Frank Bonaparte's Story

Amidst a group of glowing, clicking monitors, throwing deep green shadows across the darkened room, Paul Sanderson fiddled with a headset above his left ear. His right hand braced on a large black handrail, his eyes focused upward at the giant, flat-screen monitor that portrayed a filmy, grainy image.

Taylor's Bar.

As he finished adjusting the microphone, he turned away from the image, wiping wet palms on his jeans, nerves suddenly jumping into his gut.

"Okay, people," he said, beginning to walk around the room and adressing the five operators, all clacking at keyboards, "we have skirmish one approaching. The paid help is en route, the target's located at Set Point Lyra. Our objective is eyes and ears only, and do not engage."

He waited until five hushed voices whispered their consent, nodding in satisfaction.

"Open the hushed casket."

---

Harriet opened her eyes, sitting up in the borrowed room of Taylor's bar, Liz's hospitality still fresh in her mind. The woman hadn't asked much more past their awkward coffee date, just pointed to her room and bade her goodnight. The quiet understanding was far more welcome to the fugitive than any sort of pity would've been.

She stood to her feet, stretching out her limbs, feeling her back pop uncomfortably. Still clad in her clothes, now rumpled and dirty, she went in search of her host.

"Uh, Liz?" she hollered.

"Que pasa?!" Came the hollered return.

The room that was directly adjascent to Harriet's temporary sleeping quarters was open and empty, lights spilling in from the high-rise windows that faced East. The glossy, retired dance floor showed scuff marks and deep scratches, but not an ounce of dust or dirt marred its surface. People stopped coming to dance when Taylor had left, but that didn't mean that Liz let the place go into disrepair. It was just empty, hollow, lacking in the warmth and the welcoming feel it used to have.

Kind of like Liz.

She emerged from a room in the back, carrying what looked like a plate of food. She left it on the polished bar counter, looking to Harriet with a question written on her face.

"Sleep okay? Took you long enough to wake up."

Harriet shrugged. "Well, being on the run will do that to a gal. What are you up to?"

"I...was cooking. Or trying to cook. It's been a while since I've tried playing at housewife."

Whatever she'd made didn't look too bad. It actually smelled pretty good...whatever it was. Liz looked a bit annoyed as she glanced down at the plate. "Might order out. Or drink. Drinking's always good."

She glanced towards the rafters, dusting off her hands before crossing the dance floor and heading over towards what looked like a fire-escape that lead to the roof. "I heard noises a little while ago. Like something was walking on the roof. Knowing this place, its probably a demon or some kind of werewolf," she made a face, beginning to climb so she could get to the catwalks that criss-crossed the ceiling.

"So, were you going to leave or stay, Red?"

Harriet shoved her hands deep into her pockets, jingling spare change and watching the other woman climb. "I wouldn't want to overstay my welcome," she said, cautiously, "and you're pretty in danger here. I mean - didn't you say this place had been broken into once before?"

"A few times, but listen," She leaned her head over the railing, her dark hair hanging around her shoulders like a curtain. "...my husband used to take in people all the time, regardless of risk. He's gone, but his hospitality isn't. You're welcome to stay as long as you're comfortable, ok?"

She pulled back, jogging over to a platform that stood behind one of the massive windows. She'd had it replaced a long time ago, after the bullet holes and broken pieces made the place just a little too drafty for comfort.

Her brow was knit as she looked outside, down on the street below. Nobody. Nothing. This wasn't as difficult as she thought it would be.

Before she could move away from the window, however, a figure came into view. Kamala's. That was obvious enough, by the black hair on his head and the stagger in his step, by which the wound on his thigh hadn't fully healed. He seemed intent, however intent a walk could make a person seem. That, and he was headed for the door of Taylor's Bar, if only for the lingering suspicion that things might have gone amiss since he'd left it.

The establishment's doors were open, and that's surely how he made his way in. As soon as he'd stepped place in the marred establishment, he'd given a concerned holler and shut the door behind him.

"Liz?"

----

"The players are in position," Paul said, gripping harder at the hand rail. "Signal our b-, er, signal... the operative. Start recordings, and keep the tapes spinning. Two for acknowledgement."

A staccatto of clicks burst from high mounted speakers, and Paul nodded in satisfaction.

----

Harriet's eyes widened at the voice, dropping into a defensive crouch as her hand pulled a straight razor from a pocket, flipping it open.

"Were you expecting company?" she hissed towards Liz.

"Down girl," the woman replied, jogging back over to the ladder and gripping the outter rails. Rather than wait to climb down, she slid, landing with a slight bounce to her step before jogging over to the front door, undoing the lock, and pulling it open.

"You're alone, right?" she asked Kamala, her expression unreadable.

"Alone's I'll always be. I was just checkin' in on you." Kamala said, and seemed to want to press past Liz and get into the establishment. "Nothing's happened, right? Not since fuckly Mc. Vandalization broke in? I'll leave as soon as you tell me to, but if anythin', I didn't want to drag you into this whole shit."

The girl that was also in presence had gone unnoticed by him, as of then.

Liz's smile was a bit sheepish, but at least she was smiling.

"Er, well," she opened the door a bit wider, so he could see Harriet still crouching with the knife clutched tight in her hand. Liz was watching Kamala's face, her expression suddenly tight.

"You didn't drag me in." she reassured him. "I invited myself into the mess all on my own. Harriet," she lifted her voice, turning back to look at the girl.

"You were looking for Kamala, weren't you?"

The woman the question was directed at uncoiled slowly, her eyes taking in Kamala from toe to head as she straightened. She folded her arms across her chest, her face relaxing when Kamala appeared to be very alone, indeed.

"I was. Do you... Were you followed?" she asked, peering around him on tiptoe.

But, as soon as the red hair of Harriet had caught Kamala's eyes, he wore what was a disgusted combination of scowl and surprise.

"What the fuck is she doing here?!" he almost yelled, and pointed a hand at the woman in question. "Gee, I don't know, was I followed, Harriet?! Christ! Why did you let her in here?"

Liz was dumbstruck, literally silenced in her surprise at Kamala's immediate reaction.

He didn't know whether to be outraged or relieved that he'd get a chance to finally talk to the girl who seemed to be causing all of his problems. Naturally, the man had defaulted to outrage, and sidestepped Harriet to find his way to the bar. For a moment, his hands balled on the marred countertops, before he spun, and pointed his gaze at the redhead again.

"Did you psychically mindfuck your way in here, too?"

"BEFORE we all start screaming at each other, why don't you explain why the fuck you've gone apeshit?"

Liz seemed to snap from her surprise, reverting to anger. She looked between Harriet and Kamala. "Am I not seeing the whole picture here?"

There was something she was missing. Kamala was an angry man, but he didn't get hostile without good reason.

Harriet raised her brows, her lips set in a thin line. "Are we believing fairy tales from the men who tried to kill you? Kamala, I thought you were smarter than that."

She shook her head. "What the full picture is, is Kamala saved me from a crazed kidnapper. I was captive on his ship, and he was to take me back to Sanderson. Kamala - with a lot of heroics, actually, it was rather dashing - incapacitated the man, and freed me. I then took care of him."

She shook her head in disgust. "I knew they'd get to you first, Kamala. And... I'm sorry for what you've heard. I know I have no right to ask you anything, but could you hear me out? One last time?"

"The part she's forgetting to tell you is that the crazy bitch made me shove a body into an incinerator with her. You were a lot less kissass when you were telling me how much of a fuckin' idiot I was, lady. And how much shit I'd be in if I didn't toss Kane's body with you." he growled, though he kept himself placated at the bar.

"You've got the speak-stick now that you're here, I guess. Shoot out some shit that'd probably get me screwed in another way, just like everyone else has done. Go 'head."

Someone had walked in at an opportune time, it seemed.

The kid was standing at the entrance, staring at Kamala and Harriet as they argued, one brow raised. They hardly had room to talk about shock or strangeness. After all, arguments were normal, everyday things. The kid? With their gasmask and heavy army jacket, backpack with a tube of water hanging out of the side? Was just slightly more strange.

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"...should I come back?"

And then there was that voice. Robotic. Unreal. Devoid of emotion. Like a program application from a computer, coming straight from the gasmask.

"Shut the fuck up, Kamala. You're still an idiot." Liz spat.

She got this distinct feeling that someone was watching her from behind. Glancing over her shoulder, she startled, taking a step sideways so she could turn and stare at the newcomer. Kamala's presence was relatively welcomed...but this person?

"Unless you've got a good reason, I don't think you should," she replied immediately. "Bar's closed."

"A shame. I just got shot at in Gambit's," came the voice again. "Was just looking for somewhere to stock up and get a drink..."

Harriet suddenly squinted at the newcomer, beginning to move forwards, cautiously approaching the gasmasked fellow.

"You look... familiar," she said, cautiously. "Kamala, they aren't with you?"

Harriet's footsteps closed, further and further on the person, taking her away from Liz and Kamala.

"No." Kamala abruptly answered, though his quick tongue had come from the frustration of being hushed and shut down rather than suspiciousness of the newcomer. "Fuck if I know them, just do whatever. Not like I have any say in shit that goes down around here."

The kid seemed almost pleased that someone, in the very least, had decided to approach them. Their eyes squinted at the sides, as though a smile had forced them to narrow. "I don't think we have ever met." came the voice of Microsoft Mary from the gasmask. They extended their hand. "But my name is Sen. You are?"

They peered at Kamala and Liz for a moment, before letting their eyes pin onto Harriet's face.

"You might if you didn't up and leave." Liz hissed, deciding to place herself at Kamala's side. She crossed her arms over her chest, her eyes narrowed and a scowl fixed on her face.

"So, you came back cuz you were worried about me?" she asked in an undertone. "It's cute."

Her eyes were staring hard at Sen.

Harriet frowned, taking another step forwards so that her and the strange figure were almost toe to toe, her head cocking slightly.

You're working with Sanderson.

The words were not spoken; but projected directly into Sen's mind, in Harriet's disembodied voice.

"My name's Harriet," she said, aloud.

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"Oh. Excellent."

said Sen. Before Harriet would be able to react, the soldier whipped out a pistol, slamming the butt into her temple. As she went limp, they curled an arm around her shoulder to keep her up, and pointed the gun to her head.

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"I'll be taking my leave now, so don't worry,"

they said to Liz, backing up toward the door.

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"I've got what I came for."

The instant the butt of the gun struck Harriet's head, Liz had stepped out, her own pistol cocked and aimed for Sen's face.

"Take one more step and I'll blow a hole in your face." she said darkly.

Sen quickly tucked their face behind Harriet's back.

Code: Select all

"You run the risk of killing her. Frankly, I don't mind."

Kamala was undecided. He didn't entirely object to having Harriet taken away, and then again, he also had a cultivated hatred for the girl for bringing him into such a mess in the first place. Even if it hadn't been her fault.

He was undecided on that too.

But he drew that same black, worn pistol from beforehand from out the back of his waistband, and drew it to point at Harriet and Sen.

"If you're working for Sanderson, I'm pretty sure they want the broad alive. I don't know how happy and willin' to pay they'd be if you brought her back dead, kid."

"They never said to nab her alive. Just to nab her." Sen replied.

---

Paul scratched at his chin, his eyes glued to the monitor. This was interesting; the operative was a lot better than he thought if they could grab Harriet so fast.

"Okay, let's circle in. Maybe give them a hand. Alpha, I want you to-"

Paul paused, then, gripping the railing harder as he peered closer at the monitor. Something didn't add up.

"Can someone tell me who the fuck that is!?"

---

Another figure had quietly opened the door to Taylor's. He was lean and casual, and when he'd opened the door to see a captive Harriet, and an offender, Sen, he didn't look quite as surprised as someone should have, coming into a hostage scene. He also didn't look quite as unprepared. With a hefty hatch of construction wood in his hand, he stepped to the back of the two, and felled the object onto the back of Sen's head.

The kid's eyes widened a moment, all before their lids sagged and the soldier collapsed onto the ground, gun firing once into the wall before it flew out of their hand, nearly striking an equally collapsing Harriet. The two landed on top of each other in an odd mockery of an 'X' shape, all entwined limbs and closed eyes.

Liz slowly lowered the gun, glancing to Kamala before turning on the safety and tucking the weapon in the back lip of her jeans. She approached the pair cautiously, before getting Harriet under the arms and dragging her off of Sen. Glancing up at the newcomer, she didn't bother smiling, just watched to make sure he didn't brain her too.

She was totaly depending on Kamala to keep this guy under control.

"Someone's going to pay for that goddamned bullet hole." she muttered.

"That good? I did a good job?" The newcomer asked, his eyes flitting from Liz, to Kamala, to Harriet. Then, to Sen, the one he downed. "I saw a gun and a chick with a gun at her head. Heard you guys in here shouting about something. Guess I came in at the right time."

The man hesitated for a minute, oddly calm, given the circumstances.

"Uh... So, should I call the police? And, the chick - dude - chick? The chick with the gun should probably be... Shit, I dunno. Restrained or something. Loose fucking cannons, in this city."

He reached for his phone, only to have his wrist grasped by Kamala.

"Call the police, and I'll take that block of wood and hit you over the head with it. Who the fuck're you?" the smaller man questioned.

"The... guy who just saved a poor janitor the job of cleaning up brain matter?"

---

"I need a line on the newcomer. Get me Photo I.D. Jameson, call HQ, tell them the bird's gone bust, and we won't see that money anytime soon. Mark - where the hell is Mark?"

Paul whirled around in a tight circle, like a dog chasing his tail for a moment, until a younge aide popped up behind him. Paul leapt backwards with a gasp of air.

"Fuck, Mark. I told you to keep in front of me. I need a coffee. No, a drink. No, a drink in the coffee. You know what, just bring a goddamn coffee machine and a forty down here. It's going to be a long night."

Paul watched the man walk away, turned back to the monitor, and sighed.

"Where the fuck did he come from."

---

"We're trying to keep this whole thing on the down-lo," Liz grunted, still dragging Harriet's prone form back to the guest bedroom where she'd slept the night before. "No offense, but the police wouldn't really handle this the way we'd want them to."

All of their asses would end up in jail.

"One sec..." she called, disappearing with Harriet in tow, before she deposited the girl on the mattress, flipped up her legs and turned her into the recovery position. With a heavy sigh, Liz stepped out of the room and closed the door behind her.

And then Frank Bonaparte entered.

He was a relatively normal man, though gaunt in stature. Plain of clothes - nothing more than a white dress shirt and jeans. An empty holster hung around his belt, to which he stored his cellphone device in. To him, it was ironic and witty. To others, it was probably a lame holster with an Android in it.

But it was special to him.

Bonaparte moved on - his mission was to get a beer and strike up idle, possibly boring conversation. That in mind, he made his way to the bar and sat in the seat two seats away from Daniel. One would be a little creepy and close, three would be awkward to talk around, but two bar stools?

Perfect.

After placing his drink, the man looked to the bounty hunter.

"Look a little young to be drinking, there." he said, idley as he could possibly manage. "But no one's given a damn about 'drinking ages' around this place in ages, so it matters not."

Then, he spun in his stool. Perhaps a little too eagerly, he shot out a hand to the man.

"Frank Bonaparte."

"Frank... Bonaparte."

He leaned forward with a smirk, and then a grin. "Name's French. First name isn't. I actually know a bit of French. Have a kind of dual-citizenship thing."

Then, he drew back, and clasped his hands on his mug again. He didn't touch the liquid inside of it. He also didn't seem to acknowledge Daniel's last question, and instead, his mind went to spinning the glass cup in his hands in circles and nodding.

"Icelandic? I'm getting an Icelandic vibe from you. May just be me, I guess, but I'm rather good at guessing nationalities."

Frank raised an eyebrow.

"Really? Strike one against me, then. Not adding it to the ratio, though. I only got a partial of your face when I sat down." he said. "Doesn't count."

Then, he gave a brief roll of his eyes, before his hand reached out to grab the mug on the counter and he, to take a swig of it before setting it down. Out of his dress-shirt sleeve poked a glint of a watch, before he idly dropped a finger into the cellphone holster on his side.

"Don't flatter yourself. I come to the bar to drink and chat. People in this city are so uptight, like I've got to have a reason to piss, talk, and drink."

"Live in Eden." Frank said, then quickly corrected himself. "Temporarily. I travel a bit. Live on inheritance, I guess, and I like traveling. So I do. Wing City, for now. Jutea... I think," He dipped his hand into his holster, pulled out his cellphone, and poked a few times on the screen. "Two weeks from now."

He holstered his phone.

"And you? What do you do?"

"A stuntman?" Frank asked, and a shit-eating grin came to his face before he could stop it in it's tracks. "That's the job where you fly around on fishing lines and do stuff that movie people are too scared to do?"

He raised a hand and covered his mouth, as if to cough. He was still bearing that shit-eating grin. Hell, being a stuntman was impressive, even to Frank. He didn't like it when there were people in the bar who were more coy than he was.

"And your other job is bounty hunting. I like that. Like... Dog, right? Dog the bounty hunter? I love that show."

"Smug." Frank said, rather bluntly and suddenly, though with no ill intent behind his voice. In all honesty, Daniel's demeanor was starting to get the best of him. The best of the tempered, traveling, inheritance-wrecked rich-boy with a diamond rollex and a cellphone holster.

"Something wrong, though? You sighed. Sighs tell people either one of many things - and I learned this in my Psychology class - that the person on the other end is misreceiving a yawn, or that the person delivering the sigh is unhappy about something on their mind."

He shrugged.

"Or wistful. Something on your mind? The bar is here for talking about the horrids of your life to people you'll never meet again, after all."

Frank's fingers curled together, and he gave the counter a few knocks before sitting back and giving Daniel a good look-down. For a moment, he didn't know what to say. Perhaps the fellow wasn't a bad guy after all.

But that didn't stop the guy from leaving a sour taste in his mouth.

"Blues, huh? Well, days pass like days. Sure you'll get another chance." he said. "I'm not quite sure I like the douchebag approach."

His brows scrunched together, and a slight smirk came to his lips. "So, are you not a crime-fighting stuntman bounty hunter, or was that just a part of the douchebag approach? 'Cause lying for the long haul is never a good idea."

"I see." Frank said, and gave a wistful sigh, similar to what Daniel had done earlier. He turned his eyes from the guns. "Well,"

He finished his drink.

"It is Wing City. Everyone carries a gun around for some reason or another, except the ill-informed tourists." he said, shaking his head. His tone was almost scornful. "It is good that you're getting the criminals off the streets though, hm?"

He grinned again, rather suddenly.

"Most interesting case? You seem to like talking about it, and I could use a story."

"So you haven't got her yet, is what you're saying?" Frank asked, the parts he didn't want to hear of Daniel's statements flying above his head like passing thoughts. "Well, what's the bad history? You've got me interested."

"Wow." Frank said, finally turning a genuine look of amazement toward Daniel's way. "Sounds like a big case. You said you were stuck on what... petty dirtbags? Don't bounty hunters get to choose who they hunt, or is that just on Dog? I mean... Being a stuntman seems cool, but imagine being a stuntman for say... Jimmy Carr. He's popular in England, right?"

"But I guess you probably don't have enough leads to follow it through, or else you'd be hopping on it, wouldn't you?" he continued, and pressed a hand to his chin in feigned thought. He clicked his teeth.

"Sure there'll be another one."

Frank shot an irregular half-smile at Daniel, the type where one of the sides of his mouth was open more than the other, and his eyebrows were raised. It was almost predatory, but laced with feigned concern and surprise.

"I hope you hadn't made too much progress on the case. I tell you - I've met people like the terrorist broad you were talking about. You know, criminals. Especially big ones. They like to keep their tracks clean."

He lowered his gaze to the counter, and his smile subsided.

"Spent a few weeks in New Wallabie. Got involved with the wrong crowd. Ain't too far from here, but they were the type. One's right onto them, and they don't have a problem slitting someone's throat. Unempathetic bastards, right?" He began to vaguely rub his neck. "I, er, quit that state for good."

Frank laughed.

"Tricks? Like what?"

Then, he sighed and shook his head. Before Daniel had a chance to answer, he pointed a finger at the man, and gave a slight smirk. "You know, I like you. It's not just because I'm inebriated, either. I've got a few friends in Wing's dirtways. If there's even the slightest chance that, in this entire city, your name comes up between them? I'll go ahead and give you the red light."

He nodded then, and gave the other man a brisk pat on the shoulder.

"But you're in the clear. I probably wouldn't worry about it. You said it was... Daniel, right? Daniel what?"

"Say, though." Frank started again. "I think it's about time I hitched out of here. It was, infact, a pleasure talking to you, Mr. North."

He placed his palms on the counter, and hoisted himself up. His mug was empty. He made a mental note of Daniel's name - not too hard to remember, and the slight edginess helped. With a sarcastic smile and a royal bow, he grabbed his things.

"See you on the beach."

Kamala stormed out of the establishment, into the back alley of Taylor's Bar. It was littered with cans, grime, and overfilled trash bins. The stench alone was enough for the man to duck out of the alley, no matter if he'd seen Liz on the way out or not.

Still, his hands balled at his sides and rubbed at his jeans. She'd wished him dead, so why should he care enough to help her out?

Whatever help her out meant.

And Harriet, who regarded him as nothing really more than a pawn on a chess set, so she can get her favorite piece - herself - to the end of the board. She'd lied to him first, then regarded him as much, and got Liz to utter nothing more than an 'I dunno' when she asked if she would risk his life too.

He kicked a can through the alley, because fuck'm all.

As the aluminum racketed across the pavement, skittering and sliding around the dirty, grimy place, the sound rose and careened across brick walls, raising a clatter that was deafened and dampened by the garbage bins, trash, and other disgusting filth that filled the small space. The can rolled and settled against a trashbag, stopping it's journey.

It successfully masked the footfalls.

Suddenly, a force slammed into Kamala's back, a full-on shoulder charge from a larger enemy.

He hadn't time to react, and lurched forward onto the grimy pavement of the back alley. His elbows caught his fall, and his fall hadn't quite been maneuvered gracefully. He rolled onto his side, in both pain and delayed reaction, and his hand made for the worn black gun that he had tucked into the back of his waistband.

But when he saw who it was who assaulted him, he stopped, and shot his feet and hands to the pavement to try and bring himself up.

Kane's eye glinted in the dim light, his boot smashing into Kamala's exposed jaw as the younger man attempted to gain his feet.

"Think you can fucking run from me, boy?" Kane snarled, bending to snatch Kamala's hair in an iron fist, dragging his face down to his. "Or did you think you were home free?"

With his attempt to hitch out of there stifled, and he disoriented by his aggressor's boot, Kamala wasn't a contest to Kane's attack. When his vision came back from a vignette, and he'd found the larger man with his hand on his hair, he lifted one hand to pry it off of him.

The other had balled, and sent itself toward Kane's jaw.

There wasn't much time to retort.

The fist was unexpected, but then, the boy tended to do things that took Kane by surprise, sideswiped him, even. Twisting his neck to dodge the punch and feeling knuckles scraping across his throat, Kane responded by sending his own heavy blow - aided with the brass knuckles fitted to his palm - into Kamala's forehead.

He hung onto consciousness, just barely. He'd been struck on the forehead and jaw, both of which weren't exactly prime spots for maintaining one's head. Blood trickled down into the creases of his eyes, and the hand he'd used to grab Kane's hand came to his eyes to wipe them out. His other went to the back of his jacket.

He withdrew Darla, and pointed her to Kane's neck. His grip was shaky, but they were close enough for a shaky grip not to matter.

The cold metal of the pistol pressed against Kane's throat, and Kane shifted both hands to grip at Kamala's face and hair, a cold, dark laugh bubbling from his chest.

"You couldn't break a dead man's arm, kid," he growled, "so what makes y'think that you can kill me? Do it. Pull the fuckin' trigger."

Kamala gritted his teeth, moved the gun past Kane's head, and pulled the trigger when the barrel was pointing past his ear.

The explosion of sound sent Kane staggering backwards, his grip slackening as the shell shock tore through him, nothing but ringing in his ears. The dust from the gun discharged with the blast, spattering against his eyepatch, stinging the raw skin underneath it. With a roar that he dimly heard, Kane charged forwards again, winding both fists back for a two-pronged, disoriented attack.

The first struck Kamala's shoulder, and the second missed by a mile, spinning Kane to the left, still off balance and staggering.

With Kane staggering, the other man managed to stagger to his feet and book toward the alley wall, before leaning on it and holding the gun hand to his forehead, which still bled from the copper knuckles Kane had smacked him with.

He lowered the gun, vision swimming, to Kane's figure. His other hand replaced it's spot on his forehead.

The momentary respite ended too quickly, as the ringing in Kane's ears faded to a dull roar. He turned to face his enemy, his fists flexing as Kamala pointed the gun at him.

"Who're you trying to fool?" Kane called, beginning to close the distance between them.

Without a word, Kane dropped to grab a handful of gravel, tossing it at Kamala's face before running to close the gap yet again.

Kamala lurched backward and held his other hand to his eye. Regardless, Kane was right. Even though if he'd shot, he'd miss the man through and through and even if he had hit he'd probably just land a dink on his body armor, he wouldn't shoot in the first place. He sunk to the floor of the passage, getting slick alley grime on the full back of his jacket.

His hand grasped a meek pile of mud and gravel and gave the same hospitality to Kane, though with blind eyes, the pile of rocks and mud hit the bottom of hit his shins and bounced off harmlessly.

"Fuck off!" he screamed.

As Kane closed the distance, however, six shots sounded, exploding from the door of Taylor's Bar. Each round slammed into Kane, forcing him backwards, away from Kamala as the slugs slammed into the armor, knocking him back with each loud dong that exploded.

In the doorway stood Harriet, a duffel bag around her shoulder, both hands on a gleaming silver revolver as it was held, ramrod straight, pointed at Kane.

"Glad you could make it," snarled the mercerenary, as Harriet unloaded the empty shells and slapped in a new casing.

"He won't kill you, Kane," Harriet said, quietly, "but I will. And I'll finish the job this time."

Kane's eye widened, looking indecisive.

"Back home, little dog. Back to your master."

Kane snarled again. "This ain't over."

Slapping his chest, he disappeared in a hazy flash of light, making Harriet sag with relief, the gun falling to her hip. She blew an errant piece of hair from her face, turning to look at Kamala.

"You okay?"

Kamala raised an eyebrow to Harriet, before sagging with relief as she had and dropping his head to the floor. For a moment, he rested his head on his knee, and let both of his hands rest on the floor before unsteadily picking himself up.

He gave a nod to Harriet, surprisingly enough, it was without any hint of disdain toward her. There was a large enough gash on his forehead and a bruise on his jaw to say otherwise, but after surviving Kane, he certainly felt okay enough.

"Fine. Feel like I can't fuckin' go anywhere without gettin' sieged by lunatic over yonder. Like a hospital," he said, pressing a hand to his head, again.

Harriet nodded. "I wonder what that's like?" she said, sarcastically, before crouching in front of him, tilting her head to take in his injuries.

"You'll be okay, if a little out of sorts for a while. I was just about to pack it up and head out. I'm glad I chose to, now."

She offered him a slight smile, and stood, holding her hand out to help him up.

"Tougher than you look, Kamala."

"Yeah, well, I didn't have crazy ass psychic powers and a pawn piece to help me." Kamala replied, just as venemously. "You're leavin', then?"

He took her hand, and helped himself up. His face seemed to attempt something that looked like a smirk, but seemed eerily like a sneer. The odd expression left his face just as fast as it'd come.

"Sure Liz'll miss you."

Harriet shrugged a shoulder. "Not leaving for good - though thanks for the thought." She shot him a grin.

"No, usually when it gets cat-and-mouse like this, I like to have a few stashes. This was going to be drop point one, for lack of a more creative name." She shook the bag, jostling the contents. "If and when the going gets tough, I can have a change of clothes, a snack, maybe a gun - if I can sneak it in. Want to walk with me?"

She glanced down at his face, wincing at the bruises. "Unless you want to get patched up first. But I figure I owe you some talk - something that's not a stream of gold-plated bullshit to get you to side with me or whatever."

She fluttered a hand, then.

He breathed, then gave a weak shake of his head.

"My face fuckin' hurts, and if I sneer at you more I think I'll tear somethin'. Plus, if we walk anywhere I think someone'll call 911. We can talk here, if you don't mind the smell of hobo shit, or in the bar."

It was as much of a yes as she was going to get out of him.

Harriet chuckled about that. "I can't tell the smell of hobo shit from you, Kamala. And is that Kane's gun you were holding?"

She craned her neck, trying to see the weapon. "It is, isn't it? That's Darla. Oh, boy - you're lucky you even have a face, let alone are breathing. How the hell did you get it from him!?"

Kamala raised the gun and lowered it again, giving it a quick roll of his eyes. "It's a piece of shit is what it is. I thought we weren't talking that gold-plated bullshit, Red. I don't care about this piece of dented crap. You could have it, if you want. I'm inclined to shove it in a furnace, if I didn't think it'd earn me a day with Kane Kringle, the fuck."

He sighed, and tucked it into the back of his waistband.

"Easier than you'd think."

When he offered the gun, Harriet stifled a chuckle, thrusting her palms at him. "No, no no. No thank you. Whoever has that gun is doomed to die a painful death. He's had that since he started hunting me."

She smiled. "Sounds like a better story than mine. But, as you said. Gold-plated bullshit aside, here's how it is; black and white. About twenty years ago, there was this girl, right? She was mauled in a car accident, really fucked up. This company called Phoenix Incorporated took her aside, made her into this freakshow. Walking magnet, electricity powers - she had the whole nine yards. They called her Experiment 01889."

She smiled, reaching her hands back and lacing her fingers through her copper hair. "So, Phoenix had all kinds of cases like that. Take a cancer patient, give him psychic powers. Take a stillborn, make it a fire elementalist. It was all back when they thought the Russians or the Chinese were going to descend upon us like a swarm of gnats. Naturally, with all these supers walking around, one or two of them are going to be assholes, you know?"

Kamala raised a hand, then. He'd been leaning against the grimey wall all the meanwhile - there'd been no purpose in trying to save his jacket.

"Let me guess - you were one of them?"

"No, but you're top of the class." She said, continuing on. "So, super assholes running around, wrecking shit. The government steps in, shuts down everything, and hires a Private Military Corp - Endyne - to clean up the garbage they flung around. Endyne starts shutting these supers up - and they aren't gentle.

"But Endyne, too, was fascinated with the idea of a super army. Especially with 01889 - Conner. That was her name. Jaz Conner. So, Conner was supposedly the best of the lot - terrifying power. They didn't want to just keep her quiet - they wanted her secrets, they wanted to control her and clone her and make a lot more. They sent their best people after her - dude name Matt West, but he isn't important."

She leaned against a dumpster, her hip cocked. "Getting all this so far?"

He had taken to crossing his arms, his head leaned up against the wall behind him, while he stared at the repeated brick pattern of the wall parallel. Dully, he nodded. "My concussed head is absorbing everything you're sayin'."

"Good, good." She said, distractedly, "okay. So, Matt West goes and falls for the experiment, and the two of them go on a roaring rampage together. Murders the CEO and Execs of Endyne, then destroyed all remaining work of Phoenix. Burned it all right down. They got decorated - commended publically, even. But the government... they wanted their soldiers, Kamala."

Her face grew stark. "So, they lined a few of us up - volunteers, street kids looking for a meal, widows without family to go to, teen runaways, the people nobody would miss. They offered us a choice; die in that room, or take a shot that will make us gods."

She ran a finger down a line of slime on the dumpster, watching her nail turn yellow and brown. "Throughout it all, I was the only survivor. Every time I get away, Sanderson's Crew just drags me back again."

She lifted a shoulder. "That's the long and short of it, really. I've got a chance to hit back at them, and I'd appreciate your help in it. I need your help in it. It doesn't make me proud to admit it, but it's the truth."

Kamala raised a brow. It was a suspicious one. The same suspicious brow that shot up when it detected gold-plated, hobo-smelling bullshit, it did. The reason? Why would that girl need him for anything? Why would anyone need him for anything? Kamala was irrelevant. Completely and totally irrelevant.

Sometimes he took comfort in knowing that, and sometimes he wanted to stick a gun in his mouth and shoot it off for the fact. Sometimes, his gold-plated hobo-smelling bull-shit detector shot up because of it. This was one of those times.

"Why the fuck would you need me - " he started, and began to recount the various things she'd said about him, " - the fucking idiotic, incapable, asshole, for anything, Red? It just seems like you're crocking up bullshit again."

Harriet's eyebrows lifted. "You're the only person I know that has talked to more than one of these pricks and lived to tell the tale. Hell, you fought off Kane - three times - and are still breathing, Kamala. I don't know anyone who's done that. Believe it or not, you're one of the best shots I have at getting out of here."

She wrapped her fingers around her wrist, watching him. "You're involved either way. At least my way has an end game that doesn't end with everyone killed."

"Yeah, I know," he said, bringing a finger to his temple, and rubbing it. "You don't have to lube me up to tell me that."

Then, he looked up to her.

"Fine. I'll help you. I'm en-route back to the bar, though, to get some hydrogen peroxide, a new jacket, and a bottle of Jack. Then, I'm going to sleep for seven days, like the Bible tells me to, because god fucking damn if you're not startin' to look more like my mom the more you talk."

His feet carried him to the door, while his hand steadied him on the wall. His other pressed to his head.

"I guess that means you're leavin', then?"

She nodded. "I am, for a while. Patch yourself up, soldier; I'll see you in a bit."

She turned and headed around the corner, large duffel banging against her thigh.

-----

A peculiarly close distance around the corner, a man with a cigarette boredly watched the people across the street go by, until the familiar red-haired woman he'd saved from death only earlier had turned the corner and taken him by 'surprise'. He had displayed the same surmountable 'surprise' when he had walked in with a plank and saw a 'surprising' scene of hostage and gun, and 'surprisingly' stopped it.

Quickly, his hand fell, and the light of his cigarette was extinguished on the brick wall behind him. A light glinted out of his sleeve, which he took care to hastily shove back in, before confronting Harriet.

"Hey. You're the chick who almost got her brains blasted out. I never got to meet you. I'm the guy who hit the dude-chick over the head with the wood." Frank said, quickly extending his other hand to her.

Harriet paused, glancing down to his palm, and glancing back up into his face; a long, languid moment as she bit her lower lip, studying him toe to head.

"Yes you are," she said, her voice low, sultry, as she tightened her hand around his. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr...?"

"Bonaparte." He finished, with the cheesiest French accent he could afford. Then, he lowered his voice, and tried to imitate the same sultriness that she seemed to have. "The shiner really compliments your features."

"Sorry about that. I guess. Why was there a robot-chick-man-after you? Or am I not allowed to know?" he asked, with a relatively normal voice and a head tilt. In all actuality, he'd been sticking around that corner the entire time, trying to listen to every single snippet of conversation she and that black-haired man were having.

"It's alright if I'm not. I mean, it's not like I saved anyone, or anything."

She smiled up at him, her eyes lighting up as she laughed; a tinkly, girly sound. "Oh-ho, you're allowed to know whatever you want, Mr. Bonaparte. It was just a simple robbery - nothing more."

She paused, and then dropped the laugh, the smile, and everything else. "But you knew that, didn't you?"

She gestured to the assortment of cigarette butts surrounding the man's immediate area, each similar in shape and colouring, each crumpled in the same way.

"Hear anything you like, Mr. Bonaparte?"

Frank suddenly looked down, and his smile faded. His lips pulled into a thin white line. The response was sudden, and guilty.

Then, he nodded. He withdrew a cigarette box from his pocket. It was crushed and empty. There was a red triangle going down it; Marlboro. He showed it to her, and then gave a weak laugh. "I guess I was worried. I came out of the room Liz gave me, and then I saw Kam storming out."

He shrugged.

"I was about to go out myself, after him, but I heard something happen so I took the same exit as Liz and waited around the corner. I heard uh... I guess you called him Kane. I was just too afraid to do anything. Sorry. I smoke when I get anxious."

"No skin off my nose, Bonaparte - you got a first name?"

"Frank. Frank Bonaparte. I prefer just Frank, though," he said, with a new smile in her direction.

"Frank, then. How about we call a spade a spade, Frank?"

She dropped her duffel bag, leaning against the wall beside him, watching down the street as a teenage jogger in a mini skirt crossed the road to their side of things. She squinted at her until she was well out of earshot, before glancing back at the man.

"In my experience, frightened people don't sit against a wall and smoke fifteen malboros, waiting for the action to die down before leaping in and being a hero. Also, you wasted no time when it was my neck on the line. I figure you for a man who likes his information, Frank. And there's nothing at all wrong with that. In fact," she said, smiling up at him.

"I think I could use a man like you. Are you interested in a little bargain?"

Frank looked toward Harriet for a long while, before pressing his middle finger to the middle of his brow and suddenly looking incredibly annoyed. He'd been waiting far too long to be bantered like this.

"I had something cooked up about ... not knowing that chick-dude had a gun, and Kamala being my friend, but I don't know him and planks and heads mix pretty well, in my opinion. If I lose this information, then I guess it's not too big of a loss on my end, given the only dollar I hit was when you started with the word 'bargain'."

He sighed.

"It might've been when I hit the dick with the gun over the head, but they're keeping him locked in a room."

Harriet patted his arm, making a small noise of soothing. "And I'm sure you could've sold me on every word, Frank. You're the type that likes to talk, and I can tell just by listening that you're also the type that could tell me the sky is bright pink, and I'd hang on every word."

She tilted her head. "But, seeing as how you're a bit mixed in this, you might as well get some profit. I'm worth quite a penny, after all - you could always hit me over the head with a plank of wood."

She paused. "But there's also a lot more fun to be had if you work with me. And six figures. Depending on how willing you are to risk a few things. All you need to do is talk.

"Interested?"

"Talk, and risk a few things." Frank added. "Playing with words isn't your forte. Neither is dodging the butt of a gun," he said, and induced a slight chuckle in himself when he looked at her eye.

"I don't know. Like you said, I'm a man who's interested in information. I don't know if I'm big on fun, or money," he said, pulling at the edge of his sleeve so the glint of an expensive watch running down his wrist would be seen. As the sparkle of silver caught light, Harriet gave a glance and a small smirk, the gaze floating down to Frank's mouth for a moment before sliding back to his eyes.

"But isn't it best when all three are mixed together?" She asked, smiling. "For instance; if I told you that a man named Paul Sanderson had an unfortunate love for... girls who were slightly underage, regardless if true or not. I'd bet you'd know where to put the seed to make sure that information blossoms, right?"

The corners of his mouth tore upward in morbid humor, and Frank bent over and slapped his hands on his knees to laugh in a manner that echoed into the alley behind them. After a few moments, he contained himself, righted himself, and brought up a finger to wipe the underside of his eye.

"Is that a serious request, Harriet? Of course I could damn well do it, but..."

His hand raised, and his fingers met the wrinkles of his forehead, made by the raised state of his brows.

"Yeah. I could."

Harriet smiled viciously. "Excellent. Because, Frank, there are some people who are going to chase me down until the ends of the earth. I'd like very much to see them suffer while they're doing it - and suffer publically. Could I count on you to drop tidbits of information like this - using your own creative lisence, of course - from time to time? I'll see to it your time isn't wasted."

"Consider it done. Got an ID on him? Paul Sanderson doesn't sound like the most unique name on Terra," Frank said, with an exasperated shrug of his shoulders.

Wordlessly, Harriet reached into a back pocket, placing an I.D. card with Paul's face stamped across the top into his hands. "You can keep it; I have others."

Paul looked at the ID for a moment, and then wordlessly shoved it into his pocket. He frowned. There was not a job he would not enjoy doing more, but if it meant cashing in?

Well, the man with the diamond rollex would roll in dog shit.