Tower of Babble: Endtimes?

[x-tarot.livejournal.com]

Pete meets with the local Iraqi military commander to try to keep the peace long enough for the team at the camp to contain the situation.




"Mister Lydon. A patently false name. British Intelligence, I presume?"

Col al-Koussum said, his english very good and university accented. Obviously the man had received his education in England at one point. He seemed unconcerned as he shook Wisdom's hand, and ushered him into a seat across from his camp desk.

Pete shrugged ruefully as he sat down. "Let's say I've got a number of friends who may or may not work for the British government, and leave it at that, shall we? That's about as much of an answer as I can give without being professionally obligated to lie, but I'm not here to insult your intelligence.

"From that alone I can be sure you're not CIA at least." al-Koussum lit up a cigarette and dropped a steel ashtray on the desk between them. "My government assumes that the West has sent spies into the UN camp. They tell me I must be cautious not to let them discover anything, as if this barren place held secrets. It's only importance is in an imaginary line that cuts through the desert and the scrub. And now a spy does appear. It's very curious." He stroked his neatly clipped mustache as he spoke, watching Wisdom through dark and intelligent eyes.

Pete spread his hands. "Yeah, well, it gets even more curious, since I'm here to try and play diplomat, something I find profoundly bloody unnatural. Whatever it is that's going on down the road is making things very, very awkward around here, and I'm here to try and convince you and your opposite number in Syria to keep a very tight hold on your men for the next few days."

"An interesting proposition." He replied, going silent for a moment. "My men are very concerned about this... sickness at the temple site. They fear it might spread, and that the Syrians are responsible. Members of our government and military believe the same thing. If that is the case, the best course of action would be to destroy the site, so whatever is causing this cannot continue. In making these judgements, I am supposed to carefully temper the wishes of my superiors with the facts I see up close in the field. There are costs for that."

Pete nodding and reached for his pocket. The rest was just haggling over price to keep things calm for another 48 hours.




After resting for the night, Wanda, Marie-Ange and Amanda go forth to cross the underground river they'd found, and of -course- the river doesn't stay shallow. That would make things easy.





Wanda cinched the backpack tighter to herself as she checked out the river. They'd managed to work out shifts, though with the lack of communication it had been a rather comical endeavor, and all of them had rested up enough to move on. When they'd gotten up, she'd taken to check out the river, determined to find a lower point to cross. It wasn't the deepest, or fastest, she'd ever seen but looks could be deceiving. And who knew what was in that water to begin with.

Finding a good spot, she paused and started to point across when something caught her eye. Wanda grinned and whistled again, pointing grandly over and up at the overhang on the other river bank. There was a ladder bolted to it and it was obviously the way to go.

~Bleh~. Marie-Ange made a face, sticking her tongue out at the shallow river, and wrinkled up her nose. Of all the times to have to go wading, it would be now. But, the 'street' of the ruined desert town was across it - perhaps long ago, they'd had a bridge. And their intruder had obviously come this way, with tools. The ladder was modern, and bolted in quite securely. She trotted up next to Wanda and held up one finger, and then made a little walking motion, and then two fingers, and three, repeating the motion each time.


Nodding her head up and down enough to show, hopefully, that she got it, she gestured for Marie-Ange to go first. Out of the three of them, Wanda was the strongest and if something went wrong she wanted to be able to get to either of the girls quickly. And Angie had the ability to help them reach the ladder if they needed it. Angie, then herself, and then Amanda.


Amanda gave a brief thumb's up to show she understood, and went back to adjusting her pack. After what felt like a full eight hour's sleep - it was hard to tell underground, and her watch had come off during the scramble to keep Wanda out of the pit - she felt worlds better than she had. There wasn't much power in such an old place, but apparently there was some. Summoning George with a snap of her fingers, she sent the little ball of yellow light to hover above the brackish surface of the water. It couldn't be more than knee deep - once it might have posed a problem, but Amanda guessed that thousands of years had dropped the water levels.

Gingerly, Marie-Ange stepped into the water, and instantly shivered. It was cold. Much colder than she'd expected, it must have run underground for quite some time to not pick up any of the desert heat. And she was very glad she'd packed extra socks, because the second they were done and through the river, she was so changing into dry ones. Wet feet were not any fun at all.

Wanda followed, grateful she'd tucked her pant legs into her boots. Even a little added protection was helpful...and it helped to keep out anything that crawled on the ground. It wouldn't take them very long to cross the river and before they went up the ladder, a quick drying off would be in order. Whatever was waiting for them on the other side could wait while she dried off her legs for a second.


The Docs would so be needing some TLC once she got back to civilisation... Amanda winced at the chill of the water on her bare legs - she was in shorts, a decision she'd begun regretting about the time she'd been dragged across the ground trying to stop Wanda disappearing for good into that hole - and tried not to think about what was in the water. Ahead of her, Marie-Ange paused to pick her way across some unseen obstacle, George hovering in circles around the French girl, and their progress halted momentarily. It was then a sudden rumble started, punctuated by a sharp cracking noise. Any exclamations of surprise or worry were drowned out, however, by the next sound.



Water. And a lot of it, a sudden cascade of it somewhere.


Not again. Wanda's head snapped to the side and she stared for a half-second at the rising water. Gritting her teeth, she surged forward, already feeling the water start to rise faster and faster, going from knee level to waist in a blink of the eye. They only had ten feet or so to go to reach the ladder which hadn't been very far at the start but was suddenly very, very far away. And with the rising water the current was getting stronger, tugging at all of them as they moved, sucking the sand and rocks away beneath their feet which made it even harder to keep walking.

Crossing the water now was getting more difficult by the step. Marie-Ange dug her feet into the sandy bottom of the river with every step, forcing one leg ahead of the other with determined steps, grateful for her height as the water rose up to her waist, and then surged again, nearly up to her chest by the time she got to the ladder. She hauled herself up a few of the ladder's rungs, and only then glanced behind her to check the others.


At the first sound of water rushing in, Amanda had to fight a sudden rush of panic. She wasn't a strong swimmer and with the pack and the boots, she didn't want to test Manuel's teachings overmuch. So she'd moved as fast she she could despite the fact that the cold was making her legs go numb. But it wasn't fast enough, not when you were already short to begin with, and with the water lapping around her shoulders as Angie began to climb the ladder and still a good seven or eight feet to go, the panic started winning. She opened her mouth to call out to the others, and that was when she stepped into an unseen pothole, her head ducking under the water. Water filled her mouth and nose as she inhaled sharply, and the sudden sensation of choking only fuelled her fear. Thrashing wildly, the weight of the pack dragging her under, she managed to break the surface and grab a breath before ducking under again.



"Shit!" Marie-Ange swore, and even if neither Wanda nor Amanda would have been able to understand, it wasn't hard to figure out her meaning. Her pack was off her back, and thrown over the top of the ladder just before she dropped down to the bottom rung. She could worry about that later. Before she could hit the water though, Wanda had reacted, throwing -her- pack towards Marie-Ange, and forcing through the water towards where they'd seen Amanda go under.

Even with her height, Wanda soon found herself actually swimming at parts of the river and barely able to push off the bottom at others. Swimming had never been her favorite sport but she was athletic overall and used it to her advantage. The current had moved Amanda further down than where they'd been but the older woman used that to her advantage, letting it sweep her in that direction before digging her heels into the silt beneath her, using it to slow down as she swam diagonally, searching for where Amanda had gone under.



For a very long moment, there was only George's light reflecting off the slightly-roiling surface of the water as the werelight zoomed crazily around, as if seeking its mistress. Then Amanda's head popped back up, just out of Wanda's reach, the Brit's flailings considerably weaker and she struggled to stay afloat. Terrified blue eyes met Wanda's for an instant before she went under for the third time.

A sudden down surge enabled Wanda to touch bottom and she used it to push herself forward, cutting through the water in a powerful push. Even with George illuminating the water, it was still dark and murky making it hard to see anything under the surface. But when her hands collided with flesh, she knew she'd gone in the right direction. She made her one hand sink in, seeking purchase--bruising meant alive--while the one one followed the line of an arm until she found a backpack strap. Tightening her fingers, she pulled back and wrenched Amanda to her as they both surfaced.

Amanda's arm reflexively tightened around Wanda's neck, sending them both back under but she'd anticipated the instinctive reaction and pushed up off the bottom again. They surfaced, both gasping for air and this time they managed to stay there. Looking back, she realized they were still being swept away from Marie-Ange and the ladder and Wanda spat out a mouthful of water before turning back, one arm wrapped tightly around Amanda, and started to struggle them back the way they came.


The witch was coughing weakly, not really capable of much more than letting Wanda drag her back to the ladder, although she did try to ease the load by kicking as much as she was able with numb legs. Her arm ached from where Wanda had seized it, but right now she was grateful to be breathing air instead of water. The ladder - and Marie-Ange's outstretched arm - came into reach, and she grasped weakly at the bottom rung as Wanda pushed her slightly in that direction, before reaching with her other hand for Marie-Ange's.



With one arm gripping the ladder as tightly as she could, Marie-Ange grabbed Amanda's forearm with the other. She braced against the ladder with her legs, and pulled up, lending strength to Amanda so she could get up onto a rung and steady herself. Once the smaller woman's feet were on the ladder, and she was clinging to the ladder tightly Marie-Ange let go of Amanda's forearm, watching to make sure she wouldn't go falling back into the water. Grabbing the side of the ladder with her now free hand, she took one foot off her rung, and leaned towards the wall. "Go. Up!" She practically barked, making room for Amanda to go ahead of her and accompanying her incomprehensible words with frantic gestures upward.

Once Amanda was up and out of her arms, Wanda lunged for the ladder. The current was picking up speed and she felt the wood brush one hand before the other one managed to find purchase. Groaning, she reached up next to Marie-Ange and heaved herself up until the water was only at her knees again. Her hair felt heavy on her head, and the backpack now weighed a ton but Amanda was safe--if resembling a drowned rat--and they were together. Two things to be grateful for.

Wanda clapped Marie-Ange on the shoulder and looked up. Regrouping was a good idea.

There was a retching noise as Amanda, half-collapsed a little way down the tunnel, threw up the water she'd swallowed. 'Ugh, I'll be tasting that for weeks. And I'll need the bloody full range of shots later...' Still, she managed a weak and water-logged smile as the other two came up the ladder and collapsed next to her. She couldn't say the words and be understood, of course, but as she reached out and squeezed first Marie-Ange's hand, and then Wanda's, the message was plain:



Thank you.



Doug, on the other hand, is still at camp. Still beset upon to translate everyone to everyone else, and it's getting worse, not better. Now the effect has spread outside the camp, and the Iraqi troops nearby take great offense to losing their ability to communicate.



Balling up a handkerchief, Doug wiped his forehead as he sipped from a bottle of water. Trying to stay ahead of the sweat was something of a futile proposition, as the stress level of the camp, combined with the desert heat, was not conducive to relaxation, especially for the one man in the entire area who could still talk and be understood. He'd been run ragged since they had entered the camp, and he was starting to feel like Hercules fighting the Hydra. For each problem that he managed to resolve, two more seemed to spring up.

As if brought on by his thought, a series of yells came from one edge of the camp, followed by the unmistakable clicks and clacks of automatic weapons being cocked.

"Oh, fuck," Doug cursed, taking off at a dead run.

The cacophony of angry voices communicated nothing but emotion, as the small UN force took up positions behind crates of supplies and vehicles. Past them, in the rocky plateau, a squad of Iraqi soldiers had appeared, like boudian from the past, only now armed with machine guns that they trained on the camp from their own scant shelter.

Col. MacQuarrie, the bluff Aussie who was in charge of the mission was yelling 'weapons tight' and kneading his blue beret in frustration as his men couldn't understand him. The tension had been stretched tighter than a drum..

Doug skidded to a halt behind the UN team, holding his hands out non-threateningly and swallowing a surge of bile in his throat as the Colonel pulled his service pistol out at the sudden movement. "What's going on, Colonel?" Doug asked after McQuarrie had re-holstered his weapon, struggling to keep his voice level after the adrenaline of having a gun pointed at him.

"Bloody fucking-- stand down you bastards!" MacQuarrie had gone beet red as he yelled, his fair hair seeming to disappear against the tomato shade of his scalp. He took a look at Doug and jammed his beret back on his head. "You, Ramsey! Tell my boys to keep their bloody weapons safed! Bunch of ragheads come out of nowhere, and suddenly we're one bullet away from a second Gulf War!"

Behind him, past the camp, Doug could hear similar noises, but in the total lack of communication, things were rapidly getting out of the two commanders' hands.

Doug nodded hastily. "Stand down and weapons safe, everyone!" he roared in a passable imitation of MacQuarrie's accent and vocal stylings. "Womens' blouses, the lot of you!" As the UN forces sheepishly safed their weapons and began to relax incrementally, he turned back to the colonel. "I'm going to go out and see what they're doing here, and then hopefully turn them right back around," he told the Australian. Then, hopping over the improvised barricade, he walked slowly towards the Iraqis, waving his handkerchief slowly over his head.

The squad on the sand hadn't moved, even with the Aussies' weapons no longer trained directly at them. One of the guards motioned Doug further into the circle of them, towards a man that was yelling into a large handset. "What is all this? What have you done to us!"

"We've done nothing," Doug replied evenly. "This phenomenon is affecting the UN peacekeeping team the same as anyone else in the area. I'm one of the only people who can make themselves understood." He didn't go into detail on his theory on why that was, as there was no way to guess the Iraqi officer's opinion on mutants. "My question is what you are doing here outside of the agreed-upon distance your forces were to stay at." He folded his arms across his chest.

The man went almost purple in anger. "We are the 17th Guards border patrol. We do not cede the border to the UN or any American puppets! You cannot keep us from stopping what ever nonsense is being set against us." They'd been on patrol when they reached the edge of the field, and then everything went mad. They couldn't get any orders on the radio, and the captain had decided to take matters into his own hands.

The man's body language was screaming bluff, as the language-impairing effect certainly had no impact on Doug's power in that regard. Doug merely quirked an eyebrow. "Shall I get on the radio with your commanding officer and tell him that you are about to precipitate an international incident, then?"

The captain didn't look at Doug, but instead one of his own men, who buttstocked Ramsey across the side of the face. He crashed heavily to the ground, and the UN troops weapons came up again, yelling incomprehensibly between themselves and the Iraqi guards. A gun barrel nestled itself against the back of his head.

"How does this not effect you, American? Obviously you are the cause of this." Doug could hear MacQuarrie's voice over that of the officer, trying to keep control of the situation. "So you will tell those soldiers to lay down their weapons and you will turn off whatever this godless device you are using or I will spill your brains into the sand!" The man's voice rose as he spoke, the last part ending in half a scream.

Having a panic attack due to guns being pointed at him would be a bad thing. Doug prodded his teeth with his tongue and tried not to think about the cold metal at the back of his neck. He'd missed the body language of the soldiers, probably due to the fact that he'd been completely overwhelmed trying to put out every little fire that had sprung up at the camp. "We have people working on the situation," he said slowly. "But you must give us more time."

"And why should I believe you?" The captain bent his knees and hissed in Doug's ear. "Why I should believe your words, American?"

"Because they're the last words you'll ever be able to understand if you don't?" Doug offered with a grimace.

"Do you threaten me?" He said, quietly and dangerously.

"No threats. Just telling you that we need time to discover the source of this problem, otherwise it'll wind up being permanent. But we -need time-," Doug emphasized.

There was a long and above all dangerous pause, before the pressure of the gun barrel came off of his neck. He motioned for his men to relax slightly. "You will speak on the radio to my Colonal, American, with your very fine Arabic. You will tell him what you have told me, and if I do not like your answers or his, you will not live to end the call."

"Fair enough," Doug replied confidently as he levered himself to his feet and brushed sand off of his pants. "Where is the radio?"

The captain waved over his communication's man, passing over the handset. "I hope you can talk very well." He said threateningly.

"Captain, talking is what I -do-."



Remy does what Remy does best - uses the connections from his past to piece together enough information to figure out what is going on.



Remy didn't bother to look for the tail that was almost certainly on him. Yitzhak Shavit wasn't a fool, and the last time they had worked together, men only knew him as Gambit. One did not survive to a senior post in the Mossad after years of field work without being cautious, thorough, and naturally suspicious. Their meeting place, a little restaurant in one of the less touristy parts of Jerusalem might had been popular with pilgrims once, but it seemed centuries out of date now.



LeBeau found himself a seat inside and waited, picking at the tray of food and boring himself with tracking the movements of a fly. It wasn't too long before another man came through the door, old and frail looking. Cousin to the famous former director of the Mossad, Yitzhak had been one of Chester Whelan's most prized possessions; a high placed Israeli intelligence officer reporting to the CIA. So prized that he never passed the identity along to anyone, a smart move considering how porous the security against Israel was for decades in the Agency. Only A minute few knew about him, and one of those people was Gambit.



That made Shavit his.



"It's been a long time, Shavit."



"Not long enough, Gambit. I heard about Whelan's death. I had hoped that would be the end of things."



"Non, but you'll be happy to know dat my demands aren't as sensitive as his."



"I'm not. Eventually you'll push for something to kill people with, Gambit. I know you."



"Maybe not as well as you think." The world at large still only knew of Gambit as an assassin; a bogeyman for intelligence agencies and police forces. "You found something?"



Shavit sighed and took a sip of water. "Yes, yes!" He said, irritably, waving his hand at Gambit. "You should consider yourself lucky that we were already looking into this little endeavour."



Yitzhak pulled out a sheaf of papers and set them on the table. "The ruins were first 'found', I suppose the word is, last year. There had been an estate house dating back from the Ottoman Empire, shelled into a ruin during the second world war. Some workers extending the road found some artifacts; shards of pottery, beads. Your American university got permission to excavate the site with a group of grad students. They were hoping for a Persian village site. Instead, they uncovered the elements of the ruin a few feet down."



"So why is it important. De biblical element?"



"Doubtful." Shavit made an amused noise through his nose. "The Tower of Babel makes good press, and stirs up donors and interest, but how can it be typed? Or identified? It's likely a ziggurat dating back to the Mesopotamia era. Significant from an archaeological perspective, certainly, but not a revealed wonder from the Old Testament."



"What about the random voices?"

"I have no idea, Gambit. We don't have the first clue why what's going on up there is going on. But that's not important. In fact, you should be thankful that did happen at all."



"I don't follow?"



"Whatever is going on at that site is a surprise to everyone. But there was another plan involving it. About six months ago, the university's original funding partner dropped out. The funding was replaced, and in fact increased, by the agreement to a few conditions, we believe." He flipped open a folder and pointed with a nicotine discoloured finger. "The new partner is the Patterson College of Divinity and Truth. The mouthpiece and intellectual front for a spin-off branch of the Southern Baptist organization in the American South; The Soldiers of the Risen Christ."



"Merde." Remy said, leaning back. The Soldiers of the Risen Christ hadn't hit popular knowledge yet, but the group had made international intelligence notice a decade ago. They sold arms and donated money to breakaway sects and dissidents all over the Middle East. They also targeted select groups in the US. A South Carolina State Assemblyman had been kidnapped, castrated and left in a ditch after he'd admitted to having an affair. The word was that they had a few followers with deep pockets and deeper political connections. "Are you sure?"



"The FBI uncovered the connection between the SRC and the College about five months ago. They haven't released it to protect the investigation for now, but we have friends in the Bureau." Shavit sighed. "The money for this project came through those people. We backtracked all of the researchers on the site, and one of the brand new ones? His papers are doctored. He graduated from a degree in Archaeology, but failed to mention that he paid for it by a five year stint in the US Army."



"How does dat factor in?"



"Because a shipment of supplies came into the camp through a roundabout method via Northern Syria three weeks ago. From the Czech Republic. All checked by the UN officials, of course." Notoriously simple to bribe was the unspoken sentence between them. Shavit paused and tapped the page. "And your researcher? The true believer? His primary MOS in the US Army? EOD."



"Why bomb de site? It makes no sense."



"It makes perfect sense, Gambit. These are fundamentalist Baptists, as bad as any of the ones Islam inspires. Their core belief is based around seeking the end of days; Revelations. The Trump and the Call lead to the Rapture, in which they will all be carried up into a perfect Heaven." Yitzhak sighed. "One of their signs is the extension of the Jewish state to encompass all the Biblical borders. I'm ashamed to say that my people are not always as hesitant about taking the financial support and influence they offer to complete it. More so, the Rapture only works if the nations of the world go to world at each other. These barely literate 'Bible-scholars' believe a Middle Eastern conflict will start their Armageddon."



"Setting off a bomb in de border of Iraq and Syrian will touch off a border war, oui." Remy rubbed his eyes.



"And Syria and Iran are unstable. There's a chance that if could spread, and if we get caught up in it—"



"Dat's de excuse some places been waiting for."



"And this strange incident and the presence of the UN makes it worse. The next wave of troops would almost certainly be American if a whole UN contingent was killed, which is exactly what the imams want to stifle the dissent in their own borders; an enemy to focus on." Shavit stood up. "It's likely we could stop it before it reached that stage, but there are no sureties in this sort of thing. The worst case is a frightening looking chance, Gambit." He turned and left Remy, who was trying to read and dial Doug at the same time. Hopefully they still had enough time.



Finally reaching the center of the ruins, the women find the remains of a huge round room. It could even be described as tower-like. They also find their culprit, and he is somewhat upset to meet them. He's also rather fanatical. Sadly for him, he's also rather inept at fighting. Amanda breaks a Device, Wanda breaks a Phone and Marie-Ange gets to kick some Butt.



There was light up ahead.



They'd been picking their way extra-carefully along the tunnel, hyper-vigilant for any more traps. They were all chilled from their impromptu swim, and the underground temperatures weren't helping - it only added to the exhaustion of the long march and the hyper-alertness. The flicker of warm yellow light on the walls up ahead , normally a welcoming sort of sight, only increased the tension. Wanda, taking the lead again, stopped so suddenly Amanda would have run into the back of her if they hadn't been poised to react at the least thing. The witch raised her eyebrow, nodding at the light, then rolled her eyes a little.



Now what?

With no way to discuss a plan, it was near impossible to make, well, a plan. But that didn't prevent stealth. The tunnel ahead curved and ahead, the ceiling was low enough that Marie-Ange and Wanda had to hunch to avoid banging their heads. They crept along, even more quietly now then they'd been, staying close to the wall to avoid casting shadows. Past the mid-point of the curve, they could see ahead to where the lights grew brighter, and the tunnel opened into what appeared to be a large round room, nearly the size of the entire brownstone back in New York.

In the center of the grotto a figure knelt with his back to the women. Blond hair hung loose down to his shoulders, and he wore a rough white homespun shirt, jeans, and hiking boots. As they began to circle around, they could see that he was kneeling in prayer, a dog-eared Bible open to a familiar passage. Despite the inability to read the written word, it was clear the man knew the passage by heart, and his lips moved as he clutched a wooden cross that hung around his neck on a cord. "...wicked people have risen among you and have led the people of their towns astray, saying 'let us go and worship other gods', Then shalt thou enquire, and make search, and ask diligently; and, behold, if it be truth, and the thing certain, that such abomination is wrought among you; Thou shalt surely smite the inhabitants of that city with the edge of the sword, destroying it utterly, and all that is therein, and the cattle thereof, with the edge of the sword." It obviously did not matter to him that nobody else might understand his words.

Wanda edged closer and sighed mentally once she spotted the crazy looking bible man. With all the "Tower of Babel" stuff, she shouldn't have been surprised it would have come down to something like this. It would have made a better surprise for them to find, oh, something a bit different but she supposed cliches were cliches for a reason. The guy was far too busy muttering to himself to have spotted them yet so she decided to press their luck. The closer they got, the better it was and she wanted to see what that thing was that was a little further along from him.

Marie-Ange bent at the knee and reached down, picking up a fist-sized chunk of rock, holding it up and then pointing at the man in the center of the room, a questioning look on her face. It was obvious to her that he was at least somewhat responsible for this, they didn't know what he could do, and just running in there shouting and screaming could result in being shot. Or having their faces melted. They'd alreadyexperienced more then their share of bad movie cliches.

Amanda nodded. Pointing to herself and then making a motion towards the edge of the room, she followed it up with pantomime of looking for something, then made a "talking" gesture with her hand. I'll sneak around, look for whatever he's using to screw up communication. She immediately followed it up by pointing at the two of them, then the man, and soundlessly pounding her hand into her fist. You two take out the religious wacko?

If Wanda looked a little too enthusiastic, she chalked it up to the three near death experiences and the destruction of ancient, history sites. The man was on her bad list already and she hadn't even really gotten all that of a good look. He was just that damned good, she supposed, nodding at Amanda and then gesturing grandly to Marie-Ange. You take one side, I'll take the other. Only she hoped that the meaning got across and not something like "Let's samba". Because knowing her luck, that's exactly what it would look like.

She was keeping the rock. If this went well, Marie-Ange was considering adopting the rock. It felt like a very friendly sort of rock, and she did consider that she might have snapped. Marie-Ange waited until Wanda had moved to the other side of the tunnel and as the older woman counted down on her fingers, readied herself to run - and gripped her rock tighter in her hand. And thank God we can still count.. On Wanda's thumbs' up, she made a run around the side of the round room, pacing Wanda on the other side. Both women could run fast, thanks to long legs, and they reached the center quickly.

The man scrambled to his feet at the patter of Marie-Ange's feet. His eyes widened at the sight of intruders in the grotto, and frantically clawed in his pocket, withdrawing a slim cellular phone and stabbing his finger at the keys.


Skidding to a halt, Wanda's eyes narrowed as she took in the movement. She had a good feeling that the cell phone wasn't to call his priest to confess whatever sins he needed to--and by the looks of it, that was a lot of sinning to atone for. By the time he had it fully out of his pocket and up to where he could see it, disrupting the call was over and done with, the red strings already settling into a new pattern in her mind. He just didn't know it. Grinning, she slid her hands into her pockets, for oncegrateful of the tons of rock and dirt between them and the surface.

A trio of tones sounded, followed by a familiar message.

"Your call cannot be completed as dialed, please check the number and try again..."

The service down here was a bitch.


Wanda and Marie-Ange were doing a bang-up job of distracting. Now all Amanda had to do was find whatever it was causing the communication problems. 'If I was an ancient mystical device, where would I be...?' she thought to herself as she moved around the chamber, sticking to the shadows as much as possible in case the man had friends down here.


Gibberish or not, the ranting that the ... well, whoever that man was, it didn't sound like he was happy to see them at all. He just kept yelling, and then staring incredulously at his phone and then yelling again. Marie-Ange thought, really, of all the people to know that yelling and ranting would do no good, it would be him. Of course, he -was- insane and probably fanatical.

With Wanda busily doing whatever it was Wanda was doing - the slight red glow gave away that she was using her powers on something, she'd be too busy to take care of the man personally. Which left it to Marie-Ange. Not that she was taking great delight in rushing forward and tackling him from behind, or in punching him in the back of the head with a somewhat angry "HA!". At least, she'd deny any personal delight in it later. She was fairly certain Amanda and Wanda would understand.

The punch in the back staggered Marie-Ange's opponent, who clearly was not at all skilled in hand-to-hand combat, judging by the way he flailed at Marie-Ange as she tackled him to the ground. A few of the wild swings connected, but only glancingly, while Marie-Ange bore him to the rock, sitting on him and kneeling on his arms to immobilize him.



There was another glow coming from an alcove, directly opposite where the fanatic had been facing. Which made sense - if you're going to pray to the thing you've set off, you'd be looking at it. Amanda rolled her eyes at herself and approached the niche. The glow was coming from a box sort of thing, about the size of a toaster oven, with a wooden frame surrounding a complicated series of gears and flywheels and springs, all made from what seemed to be brass. There'd been a thick layer of dust, but that seemed to have been wiped away with someone's sleeve, revealing the top of the box was actually a series of small square shapes, made of different types of wood and crystal and with symbols cut into them. Of course, she couldn't actually read them - this was going to be tricky...

Wanda's backpack hit the ground with a muffled sound when she shrugged it off, quickly opening the top flap so she could find some rope. Marie-Ange could only sit on the nutter for so long, despite the obvious lack of any kind of fighting skills. She'd tire out or he'd get a bit of luck on his side; better to have him lashed down then risk him getting away. A sudden vibration by her hand nearly had her hex blasting the entire thing out of reflex and it took her a second to realize that it was her cell phone (tucked safely away from anything wet) and not, say, a snake.

Fishing it out, she found the rope as well and hurriedly answered it. Still, she had no idea who it was since she couldn't read the caller ID and, fright or no, there was enough cheek to go around. "Maximoff's Ancient Text and Porn Emporium," she answered, phone tucked into the crook of her neck while she pulled out the length of rope. "If you get turned on by ancient Sumerian, contact us."

"No time for jokes, Wanda," Doug told Wanda from the other end. "Remy just called and said these people have a backup plan. There's a bomb somewhere in the compound, and their inside man probably has the remote detonator on him." A long pause greeted him. "Hello? Wanda?"

She laughed suddenly after the lengthy pause. "Hello, Doug. Really? A bomb? Remote controlled?" Wanda turned to Marie-Ange and their captive. "Already a step and a half ahead of you, darling."


"You what?" Doug replied. "Already...wow. You really -are- good, bosslady," he said with relief, borrowing Amanda's nickname. "Of course, we should still probably find the actual bomb and defuse it...gotta run."

Marie-Ange couldn't understand what Wanda was saying, but if Wanda was talking to the person on the phone, it had to be Doug, and Wanda was relaying what was going on to him. Hopefully nothing had gone horribly wrong outside, and he was just calling to check in. She kicked the man in the side with her foot to try to shut him up when he started to rant again and looked up at Wanda gratefully when she held up the rope.

She had to wrestle the man to the ground again to get him on his stomach so they could tie his hands behind his back, but despite his advantage in size, he was only managed to flail and land a few wild swings before the combination of Marie-Ange and Wanda got him back down and secured.



The sound of the scuffle drew Amanda's attention from where she was examining the Woobie. Yes, that was what she was calling it, thank you Boss Lady. She gave Wanda and Marie-Ange a cheerful thumb's up as she tried to puzzle out how to counteract the bloody thing. She couldn't read the symbols, thanks to the effect, she probably shouldn't randomly move things... If this was a movie, there'd be some clever way to solve the puzzle and save the day, but strangely enough, this wasn't a movie. The device was self-powering and beyond her ability to drain, she couldn't cast a counterspell without knowing what the original was... It was really enough to make you want to smash it with a hammer.



Amanda paused, a distinctly evil grin appearing. She was remembering one of those Indiana Jones movies, where he had just shot the bloke doing the fancy sword-swinging. What was it Forge said sometimes? Keep It Simple, Stupid?



There was a large rock - one of many - nearby. Hefting it up with a grunt, Amanda held it above the device, pausing to apologise in her head to Strange, who no doubt would weep at what she was about to do, and then dropped the rock on the device. There was a satisfying CRUNCH, as wood and crystal fragmented and the delicate mechanism was crushed completely. Amanda brushed off her hands and glanced at the other two, who were looking a little shocked.



"Percussive maintenance?" she suggested, innocently.

Instantly, Wanda laughed, the laughter ringing off the walls, wandering over to sit next to Marie-Ange, blithely ignoring the fact that she was sitting on their captive's backside. "Those are the sweetest words in the world," she said, grinning like a fool. "When in doubt, smack the hell out of it. I like the approach. And I love the ability to hear your words clearly again..."

They weren't even paying attention to him. That was the most galling part. "What we do, we do for the good of all mankind!" he screamed, practically incoherent even after the mystical device had been broken. "This won't be understood, not now, but the apocalypse to come will vindicate our faith!"


Rolling her eyes, Marie-Ange cuffed the man on the back of the head. "Oh -do- shut up." She said dryly. "You were quite irritating enough when I could not understand a word you said." She reached out a hand blindly, and grinned over her shoulder as Wanda dropped a roll of duct tape into it. "There is a phrase I have heard that I think isappropriate ..." She said, covering the man's mouth with the duct tape. "Please stop being on my side, you are making us look crazy." Just to add insult to injury, she slipped the cord with the wooden cross off the man's neck, and looped it around her wrist. "Quoting scripture would be lost on you. And possibly might annoy my friends."

"Oh, I dunno," Amanda said, coming over. The man's eyes bulged at her, and the muffled ranting got a bit more strained. She ignored him. "Right now, I think I could even happily listen to the Pillock babbling about how Harry Potter made him cry."



The problem of the bomb remains. What do you do when you've got a bomb, no way to move it, and no combat engineers or explosives ordinancepersonnel to disarm it? You call an expert.



Doug flipped his cell phone shut with a sigh of relief and turned to one of the soldiers, who was watching him intently. "The team down in the ruins found the person behind all this, and he had the detonator on him. They managed to get it away from him without the bomb being set off, so that's a relief. But there's still a bomb out there, and we need to find it."

"The bomb, yes," the captain nodded, turning to his team and starting to give an order in before stopping and throwing his arms up in frustration. He turned to Doug, pointing a finger at the young American. "You. You can speak to them, I must have you convey my words to my men. We are looking most likely for an IED, an improvised explosive device, you understand? A homemade bomb, not military. These are most dangerous. Please, tell them."

Doug turned to the soldiers who had gathered and relayed his words to the group. "Spread out in pairs," he told them. "Use hand signals, and if you find the bomb, send one person to get myself and the captain so that we can come find you." He looked to the captain for confirmation.

The captain nodded, and his men spread out, the blue covers on their helmets almost like beacons amidst the dull brown and grey dust. After watching them for a moment, the captain sighed and raised his binoculars to his face. "You are researchers, yes?" he asked without looking at Doug, "Not... what is the word? Theologians? Students of religion. You believe there is a scientific reason for this inability to understand each other. That it is more than the will of God?"

"Researchers, yes," Doug replied thoughtfully. "I'm not much on theology, personally," he continued. "My relationship with God is...a bit more casual. I suppose I'm somewhere between agnostic and just lazy when it comes to religion. From the little bit I got from my coworker, the root of this problem is a group of fundamentalist Christians who found the way to make this happen. I suppose they believe they're fulfilling Scripture or something." He shrugged. "Me, I'm just trying to help my coworkers stop this from provoking a war."

"Then you serve the same function as we do," the captain mused, focusing his binoculars down on the dig site, "You are here to keep the peace. Of course, your hands are not tied by United Nations regulations. No, young man, I do not believe you are merely researchers. In fact, I--"

The captain's words were lost suddenly as he leaned forwards, watching his men gesture to each other down in the distance. He reached for his radio, then cursed under his breath and handed it to Doug. "Sergeant Paulo has located the device, it seems. I need you to relay information. Ask him to describe it."

Doug welcomed the interruption, as it sometimes felt like he tapdanced very fast across the truth already, without potentially having to lie to a UN peacekeeper. Taking the proffered radio, he spoke quickly into it, relaying Sergeant Paulo's description to the captain. "He says there are a series of cardboard tubes attached to old walls in near the ruins a few feet off the ground. He estimates there is easily enough C4 there to blow the ruins, the camp, and all of us to very small pieces," he finished grimly.

"Mierda..." the captain murmured with a wince. "This is someone that knows what they are doing. Someone with demolition experience. If Paulo is accurate, this is very, very complicated to disarm. It would be better to remove it from the site and detonate, but our ordnance disposal teams, they are hours away and we cannot ask the Syrians or the Republican Guard, because each will blame the other."

Doug winced along with the captain. Everything indicated the fundamentalists had planned well. Professional explosives creation, infiltration...their thoroughness could have almost been admired if their goals had not been so insane. Still, Doug followed the captain towards where Sergeant Paulo was, hoping against hope for a miracle.

The captain shielded his eyes as he marched towards where his men were gathering. With concise gestures, he gathered their attention, motioning most of them up and away from the explosive site. In moments, only Doug, the captain, and Sergeant Paulo stood facing the row of cardboard tubes, dark green det cord weaving in and out of them.

Paulo, a young man looking not much older than Doug, backed away, wiping sweat from his brow. "I cannot find any anti-tamper devices, my captain," he said quietly. "But that does not mean there are none there. I can remove it from the wall safely, but I do not know if I can disarm it without setting it off, or even carry it from here. I would recommend we detonate it with a rifle charge from a distance, but..." he looked around at the buildings, a look of regret and awe on his face.

Sadly, Paulo looked at the captain, realizing that all his words had been nothing but gibberish to his superior's ears. He glanced over at Doug. "Tell him... tell him that I volunteer to stay here to try and disarm the device. I can move it away from the buildings, but I do not know how far."

The size and intricacy of the charge was stunning to Doug, and he turned to the captain and nervously conveyed Sergeant Paulo's suggestion to him. He was trying very hard not to panic at the sight of the bomb, with middling success.

The captain shook his head. "No, Sergeant. This is too--"

"Captain!" Sergeant Paulo suddenly looked up, eyes wide. "You are speaking clearly again! This is a miracle!"

Doug barely swallowed the urge to dance with glee. Wanda, Amanda, and Marie-Ange had found a way to reverse the "babble" effect that had lain over the ruins and camp. That was good news indeed, and sorely welcome, as it meant the military men no longer needed to rely on Doug's cumbersome retelling of every word they said to each other.

Both soldiers chattered back and forth, looking over the bomb. Despite no longer needing him as a translator, the captain stepped back to Doug, shaking his head. "We can move the bomb, but not disarm it. It must be detonated, and quickly. We do not have any way to move it to a safe distance in the time it takes. Please. Can you help us?"

Doug shook his head, a perplexed look on his face. "I have no idea how to get it away from here..." He'd have given his left arm for one of the telekinetics at the mansion right about now.

The captain, the sergeant, and the mutant linguist all stared mutely at the bomb for a minute before Doug made a wordless noise of exclamation and grabbed for his cell phone. Taking a quick snapshot of the bomb with its camera function, he hit a speed-dial number and talk. As the phone was ringing, he realized that while it was approaching midday in the deserts of the Middle East, he had no idea what time it was back in New York. Thankfully, the person he was trying to reach didn't sleep as much as most other people. "Come on, pick up, pick up..." he chanted silently at the phone.

"Yo!" came the voice from the phone, with the word somehow being extended into multiple syllables. "You caught me in the middle of my morning econ class, Doug. What up?"

Doug snorted. "What up?" he repeated somewhat incredulously. Shaking his head, he got quickly to the point. "Hey, no time for pleasantry, unfortunately, Forge. I need to know if I sent you a picture of something, if you could get enough of a sense of how it works to tell me how to disable it."

Forge's sharp intake of breath could be heard over the crackling phone connection. "Fuck, Doug. Warn a guy before you throw something like this at him. I don't just call you up and go 'hey, what's it like to get shot in the chest?', dammit. Okay. I can't read anything off it from a photo, but it looks pretty crude. Are there any wires that look like they'd carry current?"

"I've had about twenty guns pointed at me today, and I would like very much not to get blown up, Forge," Doug retorted. "Sorry if I'm a little frazzled." He looked at the device. "There are more than a couple likely suspects," he answered.

"Trace the wires backwards without touching them to anything that looks like it could have a battery or power source. Um, that black box down in the left corner of the photo, is that a cell phone?" Forge's voice was fading in and out with the connection. "I can't see on this resolution, how many wires are going into that phone?"

"Yes, it's a cell phone, and I count...seven wires," Doug replied as he crouched down and peered closer.

"Seven?" Forge's slightly offended tone was easily recognizable over the phone. "Oh, that's not even remotely elegant. I mean, you need your positive and negative and what's that then, five dead wires? Or an anti-tamper circuit, but even then you wouldn't have five usable wires. Oh, unless one or more of them are double-backs. You don't have a multimeter on you, do you? Of course you don't, what would you use one for? Okay, Doug. You're going to have to pop the faceplate off that phone without disturbing the wires. Take all the time you think you need."

"Oh sure, no pressure," Doug muttered, holding the phone between his head and shoulder as he pried slowly at the faceplate. Sweat that had nothing to do with the heat trickled down his forehead as he worked. "Okay, done," he said nervously after a very long silence.

"Send me another photo, as close up as you can," Forge instructed, waiting patiently on the other end of the line. Once Doug saw the file sent, he waited a few seconds before Forge's voice came back on the line.

"Okay, clockwise from the wire that's wrapped around the antenna, numbering them one through seven. Cut them in this order - seven, four, three, six, one, two. That will render it completely safe." A small chuckle came over the line. "See? Now you understand why I keep laughing at those dumb spy movies everyone watches? Red wire-blue wire my shiny metal ass."

Another long pause followed, and then Doug explosively exhaled a breath that he wasn't even aware he'd been holding. "Done," he said, relief thick in his voice. "I owe you one, Forge. A big one."

"Yes, yes you do." Forge said matter-of-factly, before a cacophony of voices drowned his out momentarily. "And it looks like I've missed the end of my class, so you know I'm bound to blame you if this affects my GPA. Try to stay away from bombs next time, eh? Oh - when are you guys due back?" he asked earnestly.

"Some time in a day or two, I'd guess. Dinner on me this weekend? I'll borrow Remy's credit card." Now that everything was wrapped up and everyone could communicate again, Doug finally felt like he could relax a bit.

"Rain check on that one, man. Previously scheduled engagement, you know how it is. Anyway, catch you all when you're back. Tell Angie I said hi. Later." The fading beep signaled the end of the phone conversation.

Doug blinked at his phone for a moment before putting it back in his pocket. "We're safe," he said, turning back to the captain. "It is a very handy thing to have a mechanical genius on speed dial."



Alone, bruised and with no way to fuel his power, Mark finds himself seemingly trapped. And then he is saved, by the power of a capella Beatles.



This cell could really use some curtains, Mark thought idly. Add in a throw pillow or two, subtract the physical abuse, and you've got yourself a semi-habitable living space. He rubbed the bruise on his jaw and winced. One of these days, he needed to learn to keep his smart mouth shut. After the Syrians had confiscated his iPod, they'd seen fit to perform a cavity search. And when Mark suggested that maybe the presiding officer ought to take him out to dinner first, they decided to play human punching bag with him.


At least it had just been your generic prisoner beating. No creative torture yet, because the Syrians didn't see him as a danger. Keyword "yet." Mark wasn't sure how much he could take if they decided to really "interrogate" him. This was really the first time that Mark cursed himself for his mutation. If he could manifest without any stimulus, then he'd have blasted his way out already. But without his iPod or even the small audio device that he and Doug had built, he had nothing.


"If you keep pacing," said a thinly-accented voice from one cell over, "Then they will think that you are plotting. Ought to sit, yes?"


So Mark did. "You come here often?" he offered weakly between grunts. Even sitting down hurt.


He was answered with a snort. "And that attitude will only worsen your situation."


"If I said that it couldn't get any worse, then they would magically appear just to prove me wrong, wouldn't they?" Mark pulled his knees up to his chest and stared at the blank stone wall across from him. The other prisoner snorted again and then started whistling softly. Beatles? It brought a smile to Mark's face, but it hurt so much that it faded quickly. "Damn. I didn't know anyone ever heard of the Beatles in this country."


"Your understanding of Syria is obviously quite limited." There was an obvious smirk in the other man's tone. "We are not some - how do you say? - backwater nation with no sense of culture. We are not Saudis, after all."


"You're Syrian?" asked Mark, eyebrow raised. "How much did you fuck up that they threw you in here? I thought you had to be a woman or an Israeli spy to get arrested."


"I hope that you are trying to be facetious."


"More or less. I have to entertain myself somehow." And keep a positive state of mind.


"Then sing with me. It passes the time." The other man began whistling again, surprisingly good rendition of "Help!," and was soon joined by another prisoner a few cells down. Mark smiled. Couldn't fault the inmates for lack of style. So he offered his own talent. The whistling was joined by tapping on the floor.

The sudden tingling sensation in his hands jarred him straight out of the makeshift chorus. It made him shiver, even in the hot cell. He felt his hands begin to pulsate in sync with the whistling, as if the song were inside him. Mark tried to ground himself by resuming the tapping and joining in with the whistling. But he couldn't control his now shaking leg and clattering teeth. His chest felt tight, and he clutched at his heart. The world began to flash, the dark stone walls of the cell suddenly bursting with light like the pyrotechnics of an '80s hair band concert. The tightness in his chest grew stronger, like someone was reaching into him and squeezing his lungs.

"Help," he wheezed. He thought he heard someone laugh, but he could barely discern anything through the ringing in his ears. "Gotta get it out," he said. Or at least tried to say. He felt his mouth move, but no sound came out. "Help help help help . . ."

"American?" called his nextdoor neighbor. "Are you well?"

And just as the whistling stopped, so did the seizure. Mark collapsed onto the warm, dirty ground, panting heavily and forcing himself to keep the meager contents of his stomach inside him. The odor of dozens ofunwashed bodies and days' worth of human waste filled his nostrils, and both shocked him back to some vague state of awareness and made his stomach lurch.

"I . . . holy Jesus fucking Christ in a handbasket." Mark pulled himself up, but instantly regretted it and finally lost it. His cell was soon filled with a strongly acidic stench. "Well," he said finally after the dry heaving subsided, "That was pleasant. Do it again?"

"Pardon me? Do what?"

"Whistle. All of you. Bang on the walls. Hum. Sing. Pretend you're a fucking Beatles cover band." He was met with silence. "Dammit!" He kicked the floor, sending up a small poof of dust that danced in the sliver of light coming in from the narrow window. "Listen, just do this for me, okay? Get the guards' attention. I swear I'll take full responsibility if they decide to get fresh with us." I'm counting on it, he added mentally.

Amazing what you can get people to do when they're starving and overheated and you're obnoxious, he thought. The tremoring started again, but this time Mark forced himself to keep calm. Focus on the beating floor, the snapping fingers, the constant rush of air piercing through tongues, lips, teeth. Pull it in, shape it, and release it.

The lock on the bars to his cell exploded in a shower of sparks.

"I'm so fucking awesome. Now for part two. Help!" he shouted. The other inmates hissed at him, telling him to quiet down, but he ignored them and shouted again and again until he heard the clomp clomp of boots on stone. Mark forced the smirk off his lips and sat back down on the floor, clutching his sides and moaning in pain. Everyone shut up quickly as the guard stalked down the hall and stopped in front of Mark.

He sneered. "Get up," he barked. Mark obliged and limped to the bars. "What do you think you are doing?" he demanded.

"Oh God it hurts," Mark moaned. "Please help me! I'm going to die!" He started to shake again and slammed against the wall for support. "Help. I need somebody!"

The guard was obviously unamused, but he had strict orders not to let anyone die without prior approval. He withdrew a ring of keys from his belt and searched for the one to open Mark's cell.

Alas, he never found it, because as soon as his gaze was off Mark, the latter violently pushed open the door, smacking the guard in the head and sending him to the ground. Mark pounced, kneeing the guard in the groin and punching him in the face simultaneously. He'd soon regret the sudden movement, but he had little choice. He had to act fast if we wanted to get out safely. With the guard unconscious, Mark usurped the keys and his gun.

"I've had a lovely time here, really, but I have to get going. America, fuck yeah! Coming again to save the mother fuckin' day, yeah." His exit wasn't quite as elegant as his escape, what with the limping and all, but it was all he could do. With a bow to the remaining inmates, he slipped out of the holding area and into the empty waiting room.

It was a small prison, little more than a collection of cells, a few "interrogation" rooms, a bath area, and an office or two. So that meant that there were no cameras to track him, or sharks with lasers on their heads to hunt him down. It also meant that the prison staff didn't have any sort of organized system for storing prisoners' belongings, so Mark's iPod sat on the table in front of him. The sight of it was almost enough to make him orgasm. Tchaikovsky would have been proud to know that the Overture of 1812 had that effect on him.

Surrounded by a brilliant blue aura, Mark strode confidently (if slowly and awkwardly) out of the waiting room and into the main corridor, where half a dozen guards were lounging around. "Today is so not going to be your day," he said, and willed his force field to expand, tossing the guards further down the hall as if they were nothing but rag dolls. The shield contracted, and then expanded once again. The force of the second blow knocked them out.

At the end of the hall were two doors, one the exit and one to the warden's office. Mark chose the second as Tchaikovsky gave way for Kylie Minogue. "I'd banter," he said as he opened the door, "But I'm short on time. I'd just like to thank you for your hospitality these past twenty-four hours." It was like someone set up ten strobe lights at once. Mark shut his eyes and looked away to protect himself from a second seizure, but the warden wasn't so lucky. He blacked out in seconds. "Kylie has that effect on people sometimes." Mark's papers were spread out over the desk, and he calmly collected them, put on the Republic Guard beret, and left. Pete would forgive being arrested, but he wouldn't forgive loss of Swiss bank accounts.

The air around Mark shimmered and coalesced into a deep red glow, the dancing piano of Mozart's eleventh piano sonata forming another protective shield around that kept him safe all the way as he ran (or tried to, in any case) out of the prison and into the driver's seat of one of the prison's two jeeps. One of the keys he'd liberated fit into the ignition, and Mark calmly ignored the fact that he hadn't driven since moving to New York, and sped out of the compound.

"I totally rule."