Christopher Logan was one of those that rushed to Paragon Citys aid all those years ago. A veteran, he reenlisted in the Army at the start of the Rikti invasion. He volunteered for a super solider program that activated an unused portion of the human genome, knicknamed the Tableau Rasa gene. The activation of the Tableau Rasa gene gave the subject superhuman powers and abilities, based on what was used as a catalyst. In Logans case, the catalyst was electricity. The resulting transformation gave him almost complete control over one of the rawest, most powerful forms of energy on Earth. He became Ohms Defender of the Resistance.
By the time his transformation and training were complete, the invasion had been brought to a dramatic conclusion but the need for heroes, both human and superhuman, was still very real. Under the auspices of the Federal government, he was deployed to coordinate the efforts of a civilian supergroup known as The Order. The Order was an odd collection of unique and powerful individuals. Dumping a military man in the middle of them would seem to be little more than a source frustration for both parties, but as it turned out, the very uniqueness of the Order, aided by what the members referred to as The Calling, lent itself to cooperation.
According to Order lore, in times of great need the Cloister, their living headquarters, literally grew itself where it was needed most and began summering heroes to it via the Calling. The Cloister itself looked like a stone cathedral from the middle ages while the reminder of the compound, the Sanctum, took on the appearance of the times and places in which it grew. Through the ages, the Sanctuary met the needs of the civilian populace, providing them with shelter and sustenance while the Times of Great Need continued.
From the Cloister, situated in the neighborhood known as The Gish, the Order helped bring the city back from the brink of destruction and prevented various forces from pushing it over that brink, more times than even they could keep count of. One of the most unique qualities of the Cloister was its apparent sentience. Those that did not belong inside, could not gain entrance. When new members joined the Order, the Cloister grew to accommodate them. Any damage that was sustained, was repaired. Not instantly, but the damage was repaired. The energy it embodied was as old as the Earth itself, if not older.
It came as quite a surprise the day it was all but utterly wiped off the Earth itself.
The recent incarnation of the Order had always had a strained relationship with the Statesman. No one could quite put their finger on way. Perhaps they rubbed him the wrong way. Perhaps he rubbed them the wrong way. Perhaps it was a little of both. Perhaps this was why that when it had become apparent that the Statesman had designs on carving out a kingdom for himself, a kingdom known as Paragon City, the Order was one of his harshest critics. Then one of his most determined adversaries.
Huh, the Cloister, Ohms croaked, making an effort to spit the blood from his mouth and he laid facedown in the rubble of the ruins of his old supergroups headquarters. Its buttresses jutting out the remnants of its palisades looked like the urban version of a carcass in an elephant graveyard. Never thought Id see it again. His entire body ached as he let himself chuckle, Ironic really. He hadnt laughed in years, not that this was a true laugh by any stretch of the imagination. After the Cloister was the destroyed and the Order scattered, Ohms went underground. Until then his tagline Defender of the Resistance had been just that, a tagline. A play on his new name. His hero name. Heroes, he spat again.
Many heroes had been willing to throw in with the Statesman. They believed his cause just, if a bit extreme in its execution. But not every hero went along to get along. Several fought against the Statesman. Some through legal channels. Some through attempts at legislation. Others through
force of arms. Or eyebeams. Or laser blasts. The Statesman countered with lawyers, politicians bought and paid for, force of arms, and one other component
his control over the media.
Soon, only those superhumans willing to take his side continued to wear the title of Hero. All others, those that resisted, were branded vigilantes, traitors or worse. Rogue became a mark of death. Any hero deemed a Rogue could expect a call from the Paragon Protectors. No one knew what to expect after the Protectors came to call. Mostly because the Rogues the Protectors took into custody were never heard from again.
Ohms was one of the first to earn this new title. Not that it came as a shock to anyone who knew, or who had heard of him. For some people, their hero name fit their powers. For others, it fit their personalities. In the case of Ohms, he was definitely one of the latter. An ohm is a unit of electrical resistance and Ohms had resistance by the bucketload. For him, this had always been the case. His electrical attacks were simply one manifestation of this.
After he went underground, he used his electrical blasts do the talking. The electrical blasts he commanded through the activation of his Tableau Rasa gene. But, as the saying goes, That which is giving can be taken away. The one thing every Rogue, and every Hero for that matter, feared most, more than the Protectors, more than the Statesman himself, was something Crey Industries called the Nanite Evolutionary Regression Facilitator. This shoulder-fire weapon fired a bolt of energy bearing nanites, tiny robotic devices that sought out whatever it was that made a superhuman more than human
and shut it down.
<<Continued>>
The shadow entered the Gish, continuing its general southwesterly zigzag path. One of the few remaining streetlamps flickered to life as the shadow ducked around a dumpster and up and over a wall and into the remains of what appeared to be an old church. It circled the perimeter before finally settling in over what it had been searching for.
The prone form was partially covered by stone blocks, two foot by three foot, held together by mortar. By the cut of the stone, this had been a section of the churchs wall. It was male, dressed mostly in black and approximately six and a half feet in, what would be height if the man had been upright. His face was obscured by the debris, more building blocks, that littered the floor. Smokey tentacles reached out towards the wall section. Without making contact, the heavy stones levitated gently into the air, clearing the prone figure before settling back down a foot or two away.
Christopher Logan? the shadow asked. Its voice flickered in and out and the prone figure wasnt sure exactly what he was hearing. He was sure that he was hallucinating. He fought to open his bruised, swollen eyes. All he could make out through the slits was a patch of darkness slightly darker than the growing gloom of sunset on Kings Row. The darkness bore the unmistakable honeyed voice of a torch singer as it stabilized. But he wasnt hearing it from feet away. He was hearing it right inside his ear. It wasnt like telepathy. Hed run across his share of telepaths in his time. This was something different. He chalked it up to a concussion. Maybe a near-death experience. After the beating he had just received at the hands of the squad of Paragon Protectors, either of the two were distinct possibilities.
Christopher Logan? the shadow asked again.
This time Ohms snapped his right eye open. The effort took a lot out of him. He remained where he had fallen, prone, his left ear on the ground. His arms and legs splayed out around him. He peered thru the shattered remains of a targeting reticule that was attached to his ripped mask. Fortunately, the dark blotch came clearly into focus. Unfortunately, it didnt take the form of the dropdead dame the voice tricked him into expecting to see. It remained just a dark blotch floating in a sea of darkness. You got him, Ohms croaked.
The shadow seemed to sigh, changing its elevation slightly. I have been seeking you. There isnt much time.
Time for what lady? Ohms asked. If this was a near-death experience, it was becoming an annoying one.
I have been observing you for some time, the shadow admitted. I made my decision, but not before you
you
Got my fourth point of contact kicked up around my ears? he asked.
I
Im not sure what you mean, the shadow said.
Happens all the time, Ohms shrugged, but only verbally.
The shadow laughed, a hearty laugh considering its incorporeality. Then it caught itself and reminded Ohms that there wasnt much time. You are gravely wounded.
Yeah, Ohms conceded, coughing up more blood. Noticed that too.
We do not have time for this, the shadow said curtly. If we do not act quickly, you will perish and I will need to find another.
Another what? Ohms asked.
Host, the shadow replied.
A host? Ohms asked.
"A suitable host, the shadow replied.
You mean, Ohms asked. Like a parasite?
It is more of a symbiotic relationship, the shadow corrected. But only if you are willing. That is very important. And only if you are suitable.
Suitable? Ohms chuckled. This was the first time he noticed that lack of sensation in his legs. His arms werent doing much better. The pins and needles feeling was beginning to fade from them as well. Not a good sign. Lady, right now Im about the biggest lemon from the tree that grows in every junkyard from here to Tennessee.
The shadow didnt know how to reply to that. I can tend to your wounds, but
But? Ohms asked.
But first we would have to merge, the shadow replied sullenly. And I have yet to fully explain it in order for you to make an informed decision. And as I have said, that is very important.
Lady, Ive got nothing but time, Ohms said. The stars were beginning to creep into the edges of his vision. Not that I have a lot of it, mind you. Lets start with what makes me suitable. Bloodtype? Showsize? Powers?
Again, the shadow didnt know how to reply to this. You do not have powers. Not any longer.
Yeah, Ohms said, thinking back to the minutes immediately preceding his getting faceplanted. Noticed that one too. Got nerfed by ol Shovelfaces goons. Then got well and truly pwned by them too. All in all, its been a pretty crappy day.
I found you suitable because of your will to fight, the shadow explained. To fight the good fight against forces doing what they do, simply because they can. Against those who have been corrupted by their great power. I do not have time to explain, but this is what makes you a very suitable candidate for me. I have
amends to make.
Amends? Ohms asked. This was getting stranger by the minute. Too bad he didnt have enough of them left to see how strange they could truly get.
My
race, the shadow continued. Has done
things. Terrible things.
Join the club, lady. Ohms chuckled ruefully. It aint exactly all bunnies and rainbows around here.
The shadow hovered, remained silent.
Will or not, Ohms said, breaking the awkward silence. Im pretty busted up here, and even if I wasnt, my powers are toast and hot lead hasnt proved to be much in the way of fending off goons that can heal quicker than you can shoot them while blasting you to so much conductive jelly.
If we merge
the shadow trailed off. You will have powers. But that isnt the way I wish to do this. I do not want to hold the promise of power over your head like some sort of temptation. Some sort of deal with
With the devil? Ohms asked. The corner of his eyed turned up slightly. About all he could muster in the way of making it clear he was joking.
The shadow gained altitude and seemed to shake from side to side as if agitated. I am not the devil.
Take it easy, lady. Ohms assured, I was only joking.
You do not understand, the shadow replied. My race
We have done terrible things. Wicked things. It is a
difficult reputation to live down. Even when you renounce what your race has done. What it still does.
Ohms didnt reply.
Christopher Logan? the shadow asked.
Ohms didnt reply.
Christopher Logan? the shadow asked again, insistently this time.
Ohms eked his right eyelid open again.
The shadow dropped altitude, closing within inches of Ohmss bruised and battered face, and shook with even more agitation than when it had been insulted. There is not much time. Do I have your permission to merge with you?
You get to make amends? Ohms asked.
Yes, replied the shadow. We will make amends.
And I get to keep in the fight? Ohms asked.
Yes, replied. We will continue the good fight.
Ohms thought it over, One thing.
And that is? the shadow asked.
Whats your name?
My name, said the shadow. You would not be able to pronounce it.
Thats okay, Ohms replied. Tell me anyway.
The shadow did. But she had been right. He doubted hed ever be able to pronounce it, let alone write it out. Maybe it was that. Maybe it was the blows to the head. The repeated blows to the head. Maybe it was his life-force fading away. But he caught enough of it that sounded familiar. Okay Velda, he said. His eyelids slipping shut, darkness engulfing him. Lets merge.
<<Fin>>
Dark Dreams, Darker Reality (More Here.)
The wind shifted again. The leaves of the trees rustled. The twin moons were mere slivers in the nights sky. It was a dark night. Cool. Crisp. A perfect night for me and what Ive come to do. I can clearly pick up the scent of the guards. Theyre scared. The Ranathchak always smelt a bit sulfuric, hard for a people who called the fire plains of Anzhurac home not to, but when they were nervous or frightened their scent changed. It took on subtle notes of cloves burning. The Ranathchak are proud people. A warrior race. Its the only outward sign; the only tell they gave when they were worried. Most of them werent even aware of it. It was only something that could be picked up by the sensitive nose of a tracking animal
or a trained assassin.
This was the part I enjoyed most. The careful plans shifting into the action phase. The stealthy patience as I closed on my quarry. The thrill of the anticipation. Taking out my target was almost anticlimactic
almost. Im not quite that jaded. But the fun I had leading up to the end-kill
ah, now that made it all worthwhile. If I could instill fear in those who were about to fall before me, so much the better. The guard detail around the Ranathchak Consulate in the Arzzim Province, capital of the Vrimmar Imperium, had been doubled. Most people would be concerned by this. But Im not most people.
After the assassination of Janeth the special envoy to the Caezinth Council from Vrimmar the Ranathchak were concerned there would be a retaliation. With good reason. I didnt go to all the trouble of making it look like an attack by a Zhuranath Master just for the sake of variety. It took a good amount of time to be able to master their martial art of fire combat enough to make my attack believable. Id be greatly disappointed if all that effort was for naught.
I even made sure to make use of interdimensional portals, something my instructor Laranziz called the Fiery Rings of Ziraczee. The old fool actually believed his people singularly blessed with the gift of pulling off what my people have been using to amuse children at parties for ages. I wonder what my dear old teacher would have thought when he learned what I had used his training for. Judging by the reaction he had to my draining the very last drop of life essence from him, he probably wouldnt have taken it well.
The job was simple really. The Rithzuum wanted war between the Ranathchak and the avian people of the Vrimmar Imperium. The shaky truce that had existed between the two races for going on thirty winters was reaching the point of solidifying into full-fledged peace, or flying apart into bloody conflict. The necro-mages of the Rithzuum wanted the latter. They reasoned a few well placed assassinations of leaders and key officials would achieve that goal.
Thats where I come in.
The Rithzuum Triumbrum didnt explain what they hoped to gain from the war between the two clans. I didnt ask. I could care less. This wasnt even my world. Caezinth, the Crimson Jewel. Yeah right. I guess Backwater Armpit was already taken. Soon Id be leaving anyway. Those damn White Lighters were moving into this sector which means Im moving out. A war between two of the major races on Caezinth would help cover my tracks. Time to get this moving along. The Consul wasnt going to kill himself.
I took a quick glance through the plexiglass window. I could see Donna. She was sitting at one of the chairs that circled around the table in the dining area of the House of Tomorrow. The whole damn thing was made out of plastic. One of those brainstorms to come out of the 1950s. It was supposed to be what people would be living in in the future. I wonder what J. Allen Wilkerson, the guy that footed most of the bill for the project, would think of the fact that John and Jane Q. Public were still living in boxes made of concrete and steel and wood. Not big plastic bubbles. I dont know why my mind always focuses on odd bits of trivia under stressful circumstances like this. Most people would be concerned at times this. But Im not most people.
I hazarded another glance into the house. This time I caught sight of Terawatt and Jimmy. My evil twin was busily taking advantage of the Atoms for the Living Kitchen, known nowadays as a microwave, to nuke some Jiffy Mart burritos. Evil Twin. When the hell did my life become a soap opera?
Jimmy was curled up in one of those hideous chairs that looked like a hollowed-out egg. Rollo, his ever-present teddy bear, was sitting in his lap. Well, at least Terawatt didnt suspect the tracking device, or the surprise I had Shotgun Sally stick into that copy of Rollo. I let myself breathe a sigh of relief.
Boss, Sparkss voice over the commlink interrupted my train of thought. Hes called in his demands. Ten mil in gold and jewels. Brought out to the House of Tomorrow in four hours by Fritz of all people. Then the usual warnings. No cops, no supers or
well, I dont need ta be saying what he said hed do.
Gold and jewels? I said. Someone really got an eyeful while sneaking around the Cloister, didnt they?
Looks like it, Boss.
Whats the teams status? I asked as I reached into the top of my right boot. There was no way I was going to be able to port through this plastic house. Which no doubt was exactly why my twin chose it to hole up in. Hes me, sort of; he knows that I cant port through nonconductive materials. I pressed the stud on the gizmo I had Sally whip up if I ever found myself trapped inside of a wooden, or plastic, cell. The spring tension released a slim, long needle from the cylindrical body. It was based on a design the cloak-n-dagger types developed during the Cold War. Never thought Id use it to get myself into a nonconductive trap.
It isnt looking good, Boss. Sparks reported dutifully. The Big Man (meaning the Terran) and the doll with the motorcycle (meaning Shotgun Sally) have gone off to investigate an offshore slavery ring. Spellstorm has disappeared as well. Both parts, taken separately, didnt hold much significance, but since the last I had heard some frustrations between those two were due to be worked off, the combination took on a different meaning. Blackwolfs commlink is offline, Grandmaster is still recovering from his battle with the Combatant, Tin Mans dealing with his evil twin, Elvis has left the building
Like I said Boss, it isnt looking good.
What about our recently returned teammate? I asked, referring to the transformed Goblin Jack.
Gone. Sparks replied.
Gone?
Like I said, gone, he insisted. He was in his lab one minute and gone the next.
Ill file that away for contemplation at another time, Sparks. I said Right now it was time to check in on Donna, Jimmy and my evil twin.
Be careful, Boss.
Arent I always? I asked as I peered through the window. Sparks didnt answer. We both knew the answer. The scene inside had changed. I couldnt hear what was being said, but I dont need to be a lip-reader to know that it wasnt a friendly exchange. Things were getting heated. Terawatt yelling at Donna. Donna yelling at Terawatt. Even Jimmy was out of his chair and yelling. Rollo, ever the model of Zen restraint, was the only one keeping his cool inside the House of Tomorrow. Terawatt waved his finger in Donnas face. Donna stood her ground. Jimmy, whod been spending the past few months in the company of a bunch of spandexed-types, launched into action.
Jimmy sent a red Chuck Taylor into Terawatts left shin, to little affect. Terawatt, for his part, responded with a backhanded blow that sent the child skidding across the floor. Donna went from angry to downright enraged before Jimmy came to a halt and sent her, decidedly larger shin crashing into the one place no man wants to have a shin, or much of anything else for that matter, crashing into.
Terawatt let out the contents of his lungs in a whoosh and doubled over in pain. Donna turned to take full advantage of Terawatts pain and called to Jimmy to run. Jimmy regained his feet, and with Rollo clutched tightly to his chest, headed for the door and pulled frantically at the knob. The door, thanks to Terawatt, wasnt budging.
Terawatt recovered from the blow and snatched Donna by the back of her head, at the base of her ponytail. Donna screamed louder for Jimmy to run as she struggled to free herself. He knew that keeping his hostages intact was a crucial part of the plan, especially after the cakewalk that was supposed to be the Tiffanys job flew apart. Dominus Rex would be livid, but at the moment was too angry to care and the blue snakes of raw electricity danced along his forearm.
No! I bellowed as I bolted upright, gasping for air as I looked around the apartment. It took me a few moments to realize where I was. The sheets were soaked and twisted around my legs. I kicked free and swung them off the edge of the bed. My left hand rubbed my face, attempting to blot out the memories, as my right hand searched the nightstand. I needed a smoke bad. I couldnt find the pack of butts I was searching for and flicked on the light in frustration. The nightstand was empty, just the lamp and my wristwatch. I let out a chuckle. Id forgotten Id given up smoking. I let out another chuckle when it dawned on me that I never smoked in the first place. Well, at least not the me I used to be.
In my defense, the honeyed voice of Velda, or the being I called Velda, said in my head. Pretty much everyone on that planet smoked. There is one universal truth. On worlds where the plant known here as tobacco grows, the inhabitants are foolish enough to smoke it.
I scooped up my watch and checked the time. 3:33am it said. Sally wasnt back from work yet. This was her apartment. Nice digs in the heart of Founders Falls, which was saying something. Founders Falls was one of the more affluent sections of the city. Virtually untouched by the Rikti invasion and its citizenry had the added blessing of being looked upon favorably by the Statesman. In other words the place was swarming with toadies and bootlicks.
Ive known Sally for years. After the invisible demons Poltergeist sicked on me well and truly kicked my fourth point of contact Sally found me and brought me back to the garage she and the rest of the Concrete Angels used as a home and nursed me back to health. In those days she was know Shotgun Sally. A grease-monkey with Hoppes #9 running through her veins. Sure, she kept her platinum tresses cropped close but her figure left no doubt about her gender. Shes a whiz with weapons and gadgets of any kind, but otherwise a normal human. Just like the rest of the Angels. Not a mutie like yours truly. Well, like yours truly used to be.
She helped me out of some tough spots over the years. We were close but were never an item until recently. What can I say? Sometimes Im slow on the uptake. Sometimes you need a third person to point out things that youre not seeing. Even if technically, Im that third person. I got up and crossed the wood floor of the bedroom and gazed out the window. I wasnt expecting to see anything. Just a habit. My watch said 3:36 now.
Some people would be concerned by the hour, but Im not most people. I took it as a good sign. After the war things changed and after the Statesman went fascist they changed even more. I wonder what Streets, Sallys old leader, wouldve thought of Sallys new gig. Desperate times, as the old saying goes, call for desperate measures, but I dont think Streets wouldve approved of the measures Sally and some of the other Concrete Angels had taken. Even still, Id rather she was still alive to let me know for sure. Shed find a way to blame me for their decision no doubt.
Sally had a new handle that she went by these days: Anastasia. It seemed a good fit for the features her Swedish and Ukrainian heritage gave her and it had enough of an exotic edge and sense of mystery to go along with her new vocation. Like most cities Paragon City had its share of what are interestingly enough referred to as Gentlemens Clubs. From low-rent hole-in-the-wall strip joints to high-end cabarets, the game was the same; separate John and sometimes Jane Q. Public from their money.
Sally and a few of the surviving Concrete Angels threw in with the resistance movement. The Angels werent looking for some extra cash to cover the rent, and by the looks of the place Sally had moved into a few months after starting up as Anastasia rent wasnt cheap. They worked only the high-end joints. The ones those that found themselves more equal than others in the Statesmans little utopia frequented. Theyd grease up their marks with booze and liberal helpings of feminine wiles and carefully extract as much information as the dopes were willing to spill then theyd pass it along to the resistance.
Ironically, it had been Stixs idea for the Angels to start working the strip joints in town. Shes the Angels resident medic, and has about as big a hate-on for men as Streets did. Before her addiction to prescription meds had flushed her dreams of being a doctor down the tubes shed also taken a few headshrinking courses. Not that you exactly need a PhD to know that the best way to separate a fool from just about anything youre after is through the appropriate application of a g-string.
Sally said shed been working on a mark connected with the PPW, the Paragon Public Works. It always struck me as funny how frequently the terms like People and Public were used by the most brutal of regimes. The PPW used to be one of the most powerful privately owned corporations in Paragon City. I guess Im partially to blame for it. After Countess Creys little Revenant Project was exposed the resulting PR nightmare made it pretty easy, and popular, for the Statesman to take over Crey Industries. New management brought with it a new name. There was never any love lost between me and the good Countess, but still. What can I say? I grew up a Cold Warrior. Commies bug me.
(To Be Continued)
Meanwhile, across the multiverse the smoldering wreckage of a once thriving metropolis sends plumes of acrid smoke into an indifferent sky. The sun itself seemed too war-weary to put much of an effort into burning through the cloud cover. Rusted hulks of automobiles lined the debris-strewn streets of Kings Row. A chill, early Spring wind kicked up dust as it blew through the bombed out buildings. The only things that dared to move were scraps of wind-tossed paper and the feral packs of pets involuntarily abandoned by their owners.
In its heyday the Kings Row neighborhood of Paragon City had been home to all manner of industry, large and small. Communities sprang up to meet the needs of the citizenry that worked here. It had fallen on hard times, even before the invasion, but it had been making a comeback in the months that followed. Now it was a battlefield. Like much of the rest of the city. After the Rikti Invasion and the Statesmans role in preventing the total subjugation of the human race at the hands of aliens, no one ever would have guessed that it wasnt the invaders hands they had to worry about.
At first, in the chaos following the Rikti War, the Statesman and the superhumans that flocked to Paragon City were welcomed as heroes. In those days they were. Now, three years later, the city was a fractured shell of its former self. Force field walls, once erected to separate the parts of the city too damaged by the invasion, and too difficult to cleanse of the various criminal elements that inhabited them, were now used to separate the citizenry into those that supported the Statesmans stifling utopian vision and those that rejected it.
Following the High Park Uprising, Kings Row met one of the harsher penalties the Statesman could dish out. It was now, like Warsaw during the Second World War, a ghetto and locked down. Those still trapped inside were unable to get out and very little in the way of food and supplies were able to get in. Most of those were either smuggled in by brave souls or were brought in by black-marketeers whose only interest was to make a buck.
A shadow flitted across the ruins. Its inky darkness an umbral speck in a devastated cityscape filled with smoke and shadow. Unless you were paying attention it could easily be passed off as a shadow cast by a scudding cloud. By the way it moved, halted, changed direction, you could tell there was an intelligence, a sentience at work there. But by the way it went out of its way to avoid detection by the squads of the Statesmans Paragon Protectors, it was obvious that it wasnt a shadow belonging to one of the large carrion birds that were seemingly everywhere in zones such as Kings Row.
After the invasion, after the reconstruction, the Statesman acquired greater and greater control over every facet of Paragonian life. One of the first steps he took after gaining sufficient power was to seize control over the major corporations like Portal Corp. and Crey Industries. The Communists called it Nationalizing. With control over these companies, along with great wealth, came access to the technological advancements they had in development. One such development was the controversial Revenant Program.
Countess Crey had been working on a highly advanced and highly unethical means of supplying a demand for superheroes by cloning heroes that fell during the Rikti invasion. When that source dried up, she moved on to cloning heroes that were still alive and fighting crime. Thanks to the efforts of some brave, well-connected cops and their superhero associates, the program was exposed. The public was outraged. The Statesman used this as justification to oust the Countess and take over Crey Industries.
The irony that these were the very same Paragon Protectors that the Statesman now used to swell his ranks of superpowered stormtroopers isnt lost on many, especially the heroes that theyre routinely sent out to apprehend dead or alive.
The shadow saw the approaching squad of Paragon Protectors and dropped under an outcropping of a building leaning so far to one side as to risk toppling over from the slightest gust of wind. The four Protectors flew past in what fighter pilots called a Finger Four formation. The two in the back bore weapons, about the size of a rifle. One glowed red around the barrel. The other glowed green. Their uniforms mimicked that of the Statesman. The uniform he adopted shortly after seizing total control over Paragon City. They were jet black; a small red star rode over their left breasts. Their trademark helmets glistened, reflecting what little light seeped into the ghetto.
After they passed, the shadow lifted from its concealment and continued on its way. Floating, searching it seemed, roughly southwest across the devastated zone. Periodically it would drop into the ruins of a building or the empty shell of a car or truck before continuing on its way.
<<Continued>>