Act 2 Scene 1: The Piper at the Gates of Dawn

*Tick Tick Tick Tick*

SUBIC BAY NAVAL COMPLEX, PHILIPPINES
MAY 16, 1974

The sweltering Pacific heat which filled the cramped office was entirely unaffected by the ineffectual fan buzzing on a stack of paperwork. Inexplicably, there was a large baroque clock shoved between a stack of meteorological equipment and the ubiquitous piles of paper. Commodore Everett P. Colby had tried his best to be as prim as possible. While the uniform he wore gave some allowance to the tropical heat, it was hardly ideal. He had ironed it (it was wilting), scrubbed himself clean (he was sweating) and cleared his office of flies (They had come back). He sat at his desk. Across from him, Moliere von Possenreißer had draped herself nonchalantly across a chair.
"Commodore."
"Lieutenant-Colonel."
*Tick Tick Tick Tick*
"How was Milan?"
"Fine."
*Tick Tick Tick Tick*
"We were wondering if..."
"What do you want, Commodore?"
"What makes you think I want anything?"
"You dragged me here, Colby."
"I have no authority over you, you're not under US command.'
"Don't give me that crap, Colby, what do you want?"
The clock kept ticking. Colby's smile was a little strained. Molly just kept staring out the window.
"Funghiguo."
"What?" A large file folder was slid across the desk.
"Funghiguo, it's about 800 miles south of Kunming, wedged in above Laos and Burma. Commonly rendered in English as The Mushroom Kingdom. Ethnically Bai, they were a segment of the former Kingdom of Dali that was given to the Venetians as part of a deal with the Yuans some seven hundred years back. It remained a vassal to various Italian states until Napoleon conquered Italy. A group of Italian nobles fled there, and declared themselves independent. They were occupied by Japan during the war, and returned to independence afterwards. Small, but resource rich."
"And not Commies, I notice."
"And they're not Commies."
"So what about it?"
"China. No matter how well it does in 'Nam, or Cambodia, at best it's just going to have highly co-operative allies. But Funghiguo doesn't have those countries disadvantages. It's not a Chinese ally, it doesn't have the terrain, it doesn't have the manpower to protect it's borders."
"But we do."
"Yes, we do." Colby tried to make himself straighter."Moliere, we've been in communication with our allies- NATO is willing to confirm your brevet promotion."
"Brevet?"
"On the books, you've still been a field-listed Captain since '44. We're willing to not only confirm it, but promote it. Brigadier General, along with your associated back-pay since Ortona." Molly raised an eyebrow.
"What else is it for me?" she asked. Colby grinned.
"Independent command and complete control over the combat theatre for at least a few months until the rest of the troops show up."
"Expeditionary"
"Precisely."
"What's the catch?"
"Well, for one, we can only give you a regiment."
"Regiment?"
"The 2nd Irregulars."
"Never heard of them."
"That's another catch. They're untested, brand new. Made up entirely of... your type of people."
"My type of people?" Molly's voice became icy.
"Fantastics. The non-humans, the meta-humans... the... inorganics." Colby at least had the dignity to look a little ashamed. "Look, the average CO doesn't know what to do when he gets someone with abnor- with unusual abilities. Does he single him out, and possibly ostracise him from his comrades, or does he treat like a regular grunt, and loose what could be a vital tactical advantage? This isn't an attempt to be segregationist, Colonel, this is an attempt to utilise valuable American assets. And think of a proving ground! We don't know when China will move, but if you get caught having to defend against greater numbers until we send in our full strength- you'll be lauded as heroes!"
"Greater numbers? How many troops are we talking about here?"
"Not... not many. Regiment is a bit of a misnomer, it's really a small battalion. Less than a thousand, at best."
"You're crazy. How big is this Fen... Fan...."
"Funghiguo. Forty thousand square miles, give or take."
"WHAT? You expect to defend a country the size of Austria with less than a thousand troops!"
"Don't be absurd. As I said, you'll be operating as expedition, shoring up defences and learning the lay of the land. We'll be able to get more troops in there once we finish up in some of our other theatres. In addition, the Fungese have almost fifteen thousand troops under arms. You're duty will be to liaise, and provide an American presence, in the hopes that it will deter the Reds."
"A token force, you mean."
"Please, Lieutenant-Colonel, think of what you could achieve here. You're already a living legend among the troops, think it what it would mean to all those Fantastics to see you leading in such a way. You'll go down in history!"
"I went down in history a long time ago, Commodore." Molly paused to bite a nail. "Can I think about it?"
"Of course."
**************
The orderly looked disapprovingly at Molly. She objected to being ordered about, she objected to demands, and she most certainly objected to being referred to as a child. Molly, for her part, simply wanted in.
"I'm sorry, ma'am, but I cannot-"
"I'll be fine."
"But ma'am, I can't just-"
"I'm gutt, really."
"You could catch something from the-"
"Never been sick a day in my life, girl, I'll be fine."
"Colonel, I protest-"
"Oh, here we are. I won't be too long. Thank you"
"Sir, I-" SLAM. The door was closed in the orderly's face.
The inside of the hospital room was clean, with a few homely touches here and there. As a long-term patient, the effect of habitation was far less intrusive than as would be seen in a short-term patient's room. It was set up for routine, a place for everything, and everything in its place. The books by the chair for the afternoon read in the sun, the clothes placed near the bed for the early-morning dressing. The medicines discreetly placed by a pitcher of water. Photographs of children, of grandchildren, the hand-drawn pictures taped lovingly against the wall. Evidence of an amateur interest in sketching occupied a corner of a small table. The sketches were well rendered and of various things: a bird, playing children, the ocean surf. Warm and peaceful, so unlike the madcap chaos of the hallway. Snoozing in the corner was an old man, his cane by his side, surrounded by the debris of a long fought battle with a recalcitrant newspaper. At the sound of the door, he snuffled himself awake, and peered at the intruder. With consciousness came recognition, and an impish grin lighted up the old man's face.
"Possenreißer, you Jerry-bred pipsqueak of a golem, you, what in the name of God are you doing on this volcanic rock pile?" At his voice, Molly grinned like a little girl and threw herself into the old man's embrace.
"General Flagg, you curmudgeonly skeletal armerikanisch, mien Gott, how dare you sit here on your lazy ass and soak up all the sun?" With her face buried in his chest, Molly allowed herself a single moment of shock at how frail her old friend had become. Then she let it pass, and it was two old soldiers reliving old times.
***********
"So that's their deal, General. Their equivalent exchange." It was later now, and Molly had told the General of her last few years.
"You lead their little experiment into a potential disaster... and in return, you get-"
"Power." She said it greedily, hungrily, fearfully. "It's what I've wanted for thirty years. I'm tired of this pseudo-rank, of being snubbed and having people time and time again calling up higher ups to confirm that yes, it's true, I can give them orders. Power, respect, rank...."
"And don't forget the back pay" the General said dryly. Molly snorted.
"Like I need it. Do I sound mad? Power mad, I mean? Maybe I am. I'm just tired of obeying other people's orders- think of it, Lawrence- independent command! The chance to work with my own ideas, instead of another wild charge into a line of bullets. I'm tired of Phyrus, tired of empty victories of ash. Maybe I can pull this off..."
"So you're going to take the commission, then?"
"Yes, oh, Gott, yes. For the epaulets, for the control, for the..."
"Glory?" the General suggested, a tad disapprovingly. Molly said nothing. "Achilles' Choice my dear- can you really have your cake and eat it too?"
"Come with me."
"What?"
"As my military advisor" she said breathlessly "I'll break you out of hear, we'll be a wall against which the Reds will simply break themselves against. How about it?" The General chuckled.
"I'm older even then you, old friend. I've had my wars. I'm content here in my patch of sun. You go find your glory, girl. Go make me proud." The General smiled. "Sing me something, short stuff."
"What do you want to hear?"
"Something nostalgic- When The Lights Go On Again." With a smile on her face, Molly sang the old man to sleep.

Act 1 Scene 7: I do not think that they will sing for me.

In contrast to the central office, the living room was refreshingly modernized. The puerile sixties carpets had given way to elegant hardwood. The swirls and paint-spattered wall paper had been replaced with paneling in classical styles. The furniture was non-descript without being Ikeaish, mostly comfy leather and Mediterranean style cushions. Recessed lights gave the room a warm glow that nevertheless managed to not clash with the panorama of stars that flooded through the room's many windows. Blazes had brought quite an entourage, and despite being a gaunt skeleton of his former self, he was boisterously greeting the various Tracey family members who had rushed to greet him, from the still handsome Alan grasping him in a bear hug to the various younger children running amok. As Virgil wheeled himself over to Blazes, Molly found a spot on the wall to lean against, next to Ruxpin's looming bulk.
"Didn't you two used to sleep together?"
"What?"
"I thought you two used to be an item when he still did our milk runs." Molly walloped Ruxpin in the side. "Ooomph."
"Theo, I don't even like men."
"I saw the looks he used to give you." Ruxpin said dryly.
"He was very sweet." Molly said defensively. "He had quite a crush on me. Worse then that driver. Almost as bad as Slaghoople."
"Slaghoople?" Ruxpin asked incredulously.
"Oh you know how it is, Theo. Long cold nights in the jungle. A girl needs to find a way to keep warm."
"Girl? Even then you were in your seventies."
"Rub it in, why don't you." Molly said, sounding miffed. They watched as Blazes and Virgil continued to greet each other enthusiastically.
"You're the only one who calls me that, you know."
"Calls you what?"
"Theo. Even my mother only ever called me Mohiam."
"And your father?"
"Teddy, when he wasn't calling me Junior. Wait- I thought you used to screw Tito?"
"When will people learn to- oh, heads up." Virgil was beckoning Molly over. As she walked to him, Ruxpin whispered in her ear:
"Slaghoople?" which caused Molly to secretly jab her elbow into Ruxpin's chest (causing another muffled 'oomph').
"William" Virgil was saying "I have the pleasure to introduce you to an old friend, Brigadier General von Possenreißer of NATO, along with her aide, Colonel N'Ruxpin, formerly of the USAR."
"Aide?" Ruxpin muttered "Will I ever get out from under our shadow?"
"Oh suck it up you big baby." Molly muttered back.
"Colonel, I remember reading about your case. It was a travesty, sir, a travesty." Blazes' voice was a mere shadow of the once powerful bellow it had been. He was only
thirty-seven, but he was unimaginably gaunt. His flesh hung off his body, giving him an almost comical appearance.
"Believe me, Mr. Blazes, no one knows that more than I." Ruxpin said, shaking Blazes hand.
"Please, call me me Billy." Blazes turned his attention to Molly. As he did so, his face lit up with childlike wonder, and his eyes burned brighter. "General... I wrote a paper about you in university. I studied your campaigns, your music, your choreography. I grew up in Star City. When I was twelve, the Opera House put on a retrospective of your years as De Lune- big screen and everything. Your Elisabeth-" At this point, he was interrupted by a member of the service staff signalling dinner. Molly's face was beet red. "Excuse me, General, bu they always serve such a feast here. Mind you, anythings better than that damn astronaut food...." Blazes was swept away as a small mob of people followed the server to the dining room. Molly was left alone, save Ruxpin. It was suddenly very quiet, with the soft sound of the surf in the background. Into the stillness, Ruxpin again murmured
"Slaghoople?"
But Molly wasn't listening. She was starring at the doorway, having gone from vibrant blushing to a stark pale.
"General?" Ruxpin asked worriedly.
"He wrote... a paper. H wrote a paper, Colonel. I wrote of me as one would of any historical figure. Did you see his face? I'm already history, Theo. To him, I'm already history."

Act 1 Scene 6: The Leopard in the Dark Wood of Error

***************
TWENTY ONE HOURS EARLIER

It would not be hard to dig the grave. Ruxpin had only a small shovel, but it didn't need to be very large. Bird had not been big, and the ground was hardly conducive to deep graves. The body lay on a linen sheet pulled from some compartment aboard the Airship, and Molly was examining the body, part autopsy, part funerary rite.

"I'm afraid there's not much I can tell you. It was very professional, very elegant, but I can't really tell you anything about who did it. All I know is, it was over quick."

"Painless?"

"I would think... not."

"Christ." Ruxpin leaned against a tree, and slowly slid himself down. "Christ." he said again. Slowly, respectfully, Molly dipped a cloth into water, and then began to wash the body. She removed the dirt, the blood, the other blemishes. As she washed, she recited. Sometimes a dirge, sometimes a chant, sometimes in a soft song.

"Yitgaddal v'yitqaddash sh'meh rabba."

In a sudden movement, Ruxpin rose, grabbed the shovel, and began to dig.

"B'ʻal'ma di v'raʼ khiruteh
B'ʻal'ma d'hu ʻatid l'itchaddata.

The ground was moist, and every thunk of the shovel was accompanied by a muffled squelch of mud.

"Ulʼachaya metaya
ulʼassaqa yathon l'chayyey ʻal'ma"

The work was unexpectedly hard. Ruxpin strained in the heavy mud, his fur sleek with sweat.

"Ulmivne qarta dirushlem
ulshakhlala hekhleh b'gavvah."

Faster now, fueled by some inner rage, Ruxpin dug harder, faster, deeper.

"Y'he sh'meh rabba m'varakh
l'ʻalam ulʻal'me ʻal'maya
Yitbarakh v'yishtabbach v'yitpaʼar v'yitromam
v'yitnasse v'yithaddar v'yitʻalle v'yithallal
sh'meh d'qudsha, b'rikh hu."

The dirge had become a keen, pitched and full of vitriol in the harsh tounge in which it was uttered. With deft fingers, she began to close the linen around the body.

"Di b'ʼatra haden v'di b'khol atar v'ʼatar
y'he l'hon ulkhon sh'lama rabba,
chinna v'chisda v'rachamey v'chayyey arikhey
umzoney r'vichey ufurqana
min qodam avuhon di vishmayya v'ʼarʻa
v'ʼimru:"

It was not a scream of rage. It was far more primordial- far more animal than that. It was a roar, some vestige of the family Ursidae present in the depths of Ruxpin's soul. Howling his grief, Ruxpin slammed the shovel into the mud and fell to his knees, panting. Unfazed, Molly reverentially completed her ritual.

"Amen." she said quietly.

"Amen." Ruxpin echoed hoarsely. He climbed up out of the grave, and carefully picked up the body. "So damn light" he muttered, before he lowered it into the ground. He began to fill the grave back in. Molly sat at the head of the grave, her knees up to her chest, her ankles crossed. Twilight filled the sky, and the night was upon them. "More."

"Pardon?"

"Song. Prayer. Whatever. Just sing." He continued to bury. Molly sat back in thought for a moment, her hands sinking into the wet dirt. This time, her voice was pure and clear. Her pitch was perfect, and as she sang, her voice quieted all around.

"Requiem aeternam dona eis, Domine,
et lux perpetua luceat eis.
Te decet hymnus, Deus, in Sion,
et tibi reddetur votum in Jerusalem.
Exaudi orationem meam;
ad te omnis caro veniet."

Her voice died away. Bird was buried. Breathing labored, Ruxpin sat down next to her in the moonlight. He pulled out a hip flask, took a swig and passed it to Molly.

"When I was very little," Molly began, taking a drink "I went to a funeral at the Zentralfriedhof. I was even smaller in those days, a minuscule slip of a thing. I walked among the crowd, looking at their faces. Some were sad, some were angry, some secretly amused, some merely bored. Unexpectedly, I came across the mute, earning his pay at the edge of mourners. We stared at each other for the longest time. His face was more than sad- it was grotesquely tragic, some fierce mockery of any happy thought, like some sculptor had constructed the anti-joy. It scared me. Scared me so much I ran and ran and ran, past tombstones and grave sites and iron and stone. I hid myself so well. It took over four hours for Rebbe Tzvi and Tante Possenreißer to find me."

"Where were you?" Ruxpin asked, after a time.

"I was singing Ave Maria and dancing barefoot behind Schubert's grave for an audience of squirrels. In hindsight, it was probably that that gave me away. We never did find my other shoe."

"We're the last now." Ruxpin said moodily, lighting up. "Last of the Fallen Angels. How many were we?"

"When?" Molly asked.

"When they marched us off to Shyguy. How many?"

"614, counting the chopper crews and my command staff. Oh, and my driver."

"Oh god, I'd forgotten we had choppers. Bloody RPGs." Hearing this, Molly giggled.

"Lost 'em in under a month. And it's not like they were any good. Ancient Sikorsky H-19's flown by hotshot fly boys right out of flight school. Hell, those birds were probably flown at Chosin Reservoir." She grinned.

"And they never did send that car, did they?"

"HA! No, no they never did. The poor boy followed me like a little lost puppy for three months straight, with no idea of what to do. Eventually, I think.. yes, Sonic's platoon managed to dig up an Edsel from god-knows-where. An Edsel! In Pescotao! He was so happy to be able to drive me around in that scuffed up old crate. We'd go to those meetings with General Yoshi- you know the ones where he'd just lie face down on the desk and cry?- we'd go to these meetings, and that kid would polish that car up like we were going to visit Emperor Franz Joseph on parade." She took the hip-flask back from Ruxpin and took a long drink. "You know, I can still recite, word perfect, every line and note from Der Ring des Nibelungen, but I can't remember that boy's name."

"What happened to him?"

"Bullet. Through the head. Right when we pulled out of the Daisy Palace. Brains got all over my best uniform. I would've been wearing my fatigues, but there's was about three regiments of Reds between me and my damn quarters. Stained the lanyard and braid permanently." A tad tipsy, she managed to pull herself up to stand. A sudden change came over her. She went completely rigid, legs straight and together, posture straight, and executed with perfect precision a military salute. After a moment, Ruxpin rose his bulk up and saluted the grave as well. After a time, Molly said, quietly "Company dismissed". She and Ruxpin both relaxed. "The last ones, you say?"

"Well, except for Bunny."

"Oh god is that little bugger still alive?"

"Of course."

"So," Molly said, walking towards the Airship "Where to next?"

"We go south, general. We go south."

*******************

Act 1 Scene 5: The lark still bravely.

The moon's reflection glittered in pale blue water of the natural pool. Above, the stars glittered in patterns that an Northern observer would find maddeningly similar yet subtly unlike the stars as seen from above the equator. Here, once proud Orion is stripped of his dignity and turned, topsy-turvy, to land on his head. Here, Graceful Cygnus glides along a different path, while around it all the Magellanic Clouds burn with the legacy of a poor doomed mariner.

The pool was dimly lit, with a few subtly placed shafts of light spread out from the rock and into the ever shifting water. The lights and sounds of the landing fields were blocked by the mountain, so it was relatively quiet here. In the palm trees, the birds were settling down for the night, and they fretted and chafed, and made their usual uproar. The only other noise was that of the swimmer's arms as they pulled him through the water, alternating between the backstroke and the front crawl. Whenever they reached an edge, the hands would grope at the pool's rough stone sides and flip the swimmer over, where he would continue on his journey.

Standing at parade rest, half-hidden in the shadows beneath an umbrella, Molly watched the swimmer wordlessly, her eyes following his every mood, her face impassive. This almost-tableau went on for quite sometime, the watcher watching serenely, the swimmer focused entirely on his campaign, until even the birds had bequeathed their noise making to the peaceful humming of the Cicadas. At last, his energy spent, the swimmer lay at rest, floating on his back in the water, his eyes closed. There was silence for a while. At last, Molly spoke.

"Hello. Virgil." To this, the swimmer laconically raised his arm, and gave a rather half-hearted salute, before he splashed it into the water.
"You didn't come to greet me. That's most unlike you." The swimmer began to draw himself towards the edge of the pool, where he lifted himself to sit on the edge, and proceeded to stare at the stars. At last he spoke.
"I do go in much for returns, anymore. It's departures that worry me most. Never miss a departure, if you can help it. They're much more reliable then returns." He spoke softly, reflectively, with out any bite or criticism in his voice. The breeze ruffled through the trees, but did not disturb the resting birds.
"It's been a long time."
"When was the last time I saw you?"
"That's a good question."
""It was in.... Pescotao? During the last air evac. You were the last one on the old TB2, screaming defiance until the end, still aiming at soldiers as the bay door closed." Virgil turned to look at Molly, as she smiled in bitter memory.
"They couldn't, or wouldn't, land any more Hercules. But you came back for me. You dropped into the golf course at Mach One, with angel flares burning in the dawn..... I remember that." She too looked up at the stars. "But that wasn't the last time you saw me."
"No?"
"No. It was New York. You tried to stop me speaking before the Assembly. In the end, you were right. They didn't listen to me anyway.
"Where did you go, after that?"
"I went south. I just walked. I had thought of going back to Austria, but I knew the government wouldn't like that, much. I had to fight them tooth and nail to leave the country later on, and only for a short time." They listened to the water for a while, Virgil at the pool's edge, Molly remaining at rest beneath the umbrella. Again, she broke the silence.
"I left Alan arguing with Theo over whether or not the Airship should be airborne, and John was the one who fed me, but I didn't see the others."
"Dead" said Virgil quietly, after a moment. There was no response from Molly. "The reactor in the original TB1 had a tendency to... emit things it shouldn't, though we didn't realise it at the time. Cancer hit both Scott and Hiram in the eighties. Gordon... Gordon got his submersible caught in an underwater cave in. We tried to get to him, but...."
"But?"
"He just sort of... stopped trying. Said he was tired, said he'd had a good run. Turned his radio off. When we finally found him later... he.... he looked very peaceful, you know. Very peaceful."
"And your father?"
"Dad didn't take Scott's passing very well. He started to talk a lot about going back into space, about seeing the stars again. Late one night, he just up and took TB3."
"Where did he go?"
"I don't know. Out there, somewhere." Virgil waved at the expanse of stars. "I like to think he made in through the asteroid belt. I like to think he's headed for something out there. I'd like..... I'd like a lot of things."
"You miss him."
"Oh God, yes. I miss them all. I was never supposed to be in charge. And we've changed. We have a staff now, and a payroll. Alan's been cranking out kids for years, its going to be a family business, rescuing others. That was always dad's plan... but it should be Scott behind that desk. It should be Gordon lapping me." He looked down from the stars, into his own dim reflection in the water. "I wanted to save people, once. Individuals. People I could see face to face. Now I sit behind a desk and speak diplomacy with princes. Now I try to save everybody. And I'm just too damn old." He sighed, and began to push himself backwards from the pool's edge.
"Do you want a hand, Virgil?"
"No. I'm quite used to this." In a moment, he reached his chair, and lifted himself in with a grunt. He wheeled himself over to Molly. Smiling, he said "I think we're the same height now. Who'd have thought?" Molly laughed. Suddenly, from far above, there was the crack of a sonic boom, which immediately woke the birds, sending them into a noisy cacophony. Virgil glanced up.
"That'll be Blazes coming down from the Command Centre. I've called a meeting, he wants to greet you in person. We'd better hurry." Molly nodded, and began to push the chair. "No, you don't have to... it's embarrassing, it's-"
"Don't worry about it" Molly said softly. "Besides, I owe you a few."
"But... I... well. Okay. I'll just... okay." They went inside, her short frame pushing him along, leaving a flock of disgruntled birds alone in the moonlight.

Act 1 Scene 4: Forteen Cannibal Kings

The elephant sat exactly where it wanted too, a minor miracle, in the curving angled office. His suit was of a military cut, with silver piping, and more gold braid than was common on modern uniforms. He had eased his bulk onto an aging bench, where it noticeably sagged on its degraded plastic legs. He was drinking tea, the tea cup held delicately in his massive... well, the could only rationally be described as hands. He looked young, in his mid-thirties at most.
Across the desk, Virgil Tracy sat with his elbows propped up on the table, holding his head up. A smiled kept playing across his lips as he chatted with his guest.
"Monsieur Tracy, I can assure you, I have spent hours with the Ministre de Intérieur, poring over customs records." The elephant's English was spoken with a heavy French accent. He paused to take a sip of his tea. "Madame Bizet hasn't entered our borders in over two years."
"But she did perform some services for you in the past, yes? I remember an INTERPOL record we received some years back mentioning her work with you." The elephant chuckled.
"That was was a private family matter, of interest to no one but the House of Loxo."
"Really? As I recall, the decapitated body of deposed President Isabelle Loxo was found in her suite in Côte d'Ivoire. Her head was apparently... stolen."
"As I said, it was a private matter."
"But your own family member?"
"The Remise-à-Neuf was a difficult time. This was merely the last mess to clean up." The elephant finished off his tea. "But as to your matter of this ring, it never entered the Kingdom. If you'll excuse me, Monsieur, I have a long flight back to Africa." The elephant heaved his bulk off the bench, and shook hands. "It was good to see you, Virgil." Virgil pressed a button on his desk. An aide entered.
"It was good to see you too, Zephir. Anna, see His Highness out, and would you see Mister Matrix in." The elephant managed to squeeze himself through the door, and a minute later was replaced by a bemused Enzo Matrix.
"Who in the name of the User was that?"
"That was his Highness Prince Zephir-Roland de Pachyderm-Loxo, from the court of Queen Flora of Equatorial Celesia, and he was here to lie to me in an open and friendly matter." Virgil pointed for Enzo to have a seat.
"Pardon?"
"Equatorial Celesia. It's the Elephant Kingdom, and tends to operate as a tax haven for old colonial exiles. Anyways, Sandiego bought a house there some years ago, and visited fairly often. We know she spent some time there after she stole the Ring. The Prince was here to tell me otherwise, as we both knew he would."
"But if you knew he would lie, and he knew that, why...?"
"It's polite diplomacy. If she was there for any length of time, it means she was doing work for them. There was a palace coup back in the early sixties that created a Republic for about thirty years before the monarchy was restored. During that time, many of the art treasures were looted or sold by the republican government for funds, and the palace itself was left a half-burnt ruin. After the Restoration, the elephants attempted to return their cultural treasures. When ever their attempts to do it legally failed to work, they turned to people like Carmen to help them out. Maybe forty to forty five percent of the total returned items have been due to her. To make a long story short, Zephir presence was a way of informing me that whatever Carmen was doing in Celesia, it had nothing to do with our search. Which means another dead end." A muffled roar interrupted Virgil. He glanced out the window and watched as a flash of red, silver and fire burned screaming towards the heavens. "God speed, Valentina." he murmured to himself, before he pored more tea. "How's Ecureuil?"
"He's fine. His legs are being checked by the MDs. He didn't tell them anything- not that it would matter much. You've been the Southern Hemisphere's worst kept secret for years.I didn't think it would be so easy to pull him out, though."
"Whiplash was never good at hiring goons that were sociopathic enough to really be decent guards."
"But this was far too easy. If I didn't know better, I'd..."Enzo trailed off.
"You'd what?"
"Well, it seems cliche to say it, but if I didn't know better, I'd say he was allowed to escape. I mean, its not as though-" Enzo was suddenly interrupted by the harsh ringing of the telephone. Virgil answered it.
"Island Actual, go ahead."
"Mister Tracy, this is Tin-Tin. We've had an unidentified bogey heading our way for the last seven minuets."
"What's its speed?"
"Pretty slow, sir. If it maintains present course and speed, it won't reach us for over an hour or two at minimum. I th-" there was a pause "Sir, they appear to be transmitting their registry code now... its... it is SIA Airship 144525-L..." Still holding the receiver to his ear, Virgil turned behind him to pull a book off the shelf, where he began to flip through the pages.
"SIA... SIA.... oh, there... Sovereign Illiopian Airshi-"
"Sir? Please advise, sir, do we let them enter our airspace or not? Mr. Tracy?" But Virgil wasn't paying any more attention to the phone. He was starring out the window, his skin pale, scanning the horizons for something he had thought to be impossible.

Guffin War, Act 1 Scene 3: Unkind as any, and the wrath of many. (Even the vegetables don't like him)

Enzo tried to wriggle out of the shaft. His legs had cramped from sitting crunched up, and his foot was asleep. He finally flumped out onto the floor, landing painfully on the grate. He proceeded crept down the shiny corridors in a rough approximation of 'stealthy'. His movements were perhaps too furtive, too imbued with pantomime to be be take seriously, but fortunately, his path was unimpeded by even a janitor.

The basement cellblock was patrolled fairly regularly, but its general disuse meant that the average guard would simply avoid it on his rounds. The one prisoner was hardly in any position to escape. Enzo discovered that he could just stroll into the cells, which irked his inner sense of theatrics. At least the security was decent. A multi-variable Tyrell code, virtually unbreakable to anything but a super-computer.

It took Enzo eighteen minuets.

Jean "Cache" Ecureuil was in remarkably good spirits when Enzo found him. His leg had been mangled by the delicate ministrations of the PWI torturers. He smiled wryly when Enzo entered his cell. He even attempted a joke.

"You're kind of short for a.. a..." however the metaphor escaped him "... person here to... rescue me" he ended lamely. "I don't suppose you have a change of clothes on you?"

""Can you walk?" Enzo asked, checking out Ecureuil's leg. "And you're covered in fur, why does it matter?"

"Well, I feel naked without my coat. And yes, I can hobble, if I must"

"Hell, I can carry you out" Enzo gave a boyish grin.

"Please, spare me the indigni- oh, well guess not." Ecureuil was picked up, albeit gently, and Enzo sauntered back the way he came.

************

"Now, that's just not fair!"

Angelica did not look up from filing her nails. "What's not fair, dear?" she asked in a neutral tone.

"That cursed boy just walked out, see? How dare he! In my cells, too! How dare he foil my scheme for information!"

Angelica had long ago learned to deal with her husband's melodramatic posturing. She continued to stare at her nails. Each one just had to be.... perfect. She could and had spent hours working on a single finger. She simply replied, laconically "You have a lousy security staff, Lee."

"But it's just not fair, I tell you. Oh, I am so alone in my plans." Snidely Joanna Whiplash turned dejectedly away from the screen, where he had spent that last few hours morbidly viewing the security tapes. He flung himself backwards onto his desk, nearly knocking over his wife's platinum inlaid nail kit. Her only response was to roll her chair back an inch or so and to exchange her file for cuticle scissors.

"Lee, you know you weren't going to break him, not with the goons you employ. Ecureuil has been around for years, he wasn't going to open up over a mangled leg."

"But I was going to the Council. I was going to present them with information! The location of International Rescue! The member rolls of the Rescue Heroes! Where Dick Tracy gets his great hair!" Again, he flung himself back on the desk, his hat falling to the floor. There was a long pause, as Angelica was displeased by the curve on the nail of her left pinky, not that she showed it. Finally, she merely said "They wouldn't have listened anyways. They never do. Not to you."

"Oh, it''s so true!" He sat up unexpectedly "You've got to help, me, darling, you've just got to! You know I can't do these things on my own!" There was more silence, as Angelica moved on to her right thumb.

"Go home, Lee. I will make things all better."

"You promise, darling? You'll do that for old me?" Snidley was on his knees, starring pathetically with puppy-dog eyes, his moustache drooping. More time passed. His wife did not look at him. It would be false to say that theirs was a relationship devoid of passion. It had plenty of passion, but it was supplied entirely by Snidely. His wife, in the words of Dickens, was as hard and sharp as a flint, secretive and self contained. As solitary as an oyster.

"Yes, Lee. I would do anything for you." She spoke almost without wmotion and continued to focus only on her nail. For a man who wore his heart on his sleeve, Snidley's expression as he gazed at her was relatively inscrutable. If anything, it could be said to be one of longing, if nothing else, but as there was no one there to look at his face, it could have been anything. Finally, mumbling thanks, he rose to his feet and made ready to leave. He paused, awkwardly, next to his wife for a moment before he hesitantly learned down and kissed her on her head. It was treated with as much response as anything he ever did around her. As he reached the door, he paused to look at his wife. She was unimaginably pale. Though once warm, her skin (though flawless) was now almost akin to pure alabaster, with none of the pinkish tones that one might find in an albino. Her hair, once a rich strawberry blond, had also lightened. Some would call it flaxen, but a more correct coloured would be white ash, like one might find in a campfire in amongst the burned wood and marshmallow residue. Her eyes were grey, her lips bloodless. She only ever wore robes de style, in various neutral tones. The only colour on her was what she would paint on her nails after her long hours of maintenance. And what colours they were! Deep royal blues, ebullient reds, vivid robust greens in all manner of valence, tint and hue. But that was the only outward sign of emotion. Everything she spoke was in the same calm, measured tones, and her eyes never betrayed what went on inside her. With an inward sigh, Whiplash adjusted his hat and left. For a while, Angelica continued to work on her digital maintenance. Finally, evidently satisfied with her minutiae of adjustments, she selected from her store the colour of polish she wished to use- a Persian green only commonly found in the paintings of Monet. However, before she began to paint, she paused, and then wheeled herself over to a nearby telephone, an obsolete, though elegant rotary phone. She carefully dialed, and waited for her call to be answered. She spoke as she always did, detached as ever. "Good afternoon, Charles. I need you to get me information. Failure to do so will be perceived by me to be a problem. And like all problems, I will make it go away as quickly and efficiently as possible. Do we have an understanding?" There was a pause.

"Good."

Guffin War: Leitmotif I

The seething mass of persons that crowded Wángfǔjǐng street would have surprised to notice that they were subconsciously making a space in their midst, if only they were capable of noticing such an act.

Are You Telling Me You Don't Like Chinese Food?

"I'm merely saying that, given my current state, I'm not very partial to the whole culture."

There's Going To Be A Large Amount Of People. We Need A Good Place To Make A Reservation

"But does it have to be Chinese? And why does it need to happen at all?"

I Believe It Will All Be Very Meta. I Look Forward To How It Ends

"Forgive me if I don't share your enthusiasm."

Your Problem, Mr. Bird, Is That You're Rather Short Tempered

"Was that a crack about my height?"

Do Forgive Me

Tweety shot his companion a look. "Hey, how does this place sound" he said, pointing to a sign.

Oh Dear. 'The Little Piggies'. I Am Deeply Afraid That That Joke was Inevitable

Guffin War: Act 1 Scene 2: Like who doesn't have an interositer.

It must be said that despite his nominal criminal affiliations, Fuzzy Cicero Lumpkins hardly deserved the the abuse he was shortly about to receive. He had been born amongst a large brood of children in a teeny, nameless village that was about a two-day hike from Dogpatch, Kentucky. His father worked his entire day handcrafting spittoons, coming out of his workshop only to grunt and eat meals. His mother, a city woman who had fallen for his father after the Second World War, was a scatter-brained, ineffectual woman who could never keep track of her children, and certainly never recalled Fuzzy. The only thing about him that she had ever remembered was that "he looked nothing like Irving Thalburg". Fuzzy, unloved and certainly unwanted, fled home at what he general assumed was 17. He ended up working in the underbelly of the distillery district of Frankfort, paid to look threatening and to think as little as possible. Like many poor Fantastics of his generation, Fuzzy wound up in the service of Bluto Ricca-Accardo, who's domination of Chicago crime in the 60's allowed him to push his empire outside of Illinois and into surrounding states. Miraculously, Fuzzy managed to avoid getting embroiled in the turf wars with the New York Families, and entered the eighties alive and a basically spotless record. He remained a a low-level flunky, however. Having spent a year in house-arrest for tax issues, Bluto surprised many onlooker by bowing out early, retiring from any criminal activities. His organisation was covertly purchased by Pickles-Whiplash Industries. When Snidely "bought the Outfit", Fuzzy found himself on an actual payroll in an actual company, thought he continued to be little more than hired muscle. But now he had a pension, a health plan, and he got to travel. At this point in time, he was manning the security desk in the local PWI branch in Moneghetti, which wasn't bad for the destitute country boy from nowhere. It should be said that following the event, Fuzzy was treated for his injury, and even went on to settle down and have a happy ending. But at this juncture, his fate is to be used to block projectiles that would otherwise scuff the enamel of the PWI security desk.

It has never been explained to any one's satisfaction the why of Enzo Matrix. Even to those (admittedly few) familiar with his complete history, how he had gotten from the state of reality that was his childhood, to the Now of now, remained an utter enigma. Though neither he nor Fuzzy would have found it of interest, both of them could only guesstimate at their actual age and, like Fuzzy had once did, more-or-less assumed he was "about 17". Whatever the reason, Enzo and his uniquely green skin found himself squished into an ventilation-shaft that was located about a metre behind Fuzzy Lumpkins. The architect of the PWI building wasn't an idiot. That vent really wasn't supposed to be there. But various... nefarious elements in the building's construction demanded certain rooms be built there... and here... and there... and to accommodate, pipe and shaft security was compromised, and the protests of the very clever architect were overruled by large, burly men who could make the action of adjusting their massive ties seem threatening. Enzo was waiting for Fuzzy to go on rounds, or some such activity, but Fuzzy had discovered that the security computer was equipped with software for Mahjong. They didn't know it, but they were at a non-verbal, non-conscious stalemate. Enzo refused to go forward without Fuzzy leaving him access to the computer, and Fuzzy was unwilling to stop playing Mahjong. Unfortunately for Fuzzy, Enzo was younger, and therefore much more impatient about waiting. Fulled by a desire to complete his mission and a desperate need to go pee, Enzo resorted to kicking the grating, hard. It had been cheaply and poorly attached to its mounting, and so it was propelled much harder than Enzo had expected. It hit the back of Fuzzy's head with considerable force. In a stunning moment of utter clarity, Fuzzy perceived two thing: his mother had loved him, in her own impotent way and his current game of Mahjong was fundamentally un-winable.

"Rats." Fuzzy said aloud. And then he slowly, gracefully keeled over.

Guffin War: Act 1 Scene 1: A country road. A tree

The ground was quite damp; understandable in the muggy heat. Ruxpin simply lay passively. He hadn't slept in over a day, and despite the threat of being shot, he was tempted to simply doze off in the mud. The voice spoke again, harshly.

"Hände hoch oder ich schieße!" Ruxpin didn't speak German. He simply waited for the voice to remember where it was. Eventually, almost apologetically, the voice spoke in English. "If you please, hands where I can see them." Well, that was said, but not how it sounded. Forty years away from Austria had done nothing to remove the harsh, guttural accent, which rendered the phrase as "If hyu pleas, hends vere hy ken see dem". Ruxpin slowly complied. There was silence, accompanied only by birdsong. Ruxpin finally filled it.

"If you'll forgive my impudence, ma'am, there can only be a limited number of six foot bears wearing pants you've ever met. Now what are the odds that you'd be tracked down by one you've never met."

"Still the wit, I see." The voice replied at last. There was more birdsong. Ruxpin realized that he was, in fact, dozing off in the mud. He struggled to pull himself awake.

"You're a hard woman to find, Fräulein."

"Not hard enough, apparently. You still smoke, I smell."

"And you're still Austrian, I hear. It's kind of wet in this mud."

"Yes. I imagine it would be." A foot was removed from his back. With a weary sigh, he rolled over onto his back.

Mollie Halbmond von Possenreißer looked much- no, almost exactly as she did when Ruxpin had first met her in Huế in 1963. Later in life he had gained access to her security files, where he discovered that she looked exactly the same as when she had reached her full growth in 1915. She was short, about four feet in total. It was impossible to describe her features without using the term 'elfin', but she was hardly childlike. The face was smooth and youthful, but lines around the eyes betrayed the maturity of her character. The hair was jet black, and amateurly cut in a style that hadn't been popular since Colleen Moore has starred in Her Wild Oat. On her right hand was a grubby, dirt stained ring, but other than that she wore no adornment. Her clothing was non-descript, worn but serviceable. She still had her sidearm trained on him, a modified Browning M1911A designed to fit her small hand. She was holding it in a deceptively casual manner that Ruxpin knew from experience not to underestimate. Her lithe frame was unnaturally strong,and more than one opponent had been felled through overconfidence.

"What do you want, Major?"

"It's Col- well, it was colonel, anyways." At this, Molly raised an eyebrow.

"You get too mouthy for your own good?" Ruxpin chuckled.

"Sexual deviancy, if you can believe that." Molly smiled.

"Well, it sounds like you." She uncocked the pistol and holstered it. "Why are you here, N'Ruxpin?"

"Well" he sighed "First of all, I need your help to bury a comrade."

Guffin War: Program Pt. 1

There was a war. The greatest war ever seen before or since. At a confluence, a tesseract of space and time of the multi-verse, in a land suddenly populated with nostalgic, beloved characters, there was a war for power, a war for dominance.... a war for a ring. The MacGuffin ring.

The ring was forged by the master smiths Freddie and Eddie, its face was engraved by Eggo the Waffle stack. Its making consumed all three, and they vanished from the world sometime around 1880. The ring was lost when General Mills was raided by The Honeycomb Kid and his gang of Trix Brats in 1903, but was found again when the ruins were excavated by a team of forensic scientists. The team's leader, George Dixon, was slain by his second, Gus Grissom, who went into hiding and attempted to form an army comprised entirely of extras used in CSI and Law and Order.

The army was easily crushed the valiant efforts of Speed Racer and Goku, but Fifth Juror fled the carnage, taking with him the ring. From here things grow murky.

The ring was definitely in the hands of the celestial wanderer Little Star, who passed it off to persons unknown before she returned to space sometime in 1993. It shows up again in the hands of the only still living Triplet, Anna, who donates it to the Guggenheim museum in 1996 upon her death. A Cartel of world criminals comprising of Lex Luthor, Snidley Whiplash, Angelica Pickles and Queen Beryl meet up in Queen Beryl's lair inside the Puzzle Place in Petrograd. There they retain the services of espionage master Boris Badenov who, with the help of Pruneface, steal the ring from the Guggenheim. However, Boris betrays the cartel, and feels to Chicago, where he tries to receive the protection of retired Crime Lord Bluto. Bluto rejects Badenov’s entreaties and Badenov, along with Pruneface, are brutally executed by ex-Mafia hit-man Luigi, who now serves Queen Beryl.

The stage is set for a global conflict when Dick Tracy reveals to International Rescue of what has occurred. When John Tracy confirms for his brother Virgil about what has occurred, Virgil has no other choice. He contacts Billy Blazes, now riddled by lung cancer, that he tells him that he must recall the Rescue Heroes to active duty. While Billy begins his laborious task, everything is thrown for a loop when a team up between Carmen Sandiago and Ghostwriter successfully steal the ring from the cartel, and everyone on both sides scramble to figure out where in the world they are. But when Darkwing Duck finds Carmen dead, having been killed in an assassination attempt by Wishbone and Zoboomafoo, fear strikes the hearts of all! From deep within Groundling Marsh, an insignificant region of a Louisianan bayou, a heroine who cast her back on the world will here the cries of the world and return to civilization to find the ring and save the world.

An old dame named Molly.

Guffin War: Overture Pt. 2

The Ministry of State Security in Beijing is one of any number of oddly stylized partially concrete buildings that populate modern Beijing. It posses that singular ugliness so common to government ministries built after 1950 as to go almost unnoticeable, were it not for organization's sinister reputation. So the building loomed and lurked along the busy roadway, while inside people... worked. They did the kind of work that is peculiar to intelligence agencies the world over, which is to sift enormous quantities of data and reach conclusions. None of this concerned Ruxpin as he broke in through a rear window, except that he was more cautious than usual about security cameras and pressure pads. It was really only for show, anyways. The Chinese had kept tabs on him since '75, and Ruxpin knew he had been followed since he landed. But Ruxpin was nothing if not a traditionalist, and breaking into intelligence agencies had once been a hobby for him. T his relief, the building was not half as sterile as the FBI headquarters had been. At least it looked like people worked here. As he moved through the corridors, he considered what he should say. His father had always liked to be disarmingly charming, but Ruxpin had always gone for the more dramatic, bombastic charge, and it was this in mind that he side-stepped a secretary and threw open a door, where it hit the wall with a satisfying, drywall denting "thunk".

"You know," Ruxpin said conversationally "they still burn you in effigy in Taipei." Across from him, sitting at a desk, was a wizened Pekingese. His fur, white to begin with, had simply faded into an unhealthy translucent yellow, not unlike a wall that has been covered with nicotine. In some places it was patchy, especially on the heart shaped ears, and the flesh bellow was dry and flaky. Behind glasses, small, highly ulcered black eyes had sunk deeper into the head over the years, and one was covered with the milky film of blindness. The teeth were seriously yellowed, and the gums cut and black. The creature did not look up from his writing. He remained bent towards his paper, his handwriting highly ornate and calligraphic. When he finally spoke, it was in an almost comically accented English.

"Is that so?" the dog said, in a tone suggesting absent curiosity. He continued to write.

"They mock your name, and the argument rages over all your betrayals."

"How quaint local customs are."

"The Manchu Mutt is popular. But they mostly call you Cixi's Last Eunuch." This actually got a rise out of the dog. His head rose slowly, and his eye burned with anger for a moment, before he returned to his placid state.

"Xiao Qin Xian was a great woman, Colonel. She only ever had the best interests of China at heart. As do I."

"Oh I'm sure you do. After Cixi dies, you betrayed her legacy to Chiang. And then Chiang to the Communists. Then the Communists to the Japanese, you played your games for poor Puyi and then you sold everything back to Mao. China's best interests, I'm sure."

"You inflate my importance greatly, Colonel. I am merely a humble comrade of this nation."

"How is it that you're still alive, Pong Ping? You must be, what, ninety? A hundred?"

"I have been gifted with long life so that I may serve, Colonel. That is all."

"What was it that she said, Ping? 'Thus shall it preserve its integrity and self-respect - but if it dies, remember thou too art mortal.'"

"A bastardization, Colonel. You should read such things more closely." Pong Ping carefully removed his glasses, setting them to one side. His frail frame leaned back in his chair. He regarded Ruxpin from behind his steepled fingers. "What is it that you want of me, N'Ruxpin?"

"You know, Ping, I remember the first time we met. Me, strapped to a table, you sorting lengths of bamboo in a rubber apron...."

"I can have you removed in seconds, Colonel, is there a point to all this?"

"von Possenreißer. Where is she?"

"The Living Doll? Whatever makes you think I know where to find her?"

"You kept tabs on every last member of the Fallen Angels. You couldn't stand not knowing where she is." At this, Ping chuckled to himself, a dry, husky relic of a laugh that came out from some where within the narrow frame.

"You know, N'Ruxpin, I once knew someone much like you. I met him in England when the Red Guard went wild and Mao went mad. I spent three years in exile, you know. Dreadful business. Rupert was quite young, and an Illiopian in exile, again like you- well, like all of you, really. Full of passion and ability, with a desire for adventure. Unlike you, though, he didn't ruin his life with drink and petty scandal. He's a mercenary leader in Magadan, trying to carve out a new Illiop. Now, you and I both know he is going to fail, but you know what? He's not breaking into buildings to exchange meaningless pleasantries with old men. Good-day to you, Colonel." Pong Ping returned to his writing. Ruxpin leaned up against a wall, lit up, and exhaled in a long breath.

"You know why you're going to tell me, you old mongrel? It's cause deep, deep down in that blackened little heart, you're a romantic. You like epics. And you've got your grubby paws on the pulse of the world. You know it's getting quicker. And every side in a epic needs it's champion, doesn't it. To make it watchable. To make it... fun. What does my side have right now? International Rescue, Rescue Heroes and the like... bureaucrats and organisations. You can't committee a hero. You got to have one take command." Pong Ping did not look up, but he stopped writing, and his ears twitched. "But your an old man, Ping. You're not out for some bildungsroman. You want a proven hero, like the ones of our youth. You want someone proven. So you're going to give me that location. Because even in the height of spring, you feel cold. Your a dying, evil old man, with so much on his conscience that ya gave up on sleep years ago. So here's an old enemy offering redemption. And you're too well read to pass up on it." There was a long silence. Then a drawer opened, and a slip of paper was removed. Pong Ping just sat there, face down and shaking, though whether with silent laughter or silent tears it was impossible to determine. Finally, he crumpled the paper into a ball and tossed it Ruxpin. With a silent nod, Ruxpin left, leaving Pong Ping alone.

He walked briskly down the hallway, his mind filled with calculations. How much fuel was needed, what supplies he should stock up on... he was suddenly aware of someone humming off tune and close by. He looked around. Leaning up against a pillar, humming to himself, was a baby blue dog, who looked at Ruxpin with a laconic smile.

"Good afternoon, there" the dog said in a languid Southern drawl. "The name's Hound. H. Hound. And I'll bet that you'd be Mr. Ruk Slim."

"Ruxpin" Ruxpin said irritably. "Can I help you?"

"Well, now that's a matter of opinion, MR. Slim."

"It's Ru- oh never mind."

"Ya see, I rep-er-a-sent a group of fine ladies and gents who, t' be frank, aren't all that pleased with what you're trying to do. I mean, I've been sending you mess-ages to that effect, but I don't think you've been listening. So I thought that perhaps something a little closer to home might get yer attention." Ruxpin began to reach into his vest. "Oh don't be alarmed, Colonel. I wouldn't want to insult out China-ese hosts by doing anything un-t-ward in one of their governmental buildings." The Hound's smile didn't change, but it suddenly looked harsh and vicious. "Say, Mr. Slim, didn't you come here with a friend or something? Beijing's a dangerous place. I'd hate fer something to happen to the poor fellow." Under his fur, Ruxpin went white. With a muffled yell, he tore off down he hallway, leaving a smiling dog in his wake.

**************************

It was later. Much later. It had been brutal, efficient work. Nothing in the cabin had been disturbed but the... body. Ruxpin had done what he could. He had cleaned it as best he could, but he was no mortician. He tried to sing a requiem, but only succeeded in half humming, half muttering the Dies Iræ and the Kyrie. He tried to remember the rituals of his youth, and chanted the Pyre Cant in Illopian, but he hadn't done it since his father's death, and he could not remember the words. The flight back across the ocean was uneventful. US air command tried to shoot him down, but he dropped Sam the Eagles name enough that the left him alone. Miraculously he had a machete on board from god knows where, and he trudged his way through a thick bayou biomass. Ruxpin was from a cold climate, and he found this sweltering Louisiana heat no more pleasant than he had found the sweltering heat of Vietnam, Laos or the Mushroom Kingdom or Rio. Ruxpin believed that he was simply fated to be in horrible heat. He grunted as something punched him in the stomach, through him to the ground and cocked a pistol at him. An annoyed, clipped voice snapped at him.

"Hände hoch oder ich schieße!"

Guffin War: Overture

Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon behind them
Volley'd and thunder'd;
Storm'd at with shot and shell,
While horse and hero fell,
They that had fought so well
Came thro' the jaws of Death,
Back from the mouth of hell,
All that was left of them,
Left of six hundred.

-Alfred Tennyson, 1st Baron Tennyson

When Regimental Colonel Theordoros "Teddy" Ap Mohiam N'Ruxpin (the only Illiopian to ever hold rank in the American armed forces) was charged with "conduct unbecoming in an officer", his legal fees become untenable, and he was forced to pawn off the majority of his possessions. Of special note was the airship he inherited from his father. Unwilling to sell it off permanently, he loaned instead to a museum of aeronautics. Their yearly rent went straight to his creditors, and he never saw a penny of it. It was not without some considerable effort that it was taken out of the museum and put in the air. Both the museum director and several local pilots had protested that the Airship was in no state to travel, and was completely un-airworthy. Ruxpin had simply kicked the engine a bit, sworn a lot in Illiopian and finally shoved a wrench in at an odd angle.

The flight over the Pacific Ocean had been uneventful. Ruxpin had spent the entire trip on deck, starring moodily into the clouds and making his cigarette last an improbably long time. Tweety chose to take refuge below decks. The place was sumptuously, decadently decorated, with intricately carved panelling, an ornate wardroom table, and wall hangings of improbable design. When questioned on his flying Rococo showcase, Ruxpin was as unresponsive as he'd been to questions about where they were going, how he was driving, what was keeping them in the air and where the head was. They had stopped in Taiwan for a layover. Ruxpin was out of Morleys. When he came back, his face was grim.

"When you came to see me, did you see anyone follow you? Anyone who looked out of place?"

"No... I don't believe so." Tweety replied, a little puzzled. "Why?" At first, Ruxpin did not respond, he simply busied himself with whatever it was that got the Airship from the ground to the air. Finally he responded.

"Two days ago, they fished the body of suspected killer Luigi Fratelli out of Lake Erie. Over twelve bullet holes in his back." Tweety went pale.

"Wh... what?"

"Forty hours ago, they're was a prison riot in the woman's ward of Sing-Sing prison. Only one casualty, an inmate by the name of Slaghoople."

"But-"

"Twenty-nine hours ago, they're was a a huge gang shootout between rival gangs in Bangkok. Among the dead was local merchant and Indian ex-pat P. Panther."

"How-"

"Twelve hours ago, a military asylum in Illinois caught fire and burned to the ground, killing most of the patients. And three hours ago your house was also burned."

"My house.... wait, the asylum! Bunny, is he?" At this, Ruxpin actually smiled.

"Oh, it would take more than being surrounded b burning slag to take out Bunny. You know, I once saw him him win an arm wrestling contest by ripping off another man's arm?" Ruxpin became reflective. "They're out to get us, Bird." They sat in silence for a while. "I had hoped I'd never have to say this, Corporal, but... welcome back to China."

**************

Despite his radio threats to do so, Ruxpin did not land in Tiananmen Square. He landed in the Back Sea in Shichahai, where he proceeded to irritate the ducks and argue with the Beijing municipal police. Tweety, feeling more useless than ever, spent his time sitting on top of the wheelhouse, trying to read a book of Quin dynasty poetry, without much success. His Chineese had been picked up during his years in a prison camp, and it was idiosyncratic, at best. Eventually, a courier made his way through the mod of cops and bureaucrats and handed Ruxpin a note, which he brought to Tweety.

"Here" he said gruffly. "It's in Cǎoshū. I don't read Cǎoshū." Tweety glanced at the note.

"It's an address" he said, copying it out into English. Ruxpin read it over.

"Did your wife teach you how to haggle over a parking ticket?"

"Oddly enough...."

"Good. Stay here and argue with the nice mob. I've got to go see a Pekingese about people skills."

Guffin War: B Flat Concert Pitch

"It's pretty cold up here."

"It's the sky. It does that." There was silence.

"This thing got a name?"

"Airship."

"Yes." There was some more silence. "I meant did the airship have a name?"

"Airship."

".... you named your airship Airship? What kind of name is that?

"A practical one."

"Was it your first choice, then?"

"Well, it used to be named after Arin."

"And what happened?"

"It wasn't named Arin anymore."

"No, I mean what happened with Arin?"

"I stopped naming my airship after her."

"..... are we there yet?"

"Does this look like China?"

".... no."

Guffin War: Vox Vorspiel, or, The Bear and Bird.

Present Day
A favela in Rio.
Sfx: The Overture to Tannhauser plays over the credits.

The knock on what could politely be described as a door at first elicited nothing but silence. Then, after a few more patient knocks, a rumble was heard from within the squalid, filth-ridden excuse for an apartment. Eventually, bolts were unlocked from within, and the door was opened a crack. The beady black eye affixed itself on the occupant below. The voice that issued from behind it muttered something in broken Portuguese. The visitor replied, apologetically in English:

"I'm sorry, sir, but I don't speak..." The voice cut him off.

"I said: you're a little short for my usual clientele." On hearing this, the petite Cpl. Bird smiled.

"Oh, I'm not here for any services, Colonel. I'm here on business."

At the word "Colonel", the eye narrowed and pulled away. The chain was removed from the door, and Tweety was allowed to enter. It was also his first chance to get a look at the bear, though the light from the room's sole, bare bulb was undoubtedly not doing him any favours. Ruxpin's once proud, tall figure had become hunched and weathered. Excessive nicotine use had yellowed his fur, and the smell was one of soured gin. The fur around his mouth and paws was severely singed from cigarette burns, as was, for that matter, the apartment. A single room, it contained a squat, dormant fridge with it's door ajar, a few sagging cupboards that were mostly empty, a husk of a table with two rough stools between them, and in the corner, a stained, lumpy bed. It was not a room to inspire confidence. Ruxpin rested his massive frame on one of the stools, and issued for Tweety to do the same. Hampered by his small stature, Tweety was obligated to alight himself on the table instead. He watch in silence for a time, as Ruxpin methodically, expertly disassembled a handful of filter less cigarette butts, transferring their meagre contents to a fresh piece of rolling paper. This task completed, he rolled it up and lit it, shuddering visibly with relief as the tobacco hit his system. After a while, he appeared to notice Tweety, and shifted his attention to him.

"I'm not a colonel anymore." Ruxpin said at last, his low growl wistful and pained.

"But you used to be, sir" Tweety said demurely. Ruxpin again narrowed his eyes at the bird.

"I know you from somewhere?" Tweety nodded.

"I served with you, Colonel. I was there when the- when they flanked us in Land Four. At Wario's Landing. I was there when... when the world ended." Ruxpin stared off into cigarette smoke.

"Apt way at putting it." he said at last. There was another silence. "Bird. T. Bird, Corporal. I3324-12. 2nd Company. Putt-Putt's platoon." Tweety nodded in agreement. Another pause. "How'd you find me, Bird?"

"Panther. And I found him only 'cause Bunny was having a lucid moment. Panther may have been running guns for almost thirty years, but he wouldn't forget his old 2ic. He's the type that looks after his own. He sends a check to your account once a month, in lieu of your pension. Just enough to live on. Every so often you get desperate enough and make a withdrawal. I just traced the money flow."

"And how'd you do that, exactly?"

"My late wife, Elmyra, she was in finance. I learned some... techniques from her." Ruxpin nodded, and rubbed out his cigarette between his fingers. The smell of burnt fur hung in the air.

"Why? What'd you want me for?"

"Colonel Ruxpin... the MacGuffin ring is gone." Ruxpin's shadowed face betrayed not a single emotion. Tweety proceeded to tell him what he knew, adding in the visit from Luigi and what little he had gleaned from Bunny's inane rambling. Ruxpin's only response during the story was to bring out a bottle of foul smelling liquor and to drink from it heavily. It had no discernible effect.

"So what do you want me to do, Bird? I don't know where it is." At this Tweety grew quite grave.

"Sir... anyone with half a brain can see where this is leading. The great Wars, the Cuban Missile Crisis, the Gulf War ... all these events because people only knew where the ring wasn't. And now it's gone again. Tensions are heating up. It doesn't matter why people are going to take sides about this- they just are. And then people are going to die. Colonel, we need someone who can rally people, inspire people. We need someone who can end this thing faster than anyone. Sir... we need the Old Lady."

"And you think I know where she is?"

"No. But I think you're the best person to find her. You know her better than any of us left. That's what Slaghoople said. I tried. She... doesn't use her bank account." Tweety finished weakly. Ruxpin gave him a stare. Then a long, bitter laugh emitted from his lips.

"Me? I'm the best person to find her? Look at me, boy! I'm in a fucking hovel, turning tricks for vacationing frat boys and and fearful bureaucrats who have the sort of fantasies no one must ever know about. Look at me, Bird. I'm your hero, off to find your fucking savior? I have to go out there every god damned day, with that fucking Redentor staring down at me, staring into my skull. What makes you think I have any will left? Wash-up, that's what I am. Go lay your geis on someone else." Ruxpin sank back on his bed, his face in what passed for a pillow. Tweety asked quietly:

"But your airship..."

"It's in hock." Ruxpin said in a muffled voice. "You think I'd be here if I could flee this hell hole? Cidade Maravilhosa my furry ass..."

"And if I could get it out?" Ruxpin's head snapped up angrily.

"Then I'd be a fucking wash up with a mothballed airship. What makes you think I can fin her then?"

"Colonel, you were trained by Smokey himself. You worked in Yogi's Rangers for three years before they bumped you up three pay grades to be the XO for the 2nd Irregulars. You were one of the best intel men they had. You must have contacts from here to Guam if you bothered to get out there. I thought I saw some worth is you after Sonic got his head blown all over you, and you still pulled us out of that rout. Christ, Ruxpin, we didn't loose four hundred men at the Landing just so you could curl up here and die." Ruxpin remained buried in his pillow for a while. Then he spoke.

"Airship money. Where's it from?"

"Bunny cut me a check. They gave him quite a pension, but he sure as hell ain't using it." There was another, thoughtful silence.

"Cigarettes."

"I'm sorry?"

"Get me some real, filtered, honest to god Morley Lites."

"Does this mean you'll do it?" Tweety asked hopefully. Ruxpin gave a laugh.

"It means.... I'm sick of hand-rolled."

Guffin War: Program Pt. 3

The story of how Molly got involved in what would later be known as the Guffin War involves a tangent, but a tangent based upon the heroism of a forgotten few. The number of Molly's comrades from the wars still living during the opening gambits of the McGuffin war were few in number. Of the TET offensive, all her old friends were MIA or dead. From the Laos campaign, Specialist Pink Panther was working in an illegal hardware store in Bangkok and WO-3 Untalkative Bunny was in a military asylum in Illinois. The annexation of the Mushroom Kingdom, which had wiped out virtually the entire superhero community along with most of the 2nd Irregulars Regiment (The Fallen Angels), had unusually left the most comrades alive, but by far the most damaged. Master Sergent Luigi, of course, was driven half-mad by the death of his brother and after his years in the mob had ended up in service to Queen Beryl. Petty Officer 2nd Class Pearl Slaghoople was in Sing-Sing after murdering her son-in-law. Colonel Teddy Ruxpin was destitute and all but homeless in Rio de Janeiro, dishonorably discharged in '93. Only Corporal Tweety Bird remained sane and free in North America, a Wal-Mart greeter in Cleveland.

Tweety had a ritual. Every night at midnight or so he would make himself a strong drink and wait by the phone. One a week, without fail, Luigi would get horribly drunk, forget the time zone difference between the States and Russia and call Tweety, where he proceed to cry about his griefs for at least an hour and a half. But this time was different. Instead of a call, poor Tweety was forced to have Luigi come in through his front door, drunk as a skunk and covered in blood. Luigi ranted for hours about his execution of Badnove, let slip information about the Cartel, and then stole off into the night. Tweety, worried about the oncoming storm, vowed to find the one person he knew could help... but where to find her?

Guffin War: Program Pt. 2

Molly’s history is one of enigma and heroics. Her partner Loonette, dying in the fall of ’35 left her a sizable inheritance, but Molly was never one for siting back in leisure. She was with the Allies when they landed and Italy, and managed to make it to the fall of Berlin, where she assisted the 3rd Shock army in taking the Reichstag. She left Berlin shortly thereafter on an ultimately fruitless manhunt to find Martin Bormann. She is documented as leaving Argentina in June of ’47 and is recorded by the Soviet Ministry of State Security as being in Belgrade at the time of the Tito-Stalin split in ’48, along with an undercover Johnny Bravo and Count von Count. She is reported as having encouraged Tito to involve himself with the Marshall plan, but she may have also been involved in a plot to restore the Serbian monarch Peter II. By all accounts she left the country by 1952, although Tito had a statue of her placed near what would later be his tomb, Кућа цвећа. This statue was removed following his death. Molly posed through out most of the fifties as opera singer Moliere De Lune, finding employment at the Teatro Argentino and then the Vienna State Opera, where she gave one of the most renowned performances of Brunhilde in the entire 20th century. She ran a dance academy in Star City from 1960-63 with the wife of scientist Benton Quest, Diana. Following Mrs. Benton’s death in childbirth, Molly left the States for the War in Asian, getting involved in the Tet offensive, fighting against the Pathet Lao in Laos and finally assisted in the resistance to the annexation of the Mushroom Kingdom by China in ’75. Highly disillusioned by what she saw as succession of failures, she withdrew from the world to a hermitage in Groundling Marsh, leaving it only to attend the funerals of Tito, Albert Speer and Christopher Vokes in the early eighties. Until Carmen Sandiego was found dead in St. Canard in ’06, Molly had not left her marsh for over twenty years.