A Scripta

Captain Grey regarded the young woman. "I don't know about you, but I'm not about to risk my life or those of my companions just to 'investigate'."

Devereaux replied, "It's probably the only way we'd find out what's going on."

"Why don't you send a droid?" Chen asked. "Give me a little while and I can reprogram one of these to go in--"

"We possibly don't have time for that," Devereaux stated.

Rusty stood straight. "I'll show you where it is."

Devereaux appraised Rusty, while Moreau snapped, "Think about what you're doing, boy!"

"I know what I'm doing!"

Captain Grey sighed, "Of course he knows what he's doing. His hormones speak louder than his words. If you go down there, Rayna," the captain addressed him, "and you get in trouble, don't come to me for help. I don't have the time or money to babysit you."

"I'll be fine," Rusty said.

Devereaux said, "I can't guarantee that."

Rusty raised an eyebrow, while inside he was bruised. How could she say that? Even though his "visions" couldn't see that far ahead, he had the feeling that things were going to be all right. All he was going to do was take her down to the area he had seen the klaxon go off in, he wasn't going to do any sort of fighting, at least he wasn't planning on it.

Rusty checked the communications array while the two men returned and reported nothing was amiss. No one seemed to be answering anywhere. "Do you want me shut off the distress signal?" he asked, and walked away from the console as the captain replied, "No, just in case the Fleet is on its--" He stared at Rusty for a moment, and Rusty gave him a slight smile. "Sometimes I'm psychic, Captain."

Grey humphed and turned back to Chen and Moreau. "I'm not prepared to fan out into the city to find out what's going on," Grey said. "We stay here and wait for Fleet to arrive."

"Should we stay here, Captain?" asked Moreau. "They might think we had a hand in this."

"Fleet's not that stupid," said Chen.

"I already told them we're here," Grey said. Rusty turned back to the console just as a klaxon went off for a moment, then stopped abruptly. Grey watched Rusty, asking, "Any idea where that--"

"It came from within the building, three flights down."

Grey shook his head. "Let's wait for Fleet. I'm not going down there."

"I'm looking around," said Moreau.

"Don't poke around too much," Rusty cautioned. "Like you said, they might think we had something to do with this."

Rusty glanced outside the viewport to watch the robot drones carry on their programmed work. Just more than an hour had passed when the communications signal went off. "Indiana II, this is the Hefferen. Can you receive us?"

Grey walked over to the comm and pressed a button, "Hefferen, this is Captain Grey of the Irving. We just got here a little while ago and there's no one in the main hangar bay."

"We are sending a landing party. Hefferen out."

The four men took the 'vator back down to the bay to wait for the arrival of the Fleet shuttle. It took about another two hours before the bay doors opened to allow another shuttle into the dome.

Rusty stared at the sleek shuttle. It looked like a typical single-seater, but it probably held at least a three-man crew. He was surprised to see the shuttle doors open and a woman stood at the hatchway, flanked by two young men carrying photon laser pistols.

"Women," Grey spat. "Worst thing they ever did."

Rusty watched the woman step lightly down the ramp. "I am Lieutenant Christine Devereaux of Fleet Command. These are my assistants Ensigns Urla Carpenter and Michel Caron."

"I'm Captain Grey," the captain said gruffly. "This is Chen, Moreau, and Rusty."

She nodded to the men, though Rusty thought she might have lingered on him a moment too long. He preened.

"What have you found out so far, Captain?" she asked him.

"The place is deserted, at least here, though an emergency alarm went off - where did you say, Rusty?"

Rusty tore his eyes away from the woman and looked up at the captain in a deer-caught-in-headlights look. "Sir?"

"The emergency alarm went off," he repeated patiently. "Where was it?"

Devereaux did not smile at him, though Rusty thought she was just inches away from doing so. Rusty stared for a moment at the captain, and ducked, just as Moreau went to slap him on the back of his head. He still caught a glancing part of the blow, but it would have hurt if he stayed still.

"Hey!" Rusty said, and looked at Devereaux. He smiled. She watched him patiently. "Huh, yeah, right. The signal. Right, it came from three flights below this one."

"We should investigate," Devereaux stated flatly.

Grey started moving toward the pneumatic freight elevators, while Rusty and Moreau kept an eye out for any odd movements other than droids. The four men boarded the elevator to the command center, and in seconds - not without a gravitational jolt that sent Rusty's stomach to the floor - they arrived at the command center above the bay's busy floor.

All four men had their hand weapons out as they approached the door to the command center. The door was locked. Grey turned to Chen, who pulled out a small square box. "I'll have it open in less than - "

The doors hissed open. Both men turned to each other, and Chen shrugged. "That's why you brought me along, Captain."

"Almighty droid master," the captain murmured as they stepped into the command center. It was also too quiet, as no one answered the captain's calls.

Rusty went to the command center control panel. "The distress signal's on auto," he stated.

"See if you can contact any other command centers on the planet. Chen, Moreau, take a look around here a little more, see if anyone's hiding in the closet."

The two men nodded and fanned out.

Bagar was a class B star, and the fourth planet in its orbit contained a colony from Indiana, a planet merely five light-years away. The natives of Bagar Four were considered pacifist, and the colony was under a bubble, not allowed to interact with the natives in any way. That didn't stop the diplomats, or those that wanted to be.

Rusty arrived at the shuttle bay, along with Captain Zill Grey, Navigator Chen, and Tech Moreau. Moreau was nicknamed "Billychon", a certain species of fruit from the Gelise system that looked and smelled horrible on the outside, but was sweet and tender on the inside. Billychon acted gruff, seemed perpetually angry, but was always good in a fight.

Rusty took a spot toward the rear of the shuttle, manning its engines. The shuttle roared to life and the four-man crew headed down to the planet surface. Grey tried all the frequencies until he finally got an automated response which allowed him to open the bay doors into the bubble of the city.

Grey kept his communications open in two ways: both in his ear and in his mind. He was in constant communication with the ship due to an implant that only he had, as it was too much money to outfit all the members of his crew with it. He kept the one in his ear as an outward manifestation of the implant, to make others think that was his only communication link. The others had their communication links in their ears as well.

"Take a gun," Grey commanded the three men. Rusty took a hand-held laser, and stopped to take a small dagger, mostly because he saw it in his field of visions. The three men flanked the captain as he opened the shuttle door.

They came face to face with a rotund robot who stood right outside the door. "Any repairs required," the robot said flatly.

"Negative," replied Grey. "Where is your controller?"

"Above," the robot responded, as its visual apparatus pointed upward. Rusty followed its gaze to see a large command center directly above them. Rusty saw some robots running around from place to place, moving things from one area of the bay to another.

"It's too quiet," said Chen. "There's no humans working down here."

"Maybe they don't have any," Moreau said.

This is raw and unedited. This is based on a story that Cold Soldier and I had cooked up about Emerald Flight and my character Rusty Gears and his Emerald Flight. It will probably need some polishing, but here is some of it, or what I can get down during my lunch hour.

Russell Rayna stared for a moment at the readings on the board, glancing back at the engine room. A short, round tub of a man stood off to the side, leaning against a doorframe, grinning from ear to ear, watching Rayna puzzle the problem out.

"Figure it out yet, boy?" he asked, still grinning.

"It has something to do with the vacuum," Rayna said, tapping the board. "Don't tell me. You're going to tell me. I don't want you to tell me."

"Eh, eh, eh," said the man, "What do you think I'm going to tell you?"

"It has nothing to do with the vacuum."

"Ya got that right."

A voice came over the intercom, tinny and ancient. "Engineering."

The man launched himself from the doorframe and looked up at the cieling as he answered, "Yes, cap'n."

"What're you doing, Prax?"

"Givin' Rusty Aisenburgh's Problem."

"Yeah, whatever that is. Listen, I'm going to have to sustain warp drive for four hours. There's an emergency distress call from Bagar Four."

"Let the Fleet handle it," Rusty said quietly.

"I heard that, Rusty. Because we're under the Fleet's protection and we're closest to there, we should at least investigate for them. The Fleet's sending a ship there but it'll take them ten standard hours to get there."

Rusty glanced at Prax and said, "We could find some Ringor metal there."

"Why do you think we're going?" the captain said, his voice carrying a chuckle. "It's not too far out of our way, and if we can exchange some of these damn silkworms, we won't flood the market on Kalor. We'll be the first ship there, and they'll be happy to see us." Thereby, as the Nexus had done on their planet, give them a good deal in appreciation.

"Provided they're not under attack," Prax said.

Rusty looked steadily at Prax, but his mind was elsewhere, searching in his mind's eye for the possibilities that existed, but he couldn't see what was waiting for them at Bagar Four. Only Prax knew of Rusty's ability to see possible futures. Prax had kept quiet, so long as every once in a while Rusty threw him a bone after a poker game or two.

"We're a merchant ship," Prax continued. "We don't have the firepower."

"If there's a battleship there, we'll act stupid and leave," said the captain. "We've done this before, on Pasteur Nine. Prepare engines."

Rusty and Prax moved to different areas of the engine room. Rusty put a transciever in his ear, while Prax did the same and moved to the other side. Prax began, "Warp in five, four, three, two...one."

Rusty held onto a small bar in front of him as the ship lurched slightly forward, slipping into warp drive. He let go of the bar and punched a few buttons on the boards, making sure the warp engines wouldn't slip out of sync. They had four hours of this, which could tax the ancient vessel, depending on what kind of resistance they would run into.

Luckily, Prax and Rusty had kept the engines in good repair so that they could keep up the warp for about six hours at top speed. They reached the Bagar system within three hours.

Prax glanced at the view screen, which was the same view screen that the captain was looking at. "I don't see anything, do you?"

Rusty shook his head. "I can't see anything either way."

"No ships on the dark side of the moon?"

"No ships in the area," he said, glancing at another viewscreen.

"What the hell would they be complaining about?" Prax asked no one in particular.

Again, the tinny voice came over the intercom, "Engineering."

"Yes, cap'n."

"Send Rayna to the shuttle bay. I'm taking a landing party. Nobody's answering."

"Noted," he replied, nodding to Rusty. "Take the rations, just in case."

"On it," Rusty said, as he has already turned his back on him and headed to a small cabinet.

There were a few things that frightened Masonry to no end, that would bring him on the edge of panic. Most of them had to do with his lover, but only one had to do with a place he had been.

The Zig.

Or, by extension, any jail. Like the one he was in right now.

After they put the handcuffs on him at Independence Port, they brought him to Talos Island to be secured in the jail there. He rode quietly in the police car, believing that if he had to, he could break the handcuffs (not knowing they were made of titanium). He rode quietly on the special train that also carried the Red Maiden and some of her Council cohorts. He was quiet as they brought him into the police station.

There began his panic. They fingerprinted him, but he kept looking at the door. He got his phone call and called Frost, leaving a message on his cellphone’s voice mail. Still, he watched the door, and kept his eye on it even as they brought him downstairs to the cells.

He almost lost it as they locked the door behind him, a solid steel door facing him. He stared at that door, believing, again, he could break through it if he had to (not knowing that it, too, was made of Rikti metal specially made against villains such as Red Maiden). He sat, staring at the door, willing Frost to come and get him.

But another man came instead. “Who’s there?” Masonry asked, his voice on the edge of panic, as he heard the locks being turned. The door opened, and in stepped Hisagi, sealing the door behind him. The two men stared at each other for half a minute before Masonry said, “C’mon man, get me out of here.”

Hisagi stated coldly, “You are alone in here. No reason to complain.”

“I'm in JAIL. There's plenty of reason to complain. What’m I in jail for? I was only trying to help.”

“You could have put people in danger.” He stood with his hands behind his back, as if about to give a lecture. “There's only much I can do to keep a villain at bay by knocking them back. I'd have a hard time once they decide to run other than in my own direction.”

“You kept frustrating her, and she probably would have taken off if she wasn't so determined to kick your ass.” Masonry looked around the cell, his panic starting to grow slightly, but he damped it down hard. “Has Frost come yet?”

“I don't know.”

“You wouldn't not let him bail me out, would you?”

Keen Stronghold made no reply. The panic reared its head for half a second as Masonry pleaded, “C'mon, man...”

Stronghold turned at Masonry’s tone, and he grew even colder as he stated, “I'll just ask you once... don't get in the way. It's not your place to discuss tactics. If you want to do so, join the Police.”

“I wasn't 'in the way' - I was trying to help.” He traced one of the stones on the floor with his foot. “And they probably won't take a convicted felon.”

“Probably not.”

“You pounded her in the last minute - why couldn't you do that before?”

“Certain actions need to be saved for the most appropriate moment. But you wouldn't understand that.”

Masonry rolled his eyes and said, “You're supposed to take them down as soon as you can. Not keep playing with them like you're a cat and they're a mouse.”

“Whatever. I'm not going into it. It's useless.”

“I bet you're sore that you couldn't get her down right off the bat.”

“Excuse me, but I don't follow you.” Stronhold almost growled, “You don't know how my equipment works. How I work with them. Your view of tactics is clearly a totally different thing. We both can tell, right?”

“So they give you stuff to subdue but not to really take them down?”

“It works. That's what matters.”

“I was trying to end the fight, not keep the villain engaged. And I'll get in the way if it's necessary. I was trying to help someone who I thought needed it. You're telling me you had everything under control?”

“Yes, I had. And if you do it again, I'll arrest you again.”

“Well, I'll make a point next time to be sure it won't be you...”

“Besides, of all people... I don't need *your* help.”

“You don't *want* my help. Call a spade a spade, Hisagi.”

“Whatever, Mason. It was unnecessary.”

“Okay, okay. Now will you get me out of here?”

“In proper time. I can't keep you here for long. I just wanted to ask you something. You probably... have an idea already.”

“…no idea.” But then it hit him, just as he muttered the words, what Hisagi probably wanted out of him.

Hisagi was at the door. He snapped, “Fine, then. If you don't know what it is, chances are that I'm not supposed to ask.”

“Your brother's doing fine.”

Hisagi stopped himself at the doorway, his back to Masonry.

“He misses you all, since he won't talk about you. And you're both so stubborn...”

“Really.” Masonry thought he could detect a smirk on the man’s face.

Hisagi pressed a button and the door slid open. “Go. You’re free.”

Masonry resisted the urge to bolt. “I am?”

“It was a small incident. No reason to keep you here. Just... don't do it again.”

“I won't do it...with you around.”

“Who's the stubborn one now.”

Masonry gave him a small smile, but knew better than to offer his hand. “Take care, Hisagi. I'll tell Frost you said hi - or at least I saw you.” Hisagi looked him in the eye, but his face was devoid of emotion, which disturbed Masonry more than being in jail did.

As Masonry almost ran to the elevator, passing the two PPD who stood guard at it, he heard Hisagi mutter, “...right.”

Masonry stepped back with the crowd as the PPD shoved them all away from the bank in Independence Port. Allegedly the villain Red Maiden had taken hostages and broken into the vault, and was expected to make her exit in some violent way.

"Step back," the PPD cop snarled at the crowd.

Masonry milled around with the civilians, watching from the sidelines. Then someone gasped and pointed up - a man lit down in front of the bank.

"Stronghold," someone said.

Masonry gazed at the hero, his hair pulled back into a severe pony tail, making him look more serious than ever. His cape billowed in the sea breeze, as he regarded the bank door.

"He'll get her," said a woman.

"He'll keep her in a bubble and that'll be the end of it," said a man disgustedly.

"Why," asked another man next to him, "looking for some action?"

A man next to Masonry folded his arms across his chest. "Be careful what you wish for," he said quietly.

"Boring," retorted the disgusted man.

"But effective," said Masonry. "He's a cop, not a vigilante."

Just as the disgusted man turned to face him, the doors burst open and a very large woman in red with a hammer and sickle emblazoned on her chest stepped out. Stronghold turned on his own force field in an instant response.

"You vill attempt to stop me," she said loudly.

The man next to him groaned. "Wrong accent," he said. "Russians don't say that..."

Stronghold said nothing as he thrust a bubble at her, knocking her back into the bank. The crowd cheered. The large woman's hands suddenly started to glow and she barreled out of the bank's doors, heading right toward Stronghold. Stronghold's shields held easily. The woman roared and kept pounding at Stronghold. He let loose with a small blast, again, knocking her backwards. This only enraged her further.

"This is going to be really boring, really fast."

Some in the crowd murmured agreement, as the fight progressed to a near stalemate, with the woman getting slightly closer and closer, and Stronghold knocking her away.

"Hell," Masonry said, and stepped back. The crowd moved a little for him. He went to a tree and broke off a large branch, then headed back to the crowd. They parted ways as he stepped forward through the crowd. He glanced at the PPD and broke past him, running into the fray. The PPD cop yelled at him, but he didn't care, this fight needed to end before both of them were weakened.

Masonry slammed Red Maiden across the side of her head with his branch and immediately broke it. Red Maiden turned to look at him. "Ah, a real fight!" she said. She punched at him, and he took the hit to his chest. It was harder than he thought, and knocked the wind out of him. Then another blast of energy came from Stronghold, knocking both of them over. Masonry struggled up first, and looked around for another makeshift mace. Stronghold blasted the woman as she was down, once, twice, and finally she did not get back up.

Masonry smiled at Stronghold, who glared at him fiercely. "Sergeant," he said coldly, "Arrest this man also, for interfering in police business."

In shock, Masonry stared at Stronghold. "Hih...Hisagi..." A PPD cop came up from behind and pulled his arm back. Masonry felt and heard the handcuffs around his wrist. "But..."

Hisagi turned his back on him.

Idaho knew better than to walk into the apartment with a "Honey, I'm home!" He knew she wouldn't be there, just like she wasn't for the past few weeks.

He sighed as he shut the door and locked it. It was partially his fault, not being around much anymore. He has his own abilities to work with now, using his fire abilities to heal instead of hurt. He knew that she had darkness about her, similar to Twisted Twilight, and he'd overlooked that, though it made him uncomfortable.

The apartment was four yawning rooms, too big for us now, he thought, now that we're never home. But it was good to have a place to come home to, not to sleep in the D, in one of the abandoned houses at King's Row or at the hostel in the southern end of Steel Canyon. He went into the kitchen area, to look in the probably empty refrigerator to see if there was anything to eat.

As he expected, it was empty except for two tubs of something with white fur and a half gallon of milk that he didn't dare open. He saw the glimpse of a bottle of beer in the way back, but he kept that there as a reminder of what he almost started to do. He almost spent most of his time at the D, almost became a permanent fixture there. That's why he went to Boston, to escape the alcohol and heroing. When he found that Masonry had let Ariel die again, he returned only once, and thought that heroing was no longer his place. So he stayed in Boston and grew addicted to ink instead of booze. It wasn't until Ariel returned to life, that she would hero again under a different guise, that he decided to also return once again and mimic her, by becoming what was known as a fire-user.

He closed the refrigerator, walking across to a cupboard. He thought he heard a noise from the bedroom.

Idaho tilted his head, wondering if he could hear it again. He went to the doorway of the bedroom.

Ariel lay there, tangled in the bedsheets, one stockinged foot sticking out from the bottom of the bed. He looked at her and smiled; she didn't even have time to get her clothes off before collapsing into the bed.

He sat down on the edge of the bed, listening to her light snoring, and he bent down to whisper, "Honey, I'm home."

Powerhouse Jack stared at the bottle before him. It would soon join the four or five bottles littering the floor next to him.

It was Friday night at the D, and no one else seemed to notice the man in the corner of the Tiki bar, where the mask floated over to him and unemotionally asked if he wanted another. Jack could only nod, knowing that if he got off the stool, he would fall down after his feet hit the floor.

It was also three days after Pen had died, and he couldn't get the weight of the man off his shoulders. Men had died in front of him before - while he was in Korea, he wouldn't forget the refugee who stood in line like the rest of them, then suddenly exploded as he approached. He got bits and pieces of the man - and the women and children next to him - landing all around him.

He didn't drink then.

He didn't drink when his wife of twenty years died after a bout with cancer in the 1980's, a wife that he no longer loved.

He didn't drink when he saw another hero friend get paralyzed from the waist down after fighting far too much with the Fifth Column.

Age.

He perked up his head, looking bleary-eyed at the Tiki mask that hovered before him. "What did you say?""Nothing."

He felt someone looking at him and turned around to face nothing. He felt someone very close to him, standing almost on top of him, and he looked in the mirror to see who it was.

His eyes glowed a fiery white, something that hadn't happened in a long, long, time.

"Lodestar," he whispered.

He was filled with a sense of someone hugging him. Jack sunk his head down onto the bar and let his forehead rest on his folded forearms. The sense of the hug slowly filled his entire body, bringing him on the brink of tears. Lodestar had done this a few times before, but never with this much intensity, this much...love.

Soon it ends: you know it, I know it.

"Yeah," Jack said, realizing what Pen had meant to him. An old adversary from an old war, the two had made peace with each other and fought crime together. Pen's death struck him because they were both old war horses, and their end time was getting near. Even though Jack knew his body was being kept alive and strong by his Kheldian bond-mate, he also knew that the body itself was getting old and his Kheldian would need to move on, to find another host soon.

"What will you do, Lodestar?" Jack asked gently.

Die with you.

Jack looked up, facing himself in the mirror, white eyes aflame. "What?"

We are both old.

"Die? We'll both die?" He looked away from the mirror, looking at the Tiki mask but not seeing it.

Age and die together.

He stared at the air. Die? He would die too, go into that final moment, when his life would slip away and...what would happen to him?

Suddenly sober, he raised the bottle and poured another shot. "I'm not ready to die yet," he said, and bolted it back. No, he had too much to do - and the first thing to do was finish this bottle.

"Well, look who's here! Frosty, ol' buddy!"

Frost turned at the voice and stifled a small groan. A black-skinned man, with fragile blue and red wings, stood just slightly behind him.

"What, no hug for me? I'm hurt."

Frost folded his arms across his chest and watched him advance. "Grim," he said quietly.

"Yes! That's my name, don't wear it out. How's it going? How's your boyfriend?"

Some people turned around to look at Frost, but he ignored the looks.

"I miss looking into his big, blue eyes, massaging his big shoulders, rustling his hair, petting his--"

"Did you come here to sell anything?"

"Huh? Oh, yeah. But I'm so happy to see you." He walked over and put a comradely arm around Frost's shoulders. Frost immediately shrugged him off, irritated. Grim stepped back, a broad smile on his face. "Aw, Frosty, now I'm really hurt. We queers, we have to stick together, you know."

"I have some work to do," Frost replied, now angry.

"You admit it, Frosty, don't you - "

"My orientation is no one's business but my own," he almost snarled at Grim. Grim's grin grew wider, as he put his hand on Frost's arm.

"Is that your hand on my boyfriend?" came a deep, growling voice from behind Grim, just loud enough for the two men to hear. "Better take it off before I tear off your head."

Frost stepped away, turning to face Masonry who had come up behind them. "Don't, Mase, it's not worth it."

"It would be very worth it," Masonry growled again, his eyes never leaving the back of Grim's neck. "Touch him again and I swear I'll hurt you."

Grim smiled, poked Frost, and folded his arms across his chest. Masonry reached out and grabbed at Grim's neck, but Grim danced away. "Eh eh eh, heroes don't hit heroes at Wentworth's, even when one cheats another." He grinned again at Frost.

Frost bristled at the allegation, while Masonry took another step forward. This time Grim didn't move. "Go ahead, and they'll throw you out faster than when you got out of jail free with a Lodestar on your back."

Masonry stood, his hands clenched at his sides. He noticed one of the Wentworth's employees speak into his headset. He saw Frost's frown, and rocked back on his heels as if physically stopped.

Grim laughed. "He's got you pussy-whipped, doesn't he?"

"I think you'd better leave," Masonry said quietly.

"I got some work to do, first. Just a friendly conversation among friends, aren't we ol' buddy? After all, you did take me on Christmas. I was a sorry substitute for who you really wanted, wasn't I? Did you enjoy it, because I sure as hell didn't." Grim's face slowly lost its smile.

Masonry slowly raised his head, defiance in his eyes. "If you won't leave, then I will." He nodded to Frost and started to leave Wentworth's.

"That's right, walk out!" Grim yelled, attracting some attention. "Now that you got what you wanted, what am I to you, huh?"

Masonry stopped.

"Nothin', right?"

Masonry seemed to nod, and kept right on walking. Frost gazed for a moment at Grim, shook his head, and went back to the markets, leaving Grim standing in the center of Wentworth's, his own darkness oozing out around him.

Thanks to Keen for introducing this series to me. It's on YouTube, of course. It's about a secret organization that uses walking cellphones to fight cybercrime. See http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/K-tai_Investigator_7 Phone Braver 5, part 1

The door slid open at a touch. Arisha shoved back the hair from her eyes again, focusing on the small apartment's open foyer. She pulled out her cellphone and flipped it open, entering the four digits that would cause the phone to expand into its other form, a two-legged, two-armed, small man-like figure, with wide grey eyes and a perpetual smile along its screen.

Jack watched his friend, Penitency, as he let loose with another blast from his Nova form. Lodestar, his own Kheldian, had never changed forms, and, in fact, preferred that Jack didn't even discuss him. But Pen knew from a distance that there was a Kheldian in Jack, and so a bond formed, more than just mere heroes together for the sake of duty.

Penitency named himself such because he knew he wasn't long for this world. His Kheldian chose to keep himself alive, at the expense of his host, so his host aged naturally. Fifty years ago, the two men were on opposite sides of a war that had a clear ideological bent. Fifty years ago, Penitency was named Heinrich, and wore a black uniform with the flashing silver SS on the collar. He had long ago sworn off his National Socialist ways after being "de-Nazified" and moved to America.

He kept his heroism under wraps until the most recent Rikti invasion, and then struggled again to use his abilities. He had no short term memory, relying entirely on his Kheldian to feed him information. When Jack found him and began working with him, the two so-called Golden Age heroes hit it off well. Knowing from his own Kheldian to protect Pen, he went first against Void Slayers and Quantum gunners. This was the typical tactic.

The tactic they always used.

Except this once.

The Void Slayer had his back turned, and Pen had the element of surprise on his side. He fired once, but the Void deflected it. Pen looked behind him - but Jack wasn't there this time.

Jack had been easily overwhelmed by a group of Council, with an archon that tore his uniform and soul. He had limited defense against such attacks so hadn't disengaged - that is, beaten - the rest of them. He finally finished and plowed toward the room where Pen had gotten into, but before he could get there, something flew through the plywood wall, the glass of a nearby office, and landed with a thud into a credenza.

Jack turned around to see the Void Stalker step through the carnage of the wall, and, ignoring the form in the credenza, Jack charged at the Stalker. Knowing he was a Kheldian, he fired his weapon but missed; Jack planted a solid haymaker and knocked him out cold, then slapped a teleporter disk on him.

Council swarmed him immediately, as he fought them off one by one, figuring that Pen had already been teleported to the hospital. He finished with that group and turned toward the office where Pen...still lay.

Jack narrowed his eyes in confusion. The hospital teleporter should have taken him. He rushed to him, seeing the extent of his injuries. The area the teleporter had been implanted was gone - in fact, the left side of his neck and most of his left shoulder had been torn off. His arm hung by a bit of flesh connected to the side of his chest.

Jack looked at the blood, all the blood from both the host and the symbiote. The cut was clean, but the blood...

He knew from looking at the blood there was nothing left he could do, but pick up the body and carry it home.

On Agrinor, a planet in the Gelise system, creatures that are relatively humanoid in appearance have thrived there for about 30,000 Earth years. One section of the planet, the tribe of Riten, are considered the most advanced for this planet.

Riten have divided themselves into different castes that a child is born into. There are political castes, where the alleged "conquerers" are from. There are also magic-using castes, scientific castes, and many others. Some castes are based upon the looks of a child. WindRiders are such a caste.

Some children are born with wings, and these are considered "WindRiders". They are mostly used for carrying messages from place to place, and are considered inviolate by other tribes - unless the tribes are at war, then they are usually the first attacked. WindRiders are covered with a downy fur, have feathers for hair, and are lighter than their more humanoid (Walker) cousins. Many WindRiders are physically weaker than Walkers, but some have abilities that their cousins do not. Some can create ice around their bodies, but still be light enough to fly. Some have innate psychic abilities to rip others' minds apart. Still others have a special affinity with blades, plants, swords, or even are excellent brawlers in their own right.

One of these WindRiders was on a mission to deliver a message to a special mage. This mage thanked him by telling him he had learned a new spell that could "teleport" him directly back to the originator of the message. Unfortunately, something happened, and he was mistakenly teleported to a Circle of Thorns ceremony in Perez Park. Barely escaping with his life - he could not fly because the gravity on this planet was stronger than his own - he found his way to Atlas Park. There, he was able to meet up with a young man named Suicidal Wombat, who took him under his wing, so to speak, to teach him a little bit of the ways of Paragon City. Now with his ability with psychic fire, he has chosen to assist the heroes in their constant fight for justice and honor, values that he, as a visitor from a different planet, is beginning to learn. Meanwhile, Wombat has promised to find a way to get him back home.

June, 1995.

The man known as Powerhouse Jack sat in the air conditioned confines of Hero Corps, Mexico City. His Spanish was virtually non-existent, so he was lucky to be able to get here in the first place.

He waited for his interview for a job here. He had seen Luminary and, being that he was already a hero-for-hire with Freedom Incorporated, decided that the time of being stuck as the “big, dumb ox” was over. At Freedom Inc., he was a glorified strongman, going all across the world to end strikes or put the fear of God into some governments. His last stint in Yugoslavia, watching the dissolution of that state into smaller states, like Croatia and Bosnia, turned him away from heroing and more into rescuing. He did not want to find himself involved in that kind of a bloody conflict, where he didn’t know the sides.

“Good morning, Mr. Simon,” said a man coming up on his right side. He put down the magazine and looked up to see a man, who couldn’t have been older than late 20’s, standing at the door. “If you’ll come with me?”

Jack followed the young man quietly. If he was a hero, he thought, I think I’ll give up.

“Please be seated,” he said, letting him into a spacious office that overlooked the southern side of the city. No one sat at the desk, which was unusual to him. The young man left him without watching him sit down.

Jack sighed, went over to the window. He glanced at the desk, and stopped, seeing a folder with his name on it. It looked about half an inch thick. Jack was curious, but decided against looking at it. Instead he continued on to the window, looking outside. He heard the door open but didn’t turn around.

“Ah, Mr. Simon.”

Jack turned around to face a different man, this one with glasses and a beard, who smiled broadly and approached him.

He felt Lodestar’s presence strongly for a moment, and the man’s smile wavered just slightly. Now Jack smiled. “Get out of my head, mister,” he said quietly.

“Hm, you have a way to block me,” the man said. “That’s interesting and useful.”

“It’s also rude what you’re doing.”

“Nothing more than trying to put you at ease, Mr. Simon.”

Lodestar felt like a man leaning over him, his presence was that palatable. It did not feel very safe. “I was at ease until you tried invading my mind.”

“Please, I won’t do it again. Please, sit down.”

“What’s your name?” Jack demanded, moving to the seat across the desk.

“Jimmy McDaniel. I’m called Psylink.”

Jack only hmpfed at him as he sat down.

“We’ve looked over your resume, Mr. Simon. We can’t rightly tell if you’re a mutant or something else.”

“I am not a mutant, so I must be something else.”

“Something is keeping you young, because it says here you were with the Sand Kings, and we did find a Powerhouse Jack in that group.”

“You don’t believe I’m the same person?”

“Well,” laughed McDaniel, “It is rather hard to believe.”

“I see.” Jack got up from his chair. “You’re worse than the Phalanx. At least with Freedom Inc I don’t have to be interviewed by a sniveling, untrusting group of kids like you. I was at least given the respect I deserved.”

McDaniel said, “And you will.”

“Bullshit,” snapped Jack. “If you can’t trust me enough that you need to rifle through my mind, then I don’t need to be here.”

“Sir, wait!”

Jack had his hand on the door. Lodestar still sat on his shoulder like a cat. Jack crushed the handle of the door in his hand. “You’re too young to know,” he retorted, and yanked hard on the door. It came off its hinges, and Jack threw it into the room, where it landed on a spacious couch.

Jack looked up at his maid, who set the glass of orange juice down in front of him. “Thank you, Alicia.”

The big woman smiled at him. “Did your laundry again this morning?”

“You don’t need to know.”

“Your age is finally catching up with you?” She knew Jack’s true nature, just like most of the servants who grew up in the mansion with the eternally young Jack Simon. Jack only looked at her over the glass, a look that meant Don’t push. “Yes, sir,” she stated, and walked over to the kitchen door. She paused. “Will you be home for dinner, Mr. Simon?”

“I should be. Keep it warm for me.”

He had finished his patrol and was going to head home when he decided to call Elaine. He connected on the first ring. “Let me make it up to you,” he said after greeting. The night before, she had called him. Unfortunately that was his usual Friday drinking night, with his friend Shawn and some buddies down at some pub that they would crash. Shawn had taken the phone out of his hand and started talking to her, “A girl? You got big breasteses?”

Jack wanted to melt into the floor and kill Shawn at the same time. Elaine didn’t seem to mind it, but it bothered Jack to the very core. She was pretty, there was no doubt about it. But he had some scruples, some class.

She accepted his invitation, and they ended up, again, at Pocket D, though this time in the Tiki Lounge, where there was actual food and service. He tried to ignore her watching him, blushing slightly. “They have a salmon salad here,” she said.

“I was going to go for the chicken club. You get what you like.”

“Ok.” She flipped a page in the menu and announced, “In that case, I want a 10 oz T- bone with baked potato and a side salad.”

“How would you like that cooked?”

Elaine hid her surprise. “I was just joking, but if you're serious well done.”

“Do you want a drink to start?”

“Yes, a Mimosa would be nice.”

After calling over the waiter and placing an order for a jack and coke and the mimosa, the two stared at each other for a little while. “So…” trailed Jack, slightly uncomfortable.

“So, how're things?”

“Busy. Really busy. I had to fight off some real villains over in Faultline today…”

He found himself chattering about Nocturne and an arbiter that he had to do battle with, along with their submarines.

She suddenly burst, “I know this is going to sound lame, but you're so strong.”

He stopped in mid-sentence and flushed red. “Oh, uh, well, thanks…is your home dimension different than this one?” This, to change the subject as fast as possible.

As Elaine explained how her dimension was the same as the one they were in, their drinks arrived. They placed their orders, and Jack relaxed against the couch.
“Tell me about your wife.”

He almost blurted out, “Why?” but realized quickly that the reason she asked was because she wanted to compare herself to her. His wife existed in name only; she took care of the home while he was gone, which was more often than not. It wasn’t until she told him she was terminally ill with cancer that he stopped working and stayed to make her last days on earth as comfortable as possible. She died at 72, looking all of those years, while he still looked 35 as he helped to carry the casket.

The two of them knew this arrangement, which wasn’t very strange in the ‘60’s. Neither of them ever discussed what they did with the lovers they took on the side, and as long as he came home to her and she took care of the domestic issues, both of them enjoyed the arrangement. How to explain to this girl that the woman existed as a crutch, something that he could pull out and lean on when the girls got too hot and heavy for him, like this one?

“She was lonely,” he finally said. “I worked a lot.”

“So how long have you been fused with Lodestar?” Then she giggled.

“You’re shut off now.”

“Don’t shut me off, I’ve had a long, hard week.”

“Okay, okay, but I don't want it to be said that I took advantage of you or anything.” He felt the color rise to his cheeks.

“You wouldn't do that,” she said quietly, “even if I wanted you to.”

The food arrived shortly after that, saving Jack’s face, but not to stop him from blushing. They discussed Lodestar, and some of his past work. They finished off their dinner, and he asked what was so difficult about the week.

“Lots of pressure at work to sell things. Problem is no one is buying - the economy is very rough right now.” She grinned. “And it cuts into my heroing.”

“Go with where you make the most money.” He knew how that sounded, and qualified it. “At least that's how I think...”

Elaine sipped her drink. “Nothing wrong with that,”

“But when you said prostitute yourself for money...”

Elaine laughed suddenly, though it was uncomfortable. “Did I say that?”

“When we first came here, yes, you alluded to it. People do desperate things for money.” Then he realized what he said, and the look Elaine was giving him was not pleasant or happy. “I mean, you in a general sense, not you!”

“Well, I did things in my past that I regret, I'm sorry if you don't approve.”

“You...no, that doesn't matter.”

She turned away from him. “Sure it doesn't. You think I'm some sort of slut now.”

“What? No!”

“Then what did you mean?”

Jack blushed, for an entirely different reason. His Alabama accent came out. “I meant "you" meanin' "people", not you yerself. If ya did that, it’s past.”

“Ok, then prove it.”

“How?”

“Kiss me.”

“H--here?”

“If you don't think I'm a a harlot.” She stood up, but reeled backwards, back onto the couch they sat on. “Whoa.”

Jack immediately gathered her in his arms.

The two stared at each other. Then she leaned over and kissed him. She tasted sweet, of the Mimosa and the liquor; he kissed her back without realizing what he was doing. He held her tighter, not wanting to let her go, to let this moment end…

And her phone rang.

“I…I need to take this,” she said, breaking the kiss.

He nodded, turned away from her. She’s old enough to be your granddaught—He squashed that voice, his own voice, a voice of reason. Reason did not apply here, not anymore. As far as the world was concerned, he was 35 and out apprehending criminals for the PPD. Period.

She closed the phone with a sigh. “I have to go.”

He nodded. It was a good idea now to give him some time, some space, to really decide what to do in this situation. He was going to be dead by the end of the year; what did it matter if he took her until that time?

He squashed that voice too, as she hugged him and bid her goodbyes. Because I’m not here to hurt anyone, Lodestar.

Mature theme, parental discretion is advised.

“Oh, Jack!”

Jack Simon, known as the hero Powerhouse Jack, woke up sweating, his sheets now stained. “What the hell…” He hadn’t had a dream like that in years. Now this Elaine, and some other women, awoke such power and passion in him again that he felt like a giddy schoolkid on his first date all over again.

One good thing about Lodestar: Jack hardly knew he was there. Lodestar hardly ever talked, except to guide him into being silent or sounding profound. Sometimes Lodestar spoke for him, but that was when he was nervous – like when he proposed to his wife or had to sometimes make a speech in front of people.

He got up out of his spacious queen sized bed and looked around the darkened room. He didn’t want to tell Elaine the truth, how he had prostituted himself anywhere and everywhere for the Hero Corps, so that he wasn’t only a simple stevedore, but a super-powered stopper-of-trains or carrier-of-heavy-equipment. He had retired after the first Rikti war, after seeing the animosity of many new heroes and the near eternal back-biting of some Peacebringers. Lodestar was known for being neutral – sometimes his host was known for being undiplomatic.

Eighty-one years, he thought, even though he looked much younger. Once Lodestar left him, he’d turn into the ancient old man that he was, and all his systems would fail. He would die.

He wanted one more time out in the world, to help citizens, to fight crime, to bring honor and glory back to heroing. No more listening to the politics of the Kheldians; he would do what he did best, beat things, lift, carry, and support.

But first, he had to change the sheets.

Lodestar knew he had not completely gone from this world. He could feel the other souls around him, human souls, caught in the Pillar of Ice and Fire.

The Guardian returns!

In his essence, he knew what it meant, how excited the other souls were at its return, so he retreated away, attempting to find rest in the cacophony.

Then, the Guardian was no more.

Whether she died, or gave up, whether she moved on or went elsewhere, none of the souls knew. Finally, it was quiet, and Lodestar could find his rest, though it became too quiet, and he ventured forth to the edge of the Pillar to see what was going on.

Twilight’s Son hovered there, watching.

Lodestar, you are needed.

I rest, Lodestar replied, retreating slightly.

Find the Guardian.

Find another. I rest—

Not in peace.

No, not in peace, he thought forlornly.

Once more, Lodestar, find the Guardian, see if she is true, and you will find peace.

A host.

Then Twilight’s Son began to sing. The language became clearer in his mind, as he remembered his former host, remembered his hosts before that, the heroes, the men and creatures he had aided, and most of all, he remembered himself. He remembered that he was a hero.

I have found the Guardian, Twilight’s Son.

And?

She has chosen to learn dark ways. Lodestar almost spat the words out, his anger palatable. She’s a shade, still powerful, but a shade nonetheless. She is under another’s spell.

You no longer guide, Lodestar. You have an opinion of this matter.

She is the Guardian and has a responsibility. What can dark arts teach her? Who will guard Paragon City in her stead?

There are many other heroes who would gladly take her place.

“She can’t just give it up!” Lodestar roared, no longer content with mere mind contact. “She has a responsibility!”

“As do you, now, to guide her back to her responsibility.”

“I can’t go to Grandville.”

“You can go between dimensions, and you can stay here. The Midnighters are looking for new members.”

He shook his head vigorously. “No magic.”

Twilight’s Son chuckled, a sweet tone to the sound.

“You stay entrapped in nine generations of Aztec priests and see how you like it.”

You still are angry at your past hosts.

I’m angry at magic.

Magic is what made the Guardian, and magic is what made you.

His human face contorted into a look of disgust for a moment before he heard the swishing of wings.

Yes, StarWyng comes here often to fly.

Nate is still dead.

No, he isn’t. He was brought back to life to continue his killing ways.

“StarWyng should have killed him by now, then.”

No, she hasn’t.

She will kill me, instead.

No, she won’t.

“We’ll see, fellow traveler,” Lodestar said, striding away. “We’ll see.”

As it happened, she did not kill Lodestar; in fact, she embraced him as if she has been lost without him. Lodestar was slightly upset that Nate wasn’t dead by now – his time with his last host had burned him. But part of an unsaid rule of Kheldians is that once a new host is chosen, the old host was to be forgotten.

But the magic spell took the attributes of his last host. He looked like Nate, sounded like Nate, felt like Nate. Lodestar couldn’t forget him that easily.

Grim wanted to kick the man who was on his knees before a large tree in Atlas Park, offering flowers to a grave. Grim wanted to kick him until he was nothing more than a smear on the ground and there would be nothing to put him back together again. No ghost, no armor, no bit of hair left to reconstitute him.

Grim had never felt this angry in all of his life. He had hated the man once before, but never with the all-consuming hatred he felt right now, the want and need to turn him into a bloody spot, all because of his cowardice.

Now the man got up, and Grim approached him quietly. He hauled off and hit the man right in the jaw. He rocked from the punch, but didn’t back off. “That’s from Idaho,” Grim snarled. He cocked his fist to deliver another punch. “This one’s from me.”

Masonry easily caught Grim’s fist before it connected. He thought of twisting Grim’s fist back, driving him to his knees, but figured why bother? He deserved it.

“Idaho can give me his own delivery,” Masonry said quietly. “I won’t hide from him, or any of you. There was nothing I could do.”

“Nothing you wanted to do! You wanted her dead!”

“It was futile—“

Grim pulled on his fist that Masonry held tight.

“Will you let me explain?”

“No, because you’re a liar! Let go of me!”

Grim tugged hard, and Masonry let go, letting Grim fall backwards onto the grass. Grim looked up at Masonry, fire and fury in his eyes.

Masonry rumbled, “Then I won’t bother to explain, not to you, not to anyone.”

Grim got up slowly, snarling, “I’ll get you.”

Masonry shrugged, and teleported away. Grim dusted himself off and glared at the spot he had been in. He was going to get him, and the simplest way was to get at the person he most cared about. But he was going to need a little help…

"Alex, buddy."

The group of Thorns turned to face Grimaulkin, stopping their summoning in mid-chant. The man in the center of the circle toppled to the ground.

"How dare you disturb me," the mage snarled at him.

"Cut the shit, Alex. I'm done working for you." He tossed a bag to the ground, near the man whose soul they were going to rip out.

"I heard things were lucrative," the mage said, and glanced at a couple of Thornites, who drew their swords at Grim.

"Very lucrative. I got everything I needed. See, I can summon creatures such as that, but with slightly more power than yours. As a matter of fact, I can tear their souls out of their bodies and use that." Grim slowly advanced, grinning at Alex. "Bet you didn't think anyone could do that, huh?"

"It's...not unknown," Alex said hesitantly.

Grim tossed a bone to the ground, and a creature in chain mail rose from the earth. He carried a sword, but stayed in a passive position. "Bet you didn't think I could do this, either? I found myself a relic of a medieval knight, if you believe it, and the Legacy Chain so kindly let me use it to summon that knight - and there's another one that the Lost allegedly has, too. Look what he can do!"

With a snap of his fingers, the creature drew his sword and stabbed Alex straight through with it. Alex - and the Thornites - moved in slow motion as Grim conjured a pit of blackness at their feet. The knight dispatched Alex, then turned to the Thorns. There were only three of them, also easily dealt with.

He turned to the bodies and took a bone from each, wrenching off their pinky fingers and then tossing a teleportation disk onto them. They'd realize something was amiss after a few weeks of seeing enemies return to the Zig, missing their pinky fingers. Poor Idaho, he thought, laughing.

With his athame*, Grimaulkin probed the edge of the summoning circle and got shocked for his trouble. The only thing inside it was a set of chains in a long, loopy circle at the perimeter.

He began the chant to summon his demoness there, and she appeared, in the form of a beautiful red-skinned, red-winged, naked woman, suspended in the air. "What do you wish now - " then she noticed the chains.

As she attempted to leave, she found that Grim had uttered something in the spell to lock her into the circle. She flittered back and forth, trying to keep within the center, away from the chains.

"Zoreteth," he said quietly, though it boomed within the circle, "be still."

She dropped to the earth. "How dare you!" she cried. "Who told you?! When I am free I will tear them - "

Grimaulkin ignored her as he continued the spell, pointing the athame at the chains. "Bind Zorteth tight, bind her unto me."

"NEVER!" she howled, her voice attempting to break through Grim's concentration. His thoughts centered entirely on watching the chains rise of their own volition and wrap themselves around the suspended body. She struggled as the chains climbed up, wrapping themselves haphazardly around her, even looping around her wings.

The last link left the floor and tucked itself into her waist, sealing itself with the other open link. She began to glow a bright, almost angry yellow.

"What do you expect to get from me, mage? I have given you power and spells, even your brother! Am I not generous?"

"Bound thou art to me," he replied with a smile. "I take thy power from thee, not bend to thy will; thou shalt bend to mine, Zoreteth. Thy host of underlings art mine. Thy power is mine. Thy knowledge is mine. Thy soul is mine. Thy soul..." He took the athame, held it by its blade as if he was going to throw it. "IS MINE!"

He threw the blade through the boundaries of the summoning circle, and it pierced the center of the demoness's chest. She howled in agony, the yellow growing brighter; the athame turned black and slowly the chain wrapped itself around it as well. Slowly, she disappeared.

As the last of her faded away, the knife fell, clattering to the floor. He did not touch the chain-encased black blade, leaving it there as if it were still hot from the forge. He summoned Louie instead. "Take that and put it in the desk."

Louie looked at his brother, doing as he commanded. Grim could feel rather than hear the word "Free?"

He grinned at the shade. "Are you kidding?" He passed through Louie and turned instantly into his old self. "You'll kill me." Then he laughed, falling over, his laugh becoming more maniacal as Louie mournfully put the dagger in the desk.

*athame: a blade, usually a dagger, that is used to direct a witch's power. Can be used interchagably with a wand.

Grim shivered and stared at his cup of coffee. It was near midnight, and he couldn't sleep. Dysio remained in bed. He heard the main door opened and looked up to see if anyone would come into the kitchen.

His eyes widened when he saw the man walk in. "Grim, hey." Dark hair, dark eyes, very big and broad. Grim would have loved to have his way with him, but the opposite had happened, just this past Christmas. Dysio had already threatened him, but it didn't seem to make a difference. And he did fool them for a while by coming aboard as "War Mace", but as soon as Grim heard the dark chuckle, he knew exactly who the man was.

"Masonry," he spat.

The man paused while pulling a chair from the table. He looked up and continued his motion. "Yeah," he replied.

"You owe me an apology, you son of a bitch."

Masonry leaned forward on the table. "I'm sorry. Look, I need your help."

Grim found himself leaning back, regarding Masonry. "That didn't sound very sincere."

"What else do you want out of me?"

Grim sipped his coffee and smacked his lips contentedly. "What help do you want out of me?"

"I want to know how to get a soul released."

"No, sorry, can't help you."

"That was fast."

"I wasn't sincere." He grinned.

Fire leapt into Masonry's eyes as he got up, slamming his palms on the table. "Fine. I'll find me someone who can help me."

"I don't know anyone who would help a rapist and a murderer."

He turned from Grim, then turned to look back at him. He thought to say something, but shook his head instead and stormed out of the kitchen. He heard the front door slam as Dysio came sleepily into the kitchen, in his full demonic regalia. "Who was that?"

"Masonry," Grim said, tossing the coffee down the drain.

"Why didn't you call me?"

Grim smiled, walked over to his lover and kissed him gently. "I handled him."

Dysio grinned, scooped Grim up in his arms. "Now it's my turn."

Grimaulkin stepped back from the cauldron in the center of his protective circle, careful not to step on Dysio’s chains. “Morte, morte est. Lumina, lumina est. Caliga, caliga est. Hospita, hospita est. Me, me est. Valeum, Roburum, Imperium. Inqua Impera!” And he repeated the chant over and over as he walked around the cauldron, Death, death is. Light, light is. Dark, dark is. Welcome, welcome is. Me, me, is. Power, strength, authority. I speak a command!

He looked out at the area beyond his circle and saw Dysio standing there. His chant did not waver, his mind did not focus on anything other than the chant. He wound it down, and the fire in the cauldron grew hotter, melting the liquid within to a thick goo. He took up the chains.

Now, he could relax his mind and wander to the fact that the protective circle held. What Dysio would be seeing is a large, columned mirror, his own reflection. He could also relax, knowing that the man out there wasn’t Dysio.

He contemplated a couple of minutes of who it could be, then cleared his mind again. He slowly dropped the chains into the goo, concentrating on covering every inch of the chain with it. Once it cooled, he would go through the chain by hand and cover every single inch of it, rubbing it into the cold metal.

It was overkill, he knew. But the consequences if he didn’t actually follow this would be dire on his end; not only would his demoness torture him for eternity, but probably many, many worse things that he couldn’t even dream of. No, the longer he stayed here the better it would be.

He sat down and waited.

You’ll be back.

Wham! Silos’ sneering voice filled his mind as Idaho slammed the axe down on the Hellion’s shoulder and nearly cleaved the man in half.

Not dead yet?

Then Masonry’s, as he raised his arm for the killing blow seconds before Star tackled him.

You be the mender!

Ariel’s angry, tear-filled eyes, glaring at him as he whirled with the axe, taking down three Hellions at once. Wham, slam, crash! Soon enough, the gang of men were reduced to a pile of bodies in assorted degrees of dismemberment and consciousness. As they disappeared to the Zig’s infirmary, he breathed heavily, now covered in blood not his own, and feeling guilt-ridden.

“Why I fix?” he whispered to himself, trudging his way out of the cave, paraphrasing Star’s words from yesterday. As he exited the cave, he felt a bullet in his arm. It hit bone, making his arm numb and dropping the axe to the stones with a clatter. He ducked into the alcove, leaving the axe there, holding his bleeding useless arm, and seeing a group of Sky Raiders.

“Captain Castillo sends his regards!” yelled one man as he made a downward, cutting motion.

All of the men fired at once, but they all hit above him. He looked up to see why – a huge stone gargoyle was perched fifty feet or so above him. They shot out the support.

He couldn’t move fast enough as the gargoyle tumbled forward, taking some of the ledge with it. Idaho put his arms over his head in an instinctive effort to stave off the falling granite, but it slammed into his head knocking him out instantly, breaking his neck, back, and thrusting his thigh bones through his hips.

As the teleporter took him to the hospital, the leader yelled, “The irony! Masonry buried by masonry!”

“I don’t think it was Masonry,” said one man.

“Looked like him,” offered the engineer, gathering up his things.

“A hero just the same,” snarled Clayton. “Gone. C’mon, boys, let’s find a few others.”

He woke up in the hospital, good as new, as a man slumped in a chair next to him. Idaho raised his head and looked at the man. "Not quite as bad as the Nexus they brought a couple of days ago, but bad enough. You okay, buddy?"

"Yeah, but are you?"

The dark haired man waved his hand. "I'm a doctor, it's what I do. You had more broken bones than a chicken. What happened?"

"Got caught under a stone gargoyle," and Idaho told him what did happen. The doctor nodded, but looked like he was ready to fall asleep.

A nurse came into the room, "Doctor Sixx?"

"I'll be okay in a few. Go on, wheel him out. Don't discharge him yet, though. I still need to talk to him."

"Yes, Doctor." The nurse got a pair of orderlies who manhandled the gurney out into the hallway. "You heard the man," the nurse said kindly. "Rest."

Idaho put his head back on the pillow and sighed, as they wheeled him into the elevator.

Duncan Idaho tucked the paper under his arm and walked through the metal detector. The guards watched him, and one opened his eyes wide at the read out.

“Mr. Idaho, you have the same DNA match as a dead hero – “

“Masonry. I know; I’m his clone.”

The guards looked him over. One said, “I knew him when he was in here.”

“I’m not him,” Idaho said.

“You look just like him.”

“I’m not him,” he reiterated firmly.

“Let him go, Tim,” said another guard.

One other guard beckoned, and Idaho followed him out into the prison. They went down a long, empty hallway that echoed their footsteps. The guard opened the door and escorted him into a small room with cubicles. He was directed to sit in one and wait. He pulled out the newspaper and read the article again that brought him here:

Scholarship Administrator Indicted for Murder

Michael Darcy, administrator for the Nathan Greene Foundation, was indicted yesterday on fifteen counts of murder, after admitting that he had created fifteen “constructs” of the friend the Foundation was named after.

“They were not human, even though they had flesh and blood,” stated Darcy’s attorney, Robert Block. “Most of them were incapable of supporting life, and only a few could be considered unable to function in society.”

However, Assistant District Attorney William Walker added, “He created sixteen illegal clones, and one of them has turned out to be the hero known as Duncan Idaho. What could have happened to the other fifteen, if allowed to live? Not to mention cloning is—“

Someone sat down across from him. Darcy nodded, picked up the phone on his side. Idaho found his phone and copied him.

“Darce.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll be out tomorrow.”

“What happened?”

“Fuckin’ StarWyng.”

Idaho twitched.

“She goes and makes a promise to Lodestar, and now she thinks she can go around applying it to everyone.”

“What promise?”

“She made some stupid promise – something about killing and putting it on you – and now she put the damn thing on me. What the hell – Lodestar’s dead.”

Idaho had to think of who Lodestar was, and then remembered that it was Nate’s Peacebringer, the second one, the “good” one. “But it was a promise,” Idaho reiterated.

“So what? I had to take out those constructs, Nate; they were my responsibility to do so. I made them, they were wrong, I needed to destroy them.”

“But weren’t they live? And conscious? And sentient?”

“Yes, yes, and yes. One tried to tear my throat out. Imagine if I just let him loose. He’d be sitting here, not me.”

"What about me?"

"What do you mean?"

Idaho gazed at Darcy. "What if something was wrong with me? Would you kill me?"

"If I knew something was wrong with you, I would have to."

“Killing’s wrong, though.”

“I didn’t like it, you know - Jesus Fucking Christ!” With that, he slammed the phone on the hook and mouthed, pointing, “You don’t understand,” and shoved himself away from the counter.

Idaho watched him leave, as he sat with the phone in his hand. Darcy looked back at him, his eyes blazing in fury, then he walked back out with the guard. “C’mon, Idaho,” said the guard on his side of the glass.

Idaho replaced the phone on the hook, glanced at the guard. “That’s not the Darcy I know.”

“Prison changes a man,” he said. “Some take less time than others.”

He wasn't sure it was that.

He awoke screaming, or thinking he did, though the room around him was dark and silent. He waited for his heart to ease, his breathing to slow, before he slowly sat up in bed.

Ariel, lying next to Idaho, stirred at his movement. "Idy..?" she uttered sleepily.

He patted her shoulder. "Just going to the bathroom, hun," he said quietly, and kissed her cheek. She muttered and settled back in. Idaho walked over to the base's bathroom, on the other side of the building. As he did, he thought, again, about getting an apartment, but on the heels of this most recent dream, he didn't think it was possible.

The dreams had been consistent, building up to this one. They started with him walking through the Isles, dressed in his casual attire, not looking for trouble, but expecting it. Then he turned into an alley to find some vampire feeding on someone.

He assumed that part of the dream came from what happened to Ariel, since these dreams started right around when she died. The vampire turned to him and said, "Come here, Duncan Idaho."

The voice was seductive, sultry, and as the nights went on, the vampire resolved itself into someone he knew: Satine.

Satine stepped aside from the man whose fount she drank from, keeping her eyes on him. "Come and drink. It's elixir."

"You're sick!" But his eyes were drawn to the reddening pool at the man's neck. For weeks he denied it, while Satine worked on him, tempting him. He would draw nearer and back away, forcing himself out of the dream like a man who dove too deep, struggling to get to the surface. But finally, tonight, finally…he bent his head to the man's neck, and took a tentative lick of the sticky, dark fluid.

It was ambrosia.

Darkly sweet, with a bite of fire. Addicting. More…

He felt it gushing down his throat, and couldn't swallow fast enough. Someone took him by the shoulder and turned him around - Masonry.

"Told you we're too close. Like blood, don't you? I just let it run through my hands. You drink it."

Providence knew Masonry had died, which was one reason she went home. She also heard he lived again, but not the circumstances. She envisioned him as a walking corpse, akin to the zombies of the Vahzilok or Banished Pantheon.

However, Womby put her mind at ease, so to speak. "He's aliver 'n you an' me," he told her over lunch after her meeting with Idaho. "Got a magical mace an' 's stoned all th' time. Got somethin' ta do with'is girl."

"Stoned?"

He nodded, biting off some of his hamburger. "Jasmine. Th' man reeks of jasmine."

She wondered what that could mean, but it made it seem even more important to find him. Womby mentioned Mase (Title him Masonry, never Nate, she thought) and went to the D to find him. It took a couple of days, but once when she came in, she was immediately assaulted by patchouli - deep, dark, musky earth - and jasmine. She saw him, leaning against the bar, standing next to what she knew immediately as a red-haired succubus dressed head to toe in red.

Making the sign of the cross, she approached him. He was staring out into space, not even paying attention to the conversation around him. She could see he wore sunglasses, and guessed probably why. She stepped into his line of sight.

He looked up at the interruption, then smiled. "Prov? Prov! Providencea," he almost sang, and took her in his arms for a bear hug. "Where've you been?"

She needed to get away from the sickening scent that was making her both horny and sick to her stomach. "Home, Nate," she said, after he let her down, and she tried to ignore his own bulge in his pants. "I hath go home, to attend matters private. I have speech with thee anon." She motioned to the other bar.

"Sure, sure, can I get you any-"

But she was already moving, getting out of the radius of the succubus and taking large gulps of clearer air. He followed demurely.

She was standing, finally breathing clean air, and looked up at Nate who looked at her concernedly. "You okay?"

"Thou art not dead," she said accusingly.

He smiled, folded his arms across his chest, and laughed. "No! No, I'm not - the most wonderful person came into my life! She brought me back, Prov - she gives me everything I ever wanted and more, much more - "

Providence stood and listed to him espouse on the beauty of his new lover. He used words like "goddess" and "gentle", "powerful" and "adoring."

"And ye kill for her?"

He stopped in mid-word. "Hm?"

"For her. Thou shalt kill."

"If she asked me, I would."

"Wouldst thou?" Tears began to form in her eyes. "Truly?"

"Yes, she doesn't mind that-"

"Didst to the Isles go, children dead by thine hand?"

"Yes, but-"

"Whyfor?" She stared at him, almost seeing the same monster that others saw. She couldn't believe...

"Because I liked it," he said, leaning close to her now. "I still do, Prov. Don't start the guilt shit on me."

"Thou...thou...thy-" Her hands flew to her mouth, holding back both being sick, and her own gasping words.

Now Nate disappeared, to be replaced by Masonry, a cold, stony, dispassionate murderer. "I do like it, it gives me power. I have their life in my hands. They belong to me."

"NO!!!" She screamed and jerked as far away from him as she could. "No, no, no, liketh not monster, no! Thou lovest me, and Kit, and ... Frosty! Whyfor killing, why?!"

"Prov, c'mon, I wouldn't hurt you."

"Whatof thine precious lady? Sayth my death she demands-"

"Yes, I would."

There was silence in her ears, not even the music from the club penetrated it. She stared at him, saw only him, a man who had been so kind and protective and now...now...

"...e'en Frosty?" she whispered.

His voice held no emotion as he stated, "Even him."

Suddenly, she screamed, "WHY?!!" so loudly that it attracted all the patrons at the other bar.

Masonry walked closer to her as he spoke, "Because I love her. And she lets me do what I want. If I want to kill, I will. She doesn't judge me," his voice dropped to a low growl, "like some people seem to do."

That tone of voice made her start - and like a rabbit, she darted around him, to run into the other bar, down the stairs, her tears falling freely now, so that she slammed into the wall at the bottom of the stairs and fell into a crumpled heap. She ignored the other heroes who stopped to help, jumped into the open elevator, and ran, blindly she didn't know - just to get away from the monster that had been her friend Nathan Greene.

Kay Summersby advanced quietly through the woods. Her husband, Frost Guardian, would be proud of her tracking skills, learned from the Arctican men and their ability to move through the icy tundra of their homeworld quickly and quietly.

The Circle of Thorns on Nerva didn’t stop their ritual. They had made recent encroachments on Arctican-held territory, bringing their version of religion and power to the masses. Some went for that, but since Kay was in charge of making sure the culture of the conquered world was kept in servitude of the culture of the Arctican Occupation Force, she had to make sure that there would be no underlying centers of resistance.

Kay, once known as the “hero” Kill Favored, raised her sword and, with a short, angry cry, headed into the fray. Quickly, cleanly, she separated the headfrom the Madness Mage’s body, then turned her focus on a demon. The demon roared, and she gutted it as well. It didn’t take long for the Circle to be dispatched in this same, gruesome way. She turned to look at the man who she meant to save and chastise, and stopped short.

“Kay,” he said.

She looked at the man, who looked twice as old as she did, though they were both the same age. She straightened, smiled, though there was no emotion in it. In fact, she had hoped he would have been dead.

“Sage,” she spat.

“I see your husband allowed you to actually do something.”

She narrowed her eyes at him; the last time they had met, over ten years ago, was the last time they were amicable to each other, choosing to enforce a truce so that some of his “students” could be released from her husband’s “care.” She had told him of Arctican culture that meant women needed to be kept far away from war; though that had changed over the past few years with the Arctican men seeing women and men fight side by side in their pitiful attempts to extricate the more powerful and advanced Arcticans. “It matters to you?”

“It does, since it encroaches on certain interests.”

“Oh, wait, wait, don’t tell me. That little mage we killed last year? I think I remember her name as the Bowman. Some elflike-creature, let me think.”

Sage waited, his old man’s face a mask. The only indication of his growing rage was the darkness gathering around him.

“Your wife, right?”

Sage now smiled, though it was more like a smirk. “This, my dearest, has nothing to do with her, but everything to do with your husband.”

“Frost Guardian has brought peace to these Isles, prosperity to the strong as it should be. You called the Resistance cowards once, if I’m not mistaken.”

“A man can change his mind.”

“Since his wife’s now a martyr.”

Again, he smirked. “So will the Iceman think as well.” He raised his hands, and she brought the sword up for a parry – it had some protection against magic, but wasn’t purely magical. A darkness covered them, and then he was gone.

“Coward,” she snapped, walking over to the spot where he had been. She peered; it looked like a hole.

“Go down the rabbit hole to Wonderland,” Sage chuckled. “You will not be missed.”

She turned to see him, his eyes blazing red, and suddenly she saw horrible, terrifying images before her eyes and coursing through her mind like the hounds of the Wild Hunt. She tried to scream, but there was no air to make a sound… Cold Soldier, my love, where are you…was her last thought as she passed into oblivion.

They chased him.

God damn Longbow - it wasn’t like he could easily hide his multiple scars, tattoos, and constantly emitting electricity. It also didn’t help that he and his benefactor and rescuer from the Zig had a “disagreement”.

David Styrm first expressed disappointment that Provo still kept doing other projects on the side. “What I pay you, and the projects I request, is that not enough?”

Provo believed Styrm thought his skills were less than adequate, and was often insulted at the caliber of “projects” Styrm offered. Instead, he had other groups eating out of his hand for his craft: the IRA, assorted Kenyan tribes, drug dealers, even a representative from Al Qaeda had contacted him. Provo didn’t realize the reason Styrm gave him such easy projects was so that he would be free and on call for Styrm himself.

Provo rounded the corner and leapt over a dumpster. He misjudged, his ankle buckling under him. He rolled sideways and got to his feet, just in time to feel a bullet graze his thigh – where his head had been seconds before. He popped a green stimulant and kept running. He vaulted over a stone wall and landed in a pool of brackish green water, then banked to the right, waiting.

Didn’t Styrm understand it was the principle of the matter? He was a true mercenary, selling to the highest bidder, completely neutral in matters of bombs. He didn’t care that one of them was used against Shiites in Iraq – nor did he care about the Kenyans using it in their country, either. Nor should he care about the one that the ETA used in Madrid, killing over 200 people, a third of them children in a school.

Styrm obviously did and Provo’s life was forfeit in five words: “I am disgusted with you.” Within an hour after he walked out of his workshop in Cap au Diable, he was being tackled by Family of two different factions that he had played off each other in the past, and now – the Longbow jumped over the wall and landed in the water with him.

He relaxed, letting the electricity flow through him, and the Longbow started shaking, the conductivity of the water amplifying the electricity. He laughed as they fell face-first into the water – if they weren’t dead, they would drown.

Provo stepped out of the water and felt something enter his body through his stomach, then butterfly him open at the hips. He stared at a man with a black duster hat, in a black trenchcoat, and a typical black mask. “They missed,” he said, his voice muffled by the mask. “I don’t.”

As Provo sunk to the ground, the last thing he saw was the man’s eyes, yellow and emotionless like a cat’s.

Ariel's death, Twisted

Mender Taggarts looked up at Idaho's approach. "Oh, she died already?"

Idaho stopped short. Mender Taggarts, "Tagz" as he called her, had been his personal trainer since Lazarus passed him on to her. She was a dark-haired, buxom woman who wore combat boots and a typical monocle that most Menders wore. She came from the 37th century, from the colonized planet Gelsian, a rough-and-tumble planet where the inhabitants were well-known to not suffer fools gladly.

"Yes. I want to fix it."

"I'm sorry, Idaho, you can't."

"Why the hell not?!"

Tagz crossed her arms across her chest and studied him. "Because it's part of your destiny."

"Fuck my destiny."

The gaze became angry. "You have a duty not only to us, but to time at large, Idaho. You still have a lot of trials by fire to go through before you realize who you really are." She turned away. "I suggest you take some time off for mourning, Idaho. You won't be able to concentrate on your work, and I don't have time to babysit."

Idaho turned on his heel, stormed out of the room, bursting into flame as he did so.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"How's he doing?"

Sonic Butterfly jerked at Suicidal Wombat's entrance. "Shit, man, don't scare me like that. What're you doing here?"

Wombat nodded to the hallway where the private rooms were housed. "Aestas."

"Hm? Oh, yeah. 'ja know her?"

"No, but I know Idaho. Checkin' on 'im."

"He's fine."

"Not if he's like Masonry." He walked on into the hallway, passed over to Idaho's room. He knocked gently on the door, and nodded to himself when Idaho called entrance.

He parted open the door. "Duncan."

"Oh, hi, Womby."

"Hey, mate. Sorry 'bout Ariel."

"I'll be all right."

"Hm, yeah, well..." He closed the door quietly. "I'm sure ya will, but what about her?"

"What do you mean?"

"'er spirit, mate. Ain' nobody seen 'er."

Idaho turned slowly and looked at him. "Because she's with me. She's bound to me or something."

"Bound? Th' only thing that c'n do that is a Pure Marriage or..."

"Or...?"

"She don' want to leave you."

"Why, Womby? I'd only hurt her."

"Why d'ya say that, mate?"

"I didn't want her life."

"Did she want yours?"

He looked sorrowful for a moment. "Yeah. But what if she changed her mind?"

Womby gave him a glare, that encompassed both anger and pity. "She can't now, can she?"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Wombat heard the spirits speak and followed their direction. Before, they could be often wrong - spirits that he had often controlled and forced to his bidding would say and do things to confuse and spite him. These spirits, these wraiths seeking and becoming comfort, would merely make suggestions.

It was two days after the funeral; he couldn't bring himself to approach Idaho then. But he had seen Ariel hover by him, trying to comfort him in her own way. Idaho was doing his level-best to ignore her, and didn't see her pain like Wombat did.

He followed his guides into Perez Park, a place he hadn't been in quite some time. Hydra still lived there, plaguing the unwary new hero. He followed their direction deep into the woods and found a small house with a set of docks. He didn't remember seeing this house before, but, then, he never really searched it out.

Wombat went up the dock, his feet barely touching the wood. Spirits were quiet here, which was good, but the Hydra hissing in the background made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. He knocked gently on the door.

He heard movement inside, then Idaho's voice, cautious: "Who's there?"

"Me, mate," Wombat said quietly.

Locks were undone and the door opened slowly. "How did you find me here?" he asked. He stood topless and barefoot in only jeans. He would look like any man who looked suddenly disturbed, with the exception of the wood-cutting axe in his hand.

"Spirits tol' me. They wouldn'ta tol' me if they din't think it's right."

"No, I guess not, but this isn't my house."

"I'll wait'll ya get dressed, an' I'll talk t'ya out here."

"No, I'll go get my coffee and come outside. Want anything?"

"Coffee?" His eyes brightened.

Idaho smiled. "How do you take it?"

"Milk an' sugar, 'nuff for a layer on th' bottom."

"I'd better just bring out the pot."

A few moments later, Idaho came out with a pot of coffee, a mug and spoon, and a half-gallon carton of milk. He came out again with his mug and a sugar bowl. Wombat made his coffee silently, and after comments of how good it was, he got down to business. "The funeral was beautiful."

"I hear they're supposed to be." He looked down. "Her parents think it's my fault."

"Her dyin'?"

He nodded. "She wanted to be a hero. I told them I tried to dissaude her, but they didn't listen to me. They think I talked her into it. They think I got her killed - "

Womby looked for Ariel but didn't see her.

" - but she went off to the Isles on her own, to see Kitty. And not my fault she got drained dry by --" He cut himself off.

"A vampire?"

"A dampire."

Womby snorted in a chuckle. "Dhampyr. Daywalkers."

"Whatever. She sucked Ariel dry, and now she wants me to forgive her." He glared angrily at Wombat. "I can't. I can't."

"Now's not a good time, Duncan. But I din't come 'ere for 'at." He sipped at his coffee. "Ariel's bound t'ya, you said?"

"Yeah. Twisted Twilight - she's my original's girlfriend," his voice dropped low and he spoke angrily, "they're made for each other. Anyway, she told me that she bound Ariel to me. So I'm going to make her tell me how to release her."

"Ya think, mate, she don' wanna?"

"What do you mean? Don't all souls want to be released?"

Wombat raised an eyebrow and smiled gently. "I c'n tell ya of five righ' now that don't."

"Why not?"

"They all got th'r reasons. But yours don' wanna leave 'cuz she loves you."

He looked painfully at Wombat. "Why?" he cried.

"B'cause she does, ya dope! An' still ya hurt 'er. You ignored her the whole funeral."

"What was I supposed to do, say 'Hi' to air?"

"Yes! Jus' talk t' yerself - they'd f'rgive ya yer grief."

Idaho swallowed. "I didn't know that."

"Eh, mate, ya dunno lotsa things. That'll cover yer ass only so long. Did you love her?"

"Yes."

"With yer heart an' soul?"

"No."

Wombat raised an eyebrow. "At least yer honest."

"I couldn't give up myself. She gave up everything because Twisted...twisted her into it."

"Don' matter, mate; 'swhat she wanted. Yer Twist jus' pushed it a little." Wombat drained his mug. "Lis'n mate, here's what th' spirits say, 'kay?" His face turned serious, and he focused entirely on Idaho as he spoke. "She loves you with what's left of her being. Do not deny her that, Idaho, no matter how close to your original you might think you are. Even Masonry's heart is full of devotion - so can yours be. It's not a surrender, but a sharing. We do not expect you to give all today, but give small pieces, and you will see." Then Wombat closed his eyes, took a few deep breaths, then relaxed.

The two men looked at each other, when Wombat opened his eyes. Without another word on the matter, Wombat said goodbye and leapt off into the trees. "Think he'll listen?" Wombat whispered.

The spirits didn't answer.