The talks had collapsed before they'd even truly begun. A new round was convened, this time with a different, and arguably more volatile, set of representatives.
There was Valmont, the sharply dressed and perpetually anxious leader of the Dark Hand. Opposite him sat Shredder, the imposing master of the Foot Clan, his armor glinting menacingly even in the dim light. And finally, there was the deceptively frail Madame Gao, one of the five fingers of The Hand, her presence radiating a quiet, ancient malice.
They were, with the exception of the Dark Hand, global assassination syndicates. Valmont's organization only had a seat at this table because of the immense power wielded by their silent partner, the demon sorcerer Shendu, and the Shadowkhan army he commanded.
"Ra's al Ghul has retired, has he? To send a nobody like you to discuss matters of such importance," Shredder's voice, metallic and full of disdain, echoed from behind his helmet. He had no respect for this upstart and likely wouldn't have shown much more even if the Demon's Head himself were present.
"And what species are you, exactly?" Alan shot back instantly, his "king of trash talk" mode activating without hesitation.
The question, so bizarre and direct, struck a nerve. Shredder's entire body tensed. The secret of his true, otherworldly origins was one he guarded with lethal paranoia. If it were ever exposed, he would become the enemy of every power on Earth.
Alan, oblivious to the bombshell he had just casually dropped, tilted his head and began to mutter a little tune to the ceiling. "What's that down in the sewer? Four turtles and a big old rat. Try to fight them, can't defeat them, now isn't that a fact?"
The rhyme was childish, but the meaning was a razor-sharp jab. The Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles were Shredder's archenemies, the source of his most humiliating defeats. A low growl rumbled in Shredder's chest, and with a sharp snikt, the blades on his gauntlet extended.
"You have gone too far. Apologize to Mr. Shredder at once," Madame Gao said, her voice a soft, silken threat. The three organizations had already privately agreed to humble the upstart League of Assassins, and this was the perfect opportunity.
"I'm just a blind man," Alan said with a sigh, feigning helplessness. "Why must you make things so difficult for a poor, blind man like me?"
Madame Gao's face, a mask of wrinkles, remained impassive, but her knuckles whitened around her cane. The jab was clearly aimed at her own nemesis, the blind vigilante known as Daredevil, a man who had repeatedly challenged her authority and dismantled her operations. A man who, annoyingly, lived a rather comfortable life despite his crusade.
"Are you looking for death?" she asked, her voice dropping an octave. She tapped her cane on the floor, a subtle signal to the assassins lurking in the shadows. One more tap, and Alan would be dead before he hit the ground.
"Oh!" Alan gasped dramatically, rolling up his sleeves. "So you won't bully a blind man, but you have no problem bullying a fool? You old crone! Today, I shall seek justice for the entire disabled community!"
"Everyone, please, calm down! Give me some face," Valmont interjected, stepping forward to mediate. He was just an ordinary, albeit criminally gifted, human. If a fight broke out between these super-powered freaks, he was likely to lose a limb in the crossfire.
"Fine," Alan said, reluctantly lowering his sleeves. "For the sake of your handsome face, I'll let it slide. And please, send my regards to your calendar boss and his entire family."
Valmont froze. Calendar boss? The Holy Lord, Shendu. And his whole family? He was referring to the other Demon Sorcerers, all of whom were sealed away. Was this a greeting or a curse? In fact, Valmont had misunderstood. How could a man whose mind operated on a different plane of existence be expected to speak in normal terms?
"Are you, by chance, humiliating the Holy Lord?" Valmont asked, his own anger now flaring.
"No," Alan said, a look of pure innocence on his face. He glanced around at the three hostile representatives. "If you don't welcome me, I guess I'll just have to leave."
He stood, beckoned to Bruce and Oliver, and began walking toward the door. Just as he reached the exit, he stopped and turned.
"I'm really leaving now," he announced to the room.
Shredder, Madame Gao, and Valmont just stared back, their expressions making it perfectly clear they had no intention of stopping him.
After waiting for a moment, Alan turned back around as if he was about to leave, then spun back once more. "Just say the word, and I won't go. I'm giving you one last chance."
Three pairs of eyes stared at him, dumbfounded. Alan pouted. "So old, yet you get angry after just a few words. You must have had incomplete childhoods. Very unhealthy."
"I'm going to kill him," Shredder snarled, flying into a rage.
"Hey, hey! Got angry because I hit a sore spot, did I?" Alan cackled, finally turning and bolting from the room.
If Madame Gao hadn't blocked the way with her cane, Shredder would have undoubtedly given chase.
"Let him go," she said calmly. "It is more important to discuss our business. His absence only works to our advantage."
"Can we simply forgive this humiliation?" Shredder growled.
A small, cruel smile touched Madame Gao's lips. "There is no need to dirty your own hands. He has seven days to live, at most."
***
The talks having spectacularly imploded, the trio found a cheap motel to stay in for the night. Oliver slipped out to gather intelligence on the Blade of Redemption's whereabouts and to wait for their equipment to be delivered by a League contact. They certainly couldn't carry swords and bows onto a commercial flight.
Knock, knock…
"Who is it?" Alan asked, getting up from the bed.
A rectangular package, wrapped in newspaper, had been left at the front desk for him.
"I didn't order anything," he muttered, tearing it open. Inside was an old, unlabeled videotape.
A retro, nostalgic version of precious images of human reproduction, Alan thought, his eyes lighting up with giddy excitement. The forbidden world was so alluring.
He popped the tape into the VCR and sat down primly, his hands on his knees, ready to critically analyze the film. The screen flickered to life with gray static.
"Bad connection?" He walked over and gave the TV a firm pat.
A grainy, black-and-white image appeared. A woman with long, dark hair sat combing it in front of a mirror. The strange, voyeuristic angle of the shot suggested a hidden camera.
A modern, retro-style island film. Looks like it has a plot, Alan thought, leaning closer, determined not to miss a single detail.
After a few minutes, the screen dissolved into static again. The scene changed to a group of people crawling twistedly across a lawn, their bodies contorted in agony, driven by a desperate desire to survive.
"So many people. And outdoors. How exciting."
Before Alan could see the scene he was anticipating, the screen again filled with static. The next image was of a man in a hood, standing silently by a river, pointing toward something unseen.
"What the hell? Who would be so boring as to make an abstract art film?"
Even with his scrambled brain, Alan had figured out this wasn't the kind of educational material he enjoyed. He tried to turn off the TV, but the image remained.
The TV is broken. The manager isn't going to try and pin this on me, is he?
As a man of science, Alan didn't believe in ghosts. He resorted to a foolproof method. He unplugged the TV.
The screen flickered, but the image remained.
A deep well, standing alone in a silent, dark forest.
The frame stuttered. A single, pale hand appeared at the lip of the well.
Alan looked from the plug in his hand to the impossible image on the screen.
A woman with disheveled hair obscuring her face climbed out. She slowly straightened her hunched body and began to walk forward, her movements jerky and unnatural, as if she were about to step right out of the television and into the room. She got closer and closer, until her white dress filled the entire screen.
The image vanished.
Ring-a-ling…
The phone on the bedside table shrieked.
Alan picked it up.
"Sadako, is that you? Sadako, I'm your fan!"
"…"
***********
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