Kings of the World - HeroNES

Terminus Chronicle

... teenagers Scott Wallace (19) and Marie Drolet (18) were found on an access road to Bishop Mountain Parkway at 11:00 AM this morning. Wallace was found dead of blood loss by multiple stab wounds, while Drolet has been brought to Georgia State Hospital and remains in critical condition. The location of the assault was provided by their captured assailant, who arrived in an area police station shortly after noon with the murder weapon present on his person. Marco Roy (20), who has been identified by associates of the deceased to have been a close friend of both victims, has been detained on charges of Assault, Rape and Murder. Preliminary...
 
Nightfall. The aging man stood before the windows of his office, looking out into the glowing lights of Metropolis. He took a sweeping look over the city. A city of hope, a city of dreams. His dreams. "Some day...some day soon," he thought to himself. He was snapped, suddenly, by the entrance of his secretary.

"Yes Elaine?" He asked without turning.

"Mr. Morris is here to see you sir." She responded timidly.

"Very well, send him in."

A few moments later Mr. Morris entered, shutting the door behind him. He casually strolled to the chair opposite the only desk in the room and took a seat. The man remained facing the city. "Well then Mr. Morris, what's the situation?"

"Situation looks bleak, sir. We've lost contact with Johnson and Vincent, they're presumed captured. If they manage to extract information from them we'll be shot. Our reputation will be gone, no one will seek us out for contracts."

The man furrowed his brows. This wasn't the first time his business had been put in jeopardy by the incompetence of his agents. He sighed and stared out onto the city for many moments, before finally turning back to Mr. Morris: "This must stop. This is the third time in as many weeks that we've had a botched contract. Thankfully the past aborted missions did not cause us any lasting harm, but this latest one is most worrying. It is clear to me that we need something else, someone new, to lead this organization on the field. We need a new team, the sort of team which can accomplish our aims quickly and efficiently, and the leader of this team will be the most important of all. For this team we will need someone skilled, someone experienced in combat, someone with a long history of these sorts of jobs.

"I presume you have someone in mind?"

"I do indeed sir, and convincing him to join our enterprise will take...some doing..."

***

Midnight, and though this city was notorious for its ever wakefulness, all was quiet on Clarence Way on the swanky Upper East side of Metropolis. All was dark and peaceful as the rich blue bloods of Metropolis slept soundly and easily. All except, of course, Eric Rossiter. As always Eric was restless. He'd always had trouble sleeping, a waste of time, he considered it. So he found himself, again, awake in the middle of the night, passing the time cleaning his guns. He gave his M4 a last once-over, before finally reassembling it and laying it down beside his M9 Pistol. He got up and walked over to the couch, and flipped on the tv. He flipped through a number of dull programs depicting stupid people doing mundane things before finally arriving at the news. He listened in.

"..situation in Afghanistan remains tentative. Terrible news today in Terminus as the search for three missing campers has brought chilling results. The three, who had gone camping in the forests North of Terminus 3 days ago, were reported missing yesterday. Of the three, two were found today, with one being found dead, brutally murdered, and the other being badly beaten and so traumatized as to be unable to give any information. The third is now the primary suspect in the ongoing murder investigation, and is presumed to be on the run from authorities now. Police Chief Higgins had this to say:

"This is indeed a horrific series of events, and the complete disappearance of Marco Roy, as well as several damning pieces of evidence found at the scene appear to point to the guilt of this young boy. Be assured that all measures are being taken to apprehend this doubtless deranged boy, and we hope to have him apprehended shortly."

If you have any information about the whereabouts of this Marco Roy, be sure to contact proper authorities immediately. Well, that concludes the news for today, for everyone here at TNN, this is Grace Harper, signing out.

Eric grumbled for some time about missing the news, before resuming flipping through channels. He continued this for many minutes, and was just about to make his third rounds of the channels before he heard a noise.

Producing a pistol, seemingly from nowhere, Eric rose and approached carefully towards the source of the noise. He exited the room and moved downstairs. He turned the corner and came face to face with a young man wearing a long black trenchcoat, tall - shorter than him, but all all the same - with short black hair and penetrating blue eyes. He was flanked by two guards who Eric noticed were reaching for their own sidearms. Eric moved quickly and managed to disarm and disable both of them before the trenchcoated man could even lift a finger. The two main threats eliminated, Eric brought his pistol back up and, spinning around, pointed it directly into the face of the man.

Finally realizing what had happened, the man quickly put his hands up. "Don't shoot! I come in peace!"

"Awful funny way of showing it," Eric responded gruffly.

"PLEASE! Allow me to explain!" The man exclaimed. Eric considered the matter for a moment before finally lowering his pistol. The man continued, "I'm sorry for intruding on you, but the matter I have come to you about requires some...discretion, and as such, I couldn't meet with you in the normal manner. Anyway, my name is Morris, Alfred Morris and I have come to you with a job offer-"

"I'm retired," Eric responded bluntly.

"Yes, so I've heard. I figured that you'd be willing to join us for our job, though."

"I'm not."

"You will be paid handsomely!"

"Not interested."

"We'll give you anything you want, anything at all!"

"NOT INTERESTED!" Eric yelled, now beginning to push Mr. Morris towards the door.

"Please sir! We need your help!"

"NOT INTERESTED, NOW GET OUT!"

It was at this time, that Mr. Morris finally remembered the last piece of parting wisdom that his boss had imparted on him: "Now listen Mr. Morris, Rossiter has been retired for some time, and I imagine he will be most reluctant to break with that retirement. You must try as hard as you can to get him to come with you. Listen to me though, if you have tried everything else, then let him know that the job involves killing supers."

"Supers, sir?" Morris responded.

"Yes, trust me Mr. Morris, supers, if you drop that information, Rossiter will surely join you immediately."

Naturally Morris did not trust this advise, figuring the inclusion of supers, if anything, was more likely to deter a man than entice him, and so had banished the thought entirely from his mind, but now Morris had no choice, so, finding his voice, he exclaimed, "You'll get to kill supers!"

"What's that?" Rossiter asked, stopping his shoving so abruptly that Morris fell flat on his face.

"Supers, Mr. Rossiter, supers," Morris said as he got to his feet and dusted himself off, "The job we need you to do involves rescuing two of our associates who were captured by a local drug cartel, we need someone to lead a team in to extract the associates. We also know for a fact that the cartel was employing a super."

Rossiter stood in his place for several minutes, thinking things through in his mind. Meanwhile behind him the two agents of Morris awoke from their daze and were beginning to get to their feet. They soon rejoined Morris.

"I can see you'll need some time to think this over, here's my card, come visit us at our offices in the morning if you are interested." The three men then left the house, leaving Rossiter alone in his home. Finally Rossiter snapped out of his reverie and looked down at the card Morris had handed him:

Alfred Morris
Benign Intelligence

He flipped it over and read the address, interested in the prospect of killing supers. He put the card in his pocket and went to bed. For the first time since his "retirement", he slept soundly.
 
...for it is written, Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord”

"Well, now," Hephaestus said to the Iron Guard, looking up from the soldier he was strangling with his fiery hands. "The great metal patriot himself." Snapping his neck, he threw the body aside and faced his opponent. His wheezing voice retained an air of amusement, and his eyes seemed to glow brighter knowing he had killed so many. "I was expecting to run into you a lot sooner. You disappoint me, Iron Guard."

"In the name of the United States of America, surrender or prepare to be destroyed!" the Iron Guard roared at him.

"You aren't in a position to give orders, Iron Guard. Allow me to demonstrate."

Hephaestus held his arms out, and the metal cords slithered from his wrists. He swung them at the Iron Guard, aiming for the throat.

Iron Guard raised his arms over his head to block the blows. The cords struck the armor, sending sparks flying and leaving two marks on the armor. Other than that, the attack left him unharmed

Hephaestus gave a start of surprise at the lack of damage his attack caused. "Well now, aren't we the brave one? Did the dogs at NeoLabs give you that suit to protect you?"

The Iron Guard launched a rocket at Hephaestus, who was lifted off his feet and slammed to the pavement. Getting to his feet, he flexed his neck, seemingly unharmed by the damage.

"You are full of surprises, Iron Guard," Hephaestus said. "I spent a while tracking you down, you know? And in the meantime, I've learned a lot about your past. Your smuggler father, the loan sharks, the car accident. Here I was assuming that you were some godforsaken rundown who stumbled across a super suit, dreaming to be the big stupid hero and save the day. But like I said, full of surprises."

Hephaestus channeled heat through his arms, letting the metal cords burn bright.

"You'll find that I'm full of surprises too."

Iron Guard charged at him, but the heated cords caught him and swung him past Hephaestus, where he slammed into the carcass of one of the fiery vehicles. The Iron Guard struggled to get to his feet after the punishing blow.

Hephaestus laughed darkly. "Not so powerful are you, Iron Guard? I didn't expect you to be parried that easily.

Iron Guard fired a volley of gunfire at his enemy. Hephaestus was thrown back by the hail of bullets, but he flicked his wrist and the gun was slashed with the burning cord. Iron Guard pulled the ruined vehicle in front of him to block Hephaestus' attacks.

"Tell me Iron Guard, where is the good doctor, Sophia Wagner?" Hephaestus taunted at the hero behind the ruined chassis. "I knew she'd be around you when I first started tracking you down. I plan on having a bit of fun with her once I finish you."

"I won't let you kill Dr. Wagner!" Iron Guard boomed.

"Kill her? Oh, no..." Hephaestus said. "I plan on drawing it out a bit. Making her suffer like I suffer. A taste of her own medicine, per say."

Hephaestus started swinging the metal whips at the chassis, sparks and molten steel flying from the heated cables.

"I think I'll go for her father first. Give him a good third-degree burn, all over. Then I'll scare her mother into a cardiac arrest for good measure. She has the heart for it, I'm sure."

Hephaestus continued to swing at the chassis, leaving Iron Guard speechless at his brutal exposition.

"She has her brother, you know. How would she react if he was a paraplegic, I wonder? Or if her sister had to live the rest of her life behind curtains in a hospital bed? I plan to find that out."

Hephaestus gave a cruel chuckle, and replaced the metal cords with the heated blades.

"I'll give her a year to think about her actions, I think. Then I'll come for her."

Hephaestus began to walk around the chassis, while Iron Guard prepared his strategy silently.

"They say that burning to death is the most painful way to die. I disagree."

Hephaestus stepped around the car, then turned to face Iron Guard, his eyes glowing with hatred, the blades on his arms hissing in the cold morning chill.

"The most painful way to die...is by my hands."

Without warning, he lunged at Iron Guard, the blade ready to pierce the heart of the great hero.
 
After signing a few autographs for the chumps that attend his show, Dick exited the building. He dodged his manager and headed to a familiar alley a couple of blocks away. He needed his fix and knew just the man to see.
His name is Mr. Gonzalvez, and he may or may not be affiliated with the Roja cartel of international fame. Dick entered the oddly clean alley and saw Gonzalvez.

"Hey, Mr. G. It's about that time again."

He handed over a wad of cash and received a paper bag inside of a plastic bag. Mr. G never said anything before, and this time was no different. He retreated to an alcove and Dick turned to leave.
As Dick passed an adjacent alley, he heard a scuffle and some grunts.

"Give me the f-ckin' money, you cheap fu-k!"

"I don't have it, man!"

A dealer was hustling his client for more payment, but obviously wasn't going to get it. He drew some kind of handgun and blew two holes in the client's chest. A quick rummaging through the pockets yielded a handful of dollars and some cigarettes. Dick, in an abnormal moment of inspiration, decided to pull the standover man routine and rob the dealer. Who was he going to tell, the cops? He pulled out his wand and approached the man, who was just noticing him.

"Hey who the fu-k are you? You didn't see nothing, unless you want some Rojas on your ass!"

Dick tried to play cool, but just sounded pompous:

"Oh I saw it, alright. Now how about you hand over the cash and your guns and I won't tell the cops what I saw?"

The hoodlum looked enraged.

"How about I blow your fu-king head off?"

Dick entered his Magnificent persona and pointed the wand toward the Rosa's gun. He uttered some meaningless incantation and the gun turned into several mice that bit and escaped the grasp of the gangster. He then pointed the wand to the man's face.

"Not so big now, huh, punk?"
Dick thought that line sounded fierce.

The guy turned out his pockets and apologized profusely to Dick. Another show executed flawlessly, he thought. He paraded around a bit before turning to leave the alley. Mr. G leaned against the wall, staring at Dick, and obviously more than a little perturbed that his associate had just been shaken down by his client.

"The fu-k you think you're doing, Richard?"

"Heh.. gotta make money, right? Listen, Mr. G, if you don't want me to melt your face, you'd best forget this ever happened."

"Hey, you'll have no problems from me. I just think you could make more money working for us than against us."

Dick scoffed. He was, after all, a famous magician, one destined for stardom.

"You think I can make more peddling dope than I can performing for thousands? Unlikely."

"No, I think you can make more securing the cartel's assets."

Dick didn't know what assets were, but he was getting that itch under his eye again, and needed to smoke this sh-t so he could think straight.

"I'll be back tomorrow night, G. We'll talk about it then."

"Alright man. We look forward to doing business with you."

On the roof of the very building on which Mr. G was leaning, The Gunslinger recorded the conversation in its entirety. These punk bastards were talking nonchalantly while there was a person's body getting cold in the gutter. They'd pay. Tomorrow he'd throw a greasy wrench into the freshly baked plans. He'd put hot lead into the eye sockets of both of those bastards. He watched the magic man walk back to the same theater he's always going to or coming from. Mr. G made a call and drove South, probably back to Mexico. He was obviously an illegal. The Gunslinger crawled down the ladder and walked toward the alcove that the underling was hiding in.

He was going to play this one on the sly.

"Hey man, I need my fix."

Juan could have sworn that Clint Eastwood was trying to get dope off him.

"Sh-t. Get outta here, man. What are you, nuts?"

The Gunslinger opened his mouth and spoke through clenched teeth:

"Fu-k yeah I'm nuts. Seeya in hell, punk."

He quick-drew his trusty revolvers and meted out a little justice. He used the loser's phone to notify the police of the poor bastard in the gutter, and to tell them he had their job under control in this sector.

He looked up through the ambient lights and saw a handful of the brighter stars.

Again, through clenched teeth:

"I'll get you tomorrow, devil bastards. This isn't my first tangle with the cartels."
 
"The most painful way to die...is by my hands."

Without warning, the villain lunged at Iron Guard, the blade ready to pierce the heart of the great hero.

At the last possible second though, Iron Guard caught the blade, right before it impaled him, and laughed a booming laugh

"You think you have the only fancy tricks? Well then get ready!" and with that a second rocket was launched, yet the fiend was ready for this one. With almost no effort, his cords caught the rocket and redirected it to an incoming helicopter.

Communications entered Iron Guard, with Colonel McKenna shouting "Iron Guard, this thing is a menace. You are permitted to use any and all tactics to ensure the end of this fiend. The Shield of Avalon has been deployed, I repeat the Shield of Avalon has been deployed!"

The fiend had appeared behind Iron Guard ready to strike, but Iron Guard knew he was there; an elbow to the fiend sent him flying back several meters into a building.Then the sound of four jets filled the air, and missiles flew towards the fiend. Without effort, he was dodging them as he ran towards Iron Guard. The jets had unloaded their capacity, and with that the pilots ejected, and the fiend seemed to laugh. The fiend knocked Iron Guard down with his cords, and seemed to be coming in for the kill, yet Iron Guard needed a bit more time, a minute longer.

Suddenly Iron Guard shot a missle far to the right of the fiend, who looked at it's angle surprisingly as it crashed into a building. But then the building crumbled to the ground, blocking off the two supermen. And that's all he needed; the four jets came crashing down to Earth upon the fiend. He noticed them just in time, and released a barrage of napalm and wires, but it wasn't enough, and he was definitely hit. An artillery barrage was coming down, and Iron Guard was on the offensive, The fiend couldn't block both the punches and the barrage, and was losing this battle. The barrage ceased as the Iron Guard went in for the kill when the fiend released a bust of napalm, catching the Iron Guard by surprise.

The Iron Guard fell to the ground, and it seemed he wouldn't be getting up for a bit, and it was just as well; tanks, policemen, and helicopters surrounded the area. The fiend smiled a bit and turned to the Iron Guard

"Well Peter it's been real. Understand this, I won't make the mistake of underestimating you next time. But if you think I really showed you all that I can do, then you'll be in a world of hurt. Send Dr. Wagner my regards. Remember, one year!"

"I'll find you!"

"Oh I'm sure, and when we meet, it'll be a rather great battle I expect. Until then, farewell Iron Guard..." And another bust of napalm took out a group of soldiers and a tank, allowing the fiend to escape. But Peter laughed. He had won...but looking at his destroyed suit, had he?
 
[size=-1]
She sings low, her voice soothing; a lullaby rendered by a child. Her flowing locks, silver under the dying moon, are loose and hang limp against her small figure. They’re slick, dewy, bristled with a shine reserved for only those truly gifted by God. Her hair coils around her sinewy body, cascading down from her shoulders, before spinning into loose pools around her as she kneels on the floor. The ends are draped in dust by now, tinged with red, but the girl pays no attention, mesmerized in her singing.

“Frère Jacques, frère Jacques
Dormez-vous? Dormez-vous?
Sonnez les matines! Sonnez les matines!
Din, dan, don. Din dan don!”

A cold shiver shatters its way down my spine, almost a convulsion, as I watch from across the room, huddled underneath the doorway. She knows not that I am watching. She’s happy, almost delirious, a smile sketched upon her thin face. I, on the other hand, am horrified- watching in shocked silence as the girl continues her delirious movement and her demonic song.

“Frère Jacques, frère Jacques
Dormez-vous? Dormez-vous?
Sonnez les matines! Sonnez les matines!
Din, dan, don. Din dan don!”

I wish to wretch, what lay before my eyes far more than I could stand. A small breeze flutters in through the open window, ruffling the girl’s hair and rustling the scattered papers across the dirty floor. Some leave smudge marks in the grime as the skirt across its surface. Other sheets begin to blot red; soaking up the pooling blood off the floor as if they too needed it to survive. As she sings, the girl continues her rhythmic work as her hand dances under the sulking moonlight.

She pulls her arm up, and then happily plunges it back down.

She pulls her arm up, and then happily plunges it back down.

She pulls her arm up, and then happily plunges it back down.

Pulling heavenward, thrusting hellwards. I want to scream but no sound can escape through my bruised lips. She giggles, suddenly mesmerized by the sight of the knife clutched in her tiny palm. She holds it up in the air, rotating the ruby blade in the moonlight. What had once been bright silver now stunk of the deepest, ugliest red imaginable. The blade was serrated, long jagged edges, all of which had so elegantly torn into the flesh of the man upon the floor. Her eyes flutter open, dropping down to gaze upon the corpse as she sings lovingly to him.

“Frère Jacques, frère Jacques
Dormez-vous? Dormez-vous?
Sonnez les matines! Sonnez les matines!
Din, dan, don. Din dan don!”

She gasps, giggling scandalously as she leans forwards as if to whisper into the old man’s ear. “Qu'est-ce qu'un vilain garçon vous avez été!” She laughs at her playful words, running a finger over blue lips in a seductive manner. She lowers her head above the man’s head, lips perched above the cold set of the old priest. ” Vous souhaitez pour moi de vous embrasser, n'est-ce pas?” She pauses, seemingly mulling the idea over in her mind before finally giving a small shake of her head. “Oh, mon amour, juste pour cette fois! Un baiser d'adieu, si vous le souhaitez!” And with that she leans forwards more, until her lips touch those of the dead man.

All the while, the knife stands proudly in the man’s chest, long thin blade piercing a now non-beating heart. I stare in shock as she embraces the corpse, lovingly stroking the mottled cheek and running her fingers along her jawbone. Her thin digits trace their way up and down, stroking as if to bring the departed comfort. She carries the kiss out tenderly, deep and passionate on her part, cold and lifeless on his. In my shock, I gasp. And the girl breaks the kiss, looking up at me- her eyes, the most vivid blue, as pale as water iced over, meet mine.

She pauses, a look of almost shock settled onto her face. Just moments later she relaxes, her tensed muscles slacking. A smile returns to her ruby lips, as she giggles once more and addresses me. “Oh. Salut Calatin! Ai-je vous déranger? Attendez, ce qui ne va pas?” She amends her words as she takes note of the shock etched onto my face, as if not even realizing the severity of the situation. She blinks those iced eyes, and then flashes me another smile. A smile that sickens me as it erupts across a far too familiar face.

I stare into a reflection of my own face; I stare at my own twin, one hand still gripping the handle of the heart-encased blade. It takes what seems forever, but I finally manage to drag my tongue along my lips, finally able to utter words.” Elodie! Pourquoi le feriez-vous?! Comment pourriez-vous?!”

Her smile fades, and the look of confusion sketches its way back onto her lips. “Qu'est-ce?” She seems unaware of the source of my horror, blinking several times. Unable to reply, unable to form words, I just motion to the man lying on the ground. And Elodie changes. The smiles and giggles disappear in a moment, evaporated before a look of utmost anger. Iced eyes flash a deep red as she screams, not a word but a primal scream of rage. Harsh, brutal by design as she unleashes a virtual torrent of curses that encased all of two minutes before she finally speaks again.

“Je le savais Calatin! Je savais que vous alliez prendre de son côté! Comment pourriez-vous me trahir?! Comment pourriez-vous mon frère?! Vous pensez toujours que c'est ma faute!” Her nostrils flare, face engorged in the moonlight. “Vous avez toujours me punir! Eh bien, pas ce frère de temps! Vous ne pouvez pas me punir!” Her hand tightens its grip on the blade, muscles tensed and coiled. “ Je ne vous laissera pas!” And then the smile returns to her face, a giggle escapes from her lips. “J'ai une surprise pour vous ..... frère.” And with no sense of shame or remorse, she brings her eyes upwards and peers into my matching set.

I swallow thickly, and then, know no more.
[/size]
 
Lieutenant Mark Olson of the CCPD finally marshaled the courage to go into his kitchen about an hour after he had learned that there was a superhuman being in his apartment. In the interim, he had nearly soiled himself, passed out, taken a shower, and changed his clothes.

He attempted to act nonchalant as he walked into the kitchen and opened up his refrigerator to make a sandwich. It probably wasn't working too well, but it made him feel a lot better about himself. As he got the lettuce and tomatoes out of the fridge, he stole a glance over at the table, where the goddess of wisdom - once more normal-sized - sat idly solving crosswords in his old newspapers.

Minutes passed in silence. Mark finished making the sandwich, got himself some water, and sat down next to Athena. He had mostly finished before he finally spoke.

"How?"

Athena put down her pen and turned towards him. Her gray eyes scanned him intently. "How what?"

"How are you...can you...exist? Are you some sort of, um, government super soldier or mutant?"

"No. The reason I exist is because my mother gave birth to me. You see, when a god and a goddess love each other very much..."

Mark didn't laugh.

She sighed. "Look, I'm a goddess. An Olympian deity. I am the personification of wisdom and strategy. I am very good at killing mortal things. I was around three thousand years ago. I watched the Achaians storm Wilusa from their black ships. I helped them do it. I watched Carthage burn, and I saw the same thing happen to Rome six hundred years later. I guided the hands of the men who stormed Bukhara, I fought in the trenches of Verdun, and I watched Hiroshima turn to ash."

He found his voice. "But you're not real. You're impossible."

"And yet, here I sit, in your kitchen. By the way, you don't mind if I have something to eat and drink, do you?" He gave a "help yourself" wave. "Thanks. Ham sandwiches are okay, but pickles are about as close to ambrosia as I'm going to get in this place. I love pickles."

She got up and started rummaging through his fridge while he thought of how to phrase his next question. "So you're a goddess. Why are you here? And why did you help me last night? I mean, it seems pretty silly that the goddess of wisdom would be hanging out in Silverville rescuing an unpardonably drunk off-duty police officer from local thugs..."

Athena waited until his hurried barrage of questions trailed off. "You know, I like curiosity. It's a good sign." She slid her sandwich into the toaster oven and sat back down, munching on a pickle. "So why am I bumming around Central City when I could just as easily be sitting on Olympos, arbiter of the fates of little mortals like yourself?"

"Yeah, something like that."

"I guess you didn't read enough Greek myths when you were in school. Bumming around and hanging out with mortals is what I tended to do back in the day, too. I'd pick some people who were called 'beloved of the gods' or something, although it usually ended up being 'hey I like you, let's make friends'. Then we'd hang out. Couple thousand years ago, hanging out with a guy usually meant killing stuff with him. For me at least. Since I'm a virgin. It's not like I could do what Aphrodite did, screwing everything that looked like it had a penis."

Mark goggled.

"Wow, you really didn't read much of this stuff, did you? Yeah, I don't do the sex thing. At all. Ever. This-" she brandished a half-eaten dill "-is the only kind of pickle I'm in the habit of eating."

He laughed nervously. "Good thing I'm not one of those guys who'd just want to bone you."

She shot him a critical look. "Yeah? Save it. No might mean yes for some poor immigrant girls in this city, but not one that can become eight feet tall and rip out your spine." He started to stammer something about being a police officer, the public trust, and so forth, and her face softened. "Three and a half thousand years and I'm still terrible at jokes. Look, I like you. Not That Way. Not even in the big sister-little brother kind of way. But you're the kind of mortal I can spend time with, both because I like you and because you're about to be involved in something interesting."

Mark decided to ignore most of what she'd said and focused on the last part. "Something interesting? That doesn't sound good."

"It could be." The toaster oven beeped, and Athena got up to get her melt.

"How do you even know? Can you see the future or something?"

"No. Everyone's actions are their own, including mortals'. Especially mortals'. Yeesh. But-" she airily waved her hand "-strands of probability and so forth, that some of us have a handle on, and you're becoming a very interesting person that way. Things are going to happen around you."

They sat in near-silence as Mark puzzled over what was happening in his head and Athena alternately hummed and sang a song. He could only catch a few bits of it - "if you waaaant to, I can saaaave youuuu" - and didn't recognize the words. Eventually the goddess broke the silence. "You're awfully quiet."

"Well, I mean, I dunno, maybe I should be thinking pretty hard about what the hell's going on? I mean, I was just injured by a Russian Mafia thug, rescued by a goddamn ancient Greek immortal deity who shouldn't even @#$#ing exist, and then told by that deity that I'm officially an Interesting Person and that she wants to be friends with me. Really. What the hell. I'm surprised I've somehow managed to accept that the goddess of wisdom and killing things is sitting in my kitchen, solving crossword puzzles and eating a ham and Swiss melt."

Athena waited for the words to stop tumbling out, then said, "Yeah, you did seem to be taking things unusually well."

"Jesus Christ. That's the understatement of the &@#$ing century."

"Are you done?"

"Yeah." He sighed. "Yeah, I'm good."

"Everybody has to get that out of their system these days," she said sympathetically.

"Yeah, okay. So now that I know you exist, what do I do? Is there some place to build a shrine? Do I pray or what?"

Athena laughed. "Most people tended to burn things. Smells pretty good. Hephaistos used to think it was our crack. And it's not like I'd say no to you tossing me a firstling or anything, but you mortals don't really tend to do that these days, do you? You can be my Odysseus, and that'll be enough."

Mark laughed. "Whoever that was. I hope things worked out well for him."

The goddess' gray eyes clouded, and she looked almost wistful. "He's still out there wandering. 'Not now that old strength which in old days moved earth and heaven', but alive. Sometimes I think I might have helped do that to him." She looked back at Mark, noticing his quizzical expression. "It worked out okay, but it was complicated. I'll tell you some other time."

"I've got time."

She looked at him, surprised, then smiled. "This one's a long one.

Sing to me of the man, Muse, the man of twists and turns
driven time and again off course, once he had plundered
the hallowed heights of Troy.
Many cities of men he saw and learned their minds,
many pains he suffered, heartsick on the open sea,
fighting to save his life and bring his comrades home...
"

---

I apologize for the exposition OD.

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Name/Alter Ego: Athena/"Athena Lekapena"
Nationality/Allegiance: "Greek-American" (Olympian)/Unclear
Powers: Immortality, super strength, mastery of strategy, wisdom, transfiguration, ability to fly. Some of these are nullified by certain magics.
Description: The ancient Greek goddess of wisdom, etc., daughter of Zeus, living as a human in Central City. Has begun to solidify a platonic friendship with one Lt. Mark Olson of the CCPD, around whom threads of quantum probability apparently suggest Interesting Things will happen. Is allegedly more interested in messing around than in any grander plan. Whereabouts and circumstances of other Olympian gods unknown.
 
The Bent Man was staggering his way through a dark alley, shadowed even in the thin sliver of the moon. His body distorted with every step, struggling to maintain human form as it moved along. He was particularly out of sorts at this moment, having recently finished off a large bottle of wine extracted from the transfiguring hands of some elderly dumpster resident a few blocks back. It had been interesting watching the old thing fall apart into litter... but taking the alcohol hadn’t been the best idea.

He’d expected that the drug would give his mind some release from the maddening burden of awareness. Instead, here he was, barely able to stand, and finding himself to be very much an emotional drunk.

“Hurrrealgh!” he groaned, freezing then cracking a hole in the brick wall beside him. Blinding light blasted out at him, causing the drunken figure to stagger backwards.

Leaning heavily against the far wall, the Bent Man pushed himself forwards. He was angry and miserable, and the drunkenness was only compounding his problems, feeding his self-hatred back into himself. Why would the universe not give him even this small, brief escape?

“Ragh!” The Bent Man threw his body like a ragdoll against a nearby dumpster out of frustration. The branching void grew out of his reposed body, pulling him like some terrestrial starfish along the ground.

Buried under a deep mass of dark thoughts, he struggled to pull himself vertical again, and made an attempt at resuming his staggering walk. Falling back to his knees after a step, he threw up on the ground. Glassy crystals exploded out from the point of contact.

“I… am… so… killing the next person I see.”
 
The Bent Man slipped like a shadow along the back of another building, thinking deeply. He was feeling, while not ‘happy’, not nearly as miserable as before, having recently driven the man who’d attempted to mug him to suicide. His intoxication was now several hours in the past, and the sun was now quickening its descent towards the horizon.

He halted, suddenly, struck by the graffiti on the wall beside him. On a whim, he placed his hand down on the concrete, tracing out shapes over the rough surface. As he passed further along the wall, the invisible trail darkened to black, as if burned by some unseen fire. With broad, curving strokes interspersed with jerky, irregular jogs, the semblance of a face was created. Two soft eyes opened up from the cold concrete, blinking slowly. Not missing a beat, the Bent Man scrawled some letters beneath his masterpiece.

Yarbmic. Zorp. Lollipop.

That would do.

That work done, he was now free to advance further along his path… but something drew him off. Slipping out of the alley, quickly crossing a street, then receding just as quickly into a new route, he felt his way along the back of the police compound. This was the place. Stretching upwards, he looked down through a small window into a holding cell.

A familiar figure, head in hands, sat on the small bench on the near side. The boy shuddered as he suddenly recognized the presence.

“YOU! YOU DID THIS!” Marco burst out in a cacophonous blast of profanity.

“The universe is not a fair place. Neither am I.”

“I’LL KILL YOU!”

“Ironic…” The Bent Man stretched his arm through the grate, then peeled the wall open. It folded outwards like loose fabric.

“What…”

“You’re free to leave.”

“The hell are you doing?”

“Things aren’t fair for the people keeping you here either. Now, make your mind.”

Marco hesitated. His ‘rescuer’ raised the fedora covering his face and stared at the boy for a moment. Pain, misery, the knowledge of innocence and senseless, wrongful persecution, all of these things flashed through Marco’s mind as he saw himself losing the prime of his life to the cage. He stood up and tenderly stepped over the folded wall. The Bent Man was already several steps away. Marco charged at the figure, who turned, freezing the young man in his tracks.

“Will you really?”

Marco trembled , fists clenched, meeting the glare… but he could feel himself weakening, feel the poison of that terrible man’s mind pouring into his own, blotting out the few specks of hope remaining in his life.

He fled.

The Bent Man nodded and turned away. The red-tinted sun dropped below the horizon.
 
It had been three weeks since the fire. She had grown accustom to living in the church, with the Priest and the masked crusader, Luckymoose. She had learned a lot about this city, this neighborhood and people in general from these two men. The closest things to fathers she had ever had. Lucky believed she was destined to join him and his crusade against sin in the streets, she wasn't so sure, but she always heard God worked in mysterious ways. And she certainly was mysterious. Her power was becoming easier to cope with now as day after day she was put through vigorous training regiments by her saviors. In fact she was in one right now...whack.

As she hit the ground from a firm smack to the head she cried, “HEY!”.

“DOOODGE!” yelled the raspy, deep voice of Luckymoose as his fist came back around.

“Stop it!” she said as she rolled out of the way, but repeated himself and swung again. Smacking her right in stomach.

“Why aren't you following commands?” he said disappointed in her as she was hunched over on the floor of the sanctuary.

“Stop hitting me, I'm a girl!”

“You knew damn well that we were training here. You think a thug on the streets will give two shi*ts about you being a girl? No! He might even rape you if you exclaimed it. Don't be stupid.”

About this time the Priest walked in with a box, labelled quite comically “FROM JAPAN”, and spoke his opinion on the matter. “She's been doing good these past weeks Sean, you haven't always been so skilled yourself.”

“HEY!” they both shouted at him. Both offended by his statements of skill.

“Nevertheless, children, I bring gifts.”

He sat the box down, and in a fast movement drew a butterfly knife, folded it open and sliced the tape on the box. Rachel was taken a back by this. The old man has some moves.

“Whats it!?” she perked up.

“Your costumes.”

“Costumes?” Lucky queried. “More than one?”

“Yes, I figured it was about time to replace that clunky old leather you've been using with something that can protect you from fire while giving you mobility.”

“Where's mine?” Rachel wriggled with anticipation.

The Priest pulled out the first costume, a red and black spandex type material, small enough for her.

“I believe this one is for you, madame.”

“Oh!” she was eager to rip the plastic off and see her costume. As it folded out before she saw the deep red with black areas on it. Pretty cool she thought. On the front in a yellow oval she saw for the first time the symbol she would come to embrace; a black silhouette of a bird. “A bird?” she asked while trying on the separate black mask.

“Firebird.” Lucky intervened from behind her.

“Firebird.” she smiled as she held the costume close. “I love it.”

Priest tossed Lucky his costume, a green and black single piece of spandex like material with a shamrock on the chest and a pull over head mask.

“I'm not wearing this.”

“Both of them are highly advanced fabrics from a friend at a Japanese chemical company. They resist fire.”

Lucky looked at the still healing burns on his arms and then to Firebird. “Alright. I'll wear it.”

“And, young Firebird, that means you can use your gifts without fear of burning your clothing.”

She smiled and looked to Luckymoose, he knew this look, the look of eagerness. She wanted to patrol the night.


~ ~ ~

Later that night....

Well kept, and fed by their girth, men were stumbling about the docks and overseeing the loading of boxes onto trucks. All of these men were African-Americans and wearing red berets garnishing a black five point star; hardly visible in the night. Lucky and Firebird watched from the roof top, she could hardly contain her joy and excitement. They whispered while watching.

“What do we do now?” she asked Lucky with a big smile.

“We won't do anything. I will break up this bunch and you will learn from watching.”

“Aw, but I have this new suit and everything! I can even control my powers, see.” She caused flames to surround her right hand but she got more than just Luckymoose's attention. The light emitted was seen by some of the goons on the ground below.

“Who's there!?” one of them yelled out, as multiple men cocked their guns.

Lucky just stared her down and shook his head, grabbing her arm and lowering it. Standing up on the edge of the building and revealing his silhouette to the thugs below. He slipped his rosary out of his side pocket and gripped it tight, in the other hand he topped off his short bottle of bourbon. Looking back at Firebird before stepping off the building. She couldn't see over the edge as he dropped, but she could hear the gunfire. In the moment it took her to look down she was fearful for his life, but then she saw the brawl below. With swift grace he disarmed and disabled the few thugs in the open; smashing in some teeth with the butts of their own guns. Within moments they were all on the ground and he loosened the grip on the rosary, which dropped to hang from his fist. He turned to look at Firebird on the roof as a sign of victory, but he was wrong. From behind him came the butt of a shotgun, bashing him in the back of the head and knocking the crusader to the ground.

“No.” she whimpered.

As more of the men, dressed similarly, came out of the warehouse behind Luckymoose they prepared to shoot him in the back. Mocking him as a washed up drunk.

“Not so lucky now are ya?” They all laughed and spit on him. She knew she had to do something, but she didn't know exactly what so when in doubt do it live. A tall tower of flame burst from her body on the rooftops, flaring up and sending a wave of heat down to the men below. They all looked up in shock as if a firework had just went off as they slept. “What the f*ck is that?” the man with the shotgun said in surprise.

“BALROG OF MORGOTH!” came a clearly fake deep voice from the rooftops. She realized how poorly she had thought this one out. All of the men below weren't exactly frightened by this, except one.

“That's a daaaamn balrog! I ain't getting' paid to fight no balrog of morgoth mang. I ain't a wizard. Didn't you see Lord of da Rings? You can do what you want but I ain't stickin' around for this one.”

“You get your ass back here Tyrese. That is not a balrog.”

“Well it's something with fire. What else has fire than a balrog? I mean if a fire whip gets you by the foot I ain't helping you.”

The men started arguing and taking their attention off of Luckymoose and Firebird, the former of whom had rolled under the truck. As the other men tried to separate the quarrel they too were drawn into it. Until they heard the landing of a light figure on the ground in front of them.

“TA DA!!!!” Firebird struck a pose. “You should have seen your faces.”

“Oh thank you Jesus. It's just a kid. I thought a balrog was going to eat me.” Tyrese laughed it off, clearly shaken by the experience.

“I'mma kill this noisy little b*tch.” The bigger man with the shotgun began to lift his weapon to point at her.

“I wouldn't do that if I were you.” She smirked and wagged her finger.

“And why not?”

“If you play with fire...” He cut her off.

“I get burned?”

“No. You get hit in the head by my friend.” A fist cracked the mans nose, seemingly out of nowhere, and as he fell to the ground Luckymoose grabbed his gun. The others freaked out and ran. “Oooooh snap!” Firebird snapped her fingers.

“What's in the boxes?” Lucky said in his typical raspy, deep voice. Firebird was already on it, tearing open one of the boxes loaded in the truck. She held up bags of white powder.

“It's powder.” She was rather innocent regarding the knowledge of drugs.

“Trafficking coke in my city?!” The masked superhero had him by the throat.

“None ya business, white boy.”

“Wrong answer.”

He dragged the downed thug out onto the docks, holding him by his legs as he lowered him to the water.

“HOW MUCH WATER CAN YOUR LUNGS HOLD?”

A single bullet ripped across the river from the opposite shore and penetrated the upside down goon in the chest. Dead; Lucky dropped his corpse into the water and yelled to Firebird to take cover as he did. Peaking from behind some cover he saw a shady figure run away into the night. The cops would be here soon, but their job was far from done.
 
"Hey, Lieutenant Mercer!" One of the field agents yelled out as a figure approached the secuirty lines. "What are you doing here? I thought you quit the force!"

The man nodded. "I did. My house is over there, and I was curious. So..."

"Ah," the field agent nodded. "Happens all the time sir. Most people can't wait to get back in action after they leave the force. I am sure that the head of the police department will let you back into the force if you..."

"No, it's quite alright," the man said hurriedly. "So what the hell happened here?"

"Just the same bloody sh-- we have to deal with every day, sir," the field agent said. "You know how those supers go. Go around and kill everyone as if they owned the damn world. There was that shootout in the lab... helicopters and tanks and everything... plenty of gunshots in downtown... and now this cra-!" the field agent waved a hand towards the house. "We found a 8 year old. AN 8 YEAR OLD DEAD. Do you want to know how he was killed? The killer took a kitchen knife, stabbed him in the throat, and pulled it up. Boom, severed the brain stem, the larynx, and major blood vessels in a single blow. The kid didn't stand a chance. But that's not the worst bit. His father was found in a condition that I can't even begin to describe! Skin and bone isn't supposed to melt!"

"What, some kind of pyrokinetic?" the man asked.

"No, it was more than that. The autopsier said that the father's entire atomic structure was shifted. Changed somehow. Well, whatever it was, it also made the alcohol in his body explode and scatter his molten and disintegrating remains all over the damn room."

"Ouch," the man said. "What did you think when you saw it?"

"It was a pretty rough scene, sir." The field agent said cooly.

"Haha... how's your family, by the way George?"

"You know how it is, sir," the field agent replied. "Wife always complains that I don't spend enough time with my son. But with the world like this, how can I? Somebody has to keep everyone else safe. Do you know that they began to hand out desert eagles and machine guns to police now?"

"Really?" the man looked vaguely interested. "But I really think you should spend some more time with your family, George."

Field agent snorted. "Haha...yes. You are right. After we get this bastard, sir."

The man nodded. "Of course. Lunch later?"

....................................................................................................................................

A knock on the door. A woman hesitantly opens it. "Yes?"

"Hello," the man replied cordially. He handed the woman a bouquet of flowers. "It's from your husband."

She took the bouquet. A card fluttered out of it. It read "sorry." "He said he was sorry because he might not be back in home for a day. A new case."

She shook her head. "That bastard."

"I will not tell him that you said that, madame," the man winked at her.

The wife sighed. "What is your name, by the way?"

"Lieutenant Mercer, ma'am. I was once your friend's colleague. May I come in, by the way? I just need a cup of coffee to warm my hands."

"Sure," she said. She removed the chain from the door, and Mercer stepped into the room. "Thanks," he said. She then noticed that he was wearing a glove. There wasn't even a time to scream when he suddenly grabbed onto her throat and silently closed the door behind them.
 
Sergeant Stone stepped out of the police car and observed the scene of the crime, or at least the outside. Surrounded by police tape was a dingy old house, sitting in stark contrast with the other small houses beside it. It didn't look like it had a good paint job in years, and even in the crisp air the place stank of booze.

As Stone walked towards the house, Chief Inspector Mason walked out of the house, wearing disposable gloves and a grim expression. Spotting Stone, he strode over, pulling of the gloves.

"Stone, good to see your here. We have one victim, middle-aged male. The house belongs to a Mr. Harvey Vulcan. We're guessing that our victim is the owner."

"Why aren't you sure yet?"

"You'll see. Here, put this on." Mason said, tossing him a separate mask. Stone looked at the mask, then back at the house with a nauseated look on his face.

"I know alcohol makes you sick, so put that on before you blow chunks over the crime scene."

"Right."

Stone put the mask on and walked into the house. Even with the mask, the stench of beer almost made Stone lose his lunch. He followed Mason to the living room, where the body was being examined by the medical examiner. The victim was sitting in an armchair, wearing a greasy white undershirt and faded jeans. There was one crucial thing missing, though.

"Where's his head?"

Mason pulled on a new pair of gloves as he spoke. "That is an excellent question, Stone. We looked everywhere, but the head is gone. We're guessing the killer walked off with it after he killed him."

"That's strange," the ME said aloud.

The ME scrawled something on a clipboard, then returned to the body, knowing that the two officers were listening.

"In my examination, my first guess was that the victim died of natural causes and was decapitated after his death. However, I can definitely say that the decapitation killed him. He's not the pinnacle of health, but our victim definitely didn't die before his head was removed."

"That means we have a pretty strong killer," Stone theorized.

"Not quite. This decap is not jagged, which would happen if the neck was sawn through. There's also one very important feature lacking; blood. A decapitation with one clean blow would leave a lot of blood. But this body is, technically speaking, clean."

"So how can you cut a man's head off without getting blood all over the place."

"My theory..." the ME concluded. "Is that he was decapitated with a heated blade. If it's hot enough, it can seal blood vessels and prevent bleeding."

"How hot would it need to be to cauterize the aorta?" Mason asked.

"In layman's terms, very."

A policeman walked into the room with a file in his hand. "I have some info on our friend Harvey. He was married but the wife died a good while back, doesn't say the date. He has a son and a daughter, John Jay and Myra, respectively. By this time, John would be twenty four, and the sister nineteen."

Stone said nothing, letting Mason ask the questions. "Where are they now?"

"We don't know. They both fled home six years back, according to a missing person's report. One wonders why, looking at this place."

"Anything else?" Stone said.

"Nothing on the kids. They have some affiliation with NeoLabs, but it's classified. Can't touch it."

"Stone, didn't you know those two before?" Mason asked him.

Sergeant Stone swallowed nervously. "Vaguely. I haven't seen them in years."

"Well, if you know anything that may help, let me know," Mason said. "Those two are our prime suspects, until we find someone else."

The scent of alcohol was starting to get to him, so Stone took his leave and dashed back to his car for a breath of fresh air and to think about his next plan of action. As much as he didn't want to believe it, John and Myra were both suspects, and his only lead was NeoLabs. He couldn't just walk up to NeoLabs and demand the info, however. He needed a little more tact then that.

Then he remembered he had an ex-girlfriend who worked for NeoLabs. He wasn't sure if she still hated his guts, but it was his only idea for a lead without getting a lab assistant drunk under the table. Starting the car, he rolled down the window for fresh air. He needed a shower to get the scent of alcohol off of him.

When he got home, he shed his sweaty, booze-scented clothes and took a long, hot shower, thinking about murder, death, and heated blades. Afterwards, Stone searched for his ex's name in NeoTech databases. Her location wasn't given, but her name kept appearing alongside another. Someone named Roger Theodore. He decided he had to find this Dr. Theodore so he could pin down his ex.

Never thought I'd do that again, Stone thought with amusement as he climbed into bed. Then again, I never though I'd hear the name John Vulcan again.
 
“M’am, you’re safe now” Adam said to the young woman curled up by the stump. The woman flinched at Adam’s words but otherwise did not react.

Despite her being covered in bruises and dirt, Adam could tell the young woman was very pretty. Though tangled full of twigs and grass, her bright red hair still glimmered in the morning sun. As Adam approached her, he found himself almost too nervous to continue speaking.

“M’am?” Adam repeated. The woman continued not to respond. Adam finally reached his hand out to tap her on the shoulder.

“AAAAGH! GET AWAY FROM ME!” the woman finally let out. It was the same screams of pain Adam had heard when he responded to her attack.

“M’am! I saved you! You’re safe now!” Adam shouted back.

“I’M NOT SAFE! I’M NOT SAFE! I’M NOT SAFE!” She yelled, grabbing Adam by the leg and biting him on the calf muscle. As Adam pulled his leg away he inadvertently kneed the woman in the head causing her to let out another scream of pain and leap from the ground.

“I’M NOT SAFE! I’M NOT SAFE!” she continued to shout all the while trying claw and bite at Adam.

Adam heard police sirens in the distance. He had forgotten half a dozen shots had been fire only minutes ago. Even though East-Gate was a neglected part of the city, the police wouldn’t let a major gunfight ensue without an investigation. Adam had to get away from the park fast. But this woman had seen everything and she certainly didn’t appear to be grateful enough for the rescue to not give Adam up.

“I’M NOT SAFE! I’M NOT SAFE!” Adam struggled to grab the woman by the arms. She continued to thrash about violently, reaching out her neck and biting Adam on the nose. Adam jerked his head from the pain, swinging it into the woman’s temple. She went silent, falling into his body. Adam grew worried he might have killed her by mistake and quickly felt for her pulse. She was still alive, just passed out. With a sigh of relief Adam threw the woman over his shoulder and darted into the trees to escape the park.
 
So what no joining after the update?
 
The Suit was of no real issue. Yes it had taken quite a beating, but the Iron Guard was considered a major hope for the United States in their future wars. Their resources, combined with Peter's skill, caused the suit to be repaired and improved upon in a rather short time.

And the problem wasn't with the public's reaction to the battle., Every major news network carried the battle on the television, and when the jets controlled by Iron Guard crashed into the enemy, there was no doubt that Iron Guard was a force to be reckoned with.

The problem was that there was no idea on what to do next. Should they go back to Central to resume their original mission? Should they go to Los Santos to protect Dr. Wagner's family? All thoughts disappeared when two men entered the room. One was an unassuming man in a black suit and tie, but the other wore four stars on his shoulders, and had several medals; it was General Jack Hill. Crisp Salutes came when they entered the room as General Hill motioned for them to sit, he began speaking

"Lady and Gentlemen, we are in a very uncomfortable situation. A large part of Metropolis has been taken out and we have a killer on the loose. It is absolutely imperative we take this man down before he can cause any further damage. Agent Blue?"

"Thank you General. Our target is John Vulcan. He came from an abusive household and is likely to be mentally unstable. He entered a contract with NeoLabs, who contributed to the Iron Guard suit and to the Mark IV Thermal Resistance Armor. Vulcan was an excellent pilot for the Mark IV suit, and achieved a 94% efficiency rating as a pilot. He was so good that it was assumed that when the Iron Guard Suit was completed, he would wear and pilot it as well.

Somewhere down the line though, Vulcan snapped. He took his sister and the suit, and has been assassinating NeoLab employees for nearly a year. He was last seen heading West after the battle of Meteropolis"

General Hill cut in "Now we believe he's heading towards Los Santos. It is the site of one of the largest labs owned by the U.S. government and it is operated by NeoLabs. Go there, protect the lab, find Vulcan, and defeat him. That is your mission." and with that, Hill and Blue walked out

"Yes sir" replied Iron Guard

And that settled where they were going for now

__________________________________

As General Hill entered the limousine, he recieved a call

"General, we have picked up Sergent Vince Stone as ordered"

"Excellent then, the bait has arrived. Los Santos should begin minor evacuations, claim a disaster is coming. This time, my Iron Guard will have a few tricks up his sleeve"

"Yes Sir!"

And with that General Hill sighed hapily...He would have to thank the good doctors Theo and Wagner. This was a time to celebrate and he would enjoy it.
 
Update 1 – March 2011


For decades the world had seen supers come and go. Fighting an everlasting battle, to curb evil or to expand it's deadly grasp on the planet. Seeping from the underbelly of the normal world there came many threats, and from the least likely places came the saviors. But what are these gifts? Acts of God, or gods, miracles of nature or something beyond them all? Regardless of your religious beliefs, your scientific knowledge or your guesstimates on this peculiar factor in the continuing evolution of human kind; there is no solid answer, only definitive proof that they are. A new generation arises in the shadows of the former, great and terrible people before them are in their twilight or gone altogether now. Some are new faces, some are old, and yet some are down right mythical in stature; but these individuals, whoever they might be, are the present and foreseeable future. They are the heroes of the here and now, and the nightmare lurking underneath the bed. They will be watched like those before them, by those that have always watched.

The number of bodies was on the rise in the southwest U.S as an apparent gun toting vigilante roamed the new west. The LSPD wasn't particularly concerned with the matter as those that were being killed off were the scum of the streets anyway. Can't praise him in the open, but behind closed doors this Gunslinger was becoming a favorite among the officers. Doing the job they wished they could do, popping caps in all these street gangs and for the first time in decades putting the fear of the law into some of these kids. It was becoming a local media phenomenon as the bodies mounted up. Mostly members of the Los Santos Locos a couple were identified, while others were still in processing these two individuals were clearly shot by the .45s of this vigilante. Rico Martinez, 19, and Juan Chavez, 17, were found shot dead on the side of a street where they had been dealing. That was in all the papers as so called witnesses provided police sketches that looked like a rugged cowboy. Famous western action movie stars are thrilled, believing that this figure could return popularity to their genre. The Locos on the other hand are not particularly happy with this development as its keeping their shipments off the streets. Notorious drug lord “T-Bone” Mendez is reported to be in the country and out to end this Gunslinger character, bringing more fire power than glocks with him.

Santos Beach saw an unusual event earlier this month as a man wielding a Japanese fighting sword, and appearing to be a homeless man, came out of the water and broke down a life guards tower. Yelling phrases relating to Japan and being subsequently hit by a truck as he fled the scene. The body has not been found and the city has put out a warning that he is armed and likely suffering from schizophrenia. The truck driver is reported to be okay but a little shaken up by the incident.

A full page add in the Santos Guardian, across from the article on the crazed oriental fellow, shows the picture of a fancy looking magician starring in a few venues in the city. Magni the Magnificent. Sounds pretentious. Some regional experts on ancient aliens think his magic is pretty awesome and unexplainable.

A series of serial murders echoed in Central City, as if it couldn't get worse, multiple families were brutally murdered by what seems like an arson of some kind. Some of the victims were burned in ways never before recorded by the investigators, while others were brutally murdered with a knife. One of the families effected in that of CCPD officer who's name has not been released. His wife and son were founded murdered and he has yet to turn up, but is expected to be murdered as well. It is now a concern to all officers working on the case that they are being targeted by this killer to hide his own trail.

One CC store says they have completely run out of pickles.

Two men, one of which is verified as a military personnel, were engaged in a fire fight in the streets of Metropolis after the unidentified man had assaulted a NeoLabs facility and murdered the inhabitants previously. After being called out publicly, the man codenamed Iron Guard, was escorted to Metropolis by armed personnel of the United States Government. Only to have the entire convoy destroyed by the potential terrorist threat. A deadly battle took place over the next several minutes as local media coverage captured it all for the six o'clock news. The corpses of a couple dozen soldiers, civilians and the destruction of a helicopter, tanks, trucks and the flaming wreckage of air force jets all littered the immediate vicinity. With all the collateral damage the locals in the city protested the use of such force for one man, terrorist or not, and proclaimed that they would not welcome Iron Guard back into their city. He had done more damage than the so called villain, only to let the man escape in the end.

An unexplained murder of another NeoLabs affiliated man has only exacerbated the problem.

A famous fashion store in downtown Metropolis is now offering monocles. Pressure from customers is reported as the cause.

A fire at an orphanage leaves one girl dead, her body was burned to ashes and could not be found. Services for her were held by the fire department.

Luckymoose and his new sidekick, Firebird, came into contact with drug runners in the cities ports. Helping to stop the Black Star gang, as best described by those that would speak, from bringing hundreds of millions of dollars of cocaine into the city. This is perhaps the largest bust in Metropolis history.

It is currently under investigation, and information is lacking, that a few federal workers have been taken hostage in the city.

Senator Jones of New York was in Metropolis to applaud the work of the local police and even those heroes that roam the night. Condemning the drug trade and celebrating his work against it. Coinciding with his visit to the city there was a breakout at the local max security insane asylum, releasing some of the cities worst killers, both super and not, in the largest organized escape in decades.

Terminus has been the home to what could become unconnected serial murderers this month. Both men reported to be the leading suspects in the murders are both on the run. One man, who police released his name as Marco Roy, is believed to have brutally stabbed his friends on a hike in the the mountains north of the city. The second individual is believed to be the murderer of the men found near a pond in East-Gate park. Officers responded to gunshot fire and found the ravaged remains of a few men and torn clothing of a woman. No witnesses were around but the TCPD are suspecting a kidnapping and possible later murder is on the table.

On the world stage the revolutions of the Middle East draw to a close with victory over the dictators and change coming to place. President Obama consulted with former president Bill Cornwallis over the recent rise in violent crimes through the nation. The former agreeing to propose bills to congress to up the security in major cities and increase funding to the nations police departments. Several retired former masked heroes have spoken out about the crimes and claim they would have been solved already if they were allowed to leave the retirement homes they currently reside in.

It is now April, 2011.

OOC:

If you are not mentioned, do not worry, the updates only cover the things that happen publicly. I have read every story and they all are wonderful. Though some I couldn't understand due them being in another language. ;) Front page will be updated sometime tonight. You may carry on.
 
A cab pulled up to a building. It was raining. Such facts flew through the mind of the Extremely Dapper Gentleman, as he handed the driver his fare, and tried to ignore the comments on his choice of clothing. The nerve of some people; commenting poorly on his impeccable fashion sense. But he would show this city! He would show it someday, and soon, and it would never forget what he had shown it -- what he would show it could not be unseen! The Extremely Dapper Gentleman could not wait to show them all.

Stepping out into the rain, he moved through the crowd, attracting stares and awkward glances. He usually did so, but he didn't mind, he would show this city -- oh, yes he would.

The gate was one of those doors that conveniently opened when you stepped in front of it. While the Extremely Dapper Gentleman greatly suspected that this was the work of dark, incomprehensible and eldritch magicks, he also greatly enjoyed the novelty. He toyed with the moving gate until he tired of it, and the stares of those around him were becoming slightly more intrusive than he would have liked, and he entered the store.

The interior of the building was large. The Extremely Dapper Gentleman noted this with interest, but followed it by noting rather unhappily that he was soaked. Rain could do that to a man. Or a woman. Or lots of things, actually; the Extremely Dapper Gentleman began to run down a list of things that could get wet in the rain. While doing this, he wandered throughout the store. It was large. He found a rack of magazines, and briefly perused them. He found additions to his list of things that got wet in the rain, and declared his magazine-perusing a success. It was at this point that he finally reached a terminal labeled "Help".

"Help?" the woman at the terminal turned to face the Extremely Dapper Gentleman. Like so many people in the city she seemed rather surprised to see him, but the Extremely Dapper Gentleman was gradually becoming used to such things. They were familiar, but they were still not enjoyed.

"Yes, this is the help desk. How may I -- help -- you?" the Extremely Dapper Gentleman noted a tone of sarcasm in the woman's voice. Sarcasm, the Extremely Dapper Gentleman noted, was something that men of his stature and worth were not accustomed or expected to deal with. Briefly he considered smiting the woman, but he was in a merciful mood that day.

"Yes, tell me young lady, do you sell any... Monocles?"

The woman stared at him for a moment. By her stare, the Extremely Dapper Gentleman began to suspect he was within the premises of another establishment that did in fact not sell monocles. Curses. "Monocles?"

"Yes, monocles. Do you sell them?" the woman typed something on a keyboard, and directed her attention for several moments to a glowing screen that dominated the desk.

"No, sir, I'm afraid we don't sell monocles." the Extremely Dapper Gentleman's premonition was corrected -- he hated it when he was right. Or did he? He did at the moment.

"Do you know of anywhere that does?" the woman stared off reflectively into the distance. It suddenly hit the Extremely Dapper Gentleman that she was taking this rather in stride, compared to others he had questioned along these lines.

"I think I read that Steampunk Chic sold some." steampunk? What an ugly word. Ugly, ugly, ugly. Didn't fall off the tongue quite right, did it? No, it didn't.

"And where is such an establishment located?" looking again at the screen, she paused for a moment, and responded.

"Newburk Avenue." the Extremely Dapper Gentleman nodded.

"Thank you, young lady." he turned to go, but she called out after him.

"Uh, are you a cosplayer?" whipping around, he encountered another unfamiliar word. He was starting to encounter a lot of those.

"Cosplayer, you say?"

"Yes, cosplayer. You know, dress up as characters from video games or television shows --"

The Extremely Dapper Gentleman knew all too well. Impostors, conmen, liars and thieves! Clearly these cosplayers were in league with his enemies to impersonate him and besmirch his name. "No, most certainly not madame and I'll thank you not to associate me with them. It sounds most terribly nightmarish."

And the Extremely Dapper Gentleman left, noting that he would have to find these cosplayer people and bring them to justice. One by one if necessary, for that was the way of a gentleman, and an Extremely Dapper one at that.
 
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