Zero

When you happen to be surrounded by dozens of muscular, balaclava-clad thugs in the corner of a particularly dark room, it’s probably safe to say that matters have fast spiralled into what you could comfortably call a ‘bad day.’ Commissioner Grant’s problems, however, lay distinctly elsewhere.
‘And you say that he did all of this?’ He demanded incredulously of a nearby officer. The officer scratched her head thoughtfully in answer.
‘Well, they were more or less out cold when we arrived,’ she said, nudging one of the brutes with a hesitant toe and watching his head loll onto a rope-bound chest. ‘We just sort of… cleaned up.’
She deftly stepped to one side as a piece of debris tumbled conveniently from the shattered ceiling. The Commissioner sighed heavily, and settled down into one of the few bullet-ridden armchairs still standing whilst dust drifted about them like snow.
‘Do you know how much paperwork this’ll throw up? The tabloids are going to have a field day.’
‘He did give us Flimsy Fingers on a silver plate, sir,’ a small voice reasoned from over his shoulder. ‘That one’s been giving our boys the slip for years.’
Commissioner Grant snorted bitterly.
‘I’m glad that you’re keeping an eye on the big picture, Lieutenant, and not the three consecutive house-fires he caused in the process, the wrecking of some very expensive vehicles in a completely unnecessary high speed chase, lord knows how much damage to that bank, a count of breaking-and-entering to follow, four GBHs on Flimsy’s men and enough ‘breaches of the peace’ to cut a dirty great black-hole in the entire system, not to mention one very angry call from a particularly old lady complaining about someone indecently parading themselves in a very tight pair of spandex trousers.’
He took a deep breath. God, but he needed a cigarette.
Lieutenant Travis considered all this for a second, and then ran a hand through his ill advised comb-over wearily.
‘To be fair, they were breaking and entering first, right? And I’m sure that we’ll be able to remove the bath-tap from his nose eventually.’
Commissioner Grant groaned, and finally caved in.
‘Is he really the best we have?’ It was hard to keep the hopeless pleading from his voice as he fought vainly with a battered lighter.
Lieutenant Travis merely gave him a level stare.
‘He’s the only one, sir. No-one else wants to know.’
Grant puffed like a nervous chimney-stack until they were nearly entirely doused in thick, choking fog while he mulled this horrifying thought over despondently.
‘Damn, but I wish there was another way,’ his voice muttered bleakly from beneath the folds of grey. The only response was of one of Flimsy Finger’s henchmen moaning softly into the night.
‘Right now sir, he’s all we have,’ another replied unenthusiastically.
There was silence for a good, long while.
‘Then I suppose you should make the call, Lieutenant,’ the first answered eventually. He tried to take a deep, steadying breath but promptly choked on the smog. ‘And - and if the Mayor asks, what we’re about to do never happened. Understood?’
‘I wouldn’t dream of breathing a word, sir,’ Travis agreed softly.

***

Pacing up and down the abandoned rooftop impatiently, Commissioner Grant reached for yet another cigarette as he tried to block out the awful wailing that currently hurtled across the city skyline; it sounded rather like a cat being dragged steadily and painfully over a cheese-grater while both were unceremoniously hurled from the top of the nearest cliff.
‘He’s late,’ the Commissioner snapped angrily over the din. Lieutenant Travis spun a bowler hat nervously in his hands before checking his watch once again.
‘He’ll come. He always does.’ He replied without any conviction.
‘For heaven’s sake, the Mayor might not have that long, Lieutenant.’ The Commissioner growled. ‘He’s strung up back there with that madman right now! Goodness only knows how much time he has left before one of them cracks.’
In his frustration he fumbled upon the wrap he was trying to light, and it span off the edge; his string of curses unfurled fruitlessly into the oily murk.
‘What’s with that thing, anyway?’ He asked, jerking a thumb irritably toward the dented, rusty gramophone shrieking behind them. Travis awoke from his reverie.
‘Oh, that? It annoys him.’ He answered simply.
The Commissioner blinked very rapidly.
‘So you want to… to tick him off? Am I getting this right?’
Travis cuffed his beetroot red nose idly and nodded.
‘Didn’t you ever think that a, ah, cell phone or some-such would suffice?’
‘You have his number, do you?’
They were silenced by an abrupt yell of from one of the nearby tower blocks, and Travis looked over the precipice to see a fat, dumpy woman leaning out of a window in her pinny, shaking a fist at them and swearing profusely.
‘Turn that racket off, will you?’ She hollered loudly. ‘Some of us are trying to get to sleep!’
Travis rolled his eyes.
‘Police business. Get back inside, ma’am,’ he yelled back to her. She bypassed red and went straight on to puce, but before she could say another word a second window had opened above where a girl with the face of a horse poked her head into the night suspiciously.
‘Ere, what’s going on then?’ She crowed. Her face screwed up into a grimace when she heard the wailing song. ‘Cor! And what on earth’s that?’
A third window was thrust aside, and yet more faces peeped out into the dark beneath over-large dressing gowns.
‘Oi, you aint going off and doing that again, are you?’ Bellowed one despite the obvious evidence to the contrary.
‘I think ‘e is, Robert,’ crooned his neighbour.
‘Perhaps you should send your lads round to ‘ave a word, Vera,’ he answered nastily.
Lieutenant Travis shook his head in despair, and held up his hands for calm.
‘Look, why don’t you all just -’
There was a sudden, insistent tugging upon his sleeve.
‘Lieutenant! Look!’ The Commissioner breathed.
‘With all due respect, sir, I really don’t think -’
‘Look!’
The Lieutenant looked.
Abruptly seizing the moment, the elderly gramophone appeared to be sizzling off all by itself; meanwhile, the Commissioner’s misplaced cigarette flew up over the edge to bounce playfully upon his forehead and into his open hand. Travis froze.
‘Couldn’t have said it better myself, ma’am,’ taunted a peevish voice from somewhere above, and the windows slammed shut as one. ‘Evening, Commissioner.’
Travis glanced up.
‘Took your time, then?’ He said with half a smile.
There was the cloying stench of sulphur and a puff of smoke, and then one particularly dark shadow hurtled out of the gloomy blackness to land neatly at their feet. Or so they should have, at least; this effect would have been somewhat more impressive had they not stumbled and fallen flat on their face in the process.
‘Tarot at your service, sir’ the shape said in a muffled voice as it attempted - and failed - to scramble to its podgy feet. It was like watching an upended tortoise.
‘Tarot?’ Asked the Commissioner apprehensively; taking in the figure crumpled painfully before him, he didn’t seem quite able to believe his eyes.
The masked, bulbous shape wore a familiar dark scarlet suit complete with the long, high-collar purple cape that everyone knew, but bulging beneath a taut utility belt was an enormous beer-belly and considerable love handles. Travis helped him up and dusted him off, but there was little you could do to make such a leviathan seem any more appealing. Not helping his cause, Tarot laid a palm to the large stitch in his side.
‘Nice to meet you, sir.’ He said primly once he had his breath back; he held out a gloved hand to the Commissioner, who shook it carefully and with only a couple of fingers. ‘You called?’
‘Ah. Yes. Well, I… er…’ The Commissioner began, evidently regretting his decision entirely. Eventually, though, he didn’t seem able to help himself.
‘I - you’re not exactly as I thought you’d be.’ He said in a rush.
Tarot chuckled good naturedly, and his rotund belly rumbled like that of a giant red jelly.
‘Not quite what I used to be, I’m afraid. Can’t seem to keep the weight off like in the good old days. Ah, the good old days…’
He seemed to go off into his own little world as he reminisced for a second, and only came crashing back when the Lieutenant coughed meaningfully and insistently at his side.
‘Hrmph, what? Ah, yes. Not quite as spry as I once was. Anyway. Where was I?’
There was the rustling flap of material as someone else alighted swiftly beside them, and the Commissioner began to fear that he had gone completely mad. Their latest guest appeared to be a little boy in an oversized costume, trying not to trip in boots that were about five sizes too big.
‘And who are you? Tomboy, or something?’ Asked the Commissioner woozily.
Tarot looked momentarily surprised. ‘Oh no. That’s… Dave.’
Dave beamed.
‘I can fly!’ Said Dave, spreading the wings of his meagre cloak like an eagle. Tarot patted him on the head fondly, if in exasperation.
‘Of course you can, Dave,’ he said, and then watched Dave run around the roof making aeroplane noises. He turned to the others apologetically. ‘He’s a good boy really. I mean, he’s a pretty special kid.’
Travis and Grant exchanged worried looks. ‘Special’ was certainly one way to describe it, and both were clearly thinking that Dave was about as far from boy wonder as you could possibly hope to get and still be on the same continent.
‘I’m sure he is.’ The Lieutenant finally managed in as kindly a tone as he could muster. ‘But down to business. Tarot, there’s been an incident -’
With a strangely resolute look in his eye, the Commissioner laid an arm across the Lieutenant’s chest suddenly. Travis’ jaw clicked shut.
‘No, I’ll deal with this, Lieutenant. We… er… can’t keep this to ourselves.’
Travis bowed out, and went to attempt conversation with the human beat-box that appeared to be Dave as he balanced precariously on the edge of the building. The Commissioner, on the other hand, appeared to be doing some very quick thinking.
‘Well?’ Tarot prodded. ‘What’s going on, sir? What can we do for you?’
‘There’s something big going down this evening. I wasn’t supposed to tell you, but… we have a situation. Up at the… docks.’
The Lieutenant gave him a sharp look. If the Mayor was anywhere, it certainly wasn’t among the bilges of rotting harbour ships.
‘The docks? A terrible place and no mistake,’ Tarot conferred grandly. ‘Sadly, I’ve been there many a time. In fact, I once remember -’
‘Anyway,’ the Commissioner interrupted quickly, clearly becoming more uncomfortable with every passing second. ‘There’s been a… erm… terrible accident. Caused by… the, uh, Green…’
The Commissioner said 'bear’ just as the Lieutenant - cottoning on fast - suggested, ‘Owl’. Tarot frowned.
‘The Green Owl? Er... Bear? My word! I’ve never heard of him. Is he new?’
‘Er… yes. And it’s a she, actually. She’s down there right now, but we wouldn’t dare send anyone near, she’s much too dangerous. Deathrays, and - ah - all that. I’m sure you’ll understand.’
Tarot nodded sagely.
‘Say no more, dear man, say no more. Well, time makes a mockery of us, and this Green BearyOwl miwhatsit won’t catch herself. Come, Dave! The chase is on!’
‘Er,’ said the Lieutenant in response. They turned around to see Travis looking over the edge as a lonely aaaaaaaaaaaaaah echoed down into the spiralling darkness, followed by a distant, heavy ‘thump.’
‘Oh dear,’ said the Commissioner.
‘Ah,’ agreed the Lieutenant.
Tarot, nevertheless, seemed undeterred.
‘Aha! A race!’ He cried wildly, springing into action. ‘The game is already afoot, then! Well, Commissioner, I can safely say that you have nothing to worry about. If there is a villain to be found, I shall stop him or her, you can rest assured. Goodbye, dear friends!’ And after laying a comforting hand upon the Commissioner’s shoulder for very little obvious reason other then for dramatic effect, he vanished into the darkness with a rippling of his cape.
After a long while, the Commissioner came to join Travis at the edge of the tower. There was a wordless pause for a sizeable period time.
‘I… uh… there isn’t a terrible Green BearyThing at the docks, is there?’ The Lieutenant eventually offered uncertainly.
‘Of course not.’ The Commissioner agreed. They both eyed up the small shape stirring feebly in the rubbish dumpster far, far below. The ‘He can’t fly after all, then.’
The Lieutenant ignored him.
‘But how are we going to save the Mayor now?’
The Commissioner shrugged miserably. ‘Beats me. If that’s the best we had, then I’d rather go it alone. I’d rather get the man back in once piece, personally.’
Travis nodded mutely. Things had a habit of exploding in cascades of sparks and heroic fireballs whenever Tarot went anywhere near them.
‘I guess it’s for the best, then.’
‘Mmmm.’
‘What did the kidnapper want, anyway?’
‘Huh? Oh. Money. A couple of million.’
‘Shouldn’t we pay him, then?’
‘Yes. I suppose so.’
There was another pause.
‘Something about this feels wrong, doesn’t it? It feels a bit anticlimactic.’ Travis said.
‘Yes, I know what you mean.’ The Commissioner confirmed dejectedly. They both stared into the darkness moodily, and then at the gramophone. ‘They don’t make them like they used to, I suppose.’
Both nodded in unison.
‘Want a beer?’ The Lieutenant finally said.
‘God, I thought you’d never ask.’ The Commissioner agreed.

Sleep

Being dead can throw up all manner of problems; the biggest, of course, would be that pieces can have a somewhat irritating tendency to fall off. Then there’s the smell.
You do have a lot of time to think, though. An awful long time to think, in fact, mostly about what went wrong, what you could and should have changed, and what you regret the most after a lifetime of wrong turns. Dying in the first place being chief amongst them, I’d imagine.

Unfortunately, such Deep thoughts rather keep one awake while warding off any hope for that long sleep in the process, meaning that you’re left to twiddle your thumbs an awful lot to pass the time (presuming you still have some, anyway). It also means that you’ll have little else to do but toss and turn, try to ignore the racket being made by the insects next-door as they chomp their way through your eyeball or gaze up at the ceiling helplessly, which, in all likelihood, is a few inches from your face in the form of a dirty coffin lid.
Eventually, you’ll probably decide that enough is enough.

Pushing the heavy lid aside with gammy fingers that bent and crackled unpleasantly beneath it’s weight, I was met by a wall of light as it poured in to froth about me like a wave; a grubby man six foot up paused with his spade stuck in mid air, mouth falling open. I, meanwhile, pulled myself out with the creak of arthritic limbs - which, at least, weren’t quite as painful as they had once been considering that the dead don’t tend to do pain - brushed a few worms from my rotting blouse and addressed the silent crowd as kindly as I could. The priest’s Bible fell from a limp hand with the most definitive thud.

‘I’m so very sorry, my dears,’ I said, clapping my hands together in apology and trying to ignore the finger that had just spun off onto someone’s lap. ‘But this just isn’t working for me. Shall we try again next week?’

Trash

There was a fizz and a bang, followed by the immediate rush of suffocating darkness that completely engulfed the tunnel. Someone swore loudly.
‘Have you got it?’ came a voice from the murk. It was answered by the inevitable tinkling sound of something very small and very important being dropped all over the floor, and Charity directed the beam of her torch toward the slippery ground just in time to see innumerable, tiny screws bouncing away in all directions. She sighed, and crouched awkwardly to gather them up.

‘Don’t bother,’ Harris snapped, throwing down his screwdriver in frustration. ‘Just take a look at this, will you?’
He gestured toward the twisted heap lying upon the pile of debris beside him, but Charity merely wrinkled her nose in disgust. An overwhelmingly acrid stench of burnt plastic rolled off of it in waves, and even with her torch and the syrup-thick light of an orange sunset peeping in through the cracks above, she could barely make out the tangle of wiring within. Picking tenderly at a few of the scorched cables for a moment, she ignored the scuffling from below as Harris scrambled about on all fours to retrieve what he could from the sewer floor.
‘That one,’ she said, prodding inside the machine. ‘The green one.’
Harris emerged for a second, looking incredulous.
‘Can’t be,’ he answered, wiping jet-black oil from his forehead with a ragged scarf. He pointed at a poison-yellow wire, crackling dangerously in a dank corner. ‘What about that?’
Charity shook her head, pulling a half-finished dog-end from her pocket.
‘I doubt it,’ she snorted. ‘That’s for the motors, you don’t want to mess about with them.’
‘Of course it isn’t,’ Harris said angrily from somewhere about her ankles. ‘That’s the red one. See?’
Charity lit up with a dented, near-empty lighter and examined the circuitry once again. Sourly.
‘Those are for the LEDs,’ she sighed disparagingly. ‘Fairy lights.’
There was another obscenity from around knee height and Harris emerged to shove Charity out of the way.
‘Sod off, alright?’

Charity shrugged, and blew a cloud smoke at him through her smirk. The fag cast a red glow across damp, oozing leaves caking the sodden brick walls, and she used the faint light to read her cracked watch. It was nearly nightfall - they would have to get moving soon.
There was a flash and a yelp from over her shoulder, accompanied by the most disgusting, almighty smell; Charity clapped a hand to her mouth in disgust. It smelt like badly rotten eggs.
’What on earth did you do?’ she demanded in a muffled voice, trying not to retch. Some viscous, pulsating liquid was vomiting up from within the hulk of plastic, bubbling and blistering the rock and debris as it spilt out and onto the floor.
‘Alright, so it wasn’t the red one,’ Harris conceded grudgingly from behind his glove. ‘Give me the wrench, will you? I think I’ve got it this time.’
He eyed the machine bitterly.

Strangely enough, the machine eyed him back.

Harris gave a huge jolt of fright as it tried to get to its mismatched feet amid sparks and a whirring of gears grinding into life; the robot, however, merely toppled backward, rolling down the pile of rubble upon which it had been sitting with a crack and a blast of dust that rose into the air like a great mushroom cloud. Charity dropped her wilted fag to the floor and heeled it out, throwing Harris a scathing look as she shook him off. Pinpricks of light peeped out at them from behind the wreckage.

Crouching down until she was on a level with the robot, Charity swept her long hair back over her shoulder in a business-like manner.
‘You alright there?’ she asked brusquely. ‘How do you feel?’
The little robot blinked, and then slowly disappeared behind the rubble once more.
‘Who are you?’ it demanded in a tinny, crackling voice which kept buzzing in and out of focus, as if it were a scrambled radio signal being picked up on the wrong channel.
Charity and Harris exchanged a look.
‘Well?’ The robot glared at them from behind the bricks and mortar.
‘We’re - we’re friends,’ Charity began slowly. The robot appeared to be coughing and spluttering for a second, but then she realised that it was laughing.
‘Friends, are you? Friends? I don’t have friends,’ it sniggered, but after a few moments of pregnant silence there was an ear-splitting yelp. The robot waddled furiously back into view, shaking an arm that refused to obey as it swung limply by its side upon a few, brittle wires. It stared at them in the utmost horror.

‘What have you done to me?’ it hissed, quaking with barely suppressed rage.
‘We… er… repaired you,’ Harris offered uncertainly.
‘Oh, great job,’ it sneered, waving it’s flaccid, pathetic arm at them in sarcastic imitation of a salute. With a hint of unanticipated respect, Charity noticed that it still managed to raise it’s middle finger at them. Without warning, its expression hardened.
‘Why?’ it demanded. The broken, rusty arm fell uselessly to it’s side. Harris glanced sideways at Charity, and she could see that he was doing some very quick thinking. After a few milliseconds of hard, panicked thought, he threw out his best shot.
‘Erm,’ he said.
The robot looked them up and down, taking in their grimy, frayed overcoats, slipshod, mismatched outfits and the shopping trolley behind them full of scavenged junk all in an instant; then, without further ado, it leapt off into the darkness.

Charity gave out a wordless yell and they both threw themselves after it. Before it had gone three paces, Harris had rugby-tackled the rusty machine to the ground, where it whirred and squawked frantically beneath his heavy bulk.
‘Get off me! Push off!’ it snarled, beating Harris savagely round the head with an arm that had, by now, fallen off.
‘It’s - bloody - mad!’ Harris growled, desperately trying to fend off the attacks that rained down upon him and stop it from slipping away all at the same time. ‘What do we do?’
‘I have no idea! You’re the expert,’ Charity bawled. ‘You said you knew what you were doing!’
‘Oh, and this is really the time to bring that up, is it?’ Harris shouted back. The robot had now started to throw profanities at them in fifty different and surprising languages, just in case they hadn’t got the message.
‘“We can sell it on,” you said! “For parts,” you said! You didn’t say that it’d… it’d…!’ Charity spluttered into silence, wringing her hands. By this stage, the robot was energetically attempting to throttle Harris and the lack of a second arm did not seem to be impeding it one bit.
‘Well, how was I supposed to know?’ Harris wailed as he beat the little fist back. ‘Isn’t there a… a reset button, or anything?’
‘I don’t know, do I? Do I look like a -’
The yowling robot struggled even harder, drowning out Charity’s protests beneath a deafening cascade of ear-piercing white-noise.
‘Alright, alright!’ Harris bellowed over the thunderous cacophony. ‘Alright! Won’t - you - just - OUCH!’

Harris clapped a hand to his eye and the shuddering robot hauled itself out of his slackened grip. Charity, on the other hand, seized the moment and employed the universal tool acknowledged to fix all electronics.
In other words, she kicked it as hard as she possibly could.
The robot crumpled in a heap.

‘Reset button,’ Charity snorted derisively, kicking the robot over with a disdainful toe; she helped a shaken Harris up from off the ground, nursing his aching eye and bruised pride. Despite her infuriating simper he decided to settle for a dignified, stony silence instead of the furious retort clearly bubbling at his lips. Until he had his breath back, anyway.
‘Well,’ she said haggardly, ‘I suppose we could move it on as scra-’

There was a grinding, whirring noise, and both jumped; the robot was getting up. Harris gave a plaintive moan. Charity whipped out the wrench hanging from her belt and held it out before her like a sword, preparing to boot, bite or whack anything that came within reach -
The robot froze, and there was silence as they stared at each other wordlessly for a second. Charity barely had time to register that it’s eyes seemed oddly unfocused before it provided a distraction in the way of popping and smoking like some randy firework.
‘H-h-h-h-h-hello, very nice to me-me-meet you and yours,’ it buzzed, sizzling and twitching. Harris and Charity looked at each other with raised eyebrows. The robot, meanwhile, was not done.

‘I,’ it suggested drunkenly, ‘am the-the-the-the-the 17...98...E-e-e-e-e-e-system-failure but you can call me Ibot. What can I do for y-error-error-error today?’ The robot’s eye ticked wildly as it waited patiently for an answer.
‘Er…’ Harris said, lost for words. ‘What… er… what are you, then?’
‘I am domestic-please-contact-manufacturors-for-support Bot that will clean and cook and help and help and help around the home. I love the things you hateeeeeeerzh…’
The Ibot hummed into silence.

‘Great. You found a dishwasher.’ Charity rolled her eyes and Harris shook his head in disbelief. Before either of them could say any more, however, the Ibot was moving; it seized its fallen arm from the floor.
‘Dishwash?’ it bumbled. ‘Affirmative!’
And then threw the arm as hard as it could into a nearby pool of stagnant water, where it sank with a dull, tragic plop.

Harris threw himself after the plummeting arm and fifty dollars a piece with a yelp, but was too late; the rusty metal vanished with a glimmer into the black belly of water, swallowed whole by something huge, pale and white swimming deep below. A couple of sorrowful bubbles popped up to the surface.
Harris wisely removed his hand from the pool.

With a impatient grunt, Charity stuffed the wrench back into her belt and yanked her companion onto his feet. She had seen enough, with her already thin temper now dangerously close to breaking point.
‘Alright, we need to get a move on,’ she said firmly, ‘it’s well past sunset, and… well, we’ll have some ‘company’ pretty soon if we don’t shift. What do you want to do with… him?’
She jerked her head in the robot’s direction, but Harris didn't answer. Visibly pulling himself together, his pride seemed to win out and he went to scoop up the little robot dejectedly, his blazing scowl daring Charity to say a word. The Ibot stared into his broad, glum and dirty face for the smallest portion of a millisecond, and then cocked it’s head to one side like a puppy.

‘You are - with all due-due-due respect - filthy, master. Lettttttttth me help you with that.’ Without further ado, there was an explosion of talcum powder. Harris emerged a few seconds later, coughing and spluttering and as pale as a ghost.
‘I- what the…?’
Charity giggled harder at the sight of him. Harris threw her a dirty look.
‘Oh, get lost,’ he mumbled.

‘Affirmative!’ The Ibot whirred from somewhere deep within the muggy fog of white.
‘No! Stop! I didn’t mean -’
But it was too late; by the time the fog had cleared, the robot was gone. Harris swore vehemently. There was a thoughtful clicking.
‘With all due-due-due respect, master,’ the Ibot’s voice said from somewhere deep within the shadows, ‘I don’t quite… understand this latest order. You see, now I have no idea where I am.’
There was silence as they all considered this for a moment.
‘You know what?’ Harris muttered, ‘I think you can stay there.’