"Imaginary Friends Have Real Friends"
May. 15th, 2022 03:42 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dochermes"Imaginary Friends Have Real Friends"
10/12/2014
I.
With the kickstand down, Timothy Limbo shut off the engine and dismounted. He took off his helmet, moved a few steps back and regarded his Harley with a mixture of anger and heartbreak. Why on Earth had he agreed to let Megan tune the old girl up? He should have known what would happen. When Megan Salenger was left unchaperoned with any machinery, she promptly took it apart and reconstructed it to her own wild ideas. She had revised and updated their stealthcopter CORBY so extensively that their captain swore not a screw or bolt of the original aircraft remained. True, these changes were always vast improvements but still....
His bike didn't handle the way it used to, it handled better. It ran smoother. The fuel efficiency had doubled. Maybe he should roll the changes and take it all as improvements he should appreciate.
He walked the Harley further off the road and concealed it from casual view behind the bushes. Standing by the dusty back road, Timothy looked around at the woods. White birch, elm, lots of pine trees. The past two days had been rainy, the leaves glistened and puddles of water filled any potholes. It was great to be back upstate. He used to love riding these deserted country roads, especially late at night and best of all under a bright moon. Still in his early twenties, Timothy was a few inches under six feet tall, built like a runner, with butter-yellow hair hanging down over a friendly-looking face. Although he had the many miniaturized tools and gadgets on him that KDF policy required, Timothy was wearing motorcycle boots with heels, faded jeans and a plain white T-shirt. The black leather jacket was new, he was still breaking it in and he felt unreasonably smug about how well it fit.
Well, time to get to work. He had his assignment. The new KDF member trotted quickly back along the road and swung left into the woods. The slope was steeper than he had expected. His foot slid out from under him and with a dismayed howl, he fell onto his side and rolled down the hill, doing a complete somersault at one point. It was only by grabbing a tree root that he stopped himself. Timothy sat up. His brand new jacket was smeared with mud and, as he got to his feet, he noticed a scrape along one sleeve that must have come from a projecting rock.
"Are you KIDDING me?" he grumbled. The young Tel Shai knight had been on a Tagra tea regimen for more than two years, so his healing factor was enhanced enough that bruises healed almost instantly. It was seeing damage to the sleeve that annoyed him. He had resisted buying a new jacket for the longest time. Timothy started off again, but he was trudging rather than galloping.
From his briefing the night before, he knew the Eldar cabin was less than a mile from the road. There was a dirt trail he could have used to ride there, but he wanted to approach undetected if he could. As he walked, Timothy held up an open hand and a blur three inches high materialized above his palm. Tornado-shaped, stretching and contracting, his Casper was a shimmer of force that was barely visible even in the afternoon sunlight.
"Hey, buddy," he said. "Go ahead and scout around for me, willya?" As the whirlwind flitted away, Timothy began walking faster. Everyone on the team was divided as to exactly what his Caspers were. Some thought they were mere manifestations of gralic force controlled by his subconscious. Some thought they were individual sentient beings of a spiritual nature, perhaps even genuine ghosts. He himself had long come to accept them as somewhere between pets and friends. His 'Friendly Ghosts,' as he called them.
Hiking briskly through the woods, Timothy mulled over the assignment. Info was slack this time. A KDF informer in the underworld had overheard the rumor that an independent mastermind knew about the Eldar outpost up here and reportedly had an unhealthy interest in meeting an Eldar. That had been enough for Sable. Her response was to yank Timothy from his day off and dispatch him up here. Very inconvenient for him, too. Timothy's romantic life had been dismal for a long stretch and a cheerful barrista at Starbucks named Jazmine had been asking if he would pose for a charcoal sketch. She had added that she worked best late at night by candlelight and maybe they would need a glass of champagne first to be comfortable with each other.
Sounded great. But no, he was a knight of Tel Shai and a member of the Kenneth Dred Foundation, so instead he had left Manhattan at dawn and rode north for five hours to find himself marching downhill on wet fallen leaves. His left foot slipped again but he had been ready for it and he held up his arms for balance. No good. He windmilled his arms furiously, going "I got this, I got this" out loud but crashed on his back anyway. His head hit a hard flat rock with a thud that made lights flash behind his eyes.
Very quietly, Timothy Limbo said, "God. Damn. It."
II.
He struggled back up, decided he wasn't hurt and began walking again. Then he noticed the smell. Was it going from him? It was. NOW what? He examined the soles of his boots, twisted his torso to check himself and finally with great reluctance, he got off his new leather jacket with his heart sinking. A white and brown smear of something organic and vile stretched down the jacket's back.
Mumbling profanity, the young Tel Shai knight kept moving, tearing off handfuls of leaves to wipe and discard as he went. He felt close to vomiting and his head ached. We may love nature but Nature sure doesn't love US, he thought. Just before he reached the Eldar cabin, he felt he had gotten most of the foulness off. A powerful urge to abort this mission and head to the nearest dry cleaner tempted him, but he had his duty.
He paused to check on what his Casper saw. This was a form of telepathy, so it wasn't a literal case of his seeing what was in front of the manifestation. Instead, it was more like remembering something he had seen a moment earlier. There was a small redwood cabin at the foot of a hill, with two Schwinn ten-speed bikes propped up against it. No one was in sight. At that very moment, two cars rolled slowly up the dirt road. In the lead was a silvery Lexus GS, a black Audi A6 right behind it. They might as well scream, "Hey, the crooks are here!" he said under his breath.
As far as he could tell, the cabin was just out of sight, below the jutting ledge of the hill he was on. After reluctantly tugging his jacket back on, Timothy summoned two more Caspers. The little tornadoes spun into view and circled him excitedly, just puppies ready to play. "Hi, you guys. Go see what's going on with your brother, okay?"
The two whirlwinds flashed away. Timothy reached behind him under his jacket and drew the dart gun from its holster across the small of his back. This was a clunky-looking handmade weapon with a needle-thin barrel that fired potent anesthetic darts. It was silent and non-fatal but unfortunately it didn't penetrate heavy clothing and a stiff breeze ruined the accuracy. Still, these were what KDF policy required rather than the reliable Glock 19 he had always carried. Oh well.
Moving more carefully now, trying to keep trees and brush in front of him, Timothy got closer to the scene. Six big beefy men in black business suits had emerged from the cars and were forming a circle around two smaller figures. These seemed at first to be children maybe ten or eleven years old and barely five feet tall, bundled in oversized maroon sweatshirts with the hoods up, tight jeans on skinny legs, black and white trainers. Several of the ominous brutes had pulled out flat .45s and were holding them with both hands, more to intimidate than for immediate use.
Emerging last from the black Audi was a much smaller and less imposing figure. About forty, of average height and build, he had thinning brown hair swept straight back off a high forehead and wire-rimmed glasses on a nose that resembled a badly peeled potato. He was well dressed, but in a lower management office-drone sort of way. Yet the thugs who stood a half foot taller and who had at least seventy pounds more on them stepped quickly out of his way. He was the boss, all right.
Timothy dug back in his memory, try to remember where he had seen that unimpressive mug before. Somewhere in recent KDF files, he was sure of it. Then a deep, hoarse voice behind him said, "Easy. Don't jump. I got ya covered, kid. Put that heat down, whatever it is, on the ground. That's right."
Thoroughly ashamed, Timothy obeyed and then rose slowly to his feet, making sure his open hands were visible. He turned only his head. Even for a hired gunman, this goon was remarkably unattractive. Scars left by acne to remember it by, a nose that had been broken and not restored entirely to its original orientation on the face, dull lifeless dark eyes. The man did not make a good impression.
"You know da drill, kid, hands behind your head."
As Timothy obeyed, he watched the thug crouch down and snatch up the dart gun. A reverse hook kick would easily connect right on the side of the face. But, even with all his Kumundu training, Timothy thought it would be a bad idea to try on this muddy ground. He had fallen twice already simply walking.
"This is a mean-looking shooter you got here," the gunman said, giving the dart gun a cursory glance. "Start walking down there. Nice and slow. There ain't been no blood spilled yet, maybe there won't have ta be."
Everyone in front of the cabin was standing motionless as they saw the gunman escorting his prisoner down to them. Timothy studied the situation. The ground in front of the cabin was hard-packed earth, dry enough to give better footing. The cars were parked one behind the other, the nearer one only ten feet. The gunmen were standing much too close together with their shoulders almost touching. This could be workable if he had to fight.
But the two innocents in the middle of the circle... Their safety had to considered first.
As Timothy came to halt next to the two Eldarin, he let out an exasperated sigh. Things had not gone well so far.
"Jeez, what is that Godawful SMELL?" demanded the leader.
To Timothy's dismay. the man turned his head toward his own left shoulder and said in a squeaky voice, "Smells like he slept on top of a septic tank if you ask me, Pete."
III.
Oh my God, Timothy thought with a jolt of uneasiness. Peter Galliano, 'Pete and Repeat,' a notorious planner of big-scale heists and swindles. He was known as a thorough planner and creative thinker who fired strong-arm boys for protection and to handle anything physically dangerous. Galliano had never been known to actually kill any civilians or police, but a few rivals had conveniently disappeared when they got in his way.
Of course, he did have the disconcerting practice of speaking to his left shoulder as if it were a separate person. Maybe he visualized another head growing there, maybe an entire person standing there. His gunmen had learned to simply agree with him and not offer any comments.
"Hello, Mr Galliano," Timothy began hopefully.
"Ah, it's good you recognize me. I can see that you're not a cop. Nor a private eye. You just don't have the maturity nor the dead hopeless eyes. So, tell me, who am I dealing with here?"
Keeping his hands raised, Timothy began planning how a fight would proceed. The two apes to his left were a half foot apart, he could knock one into the other, get the gun that the nearest was holding way too carelessly, then drop to the ground, shoot and roll...But the Eldarin were right in the middle of the grouping. No, he needed to move them aside somehow.
Aloud, he said, "Sure. My name is Timothy Limbo. I'm a member of the Kenneth Dred Foundation."
"Oh, those nuisances," replied Pete and Repeat, "I've met a few of them. You're obviously not Jeremy Bane."
"Well, obviously," the mobster continued but switching to the high falsetto. "The Dire Wolf is actually scary."
"And I met the Chinese guy, Argent. What was his real name? Sheng something or other, I forget. But I haven't heard of you, kid."
"Limbo, Timothy Limbo. I've been fighting the Midnight War for a few years now. My picture was in the papers. There was an article about me in the METROPOLITAN REVIEW a month ago."
"No, sorry. Doesn't ring a bell. Hey, you know the KDF agent I'd like to meet? Unicorn, the little blonde who carries around an actual Unicorn horn. She's all kinds of cute. If we don't have to kill you, maybe you could set up a meeting between me and her?"
Timothy's voice crackled like an adolescent's in his distress. "You know about Unicorn but not me?! That is so unfair. Come on, I caught that Russian spy, Comrade Buchinsky. You remember that blue devil-bird that was terrorizing the city? It was a freakin' Pterodactyl! And I helped destroy it, too."
"Really? I don't seem to remember that," the crimelord mused. "Hmm. You know, there's also the Blind Archer. Jubilec, I think his name is. Everyone wants to stay away from him, those Blind Archers are murder on two legs."
"You know about him, too. But not me." Timothy sounded crushed. "Oh, all right. Break my heart, it doesn't matter. But listen, can I ask what you're up to with these Eldarin?"
At the word, the two slim little figures turned their heads toward them, pulling down their hoods. The faces revealed were almost androgynous, one slightly more masculine and one more feminine but not by much. The skin was a beautiful golden tone, the sleek long hair a bright yellow and the large clear eyes had amber irises which gleamed in the sunlight. Most startling, their ears rose to distinct points. "Behold, I am Palisor," said the boy in a soprano tone. "This is my twentieth cousin Lindoral. We are here to listen to radio reports of what is happening in your world. We did not know Humans were aware of our presence in the world."
"Wait, what?" interrupted Timothy. "Are you little kids? How old are you two?"
That elicited a mellow chuckle. The female Eldar said, "I am two thousand, nine hundred years old. My twentieth cousin there was born nearly five centuries later, so I may freely order him about."
"Mr Limbo, if that IS your name," Galliano said, "You surely must realize why I am here with my associates. In the cars we brought syringes and tubing and specimen bags. These two are more than Human. Donating a pint or two of their blood will not do them any harm."
"I hope you offer them a cookie and some orange juice, at least," Timothy managed to get out in a steady voice.
"The kid has got nerve, I give him credit for that," squeaked the strained secondary voice from Galliano's mouth as the criminal watched his own shoulder. "What do you think? Do we let him live?"
"I don't think so," the man continued in his natural voice. "Those KDF bastards are too persistent. We don't want them chasing us around for the next few years. You know what, let's take these surfer kids with us, too."
"Wait, weren't you going to just take some blood to analyze? I mean, you do think you can derive immortality from them, right?" demanded Timothy. His hands were still tucked behind his back, the gunman behind him had not moved an inch.
Peter Galliano rubbed the lower part of his face and did not answer immediately. "Or at least longevity and enhanced healing. That was the plan. But if it means getting the KDF involved... If that damn Dire Wolf starts after us, we're in real trouble. I'm afraid Mr Limbo needs to disappear and we might as well take the golden children with us. The more I think of it, it's more sensible to keep them as living blood banks. As long as they're alive, they'll produce blood. I bet a million dollars for a few drops wouldn't be asking much."
As the confrontation got tenser, Timothy spotted more of his Caspers appearing. He hadn't summoned them. Were they responding to his emotional distress? Or were the ones already in existence calling for others? There was no way to tell. Eight of the little swirls of energy were moving silently through the air at head level. The gunmen were beginning to catch glimpses of the nearly invisible beings wheeling around them and even those prosaic-minded brutes gave twitches of confusion at something they could not understand.
"What the hell?" asked the mastermind. "What's going on here?"
Timothy deliberately unclasped his hands and lowered them to chest level, moving one foot forward to get himself set up. "Mr Galliano, you won't like hearing this. But the truth is, you're not the only one with imaginary friends."
V.
Complete hysteria broke out in front of the cabin. Each of the Caspers flew right up against a gunman's eyes and stayed there. Frantic attempts to brush them off did nothing but distort their shapes for a second. Even if the gangsters had known what was going on, having their vision hopelessly and unexpectedly blurred would have frightened them. Several dropped their guns to rub their faces and they were all screaming wordlessly or yelling "My eyes! I'm blind!"
As soon as the Friendly Ghosts had acted, Timothy took advantage of the pandemonium. He wheeled around and blasted a combination left backfist and right hook that snapped the gunman's head around so violently that the concussion knocked him out. Timothy grabbed the man's gun and swung it up. That interaction had only taken an instant. While the thugs panicking, he ran over to scoop up their guns and fling them as far away into the bushes as he could.
This was going better than he expected. He mentally asked the Caspers to stay over the goon's eyes as he went around yelling, "Lie down! Your eyes will clear if you lie down!" To speed up the process, he began kicking the thug's feet out from under them and giving them hearty shoves between the shoulder blades. Soon, he had all five of them stretched out in the dirt.
"Stick with them, fellas," he said.
"What do you mean? We did what you said," whimpered a gunman who must have weighed three hundred pounds and had hands covered with scar tissue.
"I wasn't talking to you," Timothy started to explain, "That was for my... never mind. Mr Galliano, you're the last one on your feet. Get down on your knees at least."
Still pawing at his eyes, the mastermind screamed, "It's a trick! This is one of those Midnight War tricks I've heard rumors about. We're not actually going blind."
Timothy stepped closer and whispered, "Do you really want to find out?"
As Peter Galliano considered this and sank to one knee so he was kneeling like a knight begging audience, Timothy Limbo quietly lowered the confiscated gun. He still expected some awful reversal as things went wrong, but everything seemed under control.
"Tel Shai, you have our gratitude," said the male Eldar in his sing-song tones. "Well done. We will be leaving now."
"What? Really?"
"Yes, there is nothing of value in this rustic building. My twentieth cousin and I have listening to radio news from the BBC World Service and the NHK of Japan, memorizing every word. When we return to Elvedal, we will repeat what we have heard to our King Elzulang so he may be informed of what state your poor world is in."
"It's our calling," Lindoral said. She drew the hood up over that shining hair and Timothy felt a twinge of sadness. Eldarin were beautiful beyond Human beauty, in an almost abstract way as a sunset or a waterfall is beautiful, and he hadn't realized how much he enjoyed looking at them.
"If you say so. I suppose you have a travel crystal. Okay. I was going to call the State Police to get here but now that I think of it, how can I press charges? What kind of crazy accounts are these gorillas going to give about what happened here?How can I explain two immortals were going to be used as blood banks? Maybe I should leave all of them here and run back to my bike while they're confused."
"That would be best," said Palisor. "I think some healing might within our ability to grant. This man who speaks to a delusion has been damaged in the mind. Cousin?"
"My pleasure." The tiny blonde woman stepped lightly over toward Peter Galliano and tapped a slim index finger to the man's forehead, with a spark crackling at the contact. The crimelord gasped and fell over on to his side to lie motionless. The Eldar woman gave Timothy the most bittersweet smile he had ever seen. "When he awakens, his mind will be whole. I only wish we could bring peace to all troubled souls."
"So that's the end of Pete and Repeat," Timothy said. "Thanks, you two. I'll be running away myself so these bozos can't chase me." He held up a hand over which a Casper hovered. "I suppose you Eldarin can see my imaginary friends?"
"Clearly," laughed Palisor. "They are charming. Take comfort in them, young Human. Even imaginary friends have real friends."
4/5/2020
10/12/2014
I.
With the kickstand down, Timothy Limbo shut off the engine and dismounted. He took off his helmet, moved a few steps back and regarded his Harley with a mixture of anger and heartbreak. Why on Earth had he agreed to let Megan tune the old girl up? He should have known what would happen. When Megan Salenger was left unchaperoned with any machinery, she promptly took it apart and reconstructed it to her own wild ideas. She had revised and updated their stealthcopter CORBY so extensively that their captain swore not a screw or bolt of the original aircraft remained. True, these changes were always vast improvements but still....
His bike didn't handle the way it used to, it handled better. It ran smoother. The fuel efficiency had doubled. Maybe he should roll the changes and take it all as improvements he should appreciate.
He walked the Harley further off the road and concealed it from casual view behind the bushes. Standing by the dusty back road, Timothy looked around at the woods. White birch, elm, lots of pine trees. The past two days had been rainy, the leaves glistened and puddles of water filled any potholes. It was great to be back upstate. He used to love riding these deserted country roads, especially late at night and best of all under a bright moon. Still in his early twenties, Timothy was a few inches under six feet tall, built like a runner, with butter-yellow hair hanging down over a friendly-looking face. Although he had the many miniaturized tools and gadgets on him that KDF policy required, Timothy was wearing motorcycle boots with heels, faded jeans and a plain white T-shirt. The black leather jacket was new, he was still breaking it in and he felt unreasonably smug about how well it fit.
Well, time to get to work. He had his assignment. The new KDF member trotted quickly back along the road and swung left into the woods. The slope was steeper than he had expected. His foot slid out from under him and with a dismayed howl, he fell onto his side and rolled down the hill, doing a complete somersault at one point. It was only by grabbing a tree root that he stopped himself. Timothy sat up. His brand new jacket was smeared with mud and, as he got to his feet, he noticed a scrape along one sleeve that must have come from a projecting rock.
"Are you KIDDING me?" he grumbled. The young Tel Shai knight had been on a Tagra tea regimen for more than two years, so his healing factor was enhanced enough that bruises healed almost instantly. It was seeing damage to the sleeve that annoyed him. He had resisted buying a new jacket for the longest time. Timothy started off again, but he was trudging rather than galloping.
From his briefing the night before, he knew the Eldar cabin was less than a mile from the road. There was a dirt trail he could have used to ride there, but he wanted to approach undetected if he could. As he walked, Timothy held up an open hand and a blur three inches high materialized above his palm. Tornado-shaped, stretching and contracting, his Casper was a shimmer of force that was barely visible even in the afternoon sunlight.
"Hey, buddy," he said. "Go ahead and scout around for me, willya?" As the whirlwind flitted away, Timothy began walking faster. Everyone on the team was divided as to exactly what his Caspers were. Some thought they were mere manifestations of gralic force controlled by his subconscious. Some thought they were individual sentient beings of a spiritual nature, perhaps even genuine ghosts. He himself had long come to accept them as somewhere between pets and friends. His 'Friendly Ghosts,' as he called them.
Hiking briskly through the woods, Timothy mulled over the assignment. Info was slack this time. A KDF informer in the underworld had overheard the rumor that an independent mastermind knew about the Eldar outpost up here and reportedly had an unhealthy interest in meeting an Eldar. That had been enough for Sable. Her response was to yank Timothy from his day off and dispatch him up here. Very inconvenient for him, too. Timothy's romantic life had been dismal for a long stretch and a cheerful barrista at Starbucks named Jazmine had been asking if he would pose for a charcoal sketch. She had added that she worked best late at night by candlelight and maybe they would need a glass of champagne first to be comfortable with each other.
Sounded great. But no, he was a knight of Tel Shai and a member of the Kenneth Dred Foundation, so instead he had left Manhattan at dawn and rode north for five hours to find himself marching downhill on wet fallen leaves. His left foot slipped again but he had been ready for it and he held up his arms for balance. No good. He windmilled his arms furiously, going "I got this, I got this" out loud but crashed on his back anyway. His head hit a hard flat rock with a thud that made lights flash behind his eyes.
Very quietly, Timothy Limbo said, "God. Damn. It."
II.
He struggled back up, decided he wasn't hurt and began walking again. Then he noticed the smell. Was it going from him? It was. NOW what? He examined the soles of his boots, twisted his torso to check himself and finally with great reluctance, he got off his new leather jacket with his heart sinking. A white and brown smear of something organic and vile stretched down the jacket's back.
Mumbling profanity, the young Tel Shai knight kept moving, tearing off handfuls of leaves to wipe and discard as he went. He felt close to vomiting and his head ached. We may love nature but Nature sure doesn't love US, he thought. Just before he reached the Eldar cabin, he felt he had gotten most of the foulness off. A powerful urge to abort this mission and head to the nearest dry cleaner tempted him, but he had his duty.
He paused to check on what his Casper saw. This was a form of telepathy, so it wasn't a literal case of his seeing what was in front of the manifestation. Instead, it was more like remembering something he had seen a moment earlier. There was a small redwood cabin at the foot of a hill, with two Schwinn ten-speed bikes propped up against it. No one was in sight. At that very moment, two cars rolled slowly up the dirt road. In the lead was a silvery Lexus GS, a black Audi A6 right behind it. They might as well scream, "Hey, the crooks are here!" he said under his breath.
As far as he could tell, the cabin was just out of sight, below the jutting ledge of the hill he was on. After reluctantly tugging his jacket back on, Timothy summoned two more Caspers. The little tornadoes spun into view and circled him excitedly, just puppies ready to play. "Hi, you guys. Go see what's going on with your brother, okay?"
The two whirlwinds flashed away. Timothy reached behind him under his jacket and drew the dart gun from its holster across the small of his back. This was a clunky-looking handmade weapon with a needle-thin barrel that fired potent anesthetic darts. It was silent and non-fatal but unfortunately it didn't penetrate heavy clothing and a stiff breeze ruined the accuracy. Still, these were what KDF policy required rather than the reliable Glock 19 he had always carried. Oh well.
Moving more carefully now, trying to keep trees and brush in front of him, Timothy got closer to the scene. Six big beefy men in black business suits had emerged from the cars and were forming a circle around two smaller figures. These seemed at first to be children maybe ten or eleven years old and barely five feet tall, bundled in oversized maroon sweatshirts with the hoods up, tight jeans on skinny legs, black and white trainers. Several of the ominous brutes had pulled out flat .45s and were holding them with both hands, more to intimidate than for immediate use.
Emerging last from the black Audi was a much smaller and less imposing figure. About forty, of average height and build, he had thinning brown hair swept straight back off a high forehead and wire-rimmed glasses on a nose that resembled a badly peeled potato. He was well dressed, but in a lower management office-drone sort of way. Yet the thugs who stood a half foot taller and who had at least seventy pounds more on them stepped quickly out of his way. He was the boss, all right.
Timothy dug back in his memory, try to remember where he had seen that unimpressive mug before. Somewhere in recent KDF files, he was sure of it. Then a deep, hoarse voice behind him said, "Easy. Don't jump. I got ya covered, kid. Put that heat down, whatever it is, on the ground. That's right."
Thoroughly ashamed, Timothy obeyed and then rose slowly to his feet, making sure his open hands were visible. He turned only his head. Even for a hired gunman, this goon was remarkably unattractive. Scars left by acne to remember it by, a nose that had been broken and not restored entirely to its original orientation on the face, dull lifeless dark eyes. The man did not make a good impression.
"You know da drill, kid, hands behind your head."
As Timothy obeyed, he watched the thug crouch down and snatch up the dart gun. A reverse hook kick would easily connect right on the side of the face. But, even with all his Kumundu training, Timothy thought it would be a bad idea to try on this muddy ground. He had fallen twice already simply walking.
"This is a mean-looking shooter you got here," the gunman said, giving the dart gun a cursory glance. "Start walking down there. Nice and slow. There ain't been no blood spilled yet, maybe there won't have ta be."
Everyone in front of the cabin was standing motionless as they saw the gunman escorting his prisoner down to them. Timothy studied the situation. The ground in front of the cabin was hard-packed earth, dry enough to give better footing. The cars were parked one behind the other, the nearer one only ten feet. The gunmen were standing much too close together with their shoulders almost touching. This could be workable if he had to fight.
But the two innocents in the middle of the circle... Their safety had to considered first.
As Timothy came to halt next to the two Eldarin, he let out an exasperated sigh. Things had not gone well so far.
"Jeez, what is that Godawful SMELL?" demanded the leader.
To Timothy's dismay. the man turned his head toward his own left shoulder and said in a squeaky voice, "Smells like he slept on top of a septic tank if you ask me, Pete."
III.
Oh my God, Timothy thought with a jolt of uneasiness. Peter Galliano, 'Pete and Repeat,' a notorious planner of big-scale heists and swindles. He was known as a thorough planner and creative thinker who fired strong-arm boys for protection and to handle anything physically dangerous. Galliano had never been known to actually kill any civilians or police, but a few rivals had conveniently disappeared when they got in his way.
Of course, he did have the disconcerting practice of speaking to his left shoulder as if it were a separate person. Maybe he visualized another head growing there, maybe an entire person standing there. His gunmen had learned to simply agree with him and not offer any comments.
"Hello, Mr Galliano," Timothy began hopefully.
"Ah, it's good you recognize me. I can see that you're not a cop. Nor a private eye. You just don't have the maturity nor the dead hopeless eyes. So, tell me, who am I dealing with here?"
Keeping his hands raised, Timothy began planning how a fight would proceed. The two apes to his left were a half foot apart, he could knock one into the other, get the gun that the nearest was holding way too carelessly, then drop to the ground, shoot and roll...But the Eldarin were right in the middle of the grouping. No, he needed to move them aside somehow.
Aloud, he said, "Sure. My name is Timothy Limbo. I'm a member of the Kenneth Dred Foundation."
"Oh, those nuisances," replied Pete and Repeat, "I've met a few of them. You're obviously not Jeremy Bane."
"Well, obviously," the mobster continued but switching to the high falsetto. "The Dire Wolf is actually scary."
"And I met the Chinese guy, Argent. What was his real name? Sheng something or other, I forget. But I haven't heard of you, kid."
"Limbo, Timothy Limbo. I've been fighting the Midnight War for a few years now. My picture was in the papers. There was an article about me in the METROPOLITAN REVIEW a month ago."
"No, sorry. Doesn't ring a bell. Hey, you know the KDF agent I'd like to meet? Unicorn, the little blonde who carries around an actual Unicorn horn. She's all kinds of cute. If we don't have to kill you, maybe you could set up a meeting between me and her?"
Timothy's voice crackled like an adolescent's in his distress. "You know about Unicorn but not me?! That is so unfair. Come on, I caught that Russian spy, Comrade Buchinsky. You remember that blue devil-bird that was terrorizing the city? It was a freakin' Pterodactyl! And I helped destroy it, too."
"Really? I don't seem to remember that," the crimelord mused. "Hmm. You know, there's also the Blind Archer. Jubilec, I think his name is. Everyone wants to stay away from him, those Blind Archers are murder on two legs."
"You know about him, too. But not me." Timothy sounded crushed. "Oh, all right. Break my heart, it doesn't matter. But listen, can I ask what you're up to with these Eldarin?"
At the word, the two slim little figures turned their heads toward them, pulling down their hoods. The faces revealed were almost androgynous, one slightly more masculine and one more feminine but not by much. The skin was a beautiful golden tone, the sleek long hair a bright yellow and the large clear eyes had amber irises which gleamed in the sunlight. Most startling, their ears rose to distinct points. "Behold, I am Palisor," said the boy in a soprano tone. "This is my twentieth cousin Lindoral. We are here to listen to radio reports of what is happening in your world. We did not know Humans were aware of our presence in the world."
"Wait, what?" interrupted Timothy. "Are you little kids? How old are you two?"
That elicited a mellow chuckle. The female Eldar said, "I am two thousand, nine hundred years old. My twentieth cousin there was born nearly five centuries later, so I may freely order him about."
"Mr Limbo, if that IS your name," Galliano said, "You surely must realize why I am here with my associates. In the cars we brought syringes and tubing and specimen bags. These two are more than Human. Donating a pint or two of their blood will not do them any harm."
"I hope you offer them a cookie and some orange juice, at least," Timothy managed to get out in a steady voice.
"The kid has got nerve, I give him credit for that," squeaked the strained secondary voice from Galliano's mouth as the criminal watched his own shoulder. "What do you think? Do we let him live?"
"I don't think so," the man continued in his natural voice. "Those KDF bastards are too persistent. We don't want them chasing us around for the next few years. You know what, let's take these surfer kids with us, too."
"Wait, weren't you going to just take some blood to analyze? I mean, you do think you can derive immortality from them, right?" demanded Timothy. His hands were still tucked behind his back, the gunman behind him had not moved an inch.
Peter Galliano rubbed the lower part of his face and did not answer immediately. "Or at least longevity and enhanced healing. That was the plan. But if it means getting the KDF involved... If that damn Dire Wolf starts after us, we're in real trouble. I'm afraid Mr Limbo needs to disappear and we might as well take the golden children with us. The more I think of it, it's more sensible to keep them as living blood banks. As long as they're alive, they'll produce blood. I bet a million dollars for a few drops wouldn't be asking much."
As the confrontation got tenser, Timothy spotted more of his Caspers appearing. He hadn't summoned them. Were they responding to his emotional distress? Or were the ones already in existence calling for others? There was no way to tell. Eight of the little swirls of energy were moving silently through the air at head level. The gunmen were beginning to catch glimpses of the nearly invisible beings wheeling around them and even those prosaic-minded brutes gave twitches of confusion at something they could not understand.
"What the hell?" asked the mastermind. "What's going on here?"
Timothy deliberately unclasped his hands and lowered them to chest level, moving one foot forward to get himself set up. "Mr Galliano, you won't like hearing this. But the truth is, you're not the only one with imaginary friends."
V.
Complete hysteria broke out in front of the cabin. Each of the Caspers flew right up against a gunman's eyes and stayed there. Frantic attempts to brush them off did nothing but distort their shapes for a second. Even if the gangsters had known what was going on, having their vision hopelessly and unexpectedly blurred would have frightened them. Several dropped their guns to rub their faces and they were all screaming wordlessly or yelling "My eyes! I'm blind!"
As soon as the Friendly Ghosts had acted, Timothy took advantage of the pandemonium. He wheeled around and blasted a combination left backfist and right hook that snapped the gunman's head around so violently that the concussion knocked him out. Timothy grabbed the man's gun and swung it up. That interaction had only taken an instant. While the thugs panicking, he ran over to scoop up their guns and fling them as far away into the bushes as he could.
This was going better than he expected. He mentally asked the Caspers to stay over the goon's eyes as he went around yelling, "Lie down! Your eyes will clear if you lie down!" To speed up the process, he began kicking the thug's feet out from under them and giving them hearty shoves between the shoulder blades. Soon, he had all five of them stretched out in the dirt.
"Stick with them, fellas," he said.
"What do you mean? We did what you said," whimpered a gunman who must have weighed three hundred pounds and had hands covered with scar tissue.
"I wasn't talking to you," Timothy started to explain, "That was for my... never mind. Mr Galliano, you're the last one on your feet. Get down on your knees at least."
Still pawing at his eyes, the mastermind screamed, "It's a trick! This is one of those Midnight War tricks I've heard rumors about. We're not actually going blind."
Timothy stepped closer and whispered, "Do you really want to find out?"
As Peter Galliano considered this and sank to one knee so he was kneeling like a knight begging audience, Timothy Limbo quietly lowered the confiscated gun. He still expected some awful reversal as things went wrong, but everything seemed under control.
"Tel Shai, you have our gratitude," said the male Eldar in his sing-song tones. "Well done. We will be leaving now."
"What? Really?"
"Yes, there is nothing of value in this rustic building. My twentieth cousin and I have listening to radio news from the BBC World Service and the NHK of Japan, memorizing every word. When we return to Elvedal, we will repeat what we have heard to our King Elzulang so he may be informed of what state your poor world is in."
"It's our calling," Lindoral said. She drew the hood up over that shining hair and Timothy felt a twinge of sadness. Eldarin were beautiful beyond Human beauty, in an almost abstract way as a sunset or a waterfall is beautiful, and he hadn't realized how much he enjoyed looking at them.
"If you say so. I suppose you have a travel crystal. Okay. I was going to call the State Police to get here but now that I think of it, how can I press charges? What kind of crazy accounts are these gorillas going to give about what happened here?How can I explain two immortals were going to be used as blood banks? Maybe I should leave all of them here and run back to my bike while they're confused."
"That would be best," said Palisor. "I think some healing might within our ability to grant. This man who speaks to a delusion has been damaged in the mind. Cousin?"
"My pleasure." The tiny blonde woman stepped lightly over toward Peter Galliano and tapped a slim index finger to the man's forehead, with a spark crackling at the contact. The crimelord gasped and fell over on to his side to lie motionless. The Eldar woman gave Timothy the most bittersweet smile he had ever seen. "When he awakens, his mind will be whole. I only wish we could bring peace to all troubled souls."
"So that's the end of Pete and Repeat," Timothy said. "Thanks, you two. I'll be running away myself so these bozos can't chase me." He held up a hand over which a Casper hovered. "I suppose you Eldarin can see my imaginary friends?"
"Clearly," laughed Palisor. "They are charming. Take comfort in them, young Human. Even imaginary friends have real friends."
4/5/2020
