Dates, parties, school work... the
problems that typical teenagers face are nothing compared to the troubles that
plague the Young Pendragons. Formed in honor of
their mentors, the Pendragons, this group of
heroes serves as one of
ISSUE
THREE:
GENERATION
GAP
Part
3
<><><>
One Minute Ago
Gawain’s perfectly sculpted face, normally gleaming silvery chrome, now glowed a dull red as it reflected the fiery fist held before him.
“I suggest, strongly, you answer the question.” Ablion’s voice was calm, if cracking slightly from the tension that caused him to shake right then. Morgan - who stood to one side and pinned him to the wall with a thick eldritch mist - and Rhane - who elected to stand well back, having shifted into her wolfoid form and kept her claws in clear view – were both likewise shaking.
Gawain took a moment to scan Morgan’s vitals, taking special note of her slightly elevated heart rate, heightened body temperature, and the jump in neural activity in both the forebrain and the left hemisphere. He concluded there were physiological effects to her use of her powers, potentially serious ones at that.
A pity this could be the last observation he would likely be capable of ever making.
Then –
Of the many things Cam McClellan found distressing in
life, the sight of his mum nearly in tears was near the top of the list.
It never failed to leave him feeling off-balance and almost a cad;
having never really known his father,
Going straight there, fresh from their verbal confrontation with the Pendragons, had seemed like such a good idea at the time.
“Dammit,
He nevertheless tried to sound placating. “Look, mum, it’s not like that…”
Kate McClellan only shook her head sharply, cutting him
off.
The laugh, bitter sounding and disbelieving, was up his throat and out his lips before he could stop it. “Oh, spare me.”
“No, lad,” Wynter broke in, his tone flattening, becoming harder and more commanding. “You’ve fallen to darkness twice now. And from what Betsy said, there’s no reason to trust it won’t happen again.”
Where before this tone might have left
“Now look, boy…”
“No!”
Next he turned to meet his mother’s eyes. “And you may be content to sit on the sidelines, mum, so fine. That works for you. But not for me. I’ve been given a duty and I’ll see it discharged.” His expression and voice softened slightly as he continued. “Besides, Peter Hunter himself gave me the name. It’s as much for him as for Avalon that I carry on.”
“That’s not…” Kate tried to say, only to have her son give a sharp wave.
“No. You had your chance speak here. You served your time and are content with what you did. Again, fine. Believe it or not, I’m happy you’re with someone else now and are out of it. Really I am.” He took a breath and addressed them both again. “That’s you two, not me. It’s simple as that. If you can’t accept or understand that…well, we’ve nothing further to say to each other.” He turned and started walking slowly towards the door to their small house.
Wynter’s voice caused him
to pause in mid-turn however. “Otherworld
has been attacked,
“By?”
“The Bane, apparently. Some of its minions had made allies of a time traveler related to Kang and tried to gain access to the Citadel itself.”
“Well, you’re still here on Earth, so I’m guessing the attack was repulsed.” He glanced over his shoulder, taking in their confused expressions with a small chuckle. “I may be young in comparison to both of you, but I’m not bloody stupid.”
His mother spoke up, saying “We don’t think…” Her voice quickly trailed off into a guilty silence.
“When you can finish that sentence with a straight face, let me know. Maybe then we’ll have something to say to one another.” With that, Cam McClellan marched out of his mother’s house, took exactly three steps, then launched himself into the air. He flew off, not looking back, pushing his speed as hard as he dared.
The quicker he was away from them, the soon he could go ahead and cry.
Two Minutes Ago
What surprised Gawain the most wasn’t that he couldn’t move under his own power; he’d projected from the first that Morgan could at the least immobilize him were she to attempt it. Based on her observed skill and power levels to date, he’d extrapolated his chances of surviving a full assault by her to be no greater than 4.3389512%.
No, what surprised him most right then was the damage already done to him by Rahne Sinclair. He hadn’t actually taken the time to consider an attack by the Sinclair girl, given she was a only low-level metamorph of very limited variance. His recruitment of her had been in anticipation of needing a spy or scout, as well as the potential contacts she could provide. She had handled herself well during the recent altercation with the Crusader, and he at least acknowledged she had significant combat training under both Charles Xavier and Magneto. That she could prove an actual threat to his physical form however seemed too remote a probability to seriously calculate.
A clear miscalculation on his part, judging by how easily she’d pried his chestplates open, her claws easily finding the micro-seams working between them.
Yes, a very serious miscalculation.
“Exactly who are you?”
Then – Wolfsbane
Rahne had gone directly to her room upon the team’s return to their headquarters, intent upon first calling her guardian Moira MacTaggart (as much to reassure herself as the Lady Moira that she was unhurt from the altercation at the concert), then lay down for the night. The Crusader’s claim – not a source she wanted to put a great deal of stock in – that he operated with a mandate from the Holy See itself was like a physical blow. She desperately needed some positive reassurance, and her mum was never short of that.
Unfortunately, the Lady Moira proved unavailable according to the ‘Mystiknet’ mirror in her room. She left a brief message, assuring the other end she was unhurt and wanted to talk, then shut off the mirror and sat herself on the all-too-inviting bed, wrapping the top comforter about herself and settle in to wait for a reply.
As expected, she drifted off only a minute or two thereafter. She hadn’t intended to, certainly, but she was more exhausted from the fights earlier than she’d let on. No surprise she fell fast asleep.
Her dreams however took an odd turn right then. At least, she presumed it was all a dream:
Rahne
opened her eyes, only to find herself still in her bedroom.
Nothing has changed, nothing has been moved, and all is as it was
moments ago.
But she is not
alone. An indistinct yet powerful
figure stands at the foot of her bed. Rahne
has the momentary urge to scream at him, whether in fright or rage she cannot
say. The scream leaves her at the
first sight of his eyes: piercing, powerful, overwhelming, yet gentle and
kind.
My
pardon, Lady.
I mean no harm.
“Explain yuirself,
sirah,” Rahne
demanded, surprised at how her natural lilt had deepened.
She was further surprised as the figure approached, coalescing into the
form of a powerfully built man in Medieval armor; this armor glowed a vibrant
shade of green, pulsing as if it were the beat of some great heart.
There was no sense of danger or threat from this figure, even though it
carried a great broadsword sheathed at its hip, and his helmet hid all but his
eyes from view. If anything, his
very presence carried a serene calm to it.
Rahne
nevertheless felt obligated to respond with force.
“I ask you again, sirah.
Explain this intrusion in me chambers.”
The words came to mind and were out her mouth before she even realized
what was she was saying. It felt
for a moment as if she were nothing but a faux Mary Jane Parker performing for
an unseen audience. Yet she felt
no outrage or anxiety at this manipulation. If anything, this quick bit of
role playing was proving fun.
The Knight bowed
deeply before her, as a chivalrous cavalier should before a Lady.
I
again beg thy pardon, fair Lady Rahne.
I come without gift or favor before you.
“You have my
pardon, good sirah.
Speak your business with me and without fear.”
I
thank you, fair Lady. The
Knight straightened to literally tower over her.
Yet there remained neither threat nor challenge in his stance.
You
are of the young nobles gather’d und’r
the banner of the Pendragons, yes?
Rahne
nodded. “We call ourselves
this, aye. Do ye dispute our
doing so?”
Nay,
fair Lady! You are lead by one
already anointed so, thus you march ‘neath that
noble banner.
“What then yuir
business that ye come to my chambers this night?”
I
come but to offer my humble thanks to ye, fair and future Queen of the Norse
Wood. I thank ye
for lending yuir service to Avalon’s defense, e’en
though I cannot bless it as I have others.
“Speak plainly,
good Knight.”
I
cannot offer my blessing upon you as I have your leader, for you are already
claimed by a realm as powerful as mine own charge.
But know: Avalon shall not forget this favor of yours.
“You suggest I
fight that I might incur your debt? You
think me so base?”
Again
nay, fair Rahne!
Your heart, like that of your fellows is pure and your valour
true. For this reason I come to
you this night, so that you might know the thanks of the Green Knight, and
know Avalon’s favor is yours. The
Knight offered another bow, even going to one knee before her.
By
your leave, fair Lady Rahne?
“Ye may leave,
good Knight, and with my thanks.” She
offered him her hand, which he gently grasped with his own massive one and
brought to touch the forehead of his helmet…
Rahne started awake at the ruckus that erupted outside her door. Jumping up from bed, she quickly shifted to her wolfoid form and threw open the door, plunging herself headlong into the chaos that awaited her.
Three Minutes Ago
Gawain was given no chance to defend himself, never mind offer some explanation for what had just happened. Morgan lashed out, her entire form aglow with elderich power, sending his heavier, supposedly invulnerable form sprawling against the wall clear across the room. The resulting impact, amazingly, caused several of his internal systems to momentarily go off-line. All sense of orientation and direction were lost to him, causing even greater confusion that what they had gone through but minutes earlier.
By the time he regained his faculties (barely 20 seconds according to his internal chronometer), the youngsters had him surrounded. He quickly calculated there was only an even 46.2% chance of him successfully fighting off the entire team. His calculations of course focused upon Morgan and Ablion exclusively; he’d long ago discounted Wolfsbane as an actual threat against him. Their relative power levels aside, they had nearly no experience at working together as a unit. Any attempt to engage him directly would likely only result in confusion he could exploit to his immediate advantage.
These calculations were thrown completely askew when Morgan pinned him to the wall with a mystickal fog, quickly stepping aside to allow Rahne to rush forward and literally claw his chestplates apart.
A well-placed lance of mystic fire impacting the wall on
either side of his head brought his attention fully upon
Then – Morgan
Please, mother!
I beg thee…!
“I heard you the first twenty bloody times,” Morgan hissed to herself, edging her way along the otherwise empty corridor. Since bringing them together to this renovated riverside warehouse they called a headquarters (well, that the rest called a headquarters; what Morgan herself called it wasn’t fit to print), Gawain had put only one restriction on their presence and movements: that they give the topmost floor a wide berth, and absolutely stay out of his private workspace…which just so happened to reside at the eastern end of the top floor.
Morgan herself had never been much for following rules, or so she told herself, but to date had lacked a reasonable justification to infringe upon them before now. The ‘voice’ had led her to his workspace as surely as a trail of bread crumbs. The door didn’t really prove a barrier for her; on instinct more than conscious choice her form dissolved into mist, flowing around and through the door without the slightest hindrance, then coalescing and becoming solid once more. She allowed herself a self-satisfied grin as she quickly surveyed the variety of equipment occupying this dimly lit space. “Bloody mad scientist,” she muttered, only to be startled by a low groan coming from nearby.
By now, Morgan had becomes used to surprises; her (relatively) short life had taught the unexpected was the norm than then exception.
Even so, she still found herself caught off-guard by this: what looked like a wholly ordinary, white-haired pensioner strapped to a metal gurney, burn-welts covering him from head to toe! Dessicated and thin as he was, his blind eyes roamed all about as his weak voice whispered “Muh...muh...mother...?”
Morgan stumbled forward, tears blinding her as she tugged and pulled at the tight bindings holding the man down. This caused the man to visibly flinch and attempt to twist away from her. “Mother? Have you...save me from...metal man...ye heard me call...?” he cried through cracked lips.
“Hush!” Morgan shushed him frantically, terrified of Gawain reappearing suddenly. “Quiet, or we're rumbled!” This momentary surge of anger helped her focus, allowing her to undo the cuff restraining the man's right arm. She was about to move to free his other arm when the man's skeletal hand shot out and grabbed her own arm. Magelight suddenly surrounded them both like St. Elmo's Fire, the man's body quickly regaining strength and vitality even as Morgan felt herself weaken, her legs buckling from under her as she became so much deadweight.
“I knew you would not abandon me, dear Mother,” the man sneered, drawing her close enough their lips nearly brushed. Morgan fought not to gag from his noxious breath. He effortlessly pulled his other arm free and wrapped a now-powerful hand about her throat.
Something rallied within her at this touch. “Insolent pup!” Morgan sneered in reply, her voice deepening and not a trace of fear or weakness to be heard in it now. No incantation or chant or Words were spoken, yet a flare of raw power exploded between them, causing them to be literally blown apart; Morgan was thrown clear across the room, while her attacker was simply knocked over along with the gurney.
At this racket, Gawain chose that moment to enter the lab. He completely missed seeing Morgan, who lay in a weak heap in the far corner; his prisoner, now free and his powerful form fairly crackling with power, held his full attention right then.
“How did you...” the artificial man began, only to be felled by a mighty blast of magicks Mordred threw out. Physically there was no damage done, but Gawain quickly found his higher-level processors, which were no less efficient than the neural network of the human mind, utterly overwhelmed with sensory data that an ordinary human would incomprehensible and grotesque. Those same processors all shut down in self-defense, the mechanical version of temporary catatonia.
“Hmph,” Mordred grunted, slightly disappointed to see his metallic tormentor fall so easily. Turning back towards where Morgan had fallen, a slow smile coming to his lips as he could almost taste the power within her.
“Oh, Mother? Dear, dear Mother?” he called softly, mockingly. “Your only child needs...”
A blast of mystic flame, which he only barely managed to block yet forced him to back away, cut off whatever he might have said next.
“What you need, Mordred, is t'back
away,” the just-arrived
“Away with ye, Pendragon. Ye're no match against me.”
Amazingly,
Mordred's brown furrowed in
confusion at this curious admission. He
was therefore taken completely by surprise when
The dust hadn't even begun to settle when he heard a low, pained groan further back. He drifted over, looking for a secure place to set down, immediately relieved to see it was seemingly unhurt Morgan.
“More?” he called over, wincing in sympathy as she waved him off while holding her head. “Sorry?”
“S'okay,” she slurred, looking up at him as he approached carefully, ever mindful of how unstable the floor had become.
“Morgan? How
in hell did Mordred get here?”
With a sneer and venomous look towards Gawain's still form, she told him what she knew.
Then – The
Young Pendragons
It took Mordred several breaths to first regain his orientation, then several more to realize he was at the bottom of several hundred pounds of rubble. With a snarl equal parts frustration and raw rage, he threw off the wreckage as easily as one might shrug off a pile of dead leaves. This proved more taxing than he expected, leaving him winded and panting hard. Little surprise then he was caught off-guard once more when something slender and covered in auburn fur barreled into him from behind, causing him to stumble and cry out in pain as sharp claws raked his back and shoulders.
Mordred focused passed the momentary pain and threw out a handful of Elderich bolts. “Away from me, changeling!” he cried, loosing more bolts.
Wolfsbane dodged each one, though more than a few managed to singe her fur. Nevertheless she managed to avoid actual injury and, crouching atop a now-destroyed computer console, asked him in complete seriousness “Dinna yuir mum teach ye manners, sir? At least introduce yuirself 'fore attemptin' to fry a person.”
“Fah!” Mordred growled, throwing his arms wide, a dank and foul mist jetting ou from his fingertips. Rahne found her eyes watering from the stinging mist, which seemed to crawl over and bite into her skin like a thing alive. “Quit this place if you wish to live, wolf-girl.”
“You, sir, are bein' rude!” Rahne ignored the creeping-biting mist and leapt forward once more, nimbly landing on his shoulders, allowing her to land a quick one-two punch to his head before shoving him back again, her taloned feet adding further cuts to him.
“Argh!” the renegade mystic cried as he stumbled back a few paces. Quickly righting himself, he dispelled the dark mist and summoned a series of glowing rings, all of which flung themselves directly at the young metamorph. Wolfsbane found she couldn't dodge them quickly enough, and soon found herself caught and immobilized.
Looking up, she saw the air crackle and spark about Mordred's heaving, bloodied form. His fists were raised and the space between them literally aflame with fierce green fire. Ooo, this is gonna hurt, some insanely calm part of her mind giggled. The rest of her was paralyzed at the realization she was very likely about to die.
However, whatever attack he might have loosed upon her
was suddenly directed instead behind him, at the flying form of
“
“Miserable cur,” the mystic snarled.
He gave the younger man a harsh shake, causing him to rouse slightly.
Mordred tightened both hands about
“Yuir killing him,” Rahne shouted, now nearly hysterical.
“Aye!
I could turn your flesh to ash, boy!
But this...is...so...much...more...satisfying!”
So focused upon the boy before him, Mordred completely missed hearing Rahne squeaked in surprise when Morgan dropped down through the hole in the ceiling and land nimbly before her. She heft something in both hands and called out “Oi! Mummy's boy!”
“Eh?” Mordred turned, momentarily distracted, only to loose a high-pitched scream a second later when something long and solid impacted with his nose and mouth. Rahne was mildly surprised to see Morgan was swinging a Cricket bat as she proceeded to pummel Mordred about the head, shoulders, and chest, causing him to first drop the nearly-unconscious Albion, then to stumble away from her assault. He quickly tripped and was forced to curl into a ball in desperate hopes of staving off further injury.
Morgan however was relentless, resorting to not simply hitting him with the bat, but also kicking him at odd intervals in his 'tender' areas before using the bat once more. All the while she was yelling almost incoherent curses at the now bloodied and weeping man. “Mummy mummy's boy come rescue me mummy fuck you mummy's boy can't trust you for shite worthless piece of shite go piss yourself worthless bag mummy's boy!”
As she attacked, the mystic bands holding Rahne
prisoner soon faded from sight, allowing her to race over to
“That's enough, Morgan!” he shouted. “You've made your point.”
“Like hell,” she snarled, trying to kick the now shaking and battered body at her feet.
“How...who is he?” Rahne asked quietly, uncertain if she felt sympathy, or anything at all, for this broken creature.
“His name's Mordred. A wannabe sorcerer but not in the good sense. The Pendragons hav' fought 'im a time or three, usually in connection wi' the Bane or the Black Parliament.”
“Wasn't he a character in King Arthur legend?” Morgan asked, sounding disinterested.
“Yup. He was.”
“Well, now he's a smear,” she snarled, looking ready
to resume her attack.
“Mordred? How'd you get in here, eh?”
“Your metal master, pup. He grabbed me off the streets, locked me away, tortured me!” The last two words were shouted, his voice cracking from the strain.
None of the young Pendragons
watching him were either impressed or given to sympathy right then.
“You deserve it, and worse,”
As he spoke,
No sooner had he realized all this than the three of them saw Mordred literally fall into one of these suddenly heavier shadows, vanishing from sight so quickly none of them had a chance to so much as blink, never mind try to stop his escape. Barely a single heartbeat later the shadows retreated to their normal, minimal selves, leaving the three of them alone in the corridor.
“Wonderful,”
Both young women nodded.
Now - Gawain
No sooner had his systems rebooted than Gawain found himself surrounded by his nominal charges. Without a word passing between them, they set to work.
Morgan picked him up with a magickal
mist his sensors could neither identify nor even detect, and proceeded to slam
him into the walls on either side of them, then into the floor.
His internal processors skipped and strove mightily to adapt to this;
in human terms, he very nearly passed out again.
By the time his CPU fully rebooted and his perceptions cleared, he
found himself pinned to a wall by Morgan while his chest plate was being torn
open by Rahne Sinclair.
Stepping forward,
“Aye,” Rahne affirmed sharply.
“T’hell w’ him,”
Morgan snarled, her Welsh accent coming to the fore.
“Stand back,
Gawain calculated his chances of simple survival, and
decided honesty was his only course of action right then.
“I am not…the Gawain you knew, Cam McClellan.
I, or rather my central processing program, were originally known as
Recorder-303 of the
“And your decision to form our
team? Was this also a
‘deliberate intervention’?”
“No. This
was my own decision.”
“So far you know, eh?”
“Granted,” Gawain nodded. “So far as I know, this was my own decision.”
“So, why us?”
“An’ why we ye torturin’ that pensioner?” Morgan quickly put in.
“Mordred was among the trio who stood at the center of the same crisis that destroyed my previous shell. I had hoped that he would be able to provide data on the others if given sufficient…incentive.” Everyone went silent at this admission, but only for a moment.
“Incentive?” Rahne echoed, incredulous.
“T’hell w’ him, I say,” Morgan ground out between clenched teeth, her fists clenching equally tightly. “I’ll tear ‘im apart myself!”
But
“I heard you,” she groused, pulling herself free. “If you’re about t’ suggest we all kiss an’ make up…”
“Not a chance,”
“Are you out of your gourd?!”
“I said, release him. Now, Morgan.” She gave him a sour look, but did as bade, dispersing her magickal mist and letting Gawain fall back to the floor.
“Thank you,” the android began, only to be cut off by
a blast of dragon’s fire from
“Save it. You’re
nowhere near off the hook, Recorder or whatever the hell you are.”
Nevertheless,
“I sought to protect this continuum from further…”
“I said shut up!”
“I agree,” the android nodded.
To their collective surprise,
“I’m going to let him stay on…”
“You are joking!” Morgan exclaimed.
“We cannae trust him!” Rahne insisted.
“No, and no. No, I’m not joking, and no, we can’t trust him worth a damn,” he conceded. “But I still want to keep him close by.”
Morgan ground her teeth again and asked “Well, who died
an’ made you king, eh?”
“Fine,” she quickly conceded.
“You want the top spot, fine. Just…keep
him away from me,
fair?” Without waiting for
an answer, Morgan turned on her heel and marched off.
“And you?”
“I’m with you,” the Scots girl nodded. “But if he steps out of line…”
“I know.”
“I’ll go see to Morgan.” Rahne
likewise turned and left, leaving
“I will follow your directives,” Gawain stated,
sounding almost earnest about it.
“Bully for you. In
that case, start cleaning this place up.
I’m quite sure that’s within your capabilities, yes?” Without
waiting for an answer,
Gawain simply stood there for a moment, its mind initiating a host of calculations and devising stratagems, only a small minority of which related to the clearing away of the rubble surrounding him; the physical rubble, at any rate.
Epilogue
Even though he hadn't initiated the spell itself, although Mordred
easily recognized the dark, nigh-unspeakable magicks
involved. He allowed himself to be pulled through the inky, cloying
darkness, mindful to keep his eyes shut against the horrors through which was
dragged.
At length, barely a heartbeat or three later, his journey ended. More
accurately, the cloying, clinging darkness vanished suddenly and he found
himself being hauled by powerful hands through empty air, being literally
thrown like so much deadweight.
Landing gracelessly on a floor covered with thick carpeting, Mordred
lay there for a moment, allowing his mystic senses to assess his newest
surroundings. He detected a pair of strong presences near him, ones
oddly familiar yet wholly alien to his experience. He cautiously opened his
eyes, as he struggled to his knees, only to back away in a panic at the sight
of the pair that watch him so intently.
“Welcome, Mordred,” the crystalline features
of Stephen Saunders smiled coldly. Beside him, Salome's stone visage
gazed upon him impassively. At the sight of his panic, she threw her head back
and laughed.
An inhuman sound that echoed off the dark panels of the palatal, yet spartan office like a thing nearly alive.
The author’s sez: well, that wraps up “Generation Gap”. The next few issues will build up to long-promised “The Breach” storyline, as well resolve the ‘Unseen Hands’ backstory that has been appearing in various issues of “Pendragons” and “Tales of the Pendragons”. Hopefully I’ll be able to do Barry’s original vision justice. Comments, criticisms and the like can be directed to yankee_pendragon@hotmail.com
Next Issue: the team learns that “Vengeance” is a dish best served hot…with Hellfire!
See you then.
