Changes have been made, hopefully addressing the most grievous problems.
Any further suggestions are greatly appreciated, public or private, your
choice.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS: Before we go, I'd like to thank a number of
great folks on the FFML who took an interest in this project.
*Jamie and Brigit Wilde, for their help with US foreign policy
during the pre-WWII era, even though I'm going to have to ignore
their ballistics advice. (Sorry! Pulp heroes are like
Schwartzenegger and Chow Yun Fat; they never run out of bullets,
and they can do improbable things with firearms.)
*Elsa Bibat and Allyn Yonge, for their advice on capturing the
"feel" of pulp fiction and various other Shadow-y things,
*Bert Miller, for his invaluable assistance with all things
Chinese,
*TrboTurtle@AOL.com, who sent me a link to the original Shadow
stories which I will give at the end of the fic, a link that
allowed me to refresh my Shadow knowledge, (a few others sent it
too, but he was the first.)
*All the others who commented, giving encouragement and advice
above and beyond the call of FFML duty; if I thanked you all
individually, there'd be no room for the fic.
*****************
NERIMA, PRESENT DAY.
It was a particularly drizzly afternoon in Nerima when
Cologne called Shampoo and Mousse into the back room of the
Nekohanten.
The day's custom had been slow, even for a weekday; most
of the commuters and locals had decided to eat their bagged
and boxed lunches rather than brave the miserable conditions
outdoors. Even Shampoo's normally bubbly temperament was
subdued by the grey day, to the point where she had actually
ignored Mousse's come-ons rather than pounding him. Cologne
herself had been unusually quiet and grim for the past few days,
a fact that worried her great-granddaughter quite a bit.
The Amazons abroad were seated around the small table in
the kitchen that they usually used for breaks, Cologne's
diminutive frame perched atop a trio of phonebooks.
"<I will be leaving this evening,>" the ancient Amazon
rasped in her native tongue, pausing to take a few slow puffs
on her pipe, watching the burning tobacco in the bowl glow a
warm orange. "<I should not be gone more than a few days; a
week or two at the most.>"
"<Is it tribal business, Great-grandmother? I've a letter
for Mother and Father that I haven't mailed yet, if you'll be
going home...> Shampoo inquired politely, desperately hoping
that was indeed the case; that her beloved Elder was not,
as she suspected, hiding an illness. Mousse cocked an eyebrow
as he busied himself setting steaming cups of strong black tea
in front of his beloved and her ancestress.
"<It is tribal business of a sort, child, but I'm afraid
it won't be taking me back to the village. A very old friend
of mine passed away last week, and I must attend his funeral
in America.>"
Shampoo barely restrained her sigh of relief and nodded
in understanding. "<Will we be closing the restaurant, then,
or..?>"
Cologne waved a gnarled hand dismissively. "<Do as you
prefer. You've been working hard lately, the both of you. Take
a vacation, if you wish; I'll be leaving some monies to tide
you two over until I return. As for now, back to work. I must
finish packing.>" And with that, the wizened elder hopped atop
her cane and made her way up the stairs to the dormers,
leaving her young charges to mind the store.
Cologne sighed to herself as she slid the door to her
room closed and slumped to the floor, feeling every one of her
hundred-plus years. There was nothing, she reflected, that
reminds a woman of her own mortality like the death of friends
from her youth. Tamping fresh tobacco into the bowl of her
pipe, she made her way over to her jewellery box; not the one
full of magical treasures of the tribe, (the ones Shampoo
borrowed with alarming frequency,) but her own, personal effects.
Inside were memories. A pressed lotus blossom wrapped
carefully in rice paper, given to her over seventy years ago
by a young Japanese pervert who had, it seemed, at least one
romantic bone in his body; a wrought golden bracelet bearing a
tiger and a phoenix, her clan's totems, given to her by her
mother-in-law on the occasion of her wedding to her sweet,
quietly handsome Rei-xa, dead these past thirty years. A
favorite pair of jade earrings she had received as a birthday
gift from a long-dead grandparent; a leather strip strung
clumsily with brightly-painted clay beads that a young Shampoo
had made her ten years ago, simply to show her sometimes-
forbidding great-grandmother that she loved her. All were
treasured, pearls beyond price. At the bottom of the carved
cedar box was a false panel. Gingerly, she lifted it,
retrieving the object of her search.
It was a gold ring, yellowed with age, bearing a red
rounded crystal cabochon. Quite ordinary and plain, really;
unremarkable when compared to even the plainest item in her
box of memories. It wasn't magical, it wasn't even
particularly beautiful or well-made, either. She knew for a
fact that it was indeed one of hundreds, mass-produced on an
assembly line. Yet the red gem seemed to catch the light,
drawing it into the shadows at the crystal's core so that it
seemed redder than red, a bloody, thick scarlet.
"<Oh, Ying-Ko....>" the old woman sighed, clutching the
ring in one tiny hand. "<I never would have dreamed you, of
all people, would die in your sleep.>"
*************************************************
Space Pirate Productions Present...
"THE SHADOW OF THE PAST"
By Dave Menard
The Shadow and associated characters copyright Conde-Nast
Publishing. Other characters created by Rumiko Takahashi, and
copyright her designated licensees. This is a work of fanfiction,
and no profit has or ever will be made from it, so obey your
local lawyer leash-laws.
The first draft was Allyn's fault. This one is Elsa's.
****************************************************
NEW YORK CITY, SEPTEMBER, 1931
The sleek charcoal-grey sedan slid through the midnight
fog like a dagger through sackcloth, coming to a halt in the
middle of the blocked-off bridge. Underneath, the East River
rolled on, uncaring, as dark deeds took place above.
A beautiful young woman was dragged from the back seat,
her angry yells muffled by her thick gag. She struggled
against her chains, but she had been expertly bound, her legs
imprisoned in just-solidified concrete. Her head lolled loosely
atop her neck, a side-effect of the opium used to sedate her.
She, like her captors, was Chinese; dressed in the tattered
remains of a blue cheongsam embroidered with a tiger and phoenix
rampant, a splash of color in the Manhattan night, syanding out
like roses on a corpse. Her captors were nattily dressed in sharp
American suits and concealing trenchcoats, snap-brim fedoras
hiding their almond-shaped eyes as they dragged her to the rail
of the bridge.
A bulky figure, obviously the man in charge, climbed out
of the sedan and strolled leisurely over to the bound girl,
buttoning up his black overcoat against the fall chill.
"<You shouldn't have nosed around where you aren't
welcome, little flower,>" he whispered in his native
Cantonese, stroking a gloved hand down the face of his
captive while running his eyes over her barely-concealed charms.
The woman (or girl? it was hard to tell, as she was possessed of
that sort of childlike Celestial beauty so rare in western
women,) returned his frankly appraising look with a fierce glare
as she snapped at his fingers; a futile gesture of resistance
since the two thugs held her tightly, her powerful muscles
deadened by the poppy distillate. "<Chinatown belongs to me, and
I don't need legends from the old country trashing my operations
and freeing my whores. Who are you working for? The Triads? The
Italians? The Irish?>"
The girl gurgled something through the gag. The man cocked
an eyebrow curiously. "<Very well. I'll remove the gag, but if
you scream, no one will hear you; not in this neighborhood,>"
He tugged the gag off, withdrawing his fingers quickly lest
she try again to bite him. "<There now, that's better, isn't
it?>"
The woman spat at the sidewalk at his feet. "<Chu Wan,
you damned lowland fool!>" she mumbled in accented Cantonese.
"<I want nothing to do with you! I am on a Blood Hunt! Release
me, or you will feel the wrath of three-thousand years of->"
A slap echoed in the foggy dark, rocking the woman backward
in her captors' arms.
"<Wrong answer. Very well, you've had your chance.>" He
replaced the gag, gave a final, almost casual stroke of her
cheek, straightened his lapels and turned to make his way back to
the car. Almost as an afterthought, he added: "<Throw her over
the side.>"
His men struggled to comply, but their muttered grunts
and curses were silenced by gunshots, as two high-calibre
bullets took off the better parts of their heads, sending
their corpses over the side and their captive slumping to the
sidewalk, unconscious from her head hitting the railing as she
fell.
Chu Wan whirled, seeking the source of the shots, pulling
a hogleg from inside his coat "<Who dares-?>"
He was answered by laughter. Deep, mocking, sonorous
laughter that echoed across the bridge, sending chills down his
spine.
*Chu wan,* the sinister voice hissed from all around him.
Wan turned slowly in a circle, seeing nothing but mist and
flickering shadows. "<Where are you, devil?! Show yourself!>" He
fired into the darkness. More laughter answered, this
time from behind. He spun, firing again, but the laughter
continued, seeming to circle him like a prowling tiger.
The gangster began to sweat, his eyes wide with fear. His
men were dead, and he had but a limited supply of shells. He knew
now exactly what was stalking him; the whispers had been
circulating in the underworld for months. A living shadow, a
mysterious avenger that had destroyed whole syndicates almost as
a game.
*Chu Wan, you are a murderer and a slaver,* the mocking
voice called. *You've killed hundreds with you poison, destroyed
countless lives; did you think you could get away with it..?*
"<Shut UUUUPPPP!!!>" Chu Wan screamed, firing blindly
into the night, spent brass accumulating at his
feet, all the while the mocking voice laughed at his
fear.
*Did you think I couldn't find you? Did you think I wouldn't
know?*
"<Where are you?!>" Chu Wan screamed, firing again and again
until his magazine emptied. Cursing, he threw the weapon aside.
"<Who are you?!>"
The laughter seemed to grow louder, sending icy claws
down Chu Wan's back. Before his eyes, a patch of fog
solidified, becoming a swirling ebon cloak draped over a tall,
angular form. The man, or demon, stepped forward, blazing eyes
almost hidden beneath a wide-brimmed hat, twin blackened
automatics gripped in black-gloved hands. The dark being's shadow
stretched like an angry cobra before him, seemingly
longer and darker than the dim light of the weak streetlights
should have allowed. The hideous laughter continued, piercing
dagger-like into Wan's mind. A sudden wave of terror crashed over
the Chinese gangster, turning his knees to jelly.
Chu Wan screamed and ran, his bowels loosening, only to
collide with a stony fist that appeared from nowhere, knocking
him onto his back. Suddenly, strong hands yanked him to his
feet and slammed him onto the hood of his sedan, denting the
steel of the hood.
"<Don'tkillmepleasedon'tkillme...> he grovelled, "<Oh
AncestorssavemePleasedon't killme...>" Chu Wan sobbed, an
acrid-smelling stain spreading across the front of his
tailored trousers. Memories of childhood night-fears reeled in
his mind as the nightmare figure hunched over him like a bird of
prey, his commanding gaze pinning the gangster to the hood of the
car like an insect.
*You will go down to the police station and turn yourself
in, Wan. You will fully confess to all your crimes.*
"<I'll do whatever you say, just don't kill me...>"
The dark figure released him. *Go!*
Chu Wan ran. As he fled into the fog-shrouded darkness,
the sinister voice echoed in his mind, laughing still. The
stain on Wan's trousers spread, but he continued to run,
uncaring, into the night. He vanished from view in the deep fog,
still screaming, the terrors of his tortured mind turning
lamposts into demons and parked cars into restless, clawed hulks
that seemed to snap and snarl at him in passing. All the while,
the hideous laughter rang out across the night-shrouded streets.
*************************************
Professor Jim Henderson was pretty low in the pecking
order at the New York Museum of Antiquity, he knew that
well. Unlike many of his colleagues, he'd spent his entire
career in academia, never dirtying his hands with the drudgery
of field work. Unfortunately, he had little talent for
administration either, so he'd drifted from position to
position, until washing up here as a cataloguing assistant to
Professor Richmond, the curator of the Far Eastern Antiquities
wing.
It was in that capacity that he was stuck in the bowels
of the museum in the wee small hours of the morning, looking
over a recently-delivered shipment.
Henderson's specialty had been Ancient Greece, so he knew
little about the items he was cataloguing; they appeared to be
mostly mundane, everyday objects. Oil lamps, potsherds,
crudely-forged iron arrow- and spear-heads. Valuable to
researchers, certainly, but nothing eyecatching enough to
warrant display in the galleries upstairs.
It was a shame, he noted, that the brewing hostilities in
Europe made getting permission for American digs in sites in the
Mediterranean next to impossible. They museum had been
fortunate indeed to get a dig permit from the Japanese
occupying army in China.
He mopped his brow with a handkerchief as he took in the
final crate. It was a tall, rectangular box about six-and-a-
half feet high, stamped 'fragile' and 'this side up' in half a
dozen languages. The crate wasn't listed on the receipt from
the Stoner expedition, but it _had_ arrived on the same truck
as the others...
"Eight damn years at Yale... " he grumbled, hefting his
crowbar and setting to with a grunt, "and I'm a goddamn
packing clerk!"
The crate opened reluctantly, spilling a mountain of
sawdust at his feet. The crowbar fell nervelessly from weak
fingers as he took in the contents of the mysterious crate.
"What in the Sam Hill..?"
Henderson knew little about the far east, but he knew
valuable when he saw it. The thing was some sort of silver coffin
or casket; the only thing that sprung to mind was some kind of
Egyptian mummy case, but the symbols and decorations were
unmistakably oriental in origin; a vast Chinese Dragon coiled
about the body of the cylinder testified to that. Some form of
intricate locking mechanism held it closed in the front, and the
entire object seemed to radiate mystery and quiet menace, as
though daring him to break the seal and discover it's secrets.
Henderson wasn't a terribly great archeologist or
historian, but he knew better than to open it without Dr.
Richmond's presence. Glancing over his shoulder at the strange
sarcophagus, he picked up the phone and dialled the
professor's home number.
*************************************
The young woman came to on the bridge, her muscles aching
from her unnatural posture and the clammy dampness of the fog,
head still aswim with Chu Wan's foul poison. She looked up to see
a black-garbed figure looming over her. He seemed to be cut from
night's own dark cloth, with only a bloody splash of red at his
throat and in the lining of his swirling cloak. To her drug-
addled mind, he seemed a demon from her grandmother's tales, a
hungry ghost come to devour her soul. She began to scream against
her gag, when the creature unslung a pair of guns. No demon,
then, but a man. She clenched her jaw shut and closed her eyes,
trembling in terror and dissapointment. She had escaped death
thus far, only to fall to the bullets of a mere man in this
benighted city.
Her ears filled with the thunderous report of shots
fired, and yet... There was no pain!
Hesitantly she opened her eyes. He feet had been freed
from the block of cement! She spared an upward glance in time
to see the dark man reholster his weapons and reach down,
yanking her to her feet. Instinct took over, and she kicked up
at his face, her drugged muscles failing to put much
behind it. Instead of knocking him away, she merely tore off
his red scarf, revealing his face.
His face... It was long, and sharp, and wicked, like a
dagger or a razor. It was cold, cruel malevolence she could
feel in the marrow of her bones, and the eyes burned with rage...
"<Ying-Ko...>" She whispered in fear, as though to ward off
some supernatural evil.
He snarled, yanking up his scarf to cover his visage.
*How do you know that name?! Tell me!!*
"<Y-you...>" she whispered backing up against the
railing. "<You are he! Ying-Ko the Warlord! Ying-Ko the
Butcher! Your men razed our village ten years ago->"
*Your dialect... You are from one of the mountain villages
near the Tibetan border, aren't you.* It wasn't a
question, but the girl nodded anyway. The man stepped back.
*That isn't my name. Ying-Ko is dead. I am merely his shadow.*
The girl regained a little bit of her self-possession,
swallowing hard. "<I was told of this... I was told that you
had met the Tulpa, and that he had enlightened you...>"
*You know of the Tulpa?*
The girl nodded still backing away. The Shadow followed,
looming over her. "<H-he was well-known in my province... He
was greatly mourned.>"
The blazing eyes widened a fraction. *He is dead?*
The girl swallowed again. "<Yes. He was killed by one of
his students, they say.>"
The Shadow's brow seemed to crease, or maybe it was a
trick of the light. Suddenly, he was inches away from her, his
hawklike nose almost touching her own. After a heartbeat he
straightened, stepping back a foot or two. *You are telling the
truth, as far as you know it.* Once again, it wasn't a
question, merely a statement of fact. One hand shot out,
grabbing one of the woman's. She struggled for a split-second,
but his grip was like steel. When he released her, she bore an
unremarkable gold ring on her middle finger, with an inset red
stone. The Shadow backed away, hands disappearing into his
cloak.
*Kho-Lohn of the Joketsuzoku, I've saved your life. as such,
it belongs to me,* he addressed the girl, the mocking tone
returned to his voice.
Kho-Lohn nodded warily. Such was the custom in many parts
of her native land, and amongst her people as well. Absently
she tugged on the ring, but it seemed stuck fast.
*Do not remove that ring.* He glared once, and she
stopped. *You seek vengeance on the man who attacked your village
and slew your mother. You are an adept of your tribe's warrior
arts, and as such are useful to me. When I have need of you, you
will be contacted.*
Kho-Lohn's mind was awhirl with questions. How did he
know my name? How does he know why I'm here? Magic? Finally,
she stammered out: "<How will I know?>"
*It is unlikely that we shall ever meet again. Should I have
need of you, one of my agents will contact you. you will know
them by the use of this phrase 'The sun is shining'.*
"Tha son iss shyniing." Kho-Lohn repeated the awkward
English phrase.
*Again.*
"The sun is shy-niing"
*You will answer, 'but the ice is slippery.' Do you
understand?*
"'The aice iss sliiparee.' <Yes, I understand. H-how do
you know these things about me? How did you know I was in
danger?>"
He laughed, long and loud, disappearing once more into
the fog.
*The Shadow knows...*
*********************************************
Dr. Richmond rubbed the corners of his eyes wearily
before replacing his spectacles. Henderson had roused him from
a sound sleep to bring him here, and he vowed that if it
wasn't the discovery of the century, Henderson'd be out of
work by tomorrow morning.
"Henderson, this had better be good. Do you have any idea
what time it is?"
"Yessir, I do, but I thought you'd better have a look at
this." Henderson led his reluctant superior from the elevator
into the shipping and receiving area. "At first, I thought it
might be a mummy case, but as you can see-"
"The shipment came from China, correct?" Richmond
injected. His assistant nodded. "Well, then that's
preposterous. The Chinese never practiced ceremonial
mummification."
"I know that, sir," Henderson replied. To be truthful, he
didn't, but he didn't relish looking any more ignorant than he
had to. "But when I saw the markings... Well, see for
yourself."
Richmond stopped dead at the sight of the silver
cylinder. His eyes widened in awe and scholarly glee. "It's...
exquisite! Is that _solid_ silver..?" He touched the surface
almost reverently as his eyes darted across the object. "You
did the right thing calling me, Henderson."
Henderson released out a breath he hadn't known he'd been
holding. "I figured you'd want to see this as soon as
possible."
"Yes..." Richmond whispered absently, entranced by the
gleaming casket. "Look, there's writing here, on the side!!"
He leaned in closer to decipher the markings. "It's archaic
Chinese, hard to read... There's some dirt covering it.
Henderson, your handkerchief, if you please."
The younger man handed his boss the square of thin cloth
and stepped back to give him his space. "What's it say?"
"That's what I'm trying to... Aha! Here it is. 'Kneel,
mortal, before He who is Master of the World, the Dragon of
Heaven on Earth, Emperor of All Mankind. Here rests Shen
Leung'... My God... How the _hell_ did they manage to convince
the Japs to part with this?"
"Who's Shen Leung?" Henderson asked.
"It's a mythological reference to one of the great
dragons of Chinese legend. He supposedly ruled all of China,
as well as parts of Tibet and southeast Asia. As legend has
it, the dragon married a human woman, beginning a great
dynasty known as the Musk that continued until they
intermarried into the nobility around the beginning of the Han
Dynasty."
"Oh yeah? What ever happened to them, anyway?"
"It's a mystery, actually. The British found no evidence
of this mysterious 'Musk Dynasty' when they invaded, and
subsequent governments have denied that the Musk existed at
all, except as fairy tales. Even the Stein expidition turned up
nothing but rumours and half-truths. Still, it's a very common
peasant superstition... But this discovery, if it's legitimate
and not some clever forgery, could be the beginning of a whole
new era in our understanding of China's past! Why, the engravings
alone..." Richmond's eyes were aglow in heady joy. This could
make his career! He began to mentally list what he'd need to
begin study of the artifact; a soil-depth analysis of the earth
in which it had been found, a metallurgical analysis of coffin
itself, the expedition log...
"Er, so I can leave you two alone then?" Henderson jested
weakly. "I could really use the sleep..."
"Fine, fine... Lock the shipping gate when you leave."
Richmond nodded absently, engrossed in his mystery.
Richmond had long held an interest in crypto-archeology.
A close colleague of the infamous Dr. Henry Jones Jr., the
mysteries of the far east held as much fascination for him as
the enigmas of the middle and near east held for his
celebrated counterpart. The hidden city of K'ung Lung, the
legendary Springs of Jusenkyo... He had done his doctoral
thesis on the legends of lost Sino-Tibetan civilizations so
prevalent in the Tsing-hai and Sezchuan provinces. And now,
to be confronted with evidence of the factual existence of the
Musk Dynasty! He could barely restrain his glee.
An echoing crash announced Henderson's departure,
shutting and locking the shipping doors behind him. Alone with
the casket, Richmond stood and removed his suit jacket and
rolled up his sleeves in preparation.
"First things first," he said to himself as he pulled out
some rubbing paper and charcoal from his briefcase. The
rubbings of the engravings could be sent off to a colleague of
his in California for study. Then it would be time to open the
coffin...
He knocked jauntily on the lid of the sarcophagus.
"Almost time to wake up, Your Highness," he grinned.
The grin fell as one of the seven locks popped open as
though it were spring loaded. Richmond reached over to close
it (the dragon pattern ran across it, and he wanted a complete
impression) when it snapped shut the instant before he could
touch it. He raised an eyebrow. "Curious..."
The bottom lock sprung open in turn, then shut, followed
by the other six in rapid succession. Richmond jumped back,
alarmed. Had he set off some kind of booby-trap?
The seven locks continued their mad clattering, filling
the room with firecracker-burst noise. Richmond backed away,
grasping wildly for the button that would summon the night
watchman. With a final clank-hiss, all seven popped open, and
the sarcophagus seemingly split in two like an enormous egg,
disgorging a roiling cloud of golden smoke.
Amidst the cloud, a man's body stood revealed. He was
tall, and regally adorned in ceremonial armor of gold and
jade. He wore a great golden helmet, the faceplate a snarling
mask of an oriental demon or dragon. Full bejewelled gauntlets
enveloped his hands, and purple and white silks were draped
like water across his broad chest, flowing back over his
shoulders like a cape.
"My God..." Richmond whispered in awe. "It's perfectly
preserved-"
Exactly how perfectly was demonstrated a moment later
when the armoured figure moved!
The huge man took a heavy step forward, then another,
until he stood before the casket, smoke dissipating at his
feet. Richmond froze in awe and terror as the gauntleted hands
came up, removing the masked helmet.
His face was long, and hard; shining black hair tumbled
past his shoulders, with streaks of silver flowing like
streamers from his temples. He was clean shaven and beautiful
of feature, until his eyes snapped open, revealing the
reptilian gold irises and slitted pupils in almond-shaped
eyes. His ears were slightly pointed, and a hint of draconic
fang seemed to glint in his mouth as he smiled cruelly.
"It's true!" Richmond whispered in mingled awe and fear,
"It's all true!!"
The man's golden eyes glittered as they alit on the
trembling curator, capturing him, mesmerising him like a
snake's prey. The slitted pupils seemed to widen, until the
darkness encompassed the whole of the iris, then the whole of
the eye, then the whole of Richmond's world.
*Serve me, or die...* The dragon-man's voice seemed to
whisper in his mind. Richmond felt his will slipping away.
His voice was a strangled whisper. "W-what are y-you
doing to me?"
*Serve me,* the voice hissed sibilantly, *or die...*
Richmond was not a weak man; his will was strong. He
managed to fight off the compulsion to kneel for almost a second.
"Yes, my Emperor..." Richmond whispered, abasing himself
before the armored figure, exposing his neck.
The Emperor was merciful. Richmond barely felt a
thing as his neck snapped.
*********************************************
The Shadow returned to his Sanctum, a secret base of
operations hidden amidst the twisting back-alleys of
Manhattan. He paused for a moment to check his messages; Chu
Wan had indeed turned himself in, his source at the precinct
house informed him. Wan had been crying and pissing when he
charged in, confessing all and begging to be locked up. The
Shadow smiled. More scum behind bars, where he belonged. If he
was smart, he'd pay his debt to society, clean up his act and
come out a better man for the experience, willing to make a
positive contribution to society. If he didn't, well... He'd see
him again. The Shadow smiled a mirthless smile and doffed his
dark cloak and hat, removing his brace of pistols with a shrug as
he felt his features soften and melt from their grotesque
arrangement into the handsome, debonair face of Lamont Cranston,
Playboy.
Lamont Cranston had a dinner date, one he was loathe to
blow off. If this Kho-Lohn woman was correct, though, dark
deeds were afoot in his adopted homeland of China, and not
just due to the Japanese invasion. He pondered this as he
dressed in tie and tails for dinner.
He'd always had a fascination with the Orient; after the
Great War, his army unit disbanded, he'd made his way east,
until he came to the Tsing-hai province near the Tibetan
border. Thanks to a few contacts he'd made during the war, he
managed to assemble a group of mercenaries; men who, like
himself, had enjoyed the savagery of war and weren't in any
hurry to go back to their dreary peacetime lives.
The Cranstons were old money, well respected in New York
society, and Lamont had been raised with every advantage a
child could want; an excellent education, striking good looks,
servants to obey his every childish whim, more money than he'd
known what to do with, and indulgent, frequently absent
parents.
If Lamont had been a normal boy, all this might have
simply caused him to grow up into a foppish dandy of a
playboy, and that, in fact, was the image he cultivated to
this day. Lamont, however, had been far from a normal boy.
It had started with bullying the servants; he'd
discovered that he enjoyed inflicting pain and humiliation on
'lesser' beings. It had graduated to beatings, then the
surreptitious killing of small animals. He had been working
himself up to stalking and killing a man when war had broken
out, and he, like other young men his age, was drafted into
the army. His family's connections could have gotten him an
exemption, but he was looking forward to combat.
Lamont winced to himself as he climbed into his private
car and headed towards the Cobalt Club. It had been like
taking a morphine addict and giving him access to the
pharmaceutical locker of the local hospital, only there was no
way Lamont would overdose on killing. Why, in wartime, a man
with his proclivities was not only valuable, he was a hero!
He'd racked up a half-dozen medals for valour when peace had
broken out, spoiling his fun.
So he'd drifted east, and with the help of a few like-
minded individuals, set about amassing power, power built on a
foundation of corpses. Now known by the name of Ying-Ko, the
opium trade had beckoned him, and his education had paid off;
paired with his capacity for ruthless slaughter, his Harvard
Business School degree quickly made him the pre-eminent killer
in a trade dominated by those who used their fellow man and
threw him away.
The Tulpa had changed all that. The lama of a tiny,
obscure temple just over the Tibetan border, he was a master
of the science of the mind, and the application of will. Some
locals said he was the re-incarnation of a saintly monk;
others thought him a bodhisattva, who had forsaken Nirvana to
bring his fellow man to Enlightenment.
Enlighten he did, shining the harsh lamp of Truth into
the dark corners of Lamont Cranston's soul, transforming,
healing him until he knew the stark horror of his deeds. The
light burned, and Cranston passed through the crucible day
after day, month after month, year after year until, at last,
he stood repentant, healed of his sickness of the mind and
weeping in horror at the atrocities his diseased soul had
committed.
He had been willing to die to repent, yet the Tulpa had
offered him a choice. He would be allowed to take his own
life, or he could instead take action to cleanse his karma.
Cranston had leapt at the chance.
He had been reborn to life as an avenger, a righter of
wrongs, and he returned to his native land chastened, eager to
use the Tulpa's teachings to foil the designs of evil men. He
was gifted with the power to know the deepest secrets of a
man's mind, to control and cloud it, to become invisible from
the eyes of man. Invisible, save for the dark stain he could
never expunge from his soul; his Shadow.
And now the Tulpa was dead, or so it seemed. Killed by
one he'd tried to save, as he had saved Cranston. Such a man
must be incredibly dangerous, a man not to be underestimated.
Such a man must possess power as great, if not greater, than
Cranston himself...
The darkness in Cranston's soul snarled eagerly, baring
its fangs. Cranston grinned to himself as he checked his
reflection in the rear-view mirror. It had been some time
since he'd had a challenge.
********************
Kho-Lohn retreated to the waterfront flop-house where
she'd been squatting; with Wan dead, it was possible that no
one knew about her bolthole, but she thought it unlikely.
Gathering up the few meagre belongings she'd amassed, she fled
into the night.
Despite information she had obtained from Wan's flunkies,
she had few leads on the location of the Warlord who had
sacked her village; many warriors had fallen defending
against the attack, including her mother, and the village would
be years in the rebuilding. Vengeance was mandated, and Kho-Lohn
was the best of the surviving warriors. To her had the duty
fallen, a duty she despaired of ever fulfilling.
The Joketsuzoku were a warrior people, and this was not the
first time they had been the victims of such a raid; in their
time, they had weathered hundreds of such attacks, like the
attack performed by Ying-Ko's band of cutthroats ten years ago,
and performed as many themselves on neighbouring tribes. What had
mandated a Blood Hunt was the fact that the invaders had
stolen the Spear of the First Matriarch, a holy relic of the
Joketsuzoku that was said to possess strange and miraculous
powers, guaranteeing the invincibility of the bearer.
Kho-Lohn had chased the raiders across China, but was
always a step or two behind them; she had despaired of ever
catching up with them, until word had reached her from one of
her contacts back home, a seeress by the name of Han-Khee who
told her that she had a vision of the band's leader in a
great metropolis to the West, the greatest city on earth. It
had been hellishly difficult to get past the occupying
Japanese forces, but she had managed to stow away on a
freighter until she reached her goal, New York City. She knew in
her bones that her quarry was here, she had but to find him.
It was this last that was proving the most difficult.
Peking had been many times more populated, but at least there
she'd spoken the language. Here, she was a stranger in a
strange land, an outsider even in Chinatown, where she was
shunned for her Highland origins. Wan's organization had
provided some leads, but they were all petering out, slowly
but surely.
She had one lead left, but there was no time to pursue it
tonight; she had to secure some form of lodgings or crude
shelter for the night. After her encounter with Ying-Ko, she
craved the comfort of a warm, safe bed, hopefully where the
man-demon would never find her...
************************
Somewhere in Manhattan...
"Warriors of the Musk Dynasty!" called the armored figure
on the dais overlooking the palatially-furnished hall. "Our
hour of triumph has arrived!!!"
The assembled men, almost a hundred strong, roared his
name.
"JIN-SENG! JIN-SENG! JIN-SENG! JIN-SENG!"
Emperor Jin-Seng, last descendant of Shen Leung, waited
for the chant to die down before continuing. "No longer will
we skulk in the shadows as our enemies steal what is
rightfully ours! No more will the foreign devils claim our
lands! The time of the strong is now!!!"
The ovation was louder and longer this time, and Jin-Seng
grinned ferally. "With _this_ in our possession-" he held
aloft a elaborately-wrought spear, "None shall stand in our
way!!!"
The chanting was thunderous, and this time, Jin-Seng
joined in, shaking the spear overhead, his powerful voice like
a roar of thunder.
"The Musk Dynasty RISES AGAIN!!!!!!"
****************************************
TO BE CONTINUED
Author's note: The tale is _loosely_ based on the Alec
Baldwin 'Shadow' movie, but it won't be religiously faithful;
expect many changes to come. For the sake of the story, I'm
assuming that manga-Cologne was exaggerating slightly for effect
when she gave her age as 100 years old; for the sake of the
story, she's closer to ninety, making the Kho-Lohn in this story
a young woman in her mid-to-late twenties.
Comments?/Questions? E-mail me at
deibu_kun@sympatico.ca or respond publicly on the FFML.
Want to read the original Shadow stories? Visit
http://www.spaceports.com/~deshadow/ for the classic pulp stories
in downloadable .txt format.
Dave Menard
-------------------------------------
Fanfiction pages: http://spghome.tripod.com/
"Just as there are laws of Conservation of Matter and Energy, so there are
in fact Laws of Conservation of Pain and Joy. Neither can ever be created or
destroyed.
But one can be converted into the other."
-Spider Robinson, 1977