Megajoule

5. STEEL CANYON


He has business in Steel today. The irony does not escape him.

He hasn't gone three blocks from the tunnel when he picks up a shadow. Walking alongside him, appearing only as a reflection in the windows he passes, is a tall man in a grey pinstripe suit. The style changes in each window, from 1890s to 1990s, from 1979 to 1929, but it's always a suit.

"What are you doing here, King?" asks Steel, looking especially pinched and disapproving as a banker from the turn of the last century.

"I'm here t' see a man about the Lost," the Row replies. "Don't worry, I'm not stayin' long enough to drive down your property values."

"The Lost, hm? That figures." The dot-com entrepreneur smirks. "You won't find any here, you know."

"Naw... just body-snatchers in the alleys, goose-steppers on the street corners, and Outcasts everywhere ya look."

The railroad baron harrumphs, muttonchops bristling. "Despite what the yellow press would have you believe, my crime rate is the lowest in..."

King stops suddenly, making his companion do likewise. On the sidewalk ahead, three men in colorful T-shirts are harassing a cringing woman, showing off with small displays of their elemental powers.

Steel frowns, fidgets, and finally demands, "... well?"

The Row shrugs his massive shoulders. "Hey, your problem, not mine. But I tell ya what - I'll do you a favor, just this once."

"You're too kind," the Victorian banker declares frostily, looking on as the Row turns this impromptu reunion of Earth, Wind and Fire into paste and receives the thanks of their victim.

"That's your problem, Steel," the Row observes after she runs off, looking not at the figure in the window behind him but at the great skyscrapers for which the city's financial district is named. Banks and corporate headquarters and office towers, they march down the center of the zone in four mighty columns, with the land rising up around them on all sides like reviewing stands. "You spend all your time with your head in the clouds... you lose sight of what's goin' on down at your feet."

"Someone has to look at the big picture. Someone has to take the lead, grease the wheels and make the deals, keep things moving forward. That's what I do." The man in the grey suit ostentatiously examines his manicured nails. "What do you do these days, King? Besides shelter the indigent and collect welfare."

The Row whirls, jabbing a finger at the window. "I do plenty! If it weren't for me and mine, you'd be doing your deals in the dark, with crap up to your knees, and without any of your fancy coffees!"

"You ignorant, ungrateful..." The patrician financier stares his fellow city spirit down. "I made you."

The Row's face is a stone mask, his voice dropping to a hush. "Yeah, Steel, that's right. You made me what I am today."

Before the other can frame a reply, the big man in the fedora turns on a scuffed heel and starts off down the sidewalk again, head down with bullish determination. The reflection has to hurry to catch up, flickering across a bookstore and a townhouse lobby before falling into step again.

"That's old news, King. When are you going to stop thinking of the past and start looking to the future?"

"I've seen your future," the Row answers bitterly. "It's got no jobs, 'cause you sold 'em all to China an' India an' Mexico. You sold our birthright, Steel."

The corporate raider rolls his eyes. "You act like it's personal, but it's not. It's just business, the free market at work."

"Yeah?" King glances at the window, but doesn't stop walking. "Like those deals you did back in the Thirties with all them German banks? Was that just business too? You should take a look at your balance sheets sometime. No tellin' how much blood money's on 'em."

"That goes both ways, King. Or are you going to pretend you always gave everyone an even shake? What about the Irish? Or the Poles? Or the blacks? There's blood on your hands too."

The Row pulls up short again, facing off with the fellow in the high starched collar and top hat. "Yeah, okay. I done some bad things, things I ain't proud of. But I owned up to it and changed my ways. When are you gonna do that, Steel? When are you gonna admit you're not perfect?"

Steel's response is a haughty glare. "I don't have to answer to you, or even to City Hall. The only ones I have to account to are the stockholders." The tycoon consults his pocket watch before returning it to his vest. "Finish your business and get out." The window ripples like water; when it clears, there is only the Row's own broad-shouldered reflection.

"Heh. Thought he'd never shut up."

Feeling rather pleased with himself, and with a new spring in his step, the Row turns the next corner - and finds himself nearly face to face with an equally surprised Council adjutant and his five jackbooted goons.

"... aw, nuts."

4. PEREZ PARK


He walks along Hell's Highway and remembers when it was Park Avenue. Once, all four lanes flowed with traffic - cars, delivery trucks, yellow taxis and city buses - at almost every hour of the day and night. Now the wide street is empty save for loitering bands of toughs in bandanas and ripped jeans, proudly wearing the mark of the Beast. He feels their eyes on him as he passes, but they have the sense not to offer a challenge.

He walks past the ruin of a famous department store and remembers when people came here to shop for everything they thought they needed - toys and shoes and fur coats, housewares and appliances and diamond rings - or just to eat at the lunch counters and ride the escalators and admire the elaborate window displays. Those windows have long since been smashed in and the dark and cavernous interior looted of anything of value; all that remains is empty shelves, toppled mannequins, loose trash, and torn posters gaily advertising Memorial Day sales.

He walks in the shadow of a high-rise apartment building and remembers when this was some of the most expensive and coveted real estate in the city, especially units with a good view of the park. Like the stores and boutiques, the tower is now an empty shell... probably. Gang members and the homeless have been known to squat in the abandoned apartments, along with others of grander and more sinister purpose who desire a secret lair conveniently close to the city's heart. Sometimes these groups discover each other, usually with violent results.

He walks through the gate, nodding respectfully to the guardian lions, and into the park proper. And he remembers.

Picnicking on the grass. Flying a kite. Boating on Everett Lake. Feeding the pigeons. Strolling along the winding paths. Watching A Midsummer Night's Dream performed under the stars.

He walks deeper into the wood, past strutting Hellions and stinking Vahzilok and posturing Lost and busy Clockwork. They all get out of his way, giving him a wide berth - all except for the Thorns, intent on their rituals. He beats them senseless and directs their grateful captives to safe paths out of the park before continuing on. The canopy closes over his head, shutting out the sky and casting everything in dappled green twilight.

He walks, sure-footed, through the maze that the untended forest has become, stepping over rocks and roots and logs and burbling streams. His footfalls are muffled by moss and fallen leaves and soft earth. His path is lit by the soft glow of wrought iron lamp-posts.

At last he comes to the very heart of the wood. The ground slopes down here, forming a natural bowl. At the marshy bottom, surrounded by water-loving ferns, is an uncovered boulder. There's almost no sound in the small clearing: no birdsong, no buzzing of flies or ticking of gears, no gurgling or belching from the swamp creatures in the lake, nothing but the faint whisper of the wind through the trees. Sunlight filters through the canopy in thin slanting shafts.

Slowly and carefully, he walks down into the center and steps onto the stone. He stands there for over a minute, attuning himself to this place and waiting for the presence here to take notice of him. Finally he speaks.

"Perez, it's me, King. I'm here. Talk to me? Please?"

For long moments, there is no response. Then the rustle of the leaves becomes ever so slightly louder, forming words at the edge of perception.

~ go away... ~

Though he expected this answer, it still makes his heart sink. "It's been four years... ya gotta come back to us."

~ just go away... please... leave me alone... ~

He tries. He reasons, he begs, he scolds, he apologizes. None of it does any good. The wind keeps repeating the same desperate request, the plea of something still wounded and frightened. To stay would only cause more pain, and that's not what he wants.

But he does pause at the edge of the clearing, just long enough to make his usual promise, whether it's heard or not.

"I'll be back next year, okay?" For however long it takes.

And as he walks away from that shrouded glen, trying not to feel too discouraged, he remembers the Perez he used to know - sometimes young-seeming, sometimes older, changing with the seasons but always outgoing and full of life. Always welcoming those who came to her for a little respite from their troubles.

He wonders if he'll ever see that Perez again.

3. ATLAS PARK


He looks like an ordinary man, a mid-level bureaucrat in some city office: average build, thinning hair, round spectacles, a dress shirt rolled up to the elbows, slacks and oxfords. But when eight feet of animated brick and stone and concrete sits down next to him on the park bench where he's having his lunch, he doesn't bat an eye. He just looks up from his sandwich and folded newspaper and smiles politely at the visitor.

"Hello, King. What can I do for you?"

Actually, it's the hulking stone figure that seems uncomfortable. "Don't mean t' interrupt your lunch break," the Row demurs in its low, rumbling voice.

"Nonsense. You know my door's always open." The man reaches into his lunchpail. "Would you like the other half of this? It's egg salad. Or some coffee? I have a thermos."

"Nah, thanks. I'm good." The giant takes a deep breath. "Actually, I came to see if you might, uh... kick some more money my way. Get some more cops on the streets, help keep the soup kitchens open, maybe fix up the schools a little..."

"Now, King," the bureaucrat begins in the patient, tolerant tone of one who's had this conversation many times before, "you know I'd like to help you out. But I'm just stretched too thin right now, with the rebuilding and all. Heck, I don't even have the funding or manpower to finish cleaning up around here." He waves his half-eaten sandwich to the west, where rubble has yet to be cleared from the base of damaged and abandoned buildings on the edge of the industrial park. "I've got Hellions to deal with, and Clockwork, and new heroes running all over the place like children who've had too much sugar." He allows himself a brief chuckle.

"I know," the stone man replies, trying to be just as patient and reasonable. "Believe me, I know all about tough times. But I'm just askin' for a couple hundred grand..."

The snort is still amused, but it's more sarcastic now, less friendly. "You and everyone else. Everyone comes to me looking for a handout. Steel wants me to do something about the arsonists and the Outcasts, Sky wants me to ask Uncle Sam for more highway funds, Galaxy's got her new arena, you want half a dozen things, and Eastgate..."

"Yeah, what about Eastgate?" Suddenly the Row is on his feet, like an avalanche in reverse. "I don't see you liftin' a finger to help her, or Perez."

The bureaucrat is unmoved as the much larger figure towers over him. His voice is as cool and steady as his spectacled gaze. "Perez and Eastgate are a personal concern of mine. But they've both suffered very traumatic events. There's not much that I can do for them, and to be perfectly honest, there may not be much to save. I have to think of populated parts of the city first. Unless you'd like to wait in line behind them...?"

It's not a threat. City Hall doesn't make threats. It makes promises, and chooses which ones to keep.

The Row sighs, shakes his head, unclenches his fists. "No, I don't mean that."

"Good." The sound of the lunchpail snapping shut indicates that this conversation is over. He stands, tucking the newspaper under one arm. "Nice talking to you, King," he says mildly, "but I really have to get back to work. Come see me again sometime. My door's always open."

Go back to your own domain and let me do my job, the voice of City Hall does not say.

But the spirit of the Row, left standing alone on the wide plaza in the shadow of Atlas, hears it anyway.

2. GALAXY CITY

The sun is shining as he walks along Orion Beltway, buoyed by the current of the crowd. He stops in front of the old Majestic theatre; "Breakfast at Tiffany's" is playing. He buys a ticket, goes inside, sits down. The movie's already started, the auditorium almost empty for the matinee.

Up on the big screen, Audrey Hepburn banters coyly with a young George Peppard. Finally she ushers him out of her jet-set apartment and turns to the camera with a twinkling smile. "Hello, King."

He sits up a little straighter in his seat. "Hey, doll-face. How ya doin'?"

"Actually, I'm quite cross with you. We're neighbors, yet you don't come to see me nearly as often as I'd like." Hepburn's pout becomes an impish grin. "But I'll forgive you if you take me dancing."

He chuckles. "You know I'm not much for dancin'."

"I happen to know you were quite good at it once," she declares loftily.

"I'd just step on your dainty toes."

"I can handle a few squashed toes. I'm tougher than I look, you know. Maybe you'd rather go to the arena, watch the fights? Oh!" She claps as a thought occurs to her, her face lighting up with it. "We could go for a walk in the park. It's quieter now that the heroes have moved on, but it's still beautiful. Mm, we could pretend we're a young couple in love..."

He chuckles again, but there's an edge of worry to it. "Girl, what's gotten into you?"

"Oh, I'm fine. Wonderful! Really." She fidgets on the edge of the sofa. "I suppose I'm just a bit lonely. I miss the heroes who used to sit in the park, and Perez... Perez and I used to talk all the time, about everything, but I haven't heard from her in so long. And you, well..." She looks up from her hand-wringing with an apologetic smile.

"You know I've got people of my own to look after," he murmurs gently.

"I know. I do." She turns her eyes down and her face aside, a wistful profile. "I just miss how things used to be."

He nods. "We all do, sweetheart." As the melancholy silence stretches, he coughs. "Listen. Let's do it. Let's go cut a rug, just like you said."

"You mean it?" She's all smiles again. "Oh, thank you, King! I'd love that." Hepburn bounces up from the sofa and starts toward the bedroom, off-screen. "I'll meet you outside in five minutes."

Smiling under his scarf, he stands and walks out of the theater, letting the movie continue without him. The fedora shades his eyes against the bright sun. It's a golden afternoon on the Beltway, and he takes in the sights while he waits.

He could be jealous of Galaxy, with her busy streets and clean storefronts and new stadium and green parkland and bustling warehouse district, better-favored in practically every way. It would be easy... if he didn't know her.

There's a tug at his elbow. The young woman standing there, wearing a coat and low heels and a pixie smile, isn't Audrey Hepburn - but to his eyes, she's even prettier. He grins and puffs up a bit, gallantly offering his arm to the lady. She graciously takes it, and together they walk away as the sun dips low over the western skyline and the shadows lengthen.

(( And now, for something a little different. Simul-posted here and on the Virtue forum. ))

1. KINGS ROW


Like a gargoyle, he perches on the 55th floor cornice of the Gibson Building and looks out over the Row. His craggy, homely face is mostly shrouded by an old scarf and a fedora, a style favored by the original "mystery men" back in the days when it was not always easy to tell them from the criminals they fought - especially in the case of one Marcus Cole, now the most famous of them all.

He crouches on one knee, an arm laid across the other, regarding the brownstones and streets much as an aging prizefighter might gaze at his own reflection. He is large and powerfully built, but the weariness of years hangs upon him, bowing that broad back, weighing upon his big heart.

It saddens him that he can't offer a better future to the families who live here, most of them just struggling to get through another month, another paycheck. It hurts him that the streets aren't safe, that people here must walk carefully by day and barricade themselves in their homes by night, living in fear of those who prey upon the weak and innocent. It gnaws at him that so many don't even have jobs or homes or hope.

He is beset on all sides. Punks in masks, roaming in packs like wild dogs. Mechanical puppets, a plague of metal scavengers. Magicians on the rooftops, taking lives with their dark rituals. Something strange and unclean, rising up from the sewers.

His best days are behind him. The Art Deco spires of High Park are monuments to that achingly brief glory, when the factories of the Row hummed around the clock (lit by that novelty of the age, the electric lamp) and a good day's work meant a good day's pay; when the well-to-do and office workers alike took apartments here for a short train ride to Steel Canyon; when prosperity for everyone seemed just around the corner. Then the bottom fell out, taking with it the dreams of a generation. Still the grand hotels and apartment buildings remain, their shining facades tarnished, inhabited by those who can't or won't leave for someplace better. Many are nearly as old as their rent-controlled residences. Each year there are fewer.

He doesn't look back at the towers; he doesn't need to. Instead, he peers through the gathering twilight to the south, where Police Headquarters stands in the center of Freedom Plaza, a mighty fortress of justice. It was built in the giddy postwar years - they had to knock down the old station house, such a shame but that's the price of progress - and there was some hope that it might be a new beginning for the Row, but the money dried up right after the last of the concrete did. Few would care to admit (on the record) that it is an outpost in hostile territory, or just how closely the enemy presses on its walls.

Heroes come through here now and then, mostly young bucks on their way up. They never stay long, hurrying along to better parts of town and higher-profile threats. The police are too few, too jaded, and often too corrupt to make much difference. People in the Row take care of each other because no one else will.

To the west are the garment works that gave this part of the city its name. For a long time, that was the Row's only remaining industry (besides crime), but twenty years ago the owners found that domestic sweatshops couldn't compete with foreign sweatshops and finally closed the place down. People were actually sorry to see them go; as awful as it was, it was still a job. Now the long buildings are home to a series of illegal enterprises. For every one that's raided and cleaned out, another sets up shop. Cleaning up the garment works is like rolling a boulder up a hill, or holding back the tide with a broom. A lot of things in the Row are like that.

His scowl deepens as he looks to the east, where a huge squared-off shape is just visible in the distance. Crey Industries spared no expense on their Kings Row facility; it's fifty stories tall and covers four city blocks. For all that size, it has few windows. Most disturbing of all, he hasn't been able to get inside. No door in the Row should be barred to him, but Crey's are.

So even though Crey is now the biggest employer around here, he doesn't like them, and he doesn't trust them. He'll take their money - what choice does he have? - but if they think it entitles them to anything more than an honest day's work...

A scream wafts faintly up to him from the street, interrupting his dark thoughts. He almost ignores it. Lots of people got problems. They all gotta get by as best they can.

But the Row takes care of its own.

With a sigh and a nod, he acknowledges his duty. He does not leap from the ledge, but simply ceases to be there. In moments he is at the side of someone who needs help - doing what he can, wishing he could do more.

THE bind for teleporters:

/bind lshift+lclick "powexec_name Teleport"

Press left shift, and the targeting circle appears. Click, and off you go. Or hit Esc to cancel. Not quite effortless, but much better than trying to do it from the tray.

Lonely Heart


I can't stop staring at it.

Sitting on the surgical tray, it looks like some kind of modern sculpture: an oblong organic shape with holes here and there, all steel gray and translucent white. It's the size of a fist - one of MY fists - which means it's the sort of thing you'd expect to be going into a cow, not a person. But I'm not exactly a person anymore.

It's a Wetware Engineering artificial heart, the "super" model. High-volume, rapid flow, rated for extreme stress. Less than an hour from now, Dr. Percy's going to be cutting me open and putting it inside me.

Right now she's puttering around the little operating room, getting everything ready, fussing with instruments and talking to herself about things I don't understand, as usual. Now and then she brushes her long flame-red hair out of the way. She's a looker, but I try not to think about that kind of thing so much these days. Besides, the doc and I have a strictly professional relationship. It's not even doctor/patient, more like "mechanic/guinea pig." She helps me keep this rusty beater of a body running, and in return she gets a cooperative specimen of Vahzilok's work. Even so, sometimes I have to come up with more money or do some "favor" for her. Having big medical bills, no insurance and one hell of a pre-existing condition can be a real pain.

She and I hooked up - or got hooked up, I guess, by Desdemona the Glint who was probably just trying to get rid of my stinky ugly carcass as fast as possible - not long after I started stomping around Cap au Diable. (Which wasn't long after I dug myself out from under that building in Mercy, but that's a story for another time.) Like I said, it was a good thing for both of us: I needed someone to stitch me back together and replace the bits that fell off, and she was glad of the research opportunity I represented (and the large sums of cash I brought in). Spare parts were easy to find: all I had to do was go down to the docks, pick out one of my mindless cousins who was relatively fresh, and drag it back to the hospital after cold-cocking the [censored] pulling its strings. I especially liked that last part. Usually I just pulp them, but one time I got both of a reaper's arms off before the shock and blood loss killed him.

Dr. Percey's one of the few people on these islands, besides the filth that did this to me, who know how to fix me. She may be a little weird, but she's no disciple of Vahzilok. That's how I know I can trust her... that, and the money I pay her. Now I'm putting that trust to the ultimate test. She could do anything to me while I'm on the table. I might not ever wake up again.

(Might not be so bad, the little voice whispers.)

She was the one who gave me the idea of upgrading this robot zombie body, ricing it out like a street racer. Someday - if I last that long and make a big enough score - I might be able to get my brain (the only part I can be absolutely sure is still me) transplanted into a clone or an android or something. But right now, all I can afford is little things. Like a new, stronger heart.

I was real clear with the doc that it couldn't be one that someone was already using. After what happened to me... I wasn't going to be the reason someone, even some hero, got cut up for parts. The only way I've been able to stomach using pieces of other abominations is knowing that Vahzilok's people got to them first, and nothing I did could bring them back. Considering some of the things I've done since I came to the Rogue Isles, that might be a funny place to draw the line. But it's all I've got.

So it had to be an artificial heart, top-of-the-line, and from a company I trusted (which eliminated Aeon right there). Not something I could bust into a Longbow base or a Thorn cave and take for myself. Between the heart and Dr. Percey's costs for the operation, it took almost every dollar I had to my name. But if it works as advertised, it'll be worth it: I'll have almost limitless stamina, and be able to keep moving and fighting non-stop, no matter what this place throws at me.

Something else I've learned since I came to the Isles: there's an endless supply of people and things around here that need a beating, and others willing to pay to see that they get it.

Now the doc turns to me with a smile, telling me to lie down so that she can start preparing me for surgery. As I do, I wonder if I'll see that smile again in a couple of hours... or if she'll be wearing it tomorrow when she sells my parts back to the Vahzilok.

Nothing to do but close my eyes, say a prayer, and breathe deep when she puts the mask over my face.








Still alive. Or something like it, anyway.

Dr. Percey - Shelly - knows not to have a mask on when I come around. Gives me bad flashbacks. So I get to see her face hovering over me like a redheaded angel as she says hello and other things that get stuck in the cotton around my head. Damn she's pretty. If only I was still a man.

Success. The operation was a success. I need to rest for a few days, but soon I'll be up and around again. Stronger than ever.

And when I'm well enough, there's a sorry-looking lump of reddish-brown meat in a specimen jar that I need to take out to a nice spot and give it a decent burial.

[ QUOTE ]
Cupid is sometimes depicted as a youth in a toga with bow and arrow, not always as a flying cherub.

[/ QUOTE ]

Usually when he's romancing Psyche, because it would look ... odd for her to be pursued by/having relations with a flying toddler.

(Actually, I believe the young man is the original version, and later artists made him "safe" and/or part of the cherubim, much like other pagan figures were modified and assimilated.)

Putting this in the form of a question:

Will you please (re)consider grouping badges by type rather than by order of introduction? While the current format may be more convenient for the coders, I submit that most of the end-users neither know nor care when a given badge was introduced, and simply want to see all of their debt badges (for example) displayed consecutively.

Thanks for that excellent summary.

<- been here since shortly before I2

[ QUOTE ]
On behalf of the story-<bleeps>, I apologize if we got a little intense. Some of us get a touch OCD about this stuff.

[/ QUOTE ]

You'd think we were comic book fans or something...

(( *has been singing Tesla's praises in PM, and sees it's now time to do so publicly* ))

(( *applauds softly* Please, continue. ))

[ QUOTE ]
People here tend to argue that crafting would be boring. I suppose that CoH/CoV has lured exactly the kind of players who would find that boring.

[/ QUOTE ]

Yes. And now people who want the things all those other games have are coming to "our" game and demanding that these things be added, so as to make "our" game just like all the rest. See how folks might get a little touchy and defensive?

I've already seen this happen with PvP. I don't want to see Skinner-box crafting (peck the button, get a food pellet) too.

(( One spot I favor, which is convenient yet not actually in heavy traffic, is the gazebo just west of the main Port Oakes quartermaster and the park/hill down below. Easy to get to but far enough from the QM that /local shouldn't carry. I've seen a few people gathering there already. ))

As Ellis already knows, I also imagined the Clockwork King as being an older man, to go with his mad-scientist ego and anger at the Academic Establishment. You get some of that as a student, but it doesn't really kick in until you've an advanced degree of your own.

Having him be so young... diminishes him, in a way. I guess the Dr. Doom/Magneto role was already taken by Nemesis, but did they have to bump him all the way down to the level of the Flash's Rogues Gallery?

(( Shh ... don't tell anyone, but mine's only about 660. I had another incident in mind (see post further up-thread), but then this came along. ))

(( I know I'm sneaking this in at the last minute, but it really couldn't be posted before now. You'll see why. ))


Miss Megajoule had spent last Halloween, her first in Paragon, helping other heroes repel a city-wide manifestation of the supernatural. This year, she was taking the night off so that Julie Vernon could go to a party.

Fearing a repeat of last year's haunting, Julie had been reluctant to hang up her regular costume and put on another. Her friends in D.F.B. and the Do-Gooders had assured her that they could handle things in her absence, and that she'd earned some "me time" with her recent victories over Nemesis and the Malta Group. So she'd thrown a lab coat over her street clothes, put on some fake glasses, and accepted a neighbor's invitation.

The party was in one of Independence Port's many warehouses. The previous owners had been a front for the Frost family, until whatever they were storing here attracted the wrath of the Devouring Earth; a hero had cleaned up both problems, and the new owner picked it up at fire-sale prices (literally) and converted most of the space into a club. It wasn't the Paragon Dance Party, but the band was decent, the refreshments were excellent, and the holiday decor was appropriately festive and spooky.

Despite her choice of costume and major, Julie was no shy nerdy scientist. Tonight was a night to relax and cut loose a bit, and she intended to make the most of it. In no time she was out on the dance floor, doing the Monster Mash with several appreciative guys.

The music, the energy of the crowd, the endorphin rush of dancing, and whatever they'd put in the punch bowl all combined to dull Julie's senses a bit. Thus, her first hint of danger was when someone screamed a little too shrilly and the band lurched to a halt. She'd been standing at the bar, talking to someone who didn't have the muscles or the proper skin tone to make a convincing Citadel; she looked up just in time to see the crowd part for the new arrivals.

They seemed to have come dressed for the occasion, in garishly bright colors and fanciful costumes. All were masked. In the lead, sweeping grandly along, was a woman in an elaborate dress from another era. Flanking her like bookends, or hunting hounds, were two huge bare-chested men in tight pants and boots, their heads sealed in iron casks. Behind these followed the lady's attendants, a half dozen in all, with two harlequins doing somersaults and cartwheels bringing up the rear.

When she was quite sure she had the attention of everyone in the club, the mistress of illusion glided to a halt and surveyed the crowd. An expression of delight was fixed upon her porcelain visage, and her voice matched it: "Good evening, my dears, and a happy All Hallows Eve! It pleases us to find you making merry on this special night." She dipped forward in a curtsey without bending at the waist. "We have come to join your revels. We will all have..." Her voice dropped an octave as she pressed her hands together in anticipation. "... so much fun."

Julie swallowed and began to edge away through the party crowd, most of whom continued to stare at the Carnival "entertainers" in confusion, fascination, or fear. Got to get out of here, she thought. Got to find a place to change, call for backup. At the edge of the crowd, she turned...

And found herself face to mask with another illusionist and her harlequins, who'd come in through a side door. Julie froze as the woman gently tut-tutted, the glowing red eyes of her mask beginning to pulse hypnotically.

"You can't leave now. The real party's just starting. And you have such an... interesting aura."

Julie stopped thinking.




She woke late the next day, feeling exhausted, as if she hadn't slept at all. She rolled over and went back to sleep.

Later, she would have no memory of going to the Halloween party. Nor would the survivors remember seeing her there.

Still loving Floyd, I mean, the Sinister... yeah.

Sometimes I think that if not for bad luck, I'd have no luck at all.

Yesterday Kalinda called me. (I have no idea how she got the number of this phone, which I took off some Marcone goon after I got to Port Oakes. All part of the freaky mystery that is Kalinda, I guess.) She said that I had to come see her immediately, that it was important, a matter of destiny.

I didn't really have anything else to do, so I hopped the ferry, cut through Mercy proper (where people know not to mess with me these days), and had just gotten to the big town square in Darwin's Landing when I ran right into the middle of a [censored] war.

There were more Longbow guys than I'd ever seen, and they weren't pushovers like the ones I'd fought before. They were tough and they had better gear. When they shot me, it really hurt. Made me angry. Too angry to wonder if maybe Kalinda had set me up. All I wanted to do was get my hands on them.

I wasn't alone. There were plenty of bad guys there, fighting with beams and claws and guns and robots. Someone tossed me a ball of glow that made me feel warm inside and closed up some of my wounds. I grunted thanks and kept swinging. I was getting into the rhythm now, riding the rage, the joy of smashing.

I punched out a Longbow sergeant and turned to look for my next victim. Then the crowd just seemed to melt away and there he was, right in front of me, in that famous red white and blue costume. Statesman.

I thought he'd be taller.

All the fight went right out of me. It was like I'd been dunked in ice water. What chance did I have against the Statesman?

He didn't give me a chance. He hauled back and hit me, one punch that sent me flying back thirty or forty yards into one of the abandoned buildings around the square. Might have killed me if I wasn't already dead. Still almost knocked me out.

But it didn't. I got up off the pile of bricks and broken wood I'd made when I crashed through the wall and waited for the dusty old room to stop spinning. Soon my head cleared enough to hear the creaking and cracking of the support beams.

Then the whole damn building fell on me.





So. Here I am.




(( Don't worry, faithful readers - the Abomination will return, sometime after Halloween. You don't think Fate would be kind enough to let him stay buried, do you? ))

(( As originally posted on the CoV beta board. ))

They stopped me on the way to the convenience store. Bloody aprons and ivory trophies. I turned to run, but then there was stabbing pain in my back and numbness spreading down my spine. I got another ten feet before they shot me again and everything went black.

People who have the bad luck to run into Dr. Vahzilok's goons aren't supposed to ever wake up again. But I did. Twice.

The first time, I came to on the table. There was a light in my face and darkness all around. I couldn't move. One of them loomed over me, blotting out the light. He had a mask on; all I could see were his eyes. He started... cutting... cutting me. I still couldn't move. I guess I finally passed out.

The second time, I woke up in the prison morgue. But I didn't know that: all I knew was that it was totally dark and I was in a tiny space. Like a coffin. I started banging and yelling. When the morgue attendant opened the drawer, I thought he was one of them. I grabbed him and threw him against the wall. He hit his head and didn't get up.

My hands were clumsy, thick-fingered. I tried pulling off the black leather gloves, thinking that would help. Then I got to the sink, and what I saw in the mirror told me the real reason.

My hands weren't my hands. Or my arms, or my body... my face was mostly intact, but the rest...

I roared and punched the mirror, shattering it into a spiderweb. My patchwork corpse reflected in a dozen shards.

There was a sound of thunder, somewhere in the distance, and the room shuddered a little. I went to the door and followed the sirens. When I got to the infirmary, it was chaos: people in orange jumpsuits were running everwhere, turning over beds, breaking into cabinets, threatening screaming nurses and orderlies. I wouldn't have thought anyone could ignore a zombie built like an 8 foot tall linebacker, but they did. All except one.

He was wearing prison orange like the rest of them, but his face was dark brown, real dark, African dark. And he was older than any of those punks, forty or fifty at least. Didn't have much hair left, just a tight fuzz around his ears and the back of his head. He stopped and he took a good long look at me, and then he grinned, a big pearly white grin in that dark face. I was expecting Jamaican, but I got British instead: "Well now, you aren't just a dumb lump of meat, are you."

I shook my head, gagged out something at him, and tried to clear my throat. Something green came up, went SPLAT on the tile and started to hiss and eat into it. I let him do the talking as we made our way out into the yard.

My new friend knew a lot about the dead, though his methods were very different from Vahzilok's. I guess he talked to dead people pretty often. He told me the Facts of Death as we crossed the yard to the weird black helicopter thing that Arachnos had sent for him and a few other "special" prisoners, and I punched out anyone who got in our way. That was a pretty good distraction-slash-outlet.

"Actually, m'boy, for someone in your condition you're quite fortunate. You're no bodiless spirit, ghost or loa, helpless to do anything but observe and haunt; you have physical form, and quite a capable and intimidating one at that. If you're properly preserved, you might..."

I dropped the last Hellion and turned to him, forcing words through someone else's uncooperative voicebox. "Just... want... go... HOME."

He smiled and put a hand on my arm, the touch almost too light to feel through leathery skin. "My boy, you have no home. Not anymore. Your loved ones have mourned and buried you. Your job has been filled. The ignorant and fearful would scream at the sight of you. The life you had is over. You can't go back."

I clenched my fists so tight the gloves creaked. "Not... fair."

"On the contrary," he replied, walking around me. "Death is utterly fair and impartial. It comes to everyone eventually."

I wanted to hit him, but I knew it wouldn't fix anything. Besides, he was right.

The Arachnos pilot didn't seem at all surprised to see us; he nodded respectfully to my benefactor and said something that was whipped away by the wind from the rotors. Suddenly the old man turned and shouted back at me.

"Come with me! Not as a servant, no, a companion! Start over, far from this tomb." He waved scornfully at the pyramid behind me. "There's nothing left for you here."

I thought of everyone and everything I would be leaving. I imagined how they'd react if they saw me like this.

I can't even know if the heart that beats in my chest is really mine, but I know it broke that day.

I got on board.

- - -

It only took us about a half hour to reach the Rogue Isles. I guess it wasn't too far, or the transport was pretty fast.

There were six passengers, plus me and the Arachnos soldiers in their black armor. One by one the others got up and went into the back to change into their costumes. This really hot blonde came back dressed like an evil lingerie model. I stared at her; she glared at me; I found something else to look at.

It was my friend's turn next. When he returned, he was decked out in a fancy frock coat and top hat, dress slacks and shoes. The front of the coat was open a little and I could see he wasn't wearing a shirt, leaving his scrawny old chest bare. "In my business, one must have the traditional accoutrements," he told me as he sat down, flashing another searchlight grin in my direction. All I had besides the gloves were these weird steel boxers, and I was starting to get the real bad feeling that they didn't come off.

Eventually the pilot's voice came over the intercom to tell us that we'd be landing soon on top of Fort Darwin (wherever that was) on Mercy Island (ditto). The inside of the copter-thing tilted as we circled the landing pad and finally touched down with a thump. One of the Arachnos guys opened the door and we all filed out...

... into what looked like EvilCon 2005. The upper deck of the fortress was swarming with people (and some things that weren't quite people) in costumes. I'd been to Atlas Park a few times and seen the heroes milling around the feet of the big statue in front of City Hall, and it was like that, but different. There were a lot more skulls and chains in this bunch, and a lot more black and red. To one side, the fort looked out over a town that made me think of Founders' Falls gone to seed; on the other was nothing but a hundred foot drop and ocean to the distant horizon.

I stopped at the base of the ramp and just stared, like some hick tourist (or a mindless zombie). That was my first mistake. By the time I got my bearings, my friend had disappeared into the crowd. I plunged in after him, vaguely expecting people to get out of my way when they got a look at me. No such luck.

I wound up face to... well, the woman in red on top of the low pedestal didn't really HAVE a face, just a round helmet that started at the high collar of her uniform and went up to a flat top. (Arachnos, I soon figured out, were real big on the whole "faceless" thing.) I had no idea how she could see anything in that getup, but she turned and looked right at me.

"You. Abomination."

I was about to grunt something angry, maybe even take a swing at her (and wouldn't that have been an awesomely bad idea?), when I realized she hadn't said it in a mean way. Her voice, filtered through whatever speakers she had in that helmet, sounded cold and strict; it reminded me of my fourth grade teacher. And wasn't that what the news people back in Paragon called the big zombies? Abominations. Yeah. That's what I was now.

"You seek purpose," she continued. "Arachnos can give you that."

I looked around again, searching the mob for a man in a top hat. Nothing.

"You have been abandoned. But Arachnos will never abandon you, so long as you remain useful. Serve loyally and be rewarded. Fail, and be forgotten. That is the way of things here."

What choice did I have? I was alone, cast adrift on this island, with no money and no place to stay. These people seemed to be running the show. And who else would hire a freak like me?

No choice at all.

I grunted and nodded. I couldn't see her smile, but I knew it was there.

"Excellent."

- - -

Snakes. Why did it have to be snakes?

The ones I really hated were the biters. I don't know if they're actually poisonous, but the fangs hurt like hell. Most of them didn't bite me more than once, though; I must not taste good. Or maybe it's that I tended to beat them to a bloody pulp before they got another chance.

I'm strong now, real strong. And I seem to get stronger the madder I get. Getting mad is easy - I just think about what's happened to me.

I can't taste anymore (considering what the inside of my mouth must be like, maybe that's a blessing). I just shovel food into my cast-iron stomach to keep me going. Can't smell either, though I'm sure I smell plenty. I sleep, when I can... not very well. The nightmares keep coming back. But it seems my brain still needs downtime, and this patched-together body needs to rest now and then.

I've gotten better at talking, with practice, though my voice still sounds (if I can trust these ears) like ten miles of bad road. Kalinda's warmed up to me some, now that I've been working for her for a while; why, she must almost be room temperature now. Just like me.

She told me to go see this guy on the other side of town. Snake hunter. Mongoose. First thing he did when I got there was tell me to rob a bank for him.

Hell no.

I shoved past him and went through the gate into the part of town that was walled off (or walled in, maybe). Things looked a little better here. I saw regular people on the streets, going about their lives. Businesses that weren't boarded up. Fountains with running water.

It wasn't just like Paragon City, though. The people were clean, mostly, but their clothes weren't new. Everything had a poor and run-down look that reminded me of movies and news reports from Eastern Europe. Instead of cops on the corners, there were Arachnos soldiers - one of them took a shot at me, just for kicks, and I had to take his gun away and beat him unconscious with it. And of course, there were no heroes.

There were other differences that I began to notice after a few blocks. Dogs barked at me. Men saw me coming and crossed to the other side of the street or cringed as I passed. A girl with almost as many piercings as I had stitches told me that I totally reeked. A shopkeeper stood outside of a store I hadn't planned to enter anyway, pointing sternly at the NO SHIRT NO SHOES NO SERVICE sign. A mother grabbed her little boy and told him to stay behind her, protecting him with her body. From me.

Then it started raining.

People ran for cover under trees and awnings, but I stood there in the street and let the cold grey October rain come down. I wanted it to wash away the stinking meat and filth and leave me clean, whole, as I used to be. I wanted to melt away like a pile of dead autumn leaves, to be swept into the storm drains, to let go of this un-life and stop hurting.

Raindrops pattered on my scarred bald head and ran down my cheeks. It was almost like crying.

After a while the rain stopped. I was soaked to the bone. My mismatched legs carried me back to the gate, where Mongoose was waiting in the shade of the great wall. He had a smug, knew-you'd-be-back look that I wanted to wipe off his face along with a couple of teeth.

"Where you say bank was?"

And that's how I became a criminal.

[ QUOTE ]
Thankyou Heroid, that was splendiferous. Roy really needs to catch a break.

[/ QUOTE ]

He does. So much angst. He's really earned his "Woe!" badge.

[ QUOTE ]
Just last night I saw a villain that looked like...well, Statesman. Big star on his chest, red, white, and blue costume.

Does it bother me? Yeah, a little.

[/ QUOTE ]

Fear not; I'm pretty sure that wasn't a "hero in disguise", but someone making a point about unthinking ultra-patriotism being a form of villainy.

(( Thanks to everyone who's posted or sent me compliments on this. I worried that the format changes every chapter might be too gimmicky, but I think it hangs together around the overall theme rather well.

In closing, I'd like to dedicate this story to my friends in D.F.B. Crew/the Do-Gooders, who've always been there for me, and to Ascendant, whose talent I still envy. ))

(( I really thought I was done. Then last night, I did a mission and... this happened. Consider it a second epilogue. ))


THREE WEEKS LATER


I can't believe I'm doing this.

When I got the call from Tina Macintyre, I almost dropped my phone. The first thing I did was ask her to repeat what she'd just told me. The second thing was to say I'd be right there.

Now I'm following another Tina Macintyre down a dark and winding tunnel under another Perez Park. I've done my share of spelunking since I came to Paragon City, but this time is different. This time I'm not chasing Thorns or Council. This particular cave happens to be one of the few hiding places of liberty on this parallel Earth.

This Tina's filled me in on the local history, both what's taught in the schools and what's been passed on by the resistance - how Nemesis defeated the Freedom Phalanx on the steps of the Capitol back in '45, and let twenty cities die to make his point. He's ruled since then as Emperor of the Americas, under a twisted version of the Monroe Doctrine; so long as no one challenges his dominion over the entire Western Hemisphere, he leaves them alone. The rest of the world has its own problems - Europe and Japan finally getting back on their feet after years of post-war devastation, the Soviet Union and China staring each other down in their own version of the Cold War.

It's weird, after spending a year in Paragon City, to see it without the War Walls. There's less wholesale destruction, but the streets are quieter. People are less friendly, more suspicious. Nemesis soldiers are everywhere. As we made our way here, I felt like they could see right through the old clothes I've been given to the costume underneath. That fear helps me resist the impulse to visit a pristine Venice, untouched by Crey's folly, or take a photo of an Atlas Park where Nemesis' lion flag flies over City Hall. Or look for the mass graves from sixty years ago.

This world's Perez Park is positively tranquil, with no gangs roaming the green hills nor monsters in the lake. We're deep under the forest now; Tina's taking me to see the leader of this resistance cell, who wants to thank me personally for helping me get some of her people out of a neighborhood the Nemesis Army had locked down. We pass small groups of refugees, people with no homes to return to, huddled together against the subterranean cold. They look hungry, tired, miserable. I wish I had a couple of trucks full of food and supplies to give them, but I didn't bring anything but myself when I stepped through the portal to answer the plea for help.

I'm still trying not to think too much about where that plea came from. It's just too weird. And yet, it makes an odd sort of sense that in a place like this...

We turn down a side passage and stop in front of a guarded door, and I let the dogs sniff me to confirm that I'm not one of Nemesis' automatons. It's just like the Terminator movies. Which would make the woman I'm about to see Sarah Connor.

The guards clear us and the man on the other side of the door unlocks it, allowing us to enter a small room or kettle lit by kerosene lamps. It's full of dirty but dangerous-looking people, some of them carrying steam rifles and even wearing bits and pieces of Nemesis Army uniforms. And in the center of it all, bent over a table that's covered with papers and maps and plans...

She straightens when she hears us come in, fixing me with the same cool appraising stare. The feeling of deja vu is overpowering. Her hair's lighter, natural brown instead of black, and it's cut in a short and practical bob. There's an old scar along her left cheek that looks like the work of a knife or bayonet. No glasses or fancy dresses, just a man's shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows and khaki trousers.

"Ah, our hero has arrived." Her accent's different too, the Rhode Island twang I've almost stopped noticing. She steps around her lieutenants to offer me her hand. "Welcome. I'm..."

"Julianne Thompson," we say in unison. She quirks an eyebrow, then a half-smile. I take her hand and shake it, grinning like a fool. "Pleased to meet you."

------

We talked for almost an hour. She thanked me for getting her people out safely and asked if we could provide any more assistance. I explained that my own world was still recovering from the Rikti invasion, but that I'd pass the request along and see if anything could be done.

I found out that their Nemesis not only killed mutants and people with magical abilities whenever he found them, he also forbade any scientific research except his own. That explained the lack of any new heroes. (I wondered if there was another Julie Vernon out there somewhere, or if sixty years of altered history and millions of deaths had swept her away.) Foreign heroes who tried to intervene were given show trials and public executions; after London was gassed in '64, other governments had disavowed any of their heroes caught on American soil.

Even without heroes to inspire them, people continued to hope and fight and work patiently for freedom. Julianne revealed to me that there were resistance groups all over what used to be the United States, and Canada and Mexico and other countries also. They included not only guerillas and saboteurs, but also mechanics, farmers, government workers, smugglers, historians, teachers, black marketeers, printers, and even some who wore the uniform.

"How have you managed to hold out so long?" I asked at one point. "I mean, obviously Nemesis isn't unbeatable - we did it on my world - but he is a genius, and here he has all those men and robots and superweapons..."

I stopped talking then, not wanting to sound too defeatist, but she merely nodded. "But he still relies on people to run things for him and carry out his orders, just like any other government. People have weaknesses that we can exploit." She began to count some off on her fingers: "Greed, fear, lust..."

"That cuts both ways," I murmured, trying to hide my discomfort at how much she'd sounded like the woman I met before.

"True," she conceded again, "but we're well-organized, we're committed to a cause, and we don't have as much to lose. Every person you see here lives for the day that we can call this the Land of the Free again. I don't know when it will come, but it has to, or two hundred and thirty years of sacrifices will have been for nothing."

"I can see why the people here look up to and follow you," I said. "You're quite the inspirational speaker."

She smiled at the compliment but waved it away. "Every revolution needs its firebrands. But if I'm caught or killed, someone else will pick up the torch. This is much bigger than any of us. Even I'm expendable."

"You really mean that, don't you?" I asked, staring at her in amazement. She certainly sounded genuine, but...

"Of course." Julianne cocked her head. "You keep looking at me, as if you're not sure I'm real. Do I... do you know me, in your dimension?"

"No. I... I'm sorry." I swallowed the lump in my throat. "In my world, Julianne Thompson is dead."

It wasn't really a lie. The Countess had said so herself. Right?

The Julianne in front of me lowered her eyes. "I see," she murmured. "Well, I hope she died for something she believed in." After a few moments went by with no answer, she continued. "Yes, I'm sure that day is coming. Even an immortal king can't keep a people in chains forever."

I managed a smile of my own. "I think you're right."

-----

We talked a little longer, and then she had one of her people escort me back out of Perez (I was already thinking of the local version as "Sherwood Forest") to an empty alley where I could signal for retrieval.

As the portal opened, I turned to my guide. His face had gone slack as he stared at the shimmering, humming special effect that pulsed in mid-air where moments before there had only been a brick wall. I had some idea of what he was seeing: a door to the Promised Land. I wanted to grab him by the arm and pull him through with me, but I knew he still had things to do here. Just like I still had things to do back in my Paragon City.

So I did take his hand, but just to hold it, as I looked him in the eye and said, knowing he'd also relay the message to her:

"I'll come back. I promise."



Maybe it's hopeless to think of someday freeing half a planet from mechanized tyranny.

Maybe it's foolish to try to balance the cosmic scales by helping one woman do as much good as her counterpart has done evil.

But damnit, I'm going to try.

Because doing the impossible is what heroes are for.