Dr Archeville

Quickness 6 = can Take 20 on notice checks = 38 total EDIT: and a Sense Motive check to get a general read on the group: Sense Motive check (1d20+18=23)

Would the Area extra & Selective power feat (as described under the Communication power in UP) be viable for Datalink? If so, would that allow someone to act as a hub/switch for a LAN party, even for computers that don't have their own wi-fi?

"So the Lor allow other cultures to make their own developments, not interfering except in cases of outside invasion or interference?," the strange robot asked as Atlas shifted. "Affirmative, Friend-de Havilland," it replied flatly, without taking its optics off Atlas. "And I sincerely hope the quality and resolution of my recordings are sufficient for your purposes." "I do have some leeway with my schedule," it added, "and can rearrange it to accommodate any requests you have for my service."

Dok's switching on his Cloaking Field Concealment 10 (All Senses; PFs: Close Range, Hide in Plain Sight; Flaws: Blending) [12PP] + Enhanced Skills 20 (Stealth 20 [+21]) [5PP] + Force Field 11 (PFs: Selective, Subtle) [13PP] [12+5+13=30/36PP] With Labcoat, total Toughness is +15 [imp 4] and Defense is +8 (+4 flat-footed) Flying up ~40 feet, hopefully getting a good view of the clearing and switching his Tentacle-Brain to Enhanced Wisdom Will +16; Notice +18, Sense Motive +18

"I doubt it will be that easy a return," he replied with a shrug to Fulcrum, "but my work on getting us home will go much smoother if there is a free marketplace and an absence of death-squads." "Reinhard," he nodded towards the trio of natives, "and his wife, Elisa, and their son, Gustav, are going to lead us to a small group of allies; there are apparently no villages near this Forest. Now," he gestured towards the piles of her stuff, "I have an idea on how we can move your-" He was cut off by the piercing howl; he spun around and re-scanned the clearing they were in. "Hunters," he translated, "but we need intel. And I am the stealthier one... even if my cloaking field does not work," he tapped his belt. "Of course, it should still work, so-" He stopped himself, shook his head, called tot he others. "Ich hole auf! Vertrauen innen Fulcrum!" He darted up to give Fulcrum a peck on the cheek, then continued up, fading from view as he went.

This is all sounding rather nifty. And his experiences here will give me yet one more reason to design a personal spacecraft for Dok (one based partly on Daedalus' Pegasus-class space planes, but better. Faster, certainly... measly 25c engines... sure, they can reach Saturn's moon Titan in under 5 minutes, but it takes two months just to get to the nearest star system!)

-1pp to Wail due to miscounting +1pp to Miss Americana due to improper counting in Feb 2011

All chars except those in red have had their posts tallied and awards awarded. Eight PL bumps, one Player Status bump, and one new maxed-pp char! Arranged by Player, it looks like this: Aoiroo Changeling: 1pp Silhouette: 4pp Arichamus King of Suits: 2pp AvengerAssembled Citizen: 3pp Edge: 4pp Fusion: 1pp and is PL now 12 :clap: Harrier: 3pp Azuth65 Wisp: 3pp Cubist Jubatus: 1pp Dariusprime Fulcrum: 5pp and is now Gold Darksider42 no posts all month Lady Winter: 0pp Rift: 0pp Dr Archeville Dead Head: 4pp Doktor Archeville [maxed]: 4pp Protectron: 2pp Doleth no posts all month Scion: 0pp Ecalsneerg Equinox: 0pp Geckoman: 1pp Scholar: 0pp Electra Fleur de Joie: 5pp Miss Americana: 6pp Wander [maxed]: 4pp FelicitousFolly Maelstrom: 1pp Fox Dragonfly: 6pp and is now PL 11 :clap: Gaian Knight: 2pp Geez3r Atlas: 1pp Dynamo: 2pp Gizmo Jack of all Blades: 5pp and is now maxed Midnight (II): 2pp Wail: 8pp and is PL now 13 :clap: GranspearZX Arcturus: 1pp Crusader: 0pp, and archive'd Griffalo Mercury: 1pp Thunderhead: 0pp Heritage Gossamer: 1pp and is PL now 13 :clap: Grimalkin: 3pp JackgarPrime Victory: 1pp KnightDisciple Cobalt Templar: 4pp Fenris: 5pp and is PL now 9 :clap: Gabriel: 4pp Limos no posts in 2+ months, archiving Jello-Man: --- El Sapo: --- Lone Star Mad Dog: 1pp Warlock: 2pp Zap: 2pp Northstar no posts in 2+ months; archiving Beacon: --- Doctor Titan: --- Nyrath Blue Rogue: 1pp Quinn Crow: 3pp Push: 5pp and is PL now 12 :clap: quotemyname Blueshift: 3pp Breakdown: 1pp + retire'd! Colt: 1pp Falconer: 4pp Raveled Glowstar: 3pp Ironclad: 5pp and is PL now 10 :clap: Sandman XI retired Muse: --- Wesley Knight: --- Semi-Autogyro Myrmidon: 3pp ShaenTheBrain Scarab: 1pp Sorus Sage: 2pp Willow: 1pp Supercape Lord Steam: 6pp Rene de Saens: 2pp Supercape: 4pp and is now PL 14 :clap: TheJoshie no posts in months; archiving Tarantula: --- trollthumper Cannonade: 4pp Nick Cimitiere: 4pp The 100+ Posts per Month Club Dragonfly (126)

Lone Star! Hard to award you pps if I can't count your threads!

A fine turn out this time! Cannonade Cobalt Templar Dead Head Doktor Archeville Dragonfly Dynamo Edge Fenris Fleur de Joie Fulcrum Gabriel Harrier Ironclad Jack of all Blades Lord Steam Miss Americana Myrmidon Nick Cimitiere Push Rene de Saens Supercape

September 24th, 2008 Gear City 13th Street, Tonatini’s Pizza Parlor Push awoke with a start, clutching his head and groaning. One minute he’d been riding to see Blueshift, the next, a blinding flash and the feeling like he’d been sucked into a never-ending vortex. In fact, it had been a oddly familiar sensation. Familiar in the sense of being yanked through time and space. Not good. He lifted his head, looking about, and the kineticist’s heart practically stopped. He recognized this place. An alley. An alley where he'd made his first bust after getting his abilities. A few blocks away from Tonatini’s pizza parlor. Tonatini's. His favourite restaurant in… Gear City. He was home. “Oh. Crap.†Push looked down from the sky, mind awhirl with a mess of thoughts. Some were amused. Others were excited. He was home! Back in Gear City, no matter when or why, but he was back home! He recognized the streets. He recognized a few people, though he made damn sure he was out of sight when he spotted them. He was admittedly confused and stunned, but it really was Gear City, as if he’d never left it. A quiet voice in the back of his head asked why, but he stifled it as he wandered the skyline. Finally, his wandering jets brought him to a building overlooking his and Mike’s old apartment above Lazarus Auto Repair. He looked down at it, wondering if Michael was up enjoying a huge hoagie at the old grease-covered linoleum table the two often had to eat from, or was downstairs working on some poor busted transmission. The front door opened, and he immediately ducked behind a nearby billboard, peering out and gaping as a very recognizeable figure walked out. It was himself. Past-self. Gabriel Quinn, pre-museum. "Oh. Crap." Push trailed himself, his psyche practically gibbering as he tailed what could only be his past self. He saw Gabriel Quinn reach into his pocket, and he remembered doing that exact same movement. He remembered the sensation of anxiety his doppelganger below seemed to be going through. But as much as he cudgelled his memory, he couldn’t recall what he was anxious over! It was frustrating as all hell as he looked down upon himself. A crazy thought filled his mind as he looked at Past-Quinn walk across the street, an unholy urge to fly down and seize his past self, telling him everything of what would be coming. Of Mr. Scratch and the chase across the USA. Of the demons and nightmares that’d become his every waking moment for the next two years. Of… “Oh. Crap.†The knowledge hit him at the same time the hired thug’s baseball bat hit his counterpart’s head. Of Associate Professor Wyrd. Of Anastasia. The warehouse was just as he remembered it, and he stared at the outside from the nearby rooftop with no small amount of trepidation. His kinetic vision was on full bore, and he could see through the walls as the currents of movement and energy inside revealed one of his less-savory memories. Anastasia’s machine was directly above his counterpart, and he saw Past-Push turn his head towards the female inventor. Finally, he turned his gaze on the young woman. Funnily enough, it hurt less seeing her through this vision than it would have looking at her in his normal vision. He was surprised when he saw it was a thug that had clubbed his past self, for a long time he’d labored under the illusion that Anastasia had done it herself. In a way, it was relieving. That she didn’t actually hurt him. Yeah, that was bull. She hurt him, alright. But then, so did he. They both did. Neither had the guts to come forward and tell the other who each other was. But while he was idiot enough to keep up an illusion, she’d tried to solve it in her own mad way. It was almost heartwarming, if it wasn’t so damn painful to watch. He saw his counterpart break the table’s binds, leaping off with a surge of energy that accidentally overloaded a nearby breaker. With almost clinical detachment he noted the chain reaction that lead to the destruction of the machine, and the subsequent burning of the building. He saw the energy silhouette that was himself try to force himself forward. He saw the silhouette that was Anastasia draw back, and the pile of debris that collapsed between them fall. And he saw his counterpart forced back. But the silhouette of his ex-girlfriend remained there, in the centre of the flames. Push watched as the outline fell to her knees in the centre of the inferno, and for a split-second, time practically froze for the mutant. She didn’t run. They never found any body in the collapsed building. Sure, she could have been ashes, but surely they’d have found something of hers. Then why didn’t she run? Why didn’t she escape? He never really came to a decision. There really wasn't one to make. Without thinking he leapt forward, kicking in the jets and covering his head as he rushed forward like a runaway meteor, going straight through the burning ceiling and into the conflagration. Wielding energies that would have been far beyond his abilities all those years ago, he pushed and bulled his way through the destruction, blasting holes in collapsed cisterns and shoving aside metal beams with his telekinesis. Flames licked at his coat and scarf, but he ignored them. The smoke made his vision and head swim, but he ignored that too. Every synapse in his brain was overloaded by one thought, to save the woman that nearly killed him. Finally, he reached Anastasia’s unconscious body, and he cradled her in his arms. Smoke inhalation, it had to be. She was unmoving, barely even breathing. As the warehouse collapsed around him, he kicked in what was left of his reserve, shooting up and through the roof, shielding her with his body as his back went straight through the metal ceiling. It hurt like a bitch, but it was all over. He’d done it. That thought ran through his brain as he landed on a nearby rooftop and collapsed, feeling that same sensation of being pulled into a vortex as he blacked out. April 20th, 2011 Freedom City Midtown He woke up in Freedom City, a few hours after he’d “leftâ€. She was right beside him, still unconscious. If you’d asked the kineticist, he honestly could not have told you if he thought the future was changed or unchanged. Sure, he’d saved Anastasia, but he didn’t know if she had really died in that fire, or if he’d stuck around long enough in the past, he’d have seen his future self finish the job. The doctors had swallowed the excuse he’d given them, amazingly. A fire downtown, and that he’d been on the scene in time to save her. The fact that he’d paid quite a bit of cash from L.A.I.R’s accounts to get her treated ASAP was glossed over in his mind. Coma, they said. They didn’t know when she was going to wake up. She was in a comfortable, white-sheeted bed now, hooked up to all kinds of machinery to keep her alive. Back in Gear City, he’d never caught Associate Professor Wyrd. For all intents and purposes, Anastasia Wyrd had never existed. Now a person with no identity was in the ICU. Nobody knew that she was alive but him, now. He looked at the hospital across the street, legs hanging over the edge, and pondered. Things were about to get a lot more complicated.

In the night sky above Freedom City’s West End, a swift figure in royal blue leapt gracefully from rooftop to rooftop, racing through shadows only to reappear suddenly in the space over alleyways, flipping and tumbling like an acrobat. The swashbuckling swordsman known as Jack of all Blades knew every brick and stone of his neighbourhood so completely that he barely had to look where he was going. And that’s why nobody in their right mind causes trouble on my turf. Which made it all the more surprising when, at the apex of a gratuitously showy aerial tumble, the air seemed to rend itself before him, opening into a wormhole rift through which the flailing vigilante fell! "Gah! I swear if I end up in some Medieval Times knock off one more time..." Jack grated as he fell through warped space uncontrollably, only to suddenly be ejected back out into the night. Now, however, the city around him was well lit my neon light as he reflexively shot off his grappling line and swung down to the street. Looking about, he found that the buildings around him had sprung up into monstrosities several times the size they’d been moments ago. There was no mistaking that it was still the West End; he still recognised a handful on landmarks that had been incorporated into the unchecked urban sprawl, which seemed old enough now to look dingy and in disrepair. "Kansas, Toto, so on and so forth," Jack muttered to himself, rubbing the back of his neck. As the hero attempted to get his bearings, high pitched cackling drew his attention. Out of the alley, a quintet of youths in gaudy, shredded clothes emerged, displaying a menacing mix of oversized cybernetic enhancements and predatory animalistic qualities. "Looks like somebody got lost on the way to the costume party," the group’s jackal faced leader snickered, brandishing foot long metal claws as his gang surrounded their quarry. "Looks like you got lost on your way to the hospital, twip," a bold voice called from above a moment before a young black man in a leather jacket swung down to deliver a haymaker punch to the gang leader’s face, sending him reeling. "How ‘bout I draw you a map?" the new arrival grinned, gleaming white smile contrasting with the spade shaped tattoo over his left eye. "It’s a Fifty-Two!" a thug with mechanical wings cried, attempting to lift off into the air a moment before a willowy girl with shock white hair slipped from a darkened corner and laid him out with a flurry of blows from her metallic bo staff. What first appeared to be red tear drops inscribed under her right eye were, on closer inspection, a trio of diamonds arranged in a horizontal line. A motorcycle -like vehicle that floated well off of the ground roared onto the scene, it’s smirking driver bringing it to a sharp halt in front of the remaining cyborgs. "Ain’t you ever heard of a pocket pair?" he quipped with a distinct twang, patting a stylised set of hearts painted on the side of his ride while the amazonian blonde riding behind him trained an arrow notched in her composite bow on the suddenly outnumbered aggressors. Pulling the bowstring back with muscular ease revealed a club shaped cut-out in her top, made somewhat less alluring by the grim set of her tanned lips. Sensing that they were well and truly outmatched the remaining would-be muggers gathered up their downed friends and beat a hasty retreat back down the alley. A bemused Jack was left to regard his new-found saviours with an arched brow. "Pretty slick moves, there. Thanks." "Heh, no sweat," the jacketed youth assured the swordsman, crossing his arms with a confident smirk. "S’like the old man always says: nobody in their right mind causes trouble on the Fifty-Twos’ turf." "The police may be too afraid to venture here," the brooding archer intoned with more than a little heated anger, "but the West Quarter is not without defenders." "Or good taste," her red haired companion chimed in. "I mean, lordy, splicin’ and ‘borgin’? 2040 called, they want their feeb back!" The joke drew an amused giggle from the otherwise silent martial artist who had hopped up to balance impossibly in a crouch on the top of her staff. "...right." Before the conversation could continue, another rippling portal opened up in the middle of the empty street. "Whoa, think that’s my ride, folks," the swordsman observed, calling over his shoulder as he ran toward the rift and jumped in. "Keep up the good work!"

Lord Steam was, of course, rather used to portals, dimensional travel, and all sorts of weird and wonderful teleportation. He had to be, given his frequent travel between Earth Prime and Earth Victoriana. When his steam powered automobile careered into a shimmering vortex, he was, to be sure, rather surprised, but not completely shocked. The engine died down as he hit the dusty road. The entire landscape had changed. He had grown up on the cheap novels and televisual entertainments featuring the Free Texan State of Earth Victoriana, with its gunslingers, saloons, and bar room brawls. His new surroundings were not much different from the sets of those serials. Except his current location looked infinitely more real. “Howdy partner!” said one rather grimy cowboy, smelling slightly of whiskey but friendly enough. “Where’s your horse? Looks like a most peculiar wagon you got there, friend!” “Ah yes” replied Lord Steam, with a winning but somewhat baffled smile. “I appear to have misplaced it. Must have run off with some lady horse or something, the randy devil!” “Haw haw haw, good one!” laughed the cowboy, as he walked off (slightly raggedly) to the nearest bar. So, Freedom City of yesteryear, he concluded. The portal, the setting, yes it all made sense. He wouldn’t be able to place the exact time – he hadn’t familiarised himself enough with Earth Prime History quite yet. However, he had done some basic homework, and had a photographic memory. He could make an educated guess. He was in the wild west. He scanned the horizon, shielding his eyes from the midday sun. There, in the distance, he could see the vortex speeding across the horizon, and away from him. There went his portal back to Freedom City of the present. Fortunately, it wasn’t, as yet, travelling to far. He could catch it up if he drove fast and furious enough. To the great surprise of the assorted onlookers, he fired up his automobile, and with a belch of smoke and a trail of steam, he set off in hot pursuit. His Victorian car was fast enough, but the rough terrain didn’t suit him at all. The car rattled awfully, and at one point he feared he would lose a wheel. His bones jarred and his rear hurt. And to make matters worse, he spied a plume of dust heading his way. He strained his eyes to see.. and as the plume came nearer, he could make out some horses. Then the riders. Then the screams of “Yee hah! Stand and deliver!” Clearly his horseless chariot was something of a prize to the local bandits. Not so much of a prize that they held back from bullets. The flash of gunpowder and crack of firearms were easy enough to see and hear. The bullets whizzing past his head and into the Automobile were much easier, and brought home his peril much more evidently. Lord Steam put his foot down on the accelerator as hard as possible, and ducked. “Stand and Deliver” yelled the lead bandit. “I must respectfully refuse your kind offer” yelled Lucien back, in faux polite tones. “Bit of a bad back, couldn’t possibly stand. “ he mused on their aggressive stance for a moment. “Would you mind awfully refraining from using those weapons of yours?” “Quite a tounge on you!” yelled back the bandit leader. “Let’s see if you are so quick to be talk when you eat my bullet!” he laughed with a nasty smile. Prang! That bullet was too close for comfort even for Lord Steam’s usually steady nerves. “Actions speak louder than words!” he retorted, and with a violent yank swerved his car right into the Bandit and his horse. The action took the villain by surpsise, and he and his torse tumbled away to the ground, the rider cursing with an exceptional vocabulary of profanities. Hmmm, thought Lucien. I could use a few of those phrases. You learn something new every day. With a final push of acceleration, he sped away from the rest of the Bandits with a cheery wave and mock salute. At this range, whilst riding, they had no chance of hitting him. He kept up the pace, and raced towards the vortex, steeling himself for whatever shock would come. It was surprisingly smooth. A slight wobble in his stomach, but nothing to complain about. Or perhaps it was just smooth relative to the pain of driving his automobile full speed over rough terrain. That wasn’t much fun at all. He swerved a few times to avoid pedestrians as he hit modern day Freedom City, and then brought his automobile to a stop. It was an antiquated curiosity at the best of times, and normally brought a lot of pointing fingers and amused smiles. The bullet holes and steaming engine only added its noteworthiness. Lord Steam looked behind him. The vortex had already shrunk, and as he watched, it vanished into thin air. Much as he appreciated a rare insight into the history of Freedom City, he was man of the future. “Good riddance!”

Hail, sisters. Let us remember our Great Journey! May we never forget from whence we came. At the dying of the First Age, our people dwelt in a land of olives, honey and melons. We honored the old ways, worked the forge and sought to know our world. Traders spoke of conquerors, but our strength kept tyrants at bay. The kingdoms of men lived out their times. We prospered. The Sun fell into dreaming. The land became arid and harsh. The envious eyes of foreign gods gazed over our verdant valleys. Armies in bronze washed upon our shores. Horsemen of the eastern mountains descended as a plague of locusts. The tribes of the south proclaimed us witches. Our enemies multiplied and schemed against us. The War of Long Defeat diminished our reserve by the season. For the first time, invaders occupied the birthplaces of our ancestors. A Grand Council deemed we must flee or perish. The last of the Guardians led us southward along the sandy coasts. Many were buried and honored in our passing. Invaders who could not conquer by sword used the word, and our men betrayed our ways. We cast them out. On the shore of a wine-dark sea, our Oracle foresaw a great island. We set forth into the endless seas on a great fleet. Many were the sufferings heaped upon us by jealous gods. Great storms, doldrums and monsters beset us. Until one day a Serpent, as big as a mountain, rose from the waves and struck down our ships. As we prepared for our ends, a red star appeared. Our Savior crushed the beast with her mighty hands. She came to us a stranger from a distant land, and aided us in our hour of greatest need. Lost was she too, but without thought of reward did she lend her strength to our fleet. Yet even flying as the eagle seemed powerless as one-by-one our ships sank into the dark. The star manifested once more, but our Queen knew that to leave us would mean our certain deaths. Removing her jewelry, a blood-red vapor emanated forth and changed our vision. A great ring of fire churned before our eyes, and within lay a lush island. We fled to the island’s shores, and as the portal closed, so did her opportunity to see her home once more. She wept. For two-and-a half thousand years has this story been retold. From mothers to daughters our memories pass. Remember our journey and our savior. Remember too how she returned to her family. That a sparkling white star opened and stepped forth a man with eyes of gold and hair of rainbows. Thus did our savior return to her family! The days of superstition are passing. The technology of men will find us one day soon. Our reputations as phantoms and sirens, banshees and witches served us well as we sought to propagate our lines, but soon such legends will not protect us. Contact with the outside world is inevitable. Perhaps the legacy of our savior lives on? Would her descendants aid us as she once did? “Where ever did you find this, Raphael?” asked a pudgy man in a tweet jacket. He held a large, earth-tone pot. The addressed man leaned against a bookcase and smirked. “Jakarta, if you can believe it. I’ve never seen anything like it.” “Neither have I, my boy,” said the elder man before pausing, “The style suggests Pre-Classical Greek elements, but the rest is an eclectic synthesis of styles, or perhaps even a unique subculture.” “It’s fake then?” asked the young man, a scowl forming on his lip. “Not at all. The manufacturing and artistry all match the rough time period. The depiction baffles me though.” “That’s what first drew me to the piece. Mythology and battles are common in pottery from Greece and Asia Minor, but...I don’t know. To me it looks like a goddess leading a fleet of women warriors, Amazons maybe, into battle against a sea serpent.” “The symbol on the giant’s shield doesn’t look familiar either: a solid triangle with a bar across the top. Interesting.”

April 15, 2011 Would you see my price? The familiar voice ran through Joe Macayle’s ears as he washed up. He was just about to go on patrol when that thing, sounding like rotting fruit and dead leaves, crept into his head. He looked up immediately, his fists clenched as he moved into the living room. “All right,” he said. “Come on out where I can see ya. We’ll make this quick -- ” He turned, and there in the middle of the room stood a familiar face. Or rather, a complete lack of one. The pale, gaunt figure floated half a foot off the floor, clad in a tattered yellow robe that stretched to all corners of the wind. A pale, white mask made of what looked like stained porcelain covered his face. “Aw, crap, not you,” he said. “Thought Warlock and I sent you back to whatever cosmic trashbin you came from." Just a reflection, said Hastur, gliding towards Joe with inhuman grace. An aspect that wished to join with the greater whole, and dance in my -- “Yeah, can the poetry. What are you doing here?” I have remembered you. “And it’s nice you stopped by, but unless you want a repeat of the last time, I suggest you go.” Before the Piedmont. Joe tilted his head. “What?” At the day of the accounting. When desperation won out over prudence. When the walls began to crumble and buried the millennium under rubble. Hastur stared at Joe, as much as that eyeless face could be said to be “staring.” You must be there, of course. “But you said you remember me from there. Doesn’t that mean I was there already?” You may have. Or you may be. I see things… differently. The shadows that time casts. And now those shadows thin, and we can cross through into light. You must step through. “Look. I’ve gone this long without punching you in the face, and I consider that something to be applauded. But I’d like it if you got your magical ass out of my apartment now, and left me outta your time travel gig.” You do not understand. This was merely a formality. The decision has been made. “What…?” And then the apartment fell away into shadow. April 5, 1945 The cracking of tree branches and the whooshing of wind gave way to the soft peat of the forest floor – at least, as soft as it could be considered, under the circumstances. Joe put his hand to his forehead, and realized that his helmet was on. At least the freak had the dignity to put me in costume. He pushed himself up from the floor, and was greeted with the sound of fifteen clicking rifles. “Hands in the air,” came the nearest voice. “Now.” He turned, and was greeting with fifteen GIs, clad in olive green fatigues. The stern determination on their faces gave way to awe and fear. “It can’t be…” One of them stepped forward, and Cannonade recognized his face. He didn’t have a name to go along with it, but he’d been standing next to his grandfather in a photo. “It’s not,” he said, somewhat dejected. “Which leaves an important question – who the hell are you?” He went back to the excuse he’d offered last time this happened. “Cannonade,” he said. “Second-generation super-soldier treatment. Professor Mullins sends his regards.” The mention of the man who’d worked on the Legionnaire’s treatment made some of the men relax, but one stepped forward. “Legionnaire talked about you,” he said. “You were at Rouen. What’ve you been doing all this time?” “Behind the line work,” he said. “They sent me to the Pacific Theater a few times. They heard word about what was going on back in Germany and decided to send me back in.” Please tell me that was vague enough that they bought it… The man nodded. “Sergeant Hollister,” he said, extending his hand. Cannonade took it, and as he did, the sergeant looked over his costume. “You could have chosen better colors, y’know.” “The brass did it,” Cannonade said. “Thought it’d be interesting to see the Nazi colors subverted. I would’ve chosen blue over black, but that’s Uncle Sam for ya.” “Yeah,’ said Hollister. “Now stay close to the ground. 5D is just up over the hill.” “Gotcha.” As Cannonade got into formation, he wondered what he was getting into. 5D? Sounds familiar… wait a minute, that’s how they broke up the stalags. Now if only I knew where the hell we are… The battalion reached the top of the hill. Cannonade crept over the edge, getting a view of the POW camp set below. Even from a distance, he could tell it was a buzz of activity; lights were shining over the camp, and he could hear barking in German echoing through the night. “Yeah, Fritz isn’t happy,” said Hollister. “Just like the Red Cross said. They got kicked out a few days ago at gunpoint.” “What the hell are they planning?” Cannonade said, looking down at the chaos. “I mean, for all the atrocities they’re pulling off, they at least act like they respect the Geneva Convention. Why take this step?” “OSS says Berlin’s starting to panic. They think -- ” From the distance, Cannonade could see figures being dragged out of the barracks. “Movement,” he said to Hollister. “Binoculars. Now.” Hollister handed over his binoculars, and Cannonade looked down at the scene unfolding below. Stormtroopers – since when would they be on prison camp detail? — were forcing POWs, still in pajamas, to the ground. They were brandishing their rifles… “They’re gonna slaughter the camp!” Cannonade said. “On my mark!” Before Hollister could question, Cannonade leapt from the hillock. As he soared through the air, he could hear the shouting below. He even heard the soldiers opening fire, but he certainly didn’t feel it. He touched down in the middle of the camp, surrounded by Stormtroopers, all of whom had their guns trained on him. “If any of you speak English, I’m giving you one chance,” he said. “Leave.” He was answered with gunfire. “Can’t say I didn’t try.” The next few minutes were a mess as he charged into the soldiers, taking them down with solid blows and ripping their guns out of their hands. The mess was loud enough to draw the attention of every Stormtrooper in the camp, but behind him, he heard the sound of returning fire. Echo Company had followed his mark. When he took account of his surrounding, he realized he was standing in a pile of bruised and groaning Stormtroopers. His own costume was riddled with bullet holes, but he didn’t have a scratch on him. “Freakin’ peashooters,” he said. As Echo Company moved out to help the POWs, he moved to the nearest conscious Stormtrooper. Picking him up by the lapels, he said, “Sprechen sie English?” “You will not get anything out of me, swine,” said the Stormtrooper. “I’ll take that as a yes. So what kinda horsecrap were you and your buddies planning on pulling off tonight?” “You’ve done nothing, beast. The blood and bones of the lesser shall form the mortar that keeps the Reich standing -- ” “I’m done talking with you.” Cannonade threw the Stormtrooper over his shoulder, feeling a brief bit of satisfaction when he hit the ground with a thud. He turned to Hollister. “Where’s the officers’ quarters?” “Over there. Didn’t they give you the schematic?” “Must’ve gotten lost in the mail.” Cannonade was already taking off, charging towards the wooden building. He paused outside the door, and wasn’t surprised when he heard chanting coming from the other side. “Kinda thought so,” he muttered as he punched through the door. Inside was a mess of occult graffiti and ritual atrocity. Blood spattered the walls, painted in shapes both familiar and unrecognizable, none of which looked like they belonged in the same language. At the center of the room stood an officer stripped to the waist, his eyes flashing with madness. He clutched a dagger in one hand and a chalice in the other, and his neck was laded down with the symbols of a dozen faiths and mysteries. At his feet lay a radio, squawking orders in German. “Fangen sie -- ” The commander never got to finish the order, as Cannonade crossed the room and sent him flying with a punch. As it connected, he could feel the room getting darker, and a strange energy building up around him. “Goddamnit, I hate magic Nazis.” He took cover as the sorcerer unleashed a torrent of flame that burned right through the wall behind him. “Gekommen!” shouted the sorcerer, his voice fraught with desperation. “Hastur! Fenris! Apep! Gekommen!” Cannonade scanned the room, then took a look at the sorcerer, whose face seemed equal measures madness and fear. “Ah,” he said. “So. Mind telling me how screwed you guys think you are? I mean, if you’ve got all this going on, you must be desperate for some help…” “Gekommen!” shouted the sorcerer as shadows crept over the room, choking off Cannonade’s sight. “Speak to me, for Christ’s -- !” Cannonade cut off his plea by punching him in the jaw. But even then, over the roaring tide of magic, Cannonade could realize something was happening. He could understand the sorcerer’s words loud and clear, as if something wanted him to witness this. The darkness cleared, but just enough that Cannonade could see the sorcerer. And the man in the pallid robe and white mask, standing behind him. At his side stood half a dozen other figures, their features clouded by the unnatural darkness. You have commanded, said Hastur, looking down to the prone sorcerer. What is it you wish to offer? “Blood,” spat the sorcerer. “Blood and souls. The unclean, purified in fire and death. Offered to you, my lords, for power, for stability, for the strength of the Reich.” Can you secure such a thing? I hear no call of entropy here, no rush of death. “It goes,” he rambled. “It goes throughout. Every camp, every oven, readied for the sacrifice. I can provide such goods -- ” No. You cannot. Even though he couldn’t see the sorcerer, Cannonade could pretty much guess his expression right now. Gingerly, with trepidation, he reached down to the squawking radio. Gunfire erupted over it, and the occasional word spilled out – “Allies,” “disruption,” “capture,” among others. “No… no, I can secure it! I can give you what you seek!” We shall take what we seek. You have called us to the table with an offer of sacrifice. We shall merely take it elsewhere. If we cannot claim it in mortality, we shall claim it in empire. “No! No, no, no, no, no! I will not have this! Begone!” The time for bargains is over. Now comes the payment. Cannonade tried to close his eyes as Hastur and his brethren descended on the sorcerer. He tried to plug his ears, or keep his thoughts elsewhere. But he couldn’t. He knew that he was supposed to see this, and there was no way he could avoid it. Once the business was done and all the mess had been lapped up, the figures vanished one by one, until only Hastur remained. He gave Cannonade that same, eyeless stare. Let no one say I do not repay in turn. Then he was gone, and the darkness faded at last. Hollister barged in through the wrecked door. He took one look at the sigils painted on the walls and made the Sign of the Cross. “Sweet Jesus,” he said. “What the hell happened in here?” “Death,” Cannonade said, when he was finally able to speak again. “It wasn’t just here, was it? They were working on the concentration camps, weren’t they…” “Word came down from the OSS. Lady Celtic said she felt something big being set up. Blood sacrifice the likes of which no one had ever seen. Possibly building up a big price to bribe something. Wouldn’t be the first time Nazis dealt with the weird.” ”Yeah, but not like this,” said Cannonade. “It’s probably not gonna be long now…” “Yeah. Guess we will be home by Christmas.” The rest of the night was a blur. The POWs were airlifted out, the camp was dismantled, and the occult paraphernalia was collected by a bunch of men from a unit whose name Cannonade could barely remember. When he found the time to lay his head down on a cot, he woke almost instantaneously back in his own apartment. His costume was back together, and there was a note at the foot of his bed with a familiar sigil. On it was just one word: Remember.

April 15, 2011 Fenris didn't usually suit up so early in the day; he wasn't an all-night-patrol hero like some, but he preferred to have at least some shadows to work with. If nothing else, it discouraged people from trying to figure out everything about his armor from the get-go. 'Never hurts to have a little mystery in life, people. Especially if that mystery means you don't get my tech...' Suddenly, alarms blared as multiple portals started tearing open in the sky all over the city! He sped down to street level, only a couple of blocks away from The Lab. He saw a couple of portals open nearby and produce... “Pirates? Really? That's kind of...Oh you're kidding me.†Another portal had disgorged what looked like “classical†ninjas. Somehow, the two groups were already fighting, swords of various kinds whirring through the air, throwing knives and primitive flintlock pistols trying to eliminate enemies at range. Civilians ran in fear, one poor man getting clipped by a throwing knife. “Okay, as much fun as this might be for YouTube later, this needs to stop. Time to shock some sense into them.†With that, Fenris began striding forwards, sending blast after crackling blast out from his PPCs. Each blast seemed to knock another combatant out of the picture; since he was alternating between each group, neither got any major advantage, thus keeping it from being a slaughter. Before long, it was down to the apparent leaders of each group. The pirate was a crusty-looking older fellow, with a whole lot of those pistols and a rather large cutlass. The head ninja was actually smaller than his fellows, but seemed to have an almost supernatural grace about him. The pirate charged first. “That's for me crew! Blasted metal dog-man!†The sword was caught in now-glowing claws, and quickly sundered to utter uselessness. The other hand came up in a devastating uppercut that knocked out a couple of teeth, even as the pirate slipped into an unplanned nap. “Wolf, not dog. Hey, watch the finish!†The ninja had tried to strike his head off while he was distracted. It had only succeeded in scratching the metal, doing no real damage. A quick elbow from Fenris staggered the ninja, and twin PPC blasts put him out of the fight. “Well, that was kind of fun. Minus the lives at risk, I guess.†His head whipped around as his suit picked up a “silent†alarm at The Lab. He sighed. “Bet they're all busy with these portals. Anything setting that off is bound to be bad news.†With that, he flashed away, speeding through the space between space, arriving in a flash of light just down the block from the front of the Lab. For the moment, the building looked intact, but there were three figures in front that looked quite menacing. All three were wearing what looked to be powered armor, but they were easy to tell apart nonetheless. One of them had a good two feet of height on the others, making him something like eight feet tall. He carried what seemed to be a large energy cannon in both hands; the weapon looked more like one designed for a main battle tank. The next, in a suit that bizarrely emphasized the fact that the wearer was female. She seemed to be armed with what looked like a long spear, and bore a jet pack on her back. The final figure, who seemed to be the leader of the merry little band, had a much more “generic†looking suit. He had an over-sized pistol gripped in each hand, and what looked like some sort of sword on his back. All of them looked dangerous. Especially the one pointing the giant gun at the Lab. “Hey! Heavy Weapons Guy! Hope you have insurance on Sasha there!†With only that cry as a warning, Fenris appeared perhaps 50 feet away, firing both PPCs directly into the huge gun. His shots damaged it, but it seemed to still be active, albeit going into a “standby†moder, perhaps to assess damage. Of course, he didn't have much time to think about that, since Leader was firing a barrage of shots at him, and Spear Lady was trying to turn him into a shish-kebab. He blurred away, putting a good 200 feet between them. HWG busied himself getting his gun up and running, Leader hung back, and Spear Gal flew after him. She aimed for his heart, the tip of her spear crackling with energy... Only for Fenris to practically fall backwards, his now-glowing claws swiping upwards at the shaft of the spear. Sparks flew, and the weapon fell to pieces in her hands. Spear Gal dropped the useless metal and drew a combat knife and an over-sized energy pistol. The pistol was also shredded quickly, but the knife managed to cut into his armor somewhat; thankfully, it didn't breach anything. He counter-attacked, punching her several times across the torso, and once in her head. She staggered, and he saw his chance. Getting behind her, he practically shoved both PPC barrels into her suit's backpack (which he figured had most of her power systems and such. With a wordless growl that sounded even worse coming over his speaker, he fired. The results were rather dramatic, as the backpack suffered an overload, producing a small explosion that scorched Fenris's arms and slammed her into the ground. There were a couple of moments where she was wracked by electrical overload, before she was locked inside an inert suit of armor. But Fenris had no time to celebrate, as the HWG was barreling towards him with a bellow of rage. “Sweet on Little Miss Spear here? She's fine; probably a few burnt hairs, definitely some aches and pains in the morning, and obviously a wrecked suit, but she's still alive.†He zipped away from where the large man tried to actually stomp on him, firing a few shots of his PPCs. They cratered the large man's armor, but didn't really slow him down. Fenris frowned inside his helmet; there was no way he was risking getting close enough to try taking him down with his claws. He started zipping around faster and faster, hoping to confuse the large man, or at least outmaneuver him. That was probably the only thing that saved him when he came out of a dash and was staring straight down the barrel of the huge gun the man carried. A barrel that was already starting to fire, having charged up for the last minute or so. Fenris crouched, the jumped high into the air, activating his Vacuum Flux Capacitor as he did so. In the microseconds before he entered that slipstream that would carry him over the large man, the energies of the cannon started to wash over his suit's legs. When he emerged, directly above and behind the large man, his legs were blackened and trailing smoke. He fired two stronger-than-normal shots, disabling the huge suit in a similarly dramatic fashion as the first. The huge cannon sparked and sputtered from the overload, several parts exploding within the casing, leaving it a useless wreck, even as the weilder collapsed. Fenris himself fell into a weary crouch, panting a bit beneath the armor. His legs felt like they were on fire; probably because a good portion of his armor there had been melted off. A couple of his actuators had been fried, too; everything in his legs felt stiff. He was about to stand up when a sword tip found itself resting at the base of his throat. “My my. Another armor user, but this time one of those pathetic “superheroesâ€? Well, perhaps pathetic isn't entirely accurate; you defeated both my comrades with little damage to yourself. But you forgot about me. Now, I'll kill you, and then I'll take what technology I can from the Lab. After that, I'll leave it intact, after planting a few spy devices that are cutting edge in a century or so. From then on, I'll have a free line on tons of great tech, enough to really keep me in the money. This sword's pretty sharp; looks like it's already cutting in. You'll open up like, oh, what's the term? Ah, yes. “Like a tin canâ€, I believe.†The man started to apply pressure, but Fenris suddenly collapsed backward, pulling himself away from the sword. Mostly. It still cut deeply, actually reaching to the final layer above his skin, leaving a mark scored in the interface suit he wore. His left arm snapped up, his blazing claws first scratching, then scoring, then finally severing the blade. It was quickly dropped even as Fenris fired his right PPC into the other armor's shoulder, frying the electronics with a well-placed hit. His enemy, undaunted by only 1 working arm, pulled his other pistol out and started to fire. These shots cratered Fenris's armor, two of them tearing into his own left arm systems, leaving almost that whole side useless. Finally, a lucky shot from Fenris hit Leader on the right side of his neck. The final armor down fried and done for the count, but Fenris hadn't fared much better. His suit was in shambles, and he was barely able to stand and start dashing back to his hidden base. As the armor was peeled off his body, and the automated shop got to work taking care of most of the damage, he was lost in thought. 'They would have walked all over me if I hadn't had the element of surprise. I had that, and I still almost lost. They said they were from a century in the future...I guess that means I need to figure out ways to get at least a century ahead, then. Because if this sort of “portal storm†shows up again, I might end up facing even more of them. And then people die, including myself. I can't let that happen, no matter what the cost.' Soon, he sat down at his drafting computer, and began to tinker with some old nanotechnology designs he'd found half-buried in their archives. Some of these things only needed a few tweaks to be perfected...

It was a curious thing, time. You always know it exists, but it never seems to flow uniformly. For a particular blonde haired hero, that sentiment was carried to extremes in even normal circumstances. Today would turn those circumstances completely on their head. Dynamo was on his morning patrol throughout the city, when the portals started showing up. Like everyone else he had no idea what was going on at first, and just like everyone else, he didn’t have much of a say in the matter either. No sooner did he turn to investigate than did a portal open up at his feet, swallowing him whole as he fell into its depths. He was spat out on the other side several thousand feet into the air in a city whose buildings reached high into the heavens. Thankfully for him, there was a nearby building as he was able to use his mastery of electricity to create a charge on his feet to drag him to range of the building which he then used to get back onto solid ground. The immediate danger of splatting now passed, Dynamo could really take in his surroundings. “I have no idea where the heck I am…” mused Dynamo after a moment. There wasn’t a single landmark he could recognize, but judging from the people driving flying cars, he had to guess that he was in the future. While pondering his next move, there was an explosion way off in the distance, and that was never a good sign, in any time. When Dynamo arrived on scene there was a fire fight between what appeared to be the police and some sort of criminal organization, a well-organized one judging by the level of their equipment and matching uniforms. Dynamo dashed into action, dodging laser fire before laying a good old fashioned 21st century beat down on some unsuspecting goons. As the last goon crumbled to the ground, the police warily approached. “Thanks for the help, but who are you?” asked the man in the fanciest looking uniform. “Dynamo. I’m one of the good guys. And this is going to sound really crazy, but uh… where the heck am I? And more specifically when?” Before the officer had a chance to answer however, several more people arrived on the scene by air, and judging by their appearance, Dynamo figured them to be local super heroes. “Looks like the Gang has been taken care of.” “They had help.” “Who is that? He looks familiar…” they muttered to one another as they came in for their landing. They exchanged a few words with the officer Dynamo had been addressing before they showed up. He couldn’t quite catch what they were saying as the gang members would now being round up into transports of some kind and weren’t exactly being quiet about it. Though the word “Legion” came up quite a few times. Dynamo hung around while this was going on as he wanted to make sure the bad guys didn’t try to make a break for it, and he figured this was his opportunity to get some answers, and it’s not like he had anywhere to be. Eventually his patience rewarded him and the trio of heroes made their way over to Dynamo. It was two woman and a man, though none appeared to be older than 40. They all were wearing blue and gold colored costumes, of a similar design. The man spoke first. "Hello. The officers have informed me that you helped in their arrest of these dangerous criminals. On behalf of the Legion, I thank you for your contribution." he said as he extended his hand to Dynamo. "Anytime." says Dynamo as he shakes the man's hand. "I am called Power Man, and these are fellow heroes of the Legion: Amber Starr and Mercury. If I may ask, who are you?" "The name's Dynamo, pleasure to meet you. ... So uh... odd question: where am I and uhh, more specifically when?" he asked for the second time today. Amber Starr and Power Man turned to look at Mercury at this question. "Time travel right?" she says with a shrug of her shoulders, and looks at Dynamo for a nod to the affirmative, though it seems like she was expected it. "There's been some temporal anomalies recently, though you're the first we've personally encountered. We've yet to determine a cause, but maybe we can get to the bottom of it with your help. And to answer your question, this is Freedom City, in the year 3025." she explained calmly. "Woof. A little out of my jurisdiction. I'm from Freedom City 2011." "Wow, okay then. Guess you're taken aback by the technology we've got here." "Ehh, not really, I knew Dr. Archeville." "That does explain things." muttered Amber. "Indeed." continued Mercury, "His theories formed the basis for many of our technologies." "Heh, figured he'd be remembered after this long. So uh, you guys got a base of operations or are we going to talk on the street all day?" After a quick jaunt through the city, and some rather bizarre architecture, Dynamo found himself at the headquarters of the Freedom Legion. Dynamo let out a long whistle as he took in the scale of the place. "Amber and I will inform the Legion of what's going on. You accompany Mercury to her lab, to see if we can get to the bottom of why you're here and to see if we can send you back." "Sounds like a plan." ... "...and if all goes according to plan, I should be able to use that frequency to send you back." concluded Mercury as they arrived at the lab. "Alright, so now we just need to figure out if any of that mess you just said is actually possible." "Basically." snorted Mercury. Throwing the door open she continued "Hey, we've got a visitor, act all prim and proper." she called to the room at large "You offend me! When am I ever not prim and proper?" answered a voice from seemingly the walls itself. A familiar voice. "Dude...? VINCE?!" yelped Dynamo startled. "ELI!?" exclaimed the equally started AI as the monitors on the wall popped into life, revealing the familiar image of the Artificial Interceptor. "How the heck did you wind up here?" asked Eli incredulously, peeling off his mask to get a better look at his comrade in arms. "I took the long way. I guess this is where you popped out that day huh?" answered Vince, as the date "April 15th, 2011" flashed across the bottom on the screen. "Wait wait wait. Eli? Eli East? The scientist?" asked Mercury looking from Vince to Eli and back again. "You didn't say he was a super hero too!" cried Mercury to Vince, somewhat accusatory. Vince just shrugged "Whatreyougondo?" Before the issue could be pressed any further however, alarms started to blare. "Good to see some things never change..." muttered Eli under his breath as Mercury started clacking away on the keyboard. ... Dynamo accompanied Mercury to the scene of the crime. Lord Graviton was enacting one more in his long line of doomsday plots. Just one problem: this one was working. When they arrived on scene, Graviton had already been taken care of by the rest of the Legion, but his weapon was still working, despite being in pieces. The Legion was gathered ontop of a nearby building, overlooking what appeared to be a large orange crack in reality. "It's an antigravity machine." explained Mercury to the gathered members of the Legion. "That doesn't seem so bad-" "Anti-gravity as in it is designed to destroy gravity." cut in Mercury. "And its a self perpetuating process, like a black hole. And without gravity, the whole universe will be undone." "Is there anyway to stop it?" "Theoretically, yes. Right now its weak and unstable. If we were to overfeed it, it would collapse in on itself. But, according to my calculations, the amount of gravity that would need to be in effect around the crack would prevent any of us from moving. I'm afraid its not physically possible to stop." "Not quite." spoke up Dynamo, breaking the silence. "The force of gravity exerted by an object is proportional to its mass. And as an object approaches the speed of light, its mass becomes infinite. Wish me luck." "No! Don't do it!" cried Mercury just a fraction of a second too late, Dynamo was already well outside of the city limits. Gotta go faster. Can't let it all end like this. Faster. Faster. Faster. Thought Eli as buildings, then cities, then nations and finally continents became nothing but blurs to him. At this speed he could see the smallest, individual beams of light from the sun strike the targets, as if they were arrows. When he entered Freedom City limits for the 53rd time, he passed them. It was a sensation mortals were not meant to understand. At this impossible speed, Dynamo ran head first into the crack in the universe. There was no flash of light, no explosion, no massive display of force. Just stillness. From their vantage point, the Legion could see that the crack had disappeared, and where it once stood, there was now Dynamo, frozen unmoving in midstride, a smile on his face. "What... what happened to him?" "He absorbed the nature of the portal into himself. He has contained, and he uses his speed to feed it. But by doing so, he is removed from time. He'll stay frozen like that... forever." reported Mercury solemnly. ... "Nnnn...oooo...tttt......qqq...uuu...iii...ttt...eee..." spoke Eli ever so softly, as he ever so slowly inched along in his "run". "It's not possible! No one is that fast, not even him! How did he do it?" questioned Mercury in disbelief. It was about that time, that she noticed the strange glass cylinder in his hand. "Time in a bottle." she gasped breathlessly. "The stories were true, he really did make them. And he used it to surpass the limitations on speed. That extra boost gave him enough to contain the anti gravity, and still have some speed left over. And as it collapses fully, he'll be able to return to full speed, I estimate it'll take him..." Mercury paused as she did some calculations, but then her face fell. "...500 years. He'll never reach his full speed again..." ... "Www...ooo...rrr...ttt...hhh......iii...ttt." It took Dynamo over a week to complete the step he was frozen in. It took another 5 months for him to be at normal human speed. More than 3 years later, when the portal that originally took Dynamo to this century opened up again, he still hadn't achieved 1% of his former top speed. Pulling away from a passionate kiss with Mercury, Eli looked deep into her eyes. "Everything I've been through... because I was with you, it was worth it. I love you." "I love you too." And with that tearful farewell, Eli stepped back into his own time. Three days later, when Mercury was working on a project in her lab, a familiar voice called out to her "You always did throw yourself into your work when you were upset." turning around to look at the monitors, she didn't see Vince, but rather Eli in his place. "I downloaded a subprogram of my mind into Vince's program in my time. One day I knew it would reach you." Eli East, proof that to some, time is no obstacle.

Stesha was sleeping when the portals began appearing, not very heroic, but quite necessary nonetheless. She did a lot of sleeping these days, when the opportunity presented itself. Nevertheless, when the "All Hands" signal began broadcasting on her League radio, she didn't hesitate. A long green cloak over black and green maternity clothes passed for a costume these days, and as soon as she managed to get her shoes on, she was ready! Fleur de Joie teleported through the plant network to Hanover, and was immediately swallowed up by a time portal. She was so shocked for a moment that she didn't understand what had happened. She obviously wasn't in Freedom City anymore. She was standing on a hill overlooking a vast and beautiful wilderness that stretched away as far as the eye could see. In the other direction, an ocean gleamed like a blue jewel under a placid sunny sky. In the distance, thousands of shapes flew around a low mountain range... no, wait. Not any shapes, and not mountains. Those were giant bees, and the mountain range was some kind of giant bee metropolis... so this had to be Sanctuary. Not the Sanctuary she knew, but one she'd dreamed of in her heart, one that had decades or centuries of love and devoted care poured into it. The portal she'd gone through had taken her forward in time, she strongly suspected, but not in her own world, in the time of the world she'd built. For a moment, she was too dazzled to even be afraid, or to worry when and how she would ever make it home. "Look at it," she murmured, running her hands over her round tummy. "Look how beautiful it is. It's more than I ever imagined. I wonder how long it took to make all of this happen..." Cleaning the ocean alone had surely been the work of a lifetime, but how long would her lifetime be? That was an answer she didn't have, but if it wasn't long enough, then someone else had obviously taken up the mantle. She was shaken from her reverie at the sound of a voice behind her. "Stesha? My love, is it you?" She turned around and saw Dark Star, standing just a few yards away, his blank face and body revealing nothing, as usual, but still enormously reassuring. "Derrick, thank god you're here!" she exclaimed, hurrying over to him. "I thought I was all alone here, and I don't know how to get back. Do you know when this is? Did we really come forward in time?" Even as she stepped towards him he was changing, undergoing the familiar transformation from demigod to the man she loved, except now he was different. She stopped short, just before going into his arms. This Derrick was older, with shocks of silver in his hair and lines in his face, a man who looked as though he'd carried burdens that were far too heavy for far too long. But when she looked into his eyes, she knew it wasn't a doppelganger or a deception, it was really him. "Derrick?" she asked, her voice a whisper. "You came forward," he told her, his voice cracking at the edges with unspoken emotion. "You came forward into the future and saw Sanctuary in a thousand years' time, looking from this hilltop. When you went home, you told me about the trip, where you'd landed and what you'd seen. And I.. I remembered, and I came here, so that when you arrived, I would be here waiting for you. It's been so long, but I had to speak with you one more time..." With that, he took her into his arms and kissed her, a kiss full of desperate longing and loneliness and love, gentle despite its passion. It was very unlike the Derrick she knew, and yet so like him at the same time that she couldn't resist putting her arm around him and returning it. Bittersweet as it was, the moment couldn't last forever. Stesha still needed to know what was going on, and finally she pulled away. "Why did you come?" she asked him. "I mean, isn't it risky to tamper with the past, even like this? How did you know exactly when I would be here?" "I didn't," he said, his voice rough as he lay a hand lightly on her stomach. "I've waited here ten years, just for the chance to speak with you, with you as you are now, before anything else. There are hard times coming, my love, and I needed to tell you how immensely sorry I am that any of it has to happen. I know that it will be difficult to understand, and perhaps impossible to forgive, but for so many years I have regretted that I was never able to ask your forgiveness." "Ask forgiveness for what?" Stesha asked, suddenly afraid. Not of this Derrick, or even of the situation she found herself in, but for whatever he had done that so haunted him over the centuries. "What's going to happen? Maybe there's a way to change it, to make things right, if you tell me..." Derrick shook his head. "A thousand years I've asked myself what I could have done differently, if there wasn't something I could've changed, a duty I could've ignored while still remaining true to who I am. This ten years it seems I've thought of nothing but that. There are immutable principles in the universe, though, and one of the first and deepest is that heroes must act to preserve life, wherever it is endangered, and whatever the cost. But if I'd had any choice in the matter, I promise I never would have done anything that hurt you, or hurt our child. And I'm so sorry." Stesha blinked with confusion, trying to sort out the thousand thoughts and feelings rushing through her head. "Derrick, I..." He reached out and took her hands, and only then did she notice that her body was already starting to fade, so that he could barely hold onto her. "I will always love you, Stesha," he promised, looking into her eyes. "A thousand years, a million. Forever." "I love you too," she told him, trying to squeeze his fingers with hands that were barely tangible. "And whatever it is, whatever happened, I forgive you!" One last second of contact, as the world turned to white and gray around her, and then he was gone, and Sanctuary was gone, and Stesha was left standing next to a tree in one of the Hanover business parks, as though nothing had ever happened. She stood there for a moment without moving, long enough that a passing civilian asked her if she was all right. "I'm fine, thank you," she said with a reassuring smile, then disappeared into the plants and back home. The all hands signal had stopped, it seemed like things were starting to come under control. Unable to help herself, she picked up her cell phone and called Derrick. "Honey, could you come home?" she asked, not liking the weakness in herself, but not wanting to sit alone with all these worries and fears. "What is it, sweetheart?" Derrick's worried voice came over the phone. "Is it the baby? I'm out in Hanover with the dimensional cleanup, I can be there right away..." "No, no, it's not the baby" she reassured him, taking a deep breath and getting ahold of herself. "The baby is fine, I'm fine. Go ahead and do the cleanup, and I'll talk to you tonight. I love you." "I love you too," he told her, though already he sounded a bit distracted by his work. "See you tonight."

Freedom City was in danger! That was hardly different from any day in the city where weirdness never slept, but today was worse than most. Disappearances were being reported all over the city, people suddenly vanishing, other people and strange creatures appearing out of nowhere, fights and rampages in the streets! It was a bad time, but luckily, Freedom City had its heroes to protect it. One of those heroes, Miss Americana, was already in the air, flying over Hanover as she attempted to suss out the situation. There were disturbances on the ground, sirens blasting, and what looked like... was that a band of Vikings on the ground? A superhero in the blue and gold colors of Claremont Academy seemed to have the situation in hand there, so Miss A flew onward. A few blocks away, she noticed a strange disruption, almost as though reality were bending like the air on a hot summer day. She flew down to get a closer look, turning midair to land... Gina's eyes snapped open as her consciousness rudely and abruptly thudded back into her squishy flesh body. "Goddamn radios," she muttered, hastening over to her work chair and rolling it to her main interface console. Within seconds, she'd activated the robot's implanted locator beacon, the same type used on black boxes and EPIRB units to be traceable from half a world away and in just about any conditions. She zoomed in on Hanover, recalling exactly where she'd been, down to the millimeter and... nothing. There was nothing there. No disturbance, no robot, no locator ping. It was an empty stretch of sidewalk that didn't even show signs of radio interference. She quickly widened the scan, to take in the city, then the whole region. Still nothing! Scanning further would take time, but what else was she going to do? As she waited for the search to run, Gina considered the possibilities. Could the robot have fallen victim to one of the portals and been whisked away to who-knows-where? She had to admit it was looking distinctly likely. That was... not good. Nobody knew what the portals were, or where they opened onto, or if anything that went through one would come back. The Miss Americana robot had only an extremely basic artificial intelligence, enough to maintain a human mien, walk and act as specifically instructed, and seek out solar energy when its battery ran low. There was no possible way it could return on its own to Freedom City. For now, possibly for the foreseeable future, Miss Americana was out of commission. But Freedom City still needed heroes. Gina went upstairs and looked out her front window. It was quiet in the direct view of her house, but she could hear sirens, and people yelling in the distance. Bad things were happening. Surely she could do something. She headed for the door, only to catch a glimpse of herself in the reflection off her cabinets. Dumpy, dowdy, out of shape, dressed in sweats and with her hair ratty, she was nobody's idea of a hero. What the hell was she supposed to do out there anyway, just stand there and hope she scared the invaders or made them recoil with revulsion just to look at her? She didn't have laser beams, she couldn't fly. When it came to saving the city, she was absolutely worthless. Gina retreated downstairs to continue the futile search. Hours later, her search had covered the entire world to no avail. Gina was forced to concede that the robot might be gone entirely. That was a very depressing thought. She prepared herself a supposedly healthy frozen dinner, then added a half pint of Cherry Garcia and a bag of Doritos to her tray and carried it all downstairs to keep working. It could be months before she had another robot working, and even that would require a lot of very uncomfortable contact with the outside world. In that time, who knew what would happen to the contacts and work that Miss Americana had been doing? What would happen to the little girl in Switzerland? Just as Gina stuck the first spoonful of ice cream in her mouth, the locator beacon alert shrilled at her from the computer! Fumbling aside her dinner tray, she dove for the keyboard and interfaced with the local satellite to get a close-up picture of its location. The robot was exactly where she'd left it, in the middle of Hanover, on an empty sidewalk. Only... it didn't look the same at all. Gone was Miss Americana's skintight red-white-and blue uniform, replaced with a long blue dress that looked distinctly Victorian, corseted and with a full skirt that dropped to her ankles. Her golden hair was pinned up in ringlets and partially hidden by a large, feathered hat. Wherever she'd been, someone had been playing dress-up and gotten really carried away, it seemed. A bit of reflected light on the satellite picture caught her eye, and Gina magnified again. On the robot's finger was a gold wedding band. "What the hell were you doing while you were gone?" Gina demanded aloud, then dropped her body to go and retrieve the damned thing before it did anything worse.

April15, 2011 Corbin was glad he didn't really have to worry about taxes; everyone seemed so stressed this time of year! Then again, he'd probably just hire some person or another to take care of it even when he got to the point of needing to do it himself. It'd let him have time to do more interesting things. Like flying on a rather nice day, when all was said and done. Even though he really didn't have to worry about the weather when he had his ring on, it was still nice to have decent temperatures and beautiful sunshine going about. Those swirling circles all over really complimented all the flowers. “Wait, what the crap? What are those-AH!” Right as Corbin (well, technically “Cobalt Templar”, since he was in-costume and nominally on something vaguely resembling a patrol) stopped to get a better look at the various vortexes swirling all over the city, one appeared almost on top of him. Before he could do more than yell in surprise, he was gone. Freedom City, Bayview April15, 2161 And just as suddenly, he was ejected from a whirling madhouse that vaguely reminded him of his adventure in early February. He managed to not fall to the ground, his instinctive control over the ring becoming invaluable in that respect. After a few moments of blinking his eyes, his vision was clear. The first thing he noticed was that the portal was gone. About five seconds later, he noticed the rest of the city. “What in the world? Where did...where did all this come from[/]?” Before he can contemplate things further, he hears a voice from behind him. “Hello. Please try not to panic. You've gone through a time portal 150 years into the future. Take a few moments to get your bearings as best you can.” CT slowly turned to face the source of the voice, and was...surprised, to say the least. The speaker appeared to be a girl in her late teens or early twenties; then again, there was some quality about her that seemed older than that. More than that, despite the costume that covered most of her face, there was something hauntingly familiar about her. She was wearing a full body suit that looked to be one of the thicker varieties of morphic molecules, or some similar spandex-like substance. Overlaid on the bodysuit were slim, streamlined boots and gloves that seemed to be metallic; she also bore some armor on her shoulders, and what looked like a cross between a helmet and a crown, with three spikes on it. Only her mouth and chin on her face were left uncovered by either the helmet or the mask she wore, though her hair was hanging out. Finally, there was a cape to complete the look. The oddest part was the coloring; it was strangely similar to how Cobalt Templar's armor looked. Except that where his was blue, hers was a dark indigo, and the red of his costume was adjusted to be more like that of his lover's. The cape was also like Ultiteen's, being un-tattered, seemingly solid, and only going to about her waist. Finally, her costume broke the monotony of the indigo with an elongated pentagon shape on her chest, point down. The shape was a thin border of white around a smaller version of the shame that was the same maroon red as her “secondary colors” on her costume. Then other things started to register. Like the fact that her stature seemed remarkable similar to both his and his girlfriend's, putting this young woman at about 6'2” tall. While not the size of a bodybuilder by any means, she definitely had noticeable musculature as well. One of the more striking features was her hair color; it was like a perfect blend of Corbin and Quo-Dis. Suddenly, other things clicked. Her voice. Her mannerisms. What parts of her face he could discern. And something else that he couldn't really pin down, but was still there. “You're not just a random future citizen, are you? You're my-” “Daughter? Yes. I am. And to head the question off, I'm not much older than I appear; while my development hasn't been as speedy as a human's, it's been quicker than Mom's ever was. I'm about 25, though I'm just now in my senior year of Claremont.” She smiled gently, gesturing for him to follow her. “Come on. We have a private place to talk.” By this point, Corbin's mind had nearly shut down, so he simply followed the girl claiming to be his daughter in the future without a fuss. Before long, they were outside the city limits and approaching one of the larger hills in the nearby area. When they flew into a small entrance in the hill, Corbin finally spoke. “Wait. I have a “secret lair” in a hill? Why not something less...well, Midnight-ish? Not that that's a bad thing; I just don't see myself doing this.” His daughter shrugged, her mask and helmet fading. Without thinking, Corbin did the same. Somehow, he instinctively knew he could trust her. “It's more for Mom than you. You've actually got your own hideaway, but it's in orbit, and a bit further away. You're a bit faster of a flier these days, so it's not as big of a deal for the, ah, “current” you.” “That is officially awesome. I guess I get some living space here, then? Makes sense. Since me and Quo-Dis are...?” “Married, yes. First locally, and then with Mom's homeland. She didn't make a big deal out of the ceremony, but she tells me she does adore that ring.” “That's, uh, good to know. Can I ask what your name is?” “I'm shocked you didn't earlier. My name is Jessica El-Cir Hughes. Daughter of two of the mightiest immortals to grace the planet Earth.. Bearer of the Indigo ring of the Mind-Spy, Champion of Compassion, wielder of the primal energies of the vril. I am the Vril Knight. Not a ground-shaking name, and yes, it's not color-themed like you, but I wanted a little something from each of you. “Indigo Teen” or “Indigo Girl” didn't inspire quite the same heroic connotations.” “I think it sounds fine, really. So. You're a hero? Is it because we pushed you towards that, or...?” She smiled and shook her head. “I chose it, all on my own. I had some good examples, though.” Suddenly, she stepped forward and gave Corbin a fierce hug. For several moments, he was frozen, before slowly returning the gesture. A soft smile grew on his face. Somehow, embracing his future daughter felt right. “I can already tell I'll be proud of you. And let me guess; I made sure to tell you where to be and when? Why am I not here, or at least Quo-Dis?” Jessica backed out of the hug and gestured at the far wall of the informal living room they were in. A slight glow lit a small control pad, and suddenly a silent television news cast came on. It showed subtly different versions of Corbin and Quo-Dis. His costume seemed essentially unchanged, though he'd apparently made his cape look nice and neat. Probably something with “maintaining a better image” or some such. He thought he might be a couple inches taller and have a bit more muscle. Something to look forward to. Speaking of which, Quo-Dis had grown a couple of inches as well, and kept about the same proportions. Her costume was also very nearly the same, though she had extended the shirt to cover her midriff. Both of them seemed to have hit that “sweet spot”, where they were unquestionably adults, but hadn't visibly aged past the “late 20's” stage. “Mom goes by “Ultiwoman” now, but you haven't changed your name. It's pretty age-neutral, I guess. You two are real crowd-pleasers, since you've been in “the game” for so long. You-Wait. Sorry. I guess I shouldn't lay out your whole life for you, should I?” “Probably not. The glimpses I'm getting are more than enough; it's one of those things that'll give me strength to keep going, you know? I guess it's nice I didn't get tossed back to when the meteor wiped out the dinosaurs or something, right?” “I guess it is.” She suddenly grew more serious. “Okay, look. I can't warn you about every bad thing that's going to happen for 150 years. That might risk my own existence. I will tell you that there are some bad things on the horizon. You told me to tell you to “stick close to your friends, be willing to make new friends, and don't be afraid to lead”. Oh, and, if you can't tell by this-” At this she holds up her right hand, prominently displaying the indigo-colored ring on her hand that was eeriely similar to Corbin's. “There are definitely more of these out there. When you first run into them, some aren't going to be used by good people. Don't freak out too much about that. You have your ring, too. And in the long run, good triumphs, even if it takes time and pain to get there. In time, you'll assemble them all. Which...let's just say that having that sort of firepower available never hurts. Stay vigilant...dad.” Corbin seemed to mull over her words for a long time. Finally, he nodded. “Thank you. So. Do you know how long I'll be around here?” “Until right. About. Now. Bye dad.” “Wait, but-” Suddenly, his whole world was swirling colors once again. Freedom City, Bayview, Claremont Academy April15, 2011 A swirling portal vomited Corbin out just a few seconds after he'd been pulled away. He took almost a minute to re-orient himself this time, the comparatively rapid change back and forth having knocked him for a loop. Finally, he had his bearings again. Right as the mass of panicked screams, car alarms, emergency sirens, and the general noise of chaos and danger rose from the streets. His mouth set in a grim line, he headed for the city. For hours, he helped fight back the various things that had intruded on the world. The pack of vicious raptors (he didn't know which kind; they were a bit outside his window of history) had been especially “fun”. On the flip side, the giant Tyrannosaurus Rex had almost been easy. Especially once he'd slapped a muzzle on it and conjured a saddle. He couldn't contain his hollers of excitement as he steered it outside the city limits, where it was taken into its own time vortex. Finally, no more dangerous beasts, aliens, criminals, or anything else was exiting the portals. Well, nothing except the people who had been whisked away. Cobalt Templar spent some time helping with the immediate recovery, before heading back to Claremont. He had a lot to think about.

Paris, France, 1810 Eric LaCroix sat at the café in Montmartre, watching the dead man walk around aimlessly in the nearby square, trying to figure out a way home. The splendor of 19th century Paris was starting to wane – he was running out of money, the translation charm would only work until the end of the week, and he was starting to truly miss both his family and his city. There was also that feeling of a subtle absence, something he couldn’t quite put his finger on even as it worked his last nerve. It had started two nights ago. He’d been doing his usual rounds in the Lantern Hill Cemetery when the fog began to creep in. This wasn’t so unusual, but as it began to creep in around him, he realized that the sounds of the city – traffic, airplanes, the low hum of electricity – were slipping away. When he barged out of the fog, he found himself interrupting two grave robbers attempting to break into a man’s crypt. Their French babblings before they fled in fright, coupled with the numbers on the stones around him, told Eric he’d left Freedom City behind by several thousand miles and a few centuries. After gaining his bearings, he worked on making himself comfortable. Fortunately, he’d brought along a bag of offerings for whatever new ghosts had come to the cemetery, and it had made the journey with him. He tracked down an artist’s ghost – it was surprised to see him and, by some lucky coincidence, happened to exclaim its surprise in English – and, with an offering of cognac and cigars, got it to agree to lend him his tongue for a week. The next thing he needed was money. Fortunately, he’d brought along some hell bank notes in case he ran into any Chinese ghosts. After setting himself safely behind a crypt, he detached his consciousness and made the journey to Diyu, the Chinese realm of the dead. After a bit of harrowing negotiation, he was able to exchange the notes for jade. Once that was done, and the jade made its way back to his physical form, he paid a visit to a pawnbroker. He’d likely gotten a little screwed in the exchange, but he did have francs enough to last him for a few days. The first thing he did was buy somewhat more appropriate clothes; after convincing a clothier that his leather jacket and jeans were “a passing craze in Nice,” he found a dark shirt and pants that would suit an artist for the period. He stored the rest of his costume in its regular closet in Hades’s palace, and found lodgings. But after a few days seeing the sites of old Paris, Eric was beginning to grow concerned. This was his first real experience with time travel, and he wasn’t sure any amount of book reading would prepare him. He’d left a few messages carved in the Louvre just in case Doctor Tomorrow ever visited it, but he had no way of knowing whether that would ever be the case. He tried to put it out of his mind, relaxing in coffee, the company of artists, and the sights of Montmartre and the Student Quarter, but that subtle lack of… something kept playing at the back of his mind. He only realized what it was when he picked up a discarded paper and flipped through. But before he could act on it, the woman in the red gown sat at his table. She was ravishing, her hair the color of chestnuts and her eyes a shade of ice. She looked like she belonged somewhere else, somewhere timeless. And the first words out of her mouth were, “You’re still mortal. I can sense it. Move and I will perforate your kidneys.” Needless to say, this left Eric speechless for a few seconds. Once he recovered, he looked her right in the eyes, not trying to betray anything. “Aren’t you going to ask me my name first?” “I find it doesn’t do well to ask men their histories before I kill them.” She tossed a token on the table, carved with a sigil that Eric could have sworn was Enochian. “Take that in your right hand. Slowly.” Eric did as he was asked. Once he did, the woman lifted her left hand to reveal a similar token in her palm. The right hand remained under the table the entire time. “Are you a necromancer?” she asked. “Guilty.” “Are you the one who broke the consecration below?” “If I had any idea what you were talking about, the answer would probably still be ‘no.’” “What are you doing in Paris?” “…visiting.” “Are you undergoing a working with any other necromancers in Paris?” “No.” “Are you a binder of the dead?” “I like to think of myself as a liberator.” The woman frowned, then looked at her charm. “You’re telling the truth,” she said. Her right hand rose above the table, empty. “My apologies. I had to make sure. Bad experience in Venice.” “Oh.” There was a pause. “So, mind telling me what the hell is going on?” “That depends. Do you wish to help?” “It’s… kind of what I do.” Eric looked her right in the eyes. “When a woman threatens to shoot me, I think it’s only fair she tell me her name.” “I suppose it is. Madeleine Devereaux, Master of the French Rite.” “A Rosicrucian, huh.” He extended his hand. “Nick Cimitiere.” “That cannot possibly be your name.” “It’s something of a trade name. Somehow I doubt Madeleine is the one you were born with.” He leaned back in his chair. “So. Why aren’t people dying?” “You can sense it, then.” “Well, not at first. Took a while to puzzle it out.” He pointed to the ghost at the end of the café. “That ghost’s one of only a few wanderers I’ve seen lately. Usually you have a few ghosts who stick around on this firmament, but when you’ve got so few, either the psychopomps are working over time… or they’re not working at all. Then I picked up the newspaper. No obituaries, at least none for deaths within the past day. Death has… ceased to exist as an ambient force in Paris. What’s going on?” “We believe someone has bound the Ankou.” “…well, that would do it. Wait, who’s ‘we’?” --- “Father Vincenzo Calivieri. I take it you are our necromancer.” Eric extended his hand to the priest. He appeared to be in his mid-30s, dressed in all-purpose travelling clothes. The thick leather bag at his side let up a light clanging as he shook it, as if it was filled with instruments – or weapons. Margaret had brought him to a hotel in the shadow of Notre Dame de Paris. Father Calivieri’s room was modestly decorated, and his vestments were laid out on the bed – next to a breastplate and a thick longcoat. “That depends which necromancer you’re talking about. If you’re still looking for a culprit, I’m not it. I may traffic with spirits, seek the aid of entities unknown, command truth from shadow, but -- ” “You don’t need to defend yourself to me, child,” said Father Calivieri. “I am not the Inquisition.” “You’re a bad liar, Calivieri,” said Madeleine. “All right, then I am the Inquisition. But I am a Jesuit, also. I know how to judge wisdom from falsehood. I know that your talents do not cast you with the infernalists by nature.” He raised an eyebrow. “By practice, however…” “Like I told Ms. Devereaux, I’m a liberator, not a binder. Think we could get into the real business? Like what kind of thing could’ve bound the Ankou?” “What do you know of the Ankou?” “Figure of French folklore,” Eric said. “It’s said the last man to die each year becomes the Ankou for the next, serving as the Grim Reaper’s second in command. In truth, the Ankou’s more of a… freelancer. He helps deal with the matters other psychopomps won’t. He’s also somewhat territorial; France is his claim, and he lets other psychopomps in on his permission. No idea how he wrangled that.” He turned to Madeleine. “So what do you know about the Ankou? Most importantly, how did you know he got kidnapped?” “We didn’t,” Madeleine said. “Father Calivieri contacted my circle after this grisly business.” She threw a sketchbook on the desk. Eric picked it up and flipped through the pages. The drawings within were heavily shadowed, almost done in chiaroscuro. The dashes of red made them stand out, however. The sketches depicted three corpses, stripped naked, lying on the floor of a darkened chamber. White frescos jutted out from the walls – at least, he thought they were frescos at first, until he took a second look… “Skulls,” he said. “‘The consecration down below.’ You mean the Catacombs.” “Exactly,” said Father Calivieri. “These poor souls were offered up as a sacrifice to some dark master in the ossuary beneath the streets. Their blood and… other fluids were daubed on the walls. The Catacombs had been consecrated at their creation, but… the sheer offense that took place here… the place was defiled.” Eric flipped to another sketch, showing one of the victims in detail. A cluster of symbols had been carved on his chest with exacting precision. “Is that… Enochian?” “Indeed it is,” Madeleine said. “A magic square without the square. With Enochian, it is often used to initiate contact with angels – or things that were once angels – and open the Forty-Eight Gates of Understanding.” “I’ve gotta admit, I only know enough Enochian to say ‘Where is the bathroom?’ and ‘Please don’t eat my soul.’ What does this one say?” “‘Open the Gate of Death.’” She picked up the sketch pad. “Dee said there were 49 Gates, but only 48 were meant to be open. These mad bastards, however, have broken through the 49th in order to make war against God.” “All right. We got any idea who they are?” “A rather good one.” Father Calivieri approached Eric. “Tell me, Mister… Cimitiere, what do you know of the Hellfire Club?” Eric paused, boggled for a second. “You mean Francis Dashwood’s frat house?” he said. “The Shriners with orgies? They drank, had lots of sex, and occasionally did rites to the Roman gods and parodies of Mass. They were blasphemous, yeah, but they weren’t any more infernal than a John Waters movie…” He paused when he noticed the look of confusion on the faces of Madeleine and Father Calivieri at the last comment. “…and I’m speaking nonsense now, aren’t I?” “And yet, truth. Dashwood’s Hellfire Club was blasphemous and degrading to the virtue of its members, yes, but by no means dedicated to the works of Hell. After Dashwood’s decline, however, more… rogue elements within the club began to appear. The invocation of the Roman gods seemed to stir some magical talent within the club’s membership, and they began to take on a number of arts.” “Invocation of entities above and below, alchemy… even necromancy, on occasion,” said Madeleine. “In their minds, the Hellfire Club became about more than throwing aside Christianity and the trappings of the modern order. It was about overthrowing God, and going back to a primal time, when the fires of creation burned hot. If Eden was barred to them, and their souls stained by contact with the realms below, they would smash through the gates of Heaven and claim the throne of paradise.” “So, infernalists with giant egos,” Eric said. “I can’t tell you how annoying those are.” “For all their high ideals and unworldly plans, however, this faction – taking to calling themselves ‘the Torchbearers’ – was anything but subtle. They were quickly routed from the club, and soon after, England. They’ve gone to ground ever since, only to show their face now.” “But why?” Eric asked. “Why do all this? Bind the Ankou, break the consecration -- wait. They’ve got a god of death bound. All that necrotic energy… stuffed in the Catacombs itself…” He blanched. “They’re going to turn it into a weapon, aren’t they?” “An immortal weapon,” Father Calivieri said. “The Catacombs shall act as the rifling on a large barrel, and the Ankou’s power as a shell. We have no idea where it is being pointed, however.” The priest went over to his bed, set the bag down, and pulled on the vestments. “What we do know, however, is that there is… an unclean sense, emerging from the Catacombs. Whatever they’re doing, they’re preparing for it soon. We must act with haste. I don’t suppose you will come with us?” Eric shrugged. “I’m all for keeping mad cultists from using the dead as a weapon,” he said. “Besides, walking the Champs-Elysees was starting to get boring. Just… mind if I get dressed?” --- The sun was setting when they arrived at the Catacombs. Nick Cimitiere had changed into his jacket, but gone without face paint – it would have been a bit much to explain to the Parisians who saw him, and he didn’t really need to risk his identity two centuries in the past.As long as nothing I’m fighting has that long a memory… Approaching the Catacombs was like approaching a wildfire. Getting close, Nick could feel a sickening drumbeat going through his head. The priest had been right; the Catacombs had been knitted into one whole entity through a working, and it was palpitating with necrotic energy. “We need a ward,” Nick said. “Whatever in there’s likely got some security set up. We hit a trip wire, we could get killed before we blink.” “Agreed.” Madeleine and Father Calivieri pulled out their instruments – a small board in the shape of a magic square for Madeliene, and an aspergilium filled with holy water for the priest. Madeleine chanted under her breath in Enochian as she arranged letters on the board, the air around her taking on a solid form. Father Calivieri anointed the trio with holy water, chanting in Latin. Nick merely focused on his jacket – soaked in the waters of the Styx – and the energy bound up within. He could feel something of it enter himself and well up right under his heart. “All right. Let’s go make some friends.” Father Calivieri pulled out a torch and lit in. Madeleine did the same. The second they crossed the threshold, Nick got a better sense of the power running through the tunnels. It was coiled up, like a rattlesnake waiting for a meal to come along. The torchlight seemed dim, seemingly overwhelmed by the darkness of the tunnels. Skulls stared out from along the walls, casting silent gazes on the trio. Nick had a good feeling he was being watched… and that was probably the case. “We really should’ve taken the skulls into account,” Nick whispered. “They’ve probably got someone moderating the feeds. I have a new plan - run.” “I like this plan,” said Madeleine. “Father?” “Same here,” he said. “Let’s blitz the bastards.” “I thought holy men weren’t supposed to swear.” “Would you prefer I call them something sweet?” “I think I like you, Father.” Nick charged forward, Madeleine and Father Calivieri keeping close behind him. A second later, the traps started going off. Bolts of focused entropy surged out of from skulls mounted on the walls, and the bones themselves began tearing their way out of the earth, forming reaching hands. Nick merely halted the flow of energy powering the constructs, while Father Calivieri took a sword lined with silver to the unholy things and Madeleine hurled bolts of scarlet flame at the fierce skulls. As the onslaught continued, Nick opened his senses to the power coming down on them. “Turn right!” he said as they approached an intersection, pursued by a giant mass of bone fashioning itself as a skeletal serpent. “You’re sure?” asked Madeleine. “I’ve got it traced!” Nick said. “The longer they keep it open -- ” As soon as he said that, the bony construct collapsed into its corresponding components. “ – the easier it can be traced.” He smiled. “Looks like they heard me. Shame; they coulda kept it open long enough for me to say I traced it all the way back.” “You know where they are?” said Father Calivieri. “Yup. Follow me.” Their flight through the Catacombs went mostly undisturbed. At least, until they got down into the depths. The trio ran right into four men clad in red robes garnished in Enochian, bearing iron swords and flintlocks. “They’re here!” shouted one of them. “They’re -- ” His words turned to screams as Madeleine fired first, shooting him right in the arm. His sword fell to the ground, and chaos ensued. Father Calivieri repelled their magics with unnatural grace, Nick tore through their defenses with spectral talons, and Madeleine kept their screams limited by dampening the very air around them. When it was all said and done, the four cultists lay on the ground. One of them reached for a vial tied around his neck, but Madeleine kicked it away before he could bring it to his lips. It shattered and sizzled against the far wall. “Aqua regia,” she said, recognizing the scent. “They had suicide orders.” “What do you expect for a force so infernal,” Father Calivieri said. “A torturous death would add more potency to the greater working. There’s no sin that’s too great for these people.” Down the sloping hall lay a sizeable antechamber, with bones reaching up as arches to the ceiling. Eight cultists stood on guard as a man stood over a bound figure, chanting to the bones. Nick got a closer look at the figure, clad in a long black coat with a wide-brimmed hat to cover his features. “The Ankou,” he said. “Whatever they’re doing, they’re going to do it soon. Time to strike.” “Agreed,” said Madeleine. She pulled a small paper tube out of her pocket – a firework. She lit the short fuse, and the firework quickly split the night. It erupted with an unnatural bang, and sent fire cascading down to the floor. The cultists burst into action, some trying to put out their flaming robes. Spells echoed through the chamber on both sides as the chanting of the head cultist reached a fevered pitch. It had somehow shifted from Enochian to Latin, and while Nick didn’t speak it fluently, he recognized enough to pick out “Purgatory” and “Hell.” Are they trying to smash their way into Purgatory? he thought. Well, if they want to make war on Heaven, it’d be one hell of a staging ground. He could feel the air around him getting thicker, and heard an unnatural screech in the back of his head. The working was about to begin. Okay… this is all one big gun. The Catacombs is the barrel, the Ankou is the gunpowder, and the death energy is the bullet. That was when Nick noticed the rod in the cantor’s hand, pointed at the Ankou. The chanter twisted it in his hand, and the Ankou writhed. No, wait… the Ankou’s not the gunpowder. He’s the trigger. And the hand. Let’s see what I can do about that… It was hard to focus on the Ankou’s bonds over the general storm of necromantic energy building to a fever pitch. But once he found them, Nick realized they were strong but clumsy. He focused on the bonds, using his necromantic control like a scalpel. The bonds slacked, and eventually gave. The storm cut off like someone had flipped a switch, and the Ankou stood up. The silence of the grave fell over the crypt, as the cultists still standing blanched. The Ankou waved his hand… and they fell, utterly pale. He tipped his hat to Nick, then walked into the shadows, vanishing. “Well, that was… anticlimactic,” said Madeleine. “Hey, the Ankou’s a middleman,” said Nick. “You can rely on him for efficiency, not pomp.” “Either way,” said the priest. “He’s free now. And… Mister Cimitiere, are you all right?” Nick didn’t feel weird… but he slowly became aware that the shadows around him were lengthening. As he heard Madeleine shout something he could barely hear, the floor gave way beneath him… and he fell onto firm soil. Once his eyes adjusted to the shift in light, he found himself back in Lantern Hill Cemetery. He brushed off the soil, then got to his feet. “So, what was that?” he said to the empty air. “Just coincidence? Me ending up in the right place, at the right time, dealing with the right threat? You really expect me to believe that was just chance?” Nothing answered. Not that he expected it to. As he trudged off back home, he muttered to himself, “One day, I’m going to figure out why the hell I’ve got all this…”

April 15, 2011 Gabriel decided that he really, really hated time travel. Not in the "all the paradoxes make my head hurt!" way that most physicists (and science fiction fans) mean. No, his was the "why did a saber-toothed tiger appear right outside my classrom" kind of hate. Thankfully, the theater had several exits, and he'd made sure to get his students out quickly. That he took the time to knock the beast out afterwards was as much an act of frustration as it was one to protect the people on campus. He'd jogged after his class long enough to make sure they were getting to safety, then slipped away to a deserted bathroom to change. Of course, a roving super-predator was the least of his troubles. First he'd run into a gang of Vikings. Or Vikers.Or whatever they'd called themselves. He'd spent about ten minutes getting them sorted out; each one wasn't too hard to put down, but there were about two dozen of them. Add in the fact that they all had rather sharp weapons, and he'd tried hard to not get hurt (he'd just cleaned this costume from the last set of bloodstains!). Thankfully, he'd only taken a few bruises for his troubles, while the barbarians were busy being unconscious. But his current foes were decidedly more frustrating. They seemed to be from, of all things, the future. At least, the hover-bikes and cheap-looking laser pistols suggested that. 'Would be just my luck I'd be facing a psycho gang from the future.' Not just any gang, it seemed. These guys dressed like clowns, of all things. Their nominal leader was wearing a dirty purple suit and trying to knife him. They were all amateurs compared to some of the foes he'd faced. "You guys aren't that scary; you sure you're a real gang?" "Shut up! We're feared by plenty of people! Even that freaking Midnight-" "Probably walks all over you. I've been going easy on you, son." "GRA-umph!" The leader's charge was cut off when sonic energy knocked him into a nearby brick wall. Suddenly, Gabriel was hovering in the air above all of the remaining gangsters. He grinned and set off an incredibly loud sound in their midst. "You all should have just sat back and waited this storm out; it would have saved you some bruises." With most of the gang clutching their ears in pain, Gabriel reared back and let loose a bone-shaking bellow, knocking them all flat to the ground, and quickly unconscious. He rubbed his throat afterwards with a light grimace. "That still stings. Now, where should I-" His next words were cut off as he was suddenly and violently pulled through a portal that appeared perhaps a foot behind him. It seemed to be a particularly vicious one, tossing him too and fro in the maddening color swirl of its length. The last thing Gabriel saw before unconsciousness took him was the ground...about 3 feet in front of his face, and closing fast. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - “-ing me! Crap my mask!” Gabriel's mask and hood were pulled up near-instantly as he assessed the situation. He was back in Freedom City; there were still crazy time portals all over the place. He cast his gaze about, and it settled on... “You're kidding. Russians on robot bears? Who comes up with that kind of thing? Well, back to the grindstone.” The air was soon filled with the sounds of exploding robots, hollering Russians, and high-powered sonic blasts. Eventually, all the bears had been taken out, the Russian (maybe?) raiders were unconscious, their weapons were scrap, and Gabriel was dusting his hands. Just then, the whole pile was sucked into a portal that appeared for a moment, before vanishing. Listening for a moment and searching the skies, it appeared the portals were gone all over the city. “It's about time. I'm totally wiped out.” With that, Gabriel flew home to eat a large supper and fall promptly to sleep. That night, Carson Keefe had dreams filled with laughter, green fields, and all the other things that reminded him of a time that wasn't his that he'll never see again. He sheds a single tear, but the next day, the dreams are fainter. Within a week, he barely remembers those couple of days in the past, and it makes him mourn all the more.

Dragonfly stood, disoriented, in the middle of a street in...where? She blinked, glancing around herself; she was pretty sure she'd just been in her warehouse. Certain in fact, as her mind wasn't in the habit of lying to her outright, which made the asphalt and disreputable-looking shops more than a touch curious. She shook her head, reaching up to pinch her nose...and hitting a faceplate. right - yes - warehouse - fitting prototype suit She glanced down at herself, frowning at the clearly unfinished armor and exposed wiring of her work-in-progress. odd visual disturbance - spatial rift - feedback? - no - power source connected but insufficient on its own - could alter a rift at best - spontaneous spacetime tear? - very curious - dangerous - location - ? She glanced around, eyes landing on a street sign. With a street name in.... "....French? France?" she wondered aloud, blinking. space - bearings - okay - did want to visit - priorities - time - night - fall - early fall by temperature - hard to tell - year - ? - always a nearby newspaper in the stories - stereotype never holds up when you need it to She frowned, cutting off her distracting train of thought - knowing when she was was important, but even without much street smarts to speak of anyone fighting crime for long enough got a feel for the local mood. Something was...wrong. As near as she could tell she was standing in a run-down but still active piece of a large city (pavement - solid - worn - shops active but low-quality - small businesses - housing? - low-rent apartments - phrase - ‘hole in the wall' - high number of alcohol suppliers for a small area): even at this time of night there should have been faint talking, people cleaning, cars, thugs, gangs, people on late night walks, scavenging animals...something. But there wasn't. There was just a suspicious, omnipresent, muffling nothing that set her on edge. The kind of nothing that usually precedes- Gunshots. A woman in a leather catsuit (catsuit - really?) came running around the corner, limping from a nonfatal but painful-looking leg wound. There was something very, very familiar about the wound, and something even more familiar about the woman, but she couldn't quite place it. Not that she had long to ponder: shortly after the woman came a pair of thugs. And shortly behind them an instantly familiar man, no pondering required. "Father," she half-whispered, taking half a step back to match. Her mind spun, reeling through too many things at once. what - how - where - what - no - focus - too young - ten - fifteen years? - can't be - has to be - spacetime rift - odds are - what - wait - no - focus focus focus There was still something, eating at the edge of her mind. calm - focus - stay rational - arrange facts - father - France - wish I knew the exact date - woman - protect obvious victim - recognition - who? As if on cue that woman turned her head to look back at the strange, armored figure in the streets. A pair of dark blue eyes under long blonde hair looked at her with confusion and suddenly Dragonfly knew why she seemed familiar, and what the date was. Those were her eyes. Mara's eyes. Mara's mother's eyes. The thugs, and Hallomen, had stopped. She knew why: her father was anything but a risk-taker, and an obviously-armed figure complicated things. He also wasn't one to give up, though, and her long association with the man gave her the insight to practically follow his train of thought word for word: A hero would be too dangerous to tangle with in person, her mother was too dangerous to let free to kill later, and whatever thugs he'd hired for the job were disposable. It was better to see an important assassination done in person, but best to let your temporary henchmen finish off wounded prey and, at worst, slow down your enemies while you made your escape by the fastest means available. True to form, that's exactly what he did. A quick string of orders (Russian - always preferred Russians for some reason) to make clear that the wounded woman died first and he excused himself, citing having to ‘go get the girl' as he calmly but quickly turned back around the corner, reappearing only as a brief face behind a rolling-up tinted window as he was driven away. The thugs raised their guns. The world slowed down. Her brain considered the situation from a thousand angles in a thousand fractions of a second, and she had two choices: the tear that brought her here would still be present, a weak point in the fabric of reality that would either heal itself or briefly reopen to reassert the way things should be. Her father was almost certainly on his way to a small flat elsewhere in the city to collect her, the young her, the her so very young as to be defenseless. Her suit - the prototype for her suit - was only just ready for testing fit, much less function: she was pretty sure it would fly faster than the car could drive, and while without most of its plating it wouldn't stand up to small arms fire she suspected she could breach the tear early and use it to escape with her mother. She was very, very certain that she couldn't do both. So not a choice at all, really. Usually the world sped back up after she was done analyzing; not today. Some detached part of her watched the goons pull their triggers, even as her mind was calculating, solving, sending information to her suit. The suit, in turn, flared to life - without the plating that would have allowed her to shield her mother from the gunfire, the whole thing came alive, flaring energy that twisted and escaped, rippling through the world as it passed, ghost-like, through the air. Space tore open again, far more chaotic, tendrils of broken spacetime arcing out toward Dragonfly and her mother. The pair disappeared, and without Dragonfly's influence the tear simply pulled itself back together. No bullets were heard to hit pavement, only blood on the ground to mark anything having happened at all. Well, blood and two awfully confused Russian guns-for-hire. "" Dragonfly appeared back in her warehouse, alone, her suit overheating to the point of smoking as more than a few parts burnt out. In a little under three hours of feverish math and simulation her main computer monitor was dominated by a number and three very important letters: ETA. She hit a key and the number started counting down.

“Oh no…not again!†mumbled Rene to himself. Around him, a horde of armed Frenchman were assailing a grand Chateux. Musketfire, shouting, and the smell of burning buildings (lit by the horde’s flaming torches) assailed his senses. The day had started off so pleasantly. Rene had been taking a stroll in the park, the weather was good, the birds had been singing, and even the city air had seemed cleaner and fresher than was its normal, acceptable but flawed, nature. And then, wham! He didn’t even know what had hit him. Nothing that his extraordinary visions detected anyway. The next thing he knew, he was stumbling across a pebbled pavement to the tune of an enraged rabble. It was all so familiar. The French Revolution. He had fought in it himself, as a young man. And now he had been catapaulted through time to relive the horror. With a cold feeling, Rene looked down at his clothes. 21st century, flecked with some antiquarian taste, and all good quality. He looked up, into the eyes of an angry mob, armed with pitchforks, flintlocks, and torches. This wasn’t good. He wasn’t technically dressed as an aristocrat. But his clothes were odd and well made. That was probably good enough for a rabble with blood on their minds – and on their hands too, he suspected. “Good friends†he started. “I can explain everything!†he started. Could he? Could he?. No. But he could try. “Long live the revolution!†he continued, waving his fist in the air. “Long live France!†Forcing his beating heart to slow down, he started his gambit. Perhaps too fast, and perhaps too gabbled. “I have come here today, dear friends, to fight the glorious fight. All day yesterday, I have spied on the vile aristocrats, hiding in their midst! And now I come to you, the brave people of France, to lead you to the final victory against the…errr…†He stumbled. The crowd glared back at him. “…the Baron…the Baron Le *cough cough splutter* he finished, forcing a series of coughs and gasped breathing. He raised one eye. The crowd glared back at him. “Non?†he asked rhetrorically. His answer was a surge of people, waving makeshift weapons and screaming for revenge and blood. “Non†he conceded to himself, bringing out his magic paintbrush. He had better not screw this one up. The adrenaline both helped and hindered. With a magnificent sweep of his arm, ending with a flourish of his fingers, the brush erupted with invisible magic and a wave of complete darkness washed over both the Crowd and the Magician, enveloping them. Darkness was no problem for Rene. His eyes weren’t much good these days anyway, and he relied more and more on his mystic senses. Scuttling away, he sidestepped the mob and darted into a ramshackle burnt out building. At some point it had been a stable, and some agitated horses still loitered in confusion inside it. "Horses heh?" Said Rene, stroking his beard. “Its been quite a while…†he muttered to himself as he approached what looked like the most virile specimen. “But I think I can remember…†He groaned as he mounted the steed. It would play havoc with his back and rear (he remembered) but it felt rather exciting to ride again. As the darkness ebbed away, Rene pointed his horse to the hills, and recalled the old lessons he had had, and the times he had ridden. It was a bit foggy, but he thought he could say the art of Equestrianism had returned. With a gallop and a shout of exhilaration, Rene sped off to the hills, as far away, and as fast away, as possible from the mindless Rabble who had threatened him. “Magnificent†he yelled to himself, oblivious to his aching muscles. Despite the danger, he was enjoying himself. As he rode, he spied another shimmering in the distance. A rip in the landscape that could not be natural. Shaking his head, the memory came back. That rip had thrown him back to this time – and now, he swore, it would return him. “Stay there!†he yelled at the time tunnel. “I have a bone to pick with you!†he swore, as the horse charged at full pace towards the anomaly. It surely did not hear or understand Rene – and surely was no more sentient than the rocks it floated over, but it seemed to obey the venerable mystics command, for it remained quite still as Rene rode straight into it... ...and into modern day Freedom City. The birds still sang, the sun still shone, and the air was still clean. But, to make a picture even more dramatic, Rene was now trotting across the Park on top of a magnificent stallion. “Good day†said Rene to an amazed couple he passed, doffing his beret at them. Good day indeed.

There was an Omegadrone below. He was screaming. Flying overhead as the crowd on the street shouted in terror and fled the grim reminder of the horror of Freedom's past, Caradoc came to a fast decision: he came in low and plowed into the lost drone, plowing both men into the side of a nearby Taco King, the fast food joint already smashed in by looters from the great collapse of the 22nd century. Inside, both of them out of the sight of the crowd, he turned and fired a blast that collapsed the storefront behind them before dropping his disguise. Inside, he tackled the screaming drone. Unbidden, combat lessons came back to him: _Strike beneath the neck. The weak point of the armor is where the head meets the shoulders._ But he wasn't striking to kill today; Harrier had vowed that he would kill no more. Omegadrones were not part of that vow. But Omegadrones didn't scream. Not in words. The man beneath the helmet was pale-faced and shake, tears falling from eyes-too-wide _ocular implants forced beneath the skin_... as he looked up at what he thought was his tormentor. "Do it!" He screamed. "Do it, you metal-faced bastard! I'm not afraid of you anymore, do you hear?" Harrier's metallic face pulled away, revealing the man beneath, and he spoke with urgency as he grabbed the man's arms. "Listen to me! Listen to me!" He hesitated, almost called the man 'subunit', and added, "You're safe! If you can think, if you can talk, the link has been broken! You are safe here! Tell me your name!" he shouted, his metallic voice raised against the emergency as it almost never was. This was no place for his usual humility. "It...it...you're right!" the man cried. And he was human, from his facial features perhaps Euro-Caucasian; his skin the color of one of the front-line drones, not the heavy combat units that Harrier once had been. "It's gone, that terrible voice is..." He took a deep breath, then another, and said, "I...my name is Kurt Waid. I live in Freedom City. I live in Hanover. Yes...I...god..." He shook, all over, his armor clanking. "Get me out of this! Please, get me out of this!" Harrier knew that the sub-units could not live long without their armor, but with his power pike he did what he could, cutting open steel and slicing free the man within. _There are treatments now,_ he thought a little desperately. _Another can be built for him..._ "Listen to me, Kurt," said Harrier firmly. "My name is Stephen," he confessed. "I once was like you, a man, taken by the Terminus. But as I am freed, so you are freed. You have been the victim of a temporal anomaly." He'd seen them appearing in the sky over Champions, and gone out to do all he could to make things right. "The armies of Omega have been repulsed from this city. What date is it?" "The date?" Kurt was taking shallow breaths: eventually the residual energy in his diaphragm would fade, and within days he would suffocate without connection again to the power battery in his armor. "It...it's..." He gave a date Harrier knew down to his very bones: the date of the first day of the Terminus Invasion. "I was out shopping with my wife and my kids when those...those damned Omegadrones were suddenly everywhere! I told my family to run and I went the other way to try and ward them off and...and they caught me and they did..." He looked down at himself and shuddered all over, but Harrier's horror was growing. "Tell me about your family," he said suddenly, "tell me what they are like." And he listened, he listened intently as he desperately began to summon his friends by radio, finding them busy, gone, or finally only able to tell him what he already knew of temporal matters. The past could not be changed. Nor could one be plucked from the past, like a soul half-in and half-out of the coil, without terrible consequences. When the current anomalies were restored, all would be as it once had been. _All of it_. And a freed Omegadrone with memories of the future would be dropped into Omega's lap on the first day of the Terminus Invasion. For the future to be saved, the iron logic of time said this man had to die. But... "My wife's name is Jillissa," said Kurt, obviously using her as a beacon to compose himself. "We have a daughter named Hannah, she's twelve, and our son Edward is ten. Jillissa is a nurse at McNider General and Hannah and Edward are kids, they're at...God, what's this going to mean? How long have I been gone?" When Harrier told them, he screamed again, but more in surprise than horror. It had been a very long time since 1993. Before he could speak again, Harrier interrupted him. "Listen to me, Kurt," he said with great firmness. "The process of transformation is irreversible. Though you can be freed from your armor, your body is dependent on it. Your organs have been replaced, and they cannot be replaced in time. You have only a few hours, perhaps days to live. I know this is very hard to hear, but you must understand it, and believe it, or all...all will be lost. Do you understand?" Kurt looked him in the eye, his face stricken for a moment, before finally, reluctantly...he nodded. "I made peace with death when I felt those machines pull me open like a ragdoll. I know I won't get out of this one alive. Will you take me to my family?" It was the question Harrier had been waiting for; it was one he could answer. "Yes." - As hero fought time-lost villain and as time itself warped and changed around Freedom City, Caradoc flew invisibly through the sky, carrying with him his ill, pale companion on a mission to find the family he'd lost twenty years earlier. Harrier knew with the iron logic of an Omegadrone that it was foolish to look: that it was entirely likely the man's family had died with him, or just a little later...but sometimes that iron logic wasn't always true. With a little help from Miss Americana by text message, they found Jillissa Waid, still in Hanover, and by the time they landed she and her adult children were waiting on the lawn for the father they hadn't seen in so very long. Secure in his Caradoc identity, Harrier stood back and watched the reunion as children saw the father they'd lost, as a woman saw the love she'd left behind. Jillissa had eventually remarried, as one might expect, though her second husband was out of the country; their children were married as well, and at a signal from his father Kurt B. Waid came running out of the house to greet his time-lost grandfather. There were tears, and emotion, and meanwhile Harrier was again confirming that nothing could be done. But there was a little time left. They went everywhere, the chaos of the day meaning that no one looked too closely: at the Super Museum to watch the death of the Centurion, at Champions where Kurt could eat a last burger and fries (and later, Caradoc held him as he vomited; as he'd warned him, his stomach was gone...), and Harrier told his own story as well, the grim legacy of the Terminus that perhaps only another Omegadrone could fully understand. It was a long and glorious day until finally, as sun set, Harrier's radio clicked to life. "The anomalies are going away." "...that...that means me, doesn't it?" Kurt was looking at the setting sun on the horizon, leaning against a lampost as his muscles began to fade. "Anomalies going home...and I don't belong here..." "Yes." In his hand, Harrier's pike whined to life. "You know the fate that awaits you. And what that fate would mean for all of us. When you return, Omega will gain knowledge of the future. I cannot allow that to happen." "Or...or maybe they'll just...they'll just kill me." Kurt gave Harrier a haggard smile. "You said that's what...happened to you, right? An...Omegadrone who leaves the hearing of...the voice of Omega is blasted to pieces by the others as a...oh God, that hurts...fail-safe system. Omega won't...know I was there." He slumped to the ground, still sitting, and looked up at Harrier. "Yes. That is what happened to me. But I cannot guarantee the same will happen to you." Disappearing from view, he aimed his pike at Kurt's face. "The iron logic..." "Wouldn't you have...have killed me when we met, if you really believed in that?" He looked at him above the pike. "You let me live before, you...you said, because you wanted proof that the power of...of the Terminus was a lie. If you kill me now, doesn't that mean you believe it's true?" Harrier looked at him, his face invisible behind his armored plate, and tightened his grip on the pike... --- Some days later It had taken Stephen Murdock, with his limited research skills, quite a while to get into the library at the Super Museum and into the long, long list of those left missing and dead by the Terminus Invasion of 1993. He went through the pages slowly until finally he found what he was looking for. A man, a name, and a cause of death. Kurt Ross Waid: Killed by Omegadrone. 1993. He studied the words, then with a small sigh, he closed the book. Freedom had triumphed.