No Angels In L.A.

[Mute]

It was a cool night with a starless sapphire sky. A gold 1971 Chevrolet Caprice rolled gently along the length of Innsdale Drive, tucked neatly to the rear in the Hollywood Hills, where it climbed, without fuss and without the overhanging glare of streetlights. When it ran out of road, the coupé swung deftly onto a long asphalt drive and stopped. The crunch of stone preceded the soft purr of the engine. Then there was silence. On the driver's side, the door opened with a dull click.

A young man emerged, he had a milky complexion and dark hair which crawled the length of his forehead. In the sudden stillness, he became aware of curious sounds; a sequence of muted thumps coming from the boot of his car. When he investigated the noise, he found a man had been locked, bound and gagged, beneath the elegant shimmering chassis. By the light of the waking moon, he could see there was blood on his face and it gleamed against his copper skin. His body jerked violently and he made indecipherable pleas with the stranger standing over him. A gloved hand squeaked as it clenched into a fist then pummelled the captive relentlessly about the head until his muffled cries ceased.

It took a minute to unload the car of its unusual cargo and drag it over scraping stones to the front door. The house was large, the newest in the neighbourhood, and only one room was lit within. He rang the doorbell and waited. Palm trees whispered distantly. He rang again and this time there was movement before the chime faded. One- two locks turned and a security chain clinked on the other side of the door before it opened. In the doorway stood a tall man in his early twenties with tawny hair and freckles. The expression on his face switched from suspicion to relief at the sight of the unconscious man lying on his porch. Together, they brought him into the house and closed the door behind them.

"This is it! Finally," said the freckled man, groping greedily at their captive's face. He tilted his head back, the light above revealed dried blood in lines of fine black facial hair, and he gave a yelp of delight, "This is him! Oh boy, this is him! Take him in there!"

He vacated the foyer, leaving his dark-haired visitor to deal with the dead weight, and disappeared into a dimly lit room. There was the clunk of wood and a low screech. The light inside swelled dramatically, illuminating a living room full of expensive modern furnishings, in the middle of which was a wooden chair. The body was dragged, then lowered into the seat and slouched at an unnatural angle. Soft footsteps padded upon the carpet sounding the return of the excitable host who was balancing a pair of thick-rimmed black spectacles on his long nose and held an ivory-bound flick knife. Inspecting the unconscious man once more, he raised the sleeve on his t-shirt to reveal a tattoo of a scorpion on a skull. Then he crouched and took the knife to the bindings around his prisoner's ankles and wrists.

"Do you have any idea how long I've waited? The number of false hopes," he muttered, the last of the wire snipped and he turned to regard the man stood opposite him. "You're a saint, man. What's your name, anyway?"

The stranger simply shook his head and held out his hand, the thumb rubbing the forefinger. Quick to understand, he nodded and backed out of the room, assuring the stranger he would be right back. While he was alone, he collected loose wire coiled about the wooden chair then took in his surroundings. An antique sofa with tasseled trimmings sat against the wall, huge floral drapes crashed around the expansive window opposite, and in the corner of the room stood an ornate wooden cabinet which housed sparkling decanters of bourbon and sherry. Behind the sofa, framed pictures filled the wall, each one a photograph of the freckled young man arm-in-arm with different celebrities: Martin Sheen, Sigourney Weaver, Jim Carey, Woody Allen, Jack Nicholson, Bette Midler...

"Here you go, buddy. Two hundred thou."

The host had returned. In his hand he held a dusty duffel bag which arched under its own weight. Their eyes met and for the first time, the stranger reciprocated his client's grin. The smiles faltered. Stood in the doorway, the freckled man extended his arm, bag in hand, and jiggled it measuredly. He glanced down.

"You can check it if you like."

When he looked up, he caught a glimpse of the black pinprick staring at him before it flashed. The phlegmy cough of the suppressor, the sharp crack of spectacle glass, the wet splatter upon peach wallpaper, then the heavy thud on the carpet. In a heartbeat, the stranger tossed the Sauer "Model H" to the ground and strode over to his fallen victim. From his trouser pocket he took his cellphone and tucked it into his jacket pocket. Then he rolled up an issue of GQ that had been sat on the coffee table and doused the tip in decantered whiskey. He poured some of the whiskey on the unconscious man and kicked him from the chair onto the floor. The decanter and the last of the whiskey exploded on the wall full of pictures in a shower of shimmering liquid and glass.

The pungent stink of alcohol hung in the air and stung his eyes. He fished a plastic lighter from his trouser pocket and lit the end of the rolled up magazine with it. Methodically, he paced the room, allowing the flaming paper to kiss the drapes, the wallpaper, the sofa, the corpse, and the carpet before laying it to rest on the liquor cabinet. All around, the room was aglow and the burning heat licked at his face. As he left the room, he lifted the heavy duffel bag, and the lifeless fingers which once held it tight, hit the floor with an unremarkable slap.

By the time he was out the front door, there was the distinct sound of breaking glass and the low roar of a raging fire. He strode past the gold Caprice, its door still hung open, and found at the end of the long asphalt drive a second car parked. It was a mid 90s Civic, the engine was running, and in the driver's seat sat a woman, waiting for him.

[Spectre]

Earlier that evening, a young vocalist/model/actress, one of the more familiar faces on the front of the tabloids far more frequently than on the cover of Rolling Stone, had been arrested amid the hypnotic blaze of flashing cameras.

It was the most peculiar thing. She had been driven to the Hotel Bel-Air in her limo, upon entering the hotel, (which she had made no reservations to stay with) she had walked up to the desk attendant and introduced herself as Rita Hayworth. Striking a cigarette in the non-smoking lobby she had dramatically informed the poor man she was there to check into her suite.

Of course the hotel assumed the young starlet was just like the rest of her peers. Strung out on the latest intoxicant, in combination with some alcohol and a desire to be the belle of her time. Jovially handling the young miss, they were in the process of booking her when she'd suddenly started dancing out the french doors into the garden courtyard, swinging her coat around her doing a remarkable likeness of Hayworth's portrayal of Princess Salome's dance of the Seven Veils. She had nearly seduced every man present and had begun to strip from her clothing, intent upon entering the fountain. Some paparazzi that had stealthily infiltrated the hotel were loving it, the pictures were going to be on the internet, the front pages, and all over the world in hours! Goldmine!

That was when they called the police.

Of course the poor thing had been carted off, kicking and screaming about the unfairness of it all, even as they shoved her in the police cruiser, cuffed. They were taking her directly to the hospital for detoxification. Strange thing was, when they got to the facility there was nothing but handcuffs and a silk scarf in the backseat. Of course the word was that Hollywood had a new mutant on its hands. A psychotic disappearing one.

Smiling, a petite blond had pulled away from the mental hospital in a Civic. Turning toward the hills, it was the only car leaving the scene of mayhem.

"Hello there..", she leaned over and opened the passenger door. "Ready?"

[Mute]

He slipped inside and sat the duffel bag on his lap, beneath him the velour hissed at the slightest shift in weight. There was a creak in the door, and as it shut out the cool air he found himself greeted by the lingering smell of a greasy take-out. His eyes met those of the woman sat next to him, the cold features of his face softened and with a thin smile, he gave her a knowing nod. The Civic rounded the corner and disappeared down the broad road at a leisurly pace.

First, the gloves came off and were appropriately stored in the glove compartment before him, there was also a cassette inside, he took it and inserted it into the player on the dashboard. A little soft piano music crept through the speaker to his right, he turned the volume up in time to hear Elton John start singing Tiny Dancer. He settled into the seat and his happy gaze watched the rolling road. When the last warm strand of music faded, he turned to his companion and zipped open the duffel bag. She glanced away from the road to see that it was full of neatly stacked cash. He grinned and shared a thought: He had his picture taken with Bette Midler. Definately a fairy.

[Spectre]

Looking away from the road long enough to smirk, she shook her head. What? No Streisand? Was she busy in New York?

It was going to be a busy night for law enforcement. Crazy things were happening all over the city already, and this was just the beginning. The adagio opening of an unfinished symphony. Slow at first, it would pick up momentum as it went. Her musical bent of mind was whimsical. She blamed it on her passenger entirely. He had a habit of making her less, stuffy.

Her musings were rudely interrupted by an off key thumping coming from the rear of the car. She gave a little sigh.

"Oh yeah.. her. I brought you a present."

Pulling off the side of the road a ways, she parked the car and shut off the engine, a twinkle in her eye. Opening the door, expecting him to follow she walked around the car, popping the trunk to reveal one gagged and bound starlet, mascara tear streaks down her face, looking a bit wild eyed with fear.

"Haven't thought of a good use for her yet, aside from what she's already accomplished. Getting noticed. Now she needs a grand finale..."

[Mute]

The girl writhed like she knew her own fate. For all her tears, she was unharmed. There were flecks of burnt skin where she'd attempted to wriggle free of her bonds but they were self-inflicted, and Spectre treated her playthings well because she could always make use of them later. Mute nodded, his grin provoked an onslaught of muffled screams. The smile sunk into a scowl. I never cared much for her singing anyway, he thought, and closed the trunk.

They had come to a stop at a picturesque spot where Canyon Lake Drive wrapped around the hillside overlooking the dusty valley. Despite the clunking coming from inside the car, it was peaceful nonetheless, and they were content to enjoy it for a moment. Mute lifted a packet of Marlboro cigarettes to his face and pulled one out between his lips. He lit it with the cheap plastic lighter from his jacket and enjoyed the soft crack of tobacco from his first drag.

You know, I can feel those disapproving eyes of yours.

His sideways glance caught her knowing eyes. In that moment, he wanted to blow a plume of smoke skywards with an impossibly arrogant expression on his face, then perhaps mutter something French in a deep, husky voice. He did everything except the voice and she still smiled. She was leaning against the car facing the twinkling landscape below, her arms folded delicately; and beneath the twilight sky - an all-encompasing prism of deepest blue, pink, and orange murkiness - she was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.

I brought something for you, too.

Into his jacket he delved and fished out an unfamiliar cellphone. It had belonged to the tawny-haired man he'd killed minutes ago. He gave it to her, and glanced over his shoulder. On the dark horizon which climbed behind them he noticed a faint red glow flickering within the suburban gloom. He smiled inwardly and as irony would have it, the muffled screams renewed. His clenched fist slammed the aging chassis and they had silence once more.

What do you think?

[Spectre]

"Oooh, for me? You shouldn't have!", she grinned, accepting the cellphone and hopping up onto the trunk, cross legged. The fact that he was filling his lungs up with gaseous cancer cells, was momentarily forgotten, besides.. Although she adored him, she was not his Mommy. She didn't tell him what to do.

Flipping through the menu, she stole a peek at the list of contacts, recent calls, and text messages. "Oh, hello there.."

Look at this! She held the screen toward him, the illumination highlighting a single name.

I think, we should go make a little movie. How do you feel about noir..?

[Mute]

I prefer crime thrillers...

In the soft dark, the light of red cigarette embers danced in his eyes, and a wicked grin slipped across his face. Shrill soprano shrieks rang inside the car, it shuddered, and crawling around the edge of the hill they saw a pair of glaring headlights. They shared a glance, and quickly dispersed, Mute flicked his cigarette and sent it twirling to the roadside while Spectre slinked back into the driver's seat. Once he was seated, the engine growled to life and swallowed the sound of the hapless whines to the rear.

...but I am partial to gory horror.

They set off down the hillside with the glittering Hollywood sprawl unfolding before them. Mute was checking the message which had caught Spectre's eye and the name attatched to it. It had been recieved at 20:35. There was still time, he thought, and thumbed the keys in rapid succession:

Sorry, I've been busy and will be unavailable for the rest of the night. I'm sending my agent your way to pick up the script revisions. You can trust her. What is the address?

The message sent, he pocketed the phone and assured his comrade they would have the location of their next target imminently. Behind him, the seat rubbed the back of his neck as he sunk deeper into it. He sighed, contented.

So... what did the girl have to tell you about the safe house?

[Spectre]

The caterwauling from the trunk was starting to give her a damn headache. It wasn't the noise so much as the repetition. It would have been easy just to invade the girl's mind and make her be silent, but she was of a mind to conserve her abilities for more fun later. No sense in wearing herself out.

"Hey, shut up or I'll just shoot you to spare my ears!, she hollered at the back of the car, not serious about the threat, but the girl didn't know that.

Find something to drown her out, will you please?

She peeked over with a smirk. Jamie, her name is Jamie.

Her silent companion was not a lover of children, clearly. For that matter neither was she, but Jamie was special.

She told me her caretaker is Anna, and that she can turn herself into solid ice. There is also an Aidan, who can emit blue flames from his hands, and from who knows where else. Then there is Jake. She smiled, clearly intrigued with the later.

Another telepath. I'll handle him, never fear.

Turning toward their destination, she glanced over, in all seriousness. Please keep an eye on Jamie. She said there have already been some altercations with a gang. She gave me a description of the guy who hit Anna, but I don't have a name for their little club yet. I do not want Jamie hurt.

[Mute]

There was a click as the cassette was spat from the player in the dashboard. The untuned radio hissed through the speakers which prompted Mute to play with the dial until he found something he liked; first there was country music, a religious talk show, then pop music, and finally he stopped at the mellow drawl of Amy Winehouse. He turned the volume up until the girl in the trunk could no longer be heard - it was the best he could do without chloroform.

No harm will come to the girl while I'm there. And as long as that telepath is around, I'll just watch my thoughts.

After winding down the length of Mulholland Highway, the car turned onto Durand Drive which in turn led them into a series of small intestinal roads which coiled gardually southwards through upper middle-class neighbourhoods. He lowered his window and allowed his arm to hang out, hugging the door exterior. Fresh air poured in and swam through his hair, he closed his eyes and drummed the metal in time with the music. His thoughts dwelled on the inhabitants of the safe house, their abilities, and how well they could fight. The cellphone beeped in his pocket, he had recieved a message, it read:

5924 Tuxedo Terrace. Be quick about it.

He showed the message to Spectre, then with an inquisitive expression, he poked a finger at the Sat Nav sat to her left.

[Spectre]

"Convenient..", she smiled and programmed their destination.

"Well, we have a film maker and a.. dare I say it...?", she glanced at the rear view. "An actress. I use the term very generally speaking.."

She guided to the car through the hills, enjoying the way the road hugged to them, offering glimpses of the brightly lit city below. It wasn't so bad here. Even if she had no intention of staying on the west coast, it was still a nice change. A little vacation, of sorts.

"We have our pitch for the story, tentatively speaking. Now we need a script. Care to take stab at it?", she waited for the song to be over, then reached over and played with the tuner until she found something as equally appealing to her mood.

Barracuda, by Heart. She turned it up a notch..

[Mute]

Mute always carried a notepad and a pen. He looked down at them in his hands; it was the first time he'd used them in Spectre's presence since the day after the London operation. He begrudged using it because everytime was a confession of his disability - the awkward pause breaking the flow of conversation - and silently, he wished people would stop talking to him altogether. He had Spectre, and with her there was no need for paper and ink, and that was enough. The pages were full of inane monologue, kept for details he may later need but always a reminder of time wasted, not speaking, leaving him to wonder what he could've said differently without the burden of self-consciousness. He tore out his first attempt and cast it to one side in a scrumpled ball.

Don't expect Shakespeare.

While he wrote, the Civic glided swiftly through uptown Hollywood past homes, schools, parks, and pools, unhindered by the type of traffic congestion seen on L.A.'s notorious freeways. There were palm trees everywhere. It was rich ignorant suburbia, all expensive cars and freshly mown lawns, penned in by climbing barren dirt mounds and stretches of baking flats. None of this penetrated their white wash walls and terracotta tiles yet tonight, two nameless mutants were about to strike at its bloated cookie dough heart with a sharp, violent reckoning. The car stopped.

"We're here."

[Spectre]

"I always wanted to be on television..", she flipped down the visor and fluffed her silvery blond hair in the mirror, turning to give Mute a dazzling smile, then promptly laughed at the absurdity of it all. She wanted no such thing. However, they would have fun tonight..

"Alright, give me a moment and I'll go secure the attention of our host.", she opened the car door and got out. Having turned into the driveway, off the street, she followed a row of towering hedges to a charming little iron gate. It didn't even squeak as she pushed it open and walked up the stone pathway to the lamp lit porch. It was a nice house. It would look good on the news..

She pressed the doorbell, then posed with her hands behind her back. A very shy gesture, one crafted to be sure to let her host feel he had the upper hand with the agent/do-girl.

"Hello? I'm here for the revision.."

[Mute]

Mute waited. The cooling engine ticked irregularly and beyond the open window stirred a shrill ambience of chirping crickets. It was a warm night, the sky was clear and dark, and the air was so still it was as if the wind itself was holding its breath. The door opened, Spectre's foot turned inward as she spoke, it was so subtle and at the same time glaringly obvious to him. He shook his head, shaking off the slightest of smiles.

She disappeared from sight and the door closed behind her. And still, he waited. In the thick gloom he was invisible, becoming a part of the seat and only upon close inspection would he be revealed to the naked eye. He watched, motionless, his cold gaze tracking a tiny red dot which shifted ever-so-slightly from left to right above the garage door. It blinked off and he was out the car. The trunk sprung open and inside, their captive beauty slept. He took her by the shoulder and yanked it violently back and forth until she awoke.

Swelling like a balloon, her chest heaved, and as the first hint of a scream tried to crawl its way out of her throat, his hand clamped around it like a vice. She gagged, the air rasped and wheezed faintly in her mouth behind layers of duct tape. A flash of silver light and the girl went rigid, her puffy eyes zeroing in on the knife in his hand. It swung stifly from side to side like a pendulum, counting down the seconds she had left to listen to her heart beating in her ears and to feel her lungs burning in her chest. His grip was relinquished.

While she recovered, her nostrils flared and body rocked with amusing sychronisation and Mute watched patiently, antipating the next scream. Sure enough she tried, only to find the sound of her own desperation trapped inside her throat once again, and instead heard only the squeaking of leather as fingers coiled against her skin. And as the familiar burning emptiness filled her up, all she could think about was those eyes and how behind them she saw absolutely nothing.

After the third time, she gave up trying to call for help and found herself hoisted out of the boot and onto her own bare feet. They reached the front door swiftly, it was an understated home for such a famous man. He thumped the wood twice, and entertained the idea of using the girl's head should he have to knock again.

[Spectre]

Opening the door with a sunny smile. Spectre stood aside as if she were welcoming Mute and his amusing little hostage over for a cup of tea at her own home. "Oh! How lovely that you made it so quickly!", she grinned at her favored accomplice.

"I was just telling...", she looked over at a strangely vacant director.. "..Stewie, here about the informative little mini-movie we're making tonight. He's delighted to be a part of it, of course."

The lights were on, but clearly there was no one home. Rather than react to the news one way or another, the fifty-something man glanced toward the newest arrivals on his doorstep, then after several long humorous moments nodded. "Delighted, of course.", he said, idly scratching his head.

The response was not what the bound and gagged girl had been expecting. She'd met him before on several red carpet occasions! Surely he would at least realize that she was not a willing party to this madness?! No..no no no..

In her hands, Spectre held onto the latest revisions to a script of epic proportions. She'd glanced at it out of curiosity, but the leading man was a known mutant hater.. Such a pity really. Perhaps later they would find out if he was in town. Stewie's mind was ripe to tell them all sorts of lovely, useful things.

"Studio's downstairs, loves..", Spectre nodded toward a charming, metal spiral-stair that curved around disappearing to the floor below.