The Ultimate Prey
Chapter 1
by
DreamWeaver and Hunter
DISCLAIMER: Everything belongs to Marvel except Kiefer, Jan, and the Disco.
FEEDBACK: Yes please. . . . katduza@yahoo.com or mainsmel@yahoo.com
HUNTER'S NOTES: Many thanks to Dream Weaver for all her amazing hard work to get this done before I left for Canada. It was a pleasure to work with you.
DREAMWEAVER'S NOTES: Kudos to KAT for setting out the whole idea! An amazing mindmeld as we sliced, diced, and spliced the story together over many a chat. Great fun!
AUTHORS' NOTES: The dialect of the two main baddies is of Southern African origin: South Africa (Kiefer) and next door Namibia (Jan). (boet--Afrikaans for 'brother', in slang-comrade or close friend)
14 Months Later, United States East Coast
The steady, solid beat of the rock band reverberated through the disco's walls, floor, tables--and Logan's adamantium skull. He gazed at his whiskey glass, mesmerised for a moment by the miniature seismic shock waves vibrating in his drink, finally picked up the liquor and drained it off. The loud impact of the glass as he slammed it down on the cheap formica tabletop was buried under the band's frenetic noise.
Heavy metal. It was that, all right. Sounded like an endless domino row of tool cabinets pushed over one after the other in rapid-fire succession. And if the noise wasn't bad enough, there were the lights. Strobe lights that flicked and blinked and stabbed the eye, now blinding red, now searing green, now brain-piercing bluish white. The lights, the noise, overwhelmed his sensitive eyes and ears. If today wasn't Bobby's birthday he would have pulled up stakes from this joint hours ago. But this was what the kid wanted--a night in the Big Apple. So as a present Logan and Hank and Cyke had pooled their bucks for the treat and were here with him to make sure he had fun and got back home safely. After all, a guy could get just so many pairs of socks for his birthday. Logan resolved that next year he would opt for the socks.
One Eye was perusing the newspaper oblivious to the noise. His ruby quartz visor must filter out the colors and flashing lights, Logan decided resentfully. The frown visible on Scott's normally smooth brow was because of what he was reading, not the beginnings of a headache like the one knocking for entrance to Logan's brain.
Beast had elected to come into the city 'au naturel,' as he put it. To the curious who were bold enough to confront him, Hank said he'd just done a promotional gig at a used-car lot and was still in costume. As proof he pulled a couple of balloons out of his belt pouch, blew them up with gusto and presented them with a toothy smile. Satisfied, the questioner invariably complemented him on his outfit and went off content, balloons in one hand, in the other a little card that read:
Bob the Blue Beast
Balloons
Birthdays
Bar Mitzvahs
"Why 'Bob'?" Logan had asked.
Hank blinked. "Alliteration, of course!" he replied, leaving Logan looking lost.
*****
Here in the disco Hank appeared to relish the chaos. Something new to study, evaluate. He'd already given a succinct, admiring discourse on the lyricism of heavy metal--as if anyone could have heard him. Then he analysed the color changes in the lights, put a numerical value to a spectrum compromised by the blue base hue of his fur, and proposed equations for the rainbow waves modulating through his thick coat. All this delivered in a deep rumble that rivalled the band's base section.
Scott leaned over to place his lips against Logan's ear, the paper clutched in his hand folded open to a back page. "Unconfirmed reports of a mutant serial killer continue this week," he shouted as he read, then surrendering to the noise indicated the article and shoved the newspaper in Logan's face.
" . . . as yet another mutilated body was found, this time in Florida." Unconsciously, Logan moved his lips as, squinting, he tried to decipher words that jumped about on a page blinking red and green and phosphorescent white. "Shot, skinned, and decapitated, the trademark mutilation is easily identifiable. The body count continues to rise over the last year to a staggering 23 victims. Authorities still deny any links between--"
His ordeal was interrupted when the crowd convulsed and ejected a sweaty, beaming Bobby between the two men. "Hey, guys, aren't you gonna dance?"
"You call having a spaz attack dancing?" Logan demanded sourly. He gave up on the paper, sliding it back to its owner, and was about to air his opinion of the 'music' when a man abruptly pushed through the tangle of twitching, jerking bodies to bend down by Scott. The stranger was pale as a ghost, the heat of the disco sleeking his skin so that the stuttering lights flashed over his features in coruscating waves of color in such a way that Logan had difficulty determining his true appearance. Scott listened, turned, mouthed a question. For answer the man jabbed repeatedly at the article in the newspaper.
One Eye rose, and when he did it wasn't Scott that stood, but Cyclops. A slight twitch of head by the Xmen's team leader and his companions followed both him and the stranger into the seething mob.
Thank God! Logan almost screamed his relief as he brought up the rear behind Hank and Bobby. Just let him get free of this living hell and he was ready for anything!
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