Millennium Man tome #21
“Connected”
(The Once And Future Buddha Act II)
By Jacob Milnestein
The words seeped through from the living room, muffled by the sound of the teaspoon as it rattled in its china cup and her own half-suppressed yawns. A small spiral of sugar and froth circled into non-existence upon the surface of her coffee and slowly she rubbed the sleep from her eyes, her mind desperately searching for ways to conclude the day early despite the fact that she had only been awake for ten minutes at best.
Like most mornings now she had woke up alone. She’d given up asking him where he went at night. The one time she had dared ask had been several weeks ago now. At her wits end and in the midst of yet another of their increasingly frequent arguments she had demanded an explanation for his nocturnal absences, had demanded to know what kind of a place it was that so compelled him to leave her arms at night. He had looked at her, distant and remote, and uttered two simple words:
‘The moon.’
She had dropped the subject after that, deciding that he was either lying to her or he really had been spending time on the surface of Earth’s distant moon. She didn’t know which of the two options scared her most. Whilst the idea of him falling into the arms of another woman churned her stomach and caused her eyes to swell up with sudden water it was almost preferable to the idea that he had quietly travelled so far past the rest of them that the only place he could find solace was on a dead, crater scarred rock with no atmosphere.
She looked up, catching a glimpse of the photograph of the two of them, smiling like idiots and sitting at one of the many parasol-adorned tables outside Grandberry Mall. It had been months since they had smiled like that, in fact the last time had been before Christmas…before the Siege Engine, before Alhazred and the damage they had inflicted upon his head.
They didn’t talk anymore, didn’t touch each other expect when both dazzled by sleep or desperation. Sex was a remote memory, something that may or may not have happened three weeks ago. She picked up her coffee and wondered into the living room, the creeping nausea that so haunted her mornings rising up again and threatening to engulf her.
The desperate and tear sodden face of Trevor Mason looked accusingly up at her from the television set.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ He whispered. ‘Millennium Man is Michael Manly.’
The cup slipped from her hands and bounced, coffee splashing her bare feet and pooling like blood upon the cream carpet. In her head she began to scream.
***
The building trembled, a layer of plaster and dust dislodged itself from above, falling uselessly over the neatly polished of floor and abandoned food trays and cooling burgers. Upon the counter a perfect set of Magenta Kamen plastic figures lay discarded and face down, distant from the fallen sign advertising their arrival and, as yet, unsent with their respective Happy Meal sets.
The glass window at the front of the shop shook violently; sharp cracks now visible between the arches of the golden McDonald’s logo. In its time the small, backwater Pacific City representative of the global McDonald’s chain had witnessed the most violent and horrific of events, the kind of events that made headline news. For every drug deal that quietly took place in a McDonald’s fast food restaurant somewhere in America, for every child that swelled and ballooned from the constant ‘treat’ of eating reconstituted cow sandwiched between a wafer thin slice of cheese and toasted burger roll, Pacific City had an alien invasion or terrorist attack to beat it.
The patterned and trademarked nostalgia of the company’s prolific emblems shone like beacons in the midst of the carnage. A welcome home sign to wayward English speaking bastard children across the globe. Beneath the ash and dust, beneath the burning stench of human bodies and the warm taste of salt water tears McDonald’s endured, fully staffed, ready to cook, no matter the cost.
Standing in front of the counter Joe Langford looked up one last time at the cracked front window and the sacred mark of his employers before the glass shattered, exploding inwards and slamming forwards with such force that cardboard cups of Coca-Cola were skewered and double bacon cheeseburgers were nailed to the tables.
Joe collapsed, instinctively throwing his arms up over his face as shards of glass were blown over the shop front. The storm died down and as the rumble of violence receded, he looked up, a thin trail of blood running down his left cheek from where he hadn’t been quite quick enough. The small McDonald’s on 8th and Vilar Avenue had survived tragedy and still remained intact. When the Imperial Magistrate’s warships had torn through the centre of the city only the front of the restaurant had been damaged. When Demerite and Prentice had destroyed the Pacific City Tower, the resulting shockwave and damage had left the building, if not some of its employees, intact. McDonald’s had survived the worst kind of events the city could imagine and it had endured.
With gritted teeth he dragged himself up from the ground, leaning on the counter and nursing his wounded cheek. There was a rush of movement and Jake was at his side, steadying him and putting an arm around his shoulders.
“Jesus, Joe, what are you trying to do?” His co-worker murmured, his voice heavy with anxiety.
Joe shook his head, trying to subdue the feeling of sickness that had risen in the pit of his stomach. In the distance there was a second explosion and the sound of another building collapsing. Whatever it was that was taking place over Pacific City’s skies it was as merciless and brutal as anything that had besieged the city in the last year or so.
With a determined scowl, Joe pushed his friend away, stepping forwards amongst the broken glass and ruin.
“Send the others home.” He called without turning, waving his hand in a dismissive gesture. “Nobody’s going to be eating out on a day like this.”
“Joe! For God’s sake, Joe, if you’re thinking of doing what I think you’re doing…” Jake called after him.
He turned, a sudden fire in his eyes.
“Of course I am.” He spat, his voice tainted with the premonition of violence. “No one listens to us anymore, Jake, no one. We can’t count on any of those other bastards anymore, not Mysteria, not Romanov, not even Mikey. If anyone’s going to save this city, it’s going to have to be us.”
As he spoke the crowd of nervous McDonald’s workers gathered behind Jake. He looked at them, scanning each cowering, terrified face, one by one.
“Go home.” He snarled. “All of you. You’re too weak.”
Bitterly he took hold of the centre of his creased, blue McDonald’s shirt and tore it wide open revealing the grey shirt beneath with the yin-yang logo at the centre. He stood there for a moment, displaying his allegiance to his co-workers before shrugging off the short-sleeved shirt entirely and turning his back on them.
Without another word he sprinted out into the torn centre of the city, the crumpled shirt and the tiny fleck of blood the only sign that he had ever been there at all.
***
Eldritch leapt up into the air, clearing the six-foot chasm in the ground, the ghost images of five salivating wolves following her in single file, replicating her jump with precision and accuracy. Her bare feet slammed into the shattered pavement on the other side of the city’s wound and the ghosts followed, their essences twisting like smoke about her slender frame.
The sky erupted, motion darting back and forth with the heavy stench of blood. Her head snapped up, eyes moving almost to an archaic rhythm as they followed the bursts of energy that marked the movement of each fighter.
The first energy signal was someone she wasn’t familiar with, a chojin of incredible power whatever the case. The sheer scale of his aura was daunting almost to the point of being inconceivable. The second figure was even more fearful. The vague wisps of familiarity marked it out as an individual Eldritch had hoped never to see provoked to combat.
“Romanov…” She murmured, her lips dry and her voice reverent.
Whoever the mayor’s opponent, despite his vast reserves of energy, the sheer scale of his arrogance had to be admired. Despite herself she found her lips slipping into a tight smile. Perhaps under different circumstances, if she had been stronger…
Quickly she dismissed the idea, leaping once more into the air. A sudden force slammed directly into her chest and she was knocked back down, her body sliding on the worn ground to the very edge of the six-foot trench. Without thinking she jumped up onto her heels, the ghost wolves howling and snarling at her side. Her eyes narrowed at the broad shape of Michael Manly standing before her, his large hands clenched in bored fists and his expression one of distance and arrogance as he looked down at where she crouched.
“You understand the lecteur de tarot system, don’t you?” He asked, his voice unusually stern.
The peculiar nature of his question threw her off guard.
“Yes…” She replied. “A little, at least. Henry used to use a customised version of the cards based on the traditional human incarnation of the deck. That was back home though…before the Bowler…”
“Where can I find a card reader?” He asked, the fringe of his short straw, coloured hair blowing gently in the gathering winds.
She gathered herself, slowly standing. The wolves at her side remained silent.
“Victoria Burke has one, I think. At least, she seemed to indicate she had. I tried to get her to take it out of that grotesque collection she keeps buried under the house so I could examine it but she wouldn’t even show it to me. If she does have one however, I expect it to be identical to Henry’s…” She paused. “My Henry, I mean.”
Manly nodded.
“Let’s go.” He announced, turning away, the light of the morning sun catching him just as he turned and transforming the shadow about his large frame into an almost-cloak of sorts.
“Wait a minute!” She called out. “We can’t just go, there are people in danger here, people who need our help. We’ve got to find out what the fighting’s about.”
“I’m sure they can find their own way home.” Manly replied darkly.
She stopped, unable to find the words to articulate her thoughts. With a sigh he turned to face her once again.
“Whatever is happening up there,” He raised his eyes to the heavens to indicate the fighting. “Has nothing to do with us. If the damage is really as bad as you think then it won’t be long before Victoria and Jeffery and the others arrive and clean up the mess. I’m sure the mayor will excuse you just this one time.”
A sudden chill descended filled her stomach.
“How are we going to get Victoria’s lecteur de tarot if she’s not home?”
Manly fixed her with a hard glare.
“We’re going to take it.” He answered.
“And if her butler objects?”
The corner of his lips curled almost imperceptibly in a faint smile as he brushed the fringe away from his right eye.
“We kill him.”
“Oh.” She answered, unable to hide the tremble in her voice. “Michael, I think we should wait for the others to get here.”
A halo of light flickered into existence around his clenched right hand. He lifted his arm slowly up, giving her a clear view of his illuminated fist.
“If you don’t come with me, I’ll kill you.” He said, his voice soft and almost seductive.
She nodded, suddenly more fearful than at any time in her life since the death of her world.
“I-I understand.” She whispered as the wolves whimpered at her feet.
Manly nodded and turned away, the ghost of his chi power sparking into life about him as he lifted up into the sky. Solemnly, her heart heavy and full of fear, the sorceress Eldritch and her tame spirit guides followed after him.
***
The two figures collided above the city, sparks screaming from the swords as the friction of motion scored the metal with such force that tiny cracks began to emerge at the root of each blade. Glass splintered from buildings and rained across the streets as the ghost flames of Romanov’s aura twitched and ignited with renewed fury and a crack of sound loud enough to deafen any normal human close enough to the source of the sound.
With gritted teeth, Kamen no 1000 Ninpuu forced his sword further, saliva and black blood welling up within his mouth as he pushed forwards against his opponent. Every synthetic muscle within his body strained with the motion, tendons snapping and skin splitting open, as he held steady against the tremendous force of Romanov’s own energy.
His eyesight blurred in and out of focus, the heat of their exchange and the burning ferocity of the entwined flames of their auras scarring the retinas of his eyes beyond repair. With a final roar he forced every ounce of strength forwards. The flesh split wide open, bursting with gore and dark blood. Beneath the force of the frail human body’s final attack he felt Romanov’s blade shatter. In desperation the dying eyes focused one last time in order to see Romanov thrown down into the ground, tearing through building after building.
Panting he dropped like a stone to the ground, the lecteur de tarot on his wrist shimmering with its own enraged power. Over the decayed flesh of Yujiro Komatsubara the mask slipped thankfully back into place, obliterating the pain of the dying flesh and restoring his machine body to its default configurations. Still gasping for breath, he open the buckle of his utility belt and drew out the card imprinted with Komatsubara’s powers and physiology.
For a moment he looked deep into the eyes of the face he had previously assumed before, to his horror, the very card ignited, burning to ash in mere seconds.
“Surprised?” A sharp, feminine voice demanded of him.
He looked up just in time to see the blood soaked face of Anna Romanova as she slammed her right fist into the delicate reflective sphere of his head. The metal cracked and shattered, leaving an indent that betrayed the root of machinery beneath.
“Pick a card, you bastard!” She shouted, her voice full of anger and spite.
Desperately he fumbled with his utility belt. A second blow sent him sprawling onto his back, the cards of his deck spilling out of the ruined concrete.
“What are you waiting for?” Romanova snarled, bridging the gap between them in moments and slamming a heavy boot into the side of his head.
The helmet cracked further, black coolant dribbling from beneath the cracks and congealing on the pavement like blood.
“What’s the matter, you useless bastard? Aren’t you supposed to be saving the world and proving me a tyrant?” She spat, kicking at him again and again until the vast machinery that held him together began to spark and stutter violently.
He rolled onto his belly, crawling in the gutter amongst the ruins and tarot cards, stretching out for the furthest cards, both lying face down in the dirt. Romanova slammed the heel of her boot into the back of his helmet and the entire mask shattered, imploding to reveal the skull shaped mass of metal and circuitry.
Victorious his fingers seized the cards and drew them close to him, clutching them to his chest as he rolled over and looked up. Anna Romanova towered over him, her eyes bulging and the veins in her forehead standing over him.
Staggering, Kamen no 1000 Ninpuu lifted himself up from the ground, the machine head sputtering with black coolant and smouldering flames. With stuttering movements he dragged the first card through the tarot-reader, throwing it back to the dirt after use.
“Y-You’ve m-misjudged me…” He stammered.
Romanova drew her breath in deep and closed her eyes, regulating her breathing and suppressing her terrible rage, the dark feathers of her delicate wings quivering as she did. The air cooled between them, the flames of her vibrant aura withdrawing.
With a last desperate spasm of motion the machine dragged his final card through the reader. With a sudden roar, Kamen’s aura exploded once more in an inferno of flame. The machine face subsided, giving way to the features of an effeminate youth, the eyes hidden by a visor of black and the upper head concealed within an immaculate white half-helmet, a striking laurel crowning the rounded metal and indicating his imperial status.
Sharp, austere shoulder armour materialised from the residue of ash and debris that stained his one-piece costume and from his back tremendous dove wings tore forth, their pure white feathers dripping coolant and blood from every tip.
Romanova looked up with a smirk.
“You’re right, I have misjudged you.” She whispered softly. “I thought you’d be more of a challenge.”
***
‘You’ve weakened us.’ The voice announced over the burning static of noise that filled her head.
Her eyes blurred as she sunk in and out of consciousness, her mind drifting millions of miles away from her bleeding body.
‘You’ve weakened us.’ The voice repeated. ‘Victoria…’
“Daddy…” She answered, her own voice a raw sob of agony. “Daddy, I’m so sorry…”
A sudden burst of pain tore through her body and instantly her eyes snapped open, her mouth opening in a perfect circle as every vein in her body bulged and twisted beneath the surface of her skin. Her body burnt, flames of her own inner strength sputtering in and out of existence almost as if she had lost touch with the true heart of her powers.
For a moment the pain was so strong, so all consuming, that she thought it would tear her very body apart and then, as abruptly as it started the sensation died. She collapsed into the ruins, heaving as she desperately tried to drag air down into her scarred lungs.
After a moment or two she looked up to see her features reflected in the ghostly visage of Yehovah Vehayah, the horrific armour of bone bound and burnt into the soft suggestion of flesh beneath. The tip of Yehovah’s burning sword hung just above her head, flames spilling over and burning away into flesh.
She winced with every wound inflicted on her from the edge of the sword, her eyes rolling in her skull as she tried to keep herself awake, tried to focus on the ghostly presence of the goddess before her.
‘You’ve weakened us, Victoria.’ The voice of Yehovah filled her head – her own voice, judgemental and impatient. ‘You’ve diluted our strength with your constant infidelities and self-destruction. Because of you we have been shamed into defeat, felled by the hand of a mere toy, a trinket filled with spiritual waste and excess machinery.’
“I-I’m sorry…” Victoria whispered, her head slumping into the dirt and ash once more, blood and saliva seeping from the corner of her mouth.
Upon her naked back the tiny burns continued to weave their way across her flesh.
‘Unacceptable.’ Vehayah responded. ‘It becomes increasingly apparent that whilst we remain bound to you we remain unable to ascend to our full power.’ There was a moment of wordlessness in which the only sound was the soft, understated sizzle of her flesh as it burnt then came the words she had always feared, the orders she knew she would be compelled to enact the moment she first took possession of the scarab: ‘Kill yourself, Victoria. Kill yourself so that we may be bound to a true warrior.’
The image of Vehayah dissipated, fading like smoke and in silence she went back down into the very dirt from which she had so struggled to ascend.
***
Dirt churned beneath the soles of his trainers, fragments of torn pavement spiralling across the remaining streets like stones skipping across water. With a single hand he finished the bindings around his arms, eyes remaining focused on the road ahead as he dug deep into his trouser pockets for the worn black headband he had chosen in order to distinguish himself from the other Ghostface clans.
With an agility that had remained unexpressed in his duties behind the counter at McDonald’s he leapt upwards, his feet dancing across the rooftops of beached cars, leaving behind the heavy footprints of his passing.
Adrenaline rushed through his veins, suddenly free of obligation and responsibility. At last he was amongst Pacific City’s real heroes, unashamed and uninhibited – a friend of justice. In the midst of his exhilaration it took several moments for him to register the sudden shift in his stomach and the gentle feeling of movement behind him. His balance deserted him and he staggered, missing the next car and toppling head over heels down the bonnet of a scarred Toyota Cresta. With a thud he hit the torn pavement, his chest suddenly tight and his lips wet with the taste of copper.
The world turned grey at the very corners of his vision and, struggling, he raised his swimming head upwards, trying desperately to piece together the events that had led to his fall. Standing solemn on roof of the wounded Cresta behind was a young girl, no older than 15, her dark hair falling in waves over her shoulders and the eyes narrowing in her thin face as she regarded the spectacle of his collapse. At her side was a staff made of a dark and foreign wood, its tip stained a deep red.
He reached out to her, suddenly lost for words and something tore in his chest. Fear and panic seized him and he fell back to the dirt, clawing at his shirt and the damp spread of darkness that had begun to cloud the pale yin of the symbol upon his chest.
A choking gurgle escaped his dry lips as he lifted the shirt up, his eyes growing wide in horror. At the centre of his grey chest was a blossoming lotus flower of black. He shuddered with fear and blackness spilt out from behind his lips, running like copper honey over his dry, tired skin. The world became monochrome.
Falling back he caught one last glimpse of the girl standing atop the dead car, her face remorseless and unrepentant and then the little colour that was left in the palette of his sight faded, leaving nothing but the shapeless black beyond.
***
The side of the house erupted in a bloom of smoke, brickwork caving inwards over delicate carpets and immaculate flooring. His face remaining expressionless and unconcerned, Michael Manly descended slowly through the damage, his shoes eventually sinking into the scorched carpet of the damaged bedroom. In the far corner, weak fires gathered amongst fallen wardrobes and debris whilst dust settled over the bed and dresser.
Solemnly he surveyed the room. There was nothing but the excess of the comfortable and the mundane present within the wounded four walls. Eldritch landed at his side, awkwardly dropping in on all fours and straightening, the spirits of her feral guides still moving nervously at her feet. Uncertainly she looked up at her senior, watching the subtle movements and the thick veins in his neck and broad shoulders.
The strain of the solar power had taken its toll on his flesh, shaping him in much the same way that it had shaped Burke. Standing in the shadow of Pacific City’s once golden hero she was privy to a perspective that seemed to have escaped all of her fellow Mages, save perhaps Romanov; the power that resided within Manly’s body was identical to the power that Burke had wielded. There was no difference, no evolution, simply different approaches. She had heard the stories about Ura God, the soft mumbles of Braeburn and the New Mages whilst her lover had slumbered, sweat darkening his face and dampening his hair. The power at the heart of Millennium Man was unchanging, despite the flesh it dressed in.
He turned slowly, looking down at her with a frown as if he sensed her thoughts.
“You’re worried.” He stated.
She shook her head and smiled weakly.
“No. I was just thinking…”
“I’m not your lover.” He answered, his tone firm and unflattering.
Her ears burnt with embarrassment and her stomach flipped.
“I wasn’t thinking…”
“Good.” He interrupted. “Don’t think it. There is nothing you can offer me.”
She frowned, her eyes darkening as the silver hair of her guides raised defensively.
“What the hell do you mean by that?” She called out as he advanced forwards, tearing the door open and stepping out into the old Burke house’s first floor landing.
“Just because I’m here with you, in this house, just because I’m Millennium Man, doesn’t mean there’s anything between us.” He glanced over his shoulder at her. “You’re the enemy, Eldritch. An invader from another Earth.”
She marched forwards, the wolves pacing the room behind her, sniffing and snarling at the doorway.
“So that’s what this is about, yeah? What the hell is wrong with you, man? You’re acting like a complete arsehole lately. What happened to you, Michael?”
With terrifying speed his right hand darted out and ensnared itself in the coils of her thick hair. A sickening yelp escaped her lips as she found herself lifted up into the air. A moment of sheer panic passed and then the world turned upside down as she was thrown over the first floor balcony. With tremendous force she slammed into the ground of the hallway, shattering the neat pattern of the black and white tiles beneath her back. Her eyes flickered and slowly as she dragged herself away from the point of losing consciousness she registered the whines and howls of her spirit wolves.
Her eyes fluttered and opened to see snowflakes of spirit residue descending towards her, the final remains of her protectors, torn up and thrown out like confetti and rice.
“Don’t push me.” The voice of Manly drifted down towards her. “I’m not the Millennium Man you loved.”
The sound of polished shoes disturbed the fragments of ruined tile that had spilled out around her.
“That goes without saying, I’m afraid.” Said another voice, stern and authoritarian. “In fact I would dare say that you are anything but the Millennium Man that any citizen of Pacific City loved, Mister Manly.”
Slowly her dazed mind placed the voice with the face. Alfonse Saint Libatique, the Burke family’s butler and former criminal mastermind. Images flashed through her head, Alfonse deflecting one of the Bowler’s chi blasts by using his own aged flesh as a shield. Tears sprung forth in her eyes but she failed to move.
“What are you trying to infer, Saint Libatique?” Manly called down from the first floor.
“The game’s over, Michael.” Alfonse sighed. “Pacific City knows who you are. Someone broke your cover.”
There was silence for a moment and then the sound of Manly’s feet as they brushed the shattered tiles of the ground floor.
“No matter.” He announced.
Awkwardly she moved, lifting herself slowly up. Instantly Alfonse was at her side, placing his shoulders beneath her right arm and taking her weight.
“No matter?” He asked, continuing his conversation with Manly. “Pacific City knows that you’re Millennium Man and you think the matter is beneath your attention?”
Manly remained stoic, saying nothing and simply glaring at them.
“What do you want here?” Alfonse asked, changing track. “And was it really necessary to blow a hole in the side of the house? I’m sure the doorbell would have sufficed.”
A faint smile crossed Manly’s face.
“Alfonse, you try and kill everyone who rings the doorbell uninvited.”
The butler smiled slyly in return.
“You can’t blame an old man for trying.” He said, his voice noticeably more threatening. “My first question still remains however, what do you want here?”
The smile faded from Manly’s lips.
“Lecteur de tarot.” He answered.
Alfonse’s expression contorted visibly in surprise.
“What on Earth would you want with Henry’s lecteur de tarot reader?” He asked.
“Did Burke ever effectively use it?” Manly asked, curiosity creeping into his line of questioning.
“For a brief time, yes.” Alfonse nodded. “Winters, Weisz and Henry all had their own card readers and affiliated paraphernalia for a time during the early 60s. Looked damn fool stupid if you ask me, still, it achieved certain results, I gather.”
“Give it to me.” Manly demanded.
“I certainly will not.” Replied Alfonse, pushing out his chest. “Young man, you are simply going to have to learn to stop coming in here and demand…” His sentence went unfinished.
With a controlled burst of movement Manly landed his fist in the old man’s chest. His eyes bulged as blood formed in a halo around his attacker’s fist. Within his body something ruptured and tore open, dislodged by the sheer strength of the blow.
“Fine.” Manly whispered, his voice cold. “I’ll take what I need without your help.”
Alfonse gasped, desperately trying to draw breath and support his own weight and the girl at his side. Manly walked past him without another word, descending into the heart of the house and the preserved icons of his predecessor, not waiting to see the fate of the old man.
Staggering he relinquished his hold on the girl, allowing her slim frame to slip away from him and fall with a moan to the ground. Desperately he tried to cling onto the banisters of the stairs, staggering across the halfway and kicking the umbrella stand over before sinking to his knees. His face twitched, eyes frozen in horror for a moment and then slowly he sunk down onto the ground and lay deathly still.
From beneath his shirt, blood began to seep through and stain the tiles.