The Verge -- Part Two: Discourse

Part Two: Discourse

Goddamn Sanchez...


The Century WaveMaster rocked under the impact of Bonnie's right cross, water sloshing in the base as she struck with a follow-up blow that nearly sent it to the floor before it spun upright again. The industrial fan in the corner of the broad basement that served as a training hall did little to combat the heat of a sultry Chicago summer: sweat trickled down her face, glistened on bare skin, and soaked through her platinum-blonde hair. Bonnie grabbed a towel from her duffel bag on the floor and patted the worst of the perspiration away.


Spent everything I had last week, and it still wasn't enough. Shoulda been better prepared. How am I s'posed to bounce right back and do it all over again?


Leaning against the bare brick wall, Bonnie sighed.


Dude's a beast... Cam's been saying that since day one. He wasn't wrong. I don't think I can take another kick like that. Best bet is to let my partner deal with him, mostly... then again, that's like admitting I ain't good enough... That I could maybe handle a Taylor Wright who's probably been worked over pretty good already; but not a David Sanchez... Definitely not when he's at the top of his game -- which is apparently always.


And why the fuck not? What's wrong with me? I know applied physics. It ain't always about brute strength. It's about leverage. Timing. It's about finding the right opening and taking advantage. So why couldn't I get it right last week? Did I hesitate too long? Was it fear?


A scowl furrowed the young woman's brow as she shook her head in vehement denial.


No. Fuck that! I ain't afraid of nobody! For fuck's sake, I sent Nathan von Liebert runnin' off with his tail between his legs, and that dude was ten times as scary as Sanchez! Wade Moor and Oblivion. Oblivion and Jenson. Another reality, sure, but...it still happened. I still came out on top both of those times, and under far more savage conditions. Difference being, they were only trying to put me down.


So what does Sanchez want?


She hadn't mentioned the incident in the locker room to anyone. Not Alex, nor Andre, Nightmare, or even her own partner. Briefly, Bonnie had considered talking to Armand -- he would certainly have a better guess about the Mayor's motives than she would, and discretion was practically his middle name. But here, pride had reared its ugly head. She knew her appeal for Armand was predicated largely on the fact that he saw her as pure, incorruptible; Bonnie couldn't bring herself to shatter that illusion. To approach him would be tantamount to admitting that she could be bought...or would at least consider it. Why else hadn't she just returned the case with a note saying "Thanks, but no thanks, asshole."?


If Hophni suspected anything, he seemed content to keep his peace about it and let her solve this particular puzzle on her own. Then again, who knew whether something like this would even be a blip on his transcendent radar?


Bonnie took a light sip from a water bottle and went back to the WaveMaster, now working a series of forearm strikes that were far less powerful than she'd have liked.


Prob'ly he don't want nothing but to get inside my head. Oughta start chargin' motherfuckers rent for that shit. But you evict one, somebody else comes along sooner or later to take up residence again. Like that rich asshole, Updegraff. Acts all solicitous when I'm still tryin' to shake off that Yakuza kick, and then, outta nowhere -- I mean, what the fuck? Is this some kind of new trend I missed out on? Like the ice bucket challenge? Are we hitting each other with cash-filled briefcases for awareness of... I dunno, Rickets or something? Can't let that go unanswered.


We should be going out there as partners, me and Cam. Talking about the tag titles. About how we aim to prove our win wasn't a fluke. How we're gonna be fighting champions -- but instead I have to deal with that smarmy little snake in the grass. If I didn't know better, I'd think him and Sanchez plotted this. Ain't quite that paranoid yet.


The Daughter of Time glanced up to notice a security camera high overhead, obscured by the labyrinth of ductwork that criss-crossed the ceiling, and was forcefully reminded that she was potentially being watched.


Maybe I should be.


She gazed thoughtfully at the camera for a moment. It was a relatively recent installation, judging by the lack of dust on the housing; high quality and discreetly placed. When she moved, the camera automatically tracked her -- motion sensitive, she hoped. No way he'd be dogging her every step himself, but that didn't mean he hadn't delegated the responsibility. He had a whole army of guys who looked like Frank Venable, but lacked any personality whatsoever. They reminded Bonnie of the Dark Timekeeper's luchadrones; a single shared face, utterly devoid of emotion, remorseless killing machines with no ambition but to carry out the Mayor's bidding.


Quickly, Bonnie banished that line of thinking. She chose a spot, out of the way and almost directly under the spot where the camera had been mounted. Like a solitary, unblinking eye, it focused on her and waited impassively. Heedless of her disheveled appearance, Bonnie looked up.


"I hope this thing has sound. David, I know you're watchin' this -- right now, or later, it don't make much diff'rence. I want to start off by sayin' that I respect you as a competitor. You're crafty. You're mean as hell. You know the game better'n anybody. But you cross lines I ain't willin' to. The space between them ropes is sacred, David. Inviolate.


"I grew up with only the certainty that I would be involved in something ....bigger than myself. With the knowledge that fulfillin' my destiny would probably kill me. I made my peace with that. But before I knew it, it was all over. Somethin' happened an' the world was changed. An' I'd survived. My life was finally my own, to do with as I pleased. An' the first thing I set out to do was find Seth Lerch. I don't reckon he actually believed me when I told him who I was. Said he dug the gimmick, though. Then he made a comment about my ass and told me if I could prove myself, he'd give me a shot.


"Guy was a degenerate, but he was true to his word. I got tossed in the deep end pretty quick, too. You might think, David, that after last Sunday, I might not have quite the same drive I did a week ago. That maybe that sour taste of defeat left me feelin' disheartened."


A slow smile spread across her lips.


"Perish the thought... darlin'."


Bonnie winked.


"You done your homework well, Mr. Mayor -- but there's still a thing or two y'don't know about me. Ask Dune sometime how hard it was to put me away when me an' him clashed. You know that finisher of his, Sandstorm... how devastatin' it is. He nailed me with that, I thought I was gonna die -- but I kicked out. Let me repeat that: Li'l ol' Bonnie Blue kicked out after gettin' hit with a Sandstorm. Now, the second one done me in, but that ain't the point.


"Point is, that was months ago. I'm still as resilient, still as persistent an' stubborn. But I'm diff'rent now, too. A match I woulda lost back then, in that place -- could be a whole other story here an' now. Until last Sunday, I was on a little bit of a streak, rackin' up the wins, buildin' momentum. An' you put a stop to that. What I want now... is redemption.


"See, if you an' your lapdog Wright beat us, nobody's gonna notice. Nobody's gonna care. Best you'll get is a shrug and somethin' about how y'all beat a coupla paper champions -- that's what they're sayin' in the locker room. The legitimacy of our title reign is already tainted. So a vict'ry for you ain't shit. An' Cam, he's about the long game. That don't mean he don't care, just that me an' him got a slightly diff'rent viewpoint. But for me, David, a vic'try over you an' Wright -- that goes a long way to makin' our championship legit.


"So don't think I'm put off 'cause you dropped me like a bad habit last week. Oh... maybe that's an inapt metaphor, considerin'.... Well, ya get the drift, anyway. I'm comin' for ya twice as hard this week, David. You an' Taylor both. We're gonna show y'all -- an' every single UCI fan around the world -- just exactly why Bonnie Blue an' the Polar Phantasm are UCI's World Tag Team Champions."


And without a further word, Bonnie Blue walked away.




She had just stepped out of the shower when the miniature computer she typically wore on her wrist chimed softly. Wrapping a towel around herself, Bonnie wiped excess water from her hands and pressed the screen.


"Switch to voice-activation mode," she said.


"Acknowledged, user: Bonnie Blue," replied the electronic tones of Iceberg-7.


"What's the buzz, cuz?"


"Incoming video call awaiting your response."


The young blonde hesitated, thinking.


"Give me five minutes, then patch it through to my laptop, please, Eye-Seven."


"Complying. Video conference will begin in four minutes, fifty-nine seconds and counting."


Swiftly, Bonnie Blue slipped into a pair of cutoff denim shorts and a black tank top with the UCI logo splashed across the chest, and hurried from the bathroom to her own private quarters within the Guardians' secret base. She got there with seconds to spare and opened up the laptop. It was only when the chat window popped up, and she didn't recognize the face looking back at her, that she wondered how this guy had gotten in touch with her. Without her activating the window, the young, bespectacled black man began to address her.


"Right now," he said, "you're wondering how I got your number.... how I got through a series of government level encryption and firewalls... and seized control of your computer. Well, let me put your mind at ease, Miss Blue. I haven't done any of those things."


"What?" Bonnie asked, confused.


"This is a simple para-telepathic interface, using your laptop as a medium -- if you'll pardon the pun. It's the first time I've ever tried this spell. It calls for a calm pool of water, but I thought that seemed a little old-fashioned. Anyway, please allow me to introduce myself."


"You're a man of wealth an' taste?" she ventured.


"'Fraid not, love. Especially not that wealth bit. Magic doesn't always pay the bills."


"Magic?" Bonnie raised a skeptical eyebrow.


"They call me 'Jack of Shadows' -- Hampshire's the given name -- but you can call me yours."


He broke out into a cheesy grin.


"Oh my god... is this some kinda prank call, or what? What do you want, Mr. Hampshire?"


"It might be easier if I show you." He turned to someone offscreen. "Terranaut, would you get the door, please?"


There was a disgruntled noise from the unseen figure, and then the image on Bonnie's screen began to ripple, to distort, like a postmodern abstract painting. And, absurdly, a hand reached through, beckoning to her. Hesitant, but curious, she reached out. When their fingers met, something like electricity shot out and wrapped itself around her. This was followed by a brief tug, and suddenly, the young woman found herself standing in -- well, someone's living room, by the look of it.


And facing her was a strange, multicultural assortment of people scattered around the room. At their forefront was Jack, and beside him stood a tall, silver-maned man of obvious Russian origin.


"Bonnie Blue of the Guardians," Jack Hampshire said, still clasping her hand, "meet the Renaissance Men!"


Belatedly, and with his cheeks turning pink and a sheepish smile, he released his grip on Bonnie. Then, he introduced them each in turn and explained that they were a multinational superteam who had come together, much like the Guardians, in the interest of protecting the world after the Wave had nearly destroyed it.


"We're looking for an American counterpart," Jack concluded. "A representative, like in Parliament."


"Why me?" Bonnie asked. "Cam's older and has more government-type experience. Alex is...uh... nevermind."


"Because you have a unique perspective the others don't."


He was too glib, and Bonnie could tell there was something he wasn't saying.


"An' the other reason?"


"Heh. Perceptive. Yeah, all right. The other reason, put simply, is you. There's something going on, something to do with ancient gods of Time -- the same gods to whom you owe your ability to bend and distort the temporal forces."


"I don't know what you're talking about, Mr. Hampshire."


"A creature called Timastenzi, though you may know it by another name. Your fate -- and the fates of your friends -- are bound to it."


His face had lost its bland expression. Dark brown eyes gazed at her intently, as if he could divine the answers he sought by will alone.


"That name.... it seems like I should know it, but... I can't place why. But I do know who might be able to help," Bonnie told him.


"Who?" he asked.


"Portal me back to Chicago, an' I'll help ya find him."