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Episode
097 |
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“You are what you do when it matters
most.” Spycraft card game slogan Morgan wore a troubled look. Waiting several paces from the front of the
line, he stood between Rebecca and the street, his arms crossed. Intently quiet, he kept glancing around;
taking note of every detail that surrounded them. Rebecca watched his scrutiny of their
environment. She tugged his trench
coat tighter around her shoulders and stayed quiet as he invested himself in
being aware. The door to the club opened and
two people came out. As they did,
Morgan’s had jerked to the door, staring at it as if it had spoken. As the line began to slowly advance, he
stared at the door, worried. “What’s
wrong?” she finally asked with a hesitant tone. Morgan stared at the closing door
for a moment more. “I don’t know. Something’s…” “You’re usually quiet, but this is
different,” she ventured. “Is it about
your friends?” Her voice shook
subtly. “Is it about “No, it’s…” He stopped and looked at her. “ “If you’ve still got a thing for
her,” Rebecca offered, looking away. “It’s…she’s…” He stopped and re-evaluated his
vocabulary. “She was like a
coworker. We worked together for a
long time. We’re close, but it’s not
anything like that.” “She’s a knight,” Rebecca said,
moving as the line reformed itself amorphously. “Or a dame, whatever. But I mean, you and she…” “She and I are nothing,” he said
comfortingly. But is eyes traveled
back to the door. “Besides, that’s not
it at all.” He stared at the heavy
door, as if trying to see the music behind it. “I can…I don’t know. Something’s not right.” “Like déjà vu or something?” she
asked. She started to smile. “Or do you mean like psychic? There’s this psychic, Madame Kieri, and
she…” “No,” Morgan stopped her. “I don’t know what it is. But something…” Rebecca nodded, looking down the
line. In the late urban spring, the
night air was hot with a cool cement edge to it. The scent of chain link and concrete filled
the senses. “What should we do?” she
finally asked. Morgan looked down at her. “We?” She smirked behind her dark
hair. “You think I’m going to let you
play hero all by yourself?” “Who said anything about being a
hero?” he asked. “Morgan,” she smiled. “You’re tall, dark, handsome,
broad-shouldered, intelligent, and you probably know eight different ways to
kill someone with a spoon. If ever
there was someone who should be a hero, it’s you.” He blinked repeatedly, unsure how to
respond. As he thought, she looked at
the doors to the club. “You keep
looking up there. Something’s going on
behind those doors, where your friends are.
Put two and two together. It’s
hero time and you’re the hero.” She
smiled. “Just don’t leave me out of it,
okay? Just don’t leave me alone.” Morgan readied to protest but she swung his
trench coat off her shoulders. “Your
cape, good sir.” “Please don’t call me sir,” he
nearly begged, accepting the coat with a troubled look. He looked into it as if staring at his own
haunted reflection. With a heavy
weight upon his shoulders, he pulled it on.
“Stay behind me,” he said. “If
there’s trouble, back up to a wall and don’t move. If the police show up, you don’t know me.” He turned to the front of the
line, ready to move, when the doors opened again. He immediately looked again, his attention
captured by the music. He stared
adamantly until the doors closed. “Something’s
definitely going on,” he said, more to himself. He set his sights on the front of the line
and started for it, ignoring the people between him and it. At the red velvet rope that
blocked off the line, two bouncers, half again as thick a Morgan, stood in
his way. “I need to get inside,” he
said simply, Rebecca staying behind him, almost out of sight. “You need to get to the back of
the line,” said the bouncer on Morgan’s right with the Fu Manchu
moustache. “You jumped all those
people.” “I think there’s trouble inside,”
Morgan said, glancing at the door, Rebecca staying in his shadow. “Then we’d know about it,” said
the other bouncer with bleached blonde hair.
“Back of the line.” Morgan sighed and looked up. “Guys, let me through.” “No,” Fu Manchu said, puffing up
his muscled chest. “Back. Of.
The. Line.” Morgan closed his eyes and lowered
his head. “Let me through, please.” “If you don’t get to the back of
the line,” the blonde bouncer said, “we’re going to have to restrain you.” Morgan kept his eyes closed. “Thank god, I didn’t bring my sword,” he
said to himself. Morgan’s left hand moved faster
than a gunshot. Landing directly into
the blonde bouncer’s nose, his fist reformed the thick man’s face, smashing
his nose completely into his cheeks.
The man was unconscious before he even started to collapse. Morgan added a cross punch with
his right fist for good measure, before reversing the motion of his right
hand, backhanding Fu Manchu with a low that would knock down a tree. He finished with a building-leveling hook
punch that moved faster than the eye could process. Leaving the stunned crowd behind
him, Morgan began to ascend the steps for the thick doors. He glanced over his shoulder as Rebecca
quickly navigated the steps he was taking two at a time. At the doors, he stopped and turned to
her. “Last chance.” She didn’t respond. She stayed her ground. Morgan couldn’t help but smile. He turned to the doors and grabbed the
thick, ornate handles. With a powerful
pull, he yanked them open. |
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