Industrial Strength Magic

Chapter 226: Conversations with a dead guy

Chapter 226: Conversations with a dead guy

****Abrams****

“Have a drink, Professor Kline,” Abrams said, motioning to a glass with two fingers of scotch.

“I’d rather not.” The woman said, turning her hawknose up at the offer. Academics. Abrams was half pissed, half enjoying the thrill of conflict. He didn’t get much of that these days. It was a challenge he could only get outside the military, after all.

“I’ll drink it then,” Abrams said, taking the shot and relishing the burn as it descended to his stomach.

“Why am I here?” Professor Kline asked, her expression flat, tone insubordinate. “Your goons hauled me out of a rather involved study session.”

“It was a bunch of eggheads staring at some bones.” Abrams said dismissively.

“We were-“ Professor Kline took a deep breath and seemingly calmed herself, much to Abram’s delight.

“Why am I here?” she asked.

“Where’s your husband?”

“He’s at his father’s hometown.” Professor Kline said, shifting in her seat uncomfortably. “We’re seperated.”

Abrams hummed and poured himself another shot.

“Professor Kline, can I ask you a hypothetical?”

“I assume it’s an important one, given how valuable your time is,” The professor snipped, crossing her arms.

“If you could kill Hitler as a baby, would you?” Abrams asked.

“If this is about Bill-“

“Just.” Abrams held up a hand. “Humor me.”

Professor Kline looked at him and heaved a sigh.

“That’s a stupid question.”

“Stupid because you would?” Abrams asked, cocking a brow.

“Stupid because Hitler’s rise to power was a symptom of the deep discontent of the German people over the devastating sanctions imposed on them as a result of the first world war. If Hitler didn’t exist, another charismatic autocrat could have filled the vacuum and seized the opportunity. Possibly even one who was smarter than Hitler. Less likely to lose.”

“Hmm…”Abrams swirled the scotch before tossing it back. “Goddamn academics.”

“Too used to talking to brainwashed eighteen-year-olds?” Professor Kline asked with a hint of a smirk.

“Yes. But watch your tone.” Abrams said, waggling a finger.

“Of course, General.” Professor Kline said, nodding in acquiescence.

“Let me rephrase my hypothetical,” Abrams said.

“Go ahead.”

“If you knew a child was going to grow up to be one of that…Kessler kid’s ‘serial killers’, would you kill ‘em?”

“’Serial Killer’ is actually a direct translation of the German phrase Serienmörder, coined by Ernst Genna-“

BAM!

It was Abrams turn to lose his cool. He slammed his palm down on the desk, causing the stationary to hop in place and the crystal decanter full of scotch to rattle in place.

Professor Kline paled, freezing in place.

“Could you. Please. Stop trying to prove you’re smarter and engage with the topic of conversation?”

“It’s a run around to Billy.” Kline said, seemingly swallowing her fear. “I know you want to kill him. It doesn’t matter what you say to me. He’s not a nascent serial killer. No matter how much you’d like him to be.”

“I notice you’re not wearing those thick shades I normally see you in,” Abrams said as he settled back down into his chair, reaching into his desk. “George not dishing it out like he used to?”

Professor Kline’s eyes narrowed.

“We’re seperated.”

“Mhmm, back to his hometown, you said?” Abrams asked, pulling out a manilla folder.

The woman’s expression flickered rapidly, her nimble mind making connections at an impressive rate.

“…He’s dead, isn’t he?”

“You’re a smart one, alright,” Abrams said, sliding the folder across his desk.

Professor Kline’s hand trembled above the folder, hesitating to open it. The woman was smart enough to strongly suspect what was inside it.

“Want that scotch now?” Abrams asked, pulling out another glass.

The Professor nodded, knocking back two fingers of scotch and groaning in pain before opening the folder.

Inside was a picture of George’s bloated corpse, halfway out of a barrel, covered in lacerations.

Professor Kline’s breath hitched, frozen in place.

“The last time he - he hit me…He drove off to the bar. He called me in the middle of the night and said he didn’t deserve me anymore, and that he was going back to his hometown.”

“Out of character for him?” Abrams asked, pouring them both another shot.

“Yes,” Professor Kline said, her voice cracking. “I just- I just…really wanted to believe it.”

“You know, if he was just defending his mother, if he’d plugged the bastard out in broad daylight the moment he hit you…I might have to give the little bastard a medal.” Abrams said, leaning forward in his chair and studying the image. He’d seen worse in World War Two. But not by much.

“But this is different.” Abrams said. “Look at the wrists. The coroner tells me the rope marks on his arms indicate George was alive for at least a month. The marks on the sides of the barrel indicate he was taken out and shoved back into the barrel multiple times specifically to cause maximum fear. Your little Billy premeditated this act, and deliberately inflicted as much suffering as a human can endure. It wasn’t a crime of passion. He enjoyed it.”

The professor began to look queasy.

Abrams had seen the look enough times to have his trash bin ready, shoving it underneath the woman with his foot as she turned around and puked into the corner of his office.

“How do I know?” She gasped, doubled over on the ground, clutching the trash can for dear life. “How do I know it wasn’t you!?”

“That’s a stupid question, Professor.” Abrams said. “If I was willing to kill a U.S. citizen just to get your permission to terminate Subject 84, it would be easier to simply go ahead and have him terminated, and deal with the fallout later.”

“And as it stands, I no longer need your permission.” Abrams said, brandishing the folder.

“So why am I HERE!?” Professor Kline demanded, glaring at him over her shoulder.

“Because you’re his mother. You can help me remove the threat.”

“You want me to-“ The professor dry heaved again. “He’s not bad. Billy is – “ She paused to catch her breath. “He’s good! He helps the other researchers, he- he’ll get better!”

She didn’t look like she believed it. The old bat was too smart to lie to herself, but she was trying her damndest. Women.

“He committed premeditated murder at five years old.” Abrams said. “Only thing he’ll get better at is getting away with it.I thank God that you didn’t read him crime novels when he was younger, or else we would’ve never found the body. He might soak up information like a sponge, but he doesn’t know everything…Yet.”

Abrams softened his tone for the kill.

“Look, Jessica,” He said, squatting down and patting her on the shoulder placatingly. “This is the hardest decision anyone could ever make, but you have to think of the thousands of other people out there who might get on the wrong side of Billy. The interviews we’ve had with the Manitians support the fact that Billy’s species is pretty fucking dangerous, and will only continue to get worse, because they live effectively forever.

“…What do you need from me?” Professor Kline asked, shivering.

“We’ll discuss that, but first, have another drink,” Abrams said, handing the professor another shot.

***Paradox***

“I don’t remember much after that,” the general said, puffing on a cigar and filling the room with acrid smoke. “I’m assuming the op failed.”

“Yeah, probably.” Perry said. “From what I gather, it failed and Professor Kline was killed in the conflict. In revenge, Billy put a curse on you that prevents you from dying and locked you in a gibbet, then you went insane and retreated inside your own mind. Which is where we are now.”

“Ah, shame. I liked Professor Kline. Tough old bird. Reminded me of my mother.” The general said, tapping his cigar against the ashtray. “Should’ve included mooks in the op, I guess.”

“Yeah, probably.” Perry said.

“So, you’ve answered my questions. What do you want?” Abrams asked.

“I want to know what the cargo manifest tag ‘keep away from water’ means.” Perry said.

The general’s eyes narrowed.

“That’s a matter of national security, son.”

“The United States hasn’t existed as a country for over forty years,” Perry replied. “And don’t call me son.”

“Fuck me.”

He gave Perry a weighing look eyes narrowed.

“How do I know you’re not Subject 84, trying to mess with my head?”

“You don’t.” Perry said with a shrug.

“Here’s the deal. I’ll tell you what you’re looking for if you-“

“Fuck off with that.” Perry said, cutting off the general’s machinations. “You’re stuck in a metal cage, unable to do anything but thrash and moan. You have no country, your rank means nothing. All your friends and family are dead, and history has forgotten you exist. The information you have isn’t critical to my survival, nor is it time-sensitive. You have no leverage. You will either tell me what I want to know, and I will consider putting you out of your misery after I kill the dragon, or you do not, and I will forget this conversation, and you, ever happened at all.“

The general gave him a long, weighty stare. “I like you, kid. You’re planning on killing Subject 84?”

“He’s got control of the entire western seaboard, and will eventually become very inconvenient to me in the next hundred years or so. So yes.”

“Inconvenient, you say?” Abrams said, chuckling plumes of smoke. “You sound like that Marigold witch. Sorta look like her too…”

“My grandmother.” Perry said.

“I should’ve known. And the mooks will inherit the Earth. Goddamn.”

“I’m only half Manitian, and Franklin and Washington City on the east coast are both run by natural-born Americans, if that makes you feel any better.”

Perry didn’t mention that Professor Replica was a robot. That might be a bit too much.

“A little bit, yeah.” Abrams muttered, putting out his cigar. “Alright. ‘Keep away from water’ is a top-secret facility hidden in a missile silo under a cornfield in Nebraska, just a few dozen miles northeast of Lincoln city. Does your Post-American ass know where that is?”

“We’ve got maps,” Perry said dryly.

Abrams proceeded to describe where the silo was, down to the street corners it could be found on.

Once he was done, Perry tapped the desk, eyeballing the general. There was more he could get from the tormented spirit.

Perry had picked up Resolution and Inheritance years ago, but strong hauntings, or in this case, Undead with a connection to the real world, didn’t grow on trees. He could, with the right situation, cast resolution and Inheritance on the general and hook him full of readers to determine how the spell siphoned Fate away from the ghost and gave it to himself.

Perry had been wanting to find a piece of haunted iron he could perform this with because it would give him a huge insight into how his System consumed the Fate of people he defeated, hindered, or killed.

It was a bit like a Resolution and Inheritance spell that was constantly active, and didn’t require him to fulfill their last wishes in order to function.

Perry was pretty damn sure he knew what the general’s last wish was, and that was the sticking point:

Killing William Kline, A.K.A. Tyrannus, was going to be a major pain in the ass, and if he failed or took too long, General Abrams would get to ride Perry’s body around like a mechsuit.

It wasn’t worth it.

I’ll use the spell if I’m 100% sure I’ll win.

Besides, he’ll keep.

“Thank you for your assistance,” Perry said with a nod, standing to leave.

“I’ll see you again, hopefully after you put a bullet between that overgrown lizard’s eyes.” The general said, reaching out to shake his hand.

Perry glanced down at the proffered hand and recalled the absolutely lethal level of contagion a single undead had, and how many arbitrary wildcard-like inroads they had toward infecting the living. Willingly shaking their hand seemed like another infection vector.

“Not a chance.” Perry said, glancing back up and nearly shitting his pants.

The general’s lips peeled back as his face mummified, his hair turning white and falling out in the blink of an eye.

Abrams lunged forward with a feral snarl, attempting to climb over his desk and rip Perry’s face off.

Perry kicked the general’s face hard enough to send him tumbling back into the bookshelves, burying the undead in an avalanche of gold-embossed books with fancy leather covers.

Time to go.

Perry didn’t know if the general had been working him into a false sense of security the entire time, aiming for a handshake to infect him with the curse, or if his control had simply snapped at the last second, but it didn’t matter either way.

Perry turned and sprinted for the bridge of dreams as the books exploded outward, the corpse of the general chasing him in a sprint, moving on all fours like a wild animal.

His Body stat must not be doing much work in the dream realm, because the General tackled him around the waist halfway back to his own dream. Here, speed was dictated by raw emotions, and being trapped in his own body for forty years might’ve given Abrams an edge on that front.

The two of them tumbled on the gangplank, nearly falling off as Perry held the undead creature’s gnashing teeth at bay with one hand while punching him with the other, all the while, scratches from the creature’s skeletal fingers accumulated on Perry’s face and body.

“To hell with this,” Perry muttered, glancing up at the bright dream bubble waiting him on the other end of the gangplank. He couldn’t risk bringing the general back with him. That would almost certainly be a Bad Idea ™. The kind of bad idea that turns you into a brain-rotted undead and gets your loved ones eaten in their sleep.

So he took option 3.

Perry levered the thrashing mummy off the side of the gangplank, out into the Abyss, Whooping the entire time as he rode the thrashing mummy into the gulf of nothingness, where their minds would be locked in battle for all of eternity.

“Yar!”

***Paradox***

Perry’s eyes shot open, and he glanced at the clock.

Six AM? He thought, rubbing his eyes.

Paradox’s Probability Dodge for the win, I guess. Perry expected it would be dangerous, but he was surprised he was able to get the information he wanted before the general went full Undead on him.

First thing’s first: Scan myself for any lingering curse

Perry marched off to his lair and got a clean bill of health from the machinery he’d built for the express purpose of detecting bad juju. Afterwards he made pancakes for everyone, then went to work.

Work in this case, was looting a – hopefully undisturbed – treasure trove of old Manitian relics.