Crossover Earth '98

Miami in late spring. Sunshine, sand, ocean winds, a flatscape of low buildings and palm trees. The dry season of the year; though southern humidity made "dry" a less than appropriate description.

Mark Battle walked out of his rental car, and carefully looked around him as he walked across the lot. He was a little nervous, not an emotion that the bounty hunter typically felt. He could feel the invisible eyes of an unseen enemy on his back, a predator ready to strike. Mark had made quite a few enemies in his career - super bounty hunter, a superhero of sorts, but he had never faced that most irksome of superhuman dilemmas: a psychotic arch-enemy who had escaped to threaten innocent lives. More than one superhero had been driven over the edge by the undoing of their work, when spilt blood and broken bone and sweat and hours of pain go for nought because a criminal has slid under the wheels of justice and is free to kill again.

And though Mark had faced a number of inhuman enemies, not even Mastiff had come as close to killing him as the creature he was now hunting.

Skein.

The Catgut Killer, a superhuman with the ability to unravel himself and use his body pieces as weapons. It had been eight months ago. Mark had pursued him from Michigan, where he had engaged in a homophobic killing spree. He and Chariot had barely defeated him last time, and that was when they were both healthy. Now Chariot was in a wheelchair, still recovering from the injuries he’d suffered in that battle.

And to track him down, Mark was heading into enemy territory.

The sign on the door said "Bramwell and Harridge", with "attorneys at Law" in smaller script. It was a large Miami law firm, tall glass tower, great ocean view. Mark also knew it well as the drug syndicate’s law firm of choice for most of the Gold Coast. One of its employees was Colin Barnaby, a thirty-year old court-shark who had already set his toothprints into the cases of some of Florida’s better assistant district attorneys.

"Mr. Barnaby’s expecting to see me if he’s smart." Battle said, breaking through a glass door into the office, shotgun in hand. For once, Mark was dressed for the trade. He was wearing blue jeans and a large jacket with the label "BAIL BONDSMAN" written in big letters on front and back. It was uncomfortable, given the heat and humidity, but today it was more important to get the message across.

"Security." The secretary was pretty quick to the phone, but Mark didn’t care. All it took was one good kick to break down even the most solidly locked thick oak door. Mark lashed out with a quick, hard boot, and he entered the inner sanctum. He saw Barnaby, with one hand on the telephone, peering up at him with a "deer in the headlights" expression. He was a handsome African-American in his late 20s who looked like he could have found work as Don Cheadle’s stunt double.

"You!" Battle shouted at the astonished lawyer. "Fugitive retrieval! Where’s Skein?"

Barnaby straightened himself and put down the phone. "How on Earth would I know?" Barnaby sneered. "Get out of here."

"Fat chance." Mark displayed his paperwork like a peacock showing off its plumage. "Where’s Skein!"

"Does it look like he’s here?"

"Where’s Skein!" Mark shouted again. "Are you deaf? Answer the question! Where’s Skein!"

No distractions, no change in focus. Secretly, Mark thought to himself that Quartz would be proud of his tactics. Either that, or his old enemy Reynolds would consider this technique too subtle.

Several rent-a-cops came running through the broken glass door. Mark turned around, and where once a glass door stood, there was a force field shimmering amid the shards. Mark held up a document to show the security his authorization. "Fugitive retrieval! Leave the area at once! Any interference will be considered obstruction of justice!" Mark began to shout out the appropriate penal code of the Florida state law which justified his actions. Good old abusive common law…

"I can’t help you." Barnaby said. "And even if I could, there’s always lawyer-client privilege."

"What the hell law school did you graduate from? Harvard School of Obfuscation?" Mark barked, maintaining a commanding tone, trying to wear down the lawyer’s defenses. "There is no lawyer-client privilege for protecting a fugitive! Now I know you work for Harridge, which means you’re pondscum or worse. But even Harridge was never a stupid little weasel! Tell me where Skein is!"

"No." Barnaby stated, not intimidated at all. He picked up the phone, but there was no dial tone.

"Too bad, all circuits are busy, scumbag." Mark barked. Funny what you could do with tiny force fields inside delicate equipment… "Tell me where Skein is!"

"Go to hell." Barnaby said. "Touch me, and you’re mine…"

Barnaby pressed down on the side of his desk, and suddenly the desk drawer sprang out and caught him in the kidneys. Barnaby went down and moaned on the floor.

"Shoddy workmanship." Mark said. That’s the nice thing about invisible force fields - it’s hard to prove you assaulted anyone on video tape. "I want Skein, and I want him now. Tell me where he is, or I’ll…"

"Is that a threat, Mr. Battle?" Zachary Harridge was a man in his late 30s, but he kept himself in great physical shape - all the better to support all those gold chains he wore. Next to Vivian, he was probably the person that Chariot hated more than anyone else in the world, and Mark didn’t like him much either. Lawyer, drug dealer, slaver, smuggler, he was every shade of corruption imaginable in Florida, and he displayed it with a flamboyance that would make a soap opera villain blush.

"I was wondering when you’d show up." Mark snapped, and he smiled. "How’s your brother?"

"I’d almost forgiven you that." Harridge shook his head. "I see you’re even more obnoxious as an adult then you were as a teenager. Isn’t that supposed to work the other way?"

"I want Skein."

"After what he did to you and to your - physically challenged -- mentor on your last encounter, I’d imagine you’d want to keep as far away from him as possible."

"You’re sheltering him!" Battle accused.

Harridge laughed. "I find it really fascinating to see what sort of paranoid conspiracies can be concocted by a testosterone addled, steroid-ridden mistake of genetic engineering. All those drugs that are working inside your brain can’t be very good for your sanity."

"If anyone knows anything about narcotics, it’s you. But representing a sub-human like Skein…" Mark shook his head. "I think we need to contact the Guinness people. You just set a new low."

"Get out of here. You’re not going to learn a thing." Harridge smiled. "And tell Chariot that business is very good in his absence, and I so look forward to his return to action in my city. Provided Skein doesn’t finish the job."

Mark shook his head in disbelief, dropped the force field, and generated a huge ball of spit that landed squarely in Harridge’s face.

"If either of you clowns think you’re gonna get ahead dealing with a nutcase like Skein, you’re even more stupid than I think. You’re days, maybe even hours, away from a body bag." Battle snorted. "It’d be nice to see Skein get someone who deserves it for a change."

Mark rode a force field out of the room. Harridge waited a few minutes, ordered some underlings to sweep the office for any listening device that Mark might have planted while he was loudly distracting people. When he was convinced none was present, he motioned for people to speak again.

"You know, letting that man live beyond his teens may be one of the great mistakes of my life." Harridge said, arms crossed, cupping his biceps.

"I didn’t tell him anything, sir." Barnaby informed him, holding his side.

"I almost wish we were doing more with Mr. Skein." Harridge shook his head. "He’d make one hell of an assassin."

"Sir, we can’t control him as it is. Battle’s right about one thing. He’s dangerous."

"If he takes out Battle and Chariot, it’ll be worth the risk." Harridge mused. "And then there are those other superheroes: Palomino and Pinto, Tracer, Gallant. Just imagine what it’d be like if we could make Florida superhero-free. Now that’s what I’d call a Sunshine State!"

I’m alone among degenerates. When I heard of Skein’s escape, I left my sanctuary in my church’s basement and accepted the offer of a South Miami gay resort to harbor me in one of their bungalows. It’s better bait for Skein, and further away from the major population centers.

Mark Battle parked his rental job at the far end of a mostly empty parking lot with a bit of a squeal. It’s not particularly polite to take out your frustrations on a rented vehicle, but it’s been an edgy day for him, the sort of day when the sun burns too hot and bright, when the wind’s blowing from the wrong direction, when the stereo in someone else’s car is just a little too loud - the sort of bad day when everything in the background radiation of a person’s life becomes too irritating to take. Mark pulls into a visitor’s parking spot, walks into the resort with a stride that’s fast, even for him. He notices that it’s nearly deserted; that eases the tension for him by the smallest degree. Few bystanders.

"Hi. I’m Shane Demetrios." The man at the front desk is maybe just a little too friendly, a late 20s blond in a big red three piece suit who fills it very well. "Welcome to the Pogo Ground, Mr. Battle."

"I’m here to see…"

"Of course. Mr. Alvarez is expecting you." It’s annoying to have someone else finish your sentences for you. "Follow me."

Mark hadn’t felt so thoroughly scrutinized since his last encounter with the press. The Pogo Ground catered to the young and the muscle obsessed. A small group of swimmers caught sight of Mark at the pool, and watched him like a cat watching a particularly succulent canary. If he were in a better mood, he would have shown off to them.

"We’ve managed to get rid of most of the guests." Demetrios said. "By tomorrow, this place will probably be deserted."

"You’ll lose money."

"Boat loads." Demetrios said. "But Chariot’s done a lot for Miami. Sheltering him’s the least we can do. And who knows, maybe we can get some favorable publicity when it’s over."

Mark rolled his eyes slightly.

"By the way, thanks for what you did with Skein last January. You put your life on the line for us. We won’t forget it any time soon."

"You’re welcome." Mark grunted, not particularly anxious to acknowledge his deed. "Let’s go visit your guest."

Chariot was housed in a bungalow close to the pool, close to the Gatehouse. Demetrios knocked on the door, then inserted a keycard. Mark’s heart skipped a beat as the door opened.

Chariot was looking haggard, worn. There is no form of loneliness worse than sitting in a chair and watching television, alone, unable to venture out into the wide world.

"Hi… Luis." Mark was hesitant to address his old mentor.

Chariot’s eyes burned. He rose out of the chair, legs trembling, and struggled a few steps, gritting his teeth and shaking.

Demetrios moved to help him, but Mark held him back. It would take about six steps to reach him. Five… four…

Mark watched his movements with apparent dispassion. Luis struggled with each step… three… two… one… collapsed into Mark’s arms. They embraced tightly.

"I see you’ve been working out." Mark said, groaning a little. Chariot may have lost his speed, but not much of his physical strength, as Mark’s ribs could attest.

"Not as much as I should." Chariot answered. "Thank you for coming."

"Hey, no problem." Mark smiled. He allowed his mentor to break the clinch. "How’s the recovery? I hope the city’s paying for a good physio-therapist."

"The city is doing very well for me."

"Good. What’s the prognosis?"

"The improvement’s been very steady for the last month. I’m speaking normally again, and I don’t forget names as often." Chariot reported as he sat down again. "In two or three months, I might even be streetworthy again."

"As long as the Bicentennial Man doesn’t show up to get his powers back." Mark added. Chariot’s face suddenly hardened.

"The - who?"

"The Bicentennial Man. The guy who gave you your powers and said he’d come back for them later…"

"Why are you bringing him up?" The Bicentennial Man. Next to Vivian and Sebastian, it was the sorest of Chariot’s sore spots.

"Nothing." Mark shrugged. "Just making conversation."

"I heard you had some trouble with this Mastiff person." Chariot felt a strong need to change the conversation, and perhaps to needle Mark a little bit.

"Mastiff’s a tough one, but you’d take him." Mark paused. "In your prime," he added with a pointed smile.

"You’ll get him next time." Chariot turned in his chair. "You’re nothing if not persistent."

"Yeah. When I start to wear longjohns, that’s what I’ll call myself. ‘Mr. Persistence’. Or maybe ‘Indomitable Man’ Or maybe I’ll tragically fall into an animal hybrid experiment, become mutated and call myself ‘Pig-Headed’."

"Don’t mock the trade, Mark." Chariot said.

"Yeah, that’s way too easy." Mark smiled. "So what’s it like here in Queer-topia?"

Chariot shook his head. "They’ve been very hospitable to me."

"Yeah, someone who’s a six foot four hunk who looks like a cross between Johnny Weissmuller and Fernando Lamas. I can see them being real hospitable. You get it on with anyone?"

Mark was pushing it again. Why did he keep doing this? Luis sighed. "Mark, must you?"

"Don’t get upset. I just want to see you happy, man." Mark grinned and patted Chariot’s back in a patronizing manner.

"I’ll be happy when I’m up and running again." Luis snarled.

"You ought try new things." Mark laughed, enjoying his mentor’s discomfort.

"How is your mother?" Chariot asked.

"Same as ever. You know, I’m going to have to introduce you to my half-brother. He’s really annoying. You’d like him for about two minutes, then you’d really want to kick his ass."

"Mark, why are you doing this?"

"What am I doing, Luis?"

"Saying things that you know will irritate me."

There was a long silence. Mark shook his head. "Maybe I am. Maybe I’m just trying to avoid one of those sentimental Movie of The Week wheelchair moments. Maybe somewhere down inside me, I think if I can make things normal between us, you’ll get better."

"Normal. You mean arguing."

"Yeah. The arguing. Or maybe when I get uncomfortable, I become an even bigger jerk than usual."

"That’s why I didn’t want you to come until I was better." Chariot snorted.

"Mom says that’s stupid. She says we should be supporting each other. That we’re both too proud."

"She’s right. But that’s why I like you Mark. Your pride. Your spirit." Luis said.

"Except when you wanted to strangle me?"

"I never wanted that." Chariot tried to laugh. "Pummel you, yes." Chariot did his best to ignore Mark’s reaction during his battle with Hammer and Tongs. He had forgiven him for that; he had atoned for that during his fight with Skein.

"Maybe we should just shut our mouths for the rest of our lives. We’re not at our best when we’re talking." Mark snapped and promptly changed the subject. "So what about Skein? Are you all right about him?"

"Are you asking if I am nervous? Am I afraid of Skein?"

"I guess I am. Though it’s a real stupid question." Mark remarked.

"Of course it is." Luis stated.

"You aren’t insane, so of course you’re afraid." Mark noted.

Chariot shook his head. "I’m not really. I’ve spent a lot of time in prayer over the last few months. I’m prepared for whatever happens to me."

"I see. So you’ve brainwashed yourself and put off any anxiety about Skein until the moment of blind panic?"

"Prayer is not brainwashing. Please do not insult my religion." Chariot snapped.

"Why would I insult it?" Mark snapped. "It’s gonna to make you immortal. You’re a Catholic, you’re a virgin, you do good deeds, and you perform miracles. All you need to do now is to die, and you’ll be a shoo-in to become the world’s first superhero saint. Patron saint of metas."

"I have rarely attempted to force my religion on you, Mark. Let’s find another subject."

"Rarely? Except when you put the Virgin Mary and crucifixes and rosaries in every damn room in the Tower." Mark said, unwilling to let Chariot have the last word. "But you’re right, we need a new topic. How mobile do you think you can be when Skein shows?"

"Not very. I was hoping he wouldn’t find this place for awhile." Chariot stated.

"I’m hearing word about a task force being put together in FBI-land to track down Skein and Viv’s fun bunch." Mark informed. "If the bureaucrats can get their act together soon, we might be able to intercept Skein en mass before he becomes a threat to you."

"You. And the FBI? Together?"

"I’m not gonna put it on my resume. But, hey, even you teamed up with Sebastian once."

"Morgan threatened us all. We had no choice." Chariot grimaced at the memory. "But what about you? What do you think about Skein?"

Mark Battle stood very still for a second. "He scares me, Luis. The guy unravels himself and uses his body parts as a weapon. How does a guy think when he does that? What pain does he experience when he does it? He’s nuts in a way that I’ll never be, and that frightens me."

"I see your point. What next?"

"I’ll see if I can corner Barnaby without Harridge around. Maybe I can get a few answers."

#

#

It’s nighttime in Miami, and though the beaches are writhing with flesh and social noise, the offices are silent. Even in 1990s America, Miami is a city of play, not work. Though in the offices of Bramwell and Harridge, working instead of playing at night is more the norm for its employees.

And, this night, so is screaming.

Mark Battle was pushing his authority as a bounty hunter, and he knew it. He had already checked the office for Skein. But he didn’t think it would hurt to return; he just didn’t expect to come so close to his quarry.

The sound of a human scream is an interesting thing; what sounds like a monotone has interesting catches and warbles that captures a variety of subtle pain and terror. Mark Battle was a trained listener. He knew the sound of horror and disgust when he heard it.

He strode into the office, mantled with a shimmering cowl of force, and promptly had to quash his own disgust. Colin Barnaby was dead. Dead, and badly mutilated. His body was strewn across the room, a trail of skin and guts; only his head was intact. Mark managed to focus past the disgust, and gauged what was left of the body. Most of the muscle tissue - gone. Teeth - gone. Stomach, liver, kidneys, testicles, gone. Skein had dissected him. Had he incorporated those organs into his own body? Could he?

The secretary was sobbing wildly, on her knees, shaking and resting her head against a wooden corner, a crook of her desk. Mark did not have time for displays of sympathy.

"Where is he?"

He received no answer to his question, nothing but tears. Mark shook his head and began to prowl the office.

"The… computer…" the secretary managed to sob. Mark strode to Barnaby’s desktop and turned on the monitor.

It was a private detective’s report. A report detailing the current whereabouts of Chariot. Pogo Ground, 221 East…

"Damn!" Mark shouted in a voice that was higher and angrier than any Mark had used in a long time. He suppressed an urge to tear apart the room, and strode for the door.

Abruptly, a smiling Zachary Harridge blocked the door frame. He turned to the sobbing secretary. "Daphne, you have allowed privileged information to be leaked outside the firm. You’re fired. Pack up your belongings immediately."

"Son of a bitch!" Battle roared.

"You are not welcome here, Mr. Battle. But I should have known you’d be mixed up in this. I’m certain that the police will have many questions."

Mark looked at the smiling Zachary with complete hatred. He advanced, but Zachery spread-eagled his legs and held firm in the doorway. "You aren’t going anywhere. Not until you’ve satisfied the police."

Mark knew a delaying tactic when he saw it. Mark raised his fist to smite Harridge’s gloating face - and then turned around, enveloped a window with a force field, and plucked it from the wall. "I ain’t giving you the satisfaction of a lawsuit, Harridge." Mark snarled. He put down the window and a pile of glass shards in a corner. "And if Chariot dies, your life ain’t worth spit."

Mark jumped through the window, formed a glittering airfoil with a force field, and swerved to South Miami, as quickly as his powers could take him. It would not be soon enough for his taste.

#

It was a long flight, too long and too tense. It might seem like a cliché to say that Mark had never flown as fast or as determined in his life. He had two advantages over Skein; he knew where Skein was staying, and he could get there as the crow flies. But it wouldn’t mean anything if Skein had enough of a head start to reach Chariot first.

"Luis!" Mark shouted. "Luis!"

Chariot turned in his chair as Mark came crashing through the window of the bungalow.

"He knows, Luis. He knows. We’re getting outta here now."

"I wish I could stand and fight." Chariot stated.

"Not yet. I have a plan, but this ain’t the place."

Something big abruptly plunged through the opening Mark had made. It was a truly grotesque creature. In his current form, Skein was seven feet tall, but almost indescribable in physical terms; imagine if Dr. Frankenstein had joined his monster’s pieces together at random and built muscle and bone in places they shouldn’t be. Skein had rebuilt himself, he had killed and he had eaten, skin, muscle, and bone. Six months before, Mark had cut Skein in two, made him half a man. But through acts of murder, he had rebuilt himself so he was now a man and a half; not only taller, but far stronger, with muscle and bone much denser than a normal man’s. Skein’s powers had been formidable before; but now he found it unnecessary to unravel himself to provide a physical threat, and that made him a far more dangerous opponent.

"Revemption." Skein grunted. "Revemption in me."

Mark observed the naked tower of muscle and psychoses that stood before him, and moved in front of Chariot, digging in his heels, shielding his mentor. He hardened his force field around him; it was thinner but denser than usual; better to the penetrating power that Skein showed when he threw his bone fragments. "Your move." Mark could feel the fight juices welling in his head, but he was also afraid, an added kicker to the adrenaline boost.

"Hard death saith the Lord." Skein muttered. "Curses and hard death in Babylon. No darkness I endure in Babylon’s light, though I be split asunder. Revemption. Revemption in me!"

"You need to spend time putting your brain back together. You’re worse than me on Sunday morning." Mark said. He hoped Chariot would take advantage of the opportunity to pull away, to escape.

Skein’s arms suddenly telescoped, accompanied by a crack-crack-crack sound of rearranging ligaments, and Battle suddenly found himself with two hands at his throat. Battle responded with a pair of hard body shots, provided by fist shaped force fields. He felt a wall of fat suddenly roll up in Skein’s belly and cushion his second blow. Razor-sharp fingernails erupted out of Skein’s fingertips, digging into Mark’s throat.

"Though I be veiled in the shadow of death, I shall alone walk an evil fear." Skein said, a second mouth opening in his throat for a brief instance, accompanying the first voice in an odd chorus. Skein’s arms contracted, he wedged his muscle tightly, increasing his power.

Mark and Skein wrestled. Skein wasn’t as strong as Mark’s old sparring partner Mastiff, but he didn’t need to be. Tufts of hard, thorn-like skin suddenly congealed in welts over Skein’s body, piercing through Mark’s force field, ripping holes in Mark’s clothing and body, ragged like the teeth-like texture of shark skin. Mark rolled and managed to dislodge Skein from his body, but he paid a price in doing it.

"Son of a bitch." Mark took a step back and shook his head in horror, ignoring the blood that was streaming all over his body. Skein followed the attack by grabbing Battle’s shoulders and reinforcing them with gobs of muscle - then teeth formed within the muscle and it felt like Mark was being bitten by two animals with steel jaws. Mark formed a force field around Skein’s genitals and began to crush them; Skein’s eyes opened wide, and he shifted his groin, relieving the pressure. Skein sneezed, and the sneeze was acidic; mucous like hydrochloric acid burned Mark’s face.

Mark felt Skein lurch and press his body hard against him; no, something else had happened; Luis had slammed into Skein full force in his wheelchair, dislodging the psychotic but monomaniacal villain. Mark wrenched wildly, tearing open new wounds, but he was free.

"Son of a frigging bitch." Mark said, and he grabbed Luis and he ran.

Skein was in hot pursuit. A long strand of hair emerged from Skein’s cowlick and stretched into a wire-thin cord about twenty feet long. Mark elevated himself with a force field and dodged the makeshift garrote, Chariot in his arms. Mark began to gain altitude.

"How far is the nearest army base?"

"Cutbacks." Chariot answered. "There’s a naval base…"

"Damn, I was hoping to get hold of some nerve agents to take this bastard out." Mark sighed. "Anyway, they’d probably shoot first and wait until they’re stuffing us into our bodybags before they ask questions."

"You’re bleeding."

"Yeah, you can kiss them and make ‘em better if you want." Mark snapped.

Mark rolled as fragments of bone shot past them. "He’s starting to unravel himself to get at us. Good."

"Can you escape?"

"Escape is not my plan." Mark looked at Luis attentively. "He’s not hurting you again. Or anyone else for that matter."

The thin line of the ocean was rapidly approaching them. Mark vectored south, away from the crowds. He pushed Skein, but did his best not to outrun him. Skein, true to form, kept coming. Somewhere in the deluded haze that was his consciousness, Skein recognized Mark as the man who had mutilated him six months earlier, and Chariot as his other, most dangerous, enemy. Somehow, he felt blessed.

"Where are you going…"

"The beach." Battle said. "I’m looking a little pale. I could use a good tan."

Mark continued his flight, anxiously looking back to check on the position of his foe. More shards flew at him.

"Cow Hard! Abysrible cow hard!"

Mark was now at the beach. He quickly scanned for a rocky outcropping, found one, and landed.

"You’re on the bench for this game." Battle told Chariot. "Keep your head down."

A response welled in Chariot’s throat, but sat there unspoken.

#

Combat is a terrible thing. Some heroes wear their combats like trophies, like prizefighters checking their records. Mark’s a lot like that, probably because of his boxing background. But for me, there is no pride to be gained in beating a man, or a woman, or a demon. There is only pride in doing a good thing, in fighting for a just cause, and not hurting anyone in the process. Some call that attitude false humility. I call it sanity. Even Armature and Captain Infinity have been beaten. After awhile the occasional defeat helps you; it keeps you sober. And it keeps you from throwing yourself into positions where defeat is both certain and lethal.

Mark waded into knee high water, and watched Skein approach him. The surf was brisque enough that Mark had to brace against the surf with a small force field. But he needed to be more than steady; he had a second, larger force field going, a scoop in which he gathered up about twelve square meters of sand. "Hey, Skein! Life’s a beach and so are you!"

"Revemption in me!" Skein snarled, and his huge legs charged with a half-spring, pushing him ahead.

Mark took the sand he had gathered and whipped it into a vortex, generating a small sandstorm. Skein charged right through it and treated it as if it didn’t. Mark saw Skein’s muscles tighten, piling mass onto his upper body. He’d overpower Mark, beat him at his own game.

Mark was prepared for the onslaught. When Skein collided with him, Mark grappled him and lifted him over his head in a military press. Skein attempted to barb his body, but Mark threw him as far as he could, into the deep water. He saw Skein’s splash, put a force field bubble around his head to hold in the oxygen, and then dove in after him.

Skein surfaced but found himself poorly adapted for the water; he had absorbed a lot of muscle but not much fat. Mark’s genetically engineered physique was scarcely less musclebound, but he could use his force fields to manipulate himself in water as well as on land.

Skein started off by swinging wild and pulling Mark down. Mark did a quick, otter-like flip, grabbed an arm, and twisted it behind him. The arm quickly broke, Skein screamed, telescoped his legs to propel himself to the surface, and then twisted around to fix the arm. His mouth opened to an impossibly wide circumference, and spat out a huge spray of acid. But Mark saw it coming, and dove, grabbing a leg on the way down, and made a beeline for deep water.

Skein spread out like a spider and loosened his skin, fabricating it into a net as strong as steel wire. But the net dropped more slowly in water than on land, and Mark was able to roll around it, his force field propelling him like an otter. He then grabbed the net and pried it off Skein’s body, drawing large globs of blood.

Skein knew he was in trouble, but in his current mental state, he wasn’t sure what the trouble was. He turned to old habits, and began to unravel himself almost completely, jutting bone out of his body like barbed spears. He swung them wildly, surfaced again, and caught Mark in the side with one of his spear-bones as Mark followed. It sunk through his force field and into his ribs, nearly puncturing his right lung. Mark instinctively sunk a force field that broke the bone in two before Skein could wriggle it in further. It saved his life, but that was small consolation for the bounty hunter. With a single stroke, Skein had undone all the good that taking the fight to the water had achieved.

Skein continued to aim bone daggers at Mark; they missed. Mark clamped a force field around one and issued a sudden tug on it to send them both hurtling toward the bottom of the bay. Skein managed to distend a cord of muscle around a disembodied hand and wrapped it again around Mark’s throat, a deathgrip sustained by a single thick strand of muscle. Mark let it sink in - it was no longer strong enough to threaten him, and he carried them down further. They were beginning to reach the darker depths, and then, abruptly Mark felt an impact below him and knew that they had reached bottom. The sun, shining brightly on the surface, was barely illuminating eighty feet beneath the waves; this nearly absolute darkness was extraordinarily disconcerting. Mark, feeling the silt and the rock of the depths beneath his feet, began to scoop the sand and rocks of the seabed and leveled it in a wave in the direction he thought Skein had landed.

"Rest in peace." Mark snarled as the force field dredge provided enough illumination for Mark to see Skein buried alive.

Skein thrashed, finally realizing his peril. He didn’t breathe the way normal humans did, but he still needed oxygen to energize his blood, to keep himself alive. He thrashed wildly, and wriggled and wormed his way into a thousand pieces of writhing flesh knots until he had pried loose from the sea bottom. Then he rose to the surface.

Mark saw a windpipe extend out of the mass of swirling threads, muscle, and bones that was now Skein, telescoping like a periscope to the surface. It grew to ten… twenty… thirty feet in length, and headed for the surface. Mark grabbed it and snapped it like a twig.

Danger gave far greater focus to Skein than any sensation he’d experienced in months, even the thrill of a righteous kill. He emitted body fluids out of one side of his body to jet propel him to the surface. Mark found himself riding an impromptu geyser. He placed a force field above them both to shield them. If Skein reached the surface and restored his oxygen supply, Mark knew he was a goner.

But in an instant, the situation changed irreconcilably. There was a thud, and a darkness, and Mark felt something plow into them from above. Mark blacked out for a moment and then saw Luis alverez bounce off the center of Skein’s mass and begin to drift. The force shield acted partially as a cushion, but also transferred a large amount of the shock to Skein. The central intelligence that controlled Skein faded. The threads and bones and muscle fibers that surrounded him were falling to the ocean floor.

Mark was barely conscious, and as badly wounded as he’d ever been. For a split second, he saw his optimum target - the unprotected brain of Skein. One shot, and he’d make it impossible for Skein to ever come back.

But there was also Chariot, now drowning, floundering with useless legs, being swept away by a strong current. Love and hate welled within Mark, and the body took over before the conscious mind could make a decision. He charged at Chariot, grabbed him, and lifted him out of the water.

They were about a half mile off shore, in one of the rockier, deeper shelves off the Miami coast. Mark frantically scouted for a lifeguard’s tower, for any sign of help. And he found one. The chase had not gone unnoticed, and some lifeguards, braver than they had any right to be, had taken a position near Skein’s last known position.

"Luis!" Mark shouted as he set the unconscious Chariot down on his back. "Breathe, Luis, dammit!"

Mark considered how it might be possible to use his force fields to force oxygen into his lungs. But it was unnecessary - a quartet of lifeguards had crowded around them: two came over to Chariot and began to perform CPR, two came over to Mark and tried to get him down.

"Hey!" Mark objected.

"Mr. Battle. We need to get you on your back for triage." An attractive female lifeguard was trying her best to sound authoritarian.

"Screw the triage." Mark moaned.

"You’ve got multiple lacerations and you’ve got something lodged in your ribcage. We’ve got to get you steady so we it out."

Mark looked down and blushed. "I’m naked. Could you get me a towel before I end up on the Internet again?"

"If you lie down…"

"But what about Luis…"

Mark turned and saw Chariot on the ground, coughing. "He’ll be fine, Mr. Battle. Please let us help you."

Mark sighed, and allowed himself to be gradually lowered onto a stretcher. "At least I get the good looking ones to look after me," he gave a half-snicker, half-sigh, as he surveyed his rescuer’s body. The lifeguard found it a mercy that he lost consciousness a few moments later.

Mark awoke with Luis looming over him. "What do you want?" Battle snarled, and then rolled over to vomit. There was nothing in his gut to spew except bile.

Luis helped support him. Mark recognized the tense clinical confines of one of Miami’s Intensive Care Units. "We really must spend less time in hospitals, you and I." Chariot said.

"Yeah." Mark coughed. "The medical bills… a real bitch. What they don’t take away in income tax… the bloody hospitals get."

"Try not to say too much, Mark."

"Yeah, like that’ll ever happen." Mark snorted.

Chariot almost smiled. "By the way, they never found any piece of Skein. Though I don’t wish him dead, I must admit that I’m not unhappy at the news."

Mark coughed. "Not to call you a hypocrite."

"I guess I am. At least when it comes to him," Chariot said.

"Well don’t worry your Latino conscience about him, Luis." Mark said, regaining focus and clarity. "He ain’t dead. He probably latched one of his neural tissues to a fish, and used its gills to pump oxygen into his brain. He’s probably down somewhere on the ocean floor, slowly rebuilding himself. The next time we see him, he’ll be ten feet tall and he’ll have a shark’s head growing out of his stomach. I wonder what it’ll do to his brain?"

Chariot looked remarkably uncomfortable with this line of reasoning. Mark saw his discomfort and smiled.

"Of course, if he was smart, he’d learn to assimilate the neural networks of geniuses and grow his intelligence to match his body." Mark smiled and suppressed a cough. "The horror is only beginning."

"Perhaps we need to make preparations." Chariot said, a little nervously.

"Sure." Mark said, an offhand comment.

"Mark." Chariot finally began to perform a long rehearsed speech. "I have a proposition for you."

Mark shook his head. "This had better be good. I like you Luis, but you know we got different tastes."

Chariot blinked. "I want you to be my partner. When I’m better, I’d like you to leave bounty hunting and form a partnership in crimefighting. The city will pay you well, and…" Chariot struggled for a second reason. "Well, I like having you around."

"You’ve gotta be joking. Luis. All the time we’re together we just fight. We’re like a pair of pit bulls in heat."

"Perhaps. But I think some of the reason we fight is that we’re scared to be close to each other. It’s time to push that cowardice aside."

Mark sighed. "You might be right, but I also like wandering around. It’s a good apprenticeship for me. I used to think I was the toughest kid on the block, but I found out the hard way I’ve got a ways to go. I don’t think I could develop staying in one place, and I know you won’t leave Miami."

Chariot nodded.

"I’ll always be around if you need me." Mark said. "There is email."

Chariot was clearly disappointed. "Mark, consider it a standing offer. If you feel like settling down."

"I’ll think about Luis." Mark said. "Probably more often than I’ll care to admit."

Life is struggle, a struggle against the pieces of your character that haunt you. Loneliness is a terrible enemy, it isolates you, it batters your ego, it convinces you that you’re unworthy, and it taunts you when you enjoy your solitude too much to seek the company of others. I’ve always been the sort of person for whom solitude is a trap. I’m a hard person to like on a personal level - I always have been - because my personal demons like to lash out at anyone with whom you make a connection, and because the world irritates me.

And so I am alone again, a state which I prefer, and a state that I know will destroy me if I become too comfortable with it. I can’t help but resent Mark’s rejection. I know he’ll be here for me in the times of crisis, and vice versa. But friendship isn’t about providing comfort in times of trouble, it’s about the little moments, about enjoying a person’s company in spite of their idiosyncrasies. Charity is easy, but persistence and forgiveness are hard, especially when a man’s weaknesses are as great as their strengths. But at the same time, I know Mark is on a journey, and I can’t stop him for my own needs - shouldn’t stop him. But I think we’ll end up on the same road eventually. I just hope we get time to enjoy each other’s company before one of us finds our way into the inevitable darkness.

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