An edifice of fallen souls, swollen and corrupt, rising up like the last 
nightmare of a dying civilization.
   It was a crime, truly a great injustice that would allow something so well 
hung to perish and wither within the fiery pits of the lost and the 
forgotten.
   Not that it really mattered anymore - not now that the world had been 
unhinged with all the beautiful sensitivity of a sadist on a pig farm.
   How such a world could propagate itself was truly beyond him/her. Gods 
leaving Heaven, men in spandex controlling entire nations. It was absurd, 
truly absurd. Still, in a way (s)he found it quite attractive. Attractive in 
the same way that a small child might find the opportunity to pull the legs 
off a spider 'attractive'.
   (S)he smiled delicately, her features flickering with darker shadows of an 
alternate self - an alternate face, and slowly (s)he turned away from the 
light and back towards the curdling darkness beyond.
   Darkness. Not an inviting prospect.
   Still, at least it wasn't shade.


The Minx: DCF
"Looking For Satellites"
A DC Futures One Shot
Written by Jacob Milnestein
Edited by Schuyler Bush

The Minx created by Peter Milligan and Sean Phillips
The Minx: DCF created by Jacob Milnestein



"Stop, look, listen, I can find you,
  I've been standing right besides you.
  You don't have to remind me,
  I know and I won't let go."

- Beth Orton,
Live As You Dream

"Why the hell are we conditioned into the smooth, strawberry-and-cream Mother 
Goose world, Alice-in-Wonderland fable, only to be broken on the wheel as we 
grow older and become aware of ourselves as individuals with a dull 
responsibility in life? To learn snide and smutty meanings of words you once 
loved, like Fairy."

- Sylvia Plath,
Journals And Letters 


   "...And in other news today, the ultraterrestrial entity believed to be 
known as 'Starro' has fallen out of its six month orbit around the moon and 
devastated the entire city of Swansea in Wales. 
   It is believed that the starfish shaped being is currently refusing to 
move and various highly recognized medics have speculated that the alien may 
be suffering from depression. UN Troops have moved in but an official 
spokesperson has claimed that no attempt will be made to move the alien until 
it has worked through its problems and come to terms with its own traumatic 
childhood. With a live update, here's a woman with a cello."

   Katherine Schwarz leant closer, dampening the stereovision volume to the 
faintest whisper as images of the starfish shaped ultraterrestrial were 
presented in all the glory of three dimensions.
   Her nose wrinkled at the sight, a sign of distaste, as she continued to 
wade through the forest of cups, complete with congealing remnants of a 
liquid that might have once been tea, and endless reams of notes and 
sketches, most of them scribbled upon the back of beer mats and empty packets 
of cigarettes.
   Outside, the world had already began to unfold. 
   Dark grey clouds hung over Hawksmoor's Christchurch and a thin membrane of 
snow had grown over the corrupted streets. Not enough to cover the sickness 
that stained the city's heart but enough to alleviate the pain. For a short 
while, at least.
   She turned away; wrapping her arms around herself as a shiver ran through 
down her spine, like someone had just walked over her grandmother's grave or 
something to that effect.
   The image on the stereovision blurred slightly, distorting but only 
subtly, twisting the picture of the current events in Wales till the faint 
outline of another face in the crowds of people surrounding the alien because 
far too apparent.
   Katherine held her breath and leant in closer to face the screen.
   A pale man in his early thirties, coat flapping around him in the bitter 
wind and his messy hair hanging in limp curtains over his eyes.
   She held her breath, watching him as his hands reached deep within his 
overcoat, fingers folding over some foreign object within his inside pocket.
   She opened her mouth but no words were forthcoming. She was mute, silent 
as the day outside and a stranger to herself.
   Somewhere at the back of her mind, there was another, a voice that had 
haunted her family for generations - another self.
   The man on the stereovision pulled his hand away from the inside of his 
coat and Katherine tried to pull her eyes away from the screen, tried not to 
face what was about to happen but something would not let her. The voice was 
smiling again, smug and arrogant within the confines of her imagination.
   The UN soldiers had seen him now, they were turning to face him, guns 
level with his lanky frame and ready to open fire, and still he just stood 
there, his hand half in and half out.
   And then the moment arrived, his hand striking out at the harsh wind.
   The guns snarled but did not fire and the voice forced her to look at him, 
her eyes moving up and down the man's frame through no will of her own.
   Held tightly in his pale white hands was a thick, formerly rolled up piece 
of cardboard, still creased around the corners. Letters carved onto the 
surface by dying magic markers stood out for the entire nation to read, 
letters that at first she could not quite understand until she looked further 
into them, further beyond any surface meaning they might contain.
   The voice teased her mouth into a smile and she almost found herself 
laughing.
   The sign read:
   'Hallo, Mum.'
   A tingling sensation ran up her and the blood returned to her face, 
leaving her alone and back in control. The voice was nothing but a quiet 
whisper now, a distant laughter caught in the thought process of an average 
young woman.
   Katherine shook her head, listening out for the sounds that never came and 
rubbing her bruised eyes.
   It was a bastard winter outside.

   McAnguish cupped his hands, hiding the flame from the cold that curdled in 
the air around him.
   The cigarette hung from his mouth for a moment and he tried to balance 
himself within the crowd, his brow flickering in the ghost of a frown.
   He smiled darkly, the sign that had so recently attracted the attention of 
UN troops now resting safely underneath his right arm.
   It was all very well and good getting the attention of a group of mindless 
stereovision reporters and pre-pubescent UN wankers with big guns. But if he 
hadn't got the attention of the one person in Britain that he really needed 
to be here then it was all a bloody waste of time.
   He smiled broadly, stepping up to the thick line of uniforms that 
separated the general public from the remnants of Swansea and its new 
arrival. 
   "Alright, lads," McAnguish beamed. "You can piss off home now."
   The troopers looked on, their faces unimpressed. 
   McAnguish folded his arms, doing his best to look authoritarian. 
   The line shuffled about, parting to reveal an older man, his features dark 
and his eyes hidden behind the worst Nippon District sunglasses that 
McAnguish had ever laid eyes on.
   "Alright, mon, don't you be giving us any trouble now." He exclaimed in a 
deep Jamaican accent, looking McAnguish up and down from behind the relative 
comfort of his glasses.
   "Ach, give us break, Vilar man, I only want to see the giant starfish." 
McAnguish beamed.
   Vilar reached up and removed his glasses, looking down upon the little man 
with a cynical smile.
   "Yeah, mon, just like when you wanted to see the giant Chemo-mon in 
Macclesfield and you ended up turning the poor bastard inside out. Jesus, 
mon, there was a fog over Manchester for nearly half a year."
   McAnguish smiled, batting his eyelids in a childish fashion.
   "Please, Vilar," He beamed, looking like a little lost animal. "I promise 
I won't get in the way."
   Vilar looked at him, stoic and silent.
   "Come on, Vilar," McAnguish cried, throwing his arms wide. "It's me, it's 
bloody McAnguish. It's not like I'll break the bloody thing, now am I?"
   Vilar rolled his eyes and stepped back a moment.
   "Alright, mon, you got five minutes." He exclaimed holding up the five 
fingers of his right hand as if to demonstrate the fact.
   McAnguish smiled deviously.
   "Ta, mate, I owe you one." He beamed, strolling past the troopers and 
jumping up over the barriers.
   "That's what you've been saying for the past five years, mon." Vilar 
shouted after him.
   McAnguish waved a hand in the air as he strolled across the fields of 
brick and pale green grass.
   The ultraterrestrial ignored him; its solitary giant eye remaining focused 
on the Heavens above.
   McAnguish pulled his foot back and kicked the alien with his battered 
steel-capped boots.
   "Alright, Starro, you old bastard, how are you?" He shouted, clambering up 
onto the giant, green alien.
   The huge ultraterrestrial groaned, its sole eye rolling visibly in its 
socket. 
  
*
   
Cambridge,
1920
   
   The she-male sat before them, adorned in the finest of pinstripe suits, 
gently running his/her finger around the crystal edge of his/her brandy 
glass.
   "Tell me, my dear Mister Jones," (s)he spoke at last, his/her voice a 
gentle whisper tainted by a strong colony accent. "Do you really find the 
concept of time travel so ridiculous that you would dare dismiss me before 
you've heard me argue my case?"
   William Jones nervously looked up towards the portrait of his late 
grandfather.
   "I don't claim to fully understand your presence here if that is what you 
meanMistererMiss" His voice faltered, falling upon the restlessness of 
his troubled soul.
   "SexDeath." The other beamed proudly. "Just SexDeath."
   Jones turned his attention back towards his 'guest', a line of 
perspiration appearing upon his troubled brow.
   "I find the idea of mankind travelling beyond the stars and through his 
own timeline some what preposterous, yes, if that is what you mean." He 
finally announced.
   SexDeath's smile grew, stretching out from ear to ear.
   "Just as well," (s)he reflected. "I've never really had much confidence 
in it myself."
   (S)he rose from her seat, folding his/her arms behind his/her back.
   "The unfortunate truth of the matter, my dear William - and I may call you 
that, mayn't I?"
   Jones nodded nervously.
   "The unfortunate truth is that I am dead, William." SexDeath completed. 
"Dead as a dodo."
   Jones took a step back, his hand stretching out for the large, erect brass 
of the door handle.
   "Don't look so surprised, William. After all, there's no shame in being 
dead, now is there?"
   Slowly, and oh, so delicately, SexDeath reached a spidery fingered hand 
into the depths of his/her jacket, slowly and reverently removing a tattered 
book and bringing it out into the light.
   "What is that?" Jones asked, curiosity overcoming him.
   SexDeath's smile grew.
   "It's a book, William. A chronicle of times to come." (s)he smiled and 
placed the book down upon the table. "Being dead, I find it quite easy to 
pick these little things up. It's like being at every place in every time all 
at once yet also being unable to change anything. And that, my friend, is 
where you come in." Still smiling, the creature turned his/her back on him, 
looking out across the populated streets that curled around the house. "In 
seventy-nine years, a descendent of yours, one Tom Jones, will embark upon a 
rather convoluted and confused relationship with a young girl named Anna 
Schwarz. At this time, Miss Schwarz will begin to 'receive' messages of the 
psychic nature from a space-fairing monkey."
   Jones looked at his unusual 'guest' with utter incomprehension.
   "A space-fairing monkey you say?" He exclaimed incredulously. "And is this 
monkey a time traveler? Or better yet, is our monkey chum also deceased?"
   SexDeath's crooked grin grew to dangerous proportions.
   "I should certainly hope so," (s)he declared. "Especially after all the 
effort I'm putting into this."
   Jones' face creased in a frown.
   "But you don't know for sure?" He asked.
   SexDeath turned back to face him.
   "No, Mister Jones," (s)he whispered. "No, I don't."
   
*
   
   Katherine held her thumb out, the thin drizzle of rain running down her 
strawberry-blonde hair and soaking through her suede jacket to the slimfit T-
shirt that she wore beneath.
   Crushed within the pockets of her jacket was a dog-eared copy of Doctor 
Faustus, her gentle right hand resting atop the book as it poked out of her 
coat pocket. The corners of the pages stained by the chemicals inherent in 
the cold and bastardized atmosphere that hung over her like a veil, 
concealing the tragic light of a tired sun.
   The ominous black coffin of a London taxi turned the corner, hovering in 
the air above her as if the driver was making some mental assessment before 
picking her up.
   She folded her arms and looked up at the air-car and eventually its huge, 
dark bulk lowered, hovering above the pavement besides her.
   The door unfolded, allowing her inside and Katherine thanked whatever God 
was listening for small mercies.
   She pushed her way into the vehicle's interior, placing her decidedly 
unfluffy Teletubbies bag down on the seat besides her.
   The bag had been a present - a souvenir of McAnguish's warped sense of 
humour. He claimed to have picked it up in one of the many antique shops that 
peppered Opal City and she had never decided whether she believed him or not.
   "King's Cross, please." She muttered to the flashing light of the in-car 
intercom system and slowly the car ascended, rising up above the pale 
industria of the city and heading towards the station.
   Christ, what was he doing in Swansea? 
   She closed her tired eyes, trying to remain calm and focused.
   Whatever idiot plan it was that he had in mind, there was still the chance 
that she would be to dissuade him from going through with it. But that all 
depended on her getting to Swansea in time and British Rail, as always, were 
notorious for their lack of good timing.
   She rubbed her eyes and blinked, trying to focus on the rainswept streets 
outside, watching as the torrent of polluted chemicals and water washed away 
the veil of snow that had covered the city up to a few hours before.
   In the distance, the hideous architecture of King's Cross had risen up 
into view.
   Katherine Schwarz looked out across the city and silently she prayed that 
there was something more than small mercies on her side.
    
   Cold Space again.
   SexDeath looked out across the vast, vacuous landscape with a look of 
utter contempt scrawled upon his/her face.
   With great relief, (s)he allowed his/her guise to drop, fade away into the 
darkness with all the other dead things and presented the vacuum with his/her 
true face once again, features locked in a hideous skull like grin.
   Moving his/her essence through the realms of time always left him/her 
feeling both physically and morally drained.
   It was hard enough attempting to remain feasible within the vast coil of 
shadows, let alone project him/herself out into the more solid confines of 
the outer world.
   Time meant little when you were imprisoned in nothingness.
   (S)he shook the melancholy off, casting it away and sending it spiraling 
back with her false skin.
   The damage had been done, the MonkeyGod - that false prophet - had already 
infected the world with his delusions of grandeur but there were many ways in 
which to revoke a prophecy and SexDeath knew them all by name.
   
   Katherine looked out across the platform, quietly cataloguing the sea of 
anonymous faces that crowed the vast, industrial nightmare that served as the 
refurbished King's Cross train station.
   There were some things about living in Britain that never changed, no 
matter how long you lived or who you were. The lateness of British Rail 
trains was one of these things.
   A tall man stood by the platform, his hands folded over an elegant 
briefcase and umbrella and his hair covered by a bowler hat. He looked over 
at her, smiling briefly. Or at least she thought he was smiling, and held up 
the briefcase, waving her over with his umbrella.
   Tentatively, she moved closer, keeping just enough distance in case he 
turned out to be a deranged psychotic.
   His smiled broadened.
   "Miss Schwarz?" He asked, not giving her time to reply. "My name is Mister 
Jones of the firm, Jones, Jones, Jones and Jones. We have a present for you."
   
   The table was crowded, waiters standing in finest garb at either end of 
the vast halls, holding aloft silver platters of champagne and Pedigree Chum.
   Row upon row of as many possible dogs as was imaginable sat at the table, 
their attentive canine eyes resting upon the shadowy figure who stood in the 
doorway.
   The waiters shuffled nervously from side to side.
   "You are not Constantine." A large German Shepherd finally announced, 
looking over the stranger's attire and attempting to avoid meeting those 
grinning eyes of his.
   "No." The stranger replied. "No, I'm not Constantine."
   "But you are known to us." A poodle claimed, looking towards the stranger 
and then back to her companions. "You are McAnguish, are you not?"
   McAnguish smiled and stepped forwards into the light, grinding his 
cigarette out on the doorframe as he did.
   "Yeah, that would be me." He replied.
   "Do you bring us news of the situation in Swansea?" The German Shepherd 
growled.
   McAnguish's face lit up in a smile as he reached into his pocket and 
unfolded a vast, almost medieval looking contract.
   "Congratulations, my canine chums," He smiled. "Looks like the UN just 
gave you planning permission to build a train station around Starro."
   The dogs looked at one another, furry brows wrinkled in confusion.
   "You don't seem to understand us, Mister McAnguish," The poodle spoke 
again. "We wanted to take over the world not build a train station."
   McAnguish leant his elbows upon the table and looked the small poodle in 
the eyes, his smile never once wavering.
   "Who wants to take over the world, nowadays?" He declared. "It's far too 
passe. Trust me, building a train station around a giant starfish shaped 
alien is a bloody great idea. People will come from miles around to scratch 
your heads and say thank you."
   The poodle turned to look at her comrades.
   "Well, it does mean we'd be able to come off income support. Especially if 
we owned the train station."
   The German Shepherd nodded.
   "Then so be it. Let the world know that the Committee of Canines is going 
to build a train station around Starro!" 
   The dogs rose in enthusiastic cheers and began to chase one another's 
tails.
   
   The tall man opened his briefcase and from its layered insides, produced 
a small and battered book, the old paper kind that people use to read before 
the Interactive Novel reared its ugly head.
   "What is it?" Katherine asked, her eyes fixed upon the worn, faintly red 
cover of the book.
   "A chronicle of times to come, I believe." The gentleman speculated. "Of 
course those times to come have probably been and gone by now."
   She looked up at him.
   "But why me?" She asked. "Why are you giving this to me?" 
   Jones smiled again.
   "Because, Miss Schwarz, you are the Minx." He explained.
   She frowned.
   "The Minx. What is that, some kind of superhero alias?" She paused, a look 
of horror crossing her face. "Oh Christ, please don't tell me you want me to 
dress up in some kind of spandex underwear."
   Jones smiled and shook his head.
   "Of course not, Miss Schwarz." He beamed. "While the idea is not entirely 
unpleasant I think it's best if we left the spandex to those men and woman 
foolish enough to make idiots of themselves in public. No, my dear Katherine, 
the Minx is a lot more important than some silly man dressed as a rodent."
   "So what is it then?" She asked, quite relieved that he wasn't a pervert 
after all.
   Jones sighed, drawing in a deep breath and then looking out across the 
dull London horizon.
   "At the risk of sounding terribly nostalgic, the Minx is a force of 
evolution, if such a thing exists in these troubled times. A cosmic gift from 
the benevolent arms of one monkey-arsed bastard to another."  
   Katherine looked on, not understanding a word of his explanation.
   "Oh." She finally exclaimed. "So the Minx is like a super-power for 
monkeys?"
   Jones shook his head.
   "No, no, my dear. The Minx is more like a super-power, if it can be called 
such a thing, for schizophrenics and imaginary friends."
   "I'm sorry, but that really doesn't sound that appealing." Katherine said, 
a worried look crossing her features.
   Jones smiled.
   "I'm sure you'll understand when it happens to you, Miss Schwarz. Now if 
you'll please excuse me, I really should be getting on. Got to see a man 
about a dog."
   He doffed his bowler hat and smiled once again, then silently turned his 
back and began to walk down the length of the platform.
   "Wait," Katherine cried out. "Have you got a Minx as well?"
   The dark shape of the London King's Cross to Cardiff crawled up the 
tracks.
   Jones turned back to look at her.
   "Me? You couldn't pay me to put up with that kind of shit." He smiled.
   The train opened its vast, metal doors and Katherine Schwarz looked down 
at the palms of her hands.
   Resting silently was Jones' book.

   SexDeath looked down from his/her vantagepoint, watching as the alien's 
solitary eye revolved in its socket in order to focus upon him/her.
   High above them, the sky was falling, pale tints of blue and emerging 
stars.
   The axis of infinity had been altered, the balance of the future had 
shifted.
   Three years from now, the world would be in ruins and SexDeath the Messiah 
would reside upon a throne of monkey corpses.
   (S)he smiled darkly and slowly turned his/her back on the creature and 
smiled.
   The future had already been written.

*   *   *   *  *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *

KATE MAIL


   It is a cold February afternoon as I sit here in my tartan trousers and 
write this and the future is far from certain.
   But we don't have to deal with that...at least not for now so I won't 
bother with explanations and instead will skip ahead (or behind perhaps) to 
some comments I want to make about this story, a footnote or afterword if you 
will.
   
   The story that has illuminated the screen of your Compaq monitor for the 
past ten minutes or so is a "Minx" story.
   This is my first project for DCF so I won't go on for too long but 
hopefully, if all has gone to plan, you'll be encouraged to go out and track 
down those eight very special issues of the recently cancelled DC/Vertigo 
series, "The Minx" by Peter Milligan and Sean Phillips and maybe even hang 
around here if the next "Minx: DCF" mini-series is approved.
   Anyways, I hope you've enjoyed this little tale and if you have any 
comments please feel free to mail me at calohan@promethean.demon.co.uk 

  La Tristesse Durera,
  Jacob Milnestein