Progeny #7: Rise of The Dark Prince

Post By Fin Fang Foom Sun Jul 13, 2003 at 06:42:38 pm EST

[ Reply ] [ New ] [ Tales of the Parodyverse ]
Peacekeeper, take your time
Wait for the dark of night
Soon all the suns will rise

Peacekeeper, don’t tell why
Don’t be afraid to fight
Love is the sweet surprise

Fleetwood Mac, “Peacekeeper”

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

“I’m all about the truth, Michael--and when I’m done, you will understand that.”

Parodiopolis was drenched in a vivid starscape, as its night sky was crisscrossed by a variety of strange lights. This wasn’t unusual at all--some of the tiny neon dots were superhumans, and some were traditional aircraft, while others were military or alien in nature. Some were just over the city, and some were on the edge of the solar system. In fact, the city’s nighttime lighting system had been specially designed so that all of this could be seen, instead of drowning out the sky with ambient brightness. And there was one other thing buried in this mixture of fluctuating colors…a tiny blue blob, in the high-class Pierce Heights area of the city.

If one were to point a telescope at that exact spot, they’d see two individuals. They were roughly two hundred feet in the air, above the Northern Palm country club. One was a young, pale-skinned man, with dark red hair and an all-black wardrobe. The other was covered in black armor, with a matching hood and cloak--except his chest and arms were seemingly transparent, with neon blue smoke gathering inside; instead of a face, he had a screen full of brilliant, psychadelic static.

And, unfortunately for Michael McKinley, The Harrower was both strangling and dangling him, only seconds away from taking over his mind or ending his life.

The Harrower stood on a small cloud of blue smoke, easily holding Michael with one hand. There was a smile in his electronically-distorted voice. “Your father told me everything--including the part about you being Royale. I’m officially impressed, you must’ve started really young…”

On an intellectual level, Michael knew it wasn’t true. His (thankfully) late father had been the supercriminal known as Royale; this was just one of the many landmines that the old man had planted, while he was alive. It was just proof that death wouldn’t stop their bizarre game of cat-and-mouse. But on an emotional level, it terrified him. What if he’d been in denial? What if he really was Royale? Regardless of logic, the very basic idea of it was enough to make his usual paranoia go into overdrive. He’d always thought that his worst nightmare involved becoming like his father--and as he found it harder and harder to breathe, he realized that he’d discovered something even more horrific.

He writhed in The Harrower’s seemingly-unbreakable grip, desperately trying to pry off his metal fingers. While Michael’s inherited Royale-formula-altered genes gave him a small amount of enhanced strength, The Harrower was far more powerful. Windshears ripped by, and he tried to kick his body loose…but the armored man barely seemed to notice. In a conversational tone, he said, “But don’t worry--your secret’s safe with me.” He chuckled at that. “I need KinLabs, and I need it to be scandal-free.”

Michael could hear and feel The Harrower’s face charging up. His mask-array used a new, undetectable form of mind-control…it showed the target a possible, perfect life, and how they could only achieve it if they did everything The Harrower told them to. Free will was still present, but after experiencing a personal utopia, what choice did they have?

“You can close your eyes all you want…your eyelids aren’t much of a defense.”

The Harrower babbled a lot about stripping the world of its illusions, and thus making it more effective…but Michael suspected that this idiot would coincidentally benefit in the process. And having KinLabs in his arsenel would make him exponentially more dangerous. Michael thought all this in the split-second before his mind was bombarded with a flurry of images that were more than images, he could feel and hear and touch…

He lived a dozen lifetimes in a single moment. The Harrower was searching out what Michael himself was looking for, in life. Many possibilities and variations ran their course. Sensations of soft women and warm beaches flowed through his brain, and a quiet peace riveted him. He saw many different lives with many different goals and successes. But after about thirty seconds, Michael was noticing a pattern…each new ideal ended up running into something. It was like a wall, but dark. Whatever it was, it seemed to eat through the light of the images.

Michael was shocked to suddenly find himself back in reality, slapped by the cold and the night and the pain. The Harrower had recoiled--he was still throttling Michael, but he looked like he’d experienced some kind of backlash. The lightshow on his mask was lagging.

Intellectually, Michael suspected that the Royale formula had saved him. Emotionally, it proved something he’d always believed…namely, that there was no good future possible for him.

The Harrower didn’t care either way. He drew a hand back, and punched Michael in the side of the head. Then, using all of the suit’s strength, he threw--not dropped, threw--Michael straight down, back through the hole in the country club’s roof.


Progeny #7
Core


“For many citizens of Parodiopolis, the nightmare is continuing.”

The media had taken on a special importance in cities filled with superheroes. It was the key to knowing which parts of the city were a war zone at any given time, and which were safe. It told you if it was okay to breathe the air or look up at the sky. There were days when the populace had to be on the lookout for normal-looking people acting suspicious, as yet another race of shape-shifting aliens had popped up; and there were days when the people were told not to panic about the fact that a living darkness was encircling the city, because it happened to be on our side. So, the vast majority of the city checked the news regularly, knowing it could provide life-saving information.

One of the many interchangeable blonde news anchors in Parodiopolis was trying her best to stare grimly at the camera. Just like the other anchors, she’d spent two hours reviewing the day’s news, and three hours in make-up. Dramatic music played, and then, “Good evening, I’m Coral Shanson. There have been a number of new developments in The Harrower case, and Action Nine News is keeping on top of it.” A blurry security-camera image of the armored criminal appeared on the screen. “The Harrower has infected at least two dozen people with what appears to be some kind of mind-control--and his victims are all prominent members of Parodiopolis’ corporate community. It’s unknown how many more may be infected…”

The screen showed a spokesman for the Parodiopolis police department, who looked like anything but a cop. He said, snidely, “Look, the only reason we even know about these particular cases is because there were witnesses. The people he’s taking over--it isn’t obvious. They won’t go around wearing foil pyramids on their heads and talking about Elvis or something. He could’ve jumped dozens more in private, and we’d never know, because nobody saw it.”

Back to Coral. “The local and national economy has been shocked by this, and pundits are trying to figure out what other side-effects it could have. One has already become clear…for security reasons, many corporations are demanding mandatory Mental Interference Tests for their executives--but The Harrower’s form of mind-control apparently can’t be detected. It can, however, be ‘expunged’ from the system. Doctors at St. Silver’s found a way to do this…”

The screen showed medical intern Samantha Bridges, with her long, curly, pale blonde hair, and her white coat. She was walking quickly, and she looked like she didn’t want to be talking to the reporters. “I don’t--I really don’t have time to talk. Sorry. But yeah, I--we found a way to expunge it, basically.”

Back to Coral, again. “There’s been a startling new discovery in this case, and Action Nine News was the first to bring it to you. As we reported just hours ago, we’ve uncovered sources in the PPD that claim that The Harrower--originally known as ‘The Harrier’--started out as a way for a secret contingent of policemen to illegally obtain evidence.”

The screen showed a young man with brown hair and a goatee, in a crowded, messy office, filled with computer equipment. He looked nervous. “Yeah, I designed the tech for The Harrier--but it isn’t this guy that’s running around now. He just stole the name, and then he didn’t even keep it. I mean, if you’re gonna do that, what’s the point?” The reporter asked something barely audible. “Yeah, like I said, the PPD paid all the bills. A fake supercriminal is the perfect cover to grab the info they need, y’know?” He looked at someone off-camera, and asked, “Can I talk about…? Okay. I’m only telling you all this because, the Pierce Heights DA’s office? I made a deal with ‘em.”

The screen flashed back to Coral, who looked surprised. She tilted her head, like she was hearing something in her ear. “We’ve just been told about a press conference that the police are holding about--wait, can we get that? Okay.”

Back to the PPD spokesman, now behind a podium at a press conference, and looking overwhelmed and defensive. The screen said “live”. “--just talking about three officers, here. That’s it. This isn’t ‘widespread corruption’ like some people are saying, this is just a few rogue cops. And arrests will be forthcoming. But--even though we had nothing to do with The Harrower’s creation, and I can’t stress that enough--we’re going to bring him down.”

Back to Coral. “Sources close to the Pierce Heights DA’s office claim that they’re planning a ‘town hall’-style meeting. Allegedly, it’ll be an open forum for the city’s elite to discuss the Harrower situation. But its exact location is being kept a secret, obviously for security reasons…”

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

The banquet hall of the Northern Palm was quiet and dark. The only light came through a hole in the ceiling, which The Harrower had made, when he’d first crashed into the building. Just under a hundred of Parodiopolis’ most influential citizens sat and stood without moving, as armed, plainclothes mercenaries kept high-tech handguns pointed at them. There were about thirty of them. They had nightvision goggles that barely stood out against the blackness. Also, a dozen hoverdrones were present--they were large, glowing white orbs contained in crimson, exoskeleton-like framework. The framework had “arms” that were actually weapons. The power and phone lines had been cut, and their cel phone, text messaging, and two-way frequencies were being blocked. This was already a private meeting, and the building had been taken over relatively quietly…no-one knew what was going on.

Assistant Commissioner Severin--also in plainclothes, with his butch, orangeish-red crewcut--marched around the room, his hands folded behind his back. He was under The Harrower’s thrall, and he’d helped organize this trap. Severin hoped it wouldn’t interfere with his career…once everyone in the room was being controlled, they wouldn’t rat him out, as they’d all be on the same side. He’d need a clean record to become Commissioner, like he was in the vision that The Harrower had shown him. In truth, he didn’t care about the power, he just wanted to shape up the department. But he had faith in The Harrower, and figured that his perfect future would come about easily. Of course, he’d also engineered The Harrier scheme, and he obviously hadn’t been watching TV recently…

Everyone flinched--and several literally jumped--when Michael McKinley flew through the ceiling-hole, slamming into the floor. Dust from the circle of debris kicked up, as he crumpled in the middle of it. The room collectively gasped, doubting he was alive.

Then, The Harrower fell after him, feet-first--and he seemed to land right on him. There was a loud, but muffled, groan from Michael. Between the darkness and the lack of a good vantage-point, no-one could tell if he actually had fallen on him. There was a shock-induced pause, as everyone waited to see what would happen next.

“Well then,” The Harrower said evenly, straightening as if he’d just jumped two steps at once, “Let’s get to work.”

He reached out with a hand, and blue smoke jumped from it--it was solid, and it cracked a section of the hardwood floor open, revealing a concrete basement underneath. The Harrower dug a foot underneath Michael, and used it to effortlessly toss him down the hole.

“Stay.”

There was a muted, echoing impact noise, far below.

The Harrower surveyed the crowd. “I’d love to do all of you at once, but this is kind of a personal thing. So, one at a time. It may not seem like it now, but I’m about to offer you a great partnership opportunity…your resources, my mission. You’ll love it.”

He was just about to leave town, and he was glad that they’d all gotten together--that made it quicker and easier. Once he had his resources in place, he was off to secure the second half of his plan, which involved Global Bank.

He nodded to the mercenaries. “Just like we planned it. Get the line ready.”

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

Feet shuffled in the darkness. People bumped into each other and mumbled apologies. A long, twisting line formed, weaving throughout the room. After the first few people had been “convinced”, the air began to smell of a light, dizzying chemical. They tried to ignore the screams. The room was otherwise silent, and in the intervals, they could hear cars passing by outside. Some of the people perked up when they heard cars moving quickly, hoping it was the police--but that was never the case. The wealthiest people were at the front of the line. And three women, all of whom were connected to Michael, were thrilled to be near the back.

Lynn Cartana had shoulder-length black hair, a black shirt, and her jacket and slacks were navy blue. As an Assistant DA with the Pierce Heights division, she was trained in how to handle situations like this…but she kept telling herself that, since her supervisor was also here (somewhere), she should let him do the negotiating. Some people became a Pierce Heights DA because they loved the excitement and glamour of prosecuting high-profile criminals--Lynn had become one because of an annoyingly stubborn conscience, and because Pierce Heights was, in theory, the most uneventful district. One of the mercenaries apparently liked Latina girls, as he kept looking at her and some chain-store heiress. Lynn suddenly wished that she’d worn less-tight pants, and wondered if she’d ever see her fiance again. She still suspected that Michael was involved in something he shouldn’t be, but she hoped he was okay…

Toria Mercelli--with her long, wavy black hair, exotic features, aristocratic bearing, and jeans, shirt, and leather jacket that were all black--had her arms crossed defiantly. She’d been in potentially life-ending situations before, and she’d survived. Compared to growing up in her family--the Russian-Italian mob--this was a walk in the park. Of course, she wished that she could’ve brought her gun…but security was too tight, here. Then she took a look around, and realized that it couldn’t have been that good. For now, she was content to merely fantasize about kicking the crap out of that costumed freak’s goons, instead of actually doing it…but eventually, it wouldn’t be enough. She’d only met Michael earlier in the day--he’d kept her from getting killed in a drive-by shooting. She had a rule about falling for guys too quickly, but he definitely seemed like her type.

Gracie Martins was doing her best to act scared. She had to keep in-character…the innocent-looking, obviously-not popstar, with her long brown hair, doe-like eyes, and an exclusively pink wardrobe. She’d been trying to meet Michael for quite a while, now. Gracie touched a bronze bracelet that hung loosely around her wrist, trying to make it look like a nervous gesture. By doing so, she sent a signal that would easily get past their frequency-blocker. Her interest in Michael was far from romantic…

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

Las Vegas’ newest casino was something of an oddity. While the establishments that surrounded it were pyramids and castles and towers, all named after decadent, powerful civilizations of times past, Jungle 21 was nature-themed. It was a massive, transparent dome that housed what seemed to be its very own thriving ecosystem. Of course, much of the interior had opaque walls--privacy was of utmost importance to certain demographics of their clientele--but the outside surface was completely see-through. It looked like a rain forest was bulging against the glass, just waiting to escape. Many viewed this as the ultimate realization of the city’s original idea…an oasis in the American desert.

The slots room, which was the size of two football fields, was surrounded by waterfalls. There was a floor for nothing but various types of card games. The first floor was actually a platform made of interwinding paths, with trees and vines and strange flowers growing up in the gaps, as a hydroponic rain forest was set up underneath. Tan, hardbodied women in ragged, leopard-print bikinis strolled through the casino, offering their help wherever they could. Information kiosks and signs pointed the way to the artificial beach and several unisex saunas. And in the middle of it all--in the middle of the sound of showering coins, joyous victory sirens, and the deafening murmur of ambient conversation--was a man who was smiling, and dragging a tilted luggage-cart full of seven flat, metal briefcases.

He was an Israeli in his late twenties, wearing a grey polo shirt and slacks, and a black belt. His curly black hair was very thick, and it bounced slightly as he walked. It was clear that he’d been there before, as he wasn’t gawking or intimidated. He looked very much like he was in his natural element. The man pushed himself through the tantalized crowds, as cascades from a New Age-y nature relaxation CD washed over him. Gorgeous birdcalls and majestic rivers echoed through the great chamber, as everyone smiled at everyone else.

The man ducked behind a massive pile of rocks, which had water trickling down through them, and found himself in a sloping, cramped hallway, which had foliage painted all over it. The luggage-cart was quite a bit heavier than he was, and it was threatening to roll over him…so he switched places with it, letting it pull him down the hall. There was a Generic Thug waiting for him by an open door.

They were in a room behind a waterfall--a huge picture-window showed diamond-colored liquid thundering by, just outside the glass. Jackie Layte sat in an opulent leather chair, all dyed-blonde hair and black suit and smiles. As black-market arms-dealers went, he was surprisingly affable. He wasn’t tall--his female companion, who didn’t look a day over eighteen, dwarfed him. She had short brown hair with blonde highlights, and a natural, seemingly all-over tan. Her shimmering, silver dress was amazingly low-cut, and it didn’t quite make it past her thighs.

The man with the briefcases gave the required lustful (but brief) stare. While he didn’t want to offend the good Mr. Layte, it’d be more suspicious if he didn’t look like he wondered what she looked like underneath. He already knew, though. He also already knew Mr. Layte’s wife. This individual was nothing if not a player, in all senses of the word.

He reached a hand out. “It’s good to finally meet you, Mr. Layte.”

“Mr. Gideon.” The older man half-stood, and shook his hand vigorously. He then collapsed back into his seat, and directed Mr. Gideon to sit down, as well. There were several more thugs behind him, who looked quite out-of-place in the jungle-painted room. “I hope you don’t mind meeting in a public place like this--but I’ve been assured that we’ll be left alone. And people here never see anything they aren’t supposed to.”

“That’s definitely good,” Mr. Gideon said. “So, what do you say we get right down to it?”

Layte looked crestfallen. “No drinks first?”

“I met a girl on the way in…”

“Perfectly understandable,” Layte said, agreeably. “Pleasure before business, I always say.” He slipped an arm around the girl, and she gave him an artificial smile. There was absolutely no chemistry between them. She had the opposite “problem” with Gideon…she kept sneaking glances at him, and the room’s temperature seemed to go up a notch, as sweat trickled down between her breasts. She definitely remembered their night--and morning--in the Babylon’s private pool. Thankfully, Layte was largely clueless, and thugs weren’t known for their sensual awareness.

“I’ve got the money right here. Thirty million, and there shouldn’t be any bills less than a twenty. But you never know, a five might have gotten in there by accident.”

“That’s no problem, I can have my guys sort it out.” Absently, Layte fished around in his jacket’s pockets. “And I’ve got the…hang on…”

Gideon didn’t want to prolong this--partially because he wasn’t sure how good the girl was at playing it cool, and partially because he wasn’t “Mr. Gideon”. He worked for the American government, albeit in a roundabout way. And he was known only by his alleged last name: DuPlis.

Layte was what the law-enforcement community referred to as an unconventional arms-dealer. He’d been a conventional one, once--but moving a lot of product over a lot of area created a lot of headaches. It took manpower, transportation, and constant operations, all of which made it a huge target. So, he switched over to a different kind of weapon--illegal genetics. Essentially, he “harvested” superhumans and then went about selling their DNA to the highest bidder. Now, he only had to make three or four deals a year, and he was in the clear. Hours of unloading had been replaced with a five-minute transaction. Risky, large-scale operations had been replaced with a one-on-one delivery.

DuPlis completed two objectives by buying it (with government money, of course): first, he kept the DNA out of the hands of the usual terrorist organizations and supercriminals that bought from Layte. And second, he was investing their money, in a way. These guys knew how to play the market, and by the time they took him down and got their money back, it would probably have doubled. While general funds that they seized had to be given to the federal government, they were allowed to take back any money they’d spent while undercover…and any extra money it had helped create. DuPlis envisioned a new company car for himself, and possibly a raise.

“Here it is!” Layte held a grey, plastic vial in his hand. It was a thousand times smaller than a shipment of traditional weapons, and a thousand times more powerful.

The thugs went about checking the briefcases--which were far heavier than they looked. While they did this, and Layte speechified about how he was getting older but the future was a great thing because his job used to be harder, the girl shifted in her seat uncomfortably--or maybe a little too comfortably. In case Layte asked why she was glistening with sweat, DuPlis was trying to think of a reasonable explanation. So far, the best of them was “It’s a little humid in here, isn’t it? Must be the waterfall.”

After a few minutes, the thugs nodded, and Layte handed him the vial. “Icestorm’s DNA, as requested.”

DuPlis grinned, and jokingly asked, “Do I want to know how you got it?”

Layte raised a scolding finger. “Trade secret, young man.”

DuPlis already knew. They’d researched the type of women that Icestorm went for, combined various personality traits from them, hired a special kind of an actress (who had the physical traits he liked) to display them…and a few hours later, when he was in bed and too tired to move, they’d shot him to death with superheated columns of air.

“And,” Layte said, “I don’t want to know what you’re gonna use it for. It’s policy. Just to protect myself.”

“Of course.” Then, DuPlis felt his beeper vibrate. He gave a polite, apologetic laugh, and said, “Sorry--my beeper just scared me to death.” He slowly reached into his jacket--as not to alarm the thugs--and pulled it out, checking the number.

It was a standard distress-signal code, which was used by many government organizations…in this case, it was coming from a SPUD agent. He hit a button that activated his flesh-colored earpiece radio, and he just caught snippets of the audio traffic. It sounded like Pierce Heights had a supercriminal situation…and the address was the place that Michael was at, tonight.

Though DuPlis was running seven different scams in sixteen different countries (but for the greater good, really), Michael was the key in his most important one. They were planning to stop The Harrower from taking over Global Bank, as DuPlis had a friend who was going to take it over instead (again, for the greater good). Besides, DuPlis was nowhere near done blackmailing him, yet. The kid had proven to be extremely useful.

“If we’re all done here, I really should get going,” DuPlis said, as calmly as he could. “They need me in Parodiopolis.”

If Layte was suspicious, he didn’t act like it. “Need a ride to the airport?”

“No, I can grab a cab.”

The girl--who had been giving DuPlis increasingly-hungry looks--looked at Layte and said, “If you’re gonna stay and play the machines, can I go home? I wanna rest up before our midnight swim.”

“Sure, baby.” He kissed her forehead. Then, he seemed to be struck by an idea. “Hey, why don’t you drop him off at the airport? It’s on the way.” He looked at DuPlis. She looked at both of them, pretending to be utterly surprised that she’d made him think of that. “I’ve got a limo outside.”

“That’s cool. Thanks.”

“Now, you two behave,” he mock-warned, unable to keep from smiling.

“Oh, we will,” she promised.

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

There was a theory, and it went like this: everyone in the universe is connected to something. Something that’s a part of them, and they’re a part of. Something they could never get away from, even if they wanted to. For some people, it’s another person--a lover, a competitor, an enemy, or a relative with an overshadowing reputation. For others, it’s a past victory or failure. It could be a skill, a trait, a responsibility, a flaw, or a strength. Sometimes, it could be more than one thing, as well. And at the end of the day--no matter what happened--it would always come down to that. If everything else was destroyed, it would still be there.

The theory claimed that if reality was completely changed, and the person and what they’re connected to were seperated by a dozen Multiverses, they couldn’t help but find each other again. It would be unavoidable.

Lying flat on his face on a grimy, concrete floor, Michael McKinley knew this to be true.

There was pain…there was definitely pain. When The Harrower had first crashed into the building, an I-beam had whipsawed down, blindsiding Michael across the head. Then the strangling. Then the illusion-shattering mental lightshow. Then the superstrong punch to the side of the head. Then being thrown two-hundred feet onto the ground. Then being casually kicked into the basement. The Royale formula didn’t exactly give him a healing factor, but it had an optimum DNA configuration in mind for him--ten fingers, ten toes, all of his bones in one piece, and a bruise-free body. When it received information that the optimum was damaged, it would rewrite his DNA accordingly. But between the physical and mental punishment, it was having trouble coping.

Still, that wasn’t what he was thinking about. The pain had been a blessing--it had made him forget, if only for a second. But now, he was back in reality, drowning in what he was connected to.

To put it mildly, there were times he hated being Royale’s son. The thought of suicide crossed his mind no less than once a day. It wasn’t just because of what his father had done and been…it was because, God help him, Michael wasn’t always that different. After he’d learned the truth, he’d come of age in his father’s world--a world where paranoia, murder, crime in general, lying, and hiding were all necessary for survival. He’d been raised in the culture of supercrime, and through both nature and “nurture”, he had all the wrong instincts and skills. He was a predator, and he could never escape that fact.

Thanks to The Harrower, he’d realized something even worse.

Michael had been clinging to two illusions--two false rationalizations that had kept him going--and now, he knew them to be untrue. One, in the big picture, actually wasn’t that major. It had to do with his goals in life. Michael tucked it away in his mind and saved it for later. But the other…

In the damp darkness, he flashed back to St. Silver’s emergency room. The night of his mother’s suicide. He saw himself and his father, seconds away from a physical confrontation, while Samantha tried to figure out how to handle it. He saw himself look at her…and, ashamed of the violent thoughts going through his head, he hadn’t done anything. His father left--

--and went on to kill over a hundred people, in the months before his death.

Michael could--should--have stopped it. He should have killed him, right then and there. Nevermind that his father’s abilities were far greater than his own; he should have at least tried. But no…he held back. He made the mistake of thinking he was human, and not a predator. If he’d accepted who he was, in that moment--given up Samantha, his “normal” life, all of it--and simply killed him, the world would be a better place.

Michael planned on never making that mistake again.

His eyes opened. He could see well in the darkness--it was his element, after all. Though his brain felt like it was ready to jump out of his skull, and moving made his muscles feel like they were being devoured by meat-eating insects, he tried to push himself up. The floor was cold to his touch. He failed. So, he tried again. And again.

He laughed--he realized that, if his future wasn’t doomed, The Harrower could’ve taken over his mind. Even his misery worked out for the best. He had a role in the universe, even if that role was just to suffer…

His body seemed to react to his willpower--whether it was psychosomatic or the Royale formula, he had no idea, but he felt stronger. He was tangled up in his long, black coat, and he kicked his legs, getting them free. Michael could hear faint screaming, far above. They needed him.

Without realizing how he’d done it, he was on his feet. He took a deep breath, and his head started to clear. The screaming stopped, at least for the moment.

Then, tendrils of solid blue smoke wrapped around him.

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

“Do you understand the truth, yet?”

The smoke had wrapped around Michael’s ankles--it slammed him into the floor, and the walls.

“You need to redeem yourself.”

A bolt of smoke hit him in the jaw, while he was being whipped through the air.

“I’m the hero, here. And you’re the villain.”

Upon the most recent impact, Michael’s left arm was crushed against a wall, and it broke.

“I stand for truth--for freeing the world. Do you even realize how much energy everyone wastes, trying to convince themselves of things that aren’t true? How much time? They’re like you--they’re just afraid of facing the truth, because it means they’ll have to do something. They’re afraid of the consequences, the responsibility. God, the progress we could’ve made…”

After a few more minutes of slamming, he released Michael, who simply laid on the floor, unmoving.

“And you? You stand for--for what? For secrets? For selfishness? Building your own little empire?”

The Harrower lifted Michael off the ground, and, open-handed, struck him across the face.

“I read the psych reports from your old school--the ones they tripped over themselves to put through the shredder. You’re a borderline sociopath. Did you know that?”

Michael said nothing, so The Harrower hit him in the stomach.

“Please don’t think I’m one of those take-over-the-world people--I don’t set unrealistic goals for myself. Just another illusion. But I will be a force for truth in this world…and KinLabs is going to help me. You need it to help me, to make up for everything you’ve done.”

The Harrower let go, and Michael managed to stay on his feet. A long, thin burst of smoke solidified, and Michael was beaten with it. He fell to his knees, shielding his head with his arms.

“Would you like me to zap you, again? Would you like to see a bunch of things you’ll probably never have? Does that sound like fun? You’ll never have any of it, because you’re a monster.”

With blood pouring out of his mouth, Michael said, “I know.”

The Harrower shook his head. “No, I’m not wasting any more time with you. Whoever inherits KinLabs in the event of your death--is it Lau?--well, they’ll be a lot easier to deal with. And besides, our goals are kind of mutually-exclusive, aren’t they?”

Blue smoke gathered around one of The Harrower’s hands, building up strength. This was the final blow. He briefly noticed that his helmet-display gave the time as 10:30. He charged up an explosive burst, and let loose.

Just as he released it, the entire building jerked to the left.

Distracted, The Harrower was knocked off his feet. His smoke-force-bomb went off at roughly the same time. He glanced up, activating his long-range scanners. They had company. Panicked, he looked back at Michael, who was on the floor, draped over the crater that the smoke-bomb had made. No-one could have survived that. And he was right about that much.

His hands created a cloud of smoke underneath his feet, and he took off, leaving Michael.

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

10:27

From the outside, the Northern Palm looked like a lopsided chalet, which had seemingly been dropped in the middle of a landscaped, gated Pierce Heights community. It was only one story, but it was expansive, spread out over a nature-draped piece of property. Brightly-lit parking lots flanked two of its four sides. The hole in the roof had been masked by a hologram. Parodiopolis citizens that were concerned about overpopulation called Pierce Heights “a massive waste of space”, as it was virtually a pocket of beautiful countryside, surrounded by densely-packed urban territory. Small families owned enough undeveloped property to fit several dozen apartment buildings, but they said they wanted a big yard.

The sky was still cloudless, with an anorexic crescent moon. It was windy tonight--the trees in the Northern Palm’s lawn, all topheavy with leaves, swayed and shuffled. Many porch-style swings (albeit without the porches) were scattered across the grass, and they squeaked in the breeze, complemented by overlapping, tinkling windchimes. Stone fountains held still water, which occasionally shuddered.

Two teenagers had spread a black-and-white checkered blanket out near the edge of the lawn, and were having a nighttime picnic. They did this often, and they had to be careful about the time--the place had an automatic sprinkler system that always came on at 11:38. Unmarked sedans occasionally drove by, but the teenagers were friendly with the security people, and they usually looked the other way. The tennis court was sometimes an impromptu dance floor, but they didn’t want to risk having music, so they danced to rustling branches and showering windchimes. At the moment, they were lying on the blanket, looking up at the stars. A cluster of them seemed strangely bright…

The bluish-white dots grew larger, and began to take shape. It was a myriad of futuristic aircraft; some the size of a 747, and others just large enough to house one or two pilots. The fleet swooped down from the sky, silently. Three glowing purple balls leapt from one of them, and flew towards the North Palm’s roof.

A split-second later, the “mufflers” were turned off, and the ground shook from the sound of engines. Several medium-sized craft buzzed the ground, and armored jeeps dropped from them, hitting the ground running. Long personnel trucks were lowered by cables from still-moving craft, released, and they swerved to a halt within fifty yards of the building. SPUD soldiers (in uniforms that were mostly midnight-blue, with a bit of dull silver) poured out of them. They wore kevlar, pads, and helmets that consisted of gasmasks, rectangular goggles, and metallic skullcaps. Not an inch of skin was showing.

In less than forty seconds, the entire building was surrounded.

The teenagers didn’t try to grab their stuff. They’d lived in Parodiopolis for years--they knew what to do. They quickly backed off, and waited to be questioned.

Helicopters and hovercraft orbited the building. A perimeter was set up. They hoped to negotiate their way out of the situation, but that wouldn’t be the case. The war was just about to begin…

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

10:29

The Harrower had gone to “visit” Michael, and the people in the North Palm were breathing a little easier. About a third of them had been taken over. The ones that had were all grouped together, ignored by the mercenaries. They whispered and pointed and made the others feel generally paranoid. The hoverdrones were acting a little funny; they kept pausing and veering and running quiet programs, like they sensed something.

Then, a trio of glowing, purple balls streaked in from the holo-masked hole in the ceiling, and began bouncing around the room, strobing light everywhere. Both their speed and their light was blinding. Audio eruptions exploded outside, like canyons suddenly being created. The engines were so sudden and loud and close, the entire building rocked to the left. An explosion sounded underneath the floor, but it was drowned out by all the other noise.

The hoverdrones quickly scanned the situation, and a number of objectives was tugging at them. They captured a sample of the purple light, and discovered that it was a kind that was often used in high-tech hospitals--like St. Silver’s--to “reboot” patients’ minds through the optic system, clearing out any foreign influence. One of the drones gave a pre-recorded message to those who had been turned, telling them to stay still…but they didn’t listen. This was bad.

An amplified voice echoed through the building, saying that they were just “curing” the hostages, and that they weren’t attacking; they wanted to negotiate.

But the drones knew what to do. The Harrower didn’t need hostages. All of the drones but one crashed through the ceiling. Alone, the last drone oriented its red gun-arms towards two load-bearing beams. At the same time, something other than its guns was charging up. The Harrower quickly rose from the hole in the floor, and went through the hole in the ceiling. Ignoring the civilians, the mercenaries were clearing out, heading for the doors. One of them pulled out a comm-device and hit a button.

Gracie Martins--the pink popstar--hopped up on a table, screaming at everyone to run. Her bronze bracelet reconfigured into a small gun, and she held it expertly. Her entire body blurred, and she was replaced by an African-American woman in her mid-twenties, with short, funky hair. She wore a dull silver shirt, and a midnight-blue jacket and pants. She fired.

A clear, hazy beam of sheer force hit the drone, just a breathtaking moment before it made its shot.

The Harrower had meant for it to be a distraction--cave the building in, self-destruct the drone, force the authorities to divide their attention--and it kind of worked. Wounded, the drone jerked and missed its target. The ceiling only partially caved in, and a good portion of the building remained upright.

Then the drone exploded, and the banquet hall did the same.

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

A black-caked, neon orange column blossomed in the Parodiopolis night sky.

The Northern Palm had a crater in the middle of it, and the front half of the building was on fire. A crowd of would-be hostages was running from one of the side doors--but a few dozen were still trapped inside. They’d headed for the back instead of the front, and were now cut off by both an avalanche of flaming debris and a massive, dead-drop pit in the banquet hall. The other exits--and many of the doorways in the buildings--had collapsed in the explosion.

The war was on. SPUD ground-insertion teams, weighed down with additional body armor and packing huge rifles, were taking shots at the suddenly-outnumbered mercenaries. The mercenaries had taken up positions in the remaining, flaming front doorways. The eleven remaining hoverdrones took on heavily-armed helicopters and minijets. The backstop for the aerial firefight was a populated area, so the SPUD forces had to pick their shots carefully. But they’d fought in urban areas many times before, and they were glad to be in Pierce Heights; it gave them more open area to work with. The Northern Palm’s “yard”, and the neighboring fields and yards, provided quite a bit of breathing room.

The Harrower wasn’t interested in beating them. There was no point to it, really. He just wanted to leave. He’d win by pulling off the Global Bank half of his plan, not by childishly beating up people who were picking on him. This was just an irrelevant battle in a much larger war. Still, he put up the required effort. Solid-smoke jammed up energy cannons, and he punched the occasional helicopter. He was just killing time until the second distraction, really.

The front half of the Northern Palm continued to crumble. Hovering anti-fire foam-cannons were trying to cope, but they hadn’t been designed to operate on a battlefield. Many of them were getting caught in the crossfire. One managed to soak a section of wall, revealing a gaping hole, with a few mercenaries on the other side. Some wiseguy remote-controller blasted them with a high-pressure burst, knocking them off their feet.

Beyond their perimeter--which seemed kind of ludicrous, as blue tape wasn’t much protection against what was going on--a few onlookers had gathered, and the media was starting to arrive. Several newsvans were actually newstrucks, except they didn’t have mini-satellite dishes…or drivers. The explosives-carrying trucks tore through the tape, and detonated against parked SPUD ground-vehicles. More literal “carbombs” were on their way, and armored SUVs were transporting more mercenaries.

SPUD had been surrounding The Harrower’s forces…suddenly, they were sandwiched between a core of enemies and a rapidly-enclosing circle of even more enemies. It was a trick as old as war itself. And the gathering civilians were caught in the middle of it, which made things even more complicated.

One of the SUVs was veering towards a group of reporters, who scrambled helplessly. It was trying, and succeeding, to draw some of the helicopters’ fire. Right before it hit the civilians, it was knocked off the ground and through the air, roughly twenty feet to the right--its left side had been dented in.

One of the SPUD comm-trailers was under attack by a half-dozen mercenaries. The trailer was armored, but the force of the blasts was threatening to tip it over. And that kind of damage would only screw up their intranet. The mercenaries were suddenly shredded by something moving too fast for them to see, and in less than three seconds, they were all on the grass, covered in thin ropes of blood.

A hoverdrone swept too low while trying to avoid an unfortunately-accurate minijet, and the next thing it knew, something had reached in and pulled out a chunk of its circuitry. Its power source flickered, and it was slammed into the ground several times.

The Harrower glanced downwards, and knew that it was about time to go. Mr. Epitome had arrived.

The American government’s premiere superhuman was dressed in black boots, blue pants, a single-breasted blue jacket with a collar and white star, and he wore a red mock turtleneck underneath. A tough, plastic-looking blue cowl covered most of his head. Allegedly, he was half as powerful as the fictional character called Superman…

Several hoverdrones began circling him, and he smiled.

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

Lynn Cartana had a rule about falling asleep in public--namely, she didn’t. So, when her eyes blinked open, she was surprised…she knew she wasn’t at home in bed, because she was still wearing something. Lynn coughed several times, and realized that she was on a hard floor. There was a murky darkness, backlit by something red- or orange-colored. It was hot. Toria Mercelli was kneeling over her, and there was another woman--in her mid-fifties, with short, greying brown hair, and a purple blouse. Toria held a finger to her lips, and Lynn realized that two men were having a conversation.

They were mercenaries--or so Lynn assumed, as they both had those freaky energy handguns. They were arguing. One kept starting his sentences with “The Harrower said”, and the other was chewing him out. A third wasn’t saying anything. They could all hear, and sometimes feel, the battle outside.

“--said no hostages. We don’t need ‘em.”

“Screw that, he isn’t perfect--we might need another backup plan.”

“We already have--”

“Another one, then! Geez…”

“Okay, okay.”

The three of them looked at the three women. Gesturing at Lynn, the guy who seemed to be in charge said, “Can she walk?”

Lynn got up experimentally, and found that she was fine, aside from breathing a bit too much smoke.

One of the mercenaries pulled out a Game Boy-shaped device, and directed them to go into a closet. It appeared to lock from the outside, unfortunately. “This thing here? It’s tamperproof. You touch it, you go boom. Right now, you just need to be hoping that we get outta here without incident, okay? Because if we run into trouble, we can just tell ‘em that we can blow you girls up with the push of a button.”

They went into the cramped janitor’s closet. Two of the mercenaries accompanied them, while a third watched their backs.

The indecisive one was putting the explosive on the wall. Every few seconds, he’d halfheartedly point his gun at them, as a reminder. He kept looking at Toria, and then, “Hey, aren’t you on TV?”

She crossed her arms and cocked her head. “I’m Victoria Mercelli. And the last guy that pointed a gun at me got a pair of gardening shears stuffed down his pants.”

The two guys looked at each other, and they both looked at the third guy, outside. “Uhh, maybe we should find another hostage…”

Then, they realized that they’d taken their eyes off of her, which was a mistake.

She grabbed onto the indecisive one’s wrists, and high-kicked the other in the throat. He went down coughing blood. She yanked the indecisive one’s wrists, kneed him in the groin, grabbed him by the hair, and kneed him in the face. He actually cried.

The third one, seven feet away, was in the process of raising his gun--it was a contest to see who’d get who first. Albeit one that would be interrupted.

Metal rang out, and he collapsed. Michael McKinley was standing over him, metal pipe in hand. He’d definitely seen better days.

Lynn started to blurt out a surprised “You’re alive?!”, but he covered her mouth and shook his head. Toria nodded--there could be other mercenaries around. Michael frisked them in silence, and gathered up their guns. He dragged the third one into the closet. The other two were conscious, but in no shape to get up and go. Michael grabbed a roll of duct tape, covered their mouths, wrists, and ankles, and checked to make sure the closet didn’t contain anything they could escape with. Then he locked them in.

Seconds later, they’d gone into an empty, carpeted room. Toria locked the door. The emergency-lighting system finally kicked in, providing a trickle of brightness. As soon as they were safe, Michael put a hand on the white wall, hunching over and breathing hard. He’d nearly been beaten to death, and he would have died, if not for the fact that The Harrower’s aim had been disrupted by the building shaking.

He snapped out of it, and took a look around. “Is everybody okay?”

“Everybody except you, apparently.” Toria reached over to help him up, and he flinched--he was sore all over.

“I’m fine.”

All three women rolled their eyes simultaneously.

The older woman gently grabbed Michael by the jaw and held up a finger. “I was a nurse--with the Red Cross, in Vietnam. Follow my finger with your eyes.” He did. “I saw that fall you took…you’re lucky to be alive.”

He couldn’t stop himself from laughing at that last line. “He didn’t drop me that far, he was just a little above the roof,” Michael lied. He was just glad that they hadn’t seen The Harrower roughing him up the second time; he’d really have to explain his survival then. “What happened up there?”

“Basically, one of those robot things blew itself up,” Toria said. “Everything fell in and caught on fire. We’re cut off from the outside.”

“How many more do you think are back here?”

“Everyone split up right before it happened--I saw maybe twenty people head for the back. I think everyone else made it out.”

“We’d all be dead, if it wasn’t for that--that one popstar girl,” the older woman said. “She was actually a shapeshifter or something. She warned us right before the hover-thing went off.”

“She was wearing a SPUD uniform,” Lynn added. “A special agent one. I’ve seen ‘em before.”

Michael couldn’t mask his surprise. “What? You mean Gracie Martins?”

“Yeah.”

He briefly wondered why a SPUD agent would keep trying to meet him, while disguised as someone else…but it was a question for another time. He pulled out one of the guns, cocked it, and tested its heft and aim. He was feeling steadier. “Here’s the plan--I’m gonna find the others, and we’re all gonna find a way out of here.”

Lynn gawked. “What, all by yourself? In your condition?”

Michael’s already-expressionless face didn’t budge an inch.

“Now is not the time to start believing your own press,” Lynn said firmly. “The tabloids may think you’re a ‘Bad Boy Billionaire’, but this isn’t Die Hard. Yeah, fine--you killed one superhuman, in self-defense. That’s one more than ninety-nine percent of people, but you shouldn’t press your luck.”

“I’m not planning to take them all on,” he lied. “I’m just gonna look for everyone else. I’m bringing the gun just in case.”

“Hey, some of us might be useful,” Toria said. She reached a hand out, waiting for one of the guns.

Lynn glared at both of them, as Michael seemed to be considering it. He looked her over--partially to see if she appeared trustworthy, and partially because he just liked looking at her. Lynn said, “You can’t seriously be--she’s a criminal! She’s part of one of the biggest mob families on the East Coast!”

Toria groaned. “And what have I been convicted of?”

“Well, uh,” Lynn stuttered, “You’ve been charged with assault, breaking and entering, grand theft auto, leaving the scene of a crime…”

Toria asked Lynn a question, but she was looking at Michael. “And would you like to tell us who I allegedly committed those crimes against?”

“…well, your family.”

“And was I ever found guilty?”

Lynn said nothing.

Toria covered Lynn’s ears, and quickly said, “My family thinks I’m unreasonable because I’ve got a problem with selling crack to five-year-olds. They try to kill me, I fight back, we all get in trouble, it’s a gleeful merry-go-round. If you believe nothing else I say, believe this: I’m not like them.”

She let go of Lynn, who demanded to know what she’d said. No-one told her. Lynn kept pestering her, sounding slightly petulant. The older woman was trying not to smile, it was clear that Michael had made his decision, and Lynn suddenly felt like she was back in high school, the good girl that always thought it was a bad idea and was always out of the loop…

Michael pulled the second gun out of his jacket, and glanced at Toria. “You know how to use one of these?”

“That’s not something I want to answer in front of an officer of the court.”

Michael turned to Lynn, and he had the third gun in his hand. “What about you? If the two of you are gonna stay here by yourselves…”

“Uh, I took a gun safety course right after I became a DA, but…”

“It isn’t rocket science,” Toria said. “Point and click.”

Lynn blinked. She suddenly realized that she was the adult here--at least, one of them--and that these two twenty-year-olds shouldn’t be telling her what to do. She started to say something--

“Don’t open that door for anybody,” Michael said. “If it’s either of us, we’ll knock three times, right in a row.”

The older woman stepped forward. “What if you don’t come back?”

Michael released the safety on his gun, and held it as naturally as an artist holding a brush, or a mother holding her child. “We’ll come back.”

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

St. Silver’s ER was a madhouse. Aside from the fact that there was a major aerial battle taking place over Pierce Heights and a small ground war was consuming several square blocks in the same area, a group of amateur supercriminals had actually tried to rob a bank and nearly gotten themselves shot to death; food poisoning had struck a kid’s (huge) birthday party because his mom hadn’t checked the expiration date on a cake mix; and a four-alarm fire in Shelton had overloaded Phantomhawk Memorial, so they had to pick up the slack. At the moment, they were drowning in wounded mercenaries.

Samantha Bridges was on the twenty-seventh hour of her supposedly twelve-hour shift, which was nothing unusual. She logged more hours than most doctors. Of course, the Bridges family was synonymous with St. Silver’s…on a busy night like this, she could find her mother, uncles and aunts, cousins, and often their significant others, all in or around the ER. In fact, even her father--a neurologist that was rarely seen below the fifty-first floor--had made an appearance.

Currently, Samantha was standing over a sink, washing blood off of her hands and forearms. She’d practically been up to her elbows in that wounded junkie--if she hadn’t plunged right in without taking the time to put gloves on, the unexploded explosive shell in him would have gone off. As it was, he’d lived, but their wall-clock had died. Quick reflexes ran in her family, as did pale, long, curly blonde hair. Samantha wore her usual white coat, with bluejeans and a faded red shirt, which showed a sliver of tanned midriff when she had to reach for something. The blood of ten different people was spattered over her jeans, but she didn’t really care.

She stood on her tiptoes and scanned the room, looking for possible patients. She saw cops debriefing injured criminals, panicked loved ones that had brought a family member or a significant other in, and a crowd of medical personnel trying to fit into an ER that needed constant expansion, but no outright emergencies. They were the premiere American hospital for dealing with superhuman cases, and in Parodiopolis, that made them a hot commodity.

Her sneakers squeaked on the tile floor as she jogged to the glass double-doors, looking for arriving ambulances. None. She spun on her heels. Back behind the reception desk, Sarah Chen shook her head and held up three fingers, which meant that they had that many minutes until the next ambulance. Samantha tried shouting over the noise, but couldn’t, so she just mouthed “Pierce Heights?”, and Sarah nodded. Memorial usually got the cases from northern Pierce Heights, but they were swamped, and the ride wouldn’t help the patients any…

With no immediate crisis to react to, Samantha was directionless. She just stood uncomfortably, waiting, and occasionally glancing around for trouble. Stray orderlies and nurses wandered by, but she didn’t have anything to say to them. The qualities that would make her a great doctor--demanding, perfectionistic, strong-opinioned, capable of being cold as ice--made her a difficult person to deal with. The simple truth was that she wasn’t always well-liked. While she didn’t fit the stereotypical picture of someone without social skills, that was certainly one of her problems. She was incredibly compassionate, but she had trouble putting it into words--so she put it into actions, instead. Medicine was her life.

Then she heard a familiar name, and was shocked out of what everyone (behind her back) called “Robodoctor mode”.

It was one of the hostages from Pierce Heights. He was yelling about having to be seated next to a wounded--and thankfully unconscious and handcuffed--mercenary, but he’d said something before that. Detective Mark Gamble, whom Samantha had met before, was taking down his statement.

She shouldered Gamble out of the way, and crouched down, looking into the man’s eyes.

“What was that about Michael McKinley?”

The man--he was middle-aged, with brown hair and the tiniest beginnings of a bald spot--looked like he was still in shock. His suit was covered in soot. “I just--God. That crazy guy in the cape just flew off with him and dropped him right back in…”

Gamble started to complain and tried to move her aside, and Samantha made it as far as “Get the f--” before literally growling and shoving him back. Trying (and failing) to force calmness into her voice, she looked back at the man and said, “What do you mean?”

“I mean, he dropped him really hard. And then he kicked him into another hole. He was--I think he was just trying to scare us, but I think that McKinley kid is dead…”

Samantha didn’t move for an undetermined period of time. She didn’t even blink. She was trying to formulate her next question, she wanted specifics, she had to know everything he’d seen and heard, so she could know--

--the glass double-doors slid open, and she heard the familiar sound of gurney-wheels hitting the ground. Unable to stop herself, she looked…except for a questionable nurse and a nervous male med student, no-one was running to the rescue.

Samantha looked at the soot-caked man. Then she looked at the incoming patient. For the first time in her life, she wanted to ignore it all…but she knew she couldn’t. She winced and ran towards the gurney, knowing that this was a situation she could actually do something about.

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

Michael carefully, but quickly, took measured steps down the dark hall. He had both hands on the gun, which he held downwards at a forty-five-degree angle, ready to raise it at any time. Toria was a step behind, constantly turning around and making sure they weren’t being followed. They were further away from the fire, now. But explosions could be heard outside, and the building shook at frequent intervals.

Things had been quiet, so far. Michael guessed that the vast majority of the mercenaries were up on the battlefield. Maybe a few had gotten trapped down here, and they were probably panicking as badly as everyone else. The two of them carefully went around corners and checked for working doorways--but most were crushed or otherwise broken.

Michael felt dead on his feet, and he was still stiff all over. He had to be covered in bruises. But there was something even more disconcerting about his injuries…he could swear that parts of him were turning into some kind of liquid, healing, and then turning back. Was that a side-effect of the Royale formula? The elbow of the arm that he’d broken suddenly felt wet, and he saw what looked like a large bubble bulge against his sleeve, before collapsing. His arm now felt decidedly unbroken, though it still hurt. But his jacket sleeve wasn’t moist at all.

They reached an intersection, and he looked down the three long halls they had to choose from. The area of the building they were now in had been relatively undamaged, and the doorways all looked functional. But there were so many…this was going to take forever. Then, Michael remembered something--he abruptly reached into his jacket, and pulled out a pair of wafer-thin, wraparound sunglasses. Amazingly, they were still in one piece.

Toria gave him a funny look, and he shrugged, whispering, “They’re just for show--I can turn down the tint on the inside.” She still looked curious, so he added, “And they double as a cel phone headset…I think my phone can get a signal out of here.” He’d pretty much been making it up as he went along, but it was technically true--and possibly a good idea, at that. But who could he call? The first person that came to mind was Samantha, but he didn’t want to weigh her down with his problems…

She nodded in a businesslike, unimpressed way--that tech was nothing unusual, for Parodiopolis. He then used his sunglasses for the real reason he’d put them on…to utilize their fiberoptic capabilities. In seconds, he was in infrared mode, and he could make out several groups of people in hiding, in several rooms, both in this hall and in parallel halls. From their outlines and posture, they didn’t seem to be holding weapons, and several were decidedly female--Toria had told him that all of the mercenaries were male. Still, being careful had never hurt anyone.

Silently apologizing for his chauvinism, he pointed for her to check several empty rooms, while he took the ones with people in them. He just didn’t feel right risking someone else’s life, even if they’d volunteered, and were aware of the danger of a situation like this.

He opened the first door as quietly as he could, and made sure to keep his face in the small amount of light from the hall. They recognized him, and quickly peeked their heads up from behind a sofa, saying things like “…is that the McKinley kid?” and “Hey, I think it’s safe”. Slowly, they creeped out, and he waved them on.

Michael repeated this process several times, and after five minutes, they’d gathered about fifteen people. As condescending as it sounded, he’d “let” her find people that were definitely safe--quick MRI scans told him that they weren’t packing metallic weapons.

But even so, she seemed suspicious about his luck with finding people. They stashed all of them in one room, and said they’d come back--having that many people tromping around just wasn’t a good idea; they were too big of a target. Once the two of them were alone, Toria said, “What, do you have x-ray vision or something?”

“Oh, absolutely.”

“Mmm. How do I look?”

He had to stop himself from answering, as he was in enough trouble as it was.

She grinned--his eyes had already answered her question. Toria glanced at his gun. “For a law-abiding citizen, you’re pretty comfortable with that thing, and pretty good at sneaking around…”

He almost made one of his patented mysterious remarks, but decided against it. He only had her word that she wasn’t a mobster…and while they seemed to have some things in common, he still didn’t trust her. It was nothing personal; he didn’t trust anyone.

Dry powder fell from the ceiling, as the building rumbled. “Think they’re still fighting?”

Michael used his sunglasses to tap into his Porsche’s sensor system--it appeared that the cars in the parking lot had all been loaded onto a flatbed truck and moved, once SPUD had first set up their perimeter. It made sense; they wouldn’t want explosive obstacles sitting around. According to the car’s scanners, SPUD reinforcements were arriving, most of the hoverdrones had been trashed by an unidentified superhuman, The Harrower was MIA, and the mercenaries were falling fast. Michael’s mind raced--if The Harrower had left, that meant he’d be going after that Global Bank guy. The clock was officially ticking.

“There weren’t that many guys with The Harrower,” Michael said, “And we’re in the middle of superhero central…I think it’ll be over soon.”

He took a good, long look around. He spotted the last seven or eight people hiding in a room about four halls over…but six mercenaries were also present, in the hall outside their door.

Michael briefly closed his eyes, and tried to feel the extent of his injuries. He was still weak, but he could feel his enhanced speed and agility starting to return. It’d have to do.

He turned to Toria. “Get the people we put in that room, and take ‘em back to the other two. I think I know where the others are hiding. I’ll meet you back there in under five minutes.”

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

DuPlis had broken into a currently-unused apartment, and set up his surveillance gear. He was fifteen blocks away from his target, but he didn’t want to chance being any closer--The Harrower had to have powerful scanners in his suit. Still, it was a great line of sight. DuPlis had added a grey trenchcoat to his black shirt and pants, and was still a bit tired--either from jetlag (Las Vegas to Parodiopolis in two and a half hours, thank god for SPUD private jets) or from the limo ride to the airport.

Looking through the camera, he saw a thirtysomething man walking around in a robe. He was a higher-up at Global Bank…and he was due to get a visit from The Harrower sometime tonight. This wasn’t a normal bank--they were the people that entire countries got loans from. As such, they had a ton of power…they could help countries pump money into their economies, and influence international taxes and lending rates, among other things. For a lot of the third-world population, the bank’s decisions determined whether or not they could afford to survive. Unfortunately, their policy was dictated more by financial goals than humanitarian ones.

DuPlis didn’t like that. He was a liar and a cheat and a string-puller and he had any number of female friends-with-benefits that thought they were his only friend like that, but there were some lines that he just didn’t want people crossing. So, he had a scam. Of course, his employers didn’t know about it--they weren’t just in bed with Global Bank, they were having a massive capitalist orgy with them. They wouldn’t like this, but then, DuPlis had never been much of a follower…except where tight skirts were concerned.

It was actually fairly simple: corrupt Global Bank guy gets attacked by supercriminal. Michael saves him at the last second, but the guy is so scared, he quits. Or, maybe he dies--Michael stopping The Harrower was the true objective, this guy wasn’t someone they’d go out of their way to protect. Either way, so long as he leaves his position…which will be filled by a friend of DuPlis’. A bit less soulless. And a nice alternative to not doing anything, which would result in The Harrower taking over the guy and gaining more power.

DuPlis checked his watch--it was getting late. He hoped Michael would show up in time. Then, he saw that the Global Bank guy apparently had a girlfriend…raven-haired, bouncing around in grey cotton bikini-cut bra and panties. Extremely healthy girl. At least it wouldn’t be a boring wait…

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

Six against one--in normal circumstances, Michael wouldn’t have given it a second thought. With his suit, his gun, and in normal health, it’d be nothing to worry about. But in his current condition, and considering the fact that he wouldn’t just be some anonymous vigilante killing people, things were a bit difficult. He didn’t want to play the public hero too much; he was already drawing a lot of suspicion. Leaving a trail of dead bodies, without consequences, was tricky even in the most convenient of situations, as Michael had learned the hard way.

Michael ran down a hall confidently. The pain, and the loss of his illusions, had convinced him of two things: that he had a burning desire to kill anyone remotely like his father (including, of course, himself), and that being like his father gave him a certain amount of power, which could be extremely useful. He’d taken off his sunglasses, and he felt better with every step he took.

The remaining mercenaries were around the corner, down by the next intersection. Unfortunately for them, Michael didn’t believe in fighting fair.

He’d taken the Game-Boy-shaped explosive from the other mercenaries, and he’d timed it for three seconds. He stepped out into the intersection, with a clear line of sight. They were roughly twenty feet away, and they all had their back to him. They were far enough away from the hidden civilians for this to be safe. He hit a button, and threw it at a speed that would make professional pitchers look slow.

It got there in two and a half seconds. It bounced on the ground, once, and they started to notice. Slow-motion surprise. It went off.

It was a bit weak--it had just been made to kill a few civilians in close-quarters--but it got the job done. They were stumbling around, coughing and clearly injured. Two were down, and one was practically crawling. By now, Michael had run halfway there, and he didn’t waste time opening fire.

Kevlar, of course. While his gun didn’t have traditional bullets, they were armored against their own weapons. Body shots just weren’t doing it. He got one of them in the head, and another in the hand. He wished that he had his usual gun and explosive-shell ammo, which easily pierced standard kevlar. By this point, he was close-range. He pistolwhipped the one that was crawling around, and delivered a solid right cross to another.

The last man (who’d dropped his gun after being shot through the hand) slammed into him, tackling him around the waist. Michael’s reflexes were still somewhat sluggish, but he instinctively rolled with it. He let himself be slammed to the ground, and flipped the man off with two feet to his stomach. Somersaulting to his feet threw his normally-perfect balance off, and he stumbled--and the man was back on his feet, charging again. But Michael managed to bring his gun up and shot him repeatedly in the chest. The kevlar held, but the man went down, coughing hard.

Michael did a quick check--they were all down. He was exhausted. Then, someone shot him in the back.

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

The aboveground battle had to be over, and there had to be another working entrance to the back of the Northern Palm, as the remaining mercenaries had all showed up. Michael was on his knees--he didn’t wear that black coat for show; it was an advanced kevlar. Still, he was already drained and battered, and his back felt like someone had hit it with a titanium two-by-four. He couldn’t quite get to his feet. He had no idea where his gun had gone, he just knew he didn’t have it.

About a dozen men surrounded him, and he tried to catch his breath. He was hoping and praying that they wouldn’t look in that certain doorway, as the remaining would-be hostages were in there. The men were having a hushed conversation about whether or not they needed a hostage.

A black-haired man, who seemed to be the leader, shook his head. “Screw that, look at what he did to ‘em!” He cocked his weapon and pressed it against Michael’s forehead. Michael didn’t flinch, as he didn’t entirely mind the idea of dying. Just as someone else had freed most of the hostages, someone else would surely stop The Harrower…

Michael closed his eyes. Time for peace.

But it was something he was destined never to get.

The black-haired man died with a surprised look on his face. A high stream of bullets caught several of them from the neck up, and Michael turned to see Toria, a gun in each hand, running towards them.

He was ready to give up on himself. But she was outnumbered, and if he gave up now, she might die…

Michael instinctively planted one hand against the wall, one on the floor, braced himself, and lashed out in a sweep kick. The men were so distracted by the shooting that they tripped over the guys that Michael had tripped. He lurched to his feet, and it felt like he’d pulled every muscle in his body in the process. Unfortunately, he was trapped in the thick of the mercenaries, surrounded on all sides, separated from them by mere inches.

There was a gun falling. Michael turned towards it. It seemed to be frozen in mid-air, just waiting for him to grab it. Everything but him had stopped. By now, he was familiar with the Royale formula; he knew how it felt when it really kicked in. His mind was picking up speed, and everything in his body was waking up. Biochemical explosions bloomed within him, then retracted, and he felt whole. The gun was still scraping against air particles. It was like the formula reacted to his will to live…

Without warning, or even meaning to, Michael snatched the gun out of the air. His legs were motionless, but his upper body swiveled, firing as he went. Before he knew it, almost everyone around him was on the ground, in a pool of blood. A stunned look slowly registered on Toria’s face, as she saw what happened. Their kevlar hadn’t stood up to close-range, rapidfire shots.

One guy was still standing--he’d been behind Michael--but his mouth was hanging open, and his gun was hanging limply at his side. Time was still dragging. Casually, Michael turned to face him. They made eye-contact. On some subconscious level, the man understood that he was face-to-face with Parodiopolis’ very own dark prince, who was just realizing himself--a thing that was human only in physiology. And he knew fear.

Michael didn’t recall the man fainting, but he had. Toria took several steps towards him, and he saw that there were still a few enemies left, on the edges of their little battlefield. Their guns were seconds away from firing. He and Toria went back-to-back, pressing into each other, ready to shoot anything that moved. Despite the circumstances, he couldn’t help but think that rubbing against her back--or rather, something slightly lower--felt remarkably good. As if through telepathy, they both knew to glance over their shoulders at the same time, and locked eyes. She flashed a smile. He was ready to take them on.

Unfortunately, he wouldn’t get the chance.

A column of reality seemed to bend, as a clear-but-warping beam--roughly three feet in diameter--took out most of the mercenaries. They went flying, like they’d been hit by a massive, invisible blunt object. A few others got floored by a quickly-moving figure in extremely dark blue.

It was over before it had had a chance to begin. Michael finally got to meet the SPUD agent that had been posing as Gracie Martins.

The young black woman glanced at them, and nodded towards all the bodies on the floor. They were full of clearly-visible bullet holes. Without sounding like she believed it, she asked, “Let me guess--they were about to kill you, but their explosive accidentally went off?”

Michael and Toria didn’t need to look to each other to know what to do; they simply, eagerly nodded.

“Uh-huh. I stumbled across those people you rounded up…you kids did good, considering the circumstances.” She had a look in her eyes that said, Civilians forced into combat situations? We understand that things can get a bit messy, and what happens here can stay here.

Michael threw a look at her. “What took you so long?”

She shrugged, and pointed--a crippled hoverdrone was sparking on the floor, several halls over. As if on cue, it started charging up…just like the one that had self-destructed.

Michael pocketed the gun, and pulled out his sunglasses and his cel phone. He gestured towards one of the doors. “The last of the hostages are in there. Time to go.”

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

Detective Mark Gamble was still taking statements at St. Silver’s ER, trying to piece together what had happened. He was the lead on The Harrower case, and he was a major player in the experimental (and controversial) new Superhuman Task Force, a joint PPD/FBI operation. As departmental politics went, he was definitely an outsider. Gamble was in his mid-thirties, with wavy brown hair, and he was currently wearing a dark green button-down with a grey tie and slacks. He was trying not to be annoyed by the PPD “apologists”, the nickname for what was essentially their PR/diplomacy department. They were shaking the hands of the Pierce Heights victims, nodding sympathetically and surely praying that the department wouldn’t be sued for the Harrier/Harrower fiasco.

He needed a break from the endless stream of frightened faces, and he needed to check in at the scene, anyway. Gamble waded through the crowd of doctors and patients and cops and reporters, and stepped into a dimly-lit hallway. He took a breath. And he saw Samantha Bridges doing the same.

At first, he almost didn’t recognize her. She was slumped against a wall, her features tired-looking and pained. Samantha looked at him with pale, icy blue eyes.

She straightened up. “If you’re here to tell me bad news, don’t.”

“What? I’m just--” Then, he realized what she meant by bad news, and shook his head. “He’s still inside…but quite a few people are. At least the fighting’s over.”

“It’s never over.”

Her cel phone--she only had it on when she wasn’t with patients--chirped, and she looked like she didn’t want to bother with it. After the third ring, she growled quietly and went to turn it off…but in the process, she couldn’t help but notice the caller ID. He actually saw her smile.

Samantha snapped the phone to her ear like a quick-drawing gunfighter. “Thank God! Are you--” She was apparently interrupted, but, she listened. Some of the color returned to her skin. “No, it’s okay. I’m just glad--wait, what do you mean it’s gonna--god, get out of there! What? Yeah, there’s one right here.” She jabbed the phone in his direction. “It’s for you.”

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

Detective Gamble charged through swinging double-doors, heading back into the fray. All he could say was, “You have got to be kidding me.”

“I wish,” said Michael McKinley, on the other end of the connection. “But we’ve only got about a minute or two to find a way out of here. And you need to get your people back, because these things go off with a bang.”

Gamble pulled out his own cel phone, and desperately tried to hit speed-dial with his thumb. “Who all’s with you?”

“Toria Mercelli and I managed to find everybody. And we’ve got a SPUD agent with us, too.”

He winced…Mercelli and McKinley? That had trouble written all over it. “Hang on, let me put you on hold--seriously, I have to call my people.”

Gamble heard a fellow STF detective’s voice. “Dutten here.”

“Think fast--I’m talking to the people in the Palm, one of the hoverdrones is set to go off, and they need to find a way out ASAP. And we need to push our perimeter back at least a hundred feet!”

“Holy! They haven’t even started clearing away the debris, how can--”

“Is that superhero still there?”

“Yeah, yeah…hang on, let me tell everybody!”

Gamble lowered that phone and raised Samantha’s, beeping off the hold. “You still there?”

“For now.”

Unable to stop himself, he asked, “Why’d you wait to call? And what’s up with your phone even getting past that frequency-jamming thing? We still haven’t found it to turn it off…”

“Things were a little busy. And, I’m rich.”

“Right.”

“Got any advice for me?”

“Get everyone together, and be ready to run.”

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

Michael didn’t waste time knocking--he simply kicked the door open, splintering a chunk of it in the process. Lynn, the fiftysomething nurse, and the majority of the hostages were there. Toria, the SPUD agent, and a few other hostages trailed behind Michael. “We’re going, now ! Everybody out in the hall!”

Lynn was on the ground, nursing her leg and looking embarrassed. Michael quickly went over and asked if they’d been attacked. “No, I just--I just took a step backwards and I tripped. God, I’m stupid…”

Without hesitation, he reached down and ran a hand up and down her leg. His touch was practically electric, and though it hadn’t been sexual at all, she could feel herself blushing. “Doesn’t feel broken. Can you walk?”

“I’m not s--”

He scooped her up, carrying her across-the-threshold style. That was when she first noticed the tiny half-headset jutting out of his glasses--a wire-thin piece of plastic curved down one side of his jaw, and another went into his ear. There was a cord plugged into it, and it ran down into his jacket.

He then started talking, but not to her. “What have you got?”

Michael listened, and nodded.

“We’ve got a surprise waiting for us at the east exit.”

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

The small crowd trampled down the hall, with Michael leading the charge. Right as they reached the east exit--which was an unfortunately-locked metal door--the hoverdrone blew up.

An orange flash lit up the club. Ceiling tiles were falling out, and cracks were eating through the walls, but the door remained solid. The initial crater was expanding, racing just behind them and swallowing entire rooms as it went. They could hear something tearing through the debris (from the first explosion) that was on the other side of the door. Michael quickly looked to the SPUD agent, who shook her head. “My gun could take out the door, but it’d drop the whole ceiling on us in the process!”

Michael--who was feeling better, but still far from his peak--sighed, and prepared to try to kick it down. He’d just have to say that the explosion had weakened the door, and hope they bought it. As he took a step back, Lynn (still in his arms) looked slightly worried.

Toria put a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t break your foot trying to impress me.” She pulled a metal instrument out of her jacket, and in rougly two seconds, the door popped open. “My specialty.”

Right as the door opened, a huge chunk of concrete was tossed aside, and they saw Mr. Epitome, backlit by searchlights. The floor was collapsing.

They poured out of the building, with Mr. Epitome waving them on. When they’d all cleared out, he grabbed a few of the slower-moving ones under his arms and took off. He had superhuman senses, and he knew that they only had a few seconds to get clear, as the protective casing around the gas main was about to be fractured.

For the third time that night--and the second time in the last minute--the moon and the stars were momentarily eclipsed by a blinding flash, which gorged itself on the night sky.

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

The TV had been wheeled out of the rec room (which was little more than a glorified closet), and St. Silver’s ER grew unnaturally quiet. Given that they were dealing with the fallout, they had a big interest in what was happening up in Pierce Heights.

Samantha made her way to the front of the crowd, and found Detective Gamble there, as well. He gave her cel phone back--he looked a bit sheepish, carrying that neon-pink phone. The picture on the screen was a bit snowy at first, but it clarified, revealing nothing but ugly grey. It pulled out, revealing a huge, twisting column of thick smoke. There was nothing to compare it to, but it looked as tall as a skyscraper.

A news-anchor voiced over, “We’re waiting to…we’re waiting to see…” She trailed off.

The sound abruptly cut in, revealing a palette of sirens and screaming and post-explosion ringing. Indistinct voices blasted through loudspeakers. And several thin, black shapes began to take form in the smoke…

Mr. Epitome and Michael McKinley emerged, each carrying someone. Toria and the SPUD agent were next. A crowd of dust-caked--but mostly uninjured--people were right behind them.

Samantha didn’t hear the applause, which was both on TV and in the ER. She’d gone to a private place in her mind; a place where she comfortable in the knowledge that there was at least one person in the universe that really understood her, and that he was okay. It was all she could do to stumble backwards, sit down--luckily for her, there was a seat there--and try to catch her breath.

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

Across town, DuPlis watched an an armored figure landed on a rooftop, just a few blocks from the Global Bank exec. The Harrower appeared to be resting; the earlier battle must have winded him. DuPlis hoped that it would buy Michael enough time to make the commute…

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

Things looked calm, but for Michael, it was far from over.

The fire was all but out. SPUD had left a skeleton crew, but they were mostly gone. The cops were trying to get the hostages to stick around to give statements, but these weren’t average people…they simply couldn’t keep multimillionaires and multibillionaires from leaving. These residents of Pierce Heights had little patience for standing out in the open, after what they’d just gone through. Especially when many of them were upset with the PPD about the whole thing. Their crime scene had literally gone up in smoke, and given that it had also been a war zone, piecing it together would most likely be impossible. Michael was glad that the drone had self-destructed…if it hadn’t, he’d have covered up everything in some other way.

A few of the more humble citizens had submitted to the on-scene EMTs, but most had already left, retreating to the care of their private doctors. Michael was glad that everyone else was doing it; it made him look less suspicious. He wasn’t sure what kind of bruises he was or wasn’t covered with, and he didn’t want to find out in front of a crowd.

Now, he was just waiting for SPUD to unload his car from a boxy hover-carrier. He tried not to look like he was in a rush. He saw Assistant Commissioner Severin being led away in handcuffs. Then, he saw Toria…she had two paper cups filled with steaming coffee, and she looked a bit jittery. For all the media talk about her being just like the rest of her family, she clearly had a conscience--she’d been forced to kill some people in there, and she wasn’t comfortable with it. That was a good sign. Michael, on the other hand, was too tired to act like he was morally conflicted. Pulling the trigger had actually felt pretty good…

She stood a few feet away from him. “Want a sip?”

“No thanks.”

She shrugged, downed one of the cups, crumpled it, and inconspicuously dropped it into a passing detective’s coat pocket. “I think half the doctors in the city are being paged, right now. You gonna have someone check you out?”

“I think you have that job pretty well filled.”

She actually looked away, trying to hide the fact that she was blushing.

“No, yeah, I’ll get a check-up. I own one of the largest genetic research corporations in the world…I think I know a few doctors.”

“If, uh…if you want to talk about what happened in there…”

“I’m fine.”

He was keeping his distance, and she thought she knew why--she remembered hearing about him and that Bridges girl. She started to say something, stopped, and then said, “In case it isn’t obvious enough…thanks.”

“I was just about to say the same thing.”

“Mmm, but, you weren’t about to say what I was gonna say after that.”

“How are you so sure?”

“Because I’m pretty sure you weren’t thinking, ‘Geez, I wish I’d worn a sports bra today’.”

“True enough.”

Detective Gamble spotted them, and marched over. He seemed to make sure that they were both okay, before he started grilling them. “I understand you had guns in there.”

They didn’t nod, and they didn’t shake their heads.

“What happened to them?”

“I think we ditched ‘em when we were running,” Toria said casually. “They were kind of big and awkward to carry around.”

As if suddenly remembering something, Michael patted himself down. “Yeah, I don’t have mine…I think I just set it on the floor when I picked up Lynn.”

Gamble clearly wasn’t buying it, but he couldn’t prove otherwise--at least at the moment. “Right. Well, we just wanted to check to see if they’d been fired, and how many bullets were left in ‘em…that sort of thing. Boring forensic stuff.”

“It’s just like I said,” stated a newcomer to the conversation. It was the SPUD agent. “They took a few shots at the mercenaries, one of them dropped their explosive, and it went off. That’s when I came in. They were trying to lure them away from the room with the hostages in it--it was completely justified.”

Michael was wondering why she was doing this…and why she’d been so interested in meeting him in the guise of someone else. But he could hardly voice his questions here. And the clock was ticking…

Gamble looked slightly discouraged, but he pressed on. “And they said that The Harrower grabbed you right off, and that he went down to talk to you later on…with all due respect, did you get your eyes flashed since then?”

“A few times, yeah. They’re doing it to everybody.”

“What did you talk about?”

This was an area where Michael could actually tell the truth. “He babbled a lot about taking my money and taking over KinLabs…stuff like that.”

“Still, he seemed to really want to talk to you, and I was wondering--”

Some random guy in plainclothes--he was in his sixties, and he had a badge on a chain around his neck--walked up, and patted Gamble on the shoulder. He was smiling, but both his tone and his grip were firm, and less than entirely friendly. “Let’s not forget who the victims are, here, Gamble. They’ve been through enough for one night.”

Gamble gave the exact same expression as a dog that had just found the limit of its leash. Michael saw that his car was being lowered by a platform attached to a crane, and he excused himself. Toria took a few steps after him. “Maybe we’ll meet up in something other than a life-or-death situation?”

“You never know. But this is Parodiopolis…you won’t have to wait long ‘til the next one.”

Halfway there, he stumbled across Lynn Cartana, who was sitting in the back of an ambulance, with her legs dangling. One of her pant legs was pulled up. “You were right--just a sprain.”

Michael really didn’t know what to say to her. The best he could come up with was “Thanks for keeping it together in there.”

She gawked. “Me? Yeah, right.”

“Hey, you got out alive.”

“So did you,” she said, with a tinge of suspicion in her voice.

“I’m just lucky that he only dropped me twenty feet.”

“Mmm.”

Through a series of gestures, he attempted to communicate that his car was ready, and he really should go. He mumbled a goodbye.

But there was one more person that wanted to talk to him. A hand fell on his upper arm. “Hold on there, young man.”

He turned to find himself facing into a white star on blue fabric--he looked up, and saw the rest of Mr. Epitome.

“I heard about what you did in there. They should put you up for an award.”

“Trust me, I really don’t deserve anything special.” Michael stated that with absolute conviction. Besides, he really needed to downplay his heroism, to make things look more commonplace. “I just fell down and ran away a lot. You guys were the ones that did all the hard work.”

Michael did his best to suddenly look pained and stiff--it actually wasn’t that hard; now that the adrenaline had worn off, he was once again feeling his injuries--and he said something about needing to get some rest. “Go right on ahead,” Mr. Epitome said. “Get some rest. You’ve earned it.”

Michael had to keep himself from sighing. Crawling into bed for a week--preferably with Samantha--sounded great, but he simply couldn’t do it yet. He had to get to the address that DuPlis had given him earlier, and he had to pick something up on the way…

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

It looked like an ameoba was being projected: a shimmering, pale blue light rippled across the walls of the dark room, and neon blue synapses could occasionally be seen flickering within that light. The source of this was an indoor pool, reflecting what little brightness there was. Its water was still churned from its most recent swimmers. Between the soundproofing and the fact that it was a high-rise, the apartment was completely silent. The scent of dinner still hung in the air. An open briefcase sat on a small, round table by the water, but the papers in it were untouched, and the chair hadn’t been pulled out. Two swimsuits--black trunks and a neon green bikini--were floating in the pool. The target had intended to work, and gotten distracted. Two trails of moist footprints led from the pool to a doorway.

A security system that had cost half a million dollars was installed. It had proven slightly less than worthless.

The Harrower glided along the edge of a pool, his cloak billowing, his feet immersed in blue smoke. This was how he liked to do it. He wanted to ease himself into someone’s life before showing them the truth, instead of just doing it cold--it was more fulfilling for both of them, that way. The Northern Palm had been far too blatant and unimaginative for him, but it had also seemed like a good idea at the time.

Underneath the mask, Scott Marque was undecided on whether his trial period as a superhuman had been a success or a failure. He’d stolen this identity from the PPD, to try a new approach. It certainly had its advantages, but it was obviously far more complicated than it had appeared on the surface. Part of him wanted to go back to his old methods--to furthering his truth-mission without the suit, without the theatricality. But at the same time, he didn’t want to limit his options.

He went through the doorway, taking in the world of Peter Harrison, Executive Vice-President of Global Bank. The lights were all muted; just a few were on, in the far corners. Hardwood floor, spotless white walls, and long, intricate rugs. A kitchen the size of most people’s living rooms, and a living room the size of most people’s houses. There was a stone fireplace and a wall covered with awards. The Harrower glided over, examing them. They were a lot of meaningless, self-congratulatory things, handed out by his employer. “Dedicated Service”, “Executive of the Year”, “Voted Most Popular by Gold-level Clients”.

There were also awards for supposedly humanitarian things…but they hadn’t been handed out by any organizations that Marque had ever heard of. “International Coalition of Bankers”, “Corporate Progress Society”. More glad-handing. Real human rights groups tended to hate Global Bank. He saw no pictures of family or children, but lots of pictures featuring Harrison with his co-workers, usually in adventure-esque settings. In rafting gear, skydiving gear, in exotic locales. He looked for “common denominator” women in the pictures, but couldn’t find any.

This was just one of many apartments he maintained around the world. Still, it looked lived-in…maybe his business brought him to Parodiopolis often? Or maybe someone housesat for him. The Harrower left the living room, entering a long hall covered with African tribal masks and other international art. Did he fancy himself cultured? Or were they just expensive souvenirs? Marque had no dislike of wealth--he had a fair bit of it, himself--but he didn’t like people who flaunted their conquests. There was far more to life than mere winning.

Noises were coming from the bathroom, and its door was hanging wide open. The shower was running. He ignored it.

A bedroom was across the hall. It looked more female than male. He opened the closet to find mostly women’s clothes. A few suits were pressed against one side, but they didn’t look like they’d been touched in months. So, she lived here, and probably saw him once every few months. No surprise there. He idly wondered if she’d come with the apartment, and if he had a woman like this in all of his homes around the world.

The Harrower took a look around, activating his scanners. The safe was in what looked to be a storage room, on the other side of the bedroom wall. He thought about just crashing through--but no. He exited the room, and heard happy shrieking and the high-pitched sound of wet flesh squeaking against a plastic shower, almost like fingernails on a chalkboard. The storage room was virtually bare, with two closets and a few large tupperware containers. He opened a closet door, punched his hand through the floor, and effortlessly pulled out the safe.

It was good--it took two yanks to get the door off. He let it thud onto the floor. Everything inside was paper…which was befitting, for a banker. He saw documents that pertained to numbered accounts in the Caymans, and corresponding Global Bank documents that had the exact same amounts. He suspected that there were doctored versions of the latter forms in the bank’s system, covering up the embezzlement. There was about fifty thousand dollars’ worth of emergency cash, nude pictures of various women in the same college dorm, a few unlabeled videotapes, and in-house memos talking about how they shouldn’t be doing business with certain countries, as they were run by dictators or they ignored human rights. Also, there was a letter in a faded pink envelope. He opened it. It was all written in longhand, with little hearts over the I’s. Someone named Judy was breaking up with him. Certain parts of the paper were soft, with tiny stains…tears?

The Harrower set the safe on one of the tupperware containers. He’d seen enough. He had a good idea of the illusions that the man justified his existence with--distractions of false praise and paper success and meaningless sex. Shaking him out of it would be painful, but necessary. This was the kind of man that had a lot to offer the world, if only he’d stop being stupid and self-centered.

Just as he was about to step out into the hall, the water stopped running. He heard a brief murmur of conversation--something about only one towel, but don’t worry, she’d stay on the rugs--and then the door opened. The Harrower calmly remained where he was. The black-haired woman strolled out of the bathroom, dripping wet and naked.

She didn’t notice him, and went into the bedroom. He followed her, hitting her in the back of the head with a bolt of blue smoke. He needed her to be out of the way for this.

Harrison was less wet, and he’d put a dark purple robe on. He was in his late thirties, with black hair and a goatee. He stumbled right past The Harrower, trying to get the hair out of his eyes and quietly cursing about demanding women.

The executive wandered towards the living room, and The Harrower allowed it. They’d be having a long talk, and he might as well be comfortable for it. Harrison disappeared around a corner, and The Harrower waited for a few moments. Then, he glided down the hall.

Harrison had collapsed in a massive chair, and he was staring out into space. The Harrower quickly got in front of the chair, grabbed him by the arms, and began.

“Peter Harrison. The time has come for you to stop deluding yourself and--”

Then there was a massive backlash, because Harrison had been hit in the side of the head, and was now dead…

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

Nothing was showing up on his scanners, and that was slightly alarming. The Harrower knew that Harrison had to have died within the last few seconds, which meant the killer was still in the room…unless he’d teleported in and out. Or phased through a wall. Or ran away at superspeed. The possibilities were unfortunately endless.

Also, trying to use his technology on dead minds just wasn’t a good thing. It was like looking into a vacuum, and Marque was now stumbling, clearly disoriented. Then, his early-warning-system beeped at him; some object was headed right for him…

Guided by his on-board tracking system, he managed to catch it, a microsecond before it would have hit him in the face. It was silver, and the size and shape of a small flashlight. It was beeping.

Before he decided what to do with it, he couldn’t help but notice the person that had thrown it. It was someone covered head to toe in virtually featureless black armor, with white lenses. The armor looked sleek and lightweight, but definitely durable. The Harrower thought he noticed little lines wrapping around the armor--almost like the black lines on a mummy, but far more subtle. Maybe it made it more flexible?

He was just about to propel the flashlight-like thing away with a burst of smoke when the beeping slowed and faded. It sounded like circuitry dying. The thing went silent.

The Harrower couldn’t stop himself from just barely leaning closer, to examine it. “Looks like it’s a d--”

Dull silver light flashed on the end that was aimed at The Harrower’s face, and he was impaled through the head by a thin, flat beam of energy.

He involuntarily let go of the energy-sword, and remembered that sound-effects were very easily faked. He screamed. The technology in his mask was sparking and dying, and the energy from his mask was actually seeping into his wound. By either a miracle or a curse, he was still alive. The sword remained in his head, and though he was jerking his entire body around, it didn’t fall out.

Unable to think of anything else to do, he blindly lashed out with smoke-bursts. They cracked the floor and the walls, but the man in the armor--Michael, of course--jumped forward, landed on his hands, pushed off, and came back down on his feet, easily avoiding the attacks. The armor didn’t have any superhuman strength or built-in weapons--it was worn mainly for protection. And until now, he’d only ever needed to use his gun…but if he was going to be getting into situations like this on a regular basis, he needed to be able to hold his own against physically powerful enemies. And the sword would go a long way in doing that--his father had built it and experimented with it, but never used it in public.

The dull silver energy it projected was kinetic in nature. When focused tightly, it could be razor-sharp--when focused loosely, it was blunt, but it hit with a ton of momentum. A small purple light flashed on Michael’s palm, and the sword pulled itself out of The Harrower’s head, flying back into Michael’s grip. The armored man fell onto his knees. His mask had stopped glowing and partially fallen apart, and Michael could see the bloody hole in his forehead.

Even in almost lethal pain, The Harrower managed to sound annoying. “Not…not holding back at all, huh? I see that someone’s accepted what they are. Monster. But where’s your Royale suit?” He didn’t get an answer, so he said, “Ready to kill me? Ready to kill someone who only cares about the truth?”

Michael remained impassive. When DuPlis had first told him about Marque, he’d mentioned that he came from a family that did psychological ops for the government…Michael wasn’t going to let himself be manipulated.

Calmly, he said, “Yeah, you care about it so much, you’re willing to kill innocent people to help the world realize it. But come on--so far, all you’ve done is try to grab a lot of power and influence. Let me guess…you’re one of those ‘If only they listened to me and did everything I said, everything would be perfect’ people?”

“You think I’m doing this for my own good? If we couldn’t get away from the ugly truth of life, it’d be anarchy…the world would need someone to help it adjust.”

“That’s convenient.”

“Like you even care about innocents--you’re just in this to protect your dirty little secret.”

Michael knew that was only partially true, but it made him feel horrible, and he briefly stopped paying attention. Then, The Harrower’s eyes glowed the same color that his mask had, and he charged.

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

For someone who was near-death, The Harrower was acting very much the opposite.

He slammed into Michael, pushing him and blasting away at him with solid blue smoke. The first few blasts hit, but then Michael ducked, rolled, and swung his sword low. The Harrower jumped back, and he could feel the force from it, as it passed by.

Marque lunged, missed, and slammed into a couch. It tore and split on the spot. McKinley was incredibly fast, and the armor didn’t seem to weigh him down at all. Two blobs of smoke formed around Marque’s hands, and he began rapid-firing bolts of smoke from them, indiscriminately.

Michael leapt, spun, cartwheeled, crouched, sprang, and generally avoided them. His reflexes were definitely back. The ones that would have hit, he blocked with his energy-sword. A few went flying back at The Harrower, and hit him in the chest. He staggered backwards, clearly surprised.

It was Michael’s turn to go on the offensive. He led with his sword, and The Harrower threw up a hand, in a fairly uncoordinated attempt to block the attack. At the same time, he pushed with his suit’s superstrength, hoping to counter the momentum. The sword hit his wrist, and while he’d theoretically blocked the attack, he felt the impact all the way up to his shoulder. It was like getting slammed with a wrecking ball, except more focused. He tried to blast Michael with smoke from that hand, but none came. It was damaged.

Taking advantage of The Harrower’s momentary weakness, Michael once again hit him with the sword, this time in the chest. Marque didn’t have time to brace himself, so he went flying backwards, going through a wall in the process.

Before the small amount of plaster-dust and debris cleared, a tiny wisp of smoke snaked along the floor, and grabbed Michael by the ankle. It started slamming him around. Michael tried to sever it with the sword, but it was actually dodging his attacks.

Michael deactivated his sword, aimed with his hand, and a grappling cable leapt from just above his wrist. It sank into the wall. Marque tried to yank him again, and the whole chain--the cord, Michael, the smoke--went taut. Michael pulled with his leg, hard. The Harrower came whipping out from the hole in the wall. He crashed through the window and vanished into the night.

Quickly, Michael activated his suit’s scanners. He saw Marque falling, trying to create a cloud of smoke (to fly on) with one hand, and failing. Michael automatically took off running, jumped, and came down on one hand, right next to the shattered window. Then, he used his hand to push himself straight up (so his feet hit the ceiling), and propelled himself down, at an angle that carried him out of the building. He was lighter than The Harrower, and he’d need momentum to catch up.

He activated the sword in mid-air. Marque looked surprised.

Between gravity and getting hit with hard, explosive energy, The Harrower went flying downwards even faster, crashing into the top floor of an office building, which was currently not being rented. Michael had done a quick scan of the surroundings before hitting him, to know where he should direct the fight.

Michael fired his cord on the way down, relying on its bungee-like decel nature to slow his descent. He landed neatly on the floor, about ten feet away from The Harrower.

With blinding speed, Michael grabbed his handgun from the barely-noticeable metallic holster on his hip, and fired explosive shells at Marque’s not-entirely-armored face. He raised his hands at first, and then made a shield of smoke. But it also blocked Michael from his sight, which had been the point…

A second after the firing had stopped, Michael was somehow behind him. The sword was now on a tighter frequency, and it drew a deep gash in the back of The Harrower’s suit, but it couldn’t penetrate it. The armor around his body was thicker than the armor that had been around his head. Michael had hoped he could kill him without attacking his head, as his scanners indicated that it was fairly explosive at the moment.

He’d had to get close to Marque to do that, so he couldn’t entirely avoid a backhand. Michael rolled with the impact, before tumbling back onto his feet at a safe distance. But then, around The Harrower, one was never truly safe…

Marque’s eyes flashed with rainbow-colored static, and the entire room was lit up with the blast. Michael’s suit was shielded against that kind of mental interference, but it was practically a physical force. He felt like he was in the middle of a hurricane. Right before he would have been blown away, he sank his sword into the floor, and tried to hang on. His feet were now level with his head, his body whipping like a flag in a storm. And Michael’s previous injuries were coming back to haunt him.

With a suddenly-immobile target, The Harrower pelted away at him with smoke blasts. Still, quite a few of the blue bolts got caught up in the wind, and missed entirely. But the floor was weakening, and Michael knew that it wouldn’t hold his sword for much longer…

He quickly scanned the ceiling--thank god it was wimpy hanging-tile--and found what he needed. Michael switched off his sword, went flying backwards, turned it back on, and jammed it into the ceiling. It hit a large ventilation pipe, and shoved it up, causing the other end to seesaw down, hitting Marque on top of the head. It actually looked slightly comical, but it got the job done--he stopped blasting, and nearly fell over.

Michael couldn’t give him time to gather his senses. He sprinted over, and hit him with the sword. And again. The Harrower used his remaining superstrength to brace himself against the attacks. Michael dented the working smoke-firing gauntlet, and surprised him by swinging low, slamming into his kneecap. The sword gave Michael more reach than The Harrower had--the armored man swung wildly, but Michael easily stayed out of his range of attack. A few times, his sword and Marque’s wrist clashed, and the larger man’s gauntlets began to look more like lumps of metal than hands.

The sword abruptly changed frequencies, becoming more intangible. Michael’s speed increased, and he left sparking slices across many sections of the armor. But The Harrier’s eyes were charging up again, and Michael had to risk it…

The sword cleanly passed through his head, but it remained in one piece. However, his brain was starting to glow purple and yellow, eclipsing his skull. It was crackling like it was suddenly unstable, and Michael knew that he’d made a mistake.

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

The Harrier curled into a fetal position on the floor, wrapping himself in his cloak. Michael tore both it and his hood off, as he already knew what he had to do. But he only had a few seconds to do it.

He deactivated and holstered his sword, lifted The Harrower off the floor--with his suit powering down, it seemed to become heavier--walked to a window, and fired a grappling cord. It bit deeply into the building directly across from them, and an electronic stress test assured him that it could handle their weight. He jumped.

At the same time, he fired a grappling cord from his other wrist, into the building he’d just jumped out of. The two of them sank, and Michael let go of him--he hung limply over Michael’s body. The cords made a giant “V”, with the two of them at the bottom. When the lines reached their limit, they snapped back up.

Michael remained (painfully) attached to the cords, while The Harrower went flying straight up. The slingshot principle. And there was no cloak to create drag and slow him down.

When he was a few hundred feet above the nearest tall building, he exploded.

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

Strictly speaking, Samantha Bridges didn’t own a car. The flat she shared with a few other girls was just five blocks away from St. Silver’s, and she almost always walked. There was a store in the neighborhood, and quite a few take-out places, so she had everything she needed. And when she did actually need a car, she just borrowed one from her roommates. They were out clubbing tonight, and they never brought their cars along for that. Of course, her destination was a place that most other Parodiopolis citizens were avoiding tonight…Piece Heights.

Getting in hadn’t been hard at all--she was on Michael’s list of pre-approved guests. A massive braid of smoke was just to the north, a few hills over. Quite a few navy-and-white cop cars were lingering, maintaining a high-visibility presence. There were more unmarked security cars than usual, as well. It was past midnight, but there was far less traffic than usual. Most of the younger--and younger-thinking--Pierce Heights residents were usually getting home about now, returning from a night on the town. The castle-like buildings and the parks that surrounded them were mostly dark, like everyone was laying low.

The McKinley mansion--all black glass and brick that was varying shades of brown--was also sleeping. It was just in front of a forested valley, which looked like an ocean of leaves. She had the windows down, and she could hear the nighttime birds singing their strange songs. Even at night, the air was still warm. She was going up a hill, and she could see the more urban areas of Parodiopolis out her driver’s side window. It was an all-black Tetris silhouette with pulsing neon veins.

The car rolled to a stop at the titanium triple-gate, which was the least armored part of the massive wall that surrounded the mansion. She waited a second--she’d called ahead--and all three tightly-packed gates slid open. Also, spikes retracted back into the ground, and she thought she saw laser-beams blinking off. She wasn’t used to having any privacy--it was the four other girls and whatever guys they’d dragged home that night, and the ER was always cramped--and she couldn’t imagine being cut off from the world like this. At least, physically.

Samantha parked her car at the peak of the horseshoe-shaped driveway, right in front of the mansion’s doors. She hopped out. There was an ornate, narrow door, which was twice as tall as she was, and it opened. Michael stood in the doorway, wearing a black t-shirt and cargo pants, and no shoes or socks.

He attemped to smile. “Hey.”

“Hey.”

She walked in, and he closed the door behind her. They went into the mansion’s main living room, and they sat on the same couch. It was impossible to sit on two different pieces of furniture and have a conversation; they were spaced too far apart.

Samantha was enjoying the couch; she’d been on her feet for most of the day. “You okay?”

“Just like I said on the phone, I’m fine.”

She looked him over. “Take off your shirt.”

“Uh--”

“Seriously. C’mon.” He still looked a bit mystified, and then she said, “Don’t flatter yourself--I just want to see how bad you’re hurt.”

He shrugged, and peeled his shirt off. A single, giant bruise went from his back to his upper arm to his chest. A few other, smaller ones were also present.

She got closer, and examined him dispassionately. “You just fell? Twenty feet?”

“More or less, yeah. But he pushed me around a little, too.”

Samantha started to look more closely at his bruises, and he wasn’t sure if he could fool her, so he changed the subject.

“But this isn’t really fair…I’m sitting here barechested, and you aren’t.”

“You ‘accidentally’ walked in on me when I was changing…what, our junior year? So I’d say we’re even.”

“Hey, that really was an accident.”

“And you not shutting my door entirely when you left?”

“That was definitely on purpose.”

She rolled her eyes, and told him to put his shirt back on. “Take it easy for a few days, and you should be okay. You might need some painkillers.”

“I’m tough.” As if on cue, he nearly pulled something while putting his shirt back on, and he couldn’t keep himself from groaning.

Her eyes fell to the floor. Neither of them said anything for some time. Then, she whispered, “When I was in the ER, and the Northern Palm people were coming in…they all thought you were dead. None of us really knew what was going on.”

He put his hand on hers. “Hey, I’m fine.”

“I know how cliched it sounds, but…having that happen, it made me think about some stuff. About you, and me, and…”

Michael blinked, and, without meaning to, got on the edge of his seat.

“Please don’t hate me. Really, just…just don’t hate me. I guess I just realized that it isn’t fair to you. You keep waiting for me to get my act together, to get over all my issues…but come on, we both know it wouldn’t be fair to you. You deserve someone who can spend a lot of time with you and give you a lot of attention…and with the hospital, I can’t do either. You deserve someone better than me. I know that everybody else can be in a job and a relationship at the same time, but I can’t. I’m just not good enough. I don’t know, maybe there’s something wrong with me…”

Michael had no idea what to say. Those were supposed to be his lines…she was far better than him. He wanted to say that no, he’d take whatever time and attention she could give him. Instead, he kept it all back, pushing the words back down his throat. This was the second truth that The Harrower had showed him--that Samantha was his connection to a better world; one that he could never fully be a part of. It wasn’t fair to her , as he could never completely share his life with her. She deserved someone who could do that. He had to accept his darker world, stop trying to get out of it, and stop weighing down others with it. Michael had known this ever since The Harrower had mindblasted him, which was why he’d avoided thinking about Samantha while in the Northern Palm--every time he thought of her, he remembered the ugly truth.

“It’ll--it’ll be awkward, I know. So…god, this sounds horrible…maybe we just shouldn’t talk for a while. Just to make it easier on us.”

He couldn’t open his mouth. He knew that, if he did, he’d only beg her to change her mind. So he just sat there, fittingly silent. He nodded.

She got up, her eyes glazing over with tears. “I’m sorry. I’m just--I should go. I’m sorry.”

He didn’t actually see her go, he just heard the door shut, the car drive off. Michael pressed the button for the gate, letting her out of his life. He didn’t want to--it was painful--but he knew it was the best thing for her. That was the truth…

End

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

When the night is cold and still
When you thought you’ve had your fill
Take all the time you will
This is not a test, it’s not a drill
Take no prisoners, only kill

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

Fin Fang Foom
*flies away*

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Follow-Ups:

*prints, takes home to be thrilled by all over again* (no text) - dull thud - Fri Jul 18, 2003 at 03:41:38 pm EST *haunted by the ghost of many trees* *nt* - Finny - Fri Jul 18, 2003 at 09:34:08 pm EST Oooh...I'm saying that all the men of the Parodyverse get together and take Michael to a strip club and we all get drunk. (no text) - ManMan - Thu Jul 17, 2003 at 09:19:50 am EST *just says "no"* *nt* - Finny - Fri Jul 18, 2003 at 12:30:06 pm EST Yes, it took me a long time to reply to this. Because it took me a long time to read this. It is good. (no text) - CrazySugarFreakBoy! - Wed Jul 16, 2003 at 02:13:24 am EST Does that make the dictionary the Great American Novel? *nt* - Finny - Wed Jul 16, 2003 at 12:29:17 pm EST Re: Progeny #7: Rise of The Dark Prince - anonymous - Mon Jul 14, 2003 at 03:54:37 pm EST The Voices Demand More. - anonymous - Mon Jul 14, 2003 at 03:55:44 pm EST The Voices like? *nt* - Finny - Mon Jul 14, 2003 at 04:35:29 pm EST Printing. Answering tomorrow.. (no text) - Yo - Mon Jul 14, 2003 at 01:33:32 pm EST The killing of trees continues...*nt* - Finny - Mon Jul 14, 2003 at 04:34:42 pm EST can I answer tomorrow?...er...It *is* long ;) (no text) - Yo still on it - Tue Jul 15, 2003 at 07:41:27 am EST okay..apart from long was very good. Grim story. I felt like reading a sci-fi paperback (no text) - Yo - Wed Jul 16, 2003 at 06:25:00 am EST Future installments will be shorter. I hope. *nt* - Finny - Wed Jul 16, 2003 at 12:29:56 pm EST To be honest... - Yo - Thu Jul 17, 2003 at 08:00:52 am EST *makes note* *nt* - Finny - Fri Jul 18, 2003 at 12:29:09 pm EST I've had days like that. Well, okay... no I haven't. Kinda sucked for Micheal. (no text) - Visionary - Mon Jul 14, 2003 at 12:01:15 pm EST I think we all have, at least in spirit. *nt* - Finny - Mon Jul 14, 2003 at 12:16:34 pm EST Fantastic (brief thoughts and spoilers inside) - killer shrike - Mon Jul 14, 2003 at 09:09:33 am EST Thanks...more spoilers inside. - Finny - Mon Jul 14, 2003 at 12:00:34 pm EST Splendid to see this continue. I like the mood. - HH - Mon Jul 14, 2003 at 04:27:53 am EST I'll be doing the next arc--writing it all, posting an issue every week--right after I do the first arc of that Secret Anthology Series. *nt* - Finny - Mon Jul 14, 2003 at 11:48:36 am EST Finished! Dang. Even single Dean-ism is in here. Like always. Good stuff. (no text) - Nats - Sun Jul 13, 2003 at 08:29:46 pm EST I have -isms? *nt* - Finny - Sun Jul 13, 2003 at 08:38:41 pm EST Progeny #6 - Finny - Sun Jul 13, 2003 at 06:51:44 pm EST I...still can't find #5. Bah! *nt* - Finny - Sun Jul 13, 2003 at 06:50:45 pm EST Progeny #5 within - HH retypes this from memory - Mon Jul 14, 2003 at 04:26:49 am EST Even evil masterminds have their nice days, I see. *nt* - Finny - Mon Jul 14, 2003 at 11:46:13 am EST Progeny #4 - Finny - Sun Jul 13, 2003 at 06:49:53 pm EST Progeny #3 - Finny - Sun Jul 13, 2003 at 06:48:36 pm EST Progeny #2 - Finny - Sun Jul 13, 2003 at 06:47:14 pm EST Progeny #1 - Finny - Sun Jul 13, 2003 at 06:46:06 pm EST

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