Chapter Text
He sat in a dirty recliner wearing only his boxer shorts. He was unshaven and hadn't had a haircut in months, and even a shower in about a week, bordering on two, leaving his long, grimy, dark hair, somewhat matted. But what did he need to get dressed for? He was unemployed and without prospects. In fact, thanks to someone, he was virtually unemployable.
He was known by many names in his time, but most notably Wild Weasel. Now, he was a no-body. A washed up has-been without a dime or a note to his name.
He took a drink from a bottle of Jack Daniels, but he was sloppy, and the liquor dripped down from the corners of his mouth, down his chin, and onto his bare chest, following the creases of his muscles, and down onto his shorts, wetting them. But he didn't care. Nor could he care, as drunk as he was, watching old cartoon re-runs on television.
His television had an old style rabbit-ear antenna, even in this digital age there was still some analog channels hovering over the airwaves.
He took another sip of booze, wanting to get more drunk, but he had drunk the last drop.
The curtains were drawn in his dark, one bedroom, rundown apartment in a poor neighbourhood of the Manhattan Projects, and his place was littered with old bottles and fast food wrappings. It was filthy, but he thought nothing of it. It was home, for the most part.
But he had been served with an eviction notice recently and had to leave for failure to pay rent in the last three months, fired from his job months back. When he was employed, he spent his money on wine, woman, and song. Little did he know, an innocent remark directed at one of his employers would bring any hopes of a future come crashing down.
Suddenly the television blinked off with the rest of the power. He hadn't been able to pay the electric bill either, so it was only natural that it would be turned off too. It was also the land lord's way of letting him know that he wanted the apartment vacant.
In his frustration, he threw the empty bottle at the television screen and it exploded with a multitude of sparks. The man laughed, thinking the explosion was cool in his inebriated state. But then he frowned, it had been his only ounce of entertainment.
He wanted to escape from this hell that had become his life, but he had no where to go. Damn you, bitch! he thought, of the woman that ruined his life.
Suddenly there was a knock on his apartment door and he looked at it, and spat out in a drunken stupor, "Go away! No solicitors!" But what he said didn't sound anything like actual recognizable words. "Go away!" he repeated more slowly. Especially, if it was a landlord.
After a few seconds there came another knock and this time he rolled off the chair to his feet, and said, "I said go away! What are you hard of hearing?"
He then collapsed back into his recliner again and his weight caused it to collapse underneath him, splitting at the sides. He rolled back and swore. He liked this chair, it had moulded perfectly to his body.
He had forgotten he had left the door unlocked, not like he had anything to steal, and the person on the other side turned the handle, and entered. In a past life, he would've reached for his pistol. But he was so drunk, that he didn't care if he lived or died. He had nothing left to live for.
The sound of a woman's footsteps drew his attention.
The silhouette of the woman glanced around the apartment and crinkled her nose from the awful odour inside. The smell was from a multitude of things all mixed together into a rotten package and he could understand her disgust. His apartment smelled like a garbage heap.
He was confused at her presence. Why would such a creature visit a dump like this and a slob like him? After his eyes adjusted, he got a better look. She was a gorgeous, slender woman, dressed in full black leather attire from neck to knee-high boots and the illumination from the outside hall accentuated her ample highlights. She had long flowing dark hair and movie-star looks. And for a moment, he thought he saw her, the woman who got him fired.
"You really are the limpidity of the male ego," the woman said, with her hands on her hips in a dominating manner. "I can't believe I ever considered coming to this hell hole!"
The man's heart skipped a beat, but he was also relieved, because as far as he was concerned she was the most beautiful creature he had ever seen, and not his mortal enemy.
Suddenly, his shorts rose, subconsciously. The woman rolled her eyes.
"I'm guessing you haven't been with a woman in a while, have you? Pervert! Put your pants on."
"Who are you?" he tried to say with some clarity, gulping, scrambling to his hands and knees, looking around for some clothes.
"I came for you," she said. "But don't you believe in locks?"
"Locks are worthless. Crooks are everywhere. I have nothing of value."
"What about your life?"
"It ain't worth spit," he said bitterly, "and everything I had was flushed down the crapper recently, seized by creditors, and the like."
"I heard about the incident that caused your downfall, news travels fast," the woman said. "And I know the woman in question. She can be a very short-tempered and even short-sighted at times. Anastasia Cisarovna, or better known as the Baroness. And she had you blacklisted from ever becoming employed for your specialized services." He was shocked that this unknown women knew this. "Regardless, I'm here to offer you a proposition."
He grinned drunkenly. "The bedroom's just down the hall, sweetheart! I could use a little pick-me-up, if you know what I mean, before I'm thrown out on my ass. My power was just shut off."
She groaned under her breath. "Sexist perv! I'm not here for that. I'm here to offer you a job."
The man swallowed and blinked in awe. "What sorta job, and why come to me?"
"Because I'm in need of a man with your particular set of skills," she said. "Now get dressed, or as best you can, if you can stand—you drunken fool—and follow me."
Her tone was direct and in his state he didn't think to argue, despite insulting him.
He slipped on a white shirt he found on the floor with a pair of ripped blue jeans, and hopped on one foot, then the other, as he put on a pair of beat-up sneakers, following her out of the apartment into the hall, cursing it behind him, as he made his way out of its bowels forever.
"Where are we going?" He followed her. But he was so drunk he couldn't walk straight and stumbled over his own feet and smashed to the floor, hitting is chin. "Ow!" He felt his face.
The woman looked back. "You are the most pathetic man I've ever seen," she said. "But I need you, so stand up straight!"
"What makes me so important to you?"
"Because sober, you're the greatest fighter pilot to ever soar the skies." He looked at her in awe, then wobbly got on feet. "I know who you are, and you're been recognized by many names: The Red Devil, The Crimson Cutter, The Blood Baron, but most notably, your latest non-de-plume, you are known as Wild Weasel from Cobra."
His eyes narrowed. "That name no longer has any meaning for me," he said with distaste.
"You told Baroness she was pretty in a moment of weakness. Faithful only to Destro, she had you fired and blacklisted from any terrorist or revolutionary group who wished to enlist your services. So, you turned to drinking to fill the void of not flying. Pathetic!"
"What I do is my business, lady. Besides, I'm still the best. No one can match me in the skies. I've been in countless dog-fights with some of the best pilots in the world and survived. I've killed a lot of men in my heyday. But without a plane, the Wild Weasel is no more."
"The Wild Weasel can be great again," she said. "Come with me and I'll prove it to you. And I'll give you an opportunity to reclaim your life that was so unceremoniously stolen from you."
He looked at her. He had no idea who this woman was, and he wondered if the offer was legit, but he didn't want to sound desperate. He shrugged non-causally, and then said, "Sure, what the hell. I ain't got nothing better to do."
He swayed on his feet, and then followed her into the elevator, where they took it to the ground floor. They exited, left through a back door of the apartment complex, and the woman escorted him to the back alley where two more beautiful women awaited them next to two jet-black, very slick-looking motorcycles.
They were younger girls, and looked so much alike that they could be twins. And WW wagered they were, with shoulder-length blonde hair, hazel eyes, and slim figures, dressed in dark grey body-suits with lighter shade coloured boots. They also seemed to carry batons on opposite sides of their hips within holsters. For protection, he thought, so he better not mess with them.
The older woman mounted one of the bikes, and said, "Get on the back."
"Introduce me to these lovely young ladies, first," he said with an amorous grin, the cool icy air awakened his senses a little, but he still felt warm and fuzzy inside. "And, secondly, I'm not going anywhere unless I get a name from you," looking at the mysterious woman.
Gesturing to the twin girls, she said, "Meet Arusa and Asura, my acolytes," then, she addressed herself. "And my you can call me Lady Pandora."
"Lady Pandora? What kind of name is that?" WW said, mounting the bike behind her, but satisfied. He shrugged. "A name is name, right? We all use pseudonyms in our line of work."
"Hold onto me tightly, and whatever you do, don't vomit on me," Lady Pandora instructed.
He wrapped his arms around her narrow waist, and smiled with delight. She was so warm. "I'll try, but no promises." And he had to swallow down vomit. "Where are we going?"
"You'll see," Lady Pandora said.
Arusa and Asura mounted the other bike and they all sped off into the barren, dark streets together, being the middle of the night.
The icy cool autumn winds began to invigorate WW as they sped through to the city, and through the winding roads of Central Park, soon arriving at their destination.
He dismounted the bike, but not so gracefully, falling to his hands and knees, and suddenly he felt sick and vomited in front of Lady Pandora. The woman took a few steps back to avoid the spatter. He wiped his mouth. "Sorry, that should be the last of it." But it wasn't.
"Be a man, and stand up!" Arusa and Asura said collectively.
For a moment, the girls—perhaps in their early twenties—reminded him of two other people who he didn't much care for. He stood up. He wasn't as drunk as he was before, but he still felt the booze. And he began to feel chilly, even a little sleepy.
"I need your mind sharp," Lady Pandora said.
She gave a nod to her two companions and the two women approached him, gathered him by his arms, and they all walked straight ahead, following Lady Pandora. They went several yards to a bathroom facility under repair, entering. They stopped inside. The next thing WW knew was he had the sensation of going down, like in an elevator, and he swallowed down vomit again.
The secret elevator opened and he beheld a large underground facility, a gigantic hanger bay. And inside was a beautiful sight, a large aircraft three times the size of a Boeing 747 sat docked within. It was painted in browns and spotted blacks to look like a bird of prey, more specifically, a Peregrine falcon, with its wings in a forward crescent formation with turbines embedded within, fortified. Its head and nose was even designed to look like a falcon with dark painted eyes.
Wild Weasel was awestruck.
"This is what you'll be flying," Lady Pandora said.
"Whoa," he asked breathlessly.
"We call it The Raptor."
To be continued...