Mental Melee: All's Fair in Brain and War (CrackFic) (Massive MultiCross)

[FourmyleCircus]

Article:

Archeological Dig Makes Startling Discovery!
Archeologists from the Massachusetts Institute of Technology have found a strange metal orb of unknown manufacture, studded with red gemstones. Carbon dating of the artifact has placed its age as somewhere between five and seven centuries. The startling fact is not that it matches no known construction technique, but rather it seems to have some internal power source, and from reports of the scientists studying it, it seems to have internal structures in common with both the human brain and the still largely experimental 5D Information Storage Crystals pioneered by the University of Southampton.
Researchers from MIT's Neurology department have been called in to consult.

-_-_-

In New York City, Lamont Cranston turned off the radio with a sigh. "Boston. Why did it have to be Boston?"

-_-_-

A pale, elegant woman clad in white furs strode into the Headmaster's office of a private school in West Salem, New York. "I assume you've read the news, or someone who has. Are you up for a day-trip, Professor?"

The bald man wheeled himself from behind his desk. "Why Miss Frost, I believe I am."

-_-_-

A tall, thin man with aristocratic features and dark eyes exited the boat in Boston Harbor, carrying a wicker basket with a hinged lid under his arm. The Basket growled occasionally as it was jostled. "I understand your discomfort, Apollyon. We shall get you a saucer of cream soon. It shan't be long before we reach our lodgings."

-_-_-

In England, Prime Minister Harold Saxon set down his daily newspaper. "Huh. I thought I left that in Cardiff. I suppose I should book a flight to retrieve it; wouldn't do to let the late fees pile up, The Library can be quite strict."

-_-_-
The tuxedoed consultant placed his hat back on his head, ignoring the slight sheen of sweat forming on his face. "Well, Professors, I can quite confidently state that this artifact is not of Atlantean, Lemurian, or Cockaignian origin. It also does not have a single trace of magic. That said, I do recommend you keep it quite secure. What little information I could glean from it was quite... bracing."

Professor Venkman frowned. "Aww man. I thought you finger-flickers, no offense, loved crystals. I thought for sure I'd be able to finagle a transfer out of this. Can I at least catch a ride back to New York with you? I hate taking the train."

Mandrake chuckled as he tapped the sphere with the tip of his cane, highlighting the speaker-grill like mesh. "None taken. Crystals, yes. Speakers, not so much. Quartz, I'm afraid, is more useful for you technologists than we 'finger flickers'. It is with great sorrow that I must inform you, Peter, that you're going to have to brave public transportation like everyone else. I intend to stay here in Cambridge for a few days in case any of my fellows show up to take a peek. Do give the rest of the S.S.D. my regards when you get back."

He paused, a wry grin lifting his pencil mustache. His gloved left hand raised, fingers contorted in an odd gesture and held taut, like a bow about to loose an arrow through the other man's mind. "Though, I could away make your trip more enjoyable, a little suggestion, a private fantasy to last you the four hours it'll take you to get home. You can even make believe you're in my limo, eating my caviar. Again."

Peter shuddered and stepped away, raising his hands in surrender. "No thanks. Last time you did something like that I woke up with four empty cans of E-Z Cheeze, an empty two-liter of Not C Cola, and a live duck on my head."

The large African man wearing a leopard-print polo-shirt looked up from his crossword in the corner. "Where did you get the duck?"

Peter Venkman shrugged, collecting his stuff. "Not a clue. Memory's been a little spotty since that time I went golfing in the rain. Got a cool scar out of it though."

Mandrake chuckled, stepping toward the door. "Come on Lothar, we have a hotel to book."

Lothar closed his book and slid the pencil behind his ear. They strode the halls of MIT in silence, speaking only when they reached the parking space they'd left the antique limousine in. "How bad is it, my friend?"

The magician tossed his cane into the back seat with with a look of tiredness. "I'm going to have to call Narda and inform her that we won't be home for at least a week, maybe more. It tried to break into my mind while I was examining it and it very nearly succeeded. In fact, I came up with no less than four improvements to my technique while examining it. From what I can tell, it was designed to store minds. I believe it could safely contain the population of London. I'd rather not leave it in the Institute's hands, but mine are unfortunately tied. If it were magic, I would have some jurisdiction, but I believe it to be extra-terrestrial."

Lothar nodded grimly, sliding into the driver's seat. "Should I call the football player?"

A gloved hand waved him off before the owner slid into the backseat and closed the door. "No, I doubt he or Dr. Zarkon will be of any use. It's not nearly gaudy enough to have origins on Mongo. I'd call the Shambalyan Consulate, but I'm certain one of their Paladins is already on their way. Likely Lamont."

-_-_-

The thin man with the dark eyes set the wicker picnic basket on the front desk. With a quiet coo, he coaxed out the contents. Finally free of his confines, the massive black cat leaped from the basket to his master's shoulder. It simply felt right to have Apollyon resting there, and soothed both man and beast. The cat stared at the desk clerk, silently demanding. His owner simply chuckled and stroked his back before turning his attention on the unfortunate clerk as well. "There should be a reservation for me under Nikola? As well as a standing order with room-service. I would like it delivered as soon as possible, my dear angel of the abyss finds boat travel rather distressing and it wouldn't do for him to get testy."

Whether it was the man's gaze or the cat's that made the clerk tremble was immaterial, but the key was retrieved with such alacrity that one would be forgiven for thinking he already had it in hand. "Of course sir, will you be needing a litter box as well?"

"Thankfully not, Apollyon is toilet trained." Dr. Nikola took the key from the clerk, dropped two large gold coins on the counter, and made his way through the halls. It was a stately old building, built in the nineteen twenties and then simply forgotten about until it was purchased by a firm known for their discretion and unusual clientele. Nikola himself rarely indulged in their services, but as there was more than personal fortune at stake he thought the caution worth it.

"I didn't expect to see you here, Doctor. Are you here for the 'conference', or just to watch the fireworks?" Asked a melodious, refined voice from around the corner. It's owner was a stately man of fifty one summers, wearing a garish cream suit that Dr. Nikola would never be caught dead in, the straw hat only made it worse.

"I suspect I am here for the same reason as you, Count. I had thought you in Florence with your... wife?" Even if the Count had a few odious habits, it never hurt to be polite. Proper decorum was the foundation of civilization at all, and a count was not to be disrespected no matter his diet. Apollyon affixed the Count with a feline glare, his bright eyes tracing the man's body as if looking for the best spot to sink his claws in to chastise the interloper for keeping him from his din-din.

"Ah, yes. The Countess is still in Italy, she's less interested in these matters I'm afraid. Well, should you have any experimental subjects you need to dispose of, I'm in Room 237. I'll gladly take them off your hands, I'm getting quite tired of meatloaf." The Count smoothed out his black hair, palm catching quite a bit of bald spot. It was as though he was a reptile poorly imitating human behavior, as though he knew that humans performed the gesture, and knew why, but lacked those instincts himself. Never once did the man blink, even when Apollyon decided to engage in the staring contest.

"I'm afraid I have little for a refined palate such as yours. I ceased those experiments years ago, X-Rays and fMRIs have made them quite obsolete; to continue with my old methods would be cruelty for cruelty's sake as there is little left to learn that way." Both men were dancing around the subject like Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers on a marble staircase, and they knew it. Dr. Nikola was certain the Count was simply doing it for his own amusement. "Regardless, I imagine we will learn much of the human mind in the coming days, if we are both in town."

"A pity. It is far, far more than just us, dear Doctor, an associate from Maine has shown up. A neuroscientist and chemist, I believe. I never much kept up with the pharmaceutical side of things, but he has made quite interesting strides. I believe he'd produced a cure for panic attacks quite by accident. Well, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to head to the lounge." And with that, the ordinarily refined Count broke off his little contest with the cat and wandered deeper into the hotel, humming Hot Patootie. Were it not for his acquaintance with the Count's sense of humor, Nikola would be surprised at the choice. The Count always preferred Wagner to showtunes, but the Meatloaf reference was a touch heavy handed. Perhaps Clarice had gotten him into more modern theatre.

He kept his thoughts to himself until he was safely within his reserved room, a saucer on the mantlepiece of the gas fireplace as requested. He stopped only to let his passenger step onto it before retrieving the bottle of fresh cream from the mini-fridge and pouring it for his pride and joy. "It seems, my little angel, that Doctors Lector and Crane are both in attendance. I'd have thanked him for the warning, but I fear he would have invited us over for dinner and his table manners have always been... Lacking for a man of his standing."

Funerary cannibalism was one thing, but Dr. Nikola was in no hurry to watch Count Lector engage in recreational anthropophagy. It was simply uncivilized.

---

Frankly, I only have the barest idea of who all's going to show up and what's going to happen. Aside from layers of mind games as everyone attempts to get their hands on the sphere for their own reasons. I'd say literally anyone could show up, but I'm afraid even I don't know every fictional character, despite what others might claim.

No Beta, I'm flying by the seat of my pants. At best my associates are getting sniplets that amuse me. So any corrections are gladly accepted.

 

[FourmyleCircus]

If there was anything Zebediah Kilgrave liked about living in New York City, it was that there was always somebody stranger than you. It didn't matter if you were a Chinese Elvis Impersonator who speaks like Mickey Mouse or, in his case, a five-foot-eleven man in a business suit who happened to have the skin of a plum and the eyes to match. He didn't even have to tell people to ignore him! They just did it on their own!

Admittedly, he'd just moved back from San Francisco where people were about as accepting. He'd heard good things about Portland, Maine as well. Though Gotham, Maine sounded like a good place to get stabbed in the neck.

However, he was currently on his way to Boston in a borrowed sports car. He'd say stolen but he borrowed the driver as well. If he was going to have to put up with the hell that was a city full of Massholes, he was going to have some entertainment as well.

He turned to the blonde driving and flashed a winning smile. "What did you say your name was again, honey?"

She reached adjusted the mirror, noting the old yellow cab that had decided to follow them onto the I-95. "Margo Lane."

Lane. He knew that name. "Any relation to that reporter? What was her name..."

"Lois? She's my little sister. Oldest of four girls. Most people don't put that together, we're all so different. Me, Kandikane, mom was on the good drugs, Lois, and Lucy."

Zebediah froze in his seat and briefly considered simply getting out of the car and hitchhiking. But it'd be fine, right? Even if a giant, body-building boy scout who wears underwear over his tights swooped down, he had a hostage. "Are you close?"

"Not really, Lucy and Lois are, but only Kandi really approves of my so-called frivolous lifestyle. But if you've got it, flaunt it, right? Do you mind if I put the top down, it's such a nice day." The yellow cab had receded a bit, but she could see it was still following her. She could also tell that the purple man in her passenger seat hadn't noticed.

"No no, go ahead." He froze for just a second, as his mind caught up with his words. Why had he said that? Confined spaces were the best for his pheromones, the wind would wash everything away. And yet... "Do you have any trackers in the car or on your person, implanted microchips or anything?"

Margo laughed as she slowed down to drop the top, if she'd done it as speed it might have ripped right off. The windows rolled down too, seemingly automatically. "Oh no. Nothing like that, Dad always wanted me to, but I value my privacy too much. The closest I have is my cellphone in the glove compartment, and you asked me to turn that off. Nothing technological or mystical."

It was only now that Zebediah Kilgrave noticed the yellow 1936 Cord 810 Westchester Stretched Taxi that had gained on them, pulling up beside them. She leaned back as it started to over-take them. Something silver glinted from the window of the passenger side of the rear of the cab.

"I am, however, a teleceiver, and my boyfriend is a telepath."

A single shot rang out. Kilgrave knew no more.

She pulled onto the shoulder and dumped his body in the ditch. The yellow cab pulled to a stop in front of her and both the driver and the passenger came over to help, carrying supplies to clean her seats. She smiled to the man in the slouch hat and bandana. "Thanks Lamont. I thought I was going to have to smell the bastard all the way to Boston."

"Not a problem. You didn't get any grape jelly on you, did you?"

She laughed. "Not a drop. Your aim was perfect. I'm going to head home and get a shower, you wouldn't believe the things he was thinking about doing to me."

For once, The Shadow winced. "Oh, trust me. I know too well."

-_-_-

Charles Xavier tried not to resent the fact that were not, in fact, taking the Blackbird as this was more of a personal mission. Instead, he was buckled to his chair which was in turn buckled into the same van they used smuggle abused mutants out of less tolerant cities. It wasn't even that Emma was getting to treat him like a student, it was that he didn't really have a good view or anything to do. They were going out in public, so he was in his more stripped down one; it didn't even have a computer built into the arm rest.

"Oh grow up Charles. Read a writer, or something." Emma said, not taking her eyes from the road.

"You're getting better, I didn't notice your intrusion. I, however, do not share your hobby of reading books as they're written." He glanced toward the rear view mirror, only to see her meet his eyes.

"I didn't peek, you're pouting." She said, smirking at him. "Not all of us are as strong as yourself, Professor. We have to pick up actual people skills. So, you think the sphere is of Shi'ar make?"

He sighed and reached out to the telepathic network to see if there was anything new on the situation in Boston. "It is unlikely, but it's clearly telepathic technology of some kind. I only hope... That's interesting."

She pulled the van to the shoulder, so she could turn to look at him without getting ticketed for distracted driving. He'd never let her hear the end of it if she got a ticket, or heaven forbid, talked a cop out of giving her one. "What's interesting?"

"Kilgrave just died. Apparently he, too, was on his way to Boston and decided to carjack the significant other of a Shambalyan Paladin. They're putting out word mostly so someone can 'conveniently' find the body in a few hours." He placed his hand against his temple again, checking for any more gossip that might be of use.

Emma couldn't help but smile. "Good, remind me to buy a present for whoever popped the Grapist."

He couldn't help but frown. "Miss Frost! A man is dead, a terrible man, yes, but there is always hope of redemption. You should know that better than anyone."

She was glad she was stopped, she nearly doubled over laughing. "Charles. It was Kilgrave. The only hope of redemption he had was you or I wiping his mind and making him think he was a seven year old girl named Little Suzie. He had his chance, multiple times, and blew it every time. I'm just surprised it was a Paladin and not a biker-chick with a head cold! Or Doom. Apparently he tried to control Victor once."

That brought Professor Xavier up short. "Actually Victor? Not a Doom-bot?"

She nodded, still chuckling. "Actually Victor. He took off the helmet and mask and everything, walked into a confined room that Kilgrave had been stuck in for a few hours and even sniffed him. Rumor has it, he damn near wet himself when Victor laughed off his words. He gave out tapes of the security footage as a stocking stuffer a few years back, I'll send you a copy when I get home. If Doom can't scare you straight, nothing can. Is that all, or can I get back on the road?"

It still left a bad taste in his mouth, but he nodded. "Go ahead Emma. I'll find something to amuse myself."

-_-_-

An old German man with fly-away hair sat at the back of 340 Faneuil Hall Marketplace in Downtown Boston. Durgin-Park, the restaurant that occupied this location, was famous for its surly wait-staff and traditional décor. His name, should someone ask, was Hugo Balling and he wore the most unusual sunglasses imported from Tsi-Nan-Fu in China. They had rectangular, smoky quartz lenses and caught the light in the most distracting way. Something that his tablemates found out as he engaged them in a little wager over a solo game of German Schafkopf for who would pay for the meal, himself playing the lone hand as the expert. None recognized The Player for whom he was, even when he distracted himself with his boiled dinner.

Hugo Balling was a man with a thousand-and-one lives, as many eyes, and perhaps twice as many names. Right now, he was enjoying his cabbage; and taking everyone else's. The chaos and history of the restaurant soothed him. It was almost as shame that it would burn with the rest of the city when he finally got what he wanted.

Almost.

Right now, however, he had a game to play, and a role to act. He was happy.

Very soon, no one else would be.

---

Making Margo Lane Lois's sister isn't my idea, but rather a reference to Philip José Farmer's Wold Newton family where, yes, they're sisters. Kandikane Lane from Dick Tracy is a more recent addition. I didn't pull that out of my ass, Philip Jose Farmer did, along with Mike Curtis.

A Teleceiver, also called a Receptive Telepath, is more or less a telepath whose ability to receive communication far outstrips their ability to transmit. Margo Lane in the 1994 movie is one such example, being able to hear anyone thinking too loudly and see through telepathic control to an extent. The concept comes from The Stars My Destination by Alfred Bester, to the best of my knowledge. In the radio show, The Shadow was shown to be able to receive messages from half the state away if they were transmitted correctly, so even if her signal might have been weak, he's no slouch either.

Basically, Margo mind-whammied Kilgrave right back, just a hell of a lot more subtly. Just enough to let her get the windows and top down to line up the shot for Lamont.

And yes, Emma liking to read the minds of writers and editors in order to read the first draft before anyone else is also canon, it's brought up in the 1997 Generation X novel by Scott Lobdell and Elliot S. Maggin.

"Solo" Schafkopf is still a four-player game, it's just that one person doesn't have a partner while the other three team up on them. Very "Man against the world" and quite difficult to win as a Solo player.

 

[FourmyleCircus]

The Lennox Hotel was a storied building, perhaps not as much as the Fairmont Copley Plaza or the Omni Parker House, but Mandrake found the quiet luxury far more soothing. Fewer ghosts, as well. The Whiskey Salesman of room 303 was a pest that he never fully managed to exorcise from the Omni Parker, merely confine to the closet. He'd also performed far too many times at the Fairmount Copley's Oak Room to really escape from work there.

No, the Lennox was his hotel of choice when he was forced to stay in Boston. The black clad porters strode across the marble floors to accept his and Lothar's luggage while he obtained neighboring rooms. Lothar himself was off making conversation with Jimmy, the fire-place attendant who kept the lobby a comfortable temperature no matter the time of year. Old Jimmy was as much a fixture of place as the roaring home-fire itself, and some joked he had been installed with it.

Of course, Jimmy had been in attendance only a scant sixty years, but his old eyes were as sharp as ever. With his post in the lobby, he saw and heard all, as though he were the Genius Loci of the building itself. Perhaps in some way he was, and when he regrettably passed the fireplace would undoubtedly remember him, just as an old chair was molded by everyone who had sat in it.

Once the worldly concerns of paltry currency were dealt with, the pair escorted to their rooms, Mandrake made himself comfortable for what was to come. Only a quarter of the rooms had their own fireplace, and he'd chosen wisely. The comfortable, though a touch overstuffed, leather armchair was carefully dragged to sit in front of it. He spent a few moments starting and stoking it before retrieving a satchel of fragrant herbs.

Sitting comfortably, the leather smooth against his hands, he closed his eyes and threw the satchel into the fire. With a soft pop, it began releasing a scented smoke that he inhaled deeply.

It took but a moment of effort to leave his body. Almost as though a ghost himself, he sped over the landscape to the mountains of home and his own private Xanadu. Narda was seated at her own fire, as beautiful as the day they met. "Hello, Beloved."

She smiled and opened her eyes. "Hello yourself, stranger. I take it you'll be spending more time in Boston than you hoped?"

His astral form sighed theatrically and he gestured as though presenting a special guest; an image of that enigmatic sphere that vexed him so appearing beside him. "Tragically so. It is not, as we feared, mystic in origin. It is, however, quite mentally active and nearly pierced my defenses when I attempted to read its history. I shall be reaching out to the psionicists to handle it, but I thought I should warn you of my absence."

She chuckled at his theatrics, ever the showman even when it was but the two of them. "I understand, dear. I'll inform the children. Is there anything else I can do for you, anything I can send?"

A wry smile lifted that pencil mustache of his. "I wouldn't say no to some of your acorn cakes, if you're offering. I'm at the Lennox. I'm afraid I have other calls to make, but I will try to catch up with you tonight."

Narda's lips curled and her eyes sparkled. "You and those cakes. Of course I'll have some sent over. Stay safe."

"I'll try." He said, before redirecting his attention elsewhere. Soon he found himself in a small van trundling down the Interstate. With him was a bald, wheelchair bound man and beside him an almost avian woman with a crest of feathers where another would have hair.

"Charles, Lilandra. I hope I'm not interrupting." He spoke, visually situating his projection into one of the seats.

The empress of far off space twittered a laugh. "Not at all, Charles was just telling me about his day. I have to get back to my official duties anyway; I'll leave you two to it."

With that, the alien empress faded away. Professor Xavier turned his attention fully to the showman who was currently buckling himself in even though he wasn't truly present in van. "Mandrake, to what do I owe the pleasure?"

"I'm sure you've heard of the Sphere at MIT. I'm afraid it is very shortly to be your problem, as there is not a drop of magic in it. Not even accidental or associative. It is, in many ways, blank. Should you need my assistance, though I understand I am not a patch on Stephen, you may find me at the Lennox."

Xavier briefly twinned, one of him looking to the driver while the other kept his attention on the apparition of the magician. "Miss Frost, where are we staying?"

"I have reservations for the Omni Parker," she replied, never once taking her eyes from the road.

The two professors resynced themselves. "I assume you heard that?"

"I did. Do tell Miss Frost to be careful, there are ghosts there that even I have trouble suborning, though they are mostly harmless. Should anything mystical happen there, seek the Red Lady. She protects all comers."

"Understood, is there anything else?"

"Only that we are lucky men, to have such understanding wives. Regal too, you an Empress, and myself a Princess." Mandrake gestured to the space that had been held by the image of Lilandra.

"That we are, my friend, that we are."

-_-_-

A quick trip to the secure storage area, he hesitated to call it vault for numerous reasons, in the hotel had allowed Dr. Nikola to retrieve the items he had sent ahead. He always traveled as light as he could manage for a variety of reasons. He hadn't sent much, in any case. A few changes of clothes which were sent up to his room, a roll of those golden tokens the association used as currency, a doctor's bag containing various mixtures he believed he might need, and a short black walking stick. Too short for him to use for that purpose, though it served as a fine swagger stick and self-defense aid. It had once belonged to a Chinese executioner, and had absorbed many lives over the years. A paltry step toward immortality, but it had been one of his first. Now, it was merely insurance. He was no fool, things were about to get dangerous here, if not for him then everyone around him.

His items secured and his lovely little angel happily crunching on a special mixture of organ meats prepared specifically for the feline, it was time to be social.

Idly, he reached into his pocket and fingered the tokens within with his left hand while his right swayed back and forth, light glinting off the lacquer and glass toper of the walking stick. Perhaps not as many as he'd like, but more than enough for now, and there were a few more in the bottom of the doctor's bag; he used them primarily to correct weight imbalances. Perhaps a bit base, but gold was heavy and sometimes you simply needed a heavy disc to make things work out correctly.

His path through the hotel took him deeper down, into the basement and through blank, unmarked hallways; to confound anyone who wasn't supposed to be there. The Hotel's more unusual amenities were located in the old bootlegger tunnels under it, a form of deniability. He had no need, however, for the tailor, doctor, or armorer. No, his destination was the secure lounge for their more eccentric clients. It was hidden behind an unmarked door with a single slot in it; not for a key, but a coin. One of those heavy gold tokens slid in with a whisper and the door popped open, music roaring to life in the previous silent hallway. The hallway was silent once more after he passed through.

It took but a moment to spot the Count, or perhaps Doctor as he was clearly working, at a table with another man. Doctor Lector's conversational partner was a thin man. Nikola considered himself to be lithe, pantherine like his darling Apollyon, but the Doctor's associate was thin. He resembled nothing so much as a bundle of sticks and rags stuffed with straw; lumpy and sharp. His clothes hung on him, though the patches on the joints marked him as an academic. It could only be that 'colleague' from Maine. Well, that changed little.

A quick, polite nod to the bouncer later, he strode to the bar as though he were the owner of the hotel; indeed as though he owned the whole world. Another token slide out of his pocket and was placed on the bar counter, and his lips moved into a slight smile, mischief twinkling in his dark eyes. "Brandy, and a vanilla Trilby for the table. Three spoons, I think. Someone simply must feed that man, and I suppose the responsibility falls to me."

Moments later, he had the snifter of ancient brandy in hand and was well on his way to claiming a chair. "Greetings, Doctors."

Doctor Lector nodded and the thin man looked a touch startled. Poor form, that. One should always be attentive, even when they think themselves safe. "Nikola. This is Doctor Crane, the chemist from Maine I was talking about earlier."

The first thing to leave his grasp was the brandy, which was placed near an unoccupied chair. Nikola's left hand slid within his jacket and retrieved a glass vial, about the same size as a bottle of perfume. He placed it in front of Doctor Crane before seating himself. "The accomplished behavioral psychologist and chemist, yes. I am familiar with your work, Doctor Crane. I hope the sample will be useful for you; it's a blend of Canary Reed extract and a few other more esoteric herbs I managed to get my hands on. It aerosolizes well, and produces the most delightful hallucinations. The light feels as though it is made of broken glass, and every shadow fills itself with writhing terrors. The light pushes subjects into the dark. The effect is sadly brief, but with your expertise I'm sure you can extend it."

Dr. Crane's lips twisted into a cruel delight. "Indeed? I had thought of it, but simply never got my hands on a sample! Oh yes, I'm sure I can use it to improve my phobotoxin. I assume you're here for the same reason as Doctor Lector and myself?"

"The sphere? Yes. In fact, I would like to suggest we pool our resources, it would simplify things greatly. For instance, I believe you two are both currently wanted, and even were you not your credentials have been revoked." He paused to sip his brandy. A nice vintage, distilled perfectly. Worth the price? Perhaps not if he indulged in this one glass, but that coin had likely bought him most of the bottle. "Mine, however, are still in good standing. I can simply walk in the front door and ask. I will share my findings freely with the both of you, in return for your support."

Before either of them could respond, a waiter came over with a serving cart and placed a plate in front of each of them, along with a silver spoon. The silver serving dome was lifted to reveal the requested treat, which was then placed in the center of the table. Ice Cream Trilbies were, perhaps, a touch old fashioned but, like the singer herself had been, always a delight. A delicate, immaculately sculpted feminine foot sat between them. The 'flesh' was made of a deep, creamy off-white French Vanilla ice cream that carried the faint hint of the alcohol used for the extract, while the toe-nails were a crunchy concoction of coconut oil and cherry syrup, placed perfectly to look as though they had been painted by an expert pedicurist. Where the ankle would have met leg, instead, was an indentation filled with a thick, vibrant syrup made from concentrated pomegranate juice.

Doctor Lector tilted his head, one eyebrow raised and stared at him for a long moment, perhaps fifteen seconds, before his composure broke and he started to laugh.

A smug expression settled on Nikola's face. "I am glad it meets your approval. Now, let us, as the Americans say, Talk Turkey."

The atmosphere of the lounge buzzed with the sort of tension that filled him with life: academic curiosity blended with greed and danger. Only the finest minds were capable of playing at the level he so relished, and at least one of the other men at the table qualified. The dessert— a theatrical and macabre gesture he would admit — had successfully amused the others, allowing him to call the tempo of the meeting. He let the moment breathe; and Doctor Lector's laughter subside. The aroma of aged brandy mixed with the faint scent of tobacco and polished wood, grounding the surreal scene before him. The laughter had broken the almost ritualistic seriousness that the room had held before; he could hear other guests tittering at the display.

Doctor Crane's eyes, however, were fixated on the vial before him. The cruel fascination was unmistakable, and he could almost feel the desire to test it out on the first person to pass by. Whatever else Crane lacked, however, he was canny enough to know that there were few dens in this glass Earth for a man like him, and he was not about to burn this one. He was all too easy to draw into the web. Curiosity practically wafted off the man, filling the air like the gas he so loved. "If you can just walk in and ask, then why haven't you?"

Nikola was the first to cut into the dessert, serving himself a small portion including the pinky toe. He began as he meant to continue; taking only the smallest portion for himself. A small spoon full of the sauce was dribbled on top of it. There would be little bloodshed in his version of the crime, but he would not lie to himself and say that there would be none. Oh, he would avoid it to the best of his ability, but with so many volatile elements in play attempting to prevent it entirely would be a fool's errand and he was no fool. With proper care, however, misfortune would fall upon only those who deserved it.

It was a small bite, but he leaned back in the chair and savored it; let it melt on his tongue, let the curiosity simmer. His fingers traced the edges of the spoon idly, the light from the chandelier catching in the lacquer of his walking stick, reflecting the glint in his own eyes. He returned his spoon to his dessert plate and dabbed at his mouth with napkin even though he knew there was not a speck on his lips. Theatricality was a tool like any other. Perhaps it was a touch rude of him to take the pawn Hannibal had so clearly been grooming for himself, but that was simply how the game was played. "Because, dear Doctor, to not prepare the battlefield before your entrance is to prepare for defeat. The Americas have more intelligence agencies than they have intelligence, and the moment I request access all those eyes will turn to me. We, however, can use that. 'There are those of us in light, and those of us in darkness. Those in brightness are seen, while those in shadow fade from sight', after all."

He smiled with a soft humor, aware of the implications of his words. "That, and I quite literally only got off the boat this morning."

It was Hannibal who put it together first, as Nikola had expected. He also took a much larger slice of the ice cream confection, seeming to relish in the crunch of the faux-nails. "We have our own methods, but I do agree that your more... sociable nature does have its benefits. What do you propose?"

A soft chuckle burbled its way through Nikola's throat. He gestured as though setting up the pieces for some grand game. "Indeed, while your abilities to inspire terror and death will prove useful when it is time to make our move, I can gather information far more quickly through legitimate channels than interrogation or intimidation would allow. I prefer to make people do what I want by offering them exactly what they think they need. MIT, for all its brilliance, is still staffed by people who are vain, hungry for accolades, and very protective of their secrets. We need to exploit those weaknesses. I plan to offer my services, not as a thief, but as an ally in 'scientific exploration.' After all, I'm a doctor too, am I not?"

Crane found himself left with the wet end, as it were. Nikola thought it rather appropriate, really. At this point the Trilby was much like the man himself; all heel. "You intend to infiltrate the project, then? Gain access through your 'legitimate' interest?"

"Precisely." Nikola sipped his brandy. "But I will need support. Once inside, I can gather information quickly. Your toxins and terror-inducing blends may come in handy later—when we're ready to make our move. But for now, patience is our greatest weapon."

Lector nodded slowly, his eyes narrowing in thought. "And once you know more about this Sphere… what's next?"

Nikola leaned forward, his voice low and dangerous. "We decide if it's something we can control—or something we need to destroy before it controls us."

The room seemed to hold its breath as the words lingered, heavy with implication. The dessert, now partially melted, was ignored as the true feast lay in the conversation unfolding before them. Whatever lay inside that sphere, Nikola knew one thing for certain: it was the kind of enigma that could reshape their world. And whether by manipulation or destruction, they would hold the reins.

A thin, self-satisfied smile played on his lips. Let the game begin.

-_-_-

Theoretically, the trip from New York to Boston only takes around three hours and forty five minutes. In practice, due to traffic congestion, messing with exact change at the toll booths, and general 'Human bodies were not meant to be crammed into a space and not really allowed to move' issues it was closer to five hours.

The cab was larger than most, having been stretched out to give him more room to change years ago. There had been plenty of leg room, of course, and Lamont had brought a book of logic grid puzzles to keep his mind entertained... But that only really helped him. It was Mo that had to put up with the monotony of driving.

Shortly after they finally made it into the Greater Boston area properly, a news bulletin had come over the radio. "According to sources in the Highway Patrol, the notorious Zebediah Kilgrave, better known as The Purple Man, has been found dead on the shoulder of I-95 between New York and Boston. While identification by facial features was made impossible due to the condition of the body, fingerprints and the fact that the majority of individuals with purple skin belong to either the Kilgrave or Afton families, a swift identification was made. We here at WNYX 585 AM would like to offer a moment of silent reflection for his victims, who are likely going through complex emotions right now. … Now that that's out of the way, I personally would like to offer a toast to whoever took him off the streets. Given the fact that he always comes back no matter what prison he's put into, however, I believe the bullet to the brainpan has only bought us perhaps five years before he charms his way out of hell, but what a five years those will be! Smoke'em if you got'em!"

Mo chuckled as he dropped Lamont Cranston, for he was still in his civilian gear with a hastily packed suitcase in hand, off at the Omni Parker House. "This is as far as I go, boss. New York, I know like the back of my hand. Boston? Boston's such a maze I swear all the cabbies here are half Minotaur."

Lamont casually peeled off five one hundred dollar bills from the roll he kept in his pocket and passed them over before exiting. "You're a lifesaver, Mo. If it weren't for you, I'd have had to have gone Amtrak."

Mo accepted the money with a grin. "Aw, boss, you're makin' me blush. See you back where we both belong."

Neither man noticed the handicap-accessible van pull in a few parking spots away, nor did they spot the bald man being escorted out of it by a blonde woman in furs.

-_-_-

The Boston sewer-system was not the most spacious, but there was more than enough room for It to scuttle through. Arachnoid limbs braced it over the flowing water. While Boston didn't get nearly as hammered by storms as others, Nor'easters still left their mark. All that water had to go somewhere.

Those Losers had thought they killed It, and they nearly had. But one egg remained; just enough for it to survive. It would be decades, perhaps centuries, before It was ready to lay another clutch. Which was why It had avoided Gotham; there was fear and misery aplenty but there were also Things in those waterways that would be a challenge for It now. Boston had no such defenses, and there was a fresh source of power. Alien, potent. Something It could use to feast and regain Its strength.

It sang quietly to Itself while attempting to find the best nest, now that Derry was lost to It. "Step right up! Got change? Come float! You'll laugh, you'll cry. You'll cheer, you'll die. Introducing Pennywise the Dancing Clown!"

---

I'm not sorry.

 

[FourmyleCircus]

Andre LeBeauvier was used to people not paying any attention to him; to writing him off because of his looks. He admitted, he'd never be a movie star. Maybe some character roles, if he had been interested, but the simple fact of the matter was he didn't have the face for the public sphere. He'd done well for himself in real estate however.

Real Estate was more than just land deals, it was the subtle art of knowing what other people wanted before they did, getting it cheap, and milking people for everything they were worth. There were four universalities: Everyone needed to eat, everyone needed somewhere to live, everyone got sick, and everyone died. If you could get in on these markets, you were set. He chose life and death, and left hunger and illness to the others. Strange as it sounded, he actually owned several cemeteries around the country, not just in Dakota City.

So it didn't look strange when he flew to Boston. His associates in the Coalition had provided him with the address of a hotel where no one would talk about his condition, and some tokens to make his stay more fruitful. He was their top Negotiator; while he didn't have a face for Hollywood, it had taught him how to deal. If he couldn't get what he wanted with words, he tried it with goods, if that didn't work he took action. And if that didn't work... Well, the other side usually dropped out—often several stories, head first—and left him with what he wanted anyway.

There was no two ways about it. Andre was not a pretty man. A rare congenital defect had left his skin droopy; his cheeks turned to jowls, his ears flopped, and his hair too fine to really notice unless you were touching him. He looked like a bulldog, and he had a temperament to match.

But what people don't remember about bulldogs and pugs is that they're quiet dogs. They sit and watch until it's time to bite; and then they don't let go. And those three splitting a foot had dropped a tasty treat in front of him.

That was the hilarious part of all this, as far as he was concerned: He wasn't even here about the stupid blinking ball. He was here because of a few historic properties that were shortly going to come up for sale.

He'd listened to their discussions, and quietly retreated to his room. The view from the window was exhilarating. The evening skyline shimmered with a mix of soft golden lights and the flickering glow of skyscrapers, each one representing money and power sparking through invisible connections like an impulse racing to the brain. It all felt so familiar to him. Real estate wasn't about buildings, it was about control. If you're in the right spot, you can cut off the flow of food and information like pinching a nerve. Food deserts were never accidents; you stem the flow of resources, watch the limb wither, then grab it cheap before breathing life back into it.

Every conflict was the same; if you controlled when and where, you controlled the battle. If you controlled what others knew, you controlled what options they had. That's why he always called his little trick 'hypnotism'. It wasn't, it had nothing to do with those conjuring tricks others swore by. It barely touched the brain at all. No, Andre was a master of the physical. Electrokinetic control over neurological impulses, the eggheads called it. Useful, he called it.

He adjusted the lapels of his jacket, feeling the weight of the tokens in his pocket. The Coalition always knew how to grease the wheels. He'd been through this routine a hundred times—people smiled and underestimated him because of his face. They didn't see the predator beneath the loose skin and droopy eyes, but that was their mistake. Andre LeBeauvier never gave a damn about appearances, only results.

As he turned away from the window, he ran a finger over his jawline, feeling the familiar folds of his skin. His face had always been his shield, his mask, even if it wasn't one he had chosen. People dismissed him without realizing that he was like an obsidian dagger; every insult and hardship had chipped away at him, sure, but it left him with an edge so sharp flesh peeled away like paper. They saw an old, tired dog when what they were really dealing with was a viper in a suit.

The blinking ball. The Sphere. The Coalition had made sure he knew about it, but Andre didn't care for the politics of it all. It was just a bargaining chip in a much bigger game. Property was Andre's business, and historic properties were his latest conquest. The Sphere was noise—a distraction to keep the less experienced players occupied while he made his real moves. And yet, they still sent him here, to Boston, to look into it. As if he needed to prove himself. They probably thought they were funny, sending the dog after a fucking ball.

His lips tugged upward in a lopsided smirk; one barely visible behind the folds of flesh. He wasn't about to go play fetch, but that didn't mean he was going to waste the opportunity. This was just one more chance to show everyone why you paid attention to the quiet ones; a barking dog rarely bit, after all.

He pushed his musings aside and walked over to the desk, pulling out the envelope that was the real prize. In it was a folder, as bland and boring as could be. A collection of properties on the market, or about to be. Historical, mostly, with a few more modern ones that happened to placed just so. These were prime locations—places with legacy, and value far beyond their walls. They were symbols of power. Andre's bread and butter.

With a practiced motion, he pulled a pen from his jacket pocket, flipping open the folder to review the details. His bulldog-like patience allowed him to bide his time, but when the moment came, he bit down hard. He could already see the game unfolding before him. Buyers would circle, wealthy families and corporations would make their bids, but Andre would outmaneuver them all. With a few well-placed offers and the right leverage, they wouldn't even know what hit them.

A knock came at the door. He didn't look up. "Come in," he growled, his voice deep and gravelly, matching the rest of him.

A young man, one of the hotel staff, entered, looking nervous. "Mr. LeBeauvier, your car is ready. Will you be needing anything else before your meeting?"

Andre glanced up, eyes narrowing as he assessed the boy. A smirk tugged at his lips as the boy's body seemed to hunch and cower involuntarily, wilting under his gaze. Whatever the kid was thinking, his body already knew to submit. Good.

"No," Andre said, his tone final. "I'll be downstairs shortly."

The boy nodded and quickly left the room, leaving Andre alone again. He stood, brushing a hand over the tokens in his pocket, a small smile forming at the corner of his lips. There were people waiting for him tonight—people with plans and schemes of their own.

They didn't know it yet, but those plans would soon be his.

Andre LeBeauvier was used to being overlooked, underestimated. But that only made it easier to close his jaws around what he wanted. And tonight? He wanted more than just a piece of property. He wanted to remind everyone why they called him Top Dog.

-_-_-

While they had been unaware of each other outside, Lamont Cranston quickly noticed Emma Frost in the lobby of the Omni Parker House[In a previous chapter, Mandrake stated that he didn't want to use that hotel because it was quite haunted. His narration specifically mentioned the 'Whiskey Salesman Of Room 303', which is an actual ghost story regarding the hotel, and that while he couldn't force said ghost to move on, he managed to confine him to the closet.] and strode up with his best 'dopey rich playboy with no dayjob' smile plastered across his handsome features. "Why Miss Frost, I didn't realize you were in town. If you're here for a fundraiser for that magnificent school of yours, my checkbook is always open," he said aloud. At the same time, his mind reached out to touch hers. >I take it you're here about the artifact that MIT found?<

Emma's teeth shone like diamonds. "Mr. Cranston! Generous as ever, I see! While I'm simply doing so research with my dear mentor, I would be delighted to take your money." >I am. We've been warned that it's quite psionically active, and the Professor thinks it is from space.<

Lamont laughed, and despite the relative low volume of it it seemed to echo and fill the lobby. He then turned to offer his hand to the Professor. "Honest as ever. Glad to see you both. It's been a while, Charles." >I'm here for the same. Shall we go together?<

Charles Xavier's smile didn't reach his eyes as he shook the disguised Paladin of Shambala's hand. "It has. I do hope your bank account can survive her tastes, Lamont." >I assume Kilgrave's death was your work? You simply must learn to curb your violent impulses.<

Lamont grinned in return. "Oh, I'll cope. I make wise investments." >You're mad I spread his thought-jelly over the interstate like it was fresh toast; but we both know, Charles, if it was your wife in the car you'd have turned him into steamed broccoli.<

"Well, I'm staying in room three-oh-three," Emma said, lips curling into a different sort of smile. One laced with a slight amount of distain. She'd much the same conversation for half of the drive. "And Charles will be just across the hall if you need anything. Which room did you book?" >Please, Lilandra would have rendered him into a fountain of grape soda before he even noticed. He's just testy because Mandrake interrupted his interplanetary phone sex.<

"Five-oh-Six. Corner room, beautiful view. You know me and high places. Never could sleep below the third floor, don't know why." >Very true. She doesn't seem the type to tolerate it. Margo's gun was in the glove compartment and she's never been adept at the more violent psychic arts. More of a watcher than a doer, I'm afraid.<

"Well, I suppose we should get to our rooms, I for one am exhausted from the trip. Five hours in the back of a van will do that to a man." Charles said, his yawn mostly real. >And I would be chastising her as well. I understand your motives, but that does not mean I must condone your actions. Shall we meet in the morning to discuss what we know?<

"Ooh, a van. Fancy. I rode here in a taxi because Margo had the car. But you're right, I think we should all unwind before we talk business. Be Seeing You." Lamont said, his hand briefly reaching up to make the Okay sign over one eye before collecting his suitcase and heading for the stairs. >Works for me, Professor.<

-_-_-

Now that the outside world was in proper order, it was time for Nikola to take care of his temporary dwelling. He'd have done this when he arrived, but considering he went straight downstairs, there hadn't been a point. Should people wish to watch Apollyon folic, he could only commend them on their taste. While he had little time for the frivolities and lasciviousness of the modern world, he did keep an appropriately anonymous black phone on hand, currently in his breast pocket, to make use of the email and share pictures of the feline majesty of his darling angel.

Just as he had a collection of tasteful post cards of cats in all sorts of humorous positions with handwritten captions. The internet did not invent the LolCat, simply perfected it. He allotted himself a few minutes each day to watch cat videos, which was perhaps one of his few remaining vices beyond the odd social drink. It was perhaps a hundred and fifty years since his birth, he rarely bothered to keep count anymore, and only some of his advanced age and continued health could be attributed to clean living, but it didn't do to lose oneself to the pleasures of the world, not when there was so much to learn.

He retrieved a Tibetan bowl, some chalk, and a collection of herbs from his doctor's bag and set to work. He was a man of science, this much was true. But he refused to be limited by what others thought it to be. Science was not a dogma, and it was not incompatible with the mystical world. It was a method of asking and answering questions; one far in advance of the pure logic others associated it with. If you could measure it, if you could repeat it, then it was science. Mr. Clarke may have had a vivid imagination, but he was correct. Any sufficiently advanced science was indistinguishable from magic, and its extension was also true. If you simply examined magic deeply enough, it was simply another science, no mysticism required.

The chalk line defined a boundary, charged with a certain energy, that allowed you to manipulate what went in and out, much like any other wall. Certain plants contained chemicals that, when charged and heated, further interacted with this energy field. It was no different than throwing up chaff to deflect electro-magnetic waves. If one was examining something with radio waves and you surrounded it with chicken wire, they'd be just as blind. He was just putting up a jammer for scrying.

A few crystals were placed in strategic spots as well, to adjust the flow of psychic energies. He knew that the hotel did its best to ensure the privacy of the guests, but he had not lived this long by trusting the competence of others. That done, the black phone was retrieved from his pocket, and a small application—He refused to shorten it to 'app' even in his own mind; it sounded too much like he was ordering an amuse bouche—leveraged its sensors to check for other, more conventional listening devices.

Finding nothing, he finally retrieved his documentation from the bag. Dr. Nikola, phenomenologist, was about to make his return from seclusion. After a moment, he made sure to include his medical license and references. It wouldn't hurt to have one more, however.

The one regret he had was that it took far too long to search through his contact list. He'd liked having a physical rolodex but that was sadly back in Shanghai. Finally, he found just the man under the Qs. With a touch, and another scan of his fingerprint and a retinal scan for good measure, the phone connected first through the hotel's repeater and scrambler, then through a series of proxies, before his call finally connected with a secluded compound off the coast of Maine. Most would have been picked up by the young Jonny, or perhaps Mr. Bannon, but Nikola was one of the select few that had a direct line to man. He didn't wait for the other man to speak. "Hello, Benton. I'm back in the states for a few weeks and I decided to give you a call."

"Nikola, you old dog! It's been ages. How's Apollyon?" Asked the voice on the other end of the line.

Nikola situated himself in a chair by the fireplace and beckoned the cat to join him. It was perhaps a cliché, but it did sooth him so to have his angel close while on the phone. "As silky and bright as ever. I assume Bandit is the same?"

"He's starting to show his age, I'm afraid. His hearing is starting to go a little, it's harder for him to understand English than it was, but he's still sharp as a tack. I assume you didn't call to talk about our pets, however," Benton said, his voice growing serious.

"Worry not, there's no world ending catastrophe, no mad prophet wishing to burn the world, or anything like that. I'm down in Boston, for reasons I'm sure you're aware of." Apollyon hopped onto his lap and graciously allowed him to stroke his wonderfully soft fur. After a moment, both man and beast were content.

"That strange orb the MIT boys are studying, I assume? I've been meaning to make the trek but Dr. Zinn has been at it again and I simply haven't the time. Is it true it seems to have a quartz brain inside it?"

"I haven't seen it myself, I am afraid. I intend to visit tomorrow, and while I'm sure they'll allow me on the team given my insights into the strange and unusual... well... I thought it best if you put in a good word for me. You know how cautious the United States Government is about these things, and there's no way they aren't watching carefully. I'll do my best to ensure you get a copy of my findings; your own mind-machine interface technology with its capabilities of full sensory virtual reality were fascinating and if it does have a quartz brain within it, I'm sure your... Quest-World, was it, will be quite useful for studying it." Perhaps it was the brandy from earlier, or perhaps it was the soothing rumble from the angel in his lap, but he was feeling more free with the flattery than he would usually be.

"Given its basis in holonomic theory, I'd say so. Yes, of course old friend. I'll make some calls. If you have time, do come up to see us. I know you and Race never really saw eye to eye, but Hadji has always found you a delightful mentor."

Nikola allowed himself a soft smile. "I'd like that. Perhaps I'll see Questworld for myself, as well. Tell me, is true that Race saw the otherside through it after his accident?"

-_-_-

Emma didn't think of herself as high maintenance, simply a woman with needs. And yes, despite what others thought, she did in fact need her jewelry arranged properly, her furs maintained, and a place to hang them neatly. Leaving them in suitcases would only get them wrinkled, and even if she didn't expect to stay long, she absolutely needed that many outfits. One never knew when they'd have to wine and dine someone important, after all.

She arranged everything on the bed, ensuring each piece was in its proper bag, before opening the closet to retrieve the hangers.

"Hey there, pretty lady, can I interest you in a pint? It's the finest whiskey you'll ever taste, I promise," said the transparent man, leaning casually against the back wall of the closet, suitcase in hand.

Emma tried to ignore him, grabbing the hangers and starting the meticulous process of hanging her clothes.

"Don't be like that, you're far too beautiful to frown. I'll give you a free sample… for a kiss."

Emma Frost, the White Queen, massaged her temples and sent a message to Charles. >Charles, I need to borrow your closet.<

In his own room, Professor Xavier sighed and sat up, pulling himself from bed and his nightly call with Lilandra. It seemed the universe was intent on keeping him busy tonight. >Emma, I rode with the luggage. I know you didn't bring that much.<

Emma closed the closet door and began gathering her clothes. >Men, living or dead, always overestimate their charm. His whiskey breath is making my mind's eye water and curling my nose hair, even through the closet door.<

Two floors above, Lamont Cranston glanced at the empty chair now occupied by a woman in a red dress, a century out of date. Expensive, but not refined. He'd seen plenty of women like her in his time, often helping them in exchange for information. She stared wistfully out the window. >You're lucky. I'm pretty sure there's a dead prostitute in mine.<

Charles, surprised by the intrusion, sent a sharp response. >Lamont, why are you on this call?<

Lamont laughed softly. >Because of the remnant psyche. She seems nice, but I was wondering if anyone wanted to swap rooms. I wouldn't put it past Margo to hear me from here, and I don't want her teasing me about sharing my hotel room with another woman.<

The Red Lady, her form hazy in the dim light, turned from the window and fixed mournful eyes on Lamont. "It'll take more than your sharp tongue to stop what's coming."

>And now she's being ominous in my general direction. This is why I hate coming down to Boston.<

---

In case you hadn't gathered, >< indicates psychic speech.

I said it was a Mega Multi-Cross. I wasn't lying.