jchinds

Todd Galahad blinked a bit, shaking off boredom-induced drowsiness. This current stack of translated texts had to be drier than T.E. Lawrence telling a joke in the Negev. Todd cursed his professor silently. He had a primary source that he could translate easily enough, but the professor wasn't willing to take his word for it. Todd wondered if his professor even knew Latin.

He looked around trying to focus his eyes on something at a distance to avoid eyestrain, and wound up focusing on the painting of one of the PCU presidents of years past. They were apparently a long line of stern men whose gazes could induce sleep through boredom. Todd shifted on his chair, a blocky overstuffed burnt orange thing that announced to the world that 1975 had officially arrived. The chipped formica of the low table in front of him was covered with books, with almost no space for a drink much less a laptop. Dozens of books, journals and papers were collected there, all on the subject of one Gaius Vindex.

All he was reading was diary entries from a man who owned a team of chariot racers in southern Gaul. It wasn't even particularly exciting, as the owner fretted more about where to dump the bodies of his horses and racers if they died in a crash than anything else. There weren't any descriptions of the circuses, no vivid descriptions of races, and barely any kind of financial information unless he he was lamenting a lost wager. This diary was little more than one long gripe session. He removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes, his finger tracing the shadowy brand under his right eye.

After getting that mark on his face from his mother, Todd always had some kind of excuse about it. He'd had to make a mask that covered even more of his face than before so no one could see such an obvious identifying mark and match him with being the Cobalt Claymore. A few other heroes asked him about that, and he'd left them with a few excuses: his face got cold when he was 25 stories up, he walked into doors a lot, and the old standby of "a wizard did it." Other students who met Todd in his civilian clothes saw the brand under his eye and figured he must either be a bouncer or an often-removed barfly.

A fellow undergrad sat next to Todd and nudged him. She was cute but she couldn't compare to his girl, not a bit. Todd looked over. "Hey, Jen," he muttered.

"You must get punched in the face a lot," Jen said. "You always seem to have a black eye."

Todd grinned and settled back into the overstuffed cushioning of the library chair. "My mommy drinks this funny-smelling water out of a bottle marked 'Gin' and then she hits me. She says that drinking helps her aim. Then she goes to sleep in front of the tv while watching her stories."

Jen stifled a laugh. "You're a sick man, you know that?"

"So you're saying that adding the fact she smokes unfiltered Luckies and wears her hair in curlers to the mini-mart would be superfluous?"

"Yes," Jen said, "it would. What's the real reason?"

"I get punched in the face a lot. I'm a bouncer at" --his mind raced to plug in the name of any of the sleazier bars where Jen would never go-- "uh, you won't laugh will you?"

"No," Jen said.

"I'm a bouncer at Stinger's," Todd said, looking downcast. "It's the only place that'll hire me at my age."

"Wait, Stinger's as in the strip club?" Jen asked.

"Yeah." Stinger's was a very rundown club, but he knew the bartender there, and the bartender was pretty open with any information he picked up from the criminals who frequented it if you had the money.

"That place just sounds creepy. Nothing but frat boys and bikers drooling over some poor woman who can't get a better job," Jen said.

Todd guessed right. Jen's taste in guys ran towards the record-store clerk demographic, so mentioning a bar where they'd never be seen was probably a place where she'd never be a patron. "Hey, it's a job, all right?"

"You could really do better," Jen said. "And what does your girlfriend think?"

"She thinks I should work here at the library."

"Then why don't you switch jobs?"

"How would I explain my getting punched in the face at the library to her?" Todd asked, his grin returning.

Jen looked up, as if she was lost in thought. "You could always tell her you got snarky with your Late Roman Empire study partners."

"Touche," Todd said. "So, which stack of texts should we leave for Will? Gaius Vindex Loses A Bet And Gets Kicked by a Small Child, or Gaius Vindex Loses Another Bet And His Driver Bursts Into Flame?"

Jen opened up her notebook and grabbed a bound monograph from among the books. "Which one sucks more?"

"It's got to be the one where he's kicked by a small child. I think it's a prequel to the entry where he's kicked by a slightly larger child," Todd said.

Jen looked over at Todd. "Does the research ever get interesting?"

"If you don't find this stuff interesting, you'll have difficulty as a history major."

"Wow. No wonder so many people run screaming from Dr. Sands' class," Jen remarked.

"Why's that?" Todd asked.

"I think it's the only way to stay awake after reading this crap."

"You may be right," Todd said.

They passed the time reading while waiting for their third partner.

Kory McWhirter, aka the King of The Row, ran the entire way to a nondescript brownstone in High Park. The spirits had news for him, and he had to relay that news to his fellow heroes. He left a trail of Skulls behind him as he ran, all stuck in the concrete as angry spirits exacted revenge in the name of the residents of Kings Row. He stopped at the top of the steps to the apartment building, breathing heavily and searching for the right doorbell. He pressed one of them.

"Who is it?"

"It's Kory. I have to talk to Tommy and Claire. It's important!"

There was a buzzing noise as the door unlocked. He shot up the stairs, making enough noise to startle the other residents of the building. The door to the Pachowski family's apartment swung open as Kory ran through it.

"Guys! The spirits told me I had to tell you quickly! They said using anything to bring your father back would have disastrous consequences!"

Tommy Pachowski looked at the younger hero. "What?"

"Yeah," Kory said through heavy breaths. "Science or magic, it'll just cause trouble!"

"So that psychic residue yer spirits found from my dad is no good?"

"That would only bring back a copy of your father based on those memories. He wouldn't be the same at all."

Claire appeared behind Kory, her arms crossed. "And why shouldn't we use magic, then?"

"It could trigger something worse."

"Like what?" Claire asked.

"If you used the Platonic Solids, it would alert whoever had the missing ones to the location of the ones you have. Those have to go to MAGI."

"What if we found another way?"

"We could easily end up opening a portal and bring in these things called the Rulaaru or something like that. When you bring someone back like that, it leaves a door open for all kinds of things to follow."

Tommy sat down at the kitchen table, and rested his head in his hands. "So, if we did this, there's little chance'a things turnin' out fer the better?"

"Yeah, that's what the spirits tell me. I'm sorry, guys. I couldn't find any way of doing that without causing something worse to occur." Kory turned to face Claire. "I know it's not what you wanted to hear, but you had to be told."

Claire disappeared before Kory's eyes. He blinked and looked around.

"Tommy?" the young shaman asked. "Did you know your little sister can turn invisible?"

"Yeah, she does that sometimes. She's done that fer a couple years now. Somethin' ta do with a genetic mutation."

"She has a Hero license, doesn't she?"

"Yeah."

The door to Claire's room slammed shut.

"Okay, she's gonna be in there a while. So you an' me are gonna talk fer a while. Ya just want us ta move on now, like nothin' can be done, right?"

"Sorry, man," Kory said. "But that's how it goes."

"Gotcha," Tommy said. "Ma won't like it, either. But we gotta resign ourselves ta the fact Dad ain't gonna be around anymore."

"Right."

"Kory, I'm glad ya told us, even if it ain't what I wanna hear. I don't wanna believe that I can't bring my dad back somehow, but if that's how it is, that's how it is." Tommy got up from the table and walked over to the refrigerator. He pulled out a plastic box and opened it up.

"Hey, I want ya ta try this stuff," Tommy said. "Claire an' Saya an' Ma said it's okay, but I wanna know if anyone else likes the way I grilled up this chicken."

"Sure," Kory said. "I'll try anything once."

"Like tryin' ta date Claire behind my back?" Tommy asked with a grin.

"I never even asked her, man!"

"I know. She'd tell me if ya did."

The two heroes sat at the table while Tommy's latest attempt at cooking warmed up in the microwave.

Tommy sat at his work desk, his first assignments from his new classes sitting untouched. The work orders for his cybernetics customization sat unfilled, and a backlog of car repairs and upgrades piled up in his inbox. All the while, he sat at the desk, staring at the scribbles he made on his memo pad. He scratched absent-mindedly, barely making a reaction to the sound of the electronic door bell as a customer came in.

"Hello?"

Tommy got up from the desk and walked to the front counter. His girlfriend Saya was standing on the other side. "Hey," Tommy grunted.

"I was wondering if you'd opened up any of your books yet," the young woman asked. "Just because it's the first week of classes doesn't mean you can slack off."

"I know," Tommy said.

"You haven't even gone to class, have you?"

"No."

"Tommy, you better show up soon," Saya said quietly. "You'll fall behind."

"I know."

"Then why aren't you going?"

Tommy looked a bit annoyed. "It's 'cause I don't wanna go, all right? It's boring."

"Then maybe you should put this off for a semester or something," Saya said. "Take some things off of your mind."

"I'll just withdraw completely, then. Got no reason ta go ta college. I got a job doin' what I love."

"This isn't like you at all, Tommy."

Tommy shrugged, the light glinting off of the polished and anodized highlights of his blue metal arms. "This is how I am, all right?"

"No, I'm not going to accept that. The shock is still there, Tommy. You've been like this ever since your dad died."

"I know," Tommy said. "Just lemme work this out on my own, okay? I don't wanna ruin anyone else's day with this. So if ya could, head back ta yer dorm. I gotta be alone fer a while."

Saya hopped up on the counter, then swung her legs over to Tommy's side and dropped back down. "No. You can't do this alone. I'm going to be right next to you the entire time until you work this out. Now, we can go over your assignments or you can do your car stuff or whatever, but I'm going to keep you doing something with your brain."

"Fine," Tommy said. He walked back to his work desk and sat down, sorting through his work orders. "Whatever ya want."

Saya pulled the guest chair next to her boyfriend's chair, and opened up his Western Civ book. "Okay, this is dealing with Sumeria..."

A sunbeam lanced its way under a window shade and onto a vanity mirror, which reflected the sunbeam into the face of one Mary Tsoo, Awesomest Martial Artist Hero of the Tsoo Who Weren't Evil. Here eyes popped open with a start, and a smile slowly spread over her face. She flung off the bedcovers as she made her way to the shower.

"This is gonna be the greatest day ever! Just like yesterday!"

After a shower that revealed far too much for the Comics Code (you better not have peeked! ), she made her way back to the bedroom, where she selected her most favorite costume, the sleeveless robe and shorts combo, with a modesty-protecting short bodysuit underneath. And as always, her costume pieces were some shade of green or black, the color of nature like leaves and potting soil, and cute little froggies and emeralds and onyx and jade and big fierce *grrr* dragons! She picked up her rose-tinted glasses and deftly placed them on the bridge of her nose. "I might not have 20-20 vision, but I can always see my way through adversity," she said as her first affirmation of the morning.

After she got dressed, Mary Tsoo made her way down the hall, past all the pictures of her other siblings and relatives in the heroic part of the Tsoo family.

"Hello, Peggy!" Mary said. "Hello, Tirami! Hello, -nami! Hello, Himi! Hello, Pan! Hello, Boy Named! Hello, -perman! Hello, -perintendent! Hello-"

Mary found herself walking into the door again as she greeted her family pictures one by one.

"Hello, Mister Door... you've had quite an impact on me already!" she said, remembering to always find humor in adversity. After a healthy breakfast and time to perfect her latest sure-to-be-a-best-seller novel, Mary Tsoo started her regular kung fu and fourth-order calculus (Inuit edition) training regimen.

Thirty minutes later, she was ready to fight crime with a positive attitude and the power to beat criminals senseless.

Skipping merrily through Steel Canyon, Mary spied a pair of Outcasts who were hassling some old lady for her purse.

"Come on, gramma! It's not like yer life savings is in here!" the first Outcast shouted.

"Yeah," the other Outcast said with his deep doofy voice, "It's not like you'll spend it on anything neat like... duh, hey, Crusher, what're we gonna spend this lady's money on?"

Mary Tsoo appeared, casting a long yet still-cute shadow across the Outcasts. "You're not spending that old lady's pension money on anything, meanies!"

The Outcast named Crusher looked at Mary Tsoo with a grouchy old scowl. "What're you gonna do 'bout it?" he asked.

"Duh, yeah, what're you gonna do 'bout it?" the big doofy Outcast said.

"You're going to give this nice old lady her purse back and let her go because it's the right thing to do. We can all be friends if we learn to respect other peoples' property and private space!"

The Outcasts looked at each other. "She's right, Killawatt," Crusher said.

"Duh, yeah," Killawatt said, "We ain't bein' nice, are we, Crusher?"

The Outcasts let the old lady go with an apology and a promise to be more considerate to their elders the next time they went down the street. The little old lady hobbled over to Mary Tsoo with a smile. "Thanks, Mary Tsoo! It's great that you help old people protect all the money they won at-- er, earned with all their hard work over the years."

"That's awesome!" Mary Tsoo said, giving the old lady a thumbs-up salute. "We should be kind to people in their golden years!"

"Well," the old lady said, "that's nice. Now if you'll excuse me, Mama's got herself a matinee show at the Beefcake Club she doesn't want to miss! Time for a trip to the man-candy shop!" she said as she took her tiny steps down the sidewalk.

"Now now," Mary Tsoo said, "Too much candy is bad for your stomach. Try a healthy treat instead!"

"Oh, they're plenty healthy at the club," the old lady said with a wave. "Hold on boys! These singles won't spend themselves!"

Mary Tsoo smiled, then turned to the Outcasts with a very cross look on her face. "Now you two march right down to the police station and turn yourselves in!"

"We will," the Outcasts said in unison. "We just can't say no to Mary Tsoo!"

"That's right!" Mary Tsoo said with a cheery smile. "Otherwise I'd have to crush your big scowly faces with the powers of a thousand spirits of war! Your souls would be forfeit and never again would you see the light of day!"

The Outcasts turned and ran for the nearest PPD precinct building.

Mary Tsoo continued her way down the street greeting everyone she saw and making lots of new friends.

Claire stared at the demon for a long time, its face covered in a blank mask. "I told you. Whatever it takes to learn how to use these things, I'll do it."

"No," the demon rasped. "You would not accept the fate in store for you."

"My soul's already at risk here, what else would be worse?" Claire asked.

"Soul? Feh. It's not your soul we want. We get plenty of those already," the demon said. "With the Platonic Solids in use, you could easily change the nature of our agreement to get something else in exchange. No, we'd need something much better. Tell me, little girl, why do you want to use the Solids?"

"I want to bring my dad back from the dead. After that, I don't care if the Solids break and become useless," Claire said.

The demon's form wafted up out of smoke from the arcane crucible. "So you suffer from loss, then. And you wish to undo that which cost you your father's life? Oh, child, you have no idea what the Platonic Solids can do for you!"

"I just want my dad back, okay? Nothing else," the young hero grumbled.

"You feel sorrow now. And with your father returned, you'd feel joy?"

"Yes."

"My terms then are simple. I teach you how to use the Platonic Solids to return your father to life. Your father returns home as if he'd never left, but you'll never feel an ounce of happiness over it. The pain you feel now will be the only thing you ever feel for the rest of your life. Would that be enough?"

"Yes," Claire mumbled.

"Do not jump into this bargain lightly, little girl. You will never be able to take comfort in your father's return. The very sight of him will cause you nothing but anger, bitterness and sorrow," the demon said, its mask bobbing slightly. "No power here or anywhere will be able to make you happy again."

Claire looked at the smoky form before her. "So I get what I want, but I can't ever enjoy it?"

"More or less," the demon said. "Nor will you ever enjoy anything again. Every day will be an exercise in self-loathing, and you'll likely cause pain to those you love as well. Especially your father. Would you cause him further pain by returning him to you, only to have you do little else but revile him?"

"Why are you telling me all this?"

"I want you to know exactly how things will be when your father returns. I want you to know that your selfishness will have consequences. A contract must be understood by both parties for it to have an effect. Your father will return to life in return for causing constant conflict and suffering in your home. If this is a life you wish to give to your father, then say yes once more," the demon said. "If you are as young and naive as you look, then everything I've said will have no effect on your decision to return your father to life. You'll pay for your selfishness, and do so willingly. Now, is your answer yes or is it no?"

Claire looked at the mystical objects in front of her. "Do you think it's worth it?" she asked the demon.

"Why are you asking me? You brought me here to do business. Either way, I win. You go away broken-hearted no matter how you choose."

Claire removed the summoning stones from the arcane crucible, and the mask winked out of existence.

"I don't know what to do," Claire mumbled. "What does it take to make things the way they used to be?"

What an ill-tempered sword. Great story!

Mary Pachowski sat at the kitchen table, looking at an unopened bottle of vodka. She stared at it for a few minutes, keeping her hands under the table. "A drink would be nice right now," she thought to herself. All she could do to keep from thinking of Phil was to keep daydreaming about how fast she could kill that bottle.

She replayed that morning in her head over and over again. The kids had a late breakfast, which got interrupted by those worthless Rikti. She couldn't get a hold of Phil's dad at the K of C hall where he tended bar. Her father-in-law was always the first one at the bar, so she figured he was good and lit by the time the regulars came in. The kids ran off to fight the invaders instead of staying with their mother where they belonged. To make things worse, she got stuck with Saya, that little slag that Tommy called a girlfriend. Why couldn't he listen to his mother and date a nice girl from down the block? She didn't do anything useful, just sat there and waited.

Then Phil had to go off and get himself killed in a bombing raid. He said he'd be careful when he went to work this morning. He promised he'd be home right after work, even saying he wouldn't stop anywhere. He promised he'd be back. Why couldn't he have just stayed in the command center like all the arson investigators were supposed to do? No, he had to be the big hero and volunteer to run a rescue team! He just had to do better than the kids, didn't he? Mary's jaw clenched and unclenched as she fought off tears. He didn't deserve her tears.

She started thinking about her plans for Tommy. That little dunce wasn't smart enough to ever get a real education, no matter how hard he tried. College? Ha! Her son didn't have a chance in hell at finishing college. He'd flunk out by the first semester. If that wasn't due to grades, it would be due to getting into a fight and killing someone. It was inevitable. And what he did to Claire, oh that made her even madder.

Claire was the good girl, the smart one, the one with a future. Instead she decided to run around half-naked and fight crime! She was probably on a hundred different porn websites. They probably even paid her to dress like that. Clearly she was taking lessons from Tommy's girlfriend on how to steal boys away from their families. She had no shame, like her son had no brains. Just a **** and a thug, that's all her husband raised those kids to be. Those three put her through all that hell they called "alcohol abuse rehabilitation" and they don't even have the common decency to make sure she's okay when the Rikti attack!

She'd show them what she thought of rehab, of the Rikti, and Phil and Tommy and Claire and anyone else. All she needed right now was to grab that bottle. One drink would be all she needed to tell the world to go screw itself.

A few hours later, the bottle was found upside-down, stuck in the drain of the kitchen sink. Mary and her son were screaming at each other over who made what rules in the Pachowski household.

The wreckage of the Founders Assurance Building was still being sorted and identified after the initial Rikti attack. Papers were picked up and thrown into shredder bins, held and waiting for disposal. Personal things like day planners, photos and purses were held in a separate bin, waiting to be reunited with their owners or their owner's next of kin. A blue-haired and blue-armed young man stood with a field-jacketed student, a clipboard and pencil in his hands.

"So, what do the spirits tell ya, Kory?" Back Yard Boom asked.

"The dust says it knows he was here, but it's not sure he is here," the other teenager said. "The concrete and the wiring says they felt him here today. It's not that he's stuck here, but there's something here that feels like him."

"Huh," Boomer said. "That's what yer spirits are tellin' ya? That he might be here?"

"I never said this was guaranteed, Tommy," Kory said. "Besides, why'd ya bring me over here? I don't like Steel Canyon."

"One, yer a shaman. Two, ya signed up fer a Hero license. Three, if yer gonna take a name like 'King of the Row' then yer gonna live up ta what that name entails."

Kory kept sketching, his eyes scanning the building as spirits seen only to magic-oriented people looked through the ruins, exploring for important goods and comforting their dying brethren. "What, you mean like takin' all that money and bein' in charge?"

"No. I mean standin' up fer yer people, bringin' justice where it's needed. That's what kings're supposed ta do, even if there ain't been a king like that in a long time."

"And this is gonna help my people how?" Kory said. "You know I only took the name because my first name is King. Everyone calls me by my middle name. And I'm from the Row, just like you. Just 'cause you're from the Yards don't mean you make stuff explode over there."

Boomer looked at Kory again. "I remember you tellin' me a long time ago that the Row takes care'a its own."

"Everybody says that. Nobody does it, though," Kory said.

"Wait a minute, did I just hear some chump from Industrial Avenue say that the Row is fulla liars? Did I just hear some weak-[censored] Southie punk say he ain't gonna help out his neighbors?"

Kory scowled at Boomer. "I ain't no Southie. That's those wannabes in Bricks and Overbrook."

"Ya sure sound like a Southie an' not like a king. I came to ya fer help, Kory. Ya gave me that help. An' now we gotta figure out the next part. If my Dad's still here, I gotta make sure he moves on. I can't do that on my own. So I need ya ta step up, man. Can I count on ya ta be a hero?"

Kory sighed. "Fine. I'll keep working on this. But you owe me. How 'bout a date with your sister?"

Boomer gave Kory a look of pure death. "She's thirteen."

"So? I'm fourteen."

"If it was high school, I wouldn't say nothin'. She's still in eighth grade, an' yer a freshman at Monarch East. Ya sure ya wanna be known as a guy who couldn't get a high school girl fer a date?"

"Fine, but you're helping me with algebra, then," Kory said.

Boomer grinned. "That'll work."

Meanwhile, a shadowy form slipped into the tiny arcane library at the Young Phalanx headquarters. A small bag containing a few perfectly-cut crystals was placed on the table next to the arcane forge, with the shadow pulling a book off the library's shelf. Maybe "The Neophyte's Overview of Mystical Artifacts" wasn't something that real mages would use to research the Platonic Solids, but it would work for this young hero.

The shadow coalesced into the form of Claire Pachowski, known to the world as Emo Catgirl. She looked through the book until she found the entry on the artifacts.

"How do I use these to bring Dad back?" Claire thought to herself.

Hephaestus 1 sat in a repair bay as Vanguard technicians rebuilt his faceplate. A Rikti warrior took a good chunk of Heph's head off with a well-aimed plasma blast. His camera crew sat next to him and filmed while Fang, The Littlest Werewolf, read yet another girly-girl manga.

"It's a good thing my brain is in my chest," Heph said to the technician, "otherwise this show would have been cancelled."

The technician nodded and smiled. "Yes. The Mysterious Doctor Nambu's armored biopod design really saved the day, didn't it?"

"Yeah. It sucks that we can't switch it back to how it used to look, though," Heph said. "I liked the asymmetrical look."

"Now now, there's no need to complain. The new Vanguard parts will give your sensors and weapon array a lot better protection than the old optics plating," the technician said. "The Mysterious Doctor Nambu may have better aesthetics, but we've got better protective gear."

"You're probably right." Heph looked over at his camera crew, the circular plate of his new Vanguard-armored face glowing red. "Will I still be able to continue my career as a male model, guys?"

"I don't think the world is ready for your kind of pretty, Heph," his cameraman Mitch said.

"Ah, but they never are."

One of Heph's antennae extended as he received a cellphone call. He signaled to Clem, his sound man, to patch in. Within seconds, he had a link to his latest call.

"So, O'Flannagan, I hear you're spending a lot of time in the Rikti War Zone," said the voice of Larry McGonigle, Heph's case contact.

"Yeah, Lar, I got half my head blown off, too."

"Then how are you still alive?"

"Because my biopod is in my chest, Lar. You can't kill me that easily."

"Well, damn," Larry said. "Anyway, I have an assignment for you and Fang. Are you ready to re-enter the world of process serving?"

"Not particularly, Lar. I think Earth needs me at the moment, not just Rhode Island," Heph answered.

"Oh, you'll like this, O'Flannagan," Larry said. "You're serving an eviction notice to a specific person. He was once one of us, but after a meteoric career as a pop idol, he became part of The Lost and then became a full-fledged Rikti. It will be up to you to kick him out of his apartment in New Overbrook."

"You're not talking about..." Heph started.

"Yes," Larry interrupted. "I'm talking about the one, the only, Rikti Martin."

"Okay, this is going to require a plan, and a good one at that," Heph said. "I"ll call you back once I put together a good strategy for this."

Heph retracted his antenna and signal his team to him.

"Okay, here's my first idea..."

The apartment in High Park was usually filled with light and activity by now. The kitchen table had been wiped clean last night, but motes of dust seemed to sparkle in the morning sun. The only sounds of movement came from the creaking and popping of the wood floors as they expanded from the heat.

Claire Pachowski slept fitfully. She fell asleep at her desk for the second night in a row, a blog entry left unfinished and unpublished. Her readers would have to put up with another "Still Editing" post until she got this done.

Mary Pachowski slept curled up in the center of the bed where she and her husband Phil once talked about his job, the kids and their schoolwork, their own fears of what the future would hold. Phil's job had always been dangerous; he was a firefighter after all. When the call came to mobilize the arson investigation unit as an entry and rescue team, Phil grabbed his helmet and first-responder bag, kissed Mary goodbye and said he'd be back in time for dinner. Now she laid there without her other half, her partner. He was gone. All her mental preparation, all the training for when her kids asked "Where's Dad?" all went to hell when Tommy called to tell her that Phil died during the first Rikti attack. Twenty-two years of marriage, gone in an instant. The past two weeks were filled with shock, and now the shock was falling away. She blinked a few times as she awoke, rubbed her eyes, and squinted to see the clock. Nine-thirty in the morning.

I could use a drink right now, she thought. I really could.

Tommy had been awake for a few minutes, as he awoke from a dream where he thought he could bring his father back. He looked over to see Saya sleeping peacefully next to him, her arm draped across his chest in some semblance of a hug. She listened to him for once, staying at the PCU Salamanca campus dorms as soon as she could get out of town. She stirred and opened one sleepy eye to check on Tommy.

"Morning," she mumbled.

Tommy shifted a bit. "Mornin'. Sleep alright?"

Saya snuggled in a bit closer. "Mmhmm."

"Wanna get breakfast?" he asked.

"Wan' sleep more," Saya said.

Tommy stretched a bit and relaxed as the two fell back into a relatively peaceful sleep.

((It's like Heroid said, this thread is for anyone who wants to write a part of their heroes' lives that you don't see in the game. So come on! Get to typing!))

Tommy and Claire Pachowski both sat at the kitchen table with their mother. No one could say much of anything, but they did look over where Phil would usually sit. The table was set for a fourth. Mary Pachowski, mother of the two young heroes, took a sip from her cup of decaf.

"I can't believe I did that. I guess it's just second nature," Mary said.

"It's okay, Ma," Claire said. "I would have done the same thing."

"I know, sweetie. I still can't believe he's gone."

"I still keep hopin' he shows up, Ma," Tommy said, "like he was playin' a practical joke on us. This just don't feel normal." He looked down at the dinner on his plate. "Casserole again, Ma?"

"It's Kings Row, Tommy. When someone dies, everybody makes a meal for the mourning family so they don't have to do as much while all the final arrangements are being made."

"So, who made this one?"

"Old Mrs. Houston. So it should be good."

Tommy looked down and jabbed at it with his fork. "I wish I was hungry right now."

"Me, too, honey," Mary said, taking another sip from her mug.

Tommy and Claire's dataglasses flashed with new information.

"Ya better put these in the fridge, Ma. We got another intrusion signal over in the Front Yards." Tommy got up from the table, and ran to grab his extra gear. "Grab yer stuff, squirt," Tommy said to Claire. "We gotta neighborhood ta save."

"Be careful, you two," Mary said.

"We'll be back in a minute, Ma," Claire said. "Go to the laundry room in the basement. That should make for a good temporary shelter."

Mary finished her coffee and sat there as her two children ran out the door to save the day again. She didn't let herself cry until after she heard them get into Tommy's car and drive to the scene of the latest invasion.

Phil Pachowski ran up the four flights of stairs to the apartment where he and his new wife, the former Mary Torricone, just signed the lease. This 24 hours on, 48 hours off deal was perfect for getting things done around the house Mary would take care of the details, but Phil had the general layout of where everything needed to go so they could have the best stereo sound for their tv. He unlocked the door and walked in to a nice candle-lit living room.

"Hello, stranger." Mary was wearing that dress again, the off the shoulder one that Phil really liked. Well, that and the dress was easy to take off was a big plus in Phil's book, too.

"Uh. Hi," Phil said, thunderstruck. Every time it was the same thing. "Uhm, candles... we're havin' a candlelight dinner? I thought we was cleanin' out the stuff from one spare room ta the other."

"Maybe later," Mary said as she grabbed he husband's hand and walked with him into their bedroom.

"Uh, gotta put my fire jacket an' hat on the hatstand," Phil said.

"Nah, keep them," Mary said. "It's our room."

Phil woke up later with Mary sleeping peacefully next to him, but someone was staring a hole in the back of his head. He rolled over and saw a seven-year-old staring back at him.

"Whatcha want, Tommy?"

"It's Saturday. Wanna watch cartoons with me?" the little boy asked as he stood in his favorite pajamas, the ones with the cars and trucks on them. Red cars and blue trucks of all shapes and sizes, Phil remembered. He got them for Tommy because most of them were classic cars like the 1965 Ford Mustang that Phil always wanted.

The two sat down in front of the tv, each with a big bowl of Froot Loops in front of them. Tommy grabbed the remote and switched it to the channel with Bugs Bunny on it.

"Overture! Curb the lights! This is it! We'll hit the heights!" the stereo blared as the show's theme song started. Phil forgot to turn it off last night after the game, apparently. He scrambled for the volume knob as Tommy held his ears.

"Too loud!" Tommy yelled.

"It's okay, champ, I got this," Phil shouted. As he lowered the volume, he heard a hiccuping cry turn into a long loud wail.

"Ah, geez, I woke Claire," Phil grumbled.

"Ma's gonna be mad at ya, Dad," Tommy said with a grin. "Ya woke the baby up."

"Two comic books if ya don't tell yer mother," Phil said.

"Three!"

Phil thought for a second. "Deal." he rushed into the nursery, where he'd painted a ribbon of pink around the top of the walls with a giant bow above Claire's crib. He couldn't bring himself to paint over the moon and stars that he and Mary put on the ceiling when Tommy was born. He ran to the crib, to pick Claire up. "Shh... it's okay, honey, everything's okay, Daddy's gonna make sure nothin' happens to ya," he said as he gently rocked the tiny baby in his arms. As she calmed down, he rocked her some more, then laid her back in the crib once the crying stopped.

Tommy poked his head in the door to Claire's room. "Come on, Dad! Mom's already waitin' fer you two ta come out."

"Phil, get Claire out here so we can go!" Mary yelled.

Phil turned around again to face the closet door. "Claire, you got 'til the count'a three ta get out here!"

"Tommy said I look like a punkinhead!" Claire blubbered. "I'm not going to church today!"

"Aw, Tommy's only sayin' that 'cause he's jealous it's yer special day, not his."

"Nuh-uh!" Tommy yelled. "It's 'cause she looks like a punkinhead with those missin' teeth!" That was followed by the sound of a smack to the back of a mouthy 13-year-old's head. "OW!" Tommy yelped.

"Come on, Claire," Phil said. "We gotta go now."

Claire opened up the closet door and peeked out. "Tommy's not all gross, is he?"

"No, but that's no way ta talk about yer brother, hon. What happened ta him was an accident. It's his first day with those new arms, so come out an' see him."

Claire flung the door open and walked out. "Fine, but if he's got all those wires and tubes hanging off him, I'm gonna puke."

Phil took his daughter's hand as they walked out of her room and turned off the lights, the stars and moon still glowing faintly after fifteen years of being up on that ceiling.

There was Tommy, still with his new costume, holding hands with that Saya again. "Hey, you two," Phil said. "We gotta get over ta Tommy's award dinner. It ain't every day my son gets made a Hero of the City."

"Oh, give them a little space, Phil," Mary said with a smile, the black off-the-shoulder dress she had from twenty years ago still fitting perfectly. "They're young. Besides, we should start planning for when Claire becomes one as well."

"Right, right, names like Back Yard Boom an' Emo Catgirl. What was my kids thinkin' with names like those?" Phil sighed as he walked into the bar at the back of the St. Florian's Council #759 K of C Hall. "Hey, Gino, how's things?"

Gino looked up from his beer. "Didn't expect ta see ya here, Phil, least not so soon."

"Huh?" He looked over to the bartender. "Hey Dad. Hadda helluva fire ta put out over by PCU in Steel. The Founders Assurance building looked like a bomb went off in there! Can I get a beer from ya?"

"Sure, son," the white-haired bartender said with a sad expression on his face. "I thought you'd get here a lot later."

"Whatcha mean, Dad?"

"The Rikti, son. Remember?"

"Oh, right. Them." The bartender put a beer down in front of Phil. "Keep the money in your pocket, junior. There's no charge for it here. Just enjoy."

"So," Phil said into his beer, "What'll the kids tell Mary?"

The old bartender just shrugged and began cleaning the dust off of more beer mugs.

Over in Steel Canyon, two young heroes wept unconsolably and held each other as Phil Pachowski's body was zipped up into a black bag and placed into an ambulance.

((If they couldn't stop all of the Rikti, they could slow them down at least.))

The rectory hallway of St. Florian's Church was flanked on either side by rows of body bags, each recently zipped up. On each one lay a pile of personal belongings: clothes, wallets, watches, broken gunstocks, ceremonial swords the had been snapped in half.

The stories floated in through the usual channels. The old men of the church all said they were going hunting that morning, each one giving a different hunting season. They got together at the bar of their K of C hall, said their goodbyes to each other and left notes for their families and friends. Each one had a similar complaint: something was killing him, whether it was cancer, heart diease, or even loneliness missing their deceased wives. They left it on top of an old battered scrapbook with the letters "T.F.M.M." inscribed upon it. Other Knights would know the significance. The first page had a yellow sticky note on it. "Remember us like this, not like how you found us. Even if we did win."

The old mens' bodies were recovered near the bodies of dead Rikti. The Rikti around them had died of multiple gunshot and stab wounds.

After they were buried, each memorial that was placed on the barroom wall had a picture of the men in better, happier days. They were surrounded by their children or grandchildren, dancing with their wives at someone's wedding, even a few wearing party hats with their tuxedos to celebrate the New Year.

Later still, a new stainless steel badge was placed on the wall next to an older steel Hero's badge from the 1940s. It had the Seal of Paragon City embossed upon it and the number 1. Underneath was a brass plate that said "In gratitude from the Heroes and Citizens of High Park." A new set of names was added to the rolls of registered heroes. Each one at Security level 1, each one marked Posthumous Reward.

((I blame that Starburst commercial that Shia linked to on his deviantart website for this.))

Hephaestus 1, Fang the Littlest Werewolf, and Heph's faithful recording crew were seated at an outdoor table at one of the fancier El Super Mexicano restaurants on Talos Island. As they made small talk, a waitress delivered their appetizer: a giant plate of cheese-covered nachos, piled high with refried beans, guacamole, and numerous types of peppers.

"Dig in, guys," Heph said. "We've delivered another summons that they said couldn't be done! Time for nachos!"

As the four tv makers began to dig in, a shadow fell across their nachos.

"Ahem," a voice said. The men looked over and saw a Warrior with a disturbing look on his face, as if he were some sort of man-child. "What did you say you were eating?"

"Nachos with--" Heph started.

"Nachos with what?" the Warrior interrupted.

"Nachos with cheese and--" Heph began, but he was interrupted with a very disturbing yelp of joy from the vest-clad gang member.

Then the Warrior began clapping and dancing badly. "Nachos with cheese! Nachos with cheese! I'm a little Warrior who loves Nachos with cheeeeese!" he sang.

Heph and his team all looked at each other in shock and dismay.

The Warrior sang in a creepy falsetto as he began his dance again. "Nachos with cheese! Nachos with cheese! I'm a little Warrior who loves Nachos with cheeeeese!" He finished with hands waving quickly from wrist as a flourish.

Fang and the camera crew sat there with stunned expressions on their faces. Heph looked at the Warrior, then looked at Fang.

"Fang?" Heph said.

"Yeah, boss?" Fang replied.

"Kill."

Fang snarled like a rabid Yorkie and leapt for the Warrior's throat as the screen went to black.

There was a simple white graphic on the black screen.

SERV'D!

The measured tone of Bill Kurtis provided the voice over. "Watch Hephaestus 1 ensure that villains get served. Fridays 10pm/ 9pm Central. Only on A&E."

"Serv'd! is next on A&E."

Hephaestus 1 and Fang, the Littlest Werewolf, were seated at Larry McGonigle's desk waiting for their next assignment. Larry wasn't there at the moment, finding himself in at a meeting of all the case clerks. While Heph drummed his metal fingers on Larry's desk, Fang engrossed himself in the latest volume of "Hai! Frilly Girly Happenstance," a manga whose artist had a penchant for drawing excruciatingly-detailed clothes and flowers.

"So," Heph said to Fang, "how are the fight scenes in that comic book?"

"It's a MANGA," Fang said. "And there aren't any fight scenes in it."

"What powers do they have other than tearing up at the drop of a hat? Geez, with eyes that big you'd think they'd carry buckets to deal with all their crying jags," Heph continued.

"I happen to think the artwork is very expressive!" Fang snapped.

"Right. So, it's about a bunch of crying girls. Do any of them fight crime?"

"No," Fang said, "It's all about romance."

"Romance. People want to read comic books about romance?" Heph asked.

"It's a MANGA," Fang said irritatedly. "And it's very cute to see all the problems and entanglements that a couple has in their relationships, even if they don't get resolved."

"You don't have a girlfriend, do you?" Heph asked.

"..."

"What? It's a legitimate question."

"I am not going to talk to you about what I do or don't do in my private life," Fang said.

"Seriously, man, get one before you wind up married to your job like I did," Heph advised. "I was too busy being a cop to notice all the fine, fine ladies I inadvertently passed up. I wound up with Cheryl."

"Is that the woman you're living with now?"

"No, thank God. I'd have formatted my brain before I'd live with Cheryl!" Heph said. "This is from back before I became a cyborg."

"Oh. So how'd that come about?" Fang closed his book and shoved it into a backpack.

"Like I said, I was too dedicated to my job to notice all of the really attractive single women around me, and I decided that in order to advance my career, I should know people who know people. If you want a promotion in the Chicago Police Department, you'd better know a lot of influential people."

"Oh! That's like the thing between Takizawa-sempai and Kaori-chan in my manga! See, Kaori-chan was trying to get into the fashion designers' club and- Heph, why are you looking at me like that?"

"Because boinking the daughter of a prominent ward boss with connections to the Mayor and Police Commissioner has little to do with the romance of pretty people in school uniforms."

"Oh. Well, Takizawa-sempai was mean to Kaori-chan, anyway and did all kinds of things to embarrass her to see if she was dedicated enough to get into the club."

"Yeah," Heph said, "that's not at all like this. For one, we didn't try to embarrass each other. At least not at first."

"Hmm. Sounds more like the forbidden love between Haruna-sensei and her student Hoki-kun."

"What? No, don't tell me. I don't want to know," Heph said. "Look, I'll make the long story short. We both agreed that it would be politically expedient for both of us if we dated. I'd get bumped up to the head of the line for promotions and special training, her dad would get to look like a real supporter of the police department whenever the time came for him to make the rounds among the donors and the potential aldermanic candidates, and we'd both make a lot of money."

Fang looked up at his big blue mentor. "So you guys didn't date because you each thought the other was attractive? Dating because it's to your political advantage isn't very romantic!" Fang snapped.

Heph sighed. "Pipe down, I'm trying to give you the executive summary here. We dated, we shagged like rabbits, and we both hated each other the entire time. She didn't like me because I was too eager to enforce the law the way I saw it, and I didn't like her because she expected me to go out and be as much of a political shmoozer as her old man was."

"Oh," Fang said. "I don't know of anyone like that in the manga."

"I also wouldn't intercept and fix all her traffic tickets before they went to court. And I also wouldn't get her backstage passes to the concerts where we had to work security details. She expected a lot of perks I couldn't even get from being a cop."

"So what happened to her?"

"Well, she left home one night, and I hadn't heard from her again. That was in 1985. I found out later that I'd gotten her pregnant. Her dad was old-school about it, telling her she'd better fix that little problem. Well, she headed east and I found out through the grapevine she had a son and put him up for adoption here in Paragon City."

"Oh. Wow."

Heph put his arm around Fang. "And now after 22 years, we get to work together!"

Fang looked up at Heph, tears in his eyes. "Mom and Dad always told me I was adopted... and now I'm here with my real dad!"

"Naah! I'm just *bleep*ing with you!" Heph said with a laugh. "I'm not your real dad! Cheryl never left Chicago and I never got her knocked up! She still hates me and tries to ruin my reputation back home."

Fang's little lupine snout quivered with shock.

"Hey, I told you not to discuss your family life around me because if you did I'd use it against you," Heph said.

Fang whined a little and sniffed. "My world is crumbling all around me!" he cried as he ran into the bathroom on his little khaki-clad legs.

Larry finally walked back from the meeting, a look of "please kill me" on his face. "Where's Fang?" he asked.

"Having a good cry in the bathroom," Heph said.

"Why?" the old caseworker asked.

"I decided to mess with him and tell him I was his real dad," Heph answered.

"Yeah, I'd have a good cry, too, if you were my father," Larry said.

"ZING!" the cameraman said. The sound guy laughed.

Heph looked into the camera. "Yeah, I walked right into that one. So, what's the next case, Lar?"

"You're serving notice of a paternity suit to Castle. Penny Preston is looking for her real dad."

"Well, this is gonna be awkward," Heph said.

"Looks like someone got "serv'd!" a big helping of irony," Larry said.

"Yeah, yeah," Heph said. "Look, just get the Sobbing Shapeshifter out of the Men's room and we'll be on our way."

"Wait, the Sobbing Shapeshifter is still here? I sent him out on a noise ordinance violation two hours ago," Larry said.

"I meant your nephew," Heph said with annoyance.

"Oh. Right! Him. Be right back."

Heph looked into the camera. "This is going to be a long day, mark my words."

They're more evil than Lord Recluse himself.

"Serv'd! is next on A&E."

Hephaestus 1 walked through Williams Square in Founders Falls, heading towards the university. Unlike most days, he was carrying a messenger bag for his papers instead of the usual briefcase.

"So we've got these papers for a Nicholas Eb--"

"Oooh baby can't you fear my supper oooh baby can't you feel me mole?"

Heph stopped walking for a moment. "It's for a case involving his immigration sta-"

"OOOOOOOOOOOhhhhOOOOooooAHAHAHAH YOU SAID MY SODA LIED!"

Heph stared into the camera, then looked towards his feet. Fang, the Littlest Werewolf, was dancing spastically to whatever was playing on his new iTem. "UHH! STUPID MASTIFF BLACK GOLD! YEAH! STUPID MASTIFF BLACK GOLD!" the tiny lycanthrope sang very badly.

Heph yanked the iTem away from Fang, who reacted as if shot.

"What was that for, boss?" Fang yelped.

"I was explaining why we were here to the audience," Heph said. "And you were interrupting me. I don't like that."

"Sorry, boss," Fang said. "I just really like the songs that Uncle Larry put on my new iTem. Myooze is a great band!"

Heph looked at the iTem. Sure enough, the band's name was Myooze, and the song title was "Stupid Mastiff Black Gold." He plugged into the music player and heard a slightly off version of another, more popular and well-known song of a similar name by a similar band.

"You say that your uncle put these songs on your iTem, Fang?"

"Yeah, he did," Fang answered. "He got them from the Paragon Film Partners' new music provider. These songs make up the soundtracks for all those movies my uncle's in!"

"Did he now? Well, Fang, I think we need to talk to your uncle."

"So we're going to let this perp walk, Heph?" fang asked.

"What?"

"Are we going to just let this perp walk?"

"Excuse me?"

"It's detective talk. Uncle Larry said so."

Heph looked around. He then picked Fang up by the collar of his nice oxford shirt. He charged up the head-mounted laser projectors on his head, giving his eye cameras an eerie glow. "We're not going to talk like tv detectives. That's for tv shows with lousy scriptwriters. I'm going to be my normal self, and you're going to remember that you do not want to do anything to ruin the image of police officers and other law enforcement agents. We do a good enough job of that ourselves."

Fang swallowed loudly. "Yessir," he squeaked.

"Did Larry say where this new music provider was located?" Heph asked.

"Yes, but I'm not supposed to tell you."

"I'll frighten you in public if you don't," Heph grumbled.

"It's on Striga Isle!" Fang yelped. "Please don't scare me!"

Hephaestus 1 set the werewolf down on his feet. "Oh, I won't. Don't worry."

"Oh, that's a relief," Fang said.

"Well, I also don't want you to ruin the interior of the SUV. I haven't had it fully Scotchgarded yet."

"Hey..."

After a promise of not filming anything while onboard an unnamed freighter, Heph, Fang and the recording crew arrived at Port Noble, in search of this affront to music.

The first place they stopped was Stephanie Peebles' place, the Mermaid Tavern. She gave them some further information, a biscuit for Fang, and then smacked Heph in the butt on the way out.

"What was that for, lady?" Heph asked.

"Call me!" the old witch said. "I want to know if it's true that once you go Metal, you never settle!"

"I need an adult! I NEED AN ADULT!" Heph screamed as picked up his entire team in his arms and ran out the door. After a run down a few back streets of Port Noble, the reality tv team arrived at a warehouse where it sounded like either catgirls reacting to "Earth In The Balance as read by Katie Couric" or someone singing horribly off-key.

"NAPSTER! APPENDIX! N'AWLINS FOREST EMU! WORRIER! DESIGN FLAW! HERE COMES THE FISHMASTER!" the singer yelled into a microphone. Fang's ears perked up.

"Heph! Heph! It's him! The lead singer of Myooze!" Fang said, his tail wagging with delight. "I'm watching a true artist at work!"

The Council technicians looked up from the soundboard and waved to the singer. "Maestro, you're a little flat on that last note."

"WHAT?"

"I said, you're a little flat on the last note!"

"MY NOSE IS NOT FAT!"

The Council technician threw his hands up in the air. "Every day it's the same thing. 'Ooh, look at me! My name is Maestro and I think I have a singing career!' I told him that Simon Cowell would reject- hello, where did the other technician go?"

That's when Heph conked him on the head as well.

After an hour, the technician woke up to see Hephaestus 1 and Fang staring at him. "Wh-where am I?"

"Coffee break," Heph said. "How long has the Council been making bootlegs of popular songs with misheard lyrics?"

"That? Look, we tried telling Maestro that he needs lyric sheets but he says that he can hear them singing perfectly anyway. It's a lie, but if he quits, we go back to Archon Burkhalter and end up polishing his giant robot."

"The one in the volcano?" Heph asked.

"Yeah. We told him he should build a car port that will fit, but he says that pollen will mar the finish. Like lava, ash and pumice don't ruin the finish themselves!"

"Wow. That is pretty stupid," Fang said. "Can't you just put a giant car cover on it?"

Heph and the technician looked at Fang. "And where are we going to find a car cover for a 50-meter tall Warcry Robot?" Heph asked.

"I wish we had one. Our Turtle Wax bill would have bankrupted our former evil organization," the technician said.

"Who, the Fifth Column?"

"No, Cobra," the technician said. "There was never a Fifth Column. It's all a pack of lies!"

Heph punched him again. "Well, Fang, your uncle will hate us but we have to stop this travesty. I'm calling in the authorities on this one."

"Freedom Corps?"

"No, the evil authorities."

"Arachnos?"

"No, I said evil, not evil-lite."

"You don't mean..."

"Yes. I'm sending RIAA after him."

"No, Heph!" Fang whined. "That's too evil! Heroes don't do that!"

Within hours, an RIAA Hunter-Killer Team was dispatched to the warehouse. "Within a few hours, this warehouse will have never existed," the agent said. "We're thorough."

"What about Maestro?"

"We've got a use for him."

Three weeks later, Heph and company received a grainy videotape.

"I don't know who's going to get this but please help me.... my name is Maestro and I'm a prisoner of the RIAA! Yes, they restored my hearing, but now they're making me listen to my own music! Help me! I can't take it anymore! It's... it's all that Larry McGonigle's fault! Paragon Film Partners is to blame! Just let me go!"

Heph looked at the tv screen. "What do you know? Maestro got SERV'D!"

Two suitcases and a gym bag were arranged neatly on the floor, upright and ready for leaving at a moment's notice. Todd Galahad wasn't sure what crisis would pop up on his last day before the trip back to Chicago. He kind of hoped that Doctor Rutherford would tell him he was hallucinating due to bringing up all these old memories, that seeing his father in front of him and the printing on the soda can were due to stress and unresolved issues.

No, the psychiatrist said to him, if his dead father stood in front of him to give him advice from the afterlife, there was a good chance it really happened. After all, both of them had seen enough necromancy and souls jumping from body to body, and had seen enough magic to know that something was out there. Of course, Doctor Rutherford had also been known in the hero life as The Minder, a professional bodyguard who specialized in keeping physical threats away from various mages. He knew what was a product of the mind and what wasn't.

Right now, though, all that Todd wanted to do was put the whole Cobalt Claymore issue on the back burner while he got the groceries needed for tonight's dinner. After staying glued to the tv and internet all weekend while his beloved Cubs swept their crosstown rivals, he was pretty sure he owed Marie a dinner or two. Also, he was pretty sure he owed her a dinner after his little practical joke that involved giving one of her big white bath towels to Hephaestus 1 so he could fly the official flag of White Sox fans everywhere, or at least cry his giant cyborg tears into it. He could have sworn he'd given away an old one.

Yeah, he'd be hearing about that one forever.

"Serv'd! is next on A&E."

Hephaestus 1 sat at Larry McGonigle's desk, scratching his head in confusion. "Explain to me why you're doing this, Lar."

Larry McGonigle smiled as he adjusted his combover a little. "Listen, O'Flannagan, you're very much a specialist in serving all kinds of legal paperwork to the hero and villain community, but you're always alone. Haven't you ever thought that you might need backup?"

"No, not unless it's my girlfriend. Then Heaven help any villain who might be allergic to fire. She's said that she'd rather stay off camera. Besides, Lar, look at me. 7 feet 11 inches and 600 pounds of twisted steel and sex appeal!" Heph said as he mimicked flexing for the camera. "I don't take backup unless I want backup, understand?"

"Well, that ends today," Larry said. "You'll have a partner from now on. Meet... Fang, the Littlest Werewolf!" With that, Larry swept his arm to direct the cameras to a furry wolf-headed creature in a blue oxford shirt and chinos. "Behold!"

The werewolf sat there kicking his legs back and forth as they didn't quite reach the ground, engrossed in some manga called "Hai! Frilly Girly Happenstance!"

Larry coughed. "BEHOLD!" he shouted.

The werewolf continued to read.

Larry looked over at Heph and smiled, then scowled at the werewolf. "FANG!"

Fang looked up. "Oh! Right!" He hopped down from the chair and and stalked over in his crisp business-casual attire. "I'm Fang! I may be small, but I'm a stone cold killer! I'll savage you!" he said in a whiny and high-pitched voice.

Heph looked at Fang. Then he looked at Larry. Then he looked at Fang again. Fang stood there, looking about as dangerous as fresh cottage cheese.

"No." Heph said.

"You need a partner, O'Flannagan, and Fang needs a mentor."

"No."

Larry pulled Heph aside. "Listen, he's my nephew. After the curse from his dad's side of the family passed to him, he's been a bit shy about his new life as a werewolf."

"That's not a werewolf, Lar," Heph said. "That's a small child with a body hair problem."

"Well, that's the curse. His family was supposed to be normal, run-of-the-mill werewolves until the curse occurred. Now, they're all Dockers-wearing office interns with claws and fangs."

Fang growled, as one of the women walked over to Larry and Heph. "Oh, I hear someone's Yorkie over here!" she said in a singsong voice.

"I'm no Yorkie, lady! I'm Fang! I'm an anger-fueled pain merchant! Grr!" the werewolf said as tried to look menacing by arching his back and holding his hands over his head. "Grr!"

"Wooks wike someone's widdle Yorkum wants a biscuit," Larry's co-worker said. "Who wants a biscuit? Duzzums want a biscuit? Duzzums! Oh yessums does! Yessums does!" she said, holding a biscuit just out of Fang's reach. "You never told me you had a dog, Larry! And he looks so cute in those adorable widdle doggie cwothes!" the older lady said, going into that tone used when talking to dogs and babies.

"That's not a dog, Verlene, that's my nephew!" Larry said.

Verlene looked at Fang, and then at Larry. "Then why is your nephew wagging his tail and trying to snatch the biscuit out of my hands with his teeth?"

"Fang!" Larry shouted. "Bad! Bad nephew!"

"Sorry, Uncle L-- Mister McGonigle!" the tiny werewolf replied. "Sometimes I just have to let my animal instincts loose because I'm a primal force!"

Heph buried his face in his giant metal hands. "Why are you torturing me, Larry?"

"You made fun of my other job."

"But your other job is acting, if you can call it that, in movies with budgets so low, you can only afford to put the movies onto CD! And to make it worse, only 10 copies get made for distribution!"

"It's my life!" Larry said.

"Then your life sucks!" Heph shot back.

Fang trotted up to Heph. "Don't insult my uncle like that! He was great as the tough-but-well-meaning dry cleaner in 'Brick Landers IS Brick McMuffin in CHEERLEADER KUNG FU HELL FIGHT 18!' He's an acting genius!"

Heph looked down at Fang again. "Boo."

Fang looked down at his chinos. "Uncle Larry? Did I leave a spare pair of pants here?"

"No," Larry said.

"But I uh, marked my territory. In my pants."

"Fine. I'll call your mother."

Heph looked at Fang as he walked towards the men's room. "If I'm getting stuck with that as a partner, I'm going to have fun with it."

After an hour of reading through months-old copies of superhero gossip magazines, Heph looked up to see Fang patiently waiting for him.

"You made me angry. You'll be sorry for making me angry," Fang said.

"What, are you going to hump my leg to death?"

"That's it, big man! Make me mad! Go ahead. The madder I get, the deadlier I am!" Fang said, his lip curling up into an adorable little snarl.

"Look, we're due to deliver a summons to someone in about 30 minutes," Heph said. "Are you ready?"

"Yeah! I love going places in cars!" the diminuitive lycanthrope said with his tail wagging.

"Riiiiight."

And yes, Fang rode to the scene with his head sticking out of the window the entire time. The crew arrived at a nice brownstone near Canton Place, a gaggle of schoolkids enjoying their summer off by playing stickball.

"Heph! Uncle Larry says I get to serve this guy his papers! Uncle Larry promised I could!" Fang said again, hopping up and down. "Please, please, pleeeeeeease let me serve this guy his papers!"

"No. That's my job. You're just the ride-along."

"But what if you need me to unleash the beast?"

"What?"

"Unleash the beast! Pour my rage into my very being and shred our enemy! You can't stop my anger! I'm like Henry Rollins singing Bananaphone, I'm so angry! Grr!" Fang unsheathed his nicely-trimmed claws, trying to look intimidating in his button-down shirt and khakis.

Heph handed him the papers. "Go on," he said, as he stepped back.

Fang ran up the steps to the brownstone and rang the doorbell. "Hmm... I didn't know our target was Irish, Heph!"

"Irish?"

"Yeah, a Mister N. O'Sferatu. That's a funny name. Sure an' I'm N. O'Sferatu! Hands off me Fate Flakes! A balanced part o' meals with a pot o' nine vitamins and minerals in every box!"

"Fang, I'm Irish. And more than a bit insulted."

"Oh. My bad! But the rage makes me do things unheard of by mere humans!"

A pasty-white vampyr in a white apron with a bunny on it and long orange gloves open the door. "I don't vant your magasseens! I ze dishes am doingk! Zee? Mein gloves are here to keep mein hands soft undt silky smooth!"

"I'm Fang! And you need to go to court!" the werewolf said as he stuck the summons in the vampyr's face.

"Vait, court? But ze dishes! I haff ze gloves!"

"The gloves, they do nothing for your case!" Fang said. "Now, take the summons!"

The vampyr looked down at Fang. "Boo."

After another embarrassing hour, Heph, Fang and the faithful recording crew were heading back to the District Courts building. Nosferatu had generously given Fang a pair of leather pants and suspenders similar to the War Wolves.

"Sorry, Heph," Fang said with wide and soulful eyes.

"It's okay, Fang. Nosferatu may have gotten his summons, but you got SERV'D!"

The screen fades to black as everyone laughs except for Fang.

((Well, I always wanted to explain the origins of Back Yard Boom's name, and writing about the neighborhoods in Kings Row is always fun.))

The cement and grassy common areas of High Park were known to the locals as The Yards. Closer to the Galaxy City entrance you had the Front Yards and closer to the Gish and Garment Factory neighborhoods you had the Back Yards. The Front Yards were mostly concrete, and in the summer permits would go out to hold block parties, neighborhood movie nights and in the well-swept areas near the Kings Row Bank and the small shopping district that surrounded the Pawn Shop. The Back Yards had more grassy areas and were the site for many a picnic. Up until twenty-five years ago, there were even public flower gardens maintained by neighborhood retirees. There was some crime, mostly punks looking to get the attention of the Family through vandalism and the occasional mugging. Most of the time, though, the aspiring criminals were caught and beaten soundly before being sent home to their parents. High Park rarely needed a police presence.

Then the Skulls appeared on the scene, and arrived in uncountable numbers. No one could even walk down the street without becoming prey for the roving gang members. They emboldened the Circle of Thorns, who now stalked the night looking for anyone unfortunate enough to have to walk home in the dark. If you managed to avoid the Circle, you still had to worry about becoming the next "experiment" for Doctor Vahzilok's followers. When the Lost arrived, it meant giving up the Back Yards to the well-armed horde of homeless. Every day people ran to work through a gauntlet of Superadine dealers, patchwork zombies, murderous cultists and bums with energy weapons. Every night, people ran even faster to their homes so as not to be the unlucky one who disappeared.

There was one thing that no gang could stop, though. High Park had one inviolate tradition, and that was Back Yard Football. When the games began, the smart gang members walked away and hoped not to be noticed.

A writer for the old Paragon City Weekly (before they ditched their sportswriters for that "alt-weekly" feel) described Back Yard Football as "a riot with a ball sitting on the ground somewhere in the middle" and "a spectacle that could make the most devoted pacifist chant for blood and start punching his neighbors' throats." The rules were the same as regular football: 11 to a side, 4 downs to complete a 10-yard gain, and such, but the playing surface was the concrete courtyards in between two clusters of apaertment buildings. The penalties for unnecessary roughness were casually ignored as well, and as long as the ball wasn't bounced off of a wall during a pass, it was still considered in play. "Out of bounds" was basically "opening a door and going inside," as using the walls, cellar doors, stairs to the basement apartments and safety railings as running surfaces kept you in play. Safety equipment usually meant promising your parents you'd be home by dinner, unless you had to call from the hospital. If you walked away from a game without bleeding and being bled on, you obviously didn't do your part to win.

This was the case on a summer afternoon. The concrete absorbed as much sunlight as it could, making the courtyard at least twenty degrees hotter than the predicted temperature. Alone or in groups, a knot of boys and young men gathered in front of the apartment where the Pachowski family lived. Claire Pachowski and her brother's girlfriend Saya sat on the fire escape for a better view of the game.

"Is Tommy going to play?" Saya asked. "Even the smallest boys look like they could break someone's neck."

Claire smiled. "I don't think so. He doesn't play because of his powers. He says he's an unfair advantage for any team now."

"But he loves football, though," Saya said. "I mean, you've been in his room. You have to have seen his binders full of stats. The green-and-white ones... how many does he have of those that are handwritten?"

"I always thought he'd hide porn in them," Claire said. "There I was, ready to get him busted by Ma, and opened the binders to reveal nothing but notes, statistics, and suggested roster lineups for the New York Jets. Ma grounded me for a week. Of course, Tommy got the 'how can you betray me' lecture from Dad. Dad's a huge Patriots fan."

"It's kind of scary to think that he does that as a hobby," Saya said. "At least he doesn't do it for baseball, too."

"What, like you do, Saya?" Tommy said as he placed an ice-cold soda can on Saya's back. She yelped and shot him a look. Tommy just smiled.

"So, ready ta watch the game? I coulda hooked up the electric grill, but Ma's makin' her mostaccioli tonight, so I can't grill any'a the sausage she got at the store," the metal-armed hero said as he sat next to his girlfriend.

The group of boys finally picked team captains and started picking sides. After a few minutes, they stopped due to the metallic stomping sound coming down the street. Claire disappeared and leapt to another building while Tommy went over the side on the fire escape to engage any potential threats. A Freakshow Tank was trudging down the street wiggling the fingers of his new replacement arms.

"H4y guy5," the Tank yelled through its modulated voicebox, "c4n I p14y n0w? I h4v3 h4nd5 n0w!" One of the Freaks who worked over at the Pawn Shop had his weapon limbs replaced with regular arms and hands, and the spikes and grenade launchers removed as part of his parole. There wasn't much he could do about the bodywork other than polish it up and deburr the surface. He still looked the part of the Freakshow's heavy hitters, though.

The kids looked at him. "You're too big, Kenny," one of the captains said.

"4wwww, I pr0m153 I w0n't t4ck13!" the Tank said. "I n3v3r g37 70 p14y f007b411 4nym0r3. I m155 17."

Tommy looked at the Tank. "Hey, K3nw0r7h."

"H4y 70mmy."

"How's the new digits?"

"I c4n p1ck my n053 4g41n!"

"That's... great, K3nw0r7h. Glad ta see my work ain't bein' misused."

"LOL! 50rry, 70mmy," the Tank laughed. "4r3 y0u p14y1ng 70d4y, 700?"

Tommy shrugged and looked at the others.

"If you guys only play against each other, it's cool," one of the boys said. "Otherwise, it's touch rules if you line up against a normal guy."

Tommy and the Tank grinned. "Is i7 57i11 Ir0nm4n ru135?" the former Freak asked.

"That's how everyone plays," Tommy said as he powered up his internal defense systems. "These are the Yards, Kenny."

"W007!" the Tank yelled.

Soon enough, the game started and the neighbors all stopped to lean out their windows or climb out on the fire escapes to watch the game. The game didn't stop for any injuries short of a broken limb, and then only to carry the injured player to an ambulance or to his parents' house. The game restarted with a new player to replace the injured and went on until the full four quarters were played. Tommy proved why he got the name "Back Yard Boom" when he tackled K3nw0r7h through the rebar of a nearby lamppost. Everyone stopped then as well, since he needed to wait until the power company could come out to assess the intial damage. His checkbook would feel great pain when the bill came.

A Skull who got too close to the action found himself used as an impromptu tackling dummy as the boys spiked the ball and chased him. When the Lost tried setting up a soapbox in the middle of the field, they soon realized that being mauled by a horde of middle and high school students was not fun. A Thorn Wielder was penalized for bringing a weapon onto the field; since he wasn't on either team, no one lost yards, but the Thorn Wielder wound up suffering through numerous indian burns and the dreaded pinkbelly. A Troll who wandered through while looking for one of his dealers found himself hanging from a lampost by an excruciating wedgie. After the game, the teams shook hands and set their sights on a couple of Vahzilok Mortificators who were stalking a new victim. They ended up as victims themselves, having both been on the receiving end of what can only be described as an Atomic Swirlie.

It was at least ten days before any criminal in their section of Kings Row tried his luck at mugging someone thanks to that game.

Lou's Garage in Skyway City was known all throughout the city as being the best place to get your car repaired. No matter the make or the model, if Lou couldn't order the part, he'd make a temporary replacement until the replacement parts came in. Most of the temporary parts were better than the factory parts, but when people have to keep their warranties, rules are rules. Most of his machine shop was gone these days, picked apart by rampaging Clockwork. When Back Yard Boom rescued his family and garage from the little metal monsters, the first thing Lou said was "If you ever need anything, you let me know and it's as good as done."

He never expected the young hero to ask for a job as an apprentice mechanic. However, a few years went by and the apprentice got his journeyman rating and asked for a little something extra.

"I wanna make custom cars an' restore classics," Back Yard Boom said. "Is there any way I could get ya ta lemme use yer old machine shop space?"

As word got out about L & T Customs (the L stood for Lou of course, and the T stood for Tommy, Back Yard Boom's real name) the waiting lines for Lou's increased. A hero working a 9-to-5 job as a mechanic? This they had to see. As usual, Tommy was hard at work in his office, though not on cars.

"This is gonna cost extra fer pinstripes," Tommy said. "since I gotta call in an expert on that. Are ya sure ya want pinstripes an' a tiki mask on there?"

"Well, yeah," the young man said. "I think white pinstripes and a tiki mask in yellow and blue will look good over the graded red and orange metallic flake paint. I want a real West Coast look to it."

"Okay," Tommy said, "but I gotta ask ya: what're ya gonna do without yer arm? This order'll take a week, mainly 'cause the guy I use fer pinstripin' an' fine line art is showin' his ride in Miami right now."

"It's cool, Tommy, seriously," Tommy's customer said. "I asked my mom if she still had my old arm as a spare and she does. It shouldn't take that long to update the servo drivers, and it's not like I'm going to do any heavy lifting."

"All right, just wanted ta make sure ya weren't stuck with just the one," Tommy said.

One of the other things done at L & T Customs was customizing cybernetic and prosthetic limbs for looks and in some cases better performance. Tommy had rebuilt two knees this week alone, replacing worn bearing with stronger ones and changing out from petroleum grease to graphite to make sure joints wouldn't lock up in cold weather. Right next to the photo albums showing all of the custom cars and restorations done by L & T, there was another album showing rebuilt and customized limbs. One young man had fiber-optic lights inlaid around his elbow and wrist joints, and there was a picture of an older man who wanted his Army unit's insignia and motto engraved into his shin as well as the warning "Caution: do not use explosives for body modification" on the thigh. There was everything from full-limb hard chrome finishes to rebuilt bearings to refits when a child outgrew his old limb. Then there were the men and women who asked for the various Epidermal upgrades, trying to get their limb's artificial skin to match up perfectly with the natural skin on the rest of them. Of course, there were also the girls who went headlong into the custom look as well. Tommy liked working with those girls.

The young hero finished up the service write-up on the limb and hung it in his "elective bodywork" rack. He kept things divided pretty simply: elective and restorative, bodywork and mechanical. While his back was turned, the bell that hung over the door rang as another customer walked in. A young man no older than Tommy with close-cropped blonde hair, tattoos that ran from his knuckles to his shoulders and baseball cap slung low to hide his eyes looked around the store.

"I want arms like you got," the young man said. "How much?"

"'Scuse me?" Tommy asked. "Didja just ask me if you could get arms like mine?"

"Yeah. How much?"

"Yer arms look fine ta me. I ain't in the elective replacement business, either," Tommy said.

"I got the money. How much?" the young man said, mumbling something else afterward.

"More'n what you got. Why ya want arms like mine?" Tommy asked.

"'Cause I want 'em," the young man answered. "Damage Man an' Big Roll got 'em. An' I want 'em."

"Wait. Ya want new arms 'cause a couple rappers got 'em?"

"Yeah," the young man said. "They said you built 'em."

"No, I rebuilt 'em. Do ya even know why they got cybernetics?"

"They got the money. I got the money. I want 'em."

"Damage lost his arm in a car wreck when he ran inta a Supa Troll. Big Roll useta be a Freak Enforcer."

"Yeah!" the young man said with a smile. "I wanna get chrome like the Freaks."

Tommy had enough by this point. He walked around the counter and jabbed his finger in the wannabe's chest. "Outta my shop. You got no clue 'bout cyborgs. Hell ya probably don't even own one'a Damage Man's albums. Ya just saw the video 'Trailer Hitch' an' thought ya knew 'bout him."

The young man stepped back, setting his feet into a crudely-imitated boxing stance. "You don't touch me unless you wanna fight."

Tommy smiled. "Like I said. Ya don't know a thing. The reason we get custom work done is 'cause gotta put life inta our new limbs. We gotta make 'em ours."

The young man stood there with a sullen pout.

"Ever try feelin' the surface'a the car yer repaintin' through sandpaper? Ya know somethin' is there, ya get an idea of what's under the sandpaper, but ya don't actually feel the paint. That's how it feels when ya touch somethin'. Ya know it's there, but ya don't get the full feel'a it. Nah, ya probably don't know. I bet ya spend too much time playin' Madden an' thinkin' ya know how ta play football," Tommy said, taking another step forward to force the young man towards the door.

The wannabe stepped back again.

"We do all this work ta make these limbs part'a us. Without 'em, these limbs'd just be somethin' ya hang on yer body ta look normal. Even then ya don't look normal if yer self-conscious 'bout it. I do this work so other people don't hafta feel ashamed that they ain't like everyone else. An' ya wanna tear yer arms off an' get 'em replaced 'cause ya think it's a damn fashion statement?"

"No," the wannabe replied like a child caught doing something he knew he shouldn't do.

"Ya meant ta say 'yeah,' I think. Ya wanna lose yer arms 'cause ya think it's a style. Why're ya disrespectin' me like that? Me an' everyone else who's got cybernetics."

The bill of the wannabe's hat pointed downward. He mumbled something in a threatening tone.

"What was that?"

The mumbling happened again.

"No, louder," Tommy said.

"Said if I was gonna disrespect ya I'd just shoot ya."

Tommy grabbed the wannabe's wrist and rotated his opponent's arm into a combined shoulder and wrist lock. The young man yelped as he raised up on his tip toes, trying to keep his arm attached to his torso.

"Out. Now," Tommy growled. He opened up the door and shoved the wannabe onto the sidewalk. "An' don't come back!" the blue-haired cyborg yelled. He slammed the door shut as the young man outside mouthed obscenities and tried his best to mime threats.

Tommy turned back to his counter until he caught the reflection of the young man moving back towards the door and pulling something from under his oversized Celtics jersey. He opened the door quickly and stepped out, getting the jump on his would-be assailant. He added power to his hands and pushed the young man back towards the bus stop. Then he fired off his cryoprojectors to stick the wannabe to the bus stop with a block of ice. Tommy walked up to now-shivering young man.

"You weren't gonna try an' fight me, were ya? Wait... say, that's a revolver yer trying ta draw, ain't it? You were gonna try ta shoot me, weren't ya?"

"N-n-no, I w-w-was just gonna point it at you," the young man said. "'Cause I w-w-want n-new arms."

"An' yer gonna threaten a guy who's faced the likes'a Tyrant, the Rikti, an' Doctor Crom with a gun? Yer gonna threaten a guy who worked his way up ta the highest Security Rating possible, who's part of the Freedom Phalanx and Longbow reserve units, an' yer only gonna use a gun?" Tommy asked with a smile. "You gotta be kiddin' me!"

The young man tried to speak, but Tommy stuck his hand in the wannabe's face, giving a close view of the taser dart launchers and cryoprojector on his arm. "No, ya shut right the hell up. What ya asked me ta do is an insult ta everyone who has ta have cybernetics ta function normally. And then ya try an' force me with the threat'a violence. Just how stupid are you? An' don't gimme any sob story 'bout how yer parents never loved ya, neither, or ya had a disadvantage or somethin'. Try ta learn ta run with only one real leg, or type with a tongueswitch 'cause ya lost both arms. Or for that matter, try livin' without physical human contact fer months 'cause yer new heart or lungs ain't ready ta fight off bacteria or how 'bout gettin' by missin' yer sight 'cause yer new eyes ain't completely finished with reconnectin' ta yer optic nerves?"

The wannabe tried his best to look intimidating.

"By the time that ice melts enough for ya ta get out, you'll have had plenty'a time ta figure out how lucky ya are ta be whole," Tommy said before going back into his shop.

Eventually, the fair-haired wannabe got out of the ice block and headed for the Overbrook gate, away from Lou's Garage. Later that night, WPWN Radio's Action Team 5 news reported that a New Overbrook man was injured earlier when his ice-filled gun exploded during a domestic disturbance. He lost his first two fingers and thumb and most of his hand.

The latest therapy session ended with confusion. Todd couldn't understand why Doctor Rutherford kept going back to his father's problems. The original Cobalt Claymore didn't have any serious faults. Among heroes, he was the one who stood out as always willing to uphold what was right and good. Todd leaned back on the tram window, thankful not to have to be anywhere important tonight. He arrived at his houseboat in Founders Falls, drained and ready to sleep.

Todd Galahad, known to the world as the Cobalt Claymore did not expect to see his father there.

"Hello, son," the Cobalt Claymore said.

Todd drew two knives and readied himself for close-in knife work. "What in the hell kind of sick joke is this? Where's Marie? Who are you?"

"It's me, Todd. Your old man! Your dad," the Cobalt Claymore said. "I know, I know, what am I doing here when I'm supposed to be dead. I talked with the Big Guy, you know who I mean, and asked if helping you out a bit would knock off some time in Purgatory. Well, eventually I get word back that it's cool with Him to give you a little father-son advice."

Todd looked around the room. Hallucinogens? Maybe. There weren't any drug interactions to worry about; Todd wanted to use antidepressants as a last resort, trying the therapy-only methods first. "Don't give me that. Dead people normally don't come back."

"No hugs for your old man, huh? I guess I raised you to be a bit too paranoid. I came back for another reason, but I still think it'll help out," the Cobalt Claymore said.

"Tell me or I'll gut you and leave you in Indy Port as Lusca bait." Todd's knuckles whitened. No one would blame him for killing a guy who broke into his house and pretended to be his father, at least he hoped not.

"Easy, easy! I'm not that Bartman guy! I've done dumb things but not something that kept the Curse going," the Cobalt Claymore said, a smile underneath his cowl. "And besides, I'm here for a good thing. Say, could you go get me a pop out of the fridge or something? That purification as if by fire thing is a bit more actual fire than figurative. I think."

Todd re-sheathed his knives. "Stay right there. If you move off that seat, you're dead," he grumbled.

"Sure thing, Bing," the Cobalt Claymore said in a curiously-accurate imitation of Bob Hope. Todd made a mental note of that. Cubs fan, saying something only Dad would say, and self-deprecating cheesiness that supplanted actual wit were three pretty good indicators that either Dad had a stalker, or this was the real deal. Todd opened up the galley fridge and fished a 7-Up and a bottle of water from their respective places.

"What, my boy doesn't drink Green River anymore?" Todd heard from right behind him. He spun around, knife poised to kill the blue-clad imposter. "What did I just tell you?"

"If I moved off that seat, I was dead. Therefore, what must the case be, my boy?"

"You're dead."

"We have a winner!" the Cobalt Claymore shouted. "Now will you listen?"

Todd scowled. "Fine. Back in the living room."

Once the two men sat down across from each other, Todd looked into his father's eyes. They were his dad's, but something else had been added. Some amount of joy.

"First, I came back to give you a little advice about this Doctor Rutherford guy. He's one of those guys you expect to see as the brick of any team. You know he gave up the life to become a shrink, right?"

"Yeah, that's the first thing he told me. He said his heart wasn't in it," Todd said in between sips of water. "He wanted to help heroes out by keeping them sane."

"Right. And when you were trying to get that one girl out of your mother's organization, what did you do?" the Cobalt Claymore said, his hand resting on the soda can.

"Tried to counsel her to leave. She could have done something much better than to become just another ninja."

"And what happened?"

"She died during the bank robbery attempt that Mom sent me on. Charged Hephaestus 1 and a team of PPD cops. They shot her dead. I wanted to be able to escape with no loss of life, just some hard feelings. I wound up with both."

"Well, I want you to think: when we trained back in Chicago, did I ever teach you to be a counselor or social worker?"

"No. You taught me only a few deep-cover skillsets like short-order cooking."

"Right. You know why?"

"No," Todd said.

"You're good with your hands, Todd, that's why," the Cobalt Claymore said as he grabbed the can with both hands, trying to absorb as much of the cold as he could. "Not so much with your brain. Tactically, you're good. You know how to set up good tactics in sports, how to prepare all kinds of food on short notice, how to use the terrain to your advantage in a fight."

"Yes, as well as being good with languages, I know, Dad. You drilled all of that into me, what's this got to do with that girl?"

The Cobalt Claymore looked at his son, a bit of melancholy in his smile. "It's that you're a bad advisor. You don't think long-range enough. I'm not saying you need to start that. I just never saw that in you to think that way. I'd give you a mission and you'd fulfill it, even if it was weeks or years down the road. But you always applied tactics to a strategic situation."

"What do you mean, Dad?" Todd asked.

"You do whatever seems like a good idea at the time to get to the next part of the plan. Look, I'll cut to the chase. Don't give out any more advice unless it's a subject where you're an expert. That'll only bring more heartbreak."

"I know, Dad. I'm trying to deal with that as best as I can."

"Well, listen to the doctor. He might know what to do. But hold on, I've got to get to the main reason I'm here. I wanted to tell you I'm sorry."

"For what?" Todd asked.

"You know, for not telling you anything about your mother, about my past in Malta, all of that. Those records were kept hidden so I could tell you when I was ready. Everything that happened in my past was pretty shameful other than being your father. I wanted to tell you all these things when you turned 18, so you'd know why I fight crime. Alexander Pavilidis put the kibosh on that, didn't he? Lying to you all this time is only one thing I have to atone for. I want you to know what the truth is. So, let me give you a clue."

Todd woke with a start. The tv was on, Sportscenter was just starting, and he had an empty water bottle in front of him. Weird that he apparently sat down and fell asleep for five minutes. He saw a can of 7-Up on the end table next to the other chair in the tiny living room. He reached over and picked it up, and noticed it was empty.

The can was sealed, though, which surprised him. He turned it around to look for holes or rips.

"Bottled under the license of Galahad & Son, 130B West Cermak, crawlspace, check for the loose slab and hope that rats don't like plastic?"

And all he wanted to do on this next trip was catch a home game at Wrigley Field, he thought. He leaned further back into his chair, unsure how he'd explain this to his fellow heroes and hoping he wasn't losing it completely.