Final Strike: Act One.

    First, they don't understand you...

    Six months into the Fall—the police department's fractured, broken from within. Don Graham just filed early retirement...he's gone within the month. Anyone who knows him knows that it was a decision made under duress, which makes you wonder just how long this cancer has built within GM's finest. (A more pathetic oxymoron I dare you to find...) Still, family-motivated retirement or not, he's got faith in the future.

    The future just happens to have a somewhat exotic name. He first noticed her name two years ago, when she filed to become a trainee. The background check matched up, and while she'd never been in a position of power before, she had the intelligence to match up well with street life, and frankly, he'd dealt with less capable candidates.

    But then, Babylon Murphy would've turned heads even without her name. Born of an Italian movie director and a Mexican immigrant, she was blessed (or cursed, depending on who noticed her) to have the kind of physique that immediately turned a guy's head. She used this to her advantage in her first few weeks on the job, as men tend to be more receptive to a petite little brunette who fulfilled all their police-woman fantasies...at least, until she broke out the taser and threatened to introduce it to places like their lower abdomen or groin.

    She was fair, though...she'd've made an excellent schoolteacher, as she mixed discipline with kindness, and was so subtle about it that most couldn't really tell the difference.

As good as she was—the industrial section of GM was like an inoperable brain tumor. You can excise enough of the lethal mass to make its surrounding elements comfortable...but nothing ever fully heals.

    Her attitude, ultimately, was what Graham regretted leaving behind most. The Force would be millions of times better off with more patrolmen like her. There were whispers of her being promoted to Detective the week before Graham left, and if he hadn't been given an ultimatum, he would've stuck around to see what happened.

    Babylon knew much of this already, given that she attached herself to Graham's hip, given that she figured that the best way to become a cop was to learn from the best.

What she didn't know was that the next time she'd hear of Don Graham, it'd be six months after his retirement.

    The phone on her desk rang—unusual, as most cops of this time avoided her. (like anyone bought the ruse, anyway. They were clearly mob henchmen with a modicum of intelligence, brought in to fill in the quota left behind by the forced retirement of the few quality guys.)

“Babbie? It's.. it's Eloise. I...God, I can't stop crying. They found Donnie this morning. Slumped over the kitchen table. They're claiming natural causes, but he was so healthy...”        


Babylon's mind went on autopilot—she tried to console Eloise Graham as best she could.

    Eloise hadn't wanted to move to New York, either, but she figured it was safest for the family—and she and Don had tried to support Babylon behind-the-scenes as much as they could. It wasn't like Officer Murphy was completely alone, in terms of being a halfway moral officer—the others were largely just inexperienced kids who were sent by apathetic superiors from other districts who figured “Only way they'll be able to be excellent cops is to send them to the worst spot in the Sates...”

    Suddenly, Babylon was the elder statesman of a dying breed...and all she could see by means of reinforcement was the memory of a man she hadn't seen in a year.

She stared at the phone, to realize it'd been dormant for quite some time...replaced it on the hook...and nearly jumped out of her chair when it rang, again.

Hearing the voice on the other end of the phone really did make her jump.


    

    GMY, Year of the Fall: Clarke Avenue.



    Phillip Sheldon knew that the Neugenics Foundation was doomed the moment he was given his business license in this city. He also knew his advisor at college hated him (though he was probably justified in this, given that Phillip did kinda deflower his 17 year old daughter, and he kinda did never call her back, but in his defense...his chair was a doddering old fool, and his daughter wasn't exactly known for being virtuous even before he technically deflowered her) and as such had recommended him to the worst possible city to open scientific research in. (You could argue that GM's genetically adverse environment opened the door to all kinds of supergenetic/alien research, but that was also considered as safe as walking bare-naked into a nuclear explosion...)

    Still...his parents were born into a life of poverty. Died in a life of poverty. All they ever wanted out of life was to see him succeed.

    For that reason alone, he swore to work as hard as possible to make it work here...even if his best chance meant he had to conduct research in the most run-down areas of town, because that's where most of the mutations seemed to occur.

    Right in the middle of an attempt to reverse Alzheimer's' effects in the cells of an elderly patient using stem cell research that'd be considered a felony if it was ever discovered, Phillip Sheldon's unlisted laboratory phone rang, in the process nearly sparking a fatal heart attack.

The voice on the other end, however, sparked another feeling entirely.


    Cora Eisen was never given a reason why she was let go from the Squire—but she never expected the paper to be very good at subtlety. She was one of the fortunate ones—within a matter of months, she was working at the city's second best television studio, as a camerawoman. She found that she preferred the unflinching honesty of photography to the written word.... and out of loyalty to Brianna, she kept in contact and tried to help her with her stories, and battles, as best she could.

    It was fitting then, that her phone rang, when she least expected it. Upon completion of the call, she gained a new appreciation for the power of storytelling that photography can offer.

    What happened next would've terrified anyone who hadn't seen her in months, even a year—for the first time since GothaMetropolis York was gutted from the inside out, Cora Eisen smiled. Be thankful you weren't there to witness that smile, reader. Be very thankful.



Interlude.


    24 hours...it's been 24 hours since my life became a sadist's Wonderland...and I became the most unlikely Alice of all. Content and safe one moment...orphaned and broken the next. All I know, all I can think, is that I could've done something, anything, different. Would I lie bleeding, next to them, cold and empty and forever gone? Probably...but I wouldn't be hurting. I wouldn't be thinking. I wouldn't be remembering.

    In these hours since all sense left my life, all I can think is...I am insignificant...I am just the son of a family who did far greater good than I ever will. I would not be mourned, were I gone—comparably, they will be forever mourned.

    All I can do is tremble, and look out the window at the landscape...and wonder how a city that looks so beautiful at night could've taken what was so dear from me so callously, so randomly...all I can do is see his face in my eyes. That face that had a mixture of blind desperation, blind cowardice...the face that had no capability to consider the cost it was inflicting on me.

    Outside of wanting to sob, or to kill myself, the one emotion that keeps running through my stomach is tied to that face. I want to see him suffer. I want to see him bleed. I want him to realize that the Newton's Third Law applies to humans just as well as physics...and that I intend to be such a great example of a reactive action that he won't even think about harming another person again.

I just...need them. I need to stop hurting.



End of interlude.





    FBI subdivision, GMY. As you'd imagine, reader, these people lead interesting lives—GMY is probably the biggest hot-spot for genetic anamoly on the planet. In terms of the technological/paperwork side of things, they actually kind of enjoy the dreariness of it...it's a lot easier to look for information on something/someone with a search engine than it is to go pounding on suspicious-looking doors in a side of town that hasn't seen a renovation in 50 years.

It's the easiest job in the world. The safest. Nothing exciting ever happens.

And then, across the bottom of their screens, uncapitalized words start scrolling across them.
Words that should make any computer user uneasy.

    For forty-five seconds, in the face of uneasy, astonished young agents fresh out of school who've never had to deal with anything like this, the words continue—marching across their screen with a devil-may-care attitude, daring them to stop them.

“fatalsystemerrorfatalsystemerrorfatalsystemerrorfatalsystemerrorfatalsystemerror.”
Ultimately, the words fade, as if washed away by an invisible rain.

    And then a voice, as common and indistinguishable as the face of the guy who sat next to you on the bus this morning, calmly quotes over each computer's speaker: “The center cannot hold. Things fall apart. Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world.”

Silence, then, for a handful of seconds.

    And then, with each letter capitalized, in a blinding yellow font that takes up each computer's screen, new words appear. “FEAR IS YOUR ONLY GOD. FEAR IS YOUR ONLY GOD. FEAR IS YOUR ONLY GOD.”

    The FBI agents, and their superiors, begin to try to wrestle back control of their machinery at this point...only to notice that everything has now been shut down, from the inside. Inexplicably, everything is locked, as well.

Phones, their electronic locks...all dead. The FBI is trapped inside their own building.

    Inside his dilapidated building, Phillip Sheldon contacted his operatives. He congratulated them on a job well done. Upon doing so, he stepped on his disposable, pay-as-you-go cell phone, shattering it into a million pieces, and threw these pieces into a dumpster. He placed a tiny headset back into place in his ear, and got back to his genetics research.

Phase One had begun...


    The Squire—normally controversial, it was now the centerpiece of a media circus in its own right. Every tv and radio station in town had representatives, demanding to know how they'd gotten the evidence against Flima (what the paparazzi was calling the Flask/Vilma alliance), and were treating Squire reporters and editors as if they were celebrities in their own right by ceaselessly stalking them.

    Not that they noticed. It became almost a daily game, waiting to see the evidence that arrived at their doorstep, be it virtual or real. Granted, no game is as dangerous as exposing corrupt businessmen...but no game is as fulfilling, either. That's why so many of the employees stuck around after the initial revelation, which was ultimately traced to a WiFi location near the speech—but that was the furthest anyone could take the investigation. Encryption no one had ever seen before made it impossible to track the source further.

    The joke was on the paparazzi, obviously—not that this was an unknown phenomenon to them. Most Squire employees thought it was some elaborate ruse by ownership to raise sales for the Squire, and others thought that Anderson and/or Eisen were in league with rogue federal agents who ignored their government-derived directives to treat GMY as a rabid dog.

    Granted, working for the Squire was roughly synonymous with working for the Daily Sun, or the National Enquirer—if either were genetically spliced with a Doberman on HGH and an elephant on steroids' DNA, in terms of over-the-top-spectacle and bizarre outcomes.

    Still, not everyone was able to withstand the constant pressure of the paparazzi deluge, or legal snowballing from Filma—and every other month or so, new employees entered the well-worn, intimidating, borderline-seething doors of the GothaMetropolis York Squire wondering one of two things—if they'd made a mistake, and if they'd live to see the coming morning.

    Elisha Kane was, frankly, bored—given that she was worth the operating capital of several small nations, that was a feat in and of itself. So, she did what most sane, bored-out-of-their-mind rich people did.

    She went to GothaMetropolis York, to see what it was like to live where evolution was in display in its purest, most primitive form. While she wasn't arrogant enough to think that she'd see people dragging knuckles or throwing feces or dangling from trees, she still expected to see humanity at its basest point, or nearest to it.

    Especially if the mayor/most infamous gangster in the town's history were snorting cocaine in public view and not suffering any consequences, until the actions of some kind of revolutionary a few weeks ago which had set Washington ablaze with shock and, frankly, self-hatred.

Elisha Kane knew something about prejudice, about self-hatred.

She'd rolled the genetic dice, and came up with a losing hand.

    She had to work harder than everyone around her for being woman...and possibly doubly harder than that for being black.

    Racism was as dead as chivalry, to her—and that's why she felt a certain kinship with the never-haves in the city that officially never was.

    For your mind's eye, reader, visualize Elisha as being something of a cross between Halle Berry and Pam Oliver, physically. Now, further imagine her with Oprah's social impact and Donald Trump's business acumen, and that's pretty close to her modus operandi.

    As close as anyone could get, really, without learning her secret, which was incredibly immoral and frankly illegal, if anyone could ever prove it.

    Elisha had largely made her fortune through telepathically picking the brains of competition, honestly, and never thought twice about it.

    If there was such a thing as checks and balances, she was the great equator for an entire race-and then an even greater equator for the sub-race that was telepaths.

Not that Washington recognized them as a sub-race.

Not that she cared.

    Until she was two blocks from GMY Squire, and for the first time in her life, someone else was speaking in her head. And once she got past the initial revulsion, her eyes widened...and realized that she'd been going about this utterly wrong. She also realized that she, like most of the country, had made a huge mistake.

    She just had the chance to rectify it.


    Harry Flask didn't like unexpected ringing cell phones. He liked it even less when they had no caller id, so as to tell him who was calling. A necessary security risk, but still, it magnified his ever-present paranoia.

    Because a cocaine addict needs to have greater heightened paranoia than normal.

    Ã¢â‚¬Å“Wh—who the fuck is this?”

    Ã¢â‚¬Å“Careful...with language like that, you'll never get into heaven.”

    Ã¢â‚¬Å“This city don't need no fuckin' God...they've got me.”

    Ã¢â‚¬Å“Now there's the attitude I called for.”

    Ã¢â‚¬Å“Who the fuck are you?”

    Ã¢â‚¬Å“The Squire, as ever, got a couple details wrong. You'll recall the name Nicolae Anton?”

“...you're still alive?”

    Ã¢â‚¬Å“No bullet could ever snuff out my hatred...and if you're willing, I'd like to have you help me spread that.”

    Ã¢â‚¬Å“What do you want?”

    Ã¢â‚¬Å“Everyone to burn...and for me to be holding the gasoline can.”

    Ã¢â‚¬Å“I ain't never into poetry...and I ain't got time for empty chatter.”

    Ã¢â‚¬Å“I've never been anything but business, Mister Flask. Keep this phone on you. I will be calling you again within two hours' time...and when I do, be prepared to do whatever I ask of you.”

    Ã¢â‚¬Å“You don't ask anything of me...I RULE this town.”
    Ã¢â‚¬Å“You misunderstand me. I'm not commanding anything, or offering you anything from this dried-up corpse. I'm offering you the world, Mister Flask. All you need give me, in return, is what I ask for.”

“...what the fuck are you talking about?”

“I'll talk to you then, sir.”

    A dial tone was all Flask heard, then, besides the pounding in his chest. He took a moment or two to think and realized—He, Harry Flask, the most powerful man in GMY, was scared.

...and he liked it.

    Nothing was as it seemed, in regards to the John Doe in room 327, in Arcane Asylum.

    That was what every orderly who'd ever given him his intravenous food had said.

    Even spending less than 45 seconds with the man was said to be frightening.

    Something about the aura—nothing anyone could ever fingerpoint. It was just...otherworldly, awkward, as if something about it didn't belong in this world.

    Drake Noble, 17 years old, nearly fresh out of high school, was checking Doe's body for signs of atrophy, the usual morning care...when Doe's eyes popped open, something that his doctors said was impossible and would never happen given the immense brain damage—and Noble didn't care to stick around for the rest after Doe's mouth opened even further and screamed literal hellfire.

    Consider Drake a coward if you want—but he'd literally looked into something far beyond his worldview and just wasn't gonna deal with this kind of shit.

    If he was capable of speech at the moment, he'd've appreciated the irony with Doe, who was more or less thinking the same thing.

    At least, he would be, if his body wasn't for all intents and purposes dead, and was undergoing heavy internal repair. White blood cells were being cloned faster than any body had ever experienced, and if any doctor needed proof that there were things in this world that defied scientific explanation, they should've visited room 327 in Arcane Asylum.

    Especially since the healing hellfire ultimately led to the room's cremation, to a very pissed off Szandor Anton slowly rising from its flame, uncaring about low profiles and hidden covers and thinking only one thing: Father.

    It's the devil's way now...



    Failure is more frequently from lack of energy than lack of capital.--Daniel Webster

    Freedom from fear and injustice and oppression will be ours only in the measure that men who value such freedom are ready to sustain its possession—to defend it from every threat from within or without.--Dwight D Eisenhower, Crusade in Europe.

    These two quotes are engraved outside GMY Community High School, the poorest and most run down of the city's educational history.

    Ironic, given that it was the only one currently standing.

    The others were either destroyed due to arson riots or, frankly, the usual mindless catastrophes brought on by adolescent-minded spandex-clad morons who most of the citizenry hated. Which was a relative term, given how many of the people who still lived (another relative term) in GMY clung to religion, but through arcane means—very few believed in a loving God anymore, because frankly the evidence didn't fit, and it was a sheer sign of either mental incompetence or a severe lack of reality-credibility—but rather, pagan beliefs. Druidism and Wicca, as well as good-old-fashioned voodoo were becoming quite popular.

    Largely for their histories involving vengeance.

Especially for their histories involving vengeance.

    No one would have anything more to hate about mainstream, organized-religion America than the Wiccans—which was why so many of them had fled to GMY, where having underground religious beliefs wasn't really any more weird than having the ability to teleport yourself across the galaxy at a moment's notice or turn into an intangible phantom or become President of the United (heh) States with the accumulated intelligence of a Venus Fly Trap.

    And you figure a few centuries' worth of hatred builds like a coffee maker---bubbling, boiling, ever so subtly.

    And you're very, very anti-male—and Harry Flask is a very good scapegoat.

    So if you're just biding your time, waiting for the perfect moment to strike—a phone call is all you need, really.

    Even if the voice on the other end is male.

    Especially if the voice is one you know from before.

    And so, the coven who so quietly calls themselves the Daughters of Mary Hicks put a little more urgency into their planning, their spells...and while not many believe in, or approve of their methodology...it couldn't be argued that they weren't due for revenge.


    But then, revenge is the only currency left in GMY with any impact. “Dog-eat-dog” stopped being relevant decades ago. Now, it's “dog-backs-over-dog-with-a-humvee”. And that's for the ones who're still cautious, still trying to pretend that morality exists.

    Know God? No God...

    
    Nicolae Anton, to anyone who knows him, is a master geneticist. It's an interesting juxtaposition with his Satanism, in that there's not a whole lot of humbleness in either practice. Nor is there much in the way of being worried about what moral implications there are in what you want to do.

    There is simply do, or do not.

    Cloning the remnants of dead men...this is of no significance. Especially if they were collected pre-death, and are still considered alive on a molecular level.

    So after a few hours of intensive labor, it's worth it to see the eyes flutter open..the shock of recognition.

    Ã¢â‚¬Å“Hello, John.”

    And the man that so many feared in his first incarnation opens his eyes...and the Crying Clown, the corrupt Senator that was so responsible for the destruction of GMY, regains his footing.

    And he sobs.

    Sobs, from laughter.

    He remembers everything from his final moments—a gift from Anton's other hobby.

    So you must ponder, then, reader—the man who has just now beaten death will sometime conflict, again, with the man who cannot die.

With one man killing the other's wife, and the other killing him—do you really want to become involved with what happens next?

    Good.

    I thought so.


    Nicolae Anton now picks up the cell phone, and dials Flask, once more. “Mister Flask? You'll recall that I asked for a meeting. I will be delighted to meet you at the White Rose in precisely one hour, and you alone. I have someone you'll be unable to resist meeting...”

Flask responds: “What assurances do I have that I can trust you?”

    Anton sighs—oh, so predictable are the henchmen of life, no matter how high they ascend in their particular hierarchy. “You don't..and failure to comply will lead to my men slitting your daughter's throat. I must say, on a personal level—I commend you in your choice. Wayne Institute for Higher Learning was a wonderful choice.”

    Ã¢â‚¬Å“You STAY AWAY from MARSHA, you BAST--”

    Ã¢â‚¬Å“One hour, Mister Flask.”

Flask no longer likes being scared...but as he's beginning to learn, he no longer has any choice in the matter.

Interlude, B.

Sensei tells me the bruises shall pass, in time. I suspect he's not speaking of the welts on my forearms, sides, or thighs. I also suspect he's partially insane, given that I don't think this pain will ever go away.

The only thought I have is continual—my personal Sisyphus lugging self doubt up and down and up and down the hell-hill inside my self-conscious. It should have been me.

Instead, the last thought I probably ever will have is watching the life fade from your eyes...watching the light darken in Mom's eyes...and failing to try to rekindle it, as if my pathetically tiny frame could save the world. I couldn't even save you...

...how can I have hope for myself?


    Others would lose themselves in a religious addiction—bury the pain in a spiritual binge. I see no difference between that and getting yourself so intoxicated you could be lit on fire by a small candle—ultimately, you'll still end up having to deal with what bothers you.

    I suppose, though, my way is no better. Being beaten until you can hardly move is probably not very cathartic in the long term...but it does wonders for your focus. And as I focus, I wonder what the trust fund could give me in terms of opportunities to keep this from happening again. I wonder how this city would react to such an unforeseen response to its primitive repugnance.

...I wonder if they will ever forgive me.

    Babylon Murphy was not happy. She was stressed and having to deal with far too many neophyte officers who didn't know their heads from their collective asses and she was burying her mentor tomorrow. Horrifyingly, she was rumored to be considered for the Commissioner's position because, frankly, no one else had enough experience to be involved. Upon word of Graham's death, anyone remotely close to retirement age who still had half a conscience filed retirement papers and vanished. Whereas anyone without a conscience (roughly 65-70% of the force) weren't anywhere near stupid enough for the job, and left it to her.

    It made her significantly less happy to learn that Flask had been seen at the White Rose, and was presumably meeting his parter-in-crime-and-everything-else there. Flask was against everything Murphy stood for on a personal and professional level, and it seemingly was not nearing any kind of resolution.

    Murphy eyed her service revolver...why not, the city was far past redemption, anyway...

    
    Eloise Graham was in what she'd call in better times, when her sense of humor wasn't DOA, an emotional purgatory. The only way to describe it was a dull pain—one that stopped feeling like she'd been stabbed, but one that'd never fully dissipate.

    She'd lost count of the shots of hard whiskey she'd consumed. The room spinning helped a little...and it's not like she could already get more nauseous. She knew, as did everyone who'd resigned from the Force that Don had been murdered...he'd just been murdered in such a way that she couldn't prove it forensically.

    Flashes of Don cheating on her with other, younger, gorgeous women began erratically cascading through her mind, a slide-show gone terribly wrong. Eloise was initially confused, then began trying to fight them out. But you can only resist such a bombardment for so long...and after some undetermined time, she finally stopped thinking. Unlike the occasional moment that that happens for all of us this was for good. As her eyes darkened, and glazed over, Eloise's nose began trickling blood, as did her ears—and those who found her in the morning would swear she passed from this earth because of some sort of horrific embolism.

    And we could ponder the tragedy of the whole thing, but then we look at her killer. And we realize that to Psyche, there is no such thing as a victim. There is no such thing as tragedy. There is no such thing as a crime.

    What there is, is the hunt. The sacrifice. The appeasement of the, as cliched and overused a term as it is, blood-lust. The taste of still-warm vital organs and blood on one's lips, as you watch the eyes of their owner fade like morning mist—though this particular mist will never be seen again.

    What there is, is now.

    For Eloise and Don, unfortunately, now will never be again.

    You should take heart, reader, in the crossbow dart that's stuck in Psyche's spine, protruding through her chest...that Psyche, who lived so much on fear and confusion, is now a victim of that very same fear and confusion.

or at least, she will be for about another 45 seconds.

And as our point of view turns, we realize we have seen this person before.

At least, this person's aura.

    Were Psyche capable of speech under normal circumstances, she'd note with amazement that this person who had killed her was already dead.

But there are forces in the universe who are quite empathetic to those who pass before their time. Particularly those who pass through violent or unjust means.

As such, much as a snake sheds its skin in a form of rebirth, Christine McBurney shed the pain of her former life, to exact revenge on her slayer.

    The irony is not lost, of course on Psyche, whose eyes, even in near death, scream at her murderer to finish her.

Nor is it lost on Chrissie, who in her previous life, would've balked at stooping to such primitive, violent means.

Death has a way of opening one up to methods they'd've never considered before.

    And so, Christine stops just short of desecrating her enemy's corpse—but she doesn't have to respect the life they led, either. She buries the front of her crossbow in the ground, in front of Psyche's fallen body—with Psyche's head stuck on top of it.

The warning, of course, is that good, and evil, really aren't in play, anymore. There is only vengeance. There is only retribution.

...and only one way to settle all accounts.

    There is, of course, a price paid to return from Death's grasp. One that Christine didn't completely consider—but as with others before her, justice is more important than long-term considerations.

But you will have to wait a while, for further information on this, reader. We move on, to our next player, in the unrest in GothaMetropolis.

    
    Harry Flask paced, uncertainty playing the part of the little devil sitting on his shoulder and whispering in his ear that it would be a most certainly good idea to take the next, most available, cheapest taxi out of here. The Anton Estate had that effect on people—and if anyone was brave enough to ask him, Nicolae probably would've admitted it.

    The cast-iron Velociraptor skeleton replica was disconcerting enough. Nicolae always identified very well with the savage prehistoric beast in that it was uncanny with its intelligence but also its agility. And besides...don't we all have a little feral side?

    It was the replicas of gladiators that was worse—they showed every scar, every bruise. It was like they were meant to glorify the injury and inhumanity of humanity. The fear and the pain and the disappointment, all rolled into one. Unlike historical gladiators, however, they bore the scars of steroid use, of physical introduction to weapons that would be considered assault in any other lifestyle—telltale signs of pro wrestling.     

    Proof of everything polite society tried to hide about itself...and Nicolae's shrine to his accomplishments forced it into the forefront. Much like anything you'd rather repress, it's an uncomfortable eyesore to have to come face to face with one of mankind's bleakest scars—one of its most unconscionable sins.

    While this was a bit bleak even for the devil worshiper, pro wrestling did have its perks—Nicolae enjoyed the blind devotion of the fan base, the groupie-esque lifestyle of the female fans/wrestlers, and especially the self-destructive, borderline self-hating lifestyles of the wrestlers themselves. Of course, to get some of them to be able to perform properly, Nicolae had to...tweak...certain aspects of them. Which, given his proclivity towards genetic blasphemy, was right up his alley.

    Flask started as the front door opened. He noticed someone he hadn't seen in some time.

“Gerald? I...they said you were dead, man.”

“I know. They lied.”

Feeling like he should run for all the world, Harold Flask followed his old lieutenant into the dwelling of a man he now truly knew as mad.


    And Flask pondered his own life's choices as he entered, and realized that madness was something he embraced.

    Inhuman screams and moans filled his ears as he entered what he could only privately call The Dungeon—and he noticed Roman and Greek style artwork on the wall. Instead of the usual fare with nude figures, this particular artwork was fetishistic on an almost satanic level. Every portrait featured something truly grotesque, like Nicolae specifically wanted to infect your mind with unforgettable violence, even as you entered his home.

Only someone truly bitter and twisted would want to warp visitors in such a manner.

Only someone truly hateful and nihilistic would go to such depths.

    But in the absence of hope, of personal redemption, it seems that this is the fate that awaits those who embrace this path.

And to those who reward their shattered self perceptions with reworked genetic structures that are truly unholy, redemption is a path long forsaken.

It's only in the ring that their lives become any semblance of real...that the pain in their heads, the pain in their hearts, the pain that exists even in breath fades.

    And the saddest of all part of life for these modern gladiators is that their combats aren't even legitimate, save to its darkly misbegotten fan base.

    Ultimately, that's what draws Nicolae Anton to it...the hidden primal beast in the lowest of man...because they're the cheapest, best template for his tinkerings. When you've fallen so far that the only direction left is the most sadistic form of up there is, you'll accept any kind of help there is. And when that help is the cost of not only your life, but your legacy itself...these lowest of men gladly surrender it. Because sadly, that's the offering that a modern day God demands...and who are we to deny God?

    And Harry Flask has to ask himself why he's been asked to visit this, to hear the haunting screams of the damned-while-they-still-live, as they “train” (push their bodies beyond endurance, and frankly start their far-too-early destruction), as he's one of the most powerful, feared men in America.

He's better than the dregs bleeding and battered at his feet.

    But he looks into Nicolae's eyes, truly looks, for the first time, and he understands. Understands, too late...as he loses consciousness, and Nicolae disrespectfully kicks his falling body in the head. “Welcome...to the underworld, Mister Flask. You won't enjoy your stay.”

And Nicolae turns his newest toy over to his underlings...a clear sign that even the most feared mobster in GMY is not worth Anton's considerations for more than a fleeting second.

For, you see, Flask won't be any more important to Anton as a prospective wrestler. He's merely important to him as a distraction that's no longer in the way.

And when you're bent, some would say hellbent, on forging your own mark on the world, you can ill-afford distractions.

Nicolae Anton meditated, then, in hopes of focusing his energies on the task that came before him. For declaring war on a mayor is greatly different than making a monstrously stupid lifelong thug disappear.

But war, as is life, is all about choices, about advantages, about plans made and adapted. And Nicolae Anton was not in the business of being out-thought, by anyone.

That's why he made sure to bring back his best friend in the whole world from Death's embrace...even if the nature of resurrection meant that it wouldn't go completely as expected.

In war, you need your friends around you. And make no mistake, reader, there will be precious few survivors in the skirmish that's ahead.


    John Carlson did not enjoy non-existence. This is not to say he was cognizant of what had happened, or that he remembers not experiencing anything. He just...knew, on a certain level, that being inactive was against his inner nature.

    To celebrate his return to sentience, he was standing outside of Nicolae's home (or mini-mansion, as some called it), sipping an ancient wine and observing the lights and smells of nocturnal life in GothaMetropolis York. There was a time he'd've been right there with Flask in his minuscule power plays over the common man, but Anton had a way of...coercing people he truly wanted to improve.

    The fact that Nicolae also despised the Dark Knight and everything he and his followers stood for was a nice bonus. As both men began their morning rituals reading the Squire for hints, or rumors, about a DK return in any form, they lost a little enthusiasm every time nothing came of their search. A little...but not enough to stop looking. if the Dark Knight was still active...if there was even a chance...they had to be cognizant of it. They had to be sure that he was utterly, finally, gone.

    And if they had to look for signs about him until the day they died, so be it.

    Carlson, moreso than Anton, had a theory that if the Knight still lived, he was completely broken. The death of Foom had been the catalyst that forced him under ground...there hadn't even been a whisper of a return since then. Yes, the little hiccups involving various forms of evidence about Flask and his mayor cohort were disconcerting, but that was their problem. Frankly, it was just funny, and in a larger sense, Murphy's Law.

    But that's the problem with mocking the universe. Eventually, it mocks right back..and punches you in the face while doing it.


    Carlson knew the value of escaping fatal wounds. Death was somewhat akin to dental surgery...a process that's generally inevitable, but best avoided. And mockery was not usually fatal, but he preferred to avoid it nonetheless.

    However, his resurrection did seem to be kind of a cosmic joke—he got to watch his greatest nemesis collapse under the weight of his own grim psyche, and Carlson didn't even have to lift a finger.

    He just wish he knew if the Knight was still active—he knew full well that someone who suffered that much, for that long, was clearly not alive in any traditional sense, and probably never would be again.

    Watching someone destroy themselves like that would be...sporting, he thought. And if he managed to finally find the Dark Knight, then so be it. (He refused to think of the Knight in terms of his civilian name/life...that was neither the point, or worthy of their confrontation. His life didn't matter...only what he stood for did.)

    His cell phone ringing snapped him out of his reverie...and the voice at the other end completely shattered it. “Welcome back, Senator.”

    He knew. He knew. But knowing isn't proof...and without proof, Carlson had no leverage at all.

And Senators dislike lacking leverage. They dislike it greatly.

    Carlson narrowed his eyes, and quickly strode inside.




    Interlude C.

    I now realize the pain will forever throb...my own personal lunar cycle, trading off between my inner brain and outer body. It is not the life I would have chosen. But any choice I had died, with them.

They told me it would get easier in time...that things fade, seem not so awful. I suspect it was the same mild benevolent lie that they tell everyone else...solely to seem kind.

It most certainly does not fade. It most certainly does not improve. In fairness, I strongly doubt they've ever lost what I have...so my perspective is perhaps not what theirs are.

Regardless...Sensei never leaves my side. I suspect he worries that I'm suicidal. He thinks I don't know about the cancer.

We're both dead. He just doesn't know it yet.

My end...just may be longer.

But in the interest of truth, I haven't been alive in well over a decade.

In so far as I can tell, anyway.
Time has lost all meaning.

But that's fitting, because so has life.

I would do the stereotypical thing. I really would. I would grab assault weaponry and go out in a blaze of idiocy and everyone who wronged me would fall to my feet in shredded flesh and blood hate.

But I am meant to improve myself, and then the world, around me. Revenge would be nice...but like offering a beautiful painting to a blind man, it would serve no purpose.

Revenge would not restore my life.

It would not resurrect them.

The question becomes, then: I have no hope, no choice, no life. I am Sisyphus...and the closest to any of that I will ever have is one last choice. I may choose the rock I carry.

It will ultimately mean naught...for any change I inspire will be fleeting. For any of this to work, I will need compatriots. I will need warriors.

though the irony of a dead man leading warriors into death does not escape me...even if he technically breathes. He just wishes he could stop.

But those responsible for Mother and Father being gone need to be exposed to the light, apprehended so that they do not scurry off into the night like the maggots that they are.

If I could, I would expose them with a cleansing fire that would remove them from ever existing in this world.

But I am just a man...and there is no weaker wretch than I.

I seek to honor their legacy...and yet my nights are spent binding bloody wounds or dampening pillows with shameful tearful eulogies of their memory.

I misspoke. I am not just a man...a man would not be so weak.

I wish I could forget you. But nothing I wish for seems to happen.

Sensei speaks glowingly and often of his own family...his own plans for the future...though we both know that future is much closer to the present than we'd both like.

In turn, I will never have one...but I can make sure that those responsible for that loss will never have one, themselves.

This is the nature of taking a stand...once used, a stance can never be unmade.

This was my choice.
I no longer have one.




    Elisha Kane stood proudly before her people—though to look at them, you would think of them as anything but.

“I know that outwardly, we seem to come from different worlds, my sisters, my brothers...but I am offering you a chance to help bridge that gap.”

“Ain' no Wall-Street Uncle Tom Bitch givin' me no handouts”

“Sell-outin'-ass muthafuggin' yes-ma'am/no-ma'am niggas”

“Shoulda'been one of us up there wit' all 'dat power, uh-huh”

She silenced the dissenters with a glare, then continued.

“In a few short hours, something unlike we have ever witnessed will be unleashed on the cesspool that is this place.

I am offering you tools to rebuild this city in your image...not just as oppressed black people...but as the cast-aside mental wretches that normals think of telepaths as.

I am offering you a chance to make sure that cities like this never happen again.

In short, I'm offering you a way to make Martin's dream finally come true...albeit in a way he could have never imagined.

I'm offering you hope.”

Elisha stepped back from the podium, to let the impact of her words settle. And when they did, the crowd didn't—they exploded in a jubilant riot. Nothing was injured, nothing was stolen...but with their cries of victory, one could say that a riot broke out, even then.

And so, even Elisha Kane, the woman who had everything, yet wanted anything but her life, found a way to contribute to the coming storm. Ultimately, if she survived it, she could look back with pride on this choice.

And more importantly, pride for her people.




    They chant and dance, and chant, and dance, and chant, and hate, and hate, and dance.

For they are the Daughters of Mary Hicks, and the fall of Harry Flask is beyond even Nicolae Anton's power to initiate.

    Disorder is their function...despair is their gift. And the Daughters of Mary Hicks are honor-bound to ensure that Flask gets the most precious Gift of all.

    And Harry Flask's eyes flutter and sputter and even as everything he was in this life fades from his brain, from a two-pronged assault by Anton's forces and the DoMH, he lives long enough to wonder what it was he did, exactly, to deserve such final moments of torture.

    For the Daughters of Mary Hicks, having an ancestor be responsible for their namesake's firey death was enough...and so, throughout the centuries since, they've punished every descendant with that bloodline that they could find. It just seems that Harry Flask's luck, as well as his life's blood, has run out.

    In his stead, a flesh-craving near zombie will wrestle matches designed for brutality, and a callous disregard for basic decency. It will be a fitting end to a man who only ever cared about himself.

    However, it wouldn't be vengeance if it didn't have an unforeseen twist. The Daughters have arranged for a tiny fragment of Flask's psyche to remain sentient, deep within the grotesque monstrosity that is now his body's genetic code, just enough for him to remain aware of the pain, the emotional trauma, that will come with being responsible, directly responsible, for the deaths of others. The dying of the light of other beings will forever haunt the last vestige of Harry Flask, so long as he remains in this life.

And it's so fortuitous that Anton's men have seen to give him a body that is seemingly impervious to violence.

Be thankful you are not Harry Flask, reader. Be very, very thankful.



    Night hadn't fallen, it had gotten pushed down the stairs with all the love and grace of a six-on-one assault, and Mallory Bell felt as comfortable outside in GothaMetropolis York as a newborn kitten in a tub of water. Taser to her left, crossbow to her right, she hurriedly strolled down Moore and Clarke's intersection, trying to get to her apartment after a long day's work for Anderson's Squire.

    It took a serious application of will to think about the Squire that way. It truly meant that He was gone...that He was never coming back...that everything she'd felt and had wanted to say was forever lodged in her throat, her heart...

...and it would never alleviate.
    So you'll have to pardon Mallory for not noticing the fistfight that erupted behind her as two drug-addled teleporting teenagers tried to claim turf in a neighborhood that not even drug pushers wanted.

    The violence, it seemed, jarred something in her. The normally sweet, gentle, kind woman grabbed at her crossbow and adopted a defensive posture. “You two had better take this somewhere else, or you're taking THIS somewhere you WISH was anywhere else...”

    The 'porters, of course, did not take to this well. As one tried to leap behind her, she shot them in an ankle, causing blood to spurt out of his femoral artery. His sparring partner took this as a sign of aggression, strangely, and teleported away, looking for something to attack her with.

Upon his return, he landed in someone's fist.

Someone's fist that was dressed in a black, Kevlaresque glove.

Someone's fist that belonged to a costume that you, the reader, have seen before.

“...oh my god...” Mallory's eyes welled with tears, and suddenly, nothing but this moment mattered anymore.

[cut scene]

    Gerald Richardson barely recognized his former boss...and it made him giggle. He grinned, directly in the face of the transformed, nearly burnt-out husk of Harry Flask, and mockingly waved his hand in front of his face. “How does it feel, boss? How. Does. It. Feel?”

Dismissively, Richardson, much lighter and more wiry than Flask, in their former lives, kicked the human/demon/granite hybrid in the face. The impact was severe, knocking him to the ground. “We have something you should see, sir.” Richardson said this last to Flask with more than a hint of haughtiness.

Richardson then lifted the barely conscious head of Flask upwards, to note the crucifix, upside down, being assembled in a cavern on Nicolae Anton's property.

Flask heard low, inhuman, soul-chilling singing...saw lightly colored smoke gather before him...and the remnants of his soul began weeping, deep within the deformity that was his current body. The punishment of Harry Flask began before his eyes, with nothing he could do to prevent it—his wife and young daughters were placed upside down, on crucifixes, and the Daughters of Mary Hicks glared at him with centuries of hatred...and his family, the one thing any man would fight for...burned like hope had years before in GMY.

Flask's defeated, abandoned psyche gave way to the beast that now controlled him...and the most horrible thing of all was that the beast found his loss funny. It actually laughed at him.

And Flask went to oblivion, even if it was temporary oblivion, with utter despair.

That will always be the key misunderstanding of the human species—hell isn't about the trappings. Devil, demon, fire, brimstone...hell is none of these things. Hell is torment. Hell is suffering. Hell is self-inspired.

And now, until the universe ends, Harry Flask will be the most inspired creature in it.


[cut scene]


Mallory Bell's lip quivered. She couldn't believe her eyes. After so long...

“I want to stop you, right there”--the masked figure silenced her before she even spoke. “I know what you're thinking. It's wrong.”

“What do you mean?”

“You will see.”

Keep your eyes to the skies, reader—we shall return to our city, and our people, sooner than you think.

A good story with some Sin City-style elements. I was especially impressed with the use of paragraphs as means of pacing the reader, and the regular use of one paragraph setting up a beat for the next one, which in turn cascaded to the next. It's a fairly distinctive writing style and it serves this sort of story well, giving it a mood and texture as surely as a comic-book artist could do.