Christmas Castles II
Standing on the snow encrusted sidewalk of Brubaker street, the sizable man swallowed the revulsion which welled up in his throat as the bustling torrents of shoppers ebbed and flowed around him. The heart of Steel Canyon pulsed with the merriment of the holiday season in a garish explosion of color and stench. There were only three days remaining before Christmas, and Paragon City was being consumed at a nauseating rate.
A sweaty shoulder bumped solidly into the stranger and was quickly followed by a jaunty apology. The flare of red in the mysterious man’s eyes was masked by the thousands of lights strung along the street, but the fluid state of the mass citizenry drew the offender away from him before the rage could take over. His teeth ground thickly. Uncapping the flask drawn from an inner jacket pocket, a hefty swallow of bourbon replaced the feral burning with a more mundane, manageable version.
‘Why in Shiva’s name did I agree to come here?’ the thought came unbidden to him. He swallowed the animal a second time, and focused on the instructions for his task ahead. As always, prophetic truth had come from the lips of his savior, and existence was utterly more satisfying when he did not have to think about the insignificant nuances. He was the weapon. Simple. Clean. Efficient.
Well, a clean result with a very messy methodology.
The brief sneer at that thought was wiped away by the ringing of the church bells nearby. He glanced down at the tin elephant in his clawed hand, and one lip curled back menacingly. He quickly turned the small key in the pachyderm’s back six times, in accordance with the directions provided and in time with the last six gongs of the seven heavenly bells.
Skepticism shifted to disbelief as the tin elephant began to thrum and the world around him shimmered for an instant and then froze solid. There was no ice. Everything just simply stopped moving. From the icicles mid drip to the buzzing neon lights, from the slush spraying tires to the wind whipped banners, an eerie silence collapsed into the world with a suddenness that was riveting.
Except for himself, the small elephant buzzing merrily in his hand and the woman emerging from the nearby alley, the dark stranger stood in a city of statues.
A pale snake cascaded around the woman’s neck and along the length of her arms, emphasizing the severely dyed leathers which followed her sculpted form and the chiseled mask of features which made up her face. Despite his familiarity with the disciples of the Carnival, the dark stranger never ceased to marvel at the array of apparel they mastered. This woman in particular, Seneschal Moirah, had an insatiable flair for living creatures as clothing, or so he had surmised from the short time he was forced to have dealings with her. In one of her outstretched hands she cupped a small porpoise which buzzed with an all too familiar whirring.
The large man’s deadly training was such that despite all the information which was conveyed to him in that first instant of solitude, his adrenaline still dumped into his bloodstream with invigorating force. He was airborne into an arcing leap several stories high before he crashed to the cement sidewalk a short distance behind the approaching seneschal. He regained control of his faculties with a vigorous shake and stood upright once more.
“I didn’t know you were invited,” he tossed at her with little respect.
“There are few parties to which the Carnival is uninvited,” the painted lady quipped back, “Though I come to see the guest list is rather short.”
Her gaze flicked to the alleyway, bringing his own vision around to lay eyes upon a host of Carnival lackeys frozen in place where they had been escorting the Seneschal only moments before. From the look of their accoutrements, they had come to party in earnest.
“Pity,” she droned, “Crashing a party is so much more…enlivening. Wouldn’t you say?”
“Time is a luxury we do not have,” the man brushed aside her trivialities, noting the buzzing figurines they held, to which he received a pert nod of acquiescence.
The pair turned in unison to face an aging toy store dubbed Garrity’s Toy Palace in a faded red and black marquis. The building’s façade was etched into the rudimentary depiction of a medieval fortress, and the grit and grime of the ages only heightened the effect. Brightly lit windows were caked with a mixture of real and fake snow and were caught in a frozen instant of animatronic toys and glittering baubles. With little ado, the shadowy stranger shouldered his way through the glass door, toppling a mother and daughter duo into a nearby display with a meaty crash. The look of disdain on Moirah’s face as she was forced to open the door for herself was lost on countless unseeing eyes.
Weaving casually through the collections of holiday cheer, the mismatched pair searched for the missing partner to their mutual triad. When they neared the gazebo which housed the photo taking efforts for the season, a small silver bell rang, drawing their attention to the elusive man whose hoops they had jumped through to reach this point.
Santa Claus, or in this case, a reasonable facsimile of the true figure, sat motionless on his massive gold and satin throne, one gloved hand perched high in a welcoming wave to a long chute of waiting children. A great portion of the red suited man was concealed though, by none other than the elusive Gamester, who had made himself perfectly comfortable sitting on the immobile Claus as if he were little more than a luxurious armchair.
“Tick, tock, abuzz and awhirl,” the trickster cheerily piped up, pointer fingers dancing merrily back and forth, “Who stalks these hallowed halls but a naughty boy and an even naughtier girl. Hmm? T’was you who wished this meeting as I recall, Mr…?”
“Grim,” the bulky man responded coolly.
“And I am–” the seneschal momentarily interjected, stepping forward to present herself.
“Lady Moirah, indeed,” the Gamester snipped her words cleanly off, “No mystery is the Carnival to one such as the King of Toys. Hmm? Painted masks and tortured ilk, souls of fire and rage. Toys and trinkets with eyes and ears, serve their maker well. Little escapes their watchful gazes or the ringing of silver bells.”
The musical cadence of the narrow man’s speech, fluctuated in penitent rhythm with the buzzing machinations wielded by his guests. Grim stood patiently by during the gibbering discourse as the Carnival lieutenant turned swiftly to shade the outrage on her face.
“This one though, of blackened bearing,” the Gamester prattled, squinching up one side of his face and leveling a pinky at Grim, “Walks trails of the lost, where no toy easily roams. No ears to hear, no eyes to track, as he follows a heart that froths and foams. Has not, is not, can not be seen, and for this is granted from the pendulum, a few precious swings. An enigma, a puzzle, a game that has not yet been played. A rare commodity inde-heeeayed.”
The visiting pair stared on as the Toy King rambled, each with their own dangerous disdain. Clearly the jester had power at his command, the silent world around them attesting to the scope, but the tone and jingle of his voice was alarmingly infuriating. Nor did it help that the motives of such a musical menace were unclear. One who brought joy and horror in equal amounts was a wildcard to be sure.
“What is the deed you’d seed?” he chuckled with a wiggle of his head, before hunching forward in scrutiny, “Why off Earth would you risk your very souls in coming here?”
Grim continued to maintain his impassive repose, knowing that he held at least two aces in this particular encounter. The sudden intake of breath from the seneschal indicated that no such edge had been provided by her Mistress. ‘And just as his provider had ordained,’ Grim reflected quietly before speaking.
“I am prepared to make you a simple offer,” Grim spoke evenly and in measured tones despite the absurdity he was about to utter, “I can provide you with a precise time and location with which you may intercept the sleigh of Santa Claus on its appointed rounds this Christmas Eve.”
The Gamester’s eyes flew open wide with shocked delight at the utterance as Moirah’s head snapped to stare at the speaker in disbelief.
“In return,” he concluded grimly, “You must only agree to destroy the sleigh’s driver.”
————————————-
The normally unshakable Dakota was a bit stultified as she stared at Gilgallon, blinking slowly once, then once more in the bloated silence of the lounge. Her reaction was considerably more vivid than that of Deadspring, who simply sat with her piercing gaze unbroken except for a small twitch along the outside edge of her left eye. Almost comically, Psy-ren froze in her advance toward the trio, spun silently on her heels just out of Gilgallon’s line of sight and all but tip-toed back down the hallway from whence she had come.
“No, no, I don’t mean that she is Santa Claus,” Gilgallon interjected, having sensed the skyrocketing discomfiture of her words, “Well, this year, yes, maybe, but not every year.”
“Fate did look like she was plumping up a bit,” Deadspring chuckled dryly as she returned her attention to the chess game.
“Biite meeeh,” the teenager retorted in a sing-song tone, and Dakota raised a hand between them to stem any further digression into juvenility.
“You,” Dakota said to Deadspring, tapping two fingers on the table, “Make a move. And you,” she added two more fingers and waved them at Gilgallon in a beckoning gesture, “Let’s hear it from the start.”
“Alright,” the storm bringer agreed readily enough, casting a sidelong glance at a now nonchalant Deadspring. Gilgallon drew her knees up to her chest and hooked her hands around them, curling up snugly on the sofa before wading into her tale.
“Well, you know how I handle the watering and climate control in the arboretum on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays,” the young girl started, all too readily recalling the host of Christmas cacti she had ruined last year. That particular batch of plants had been intended as gifts for the Amazons of Paragon until some unexpected lightning and wind had cropped up…inside the base. Little Lilac and Wicked Calypso had decided on some appropriate community service for Gilgallon after the former had talked the latter out of throttling the teenager senseless.
“Well, I was in there doing my thing with the steam and the water,” Gilgallon recalled, hands gesturing in circles as she gazed back into her memory, “When I heard…
…Fateweaver’s cell phone chimed lightly on her belt, and her eyes narrowed ever so slightly as the particular ring tone registered. This was a number from which she rarely heard, and the fact that it was only a half a dozen days until Christmas did not bode well for the message’s content. Unclipping the elite piece of tech, she flipped it open and stepped into the nearby arboretum for a bit of privacy.
“Hello and happy holidays,” the visionary woman smiled as she delivered her greeting, “I hope they haven’t been keeping you too busy this season.”
Fateweaver’s face darkened as the caller conveyed information in clipped tones which carried few pleasantries, reinforcing the ominous foreshadowing which had accompanied the call’s arrival. The importance of the message in conjunction with the intermittent responses she provided prevented the seer from taking notice of Gilgallon’s efforts nearby. Shrouded as the teenager was in the mists which were fueling the surrounding sections of hydroponic foliage, her hearing was unimpaired as the conversation continued.
“And you’re sure your information is accurate?” Fateweaver voiced into the sleek phone, “Because I haven’t sensed anything amiss of late that could derail his deliveries.”
More chatter from the other end of the line, and the lithe heroine turned again on her heels, now officially pacing.
“I’ll give you that,” she chuckled lightly to the caller, before adding, “Have you tried Malcolm?”
A quick reply had her adjusting her footing to head out of the arboretum at a decent clip.
“Mmm-hmm, okay. Well, I would be happy to help Mrs. Kringle. I just need to make a few arrange–” she said as she continued to…
…move out of earshot,” Gilgallon finished up her recounting, “But I definitely know what I heard. Kringle. Mrs. Kringle.”
Dakota and Deadspring shared a brief glance that the teenager knew all too well, but before either could give voice to their thoughts, she prattled on further.
“I knooow what you’re going to say,” Gilgallon blurted out, waving her hands in a frenzied defense, “But just think about the rest of it before you go judging. Fate’s got no family and no real friends to speak of. So she always volunteers to cover the holidays, right? Most of the time out there, on the streets, she works alone. Whenever she eats, she usually does so by herself, and well I don’t really think that she actually sleeps all that much either. Lord knows if she does sleep, she’s doing that alone too.”
“Plus,” she added forcefully, “You both know, Fate. If she did want the holiday off, for whatever reason, she would have planned it out waaay in advance. She wouldn’t have asked someone to cover for her only a few days ago.” The young girl held up five fingers on one hand to emphasize the coincidence of the day that the phone call was received and the request submitted.
“She’s almost freakish with her planning,” Gilgallon delivered, pausing for full additional oomph, “You know that.”
“The point is,” the young girl summed up her rambling, “There’s no solid reason for her to have taken Christmas off, especially at the last minute, and knowing that she received an urgent phone call from one Mrs. Kringle on the same day, I think it’s an open and shut case. Is it really so hard to believe that she might be the one coming down that chimney tonight?”
Gilgallon’s gloved finger pointed to the burning hearth for emphasis, and as she did, a few chunks of stone tumbled down the interior of the chimney and clattered into the fireplace, sending a light spray of sparks into the air.