RKMBs Forums .::Important::. Writer's Block The Ministry

Nobody would have thought it unusual for Jonathan Henry Draper to walk into his office at the precise time of 9:27 and 15 seconds, for the very simple reason that he always had, for as long as anyone had known him. Admittedly you couldn't have found anyone who'd known him for more than a few years. Indeed, it almost seemed like Mr. Draper had no history, or no childhood. This was technically inaccurate, in that Draper did have a history, but not as Jonathan Draper, Senior Official in The US Presidential Office. This was for the very simple reason that Mr. Jonathan Draper was an alien.

*********************************

"Finally! Jesus Goddamn Christ, how long does it take for you people to do your jobs?"

Richard Henshall, Assistant Director of The C.I.A, winced at Draper's language. Whilst Draper was effectively running the whole show (and that meant the whole show), Henshall suspected that this was more due to the fact that Draper's ebullience and charisma than to any real ability in the job.

"Be fair, sir. Dismantling The Justice Squadron wasn't exactly an easy job."

"I don't give a rat's ass about how easy or hard a goddamn job it was, Richie, I just wanted it done, you got that?"

Henshall hated being called Richie, which was why Draper called him it whenever there was a problem.

"It's been done, sir. All eight primary members of the Justice Squadron are powered down, and I've got Arens' men taking out the reserve members"

"Who the fuck is Arens? Oh yeah, Mossad guy"

"That's right, sir." and is it really too much to ask of you that you at least try to remember who working under you? though Henshall.

"So, let's see. How'dya do it?"

"What?"

"The Squadron, dumbass?"

"Oh, right. Sorry, I was thinking"

Henshall opened his briefcase, and handed Draper a big brown envelope

"Captain Justice was a tough one. Couldn't shoot him, couldn't wipe him, immune to all conventional poisons and diseases, and no way could we kill him in a straight fight"

"So? He's down, right?"

"Yeah. One of the boys in England passed us a super-powered form of Anthrax, called it Metanthrax. Did the job pretty good"

"He's dead?"

"Unfortunately not. But he's in a coma that shouldn't be wearing off any time soon"

"Good Jesus damnit, you actually do know how to do your job! What about the others?"

"Well, Dusk and Bluestreak were simple enough, bullet jobs both of 'em. The Starqueen was difficult to start off with, but Jackie over at Brisbon lured her over there, wiped her and turned her into a pregnant housewife living out of Wagga Wagga..."

"Who in God's name thought Wagga Wagga was a good name for a town?"

"Don't ask me, I'm States-based"

"I know that, ya dumb shmuck!"

Henshall grimaced. One day he thought I'm gonna kill you, you two-bit piece of crap

"We bagged Mr. and Mrs. Supernova in a car crash. Knocked them out, wiped them and moved them to Canada. Last I heard, they were devorcing on grounds of serial adultery"

Draper laughed, as Henshall knew he would. The Supernova's had been famed for their dedication to each other.

"What about that weird Doctor guy? The one who was in The White House"

"That would be Doctor Darke. He's not a threat any longer, we managed to bag him up with a bad case of Amnesia. Pierre over in France is gonna pick him up and put him somewhere out of the way where he's no trouble. As for his daughter, Diana? Wait 'til you get home"

Draper's grin widened. Henshall sighed: Draper would not be pleased when he'd finished.

"Unfortunately, there's bad news too. Head Office just sent me an urgent signal. SHE's turned up on Earth"

"Why in all nine levels of Hell didn't you tell me earlier, you dumb sonuva she-devil?"

"Wanted to give you the good news first. According to Head Office, she managed to make it to earth before they could stop her. She's probably gone to ground somewhere we haven't managed to get inside"

"Are there any of those left?"

"Amnesty International, Greenpeace, stuff like that. If she's managed to get to England she might join up with Humphrey Abbleby, then we'd really have a headache"

"Humphrey who?"

"Cabinet Secretary to the PM. He's managed to block our campaign in England. Man seems to thrive on Inertia"

"Okay, right. Well, keep me informed. Dismissed"

Henshall nodded, and turned to leave. At the door, he turned back to Draper

"By the way, sir? Head Office are saying that if you let her mess this up they're gonna send Big Black round to...remove you from office"

Henshall turned and left, chuckling as he recalled the sight of the colour draining from Draper's face.

The week had not been going well for John Argent.

On Monday, he woke up and found a silvery substance in his stool samples after using the toilet. This was followed by a similar silvery substance in his urethral discharge. At this point John began to panic and went immediately to the clinic to be checked out. He called in sick to work and was subjected to a few tests, and then he was sent home.

On Tuesday, he woke to find his pillow covered in silvery drool. Washing his face, he found silver around the corners of his eyes. He began to weep silver tears at that point. Of course he called in sick once again. Later that day the clinic called him and told him that, although he appeared to have the symptoms of argyria and some strange, previously-unseen form of gonorrhea, they told him that he had to send his blood samples away to a special lab for testing, and that he should come in for more tests. He was also asked if his work involved toxic chemicals. "I'm just a copyeditor for a small publishing firm," John replied. He spent a few more hours at the clinic.

On Wednesday, John called work to say that he could not come in to work due to illness, but the publisher Mr. Sterling interrupted the call and told John that the firm was in danger of missing this month's deadline due to his absence, and that he would lose his job if he did not show up for work that day despite John's pleas to the contrary. John went to work but had to go back home after excreting silver onto a computer keyboard and subsequently causing a power outage that forced the people in layouts to start all over. Mr. Sterling was upset but told John that he needed to take a "leave of absence" until his health became better. The copyeditor knew that was Sterling-speak for "You're fired, John."

On Thursday, after an all-night search through his messy apartment for a small piece of paper with a telephone number on it, John attempted to call Claire without success. Claire had no answering service, either, so he could not leave a message. Since the silvery excretions seemed to have stopped for the moment, he spent the rest of the day feeling completely haggard and exhausted at the Irish Setter Pub with the hopes of finding Claire there and finding the answers he needed. Not only did he not find the woman, but he also noticed his skin beginning to turn the color of gray. At this point he decided to go home to sleep on it.

On Friday, John awoke briefly sometime before dawn and saw Claire standing naked over him. He opened his mouth to speak but was unable to move his mouth, let alone the rest of his body. He felt completely paralyzed and could only listen to what Claire had to say to him shortly before he drifted back to sleep. He awoke later that morning when the telephone rang. It was the clinic. They had done several more tests and told him that he needed to come for another visit at five o'clock that afternoon. John found this strange, since the clinic closed at four-thirty, but he decided to go to the appointment nevertheless. He figured that the doctor was going to tell him that he was dying. That would have made some sort of sense. He had a terminal disease of a kind that had not yet been discovered. Perhaps he would gain a minor note of celebrity in medical journals. His affliction might even be given the name of "Argent's Disease."

It was in this morbid frame of mind that John Argent faced his trip to the clinic later that day. The fact that his skin had rapidly become grayer overnight did not bother him that much any more. He had a terminal disease; these kinds of things happened to people who had terminal diseases, didn't they?

At four o'clock that afternoon John had a shower and wore black clothing for his appointment. He figured that he might as well begin mourning for his untimely death at the age of 38 now; after all, no one else could be bothered doing so. Certainly not his ex-wife, Janice, or the seven-foot-tall black man she was currently shacked up with. John's gray skin went well with black, anyway. For the occasion John also picked up an old fedora and a pair of black leather driving gloves to shade the effects of his disease somewhat. At a quarter to five he drove to the clinic.

At the medical clinic John attempted to open the doors but found them locked. Martha, the secretary, tried to ignore him at first but finally walked up to the glass doors to tell him that they were closed for the day and that he could come back in the morning. John replied, in his most sincere voice, that he was there for a special appointment about his "condition." Martha seemed puzzled but finally let him in and buzzed the doctor's office.

John soon walked down a short hallway to an examination room and waited for the inevitable pronouncement of his doom. He began to think of all the wasted years he had spent in the publishing industry, of all the wasted years in his so-called "marriage." He had become a copyeditor with the hopes that he could become a published writer on the side, but he found that he possessed little talent and even less originality, and he received rejection letter after rejection letter.

His meagre copyeditor's salary was barely enough to pay the bills, and Janice slowly began to lose what little respect for him that she had left. She was making more money than he was as a legal secretary, anyway. After a while they never made love anymore, which was just as well. Two years ago Janice told John in a flat voice that she was leaving him for a tall, athletic black football player who could actually satisfy her in bed. John had nothing to say to that; her reasoning actually made logical sense to him. By that time, anyway, he had lost all feeling for her. He had not been with anyone since Janice, with the notable exception of Claire just that one time three weeks earlier, when he was drunk.

He had also lost all ambition of becoming a writer and focused on his copyediting. It was sometimes hard to find work in the field, but he managed to do so but undercutting other copyeditor's rates and was employed that way. The low pay was not the worst part of it, though: his employers treated him with very little respect. He had been bought cheap and was treated cheaply in kind.

The realization that a terminal disease would now cap off what had been a rather uninspiring and pathetic life seemed strangely fitting to John Argent.

As the door opened John straightened up and wore his best "disinterested, yet concerned" expression on his face in anticipation of his doctor and the dreaded but expected news that he would receive.

The last thing John Argent had expected was to see two masked men dressed completely in black fatigues burst through the door and seize him by his arms, then inject him with something before dragging him out of the room towards the back of the clinic to an unknown destination. But that was precisely what happened.

Night. A cold night in Bologna, Italy. Cold winds from Siberia blows over the Po Plain, lowering the temperature under -10°.

A man, in the warm comfort of his small flat, gives a distracted look outside the window, and return to concentrate over his work. His face his lit by a monitor screen, the right hand moves over a graphic tablet, holding firmly, too firmly to give a real good stroke, a graphic pen.

The man is Edulcore Cicciotto, author of "Arriva Eurostar" the only superhero title in the comics line of Bonelli editirce, the Italian prominent comics publisher.

The title main character, a man gifted with supervelocity, takes his name from a class of fast train in Europe, the Eurostar, exactly. Coincidentally Eurostar is also the nickname by which the colleagues of Cicciotto call him; but they gave him that not for his successful character, no. But for the quite less honourable reason that he is ALWAYS late with his deadline; and lateness, sadly, is the main feature of Italian trains.

Cicciotto keeps saying to himself (and to his boss) that it's his painstakingly crafted work, full of details, of telling facial expressions, of vibrant colours, that requires much more work than the average stile of his colleagues, heavy on bold shadows that occupies much than half of the page; he would never admit that what really keeps him always behind is all the time he spends learning useless fact... searching the internet for hours, following though lines suggested by a word heard at the bar in morning while sipping his coffee, or read on a newspaper ad or a billboard.

It's what forage my fantasy, he would tell you if you had the bad taste to tell him what you really think is the reason for his usual lateness; he would never admit that nothing he spends most of his time upon find a way into his pages. But, that is his drug. Its only one, and he is pretty sure it is a harmless behaviour, so he will never try to use his time less spontaneously.

But being always late in depicting the adventures of a speedster it's not the real irony of his life; there is much more.

Because Cicciotto hide, behind his nerdish appearence, a big secret: he is indeed a true Eurostar. Since he was out of adolescence, he started to develop THE power.

Supervelocity.

Like a reward for all had endured before. The fat boy that was always the last at the cross country trials at school. Ciccio, fatty, Cicciotto. First sex at 23 years of age.

It was a reward from heaven.

Cicciotto was smart enough to keep it a secret. An handy secret to use in small, unobtrusive way to make him looking much more smart, and sexier, and friendly, and handsome, and all any thing was not before.

He knew, finally, how to stay among the other people.

But supervelocity is not a a panacea. You can do many things faster, a lot faster, but not all. You can't read faster. Letters on the page blurs and become incomprehensible shadows. You can't draw faster. The pencil always run short of graphite, or simply broke up. Or it's the paper that tears away. The computer remains behind, or simply freeze whenever you try to be faster than normal.

Edulcore was smart and mature enough to accept the gift for what it was. Useful and really a turning point of his life. But working was not going to change. Sure, he could have sold himself to research institutes or media group or the military... but Edulcore was loving his existence... and wanted just to improve it.

Fifteen years later he was happy. He was one of the most talented comics artist in his country, had a good social life, could indulge himself into his time consuming hobby of hunter of useless trivia.

So, Edulcore "Eurostar" Cicciotto was sitting by his computer working late, well into the night, trying to make up with the work due the following day, the first flakes of snow breaking over the frozen glass of the windows, when the doorbell ringed.

Puzzled, Edulcore went to the door, his mind wondering if it was the old lone man from the opposite flat that could need help, or what else.

It were two men in black. Ed had not yet opened the door completely that a cloud of soporific gas engulfed him, and all went dark and cold.

Paulo "The Fist" Sabatini was out of breath.
His fat body heaved after running up the stairs to the top floor of the cheap hotel where he sought refugee from the ones who hunted him.
His face was wet with sweat and his pulse felt like a steam powered piston, hammering away with a noise that must have awakened all the sleeping residents.

He prayed that they had missed him when he slipped into the back entrance, but his experience told him otherwise. They would find him...they would hunt him down like a dog and... No!!! He needed to regain his calm. Just a few more minutes of rest and he would be fresh again. Then maybe...maybe he would dare to move and slip away into the night...

Using his childhood skills in cracking locks he managed to open a door with the sign, "Elevator Room, Keep Out". When he peered inside he saw that it was empty except for the machinery that kept the old elevator and apparently most of the electricity working throughout the whole hotel.

He closed the door ever so carefully so no noise could be heard and then sat down and for the first time in an hour he let himself breathe normally.
Filling his gasping lungs that felt like they were on fire, he made a promise to himself to start running and keep a strict excercise program...if he would survive the night...

For a long time the only noises that could be heard were the cars outside, and the pattering of small feet, mostly birds, but a few rats as well.

He managed to relax and rummaged through his pockets.
Where was that Snickers bar?
Ah....nice yummy chocolate goodness.

The explosion sent the door straight into his face, forcing his hand to push the Snickers and a few knuckles down into his throat.
Deaf and blind from the shock he managed to grab his gun with his left hand, but it was quickly kicked out of his hand...and the last thing he saw was the dark sole of a combat boot heading towards his face.

**

"This is Crasher 3 to Crasher 1. I´ve found the target, and he´s under control. orders? Over."

The red light from a pair of night goggles shone down on the mashed face of Paulo, who apparently now suffered from a serious concussion and a broken nose.
His fist was still stuck inside his mouth.

Blond flowing hair revealed his assailant to be a woman. She wore a black leather suit with a utility belt and a backpack. And in her hands she held two customized Glock 22 guns.

"Crasher 1 to Crasher 3. Our contract says termination with visual proof. So don´t forget a nice closeup mug shot after the kill. Confirm. Over."

"Orders confirmed. Crasher 3 over and out."

She quickly fired a bullet sideways into the eyesocket to ensure a kill and then opened one of the small pockets of her utility belt. The tiny but efficient Casio S600 camera with a good flash was perfect for enclosed spaces like this.

With the picture taken she quickly ran downstairs and mounted a Honda XR650R offroad model. Painted with a nice deep red.
She roared off into the rainy night, using the smaller streets to avoid any eventual police or trafficjams.

As she reached a small footballfield at the edge of town she activated her com again.

"Crasher 3 to Crasher 1. E site reached. Where is my transport? Over?"

The only reply was static.

"Crasher 3 to Crasher 1. E site reached. Where is my transport? Over?"

More static.
Something was seriously wrong. Crasher 1 was never late during pickups.

"Crasher 3 to Crasher 2 over."

After a few endless seconds a yawning voice replied;

"This is Crasher 2...what the hell are you doing Crasher 3? You know I´m asleep. I have a early morning tomorr..."

"Nevermind that. We seem to have an emergency on our hands. Crasher 1 didn´t arrive to pick me up. She may have run into some difficulty. Over"

"What? She never misses a pickup. I´ll try to contact her. Go to E site 2 while I try to figure out what´s happened. Over"

"Heading towards E site 2. Crasher 3 over and out."

What the hell had just happened?
Her thoughts went through all possible scenarios while she drove through the night.

**

Crasher 1´s unconcious body was carried by two men in nice black suits, and then loaded into a dark van that had no markings and no license plates.

One of them spoke into a hidden microphone;

"Subject found and contained. We´re on our way back to base. Over and out."

The dark suited men entered the van and drove off into the night...in the exact opposite direction of Crasher 3´s heading.

The Earth looked beautiful this high up.

It was a lie.

Halfway between between where a helicarrier and and a satellite might sit, Rocketstar One orbited the world below. From its glassteel ceiling, the twinkling lights of the stars were visible. From its glassteel floor, the twinkling lights of industrial man were visible. Tonight, it was the second that worried John Hitchens.

"Whatever's going on down there is big, and it has black-ops written all over it."

"Can't you ask your friends in DC about it?

Michael Hitchens walked onto the bridge, adjusted the glasses on his nose. He saw how intently his elderly father stared at the readouts on the computer screens. With a scowl, the older man pushed his wheelchair back and rolled to a seperate console, pulling up another chart.

"Not with my past. Almost the whole Squadron's gone missing of late. Missing in the worst way. An old Mystery Man like me pipes up, I get paid the type of visit I don't much care for."

"You said almost the whole Squadron."

"She's still out there. If they go after me, I need you to find her and find out what happened.

"How do I..."

John Hitchens pressed a series of keys on the console and a silver panel slid away on the wall. A familiar costume not seen in forty years was revealed, all leather jacket and polished steel capsule.

"There are still friendly faces in London, even in Washington turns hostile. And if even they won't make time to see the son of John Hitchens, they'll make time to see a new Rocketman."

Suddenly, the com-link buzzed into life. Michael Hitchens looked across as his dad pushed buttons.

"What was that?"

"No idea. Whoever they are, they're trying to contact us. I'll patch them through"

John pressed a few buttons, and a face appeared on the monitor screen. He was bald, with a distinct five o'clock shadow and mirrored shades that hid his eyes, whilst the lower half of his face was hidden by a harlequin-coloured bandana. John Hitchens leaned back in his wheelchair, whistling.

"So, There's a new Jester in town is there?"

"There'll always be a Jester, Rocketman. Last time I checked, they've numbered into the three thousands"

"That many, huh? What d'you want?"

"Justice Squadron's gone. Not only that, somebody's been abducting various people from all over the world. Next thing I know, somebody called Appleby calls me out of the blue, invites me to some meeting. I'm not taking any chances, thought I'd invite back-up"

"And I'm the best there is?"

"The best who's number I've got. Get your ass down here"

"I'm too old. I'm sending the boy"

The Jester nodded, and his visage vanished from the screen. Michael Hitchens looked at his father

"Who was that?"

"The Jester. Knew the guy when I was helping The Justice Squadron back in the day, or somebody exactly like that"

"What did he mean 'There'll always be a Jester'?"

"Exactly that. Every time a Jester dies, somebody else takes up the mantle. They're always the same kinda guy though, which basically makes them the same person. Dedicated to what they see as justice, never kill but will do anything else to a bad guy, don't seem to have super powers but always have the same sword, an old broadsword that should take two men to lift. Be careful around him, son: The Jester can be trusted, but he's a bastard at heart"

"I'm not sure I can do this, Dad," Michael said as he looked as looked at the suit in the cabinet, "I'm an engineer, not a hero."

"Neither was I, son. And you'd be amazed how few mystery men know how to field-repair their toys. Piloting a jetpack takes a few days to master. Building one that can evade radar and hook up to remote boosters takes years of study. And you're better at the tech end then I ever was -- I was just a jet jockey with a space fixation."

As John Hitchens finished talking, Michael sighed and put on the suit. First came a close-fitting pilot suit, minorly armored and thermally-controlled. Above that went a jumpsuit fitted with ceramic bases and a series of pouches. Onto the bases screwed and snapped two sets of secondary rocket boosters. Over the pilot suit's feet slipped a set of solid leather boots, inlaid in the sole with two small discs -- emergency boosters. Finally, came the the classic elements. A vintage 1950's US Army Air Force bomber jacket, a close-set metal helm (updated with a HUD hidden in the amber lenses), and a vacuum-steel capsule on the back -- the main rocket booster pack.

"You'll do fine son. You've flown it before."

"Flying it on a ground range is one thing. Dropping off the Rocketstar into low orbit and flying halfway around the Earth is something else entirely."

"Just go rendevous with the Jester, Rocketman. I'll try and track down what's been happening from here."

Attaching a final element -- a gun belt -- to his waist, Michael Hitchens smiled at his father and walked to the open panel on the floor and dropped out. A few moments later, the flare of his retrorockets were visible from the Rocketstar, then he was gone.

"Well. You've been patient," John Hitchens quipped as he spun his wheelchair around and looked at the figure standing in the shadows, "afraid to face a crippled old man until his backup's gone?"

...

Fourteen seconds later, Rocketstar One exploded. Seimic sensors as far away as Bangalore picked up the blast. No bodies were found in the wreckage...