman he recognized as being from a rival syndicate running. That could only mean one thing, as only every cutthroat and con artist understood.

          The Junker was back in Arcadia.

X

          Blockhouse was a construct of clay, able to become malleable or as tough as stone in no time at all, even though he detested violence. And at this moment, he was in the estate of the world-renowned occult detective, Solomon Callahan, a home on the outskirts of Arcadia alongside others at the edge of the concrete jungle, and the beginnings of the countryside. It had become even warmer than ever before when joined by Callahan’s previous students: The aspiring detective Felix Basra, eminent Bio-Chemist Esmerelda Broughton, Cryptozoologist Tycho Gallagher, and the timid telekinetic of great potential—Katrina Kafka, who he had the good fortune of being guardian for when Solomon became her teacher years ago, when she still lived in her native Paris.

          He lamented how they had all traveled together to stifle the machinations of the Golden Shadow—Othulok, a necromancer who sought to steal the secrets of the ancients in order to conquer the entire world. It was entrusted to Blockhouse to keep an eye on Arcadia, as well as Rally Co.’s various allies. But not all of them could be counted on to fight: Rib-Eye Renzo was passionate, but meek. The information broker from Shanghai, Honest Li and his sister-secretary Nuo could be reached by telegraph, telephone, and teletype terminal, but were still in their own city trying to keep a low profile after Othulok directly attacked the Callahan estate. And while they were very clever and noble, Blockhouse would never entertain the idea of ordering the Haddock Street Hooligans to perform too extreme an errand: they were children. And Blockhouse was reputed in countless folktales and picture books as a friend of children. He wanted to keep them out of danger as much as he could.

          There was only one recourse.

          After fending off Othulok all too recently, Blockhouse was entrusted with a special radio transmitter, tuned to certain frequencies upon which Rally Co.’s most mysterious benefactor could be contacted: a former member, with all the skills, means, and methods any investigator or adventurer of the group had. But his approach was different. In the process, he had to become a whisper on the wind, a myth among the masses.

          To reach such a being, Blockhouse had to utilize a special code cipher, entered via a peripheral keypad that had been integrated with the living room radio set. A loud, confirming click indicated that the message was correctly delivered to its intended recipient. A reassuring thing, as Blockhouse was still reeling from the warning Rib-Eye Renzo had provided: That a gaggle of Rally Co.’s previous enemies had fled their incarceration and would soon descend upon the city!

           Blockhouse fetched a borrowed fedora and scarf from among Felix’s things. The tailor had struggled to make a large coat for him, and suggested in the meantime that he wear hats. And in this moment Blockhouse not only wanted to look more remarkable, but he wanted to feel that way, was much as his friends did. They were counting on him, after all.

          “Oh, bother…”

          Of course, just as quickly as he put it on, a stray wind had blown the hat off. He scrambled to grab it and keep it from flying off again. But at least some of the neighbors were sincerely cheering him on, those who were not afraid of him or of Rally Co., not even with the recent hullabaloo.

X

          The warehouse was kept dimly lit. Workers sent home early for the day. They couldn’t chance someone recognizing the malicious menagerie accumulating around the table brought down from the foreman’s office. The stout shape of Don Malvoli was accompanied by a couple of gangsters still loyal to his promises of riches and power over the city. The psychic beastmaster Irvin Wheeler looked like he was suffering a chill, for he had no creature to command with his telepathic rapport. And off to the side, the self-styled soldier of fortune, Duke Luke, was frantically using a crowbar to open a crate full of weaponry. It was like he simply couldn’t get enough.

          They had all been assembled by a businessperson. One Abigail Horne. Sister to the injured corporate giant, Randall Horne. She had been known as having started her own company after her brother locked her out of the family business. At last. it was all hers, but Horne’s foolishness had ruined the good name of their brand. And there was only one thing left to do.

          “You all understand why you’re here, yes?” said Abigail, circling the table. “Malvoli. You’re all about business, profits as well. And you’re still walking, much more than I can say for Randall.”

          “Oh yeah, yeah absolutely!” gasped Malvoli. “And if all goes well, I wanna sign exclusively with you. We’ll navigate the underworld for ya. Count on it.”

          Abigail watched Malvoli for a while. He was a wounded animal—now, and maybe for all his miserable life. But he had connections. Expendable bodies that were off the books. She turned aside to approach Duke Luke. The mercenary lifted up a weapon, but did not fire—Abigail reaching over to the weapon to study its components. Including the safety switch, that had been left on. She turned it off, and trailed her finger along the barrel. As if she knew for certain he wouldn’t fire on her.

          “Big gun for a big man, Mr. Luke.”

          “Yeah, yeah! They ain’t gonna survive this, no sir—ma’am.”

          A boy playing grown-up as far as she was concerned. But if she appeared sympathetic, he’d focus on gunning for their shared enemy first, and then he’d be so high on his own success he’d think himself invincible. An easier target, really.

          “Wheeler. I’ve got something extra special in store for you.”

          Irvin Wheeler was the only one at the table who gave Abigail any pause. Psychic potential was odd to her. And the fact he could command an animal to attack for him, even more eerie.

          “I want something formidable, Ms. Horne. Something that will pick off each one of those do-anything do-gooders in a most Promethean fashion! Anything less, and they’ll be after you shortly after. Then I wonder: What will your conquest be worth then?”

          Abigail Horne narrowed her eyes. She gestured for Duke Luke to return to the streets with Malvoli to begin patrolling for their enemy, and all their friends. She would only trust Wheeler, and the other assassin stepping out of the shadows to do this work.

          “Great day in the morning!” came the boisterous laugh of a man who lived and dressed like a lumberjack, and moved—struck like a viper. Gilligan Diligent, as his nom de guerre went. “No need to fret now, sir. Caught’cha a real nasty one to work with. My recon tells me them Rally Co. kids had trouble with a Gevaudane back when they were just starting out!”

          Irvin had sneered at the bearded brute, before his eyes widened, and he put his hands together. But not before asking one question:

          “Your associates. The mystical ones. Where are they?”

          Gilligan just chuckled.

          “No need for that! The Golden Shadow’s busy, the tip on the beastie I overheard by chance. As for Wrap, he’s around. Just on support duties for now, I suppose.”

          The jolly hitman beckoned Abigail Horne and Irvin Wheeler along. His companion, the dead boy wrapped in bandages that had seen arcane treatment, stood beside the cage where the Gevaudane was being kept. A growl from the cage gave the Wrap a fright, and he instinctively extended some of his magic bandages to clamp the beast’s powerful jaws shut. Irvin Wheeler flew into a rage, trying to tear the bandages away.

          “Imbecile! Irredeemable cretin!” hissed Wheeler. “You risk damaging my potential for bonding with the beast’s psyche!”

          Of course, for rattling the Wrap, Gilligan Diligent had drawn out a sharp Bowie knife in no time at all, holding it to Wheeler’s throat.

          “I’d leave the lad be, pal.” said Gilligan, leaning in. “… It is pal, isn’t it?”

          Abigail Horne had to step in with a stern look before Irvin Wheeler relented, and let Wrap out of his grip. Gilligan didn’t laugh for once: He gave Wrap a look over for any damages, before dusting him off with a handkerchief and having him keep his distance from Horne and Wheeler. Although he spoke in a stern voice, Wrap did not require it to listen to the older assassin: Just as Wrap once saved his life, it was in attempts like this that Gilligan wished to repay the young undead. Bitterly, Irvin Wheeler remained there while Horne directed the assassins to get going.

          “I want all of Rally Co.’s allies captured. Killed if they see fit to resist.” said Abigail. “We’re to hold all the cards. We’re to strike fear into their oh-so-noble hearts.”

          And with them defeated, she could carry on her brother’s work in her own name, without any obstacles ever again.

X

          Ribeye Renzo almost wished Malvoli knew that it was Renzo himself that betrayed the new gang. Because now, Malvoli had reached out to Renzo and his strange form of fortunetelling to find the allies of Rally Co.

          “What’s taking so long, Renzo?!”

          Ribeye Renzo was in a difficult position. Either Malvoli would eventually find out Renzo defected to Rally Co., or he’d be putting Rally Co. in danger and trapped in Malvoli’s clutches again. They were holed up at an upstate mansion Malvoli purchased before he clashed with Rally Co., ending up in prison before he could make use of it.

          “The magic ain’t what it used to be, boss.”

          Malvoli just laughed at the thought, and insisted Renzo get back to work.

          “You lazy sack o’ crap! Hahaha!” snickered Malvoli. “Hey, where’d everybody go?”

          Renzo had only noticed it in passing: One of the guys out on guard duty had called a couple others outside to help with something. Someone should have been back to report on it. In a way, there was.

          *WHAM!*

          A grown man was sent flying back inside with a single strike. Sliding up to Malvoli’s desk, for him to lean over the edge and see. He turned his head to see Renzo using another steak for his divining, only to duck for cover.

          “What did ya see, Renzo?!”

          “Nothing!”

          “Don’t be a wiseguy! Tell me what it was!”

          “LITERALLY. NOTHIN’! NO CULPRIT, JUST OUR GUYS GOIN’ DOWN. SOME OF ‘EM SCREAMIN’!”

          Malvoli paled. A grandfather clock he had brought in yesterday for his return began its heavy gong to signal the new hour. The shadows seemed to grow longer, and Malvoli could feel himself noticing the little sounds around him: whistling from outside winds, and the skitter of a puny little roach. The damnable little thing was driving him to madness while someone, or something was out there doing away with his men.

          “Renzo—a piece! Grab a gun before they get in here. We’ll fill the sucker fulla lead!”

          Renzo started searching for a weapon. If not to adhere to Malvoli’s orders, then perhaps to give himself some shred of safety to cling to. But when he got up to show Malvoli what he’d found, his expression dropped to one of pure terror. Malvoli turned around to see the rain had started.

          “Pull yerself together, Renzo! It’s just the rain!” howled Malvoli, before appearing shaken by the sound of thunder and lightning. Renzo pointed a shaky finger towards the window: Malvoli turned around slowly, and at the next surge of the storm, he saw in that flash of light, two unblinking viridian eyes, trying to get in. Get at him.

          But Malvoli would not wait! He jumped over his desk and tried to tear the gun out of Renzo’s hand. A stray shot hit the ceiling, Ribeye Renzo releasing the weapon and escaping while Malvoli turned to aim the gun at the window, waiting for the prowler to enter. The next lightning flash revealed nothing. The mobster raced to the telephone, and started on the circular dial, nearly nicking his finger in the hurried process.

          Unfortunately, he only remembered one phone number. It was not the one that would save him.

          “Yeah—yeah, get over here! Bring all the guns you want, just hurry!”

          Especially not from the gloved hands reaching out to pull him back by the throat, before he could hang up the phone.

X

          Duke Luke was scrambling over to Malvoli’s place with a mess of holsters, rifles strapped to his back, and in his hands, a Bren Light Machine Gun imported from Britain. He jumped out of the driver’s seat with the weapon at the ready. It was there he saw someone running off into the woods. The self-styled soldier of fortune snickered to himself: He’d fought in jungle landscapes beset by extreme weather conditions far more unforgiving than this, despite his prominent self-preservation instincts. He clipped a couple of flashlights to a military harness on his chest, and started after his prey. Holding the machine gun by his hip, and firing it off. Yes, he was certain he winged his target, he’d shifted in the way he moved, how he carried his weight after a debilitating surge of pain from the machine gun. Duke Luke followed into the woods. His prey no longer on the ground, but he knew better.

          “Squirrely bastard.”

          Just as he had done before to rebel guerilla fighters overseas to earn his almighty dollar and a pouch of the vicious salt, Duke Luke started firing on the tree line. The enemy shouldn’t have been able to move so fast if he was injured. But he followed in a rough spin, making sure no tree around the merc was left unscathed. And with the gunfire came the roar of a war-wager, ready to take any life. To empty the whole of his current clip through sustained fire that would have overwhelmed anyone else.

          If only he could take this one as quickly.

          Duke Luke huffed, and he puffed. He waited a moment to see if his enemy would retaliate. When nothing happened, he scurried behind a large tree to reload the machine gun. But not before something flew towards him: a piece of metal in the shape of a mechanical cog had embedded itself in the barrel, another knocking the spare ammunition out of his hand. Abandoning the weapon, Duke Luke took to a carbine rifle, and rolled for another tree to use for cover. He took aim, and fired when he saw a pair of bright, emerald peepers in the distance, against the darker green of tree leaves in the night.

          As he looked around for his prey, he failed to notice something landing until it touched down on his collar bone, and tightened: It was a noose! He was being pulled up to a high branch. The rifle fell out of his hand, and he was scrambling to get at his knife to cut himself loose. Sure enough, he did: and when he landed on the ground, he went for one of the multiple holsters affixed to his harness. His flashlight beams were unsteady—but he could make out a shape overhead. One leveling two .45 caliber handguns of his own, the only part of himself visible besides those large and unblinking ‘eyes’ of his.

          This wasn’t right. Duke Luke was never on the receiving end. His mind flashed back to forgotten scenes where he’d cut down soldiers in surrender, or non-combatants he’d stumbled across. But they didn’t have what he had: grit, and a short-fused stick of dynamite. He rolled aside, grabbing at a book of matches in his pocket, and lit the explosive before tossing it up and ducking for cover. The confirmation of his actions, being that his prey’s weapons had fallen to the ground.

          “Well.” said Duke, dusting off his hands and starting up on lighting a celebratory cigar. “That takes care of that.”

          The set of gloved knuckles that collided with his face threatened to shatter his jaw, just as he bit down on the cigar. The emerald-eyed fiend had survived, dropping his own weapons simply to lull Duke Luke into a false sense of security. He cursed himself, before picking up a flaming tree branch, and charging at his attacker. Forearms raised in defense as Duke Luke repeatedly bashed into the object of his ire. Until he wasn’t: The burning branch was ripped from his grip, leaving mere splinters to hang onto. The improvised weapon had come from sturdy oak, and was broken over a knee like a child’s plaything and tossed aside. The same hands caught Duke Luke, tossing him to the ground, and unclipping the military harness. Smashing his flashlights, and jamming his remaining guns.

          Even with his eyes mostly adjusted to the dark, it was hard for Duke Luke to take notice of the figure before him, only his silhouette and the glow of his eyes—halted briefly by an effect like that of a camera shutter. He’d ‘blinked’ at Duke Luke, and then pointed to the deeper woods. Where animals, and terrible things of myth roamed. Without weapons or supplies, Duke Luke’s odds of survival were slim.

          “You can’t condemn a man to that…!”

          The alternative came in the form of the pointing hand, gesturing with a thumb back at himself. And then with his index and middle fingers, he pulled them from one side to the other, in front of his throat. Duke had the option of remaining here and taking his chances with his tormentor.

          So, he fled. Like he always did.

          Back at the manor, Malvoli had been hogtied. His men either unconscious or dead, save for Ribeye Renzo, who had taken one of the cars to escape. Just as he did, something rose up from the backseat of the automobile: emerald-eyed and all.

X

          Blockhouse was searching the streets. He had every intention of collecting the Haddock Street Hooligans and returning them home until the ordeal was concluded. It did not take long before he found some of the group: Chiara, Gunther, and ‘BLT’ (Bobby-Lionel-Torvic). Chiara was the leader of the group, and her confidence was everyone’s reassurance. But not this time: Franklin and Slinky Kevin were still missing.

          “I toldja we shouldn’t have let Slinky Kevin follow us!” exclaimed BLT. “He’s gone and gotten Franklin caught by the demon-thing! He’s got no skills to keep up with us!”

          “Irvin Wheeler.” said Chiara, correcting BLT. “And Franklin is nearly as clever as I am. He’s probably looking out for Slinky Kevin, like you should have!”

          Thankfully, the little gentleman Gunther pointed ahead to Blockhouse, and all three children ran over. In particular, Blockhouse gave Gunther a hug.

          “Blockhouse, sir!” sobbed Gunther. “It is being most terrible, sir! Wheeler came looking for us. We scattered to escape, but we have abandoned our own!”

          “We didn’t!” said BLT, nearly on the verge of tears at the thought. “We practice this sort of thing all the time! They should have been ready.”

          They looked to Chiara, who was slapping at them for such talk. Blockhouse had to stop her.

          “You two be bellyachin’ all this time!” she hissed. “Don’t go wailin’ to Blockhouse or anybody! If you’re wanting somenone to blame, point the finger at me! Ain’t I in charge of us?!”

          “That’s enough.” declared Blockhouse. “I won’t have you accusing yourselves or each other. That blight of a beastmaster Wheeler is as much a cheat as they come. The Haddock Street Hooligans on the other hand, have always had my awe, my respect! And you’ll be whole once again.”

          Just as Blockhouse spoke, Ribeye Renzo had arrived in his car, albeit without any passengers.

          “Renzo! You’re alive, sirrah!” said Blockhouse, enthusiastically. “But how did you escape Don Malvoli’s manor?”

          “It’s a hell of a story!” said Renzo. For a moment he covered his mouth in front of the children, but they just laughed. He should have known they too had grown up on Arcadia’s streets and knew much, by now. “Malvoli and Duke Luke both got licked, taken right off the board. But that leaves Wheeler and Diligent at least!”

          “We’ll worry about the lumberjack later.” said Blockhouse, ushering the children into the vehicle. “See to the safe return of these children to their families, and advise them to bolt their doors.”

          “Nothin’ less than that!” promised Renzo.

          “But what about Franklin and Kevin?” asked Chiara.

          Blockhouse furrowed his hairless, clay brow. Renzo gave him a look: One that seemed to suggest there was a factor in play that they could count upon.

          “Never fear, Chiara…”

X

          Slinky Kevin wouldn’t leave. Because Franklin couldn’t.

          He watched from a distance at the walled yard of the old building where he and Franklin had gone to hide. Irvin Wheeler and his monster were there, a bigger and more fearsome thing than the jaguar he once commanded. And he knew Franklin had been caught, because the other boy had pushed Slinky Kevin towards a hiding spot. Now his friend was caught: Kevin was so desperate to be part of something, but now he thought he’d rushed in too quickly. It was his fault that Franklin was in this mess, a hostage for that miserable man to try and lure the others with. The rest of the Haddock Street Hooligans, and Rally Co.

          Just then, he could have sworn someone, or something was there. Wheeler’s monster?

          No. It wasn’t the monster. It had to be a person: Maybe someone who could help.

          “Puh-please…” stuttered Slinky Kevin. “My friend’s in there. You gotta go find help. Rally Co.’s all gone. Everyone else got away buh-but…”

          The boy looked around. He hung his head in shame. But then, he saw something fall to the ground, and picked it up: It was a little prize like from snack boxes, a small piece of metal shaped after a locomotive. He couldn’t place why he was given this trinket, but it made him feel better. When he turned to look back at the building, he saw something out of the corner of his eye: the trail of a white scarf, like an airplane pilot.

X

          “Yes… tremble! No one’s coming to save a bad seed, not anyone that CAN save you. And once I have the whole set…”

          Franklin was huddled up in a room where Irvin Wheeler had cornered him. Scaring and threatening the child with his promises of revenge. A short stride away, his latest ‘aide’ keeping back interlopers.

          “I see you snickering at me. Thinking you’re better. But you’re not!” spat Wheeler. “Your puny tricks can halt me no longer, for I will cast off my afflictions and take my rightful place among the masters of this world!”

          Franklin didn’t argue. Wheeler twitched, and roared, making the poor boy curl up even further, inching back for a hiding space that wasn’t there. Wheeler just scowled and left to sort out other matters. There was a long and uncomfortable silence in his absence, that Franklin expected would be broken by actual harm, or his friends being lured into a trap.

          Just as Franklin relaxed a little, he flinched: Someone was in the room: The emerald-eyed fiend that had terrorized Malvoli and Duke Luke! Who to Franklin, only seemed like one more of their evil ilk.

          “No! Stay away!!”

          Franklin shut his eyes and swung his fists. But the ghost-like figure who walked into the room stopped just in front of Franklin. Glancing aside for a moment with the lens shutters halfway closed to dim the glow of his viridian gaze, as if contemplating his next move, and opting to crouch down so that he was at eye level with the child on as equal terms as possible instead of looming over him. So that when Franklin slowly opened his eyes again, he would give this weird figure a chance.

          Franklin sniffled. “You’re not with him?”

          “Never.”

          “I haven’t been good. He’s out for revenge, he said so.”

          The figure in the shadows let off a long, coarse sigh.

          “Men like that, love to decide the order of things… because they’re the ones who hold all the cards, afterwards. Will you be like that, one day?”

          Franklin shook his head no, quickly.

          “Then it doesn’t matter to me if you’ve been good or not.”

          Just then, there was a screech and the smashing of furniture. Irvin Wheeler was stomping back towards here, no doubt to drag Franklin with him to whatever remaining allies he had.

          “He’s coming. He might hurt you too.”

          “Let him. He won’t see me.”

          Franklin was still afraid, shaking terribly. Eventually, the emerald-eyed mystery man relented and offered something over: his scarf.

          “Hold this for me. It’s magic.”

          “Magic? Like Mr. Callahan does?”

          The figure in the shadows froze for a moment, before nodding.

          “Yes. It makes you braver: Once… I was able to fly a fighter plane through a typhoon.”

          Junker wrapped it around one of Franklin’s forearms, in case Wheeler tried to grab him harshly again. Just as the psychic beastmaster appeared, the figure in the shadows had vanished into thin air.

          “Come along, whelp. The boss says everyone must regroup. I won’t lose my bargaining chip so easily, though.”

          When Franklin stood up, he actually swatted away Wheeler’s hand. When the psychic tried to grab Franklin, only the scarf caught, and he cursed. Causing Franklin to laugh for the first time in a while. Enraged, Wheeler leaned down to get into the boy’s face, but not before he took a haymaker punch that left his nose bleeding. Thinking it was just a headbutt from Franklin, Wheeler howled, only for the boy to jump aside, while the figure in the shadows kicked him out of the room. At which point Franklin returned the scarf, receiving a hushed thanks.

          It was only once the figure in the shadows stepped into the light of the hallway that he revealed himself: It was that treasure hunter vigilante, The Junker!

          But before he could strike again, the hefty gallop of the Gevaudane was upon him, tackling the mystery man off of Irvin Wheeler, who issued one harrowed order to Franklin:

          “RUN!”

          The last thing the child saw was The Junker trying to keep the beast’s teeth away from his head, as swipes of its claws started to dig in. Then he was running through the halls, slipping into an elevator just before Wheeler could catch up with him. He was only able to make it to the next floor down before Wheeler activated an emergency mechanism to halt the elevator carriage, before running down the stairwell to catch up. Through the floor they were on (and from the ceiling of the building floor Franklin arrived at), went the avenging scavenger and the dread of the French countryside. Battling between debris and through smoke.

          Wheeler got at the elevator door, trying to force it open so he could get at his hostage. He could sense his beast searching for Junker, having wounded him. It turned around and lunged when it seemed to have found him again in the halls still beset by smoke.

          Franklin slipped out of Wheeler’s grasp just barely. But eventually he found a hallway with a dead-end. There was a window, but they were still a few floors up.

          “You little nuisance!”

          Wheeler approached Franklin slowly. Although he wanted to take him alive, he was angry enough to strike.

          “I nailed him. That cowboy packrat from the news.” said Wheeler. “In the end, he was a mere mortal! And eventually, all mortals die! I prosper! I—"

          Franklin saw the very life drain from Wheeler’s face when he heard the noises: The first, a terrible *CRACK!* followed by the whimper of a large animal. And then, a huffing, and a puffing, of an injured man.

          “Irvin.”

          The former high and mighty beastmaster did not turn at first.

          “IRVIN!”

          Finally, he turned. Lo and behold: there stood Junker, with his jacket torn in places, and what little was visible of his face, there were cuts. And held overhead by the strength of both arms, was the lifeless corpse of a Gevaudane with its jaw broken. Connection severed, and he hadn’t picked up a signal alerting him to that miserable development.

          It was Wheeler’s turn to be on the verge of a breakdown. Slinky Kevin appeared at the end of the hallway and meeting up with Franklin.

          “You stayed?”

          “Of course! Haddock Street Hooligans stick together.”

Then, they watched Junker put his aching sinews into hurling Irvin’s own monster at him. Sending him smashing through the window, and breaking part of the wall off.

          “…”

          Junker looked back at Franklin and Slinky Kevin. The two boys had been through a great deal today, but they appeared to be alright. He gestured for them to follow him, as they returned to the ground floor and headed out the door. While the boys were ordered to wait by the street, Junker returned to see where Wheeler had landed: He had been saved, cushioned by the body of his late beast.

          The Junker took him up by the collar.

          “Wait! You don’t have to finish me off, I sense it in you as well! The ESP— I see now! I bow to you! Please god, don’t kill me--” pleaded Wheeler.

          “Kill you? Life is a gift, Wheeler!” said a markedly more theatrical Junker, mocking in his tone. “Your survival means we can do this again, and again, and AGAIN. Fun, fun, fun.”

          “No, no…” he whimpered.

          “No?”

          In that moment, Wheeler felt a very, very deep regret.

“Did you give any of your other victims a choice? Were you going to give Professor Homme a choice? The children? Oh yes, I know, Wheeler… Just like I knew you’d be here. I’ll always be right behind you...”

          Silence. And then Junker pulled him in closer.

          “--AND IF YOU *EVER* GO NEAR THOSE KIDS AGAIN, I’LL GUT YOU FOR THE VULTURES TO FIND!”

          Wheeler panicked.

          “Alright! Alright! And Abigail Horne—I answer to Abigail Horne! She wants to take over her brother Randall’s operations.”

          Junker released Wheeler.

          “I told you, Wheeler. I know. But perhaps Horne would be interested to know how quickly you’d sell her out.”

          In his current state, Wheeler would never be able to get out of town in time to escape Abigail Horne’s retribution. Junker snickered at his predicament, before returning to check on Franklin and Slinky Kevin. With directions from the rest of the Haddock Street Hooligans, Renzo was able to find this street. But he never expected to encounter the archangel of Arcadia himself.

          “You’re…”

          The Junker simply nodded solemnly.

          “And you, Renzo, are a friend of Rally Co.”

          Without a word, Renzo beckoned the kids to climb into the car. Before anyone could issue a thanks, The Junker had vanished once more. Renzo was right there with Franklin and Slinky Kevin, awestruck.

          It was time to finish this.

X

          Abigail Horne was in her office. It was her brother Randall’s once, but no more.

          Gilligan Diligent stood at the ready. As did his charge, The Wrap. But even Abigail herself had grabbed a crowbar and a snubnosed .38 revolver. While the three fools, Malvoli, Duke Luke, and Irvin Wheeler were occupying Junker and the other allies of Rally Co., she was in the middle of proceedings to take over the company, and any fronts Randall once operated. When the detritus devil finally appeared.

          “The spookier they are, the harder they—EEAUGH!”

          The Wrap’s eyes widened, with his black sclera and grey pupil-ring. Junker had angled towards an overconfident Gilligan with a flying kick, caught by the ankle. But before he could slam Junker into the ground, the mystery man twisted around to swing his shin into Gilligan’s head, sending them both into the ground. Abigail Horne was not far off, firing her snubnose revolver in a haste to press her advantage. Trouble was, Wrap had extended long strips of his mystically treated bandages to try and hold Junker in place, some of the bullets interfering with their course, leaving only a single arm caught.

          “I owe you one, kiddo!”

          Gilligan jumped back to his feet, and started swinging his fists into the vigilante. A good portion of his strikes were blocked by Junker’s free arm in a demonstration of martial arts techniques that the lumberjack assassin had not expected. It was when more bullets whizzed by Wrap that Gilligan grabbed Junker by the arm, and Judo tossed him aside. He nodded to Wrap to abort mission.

          “What’s the meaning of this?! I’m paying you two top dollar.” said Abigail. “You said you wanted to take a crack at Junker yourself, if we ran into him!”

          “You take a shot at Wrap, we’re through here.” said Gilligan. “Keep your filthy money. As for you, cowboy packrat—hope we can try this again sometime!”

          Abigail raised her revolver to fire, grazing a grunting Gilligan and causing The Wrap to yelp, evidently still capable of pain despite being undead. She moved to reload and started firing again, nearly emptying another six shots before Junker kicked the gun out of her hand, forcing the woman to go at him with the crowbar. And she didn’t let up: She must have swung three—no, four times, catching him on the side and still hurting him a bit with his forearm blocks.

          “Randall. Dead?” said Junker.

          “Hospitalized.”

          Abigail started on a big swing, Junker weaving out of the way and chopping at her hands to make her release the weapon. She wasn’t opposed to fisticuffs if she had nothing else and started trading blows, she’d done some boxing. Compared to Randall, she seemed ready to fight for her empire. Ruthless too, if her firing on her own talent was anything to go off of.

          “Radio news says Malvoli was—hrnnh!—hogtied, the law nabbed him.” noted Abigail Horne. “What about Luke and Wheeler?”

          Junker did not enjoy making conversation. That, and he could tell Abigail’s communication was a new tactic.

“The merc’s on the run. Wheeler tried to sell you out.”

          “Pity, can’t find good help these days. Don’t worry. I’m not going to try to bribe you though. I won’t beg, either. In fact…”

          Abigail and Junker’s forearms were pressed against each other, constantly trying to snake through and find the advantage, until they both jumped back a moment.

          “… Seems like you’re waging your wars alone. Or with too small a pool of help to say you’ve got your own army.”

          “Don’t need an army.”

          Abigail didn’t smirk or laugh. This was business, and even if she didn’t like him very much, she was going to succeed where Randall had failed.

          “Claimed and heard. But I’ve noticed you haven’t wiped out every gang. Some of them get to remain, provided they don’t cross certain thresholds. Like maintaining an ecosystem. You seem to understand the dangers of an immediate power vacuum now.”

          Junker nodded.

          “Here’s my deal: I take over the family business unimpeded. As for everything else, I want a controlling stake in Arcadia’s criminal underworld. In return you get someone on high regulating everyone else.”

          “…”

          “Oh, don’t fret. There will be alliances with other bosses. We must try at balance, yes? Democracy? Not a single patriotic bone in your body? I digress. There is a natural inclination for us to be enemies—and we are. But when we clash, I refuse to see buffoons like Malvoli, or a weird menace like that Golden Shadow do anything about it.”

          She extended a hand to shake. Junker stared at it for a while. Eventually, he just offered a silent thumbs up.

          “Excellent. Now, next time we’ll oppose one another. But should you find an invitation, or a common irritation… let’s find time to meet up. That goes for your Rally Co. as well.”

          “I’m not their keeper.”

          Abigail held her hands up defensively.

          “Loud and clear.”

          A frown found its way onto Junker’s face, as he departed. The fact there were more survivors from his actions recently than not. That had to have been Katrina and Felix’s influence. Though he wasn’t certain they’d have agreed in cutting a deal with a new crime lord in the making, this was no time for another major conflict. Not when the Golden Shadow was trying to enact the plan to end all plans.

          Abigail Horne took a seat in her chair. And she couldn’t help but laugh. For Junker, it was a compromise in terms of both his efforts in the field, and perhaps of his personal principles. If she could get something like that going with Rally Co., they’d all be putty in her hands, one day. And she herself could finally become something like an empress, of all the commerce and crime in this fair city, clad in deco stylings.

X

          Back at Solomon’s estate…

          The phone was ringing, nearly about to fall from its place until Blockhouse returned to answer it.

          “Hello?”

          “Blockhouse! It’s Nuo— from Honest Li’s in Shanghai?”

          “Ah, long distance call. But you sound troubled?”

          “Yes! It’s awful: Rally Co. wasn’t able to beat the Golden Shadow to the last site! They say he’s found his final superweapon! Hello?... Hello?!”

          Blockhouse had dropped the phone. He knew of the quest to stop the orichalcum heist in the Alps, but even he and Solomon didn’t know what was next. Only where it might have been. And a warning:

          “False Thunder Sleeps.”

TO BE CONTINUED…

[christiangeistdorfer]

driver BERNARD DARNICHE and his codriver ALAIN MAHÉ at the 1973 ACROPOLIS RALLY