Chapter 226: Conversations with a dead guy

Chapter 226: Conversations with a dead guy

****Abrams****

“Have a drink, Professor Kline,” Abrams said, motioning to a glass with two fingers of scotch.

“I’d rather not.” The woman said, turning her hawknose up at the offer. Academics. Abrams was half pissed, half enjoying the thrill of conflict. He didn’t get much of that these days. It was a challenge he could only get outside the military, after all.

“I’ll drink it then,” Abrams said, taking the shot and relishing the burn as it descended to his stomach.

“Why am I here?” Professor Kline asked, her expression flat, tone insubordinate. “Your goons hauled me out of a rather involved study session.”

“It was a bunch of eggheads staring at some bones.” Abrams said dismissively.

“We were-“ Professor Kline took a deep breath and seemingly calmed herself, much to Abram’s delight.

“Why am I here?” she asked.

“Where’s your husband?”

“He’s at his father’s hometown.” Professor Kline said, shifting in her seat uncomfortably. “We’re seperated.”

Abrams hummed and poured himself another shot.

“Professor Kline, can I ask you a hypothetical?”

“I assume it’s an important one, given how valuable your time is,” The professor snipped, crossing her arms.

“If you could kill Hitler as a baby, would you?” Abrams asked.

“If this is about Bill-“

“Just.” Abrams held up a hand. “Humor me.”

Professor Kline looked at him and heaved a sigh.

“That’s a stupid question.”

“Stupid because you would?” Abrams asked, cocking a brow.

“Stupid because Hitler’s rise to power was a symptom of the deep discontent of the German people over the devastating sanctions imposed on them as a result of the first world war. If Hitler didn’t exist, another charismatic autocrat could have filled the vacuum and seized the opportunity. Possibly even one who was smarter than Hitler. Less likely to lose.”

“Hmm...”Abrams swirled the scotch before tossing it back. “Goddamn academics.”

“Too used to talking to brainwashed eighteen-year-olds?” Professor Kline asked with a hint of a smirk.

“Yes. But watch your tone.” Abrams said, waggling a finger.

“Of course, General.” Professor Kline said, nodding in acquiescence.

“Let me rephrase my hypothetical,” Abrams said.

“Go ahead.”

“If you knew a child was going to grow up to be one of that...Kessler kid’s ‘serial killers’, would you kill ‘em?”

“’Serial Killer’ is actually a direct translation of the German phrase Serienmörder, coined by Ernst Genna-“

BAM!

It was Abrams turn to lose his cool. He slammed his palm down on the desk, causing the stationary to hop in place and the crystal decanter full of scotch to rattle in place.

Professor Kline paled, freezing in place.

“Could you. Please. Stop trying to prove you’re smarter and engage with the topic of conversation?”

“It’s a run around to Billy.” Kline said, seemingly swallowing her fear. “I know you want to kill him. It doesn’t matter what you say to me. He’s not a nascent serial killer. No matter how much you’d like him to be.”

“I notice you’re not wearing those thick shades I normally see you in,” Abrams said as he settled back down into his chair, reaching into his desk. “George not dishing it out like he used to?”

Professor Kline’s eyes narrowed.

“We’re seperated.”

“Mhmm, back to his hometown, you said?” Abrams asked, pulling out a manilla folder.

The woman’s expression flickered rapidly, her nimble mind making connections at an impressive rate.

“...He’s dead, isn’t he?”

“You’re a smart one, alright,” Abrams said, sliding the folder across his desk.

“He’s got control of the entire western seaboard, and will eventually become very inconvenient to me in the next hundred years or so. So yes.”

“Inconvenient, you say?” Abrams said, chuckling plumes of smoke. “You sound like that Marigold witch. Sorta look like her too...”

“My grandmother.” Perry said.

“I should’ve known. And the mooks will inherit the Earth. Goddamn.”

“I’m only half Manitian, and Franklin and Washington City on the east coast are both run by natural-born Americans, if that makes you feel any better.”

Perry didn’t mention that Professor Replica was a robot. That might be a bit too much.

“A little bit, yeah.” Abrams muttered, putting out his cigar. “Alright. ‘Keep away from water’ is a top-secret facility hidden in a missile silo under a cornfield in Nebraska, just a few dozen miles northeast of Lincoln city. Does your Post-American ass know where that is?”

“We’ve got maps,” Perry said dryly.

Abrams proceeded to describe where the silo was, down to the street corners it could be found on.

Once he was done, Perry tapped the desk, eyeballing the general. There was more he could get from the tormented spirit.

Perry had picked up Resolution and Inheritance years ago, but strong hauntings, or in this case, Undead with a connection to the real world, didn’t grow on trees. He could, with the right situation, cast resolution and Inheritance on the general and hook him full of readers to determine how the spell siphoned Fate away from the ghost and gave it to himself.

Perry had been wanting to find a piece of haunted iron he could perform this with because it would give him a huge insight into how his System consumed the Fate of people he defeated, hindered, or killed.

It was a bit like a Resolution and Inheritance spell that was constantly active, and didn’t require him to fulfill their last wishes in order to function.

Perry was pretty damn sure he knew what the general’s last wish was, and that was the sticking point:

Killing William Kline, A.K.A. Tyrannus, was going to be a major pain in the ass, and if he failed or took too long, General Abrams would get to ride Perry’s body around like a mechsuit.

It wasn’t worth it.

I’ll use the spell if I’m 100% sure I’ll win.

Besides, he’ll keep.

“Thank you for your assistance,” Perry said with a nod, standing to leave.

“I’ll see you again, hopefully after you put a bullet between that overgrown lizard’s eyes.” The general said, reaching out to shake his hand.

Perry glanced down at the proffered hand and recalled the absolutely lethal level of contagion a single undead had, and how many arbitrary wildcard-like inroads they had toward infecting the living. Willingly shaking their hand seemed like another infection vector.

“Not a chance.” Perry said, glancing back up and nearly shitting his pants.

The general’s lips peeled back as his face mummified, his hair turning white and falling out in the blink of an eye.

Abrams lunged forward with a feral snarl, attempting to climb over his desk and rip Perry’s face off.

Perry kicked the general’s face hard enough to send him tumbling back into the bookshelves, burying the undead in an avalanche of gold-embossed books with fancy leather covers.

Time to go.

Perry didn’t know if the general had been working him into a false sense of security the entire time, aiming for a handshake to infect him with the curse, or if his control had simply snapped at the last second, but it didn’t matter either way.

Perry turned and sprinted for the bridge of dreams as the books exploded outward, the corpse of the general chasing him in a sprint, moving on all fours like a wild animal.

His Body stat must not be doing much work in the dream realm, because the General tackled him around the waist halfway back to his own dream. Here, speed was dictated by raw emotions, and being trapped in his own body for forty years might’ve given Abrams an edge on that front.

The two of them tumbled on the gangplank, nearly falling off as Perry held the undead creature’s gnashing teeth at bay with one hand while punching him with the other, all the while, scratches from the creature’s skeletal fingers accumulated on Perry’s face and body.

“To hell with this,” Perry muttered, glancing up at the bright dream bubble waiting him on the other end of the gangplank. He couldn’t risk bringing the general back with him. That would almost certainly be a Bad Idea TM. The kind of bad idea that turns you into a brain-rotted undead and gets your loved ones eaten in their sleep.

So he took option 3.

Perry levered the thrashing mummy off the side of the gangplank, out into the Abyss, Whooping the entire time as he rode the thrashing mummy into the gulf of nothingness, where their minds would be locked in battle for all of eternity.

“Yar!”

***Paradox***

Perry’s eyes shot open, and he glanced at the clock.

Six AM? He thought, rubbing his eyes.

Paradox’s Probability Dodge for the win, I guess. Perry expected it would be dangerous, but he was surprised he was able to get the information he wanted before the general went full Undead on him.

First thing’s first: Scan myself for any lingering curse

Perry marched off to his lair and got a clean bill of health from the machinery he’d built for the express purpose of detecting bad juju. Afterwards he made pancakes for everyone, then went to work.

Work in this case, was looting a – hopefully undisturbed – treasure trove of old Manitian relics.