Episode 34

Armageddon With A Side of Fries - Part IV

... from the Files of Hydrogen Guy's Apprentice

(Guest Author: Pieceoftheuniverse)

Last Episode: Stuff happened.

Oh, all right. Hydrogen Guy, Deuterium Boy, and Helium Girl were given some extremely dangerous voodoo from a very suspicious character, known (although, admittedly, not at the time) as the infamous Griff Pedros Pedros Dumnoric. This villain, in league with Jean-Marc Trudeau, the Crustacean, and several other misfits of the modern world, dare to poison our heroes as blatantly as any common man might put on a pair of socks!

We know they want to take over the world, but poisoning the Atomic Trio? What nefarious plans could they possibly be conceiving? A better question might be: what are these Elementals going to do about it?

Hydrogen Guy:
[groan] I think I'm going to be sick.

Deuterium Boy:
[moan] We overdid it. That last nan ... too much ...

Helium Girl pushes past both of them, half-running, half-limping as she attempts to hold her food within. She rushes to the bathroom, closes and locks the door, and various sounds emerge to witness that she is far from successful.

The troop has made it back to the Hydrogen Cave, physically in one piece but broken in ways that have yet to meet the eye. Nerve endings a-tingle, Hydrogen Guy manages to find an area to collapse -- the floor looks nice. Deuterium Boy trips over the prone body and hits the ground head-first. A single drop of spittle emerges from his lips.

From behind them, the Reaper steps solemnly from the door into the cave, using his scythe as a walking stick. He probes the two forms needlessly with the wooden end, and, when they don't move, makes his way to restroom. He opens it effortlessly, and there is the sound of running water, shuffling; he soon emerges with Helium Girl in tow, also unconscious and dripping slightly. He lays out our heroes side-by-side, arms folded, at peace. He makes a cryptic sign over their bodies, and tricks out the scythe.

Reaper:
[sorrowful silence]

He thrusts down, thrice.

The Maple Ridge Outlet Mall, a new addition funded by anonymous sources, is comprised of a wide selection of both retail markets at supposedly slashed prices and the occasional eatery with inflated values. The latter Desdemona and Lonnie passed by with barely a look. They are here after armaments.

Not that they could just walk into a store like "Guns 'R' Us" and expect service without any questions, so they passed by that locale well. No, they are here for something a little more specialized with a touch of animosity. Oh yes, and big guns.

So, naturally, the walk into Victoria's Secret. A clerk sees them and makes a beeline -- if, say, the bee is drunk out of its skull.

Clerk:
May I help you?

Desdemona:
I would like to see Victoria's Secret, please.

Clerk:
One moment; I'll get my manager.

After what must have counted as one moment in some alternate reality, but was clearly closer to fifteen minutes in this one, a slightly dressier woman steps up to the pair. She looks at the two as if they didn't deserve to be on the planet, much less her store.

Manager:
My associate tells me you wish to see the Secret?

Desdemona:
Yes. I'm in the mood for something revealing.

Translation: "Let me in, or I expose your store for what it is."

Manager:
Our winter selection might be more towards your tastes.

"Don't get upset; we'll show you what you need."

Desdemona:
That will work nicely.

"I apologize; I'm stressed. Please lead the way."

The manager turns and leads them to one of the changing rooms.

Manager:
I hope you will find everything to your liking.

Desdemona:
Thank you. [to Lonnie] In.

Before he could protest, the manager shoves them both gently inside and closes the door. Desdemona locks it, then begins pawing the mirror.

Lonnie:
I don't like it here.

Desdemona:
If you're worried about the cops, forget it. This place has been operating for years without their interference.

Lonnie:
It's not the cops.

Desdemona:
The Crustacean probably shops here, yes, but he's probably far too occupied with his own problems to worry about you.

Lonnie:
It's not the Crustacean.

Desdemona:
Then what is it?

Lonnie:
The decor. I can't stand pink.

Desdemona sighs, and reaches behind the mirror. There is a tinny click, and the mirror rotates to reveal a dark passageway.

Desdemona:
In we go.

They step through and travel for what seems like a long while before they finally begin to see light. When they at last emerge, they are greeted by a sign: Welcome to the Secret of Victoria. Numerous bullet holes litter the sign.

Lonnie:
Ah. This place smells like home.

Actually, it smells a lot like gunpowder, but Desdemona hopes he's being sarcastic. She moves over to an aisle marked as "Heavy Artillery," but steps out to let a small tank push through.

Desdemona:
That's the trouble with these retail outlets. Just because they've marked down the price a whole half a percent people think they have a right to make a mess of the place to show their thanks.

Lonnie:
What specifically are you looking for?

Desdemona:
Particle weapons, maybe. Or a decent hand-held mining laser might come in handy.

Lonnie:
What about the restored military surplus?

Desdemona:
No, too conventional. There's no telling what we're going to be up against, so we need something unique.

Lonnie:
Unique? At a retail franchise?

Desdemona:
Just grab a cart.

Lonnie goes back to the entrance and takes one of the armoured shopping carts beside the door. A smallish sign reads: "Return the carts or die."

Lonnie:
Pleasant place.

Desdemona:
You should see the return policy.

Lonnie:
Oooh! Ten percent off plasma cartridges if you buy three grenade launchers!

Desdemona:
Drat. That means the "Buy one pistol, get two grenades half off" sale is over.

Lonnie:
Oh, they run that one every year about the same time. You just have to pay attention to the ads before you head out with your checkbook.

Desdemona:
In case you haven't noticed, we haven't had much time to look at television lately.

Lonnie:
Natch.

Desdemona:
Come on, see if you can get this shopping cart to go left so we can check out the kevlar.

Lonnie:
I think the treads are stuck.

Desdemona:
In that case, we'll have to make a complete circle through the Stainless Steel and Swords Aisle, then right through Ammunition. Cover me.

There is a sense of joy and of cheer in the Lair of Abaddon. The circular room has an almost festive appeal to it as the Tonarzi laser drill is being moved into place by none other than Battle Armour Bob, resplendent in his gleaming machination and spotted bow tie. He is, naturally, singing.

Battle Armour Bob:
Here we are again, happy as can be;
All good friends...

Crustacean:
Will someone please remove that humanoid's vocal cords?

Well, maybe not everyone is in a joyful mood. Along with the Crustacean's usual foul self, the Black Rose is merely sitting back and watching the others do what most might term as "the grunt work." He sips a goblet of wine, takes a pinch of powder from a pouch at his side, and adds it to his goblet. He takes another sip and motions towards the others as he speaks to the shadowed man beside him.

Trudeau:
Why aren't you participating in the festivities? Everything is in place; I would think you would be happy that things are actually going according to plan.

Dumnoric:
For once.

Trudeau:
You, my friend, are far too pessimistic. Have a glass of wine; it'll loosen you up. No? Come now! The philosophers wort has had the desired effect; at least, Hydrogen Guy and company have not been seen for days. Too ashamed that they are naught more than mere mortals, no doubt..

Dumnoric:
You're so sure that your powder has had the appropriate effect?

Trudeau:
There have been none of the usual patrols of the city, and they've not been seen in any of the coffee houses for some time. A few of my least loyal minions have been pillaging and generally taking advantage of Maple Ridge and the surrounding cities with little to no resistance -- excluding conventional police work, of course. No, I think they will be far too weak to protest when we make our way into the Cave.

Dumnoric:
Or taking away several of their relics.

Trudeau:
I'm especially interested in the De Broglie boards I've heard so much about.

Dumnoric:
And, of course, the Ruler of Elendil.

Trudeau:
Of course.

Silence falls between them, and they look upon their partners in evil as a few of the final preparations are put into place. Pu Wing Fu lifts a portable plasma relay and sets it rather heavily into what one would hope would be the appropriate notch.

Crustacean
Careful with that! I'm not going to spend the last million in our account on replacement parts!

Pu Wing Fu:
But -

Crustacean:
Not another word!

Battle Armour Bob:
Tra-la-la-la-LA!

Crustacean:
You too!

Battle Armour Bob's weapons bristle ever so slightly, and he stares the Crustacean eye-to-eyestalk, grinning as only a man in a mechanical suit can.

Battle Armour Bob:
La.

There is an incredibly long pause. Time decides it doesn't like the company and leaves for a bit. Somewhere, a single drop of liquid tests out the theory of gravity.

Battle Armour Bob:
La.

Time decides it might be wise to take all that vacation it's been saving up, and begins planning a trip to the Alps. Or Bermuda. Anywhere.

But before time manages to call up its travel agent and finalize anything, Trudeau steps between the two, all smiles.

Trudeau:
Now, fellows, what kind of attitude is this, eh? We're partners! Buddies! We're here for a special cause, a reason that binds us together -- that has bound us together for a long time now, though it may have taken us a while to realize it. We're here to snuff Hydrogen Guy out like a match! Now isn't that worth a little peace and goodwill, for the general purpose of the complete annihilation of a being's life?

Battle Armour Bob:
Well ... when you put it like that ...

Crustacean:
Perhaps I was a little hasty ...

If the Black Rose were to smile any more, his face would likely tear the fabric of space itself. Luckily, he seems content to leave it as is.

Trudeau:
Wonderful! Just wonderful!

Battle Armour Bob:
[aside] Two-bit invertebrate.

Crustacean:
[aside] Half-wit warm-blood.

Pu Wing Fu:
Oooo! Power cables!

The Crustacean spins around suddenly.

Crustacean:
No! Bad panda!

Hydrogen Guy begins to wake up, and instantly wishes that he hadn't bothered. It isn't so much that he is in pain -- oh boy, is he ever -- but that he can't remember actually laying down somewhere, which bothers him. He always makes it a point not to drink so much that he resembles a college frat party, and yet here he is, clearly waking up from what could probably only be described as the end-all be-all inebriation experience of his life. And, typically, he can't remember a thing about it.

He sits up slowly, waiting for that brain-as-an-egg-yolk feeling he knows is coming. When nothing slams into his forehead like a rogue jackhammer, he flexes his creaking bones and decided he might not be as old as he thought he was. And then he opens his eyes.

He shuts them quickly, but the damage has been done.

This was somewhat worse than waking up after some serious drinking. In fact, taking this one experience into consideration, he would not be surprised if not a single drop of alcohol ever passed his lips again -- in either direction. The human mind, he thinks, was not meant to comprehend all that he had just seen. Just to be sure, and probably because he is a scientist at heart, he opens his eyes once more.

It hurts a little less this time, probably because he had taken a moment to prepare himself for it. What he sees is this:

Imagine, if you will, a box. A plain, ordinary box -- say, made of cardboard -- that has decided, for no particular reason, to go traveling. In its travels it gets run over, beat up, tossed about, used as a home for several varieties of transients, and eventually finds its way into a multiplicity it has never known before, thus dividing it and spreading its paper-likeness all over the cosmos.

That has nothing to do with what he sees.

Imagine, also, a car that has the ability to fly upside-down and through walls. Imagine a piano that only plays "Mary Had A Little Lamb" in G-minor, inserting "La Bamba" wherever it feels appropriate. Imagine the piano as the engine of the car traveling through an endless cardboard box constructed by M.C. Escher traveling the world, and you will get a rough idea of what Hydrogen Guy sees.

Imagination, they say, is no substitute for the real thing.

Hydrogen Guy has no need for imagination at present. He is in a world, a multiplicity, a dimension, a something that doesn't make sense to him at all. Attempts to define an "up" and a "down" are mocked, reasonable arguments defining where the floor is or even what he is sitting on are cajoled. Every piece of empirical evidence he might be able to glean from one surface is countered by the next. Colours mingle and dance to the tune of the car as it drives through nothing in particular and crashes into a spare walrus that a sun had been attempting to stack between three other pillars. A brain floats nearby, but it vaporizes when Hydrogen Guy breathes the wrong way.

Breathing! What was he breathing?!

N:
Hydrogen Guy! What are you doing here?

All worries about his respiratory system vanish as he turns to look towards the source of the voice.

Hydrogen Guy:
N! Are you responsible for me being here?

N bows, which is quite annoying, seeing as how there's no frame of reference for him to bow to.

N:
On the contrary, HG. Perhaps we would be more comfortable in my office?

The office is, compared to the mess outside, actually normal. Faux wood panels line the walls, the floors are stone, and a picture window looks out onto what is, for all intents and purposes, a field. It is a far cry from the ... well, it's normal. Enough said.

But Hydrogen Guy has been through worse ... well, actually, since he doesn't know exactly what he is going through now, it is a bit difficult to determine whether or not he has taken rougher tumbles than this. Which, thankfully, is what N was here for -- he hopes.

Hydrogen Guy:
Where am I, N?

N:
It might be more accurate to say where you aren't. You are not anywhere near your home planet in any way that you might perceive it; in fact, you could be said to be in a sort of pocket universe, just to left-angle of reality a touch off to the side.

N:
Now I get one.

Hydrogen Guy:
Fair enough.

N:
How did you get here?

Hydrogen Guy:
That's the puzzler. Last thing I knew I was enjoying a nice meal free of charge, the next I've visiting the dreams of Dali. What is this place? And no incoherent babble about alternate realities.

N:
You're hardly in a place to make demands. I was merely taking a stroll through my front yard when I found you cowering at the sight of the solkawaque. By all rights, you are mine. It is only because I know you that I don't bind you to one of my jarred dimensions to serve me as I wont.

Hydrogen Guy:
Which I'm assuming you're very tempted to do?

N:
Yes. But I don't care for my servants to be pre-seasoned.

Hydrogen Guy:
I beg your pardon?

N:
You absolutely stink of philosopher's wort. Don't you know what that kind of thing can do to a mortal digestive tract?

He allowed himself to shudder slightly.

N:
Not at all pretty.

Hydrogen Guy:
I'm not scared that easily, N. If you happen to be passing through my home sector of space anytime soon, I would appreciate a lift.

N:
I'm afraid I can't do that, HG. I was going to head on over to pick you up, but it appears someone has saved me the trouble. Pity you can't remember who it was -- I was offering a fairly large bounty for your head.

Hydrogen Guy:
You want me? Why?

N:
I am employed by individuals with high standing in our galactic sector that have a keen interest in Elementals like yourself. It's time for a new order of things, HG.

Hydrogen Guy:
New order? Since when have we had so much as an Old order?

N:
Small-minded jokes for a small-minded world, HG. Ta-ta.

With a flick of a forefinger, Hydrogen Guy disappears. With him goes the office facade, and N gradually begins to revert to his natural form.

N:
N to Z. Oh Z, my dear uncle..

A wizened being appears before N, a man who has lived far too much, seen a bit more than he should, and maybe has decided he doesn't want to see anymore. Or it could just be that he's ticked off that N has bothered him.

Z:
Yes, Noffras. What is it?

N:
I have two of three secure in the temporal chamber.

Z:
And the third?

N's face contorts.

N:
I don't know! I can't sense them at all! If you had told me they were going to use philosopher's wort--

Z:
Enough!

N quiets down, and his physical self begins to shimmer ever so gently.

Z:
We will find Helium Girl soon enough. She must still be in the Cave. She will be extracted shortly.

Meanwhile -- if that word means anything anymore -- the Hydrogen Cave is eerily silent. It's almost too quiet.

At least, that's what Desdemona thinks as she steps out of the elevator. She motions with her hand, and Lonnie steps out, gun shaking slightly as he aims it at every shadow. He attempts to do a tuck and roll -- and falls flat on his face.

Lonnie:
Okay, you were right. I'm glad you didn't give me a real gun...

Desdemona shushes him, not for the first time, and begins doing a thorough check of the Cave for any signs of life.

Lonnie
Hey Zeus... this really is the Hydrogen Cave, isn't it? How did you know where to find it?

Desdemona
I had inside information... Deuterium Boy told me ages ago, in case I ever wanted to pay him a visit. Of course, that's before he knew I was CIA... and before I knew... are you going to keep quiet or not?

Lonnie
Right, right. It wasn't too hard to get in; trick doors and hidden levers are no match for spook training, and it had only taken a full minute and a half to identify no less than thirty of such in the same room. She would have to talk to Deuterium Boy about that...

...Assuming she could find him, that is.

So far all avenues had been exhausted. The coffee shops hadn't seen hide nor hair of them, and crime was beginning to take a small experimental upswing. If Hydrogen Guy didn't get back and fast, things were definitely going to take a turn for the wo--

The ground erupts beneath their feet, and her train of thought is completely derailed as both are flung aloft along with several tons of stone.

Had they been awake, however, they would have heard the exulted:

Battle Armour Bob:
Whooo-e! No one builds quite like the Tonarzi, do they?

Crustacean:
Indeed,

He ascends the mound of rubble.

Crustacean:
I shall have to set about making some contacts with their sales associates. I don't suppose you have what passes for a business card?

The Black Rose, fitter than he has felt in years, is right behind him.

Trudeau:
I'm afraid they don't quite work like that. GC regulations, you know.

Battle Armour Bob, once at the top, starts clearing away the rubble in an effective search pattern, sorting the jumbles of rock into attractive sculptures almost as quickly as he speaks.

Battle Armour Bob:
It's all about attitude and business, darling. You can't just pick up a catalogue at the local department store and hope you see what you like. The Tonarzi give a more --

A hastily-assembled sculpture -- one that took all of forty-five seconds of pain-staking work -- topples through the hole. Battle Armour Bob looks forlornly at the lost piece as he sets his machine to continue working.

Battle Armour Bob:
--a more personal approach. What kind of wanton destruction fits your needs? Do you need a one-shot assembly job like the one below, or are multiple-targeting fusion lasers more your thing?

Pu Wing Fu took this moment to pop her head up from the hole. A large bump and several granules of rock on her head attests to the fact that the sculpture was not missed. She seems content, despite (or perhaps because) of it.

Pu Wing Fu:
I want a gun that makes ice cream!

Dumnoric ascends by his own means and touches down well away from the debris field.

Dumnoric:
Ah, yes: the Baskin-Robbins Conglomerate asked for that one years ago.

Pu Wing Fu:
And?!

Trudeau:
Turned out to be impractical. One needed a thousand cows just for a single shot. Good flavour, though.

Dumnoric:
Here. I've found someone.

Desdemona is far from recognizable, though seemingly unhurt. Battle Armour Bob lifts a rock needlessly and crushes it in an iron grip, assumedly making a show of force to the unconscious woman. Dust settles on his bow tie.

Battle Armour Bob:
[crying] My new tie!

Dumnoric visibly rolls his eyes and picks Desdemona up by one of her legs. She partially wakes up long enough to call out in pain -- apparently she has sprained something -- before passing out once more.

Crustacean:
It's her! It's Helium Girl!

The Black Rose peers intently at Desdemona as she hangs upside-down from Dumnoric's grip, but the grit and dust from the explosion are far too thick upon her face to recognize any features.

Trudeau:
She's in the Cave, so it must be her. Find the others!

Dumnoric
Already done so.

He nudges the prone body of Lonnie Peel at his feet. Lonnie groans slightly, but does not move much.

Crustacean:
That can't be Hydrogen Guy! He's too ... small. Weak. Thin.

Trudeau:
There's no telling what other effects the philosopher's wort would have had on their physiologies. Take him.

But before the last syllable is expelled from his lips, the Cave begins to flicker, as if with candlelight. A few of the fluorescent lights pop and snap, and sparks fly as a shadowy figure rises above the rubble, seemingly under his/her/its own power.

Crustacean:
Dumnoric! Enough with the light show!

Dumnoric:
I'm over here!

Crustacean wheels, then stares back at the silhouette approaching them. The Black Rose voices his thoughts.

Trudeau:
Then who is that?

Doug:
BEWARE THE DOOM OF NOFFRAS!

Battle Armour Bob:
Die, fashion-monger!

He lets loose a barrage of a wide assortment of armaments in Doug's general direction. Missiles, lasers, bullets; all converge on of Doug as he hangs in mid-air. When the smoke clears, his riddled skeletal form slowly descends to the ground, as if saying "I've taken what you dished out, and I could take some more, but I choose not to." Battle Armour Bob's weapons continue to *click*click*click* as the trigger is still depressed.

There is an almost imperceptible creak heard in a far corner of the Cave.

The clicks finally stop. The creaks, however, multiply.

Dumnoric turns on Battle Armour Bob, who is still a bit wild-eyed with fear.

Dumnoric:
You fool! You've killed us all!

Any argument to the contrary is buried beneath several hundred tons of rock.

Hydrogen Guy and Deuterium Boy TRAPPED!

Armageddon With A Side Of Fries!
Same Hydrogen Time - Same Hydrogen Web Site!