Regulators 3: The Last Revenge of Doctor Killeton: Director’s Cut: This Time It’s Personal
“I’m gonna kill that bastard.”
No, that wouldn’t do.
“I’m gonna kill...that bastard.”
Better, but not quite there yet.
“I’m gonna kill thhhhhat baystead.”
That would likely suffice. Ray made a promise to himself long before that he would only recite Cole Black’s catchphrase seven or eight times at any future premiere party before he feigned inebriation in order to abandon the festivities. There were only so many rich idiot’s idiot sons he could tolerate before his threshold for stupidity evaporated. Playing an aloof jackass was a critical component of his charm, but it also called for at least an hour or two of socializing with the patricians that directed a steady stream of thinly disguised contempt his way at all times. He was, after all, a dancing monkey who more than occasionally broke things and jumped on people’s faces, but he was also a bonafide superstar and the films he starred in made money like candy-coated cocaine, so they had to tolerate his vacuous persona.
Contrary to popular suspicion, the life of a movie star was exceptionally aggravating and not much fun, as Raymond Sullivan would readily attest, at least to those closest to him.
He had used his mastery of tactical espionage and guerilla warfare to sneak off to an unoccupied area of Water’s Edge Theater in a last-minute attempt to regain some semblance of composure. He decided on the first out-of-the-way room he could find that was also unlocked. He had been to countless Hollywood gatherings in the past, but he had quite a bit on his mind and had little patience for the pedantry of Tinsel Town. He could envision the proceedings with remarkable clarity, like premonitions of locusts and frogs: some paste-swilling yuppie bedecked in Armani slacks peppering him with opinions and inquiries regarding his starring role in the latest gem of cinematic genius, Cole Black: Where Does the Shrike Sleep?. “I must say, I did quite enjoy the portion of the opus where you roundhouse kicked that axe-wielding murderer in the face as the clock struck bullet time.” “What was it like acting alongside Katie Dubois?” “Does hard-drinking, cyber-augmented, (but not so cyber-augmented as to prevent every female super-secret agent from falling hopelessly in love with him) so-grizzled-and-manly-he could-cut-diamonds-with-his-permanent-five-o’clock-shadow super-secret agent Cole Black fist-fight anyone in the next film?” “Do you squeeze the toothpaste tube from the middle or the bottom?”
He accepted that his movies were utter tripe, but once, just once, he’d adore the opportunity to roundhouse kick just one of those idiots in the face.
Stowing away such fantasies, he took a seat in one of the many gold-plated chairs set about what was probably supposed to be a miniaturized ballroom but more accurately resembled a cramped, desolate storage closet converted into a ‘ballroom’ so as to deceive the profoundly bored-with-money. The walls were adorned with an intricate design of silver-encrusted lines that flowed into one another broken up by oversized portraits of new money royalty. Ray appreciated the craftsmanship, but he couldn’t be bothered to read the inscriptions beneath them even with a Beretta placed to his temple.
It was all so utterly, profoundly, earth-shatteringly pointless.
“Hello in there?”
Heart-broken that someone had discovered his deception, Ray turned around to find a waitress shoving her head through the doorway.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” She hastily severed eye-contact upon realizing she just intruded on the privacy of the most important man in the building. “I didn’t think it was you. This place is pretty big.” She concluded with a nervous laugh.
Normally, he would have a snarky one-liner ready to be hurled at a moment’s notice like a fiery shuriken, but the young woman before him deserved no such ire.
“I thought the bathroom was down here. I really hold my liquor, I don’t know if you noticed.” He concluded with his winning smile that seemed to mollify the tension of every situation.
The jubilant expression returned. “No problem! We’re here to make sure you have the best possible experience here at Water’s Edge Theater!”
With that, she was gone, likely grateful that Ray hadn’t cost her the job of a lifetime. Ray let out a hefty sigh, stood at attention, and made his way back to the party proper.
As he exited his hiding spot, a vibration in his pocket broke him out of his ruminating; it was a call from actual, non-cyber-augmented super-secret agent Jessica Argento. Ray was always glad to hear from her in the sense that he enjoyed her company quite a bit, but that came with the titanic, pulsating asterisk that she generally only called on The Spectre when her international task force of super spies needed assistance saving the world from an invading horde of aliens, or whatever. While shunning the siren’s song of Tinsel Town in favor of saving lives was a remarkably easy decision, it also necessitated increasingly elaborate excuses to justify his frequent absences. Plus, there was a possibility that William Macready was in attendance tonight, and Ray had developed an unceasing desire to verbally backhand the reporter ages ago.
“To what do I owe the pleasure, Agent Argento?” Installing a voice changer was the best decision he had ever made.
“I must say, it does not surpass The Devil’s Wine Cellar or Criminal’s Past, but I did quite enjoy my early screening of Where Does the Shrike Sleep?. I can now see the depth and hidden subtlety of your performance.”
The smooth baritone and the distinctly smug and evil German accent that punctuated the end of every sentence with “for ze glory of ze Kaiser” could only mean one thing: Kilton was back.
“Kilton? How are you alive? How did you get this frequency?”
“All in good time. For now, I’d like a face-to-face encounter with the star.”
“Where?” Ray calmly replied. Letting Kilton know he was under your skin was equivalent to showering yourself in barbecue sauce and hurling yourself into a den of starving lions.
“The site of our last encounter. I understand getting there will be slightly more complicated than a Sunday drive down the block in that war machine you call a car, but I’m willing to give you time.”
The top floor of Diederich International Citadel, an eighty story monolith in the heart of darkness Kilton had personally financed and described to Time Magazine as “an elaborate middle digit to communism”. There was a Kilton-branded edifice on every continent, and one that had been in pre-production in Antarctica, but none were as grandiose and tacky as the first.
“I’ll be there.” Normally, he’d have some sort of snarky retort at hand, but it simply refused to manifest itself.
“Excellent. Oh, and, by the way, don’t bother attempting to get in touch with Rebecca Lopez, Katarina Koury, or that robotic freak that purports to call itself Gregory Chertok. The same goes for Miss Argento and any of your contacts in law enforcement. I’ll know if you try.”
The call abruptly ended. Ray had quite a bit to process. What could Kilton have planned? Why was he insisting on a one-on-one encounter? What would happen if, theoretically, Ray contacted any of his allies? Kilton was fascinated with the macabre, but wanton death and destruction had never been his modus operandi, at least not without some overarching goal. Could he be bluffing? Was Ray willing to take that sort of risk with someone with greater foresight and more contingency plans than a clairvoyant doomsday prepper?
Now was not the time to be lost in thought. Right now, he had to get into something more work appropriate. Pat Martyn suit jackets had a nasty habit of limiting mobility and provided significantly less protection than his preferred suit.
______________________________________________________________________________
Bob Diederich, born Robert Wilhelm von Kilton III on March 17th, 1864 in Leipzig, Germany, was once nothing more than an exceptionally bright scientist and prolific entrepreneur. When he first arrived on the world stage, no one knew for certain where he came from, but he had a brilliant mind, a small fortune, and a silver tongue worthy of Mount Olympus, so it didn’t particularly matter. For a time, it seemed as if Ray had finally found a genuine ally who wasn’t a costumed crime fighter or member of law enforcement. That was, of course, until Ray’s inquisitive nature led him to discover that Kilton had a hand in every criminal operation and two-bit insurgency from Tokyo and Tehran to Pennsyltucky and Paterson. There was also the fact that he was once a high-ranking Nazi scientist who managed to evade capture by travelling from 1945 to several decades in the future once he saw the writing on the wall, just in case the whole ‘criminal mastermind with a genius intellect and limitless cash’ thing wasn’t bad enough. Taking everything into consideration, he was rather photogenic and spritely for a man rapidly approaching two hundred years of age.
Though he lacked any innate metahuman abilities and wasn’t the leader of an international cabal of ninjas, Ray paradoxically considered Kilton to be the deadliest foe among life’s gallery of amoral dickheads. Sure, he didn’t have top secret military training that allowed him to kill someone from a mile away with a blade of grass like Profit or the ability pulverize a city block with a regal, dismissive gesture like The Revelator, but Kilton had a weapon far deadlier than psychic abilities or the strength to bench press entire planets: his brain. Most crime lords and supervillains were dangerous but not particularly complicated; break into their headquarters, find allthenaughtythingswevedone.docx or download listofallmyweaknessesanddeepestabidingfears.pdf, and off you went, but pulling that sort of stunt with Kilton risked inadvertently initiating the nuclear holocaust or unleashing a massive horde of sentient, carnivorous jam. The last his team had seen of Kilton, he had created a machine which would supposedly reverse entropy and allow him to return to the early twentieth century, cementing Axis victory as the prescient savior of the free world. Thankfully, all of humanity was rescued from such a fate as Kilton’s portal-machine-abomination simply made a bunch of wibbly-wobbly, bendy-spoons lightning magic fly around before he vanished from existence. They had spent the better part of the previous year hunting down leads as to his whereabouts on the reasonable assumption that the disappearing act was merely another step in his master plan, but it seemed as if he was well and truly gone.
Given that not even disappearing out of existence could stop him, Ray concluded that the only place capable of keeping Kilton down would be an oubliette in the lowest concentric circle of Hell, perhaps one with a really interesting book so as to keep him distracted.
But now was not the time to dwell on such things. Right now, Ray had to get to Kilton before the monster could poison the world for another moment.
______________________________________________________________________________
“You hear the boss is getting us a contract with the Wildcats?”
“You mean I get to watch the game and beat up drunk idiots? I will gladly fight anyone to the death for that post.”
Ray duck-walked below a window outside of the security post. There was a way into the maintenance shaft through a connecting sewer, but passage through here and into the building proper was contingent on having the proper biometric data. He didn’t exactly desire to be Spring-heeled Jack putting mostly-innocent security guards in the hospital, but lives were at stake, so these two would have to pay the price. He waved his hand in front of the door, causing it to smoothly slide open. One of the guards turned around, eyeing it suspiciously.
“Have we badgered those guys enough yet about their dumbass pranks?” He remarked as he made his way to the disturbance.
Once his target was in position, Ray popped out of his hiding spot, delivered a thunderous punch to the guard’s stomach, causing him to keel over in pain, slammed his head into the wall in one motion, and threw his unconscious body out of sight. The other guard, sensing a disturbance through his keen skills of observation, stood up with a confused expression on his face and a pistol in his hand and made his way towards his fallen comrade. As soon as he was in range, Ray emerged like a terrible, vengeful phantom, punched him in the throat, gripped the back of his head, and slammed it against Ray’s neodymium-plated helmet. He plummeted to the floor a moment later.
With the two disposed of, Ray hoisted the slightly shorter of the two and hastily dragged his body towards the computer terminal that served as the barrier of entry. ______________________________________________________________________________
Ray had at last reached his destination; the illustrious eightieth floor that served as Kilton’s personal office. While a variety of corporate entities had filled the space vacated by Diederich International in the months following their declaring Chapter 11 and the massive federal investigation into their CEO, no one had even hinted at the possibility of taking over the Kilton’s office. Even after a complete, painstaking sweep by law enforcement, no one dared test the limits of his love of meticulously planned, incredibly elaborate death traps.
What had once been a fantasy beyond the imagination of even the most depraved aristocrat had been stripped bare. Had it not been for Kilton standing at the adjacent end, gazing out into the city landscape, Ray imagined there would be something slightly melancholic about this moment.
“I am of the opinion that America’s greatest contribution to human history will always be the popularity of the great game of baseball,” As unsurprising as a sunrise, Kilton was dressed like one of the many aristocrats Ray had to pretend to tolerate. All that was needed to complete the vaguely menacing ensemble was a Persian cat, a massive laser with which to hold the world hostage, and maybe some ominous French horns playing in the background. Presumably he forgot to order them from last month’s issue of Genocidal Supervillain Monthly. “It’s so good to see you again, Raymond Arnold Sullivan,” He was still facing the city. “Did you know I was always fascinated with the game of baseball in my youth? So much so, I built my citadel right here to have an unobstructed view of Borealis Park.” Kilton always liked to open conversations with some spiel of only borderline relevance, but Ray couldn’t be bothered to process what he said. Something about him was...terribly off. He appeared to have lost all of his rather swanky hair and the skin on the back of his head was an unnaturally pale white. It was only when he turned around to face Ray that the horrible truth came to light.
“You’re a...skeleton?” Even for someone as unpredictable as Kilton, this was a surreal development. No two ways about it: the man was an honest-to-goodness skeleton. It was difficult to tell just how much of his body was affected by this unusual affliction; his hands still had all their skin intact and he retained his massive frame, but everything from the neck up was gone, only a bony facsimile of the real thing remaining.
“Do you remember the first time we met, Raymond Arnold Sullivan? The real, Raymond Arnold Sullivan, that is, not The Spectre. 2 years, 4 months, and 18 days ago, we crossed paths, face-to-face. The Wildcats were playing the Cubs in game two of the American League championship, it was the bottom of the sixth inning, and I accidentally bumped into you as you were getting a hot dog. I didn’t think much of you at the time; a vacuous thespian desperately attempting to mimic Laurence Olivier with your ham-fisted delivery and vacuous antics in public life elevated to a stardom by a public that wouldn’t understand taste if it dropped from the sky, although I see now you are far more talented than you let on.” His tone of voice was that of a professor talking with his protégée; a hint of pride and more than a spoonful of condescension.
“I’m sorry, I’m still trying to wrap my mind around the whole skeleton thing. How can you talk? How can you eat? Can you eat?” Ray asked, earnestly curious.
“Oh, so disappointing. We have so much pertinent information to comb through, and you choose to dwell on what does not matter in the slightest. I suppose that is in your nature.”
Perhaps if he could keep Kilton talking, he’d eventually reveal at least a portion of his evil plot; garden variety ego-maniacs loved to talk about themselves more than they loved their ability to breath, but first he had to get into Cole Black mode.
 “Okay, Kilton, lay your pretentious, circumlocutory nonsense on me before I kick your ass like it’s May 1945 all over again.” Who said he couldn’t act?
He gave a low, condescending chuckle. “Yes, yes, very funny. How I missed your witty repertoire.”
Ray smirked back. “Alright, alright, I’m sorry. What do you propose?”
“An alliance.”
“An alliance?”
“Yes. The Regulators as my agents and me as their leader. With my brilliance, and your collective brawn, we can save this world. Finally. Definitively.”
A team-up? Surely, Kilton would have to be playing at something bigger if he thought for a moment Ray or any of his allies would even consider aligning themselves with the most wanted man in 29 countries. He assumed the rule of thumb for taking suggestions from time-travelling Nazi skeleton supervillains would be to fold those suggestions into an origami middle finger.
“I’m assuming you plan on taking this horrible idea somewhere even worse, but to stop you now, no, we will never team up with you.”
Kilton took another step forward. “Aren’t you even slightly curious as to why I called you here? Surely, if I wanted your attention, there were innumerable ways to get it, but I’ve come to you hat in hand requesting your assistance.”
Had to keep the bastard talking. “Fine,” Ray tentatively concluded. “Hit me.”
“Very good,” If his face allowed it, Kilton would’ve almost certainly been smirking. “Now, Raymond Arnold Sullivan, I’ve had a great deal of time to reconsider my recent course of action. Once, I assumed that my power alone would be enough for the survival of the species, however, I now believe the path to salvation lies in our willingness to at last put aside our petty grievances for the betterment of our world.” Judging by his tone of voice, there was no irony to be found.
Ray squinted at Kilton as if skeptical of his existence. “You can’t be serious. You’re a Nazi war criminal who once tried to wipe out all organic life in Australia and also put anthrax in the mayor’s lunch!”
    “The world is a far different place than it was when we first met, Ray. One yearns for a time when the biggest threat one could encounter was a gaggle of gun-toting miscreants on Otar Jaqeli’s payroll. Now, we’ve got teenagers that can shoot fire from their chests and have the strength of one thousand men, androids with martial arts fixations, and Tolkien characters running about. The need for principles has long since evaporated.”
 There was a possibility, an atom of a germ of a possibility, an atom of a germ of a possibility, granted, that Kilton held a genuine desire to turn away from the darkness that emanated from the hollowed out recess that once comprised his soul. It was no more ridiculous than breakdancing ninja androids or a universe that would see fit to give a hyper-active sixteen year old the physical strength to hurl the Burj Dubai spire into the sun with one hand.
“I assume this is the part of the soliloquy where you tell me of some great evil that will enslave us all unless we stand together.”
Kilton’s turned his nose at Ray’s observation. “You have your alliance, but did you truly believe your enemies wouldn’t form a league of their own?” Ray was ready to move as that was the precise moment in which poison gas would envelope the room or flaming, poison filled bullets would descend from on high, but no manner of fatalistic developments arrived. Instead, voices from the ether began to converse in hushed, secretive tones.
“I fail to see why exactly we’ve convened at such an hour. By any reasonable measure, the operation was a success…”
“Apparently, your measure of success lapses well into a realm far removed from any resembling reasonability, but I concede the point; the ostensibly innocuous nature of the incident could hypothetically work to our favor. By the time Interpol and the intelligence agencies discern what happened, the people will see things from our perspective. We are here for the long game, are we not?”
“Of course.”
“Need I remind you all of what allowing Kilton, that madman, into collective has cost us? And what of the growing number of these metahumans all over the world? Dubai, Beijing, a teenager from Jersey City who lifted a bus over her head as if it were constructed of plasticine! Things are more unstable than we predicted, and control of the situation slips further from our grasp every day! I do not need to remind any of you regarding the consequences for ineptitude! If we are unable to pacify all these rogue elements, the future we have envisioned for our species will never come to pass!”
“I doubt anyone at this table would contend with your concerns or question the gravity of the situation, but in times of trouble or distress, Marcus, I find it helpful to recall the words of Theseus: always forward, and never left or right. The key tenets of our plan remain unchanged, we’ve simply made a few minor adjustments to better accommodate present circumstances.”
“Thank you, Nehemiah. I hope you are willing to forgive me for my earlier transgression. Now, where are we with Mei Zhao?”
“The totality of our effort will not come undone merely because an ideologue with untrammeled access to her father’s trust fund wills it so. By this time next week, Laputa will be nothing more than a distant memory and Mei Zhao and her cronies will be at the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean. If you so desire, I can fly to New York tonight and personally evaluate the situation.”
“That is quite alright. I have utmost faith in your capability, Nehemiah. That socialist parasite’s continued existence is a blight on our world. She leans farther left than Michael Jackson in Smooth Criminal. Jesus Christ Himself could descend from Heaven and Falcon Punch her out of existence, and it still wouldn’t be enough of a punishment.”
The file ended with a click from Kilton’s hand. Ray was certain this was some sort of political think tank, as the only time he got involved in politics was when he was dangling a senator or campaign manager off of a roof in an attempt to acquire information about their duplicitous activities.
“So…who are they? What do they want? Money? Immortality? One world government?”
“They have money and, after a fashion, immortality, but what they desire of above all else is something more esoteric than domain over Earth’s governments. No, they seek something far more clandestine.”
“And you’re refusing to reveal their endgame because?”
Stone-faced, Kilton replied. “Even if I were to present you with all the evidence, I doubt you would believe me, but they call themselves NOMAD.”
“NOMAD?”
“Yes. Nominally, Ostensibly Mandated Against Deception.”
 “And the one called Marcus…was that Marcus Prescott?”
“Yes. The former US President and current CEO of Bellona Security Services is NOMAD’s highest ranking member.”
This was indeed a startling development. If this NOMAD had someone managed to dodge Ray’s gaze up to this point and was being led by an ex-US president, they doubtlessly were backed by and had unmitigated access to powerful resources.
“So why not take them down yourself? It sounds like you were a former member of the band and know all their tricks.”
“A wise person once said: minimize risk.”
“And you really think the world is going to forget what you’ve done?”
 “For there is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so.”
Ray had to concede that there was at least a crumb of truth to Kilton’s logic. He wasn’t exactly a paragon of unflinching moral rectitude, but his ego, translated to the physical world, would easily usurp the Topkapi Palace in size and density. The evidence strongly suggested taking down NOMAD would be a far more difficult task than taking on the average criminal organization, and Kilton clearly had a vested interest in stopping it…
“Fine,” Ray concluded, throwing up his hands in resignation. “You’re right. I...have no retort.”
Kilton waited a moment before closing the distance. “I knew you would see things my way,” He happily proclaimed, extending a hand of friendship. “Together, we will solidify the future of the species.” He proudly declared.
The others would likely be more reticent about the particulars of the master plan, but when the proverbial tables were overturned and top-secret organizations of the most powerful people on the planet were plotting the destruction of humanity, they were all about saving lives.
“You know, I think I finally figured something out. About you, me...about everything. I’m kind of amazed I didn’t see it before.”
“And what would that be, my friend?” Kilton asked, genuinely curious.
Ray cocked his fist before announcing his revelation:
“You’re batshit insane!” Ray yelled before hurling a right cross at his target’s throat; it was promptly blocked by Kilton’s palm.
“Oh, so disappointing,” He said before shoving Ray back several meters. “I held out a modicum of hope that you out of all people would hold a more utilitarian philosophy, but whatever cannot be controlled shall be destroyed.” He calmly remarked.
Though momentarily surprised by Kilton’s fighting ability, Ray was back on his feet and ready to go a moment later. Kilton only held his hands behind his back and slowly paced towards his opponent.
“Over the course of our partnership, I came to view you as a son, Ray; certainly a more worthy contender for the title than the genuine article. I like to believe that holds true for the both of us. Even you must admit we make quite an effective team.”
“Shut up.” Ray charged before he would have to be subjected to yet another insipid lecture about nihilism or whatever Kilton had on his weird mind. Ray threw several more punches to his face, which Kilton easily dodged. After several failed attempts, Kilton retaliated with a simple sweep kick, sending Ray to the floor. His follow-up punch, intended for Ray’s face, easily crushed the marble floor.
“Since when can you fight?” Ray asked as he returned to his fighting position.
“I have learned a great many things.”
Not giving him another moment to ready his mouth, Ray nimbly flipped over Kilton’s attempted roundhouse kick and threw another right cross to the face Kilton was able to catch yet again. Ray expected a fight, but Kilton appeared to be three steps ahead at every turn, easily dodging his attempts with minimal effort, Ray was an expert fighter and master strategist, but his efforts proved ineffective against Kilton’s reflexes and strength. Before he could get another chance, Kilton grabbed Ray by the back of the arm with one hand and used his opposite to slam Ray to the floor.
“I’ve heard it said you were one of the few people on the planet capable of going up against that abomination of technology Karate Guy in hand to hand combat.” Kilton smugly said.
Seeing as personal combat wasn’t working out, Ray extracted one of the daggers he swiped from one of Profit’s myriad hideouts and flung it towards Kilton. He easily sidestepped it, but the weapon reversed mid-flight. Despite the deception, Kilton was able to whirl around and catch it with his thumb and index finger. He gazed at it for a moment before flinging it away as it exploded, letting out a concussive blast.
“This is not one of your comic book blockbuster-” His sarcastic quip was interrupted as Ray roundhouse kicked him in the side of the head. He then jumped on top of Kilton’s prone figure, pressed his knees against his hands to restrain him, and began to pound away at his face with reckless abandon.
“This is exactly like that, you fuck,” Ray fired off in between attempts to grind Kilton’s face into dust. “Pretty soon, you’re gonna be nothing more than a distant memory. You’ll never be anything more than a Nazi scumfuck bastar-“
Before Ray could conclude the thought, Kilton’s hand secured itself sickening to his throat. He lifted Ray off the ground and slowly began the choke the life out of him with minimal energy.
    “You do not understand the meaning of despair.” He commented before sending Ray hurtling into a window at the opposite end of the room. Even with the armor serving to cushion the blow, Ray’s entire being felt as if it would soon begin secreting battery acid. He managed to divert Kilton’s initial punch and just barely ducked the second, but his rapidly waning supply of energy could do nothing to protect him against being hoisted once again by the Devil’s strength.
    “You do not yet understand what it means to truly suffer; you will learn,” Kilton casually informed Ray as the latter ferociously fought to escape the villain’s grasp, his repeated punches like the dew fall. “It is endlessly fascinating seeing what happens to a person, knowing they let their family die.”
    With his last remaining ounce of willpower, Ray choked out something indecipherable. Kilton slightly loosened his grip. “One more time.”
His words arrived clear as a summer’s day: “Go fuck yourself, Bob.”
Something in Kilton’s stone face twitched, but before he could go for the killing blow, Ray extracted another dagger hidden in his armor and flung his arm in what he hoped would be forward; it cleanly slid into Kilton’s chest, causing him to howl in pain as he dropped Ray.
“Wretch!” Wincing, he sickeningly dug his fingers into the dagger jutting out of his chest and wrenched it out with yet another cry of agony. “Face me!” He screamed before throwing his hands over his stomach in pain.
When he first uncovered it, Ray initially concluded he would have very little use for a poison dagger as he wasn’t in the business of assassination, but instinct informed him it would be an effective tool to keep on hand against the only guy with a metabolism more chaotic than Keith Richards’.
“It’s over, Bob,” Kilton was keeled over in pain and clutching his skull. “You give up now, I’ll make sure you get the right treatment before the poison kills you.” He didn’t always like it, but Ray had an obligation to every life, regardless of how terribly they were being used.
Despite the pain that was tearing through his system, Kilton met Ray’s eyes. “You will bow to me!” He made one final charging punch that was totally bereft of the swiftness and stamina that defined the earlier stage of their fight. Ray cleanly sidestepped it and delivered a final, thunderous roundhouse kick to his side; Kilton slumped against the window, defeated.
With the monster once again brought down by his own hubris, Ray crouched down, gripped Kilton by the lapels of his jacket, and forced his vacant gaze.
“We’ll be dead before we turn into one of your flunkies.”
Initially he got nothing in response but a blank, gormless stare, but Kilton soon began to laugh. His body slowly withering to nothing, he could only manage a low, tentative laugh, but it soon became a hearty, terrifying chuckle that made Ray’s body reflexively tense.
    “So self-righteous. So…” Kilton gleefully said as he strained to lift his hand. To Ray’s horror, it contained a grenade. “Predictable.”
Acting on pure instinct, Ray’s legs sent the rest of the body away from the cackling Kilton as quickly as they could be asked. He managed to clear a decent amount of distance before being propelled forward by a searing blast of heat.
Face down, he only had a moment to appreciate the fact that he wasn’t on fire before he passed out.
_____________________________________________________________________________
    “He’s awake! My magic worked just as intended.”
    It took a second for Ray to come to terms with the fact that he was flat on his back on the top floor of Diederich Citadel, but what got him back on his feet at a moment’s notice was the realization that he was surrounded by three corporeal forms. Uncertain of what hostile force was bearing down on him, he threw a punch towards the closest.
    “Relax, friend! You are among allies!” His fist still held against Karate’s Guy hand, he at last came to the realization that he was indeed surrounded by his friends.
    “Oh. Hey,” Ray at last retracted his fist, glancing at the three. “When did you guys get-owwww,” His arms reflexively wrapped around his stomach and he slowly lowered himself back to his original position. “I’m just gonna stay here for now, if that’s okay.”
    “Dragon Slayer detected you were in mortal danger with her magic psychic stuff and teleported us here,” Rebecca bent down beside him. “Jeez, you looked super messed up. What happened?”
    Still reeling from the fight of his life, Ray found even attempting to speak an extremely arduous task not helped by his adrenaline deciding to shirk its duties. “Kilton called me up here. Blew himself up once I got the upper hand.”
    His three comrades exchanged confused glances.
    “Kilton? The crazy old Nazi scientist dude?” Rebecca inquired. “Didn’t he…” She snapped her fingers twice in an attempt to locate the proper verbiage. “Uh, vanish from...this plane of existence?”
    Katarina looked as if she had just tripped into something but didn’t have the stomach to verify what it was. “That is correct, good captain. His attempt to manipulate the inexorable flow of time was met with a worthy retribution, but it appears he somehow managed to undo his fate. What manner of treachery is this?”
    “He was able to escape the shadow of death once, it is highly unlikely he will be able do so again,” Greg interjected. “What did he desire from you, Raymond?”
    “Kilton wanted us to be his servants,” He at last scrounged together the energy necessary to stand on his feet. “Said we could save the world, do what we were destined to do if we just followed his lead,” Ray declared as he stepped back in an attempt to regain his composure. “Also, he somehow turned himself into a skeleton. Or just his head got turned into one. Something about reversing entropy. It’s complicated.” He waved away any further explanation. The comment earned quizzical looks from the three.
    “Raymond, are you sure you are well? You appear to have been in quite a fight.” Greg placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder.
    “Indeed. Among those learned in the art of deception, Kilton is unparalleled.” Katarina added.
    “So, wait a minute,” Rebecca’s face was still scrunched in that way that communicated deep thought to those in the know. “He got turned into a skeleton,” She was clearly struggling to come to grips with this dire piece of knowledge. “Was this, like, intentional? Or did he become a skeleton when he blew himself up?”
    “The first one. And it was just his head. I think.”
    Rebecca placed a finger to her lip. “So does that mean he’s Doctor Killeton?” The thought was punctuated by a triumphant, face-wide grin and raucous laughter from Katarina. “Get it? Cuz his name is Kilton and he’s a skeleton.”
“Yes! Most amusing, good captain!”
    Ray could only roll his eyes good naturedly. “I wouldn’t even give you a tepid golf clap if I had the energy, Lopez.”
    “Do not listen to such falsehoods, dear captain; your nicknames are endlessly ingenious!”
    The two fist-bumped. “Thank you, Dragon Slayer. I’ll put it in my trophy room with the others.”
    “While I too am appreciative of Captain Nova’s wit and grateful for Kilton’s demise, there are still pertinent matters at hand.” Greg mercifully interrupted Katarina’s endless fascination with Rebecca’s sense of humor.
“That is most correct, Karate Guy. If Kilton was indeed able to escape confinement, there may be some greater force that aided his escape. You will accompany me and we shall investigate this matter at once,” Katarina swiftly returned to stoic warrior mode. “The Spectre must recover, as he is obliged to attend the celebration close by.”
“Hey!” Rebecca shouted. “What about me?”
“It is, as the colloquialism goes, a school night, Captain.” Karate Guy responded.
It occurred to Ray at that moment that he could still be fashionably late if he was fast enough. A minor motorcycle accident would logically explain the damage.
“Right. Let me know what-” Ray turned to find Greg and Katarina gone. “Where the heck did they go?”
“They jumped out the window. How did you not notice?” The source of the sound was Rebecca, still standing there expectantly.
 Ray was still clearly not in the best frame of mind, especially for a situation in which carefully riding the time between master of social etiquette and complete ponce was the name of the game, but that would have to wait. For now, he had to deal with Rebecca.
“The answer is, as it will always be, n to the o, Rebecca. You can’t even dri-”
“A-ha!” She interrupted him as she scrambled through her pockets and wrenched out her wallet, looking as if her joy was going to spill out of her. “But I can!” She presented her driver’s license mere inches from Ray’s face, the exuberant, infectious smile plastered on it matching the one presently overtaking her face. “I mean, I don’t really need to drive since I just super leap everywhere, but I checked and I can totally drive in this state! Which means I can totally drive your car while you’re at your thing!” The sixteen year old concluded with more than a hint or pride.
Ray failed to suppress a slight grin. “Still no.”
Feigning dejection, Rebecca placed the mark of her success away. “Fine, freakin’ jerk, but can you at least promise me something? Because I super-strengthed the door shut and I can hear people comin’ up the elevator with guns.”
It was a rarity to see the perpetually chipper Rebecca in a serious mood. “Of course.”
“I know Kilton probably told you to not call us or something to that effect, but can you please get in touch next time you’re fighting a dangerously intelligent supervillain? We’re a team, and I’m not gonna let some Nazi skeleton asshole kill any of you. Promise?”
He smiled. “I won’t let it happen again.”