Avenger Assembled

"If they doesn't show, we'll go back where we started and turn up the heat," hissed Jack, promising things considerably finer than frostbite and open graves at his place. Jack really did look perfectly at ease in the graveyard, his body radiating a faint magical signature, Avenger's costume oddly humanizing in the blackness. "Seems like the best place as any. Not going to be meeting in any space station. Or basement," he added, a little unkindly. Scarab's place had been nicer than that.

Avenger was just a few minutes behind Phantom, appearing atop a nearby mausoleum like a crouching bird of prey. No breath smoked in front of him; he was as still as a statue till he spoke. "Isn't this romantic?" he growled, knowing Taylor would hear the joke in his voice. "Hope the boys appreciate it." He jumped down from his perch, landing near Phantom's feet. "See if this goes better than last time."

The envelope was plain, no stamp or return address. There were just two handwritten lines on it. Inside was a hand-written letter. Not exactly neat and crisp, it was definitely James's handwriting. To whoever reads this (Hopefully Erin or one of the YF crew): If you're reading this, then I'm gone (or you opened it before you were supposed to; a distinct possibility given you guys; one reason I'm not saying where I am). I failed and hopefully I'm dead. Seems odd to write that but it's true. And if I did win, I'll have torn this up before you ever read it and it won't matter either way. Anyway, yeah. I'm gone. I went to fight my last battle. I know you guys would have been willing to help, but it wasn't your fight. And the thought one of you guys being killed or damned because me was not something I was willing to accept. This was my fight. My choice, right Erin? Anyway, I've chosen my side. He can burn down there for eternity. I've been keeping something from my friends, you guys, a big thing. Erin knows but that's 'cause she found me when I was sleeping. I probably wouldn't have told her otherwise; not like I could hide it after that. I can lie better than almost anyone but that one would be tough to cover. Anyway, I suppose it helped cement our friendship; those early late nights when neither of us was exactly trusting. Glad she forgave me for almost stabbing her. Gonna miss hanging out with you. If I never said it: Thanks for being my friend Erin. You'll never know how much it's meant to me. All of you guys mean a lot to me. I've never had real friends before you know. You guys were the first. Lots of people might think I'm their friend; I'm certainly good at convincing people to think it. But you guys are the real thing. When I was growing up, I was never let out of the Family's sight. Never went to a real school. Even among the Family, I wasn't exactly welcomed with open and loving arms. (I didn't learn why until a few years ago.) They weren't exactly willing to risk it. Despite the stuff I had and things I could and did possess, friends were not one of them. I kind of struck out on my own, created a ˜new me' who didn't need people. Just used them and did whatever I chose. When I learned the truth about myself, it just reinforced that part of my persona. And made it apparent that I shouldn't share anything beyond that. That's the James who came here. Who was met by Mark and that priest (still ticks me off how they tried to rub my face in it). Who I am, the way I act is part of that. But since then, you guys relied on me, made me part of the Young Freedom (it's still a dorky name Mark). So I changed, a little at a time. I still did the dating and partying and having fun. And yeah, I've done some less-than-good-guy things still (Zoe: if you're reading this, you're on your own if you want to finish. I don't think you should continue but follow your heart. It'll work out.) But I didn't use you guys. Just the opposite really. I did things for you that had no really benefit for me. A first I suppose. You were and are my friends. But still I didn't tell you or even hint at the truth. I didn't want to lose you guys. It wasn't exactly a minor thing. I know we've seen weird things and people have weird secrets and stuff. This just seemed a bit bigger. How can you ask people to look at you the same way after they know the truth about you? Just wasn't something I wanted to¦ something that I just couldn't do. So, for lying to you guys, I'm sorry. Even now, I'd rather keep it to myself than come clean so you don't think the worst about me. Hopefully I'm dead and gone and not coming back. That it's all worked out for the best. But¦there's a chance, there's always a chance, things will go wrong and 'I' will be back. If so, just remember that James is gone. Whoever is left is not your friend. Get a holy weapon or something, fight on holy ground. That's the only way to put 'me' down for sure. True faith, true holy stuff. Get a good priest if you need to. It's the only way to really kill a demon you know. And this demon (half anyway) will be the one to destroy the world or so they say. Do what you have to. Don't hesitate or hold back. Be the heroes you are all meant to be. Little downer there. Hopefully it won't happen, but had to hedge my bets right? Hopefully it'll all work out and I'll be back before dawn and no one will ever know. If my will ever kicks in (in like 7 years since that's how long missing persons have till declared dead), I hope you enjoy it. Till then, be safe. Enjoy life. Be happy. Sorry for not being able to tell you the truth. Thank you all for being my friends. James

Of the first memory Taylor had of being ripped through the void, the most vivid part was the sensation of finally being warm again. She had emerged wrapped in the huge and heavy, comforting layers of the cloak. Sometimes, Taylor almost swore that the cloak seemed alive. Certainly it writhed with a sort of living energy when she made booming speeches and reacted to her pain but that was a little much to believe even for the mystic. The fact was, Taylor loved her cloak. Oh, she wasn't fond of her leotard and the thigh boots were a little much but the cloak, that Taylor did love. Sometimes, she thought it even loved her in return, not that she would have ever admitted to such a foolish notion. Take, for instance, the last time she'd been lit on fire. Now, ignoring the depressing fact that there was enough times that Taylor had been lit on fire to have a 'last time I was lit on fire' story, but the cloak had almost wrapped around her protectively even as it went up in flames. Not that being wrapped in burning fabric was the best of sensations, but still, it had been better than her flesh lit on fire that was for damn certain. Taylor even occasionally fell asleep wrapped up in Phantom's cloak. It was fortunate she lived alone as that would have been difficult to explain to room-mates. You could only go to so many costume parties a year and pass out on the couch afterwards. Even in college. It wasn't that she needed the warmth, certainly, Taylor could nap in deep space if she felt like it but there was something deeply comforting about being wrapped in the cloak's fabric. The apartment was never really a home, but the cloak was. Not to sound too hobo-fabulous, or anything. Even during the times she'd been sleeping on Stesha's couch and staying over at Jack's apartment, she'd never felt truly displaced. All she had to do was curl up with her cloak thrown over her lap to watch a movie or work on homework and it was as much a home as her house had ever been. Yes, Taylor could really take or leave the mask and leather boots. But the cloak now, that was essential.

Dark Star walked, or more aptly floated, into the room. He 'sat' in the chair, for appearance sake. Opposite him, a lovely young woman checked her notes. Facing them both, cameramen doubled checked their equipment. They didn't bother asking about clipping a mic to the hero. The small concealed one next to his chair would have to do. Dark Star nodded to the young woman as she turned to the camera and began introductions. He had agreed to this, somewhat reluctantly. It seemed an awful lot like grandstanding to him. But he'd been assured this was a perfectly normal thing. So, after making allowances for his rather busy schedule and sense of responsibility, here he was talking about himself. Now, after a short break his interview continued. "Is this," he gestured to himself, "a mask or costume? No, not at all. This is who I really am. It's not a costume. The energy I generate by my existent, without getting into the scientific ramifications and technicalities, is impossible to perceive normally. This is why I appear as a dark 'hole' in space. I wish I looked a little different admittedly. This dark form can appear somewhat grim and scary to some. There was this time when briefly I had a lighter and brighter, uh, form. Besides certain, uh, complications at the time, I'd rather be like that. Brighter coloured that is. It isn't exactly easy to inspire people when you look like this but I do my best." "And that is who Dark Star, who I am, is really. Someone who just want to help and show the brighter side. I have very little to hide. And what I do, it is to protect others. Yes, I can assume a human form. But up until recently, I would have said that that human form was the mask. That solid form was just there to 'blend in'. That human form was just something I 'wore' once in a while. Dark Star is the true individual." "That isn’t quite true anymore. I found someone special that I can only be with as a human. I've probably spent more time as a solid being in the last few months than I would have ever dreamed of doing years ago. And I can't even image not being human now because of it; where months before I was doubtful there was any real reason to appear human or even stay on Earth for an extended period. Anyway, even as a human, I still live my beliefs as Dark Star." "I act according to my conscious. I admit to being a bit…idealistic compared to some. But I choose to see the good in ever being. To see their potential. I admit that humanity has some ways to go on its travel as an evolved species. But humanity has such potential. Humans are capable of amazing acts of nobility, kindness and concern for others. How could I not choose to embrace those aspects to show the world that everyone can reach their potential and live those beliefs? We must all do our part after all." "If there is a 'mask' or 'costume', it is a thin one at best. It is just what I am, wear and do at all times. And admittedly, it has been pulled over my eyes before, blinding me to deceptions. But honestly, I wouldn't have it any other way. I choose to believe in people and their potential. Even if they don't. As Dark Star, I try to show the world that nobility, kindness and goodness can prevail. That it works. That together, we can make the world a better place.' He paused a moment. "I'm not sure if I've adequately answered your question or not. Regardless, there's a silent alarm being trigged. I apologize but I'm afraid I'm needed elsewhere. We'l have to continue the interview another time." With a flicker, Dark Star flashed upwards, flying though the ceiling so quickly he almost appeared to simply disappear.

Erik Espadas sat in his room, head resting on the arms folded across the back of his chair, staring at the costume lying on his bed. The eye holes in the crimson bandana seemed to stare back at him, and the young West Ender had the unsettling feeling of staring down an unblinking opponent. His mouth felt dry and chalky and his hands itched to snatch up the mask and put it on. He'd been patrolling his neighbourhood as the swashbuckling Jack of all Blades for about three years now. At first it had just been a few blocks, to make sure the muggers and vandals didn't get too close to the modest home he shared with his mother and sister. Over the months the area he considered his responsibility kept expanding, growing to include the entire West End, even seeping into the rest of Freedom City. Erik had started carrying the costume with him everywhere he went, 'just in case,' he'd told himself. He began looking for any excuse to become Jack, travelling past his usual borders in search of fights he couldn't always win. It consumed more and more of his time, to the point where he realised he'd begun to sleep less and even turn down extra hours at his various jobs. That, he supposed, had been the tip off. Before, he could always argue that he had a responsibility to the city to be out there, protecting the public, but he had a greater responsibility to support his family, and every dollar helped. Erik had been forced to admit that he was spending more time as Jack because he liked it. And why not? As Jack he could do things Erik could never do; leap from rooftop to rooftop, foiling crimes and spouting quips, all while blissfully anonymous behind his mask and wig. It was the power fantasy of everyone who had grown up with superhumans soaring overhead made reality. For a young man who's obligations had far outweighed his years, the freedom of it was intoxicating. That was the trouble, Erik mused darkly. It was like a drug, a rush that never got old but demanded more and more of him. Jack of all Blades was only ever supposed to be a mask for Erik Espadas the wear, to protect those important to him, to honour his heroes. More and more, however, it seemed to be the other way around. He'd caught himself thinking of himself as 'Jack' more than once now, even when out of costume, and every moment as 'Erik' felt like a performance, an elaborate con. He was losing himself to it, and the worst part was that he wasn't sure he minded. There was an easy answer, of course. He could simply stop being a superhero. It wasn't like the city couldn't manage without his meagre abilities; there were a dozen more to take his place. He could throw the mask away and let Erik Espadas slowly return to being. One last act of heroism: saving himself. The sound of wailing police sirens cut through the heavy silence, growing louder then softer as they passed by outside. Erik squeezed his eyes shut and held his breath. When his eyes snapped open, Jack scooped up his great coat from the bed, and was out the window, speeding after the sirens moments later.

Who am I? You sure you want to know? My story isn't for the faint of hea... Great. The movie was starting and Yuki was stuck outside with her classmates who were still waiting for the ticket voucher to clear. It was excruciating. She was looking forward to this all month and she was missing it. _missing_ it. All cause her stupid Art teacher was lax in sendng enough money to the theatre. So now he was calling the school while Yuki was waiting outside with five others. "I just don't understand why she wears a mask, is all." Yuki was also privy to the argument the five were having. Or rather, arguments. They were all about the various concepts of Spiderman. Yet, this was different. Ricky, the one she just heard, said 'her'. "Lana Loeb, I had to do a report on one of her editorials, made a good point. Why should these 'heroes' have to hide behind a mask? Cops don't hide behind a mask. Neither do firefighters, or military men..." "I bet you wish you did, rick. I heard you pissed in your pants when the bus was attacked on that bridge!" Yuki smirked hard at that and turned her head away as she heard the brash boy sputtering. "-p-p-p...b-b-but at least I stayed! I heard Yuki ran out the back of the bus!" "It's true she dispeared just as soon as the bus was attacked!" Doh! "So masks have a purpose it seems?" "Yep. It hide things that are worth hiding." Rick was regaining that bravado again. "Like that Tarantula girl... Loeb put a scathing iron on her this morning." "Really?" Yuki asked almost by reflex. Fortunately, noone questioned her sudden interest. "Yeah... 'Brash, know nothing scofflaw who thinks that cheap laughs and a bright red outfit that shows off her posterior covers the fact that she is nothing more then another free loader who is in it merely for the attention. She's as dangerous, if not more dangerous...'..." Ricky stopped and looke at Yuki. "Are you okay, Yuki?" "Huh, what?" Yuki blinked back the redness that was forming. "...ust getting agitated that the movie starting and we're out here..." Elisabeth, the one hanging of Ricky's arm like a sickening suck up, whiped her hair back. "How old do you think she is? My dad says she's 14 tops." "With a body like that!?" "Watchout, she may be jail bait." "Technically, we're all Jailbait. Someone sounds ignorant, don't they..." "Look..." Ricky cut off the two (Sam and Kevin) argument short. "...all I'm saying is that Tarantula is wearing a mask, cause she knows that she has no business doing what she's doing..." "There could be another reason..." All eyes looked at Yuki again. "Oh? And perhaps the Queen of Tardiness care to elaborate?" Ricky's barb almost caused Yuki to retort in kind. She bit it back, remembering that she wasn't Tarantula right now. "Well, let's say for the sake of arguement, that I'm Tarantula..." The laughs from everyone of her peers was almost crushing. "y-You!? Girl, if you was Tarantula and is STILL late for school, then you have to be a 'tard!" Yuki swallowed back another retort. "ANYWAY... lets say if I was Tarantula..." "Which you're not!" "Right, but if I was..." Yuki paused. "...well I have no father, Just a mother. She's a clerk over at the deli across from where we live..." "And that's why you're always late at school?" Ricky shrugged. "...what does that have to do with Tarantula?" "Everything! Think about it... if you wanted to strike at me and hurt me, how would you do so?" "Me? I'd..." "Attack me straight up? How? Remember, I can crawl walls, leap buildings and swing on webs..." "Gah! Uhm..." Ricky thought about it, all eyes on him... "...your Mom! I'd blackmail you or kidnap her... NOT THAT I DO SUCH A THING!" Yuki laughed. "Of course not... but think of this. You can't." "Why not... I know..." "You don't know jack..." In more ways then one, "...I wear a mask. Remember?" The group around them nodded. "So what are you saying? Se wears a mask to protect her dear old mother? Lame!" Ricky shrugged. "Comeon! How do we even know if she HAS a mother... or if she even cares? Do criminal's wear masks to protect6 their mommies? Nope. They do it to protect their own hides." "Your opinion..." "...It's fact! At least Loeb has fact to back her up! She had Johnny Rocket pegged as a deviant from the start and now look!" "Why don't you marry her then!" Yuki shrugged. "I didn't run away if you must kinow. I was at5 the bridge and I saw her save people. I'm quite sure the LAST trhing she wants is to see one of those bug things attack her mother... or father!" Yuki caught herself there. Yikes, that was close. "Say what you will, but I 'do' think the mask is needed. If for nothing more then to protect her from ignorant people like Loeb..." "Come kids! You're cleaed to go in!" The teens looked over at the teacher aide who was waving them in. Elisabeth was the first to speak. "Finally, it was getting cold out here!" She entered the theatre, Ricky in tow. Yuki slow walked her way to being the last one in. Shedoubted her point wet across. But she had just the thing to cheer her up... *** The city room of the Daily Herald was buzzing. Lana watched as people was walking all around her, careful to at least 'look' like they were working hard. Soon, the microwave finished and she took out her warmed bagel, carfully grabbing her cup of coffee she began to walk to her office. When she placed down the food and turned to lock the door, she never noticed the open window, nor the turned office chair. No. she walked around and sat down. The squishing sound made her jump. Of course, jumping was impossible, since she was apparently 'stuck' to the chair. "What in blue blazes!?" Her shriek caused her secretary to rush in... then even she froze as she looked past her... Lana turned her chair in time to catch a red mask. She looked up and at the window, hanging upside down on a webline, was none other then Tarantula. "Thought you might need a mask now. It's going to be a while before that webbing desolves. Hope you have nowhere to go till then..." "You....you..." Lana was fuming. And then she saw Tarantula take out something else and tossed it on her lap. It was a photo... of her butt? "After hearing about your raving review of my posterior, I thought it was only right to give you a souvenir. I autographed it and everything. Anyway, take it easy, chuckles!" Lana stood up and fell to the floor due to the chair throwing off her weight. She already heard the laughing from those that saw her. Lana's pride was the only thing keeping her from hiding behind Tarantula's mask...

Avenger Hockey Mask Midtown Jack sat in his lush apartment, a glass of blood in hand, studying the mute skull-face in the chair opposite him. "You were supposed to be a lark, you know. Just a simple little diversion for my boring mornings and evenings. Look at me now, thanks to you." He took a drink. "I'm a superhero, I've got..." He swirled the blood in his glass and thought of Taylor. "I've got a woman I love. A real, human woman, friends, and...half the city knows what I am. Most of the vampires know too." He stared down at what he drank. "I don't even know if they realize the full implications of my existence." He set the glass down, looking intently at the hockey mask across from him. "God, it's so hard to remember how living people act. How living people think." He scrubbed his hands through his thick, glossy black hair. "It's just a joke to most of them, you know? Oh, look at the vampire who's a superhero, how very cornball and heroic." Gently, carefully, he replaced the glass on a nearby table. "I'm not like them. I'm not like them at all, really." A crackling fire burned in his apartment's fireplace, the light casting an eerie red and orange glow over Jack and his surroundings. "That's what I'm really afraid of," he finally said. "Maybe the only thing I really am afraid of. One day that particular mask is going to slip, and Taylor's going to see me at my worst. Or Scarab, or any of the others who've basically trusted me for so very long..." He shuddered, rising to his feet as he picked up the glass again from the nearby end table. "So what do I do? I put a hockey mask on and I go out and beat up muggers. And gods, and extra-dimensional tyrants, and...God." He rubbed his eyes, studying the mask again. "I can't keep doing that." Walking up to the mask, he bent down and studied the plastic most carefully, remembering his long-ago argument with the Scarab. Not so long ago, I guess, in the grand scheme of things. "The hockey mask is about scaring people. About hurting them, even when I'm supposed to be their protector." He touched the plastic. "If I'm going to be a hero, a real hero, who actually inspires people...this is one mask I don't need."

Ever since she was little, Lynn loved Halloween, for a wide variety of reasons. For one thing, along with Thanksgiving it was one of the two non-Jewish holidays her family celebrated. Her father was a fairly relaxed Conservative Jew who loved horror movies, and he saw no harm in letting his kids dress up like monsters and eat candy; after a fairly heated discussion, he finally convinced her mother it was one thing the kids could share with their Gentile friends and schoolmates. During her Aladdin phase, young Sherilyn Epstein dressed up as Princess Jasmine three years in a row, and cried for days when her mom told her she'd completely grown out of the costume and would have to be someone else. The memory of her childhood tantrum made Grim smile as she perched like a gargoyle over Broadway, watching people troop in and out of one of the ubiquitous Halloween stores, shopping bags in hand. It always amazed her how man of these places popped up in empty storefront in October, like black and orange mushrooms after a dark and stormy night. What was it about fake cobwebs and rubber skeletons that thrilled her so? Even as a little kid, the morbid and ghoulish fascinated her, especially stories that touched upon her family's past, and both sides of her family tree had a few dark and twisted branches. Her great-great-grandfather Karl Epstein was an opportunistic thug who supposedly fled a murder charge in Germany, sailing to America using a dead man's name; he became a bootlegger and mob enforcer, at one time almost as feared as the legendary Dutch Schultz. Her great-grandfather Ira Silberman started as a simple cabinetmaker, but started designing trick trunks and tables for master illusionists like Blackstone and Berastro, eventually performing on stage himself as "the Amazing Al-Kazara". However, when the limelight faded, he used his genuine occult powers (discovered quite by chance) to fight evil in the shadows, even aiding the Liberty League on occasion. He pulled off his final vanishing act back in 1957, and hadn't been seen since. So in a very real sense mischief ran in her veins, the blood of tricksters and thieves, mummers and murders, all before her transformation into a living breathing fairy tale. After meeting Mr. Silver at his Lantern Hill shop back in September, it all started to make sense; magic didn't just touch the life of anyone, it sought out those who were pre-disposed to it, either by birth or circumstance, or possibly both. And that put Lynn right in the mystical crosshairs of the universe. A loud gurgle from her stomach told her it might be a good time to make dinner plans, so Grim quietly made her way down the side of the building, invisible to all, and stepped out of the alley in her street clothes, as herself. Sometimes it was like her life before the change had happened to somebody else; she could barely remember a time when she couldn't look and dress exactly how she wanted to, slipping from one guise to another as easy as blinking. She almost pitied the rest of the world, stuck in one body and one face from cradle to grave, to be instantly judged, labeled and categorized by others by all who see them. How did she live before she broke free of the shackles of self? As she stood in line by the pushcart, waiting her turn for a kosher red hot, she suddenly felt the vast gulf that separated her from the rest of humanity; did being able to be anyone mean that she was, in fact, no one? Her guts twisted and her head went light, but soon the moment passed. No; everyone presents a mask to the world, a different face for lovers, coworkers, children and bosses. She was just better at it than most people, that's all. She was still as human as anyone else, she just had more options. Smiling at the push cart vendor, she took her dog and diet Coke and wandered off into the night, humming a tune to herself that she didn't quite recognize. But once she did, she laughed and belted out the lyrics as loud as she could. "I gotta be me! I gotta be me!"Â

For Fleur de Joie. Midtown October 24 (Takes place during Con GamesÂ) After separating from her friends, Stesha made her way through the crowd of convention-goers towards the women's restroom. She blended in pretty well with the crowd here, which was mostly young, though there were quite a few more men than women, and she was conscious of a few looks her way. Maybe it was the hair. She'd sort of gotten used to getting double-takes for her very long, very green locks. But for the moment, she was just one more attendee, exercising a little bit of reasonably healthy hero worship for the people who kept their hometown and the whole world safe. Despite the pinch of time, she looked over a booth or two, grinning at the comic books, toys and memorabilia on display. Once she'd done her thing and changed back, she'd have to stop by this way again and pick up some stuff for her brothers for Christmas. They were all adults, but they'd love some of this stuff. The idea of Christmas still made her feel a little nervous inside, but she was trying to work through it. She knew she'd go home, she wanted and needed to be there, but could she keep living the lie that was already difficult from a thousand miles away? And what about Derrick? She wanted him to be there too, but it wasn't fair to him to ask him to participate in her deception. Even if she'd thought he'd be able to do it convincingly, which seemed unlikely. She'd have to figure something out before the holidays, but it wasn't even Halloween yet! She still had time. Stepping into the ladies room, she walked up to the sink and patiently played with her hair while two women who were already in there finished up and left. Finally alone, she stepped into a stall, leaving it unlocked, and touched the little chain of daisies she'd put around her wrist that morning. (Braiding flowers into her hair had just seemed unsubtle today, somehow.) A quick breathless trip through living green, and she was back in her own apartment, where her costume was neatly laid out and waiting. It was much easier to do it that way than to try and change in the bathroom, certainly! Stesha quickly stripped to her underthings, then began putting on her costume. The green pants and shirt were easy enough, close-fitting but not the hated spandex, they were easy to move in and very resistant to damage or stains. That was important to a hero whose man activities tended to include a lot of gardening. After the pants came calf-length brown boots with low heels, enough to give her a little height without cutting divots if she had to walk or run on wet ground, and her utility belt, as she jokingly called it. It wasn't a real utility belt like the comic book Freedom Leaguers had, with a hundred useful little gadgets, it was more a toolbelt that was mostly pockets. Most of the pockets were filled with seeds and leaves and roots, the tools of her trade, though there were also spots for her wallet and cell phone. It paid to be prepared! Those outfit pieces were all useful, but that wasn't what really made the costume a disguise. Next, Stesha pulled on the long cowled cape that completed the outfit. Dark brown like freshly turned earth, it had sleeves and buttoned across her chest, stopping just below her breasts in the front and continuing in the back to a cape that hit the back of her knees. The hood came up around her face and hid her hair, probably her most recognizable feature, and rendering her all but anonymous. With her face cast in shadow, the domino mask she used to cover her eyes completed the transition. Fully dressed, she went over to the mirror and looked at herself. She wasn't Stesha Madison, florist, anymore, not even a hint. She was Fleur de Joie, a superhero from Freedom City, and she looked pretty darn good, if she did say so herself. Grinning cheekily at herself in the mirror, Stesha did one more quick turn to check herself over, then touched her flowers again. There was a potted plant waiting in the green room at the Hall, and she didn't want to be late.

It was a great burden to understand so much, and yet know so little; it was a burden Tempest carried daily. He understood why the trees grew the way they did, he understood why the clouds formed the way they did at any given time, but he knew nothing about the humans. He was sent out into their world to learn about them, to understand them, and maybe even to become like them. But as he steadily coming to understand, he really wasn't like them, and very well couldn't be. It wasn't the fact that he was made different, or looked different; the humans could learn to look past given enough time. No what set them apart was the human perception of the world. The humans saw everything too narrowly. They wanted to easily quantify and understand everything. If truly understanding something took too much effort, they would simply jump to whatever assertion was closest at hand, even if it was incorrect. Better to have a grasp on something, then to go through life unsure. And better to be sure now, rather than understand later. For a long while, Tempest had tried over and over again to have humans understand his nature, but that proved to be a futile endeavor. What he was, was simply far too alien for most humans to even consider let alone grasp. Tempest's origin wasn't even something humans had begun to speculate might have existed. So Tempest, changed strategies. He realized that he didn't need to be understood, not yet. He did however need the humans to know that he was on their side, and truly cared for them. The humans were then quick to fill in the less important gaps for themselves, most of which was wild speculation, but it made the humans sure of themselves. It reasserted their sense of superiority. Humans always wanted to feel in control regardless of the circumstances. That is why the motion pictures tend to have 1 lone character prevailing against vastly superior foes, both in terms of numbers and resources. It shows the humans that hope is never truly lost and one single person can make a difference. So Tempest needed to be recognized as a hero and a defender of humanity. After observation of the well regarded heroes, Tempest began to match his mannerisms to theirs. They all seemed to display themselves prominently in the face of the villain humans but when conversing with the crowd humans and the reporter humans they seemed to be much more subdued. This is what the humans referred to as being approachable. It was an instilled survival instinct for humans to retreat from dangerous situations or at least enter into them cautiously. If they regarded Tempest as dangerous, then he would not be considered a member of their society, and would therefore not have the appropriate social experience the Creators required. With that in mind, Tempest began to act more human. He consciously made his form more stable and solid. He began to use his hands more when he spoke. He also attempted to integrate more of the human sayings into his speech pattern. It was a hard process but one that should pay massive dividends in the future. Hopefully this new presentation of the self would lead to interesting results.

Psyche The Manor was even more empty than usual at this point in the day. As it was early, early morning, Alex's grandfather was still in bed. Which, actually, was why Alex was in the 'hall of heroes' as she'd come to calling it. One of the rooms that they'd come accross was a memorial of sorts - a room filled with costumes under glass cases. Oh, it had started out as the changing room, with each costume and accessories held under pristine conditions. It had slowly morphed into a memorial of sorts instead, the first time a sidekick hadn't been able for one reason or another to don their mask and spandex again. It was the one room her grandfather had been unable to open and face, so Alex was up at the crack of dawn, quietly cleaning it. The glass cases kept the costumes themselves pristine but nothing else in the room certainly was. In a pair of raggedy jeans, with her hair knotted up in a scarf, Alex industrially dusted, swept and mopped. Each silent glass tube was scrubbed lovingly, and each letter on the name plate below was meticulously cleaned off. In this room, the soft hum of the manor's power cells was muted to a faint whooshing white-noise background. Like most of the areas of the underground potion of the base, the room was high ceilinged and panneled to look like a scene out of Star Trek. Except in this room, an aura of sorrow clung to the walls. Today, in the wake of the Halloween battle, Alex found a quiet sort of comfort in the ambient aura. Once the room was pristine, Alex turned back to survey her handiwork for a moment. She walked through, touching the nameplate of the tube that held her grandmother's lab coat before continuing on to an empty tube. Pressing her fingertips against the keypad at the side, the air tight chamber whooshed open. Pulling the jacket from her backpack, Alex slipped the expensive leather into the display case and palmed the chamber closed. Arms wrapped around her stomach, Alex watched as the jacket was held in stasis, waiting and in that moment understood exactly why this chamber existed. It wasn't about an eternal memorial. It was about the hope that the lost would one day walk down the hall and reclaim their costume. It was a promise that they were still and would always be waiting. Dry eyed, Alex walked out of the costume chamber.

Behind the Masks

Arming Up April 5th John Fraser paced back and forth across his dingry room, still limping but not as badly as a week ago. He was no doctor, but he knew enough to tell he'd never walk quite right again. Serves me right, he though as he turned to the assortment of equipment scattered across his bed. I need to clean the slate a little. Rein myself in, measure things up like I used to. And I need to cover my self-inflicted loss of mobility. He picked up a pair of trousers. They were closer-fitting than his previous loose costume, designed to support his legs, not provide complete freedom of movement. The shins, knees and thighs had thin armour plates of a strong carbon compound, light and tough, and he'd sewn strips of Kevlar into the chinks in the armour. He pulled them on over the trousers he'd been wearing already, taking a few experimental steps. Definitely tighter, but... needs more. Around his injured right thigh, he pulled tight the straps he'd affixed to the armour. He winced as his wound shot waves of pain through his thigh. John remembered the first night in costume. As a younger man he'd been able to bound across rooftops effortlessly. He'd been young, in peak condition. But he'd also been scarily inexperienced. Falling through a skylight into a meeting of gangsters, he'd thought his ankle had blown out upon the poor landing. A rookie mistake. Luckily, they'd all been too shocked to react quick enough to gun him down... Next... torso armour. John tutted. Until now, he'd eschewed traditional armour in favour of a kevlar vest and his own mobility. But he'd robbed himself of the latter. Not as much as I robbed it from those two people. The armour was constructed like scale mail, the plates overlapping to allow some flexibility without sacrificing protection. It slid on, forming a jet black shield for his torso and upper arms. In stark contrast to the armour, a white hawk logo was painted across the front. He'd chosen it as a symbol of fear. Hawks were swift, vicious, deadly. John had wanted to be that, to be the hawk the common criminal's rabbit. One man could do little, but a concept... A white hawk flying in the darkness of night. Not the one causing darkness, he reflected, strapping on his belt, laden with miscellaneous small tools us used. Binoculars and the like. The gloves to the costume were shy of elbow length, covering the fingertips and inner arms to prevent bowstring-related injury but leaving the backs free to move. Darkness was falling outside his window, so he locked the door and pushed open the window. He pulled on the cape. It was wide, and greyer than the rest of the outfit. Contrary to belief, grey faded into the night better than jet black. It was reinforced and billowed around, making him a more difficult target. Logically, a cape was impractical. It got caught in bowstrings, restricted access to the quiver... but you adapted, because it was useful. A hawk-shaped silhouette dropping into an alleyway was a dramatic way to scare someone. He turned to the window, placing his cowl on his head and his quiver over his shoulder. "Time for that clean slate," growled Arrowhawk, towering in his armour and wing-like cape. He dived from John Fraser's window and into the night.

30 October 2009 While going through my mail today, though the numerous offers to speak at this function or that lecture series, I found an offer for elocution lessons. Some kind-hearted soul, it seems, was offering to pay for me to take some diction lessons, so as to reduce my heavy German accent and thus be better understood by others. (Though, on second thought, it may have been Avenger.) Which reminds me, I need to do something with those skin samples I took from 'her' during that Genderswitch Caper. What this person does not know -- what many do not know (though several probably suspect) -- is that I am perfectly capable of speaking English (or any language) without a German accent. A small number of people do know this -- Darian Cale, Elena Guerrero, and Eric Micheals all know, as well as anyone who's overheard certain conversations I've had with them. So why do I maintain my accent? Because it is a part of my mask. My accent often makes people initially assume I am just a funny-speaking foreigner, one whose actions and talents have been exaggerated to ridiculous levels. This is an act, for my benefit as well as theirs (though mostly mine). "How smart can he be, if he can't even get a second language right?" they say. This makes them a bit less likely to ask me to do or think of things for them, leaving me time to pursue my own projects. Muah hah hah hah hah! Another part of my mask: my "foodie" and "party man" tendencies. I make it a point to attend an HIT kegger at least three times a semester, and have attended Oktoberfest every year for the past decade. Also, I make sure any function I speak at has fine catered food from local restaurants. "How smart can he be, if all he does is party like a frat boy?," they say. "How smart can he be, when he drinks like that?" Little do they know that I have a very high tolerance for alcohol, and am never as drunk as I may appear. Well, almost never. I do sincerely enjoy Oktoberfest, and I do genuinely cut loose and relax there. And by 'relax' I mean 'have lots and lots of hot, wild sex!' But why bother with this? Why not just wear a real mask? Simple: it would be too obvious. If I wore a mask & costume, people would know there's a man under there, a man with his own routine wants and needs and weaknesses. There would be some who'd prod and pry and try to get to the man underneath, reveal my identity. But by hiding in plain sight as I do, it's easier for people to accept that this is the real me, that I really am just a silly-sounding, beer-loving German who happens to be pretty good with technology. And while it's true I do love beer -- good German beer, not the dog urine they make here in America -- I am a lot better with technology than most realize. Muah hah hah hah hah! Of course, if they knew just how good, I'd be asked to do more, and as it is I'm already asked to do quite a bit, with little time for my own projects and studies. It's not that I mind helping others, of course -- that is why I do what I do -- but now and again everyone needs some time for themselves. Plus, I cannot and (arguably) should not be solving as many problems as I could: some of the solutions require technology decades in advance of what is currently available to the mainstream, which they could not comprehend how to operate. "Give a man a fish; you have fed him for today. Teach a man to fish; and you have fed him for a lifetime." Though, a appropriate alternative might be "Teach a man to fish and you feed him for a lifetime -- Unless he doesn't like sushi; then you also have to teach him to cook," reflecting how teaching one thing often requires also teaching other things along with it. “Give a man a fish; you have fed him for today. Teach a man to fish; and you can sell him fishing equipment.” Though, paradoxically, my "silly party-man" attitude makes some people more likely to come to me, seeing me as a 'common man' whom they can talk to... or as some sort of Neo-Nazi. Foolish rabble! But that's not the only reason. I don't wear a mask because it would hide much of my face, and so hide my expressions from others. I need those to be seen, so others can pick up on if my Dark Side ever starts taking more control. If my Dark Side did take over, it would drop all the acts and accents, and set immediately to work on whatever dastardly plan it had in store. And if my Dark Side started wearing a mask & costume while committing criminal acts, my allies would know something is up when I go missing for stretches of time. Fool! I use those 'masks' as much as you do! You think I'm not watching while you spend the nights partying? Watching as you work with your 'heroic allies', keeping a keen eye out for any weaknesses I can exploit once I take over? And do you really think I couldn't keep up that accent, to keep others fooled?

31st October, 2009 The green airship floated down into the street, stopping above a small coffee shop. A hatch opened in its side and a skinny-looking teenager in a green costume leapt out, hands and feet adhering to the wall's sheer brickwork. With a quick scuttling motion, he dropped to the pavement and walked into the shop. They'd seen him coming, and knew his usual order. Since his metabolism was several times faster than a normal human's, to get a caffeine kick he needed coffee strong enough to drop an elephant, with half a bowl of sugar and served in something closer to a bucket than a cup. After chatting to the staff for a minute, he turned to leave. And saw Spellbound, the villain who'd recently attacked him, standing behind him. "Woah!" he pointed, hefting his coffee. "Don't try anything, grudge or not! This coffee is hot!" She just smiled at his and shook her head. "I'm going to a party, and really? You're not worth my time." Geckoman just rolled his eyes and walked past her. She grabbed his shoulder and spun him around. "Hey, didn't you offer to buy me coffee?" She smiled at him, and he started feeling... fuzzy. "So... how about it?" Geckoman closed his eyes for a second. Liz would murder me, I should say no. "Ok... Just no stealing things, or electrocuting me. I've got a party to go to as well." Paying for her coffee, they took a seat in the corner of the shop. "Ok, so... you don't look much older than I am. Why rob banks?" He took a gulp of coffee, instantly feeling the caffeine hum. "Building the sort of inventions I come up with isn't cheap. You stole some of them... why masquerade as a superhero?" She fixed him with a not-quite-glare, not-quite-grin. God, she really has beautiful ey- no, Chris, stop. No. Bad Geckoman! "Guilt, obviously. I'd taken it, couldn't really give it back, so I pretended I'd built it and became a superhero. You show up, claim it's yours, and I believe you." He met her gaze. "But you rob banks. I'm not supplying a known thief with anything." He thought for a second, rubbing the back of his neck. "Don't point out the hypocrisy." She just smiled at him again. ... I'm going to Hell. "And yet I'm the only one you've told all this to?" Spellbound took his expression as a yes. "Ironic, eh? But you can't keep a secret forever." She drained her mug, leaned forward and kissed Geckoman dead on the lips. "I guess next time we meet, it's back to fighting." She walked a few steps away, before turning back to the obviously still stunned Geckoman. "Well... unless you had something else in mind?" Raising an eyebrow, Spellbound sashayed away between the tables, aware of the superhero's eyes following her. He pulled off his goggles and rubbed his face. He thought of Liz, how she'd react. He thought of Spellbound, the villainess who now seemed to like him as much as she hated him. Unless it was a game? Nonetheless, he could still taste her lipstick. He put his head on the table. "Can't keep secrets forever." Crap.

Mike Harris was no master tailor but with some trial and error he managed the basics well enough to help out with more than set building for the schools small theater department. Thus it wasn't unusual for him to spend some of his off hours assembling or repairing costumes, after all the school made the machines and materials available for just that purpose. With a relatively light class load and some small problems with his roommate earlier in the month Mike had become a regular. So it was not unusual to find him determinedly, if comically given his size, crouched over a sewing machine or cutting table. This evening found him there later than usual and though the department had official closed hours ago he was well enough known there that he had been left to lock it up when he was finished, he wasn't the only student to keep odd hours after all. He had done so on other occasions as well so it certainly wasn't unusual and he was known to be trustworthy. What was unusual was the odd materials he pulled from his bag shortly after the last of the other students had left for the night. The fabric was a spare workout suit he had acquired for his updated Doom Room schedule, even these remarkable suits required some time for self repair after being exposed to the kind of punishment he regularly underwent in the sims had been his excuse. Whether or not they had believed the admittedly lame lie the powers that be had provided him with a couple spares. It wasn't easy but with some work he had managed to make most of the necessary alterations. At first he had found the whole idea of costumed crime fighting ludicrous. But after his time with Young Freedom and the tutelage of the instructors at Claremont he realized he could make a difference, and that when it came down to it standing idly by was not something he could do. Even then the whole costume thing had seemed a little absurd. He understood the need for some to hide who they really were for fear of retaliation against friends and family, but there was no real hope of that for him. He was a known factor to those with the right clearance and there were enough of those that it would never be hard to ID him. It had been when his roommate dragged him out to the Supers Museum that it finally clicked for Mike. They had wandered the Museum for most of the day, nominally for a history project they were working on together and with Mark that always meant super history. Just before they left Mark took his customary sojourn through the main hall where all the statues of the heroes stood like silent sentinels. Looking at the great heroes of the past and present Mike finally saw the draw. There was more to the costume than hiding behind a mask. It was about being something more, a symbol, a beacon of hope, an icon. When they returned Mike set to work. Between classes, and interspersed with his homework he worked on a design. He wasn't the most artistic student but he knew what he wanted to evoke. Something for people to look up to and trust, a stalwart defender of justice. But still something that one could identify with. In the end it wasn't hard to find a look that called to what was best in all of us, the tricky part was keeping it unique enough to show appropriate respect for the inspiration. And so he constructed the form fitting suit with care. A deep V in gold across the chest from his shoulders to his belt, deep blue for the remainder. Simple bronze bracers and greaves evocative of the hoplites from which his super ID had been taken a full cape in blue hanging from his shoulders. Mike lifted the mask he had made consideringly then set it aside. This had never been about hiding who he was but about showing what he was. Mike had spent enough time hiding from what his powers meant, he wasn't going to hide any longer.

October 28, 2009 Dear Erin, Happy birthday, a little early. I've been very busy lately, but I wanted to make sure I got a letter to you before the tenth. I know we haven't talked much since I left, but I've been following your Facebook page. Congratulations on the homecoming court thing, and on getting into the play. That's really cool, and the pictures looked great. Megan must have been really jealous over that homecoming dress. Has she stolen it to play dress-up in yet? I saw the pictures of you and Ben Bowen on the trip, too. He's really gotten tall. Are you still going out with him? Things have been busy here, like I said. I've got a full load of classes, and some extra phys ed training besides, and it takes up most of my time. When I'm not doing homework, I sometimes go and hang out with some friends I made here this summer. Freedom City is a pretty nice place, but it's already getting colder here than Seattle. Some of the guys here are pretty hot, too. I went out with one of them the other week, but I don't think it's going anywhere. Turns out he has this huge crush on my roommate, so I don't think I'm going to bother. I know your mom and dad were thinking about having me come out for the Christmas holidays, but I don't think that's going to work out. It's a long plane trip for just a couple weeks, and I've got so much work to catch up on. That's okay, though, a bunch of my friends live here in the city, so it's not like I'll be here alone. There's always stuff to do. It's kind of hard to believe I've been here a year already, and at school for five months. I really like it here a lot. There are lots of internships and things available in the summers, and they'll help me get a job after I graduate. I know us both being in Seattle is kind of weird, and you were there first. I've been thinking about staying out here permanently, after I finish up at Claremont. Tell your mom and dad (in a few days) that I said thanks for the birthday box they sent. It came in the mail yesterday and I didn't really want to wait to open it. Too impatient. The new clothes will really come in handy with the weather getting colder, and so will the gift card for the winter coat. I really appreciate it, especially with times being pretty hard. Has your dad gotten put back on his full hours at work yet? I know they say it's just a matter of time, but it must be hard to wait. Say hello to Megan for me, and the dogs, and maybe if it wouldn't be too weird, to your friends that I know. If you guys ever get a chance to visit Freedom City, you should come and visit the school. It's really a nice place, and I think you'd like it. I hope your birthday is a lot of fun, and that Luke doesn't catch you in the closet again this year. Ha-ha, just kidding. Have a good time, and a happy Halloween and Thanksgiving, too. Your friend, Keeley Erin

When: October 10th Where: Fens and Wading Way The Simple Answer It was weird being Atlas. People always looked at you differently, and not just because they had to crane their neck to do so. They assumed you brains were indirectly proportional to your muscles. However, sometimes this could be an advantage. You let people think that you were just a sack of dumb muscle and then surprise them with a 'burst of insight'. So, Samael had developed a particular speech pattern with Atlas. He talked in 'hulk speak'Â, which meant short words and taking in the third person, and threw in a 'smash'Â, 'crush' or 'little man' for good measure. And for a while, Samael actually liked the persona he threw on when he transformed into Atlas. He could say flat out stupid things, but it would actually seem threatening in the heat of the moment. But once e moved past normal street crime, that sort of persona seemed to be in bad taste. Like it was disrespectful for everyone involved to not take the situation seriously. So Samael decided that he would start to phase out the weird mannerisms. After all, he still wanted to have some fun, and people seemed a little scared of him if he got too serious. "So vat do ya zink? Am I over zinking zis again?" nnnnnnnrrrrryyyyyyyaaaaahhhhh. Mrow. was his only response as Sprinkles woke up from her little nap. She wormed her way through his legs and tugged on his pant leg in the direction of her food dish. 'ÂVat's ze matter? Poor bebbie starvin?†Continued tugs on his pants and a quiet "meow" confirmed this. "Oh da. Ya just wastin away to nuzin. I gotta hurry or zere'l be nozing left huh?' meeeeooooowww â"I'm coming starve-guts." Samael put out a bunch of dry cat food for Sprinkles and as a special treat, added some mackerel into the mix. Samael scratched Sprinkle's shoulder blades as she dug into her meal. This quiet moment was broken however when news of a break in came over across the police banner. "Time to vork. Goodbye my dear." muttered Samael as he messed with Sprinkles' ears, and headed out the door. He leapt across town, where the robbers were making their get away in a van. Atlas leap in front of the van, and before it could squirrel away managed to grab a hold of it, and lifted it off the ground. "Little, tiny men should vatch vere zey are going!" The apparent ring leader pulled out a gun and shot Atlas in the face a few times, but the bullets just fell to the ground. "We give." Said one of the smarter thugs who tossed his gun out of the van and threw up his hands. His compatriots did likewise. The criminals were rounded up and handed over to the authorities without further hassle. Atlas waved at the small crowd who had gathered and was applauding and cheering him on. With a smile spreading across his face, Atlas leapt back home. A few minutes later he was back home and sprawled out on the couch with Sprinkles slowly rising and falling on his chest. "ÂYou know, I zink zat I am alvays me, but people, ze see me how zey want to see me. But I am alvays me da?" Sprinkled looks at Samael, cocked her head to the side and then slowly reached out with her paw and squished Samael's nose.

October 16 Late at night Spitfire Max closed the door to his trailer and looked himself in the face in the mirror. He hated looking too long in the mirror, afraid the facade will crack, showing what he truly was. The bravado, the devil may care attitude, the crazy stunts, and even the tattoos; they were all thin, eggshell masks over a scared and lonely boy of seventeen. This was a truth he hid away, even himself from, and though unhealthy, it was the only way he knew to stay sane and not fall apart. Max grew up with no family, oh sure the carnival provided plenty of interesting friends, but even his adopted mother, Deedra, was more friend than mother, she never even called him son. The only person in the world who knew this, knew the real Max Compton, was Bertram. Maxie scoffed a laugh at himself in the mirror. "What does that say about you, huh? Only man in the world knows the real you eats fire fer a livin'". Maxie tried to laugh it off, but his voice cracked in his throat and he almost found himself crying. True, Bertram was a fire-eater, but he was also a good man. What one chooses for a vocation does not define them; it merely shows you one aspect of them. Maxie had taken that concept to the extreme; he had made his stage persona his only outward persona. He was a fire eater, a carnival sideshow attraction, and to the rest of the world, that’s all he was. More and more often, Max had found himself afraid of his own mask, the play he put on for the world. He'd been doing the show so long he'd started to forget which Max was the act. Maxie knew he needed friends, and he needed to be more than just some attraction, or he'd be consumed by his own false face. Maxie just didn' know if he had the strength to let anyone in. Maxie realized something then, looking in the mirror, fretting over whether to be consumed by his loneliness or risk letting a person in, he realized he was a coward. All the stunts he does, every life endangering flip and hair singeing fire show may look cool, but it didn't make him brave, it made him reckless at best, or perhaps suicidal at worst. Real bravery could be seen in elderly couples, holding hands walking in Liberty Park. It could be seen in movie theaters, where couples sat together watching a love story unfold while held in each other's arms. It was on golf courses, in bars, in shopping centers, and in airport terminals. Anywhere friends met to share stories and make memories, anywhere that families met or began. Real bravery was exhibited when one had the strength to open oneself to another, fully and completely, despite the dangers of rejection and failure. Real bravery was being vulnerable, not building a stone mask and cage for your heart. Maxie hung his head as a silent sob racked his body. Max had no qualms about risking his life to save another, or even just for a good laugh, but did he have the nerve to risk living to save his own life, or would he die alone, forever remembered for a masquerade, and not remembered for who he truly was?

Knights of Cydonia - Song and Lyrics by Muse "Reckon there's still things about this dimension that fascinate me. One'a those things is yer music. We never really had any of this high budget musical numbers back home, but I reckon I quite like it. One song'n partic'lar I heard on the radio the other day I really liked." Ahh Ahh Ahh Ahh Ahh Ahh Ahh Ahh Ahh Ahh Ahh Ahh Come ride with me, Through the veins of history, I'll show you a god Who falls asleep on the job. And how can we win, When fools can be kings, Don't waste your time, Or time will waste you, "This song really reminds me of my life. I've spent a lot of time moving around from place to place. Never really had much of a home. It really was all due to my lifestyle as a shooter. But honestly, it was one of the few ways to make a living back home. An' thats why I did it. See, where I come from, ain't anybody there ta watch over people. Never really believed in god meself. This song really reflects my desire to make somethin' of meself because there ain't anyone ta do it for ya." Ahh Ahh Ahh Ahh Ahh Ahh Ahh Ahh Ahh Ahh Ahh Ahh No one's gonna take me alive, The time has come to make things right, You and I must fight for our rights, You and I must fight to survive, "Can't tell ya how many Times I heard that line. 'Ya ain't gonna take me alive!' It's cliche, but true. Some'a the men I met'd rather be pushin' up daises than rottin' away where I put'em. But that's just the problem. I gotta take'em in on account of the fact that I'm fightin' on the side'a good. Reckon that's why it always comes down ta fightin'. Them fightin' just ta stay outta' prison, an' me fightin' ta put bread on the table." No one's gonna take me alive, The time has come to make things right, You and I must fight for our rights, You and I must fight to survive (solo) No one's going to take me alive, The time has come to make things right, You and I must fight for our rights, You and I must fight to survive. (solo to outro) "It ain't bad livin' though. I reckon I enjoy it quite well. It keeps me honest, keeps ma shootin' sharp, it's excitin, and ya get ta meet a ton'a interestin' people. Sometimes, they bring trouble back ta you, but that Can't be helped. I like ma job, an I ain't quitin."

Eddie gazed down at the visor and headphones that he always wore whenever he went out to do his hero thing. He remarked at how it was such a useful tool. It allowed him to put aside all of the things that tied him down. His parents, his friends, school, everything. But at the same time, it seemed to make him more vulnerable whenever Zoe was around. Suddenly a certain song came over the radio and washed over all of his senses. As he hummed to the tune of the song, he began to re-work some of the lyrics in his head... Sung to the Tune of "Starlight" by Muse (some of the lyrics have been changed) Far away This mask has taken me far away Far away from identities Of the people who care if I live or die. THE limelight I will be chasing my stardom Until the end of my life don't know if it's worth risking anymore Hold you in my arms I just wanted to hold you in my arms My life You've inspired my rock songs Let's continue to rock for All the souls that would die just to hear a song. I'll never let you go If you promise not to fade away Never fade away secrets and explanations Time Warps and derevations Our hopes and expectations Rock shows and revelations Hold you in my arms I just wanted to hold you in my arms Far away This mask has taken me far away Far away from identities Of the people who care if I live or die I'll never let you go If you promise not to fade away Never fade away secrets and explanations Time Warps and derevations Our hopes and expectations Rock shows and revelations Hold you in my arms I just wanted to hold you in my arms I just wanted to hold

Late September ================================================================================ Sanctum Sanctorum. Home. All around her, Nadia's barren windowless apartment echoed with the ghosts of jobs past. The only decorations were a weapon here, or a scrap of uniform there. This was not a place of creature comforts, there was no area to relax, kick back and enjoy. It was a safe haven, and designed to give its occupant an edge, and a place to sleep without worrying about those ghosts which had so unwillingly gave up the tokens on the walls. Standing in the stainless steel bathroom, she let the warm shower water run down her face. Yet, the reflection that looked back at her in the polished walls was not truly hers. With a frown, the face shifted again to someone else from some other time; one of the many ghosts that seemed to demand more and more of her attention. As the steam danced across the surface of the polished walls, so too did the myriad of faces that looked back at her. Who was she? It was a question that oft been on her mind lately as a strange and budding sense of morality was conflicting what was a very ordered and simple life. The face looking back at her in the reflection shifted again, showing some past victim, or mark. Did it really matter? What was a face anyway? It was something to fool the millions of sheep who bleated their way through life every day. So why couldn't she remember her own? Wrinkles appeared on her brow as she concentrated, willing the flesh to mold into a more familiar visage. While she could recall people from years past, associates, enemies, a scant few friends; none of those faces was her own. Would it matter if she could never find it again? As she struggled with the reflection, a small led flashed red. There was someone in her apartment. Instantly, the struggle with her looks fell to the wayside. Porting directly out of the shower into her family room she saw the man with his back turned, looking at her sparse decor. Whirling like a dervish, her Caproia powered kick streaked out towards his unprotected head. Yet her predator was no helpless burglar. Somehow he had sensed her and his fist, a grip of iron, wrapped around her ankle, tossing her to the ground. With catlike grace, she rolled and was springing to her feet when a familiar voice spoke out. "Nadia? Is being some kind of joke, no?" came her father's heavily Russian accented voice. "Father!" she stammered, "I'm sorry¦ I forget you were coming¦" "Is fine, always is to be expecting trouble. Happy only to seeing daughter,' he replied with the faintest hint of a smile. "Even if being wet like fish." It was then that her recalcitrant face snapped back into place; its true form. To her father, no disguise would matter. He saw only his little girl, now and forever. With that revelation, the mask disappeared and the daughter emerged, beaming and happy.

"Wonderful, you two, just wonderful!" called Jack, an enthusastic host if nothing else. He couldn't quite resist the urge to yell "Encore, encore!" if only because the look of embarassment on Dark Star's face was amusing in that way only a harassed friend with such good nature could be. They made a lovely couple, he decided, and Derrick was unlikely to have the problems he'd had with Stesha.

I do...okay, I guess?