Boudlebot Rebooted (Part 2 of 3)

[Bonnie Blue]

Boudlebot Rebooted
Part 2: Enter the Boudle

Having at last navigated their way past the swarm of press, our intrepid heroes find themselves outside the Las Vegas Airport, and short one member of their party. Vincent Walker, biographer and now trainee to L Verez, is frantically trying to explain how he'd lost track of Verez's companion, Zima'lon:

"Vince!" said Bonnie Blue, her tone rapier-sharp.

She fixed him with a stern gaze, sea-blue eyes piercing into his very soul. Walker fell silent and looked at the pavement beneath his shoes. Taking a calming breath, he started again.

"You lot were busy with these reporters," he said, "when we got separated. She starts getting chatted up by this bloke -- real dodgy sort -- and the next thing I know, he's leading her off somewhere."

"What, like a kidnapping?" Alex asked.

Walker shook his head. "Not at all. They were talking about some kind of technology, she seemed rather eager to get a look at it. And then she just blew me off. Said she'd be back in a few and absconded."

"Did you see where they went, at least?" L demanded, annoyed.

"Just that they got into a car," Vincent sighed. "And before you ask, no, I didn't get a plate number -- because it didn't have a license plate."

Bonnie Blue and Alex Richards exchanged a glance; an unspoken communication passed between them, both thinking the same thing: Stolen car. Professional, or someone who thinks he is. Likely to be dangerous. But one question remained.

"What would somebody want with Zima, though?" Alex wondered aloud.

"Ransom?" suggested Vincent.

"Maybe," Bonnie replied, though with a hint of doubt in her tone. "Although Zima'lon seems an oddly specific target. L ain't exactly known for flashin' cash in public, but even if she was, I'd kidnap Vinnie. He'd put up less of a fight if things went sour."

"Hey!" he interjected. "Right here, listening."

"My point, Vince," she told him. "You ain't gonna get in my face about it. You just stand there, whinin' 'cause I said you're a candy-ass bitch. Now shut up an' let me think."

I hate this. I hate WCF. I hate John for fucking with me all the goddamn time, "Sure, we're friends now -- haha, just kidding!" Why? I did everything he asked of me. I'm supposed to be focused on these Everest douchebags and all I can think is "what did I do wrong this time?" Inconsistent asshole.

Why should I even care? I was done with the place the minute Gravedigger pinned me at War. Done when I realized that nobody in WCF will ever respect me or anyone else from United Championship Infinite, no matter what we do. One of us would have to claim the WCF World Title, and Seth will never let that happen. Nobody on the entire UCI roster even stands a chance against the current WCF Champ anyway.

Nobody but me.

Yeah, Z's champ at UCI now, but could he face down Rabid in the ring on his own? Doubtful.

Kevin Bishop aka Creeping Plague? I mean, he finally defeated me -- once, out of the multiple battles we've had. Only to immediately lose the UCI World Title to ZMAC.

Alex Richards. Aside from me, he's the only one of us that might be able to pull it off. We're both former World Champions, we've both defeated men who have previously held WCF's most prestigious prize, and Alex might be the only person who hates Rabid more than I do. On second thought, ain't no "might be" about it, because I'm stupid and sentimental and I keep hoping there's some reconciliation between me and John in the future, and I don't even know why.

Everybody else was right. I got played. Ought to want a little vengeance of my own, but I just can't anymore. The deck is stacked against me, so why even try? Fuck it. Once this stupid XIII match is over with, that is it. No more WCF ever again. I'll go home to UCI and forget I ever heard of WCF or #beachkrew or especially John Rabid.

Got more immediate concerns anyway. Like an errant alien wandering around Las Vegas when we're supposed to be going to a fundraiser for the shooting victims.

"Ok," Bonnie said, wrangling her thoughts back to the matter at hand. "Like I was saying, if I was gonna hold someone for ransom, it would be Vinnie because he's not a six foot tall Quarian in an armored pressure suit. Wait a minute! That thing uses an exotic power source -- oughta give off a pretty unique energy signature, right?"

Brightening as she caught on to Bonnie's idea, L nodded vigorously.

"That's right! My upgrades required an artron reactor to operate at maximum efficiency! All we have to do is trace the radiation signature... it'll lead us right to her!"

With a knowing smirk, Bonnie reached into her duffel bag and withdrew something long, metallic, and heavy with a crescent shaped head on one end. The exterior was studded with multicolored lights that winked on and off in an apparently random order. The Time Witch fiddled with a dial, adjusting the setting, then depressed a button on the side. Immediately the tool let out a high-pitched whirr.

"Sonic impact wrench," she explained. "Basically like a sonic probe, just bigger."

"Is everything sonic with you?" Alex teased.

Bonnie lifted an eyebrow. "You oughta see my... personal massager."

"Ok," Vincent interjected, chuckling to cover his embarassment, "too much information, I think. Can we get on with this?"

"Keep your pants on, Vinnie. Gonna take a minute to isolate the signal.... got it! They headed away from the strip. Hold on, let me upload this info to R-Seven."

Tucking the wrench back into her luggage, the young woman opened up an app on her phone, relayed a message to the artificial intelligence, and waited. It didn't occur to her to wonder why she continued to trust an operating system programmed by a man who clearly still considered her an enemy, no matter how she tried to prove otherwise; no more than it occurred to her to consider removing his name from the Guardians roster. Minor details lost in the grander scheme of things.

Moments later, a soft tone alterted her to a message. When Bonnie looked, a map of the area was displayed on the screen, an address just outside of town highlighted in red. Additionally, R-Seven had provided a tactical analysis, displayed alongside satellite images of the immediate area, as well as helpfully offering suggestions on how to dispose of any grisly evidence that could result from a potentially violent outcome. The Daughter of Time studied the information for several moments before addressing her companions.

"Ok, Guardians, here's how this is gonna go down...."

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Straight Shooting

The interior of the Drunken Dragon is alive with festive strands of Halloween lights in every imaginable description: ghosts, jack o'lanterns, candy corn, or simple orange and purple bulbs. Every corner, every nook, and every cranny is festooned with polyester cobwebs; plastic spiders and rubber bats dangle from the ceiling; Alex Richards' paper-mache dragon still looms overhead, now with the addition of a pointed witch's hat. Perched on a barstool, between the familiar pair of golden dragons that guard the doors, is Bonnie Blue; dressed in designer denim shorts and a "Leviathan" T-shirt, her UCI Tag Team Title resting on one shoulder. Her expression is one of serene confidence.

{{Bonnie Blue}} I may not have won War, but I did what I set out to do: made my presence felt, showed them all exactly what I was capable of, and walked away with my head held high.

Not like before.

Honestly, I should have left the Dub after I bodied Sanchez. That was all I wanted, but things don't always go accordin' to plan. One moment led inevitably to the next, an' the next after that, until I was caught up in the tide an' pulled out to sea. It was nice, but every wave must eventually reach the shore. Honestly, I only ever mentioned it because #beachkrew was my single, tenuous link to the Dub; the one means by which I could relate to any of you mouth-breathin' imbeciles.

Oh? You expected "nice" Bonnie? I don't get you people. The fans an' the roster alike, you're all capricious; fickle; inconsistent. First you pushed -- you all pushed -- for me to embrace the dark side everyone insisted was there, just beneath the surface; the savage she-wolf ready to tear away the human guise at last, to rip the throats from my enemies, and consume their hearts, still beating with terror. Blood on my hands. That's what you all wanted and now that you've seen it, you want to put the monster back in the cage because you're afraid of what you created.

A sinister smile turns up baby-pink lips.

{{Bonnie Blue}} It don't work that way, I'm afraid, bois. Yeah, I shoulda left right after I took down the leader of the other two losers I gotta fight tonight; because, honestly, they ain't worth it. Ethan King an' Stephen Singh -- Syndicate two-point-oh. Might as well be takin' on, um, Erin Fausse an' Julian Mercury; at least they're You-See-Eye all the way, which makes them inherently better than the very questionable competition the Guardians find themselves facin' at Thirteen.

A year ago, I woulda been stoked to be included. To be chosen by His High-And-Mightyness Corey Black to take part in gladiatorial combat for his amusement. But a year ago, I was a naive kid. Guess in some ways, I'm still pretty naive -- 'cause I reckoned I could make peace with a connivin', double-crossin' snake....

But I digress. Fuck that guy -- he's irrelevant. Sooner this show's over with, the sooner I never have to have nothin' to do with this diseased company -- or anyone affiliated with it -- ever again.

I guess I'm s'posed to be impressed that Everest claimed the Trios Titles this year to become the last-ever Trios Champions. Uh. Yay? You won a thing that became obsolete a month later! That's an... accomplishment? Oh, but wait -- y'all's former tag team champions, too, ain't ya? Emphasis on former.

The Time Witch turns her gaze toward the UCI tag belt resting over her shoulder.

{{Bonnie Blue}} Don't worry, guys. I'm a former champion, too. Fomer Intercontinental Champ -- twice. Former Tag Team Champ -- also twice; this is my third time to wear this particular belt. An' let's not forget former UCI World Heavyweight Champion -- for over ninety days. "Thievin'" Stephen Singh can't say that, but at least he had a World Title for a minute. But you haven't yet, have you, Ethan? That's gotta hurt, knowin' your partner was at the top of the proverbial -- heh -- mountain, while you always fall just short of even gettin' near contention.

Actually, I know it hurts. Been there. I had to watch my boi Andre, an' then my partner Alex, get their respective turns with UCI's most prestigious belt, while I toiled away in midcard Hell. But see, unlike you, Ethan, I learned from the experience. I trained, an' I got better, week after week -- until Spencer finally gave me a match against the man who was World Champion at the time. Of course, he didn't dare put the title on the line, an' with good reason, because I dominated Kevin Bishop that night. An' in every match since, 'cept for that last one. Now, I could make excuses; could say that the betrayal of my former best friend, Andre Holmes, had gotten under my skin an' affected my performance. It would likely even be true, but I ain't one for excuses. One way or another, I fucked up an' lost the most important thing in the world. But only temporarily. Killin' Floor lies yet ahead, an' that World Title's as good as mine.

An' then, of course, me an' Alex got us a title defense this Monday night -- oddly enough, against Bishop an' Z. So with all that on my plate, you might be askin' what in the hell I'm doin' at a Thirteen show. That's a good damn question. Part of it's because I been waitin' my entire damn career to get booked at one of these -- under most circumstances, this is a night for the elite of the elite -- but primarily, it's because our girl L wanted it. Well, she wanted Everest. We were promised Everest.

What we got instead is a couple of guys who thought ridin' David Sanchez's coattails was gonna get 'em somewhere other than eventual rehab.

Oh. An' Frank Patrick Venable.

Bonnie's sardonic smile falters, her lip curling into a sneer.

{{Bonnie Blue}} Hi again, Frankie. Didn't get enough of an ass-whoppin' that time you tried to take my UCI World Title? Yeah, yeah, it wasn't you that got pinned -- but only 'cause you was a coward an' let poor Bolas de Arana take the brunt of my fury. Chickenshit bastard. You used to be part of Earth's Mightiest Stable... now look at you. Begging for the scraps that drop from the WCF table like a mangy old dog. No dignity to speak of.

But let's hear it... 'cause I know you're dyin' to say "I told ya so!"

Yeah, you an' about a hundred other people. Yes, I was foolish to think that amends could be made with someone like him. I get it, it's over, and I'm leavin'. But not before I take advantage of one last opportunity. While Thirteen ain't exactly a WCF event, it's still affiliated. Everest an' Frank represent the Dub against the You-See-Eye's most dominant supergroup -- that's us, bee-tee-dub. Me, Alex, an' L. The Guardians. An' tonight, at Thirteen, we're gonna show the whole world just exactly who we are an' what we're capable of.

There ain't a sycophant amongst us; not a single member of this team had to hitch their wagon to a sputterin', dyin' star to get ahead. We're in this together, 'cause we choose to be. Not a one of us would ever consider, even for a moment, sellin' out the others -- no matter what the rest of y'all may think of me. But King an' Singh? They'd murder their own mothers for a contendership, let alone a guaranteed shot at gold. An' then they'd characterize it as "just business" an' move forward from there.

Except that ain't never how it works. Ethan's nursin' a grudge against ol' Singh; an' Stevey-boi sure as hell got some salt in his blood after the way King dropped his ass at War, killin' Singh's momentum after Singh just got humiliated by Count Von Count.

Granted, the two of 'em are at least professional enough to pretend to work together, but the second things start goin' in the Guardians' favor, all that cooperation an' teamwork is gonna fall apart. 'Cause, see, the Guardians -- we're the real deal. We stick together no matter what. Even Andre, who sold us out to the selfsame secret brotherhood tryin' to exterminate every metahuman on earth, he's still ours. Still a Guardian. Still our brother. An' we're gonna save him, whatever it takes. Even if what it took was playin' along with some poorly-conceived notion of "#WrestlingGenocide"; stroking the ego of a senile, power-hungry, but ultimately toothless old serpent.

But the main difference between the Guardians an' that joke of a team we're facin' tonight is this: We're here 'cause we want to be. We asked for this match. They didn't.

I get it, Singh an' King thought they'd get an easy win, because just like the rest of the Dub, they don't bother to educate themselves. Maybe they saw a chance to get back at me for destroyin' Sanchez -- but trust me, guys, he was on his way to an implosion long before I got in the ring with the dude. Y'know, maybe seein' me with Wade is what finally destroyed him. Like I thought Dave was just screwin' around with all his nonsense about how, just once, it ought to be the villain who gets the girl. Maybe he meant it, though. I mean, we all know how lovin' a man like David Sanchez ends: usually with a knife in your back, an' then a car wreck to cover it up. But either way, he was always the leader of Everest; supposedly the best the team had to offer -- an' I made him my bitch at Aftermath. Dude wasn't never the same since. What makes either of y'all think you stand a chance against me, let alone three of us?

And as to Frank, what more needs to be said? Here you are, Frankie, gettin' in my way again. Only this time, you've aligned yourself with the bad guys to do it. Hmm... now that seems like a familiar story. For a man who holds the virtue of others in such high esteem, you don't have much consideration for your own. An' you really ought to, Frankie. Because otherwise, you're a hypocrite. Then again, what should I expect from someone so loyal to the Dub?

Tonight, the Guardians prove once an' for all why we're the dominant stable in not only the United Championship Infinite, but all professional wrestlin' today. By tomorrow, you're all just a footnote in history.

With a disdainful sneer, Bonnie flips the camera a backward peace sign, and the entire scene fades to black.

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Bonnie, Alex, and L arrived at a blocky, two-storey poured-concrete structure that had begun life as a motel sometime in the early Nineteen-Sixties. Most recently, it had been converted into efficiency apartments for short term residents; hardly anyone remained more than a few weeks at a time, and that was the way management preferred it. Back at the suite Bonnie had booked for the Guardians at the Guilliano Hotel and Casino, Vincent Walker and Rebecca Thatch monitored the team's progress via a series of hacked security networks. Becky's voice came through Bonnie Blue's earpiece, giving her a final update before they breached the door.

"Becky says the name on the lease is 'Marc Hogan', likely an alias," Bonnie told her companions as they climbed the stairs to the second floor. "No heat signatures inside, so we can't be sure what we're walking into. And we can't use our powers, in case the Society's watchin' -- gotta do this the old-fashioned way. Ready?"

She looked first to Alex, who gave her a nod; then to L, who made some kind of bizarre hand gesture that Bonnie decided to take for agreement. Bracing herself against the wrought-iron railing, the young woman launched a devastating superkick; the door never stood a chance. Wood around the handle splintered and fell away as the deadbolt ripped its way through the jamb. Instinct pushed Bonnie to throw herself to the floor as the flash of a muzzle lit up the darkness. L and Alex dove in different directions, and the ammunition scattered harmlessly around them. Rising, the Time Witch removed the shotgun that had been rigged to blast whoever came through the door, and cast it aside in annoyance. Someone would have heard that, and police would be on their way in minutes, which meant they'd have to deal with cops on top of everything else. Unless...

"Becky?" Bonnie said softly into the mic at her throat. "Got a situation, need a little time. Can you divert the police away from here? Get Seven to help if you have to."

"That stupid AI only responds to you, Bonnie," came the reply. "But I'll do what I can."

"I owe you one," Bonnie told her.

While Alex's girlfriend was busy with that, the Guardians took in the strange tableau before them. Three of the four walls were covered with photographs of a man who looked remarkably like actor Stephen Dorff, another who could have been Kurt Russell with an eye patch, maps, newspaper clippings, flyers advertising various WCF shows, and handwritten notes. Strands of yarn in varying colors criss-crossed the room in such profusion that the three of them had to duck to avoid being tangled in the lines. If Bonnie was puzzled by it all, L was thoroughly lost. Only Alex Richards seemed to have any idea what the odd assortment could mean, studying the photos and articles with a furrowed brow, fingers scratching thoughtfully at his thick, ginger beard.

There was quiet urgency in his voice. "You better take a look at this, Bon."

The Time Witch wriggled her way through the spider's web of color-coded threads to join her partner. Sea-blue eyes took in a headline: Robot Rampage on Vegas Strip. Beneath it was a black and white photo of what appeared to be a man pinned against a fountain on the bumper of a 1976 Ford Ranchero, with Johnny Reb and Polar Phantasm in the background, giving statements to the police. Her eyes fell on a half dozen other, similar articles, all about an experimental android modeled after a WCF legend, which had gone berserk and caused hundreds of thousands of dollars in damages to a variety of establishments in the area, including Jonny Fly's International House of Skanks.

"Hang on," she whispered, something jogging in her memories. "Cam told me about this. They called it Boudlebot, and apparently it was a lot of fun, when it worked correctly. Nobody's exactly sure what made it malfunction that night -- maybe they gave it too much liquor, maybe it got a hot dog jammed in its circuits -- whatever happened, it went apeshit and tried to destroy Las Vegas. WCF had to pay a lot of hush money after that. There was a controversy about one of Siegfried and Roy's tigers, but nothing was ever conclusively proven."

"So... how did they stop it?" asked L, examining a series of strange symbols written on the remaining wall.

"Basically, they rammed it with the Ranchero. Cam and Reb went transtemporal, then popped into realspace with about ten-thousand years of extra thrust behind the car -- and still only hit Boudlebot hard enough to stun it. Reb had to club it with the sonic impact wrench to finish it off. That's how Polar told the story to me, anyway. Of course, with all the time fuckery that's gone on since 1he wav3, who even knows how it all played out? Point is....oh, shit."

She pulled a piece of paper off the wall, this one a detailed diagram of some type of processing core. Bonnie recognized it as being a more primitive version of the one that had been powering Cyborg Hank Brown's brain, before his destruction in the events of Dethwar. Beneath that, a schematic had been tacked to the wall, displaying a titanium skeleton, with a number of technical systems detailed beside it. The heading on the page identified the project as Boudlebot 2.0.

"Shit," Alex echoed. "Some idiot's trying to rebuild Boudlebot. But they'd need the processor, and that got removed, didn't it?"

Bonnie Blue nodded. "Polar wasn't completely stupid. He told his government handlers the 'bot had self destructed and fried the processor. Said he hid it in the safest place he could think of."

"Would that place be the vaults underneath the Guilliano Hotel?"

Alex and Bonnie both shot L a look of surprise. Of course. It was so simple, so obvious, anybody would miss it. That was the inherent genius of Cameron Bankston, Jr. Hide the thing in relatively plain sight. Of course, security within the Guiliano would be far more advanced than any other casino on the strip; maybe in the world. The owner was so connected, he could have run a global cartel if he really wanted to.

"Good thinking, L," Bonnie told her fellow Guardian. "How'd you guess?"

L held up a magazine, open to an interview with Allen Guilliano, a block of text outlined in red ink. The passage described the high security vault beneath the casino as state-of-the-art and claimed that not even the United States government possessed anything so advanced. Bypassing it was supposedly impossible, but the symbols scribed in black sharpie all along the wall -- save where the shotgun blast had scoured it away -- seemed to hold the key. In fact, Bonnie thought she recognized the otherworldly symbols, though she couldn't be certain.

The important thing, however, was that they had a lead. Whoever this person was, they clearly intended to break into the basement of the Guilliano Hotel and Casino, enter the vaults somehow, and steal one of the most devastating pieces of technology ever created by the hand of man. All for some kind of apparent obsession with Logan himself. All the Guardians agreed that they couldn't allow that to happen. Who knew what a rebooted Boudlebot could do? Quickly, Bonnie pulled Alex to one side for a hasty conversation in urgent whispers.

"So we're on the same page, then? We agree it needs to be done?" Bonnie asked her partner, her gaze fixed on his.

Alex nodded, a slight smile crossing his lips. "Not a doubt in my mind."

Mischievous and wicked was the smile Bonnie gave her partner in return.

"Good. Then let's do this."

(To be continued...)