Herringcarp Gothic - Chapter Ten: Dance of the Dead Men     This story continues from Chapter One: Amnesia Chapter Two: Monsters on the Loose Chapter Three: The Black Chapel Chapter Four: The Cabinet of Dr Morningstar Chapter Five: Flesh and Blood Chapter Six: I Am John’s Psychosis Chapter Seven: The Romance of Heresy Chapter Eight: Whispers and Screams Chapter Nine: Blood Sacrifice ***     The chamber had moulded plaster scrollwork on the walls and a chequerboard dance floor. Couples glided across the room in a silent gavotte, shifting and spinning to an unheard tune.     And every dancer was a ghost. They flickered in and out, even passing through other couples, as if each was lost in their own personal moment, replaying the same steps over and over again.     Some wore elegant ballgowns and powdered wigs. Others wore peasant frocks or stitched hose or boob-tubes and miniskirts or military uniforms or nothing at all. All danced.     Dr Winkelweald watched them, stood at the edge of the dancefloor as he had at many a party; only this time it wasn’t his shyness that prevented him from approaching any of the women who sat on graceful chairs waiting with their dance cards. It was the fact that none of them seemed able to see or hear him, and the fact that he too was a ghost.     He didn’t quite remember when he died but he recalled the pain.     Ã¢â‚¬Å“I have to think,” he chided himself. “If I lose the capacity to think then I become like these, lost in an endless loop of meaningless moments. I have to think about where I am, what I am.”     Is this the afterlife, he wondered? Am I in hell? Were the things I did in life so bad that I deserve damnation?     He tried to catalogue his sins but they were small miserable things, envies and desires and resentments he should have tried harder to avoid. Was that enough to damn him? Did even the smallest stain render him unfit for heaven?     Ã¢â‚¬Å“Theology isn’t my forte,” he recognised. “I should never have argued it with Dr Morningstar. Of course, he should never have sliced my brain out either. That was definitely worse.”     A cascade of memories escaped from whatever dark place they’d been hiding and rippled through Dr Winkelweald’s mind: torture in the name of science, abomination for progress, the human brain reduced to a laboratory where choice and feeling were merely electrochemical reactions.     Ã¢â‚¬Å“Well then what about this, Dr Morningstar?” Winkelweald snorted, waving his hands and arms in front of his eyes. “Right now I don’t have a physical brain but I’m still thinking and feeling and choosing. What does that say about all your theories, hmm?”     That triggered an existential chain of worry that perhaps he too was merely replaying old actions like the ghosts on the dancefloor, echoing old philosophical musings in a constant loop. Or maybe he was still captive in his sutured, sliced open body, merely living whatever sensory input his surgeon carved into him?     Ã¢â‚¬Å“No. That way lies madness,” Winkelweald told himself. “Not that madness isn’t everywhere around me. This is still Herringcarp Asylum, I think. I recognise the architecture, but the walls are plastered and painted and it looks more like a great house than a grim institution.” The Asylum had once been a stately home, manor and prison of a heretic Marquis.     He walked again between the whirling dancers, trying to avoid them passing through his own insubstantial body. He looked up at the huge candle-filled cut-glass chandeliers above the ballroom. He inspected the silent musicians scraping at their bows and breathing into their pipes.     Ã¢â‚¬Å“Maybe I’m in Purgatory?” Winkelweald considered. “I tried to be a good man. I became a doctor to help people. I wanted to aid those whose minds had betrayed them. That’s why I sought to study under Dr Morningstar, to make people well again. Maybe that was enough to make up for all the nasty petty things about me and I’m here waiting to make a last decision that will send me to my final destination?”     The dance ended. The dancers stepped apart and the men held their partners at arms length and bowed to them. The ladies returned a courtesy. Many of their eyes were bleeding.     The couples joined together again and began the gavotte anew.     Ã¢â‚¬Å“Or maybe I’m doomed to be here forever? Maybe I’ll gradually become like these poor things on the dance floor? I’ll get greyer and duller, my thoughts eroding, my memory unravelling, until one day I’ll walk across to one of those ladies on the chairs and hold out my hand to her and we’ll take our place in the pageant?”     Winkelweald snorted. His record of ladies accepting him as a dance partner was poor. Maybe that was what was saving him from the dance of the dead?     The bleeding dancers disturbed him. He made his way to the far end of the room, where a twenty-foot long fireplace crackled with burning logs. The light flickered out over the room but it never illuminated the revellers.     A wretched girl in mere rags huddled beside the hearth-grate as if trying to keep warm. She turned to look at him as he approached.     Ã¢â‚¬Å“You can see me?” Winkelweald asked in surprise.     Ã¢â‚¬Å“Oh,” the girl replied. “You.”     Winkelweald broke out into incredulous laughter.     The girl rose from her huddled crouch and glared at him. “What’s so funny? Why are you laughing?”     Ã¢â‚¬Å“I’m sorry,” the doctor replied contritely. “It’s just, I get that reaction from so many ladies at a dance.”     The girl padded towards him and looked him in the face. “Did you murder all of them as well?”     Winkelweald took a step back. “Murder them? Of course not!” He looked at the torn tabard that was the girl’s only garment. “Are you… an inmate?”     Ã¢â‚¬Å“You don’t know me?” Amnesia asked. “You don’t, for example, remember stabbing me to death?”     Ã¢â‚¬Å“No. I wouldn’t do that. But if you want to talk about what you think…”     Ã¢â‚¬Å“Don’t try to shrink me, buster!”     Ã¢â‚¬Å“Why would I want to reduce you in size?”     Ã¢â‚¬Å“I mean don’t try and get into my brain. It’s bad enough you got into my pants.”     Winkelweald would have moved away from the mad woman except she was the only being in all his timeless wanderings who he had been able to speak with. “I never wore your pants,” he promised her. “You, um, don’t appear to have any.”     Amnesia turned away in frustration, dragging her hands through her tousled knotted hair. “Crap! Damn crap and damn again! You’re another one, aren’t you?”     Ã¢â‚¬Å“Another what? You’re not making any sense.” Dr Winkelweald moved towards her again. “Look, I’m a man of science, a physician. Let me help you.”     Ã¢â‚¬Å“I know just who and what you are, Ioldabaoth!” Amnesia accused.     Winkelweald looked over his shoulder but the girl was clearly addressing him. “Why would I be the Gnostic principle of flawed godhead?” he puzzled.     Amnesia turned back to him and jabbed a finger towards him. “Okay, we’ll talk. But I am not having sex with you!”     Dr Winkelweald didn’t know what to say to that one. He contended himself with the first random question that came into his head. “Why aren’t you bleeding?”     Amnesia examined her bloodstained tabard. “I dunno. Some ghosts here look like they did before death. Some bear their murder wounds. The worst are the ones who look like they always believed they did. You always seem to look just like you.”     Ã¢â‚¬Å“Why do their eyes bleed though? Who believes that of themselves?”     The girl looked up sharply. “Their eyes are bleeding? Here? Now?”     Ã¢â‚¬Å“Don’t they always? This room’s new to me. Before I was in the upper chambers where… well, it’s not nice to tell to a lady, so…”     Ã¢â‚¬Å“Never mind that. The ghosts are starting to weep blood? That mean’s he’s coming!” She looked around in alarm.     Ã¢â‚¬Å“Who is coming? You’re not making any sense!” objected Winkelweald. “Which I guess makes you fit right in here.”     Amnesia nodded to concede the point. “We’ll talk but not here. Come to the whisper gallery.”     Ã¢â‚¬Å“The where?”     Ã¢â‚¬Å“Follow me.”     Ã¢â‚¬Å“Why?”     Ã¢â‚¬Å“Because something bad’s going to happen here really soon and I don’t want to be part of it.” The girl led him to a panelled wall and pushed a stud. A doorway Winkelweald hadn’t suspected existed before snapped open.     Across the hall the main door burst open. Something that the doctor couldn’t see clearly burst into the room and began to shred the dancers.     Amnesia yanked him through the secret panel and latched it shut behind them.     Ã¢â‚¬Å“What was that?” Winkelweald gasped. “I couldn’t see it clearly but I felt it.”     Amnesia led him from the ballroom suite along a low stone-trimmed tunnel that emerged into a long gallery. There were windows along both sides, looking out onto a dark and rainy night shore.     Ã¢â‚¬Å“These paintings are different every time you come here,” Amnesia told him. “I keep trying to figure if there’s any meaning to what they show but so far I’m not getting it.” She pointed up to Fuselli’s Nightmare. “This isn’t a good place to bring the kids on a Sunday afternoon.”     Winkelweald turned away from a worried perusal of Hieronymus Bosch’s Hell. The face in the centre looked too much like his own. “You said you’d explain,” he reminded Amnesia.     Ã¢â‚¬Å“I said we’d talk. I can’t promise explanations. I don’t have many.” She turned to regard the young doctor. “So let’s start. Who are you, if you’re not Ioldabaoth?”     Ã¢â‚¬Å“Jonathan Winkelweald.” The ghost held out his hand then realised the absurdity of trying to make contact with another phantasm.     The young woman surprised him by catching his hand and shaking it. The doctor remembered now that she’d manhandled him out of the ballroom.     Ã¢â‚¬Å“I don’t remember my real name, I’m afraid. That’s why they sent me to Herringcarp Asylum. Here I’m called Amnesia.”     Ã¢â‚¬Å“From the Greek Mneme, memory.”     Ã¢â‚¬Å“I guess. I was too busy trying not to get raped by wardens or tortured by inquisitors to go into the full linguistic background. Sorry.”     Dr Winkelweald winced. “This asylum, it didn’t turn out to be what I’d expected. I’d hoped it was more than a prison for the mad. I don’t think it’s a house of healing at all. “     Ã¢â‚¬Å“It’s more than a prison,” Amnesia assured him. “Although there’s a lot of stuff locked up here. Pain and madness and evil. And it’s all coming to a boil.”     Winkelweald followed her as she walked down the whispering gallery. Their voices echoed back as they spoke.     Ã¢â‚¬Å“Why did you say I murdered you?” he asked. It was clear that the girl was a ghost. He could see through her.     Ã¢â‚¬Å“Sorry about that. I think it’s fairer to say you haven’t murdered me yet. Or that someone who looks exactly like you will murder me.”     Ã¢â‚¬Å“Why would I do that?” Winkelweald asked before he realised how absurd the question even was.     Ã¢â‚¬Å“You were saving me from a fate worse than death. I don’t think you’d realised that this house doesn’t let anything or anyone go. You’ve seen some of the ghost rooms, right?”     Ã¢â‚¬Å“Some of them?”     Amnesia nodded her head. “Stay away from the screaming pit. And the nightmare wheel. And anything with the word ‘red’ in it.”     The doctor shuddered. “Why can I speak with you when I can’t communicate with all the other spirits?”     Ã¢â‚¬Å“I dunno. Maybe it’s because you murdered me? Or not yet but, you know. Is there any chance do you think that you might end up living in the madness inside a lunatic chained up in an asylum cell?”     Winkelweald considered this. “There’s every possibility. This is all insane.” A new thought occurred to him. “Dr Morningstar was injecting madness into my mind. What if it’s all in there, congealing, evolving? What if everything I’m seeing, even you Amnesia, is all a part of it?”     Amnesia gave him a sharp look. “You know Morningstar? I’ve met him in other guises. He’s not a nice man.”     Ã¢â‚¬Å“I concluded similarly when he began to dissect my brain,” admitted Winkelweald. That won a little snort from the girl.     Her face changed abruptly at a sound from the other end of the gallery. “We’ve been here too long,” she warned. “We’ve got to go. Come on!”     The urgency in her voice – maybe the fear – spurred Winkeleald to run with her. She pushed open the large doors at the end of the whispering gallery and ran down a flight of spiral stairs.     Ã¢â‚¬Å“How can you touch things?” Winkelweald asked. “I couldn’t get through any of the sealed doors. I thought ghosts would be able to but there was something stopping me. I couldn’t interact with objects or structures or even people but I still couldn’t wander through walls.”     Ã¢â‚¬Å“Don’t know. Don’t care,” Amnesia called back. “Keep moving!”     Ã¢â‚¬Å“Why? What’s scaring you?” In Herringcarp Asylum there seemed such a range of possibilities. “Is it that thing that tore up the ghosts in the ballroom?”     Ã¢â‚¬Å“Remember I said red names were bad?”     Ã¢â‚¬Å“Yes.”     Ã¢â‚¬Å“Then you don’t want to meet the Red Angel.”     Ã¢â‚¬Å“I probably don’t. But I’d like to know more about him, if that’s who we’re running from.”     Ã¢â‚¬Å“The Red Angel is the sentinel of this place. He’s the one who flays the ghosts and breaks them. He’s the one who guards the escapes. He’s the one who’s hunting me down.” Amnesia burst through a small door on a stair landing and raced down a dim wattle-daubed tunnel. “And he’s got the face of Dr Morningstar.”     The tunnel opened up into a space full of people; or ghosts of people. Not full in the sense that the floor was crowded, full in the sense that a great pit had been filled with bodies, piled one atop another, while they were still alive. Now their spectres heaved and screamed and moaned as they had at the moment of their crushing or suffocation.     Ã¢â‚¬Å“We have to swim through here,” Amnesia warned Winkelweald. “You can do it if you concentrate. It hurts. When you go through these ghosts you can feel their fear and pain.”     Winkelweald peered back down the tunnel. There had to be another way.     Ã¢â‚¬Å“We need to do this,” Amnesia urged him. “The Red Angel gets distracted by their suffering. I think he caused it. It’ll give us a chance. Please follow me!”     The girl dived into the writhing column of death and vanished into its seething mass. Winkelweald gritted his teeth and plunged after her.     These souls had fought and they had been beaten, he sensed, a terrible war that had never happened now, a holy war that the forces of good had lost. They had been buried alive here, their mass grave specially chosen because it would cause their torment for all time. Their enemy had known what he was doing to them. They had known what the price of their defeat would be.     Winkelweald wept and screamed with them and eventually he staggered out of the charnel pit on the other side.     Ã¢â‚¬Å“The Red Angel is worse than that?” he gasped at Amnesia.     Ã¢â‚¬Å“A hundred times worse. A thousand. I’d live in that pit rather than face him for ten seconds. That’s the thing about this place. All the horrors are relative. Ioldoboath understood that.”     Ã¢â‚¬Å“Ioldabaoth who looked like me.”     Ã¢â‚¬Å“Yes. I think you’re what he’s missing, actually. A conscience. A dream. He needs to be a dreamer.”     Winkelweald trailed after the girl as she plunged down yet another flight of steps, these mere footholds carved in ancient natural rock.     Ã¢â‚¬Å“Where are we going?” he asked.     Ã¢â‚¬Å“I’ve been here a while now. I don’t know how long. Time doesn’t work right, but I guess you’ve found that out yourself. Time and rooms get shifted round in Herringcarp. But there’s one place that’s always there, a place the Red Angel can’t find even though he draws on its power, a place he desperately wants to own.”     Ã¢â‚¬Å“And you know it?”     Ã¢â‚¬Å“Yeah, I know it. We’re going to the Black Chapel. It’s the heart of Herringcarp. Everything else is founded on it.”     Ã¢â‚¬Å“Why are we going there?”     Ã¢â‚¬Å“Because somebody has to find it, somebody who can use it. That’s you or Morningstar. I’m picking you.”     Ã¢â‚¬Å“Why me?”     Ã¢â‚¬Å“Because you only slept with me and killed me. That’s the best it gets with guys as far as I can remember.”     Ã¢â‚¬Å“Miss Amnesia, I promise you…”     Ã¢â‚¬Å“Don’t make me promises. Just… do the right thing.”     Ã¢â‚¬Å“I’ll try.”     Then the walls began to bleed.     Ã¢â‚¬Å“He’s here!” Amnesia screamed, and set off at a sprint into the ancient labyrinth.     Winkelweald dared one glance backward. A beautiful naked man with golden skin and feathered wings levitated down the stairs towards them. His physical perfection was marred only by the streams of blood pouring over his sculpted form and splashing onto the ground below.     Winkelweald fled after Amnesia into the interconnected vaulted chambers below.     Ã¢â‚¬Å“Faster!” Amnesia shouted. “He can’t follow us into the chapel if he can’t see where we go. He’s never able to work out how the geography twists.”     Ã¢â‚¬Å“But you can?”     Ã¢â‚¬Å“Don’t knock it. Keep running.”     The Red Angel glided after them. His wings never moved. His smile never changed. His eyes reflected hellfire.     Ã¢â‚¬Å“Not much further!” Amnesia gasped. How could a ghost have a stitch in her side or be short of breath? “One last hallway.”     Amnesia and Winkelweald rounded the last corner and found the way to the Black Chapel was blocked.     Ã¢â‚¬Å“No!” gasped Amnesia. “Oh no!”     The Red Angel rounded the corner behind them and had them cornered.     Ã¢â‚¬Å“Get behind me,” Winkelweald told the girl. It cost him all his courage to make that useless gesture.     The Red Angel glided towards them, flexing its bloody wings at last.     Amnesia and Winkelweald turned to the obstruction preventing their escape to the Black Chapel.     It was a huge mirror with an ornate frame, and they looked into it.     And their reflections looked back at them. *** Continued with Mirror Images *** Original concepts, characters, and situations copyright © 2010 reserved by Ian Watson. Other Parodyverse characters copyright © 2010 to their creators. The use of characters and situations reminiscent of other popular works do not constitute a challenge to the copyrights or trademarks of those works. The right of Ian Watson to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the UK Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved.

Herringcarp Gothic - Chapter Eleven: Mirror Images     This story continues from Chapter One: Amnesia Chapter Two: Monsters on the Loose Chapter Three: The Black Chapel Chapter Four: The Cabinet of Dr Morningstar Chapter Five: Flesh and Blood Chapter Six: I Am John’s Psychosis Chapter Seven: The Romance of Heresy Chapter Eight: Whispers and Screams Chapter Nine: Blood Sacrifice Chapter Ten: Dance of the Dead Men ***     The sleek pink limousine turned drove down the parking ramp into the underground garage. An automatic door sealed off the foul weather outside. The vehicle drove through the empty lot towards the one illuminated section in a far corner. It cruised to a halt behind the metal frame where the young woman hung.     One of the interrogation team hurried to open the rear door. A young Asian woman stepped out, her wall-tailored suit and expensive shoes bringing the only splashes of colour to the basement area except for red.     Akiko Masamune, head of the Masamune crime family, moved over to example the ruin on the torture frame. It had once been human.     Ã¢â‚¬Å“Is she ready to speak?” Akiko asked the assiduous bodyguard at her side.     Ã¢â‚¬Å“Yes, Akiko,” answered Midori with a little bow. “She resisted for a long time. True ninja. Now she is broken. She will confess in exchange for being allowed death.”     Akiko looked up at the wrecked remnants of the former mercenary known as Ultraninja. “You will speak with me?” she demanded.     The prisoner looked down at her captor with her remaining eye and spoke through a toothless mouth. “Yes, lady,” she managed. Blood spilled over her chin as she talked.     Ã¢â‚¬Å“What is your name?”     A pause. A last resistance. Midori applied the shockstick.     Ã¢â‚¬Å“Fāng Jakayla,” Ultraninja confessed. She hadn’t spoken the name since she’d commenced her training at the age of six.     Ã¢â‚¬Å“Who taught you?”     Ã¢â‚¬Å“The Yellow Tiger Brotherhood, in Huaxia, Cathay Block.”     Ã¢â‚¬Å“Who do you serve?”     A sob. The torture had cut deep. “I pledged myself to the Parody Master.”     Ã¢â‚¬Å“He is dead.”     Ã¢â‚¬Å“Yes.”     Akiko half-turned from the prisoner as if not interested. “What did you do for your Parody Master?”     Ã¢â‚¬Å“I infiltrated Herringcarp Asylum. I joined the Hooded Hood’s assembly of villains.”     Ã¢â‚¬Å“She was protected from the Hood’s usual detections by her Master,” Midori interjected.     Akiko nodded and turned back to the bleeding captive. “And what did you do then?”     Ã¢â‚¬Å“I… smuggled a device into the Hooded Hood’s stronghold. A bomb.”     Ã¢â‚¬Å“What kind of bomb?”     Ã¢â‚¬Å“A Narrative Bomb. A device created by the Shaper of Worlds in case she ever needed to destroy the Hooded Hood. My Master had captured it and he desired I use it.”     Ã¢â‚¬Å“A weapon capable of destroying even the Hooded Hood, designed to destroy him,” marvelled Akiko. “And you detonated this bomb?”     Ã¢â‚¬Å“I did as I was instructed.” Ultraninja’s tears were stained red.     Ã¢â‚¬Å“What happened then?”     Ã¢â‚¬Å“Herringcarp Asylum was destroyed. All those within had their storylines erased. The Hooded Hood was sent to the worst fate that the Shaper could devise for him. I do not know what that would be.”     Midori spoke quietly in Akiko’s ear. “The destruction may not have been complete. The Hood’s son, Denial, managed to retrieve the lost villains and use them against the Parody Master in the final struggle.”     Akiko gestured her to silence. “Where was the Hood when the bomb exploded, Jakayla?” she demanded of Ultraninja.     Ã¢â‚¬Å“It was in his throne. That was where I was told to conceal it. I activated the timer then fled.”     Ã¢â‚¬Å“Like a ninja,” scorned Midori, who followed the way of the samurai.     Ã¢â‚¬Å“Could the Hood have survived?” demanded Akiko.     Ã¢â‚¬Å“I do not see how. The weapon created to destroy him exploded beneath him. His whole house was erased from existence. I did my duty.” Ultraninja shuddered. “I did my duty.”     Akiko looked over at the technical experts. They confirmed that the captive had spoken the truth.     Ã¢â‚¬Å“You may die, Jakayla,” Akiko said. “Midori, see to it.” ***     Ã¢â‚¬Å“What… what was that?” breathed Dr Winkelweald as he tore his gaze off the images reflected in the cold glass before him. The scene had been so pervasive, so realistic that he had even forgotten the extremity of his peril.     Now he turned and the Red Angel bore down upon him. ***     The woman on the railroad tracks flexed her arms and legs but the bonds that held her were well tied. She recognised the knots.     Ã¢â‚¬Å“I don’t suppose there’s any point me saying you’re never going to get away with this?” she asked in a tone that was more weary than frightened.     Ã¢â‚¬Å“No particularly,” admitted her captor. “Although I imagine you will.”     Ã¢â‚¬Å“Well, you won’t get away with it,” she argued. “The boys’ll be here soon and then they’ll kick your scrawny butt from here to the moon. Just saying.”     Ã¢â‚¬Å“You are probably wondering why they haven’t already come to your rescue, Miss Waltz?” suggested the Hooded Hood.     Ã¢â‚¬Å“Well, I did summons them a while back but I guess if there’s a Xenathon on…”     Ã¢â‚¬Å“They have not come because this time I did not allow it.”     Lisa frowned. “What do you mean, not allow it. I’m the amorous advocatrix. I have powers to summons people. Sure, it works best if I’m actually in court, not tied to a railway line, but the boys of the Regulars know better than to avoid that special tingling they get when I need them here. It’s come and rescue me or face a paddling.”     Ã¢â‚¬Å“Alas, on this occasion your team-mates have each found themselves diverted to a summons from an alternative-reality Lisa,” the Hood explained. “Jarvis now faces a dangerous battle on Dinosaur-Earth where the Reptile Legion seeks his doom. NTU-150 struggles on Natural-Earth where no technology functions.”     Ã¢â‚¬Å“Will he notice the difference?” wondered Lisa.     Ã¢â‚¬Å“Visionary’s trials of fudgy peril at the whim of a juvenile pachyderm are especially amusing. Each of your comrades faces a similar end on parallel worlds where another Lisa had been endangered and sent out for help. Each faces doom.”     Ã¢â‚¬Å“Ooo, doom!” Lisa squirmed. “Okay, so now come to the bit where you gloat me through why I’m tied to a railway track? I mean, why aren’t I being thoroughly ravaged right now? I promise I’m thoroughly ravagable.”     The cowled crime czar backed away a step. “I am not that kind of archvillain,” he told the first lady of the Lair Legion.     Ã¢â‚¬Å“What, you don’t ravage on the first date?”     Ã¢â‚¬Å“You seek to distract and delay me while your ingenious comrades find ways out of their traps,” the Hood noted. “They will, of course, but not in time to thwart the will of… the Hooded Hood!”     Ã¢â‚¬Å“Love the accent,” Lisa said, “but that doesn’t explain the railway lines. I mean, I appreciate the classics as much as anyone else but…”     The Hooded Hood began to explain about the use of a cosmic office-holder to derail a train of thought. Lisa skipped over the bit about squashing Hedgehogs of Time and destabilising the universal axis and cut to the end. “So I get mashed by a locomotive and you get to rule the Parodyverse? Yes?”     Ã¢â‚¬Å“Indeed,” breathed the Hooded Hood.     Ã¢â‚¬Å“And that’s your preferred option over the ravaging, is it? Really?”     The Hooded Hood leaned forward. “I apologise for the necessity, Miss Waltz. It is for the greater good.”     Ã¢â‚¬Å“It really isn’t,” Lisa told him. “Look, in the time we’ve been the League of Regulars we’ve battled all kinds of menaces. Including Baron Zemo and his Scourge three hundred and eleven times. All those world-conquering, universe-dominating types all thought they had good reasons for their conquests. And you know what? They didn’t. So if you think some hoodie-come-lately’s going to make any difference…”     The Hooded Hood managed a low chuckle. “You believe this is our first encounter? Miss Waltz, this is the culmination of hundreds of confrontations I have had with this and other iterations of the Lair Legion.”     Ã¢â‚¬Å“The who?”     Ã¢â‚¬Å“The League of Regulars. My power is to retrospectively rewrite events. When an encounter has not gone well then I have simply erased it and done it over.”     Ã¢â‚¬Å“So your power is basically to cheat,” the amorous advocatrix accused. “You do a save-game then go back to it if you don’t win the boss-fight to get to the next level.”     Ã¢â‚¬Å“I walk the myriad different possibilities and select which outcome prospers,” countered the Hood.     Ã¢â‚¬Å“So in all those hundreds of times you tied me to the tracks here to get me run over by… whatever all that stuff you told me about was, you never decided to find out just how easy my bodice comes unlaced? I mean, it’s specially designed that way.”     Ã¢â‚¬Å“Miss Waltz, I told you…”     Ã¢â‚¬Å“Yeah, but you’re a big meanie villain and they don’t always tell the truth, do they?”     Ã¢â‚¬Å“The Hooded Hood does not lie.”     Lisa squirmed again in her bonds. She could feel some of her comrades getting nearer. Her repeated mental summonings were acting like beacons across realities if only she could delay her captor long enough.     Ã¢â‚¬Å“Fortunately you do have that sexy Latverian accent,” she said out loud. “Er, I mean okay mister, if you don’t lie, tell me you haven’t actually thought about pulling me off these tracks and heading to a nice five-star honeymoon suite hot-tub somewhere exotic.”     Ã¢â‚¬Å“That would not be appropriate,” the Hood told her.     Ã¢â‚¬Å“So you have thought about it then? There’s hope yet. I give good hot tub.” Lisa’s smile could have melted icebergs.     Ã¢â‚¬Å“You… remind me of someone,” confessed the Hood. “Someone I knew long ago.”     Lisa suddenly became serious. The tone in the archvillain’s voice demanded it. “Someone you cared about?”     Ã¢â‚¬Å“You look a little like a woman who was kind to me. A woman whom I did not treat well.”     Ã¢â‚¬Å“So in her memory you’re getting me run over by a train?”     The Hood looked up, his face angry. “You think this a game, Miss Waltz? I know you seek to delay me until your comrades arrive. Two of them have already been here and I have destroyed them.”     Now it was Lisa’s turn to blanche. “Destroyed them? What do you mean? You can’t destroy them!” She bit her lip. “Who did you…? No, I’d know if I couldn’t summons them because they were…”     Ã¢â‚¬Å“Marksman is no more,” the Hood told her. “You will not remember him. He never was.”     Ã¢â‚¬Å“You’re claiming you erased a Regular entirely, so much that I don’t even remember summonsing him?”     Ã¢â‚¬Å“Indeed. But to assist your credulity I will permit you to remember the Shaper.”     Ã¢â‚¬Å“Carrington!” Lisa cried. “What have you done to him?”     Ã¢â‚¬Å“He was far too dangerous to be allowed in your Legion,” the Hood insisted. “He must have known when he chose to assist you what the consequence would be.”     Lisa pulled at he bonds in earnest now. “If you’ve hurt him, hurt any of them, I will…”     The Hooded Hood looked into the mists along the line. There was the ghostly echo of an approaching train.     He looked back at the first lady of the Lair Legion, struggling in her distress.     Ã¢â‚¬Å“This is not a worthy way to triumph over my enemies,” the Hooded Hood decided. “This is not the scenario I require.”     His eyes flashed green as he reset reality once more. Lisa vanished back to the Lair Mansion with no memory of her encounter.     Ã¢â‚¬Å“Maybe next time the seduction?” the cowled crime czar allowed himself to speculate. Miss Waltz had been absolutely right about her being thoroughly ravishable. ***     Ã¢â‚¬Å“I… I know her,” said Amnesia, slowly. “I’ve met her before. And him, that man, that Hooded Hood, that was…”     Her revelations were halted as the Red Angel caught her by the throat. ***     Hodak the Wise limped up the hill to the Thin Place. The old shaman waited for him by the Turning Stone.     Ã¢â‚¬Å“Will you do this?” the shaman asked in a fearful whisper.     Ã¢â‚¬Å“I am chief, What else is there to do?”     The whole land lay in unnatural shadow from the vast thing in the skies above. Bigger than a river, bigger than a forest, and covered with glowing lines that shifted like snakes it had hung there for three days and three nights. The giants inside it had come forth as they pleased and no spear or rock could stop them.     Ã¢â‚¬Å“Some things can not be fought,” the shaman said, in warning or comfort. “No man can kill a tiger.”     Ã¢â‚¬Å“I have killed tigers,” replied Hodak. He looked at his ash-spear, the handle carved to show his prowess, the flint tip honed to deadly sharpness. “It needs a plan and working together. It can be done.”     The shaman pointed up to the thing in the sky. It could send out lights that cut up the forest like a bear’s pelt, tearing lose long strips to be pulled up into the heavens. The landscape the people had always known was forever changed. “That is not a tiger, Hodak. That is the gods.”     Ã¢â‚¬Å“They are not my gods.” The intruders did not protect or teach. They had shone their lights and taken Hodak’s people, torn away Hodak’s wife and children. Hodak knew in his soul that now his family were dead and that their deaths had not been easy. “It is my duty to get rid of these enemies.”     The old shaman bowed his head. “You know what happens beyond the Turning Stone? Men who enter the Thin Place cave never come back. There is madness there.”     Ã¢â‚¬Å“There is power. I need power, to kill these enemies that have killed my people. I am chief. I should have done better.”     Ã¢â‚¬Å“I went to the opening once,” the shaman confided. “When I was young, when my master was teaching me the mysteries. I went alone and I listened to the voices and to the screams. It changed me. I came back shaman. I almost came back mad.”     Ã¢â‚¬Å“I will go to the cave. I will fight the demons there. I will silence the cries. I must. There are secrets there. One of them must tell me how to kill these gods.”     The shaman did not speak. He clasped his chief’s shoulder and stood aside. He wept for Hodak, and for the people, and for the future he could see but not understand.     Hodak went to the turning stone and snapped his war-spear over his knee in sacrifice. Blood was easy to offer but the weapon had defined him as chief for so long. He laid the pieces at the base of the dolmen and limped down the spiral path towards the Thin Place.     The legends of his people said there were ghosts there. Hodak ignored the apparitions, strange alien things that were almost human. Only a few were substantial enough to grab him and those he shrugged away.     The whispering began at the mouth of the cave, and that was where the next test began. The old shaman had ventured here once and had returned forever altered, apart from other men, uncanny. The words Hodak heard were alien, different, but the ideas they carried seared into his mind, filling it with memories of times and places that had never existed.     Hodak would have gone mad but his fury at the enemy gods burned so strong.     There were new words in his head now. Already Hodak the Wise knew how limited his wisdom had been. Now he had ways to comprehend, for names divide up the universe and allow it to be told as story; and a story that can be told can be directed.     Ã¢â‚¬Å“Space robots,” Hodak growled. “Celestians. I will see you dead.”     But the Celestians did not live, not truly as a man did. They were like… like dogs, bred and used by men, shaped for purpose and set on their course. Those who created them were the true enemy.     Ã¢â‚¬Å“Creators… I will come for you.”     Nobody had passed the threshold of the Thin Place cave and returned. Hodak went in.     The tunnel was very narrow. It corkscrewed downwards in utter darkness, sometimes so small that Hodak had to push one arm ahead and squirm like worm. He tore the skin from his chest and back on the harsh rock. He ignored the pain.     Time meant nothing here. Hodak might have crawled for an hour or a week or a hundred years. His fingers were numb and he could hardly breathe. His head pounded.     The madness clawed at him, welcoming him in, seducing him with fantasies and fears, shredding his soul. Hodak held to his one purpose and kept moving. He let the phantasms tear the rest of him away; he didn’t need those parts any more. He kept only that deadly determination to see the creator gods destroyed.     Only then could his people be free.     He tumbled through an unsuspected hole and fell hard onto the cavern floor below. It took a moment for Hodak to accustom himself to the weird green light that flickered across the walls and longer for him to understand where he was. This was no natural chamber but rather constructed from shaped black blocks. A slab occupied one end of the tiny room.     The place’s name came to him unbidden: the Black Chapel; or perhaps Hodak named it then. Names were power.     Hodak could feel the destinies shifting around him. Here was madness, yes, but also inspiration and passion, all distilled in this sump of fate.     Hodak the Wise waited and thought things through. There was no time here. There was only the moment, and Hodak used it as he needed to understand what he could.     Ã¢â‚¬Å“There is power here,” he said to himself. “It has destroyed all the others who came to take it, who got this far. If I take it then I will be destroyed.”     Destruction was useless. Hodak could not find or punish the cruel creators if he was destroyed.     Ã¢â‚¬Å“I cannot wield this power, then,” he reasoned. “So another must do it. One who thinks as I do that the Space Gods and their masters should fall. One who will conquer all if he must to that end. One wiser than me. One more cunning and more deadly.”     The green energies swirled around the walls as if in encouragement. This place needed a purpose, sought a meaning. It did not yet know what it was to become but it needed someone to express its pain. It too would adopt a master, give him asylum, offer him its riches and cruel blessings and a place to stand to change the universe.     Ã¢â‚¬Å“That is what I must do, then,” understood Hodak. “I must make a champion who will do what must be done.”     The stone slab was an alter but there was no sacrifice on it.     Hodak used his last strength to crawl atop the stone and offer himself.     Ã¢â‚¬Å“Take me then,” he told the Black Chapel. “Use me to make your master.”     For a long time nothing happened. Hodak wondered if he would die here in the cold.     Then grey spectral things began to seep from the walls and move towards him: memories and determinations and deadly purposes. As they approached they pressed together, folding into each other, shifting and sorting themselves until just one grey-cowled figure loomed over the chieftain and looked upon him with luminous green eyes.     Ã¢â‚¬Å“Good evening,” said the creature, before it make Hodak its own. ***     Ã¢â‚¬Å“What?” said the Red Angel, staggering back from the mirror, dropping his victims for a moment. “Who?”     Then he understood. “Of course. My hidden enemy. The hooded foe. Very clever – but now your hand is revealed. You have played your cards and they were insufficient.”     A dry ancient voice from nowhere spoke back to the angel: “Noted.”     Wangmundo howled as he dived from the shadows and lunged at the Red Angel, tearing, clawing, biting as he bore him to the floor.     Amnesia and Winkelweald toppled backwards as they fell, but now the glass of the mirror was as insubstantial as they. Now it was a Portal and they dropped through it and vanished into the depths beyond. *** Continued with The Rise of the Hooded Hood *** Original concepts, characters, and situations copyright © 2010 reserved by Ian Watson. Other Parodyverse characters copyright © 2010 to their creators. The use of characters and situations reminiscent of other popular works do not constitute a challenge to the copyrights or trademarks of those works. The right of Ian Watson to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the UK Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved.

Now it sure seems like Amnesia is *creating* the Hooded Hood.

But the question is: When will she know what she's done?

Personally, in the battle of indoor pools, I've got to give the nod to Lair Mansion based solely on the fact that it's not filled with the crushed bodies of the eternally suffering. Even a Spongebob bathing cap can't make that little dip they took a nice lighthearted way to unwind.

Very spooky stuff, from the dance to the chase. Laurie's personality really shone through despite the darkness around them.

I enjoyed the various flashbacks (or however they relate, time wise). So that's what happened to poor UltraNinja. Not a very pretty end, certainly... But then, I guess few people who get intimately tied up in the fate of Herringcarp come to good ends.

It was great fun to see some old school Lisa/Hood interactions, even ones that apparently got retconned away. (Not that I'll miss having to deal with that particular stuffed terror).

Hodak and his quest for his people was an interesting addition as well. I'm looking forward to seeing where this goes next, so hopefully some posters are actually still out there.


PS... Your links to prior chapters weren't working for me.

Well, Countess Bathory thought it was an excellent beauty treatment. And it must work since she looked like Ingrid Pitt.




I'm glad you thought so.

Now it sure seems like Amnesia is *creating* the Hooded Hood.

What makes it interesting is that in many ways the Hood made Lisette.

But the question is: When will she know what she's done?

Oh, I think something horrible would have to happen.

I omitted the scene from the Parody War stuff because plenty of other things were going on, but I was reminded of it by your recent comments about Akiko being morally numb.

Of special interest is that it was Killer Shrike and Chiaki who captured and handed Ultraninja over to Akiko in the first place.




I'm not sure it's safe to call the Hood a stuffed terror. I'm certain it;s not safe to call Lisa one.




It would be nice to think so.




Drat.