Happening at the Mansion

An emotional fight and then something not quite of this world happens?

Chapter 1 – Leave
“Fuck you right in the heart, you ungrateful cold, sniveling snitch bitch!” She leaned into the last word forcefully as she raised both of her middle fingers at the receding car.

The driver looked back at her, head, shoulder and arm thrust through the window even as the vehicle raced down the dusty road. “And may the grass never grow where you live and stand!” He yelled and pulled himself back into the car as he rounded the corner.

Amanda lowered her hands, watching the car turn the corner and disappear. Turning the corner of her life and vanishing from her existence. The thought of being alone without his steadying presence filled her with equal parts euphoria and despair.

She turned about, crying as she did.

The tears streaked down her face leaving tracks in the dirt that caked it. She wiped at it with the sleeve of her once white shirt as she stamped up the stairs that led to the filthy back deck.

As she stamped, the stairs creaked and one of the boards made a cracking sound. She looked over her shoulder as the snapping sound broke through her mood. Suddenly she felt the urge to run back down to the driveway from which his red 1988 Mazda RX-7 had departed.

She fought it. Squaring her shoulders resolutely, she continued her trek up the wooden stairs, pushing her feet down with a controlled fury, forcing the boards to protest at each footfall.

Only a short flight of steps, she arrived at the top and stopped to stare at the sparsely furnished space. A swing set for two in the corner, the cushions worn and frayed. Nothing else. She placed her hand on the doorknob and turned it, pushing with her shoulder. Braced for the furnace heat of the laundry room.

As the door swung open, silently, “as if the hinges had just been oiled by John.” she reflected, she heard it. A quiet snick. Metallic and purposeful. She knew the sound and her body remembered it too. Without further thought she threw herself backwards away from the door.

But that was too late. It had been far too late even when she was still climbing the steps. The plasma round caught her dead center. It blasted through the flimsy dress she was wearing. Burned it to dregs and left a smoking crater in her corpse. The plasma bolt’s impact flung Amanda’s cadaver clear of the landing to sprawl awkwardly in the badly tended flower garden at the bottom of the steps. It settled there without protest, leaking blood with a curl of smoke rising from the slackly opened mouth.

The steps creaked again, this time with greater groans of protest as if an infinitely heavier weight was levied against them.

The monstrous figure that slowly paced down them, explained the piteous creaking. Standing at least eight feet tall, the figure was humanoid. Its face was entirely hidden by an almost comically large hat. A sombrero it might have been called except for the distinctly cowboy hat peaks that it held. The hat shadowed the face and completed the rest of the outfit. The enormous, clearly armored trench coat that swept down to the figure’s heels. The leather trousers tucked into massive boots that surely were not bought at any normal shoe store. The smooth movement of the figure suggested an implacability. An inevitability. And, an unstoppable juggernaut nature. The figure’s right arm was cocked, holding a massive weapon over its shoulder. The gun was easily five feet in length. It was smoking slightly from its tubular end.
Reaching the bottom of the steps the figure nudged the body lying there in undignified repose. It turned the nudge into a kick that rolled Amanda’s destroyed meat over onto its front.

The figure bent, its face exposed as it did so. A vicious crocodilian face. No human eyes were present. Just the slitted impenetrable orbs of a predator. Its short snout ended in twin nostrils which twitched actively as if sampling the air. Somehow though it seemed male.
The sniff that the creature emitted was terrifyingly human though. And then it spoke. Its voice the crush of gravel as it destroyed metal tools. The smell of the thing, if anyone were to have been present to scent it, was that of heated oil. Not cooking oil. Machine oil. The kind you would smell on a hot summer day down at the race track.
“Nullified.” It fished what looked like a smart phone from a recess in the massive trench coat and continued to speak into it.
“Your target is down. I expect payment to my account immediately.” The creature did not wait to hear whatever was on the other end of that call had to say. He simply slid the communicator back into its recess. And stood, holding a small cylinder in its left hand.

It began to walk away heading towards the small shed squeezed in against the house just off the driveway. As it walked, it negligently dropped the cylinder onto Amanda’s brutalized corpse.

Moments later, there was a flash, and the body burst into flames. The crocodilian creature did not turn, and arriving at the shed pulled the door open ducking to walk inside.

The quiet that dominated the scene was interrupted abruptly by a fierce growl that emanated from the shed. The sound of something mechanical. And then right through the closed door, the crocodilian burst. He was astride an enormous motorcycle. A Harley of unearthly proportions.

The vehicle and its oversized rider erupted from the shed in a welter of wood. The hat was still firmly atop the enormous figure. Glued there somehow. It did not move an iota even as the bike accelerated down the driveway kicking up gravel and dust in an expanding rooster tail from the truck sized rear tire.

The bike left the driveway and hit the paved highway, turning the same corner that John had also traversed earlier. The bike’s exhaust and engine note was punishingly loud and grew louder as the rider leaned back and increased speed. As it turned the corner there was a sudden crackle in the air and with a peal of thunder the figure and racing bike disappeared entirely.
As it disappeared there was an echo of laughter.
 
Chapter 2 – Investigation
The spinning lights of the police cruiser parked in the little driveway were irritating to the eyes. And Landry, the post woman did not restrain herself in telling the sheriff how she felt. “Can’t you turn those damn things off? I have cataracts you know!” She stood in front of sheriff Gains with her arms akimbo.
“I heard this motorcycle and I saw it too. Biggest bike I’ve ever seen. You know John – my husband – he had one too. That’s why I knew it was a bike.” Landry continue talking as she habitually did.

“Maam, can we start at the beginning please?” Gains had cocked his hat back, pen and notebook in hand as he tried to take notes and keep up with the twitch old woman in postal gear.

Landry ignored his plea and continued to speak as if he had simply urged her to continue. “Yes, so I knew it was a Harley too. But I’ve seen all the Harley’s you know?” She looked at Gains, cocking her head, a curious avian of entirely unwanted intelligence. “It weren’t no Harley. It must have been one of those big new Japanese jobs.” She paused, picking her nose as she looked skywards in thought. “No, could be Taiwanese maybe. I dunno. But anyway then it disappeared right there at the turn up there.” She pointed with her whole arm and nodded her head vigorously.

“Ok, so you did not witness anything happening here though?” Gains was scribbling as he spoke. “I mean, you heard the bike, but didn’t actually see anyone right?”
Gains sounded hopeful as he said that last. “Maybe I can get this old nut away from me and get back to that cheeseburger.” He thought longingly back to the container from Big Burger. It was sitting on his desk back at the station and was getting cold. He sighed. “I tell you what Ms. Uhh?”

“Landry! Postmistress Landry!” Landry said with pride, tapping her chest to make plain she was referring to herself. “And I seen a lot you know and it weren’t no man, is what I think!” She was still picking her nose.

“Oh, so you saw what did this then?” Gains waved his pen at the burnt corpse at the foot of the stairs. The fire had been intense, and the body was utterly unrecognizable, but the flames had not touched anything else, not even the grass which was dry as tinder.

“Yup I saw it good. It was a Twillian from Centauri. You know my John was friends with some strange types. One or two from Centauri. I can tell you stories.” Landry had pulled her fingers from her nose and wiped the tips on her blue trousers.

“What?” Gains goggled. “This old woman is batshit. Why the frag am I stuck here with this mess.” He almost spoke his thoughts out loud. But restrained himself and instead said “I see, so right, a Twillian riding a bike. Sorta like those Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles?” He chuckled out loud, proud of the joke that he’d just made.

Landry was unimpressed and simply sniffed and said “No, not like that show. But whatever, can I go now?”

“You’re free to go.” Gains gestured her away with relief and then climbed back into his cruiser. He picked up the radio transceiver and keyed it. “Sheila, where’s that ambulance?”
The radio squawked sharply then a clipped voice came back. “Ten minutes out Sheriff.”
Gains sighed again and put the transceiver back onto its hook. He leaned his seat back and settled in for a short wait.

Landry for her part was already walking back up the driveway to her postal tricycle that she had left there. “Damned idiots on this planet. Think the whole galaxy is empty. Makes me wonder why we decided to retire here.” Her thoughts were a swirl of annoyance. “A Twillian operating here – crap – the neighborhood has gone to.” She did not finish the thought, instead climbing on her tricycle and then pedaling it furiously to her next stop at the Miller’s house a mile down the road.
 
Chapter 3 – Hiring
Up on the orbiting battleship, the Kar Al Malcin, the crew was settling in for the second half of their diurnal ritual. Conversation was at a dull murmur and officers were mostly standing to attention on the bridge awaiting announcement from fleet captain T’kin Art Mun.

Down in the mercenary chambers towards the rear, bilge section of the vast floating fortress, there was a different sort of energy. The creatures down there were not interested in the rituals of the naval complement. They were motivated entirely by the spectacle and the acquisition of money.

One of those creatures was a towering Centaurian, whose only identification was the triple bars stamped into his chest, just below his collar bone. Currently that creature was seated in a massive, wheeled chair with his feet up on what could only be described as a desk. He was rubbing idly at the markings on his chest. “That vetch eating cur, this thing is infected!” He cursed quietly to himself. The words in English for some inscrutable reason.

With a sudden spasm of fury he rose from his seat, grabbing the flat communication panel off his desk and hurling it against the wall. The iridescent green of the wall flared sharply as the brick sized comm unit impacted it. The unit shattered explosively and the massive Centaurian threw back his head and roared!
“I swear it! I swear it now on my own name, on the name of my brood. I – Al Kranth of Lotwill nestings – I shall find you Minius. I shall find your hairless hide and I shall tan it for my wall!”
The roar ended in a crescendo and Kranth slammed his fists down on the desktop. It trembled under the impact but remained whole.

Completing his oath, Kranth sat back down and fished about in a drawer of the desk, pulling forth another brick sized comm unit.
The chamber door irised open as Kranth finished setting the comm unit on his desk.

“Kranth of Lotwill! You young snakeling!” Standing at the now open portal was another giant. This one unclothed from chest down to a massively buckled pair of trousers. The material of the trousers seemed to flow of their own accord.

As Kranth looked at them, they changed color slowly to match the green of the chamber. “Mottle camouflage.” Kranth thought idly. “Franthius, you arrive as you die one day. Opening chamber doors unannounced!” Kranth gestured to a seat before his desk that had silently oiled up from the floor.

Franthius strode into the chamber, a limp to his gait. He took the proffered seat, planting his own immensely booted feet on the deck in mimicry of Kranth’s posture just moments before.
“The guild has a job for you. Straight from space commander T’kin.” Franthius began without preamble. “You executed that last rebel with exactitude. She is grateful. But now she has knowledge of another. Hidden. On that same dirty, dry planet.” Franthius sniffed suddenly, his tongue darting out of his mouth and licking his nostrils. “Much like this space here in fact.” He looked around with disdain.

Kranth did not answer. Merely stared at Franthius. His slitted eyes occasionally closed in a slow mechanical movement. His giant form coiled, but tensed.

Franthius held the gaze and then nodded. “Find her. Find the arch-traitor. She goes by the human name of PostMistress. T’Kin has stipulated eight orbital periods for this to be done by. Eight.” Franthius held up a six fingered hand and then supplemented with two more fingers from the other.

“What is the reward for this?” Kranth finally growled. His voice angry, challenging.

“Twenty caskets of fuel. Well above standard for this sort of thing you realize.” Franthius looked away, glancing at the scattering of ceramics and plastics that littered the floor behind him. “You should control that anger of yours. Another comms set destroyed?”

Kranth merely grunted. Then stood and raised his hand, finger outstretched. “It shall be done. I am bonded.”

Franthius stood at that and grasped Kranth’s finger. “Aye, you are bonded. I have your mark and your scent.”
With that Franthius left, the door irising slowly shut behind him.

Kranth for his part remained standing, having watched Franthius’ departure from the corner of his eye. His massive hand dipped to the communications brick and jabbed at its surface. “Prepare my landing ship, load my bike. I go to the hunt this moment.” Characteristically he did not wait to hear any reply. He merely strode around the desk and slapped a control on the opposite wall.

The wall swished aside exposing a view to an enormous hangar bay. Below him, Kranth spotted his personal cruiser. Already the maintenance crew was hard at work, pushing that ludicrously sized Harley up the ramp into the cruiser’s hold.
Nodding in satisfaction, Kranth slapped another control and the wall swished back. He turned and then stamped out of the chamber through the irising doors and into the corridor beyond.

Moments later he was seated at the controls of his cruiser. His support personnel, a diminutive Centauran with the forgettable name of Lash sat beside him and was already manipulating the launch controls and advising the battleship’s bridge crew of his flight plan.
Kranth watched Lash complete his tasking, thinking idly that one day Lash would make good feasting. He could almost feel the crunching and taste the delicious iron that would accompany it. “Yes, just another few cycles, and this one shall certainly slake my thirst.”

Kranth looked away and then said “Begin the mission clock.”