Further Adventures of the Lair Legion Annual 2003: Constants

Post By Fin Fang Foom Wed May 28, 2003 at 08:39:48 pm EST

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And as we wind on down the road
Our shadows taller than our souls
There walks a lady we all know
Who shines white light and wants to show
How everything still turns to gold…

--Led Zepplin, “Stairway to Heaven”

----------------

Time is a carnivore. With teeth of entropy and forgetfulness, it devours almost everything it comes in contact with. As its graveyard, Earth is hardly exclusive: the greatest wonders of the ages are buried next to pauper’s shacks. This erosion isn’t limited to humanity…mountains turn to hills, then plains, then valleys, and then canyons. Civilizations that were majestic and advanced for their time lie forgotten to modern mankind, and can only hope to be discovered by archeologists, who sift through time’s stomach contents. They all thought that they were the peak; that it could never get any better than this. And while they were peaks, what’s truly fascinating lies deep below.

Underneath the fluid, shifting surface of the planet is something which has yet to be shaken. They’re pillars of a sort. They branch out when needed, expansively and elaborately, like roots…except they head for open air. If one can look beyond the motion of life and its hypnotic trappings, there are threads to be found, behind and beyond.

They are strengths: and while some are of just one era, others aren’t.

A certain piece of land in America, with lush hills and patches of forest, could be from any era. Rich black clouds overwhelmed it, sparking the scent of fresh moisture. A tenuous stillness was perched on the air…and then destroyed.

At first, it could have been nothing but a distant wind, at the edge of audio periphery. But it clarified into an unearthly explosion, capped off with a human scream. A man was flying through the air, and not by choice. The noise ended after his voice gave out. Just a speck in the sky, tiny arms and legs flailing, freefalling. Curiously, there was no whistling as he plummeted, no sound of whipping air…one would think that, for something as important as falling to one’s death, there’d be at least some kind of noise.

The man slammed down in a frothy but clear river, kicking up a circular wall of water around himself. It collapsed a second later, and he was left on his knees--surprisingly alive--in the middle of the rushing current. Faded, disc-like brown and grey stones tiled the bottom of the river. There was nothing around to grab ahold of, and the surrounding countryside was unpopulated.

Rather than being swept away, he held his ground--he wasn’t a traditional human. The man’s brown hair was soaked, and his denim button-down shirt was coming apart. Underneath was a crimson metal harness, which proceeded to telescope over his legs, arms, and head, fully armoring him. A black visor stared out from it. The last shreds of his clothing broke free, and it took all of his energy just to stand up.

A trail of energy was in the air, coming towards him. It was the wake of another man--lowering himself as he flew. He wore a black suit and white shirt, with the collar undone slightly. Neon green dots clustered around his fists and leaked out of his eyes. His blonde hair was slightly unruly, but looked perfect. This man was youngish and friendly-looking. He seemed horribly out of place in formal clothing, like his head had been cut-and-pasted onto someone else’s body

The black-suited man’s voice echoed with energy, and resonated forcefully in the other man’s chest, despite his armor. “Tell me what the map means.”

The armored man said nothing.

Scorching green energy cascaded over him, and he shielded his face with his arms--only to find that the top half of his armor had peeled away at the waist, opening like a flower. It was now a fused pinwheel of debris, and looked and smelled like charcoal.

The armored man--knowing full well who he was dealing with--told him.

He was then instructed to wait for HALO to come and detain him, and the black-suited man flew off….right after he sent out an LL alert.

The armored man remained where he stood, not willing to move. He had the chance to run, but he couldn’t take it. You didn’t mess with Jarvis. No, you didn’t mess with Christopher Waltz…


Further Adventures of the Lair Legion Annual 2003
Act I: Gleams


For the Northeast, the water was surprisingly warm. The beach was crowded today, full of laughter and activity and the gentle glare of sunshine. Overall, the heat might have been uncomfortable, if not for an understated, fluctuating wind. Lifeguards notwithstanding, everyone had come here to relax…everyone except Dillon Kincaid, who’d come here to hunt.

On the surface, he looked utterly bland and normal. Dark hair, average features, and a tourist-y outfit that made him blend in all too well. He was sitting in an open-air restaurant on the boardwalk, which overlooked one of the more popular areas of the beach. Considering who he was, the thought of sitting at a bright white table--with a pink-and-blue umbrella over it, even--was so ludicrous that he had to keep from laughing. He often had to keep himself from doing that.

This was his favorite time of year. The office girls and Ivy Leaguers would finally shed the stiff, masking wardrobes that went along with corporate America and academia, and head for the beach. Those were the kinds of women he liked: educated, cultured. Individuals with accomplishments, intellectual interests, and varied life experiences. Maybe workaholics looking for a chance to cut loose, to shake off their busyness-induced repression. Women of the world. And so, he’d sit near the beach for hours on end, sipping mango juice and meticulously choosing someone to kill.

But the day was young: he’d only read two of the five news magazines he’d bought, the café was advertising a great-looking blueberry pastry that he’d never had before, and an Australian-accented blonde in a black thong was stretching no less than twenty feet away from him. He loved days like this. Kincaid was busy settling into his morning ritual when it was suddenly yanked out from under him.

It was probably his imagination, but he could swear he smelled perfume on the breeze. The beach’s ambient conversation seemed to fade away, leaving only wind chimes and the slow-shuffling crash of the surf. Though she was just emerging from the crowd, she stood out like a beacon. Long, light brown hair that was the ultimate balance between wavy and curly; large, dark eyes that were haunting and compelling. She wore a faded blue bikini, and her body was a soft sculpture…not supermodel-thin, but healthy and curvaceous. Most important to him, her face was sophisticated, while retaining a girl-next-door quality. He could picture her studying for hours on end, or closing a major advertising deal, or mowing the lawn in cut-offs.

Despite himself, his mouth went dry. She made eye contact with him, and headed in his direction. For some reason, she looked familiar…

The bubble of slow-motion popped, and he wondered how long he’d been staring. His gaze fell to his sandals. When he looked up again, his eyes couldn’t help but find her. He could imagine how sheepish he had to look.

The woman--who, up-close, seemed younger, maybe in her early twenties--stopped about five feet away from him. He was trying to think of something to say when she beat him to it.

“Hi.”

“Hey…”

“I’m Tricia.”

It felt bad to lie; but he couldn’t mess up his alibi. “I’m Tim.” He took a breath. “You go to U Mass?”

“I just graduated.”

“Me too.” He suddenly felt too old for college. He quickly added, “I had to go three extra years to get my degree.”

“That can be tough, yeah.”

He grinned, and spoke in a sympathetic, but matter-of-fact, tone. “I hate what I got into--I hope you don’t.”

She smiled back. Her reply was full of energy, like it was a topic she frequently thought about. “No, it’s great. It’s like…life isn’t the same, after you get good at it.” She gave an “understatement of the year” expression and laugh. Then, “It’s--it’s fun, but it’s probably boring to everybody but me...”

Shrugging, he said, “Not to me.”

Tricia seemed surprised that someone actually wanted to hear more--she acted a bit self-conscious, but seized the opportunity. She spoke in a soft, meaningful, almost pleading voice, as if to convince him of the importance of what she was saying. “It’s just…after you find out about it, you see everything in a different way. I didn’t like it at first, but now, I can’t imagine not having it. It makes everything… more.”

Passion for a skill--he loved that trait. Right before he asked what she did, he realized that they were literally the only two people on the beach.

Kincaid stood up quickly, inadvertantly tipping his chair over in the process. Everyone was gone. She smiled again, and he recognized her, realizing that he was face-to-face with a child of modern-day gods. The young woman was even more beautiful than her mother, if such a thing was possible…it was Patricia Darkness, otherwise known as Iconique.

Magic had changed her life, just as it had changed his.

He pulled a medallion out of his pocket--ornate silver lined it, and its center was black and shimmering. The Teutonic Third Eye, which he’d discovered at a dig in Germany, began charging with dark energy.

Her skin was suddenly alive with images--tattoo-like designs crawled across her, as if they were being projected from afar. Eventually, only a door-shaped metal shield was on her skin, near her upper arm. A blue energy bubble popped into existence around her, just as Kincaid’s energy blast let loose. His attack ricocheted off.

The shield dropped. Neon blue lightning was etched onto her forearms, and purple bolts lashed out from her hands, striking him. The explosion sent him flying into the air, and he grated against the sand when he landed, tumbling clumsily.

Wings were drawn on her back, and she flew through the air easily. She held out a hand, palm up, and a white-hot energy orb was formed. The medallion in Kincaid’s hand was yanked out, and it flew towards the orb like a magnet. The orb enveloped it, crackled, and then spat out dust.

Kincaid blinked--the other people were back. He noticed this mainly because two policemen were pushing him down and searching him for more weaponry. A tattoo of a single-doored wardrobe appeared on Iconique’s ankle, went up her leg, swerved around her rear, and rested on her firm stomach; in moments, she was wearing her usual costume. Black pants, powder blue and black sleeveless top. She started to speak, but a small, card-sized pager went off. She took to the sky.

When she was out of sight, it hit him. She had to be a true intellectual; an expert on a fascinating subject…she’d experienced the world like no-one else. And he’d studied enough women to see that, despite the seriousness of her work, she retained her emotion and passion. Not to mention the fact that she was frequently voted the most beautiful woman in the world. Everything he’d ever wanted from a relationship.

He then screamed--not because he knew he’d be convicted of killing over a dozen women, not because he didn’t want to spend the rest of his life in jail--but because he knew he’d never see her, again…

--------------

The applause sign went live. Over a hundred women--and some dragged-along husbands and boyfriends--started clapping. Their host was a thirtysomething redhead in a black suit, who smiled warmly as she introduced their next guest.

When she was finished, they began clapping again, as the guest bounded onto the typical daytime talk-show stage. He had long, scraggly black hair, a beard, and wore dark bluejeans and a black t-shirt. Though he was only in his late forties, he looked much older. The man was gaunt and a bit shaky, with only a patch of pale skin around sunken eyes.

It took dull thud several tries to settle into the gaudy purple chair. The redhead had questions to read on a series of index cards, which she tapped on her desk. She looked like she had a good mood permanently glued to her face. Bubbling with enthusiam, she said, “With you, the first thing that comes to mind is: you’ve had an interesting life.”

“…I guess so, yeah.” He winced, and prepared for the onslaught.

“I mean, five marriages--”

“Two of those were under a week, they don’t count!”

“--your psychic tapeworm Cressida abandoned you for fame and fortune--”

“Pffh, so she won the Nobel prize or whatever…”

“--your problems with the drug Euphoria--“

“Hey, that was before the Senate made Dr. Loveray put a warning label on the package!”

“--you’ve thrown up on two US Presidents--“

“The White House chefs keep serving that sucky bisque.”

“--you supported Space Ghost’s disastrous campaign in 2012--”

“That--that was before we found out about the frogs!”

“--you’ve had fallings-out with numerous high-profile bands--”

“Uh, well--”

“--and you refused to testify about what happened at the Journey reunion tour in Singapore.”

“I’m not saying I did anything--but even if I did, they deserved it, y’know? And they can afford to buy new speakers. And I didn’t know that was his daughter!”

She took a deep breath. “Yeah, you only ‘guess’ you’ve had an interesting life.” The redhead attempted to look serious, raising her eyebrows questioningly, and the audience burst out laughing. Back on track, she asked, “What progress have you made over the past twenty or so years?”

dull thud was a deer in the headlights. “Um, well…my powers are better now. Instead of just being immune from falling, I can’t be hurt by anything. And my teleporting is better, too. And, um…”

He was saved by the bell--or rather, by his comm-card. “Thank God,” he muttered. “I mean, uh, I have to go save the world. Again. I do that a lot.”

“Uh-huh.”

He covered his lapel mike. “Um, if you want to continue the interview privately--”

She glared at him.

thud made a rushed, forced goodbye, and exited, stage left.

----------------------

Deep within Los Angeles sat an ugly tan bar, with boarded-up windows and a super-cheap sign on its roof. The entire parking lot was taken up by motorcycles, of all shapes and sizes. It was league day at the bowling alley across the street, which meant celebration before and after the game--so only Gnashers’ bikes were allowed.

Two burly white men, with shaved heads and halfhearted beards, sat on creaky wooden stools, just by the bar’s unpainted metal door. A few patches of natural flesh could be seen on their arms, but other than that, just tattoos. They were giving each other a hard time when they heard an engine roar, and a bike turned into the entry to their lot.

Some woman proceeded to park there. One of the guys got up, and took a few steps out. “Hey, that’s taken!”

“Don’t look taken t’me.”

The guy who was standing prepared to go talk to her--but he threw a glance over his shoulder, at his buddy. They had a “never face anyone alone” rule. The buddy waddled off his stool, sighing heavily.

They were ready to go off on her, but upon getting a closer look, they had second thoughts. She was at least six foot six, with boyish black hair, and her pants and tanktop were black leather. Tight-fitting leather, at that. She looked like she worked out, and had hard facial features. They guessed she was half-Hispanic, which wasn’t at all uncommon.

He didn’t recognize her. “You a Gnasher?”

The woman scoffed. “Um, no? What do you care?”

His buddy--who was staring at her chest and making no secret of it--said, “Gnashers-only parking, baby. But maybe y’want me to initiate ya.” He put a hand around her waist, squeezing. It didn’t get the chance to go lower.

“I don’t hang out with losers.”

She then broke his wrist in one clean motion, dug her other hand into his considerable gut, and threw him across the street.

He landed on the roof of the bowling alley, smashing a paper-mache bowling ball in the process. The guy who’d originally aproached her whipped out a switchblade, and watched as it crumpled against her skin. She looked down, snorting derisively. “Limpy boy, huh?”

She then pulled out a baseball bat with a nail in it, which he recognized as Mjalcom.

The guy was hyperventilating. “I--I--I didn’t know it was you, princess…”

“DON’T CALL ME PRINCESS!!”

“I’m sorry…uh…”

“I’m Katja. And you’re stupid and ugly, but you’re about to be stupid and ugly in the hospital.”

------------------------

John Dermish had always wanted to make sense of the world--he just hadn’t known that, by doing so, he’d be signing his own death warrant.

The entire thing was indoors, of course, so it looked like a pristine subway tunnel, with ticket counters and turnstiles. Mag-lev tracks were at the top of the platform; at the bottom, an empty lobby. John was standing on the long, wide set of stairs that connected the two areas. The room was in that strange state of being dark, yet bright--skylights were at twenty-foot intervals, and they created large columns of natural light, separated by matching black gaps. He imagined being in a three-dimensional checkerboard. High above, wind softly rolled off the glass, and shadows of bending branches danced on the floor.

This complex--actually the entrance to a military museum that had quickly outgrown itself--was now emtpy and abandoned, underneath a series of grassy fields. Aboveground, there were empty parking lots, stone picnic tables, fake missile displays, and winding concrete paths, all stranded in the middle of a seemingly unending ocean of green. When the mag-lev tracks had been live, a passenger train would take visitors to the actual museum, which was several miles away, and unreachable by other means.

But what worried John was that this place was supposed to be sealed off--except fresh air was gusting in from somewhere, making the lightweight plastic turnstiles spin. Which meant that he wasn’t the only person breaking in.

Sweat kicked in. He literally felt like someone else. John wore matte black fatigues, complete with gloves, a facemask, and dark goggles. A small backpack was slung over his shoulder, containing what little gear he’d had time to grab, before he’d gone on the run. John had been hiding out in this place for what felt like forever. He thought about that, as opposed to thinking about how he might be caught.

Until six months ago, his knowledge had been strictly academic. John had been raised in a disgustingly average lifestyle, by upper-middle-class parents in suburbia, who’d sent him off to a respected university. His life there had been normal, if dull. His attributes and problems weren’t all that uncommon, and he was noticed by few. But, he found an interest in military history…it was grandiose and important, as compared to his life. John’s favorite area involved the glory days of SPUD, before they’d been shut down and reformed into HALO. His term paper on that very subject had caught the eye of an FBI alumnus of his school, and he went to work for them.

Life in the FBI had been equally uneventful--he was essentially a desk jockey. They were a political football: the lapdog of each new administration, who invariably had different goals for them. Every four or eight years, their focus went from foreign terrorism to domestic, from organized crime to tracking serial killers. Whatever the hot button issue of the day was--the one that would help the President at election-time. For the most part, he pushed paper and continued his private research.

And while doing so, he found out.

A mystery-man named Jordan Post had been the one to really shut down SPUD, and define what HALO would become. And while mostly a secretive organization, they employed one very high-profile operative…the late Messenger’s daughter, Poisyn. Rumors of depression and mental problems surrounded her, which was no surprise, given who her father was. Save for PR and cultural reasons, John could never understand why they continued to employ such a potential risk…until he found out that Jordan Post was one of Messenger’s old aliases.

Everything made sense, then. He took what he knew of Poisyn’s personal problems, and added to them what it would be like to be raised in the culture of espionage, of backstabbing and conspiracy…no wonder she was the way she was. That also explained the origin of “Jordan Post”. Unfortunately, he made the mistake of telling one of his superiors.

That superior had coincidentally been promoted to a high-level, if cushy, position at HALO. He was now stationed in Bermuda, with an out-of-nowhere gorgeous girlfriend, and was virtually impossible to contact. Some well-dressed men had wanted to talk to John, the next day. He’d barely escaped.

John now lived in the museum, leaving it only for supplies, which he got from the local quick-trip store. He kept telling himself that he wouldn’t be killed. Intel and military were all about human rights now--after the SPUD directors were convicted, and the obvious gender-related cultural changes took place, everyone had been quick to jump on that bandwagon. And he knew that Poisyn was the poster girl for that mentality, that she was the opposite of her father, in regards to the killing issue…

John definitely wasn’t a fighter. He’d studied the military, and he understood how they operated, and how to avoid them…but Poisyn? Between her training and what she’d inherited from her father, he could only hope that she’d have mercy on him.

The ghost-powered turnstiles were still whirling madly, squeaking like playground equipment caught in a storm. It reminded him of a Beatles song. Then, he was positive that he wasn’t alone. John had never dealt with this kind of stress, and he hadn’t wanted it. No, he wasn’t the type to wish for excitement--he was happy just reading about it.

He set the backpack--which contained his FBI service piece--on the floor. “I’m giving up,” he said to the air. “Okay?”

A moment passed. Something landed noiselessly behind him, and he heard a safety click off.

“Turn around.”

It was Poisyn, of course. Standard black HALO uniform, with green gear-netting around her chest, which held a holster and some other gadgets. Metallic bands of the same color were around her wrists and ankles. Both hands were on a gun: a Decton 210, he could tell because of the slightly-extended rectangular barrel. Energy weapon, of course. Her hair was also green, and about shoulder-length; her features had a hardly-noticeable Asian quality to them. She barely looked out of her teens…

He slowly got to his knees. “I--I’m not gonna tell. I didn’t mean to find out…”

Her tone didn’t change. “You have two choices. Finding out the secret means you either have to be detained for life, or you join the inner circle. If you’re good enough to find out, you deserve to be in on it.”

This wasn’t what he expected--in terms of both situation and her personality. While on the job, she seemed more stable. “Um, either is fine with me, just don’t kill me…”

She looked disappointed, and lowered her weapon. “Who do you think I am?”

--------------------

Parodiopolis Tech--or ParTech, as most called it--had seen its share of allegedly aloof students. They usually claimed that they had bigger things on their minds, and couldn’t be bothered with petty non-scientific details. In truth, some were arrogant, some used distance as an emotional defense, some were loners, and some just weren’t that good at communicating. At the moment, ParTech’s third-year class--a scant two dozen; they were very exclusive--had only one truly aloof individual.

She was currently working in their engineering lab, lost in her thoughts. Over the years, she’d developed a sort of routine autopilot, which allowed her to mentally multitask. She worked out formulae and schematics and DNA codings while walking, talking, and occasionally having sex.

Genevieve Shellett, like most lab workers, didn’t actually wear a white coat all of the time. Today, it was dark blue slacks and a chalk-colored turtleneck. Her white-blonde hair was up--a lab rule--and only a few loose strands framed her face. She peered at components from behind chic glasses. Though she looked strictly Anglo-Saxon on the surface, she was also part of a brand-new minority…and when she realized that someone was trying to kill her, again, she knew she could never get away from that fact.

She removed her glasses, placed them on a counter, and sighed. “Is it even possible for you people to learn?”

Ten men in black facemasks and green-and-black camoflauge had surrounded her, and were pointing energy rifles in her direction. The leader--who had fake-looking medals and bars pinned on his uniform--was the first to speak. “Genevieve Shellett. Before we execute you, you have a right to hear the charges against you.”

The young woman from Thunder Bay didn’t seem particularly interested. In a moment of casual dismissal, she assumed the Valley Girl disposition that she hated so much: “Whatever.”

“You’ve been charged with the crime of being born by unnatural causes--”

She rolled her eyes.

“--the crime of creating science that diminishes the role of the father in parenthood--”

Genevieve snorted. “Maybe you haven’t been watching the news, but: we don’t need you for childbirth, anymore. Get over it.”

“--the crime of having ties to a globalistic secret society--”

“Ugh, don’t remind me.”

“--the crime of being a part of a powerful foreign bloodline trying to influence America--”

She continued fiddling with the components on her table. “Too bad you militia idiots don’t have any legal authority, eh?”

The leader had to be grinning under his mask. “What’s more important--the authority to kill you, or the ability to kill you?”

“You don’t have either. God, I hate stupidity.” Genevieve--or rather, Suicide Blonde--blurred, and it was essentially over, then.

They fired, of course, but she was no longer there. Moving literally faster than they could react, she floored three of them in the first two seconds--two punches and a kick, backed up by her powers. Just as the original Suicide Blonde had been able to manipulate matter, the new one could create an explosive repulsing effect when she touched matter. So, by simply striking them, they went flying, manhandled by a molecular “boom”.

Genevieve cartwheeled, double-kicked one of them in the stomach, and backhanded another. She’d inherited DNA from the original Suicide Blonde’s cousins, as well--she had Exile’s limited superstrength, and Goldeneyed’s natural agility had translated to superhuman speed and agility. It wasn’t a twist of fate…she’d been designed that way.

She casually phased through a wall (another of her matter tricks), waiting for them to follow--she didn’t want to trash her own lab, but that idiot Chrissy’s, on the other hand…

Right before they came in, her LL pager beeped. She’d have to cut this one short.

--------------------------

Initially, it had been difficult to hear over the thrilled screaming of teenagers--but once he motioned for them to be quiet, they actually did. The teachers in the auditorium stood in awe, wondering what the trick was…

Their special speaker was briskly pacing on the stage, going through his usual routine. He’d talked about his novels (“Thoughts On Me” and “Thoughts On Me II”), his record deal (which music industry pundits described as “a cat being devoured by a synthesizer”, and “songs so generic and emotionally blank that everyone can’t help but project onto them, and thus love them”), and, right, that little career he had as a superhero and LL member.

He literally didn’t need a microphone. Like a cartoon character, he wore the same outfit he always did--dark green slacks, and a shirt of the same color, with a yellow diamond in the middle. Also, a flowing yellow trenchcoat. He had shiny black hair, and barnished grey skin, which was somewhat segmented--no surprise there, given that he was a robot.

“You have to be the you. Let me say that again: you have to be ‘the you’. With a capital ‘the’! Just like I’m The Anti-Visionary. Until you are who you want to be, you’re nobody!”

Diehard fans sat on the edge of their seats, gleaming wisdom from every nonsensical thing that came out of his mouth. He was the picture of success, and his self-help program was a worldwide hit…at the moment, he was easily the most popular LLer. And in a female-centric culture, that was saying something.

“Confidence is the name of the game. Happiness, too. There are people who’ll tell you to just be yourself, even if it doesn’t make your life easier--but if being yourself doesn’t make you happy, or get you money and dates, what’s the point? If you want those things--and if you don’t, there’s something wrong with you--you should be who you have to be to get them. You’re still being who you want to be, right? Don’t think of it as ‘conforming’, think of it as ‘streamlining’. Yeah, some people are all ‘That’s wrong!’, but they’re losers.”

Visionary’s lasting legacy had been tricking the Hooded Hood into creating a near-exact opposite of himself--someone not inept, passive, talented, or well-liked. (by the people who matter, anyway) So, the LL was now stuck with a parody of a man, whose tagline was “I’m fake, dammit!”

“I didn’t get to be a worldwide sex symbol and pop culture phenomenon by listening to so-called ‘other people’. They aren’t you, what do they know?”

(incidentally, any version of Visionary becoming a sex symbol was a bonafide sign of the end times, as written into cosmic law by a new Destroyer of Tales who thought he was being funny; which meant that Teen Glam could only have eight Anti-Visionary covers a year, lest they kick off armageddon)

Vizh was well on his way to breaking his record for contradicting himself--the current one was seven times in under a minute--when his comm-circuits buzzed with an LL alert. While delivering a mini-speech about the importance of buying brand names, he found his impressive way out.

“…and I’ll be ending it with that. You’ve been a great audience, and I’ve been a great speaker. Go out and make yourself happy, okay?”

In a puff of smoke, his right hand fired off. It was attached to his wrist by three flat cables. His hand grabbed onto a roof access panel, and the cords pulled his body up near-instantaneously. There was a brief glow of natural light, which then vanished. Thousands of credit-card-sized cel phones were being dialed, as the teenagers just had to tell their friends about who their mystery speaker had been…

-------------------

Many thirteen-year-olds skated--or, to use the original term, “rollerbladed”--their way around Parodiopolis, but only one did it five hundred feet in the air.

For many, it was easy to get confused about which children went with which superheroes. But Iris Paintbrush Sunrise, a.k.a. HyperActiveLunaticMiss!, had never had that problem. Like her father, she wore a neon green bodysuit--except hers also had a miniskirt, with fluorescent orange and green stripes. Her natural blonde hair was streaked with a matching shade of orange. Also present was green lipstick, multiple ear piercings, and a bare midriff. Unlike her father, her skin tone didn’t change when in-costume.

She was currently Spider-Manning it along a skyscraper, as her skates kept her attached to the side of the building. When she’d reach the end of one, Iris would casually leap off and find a new place to skate--sometimes sideways, sometimes rightside up, and sometimes upside down. It didn’t make a difference to her, really.

Surprised faces flashed by, as no-longer-bored office workers watched someone leave skid marks on their 91st floor windows. She could do this all day…it was her favorite part of the job. Well, one of her favorite parts--she could never narrow it down to just one. Or even just ten.

The skates were a product of her Alchemist Artkit, which allowed her to draw solid three-dimensional objects. It had taken her about a year, but she’d gotten pretty good at painting ambidextrously--a brush in each hand was the only way to go. Among her best creations so far were sentient skeleton nets, internal digestable straitjackets, and trapezoid-esque snakespider droids.

On one ear was a clip-on walkman, currently playing classic rock mp3s: she was on a Bjork spree. Then her LL card started meeping at her, and she linked it up with her walkman.

“Your friendly HyperActiveLunaticMiss! at your service! Oh, hey, Mumph. No, I’m just--yeah. Yeah. Really? Tell ‘em I’m on my way. Maybe we can do the tutoring thing tomorrow? Well, I have--okay. Yeah, I’m free then. Bye!”

She clicked off, smiling. More fun awaited…


Act II: Vital Disconnect


As a veteran of three wars, General Mark Kendrickson always expected his ultimate defeat to come on a battlefield…instead, it arrived in the form of a memo.

A year ago, when he’d first read it, he honestly hadn’t expected it to be anything important. He thought it would be an update on the base’s parking situation, or something about the two hundred new folding chairs they were supposed to get. Instead, what he found was a message straight from the President herself. He learned that the military would undergo “serious upgrades”, and he saw a list of the people organizing them…a new breed of officers, their politics more in line with the President’s than current military leaders’. Early retirement would be offered to certain officers, and he suspected that they were the dinosaurs; the old-schoolers who would no longer be needed. Such as himself.

Also, an Executive Order would be lifting the cloak off of the so-called black budget, allowing the President to see exactly what the money was being used for. This was in response to a wave of military scandals, some of them unearthed by the Lair Legion.

Everyone else had seen it coming. For the past decade or so, the focus had been shifting to international agencies like HALO, and other non-traditional forms of law enforcement. The last few wars (now distant memories) had been messier than usual, and less clear…the world was continuing to change, and the military’s morally simplistic methods were becoming antiquated and unpopular. The joke was that the next great war would be a PR one: getting America to like them and trust them, again.

Kendrickson had hung in for as long as he could. He repeatedly refused (an extremely lucrative) early retirement, he tried to make his voice heard, he stayed in the office though it was clear his kind was no longer welcome…but ultimately, he was forced out. To make it easier to hate them, he wished that they’d been unfair somehow, or that they were purposely out to get him--but the whole thing had been surprisingly casual. Just another form of natural selection. Sorry, you’re extinct, please clear your desk and be out of the building by five.

It wasn’t just losing a job…it was losing a way of life. Once upon a time, Kendrickson and his contemporaries had been able to influence world events--they had a seat at the proverbial round table. They said the truths that others were too polite or afraid to say. But now, with their replacements just parroting the President, who would say what needed to be said? Who would do what needed to be done?

They couldn’t remember who’d first suggested it. It had been intended as a joke--but the laughing had quickly been replaced by a realization that it was arguably possible. Idle discussion had turned into planning, and then more.

One common belief united them: they weren’t ready to be obsolete.

Now, Kendrickson found himself in a complex underneath West Virginia, sitting in an office that overlooked an indoor training arena. He was in his fifties, but he looked younger--his salt-and-pepper grey hair was still thick, and he kept himself trim. Below, the men were practicing their throws, and learning to use their plasma rifles as hand-to-hand weapons, in case they ran out of clips. Like Kendrickson, they wore nondescript black uniforms. They were the loyalists, who had quit the service when the changes took place.

He knew that, in another part of the base, a squad was going through recon training. Another squad was going through standard engineering training, as they learned the basics of repairing weapons and other gear. Two more squads were at the firing range, qualifying to be marksmen or snipers--in just four months, every single soldier had improved their shooting-quality rating by at least two marks, which was a minor miracle. Every hour that went by, they got a little better. Every day, they got a little closer.

Only two people knew the ultimate goal--Kendrickson, and his second-in-command. They’d used a third party to get the intel they needed, and he had no view of the larger picture. He thought about what they were going to do, chuckling. And they said the military had no imagination…

Kendrickson checked his watch. The op was scheduled to start in a matter of hours, but normal training routines wouldn’t be postponed. All of the men currently in the base were just the backups--the front line was already on the field, getting into position.

America, and the world, still needed them…it had just forgotten. But he wasn’t going to wait for some tragedy to remind them--innocents shouldn’t have to die to make the higher-ups realize their mistake. There were tolerated dangers out there, which someone had to deal with. He had to get back in power now, before it was too late…

------------------------

Like those before him, Christopher Waltz had the most necessary trait for being a leader of the LL: namely, he was the last person you’d ever expect to be any kind of authority figure.

Lair Mansion had been many things to many people…but for Christopher, it was his childhood home. He’d spent most of his life there--and in a lot of ways, he’d never known any other life. Until he was older, he assumed that massive brawls were just a traditional part of weddings, that everyone had terrorist organizations and monsters and supervillains trying to kill them, and that power upgrades and psychological meltdowns were just natural stages of a person’s life. Also, since he was raised by a strong-willed woman with unconventional values (who wasn’t too fond of traditional authority), he turned out to be somewhat eclectic. Like his mother, he was sharp and decisive and fun, but he’d also become weathered to the weirdness of the Parodyverse. To him, it was normal.

Still clad in his Jarvis “costume”, he was sitting in the LL’s war-room, waiting. His co-leader, Iconique--Patricia--was next to him. For a long time, it had seemed like they were the only two kids in the mansion. They’d grown up together, playing pranks on Flapjack and sneaking into the Lairjets at night. Now, they were best friends, and though they’d taken a brief stab at dating, they decided it wouldn’t work. Surprisingly, things weren’t at all awkward between them…except for right now, as Christopher sat uncomfortably in his chair, uncharacteristically quiet.

Patricia swept her long, brown hair over her shoulder, and tossed an expectant glance towards the door. “Why are we waiting for Poisyn?”

“I want to talk to her before we get started. I think she knows about what’s going on…”

“Mmm.” She wondered what was going on, but decided it could wait. “I saw that you two took down the Anvil Mansion last week…”

He suddenly looked guilty. “Yeah, uh, we didn’t plan it or anything, we just both happened to be after him. I mean, I didn’t want her to have to take on a whole giant house by herself.”

“Uh-huh,” Patricia mumbled casually. Then, from out of nowhere, “You know that Katja likes you, right?”

“Um…”

“Well, she’s been acting ticked off at Poisyn for like the last week or so. And I was just wondering…”

He laughed. “We aren’t going out.”

“Okay.”

“No, really, Poisyn and I aren’t going out.”

“I know.”

“Seriously, we’re not.”

“I believe you!”

“Okay.”

“How long have you been going out?”

“About two months.”

He sighed, and she gave him a hug. “It’s a really good thing you never tried to have a secret identity, because you couldn’t lie to save your life.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“So…you like her?”

“…well, yeah, of course. Just--just don’t tell her that I said anything, okay? You know how she is, she’s shy about this stuff. I mean, it took months just to get her to really talk to me. If she finds out, I’m afraid she’ll get all quiet again.”

Patricia turned it over in her mind. “I won’t go up to her and tell her, but if she asks, I’m not gonna lie.”

He seemed relieved. “Thanks, I really appreciate it.”

“But I think you should talk to her…keeping it secret for too long can just screw everything up. Trust me on that.”

He wondered what she was referring to, but resisted the urge to ask. Instead, he quickly said, “And what about you and that one guy?”

She rolled her eyes. “He has a name…”

“Yeah, um…normalguy. With a normal job and normal clothes and a normal name.”

Patricia started to say something, and then stopped. She smiled, as if she’d just realized something, and now everything made sense. “Wait, have you ever dated anyone outside of our little superhuman social circle?”

She expected him to panic like he was caught, but he just shrugged. “I don’t have anything in common with normal girls. I’m probably too weird or something.”

“Did one of them actually tell you that?”

“No, but they’ve never had the chance--I’ve just never been interested in a normal girl, so I’ve never tried asking one out. Simple as that. But, don’t change the subject…back to normalguy. Sean?”

“Sean, yeah. Well, because of our schedules, we can only go out every week or so. I don’t think it’ll turn into anything serious. And his ex is always lurking--”

The door slid open, and Poisyn walked in. “What’s going on?”

Suddenly all business, Christopher stood up and said, simply, “Mark Kendrickson.”

She nodded, and activated the encyclopedia that was her mind. “He used to be a big player in the military, but he was forced out in the purge. He’s joined up with some of his old buddies, and they all took jobs with individuals and corporations that don’t really exist--they wanted it to look legit, not like they were all vanishing at the same time. He’s got about three hundred people. They’ve been building a little war chest, buying a lot of tech through anonymous third parties…but we have no idea where it’s going, or what they’re planning to use it for.”

Patricia looked surprised. “You knew about this?”

Poisyn gave her best non-chalant shrug. “At any given time, about two dozen organizations are doing this…avoiding attention, quietly gathering resources. HALO monitors their progress, and when one of them gets too close to being a threat, we take ‘em down.” This was the role she loved hiding in--the explainer; the know-it-all. Coincidentally, whenever she wasn’t needed in this capacity, she tended to leave the room for vague reasons…

Christopher reached into his jacket, and pulled out a rolled-up piece of paper: it was a color copy of some kind of ancient world map, covered with unmarked dots. “I took this off of a superhuman mercenary--he used to do a lot of work for the military. He claims that Kendrickson paid him to break into a private museum and copy it. Just two problems--first, I have no idea what the dots represent. Second, this is a really old map, so there’s no latitude or longitude.”

Taking the map out of his hands, Patricia said, “Hey, I think I recognize some of these locations…but they’re all magic-related. Haunted ruins, cities of people that were sacrificed to the gods, stuff like that.”

He honestly looked surprised, and smiled at Patricia. “You just saved us a few hours of research. Magic, huh? Hmm.” He studied the map in a new light. “The military and magic…not a combination you see every day. Can you get exact coordinates for where these places are?”

“Sure.”

“Feed them into our satellite network…I want to keep an eye on these spots. Once we know more, we’ll go check them out.”

“I can get you what we have on Kendrickson’s people,” Poisyn said, just a little over-eagerly. “Psych profiles, known associates, regions they’re familiar with--” She blinked. “And don’t quote me on this, but I think their commweb has been more active, lately. Lots of scrambled cel calls, cloaked e-mails, stuff like that.” She then mumbled that there’d been a memo about it.

“So they’re planning something, and it’s heating up.” Christopher considered everything he’d just heard. “Okay, let’s work this from the other end--Poisyn, can you find out if any of Kendrickson’s friends aren’t involved in this? Maybe he approached them, and they turned him down…maybe they don’t like what’s he’s up to. If that’s the case, they’re more likely to give us info.”

“On it.” Poisyn looked like she wanted to say something to him, but Patricia was right there, so she rigidly walked out of the room.

He winced, and turned to Patricia. “Not to pile too much work on you, but, could you look for some common threads in these places?”

“Reading-geek-girl at your service,” she mock-saluted. “What should we tell the others?”

“We need to find out more before we brief everyone…tell ‘em to stay in the mansion for the next few hours. No wandering off.”

-----------------------

Submolecular manipulation was, suffice to say, a delicate process. A scientist was required to use oversized grey-and-black metal gloves, and their movements controlled microscopic robotic hands. It was like brain surgery, but even more precise--calmness and steadiness were essential. Such an experiment was difficult enough without Anti-Visionary making karate screams and jumping around the room.

“I call it Vizh-fu,” he announced to Genevieve Shellett, who was staring intently at a screen that showed the atom she was currently restructuring. “It’s a combination of exercise and martial arts, and we already have pre-orders for two million copies of the first video…order now, and you get a free headband!”

She said nothing, but he continued high-kicking the equipment in the genetics lab, just stopping short of actual physical contact. He kept looking over his shoulder to see if she was watching, as impressing her was sort of the whole point. Of course, he also just liked looking at her…she was wearing her usual uniform; a variation of her “father’s” old costume. It was an all-covering black bodysuit, which started at her feet and went all the way up to her hairline. Only her eyes and hair could be seen…both were pale gold.

“You look really, really good in black. Just thought I’d say that.” He paused, waiting for a response…none came. “And it’s cool how you’re good at a lot of different stuff. I mean, it seems like most of you guys just specialize in one thing. But I’m just guessing, I don’t have time to read any of those boring science magazines…”

Genevieve stepped back, and took off the gloves. Anti-Visionary was almost positive that this was the part where she thanked him for his comments by asking him out…instead, she pulled her mask down around her neck, and it vaguely resembled a loose turtleneck collar. Her eyes returned to their regular icy blue. Then, she put the gloves on and went back to work.

He looked miffed. “Yeah, I can take a hint!” He couldn’t, really. Anti-Visionary proceeded to do more Vizh-fu while namedropping, and talking about how he loved hot tubs and how he was a licensed masseuse. After a few minutes of that, he wandered off in search of someone who would pay attention to him.

As he rambled through one of the mansion’s many sub-basements, he was lost in thought…such as it was. --at’s her problem? I try to give her a break from work and she doesn’t even act like I’m in the room. I wonder if she’s gay. At least she’s hot. What kind of a name is Suicide Blonde, anyway? That probably isn’t even her real hair color. Right, I forgot to ask the marketing people about my trenchcoat--I still think it looks too bright. I should have gone with the darker yellow…what’s it called? Some food name. Mustard! Yeah, mustard. Geez, this one is tight, but it’s the exact same size as all my other coats. I can’t be growing, I’m a robot. Is the label wrong? Should I look into other factories who won’t get it wrong? Maybe I should update my costume, the licensed merchandise sales have been going down, and they said they need a shot in the arm…wait, do I have to wait for the first contract to expire before I can get a new costume? Was that in there? I don’t remember…I wasn’t listening, I was looking at Keri. Why doesn’t she wear that tight little white top, anymore? God, I hate her boyfriend. Sitting in an office all day and he thinks he’s all that…I hope she didn’t tell him about what happened at the Christmas party. Ehh, I can kick the crap out of him. But if he finds out, the record deal is probably off. God, I hated being stuck in his stupid little studio for a month, I hope I don’t have to make another one until next year. Why do they even call them “record deals”, anymore? Do records still exist? I thought they all got recycled…

Anti-Visionary found himself in the LL’s training room, where Katja was working out. She was lifting a small metal pyramid, except the tip was sliced off, replaced by a round handle. Though he couldn’t see it, he knew there was a digital readout that told how heavy it currently was…it had gravity-inducers that varied its weight. She saw him, and asked if it was time to get to work, yet. He said no, and she reacted calmly enough. He was always surprised at patient the warrior-types were.

Glancing at the weight, he asked, “What’ve you got that thing on?”

She turned around, and moved her hand out of the way so he could see--it was ten. (tons, of course)

“Hey, I can do that. Toss it over here.”

When she smirked, he knew he’d made a mistake…her smiles were a sign of impending wrath, not happiness. But it was already in the air. He instinctively reached out to catch it, and found his arms pinned to the ground.

“OWOWOWOWOWOWGETITOFFGETITOFFGETITOFF”

She easily lifted it off of him, and he saw that the readout actually said “100”, not “10”. Not much of an actor, she gave her best fake “Oops.”

Stumbling to his feet, he spat out, “You are so lucky that thing didn’t go through the floor…”

Katja gave the floor a good stomp, and everything shook--including Anti-Visionary, who proceeded to fall back down. “It’s triple-reinforced, or something like that.”

He once again got up, and smoothed his jacket, taking a breath. “Yeah, that’s real funny.” He briefly thought about being nice to her--but no, she was too tough and tomboyish, not his type at all. By the time he’d thought of a snappy putdown, she’d already left the room…

-----------------

Katja ran a hand through her short hair and quickly walked down a metal hallway, glad to be putting distance between herself and that creep. She had enough to worry about; she didn’t need that crap.

It had only been two weeks since the spell binding her to Marcy--mousey, doormat nurse Marcy--had been broken. Now, they were no longer forced to share the same body…but Katja had found that her life was a lot emptier without Marcy’s constant stream of guy problems and annoying family members. She almost wished that she could have a secret identity, again; to get away from the Ausgard situation. She was back to being plain-old Katja, who had nothing…except for a stupid, immature crush on a guy she’d never have a chance with. The bottom line was that she lived in two worlds, and at the moment, she didn’t want to be in either.

Then, she heard her father’s name mentioned in the next hall over, and saw dull thud walking along with Iconique. Though not the most graceful woman in the world, Katja managed to essentially tiptoe through a cross-hall, coming up behind them. thud was the one who’d said it…

“--and so I’m suddenly in Ausgard, and I have no idea what happened. I think he hit me with a teleporting-ray instead of a death-ray or whatever it was supposed to be. But anyway, I got to have a great dinner there, it was like this giant four-eyed blue yak or something. And King Donar told me a lot about what they’re gonna be doing up there. You’ll really be surprised…”

When they passed the satellite-control room, Iconique excused herself, and went in. thud kept on walking. Once the room’s door was closed, Katja grabbed him by the scruff of his neck and dragged him into an empty hall intersection.

Making sure she had his attention, she furiously whispered, “What do you think you’re doing!?”

“…walking?”

“Look--I don’t know what you think my dad told you, but they haven’t decided yet. It isn’t final, so don’t talk about it like it is.”

“How is this a big deal? I don’t--”

Her eyes softened, and for a second, she looked like a different person. “Please, just…just don’t say anything, okay? I’m trying to change his mind.”

thud had been ready to rant about being mugged by a god, but after seeing the look on her face…“Uh, sure. Yeah, no problem.”

“Thanks.” Katja suddenly realized that she was touching his arm, which she hadn’t meant to do. After taking her hand back, she awkwardly tried to explain that she had to go do something.

When she was already a few steps away, thud blurted out, “Is everything okay?”

Without turning around, and a bit too automatically: “I’m fine!”

He started to ask if she was sure, but she was already gone. His sentence trailed off, and he stared blankly into nothingness for a few moments. Something was bugging him, and it took him a minute or two to figure it out…he’d never heard her say “please”, before.

It was times like this that he knew he’d never fit in with the LL. It seemed like everyone else was in the prime of their life, just trying to deal with everything that was going on--whereas he didn’t seem to have anything going on, anymore. And when he did, he couldn’t handle it.

thud couldn’t help but see himself as a dark cloud hanging over them, a reminder of how they could burn out, if they weren’t careful. The only thing he was good for was giving advice, if they were facing problems like he’d faced…not that he was any kind of role model. Still, it sounded like Katja might need someone to listen to her, and he might as well be useful for something . He made a mental note.

After a quick glance around, he snuck a Euphoria chewable-tab and popped it into his mouth. The initial rush drowned out the emotional pain. He mentally repeated his “I can’t get hurt” mantra. Maybe he’d try to get with Miss Framlicker, tonight--she had a good shoulder to cry on, and a good toilet to throw up in. By the time the Euphoria wore off, he’d probably need both.

He figured that, as long as he had a bit of extra energy, he might as well get some exercise. thud jogged lightly down a hallway, feeling better with every step. Suddenly, he heard a familiar sound echo through the halls, and he was nearly run over by HyperActiveLunaticMiss!, who’d apparently decided that the walls made a good skating rink.

thud actually managed to catch her without getting knocked down--one of the benefits of being invulnerable. “Iris, geez…”

“Sorry sorry sorry sorry,” she said quickly, taking off her headphones. “I was listening to my dad’s latest lecture mp3. Did you hear that he got voted the most popular Pop Culture professor in America?”

“That’s cool.” thud still wasn’t used to working with someone so young--she was barely a teenager. “I’m surprised you aren’t upstairs, I saw Nats Jr. in Mumph’s class…isn’t he the one that asked you to his jr. high dance?”

“Uh, well…I’ve got other stuff to do right now.”

“Okay,” he shrugged, his mind elsewhere. “I should probably see if the big guns are done getting ready…wanna come along?”

“No, I think I’ll kill some more time skating.”

Iris once again took off, her thoughts racing as well. Did he know? Of the LL, she’d only told Patricia. It wasn’t that she was embarrassed or anything, she just wasn’t sure if she should tell everyone this soon. At least her “artist’s block” was gone; coming up with new creations had been more difficult in the past few weeks…

And what about the new Space Ghost that was in Mumph’s class? She’d seen him in action, he was a complete loose cannon…sure, on the surface, he looked saner than his mentor--i.e., he wore pants. He had the cool new costume, the good looks, and a ton of friends, except he was practically a sociopath. But what proof did she have? He was still mad that she’d been picked over him, to join the LL.

Her mind drifting, she nearly ran into Genevieve, who was all but screaming at someone on a standard LL cel phone. But Genevieve didn’t see her, and Iris quickly rolled backwards, ducking around a corner.

“--old you to stop calling me! I don’t work for you anymore, you sanctimonious--oh, yeah, that’s a great way to convince me. You expect me to believe that, with all the resources you have, the Observing Eye can’t find another--well, that’s just too bad. No, this isn’t about him! Of course it factors in…if I tried to kill your ex, you’d be pretty--exactly. Oh, for--don’t pull that again. I’ve told you before, I wasn’t the one that destroyed the original DNA samples. And stop calling me your “daughter”. You grew me in a giant vat of liquid, that isn’t exactly warm and paternal. If I have a father, it isn’t you, it’s Bry…look, we’re done. It’s over. Get over it.”

Genevieve wished that she’d been talking on one of those antique corded phones, so she could hang up angrily…she had to settle for pushing the “off” button harder than usual. For a split-second, she thought she sensed someone behind her--but no, no-one was there.

“You aren’t getting emotional,” she muttered to herself. “You’re better than that.” Then, she nodded, confident that she was ready to return to being the ice queen that everyone knew and hated.

Suddenly, everything went blue, as a low-level alarm started flashing. It was finally time to find out what was really going on, here…

-----------------

It was, quite simply, the most expensive surveillance they’d ever done. The organization known as Greensky was located in a Sacramento skyscraper, and the only way to get decent pictures of them was to get a room in the tallest hotel in the city, which cost an arm and a leg. All of the other surrounding buildings were nothing but office space, and the waiting list for would-be renters was impossibly long.

So, former Lieutenants Worhn and Collins occupied the room, taking turns at the window. It was a massive suite of some sort, with hardwood floors and diamond-kissed golden chandeliers. The kitchen was bigger than most people’s bedrooms, and the bedroom was bigger than most people’s living rooms. Both of the men were dressing casual--just t-shirts and sweatpants. They’d been stuck in there for the last week.

Worhn--with his unfashionably short blonde hair, ruddy complexion, and tiny eyes--was channelsurfing, bored out of his mind. He kept hitting the newschannels.

click

“--solutely, the election of the President was a huge turning point for the country. Sure, we knew that 62% of America was female, but the election proved that they were willing to get out and vote. And it completely turned the tables on the character issue, because her past and her wild personality gave her a lot in common with the modern voter. I predict a--”

click

“--fourth straight attempt at introducing anti-cloning legislature failed, today. Several Senators stormed out, but the majority--”

click

“It’s no coincidence at all, Jackie. The Greensky human rights lobbying group expanded their platform ten years ago, and today, virtually all of their goals have been met. I mean, when they said that genetic enhancements, cloning, so-called unnatural birth, and consensual adult sex are basic human freedoms that should be protected in the Bill of Rights, everyone thought they were crazy, but--”

Collins cursed loudly, setting his long-range digicam down. He had orangeish red hair and a goatee, and his usual smirk had been erased. “Turn that crap off.”

Worhn did. He tossed the channel changer on the sofa, and got up, walking over to the window. “Anything?”

“Still nothing. If we had audio, yeah, we might actually get something…”

“No good, they sweep for bugs at least twice a day. They’ve gotta have all kindsa tech in there, with some of the heroes in bed with ‘em…”

“Yeah, you never hear about that in the news--acting like Greensky is just another political whatever group.” In a more relaxed tone, Collins said, “My grandpa used to tell me about the sixties, when the President actually went after subversive groups like this. It isn’t like now--geez, she wouldn’t even let us spy on ‘em…”

“Our President is a subversive,” Worhn said smugly, as if he’d just uttered a brilliant truth. “What do you expect?”

“I used to laugh at the conspiracy guys, but the more I think about it...” Collins started counting off on his fingers. “I think that the President, Greensky, HALO, the superheroes, Starcross, and a lot of the big companies like KinLabs are all in it together. Seriously, if you look at the moves they’ve made in the last twenty or thirty years, it’s like they’ve known what they’re doing the whole time.”

“It isn’t like it used to be--you can’t tell people that the world is fallin’ apart anymore, because they’re enjoying it too much. They have a, a stake in things not changing back to like they used to be…if we stepped in and cleaned up America, all the stuff they like would be outlawed or whatever. You can’t convince ‘em to agree to that, you’ve just gotta do it whether they like it or not.”

Collins took a futile, obligatory look through the digicam, and then put it back down. He didn’t need to say that they still hadn’t seen anything remotely suspicious. “I don’t know how much longer they can afford to keep us in here. Our funding is drying up…”

“Don’t talk like that, man! Doesn’t matter anyway, Kendrickson said he was on to something big--something that’ll keep us around.”

“It’d better be big, there’s no way we can take down Greensky with what we’ve got now…”

---------------------------

The lights were out in the war-room, but a screen was alive with images. Christopher Waltz had just finished telling the LL about Mark Kendrickson, his paramilitary force, and the map he’d found. Iconique was up next…

“I don’t know how many of you know this, but--magic isn’t what it used to be. In the early ages, it was powerful and commonly-used. Over time, a kind of mystical entropy set in, due to lack of use, lack of belief, and a dozen other reasons that I won’t go into now.”

The map once again appeared on the screen, and a light eminated from her fingertip, highlighting the dots on the map.

“But the ancients sealed off certain areas, like tombs and treasure vaults--these areas were completely cut off from the outside world. Because of that, their ‘atmosphere’ still has a high potential for magic…the entropy never reached it. This map shows a lot of those places.” Patricia felt Suicide Blonde giving her a funny look, and she figured she’d better give a scientific comparison. “It’d be like if we locked down the mansion today, and over the next hundred years, the world became more polluted--the air in here would still be clean; a bottled sample of the past.”

She stepped back into the darkness, and Christopher got in front of the screen. The image changed to a resources graph, with the line steadily going downhill. “As you can see, Kendrickson is slowly running out of weapons and other kinds of technology. The military’s been having a hard enough time getting tech, since most of the big brains are working for organizations that give them more control. Anyway, ever since Kendrickson went underground, he’s been scrounging for equipment…and we’ve come up with a theory on what’s going on, which Poisyn confirmed. Poisyn?”

In the darkness, she nodded. “We know he’s hired some kind of mystic, and from the evidence we have, it looks like he’s going to try to access the power at one of these sites. In his mind, magic might look like a better option than technology, right now. I talked to two of his ex-buddies, and they both confirmed that he was thinking along these lines.”

“What’s he plan on using the power for?” Suicide Blonde asked.

Poisyn had the answer to this one. “Right before Kendrickson and his buddies were forced out of the military, they were hardlining about wanting to sabotage certain political groups--Greensky was one of their favorites. But they didn’t even get the clearance to spy on them. As I understand it, their ranting about that is a big part of what got them blacklisted. So I think it’s safe to assume some kind of terrorism against Greensky, maybe thinly-disguised as vigilantism.”

“I’ve seen quite a bit of that kind of paramilitary crap lately,” Suicide Blonde sighed. “They’ve tried to kill me about four times in the last month, including today. It’s getting annoying.”

One of the computer consoles beeped, and Christopher hit the lights, while stabbing at a button near a smaller screen. “The satellites just picked up something…we’ve got activity near one of the sites. Looks like armored vehicles of some kind.”

Poisyn strode over to him, and stood a little too closely, a little too naturally--she caught herself, and casually took a step to the side. “They’re military-issue traks. And the way they’re approaching, two squads in a scorpion formation…that’s got Kendrickson’s fingerprints all over it.”

“That’s all I needed to hear,” Christopher said. “Let’s get to it!”


Act III: Forcing a Flashpoint


The moments leading up to it would be crystallized by pressure, frozen perfectly for all the world to see: people’s lives wove in and out of Australia’s Sunset Mining Co. that day, as some were supposed to be there but weren’t, and others weren’t supposed to be there, but were anyway. In the routine hours before it happened, people wandered as if on an invisible chessboard, unknowingly getting into position for where they’d be when it all went down.

Some of the engineers had gone to a conference in Sydney. A few miners’ lives were forever changed because they chose to go to work, instead of calling in sick and spending the day in bed with their girlfriends, as they’d originally planned. A journalist named Tessa Lorne had to interview the mine’s manager, but she decided to put it off for just a few hours. A gradeschool field trip showed up, unaware that they weren’t scheduled until next week.

Just before the lunch hour, seven men in tan uniforms showed up, and talked to Paula Teniger, a secretary. They said they were there to perform safety checks on the drilling equipment. Though the mine already had safety-testing equipment, the men were carrying their own--or at least, they were carrying something in large duffel bags. She was on the phone with her mother, and she barely even glanced at them before waving them to go in.

Security guard Freddie Dugan was patrolling the compound…in other words, he was strolling along on a path that was framed by two lines of disparate rocks, while trying to think of an excuse to go see a crush of his who worked in accounting. Sunset’s complex wasn’t much to look at--it consisted of four rectangular metal bunkers, all in a row. They were in front of an anemic mountain, which looked like an oversized lump of reddish-brown dirt. It was the middle of the outback, drowning in flat, mostly-plantless desert. Except for the mountain being in the way, you could see everything for miles around.

How they managed to sneak up on him, he’d never know.

The noise came first. He was used to the roar of the wind, but this was something else…a grinding, a charging. Freddie squinted, looking into the distance…he just saw the usual desolate tableau. But the tan and brown took shape through the haze, coalescing into tanks and other kinds of armored vehicles. A whole fleet of them was coming straight at the mine.

His eyes and mouth were open wide, as he fumbled for his walkie-talkie…then, he was flying through the air, his left side in pain. He hadn’t even heard the explosion--it was a near-silent concussion grenade, which sounded little louder than a door being slammed. The walkie-talkie was a good ten feet away from him, now, and he couldn’t seem to find his gun. Desert-camoflauged behemoths were bearing down on him, he could feel the ground shaking…

Then, there was a spherical flash of light, and he was sure he was dead. But the light didn’t fade away--it continued hanging in the air, standing between him and the tanks. Multicolored energy beams came screaming out of the huge, glowing sphere, and he saw sparks go flying from the tanks. When the light faded, he saw that the tanks had, at least for the moment, stopped.

And then he saw why.

Jarvis, Iconique, and Katja were standing in front of him, facing the tanks. Freddie had grown up seeing superheroes on TV, and his senses had been hardened by special-effects-laden blockbusters…but the real thing was something else entirely. Even though he knew they were there to help him, he couldn’t help but feel an almost religious terror, as he stood (well, laid awkwardly) in their presence. He suddenly felt very, very small.

After a moment, Jarvis addressed the tanks. “Kendrickson! If you have a problem, this isn’t the way to deal with it!”

One of the tanks must have had a PA system built into it, as a voice soon echoed through the outback: “We tried it with words--and it ended our careers!”

The hyperbole rolled right off of Christopher, who remained calm. “Look, we have pull with the people you’re upset with…you have a chance to talk to them and influence their thinking. Is this just about venting anger, or are you in this to be heard?”

“I’m n--we’re not settling for less! As far as we’re concerned, Greensky--and other groups like them--represent a clear and present danger to the United States of America…and we’re taking them down!”

“If you want a fight, that’s fine with me--but you have a code of honor. You took an oath to protect the populace of America and her allies. Give the bystanders a chance to clear out!”

In the sweaty, cramped confines of his personal vehicle, Kendrickson actually considered it. He didn’t want any innocents to die. But no, there was too much that could go wrong…they had to do it as quickly as possible. And their technological resources were dwindling; they needed to find another source of power. The destruction of Greensky was important enough to warrant a tougher style, and the casualties would be well within acceptable limits.

“There’s a war going on, Waltz--and you picked the wrong side!”

After that, there was nothing but explosions.

-------------------------

The miners working in shaft 3B1 had run into a problem--they couldn’t drill through a section of the cavern wall; and their scanners told them that there was a hollow area on the other side, so they pretty much had to find out what was there. And as evidenced by the heavily-armed commandos slowly closing in on them, they were about to run into an even bigger problem…

Marty Rostovik was no stranger to the fact that things rarely went as planned. He’d been born a natural athelete, and he easily became a defensive star in all levels of football, from his tiny jr. high team all the way up to the NFL--and he’d seen enough games to know that their plays rarely worked out the way they wanted them to. His life hadn’t worked out the way he thought it would, either…his brother died fighting in a war that the government would later deny had ever happened, in the event that started the downfall of the “old world”. After that, his job--his life and joy--suddenly seemed pointless. He enlisted less than a week after his brother’s death, giving up a ton of money in the process. Now, Marty just needed one more plan to work out, and he’d be a happy man.

He was leading an undercover insertion team, whose goal was to break into the sealed-off mystical area and begin draining its power, while the rest of their forces secured the aboveground buildings. They’d chosen to do so at what would hopefully be the perfect time--when only one shift was scheduled to be in this shaft, on a date when the usually-present engineers were away. Marty had five men under his command…and one freelancer, whom no-one trusted.

As they crept into position, Gabriel Darkness--a scrawny, black-haired fortysomething man, with trickster eyes and a sardonic smile--barely managed to keep pace with Marty. The magician was horribly out-of-shape, and he couldn’t seem to stop whining. Back in the day, he’d been a major enemy of the Lair Legion, which his long-lost cousin Whitney belonged to. Now, he was forced to sell his services to the highest bidder and generally hide, as his personality had made more than a few enemies. Everything hinged on him being able to get ahold of the power in this location, and it made Marty extremely nervous, as this guy seemed anything but reliable.

They were still wearing their tan mechanics’ disguises, with micro-thin, breatheable kevlar bodysuits underneath. The mines were dark, and neon glowtorchers were duct-tapes at intervals along the rock walls and ceiling. They had to be careful not to throw shadows. Luckily, the miners were at an “intersection” where four horizontal tunnels met, so surrounding them was that much easier.

A voice crackled through Marty’s comlink: “I can’t get a visual on the crew--our infrared can’t get through this stupid rock. And they have equipment going, so I can’t hear ‘em talking…could be two, could be twenty. But only a few are scheduled. Jenkins has got the peeker, want him to look around the corner?”

“Can’t chance it for too long--just look for a sec.”

Moments dragged by, and Jenkins’ rattling tenor sounded in Marty’s ear. “Looks like they’re just standing around…probably on a break. I only saw three. Maybe they’re killing time, waiting for the drill to go through or something.”

“We do it on a three-count,” Marty whispered hoarsely. “Shoot to wound only, unless they’re armed. And be careful--security’s really good here.” He clicked off their shared frequency, and glared at Gabriel. “You, just stay down until it’s time. Got your explosive-spell ready?”

“Ready and willing, cap’n,” Gabriel breathed shakily. He’d seen better days.

Marty took a gulp of air. Best-case scenario, they’d give up quickly and quietly. Worst-case, they were playing poker with security guys who’d end up dead. He re-activated his com-link. “One…two…THREE!”

Footsteps shuffled methodically, and safeties clicked off. Startled gasps could be heard. Once he could see what was going on, Marty realized that his worst-case scenario had been far too optimistic.

A dozen high-pitched squeals echoed through the caverns, as schoolchildren--oh, God, Marty now remembered wondering what that bus in the parking lot was for, why didn’t they make them all yellow anymore?--panicked. Their plan had been to quickly control the situation, but his men couldn’t even be heard over the screaming kids. They all looked to him for an order.

“HOLD YOUR FIRE! HOLD YOUR FIRE!!”

Then the sound abruptly cut off, and the children blinked, confused. Marty turned to see Gabriel grinning. “That’ll cost you another ten-thousand.”

Marty winced, he hadn’t planned on having to do this kind of crowd-control. His men kept their weapons trained on the workers and the kids, while Gabriel generated a black-orange energy-orb in his hands, and used it to make a new tunnel. Everything shook more than it should have, and debris sprinkled from above--but the shaft’s structural integrity held.

Stale, ancient air gushed out at first, and then was caught in some kind of bubble that suddenly covered the newly-made hole. Keeping the “seal” intact was of primary importance--if it broke, and came in contact with the atmosphere of the modern world, the mystic energy would become contaminated.

“I’ll need about fifteen minutes alone with this baby,” Gabriel sighed, as if he didn’t really want to do this. “And the silence spell wore off, so please, keep the kids quiet. I can’t focus when they’re having emotional breakdowns. And don’t bug me for any more help, I’ll need all of my energy for this.”

Gabriel vanished into the cave, and Marty’s men told the workers and kids that if they just stood still and kept quiet, nothing bad would happen. Marty supervised the situation, making sure that the miners didn’t have any walkie-talkies or other communication devices. He hoped they could be done before someone came to check on the kids…

Then, he saw one of the miners--who was wearing one of the old helmets, with an oversized headset built-in--suddenly, slightly move his head, like he’d just heard something. But no noise had been made. And the movement had been so small…maybe it was just a nervous twitch? Or someone was telling him something through the headset.

Marty briefly doubled back to the elevator, making sure that no-one was coming. It was a straight line from where they were, so he could see the hostages (he tried not to think of them as hostages) the whole time. When he returned, the helmet-wearing miner was casually looking at his nightvision goggles. Just fidgeting? No, Marty didn’t like it…

He was about to say something when the glowtorches all died--but they weren’t connected to a single power source, so it couldn’t be a simple blackout. It had to be sabotage.

Somewhere in the darkness, Jenkins made a surprised noise, and the hostages took off. They’d planned this, that’s why the guy was getting his nightvision goggles ready…but Marty and his men had goggles, too. Unfortunately, before they could get them out, they were under attack.

A rectangular blue bolt of energy caught one of his men in the head, and piercing static blared from their comlinks. Marty heard bone crack, and someone slammed against the rock wall. One of the men used their automatic rifle, briefly illuminating the darkness--but there was no cry of injury or death. It was a miss. In these close quarters, how could anyone miss!?

Marty grabbed a flare, pulled the cord, and threw it to the ground. He saw their attacker, and knew they were in for trouble.

It was Poisyn.

In the split-second before she reduced the flare to ash with her blaster, she nearly took off a soldier’s head with one kick, and threw Darren--he looked shaky, he was probably the one she’d slammed into the wall--straight at Marty, who was already lining up his gun to shoot. She looked so petite, how could she toss a big guy like that around? He didn’t really have time to wonder, as he found himself knocked off his feet by the thrown body. As he went down, he saw the hostages in the distance, just as they vanished into the darkness.

The light went out, and everything was quiet. He heard labored breathing--it sounded male--and then a succession of bones snapping. Marty tried to push Darren off, and he stirred…just as he did, a trio of energy blasts caught him in the side, and he went flying backwards.

Marty stayed down, and slowly crept forward, trying to get his goggles on. He’d seen her wearing a transparent green visor, but she probably didn’t even need it. There was a lot of talk about her being the next Dark Knight, in terms of effectiveness and knowledge and tactics--which made things that much more terrifying. Marty dared to stand up, and as he did, his last remaining soldier took his shot. Somehow, Poisyn flipped over the gunfire and kicked him in the face, reverse-uppercutting him as she came down.

The gun clattered onto the cavern floor, and everything was dark again.

When he’d last seen her, she’d been about fifteen feet in front of him. So, he was surprised when he felt the air move behind him, just before he was jump-tackled from the same direction. Marty had been blindsided by three-hundred-pound linebackers who were faster than most track stars, but he’d never been hit like this. To his credit, after he hit the ground, he managed to turn and get one solid punch in…but she shrugged it off, and elbowed him square in the forehead in the blink of an eye. He was already dead on his feet from the tackle, and the elbow knocked him out clean.

But Marty was smart--he’d used their secondary comm-device to signal for backup.

Just as she was about to plant an explosive and break the seal of the room that Gabriel was currently in--draining the mystic energy--ten more gunmen came roaring through the shaft. They took one look at her and opened fire. Despite the cramped confines of the shaft, she managed to duck and roll, staying just ahead of a steady stream of bullets.

In the process, she took out three of them with three shots from her blaster, and tossed concussion/gas combo mini-grenades their way. She’d been made immune from this gas, so she didn’t need a mask…she just charged right in, hitting with preternatural strength and speed.

The grenades had knocked them off-balance, which was more of an advantage than she needed. One hand hit pressure points, the other had the blaster, which she used at close-range. They were all coughing. She kept her kicks conservative and opportunistic. They tried to shoot her, but only got each other. Poisyn was definitely Messenger’s daughter…except when she was done, they were still alive.

But the entire mine momentarily jerked to the right, as a huge energy-column erupted from the room that Gabriel was in. It was starting…

-----------------------

Christopher Waltz--fists and eyes glowing green--took a step. Bullets, missiles, and the odd energy beam deluged him, resulting in a series of explosions and flashes. The smoke cleared, and he could be seen now hovering in mid-air, as the ground below him had been replaced by a crater. He crossed his arms, untouched and unfazed. With that, the first wave of the armored vehicle assault realized that they’d just wasted a third of their ammo, and that he was just the distraction…

Mjalcom was thrown, and it went through the rear sections of six surprisingly-flat tanks, causing a series of detonations--their engines and electrical systems were now in shambles. Approaching another tank, Katja waded through close-range gunfire, and then grabbed a tread and flipped the whole thing over onto a smaller armored vehicle, like she was tossing a cardboard box. Under the sudden weight, the smaller vehicle’s tires burst simultaneously. Mjalcom returned to her hand, and van-wide lightning branched out from it; the resulting explosions sent tanks spinning high into the air.

Iconique looped through the sky, neatly avoiding artillery bursts that were constantly appearing all around her. Her mystical senses gave her a three-dimensional mental view of the battlefield--at this point, their main goal was to draw their fire away from the people in the mine. Patricia was in a transmuting mood…the mystic symbol for transmutation appeared on her lower back, and she went to work. She turned much of the sand to a slippery plastic, causing vehicles to go sliding out of control. They released homing missiles, and she turned their golden circuits to lead. Suddenly-defunct missiles rained down on the battlefield, and a few of them dented tanks, or put them out of commission entirely.

Twin blasts of JarvisCosmic ripped through tanks, and he plowed through them physically, as well. Shredded technology clung to him as he exited each new pile of flaming wreckage. And he noticed that some of the tanks were empty…of course, Kendrickson didn’t have that many soldiers, so some of his forces had to be drones. Jarvis briefly stole a glance towards the horizon, and saw that tanks and armored personnel carriers were still approaching.

In the heart of the battle, Kendrickson was in his personal armored vehicle, which looked like an SUV on steroids, with oversized tires and guns to match. He was trying to navigate the sand-turned-plastic, zigging and zagging around explosions and energy blasts from both sides. Kendrickson managed to tag Katja in the back of the head with a particle beam, but she looked more angry than hurt--hopefully, she wouldn’t be able to tell who’d done it. They couldn’t keep this up for much longer; he could only hope that Gabriel Darkness actually did something useful, for once.

Images of icicles and flames appeared on either of Iconique’s arms--the drones got torched, the vehicles with drivers were frost-eaten into uselessness. A tattoo of a ghost appeared near her bellybutton, and she phased through several tanks, dragging the drivers out with her. She dropped them onto one of the few remaining patches of sand, and they were lightly blasted with JarvisCosmic. Once empty, she transmuted the air in the tanks into a gas that exploded when it came anywhere near electricity.

Katja continued using Mjalcom to batter anything that dared to attack her, zipping around surprisingly quickly, and occasionally letting loose with lightning. She wished she could be flashy and imaginative like Patricia--and she wished she had a childhood connection with Christopher like Patricia did, instead of having been raised in a lonely palace in Ausgard--but she settled for what she had.

Then, they were all blinded by a sudden light emerging from one of the smaller armored vehicles, and Kendrickson screamed in joy, his voice augmented by some unknown mystic energy…

--------------------

Security was better than they’d expected. Kendrickson’s foot soldiers had taken up position next to the westernmost building, and were emptying their clips into a surprisingly-tough metal door. The mine’s guards were on the other side of shattered windows, occasionally taking shots at them. Since the buildings were all metal and bunker-like, getting in wasn’t proving to be easy. But more armored personnel carriers--essentially flatbed trucks with big, rectangular storage units attached--were grinding to a halt, as dozens of soldiers streamed out of them.

Inside the complex, miners and office personnel (and now, the visiting schoolchildren) were huddled into the “center” offices, which didn’t have windows. The power had gone out, and they could hear what sounded like a major war, which was just a few hundred feet away. Desks were rattling and the hanging-tile ceiling was falling apart, and the group consensus wavered between “We’re all gonna die” and “Maybe we can get the kids out!”

Outside, the door-hinges finally cracked under the pressure of gunfire and lasers, and metal groaned. The door slowly tipped forward, and fell onto the dirt…revealing an even bigger, thicker door, which was done up in pink and purple, complete with graffitti that said things like “Military Badguyz Sux” and “LL 4ever!”

A new, American-accented voice said, “Just like in Return of the Jedi! So cool!”

Surprised soldiers turned to see HyperActiveLunaticMiss! waving at them from the other side of a shot-out window. Then, a paintbrush in each hand, she quickly painted big metal slabs over all the windows.

Just before she vanished inside, she peeked out from a tiny slit in the last window-covering and said, “Look behind you!”

Unfortunately for them, they didn’t.

A scream caught their ears, and they whirled, just before seeing Anti-Visionary and Suicide Blonde, who were hefting one of the armored personnel carriers. They couldn’t throw it very high, but they did manage to roll it towards the soldiers, who scattered.

Suicide Blonde blurred towards one group of them, spinning and rolling and hitting them brutally. Her fighting style was cold, stripped-down, and almost mechanical, as she never seemed to tire or say anything. Though her strength was well into the superhuman range, her speed and agility were even more pronounced. She avoided attacks simply by dodging or going intangible, and delivered molecular-repulsing punches and kicks, sending enemies flying through the air.

Anti-Visionary literally sprung towards another group--springs could be seen stretching between his feet and his ankles. Vizh-fu was surprisingly effective, and he often fired off his grappling-hands, swinging soldiers into each other. They quickly discovered that he was bulletproof, and after managing to wing him with a laser, they found that he was self-repairing, as well. Worst of all, he couldn’t seem to shut up. “If you guys wanna be big, you have to get over this generic military thing--you need to stand out! The following-orders thing is really, really out, right now…”

The soldiers’ explosive experts were heading for the buildings--which, by now, had all been painted with defenses by HALM!--when dull thud teleported behind them, grabbing their gear and activating the detonators. He teleported away, and five seconds later, explosions bloomed underneath the emptied personnel carriers.

Suicide Blonde once again went intangible, but she also used another one of her matter tricks. She began jumping through the soldiers, and as she did, she gave them biological shocks--she could disrupt organic matter. Now, she didn’t have to waste time moving defensively…she just ignored all their bullets and beams as they passed through her, while cartwheeling and flipping and somersaulting through enemies, sending them into spasms.

“You guys need themed weapons, too,” Anti-Visionary declared. “Check this out!” He ducked under a barrage of laserblasts, and pulled some flat yellow diamonds (the same shape and size as the logo on his shirt) out of his trenchcoat. One charged with explosive energy, another was razor-sharp, and the third one was electrified. “Catch!”

thud easily made a nuisance of himself, teleporting rapidly and hitting people when they weren’t looking. While he didn’t have superhuman strength, hitting someone with an invulnerable fist wasn’t unlike hitting someone while wearing a titanium glove; except it was about ten times more painful. They’d occasionally dogpile on him, and he’d let them…it didn’t hurt, and it was a nice way to keep them occupied, until one of the others got to them. Underneath a few dozen people who were trying to punch him to death, he sighed--at least he was being useful.

Suicide Blonde heard Poisyn’s voice crackle in her ear: “I broke the seal, but some of the energy got through--and there are kids in here, so we need to get the bystanders out, now!”

Genevieve considered it. Iconique could teleport them out, but they needed her help with the armored vehicles--and given that they were about to be facing a mystical threat, she’d have to stick around. thud couldn’t teleport more than two or three people at a time. HALM! could paint a big, armored escape vehicle, but it’d take a while. Then, an idea struck her. She could do this.

Of course, she wanted to stay here. Her idea of heaven was to take people like this--people who thought it was okay to put innocent lives at risk--and put them all in one room, and kick the crap out of them 24/7. She could do it, too. She had the willpower, the intelligence, and the stamina. They couldn’t keep up with her on the battlefield, in the lab, or in the bedroom. While she knew she’d never get them all in one room, massive fights like this gave her a similar opportunity, and she loved it.

But as much as she hated them, it wasn’t the reason she was doing this.

All of this went through her mind in a split-second. Then, she tapped into their comm-network and told Poisyn, “I can do it--just get out here and take over for me!”

-------------------

It was like being in the center of a hurricane: Kendrickson was high in the air, surrounded by a swirling storm of energy--his vehicle had been torn to shreds when he first felt the power rush into him. Sand and debris (the battlefield was littered with demolished tanks) were caught up in the wind, orbiting him like he was a new sun. In fact, his power was drowning out the real sun, casting a crimson tint on the outback. His mouth was open wide, and he appeared to be laughing.

JarvisCosmic, mystic blasts, and Mjalcom all ricocheted harmlessly off the energy. Many of the soldiers were apparently having second thoughts, as they were trying to escape the battlefield--not that they’d get very far, as they were in the middle of nowhere. Kendrickson himself was going into convulsions, his body shaken by the sheer amount of power coursing through it. New organs, new senses, and new knowledge were exploding in side of him.

The metallic wreckage was suddenly drawn to him. Huge chunks of tank-armor hit him at high speeds, slamming into him and often blowing up, due to the still-live components within. But this wasn’t an attack--he was doing it to himself. He curled into a fetal position, and the metal warped and wrapped around him, forming what at first looked like a cocoon…but then they realized it was a womb.

As the metal turned a deep shade of red, it began to vaguely resemble a massive, curled-up human being; like a modern-art sculpture, with the body impossibly, tightly scrunched together. Inside, his body turned to pure energy, and he distributed himself amongst this new form. Streams of sand began flying towards him, and they thickened and darkened, becoming a glowing navy liquid of some kind. When the liquid hit his new body, it seemed to give him more flexibility and control, though he was still in a fetal position. (and still hovering in mid-air, no less)

The tiny mountain behind the mining complex began shaking. It seemed to be getting hotter, as bursts of steam sounded off, and lava dribbled out around the edges--which was particularly odd, as this mountain wasn’t a volcano. The mountain’s surface blackened, like a piece of charcoal heating up. Veins of lava could be seen pulsing inside. Then, the whole thing was unearthed, slowly rising out of the ground and heading for Kendrickson’s chest. It was filtered inside, and he quadrupled in size. This was his new heart.

He opened a pair of glowing black eyes, and his smile nearly blinded them. Though he was stiff at first, he stretched out, and his feet found the ground. His red, metallic form wasn’t smooth…it was covered in textures that hadn’t been seen for thousands of years. The “storm” died down, and he cast his eyes downward, towards his hapless soldiers.

There was a hum of power, and a glowing black triangle formed out of his fingers. It cast reverse-light on his men, and both they and their vehicles began to rise up, shifting under the influx of energy. Then, it abruptly cut off, and they returned to normal.

Kendrickson tried to say “What?”, but he hadn’t really tested his new vocal cords, yet--and he’d apparently forgotten English. The words came out awkwardly, in a long-forgotten dialect of Aborigine people. Everything about him had changed, and he was having trouble remembering who he’d been before. Something about flesh and walking on the ground…

There were little superhumans buzzing around and trying to shoot him, but he didn’t really care, at the moment.

Still, he knew where he was getting his power from, and he knew he should have enough power to give to his men. It was down in the mines…a few buildings were in the way, and people were gathered in one of them, but that was no problem. His eyes charged up.

------------------------

Jarvis screamed into his comm-link: “Genevieve, get those people out, now !”

-----------------------

“Take my hand--and whatever happens, don’t let go.”

-----------------------

Dual black beams punched through the mining complex, atomizing it. They kept going, tearing a hole in the ground, showing all the way through to the sealed room in the mines. But someone had broken the seal before he could drain all of its power…and before he could wonder who, he saw that the people (from the building he’d just blown up) were inexplicably alive.

They were all in a row, walking forward, step by step. Also, they were holding hands…and at the center was Suicide Blonde. Kendrickson frowned, and brought his foot down--but it went right through them. They were all intangible.

Under her mask, sweat was pouring down Genevieve’s face. She could only keep this up for a few minutes.

Kendrickson apparently didn’t like not being able to do something, so he kept trying to hurt them. Energy blasts swept through the people, and they were lost in the haze. When he stopped, they were annoyingly still there, still moving forward.

Into the LL’s comm-network, Poisyn said, “The foot soldiers are all down--and I think I know how to take this guy out. We have to do things in a certain order…”

Kendrickson was only halfheartedly trying to destroy the people, as his memory was starting to come back, and it was distracting him. His eyes sparkled, and he said, “Greensky.” He looked to the east.

Then, he was actually knocked off-balance. Jarvis and Katja simultaneously cometed into his chest, hitting him with an impact that would have made a crater in an island. A split-second after the physical contact, they blasted him at point-blank range. The huge amount of JarvisCosmic and lightning made him take a step back, feeling some small amount of pain.

He was about to blast them into nothingness when Anti-Visionary sprung up onto his shoulder, and hit him with some kind of blue eyebeams--it was a statis-ray. Kendrickson momentarily couldn’t turn his head to get them in his “sights”. By the time he swatted at the little robot, Vizh had leapt off, and Jarvis and Katja were safely away from him.

Kendrickson started to take a step, and he found that his legs were tied together by a metal cord--which had been painted by HALM!, of course. He knew it’d be easy enough to snap…but before he could, Iconique made the ground beneath him explode, and he fell through. Because of the mines, much of this area was hollow, and he plummeted a surprising distance.

He went to grab ahold of something, to stop his descent--but Iconique transmuted the rock into a slippery and smooth material. She also made his ankles and feet incredibly heavy, preventing him from seeing if he could fly.

dull thud teleported inside of him, literally. Kendrickson’s new body had natural defenses against bodily intruders, but they didn’t seem to hurt him. thud proceeded to wade towards the lava-heart and generally make a mess of things. He grabbed onto vital organs and teleported them out of his body entirely, forcing Kendrickson to waste energy regenerating new ones. His body managed to keep thud away from his heart, but it was greatly distracting him…not that thud enjoyed being in there.

The bottom of Kendrickson’s feet blew out, as lava gushed, propelling him back to the surface. But he didn’t seem to have much control over that form of flight, and he had a messy landing. Before he could get back on his feet, Jarvis and Katja were doing hit-and-run-style attacks--now that they knew how powerful he was, there was no need to hold back. They hit him as hard as they could, creating dents in his new body.

Kendrickson managed to get up, and he tried to shoot them, but they were too fast. Not that he was at his peak--his feet still felt heavy, and thud was still causing him discomfort. Then, HALM! looped some weird blindfold over his eyes. He could still “see”, thanks to his new senses, but it was annoying. He tried to tug it off, but he couldn’t get the chance…his hands were being battered by Jarvis and Katja. So, he decided to shoot it off.

Which was a mistake.

The blindfold was reflective--and when he shot it, the beams were redirected right back at him. At close range and directly into his eyes, even. He screamed, hit with his own power. Though he was a mystical creature, he still had optic nerves that were linked to his brain, and both were scrambled.

He was in so much pain, he didn’t even notice Jarvis digging his fingers into his massive shoulder, or Katja getting behind one knee. His new form wasn’t that heavy--only about 150 tons--and between the two of them, they flipped him over without much trouble.

Suicide Blonde was back--HALO had been notified, and they’d evac’d the people. She began phasing through him, and, using another of her matter-tricks, she was deadening his control over his new body. Each part she went through became numb and somewhat unresponsive, as she cut the matter off from his new energy. Without his power over it, it began reverting back to its original form--desert-camoflauged metal, battered by previous attacks, without mystical energy making it more durable. He tried to re-energize it, but at best, it was half and half, and he wasn’t as invulnerable as he’d once been. However, he managed to tear the reflective blindfold off.

The others cleared out, leaving only Jarvis, Katja, and Iconique. (and thud , still causing trouble in Kendrickson’s body) Iconique made the remaining wreckage hover in mid-air, and it stretched out and transmuted into flat, reflective screens, just like the blindfold that HALM! had made. Every time he tried to use his eyebeams, she just moved one of the screens to reflect it back at him. After a few painful lessons, he gave up on that angle of attack.

Jarvis and Katja hung back, only using long-range energy attacks on him. They didn’t think they needed a breather, but Iconique told them that she’d take over for a while. She tried simply transmuting his lava heart into something else, but it was shielded against it, as was the rest of his body. Instead, symbols of the five senses appeared on her arms--and others that represented his new ones--and she let loose with a stream of illusions, beamed directly into his brain. The point wasn’t to fool him (with his own mystic senses, he could eventually see through them), but to overload him with information. He hadn’t had some of these senses very long, and an onslaught of stimuli would be too much for him to handle.

While he staggered and grasped his head in pain, an image of a locked box appeared on her ankle, underneath her pants. It opened, and as it did, her hands began glowing silver…tiny starscape-colored leeches began springing out of the energy. They loved eating up mystic energy, and she’d tailored them to go after the variety that Kendrickson had in him. They swarmed over him, gobbling up his power.

A symbol of ice appeared on her wrist, followed by a symbol of dimensional transference, and an ancient version of a plus sign was put between them. She tapped into a realm of ice, far colder than anyplace found on earth…and she jammed the vapors right down his mouth and nose. He breathed in subzero temperatures, and his lava heart strained against the cold.

Iconique swooped back, and began pelting him with mystic energy blasts. Jarvis and Katja attacked in the same way. Suicide Blonde phased through him some more, and thud went back to teleporting organs out. The leeches were still feasting on him, and the ice-portal was still active.

HALM! was painting a really, really big knife, and putting certain symbols on the handle, as Iconique was instructing her to do via their comm-network. Anti-Visionary used his grappling-hands to grab a small chunk of Kendrickson’s body, and before it completely reverted back to normal, they put it into a small hole in the handle. The blade glowed black and orange, and Jarvis flew down, picking it up. It was far larger than him.

Jarvis looked him right in the eye. “You support democracy…so long as everyone else agrees with you. When they don’t, you turn into what you’re supposed to be fighting against. Screw that!”

The leeches and portal vanished, thud teleported out, everyone got away from him…and Jarvis jammed the knife right into Kendrickson’s heart; piercing his metal shell with the enchanted blade. All it needed was a sample of what it was going to cut through and the activation text. Kendrickson blinked furiously, knowing that if it stayed in just a few more seconds, he’d be dead.

Luckily for him, the point wasn’t to kill him.

The bottom of the knife--the tip of the handle--had a circle on it, which began to glow. It reached out, absorbing some of the weakened mystical “atmosphere” of the modern world, magnifying it, and projecting it into the center of the energy inside Kendrickson. In less than a second, the two had canceled each other out, and it was over.

--------------------

When Kendrickson woke up, he was naked, but covered in ash and powdery black rock. His body was sore all over--he felt like several dozen skeletons had just crawled out of his mouth. He was surrounded by dented tank-metal.

HALO was there, and he saw the people he’d nearly killed. The way the LL was looking at him…he knew that the world hadn’t made him obsolete. He’d done it to himself.

--------------------

The clean-up alone took hours. The team helped HALO interrogate Kendrickson’s men, and they got the basics of their organization. Shutting them down took a few hours, as well--they even had armed men just a few blocks away from the Greensky offices in Sacramento. Unfortunately, the mine hadn’t been paying their superhuman-damage insurance…but after Poisyn had a spirited discussion with their insurance company’s CEO, everything worked out. Iconique teleported around the globe, puncturing the other sealed mystical areas, so this could never happen again.

“And that,” Christopher said, “Is that.” He hit “save” and printed the report. Iconique was sitting next to him, yawning. It had been a long, long day.

Thinking about the day, she said, “I stopped a serial killer this morning. Did I tell you that?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Oh. Well, I did. I even got to get a little bit of a tan in the process.”

“That’s cool.”

As if nothing had happened between now and their last conversation, she said, “So…you and Poisyn, huh?”

“C’mon, let’s not--”

“It’s just, you two are kinda opposites. You’re a lot like your mom, and she hates her mom so much, she took the name and appearance of her dad’s old girlfriend…”

“Yeah, well…” Thankfully, the cordless phone (was there any other kind, now?) rang, and kept him from having to respond. Iconique picked it up.

“Lair Mansion. Uh-huh…uh-huh…yeah, he’s right here. Okay.” She looked at Christopher. “Mr. Important is getting a call from the President.” With that, she tossed the phone to him.

He rolled his eyes, and put the phone to his ear. “Hello? Hey, mom…”

End

Fin Fang Foom
*flies away*

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Follow-Ups:

This is the greatest thing ever created in any medium. Fact. - dull thud - Thu May 29, 2003 at 12:03:48 pm EST You are very good. Very good indeed. I hope that wasn't the surprise... - Yo - Thu May 29, 2003 at 10:59:12 am EST *Reads 1/4 of it* I like where you're going with this! *plans to finish reading soon* - ag - Thu May 29, 2003 at 07:55:14 am EST The more things change the more they stay the same - HH says good work - Thu May 29, 2003 at 04:51:40 am EST Wow..... that was awesome. Definitely one of the best and more original stories I've seen on here in.... well.... since your last epic. :) - Messenger - Thu May 29, 2003 at 01:02:30 am EST I tricked the Hood, eh? He must feel pretty stupid... - Visionary, impressed - Thu May 29, 2003 at 12:41:20 am EST Well, when you forget where you are for 30 minutes, that's just great writing. You did an incredible job. - whitney - Wed May 28, 2003 at 11:50:52 pm EST We've already spoken about most of it, but I have to say this is blind fun. And the last couple lines are sheer brilliance. - Nats - Wed May 28, 2003 at 10:23:24 pm EST And, a silly request--I beg you not to spoil the surprise in the subject line. *nt* - Finny - Wed May 28, 2003 at 08:44:37 pm EST

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