Title: Between II - The Long Walk 8/10

Author: ebonbird (ebonbird@hotmail.com)

Rating: PG

Summary: This is the sequel to "Between" which is

available @ http://ebonbird.tripod.com/stories.htm.

Though based upon episodes 89-104 of Gatchaman I this

story only loosely follows those events.

Contributing tunes: Time Has Come Today - The Chambers

Brothers; Pusher Man - Curtis Mayfield; Spanish Eyes - Back

Street Boys; Never Can Say Goodbye - Jackson Five; All I

Want - Angel Moon; Plenty - Sarah McLachlan; Mighty Love -

The Spinners; Gymnopedie 1, 2 and 3 - Eric Satie; Could I Be

Your Girl - Jann Arden; Ooh Child - The 5 Stairsteps; Paint It

Black - The Rolling Stones.

Disclaimer: The characters do not belong to me. They

are used without permission. Tatsunuko, Co. Leave me

be, this is flattery.

Comments & Criticism: yes, please.



Thanks to BeckyD, Lori McDonald, Naa Dei-Nikoi, John

Duffin, Sal, Stephanie Wilson, Wildcat & Kim Wylie

for beta-reading and encouragement.



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

8.



Bleeding from wounds he hadn't noticed, Joe walked through

drifts of yellow green gas, thick in color like spoiled urine,

seeping out of the vents and trickling down the deep gray walls

of the subterranean motor pool to cling to the cast-metal floor.



Joe's joints popped as he ghosted from pillar to pillar, and he

held his hand to the mask's nose guard, needlessly. The

sensation of his skull expanding and contracting in short arcs

was an illusion, compounded by the flapping of the loose end of

the plastic strap beside his ear. The pills he'd taken hours earlier

were wearing off, his reflexes slowing down. The popping of his

joints, the transcendent ache in his lower back, the irritation of

his skin exacerbated by the toxins he'd dumped into the vents

and the dust and chemicals raised by the explosives he'd

detonated.



Not his tools of choice. Give him his hands, his feet, his other

hands, the shuriken and the gun, and when the prey was the

right sort, his knife.



Reaching the stairwell Joe turned to the surveillance camera he

knew was concealed behind the bulletproof green globe, took a

deep breath and took off the mask. Let Galactor see him. Let

Berg Katse know for sure that the man who'd taken down P

Infinity and the record store was Condor Joe. Let Katse see his

real face. Let him recognize the wristcom, cleaner than it ever

was in combat, and note the feather shuriken stuck in Galactor

grunts.



Joe pulled the borrowed mask over his head and coughed as filtered

air came back into his lungs. It tasted wrong and his shoulders

felt light. He missed the flap of his cape behind him; the familiar

weight of all those shurikens caught up in the material; the cinch

of his utility belt around his waist.



It was too quiet. His feet were sticking to the ground from the fire

burning in the lower levels, not from spilled blood. Joe preferred

his violence up close and personal. Blood was cleaner, so much

cleaner than walking into an enemy facility and picking off grunt

after grunt after blasting apart most and poisoning all.



The fire didn't satisfy, though. And he knew that lots of blood

didn't satisfy either, but when given a choice Joe'd rather a knife.

Or the other four members of his team at his back and his cable

gun gripped in his hand.



He stepped over a fallen body. It squirmed. A hand, a

mechanic's, grotty with grease and brightened by blood, reached

out for him, its owner coughing up all kinds of its insides. The

gas had done it. The gas had incapacitated every person

unlucky enough to inhale its fumes, and for those who worked in

the garage, with its already toxic air, the effects had been

illuminating.



They saw his sneakers, his jeans, assumed the worst.



"Help me," Joe heard the terrorist crawling towards him say.



Joe broke his neck.



Oh, for his gun; or Ken's birdrang; or more enemy casualties.

Not this weird silence in the motorpool and the stranger one in

his heart.



Blood was honest. It was personal. Only came when he looked

into his enemies' faces when they died. The stickiness of it

beneath his feet, the rapidly spoiling bad fish sauce stink of it,

better than the choking coughing cries of the fallen as he walked

over them, them reaching out for help, to him, the one who made

them die.



A goon blocked the way to the stairwell, its cheek ground into the

floor. Joe stepped over it. Weak fingers closed around his ankle.

With his toe, Joe pushed her hand away. The skin around her

eye was caked with blood, and twitching. He pulled a knife from

his belt and fell to his knees beside her, pushed the knife in and

twisted. Her body tensed beneath him. "Condor Joe," Joe

whispered into her ear so she would know. Blood pop surprise

from her chapped lips and an answering tightness in his already

seizing chest. He pulled on his knife. It stayed stuck. He put his

knee to the corpse's back and yanked. The metal caught on

bone. He twisted the knife the direction opposite to the one he'd

put it in at, braced his knee over her waist, pulled. The knife

jerked free. Joe held it up in his hand, let it drop to the ground

with a clatter. He wouldn't be needing it. Bowing his back, Joe

placed his palms on the ground and stood, blowing on his hands.



Joe made his way up the stairs and rather than watch the

building burn and pick off any people that may have escaped

from it, and stole a modified Integra from the employee parking

lot.



His hands shook a little against the steering wheel, so he fixed

his gaze above the dashboard. He could hear sirens as he

crossed the causeway into Utoland City. Passed a white

aluminum-sided building with hunter green shutters on the

windows on the right. A church. Catholic, by the looks of it. The

sign on the message board - and Joe was relieved that at that

moment he could see that far - announced confession between

1-3 in the afternoons. Resting his head on his cheek, one hand

on the steering wheel he passed the exit to the church's small

parking lot and its palm lined driveway.





* * *



The God Phoenix completed another pass over Utoland City still

with no sign of Joe.



Ken pressed his hand to his ear in disbelief.



"What is it, commander?" Jun asked from her station.



"They've found the G-2." He said feeding the coordinates. "Ryu,

set a course for the race-track."



"What happens after we pick it up?" asked Jinpei. "We can't go

back without Joe."



"Yes, Jinpei, those are exactly our orders." Ken's grin came out,

sincere and wild, "But you better not run off `cause you think

you see Joe, because if Jun goes after you," more teeth, "Ryu

and I will have to get the vehicle aboard our selves."



Jinpei started to laugh.



* * *



Looking west, Joe shaded his eyes. The sun was setting, dyeing the

horizon glowing orange and white. Purple night spreading behind the

jagged colors. Tie-dye and kodachrome, Joe thought, almost surprised

by the poetic turn of his thoughts.



Bracing his arm and elbow against the wall, Joe pushed himself to his

feet. Thumb snagging in the nylon, Joe pulled a stocking leg over his

head, immediately compromising his vision, but it was okay. Only

needed to go through a place once and it was in his nerves, for-frickin-

ever. He could navigate it blind. Cable-gun in hand, memory and

balance guiding him, Joe skimmed over the graveyard of shoes,

missing a bad ankle turn by a fraction before he reached up and jumped

for the fire-escape. Latching on and hanging loose long enough to draw

the right bead and snag the roof top opposite white shadow to the top of

Doc Holliday's building.



Inside it was cool and dark, different dark from outdoors without

saying. Fingers feeling clumsy tore holes in the cool clinginess over his

mouth and eyes. He saw better. Looked at his hand, letting his eyes

adjust to the dark. Looked down at the moist scraps of panty-hose in his

hand and murmured, "What am I doing?" and pushed himself off the

wall.



Joe was standing behind the door to the Dr. Holliday's office, his file

in his hand when Dr. Holliday poked her head in. He stunned her with one

blow. Tied her hands with her bathrobe belt. Picked her up and put her

over his shoulder. She was round and light, but his knees buckled and he

knocked the wall with her head.



He'd tied her to her comfy doctor chair and slapped her twice before

she regained consciousness.



"You remember me?" Joe asked, his hand spread on the chart in front

of her. The doctor had her face turned to the side, her eye rolling a

little. She looked panicky, like she was gonna puke.



Joe pulled the charts out of her way. "Do you remember me?" he asked

again.



Dr. Holliday shook her head.



He moved his hand from the chart with a curse. Flipped it around so

she could read the alias he'd put down as his name.



She nodded.



He cocked his gun. Reached for the gag knot at the back of her head.



"Quiet." Joe instructed and untied her. She pulled the gag away from

her mouth. Stared up at him, her gaze penetrating. She bent to the chart.

Read.



"You're the race car driver. We should have operated on you months

ago."



Joe held up his wrist, the one with his wristcom.



Round little Doc Holliday sat up straighter. Her curvy little chin didn't

tremble a bit but he did see that she swallowed really fast.



"You worked for the ISO-"

"I already told you people, I don't know who the kagaku ninja tai are.

I've never saw the science ninja's up close."



Joe spoke the command, but bitter mucous erupted up his throat and

coated the back of his mouth. "Transmute," Joe hissed.



The change sounded like a windtunnel on fire for a moment. His eyes

rolled up into the back of his head. He slapped his palms on Dr. Day's

desk. Locked his arms, his finger clenching on the trigger of the gun.



Dr. Holliday threw herself out of her chair, falling with a clatter.

Making a sharp noise as she landed on her shoulder and hands.



Joe groaned, his legs flowing like water beneath him.



"Untie me!" Dr. Holliday commanded from the ground, trying to kick

herself upright.



Costumed in his colors, Joe's hands slipped off the desk. His helmet

cushioned his head as it clipped the edge of the desk, but Joe was

unconscious before he reached the floor.







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

end 8/10







"I hate women who say pretty=stupid.

They're really misogynistic men in drag."

~~~BeckyD



ebonbird's fan fic cache http://ebonbird.tripod.com

the storm archive http://ebonbird.tripod.com/stormarchive.html

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