White Rabbit
(part 1/2)
It was late that night, well past eleven, and the year's last remnants of snow crunched underfoot as Doctor Oliver Carlson hurried home.
"Never take short cuts", he'd always said before. "If you know a certain route, take it. It might take longer, but that's a fair price for certainty." He applied this philosophy not only to literal travel, but to his work, his personal life, and almost everything else, as well. But on that night, he disregarded his own advice as he climbed into the old abandoned warehouse through an open window. "Why go around?" he thought to himself. "It's as wide as a city block, and nobody even owns it anymore." He had gone around countless times before, but on that night he was in a great hurry. That night, delays could not be tolerated.
The inside was one enormous room. Once full of industry and working men, the place had since been left empty, save for the support pillars and a few abandoned packaging machines. He could see a window on the far side, and hurried towards it.
There was never anyone in the old warehouse. No one ever bothered.
And yet, on that night, there was.
"Where ya goin', old man?" came a gruff voice from behind.
Carlson turned and saw a burly, disheveled man in a heavy winter coat. Carlson was only in his late forties and took personal offense at the remark.
He turned away from the brute, planning on making a break for the window, but he then found another man blocking that escape route. This one was taller and leaner than the first, wearing an unfriendly grin.
"What's in the briefcase?" asked the first, approaching his quarry.
"It's... it's nothing." Carlson said, grasping it defensively. "Just leave me alone. I don't have anything you want."
"You know what?" asked the second, also drawing nearer. "Now I'm curious. Why don't we take a look."
The briefcase he held contained his life's work, and it meant more to him than any amount of money. He looked around in a panic, desperately trying to find some miraculous escape from the peril in which he found himself.
But sometimes the escape finds you.
"Hey! Stop right there!" shouted a voice from behind the bigger man. All three looked to see who had spoken, and found a woman wearing a blue, pink, and orange costume climbing in through the same window Carlson had entered by. Once fully inside, she stood upright and struck a heroic pose. She looked to be about six feet tall, yet slight of build.
The big man sneered at her. "It's one of 'dem meddlin' heroes."
"Yeah," said the lanky one, though a shade less confidently. "One of them Defenders of Justice guys, I guess."
"Justice Team!" she snapped. "I'm a member of Justice Team! Defenders of Justice is a different group entirely!"
The taller man nodded, and said to his partner-in-crime, "that's that one up-start team that's been tryin' to make a name for themselves. I saw 'em on the news the other day. Bunch of newbies is all they are, though."
Looking like a pouting child, she pointed at him and a narrow beam of light shone from her fingertip. In midair, the ray refracted as if through an invisible prism, shining colored rays directly into both his eyes.
He covered his eyes and fell to the ground. “I can't see!” he shouted. “I can't see a thing!”
The other man began to pull a gun from inside his coat, and immediately received a double-dose of the same treatment, yielding similar results.
"And the name is Prism," she informed them as they crawled about on the ground. Then, to Carlson, "you'd better get going."
He nodded nervously, and ran across to the far window. He climbed out and disappeared into the night.
As she gathered the weapons and went to follow Carlson-- she could see that his ability to avoid misfortune was clearly lacking-- she heard the bigger man get back to his feet.
"You... you..." he muttered, squinting teary eyes.
"'Me... me...' what?" Prism replied, sounding unimpressed.
Fists clenched, he ran clumsily at her. Or rather, in her general direction. The afterimage was still confusing his perception.
She sighed, and pointed at him as if her finger were the barrel of a gun. As her fingertip began to glow brightly, the man was suddenly enveloped in a burst of smoke.
Prism almost jumped in surprise, and stared at the scene. After a moment, she looked at her still-glowing finger, as though she might find the answer there.
When she looked back, the last of the smoke was dissipating into the air. Where the man had been was only a pile of clothes and a fat, scruffy-furred rat.
"Who's there?" Prism asked out loud, scanning her surroundings; a light beam at the ready.
There was another puff of smoke, and the second man was changed into a rodent as well.
Out from the shadows, stepped the sorceress Sycorax.
Prism gasped and aimed a brightly glowing finger at her. "Don't move!" she commanded, feigning confidence.
"Relax," said the witch. "I come in peace." She held up her hands in front of her. This was merely a symbolic gesture, as being unarmed meant nothing to a master of the mystical arts.
"What do you want?" Prism asked.
"I just have a favor to ask of you," the sorceress said. She looked at the rats, and threw a tiny ball of fire at one of them, singeing its tail. They both scampered and squeezed under a door to the outside.
"Oh. Is that all?" Prism replied, though she kept her finger aimed. "Sure, I can help out. You can tell me all about it on the way to the asylum."
As if out of nowhere, a mirror appeared a couple of feet in front of Sycorax's face. Prism fired the light beam, and it split into an array of colored lights that, once past the mirror, rebounded again, directly into the witch's eyes.
Sycorax staggered back as Prism pressed a button on her wrist communicator.
"HQ, this is Prism! I need--!"
With a wave of the sorceress's hand, there was a burst of smoke, and the transmission ended.
Casting a spell of recovery, Sycorax began regaining proper eye sight. She blinked her eyes a few times as she approached the fading smoke cloud. She kicked the com-unit aside, then reached into the brightly colored heap of costume and pulled out a green, long-limbed tree frog.
"That one's always been a favorite amongst my kind," Sycorax said to Prism. "It's a classic, don't you think?"
Prism stared at her, wide-eyed, and made a squeaky sort of ribbit.
"This spell will wear off soon. When it does, be a dear and give this letter to Paragon, would you?" She reached out with one hand and seemed to pluck an envelope from thin air, and set it down next to the costume. "Could you do that for me?"
The frog hesitated. It wasn't easy for a frog to look skeptical, but she managed decently well. "I suppose it's no secret that I... you know... like him. So rest assured--It's not going to hurt him. I just need to give him a message."
Contemplative wasn't any easier than skeptical, but she got the point across.
"Could you do this? Please?" Her casual tone had given way for one of reluctant, yet open sincerity. "If not for me, then for him. It's very important."
The frog hesitated, but finally nodded.
"It's magically sealed, by the way," Sycorax said, her tone casual once again, "so don't even think of trying to open it yourself, or keeping it from him. Got it?"
Again, the frog nodded.
"Thanks a million. It really means a lot to me," Sycorax said. She gave the frog a pat on the head, and set her down by the costume, next to the envelope.
"Oh! I almost forgot!" She then set another envelope next to the first. "While you're at it, could you give this one to Photon Man?"
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