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Majorette: Reborn This is the continuation of the stories 'Majorette' (parts 1-3), and 'Marshals: Iris'. Foreword notes: I apologize most profusely for the myriad of character names in advance. Also, if it seems that characters of a given code name die, only to show up later, it's because other folks have taken up that name. Most notably, a secondary character 'Stellar'. Please note that I have marked chapters with flashback with bolded dates. Any chapter not starting with a date should be considered to be happening in spring 2012, more or less 'the present' at the time of writing. 'A new Marshal High student takes up the mantle of Majorette, but can she live up to the legend? Can her mentor Talon stop the vigilante Nemesis? And can the Marshals stop the Unholy in their dark schemes?' Chapter 1 Thomas Garner slipped into a disused stairwell. It was dark, barely lit by an overhead skylight which had clearly not been cleaned in years. It smelled of stale air. The walls were cinderblock, painted an off-white, where the paint still adhered. The fire door into the stairwell was locked, or was supposed to be. Thomas had figured out the code to open the door months ago. Now, the stairwell was his refuge. He adjusted the strap on his backpack, and descended. Grit on the steps ground under his sneakers. Broken cobwebs brushed his cheeks. On the landing as the stairs switched back, a long-dead pigeon lay, now a mummified carcass. Below, something skittered in the darkness. Down here, the din of the school was masked by thick walls; incredibly thick walls... Walls capable of withstanding bomb blasts. Walls capable of withstanding the force of angry teens with superpowers. It was the perfect place to eat lunch in peace. Ten years ago, this place had been a training location for a group of teens from Marshal High, when a mad scientist had activated every paranormal with a gene bomb. Well... everyone thought he was mad. Then the Invidus came, and it was only because the world had a stockpile of living weapons that the invasion was repelled. Some had survived the war only to turn on humanity. "Jesus," Thomas thought, "Gemini went to school right here." He laid the ham and cheese sandwich, small bag of chips and an apple out on the brown paper bag, and ate. Absorbed in thought, he didn't notice the rustling below, until a door opened, and light spilled into the stairs. He was frozen in fear. No one ever came down here. A slight figure stepped through the door, and immediately turned to look up at him. It was Ms. Lynn. For a moment, her prosthetic eye caught a trick of the light, and it reflected an eerie red. She was silent for several heavy heartbeats. Then, she reached behind her, shut off the lights, and began to climb the stairs, as the door she'd come through closed. Her right leg, the artificial one, creaked slightly as she ascended. "Mr. ...?" she began. "Oh, umm... Garner. Thomas Garner, ma'am," he managed. "Mr. Garner. You have taken English for at least nine years, correct?" Her tone was hard. For such a small woman, she had a frightening presence. "Yes, ma'am," he muttered. "Then you read the sign that said 'Restricted Area: Off Limits to Student Body'?" "Yes, ma'am," he almost whispered. He began gathering his lunch as she stood parallel to him on the stairs. She stopped on the step beside him, looking down, and paused. "Why are you here?" she asked, softly this time. "I'm.... umm.... eating my lunch." She turned on the heel of her good leg, and sat in one fluid motion. "Bullies?" she asked. Thomas' face flushed. To his surprise, she took his hand. She examined the fine, delicate fingers, and well kept nails. His wavy blond hair was well groomed. His eyebrows were as well. He was... just short of pretty. Alicia Lynn had a moment of terror, a sick deja vu. "Thomas, you said, right?" "Yes... but, ma'am... please don't tell me 'it gets better'. I can't see that far. I just see..." "I'm going to tell you a very hard truth, hun. It does get better... some. But more importantly, you learn how to cope with all of it better. I'd like to ask you to come join my after-school Tai Chi class. I think it'd help you." She stood again. Again, he heard the sound of her prosthetic leg creaking. "Ma'am?" "Yeah," she returned. "You knew Majorette, didn't you?" Ms. Lynn stared off in the distance, brow furrowed, frowning for a second. She was digging through mountains of memories. Then she smiled. Her face seemed to light up. "I did," she said, with a note of pride. "What was she like?" "She was... a lot like you," she said, looking him in the eye. She climbed the stairs to the next set of doors, and stepped out into the light of the school. "I don't understand," Thomas said to no one. He finished his lunch, and started climbing back to where he'd entered, then stopped. He looked down into the darkness. What had Ms. Lynn been doing down there? He turned and descended to the door she'd come out of. He stood staring at it. His hand moved toward the doorknob. Maybe it was rigged with an alarm. Maybe it would electrocute him if he didn't have the right radio ID chip or something. He grabbed the knob quickly, turned and pushed. To his surprise, the door opened. He stepped in swiftly, and put his hand on the light switch panel in the dim light, but waited until the door closed before turning on the light. In the pitch blackness, the space he stood in smelled slightly dusty, and slightly moldy, like basement air. He flicked the light switch, and long banks of fluorescent tubes lit up, revealing what looked like a standard classroom, some thirty feet by sixty feet. Half the room seemed to be a standard classroom. Half had tables covered in what looked like random lab equipment at his first glance. His eyes wandered over the room, finally settling on a display case on the wall near the door. It held a collection of tattered and bloodstained clothing; a polo shirt, seven copies of what looked to be Marshal High majorette uniforms, and two suits of some kind of articulated body armor. Eight years ago, a young woman from this very school, who went by the name Majorette, died to save mankind from an invasion force of aliens. This was a memorial to her, more beautiful than the statues, and all the movies and History Channel specials. The last set or armor had a plaque reading 'August 9th 2004, the world will never forget'. He looked over the collection of uniforms, and placed his hand on the glass, mere inches from the sequined fabric of a majorette uniform. He moved back toward the door, fearing he'd stayed too long. As he was about to flick the light off, his eyes fell on the plaque of the first article of clothing in the case; a torn polo shirt. As he flicked off the light to open the door, an image was imprinted upon his retinas. "Glen Camden". He stopped. Who was Glen Camden? Majorette's name was 'Gloria Camden'. Had it been her father, or brother? He turned the light back on to read the entire inscription. "Worn by Glen Camden before his subsequent transformation into Majorette." Thomas turned off the light and stepped back into the dark stairwell. This wasn't one of the details the shows ever mentioned. "She was... a lot like you," he heard Ms. Lynn's voice echo. He climbed back up to the door he'd come in, and slipped back into the hallway, empty of all students. Thomas turned into the restroom, and slipped quietly past someone standing at a urinal, to one of the stalls. He closed the door to the stall, latched it, and sat. He always sat to do his business. He heard the urinal flush, and footsteps. They were not receding, but approaching. "Is that Tommy Tutu in there, taking his little girly tinkle?" Since middle school, Thomas had been harassed by the jerk speaking. His name was Andrew McKay. He had been an eight-grader when Thomas was in sixth. Now, they were both sophomores. Worse than being not-exactly- brilliant, Thomas believed Andrew might be an honest-to-goodness sociopath. Thomas felt the ugly fear grip him. He was small, and weak, and effeminate. Physical confrontation was an anathema to him. And the big, stupid, and pointlessly mean person now standing on the other side of the stall door was going to force the issue. Maybe he could climb under this stall to the next, and... No, Andrew would hear that. He tried to simply not think about what was about to come. He simply focused on finishing his business, stood, and was about to flush, when there was a WHUMP on the stall door. It rattled the lock and hinges. Thomas jerked convulsively in reflex. Another whump, and the door to the stall swung open. Andrew grabbed Thomas by the shirt and flung him against the row of sinks. His face struck a metal sill of the mirror, and his hip ran into the porcelain of the sink. In a split second, he looked at himself in the mirror. There was a gash running across his face from high on his cheek to near his lip. Behind him, he saw Andrew pressing close. On reflex, he kicked back, and struck something solid. Andrew made a surprised, grunting sound, and Thomas bolted for the exit. He swung the door open forcefully, turned for the stairwell from which he had just come. Only seconds behind him, Andrew pursued, now growling with animal fury. At the security keypad, Thomas slid to a stop, and rapidly punched in the code 7734. The light flicked green, and there was a click. Thomas squeezed through the door, and began pressing the door closed behind him, hindered by the pneumatic automatic closure. Andrew closed to the door, and pressed. It was less than an inch from closing and latching shut. Thomas pushed with all of his might. Andrew won out, and forced the door open. Thomas turned to look at the dark stairwell, but before he could run, Andrew had him by the shirt again. He shoved him against the wall, and punched him in the stomach. Thomas crumpled with the wind knocked out of him. He gasped for breath. He wanted to scream for help. Until the pneumatic closure pulled the door shut, there was a chance someone might hear. But he couldn't even breath, let alone scream. Andrew again grabbed him by the shirt. Thomas was aware of the seams ripping some at the strain. "So, either you suck my dick, or I chuck you over this rail down the stairwell," Andrew said coldly, smiling. Being pulled up seemed to unlock Thomas' diaphragm, and he felt as though he could breath again. "No," he mumbled, realizing he was crying. He was awash with humiliation. Andrew pushed Thomas until his knees were hooked on the railing, and he sat, dangled over the edge. "What was that? Suck or chuck? Did you say you wanted to Humpty... or Dumpty?" Thomas could only hope someone would hear the single next word he cried. It might be his last. "Rape!" he screamed. His voice sounded very feminine. The note was high and piercing... and stopped by walls made to hide the sounds of angry young gods. Thomas could sure use the aid of one of them now. Andrew's face reddened with rage, and he shoved hard. Thomas tumbled backward, and the tenuous grip he had with one hand on the rail was torn free. He tumbled into the darkness. There was a metallic 'clung' sound, and a sound like a snapping branch as he bounced off the railing of the stair as it switched back, and again he fell. Passing the other flights of stairs, there was finally the crunching slap as he hit concrete... and then a second, softer return... from the bounce. Above him, as he lie stunned, near unconsciousness, he heard a maniacal laugh, and a voice echoing from above. "Humpty Dumpty. That shit is funny!" There was the sound of the stairwell door opening, then the quiet hiss as the pneumatic closure pulled it closed. Then the click of the lock. He was alone. His head was spinning in a drunken stupor. He felt almost nothing, but what did come through were shocks of agony. He was vaguely aware that there was a disturbing moaning, and it took all his concentration to realize it was him. Where were the heroes? They were supposed to save her. Thomas laughed through the blood. 'Her'. Chapter 2 The Special Needs students sat practicing their writing while their teacher, Ms. Flowers watched over them. Of note among the students was Cory Jefferson. Of note first because his father had been a member of a group of Super-Heroes in Cleveland; Golden Shield. He had inherited a close variation of his father's powers, which was something like Lychanthropy. Maybe more notable was the steel collar around his neck... a shock collar. Cory had been good for a long time... almost all afternoon. His attention had been good. He had had what Ms. Flowers would call a 'good day'. That was about to change. Andrew McKay walked past the open door of the classroom. A second or so later, Cory's head turned, and he sniffed the air. Cory's ears grew slightly, and his nose flattened. A small light along a bar of LEDs lit up, and Ms. Flowers felt a vibration on a signaling device she wore. "Cory, hun? Are you with us?" It was too late. By the time the words were out of her mouth, Cory had leapt up and was headed for the door. The unseen barrier of the threshold hit him, sending a 'reminder' jolt through the collar. He pressed through it. His legs were reforming as the scent became clearer. His muzzle grew, and fur covered him. "Oh shit, it's retard dog-boy!" Andrew said, as he moved away from the paranormal nearby. Cory turned to him, sniffing, then just as quickly turned away, pursuing a scent. Ms. Flowers pressed an alert button on her signaling device. Cory trotted down the halls of the school, now in full canine form, resembling something like a large Siberian husky or wolf. Ms. Lynn's voice came over a small speaker on the collar. "Cory, this is Ms. Lynn. Are you all right?" He shifted slightly, and stood on his hind legs. "Someone's bleeding. Someone's hurt bad, I think." "Alright. I'm dropping the thresholds. Seek!" With that, with the fear of punishment gone, Cory resumed his canine form, and followed his nose, eventually coming to a door to a rarely used stairwell. As an activated paranormal, he was a member of FSHA (Future Super Heroes of America) and had the pass code. He again shifted to his hybrid form, enough for useful fingers, and stared at the keypad. It was... ummm... 4 numbers... He couldn't remember the code. Seven ... something.... Seven, Seven... He'd been taught something to remember the number. The calculator trick. Upside down, the numbers spelled 'hell'. 'Welcome to hELL' was the joke. But it had made him scared going down that dark stairwell the first time. His dad wouldn't have been scared, he was sure. His dad wasn't scared of nothing. Cory typed 7734 into the pad, and the door clicked open. It smelled like fear, and piss, and blood. It smelled like Ms. Lynn, the kid he just passed in the hall, and it smelled like someone else. Cory vaulted the rail to the switchback stairs below, an easy drop of fifteen feet, hopped the railing of that flight, and repeated the process 5 times to the bottom. Someone lie there moaning, in a puddle of blood. He reached up to the collar and pressed a button. "Someone's hurt real bad, Ms. Lynn." "I'm on my way." ... She was in the Dream Place. It was a light woodland, caught in perpetual spring, or occasionally fall. Butterflies and grasshoppers flitted through the air. Dappled light came through the green canopy. The air smelled of fresh, fertile Earth. She stood naked, at the head of the trail. The trail led to the Fertile Valley. It was a short walk, and the woods gave way to open fields. She looked down at the beautiful land below her. It was like all the landscape paintings in one, the lake, the stream, the orchards. Only this time, it was different. It had a football field. That was weird. Here, she was Tara. Outside of the Dream Place, in The Waking, people called her Thomas. The Ancient Indian Mystic told her some time ago that it was her time to learn the way of the Hijra. He was a weird old leathery guy with those Ghandi-glasses, who said little, and conveyed much. He watched over a small Marble Alcove full of scrolls. He told her it was her Akashic Records, the list of all her past lives. He had said that all she had been and all that she would be were written there, and he could read all of her past records. When she asked about the records, seemingly already written of her future, he simply said 'One does not ask about the unwritten records'. As her eyes cast toward the Marble Alcove, she noted that the Ancient Indian Mystic had a visitor, a middle-aged lady, who was reading scrolls. That was less important than why there was now a football field in the middle of her Dream Place. It looked like the track and field area of Marshal High. Tara moved to the field. On the bleachers, a single figure awaited, the Majorette. She smiled as Tara approached. "I've been waiting for you," the Majorette said. Tara looked at her with curiosity. Without speaking, the Majorette handed over a sequined bundle of fabric. Tara took it in her outstretched arms. "The Symbol," she said. The uniform was folded so that the white star separating the blue upper portion and red lower portion was showing. When Tara looked again, the Majorette was naked. In one hand she held two batons, and in the other what looked like a small silver trophy cup. The Majorette handed over the batons. "The Rods", she said. Then, the Majorette reached inside her own chest, her hand passing through it as if it were immaterial, and withdrew a tiny ember of light. "Something that leathery old scarecrow hasn't seen," the Majorette almost laughed, indicating the Ancient Indian Mystic, "the Sequence." Upon the passing of the point of light, the Majorette seemed to sigh in relief, as if a great burden had been lifted. She handed over the mote of light. Tara could see it now closely. It was a tiny glowing double-helix of DNA. "And... the Cup?" Tara asked. "The Chalice... is the prize, should you succeed," the Majorette said. "Succeed at what?" The question went unanswered. The Majorette was now luminous, and transparent. She looked relieved to have completed some duty. "Can you send a message for me?" the now-ethereal voice asked. "Umm... sure..." Tara stammered. The Majorette gestured to the woman that was far off, up the hill, reading records with the Ancient Indian Mystic. "Tell her I'm sorry, and that it's not her fault. Tell her I forgive her." And with that, Majorette radiated into nothingness. Tara looked at the field she stood on. It was like a football field, but marked with unfamiliar symbols and lines, hinting at rules to a game with which she was unfamiliar. She climbed the hillside to the Marble Alcove. The Ancient Indian Mystic sat placidly, cross-legged. Next to him was a woman Tara didn't recognize. She had no Role. She was from the Waking. Try as she might, Tara couldn't gain her attention. ... The area was cleared on a table, and Cory used a stretcher to single- handedly lift Thomas onto it. Ms. Lynn positioned a bright work light over the table, and opened the trauma kit. A small portable med-scanner ran through an autosequence. Ms. Lynn read the findings. "Oh, God... this kid's a mess." Just this morning, luckily, an old friend had called her. An old student, Laura Sanders had called to suggest that Ms. Lynn might want to check the expiration dates on the med supplies of the trauma kit. When she was in school at Marshal High, Laura had been an activated paranormal, a precog that went by the name Seer. So, the suggestion had seemed more than reasonable. That had been why Ms. Lynn was in the training room earlier. She pressed a button on a wrist unit. "INT," said the prepubescent male voice. "Get down here, now," Ms. Lynn demanded. "As if I have nothing better to do...," the tone turned haughty. "We have a Code Blue. Get down here NOW!" It was not a request, and could not be mistaken for one. Stephen Sanders, who went by the code-name of INT, stood from his desk in advanced Chemistry, and showed his teacher his cell phone, which displayed an FSHA alert. Mr. Stockton only nodded, as the boy picked up his heavy backpack and tried his best to run under the load of textbooks. He was the youngest student in the school, at 8 years of age. He was a senior, and only because his mother didn't want him to leave town to go to college. He was also paranormal with strong dominant trait, and hadn't even activated yet. Speculation was that he would have a mental mutation, and it would be... impressive. His mother was the precognitive, Laura Sanders, and his father, Steven Andrews, had been the energy projector Fusion, who'd also gone to school here. As he trotted at best speed along the halls, a passing student tripped him, and Stephen splayed on the floor, sending his glasses sliding. The other student with him laughed. 'Jerks,' he managed, before regaining his feet. Stephen's glasses had broken again. He put them back on, minus one arm, and continued his best speed to the code-locked stairwell. He entered, and huffed to the bottom, winded under the strain of a large load of books on his very small frame. Stepping into the training room, he swung the book bag off, and stepped up to the controls of the medical diagnostics. "Auto-defib's keeping a rhythm, but the blood pressure is too low. Patient's going to crash, unless you can find me about 3 pints," he said. The training room wasn't active these days. There simply was no stock of anything, not even saline. "Options?" Ms. Lynn said. "Legal? Take off the defib, declare death. Illegal...," he said, throwing a glance at the display of uniforms. "I... can't," Ms. Lynn hesitated. She knew that wasn't true. "Technically, it's not even illegal, in life-or-death emergencies," Stephen said with no emotion. "ETA of paramedics?" Ms. Lynn asked. Stephen looked at his readout, now patched in with the local paramedics. "Seven Minutes. I suspect flatline in under a minute." The machine put off a high-pitched squee. "Scratch that... If you're going to do something..." Cory sat by, looking worried, but knowing the best thing for him to do at this point was stay out of the way, and await any kind of orders. Stephen swung a hundred and eighty degrees around, and typed on a laptop. The sequence was already in memory, and the peripheral to the side of the laptop dripped out solution within seconds. "Any of us suitable donors?" he asked. Ms. Lynn nodded to the boy. He started unbuttoning his long-sleeve shirt. "Do it quick," he said. "We can only get half a pint from you safely," she said, swabbing his arm. "We only need to keep her up until the sequence starts taking effect. That...," he winced as the needle slid into his vein. "That should be enough. Then mass and blood pressure shouldn't matter with the Francis Effect." "The ...joys of O-Negative, the universal donor," Stephen managed. The sequence was complete. Ms. Lynn loaded the vial into an airgun, and injected Thomas. When the process was finished, she moved to the automated medical equipment, and watched. She pressed the button to speak with the inbound paramedics. "We've gotten a donor to give about three quarters of a pint of blood here, but the patient is still low. Bring a lot of glucose solution and IV. We've inserted the Conrad Sequence for regeneration. I take full responsibility." Chapter 3 July 16, 1971 The hot wind blew across Cleveland, bringing the unpleasant scent of Lake Erie with it. The heavily customized 1969 Corvette tore through the streets with seeming reckless abandon. Inside were the teen duo of Pompom and Baton, the Action Girls. In front of them was the get-away car of several very unlucky smash-and- grab jewelry thieves. "What have they got in that thing?" Pompom commented while focusing on maneuvering the sports car through traffic. "Probably a hemi. Damn MOPAR motor-heads!" Baton cursed. "Language, sis..." Pompom returned, with a quick sideways glance. "That's no way for a teen super-heroine and idol to young girls everywhere to be talking." The Charger they followed spat flames from the tailpipe, and shot away. "They must have a boogie bottle." Baton stated, flipping open the small glove box, to reveal a series of buttons. "Are we in range to fire a tracking bug?" Pompom asked hurriedly. "Barely" "Do it, so we can end this pursuit before someone gets hurt." Baton pressed the arming button, waited for the best shot, and fired. "It's no good. They're out of range," she admitted. "Well, then we'll have to change that, won't we? Ignite the thrusters!" "But..." Baton hesitated. "I said DO IT!" Pompom demanded. Baton flipped the switch, and a deafening roar of jet thrusters in the aft of the vehicle filled her ears. Her neck snapped back into the headrest, and the car charged forward. Even knowing Pompom's superhuman reflexes, Baton clenched her teeth, closed her eyes, and prayed. The Action-Girls hurled toward their prey. Baton opened her eyes, readying the tracer for a second shot. Just then, she noticed a sparkle under the car they pursued. The villains had released a payload of small steel jacks into the road. Pompom found herself boxed in, unable to cut into oncoming lanes. "Shit!" she exclaimed. "That's no way for..." Baton began, in jest. Then, the right front tire blew out. The car skidded sideways and began to roll, then tumble end over end. The fiberglass shell of the car disintegrated as the vehicle rolled. Baton awoke a few seconds after the vehicle came to a stop. She instinctively released the buckle on her five-point harness, and climbed from the mangled vehicle. It had come to rest upside down half in the rear of a bakery truck. It would have been comical, seeing all the loaves of bread, pies, and pastries strewn about, except that the driver's side of the car was smashed in, and there was fuel leaking everywhere. Baton broke away the remnants of the windshield, and lay down on her belly to see if she could get a glimpse of her sister's condition. Fuel soaked into her bright pink leotard. "Pom... Wendy. Can you hear me?" she asked nervously. "Alicia..." came the weak voice in return. "Are you all right?" Baton continued. "I can't... move. I think my legs are pinned," came the feeble voice from within the twisted wreckage. "It's all right. Stay still. I can hear the emergency vehicles. We'll get you out of there soon. You'll be okay." A quick glance told Baton that the fuel spill was approaching the back end of the car. If it reached the hot nozzles of the thrusters, the vehicle could go up in flames. Baton... Alicia knew that her own costume was already soaked in flammable liquid. She tried in desperation to pull open the door, to no avail. The body molding was already broken away, and the metal was bent beyond hope of prying free. Her fighting ability did little good against solid steel. She struggled with everything in her, but a single sound fell upon her ears with a horrid realization; a whoosh, as the car's fuel ignited. Alicia heard herself screaming her sister's name, but the entire experience seemed trapped in a quicksand of time, not completely frozen, but moving too slow. Her eyes darted to the flames that rolled near. Blood trickled down her hands from the jagged metal. She refused to move away from the car. If her sister died, Alicia would die as well. They were a team. They were sisters. A shadow fell across her face, a great, dark cloak, and she was thrown away from the wreckage. A body fell on top of her and she realized someone was smothering flames that had engulfed her. As the cloak pulled away, she saw the female figure before her. "Nemesis," she managed, struggling to her feet. The long lean female figure stood before her, clad all in black. Straps and bandoleers overlaid the black leather bodysuit. The leather cowl concealed the entire face, and mirrored lenses covered the eyes. She made no sound. Alicia sprang to her feet again, spurred on by the screams of her sister. Nemesis stopped her with a palm pressed to her chest, fingers spread to wrap around her throat if she pressed further. "Go into the bakery and get their fire extinguisher," Nemesis demanded in a husky whisper. Alicia fought herself and her desire to rush headlong into the flames to save her sister. Reason won out. She knew this was the best hope her sister had. She returned to the scene seconds later, and her efforts, along with those of Nemesis, had the fire extinguished before emergency crews arrived. Unable to aid any further, Alicia watched helplessly as the firefighters and paramedics slowly extracted her sister. Wendy's screams had gone silent after several agonizing minutes. Alicia feared what that silence meant. All the while, Nemesis stood silently by, with a protective arm around Alicia. Chapter 4 Ms. Alicia Lynn sat in the waiting room. Next to her was Laura Sanders. Next to Laura was Stephen. He had headphones on, and was reading a book on an iPad, while sipping a juice box. He still looked slightly pale from his blood donation. Some ways off was Thomas Garner's father. He turned on occasion to look at Alicia Lynn. Few people locked gaze with her for long. Between her force of personality and her cybernetic eye, she was very hard to stare down. "Mr. Garner, if we could...," she began. "I know you did what you had to do, ma'am," he said, looking away from her. "Don't worry about me suing you or anything." "It's not that at all. Your child is going to spontaneously activate. He's going to need to be in the FSHA program," she said calmly. "What... what should I expect when the activation happens? Is he going to grow wings?" "We know the exact sequence, and have a very good idea of what to expect. There won't be any real visual differences. He'll be a regenerator. He'll be fast, fairly strong, good senses, like any normal human, just better." "Oh," he said, with a note of mild pleasant surprise, "That's not bad at all." "There's one other thing," Ms. Lynn resumed. "Do you know what PFLAG is, Mr. Garner." "The parents of gays thing?" he asked. She nodded. "This shit's going to make him gay?" he asked incredulously. "No...," she said soothingly. "What? You... you think he's gay already? Jesus!" "Not exactly," she returned gently. It was always strange to her. Tell a parent that their child was going to grow multi-facetted eyes like a insect, and they found a way to cope. Tell them that their child had some sexuality outside the norm, and they almost always got angry. At least he didn't have fundamentalist religious leanings. "What does 'not exactly' mean?" he asked harshly. "I think you need to have him take a battery of psychological tests to..." "You think he's nuts?" Mr. Garner belted out. "No. Listen... please. I think he needs to have gender testing. I think he might be transgendered." "What makes you think that?" "I've had several students with gender identity issues in the past," she said softly. "And that makes you some kind of expert?" "No. It makes me think we need to bring the experts in to make a correct evaluation," she said. "I'd give it 95% probability, considering grooming habits," Stephen said, not looking up from his book. "I mean, what I could see through the blood." "Stephen!" Laura admonished. He looked at her, glanced at the father's icy gaze, and dropped his eyes back to the book. "Ms. Lynn," Mr. Garner said, "I looked up some information, and found out that you're liaison for the FSHA. How many of your kids die doing this heroics stuff?" "Approximately 40%, if you count MIAs," Stephen interjected. Ms. Lynn shot him an icy glance. "85% if you only count recessives, 30% if you only count dominants," Stephen continued, as if his mouth had diarrhea. "Stephen," Ms. Lynn said, coldly. "The number jumps to 99.6% and 67% for people who were known to be or suspected to be gay, transgendered or hermaphroditic," he continued, still casually swiping through the pages of his e-book. "And I assume you mean even those that go off to become supervillians." "And the same numbers for GBLT youth with supportive parents?" Ms. Lynn finally broke in. "Unknown. There's just not enough data." "Extrapolate," Ms. Lynn demanded, emphasizing each syllable. Stephen, looked up through glasses held together with tape, and pursed his lips while meeting Ms. Lynn's gaze. He closed his eyes, and they fluttered under his eye-lids while he did mental calculations. "It's a guess, but I'd say around 94% and 50% respectively," he finally said. "What's that mean to Thomas?" Mr. Garner asked, bewildered by the child coldly spitting out calculations. "It means, quite simply," the boy said clinically, "that Thomas, now a dominant paranormal is about half likely to die. The odds weigh heavily on the first five years of paranormal activity, but that's assuming supportive parents. Without them, he's two-thirds likely to die." "That's enough, Stephen," Laura said. Ms. Lynn noted a tear welling up in the corner of Laura's eye. Laura had lost a lot of friends. "Jesus Christ," Mr. Garner said. "It's like you're telling me my son's odds are a coin toss." "If he's trans and you accept it, yes. If he's trans and you reject him, it'd be more like loading 4 bullets in a revolver and playing..." Stephen said. "Enough! Stephen. Shut your mouth!" Laura demanded. When Laura Sanders demanded something, people tended to obey. It was part of her paranormal ability. The waiting room fell into a cold silence. "Sorry," Stephen muttered, and went back to his book. ... Tara wandered from the Dream Place, into dark woods of nightmare. The dark woods gave way to abandoned industrial buildings, and in them, a shadowy figure with a maniacal laugh. There was a doorman, standing in the ruined doorway. While everything around him was in ruins and decay, he wore an immaculate coat with long tails, and top-hat. He held out what looked to be an entire human skin, flayed from a body. "Your skin, sir," he offered. She looked down at herself, still a semi-luminous spirit being. "Ma'am. Shouldn't it be 'your skin, ma'am'?" "As you wish, ma'am. You're skin..." She stepped into the skin. It was like a jumpsuit, opened on the front. It was wet with blood inside, and felt like sliding into water that was exactly body temperature. It grafted onto her legs and upward, until her groin felt the familiar but unwanted sensation of male genitals. Upward, sealing across the belly, compressing her breasts, and finally like a hood of flesh, the face slid over her, leaving only her eyes as her own. She had felt this many times, in the moments before waking. She was no longer in the Dream Place, but rather in a dream. She entered ... HE... he entered the crumbled building. It was made of cinderblock, with hints of the remnants of peeling white paint. It smelled musty. His foot crunched down on a bird skeleton. The shadow figure stood waiting for her on the landing of the stairs. "You don't remember me, do you?" it asked. Thomas thought about it. "No," he admitted. "I killed you," it taunted. "Well... considering I'm dreaming, you did a pretty bad job." "You're not dreaming... you're in hELL," it laughed. With that, the already ruined building began to smolder along the edges, disintegrating and erupting into sulphuric flames. "Nice try, but... I have to admit... this isn't my hell," Thomas said, unnerved, but far from afraid. "Noo... ," the Shadowy Figure said. "Maybe THIS is." Suddenly the floor disintegrated, and he fell through a shaft lined with rusted jags of rebar. Before he hit bottom, he awoke. Chapter 5 Cory Jefferson was released back to class after Thomas Garner was taken away by the Paramedics. He climbed to the place on the stairs where he'd entered. There were five scents there now: His own, Ms. Lynn's, Stephen Sanders', Thomas', and a fifth... the boy he passed in the hall. That other kid... Cory didn't know his name, but he knew he'd hurt Thomas. In the school at large, tracking someone was almost impossible. Tracking blood was less difficult, but still a feat. He'd wait to see if he could find the kid again. Two more periods passed, and he tried to pay attention, but everything was Soooo boring. Finally, they let everyone go outside to play for a while. Cory was in full canid form and running laps on the track. On his eighth pass, he stopped, having caught the scent. He turned his nose into the wind and saw the group of students practicing golf swings. One of them was that boy he'd passed. He turned at a sprint toward him. Ms. Flowers blew a silent whistle to call him back. A second later, he was given a reminder jolt. It made him stumble, but he regained his stride. The kids playing golf saw the onrushing Husky, and generally crowded back from it. Andrew McKay wound back with his driver, and smiled. The second jolt from the collar was at mid-level power, and enough to bring Cory to a halt, yards from Andrew McKay. Andrew smiled a wicked smile. "Whatsa-matter, retard dog-boy? Did Tommy fall down a well?" Cory bared his teeth. The moment the collar relented, he lunged forward. The collar activated again, full force. This was like a taser, locking up his muscles. Within range of a swing now, Andrew whipped his driver into Cory's head. "Bad Dog!" he cackled. Then, in something like a fit of fury, he began raining blow after blow on Cory's Husky form, until the big PE teacher Mr. Faber finally restrained him. "That's enough, Andrew," Mr. Faber demanded. "It was self defense. Retard dog-boy was trying to kill me!" he said, trying to sound shocked, but coming across as joking. Mr. Faber wrenched the club from Andrew's hands, and dragged him off toward the administrator's offices. Ms. Flowers requested the school nurse. Cory lie stunned for a moment, before shifting back to near-human form. He whined from the pain, but shifting always put things back in the right place. He still had a lump on his head with a bleeding cut, and a huge head-ache, but was mostly alright. Ms. Flowers looked at him, stunned. "Cory, what is the matter with you. You know you aren't allowed to do those kinds of things." "He hurt a boy today, Ms. Flowers. He made the boy fall down a stairwell. That boy almost died. He's a creep, and ... and..." Cory frowned. He knew there had to be better words for what Andrew was. "He's a bad guy." "Maybe he is, but Cory, hun, with your powers... people are afraid of you. Don't give them any more reason to be, okay? You need to listen to the whistle, remember?" "Yeah," he said. "Are you alright?" "Yeah." Last year, Ms. Flowers had heard that Cory was hit by a delivery truck. Run over by it in fact. And got up and walked away from that. Maybe he could take a lot more than she thought. ... Thomas awoke with a start from a dream. He was sweating and felt feverish. The railing on the side of his hospital bed was bent, under his grip. He had fallen in Hell. His heart raced. Everything seemed too bright, and smelled of the sickeningly potent disinfectants they used to scrub hospitals. A nurse stood nearby, looking at him nervously. "Thomas, are you alright?" "Ummm... yeah. What happened? Why am I in the hospital?" "You had a very bad fall in a stairwell. You're lucky to be alive." "I don't feel like I'm hurt," he said, beginning to test his limbs. They were all there, all his extremities... even the parts he didn't want. The nurse began talking again, but he held up a hand to halt her. "Hold on," he said. There was a message he had to deliver to ... someone. Someone he'd never met. Right, got it. "Sorry, go ahead," he finally said. "We have some folks that would like to give you some psychological tests, if you're up to it." Thomas nodded. He felt okay. Had he landed on his head or something? She returned with a tablet computer shortly. Thomas stared at the Minnesota Multiphasic Personality Inventory. He started chugging through the questions, chuckling at 'Evil spirits possess me at times'. He was trying to figure out why they were giving him the test at all. Maybe they thought he'd tried to commit suicide? Then, the 62nd question: 'I have often wished I were a girl.' Thomas stared at the question for a long time. Honesty... Honesty got you beaten up. Honesty got you ostracized. It got you misery. He wondered if there would be any good to come of it. But these were healthcare professionals. He was certain anything he told them would have to be kept private. Maybe for once being honest wouldn't suck. He answered and moved on. Throughout the afternoon, he was poked and prodded and analyzed, and eventually interviewed by a therapist. No surprise to him, he was told he seemed to have Gender Identity Disorder, soon to be known as Gender Dysphoria! Thomas thought they were changing the name so they could put it in a package with 'New and Improved!' on it. By late afternoon, Ms. Lynn from the school came in to speak with him. Outside the room there was the little wiz-kid from school, Stephen, and someone Thomas thought must be his mother. As Ms. Lynn came in, Thomas' eyes were on the woman outside his room. "Hello again, Thomas," Ms. Lynn said. She caught his glance, and turned to look at Laura. "Is something the matter?" "Who is that lady?" "Her name is Laura Sanders. She was a..." "She was someone the Majorette knew?" Alicia Lynn stared at him for a heartbeat. "Yes." "Can I speak to her for a moment?" "Certainly," Ms. Lynn said, stepping back out the door. A moment later, Laura entered, looking puzzled. "Hi, Mrs. Sanders. This is going to sound really weird. I was asleep... sort of... I spoke to the Majorette. You were in my dream, reading my future. She asked me to give you a message. She said she was sorry, that it wasn't your fault, and that she forgives you." Laura's eyes glistened and her face grew pained. Ms. Lynn looked at her with some distress. Laura backed out of the room, managing a harsh 'Thank you', before departing. "Do you know what that was about?" Ms. Lynn asked him. "No, not really," he admitted. "That was exactly what she needed to hear," she said, looking over her shoulder. He stared after the lady as she went back into the hall, and hugged her young son. "So... now to why I'm here," she continued. "You were... administered an unorthodox medical..." "The Sequence?" She looked at him with surprise. "You don't have any... paranormal heritage, do you?" "No. Why?" "You're showing a lot of very unlikely knowledge. Maybe you were subconsciously picking up what was going on while we worked on you. Anyway... You're going..., " she took note of the bed's bent railing. "Or may have already activated as a paranormal. You'll need to register, and enter FSHA, and you'll need a code-name." Thomas smiled. Ms. Lynn wanted to smile with him, but there were too many old wounds. She wondered which side of the coin-flip Thomas would end up on. Chapter 6 October 12, 1975 Alicia Lynn Conrad sat in the dark subterranean hangar of her new partner, Iron-Clad. He was adjusting the fit of shoulder plates on her new armor. The titanium plates rustled softly across the kevlar bodysuit. "Try that," Iron-Clad suggested. She rotated her shoulder. The plate no longer bound up like it had been. "That's good. What's next?" she asked. He smiled, and handed her a new helmet. She smiled back. His name was actually Perry Jones. He was born and raised in 'Underprivileged Appalachia', the child of coal miners. At puberty, he'd activated, with the only signs being his mechanical/electronic aptitude. He'd only gotten smarter since then. There were no tests that could accurately chart his mental faculties anymore. He'd just left Military R&D and returned to civilian life. The helmet was his newest toy. She slid the helmet into place, adjusted it and fastened the chinstrap. "Built-in gas mask, and this new gizmo," he said, tapping the front of the faceplate. "Say something." "What do you want me to say?" she asked. The sound that came out was eerie. An electronic device was cutting the high end of her voice off, as well as scrambling the voice, and dropping it. The effect made her voice unrecognizable. "Wow..." she muttered. "Now you won't have to be the silent mysterious masked man," he chuckled. She smiled under the mask. Since returning from China, she'd made every effort to separate herself from her previous hero ID, Baton. As far as anyone knew, that day in 1971 saw that last of either of the Action- Girls. She hoped it would remain that way. She'd built a new identity for herself since then: Talon. As a great side-benefit, her armor also masked her gender. She didn't have overly pronounced curves, and the armor had been redesigned to make use of that fact. Only Perry knew, and there was not a psi in the world capable of navigating the labyrinth of his mind to find that information. She suspected their occasional associate Benefactor might know, but they were growing to trust him to keep such information to himself. "So, what's on the agenda for this evening?" she asked. Perry only frowned, and handed across the daily paper. "Recent defendant in murder trail found dead," read the headline. "That's four in as many months," Talon mused. Perry nodded. He stood up with a sigh, and crossed to 'The Vault'. Inside, he stood on the platform and spoke. "Ferum!" The hydraulics of the vault went to work, assembling sophisticated powered armor around him. A minute later, the quiet whooshing of the internal mechanisms accompanied the clanging of metal feet on the concrete floor of the workshop. Talon sometimes wondered if there was even the slightest chance of harming Iron-Clad, if there ever came a need. 'He' somehow doubted it. It was a short flight over to police headquarters. Talon still hated hitching a ride on the exoskeleton. It made him feel like luggage. The police gaped at the heroes' approach. The pair of crime-fighters walked through the municipal building to stand in the waiting room. When the chief was ready, they'd have a talk. Officer Grant approached. The pair had worked with him before. He was one of the few blues that would speak to them. "Hey, Iron-Clad. Talon. Nice to see you guys again. Can I offer you a cup of coffee," he asked cordially. "Not unless you've got really long straws," Iron-Clad said, chuckling. As usual, Talon only held up a hand, palm out, indicating his disinterest. Inside the armor, Alicia was almost enjoying the mystique of her new ID. Chief of Police, Jonathan Adner, opened the door of his office, glanced out, and wearily asked, "Who's next?" The chief was in his mid-fifties, but still rock-hard. He was average height, with salt-and-pepper hair. His piercing gray eyes fixed on the duo. He exhaled, almost whistling through his teeth, and motioned them into his office. As the pair entered his office, he was already into his required CYA (Cover Your Ass) speech. "As you both know, you are here strictly as consultants. I am not granting any police powers to you, nor am I granting you any rights above and beyond the ordinary private investigator in this matter." He spoke loudly and clearly, so that the uniformed officers on the other side of the windows of his office could clearly hear him. Then he closed the shutters. "Now that all that bull-shit is out of the way," he said, tossing a folder on the table. "We can get to business." "Is it a paranormal?" Iron-Clad put point-blank. "Don't know. If it's not, it's special forces or a trained assassin. They left a calling card. Literally." The chief opened the file, and showed a stack of four cards in sealed plastic evidence baggies. Each had the same set of four symbols, each written in blood. In each case, the first two symbols were unique, and the last two were the same. "Any idea what these mean?" "It's ancient Greek, written in a script called Linear B," Iron-Clad said. "The four symbols are, in order 'Ne', 'Me', and 'Si' twice... 'Nemesis' in Modern English." A strange hum emitted from Talon, the remnants of a deep sigh. He visibly slouched. "Sorry," Iron-Clad said, taking his comrade by the shoulder. "OUR Nemesis?" the chief asked. "I don't know." ... "She's too good. Been at the game too long," Talon said from his vantage point, overlooking the warehouse. "So, what? We don't even try?" Iron-Clad asked beside him. "She's a known vigilante, I-C. We've got a file four inches thick on her. She's one of the good guys," Talon said, more focused on the telescopic view afforded by his helmet's optics. "She's a murderer." "She killed four men who escaped life sentences on technicalities." "So, we just let her walk for killing four people?" Iron-Clad said, his voice growing more heated. Talon slumped. "No." The two sat silent for a moment. In the shadows of a nearby alley, a dark figure moved to a side door of the warehouse. "I've got visual," Talon said softly. "I'll cover the rear. You go flush her toward me," Iron-Clad said. His micro-thrusters pushed his exoskeleton into the air, surprisingly quiet for their power. Talon watched his partner move into position. Satisfied, he rappeled off the roof to the ground, and moved quietly to the door Nemesis had entered. He opened the door cautiously. Stepping into the dark warehouse, he reached up and activated his night optics, technology Iron-Clad wouldn't release to the military for years to come. He glanced at the doorframe. He couldn't be sure, but he thought he might have tripped a silent alarm. He had to assume Nemesis knew he was coming. Inside the Talon armor, Alicia could feel her stomach tighten. She always felt nervous going in against paranormals, but this felt totally different. There seemed to be no good solution. Talon swept his eyes across the room. In the darkness, he spotted a flash of movement. Nemesis was totally silent, and her movement suggested she could see as well as Talon in the dark. He continued on the course that he'd chosen, moving his head from side to side... as if looking for his prey. He knew where she was, but didn't want HER to know. He waited for the pounce, but it never came. Instead, Nemesis bolted for the door he'd come through. "She's bolting out the way she came in!" Talon shouted over his radio. He shot after her, swinging the door open, which had only partially closed behind her. Bursting through the door, he was knocked flat on his back by a clothesline strike to his throat. Had he not been armored, the blow would have crushed his windpipe. A second later, a swift kick to the side of his head stunned him nearly senseless. Iron-Clad shook him slightly. "Talon, are you all right?" He carefully rolled his neck, finally convinced of no spinal injury. "Yeah," he said, the hoarseness in the voice cut out electronically. "Well, you did a good job of cleaning this spot of concrete," Iron-Clad said jovially. "Come again." "She mopped the street with you." ... January 4, 1984 "Do you trust this guy?" Talon asked. Iron-Clad paused, reflecting. "I do, but then, I'm not the best judge of character." "What do you mean? You picked ME as a partner, didn't you?" As usual, the deadpan tones of the armor hid virtually all emotional content. Mongrel stood by, listening, but casting an eye back toward the ruined office, where the battle had recently subsided. Iron-Clad's expression was visible through the transparasteel of his face plate. He looked somewhat sad. "Yeah, but I guessed wrong... REALLY wrong, with Bengal... and Medusa. One in three are some slim odds. You shouldn't ask MY opinion on these matters." "What's your gut tell you, I.C.?" "That he's a good guy. Even if he's not, he's just a guy with an interesting ability in electronics. He'll never be much more than a lab assistant." "That's fair. Then, if it's up to me, I say he's in," Talon finally said with some force. Mongrel looked back at Talon. "I agree. He can be our paper pusher. I'm sick of filling out F.B.I. reports." Mongrel patted out the smoldering spot on his Brown's jersey. "Dammit," he muttered. "Hey, I.C., you can make space ships, but you can't make me a flame retardant costume?" The trio walked into the wrecked remains of the office space. The anxious teen shifted glances nervously. Talon thought the kid couldn't be more than 14. "What's your name, son?" Talon asked. "Larry... Larry Blackston," he said nervously. Iron-Clad smiled beneath his armor. "No, he means, what's your NAME," Larry beamed with a brilliant smile. "X-Or!" Moments later, the trio, now plus one, were cruising over the Cleveland skyline. Talon's thruster-cycle carried Mongrel, as usual, and Iron-Clad carried the young X-Or. The group dove into an unused industrial area, through the double sliding doors of an abandoned building, and into a tunnel that dove underground. X-Or watched the emergency lights of the tunnel whoosh past in pairs, like a subway tunnel. The group finally slowed and landed on a reinforced concrete landing pad. Iron-Clad opened a panel on his wrist, and engaged the security systems. X-Or stood mystified, staring at the crest emblazoned on the wall... The Golden Shield. "Does this make me a member?" he asked, hopefully. "Honorary reserve, but yes," Iron-Clad answered. "Bitchin'!" The teen nearly screamed. "So, what now?" "Now, you do what you do best, organize information," Talon said flatly. "I don't s'pose you... uhhhh... cook or anything?" Mongrel asked hopefully. "Uhh... no." The teen replied to the decidedly unpleasant-looking canine humanoid. "Man, this group needs some chicks," Mongrel lamented. Talon paid no attention to his teammate. He'd decided that Mongrel was crude, and rather unpleasant looking... and smelling, but Virgil Jefferson was basically a really good guy, cursed with a really unpleasant mutation. He didn't complain about it. He took it in stride, and made the best of it. Talon led the teen back into the growing subterranean complex that was their stronghold. "Here's where your job starts, in the morgue," Talon said. "Morgue?" the teen asked, growing wide-eyed. "Like a newspaper or library morgue, not a dead person morgue," Talon reassured the youth. X-Or exhaled, and the color came back into his face. "I'd like you to give us an idea if you can get our files into a better system. It'd be great if you could act as sort of a dispatcher for us, when we're in the field, and feed us information as we need it," Iron- Clad explained. "What kind of information?" "Well... particularly if we run into paranormals, it'd be nice if we had an idea of what to expect. Given a video still or description, if we could get a rundown on powers and Holloran rating," Iron-Clad offered. "How you going to get photos to me that fast, unless you pack a camera in that suit of yours," The youngster scoffed. "Well... yes, I do. So does Talon. And Mongrel has one in his utility belt," Iron-Clad confirmed. "Oh...sweet. So... what's the budget for the computer system?" X-Or asked. "You tell me." Iron-Clad returned. ... Several weeks had passed since the team had brought in the wayward teen. X-Or had basically moved into the headquarters. The best efforts of Golden Shield to find any of his relatives gained no results. Paperwork was in progress to grant the exceptional teen legal emancipation, and allow him the necessary government clearances to legally work with Golden Shield. Until then, X-Or busied himself with constructing the hardware, and software, required to act as the informational heart of Golden Shield. Talon walked into the new computer room, carrying boxes of files. "Feel like more data entry?" Talon asked flatly. X-Or yawned and stretched, glancing at his watch. "Sure. I'm pretty much done with the active cases and criminals. What's next?" "All of the M.I.A., presumed deads, and inactive for more than five years cases," he said. "Why do you care about getting those in the system? Wouldn't it make more sense to get all the Orbiters in next, in case of a breakout?" the teen asked. "How many breakouts have there been from any of the Orbit facilities?" Talon asked sharply. "None." X-Or verified. "And how many times has some villain popped up long after being presumed dead?" Talon continued. "Okay, Jet Jaguar, I get your point." "Jet Jaguar?" Talon asked cautiously. "It's from a Godzilla movie. I don't know. Your armor kinda reminds me of him for some reason," X-Or said, grabbing the first file. Talon picked up the next file on the stack, 'Serpentine'. The paranormal had been in several fights with Golden Shield, but was presumed killed in an industrial explosion. Talon set the file aside. The next file was thick, and wrapped with a thick and aging rubber band. Nemesis. Talon flipped through the file. Newspaper clippings were packed inside. "Nemesis Saves Tenants in House Fire", "Benefactor and Nemesis Capture Tri-Mind", "Due to Increase in Vigilantism, Congress Proposes Bill". For every murder where the Nemesis calling card was found, there were at least ten acts of conspicuous heroism. Capturing Nemesis would be bittersweet at best. Still, nine dead was nine dead, and there was no way to deny that protectors of the innocent had to draw a line somewhere. They, like every other citizen, had to abide by the law. "So, do I ever get to meet the man beneath the mask?" X-Or asked out of the blue. "Some day, kid. I'm a very private person, but my total trust can be earned. It'll happen in due time, okay?" X-Or made none of his characteristic smart remarks. He nodded thoughtfully, and went back to work. Chapter 7 Mr. Mark Garner helped his son Thomas into the pick-up truck. Thomas had gone from critical condition to stable, to being discharged in 5 hours. Mr. Garner waited for Thomas to buckle in before starting up the truck. He backed out of a parking space cautiously, and started forward. He was concentrating on driving, because the necessary conversation wasn't something he looked forward to. He cleared his throat. "So... ummm...," he tried to begin, exhaling heavily. "It's kind of an embarrassing thing to talk about for you, isn't it?" Thomas offered. "Yeah. I expected to have to give you 'the talk' at some point. This isn't exactly the talk I was working up to," he laughed uncomfortably. "Dad... look... I love you. Okay? I'm sorry this is hard," Thomas said. "How long have you... felt like... you know," Mr. Garner tried. "All my life," Thomas said. Mr. Garner nodded, mulling it over. Finally, he pulled into the parking lot of a McDonalds. He put the truck in park, killing the engine, and rubbing his face vigorously. "Shit," he said softly. "I got nothing here. I got no idea what I'm supposed to say, or how I'm supposed to react. I'm not sure if I screwed up somewhere or if this stuff just happened. I don't..." "Are you ashamed of me?" Thomas asked, a little teary. "No. No, it's just... Shit... maybe. I don't know. What am I supposed to tell the guys at work? 'How's your son there, Mark?'. 'Oh, he's my superhero daughter now. Great tits, too!'" Mr. Garner started laughing, shaking his head, near tears. Thomas held his hand over his mouth, not knowing if he was near laughter or tears himself. Mr. Garner looked over at his child, maybe near tears. He leaned over and hugged his kid. "Don't mind me. I'm a shit-head," he said. "Ms. Lynn said you'd probably be hungry. You want something?" "Yeah." Mr. Garner ordered in the drive through, and returned to a space in the parking lot. He chewed on a cheeseburger and stared forward. He thought about the 50/50 odds of survival, and the 4 bullets in a revolver. The difference was one bullet. The biggest difference he could exert was one bullet. But God damn it, it was his kid, and he'd take that bullet, if he could. Any dad that wasn't a sack of shit would do the same. "Dad," Thomas said. "Yeah, hon." "I'm scared." "That's kind of what growing up is like," Mr. Garner admitted. "I have a code-name thought out for the FSHA." "Yeah?" "Majorette." Mark Garner turned to meet his child's eyes, and burst into tears. ... Ms. Lynn stood with Laura Sanders in the Training Room in Marshal High School. Laura helped straighten the room as best she could. "I've got to get going here shortly," Laura admitted. "Well... I want to thank you for giving me some heads up about this incident," Ms. Lynn said. "You know I have no control over any of it. I just report what I feel." Ms. Lynn nodded. "Before I go...," Laura added tentatively. "You have three days to get the kids ready." "Ready for what?" Ms. Lynn asked. Laura slid a card across a table toward her. On it were four symbols, written in red ink. Ms. Lynn's face grew dark. Chapter 8 September 17, 1995 Alicia Lynn stood stretching in her workout outfit. Her students, predominantly females, mirrored her motions. "Good, slow. Don't yank your body. We're trying to stretch, not tear. Good, Shana. Everyone, look at Shana, that's perfect form." A subtle vibration on her wrist caught her attention. "Class, you have to excuse me. Shana, come up front, the routine is laid out in the binder here. Please lead the class," she commented hastily. She looked at her watch as she exited the classroom. A small red light was blinking. As she left the classroom, she broke into a sprint, not for the locker room, but out of the athletic center of Marshal High and toward the nearby woods. Her shoes, designed for workout, slid through the mud, left by early autumn rains. Cautiously, she vaulted a small creek, and scrambled up a bank on the far side. A woodpile rested there, in the back yard of an old house. Pealing the tarp off the pile, she turned a particular piece of wood, and the false woodpile fell open on both sides, revealing a small machine, a hybrid of motor-cycle and repulsor-craft. It was possibly one of the most sophisticated pieces of equipment in the world. Thirty seconds later, she'd donned the armor stashed with the machine, and Talon was racing North to Cleveland. "X-Or, this is Talon en-route. What's the situation?" "The Unholy are up in Chicago. They're holding the Sears Tower. There's a hostage situation. The Peace Keepers have requested aid from Golden Shield. They've also called in The Archers from Saint Louis. "Do we know how many hostages?" "Something like two thousand, spread throughout the building. The Unholy have more than twenty armed men, rigged with explosives, and carrying dead-man switches," X-Or explained. Talon realized, looking back, that X-Or was what made Golden Shield more than a bunch of unorganized individuals. His abilities, particularly in seeing patterns in information, were an invaluable asset in investigation. And investigative skill was what set great paranormal outfits apart from good ones. "Any forthcoming recon?" he continued with his barrage of questions. "Ghost of the Archers will be on scene soon. He might be able to get better recon than any other person. I'm working on patching into the Tower's internal camera network, but it's tough going. A hard line patch is probably the only way I'll be able to link in," X-Or said. "I'll be in Cleveland in..." Talon paused to check ETA. "Nine minutes." The friction shielding on the bike was engaged, and he ascended to over 26000 feet. The transponder on the bike, now broadcasting an emergency vehicl