Subject: [OTL]: Tying Up Loose Ends 2/2 (Mandarin, Warren, Betsy) EVIL WRITER Date: Mon, 8 Mar 1999 19:25:46 -0800 (PST) From: Erik Larson See Part I for admin foo. Archive_OK, !MST_OK, POP_OK Feedback to erl_redhawk@yahoo.com The Mandarin contemplated killing the cab driver slowly, as his incessant prattle and blatant attempts at conniving information about himself fell on deaf ears. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the cab driver arrived at the proper destination -- a cozy little loft in SoHo. His nonexistant tip was greeted with a blast of foul-smelling profanity as the driver cursed his ancestors, cursed his sexual preferences, and his mother as well before lapsing into his native, debased tongue. As the cab pulled away, the Mandarin adjusted each of the ten rings on his fingers, an anticipatory affection he permitted himself. To his surprise and pleasure, a quick check with one of his rings revealed that his target was busy indulging her baser desires in the bedroom, and was completely unaware of his presence. Her mind felt odd, though, turned in on itself. But it was of no matter. When he reached the front door to the loft, he was greeted with his second pleasant surprise -- the security system wasn't armed, although the door was locked. The Mandarin's elegant features were briefly illuminated by the glow of his matter rearranger ring. Beneath his moustaches, his mouth tightened in a smile of satisfaction as it noiselessly disintegrated the lock. The trail of discarded clothing...the rhythmic sounds of flesh against flesh, gutteral moans and hoarse panting told the Mandarin all he needed to know. Silently, he slid across the loft toward his quarry, disturbing nothing in his passage. The Mandarin slipped into his no-mind state, the one a true martial artist sought at all times. In this state, a telepathic read would be much more difficult, and reaction times would be increased. Be, do not do, as Lao Tze once said. And, as always, the presence of his rings beckoned in his mind, ten glowing warm points of light, each with their own feel, their own flavor. He gave voice to the Vortex ring, and proceeded to blow his target off of her lover, sending her spiralling off the bed. The wet _crack_ of her skull striking the wall was almost musical. Warren's growled protests meant nothing to him, of course, as he let the Black Light ring weave its tendrils into reality, then the incendiary kiss of the Flame Ring lick over his prisoner. Betsy spat the blood from her mouth just in time to see the black ring of sentient force, so reminiscent of her own Shadow-influenced powers, close around her lover. Her heart broke when she heard the roar of the flames, and his scream as his delicate blue skin caught fire and burned echoed in her very soul. She screamed, then, and charged after him, using every ounce of her hot hated to fuel her ninjitsu. A flurry of strikes and feints, aimed for throat, knees, and solar plexus, were effortlessly blocked by the Mandarin. He didn't even strike back, really, his one hand held back in an odd ready position, thumbtip to fingertips, and the other moving like a rope in the wind, blocking her strikes. His body, too, when he needed to dodge, swayed from side to side, as opposed to the rigid mechanical blocks she was used to seeing from him. "WHY?" she screamed, as her palm-strike to his nose was effortlessly redirected. "Why come after Warren? It's me you want, I presume, why get him involved?" The Mandarin didn't answer, merely blocked, dodged, or redirected her strikes away from his person. In the no-mind, the bit of light that represented the Mind Ring pulsed, as he pushed his will through it, goading her onwards, heightening her anger, her rage. Her mindshield, normally quite enough to thoroughly block such an attempt, let the probe through. ~An unfocused mind, given to anger and grief, is an impotent mind~ he thought with savage amusement. A redirection of one of her strikes away from him later, he saw his opportunity. In her anger, in her grief, she'd neglected to keep her defenses where they should be. Her blocking arm was an inch or two off. Smiling suddenly, he struck. His back hand, until now unused, darted forward, past her defenses, to crush her throat with a wet crunch. Gurgling, hands reaching for her ruined throat, she fell to her knees. The Mandarin straightened up, adjusting his clothes and the armor beneath them. "You lose." he smirked to her, stepping back out of her reach. "It's nothing person, truly. Had you remained my thrall, we both would have been perfectly content. But you broke my conditioning, returned to your precious X-Men. I can't allow that." Betsy gurgled, as on the bed behind her the last of the flames flickered and died. The smell of burnt flesh and burnt feathers was cloying. ~Oh, God, his wings....~ was her last thought as the darkness, and the clenching bands around her lungs, consumed her. As the light went out in her eyes, the Mandarin was rocked with an incredible sense of freedom, of a old, malevolent evil. The feeling passed quickly, and Mandarin shook it off as he pointed his Ice Ring at Betsy's dead body, flash-freezing it with a thought. Into his communicator, he said "It is done. Bring your men." The black-light protective ring dissolved around the bed, revealing Warren Worthington's charred remains. Amazingly, he still lived, if the waves of searing pain that the Mind Ring picked up easily were any indication. For a second, the Mandarin thought about ending his misery, of doing the honorable thing, then dismissed the idea. Better he wallow in his torments then be granted the everlasting peace of Buddha. Within ten minutes, black-clad members of the Hand entered the loft, and using heavy gloves claimed the frozen corpse of Betsy Braddock. "As we agreed, it is done." the Mandarin said calmly. "Do with her what you will." As the Mandarin walked calmly out of the loft, he allowed his Vortex Ring to activate, bearing him aloft on a current of self-generated air. Turning, he flew towards the Chinese Embassy. -- Erik Larson -- redhawk@deeptht.armory.com "There is something feeble and a little contemptable about a man who cannot face the perils of life without the help of comfortable myths. Almost inevitably some part of him is aware that they are myths and that he believes them only because they are comforting. But he dare not face this thought! Moreover, since he is aware, however dimly, that his opinions are not real, he becomes furious when they are disputed." [Bertrand Russell, "Human Society in Ethics and Politics"]