Crossover Earth '98

by Paul Cocker

Mastiff hedges Time Square as he makes his way across town, running along entire blocks of rooftops when possible. When he needs to cross alleys or streets, he leaps from one building to the next, the treads of his biker boots landing softly with each bound. He has heard that the vigilante Pariah is a lot faster at this, but Mastiff’s approach is still a heck of a lot better than walking, or God forbid, taking the street cars. The stocky man swings himself over the edge of the roof and crouches. He skulks among the stunted chimneys that afford the only suggestion of cover. His cover, really, is the early morning darkness. If there had been light, he would be visible to any beatcop looking upwards.

Mastiff arrives at the edge of the roof of a four-story brick apartment building across from the back entry to the garage, and lets his senses expand to take in the entire block. His keen eyes press through the night to spot a delivery truck approaching, his nostrils flare as he begins to smell bologna and smoked turkey, salami and corned beef, pastrami and ham... a butcher truck, delivering cold cuts to the deli in the lobby.

From the roof to the busted lamp post, then to the pavement, the human predator moves. He lands hard, and sprints for the truck, reaching it, even as it turns down into the garage entry approaching the watchmen at the guardbooth there. He uses the truck’s bulk to block his own from the guards’ view, and when it stops, he climbs underneath and holds tight to the steel ramp the delivery staff use to unload. It would have been simpler to climb onto the truck’s roof, Mastiff muses, but he assumes there are cameras on the ceiling of the garage.

Cleared for entry, the truck waits a moment as a door with steel jaws opens quickly to allow them in. Its upper teeth do not retract all the way into the ceiling, a stark reminder that it can close as fast as it has opened, trapping one inside the garage, or perhaps, with one’s vehicle in its grasp.

The truck rolls to a stop and Mastiff drops to the cement underneath. The driver presses the elevator button, then goes to the back where his partner is already loading trays of meats onto a push-cart. With a ding-ding, the elevator arrives, and the butcher driver walks around to the front again to wedge the sliding door open with a hand truck. He heeds no mind to the people who will be inconvenienced by the temporary disabled elevator.

And so he goes back to work.

Mastiff slithers from under the truck and in a quick pounce is inside the elevator, kicking the truck away from the door and sneering to himself at the reaction he imagines the fleeing elevator will evoke from the driver. There are twenty-five floors to this particular office building, but the elevator only goes to twenty-one. The entire twenty-second floor is the security matrix. The twenty-third is the CEO’s office level, and the last two his penthouse home.

Mastiff presses the button for the twenty-first floor, and pushes open a panel in the elevator’s ceiling. He takes a gamble that, having already seen the butcher truck arriving, the camera monitors will not be attention to screen for the camera within the elevator. But there is no point to tarry. He jumps up through the opening and places the panel back. People will get on in the lobby, and floors as well, but it will be only moments before he is close enough to smell his quarry.

* * * * * * *

The Truant saunters alone in the dark office made of glass and stone. It might seem a delicate room at first glance, but there is nothing delicate about it. Perpendicular walls are of polished black marble, shot through with ivory veins, while stone flags in the floor are dark gray, sparkling lavishly with crystalline branches. Suspended lights rest on black steel shelves against walls, pointing towards the dark ceiling to diffuse their brightness, casting dim shadows throughout the room.

The other two walls are not walls at all, but windows facing north and west. Just before the northern window, a huge desk made of onyx faces the massive double teak doors of the office. The doors are several inches thick, and take considerable strength to open. Behind the huge desk lies an equally large chair made of leather and wrought steel. It is a throne, actually, replete with excelsior volutes about the legs and receding scrollwork along the backrest. Some may chalk it up as banal, but the Truant adores mythic symbols, such as his "seat of power."

The Truant stands at the juncture of the north and west walls of his office. These walls are the looking glass to his Manhattan kingdom, providing him a regal view of the cars, people, and false twenty-four-hour daylight from the neon below. He hums to himself as he carefully rearranges the gladioli about the corner shelves by the western window, smelling their luscious perfume scent all the while. He inhales deeply, savoring the fragrance, and breathes out.

From the hall outside his office, he hears men, his men, shouting to one another. Through the thickness of the doors, he cannot make out their words, but he did not need to. The Truant knows his men. There is a huge thump against the door, and a sliding sound, but the Truant does not turn around. He hears the clatter of metal on the hallway floor, and he knows it is a pistol, falling to the ground, most likely dropped.

The truant turns slowly away from the window and faces the double doors. The diffuse twilight of dawn permeates through the windows and creates a sort of silhouette around his meager form, a dull gleam shines on his rubber pate.

Like his office, at first glance, the Truant is not at all what he seems. Even calling the Truant a "he" seems wrong; for despite his maleness, he carries himself with a feminine grace and a slow, soft sensuality. He also wears a gray dominator’s mask, veiling the expressions of his face, not to mention accentuating the uncertainty of his masculinity. All these ambiguities about the Truant work to his advantage, and he knows it all too well.

There is quiet in the hall for a moment, and then the doors fling open, swinging wide to reveal a massive, powerful man, standing grimly outlined by the harsh fluorescent lights of the corridor. Several of the Truant’s enforcers lie unconscious about the floor just outside the office.

"Very nice, Mastiff," the Truant says in a flat tone as he sits himself down in his huge chair. "They’re not dead, are they? I paid good money for those gentlemen."

The large man snickers to himself. "Nah, they’ll be staring at their eyelids for awhile though."

"You do realize you could have phoned. My men wouldn’t have been any trouble if I was expecting you."

Mastiff curls his lower lip and shrugs. "Figured I could use the exercise in trying to sneak into your office building here. Ya should tighten your security around the garage, by the way." He folds his arms in front of his chest, sinews shifting as he tightens his fists. "Heh, and your men weren’t trouble."

The Truant merely smiles. "Yes, I see."

"Well, figured ya oughta know Kristi Carmichael no longer has a betting parlor in the Middle West Side."

The Truant’s smile widens, his eyes gleam with cheerful malice. "That’s what I like to hear. Was there any, hmm, resistance?"

"Some amazon named Magnetta," Mastiff says, "but like your cronies outside, I flattened the babe."

The Truant moves forward to lean on the desk with his gloved hands, his rubber mask hiding the annoyance on his face. "So, Carmichael has resorted to metahumans, hmm?"

"It’s a sign of the times, I guess. Why, is that gonna a pose a problem?"

"No, no it will not." The Truant opens a drawer, and extracts a sealed letter envelope. He waves the envelope at Mastiff. "But before I digress, I suppose you want your payment."

The large man smirks and raises a satiric brow, sizing the paper wavering in the Truant’s hand. "No such thing as a free lunch there, boss."

"Quite true, Mastiff."

The Truant hands the envelope over to Mastiff. The envelope is thin and the contents seem next to insubstantial, it is obviously not money. Mastiff opens it and takes out a piece of paper. He unfolds it and reads it, once, then twice. His brow furrows somewhat.

"Bernard Clute, eh?"

The Truant clasps his hands together and rest them atop the stone desk. "Yes, that was the easy part. It was the matter of, hmm, rerouting pertinent information on you that was more difficult. But you need not worry, that has been resolved."

The Truant sat back in his huge chair, musing to himself about the proceedings. A strange calm settled over him. Nothing outside his introverted walls existed for the time being as he sank deep into the cushions of the chair, brooding. A silence hangs in the air, a palpable article dissecting the two men. The Truant lets it linger there, and stays unresponsive momentarily, then lets out a sigh.

"You may go now," the Truant finally says.

And so, Mastiff begins to pad silently across the office, out into the hallway where so many of the Truant’s men lay unconscious. He knows he is working on sheer conjecture, but it is entirely possible that a gangwar is in the midst.

"And, Mastiff," the Truant continues, "I’ll be phoning you for another assignment very soon."

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