Chapter Twelve

 This past day has given me all kinds of problems. I lost text and found it again after I'd rewritten it, realized I'd completely erased Chapter One (huzzah for having backed it up here on the blog!) by replacing it with half of Chapter Eleven, found out that once the original chapter was replaced I had 500 words less than I thought I did, and just in general had issues. That on top of general physical issues as well (minor, not-uncommon side effect of the vaccine I just got: fainting fits. Found that out whilst recovering from my bi-monthly nosebleed. Fun stuff. ) But here it is! A chapter! Two thirds of the way there!

Also, unless you are a hard-core vegetarian, this chapter is Safe.

No one actually killed anyone else on the trip. That was the good news. The bad news was that one bloody nose and one sore fist did occur, as well as heated words and hurt feelings. It was a tense Vannagon that arrived in Chicago, a Vannagon that, for the first time presumably since it was manufactured, was not groovy. George was sulking, Havisham was still pissed, MacAlleister was torn between being pissed at both of them and thanking Havisham for being so chivalrous and being pissed at George anyway, and Alice still wasn't talking. The last seemed to be more due to George's machinations rather than  his own personal choice, though, because he was enthusiastically miming various gestures at Havisham while he was educating George on proper etiquette and the fact that not all women are actually available to all takers. Most of these gestures involved hitting him harder. Stranger was becoming truly worried at the mental state of all in the van, especially Caroline and Jean's. Those two spent the entire time discussing options. They didn't even try to break up the fight. More than anything else, that impressed upon Stranger that they were in deep shit. Caroline ever ignoring the chance to lecture them on professionalism or scoff at their lack of sophistication was a cue that they were in grave danger indeed.

So it was with a sense of relief that they finally entered the maze of skyscrapers that was downtown Chicago. Stranger wanted nothing more than to sleep for eight hours or longer, but they'd evidently chosen the wrong day to come to the Windy City. Traffic was backed up so badly that gridlock was looking likely. The Vannagon barely fit in the bumper to bumper traffic. Havisham turned on the radio, and a sports program came on on the first channel he turned it to. "Typical," he said, disgustedly. "There was a Cubs game today."

He settled back in the driver's seat, scowling, and silence fell over the bus. They were creeping along a street whose buildings were only ten to twenty stories high - nothing much, but they made the one exception seem like a hulking, ground hugging monster in comparison. The parking garage, coming up on their right, wasn't exactly in good repair, but it was positively dwarfed by the gleaming glass pillars surrounding it. Havisham evidently didn't care, though, because as soon as he was in a position where he could do so, he pulled into it, and started driving aggressively up the ramp. There were, prdictably, no parking spaces until the top level, but that made Stranger all the happier. Fresh air - or at least fresh smog - was a positive delight. He shoved George out, then bolted out himself. George was still sulking, even out here on the roof, but it felt less like a volcano waiting to erupt and more like a temper tantrum once Stranger was no longer in physical contact with him. Everyone seemed a bit happier now that they were out of the car, even Jean and Caroline, who both had nearly identical half smiles on their faces.

"Where now, oh captain my captain?" Stranger asked Caroline.

"Don't call me that. We're going to walk to our office," she told him. "It's only four blocks or so. It shouldn't be difficult."

------

Forty-five minutes later and still a block from their destination, Stranger wondered if Caroline had actually studied to be as good at initiating doom as she seemed to be recently, or if a malevolent person had just cursed them to bad luck. The traffic had made getting across streets a gamble with your life, and the general intoxication level of the average driver was only increasing this. George had forgotten his sulk about fifteen minutes into the excursion, because it suddenly became numbers to him. Stranger could have sworn he was humming the Frogger theme song under his breath. He was already across the street from them, waving them over. Havisham was looking a bit thundery now, and only MacAlleister whispering in his ear was keeping him calm. Stranger wondered what sort of horseman's word she was using to do that, then decided he never, ever wanted to find out.

Jean and Caroline were taking their turns trying to cross the street. Caroline was stuck on the slim concrete barrier seperating traffic going in opposite directions, and Jean was running hell-for-leather to avoid the oncoming Honda that was looking to add him as a hood ornament. Stranger found himself almost considering it a type of game, where the score was determined by what percentage of the players survived and how many drivers they pissed off in the process. The score was currently high, at eight instances of road rage and no casualties. 

Jean survived, and joined George in beckoning the others over. Alice, of all people, went next. He was still in silent mode, because George had yet to spare time to give him his voice back, and he was wrapped up in a black sheet, because it was literally the only means of disguising him that they had. No one had yet to give them a second look, so it must have been working.

With Alice's sense of timing, he of course arrived at the concrete strip perfectly fine, and grabbed Caroline's arm. The very next opportunity, he hauled her across, and then started poking George as soon as he was within range. George didn't appreciate poking, and suddenly they were arguing again. Stranger reconsidered whether he wanted to cross, considering the company he would be keeping on the other side. But then Havisham and MacAlleister made a break for it, and George remembered he was alone on the streets of Chicago, while committing the cardinal sin of liking the wrong team on the night of a Cubs game. Worse yet, a Cubs game that had been, predictably, lost. He checked traffic perfunctorily, and then ran.

He'd never had one of those life-flashing-before-the-eyes moments before, but when he noticed the semi careening around the corner, he almost had one. What he presumed was his last thought was, Huh. Do the fauxburns really bug me that much?

Then he had a second last thought, which was, That's the best I could come up with? Nothing to make up for a life of debauchery?

Then he had a third last thought, which was, Considering I'm still alive, maybe I should pay more attention to that.

And then he noticed he was safe on the sidewalk, with a vice gripping both his arms and holding him about two inches off the ground, the semi blaring its horn and speeding down the street for the thirty feet that was possible, before it had to stop for yet another traffic light. Stranger blinked. "Can we go back to the road trip part? I wasn't actively nearly dying then."

Someone cuffed him upside the head. "You're an idiot," Caroline told him. "Come on, the office is in this building here."

Alice put him down, gently, and released his arms. "Do you still have circulation?"

"I think so," Stranger said, a little dazedly. He flexed his fingers. "Yep."

"Then forward-ho," Alice said, and started marching forward. Stranger took a deep breath, then another, and let the adrenalin abate slightly before following the group into a mirror-faced edifice of a building.

It was exactly like the other unnamed headquarters Stranger had been in, merely miing and matching various elements. Beneath a set of otherwise completely normal buidlings? Check. Strangely busy? Check. Strangely empty? Check. (the place was segmented between the two settings). Lavishly furnished? Check. Making Stranger feel completely unnecessary and insignificant? Check. It really was a tour de force. The main difference was, when Stranger was escorted to his current waiting room, he nearly died at the hands of a crazed mannequin. Then he realized it was Missy, which only made it that much worse. Then he realized she'd been posed like that purposefully, and was on a stand, not animate and coming to kill him like he'd supposed.

That was still bad, but for different reasons. He whirled to the underling of the day, a peon maybe a little younger than him, who gave him the polite, pretty, professional smile that he really wanted her to just stop. "Who decided that this would be funny?" he asked her. "And is there anyway I'll be allowed to possess a phaser around them?"

"George said it would make you laugh," said the peon, the smile never wavering, hands still clasped behind her back and her posture a perfect copy of the 'Prim and Professional Pose Number 3,' something he was relatively sure all female peons and underlings learned in a finishing school somewhere.

"George is an fucking idiot," he told her, feeling his heart start to slow. "And you can tell him that. It will make him laugh." He turned, trepidatiously, to see Missy still there in her attacking pose. "Is there any way I can get this moved? Preferably without touching it myself?"

"Indeed, sir," said the peon. "It will take time, however. I suggest you make yourself comfortable in the far corner while you wait." Stranger looked at her sharply when she said that, but her smile never wavered. He edged his way past Missy and into the room. Then the peon said, "Also, sir? There's a sheet you can drape over her if you feel too fucking creeped out." He whirled to look at her, but she was already walking down the hallway. So the peons did have some sort of personality. He appreciated that. He also appreciated the sheet in a slightly morbid way, which was covered in a repeating pattern of watching eyes. He turned it over, so the pattern was watching Missy at all times, then retired to the armchair in the corner to make sure she didn't move.

It took half an hour for a removal team to come in. Stranger was, at this point, unsure whether the HAZMAT suits worn by them were actually necessary or just some sort of joke pulled by the peon with personality. He didn't necessarily care. He was just glad that they moved the thing. Then he went on to the highly productive act of playing Tetris on the computer that was sitting on the table in the middle of the room until George came to get him.

He was confused, Stranger knew that immediately. And that meant something interesting was going on, and Stranger grew bored quickly enough that he'd already mostly gotten over the Missy scare and nearly getting run over. "What is it?" Stranger asked him.

"Do you know what confit is?" George asked him.

"Confee? What?"

"Alright, you don't, duly noted. Just come upstairs and find out." George led him out.

"Do I want to know what confee is?" Stranger asked as they traveled the reverse of his previous route. "Is it dangerous?"

"Not particularly," George told him, acting distracted. "No more than the food we ate at the fair."

"Oh god, it's French food. Is it made out of snails?"

"They have yet to figure out a feasible way to do that, so no," George told him. "Although that's a good idea for my next party."

"I've changed my mind, not even bacon caviar will get me to come anymore," Stranger told him, making a face. Then he smelled something that was obviously meat, but strangely... off. "Ew."

"That would be confit," George said, and led him into the room. In the center, on a table, surrounded by the others, was a single huge hemisphere of what appeared to be congealed fat.

"Is that fat?" Stranger asked him.

"That's what confit it," George told him.

Stranger had no words. Instead, he inspected closer. There were speckles in the confit, little green bits. "Vegetables?" he asked, "Or..."

"Vegetables," George told him, and he relaxed somewhat.

"What animal?"

"As far as we can tell so far," said the peon with personality, "all of them."

"You mean all the animals?" Stranger asked.

She nodded. "There seems to be no disregard to any animal. As long as it was capable of producing fat, it's in there. We've got thirty-seven species so far, and that's from a single sample." She pointed towards a hole towards the edge.

"Has anyon ever pointed out to the French that haute cuisine is all well and good, but some things are just taking it too far?" Stranger asked the room in general.

"Supposedly, it's quite good," Jean told him.

"Jean, you are French," Stranger told him. "Have you ever tried it?"

"No, because I am no connoisseur," Jean told him. "I much prefer the simpler things in life, like duck a l'orange."

"You're just a stranger person," Stranger said. "Now I'm not saying I mind not getting to lose another game of Tetris, but is there any specific reason why I was brought up here?"

"There was a note," Caroline told him, moving away from the table and fetching something from another one. "We thought you might know something about it."

Stranger took it and read it.

 
Dear monseigneurs et mademoiselles,
I hear you have suffered losses recently. I hereby offer you my condolences, and hope that this helps to make up for your troubles, at least in part. I have also been hard at work to help you here in the City. This lovely dish represents the true unity your people should strive for, as well as the fate suffered by those who displease you, and therefore me.
Your humble servant, Leroy Grand.

Stranger blinked for a moment. Leroy was a name he associated with France, but he wasn't quite sure why. Then, his high school French kicked him upside the head and rattled something loose. He turned to Caroline. "Is Clark Sr. known as the Big King?" he asked.

She stared at him. "That at least makes things less complicated," she said, after a moment. "And he does have a thing for Louis XIV."

George blinked at them. "What?"

Caroline, already swinging into movement, said, "Leroy Grand. Le Roi Grand. The Big King. One of Clark Sr.'s nicknames. Among others are the Foreman of the Packing Plants, Long Pig, and the Butcher. This is probably meant as a message - he's awful, but he's on our side."

"Is that good?" Stranger asked.

"Hell no." She turned to the Peon. "Has any human fat been identified?"

"Not yet," she said. "Do you want me to check the center?"

"Immediately," Caroline said, and left the room at high speed. Jean followed her, while MacAlleister went to a computer and and started typing and Havisham moved to a defensive position. Stranger and George just stayed where they were, too morbidly fascinated to move.

Peon approached the mass of jiggling meat-stuffs with trepidation and a large saw. Holding the saw as far away from her person as possible, she started slicing through the mass, perpendicular to the table. It appeared as easy as one might expect, essentially like a knife through hot butter, until it was about four inches from the center. Then the blade would move no further. Peon left the blade where it was, and fetched another from a pin behind her desk. Stranger, long since used to the general atmosphere of the unnamed places of work, found it odd that he didn't find that odd.

Approaching the mound from the top this time, she cut directly down the center, this time hitting something at about seven inches from the bottom. Here, instead of leaving the blade, she rocked it, cutting the confit essentially into two quarters and one half. Then she removed both blades and began using them rather like serving implements, carefully pulling out one of the quarters. When it was far enough away, it started collapsing towards the center, like it didn't have enough support - as indeed it didn't, it turned out. When she scraped away the resulting mess, she took a deep breath, and stepped back. Stranger circled around the table to see what it was.

A human skull, half-revealed, stared back at him, a blue eye still in the socket.

"Oh, god," Stranger said. "It's looking at me.

"What is it with us and dead people?" George asked, still firmly on the other side of the table, showing unusual wisdom.

"It's our winning personalities," Stranger said, his mouth working on autopilot, his mind going blank. "Excuse me, I'm going to go pass out now. Can't break tradition." And he found the nearest chair, and did exactly that.

-----

He was shaken awake a bit later. "You know, for a horror writer, you have an awfully low tolerance for dead bodies," Peon said, once she was sure he was awake.

"I'm a writer," Stranger told her. "I don't deal with the things myself."

"Well, that's unfortunate," Peon told him. "Because you're in a world where they happen with regularity."

"In a world where dead bodies happen," Stranger muttered, standing up. "Not even a regrettably. Just happen. God, I'm doomed."

"From the moment you inherited your grandfather's collection," Peon said placidly. "This way."

"What's your name?" Stranger asked her. "As the first peon here to show any kind of personality, I feel like I should think of you as something other than 'peon.'"

She smiled at him then. "Call me Persephone."

He looked at her suspiciously. "Is that your actual name, or a pseudonym?"

"Everything's a pseudonym here," she told him. "Even you use one. So it's less a question of whether mine is a pseudonym as whether you're willing to call me by it."

"I'll use it," he said, and felt like he might have just agreed to more than he understood. But after flashing another smile at him, she ushered him through a door and disappeared in that maddeningly efficient way. He was suddenly with his group again, and Caroline et al. were looking as stormy as ever, seated around a large conference table. Stranger was struck by how much it resembled the few conference meetings he was forced to attend in his one legitimate job as copy-writer for a newspaper. Unpleasant memory, that.

"This is an act of aggression," Jean was telling her as Stranger began to pay attention. "Sheer hostility. It is a signal to us that he can destroy us whenever he wants - if he can so easily put down the rebellion of our own group, how easily could he just wipe us out completely?"

"He's also just helped us immensely," MacAlleister said. "Suddenly there's one less issue on our plates, and we can focus on getting rid of Sir Dick." Stranger, never one to be completely focused on anything, noted how far George's little nickname had spread.

"But now we also need to pay attention to him," Caroline said. "And he's let us know that as well."

"Question," Stranger said, coming to the table and grabbing an open seat. Everyone turned to stare at him. "Yes, I know Leroy here is a big issue, and the fact that a skull was found in the center of that big pile of fat can't help. But can we focus on the guy whose likely to start actively trying to kill us, first?"

"He has a point," Havisham rumbled. "Just because he killed one of our rogue agents as a supposed favor to us doesn't mean Clark is ocming after the rest of us. Whereas we know that Sir Dick will be."

"Do we even have any clue where Sir Dick might be at the moment?" Stranger asked.

"As far as we can tell with our somewhat limited current surveillance opportunities," MacAlleister said, "He's still in Boston, sitting at the Hotel where we tried to draw him out last time."

"Do you really think he's still there?" Stranger asked, incredulously.

"Not a chance," she told him. "But as to where he really might be... No clue."

"Considering the fact that he went completely broke three days ago," George said, "I really doubt he's got a lot of friends right now to which he could run for help. Most of his allies were so thoroughly bought they could have been Wal-Mart products.

"His defenses in Boston as still strong, though," MacAlleister said.

"As soon as the month is up in," Caroline checked her watch, "two days, all of them are going to leave, because their pay is going to run out."

"Some of them may actually be loyal, though," Jean reminded her.

"But not enough," she said. The tiger smile came back. "We may have our opportunity. And I don't care what you say about not destroying him physically, that's about the only shot we have now that his assets have been destroyed."

"So an attack?" Havisham asked.

"An attack."