Mr. Epitome unbuckled the chin strap that held his russet-hued skull cap in place. After pulling the mask off, he briefly weighed it in his hands: it was heavier by 1.3 ounces. Fighting Googol Volt always made him sweat.
While wringing out the leather cowl Epitome inspected himself in his bathroom mirror. He looked old. It always confounded him that the power of the Divine Spark allowed him to recover from even the most crippling injury, but would not halt the ravages of time. Perhaps it was reminding the Exemplary Man of his mortality.
“You must be tired,” Epitome said to his reflection, “You’re waxing poetic. And talking to yourself.”
The mask was hung next to his gauntlets to air out. Mr. Epitome walked to his bedroom. He removed his costume’s numerous pouches and locked them in the appropriate drawers. Epitome undid the side buttons to his stylized star spangled field jacket and tucked it away in the closet with the others. The red mock turtleneck was peeled off and tossed in the hamper, as were the denim pants after he removed (and spit polished) his combat boots.
Epitome tutted at the stink of sweat and leather in the air. He tricked his brain into recalling something more pleasant: the loamy scent of Letitia Gahagan. Soon, however, his thoughts drifted to the woman’s nigh-untrainable hair and pug nose and he chided himself for wool-gathering. Still in his tee and briefs, the broad shouldered man walked to his study.
There were quite a few e-mails waiting for the Paragon of Power on his computer. Epitome sifted through them as he put the finishing touches on his daily threat assessment due to the Director of Paranormal Security the next morning. He was about to switch the rankings of Count Armageddon and the Hooded Hood when he read the transcript from today’s Congressional Record and saw once again OPS’s request for increased funding for anti-retcon research had been inexplicably left out of their budget. Epitome decided to keep Mr. Winkelweald in the top spot.
After he finished with his official duties Mr. Epitome unlocked his desk and withdrew a laptop. The computer contained information on his second occupation: that of the lead agent to the Grey Eminence. He checked his correspondence.
The first was the weekly harangue from Aldrich Grey himself, who was still obsessing over the news that SPUD was recruiting two agents in the Epitome Division to gather information about the Eminence’s operations. The Man of Might sent back an encrypted reply of assurance: the investigation would lead nowhere.
A second e-mail was from Henry St. Ides, the Tech-Spectre. He was currently in Prague chasing down leads on the whereabouts of Daio Waltz, whose expertise Epitome sorely needed. Mr. Epitome scanned through St. Ides’s expense reports disdainfully. To him it looked like Tech-Spectre was spending too much time in five star hotels and not enough in pursuit of the elusive Dr. Moo. Still, he wired the agent the requested money from one of the group’s many slush funds.
Mr. Epitome went through the rest quickly, updating his internal database on the conspiracy’s financial and political health based on information from a dozen unconnected sources. Not even the Grey Eminence himself had such a thorough accounting of the group’s work and resources.
When done the Exemplary Man headed to his kitchen. He put together a late dinner, making sure to set aside enough for when Glory came back from her trip to Homo Maximus, the government installation responsible for creating both him and her. During the meal Epitome caught up on his reading, finishing Monster of God and Conrad Black’s FDR biography with satisfaction.
The Star Spangled Splendor worked on his back and shoulders in his gym. After that he set up the range to practice catching projectiles. His work was sending him to GothamMetropolis York, and Epitome would have time to visit Artemis in GY’s sister city. The Man of Might was unsure of the reception he’d get, so it was best to be prepared for any eventuality.
A shower was required after his workout. Then Epitome changed into his sweatpants and considered bed. It had been five days since he last slept: a deliberate choice on Epitome’s part. His mind did need occasional rest to order the constant influx of information, but Dominic Clancy dreaded losing control of his thoughts, and his dreams were chaotic exercises of his subconscious struggling to make sense of the world as he saw it.
The Exemplary Man decided he could go one more night without rest. He wanted to learn the southern dialect of Wakandybanese and research into the known staff of Mr. Flask’s Think Tank before the summit. That would take a good half hour, and would at least get Epitome to midnight. By then he should be able to come up with a few more tasks to keep busy.
Work makes us free was a sign hung by the Germans outside the ghastly concentration camp Auschwitz. Epitome knew the slogan had atrocious connotations, yet still it was the credo he lived by. He reasoned even in a situation of utter depravity and evil one could find truth.
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