Issue #002 – – – – – controlled by Ken Thompson – – – – – Credits 38

There was definitely something hokey about the computer knowing there had been a break-in, but relegating it to the same level of importance as information about the whereabouts of his cat.  But Midnight didn’t have time to deal with that.  Whatever had broken in was still here.  “Xara patch me through to the Deep Storage Centre then implement emergency protocol Alpha 1; lock everything down, nothing in or out.”
“Acknowledged,” Xara said.  All around, the hydraulic hiss of steel plates sliding smoothly over windows and doors filled the air.  Automated emergency lights flickered.  Somewhere distant the backup generator hummed into life, ready to take the strain if it needed to.  The air dropped a degree in temperature as it moved to draw from the oxygen tanks stored in his rear wall.  Nothing in or out meant just that.  Nothing.

“You are patched to the Deep Storage Centre,” Xara confirmed.
With a calm but demanding voice Midnight Runner spoke: “Intruder, who are you and what do you want?”
The sound relayed from the bunker beneath the building in which his penthouse was located did not change.  A soft hum and the regular hissing of gears slowly turning.  The Midnight Runner spoke again: “Respond or the system will be purged along with you.”
Still nothing.  Perhaps this was all a malfunction?  Xara’s failure to report it with the proper gravity certainly suggested that could be the case.  If there was something down there, it wasn’t playing.

Of course, the Midnight Runner was bluffing.  He couldn’t possibly purge the Deep Storage Centre because…

Midnight was sitting in his office chair, the automated massage rubbing away at the knots in his back.  He opened his eyes.  Moonlight poured in between the cracks in the curtains over the huge bay window that led out to his penthouse balcony.  Had he fallen asleep without going through his routines?  How strange.  He must have been more tired then he realised.  “Xara?” he called.
“How may I be of service?” the computer’s voice came back.
“Where did I get to before I dropped off?”
The computer listed the chores he’d completed, though he really couldn’t remember completing them.  “Inventory, diary, accounts, orders, surveillance.”
He rubbed his bleary eyes.  “Anything to report?” he asked.
“The Belmont Building.  Some sort of altercation taking place on the roof.”
Midnight knew the Belmont, it was three blocks away.  Expensive homes, upper middle-class owners; politicians, junior executives, union bigwigs and the like.
“Show me,” he asked.
The main screen gave an aerial view of the top of the Belmont building, while three other monitors displayed it from different angles.  There was a fight going on!  It looked like a trio of women in white costumes were getting beaten up by a much larger group of men dressed as pirates.
Pirates?  Now we’re talking, Midnight Runner thought with a grin.  I’m in the mood for some old school bad guys!

“Xara,” The Midnight Runner said.  “Juice up my Midnight ‘Copter.  The day job is over, time for some volunteering!”
“Of course,” said the computer, “You will be ready for take-off in Forty Seconds.  Vehicle will rendezvous with you on the balcony. ”
“Excellent.  Better get on.  I still can’t believe I fell asleep.  I had the strangest dream!”
The hero vaulted over the couch and headed for the balcony, ready to spring into action.  It was, perhaps, a shame he was in a hurry.  If he’d had just a little more time he might have seen the red blinking light on the security dashboard.  Just above it, the printed legend read: “Breach.”  And just above that the area identifier was the Deep Storage System.  Somewhere far below the building, something stirred in the darkness.  Something terrible.

Issue #002 – – – – – controlled by Ewan Farris – – – – – Credits 10

Dark Star opened the front door and – before the agent who was waiting outside could react – he stepped through it and held out his hand.  “Hello, Agent Stern, nice to meet you.”  Surprised, the agent shook his hand.
“Who are you?” Stern asked.
“I am Oliver Taverner, Lily’s cousin,” Dark Star lied. The two men assessed one another.  Dark Star looked like something out of 1930’s Film Noir, with his long black duster and wide-brimmed black hat, his scarf tied artfully around his face so as to almost completely obscure his features.  Agent Stern was a middle-aged white man in a crisp black suit, with chiselled features and a rugged, handsome face.

“Who are you, and why am I not speaking with Lily Taverner?”
“Lily is not on duty tonight, I’m managing the home,” Dark Star told him.
“With all due respect, Sir, you hardly look like a child-minder.”
“Perhaps you could tell me what it is you want?” Dark Star countered.
“I want the Freaks that Lily Taverner is hiding in here.  I know what has been going on and I’m here to stop it.  Harbouring an unregistered Subnormal, Abnormal or Super is a serious crime.  All meta-challenged citizens must report to the city bureau for evaluation.”
“There are no freaks here,” Dark Star said coldly, “Only children.”
“I think they are both.  Now step out of the way so that I can secure them and take them to be classified.”
“You arrived just a few minutes after the police visited the place,” Dark Star said.  “They searched the premises thoroughly.  There are no illegal fugitives being harboured here.  The children are best left in peace. ”

Agent Stern looked surprised, but then quickly covered the reaction up.  “They were not authorised for a full search.  I am.”
Dark Star reassessed the man.  “Is that right?  The Bullies weren’t authorised for a full search?  Come on, Agent Stern, you know that the cops in this city can do pretty much whatever the hell they like.  I don’t think you knew they were here, did you?”
“I, uh, yes.  I did.” Agent Stern managed, but Dark Star could see he was lying.
“An agent of the Federal Bureau Of Abnormal Activities would be fully informed of the movement of local law enforcement,” Dark Star said, suspiciously.
“I am.  I was,” the Agent stammered, but he was looking less cool and collected by the second.
“You know, I’m not sure you are an agent of anything,” Dark Star stared at the man and as he did so the spectral energy began to build up within him, surrounded his body with a weird nimbus of blue-grey starry light.
“You’re not Lily’s cousin.  You’re not even human!  You’re some kind of Abnormal!” Stern accused.
“Dead right,” Dark Star said, “And so, I suspect, are you.”

The man who had claimed to be Agent Stern transformed instantly.  Where there had been a man now there stood a thing.  Some seven feet tall, the monster was lizard-like in appearance, in some ways like a Komodo Dragon.  But on its head it had curling horns and from its rear protruded powerful, sinewy tail.   In its hands it carried a wicked-looking double-headed axe.  With an easy gesture it tore the suit from its body revealing thick, scaly skin.  It tipped it’s head to the sky and roared, the noise echoing through the streets and rattling at the windows.

Dark Star didn’t hang around.   He somersaulted to the side and just in time to avoid the powerful swing from that evil axe weapon.  The monster was on him in a flash, snapping with its dripping, fierce jaws.  “You know,” Dark Star said as he kicked the creature in the chest, pushing it backwards, “I think I preferred your other look.”
“Do not prattle, flesh sack,” the monster hissed.  “You are not to my taste, but you will serve as an appetiser before the main course.”
“If it’s okay with you,” said Dark Star, “I’d rather not.”
Just then the door behind him opened and Lily stared out, a trio of frightened children’s faces framed behind her.  She saw the monster and screamed.  “No, Lily,” Dark Star cried, “Get back inside.  Let me handle this.”
“Ah!”  The monster sported a toothy grin.  “Supper.  Tasty.”
“You’re not eating Lily,” Dark Star told him.  “You’ll have to go through me first.”
“It is not the adult that I want,” the creepy lizard-thing corrected, “And going through your soft pink body to reach the food will not be a problem.  No human can stand against Chu Kwai.”
“Well, we’ll just see about that,” Dark Star said, hard eyes levelled.  There were going to be no child-flavoured snacks on his watch.

Chu Kwai came at the hero like a bull, head down, muscles bunching.  Dark Star backed up against the door.  How he hated doors, concealing what you where facing and then framed you nicely once opened.  But he’d been quietly gathering his spectral energy and he was ready.  One thing Dark star knew, it was not much fun to be struck by the strange power of spectral energy for most people, but for those who heralded from the dark side it was usually much more effective.  He’d already concluded that this thing calling itself Chu Kwai was not simply a freak or a subnormal – it was otherworldly.  In fact, he’d lay a fair bet it was a demon, of some kind.  By the name – an oriental one!

The searing blast of spectral energy that streamed from Dark Star’s upturned palms was absolutely silent, but it was oh so bright.  Momentarily, the night air lit up like the Fourth of July as the strange starlit glow made the entire vicinity strange and beautiful.  For its part, Chu Kwai was thrown across the street like a leaf in a hurricane.  It’s huge body lifted and sent tumbling through the air and bounced across the road until it struck a streetlight column.  There was a crash as the metal pylon folded in half and that area of the street was plunged into shadow as the spectral energy flash dimmed and the lamp was extinguished.

Carefully, Dark Star crossed the road to examine the fallen creature.  It tried to rise to its feet, but the blast had temporarily taken the fight out of it.  Instead it let out a low moan.  Dark Star made his hands glow again.  He probably didn’t have enough juice left for another big shot like that yet, but Chu Kwai didn’t know that.  “Ready to meet your infernal maker?” the hero asked.
“No, wait,” the huge Lizard thing quivered, somewhat pathetically for its size.  “I’m sorry, mighty fleshy one.  I did not know you had already claimed this bounty.  Perhaps we can share?”
“These children in that house are under my protection,” Dark Star said coldly.  “How did you know they were there?”
“I could smell them,”  Chu Kwai said simply.
“Are you a demon?  Why are you here?”
The thing looked shifty, evasive.  “I came through a portal, I was alone.  There are no others.

A cold chill ran down Dark Star’s spine.  It was lying.  Which meant there were more demons here.  “Last chance, ” the hero growled.  “Tell me why you are here and how many others have come or you die.”  His hands glowed more brightly.
Chu Kwai relented, fear in its eyes: “A coven has opened a True Gate.  Many have come.  Many more will come.  Eventually, all will come.”
“All?”  Dark Star didn’t know what a True Gate was, but he didn’t like the sound of it.  “What do you mean all?”
“All,” repeated Chu Kwai.  “The Infernal Host.  Millions of demons are coming.  Millions.”

Issue #002 – – – – – controlled by Rene Sawatzki – – – – – Credits 6

In Countdown’s admittedly limited experience, giant killer robots come in three types.  There are the rough-looking cobbled-together piles of dangerous spare parts, of the kind produced by c-list quasi-supervillains and crazy scientists with limited government backing.  Then there are the ones with a military appearance; American, British, Nazi, whatever flavour their creator preferred. Then there are the gleaming, futuristic, terrifying ones of the kind you’d expect to see the latest sci-fi action  hero fighting in the final scene of a Hollywood blockbuster.   The robots that were presently closing in on him were of that last kind.  Unfortunately.

Countdown activated his chameleon ability, but since he was in the middle of the warehouse there wasn’t a great deal of cover to be had.  His legs went slate grey, the colour of the ground beneath his feet.  His upper body darkened and took on hues of the shadowy light in the room.  Immediately the Giant Killer Robots buzzed electronically and their eyes took on a green hue.  They can see me perfectly with some sort of special lens, Countdown (correctly) surmised.

“Okay then,” the hero sighed.  Reaching into the time stream Countdown plucked at the past, hoping to bring something big and dangerous in to smash the mechanical enemies into spare parts.  But there was something wrong.  The past felt unfamiliar.  He couldn’t grasp onto anything he recognised in the time areas he would have expected to find them.  “Huh.  Setback,” Countdown grimly determined.

“Your best bet,” came a voice from the rear of the warehouse.  “Would be to surrender, mate.”  It sounded like a young man, perhaps a teenager and the accent was British. Or maybe Australian.  Countdown often mixed the two up.  “You say that because you don’t realise the power at my disposal,” Countdown called out, going for the bluff.  “In just a second I will incinerate these metal contraptions with laser bolts from my eyes.”
“I think, if you had a power like that, you’d ‘ave used it the minute you saw my Chrome Concluders closing in.”
The young man strode into the light and Countdown could see he was indeed a teenager.  Dressed in a tight black suit with silver piping down the sleeves and legs and a short silvery cape that hung halfway down his back, the young man had a blonde buzz-cut and a fluff of fledgling beard on his chin.  “What I think,” the villain said.  “Is that you’ve got nothing.  You’re some half-hearted Abnormal with the power to blend into the background.  You’ve broken into my warehouse looking to indulge in a little burglary and you’ve come up against more than you expected.”

“That’s it,” Countdown said, improvising quickly, “You got me!  I was just going to steal some things, but I didn’t know this was a villain’s lair.  I’ve made a mistake.  Can I go?”
“You have made a mistake, son,” he responded.  (Why was this pimply kid calling him “Son?”  He was half Countdown’s age.  Irritating.)  “Now you’ve fallen into the clutches of  Doctor Chrome.”
“Doctor Chrome?” Countdown asked.  “Really?  That’s what you’re going with?”
“Yeah.  What’s wrong with it?” Doctor Chrome asked.  Then, as if realising he was being baited he said: “You seem to be in a rush meet your death,”
“Not really.  But death does seem, just lately, to be in a rush to meet me,” Countdown agreed.  It was at that moment that the giant amoeba appeared in the warehouse, its glutinous form smothering everything and everyone.

It went like this:
While Countdown was talking to Doctor Chrome, or Kid Chrome, or Little Boy Chrome, or whatever he was called, he’d been using the breather granted by the obligatory monologue to feel along the strands of time.  It appeared that the world hadn’t just ended and been remade a little in the present time, but reformed from scratch right back to the dawn of time.   (Countdown didn’t want to dwell on that too much, just yet.  It was too big.)  The changes meant that he needed to feel the pattern of the new timeline before he could summon things from it.  It wasn’t difficult, it just needed a few moments, which Chrome Lad had helpfully given him.  (Why do supervillains always want to talk so much, anyway?)  Once he’d managed to grasp the new structure he’d simply latched onto the biggest thing in the early time stream he could find and dragged it through.  Voila, Giant Amoeba.

The Giant Killer Robots were blasting and lasering and hacking with hands that turned into wicked-looking saws, but it did them no good at all.  The amoebic mass which smothered them simply glooped right back into place, effectively immobilising them.  Somewhere amidst all that primordial slime Countdown could hear Doctor Chrome shouting something about how “unfair” this was.  “Stop whining,” he informed the villain as he manoeuvred his way through the creature, using his limited connection to the thing he had brought out of its time to command it out of his way.  Doctor Chrome was still shouting angrily from inside the warehouse when Countdown walked casually out of it.  He’d determined not to try and arrest the villain.  After all, he hadn’t actually seen any crime being committed and technically he was the intruder.

Once outside the evening air washed over him, raising goosebumps on his skin. From the looks of things he was somewhere near the city center.  Helix Park spread off to his left while the neons of the city’s night trade flashed and glowed to his right.  Which would make Madden Heights, his home, to the South.  He wanted to find out if he still had a home in this new reality.  After all, when the Countdown business was done, John King still needed somewhere to sleep.  Unless he wanted to be the world’s first superhero bum and just crash under a pier down near The Docks?  It didn’t sound appealing.

Countdown started marching towards what may or may not be home – eager to put some distance between him and Chrome Hormone before the amoeba dissolved back to its own time period.  (What the Hell was up with this world anyway?  Amoebas are single-celled organisms.  You can’t make a single cell big enough to cover a warehouse.  That’s just plain stupid.  Obviously, the creator of the brave new world wasn’t big on the Science.  Which didn’t bode well for what else might turn up here.)

Countdown felt something hot in the hidden storage pouch of his costume’s shirt.  He pulled it out.  The pocket watch Old Father Time (he hadn’t said that was who he was, but Countdown decided to take a flyer at it.  Seemed as likely as any of the rest of what was going on) had given him.  It was glowing very faintly and the hour and minute hands were spinning in opposite directions like some manic Geiger counter.  “Now what?” countdown sighed.  Because he was pretty sure this was some kind of alert and he rather doubted it was warning of the approach of anything Countdown would like.

Issue #002 – – – – – controlled by Frank Devocht – – – – – Credits 17

Beast Nelson didn’t waste a second.  “Get out!” he shouted at the sparse crowd in the nightclub.  “In an orderly fashion!” he remembered to add.  Didn’t want to add people trampling one another to his woes.  Then to Helk: “Call the police!”
“Nothing the Bullies can do about this,” the young man told him.  Nelson had never heard the man seem so unsure of himself.
“Hey, Wild Thing!  Aren’t you supposed to be a hero?  How about acting like it?”
The reprimand seemed to have the desired affect on Helk, who shrugged off his blazer and tore off his t-shirt revealing the lurid red and yellow spandex beneath.  Nelson had seen it before.  Everybody had seen it before.  Helk was quite the local celebrity.

The shapeless mass, for its part, had coalesced rather quicker than Nelson had thought it would.   Nelson didn’t know what he’d expected, but he hadn’t expected that.  Standing in the middle of the nightclub dancefloor was a scarecrow.  The Straw Man wore dungarees over a striped shirt and topped off by the obligatory floppy hat.  It was well-made and creepy looking, particularly because its eyes were dark red, like pools of blood.  It looked distinctly out of place in the flickering light of the glitterball.  “Now that’s something you don’t see every day,” Nelson muttered.  Still, no time to mess around.  The Beast’s intention was to grab the thing while it was getting its bearings and smack it against hard stuff.  Like the ground.  And the walls.

“Oh God!  It’s horrible!” Helk blubbered, apparently reverting back to Spineless Mode fairly promptly.  Nelson was about to make a quip about how he’d always known Wild Thing wasn’t up to much when the fear and horror struck him too.  Hard.  It was like somebody had flicked on a switch, waves of disgust and abject terror washed over him.  He stumbled backwards as the Straw Man approached, steady, relentless, crimson stare fixed on the hero.  “No, please, no,” Beast Nelson heard himself cringing.

Hold on a minute.  What the heck?  Beast Nelson may not have done much heroing in a long time, but he knew what this was.  He recognised it.  This was some sort of psionic effect.  No way did a halloween prop like this hold such terror to the Beast.  And just like that, he was free of the effect.

“You wanna play?” Nelson growled.  Then he bunched his shoulders and rose from his slouch to his full height.  His own red eyes (which, now he thought about it, should have made blood eyes less frightening by the familiarity of the trait) glinting from beneath the deep black fur that covered him.  “Then let’s play.”

The Straw Man and Beast Nelson clashed just in front of the DJ booth, slipping and sliding in the blood of the fallen women.  Nelson was surprised by the strength of the scarecrow which was a match for his own.  The two wrestled for an advantage, with the scarecrow tearing, biting and scratching at the hero, while Nelson tried to get purchase for the body slamming to start, but kept coming away with handfuls of straw instead.
“You can bite all you like,” Beast said, “You’ll find my skin a bit tougher than those helpless women you killed.”

Just then Wild Thing vaulted to his side, flipping over the bodies and landing perfectly without any imbalance.  “Need some help?” he offered.  He’d pulled on his red facemask – though it was for appearances only because the whole city knew his “secret” identity. “Found your cohones, have you?” Nelson asked.
“Saw you break through, realised it was an effect rather than real fear.  Well done with that, by the way,” Wild Thing said with an easy grin.  The arrogant grin that Nelson found so irritating, actually.  The exact one!
Nelson grunted and smashed the scarecrow in the side of the head.  It skittered backwards, but did not seem phased as it came immediately back at the two men.
Wild Thing spun on one hip and his heel cracked across the thing’s face, a near-perfect spinning back hook.  It didn’t seem to care.

“If we can pin it, we can control it until the cops get here,” Nelson said.
“The cops?  We can deal with this ourselves,” Wild Thing said.  “Why do you want the Bullies involved?”
“I’m just a bouncer.”  Nelson said, grappling with the monster again as it thrashed about trying to free itself from his grasp.  “I don’t do the cape and spandex routine.  Normal people call the cops.”
“Normal people?” Wild Thing laughed, grabbing an arm and trying to assist Nelson in pinning the Halloween outcast.  “You’re a giant, covered in black fur.  Where’s the normal?”
Just then the Straw Man managed to get its teeth onto Nelson’s nose and bite.  It really, really hurt.
“Agh!  Get it off my nose!  Helk!  Help me get this straw-faced freakshow off my nose!” the Beast roared.  To his credit, Wild Thing tried, but his blows and martial arts strikes had little effect on the scarecrow.

“Right then,” Beast Nelson raged and delivered a mind-numbingly powerful two fisted blow straight at the monster’s midrift.   It was an obvious strike, easy to defend against.  But the creature didn’t see it coming, so distracted was it by Helk’s helter-skelter attacks and its intention to sever the nose from Beast Nelson’s face.  Abruptly it was gone from him.  It spun across the floor, spilling hay as it slid crashingly up against a glass column.  It tried to rise, but its straw legs seemed unable to support its weight.  Then, it begin to shift to mist again.  “Quick!” Wild Thing shouted, “Stop it.  Don’t let it get away!”

Issue #002 – – – – – controlled by Sarah Saunders – – – – – Credits 17

“So let me get this straight.  There’s a big secret only you know.  I killed you once.  But you’re going to tell me the secret anyway?  And your name is Mildew Act?”
“Melderact,” He corrected me, somewhat tetchily.  “My name is Melderact.”
“I’m not sure that’s an improvement,”  I told him.
“You are frivolous, yet I offer to reveal to you the secrets of the universe?”
“This is Helix City,” I pointed out.  “There are always guys willing to offer a girl the secrets of the universe.  I’ve seen them.  They end up standing on a street corner with a meth habit and a bad case of Nowhere To Go.  Besides, you look like a reject from a horror film.  Not even a good one.  Why would I trust anything you say?”
“Because you know, Sulis.  You feel the truth inside you.  Do you not?”

And the trouble was, I did.  Though I was suspicious as all get out, I couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something to this story.   Imo grumbled and moved up alongside me.  It was clear he didn’t think a whole lot of Top Hat or his claims of secrets.  Still, I knew I couldn’t just let it go.  It’d nag me for months.  Besides which, this guy might the bloodsucker behind all the murders and if he was I needed to know, so I could deal with him.
“Okay, tall, dark and ominous.  What’s the catch?  What do you want in return for the Secrets of the Universe?”
“I want your help to put things right.”
“You telling me you’re a good guy?  In that getup?”
“Not at all,” Melderact’s dark eyes flashed.  “I have every intention of summoning dark powers from beyond the veil of reality and using them to enslave the people of the world to my dark will.”
“That’s what I thought,” I nodded.  Well it was!
“But not this world.  This world is wrong.  I want my world.  The world we came from.  Until then, you and I are on the same side.”

Just then Melderact raised his chin slightly, his eyes flicking from side to side.  “What?” I asked him.
“Did you hear that?” He asked.
“No,” I said honestly, “I know I’ve got the whole feline half-cat half-human thing going on, but I get my senses from the human side, sadly.”
“I am able to detect shifts in the nature of reality.”
“Well naturally you are,” I agreed.  “With the whole sinister Victorian serial killer vibe, that was a cert.”

There was a puff of black smoke accompanied by a lower thwump, like the subsonic beat of a drum n’ bass lick stretched longer and darker.   And then these nasty, wiry, awful grey things where everywhere.  “What the…” I gabbled, dropping into my combat stance.
“Goblins,” Melderact said.  “Defend yourself, hero!”  Melderact began ranting out something that sounded mystical, the waving of the hands and arms confirming, at least in my mind, that it was a spell.  Imo surged forwards and snatched two of the ugly little bastards and rung their necks.  (You can kill Goblins and Things That Go Bump In The Night without remorse.  I have it on good authority that they aren’t really alive.  More like dark forces of nature.)

I could already see I’d have to act quickly.  For somebody who wanted to summon dark powers and enslave the people of the world, he was casting his spell spectacularly slowly.  What did he think, that when he got around to Global Domination everybody would just stand around and politely wait for the enslavement to commence?  I’d have to ask him.  But first – woah!  That was close!  One of the Goblins came at me very fast indeed, tumbling like some circus acrobat with long, sinewy sharp fingers tipped with raking claws.  I was only inches from having a sizeable portion of my face ripped off. I responded by kicking him directly in the ‘nads.  I really had no idea if Goblins had ‘nads, but my gamble paid off as the spiteful little ball of rage turned into a hunched over squealing ball of retch.

There were a lot of Goblins, but there weren’t having much luck with Imo.  They swarmed on him, but he casually shrugged and they just fell away.  It is hard to keep ahold of something made mostly of slime, particularly when it is really, really strong.  Imo then planted his “hands” (and I use the term loosely, for those looping tentacles that he can occasionally make look vaguely like hands) onto the foreheads of two of the Goblins and they burst into screaming, agonised fire.  He doesn’t do that very often and I don’t know how he does do it.  But it’s pretty damn cool.

A Goblin leapt onto my back, but he couldn’t get a hold of me.  Instead, he found himself pawing at the invisible barrier my force field provides.  “Annoying that, huh?” I asked it.  The Goblin hissed in rage.  I hissed back.  Hey, I’m a cat-like humanoid!  Hissing is my thing!  In return I zoomed around the old parking lot kicking and punching Goblins who become steadily more furious that they weren’t fast enough to catch me nor able to penetrate my defences.  “Sucks to be you,” I told them.

Finally, old Mouldy Fact managed to get his spell off.  The last few words sounded something like: “Marrianta Mercanda Vertuda” and I was disappointed at the lack of something with more dramatic flair, like “Zim Sala Bim” or “Hey Presto!” but beggars can’t be choosers.   A green light appeared above one Goblin and than danced between the nasty little humanoids flashing from one to the next creating an emerald chain of crackling power.  The Goblins were held rigid by the force, though it didn’t stop them spitting and swearing.  (Yep, real human swearing!  You haven’t lived until you’ve heard a Goblin use the F-Word.  It’s surreal.)

“We must get out of here, quickly,” the sorceror said. “This was the vanguard.  Something greater is coming.”
“Sure, it’s always minions first, then the boss.  But maybe we should stick around?  The three of us should be able to deal with most things.”
“No!” Melderact looked frightened.  “This is not a force to be trifled with.  Not yet.  You do not know who you are, why you are, or where you are.  The enemy will use this devastatingly to its advantage.”
“So I’m just supposed to trust you?  A super villain, or Evil Wizard, or whatever the hell you are?”
“You can wait here,” Melderact looked at me slyly.  “But if you do, you are your pet monster will be killed and I will have to look for one of the others for assistance.”

One of the others?  Now my interest was piqued.

Issue #002 – – – – – controlled by Fraser Machin – – – – – Credits 2

The Man Made Entirely Of Rough Pieces Of Granite brought his paired hands, like one colossal club, down on the back of Lionheart’s head.  The blow smashed the hero’s skull into a thousand pieces, pulping it like a melon struck by a sledgehammer.  The hero slumped lifelessly to the floor, nothing above his neck but a gaping ragged stump.

Or that’s what might have happened. What should have happened.   Something in Lionheart’s brain said that this is precisely what did happen.  That’s just how it panned out.  That was how the world was meant to be.  Except that at a fraction of a second before impact, something changed.  Something inside the hero’s head clicked into place, fragments of memory swam distantly in his mind, and reality took a different track based on the hero’s snap decision.  In a moment, his fate changed.

Rolling to one side, Lionheart snatched up a handful of dust and hurled it upwards.  An oldie, but a goody, the fragments hit Granite Guy in the face and eyes, causing him to curse and roar.  And miss.

For his own part, Lionheart pulled on the strength and toughness and tenacity that lurked within him like a well and with a roar of his own he was moving.  To the side.  A dash.  A lunge.  A twist and in a moment he was behind the gargantuan.

“Rrrraaagagghhhhhh!” the monstrous thing articulated, scrubbing at its eyes and raging at the crowd.
“Kill him!”  One of the audience screamed.  But before the creature could find its opponent, Lionheart was upon it.

The hero grew to giant-size, a power he’d held in reserve until this point for no reason he could quickly imagine.  In fact, he wondered what on Earth had possessed him to give this beast the height advantage?  Had he wanted it to win?  Still, he decided, he’d consider what the hell that was about later.

Now nearly as large as Granite Guy, Lionheart leapt up onto the creatures back and locked his arms around its stony neck.  The creature went beserk, twisting, turning, trying to throw the hero free. Lionheart locked on tighter.

“This is how it’s done in the jungle, buddy,” he snarled in Granite Guy’s ear.  “You think lions just tear into their prey?  They don’t.  They get the throat.  They squeeze the throat.  They bring down their enemy by suffocation.”

Whether The Man Made Entirely Of Rough Pieces Of Granite understood any of this was unclear.  It raged, and jumped, and spun.  It fell onto it’s back and ground Lionheart into the dirt.  It tried to smash the hero against the wooden posts that surrounded the combat area.  It succeeded in doing so, in fact.  Lionheart held on – and each attempt to remove him simply made the hero tighten his crushing hold still more.  “You’re covered in stone, but I heard ya’ breathing, buddy,” Lionheart told him.  “I know you need air and that air’s getting mighty hard to find, right?”

The crowd fell into a hushed silence as Granite Guy went to his knees.  Choking, gasping, no longer seeming quite as ominously formidable as he had.  In fact, eyes blazing, arm muscles knotted, roaring with fury, it was Lionheart who now looked utterly terrifying.

And then it was over.  The stone monster slumped onto its face and the strength went out of it.  Lionheart climbed off and paced around the edge of the enclosure.  “Get him some help,” the hero said.  “He’s just unconscious, call your medics.”  The crowd were still – and then they erupted into a frenzy of applause and excitement.

Lionheart was still trying to piece together what was going on and how he got here when two men in black suits and top hats parted the crowd as they approached.  When they spoke, they spoke in unison, their voices oddly synchronised so that every word was precisely mirrored.  “Congratulations, Lionheart, you have beaten the odds today. You will fight again tomorrow.”
“Maybe I’ll just take my leave?” Lionheart said, taking in his surroundings with a view to doing exactly that.
“You will not,” said the strange dual-voice.
Abruptly, the hero was surrounded by men in green uniforms  that had the look of some kind of private security.  They were all armed with snub pistols that had a futuristic look about them.  Their outfits were completed by top hats, which looked out-of-place with the rest of their kit.  “You think I can’t deal with these mooks?” Lionheart asked.
“Not all at once,” the smartly dressed twins said together.  “If you fight us you will lose, and when you awake we will have amputated your arms.  We suggest you surrender to the inevitable.  It will be much less … unpleasant … that way.”

Issue #002 – – – – – controlled by Bill Treadwell – – – – – Credits 18

Back at HQ Cassandra was being given the full debrief.  It wasn’t too hostile, primarily because they simply didn’t have the first clue that she had basically stood there and watched her colleagues get killed.  They didn’t even seem to think such a thing was possible.

“So the Gangers had an Abnormal with them?” Sully, a grey-haired man with yellow teeth and a crooked nose asked her.
“Yes.  The black guy you picked up.  I shot him.”
“Damn, girl, you got lucky,” Sally Parsons told her, giving her a friendly pat on the shoulder.  “If he’d had some kinda immunity, or tough skin, or shit like that you’d have been the next crushed skull.  Am I right?”
“I suppose,” Cassandra said, dully.  She still felt so strange.  It was as if there were a script in her head telling her how she should feel; angry, scared, outraged, and a reality in her head that felt none of those things.  She felt sad that people had died, sure.  But she just couldn’t find sympathy for these cops with whom she had, apparently, worked for years.

“Did any of the gangers survive?”  Cassandra asked.
“The big dude is critical, but you didn’t kill him.  They’ve got him in high-security.  Docs don’t think he’ll make it though.”
“The others?”
“Other than the ones you said got away, they’re all dead.”
“Good,” Cassandra nodded, though more for appearances than with any conviction.  She knew she was supposed to hate those thugs, but what actually had they done?  Sat around a fire in an alleyway?  This was reason to attack them?  Sure, they’d responded with lethal force once her team had come at them, but she knew full well the Bullies had no intention of going in light themselves.  This was self-defence, to her mind.

“So what went down?  How’d it get so messy?  Did Thomson call it wrong?” Sully asked.  Cassandra remembered that sully was a District Sergeant, one of her direct superiors.  She’d dated him once, a few years ago, briefly.  But why?  He didn’t appeal to her at all.  She couldn’t imagine why she would have done that.
“Just didn’t expect such an effective Abnormal in a group of deadbeats like that,” she answered.
“Maybe a trap, then?” Sully asked.  “These terrorists luring cops in for the kill?  More of that?”
“Dunno,” Cassandra said, honestly.  “Maybe.”
“You survived though?” Sully said, his smile dropping and his eyes intent.  “How’s that?”  Suddenly, he looked predatory.  Dangerous.
“Got lucky in the shadows,” Cassandra told him.  “Came at them less obviously than the others.”
“You go, girl!” Sally Parsons cheered, handing her a steaming mug of java.
“The shadows?”  Sully looked doubtful.  “You ain’t no Ninja, Cass.  Surely they’d have been watching the shadows?”
“That’s where you’re wrong,” Cassandra replied, meeting his gaze directly.  “The best shadows to strike from are the ones nobody actually sees.”

After the debrief Cassandra made her way to the locker room to get changed and cleaned up.  She remained confused, her mind split between warring versions of what was, and what should be.  She wished she’d been able to question the gangers.  If only one had survived.  Of course, there was the big black guy.  She’d seen him fight. He was tough.  She didn’t share the doctors certainty that his injury would kill him.  Maybe there’d be an opportunity there?

Cassandra thought back to the immediate aftermath of the battle.  She’d snapped out of her daze long enough to do the important things.  She’d secured the crime scene.  She’d taken to the roofs to call in backup and check the area.  She’d kept her eyes peeled for fleeing gang members, but they had vanished like ghosts in the night.  Then, before backup had arrived with sirens blaring and lights flashing she’d taken some time to check the pockets of the fallen gangers.  There’d been little of interest but she had found a matchbook that rang a bell in her hazy memory.  “Viktors,” it said.

A bar of some kind. Located in The Port.

It sounded … familiar.

Issue #002 – – – – – controlled by Keith Nixon – – – – – Credits 115

The ladder ascended quite some distance, first along the side wall of the sewer tunnel and then into a vertical shaft.  Above, Got Gal could see a manhole cover through which shafts of light penetrated.  “I can this coming out in the middle of the Governor’s Ball,” she muttered, “with myself wafting the fashionable scent of Eau du Cesspit about and with a used condom stuck behind one ear.”

However, perhaps luckily, it did not.

Pushing the manhole cover aside Got Gal found herself at the tail end of a long alley.  Dumpsters lined both walls with barely space for people, let alone vehicles, to navigate between.  “This probably explains,” she mused, wrinkling her nose in disgust, “why none of them have been emptied in, like, forever.”

Still, with so little information to assess her situation, she determined to find something she could use as a weapon.  Overflowing dumpsters, despite their barf factor, seemed a likely source of such a device.

Got Gal hovered up into the air and floated above the stinking piles of refuse, looking through the old rotting fish, soggy crates and thousands of pieces of merchandise packaging for something useful.  She spotted an old metal chair and plucked it from the garbage, easily rending the seat into pieces so that she could wield a steel leg in each hand.  Sure, her physical strength was pretty awesome (not to mention catching people by surprise – who expected a bikini-clad young woman to have the strength of twenty men?) but it never hurt to grab an edge.  Or two.

A fraction of a memory surfaced. “Perhaps that ghost image was right”, she thought, laughing at herself.  But Got Gal wasn’t one to dwell on what might be.  Better to just find out what the hell was going on.

With a kick she angled upwards and soared towards the sky at incredible speed.  Blasting clear of the rooftops she soared up into the air, her arms tucked at her sides and her legs together to give minimal wind resistance.  She looked, for all intents and purposes, like a human bullet.  A very curvaceous human bullet, if she said so herself.

At just below cloud level in what appeared to be the late afternoon, she could see the city spread out below her.  A grand canvas of urban humanity, a daunting skyline as jagged skyscrapers thrust heavenward, their shadows long and dark across the streets far below.

This was not right.  While her memory was faint and fragmented, she was sure that the towers should not have been this tall, their architecture less severe.  There seemed to be huge, derelict sections, blasted areas of the city which she had expected would be glittering and healthy.  There was something to the way the metropolis looked; tired, dirty, menacing.  This did not look like a healthy place, but the opposite.  It looked sick.

“Hey, honeypants,” she heard.  Glancing across, three figures were hovering in the air to her North, perhaps one hundred feet away.  The voice carried well, the faint breeze blowing precisely the right direction.  “I hope you got yourself a license for that.”
“For what?” Got Gal asked.  She was sizing up the three individuals.  Each wore a black and grey suit, like a uniform, but more sleek.  Like a cross between a uniform and a superhero costume, in fact.  Oh crap, she thought.  Minions?
“For the use of your super-powers in a public space.”
“A license?  To fly?  Really?”  She asked.
“Honeypants,” the man sneered as the trio hovered towards her.  “You obviously ain’t from around here.  But that’s okay.  We’ll just take you into custody and we can sort this mess out.”  He leered at her bikini-clad form, “One way or another.”

Issue #002 – – – – – controlled by Wayne Gildroy – – – – – Credits 94

He didn’t panic.  Oakheart wasn’t given to panicking in the face of even imminent death and he certainly wasn’t going to start now.  Methodical, careful, logical, this is how he would proceed.

First the hero tested his arms.  His memory was still supplying flashes of what had been and he was sure that in the past his “branches” had functioned in the same way as human arms.  Testing first the left, then the right, he was pleased to find some limited movement.  Further, his “hands”, formed from smaller branches and sturdy twigs, seemed to also function in the way he would expect.

“Hmmmm,” he rumbled again.

Testing his flexibility he found that in many ways he was completely unlike the other trees.  For a start, he could bend at the waist.  He did so, trailing his arms on the ground and raking at the grass and mud there.  He could feel his immense strength, intrinsic in every limb or his wooden body.

With long sweeps he began dragging up the earth, digging at the foundations where he presumed his legs would be.  This had an odd effect.  He began to feel woozy.  As he exposed his roots so the odd sickness grew.  He supposed this was to be expected.  Trees did not do well with their roots exposed.  But Oakheart determined to continue.  It was, after all, a choice.  Dig himself out and hope he survived, or stay here and be a tree.  He was intelligent and the latter did not seem at all appealing.

Abruptly, Oakheart toppled over.  He’d dug deep enough that the roots tore and his huge weight caused him to tumble to the ground, crashing through the other trees and bushes around.  It was dark and there was nobody near to hear, it seemed.  Nobody came.

Oakheart shook himself.  The sickness was passing now and he felt the roots break away, revealing instead two huge lumbering wooden legs at the base of his trunk.  Oakheart cheered internally!  He was whole again.

He pushed himself to his feet and glanced around the gloomy shadows of the city park.  He wondered, now he was free, what he should do.  Drawing on his power, Oakheart grew a small amount taller.  Since he was already huge sized, compared to humans anyway, there were limits to how much bigger he could get.  But he was able to “grow” a little, so that he could peer over the top of the surrounding greenery.

He could see the park’s edge on two sides.  The winding paths that were used by joggers and dog-walkers in the mornings, but were dangerous places at night.  Somewhere to the East he heard a noise.  Oakheart listened again, straining to both hear and to feel the information communicated to him in nature’s way.

A scream!

Oakheart may not know who he was, or why he was, or even entirely where he was, but he knew one thing for sure.  Screams in the city park at night were bad news – and it was his job to deal with them.

Huffing with concern, Oakheart began striding through the park towards the source of the noise.  It did not take long.  A low bridge that formed both an overpass for a cycling track and an underpass for pedestrians was lit by only a single flicking lantern attached to the wall.  From the shadows beneath he heard the scream again.  A woman’s voice then: “No, please no.  Just take the money.  You can have the money.”  Some laughter.  Men, perhaps a woman’s voice too.   Sneering.  Cruel.  Dangerous.  Then one gravelly voice that silenced the others.  “I don’t think so, lady.  We’ll take the money, sure.  But then we’ll be having some fun.”

Will you?  Oakheart thought.  We’ll see about that.

Issue #001 – – – – – controlled by Ken Thompson – – – – – Credits 0

The thief came through air conditioning pipes in absolute silence.  He moved with grace and style, clearly a master at his trade.  The grill that fed a cool breeze into the executive offices of the Bull Corporation was removed quickly and efficiently and he lowered his lithe body down onto the top of a filing cabinet.  From there he shot a wire to the far wall and began shimmying across it, completely avoiding the delicate floor sensors that were switched on here at night.

At the far end, the thief hung upside-down from the wire by his knees and pulled the painting of Clinton away from the wall revealing the state of the art safe behind it.  Carefully, oh so carefully, he retrieved his tools from their zipped storage pocket.  The safe was tricky, but he was confident he could have it open in a few minutes.  Ten at the worst.  Well within the time space between guard foot patrols of this floor.

“Ahem,” The Midnight Runner said as the lights came up.  “Can I help you with something?”
The thief was so surprised he fell from the wire and hit the floor.  The sensor alarms didn’t sound.
“You are quite talented,” Midnight said, smiling broadly.  “But the corporation isn’t stupid.  We have all the aircon shafts and maintenance corridors alarmed in several different ways.  As you crept around, we’ve been watching and enjoying the show.”  This wasn’t entirely true.  It had taken some hard advice from Midnight before they’d installed the additional security that had caught this man.  Apparently, rich and powerful they may be, but the corporation was certainly capable of great stupidity too.
The thief said nothing, but went for the weapon concealed inside his jacket.

The Midnight Runner was faster.  Across the room in a flash his hand was at the thief’s throat, its soft blue glow lighting the area with its subtle colour.  “Don’t,” the hero said.  “A plasma burst at this close range could take your head off.”
“You wouldn’t,” the thief croaked.  “You’re a superhero.  You can’t kill.”
“Brave new world, my friend,” The Midnight Runner said.  But then conceded: “You’re right though, I wouldn’t kill you.  But it would certainly hurt a whole lot.  You might wish I had killed you for the next few weeks while suffering major burns, breathing difficulties and other medical complaints.  I’d suggest you just give it up.  I’ve caught you fair and square.”  The resolve seemed to just leak from the villain and he nodded, resignedly.

The side door burst open and three Minotaurs entered.  These were the shock troop security of the Bull Corporation, humans but in the heavy power armour made specifically and only for Bull’s protection.  Those suits made them stronger, faster and much harder to hurt.  They also looked damn scary too, fashioned like the legendary monsters of mythology.  “You have the thief in custody?” Minotaur 1 asked.
“You can plainly see I do,” The Midnight Runner said.
“We will take it from here,” Minotaur 2 added.
“I don’t think so,” The Midnight Runner said.  “I’m commissioned by Bull to stop these burglaries, not to bypass the legal system of the United States Of America, such as it is.”
“The Bull Corporation funds, provides and owns the legal system in this city,” Minotaur 1 reminded him.
The Midnight Runner sighed, knowing this was true.

When the thief had been removed, the Midnight Runner headed down to the Cashier.  It was a twenty-four hour job in the Bull Corporation – the cashier was always open.  He took payment for his successful mission, twelve thousand dollars.  One of the upsides to being one of the very few licensed superheroes in the city.  He could get paid.  Not that he did it for the money – but you have to put bread on the table somehow.

Arriving home to his luxury penthouse flat, The Midnight Runner dropped wearily into his electronic massage chair.  Around him the walls and ceiling lit up with silvery LCD light as his computers automatically fed him all the news channels, the press, social media feeds, data and video and audio from his surveillance cameras set about all around Helix Point, and his diary.  “Coffee,” he said.
“Acknowledged,” said a soft female voice with a slight mechanical edge.  Minutes later a tiny rover bot rolled across the room, atop which rested a steaming mug of java, made perfectly to his tastes.  “Thanks,” Midnight Runner said.
“You’re welcome,” came the female response.

“Anything to report?”  Midnight Runner asked.
“Your third spare costume is dry cleaned and ready for use.  There were three bills today which I have settled as per your standing instructions.  Current account shows successful addition of your services payment from the Bull Corporation.  There was an attempted violation of the Deep Storage Centre.  The cat has been fed and is currently out, and…”
“Wait.  Stop!  Go back.  What was that about the Deep Storage Centre?”
“There was an attempted violation.”
“What kind of violation?  A break-in?”
“Unknown.”
“What do you mean unknown?”
“Unknown, Adjective, Not known or familiar.”
“Yeah.  Thanks Xara, that’s helpful.  Let me ask in a way your computer brain can deal with.  How did the situation with the Deep Storage Centre resolve itself?”
“It did not,” the Base Operating System known as Xara responded, “It is still here.”
A cold chill passed down The Midnight Runner’s spine.

Still here?