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Pompadour was behind the wheel of his street rod, headed to The Ink Tank to see his friend Trevor. Suddenly a low-pitched woman's voice moaned out "Oh, I need you soooo bad!" Thoroughly startled, he pulled over to the curb to investigate; the unknown woman continued to express her (presumably carnal) needs. Ah. Cell phone. Generally, his cell made a very subtle tone, but he had programmed an emergency override code for when authorized people needed to get ahold of him. The porn-sounds signified his agent absolutely, positively needed to speak with him instantly. Pompadour decided on the spot that he absolutely, positively needed to change the ring-tone... it seemed funny when he set it, but now that it had been used, oh so inappropriate. "Talk to me Mandy. What's the crisis?" "I don't know! I don't know! Your presence has been requested at Freedom Hall." "Oh my God!" "I know!" "Why?" "I don't know!" "I'm going!" After hanging up his cell, Pompadour quickly dialed his friend Tank, to let him know about the change of plans. "Hey man, I need to cancel on you. Sorry about the last minute thing, but someone wants to talk to me at Freedom Hall." "Oh my God!" "I know!" "Why?" "I don't know!" "You gotta go!" Pompadour put his wheels into gear, and went to see why The Freedom League wanted him. At Freedom Hall, Pompadour did his best to walk with confidence. He had been working on writing some of his own music, lately, and he found that some of the songs he had written were running through his head, and he suppressed an urge to start singing them. Stupid nerves... this is Freedom Hall. Save that for the shower, man... The pleasant looking woman manning the reception desk had a name placard that indicated that her name was Cynthia. "Hello miss. My name is Pompadour, I believe someone is expecting me?" The voice came from behind Pompadour. A voice he recognized. "Yes, Pompadour. Thank you for getting here so quickly." Sheer force of will kept Pomp from dropping to his knees and babbling for mercy. He turned to face Captain Thunder, who reached out to shake his hand, and then gestured for Pompadour to follow him. He did so, doing his best to steady his nerves. He found that he was humming the chorus line for the song he was writing, and dug his fingers into his palm to make himself stop. Captain Thunder lead him to a small meeting room, still on the main floor. He gestured for Pompadour to have a seat, and settled into a chair himself. "Alright, Pompadour. The reason I wanted to see you, was just to do some personal followup on the incident back on the Memorial Day long weekend. Multiple reports indicated that you claimed that the man that attacked that nightclub was me. Although, beyond making that statement to the police who arrived on the scene, you didn't make any public statements. Can you tell me more about this?" "Uh, yes, Captain. The man who attacked the club did look like you, and he said his name was Ray Gardner. He also said his name was Donar, though. I said what I said for the official record, because that's what I saw. I didn't go blabbing it around, because I figured I'd look like a fool... and no one, including me, thinks you run around attacking night clubs." "Now that you're sitting face to face with me, do you still think that the man at Da Bomb looks like me?" Pompadour searched his memories for images of the lightning-lit club, comparing an image of the self-proclaimed Thunder God to the face of Captain Thunder. They were identical. "Yes. Not having seen you in person before, I suppose I wasn't 100% sure. But now that I'm here, I'm sure." Pompadour realized he was tapping his foot against the chair-leg, along to a rhythm in his head, and Captain Thunder was looking at him quizzically... wait, was Captain Thunder tapping the table along to the same rhythm? Did I just see that? Pompadour stilled his tapping by crushing his foot to the floor ruthlessly. "Given your former career as a Super Criminal, there was some muttering among my colleagues that this was some sort of elaborate scheme to discredit the Freedom League. Of course the other strange attacks over the weekend seems to suggest some extra-dimensional power was at work. I just thought I should do you the courtesy of interviewing you before we closed our file on this. Actually, I've heard that you're making strides pursuing a career as a hero and I'm glad to hear it. Did you have anything else you wanted to share with me, or The League?" To his horror, Pompadour found himself propelled out of his chair, with his voice raised in song: You've got great Powers, Well, I think mine are just okay. I used to be a Genius too, But next to you, I'm just a Mook. I really Love your costume, yeah, Maybe I should get one, too, 'Cuz that's what Heroes do, I betcha. So what do you do? Oh yeah, I fight criminals too. I'm not on a Super Squad, But you know I'm pretty new. I've got a gig as a Super Dude, If I put myself on the Map, I can be a Hero that the People will really Love. Cause I like you, Yeah, I like you, And I want to be a Superhero like you, Yeah, I like you, Yeah, I like you, And I feel in my Heart; Whooo! Whoo-hoo hoo-ooooh! So, Until then, I'm really just a fraud. And I'm feeling kinda blah, Yeah, I want it really bad. It's not just what you do, it's what you are. But the real truth is, I'm really afraid of getting smacked down. Cause I like you, Yeah, I like you, And I want to be a Superhero like you, Yeah, I like you, Yeah, I like you, And I feel in my Heart; Whooo! Whoo-hoo hoo-ooooh! I'm getting brave, And I'm feeling super heroic like you, It's just that I've been afraid, 'Cuz Supervillainy is a Scary Thing. It isn't? It is for me. And I like you, Yeah, I like you, 'Cause I want to be a Superhero like you, Yeah, I like you, Yeah, I like you, And I feel in my Heart; Whooo! Whoo-hoo hoo-ooooh! Whoo-hoo hoo-ooooh! Whoo-hoo hoo-ooooh! Whoo-hoo hoo-ooooh! Whoo-hoo hoo-ooooh! Captain Thunder looked... surprised, but applauded politely as he also got to his feet. He opened his mouth to say something, but a look of horror washed over his face, as he realized he was not in control of the words coming out of his mouth! Well I guess it would be nice If you could be a hero. I know not everybody Can be heroic like me. But you've got to think twice Before you try the hero game And I know you're looking for fame But you can wind up maimed. Oh, but you Need some time to show true devotion Time to get your heart into the game And when the crunch comes down You'll put it in motion Well, it takes a strong man, Pompy But you already know the way But I already have faith... Now you've gotta have faith. Faith - uh - Faith - uh - Faith ... ahhhh! Captain Thunder finished his song with a cough, and shook his head. "We will never speak of this," he told Pompadour, as he ushered him towards the exit.

Avenger stood on a balcony in the Boardwalk overlooking a lovely view of the ocean. He wasn't paying attention, though, not when he was dangling a low-level informant for the Russian mafiyah over the edge of the balcony, keeping an iron grip on his ankle, and waiting for the man to talk. Jack tuned out the man's sobs and pleas as he waited for him to break...but as it happened, it was Avenger who broke first. Behind his mask, he began to sing. "Never knew I could feel like this. It's like I've never seen this guy before, I could make him vanish with a kiss Every night eat him more and more." He leaned close and added, his voice gentle and loving, "Listen to my heart, Can you hear it sing? No. There is no life in me, There is no thing! Seasons may change, winter to spring. I'll live now 'till the end of time." The man shrieked incoherently as Avenger nearly dropped him, waving him wildly around in the air in tempo with his sudden jerky lyrics! "No matter what you say, this night is ending my way!" He shook the man violently, making the flab in his cheeks shake like a bowl full of jelly. "Come on and stand your ground! For life, freedom, and man!" His voice went up, and up, echoing off the walls now. "You won't fool the children of Draculya! You won't fool the children of Draculya!" He took another step out, leaping up onto the railing. "My gift is your life..." His voice trailed off for just a moment, but the rhythm of the moment hadn't ended. "I will love life. I will save life. Until my dying day..." He leaned close, his mouth right next to the man's ear. "MY WAY" Only when the madness stopped did a shaken Avenger realize that the mobster had been yelling, "No speaking English! No speaking English!" All in all, maybe it was better that way. Maybe it was better to just let this all be forgotten. EDIT: The tune is from the reprise of "Come What May" from Moulin Rouge.

It was a very busy day at Flowers By Design. A massive wedding the next day meant all hands were on deck, organizing and arranging flowers in the crowded back room. Stesha was crammed cheek by jowl with two other employees as they all put together identical table centerpieces in pink roses and lilies, tucking sprigs of lily of the valley here and there for extra interest and scent. It was boring work, with fifty tables to cover, but exacting enough that there wasn't a lot of unnecessary conversation. On the other side of the room, two more employees and Will, the owner, were putting together the massive altarpiece. Stesha had no idea how they planned to transport it without use of a hacksaw, but it was going to be magnificent. She wished she had a few hundred thousand dollars to drop on a wedding in Freedom City's biggest church. She wished she had a boyfriend at all, come to think of it. But she was awfully busy lately, and hadn't ever really had much luck in that department. She sighed wistfully, bending again to her work. Suddenly, what sounded like a trumpet fanfare blasted through her mind. Before Stesha knew what she was doing, she was up off her stool, surveying the room as though it were the audience of an opera house. And before she could stop herself, she was... singing... "On laundry day we wash our sheets, Scrub them with detergent, I wash mine just once a month Cause I'm still a virgin! Never in a boyfriend's bed Or in his Ford Excursion, Even though I'm 24, I'm still a virgin!" She ended on a triumphal note and then suddenly regained control of her body, while everyone was staring at her. Her face turned beet red. "Um... isn't that the funniest song you ever heard? I saw it. On TV. Last night. I'll be right back." She ran out of the room with little grace, locking herself in the bathroom. What the hell had just happened?

Friday, Feb 13th, 2008 I remember the first person I killed. It was early on, before I could control my impulses, when I was so damnably hungry that I was ready to chew my own lips bloody just to get at my own vital fluids. (That particular trick doesn't work, by the way. It's like trying to make a baby solo; the right parts just aren't there.) Claudia had gone out for a meeting with Melinda, leaving me alone in the apartment for like the third or fourth time. This was all about three years ago, now, I'd only been a vampire for about a week and a half. She'd forgotten to feed me. No, I'd forgotten to ask for food. I was so besotted with her, so besotted with the joys of undead grace and power, that I assumed I could hold back that urge gnawing at the back of my mind. You ever have to go to the bathroom but put it off because you were busy doing something really fun? It was kind of like that. Except giving myself indigestion, I was putting off the taste of a stranger's blood pouring down my throat. I can't even tell you what that's like. I really can't. You know, I tell myself that my objection to blood banks is ethical, that it's not right for someone who's already a predator to feed directly from the body of the community. And maybe that's true, but it doesn't change the fact that it's so _good_ coming straight from the flesh, a delicious, curling shot of sex and food and every single carnal appetite wrapped up into one irresistable package that just goes on and on. Anyway. My murder. Maybe I'd have come through it all right if not for that burglar. The doors were locked and I hadn't figured out how to break into mist yet, so I'd have been stuck there chewing my lip and clawing at the walls until Claudia got back if that uppity little thug hadn't forced the lock. Claudia liked me that way; she liked me hungry, needy, dependent. I'd been that way when we met, you see, except back then it was for max and zombie powder instead of blood. She'd fixed that little addiction, yessir. I'm changing the subject again? Yeah, yeah, I am. Anyway, the guy cracked the door open with a crowbar. Pretty simple stuff; I don't know it says that I hadn't thought to try that yet. I'll admit I'm not a hugely smart guy, and I wasn't as strong then as I am now. So he kicks open the door, sees me standing in the hallway with red eyes and fangs, and I see him, a walking eight pints of hot, pumping blood. God, he looked so surprised! I grabbed him by the collar and hauled him inside, jacked him up against the wall and shoved my teeth into his neck. I hadn't figured out then how to make it feel good, so he'd have been screaming before I hit his windpipe. I don't really remember it very well; when you get that hungry, all you really think about is food. It was a good thing no one else lived on that floor, I tell you what! I finished tearing his throat out about the time Claudia came home, and I remember looking down at the dead guy at my feet and thinking... _Nothing._ That's the thing. Oh, I was scared that I'd be found out, that Claudia would be angry with me or we'd have to move, but as for the man I'd just murdered? The throat I'd just torn out like a rabid, hungry dog? (OK, I did feel that: way too much flesh!) I felt _nothing_. Claudia had a lot to say; she screamed at me and beat me, like she did back then, and left me to clean up the mess while she called the disaster cleanup service the vampires own. After all, now she had a lot of work to do! I'm not like that now. I tell myself that every time I go out at night. Killing is wrong; killing as a superhero is especially wrong. I can live as what I am and not kill, even if it would be fun, even if I could get away with it scot-free, even if I was sure nothing would come of it other than a hot, sensual meal of blood and death. And I believe it, too. I don't want to kill. I don't want to be a murderer! But my world is soaked in blood. I have killed three humans and multiple vampires. I have used my fists, my teeth, my claws, and anything else I needed to get the job done. I can't think of a friend I have, outside of Avenger's friends, who hasn't killed right in front of me, or close by me, or to my knowledge. Sometimes it's casual, sometimes it's shocking, but they've all felt heart's blood on their fingers, or tasted it on their lips. When I see a pretty woman, I think of her thighs and neck as much as her breasts; when I see a tough, dangerous man I think about how easy it would be to bleed him out. I live that way every night, and every day. I stop myself today, tonight, tomorrow. I have willpower I didn't have when I was younger; I can restrain my blood lusts. I don't need to kill when I'm hungry anymore. But, see, here's the thing. The sun doesn't burn me. Fire, blessed weapons, stakes, silver; they don't hurt me more than they'd hurt anyone else. It is entirely possible that I will live forever. I can save a thousand lives; I can break the gangs of Freedom beneath my fists, I can fight a demon, a monster, a terrorist, and do it all in time to get laid at the end of the night. I can do it all. I will kill again. And again. Forever.

Date: January 16th, 2006 Eric turned on his right signal with a quick motion of his wrist, and pulled into the parking spot. Pulling out the key as he got out of the car, Eric took a moment to savor the cool fresh air he never got in the city. As he stretched a warm and familiar voice called out “Eric! Over here sweetie.†As Eric chuckled and trotted over to the voice, a second voice said to the first “’Sweetie?’ For heavens sake Heather he’s 26. You’ve got to stop embarrassing him like this.†To which the first voice replied “I’m his mother, it’s my right to embarrass him as much as I want.†“Hey I heard that!†called back Eric in a voice of mock anger. “It’s great to see you again Mom and Dad.†Said Eric as he embraced his parents. On Eric’s right was his mother Heather Micheals, a spry woman of 50 years of age, with slowly graying red hair. On Eric’s left was his father Victor Micheals, a heavyset man with graying black hair of 52 years. After a moment, Victor said, “Alright, alright, enough of this mushy stuff, there’s food to be eaten.†With a smile and nod Heather and Eric agreed it was time to go into the restaurant. Over the appetizers the discussion was mostly about the recent trends in the economy, various investments that Victor had made in the past year and the like. Mostly it was just bringing everyone up to speed about what had happened in the “unimportant†things in their life for the past couple of months, essentially a set up for the discussions that were to follow. As the courses arrived, Eric talked about his new promotion at Darts, the house he had just gotten for himself in the Riverside, and Eric evaded his mother’s questions about “that cute receptionist†she saw there last time. It was soon decided that Eric’s parents needed to see Eric’s new house to give it their seal of approval, and if they were feeling generous, to help Eric finish moving in. And so the trio whiled away the hours at Eric’s place sipping coffee, reorganizing Eric’s cabinets as soon as his back was turned, and just generally enjoying each other’s company. Before his parent’s had to set off for the night, Eric suggested that they take a quick walk around the Riverside so he could show them the neighborhood, and of course spend a little more time with them. They were maybe 20 minutes into their walk when things turned sour. A battle between the Freedom League and the Crime League had broken out and the streets soon became chaos incarnate. As the trio scrambled to get out of harms way, one of the combatants hurled a passing car at another one of the combatants; it wasn’t on target. It headed straight for Eric and his parents. Reacting quickly, Eric pushed his mother out of the way of the incoming car. As Eric moved to push his father out of the way, he felt a strong arm grip his wrist and yank sharply. With a horrid sinking feeling, Eric recognized the hand as his father’s. Eric awoke in the hospital listening to an EKG machine beeping. Groggily looking around, he saw his mother sitting next to his bed, countless tears streaming down her face, which told everything he needed to know. Ignoring the pain, Eric sat up, hugged his mother longer and harder than he ever had in his life, and wept openly with her for hours. It was on that day that Eric Micheals swore an oath to use the life that was spared by a loving father without hesitation to ensure that the so called heroes of this world would never again separate a father and son, nor ever make a loving mother cry for her loss. On this day, Malice was born.

Camera crews recorded the entire, horrible encounter. Almost all of it, anyway. Everything that was really important, everything that mattered, managed to be broadcast to the people outside. It was a lousy day. I can say that, at least, it was probably the worst one of my life and it was all my fault. Not entirely, I suppose. I can't be held completely responsible for what happens when I get cut, but I should have known better than to stick around in the first place. I should have gotten out when I could, before the panic and the stampedes settled into the crowd. But I was too into the fight, literally seeing the world with blood in my eyes. Like I said, I can't be held completely responsible, but I still should have known better. If I want to keep doing this then I'll have to figure out how to BE better. I still haven't even figured out who the guy was, the one I'd been fighting. Some pale, slim dude with a weird looking spear and a fetish for leather bondage gear. He was dressed from neck to ankles in black straps and gaudy looking pieces of dark fabric that flapped in the wind as he moved. It struck me as something half-way between some priest's cassock and a straight-jacket on steroids. Maybe something Keano Reaves would have worn in the Matrix if Neo shopped on Castro street. I don't know, it was weird, but so was the guy wearing it. He had long white hair, like some spider had taken a dump on his head, and his skin was almost as pale. His eyes were the same silver as the blade on his spear and he wasn't wearing any shoes. I noticed that because he had claws coming out of his toes. Not just long, nasty toenails but actual claws. They looked dirty yellow in color and I don't think he kept them very clean. Fortunately he didn't manage to land a blow with those otherwise I'd probably be getting tetanus shots for the rest of my life. There wasn't any explanation behind the attack, either. He didn't shout threats at me or grandstand like a proper villain should, he just claimed to be there to collect me and then we were rolling. The man used his spear like Jet-freaking-Li and it was like fighting an oversized sewing machine. I barely had time to breath while the damned thing kept darting at my head, my shoulders and my gut faster than I could think about it. 'Almost faster than I could even see it, but fortunately I don't worry about thinking too much when some joker tries to spill my guts on the ground. We started out on some rooftop but it didn't take long to spill the fight out across a couple of neighborhoods. I was just watching the city from up there, wondering how I was really going to get my career started, when he came out of nowhere. I swear the shadows just vomited the freak up, spit him right at my head. He sure as hell didn't come up the fire escape and I doubt he dropped out of a hot-air balloon. No idea what other options there were, though. Maybe he's just really quiet when he wants to be, but he made enough noise during the fight. Before long, we were falling on top of the ice arena. That's where things really started to go downhill. We both landed there after jumping off the edge of a nearby building, but I can't remember right now if he was chasing me or it was the other way around. Things were pretty chaotic right about then, and like I said, thinking's not my strong point. Not when I'm seriously ticked off, anyway. I watched him skewer a few exhaust fans trying to fill me full of holes before we both headed into the building. In retrospect, I really shouldn't have let that happen and not just because of the innocent bystanders. The bastard loved the shadows, really faded into them like he lived there. While we were in the sun it was a lot easier to spot him, but once he had some cover it was like fighting a dozen guys all armed to the teeth. I thought I was done for, but somehow we managed to find our way to the catwalk that runs over the ice rink for the lighting and sound systems. From there it was only a short time before we were falling onto the ice itself. Of course, it had to be a Saturday and the whole rink was packed with kids and parents. 'Looked like a sunday-school outing or something, and apparently the press wanted to do one of those crappy human interest stories at the same time. At least one camera and a reporter dying to make her big break. Almost literally, given what came next... See, after we hit the ice I noticed how badly I was bleeding. I'm not sure how much you've been following the Hellblog, but when I bleed my blood burns. That's burns as in bursts into flames, not burns as in I'm a freaking poet. I might be hot-blooded as well as hot-headed, but you could burn start a forest fire just from me cutting myself while shaving. Real nasty looking stuff, all smoky and it smells like brimstone and hot copper. As I lay on the ice after the fall, figuring out what my next move was, I watched as little rivulets of my own blood etched scars into the ice. Thick, black vapors came off of it and started drifting towards the crowd. They'd been pretty close when we dropped, I'm surprised we didn't land on anyone, and a lot of people got some really good whiffs of the stuff. I could see the fear just erupt in their eyes, it's happened before. The fire from my blood isn't really the bad part. Granted, I don't want to be standing in a pool of gas when it happens, but for the most part it's not that hot. Dry wood, paper and cloth might catch on fire, but I won't be melting holes in steel doors any time soon. Hell, I couldn't even slag a chain-link fence with the stuff, but then again fences don't have lungs. People do. And when people inhale the fumes from my blood, it does very bad things to their mind. It triggers some kind of fear response, a bad one. I've never found out if they start seeing images of their worst fears or if it just activates their 'fight or flight' response, but that doesn't really matter when you have half a dozen standing next to you getting ready to hit the panic button. It didn't stop there, either. Apparently we did take out the air-conditioning before we left the roof because nothing was moving the air around to clean the fumes away. They hung a little longer than I'm used to seeing and that just gave more people a chance to freak out. The more who sucked the crap in, the more chaotic it got. And the more chaotic it got, the more people panicked regardless of whether they'd been affected by my blood or not. Don't forget, there were kids in the crowd. Apparently a lot of parents even forgot that because that's mainly who managed to get trampled in the stampede. Parents, visitors, kids practicing hockey and kids just wanting a morning out with their friends all rushed the exits at once and nobody waited until the way was clear, first. It was a mess, literally a bloody disaster and it all played out just fine for the cameras. I don't know how many times the coverage was ran that night, or the week or two that followed, but by the end even I was sick of seeing it. Hopefully they won't really remember it all by the time I'm ready to make my name known. That was before any of them had ever heard of Hellbound, but I'm not sure I'll be able to keep them from remembering who's blood had been on the ice that night. Eventually, I was able to put the punk down that started it. I ran him through with his own damn spear, took it away and put it through his gut. Ripped it up and down once or twice, too, just for good measure. He'd done a lot of damage that night; to me and to the people in the ice arena. I wanted to kill him two or three times over again after all of that, but unfortunately he only died once. Dissolved back into the smoke and shadows that apparently sent him after me, too. Just faded away, turned into puffs of vapor and was gone. Weird bastard, he was. And I never even got his name.

July 7th. 1993. That was the day that the future savior of Broadway was born. His name was to be Gordy St. James, first child of Gina Favro-St. James and Robert St. James. Though most significant- Lilly stuck her head into Gordy’s room as he was typing away on his new desktop PC he had just gotten for his birthday. “Are you writing your autobiography again? You’ve been in one touring production, how are you famous?†Gordy steadfastly refuses to look toward the door as he continues typing. “Hey, everyone has to start small. Besides, I am famous. Everyone at the Beaudrie knows my name.†“Big deal, they know my name too, ‘cause mom still drags me their instead of just letting me sit at home after school. How come you get to go to boarding school?†Gordy smiles in a way he knows will infuriate his younger sister. “Because I’m special.†Lilly grunted in annoyance. This was the answer she got whenever she asked about Gordy getting to go away for school, while she was stuck going to Eisner. Still, mom and dad weren’t making her go to summer camp as a way of forcing her into more normal social interaction. So she had that to be happy about. “Mom says it’s time for dinner. You’ll just have to lie about how awesome your life is later.†Birthday dinners where always a nice affair for the Favro-St. James family. Thomas, and it was always Thomas, never Tom or Tommy, had come by this year. Lilly was fairly certain he was only there for the free meal, but it was nice to see her half brother from time to time. “So short stuff, how’s it feel to be 15?†Thomas liked rubbing it in that he took after his father, and at 17 he stood 6’2, towering almost a foot over his half-brother. Gordy stuck his tongue out at Thomas. Still calling him short all the time. Five dollars says that with a year of school at Claremont under his belt he could take him in a fight. Not that mom would approve. Plus he was supposed to keep his powers secret from his siblings, Thomas especially. Godry had heard horror stories about Thomas father and his knack for exploiting people. There was a good chance he would try to get back into his mothers life if he found out about Gordy. “Well Tom, I have to say I feel ever so much more mature. In fact Tom, I’m not even going to rise to your bait about my height. Especially not when I have a show tomorrow. You’ll have to come by Tom, see me with all the flowers and accolades we actors earn.†Across the table Gina smiled, though she was obviously a little tired. Even with Robert making more money now then when the family lived in the Fens, Gina still had to work long hours at Beaudrie to afford the new place, and to pay Claremont tuition. She still couldn’t believe that Robert had bought Gordy a computer for his birthday. Oh, sure he rationalized that it was something the whole family could use, and it would help him with his case files, but Gina knew he just liked spoiling the kids. The upcoming bills for summer camp for Gordy and dance camp for Lilly spoke to that. But as long as they kept making rent and utilities Gina couldn’t really complain. Godry was halfway through his second helping of baked ziti when there was a knock on the door. They where early. Probably looking for free food. Lilly gets up and answers the door, letting in Frank and Bill, though Gordy more often referred to them as Marius and Enjorlas, the characters they would be playing. “Hi guys. You’re early. We haven’t even gotten to the cake yet.†Gordy saw the smiles they tried to hide. Part of him was amused at his cast mates transparent gesture. And part of him was annoyed that as actors they didn’t hide their smiles better. “I suppose we should do that part now.†After a round of happy birthday, a rather vocally full round thanks to the participants, and a slice of cake for everyone, Gordy grabbed his overnight bag and hugged his mother, his sister and his father. Thomas he punched in the shoulder after receiving the same. Off to an acting gig in Autumn Arbor, the first of a few weekend away performances he was going to be in this summer. Some kids might want an X-Box or a Wii for their birthdays. Gordy just wanted to be famous. This was step one.

It was the third time he had to give his report that the Emissary realized something was apparently very wrong. “.. and then I wrapped the lamppost around the fellow so that he could be restrained until you arrived.†For a third time he nodded back towards the unconscious, misshapen behemoth. The Emissary’s prone foe was propped up against the front of a bank that had undergone a way more literal smash and grab than usual. It was some new thug calling himself “Smash-orâ€Â. The Emissary felt his sincere in-fight asking about “smash, or what?†and follow up suggestion to go with ‘Smasher’ to avoid confusion was just being nice. It certainly didn’t deserve the stream of profanity he was given in reply. It was a clash that ended quickly all the same, repeatedly explaining all this to the police was actually taking longer. Like the first two times, they nodded blankly, and he sighed. “Is there something specific I have not provided? If so, you need but tell me, and I will do my best to accommodate. Please.†One officer coughed. Another scratched the back of their head. A third looked away. “Well… ah…†“Yes?†“… uhm… what’s with the hat?†Secured by a thin elastic under his chin, the Emissary was wearing a brightly multicoloured party hat. He blinked. “The.. oh! The hat. Well, it /is/ my birthday.†The Emissary’s tone had that sort of matter of fact tone that assumed he had now perfectly explained everything. The still confused stares begged to disagree. So he frowned slightly and continued. “My birthday? A day in which being otherwise extremely busy for most of it, I thought it would be fun to make some gesture towards celebration and glee all the same?†“Oh, well, uh.. Happy Birthday?†The Emissary managed to smile cheerfully through a faint exasperation he was now feeling. “Thank you very much officers.†He took aloft at that, his usual silvery blue streak through the skies having a bit of a red, pink and orange touch to it. The baffled reactions continued throughout the day, through patrols, paperwork, training sessions and meetings. The lowest point for the Emissary was definitely the small child. Who after being pulled away from an oncoming car and asking the same question everyone else did, offered a scrunched up face and accompanying comment of “that’s weird Mister Emissary. You’re being weird.†The Emissary was grumbling just a little by the end of the day. His hat was actually in hand as he made his way into his office, and he began to understand that expression that much more. He pulled out one of his favourite books from the shelf and plunked down on the floor to sit back against it, losing himself in Never-Neverland. “I actually think it looks quite festive.†He looked over with surprise, and then a fast, bright smile to see the shimmering, projected image of Councillor Sarlyn, his father. “I know! There were several others in the store, but that one seemed the most celebratory of them all.†Cheered, he put the hat back on as Sarlyn moved to “sit†down beside him. “So.. another year older, and another year of The Emissary Project besides. Quite the accomplishment my son, there were those in the council who felt it could not possibly last this long. You should be very proud.†The Emissary did beam at such praise, but then titled his head. “I am actually hoping to submit a request to get the name of this initiative changed. With my research into popular culture, it apparently makes me sound like some kind of British progressive rock band.†Sarlyn laughed at that, shaking his head. The Emissary just smiled. “I believe, if we are speaking of the customs of this world, there are several others we should attend to on this day.†Sarlyn gestured, and a small tray appeared before the Emissary with a flash, on it a brightly wrapped package, and a chocolate cupcake with a single lit candle in it. The Emissary held it up with a grin mirrored by that of his father. “So this entitles me to a birthday wish, does it?†Sarlyn nodded, and the Emissary furrowed his brow in thought, before carefully blowing out the flame. “What did you wish for?†“By my understanding, if I say, it does not come true.†“Ahh.. an intriguing mystery then.†They sat and pondered this solemnly for a moment before the Emissary buckled. “A pony for a young girl in the Make a Wish program. She very much wants one. Having told you, I am already scheduling appointments in my mind to encourage the fundraising to get it to her anyway.†Sarlyn chuckled. “A self fulfilling wish eh? And not even one for yourself? Perhaps for our people to accept as one the goals and philosophies behind The Emissary.. Experiment, and your very birth?†The Emissary shook his head. “I may as well have wished for world peace then. And as it true for either, I would want them to be something earned, something claimed and held to tightly so that it is naturally a part of those who have so accepted. Something they have grown into, something they have chosen. Every birthday I celebrate in this wider world is an affirmation of that one day hope. That each year I am here, I am doing my part to inspire the better part of people that only needs a helpful nudge to come to the surface. My creation.. my birth, was an act of hope. That the best of us could be used to make all societies as one. That the Utopians could stay on this earth and that humanity could become their equal partner. That there is a goodness to this planet, a quality, and that I can help everyone come to share in it. I am.. honoured by that.. I celebrate, revel in that, and I hold it as my personal challenge to meet. Doing it all in some cheap, dazzling magic flash would be like saying that collective hope was not good enough on its own. And I would never want to say such a thing. What worth could there be in any of us if I did? Why would we deserve our goals if I said or believed such a thing about the best part of us, and its power?†Sarlyn nodded with a proud approval. “Open your gift my son.†Carefully unwrapping the bright paper (he was going to save it), the Emissary found to his delight, a complete recorded run of Fox Kids’ Peter Pan and the Pirates, and a gaudily coloured noisemaker. He looked to his father happily, and noted Sarlyn was already hefting a similar noisemaker to his lips. “Happy Birthday Emissary.†They sounded out a commemoration of his creation together.

Independence Day was not the most inclusive of holidays for the Emissary, but he acknowledged that it made a certain degree of sense. He was after all the ambassador of a foreign nation, technically speaking. It would have been a touch bizarre if he was an especially public presence that day. He contented himself by idling the day away in exploration of Freedom Hall, now that he had full access to it. The rest of the League, Captain Thunder and Lady Liberty particularly, had a full day of ceremonies and celebrations ahead of them. It made for empty corridors down which the Emissary’s footfalls echoed with a heavy metallic clang (it was one of the few buildings where he could get away with the indulgence of walking on a floor directly). He found himself back in the reception area after a few hours of wandering, sitting down against the wall near the main desk and its robotic receptionist. “I think it is just you and I today Cynthia.†The synthetic secretary shaped a cheerily artificial smile in response. “Yes sir. Is there anything I can do for you?†He leaned his head back against the wall. “Explain human nationalism to me?†“I am sorry sir, that is outside of the scope of my programming,†the smile never flagged through her words, despite the hint of confusion to them. He shook his head to himself with a sadly bemused expression, looking over to her. “I do not mean to tax the extent of consciousness Daedelus has seen fit to allot you, it is I who am sorry. I simply… do not fathom this day. I have studied, still study, the history of this world. A War of Independence, that in truth only brought such a lofty thing to a relative few. Slavery, full voting rights for all genders and ethnicities, these issues were not resolved for well over a century afterwards. Even events such as the Shays rebellion immediately afterwards.. and yet.. annual celebration en masse for well over 200 years, in all defiance of such realities. Baffling. I feel somewhat isolated in this confusion.†Cynthia looked to him, and after a long moment of silent calculation, delivered with that ever present smile what wisdom she could. “Yes sir. Is there anything I can do for you?†He groaned, if only a tiny bit, lowering his face to the palm of his hand. His far reaching senses then caught the first few distant pops that heralded the citywide displays of fireworks. He turned his head to look out through the windows and extended his sight in full to the sky, fields of colours beginning to shimmer and dance brightly across his eyes. He could not resist his own delighted grin. “But then again.. perhaps there is something to be said for an ideal so beautiful it lifts up the gaze of a whole nation together for a single night. Perhaps the sheer awe of the what could be of it is the point.†“Yes sir.†He laughed softly, sense of self restored. “Thank you for your time Cynthia, we should talk more often.†He simply leaned back then and watched the show. If there was at any point a hint of actual warmth to Cynthia’s smile, well, it was no doubt a trick of the light.

Down in the Riverside, people are having cookouts in their backyards, swapping stories with their neighbors and generally just celebrating the holiday. Being the relative new guy on the block, Eric was at one of the cookouts, using it as a meet and greet… that and he was a horrible cook. The discussion eventually led to what everyone does for a living. Charlie was a construction worker, Amy was a DJ, Dan had a desk job at an insurance firm and so on. Just about everyone had a normal every day job, except for Eric. He had the pleasure of saying “I’m one of the lead developers for Darts Inc.†Someone knew that it was a weapons company and the conversation got a little more strained. It seemed that people didn’t mind the destructive power the Freedom League got handed, but if someone worked at getting the ability to make something blow up, suddenly they were the dangerous ones. It’s not they had more practice and knowledge or anything. Eric excused himself from the festivities and returned home not too much longer. He walked down into his basement, and got in to the secret elevator, whistling “Let Freedom Ring†as he rode it down. When the door opens, the lights kick on and Eric’s eyes come to rest on his own personal, multi-million dollar death machine. “Heh. If they only knew.†Seeing the suit reminded Eric, yet again of why he did what he did. Not a day went by without some Technicolor wonder being lauded over as if they were a national treasure. These heroes were thought of as the nation’s, even the world’s, defenders. Eric knew the real truth however, these so called heroes were the true tyrant rulers of this world. Every time the heroes “saved the world†Eric knew all they were really doing is protecting their own property, which is what any man would do. These heroes had taken over the world by sheer laziness on the part of the rest of mankind. A select few were randomly bestowed great powers and vaulted themselves to near god status, while the rest of mankind just sat back and let it happen. Eric refused to let that stand. He had been making these weapons for all these years to give the masses a way to rattle their cages and to take back their freedom, but this was in vain. The laziness was all consuming, and they did not even gather the energy to truly think about what this world was coming too. So, if the people were too lazy to act themselves, then a champion needed to arise and lead them to victory. Eric would be that champion. He became a crusader for freedom, fighting a war that the rest of the world wasn’t even aware of. To them, Malice was just another megalomaniac abusing his power for personal gain instead of a higher calling. That irony hurt Eric more than any of the broken bones, more than the shrapnel he pulled out of his body, and more than the humiliation of any of his defeats, but he would endure. He needed to endure, for the sake of humanity, for the sake of freedom. Eric looked at the suit for a moment as if he was truly seeing it for the first time. “It’s missing something.†A half hour later, Eric stood back and admired his handiwork. The Arms of Malice was a bad name as it turns out. True, Eric did hate the supers, but he hated them for a reason. He hated them for robbing mankind of its drive and its freedom. That is why the Arms of Malice is now called the Mantle of Freedom, and Eric will wear its red, white, and blue proudly as he starts the new Revolution.

The box has been sitting on Estelle's coffee table for three days, but she has not had the nerve to open it. The blond heroine stares at it as she sits on her leather couch, wrapped in a terry cloth robe as she gnaws on a thumbnail, nervously pumping her leg. Her amazing golden hair is draped majestically over the entire couch; it’s still wet from the shower that took twenty-five minutes and god knows how many gallons of water, and it takes forever to dry out. "To heck with this." Estelle extends a damp golden pseudopod to pick up the box and bring it to her as she straightens up to get a better look. Her extra limbs easily slice through the shipping tape and worm their way inside to draw forth several mock-ups for a proposed line of Gossamer toys. The sensitive fibers prod, stroke and probe the figures like alien life forms from a Japanese cartoon, testing the quality of the designs. After several minutes of through examination, a slender filament darts across the room, lassos Estelle’s cell phone and brings it to her waiting hand. “Hello?†“Hi, is this Paul?†“Speaking.†“Hi Paul, it’s Estelle de Havilland.†“Oh hi, Estelle!†“I’m so sorry to call you on your day off-" “No, no, it’s fine; I’m just getting ready to prep the grill. What can I do for you?†She picks up one of the smaller figures and studies it carefully. “Well, I’ve finally gotten around to looking over the prototypes you sent me, and I’ve got some feedback.†She chuckles ruefully. “To be honest, I’ve been avoiding it, but now it’s Saturday, and the box has been staring back at me all morning.†Paul Becker, head of the toy division of Development Concepts, laughs on the other end. “It’s a perfectly normal reaction, Stelle; either you can’t wait to see them or you live in dread of the day you do. It’s one or the other for everyone the first time they see themselves molded in plastic.†“I’m sure. I just had a few thoughts I wanted to rattle off, but if you’re busy…†“Don’t your worry ‘bout a thing, I’ve got pen and paper right here. Shoot.†“Well for starters, none of them look a thing like me; one appears to have acromegaly, this one has been inbred to the point of chinlessness, aaaaaaand this one…well, this one has two different sized eyes, one nostril and appears to be in the throes of religious ecstasy. I can’t say I’m pleased by the selection, but if I had to pick, I’d go with the Chinless Wonder; she looks a bit like my Great Aunt Pearl.†As she talks to Paul, the beautiful chemist has looped fine strands of hair around all three prototypes, and is dancing them across a landscape of golden hillocks she’s formed on the couch for her own amusement. Unfortunately, the movement attracts the interest of her cat May-Ray, who unbeknownst to Stelle has been watching the proceedings with great interest; in a flash, the cat leaps upon the chinless mock-up, savagely biting its tiny head. The low golden hills erupt in alarm as Estelle yelps and leaps to her feet, the whole of her animated head of hair roiling in a brief panic. For a moment May-Ray is completely engulfed beneath the amber waves before the heroine comes to her senses and releases his on the floor, allowing him to scamper off into a dark corner. “Estelle? What’s going on?†She plucks the discarded phone off the floor as she scrutinizes the damage to the figure. “I’m sorry, Paul, I just dropped the phone. My cat attacked Great Aunt Pearl, and it looks the old girl’s done for; she may never show her face in public again.†There is a long sigh from the other end of the phone. “Well, we already knew you didn’t like that one, so I guess it already did its job.†“She fell bravely in the line of duty.†“Heh, yeah, something like that. Other than the faces, anything else, anything you actually like?†“Well other than the face, I really like the look of the Rondo Hatton figure; the costume is well done, the pose is dynamic, slightly heightened yet still realistic, and my boobs are just about the right size. If it wasn’t for the Neanderthal brow and Popeye jaw, I’d give my approval on that one.†“Well that is excellent news, Stelle; maybe we can schedule time for you to have your face laser scanned-“ This gets an instant reaction from Estelle, who shakes her head violently as she goes off in search of her cat. “No, absolutely not; I’ve seen how women’s faces turn out from the scans, and they look horrible. Men’s faces turn out fine, but for some reason, women’s…no, but I do have an idea.†Paul sighs. “Okay, I’m all ears.†Estelle finally locates May-Ray behind the couch; she coils her hair up into a thick braid that falls down her back and starts to gently coax the frightened cat out. “I know a sculptor named Xavier Maki, who does the most amazing miniatures; I’d like him to have a crack at the maquette, if that’s alright.†“Does he work cheap?†Finally with her cat in her arms, the blond heroine returns to the couch, scratching behind his ears. “Not usually, no, but we might be able to get him for cheap; I think he’d love the challenge, and the novelty of the concept might give us a bit of leverage.†Estelle grins. “Also he has a mad crush on me, and a chance to have me model for him might be impossible to resist.†“Hah! Well, if you can make it work, it sounds great.†“Good. Now, onto the ‘Gossamer Glitter’ dress-up doll…â€Â