Post by Bonnie Blue on Mar 27, 2016 10:12:57 GMT -5
Wednesday morning, and Bonnie Blue has had more than enough of Detroit. She flings her duffel bag through the open window of her emerald-green Ford Ranchero, then leans against the tailgate to spark a freshly-rolled joint as she awaits her friend and mentor. That first, refreshing toke opens the mind and clears the senses; or maybe it's the other way around. A chill breeze makes her shiver, steals the steaming vapor that lifts from the surface of a coffee cup, resting on the tailgate next to her. Bonnie pulls her Rebellution hoodie closer around her slender frame, wincing at the ghosts of pain that yet haunt her neural corridors. The injuries themselves -- more than her fair share in the last three weeks -- have already healed, another gift of her relation to the Timekeeper, though there remains a certain stiffness to her neck and shoulders.
Lifting the cup to her lips, stopping to savor the dark, rich aroma of perfectly roasted Kona coffee, Bonnie watches a little Freightliner Sprinter creep into the motel parking lot. The van is unmarked, plain white, but manages to convey an attitude of industry nevertheless. It parks nearby, leaving only a single space between them. Briefly, the young woman considers stubbing out her joint, then thinks better of it. Fuck 'im. What can he do to me? Call the cops? I'll be long gone before they show up. So she takes another slow drag and holds it in; she imagines she can feel the smoke sending wispy tendrils through the twisting, winding pathways of her lungs. Only when darkness begins to encroach on the edges of her vision does she exhale, and the cool morning air makes steamy clouds of her warm breath.
The driver climbs out of the van, his attention at first entirely on the clipboard in his hand. He squints at the paper, then glances over at Bonnie, frowning. After a moment, with a shrug, he approaches her, completely heedless of the pungent smoke streaming from her fingers. Her eyes are drawn to the insignia on the left breast of his black polo shirt and matching ballcap: a small apple, picked out in saffron thread, with an upper-case K in the middle of it. Above and below the image are rockers that read "Gold & Appel Couriers, Inc." The man clears his throat to get her attention.
Courier: Are you one Miss Bonnie Blue?
Bonnie Blue: Reckon that depends who's askin'. Wanna hit?
He's caught off-guard when she offers the joint, but recovers before she takes it away again. With a smile of gratitude, he accepts, drawing on the hand-rolled with expert precision. Trying not to cough, he passes her the clipboard and points to a blank line beside her name in boldface type. Bonnie shrugs and signs the paper, then passes it back, declining to take back what remains of her morning smoke.
Bonnie Blue: Nah, man, you keep that. It's all good. What's this?
Silently, the courier hands her a thick, white envelope sealed with wax. Her heart starts to beat a little faster in anticipation. Already, she has an idea who might've sent it.
Courier: No idea. Looks important, though.
From beneath the ballcap, Bonnie catches the hint of a wink; picks up an air of mischief, and mystery. Quickly, he averts his face, intent on the clipboard again, and starts back toward his van.
Courier: Have a nice day, Miss Blue...
And with that, he's gone, the little van already zooming up a side street. Bonnie looks at the envelope in her hands, cautiously turns it over. Her breath catches in her throat. That symbol, something like an Oroborus twined around the Greek letter Omega -- she knows it well. Suddenly, she understands how Gray must've felt when he'd received the first such parcel. Part of her still can't believe he's gone, dead and... well, not buried, exactly. Cast into the heart of a sun, she'd heard. Shaking fingers pry at the wax seal, trying hard not to damage it, perhaps the last remembrance of Jay Omega she would ever have.
Don Jesus: Bernardo!
Like a startled cat, Bonnie jumps and whirls around to face the approaching figure of Don Jesus Luis de Guadalupe. The envelope smacks onto the cracked surface of the asphalt. With an agility that belies his age, the older man kneels down to pick it up, examining the seal with intense curiosity. Looking up at Bonnie as he stands, he returns it to her.
Don Jesus: This came just now?
She nods, not trusting herself to speak; not yet. By some miracle, the drop hadn't damaged the seal; on the contrary, the wax had dislodged itself quite neatly from the paper, leaving behind only a faint red stain. Bonnie stops long enough to put the wax seal in her glovebox before turning her full attention to the letter. Unfolding the paper with near-reverence, Bonnie lays it out on the tailgate, and they read it together:
Chuy and Bonnie exchange stunned glances. Don Jesus picks up the paper, scrutinizing every detail in the morning sunlight, as if he suspects some trickery. At last, with a sigh, he lowers it again.
Don Jesus: Well, Bernardo, it seems you have a job to do.
Another week, another town; another damned hospital. First DeMarcus, now Gray....
Bonnie Blue sits behind the wheel of the Ranchero, a blunt between lips tinted dusty rose, as she navigates a road that seems to eternally create itself before her; to eternally consume itself again behind. She takes a deep puff, passes the blunt. Next to her, Chuy accepts absently, lost in thoughts of his own.
Who the hell does Katherine Phoenix fucking think she is, anyway? I tried. I was kind to her, at first -- no matter what lies she tells herself. Warned her about Henson; as if it wasn't obvious after what he did to Preecha, to Armand... to Patrilli. When she started in on Dre, it was all I could do not to get involved. Maybe I should have stepped in then. Guess I thought there was hope for her, in spite of all the shit she pulled when she was Henson's "assistant."
Any time before last week, she could have done it. Wouldn't'a stopped her, not even for her own sake. No, when I really think about it, she's just cruel, sadistic, and vindictive. Killing Oblivion wouldn't be a blip on her Karmic radar. But now I need him. I need the Monster. Can't let her interfere with that. Not with so much at stake.
A soft sigh finds its way from Bonnie's lips, and she hits the blunt again, trying not to think about the last one she'd smoked. With a shudder born half from revulsion, half from a very rational dread, she struggles to push aside a sharp, sudden recollection of Johnny Rabid; the way he'd looked at her, that cold detachment in his dark eyes, with more than a mere suggestion of deep loathing; how he had spoken to her, outlining his intentions as casually as if he were making small talk; the speed with which he'd struck, viper-quick, and the power behind his blows, both utterly inhuman. She'd never felt so helpless, so completely outclassed -- not even when the Dark Timekeeper had kept her hostage. Bad as that one had been, Rabid is entire orders of magnitude worse.
But it always comes back to him, doesn't it? Him -- or that other one, the Capuan.
This line of thinking comes, unbidden; in her own inner voice, Bonnie is certain, and yet somehow... more? The way her mind spat out that last word, like it was poison...
He told you that you're the last, didn't he? The only surviving version of you in the entire Metaverse. But did he tell you how the others died?
Bonnie Blue: Chuy?
Don Jesus: Hmm?
The middle-aged Latino doesn't look up from examining the paper in front of him.
Bonnie Blue: What's a "Capuan"? That's a place, right? Capua... isn't it somewhere in the Mediterranean?
Chuy glances at her sharply.
Don Jesus: Where did you hear that word, Bernardo?
Bonnie Blue: It's Scathe's hometown, according to his bio.
Don Jesus: ....fuck.
Bonnie Blue: Right? What kinda shithole would produce a guy like him? I mean, he's got this weird fixation on Gray, and...
She trails off, her mind turning to thoughts of her friend, lying in a coma even now. Memory calls into acute detail the sense of urgency she'd felt, rushing to the scene of yet another unwarranted assault on one of her own -- only to be stopped in her tracks by Vengeance; an obstacle meant to delay and harass. Bonnie can't begin to guess what twisted plans Henson had laid, or in what form they might next arise; with Explosion -- and Scathe -- less than a week away, she can't afford to focus on that. Yet.
It takes her a moment to realize Chuy has lapsed into a deep, contemplative silence. Without consciously thinking about it, the young woman turns the wheel, following the contour of the self-creating roadway as it slices through the kaleidoscopic patchwork of ever-shifting colors and patterns.
Bonnie Blue: Uh, Chuy? Y'awright?
Slowly, the older man shakes his head.
Don Jesus: I do not know, Bernardo. Capua... that word, a phantom in my mind, half-remembered. It chills my very bones, Bernardo, even to speak it. I have some suspicions, but there is more I must know.
Bonnie Blue: Like what?
Don Jesus: Bernardo will have the resources I need at his laboratory.
Chuy refuses to say more on the subject -- or any subject -- for the remainder of the drive, leaving Bonnie alone with that inner voice, her own and not, simultaneously.
Did he tell you that he watched them die? That some of them were, indeed, slain by Scathe's own hand?
Shut up! Like I don't already know how dangerous he is? He wages a one-man campaign of harassment against Rebellution -- as if we didn't have enough problems -- for reasons known only to himself. He's discovered a way around the Precepts of the Architects, which means that even in the context of a sanctioned match, his power remains undiminished. What I don't understand is the endgame.
That is not yet for you to understand. Just know that there are two very specific things he's after -- and you can only stop him from achieving one of them.
What?
But no answer comes; the alternate voice is gone as surely as if it had never been. Bonnie shakes her head and relights her blunt, taking a quick hit. She decides to write the experience off as the product of a tired mind and overwrought imagination. And just as well -- a white flare opens up and spills the Ranchero into a spacious, brightly-lit room crammed full of a variety of scientific equipment.
Pushing back his welding goggles, Nikola Tesla looks up, irritated at the sudden intrusion. When he sees who it is, however, his expression brightens. He shuts down the welder and crosses the lab, motioning the pair to follow him. With a shrug, Bonnie falls into step behind the scientist, who leads her to a workstation cluttered with strands of braided wire, bolts, fittings, and various other odds and ends. He picks up something that looks suspiciously like a wristwatch.
Nikola Tesla: Now, as our ...mutual acquaintance has likely explained, this job is fairly basic -- but hazardous. You will need to infiltrate a saurian stronghold. This watch is a cloaking device; twenty minutes at most to cover one individual. It operates by altering the visual spectrum around you, a rudimentary form of bending lightwaves. The battery recharges with kinetic energy, so the more you move, the sooner you can use it again.
Silently, Bonnie nods and fastens the band around her wrist. Tesla produces a small plastic case and pops it open. Inside are a small wireless earbud and what looks like a tiny transmitter. These, also, he passes to the young woman.
Nikola Tesla: Military grade communications equipment -- with a few modifications of my own. The earpiece will allow you to understand any spoken language, and the throat mic will translate anything you say into the correct language for the listener. Put them on now. The effects can be a little...overwhelming, at first.
With a shrug, Bonnie wedges the earpiece in her ear and affixes the mic directly to the skin of her throat, where a miniscule electric charge holds it in place. For a moment, nothing happens; and then, without warning, the young woman develops a splitting headache that drops her to her knees. Don Jesus moves to help, but the scientist waves him off. A few seconds later, Bonnie's head clears and the pain is gone.
Bonnie Blue: Wow. What the hell..?
Nikola Tesla: I am sorry about that. It's the psychic interface -- very difficult to calibrate precisely. It should work, now. You understand what I'm saying to you?
Bonnie Blue: Well, yeah. Obviously.
Tesla gives her a slight smirk, and nods toward Chuy, who looks a little puzzled.
Bonnie Blue: What?
Nikola Tesla: We're both speaking Russian. Flawlessly. I've tested it with French, Spanish, Italian, Greek, Latin, Mandarin, and a few alien languages that your Timekeeper was kind enough to provide. As long as whatever you're speaking with has a brain and at least some intellect, you should be able to communicate.
Bonnie Blue: That's pretty badass...
Nikola Tesla: I know. Now, the cloaking device will get you in, and the universal translator will be your primary source of information. Try not to interact with anyone, if you can possibly avoid it. Your objective is to retrieve a specific device -- this one.
With a flourish, Tesla pulls a photograph from the pocket of his labcoat and hands it to Bonnie, who frowns at the unfamiliar implement.
Bonnie Blue: What is it?
Nikola Tesla: It's a cybernetic cerebellum brace. Explaining the specific function is unnecessary at this juncture, and will only delay your mission. All you need to know is that obtaining it is crucial -- far more than you could ever guess.
Bonnie Blue: Got it. What else do I need to know?
Nikola Tesla: You're going seventy million years into the past. There are dinosaurs and saurian people with a high level of technology and no love for humankind. Everything you encounter will probably try to kill you -- seems as though you'd be accustomed to that by now.
Bonnie Blue: True enough. In that case, I'm ready to go.
Nikola Tesla: Good. I've taken the liberty of transmitting the specific coordinates to your vehicle's navigation system and adding an automatic recall. If you haven't returned in forty-eight hours, well... we can't risk the Ranchero falling into the wrong hands, now, can we?
Don Jesus: Bernardo!
The young woman raises a hand to still Chuy's protest.
Bonnie Blue: No, no... he's right. Chuy, this is what I was created to do. In the long run, I'm expendable. But the time machine...that ain't. Don't worry -- if those beach idiots can't keep me down, a bunch of prehistoric douchebags don't stand a chance.
And, smiling at both men with utter and complete self-assurance, Bonnie Blue climbs back into the Ford Ranchero time machine and takes off, headed for the distant past.
Despite the high resolution of the binoculars she'd borrowed from Tesla's lab, Bonnie still can't quite figure out what she's looking at. Her coordinates had been correct, of that she is certain. However, the assortment of buildings -- just under a mile distant -- is anything but a civilian settlement like the one Johnny Reb had described seeing on his own journey to this era. Three long, low buildings cluster around a fourth that rises at least five levels up to terminate in an uncharacteristically flat roof. From there, three separate energy fences surround the complex in concentric rings, each with a single checkpoint offset from any of the others. The only movement came from the patrols that came at five minute intervals.
Something else confuses Bonnie. At one of the checkpoints was a line of people clad in ragged furs -- modern human beings, millions of years too early. They were being shepherded through the gate one by one; and every now and then, a saurian soldier would pull one aside, examine them briefly, then instruct him or her to get inside a cargo vehicle waiting nearby. So engrossed is Bonnie in the goings-on, she doesn't hear the sounds of branches snapping or the trampling of thick-leafed ferns. It isn't until she feels something hot on the back of her neck that she turns around, lowering the binoculars from her eyes...
...and finds herself face-to-snout with a fully grown dromeosaur. Growling, the creature bares its fangs, each about the width of her finger, and sharp. A crest of bright red feathers rises along its neck in a clear warning. Bonnie risks a look up, and spots a soldier mounted on the creature's back, grinning at her unpleasantly.
"Looks like we missed one in the culling," he says, addressing his compatriots.
Bonnie glances around at the four of them, all mounted on dinos and carrying weapons of uncertain capability. The soldiers don't look like they're in any mood for games -- at least, as far as she can read their facial expressions. Were they unmounted, she might be able to escape, at least. And while inside the compound is precisely where she wants to be, she'd prefer going in stealth and of her own volition. Already, the young time witch can feel the power welling up inside, chaotic and lacking in form; seeking immediate expression. She struggles to keep a lid on it, unwilling yet to give away her only advantage.
An instant later, the decision is removed from her hands, when something drops out of the trees behind the saurian facing Bonnie. She doesn't even have time to react before the soldier's heart bursts from his chest in a spray of dark crimson; the shock on his face mirrors Bonnie's own as he topples from his mount, which immediately whirls to face the attacker. The other three turn on the newcomer, as well, rifles raised. The stranger hesitates, a makeshift polearm clutched in one hand as he sizes up the remaining soldiers. Seizing the opportunity, Bonnie leaps on the back of the nearest and wraps an arm around his throat in an attempt to lock in a sleeper hold. At the same time, the other goes on the attack, slashing with the long flint blade.
Rifles discharge energy shots in every conceivable direction. Bonnie is jostled loose from her hold and thrown to the ground when the dromeosaur mount rears up violently. The rider goes flying past to land several feet away, but he's up in an instant and charges after the young woman. Meanwhile, the stranger is a raging cyclone of terrible fury, slicing through anything in his path. Well-trained as they are, the dromeosaurs are quicker to recognize a losing proposition than their masters after one of them is dispatched with ruthless efficiency. The animals retreat, leaving the soldiers to their bloody fate.
Bonnie Blue rises to meet her opponent's rush; they collide with jarring force and hit the ground, rolling until their inertia runs out. Astride the lizard-man's chest, Bonnie unleashes a series of punches at his face, each more damaging than the last. With a snarl, the soldier heaves her off of him and leaps to his feet, whiplike tail lashing in irritation. He draws a knife from a belt sheath and holds it in a reverse grip, scaly lips pulled back in a sneer as he moves to attack. But the young woman's power will be constrained no longer. Lightning-quick, she strikes: a palm to the chin shatters his jaw, a knee to the midsection ruptures something internal, and she follows up with a hurricanrana that snaps the soldier's neck. Threat neutralized, the surge of energy floods out of her again to leave her breathing heavily and feeling lightheaded.
The stranger leans against a tree, gazing at Bonnie speculatively. She studies him surreptitiously, as well. He's of average height, by modern standards, muscular and broad-shouldered, though more slender than early humans ever were. Handsome, in a rugged sort of way, though his demeanor is one of quiet menace. After a moment, he wanders over to one of the waiting dromeosaurs and seizes it by the reins.
"Hey," Bonnie says, wanting to say something before he leaves. "Thanks for the help."
"I did not do it for your sake, although depriving them of another slave is... satisfying. If you wish to remain free, don't waste the moment. I won't be there to save you a second time."
There's a bored, detached quality to his voice that Bonnie finds irritating, as if he considers himself her superior. And something else odd about him, something that tugs at the back of her mind, but in a halfhearted sort of way that's all too easy to ignore. The fact of the matter is that he's the only person around, and she needs whatever information he might have, so she tries again to engage him in conversation.
"You know a way to get in there?" Bonnie points at the secure facility in the distance.
A flicker of irritation crosses his face. "I could save you the trouble and kill you now. Quicker and kinder that way."
"You don't strike me as partic'ly kind," Bonnie says.
He shrugs in acquiescence and swings himself up onto the dinosaur's saddle, an almost effortless motion. Under his direction, the creature stalks forward, forcing Bonnie to move or be trampled as he rides past her. Then he draws up and gazes down at her.
"Getting in," he tells the girl, pointing at the other dromeosaurs, "is not the problem. Escaping with your skin intact is an entirely different matter."
A cocky smirk lifts one corner of his mouth. Without another word, he turns his mount and rides away, leaving Bonnie alone with the remaining large predators. The young blonde rolls her eyes. "Paleolithic jackass."
With a sigh, Bonnie picks up one of the fallen rifles and turns to the beasts, who watch her approach with supreme confidence. One prances back a few steps, but the other allows her to take its reins. The saddle lacks stirrups, and it takes her a moment to figure out how to get on. As soon as it senses the young woman is seated, the creature is in motion, building to a sprint that makes the wide, flat landscape nothing more than a brownish blur. They're at the first checkpoint before Bonnie remembers to activate the cloaking device.
She passes the second without incident; by the time she reaches the third, there is a definite commotion going on within the compound. As her mount passes the final gate, she slips from the saddle and dashes straight for the nearest cover with only seconds to spare. With most of the soldiers distracted by what appears to be a riot among the human slaves, Bonnie carefully makes her way toward the tall central building. Security there is surprisingly lax, possibly because the saurians had never envisioned anyone breaching the facility this deeply.
Or, she realizes, stepping over the headless body of a saurian guard, maybe because somebody else got there first. Bonnie decides not to waste time questioning her good fortune. She walks through the corridors, at first with slow caution, but soon her strides are long and sure. Nobody moves to stop her as she passes vast rooms, all with big picture windows that leave no doubt as to the array of experiments going on within each laboratory. The largest, however, dominates the very middle of the building: a great, circular chamber suffused with a dim bluish glow emanating from a dozen or more large structures that appear to be some kind of crystal. Each of these is tethered to a central bank of complicated-looking machinery. Intrigued, Bonnie passes through an automatic door and down a set of steel steps into the chamber, where she paces a wide circle as she investigates.
The Daughter of Time pauses in front of one of the crystals to study it in detail. Something about it seems odd; some irregularities in the surface seem to form a discernible shape. If she didn't know better, Bonnie might say it looked remarkably like a human face. The one beyond it has an irregularity, as well -- an occlusion shaped like a hand, reaching out for help. In fact, the closer Bonnie looks, the more details make themselves apparent. Before long, she cannot deny the evidence of her eyes: the crystals seem to contain human beings.
At last, reaching the far side of the circle, Bonnie finds a fresh subject, not yet far into the transmutation process. The woman, not much older than Bonnie herself, appears to be entirely unconscious. An apparatus on the left side of her head shows a series of three amber lights. Bonnie frowns, recognizing the device from the photo Tesla had shown her earlier. Could her luck really be this good? After what she's been through the last few weeks, she reckons she's probably due. Quickly, Bonnie disconnects several wires and cables from the stasis unit holding the woman, then hurries to catch her as she slumps forward. Already, the woman's flesh is cold to the touch, and smooth like glass -- Bonnie wraps her in an abandoned labcoat and hefts the woman over her shoulder. Which is when the building's internal alarms begin to sound.
The stranger in the jungle had been right; getting out would be a damn sight harder than getting in. Ten of her forty-eight hours had already elapsed, and getting caught now would almost certainly delay her too much. Her disadvantage lies in the fact that she is carrying an extra person -- the cloaking device wouldn't cover them both -- and would be moving too slowly to avoid capture. She can't simply leave the woman behind; there is no way to dislodge the cerebellum brace without killing her. All around her, Bonnie can hear the echoes of rushing bootsteps, the soldiers calling out to one another as they draw close. There are no options left.
Squeezing her eyes shut, forcing herself to concentrate, Bonnie summons up the strange energy that resides somewhere deep inside her. It comes more quickly to her call than she'd expected. Her mind shapes her desire; escape, safety -- the waiting Ranchero. And, without warning, Bonnie Blue and the rescued captive blink out of existence as reality warps around them. They are deposited, fractions of a second later and several miles distant, right in the clearing where Bonnie had parked upon her arrival. Hastily, she bundles the still-unconscious woman into the car, switches the cassette around in the eight-track player, and hits "rewind" on the control panel. The Ranchero is immediately engulfed in a brilliant white glow.
In a fury of displaced electrostatic energy, the Ranchero returns to Tesla's lab. Don Jesus is on his feet in an instant, relief evident in every part of his face as he helps Bonnie Blue remove the unconscious woman from the car. Together, under the direction of Nikola Tesla, they lay the woman on a stainless steel table before he ushers the two of them along their way, with a promise to get in touch as soon as his work is done. Left with little other choice, Bonnie and Chuy get back in the Ranchero and drive back home.
A camera finds Bonnie Blue -- just arrived and still in her street clothes, gear bag slung over one shoulder -- as she hurries through the hallways of Chicago's United Center, and follows her to the Rebellution locker room. Once inside, she drops her bag, with a distinct clanking thud, next to a bank of empty lockers and turns to face the camera.
Bonnie Blue: How many more times are we gonna do this, Scathe? You an' me steppin' into that ring again -- when I have more immediate concerns -- an' for what?
Her irritation is evident in the set of her shoulders, the slight clench of her jaw.
Bonnie Blue: Y'ain't after a paycheck, y'ain't after a belt, y'ain't after fans or fame or glory. Hell, y'ain't nobody anyone's ever heard of -- but Seth Lerch lets you handpick your competition, set your own stipulations, for reasons I can't begin to fathom. An' with this unprecedented power, what d'ya do but waste it on some weird, imaginary vendetta against Rebellution?
I don't get it. I don't have to. Tonight, I'm gonna fuckin' end it.
Tonight, I'm gonna make you sorry you ever started this.
She reaches down into the duffel bag and withdraws a large pipe wrench.
Bonnie Blue: No DQ means I can basically get away with whatever, short of actual murder.
Bonnie sets the tool on a bench and dips into the bag again. This time, she pulls out a set of brass knuckles and slips them over her fingers, then curls them into a fist. Experimentally, she takes a light jab at the locker, and leaves a small dent.
Bonnie Blue: Ooh.. I bet that won't feel good. Let's see...
Again, she reaches into the duffel bag. Instead of a weapon, however, she grabs something made entirely of delicate blue lace, and obviously intimate. Bonnie blushes slightly as she stuffs the panties back in the bag.
Bonnie Blue: Oops. Ya weren't s'posed to see that. Um... oh here it is!
She withdraws a three-sectioned staff and unfurls it, grinning.
Bonnie Blue: Always wanted one of these. It's amazin' what ya can find at flea markets. I was gonna go with a kendo stick or a baseball bat, but then that all seemed so cliche. Everyone an' their dog uses them things. 'Sides, I couldn't get the barbed wire to stay on the bat. Arts an' crafts was never my strong suit.
The young blonde continues smiling at the camera.
Bonnie Blue: Just so's we're clear, Scathe.... Sugar. Ya done picked the wrong girl to fuck with. But fortunately for both of us, I get to make a very clear example of ya; of just what happens when I am pushed too far. Now, to be fair, you're gonna be catchin' a lot of my inner frustration with some recent goin's-on that don't even concern ya. Don't worry, though. I ain't gonna waste all my wrath on you alone. Got plenty saved up for a very deservin' party.
Ain't that right, Mr. Rabid? Hope you're payin' attention tonight, Johnny-boy. Let Scathe serve as an object lesson. I ain't gonna forget about ya, no matter what pains you take to avoid me. I'm not lettin' this go. We got a score to settle, an' it's comin' due real soon.
For emphasis, Bonnie makes a V with her first two fingers, then turns her wrist so that the back of her hand is facing the camera. Then, she fishes a blunt out of her pocket and lights it, looking directly into the lens as she blows out a stream of smoke.
Bonnie Blue: Yeah...real soon. However... for now, Scathe, you get the benefit of my undivided attention. Lucky you. I'd like to say it's all just business, nothin' personal. But we both know better. You free me from the restrictions of the usual rules, an' figure I ain't gonna enjoy it, jus' a little bit? If that's the case, you're a fool. Ya don't strike me as a fool, though. Which means ya got... reasons.
Well, whatever them "reasons" are, Scathe, ya gotta realize by now that your efforts are futile. You won't get what you want, not from Gray -- not from any of us. After tonight, the point will be entirely academic anyway. You have stood in my path too many times, kept me from my goals. No more. Tonight, one way or another, this is over. I will end you.
Tempus vindice.
The camera focuses on Bonnie's face, all determination and intensity, then pulls back as the scene fades out entirely.
Lifting the cup to her lips, stopping to savor the dark, rich aroma of perfectly roasted Kona coffee, Bonnie watches a little Freightliner Sprinter creep into the motel parking lot. The van is unmarked, plain white, but manages to convey an attitude of industry nevertheless. It parks nearby, leaving only a single space between them. Briefly, the young woman considers stubbing out her joint, then thinks better of it. Fuck 'im. What can he do to me? Call the cops? I'll be long gone before they show up. So she takes another slow drag and holds it in; she imagines she can feel the smoke sending wispy tendrils through the twisting, winding pathways of her lungs. Only when darkness begins to encroach on the edges of her vision does she exhale, and the cool morning air makes steamy clouds of her warm breath.
The driver climbs out of the van, his attention at first entirely on the clipboard in his hand. He squints at the paper, then glances over at Bonnie, frowning. After a moment, with a shrug, he approaches her, completely heedless of the pungent smoke streaming from her fingers. Her eyes are drawn to the insignia on the left breast of his black polo shirt and matching ballcap: a small apple, picked out in saffron thread, with an upper-case K in the middle of it. Above and below the image are rockers that read "Gold & Appel Couriers, Inc." The man clears his throat to get her attention.
Courier: Are you one Miss Bonnie Blue?
Bonnie Blue: Reckon that depends who's askin'. Wanna hit?
He's caught off-guard when she offers the joint, but recovers before she takes it away again. With a smile of gratitude, he accepts, drawing on the hand-rolled with expert precision. Trying not to cough, he passes her the clipboard and points to a blank line beside her name in boldface type. Bonnie shrugs and signs the paper, then passes it back, declining to take back what remains of her morning smoke.
Bonnie Blue: Nah, man, you keep that. It's all good. What's this?
Silently, the courier hands her a thick, white envelope sealed with wax. Her heart starts to beat a little faster in anticipation. Already, she has an idea who might've sent it.
Courier: No idea. Looks important, though.
From beneath the ballcap, Bonnie catches the hint of a wink; picks up an air of mischief, and mystery. Quickly, he averts his face, intent on the clipboard again, and starts back toward his van.
Courier: Have a nice day, Miss Blue...
And with that, he's gone, the little van already zooming up a side street. Bonnie looks at the envelope in her hands, cautiously turns it over. Her breath catches in her throat. That symbol, something like an Oroborus twined around the Greek letter Omega -- she knows it well. Suddenly, she understands how Gray must've felt when he'd received the first such parcel. Part of her still can't believe he's gone, dead and... well, not buried, exactly. Cast into the heart of a sun, she'd heard. Shaking fingers pry at the wax seal, trying hard not to damage it, perhaps the last remembrance of Jay Omega she would ever have.
Don Jesus: Bernardo!
Like a startled cat, Bonnie jumps and whirls around to face the approaching figure of Don Jesus Luis de Guadalupe. The envelope smacks onto the cracked surface of the asphalt. With an agility that belies his age, the older man kneels down to pick it up, examining the seal with intense curiosity. Looking up at Bonnie as he stands, he returns it to her.
Don Jesus: This came just now?
She nods, not trusting herself to speak; not yet. By some miracle, the drop hadn't damaged the seal; on the contrary, the wax had dislodged itself quite neatly from the paper, leaving behind only a faint red stain. Bonnie stops long enough to put the wax seal in her glovebox before turning her full attention to the letter. Unfolding the paper with near-reverence, Bonnie lays it out on the tailgate, and they read it together:
Hey Kid,
If you're reading this, it's all gone Pete Tong, and Pierce is out of comission for a bit. Which means I'm gonna need you to pick up the slack. Sorry to dump this all on your shoulders, but I wouldn't ask if I didn't think you could handle it. Besides which, you'll actually believe what I'm about to tell you.
Back when I first met Johnny Reb, he and I had a most excellent adventure in the little tourist hotspot known as Amerasia, circa 70 million B.C., give or take a few centuries. While we were there, we were treated to some of the local customs, such as being detained by an advanced race of dino-men, and forced to fight for our lives. Good times.
The details of that particular adventure are unimportant at the moment, though. Point is, them scaly bastards had some pretty neat doohickeys, and I'm gonna need you to go and get a particular one; a necessary step in the grand scheme of things. Use the coordinates below to go see Nicky, he'll give you more details, and probably a few gadgets to help you on your way.
Not gonna lie; this is probably gonna be pretty dangerous. But like I said, I figure you can handle it. And if you pull this off, I'll even count it toward Pierce's To-Do list, and make sure you get a cut of the profits. Never let it be said I ain't a benevolent sumbitch.
All joking aside, I'm counting on you, Bonnie. Don't fuck this up.
-Your Friendly Neighbourhood Omega Man
Chuy and Bonnie exchange stunned glances. Don Jesus picks up the paper, scrutinizing every detail in the morning sunlight, as if he suspects some trickery. At last, with a sigh, he lowers it again.
Don Jesus: Well, Bernardo, it seems you have a job to do.
======================================================================
Another week, another town; another damned hospital. First DeMarcus, now Gray....
Bonnie Blue sits behind the wheel of the Ranchero, a blunt between lips tinted dusty rose, as she navigates a road that seems to eternally create itself before her; to eternally consume itself again behind. She takes a deep puff, passes the blunt. Next to her, Chuy accepts absently, lost in thoughts of his own.
Who the hell does Katherine Phoenix fucking think she is, anyway? I tried. I was kind to her, at first -- no matter what lies she tells herself. Warned her about Henson; as if it wasn't obvious after what he did to Preecha, to Armand... to Patrilli. When she started in on Dre, it was all I could do not to get involved. Maybe I should have stepped in then. Guess I thought there was hope for her, in spite of all the shit she pulled when she was Henson's "assistant."
Any time before last week, she could have done it. Wouldn't'a stopped her, not even for her own sake. No, when I really think about it, she's just cruel, sadistic, and vindictive. Killing Oblivion wouldn't be a blip on her Karmic radar. But now I need him. I need the Monster. Can't let her interfere with that. Not with so much at stake.
A soft sigh finds its way from Bonnie's lips, and she hits the blunt again, trying not to think about the last one she'd smoked. With a shudder born half from revulsion, half from a very rational dread, she struggles to push aside a sharp, sudden recollection of Johnny Rabid; the way he'd looked at her, that cold detachment in his dark eyes, with more than a mere suggestion of deep loathing; how he had spoken to her, outlining his intentions as casually as if he were making small talk; the speed with which he'd struck, viper-quick, and the power behind his blows, both utterly inhuman. She'd never felt so helpless, so completely outclassed -- not even when the Dark Timekeeper had kept her hostage. Bad as that one had been, Rabid is entire orders of magnitude worse.
But it always comes back to him, doesn't it? Him -- or that other one, the Capuan.
This line of thinking comes, unbidden; in her own inner voice, Bonnie is certain, and yet somehow... more? The way her mind spat out that last word, like it was poison...
He told you that you're the last, didn't he? The only surviving version of you in the entire Metaverse. But did he tell you how the others died?
Bonnie Blue: Chuy?
Don Jesus: Hmm?
The middle-aged Latino doesn't look up from examining the paper in front of him.
Bonnie Blue: What's a "Capuan"? That's a place, right? Capua... isn't it somewhere in the Mediterranean?
Chuy glances at her sharply.
Don Jesus: Where did you hear that word, Bernardo?
Bonnie Blue: It's Scathe's hometown, according to his bio.
Don Jesus: ....fuck.
Bonnie Blue: Right? What kinda shithole would produce a guy like him? I mean, he's got this weird fixation on Gray, and...
She trails off, her mind turning to thoughts of her friend, lying in a coma even now. Memory calls into acute detail the sense of urgency she'd felt, rushing to the scene of yet another unwarranted assault on one of her own -- only to be stopped in her tracks by Vengeance; an obstacle meant to delay and harass. Bonnie can't begin to guess what twisted plans Henson had laid, or in what form they might next arise; with Explosion -- and Scathe -- less than a week away, she can't afford to focus on that. Yet.
It takes her a moment to realize Chuy has lapsed into a deep, contemplative silence. Without consciously thinking about it, the young woman turns the wheel, following the contour of the self-creating roadway as it slices through the kaleidoscopic patchwork of ever-shifting colors and patterns.
Bonnie Blue: Uh, Chuy? Y'awright?
Slowly, the older man shakes his head.
Don Jesus: I do not know, Bernardo. Capua... that word, a phantom in my mind, half-remembered. It chills my very bones, Bernardo, even to speak it. I have some suspicions, but there is more I must know.
Bonnie Blue: Like what?
Don Jesus: Bernardo will have the resources I need at his laboratory.
Chuy refuses to say more on the subject -- or any subject -- for the remainder of the drive, leaving Bonnie alone with that inner voice, her own and not, simultaneously.
Did he tell you that he watched them die? That some of them were, indeed, slain by Scathe's own hand?
Shut up! Like I don't already know how dangerous he is? He wages a one-man campaign of harassment against Rebellution -- as if we didn't have enough problems -- for reasons known only to himself. He's discovered a way around the Precepts of the Architects, which means that even in the context of a sanctioned match, his power remains undiminished. What I don't understand is the endgame.
That is not yet for you to understand. Just know that there are two very specific things he's after -- and you can only stop him from achieving one of them.
What?
But no answer comes; the alternate voice is gone as surely as if it had never been. Bonnie shakes her head and relights her blunt, taking a quick hit. She decides to write the experience off as the product of a tired mind and overwrought imagination. And just as well -- a white flare opens up and spills the Ranchero into a spacious, brightly-lit room crammed full of a variety of scientific equipment.
Pushing back his welding goggles, Nikola Tesla looks up, irritated at the sudden intrusion. When he sees who it is, however, his expression brightens. He shuts down the welder and crosses the lab, motioning the pair to follow him. With a shrug, Bonnie falls into step behind the scientist, who leads her to a workstation cluttered with strands of braided wire, bolts, fittings, and various other odds and ends. He picks up something that looks suspiciously like a wristwatch.
Nikola Tesla: Now, as our ...mutual acquaintance has likely explained, this job is fairly basic -- but hazardous. You will need to infiltrate a saurian stronghold. This watch is a cloaking device; twenty minutes at most to cover one individual. It operates by altering the visual spectrum around you, a rudimentary form of bending lightwaves. The battery recharges with kinetic energy, so the more you move, the sooner you can use it again.
Silently, Bonnie nods and fastens the band around her wrist. Tesla produces a small plastic case and pops it open. Inside are a small wireless earbud and what looks like a tiny transmitter. These, also, he passes to the young woman.
Nikola Tesla: Military grade communications equipment -- with a few modifications of my own. The earpiece will allow you to understand any spoken language, and the throat mic will translate anything you say into the correct language for the listener. Put them on now. The effects can be a little...overwhelming, at first.
With a shrug, Bonnie wedges the earpiece in her ear and affixes the mic directly to the skin of her throat, where a miniscule electric charge holds it in place. For a moment, nothing happens; and then, without warning, the young woman develops a splitting headache that drops her to her knees. Don Jesus moves to help, but the scientist waves him off. A few seconds later, Bonnie's head clears and the pain is gone.
Bonnie Blue: Wow. What the hell..?
Nikola Tesla: I am sorry about that. It's the psychic interface -- very difficult to calibrate precisely. It should work, now. You understand what I'm saying to you?
Bonnie Blue: Well, yeah. Obviously.
Tesla gives her a slight smirk, and nods toward Chuy, who looks a little puzzled.
Bonnie Blue: What?
Nikola Tesla: We're both speaking Russian. Flawlessly. I've tested it with French, Spanish, Italian, Greek, Latin, Mandarin, and a few alien languages that your Timekeeper was kind enough to provide. As long as whatever you're speaking with has a brain and at least some intellect, you should be able to communicate.
Bonnie Blue: That's pretty badass...
Nikola Tesla: I know. Now, the cloaking device will get you in, and the universal translator will be your primary source of information. Try not to interact with anyone, if you can possibly avoid it. Your objective is to retrieve a specific device -- this one.
With a flourish, Tesla pulls a photograph from the pocket of his labcoat and hands it to Bonnie, who frowns at the unfamiliar implement.
Bonnie Blue: What is it?
Nikola Tesla: It's a cybernetic cerebellum brace. Explaining the specific function is unnecessary at this juncture, and will only delay your mission. All you need to know is that obtaining it is crucial -- far more than you could ever guess.
Bonnie Blue: Got it. What else do I need to know?
Nikola Tesla: You're going seventy million years into the past. There are dinosaurs and saurian people with a high level of technology and no love for humankind. Everything you encounter will probably try to kill you -- seems as though you'd be accustomed to that by now.
Bonnie Blue: True enough. In that case, I'm ready to go.
Nikola Tesla: Good. I've taken the liberty of transmitting the specific coordinates to your vehicle's navigation system and adding an automatic recall. If you haven't returned in forty-eight hours, well... we can't risk the Ranchero falling into the wrong hands, now, can we?
Don Jesus: Bernardo!
The young woman raises a hand to still Chuy's protest.
Bonnie Blue: No, no... he's right. Chuy, this is what I was created to do. In the long run, I'm expendable. But the time machine...that ain't. Don't worry -- if those beach idiots can't keep me down, a bunch of prehistoric douchebags don't stand a chance.
And, smiling at both men with utter and complete self-assurance, Bonnie Blue climbs back into the Ford Ranchero time machine and takes off, headed for the distant past.
====================================================================
Amerasia -- Circa 70,000,000 B.C.E.
Despite the high resolution of the binoculars she'd borrowed from Tesla's lab, Bonnie still can't quite figure out what she's looking at. Her coordinates had been correct, of that she is certain. However, the assortment of buildings -- just under a mile distant -- is anything but a civilian settlement like the one Johnny Reb had described seeing on his own journey to this era. Three long, low buildings cluster around a fourth that rises at least five levels up to terminate in an uncharacteristically flat roof. From there, three separate energy fences surround the complex in concentric rings, each with a single checkpoint offset from any of the others. The only movement came from the patrols that came at five minute intervals.
Something else confuses Bonnie. At one of the checkpoints was a line of people clad in ragged furs -- modern human beings, millions of years too early. They were being shepherded through the gate one by one; and every now and then, a saurian soldier would pull one aside, examine them briefly, then instruct him or her to get inside a cargo vehicle waiting nearby. So engrossed is Bonnie in the goings-on, she doesn't hear the sounds of branches snapping or the trampling of thick-leafed ferns. It isn't until she feels something hot on the back of her neck that she turns around, lowering the binoculars from her eyes...
...and finds herself face-to-snout with a fully grown dromeosaur. Growling, the creature bares its fangs, each about the width of her finger, and sharp. A crest of bright red feathers rises along its neck in a clear warning. Bonnie risks a look up, and spots a soldier mounted on the creature's back, grinning at her unpleasantly.
"Looks like we missed one in the culling," he says, addressing his compatriots.
Bonnie glances around at the four of them, all mounted on dinos and carrying weapons of uncertain capability. The soldiers don't look like they're in any mood for games -- at least, as far as she can read their facial expressions. Were they unmounted, she might be able to escape, at least. And while inside the compound is precisely where she wants to be, she'd prefer going in stealth and of her own volition. Already, the young time witch can feel the power welling up inside, chaotic and lacking in form; seeking immediate expression. She struggles to keep a lid on it, unwilling yet to give away her only advantage.
An instant later, the decision is removed from her hands, when something drops out of the trees behind the saurian facing Bonnie. She doesn't even have time to react before the soldier's heart bursts from his chest in a spray of dark crimson; the shock on his face mirrors Bonnie's own as he topples from his mount, which immediately whirls to face the attacker. The other three turn on the newcomer, as well, rifles raised. The stranger hesitates, a makeshift polearm clutched in one hand as he sizes up the remaining soldiers. Seizing the opportunity, Bonnie leaps on the back of the nearest and wraps an arm around his throat in an attempt to lock in a sleeper hold. At the same time, the other goes on the attack, slashing with the long flint blade.
Rifles discharge energy shots in every conceivable direction. Bonnie is jostled loose from her hold and thrown to the ground when the dromeosaur mount rears up violently. The rider goes flying past to land several feet away, but he's up in an instant and charges after the young woman. Meanwhile, the stranger is a raging cyclone of terrible fury, slicing through anything in his path. Well-trained as they are, the dromeosaurs are quicker to recognize a losing proposition than their masters after one of them is dispatched with ruthless efficiency. The animals retreat, leaving the soldiers to their bloody fate.
Bonnie Blue rises to meet her opponent's rush; they collide with jarring force and hit the ground, rolling until their inertia runs out. Astride the lizard-man's chest, Bonnie unleashes a series of punches at his face, each more damaging than the last. With a snarl, the soldier heaves her off of him and leaps to his feet, whiplike tail lashing in irritation. He draws a knife from a belt sheath and holds it in a reverse grip, scaly lips pulled back in a sneer as he moves to attack. But the young woman's power will be constrained no longer. Lightning-quick, she strikes: a palm to the chin shatters his jaw, a knee to the midsection ruptures something internal, and she follows up with a hurricanrana that snaps the soldier's neck. Threat neutralized, the surge of energy floods out of her again to leave her breathing heavily and feeling lightheaded.
The stranger leans against a tree, gazing at Bonnie speculatively. She studies him surreptitiously, as well. He's of average height, by modern standards, muscular and broad-shouldered, though more slender than early humans ever were. Handsome, in a rugged sort of way, though his demeanor is one of quiet menace. After a moment, he wanders over to one of the waiting dromeosaurs and seizes it by the reins.
"Hey," Bonnie says, wanting to say something before he leaves. "Thanks for the help."
"I did not do it for your sake, although depriving them of another slave is... satisfying. If you wish to remain free, don't waste the moment. I won't be there to save you a second time."
There's a bored, detached quality to his voice that Bonnie finds irritating, as if he considers himself her superior. And something else odd about him, something that tugs at the back of her mind, but in a halfhearted sort of way that's all too easy to ignore. The fact of the matter is that he's the only person around, and she needs whatever information he might have, so she tries again to engage him in conversation.
"You know a way to get in there?" Bonnie points at the secure facility in the distance.
A flicker of irritation crosses his face. "I could save you the trouble and kill you now. Quicker and kinder that way."
"You don't strike me as partic'ly kind," Bonnie says.
He shrugs in acquiescence and swings himself up onto the dinosaur's saddle, an almost effortless motion. Under his direction, the creature stalks forward, forcing Bonnie to move or be trampled as he rides past her. Then he draws up and gazes down at her.
"Getting in," he tells the girl, pointing at the other dromeosaurs, "is not the problem. Escaping with your skin intact is an entirely different matter."
A cocky smirk lifts one corner of his mouth. Without another word, he turns his mount and rides away, leaving Bonnie alone with the remaining large predators. The young blonde rolls her eyes. "Paleolithic jackass."
With a sigh, Bonnie picks up one of the fallen rifles and turns to the beasts, who watch her approach with supreme confidence. One prances back a few steps, but the other allows her to take its reins. The saddle lacks stirrups, and it takes her a moment to figure out how to get on. As soon as it senses the young woman is seated, the creature is in motion, building to a sprint that makes the wide, flat landscape nothing more than a brownish blur. They're at the first checkpoint before Bonnie remembers to activate the cloaking device.
She passes the second without incident; by the time she reaches the third, there is a definite commotion going on within the compound. As her mount passes the final gate, she slips from the saddle and dashes straight for the nearest cover with only seconds to spare. With most of the soldiers distracted by what appears to be a riot among the human slaves, Bonnie carefully makes her way toward the tall central building. Security there is surprisingly lax, possibly because the saurians had never envisioned anyone breaching the facility this deeply.
Or, she realizes, stepping over the headless body of a saurian guard, maybe because somebody else got there first. Bonnie decides not to waste time questioning her good fortune. She walks through the corridors, at first with slow caution, but soon her strides are long and sure. Nobody moves to stop her as she passes vast rooms, all with big picture windows that leave no doubt as to the array of experiments going on within each laboratory. The largest, however, dominates the very middle of the building: a great, circular chamber suffused with a dim bluish glow emanating from a dozen or more large structures that appear to be some kind of crystal. Each of these is tethered to a central bank of complicated-looking machinery. Intrigued, Bonnie passes through an automatic door and down a set of steel steps into the chamber, where she paces a wide circle as she investigates.
The Daughter of Time pauses in front of one of the crystals to study it in detail. Something about it seems odd; some irregularities in the surface seem to form a discernible shape. If she didn't know better, Bonnie might say it looked remarkably like a human face. The one beyond it has an irregularity, as well -- an occlusion shaped like a hand, reaching out for help. In fact, the closer Bonnie looks, the more details make themselves apparent. Before long, she cannot deny the evidence of her eyes: the crystals seem to contain human beings.
At last, reaching the far side of the circle, Bonnie finds a fresh subject, not yet far into the transmutation process. The woman, not much older than Bonnie herself, appears to be entirely unconscious. An apparatus on the left side of her head shows a series of three amber lights. Bonnie frowns, recognizing the device from the photo Tesla had shown her earlier. Could her luck really be this good? After what she's been through the last few weeks, she reckons she's probably due. Quickly, Bonnie disconnects several wires and cables from the stasis unit holding the woman, then hurries to catch her as she slumps forward. Already, the woman's flesh is cold to the touch, and smooth like glass -- Bonnie wraps her in an abandoned labcoat and hefts the woman over her shoulder. Which is when the building's internal alarms begin to sound.
The stranger in the jungle had been right; getting out would be a damn sight harder than getting in. Ten of her forty-eight hours had already elapsed, and getting caught now would almost certainly delay her too much. Her disadvantage lies in the fact that she is carrying an extra person -- the cloaking device wouldn't cover them both -- and would be moving too slowly to avoid capture. She can't simply leave the woman behind; there is no way to dislodge the cerebellum brace without killing her. All around her, Bonnie can hear the echoes of rushing bootsteps, the soldiers calling out to one another as they draw close. There are no options left.
Squeezing her eyes shut, forcing herself to concentrate, Bonnie summons up the strange energy that resides somewhere deep inside her. It comes more quickly to her call than she'd expected. Her mind shapes her desire; escape, safety -- the waiting Ranchero. And, without warning, Bonnie Blue and the rescued captive blink out of existence as reality warps around them. They are deposited, fractions of a second later and several miles distant, right in the clearing where Bonnie had parked upon her arrival. Hastily, she bundles the still-unconscious woman into the car, switches the cassette around in the eight-track player, and hits "rewind" on the control panel. The Ranchero is immediately engulfed in a brilliant white glow.
In a fury of displaced electrostatic energy, the Ranchero returns to Tesla's lab. Don Jesus is on his feet in an instant, relief evident in every part of his face as he helps Bonnie Blue remove the unconscious woman from the car. Together, under the direction of Nikola Tesla, they lay the woman on a stainless steel table before he ushers the two of them along their way, with a promise to get in touch as soon as his work is done. Left with little other choice, Bonnie and Chuy get back in the Ranchero and drive back home.
================================================================
A camera finds Bonnie Blue -- just arrived and still in her street clothes, gear bag slung over one shoulder -- as she hurries through the hallways of Chicago's United Center, and follows her to the Rebellution locker room. Once inside, she drops her bag, with a distinct clanking thud, next to a bank of empty lockers and turns to face the camera.
Bonnie Blue: How many more times are we gonna do this, Scathe? You an' me steppin' into that ring again -- when I have more immediate concerns -- an' for what?
Her irritation is evident in the set of her shoulders, the slight clench of her jaw.
Bonnie Blue: Y'ain't after a paycheck, y'ain't after a belt, y'ain't after fans or fame or glory. Hell, y'ain't nobody anyone's ever heard of -- but Seth Lerch lets you handpick your competition, set your own stipulations, for reasons I can't begin to fathom. An' with this unprecedented power, what d'ya do but waste it on some weird, imaginary vendetta against Rebellution?
I don't get it. I don't have to. Tonight, I'm gonna fuckin' end it.
Tonight, I'm gonna make you sorry you ever started this.
She reaches down into the duffel bag and withdraws a large pipe wrench.
Bonnie Blue: No DQ means I can basically get away with whatever, short of actual murder.
Bonnie sets the tool on a bench and dips into the bag again. This time, she pulls out a set of brass knuckles and slips them over her fingers, then curls them into a fist. Experimentally, she takes a light jab at the locker, and leaves a small dent.
Bonnie Blue: Ooh.. I bet that won't feel good. Let's see...
Again, she reaches into the duffel bag. Instead of a weapon, however, she grabs something made entirely of delicate blue lace, and obviously intimate. Bonnie blushes slightly as she stuffs the panties back in the bag.
Bonnie Blue: Oops. Ya weren't s'posed to see that. Um... oh here it is!
She withdraws a three-sectioned staff and unfurls it, grinning.
Bonnie Blue: Always wanted one of these. It's amazin' what ya can find at flea markets. I was gonna go with a kendo stick or a baseball bat, but then that all seemed so cliche. Everyone an' their dog uses them things. 'Sides, I couldn't get the barbed wire to stay on the bat. Arts an' crafts was never my strong suit.
The young blonde continues smiling at the camera.
Bonnie Blue: Just so's we're clear, Scathe.... Sugar. Ya done picked the wrong girl to fuck with. But fortunately for both of us, I get to make a very clear example of ya; of just what happens when I am pushed too far. Now, to be fair, you're gonna be catchin' a lot of my inner frustration with some recent goin's-on that don't even concern ya. Don't worry, though. I ain't gonna waste all my wrath on you alone. Got plenty saved up for a very deservin' party.
Ain't that right, Mr. Rabid? Hope you're payin' attention tonight, Johnny-boy. Let Scathe serve as an object lesson. I ain't gonna forget about ya, no matter what pains you take to avoid me. I'm not lettin' this go. We got a score to settle, an' it's comin' due real soon.
For emphasis, Bonnie makes a V with her first two fingers, then turns her wrist so that the back of her hand is facing the camera. Then, she fishes a blunt out of her pocket and lights it, looking directly into the lens as she blows out a stream of smoke.
Bonnie Blue: Yeah...real soon. However... for now, Scathe, you get the benefit of my undivided attention. Lucky you. I'd like to say it's all just business, nothin' personal. But we both know better. You free me from the restrictions of the usual rules, an' figure I ain't gonna enjoy it, jus' a little bit? If that's the case, you're a fool. Ya don't strike me as a fool, though. Which means ya got... reasons.
Well, whatever them "reasons" are, Scathe, ya gotta realize by now that your efforts are futile. You won't get what you want, not from Gray -- not from any of us. After tonight, the point will be entirely academic anyway. You have stood in my path too many times, kept me from my goals. No more. Tonight, one way or another, this is over. I will end you.
Tempus vindice.
The camera focuses on Bonnie's face, all determination and intensity, then pulls back as the scene fades out entirely.
