Dragging 'The Digger' Underground

Roxanne lounged in the velvet throne, her hand tight around the television remote. She glared at the screen, hating the female newscaster who informed the masses of the unfortunate cabbie who had been slain earlier in the week. The blame was on a battle between two super powered individuals, and the turmoil had simply spilled out and taken an unfortunate casualty. As the footage cut to an image of the body being gingerly slid into an ambulance, she recognized the tattoo on his wrist. It was the same tattoo that marked every single one of her loyal 'employees', and now one of them was dead. In a bout of rage, she threw the remote, screaming a few obscenities as the glass screen of the old t.v. set shattered inward and sent a fountain of sparks dancing across the Persian rug. A handful of men dressed in identical black outfits came storming in, inquiring about the state of their mistress.

With an elegantly gloved hand, she pointed to the destroyed television. ''Find the man who slayed one of us, and bring me his head.'' The men nodded, mumbling variations of agreements and thanks. ''On second thought, bring him alive.'' A vein of ferrofluid slipped over the arm of the chair and spiraled across the rug, Roxanne's fingers dancing, controlling the metallic fluid like a master puppeteer. ''I wouldn't mind putting the fear of God in the man.''

- - -

All across Brooklyn, men in black scoured the streets, communicating in hushed, Russian voices. Sure, there were stares, even finger pointing, but that didn't matter. When you worked for the daughter of a dangerous mob boss, you learned to keep your head down and follow orders.

Back in one of her many plush hideaways, Roxanne spun around the room. Her feet made nary as sound as she did yet another flawless arabesque, pirouette after plie and pas de chat. With a final rond de jambe, she let her arms flit high above her head in elegant arcs. Applause rose to greet her in her mind as the black substance that had been dancing along with her quivered in mid-air, paused to the will of its master. She only danced when she was angry or impatient, and tonight was going to end up being a full blown performance.

It was cold and wet. His thick, black trench coat was soaked from the hours he had spent scouring the dark alleyways and old apartment complexes of Brooklyn, New York. Constantine walked along the dirty sidewalks. Empty cigarette containers and broken beer bottles covered the street. The scent of decadence and criminality filled the air. Every part of this slum was a wretched hive of chaos and foreboding intimidation. He was home. He looked up at the old, red-brick apartment building. The windows were broken, ivy climbed the walls, and the door was braced closed with a large, wooden bored. A sign in broad, red letters red "CONDEMNED". An intoxicated homeless man lay next to the building, obviously intimidated by the imposing, shadowed figure that Constantine cast. The hood and black ski mask he wore concealed his less-than-normal appearance. After all, with all the hype he had seen regarding his escapade in downtown Manhattan, he didn't want anyone recognizing him; especially not in his weakened state.

The thought of his weakened state, and the memory of his escapade with the girl in Manhattan caused him to look down at his arm, bound in a very "ghetto" cast he made from tightly-wound papier mache. That girl had caused him so much trouble. She left him battered, broken, and homeless. All the chaos that she caused by sticking her cowboy nose in his business, and he didn't even get the satisfaction of knowing her name. Constantine should have killed her when he had the chance. He would give anything to have her in his grasp again; to rip our her filthy little throat. But that would have to wait. The Coil would have his revenge one day, he knew it, but his damaged suit was not cut out for fighting anyone of her caliber right now. Not until he fixed it could he begin the hunt for that bitch. Right now, he hunted a much easier prey.

Ivan Ramislov; his abusive alcoholic father. Surely the bastard had to be alive; evil doesn't die easily. Constantine stared up at the third floor of the apartment building; the third window, shattered, with the torn, pink and white drapes flapping in the wind. A memory played in his mind of his childhood; back when things were more innocent than they are now, but ironically, not innocent at all. Constantine remembered his eighth birthday. It was like all his birthdays, a cupcake and no presents. His parents always said they had no money to afford gifts, but he knew it was only because they had to pay for their own addictions. He remembered watching his father beat his mother. She had apparently stolen from the "rainy day fund" to buy more Vicodin. He remembered screaming for his father to stop. He remembered being tossed out of the apartment, and left in the rain to fend for himself.

Constantine hadn't seen his parents since that cold night. A night much like today. The pain of nostalgia was broken when he realized a group of men were staring at him just a few yards down the sidewalk. He didn't turn to make eye-contact, as he did not want them to know he was onto them. Whoever they were, they were Russian. His parents were Russian immigrants and he had learned to understand enough Russian that he could keep up with a conversation with a native speaker of even the most heavy accent; like his father. These men seemed to be looking for someone who killed one of their own, and they seemed to think he was their guy. He heard one of them say something into a radio along the lines of "should we take him in?". And with that Constantine turned to slowly walk away. He knew he could easily fend off a couple of thugs, but suddenly the streets looked a lot more dangerous as he realized that there were many men with similar tattoos on their wrist.

The Coil casually walked down the sidewalk, rounding a corner into a dark alleyway. If there was going to be a fight, he wanted there to be as little witnesses as possible; both for his sake and the sake of the squeamish.

The group pulled together in a classic purse-string trap, advancing on
the foreboding figure like vultures on a wounded beast. Though he was no
doubt hurting, they knew better than to swarm him like stupid street
thugs. No, they were trained men, men of Mother Russia, and they would
have slit this murderers throat if their mistress hadn't asked for him
alive. Identical flames of ire burned in the center of the men as they
casually clotted the alley that Constantine had walked into, lazily
brandishing blades, pipes, and a great assortment of hand-held weaponry.
The tallest among them strode forward as he slipped brass knuckles over
his fingers. ''You know, we have been told to bring you to Miss Kochenkov alive.,'' he grunted, flexing his digits against the cold metal. ''but she didn't say anything about not softening you first.''

All
around him, his associates chuckled and spat out small threats, some in
English and some in Russian. Muscles snapped taught underneath clothing
as they ached to spring on him, beat him until he bled and cried for
mercy, but none were stupid enough to be the first to go on the
offensive. They didn't know what he was capable of, and it was only with
much trepidation that one of the many stepped forward and let a long
length of chain fall to the cement with a loud chime, his hand tightly
gripping the end of it. ''Just... come quietly.'' he said, his accent thick.

- - -

With
delicate hands, Roxanne applied brush stroke after stroke of make up.
Already she glowed like she did every time she had taken the stage; eyes
bright and almost intrusive in their stabbing serenity, cheeks barely
flushed against the porcelain finish of her unmarred face. All about her
shoulders, her raven hair fell in lax curls and waves, perfectly
accenting the crimps in the lace that went down her corset.

She
desperately wanted to kill whoever had taken one of her men, but she
resisted. American heroes aren't supposed to kill, they're supposed to
hear out their adversary, beat him in combat, and send him to some
prison to rot and be forgotten. Roxanne intended to speak with him
first, maybe even try and change his ways, though she sincerely doubted
that would happen. Behind her, an old woman laid out a silver tea set,
the pot brimming with boiling water. ''Careful, miss.'' she said politely, setting down a plate of biscuits, scones, and tiny croissants. ''It's very hot.''

''Yes, thank you Magda.'' she replied, turning around and standing to show off her appearance. ''What do you think?''
The old maid tightly wrung the tea towel in her hands, smiling with the
kind of love only a proud grandmother could duplicate. ''Like a princess, miss.''
With that remark, the woman turned and shuffled from the room. Roxanne
clapped happily and jumped about for a moment before settling down some
and rushing to the door. ''Oh, and Magda, could you bring in some first aid things, please? I think our guest might be hurt.''
With a benign, ignorant nod and smile, the woman changed her direction
and began an advance toward the restroom, pulling out cotton, hydrogen
peroxide, tweasers, and a whole assortment of instruments. The princess
smiled, spinning back into the room to gently pick up a croissant and
tear a bite off the end.

Constantine was cornered. The men were obviously very mad at him about something. However, they didn't know what it was to angry. They had never experienced the unadulterated fury that could only come with the loss of your humanity. The men made chides and insults towards him, among them were "murderer" and "bastard". He saw some irony that some of their petty insults turned out to actually be quite true. However, over the calamity of Russian men, one voice reigned supreme.

"Freak!" the large Russian man shouted. Constantine's attention was instantly drawn to the one, particular man. The Coils indifference towards these thugs suddenly turned to a very familiar emotion; anger. The gathering of thugs just stood there, despite saying they were going to "soften him up" before taking him to their leader. The very same man that made the loud "Freak" comment. Walked out of the crowd, dropping a steel chain that echoed in the dark, dirty alleyway. ''Just... come quietly," he jeered, obviously trying to be intimidating.

A grin crossed his face from underneath his mask. Slowly removing the hood, the red dot on his head glowing bright in the dark alley, he cocked his head to the side and slowly began to unbutton his coat. "You fools don't seem to understand," he said as the last button on his coat was unbuttoned. "I'm not trapped in here with you," he said, cracking his neck. "You're all trapped in here with me."

With the final word, a drilling tentacle shot out of the darkness behind his unbuttoned coat. Snaking its way through the air quicker than the man could react, his chain dropped as the drilling tentacle impaled him directly through his chest. The men, stunned and appalled at the violence before them, reacted with naught but horror as the man was raised above them, blood splattering over the crowd of thugs like rain. Another, thinner tendril coiled its way out of his shoulder, wrapping itself around the impaled man's head. He gasped and choked on his own blood as the tentacle ripped his head off almost surgically; the spinal column following on its way off his torso. The tentacles made their way back to Constantine's body, dropping the man's body. As the worms returned to their ports, the Coil gripped the man's head while his mutilated corpse lay in a pool of its own blood, twitching and spasming. "You want my blood?" he asked as he tossed the head to one of the thugs. "COME AND GET IT!" he roared, the men swarming him like flies to a carcass.

''Where could those boys be?'' Magda chided, dotingly cleaning up the strewn makeup that had been left behind by Roxanne. ''You send them out to pick up one of your friends, and they take half the day!'' The young girl smiled innocently, folding her hands in her lap and crossing one leg. ''Perhaps... they missed the bus?'' she ventured, watching the small fire crackle and spit politely in its hearth. The maid paused, then nodded and continued to go about her usual chores.

''That'll be it.'' she chided, clucking her tongue in disappointment. ''Those boys of yours are always late. You know, its not polite to stand up a lady.'' Roxanne giggled and smiled brightly as Magda wagged a finger at her playfully. ''I know.''

- - -

The fight was ugly, frothing over with blood, metal, screams, and broken bones. The only thing the Russians had on their side was sheer numbers, clotting around the attacker like white blood cells on a ravenous infection. For every strike of the pipe, for every whip of the chain, another pint of their fellow mans blood was spilled.

No man could tell who would be the victor in this conflict. The foreign tentacles lashed through them like fire, tearing cloth and skin alike and sending blood out in bright arcs, staining the alley way in streamers of gore. A lucky strike managed to unite the end of a pipe and Constatine's wounded arm, clipping the already damaged limb with the harsh lip of metal. It was enough of an attack to illicit the immediate demise of its bearer, his spine snapping almost comically from the blow delivered to his torso by one of the many tentacles that ravaged the group.

Throughout the madness, the tallest of them all managed to land a blow with his brass knuckles into the temple of his foe from behind, relishing in the pressure of the attack that gripped his hand as he collided with bone.

The thrill of killing these idiots was too much for him to handle. For the first time in a while, Constantine could actually say he was having fun; in a morbid, cruel sort of way. Viscera and gore filled the dark alleyway; watered down by the torrential downpour of the afternoon sky. Smashing one of the thugs through a wall, Constantine suddenly felt a great pressure force ram into the side of his head. A loud metal clang was followed by a sharp pain. One of the men got a cheap shot to his temple, causing him to lose his balance. The familiar smell of blood to fill the inside of his helmet as he turned to face the man who had punched him. Gripping the man's neck with a force of anger unparalleled, he felt blood ooze between his fingers. With a roar, he ripped out the man's throat, the gurgling idiot trying to scream in futility; his vocal chords no longer belonging to him.

Dropping the remains of the man's throat, he felt another great smash to the back of his head as one of the other thugs capitalized on his distraction. The crowbar rippled on the titanium-weave material of his head, causing Constantine to lose his balance. He fought to the end, fighting off at least a quarter of a dozen more of his attackers, before passing out into the shadow of unconsciousness. His tendrils coiled back to their ports as he lay there awaiting whatever fate these men had in store for him.

The few men that came out of the engagement unscathed ( or mostly unscathed ) paused for breath as they stared at the unmoving body of their assignment. No one had told them that he would be this dangerous. They knew he would be a super, but not a villain. In that sense, their mistress had kept them intentionally uninformed. After a small exchange of glances, one man began going around to each of his old associates, taking anything important off the bodies as the others lifted their charge, carrying him like a time bomb towards a waiting truck across the street.

In a surprising show of delicacy, perhaps out of fear, they delicately slipped him into the truck bed like a sleeping child, climbing in after him once their remaining man ran from the alley and into the cab of the vehicle. Slowly, so as not to disturb the dangerous... thing in the back, they pulled away from the curb and drove deep into the slums, gathering nary a glance in the thick and terrible weather.

- - -

Roxanne waited patiently, no expression on her face as the bruised and bloodied men carried in the shape she assumed to be the assailant. None of them spoke, simply grunted under his weight as they set him on the Persian rug. ''He better not bleed too much,'' she said bitterly, ''that rug was expensive.''

''He killed half of us!'' one of them shouted, snapping from the stress and emotion that seemed to well up from the shock of the evenings events. ''We barely made it out with our lives, and all you can worry about is some fucking carpet?''

With much restraint, she rose from her chair and walked over to set a comforting hand on the mans shoulder. ''Go take care of our fallen, bring them here. They deserve a proper burial.'' The man nodded, the small, shell shocked group making their way out of the room. Roxanne walked back to where the figure lay, tenderly kneeling beside him to examine the many strange facets that made up his body. She ran the tip of her finger over the shimmering red bead that adorned his forehead, leaning slightly closer to examine it. ''What secrets do you hide, my dear...?'' she cooed softly, resting her hand against his cheek like a doting lover.

A maid poked her head into the room, clearing her throat to gain the attention of her employer. ''Miss, what will you have us do with the bodies when they arrive?'' Roxanne paused, then walked over to sit in her velvet chair, leaning forward to pour herself a cup of tea. ''Send the men home, make sure they don't drive themselves. Those poor boys have seen enough horrors for one night. Give them a pay advance as well, and make sure to call the wives and girlfriends of whoever didn't make it back.'' The maid nodded, but pressed on. ''Yes ma'am, but... the bodies?''

She sighed, leaning back to take a feminine sip from the silver cup. Her eyes traced over the shape that lay on her rug, and underneath the calm front her emotions screamed for justice, pain, and revenge. ''Burn them.''

Constantine slowly opened his eyes, his body too badly beaten to move. He felt his feet drag behind him, the two men that grappled him by his arms roughly pulling him into an elegantly decorated room. Constantine licked his lips, the bitter taste of dried blood filling his mouth. All around him were the fine smells of elegance. Whoever this "Kochenkov" woman was, she was obviously quite well-off. He felt the men drop him on the ground, a light, cooing voice scolding them for mistreating the valuable rug upon which he lay. One of the men burst into an uncontrollable spout of stress, mourning his fallen brethren. Constantine resisted the urge to laugh at their misfortune, knowing that to "play dead" was probably the best course of action at this moment.

Suddenly he heard light footsteps against the soft, Persian rug. He felt a light presence kneel next to him, a presence he assumed was the light, feminine voice he heard before; the "Kochenkov" woman. Constantine was too weak to defend himself if this woman decided to attack him, so he continued to pretend to be unconscious; perhaps she wanted him to be awake before she acted. This was one advantage of the suit; his enemies had no idea what went on underneath that mask. His suit had performed another system shutdown; the second one that week. None of his systems were working save the essentials like air filtration; but he was completely blind from his 3D mapping being offline. Miraculously, whether by chance or some magical occurrence, the woman's gentle touch upon the red bead that adorned his forehead reactivated his visual systems. The red-tinted world sprung to life, and finally Constantine was able to get his bearings. Perhaps from this vantage point he would be able to devise a way out, after all if these systems were coming online, the others, including the drilling systems, were sure to follow. But something else caught his attention.

The girl that looked upon him with inquisitive eyes was a glorious example of beauty in its most pure form. An alien feeling washed over Constantine as he found himself gazing into the steely blue eyes of his captor. Her delicate form was sensual and enticing; her brown hair flowing gracefully from her head. Her porcelain skin was accented by an face that held a flair of elegance and innocent sexuality. Her beauty mocked him as she lay her delicate hand upon the cheek of his mask. This armored suit was like a cage from such beauty and elegance seemed so far away. He would never feel the warm touch of this girl's, or any girl's, hand on his face. It was this though that caused a small tear to well up in his right eye, slowly trailing down the side of his face; taking a brownish tint as it ran over small splotches of dried blood. As the woman left his side, he felt as if she was a representation of all hopes of a normal life leaving his side.

His HUD sprang to life, a message reading clear as day: 'DRILLING SYSTEMS ONLINE'.

The tea steamed in its bright cup, fogging over the rim and making drops of condensation silently fall into the plush carpeting. She took a delicate sip, still watching the being that lay before her. It was strange, to say the least, and as she rose once more to walk over and stand near its head, she brought with her a blueberry scone.

''Now, my dear, do wake up.'' she said almost musically, kneeling beside it once more, this time holding the scone in front of its face in her open palm. ''If you were to stir, even a little bit, you would notice that I spared no expense for your arrival tonight.'' Another sip of tea; Roxanne loved the delicate flavors of the various nectars that had been so carefully brewed to form her favorite drink. The sweet notes of flowers and fruits mixed with tart berries and pungent leaves, all highlighted by the pastries. ''I even went to the trouble of lighting a fire...'' The teacup was placed gently on the floor, and the food back on the platter.

She sat beside him and gently lifted his head, bringing it to rest on her lap. They sat that way for a moment before she ran her hand back along his cheek, her fingers gently grazing his jaw and the top of his head. A soft sigh escaped her lips before she began again. ''I don't want to harm you.'' she said soothingly, leaning down to gently place a kiss on the top of his head. ''I wanted to have a conversation, nothing more. I can feed you, if you'd like. My pantry is never wanting.'' Another stroke of her fingertips along his face. ''If it's money you're after, I will even pay you for the trouble you went through to get to me.'' Roxanne found herself tenderly playing with the red bead once again, curious as to its nature. It felt smooth, and its shimmer intrigued her in the same way a rare gem would. ''I just need you to wake up, my dear.''