Mayhem Inc. #2:
                          "Foundations, Part 3"

LA SENA PLAZA, SANTA FE, NEW MEXICO

   The leader of the band of deadly assassins grinned menacingly behind 
his mask.  His fell masters had ordered him to eliminate this...deejay, 
and he was only to glad to oblige them.
   Silently, he flickered his fingers, signaling one of his troop.  The 
midnight-clad warrior nodded, and slinked off into the shadows of the 
plaza.  One by one, each combatant was given his duties, and sent to 
perform them.   
   There was one last acolyte to be dealt with.  Breathing deeply, the 
leader signaled the smallest of his band to take up a guard position on 
a nearby rooftop.  The disciple responded with confusing signals of his 
own.  The leader repeated the order.  The disciple responded with a 
dazzling array of maneuvers that were part salute, part catcher signal, 
and part seizure.  
   "If you weren't Sensei's nephew..." he thought to himself.  Ah well, 
the rooftop would have to remain unguarded.  It's not like there was any 
danger up there.
   Up on that particular rooftop, Howard Frazetta smiled behind his 
shining faceplate.  From his vantage point, he watched the enemy forces 
move into position, and was carefully calculating the best location to 
make his entrance.  In the back of his mind, the thought occurred that a 
good entrance was important for some reason...
   He shook his head.  No time for distractions now, he decided.  The 
time was right, the place was here, the gestalt was...NOW!
   An eerie keening, like a great bird of prey, interrupted the semi-
decrepit radio personality in mid-ramble.  From the all-concealing 
shadows, the Ninjas of Doom looked up to see a dark, red winged figure 
glide across the square, landing squarely within their attack pattern.
   "Do not be afraid!" the newcomer thundered.  "This location is under 
attack by dark minions of evil, but you are under the protection 
of...um.."
   Behind them, his protectee whispered to the man beside him, "This is 
just...not happening."
   Howard remembered the codename he'd been assigned: "The protection of 
BloodWing!"  He sent a silent command to his cape's onboard CPU, causing 
it to smoothly wrap itself about his torso, concealing the weapons 
strapped to his chest and waist.
   BloodWing waited.  And waited. And waited...
   "Well?" he boomed, with just a touch of feedback, "I don't have all 
day..."
   At this, the ninjas attacked.   The leader took the point, leaping 
from behind an antenna van, and swinging his short blade in a blow which 
fell like the end of an empire, crashing on the helm of his adversary.
   Modern technology met ancient mysticism, and the result was 
apparently a draw.  The sword's blade managed to crack the enhanced AlON 
coating over the faceplate, disrupting the electronics within.  On the 
other hand, it also got stuck.
   The two warriors stood, mask to mask, as the ninjas circled about 
them, warily watching for an opening.  BloodWing flared his cape 
suddenly, and with great gusto, punted his opponent squarely in the 
stomach [or maybe, just maybe, a little lower.  Depends on which cover 
you bought].
   In either case, the leader let go of his weapon, and curled into a 
small ball.  BloodWing ripped his now-useless helmet off, and looked out 
upon his attackers with a face marred only by a slight cut to his 
forehead, which bled heavily, but did little more than obscure his 
vision. [Scalp cuts are like that]
   Trusting his artificially enhanced systems to take care of the minor 
inconvenience of his wound, BloodWing pivoted on his left foot, catching 
a surprised assassin in the side of the head.  Growling with adrenaline, 
he leaped at another, driving him backwards to the ground, and giving 
the red-caped one room to maneuver.
   As his cape swirled dramatically [following a preset program] 
BloodWing drew his staff, charging it's cells as it extended to it's 
full length.  He swung the simmering baton in a wide arc, forcing the 
ninjas to backflip to defensive positions.  As before, he felt new 
instincts take command, and he moved in for the kill.
   Several ninjas fell in the next few moments, some due to the electric 
discharges, some due to having a large metal pole bashed over their 
heads.  In any case, they fell like dominoes, one after another.
   Finally, only two were left, the original attacker, who'd recovered 
his wind, and his sword, and a smaller hired killer, who seemed to be 
twitching slightly.  BloodWing's eyes narrowed, perceiving meaning in 
those twitches.  Whatever the pair was going to do, it would happen 
soon.
   Unfortunately, it happened sooner than that.  The smaller, more 
frenetic assailant cartwheeled between his target and his apparent 
superior, releasing a handful of metallic pinwheels, which whistled 
through the air, stitching a line across BloodWing's chest, damaging not 
only his cape [which now rippled uncontrollably, pinned to a brick wall] 
but also his staff, and his inferior vena cava.
   The last, which would be mortal wounds to many, was not a problem.  
Unfortunately, the damage to his cape had destroyed his mobility, and 
his staff, which he'd carried more or less as a trophy, was now utterly 
useless.
   Howling in frustration, he tore free of the clinging mantle, charging 
at his most recent attacker.  Had he not been so generally pissed 
[angry, to our British brethren and sistren], he might have remembered 
that he had *two* assailants, one of whom was rapidly tumbling into the 
shadows, while the other buried his sword up to the hilt in BloodWing's 
stomach, and twisted it back and forth.
   Frustration turned to pain.  Lots of pain.  We aren't talking paper 
cut here.  Howard shuddered in agony, as the leader, noting the absence 
of his designated target, spoke, for the first time, into a small 
walkie-talkie he'd extracted for his sash.
   "Twilight to base." he hissed. "Mission failed, prepare for 
extraction."
   He walked over to the moaning hero, bent over, recovered his blade, 
and after conscientiously cleaning the blade, replaced it in its 
scabbard.  He walked to the center of the plaza, and paused.
   Walking back to BloodWing [now bloody for real] he kicked him in the 
ribs a few times.  Not for any particular revenge or anything...he just 
felt like it.  While BloodWing watched in ever increasing agony, the 
dark-clad legions moved into the plaza, some carrying fallen comrades.
   A whirring from above made those that could look up expectantly, as a 
shining beam of bright light pierced the early morning gloom, sweeping 
the plaza, pausing momentarily on the hunched BloodWing before settling 
on the ninjas.
   The bright light dazzled our hero, and behind the thudding of his 
pulse, something awoke.  Howard shook his head as reality swam.  For 
just a moment, he thought he was in a castle...no it must be shock.
   Wait, why was he wearing armor?  He shook his head, nearly fainting 
at the pain.  He had to get somewhere safe, somewhere he could let his 
body heal.  The Gate was out..his only radio was in the now shattered 
helmet.  His eyes fell on the bank of phones the DJ had been using....
   With gargantuan effort, he pulled himself to the table, and as 
reality danced around him, dialed the first number he could think of...
   The line connected, "Sacre merde...who is dis!" a clearly Cajun voice 
responded.
   "Gotta talk to CJ.." Howard said weakly.
   "This be he..who are you?"
   "How-annen, I mean Howard.  I'm in La Sena Plaza, need help."
   "Be right there, mon ami. CJ come pick you up."
   "Good..." Howard slumped to the floor.  There he lay, motionless, not 
even twitching when the gaudily-painted van arrived.

SOMEWHERE IN SANTA FE, THREE HOURS LATER. 

   Chretien St. Jacques, aka [for reasons both obvious and subtle] CJ, 
sat and watched as a medical miracle was performed before his very eyes.  
Acting on impulse, he'd gone out to help the person he'd known only as 
Howard, only to find a blood-stained [apparent] superguy unconscious 
amidst a sea of turmoil.  With the aid of his nearly omnipresent 
waldoes, he'd managed to contain his net.friend during a series of 
violent convulsions, both in the van, and here at home.
   But what took him aback was the speed at which Howard was healing.  
Bones reknit, arteries reconnected, and skin flowed like syrup, sealing 
up the wound, until all that was left was a lot of dirty sheets.  
   There was major blood loss, however, and it wasn't entirely clear 
where the raw materials for the regeneration had originated from.  There 
was definitely more to this than he'd suspected.
   Howard stirred once more, and CJ tapped out a macro to his waldoes, 
preparing to contain the fit.  But this time, Howard's eyes opened wide.
   "Namosi oviq! Uthvas bethud!" Howard roared, knocking the robotic 
arms free.   Startled, CJ rolled back, fingers typing furiously.
   Howard blinked, "CJ?  Is that yo- Lathrac si mutando!"
   He stood, eyes blazing. "Hya sep Dokannen!"
   Then he dropped to his knees, "NO!!!  I am Howard Frazetta!  CJ! Help 
me!"
   His wheelchair-bound companion rolled closer, eyes cautious.
   Howard growled, doing an amazingly accurate impersonation of a very 
large lion.  Head twitching, he crouched, scanning the room around him.
   This was not where he was supposed to be, Dokannen decided.  Last he 
knew, he'd been surrounded by armed men, but now he was in a bedchamber, 
perhaps the black-skinned sorceror's.  Sorceror he must be, since he had 
a throne that moved, and those living arms...
   "There called waldoes..." a voice whispered in his head.   Dokannen 
turned to locate the speaker, startling CJ even more.  But the voice 
continued:
   "I am Howard Frazetta.  Somehow, we both share this body...you must 
tell me how."
   Dokannen's mind whirled in confusion, shards of memory tumbling into 
view.  The other presence grew in intensity, as tthe truth dawned.
   "I do not..exist..." the presence murmured, fuzzing out slightly.
   Now, Dokannen found he could think more clearly.  "You were created 
so they could use my body...but they did not count on my having an 
intellect."
   Dok paused his internal dialogue.  He  was speaking...English?
   "Your memories and mine are merging." the fading Howard-mind said.  
"Soon, I will be gone, but what knowledge I was given will remain 
yours...use it well, my brother...."
   The presence was gone, but in it's place came a wash of information.  
Dokannen absorbed it all, as his ego took it's place again, this time 
without discord.
   "I am Dokannen the Savage, stripped from my own world." he said, 
knoledge glowing behind his eyes.  "And I need your help...CJ."
   "CJ not sure he knows what be happening, but if you promise not to 
break the place up, CJ will help."
   Dok smiled at his crewcut acquaintance.  "I think I can oblige you."

HEAVEN'S GATE, SANGRE DE CRISTO MOUNTAINS, ONE EXPOSITION LATER.

   The Three, Grand Council of the organization known as Cerebos, were 
having a bad day.  Oh it had started out well enough, what with the 
plans they'd laid down for months coming to fruition.  They'd found a 
subject, brainwashed him into submission, and sent him out to do good 
deeds, all in preparation for the day when he'd be called to defend the 
nation.  In other words, a perfect day.  
     Then everything went to Hell[tm].  In his first outing, BloodWing 
had gone off-line during the opening blows, and when help had finally 
arrived, they'd found most of his nifty tech strewn across the 
battlefield.  Even the cape, over which one of the Three was almost 
weeping.  And BloodWing himself had vanished. Even now, the Elite were 
out looking for him.  And now, the compound was under attack, by person 
or persons unknown. 
   Screams of rage echoed outside their hidden chamber.  It was time to 
make a dramatic exit.  Hell[tm], it was time to make *any* exit. 
   Three feet of solid orichalc thrust through the metal door, sliced 
down to the floor, and quickly withdrew, leaving a jagged slash in it's 
wake. This was followed by two massive hands, which peeld it open like a 
can of sardines, revealing the panther-like form of:  
   "Dokannen the Savage, at your service, gentlemen." Dok announced, 
stepping into the light.  For all their power, the Three didn't look 
like much.  Too be honest, they looked like overgrown comic-book fans.  
It hadn't taken long for CJ to dig up blueprints for the compound, from 
a real-estate agency's computer.  He'd climed the mountain behind the 
base, slid down a ventilation shaft, and after a short side trip to 
reacquire his sword, made his way here.
   "By the Sun and Moon. I should *punish* you..." Dok growled, causing 
at least one of the three to lose control of his bladder.  "However, I 
know why you did it, so I'll let you live."
   The relief was almost palpable.
   "But..." they tensed again, "I will not serve you.  In fact, I will 
not even use the names you gave me.  I am not Howard Frazetta, though 
his knowledge is mine.  I am certainly not BloodWing, who was incredibly 
badly designed...I am Dokannen...deal with it?"
   Showing more backbone than I'd given him credit for, one of the Three 
spoke up, "We *made* you!  The least you could do is let us contact you.  
The time may come when the power we gave you will be needed!"
   "I'll think about it.  I believe the proper term is: `Don't call us, 
we'll call you.'"  With that, he stepped back out the door, and out of 
the hands of the Three, forever.
   "At least we still have this kewl cape." one of the trio mused.  The 
others threw food at him until he shut up.  They'd played their cards, 
hoping to create a new champion.  They had him, and lost him. Life does 
that, sometimes.

SABLE TOWERS, ALBUQUERQUE

   The realtor showed his newest client the penthouse office suite, 
pointing out the tremendously expansive, not to mention expensive, view 
of the city, the black stone desk, the secret stairway to the rooms on 
the floor below, and the built-in laser security grid.  Everything an 
up-and-coming businessman would want.
   "Do you approve, sir?"
   "Yes..this will do nicely," the client murmured.
   Unfortunately, a hacker had accidently crashed the computers, forcing 
the realtor to ask the following silly question.
   "I'm afraid I have to ask for your name again, sir.  And your 
business, so we can file the zoning permits."
   "My business..." the buyer smiled thinly, "is acquisitions.  As for 
my name, you can call me Garth...Modred Garth."

Next ish: "Connections" begins.