The Phantom - 1. Chapter 1

"Can't you, like, kneel or something?"

Gerry rolled his eyes. "We've been over this, Mark. The footage isn't going to come out anyway." Nobody had ever caught Hellhound on film.

"Yeah, but I can't have you always looming over me; it looks bad." He peered up at his partner as they walked back to their news van. "Why do you have to be so tall?"

Gerry sighed. Pulling out his keys, he unlocked the van and climbed inside to put up the equipment. He felt the engine rumble to life beneath his feet and took his seat in front of the long bank of computer terminals.

"Must be in a hurry," he muttered as the van took a quick turn that slid Gerry sideways in his chair. He stuck the film cartridge in its slot, and a grinding, whirring, clunking, shp-shp! sound met his ears.

"Oh, shit!" he cried, thumping the CPU. "Come on, not now!" Even if the video was no good, they'd still have the audio, at least, they would if the VCR didn't eat the tape! "Damn it! Give it back." He jammed the eject button, flipping open the hatch to poke at the tape, but nothing happened except more clacking noises.

And words on the screen.

"Oh, no."

<im n ur puter, writin on ur screen>

"This isn't funny!" Gerry thumped the computer again. "You better getyour punkass out of there, or I swear to God, when I get my hands on you ...!"

<>

"Augh! You cheeky, little ... son of a bitch! Give me my god-damned --" The cartridge popped free with a shnucnk!, tape trailing behind like drool. "God damn it!"

The half doors behind the driver and passenger seats opened and Mark peered worriedly back at his partner. He hadn't even noticed that the van had stopped.

"Bruce? Are you okay?"

"No!" snarled Gerry, slowly coaxing tape out of the machine.

Mark bit back a grin. "Your computer ghost again?"

"This isn't my fucking imagination!" He glared at Mark, pointing to the screen. "It's right there!"

"I don't see anything."

Gerry scowled at the grin Mark was failing to hide. "So help me, Mark, I find out you've been the one messing with me!"

He put up his hands in surrender. "I know! I know!" He laughed. "You'll snap me in two like a toothpick. What do I know about computers, anyway?"

"It's just basic texting," grumbled Gerry, his knowledge of such things making him an instant suspect. "Relayed into the computer instead of a phone, but I know these computers aren't set up for that!" He shook the cassette at Mark.

As the newest reporting team, they got the oldest equipment. That way, nothing was wasted when they screwed up. Which they'd been doing far too often of late. Ever since the Phantom showed up.

Once he'd started thinking about it, Gerry could pick out a starting date several weeks in the past. Their very next interview after Mark had wormed his way into the press release and media junket for the new theme park, the Villain's Lair. Not very creative, if you asked Gerry, but nobody did, and every TV station had been invited to partake. Such a high-profile event should have gone to a more experienced, more popular reporter, but somehow Mark had managed to snag the spot.

The place was a farce of a supervillain's lair, set up as a sort of amusement park for the populace, sort of like a cross between Salem and Disneyland's Haunted Mansion. Only, Mark had kept asking if there was more, in that oh-so-subtle way he had, until the tour guide had them thrown out and their footage confiscated. The other reporters had, of course, caught the whole thing on tape.

They were a laughingstock on the other primetime stations, the little local boys who could never seem to catch a break.

Gerry hadn't thought much of the glitches at first, just put them down to ancient equipment finally wearing out. But, as the glitches happened with increasing frequency, a pattern emerged: they only happened when Bruce filmed Mark while reporting a heist in which they caught one of the city's many superheroes or villains on tape.

Something would always, always, happen to the live broadcast, like burning houses suddenly superimposed over the scene, or eerie music, or snippets of other conversations. One memorable 'cast had turned Mark and the background into cartoon graphics. The worst part of it all was that neither he nor Bruce were aware of what had happened until the station told them or they played back the footage in the van.

They were small at first, a handful of incidents that 'inspired' the other news stations to air clips of their aired footage, their very own Tonight Show, during the prime time news hour. A few of the other stations had even set their reporters to filming Mark and Gerry as one long-running gag. Mark thought it was funny, and their producers were even less inclined to upgrade their equipment, because the old technology was part of their charm. They laughed off the heckling as free publicity, especially as their ratings continued to climb.

Soon enough, they had their very own copy cats, but the hack jobs were easily spotted by the tech-savy and they didn't last long. Nobody, however, could figure out how Gerry did it. Techs and anti-geeks alike stopped him to try and wheedle his secrets. Mark didn't help matters by shrugging and directing any and all questions to Gerry.

The texts had only started recently, in the last couple of weeks. The glitches had been driving him crazy. Gerry had taken over a section of the garage to break down and clean every last piece of hardware (to no result) and their very next gig, he'd returned to the van to find a short message on the screen. The IT squad already thought Gerry a little odd, because, according to them, the van and all its equipment was in perfect working order. Gerry didn't care; let them think he was a crackpot. He broke down and cleaned everything a second time.

A few days later, a new text appeared.

Mark called it the Phantom. Gerry called it a royal pain in his backside. The Phantom called him Bruce, and the nickname, somehow (he could make a fairly good guess that it had something to do with a certain someone whose name began with 'M' and ended with 'k') made its rounds of the station with alarming speed. What was worse was how Gerry was beginning to think of himself as Bruce.

"Bruce?" Mark watched his partner worriedly. The tall, black man hadn't moved in well over a minute.

"I can't do this, Mark," he finally said in a strangled voice. "I'm going crazy." He glanced to the shorter, younger man. "You believe me, right?"

"Yeah, mate, sure," he answered, same as always.

"No, I mean it," said Gerry desperately. "I'm not doing this! Someone is messing with me -- with us!"

"Well, whomever it is should get a raise. Or a bonus --"

"Mark! I'm serious!" Dropping the cassette to dangle from the machine, Bruce ran his hand through his hair. "I can't take this anymore! I quit!"

They bribed Gerry with two weeks paid vacation and a brand-new, digital camera.

He'd successfully avoided the calls from the station the first week, but then they brought out the big guns: all emails to Bruce and Mark began being forwarded to Gerry's personal email address, and Mark showed up on his doorstep with a box jammed full of fan mail.

"Oh, God," he sighed.

Two days later, having finally read through the last of the letters, Gerry acquiesced to a meeting with the director of the prime time news, Mark, and the station's producers.

"No." Gerry started the meeting, as firmly and stubbornly as he dared. He wanted a floor gig, indoors, 9-5, and no more chasing around Necropolis in a battered old van. No more chasing supers. No, no, no.

The three suits glanced at one another from their seats at the conference table.

"Bruce," the executive producer began, "our ratings have never been higher. Viewers love you and Mark's, ah, 'Hero Adventures.' We need you back in the field."

"No." He scowled.

"Our viewers have come to expect the hijinks," added the news director.

"You can have your own editing room," offered one of the other producers.

Gerry set his palms on the table, mentally willing his blood pressure to go down a notch. "Maybe I wasn't making myself clear, so be sure to listen closely. Hell no!" He got to his feet.

"Bruce --"

"Gerry!"

The two producers glared at each other before the less senior sat down with a disgruntled thump.

"Gerry," the woman in the gray suit began again. "Your clips are classics. Our viewers love you. And Mark. Without these little tricks, there is no way two rookies like you two would ever be seeing this much air time. Go to another station, they'll want the same thing. Escaping the field entirely is the only way to avoid being Mark and Bruce, intrepid reporters. Take the camera. Take the raise. You two will be on supers patrol every evening. Give us what we want, and I guarantee -- guarantee -- that we'll cycle you to something else as soon as you teach your replacement your tricks."

Gerry pressed the heel of his hand to the bridge of his nose. "I'm not doing anything," he protested quietly.

"We'll even write off the past few days as vacation days. You're still on the books, Gerry."

He made the mistake of glancing to Mark. The Australian gave him a 'Please, please, pretty please with a cherry on top!' look that Gerry would have had to be a far tougher man to deny. One did not become a field reporter every day, not even in Necropolis, which had the highest crime and murder rate in the country (if not the world). Sometimes, Gerry wondered why he lived here.

Oh, yeah, the excitement ... whatever.

He sighed and shook his head. "I know I'm going to regret this."

Mark whooped, leaping out of his chair to pump Gerry's arm excitedly. "Thank you! Thank you, Bruce, thank you!"

That Saturday night found them out driving the beat, listening to the police static over the CB installed in the front of their brand-spanking-new van, the new camera cradled in Gerry's arms. Ignoring the snide comments of the IT crew, Bruce had unpacked the camera himself, and it hadn't yet left his sight, barely leaving his hands long enough to shower in the morning. Call him paranoid, but Gerry didn't want to give anyone the opportunity to screw with him. By God, this was going to be the END of the Phantom!

Just then the police operator's voice came over the line: robbery at Old Town Square, Hellhound spotted, two cars to investigate. All clear.

Just like old times, Mark made a hard (illegal) U-turn that threw Gerry into the passenger side door. He slammed on the brakes by the police barricade, throwing them against their safety harnesses, and then he was out of the van, fumbling for his (new!) wireless microphone, and earpiece.

Gerry exited a trifle slower, praying hard that all would go well, prayers that, soon enough, he knew had all been in vain.

"There, there!" cried Mark, pointing. Two figures, caught in police spotlights, danced a martial arts gig on the rooftop of a nearby building.

Mark obediently zoomed in, groaning inwardly as he recognized Hellhound. Well, it looked like the boss would get what she wanted.

"Reporting live! From the scene of Hellhound's latest heist, this is Mark Marshall for Channel 11 News ...."

All proceeded as normal, and Gerry even began to hope he'd seen the last of the Phantom. What could be seen of the footage was beautiful in sharp, HD clarity, Mark's voice coming through loud and clear. He looked and sounded professional. On the other end, heard through their earpieces, the news anchors bantered back and forth, and they had plenty of time during commercial breaks to scramble over and interview the officer in charge of the scene.

That was where everything started to go wrong.

With the digital camera, Gerry could see what was being filmed, live, just like the folks were seeing from their TVs at home. Gerry could see the interview being filmed, but, when the police sergeant opened his mouth to speak, perfectly dubbed dialogue spilled out over the feed.

Mark's eyes widened and he shot Gerry a startled look, asking the sergeant to please repeat his remarks.

"Police responded in record time," said the policeman again, visibly puffing out his chest. "No valuables taken or damaged. The Hound's in for it now."

What everyone tuned in to the news heard was, "Aw, Cat, so sweet you make sugar jealous. Come here, baby, I could just lick you all over!"

Everyone in the immediate vicinity heard the enraged cat's yowl.

At Mark's frantic gesture, Gerry tilted the camera up to catch the action, but they were too late to get more than an occassional foot or tail as the two men went rolling out of view in a knock-down, drag-out, no-hold barred fist-fight. Seconds later, the camera caught a flip of tail as Hellhound dashed off across another roof and Cat dodged out of sight.

Mark brought the interview to a speedy conclusion and they raced back to the police barricade, but the action appeared to be over for the night. A few more brief words with the evening anchors and Gerry switched the camera off, trudging back to the van.

"What was that?" asked Chris, staring up at Gerry.

He shrugged. "Sounded like a catfight --"

"Between Cat and Hellhound, yeah! According to his blog, He's got the hots for one feline superhero. But, Bruce, I meant the dialogue. Where did that come from?"

He took the disk out of the camera and popped it into the machine. "Beats me," he ground out between his teeth.

"Oh, come on, Bruce! This is too cool! We got the first-ever dialogue between two of the city's most famoustest supers! You can tell me! I swear I won't tell!"

"I didn't do anything but hold the camera," Gerry responded stiffly.

"Do you think it was really them?" Mark babbled on. "Do you think he'll put it in his blog?" He grinned, imagining the publicity. would Hellhound deny or affirm the comments as his?

Gerry growled to himself and put up the equipment. So much for his watchful eye. It had still happened! Fuck! He thumped his fist down on the counter.

"Bruce?"

"Nothing, Mark." He tried his best not to snap. "Let's get back to the station."

"Yeah, sure thing."

Getting into their seats, Gerry fastened his seat belt, idly retrieving his blackberry. He stared at the screen.

"You shit!"

"Bruce?"

Ignoring the reporter, Bruce's fingers punched tiny buttons rapidly. <u lesten 2 me, U litle shit>

<I'm all ears LOL>

<Go haunt somebody ELSE!>

<>

"Shit!"

"Bruce? Seriously, mate, it's uncool for a man of your skin color to be purple."

He tossed the phone onto the dash, slumping back in his seat to cross his arms over his chest. "I hate my life."

~ TBC~