THE GUARDIANS:

Part 1:
The Call
New York Bound
Friends in the Business
Poker Face

1

Alexander Osgood was relaxing in his office in Athens, Greece. Osgood was a very accomplished international investigator, who had made his riches using his power of deduction (along with some other notable powers.)
Osgood’s office was on the 24th floor. It was originally on the 23rd, but he had a quirk about odd numbers. It was positioned so that it overlooked the Parthenon, his favorite historical site, not including Westminster Abbey in his native England.
He was indulging his fancy in a book over Greek mythology (he had a penchant for that kind of folklore) when he sensed his assistant, Hamilton, hovering in the doorway.
“Who, pray tell, was on the phone?” Alexander loved to do that to poor Hamilton, who, after 4 years of faithful service, had never gotten used to it. “Well… uh… sir, a Mr. Banion from America. He wishes an audience with you at his business in New York tomorrow morning.”
“What is the occasion?” Osgood asked, uninterestedly. “Well, sir, he says that he wishes to have your… expertise in a ‘little project’ he is conducting.” Alexander, never looked up from his book, but he hummed with apathy. “And his offer?” “500,000 Euro per agreement, 1,000,000 Euro per close of project.”
At this, Osgood’s eyebrow raised. Still never looking from his book, he said, “I shall pack for a New York autumn.”

James Valentine pardoned himself through countless scores of fans. His throat was hoarse from yelling his beloved New Mexico Lobos to a 31-3 halftime lead over the UTEP Miners.
He finally got through the seating area, and walked down three tiers of grandstand. He made his way to the concession stand to buy a Dr. Pepper, and maybe a hot dog.  He had to hurry, there was only 2:50 left in the halftime break.
He bought his drink, but didn’t have enough for a dog. He was making his way back to his seat, when a heckler, who was very intoxicated, began yelling.
“’Ey… you (burp) you freak! Yeah I’m talkin’ a you! I know wucha are! You a freak, you a freakin’ freak!” James whipped his head around to face the man. His eyes lit up, at least for an instant. “Yeah, and what are you going to do, you damn wino?” Then his eyes did light up, and they looked as if there were lightning bolts shooting through them. At this, the drunk tumbled back over a trashcan. James laughed.
The phone in James pocket began to ring. He flipped it open. “Yo, Valentine here.” The voice on the other end was dull, but he recognized it just the same. “This is Banion, your expertise are needed.” James heart raced. “Yes, sir.” He said.
He guzzled his drink, and left the game. The Lobos were taking the field, but he could always listen to the radio.

Heather Carlisle and Allison Walls sat, slumped, in the back seat of the black Chevy Tahoe. They were extremely tired from a long day. All they wanted now was to sleep.
Both Heather and Allison were lobbyists for civil rights. On a personal note, they lobbied for the Mutant Rights Movement.  They had been lobbying, speaking, demonstrating, making appearances, and mingling with other organizations all day.
The duo even had their foot in the president’s door, but one obstacle still loomed. Congress had passed a bill that created a branch of Homeland Security just for the registration of legal U.S. citizens who happened to be mutants (this stemming from multiple attacks on government buildings by mutants.) The branch was called the Bureau of Mutation Registration. The president, Willard Allen Burroughs, had made the mistake of appointing former Secretary of Defense, Preston Gyrich (a noted anti-mutant,) to the position of director.
Heather was contemplating the repercussions of this disaster, when the emergency car phone buzzed to life. The driver answered, and sat listening for a moment. He then gave a perplexed look, and turned around. “Do any of you know a mister… Banion?”

Spencer Bradshaw was working diligently. He was preparing for an exhibit at a local Chicago high school. It was a chemistry and physics demonstration.
Spencer was a professor of chemistry at the University of Chicago. He was fresh out of college himself. He had majored in Chemistry  at Loyola Marymount in Chicago, and graduated the year before. Not only was he interested in covalent bonds and electro negativity; it also helped him understand his situation.
The first quarter was coming to an end, and he had a lot of work to do for the next. But first, he had this little science fair.
He was carefully storing solid calcium samples, when his student aide, Carl Hawke, came bursting in. “Professor Spencer?” he yelled. Spencer jumped, and dropped a sample into the wet sink, causing a nasty reaction. The small explosion sent Bradshaw tumbling backwards over a desk.
“Oh, jeez, are you alright?” Carl asked. Spencer picked himself up and gingerly brushed himself off. “Yes, just fine. Now, there was something that you needed me for?”
Carl looked confused, and then he remembered. “Oh, yeah. There was an urgent call for you. I asked to take a message, but he told me he would contact you in some other way.” Just then, Spencer’s computer chimed. He had received an email.
It was from a name that Spencer didn’t know. He opened it up. Must be some sort of organization. Bradshaw read it once, and couldn’t believe it. He read it again, and again. It didn’t make sense. It couldn’t be a real email, must be a prank, but something told him it wasn’t.
“Carl, call the Dean’s office. Tell him I’m gonna need a few weeks off.”

2

It was close to midnight on that same day Alexander Osgood had received the call. The moon was full, and it cast an eerie shadow on the Parthenon. Osgood looked at it for a long moment, and it seemed ominous and foreboding. He shook his had, and boarded the plane, accompanied by Hamilton.
Along with his essentials, Osgood brought with him a portable stereo. He fumbled with the cords, and asked, “So this, Banion, is it? This fellow says he needs my expertise, eh?” Hamilton nodded. “Yes, sir.” Then he was silent.
Osgood finally got the cords connected and plugged in. He produced a CD, and popped it into the disc tray. The machine whirred, then began to play a twangy song. Hamilton listened for a while, a bit confused. ‘What is all this rot about flaming rings?’ he thought.
“A Ring of Fire, by Johnny Cash. Damned good country music.” Osgood said, answering Hamilton’s thought. Osgood spent the rest of the flight singing with the Man In Black.

James’ car crept to a halt. He didn’t get out for a long moment. He was listening to the last seconds of the 3rd quarter. The Lobos had let the Miners back into the game, it was now 31-20, and the Miners were driving. “Come on, guys!” James yelled to the radio.
A little angry at having to miss the game of the season, thus far, James got out of the car. He crunched across the gravel to the gate. He waited for the guard.
The guard was a slender man of about 20, but he was full of muscle. He was unarmed, save a standard 9mm pistol. He wore an armband that signified he was Military Police. Just like pops, James thought, and laughed to himself.
The guard looked him up and down, and ran him over with a hand-held metal detector. He then gave James the third degree. “You are…?” he asked, impatiently. James got a sly smile on his face. “Static blue. Code Darwin.” he recited, as he did many times before.
The guard’s eyes widened. “I am, so sorry, sir!” he stammered, and ran to the post. He radioed to the guys inside. The gates open. Several minutes later, James was on his way to New York.

The gala had ended at 7pm. It was now 9:13pm. Heather and Allison were still tired, and still wanted to sleep, but they now needed to make it to New York. For some reason, they just couldn’t resist this invitation. It was as if something outside of their control was forcing them to go.
“So this Banner character says he needs our expertise?” Allison asked. “It was Banion, and yeah, something like that.” Heather answered.
She looked out the window, and watched as the scenery whizzed by. The car hummed that familiar lullaby to her. She kept thinking on the phone conversation she had with this ‘Banion’ guy. “All I can tell you is that your, that is Allison and you, your expertise are needed.” Very strange.
“You reserved a room, right?” Allison asked. Heather nodded listlessly. She was still tired, but the little talk she had with Banion had made her very, very tired.

Spencer Bradshaw was still trying to convince himself that what he was doing made sense. He tried to remember what time he had received that blasted email. 12, maybe 1 o’clock? It had been a long time since he had left Chicago, and he still couldn’t answer himself.
“What the hell are you doing, Spence? Come on, be rational, be reasonable. Just be smart. Some guy asks you to go to New York because he needs your expertise, and you just hop in your car, and drive right on down. Yeah, that’ll be really good to tell the Dean.”
‘But something made me go. This little voice in my head. You gotta go, you gotta go. It is VERY important that you go. I couldn’t stop it from saying that. It must be some psychological thing. I must be going insane, like Bundy or Stalin or Rader. Oh, jeez, what if I become a serial killer.
‘What the hell are you TALKING about? You can’t even watch a TV show with a guy that scrapes his knee, let alone slash a person’s throat. Plus, you fainted when you saw a cadaver in Bio class. Just STOP IT!’
Spencer slammed on the brakes, jerking himself out of his mental prison. “Jesus help me.” he said, and crossed himself. He wasn’t Catholic, but it didn’t hurt to try something new. He continued driving.
A sign posted on the roadside said “Now Entering New York:  The Empire State!” Bradshaw took a deep breath, and gripped the wheel tighter. He couldn’t believe what he was doing, but he was past the point of no return.

3

“This Banion bloke is quite a card, eh Hamilton?” Osgood asked, as he finished shaving. “Very creepy, if you ask me, sir.” Hamilton responded.
Osgood and Hamilton had checked into a Hilton on Broadway at 10:30, Eastern Standard Time. They received a suite on the top floor. When they stepped into the room, they found that, in place of the complimentary chocolate on the pillow, there was a card. It read:
Prudential Building
10:30am
Floor 14
(Just for you, Mr. Osgood)
Banion
Osgood stepped out of the bathroom. He sat down on the bed, and picked up the card. It was now 8:45am, one hour, forty-five minutes. Osgood flipped the card over and over, absently. “So here is the plan, Hamilton. At 10 o’clock, I will leave for my destination. You will leave on the plane, return in Athens, and await my call for you to pick me up. While I’m gone, you will be in charge of the business.” “Yes, sir.”
10 o’clock:  Osgood and Hamilton checked out. Hamilton hailed a cab to return to the jet, and get back to Athens. Osgood caught a cab to go up to the Prudential Building.
Alexander settled in for a nice, quiet ride. The cab driver, who was also a Johnny Cash fan, made polite conversation for a while. After several minutes of silence, the cab arrived at the destination. Osgood got out, paid the fare, and walked to the door.
He stared up at the building. It was a basic, granite building. Nothing to remarkable. It was in the same Gothic influence as many of the older buildings in New York, including the Empire State Building. There was a distinguishing feature. Atop the doorway, there was a semi-circle of bricks. The zenith brick was a bit larger than the rest, and was embossed with an eye inside a shimmering triangle.
He walked through the door, and immediately into a waiting area. He saw the courtesy desk, and walked up to it. The receptionist was very young, and very pretty. She gave Osgood a genuine smile. “Good morning, Mr. Osgood. Floor 14, just for you.” Osgood was astounded. “Uh how do you… yes, floor 14. Th-Thank you.” Just for you.
He walked over to the elevator, hit the up button, and got in. Hit pushed the 14 button and waited. As he did, he thought about the receptionist. How in blazes did she know me? Just for you. What the bloody hell does that mean? Good morning, Mr. Osgood… Floor 14. Just or you. Alexander shuddered.
The elevator jolted to a stop. He was rocked back into the land of the living. The doors slid open and revealed the infamous floor 14.
It was a simple room. It reminded Osgood of the boardrooms that you see in the movies and on television. It had a suspended ceiling, with florescent lights put right into the tiles. In the center of the room was a long table, usually used for meetings. The only things on the table were stacks of paper at each seat, and a pitcher of water with 5 glasses. At the head of the table, enveloped in the early morning shadows, sat a figure.
“Good morning, Mr. Osgood.” His tenor-ish voice was throaty and gravely, like he had smoked too many cigarettes. “I am so very glad you could make it.” Osgood stood speechless. He was about to ask about the note in the hotel room, about the cryptic message:  just for you, about the receptionist. Just for you.
“The receptionist is telepathic, just as you and I are, Mr. Osgood.” Banion said, interrupting Alexander’s thoughts. “Everyone in, and soon to be in, this room is a… a mutant .” This last part he said with a grimace. It was as if the word mutant was a very slanderous word. “As for this meeting,” he continued, “we shall wait for the others. Please, sit.” Banion said, motioning to the chairs. Alexander sat without argument, he was too confounded to speak.
“I noticed the insignia  atop the entrance door. A brother Mason, eh?” “no, no,” Banion said, “It is, as you know, a symbol of the all seeing deity.  In this case, it is representative of my organization, which is all seeing. You see, we are… what you could consider, insurance providers. We insure that clientele do not come into harm. We are protectors of the peace.”
“Who’s the Limey?” Osgood jumped. He had not heard anyone step off the elevator, and he was not scanning for new brainwave activity.
Banion turned to the stranger, “Osgood, meet my go-to employee, Mr. James Valentine.” At hearing this, James tried to hold back a sly smile, but failed. “He runs errands for me.” Banion continued. “So,” Osgood addressed James, “you are some sort of mercenary?” Banion laughed. “oh, heavens no. He is simply a confidante and a rendezvous for oversees appointments. In fact, Mr. Valentine just returned form Singapore two weeks ago.” “Very exotic.” James added.
“So, he is also an…‘insurance salesman,’ then?” “If that floats your boat, then yes.” James said. “Well, I believe I have to prepare for our next guests.” Banion said, and with that, he left the room.
James took a seat next to Alexander. He took off his baseball cap and tossed it on the table. It landed facing toward Osgood. On it was stitched a growling wolf’s head. Underneath were the letters UNM, proclaiming his allegiance to some University.
“University of New Mexico.” James said. “The mascot is the Lobo. That’s wolf in span-” “I know what it is.” Osgood said, a bit roughly. James cast his eyes down toward the floor. A very heavy silence filled the room, it lasted for quiet a while.
“You know,” James said, trying to make conversation, “I just came from a football game - that is American football. It kind of explains the outfit.” James pointed out the maroon and silver, mesh jersey, baggy blue jeans, and cap.
“I never really liked rugby, and that is all football is. Rugby with protection. I guess I was never interested in your little game. Fencing, now there is a sport. Sport of kings and gentlemen, as I say.” James smiled. “You know, I have always enjoyed sword play myself. To go to war with nothing but a sword and shield was very noble. But then came the firearm. War was still exciting, but mowing down an enemy with bullets is not as noble as close quarter sword fights.” James and Alexander had found some common ground. They sat, chatting about swords and such for a long time.
After a time, two young ladies entered the room. “Anyone else get a creepy feeling form that receptionist?” One asked. She was a bit shorter than her companion, with black hair, to her friends brown. Both looked as of they slept in their clothes, if they slept at all, that is.
“Well, hello there.” James said, the sly smile returning to his lips. The shorter one raised her finger and pointed it at James. “NOT… EVEN.” she said, defiantly. James shrugged, and kicked back in his chair.
Suddenly, Banion’s voice came wafting into the room. “Through the door on your left, there is a change of clothes. I hope they fit.” The two ladies looked bewildered. Osgood shrugged. “Get used to it.” he said.

The ladies had just left the room, when Osgood struck up the conversation. “so,” he asked, “what is it that you do, exactly?” James pondered this question. “In a manner of speaking, I am a special operative for Mr. Banion.” Osgood let out a frustrated sigh. “You know, I am getting sick and bloody tired of this mystery. If I wanted metaphors and symbols I would read that damned Joseph Conrad.”
“All in good time,” Banion said, appearing behind Osgood, “and do not try to read his mind, I have blocked it.” Osgood looked at Banion, who simply tapped his head. For the second time today, Alexander Osgood couldn’t argue.

Spencer Bradshaw raced up the service stairs. He had no patience for the elevator, and he had to get away from that creepy receptionist. He checked his watch. 10:33am. He was late. He picked up the speed.
Spencer burst through the door. Four people were already in their seats, waiting. On him most likely. ’God, I hope I’m not in trouble.’ “Not at all.” A man sitting at the head of the table leaned forward. He was hidden by the mid morning shadow that covered most of the room. “We are glad you could make it, Mr. Bradshaw.” That creepy feeling overtook Spencer again.

Bradshaw took a seat, and the shadow man stood up. “Well, now that everyone is here, we can begin. I know most of you are wondering why you are here.” All but James nodded. “Well, as I said, your expertise is needed. All of you know what that means, but you don’t want to say. I know that you are all… special. You are all mutants. And it is my pleasure to say that you have been picked to be a part of a special task force. A team of protectors, of guardians.
“I am Daniel Banion, by the way. I own a company called MAPA, or mutant advancement and protection agency. We are responsible for the safeguarding of mutants living in 25 countries worldwide.
“In early 2003, MAPA operatives intercepted information of the formation of an anti human force developing here in America. Led by a ruthless and cutthroat man, this gang has planned multiple attacks on major government establishments, including the Pentagon and the White House. It is my belief that they are trying to establish anarchy in America. They have become recently active with the news of Preston Gyrich and the BMR.”
Heather and Allison nodded in agreement. “Well, we here at MAPA had information at their first attack upon this organization. Unfortunately, we could not apprehend them beforehand. They succeeded in destroying a registration facility in east Philadelphia, but there are no suspects, other than mutants.
“Fortunately for us, we had also intercepted the names of all five members of this gang, this brood.”

4

Banion hit a button on a small device on the table. A projector screen slid down slowly and locked into place. Banion hit another button, and the screen was instantly illuminated with colors. The title read:  THE BROOD. Banion hit the button again.
The next slide had a man’s picture on the 10 of spades card. The man had a very angry looking face, with a scar running form just below his right eye, across the bridge of his nose, and down to his left cheek. His hair was red, and his features looked Irish.
“This,” Banion said, “is Chester O’Day. Originally born in Belfast, Chester became a mercenary, working for both sides of the Irish Civil War. He is void of human compassion and sympathy. He has killed kids, women, elderly people, anybody that has gotten in his way.
“His call name is Brimstone. He possesses the ability to engulf anything in flames. Voluntary combustion, as it is called in the scientific world. This makes him very dangerous to be close to. His weakness is his inability to use his powers at long distances.”
Click.
The next slide, the Jack of spades, showed a man that resembled Alexander to a tee. One variation was, in place of Alexander’s soft, green eyes, this man had cold, steel blue eyes. And a very maniacal look to him. His disheveled hair and wild grin made him look like a loony in a rubber room.
“Hey, Alex, he looks just like you.” James commented. “Indeed. That, my dear boy, is my black sheep brother, Jonathan.” Alexander hung his head, and shook it, as if to shake away a bad memory.
Banion came and put an apologetic hand on Osgood’s shoulder. “Yes, it is Jonathan Osgood, a.k.a. Psychosis. He was born in Sussex, England, and went awry when he met the leader of the Brood in 1999.
He shares similar traits with his brother, except one. His ability is to project images into ones head. Most of the time, these images are very disturbing and frightful, which is where he gets his call name.”
Click.
This picture was of a very young lady. She had blonde hair and fair skin. She looked no more than 20, but her eyes looked very old. And scary. They seemed to hold back a pain too heavy to carry, yet too heavy to tell. She also looked very deadly.
“Fittingly, this is the Queen of spades. Her name is Tristian Cross, or, Vixen. Her beauty is matched only by her lethal ability. She can absorb ones energy source, including age, beauty, and abilities. It is believed that she may be well over 60 years old.”
At this, James, who had just poured himself a glass of water and began to drink it, spewed water out of his mouth, and all over the table. “Aw, man!” he exclaimed. “My sentiments exactly.” retorted Spencer.
Click.
The face that appeared on the screen was menacing. He had short, brown hair, and a very vicious scowl. When James saw it, his face turned red with anger, and he let out a low, angry growl.
“James knows this one very well. William Morgan, or Rush, the King of spades. His unique ability renders him virtually invulnerable. He has the ability to control the flow of adrenalin, or epinephrine to Alexander. He controls the flow to certain areas of the body, and can utilizes by becoming stronger, faster, and more enduring. He is a monster.”
“And a goddamn murderer.” James added.
“For another time, James.” Banion said, soothingly.
Click.
Now there was an old, evil looking face on the screen. The man looked to be about in his fifties, and as though he had seen too much stress in his life. His silvery-white hair accented his cold eyes. His mouth was nothing more than a line through his face, but it came to a sinister smile, a smile that seemed to say “I can kill you if I please.”
“Ah, our Ace of spades. Dusk, or, Geoffrey Dane. His birth place and date are unknown. He is believed to be 55 or so. His uncanny ability is to change forms. He can turn to any form he wishes. This makes him dangerous to security. He is out most wanted, and most lethal, criminal.”
Click.
The slide show was over.
Banion turned the lights back on. He sat down in his chair. When he did, it seemed that some unseen weight was placed on his chest. He plopped down, and didn’t move or speak for quite a while.
When he looked up, his eyes were haunting and misty. He seemed to be in another world. When he spoke, his voice seemed far off and distant.
“Please, for the love of humanity, for the love of mutant kind, please accept this mission. You must seek out and take out these five. It is the fate of the nation, that fate of the world, for that matter. It is prime objective for MAPA, and it is high up on President Burroughs list as well. If you can do this for me, you will be handsomely rewarded.”
There was silence in the room. No one stirred. Finally, James Valentine stood up. “Banion, I have always been a go-to operative. I believe that this group is talented enough to do this job. So, yes, I accept this mission.”
Alexander Osgood stood as well. “I believe that it is my duty, as an international investigator and protector, to accept this mission. I am more than glad to lay my life on the line for the sake of humanity.”
Slowly, Allison and Heather stood. “I have no background in anything like this,” Allison said, “but I sure as hell can give it a try.” Heather nodded. “I would am willing to do this. This mission could prove vital to the mutant cause. And it is one step closer to mutant rights.”
Spencer remained in his seat. He Didn’t even know why he was here, he should be in Chicago. ‘Plus,’ he thought ‘one of those sons of bitches is a goddamn murderer, to quote John, or Jim, or whatever the hell his name is.’ But, against his better judgment, Spencer slowly (and reluctantly) stood, and nodded. “Yeah.” he muttered.
Banion smiled. “Thank you, and God bless you all.”