RPG hero [PG-LV]

[Shy]

[center][font=trebuchet ms][b]hero[/b]
[img]http://otakuboards.com/attachment.php?attachmentid=19972[/img]
[i]"There are heroes all around us; we just need to know where to look."[/i]

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[u][b]The Heroes[/u][/b]

Shy/Sage - Vivica DeVita
Zidargh - Chris Dennett
Ben - Larry Friar
Lore - Elizabeth Richards
Arcadia - Marque Jones
Shinmaru - Lawrence Moore Jr.

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[b][u]Issue Listing[/u][/b][/center]
1. [i]Mask[/i] by Arcadia
2. [i]Insurance[/i] by Ben
3. [i]Morning[/i] by Lore
4. [i]Idol[/i] by Sage
5. [i]Double[/i] by Ben
6. [i]Crossing[/i] by Lore
7. [i]Pinnacle[/i] by Zidargh, Shinmaru
8. [i]Reform[/i] by Arcadia
9. [i]Scandal[/i] by Sage/Shy
10. [i][color=gray]Opposition[/color][/i] by Shy
11. [i][color=gray]Target[/color][/i] by *****

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[center][size=3][url=http://otakuboards.com/showthread.php?t=41809]Want More? Visit myHero[/url][/size][/center][/font]

[Arcadia]

[font=Trebuchet MS][size=3][center][b]Issue #1: Mask[/b][/size][/center]

?Thank you for your interest, Ms. Jones, but I?m afraid that the intern position you applied for is unavailable at this time.?

Mr. Richards, the man who had performed the interview, finished sorting various papers back into his briefcase and then smiled at her. He was known in the business world for that smile, and for his exceedingly cheerful personality. He also ran what was supposedly the most supportive firm of young, aspiring business majors in Key City.

Marque Jones smiled back at him politely, hiding her surprise amazingly well, and rose from her seat. Apparently, Mr. Richards and his firm would [I]not[/I] be supporting her. ?I see.? She stepped forward and offered him her hand to shake. Mr. Richards blinked at it, as if her move was unexpected, and then stood and shook hands with her. Marque made sure her grip was firm as she continued, ?Thank [I]you[/I] for your time, Mr. Richards. Have a wonderful evening.?

As she stepped out of the tall, professional building, Marque frowned and glanced up at the glass windows before starting home. She hadn?t expected to be turned down, and it stung. More than she?d care to admit. Slowly beginning her walk to the bus stop, she thought back to the interview and tried to sort out where exactly she had gone wrong. She?d worn her best skirt and jacket and ironed both until they were flatter than her landlord?s sense of humor and had left an hour early in order to make sure that she made it to the office on time. She?d answered all his questions fantastically well, she thought, and was more than qualified for the internship. And yet she was still turned down. Halfway across the street she stopped dead in her tracks as the obvious finally dawned on her.

She was [I]black[/I].

The person behind her had just barely stepped to the side in order to avoid walking into her and was now giving her a verbal lashing, shouting nonsense about her apparent lack of respect or discipline. Marque blinked, clearing her thoughts for a second, and turned to look at the woman. She was older, whiter, and seemed to want to blame the younger woman for all her troubles in the world. And for a small moment, Marque had the urge to give it all right back. But she held herself in check and bit back the nasty retort she had on her tongue, and forced an apologetic smile onto her face. ?Pardon me, ma?am.?

The woman stopped raging, but the patronizing look on her face hadn?t gone away. She made a sound of disgust and brushed past her without so much as another word.

Marque forced herself to take a deep breath and kept walking. [I]Just ignore it,[/I] she told herself. Her mind immediately focused back on the internship that should have been hers but wasn?t through some act of injustice. But then again, maybe she should have seen it coming. After all, how many colored women had jobs in Key City, let alone the entire country, that didn?t involve cleaning for or serving whites in one way or another? [I]I shouldn?t have gotten my hopes up[/I], she berated herself, turning the corner. [I]I shouldn?t have let my guard down like that.[/I]

The bus stop was abnormally crowded when Marque reached it. For a split second, she stood there and wondered what was going on before someone within the crowd pointed up and shouted, ?It?s him! It?s Silver Eagle!? The startled murmurs of the crowd turned into cheers as the aforementioned Guardian swooped in overhead. Marque watched with the rest of them as the winged man dropped down onto the sidewalk and then sprinted into the corner bank on the other side of the street. Not a minute later the distant howl of sirens could be heard approaching, and once again the noise level rose to a dull roar. Unable to think much less contribute to the many voices, Marque watched and waited; all her earlier concerns vanished instantly, as did the cares of all those around her. The police had now surrounded the area and some were pushing people away while others advanced on the bank. Gunshots were heard from inside, and the crowd collectively gasped and some even cried. It was only after the two robbers, unmasked and unarmed, were thrown through a window that silence reigned once again. The only sound was the shattering of glass and the thud the pair of bodies made when they hit the ground. The police quickly apprehended the two and were dragging them back into the cop cars when Silver Eagle appeared again.

Marque listened to the loud cheers and she saw the look of adoration and of sheer joy in the people?s faces and she wondered how any one person could command such an overwhelming reaction. One man more different than anyone could possibly imagine, and yet still loved so intensely. As Silver Eagle gave the people a wave, she thought about how wonderful it would be to wear that mask. How wonderful it would be to be loved for your abilities instead of your looks. Marque sighed and watched as the Guardian flew away again before starting home and thought to herself, resigned, how great it must have been to be like that.

Later that night, as Marque finished her meager dinner, she flipped the television on and halfheartedly watched Channel 2 News on KeyTV. Her mother was out, probably still at the store. The Guardians flashed on the screen briefly as the anchorman retold the events of the afternoon to the rest of the city. Her mind was only half on it though; she was still dwelling on the interview. On the fact that her color was the [I]only[/I] reason she didn?t get it. Eventually she gave up trying to eat; it all just tasted bitter to her.

As she cleaned off her dish, Marque noted absently that the newscaster had moved on from the bank robbery from earlier in the day and was now talking about some scandal concerning a big producer. She recognized the picture of the blonde movie star the man was married to ? Viveca something or other. She?d actually seen some of the blonde?s movies. Turning off the television, she thought ironically, [I]I guess I?m not the only one who?s getting the short end of the deal.[/I]

The more she thought about it, however, the more curious she became. She?d always assumed that flashy stars like Viveca had perfects lives. Who wouldn?t kill to be young and fit, rich and famous? What wasn?t there to love? Closing her eyes, Marque indulged herself in a game of pretend ? something she hadn?t done in years. She imagined that her skin was white and creamy-looking, instead of her dark brown, and that her hair was blonde and soft and her body was perfectly curved. She imagined she could even feel herself changing, becoming an entirely different person. But the daydream ended and Marque sighed, then headed for her bedroom. Those were childhood dreams only, no matter how strong they still felt.

And then the mirror in the hallway caught her eye and Marque stopped dead in her tracks. Where she should have been standing was instead a pretty blonde with puckered lips and a silky, slinky dress. She shrieked and jumped back before shrieking again when she realized that the voice she heard most definitely was [I]not[/I] her own. Panic began to set in as Marque began touching her face and hair. None of this was familiar to her; none of it was hers. ?Oh my god,? she whispered, over and over again. ?Oh my god, oh my god, oh my ??

She stopped suddenly, her eyes that should have been brown but were instead blue now quite speculative. It was obvious that something very not-normal was happening here; the key was to figuring out what it was exactly. Marque retraced her steps in her head, thinking back to the television broadcast and the picture of Viveca she saw on it. The one that looked exactly as she did now. Was that coincidence, or maybe? something else?

Marque closed her eyes and breathed slowly. She remembered her little adolescent game of pretend and decided to try it again. Only this time, she thought of herself, the way she was [I]supposed[/I] to be. She thought about her dark brown skin instead of the creamy white it appeared to be now, and she thought about her dark eyes instead of the blue ones. She thought about her smile, the one she thought was always a little too big, and suddenly she loved it more than anything. She imagined the same sensations, the same feeling of change, and when she opened her eyes, Marque was looking at herself. Relief washed through her briefly, but it was curiosity that once again took control. [I]If I can become her,[/I] she thought, [I]then why not somebody else?[/I]

The next time Marque opened her eyes, she found herself staring at somebody completely different once again. Somebody that wasn?t even a [I]woman[/I]. Instead, the Guardian Silver Eagle was staring back at her from behind his mask. Blinking, she touched her face, and then her chest, where her breasts should have been. When she ventured even lower, her eyes widened in shock and she swore under her breath as she decided that she was most definitely now a man. ?I can?t.. I can?t believe this,? she muttered in what she could only assume was Silver Eagle?s voice. Suddenly all thoughts about Mr. Richards, the internship, and her unfortunate ethnicity were gone, and Marque gave her reflection a crooked, goofy smile.

The sound of the front door opening and her mother?s voice carried down the hall. Marque as Silver Eagle jumped before quickly closing his eyes. Not a moment later, her mother appeared around the corner, shrugging out of her tweed coat as she eyed her one and only daughter. ?What are you doing there??

Marque glanced at her, once again sporting that goofy big grin (though now it was on an entirely different person), and looked back at her reflection with a sense of satisfaction. ?Just admiring the view.?[/font]

Edit: I'm not happy with the format of the tables in these posts (I think they look fine on myHero, and you should use them when you post) so I deleted the tags from them for the time being. I hope you guys don't take it personally that I went in and fiddled around with your tags. I promise I'll go back and fix them when I have a chance to come up with something more aesthetically pleasing. -Shy

[Ben]

[center][b][font=Trebuchet MS][size=3]Issue 2: Insurance[/size][/b][/center]

Friar?s Diner always had the pleasant aroma of freshly baked bread about it. Even though it was now a dining establishment and not just a bakery, some things did not and could not change. The aforementioned fragrance being the most noticeable of these things, the abundance of flour in the workplace and the homey warmth of the place lent to the thought of Friar?s Diner as still being a bakery. Not too long ago, the place was known as Friar?s Pastries. Several patrons still referred to it as such, either out of habit or just indifference to the change.

Larry Friar did not mind the reputation in the least. So long as at least a few people knew that the Friars were also serving meals, that side of the business was both manageable and profitable. Larry liked both of the results. He liked it when he could serve people in short order, and he especially liked his family making a dollar here and there. Since his father?s retirement, Larry?s family had not needed much in the way of money, and the Diner was as much as a second home as it was a family run business. Extra income helped support Timothy, who alone did not contribute to the family?s ventures.

Larry looked up from his grill as his eldest sister, Agatha, walked into the kitchen. She was a tall woman, with iron gray hair and an only slightly wrinkled face. Larry watched as she stooped her lean frame over one of the numerous ovens, peering inside for a moment before carefully shutting it again. She adjusted one of the dials of the machine and straightened herself. Wiping a bead of sweat from her forehead with a flour-covered hand, she spoke.

?You?d better have someone come and take a look at this oven, Larry. It?s about fifty degrees off.? she said seriously. Then her demeanor changed. ?What?s so funny??

Larry was chuckling slightly, his face broken into a broad smile. He turned back towards his work station, not answering his sister?s question. He began cutting several carrots to be put into a salad, skillfully avoiding injuring his own calloused fingers. Several scars could be seen faintly beneath the rough exteriors of the digits, a testament to Larry?s education in the culinary arts. Knives made good teachers, and their instruction remained long after Larry?s first cut had healed.

Agatha had given up on getting a response from her younger brother, and instead called in their youngest sister, Amy. Amy walked through the double doors to the kitchen, and quickly put her hand over her mouth to stifle a laugh. Her slim figure was bent over, with hazel eyes peering out over fingertips. ?You?re face, Agatha! You?ve somehow gotten flour all over it!? she exclaimed. Larry smiled broadly, his back to both sisters. Several order sheets came in through the window, and he hastened over to get them. Larry looked them over, and then went to prepare the meals. Amy walked out through the double doors to prepare coffee for the waiting customers.

?Agatha, I?m going to need two baskets of rolls for here and a loaf of bread to go.? he said.

?Alright, Larry.? she affirmed. She had just finished letting her sister wipe the flour from her face. Now she was on her way through the divide between the kitchens, back to the flour filled bakery section. Larry was in a good mood, and he quickly and carefully poured out four large bowls of beef stew. As soon as the first basket of rolls came, the order would be ready to go. Larry hastened over to his grill, where he began to cook two grilled cheese for the second order.

Larry hadn?t noticed it yet, but the diner had become unusually quiet. The idle chatter that usually permeated through to the kitchen was absent. Even on slow days, there were at least the regulars that came in during their breaks to talk and enjoy a cup of coffee. Suddenly, a slip came through the order window. The first order had cancelled, and the customers had apologized for the inconvenience. Then another slip. And another. All the orders had been cancelled, each with sincere apologies. Despite the apologies, Larry was slightly irritated. While it was not much trouble to ready the meals, if the prepared plates were not sold soon, they would get cold and go to waste. Nettled and a bit curious, Larry stepped out into the quiet diner, unconsciously still holding his metal spatula.

?Come on, toots. Just a little peck on the cheek.?

Larry came to an abrupt stop just through the doors. Two well-dressed men were the only people present in the diner, besides the Friars and a very few of the regulars. One of the men, named Evan, was massive, with thick arms and a broad chest. He was holding Larry?s third sister, Melissa, with her arms behind her back. The second, named Stan, had cornered Amy, and was slowly leaning in towards her face.

SLAM.

Larry?s spatula came down hard on the counter next to him, demanding the attention of the two men. Startled, the two jumped at the sound and looked around quickly. They turned their attention to the Fat Friar, releasing their holds on the two women.

?Melissa, Amy, go to the kitchen.? The two women fearfully complied. ?Everybody else, I must kindly ask you to exit. If you have not already paid, the meal is on the house. Please leave. Now.?

Larry kept his voice level, despite the twinge of fear he was feeling. He knew these two men. One was short and wiry, with a narrow, pockmarked face. The other was huge, standing slightly over six feet tall and with a chest like that of a horse. They were representatives from the city Mafia. They had been around before, harassing customers outside of the diner and sometimes coming inside to call on Larry. Their presence was bad for business, and they knew it. Every couple of weeks they would come inside and make the same request. If indeed it could be called a request. Larry scowled. The two Mafia flunkies kept asking him to pay for ?insurance? from the Mafia. When he had initially refused their proposition, they had sent threatening letters to Larry?s parents. Past that, they sabotaged food deliveries to the diner, tipped over trash cans in the area, and then finally they killed one of the more generous regulars; an elderly Jewish banker.

The whole situation had the family in shambles. Neither Agatha nor Larry thought that the payments should be made. They did not want to give in to ?that underworld scum? as Agatha had put it. Amy and Melissa were both terrified by the situation, particularly after the murder. They wanted more than anything to just give the Mafia men what they wanted so that they could be left alone. Larry had seen the two men traveling around the town, similarly threatening and ruining other smaller, family owned businesses. Larry was getting tired of the whole thing.

?What do you want?? he asked rather pointlessly.

?It?s not what [I]we[/I] want.? replied Stan, the smaller of the two men.

?It?s what [I]you[/I] want.? said the second man.

?Don?t you want a nice, safe environment for your fine establishment?? pressed the little one. ?We can do it for you. Our new boss just wants one little, itty, bitty donation.?

?A month.? added the bigger man.

?New boss?? Larry arched his eyebrows.

?This is how it is, fat man.? snapped the weasel-like Mafioso. ?If you wish to practice your culinary arts in our area, you need to have insurance. And in order to get insurance, we want a regular donation.?

?Like once a month.? Evan supplied.

?Thank you, Evan.? Stan nodded appreciatively.

Larry shook his head adamantly. ?I?m still not paying.?

?The repercussions of that action could come back to haunt you.? warned Stan. ?We of the organization would hate to see something happen to your sisters.?

?Don?t you [I]dare[/I] threaten my family.? Larry quickly replied in a firm voice, clenching his free hand into a fist.

The little Mafioso pulled out a switchblade, and the big one cracked his knuckles ominously. ?Or what, pray tell?? he demanded. Then he glanced to the side and puckered his lips. Larry looked over and saw Amy?s frightened eyes peering through the order window. That was the last straw for him. ?Amy, RUN!?

Larry?s spatula swung in a wide arc from his side, smashing into Stan?s pockmarked face and causing him to stagger sideways. The head of the spatula snapped off, and Larry discarded the rest of the instrument. He charged the stunned little man, pushing him over and kicking his knife towards the door. The big Mafioso grabbed him by the collar, dragged him back, and punched him squarely in the face. Larry?s senses reeled, and he staggered back and tripped over a stool. He went down to the ground hard, still trying to focus his eyes.

?Kill the fuckin? bastard!? came Stan?s shrill command.

Larry regained enough of his vision and balance to stand up, and he could see the huge wall of man that was slowly approaching. Larry bent his head under a massive punch and buried his shoulder in Evan?s stomach. The two fell to the ground in a tangle of arms and legs. They rolled around on the floor, grappling back and forth. The Mafia man eventually got on top, and put his large hands about Larry?s neck to squeeze the life from him. For a minute Larry thought his end had come. He was going to die on the floor of his family?s diner. Alone, with two petty criminals the cause of his death.

?Come on, Evan, you can take him!? encouraged the little criminal

One of Larry?s arms was futilely trying to dislodge his assailant?s grip, and the other was desperately grasping the man?s throat. Larry was beginning to black out, his vision fading and sounds beginning to dull. In his mind he could see his sisters, his parents, and then finally his brother; the poor one-legged drunkard. Something deep within him stirred, and quite suddenly, his failing senses were revived.

The huge hitman was still situated atop of Larry, but his hands were at his own throat, not Larry?s. He was making strangling noises, and he haphazardly got to his feet. He could not breath, and blisters were slowly beginning to form on his feverish skin. An animal sort of panic had overcome him, and he stumbled around, blood-flecked foam coming from his mouth in weak half-coughs. The smaller man watched in revulsion as Evan?s face turned various shades of darker colors, and then the massive man finally collapsed to the ground. Dead.

Larry stood up from the ground, rather shaken by what had happened. He was shivering in fear, panic, and emotions he could not recognize. A man lay dead on the floor of his family?s diner, killed by some sudden, unimaginable sickness. Larry looked down at his own hands, the calloused digits of his fingers peering back at him. Had he somehow done this?

Larry did not have much time to ponder the question, though. The remaining Mafia man was angry and upset over the death of his partner, and had begun a charge at the overweight chef. Larry reached out and grabbed Stan by the shoulders, halting his furious run. Then he punched him across the face, sending him head over heels past the edge of the counter. The little man scrambled to his feet, blinking through a sudden heavy sweat. Then he shivered violently, as if he were suddenly struck by cold. Shaking unsteadily, the little Mafioso ran out the door, picking up his knife on the way out.

?You ain?t heard the last of us, Friar! We?ll be back, and you?ll be dead!? then he coughed violently and staggered down the street.

Larry picked up a stool and sat down. He was exhausted. Physically and mentally, it seemed, he had overextended himself. He was drenched in sweat, and he could feel his heart pounding within his bruised chest. Larry glanced down at the corpse lying at his feet, and then reached over towards the phone. He dialed three quick numbers.

?Officer Johanson? This is Larry over at Friar?s diner. There?s been an accident.?



It had been two days since the incident at the diner, and the police hadn?t really been of much help. They concluded that Evan could not have been murdered by Larry, but rather was killed by a very peculiar illness. It was as if his whole body was afflicted with some major failure. His autopsy had revealed much of the nature of the disease, including what had ultimately killed the huge criminal. His throat had swelled shut. The esophageal tissue had been scarred and had swelled exponentially, sealing off all airflow. The doctors discovered blood clots, all throughout the Mafioso?s bloodstream. Ulcers had erupted in his stomach, the digestive acid leaking out into the body and collapsing more tissues. His kidneys had failed, his heart was seized by a massive attack, and his brain had suffered a stroke. A sudden and violent spike in body temperature had caused his skin to blister horribly. All of these problems seemed to have emerged almost simultaneously, and no one knew how or why. It was a medical nightmare, and a mystery.

Larry shuddered inwardly at the policeman?s awful description of the symptoms. They were all so terrible separately. Together, they left no fathomable chance of survival. He got the idea that he was in some way responsible, but everybody else believed otherwise. After all, they said, he was just an overweight cook at a small family diner. There was nothing extraordinary about [I]any[/I] of his existence, except perhaps his cholesterol level. It was all very scary and confusing. Larry fervently hoped that things would clear up and be better soon.[/font]

[Sara]

[font=arial][b][center]Issue 3: Morning[/center][/b]

The month is August 1967. It is closer to dawn than midnight, but not by much.

It is dark at the Key City World War Two Memorial. That is to say, Freedom Park, where the Memorial is located, is dark. The monument itself is bathed in the ethereal glow of ground-mounted lights, its smooth marble face casting reflections back out across the grassy park.

The Memorial itself is new. Designed in 1958, construction did not begin until two summers ago...due to lack of funding, perhaps. This is the first season the monument has been open to the public.

The public doesn't seem to have noticed, either. It's not the sort of monument that draws a crowd. It lacks the stature of the spire of the Washington Monument or the regal authority of the Lincoln Memorial. The Key City World War Two Memorial is simply...there. It is large, but unassuming. Most people, walking by, do not even seem to see it.

You could sit on the park bench across from the memorial for hours on a summer afternoon, and never see anyone stop to look at it. It's as though it weren't there.

But if you do sit on that park bench, and if you watch carefully, you [i]will[/i] notice [i]something.[/i] As people walk by, a change comes over there. Slouching youths will be begin to stand a little taller. Whiny children, walking with their parents, will cease complaining and begin to play. Their harried parents will begin to relax. A businessman, walking by, will start to whistle a patriotic tune.

People feel [i]better[/i] for having walked past.

No one knows why this is--it's likely that no one has noticed. They feel better, of course, but no one associates their mild case of euphoria with having passed by the Memorial. No one realizes they [i]have[/i] passed by the Memorial. It just slips out of people's memories.

I had the opportunity, several years ago, to speak with the young man who designed the monument. He had been a student in one of my first classes--back in the forties. It doesn't seem that long ago.

He recognized me--that's how it usually goes. "Miss Richards!" he'd cried, running over to me (undignified for the man he now was, but endearing just the same). "Miss Richards! It's me, Ben--Benny Morset. Do you remember me? You haven't changed a bit."

I did remember him, although I never would have recognized him. I may not seem to change, but my students do...fourth grade is an awkward stage for children. They no longer look like the child they once were, but do not yet resemble the young adult they will soon be.

"What are you doing here?" he'd wanted to know. It was late summer, ten years ago, and we were standing near the Gateway of Freedom, at the head of Bendtson Park. I told him the Gateway was the closest thing the city had to a war memorial, and I'd come to pay my respects.

I wonder if he knew about Robert. It's possible...unlikely, though, I suppose.

When I mentioned a war memorial, Benny--no, [i]Ben[/i]--had gotten very excited. His face lit up as he told me about his plans. He was an architect now, he'd explained, and mostly worked for a contracting company in the city, but last year he's been chosen to design a World War Two memorial for Bendtson Park, and did I know it was going to be renamed [i]Freedom[/i] Park, on account of its being right next to the Gateway of Freedom...

But he also spoke of his design, and of his studies, and of his plans for the monument. He talked of buildings being attuned with their surroundings, how modern construction was ugly enough that you were [i]forced[/i] to notice it, and of people's natural tendancies to accept what was easiest and ignore what they didn't understand.

I didn't understand much of what Ben said that day, but whatever he had been aiming for, I believe he accomplished. I've been sitting here since three this afternoon, and have yet to see anyone but myself look at it. It really is beautiful.

[right]-[i]Excerpt from the notebook of Elizabeth Richards, August 1967.[/i][/right]


[center]***[/center]

"You found the monument, I see." Elizabeth slowly finished the sentence she was writing, and filed her pen and notebook away inside her purse.

"Walter," she said by way of greeting.

"Betty."

"Elizabeth," she corrected, standing up.

Water Fairbanks smiled. "Very well, Elizabeth." The two stood in silence for a moment.

"How is Mount Pleasant these days?" the man asked.

"The same as always, Walter," Elizabeth answered. "Small towns never change."

"What about your new school building?" Walter ventured. "How's that doing?"

Elizabeth nodded. "It's fine. How is your business?"

"Oh, it's fine, too," he replied quickly. "My son might be taking over soon."

"Already?"

"Well, a few more years, you know."

Their awkward conversation became an awkward silence as the pair stood facing the monument.

"It's amazing how hard it is to find," Walter commented finally. "I must have walked past three times before I saw it."

"Four." Elizabeth said. "I watched you."

Walter gave her a strange look. "That was this afternoon."

"I know," she replied. "I was here."

Walter let it pass. They stood in silence a while longer as he collected his thoughts. He was here for a reason--well, so was she. It was the anniversary of Robert's death, and the pair of them had come to this park each year for a very long time. To pay their respects, perhaps. Elizabeth, at least, had many things to think about here. A life with her fiancé that never began. Regrets, Walter imagained, although she said she no longer had any.

He, however... Robert had been his friend, yes. And the first few years, the first few vigils, had been for him. But dead comrades fade from daily life, if not from memory. He liked Robert, yes, and respected him, and still occasionally missed him. Was all that, though, enough to come each year for the last two decades? No, he thought honestly. It wasn't.

So why was he here? The answer was simple. [i]Elizabeth.[/i] The reasoning behind the answer, perhaps, was not so clear.

Walter Fairbanks, the businessman, was not the man his closest allies knew. Walter Fairbanks, the father, the man he was to his family, was not his only private side. Well...[i]private[/i] was a relative term, he supposed.

Walter Fairbanks was best known to the inhabitants of Key City as Captain Light, [i]Superhero Extraordinaire.[/i] And as Captain Light, he was here once again to recruit Elizabeth Richards for his team.

And Elizabeth Richards, unassuming school teacher with super strength, was here...once again...to refuse his offer.

He recalled when Elizabeth had first told him of her power. ([i]Raw power[/i], he reflected idly.) It had been one of the first annual vigils...looking back, they had still been so young.

It was 1948. They had met just below the Gateway, as they had in the past (and would continue to do for many years in the future.) They had been quiet, reflective. Elizabeth was still hurt and confused, and had recently started working at Mount Pleasant Middle School...something which, she had confessed, she had never wanted to do. (It made him sad that she was still there. It seemed like such a waste.)

It was the end of summer--it was [i]always[/i] the end of summer, Walter thought wryly--and Elizabeth had been getting ready for upcoming classes--moving boxes, rearranging desks, cleaning windows, decorating walls, distributing schoolbooks. Moving a box of books from one end of the room to another, another teacher had walked in, surprising her. She dropped the box, scattering several dozen copies of [i]Adventures in Literature[/i] across the floor.

The other teacher had helped her collect the books, but laughed at her. "Elizabeth, [i]be careful[/i]. You can't carry full boxes of by yourself--they must weigh five hundred pounds! Ask me or Mr. Browning for help, or leave a note for the janitor, okay?"

The man had been exaggerating, of course--the box [i]didn't[/i] weight five hundred pounds--but it was still far heavier than she should have been able to lift by herself. She had never had a problem moving things around by herself, in fact, although it had never before been brought to her attention.

She had spoken to him a few weeks after the start of term that year, as well. She's been experimenting, she'd confessed, and had yet to find [i]anything[/i] she couldn't move or lift. There was a touch of fear in her voice. It was useful, she had told Walter, but strange and a little frightening.

That phone call had prompted his first offer to join the Guardians. Alarmed and surprised, she had declined. He brought it up a second time when they met at the Gateway a year later. Again, she had refused. The next August, and the next, and the next, he brought it up again. Her answer was always no.

She sometimes became defensive, sometimes melancholy. Sometimes she simply said, "No," and left it at that. Occasionally she laughed. Once she had told him a fable...he was still unsure what the moral had been, but had nonetheless assumed (correctly) that her answer was no. She never gave her reason, although they sometimes argued over petty things.


"I am happy where I am," she said once. It was a lie.

Walter had looked at her sharply. "[i]Are[/i] you?"

"I don't have to wear a mask to do [i]my[/i] job," she had said bitterly. He had left then.


"Why not? he had asked another time.

"Why?" she had answered.

"We need you."

"No," she had said, "you don't." She had been right. The Guardians hadn't [i]needed[/i] anyone then.

"Then [i]you[/i] need [i]us.[/i]" .

"No," she had said again, "[i]I[/i] don't." But that, too, was a lie. And that, perhaps, was the reason he came every year. Came, and offered her a chance to escape the mundane life she swore she'd never lead. The life that she now refused, for some reason, to leave.


It was a strange conversation to have each year, and Walter found it increasingly difficult to start it.

"Elizabeth," he began. The woman looked at him. He cleared his throat. "My offer still stands."

Elizabeth smiled. "I know," she said quietly.

He nodded. She turned. He waited.

"No," she said finally. "Not this year. Not yet."

Somewhere in the east, the sun was rising. [/font]

[Sandy]

[center][b][font=arial]Issue #4: Idol[/b] [/center]

Standing on the roof of a twelve stories high building, Jolinda Goode looked back on her life. How she had left her home town of Redeem, had arrived to Key City and had become the living legend known as Viveca deVita.

Wrapping her bathrobe tighter around her, she leaned carefully over the ledge of the roof to take a look at the street below. The entire block was surrounded by police-cars, TV-vans, flashlights of cameras, and pointing passers-by. She was the center of this show, like she had been ever since her husband had discovered her from the street.

Jolinda pulled back from the ledge, struggling against tears. She had trusted him so much, and now it was revealed that it had all been a lie. Her husband, Larry B. Goode, had really been no good at all. In the verge of despair Jolinda wanted to shout down to the crowd below to leave her be.

?I want to be alone?, Jolinda sobbed by herself.

It was only an hour since Jolinda had seen the morning newspaper and read that her husband had been seen kissing a woman that most certainly wasn?t her. There was even a photograph included. In no time her penthouse was surrounded by the press. It was a social scandal, and most probably the end of Viveca deVita.

?I never wanted this! I didn?t ask for this!? Jolinda cried out. Then she remembered an event when she had said the exact opposite. That the life as Viveca deVita was everything she had ever hoped for...

Half a year ago Larry had brought Jolinda as an avec to a charity banquet organized by Parasol Studios, Jolinda?s employer. Dressed in a white gown with golden ornamental patterns designed by the famed Giorgio himself, her bleached hair in a skillful set over her head, she had entered the ballroom, turning heads as she?d walked onwards.

All her colleagues-in-acting were present, as well as many other celebrities of Key City. However, none of them had caught Jolinda?s eye like the blue-skinned and silver-haired miracle in white-and-blue uniform.

Jolinda had never been that close to a Guardian before, although she had once starred as a Guardian?s girlfriend in the movie [i]My Hero[/i]. She had asked Larry about the female Guardian?s identity, as the ones with the force were so numerous that Jolinda, a relatively fresh citizen in Key City, couldn?t possibly remember them all.

?She is called Frigida, the Winter Witch?, Larry had answered knowingly. ?She uses her freezing touch to deep-fry evildoers - or at least she used to. Now the rumors say that she is trying her best to retire from the job, concentrating on spreading the good word for the Guardians.?

?But she doesn?t look that old to me?, Jolinda had wondered.

?That?s her abnormal powers doing the trick. Cold skin doesn?t wrinkle, you know.?

Jolinda had approved her husband?s answer, never questioning the unusual amount of knowledge he had about the faction called the Guardians.

For a while Jolinda had circled from celebrity to the next by her husband?s side, but then her eyes had met Guardian Frigida?s. Her curiosity had taken over, and she?d walked to the blue-skinned woman standing temporarily alone.

?Excuse me, you must be Frigida, one of the fabled Guardians. My name is...? Jolinda had started.

?Viveca deVita, I know. I?ve seen a couple of your films. You are talented, I must say?, the Guardian had replied. Although her words had been kind, Jolinda was surprised by the harsh coldness of her tone.

?Oh, with talent always come responsibilities, don?t you agree?, Jolinda had mused, trying to say something intelligent to the impressive figure.

?I certainly do?, Frigida had admitted. ?You and I are not that different, I reckon. Living on the spotlight constantly can wear you out on the inside. Trust my words; I?ve done it ever since they invented spotlights.?

?Are you really that...?? Jolinda had begun, but had swallowed her words instantly. The Guardian had nevertheless understood her question.

?Yes, I am that old. I?m not afraid to admit it, since it doesn?t really show.?

?Are the rumors true then? Are you really going to retire??

?I?m afraid so. There are plenty of younger Guardians to capture criminals now. There?s no need for an old hag such as myself to get involved. I can say I?ve done my responsibilities in the past, and this fatigue is the price.?

Frigida had turned her face towards the high windows of the ballroom, letting the full moon reflect from her clear eyes.

?You are still young, Viveca. You should consider what you are doing. Is this kind of life what you really want??

?Of course it is!? Jolinda had replied innocently. ?Look at me: I?m wearing a Giorgio dress in a room full of celebrities! I have an amazing husband who takes me abroad and gives me expensive gifts. I live in a penthouse downtown, where the housemaids do all the chores. My work involves screaming at monsters and kissing attractive men, so I have no stress there either. Everybody gazes me in awe! What else could I possibly hope for??

?What about privacy?? Frigida had asked seriously, her breath steaming as she spoke. The Guardian had turned her icy glare at Jolinda, making her extremely uneasy, like the eyes could see straight to her heart.

?What about it? I think it is a small price to pay for this kind of luxury. Believe you me when I say that this life is everything I?ve ever wanted.?

?As I said, you?re still young, so you?re bound to realize that life just doesn?t work that way.? Frigida?s chilling voice had sounded almost insulted. ?Goodbye now, Viveca deVita, and may your glee last as long as possible.?

Their conversation had ended there, and the Guardian had turned her back on Jolinda and walked away. Jolinda had never seen Frigida again, or heard about her in the media. She reckoned that the Guardian had finally found her peace.

Jolinda Goode, still standing in a bathrobe on the roof of her luxurious penthouse surrounded by a gasping crowd, knew that the same thing could hardly be said about her at that moment.[/font]

[Ben]

[B][CENTER]Issue #5: Double[/CENTER] [/B]

[I]?If I think about death more than some other people, it is probably because I love life more than they do.?[/I]

[I]I killed him. It is my fault.[/I] Larry Friar was plagued by these thoughts for the weeks following the attack on his family?s diner. He was certain now that it was he would had killed the Mafia man. Small things from his childhood came sharply into focus: various insects dying in his hands, friends contracting rare and deadly diseases; his grandmother?s deathbed. Some of these things Larry thought were just coincidence, but now he could never be sure.

After the incident, Larry left the diner closed. The police were still coming back every so often to look the place over, and business wouldn?t be very good just after such an incident, anyways. Truth be told, Larry didn?t want to go back to work there. He was afraid to touch anybody, most especially his sisters. It had been two weeks since he last saw any of them. They had spoken on the phone, and the women had tried several times to visit Larry at home, but he refused to let them in. He had become somewhat of a recluse.

Larry only ever went out at night now, to walk, when there were fewer people. He wore a pair of woolen mittens whenever he went for these contemplative walks, and long clothes. His feet were covered by sturdy hiking books. He wore a collared shirt of a deep shade of green, with overalls to cover his legs and the rest of his torso. An obscuring scarf and a broad rimmed hat completed his ensemble. Larry went to great lengths to avoid any form of physical contact with people.

The walks relaxed him, though, and gave him time to think. All sorts of questions raced through his head, and he did his best to answer them by himself. At first, he tried to think rationally. There was no way he could have killed Evan with just his bare hands, he thought. Not in the position he was in, at least. Then again, he thought; there were others in the city who had unnatural abilities; other people who had mysterious powers that no one else did.

The Guardians. The Guardians had powers.

?None of them have powers as awful as mine.? Larry had quietly murmured to himself.

Of course, Larry did not know for sure. He actually knew little about the Guardians, other than what the newspapers said. Maybe he should contact them. Maybe they could help. Or perhaps, something could go wrong. They could decide he was too dangerous to have roaming around, and have him locked away. They might try to get him to use his powers for their cause! He realized suddenly. Larry adamantly shook his head. He would never use his powers, even for good. How could he? How could a touch that brings sickness and death accomplish good? It couldn?t. He was doomed to be a walking hazard, an undeserving plague to all of those people around him.

Three weeks after Evan?s death, Larry received a letter in his mailbox. The envelope had no marks of regular postage, just his name: Larry Friar. Larry stepped back inside the door to his house and bolted the door shut again. He tore open the envelope, and withdrew the letter from within. Larry gripped the paper tightly upon reading the first line: [I]?I know what you?ve done.? [/I] Larry read on, his eyes never breaking contact with the page. Whoever wrote the letter claimed that he knows all about Larry?s abilities, and threatened to reveal the truth about him. Larry?s worst nightmare was realized. His secret couldn?t get out!

[I]?Bring the money to the entrance of the docks at 9 o?clock tomorrow night. If you do not, your family will suffer, and it will be seen to that your diner is destroyed.?[/I]

Larry slid numbly into a chair by his fireplace. The letter was surely from the Mafia. They would be the ones seeking recompense. The fire before Larry crackled merrily, but the room still felt cold. $10,000. His family. Their diner. What was he going to do? Where was he supposed to get that sort of money? Even his whole family?s life savings amounted to less than that. Then Larry spied something out of the corner of his eye. Resting on a squat table across the room was a small statue. Hand-carved by a craftsman in Arabia, the wooden artifact depicted an animal; a horse. A horse....the image triggered something in Larry?s memory. He quickly stumped his way over to his dining room table. On the back page of the newspaper was a large ad, promoting Key City?s first race track. [I]Winnings up to $20,000...[/I]
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The sound and smell of the racetrack filled Larry?s senses as he carefully shuffled about. His hands were determinately deep in his pockets, and he was decked out in his usual protective garb. He was meeting somebody here, one of his regulars at the diner who went by the name of Herman. Herman had always been a bit down on his luck, and so Larry had helped him out a time or two. Herman was glad to return the favor by explaining to Larry how exactly gambling at the race tracks worked.

?Now, you see, you?ve got a trifecta, which is when you guess what three horses will come in first, second, and third. And the exacta, which is just guessing the horses that will come out first and second. Or, you can just pick one horse and bet on it to Win, or come in first; Place, which means it comes in first or second; or Show, which means your horse has to come in first, second, or third. Or if, you?re really up to it, you can bet Across the Board. That way, if your horse comes in first, you can collect the bets for the other two places automatically. Or if it comes in second, you collect the Place and Show bets. If your horse comes in third, you collect the Show bet.?

Larry groaned. It was a lot to remember, and he had so little time left. ?Herman, I?m going to need your help placing these bets.?

?No problem, Larry. Just how much cash are you willing to put into play??

Larry had gone to the bank and withdrawn $5,000 from the family?s mutual account. It was nearly all of the money they had, and certainly enough to make Larry feel extremely guilty. The money was resting inside of a stout knapsack slung over his shoulder, and Larry felt its presence very keenly. It made a faint but audible ?thump? with every step he took. ?Come over here, Herman.? Larry motioned over to a spot behind one of the betting booths. When he was sure nobody else was looking, Larry opened the knapsack to show Herman what was inside.

?Good lord.? whispered Herman. He probably hadn?t ever seen as much money in one place before.

?Will you help me, Herman? I need this. My family?s in trouble.? Larry said the last part carefully, not wanting to let Herman in on any of the details.

?You betcha.? grinned Herman.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Several hours later, Larry walked out of the racetracks with $17,755 in tow. It was more than enough to cover both the ransom demand and replenishing the family savings. Larry felt like he could burst, he was so happy. He had given Herman $2,000 out of gratitude for the inestimable help he had provided. And still, there was plenty leftover! Maybe when this mob stuff was over with, he could refurbish the diner...

It was eight-thirty already. He had to be at the docks in under an hour. Larry waved a hearty farewell to Herman, and then set out at a brisk walk. The air became colder as he got closer and closer to the river and the docks. The wind picked up a bit, too, causing Larry to squint his eyes as they began to tear up. He was nearing the entrance to the docks, and it was eight fifty-five according to his watch. He made it, and he had the money.

[I]SLAM.[/I]

The sudden loud noise caused Larry?s heart to jump, and he clung ever tighter to the knapsack slung over his shoulder. If need be, he could use it for bludgeoning. Larry squinted, staring through the wind. He didn?t see anything, other than several piles of crates stacked around. There were a few ships in the dock, and they would sometimes be forced sharply against the metal edge of the docks, Larry rationalized. Nothing out of the ordinary.

?Do you have the money??

Larry turned sharply, looking for the source of the voice. He found nothing. ?Where are you??

?Do you have the money?? the voice repeated, a bit more forcefully this time.

?Yes, yes. It?s here.? Larry replied, still casting his eyes about for the man to whom he was speaking.

?Good.?

The voice was right behind him.

Larry jumped forward and spun around, coming face to face with the largest man he had ever seen. He was easily nine feet tall, with thickly muscled arms, legs, chest; everything about him was huge. He was dressed in a tight-fitting purple outfit that only accentuated his gigantic muscles. How the beast of a man had managed to sneak up on Larry, or even conceal himself anywhere in the vicinity, was a mystery. One that Larry felt no particular need to solve at the moment. Rather, he was desperately trying to determine the fastest way out of there.

?Yo-You?re the one who sent the letter?? Larry faltered.

?Yes. Give me the money.?

?Who are you??

?My name is Titan, not that it matters. Give me the money. Now.?

Larry reached over his shoulder and placed the knapsack on the ground. Kneeling beside it, he withdrew $10,000 worth of bills and handed them to the super-sized extortionist. Titan placed the money into a rough bag and tied it up. Larry carefully placed the remaining money pack into the knapsack and stood up.

?Well done, Mr. Friar. Well done, indeed.? the brute grinned maliciously. ?Unfortunately, with the inflation the city has been suffering in the past day or so, the price has gone up to $20,000. Or, whatever else is left in the knapsack.?

?There hasn?t been any inflation!? Larry burst out. ?And this money is mine! It belongs to my family!?

In what must have been a trick of the light, Titan swelled slightly larger. ?Perhaps you don?t understand, Friar. I told you to give me the rest of that money. And when I tell you something, you do it!? This time, there was definitely no tricks being played with the light. Titan definitely did grow larger, and seemed all the more menacing because of it. At twenty feet tall, he loomed over the piles of crates surrounding them. Whatever material Titan?s clothes were made of, they grew to accommodate his increased size. Larry grimly clung to his bag.

?No.?

Titan laughed, his baritone guffaw carrying on the wind. Then, his foot came crashing down, causing Larry to fall over backwards. ?Perhaps you don?t understand, Friar. I could squish you like a bug!?

Larry was angry now, and leapt to his feet. He threw off his outer layers, exposing his feverish skin to the biting chill of the night air. ?And I could kill you as soon as touch you!? he declared hotly, taking a step towards Titan?s massive foot.

Titan shrank quite suddenly, reducing his target area exponentially. He now stood at about six foot. While still taller than Larry, it was not quite as intimidating. Larry took a step forward and Titan stepped back several steps. ?Perhaps we can make a deal, Friar.?

?I?m through with making deals. I paid you your money, now leave me and my family alone.? Larry snarled.

?Ah yes, your family. I nearly forgot.? Titan sneered. ?When was the last time you saw your brother??

Larry froze. He hadn?t seen nor heard from Timothy in several weeks. With all of the excitement and difficulties concerning the diner, he?d totally forgotten. The way Titan was looking at him, though, Larry knew what had happened. ?Where is he??

?In the ?care? of my employers and their men. He?s fading fast.?

Larry caved in. ?What do you want me to do??

?If you do this for us, Mr. Friar, you can keep all of the money in that sack and this one, as well as get your brother back.?

?Just tell me what to do.?

?You?re going to touch the stars, Mr. Friar. You?re going to touch the Guardians.?


~~~~~~


Questions, comments, thoughts, ideas, flames, suggestions, et cetera?

[Sara]

[font=trebuchet ms][center][size=3][b]Issue #6: [i]Crossing[/i][/b][/size][/center]

Key City in winter.

The air is crisp, the sky is dark, and scores of people are bustling up and down Main Street with arms full of Christmas packages. Animatronic Santas and reindeer* make happy motions in cotton-padded picture window landscapes. There's a sort of cheerfulness in the air one only notices at the height of the Christmas season--some time after Thanksgiving, but before the first big snow. When even here in the city, people are polite to complete strangers.

We take a long view of the street, taking in the happy shop-goers, most on their way home after a lighthearted day of shopping. Doorways and awnings begin to sparkle as colored strings of Christmas lights are turned on. Dressed warmly by their parents against the mid-December air, children laugh with delight as snowflakes begin to fall.

It's a picture-perfect Christmas shopping scene.

We begin to scan the faces of the crowd, finally focusing on one woman. She is perhaps middle-aged, her hair styled in a way that was fashionable five years ago. Like those around her, she is dressed in her drab winter coat, carrying packages. But her face is bright, and on her coat is a colorful pin--possibly homemade, the sort children give their teachers for Christmas. A snowman, perhaps, or an oversized Christmas tree.

In fact, she is a school teacher. Her students know her as Miss Richards, in the quaint way children have. Even into the fourth grade (and further), students are sometimes unaware that their teachers have lives outside the classroom. Her colleagues call her Elizabeth, because that is her name.

Elizabeth Richards, Fourth Grade Teacher.

It was a Thursday afternoon when she left to go shopping after school. As we have noted, it is now evening, and the crowds are slowly thinning as people make their separate ways homeward. She herself is slowly heading toward the Franklin Bridge bus stop.

Elizabeth smiles as she passes people on the street. She knows some of them..some, not. It doesn't really matter--it's Christmas, after all. Everyone is smiling. Voices, music, and laughter mingle in the air, forming an odd sort of Christmassy sound. It's contagious--Elizabeth throws back her head and laughs happily.

The ambience of the scene suddenly shifts. The mood of the "Christmassy sound" has changed. Elizabeth closes her mouth abruptly, eyes wide. No, the change in tone wasn't her fault--somewhere ahead of her, the sound of laughter has turned to that of alarm...or even fear.

There is a horrible, shaking sound further up the bridge, and people are running past her now, away from the noises. Young children, laughing only a few moments before, scream and cry. Women run desperately away, tugging their children behind them. Men stand aghast, some ushering people off the bridge, others yelling, accomplishing nothing.

Her heart racing, Elizabeth pushes her way against the flow of people, toward the source of the panic. [i]What is going on?[/i]

A man grabs her shoulder--"Ma'am, you can't go over there, it's--" She wrenches herself out of his grip, running onto the bridge, dropping her bags and packages. Behind her, the man stares after her in amazement, finally bending down to collect her things. She doesn't care.

Another awful sound, and bits of shattered concrete ricochet of the bridge. The chorus of screams grows with renewed terror. The bridge shudders, and Elizabeth jumps, catching her balance.

She looks up.

A bright spot of fire twists and dances in the clouds above her. Warm raindrops touch her face. There's a loud scream from somewhere above, and an angry yell. A jet of colored fire burns brightly through the clouds above. Elizabeth's heart stops. Colored fire means only one thing--the Guardian Incendia. Whatever is going on up there, one thing is suddenly very clear: It's a superhuman battle--and dangerous.

As if on cue, a blast of force hits Franklin Bridge. The entire structure shakes, and Elizabeth falls to her hands and knees. Again, the sound of screaming takes on new urgency.

"Incendia, what are you [i]doing?[/i]" Elizabeth breathes, forcing herself back up. The Guardians would never put bystanders in danger...if this battle is really taking place [i]here[/i]--and there's no denying it is--something has gone terribly wrong. "Who is she fighting?"

No, it doesn't matter. Elizabeth looks around. The bridge is still full of people--drawn by morbid fascination, perhaps. More likely, they are somehow convinced that everything will end up being alright. "After all," Elizabeth thinks bitterly, as she tries desperately to think of something to do, "they live in Key City. Nothing every [i]really[/i] goes wrong when you have a legion of superheroes to protect you."

Somewhere above, Incendia shrieks and flares up, lighting the dark sky for a moment, then almost disappearing into the clouds. There is a crazed cheer from the people who have stayed to watch--fireworks. [i]Fireworks[/i]. Elizabeth feels sick.

"She's losing," she realizes numbly. "Incendia is losing. Something bad is happening. And no one realizes it."

[i]I have to do something.[/i] But what? What can she do? She has [i]strength[/i], for goodness sake. She can lift things, push things--she can't fly. Superstrength can't help anything right now.

She winces as another blast hits the side of the bridge, jarring everyone there, and sending her back to the ground. She waits for a second, then rises, only to find she is still off balance--the bridge has not righted itself. [i]Bad.[/i] She stands, adjusts, takes a step, then breaks into a run, something she has not done for well over ten years.

She reaches the largest cluster of people. "We have--" she gasps--"We have to get off the bridge. Incendia's losing--something's wrong."

A few of the bystanders exchange worried glances. A murmur runs through them. [i]Losing? Is it possible?[/i] A big man laughs, suddenly dispelling any doubt Elizabeth had raised. "What's wrong, Ma'am?," he laughs. "Don't you worry; the Guardians always take care of their own."

"You don't understand--" she begins again. She is cut off by a chorus of "oohs" and "ahhs" as Incendia flares up again, brighter this time.

"See?" the man says. "Everything's just fine." He smiles self-importantly.

Elizabeth stares at him in disbelief. Above them, Incendia's light fades, completely lost in the cloud cover. "We have to get off the bridge," she repeats desperately. A handful of people, seeded with doubt, make their ways off the bridge. The already foolhardy majority, however, make no move to leave.

The air [i]screams.[/i]

So do the people.

A bright, glowing figure hurtles down from the sky, crashing with great force into the bridge. The concrete cracks around her, and people, yelling, run, crawl, [i]flee[/i] the opposite way. Elizabeth feels a desperate, sinking relief--they're leaving the bridge.

She pulls herself up, again, one last time, and runs to the burning figure, kneeling beside her.

Incendia is a recent recruit to the Guardians. Less than twenty years old, she is very pretty--a young woman with a fire for justice. Contrary to stereotype, she is known to have a very calm personality...not that it is important right now.

Elizabeth cradles the young woman's head, putting her hand to the hero's forehead. Her skin is feverish...but somehow, Elizabeth doubts that that means much.

Incendia looks up at her, eyes dull. "Ouch," she says weakly. Whether it was meant to be humorous or not, Elizabeth has no idea.

"Shush, Peggy," Elizabeth says softly, brushing the Incendia's hair from her eyes.

Confused recognition flares in the young womans' eyes for a moment. "Miss--"

Elizabeth shakes her head, gently, pressing against Incendia's head to keep her from trying to rise. "I said shush." The superhero moans weakly, her body broken against the concrete. "[i]Shush,[/i]" Elizabeth repeats, more gently, her heart breaking.

"Go to sleep." She strokes the young woman's hair. "You'll be okay," she lies. "Just...rest."



[i]Morning. We look in on a small first-floor classroom in Mount Pleasant, one of Key City's many neighboring towns. Paper Christmas trees and snowflakes cover the windows. Morning sunlight slants in between them, pooling on desks and onto the floor. Twenty-seven nine and ten year olds fill the classroom, talking and goofing off before school starts.

The bell rings, and a few of the meeker students make their way immediately to their desks. There is no sign of a teacher, however, and most still mill around the room, laughing and playing.

There is a sound at the door, and the classroom falls silent. A tall, well groomed man enters. Confusion, then anticipation, sweeps the classroom.

"Hello, Class," the man says. "My name is Mr. Brown." He turns to write it on the blackboard, then turns again to face the fourth graders. He smiles in a firm way, dashing the hopes of some that he would be easy to torment or fool. "I'll be your teacher today."[/i]

[size=1]* It occured to me afterward that this was probably anachronistic. / So pretend it isn't there.[/size][/font]

[Zidargh]

[font=trebuchet MS][center][b][size=3]Issue #7-Part I: [i]Pinnacle[/i][/b][/center][/size]

?This makes no sense?? Muttered P.I. Dennett. His voice was hoarse with whisper, and his accent? cold. Mr. Dennett was on a case. He hadn?t had a case. Not for a very long time. But this one determined his financial stability within the twisted and warped metropolis of Key City.

The time was around one AM, and the night was cool. Yet, despite the lateness, this man was still working to make his mark known within the city.

He?d been given the investigation by an unknown person, at an unknown time. With a slam of the door, there it was behind him, [I]the[/I] package. Laced with a starched line of string, the brown envelope that contained his briefing just sat there, waiting.

After being picked up, opened up, scrunched up, and thrown away, it faded away from memory?died. Much like what happened to the investigator after every relationship he?d had with another person.

The letter had obviously been typed, and typed very officially for that matter. It stated; ?Dennett. Times are bad. Something lurks the streets. Enclosed is a photo. Research it. Big payment if carried out successfully. Important. Be cautious.?

[I]?Be cautious.?[/I] He?d no idea what this meant.

And as the letter suggested, there was a photo. A crisp, black and white image of a syringe that laid on the cold, dank, alley floor. The needle had snapped, leaving a diagonal edge as the point, and just below it was a tiny pool of liquid.

Throwing it onto the desk, the photo gently glided below the dim lamp, this being the only source of light in the apartment.

With a sigh that almost sounded frustrated, Dennett threw himself backwards into his chair only to run his hands through his smooth, dark hair. He was a handsome man, but he never got the chance to realise this. A drifting soul, seeking, but never gaining the light at the end of the tunnel.

After undoing his briefs that tightly clung to his shoulders, he reached forward and fondled with a cigarette packet, only to pluck out one of the tobacco-filled sticks. ?Someday, these are going to be dangerous for your health,? he spoke out loud to himself before lighting up and inhaling a puff of the venomous air.

Allowing the cigarette to droop on his lower lip, balancing between his mouth and gravity, he stood up and approached the only window of his apartment. It was half- open and allowed a cold draft to flow through his black hair and tease his skin. His apartment was stood next to an alley, and the window looked down upon a street corner, so, all that could be seen and heard was chaotic movement of city traffic.

Suddenly, the clicking of footsteps ricocheted off of the stone, dismal walls to show a lone figure standing backwards against the opposite wall. As some car headlights flew past, the figure was revealed to be a man within his late thirties, and black. He then pulled out a golden instrument that gleamed amongst the street headlights and pressed the sharp head of it to his lips. Within a few seconds, the alley was orchestrating a lone saxophonist, and a very talented one at that.

As the robust music began to start, the sky became denser with its noir clouds forming overhead, and then, it rained. Yet the saxophonist continued playing. He played so hard that the opening funnel of the instrument created an air-like barrier from the bombarding raindrops, causing them to bounce off into a spray before they made contact with the brass.

And then, it stopped abruptly.

?

After the musical notes suddenly halted, a sudden crash of what appeared to be trash cans could be heard. There was no yelling, and there were no signs of violence, except in the nature of the sound, but the event definitely startled the poor Investigator.

?What the--!?? He yelled, nearly falling out of the window. With a push away from the sill, he regained his balance and came to a very drastic conclusion.[I]?Racist thugs.?[/i]

Charging over to his bed that laid near the window, he grabbed his beige raincoat and accompanying hat, placed them upon his body and picked the keys from the pocket. From there, Dennett continued his charge for which he violently threw open the door, and ran threw the brightly lit corridor, its narrow, scarlet carpet intimidating for it seemed it went on forever. But then, an unknown force made him halt suddenly, only to listen to the quick thudding of footsteps that traversed the adjacent stairway.

Adrenalin pulsed through his veins at the thought of the thugs approaching, and so he returned to where he started his daring charge.

The investigator then found himself sitting at the foot of his bed, but he was shivering, no matter how tightly he held himself for comfort. And then, there it was.

Straight in front of him was a man, dressed in black trousers, polished shoes, and a white shirt with briefs hanging from his waist. His hair was black, and his features were defined, or so they seemed from the sunglasses that covered his eyes. This man was of course, Dennett.

But how could this be? The Private Investigator was sitting at the bed, petrified by the thought of the thugs. Yet, this other man was standing there, armed with a Tommy Gun that was pointed at the doorway.

And then, the man acknowledged Dennett with an assuring nod.

Suddenly, multiple gunshots could be heard, followed by Dennett?s guardian falling to the ground, dead. But he was then replaced with another copy of the Investigator, this one with a much more menacing face, Tommy Gun aimed towards the pathetic version. ?Hello.?

?Please! J?Just don?t fire.? Screamed the ?real? Dennett to the palms of his hands.

?Why do you wear that ridiculous man suit??

By this question, Dennett lifted his head, trembling as he stared up the gun barrel.

?Think you?ve got the guts??

?

?YES!?

A fork of lightning crackled in the dark sky overhead and a car flew past, horn beeping wildly.

Suddenly, the saxophonist trailed off terribly in reaction to this random holler, and removed the mouthpiece from his dry lips.

It was still raining, but much more heavily this time, and the black man that stood in the alleyway was completely drenched, but he didn?t seem to care. He continued to stare upwards to the stunned man who breathed heavily, causing puffs of visible breath to appear here and there. ?Yo? daddyo?. You okay??

The saxophonist?s voice was very coarse, much like one would sound from too much smoking, but it seemed soulful, and wise. He then blew a very loud note, which startled Dennett again, and spoke once more, ?You were asleep. Was I really that bad??

Trying to gain some focus over the dark and dank alleyway, Dennett looked out bright-eyed before returning from the shock that overwhelmed him. ?N-No. Not at all. You?re an extremely talented man.?

From what appeared like a glint of a smile, the saxophonist felt around in his jacket pockets and looked back up at the investigator. ?Got a light??

Looking upwards to the sky, stunned by this question, Dennett curiously plucked another tobacco-filled stick, and then scratched a dry match that laid on the desk next to the window. The flame flickered with the wind slightly, and gave birth to a new fire upon the edge of the cigarette. ?You want me to throw it down??

?Well, I did play for over two hours for you.? Answered the black man, rubbing his goatee.

?Well? okay.? The white man held the filter carefully at the butt of the cigarette, and then successfully flicked it with his index finger so that it spun against the air currents, only to be skilfully plucked back out of the air by the musician.

?Appreciated.?

And with that, the black man disappeared.

There was no sign of him. And even though Dennett tilted his head incredibly far out the window, it proved futile. He was simply gone. Gone like the shadow that haunted the alleyway every now and again. Even though he didn?t know the saxophonist, it did prove disheartening that the saxophonist who relaxed him so, was to just leave like that. [I]?Probably didn?t trust me.?[/I]

After pulling down the window, Dennett watched the tiny specks of precipitation blitz the glass, and then, he started to think about work. ?Back to the grind.? He spoke out loud in a sorrowful tone.

Racking his brain for clues, or any [I]sense[/I] that this case had particular, the P.I. began to think out loud. ?So a syringe? No doubt a chemical of some sort. Perhaps a rare medicine? No- That?s not it. How could this be of such importance? Let alone that, who the hell wants this information? A drug!?

Dennett gasped, and ran over to the dim lighted desk that illuminated the room eerily. He carefully pressed the photograph against the desk and pulled it towards him, so that the image quality would not be ruined. And there it was.

Suddenly, it all became clear. This ?drug? was not rare at all. It was so accessible that it was even being used on the streets. But if it weren?t for the curled up hand to the side, this would?ve never been discovered.

There was no solid details stating how lethal the drug was, but by the tone in colouring of the hand, there was definitely some serious stuff going down on the streets of Key City.

[I]BAM, BAM, BAM![/I]

?Wha--!?? The man snapped out of his trance of concentration and turned to the door, nearly falling backwards in the process.

[I]BAM!?WHAM!?CRACK![/I]

?What the hell is going on!?? Dennett screamed as he watched a chunk of the door soar through the air in the form of broken splinters.

?Uhhhhh?You?? Moaned an incredibly eerie voice. It was much similar to that of a zombie, petrifying those who heard it, filling them with the agony that the speaker suffered.

The P.I. simply did not know what to do. He looked to the jacket that laid splayed out on the untidy bed, but it was too far away, and he really did not want to cause the being outside to panic. Carefully, he reached into his pockets, in the hope that he left that Revolver he saved up so long for, but to no avail.

?WHAAAaaaatT d-d-d-did you d-d-do to meee!?? Moaned the being outside aggressively. He seemed to be suffering from something, obviously a speech impediment.

?I didn?t do anything to you! Leave this place at once!? Screamed the P.I. once more in the hope he could scare the being away.

?LIES!? Yelled the beast. And then [I]it[/I] smashed the door down in one hugely powerful door, revealing what was causing all the ruckus.

Time stopped still.

The beast outside was human in figure. It had two arms, two legs, a torso, and a head. But it was [I]hideous[/I]. The shirt upon its torso had torn from the centre, revealing a heavily built chest that pulsated with every breath. Whilst the blue jeans revealed the beast had obviously been shot at, it?s huge thighs bleeding through the small holes in its covers. Its head had a crown of neatly cut brown hair, but its face was horribly disfigured. The right cheek had seemed to grow inwards, causing a huge bump to form at the left side of its face, whilst the bones scattered around the face, had been scrunched up as if the face had been squashed by God?s hand itself. The eyes were bulging, blood shot, and the pupils seemed to have dilated.

Then time resumed.

?Rarrghh-igh-yaaaaRGH!? Bellowed the beast, huge arms flailing above its head.

?What? What are you?? Questioned Dennett as he fell to the ground in horror.

?I?m just like youuu! YOU DID THIS TO ME!? And then it charged furiously in Dennett?s direction, lifting him up by the neck as he did so, and pinning him up against the wall to left of the window.

Choking, Dennett looked into the deep, bulging eyes of the beast. It seemed as if it was crying for help, but from the inside. But there was nothing he could do. This soul?s exterior was killing him, randomly bashing his spine against the plaster, jolting his head backwards and forwards. Dennett felt as if his spine was going to snap.

?I d-d-d-don?t want to do this! N-n-no! YOU HAVE RUINED ME!? The beast was struggling internally. Its heart was still pure, but it seemed to be possessed by an unknown force, and was hurting from the inside, trying to keep back the fire of sanity that flickered ever so slightly. ?Yargh!?

With another slam against the wall, Dennett penetrated the plaster into the fibre glass that insulated the apartment. He was trying to breathe, but the bulges in the beasts? palm cut off the air supply in his throat.

[I]FIGHT![/I]

And with a sudden burst of adrenalin, Dennett dug his steel toe caps into the waist of the beast with a kick, only to rebound from the strength of the muscle. Pain surged through his right leg.

And suddenly, despite the grinding of the beast?s yellowing teeth, choking of Dennett, the growling and the gasping, a robust note flew through the apartment?s closed window, into the ears of both the beast and its victim.

The tightening of the grip loosened, dropping Dennett as a big heap on the grey carpet. Dennett then choked even more, trying to gather up as much oxygen as he could to satisfy the alveoli in his lungs. But something stunned him.

The gigantic man that was suffering so clasped his ears shut as the note reverberated in his ear drums. He then pivoted in large stomps, screaming in anger and agony at the sound of the note. ?Wh-What have YOU DONE!?

But Dennett did not reply, he began to calm as his heart began to work again, and as his lungs started store up the oxygen, releasing the atoms as the red blood cells were purified.

And then, the beast reached out towards the window, screaming, ?They?re coming for YOU!? Then it lunged to the glass, and fell over the edge of the radiator, speeding its descent down the many stories of the apartment towards its final rest in peace.

Dennett had stood up by this time, leaning against the sill and watching as the man crunched into gigantic heap of muscle.

---

It appeared to have stopped raining earlier, but it started again, cleansing the skin of the blood that poured from its wounds.

And as the trickling of rain upon the metallic emergency exit stairway completed the ensemble in the form of gentle percussion, the cigarette was there on the stone where the saxophonist once stood, burning.
[/font]

OOC: So there it is. Just like with Ben's, comments in the Underground would be most appreciated.

[Shinmaru]

[font=trebuchet MS][center][b][size=3]Issue #7-Part II: [i]Pinnacle[/i][/b][/center][/size]

[i]Crack![/i]

Bat against ball, the sharp crack of the bat sliced through the air like lightning as the ball ricocheted harshly off of the gleaming wood. The small, white baseball floated gracefully over the shortstop?s head, and landed softly in the fresh green grass behind him. Another pitch was thrown, a curveball, with the same result; only this time, the ball floated gently over the second baseman?s head.

The coaches and managers watched from the sidelines, taking notes. Lawrence Moore Jr., Larry to his friends, was well aware of their steely gazes, though he did his best to ignore them. He tugged on his worn, gray uniform nervously before getting ready for the next pitch. The pitcher smirked obnoxiously at Larry before tossing the next pitch. Larry caught a split-second glimpse of the pitcher?s grip before he threw the ball.

?Another curveball, maybe?? Larry thought to himself, digging his cleats into the ground and rearing back to swing. Halfway through his swing, he saw the ball suddenly dip below his bat and zip to the outside of the plate. It was too late for Larry to stop swinging. He missed the pitch by a mile, and almost fell to the ground due to all of the momentum he had put into that one swing. He got up, dusting himself off sheepishly, and sighed to himself He?d hit nothing but strong, solid singles the entire practice. He felt he had been good, but not good enough to capture the attention of the coaches.

Larry jogged away from home plate with his head held high, determined not to let any disappointment that he was currently feeling show on his face. He went into the clubhouse, and tossed his helmet into the equipment area. He then grabbed a cap and a glove, and ran back out onto the field. If he couldn?t show his worth at the plate, then he would have to be dazzling on the field. As he jogged out to take his normal position in centerfield, Larry noticed something very odd.

?Looks like that guy?s just getting some lazy fastballs,? Larry said to himself under his breath. ?He?s smacking them pretty well, too.? The current person at the plate collected hit after hit after hit, even hitting a home run or two for good measure. Larry felt a hint of annoyance, because he was not given any easy pitches like that to hit. His feelings subsided quickly, however, as he settled into his normal position and got his head back into the tryout.

The shrill sound of another ball being hit sounded through the air. Larry?s head snapped immediately towards the noise and he spotted the ball floating in the air. He jogged underneath the ball, and caught it easily, squeezing the ball after it had landed in his glove just as his father had always taught him to do. As Larry dropped the ball onto the ground, another one was hit, this time behind him near the centerfield wall. Once again, Larry ran in the direction of the baseball, and barely caught up with it, catching it gently in his glove. He skidded to a stop at the warning track, and braced his hands against the centerfield wall in order to lessen the impact.

Another loud whap filled the air, and yet another baseball floated through the sky. It was a short blooper that looked to land just in front of the spot Larry usually occupied. He peered around for a second; none of the other fielders looked as if they would even attempt to go after the ball. Gritting his teeth tightly, Larry ran as hard as he could after the ball. Larry knew he wouldn?t make it, and put out his glove in order to catch the ball as it bounced off of the ground. When the ball hit the ground, it bounced up at an odd angle, taking Larry completely by surprise. He jerked his left arm up to his face, and the ball bounced harmlessly off of the top right corner of his glove.

A screaming whistle blasted through Larry?s ears. Coach Hatfield, the head coach whose voice was as thick and drawling as ever, ordered the players to fall in. Larry got up, dusted off his pants, and jogged over to the dugout. This was what he had been waiting for all day. His heart was beating quicker and quicker by the second, and his stomach was fluttering with butterflies.

?Now, I?m sure that y?all know that most of the roster spots were locked,? Coach Hatfield said loudly. ?And we only had a few roster spots available. If you didn?t get in, you can try again next year.? Larry only paid slight attention to what Coach Hatfield was saying; he was really waiting for Coach Maroon, who would be reading off the numbers of the players who were picked for the team. ?Coach Maroon, the numbers, please.?

?Okay,? Coach Maroon drawled. ?These are the guys who made it onto the team: #24, #32, #45, #21, #34, #48, #17, #8 and #15. Everyone else, better luck next year.? Larry stared duly at Coach Maroon as he ambled back into the dugout, and then he glanced down at his own gray uniform. The number had faded off of the uniform long ago, so Coach Hatfield had provided Lawrence with a large ?#33? sticker to put on the back of his uniform. Larry blinked a few times, and then walked hesitantly up to Coach Hatfield.

?Coach??? Larry asked.

?Hmm?? Coach Hatfield said, turning to face Larry. ?Oh, it?s you, Moore. What do you want??

?Er,? Larry stammered. ?If it?s not too much to ask, why didn?t I make the team??

?Well,? Coach Hatfield said, rubbing his chin. ?It definitely wasn?t an easy decision, Moore. You?re a solid player, and I wish that there were more guys like you. But there just isn?t room on the team for a player like you, I?m sorry ? there were just too many other guys I felt a bit more comfortable taking ahead of you.?

??I see,? Larry muttered, sighing regretfully.

?Maybe next year, Moore,? Coach Hatfield said.

?Yeah,? Larry said, turning around and walking away from the field. ?Maybe next year.? As he walked off the field, Larry glanced back at the people still playing happily on the field, and he felt a twinge of bitterness. He felt that he?d played better than at least half of the people that had made the team, yet he was left off. Larry stopped by the chain link fence that surrounded the baseball field and peered through it; everyone on the team was hitting balls, and fielding balls like a professional team, like a well-oiled unit.

?Maybe next year,? Larry sighed. ?I guess I?m just not good enough for it.?

?What?s going on?? someone asked from behind Larry, spooking him slightly. Larry turned around sharply and found himself glaring at the face of his best friend, Joseph Nava. Joseph was tall, dark haired and handsome like Larry, but unlike Larry he was light-skinned and a full Latino, which Larry found more than a bit odd, though amusing at the same time; more so, because Joseph took every opportunity imaginable to poke fun at his own light skin. Joseph found appearances rather amusing most of the time.

?You scared me, man,? Larry said.

?Oh, sorry about that,? Joseph replied. ?If I knew I was going to scare you, I might not have snuck up on you.?

?Yeah, real funny,? Larry said.

?Heh,? Joseph said. ?You seem down. I guess the tryout didn?t go as well as planned, huh??

?No,? Larry said distantly. ?I didn?t make the team.?

?That?s a bummer,? Joseph said. ?Especially considering how hard you worked for this. You seemed to be ready for the tryouts to me.?

?I guess that I wasn?t,? Larry said offhandedly. ?Or maybe I just wasn?t good enough.?

?Don?t beat yourself up over it,? Joseph said. ?So, who ended up making the team, anyway?? Joseph started walking in the direction of the boy?s dormitory and Larry followed alongside of him.

?A few decent players,? Larry said. ?Marcus, Greg, Joey??

?[i]Joey[/i]?? Joseph asked, an odd expression on his face. ?[i]Joey Maroon[/i]??

?Yeah,? Larry answered. ?The one and the same.?

?How did he manage to weasel his way onto the team?? Joseph asked. ?He?s not a good ballplayer at all!?

?He?s not bad?? Larry said.

?You?re being too nice,? Joseph replied. ?He wouldn?t know a good hit if I whacked him upside the head with a baseball bat.? Joseph glanced back over at the field, and he saw Joey engaged in a game of catch with Coach Maroon. ?Hey, isn?t that Joey?s old man??

?Yeah,? Larry said. ?He?s a bench coach.?

?I knew it!? Joseph shouted. ?It?s gotta be nepotism! Well, that explains one of the travesties, anyway.? Joseph looked over at Larry. ?I?m sure I can guess the motivation behind the others.?

?Just drop it,? Larry requested. ?I?d just like to let it go right now, if that?s okay with you.?

?Fine,? Joseph said. ?You?re right, it?s just baseball, no need to go nuts over it. I just wish that there wasn?t so much seediness involved with it, you know??

?Yeah,? Larry said. ?I definitely know.? Joseph and Larry continued walking, chatting about various happenings around the school, and the potential amusement that could be derived from playing pranks on their professors (mostly Joseph?s ideas, mind). When they were about halfway to their dorm, Joseph spotted a familiar face approaching from the horizon.

?Is that Jen?? Joseph asked, glancing slyly over at Larry.

?Yeah, that?s Jenny, all right,? Larry replied, ignoring the look Joseph was giving him. Jenny and Larry were friends from way back when; in fact, she was one of the few friends that Larry had during his pre-college school years, and the only one to stick around with him for more than a year or two. Larry had a deep respect for Jenny, and likewise she had a deep respect for him. Also, and he would never admit to this to anyone, Larry enjoyed the kind aura that emanated from Jenny. She made him feel as if he could just be himself, and that she would like him just as much as she liked anyone else.

?Go talk to her, you know you want to,? Joseph teased, grinning. ?I swear I won?t embarrass you in front of her.?

?What are you talking about?? Larry asked, his face reddening very slightly. ?Stop talking crazy.? Before Joseph could get a word out, Jenny stepped up to them, smiling gently and holding her books against her chest.

?Are you two arguing again?? Jenny asked, cradling her books in her right arm for a moment while she moved her long, black hair from in front of her eyes.

?Of course not!? Joseph said indignantly. ?Scout?s honor!? Jenny laughed and rolled her eyes at him.

?How did the tryout go?? Jenny asked Larry.

?I?I didn?t make the team,? Larry said, a bit ashamed of himself at the moment.

?That?s too bad,? Jenny said, frowning. ?As long as you tried your hardest, I?m sure that?s all anyone could really ask of you?? She trailed off, half-convinced that her own words were the truth. Like Joseph, she was well aware of the circumstances of their lives, but she did not wish to bring any more onto Larry?s plate than what was already there.

?I suppose so,? Larry replied. ?You?re still free to help us study for our History exam tomorrow, right??

?Oh, definitely!? Jenny said brightly. ?After I?m finished with you two, you?ll definitely ace that quiz!?

?Glad to hear it,? Joseph said. ?An ?A? would be nice to get, for once. I don?t know if Larry could handle any more of those, though.? Jenny laughed again, and Larry even cracked a smile at Joseph; when he wanted to, Joseph could really lighten the mood.

?Well, I should get going right now,? Jenny said. ?I?ve got a class I have to get to really quickly. I?ll talk to you two tomorrow!? She waved and walked off, her long skirt swishing with the wind. Joseph watched her leave, and patted Larry on the shoulder.

?You?re too somber,? Joseph said. ?You should make a move one of these days.? Larry looked over at Joseph as if he had turned into Frankenstein?s creature right before his very eyes.

?What are you talking about?? Larry asked.

?Deny if you wish,? Joseph said wisely. ?But that will get you nowhere in life.?

?Whatever,? Larry replied.

?Brighten up, man,? Joseph said. ?We all have our days where nothing goes our way, but you can?t beat yourself up about it too much.?

?I just have a lot of things on my mind,? Larry said.

?Too many things if you ask me,? Joseph replied. ?You?re in college, man, just have some fun, go with the flow. It?s okay to think about things, but if you?re thinking all the time, you?re gonna miss out on a lot of things.? Larry stayed silent, since he could not think of an adequate response to this. He and Joseph continued walking, and they both felt a few droplets of water fall onto their hair.

?Great,? Larry said. ?It?s gonna rain soon.?

?Yeah,? Joseph replied, peering up into the quickly graying clouds. ?We?d better hustle on over to the dorms.? Joseph and Larry hurried as quickly as they could over to the dormitories, and made it under the awning before the rain began pouring down. Several students ran under the awning after Joseph and Larry, their shoes covered in mud, holding their folders and binders above their heads in order to avoid getting their heads wet.

Joseph and Larry walked inside of the building. There were a few students lounging around, though that number would likely increase within a few moments.

?I?m gonna head up to my room,? Joseph said, walking towards the stairs. ?I need a nice shower. I?ll talk to you later.?

?Yeah,? Larry said. ?Later on, Joseph.? Larry walked out of the room, though he did not head straight to his first-floor room. Instead he walked over to the mailroom in order to pick up his mail. Luckily, the room was empty, except for the one woman who was always at the desk, no matter what time of day it was.

?You want your mail, right, Larry?? the woman asked.

?That?s right, ma?am,? Larry replied. The woman went to the back of the room, dug around a bit, and plucked out a few letters. She looked at them very quickly, and handed them all to Larry.

?Hope you got something nice in the mail,? the woman said.

?Yeah, me too,? Larry said. ?I could use it.? Larry trudged over to his room, opened the door, and then closed it as he walked inside. His room was dark; the lights were off, and the blinds were drawn, only letting a very minimal amount of natural sunlight into the room. Larry flopped onto his bed and sifted through a few of the letters. Most of them were junk letters that he tossed onto the floor. However, there was one letter that piqued Larry?s interest at least very slightly. It was a letter from the Dean.

[quote]Dear [Mr. Moore],

We are pleased to inform you that you have once again qualified for the Dean?s List! Thusly, your exceptional G.P.A. has qualified you for a number of different scholarships that Fairbanks State University offers its most gifted students. We at Fairbanks State University are proud of our diverse and highly intelligent students, and we wish you all the best in your upcoming years at the university. Shoot for the stars!

Sincerely,
Dr. Dean Fairbanks[/quote]

Larry looked at the short letter halfheartedly, and placed it onto his desk. Part of him was pleased that his good grades had once again enabled him to pay for his classes, but the other part of him was still bitterly disappointed. Larry wanted to do well in his classes, but he felt he was overachieving for nothing; he had yet to even declare a major. Yet, when he really applied himself to something that meant the world to him, baseball, he had failed. A wave of guilt spread through Larry as lightning cracked and the rain poured outside. He had told his mother that he was studying to be an architect, when all along he was planning to play baseball. His dreams of playing in the big leagues were just a dream, but it seemed so [i]attainable[/i] when he first got to college. Now, he wasn?t so sure what to think.

He wanted to make his parents and his neighbors proud of him, but at the same time there was this part of Larry screaming out from inside of him that demanded he be his own person. He wanted to grow up on his own terms, do things for himself, and not have to worry about pleasing others. Was this wrong? Was it really bad to have these sorts of selfish thoughts? The more Larry thought about it, the more he realized that Joseph was right; he really did have far too much on his mind. But it wasn?t as easy as letting all of these thoughts go, because they simply [i]would not go away[/i].

However, Larry was now tired, and he decided to let himself drift off to sleep. There would be plenty of time in the coming days to worry about his own petty problems. Right now, Larry just wanted to rest his body and hope that things might be a bit better in the morning.

The dreams would come later, and the darkness and fear after that, but for now Larry slept in peace and tranquility.[/font]

[Zidargh]

[font=trebuchet MS][center][b][size=3]Issue #7-Part III: [i]Pinnacle[/i][/b][/center][/size]

The attacked fell upon his bed, limp, as if he were dead.

He coughed and tasted the dry, juicy liquid that emerged into his throat. Stray blood still wandered around his system with every heavy breath he took. His heart pounding, the painful shock didn?t seem to have the intention of leaving him in a hurry. [I]?Who was that monster??[/I] He thought. [I]?In fact. Who were both of those men? One had the intention of killing me, the other, saved my life.?[/I]

And while he tried to comprehend everything that occurred, he began to cry.

His eyes burnt with the released pressure of relief that burst through his body, and the salty tears ran down his bruised cheeks, tilting as he sought comfort from his beige duvet. His coarse breathing was interrupted by random sniffs, until he wiped his nose, sat up, and tried to control himself as he re-winded back to the previous event. [I]?I want to be stronger.?[/I]

?Why the hell did I even take on this goddamn case!?? He yelled in fury, slamming his fists down, crumpling the duvet even more.

And as he calmed down, staring into space, he noticed something.

There laid a syringe. Placid. Trying to camouflage itself amongst the fallen debris of plaster, wood, and dust.

Quickly running to the desk, which was fortunately left unharmed, he fumbled through various documents and found the photograph that was inside the mysterious package. Blowing off the dust, he hung the photo underneath the dim lamp, and smirked as he compared it to the syringe on the floor.

Jumping to his knees so that he could see the device clearer, P.I. Dennett began to examine.

The needle had snapped in half, the end not attached seemed to have gone missing, and three tiny pools of blood trailed from the needle. It obviously belonged to the creature that invaded his apartment earlier, for it had not been there before. But what stunned him so, was the green liquid that half-filled the device.

Black dots were littered about inside, either from contamination, or a powder of some sort. But once Dennett had picked it up, the liquid transformed into a cloudy substance, making the syringe less transparent. Amazed, he shook the syringe, just as a kid does with its first pet, or a broken toy, and then the liquid morphed into a gooey red substance.

?Looks like I made it angry,? the Detective spoke out loud.

And just as he was about to take the device and place it within one of his desk drawers, he noticed some writing across the cylinder: -

[quote][size=1]Fairbanks.
Ploraphynethide Phlorum ?[PINNACLE] Highly toxic. Highly corrosive. Handle with care.[/size][/quote]

[I]?Fairbanks??[/I] He thought. This stood out, as he did not quite understand what the other information meant. He was by no means a scientist.

It appeared Dennett had found his first, solid clue.

Reaching into the drawer he had previously opened, Dennett pulled out a rough and torn tome, which had [quote]?Key City Communication?[/quote] written all over it. Vigorously flipping through the hundreds of pages to the ?F? section, he found his destination and pointed his finger to skim through the thousands of names that were archived.

?Fabio Pizza, Fagolo Cigarettes. Ltd, Fairbanks Drive, Fairbanks University?? He had found what he was looking for. But something didn?t seem quite right. [I]?Why would a chemical be designated for a driveway? Must be for a science experiment.?[/I]

[I]Brrr. Brrr. Brrr. Brrr. Brr- Keyway Cars, how may I help?[/I]

?Yeah, hi. Could I get a cab??

[I]Isn?t it a little late for someone to be heading off somewhere? It doesn?t sound like you?re at a club.[/I]

?No time for small talk, ?bud?, just hurry up.?

[I]Sure. It?ll be there in about 10 minutes. Wait, where would you like to go?[/I]

?Fairbanks University.?
-------

The gentle hum of the motor weighed down upon the passengers? eyelids. The silhouette figure of the driver never seemed to falter, not until he moved his head to side to speak, eyes still on the road, ?Hey kid.?

?Huh?? Dennett replied sharply, a little shocked by this interruption to the gentle melody.

?Can?t sleep?? The driver?s voice had that [I]cool[/I], husky tone to it.

?Haven?t I seen you before??

?Maybe. But then again, maybe not. We?re both wanderers.?

?Um, okay?? Dennett spoke as he attempted to drift out of the conversation.

?Hope you ain?t hurt.?

But the Investigator didn?t hear, he was hypnotised by the scurrying patterns along the window. Raindrops glided along the glass, reflecting the bright neon and white lights that faded and illuminated every few seconds. Casting shadows within the dark vehicle.
-------

Slamming the door behind him after payment, the P.I. blinked as the car pulled away, the driver certainly didn?t want to make eye contact with his customer. And then he surveyed his surroundings.

It was almost a monolith. The two bushes that stood at the front, acted as a barrier between the road and the University gardens. The damp, bright grass had been cut to utter perfection by a janitor or gardener, obviously very proud of their profession, whilst the sprinklers were left on. Perhaps it hadn?t rained here, or perhaps the blades were just very thirsty.

The actual building itself was obviously just a segment of the entire campus. Industrial lamps shot up their beams amongst the brickwork, illuminating the walls of the building, making it seem much taller than it probably was. And a static flag hung down from the centre on a pole, bearing the typical American flag. Universities were always notoriously patriotic in appearance.

Suddenly, the doors below the flag, and just above the path and footsteps gently gave way, swinging to each side. Out walked a man bearing spectacles, his eyes worn and tired, obviously behind on his mid-term marking. He carried a suitcase, which had been patched up and repaired many times it seemed, representing his financial stability. And just as he approached the bushes that separated him and the investigator, it burst open, white papers fluttering everywhere.

?Dohhh? This really isn?t my day!? Muttered the grey-suited man as he bent to gather all of his documents.

It had came to Dennett that the University would be locked and that he should?ve ran to the doors, stealthily passing the man before they closed. But perhaps he still had another chance. ?Can I help at all?? He asked.

Shocked, the suited man looked up in fear, and rubbed his glasses, squinted and scrunched up his nose.

The Detective jumped down from his hiding place amongst the bushes, onto the footpath that led to the building. ?I said, can I help??

The man surveyed the beige, raincoat wearing detective, but couldn?t determine whether he were friend or foe, for he wore sunglasses, keeping his face a mystery. But he was desperate. ?Oh, well, um, I-I, alright then.?

The two struggled with the random drafts of wind that bullied them, by picking up the documents, and tossing them away, but eventually they were successful and returned all the documents to the worn suitcase.

?Oh dear.? Spoke the nerdy man.

?What?s wrong??

?I?m not going to be able to close this damn thing. The lock has snapped in half again.?

?Oh, here.? Dennett, using all of his persuasive techniques, brought out a strong elastic band that would be more than capable of holding the suitcase shut. ?Take it, it?s yours.?

?Oh! Well, thank you.? The man fastened his case shut. ?Wait a minute. Who exactly are you??

Now was not the time to panic. Out of everything he planned, Dennett had forgotten that his target would want to know who he was. Racking his brain, he finally came up with a slightly ambitious answer. ?I?m a Professor.?

?Oh? Me too. I haven?t seen you around in the staff lobby before though.?

?Well, I don?t like to spend time in run-down ghettos.? Joked Dennett.

?Ah, well I see what you mean.? The real Professor chuckled. ?What are you doing around here anyway??

?I forgot my house keys.? Dennett realised this entire situation was getting ridiculous.

?We?re both having a bad day then.? The professor could empathise with the character Dennett had put on. ?Well, here, take this key, and you?ll get into the main building. May see you around later on today.?

The ?professor? took the key, and nodded his head. Then they both passed each other, Dennett heading towards the building, and the professor to the road. At this time at night, it was hard to determine whether it would be appropriate to say ?Good Night?, or, ?Good Morning?. So, silence was the best thing.

Peering into the main foyer of the university, Dennett picked out a receptionists desk, but it was too dark to see anything else. He decided that it would be best to find a campus map, and find the laboratories of the university

Twisting the key in its thin, cold slot, Dennett quietly opened the door with a creak, and left it open behind him, just in case the security guard would find him, so that he wouldn?t have to fumble with the door.

Inside the main lobby were a few chairs, possibly for visitors, cabinets containing trophies and certificates of achievement, and just in front of the receptionist quarters, a canvas-holder, sporting a very complicated map. [I]This place was more of a labyrinth than a University,[/I] Dennett thought.

He didn?t want to risk turning on the lights, so he moved it into the moonlight, revealing a conveniently placed positioning of the laboratories he was seeking. But suddenly, there was a crash, and then some footsteps, that became louder and louder as they drew near.

Dennett looked around in fright, he had to find some place to hide. But there was [I]nowhere[/I]. The footsteps were drawing near. [I]NOWHERE[/I]. The pacing became faster. [I]There![/I]

Even though the receptionist door was locked, the gap in the wall was big enough to get through, and so he dived, sliding along the glossy table, with a gentle thud onto the carpeted floor.

He ?sat?, mangled, his legs up against the desk chair, with his arms thrown backwards to support his fall. But he could not move. [I]No.[/I] He definitely could not move. The ?feet? were only a few metres away. Rubbing his eyes from the sweat drops that emerged from his forehead, he noticed that something was missing. His sunglasses were [I]gone[/I]. But it was too late.

?Go, go, go!? Whispered a voice as several other footsteps scurried into the room, now muffled by the carpet flooring.

?He?s not here sir.? Spoke another voice.

?What do you mean he?s not here!? You saw him outside didn?t you!?? Replied the voice that whispered previously.

?Yes, and he appeared to have entered the lobby, but now he?s gone.?

?We have specific orders to apprehend the man who was supposed to have been killed earlier by Pinnacle.?

[b][I]Pinnacle?[/I][/b] Dennett thought. [I]What do [b]they[/b] have to do with it?[/I]

?Wait a minute.? Muttered another voice. A ruffle indicated the man was bending over to search for something. ?Sir! Look at these!?

?Sunglasses?? Questioned the original voice.

?That?s right, sir! I?m [I]sure[/I] these belonged to him.?

In shock, Dennett jumped, making a thud sound against the wall. And suddenly, there was silence.

[I]One, two, three?[/I] Dennett lost count at the number of seconds, but he knew time was running out.

?You know what to do.?

?Yes sir.? Replied a voice. And several footsteps could be heard hurriedly exiting the room. But, when it fell quiet, a ruffle, a click, and several tinkles were heard. Followed by some more footsteps exiting the room.

Something that sounded similar to steam could be heard, and it also changed the scent of the room.

The smell became overwhelming; it caused his eyes to burn, and his throat to grow tighter. Burning, and tighter it all became, until the ?whoosh? sound filled the entire room, as it grew louder.

Everything was pitch black after that. But he wasn?t to die. Oh [I] no [/I]? He made a natural vent. He had left the door open?[/font]

-------
OOC: It seemed fate was against me with this post. I?m terribly sorry it took so long. Dear apologies to all other participants and Shy.

[Shinmaru]

[font=trebuchet MS][center][b][size=3]Issue #7-Part IV: [i]Pinnacle[/i][/b][/center][/size]

The time Larry had spent in the bar had seemed so tangible, so [i]real[/i]. It couldn?t have been just a dream, could it?

It was snowing outside. Larry trudged through the snow, bundled up in his winter clothing: a long black overcoat, black wool gloves, black pants and a pair of thick black boots. The snow was falling in a flurry of white powder, covering everything in sight. A sharp gust of wind blew past Larry, spreading the numbness that had already begun to settle in his face. He raised his gloved hands to his newly reddened face and coughed harshly. A few moments more in that cold, dreary weather and he would have likely caught his death of cold.

Larry made it to the door of a bar, and collapsed against it. He was quickly running out of energy, and he didn?t really know where he was at the moment. He tried twisting the doorknob to open the door, but the melted snow flecked all over his gloves made his hands too slippery to open the door. Muttering softly, he pulled off his right glove, grasped the doorknob and opened the door. The bell hanging above the door jingled and jangled, announcing the arrival of a new customer. Larry stepped inside of the bar, putting his glove back onto his right hand.

A warm blast of air heated up Larry?s face upon his entry into the bar. Groups of people were scattered about the room, chattering excitedly at the tables in one smooth, pleasant murmur. Lights appeared periodically on the roof of the room, casting a dim orange glow throughout the area. The atmosphere made Larry feel exceptionally comfortable. He walked over to the bartender?s table and stood around for a bit.

There was a man sitting in a stool next to where Larry was standing. The first thing Larry noticed about him was the purple Fedora he wore on his head, with a large purple feather stuck into the bold violet band encircling the hat. He wore a purple pin-striped suit, with a white dress shirt and purple tie. His black dress shoes danced around on the floor, shining dully as the soft glow of the fading bar room lights bounced off of them. His face was very average looking, except for the wide swath of long, black hair that covered the right side of his pale face. His left eye was red, and seemed to glow with an unrelenting curiosity. His thin mouth was stretched into a smirk as he peered slowly around the room, his neck craned to its fullest height.

Larry thought that the man looked very curious. He didn?t see just what was so interesting about the people sitting at the tables, but he decided not to bother this stranger. [i]To each his own[/i], Larry thought to himself. The man turned his head over to Larry and he smiled over at him warmly.

?Why don?t you sit down for a while?? the man invited, his voice low and smooth. Larry hesitated for a moment. ?Don?t worry, I?m not waiting for anyone at the moment. Go ahead, have a seat.?

?Thanks,? Larry replied, and he sat down. He leaned back against the table. It felt nice to sit down, to take a load off of his feet. He?d been walking through the snow for most of the day, and he still felt a tad off-kilter.

?Have you ever been to this bar?? the man asked. ?I don?t think that I?ve ever seen you here before.?

?No, I?ve never been here before, actually,? Larry replied.

?Well,? the man said. ?Let me be the first to welcome you here. How about a drink??

?Sure,? Larry smiled. ?I?d like that very much.?

?Whiskey okay for you?? the man asked. Larry nodded in reply. ?Two whiskeys, bartender.? The bartender hobbled over to the far end of the table to prepare the drinks. The man propped his elbows up against the table and leaned back against it.

?This place is very nice,? Larry said.

?Yes, it is,? the man replied. ?I enjoy coming here. The atmosphere is quite relaxing. You usually see a nice assortment of people in here, as well. Always more than a bit classy.?

?It definitely seems that way,? Larry nodded.

?So, how are you doing today??? the man trailed off.

?Lawrence,? Larry said. ?But everyone just calls me Larry. I?m doing well, I suppose. How about you???

?Vincent will do just fine,? the man said. ?I go by many names, but I think that I like Vincent the most.? Larry laughed. ?What?s so funny??

?Well,? Larry said, still chuckling a bit. ?It?s just that you really look like a Vincent.?

?Oh?? Vincent said. ?I?m curious, just what do you think a ?Vincent? is supposed to look like??

?I don?t know,? Larry said. The bartender came back over to them, and placed the drinks onto the table. Vincent reached into his pocket, took out some money, and paid the bartender.

?Come now,? Vincent said, his left eye visibly glinting. ?Don?t be shy. I?m really rather curious about this. I?m sure that it will be very?interesting.?

?I guess that a ?Vincent? would look pretty mysterious,? Larry said. ?Sort of enigmatic, really. Maybe a bit handsome, a smooth talker, good with people. Yeah, people would enjoy sitting down and chatting with him.?

?If only I could live up to that description,? Vincent replied with a chuckle. He took a sip of his whiskey, and Larry did the same. ?How about you??

?What about me?? Larry asked, putting his drink back onto the table.

?What do you think a ?Larry? should look like?? Vincent asked.

?I don?t really know, to be honest,? Larry admitted. ?I?m not really sure if [i]I[/i] look like a Larry should, really.?

?Why is that?? Vincent asked. ?You are yourself, after all. Wouldn?t you look like yourself??

?I?m not certain,? Larry replied. ?I haven?t felt like myself lately. I?ve been feeling really conflicted inside.?

?About what?? Vincent asked.

?Just forget it,? Larry said, taking another long drink of whiskey. ?I don?t want to bore you with my sob stories.? He looked away from Vincent.

?No,? Vincent said. ?You seem like a good person, and I?d like to help you, if I can. Believe me, I?ve listened to my fair share of stories. Now, go ahead, speak.? Larry looked back at Vincent. The way he spoke was so calming, and Vincent?s red eye seemed to bore its way into Larry?s soul?but not in a bad way, not in a way that made Larry feel uncomfortable. It made him want to open up to him.

?It might seem silly,? Larry started. ?But I?ve sort of been in a funk since I tried out for the baseball team at my school.?

?Ah,? Vincent said. ?You?re a college kid, then??

?Yeah,? Larry replied. He cleared his throat and continued. ?I didn?t make the team. Normally that wouldn?t disappoint me too much, but??

?But what?? Vincent asked.

?Having the opportunity to play baseball was the only reason I wanted to go to college in the first place,? Larry said. ?And not being able to do that?it just doesn?t feel right. I don?t know, it?s hard to explain. It must sound stupid.?

?No, it doesn?t,? Vincent said. ?But what about your classes??

?Well,? Larry said. ?I?m doing well in my classes?but I just don?t care about them, honestly. I don?t even have a declared major. I?m just taking whatever classes I feel like taking. Nobody knows about that, though. I?ve told my family that I?m an Architecture major, and I?ve told my friends the same thing. So, I?m doing well in my classes, but I?m [i]not[/i] doing well, if that makes any sense. My family thinks I?m doing great. My mom especially wants me to become a famous architect, or something. She and her friends are really turning on the pressure. I don?t want to disappoint my family, but I don?t want to disappoint myself, either?and it just seems that what everyone else wants and what I want are in completely opposite directions right now.?

?That?s a lot to chew on,? Vincent mused. He took a sip of his whiskey, and twirled his right index and middle fingers. [i]Keep going, Larry[/i], that twirling said. [i]Don?t stop now[/i].

?Yeah,? Larry said. ?The worst part is that I let it get this bad. I should?ve just told everyone the truth. Maybe I would?ve avoided all of this if I had done that.? Vincent clapped his hand onto Larry?s shoulder. Larry looked up at Vincent, who was staring out at the people eating at the tables around the bar.

?Look over there,? Vincent said. Larry looked where Vincent told him to. He saw all of the people in the bar, eating, laughing, making conversation, and having fun. ?Do you see those people out there??

?Yeah,? Larry said. ?I see them.?

?They look like they?re having fun, don?t they?? Vincent asked.

?They do,? Larry replied.

?And how do you know that they all don?t have problems of their own?? Vincent asked. ?Everyone has problems of their own, whether big or small. And, yet, here they are, having a good time, not letting their problems affect their enjoyment of life.?

?I wish I could do that,? Larry said.

?Oh, but you can,? Vincent replied, a broad smile on his face. ?Things happen all of the time, but people can always pull through them. It?s quite easy, actually. You see, from what you are telling me, I think that you worry too much about what others think you should do. You let other people rule your life too much. Your enjoyment of life is hampered by the expectations that other people burden you with. Wouldn?t you agree??

?I guess so,? Larry murmured.

?Other people are important,? Vincent continued. ?But only to an extent, you see. If you spend too much time pleasing others, then what kind of life are you living? A life based entirely on involuntary altruism is not a life at all. It?s more like slavery. You?re enslaved to the wishes of others, without regard to what [i]you[/i] want! What [i]you[/i] desire!?

?That?s not good,? Larry said, taking in another gulp of whiskey.

?No it isn?t,? Vincent said. ?It?s not a life worth living at all. The self is always the most important thing for a person to take care of. If we ourselves are not fulfilled, then why should we be expected to fulfill the desires of others? Why should any person be pressured into living a life that others want, in lieu of the life that the [i]individual[/i] wants? Ultimately, a person must look after themselves, must make sure that their needs are taken care of.?

?Isn?t that a bit selfish?? Larry asked.

?It depends on what you see as selfish,? Vincent shrugged. ?Is it really so selfish to want to live the life that you desire? Is it really so selfish to want to look after yourself, instead of having to bend to the wishes of others? Is it really so selfish to cast aside a life of involuntary altruism to live the life that every human being should be entitled to? Perhaps it is, but I do not see that as a negative. No, I think that everyone could afford to be a little more selfish.?

?Yeah,? Larry said, finishing off his whiskey. ?Yeah, I think you?re right!? He slammed his glass down upon the table.

?Of course I am,? Vincent said, grinning. ?Soon, you?ll be going on the right path, yourself.?

?You really think so?? Larry asked.

?I know so,? Vincent replied. ?You?ve already started, as a matter of fact. Trying out for the baseball team was a good first step, even if the results were not as good as they could have been. However, life gives us plenty of stumbling blocks - you just have to be able to pick yourself back up, that?s all.?

?How will I do that?? Larry asked.

?I can?t tell you that,? Vincent said. ?To each his own. That?s what I was taught. Everyone has their own path through life, you just have to find it, and take it. Some friendly advice, though: Always listen to yourself first. Advice from friends and family is nice, but you should go through situations as you see fit. Don?t be afraid to go after what you want, what you desire. If nobody else is willing to take the same risks that you are, then it?s their loss. Those who do not look to fulfill their needs simply lack the spine to do so.?

?Well, thanks,? Larry said. ?I?ll keep all of that in mind. But I think I should head off now. I?ve got some thinking to do.? Larry stood up and dusted off his coat.

?I understand,? Vincent said. ?It was great meeting you, Larry.? Vincent stuck his right hand out at Larry.

?It was great meeting you, too, Vincent,? Larry replied, grasping Vincent?s hand and shaking it. Vincent?s grip was very firm, yet friendly at the same time; exactly how Larry had always envisioned a good handshake would be.

?Good luck in your future,? Vincent smiled. ?If you ever need another chat, you know where to find me.?

?Thanks,? Larry said. ?I?ll definitely come back and see you again, sometime.? Larry turned around and walked to the front entrance of the bar. He opened the front door, and the bells sounded off above his head once again. He walked outside and was overtaken by a bright white light. He shielded his eyes, but the action was futile; he was blinded before he even got a chance to see. Voices buzzed all around him in a cacophonous roar that blazed through his ears.

[center][i]?Why do you wear that ridiculous man suit??[/center]

?These are the guys who made it onto the team: #24, #32, #45, #21, #34, #48, #17, #8 and #15. Everyone else, better luck next year.?

[right]?I swear I won?t embarrass you in front of her.?[/right]

?Shoot for the stars!?

[center] swirling whirling through the city of ages
you sink a bit whenever angels fly
do you have a feeling for their fuzzy faces?
are you close enough to see into their eyes?[/i]*[/center]

Larry sprang awake in his bed, sweating profusely. His heart was beating much faster than it normally did. He ran his hand through his hair. It was very damp and messy and it stuck out everywhere in thick clumps. He looked outside. The night was eerily calm and silent. There was no hint of life anywhere, save for the slight breeze that was making its way through the trees. Larry moaned under his breath, and rubbed his eyes listlessly. His watch was missing, and he had no clock, so he didn?t know what time it was. All he knew was that he had to use the restroom.

He swung his bare feet off of his bed. The floor was very cold, so Larry felt around for his slippers with his feet. He found them hiding a bit under his bed, and he slipped them onto his feet. He got off of his bed, and went over to his door, grabbing the keys to his room as he went along. He opened the door, stepped outside, and closed the door behind him, locking it with his key. He put the key into the right pocket of his pajamas and started walking down the hallway.

Larry opened the restroom door at the end of the hallway, and stepped inside. He turned on the light before he closed the door. The bright white light filled the room. The light burned Larry?s eyes, and he shielded them for a few moments until they adjusted to the influx of light. Even when he could see again, though, he could barely open his eyes. He knew that he had slept for a few hours, but he still felt unbelievably tired. He gathered enough energy to sneak a quick look into the mirror; his eyes were bloodshot. A dull pain made its presence felt in Larry?s temple. He felt it gingerly, and then decided that he would not be able to make the pain recede.

?God,? Larry croaked. ?I feel terrible. I don?t remember doing anything bad yesterday, and I don?t feel like I have a cold or anything. What the hell happened to me?? He would have thought about this a bit more, but the ache in his head intensified and laid to rest any impulses about thinking he had at the moment.

Larry pulled down his pajama bottoms and urinated into the toilet. After he was finished, he pulled his pants back up and washed his hands. He dried them off on the towel that hung on the towel rack, and left the bathroom.

?This whole night has been too bizarre,? Larry said to himself. ?I just wish I?wait a minute.? Larry peered over at his room from across the hall. His door was opened about halfway. He walked hurriedly over to his room and walked inside. His bed was messed up - all of his sheets were crumpled up, and his pillows were strewn about the floor. His drawers were broken, and his clothes were scattered all around the room. His books had been opened and laid on the floor in various positions. The window by his bed was broken.

?Who did this??? Larry asked himself. He heard a few people shuffling around outside of his room. He walked closer to the door and heard a few angry voices muttering to themselves. He felt like staying put inside of his room, but he knew that he would not be safe in there very long from whoever had ripped apart his room. He opened his door slowly. The door did not creak, as Larry had been expecting it to do in the back of his mind. He snuck out of his room and went into the hall.

Larry tiptoed down the hall. The door at the front of the dorm was slightly ajar, so some moonlight was pouring into the dorm. The hall was completely silent. Any movement that Larry made could potentially warn the mysterious people of his presence. He crept as slowly as he possibly could, thinking to himself how glad he was that the new wooden floor panels had not been built into the dorm yet. He was halfway to the door, when he tripped over his feet and his left foot accidentally grazed the wall.

?Who?s there?!? a voice yelled.

?It?s the kid!? another voice yelled. ?Don?t let him escape!? A shot rang through the air. A bullet flew by Larry?s face and lodged itself into the wall. Larry could feel the hot air of the bullet trail burning against his skin. He forced himself to keep moving, and he ran towards the door.

?You idiot!? a voice yelled from behind him. ?Don?t shoot at him, we?re supposed to take him in alive!? Larry rushed towards the door, and threw it open when he reached it. He ran outside, onto the grass. The grass was very wet at the moment, and his feet got covered with water as he ran through it. There was nothing but open land as far as Larry could see; no trees to hide behind, no signs to dart to.

?There he is!? a voice shouted. Larry looked quickly to his right. There was a man in a black suit rushing towards him.

?Shit!? Larry yelled out. He turned and tried to run, but lost his footing momentarily. He fell down onto the grass. His pajamas soaked up the water that was on the grass. He got to his feet, but by then he was surrounded by men in suits. Larry?s eyes darted from person to person, trying to think of a way to get out of this situation. He couldn?t think of a thing.

?Put your hands into the air,? one of the suited men said, pointing a gun at him. ?Raise them up.? Larry raised his arms into the air. He felt a sharp pain in his temple. One of the suited men had pistol whipped him. Larry blacked out as he hit the soft earth. The last thing he heard before blacking out completely was a song in his head. He didn?t know who sung it, and the words were pure gibberish, but the woman who sung it had a beautiful voice, and it made him feel better.

It really made him think. Better things were to come; you just had to hope that they would find you first.[/font]

---

*[size=1]These lyrics are actually from a song, "Saucer-Like", on Sonic Youth's [i]Washing Machine[/i], which was released in 1995, presumably over thirty years after this whole story is supposed to have taken place. But I like the lyrics, and I think they fit well with what I was going for, so...[/size]

[Zidargh]

[font=trebuchet MS][b][center][size=3]Issue #7 Part V: [i]Pinnacle[/i][/size][/center][/b]



"...minor sectors reacting to the toxin."

"How is he coping with it?"

"Despite the high-levels of the substance we injected, his immune system is surprisingly strong."

"What the hell does that mean!?"

"There's been no significant change to the experimented."

[i]Ugh.[/i]

"It's been 74 hours! Why is it taking so fucking long!?"

"Sir, if you'd just calm do--"

"Don't you dare tell me to--"

[i]Ugh.[/i]

"You hear something? Ah... He's awake."

[i]Hurrrgh.[/i]

These voices had been resonating within his head for a long time now. Every time, the same thing would occur. A shaky voice would speak intelligent gibberish, and a gruff one would scream back in anger, and quite frankly, they were beginning to become irritating.

Nothing could be seen for a very long time, but this time, a sudden burst of energy allowed the eye lids to open, slowly and steadily. And then there was a white light.

It was blinding, and the eyes tried to roll back to retreat, but it was impossible. Eventually, the light reduced to an aura around some figures.

And then he was in a dark room.

"Hello... Dennett."

[i]Dennett? What the hell was that? Some kind of food?[/i]

"Nice to have you with us."

As the eyes began to settle with the pain fading away, they revealed a man leaning over some feet in front of them.

He wore a suit of some sort, the black and white materials clashing with eachother, and his face was one of many years. He could've been in his mid to late forties, but it was hard to tell. With a moustache to match the blazer, and dark eyes with bushy eyebrows, he was your stereo-typical villain. But there was something even more worrying than the appearance.

"What the hell are you looking at?"

He held a gun.

[i]High-impact round revolver.[/i] "Pistol..." The eyes were joined by a mouth and a hand that rose with the words.

"Very good. You know your weapons."

"Who are you?"

"Who am I? I don't think you're in the position to be asking questions." The man nodded towards both sides of the surface he was leaning on.

Feeling rose to his head. Piece by piece he was fixing together his body, and moulding the circuits together once more. With a tilt of his head, he could see his feet that sprouted from a soft, white surface, pointing to the black sky. In front of his head was a long lump that had metal beams curved over it.

He was restrained by quilt and metal onto what resembled a hospital bed.

Dennett hated hospitals.

"What!? Where am I!?" Dennett yelled as adrenalin rushed to his heart, giving it electrical life.

"It's no use wasting your energy, Dennett. You are bound by titanium, and any strong movement that is picked up, will cause that..." The moustached man nodded upwards, to an overhanging object that resembled a coil with a glowing point at the tip. "To zap there." He pointed the barrel of the gun at Dennett's nether-region.

With a grunt, the bound man understood that resistance was futile and settled down into as much comfort as he could get. "What did I do?"

"What did y--" The man threw back his head and roared with laughter. However, the roaring was replaced by a husky whistle, as if a walrus had recently acquired throat cancer. "Everything."

And suddenly, like some intense rollercoaster of a daydream, his past memories had flooded into his mind. Everything from his encounter with the saxophonist, to the last breath he took before passing out. "The gas!"

More laughter continued. "That's right! You're in the hands of the United States Army at the moment Mr. Dennett. And I'm running [b]everything[/b]!"

The villain's pale cheeks became a rosy colour with excitement, a huge grin revealing teeth that had [i]a lot[/i] of dental surgery.

"They laughed at me down at the Head Quarters. [i]He[/i] said 'I wasn't good enough'. Ha! I proved him wrong..." The villain broke out into a monologue of some sort, reminiscing about some sort of treatment he recieved. Dennett got bored by the second sentence.

"Are you done? Teethy 'McGee'" The P.I. cockily asked. It wasn't a wise idea, but being bound under a laser capable of removing what identified him as a male left him with nothing to lose.

"-Eh? What!?" The P.I. had caught him off guard and pushed him into a fury. "Ah, hell it doesn't matter. What [i]does[/i] matter is that you're [i]mine[/i] Dennett! You've been snooping around for too long." The villain glanced down at his watch. "Oh would you look at the time? You're ready for another 'test'--"

[i]Test?[/i]

"I've kept my hooker waitin' for too long now. Goodbye." All it took was for the man to walk a few paces to the right for him to disappear.

Suddenly, humming resonated into the dark room as light upon light flickered on with power. And then, Dennett felt a moving sensation on the bed he laid on, bringing him down to level with a number of men wearing white coats.

One, sporting a silver disk on his forehead tightly wrapped a black strap around Dennett's right arm. He then squeezed into an instrument that caused the strap to inflate, putting much pressure around Dennett's tri and bi-ceps.

"Hey! What are you doing to me!?"

"Commence Operation Pinnacle." The scientist ordered.

[i]Pinnacle?[/i]

Three more scientists joined the other, but this time, brought a huge syringe attached to something by tube. The closest pressed something to cause more humming and placed it into the disk-wearer's hands.

Dennett wanted to resist but he couldn't. No human could break titanium with their bare hands. He then noticed something odd about the masked man's eyes. They were blood shot and one's pupil gyrated without ever ceasing. This was no doctor, he was a--

"Madman!"

With that, the lead 'scientist' placed the needle point near Dennett's visible arteries. A red liquid was beginning to emerge into the barrel of the syringe via the tube. "Operation 47% complete."

"What the hell did I do to cause this!? Get away from me!?" With all the energy he had left, the P.I. screamed for help, but to no avail. He was alone. Alone with the most powerful human organisation that were supposed to [i]help[/i] people.

The syringe now completely filled, the scientist's breathing began to become louder as he focused on his target artery. "Completing operation."

"Please, stop thi--" The scientist jammed the needle into Dennett's arm and pumped his blood stream full of the substance. "Argh!"

Feeling became numb. Vision became blur. Something cleared the blur, however. The clarity was crystal-like. 'Christopher Dennett' walked past, watching himself with a smirk, bullet holes had torn light rays through his torso.

[b]Dennett[/b] blacked out.
------

Red was the colour of life! Red was the substitute of colour! Rage was the ultimate feeling! "HURAAARGH!

------

"What the--!?" Sirens rang out in the laboratory.

[i]Attention. Pinnacle levels ACCEPTED. Merging with genes. Control becoming instable. Attention. Pinnacle levels ACCEPTED...[/i] Repetitively spoke a female's voice through a speaker.

"Reduce the amount of Pinnacle!" Screamed the disk-wearer to his colleagues.

"It's too late! The fourth amount has completely flown into the blood stream." Replied a terrified scientist.

------

Red was the colour of life! Red was the substitute of colour! Rage was the ultimate feeling! "HURAAARGH!

------

And as the 'scientist' or, Mad Man, looked down upon his viciously vibrating 'guinea pig', he had realised redemption would be nigh.


"God have mercy on my soul."[/font]

----------------------

OOC: It took a very long time, but I wasn't going to let something with so much potential die. Here you have it.

[Shinmaru]

[font=trebuchet MS][b][center][size=3]Issue #7 Part VI: [i]Pinnacle[/i][/size][/center][/b]

?Did you ever think for one moment that people might [i]like[/i] it when you help them out instead of helping yourself??

The sky was falling. That?s what Larry thought was happening at first. Clouds appeared and disappeared all around him. Shards of blue rushed by as quick as a wink. Larry tumbled around and around, growing ever more nauseous by the second.

?What have I done to deserve this?? Larry asked himself. ?I haven?t done anything to anyone!?

?That?s the problem. You haven?t done anything for anyone, either. You?re just a failure. You went out to get what you wanted, and what happened? You weren?t good enough to get it.?

?That?s not true!? Larry shouted, clouds enveloping his body. ?I [i]was[/i] good enough! It?s just that the coach didn?t realize it, or he didn?t [i]want[/i] to realize it!?

?Is that so? Can you prove that??

?Of course I can!? Larry yelled.

?How??

?I-I don?t know yet!? Larry admitted. ?But I?m sure that I could prove that he just didn?t want me on the team! I know I could!?

?No you can?t. You can?t prove anything, Larry. You?re not cut out for that sort of thing.?

?That?s not true!? Larry shouted.

?Yes it is. You?re just afraid to admit it. You don?t want to face up to the fact that you just weren?t good enough to get what you wanted. You?re a disappointment to your parents. You?re a disappointment to your friends. You?re a disappointment to yourself.?

?No!? Larry yelled. ?That?s not true, and you know it! I?m not a failure, I?m not, I?m not, I?m not! I?ll show you! I?ll show everyone!?

?Then show me.?

Before Larry could squeeze out another word, he smacked down hard against the ground. Pain shot up through his head, down his arms, and in his ribcage. Larry coughed harshly and spit out some blood onto the pavement. He struggled to take in a couple of breaths, and he rolled over onto his back. He felt his ribs gingerly; luckily they did not feel as if they were broken. Staring up into the sky, Larry?s one wish was that he knew where exactly he was and where the hell he was going.

?Would you mind tossing me that bottle??

Larry looked up with a start. Standing across from him was a man dressed in faded gray jeans, dirty white sneakers, and a gray shirt with holes here and there. Over his shirt, he wore an old, dirty denim jacket. The man?s tanned, leathery face was almost completely covered by a thick, wild dirty gray beard. His brown eyes seemed to peer straight through Larry, and Larry got a very odd feeling from them.

?Well?? the man asked. ?Would you mind handing me that bottle??

?Uh, sure,? Larry said, standing up with a groan. He bent over to pick the bottle up from the ground, and his ribs throbbed with soreness. When he picked up the bottle, he tossed it over to the old man. ?Here you go.?

?Thanks,? the man said. He examined Larry for a few seconds. ?You look like you?re in rough shape. What happened to you??

?I wish I knew, myself,? Larry replied.

?Don?t we all?? the old man smirked. ?You look like you?re more than a bit troubled, kid. Mind confiding in a crazy old man??

?Uh, I don?t think so,? Larry said, looking the old man up and down.

?You know, I don?t usually dress like this,? the old man said, noticing Larry examining him.

?I?m sorry,? Larry said quickly. ?So?why are you dressed like that, anyway? Run into some trouble??

?You should know,? the old man replied. ?It?s not as if I had much choice in the manner.? The old man pulled over a shopping cart full of bottles that had put off to the side. He tossed the bottle into the cart, not taking his eyes off of Larry the entire time.

?What?s your name?? Larry asked.

?I don?t really have a name,? the old man replied. ?Or if I did, I?ve forgotten it.? He looked at one of the bottles in his cart. ?Uh, just call me Sprite. That sounds a bit appropriate, I suppose.?

?Sure,? Larry grinned. ?Sprite.? Sprite motioned with his hand, and Larry began to follow. They walked down the road together. Larry noted that it was a bit before sunset. People were walking quickly along the sidewalk, presumably trying to get home before dark. The streetlights were still off, since there was still just enough sun left to keep the area lit. Most of the stores littered along the sidewalk were getting ready to close down for the evening. The buildings were all old and dilapidated, ruined by time and neglect. Larry felt sorry for the owners of the shops.

?So,? Sprite said after a few minutes. ?What?s a young man like you doing in a dive like this? Shouldn?t you be out confronting your destiny, finding your place in the world, things like that??

?I wish,? Larry said. ?Maybe I could find it if I knew where to look. Even a little hint would be nice.? He plunged his hands deep into his pockets and shivered slightly. The night air was growing brisk. Sprite looked over at Larry and nodded.

?Nobody gives you a map for that sort of thing, unfortunately,? Sprite said. ?People make their own maps, they create their own paths through the jungle. We?re all just trying to find our way through this murky mess. Some do, some don?t. That?s just the way things are.?

?I guess that you didn?t find your way?? Larry asked.

?Now isn?t [i]that[/i] a hell of a question?? Sprite said. Larry?s eyes widened, and he waved his hands through the air frantically.

?I didn?t mean it like that!? Larry yelled.

?It?s okay,? Sprite said. Larry sighed and calmed down a bit. ?No, I guess that I haven?t found my way yet. I thought I did for a long while. Those were happier times. No real problems, no troubles, no anything. Of course, it?s like that for most everyone for a while. No choices, no issues to deal with, just taking life as it comes. Things can change quickly, though. They?ve changed pretty quickly for me lately. They?ve changed for you, too, I gather.?

?You can say that again,? Larry said. ?Things are just so confusing. I don?t know what I want. I know what everyone else wants. But what they want isn?t what [i]I[/i] want. I guess that all I really know is what I don?t want.?

?It?s the same for everyone,? Sprite said. ?We never know what the hell is going to please us, but we all know what isn?t what we want. At least, we think we do.?

?Huh?? Larry asked. Sprite slowed his cart to a stop. He picked up a couple of bottles that were lying on the ground, and he put them amid the other bottles. He then turned to face Larry, looking him directly into the eyes.

?We all think that we know what we don?t want,? Sprite said. ?But the truth is that we don?t know [i]that[/i], either! Nobody knows a damn thing. We?re all just trying to find our way. And if we all try to go it alone, we?ll never find anything or do anything except for wander aimlessly through life.?

?What the hell are you talking about?? Larry asked, suddenly very unnerved.

?You know what I?m talking about,? Sprite replied. ?It?s the same for us all. We think that we can make a life of living for ourselves, gunning for number one, and not giving a shit about anyone else except for when it matters to [i]us[/i]! But I?m here to tell you that that?s not the right way to go about life.?

?What do you mean?? Larry asked. ?Why are you trying to pry into my life??

?I?m not prying into anything,? Sprite said. ?I?m just trying to help. You?re not making it easy for me!?

?Making [i]what[/i] easy?? Larry yelled. ?I don?t even know who you are!?

?I?m not surprised,? Sprite sneered. ?Nobody ever knows me, nobody acknowledges me. Why? Because they?re afraid of what I have to tell them! They?re afraid of what they need to hear! They?d rather listen to something a bit easier to choke down, something a bit more soothing to their ears. Well, if you must know, that?s all a crock of shit! I know exactly what you?ve been thinking, exactly who you?ve been talking to, and I don?t like it one bit!?

?I don?t care what you like!? Larry shouted. ?Who the hell asked you to evaluate my life? Who the hell asked you to butt in on everything I?ve been doing? It?s none of your business!?

?It?s most definitely my business,? Sprite replied icily. ?You telling your parents that you were going to be an architecture major, and then not declaring a major? That?s my business. You trying out for the school baseball team behind your mother?s back, neglecting your studies, and then not even making the team? That?s my business. The utterly selfish feelings coursing through your mind as we speak? [i]That is my business[/i]!?

?How do you know about all of that?? Larry asked. ?Who the hell are you? What the hell do you want with me??

?I just want to help you, that?s all,? Sprite said. ?You need my help, and I want to give it to you. I want to help you, Larry. Stop pushing yourself away from everyone. What would your mother think if she knew about all of this? Your father? Joseph? [i]Jenny[/i]? What would they all think, Larry? Would they approve? I don?t think so. You just don?t see it. You?re too busy looking out for you and you alone. It?s not healthy. Why are you doing this? You?ll just end up a bitter and broken man. I?ve seen it happen. It will happen to you.?

?Shut up!? Larry shouted. ?Just shut up!? Larry reared back, and punched Sprite as hard as he possibly could. The punch landed directly on Sprite?s nose. The force knocked Sprite backwards a few steps. He tripped over his feet and landed into his shopping cart. The cart tipped over with Sprite inside of it, and fell onto the ground. All of his bottles spilled out onto the sidewalk and onto the street. Sprite lay on the ground moaning softly, his hands covering his nose, which was bleeding softly through the nostrils.

Larry stood looking down at Sprite, paralyzed from fear for a few moments, and then he turned tail and ran away. He ran as fast as he could, head down, eyes closed, and arms flailing wildly. The buildings all began to blur together. The world around Larry was swirling into an unrecognizable mess. His mind was spinning with a thousand thoughts at once. Where am I? How did I get here? Where am I going? Why am I here? What?s going to happen next? So many questions, but not an answer for any of them.

Larry slowed to a stop. His lungs were burning like fire, and every breath he took was fanning the flames. His mouth tasted like blood. With his hands on his knees, Larry looked all around him. At first there was nothing unusual. But then the buildings all began to grow, to take shape. They stretched higher and higher into the sky. Large sections of stone shot out from the sides of the building. The block columns began to morph into limbs. The buildings shook and crumbled frighteningly. Heads grew out of the tops of the roofs. Larry could not believe what he was seeing. He tried to rationalize what was happening, but there was no possible explanation for what he was seeing.

The building had taken shape into his mother. She looked down upon Larry, her face coarse, and her eyes blazing with anger. Her right index finger stretched out slowly from her hand and pointed downwards at Larry, wagging back and forth in annoyance.

?Larry,? her voice boomed. ?Sprite has told me what you?ve been doing! You?ve been a very naughty boy, disobeying your mother like that! Just what were you thinking??

?I?m sorry!? Larry shouted weakly. ?I just?I just wasn?t thinking! I wanted to do what I wanted! I didn?t want to listen to you anymore!?

?Don?t you worry, son,? a voice said from behind him. Larry turned around. Another building had taken the shape of his father. ?Your mother has just been worried about you. You know that she wants nothing but the best for you. I?ve been worried, too. What?s this about you not having a major???

?It?s no big deal, Dad,? Larry said quickly. ?I just don?t know what I want to be yet! That?s all! I have my whole life to find myself, don?t I??

?But you wanted to be an architect, didn?t you?? a horde of voices shouted from another direction. Larry turned once again, and saw that a group of buildings had morphed into his neighbors from back home. ?You wanted to be an architect?a rich architect?a famous architect. You wanted to make us proud, didn?t you??

?Of course I did!? Larry shouted. ?But I don?t want to be an architect! I never wanted to be an architect! Everyone forced it on me! That?s not what I want at all!?

?Then what do you want, Larry?? another voice asked. Larry turned around and saw Joseph, standing tall over him. ?What do you want??

?I don?t know what I want!? Larry cried. ?I don?t know what I want at all!?

?Is it [i]me[/i] you want, Larry?? another voice said. Larry looked over his shoulder, and saw Jenny peering eye-to-eye with him. He fell backwards. ?Is it, Larry? Is it me you want??

?Yes!? Larry said. ?I mean, no! I mean?I don?t know what I mean! I want you, but it?s not all I want! I don?t know what I want! I don?t know, I don?t know, I just don?t know! Stop pressuring me!?

?We?re not pressuring you,? everyone said at once. ?We just want what?s best for you. Don?t you understand that??

?I know, I know!? Larry said. ?But I don?t know what?s best for me! I don?t know what to do! I want to, but I just don?t! Can?t anyone see that? It?s not easy, I just want to wake up, I want everything to just be better!?

?Then wake up.?

Larry woke up. Light streamed into his eyes. His vision was blurry for a few seconds. He blinked back the tears that were forming in his eyes. He tried to open his mouth, but found that it was gagged tightly. Larry then tried moving around, but his arms and legs were bound to a chair by a long rope.

?The kid?s awake,? a voice said.

?Yeah, I see that,? another voice answered. ?The stuff?s almost ready. He?ll be going nighty night again soon enough.? After a few seconds, a man approached Larry, and grabbed his head tightly. The man thrust Larry?s head painfully upwards, exposing his neck. ?Say good night, kid.? The man plunged a syringe deep into a vein, and pressed down upon the plunger. Larry shouted in pain, his screams muffled by the gag in his mouth. He thrashed around wildly in his chair. After a few moments, it was over.

Larry woke up again with a start. He was back in his room. Everything was just as it had been. His room was as neat and tidy as it had ever been. Larry felt his neck. There was no pain, nothing to suggest that anything out of the ordinary had just occurred. He shivered. Everything had seemed so real. It couldn?t all have just been a dream. It was too real for that.

Larry tried getting back to sleep, but he couldn?t. He was too restless. He felt more alive than ever, but somehow he felt completely dead inside. There was nothing to explain it. There was just the feeling that he had. Larry knew enough to know that his feelings had been very unreliable lately. Feelings were just feelings. But, somehow, he felt that he knew everything that was going on. He just knew. But he couldn?t call it up into his mind. Try as he might, there was just that little something keeping him in the dark. Just like always.

Larry fell asleep, though he wasn?t tired.[/font]

[Arcadia]

[FONT=Trebuchet MS]
[center][size=3][b]Issue #8: Reform[/b][/size][/center]

[size=2] When Marque came limping home, her head throbbing almost as much as her ankle, she had strong hopes that her mother would be in, ready to give her that maternal look of alarm and immediately start fussing over her daughter?s battle scars. But as the brown-skinned woman came to find, her mother was not in, and any warmth or support she may have gotten from her she?d now have to create for herself. But over the last week or so, even the ability to smile seemed increasingly hard to do.

Tossing her jacket over the back of a kitchen chair with a sigh, Marque made a beeline towards the freezer. She noticed with a small frown that her mom had left her a note on the fridge door. Pulling the little post-it off, she read it quickly while scrimmaging around for an ice pack in the freezer.

[center][i]Late business meetings, sorry kiddo. There?s a TV dinner in the freezer if you get hungry. Hope the rally went well![/i][/center]

Shutting the door harder than necessary, Marque tossed the ice pack on the counter bitterly. It landed with rather loud thud, louder than she?d intended, and she felt a little foolish because of it. The cracking noise caused her to bite back the swear words that might have otherwise spilled out. Instead, she settled for a derisive snort and thought, [i]No, mother, the rally did not go well.[/i]

In fact, it went horribly wrong. She and other students from the Black Student Union on campus had been planning this function for months. They?d spent hours going over what to put on their fliers, what issues were the most important to bring up, where they should stake their ?rally headquarters? (or more to the point, where in the city would they be allowed to picket), who would be in charge of what, and how long they?d stick it out. When the day had finally come, the turn out had been greater than they?d ever expected ? she?d seen faces she?d never seen before in her life. The majority of the union was there in support, as well as their friends and family, and their friends? friends and family, and so on. Marque herself had counted at least twenty-five whites there, and it had impressed her. The entire thing had gone above and beyond all expectations.

Which is exactly why late in the afternoon, Marque thought afterwards, a number of [i]other[/i] people began to protest their protest. It went from verbal insults, to throwing stones and trash and whatever else they could find, to all-out brawls in just under an hour. The riot that eventually broke out seemed inevitable, and even Marque, who was widely known for her adamant views against violence of any kind, was beginning to think that they?d never get past the senseless brutality.

She?d been severely disappointed, but not just with the end riots. If anything, she more angry with herself because she couldn?t find a way to stop it. She?d tried desperately to stop a number of fights and had only succeeded in getting swung at herself. When the police came to break it up, Marque had been sitting amid all their trampled fliers, posters, and dreams, and was nursing a twisted ankle and her boiling resentment.

In the heat of the chaos, she?d desperately wanted to change herself. She thought that if she?d been anyone else, been anything but black, that she could have done something and stopped it all from erupting further. In the past week, she?d been using her newfound powers for a number of similar things. It was so much easier to sell things in the store if she was a middle-aged white man with a business tie. In class, her professors didn?t look right through her if she had pretty curls and a tidy little cardigan, and they certainly didn?t ignore her when she had questions or wanted to debate about certain business theories.

Looking back, Marque thought it would have been so very easy to just duck for cover behind a tree or phone booth and return as somebody heroic, heralding truth and justice in the color of her skin.

But she hadn?t, and as she sulked in a chair, pressing the ice pack to her ankle, she hated herself for it.

After a few minutes of silence, occasionally broken by a withering sigh, the front door opened and her mother hurried in, looking particularly striking in her best skirt and blouse. Behind her followed Mr. Markson. They both entered with looks of extreme concern, but when they caught sight of Marque sitting at the table, grumpy but physically all right, they breathed a sigh of relief.

?Oh, sweetheart,? her mother murmured, hugging her tightly, ?We heard about the riot. We were so worried about you.?

Mr. Markson smiled at her, his hands on the back of chair on the other side of the kitchen table. ?Apart from a few little scuffs, you seem pretty decent. Was it wild??

Marque wasn?t inclined to think humorously about it right now. ?Yeah. Wild.?

Stroking her hair gently, her mother asked anxiously, ?Are you hurt??

She shrugged, and gestured to her ankle. ?I rolled it somewhere but I don?t remember the details.? Mr. Markson had been right, though. Apart from some little cuts and bruises, she was fine. A strong amount of pride and her growing sense of injustice, however, would not let her be content with that.

There was an awkward silence after that. Her mother had taken a seat next to her and Mr. Markson continued to stand behind the chair opposite her. Marque suddenly got the feeling that there was more going on here than meets the eye and she asked her mother hesitantly, ?Where have you been??

Mrs. Jones blinked at her daughter, clasping her hands on the table. ?Didn?t you get my note? I had some late meetings to attend.?

Marque stared at her, suddenly feeling a little hurt. Her mother never lied to her. After all the things they?d been through together, she?d always been proud of the fact that they could tell each other anything or at least cajole it out when the other was lying. And they could always tell.

Quietly, Marque pointed out, ?You never wear that skirt to business meetings.?

Mr. Markson shifted his weight uncomfortably, glancing from daughter to mother. Marque caught his eye and read the guilt written there before looking back to her mother expectantly, suddenly very tense. Mrs. Jones looked at her hands, frowning, and after a long moment, replied, ?I should have said something before, Marque, and I apologize. But,? she peered at her daughter steadily, looking quite strong, and continued, ?Mr. Markson and I have been seeing each other for a couple months now.?

Marque hadn?t known what to expect, but it certainly hadn?t been [i]that[/i]. She couldn?t control the expression of hurt and betrayal that flashed across her face, and she realized that she didn?t want to. ?What??

Mr. Markson appeared cool and collected, but his knuckles were white with tension where he gripped the chair. ?We weren?t trying to mislead you, Marque, but we weren?t sure if.. if you?d be ready for this.?

She stood, ignoring the sharp burst of pain from her ankle, and slammed the ice pack down on the table unexpectedly. ?[i]You[/i] weren?t sure?? She repeated, flushing with anger. ?When have you [i]ever[/i] had any say in what I should and shouldn?t be aware of?!?

?Marque!? Her mother rose, her voice startled. ?Dear, please, there?s no need for you to speak to Mr. Markson like that. He?s a good man and ??

?[i]No[/i].? She didn?t want to stick around for another word. Suddenly the entire kitchen felt thick and stifling and she was sure that she?d be sick to her stomach if she stayed a moment longer. Grabbing her jacket off the back of the chair, she marched towards the door. Mr. Markson put his hand on her shoulder gently and began to say something but Marque?s temper exploded right then and there. She swung around and smacked him before she even realized what she was doing. ?Don?t you [i]ever[/i] touch me again!?

Both he and her mother were stunned, speechless. Marque, gaping at her own actions, took the chance to escape and hurried out the door.


For the next couple hours, Marque wandered around Key City, desperately trying to convince herself that the episode that just unfolded in her home hadn?t really happened and that her mother would never really do something like that without asking her first. She tried to persuade herself that people didn?t stare at her in disgust wherever she went, that her professors didn?t mark down her tests for no apparent reasons, that internships and opportunities came and went without her because her skin happened to be a little darker than normal.

[i]But why should that be normal[/i], she thought desperately, hugging her jacket around her shivering form. [i]Why can?t I be normal? Why can?t people see me for who I am? Why do they always have to see what they want to see? What can she possibly see in him? What does he want from her? Is it the business? Is that want he wants, to break us down after all, to ruin our lives?[/i]

Her trail of thoughts broke off after she realized where she was. The Gateway of Freedom, home to Key City?s saviors the Guardians, rose out of the night in front of her, gleaming beautifully against the city lights and the night sky. She felt very small then. A feeling of shame washed over her, certainly not for the first time that night, and she hugged herself even tighter before hurrying past it.

It didn?t take long for her to reach Freedom Park. A while back, when they?d introduced the city?s first World War II Memorial, they?d changed the park?s name from Bendtson park to the Freedom Park it was known as today. The irony in it disgusted her then, and she vividly remembered talking to her mother about it in the store one afternoon. ?[i]Freedom Park? Freedom for who, exactly? How do we all have freedom when I can?t turn on the radio or television without hearing or seeing something about another black man or woman being thrown in jail, shot at, or beaten on the street for speaking up and fighting for the rights that we should already have?[/i]?

Her mother had only smiled at her, but Marque hadn?t actually expected any response. Her mother had long been accustomed to Marque?s rants.

She cut through the wet grass and headed towards the Memorial in the center of the park. Her feet had long memorized this path and could take her there easily while her brain was otherwise occupied. It was a trip she made often, especially when she was stressed out because of the store or her classes. But tonight, as she stood at the base of the marble monument, her mind flooding over with emotions, Marque wasn?t sure what brought her here now. First and foremost, however, she knew that there was someone she needed to speak to. She stood with her hands in her pockets, her shoulders tense and mouth turned down in a frown, and said softly, ?Hi? daddy.?

More than anything, that?s what this monument stood for in Marque?s eyes. She never felt more close to him than when she was here. It was as if whenever she came, all her ideals, her hopes and dreams and aspirations were strengthened. It was a source of warmth and of power, and though she?d once told her mom about it, Marque was certain that the woman just didn?t understand. She?d had him, had memories of him. All Marque had of him was a picture on her desk, this monument, and as she was told by her mother, his smile.

?Life sucks, daddy,? she continued in low tones, as if speaking quietly to the monument would make the moment any less surreal.

That?s about when the tears began to fall, and Marque covered her face, trying her best to stifle the sobs that threatened to spill over. [i]There?s too much badness[/i], she decided then, pressing her forehead against the cool, smooth marble for comfort. [i]I can?t deal with all of this.[/i]

Slowly, her tears resided and Marque wiped her eyes on her jacket sleeve before sighing. Crying might have made her feel a little better, but it didn?t solve anything. She glanced around before seating herself at a nearby bench, pulling her sprained ankle up delicately next to her before returning her focus to the monument and to her father.

He was a fighter. She?d decided that long ago, and had always sought to follow in his footsteps, if not literally but at least in principal. And though she was certain that he?d be able to take whatever life threw at him, she couldn?t help but wonder what he?d think about her mother?s new relationship. [i]New isn?t exactly correct[/i], she reminded herself, and fought the urge to scowl.

More than that, though, she wondered what he would think about [i]her[/i]. About her struggles and her ambitions. About her [i]powers[/i].

Marque hadn?t said a word about them to anyone. Not even her mother. It dawned on her that it was a little unfair to blame her for keeping secrets when Marque was hiding one or two of them herself. It didn?t make the hurt and shock of finding out any less acute, though. She wanted to hold onto her betrayal and resentment ? she clutched at it like it was her only lifeline. Like it was the one thing she could count on when everything else was changing and burning up all around her.

But she was changing too and she couldn?t deny that, couldn?t even [i]stop[/i] it. Though she could control it, the very fact that she had such a power scared her witless. Here and now, she could admit it. She didn?t know what it was for, and couldn?t understand why she had it in the first place. But that didn?t change the fact that the ability was still there. She was afraid, and more than anything, she wanted her father to come to life and hold her and tell her that everything would be okay, that she wasn?t a freak, that she was [i]normal[/i]. More than anything, Marque had always wanted to be normal. And now it looked like she never would be.

Rubbing her ankle softly, trying to ease the pain a little, she thought back to the kitchen fiasco. Her rage, which she?d felt so sure of earlier, now seemed almost childish and tacky. And she?d [i]hit[/i] Mr. Markson, for no real reason. The utter shock on his face was alone enough to make her face heat up with shame, never mind the way her mother looked. She?d overreacted, badly, and used the one thing she?d vowed never to use ? violence. Marque was certain that her father never would have gone back on his ideals like that. He never would have given up or given in, he would have kept on fighting, and he would have been proud that his wife had also kept fighting.

Maybe, he would have even been proud of her mother?s new relationship. That she continued to live and love and thrive, instead of letting all the badness in the world get to her. [i]The way that it gets to me.[/i]

That last thought made Marque exhale slowly. Although she?d always appeared as bright, strong, and collected, Marque could admit easily now that maybe she didn?t have it all together. That she didn?t have it all figured out, not like she wanted to. Her reaction to her mother?s and Mr. Markson?s relationship was the very kind that she?d been trying to fight against. There was nothing wrong with it, nothing bizarre or unnatural. And she liked Mr. Markson. He?d always been kind to them. He?d given them the store in Key City, had helped them move their stuff from Triton into their new place, and was always good for a smile. Her mother deserved a man like that, and Marque was now certain that her father would agree. Wholeheartedly.

A sense of peace settled over the brown-skinned woman. She knew exactly what needed to be done now. She needed to apologize to her mother and to Mr. Markson and give them her support. She needed to continue fighting prejudice and racism in the city and on campus, and she needed to do it as herself and not as anybody else. Changing the color of her skin wouldn?t make the problem go away, no matter how many times she did it.

With a smile, she thought, [i]Now that would make my father proud.[/i] She spent the last bit of that hour gazing at the gleaming monument and the shadows it produced, thinking of her father, before picking herself up and heading back home.[/size]
[/FONT]

[Shy]

[font=trebuchet ms][center][size=3][b]Issue #9: Scandal[/size][/center][/b]
Jolinda began to shudder and shake from the cold outside. It was three in the morning, and the film siren was forced into hiding from the vicious press on the rooftop of her small flat. Although she didn?t bother to look down once, she knew they were still there. Every few moments a brilliant flash would appear from the streets below; another sleazy photographer hoping to get an exclusive look at the heartbroken star of ?My Hero.? Living in the tallest building on Waltz street, she could evade the cameras for the evening. Here she was, a star, trapped on top of her home in a faded gold nightgown.

It was a long night, and she had only managed to nod off to sleep for a few stolen moments. It was going to be an even longer day.

As the sun rose hours later she slowly crept downstairs into her home. Her personal possessions had been scattered along the floor, the phone was off the hook, and there was a hole in the window. Someone, or multiple someone?s, must have been broken in the night before. Right away she noticed that all of the personal photographs that once adorned her walls had disappeared. Jolinda sighed, but ignored the mess and headed straight for the bathroom.

It was six, and in only a few hours she was expected to audition for a new feature film project. Although action adventure had gotten her name in the public spotlight, they meant little to her. She knew that to be taken seriously as a talent she needed to get herself starring roles in more dramatic pieces. This audition was her big break, she was auditioning to play Joan of Arc. This was the type of work she could be proud of, and she all too well that the Academy looked kindly on female leads who died at the end of their pictures.

She stared into the mirror for a moment, examining the dark circles under her swollen eyes. It had been days since she got a good night?s sleep, and since she had learned about Larry?s infidelity all Jolinda seemed to do was cry. No amount of make-up was going to do the work of a full night?s rest, hopefully the producer?s of the film wouldn?t notice.

?So are you familiar with the story of Joan of Arc?? The director asked, stroking his long, pointed beard, ?It?s such a universally profound tale, you?d be surprised how many people don?t know a thing about the real Joan.?

?Well when I lived in Redeem my Mother would always tell us Bible stories, or stories about great people who died for the Lord, it was just one of her eccentricities. But Joan of Arc was a young woman living in France during one of their wars with England, and then she heard the voice of God and decided to cut off her hair and enlist in the army.?

?You?re right so far,? the Screenwriter let out a grin, ? Then what happened??

?And then Joan fought with the armies of France, and won. She saw visions of the battles to come, because God put them there, and because of that she was unstoppable. In her last vision she saw her own capture, but she didn?t try to run away. She knew it was her destiny, or something. It was her calling.?

?And then???

?And then? they burned her at the stake, right? Sad story that one was.?

The group let out an uncomfortable fit of laughter. Jolinda feigned a smile.

?You seem to know yer stuff, doll face. Would you mind if we ask you to??? The Director motioned towards the door.

?Oh, no problem! I?ll be outside, waiting, sir!?

She rushed out of the small room and closed the door behind her. For a moment she waited patiently, until the sound of voices started to emanate from a window a few feet down. Slowly Jolinda walked over, and realized she was able to hear in on the results of her audition.

?So whaddya? think? She?s certainly got the looks.?

?Tired and crazy, yeah. Poor thing has circles under her eyes my kids could hula-hoop with.?

?Well, the studio told us she is going through a difficult time with her divorce??

?People aren?t gonna flock into theaters to see [I]that[/I]. We?re going with realism here, but Hollywood realism. This is a business after all.?\

?Is it too late to call up Liz Taylor??

?Liz Taylor? That will be half of our budget right then and there.?

?Look. I don?t care how great this Jolinda girl is, you know the Studio doesn?t want us to give her any work in the first place.?

?That damn husband of hers??

?That damn husband of hers helped get this Studio on the map. What Larry wants, Larry gets.?

?It?s a shame..?

?Yeah, I know. Let?s call her in and tell her the bad news.?

Tears began to roll down Jolinda?s face as she heard her name being called. She darted in the opposite direction, running past the various soundstages and employees. Quickly she made her way to the entrance, enclosed by an enormous metal gate. Alongside the gate was a humble security guard, Mike, whose only job for the past twelve years had been to open and close the gate with the simple press of a button. He sat in a small enclosed shack, listening to the radio and eating a cheese sandwich.

?Mrs. Goode!? Mike called out, ?You leavin? so soon? How did the audition go??

?[I]Miss[/I] Goode,? Jolinda made every attempt to keep her composure, ?Tell the men at the Studio that I have lost interest in the project. This place is beneath me!?

?That?s too bad, but I know how you movie stars get with your egos. You want I should call you a cab??

?No thank you, just open up the damn gate. I need to get out of here as soon as possible.?

Suddenly, the radio interrupted their regularly scheduled program for an important news bulletin.

[I]?This is Walter Mitchum at KEYS radio news with a special report. Larry B. Goode, famed movie producer and agent, was found dead in his hotel room only moments ago, of repeated stab wounds. No witnesses were at the scene, and police are unwilling to name any suspects. Please stay tuned to KEYS radio for more information at the story develops.?[/I]

Mike looked as if he was staring at a ghost, Jolinda stood motionless in front of the gate.

?You? I?. I?m sorry about your loss.?

There was an awkward pause. Jolinda fell to her knees.

?Actually, actually please call me a cab. I need?. I need? I need to see my husband.?[/font]