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Avenger Hockey Mask Midtown Jack sat in his lush apartment, a glass of blood in hand, studying the mute skull-face in the chair opposite him. "You were supposed to be a lark, you know. Just a simple little diversion for my boring mornings and evenings. Look at me now, thanks to you." He took a drink. "I'm a superhero, I've got..." He swirled the blood in his glass and thought of Taylor. "I've got a woman I love. A real, human woman, friends, and...half the city knows what I am. Most of the vampires know too." He stared down at what he drank. "I don't even know if they realize the full implications of my existence." He set the glass down, looking intently at the hockey mask across from him. "God, it's so hard to remember how living people act. How living people think." He scrubbed his hands through his thick, glossy black hair. "It's just a joke to most of them, you know? Oh, look at the vampire who's a superhero, how very cornball and heroic." Gently, carefully, he replaced the glass on a nearby table. "I'm not like them. I'm not like them at all, really." A crackling fire burned in his apartment's fireplace, the light casting an eerie red and orange glow over Jack and his surroundings. "That's what I'm really afraid of," he finally said. "Maybe the only thing I really am afraid of. One day that particular mask is going to slip, and Taylor's going to see me at my worst. Or Scarab, or any of the others who've basically trusted me for so very long..." He shuddered, rising to his feet as he picked up the glass again from the nearby end table. "So what do I do? I put a hockey mask on and I go out and beat up muggers. And gods, and extra-dimensional tyrants, and...God." He rubbed his eyes, studying the mask again. "I can't keep doing that." Walking up to the mask, he bent down and studied the plastic most carefully, remembering his long-ago argument with the Scarab. Not so long ago, I guess, in the grand scheme of things. "The hockey mask is about scaring people. About hurting them, even when I'm supposed to be their protector." He touched the plastic. "If I'm going to be a hero, a real hero, who actually inspires people...this is one mask I don't need."

For Fleur de Joie. Midtown October 24 (Takes place during Con GamesÂ) After separating from her friends, Stesha made her way through the crowd of convention-goers towards the women's restroom. She blended in pretty well with the crowd here, which was mostly young, though there were quite a few more men than women, and she was conscious of a few looks her way. Maybe it was the hair. She'd sort of gotten used to getting double-takes for her very long, very green locks. But for the moment, she was just one more attendee, exercising a little bit of reasonably healthy hero worship for the people who kept their hometown and the whole world safe. Despite the pinch of time, she looked over a booth or two, grinning at the comic books, toys and memorabilia on display. Once she'd done her thing and changed back, she'd have to stop by this way again and pick up some stuff for her brothers for Christmas. They were all adults, but they'd love some of this stuff. The idea of Christmas still made her feel a little nervous inside, but she was trying to work through it. She knew she'd go home, she wanted and needed to be there, but could she keep living the lie that was already difficult from a thousand miles away? And what about Derrick? She wanted him to be there too, but it wasn't fair to him to ask him to participate in her deception. Even if she'd thought he'd be able to do it convincingly, which seemed unlikely. She'd have to figure something out before the holidays, but it wasn't even Halloween yet! She still had time. Stepping into the ladies room, she walked up to the sink and patiently played with her hair while two women who were already in there finished up and left. Finally alone, she stepped into a stall, leaving it unlocked, and touched the little chain of daisies she'd put around her wrist that morning. (Braiding flowers into her hair had just seemed unsubtle today, somehow.) A quick breathless trip through living green, and she was back in her own apartment, where her costume was neatly laid out and waiting. It was much easier to do it that way than to try and change in the bathroom, certainly! Stesha quickly stripped to her underthings, then began putting on her costume. The green pants and shirt were easy enough, close-fitting but not the hated spandex, they were easy to move in and very resistant to damage or stains. That was important to a hero whose man activities tended to include a lot of gardening. After the pants came calf-length brown boots with low heels, enough to give her a little height without cutting divots if she had to walk or run on wet ground, and her utility belt, as she jokingly called it. It wasn't a real utility belt like the comic book Freedom Leaguers had, with a hundred useful little gadgets, it was more a toolbelt that was mostly pockets. Most of the pockets were filled with seeds and leaves and roots, the tools of her trade, though there were also spots for her wallet and cell phone. It paid to be prepared! Those outfit pieces were all useful, but that wasn't what really made the costume a disguise. Next, Stesha pulled on the long cowled cape that completed the outfit. Dark brown like freshly turned earth, it had sleeves and buttoned across her chest, stopping just below her breasts in the front and continuing in the back to a cape that hit the back of her knees. The hood came up around her face and hid her hair, probably her most recognizable feature, and rendering her all but anonymous. With her face cast in shadow, the domino mask she used to cover her eyes completed the transition. Fully dressed, she went over to the mirror and looked at herself. She wasn't Stesha Madison, florist, anymore, not even a hint. She was Fleur de Joie, a superhero from Freedom City, and she looked pretty darn good, if she did say so herself. Grinning cheekily at herself in the mirror, Stesha did one more quick turn to check herself over, then touched her flowers again. There was a potted plant waiting in the green room at the Hall, and she didn't want to be late.

October 16 Late at night Spitfire Max closed the door to his trailer and looked himself in the face in the mirror. He hated looking too long in the mirror, afraid the facade will crack, showing what he truly was. The bravado, the devil may care attitude, the crazy stunts, and even the tattoos; they were all thin, eggshell masks over a scared and lonely boy of seventeen. This was a truth he hid away, even himself from, and though unhealthy, it was the only way he knew to stay sane and not fall apart. Max grew up with no family, oh sure the carnival provided plenty of interesting friends, but even his adopted mother, Deedra, was more friend than mother, she never even called him son. The only person in the world who knew this, knew the real Max Compton, was Bertram. Maxie scoffed a laugh at himself in the mirror. "What does that say about you, huh? Only man in the world knows the real you eats fire fer a livin'". Maxie tried to laugh it off, but his voice cracked in his throat and he almost found himself crying. True, Bertram was a fire-eater, but he was also a good man. What one chooses for a vocation does not define them; it merely shows you one aspect of them. Maxie had taken that concept to the extreme; he had made his stage persona his only outward persona. He was a fire eater, a carnival sideshow attraction, and to the rest of the world, that’s all he was. More and more often, Max had found himself afraid of his own mask, the play he put on for the world. He'd been doing the show so long he'd started to forget which Max was the act. Maxie knew he needed friends, and he needed to be more than just some attraction, or he'd be consumed by his own false face. Maxie just didn' know if he had the strength to let anyone in. Maxie realized something then, looking in the mirror, fretting over whether to be consumed by his loneliness or risk letting a person in, he realized he was a coward. All the stunts he does, every life endangering flip and hair singeing fire show may look cool, but it didn't make him brave, it made him reckless at best, or perhaps suicidal at worst. Real bravery could be seen in elderly couples, holding hands walking in Liberty Park. It could be seen in movie theaters, where couples sat together watching a love story unfold while held in each other's arms. It was on golf courses, in bars, in shopping centers, and in airport terminals. Anywhere friends met to share stories and make memories, anywhere that families met or began. Real bravery was exhibited when one had the strength to open oneself to another, fully and completely, despite the dangers of rejection and failure. Real bravery was being vulnerable, not building a stone mask and cage for your heart. Maxie hung his head as a silent sob racked his body. Max had no qualms about risking his life to save another, or even just for a good laugh, but did he have the nerve to risk living to save his own life, or would he die alone, forever remembered for a masquerade, and not remembered for who he truly was?

Down in the Riverside, people are having cookouts in their backyards, swapping stories with their neighbors and generally just celebrating the holiday. Being the relative new guy on the block, Eric was at one of the cookouts, using it as a meet and greet… that and he was a horrible cook. The discussion eventually led to what everyone does for a living. Charlie was a construction worker, Amy was a DJ, Dan had a desk job at an insurance firm and so on. Just about everyone had a normal every day job, except for Eric. He had the pleasure of saying “I’m one of the lead developers for Darts Inc.†Someone knew that it was a weapons company and the conversation got a little more strained. It seemed that people didn’t mind the destructive power the Freedom League got handed, but if someone worked at getting the ability to make something blow up, suddenly they were the dangerous ones. It’s not they had more practice and knowledge or anything. Eric excused himself from the festivities and returned home not too much longer. He walked down into his basement, and got in to the secret elevator, whistling “Let Freedom Ring†as he rode it down. When the door opens, the lights kick on and Eric’s eyes come to rest on his own personal, multi-million dollar death machine. “Heh. If they only knew.†Seeing the suit reminded Eric, yet again of why he did what he did. Not a day went by without some Technicolor wonder being lauded over as if they were a national treasure. These heroes were thought of as the nation’s, even the world’s, defenders. Eric knew the real truth however, these so called heroes were the true tyrant rulers of this world. Every time the heroes “saved the world†Eric knew all they were really doing is protecting their own property, which is what any man would do. These heroes had taken over the world by sheer laziness on the part of the rest of mankind. A select few were randomly bestowed great powers and vaulted themselves to near god status, while the rest of mankind just sat back and let it happen. Eric refused to let that stand. He had been making these weapons for all these years to give the masses a way to rattle their cages and to take back their freedom, but this was in vain. The laziness was all consuming, and they did not even gather the energy to truly think about what this world was coming too. So, if the people were too lazy to act themselves, then a champion needed to arise and lead them to victory. Eric would be that champion. He became a crusader for freedom, fighting a war that the rest of the world wasn’t even aware of. To them, Malice was just another megalomaniac abusing his power for personal gain instead of a higher calling. That irony hurt Eric more than any of the broken bones, more than the shrapnel he pulled out of his body, and more than the humiliation of any of his defeats, but he would endure. He needed to endure, for the sake of humanity, for the sake of freedom. Eric looked at the suit for a moment as if he was truly seeing it for the first time. “It’s missing something.†A half hour later, Eric stood back and admired his handiwork. The Arms of Malice was a bad name as it turns out. True, Eric did hate the supers, but he hated them for a reason. He hated them for robbing mankind of its drive and its freedom. That is why the Arms of Malice is now called the Mantle of Freedom, and Eric will wear its red, white, and blue proudly as he starts the new Revolution.