In Absence of Tears, Part 1

Written by Tasslehoff Vince Burrfoot. (taselhof@whidbey.net)

"Gargoyles," Season 4, Episode #79.

Disclaimer: All elements of the television series "Gargoyles" as well as
"Gargoyles: The Goliath Chronicles" belong to Disney and Buena Vista,
all rights reserved. Some of the upcoming characters will be of my
creation, so please do not use them without asking my permission first.

Chronologist's Notes: This episode takes place:
a) When denoted as "One month earlier" the scenes following take place
after the events of the Goliath Chronicles' "Broadway Goes to Hollywood"
(Episode #68).
b) When denoted as "Now" the scenes following take place after the events
of the Goliath Chronicles' "Angels in the Night" (Episode #78).

Author's Note: the dialogue of the characters with accents such as Dingo
and the Canmores (Castaway) does not include abbreviations and other such
language singularities that individual dialects contain (such as "waitin'")
to improve the readability of the following piece.

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Previously, on "Gargoyles..."

--
Dingo: "Looks like Australia's gonna get a new kind of hero, mates."

Matrix: "Teach us about law and order."

Show Dingo combining with the Matrix in his robotic suit, Episode #46,
"Walkabout."
--
Dingo: "I'm a partner in a freak show."
Episode #30, "Upgrade."
--
Jon: "Jason! Thank heavens. Now help me; we can still destroy these
monsters."
Jason: "No, it's over."

Jason: "These gargoyles are not our enemies."
Jon: "No, I was wrong! They killed dad, they nearly killed you."

Episode #65, "Hunter's Moon, Part 3."
--
Jackal: "Soon this job'll be over and then we can all go our separate ways."
Episode #44, "Grief."
--
Jackal: "Broadway is about to find out just how cruel this town can be."

Fox: "I see you and your brother will still sell yourselves to anybody."
Hyena: "It's a living. Not all of us can marry billionaires."

Show various scenes of the Pack in action, both as group and as individuals.

Lamont: "You two off the gargoyle yet?"

Jackal: "The Quarrymen want to get some use out of him, so we're making a
promotional video."
Lamont: "Promoting what?"
Hyena: "The usual--hate, fear, bigotry--all the things the Quarrymen stand
for."
Show Broadway being framed by Jackal and Hyena at the pier and Fox coming
to his rescue.

Jackal (to Hyena): "I'll take the gargoyle. You take Fox."
Show Jackal being thrown by Broadway into the pier. 

Episode #68: "Broadway Goes to Hollywood."

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

One month earlier
Venice Beach, Hollywood, California.
November 10th, 1996
5:50 a.m.

	At first there was nothing--a vast emptiness, a depthless void of
shadow. But then, suddenly, the red lens sparked back to life. Twitching
spasmodically from the electric jolts coursing through his barely-conscious,
shattered body, the cyborg opened his heavy-lidded human eye slowly. He
tiredly pushed himself off the still-unconscious bodies of his sister and 
former employer and rolled heavily onto the amphorous, ocean-kissed beach,
bloody with the faint slivers of light peeking over the great Pacific
swells. Gulls screamed and cawed at each other in the early morning salty
air, and the cyborg thought he could almost smell the faint yet satisfying
odor of burning wood and with it chaos.
	Managing to rise to a sitting position, the sociopathic mercenary
Jackal, former member of the Pack and ex-convict, turned his gaze to the
brightly burning pier, almost as bright as the rising sun against the
periwinkle blanket of soft blue criss-crossed with tiny pinpoints of fading
light. He chuckled to himself as he saw the remains of their van, still a
flaming torch after the idiot Broadway and the goody-two-shoes Fox had
dropped an overloading blaster inside it. As usual, Jackal fumed, we over-
estimated their stupidity. He, his sister, and Fox's security director
Lamont had planned to frame Broadway during his good publicity for gargoyles
trip by making a video of him destroying Florence pier at Venice beach in
Hollywood. The plan backfired when Fox came to Broadway's rescue by removing
the remote-controlled blaster that was put there by the sadistic twins to
attempt to incriminate Broadway on film. Instead of leaving a failed plan
behind Jackal had attacked Broadway and along with Hyena and Lamont had been
left partially conscious for the police to find and haul away to some
rotten, stinking hole of a penitentiary.
	Fortunately Fox and Broadway had left the area immediately or they
would have seen him stir. Jackal fell to his knees as another high-voltage
current ran through his tortured circuits. With horror and revulsion Jackal
looked down at his cybernetically-enhanced golden body armor to find that it
had been cracked in several places. Cursed gargoyle! Jackal swore inwardly
with vehemence. A prolonged fit of electric shocks toppled the cyborg over
onto the dry sand with a crunch of grains against the scarred metal. Blue
veins of energy pulsed along the network of spider-web cracks that ran the
length of his legs, arms, and torso, causing him to scream to the heavens in
pain.
	The tell-tale whine of police sirens filled Jackal with a new
urgency and took his mind off the incredible torture his nerves were
receiving from his cybernetic components. With the alternating red and blue
whirling lights obscuring his vision, Jackal crept across the dawn-kissed
beach on his trembling elbows, dragging his stiff, gold-encased legs and
torso behind him. Jackal grimaced, imagining Broadway laughing at him from
above, leering at his forced snake-like posture. He'd make some kind of
comment straight from some cheap pulp novel about a snake in the grass,
Jackal thought. Oh, Jackal had always hated the Manhattan gargoyle clan,
but no one had ever hurt him this badly, no one had ever humiliated him in
such a horrid way. He had made oaths before that he would have revenge and
found it to be rather cliche-ish, especially since his plans tended to back-
fire. This time it will be different, Jackal resolved. A way could always be
found. From the safety of a stand of heavy-leafed, powerfully-scented bushes
at the side of the pier Jackal could see two Hollywood police dispatches
stepping out of their patrol cars with their guns drawn cautiously. Jackal
smirked. *What do they have to worry about anyway? I'm not lying down
there.* The police officers jogged to the area where Jackal had been bashed
through the pier and into the sea by Broadway. The cyborg mercenary shivered
just thinking about the freezing liquid jumping eagerly into the chinks in
his vulnerable body, charging the circuits and chips that gave him life with
a deadly energy. The officers were now peering into the rosy-pink,
undulating water with interest and quickly discerned that the suspects were
elsewhere. Wisps of gold were thrown up into the dawn air as the dispatch
moved closer to Lamont and Hyena's position. Jackal watched with a tinge of
sadness in his machine lenses as his sister and compatriot were handcuffed
and drug away by the straining cops. He wanted desperately to leap out and
rescue his sister--never mind Lamont, he could rot in jail--but his weary
shell refused to let him stand. All his life he had been able to protect his
sister, at the very least go down to face the same punishment she did. He
had constantly felt her pain, shared her anguish.
	As the sirens once again faded into the waking city, Jackal was no
longer Jackal. His memory implants hadn't been designed to handle water
flooding and they simply failed to function, leaving Jackal alone in his
blank, dark mind. As the erratic power fluxes ripped through his cybernetic
power grid, Jackal remembered one name. Broadway. He ran it over and over in
his mind until he thought he would retch with the dizziness and agony. He
doubled over in his kneeling position, opening his mouth for air, his eyes
bulging out as shards of jagged glass twisted themselves in his insides.
Then the blessed unknowing of unconsciousness gripped his body and the
orange horizon faded from his eyes.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

	The memories were disappearing right before his eyes. If they could
rightly be called eyes, that is. Images flashed before him, often dull,
dark, and stormy but sometimes an occasional colorful scene, one of joy and
happiness. A loud shouting ripped through his mind and he felt pain deep
down, his soul and his body crippled. It was his father screaming, yelling.
Incomprehensible. Didn't matter, though. When father was mad no one spoke,
moved, blinked. Then the smell of hot, sweating leather. The strap. Loud
cracking sounds filled the shadows of his mind. He tried to shut it out,
make the gut-wrenched noise go away, but he couldn't escape it and neither
could his sister. Then he saw himself, or what must have been him when he
was much younger, try to defend his crying, beloved sister. She hadn't
deserved the strap. It was his fault. His fault. His.
	The strap crackled across his young, innocent skin, creating a nasty
red, angry welt. And then darkness again.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

	Ughh, my head. Must've knocked it against a rock. Huh? Where in
blazes am I? A beach. I don't remember traveling to a beach. Come to think
of it, I don't remember who _I_ am!
	Get a hold of yourself...whoever you are. Try to remember...remember
...what happened.... Can't think! What is going on here? I can't recall a
single thing! Darkness, my only memory, darkness. Ah, but here's something
--Broadway. A street? I remembered a street name. Why? It must have some
significance, otherwise....
	Of course! New York--I remember now. My birth place. Hmm, nothing
else. I wonder if I'm in New York now. I doubt it. So weak, can barely stand
up. Morning. I suppose I should just rest here a while since I'm not going
to make it very far in any direction in my condition. How would I get
medical treatment for circuit problems, anyway. What's with this cracked
armor? I don't remember getting in a fight.... Memory loss is usually only
temporary anyway. I'll just rest in these bushes where no one will find me.
Rest and hope to all that's good that my mind returns to...me....

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Inside a police van speeding away from Venice Beach, Hollywood, California.
November 10th, 1996.
6:07 a.m.

	"So where _did_ they take that idiot brother of yours?" he ventured
to ask his sullen female partner in crime as they sat in virtual darkness
save for the scant flashes of the bright California sun which periodically
shone through metal grates at the top of the prison van.
	"Shut up!" Hyena spat at the smug Lamont through the impenetrable
darkness between them. "Or you'll be the first to go."
	"Yes, I am certain that you'll break out of those handcuffs any
second now and slay me." Lamont laughed cynically as Hyena growled audibly
at her former employer's remarks. "I bet even your brother couldn't get you
out of those titanium cuffs. Genius runs in the family, it seems." With a
swiftness that forced a grunt from Lamont's ribs Hyena leapt through the
shadows with a rush of musty, breathed air and had a steel claw around his
throat before he could move.
	"These handcuffs don't restrain me from finishing you off right
here," Hyena hissed in Lamont's ear. "If I hear one more word out of that
scumbag mouth of yours, you're going to regret it _very_ much. Got it?" she
asked, the three claws on her left hand twitching at the Quarrymen dupe's
lifeline. The lump in Lamont's throat moved up and then down quickly as he
nodded in the darkness nervously. Hyena cackled at his discomfort. "I'm glad
we understand each other," she said, her stiletto heels clacking on metal
as she sat back down opposite Lamont. They sat in silence for a while,
feeling the heat of the dawn California sun beat down upon the white-colored
van with no mercy. Despite the vents, Lamont found himself sweating
profusely, and removed a plain, white handkerchief to wipe away the
perspiration. Being in the same enclosed space with a psychopath did not
help his forehead glisten any less.
	"That's what I get for associating with riff-raff and bigots,"
Lamont mumbled as he dabbed at a rolling bead of sweat on his chin and
clenched his teeth against the inevitable jar of the city's potholes.
	Hyena pretended not to hear the grumbling Lamont and instead concen-
trated her thoughts on Jackal. She remembered him being thrown through the
Hollywood pier by Broadway and then tossed onto the beach with her and
Lamont, but didn't know where he had gone afterwards or how he gotten the
strength to do it.
	Fortunately, she realized, Jackal would do everything possible in
his power to save her from the current predicament, just as he had all those
years ago. She smiled and cringed at the same time--an odd expression, even
in lieu of the twisted smiles she gave to her adversaries when she hurt
them--at the thought of their child years when their father had been brutal
to them. Not mother, but them, the kids. They were always at fault. If a
window in the house was broken, it must've been the kids. Dishes weren't
done? The kids. And the strap had settled matters. Hyena could almost feel
a tear slip down her cheek, but knew that she had long since been unable
to hold such emotions. Their father had stripped them of life with each
loud crack of his leather belt that he was constantly using on his
childrens' backs, giving them both stinging red marks that would hurt for
a week. The funny thing was, out of all the misery and pain, there was joy.
A joy that only Hyena and Jackal could know. They had protected each other
for mother would never lift a finger to save them from the horrible punish-
ments father inflicted. Although they both survived the horrible ordeals
for years, nothing good came out of the situation. Since their mother died
shortly after their father left on his aimless wanderings, Jackal and Hyena
were put in an orphanage where people did care and did love them, but their
father had pushed them both to the brink of insanity. So brother and sister
turned to a life of crime that could never be controlled, although for a
short while they almost seemed to be able to control their lust for violence
with fame on television's "The Pack." That was indeed short-lived, however,
as the duo could never be satisfied with one way of life for very long.
	Hyena's secret smile quickly changed to a scowl as she recalled the
sanitary whiteness of the cold, impersonal prison cells. If Jackal didn't
rescue her, ah well, it would be just the way it was meant to be--no one 
would remember her heinous acts or even her name. And most importantly, if
Jackal didn't come knocking on her prison door with a delirious grin on his
face and the brass ring of keys in his taloned hand, there would be no
Coyotes as back up to rescue her from the horrid drudgeries of prison life.
For the second time in her extremely violent life Hyena almost wished she
could feel the wetness of a tear streaming down her face, to comfort her as
it had in days past.
	The eerie laugh came so suddenly, creeping up on him fearfully as a
concealed jungle snake on its small, insignificant prey. Shivering at the
animalistic shriek, Lamont shrank down into his cold, metal seat pondering
what could cause anyone to have such a bizarre expression of humor. From
what he had heard of what Jackal and Hyena had wanted to do to the gargoyle
once they finished framing him on video tape Lamont wasn't surprised. As far
as he was concerned Jackal and Hyena were quite literally insane, even
though they could be quite brilliant at times. Lamont, on the other hand,
was a respectable businessman. "A bigot" the gargoyle-loving fools called
him. What did they know? As soon as Castaway heard of Lamont's capture he
would send a legion of Quarrymen to break him out of whatever rock they
marooned him on. He had the utmost confidence that Fox would be regretting
her decision to interfere with his plans very soon. Although, Castaway did
warn Lamont about the price of failure on the Broadway mission--and Lamont
wasn't extremely partial on going back to New York to face him. *It'd
probably be better to stay in jail with comfortable cells, decent meals,
cable television, and perhaps even a room to myself,* Lamont realized.
*Anything's better than being put in the dark with this lunatic,* he thought
desperately. He wished he hadn't provoked her earlier--who knows what she
would do later, when her cuffs were off of arms for a split second....
Even Castaway's punishment sounded better than what he knew she would do to
him.

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Quarrymen Headquarters, Manhattan, New York.
November 10th, 1996.
11:01 p.m.

	The officer's knees knocked together as she shakily approached
Quarrymen Headquarters.
	"H-h-h-h-he's gonna kill m-m-me for sure," Fleance stuttered out as
she pulled the dark blue Quarryman hood off of her head. She didn't even
bother to fix her untamed, strawberry blonde hair as she walked down the
seemingly endless, shadowy hallways of the normally congested office sector
of the building. Fleance quaked in her thick, fireman-style boots with the
unavoidable conclusion that Castaway had made sure that everyone was gone
so none could witness her horrible fate.
	*It's all Banquo's fault,* she thought miserably, remember her thug
brother's ultimatum that it was Fleance who had assigned the mission that
had gone awry in Hollywood and therefore it would be she who would give the
report personally to Castaway.
	The inconspicuous, light-brown, wooden office door suddenly appeared
before her, a dull and golden doorknob feeling deadly cold in her sweaty
hand. Fleance swallowed again nervously, closed her green eyes, and tried
to slow her haphazard, ragged breathing as she attempted to twist the knob.
It simply would not and for several minutes her hand kept slipping off from
the sweat present on her palms. She rubbed them against her thighs and was
then able to sluggishly open Castaway's office door with a barely audible
creak of unoiled hinges. Head bowed out of respect and fear, Fleance
shuffled into the large, unadorned room with papers recording transactions
and pamphlets idealizing the twisted views of the Quarrymen lying in a
cluttered all over the floor. A deep, plush, white carpet greeted her feet,
Fleance's foot sinking deeply into the fabric. Stumbling over sheaves of
papers and not pausing to fix the mess she just created, Fleance shuffled
over to the wide, heavy oak desk that was surprisingly a good deal cleaner
than the rest of the office. A few sparse, official documents lay side by
side, a rather expensive set of Fitzgerald pens stood attentively to the
farther right hand side, and a rather simple yet breathtaking golden emblem
of Quarrymen hatred of gargoyle kind all adorned the majestic desk.
	Fleance often found herself lost in memories of the past, and this
expanse of heart-wrestling fear brought on some of the most humiliating
experiences of her life. After all Banquo and Fleance, like Castaway him-
self, hid their fear of such "unnatural" creatures as gargoyles behind
bigotry and a twisted sense of honor. The cause of "fighting for humanity"
always looked good no matter who you were. Then again Fleance and her
brother had their share of embarrassing incidents with the Manhattan clan
that almost gave them justification enough to put the Quarrymen hood on,
bigotry and hatred aside. Fleance shivered involuntarily at the chilling
recollection of the repeated defeats she and Banquo had received at the
claws of the gargoyles. They were stupid beings anyway, those gargoyles
were, and now they had the whole city screaming for a noose to be placed
around each of their necks....
	"Ah, Corporal Fleance." Castaway's slicked-back dirty blond hair
suddenly materialized before the Quarryman's wandering eyes. The thick,
rhythmic scratch of his silver fountain pen scribbled the last words of his
thought before he turned his ambiguous, jaded, bottomless gaze towards
Fleance. Lacing his perfectly tanned, jewelry-bedecked fingers together and
leaning his pursed lips on them, Castaway raised an inquiring blond eyebrow
at his shaking officer of hate, who was too dumbstruck to utter even a word
of greeting. "Well, what news?" he asked impatiently, bringing his steepled
fingers down on his desk, causing papers nearby by to flutter about ner-
vously. Fleance awoke from her awe with a start.
	"Well, uh, Mr. Castaway...sir..." Fleance cleared her throat. "The,
uhm, coup with the gargoyle in Hollywood...it, uh, kind of went south."
Fleance shut her eyes and cringed immediately after she had finished her
sentence, knowing that the news had sealed her doom.
	Castaway leaned back into his red-leather business chair, brooding
quietly for a few moments before standing up with a creaking protest of fine
oak. Clasping his hands behind his back and peering out at the cloud-flecked
azure skyline outside a square window, he walked slowly and deliberately 
around the heavy pine desk, over to the window, and then back to the still 
self-blinded Fleance.
	"Open your eyes, fool," Castaway ordered quietly, but still with a
confined anger that one could hear bursting from behind its flood walls. The
trembling officer's eyes fluttered open hesitantly, expecting to reveal what
ever certain death awaited her. Finding none, however, Fleance let out a
small yet noticeable sigh of intense relief. "What happened to our agents?"
Castaway asked testily, the edge of anger somewhat dulled in his voice.
	"Captured," Fleance said bright, neglecting her solemnity. "Uh, that
is to say, captured," she repeated humbly, shifting her weight and twisting
her hands nervously, adding "sir" a long while after she finished her sen-
tence. Castaway strode to the opposite side, over to a larger window than
he had looked out of a few minutes before that was obscured by blinds. With
a swift, silent motion he snapped the venetian, beige-colored blinds open,
revealing the hazy city. A frightening pause passed during which Fleance
suspected that Castaway would explode in a rage of fury and obliterate her
on the spot. But he did not.
	"Officer," Castaway said, as if far away from his surroundings and
with a blank stare on his face. He was still gazing at the cityscape, his
eyes reflecting the few traces of clouds in the afternoon sky with perfect
clarity.
	"Yes sir," Fleance replied dutifully, stepping forward to receive
almost certain punishment. She just hoped he would finish her off before he
had a chance to really hurt her.
	"I want you to go Hollywood and straighten this situation out."
	"Y-yes, yes sir." Fleance's bottom lip trembled ever so slightly at
her realization that she had been released from immanent torture at the
hands of a fuming Castaway. Although is back was turned to her, Fleance made
the Quarryman salute reverently and slowly backed out of the office,
carefully opening the door, stepping out, and shutting the door behind her
without a sound.

	Castaway stared at the small, fluffy, pure white streaks of the re-
mains of clouds floating joyfully above the obsidian skyscrapers clawing
against the virgin, blue sky. His countenance turned from one of complacent
contemplation to grave sadness.
	"I'm sorry Jason," Castaway said emotionlessly, dropping his New
York accent in favor of his thick Scottish one, "I've failed you. I let the
cursed beasts escape our vengeance again." Ever since his father died in
1980 Jon Canmore did not cry. At least not any more. The grief-stricken
black void left in his soul as a result of the loss of one his most beloved
family members was filled by love for his big brother Jason. Unfortunately
Jason had been twisted by their father's murder as well and began to press
Jon and younger sister Robyn into taking up their family's ancestral feud
with gargoyles. Jon had felt much as Robyn did: forget about gargoyles and
become a family that could live a normal life. Robyn had changed much more
quickly than Jon did. In fact Jon had remained almost adamant that only the
Demon was evil and all other gargoyles should be left alone until Jason had
been paralyzed by a misfire from Jon's own laser cannon. Ironically enough
this event ignited the torch of feverish hatred in Jon's once kind heart and
extinguished it in his two siblings'. This had led to his creation of the
Quarrymen to seek out and destroy all gargoyles on New York and throughout
the world, especially those responsible for his brother's switch from hating
the creatures of the night to respecting them. Jon vowed that he would
fulfill his father's wishes to hunt the infamous Demon and destroy the rest
of her race as well. Now his dream for humanity alone to control the fate of
the world was coming apart at the seams as the Quarrymen of late had proved
incompetent to finish the grisly job ahead of them. Castaway himself had
even found numbers and letters jumbling and rearranging themselves on the
papers and documents littering his desk before his sleep-deprived eyes.
	Rubbing his temples pensively, Castaway took a small, blue, non-
descrip medicine bottle from a drawer in his desk and quickly downed in one
gulp two of the many tiny, white pills contained within the blue bottle.
Throwing himself back into his red leather chair, Castaway opened yet
another, lower drawer with an audible screech of protest from the metal
handle. This particular drawer, much smaller than all the others above it,
was obviously tailored to be practically unnoticeable to anyone but the
owner. Again checking the door to make sure no one was watching, Castaway
carefully reached into the depths of the shadowy drawer, noting from the
strong scent of dusty, old paper that he hadn't looked at the drawer's
contents for a while. He pulled out a stack of papers, taking the rubber
band that held them together off and placing it carefully aside, as if he
was afraid to let some of the cherished memories it contained go. With a
half-smile on his stress-torn features Castaway rifled through the bundle
of letters he had received all through his life from his father, mother,
Robyn, and Jason. It always comforted him to read the words of those he had
loved...once. His mother and father were gone and his brother and sister
were taken by the creatures that had decimated their family and were
continuing to do so, one by one. Castaway tried to put his angry thoughts
away for the moment, and started to read a letter, dated back to the time
when he had been only five years old. "Dearest Little Jon," it began.
Castaway grinned. It had been many years since he had heard that name, the
name his father had come up with. Jon had always been fascinated by _The
Complete Tales of Robin Hood_ and it had seemed a natural next step to give
him a nickname after his favorite character from the book. In fact the name
fit so perfectly that once his father had come up with it, the rest of his
family had started calling him it too. It was only after their father died
that Robyn and Jason had stopped calling him "Little Jon."

	It had been the day that the three Canmore teens were coming back
from Edinbourgh to claim their independence and adulthood shortly after the
Demona had slain their father. Jon, always the light-hearted one of the
group, had been attempting to be happy and thus cheer up his foul-mooded
older brother and sister without success.
	"Jon," Jason had remarked sullenly as the three siblings descended
down the many concrete steps leading up to City Hall, "we need to stock up
the projectile weapons. Contact father's manufacturer today after we get
home." 
	"Of course, big brother," Jon grinned, his light blue eyes sparkling
in the early morning sunlight. "But would you mind calling me Little Jon?
I'm a hero, remember?" It had been a catch phrase their mother had come up
with before she passed away, calling Jon her "little hero" as he sat in her
lap. Before Jon could speak any more, Jason let out a scream of rage, 
drawing the attention of many of the passersby who turned their heads to
stare. Jon's mouth quivered at the sight of his brother's dreadful show of
anger. Before Robyn could stop him, Jason pushed Jon down, knocking the wind
out of the latter. Robyn gave Jason a hurt look at ran over to her gasping,
panting brother, helping him from his position laying on the ground and
standing between he and Jason protectively. Jason's eyes looked into Jon's,
piercing, penetrating.
	"There are no heroes," Jason proclaimed, his eyes downcast and
filling with watery tears and his voice ringing hollow in Jon's ears.

	Castaway started from the brutal memory, his thoughts quickly
changing over to the actual letter that he still held in his trembling
hand.

	Hallo Jonny! Just wanted to write to let you know your dear old
mum made it safe and sound to London. It's a quaint little town--I bet you'd
like it. Plenty of places to explore, trinkets to find. Perhaps I'll bring
you here someday and let you romp around a bit.

Love always,

Mum

	He could vividly recall the heightened joy he had felt when he had
received the letter; his mother would take him to far away England! It
wasn't that far away, but it still seemed an exciting and bustling place
next to the dull country outskirts of Edinbourgh, Scotland. Jon loved seeing
new places and meeting new people and his mother knew just what to say to
cheer him up about her abrupt visit to England in lieu of some archaeo-
logical discovery there. Unfortunately the Canmores' mother never returned
from her sociological explorations as she passed away at the site for some
mysterious reason along with many others nearby. The remaining family
members were too grief-stricken to investigate the matter further and by the
time anyone bothered to poke around the site there was no evidence left.
	Castaway was torn from his reverie once again as a glittering form
under the sheaf of papers caught his eye. He had had a recent photograph
of him, Robyn, and Jason framed in tarnished brass for a few years now and
hadn't had the heart to destroy it after he became obsessed with Quarrymen
ideals. They all had big smiles on their faces in the picture, particularly
Jason, and Castaway couldn't for the life of him figure out why they had
been smiling that day. They weren't happy--they seldom were after father's
death. No matter. It still looked warm and inviting to him to have the old
family back together, to hunt the demonic race side by side with his brother
and sister. Castaway sighed angrily. *There's nothing I hate worse than a
traitor,* he thought bitterly, shoving the photo under the sheaf of papers
once again. That was truly what Castaway had thought of the rest of his
family now: traitors to the cause. They had sided with the enemy and there-
fore they were now the enemy. He was Jon Castaway now, not Canmore. His
father would be avenged and if Jason and Robyn got in the way they would see
how much their little brother had truly grown up. Castaway slammed the
photo back down into the darkness of the drawer, causing the glass at the
front of the frame to shatter.
	With a shock Jon noticed a crisp, white envelope in the stack of old
letters that he had never seen--or perhaps simply did not wish to see--
before. It was postmarked a few months ago and the address did indeed corres-
pond with the one for Quarrymen Headquarters. The return address was the
Saint Mary's Hospital of Manhattan--the hospital were Jason was recovering.
Castaway threw the letter back in the drawer with disgust. *Just another
attempt to make me 'reform' my ways,* he sneered to himself, but quickly
changed his expression to one of hopelessness and fatigue. He put his el-
bows on the desk, his hands turned upward to cover his face. If it had been
all those years before his father had died, tears would have made twin
streams down his cheeks, but now there was nothing.
	"What have I gotten myself into, J?" Jon asked tiredly, using his
older brother's nickname.
	The door to Castaway's office opened once more admitting a different
Quarryman officer of apparent higher rank than the previous one judging by
the way she held herself up in Castaway's wrathful presence. Almost
immediately all signs of weariness vanished from Castaway's face, and he was
cold, hard, unrelenting gargoyle hater once again.
	"Is there a reason you failed to knock before entering, Lieutenant
Jule?" Castaway asked coldly as the Quarryman stood unflinchingly before
his impressive anger.
	"Sorry sir," Jule said loudly. "It won't happen again sir." Castaway
tried not to smile at the lieutenant's militaristic behavior. A graduate
from navy school, Jule had taken up the fight against gargoyles only a few
months ago and was already climbing up the ladder to the top. She rarely
failed a mission and Castaway trusted her more than any of his brutish,
self-absorbed officers.
	"I should hope not," Castaway remarked offhandedly in a reprimanding
tone. "Lieutenant Jule," Castaway began in a more official tone. At the
mention of her name, Jule removed her Quarryman hood, as had been the custom
ever the since the creation of the organization. The removal of Jule's hood
revealed a mane of thick hair, cut short to the bottom of her skull, red as
blood in the afternoon sunlight. Emerald eyes held Castaway in their stoic
stare, revealing nothing of Jule's inner feelings at the moment. Her pursed,
peach-hued lips accented the lieutenant's fair skin tone and furthered her
often complatative stance.
	"Jule," Castaway continued, "I need a team scouring the 23rd police
precinct for clues about the gargoyles early this morning, second shift."
Castaway knew he could always depend on the lieutenant to take on the late
night and early morning shifts because she could rarely sleep during those
hours for some reason she kept fiercely guarded.
	"But sir!" Jule protested. "There are blues all over that building
right now. If we send anyone over...." Jule trailed off, letting Castaway
figure the outcome out for himself.
	"I don't care," Castaway said coldly. "Get your people down there
right now."
	"Yes sir," Jule said stiffly. Noa Jule frequently did not like
the orders Castaway gave but knew when and when not to question them as she
had learned in the navy. There when you questioned an authority figure
there was punishment, not second chances.
	"And lieutenant?" Castaway said as Jule turned the brass doorknob
and he picked up his phone, ready to dial. "I'm going to show the creatures
no more mercy. You know what to do if you run into this Broadway character.
He has caused enough trouble for us, some of which I must repair now."
	"Yes sir," Jule repeated, donning her mask once more and closing the
door behind her. She ground her teeth together as she walked through the
building, knowing instinctively that this was not going to be an easy job.
Everyone hated picking up "clocktower detail" as it had become known because
there were always so many cops around the area fixing the place up after
the missile blast. Jule had heard the conversation Castaway had had with
Fleance and resolved that she would not fail this mission. She would succeed
and perhaps even get a promotion out of the situation. As much as she hated
being a Quarryman, she knew that a promotion was all she needed to get to
the bottom of her sister's death. *The answer has eluded me for so long,*
Jule thought angrily. *But after tonight that will change.* She hurried out
of the office portion of Headquarters and into the barracks to gather her
team in preparation for the mission.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

An abandoned factory just beyond Venice Beach, Hollywood.
November 10th, 1996.
12:14 p.m.

	"Ah, the infamous one awakes at last," a rich, booming, wise voice
reverberated inside Jackal's skull. "Ready for the hunt to begin again, are
you? To feel the excitement of the kill pulsing through your spirit?"
	"What in the name of--" Jackal stopped his statement short, rubbing
his head and opening his human eye as he attempted to sit up. From the hazy
scene that his battered eyes took in Jackal reasoned that he was currently
in a manufacturing plant of some kind. Cold concrete greeted the warming
gold metal armor on his legs and an odor that reeked of tuna fish saluted
his waking nostrils. It was amazing that he could even sense these minute
details with the terrible beating given to him by...by...by...he had for-
gotten. Jackal could sense the nanomachines in his bloodstream scurrying to
his brain attempting to repair the irreparable. For the moment, though,
one thought came to the surface of his mind and that was enough.
	"Where's my sister?"
	"That I do know," the deep voice replied to the side of him. "She
was taken by Lono on wings of justice."
	"What?" Jackal asked confusedly and then deciphered the true
meaning of the voice's revelation. "I know _that_!" he hissed irritably. If
there was one thing Jackal hated it was a condescending tone of voice. If
there was another it was knowing his sister, whatever her name was, was in
the slammer. He had no idea why he knew these odd tid-bits such as that he
cared for his sister and they all seemed to be minor threads from a grand,
colorful tapestry which once had been his life. Now this idiot had come
along and was annoying him immensely. "And just who do you think you are?"
Jackal asked, managing to stand weakly and face who he had been talking to.
There was no one there. Jackal looked cautiously around the factory but
there was no sign of life. "Show yourself! Or are you afraid?"
	"You are the one who should be cowering in fear," the deep voice
growled. Jackal quickly turned to the oil-stained windows lit with the noon
sunlight peering lazily through them, and thought he saw a shadow wavering
in the light. *What's going on here?* Jackal asked himself as the shadow
disappeared. He had never been as afraid of anything so much as he was in
the presence of this thing, whatever it was. Then, as usual, he formulated
an insult to assuage his fears.
	"You're not _that_ ugly are you?" Before Jackal could react his
armored throat was gripped by some monstrously powerful force. His
cybernetic systems had no idea how to react as the transparent being lifted
Jackal up in the air. Jackal was quickly tossed through the saw-dust filled,
fish-stained air of the factory. Cannery, he corrected himself as he fell
through a pile of cans of old, rotting sea creatures. His mind calculating
possible outcomes so quickly that it left his physical body confounded as to
what to do next, Jackal simply didn't move from the puddle of horrible-
smelling sanitary packing water he was currently laying in. The world
suddenly turned into a multi-colored blur again as he felt the being's
strong presence dig a deep groove into the armor that covered his right
upper arm. Jackal stared in shock at the indentations, wondering what could
possibly cause that much damage with such little effort.
	"You will listen now." The voice-without-a-body seemed to sense
Jackal's feelings of defeat with an almost telepathic accuracy. "The spirits
have chosen you. I can do nothing about that; what they say is law. I can,
however, choose not to like you." Jackal didn't like the sound of that. The
thing was threatening him and for once Jackal was at a loss of how he would
even begin to fight back at something he couldn't see. He had never let
_anyone_ get away with threatening him in his life. _Never_.
	"Humph, that goes for the both of us, Mr. Transparent," Jackal
snickered. Too late he realized that saying anything was a mistake. The
voice sighed audibly as if fearing the outcome of Jackal's response.
	"You will have to learn the hard way, my friend," the thing said
decidedly, tossing Jackal out of a dirty window as if he weighed nothing
more than a feather. Tasting metal on his tongue, Jackal spat blood onto the
grass outside the window he had just flown through, brushing fragments of
glass out of his chestnut hair. Jackal suddenly came the realization that he
knew what fear was, knew he was afraid of this thing and what it might do to
him. He hadn't felt that way since...since...oh, it didn't matter. All that
mattered was that his reputation had been one of the sadistic bully most of
his life and no one had dared to lay a finger on him. Until now, that is.
Jackal felt the presence of the thing's eyes cutting into his soul as they
had before he had woken up from his amnesia-induced sleep, reading his
mind's contents. He had no idea how he even knew the invisible being had
eyes much less that they were peering into his soul, but he did. It seemed
more to Jackal that the eyes had an imposing presence of their own that
anyone with an instinct for such things could detect. Jackal didn't believe
in telepathy either, but with all the other strange things that had happened
in his life he wouldn't be surprised. It did feel like someone was gently
coaxing his thoughts to reveal themselves like losing cards on a poker
table. He wanted to resist but didn't know how to, and the mental barriers
in his mind went down with an alarming crash.
	With an exasperated sigh, a noise much like the one given by one
trying to teach hyperactive children manners at the dinner table, the deep
voice continued, "By mother Na Wahine, I did not want it to be this way,
hunter. By all the Pokahus of Truth, I did not. You have forced me to be
violent, however." Jackal heard the growing thread of menace in the thing's
voice. Hairs stood up on the nape of his neck as the booming voice issued
through the salty air to his ringing ears. "I do not like to be violent.
This shall never happen again." Jackal found himself nodding his head in
agreement even though the hot, molten thirst for vengeance seared his brain.
Rivulets of sweat rolled down his face and neck as his will strained to the
surface of his mind.
	"Wh-why can't I see you?" Jackal asked, gritting his teeth against
the strain.
	"That is not the proper question for you to ask and is not your
affair." Jackal mentally reminded himself to try in the future not to make
this thing mad by asking a similar question. "Ah, spirits of woe!" the
creature continued as if nothing had happened, reprimanding itself. "I
haven't properly introduced myself. I am called Akakanaka, but you will
call me Aka." Jackal could only shudder in response in his position on the
ground and offer an incomprehensible mutter. He wanted to ask why this
Aka was not visible, but would not do so because he knew it would make
him very angry and could not anyway because the spasms of pain wracked
his body from the strain of attempting to keep his will in check. "Although
you were rude to me earlier, I accept your request for an alliance,
Jackal, scavenger of the night." The cyborg glared at the thing's mention
of his disgusting animal counterpart. "You are probably wondering why I am
here," Aka said simply, "and I will answer."

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Remains of the 23rd Manhattan Police Precinct's clocktower, New York.
November 10th, 1996.
4:02 a.m.

	"Look, I know it's here somewhere!" The exasperated aquamarine
gargoyle was obviously bent on his goal, but his teal-skinned female
companion was a little more dubious.
	"Listen, Broadway. This place is demolished," Angela said calmly,
spreading her talons out to make her point. For the first time Broadway
seemed to take real note of their surroundings. What was once a beautiful,
carefully orchestrated structure of creaking, oiled, massive iron gears was
now a puddle of melted metal in the center of the burnt-out 23rd Manhattan
police precinct clocktower. Ashen-colored rubble was littered everywhere,
obscuring everything that Broadway, Angela, and the rest of the Manhattan
clan had considered "home" a few months ago. Before the insane Hunters had
ruined their lives and the Quarrymen had incessantly began to hunt the clan
down. All that was physically left of their fond memories now was a wasted
structure devoid of life. Broadway stared out of one of the shattered clock
faces into the twinkling stars above the glittering Hudson river and sighed
noncommittally. His mind drifted back to the times before when the clan had
lived atop the Eyrie skyscraper, when Xanatos had always been cooking up one
scheme or another. Those had been dark times when the world had not yet
known of their existence, but they seemed to be much better than they were
now. *The past, though,* Broadway mentally reminded himself, *is only as
bright as the eye of the beholder wants it to be.* While the clan had lived
a blissful existence with the outside world not interfering in daily life,
they all knew sooner or later the fateful day would come when they would,
accidentally or intentionally, reveal themselves to the general populace.
*The inevitable came to pass a few months ago and what has become of it?*
Broadway asked bitterly. *The clocktower is destroyed, the Quarrymen hunt us
daily so we can't get a moment's respite, and I can't even find the
stupid--* Broadway's thoughts trailed off as he forced himself to return to
task at hand.
	"It's gone, Broadway," Angela said tenderly, almost as if she
sensed his thoughts breaking off. Broadway let the air from his lungs out
through his nostrils before facing his love again.
	"Okay, I admit it, you're right. Goliath would probably be mad
with us for just coming here." Goliath had indeed made the clocktower off
limits after the Quarrymen followed him and Elisa there and almost would
have killed him if not for Vinnie's intervention. Broadway figured the ends
were more important than the means, however. Besides, Goliath would
understand his purpose for being here and probably would have let them go.
Then again, maybe not.
	"C'mon then," Angela urged upon hearing Broadway's admittance.
She smiled in a way that almost no male gargoyle could resist--none except
Broadway that is. "This isn't the safest place we can be." Broadway's smile
matched hers for a second.
	"Let me just look one more place," Broadway said quickly, scampering
away like an eager hatchling on a treasure hunt. Angela's sweet demeanor
faded in favor of a stormy one.
	"You've said that for the past half hour, Broadway," she shouted
since she couldn't see him, tapping her foot on the debris-strewn floor,
managing to keep her patience under relative check. "Just because you're a
star doesn't mean you can just waltz off wherever you want to." Angela had
teased him about his "stardom" ever since he had arrived back last night,
and Broadway was beginning to get exasperated with her. She wouldn't have it
any other way.
	"Ah-ha!" Broadway's crow of joy echoed through the ruin. "I found
it!" Although Angela had been taught to have an infinite pool of patience
on hand at all times during her hatchling training sessions on Avalon,
fear heightened her impatience to a point where she could no longer control
it. *Where _is_ he?* she asked herself, not wanting to speak out loud so
that anyone down below in the police station or around the adjacent
buildings would have no more chance to hear them than was absolutely
necessary. *When this is all over,* Angela vowed to her herself, *I'm
going to tie him to the parapet.* Angela unfolded her wings in preparation
for flight and looked back over her shoulder with urgency. It had been
several minutes now and she hadn't heard a single footfall. The more time
passed, the more Angela found it harder and harder to convince herself that
Broadway was still just poking around. It was getting to be too much time
anyway, and the rest of the clan would be out looking for them; Broadway had
said they would be going to Central Park as an excuse, but too much time had
elapsed for that short of a trip.
	"Broadway?" Angela said quietly, wishing and hoping with all her
heart that he would answer. A minute passed by. And then another.
"Broadway!" Angela said harshly, walking over to the general area Broadway
had last reported from. The deep frown lines on her face slowly slid off and
were replaced with ones of panicked worry. She made her way slowly around
piles of ash gray rubble but still no sign of Broadway. Angela felt her face
flush--at least in terms of temperature--at the thought he might be playing
some foolish game with her as he was used to with Brooklyn and Lexington.
*I'm no rookery caretaker to find his little hiding places at leisure!*
Angela's mind flared angrily as she stomped around another rather large
chunk of debris. *If he's playing some kind of trick on me, Oberon help me
I'll....* A footstep shattered the still night air of the clocktower with a
tiny crack of stones. Angela froze.
	"Broadway?" she asked hesitantly. No answer. "C'mon, Broadway, I've
had enough of your games. Let's get out of here before--" Her sentence was
halted abruptly as she turned around to face the direction the footstep had
come from and found herself staring down the barrel of a very wicked-looking
pistol of some sort. Her eyes immediately became torchbearers of red fire,
burning fearfully at her aggressor.
	"Stay where you are, monster, or your friend gets it," a gruff
voice growled from behind the barrel. The speaker, apparently seeing proof
that Angela would not attack, lowered the pistol but still kept his
finger on the trigger as evidence that he would not hesitate to fire if
provoked in any way. Angela noted with not too much shock that gunman was
a Quarryman, something that she had warned Broadway about when they were at
the castle. "They're going to be patrolling the area," she had said.
Broadway had replied that they were just going to be a minute, that he knew
exactly where it was. The truth was, Angela realized, he had just been a
minute: it was the Quarrymen that had kept him. In a clearing of the rubble
behind the southern clock face a group of ten Quarrymen stood in various
areas. One was guarding her and another Broadway, who lay on the floor, his
eyes aflame with white fire. At first Angela thought it odd that the blue-
clad human could have any physical power over a gargoyle, that Broadway
could have at least given some sort of warning of a struggle when they tried
to capture him. Then she looked again and noted Broadway's strange position
on floor with both of his thick arms twisted behind his back and legs in a
similar fashion, the result of two large metal racks that locked all four
limbs together in one area. Three lengths of chain were placed lengthwise
across the two sections, rendering movement of the being trapped within
all but impossible. *Either Broadway has given up already,* Angela thought,
seeing no signs of struggle from him, *or he's got a plan.* She dismissed
the latter idea almost as quickly as she had thought of it when saw a thin,
metal dart sticking out of the side of Broadway's neck. Tranquilizer. She
would have to come up with a plan now; after all, it wasn't as if Broadway
could think of any logical attack in his present situation with the
contraption on his arms and legs, drugs pumped into his bloodstream, and a
plasma pistol cocked to his temple by a Quarryman. It looked all but
hopeless for the gargoyle pair with a Quarryman guarding Broadway's inert
form, one on Angela, and the other eight standing with their faces intent
on the scene unfolding so that none would be allowed to escape the carnage
once it began.
	"When will this persecution end?" Angela asked in a firm tone, not
threatening, simply asking. She tried to hold back the hot tears, but once
they came she allowed them to cascade down her cheeks. They weren't tears
of anger or fear, and they didn't come with the traditional uncontrolled
sobbing or shaking. Angela simply stood there asking a question of the
Quarryman officer standing opposite her like she would of her father upon
her first arrival to Manhattan from Avalon, tears streaming from eyes that
went unfilled with any emotion. Angela had always tried to stop her tears
when she was a hatchling, and her older brothers and sisters jeered
and made fun of her for them, even though she had told them time and time
again that she wasn't really crying. But now she knew. She knew what she
had tried for years to understand--that the tears that she shed now were
emotions of sorrow for the pitiful lives these humans led, lives of hatred
and destruction and disrespect for any lives but their own. It was shocking
to her at first that she could ever pity those that wanted to slaughter her
and all of her loved ones any chance they had, but upon second examination
she understood that she did. Most of the Quarrymen here did not understand
gargoyles at all. They saw them as demons spawned from the underworld--
murderers, savages, and anything else the latest Castaway propaganda had
dreamed up. Gargoyles had no souls in the blinds' eyes, so what did it
matter if the creatures died today or tomorrow? They were monsters who had
no compassion and no honor, and the fact that they stalked around in the
middle of night avoiding humans was the clear-cut evidence. These people
weren't criminals; they were simply blind, and Angela could not return the
misguided hate they felt for her back at them.
	The Quarryman standing imposingly over Broadway was still reeling
from Angela's somewhat unexpected question. Castaway had told him these
demons were smart and would try to stall until their pitiful reinforcements
would arrive. Well, he wouldn't fall for this. No sir, he was a corporal now
and he wasn't about to botch up this job!
	"Ha!" the officer laughed insincerely. "Don't try to turn this into
some kind of moral crusade, monster. You and your lecherous kind don't fool
me. You're a disgrace to human dignity, sneaking around up here where you
can carry out your foul little rituals."
	Angela didn't lose her emotionless demeanor despite the harsh words
the officer spat at her. They were words meant to incite violence, and she
resolved they wouldn't get that satisfaction out of her like Castaway did
when Goliath fought back. She simply wanted to hear what the answer to her
question would be, and clearly they couldn't think of anything original to
say from the beginning. Angela began to feel even more sorry for the Quarry-
men officers that they couldn't even answer a simple question without
loosing one brain-washed remark or another. Castaway could really convince
someone if he wanted to apparently. She asked another question, regardless
that her last one had not been answered correctly.
	"And what do you call this?" she asked, nodding in the general
direction of Broadway and the pistol still held at his head. Angela noted
satisfactorily that she had been right on target; the officer seemed to have
a Castaway excuse list memorized already.
	"Getting rid of pests." Angela heard the distinct buzzing of the gun
in the officer's hand charging up. She ran over possible escape routes and
plans in her mind, trying to think how she could diffuse the quickly-
becoming-lethal situation.
	"Corporal Shean!" one of the Quarrymen shouted angrily. The officer
who was preparing his pistol looked in the other officer's direction
although not wavering in his position over Broadway. A lone Quarryman
stomped over, throwing dust into the air with her heavy, black, mud-caked,
combat boots. "What exactly do you think you're doing?"
	"Sir?" Shean asked questioningly. When he saw that there was to be
no confirmation, he continued with his answer. "Exterminating gargoyles as
ordered, sir."
	"That order was _not_ given, Corporal," the apparent commanding
officer said with lethal venom in her voice.
	"But, sir...Lieutenant...."
	"Corporal, I have my orders from Castaway himself. We're taking the
gargoyle back to him. You can do whatever you want to that other one, but
do not harm him. That is unless you want to take it up with Castaway him-
self once we get back." Angela could almost imagine Shean paling under his
hood. As the lieutenant stepped away and the corporal looked after her,
Angela realized this would be her one and only chance while everyone's eyes
were not on her. With a ferocious growl that only a gargoyle could muster
Angela prepared to leap into the air with eyes glowing red only to be halted
at the last second by a hair-raising noise in front of her. A small, square
section of the floor covered by a dense layer of dirt and a few small rocks
shuddered and then exploded outward, showering any Quarrymen near enough
with the dust. The trapdoor that linked the top of the precinct with the
clocktower opened, creaking on its hinges as it slammed down on the floor.
	"Hey! Just what is going on here?" a voice from below asked as
footsteps echoed on the wooden stepladder. A millisecond later a rather
ordinary-looking figure appeared above the trapdoor with arms waving as if
to ward off any forthcoming blast of the plasma pistol. Angela's heart froze
over in fear. Her plans were all for naught if more and more Quarrymen kept
arriving, but she still readied herself for an attack in case the appearance
of this strangely-dressed newcomer afforded any new opportunities. *Wait a
minute,* Angela thought suddenly to herself. *That can't be a Quarryman.*
The garments were what gave it away--the stranger wore plain gray slacks and
a matching sweatshirt with mustard and ketchup stains dotted all over it.
Sneakers that could have once been a white color were now caked with so many
assorted paints and dried mud that the original hue was unrecognizable. A
green, duck-billed cap sat atop the man's sweat-glazed red hair and oil
stains were periodically streaked across his forehead, giving him the 
appearance of an off-duty mechanic.
	"Who the heck are you?" the Quarryman guarding Broadway asked,
eyeing the stranger suspiciously. Who was this guy to barge in up here at
this time so early in the morning? A plain-clothes Quarryman?
	"Get that thing away from my face you little twerp!" the man
replied, striding over to the now highly-confused Quarryman. Angela looked
over to the lieutenant to see if she had any reactions to this. If she
did, she didn't show them very well. As the stranger snatched the pistol
from the confused Corporal Shean, Angela stopped trying to figure out who he
was when he said venomously, "Do you know what Castaway would have done to
your internal organs if you had pulled that trigger, smart guy?" Smiling
broadly, Angela looked over the Quarryman nearest her to see if he had
noticed her reaction; he hadn't. She quickly reverted back to her original
show-nothing expression, but the fire of hope had been rekindled in her
heart as she saw Matthew Bluestone in the dirtiest clothes she had ever seen
him in screaming at the top of his lungs at a Quarryman that had begun to
shake violently in fear.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Salinas' Fish Packing Plant, just outside Hollywood, California.
November 10th, 1996.
12:52 p.m.

	Jackal sighed. It had been a long half hour, but he had gained
valuable knowledge from Aka, who had given him a rough chronology of the
life he hadn't been able to recall beyond his undying love for his sister
Hyena and his stage name. Most of the information Aka had told
him seemed to be too outrageous to be true, but he knew that he had nobody
else to place his faith in. He had a feeling that there was much more to his
life than what Aka had told him, but for now a bare-bones history would
have to do.
	"What will you do now, hunter?" Aka asked after he finished with
his tale of Jackal's life. Jackal sighed again with frustration.
	"What else can I do?" he asked angrily. "Find my sister. She's the
only one who is a link to my past."
	"That is a wise path, hunter." Jackal scrunched his nose up at that
statement.
	"Why are you always calling me 'hunter?' I've never hunted any
animals in my life. Or at least I don't think I have." Jackal could almost
feel Aka's lurid smile like the sun's rays on his face when no answer came
forth.
	"You must go now if you wish to free your sister."
	"Wait a minute," Jackal said. "You still haven't told me who you
are. Really, I mean." Jackal had still learned nothing of the mysterious
Aka, only that he didn't like talking about why Jackal couldn't see him.
Several moments passed during which Jackal felt the hatred seep from Aka's
transparent form.
	"It does not matter who or what I am; you are much more integral in
the intertwinings of fate than I. You are lucky you are still alive to ask
such a question." Jackal scratched his head nervously, trying to sort out
the mess his mind had become.
	"Just why have you helped me?" Jackal asked suspiciously as he stood
up. "You must have something to gain from this." Aka huffed in frustration.
	"Why is it that you believe that a fellow being cannot help another
simply because it is in their nature to help others? It was not my choosing
to help you: it was Kane, the master of fate. Thank the spirits of goodness
that I happened to be nearby when you collapsed; had I not been guided by
the mysterious ways of the future, I would have slain you for your insolence.
Remember that it is still in my power to do so. You forget my words too
quickly. Just because I have chosen to help you does not mean I like you."
Jackal could faintly hear footsteps fade away from him as Aka shouted, "You
are free to do as you please Jackal, but do not forget that Kane has
delivered you into my hands and there you are bound. If you cross me, I
shall not hesitate to cut your life short. Remember your duty, Jackal."
	Jackal puzzled over Aka's words for a while, wondering what all the
random sayings Aka had placed to bounce around in his head had to do with
the current situation. *Why would that lunatic save me?* Jackal asked
himself over and over again. *He had no reason to. And most of the things
he told me don't make sense. Why would I hate gargoyles or this Xanatos? I
don't think they've done anything to me....* The name "Broadway" flashed
into Jackal's mind again but still bore no significance to him. *I don't
think I've ever worked for anybody, yet now I seem to be slaving for this
Thesus' Maze Company.* Jackal sighed inwardly in confusion. *Well, no
matter, he said Hyena is going to be in prison in a couple of hours, so I'd
better get going if we want to catch the plane to Manhattan. Maybe Hyena can
remind me about a few things.*

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Remains of the 23rd Manhattan Police Precinct's clocktower, New York.
November 10th, 1996.
4:15 a.m.

	"Sir, I, uh...." the Quarryman officer stuttered at Bluestone's
threat. The other nine Quarrymen posted throughout the clocktower,
particularly the lieutenant, had been watching the scene with great in-
trest, not knowing whether to interfere or simply let the little drama play
itself out.
	"No excuses, Corporal Shean," Matt said icily, reading the officer's
last name off of the chest of the uniform.
	"Yes sir, but I...." Shean seemed to continually be at a loss for
words, trying to find just the right phrase that would not enrage his
apparent superior. Matt sneered in disgust.
	"What? You just going to stand there muttering to yourself? Boy,
it's a good thing Castaway sent me over here." Angela noticed that Broadway
had stirred from his semi-drugged state by all the commotion Matt had caused
and was half-smiling. Her heart sinking once again into the depths of
despair, Angela wished with all her heart that he wouldn't say or do
anything that would blow Matt's cover. *Please...c'mon....* she wished
desperately, squeezing her eyes shut so that she wouldn't have to watch the
inevitable. Fortunately Broadway seemed to have recovered somewhat from the
narcotics the Quarrymen had used on him and was dimly aware of the
situation. Thanking all that was good in the world and flashing Broadway a
smile of hopefulness, Angela turned her attention back to Matt. "As soon as
I heard you were in charge of this mission, Shean, I knew something'd be
botched." Angela swallowed back a lump of fear in her throat. It was all
over now; the  lieutenant was the superior, and Matt had come barging up her
expecting to make one too many lucky guesses. Inadvertently he had missed a
step, and Angela wondered if the other Quarrymen would catch on.
	"Hey, wait a minute!" Shean shouted, apparently forgetting
completely about the captive Broadway as he backed away from Matt
towards his confused compatriots. "Ready your weapons, men," Shean shouted
urgently.
	"Corporal!" the lieutenant shouted, stalking over to Shean with
murderous intent. "This organization has no room for those that wish to
disobey the chain of command! I did not give any such order."
	"Sir, he's an...an impostor! A gargie-lover! You're in charge here,
not me, and he would know that if--agghhh!" Shean's sentence was cut short
by the growling Angela who had leapt into the night air and smashed into
his chest with her body weight knocking the startled Quarryman to the ground
and rendering him unconscious.
	Matt opened fire using the corporal's pistol, forcing the remaining
officers to duck behind larger chunks of debris to avoid laser fire. After
making sure Shean was incapable of physical action, Angela pulled Broadway
to safety behind a nearby boulder where she was sure that any stray plasma
bolts would not hit him. Turning her rage back to the enemy, Angela picked
up a huge slab of slate-gray stone and hurled it at a group of four Quarry-
men, their pistols blazing crimson streams of fire. The slab landed with a
thud and billowed dust into the night air, but not before bowling over three
officers and knocking their weapons away into the darkness. One of the
remaining officers had snuck up behind Angela as she had thrown the slab
and prepared to fire at the small of her back, but to no avail as the gar-
goyle sensed her immediate peril and whipped her lethal tail at the mid-
section of her opponent. The officer gave out a cry of surprise at the un-
expected blow to his torso as he was lifted off of his feet and into the
air, landing a few feet away an on top of one of his companions. Yet another
Quarryman who ventured too close with his sledgehammer giving off waves of
deadly electric energy received Angela's fist in his face.
	A shout echoed eerily through the clocktower, halting all the
violent proceedings.
	"Officer! We're leaving," the female lieutenant who had argued with
Shean about Broadway's demise shouted. On the ground beside her lay an
unconscious Broadway with yet another metal dart embedded in his neck.
Angela cursed her own stupidity at leaving Broadway alone where the
Quarrymen all had a clear of view of where she was hiding him for the
remainder of the battle. She screamed in fury as the last remaining
Quarryman, who had been in a never-ending shooting contest with Matt, ran
toward his superior, estatic under his hood that he had escaped unavoidable
doom by continuing to fight against growing odds. Angela soared towards him
but was too far away to halt his escape. A few red pulses of energy sizzled
past his fleeing form into the darkness beyond, and Matt cursed his mal-
aligned shots, taking off in pursuit.
	Alighting to the rubble-strewn ground a few feet in front of the
lieutenant holding Broadway captive, Angela's tail again lashed out almost
taking her intended target down. The reflexes of the Quarryman were too
honed, however, as she was able to dodge the living whip and fire a quick
shot from her pistol. Angela lay on the cold ground a second later as
smoke drifted lazily from the spot on her right shoulder where she had been
hit.
	"You listen to me, gargoyle," the female Quarryman growled to the
shaking Angela. "Our quarrel is not with you, it's with him." She nudged the
tranquilized Broadway with her boot tip. "You are very lucky you are even
walking away with your head on shoulders tonight. Now I have questions
for you, and you will answer them." Angela glowered up at the lieutenant,
who held a pistol directly above her chest. "What do you know about Thomas
Brod?"
	"Wha--?" Angela was surprised that the lieutenant would know
anything about the Russian crime sydnicate boss Brod much less ask about
her connection with him. "I don't really know him--"
	"A lie!" the lieutenant screamed, slamming her boot heel on the
floor next to Angela's head. "Answer me truthfully or depart from this
world!"
	"We ran into him in Prague and sent him to jail in Manhattan a month
ago. Why?" The lieutenant ignored Angela's question and instead provided
one of her own.
	"Why did you attack him?" Angela looked puzzled.
	"He's a criminal," she answered simply. The lieutenant's gun wavered
uncertainly.
	"Hmm...well, you're not a male specimen anyway." The Quarryman
seemed lost in her own thoughts for a few moments of dead silence. *She's
not the one,* the lieutenant realized with an inward sigh of disappointment.
This had been her first interrogation of an actual gargoyle; before she
would have gotten in trouble with her superiors for letting such personal
matters get intertwined in her duties as a Quarryman. *Well, it's not a
total loss--I still have him.* She looked to the sprawled Broadway. *They
did say it was a dark-pigmented gargoyle.* The lieutenant suddenly realized
where she was and continued in her dispassionate voice once again, "As I 
said, you're lucky--for now."
	"But lieutenant--" the breathless Quarryman officer who had narrowly
managed to escape the deadly bolts from Matt's pistol questioned.
	"I'm in command of the situation," the lieutenant proclaimed with
icy authority in her voice as she typed a command into a tiny console that
had appeared from her utility belt. A low humming sound grew louder and
louder outside and within seconds a small, sleek hover vehicle slid into
view, barely discernible from the night sky surrounding it. It was outfitted
with several deadly-looking missiles, holsters filled with all manner of
projectile weapons, and had places large enough for two people sit
comfortably atop it. As the other Quarryman secured Broadway to the hover-
craft, the lieutenant trained her weapon on the still Angela just in case
the gargoyle decided to call their bluff. A piece of rock shrapnel suddenly
hit her in the cheek from behind her where Matt's pistol had left a smoking
hole through the two Quarrymens' escape vehicle as well as a good-sized
rock near it.
	"No sudden moves now," Matt said from behind her. "Hands where I can
see them." The lieutenant put her hands up, turning slowly around to face
Matt's cooling gun barrel with the other Quarryman officer following in
suit.
"Drop your weapon." When he saw her hesitate he shouted, "Now!" She
shrugged.
	"Whatever you say." The lieutenant slowly lifted the gun from behind
her head where she had put her hands and began to drop it slowly...slowly...
slowly...ever so slowly.... In the blink of an eye she fired once, and Matt
was barely able to avoid the shot, throwing himself aside. Then he blacked
out.
	The lieutenant nodded proudly at her handiwork: the female gargoyle
still lay on the floor with her eyes closed and the gargoyle-sympathizer lay
amongst the rubble as well, avoiding death but losing the battle to keep
conscious as his temple had slammed into a rock as he had leapt aside.
	"Let's go."
	"What about the others, Lieutenant Jule?" the lower officer asked, 
looking nervously at their numerous fallen, unconscious associates and
mentioning his superior's name for the first time in the encounter. It was
an act of disrespect to name a higher-ranking officer than yourself in the
Quarrymen, but it was also a sign that what was being said should be taken
seriously.
	"It's them or our heads," Jule shrugged, apparently not even 
noticing the officer's disrespect. The officer cast another hesitant glance
in the direction of Shean and then without hesitation leapt onto the back of
the hover bike.
	"Wh-why are you...doing this?" Angela stuttered as she lifted her
head ever so slightly and attempted to open her heavy-lidded eyes. Jule
pivoted in her seat, revving the engine of the hovercraft as she spoke.
	Jule didn't pay any attention to Angela's question as ash swirled
around the bike's engines. With an ear-splitting roar the bike lifted into
the air, Broadway's inert body occupying the space below it, a length of
chain attaching him to the bottom of the bike. Apparently the two Quarrymen
were confident enough about the tranquilizers they had given Broadway that
they secured him only with a piece of chain; if the gargoyle was in any
other state, he would have easily snapped the length of linked metal. The
pieces of loose debris on the clocktower floor jumped and trembled as
the hoovercraft maneuvered sluggishly around the larger pieces of rock
as it was generally a good practice to wait until the intended runway was
clear of any obstructions before using the thrusters.
	Angela, weakened though she was, smiled to herself. Although the
plasma blast had hit her in the shoulder, it hadn't been enough to drain her
energy or incapacitate her. Broadway had saved the clans' lives more than
enough times--now she would save him. Being careful so as not to alert the
Quarrymen that she was still conscious, Angela picked up a loose, rough-
edged, thin sliver of metal that served as a crude javelin and hefted it in
her hand. She pulled her arm back, waiting for just the right moment before
she would let it sail away like a scorpion's stinger into the night and
disable the hovercraft. Despite the cool summer night Angela felt sweat
building on her forehead as she thought about what she had to do. If she
missed the energy nucleus of the bike by much more than a few inches she
would probably either impale Broadway or cause the reactor to explode, also
resulting in death. Before she could consider her options any more
carefully, the bike shuddered to a halt just outside the south face of the
clock on the gray walkway before the concrete handrail that prevented the
too-curious-for-their-own-good from plummeting to their death 200 feet above
the street in front of the police station. The hovercraft settled down with
the lieutenant cursing and the officer in back of her glancing nervously
behind them to find Angela had disappeared.
	"Uh, sir," the officer started nervously, pulling a rather large
plasma rifle from a side compartment, "it left."
	"What?" Jule asked, turning around in her seat to see for herself
and then, after viewing the empty spot where Angela had lain, turned quickly
back to the bike's console. "That idiot over there," she motioned to Matt's
body, "shot right through the secondary thruster. There's no way we'll be
able to lift off without it."
	"How are we going get out of here with this gargoyle then? He's
heavy you know," the officer said, cautiously peering off into the dark-
ness for any sign of movement. The lieutenant thought about this a moment
and then abruptly got off the bike.
	"We have to leave him. Let's go." Jule had just as many doubts
about the solidity of her order that the officer beside her did but for
entirely different reasons. She had been looking forward to questioning a
gargoyle on her own for the first time and hopefully gleaning some
information before Castaway finished him off; the officer, however, was more
concerned about his life since he knew Castaway would tan their hides for
returning without killing or capturing a single gargoyle. At least the main
one responsible, Corporal Shean, would probably be in prison.
	"You're not going anywhere," Angela's voice ordered threateningly.
Jule remained calm as she pulled another laser rifle from the front of the
bike while the other officer shook with fear and swiveled his rifle in all
directions. *Fortunately,* Jule thought gladly to herself, *he has had
enough training to where he won't fire at just anything that moves and only
at his opponent.* She didn't care to kill this particular gargoyle--she was
after only one, after all, and this female obviously was not the one she was
looking for--since she knew the consequences of making war on a whole race.
At times she questioned why she even put on the Quarryman uniform since she
wanted to get closer to them, not push herself away, but she realized that
her current solution was probably the only way. The downside of being a
soldier of hate was a time like this when she had cornered a very angry
gargoyle whom she had no desire to fight. Military training shouted a her
otherwise, however.
	"Is this what we get in return for letting you live?" Jule asked as
she swiveled the rifle's barrel around the darkened area, trying to reason
before she was forced to kill. She didn't like to kill, but if it had to be
done there was nothing one could do.
	"You tried to kill my love." Angela's voice had an unearthly tone to
it as it echoed through the recesses of the shell of a clocktower. Jule
almost replied that the same had been to done to her family by gargoyles
--successfully at that--but she kept quiet.
	"There's only one, Keyes," Jule said encouragingly to the officer.
"We can handle it." A second later Keyes let out a scream of fear and began
firing wildly. The lieutenant turned around with her rifle's safety off,
preparing to make one last stand with Keyes, but found that he had
mysteriously disappeared. No more screaming, weapon discharges, nothing. The
sound of metal being stretched and then snapped apart came ringingly to her
ears, and she backed up to the concrete railing where the light from the
moon streamed down, making it slightly easier to see. Her eyes moved
constantly, searching the area for any signs of movement. Her back suddenly
bumped into the handrail, shocking her with the coolness of the concrete.
Breathing a sigh of relief, the lieutenant peered into the shadows of the
shattered clocktower, pulling her night vision goggles from a leg pocket and
donning them quickly. *Now we're on even ground,* she thought. Jule slowly
moved back towards the southern face, taking it a step at a time. She had
not originally wished to face a gargoyle in combat, but now she was immersed
in the hot flush of battle. She inadvertantly pictured her sister, screaming as she
went down a hillside in a luxurious, expensive car, flames licking at the
window beside her face. Jule's face twisted in anger and pain at the
thought. She no longer cared if this gargoyles guilty or innocent of the
crime Jule had been trying to solve for so long. Noa Jule was a killer
now, and all that she cared about was killing another individual in a
race of creatures that had taken Terry from her.
	"You can't win," Jule said, surveying the now black and green
stone outcroppings through her goggles. "I've got a rifle; you don't."
	"But what you're forgetting," Angela's voice growled from somewhere
in the ruin, "is that I can be silent." Jule clenched her teeth together,
trying to remember if her survival training in the navy had anything to say
about this particular situation. She figured a fixed position was better
than none so she swiftly pushed her back against a rock, hoping that the
gargoyle didn't know of her position yet. If she didn't, then Jule had an
advantage--her back was already guarded against an attack and she could see
in front of her where the gargoyle was bound to come rushing out from. She
heard a fluttering of air against wing membranes and fired up at the sound.
*Idiot!* Jule screamed at herself mentally. She had just given away her
position and hadn't even hit the gargoyle. In fact she received a piece of
stone roofing on top of her head for a reward, muddling her senses and
bringing her to one knee. If there was one thing a military recruit learned
quickly, though, it was to remain alert until the battle was over, which
Jule succeeded in doing. Remaining in her current kneeling position, Jule
aimed her rifle in the direction she had last heard the sound, waiting until
the gargoyle was fooled into thinking the Quarryman leader was vanquished
and came out to rescue her human and other gargoyle companion.
	The sound did come but from an unexpected direction: behind the
makeshift rubble wall that Jule's back was to. The Quarryman backed up to
face the sound only to find that the rubble was tumbling over. Rolling to
the side in the nick of time, Jule narrowly avoided being crushed by the
heavy concrete slab. She immediately fired several rounds into the darkness
created in the absence of the wall, hoping that she would at least nick the
gargoyle and get her to leave the vicinity. It didn't work.
	A loud shriek made Jule spin around to face a pair of glowing, red
eyes in the darkness. Before she could pull the trigger Angela was upon her,
teeth glinting hideously in the moonlight as she hissed with vengeance at
Jule. The rifle was yanked from the Quarryman's gloves and bent in half.
	"We don't like guns," Angela growled. "They hurt people."
	"No, they hurt monsters," Jule hissed, throwing herself at Angela's
midsection. Angela, caught by surprise, tumbled down with Jule into the
rubble. Oddly enough the gargoyle found that the human was somewhat of a
match for her as they somersaulted around the room, a tempest of fists and
talons.
	After a few minutes of being in close quarters fighting with Jule
Angela managed to stand up completely while the Quarryman struggled to do
the same.
	"Perhaps you can answer my question," Angela said thoughtfully.
	"Doubtful," Jule grunted, tackling Angela yet again around her waist
and pushing her toward the tattered glass shards of the eastern face. The
gargoyle punched with lethal intent in Jule's midsection, knocking the
breath from the lieutenant.
	"You're going to answer my question," Angela continued, nonplused.
"Why do you hate us?"
	"Because you're a freak of nature," Jule spat, kicking out with her
boot at Angela's shoulder. The female gargoyle's tail whipped out at the
same instant and both landed on the dusty floor with a crash.
	"Simply because we look different than humans?" Angela cried,
slashing at Jule's prone face with her talons. Jule recoiled, bringing her
forearm up to bat Angela's deadly claws out of reach.
	Jule didn't reply as she pulled her thighs back and arched her back
so that she sprung back onto her feet.
	"We wish to survive. Is that so odd?" Angela asked, struggling to
her feet.
	"You want to survive by harming innocents?" Jule snarled, throwing
a punch at Angela's face. The gargoyle blocked it by grabbing the human's
fist in her own and then threw the lieutenant into a boulder.
	"We have hurt none that have not been guilty," Angela answered.
	"That's a lie!" Jule cried, lashing out with her leg and tripping
Angela. The Quarryman officer drew a pistol from the holster at her side,
wild, uncontrolled anger flaring in her eyes as tears began to well up.
Batting the pistol out of the way, Angela knocked Jule down and held her
arms, pinning her.
	"Listen to me!" she growled when she noticed Jule turn her head
aside, seemingly waiting for the deathblow.
	"Why should I?" Jule asked angrily. "Your kind is all the same. Why
don't you just kill me the way you monsters killed my sister!" Jule was
immediately sorry she had said such a thing since even she didn't believe
a whole group should be held responsible for what one individual does,
but she was so enraged at the thought that this very gargoyle could have
murdered her sister that she felt no remorse.
	"Your...." Angela said confusedly, taking the pressure off Jule's
arms and backing up a few steps.
	"You'll pay for this!" Jule screamed. With a piercing cry that
could have easily awakened the departed, Jule made for the stairwell that
led down into the precinct. Angela didn't try to stop the Quarryman, instead
leaning against a piece of nearby rubble with a pained expression on her
face. The trapdoor slammed shut behind Jule, leaving Angela alone.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

California State Penitentiary, Los Angeles, California.
November 10th, 1996.
2:10 p.m.

	The prison van had finally halted in its bouncy journey through
downtown Hollywood and had ended up somewhere in Los Angeles.
Blinding sun hit Hyena full in the face as the doors at the rear of the
van were opened suddenly and without warning. Lamont stirred on the bench
opposite Hyena where he had slept for the majority of the past four hours.
Hyena herself was tired but couldn't get any rest as a result of the strange
positions her arm restraints had forced her to try to sleep in. The nano-
machines in her bloodstream didn't need regeneration anyway, and she
could go for many hours without any shut-eye.
	"Welcome to California State Penitentiary, ladies and gentlemen," a
voice from beyond the curtain of sunlight spoke.
	"But we didn't even get a trial!" Lamont whined, jumping to his feet
in indignation and shielding his eyes with his brown business jacket.
	"Oh, don't worry," the voice continued. "This will only be a short
visit to our fine institution. After the trial, though, you many find that
you have arrangements for a permanent stay." Hyena glowered despite having
to squint against the harsh light but remained silent. She had been through
prison introductions long enough to know when to be quiet and when to reply.
*Little consolation to me now,* Hyena thought angrily to herself. *I've been
released on parole one too many times and committed one too many crimes
afterwards to ever smell freedom again.* All hopeful fantasies of her
brother or Coyote coming to rescue her and carry her off into the sunset
had long since withered and died. "I hope you enjoy your stay here," the
voice said sarcastically. "Guards, please take these fine visitors to their
cells."
	"But we didn't do anything!" Lamont yelled as a heavily-muscled,
green-uniformed guard stepped into the van's interior and clamped a huge
hand over his arm, nearly crushing it in the process. "I want to talk to my
lawyer!" he yelled at someone outside the van, assumedly the warden who had
spoken to them a moment ago. A guard very similar to one that had just
taken Lamont appeared and grabbed Hyena. She didn't make any move to
struggle, knowing that there was nothing to be done. The guard pulled Hyena
out into the sunlit, asphalt-covered prison yard and hustled her forward
with a night stick in her lower back. She winced as the end of the club was
prodded into a spot where Fox had given her two solid punches, leaving a
wicked, blue-colored bruise. The thought never came to the cyborg that she
could escape if she wanted to with her wide array of bizarre weaponry or her
rocket boosters primarily because of the stern-faced guards posted every
ten feet along the perimeter wall. Some occupied assault cannons that made
sure no one ever regained their freedom once imprisoned inside the compound
and other simply held deadly plasma rifles that would put a stop to any
breaking of the rules. As she looked ahead of her she realized how large the
prison was: about thirty paces ahead of her were Lamont and his guard and
beyond them was a good five hundred feet of prison yard left. Quickly
peering back at the prison van Hyena noticed that the vehicle had dropped
them off at the front gate which was in the direct middle of the wall,
making the entire structure over a thousand feet wide. Hyena not only caught
a glance of the enormity of the compound, but also saw the warden who
Lamont had been yelling to. He was wiry with curly blond hair and a smug
smile pervaded his features as he looked after the two newest prisoners.
But Hyena knew better than to accept this type of grin as one of happiness
or joy; it was one of aloofness. The warden, Hyena realized, enjoyed putting
people away for the rest of their miserable lives in this horrid place. He
enjoyed watching them squirm as they realized their awful fate. He smiled
like their father had.
	The guard was a well-trained individual of limited intellect but
powerful brawn, used to dealing with rebelling prisoners. But when the
cyborg came at him with a scream straight from the death throes of the
underworld his eyes widened in surprise. No one had ever even _tried_ to run
when they were under a guard and he suddenly found himself in a totally
unexpected situation, one he was almost unable to handle. Almost.
	An instant after Hyena had attempted to rush over to the warden with
lethal intent her guard had bowled her over onto the hot asphalt. She
struggled to keep her eyes open as several other guards in white uniforms
rushed out of the compound with little, slender tubes in their hands. The
whole scene wavered before her eyes and she wondered whether it was the
intense heat coming from the ground or her own mind playing tricks on her.
Before the medical technicians had pinned her arms behind her back, inserted
several syringes, and sedated her, Hyena noted with satisfaction that the
warden had stridden over to make sure she was sufficiently tranquilized.
	"Take no chances with this one," the warden said, his voice sounding
like dripping water in Hyena's ears. "Just put her out." As her vision
dimmed a large, sadistic grin came to Hyena's features as she saw the
warden's smile from before had faded completely into one of concern. *Just
like father's did,* she thought. Hyena felt the faint prick of a needle
being inserted into her arm and waited for the pressure of the sedation
fluid to enter into her veins. Instead, though, a shrill scream--several of
them, actually--ripped through the summer air. The needle was pulled out and
she felt the pressure being lifted from her arms as the sound of boots
clacking against asphalt rained around her. Almost mechanically Hyena drew
herself up on one knee to see what the commotion was about. At first she saw
nothing out of the ordinary but smoke--smoke that smelled of plasma. Then
she noticed the ten guards lying at the bottom of the perimeter wall
unconscious. All the other guards had fled the prison yard, leaving Hyena,
Lamont, and the warden alone with the steel gate shut and a prison van still
lying open before the gate.
	"Sound the alarm!" the warden shouted, cowering in the doorway of
the entrance to the main compound, nervously eyeing the two criminals a mere
twenty feet away from him. Lamont was preoccupied with finding an escape
route around the twenty foot high concrete perimeter wall, but Hyena had
more petty things to worry about. "Oh, jeez!" the warden cried at seeing
Hyena stalking toward him with a dreadful leer over her features. "Get some
guards out here now! I don't care if they're scared--send them now!" the
warden shouted into a walkie-talkie as he looked hurriedly around for any
possible way out of his current situation.
	"Hmmm, I always did like a man of power," Hyena cooed as she walked
coolly up to the shaking warden. "But I'm afraid, my dear," Hyena said with
a cackle, "that it's time to dethrone you." With that Hyena's talons grew
an inch into razor-sharp points aimed at the side of the warden's throat.
	A loud crash reverberated through the prison yard as the main gate
of the penitentiary shuddered and then fell over, splitting the asphalt
around it in a spider-web fashion. The steel glinted in the sunlight as a
lone, seemingly small figure stepped through the gates. Hyena hardly noticed
the figure's arrival, however, as she was more interested in watching the
warden squirm and try to wiggle out of the situation.
	"Jackal!" Lamont exclaimed in surprise as the figure ran uninhibited
towards the trio at lightning speed. Hyena's blood-lust filled eyes turned
for a brief instant to see what the matter was and saw her brother running
towards the doorway, bullets ricocheting off of his golden armor. "I've got
to tell you, it is a relief to--" Jackal's plated shoulder drove into
Lamont's midsection and with a slight grunt the latter crumpled to the
asphalt.
	"I really didn't like that guy," Jackal commented as he stared at
the inert body of his former employer. "C'mon, sis," he said, turning his
attention to the frightened warden and the sadistic cyborg holding death a
little too close to his neck for comfort. When Hyena didn't immediately turn
to face her older brother, Jackal frowned. "We've got to go. Now."
	"You go, big brother. I've got something to settle with this
insect." Jackal grabbed Hyena by the arm and began to haul her away much to
the warden's relief. "Hey!" Hyena yelled. "Leave me alone!" Jackal didn't
pay any heed to his sister's words, instead allowing his plasma blaster to
surface from his forearm and firing several bolts at any guards who had
dared to cross the parapets since his entrance. Three bolts tore up chunks
of concrete wall, striking each guard a glancing blow. It was enough to
disable and knock them from the perimeter wall.
	"Listen, sis. Wouldn't you rather have Xanatos?" Jackal inquired,
turning away from his handiwork. 
	"We've always wanted to pay him back for what he did. So what else
is new? I'd rather have some fresh meat." Hyena grinned sadistically at the
still-trembling warden in the door frame.
	"Well, I know where he's going to be very soon." Jackal grinned,
pleased with himself.
	"So what?" Hyena countered, crossing her arms. "Even if you do know
exactly where he's going to be, how will you get us all the way back to
Manhattan in that short of time and how do you know it will be any different
from all the other times we've gone up against him and failed?"
	"Patience is a virtue, sis," Jackal reminded Hyena solemnly. "Look,
the transportation has been taken care of and I guarantee he'll be as
vulnerable as a newborn child without its mother. This time _will_ be
different because we will have a plan for once."
	*Humph,* Hyena thought gloomily. *We've had plans before.* "All
right, big brother," Hyena said boredly. "I'm listening."

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Remains of the 23rd Manhattan Police Precinct's clocktower, New York.
November 10th, 1996.
4:47 a.m.

	"Don't ever scare me like that again," Angela warned as she broke
the chains connecting the arm and leg restraints on Broadway. She had waited
a little while after Jule had fled the scene to make sure no other
reinforcements or other small nuisances were coming up to either discover
the gargoyles or kill them. "I thought we were all through."
	"It wasn't my fault!" was all Broadway could utter as he struggled
to move the blood-deprived ligaments in his arms and legs.
	"Are you sure?" Matt growled from a rubble pile nearby. He had not
stirred since he had been knocked unconscious by the Quarryman officer and
had lain on the ground, apparently unconscious.
	"Matt! You're okay!"
	"Of course I'm all right!" Matt snapped upon seeing Angela's smile.
"They barely glanced me."
	"Then why didn't you help Angela out? She could've been killed!"
Broadway asked angrily, the blood finally returning to his extremities.
	"I lost my pistol when the rock hit me and I didn't want to give my
surprise advantage away by trying to find it in the dark."
	Broadway started to reply, but Angela silenced him. "It's no big
deal, guys. I'm fine and we're all okay. End of story." A shredding of metal
pierced the sudden stillness of the clocktower as Broadway tore his bindings
with a roar. Hunks of steels flew in a circle around Broadway's stretching
frame, forcing Angela and Matt to cover their eyes for fear of shrapnel.
	"Thanks for the warning," Matt said sarcastically, rolling his eyes.
Broadway didn't notice. "Just what were you two doing here?" he asked
chidingly.
	"Ask him--he's the one that wanted to come," Angela replied,
pointing to Broadway, who had an embarrassed grin on his face. Matt turned
questioningly to Broadway, an eyebrow arched, arms crossed, and a foot
tapping.
	"Well, I...I came here to find the Amulet of the Sun."
	"What?" Matt asked suspiciously. "This wouldn't have anything to do
with Tony Dracon, would it? Or your Hollywood escapade?"
	"Naw, I'm over that whole thing. It's an artifact that Lex and I...
oh, never mind. Let's just say that I kept an item of power out of
potentially dangerous hands." Matt sighed in disbelief, deciding it was for
the better if he didn't question the mysterious circumstances any further.
	"Didn't Goliath specifically tell you guys not to come out here?"
	"Well, yeah, but--" Broadway started, trying to reason with the
detective.
	"It's for a good reason," Matt continued.
	"So what were _you_ doing here?" Angela asked curiously, coming to
Broadway's defense.
	"I got a tip from an Illuminati friend of mine that the gargoyles
were heading here and I knew the Quarrymen had been frequenting this place
lately, so I had a feeling there'd be trouble. I guess I was right."
Broadway hung his head in shame but quickly brightened as he noticed a
shiny, disc-shaped item lying at his feet.
	"At least we found it," he said, picking up the jewel-encrusted
Amulet of the Sun. Matt flashed a castigating look in Broadway's direction.
"Well!" the gargoyle exclaimed indignantly. "We could have just not found
it. Then I would have felt really bad."
	"I'm just glad they didn't succeed in their plan," Angela remarked,
staring at the trapdoor where Jule had disappeared. "Why are they after you
all of a sudden? First in Hollywood, now here in Manhattan a night later."
	"It's the same group," Broadway commented, tucking the Amulet into
the folds of his leather belt. "I guess they just want to finish what they
started." Angela nodded absently as she pondered the matter.
	"But why wouldn't they go after Lex or Goliath? I mean, Lex
humiliated them and Goliath has been Castaway's original target. Why not
them?"
	"Goliath's gone most of the time," Broadway concluded. "And...Lex
doesn't get out much." He chuckled at his own joke but no one else did.
	"No, there's got to be a better explanation," Angela resolved. She
turned to Matt. "What stake do the Illuminati have in all of this?"
	"What do you mean? Someone I know just called me to tell me that
they saw a couple of gargoyles flying towards the precinct. I am the head of
the Gargoyles Task Force, after all." Matt had lost the irony of his bizarre
placement within the NYPD long ago and could not laugh at the ridiculousness
of it any longer.
	"You mentioned specifically that this informant of yours was a part
of the Illuminati. You must have been reminded of that because he said some-
thing pertaining to them." Matt shook his head.
	"I'm still in the dark about a lot of things going on around there."
He caught Angela's questioning look. "Look, I promise if anything ever came
up about gargoyles in the Illuminati you guys would be the first to know."
	"So your friend didn't mention the Illuminati at all?" Matt thought
about Angela's question a moment before answering.
	"No, he didn't." Angela regarded Matt, still unconvinced, but he
didn't offer any further evidence in favor of his case.
	"What's with that outfit?" Broadway asked incredulously, pointing
to the various stains on the sweatshirt. "Eating hot dogs in Central Park
under cover?" he laughed.
	"Oh, this?" Matt asked, tugging at the garment. "We're painting
down there and they told me to bring my dirty clothes. So here I am." Matt
smiled slightly. "Look, guys, I don't think we have to let Goliath know
about this little incident if you go right now. The rest of the force will
be up here any minute, courtesy of our Quarryman friend. I'll make sure
these guys are locked up." Matt motioned to the eight unconscious officers
littered in various places around the rubble of the clocktower.
	"Thanks Matt," Broadway said, patting the detective on the back.
Matt shrugged his shoulders modestly.
	"It's my job."
	"Your job is to exterminate the 'gargoyle menaces', not to protect
them," Broadway answered back sarcastically. The gargoyle meant it as a joke
but instead a period of uncomfortable silence followed it.
	"Well, I should get going," Matt sighed, breaking the silence and
walking over to the trapdoor. "I'll see you guys later."
	"Later Matt!" Broadway said as he and Angela walked towards the
south face. With a creaking of hinges Matt disappeared into the floor,
leaving Broadway and Angela alone amongst the rubble.
	"What's wrong?" Broadway asked concernedly as he saw Angela staring
after Matt.
	"Nothing," Angela replied firmly. "Let's go; the others will be
worried." Broadway looked quizzically at his love but knew better than to
question her. They walked toward the south face and onto the cold stone walk
way where they spread their wings, preparing to glide into the red and
orange-streaked pre-dawn sky.
	"C'mon, Angela, we've never kept secrets before," Broadway pleaded
after the two gargoyles had leapt clear of the precinct and were soaring
over the brightly lit downtown Manhattan. "You know you can trust me."
	"It's not a matter of trust," Angela said, keeping her eyes straight
ahead. "It's just an intuition I have that I don't think is very relevant."
	"I think it is," Broadway pressed.
	"You wouldn't believe me if I told you."
	"Try me."
	"All right. I don't trust Matt."
	"What?" Broadway asked in exasperation.
	"See, I know you would do this!" Angela exclaimed.
	"Matt's a good friend of the clan's, Angela."
	"I know that but something just doesn't feel right about what he
said about the Illuminati. He hesitates, or...something...I don't know!"
	"He's probably hatching some scheme to reveal the Illuminati to the
world. He and Elisa both act strange when they're undercover--you know
that."
	"Yeah, I guess I do," Angela remarked absently. The Eyrie
Building grew slowly in their vision, the remarkably huge exterior windows
sparkling with the sun's blossoming rays. "Broadway," she asked after a
moment, "do you think our cause is a valid one?"
	"What do you mean?" Broadway asked confusedly.
	"Fighting against Castaway--is it right?"
	"I don't get you. I mean...he's attacking us."
	"But he's only doing that because Demona killed his father."
	"That was _Demona_, Angela, not us. He wants to destroy us simply
because we look different."
	"What about that lieutenant? The one who escaped?" Broadway dis-
missed the notion with a wave of his hand.
	"Lies. It's Castaway propaganda."
	"I don't think so. I'm beginning to think that we're as guilty as
Castaway."
	"C'mon, Angela," Broadway said. "You can't really believe that?" He
saw the intense pain in her eyes and knew that she did.
	"We have the same if not greater capacity for hate that humans do,
Demona is evidence enough of that. You saw the rage in Goliath's eyes when
he attacked Jason right before Elisa almost died near the reservoir--what
makes you think what we're doing is helping the situation? If anything we're
making it worse by attacking Quarrymen and sending them off to prison. In
a lot of peoples' minds we're the monsters attacking their 'champions of
justice.' Even if Castaway is stopped someday, someone else will just rise
in his place, someone else a gargoyle has hurt in some way." Broadway's
mouth hung open at Angela's thoughts, too shocked to say anything for a long
while.
	"Angela, there's only one thing we need to know: Castaway is evil.
And we've lived here much too long to give up now; that's just what the
Quarrymen want. We've got to persevere and know that someday it's all going
to get better."
	"But what if it doesn't, Broadway?"
	"It will, Angela, it will." Broadway didn't sound convincing even to
his own ears.
	"I really wish I could believe that," Angela said sadly. "Somehow,
though, I know deep down that it's going to get much worse before it gets
any better." Broadway decided to leave the depressing conversation at that
as they soared up the shining sides of the Eyrie skyscraper.
	Angela silently promised herself that she would try to forget Jule's
words and get on with dealing with the Quarrymen threat. Somehow, though,
she doubted she could ever banish the pain-filled memory from her mind. And
she couldn't help but think the clan had been wrong all along.
	"Broadway," Angela asked, breaking the silence, "why do you think
she asked about Brod?" Broadway cleared his throat nervously.
	"I don't know. Maybe he weaseled out of a deal with them." Both
gargoyles became lost in their own thoughts as they landed on the gray stone
parapets of Castle Wyvern.
	The sun was due to rise in a few minutes, bringing light to a world
that seemed to be against the gargoyles' very right to exist.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Quarrymen Headquarters, Manhattan, New York.
November 10th, 1996.
3:03 p.m.

	Castaway picked up the telephone after four rings with relative
nonchalance. He was used to being waited for and any caller who bothered
him could wait until he was ready. Signing an officer's paycheck with a
flourish, Castaway lifted the handset to his ear without offering a word of
greeting.
	"Jackal and Hyena have been activated," a deep voice stated. "Jackal
responded to the fabricated stories I suggested and knew where the aircraft
was going to be. Hyena was fooled by the faked chronologies as well and
believed the story that Jackal had received a letter from Thesus' Maze a
long time ago offering work."
	"Good. Very good, in fact. Now we have both Wolf and Jackal under
Phoenix's belt. He will be pleased." Castaway looked at his gold pocketwatch
that was tucked in a pocket of his business vest. "And in record time, I
might add. Only four hours? You proved to be more than I had hoped."
	"I thank you, Mr. Castaway. There is one minor difficulty, however."
	"Go ahead."
	"I may not be able to control them as easily as you said I would.
They are formidable opponents. I had a difficult enough time convincing
Jackal of the truth of the story."
	"Then we'll just have to implement the devices if it comes to that."
	"I understand. I will let you know when step two is complete."
	"Thank you." The other line clicked shut, leaving Castaway with a
loud dial tone. He replaced the handset and picked up the unopened letter
from Jason. "Soon, Jason." He smiled almost imperceptibly, the first emotion
he had shown other than anger in months. "Soon, my brother, you will see
what a fool you've been."

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Now
Victoria International Airport, Sydney, Australia.
November 26th, 1996.
3:35 p.m.

	"Careful with it, now, blokes!" the former criminal known as Dingo
shouted. The brown-haired and mustached Australian weapons handler watched
the proceeding with strained features as five employees of Victoria
International Airport staggered about with a wooden cargo crate labeled
"Fragile: Handle with Care" in big, red letters on every side. Wiping away
his own nervous perspiration, Henry, as he was known by various legal docu-
mentaion, attempted to turn his attention from his precious cargo to the
small yet prized dull green-colored, private plane. Dingo smiled pridefully
at his self-dubbed _Deadeye_ as it sat in the sweltering Australian heat,
its paint not showing a single sign of wear. Even though he had at first
refused the generous offer of his own personal, specially crafted by
Xanacorp Enterprises, Yert Model 102-33 amphibious aircraft, Dingo
eventually accepted, despairing that he would never make use of it; after
all, his was a life of modesty and spirituality. He had even entertained the
notion of giving up his robotic suit that Xanatos had given him to enhance
his life of crime two years ago but dismissed it at length. There hadn't
been much crime in the Outback lately as his companion the Matrix had noted.
	Matrix had been surprisingly inquisitive about the nature of
heroism, more than Dingo would have ever expected from any machine.
The almost-alien intelligence had proven a valuable asset for it had need of
only a small living space on the robotic suit and a brief period of
regeneration which could be easily accomplished during Dingo's own sleep.
All in all, the situation was a good one: Matrix could provide statistics,
figures, and enhance its partner's strength while Dingo could give the
crime-fighting duo a direction in life. Often, however, it was the shaman,
who Dingo stumbled across a year back, who could give them the most
advice. The shaman had also become a good friend of Dingo's, a
companion whose divinings were much needed in the dry deserts of Australia.
	A loud crash of wood against concrete quickly directed Dingo's
attention from _Deadeye_ to the workers.
	"Why couldn't they get a forklift?" Dingo mumbled, his brown fati-
gues rustling in the hot breezes as his black, dusty, lace-up boots clacked
across the airfield runway. The five men had dropped the large cargo crate
a mere ten feet from _Deadeye_ where they stood around it with their hands
on their knees, breathing heavily. "I told you it was heavy, mates," Dingo
smiled, shaking his head in mock sadness.
	"You carry it, then," a breathless young employee snapped, holding
his sides and cringing. Obviously he was very new at this.
	"I was hoping to get it to New York in one piece," Dingo sighed with
feigned regret, taking a remote control from one of his survival vest
pockets and pressing a series of multi-colored buttons. The youths finally
had caught their breaths and stared wide-eyed at the beeps emanating from
the remote. With a crash and splintering of wood the Matrix-encased robotic
suit burst from the crate, throwing chunks of knotty wood at the stunned
and then quickly frightened employees as the golden behemoth lumbered into
_Deadeye_'s cargo hold.
	"Just remember," Dingo said warningly to the trembling workers with
a sly wink, "you didn't see a thing." The employees swallowed visibly and
slowly nodded their capped heads in unison. "Now if you'll all excuse me,
I've got some flying to do." With another yes-sir shake of their heads, the
five youths nearly tripped over each other trying to get back to the
airport's loading bay.
	As soon as they had hurriedly disappeared down the black strip of
airfield Dingo let a laugh wrack his body as he walked towards _Deadeye_'s
entry stairway and slipped the remote control back into his pocket.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Somewhere above the Indian Ocean off the east coast of Africa.
4:10 p.m.

	Dingo sat back in the luxuriously comfortable pilot's seat and let
out a sigh of relaxation. "Pilot's seat" was a misnomer, however, as Dingo
simply typed in the coordinates of his destination on the dashboard computer
and the machines took care of everything else. Fox had definitely spared no
expense with _Deadeye_ and Dingo was just fine with that since he had no
idea of how to fly an aircraft and he had no intentions to learn. He and the
Matrix had had their hands full with the riff-raff and hard-case criminals
in the land down under without having to worry about traveling too.
	"How come you never did try to learn to fly this thing?" Dingo
inquired of the translucent-hued, vaguely humanoid figure sitting in the
identical co-pilot's seat next to him. "You of all people could
learn anything faster than a blue fly could get to Bullamanaka."
	The Matrix pondered this a moment before answering. "We are afraid
our CPU cannot recall the meanings of the terms 'blue fly' or 'Bullamanka'
and therefore we do not believe we can make an accurate reply to your
statement. Also, we might add that we do not belong to the classification
'people' as we are a computer intelligence with learning abilities far
beyond that of an average human specimen. However, if you are
referring to our capability of learning a skill quickly, we would agree
with your assumption." Dingo couldn't help but laugh out loud.
	"I was sure you'd heard enough Aussie to last you a lifetime,"
Dingo said, wiping tears from his eyes. "I've been talking like this for the
past four months teaching you everything I know about the Austriallian
justice system and you haven't picked the slang up?"
	"We are afraid we don't recall you ever utilizing the words 'blue
fly' or 'Bullamanka' in all the time that has elapsed since we met. Could
you please explain these words to us so that we will be able to recall them
for use in the future?"
	"Well," Dingo said, proud that he knew more than a sophisticated
super-computer, "'Blue fly' means quick--you know, fast. And Bullamanaka is
like...um...the Bunyip." He shuddered at his mention of the Australian
creature of legend that he had come to realize was everything but a myth.
	"We are afraid you will have to clarify your last definition." Dingo
sighed, struggling for the right words to explain.
	"I guess it means somewhere you can never go, but it exists anyway."
	"Then this 'Bullamanaka' is a mythical place."
	"Yeah, sure, I guess. Something like that anyway," Dingo said
satisfactorily as he leaned back in his chair.
	"We see that our destination is America. Why might we be going
there? We thought our intent was to eliminate the criminal elements in
Australia only, and we are far from completing our goal there."
	"Blimey! Forgot to mention that." Matrix decided to ignore yet
another word of Aussie slang that it did not have stored in its CPU and in-
stead let Dingo continue with his answer. "Sorry for keeping you in the dark
there, mate. You remember those gargoyles who helped me around the time when
we met?"
	"Yes. They succeeded in stopping us from making a chaotic world
orderly."
	"Yeah, that's right. Well, I kind of feel like I owe Goliath and Fox
one so we're going to Manhattan to help them out. You see, they've been
having some problems recently with some anti-gargoyle fanatics of some sort
and I figure I could pay off a debt or two by helping get rid of some of the
nasty fellows. What do you think?"
	"We think this is a most excellent idea if indeed it is true that
you owe these beings a favor. It seems they are in a time of great need and
we would be happy to assist you in aiding their cause." Dingo smiled
gratefully at his counterpart's acceptance of their mission and turn back to
the console to check on the progress of the flight. "We sense, however, that
there is some other event that is instigating this mission as well," Matrix
commented.
	"What do you mean?" Dingo asked defensively. "I just want to pay
off a few debts, that's all."
	"We did not claim that I did not believe that part of your reason,
but we think you are hiding another part of it from us." Dingo folded his
arms across his muscled chest, a frown wrinkling his tanned forehead.
	"I don't know what you're talking about."
	"Dingo, you have shared your thoughts with us for many of the past
months, and we know that you would not so readily get involved in a battle
that was not your own unless there was some other motivating factor."
	"You're right about that, I guess," Dingo said noncommittally,
pulling a blaster out of its holster on his hip and polishing it absently as
his mind drifted toward the clouds floating lazily by the cockpit window.
"When I was a boy in the outback my mother always told me that the toothache
of one crocodile soon becomes the misery of the bird sitting in his mouth. I
figure that in going to Manhattan and getting myself involved with this
Quarrymen thing, I'll be doing myself a favor. Once those blokes had gone
and killed all the gargoyles they could find, they'd be after me next just
because I'm a little different." Matrix knew there was some truth to Dingo's
statement but also knew that there was something else pulling Dingo to
America, something that he perhaps didn't wish to remember. Matrix had
sensed from the moment it was linked with Dingo that there were many evils
he had committed that he hadn't rectified in his own spirit and that all of
these inequities of the soul came from a past he had tried hard to forget.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

JFK International Airport, New York.
7:56 p.m.

	"JFK, this is _Deadeye_. Do you copy?"
	"Roger _Deadeye_."
	"Request permission to land on private runway 512."
	"_Deadeye_, that runway is reserved for one Mr. Xanatos only.
Request denied."
	"Well, call him up and tell him I want to land."
	"Negative, _Deadeye_, we can't do that."
	"Bloody Boomer! I'll have him call you!"
	"Very well, _Deadeye_. JFK, over and out."
	Dingo sighed in frustration as he slammed the dispatch back into
its cradle and hurriedly began to pat his chest down.
	"Is there something wrong?" Matrix asked curiously.
	"No, not really," Dingo said offhandedly. "Crikey! Where'd I put
that bloody cellular? Ah, here it is." Dingo opened a chest pocket and
pulled out a long, slender, black plastic rectangle which he folded out
into three separate sections. Pulling the antenna out from the top, Dingo
put his black gloved fingers over the green lighted number pad ready to
dial and then realized he hadn't talked to Xanatos in over a year. "Mate,
do you suppose you could tap into Manhattan's phone directory and find
Xanatos' number?"
	"We can," Matrix replied, letting one translucscent finger change
shape into a slender jack that hooked into _Deadeye_'s central computer. As
Matrix waited for the phone directory to download, the pair stared out into
the darkening New York summer sky. Tiny, almost imperceptible pinpoints of
light shined their way through the dark blue, creating a lustrous blanket
over the cockpit. Dingo began to rummage through a long, dull brown colored
duffel bag behind the pilot seat sorting through clothes, assorted
weapons, and survival gear. Matrix, unnoticed, peered over his shoulder at
the contents.
	"It is about them, is it not?" Matrix inquired, nodding towards an
old publicity photo that lay to one side of the bag, crumpled and creased
from the many trips and hikes Dingo had gone on through the years. Dingo
took one glance at the photo and shoved it deeper into the bag.
	"Should've burned that thing a long time ago," he muttered, flushing
with embarrassment.
	"We are sorry," Matrix said, settling back in its chair and staring
straight ahead. "I should not be prying into your personal matters." Dingo
zipped his bag back up and sat back in his chair, closing his eyes briefly
before he continued.
	"It's not your fault," he said haltingly, as if he was unsure of the
words he was saying. "You always have a good opinion, mate. That's what I
respect about you. Don't ever lose it just because a fellow is too mindful
of his past." Dingo quickly became silent as he had before. Matrix simply
nodded at Dingo's apology as it withdrew its jack from the computer con-
sole. *Look at you now, Dingo,* he laughed at himself mentally, *you're
saying 'sorry' to a machine and on top of that you want to tell it all your
problems! What next? A Coyote 6.0 with a built-in psychology program?*
	"We have completed downloading the phone directory. Now all that
remains is to locate the correct entry in the database. Please wait a moment
while we search."
	Dingo realized as he watched Matrix scan its internal CPU that he
was afraid of this machine; he felt at times as if it could read his inner
most thoughts. *That's not unusual,* Dingo thought. *It was literally a part
of me for all those months and got to know me pretty well. So why don't I
trust it?*
	A minute later Matrix had the number of Xanacorp, Dingo retrieved
his phone again, and dialed. He was hopeful that Xanatos would understand
the inconvenience and importance of this visit.
	"Xanacorp offices, this is Terry speaking. How may I help you?" a
smooth voice answered.
	"Yes, this is Henry Monmouth. I'd like to speak to Mr. Xanatos,
please."
	"I'm sorry, Mr. Monmouth, but Mr. Xanatos only answers personally
those calls which are of the highest importance. He's in a meeting right now
and I don't think--"
	"Look, I need to talk to Xanatos now. It's an emergency. Just tell
him Dingo's on the phone and needs to talk with him."
	"Oh, I'm terribly sorry, Mr. Monmouth! It seems you're on the list.
I'll redirect your call to his office." Dingo didn't bother to thank the
secretary as some cheap jazz filtered over the phone. A few seconds later
a phone on the other end picked up.
	"Ah, Dingo, what an unexpected surprise," Xanatos exclaimed. "And
to what do I owe the honor of this call?"
	"I'll fill you in on the details later. Could you please just call
JFK and tell them to let me land on your runway?"
	"Of course. I'll be down there in a few minutes."
	"Thanks." Dingo turned his phone off and waited for JFK's trans-
mission.

	The hatch on _Deadeye_'s belly slowly broke open, revealing a set
of ivory-hued stairs leading up into the hydroplane's shadowy interior.
David Xanatos stood just outside Runway 512, a strip of airfield usually
utilized for bringing special, potentially dangerous cargoes into New York.
*It's no different this time,* Xanatos mused, remembering Dingo's expert use
of lethal weaponry. He stood in the fading Manhattan sun wearing a black,
expensive-looking business suit with a matching tie and shoes as well as a
pair of dark, mirrored sunglasses covering his hazel eyes. He often wore
these glasses in public when he didn't want to be known, especially as of
late when his suspected involvement with the gargoyles had been revealed.
Although the gargoyles' names had been somewhat cleared the day before,
there were still many who hated them. The Quarrymen, after all, had still
not been all captured and were still running around somewhere. Xanatos gave
a sigh of frustration. *Will it ever stop?* Xanatos asked himself. The
gargoyle hatred just seemed to go on and on with no end in sight. *Hopefully
this is a start,* Xanatos encouraged himself, thinking of the kind words
that had been spoken about the gargoyles by Margot Yale. Even if the
gargoyles' saving of a New York train from Castaway's madness didn't boost
their reputation, he always had Hugo and his other trusted bodyguards to
deal with any that came too close to him. Against a large mob, though, they
were useless. Other cyborg security had been created for him by Renard that
could deal with that sort of large problem, but David was afraid to use it
for fear that the media would hype that up too. He told himself again that
it was all, for the most part, over.
	Dingo walked down the stairs of _Deadeye_ with his duffel bag slung
over his shoulder with an unreadable expression as he was unable to know
what Xanatos' opinion of him was at the moment. *Calm down, Dingo,* he said
to himself. *He allowed you to land, didn't he?* Xanatos' face was also
ambiguous as he told Hugo to take Dingo's bag and put it in the helicopter.
The large, burly, dark-skinned, security guard took the rather heavy duffel
bag and tucked it under his right arm as if it weighed nothing more than a
pillow.
	"Your call reminded me that I forgot to thank you in person,"
Xanatos smiled, shaking Dingo's hand firmly. Dingo smiled as well, any
doubts he had had about Xanatos' opinion of him shattered.
	"Thank me for what?" Dingo asked curiously, although he already knew
the answer.
	"For saving my wife and child," Xanatos replied. "I am in great debt
to you."
	"Don't mention it." Of course, Dingo wanted the wealthy industria-
list to mention it again sometime. It was nice to not be indebted to some-
body for a change, even if that person was the one whom he had held the
most hatred for in his life at one time. Xanatos had always used the Pack as
a group of mercenaries to be used and disposed of when the time was right
and every member resented him for that. Dingo, however, had let go of the
meaningless hatred long ago under the shaman's tutelage in Australia. It was
one of his first lessons: to let go of the needless feelings--jealousy,
hate, anger, ambition--and get to the root emotions--love, passion, joy.
The lesson had worked its inner magic and Dingo had felt more alive in the
last few months than he had been in all his years as a member of the Pack.
What's more, he felt no animosity towards anyone--not Fox, Xanatos, Goliath,
or any of the others. Of course there was always those few that could not be
let go of easily, those the shaman couldn't banish from his anger....
	"So what brings you back to the Big Apple?" Xanatos asked as Hugo
swung the white, metal, sliding door aside for the pair to enter the heli-
copter.
	"A debt to repay," Dingo revealed, stepping into the aircraft's
plush interior. "Bonzer!" he exclaimed upon seeing the lavish furnishings.
Two red velvet-covered bench seats sat opposite each other with seating
enough for ten people to be extravagantly comfortable. Two plastic-enhanced
windows ran the length of the door as well as the opposite wall. There was a
smooth rug covering the floor of the passenger compartment, a lovely blue
color that would not become ugly-looking with the dirt tracked in by
passengers. Not that Xanatos would have to worry about that--he probably had
a whole staff of servants whose job it was to simply make sure that the
helicopter's rug was clean every day.
	"I had the same impression when I first saw it," Xanatos said,
climbing into the helicopter on Dingo's heels. "I had my company develop
the design, both structurally and aesthetically. What do you think?"
	"I've never seen anything like it," Dingo said, awed. Xanatos
chuckled as he and Dingo took seats opposite each other. There were eight
safety belts attached to each bench and the pair buckled themselves directly
across from each other. Hugo secured the sliding passenger door and in a few
moments was opening the hinged door on the left side of pilot's compartment.
Dingo noted that there was a piece of horizontal sliding metal that could be
opened and shut automatically when anyone from the passenger section wanted
to see the situation up front, but other than that only connection to the
pilot was the loudspeaker located on the ceiling in the center of the
seating area. 
	"Where to, Mr. Xanatos?" Hugo's rich voice boomed over the intercom
as the rotors started up, chopping at the warm wind and swirling
miscellaneous papers and trash around the airstrip.
	"Home, Hugo," Xanatos said, pushing a red-colored button above him
that opened communication between the passengers' compartment and the
pilot's. He took off his glasses and folded and placed them in a small
storage compartment in his arm rest.
	"Very well, Mr. Xanatos," came the reply as the helicopter began to
lift off the ground. Before asking a question that had been nagging at the
back of his mind, Xanatos studied Dingo, who was staring out the expan-
sive windows at the diminishing airport below.
	"You should have just called me and asked to land at the Eyrie. We
could have easily accommodated you and your aircraft."
	"I need my gear at the airport," Dingo replied absently, still
staring out the windows. "Besides," he said, turning to face Xanatos, "I'd
like to keep my presence in New York low profile." Xanatos arched an
inquiring eyebrow at Dingo's request. "I mean, I kind've want to have the
whole thing cleaned up before Goliath notices."
	"Of course," Xanatos said, puzzled at Dingo's strange behavior. *Why
would he want Goliath not to know about him being here?* Xanatos wondered
over and over again as he turned to watch the clouds roll lazily by in the
bleeding afternoon sky. He decided to probe further into the matter.
	"So you owe this debt of yours to Goliath?"
	"Yeah."
	"Why?"
	"Huh?" Dingo asked, starting from his day dreams. "Oh, right. Well,
I owe Goliath and all the others for saving my life during that whole Matrix
thing. Got me out of quite a few jams." Xanatos didn't recall Fox saying
that Dingo owed the gargoyles anything after their encounter in Australia
last year. In fact from what he had been told of the fight against the
computer intelligence the Matrix it had been equal on both parties' parts
on saving each others' lives. "I figured," Dingo continued, "that I could
clear up this whole, uh...what are they calling themselves? Quarrymen.
I figured that I could clear this whole thing up with them and have a debt
paid in full."
	"But the Quarrymen have been disbanded," Xanatos remarked.
	"I heard there are still some more around," Dingo shrugged.
	"Yes, I suppose you are right. Forgive me--we can use all the help
we can get." Both men smiled but there was still suspicion readable in
Xanatos' face. He wasn't sure Dingo was being entirely truthful about the
Quarrymen being partially dealt with. "I had to pay a debt to them in much
the same way," Xanatos continued after a while, relating the story of the
Hunter's destroying the clocktower, the gargoyles needing a home, and his
providing of their ancient castle as a refuge. Dingo snorted in amazement.
	"So they're staying with you? Do they trust you yet?"
	"Not completely," Xanatos answered with words that were half lost in
thought. *He's not here entirely for Goliath's benefit,* Xanatos reasoned.
*Who else could it be, though?*

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

8:12 p.m.

	"Sir?"
	"Yes, Hugo." Xanatos had been discussing with Dingo how much life in
Manhattan had changed during the latter's absence over the last year as Hugo
interrupted them. Relating the events of Alexander being born all the way
through the Illuminati's capture and subsequent torture of the gargoyles,
Xanatos had laughed more than a few times at the sometimes extremely odd
situations the Manhattan clan and himself had found themselves in: fighting
purple-skinned fey lords, battling strangely-pigmented clones, butlers
transforming into tricksters--it all seemed straight out of some cheap
science fiction novel. It became all too real for Dingo, though, at the
mention of the recent capture of Jackal and Hyena at a Hollywood. The former
Pack member had frowned when Xanatos had detailed the event, asking for
specific details of the condition in which the criminals had been left.
Xanatos heard Dingo mutter under his breath, "Knew it," when he had heard
that the Pack members had been left for the police unconscious, but not res-
trained as they usually were. Having no idea what Dingo meant, Xanatos
simp