Jack stopped in the doorway and gaped at the horror before her. The creature was human, or at least some traces of humaity about it, but it resembled four people of indeterminate sex melted and molded together into an obscene sculpture of flesh. Reacting on instinct, Jack pulled her six-shooters, but in the instant before she could fire, IMack shouted, “No, Jack, wait! For God’s sake let me up Seven, don’t shoot Jack!”
Jack eased the pressure on the triggers , but didn’t put the guns back into the holsters on her belt, holding them at the ready and clearly still inclined to open fire on the creature in front of her.
IMack pushed himself up from underneath Seven and dusted himself off. “It’s okay,” he said, “Waxwork is a friend of mine.”
“You’re friends with this . . . this . . .” Seven began.
“Person.” IMack finished for him. “Technically people, but Waxwork likes to think of itself as a single individual with four voices.”
Three of the voices in question were chattering away, as they had been out in the hallway, but a fourth much more authoritative voice hushed them and then spoke up.
“Greetings Ignatius, it has been a while. Weeks. The Mother sends her love.”
“Aha!” the Spook shouted, getting to his feet. “That certainly explains a lot, Mack.”
“Would someone mind telling me what’s going on?” Jack asked.
“In due time,” Mack responded, “In due time.”
In that moment, Waxwork seemed to becomre aware for the first time that IMack was not alone. “Perhaps we could speak somewhere more private?” it inquired.
“Not necessary. You can speak freely. I was going to have to tell them everything eventually anyway, perhaps this will help to expedite matters.”
Waxwork nodded, or gave the best approximation of a nod possible from a creature whose head was actually four head, fused together at various points. “Mother sent me here as soon as the King informed her of your whereabouts.”
“As I knew he would the moment I answered the door and saw him there. I thought it a bit strange he had a message ready for me as though he’d been expecting to find me, but I suppose Mother’s been looking for me ever since Abyss arrived in town.”
“Mother sends her displeasure. It is not good she says, this hiding.”
“Alas, I do what I must. I do not have the luxury of not being paranoid, they really are out to get me you see. Send Mother my regrets. We will have to work out a better system for exchanging messages in future.”
The others could only stand and watch this exchange. Only Steven Spector had the first clue what any of this meant, and he wasn’t going to say anything until Mack had his chance to speak to them all.
“This is what is known,” Waxwork said, “John Franklin, registered metahuman aged seventeen, reported missing from home in Warwick, New York one week ago. Found last night at Greyhound bus depot downtown, catatonic. Two hours ago, EMTs report discovery of catatonic metahuman in alleyway just blocks from here. No identity yet confirmed, but early evidence suggests subject is metahuman code-named Boozehound.”
“Poor Henry,” Mack said, then turned to the others and explained, “Boozehound’s another old friend of mine with a pretty strange power, the more intoxicated he gets, the more accute his sense of smell becomes. He used to say he could tell the difference between metas and non-metas by smell. I used to think he was just boasting, but if not Abyss would have found his ability useful. It can only take metas as host, you see.”
