From: ECM101@URIACC.URI.EDU (Mario Di Giacomo) Newsgroups: rec.arts.comics.creative Subject: NTB: Netrigan #4 "Crossfire, Part 2" Date: 30 Jul 1994 10:38:17 -0500 There are several real names of people and places used in this chapter. No information about them should be assumed from this. Thank you. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Tales of the Daemon Issue #4 Crossfire, 2 of 4 BERLIN-TEGEL AIRPORT "Delta, Flight 216, New York to Berlin, now arriving at Gate 12." The crowd of greeters waited expectantly, as the passengers began to disembark. Several held signs: "Schultz", "Klinghoffer", "Galacaweitz", etc. It was a sight common at any airport in the world, with one change. As a man in a black suit left customs, he was greeted by a monk, dresse in a white habit with gold belt and cowl. "Mr. Cross? I am Brother Simeon. Welcome to Berlin." Damien just nodded, and let himself be led. The fact that he was here was strange enough. The morning after his chat with the "Spying Nun," as he liked to think of her, he found himself packing for the trip. A courier had delivered tickets and a passport. Damien was afraid to ask where they'd gotten the picture. And now it seemed he was being given more gifts. Simeon handed him a wallet, some keys, and a small package. "The wallet contains enough marks for a six month stay. You will have access to the Order's Chapterhouse here in Berlin. I've been assigned to be your driver and guide. Are their any questions?" Damien ignored him, concentrating on opening the box. Inside, wrapped in tissue paper, was a ... tie. It was fairly old fashioned, being made of black silk, although as he lifted it from its wrappings, he could see small white sparkles deep within. As the scent of mothballs wafted between them, Damien said, "Gee, just what I wanted. Dare I ask why?" Simeon replied patiently, "The tie belonged to the Golden Agent. Our sensitives indicate it still contains traces of his magics." "A power tie, right?" Damien stripped off his red bowtie, and began to put on the new one, "I really don't think this is the right shirt. Black shirt, black tie? It doesn't work." Damien strode to a mirrored wall. As Simeon walked up, he studied the reflection. The color of the shirt rippled, roaming through the spectrum before settling on a dark, rusty red. "Perfect!" he announced, plucking a black fedora [banded by the same shade of red] from midair, and settling it on his head. Simeon tapped his foot pointedly checking the time. "Shall we go, Mr. Cross?" "Relax, Simmy. Call me Damien." Simeon sniffed, and led Damien out to the waiting car. The luggage, what little there was of it, had already been delivered by a skycap. During the ride, Simeon pointed out several sites of interest, including Brandenburg Tor, and the ruins of Checkpoint Charlie. They arrived at the chapter house, just in time for the evening meal. To Damien, the food reminded him unfavorably of college food. However, it was still several orders of magnitude better than what the airline served, so he managed to get it down. After dinner, he was shown to a room. Of course, the monks called them cells, and considering the lack of comfort and amenities, it was an apt term. As Damien prepared for bed, a lay brother stuck his head in the door. "Shall I turn down the bed for you?" "No, I think I'll sleep above the covers. About 2 feet should do." Of course, the monk though he was kidding. He wasn't. He had a fairly restful night, floating on a cushion of magic. The next morning, after a bowl of thin oatmeal, Damien and Simeon left on their quest. Since the Agent had last been sensed at the Chancellery, they started at it's ruins. "Why did you guys wait so long? It's been almost 50 years!" Simeon kept his eyes on the road, replying, "Two reasons, sir. First, very few of our members have more than a sensitivity to magic. Of those, none have your particular...accompaniment." "Oh. Here we are, I think." They left the car, striding towards the mound of dirt. After taking Berlin, the Soviet Army had razed the building, making it part of their 'No Man's Land.' Acoording to rumor, guard dogs refused to go there, and to this day, the ground remained infertile. Laying his hand upon the ground, Damien tried to evoke images from it, using a mystic form of pychometry. Ghosts of vision flickered in his mind's eye, but nothing he could really get a lock on. Too much time had passed, and a simple spell wouldn't do... "Filthy dog!" Damien glanced upwards, seeing a small knot of clean-shaven youths approach. Unfortunately for him, the shaven part extended to their heads as well. When taken in combination with their tattoos, and jackboots, it spelled one word. "Skinheads," Damien muttered, "Guten tag, mien jung herren. How may I assist you?" The obvious leader, marked by a large swastika emblazoned on the side of his scalp, growled at him, "Do you wish to defile our Leader's grave?" Meanwhile, his associates were starting to 'convince' Simeon, who cowered in a corner. Damien smiled. With an odd glint in his eye, he straightened, turning to face his accuser. Still smiling, he grabbed the leader by the shirt. "If you *ever* threaten me or my friends again, or even annoy them, I will personally remove your testicles. With a belt sander. Am I under- stood?" With a flick of his wrist, and a slight magical assist, he flung the neo-Nazi across the street, depositing him neatly in a public trashcan. Swiftly, he moved over to the quivering, and slightly incontinent, gang members, "Go." They left, at a fair rate of speed, mumbling something about converting to Judaism. Meanwhile, Damien helped his guide up. As Simeon brushed himself off, Damien collected a handful of dirt and gravel. He had an idea. When they arrived back at the monastery, Damien went up to his room, clutching the dirt, some chalk, and five white candles. There, he marked out a pentagram, placing the candles at the corners. He, and the dirt, sat in the middle. With a wave of his hand, the tapers ignited. The room throbbed with leashed energy. "Gathered earth, from Fuehrer's end, Laws of Time and Space suspend." An unseen wind ruffled his hair, as he floated above the star, energy crackling at his fingertips. His tie seemed to swirl with galaxies. "Show me echoes of times gone, And the fate of Netatron!" The ghosts gathered. He saw the duel between Hitler and Cain, and its end. There was no sound or color, but the figures were clear. After the Agent vanished, two figures burst through the door. One, a squirrely schoolmaster type, reached down and plucked the Iron Cross from Hitler's breast. The other, a thin man with burning eyes, seemed to take charge, but his comapnion rushed out of the door. The images grew muddled, but the meaning was clear. The Cross was the key. "Looks like it, mate." Damien fell to earth with a crash. Out of shadows, a translucent shape appeared, firming into a man dressed in an old British army uniform. "Who?" Damien babbled. "'ello. I'm Tommy Adams. As ye can tell, I'm dead." Further discussion revealed that Tommy had been awakened by the magics, having been dead since the fall of Berlin. "I'm a wee bit new at this," he noted, "but I guess I'm one of those echoes you asked for." "I suppose. Did you see the vision?" "Yeah. The chap with the cross is Bormann, Uncle Adolf's right-hand man. You got a fag on you?" "Huh?" "Cigarettes, mate. You got one?" Damien shook his head, "Sorry. I doubt you could smoke it, anyway." "Oh right. I fergot. Bloddy 'ell." Simeon burst into the room, shocking Tommy into invisibility. "Are you alright sir? I thought I heard something?" Damien turned to face him, "I'm ok, just a bit surprised. I got the info I needed." "Good lord!" Simeon crossed himself, "Your eyes!" Damien stared puzzledly. "Look in a mirror, man!" Damien strolled over to the washbasin. In the small mirror, he saw that his eyes, although still green, now lacked whites, and had slit pupils. The entire effect was rather reptilian. "It is as she said!" Simeon pronounced, "The daemon is taking over!" Damien snapped his fingers, and dark, round sunglasses grew out of his eyes, "All better. You worry too much. I'm sure it's only temporary." "Is it?" the monk replied, "Draw the Dagger." "All right, if it makes you feel better..." Damien reached into his jacket. A sudden crackle filled the air, and Damien shook his hand, "A bit of static electricity..." Again, he reached beneath his jacket, drawing the Dagger of Meggido. Energy coruscated up his arm, as he gripped it with white knuckles. "See?" he replied, through gritted teeth, "No problem." Simeon remained unconvinced, "Time is of the essence. Come, let's go to the Library." They walked down the stone corridors to the house's Library. There, the archivist, Brother Alexander, had much to say. "Who are you looking for?" At Damien's response, he continued, "At Nur- emberg, a Hilter Youth soldier, who had fled his unit, reported seeing Bormann's body benath a bridge. Apparently, he'd taken poison." "Who was this soldier?" Damien asked, "What happened to him?" "Arthur Axmann. After the trial, he disappeared." he replied, peering over his glasses. Damien paused, "How's this. Bormann, who knew he'd be captured, passed the Cross onto this Axmann, since as a deserter, he'd be treated better by the Allies." Simeon broke in, "But where did he go?" Alexander had the answer, "Many Nazis fled to South America, through the offices of ODESSA. There is an organization in Buenos Aieres..." "Then that's where I must go." Damien announced. Simeon piped up, "We don't have a chapter there. You'll be on your own." "Good." Damien responded, "You guys are a bit anal." At this he strode out of the room. "God help us if Netrigan gets stronger," Alexander murmured, "God help us all..." --------------------------------------- Mario Di Giacomo, ECM101@uriacc.uri.edu "You're so weird!" "You have *no* idea" ---------------------------------------