Tales of the Parodyverse

Nihilist #3: Walk into the Jaws of Hell...(aka my New Villain Week sub)


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anonymous
Thu Jul 24, 2003 at 11:58:14 pm EST
[ New ] [ Tales of the Parodyverse ]

His twitching seemed as if it’d never end. It happened often, at night, when he felt most alone, and was at his most vulnerable. You see, Nicolae Anton was not a man who could tolerate defeat—he was bred by his parents to not only be the best, but to beat the best. In order to be the best, you couldn’t ever lose. If you lost a limb, you cauterized the wound and moved on. If you were forced into bankruptcy, you climbed into your debtors’ homes, late at night, when they slept peacefully, and emptied a bullet into their brains. If your son disappointed you, you took measures to ensure that by the night’s end, he no longer drew breath.

Yet a measure of regret caught in his breath. He’d spent so many years raising Szandor… he’d spent even more grooming his wife. Yes, his wife had been a mistake—but most marriages were, in the ultimate scheme of things. Still, as powerful as he was, and intended to become, Nicolae remembered the pleasure of a woman’s caress, of seeing his son take his first big steps into full-fledged humanity. Szandor’s first successful bowel movement without a diaper, his first non-breast meal, even the first step that left a nasty gash on his left thigh.

Nicolae Anton stood outside his porch, remembering when his life had a semblance of sanity, when he had a doting wife and a trusting son. The emotional side of him weakly cried out against the coming storm inside him, pleading for him to not revisit the sins of the past, to reconsider reconciliation, to reevaluate redemption. He poured himself bourbon, a shot of whiskey, and then a glass of wine, and drank them in succession. The fire that burned within his belly threatened to calm his emotional turmoil as lightning above him raged across the sky, as Gaia around him began her ever-present cycle of destruction and redemption and rebirth.

The Mother of All danced like a ballerina above him, with a combination of grace and rage so powerful that he could almost imagine the Earth as an entity of its own. It was like a celebration of the most powerful energy source of all, life—and try as he might, her celebrations did nothing but remind him of what he’d cost him. His concentration kept trying to return to how he’d cement his future. His heart kept remembering the curve of his wife’s lips, her waist, and how she’d giggle in the morning as she watched him slumber. How she’d enjoy the slightest touch from him, as she was a very emotional, sensual woman.

He remembered when her smell was the most pleasant, in the early morning, as it reminded him why he bothered breathing. Yes, yes…it was for her that he’d pushed himself so hard—that he’d sacrificed his own body, his own psychological health. In order to be the best, you had to beat the best. If beating the best meant that you didn’t necessarily meet the definition for a conventional human being, anymore, then conventional definitions weren’t anything he worried himself over. Suddenly, uncontrollably, his emotions crushed his reason in a tidal wave, and all Nicolae Anton could do was weep for the future, for the short-sighted stupidity that damned him to the never-ending mornings of regret and of an acknowledged loss. He wept because he could. He wept because he had to. And it seemed, at the end, that Gaia acknowledged his suffering by increasing her fury, gradually dampening his clothing to the point that it clung to his body. Perhaps intentionally, his emotions subsided…his crying lessened to an occasional tear… and as the storm above him faded, the storm within him switched course. A howling escaped his lips—a howling of primitive man against the lack of pity by fate, a howling of man against nature, a howling of man against his oppressors. Within minutes, this howling was no longer just of a man—but of a being that’d suffered for thousands of years, and would suffer no more. Self pity, depression, self-doubt, and longing for vindication all released themselves in a torrential burst of pathos—hellfire spew from his mouth and evaporated the pine tree his wife had planted ten years previously.

It was, perhaps, the second gift he’d given his son that his son would cherish most. First, the genetic gifts that they shared, that he’d augmented in order to show his son his true feelings—by sharing the same perception of reality, then they’d have to become closer, right? This second gift was much more intimate—Nicolae had taken the position of believing in nothing after fate, God, the world, whichever deity du jour was to blame, had taken his Marjorie. There was nothing precious in the world, therefore nothing was sacred enough to believe in. His obsession with genetic perfection, then was a result of his desire to ultimately rid himself of emotional weakness—to prove himself equal to the sadist who’d created him, and his race. At that moment, Nicolae Anton wouldn’t demand an answer of whatever it was that’d given him this cursed existence. He knew this being would be too self-righteous, too arrogant to care about something so insignificant. Instead, he decided the best method of retribution was eye for an eye—the loss of belief in this creator being by people worldwide would lead to a lack of power for this megalomaniac. Indeed, the smallest speck of nothing had great plans for the Creator of everything…


It’s the Devil’s way now

There is no way out

You can scream and you can shout

It is too late now

Because

You have not been paying attention

Radiohead, 2+2=5, “Hail to the Thief”


Nihilist #3:


Walk into the jaws of Hell.


In some ways, she regretted taking this position. GothaMetropolis York was widely regarded as one of the most murderous places on the planet. If you were lucky, you’d be able to get your morning paper without having to mace someone. It went against her motherly nature to have to cause harm. Brianna Anderson had been raised to avoid conflict, whenever possible—if anything, she enjoyed keeping her head down and out of trouble. Get the work done, and get out of the way was a motto she lived by. If she got stressed out, she silently dealt with it by unleashing her anger at home, on the punching bag. If she wanted to cry, she waited until the shift was over, and she cried, silently, into her pillow, as her children slept. When she just didn’t know how she felt, she burrowed her head into her children and allowed their difficult, angelic, impossible nature to nurture her. It helped to relieve her frustration, her sense of hopelessness, to know that if nothing else, her children still loved her. More than anything, she wished she could do something to make a better world than she’d grown up in for her children—she didn’t want them to deal with narcissistic editors who wanted nothing more than controversy for their papers, whether these controversies were true or not.

Superheroes had sued the Squire for years over various claims it’d made—such as the legendary accusation that Captain Astounding had given an admirer HIV, or the still hugely debated “Fin Fang Foom Was The Progenitor Of Michael Jackson” fiasco. Legends swirled that the shape-shifting dragon had different hosts over the years, and the dragon was something of a symbiotic, alien parasite, but they were usually forgotten once people realized that “Fingy’s” nearly impenetrable skin made it effectively impossible to grab genotypic samples. Granted, most people also didn’t realize that there weren’t, necessarily, genes in their traditional sense, as “gene” was a blanket term, much like forensic anthropology or Native Americans.

By contrast, her career had largely been spent attempting to interview the lesser known, or lesser powerful heroes. She felt that interviewing the seemingly insignificant heroes would allow her to give the urban scapegoat that the superheroic archetype had become some social significance. It’d help lawmakers, politicians, lawyers, judges, policemen, and even bigots gain the basic idea of what it’s like to become psychologically impaired enough to put on a pair of tights.

Some activists chose to fight for Third World laborers who never managed to make enough money to feed themselves or their families. Others fought for the civil rights of others based upon their race. Others fought for the social equilibrium between man and woman. Brianna fought for those who had no social identity, who had to cover it in a mask. True, they didn’t always have identical reasons—some covered their face out of shame. Some covered their face out of fear of their family’s safety. Others covered their face because they had no family to protect, nothing to fear, nothing to love, nothing to drive away the loneliness at night that preyed upon their weaknesses and their worst desires. She fought for the least understood because no one else would. She fought for the underdog not because it was the right thing to do, but in the interest of ideological fairness. She fought for the most stereotyped being of all, the superhuman, because theirs was a power that could topple nations and obliterate stars, if focused correctly.

More importantly, to her, she fought to keep food on her family’s table. When she could come home, and look at the joy in her children’s eyes for being able to eat another meal of macaroni and cheese, she felt like she’d accomplished something. Her insecurities vanished, if only for a moment. The inept, timid reporter became Super Mom—in her children’s eyes, the most powerful being on Earth. When her children hugged the breath out of her, she never felt stronger—their trust and faith in her kept her sane, kept her going when it seemed as if her editor’s demands were never satiated. In those precious few moments, she didn’t just matter, she was Someone…reminding her that even those who’re least significant of all are deities to those that love them.

She smiled, then, as she watched her children devour their ice cream treats. Their second favorite food stimulated most children—somehow, the knowledge that their mother couldn’t afford much didn’t matter to them. They instinctively seemed to know the sacrifice that came with the gift, and accepted it with the glee that satiated undemanding children are capable of.

She also appreciated their awestruck gasps as the television featured footage of the Lair Legion standing before a camera, giving a press conference about their meeting with Mr. Epitome. “Goldeneyed is so cute”, shrieked her eight year old daughter, Estella. Matthew, her twelve year old son, replied, “Fingy is such a bad-ass. He can shapeshift into all kindsa’ things… I read in Hero Illustrated that he can even change his Pogo…” Not quite understanding the reference, but knowing that this was probably something impolite, Brianna prepared to reach over and smack her feisty son, but thought better of it as he’d returned to eating his ice cream. The impact of the smack would probably startle him into choking, and she didn’t need the interference of strangers telling her she’s a bad mother. Instead, she secretly appreciated the way that dull thud apparently hadn’t bathed in a year, and still had that ‘diamond in the rough’ sexiness to him that drove her completely up the wall.

Behind her, quietly sipping a shot of tequila, a young Native American woman watched the television screen with interest. It was a bit unusual to have alcohol in a Dairy Queen, but upon seeing her, the owner hadn’t minded. As a matter of fact, upon seeing her, he’d given her a free ice cream cone and kissed her hand chivalrously. He wasn’t alone in his attraction—while in his early 40’s, he was not exactly lacking in libidinous desires, and his 23-year-old son was no better. He’d become a manager at this store, and enjoyed helping his father around the store, as getting an English degree from GothaMetropolis University hadn’t exactly opened many financial doors. It gave him the opportunity to ogle the high school students that came through, and appreciate the rare older woman.

The mysterious woman was that, all right. She looked to be in her late 20’s, with long black hair that reached below her waist. It was tied in a ponytail, and appeared to be extremely curly. Shades covered her eyes, and she had the most affecting smile either had ever seen in a woman. She didn’t speak—neither heard her voice. Neither had to. A simple gesture with her hand, a slight wave, was enough to send them into near hysterics. They shook their heads, confused, a couple times—they almost swore that they heard her voice inside their heads. But it had to be a hallucination—super people dressed in ballerina outfits designed by the colorblind. She, on the other hand, appeared to have been poured into her black Wranglers, that showed, well, all the right stuff. Her yellow blouse, that showed her midriff, certainly didn’t help matters. Their attention was drawn, then, to the waistband that accompanied her belt—it appeared to be some sort of Native American god, represented by an icon. This icon appeared to be acting out some sort of sacrifice, reminiscent of the Aztecs and of Pawnee customs.

She waved her hand, again, and both leapt to bring her another complimentary cone, twice as large as the first. The father, guessing, created a vanilla concoction that would’ve made Cindy Crawford melt. The son decided that their raven-haired beauty would appreciate a chocolate experience that would, hopefully, be orgasmic in every sense of the word. She smiled at both, perhaps even more alluringly than the first time, and finished her first cone. It was hard to say if she was being more teasing than last time, as neither could concentrate long enough to remember. Something about her was so attractive, so mesmerizing, that she occupied their entire concentration. As if to accentuate the point, she stood up to go into the bathroom to wash her hands… and took her time about it, stretching all the right muscles in all the right ways. She licked an imaginary spot of ice cream off her lips as she went, throwing in an even more teasing smile at the both of them as she went along her way. She didn’t have to be an empath to guess their heart rates at that moment.

She washed her hands, then, in the bathroom. Cleanliness was important to her. There was a school of thought that said that cleanliness was next to godliness. While she had no religious aspirations, she liked to think of herself as a perfect person. She adjusted her hair, once more, with a pocket brush, and put her shades back on. She then walked back out into the lobby, and slowly, teasingly walked up behind the owner’s son, slowly rubbed her hands up and down his back, turning this action into a slow, gentle massage, and then massaged his rear end. With that accomplished, she flashed him a dazzling smile and sat back down. She picked up the chocolate cone, and gave it to Brianna’s son, with Brianna looking at her with great trepidation. She got closer, then, and rubbed Brianna’s arm with her hand. To show that giving her cone away meant no harm, she turned around and looked back at the owner and his son, pulled her shades down, and winked and smiled.

She’d had a moment’s distraction, a moment’s peace, and now, she was about to embark on the reason she’d arrived in GothaMetropolis York… she was to initiate contact with former member of the Abandoned Legion, Cobra, in unarmed combat, and defeat her. Amongst her people, defeat was permanent. She hadn’t been defeated yet, and she had no intention of changing her status. To do so would bring disrespect to her people, to the legacy of her ancestors. The Pawnee were a people that prided themselves on their ability to handle themselves in combat, and their ferocity and devotion to their customs. It was for this reason that other peoples disliked them, historically—their tendency to capture the young, virgin women of other tribes and sacrifice them to their religious beliefs and astronomical concepts. It was this nearly scientific detachment from emotion that made the Pawnee a feared, even hated people on the Pre-Contact American Plains—and this fear was something that the young woman known to a few as Psyche intended to instill in America’s hedonistic, heathen heart once again…

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The reflected light of the computer screen before him obscured his dark features—his eyebrows were deeply furrowed in thought. His body jerked in a rhythmic dance of an illicit union between subconscious thought and reflexive action, of whispered tongues of a long-dead race and a wisdom that survived the ages. Inside him, genotypes from three races battled for an arms race control of what seemed surely to be, now, the strongest body on the planet—a man that was truly an ambassador, a representative of three worlds. But it was in his mind’s eye that the battle was strongest—for his human self tried to reconcile itself with the psychological and spiritual onset that assaulted it now.

The demon within him tried to assert its psychospiritual trickery against the shamed, bitter, reclusive soul of the man within him—and likewise, the ancient wyrm now within him reawakened from its decades-long sleep and surged past the slippery follicles presented by the lackey of The Trickster himself. Nicolae Anton’s eyes snapped open, then, and the howl within him was of something not heard from in nearly a century, save for two others—deep within him was extinction overturned, was the coming of a new era, the resurrection of a species both great and terrible. In the form of a repressed, megalomaniacal, borderline sociopathic geneticist, The Makluans, one of the most feared and respected scientific warrior species in the Multiverse, were reborn.

He morphed into something resembling their true form, and reveled in his newfound power—the demon in him allowed him to bend mortals’ minds to his will, as he tempted them with their deepest, darkest desires. He ate away, ever so slightly, like citric acid on stomach lining, at their most precious gift, their souls. Likewise, the Makluan within him awakened him to the limitless potential of molecular recombination—of being able to assume whatever form he wished. Unfortunately, the sample of DNA that he’d ingested himself with was damaged, and he didn’t retain their invulnerability. Instead, he gained something much, much more important.

A major reason for Nicolae’s roaring, now, as he soared above his apartment in a basically demon-dragon hybrid form, was the complete psychic bombardment of a long-dead culture ramming into his brain with all the grace of a meteor striking Earth. He could see their high pontiffs, with specially crafted gold medallions around their neck and copper symbolic earpieces, as they advised their monarch. The world of the Makluans had apparently been a patriarchal one, as their females mattered little, save reproductive use. Initial Reproduction was the sole responsibility of the monarch, as he picked and chose among the most eligible, worthy females. Disobeying this edict meant that you were defiant, and defiant meant that you were going to war against the throne. To go to war against the throne was to invite social death, leading to being cast off the home world of the Makluans and banished to the most frigid worlds of their galaxy.

Once females were properly broken in by the monarch, their first born child was to assume a sort of serf’s position to the monarch and his extended relatives, who in turn served as the monarch’s advisors and personal enforcers. It was these who were closest to the monarch who received the most precious edibles, the choicest drinks, the best opportunities for experiments. Indeed, experiments were possibly the most important aspect of Makluan life, according to the implants in the DNA that Nicolae was now accessing. It was through experiments that Makluans learned of other species to learn from, eradicate, or assimilate. It was through experiments that Makluans learned of new elements to explore and add to their technology-driven lifestyle. Ultimately, experiments allowed this race of separationists to embrace the diversity of outer space, to realize that their fondest wish, and yet deepest insecurity, was to be realized—other fully capable and intelligent species were out there to be met, waiting just outside their reach.

It was this desire to move beyond their comfort zone that led to the interstellar drive rush—reminiscent of Nicolae’s people’s gold rushes in the late 17 to early 1800’s. It led to them changing their socio-psychological makeup—they were usually a rather taciturn, thoughtful race. That’s why they succeeded for so long with a monarchy, because they simply didn’t feel the need to question their social structure. It wasn’t necessary. If things worked fine the way they were, then there was no need to revamp them. With the advent of new cultures, with the advent of a true curiosity never seen before in these people, this changed. Curiosity overcame reason. Insecurity overcame intuition. Eagerness overcame safety. Ultimately, an innate insanity overcame safeguards that the Makluans usually abided by, and rushed space travel equipment that should’ve been more safely evaluated was enacted. Unforeseen problems arose, which ultimately caused the destruction of their world.

More than anything else, while reliving the successes and failures of a nearly forgotten race, Nicolae Anton, who wished to become the most powerful man on Earth, realized one very important thing. Being the best meant making no mistakes, taking no chances, acting with no emotion. Emotion was a distraction, something that dulled your impulses and your senses. At such an important time in his life, Nicolae could little afford to be so distracted. Causing distraction in someone else was another matter.

“Give our agent the orders. It’s time to set the dogs of war upon their path…” Nicolae hung up his phone, then, stretched his arms out, and took a seat in his favorite chair. He peered at the globe that sat upon his desk, and narrowed his eyes in thought. It wouldn’t be long, now…
---------------------------------------------
She was known the world over for her beauty. Perhaps even more importantly, she was known for her liaison with the Lair Legion…and its leader, the draconian shapeshifter. This was a subject of controversy among religious types and scientists alike—cries of bestiality and immorality and possible exposures to unheard of viruses and diseases swarmed like hordes of wasps into her private life.

There were those who’d say that any publicity was good publicity… she didn’t necessarily subscribe to that notion, but it seemed that average citizens had a morbid curiosity about her career, anyway. She was compared in some circles with Michael Jackson and Hillary Clinton, as well as Al Capone and Jimmy Hoffa

While she didn’t know what to make of those comparisons necessarily, she knew that, if nothing else, she was acquiring enough money to have a nice retirement fund. Her public image was meant to be that of like any other pop culture icon—she had enough archetypal pieces to be all-encompassing, yet she knew enough to add some originality to her personae, as well. Lania walked a fine line between America’s Sexiest Seductress, and the motherly girlfriend that every sane man wanted.

Her best attributes were up for debate—most loved her smile, and her pure, soft, amazing eyes. It wasn’t as if her curly, bubbling-like-a-mountain-spring hair was ignored, though—it was chocolate brown, but still had enough black to it that it shone with the richness of freshly brewed coffee. Indeed, it was for perhaps this reason alone that men buried their faces in her hair, when they had the chance…and Lania wasn’t about to shirk the attention. Personae aside, she was a very emotional, sensual woman, and she enjoyed holding men.

At the moment, the brunette was enjoying holding her coffee cup, and watching with interest an alluringly beautiful, raven-haired Native American woman’s desire to encounter former Abandoned Legion member Cobra. Naturally, security people surrounded her as a precaution…people tended to take downtown meetings in GothaMetropolis York seriously, as it was a rather violent place to live. Murder was one of its unfortunate tourist attractions—nearly as much as its superbeings. In fact, in this very coffee shop, memorabilia from both the AL and the LL was on display. An official Hatman hat… Sorceress rings that changed color with one’s mood… and most interestingly, an anatomically correct “Fing” Fang Foom doll that parroted “I deny everything” responses. She smiled, as memories of teasing the introverted shapeshifter with this doll washed over her… and then, a loud shriek brought her back to her senses.

Her security people swarmed her, and dragged her to her car. She turned her head back to face the excitement, and noticed a martial arts battle explode that would’ve made Chun Low Fat and Jackie Chan proud. More interestingly, the combatants were women, and doing displaying a much better show than either of their male counterparts. Lania smiled to herself, in spite of it all. “Life truly is stranger than fiction…”

Lania vanished within her protected car, which was good, as an errant-throwing star would’ve decapitated her. Cobra growled, “I won’t be making that mistake again.” She waited for a response from her assailant by kneeing her in the throat, and then grabbing onto her by the back of her hair and throwing her over her shoulder. Proudly, Cobra turned back to admire her handiwork, only to discover that her sight was becoming distorted. It seemed as if everything around her was in a giant mirror, and it was going totally out of focus—her assailant looked like something out of a funhouse.

The distortion faded, and Cobra noticed the curves of her assailant’s body, then. She shook her head—she had no business looking at that in a time like this. But even for the harshness in her eyes, Christine McBurney couldn’t help but to acknowledge the passion in her enemy’s emerald green eyes. She shook her head, again. This isn’t like me…something’s wrong. Try as she might, she couldn’t help but notice a slowly-rising sexual attraction to her enemy. She started having powerful daydreams—they were straight out of a romance novel, with regard to their torrid nature.

Again, she shook her head, and succeeded in clearing them out of her mind, somewhat—her cheeks were flushed, and she knew that this wasn’t proper, that it was a poor display of swordsmanship. A warrior didn’t allow distractions like this. Like this…

Christine looked down at her suit, to examine her wounds, and noticed a bunch of almost microscopic wounds on her legs, which had both exposed tears in her suit and skin, as well as her abdomen and shoulders. Another visual oscillation occurred, much stronger than the first, and she felt her heart beat speed up dramatically. She gasped… her chest exploded, and she then felt numbness there. Poison.

Her assailant winked at her with those dazzlingly emerald eyes, and unleashed a katana-like blade from a sheath that she carried on her left, which was obscured by her washboard stomach. Indeed—when faced with a midriff-bearing woman, most men and women wouldn’t look at the sheath on her side, they’d look at the goods she was displaying.

Cobra tried to lift her hand to slap herself in the face, to try to get herself back in the fight, but it seemed that the world became something out of the Matrix. Everything slowed down to a glacial crawl, and all she could do was watch as the approaching blade stabbed into her chest. The pain didn’t set in until she noticed her assailant holding up a pulpy red mass to the sun, and whisper (well, wait, did her lips just move or did something escape those amazingly pink, soft, luscious things) an apparent prayer…

The pain began, slowly, in her chest, throbbed, and spread everywhere else, just as slowly, and everything around Christine began to fade, to darken. She tried to raise her arm in a final act of defiance, and her attacker intercepted it, grabbed her hand, and kissed it. The spasms began, then, and Christine McBurney finally began to understand that everything was hopeless. Her life’s blood dripped onto the ground.

Drip-drop. Drip-drop. Drip-drop.

Sirens shrieked. Bullets whizzed overhead. Policemen waved firearms in a meaningless show of force. And all Christine McBurney could do, as they rushed to her side, was die…

The mysterious young woman who’d taken her life, and was now eating her heart, raw, with a side of pocketed spices, waved her free hand to the skies, again, in another silent prayer to her gods. They’d spared her, for one more day. She could spend another 24 hours knowing that she was the most deadly living being on the planet. She crossed the street, and faded into the crowd. She didn’t worry about being followed, about being pestered—her gifts would serve as distraction enough.

It was the way things went, with her—no one could forget about her, but no one could remember specifics. She was like the mythical Lady of the Lake that gave Arthur his Excalibur—she was the love that a young Bruce Wayne had for his parents, the American Dream that drove so many people to become satisfied with complacency, with a second-best existence. She reminded people that there was something better to life, even if they couldn’t remember how to get there. She was a pipe dream on two legs, and had been blessed with a Olympian warrior’s physique.

She paused, as she sensed something fly over her. Mr Epitome.

She blew a kiss at him, and gave it something extra—she aimed for the opening that she saw in his helmet. She noticed him twitch, slightly—her keen hunter’s sight was something she highly valued. She admired his control over his emotions, for how long it lasted… until, like everyone else, he succumbed to her will.

His path altered, and like a rocket, he sped in the opposite direction—Psyche smiled, as her next assignment began. While what she’d just done wasn’t part of it, she allowed herself a bit of pleasure after work. Work began, again—she crossed the street, and entered the GothaMetropolis Squire.

Reporters gaped, editors looked on in awe, and she looked around for what she wanted most. Aha.

She sauntered up to Brianna’s desk, and smirked as the young reporter nearly shrieked in shock as she recognized her. “What…what’re you doing…---”

The shock of being kissed by another woman stunned her into silence. Her sight wavered, and got distorted… and she wobbled in her seat, nearly falling to the floor. After a few moments, everything went into focus. Everything became clear. Everything made sense.

She began typing, as Psyche left—Psyche stopped just outside the door, and put her hands on her hips. She leaned against the door, and waited. She waited…

It seemed like minutes, but it was probably closer to hours when a paper carrier burst out from the doors of the Squire, shrieking “Squire Reporter Gregory Burch revealed to be the Dark Knight! Extra! Extra! Exclusive to the Squire!”

Above her, an almost frail young man stood, sipping a double mocha and allowing his black leather trenchcoat to be whipped about by the breeze, as if it was laundry on a drying line. He silently sighed, and rubbed his hands over his face. Wonderful… He’d enjoyed this identity, and he hated to possibly have to lose it, now. His undead senses alerted him to the fact that television stations were picking up on the news, now, and it would soon be nation-wide. He wondered how this would affect the future, even as above him a white star on a blue background slowly became the powerful vision of Mr Epitome.

The almost skeletal young man looked up, then, and noted with interest an approaching superbeing at a rate approaching escape velocity. “It begins, then…”

To be continued…



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