The Third Adventure: Action, That's How! (A Caper in Time Part 2)
by Evan Forman and Michael Robertson - One Chapter a Week Starting 27.11.16
IN OUR PREVIOUS ADVENTURE...
“Once upon a time, about two hundred years ago, there was a man.
This man was known far and wide throughout Wurld. Some knew him
as a hero, some knew him as a scoundrel, many didn't even
believe he was real. But wherever there was trouble to be got
in, an adventure to be had, buckles to be swashed, that man was
there. The old stories say this man had accrued bounties in
every kingdom over a thousand years old, and so
phantasmagorically high, that the person who handed him in dead
or alive would surely become the richest person on the planet.
But nobody did. Nobody ever could. Because legend has it that
one night, after saving the little town of Ludorena from a pack
of rampaging bandits, the man simply...disappeared off the face
of the continent."
"So? What does this have to do with anything?"
"Hello. My name is John Boss." He snapped his fingers, and the
handcuffs magically sprung off his wrists as he reclined in his
chair. "You may have heard of me."
~~~~~
Aerin struggled to avert his gaze from the painting as he
stepped over the various objects on the floor. Dhubagèl's
enthusiasm faded. "Alas, The Red Death was met at the gates of
Dryadora by the entire massed armies of King Praeon's newly
formed empire." Dhubagèl stood back next to Aerin to appreciate
the picture, his hands behind his back. "It was a war for
history itself, the last great battle ever fought in this land.
And we lost. By some cruel absence of fate, he lost. The Red
Hand's city-burning days are long over, but we still fight to
keep the story alive."
Aerin inspected the painted landscape. What was once the city of
Dryadora lit up the background below a constellation of flaming
arrows which tore across the night sky. In the fields on the
left of the painting, little elvin soldiers were being chewed up
and spat out by demonic creatures with five faces. The
composition was dominated by the figure of The Red Death
himself, standing on a cliff and literally painted red with what
looked like the blood of his enemies. Despite the huge black
beard with framed his grimace, Aerin still recognised his face
instantly. He wore some steel vambraces on his wrists, the pelt
of a monster whose stuffed face roared at the viewer, and a gold
metal eyepatch decorated to look like another open eye. In his
right hand he held an axe, bloodied by the elvin soldier who lay
dead behind him. And in his left hand, raised defiant against
the black night, was a flaming red scimitar.
~~~~~
The surgeon's rubber thumb peeled John's eyelid upwards, and
beads of sweat rolled down his forehead as he frantically
struggled against the bindings. John couldn't speak, couldn't do
anything but grunt and growl as the cold steel spike slid across
the veiny surface of his inner eyelid and gently pressed down on
the back of his left eyeball. He was terrified it was going to
burst like a grape. "And a three..."
He took a little hammer and positioned it against the blunt end
of the spike.
"Two..."
He gently raised and lowered it, lining up the angle before
raising it properly.
"One."
AND NOW, THE MIND-STRETCHING NEXT INSTALMENT OF OUR THRILLING STORY!
"No, look, here’s the question
you should all be asking: ‘what kind of story are we trying to
tell here?’ What you need to do is emphasise that this was a
calculated move by the terrorists, and that we must not let the
political unity of our country unravel in the face of these
attacks. That much should be clear." The elf grasped at his
thinning black hair, elbows resting on the vast circular table.
"You could have...news reports showing the units in combat!
Yes!" His finger stabbed the wood, bent and quivering. "Remind
the people of all these machines have achieved in just a few
short years. We need to make it simple: the Red Hand are
deluded, psychotic villains threatening to destroy our history,
our people, our very way of life, and a Siran X-01 in every
borough would be a triumph for peace and safety in our nation."
"Yes, Prime Minister." A young elf wearing an immaculate suit
with slicked-back hair nodded along with every pause in
Priomar’s tirade as he scribbled it down into a little notebook.
The Prime Minister downed the last of his sandwater coffee. He
looked at his digital watch: 11:38PM.
"But what of the instigator, the creature responsible for this
mess?" croaked an ancient elf in slippers and silk pyjamas at
the opposite side of the table, his voice muffled by an oxygen
mask. Behind him, a wall-to-wall-floor-to-ceiling tapestry
depicted Ai Shub'fhalma, god of nature and lord of all beasts
which sprung from his seed. His eyes were closed in a vision of
serene wisdom and his muscular arms were marked with the figures
of all creatures of his creation, some of whom stood around the
scene and looked in awe at its focal point. Between his palms,
in the centre of the image, floated a crown of branches adorned
with green leaves and weaved into a circle; below that crown,
the red flames that burned across the bottom of the image turned
yellow around their source; and in the centre of it all, arms
outstretched and burning white: the silhouette of a man,
obscured by holy light.
"I'm just looking at the reports right now, your majesty,” said
a wireframe elf behind wireframe glasses. “Apparently, it didn't
have an electronic chip or any kind of identifying marks. The
only name we can put to it is the name it gave the police who
captured it and the name given to it by the arena managers:
‘John Boss’. Now, here’s the thing-” he paused as he searched
through his binder for the relevant piece of paper.
The king sighed in the meantime, fiddling with his ornate cane
as he turned to the prime minister. "’John Boss’. Do you hear
that, Priomar? We are gathered here tonight because of a clown."
The Prime Minister took a short breath, then stopped. The
silence he left was interrupted by a little door in the far
corner of the room creaking open as a hooded monk in ascetic
brown robes scuttled over to the king. “Your majesty-”
"Quiet!" He spat. "Whatever bloody pills you want me to take
this time, they can wait. Is it so hard for you to fathom that
we are discussing matters of national importance here!?" The
monk stood still for a moment, then pulled up the sleeve of his
robe and stabbed a button on a wrist-mounted remote. He stepped
away from the king as the tapestry of Ai Shub'fhalma parted down
the middle and retracted to the sides with audible weight. The
stoic monk’s voice trembled as a tear spotted the stone floor
below his hood. “H-he’s awake, Zaedar. He’s awake.”
King Zaedar Valler the Third grunted as he heaved his bloated
body out of his chair, the wheels of his oxygen tank squealing
as he dragged it to the section of the room that had been hidden
behind the tapestry. By the time he’d reached the dusty console
of dials and levers, the curtain had parted totally, revealing
everything behind it in dim candlelight. The other elves at the
table stood up, some visibly moved by religious awe, all
paralysed by silent horror.
The king’s shaking fingers grasped a stiff dial and yanked it
from 0 to 10. Two dusty speakers in the corners of the room
crackled and popped into life, and a monotonous electric voice
began to chant: "John. Boss. John. Boss. John. Boss. John. Boss.
John. Boss."
Nobody dared to speak first.
The old king didn't turn around for a while, transfixed by the
voice drumming against his ears, and then he spoke. "Mr. Cennard,
what else do you know of this...John Boss?”
It took a second before Mr. Cennard’s arm responded to the
signal from his brain, his eyes fixating on the thing behind the
curtain. He picked up his file, adjusted his glasses and spoke
over the synthetic mantra. “As I was going to say, your majesty,
the naming of this beast is as troubling as it is strange. You
see, ‘John Boss’ is a name that appears in documents we’ve
recovered from the Red Hand a number of times. John Boss is a
near-mythical warrior of legendary stature among their ranks.
Proficient in every known form of combat, John Boss is reported
to have been captured on three occasions, and on three occasions
has crippled military outposts single-handedly. John Boss has
also led several devastating attacks on various bases and pieces
of military, governmental or agricultural infrastructure
throughout the Collisterra territories. Boss has been a
consistent threat for the better part of a decade, which we
thought would have neutralised when we raided the Red Hand’s
main headquarters - ‘The Manor’ - six months ago. We identified
all one-hundred and six corpses, none of them John Boss. Since
then, we have only had one reported sighting, which was later
dismissed as rumour.”
Mr. Cennard closed the file, not convinced that its official
language had quite expressed the gravity of whatever situation
they were about to get into. “John Boss is, quite simply, the
most dangerous woman in the world.”