The Midnight Runner

The Helix Virus made monsters of some, but Douglas Maven was not that unlucky.  Within days of exposure his powers were materialising and where some only had one, or two, Douglas seemed gifted with many.  That said, none of them were particularly strong on their own, but as a package they were impressive.

The Midnight Runner looks every bit the “traditional” superhero.  He has the spandex, the good looks and the panache.  Zooming around the city, his hands and eyes both glowing faintly blue, he is a darling of the press.  As heroes go, he is very photogenic.

Type Of Hero: Abnormal

Base Of Operations: Helix City –  Helix Point

Secret Identity: Douglas Maven

Description: Pale Blue Top, Black Pants. A lightning bolt running left to right across the top front and back

Powers: Energy Attack: Plasma: 1, Energy Pool: Basic, Energy Immunity: Fire: 1, Energy Immunity : Sonic : 1, Energy Immunity: Magical : 1, Force Field : 1, Heightened Senses : Eyesight, Invisibility, Speed : 1

Issue #001 – – – – – controlled by Ewan Farris – – – – – Credits 1

“You have to be quiet,” Darkstar told the children.

The older ones hushed quickly, but some of the youngest continued to snivel and cry.  It broke his heart, but it was also very dangerous.  He could hear the footsteps above drawing closer.  Any sound might alert them to the hiding place.

Dark Star pulled a pouch from the concealed pocket inside his duster.  The powder within it was very special, made in an even more special shop Downtown on Coldharbour Avenue whose entrance could only be seen after midnight on Tuesdays and Thursdays and even then only by those who were wearing a white trilby hat or who were humming the Star Spangled Banner in the Key of “D”.

He tried one more time: “Ssshhhh”, but there was no calming the youngsters and he was out of time.  He shook the little pouch so that the silvery dust puffed out of it in an odourless cloud.  The small area fell immediately and absolutely silent.  The magic in the dust prevented sound from travelling.  It was very effective and useful, but also extremely expensive.

There was a downside.  The sound of the children would not alert those who were searching for them upstairs, but neither could he hear what was going on up there.  Sound could not reach his ears until the dust’s magic faded – in a few minutes.

With some trepidation, Dark Star sat silently and waited.  He expected the trap door to pop open at any moment and a group of special op cops, known as the Bully Boys, to fill the small hideaway with hot lead.  He would do what he could.  He could probably take out most, or even all, of the cops in fairly short order.  His energy attack would be very effective in an enclosed area like this and he was no stranger to hand-to-hand combat either.  But as fast and as strong as he was – he wasn’t impervious to bullets and neither, pertinently, were the kids.  He might be killed.  More importantly, some of the kids would almost certainly be injured or killed.  It was why he had chosen to hide rather than fight.

Time passed.  The trap door did not open.  Until, eventually, sound returned.  Dark Star couldn’t hear anything above so he cracked the trap door open a tad and peered out.  “It’s okay,” Lily said from somewhere nearby.  “They’ve gone.”

Dark Star led the kids into the light of the basement room.  Lily, a beautiful dark-haired women somewhere in her late-twenties, was waiting.  “Are you sure it’s clear?” Dark Star asked.  “Certain,” she said.  “They didn’t seem to be l0oking for anything in particular.  Just a standard sweep.  I think we’re okay.”
“Good,” Dark Star said, glancing at the kids.  A weird lot, all of them were borderline Subnormal with strange mutations that set them apart.  Otherwise, they were just normal, nice kids.  He was very fond of them.  Although they mostly had useless or very low-grade powers, the authorities still wanted them.  Lily and her group of activist normals, Liberty Inc., were determined to prevent children becoming prisoners and in some cases experiments of The State.   Dark Star agreed with that purpose.

Dark Star had been chasing a burglar along Port Road a few weeks ago when he’d encountered Liberty Inc. “collecting” a child.  At first he’d thought they were kidnappers, or something worse, but once he’d found out what they were about he’d kept an eye on them from time to time.  He’d just come by tonight bringing some supplies he’d secured after breaking up a criminal gang when he’d seen the Bullies coming towards the orphanage.  He’d alerted them in time to get the “different” kids into the cellar hideaway.

“Thank you,” Lily told him, favouring him with a light kiss on the cheek.  “I don’t know how you kept them quiet.  I was sure they’d be heard.”
“I just gave them my best stern voice,” Dark Star said.  “And they quietened right down.”
“Liar!” laughed Joy, one of the older girls who had been in the hideout with him.

Knock, knock, knock.  Everybody fell silent.  All eyes turned towards the front of the house.

Knock, knock, knock.  Again.  Louder.

“Open up please, Lily Taverner. This is Agent Stern of the Federal Bureau Of Abnormal Activities.  I know you are in there and I know you have Abnormal children amongst your charges.  You are in a great deal of trouble, which will be exacerbated if you do not open this door immediately.”
“Shit,” Lily’s face had gone white as the blood drained from it.  “Oh shit, shit, shit.”
“Don’t panic,”  Dark Star said.  “He sounds like he’s alone.  He sounds arrogant.  And he thinks he’s dealing with some normals and a houseful of kids.  He doesn’t know I’m here.”  Dark Star pulled his duster right and set his scarf to properly conceal his countenance.  He looked grim and dangerous.  Then, purposefully, he advanced towards the door.

Dark Star

Dark Star is too much of a hero to just be written off as one of the nightpeople.  But he spends too much time in the gloom and the darkness to be considered a traditional hero. Instead he straddles the line between the colourful superheroic and the weird and strange.

Working the tougher areas of the city, particularly The Port, Darkstar cuts an impressive and fearsome figure, emerging from the shadows in his dark duster and scarf, the scourge of those evil folk who live Among The Shadows.

Type Of Hero: Abnormal

Base Of Operations: Helix City –  The Port

Secret Identity: Alasdair Grille

Description: Black Leather Duster Coat, Black Hat. Black Scarf over mouth and nose.

Powers: Agility : 2 (Animal Agility), Energy Attack: Spectral: 2, Energy Pool: Basic, Energy Immunity: Sonic, Strength: 1

Issue #001 – – – – – controlled by Rene Sawatzki – – – – – Credits 8

Countdown was tumbling through the timestream.  For all he knew he had been doing so for days.  Or months. Or years.  Or forever.

To be truthful, he didn’t really know if there was time in the timestream, given that the timestream was, by its nature, exterior to actual time.

Neither was he sure which way he was tumbling, or if there was such a thing as a way in the first place.  After all, time existed in its entirety from beginning to end (if you can consider there to be a beginning and an end, which he was fairly sure you couldn’t, but that was another matter.)

All he knew was that he was utterly powerless to do anything about it.

He’d woken up a short time ago (again, with the time references, in a place where time didn’t exist.  He was human.  He couldn’t help it) and discovered his unfortunate predicament.  It had taken him a while to work out what was going on.  This wasn’t surprising, since he’d never been actually in the timestream before.   But gradually a combination of analytical thinking, instinct and the nudges and tingles in his mind from the powers he possessed he managed to put it together.

Now for the problem.  Countdown hadn’t lost his powers.  They were still there.  He just couldn’t access them in a place where there was no time.  He was like an expert pianist in a room surrounded by pianos all behind thick sheets of bulletproof plate glass.  He could see them, but he couldn’t do a thing with them.

Countdown could not remember how he had got here.  His mind was a blank back quite some time, with occasional fragments of memory hanging tantalisingly close but never clearly in view.  He thought this probably meant that the world had ended.  He was matter of fact about it, because his view of the world was different to that of normal people.  He knew that even if it ended in some form at a certain place in time it will still continue to exist elsewhere on the timestream.  He also knew that while such things should be permanent, in the Grand Scheme (if there were a Grand Scheme, about which he could not say for sure) – they often were not.  Time could change.

Still, tumbling in this weird mixture of colours and otherworldly sounds wasn’t actually hurting him.  He wouldn’t starve or die of thirst, since that took time and here there was none of that.  There didn’t appear to be anything else here with which he could interact, so nothing was going to attack him, eat him or smash into him at high speed.  He supposed he would eventually go mad.  He had heard that could happen due to extended periods of isolation and loneliness.  He didn’t know how long that took.  Or if it could happen in a place where there was no “how long” with which to measure it.

Abruptly, he was sitting in a chair in a dark room facing an elderly man in a black robe.  The colours and the sounds were gone, replaced by blessed silence.
“Hello John,” the Old Man said.  “We need to talk.”
“Fine by me,” said Countdown.  “I can take a break from tumbling helplessly through nothingness.  No problem.”
“Your world has ended.  Your link with reality was broken to protect you.  The realignment would have driven somebody with your powers mad, or killed you, if you had experienced it directly.”
“Okay,”  Countdown said.  He had no reason to disbelieve his companion and he had seen quite enough weirdness to take things at face value that would make most normal people presume barking insanity.  The Old Man seemed to appreciate his lack of scepticism, nodding and smiling.  “But things have settled down now.  The new alignment has solidified.  So you need to go back.”
“I can’t,” Countdown said.  “My powers don’t work out here.”
“I can put you back,” the Old Man said.  “My abilities are a bit broader than yours.”
“Okay,” Countdown acknowledged again.
“But when I return you to your world,” the Old Man said, “I will want you to act as my agent.  There are things you need to do there to fix some of the damage.  To correct ruptures and tears, and to return a sense of balance which has been lost.”
“If you don’t mind me asking,” Countdown said, “Since you are more powerful than me, can’t you do it?”
“I cannot,” said the Old Man.  “Some things are forbidden.”
“Okay,”  Countdown said.  Clearly, this was some major player in the Cosmic Scheme (if there was a Cosmic Scheme.  Which it seemed there might be.)  He was curious, but he presumed he’d be told what he needed to know.  And after all, the Old Man had rescued him from an eternity of falling through emptiness.  That earned him quite a few points in Countdown’s view.  “So what do I do?”
“Take this,” the Old Man gave him a pocket watch on a chain.  “And this,” he handed him a tiny but functional hourglass.
“What is the world like?  What will I see?”
“You will see familiar faces, some of whom are people that should exist, some of whom are just shadows of them, and some who do not belong at all. You will see much darkness and much change, seldom for the better.  You will be drawn to situations and people and you have a long journey ahead.  This is not a short task I set you.  It will take you much time.”
“Time is something I have a lot of,” Countdown said, wryly.
“Indeed.”  The Old Man agreed.  “So you agree?”
Countdown nodded.  After all, it was that or back to the tumbling.  He could see that getting old, real fast.  Metaphorically speaking.
“Then take the hourglass and shake it,” the Old Man said.  Countdown did so and immediately felt the world begin to shift around him.
“And be ready to defend yourself.  When you materialise, three dozen giant killer robots will be trying to kill you.”
“Wait!  What?” Countdown cried, but it was too late.  He was in a huge empty warehouse.  Well, emptyish.  There was him and three dozen giant killer robots that didn’t look at all friendly.

Countdown

Since he was infected by the Helix Virus, John King has been able to do some really, really strange things.  In truth, he still really doesn’t understand the full nature of his abilities to influence time, but he is beginning to understand that it gives him access to Great Power.  And he knows exactly what Great Power comes with.

John seems to have an affinity with certain parts of the past.  The Dark Ages, Medieval times and with Pre-History.  Whether his linear powers are limited to that or not remains to be seen.

Type Of Hero: Abnormal

Base Of Operations: Helix City –  Madden Heights

Secret Identity: John King

Description: Average build, mottled black and white bodysuit, hourglass emblem on front, full-face mask with eye holes.

Powers: Chameleon Ability, Force Manipulation: Linear, Energy Pool: Ultimate

Issue #001 – – – – – controlled by Frank Devocht – – – – – Credits 19

It was a quiet night at the club, as Wednesday’s generally were.  It would be midnight soon and the desperate “Doors Clear” message had already been passed to him.  It was a message he was getting often lately and it was essentially the boss telling him two things.  First, he should break the law in regards to who could come in.  People who didn’t meet the “dress code”, drunks, under age drinkers (within reason, the boss was happy to let teenage girls in as long as they were at least trying to look mature), maybe even Subnormals as long as they weren’t too freakish.  Second, if the Bullies came past and wanted to check the club he should hand them the brown envelope that he always had with him.  Surprising how those greenbacks changed the rent-a-cops attitude towards club patronage.  Or perhaps not surprising.

The Beast wasn’t in the best of moods.  He’d already had to give several hot-blooded young men, and one even hotter-blooded young woman the heave-ho and received the standard mouthful of abuse each time.  Why they didn’t realise that hitting another patron with a glass or a bottle was going to get them thrown out he had no idea –  and how they had the gall to complain about it was even more mystifying.  He wasn’t keen on letting scruffy drunks into the club – I mean having a few beers is one thing and letting some guy in with a shirt but no tie?  Not a big deal.  But no socks?  Who goes out with shoes but no socks?  And besides, he had a headache again.

The Beast glanced up as he heard giggling from along the street.  A trio of merry young woman were approaching; short skirts, tight tops, perhaps a little too much make-up but who was he to criticise?  They were steered by a strikingly handsome young man dressed smartly in  expensive jeans, a yellow Armani shirt and a dark blazer.  It wasn’t an obvious look, but it suited him.  The Beast growled low in his throat.  He knew the young man very well.

“Hey Nelson,” he called as he approached.  “Any action in there tonight?”
“Oh yes,” Nelson lied, “It’s very busy.”
“Hah!” the young man explained.  “That means it’s dead, right?  What are we talking, here?  A little bit dead? Very dead indeed?  Or Jay The Malleable Man, dead?”
Beast Nelson sighed, “It is extremely quiet tonight Edward.  You should go home and get an early night.  Then tomorrow, you could look for some work to do.  That might take your mind off of leading impressionable young women astray.”  The girls giggled.
“Nothing much else on this evening,” the young man said, ignoring his suggestion entirely, “Stamp us, I’ll cover the door fees for my friends.”
“I don’t think so,” Beast Nelson said.  Then, smiling evilly: “Your name’s not down.”
The young man frowned: “Don’t mess me about tonight, Nelson.  I know it’s Doors Clear and I can easily phone through and get the manager to come down.”
Beast Nelson eyed the young man, rumbling deep in his throat, then nodded curtly.  “Whatever.  That’ll be forty dollars.”

It was hard to pin down exactly why Beast Nelson disliked Edward Helk so much.  Part of it was because he was a well-known superhero – something he had indulged in himself for a while before the Bullies starting cracking down on non-sanctioned vigilantes.  Hard for somebody who looked as obvious as The Beast to avoid scrutiny by the authorities and he’d be damned if he’d beg those corrupt private cops for permission to do anything.  Part of it was because the young man’s cocky manner just rubbed him up the wrong way.  Helk was a playboy, of sorts.  Never needed to work, spent his life just having fun and playing at being a hero.  If he was honest, Beast Nelson might even admit to a twinge of jealousy.  Though only a twinge.

Beast Nelson’s musing was interrupted first by the cessation of music, the thumping bass from downstairs gave way to a moment’s silence.  Then there was a loud scream and the sound of breaking glass.  A second later his beeper was flashing – the signal to get down to the club.  He took the stairs into the cellar establishment three at a time, bursting through the double doors into the upper dance floor area.  He was momentarily stunned by what he saw.

Clubbers huddled in small groups around the larger dance area.  The main lights were still down so illumination came from the flashes and pulses and laser beams provided by the club’s impressive lighting rig.  But Beast Nelson couldn’t miss the blood.  There was so much of it.  It was everywhere.  It covered the dance floor as though somebody had poured buckets of the stuff there just moments before.  It was on the walls, the ceiling, the mirrored columns, and most of the people gathered at the edges of the cleared circle.

There, in the middle of the dance floor, the three girls who had entered with Edward Helk, aka Wild Thing, lay prostrate.  Their heads were missing.  Well, not missing, exactly.  Pulped.  Blood was still pumping from the three necks, now devoid of their usual “cap.”  Beast Nelson swallowed.  He wanted to say something, to take control, but for a moment words failed him.  Then he saw Helk.  He was standing in the DJ’s booth, shaking, terrified, covered head to foot in gore.  The two’s eyes met and Beast could see no trace of Helk’s usual arrogant surety.

“Help me, Nelson,” the young man said.  “It’s come to get me.”
“What has?” Beast Nelson asked.
“That,” said Helk and pointed at the middle of the dancefloor – where something hazy and indistinct was starting to appear.

Beast Nelson

No room for subtle minds here – Beast Nelson is huge with two small blood-red eyes that peak through a thick layer of shining black fur. A tendency to crush bad people until they weep or generally throw thugs about has proven to be a successful tactic in the past.

Type Of Hero: Freak

Base Of Operations: Helix City –  The Yard

Secret Identity: Professor Nelson

Description: Two small blood-red eyes peak through a thick layer of shining black fur that covers the whole body.

Powers: Giant Size: Huge, Tough Skin: 2, Strength: 1

Issue #001 – – – – – controlled by Sarah Saunders – – – – – Credits 19

I called and the Monster came.  It stank, as usual.  I’ve tried to get rid of the smell.  I washed it down with soap and water.  I sprayed it with deodorant – many times.  I even tried to get it to take a bath once, but eight foot tall creatures made of primarily of slime and twisted tendrils do not rest easy in the tub.

“Is it dark out yet?” I asked.  Imo (which is what I call the monster) rumbled something deep within its guts.  It doesn’t speak as far as I know.  But this was what usually passed for a sign in the affirmative.  “Good,” I said.  “We need to go out.”

Naturally, I couldn’t take the monster out in the daytime.  I’ve yet to find a disguise that can make something that big, and that repulsively hideous, blend in with any significant certainty.  But at night the streets tended to clear and the only people you ran into Downtown were nightfolk like myself, lunatics and criminals.  Honestly, I could care less if the latter is frightened when they see Imo.  Sometimes that’s rather useful, actually.

Imo rumbled again.  I’d like to think he was requesting more information, but I’m really not entirely sure if he’s that bright.  Sometimes he seems aware, but on other occasions he acts no brighter than a mutt.  I filled him in anyway:  “Lots of dead bodies turning up Downtown lately.  Drained of blood.  Now there are lots of unpleasant things which drain blood.  Whichever it is, we don’t want it in Downtown, do we?  Not many capes around to deal with anything these days and you can lay a safe bet the Bullies won’t be investigating any crimes that aren’t perpetrated on people who own diamonds, or status, right?  So it’s just us, big guy.  Just you and me.

(I should point out that the “Bullies” are what we call the cops.  They’re private.  They are supposed to serve the whole city, but in practice they serve the people who can afford to pay a little extra for it.  Mostly.  They’re run by the Bull Corporation which is a big mucky-muck company with a glittering skyscraper and suchlike.  Not really my scene.)

I padded out of the front door and into the patch of wan light cast from the dim streetlamp that flickered nervously and sometimes failed to tick on at all come sunset.  It didn’t matter.  I was very, very familiar with the streets, alleys and dark routes that made up the labyrinth that was Downtown.  I almost never got lost anymore.  Almost.

“Come on,” I told Imo and we took Silvers alley across the 7th Avenue, missing the main route by taking a shortcut through the old launderette and then climbing the wall into Mason’s Yard.  From there is was only two streets to the abandoned Seven Eleven where the most recent body had been found.  I was surprised to find that upon arrival there was somebody waiting for us.

“Sulis?” his voice was deep, melodic in an old-fashioned Hammer Horror sort of way.
“That’s me,” I told him, stretching my muscles so that I’d be limber and ready to fight if it came to that.  I saw his eyes go to Imo and knew that he’d be a damn sight more frightened of that than he was of me.  Rightly so, I expect.  Imo is extremely dangerous to just about anybody who isn’t me, or a friend of mine.

“Do you remember me?” he asked.  I shook my head.  A tall guy in a long cape and a top hat, carrying a cane.  He was either starring in a movie about Jack The Ripper, which seemed unlikely, or he was one of the nightpeople.  Like me.  Funny thing is, even as I denied knowing him, a little bell seemed to be ringing in my brain.  There was something familiar about him.

“How about you let me get on with my business, or you tell me what you want?” I said, short-tempered.  Innocent people drained of blood tends to put me in a bad mood.  The city is bad enough already without that.  “Indeed,” he nodded.  “You do not remember me, but I remember you.  I also remember your companion.  It used to go by the name of I, Monster, didn’t it?”

How the Hell did he know that?  

Imo had been my partner for three years.  Even before that, he wasn’t a well-known creature.  He just kind of lurked, mostly in the sewers.  Ate the occasional hobo.  You know the score.

“I do not have much time,” the man said.  “We have met before, albeit briefly.  I know something of the shadows that cloud your mind.  I understand that you have felt, for several years now, that something was very wrong with your life.  With the world.  Am I right?” I found myself nodding, even though I didn’t want to give him any information.  If he was a charlatan it would help his ruse.  If he was the real thing – it might be dangerous for him to know too much about me.

“I can reveal the truth to you.  If you would know it.  The truth which lurks over this vacant lot, this street, this city, this world.  A secret few share.”
“Listen Top Hat,” I told him much more nonchalently than I felt, “I don’t know you from Adam.  We’ve never met.  Take your scam to somebody who cares.”
“Sulis, you know me very well.  Very well indeed.  You killed me once.”
“I did what?” I nearly choked.  This was a new one.  I’d not heard a bad guy spin this line before.
“For I am Melderact, the ancient.  Like Lazarus returned from death.”

Sulis had no idea who Melderact was.  It wasn’t even a very good name.  Dramatic, sure, but not grand enough.  She was going to suggest some improvements, shortly before she instructed Imo to move him out of the way – but that bell was ringing in her mind again.  Melderact?  Maybe.  Maybe she did know that name…

Sulis

Although Sulis has worked with superheroes and is sometimes involved in the same things superheroes are, she cannot be clearly defined in that category.  She doesn’t really wear a costume, though the outfit she is usually seen in is certainly stylised.  She doesn’t have an incredibly colourful name, just a short monicker that she gained somewhere along the way.

Sulis hangs out on the edges of society, in the dark places, in the areas where things get a little bit off-the-wall.  A little bit weird.  She likes it there.  They suit her, those Dark Corners.

Type Of Hero: Freak

Base Of Operations: Helix City –  Downtown / Below

Secret Identity: Diana Morgan

Description: Ragged Sewn Blue Trousers and Shirt.  Dark Sunglasses, union jack logo on side of glasses.

Powers: Shapechange: Feline, Martial Arts: Basic, Martial Arts: Streetfighting, Speed: 1, Force Field: 1, Energy Pool: Basic

Issue #001 – – – – – controlled by Mark Adams – – – – – Credits 15

“You need to eat, Wayne,” the Boy, whose name was Graeme, said.  He walked quickly through the smelly room, picking up discarded dirty clothes and pulling the drab curtains open to let a shaft of light pierce the rank bedroom.  “You look terrible.  How long has it been since you had something?”
The man stared blearily at his old partner, his watery eyes blinking in the light.  “Huh?”
“I said,” Graeme repeated, louder, and slower, like he was talking to an imbecile.  Which, for all intents and purposes, he was.   “How long has it been since you had something to eat?”
“Yesterday, I think,” Wayne Bruce told him, absently scratching at his dirty string vest.  “Or maybe not.  Dunno.”

Graeme sighed and began to tidy the room in earnest.  He picked up a pizza box, the emblazoned name Whizzy Pizza had been smudged by spilt coke, or beer, or something so that it looked like it said “Jizzy Pizza” which didn’t strike the Boy as sounding particularly appetising.  He flipped open the lid.  Only one slice had been eaten, the rest was rotting in the box.  He’d like to think it was the source of the bad smell in the room, but he knew in his heart of hearts it was not.

“Have you left the apartment at all since the last time I came?” he asked.
“I have,” the Man who had once been a famous superhero said.
“To do what?” Graeme challenged him.
“It was The Grizzly,” the hero said.  “He was outside.  I had to … I had to…”
“Wayne,” Graeme told him, “The Grizzly is gone.  He was killed by the Bullies last year while ‘resisting arrest’.”
“The fake doctor…?”  Wayne asked weakly.  “Yes it must have been him.”  Then his eyes closed and he fell sound asleep.
Graeme had no idea who the ‘fake doctor’ was.  His old mentor’s illness was progressing faster now.  He seldom made much sense.  Often talked about events which had never happened with complete certainty.  It was tragic, really.

The Boy wiped a tear from his eye.  No time for sentimentality.  He had to finish the cleaning, prepare the medications and make sure Wayne was comfortable before the nurse’s shift.   Graeme had finally admitted his old mentor wasn’t coming back from this illness and purchased professional care for him.  It wasn’t cheap, but money was not a big issue for him.  Not at all.  Poptastic Boy had all the money he could need.  Being the largest Drug Baron in The Yard has its benefits.

“Boss?” Tiny called from the doorway.
“Hmmm?” The Boy, who now went by the simpler handle ‘Popper’ asked.
“There’s been a hit down on Eighth.  Sounds like the Full Moon Posse.  We’re going to need to deal with it.”
“Oh we’ll deal with it,” Popper growled.  “Once I’ve finished here we’ll put an end to them once and for all.”
And then he laughed, long and slow and evil.  It felt good.

Later, in the fading light, Wayne Bruce opened his eyes and blinked at an empty room.  He knew that everything was completely, utterly, totally wrong about all of this.  His memories did not match the memories of everybody else.  His powers were gone.  He was weak and getting weaker.  They said he was delusional.  But he knew he was not.  He was just so very  tired.  If only he could find the strength to tell somebody?  But they wouldn’t believe it.  With a sense of immense frustration, Wayne Bruce drifted off once more.  On his shoulder a tiny black creature licked hungrily at a bulging vein in his neck, supping heartily on his lifeforce.  It was delightful and delicious.