[Fiction] Out of the frying pan

[kestrel404]

Wednesday, September 10, 2014, 1:54 PM

Marge's Diner, Red Hill, New Mexico

The afternoon light is glaringly bright. The sun is a third of the way down the sky, casting short but distinct shadows into the burgundy and chrome colored diner. The lunch rush, which consisted of three people, is just leaving via the front door.

A woman in her late fourties is sitting behind the cash register with a tray of greasy fries and a sandwich. Her hair is a reddish brown, done up in curls which form a nearly perfect sphere around her head, seemingly defying gravity. A name tag on her seventies styled uniform reads 'Marge'.

Behind the bar at the grill, a tall and lanky black man of indeterminate age is wiping down every available surface with an old rag. His movements are slow, methodical, and repetitive, and he is constantly wiping sweat from his glistening shaved head. Every once in a while he will take a coffee pot from its heater and replenish the cup of the lone remaining customer.

This silent man, sitting at the end of the bar, looks to be in his late fourties, from what little of him is visible. Scruffy hair sticks out from under his baseball cap, and his chin is covered in several days worth of stubble. His face remains hidden behind a newspaper, and his hands are shaking constantly. This might be due to nervousness, the prodigious amounts of coffee he is drinking, or both. Every minute or so, he casts a furtive glance at the door of the diner.

[Ulysses Bailey]

Reflected light washes briefly across the inside of the diner as a non-descript sedan pulls in front of the chrome structure. The passenger confidently steps out of the vehicle, leaving the car and driver behind as he walks towards the entrance.

The man, looking to be just entering middle age and dressed in a finely tailored suit, surveys the diner with a single glance with alert eyes and gives Marge an honest smile. "Just some water for now, please," the man says, motioning to the seat next to the laconic patron at the end of the bar. He strides easily over to the other customer, sitting down at the bar, apparently unaffected or unaware of the obvious disparity of the diner's atmosphere and his own refinement.

He accepts the drink from Marge with a nod, slowly drinking from it before placing the glass on the counter. He pushes back a lock of chestnut and gray hair before while seemingly lost in study of his glass of water, "Too much coffee isn't good for you; the caffiene will eventually take away your edge."

[kestrel404]

After seating the new customer and pouring him a glass of water, Marge returns to her meal. The thin black man across the bar front the two customers grabs a menu from where they are stacked on the bar, and places it before the newcomer.

The customer, responding to Ulysses' comment, rasps from behind his newspaper, "Yeah, whatever."

The man behind the counter just chuckles and says in a surprisingly deep voice, "He hasn't listened to me either. Just sits there looking nervous. What's your name, stranger?"

The nervous looking man peaks from behind his newspaper at the door to the diner, and spies the sheriffs's cruiser pulling up to the front of the diner. His shaking redoubles, and he begins cursing softly from behind the paper.

[Ulysses Bailey]

The well-dressed man takes the menu, looking it over with a careful eye, "Name's Bailey. I hate to be complicated, but could I trouble you for an order of eggs benedict?"

"Sure, I think we've got some hollandaise sauce in the back," the man answers, taking away the menu and moving out of sight to accomidate the new customer's request.

With a glance to the somewhat dirty chrome trim behind the bar, Bailey settles himself more firmly on the stool with a measured sigh, "The eggs will take awhile to poach, neither of the employees would want to interrupt nor evesdrop on such a nice man's conversation, and I'm sure the sheriff outside will take a few minutes to check out my rental. Hence, we've some privacy for now."

[kestrel404]

Contrary to Bailey's prediction, the sheriff doesn't stop outside the door. Instead he marches up the three steps to the entrance with a purposefull scowl on his face. Entering, he looks to where Marge is eating and gruffly asks, "Marge, have you seen..."

He then spies the two people at the end of the bar, one well dressed and the other in faded and ragged clothes. Interrupting himself, he says, "Bill, is that you?"

In response, the nervous man ducks his head even further into the newspaper and loudly mutters, "No, go away."

[Ulysses Bailey]

Bailey smiles, finishing off his glass of water. He locks his fingers together before himself on the counter, patiently letting the budding exchange develop between the sherrif and the patron.

[kestrel404]

The sheriff moves slowly towards the man at the end of the bar. "Look, Bill. I know it's you. I'm placing you under arrest now. Don't fight it."

Before anyone else can act, 'Bill' is up out of his stool, the newspaper discarded. His face, now obvious, is pinched and haggard. His eyes are outlined by dark circles, and the gun he pulled from his pocket is waving around eratically. "Don't make me do this sheriff."

As often happens in these situations, several things occurred at once. Behind 'Bill', a grey form solidifies into existence with a clawed hand in striking position. Bill pitifully whimpers, "I didn't mean to kill her." And the bald black man, returning from the back with the jug of holandaise sauce, mutters "Not him again!" as his face begins to morph.

[Ulysses Bailey]

The driver side door of the sedan outside opens and a large man quickly steps out. Bailey's eyes dart quickly out the window, giving the man a subtle shake of his head.

Turning in on the stood and slowly rising from the it, Bailey calmly addresses the room in an irresistably yet subtle soothing tone, "Easy now, there's no need for violence. I'm sure no one here wants to hurt anyone." The various unnatural changes throughout the diner seem to pass over him, cool confidence and calming demeanor not even bretrayed by his lightning fast visual summation of the situation.

[kestrel404]

Everyone in the room freezes for a moment, calming at this man's suggestion. The black man's features finish changing, and though he is still dark skinned, he is easily recognizable as Glenn Roberts to anyone who has seen a picture of him. He stops looking confused as his features settle, and he takes on an air of preternatural calm.

The only other motion at that moment comes from within the haze obscuring the grey man. The man shakes his head hard, as if physically attempting to shake off Ulysses' manipulation, and replies "Don't be so sure" in a guttural growl.

He leaps over the surprised man holding the gun and the police officer towards Alchemist, who is acting just as fast to throw the jug of hollandaise sauce at the would-be assassin while diving backwards into the kitchen.

The faceless killer attempts to bat the flying jug out of the way, only to find that the container is no longer solid. In mid-leap, he and the liquid ball collide, and his entire upper body is covered in acid. He lands smoothly, but then cries out in pain and rage as his skin begins to burn away.

Flecks of acid rain down within the enclosed space, but do little more than corrode the chrome finish of the diner as the mysterious grey man took the full brunt of the attack on his chest and arm.

[Ulysses Bailey]

Rolling his eyes with a sigh, Bailey moves next to the sherrif, dividing his attention between the screaming assassin and the man with the gun, "Bill, it'd be best if you drop the gun, the sherrif has enough to do." The pistol clatters to the floor and a somewhat surprised look appears on Bill's face.

Meanwhile, the driver of the sedan rushes inside the diner with great alacrity, placing himself between Bailey and the writhing assassin, apparently waiting for the howling man to act.

[kestrel404]

An uncomprehending sheriff and waitress watch in growing disbelief as this nova battle ranges around them. The man who had suddenly appeared out of thin air looked to be half melted by whatever the new cook had thrown. The lawyer-type stranger was giving everyone orders (which were being followed, mostly), and a new guy was running in from outside.

Momentarily distracted by the newcomer, they missed the grey man becoming invisible once more, but they did notice when the door to the kitchen slammed shut behind him.

A half second of tense silence followed, and then a black-skinned Alchemist stumbled backwards through the back wall of the diner. He had obvious bloody gashes along his chest and arms. With an indignant and defiant cry from the Alchemist, the back wall went from red tile and chrome, to a viscous and opaque liquid, to a dull bluish-silver metal, all within the space of a second.

Clutching at his rent and bloodied arm, Alchemist stumbles around the end of the counter to where the rest of the people in the diner stood.

"Pleased to meet you, Mr. Bailey. I think we should leave before that thing finds the back door."

[Ulysses Bailey]

Bailey tips his head to Alchemist, "The pleasure's mine. And I agree, best to leave now."

As he walks out the door, he turns briefly to the stunned on lookers and speaks incredibly quickly, "I'd follow this man's advice and leave. Don't forget to read Bill his rights, sherrif, nor to provide him with counsel. And since it's not a crime for us citizens to flee danger, I'll be sure to send you the correct witness information if you apprehend that man." He practically shouts the last part back to the diner as he enters the sedan, slamming the door home while putting on his seatbelt. He turns to face Alchemist as the unnamed man acclerates the car in reverse, "For now, we'll focus on getting out of here. We can't talk business until we're alone anyways." He turns to the driver as the car lurches around 180 degrees, "Airport."

[kestrel404]

As he follows Bailey out the door, Alchemist yells over his shoulder (his voice slightly overrunning Ulysses' final statement), "Sorry about the wall, Marge. I'll pay you back when I get a chance."

In the car, Alchemist sits catching his breath. He removes his tattered shirt, and uses it to bandage his wounds.

"Ow. I haven't hurt this bad since I broke my leg in a motorcycle accident in high school. Do you think I can get on a plane without going to the hospital first? I won't die from these, but I will be bleading for a while."

[Ulysses Bailey]

"We might be able to stop," Bailey says while digging in the car, "but that risks us meeting your 'friend' from the diner." He pulls out a small case, opening it to reveal a number of medical supplies, "This ought to help for now. My associate is quite skilled in first aid and he can add some finesse once we stop. However, if you're truly concerned we can stop at the local hospital. The number of witnesses might serve as a small deterrent."

[kestrel404]

"Not necessary. If you don't mind losing the medical kit, I can make do with this."

Alchemist takes items from the kit and, carefully removing the torn strips of shirt, replaces them with sterile gauze and ointment. He finishes the bandaging with almost unnatural quickness and assurance, and then lays the taterred remains of his shirt on his lap.

Taking the remains of the medical gauze, he concentrates on the shirt, causing the fabric the re-weave with itself and the gauze, replacing missing material. He then puts the patched up shirt back on over the bandages, obscuring them but not hiding them completely.

"That should get me through an airport without too many questions, anyway. Thank you again for your help."

[Ulysses Bailey]

Bailey shrugs, "I'm your zealous advocate, hence it's all in a day's work. It's safe to infer that gray man back there is one of the people you were concerned about, yes?"

He takes out a small digital device, keying in a few commands before placing back in his suitcoat, "Assuming you don't want to go anywhere else, we're all set to get to Washington. From there, we have any number of options. We can file the suits we discussed and even made a public statement."

[kestrel404]

Alchemist nods in answer to both questions as he finishes his bandaging.

"I've seen that nova once before, hiding very effectively in the middle of a crowd where I accessed the opnet for the first time. I was using a wireless interface, so they only had a general position. Apparently, they never did figure out my alternate identity. I've been using the alias Uhuru Kenyatta to muddy the waters for anyone following me. I never used it in a legal or official capacity, so hopefully that won't complicate matters."

Alchemist finishes bandaging himself and then scans outside the windows. In the distance, he spots a small private airfield coming into view.

"So much for the airport security I was worried about. You chartered a private plain? Or are we catching a shuttle to somewhere?"

[Ulysses Bailey]

"Chartered. Getting out to such a remote location on such a short notice necessitated it."

The car turns down rough road to the tiny airport, finally stopping next to one of the low buildings at the edge of the tarmac. Bailey steps out of the sedan, taking the keys from the driver before approaching surprised and sweaty man leaving the building. The litigator hands the keys and a sum of cash to the man, "Sorry, Jack, I'm leaving a little sooner than expected. This should cover the rental and a fresh tank of gas."

Retrieving his briefcase from the driver, Bailey lets the driver lead him and Alchemist towards a small plane, "Once we're on the plane and in a private cabin, whatever we say will be covered by the client-attorney privilege. From there, I need to go over with you everything that happened. We need to determine if and which suits you want to file against Utopia. And we need to filter what information we can reveal publicly that will gather enough attention to you so it becomes cost-prohibitive to attack you but doesn't gather so much attention they have to eliminate you." He smiles, his honest and erudite face enhanced by the expression, "For what it's worth, my life is on the line with yours. Feels like some kind of movie of the week."

[kestrel404]

Ten Minutes Later

A rusty pickup truck comes to a stop outside the airport. Inside, a man in a tattered grey trench coat glares at a small plane quickly disappearing into the distance. Despite the distortion field obscuring his face, the twisted wreck that the steering wheel becomes clearly shows his displeasure with the situation.

The door to the truck opens and closes as another man enters. He has no distinguishing features, except for the green energy leaking out from behind his sunglasses.

"This was your second chance at him. We handed him to you on a silver platter. And now we can't touch him. If we shoot the plain down, there will be an inquiry and an uproar. After that, he'll be in Washington eff-ing DC. So, what do you have to say for yourself?" The newcomer doesn't bother looking at the grey man as he lights a cigar and begins smoking.

The grey man cringes at the sight of the new man, and sinks further into his seat as he speaks. He attempts an ingratiating tone of voice as he replies, "I have a plan, sir. We use his children. They were the reason he broke his silence in the first place."

The new man nods, blowing smoke in the grey man's face. "Not a bad idea. Thanks, we'll use that." With a careless gesture, he grabs the grey man. Green energy flows from his hand, coursing through grey's body. "Of course, you failed us twice. You left witnesses after blowing your cover. You tried to kill the wrong person, and failed. And worst of all, you wasted my time by forcing me to clean up after you. I'm afraid that I'm going to have to terminate your employment. That's OK. Plenty more where you came from."

As he leaves the car, the man with green energy flowing from his eyes sighs. Behind him, something not readily identifiable as a corpse is all that is left of the grey man. Looking after the plane as it continues towards the eastern horizon, he smiles a feral smile. "We're patient. Be seeing you, Alchemist."