December 2011 Vignette: Player's Choice

[Dr Archeville]

FC:PbP is offering the community another "vignette" opportunity!

December is a hectic month for many. For students and teachers, it's the end of the Fall semester, so tests and projects are due. There's also the assorted holidays, and the rush of gift-buying and -making, decorating, baking, and spending time with friends & family.

But we also know you like to post here, and chances to earn extra points.

This month, we're giving players the chance to revisit our old vignettes. Not everyone's had a chance to submit something for all of them, and even if you have, some of them (like the New Year's Eve ones) could be redone.

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Who: Any player who is interested.

What: See prior Vignette instructions

When: The deadline for submissions will be Saturday, December 31st by 11:59 PM EST (GMT -5). The time the vignettes themselves take place is detailed in the individual vignette entries.

Where: See prior Vignette.

Why: To enhance our community, to flex your writing muscles, to think more deeply about (or put a new spin on) your characters, and to earn a bonus PP for your character for the month of December.

How: Once your story is finished and proofed, post it in this very thread here!

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Additional Notes/Clarification: Vignettes do not count as posts.

The "Musical episode" vignette may take place in June 2009 (the time of the original episode), or at a later time. If doing so during the original event, but your char was not in FC (or not an active superhero at the time), you can still do so; the magic reaches out to those destined for greatness. If at a later time, please include something about your character finding an odd crystal or something which had captured some of the magic, and releases it when your char touches it.

Post here with questions.

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Cannonade: [What Price Freedom?] Know Your Rights

Catalyst: The Masks We Wear

Changeling: The Masks We Wear

Nick Cimitiere: [House of L] Lost Highways

Citizen: [House of L] Citizen: Behold the Citizen!

Doktor Archeville: [House of L] Doktor Archeville: Blood & Iron

Fulcrum: [bloody Valentine] Takes One To Know One

Gabriel: %5BMusical%5D Songs & Revelations

Harrier: %5BBirthday%5DHarrier: Who You Are In The Dark

King of Suits: [House of L] Sanded King

Lord Steam: Ia! Ia! Archeville ftaghn!

Myrmidon: The Masks We Wear: Personas non Grata

Rene de Saens: Birthday

Supercape: What Price Freedom?

Synth: Birthday

Wander: [Masks We Wear] Don't Judge A Book

Weaver: The First Mask We Wear

[Dr Archeville]

A minor addendum to the "Musical Episode" one above: you could also do one set now (well, around Christmas/Boxing Day/Hanukkah/Kwanzaa/Winter Solstice), and the Maestro has found one of the magic-capturing crystals, which he's using to recreate his "make people sing the truth" spell he & Medea worked some time ago.

[Dr Archeville]

Downton Freedom City, USA. Today

Panicked women ran through the streets, tossing their packages aside in their mad dash to safety, while police officers fired at the looming threat. It was a giant mechanical man, fifty feet tall, made of riveted steel and hissing steam as it moved. Emblazoned on its chest was a great eagle, clutching that darkest of symbols: the swastika.

"It's not use, Chief!,” one of the cops cried out, "our guns have no effect!"

The metal titan’s hands flipped and retracted into its arms, revealing strange weapons! The right arm was like a howitzer, blasting a hole into a nearby bank, but the left had revealed an odd two-pronged cannon, which spat out a sphere of destructive energy at a nearby car, disintegrating it!

"Then call them in!," the heavily jowled Chief yelled back “Call in... the Freedom League of America!"

"Ja, call sem in, sweinhund!" a voice boomed. The top of the giant’s head sank down into its chest, then the top of the head opened to reveal a clear dome-covered pilot’s area, operated by Doktor Archeville! "Call to sem, so sey vill face de full power of mein Panzermensch!" He cackled madly, as three snake like forms slithered out and up from the giant’s back: more energy weapons, raining a deadly barrage upon the city!

A bronze figure streaked through the air on jets of flame: Daedalus, the Greek Gearhead! "Hold, Archeville! What madness has seized you? You once fought by our side! You had rejected your grandfather’s ways! What happened?"

I've got to keep him talking -- there's now way I can beat him without Captain Thunder or Lady Liberty's help!

Archeville cackled madly, and swung all his terrible weaponry on the armored hero. "Foolish Daedalus! It vas a ruse all along -- I vas never von of you! I played de 'good German' until I was able to take vhat I needed for dis, de Reich's greatest veapon!"

Germany, Years Prior

Dark storm clouds rolled overhead, threatening to burst at any moment, but he did not seek shelter. The young boy, barely into his teens, stood atop a hill overlooking a quaint German village. He wore the traditional garb of his homeland: spiked shoes for climbing the frigid alpines, knee-high socks that almost met the bottom edge of his lederhosen, a white shirt with forest green vest, and a gray alpine hat with a red feather in it. In his tiny hands he clutched a crumpled mass of white linens: a lab coat. Behind him, a gravemarker stood, marked with the Archeville family name, and an eagle carrying a terrible symbol.

"Ja, grandfazher. I shall become... a Doktor!" At that dire pronouncement, a bolt of lightning split the skies open.

"You see,” Archeville sneered, "it vas I who took de Qvantum Gemerald!"

Daedalus flew back a bit, “the Quantum Gemerald? But... but that was a gift from the Colombians, for when we had stopped the terrible violence there! We thought Larceny, Inc. had taken it, but... you fiend!” Daedalus charged towards the metal giant, but was met with a fusillade of fire from a wheel-like gun atop the giant’s howitzer-arm! “Ungh!” Daedalus fell to the ground, denting the pavement, and was in prime position to be stepped on!

"Muah hah hah hah hah! Now, your bronze braggart, meet your fate! De fate of all who oppose de Reich!” He continued to cackle, slowly bringing the mighty spike-soled metal foot down... but suddenly stopped! "Vas?!"

Captain Thunder and Lady Liberty were on the scene! Captain Thunder grabbed the metal giant's howitzer-arm and pulled it back, bending it like it was tin foil, while Lady Liberty grabbed the end of the three snake-like blasters and tied them up, neat as apron strings! All that was left was the robot's let energy cannon, which was obliterated by a well-placed blast from Daedalus' gauntlets!

"Good work, team!," Thunder’s voice boomed as he flew down to Daedalas and offered him a hand up. "I-"

"Fools!" Archeville screamed, flecking the inside of his control dome with spittle. The robot flailed about without arms, but soon steadied, and a new weapon emerged, a great cannon set in the robot's chest -- aimed straight at City Hall! "Dose veapons I used before vere but toys compared to dis, de Ragnarok Cannon! Vatch, now, as I unleash de full power of de Qvantum Gemerald und Reich Science, to destroy your center of government! Muah hah hah hah hah hah!" Sickly green energy quickly built up, threatening to level City Hall!

"Not today, poin-deutsch-ter!," Thunder's voice boomed.

"That's right!," Daedalus added. "With America's help, the Greeks kicked your kind out of our country, and now I'm going to help return the favor! Lead on, Thunder!"

Captain Thunder, Daedalus, and Lady Liberty all leaped up, meeting Archeville's cannon with their fists. The combined might broke through and smashed not just the cannon, but through the robot’s chest and out the back! What remained of the robot toppled back and fell, sprawling out over the street.

"Nein! Nein, nein, nein, nein, nein!"

The heroic trio swung around and popped the dome off the pilot's area, and Thunder let Daedalus hoist Archeville out. "Curses!," Archeville spat as he shook his fists at the heroes.

"Aww," Lady Liberty pouted, "there's no need to be such a sour Kraut!" The trio laughed, and Archeville folded his arms, harumph-ing as the newspaper photographer took his pic.

I'll show them! I'll show them all!

What... what is happening here? What am I... what is going on? Someone... someone, please, help me!!

[Avenger Assembled]

Harrier

Birthday Vignette

The Lands Beyond

Who You Are In The Dark

Freedom League Oral History Project

The starships were like none seen among the forces of Omega, nor the barbarian rabble of the High-Exiles, nor the Shadowbane or even the shining Furions. I recall their great metallic bulk as they fell through the edges of the Ravel, the great dark fringe of the Terminus that is the nothing between dimensions, the jangling horror of their electromagnetic signals howling in our ears as we made our approach. The sound of life that has not known the embrace of Omega is a constant, thrumming agony to those who hear nothing but the Voice, a pain sharp enough to focus the attention and drive the intellect towards total destruction. Few impulses are granted those who serve the Knight of Entropy. The greatest of these is the loathing of what is.

The starships had come to the Terminus as many do, in consequence of a terrible mistake in the construction of a dimensional gate. Some are more fortunate than others and merely sacrifice themselves to the yawning maw of entropy, others slay whole realities as the doorway they left open becomes the teeth and jaws and tongue to devour all they once held dear. These ships were of the first variety, unwary explorers who learned of the true dangers of the multiverse, and of the subversion already present in their own reality. Shadivan Steelgrave had planted his agent among their crew even before their arrival, a blind-eyed engineer whose cybernetic graftings let him gaze rapt forever at the glory of the Doom Coil, and through his workings those ships were delivered unto our destruction. We left our transports and fell among the starships like the doom ants of Nihilor among the fleshy sheep of the Coil, and soon their pleas turned to cries as we slew them. Many drones died as well, of course, but the death of a drone is of no consequence to anyone. Not even himself.

Most starships not built in the Terminus are designed to fight other great vessels, not a never-ending horde of drones small enough to fly through their gunports and slay the men guiding them. Their destruction was not so great a task. I recall at last there were a few dozen of us remaining, our transports aflame from phased particle bombardments that had ignited their hulls and shattered their crews asunder, and but one starship, fleeing now out of the Ravel and into the heart of the Warpwold as interstellar drives gave them an escape their dimensional gateway could no longer offer. I was in the center of the formation of drones, a heavy attack unit like all the others, with no more thoughts, no more cares, no more dreams than all the rest.

The magnetic blast erupted from the rear batteries of the starship, striking me full-on with a beam cross-sectioned as wide as my armored form. I recall the agony of burning circuits, as if even my very mind was aflame, the foul taste and stinging acid of burning blood and fluids in my mouth as I burned even inside the armor, and then finally a single moment of terrible dislocation as the starship went to warp and I fell back amongst the other drones. There was a moment of awful stillness there in the cold and chilling dark of space, and then I remembered. I remembered it all. And I began screaming, and screaming, and screaming into the void as horrors upon horrors convulsed my mind and racked my body, and I howled as I felt the bite of pikes and the burning hiss of coil-flame against my armored body as the other drones turned on the traitor with the cold, implacable fury of a hive destroying a member corrupted.

I might have died there. I might have opened my armor to the icy kiss of the Ravel, I might have slain myself with the weapon I still carried, and indeed am carrying now, I might have sped away into the cold dark between worlds and been forever lost there. But salvation came in the form of those who sought my destruction. To choose to die in a convulsion of grief and guilt is one thing. To choose to be killed, even in the darkest night of the soul, is a different matter entirely. My fingers pulled tight around my pike and I screamed my own name, before I opened my eyes and I fell among the other drones, cleaving them in twain in flesh as I had been cleaved in twain in the soul. And when it was done, all done, and I was all alone in space, I buried myself among the shattered starships I had made and hid among the ruins of the lives of others.

To be alone among the dead in the heart of the Ravel, where matter, energy, life, and soul fall into a quiet stiller and colder than the Doom Coil itself, was a long cold night that seemed to stretch into infinity. I sat in a room full of the murdered dead in the heart of a shattered vessel, the monster that had taken their lives and the lives of so many others, and I remembered. I remembered it all. The feel of my bones torn from my flesh. The screams of the dying and the worse-than-dead. The faces. The voices. I might have stayed there in the dark forever, but in the end I realized I would be hunted and slain, or far far far worse taken again and changed again, and all of it would be for nothing. And I could not allow all that I had been, all that I had done, to be for nothing.

I have said elsewhere that I lived again the first time I walked the surface of the Silver Tree in the company of the Furions, a free being among free beings for the very first time. The first time I felt the sunlight of a living sun on my face, a grace I had known only from song and story even in the days before I had been broken in the forges. The first time another called me a man and not a thing, recognizing me only as his brother and not what would have slain him in the time before. The first time I knew again a woman's touch.

But it was there that night in the great black dark that I chose to live.

It was a good day.

[Avenger Assembled]

Citizen

House of L Revisited

Behold the Citizen!

The Lands Beyond

"What is this thing you humans call love?" asked Citizen, the robotic sentinel, of his friend Seven as they sat together on the Claremont campus. There was a party going on, one of the many that seemed to be going on all the time at the happeningist place for heroes, but as usual they only had eyes for each other. Everyone thought their relationship was only platonic...if only! "It is not logical," he informed her gravely. He understood emotions well enough; after all, his people had once been humanoids before their transformation into androids by the Curator, and he'd spent enough time around humans like Miss Americana to understand many of them. But romantic love between two teenagers, neither of whom were old enough to create biological offspring together by the customs of their culture, was most illogical. So what was this feeling that stirred in the blue and gold-clad robot's heart around Seven?

"Well," said Seven, patting her friend's hand with patient understanding that a more sensitive man might have seen as a deeper longing, "love is...love is like oxygen for organic beings," she told him gently, flowers stirring beneath her fingers as she stroked the garden box on the other side of the gazebo where they sat. "We need it to survive, to really be happy. Don't you ever want to have...love?" They were watching Corbin and Quo-Dis make googly eyes at each other, Quo-Dis proudly wearing Corbin's cowboy hat with that look in her eye that said she might be wearing something else for him later, and something in what the handsome senior and his girl had together made the witchy teaching assistant wrinkle her nose in a way that had nothing to do with casting spells. She supposed it was unethical in some ways for her to have this crush on the teenage student, but the heart wanted what it wanted, and anyway they weren't that different in age, just a couple of years.

"I have...many kinds of love," said Citizen thoughtfully, putting a steel hand to his chin as he tried to consider how to proceed. Human emotions were so fraught with danger and peril, driven by a thousand wants and cares of the flesh: how he longed to "I love the Centurion, who protected our people and liberated us from the Curator. I love my parents, who assembled me together and raised me, and I love Miss Americana who has been my teacher about the world, and I love...I love..." He put his hand on Seven's and gazed raptly into her eyes. "I love...you!" They kissed, then, urgently and frantically on the lips and cheeks, before they pulled away, gasping.

"Oh, Sharl!" cried Seven, hugging him to her chest as he embraced her in the same moment, overwhelmed with the sort of passion that only young people overcome by the sheer power of heroic love and emotion could feel. "Can we make it work? Can a human and a robot really find love together?" She looked up at him. "I believe in free love as much as any girl, but is the world really ready for us?" She knew how tough people in mixed relationships had it, whether interracial, interspecies, or both, and an organic/inorganic couple was about the weirdest, wildest thing she'd ever heard of.

"We can make it work," Sharl reassured her, taking her hand in his. "Mixed relationships may be controversial with _some_ people, but only with those squares who are too blinded by hate and fear to understand the logic of pure love." They kissed again, the scent of rising patchouli oil in the air, and snuck away from their little love nest to rejoin the party. Maybe the Radio Freedom kids of the last class had graduated already, having helped save the world from Omega, but the new generation of Radio Freedom kids were ready to help save the world from everyone over thirty. Well, not _everyone_; of course groovy Guses like Duncan Summers were always welcome among the kids whose exploits they had long admired.

As he and his new girlfriend joined the party, the mechanical Citizen sighed. Sometimes he wished very much to have a fleshy organic body, something denied him by the Curator's actions so long ago. He had the brain patterns of the teenager he would have been, downloaded into the body his parents had built, but he lacked the flesh to go with it. He'd talked with Miss Americana about his feelings, but the beautiful giant had always reassured him that he was just fine the way he was: a marvel of alien engineering with a hero's heart inside his steel chest. She was also a great source for romantic advice, and one of the people who'd helped persuade him that it was worth acting on his relationship with Seven before it was too late and he went back to take up his duties as part of the Centurion Assistance Squadron up in Tronik, the robotic city in the Arctic that was his home. In his blue and gold uniform, Sharl was the first of the Tronik androids trained to act as the Centurion's aides to leave the Sanctum and fight alongside the heroes of Freedom, but of course that duty wasn't going to last forever.

It wasn't until much later, when he and Seven were cuddled up together in the aftermath of the latest Rocking Rift concert, psychedelic colors still whirling in the air from the groovy genius' wicked grooves, that Seven broached a question. "We'll find a way to have children," she told him in a voice that spoke of calm surety. "With your science and my magic, we can make anything happen. It doesn't have to make sense, as long as we have each other." There was something vaguely troubling in her words, but Sharl certainly wasn't about to complain. After all, everyone knew love conquered all. And without his love for Seven, where would he be?

[Airon]

Weaver

December vignette (I wrote it as a "The mask we wear" vignette, but I realize it can just as well qualify as a "First Time")

A carefully crafted mix of style and substance

the West End

“The bulk of it should be tough and close-fitting†whispered Jamila in Saeid’s ear “what do you think about that navy blue over there?†she pointed at one of the huge yarns in the warehouse “it will blend into the night, wouldn’t it?â€

A few days before, he confessed her his idea of becoming a super-hero, using his fabric-controlling magic to help the neighborhood. And after a lengthy discussion and having given her final approval, Jamila took charge of the operation of creating a proper costume.

He loved how much thought she put into things, how many sides of every situation she was able to see. It reminded him of the first time he saw her.

“Oh, Saeid, welcome!†greeted him Miriam. She kissed him on both cheeks “Thanks a lot for the mint tea, it’s delightful!â€

“Thank you for the invite, Miri… I was prepared to spend another evening working…â€

She grinned in response “Oh, I wouldn’t be so sure about not working: my friend Jamila is in the kitchen, she’s preparing her most famous tabulè… surely she could use a helpful hand.â€

“Miri, are you trying to set me up again?†he poked her side playfully.

“No, no, this time is totally different.â€

“How?â€

“This time it might just work!â€

Back at home, husband and wife were looking at their purchases. “I think I should weave three or four scarves under there. I can have them floating in front of me deflecting blows.†Saeid waved in front of the mannequin wearing the preliminary draft of his costume.

“What if you make them longer, and made it so that they envelop you? They’ll provide additional protection, and when you move them all your body would seem to shift.â€

“That’s unsettling.â€

“That’s the point! You’ll scare the S#!£ out of them!â€

He looked at her surprised. Vulgar language wasn’t her trademark.

“Heh. I’m sorry.†She smiled innocently “I’m really getting into this thing!â€

The boiling oil hissed as she dropped the minced vegetables in “A few minutes, we don’t want to fry them, just… let’s give them a golden shade. They’ll taste better and the colors will pop on the yellow of the saffron base.â€

Saeid looked at the remaining ingredients on the table “So now we should put on the couscous the cumin and the basil, right?â€

Jamila smiled and waved her index “Just a teeny tiny bit. We want everybody to choose how strong they want it. When you get better at cooking it, you could gamble on everybody’s taste.â€

“What if I don’t get better?â€

“Oh, if you keep me as a teacher, you’ll become amazing!â€

Jamila rubbed her chin, looking at the mannequin perplexed. The costume was getting sturdier and more impressive, allowing freedom of movement as well as impressive theatric tricks “What if you run into something more dangerous than thieves and enforcers? This city is full of maniacs and aliens. Don’t you want something stronger?â€

He kissed her on the hair “I thought about that.†He grabbed a bunch of weights and small metal blades from a counter “I thought about weaving these into the costume, then twirling the scarves I’ll have something akin to a flail. But I’ll wait until I get better… I don’t want to accidentally cripple somebody.â€

“Now we add the meatballs – you could serve them aside, but they add substance as well as provide color contrast. You want both style and core elements merging together. A perfect mix of the twoâ€.

They served it and all their friends ere enthusiast. Jamila playfully deflected every compliment towards Saeid. They started several recurring jokes that night that would accompany them in their first dates.

Saeid’s fingers were moving, nimbly directing an mute symphony, and the threads danced accordingly making the costume grow from a bunch of yarns and loose threads.

“You’re getting better.†smiled Jamila as she leaned on him in a tired hug.

“It’s easier than cooking – but I don’t have as amazing a teacher for it.â€

She chuckled “Speaking of which – what do you say about a special ‘cooking lessons’ to celebrate this beautiful costume?â€

Saeid winked at her “We’re going to make a mess of the ‘kitchen’, honey.â€

“Oh… it comes with the activity.†They started kissing as the last threads interwoven themselves and completed the costume.

[Supercape]

Vignette: What Price Freedom?

Supercape

4th July 2011

On board the Starship “Starlockâ€

Even Captain Kraken wouldn’t sink this low.

It was from one of the Octopoid Bucaneer’s stooges that Supercape had first learned of the dread ship Starlock. It furrowed the outskirts of the galaxy, some said under a commission from the Star Kahn, some said by a rouge Star Knight, some said it was independent. Some said it flew straight out of a black hole, or from hell itself.

The Starlock was a slave ship.

It preyed on civilisations that were primitive, dying, or in trouble – be it from war, disease, or natural disaster. Perhaps it even created some of those miseries. Then, it pounced, rounding up some defenceless slaves, and carrying them off to sell on the galactic black market. To the very worst of warlords, cultures, or private enterprises. The risk was high – for the Lor took the very dimmest of views on slavery – but the price was high too. And the Starlock was a fast, well armed ship, that pounced and was gone.

It was only whispered of.

And here it was, landed on a world of sand, rock, and water, seeing if the primitive proto-amphibious race here would make good stock.

Supercape could track the ship, and move faster than any Lor ship. But it had taken some time to seek out the slave traders. And he was not about to waste the opportunity.

Two slavers were outside. The crew of the Starlock were serious people, hardened and cruel criminals, veteran fighters. Armoured and weaponised, alert and cunning.

From thewaters, Supercape burst, his costume aglow with radioactive power and a shining field of quantum molecules all around him. He landed beside the two Slavers, and struck one – not powerfully, but with his energised fist melting the man’s armour and overloading his weapon. His comrade reacted, firing his hand cannon directly at Supercape. Its power overloaded his forcefield and he could feel his skin sizzle, but he responded quickly, striking the man back and giving him a taste of his own medicine.

He reached down and took the Slaver by the collar, pulling him up to his own face. The Slaver was still wearing his mask, now smoking and sparking from the radioactive assault.

Supercape was not an angry man by nature, but the affront to nature these men were dispensing had incensed him.

“Your trade ends today, chum! I’m entering the Starlock with or without your help. Its just that if you give me the passcode, you won’t burn…†he sneered.

Yes, he was angry. It showed in his face and in his white hot glow. Some things, he decided, were just wrong. Not many. But this was one of them.

The Starlock itself was big and oppressive, all metal and function without thought to style or comfort. It was dark too, although Supercape’s extraordinary senses needed no light. The power systems and flow of energies lit the structure up like a Christmas tree to him.

The Guard to the Slave’s Cells was alert, but caught by Surprise when his Pain Staff exploded in his face, rendering his unconscious. He dropped like a deadweight to the floor, the boots and cape of his attacker brushing over him.

Supercape brushed aside his Cape and stood by the Cell door, with a moments Concentration, the door’s super-alloyed metal lost coherence, and melted away into dust.

The chains on the slave there lasted no longer than the cell.

“Only you?†asked Supercape, quizzically.

“The other’s…didn’t make it…†replied the alien. He (if it was a he, but Supercape supposed so), was a blue-brown hue, about eight feet tall and thin as a pole. His four arms also gave indication to his alien status. He was wearing only rags. Despite his odd appearance, he was definitely of humanoid stock. Supercape noticed that whilst the Alien spoke, he felt rather than the heard the words. Some kind of telepathic communication. The alien’s tounge, now he focussed on the sounds, was completely unintelligible.

“What’s your name?â€

“Quastim†came the true sound. “I am from the planet Seyat. A dying world. Very few of us left, very few of the Seyatis. We are strong, but our world is near its end, and we cannot fight…this…†he continued, gesturing at the Starlock.

“The Starlock come’s to an end today†replied Supercape. True, he could not fight the entire slave ship – not a whole crew of veteran warriors with top end military hardware. But he could disable the Ship and strand it on this world. See how they get along with the amphibious tribes here until the Lor arrive…

He traced the power lines of the Starlock, and studied the nuances of the ebb and flow of energies. A simple nudge here, and push there…and a feedback loop. Soon, alarms were ringing, and a subtle smell of smoke, before one, then two explosions were heard.

“We are getting out of here…†he said to Quastim “I’ll try to find your world, if I can. But one thing I can promise you, my friend, is freedom, whatever comes. No man should live in chains…â€

And with that, space and time folded, and the four armed alien and caped Superhero vanished from the dying decks of the Slave Ship Starlock.

[Aoiroo]

(The Mask We Wears for Catalyst)

July 2nd

She only had one week paid vacation, seven days where she was supposed to be taking a road trip to New York. She had spent the three days in an air conditioned storage space she had converted into a proper chemical lab mixing, and formulating. By the end of it she been able to stabilizing her expansion compound with her faux fog, a large range of distilled acids for both offensive and practical uses, as well as nerve agent that caused no permenant damage to the exposed (which was good because she really had to return those lab mice). The fourth day she spent sleeping off the previous three days. The fifth and sixth she spent tracking and purchasing a brand new utility van, and then outfitting it with up to standard storage units, work desk, as well as a mini fridge and coffee machine all nailed down into the bed of the truck. Now she was on the seventh day of her week she had just got her pair of infared tinted goggles which cost a pretty penny. Staring at the reddish lenses as she pulled them out of the box, she came to a sudden realization that she had no idea what she would be wearing.

The truth was, she hadn’t thought about it that much, it hadn’t even seen important. But as she looked at the goggles and her own closet she really couldn’t just go out as is. Her fog and possible range made her able to stay hidden to an extent, and the goggles definitely helped but she couldn’t go in that alone. She had looked through magazines, newspapers, web sites at all the outfits the other heroes wore. There was an eclectic sort of style to any of the heroes’ costumes. There were armored versions both medieval to modern power suits, but those were no good because of the formers bulkiness and the laters cost. The form fitting suits fit over like spandex even though she was assured it was some other sturdier material she had no idea where to get such a thing and the capes, just wasn’t practical especially with moving around in the tiny van lab. She was practically banging her head to the wall trying to figure this out. What in the world could she wear that would be practical in a lab? So in the end she spent the last day of her vacation looking at herself in the red tinted goggles and paintballing outfit knowing it just didn’t cut it.

Next week she spent at work with this in the back of her mind. She was distracted, everyone could tell, but no one called it out. It was the same for the next week as well, then on the third week a yellow alert rumbled through the building and they were made to evacuate the building. Some sort of villain had broken into the building and upon their exit had spilled some volatile chemical. In the end no one had been hurt, and the villain was caught not very far from the alert, but the place had to be cleaned out. Jasmine was just on her way out when she caught sight of the yellow hazmat moving in to clear out the area. She had to stop herself from yelling out at the idea.

Hazmat suits were not that hard to get a hold of. The company that provided them was perfectly fine selling her one. She tried it on immediately when she got in the mail two weeks later and found it falling short or wide really.

The suit was made to fit a variety of sizes, most of them wider and taller than her making it baggy and hard to move in. The visor was just in the way completely when she used the infared goggles with them since the extra glass masked heat signitures completely. She was getting close though. She brought the suit to a tailor, getting it fitted and trimmed while removing the visor completely. She also purchased new gloves and boots as well as a tool belt with interchangeable hooks that she filled to the brim with pouches including holsters for her paintball pistols. The goggles she got blue tinted lenses to match her gloves, and looking into the mirror she looked at the entire ensemble.

“Okay,†Her voice was muffled under the cloth. It was thick very thick, not unlike a surgical mask filtering to keep out any chemical fumes. She didn’t sound like herself, she held up the hazmat coated hand looking almost alien, but completely covered. It was protective, it was practical, it made her unrecognizable, and it was bright. It was also definitively unique, she did her research no other hero would look like this, this was her look, and after so long she was finally ready to go.

“Let the experiment begin.â€

[Aoiroo]

The Masks We Wear

Changeling Vignette

(The story behind and reason behind Changeling's original costume (a magic mask that changes outfit based on who wears it), and her recent costume change.)

Two Years Ago, Avalon

Etain didn’t know when the last blow had hit. Her opponent was fast, experienced. She had heard of him, and now she knew why he had previously refused to fight her. It was rather embarrassing how quickly she fell but when she regained consciousness she was led back to the center of the stadium to face the nobles at the court. It was a fine tournament. She had fought her way through forty other competitors, there had been some tough battles, lots of pain, lots of risk. She could only pray about the convenience of healing magic, especially when she had sacrificed a limb to close the distance for her finishing blow.

It had been a long hard day, filled with very exciting battles, and she was honestly rather tired as she heard the nobles read off a list of the winners. Passing down the lines the prizes given she looked up rather surprised when she saw a man stop in front of her holding a plain white domino mask. Though it wasn’t plain at all, it was filled with magical intrigacies of a solid magic constructs that uniquely changed appearance based on the wearer. She accepted the prize and the status it presented with a smile, though tire it was bright as she examined it with the cheering crowd in the background.

One Year Ago

There were conventions of this realm, it was strange, but at the same time she could see the sense in the concealment. Those who used their abilities to help used a disguise so as not garner attention outside from their usual activities. It was strangely respectable, they were not trying to make a spectacle of themselves, were not trying to garner influence or favors in exchange for their services. They were simply providing, no exchange needed for such assist and so far seemed free of agenda in the complete anonymity. As such she decided to follow suit. It was easy as she donned the magic mask.

It was strange looking in the mirror and seeing the dress had changed. Before the mask was more white and flowery, as was the desk it came with purple accents. Now it was yellow and orange and the mask had taken a butterfly shape. There were no butterflies in Avalon, though they did have something of a symbolism there as they did here. It was a symbol of change, very rapid change, and she supposed it fit. She had come to this strange world and through simple she necessity she had changed.

November 2nd

Things needed to change. The mask lay on the sewing table vibrating while Etain buzzed dark colored fabric through the old sewing machine. Millie had found an old manikin in the basement and it had the gold base dress with a sleeveless corset and shorter skirt. She had made the base dress just fine, the overdress was trickier. She had been drawing up the patterns for weeks, and after Halloween she was able to get a good amount of discounted fabric from all the stores. She went for a darker color scheme overall, she still kept the color theme to match monarch butterfly. She had not worn it since the day her mother left her alone in this realm. She did not know if the costume reflected from the mask had change but she would no longer rely on that. She needed to do this herself.

The overall look was drastically different when she had finished. The boots and gloves were purchased from a high end costume shop. Both were a heavy white fabric that took well to the copper colored dye. They covered a good amount of area on the arms and legs but gave much freer movement then her regular clothing. The capes she was able to get a very shiny sheer material that was attached with felt so as to break away if anyone were to think they would use it for leverage. The overcoat provided a nice tail to prevent exposure for the back of her legs and upper torso.

The bracelets and belt were costume jewelry she picked out of the bin. They well-made and looked from a distance like some artifacts of power, not that she would suggest anything directly. Cheap tin and paint or not it went well with the rest of the outfit just like the simple cloth mask which was easy to hide on her person as it was the only thing she could not put under her regular clothing.

Looking at the whole thing in the mirror she felt a little proud at the feeling of the fabric on her person. It was not impressive, but it was something she got all on her own. It was the start of a change, because for the first time, she was truly on her own.

[Supercape]

Vignette: Rene

Happy Birthday!

7/7/7

Paris, the Order of the Halbedier’s.

“Happy Birthday Rene!â€

The secret meeting place of the order of the Halbediers was hidden in plain sight. It had taken considerable effort, in bribes, diplomacy (and in one instance, a night time escapade with a pick axe and welding tools) to alter the building of the Eiffel Tower just slightly. And now it stood in a precise configuration as a monumental iron and steel ward from the faerie dimensions protecting all of Paris.

So, the Halbediers met, every now and again, to celebrate their achievement, drink fine wine, and shield themselves from eldritch sight, in its security office at the basement. One of the members, Phillipe deCompte, had taken a job there. He was a lazy good for nothing man who barely did any security work, but who was expert at reading aura’s underneath his drooping half asleep eye lids, and could spot a trouble maker in his sleep. Whilst the security staff all understood him to be the most idle and laziest of men, they all somehow knew he had a knack for spotting troublemakers that was uncanny.

Rene was probably the oldest of the ragtag bunch of Frenchmen that comprised the Halbediers. They were a loose lot, numbering between ten and twenty at any one time, all dedicated to protecting France from supernatural threats and whose origins were suitably vague and fuzzy. They possibly went back to prehistoric times, with additions, subtractions, and alterations through the centuries. At some point or another, however, they had all sworn up to the oath of protection and taken their name. And they took their responsibilities seriously.

Rene said probably the oldest, as one could never tell. The mysterious dusky Yasmine, for instance, looked as young as she ever did, and for all Rene knew she could have been born millennia ago. Count Bonnaire, of course was older. But not strictly alive. They brought his pickled head along for the major celebrations, of course, and he was quite willing to engage in conversation for those important events.

Rene’s closest friend in the Halbediers was Marcel, the sewer cleaner. It was true the man rarely smelt particularly fine, but he was a cheerful sort, robust of body and spirit, and he had a keen eye for trouble in his haunts. For some reason, cultists, bogeymen, undead, and all sorts of arcane troubles tended to pop up below the city. And Marcel had his eyes down there. He was not the most powerful mage, but he knew a thing or two.

“Make a wish!†said Marcel, passing Rene a small cake with a solitary candle on it. Rene also made his true age a rather obscure number – he was clearly old, and everyone knew (or at least strongly suspected) that he was older than any mortal human had any right to be. But he kept exactly how old a mystery.

Rene made some cursory remark about how his old lungs couldn’t possibly blow out a candle at his age, but of course nobody was buying it.

“Get on with it, you fool†croaked the Count’s pickled head “even I could blow that out…â€

So Rene dutifully blew out the candle, contemplating what wish to make.

Wishes were powerful things, whether or not they came true. Even by making one, he was setting things in motion. He was usually disinclined to commit thusly, but then the very act of living is a commitment of sorts.

He had lived a long life, and of course, being so long, it had been peppered with regret. It was rich with many things, including love, kindness, and compassion, and he held on to this things with an iron grip. But, he realised, he had seen horrors and evils that had terrified him. And really, it was not the evils from dimensions that should not be named, or the ghastly entities from beyond the realm of imagination that had scarred him. For those (mostly) could be faced and beaten back with spells, will, and ritual (and, on one memorable occasion, he recalled, a trumpet stuffed with a salmon).

No, he realised that every year, on his birthday, it was the horrors of men that upset him most. The horrors that could never be defeated, that were driven by lust, greed, malice, or worse still, driven by unthinking devotion to God, State, or Cause. The wars and the revolutions. They had been the worst of times.

And yet within such blackness, often the finest flowers of humanity grew.

Yes, he told himself. There.

“Forgive me, my friends, if I keep my wish to myself…†he smiled, as he addressed the Halbediers. A flawed lot, he acknowledged. But a fine lot, who had sacrificed, and no doubt would keep on sacrificing, for their noble duty.

He wished that he would never forgot those flowers. Those beautiful moments and memories that stopped his cynicism dissolving into despair and bitterness. That kept life alive and sweet still.

The perceptive would notice that as he shared that moment under the Iron Monument of Paris, his eyes had grown wet. But his smile was full and joyous.

[Supercape]

Vignette:

Lord Steam:

17th July 2011

Ia Ia Archeville fhtaghn!

“I tell you M, its madness here!â€

“Are you sure you aren’t quite mad yourself, Sir?â€

Lord Lucien Lockwood wound up the particularly byazantine and antiquated copper-plated phone in his office to boost reception. Interdimensional communication required a lot of steam, and the tubes that curled away to his laboratory hissed with pressure.

“I’m quite sure, dammit. You can send one of those Vieniesse quacks over, if you want, for all the good those gibbering fools do. Dead rising from the graves, no less. Gargantuan monsters, mass insanity. Almost biblical in flavour, by Vishnu. Nothing happening over there, is it?â€

“Just the normal. Texas shooting off a bit more loudly, Vatican scheming, Russia falling into Chaos, Germany rattling its sabre, and France... Well... France being France. Insufferable devils. If only their food wasn't so blasted fine. Thank Victoria for India" Replied M, who had put down his tea. It was now stone cold. For all his flippant remarks about Lord Lockwood’s incompetence, he had no doubts about the man’s intellect and astuteness. He conceded it matched his own. The situation seemed serious over on that dimension. Serious enough he would have to wake the Foreign Secretary.

“Look, for God’s sake, keep an eye out on things over there, will you†he asked massaging his forehead. “Last thing we need is zombie plagues. Especially if they spread to this dimension. Keep me updated. I’ll draw up contingency plans with the cabinet if those damn colonial yanks in that ridiculous dimension of yours can’t contain things. Perhaps some evacuation plans are in order. Ms. Wells thinks she might be able to propel an Ironclad through to your dimension, at some risk, I might add, if they need a few Gatling Guns in support. “

With that, M, placed the phoned down. He would have liked to have slammed it, for he was angry. But his anger was tempered by real concern.

Good Gods, what was going on there?

Back on Earth Prime!

Lord Steam hopped into Bessie, his car. What a mess, indeed. The whole world, it seemed, was going to pot.

All sense of normality, reason, and even the laws of science seemed to be breaking down.

He patted Bessie. “Thank Vishnu you are still normal and obey the laws of science!†he said as the steam powered car whistled away at over 200 miles per hour towards Freedom City.

His meeting was with a Mr. Schwarzkrieg, a United Nations official with whom he had met once or twice. Schwarzkrieg was his point of contact in his role as official inter-dimensional ambassador.

“So, the British Government…that is, our British Government…†he corrected himself “…from Earth Victoriana…†(he spared a thought for the British of Earth Prime, no doubt wrestling with the undead and insane wandering through Europe as they spoke) “would like to offer assistance, and, er, press upon you the importance of regular updates, in order to prevent the possibility, of, um, contagion, between said dimensions…â€

Lord Steam was as diplomatic as possible. But he was uncomfortable. True, it was his job to do, and he was loyal to Earth Victoriana and M, but he had, it must be said, grown to be deeply fond of this crazy Colonial Dimension, and the insensitivity of his duties pained him. He wanted to help. Sending an Earth Victoria Ironclad Gunship through might not be a bad idea after all.

“Fnaah! Ia Ia!†gibbered Schwarzkrieg. “Guards! Shoot this man!!!â€

Lord Steam sighed internally. He should have paid more attention. The nervous tic of the left eye. The Banana sandwich, half eaten…. the German Surname.

Why was he always getting shot at?

And of course, one didn’t attend a meeting at a UN building with body armour on.

His reactions were fast. Faster than the surprised guards, who would no doubt follow the orders, but were still rather wide eyed at the command. He threw his tea at one, and a well heeled shoe crashed into the knee of another, unbalancing him into the fist of Lord Steam. He turned and wheeled, hefting a chair into his hand and throwing it into the arm of the first guard, who was just pulling up his gun after wiping tea from his eyes.

A few long strides, and another kick into the first guards stomach sent him into the wall. Lord Steam followed up with an efficient pair of straight punches clipped around the mans head, knocking him out.

“Tk Tk! Ia! Ia!†yelled Schwarzkrieg. The insane dignitary had crept up behind the Victorian polymath and now seized his neck with hands powered by mad adrenaline.

“Gasp!...That’s not Queensbury…Old…Bean…†croaked Lord Steam.

He felt his vision fading as he tried to unpin the man’s hands from his neck. Normally he would be stronger and fitter, but this man was possessed by some truly insane and ancient force. His fingers bit like iron into his neck, and he could feel himself becoming light headed. He didn’t think the man would be satisfied with mere unconsciousness.

No! what an ignoble end! Strangled to death by some middle aged lunatic! Not Lord Lockwood! No Sir! No!

He steadied his body and nerves, and with a twist and nudge, manuevered his arms inside his attackers, then using advantageous leverage, twisted the man’s arms right out of the grip in a corkscrew movement.

Schwarzkreig’s eye lit up in fury, but two open handed chops came down on his neck, and sent him off to sleep.

Lord Steam stood up and adjusted his Cravatte.

“Don’t get all steamed up about it†he said, with a slightly snooty air, looking down on the Ambassador, before stepping over him and out of the room.

[trollthumper]

Nick Cimitiere

House of L: Lost Highways

“Good evening, boys and ghouls.â€

On the side of an abandoned road, somewhere in the depths of America, sits a black roadster, an old model from the Thirties. The only thing that keeps it from blending in with the moonless night is the pale white flames that stand out from the otherwise funereal paint job. A figure sits in the driver’s seat. The figure, with slicked back hair and the black clothes of a greaser, seems almost handsome – except for the fact that his face is pale and just a little too thin and angular. He looks like a skeleton with sex appeal.

“I see last month’s story was so appealing you decided to track me down again. Either that, or you just got really, really lost. Sadly, I’m not one for directions. They always make it easy for people to find the way out.â€

He picks something up from the passenger seat and starts flipping through it – it looks like a grim little title, with a cover depicting knives, screaming women, and strangely, the man reading the book and his little ride in the background. “I’ll never understand the art world these days,†he says, casually flipping through the book. “Give me a Bosch, a Munsch… even Picasso had the occasional Guernica. But these days, it’s just broken clocks and strange, rambling poems that don’t even rhyme. Not my thing.†He smiles grimly as he flips the page. “But every so often, some young impresario does something new and daring that really catches my eye. Take, for instance, the first real gallery showing of a young artist out in Freedom City! Some of his best work was shown there – then again, most artists aren’t truly appreciated until they’re dead, are they?â€

The fog rises around the car, growing thicker by the second. As it thickens, it becomes clear it’s not really fog, but something more substantial.

“And sometimes, you’re the next big thing, and the day after… you’re out in a ditch. Let’s take a trip into the depths of the art world and check out … A Still Life.â€

The fog begins to coalesce into a scene at a trendy gallery. The gallery is a mix of business suits and beatnik wear, professionals and artists. A few paintings hang up on the walls, many of them abstract to the point of sheer confusion. There are a few small pieces of sculpture, but nothing on the scale of the model in the center of the room – a statue of a male figure, lurching backwards from some unknown terror. A small white card on the base gives the statue’s name – Mortality.

A lean young man sits in the corner, trying desperately to avoid notice – and failing. Everyone keeps coming up to him, offering some form of praise or adulation. Most of them even mean it. So this is success.

“It’s incredible, Stuart,†said a woman in a red sundress. “Your earlier work was good, but not this detailed. Something so vivid… it’s just incredible. You’ve really come into your element.â€

Stuart, his name is, returns a polite smile and tries very hard to hold it together. “Thank you, Monica,†he says. “Sometimes there are ideas that just… need to be realized. I know it’s a deviation from my usual work…â€

“Oh, but it’s brilliant! Hopefully we’ll see much more like it!â€

Stuart works the smile so hard it risks breaking. “Certainly,†he says. In time, Monica walks away, and Stuart just keeps his eyes on his own creation, as if it’s going to leave the second he takes his eyes off of it.

The fog returns again, this time behind Stuart’s head, almost like a thought bubble. In it, another portrait forms. This one shows a rundown loft, with various examples of half-formed sculpture – and the halves don’t look like they’ll form any good wholes. He’s not alone up there – there’s someone a little older, a little more muscular, trading a good deal of words with him, none of them good.

“I gave you that money in trust, Stu,†he yells. “I wanted something that wasn’t the same old crap. Something that came from the heart. Not… this.â€

“What the hell do you mean?†Stuart rejoins. “You know how hard I worked on this stuff? This isn’t just some kiddy corner copy job! I slaved for this, Max!â€

“Yeah, and this is what you got. No, what I got.†Max turns his back on Stuart. “I want my investment back, Stu. As soon as possible. And I think twenty percent sounds like a good rate of interest. Only way I’ll see any money out of this.â€

Stuart looks desperate, like a caged rat. His eyes fall on a chisel at his left. He picks it up, and drives it into Max’s back. Max falls to the ground, and starts to pick himself up as the chisel goes in again. And again, and again, until he just falls still.

It’s only when all this is over that Stuart realizes he’s done something wrong. He doesn’t look regretful, though – just panicked. He looks around the apartment, from the trash bags to the tools for some way to take care of Max’s body. And then he looks at the cement, and relief creeps across his face.

The scene fades away in favor of the gallery showing, where Stuart’s still fretting. He appears to be considering whether or not to run for the exit.

“You look like you’re attending your own funeral.â€

Stuart turns to find the man from the coupe standing before him. He looks slightly less cadaverous - emphasis on “cadaverous†– but is still dressed in his funereal rockabilly wear. He’s picking at an array of hors d’oeurves laid out on the napkin in his hand.

“This seems like a moment for celebration.â€

“It is,†Stuart says – perhaps a bit too forcefully. “It’s just jitters, you know. It’s my first real showing.â€

“Looks like you made something out of yourself, at least. Must feel good, proving you’ve got it.â€

“Yeah. It’s a real booster. From the moment you start this all, you’ve got to deal with critics all the time. It’s good to get them to shut up for once.â€

“Like Max?â€

Stuart pauses, like he’s trying to make sure he heard it right. “Pardon?â€

“I understand you got him to shut up. Mind you, you were a bit forceful when you did it.â€

Stuart prepares to bolt, but there’s something dreadful pinning him to the spot – the need to know. “How…?â€

“Oh, he talked to me. Told me everything.â€

The chatter goes still for half a second, and then the screams start. The man in black doesn’t even look away.

“I think he wants to have a word with you.â€

Stuart looks past him to see something terrible. The statue – no, Max, encased in concrete an inch thick - has managed to wrench itself from its pedestal. It moves forward, slowly and deliberately, but with a grace as if the stone is smooth and flexible as flesh.

“Good Lord!†cries out a female patron. Her date can only choke helplessly as he sees the thing advance towards Stuart.

“No…†Stuart, all sense of logic fleeing him, backs up against the wall. “No! You can’t! I killed you! You can’t be doing this!â€

The man in black vanishes into the crowd as the grim effigy works its way forward. It closes the distance with Stuart, who, with nowhere to turn, slinks down to the floor, raising his hands in a plea for mercy. The statue raises its arm, as if preparing for a blow – then teeters on its feet and falls to the ground like a gray domino. It pins Stuart beneath its bulk, but by the time it hits, he’s not moving anyway.

The screams give way to frightened whispers, and as they do, the scene starts to collapse into fog. The fog thins, leaving the handsome young corpse sitting in the front seat of his roadster. He’s got a smile on his face like he’s the only one who gets the joke.

“It’s a shame Stuart couldn’t take the stress of making it big,†he says. “Then again, maybe it’s best to go out early and leave your best work with you. As they say, live fast, die young… and hope you haven’t done anything to get on my bad side.†He leans back in his seat. “Until next time, this is Nick Cimitiere, saying… you never know when inspiration will strike, or just what vitals it’ll strike you in.â€

[Supercape]

Synth Vignette:

18/08/11

Happy Birthday!

North Sweden, Kalla Födelse research institute.

“I hope you enjoy this!†said Dr. Nyberg, presenting Synth with a small iced sponge cake, with one solitary candle on it.

“Your first birthday! Congratulations!â€

Synth was surrounded by the research staff, all of them. They numbered just under twenty (their precise numbers had fluctuated slightly, but the core staff were all the same), and they had worked for five years to produce Synth. The top minds of Europe, and in some cases further afield.

They broke out into applause and cheers.

“Skol!†they toasted one another with various alcoholic beverages, from beer to scotch to aquavit.

Many stuck too mineral water or fruit juice. They were hardly a boozy lot, but it was nice to let their hair down and celebrate their work at the same time. Some – many – had grown quite fond of their creation. Or, dare they say it, their child.

Nyberg probably would.

Synth nodded and took the cake gratefully, a smile on her face as she wished everyone there goodwill and thanks. She had now grown to a tall, athletic woman, and looked fully human – quite beautiful in fact, in a muscular, curvaceous and even flawless way. That very flawlessness was actually the biggest clue to the fact she was not human.

Not quite, anyway.

“It is tradition†said Nyberg, kindly, patting Synth on the shoulder “to blow out the candle. And when you do, to make a wish!â€

“A wish?†said Synth rather surprised. “But I don’t know what to wish for?†she asked somewhat perplexed, her brow furrowing.

“Well†replied Nyberg with a warm smile. “What do you for hope for? Ah ah ah!†he interjected, raising a finger as Synth started to reply “it is also tradition not to tell anybody your wish as you blow out the candle. If you do, the wish won’t come true!â€

Synth nodded her understanding. It seemed an unlikely story, but curious as human customs were, she found them entertaining enough – and they had an emotional, ritualistic quality that was attractive.

Perhaps too, they served some function, to focus the mind.

She closed her eyes, unconsciously, and with pursed lips, gently blew out the candle. She wished, quite simply, to be human.

She new it was impossible, of course. She was close. Close enough to be as good as human, but she would never quite technically be human. But she felt human. And she wanted to experience life and live as a human. A good human. A noble human.

She gave Nyberg a smile. “I wished for something I’m not hoping for. It can’t happen. Or maybe it can, in a way. But it felt important. I can’t explain. I’d like too, but I suppose that’s what this is about isn’t it…a custom…to reflect on, oneself? Even if it is a bit selfish!†she laughed.

Nyberg laughed gently with her. “That’s true, that’s true. And, of course, it just helps to hope, you know…it just helps to hope once in a while. That’s how we do things that are deemed impossible. Like you!â€

“So, now you are one year old, how do you feel?†he inquired, taking a sip of beer. The researchers had decided not to let Synth drink today. Partly because they were not sure of how it would affect her (they suspected not very much). Partly because they were not quite confident enough to deal with a drunken Synth yet, should she get intoxicated.

“I feel fine, Doctor. Everything working normally. No change†replied Synth, almost as a reflex, as she helped herself to some cake. She hadn’t had a wide selection of food here. Mainly because she had only be able to eat for two months. But also because her sense of smell was very acute, and the flavours still overpowered here naïve nose. They had chosen a fairly innocuous sponge cake for precisely that reason.

“That’s not exactly what I meant†replied Nyberg looking downwards and shuffling his feet. “I mean, inside, in here…†he continued, tapping his cranium. “How do you feel about, well being alive?â€

“That’s going to take a lot of thought†replied Synth, munching her cake carefully. “Grateful? I guess? Everything seems…so new. Exciting? I feel like I want to know everything, do everything…change the world, give something back?†she avoided Nybergs gaze as she spoke the last words. “Forgive me, I know that sounds foolish. But you ask me how I felt. And that’s how I feel…â€

“Everything in time†replied Nyberg “patience is a virtue. And one I think you have, even if you are so very young in some ways. But not, I must say, in others. You are, by human standards, an adult now. An adult in body, an adult in mind. You condensed two decades of development into one year, and now we are hear eating a cake with one candle when perhaps it should be twenty! But there will be other cakes, other birthdays. As far as I can see, you won’t age at all. I don’t know when your cells will wear out – if they wear out at all. Who knows what the future holds?â€

“I shall learn to be patient then, if the years will stretch out ahead beyond counting. But I must fill them properly, doctor. I know that my creation is extraordinary, and valuable to the fields of medicine and science. But I feel I can do more, bring something, well, personally, to the world?â€

“I’m sure you will, Synth, in time..†smiled Dr. Nyberg, saluting Synth with his glass.

“Quite sure!â€

[Semi-Autogyro]

Myrmidon

The Masks We Wear: Personas non Grata

Claremont Academy

December 7, 2011

John as usual snapped awake a minute before his alarm went off at 5:00 AM and cancelled it before it had a chance to wake his slumbering roommate, who was currently snoring and drooling on his pillow simultaneously. He stretched, working out kinks from sleeping as he headed to the bathroom. Once there, he followed his daily routine like clockwork only to pause and blink at the mirror mid-shave. The reflection that stared back was a familiar and disconcerting sight, to anyone who knew of the identity of the original. John grimaced at his current train of thought and the reflected visage of a youthful Wilhelm Kantor mimed the reaction back. Getting back to the task at hand as he reformed the straight razor with his powers, John recalled when Daedalus had offered surgically altering his face before arriving at Claremont. He had declined, of course.

Looking back, his reasoning was that he was a copy of the original but still his own person, so why be concerned about something as trivial as physical appearance? That view had changed as he spent time living on his own, he now fully comprehended the immortal inventors’ reason behind the offer. His friends, the school, and anyone close to him were put at risk. Regardless of that, he could not change things now and he would not even if he could. He was not Wilhelm Kantor even if he had the occasional flashback and déjà vu instances. Those were merely ghosts of memories from the flash duplication of his brain as part of the cloning process. No longer was he a mere serial numbered experimental subject, as he had discarded that designation upon arriving at the academy. The thoughts remained in his mind as he washed his face and quietly and efficiently dressed for his morning workout.

He slid on his ubiquitous sunglasses on as he left his dorm room and headed out for his morning exercises, John mused that this was yet again another mask of his as his eyes adjusted to them. This one was known as John Smith, Claremont Academy student. This one was close to who he truly was, but was just another layer obscuring the truth. The mannerisms, the measured responses, and the social expectations were engineered as much as to benefit him as well as to encourage less inclination of suspicion. Still, bit and pieces of his true nature had worked their way out, leading to some knowing his secret. John was positive that his friends had their suspicions about him as well, and his days of keeping them from the truth were rapidly coming to an end. The cold morning air with a light wind hit him as he left the dorm, and the recent snowfall and temperature discouraged outdoor exercise. He made a beeline for the gym instead, intent on using the treadmills in lieu of his customary morning run.

Upon arriving at the gym his body on went autopilot as he went through the repetitive motions of exercise, his mind was free to wander. John had gone through numerous scenarios in his head, trying to choose the best one to inform the friends of his true identity; but none felt right especially with Morgan on some sort of covert training hiatus. Miss Etain already knew the truth, which was good, but he remained concerned with the possibility of ostracizing the others. There was a small but vocal group of students on campus who already disliked him from his cover identity, not to mention the reaction he got from the random few older students, alumni, and staff who knew the true face behind the mask of Overshadow. His wristwatch alarms beeping tone brought him out of his reverie. Thirty minutes till the first class of the day.

It was not until the daily afternoon training with the Irregulars until John had a chance to resume his ruminations, as the day to day schoolwork and life kept him on his toes mentally. Only when he was alone in the prep room and sitting on one of the benches did his thoughts return to earlier in the day as he gazed idly at his helmet in his lap. He mused to himself that this was yet another one of the faces he presented. This one however was what he was intended to be: the weapon, the tool, the destroyer. Granted, it was no longer in hands of people who would abuse its’ power, but the fact remained that John could never fully remove himself from that ingrained nature.

Morgan had once asked him once why he had chosen a helmet for his uniform as Myrmidon instead of a mask. Johns’ explanation was that mask didn’t exactly protect against cranial trauma as the major reason and John was not gifted with superhuman resiliency. The honest reason as per the SHADOW files was to further dehumanize the individual. Since he had modified the original armor and made it his own, he supposed the same intent carried through. One could not see his facial reactions through the matte black reflective faceplate, or notice changes in his voice due to the electronic filtering of the helmet. Coupled with the training the intent was to be a faceless, impartial, soulless weapon. The time at Claremont had gradually worn down the soulless part of the equation from the intent; though he still sometimes struggled to curtail the callous and efficient brutality he was hard-coded to operate under. He sighed ran a hand through his hair, this train of thought was getting him nowhere. Besides, he had not even rightfully answered unspoken question that had started all of this introspection: "Who am I? The face? The Persona? The Mask? Really it was a simple question at heart which led to a simple answer being the easiest…â€

A hand on his shoulder brought him out of his reverie, and he clamped down hard the reflexive impulse to respond with a vicious counterattack as the adrenaline started rocketing through his veins at the perceived attack. He shot an apologetic glance up at Victoria and then saw the others standing ready, blinking at him. He had been truly distracted, something that was out of character for himself. Judging by their reactions his friends had caught it too. “Ah. Forgive me. My apologies.†John said as he stood and donned his helmet. “I am ready to go now.†As he followed the others as they left out of the room, John recalled the answer he had arrived to before being startled. "I am me, and that will suffice for now." He flicked off the rooms lights as he crossed the doors threshold.

[KnightDisciple]

Musical: Songs and Revelations

Freedom City, USA

Late December, 2011

Carson and Sonya were on their last date of the year; both had plans to go visit family for Christmas, and probably stay through New Year's. That Carson was going to skip dealing with an airline was a piece of information he didn't feel the need to share; then again, Sonya had "just happened" to find space on a priority UNISON flight back to Russia, so he figured it all equaled out.

'I'm really going to miss her. Wow. Seems like we've barely started seeing each other, but I'm already missing her despite the fact she's right here! I wonder...should I tell her about my heroic self? I think she could handle it, but would she forgive me for deceiving her?'

The made small talk as he rolled these thoughts over in his head, before everyone in the cafe they were at felt...something...wash over them. Others in the diner opened their mouths, and for a few brief moments, they sang. Everyone who did blushed and covered their mouths. But when people started getting texts from others in the city, reporting they had the same experience, some panic started to settle in. Carson and Sonya stood at the same time, and while she was obviously pulling out her phone to contact UNISON, he seemed to be fiddling with the watch on his wrist....

Then the dozen burly men in music-note-themed uniforms burst in, guns held steadily in their hands. They cast their gaze around the room, a couple of them consulted tablet PCs as one of them holds up some sort of scanning device. Finally, one of the ones with a tablet walks over to the one with a scanner, points to his device, before looking right at Sonya and pointing. Both nod, and three of the thugs walk forward, clearly intending to take her with them.

At first, both Sonya and Carson made moves to resist. But then another thug pointed a shotgun at Carson's head, and Sonya stopped struggling. She gave Carson a tearful shake of her head, and allowed herself to be led away. Trained that she might be by UNISON, and capable of felling any one of the men around here, there were a dozen of them, all of them armed. They clearly wanted her alive for some reason. Better to go along with it now, and hopefully someone could work out a way to extract her. Carson watched (seemingly) helplessly as she was led away, practically dragged as the music-thugs (almost assuredly belonging to the Maestro) bound her hands (they apparently knew what she was capable of). His teeth all but ground together as two thugs watched the crowd (and especially him) for a good two or three minutes before hearing a beep from their radios and summarily running out of the cafe.

Carson ran out the door as well, but they were already gone down a sidestreet. He stood for a moment on the street corner, despondent, before he closed his eyes and concentrated. After a moment, his hearing was filled with a rush of confused singing, before he filtered it down to one voice. A voice that was quietly singling to itself, and moving.

"I need a hero, I'm holding out for a hero

'Til the end of the night

He's gotta be strong

And he's gotta be fast

And he's gotta be fresh for the fight

I need a hero, I'm holding out for a hero

'There's too many for me to fight

He's gotta be sure

And it's gotta be soon

And he's gotta be larger than life

Racing on the thunder

And rising with the heat

It's gonna take a angel

To sweep me off my feet.."

She lapsed into silence, except for a small exclamation of discomfort as she was (apparently) hefted into the back of a van, which then drove off. Close to the center of the city. Where...something was happening.

Carson's eyes opened, and determination shone from them. He started jogging down the sidewalk, ignoring shouts of surprise as he dashed past people. Finally, he came to a sufficiently wide and abandoned alley, and he ducked down it. He hit the midpoint, gave a couple glances around himself...and promptly turned into a blur that landed on a nearby rooftop. He took a moment to touch his watch, and in a flash was once more clad in his heaven-forged armor, clutching a shining spear made to fight the darkest of foes. He took a moment to close his eyes and float into the air, listening once more for that voice he cared for so much. Then, he sang for her ears, and only her ears.

"You say that a hero can save you.

Im not gonna stand here and wait.

I'll hold onto the wings of the angels.

Watch as I now fly your way."

With that, the air screamed as Gabriel tore through it as fast as he could, circling the central areas of the city as fast as he could. It may well have been a miracle that the sky didn't burn in his wake. Instead, glass merely rattled in windows as he flew by, until finally it went oddly still.

Which really unnerved the collection of thugs surrounding the platform the Maestro was found upon. He had strange, crystal-using machines arrayed all around the platform, pointing outwards. He also looked in rather poor health, even for his advanced age. As if afflicted by a disease, or a cancer.

Which, apparently, he was. He'd explained it to Sonya (who had just arrived), without singing. Apparently, this one platform was exempt from the strange affect upon the rest of the city. He'd demanded she use her powers to heal him.

Despite his status as a villain, the oaths Sonya had taken as a medic overrode her worries. This man was sick and hurting, and she could help. If nothing else, it was the higher road to spare his life. So she allowed them to release her. She walked over, under the watchful eye of Maestro's guards, and laid her hands upon him. A soft glow suffused them, and slowly the musical villain gained a bit more color in his cheeks, a bit more spark in his eye, until it was clear that he was healthy again. He smiled.

"Others might ask that you be eliminated for seeing them weakened. I won't. Neither of us has some sort of "secret identity". I do not foresee some huge uproar if you tell anyone what you've done. And you did indeed heal me. Go. We will not-"

Suddenly, one of the machines crumpled in a peal of strained metal. It all but just...fell apart.

"You can run on for a long time

Run on for a long time

Run on for a long time

Sooner or later God'll cut you down

Sooner or later God'll cut you down"

Two more machines crumpled.

"Go tell that long tongue liar

Go and tell that midnight rider

Tell the rambler, the gambler, the back biter

Tell 'em that God's gonna cut 'em down

Tell 'em that God's gonna cut 'em down"

One of his three dozen thugs suddenly fell over, clutching his ears and all but immediately falling unconscious.

"Well my goodness gracious let me tell you the news

My head's been wet with the midnight dew

I've been down on bended knee talkin' to the man from Galilee

He spoke to me in the voice so sweet"

Three thugs were bowled over as if struck by a train.

"I thought I heard the shuffle of the angel's feet

He called my name and my heart stood still

When he said, "Gabriel go do My will!""

Suddenly, the hero Gabriel was just standing there, as if daring Maestro's thugs to attack him. One brave soul raised his rifle and fired at the hero's center mass.

The bullets fell crumpled and useless to the ground. Gabriel pointed his free hand, the one not holding that silvery spear, at the offending criminal. Then he moved, right as several more opened fire. That group summarily found itself utterly disoriented, some of them even attacking their fellows with their bare hands.

"Go tell that long tongue liar

Go and tell that midnight rider

Tell the rambler, the gambler, the back biter

Tell 'em that God's gonna cut 'em down

Tell 'em that God's gonna cut 'em down"

Each of the confused men was picked off one by one as Gabriel flitted back and forth across the impromptu battlefield, seemingly an untouchable angel of wrath. Before long, there were only six men left on the street (with the Maestro, Sonya, and four of the villains female guards left on the circle).

Gabriel slowly walked toward those men, who were clearly intimidated by this point.

"You can run on for a long time

Run on for a long time

Run on for a long time

Sooner or later God'll cut you down

Sooner or later God'll cut you down"

One of them pulled out a massive handgun and fired, thinking its power could penetrate the armor the hero wore. Not so; even a .50 caliber round merely made him pause for a moment, smiling slightly.

"Well you may throw your rock and hide your hand

Workin' in the dark against your fellow man

But as sure as God made black and white

What's done in the dark will be brought to the light"

The man with the over-large handgun was rooted in place as Gabriel methodically disabled the rest of the group one by one, moving to one side or another to dodge their fire, pointing a hand as each was tossed away like a rag doll before the implacable force of his sonic powers. Finally, that man was the only one standing. Gabriel looked at him, the judgement of an Archangel in his eyes, and the man simply dropped his gun and ran in abject terror.

The hero then turned his attention to the half-wrecked platform with a frown. The four "elite guards" moved onto the street, apparently deciding to rely upon speed and martial arts abilities rather than strength and guns. A wave of the hero's hand sent one of them tumbling, but the other three moved in before he had a chance to knock them out right away.

While it was obvious he didn't use fisticuffs as his primary means of dispensing justice, Gabriel gave a good accounting of himself. Most of the blows were dodged, with a couple falling uselessly upon his armor. One of them gave his head a glancing blow, but he just shook it off. He slammed an open palm into the belly of the note-festooned goonette, and she was sent several feet backwards before slumping over.

"You can run on for a long time

Run on for a long time

Run on for a long time

Sooner or later God'll cut you down

Sooner or later God'll cut you down"

Another of the ladies was struck in the shoulder, and suddenly froze in place for a few moments while Gabriel got some distance, before he knocked her over the same way as the others. Then, the final guard pulled out two short swords, and Gabriel concentrated on staying free of any cuts. Just this once, he'd like to avoid injury while rescuing someone. Finally, there was an opening. The spear flashed forward, but rather than the piercing head, it was the blunt end-cap that met the deadly woman's forehead, instantly knocking her for a loop, and neutralizing her as a threat.

He then cast his stony gaze upon the Maestro, who by this point seemed all but ready to give up. The villain made to grab at Sonya, likely to use as a hostage, but the Russian medic simply slapped his grasp away with both of her glowing hands, which caused him to double over, fighting clear nausea. Gabriel just stepped forward, his voice rolling out the last of the song like the last peals of thunder after a storm.

"Go tell that long tongue liar

Go and tell that midnight rider

Tell the rambler, the gambler, the back biter

Tell 'em that God's gonna cut you down

Tell 'em that God's gonna cut you down

Tell 'em that God's gonna cut you down"

With that, the spear's butt flashed forward again, striking down the "musical" villain, ending the threat. The white clad hero walked forward to the computer console clearly controlling everything, frowning as he tried to determine what did what. With a sigh, he made the spear seemingly disappear before laying both hands against the whole mechanism.

"Nothing for it. Sonya, would you mind dragging his sorry self off this contraption? Shouldn't hurt him, but no need to risk it. This should just take a second."

With a nod and an odd smile he didn't recognize, the medic did just that. Once they were clear of the platform, Gabriel concentrated. For several seconds, the whole structure gave an odd shudder. Then, with a final pulse of suddenly-audible sonic energy, the whole thing crumpled and fell apart. The chaos in the city slowed as people could finally speak normally again.

All told, it had lasted perhaps half an hour.

Gabriel floated over to the only other conscious person for several blocks, relief evident on his face.

"Perhaps we should retire from here. Is there any place you would like me to take you, Miss Sokolova?"

"That rooftop should be good for me to collect my wits..."

She pointed at a nearby flat-top apartment building, and suddenly they were on top of it, and she finished her sentence softly.

"...Carson. Thank you for the save."

"You're welc-Wait. I mean. What are you talking about? I'm Gabriel."

"When you wear this face, maybe. But I'd know your signing anywhere. Or rather, the way you sing Johnny Cash. What with your strange love of American Country and Western music."

There was a playful grin on his face as he stuttered.

"I! But! You! It's a perfectly valid form of musical expression, no better or worse than any others. I don't..."

He sighs and looks around. Suddenly, he's clad in the civilian clothes he was wearing a moment ago, and engulfing the woman in a grateful hug.

"I'm just glad you're alright. And...I wanted to tell you. It was just...I wasn't sure when I would be ready. When the right time would be."

"It seems God's senses of humor and timing made the choice for you."

"I guess so."

He pulls back, concern on his face. And fear. Not just fear for her, but...fear for himself. But for what reason?

"Are you...I'll understand if you don't want to keep seeing me."

"Why would I do that? We've been enjoying things so far. I understand the concept of a secret identity, Carson. It doesn't sound like you were going to keep me in the dark forever. You had to be sure I was trustworthy enough to reveal this to. It makes sense. Nothing changes between us. Just now, I know why you've canceled a couple of dates."

"Gang turf wars take a while to sort out."

"I guess this explains why you can afford to "fly back home" so often on a college theater teacher's salary."

"It has its advantages...Do you want me to take you home?"

"Right after you take me to the top of that one big hill outside of town. It has a great view, yes?"

A goofy grin spread across his face as he took the object of his affections in a careful grip.

"Yeah. It does."

And together they flew off, with songs of joy singing their way through Carson's heart, as he realized the new year was bright indeed, with no deception between himself and the woman he cared for. A new year, with new opportunities...

[trollthumper]

Cannonade

What Price Freedom?: Know Your Rights

July 4th, 2011

“Take America back! Drive out the ZOG!â€

Cannonade was standing on a street corner, keeping a careful watch on the ongoing protest and desperately, quietly longing for something to beat down to its component atoms. The experience was unpleasant enough as is – his flight jacket wasn’t exactly made for hot, humid days like this, and he’d been at it for hours, the sun beating down on his helmet and turning it into a minor oven. The Crusaders were doing the same damn thing they’d done back in March – setting up a protest with the deliberate aim of provoking a response, likely one that would result in broken bones and knocked-out teeth that’d look good for Stormfront. So he was baking in the noonday sun, having to put up with all the greatest hits of racist, bigoted rhetoric. And if that wasn’t enough, there was his own side to deal with.

The Freedom Guard and other anti-fascist groups in the city had been ready to answer the call when the Crusaders announced they’d be protesting in Liberty Park… but some groups had been a little too eager to answer. The riot back in March stood out in everyone’s minds, mainly because the Crusaders kept trafficking on it. Thanks to the confusion of the mind whammy by that “Spirit of Conflict,†no one remembered who threw the first punch – or at least, they all had their own ideas of who did. Needless to say, they made it all about how their rights to free speech were being stifled, turning it into a civil liberties matter. And it would’ve remained the world’s funniest joke, if someone hadn’t decided to take them up on it.

Joe had first heard about it from Mark, one of his oldest buddies in the Baldies. Three nights before the protest, a few of the newer guys in the group had grabbed some baseball bats and decided to “have words†with some of the Crusaders outside of a nightclub. They’d come out victorious, putting two Crusaders into the hospital with the implicit message to stop the bullcrap. Of course, that had resulted in the exact opposite, and gave the Crusaders some capital for today’s protest.

“Justice for Steve Halstrom and Greg Lear! Let nothing obstruct the truth!â€

How can they say that without choking on their own crap? Cannonade thought. Yes, the whole day had been one long headache. He was just glad that the Guard was out with their allies; some groups had bussed in from Atlantic City and points beyond to push back against the Crusaders. He was standing at the forefront, ready to intercede in the event someone did something really stupid. At this point, a part of him was kind of hoping for it.

That wish was answered when some of the newer members of the Guard – some from within the Baldies, some from outside groups – showed up to bolster the counteroffensive. With baseball bats and sledgehammers. Cannonade was quick to intercept.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?†he asked.

“They want to be victims,†said Paul, one of the newer SHARPs. “We’re giving them their wish.â€

“We’re charitable like that,†said Craig, one of the punks.

Cannonade slammed his hand against his forehead, using all his restraint not to hit hard enough to crumple his helmet like tin foil. “You give them that, they win,†he said. “You really wanna do that?â€

“That’s gonna be a weird definition of winning,†Paul said. “Look, I thought you were one of us. They’re freaking Nazis. No one’s gonna give a crap about them.â€

“They also aren’t doing anything right now,†Cannonade said. “You wanna turn ‘em out after they crash a show, go ahead. Right now, much as I hate it, they’ve got a right to free speech. This ain’t a private venue, they ain’t attacking anyone, and playing Whack-a-Mole with ‘em is just gonna make it look like they’ve got a point about the world crapping on them.â€

“Well, I’m with the world on this one,†said Craig. “I saw you piledrive White Knight into a cement mixer. Thought you’d be the first one to step up against his fanboys. You getting soft or something?â€

“Soft has nothing to do with it. It’s about showing how we’re better than them. They’re thugs trying to paint themselves as victims, and we ain’t gonna back up their little righteous dreams of being the world’s punching bag. They screw up, we move. Until then, we stay quiet.â€

From the looks on Paul and Craig’s faces, the lesson had gotten through – that didn’t mean that they liked it, of course. As Cannonade turned back towards the shouting neo-Nazis, he heard grumbling among the crowd behind him. He closed his eyes, and just hoped that the sweltering heat would be the only real burden he had to deal with today.

[Ari]

Mid Town of Freedom City, USA on a wintery Saturday...

With a terrific crack! the door collapsed behind the drug seller as he hurtled into it, exposing the dimly-lit circle of sinister figures clustered around the circular table in the meeting the informant had mentioned was to take place. The dashing crusader for justice, Ace of Suits, resplendent as ever in his red and white attire(with a breastplate shaped like an over-sized playing card affixed to his trunk)strode into the room, fixing the swarthy villains with a bright eye and brighter smile under his curled mustache "Well well well, what have we here?" he chuckled at the now cowering corrupted crime-pedlars "That kid you thought would never talk has told everything, you're finished! From this day forward" he added darkly "I am henceforth declaring WAR on you and anyone else who tries to sell drugs in my city!" the ten suited men dropped their jaws in shock, gasping out the broken fragments of sentences that went "But, you can't mean...!""You fool...!""How did you...?!" and so on, until one of their number, a large and imposing man with a permanent scowl on his face, stood up and lifted a hand, this gesture silencing the panicking merchants of death. "But Ace!" he said in tones of abject horror "we sell drugs in this city! Do you mean to deal so harshly with us, honest businessmen all?"

Ace stared in confusion at this incident of inanity "I..just saiHGMMMMFF!!" this exclamation was due to the large sack tossed over his head by the recovered dealer, who tightened the strings, kicked Ace to the ground, and aimed his gun at the prone figure. The drug lords laughed evilly. Some twirled their sinisterly unshorn mustachios.

His resolve to pull the trigger was shaken somewhat when the booted feet caught him precisely where Ace's boots had struck hardly a minute before, sending the dealer to the ground in a heap, staring in pain at the large, mustachioed man above him.

Marceau Suvou, the mysterious African from the jungles of Sudan, walked over the groaning body, gazing with contempt at the huddle around the table. With a flick of his ebony wrist, a bladed card slicing off the rope and cutting open the hood in a smooth arc of metal. Turning to the men before him he growled "A pack of vile jackals, effendi" his eyes smoldered in their sockets "I shall strike them down where they stand" drawing a curved sword from his belt, the richly-dressed African strode towards the now terrified drug-merchants, and raising it level with the neck of the large man who had distracted Ace, he gave a cry of anger and swung it with all his might!

With a dull 'clunngg', the blade struck the outstretched armored hand of Ace, who had moved to counter his comrade's blow "Nuh-uh, Sultan of Suits" he said briskly "We don't kill like these fiends do: we hand them over to the criminal justice system that was set up to do that" the tail of the Sultan's left eye glared daggers at his mentor(and the savior of his life), but let the blade fall to his side, slid it back into its sheath and set about collecting the drug dealers' masterminds. After silencing their impotent threats of future retribution(Ace marveling at the efficiency of modern prisons, that seemed to make the worst of criminals simply disappear), the two costumed crime-fighters saluted Freedom's Finest and fired away into the night.

They didn't have to go long to find more evil afoot: Doc Holiday II had begun her Christmas rampage through the snowy streets, tearing down the beautiful streamers and banners decorating the city in her robotic Santa Claus suit, and sending her robotic minions disguised as elves to vandalize the storefront decorations and interior markers of holiday cheer that brightened the souls of all who saw them, and destroying the speakers that sent the gentle tunes of everyone's favorite Christmas songs twirling through the air. The mechanical elves were hardly a threat to the two experienced heroes, and Ace watched in awe more times than once as his more pugnacious friend tore through their ranks, his sword-blade slick with oil from their innards. After a grueling half-hour of battle, the two had carved their way to the red titan piloted by the scurrilous Doc Holiday II, facing down the machine and its gargantuan sack of 'presents'(mostly bombs). While Ace distracted the pilot with well-slung barbs against her weight and dexterity, the Sultan raced about the craft, slicing whatever needed cutting, and sending explosive and electrically-charged cards into the gaps presented by the armored mech.

Despite the valiant efforts of its pilot, the metal terror at last crashed to earth, the sinister grin on its face dying as the power was spent. Doc Holiday II clambered awkwardly out of the pilot seat, facing the two superheroes with as much defiance as she could muster "Hahaha!" she cackled, "Even if you FOOLS have caught me, nothing will stop me come New Year's! Let's see how much you like it when the city's fireworks goes haywire, and destroys the newly-built orphanage block!" the Sultan leaped forward, gripping her by the collar of her feminized Santa Claus outfit and lifting her into the air telling her furiously "You'll never succeed in that! I and the Ace will stop you, even if no-one else does!" the villainess sneered at the hero "Oh really? Does the city need guarding by Afros now? Have all the real protectors abandoned this place?" the silence was almost palpable, as was the seething rage evident on Moussa's face as he slowly pulled back his arm. Before he could punch Doc Holiday however, Ace said "Wrong Doc, this place needs everyone, no matter the color of their skin or where they're from, to stop people like you. I don't see how you can say stuff like that Holiday" he added "When you're from Louisiana!" the Sultan's mouth twitched, he burst out laughing and tossed Doc Holiday back into the broken cockpit, and embraced Ace, saying in his ear "Well said, my friend!" escorting the doctor to the nearest police station, the robotic elves having seemed to vanish in the interim, they waved and cheered as the familiar gold and blue figure of the Centurion sailed past into the night above them, calling down "A merry Christmas to to you all, and to all a good night!"

The Sultan smiled up at the glorious champion above them, and turning to Ace was about to wonder aloud who he might be if the man had wanted a secret identity when the black dots swirled about him...

The Fens, Christmas Eve

Marceau Suvou woke up with a start, staring into the beard of Creaker, the ancient lawyer fallen on hard times. Gently moving him to the side, the young man wandered over to the window looking out into the city, wondering what to make of that strange dream. That wasn't me at all, and neither was that Ace. Who would dream up a pair like that?

Lost in thought, he watched the moon fall over the mountains, the dream remaining in his memory with peculiar vividness...

[Dariusprime]

February 2009: Bloody Valentine's

Title: Takes One to Know One

Location: Terminus

Date: June 17th, 2011?

There are demon-haunted worlds, regions of utter darkness.

—The Isa Upanishad, (India, ca. 600 B.C.)

"You are afraid, child of Entropy." A thousand cold voices whispered and hissed above her.

Fulcrum rested in the rubble of an asteroid. Bits of stone drifted away from the crater. The red haze of the Terminus shadowed as the monstrous beast descended. She watched it approach with the patience of exhaustion.

The ever-mutating hulk wrapped a tentacle around her boot and whipped her to-and-fro. With a crack, she went spiraling through the debris fields, the detritus of a thousand worlds, that littered this Tartarus. The horror was strong. She tumbled through rock and steel and the armor of long-dead titans.

Still it whispered in her mind, and those wounds hurt the worst.

"Your life is a lie. You are no hero, Centurion or Fulcrum."

Flesh bubbled and eyes of every shape emerged. They searched for the giantess, lost in the flotsam. Dozens focused on a twinkle in the distance. A shaft of golden metal a meter thick impaled the elder god. Every orifice roared in rage and pain.

"Fool primate!"

The giantess, battered but unbroken, seized the end of the rod. With all her might the speared beast smashed against debris again-and-again. Slashed and pulped, now the Ancient One sailed off into the red darkness. Fulcrum zoomed forward rod in hand to press the attack.

A surprise tentacle flattened her against the hull of forgotten hulk. That Which Was slammed her bodily into the metal. Impressions of her form revealed the force of the attacks. As it crushed her flat, she pushed herself up with pure will.

"Individuality is wasted on apes. But you..." An evil satisfaction, so much like Archeville's Other, crept into the voices.

"What makes you unique is the Entropy you embody. And yet billions of you exist."

A tentacle tightened around her throat.

"Contemplate that paradox in the remainder of your brief existence."

[Electra]

Wander

The Masks We Wear

"Don't Judge a Book"

Some people said it was weird to have Christmas Eve without snow, especially in Freedom City where at least an iconic dusting of white was expected by mid-December. But for someone who'd spent their formative years in the Pacific Northwest, the chilly fog that portended rain was far more familiar as a holiday harbinger. Even so, Wander was grateful for the coat and mask she wore as she leapt from rooftop to rooftop down Kanigher Street, making her way south through Parkside. It was predictably quiet tonight, with most stores shut down for the evening and the people of Freedom City tucked up with their families in the lights-and-tinsel bedecked houses that surrounded her. She paused for a moment, turning to look at a white two-story house with a basketball hoop in the driveway and strings of lights hanging from the eaves. Roger and Clarissa had already hung their lights when Erin had visited, she remembered. But they wouldn't be home tonight. Everyone would be at Grandma and Grandpa's house, eating dinner and opening presents.

Gathering the black leather coat a little closer around her, Erin shoved her hands in the pockets before moving on, her leaping balance no more impeded than if she'd been stepping over cracks in a sidewalk. She may have acquired the coat under dubious circumstances, simply by failing to return it to Trevor enough times that he'd started wearing a different one, but tonight she was glad that she had. He understood that she wasn't really at her sociable best at this time of year, but it was nice to have something of his with her even now. It wasn't really part of her uniform, but she'd found herself slipping it on when she went out more and more often lately.

Barely two blocks from the house she'd stopped to look at, a strange movement caught her eye. Without a blink, Wander detoured from her route, landing on a housetop lightly as a magical reindeer. It wasn't very heroic to cause leaks in somebody's roof. She scrambled down the pitch and peered over the gutters, studying the neighbor's backyard. Just as she'd suspected, someone was breaking in! It seemed like madness, with the house lit up and obviously full of people, but he obviously wasn't part of the party inside. The intruder, dressed all in black, tried the back door and found it locked before sneaking over to a nearby window and jimmying it open. He was just about to hoist himself up when, with a surprised yelp, he found himself hoisted by the collar and facing an annoyed young woman in a black domino mask. "Really?" she demanded. "And on Christmas?"

"Aw, come on!" the would-be intruder whined. "I live here, honest. I was just trying to, you know, surprise everyone. I wasn't doing anything wrong!"

"Yeah, breaking into your own house, wearing all black, you're totally not up to anything," Wander scoffed.

"Hey, you're wearing all black," he pointed out, and got a little shake for his troubles. The careless strength with which he was being handled seemed to make silence the better part of valor.

"Anyway, if you really live here, we'll just take you around front and let you say hi to all your friends and family," Wander continued sardonically, effortlessly hoisting the crook and bounding to the front porch of the house. She rang the doorbell and stepped to one side, hoping to see the story the guy came up with before she ran him in.

The door opened, revealing a middle-aged woman in a Christmas sweater, holding a glass of eggnog and looking a bit surprised to be called upon at this hour. Surprise turned to shock as she saw who was at her door, and she nearly dropped the glass before she thought to set it down. "Eric! Oh my god! You said you weren't going to make it home this year! Bob! Bob!" she called to someone inside the house.

"I got a plane ticket at the last minute," Eric said sheepishly, and was nearly bowled over as the door opened and the woman rushed out, crying. "I was going to surprise you, but I got sidetracked..." He looked over just in time to see a dark form disappearing over the rooftops. "Never mind." He chuckled. "Merry Christmas, Mom."

Not far away, Wander continued her trip, her red face partially hidden by the mask. "The one time someone's actually telling the truth with that story..." she muttered aloud. That had been embarrassing, but at least she hadn't punched the guy or anything. He and his family would have their happy Christmas together, and she had an appointment to keep herself. Making her way southward, she crossed the Wallace Expressway and made her way down to the rundown neighborhoods shared between Greenbank and the Fens. She'd come this way last year as well, but this time she moved with the speed of purpose, knowing where she was going. Maybe crime was taking a holiday tonight, but hunger didn't, and loneliness didn't, and the need for people to be together and take care of each other.

Erin halted on the roof of the building opposite the Rhodes Foundation Center. The holiday lights twinkled brightly there, too, and the door was open, inviting people to come in and have a hot meal. She removed her mask and shoved it into her coat pocket, then unsealed the coat to reveal a bright red and green sweater with reindeer on it. As she dropped to the ground, she affixed a volunteer badge to her coat and walked inside. Maybe a lot had gone wrong this year, but a lot had gone right as well. She had someplace to go on Christmas, and that was a pretty good start.