Swamp Thing (![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} alec_holland) wrote,@ 2007-06-21 15:51:00 |
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| Entry tags: | corrigan, narrative, spectre, swamp things |
Swamp Things: "Corrigan", Pt. 2
This is the second part of a two-part story.
8 December, 2005, 2:45am
"Okay, so..." Jim Corrigan drank the shot of whiskey he'd poured. He had drunk plenty when he was out at Finnigan's earlier in the evening, but between there and home he'd gotten some food into him at Frank's Diner... and an argument with Kenzie from Narcotics, which had made him cranky enough to want another drink even without then being visited at home by the Swamp Thing and the news he brought. "The Wrath somehow slips out of Limbo to go hunting for Eclipso, but gets confused after a while without a human soul to anchor him, like the moonfaced lunkhead that he is, and Eclipso instead manages to convince him that she's there to help him eliminate the source of all evil by eliminating magic from the world? Have I got that right?"
The Swamp Thing nodded. "That's what happened, yes."
"How'd you hear about this? It doesn't seem like something either of them would brag about in the midst of a rampage."
"It's not like they ran into each other in Faerie, Jim. They met in Dallas, and if it happens in the world, I am there and I see and hear it, remember?"
Corrigan nodded, conceding the point. "Yeah, okay, although that leads me to wonder how much of what you know you're telling me."
"I tell you what you need to know. I could've left you with your paranoia about whether or not Detective Allen was still staked out outside after following you home, rather than coming here and keeping you informed."
That got the Swamp Thing some wary looks from the red-headed man. "Did you just pull a Constantine on me?!" The grin that Corrigan got in response was, indeed, one that was more normally at home on the face of the disreputable blond trenchcoat-wearing Englishman... and just as irritating. "Anyone ever tell you that you have a very strange sense of humor sometimes?"
"On occasion. Most of us do, in the Parliament of Worlds. I suspect it's the perspective that global consciousness provides."
"Yeah, okay, whatever. So what's being done at this point? I mean, I figure I need to step up my plans at this point, but others are actually doing stuff, right?"
The Swamp Thing's brows twitching in thought. "Right now... The Spectre's in the Black Forest in Germany, wiping out a hidden school of sorcery that formed there a few years ago. Oddly enough, Blackbriar Thorn, of all people, has stepped up in its defense... Oh. And he's dead again. That's unfortunate. There's a group forming in Jim Rook's Oblivion bar to try and help. The Phantom Stranger is with them, and sent Blue Devil and Ragman from there to another mission. The Stranger was the one major power that the Spectre attacked before changing strategies to working from the bottom up, mainly because he realized that the overall level of magic in the world gave those like the Stranger too much support for him to readily kill. You might be amused to know that he did, however, turn the Stranger into a mouse for the time being."
Corrigan was, indeed, rather amused by this. "A mouse? Ha. Well, that's about as much help as he's been sometimes. What's that other mission he sent those two on?"
"To meet with the other Sentinels of Magic, a group that formed shortly after Hal Jordan became the Spectre. They don't know it, but it was Jordan himself who summoned them together and provided them with the Spear of Destiny, as a precaution should he ever abuse the power of the Wrath. They bound the Spear with bits of all their power and cast it into the Sun, so that it would be ordinarily out of anyone's reach but still be available if they had need of it. That day appears to have come."
"Oh, man. I remember the Spear." Corrigan winced. "That was a pain that always lingered for a while. Shit. Okay. I don't like suddenly having to race a clock, but at least I've got most of the pieces in place. I just need to set up the kill."
As the Swamp Thing dissipated his form back into air, his voice echoed in the room, saying, "Be careful what you wish for. It may happen sooner than you expect."
"Now what's that supposed to mean?!" Silence met Corrigan's question. Eyeing the shot glass in his hand, he filled it again from the bottle, grumbling as he drank it down. "Note to self: If I ever happen to meet John Constantine again, kick his Limey ass a time or two."
That evening...
It was chilly in the garage where the mechanics detailed to the Western division's motor pool worked on the vehicles under their care. The mechanics had work to be done, but had been paid to go take a break down at Finnigan's, while the garage was put to other use.
On the floor knelt Bill Kenzie, held down by Officer Steve Long, who was tying the Narcotics detective's arms behind his back while Long's partner, Rebecca Mulcahey, was pulling the other end of the chain down from the pulley that hung from the ceiling. As Jim Corrigan walked into the garage, he could see Mulcahey using the chain to haul Kenzie upright, looping it around his neck to keep him there. The sounds of their exhortations that Kenzie get up echoed in the thankfully isolated location.
"Stand up straight, rat!" Mulcahey barked.
Kenzie protested, "I didn't..."
Corrigan finally came into view. He wore a smock and apron over his clothes, medical gloves on his hands and a surgical mask hanging loose by its straps around his neck. "Don't lie, Bill..." he said, interrupting Kenzie's protest. That afternoon, while rousting some panhandlers, Long had spotted Kenzie walking into the Library Café, where, from the look of things, he had a meeting with Detective Allen.
Long told Corrigan, who in turn asked Long and Mulcahey to haul Kenzie in for a chat. To be honest with himself, Corrigan wasn't sure if this development was good or bad. Kenzie spilling his guts on what he knows to Allen could get the operation shut down, and Corrigan himself thrown in jail without being able to do what he'd come back to life to do. On the other hand, he already knew that he had to step up the timetable on that very same act, so maybe this was just what he needed to get Allen someplace where he could do the job. Maybe this was what the Swamp Thing was talking about, he thought to himself.
As Corrigan approached, Long handed him a pipe wrench. "That's just going to make things harder on you, you lie to me. I need to know what you told Allen, Bill... Everything you told Allen."
The beating that Kenzie had taken in the process of his abduction had swollen his right eye shut, but the other one was bugged out wide as he saw the wrench and realized why Corrigan had it in his hand, and was dressed as he was. His voice shaky, he pleaded, "Jesus Christ, Jimmy... Don't do this, man. You don't have to do this..."
"You two are going to want to step back..." Corrigan said to the two uniformed officers. He pulled the mask up to cover his mouth and nose. His eyes gleamed slightly as he hefted the wrench. There was information that he seriously wanted out of Kenzie, beyond just what he told Allen, but first he needed to put on a bit of a show for his fellow conspirators, lest they realize that he was following a different agenda. "There's bound to be some splatter..."
Long and Mulcahey did indeed step back. After all, they weren't attired as Corrigan was, and it wouldn't do to get Kenzie's blood on their uniforms. And blood there was, as Corrigan wound up and swung the wrench at Kenzie's head. All told, it was really a glancing blow, but the spray of blood that resulted was nonetheless impressive. He soon moved to body strikes, though, since he didn't want to completely cave in Kenzie's skull. Kenzie was soon coughing up blood onto Corrigan's apron, which gave him just the reactions he was hoping for: Long and Mulcahey were hard people, used to doing what they needed for themselves and unkind towards betrayal, but this was sickening even for them.
"Why don't you two go get some air, keep a lookout so no one interrupts my conversation with our dear little narc friend here?" The officers nodded and stammered agreement with his suggestion, and as they made their way out, Corrigan called after them, "Stick around, though. There'll be more I'll need you to do soon enough."
As they reached the door, he hit Kenzie again, just once, with a satisfyingly meaty thump and a painful groan in response. Once the door closed, however, he lowered the wrench and pulled down the mask, letting it hang again from its straps. He unwound the chain from Kenzie's neck and ran it up the pulley, letting Kenzie slump down to his knees.
Corrigan knelt as well, holding Kenzie upright. "Bill. Bill?" His tone was much gentler now; more like a friend. "Can you hear me, Bill?"
Kenzie's left eye opened slowly, straining to focus. His voice was shaky as he pleaded, "J...Jimmy? Oh God, Jimmy, please don't... I'll tell you whatever you want to know, just please, God, no more..."
"That's good, Bill. I assume you told Allen everything?"
Kenzie feebly nodded. "Everything... everything I knew. Including this morning... when you came by the drug bust." Now that he wasn't being actively beaten upon, he was starting to breathe more easily, and his voice smoothed out. "I was already wearing a wire, for the sting. I left it on, and got you on tape telling me to double the amount I shorted the inventory. I'm supposed to meet him tonight to give him the last of the proof..." He started to break down in tears. "I'm sorry, Jimmy. So sorry..."
"Shhhh, it's okay, Bill. Easy. What I really need to know is why. Why did you do it, Bill? Was it just to replace me at the top? Did Allen have some dirt on you, that he could force you to squeal?"
The beaten man shook his head. "No, no, nothing like that. Remember Munroe and DeCarlo, Jimmy? They were cops like us. We all made money together, us and them. And then one night, I took a dirty job, and I handed it off to them... and no one ever saw them again. As far as anyone knows, they're dead now, and I'm responsible for that. This job's gonna kill all of us one day, Jimmy -- clean and dirty -- and I realized that I wanted to be clean when I went. Do you see what I'm sayin'?"
The answer had stunned Corrigan a bit. He could hear the vehemence, buried in the difficulties of speaking through the other man's injuries. His own stomach churned as he realized that he'd been enjoying the thrashing he'd given Kenzie, just a tiny bit -- kind of like being the Spectre again, he thought to himself -- only to have been lashing out at a man who finally wanted to do the right thing. Corrigan swallowed audibly, trying to push down that nausea as he considered the new development.
A few tense seconds later, he sighed and looked at Kenzie, trying to make eye contact in a reassuring manner. "Yes, Bill. I see what you're saying. That means I'll need to be quick, 'cause there's not much time." Corrigan turned his head, as though to address the room at large. "Swamp Thing."
Corrigan had, by now, gotten used to the shifts caused by the Swamp Thing manifesting a form. Kenzie, on the other hand, was suddenly terrified. His attempt to scramble back was a bit inhibited by his arms still being chained behind his back and the beating he'd taken, but his left eye and voice managed to work well enough as the one bugged out and the other cried out in terror, "WHAT THE HELL IS--"
"Shit!" Corrigan cursed, clamping a hand on Kenzie's mouth in an attempt to shut him up before he screamed out something that would bring the two cops outside back in. Trying to keep his voice down, he hissed, "Bill! Bill! Calm down, man! He's a friend! He's here to help!" That didn't seem to do very much to allay Kenzie's fears... which, Corrigan reflected, probably shouldn't have been that surprising, since circumstances didn't really obviously place Kenzie's needs in line with his own. Over the sound of Kenzie's continued attempts to scream, he looked at the Swamp Thing. "Any chance you can make sure we have privacy in here from..." He waved his head at the door.
"It's already done. They heard the beginning of the scream, but further noises than that just sound like you're beating on him some more."
"Good enough." Corrigan let go of Kenzie, who'd given up on words and had started just incoherently screaming in fear. After a few moments of that, Corrigan asked, "Got anything for hushing up a guy in a total panic?"
"I can try." The Swamp Thing stepped towards Kenzie, getting down on one knee. As he reached out to put one hand on Kenzie's cheek, he reached out with his mind, attempting to radiate some of his own sense of calm. He refrained from mending any of the man's injuries -- if it was later necessary that he have them, better to not have to try to replicate them -- but he could and did lessen the pain of them. Speaking to the battered man in a soothing tone, he said, "It's all right, Bill. I'm not here to hurt you."
Kenzie felt a little light-headed, just for a moment as he adjusted, both to the sensations of peace that the mysterious creature was imparting upon him and to the fact that it seemed friendly. "Wh-- What are you?" he asked, his voice a half-whisper.
"C'mon, Bill!" Corrigan exclaimed from off to the side. "Don't tell me you've never heard of the Swamp Thing before! There's even a statue of him in town, over in that square."
The Swamp Thing's eyes shifted over to Corrigan. "Actually, that statue was destroyed during the earthquake."
"Oh. You never got a new one put in its place?"
"It was a memorial because everyone thought I'd been killed, which later turned out not to be the case. I have plenty of statuary in my swamps, left over from my crazy phase; I don't need another here. Besides, Bruce Wayne built some affordable low-income housing on that block, which is probably a better use than the statue ever had."
"Fair enough. Anyway, Swamp Thing, William Kenzie. Bill, this is the Swamp Thing, our friendly neighborhood embodiment of the Earth, who I'm hoping can help us give you a chance at that cleaner life you'd recently decided you want."
Fear had given way to confusion, as Kenzie no longer knew quite what was going on. "He... he can? How? Why?"
"Because while I've been doing some bad things, these last few years, I'd like to think that I'm not an evil man, and if what you said you wanted is true, then I have to respect that. Now, the problem is that as things have unfolded... well, William Kenzie will have to die. But!" Corrigan saw the look of fresh fear in Kenzie's face and put up a hand to forestall further screaming. "But my friend here should be able to put you in a new body, with a new face, new name, new everything. A new life that you can live cleanly, to make up for this one." He paused, then looked at the Swamp Thing. "You can do that, right?"
"Certainly. I have the means, and I know that he's sincere. If he wishes, I can do this thing."
"Okay. Y'see, Bill? Think of it like the Witness Protection Program, only much more thorough and you don't have to testify in person first."
Kenzie still didn't really know what was going on, but gave up on trying to figure it out. "Okay. Fine. What've I got to lose? You already said I'd be dead anyway. What do you need me to do?"
Corrigan hesitated a moment, then said, "Well, Bill, I feel bad about asking, but could you tell me when and where you were supposed to meet Allen?"
"Midnight, at the U-Rent storage place on Mandrake Ave. Unit number 123."
Corrigan looked at the Swamp Thing, quietly asking with his facial expression for confirmation of Kenzie's statement, and got a small nod in return. Satisfied, he nodded back and stepped away. The Swamp Thing paused for a moment, then brushed one hand along the side of Kenzie's head. All existence is energy in vibration. The soul, be it human or elemental, is an electromagnetic field, and in humans, it is housed in the pineal gland of the brain. These were truths that the Swamp Thing had learned long ago, his abilities to manipulate the frequencies both of his field and the fields of others beginning as instinct and then improved with training and experience. There was a bright flash of multi-colored light, as the Swamp Thing freed Kenzie's soul from his body, which faded as the light traveled down the Swamp Thing's arm to vanish within his airy form.
"So," Corrigan said. "What now?"
"For Bill's soul, nothing too exciting. A part of my consciousness that's active back in my swamps is holding onto it while I shape a new body for him. He'll be fine. As for his body, I'm currently also keeping it alive and basically functional. You should probably inflict enough injury on it that your associates don't expect him to talk back to them or give them any trouble before the end."
Corrigan blinked. "Wow. That's colder than I expected from you, but if you're all that's keeping his body running, I suppose I can understand that. Anyway, I don't have a lot of time; I've got some calls to make and favors to call in before the meeting. This is probably the last time we can talk like this, since -- if this works -- there's not really any way to know how much he'll be shown to help him decide. Best if he doesn't see your involvement. Your end's pretty much done, anyway, come to think of it. You're clear on what you need to do, after, right?"
"Yes, Jim. It'll be taken care of. Your friends outside will be able to hear, once I leave. If you need me for anything else, just think of me, and I'll hear it." With that, the Swamp Thing faded out, taking with him the separation of inside sounds from outside. Corrigan reared back with the wrench and smacked what used to be Kenzie's face. Work to be done.
Midnight
Detective Crispus Allen trudged through the snow, towards the fence ringing the U-Rent storage facility. Security lights all around the building reflected yellow against the dingy, dirty snow. Given the weather, Allen wouldn't be blamed for shivering in the cold, but the truth was that between the watch cap on his head, the trenchcoat, and the bulletproof vest, he was pretty well bundled up and toasty warm. As he reached the fence, he called out Kenzie's name. Hearing no reply, he opened the gate and passed through, drawing his pistol from its holster and holding it in both hands as he approached the open door of the facility. The inside was lit, but the machinery was silent, forklifts sitting with their engines off and their seats empty. Everything was quiet... except for the sounds of a single set of footsteps, headed towards the back of the facility.
Allen entered just in time to see a shadowy figure round a corner into the maze of shipping containers, and followed, as quickly and yet quietly as he could. Whoever it was that he was following, he (she?) led him a pretty good chase, always just ducking out of sight as Allen could catch a glimpse. Allen could probably have caught up if he'd gone into a full run, but he didn't think he'd been spotted yet and wanted to keep it that way, if possible. Unfortunately, what happened instead was that he missed a turn and found himself all alone. There was an open container ahead, though, which he approached, his gun held ready in front of him. Not hearing any nearby motion, he swung around to face into the container.
"Motherfucker," he muttered to himself. The only person inside the container was already dead: Bill Kenzie, his arms bound behind him, lay on the floor, mostly recognizable by the style of his shirt and the bits of blond hair still remaining in his scalp. Most of his skull, however, was mixed with brains and blood in radial splatter from where he'd had the top of his head blown out.
A single shot sounded, missing Allen to ricochet inside the container where Kenzie lay. Allen ducked anyway, swinging his gun around to bear on his assailant and firing two shots of his own. Officer Long, still in uniform and with gun in hand, took both rounds in the chest, crying out with pain and collapsing to the ground, undoubtedly due to bleed out in the not too distant future.
Allen knelt down over Long, gun ready in case the corrupt beat cop chose to try anything. "Corrigan. Where's Corrigan?"
Out of nowhere, two shots, with loud and mighty cracking sounds, slammed into Allen's back, punching through his body armor on their way in and back out again like it was no more than a woolen sweater. He fell to his knees, in too much pain to react all that quickly.
"Right here," Jim Corrigan replied. The weapon in his hands had a hell of a kick, but it was worth it for the precaution, in case Allen was wearing a vest. To be extra sure, he fired three more times, all direct hits through the heart. Allen didn't have a chance, and slumped over dead.
Corrigan, meanwhile, smirked to himself, just a little bit. The deed was done; now, it remained to be seen just how the chips would finally fall.
The next morning...
One of the benefits of being a Crime Scene Unit tech -- especially, being the lead tech -- is that when you commit a murder, you get to come back to the scene and make any tweaks you need to make it that much less likely that anyone can pin it on you. The folks in Major Crimes might hate your guts, and they might watch you like a hawk, but ultimately, it's your scene and there's not much they can do about it without proof, which is the very thing you deal in.
After that, he had a series of calls to make around the Western precinct house. Sergeant Loughridge, rangemaster for the Emergency Services Unit, had "loaned" Corrigan the high-powered modified Glock that'd been used for the murder, and so needed it returned to inventory. Some small-talk with Clem Robins down in Ballistics told Corrigan all manner of fascinating things -- most of which he already knew -- about pistol rounds versus rifle rounds. Having been paid very well, here and there over the years, both could be readily counted on to do what they were told. That just left the task of making sure that he and Mulcahey had their stories straight, which added a little bit of spice to their makeout session.
Major Crimes could be counted on to work out on their own just what kind of round -- and, therefore, what kind of gun -- would have to have been used. They would also probably find out on their own that the Civil Defence Supply G-224 was only sold to law enforcement agencies, so the only ones to be found in Gotham would be the six in ESU's inventory. Therefore, the official story, between Corrigan, Mulcahey, and Loughridge was that Corrigan paid Loughridge to "rent" him a G-224 last night, off the books as a favor, so he and Mulcahey could indulge her fetish for high-powered firearms with a private shooting session out in the woods. There was a certain amount of danger in blatantly putting the murder weapon in Corrigan's hands, but Robins would ensure that the bullets wouldn't be a match for it.
As he expected, he and Mulcahey were each pulled in, brought into Central at the same time but put into separate interrogation rooms. He couldn't hear what they were asking her, but she'd be fine, he was sure of it. For his part, the detectives questioning him had Allen's file, and grilled him as much on its contents as anything having to do with the previous night. As confident as he was about Mulcahey, though, he was outright arrogant about the allegations against himself. He made no secret of his invitation to prove anything they were accusing him of.
They tried, but he could hear, even through the soundproofing, the sounds of outrage when the Ballistics report came in. Detective MacDonald, in particular, was livid, insisting to Captain Sawyer that she had the right weapon right in her hand. She couldn't prove it, of course, even if she did tell he others about her power. Ultimately, they had to admit that Corrigan had played them, and cut him and Mulcahey loose. They walked out, arm in arm, smugly grinning like there wasn't a thing wrong in the world.
That night...
Corrigan looked over at the knife on the counter, an uncommon fear running through his veins. Not two minutes ago, he and Rebecca Mulcahey were celebrating having beaten the rap with dinner and then sex on the dining table. They'd only just started getting undressed when Renee Montoya started busting the door open. Corrigan had his place pretty well secured, with multiple locks on the door, but Montoya apparently really had her blood up -- and, most likely, her blood alcohol content, if certain rumors were to be believed -- and she put her shoulder into it with remarkable force. Rebecca had gone to the door to tell whoever was coming in to go the hell away, but Montoya just pistol-whipped her a couple of times.
"Jesus oh God oh my God..." He really wasn't sure what to do. He didn't want to have to hurt Renee -- for that matter, he did, to some degree, feel bad for the trouble he'd already caused her -- but neither could he just let her kill him. Not without knowing whether or not his plan was going to succeed and Allen was going to come back to do the job himself. He picked up the knife just as Renee moved on from pistol-whipping to kicking Rebecca for good measure, a spray of blood coming from both the wounds on Rebecca's head and from her mouth. "...Oh my fucking Lord," he blurted out, shocked at Montoya's sheer brutality, which had gone above and beyond even what he'd previously thought her capable of.
Rebecca dropped, finally passing out, and Renee turned towards him. "Hello, Jimmy."
Corrigan decided to play from strength first, or at least the appearance of it, and held the knife up, as though ready to get into a knife fight with her, even though she had a gun and stood far enough away to use it before he could get close enough. "Stay back! You fucking stay away from me!"
Unsurprisingly, she disregarded the knife, instead just raising the gun and aiming it at him. "You ready to die?" She did approach him, however, rounding the peninsula of countertop that contained the sinks and further back him against the refrigerator. "You gonna take it like a man, Jimmy? Or do I shoot you in the back, like you shot Cris?"
"Bitch! You fucking bitch, stay away from me!" This wasn't working; it was fairly apparent that whether fighting or running, she wanted him defiant when she gunned him down. So, then, he changed tactics, he let himself be afraid, dropping to his knees and letting go of the knife. "Stay away! Please." He was visibly cowering now, pleading over and over for his life. They remained like this for several minutes, Corrigan huddled in on himself, tearfully begging while Montoya stood over him with her gun pointed at his forehead, her resolve and drive for something like justice slowly losing out to her conscience's awareness that it'd still be murder, and that Crispus wouldn't want her to do that, even for him. Finally, she turned away, before Corrigan could see the tears brimming in her eyes, and walked out.
It was several minutes more before Corrigan felt safe enough that she wasn't about to come back that he could finally relax, uncoiling from his nearly-fetal position to lay flat on the floor. After feeling such mortal terror, the sudden release of that tension left him feeling giddy, almost to the point of passing out. It felt surprisingly good -- something about having felt that terror despite having lived and died and lived again was inexplicably funny -- and the laughter that rolled up out of him was clear and joyful. Finally, he got up and went to call for an ambulance to get Rebecca to the hospital.
In the Realm of the Newly Dead, matters of location and geography are usually fairly relative, more philosophy than physicality. For now, it suffices to say that there is a mountain whose peak is itself a flat, featureless plain, infinite in all directions. The spirit of Crispus Allen stood upon that mountain-plain, as he had done for the last couple of days, and now he was shouting into the light that he would otherwise be expected to enter.
"Is that it?!" he cried as he pointed at the views he had on the mortal world. He wasn't entirely sure how he was able to see into the land of the living without going there, but he'd stubbornly resisted going on to the hereafter until he saw how everything settled out. "I get killed, and Corrigan walks like nothing ever happened? Where's the justice in that?"
The voice that replied was kind but severe. "Would you have preferred that Renee take his life?"
Allen looked down, slightly shameful now. "No, but something should be done!"
"James Corrigan shall meet God's Judgment, in the fullness of time."
"Not good enough! I may be thankful enough for my family to kneel down and pray, but I didn't become a cop to wait for God to get off his ass!"
"So, then, you would enact your own justice? Very well. The Wrath has recently been abroad in the world without supervision, but no longer. You, Crispus Allen, shall become the embodiment of God's Wrath, and the Vengeance of the Murdered Dead. You shall return to the world, and there, you are to confront evil, and seek understanding of the evil men do."
10 December, 2005, 5:45pm
In the Gotham City Morgue, all was quiet. Out of the bodies on the slabs, two -- Detective Kenzie and Officer Long -- were closed cases, as Kenzie had been killed by Long, who had, in turn, been killed by the third person on a slab, Detective Allen. Who had killed him was still a matter of some debate, but the autopsy, at least, was done and over with, the Y-incision folded back into place and stitched closed.
Such peace was never meant to last.
Within the cavity of Crispus Allen's chest, green light, like fire, began to erupt through the seam lines of the Y-incision, which then burst open, the stitches coming apart like they weren't even there. The light streamed out from the cavity and, with a polyphonic screaming sound, began to bend and coalesce. With a final flash, something like a man was standing next to the dead detective's slab. Beneath the hood of his green cloak, the bald head, facial lines, and vandyke all were reminiscent of the dead man. Beyond that, though, he appeared like someone -- or something -- else entirely. His whole body was chalk white, broken up only by the deep, vibrant green of the hooded cloak, gloves, trunks, and elf shoes.
"The Spectre," he said as he looked down at himself. "So that's what that voice had meant. All right, fine, I'll be the Spectre, but first things first..."
He clenched his fists and concentrated. Light played over his form. His skin returned to the dark shade it had in life; white instead was the suit he wore, much as he would've worn on the job, with a green necktie and shoes. The cloak was replaced with a long green trenchcoat and fedora.
"There. Better. Now, to business: Corrigan."
The Spirit of God's Wrath passed up through the precinct house, unseen and unnoticed save for a slight chill. Reaching the rooftop, he took to the air, a burning trail of emerald brilliance carving a path through the night.
10 December, 2005, 5:40pm
Meanwhile, in his apartment, Jim Corrigan lay on his bed, eyes closed. It looked like he could've been asleep, but in fact, he was awake, in silent communion with the spirit of the Earth.
The topic of conversation had been, as it often was recently, the Spectre and how the efforts to get him under control were faring. Jim "Nightmaster" Rook's impromptu group (which had, in a moment of whimsy, acquired the name of "The Shadowpact") had succeeded in taking Eclipso out of the picture, but that did not deter the Wrath from the mission he'd taken on for himself. Instead, in what Corrigan considered to be an unsurprising lack of critical thought, the Spectre decided that despite having trouble with this group of what were, at best, intermediate-level magic users, he'd weeded out enough of the lowest ranks to prevail in a fight against one of the great powers, and thus traveled to the Rock of Eternity in order to kill the wizard Shazam. It was unsurprising that Captain Marvel, as the wizard's champion, stood in defense of his patron, despite the thrashing he'd received earlier. What the Spectre didn't expect, however, was that several other magical heroes stood with Marvel, and had provided him with the Spear of Destiny.
The Sentinels of Magic did their best to keep the Spectre distracted, so that Marvel could strike with the Spear. They expected the fight to go on for some time, with several strikes necessary to weaken the Spectre enough to either capture or kill him, but much to their surprise, the Presence chose the moment at which Marvel first managed to stab the Spectre to recall the wayward servant. The Spectre didn't go quietly, protesting and pleading that he'd been deceived and misguided and would never do it again, but resistance, ultimately, was not an option, and so he faded away, headed for parts unknown.
That matter covered, Corrigan changed the subject, thinking the question, Whatever happened to Montoya, anyway?
She resigned, the Swamp Thing replied. Went in first thing in the morning and gave Captain Sawyer her badge and gun.
Aw, man. That's a shame. Her anger aside, she was a good police.
Don't worry, I have an... acquaintance coming in soon. She'll probably hate him at first, but I expect he should be able to help her start finding answers for herself.
Well, that's something, at least.
...Jim? I hadn't entirely expected that it would, but it would appear that your plan worked. Crispus Allen's spirit just erupted from his body, and the Spectre is bonded to him. He's on his way here now.
All right, you better clear out. Time for me to take my medicine. He opened his eyes and stood up, walking to the windows and looking out towards the Central precinct. He could see the comet of green light making a beeline for him, and smiled, opening his arms wide.
"Come and get me."
Epilogue
14 December 2005
Captain Maggie Sawyer sat at her desk with her face in her hands, rubbing her eyes. She'd been having a very busy week or so, between losing one of her detectives to murder, his partner resigning, the likelihood that the city's lead crime scene tech was the culprit, not being able to prove it, and then finding out that he had been killed, too, under very unusual circumstances. It was a whole lot of trouble that she couldn't do a whole lot about, in any practical sense, and she hated having to deal with it anyway. It was on days like these that she really wished that Toby had moved to Gotham with her, so she'd be there to come home to, but Toby had her own career as well.
It was, of course, at this point that Detective Chandler knocked on her door, no doubt to heap more trouble upon her. "Captain? Courier just delivered this for you." Maggie looked up, and in Chandler's hands was a manila envelope of remarkable thickness.
"That's odd. I'm not expecting anything." She straightened up in her seat, holding out a hand to take the envelope. "Any indications who it's from?"
"Nope. No return address, and the courier didn't say. Come to think of it, he wasn't one of the regular guys, either."
"Hm. Interesting. All right. Thanks, Romy."
Chandler left. After a few moments' examination of the outside of the envelope, Maggie shrugged and opened it up. Inside was a folder, chock full of papers, a couple of ledger books, a smaller sealed envelope with what felt like a bunch of keys, and a few DVDs. Paperclipped to the front was a note:
Captain Sawyer:While the label on the envelope had been printed from a computer, she did, in fact, recognize Corrigan's handwriting in the letter. She sat for a long while, after she'd finished reading it, pondering the meaning of it all. Ultimately, though, Corrigan was right; the rewards, if everything was legit, were too good to ignore. The decision came after a few moments of flipping through the file, but once it was made, she stood up and looked out into the squad room from her office door.
If you've read enough of my reports, you probably already know who this is, and if you've received this package, then I'm most likely dead. On the one hand, I've escaped the reach of the courts, which I'm sure you can't be very happy about. On the other hand, where I am now is probably a lot hotter than wherever you'll end up going, however many years from now. Anyway, the reason for this is that, as strange as you may think it, I'm about to do you some favors.
To start with, consider this a confession: Yes, I killed Crispus Allen. I had my reasons, and they're probably not what you think they are. In any case, feel free to close that case flle.
More importantly, while I did make myself a central figure in GCPD corruption, that helps you in two ways: First, with me dead, there's a sizable power vacuum that'll take at least a little bit of time to get filled, especially since I'd stopped all activity until I could skate the charges against me. Second, and more importantly, I documented everything, and that's what I'm giving to you. In this folder, you'll find notes, records, receipts, ledgers, recordings of conversations, etc. There are some larger pieces of physical evidence; I've noted where the storage lockers are and which of the keys in that envelope will open them. I'm counting on you to look everything over and bring it to Esperanza or whoever else at IA you think is trustworthy, before all of my former associates get their ducks in a row. I'm not foolish enough to promise that you could entirely eliminate the corruption in the GCPD, but you should have enough to take out most of it.
I know that this might not seem to make sense, and you're probably suspicious, which is entirely reasonable. But if I am on the level, can you pass on the opportunity I'm giving you?
Good luck.
Sincerely,
James Brendan Corrigan
"Chandler! Takahata! Driver! MacDonald! Get in here!"
The Swamp Thing was both everywhere and nowhere in the world, his essence a part of all that existed on, in, or above the Earth. He celebrated each new birth, and mourned each death. Deaths were a bit more frequent than they'd been in a while, as was usually the case when the Spectre was about in the world. That said, he was aware of the Spectre's movements, and with the understandable exception of his execution of Jim Corrigan, Crispus Allen was being quite moderate about the job. The worst part was probably not being able to see his family ever again, but the Phantom Stranger had been able to help him understand that it was for the best. Other than that, he understood what was expected of him, and he didn't try to shirk it. He sought out evil, and ensured that vengeful justice was enacted, without the excesses to which previous Spectres had been prone.
Yes, the Swamp Thing considered to himself as he moved with the world, this might just work out, after all.
Notes for Part 2:
- It's not entirely beyond the realm of possibility that world elementals are, to most sentients' ways of thinking, just a little bit crazy. That's what happens when your mind encompasses an entire planet's worth of sentient minds within it. (A related idea to this is that the final step in becoming the Earth, for the Swamp Thing, was giving up the last of Alec Holland's spirit and humanity. That he remains able, in large part, to relate to humanity can be traced to the fact that he has his whole world to draw on, and thus needs no humanity of his own.)
- Mandrake Ave. is named for Tom Mandrake, who did most of the art for John Ostrander's run on "The Spectre" v3.
- I am, by no means, even a fraction of the theologian that John Ostrander is, but I hope that my variant on the "murdered man demands justice, becomes Spectre" scene does something vaguely resembling justice (so to speak) to the import which he'd attached to it. (As a side note, this is one way in which Hal Jordan, from the start, was a massive, cosmology-breaking departure from all Spectres to precede or succeed him: The only way in which Hal could be said to have been murdered was by his writer, which doesn't count.)
- The morgue scene is more or less entirely different from the way it plays out in Infinite Crisis #4, if for no other reasons than that I couldn't be arsed to transcribe that scene as it happened -- not least of which because it is, IMO, chock full of exposition that doesn't necessarily quite make sense in the new context -- and I wanted to cover the Wrath's having been spanked more indirectly in the next scene, since it made more sense to me that that would've happened before he got bonded to Allen. Also, this scene gave me a chance to flip the double-deuce to canon's white-ification of Crispus when he's in Spectre mode, and give him an outfit less offensive to his sensibilities.
- Aside from the final scene and its outcome and implications, "Day of Vengeance" played out closely enough to canon as to not require much special mention. Among things to note, though, are that Shazam isn't killed, nor is Dr. Fate (who remains Hector Hall, thank you, DC), and there is no grand unmaking of the
Third Age of MankindNinth Age of Magic. Also, given what, prior to Infinite Crisis, canonically happened to Eclipso hosts who got exposed to sunlight, Jean-clipso does not get to survive in a continuous orbit around the Sun; instead, the sunlight pushed Eclipso's power out of her, and she died from exposure to the vacuum of space. The "acquaintance" that Swampy's called in to help Renee is, of course, The Question, who will not be getting cancer and dying, thanks. - Yes, the courier was the Swamp Thing, in a clever Alec Holland disguise, doing one last favor to complete Corrigan's secret reason for becoming a corrupt cop as part of his cover.
