The voice in Scott St. Pierre’s head was synthetic, like Max Headroom — except rather than being frenetic and disjointed it was melodious and soothing. It had a strange accent as well. Had Scott possessed even a modicum of life experience beyond hockey and the mall, he would have discerned that the accent was a bizarre hybrid of south-side London Queen’s English and midwestern American drawl.
To the football players gathering around the two opponents squared off for fisticuffs, the voice was so intoxicating it made them forget it was coming from Scott’s face.
“Ahhhhh look who it is, pet.” Whoever now occupied Scott’s mouth seemed to be talking to himself. “Do you recognize him?”
The words had a delicious vibration to them like the nigh imperceptible tinge of a rock synth melody.
The football team’s heads all swung to look at Nick. Anxious for his response. A mystery was unfolding.
Nick’s face had ceased to be his. In its place there was a seething mask that wore a hundred years of utter hatred for a bitter rival.
And Nick’s next words were no less alien to the huddle of football players now fully assembled than was the suddenly alien caste of his face.
Nick Morrison spat the words at St. Pierre.
“You will be vanquished by this hand! I swear it beast! Upon the thousand souls each, of the thousand children of Allfather Ra and by all the pharaohs of The Martian Solar Dynasty, I swear this!”
Then Scott St. Pierre and Nick Morrison both clutched at their chests in agony and collapsed unconscious to the ground.
“Everybody –” Coach Patterson started to say before he saw Andy Crowley running down the hill toward them. Then he and the entire football team also collapsed into unconscious heaps on the field.
As the haze of the spellcasting cleared “the blue mariner is coming” began to echo through Andy Crowley’s mind again.
“Nick!” he cried as he kneeled over the unconscious body of his friend –nay his brother.
“Omega Alpha. Alpha Omega.” He muttered repeatedly under his breath.
“Not yet, man. Not yet.”