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In the realm of faerie, there was a butler who wasn't a butler anymore, because he had nobody left to butle.
Hey, I'm a wizard; I can claim that's a word if I want to. Besides, I'm narrating here, okay?
Anyway. This entity-formerly-known-as-butler now had the faerie-kingdom known as the Realm of Loud Sorrows to his own. It wasn't nearly so loud or sorrowful anymore, because he wasn't like the last person who had run it. In fact, it was actually turning into a bright, cheerful place; he was on permanent vacation, after all.
He had no grand designs for his realm, other than to sit on it (or at least a small part of it) and enjoy his bizarre immortal existence for as long as he could get away with it.
"This," he declared, "Is the good life. And it will be for at least two more days, but no more than five."
He frowned, wondering when he had developed a gift for prophecy, and then shrugged, deciding it wasn't important. There's always ways around trouble, and as a butler he was very good at finding them.
Besides, it was at least two days away. Plenty of time to enjoy some of those fancy drinks with little umbrellas in them.
The Grim, Dark Adventures of
Spellbinder, Mystic Defender
of the Earth Dimension!
#4: Tank!
Cover: A bulky, musclebound man in a trenchcoat, carrying an improbable array of guns and wearing seemingly needless bandoliers, shoulderpads and pouches. The man is wearing a Vietnam-era gas mask and has red blood on his hands, the only color featured on the cover, which is guest-penciled by Lob Riefeld. The bottom-right corner proclaims this issue to be a "giant-sized spectacular", whatever that means.
I woke up screaming again.
Chest heaving, covered in sweat, the whole routine. And by now it really had become routine; it'd been happening just about every night since I got the first of the phylacteries, the one that gave me a headache every time I tried to think about it. It wasn't really a problem, and at the time I never remembered the nightmares I was having, whatever they were, but it was very, very irritating. I grumbled as I rose and decided to be thankful for the one bright spot in it all - at least I was waking up mid-morning, when I wanted to, instead of the middle of the night or something.
I grumbled some more as I ambled outside to fill a plastic kiddie pool with water from the hand-pump well. The cabin I was staying in had been experiencing plumbing issues - I'd been getting indoor plumbing via magic, but the people on the other side of the pipe had found out and were very cross with me. So unless I wanted my bath water attacking me again, I was having to get it out of the spring-fed well here. The local water table's arsenic content was pretty high, but that again was something magic could take care of for me. And without getting a race of water-people angry.
After getting cleaned up, I checked my to-do list. Today it was actually mostly a list of names, or rather identities, of various noteworthy super-persons. Almost all heroes, with one exception - there was a magic-using villain who was beginning to make the scene, and I wanted to make sure that when (not 'if', judging from their modus operandi) they opened a gate to some doomsday realm and usher in the apocalypse, I'd know about it in time to shut it down before said apocalypse is fully ush'd.
That's a word now too, by the way.
I stepped outside into the crisp morning air and had a seat on the patio swing (I have a swing!) while looking over the list, trying to set out an itinerary for the day.
I'd already had to deal with Projectra the Laser Maiden (no, really), a robot magical girl (no, really) who operated out of Tokyo and had been quite cross with me for the unscheduled superpowered battle I'd had in her city. In addition to deciding that Projectra was one of the people who would go on my 'stupefyingly powerful superfolk to contact in an emergency' list, I brought home and read the pamphlet on rules for having such battles in Japan, so I could give a proper heads-up in advance next time something seemed to be happening. It was some pretty byzantine stuff, but I guess it worked for them.
Also, apparently giant city-stomping monsters enjoy automatic tax free status in Japan these days. I wondered if there was some way I could get in on that before going back to more pressing matters.
"I think you should try that archer in Los Angeles first," said a coyote that was sitting in the swing next to me. I jumped a bit at that, because I hadn't known there was a talking coyote in the swing next to me.
Okay, so maybe I jumped a whole lot. He chuckled. "Sorry to startle you. It's kind of a thing I do. Not even intentional."
After prying myself off the roof of the patio, I started to ask who he was, but then realized that was a stupid question. Instead I said, "Good morning, Coyote Oldman. Why him?" I also wanted to ask 'why me' but was starting to get used to supernatural entities being an expectedly unexpected part of my life.
"Because he will show you something interesting," said the coyote.
I frowned. "That's it? That's not much of a reason." Which showed I was still half-asleep apparently, because I really should've known better.
"Oh, on the contrary," said the coyote, "It's the best reason possible."
I started to argue, and then thought about it. "... How interesting are we talking, here?"
"It will change your life," said the coyote, poking me in the shoulder with his paw in a very buddy-buddy kind of way.
I frowned. "That isn't a veiled way of saying 'you're gonna die', is it?"
He chuckled, which was an odd sound coming from a dog's mouth (and making it even stranger that his speech sounded perfectly human). "No, no. You won't like the change, but it'll be good for you, and afterwords you'll be a bit more alive than you are now."
I eyed him for a while, trying to figure out if he was lying. But I'm not good enough at that to figure out a trickster god (or a trickster dog), so instead I just asked. "How do I know you're not lying to me? I mean, this could just be a setup to get me out so a new Mystic Defender can be put in."
He chuckled his weird canine chuckle again. "Oh, I don't care about that little PR scam. Neither do my local spirit-brethren, really. We don't need it - we have always been honest and straightforward in our dealings with mortals."
I eyed the ancient trickster-spirit sitting next to me on my patio swing. "Even you?"
"Especially me!"
I raised an eyebrow at that. "I see. So I guess it's not your fault if mortal presuppositions make them think you're a trickster?"
"Of course!" he howled, and had a good laugh at that.
After he had calmed down, I asked, "So while you're volunteering information, mind if I ask who is in on the Mystic Defender program? So I know whose feathers I've rustled in case I meet them in a dark alley."
He stopped laughing and his face lost its humor completely. "Do you care that you've ruffled their feathers?" He almost seemed angry about the notion.
I thought about that for about a half a minute, because it was actually a good, important question. In hindsight, I should've asked it of myself long ago. Before ruffling the feathers, say. Ah well.
"No, not really," I finally answered. "I mean, aside from knowing who's going to be out to pry my soul out of me, now."
He scrutinized me for a moment before nodding to himself, apparently satisfied. "Good. I knew there was a reason I liked you, Chelsea. What you did at the Chapel was brilliant. You hurt and irritated a lot of people who deserve it, and I want to make sure you're going to keep at it."
"So... you're encouraging me to be a trickster."
"Not quite," he said, smiling. "But something like that. I like you. And I want you to have the best destiny you can."
I looked at him. "Am I to believe this is entirely selfless on your part?"
He smiled. "Let's just say you're going to keep ruffling feathers for a while. As for your other question... most of the Greek pantheon cares. The current ruler of Talocan has it in for you, I'm afraid. That's important, so remember it." I nodded, filing away that the Aztec deities were angry. "The Norse thought they cared, but really, this world is too peaceful for most of them. They heard about the major wars from the earlier half of the last century and got themselves all excited, but right now the world is dull by comparison, modern warfare is unappealing to them, and only a handful of them think it might be worth it to try and stir things up. Odin is taking a wait and see approach. The Heliopolitans were trying to leverage the Mystic Defender program in part of a larger bid to regain their worship, and are upset. The gods of Shinto want to be taken seriously again, and so many of them were in on the program. Not all of them, mind you - some of them are still of the mind that monsters and demons running amok will be just the thing to being their glory back." He chuckled. "Go figure."
We sat there in silence for a moment while I digested all of that. While on the topic of digestion, I said, "You want some breakfast? I've got pork and venison sausage."
He nodded, and we went in and ate. I had the bizarre experience of watching an ancient deity of incalculable power eating off a paper plate on the floor and enjoying it. I also had eggs, sausage, and toast with strawberry jam. I love strawberries. I was trying to grow some outside my cottage, and working on another patch in the little world inside my soul, but the soil seemed to be too thin in both places. At the time that worried me less than it probably should have.
"That was excellent," said Coyote Oldman after he'd finished his plate of sausage. "Did you make it yourself?" I nodded, and he said, "Then I like you even more, now. And for that, I'm going to give you some advice for later on. Tomorrow, in fact."
I waited. After a moment he said, "He isn't what he seems to be."
"What's that supposed to mean?" I asked a split-second after he had vanished. I sighed and stood up, flexing my mind so that my superduds came out and flowed over me until I was ready for work. "Man's best friend my freckled rear," I muttered as I teleported to the other side of the Rockies. Teleportation is tricky, but I make a point of using it to leave my home, because that makes it harder for anyone to find it. From where I appeared, it was about ten minutes to fly to Los Angeles.
"ATHENA!", bellowed the king of Olympus. "ATHENA, MY DAUGHTER, I HAVE NEED OF YOUR COUNCIL!"
Zeus strode the halls of Olympus searching for wisdom he did not have. He had located what could be a vital opportunity, but he needed to be certain before he snatched it up.
"What is it, father?" asked Athena resignedly as she found him in the hallway.
"Athena!" Zeus said, smiling. "I know you are learning of this new wealth the mortals have devised, and have a question." She gestured for him to go on, hoping this would be related to something that would maybe get him out of his 'Divine Man-Cave', as he'd started calling it.
"One million dollars," said the thunder god, clasping Athena on the shoulders as he gazed into her with a deadly serious expression. "Is that a lot of money?"
Athena stared at him. This could go either way. Why did he suddenly care? "That depends on what you want to do with it," she said carefully.
"Well," said the skyfather, "I want to BUY things, obviously! Faster computers, newer games, and more expensive porn, which is better than free porn!"
The goddess sighed. Probably bad. "How do you intend to get the million dollars?" she asked in a resigned tone.
"Through GLORIOUS COMPETITION!" roared Zeus, raising his fists and crackling with electricity. "I will compete in the League of the Ancients Championship being held next month! I will TROUNCE the mortals with my godly superiority, and my divine mastery of melee AD carries!"
Athena knew better than to ask what that last part was supposed to mean, and instead said, "Do you have to pay anything to get in?"
"A mere one hundred dollars," he said. "A pittance, for what I could win!"
Athena paused. "Yes. Yes, one million dollars is a lot of money." She was starting to think that having him out of the house would be a blessing. As the god of thunder whooped and cheered and traipsed down the hall - never should the lord of Olympus be traipsing! - she decided it was time to talk to Hera about getting Olympus some new management. It would be hard to figure out who should take the throne, mostly because everyone would want to, but she had by now decided that it would be entirely worth it, and believed most of the other gods would agree.
Athena set off, plans percolating in her godly mind.
Some superheros are easy to find. They fly, they shine, they make noise, and sometimes they're just plain huge. Some of them will just go around being super all day long, right out in the open.
Others aren't. They have no powers (at least, nothing obvious), they don't like to show off, they carefully guard their secret identities, they even have day jobs.
Silver Arrow was one of that latter type, damn him. A guy dressed all in bright colors and carrying around a bow and quiver should've been a lot easier to find by all rights. I'd been looking around for two hours and was starting to consider what sort of impromptu crime would be most likely to draw him out when I heard the sound of gunfire, some of it automatic. Yeah, that would probably get his attention. Got mine.
I should probably make a quick note that while dealing with the supernatural is my main schtick, I'm not the type to let a bunch of people just kill each other, or rob a bank, or something like that. I don't go out looking for that kind of trouble like a lot of supers do, but if I stumble into it, I'm going to put a stop to it. Even then I had at least that much basic decency.
What's more, though, is that doing this puts me in a good light with the cops, and with the superhero community. That's useful, and at the time it was actually my bigger concern. Take that as you will.
Flying over to the fight took about two seconds, and then I was left with a bit of a problem; how to stop the fight without stopping the fight. I still wanted it to attract the local masked crime fighter, after all, and if I just encased them all in ice or something there'd be no chance of that. Fortunately, I didn't have to think about it for long because I remembered that there's this really interesting thing you can do with lead if you know the right magic.
So when the Silver Arrow arrived on the scene, he stood there staring for a bit as two rival gangs stood there pelting each other with balls of foam about half a foot across. All the balls were launched from their guns, and some of them had copper cladding, but they were all pretty harmless. This went on for about fifteen seconds - they took a break to wonder what was going on, and then shot a few more rounds experimentally, and when their guns kept spewing nerfed lead they got real confused. After that the adrenaline started to wear off, and they just sort of stood there wondering what was going on. I noticed that one side turned and started talking in Spanish to a hooded figure that was with them as I went to speak with the resident super.
The man with the bow - a little tall, maybe twentyish years old - turned to me and asked the obvious question: "Did you do that?"
"Yes," I said. "I'm Spellbinder, Mystic Defender of the Earth Dimension." I held out my business card. "My card." He took the card with the same what-the-hell look everyone gets when someone introduces themselves as a superhero and gives them a business card.
"I'm the world's leading expert on the supernatural," I continued as if the card were in fact the most natural thing in the world. "I'm going around and introducing myself to crime fighters such as yourself so that you can call me in when you need help with magic, mythic monsters, and miscellaneous mystic mayhem. I don't suppose you're having any problems with--" and then I broke off because I noticed the hooded figure was incanting a spell.
Even more interesting, it was a priestly spell. Pathworking as a general rule called on outside power sources to work (some people could use themselves to power rituals, but this was rare and kind of strange), but spells calling upon named and worshiped entities are a bit different. For one thing, they're easier because the entity has normally given you permission to cast the spell beforehand, and he doesn't have to think about whether he wants to let you do this. They're also a little faster, for the same reason, and this can make fighting priests a pain. There's some other things too, but the important one is that to anyone with mystic sensitivity, the presence of the entity called upon can be felt as the spell is cast. This can tell you a lot about who is being called, and how powerful the spell is.
"Crap," said Arrow and immediately launched a weighted projectile at the priest. Did he sense it too? That would be interesting if so, but it's more likely this just wasn't the first time he'd seen what happens when some mysterious robed guy waves his arms and chants all hokey-like.
For his part, the priest took the hit and stumbled; the spell dissipated, and while I'd like to say it was harmless he probably shaved a few weeks off the lives of the gang members around him. He'd been casting something nasty with an equally nasty power source, and now I had to figure out what to do about it.
Of course, the first part was simple; throw up a protective field to deflect the foamed-up bullets coming our way, now that the gangsters knew we were here. Probably wouldn't hurt much, but I wasn't taking chances, y'know? Silver Arrow started taking potshots at the various shooters, but I wasn't worried about them. Instead I made a street lamp burst, pulled some electricity out of it and hit the priest with it; not enough to kill him (unless he had a heart condition or something), but plenty to knock him out.
After that, I pulled the gangsters together into a ball and held them fast with bonds of ice. "Okay, that's enough of that," said I as the assorted miscreants squirmed and struggled to get out-- it would've been funny if I wasn't suddenly more focused on the job. "What's your usual deal for handling a bunch of KO'ed gang members?"
"Police are already on their way to pick them up," he said. "I monitor their radio bands. They always love gift-wrapped presents," he added with a smile. "But what about that other one? He's supposed to be a priest of someone called 'Santa Muerte', and he's been giving me a lot of headaches lately. The Gatos too, actually."
"Oh, he's going to lead us to his temple. There's a temple somewhere around here, or at least a shrine. And he's not following Santa Muerte, although I guess he could think he is."
Silverboy frowned. "Really? Who's he following then?"
Tezcatlipoca brooded in his dark demesne of evil. He sometimes even thought of it this way, because it amused him so. He was not generally subtle about his aims. He did not mind that people aware of his existence lived in terror of him. He was quite pleased that one of the titles he'd been given simply translated as 'we are his slaves'. As far he was concerned, at the time it had been completely true, and he hoped to make it that way again, because he enjoyed having an entire empire of slaves dedicated to the maintenance of his divinity. In short, Tezcatlipoca did not mind being depicted as a monster or villain because at the end of the day, monstrous villainy was what worked for him, and what got him fed.
Tezcatlipoca had been eating well lately. It was mostly junk food, really, but after centuries of near-starvation, he didn't mind. Even someone half-dead from overdose could give him nourishment, and the occasional soldier was quite satisfying. The cult he'd started was doing well, bolstering the criminals of the land he had once ruled to the point where they were opposing the nation's military on nearly equal ground, and enabling to expand their reach beyond its borders into the fat, rich, feckless nation to its north.
The real problem he'd begun to encounter was that as his forces pushed north into this rich source of wealth and food, they were encountering unusual resistance. The so-called 'super-heroes' were becoming a real pain. He needed his cult to secure the new lands, but he was beginning to face the possibility of these people pushing back, possibly even into the seat of his cult's power in Tepeyacac. He needed to do something about that.
Fortunately, he had just the thing. The super heroes were mighty indeed, but they had a great and terrible weakness; rather than ruling through fear, they relied on the goodwill of the public. And good will was such a terribly fickle thing. All it needed was a push and it would begin to eat itself, and before long it would be gone, replaced by fear and hate.
And Tezcatlipoca was very good at pushing.
Five days ago.
A man walked out of the dark, grim streets and into the grim darkness of a grimly dark alleyway. In the grim dark of night, he was hardly noticed, which suited him just fine. In a grim, dark sort of way. The streets of Blackgoat, New Jersey, were always caked in the filth of humanity - hookers, gangsters, drug pushers, and door-to-door insurance salesmen. Nobody here made an honest living, nobody here was without sin. Not for long, anyway - this was where innocents went to die.
No, the grim, dark man thought to himself, scowling at a sky clouded over with smog from the pollution factories upriver. Nobody here was innocent. Especially not he himself. Despite his new-found powers, he had no delusions about handling the scum and villainy of Blackgoat with kid's gloves. This wasn't a problem that could be handled by an innocent, by a niceguy. This grim city, he mused darkly, needed a new kind of hero. One who wasn't afraid to get their hands dirty cleaning up filth.
And he was going to be that grim, dark hero.
He was Tank. And he was going to fix this city, one dead criminal at a time.
Striding towards the tenement where a local gang and their drug dealer friends made their headquarters, he saw some armed thugs slouching against the steps leading up to the entry. The man known as Tank decided they'd be a good start, and readied one of his guns, at random. He smiled a bit when he realized he'd picked the MM-1 grenade launcher.
Yeah, that'd do the trick, he mused grimly.
Four minutes later, he strode casually out of the burning tenement, feeling pretty good about himself, if in a grim, dark way. He imagined the final explosion unfolding behind him in slow motion as he walked, although in truth it moved at the same speed any other explosion would. The explosion hadn't hurt him in the slightest, nor had the bullets and buckshot that had been fired at him. The first hunt on the first night of his new life had been completely successful. He smiled a grim, dark smile; armed to the teeth and impossible to hurt, he really was a tank. Nothing could hurt him. Nothing could stop his quest.
Nothing.
You know, sometimes I kind of wonder if I'm in the wrong business. As much as magic fascinates me, and as seriously as I take my job (now that I got to define it the way I wanted to), there's a lot to be said for the work of a more 'traditional' superhero, if there is such a thing.
Mostly, this is because beating the crap out of a small army of drug soldiers is amazing good fun. Which is just what I was thinking at the time, although I was trying to keep it off my face.
"Your mask looks like it's giggling," said Silver Arrow. I guess I wasn't trying hard enough.
"It, uh, does that," I responded vaguely before tossing a dude at some other dudes and knocking them all down.
"Also," said my partner in crime-fighting as he pinned a guy to a wall, "I thought your deal was magic!"
"It is!" I said in protest as some people shot me, their bullets falling down after sloshing into my fancy magic force-field. "Why would you doubt me?"
"You've got super-strength!", explained the archer as he knocked two guys out with boxing glove arrows just before tripping another with a bola arrow. "Why does a wizard have super-strength?"
"Shut up," I explained. That was actually something I was pretty touchy about at the time, because for all I liked being able to bench-press an SUV, I was still uncomfortable with the reason for it. "We can't all pick the way we're born!"
"Says the woman with the amazing combo platter powers," snarked the archer as he hit a group of people with some sort of adhesive bomb. I didn't really have a comeback for that one, so I consoled myself by punching bad men until I noticed something.
"Okay, found the priests and the shrine. I think they're summoning something. You gonna be okay if I leave you alone with the fodder?"
"No?" He said exasperatedly. "There's still at least fifteen guys with guns here! The only reason I haven't been shot yet is that you're soaking everything up!"
"Oh, bitch bitch bitch," I said as I worked a quick spell that locally rendered cordite inert. Just like that, the guns stopped working. "There, that'll take care of their guns. You should be okay, now, right?" The spell only lasts a few seconds - the trick is to make people drop their guns because they think it's permanent. My handy dandy aura of trustworthiness helped here - I'd totally never lie to a comrade, after all. The clattering of firearms on pavement told me it had worked.
"Yeah, okay. You go deal with the other wizards, or priests, or whatever," said the Silver Arrow. "I'll just take out the trash here."
"...you did not really just say that."
"Just go stop the summoning."
"Sure," I said and gestured to the floor.
Loki Laufeyson frowned at the images he was seeing in the mirror. "Odd. I didn't think she'd go there first. I was sure she'd visit that harbor-city with the rocket man before this."
Hermes looked up from the book he was reading. "What? Where did she go?"
"The city of angels," said Loki. "We weren't expecting her there until tomorrow, were we?"
Hermes smiled. Loki didn't always like it when a plan went wrong, but for the Thrice-Great it was the best part. "No, dear friend, we weren't. Amazing. I wonder if she managed this herself. She might've caught on already."
"Or we could have another player," said Loki. He frowned at a memory of something he'd spotted earlier, when he'd been watching the mystic defender bathe. "Tell me, has she always had a wolf? I would hope I'm not going mad."
Hermes frowned. "A wolf? No, she doesn't keep pets. Unless perhaps you count the gorgon. Show me what you saw."
Loki gestured, producing the image of a lean canine with mottled gray and black fur with bits of red here and there, especially on the face and head.
"Oh my," said Hermes. "Good spot, Loki. But no, that's not a wolf. That's a coyote."
The Asgardian frowned. He recognized Coyote by reputation, although he'd never seen the animal before. "So we're not the only ones in this game anymore."
"I don't think we ever have been," said the messenger. "I think there's at least one more whose hand is working in events right now."
"Who?"
Hermes grinned. "I don't know. No. Idea." He laughed. "Isn't it grand?"
I used a spell to blow a hole in the floor and stepped into it, letting myself fall the twenty or so feet down to the floor below. I realized I was too late to stop the summoning when I saw a familiar face. Two priests were there, shouting exhortations to the newly summoned creature to go forth and smite me. The creature was tall and covered in wrinkled red skin that looked like uncovered muscle, and tipped with hooves and long, curling horns. Each hand ended in long, vicious claws, and so on and so forth. He was really terrifying if you didn't know him. But I knew him.
"Bob?", I asked incredulously.
There was a pause from everyone in the room. Eventually the horrible demon-thing said "Aw hell. Is that you... uh, what're you callin' yourself now?"
"Spellbinder," I said. "Mystic Defender of the Earth Dimension. Look, I've got a badge and everything." I used a spell to make the badge glint and gleam audibly. One of the cultists seemed impressed.
"Ha!" said Bob. "Nice. So, is this legit?"
"Absolutely. At least, it is as of a few weeks ago."
"Damn. That means you're gonna banish me, aren't you?"
"Totally not personal, dude. Hey, look, I'll buy you dinner to make up for it, okay? Velprachanat's, tomorrow around two-moons, my treat?"
One of the priests broke in with, "We summoned a demon named Bob?"
"It's the name of a poisonous murder implement where he's from," I said in my old buddy's defense. "Makes it a really impressive name."
"What's wrong with 'Bob'?", asked the demon.
"It's a boring guy's name here," I said. "But look, that's unimportant, okay? Hold still so I can banish you. If you move around you might not end up at home."
"Yeah yeah, I got it."
"WHAT!" cried one of the cultists, his anger showing clearly. "We summoned you to do battle with this superhero!"
"Is that what you call her? Ha! Maybe I should move here too if I'll get such a snazzy title out of it!" He smiled. "And besides, even if we weren't friends, I don't stand a chance against someone like her. And neither do you. Give it up, boyos." His little speech, aside from being true, gave me time to work the spell to send him home.
The room was still. "It... it took us three minutes to summon him," said one of the cultists. Normally, you see, a banishment spell has to mirror the summoning spell, which usually means it's not practical for use in a fight.
"What can I say?" I said, grinning. "I'm just that good." And that, incidentally, was what I could say.
"If we surrender," said the older one, "Can you protect our souls?"
That was a good question. I had to think about it. "Do you know who you've been dealing with?"
The two priests looked at each other. One was in his fifties, the other wasn't even old enough to drink in the U.S. The young one said, "Santa Muerte, right?"
The older one shook his head. "No... no, I don't think Santa Muerte is real. When we call upon her it feels..." he shuddered. "I do not know who it really is, though. I entered the cult to protect my family. They said they would..." He swallowed, making a dry sound.
"I can protect them, and you too," I lied. In fairness, while I didn't know that I could for sure, I determined right away I was going to try as hard as I could. "You'll need to tell me where they are so I can rescue them. But I'll protect you all. I have... a place I can put you where you'll be safe."
"Thank you," said the older priest. "I cannot wait to get away from... from all this."
I looked at the younger one. "And you?"
"I don't want to die. That's all."
I nodded. "Fair enough. Okay. What're your names?"
"Jose," said the kid. "Alejandro," said the old man. I nodded.
"Okay, Alejandro. You're still married, right?" The man nodded. "Right. Then you probably shouldn't tell your wife about this," I said as I grabbed him and shoved his face at my cleavage, into which he vanished.
Jose stared at me and grabbed his nose as it started to bleed.
The world was small and had a scenic appearance. There were trees here and there, in one spot forming something like a forest, although the whole area couldn't have been more than a square mile in extent. At one end there was a gazebo made of whole logs with a hammock and some amenities scattered about, and not far from it was a stone temple of some sort that seemed to change size depending on what angle you looked at it from; in the corner of your eye it was immense, and when looked at dead-on, it was only thirty or so feet tall.
The strangest thing, tho, thought Alejandro, was the strawberry patches. Someone had been trying to grow them here, although they weren't doing very well; the soil was apparently very poor after you cleared away the grass that covered it. It was also a strange red color, although it felt loamy when he ran his hands through it.
He hadn't been there long when Jose came tumbling in, grinning, bleeding from his nose and looking a little delirious. He chuckled a little.
Alejandro raised an eyebrow. "Think clean thoughts, young man."
Three days ago.
The third dark night, the third grim target.
Tank moved through the grim, dark streets again. He was carrying larger weapons this time. He hadn't noticed it at first, but he was becoming stronger. Even when he'd first gotten his powers, he hadn't been able to carry this much ordinance. It filled him with a certain grim satisfaction, and a dark sort of glee. He was probably even carrying enough to take down the local crime lord now.
He arrived at the warehouse where the criminal scum made their base. The guards came to stop him, as he knew they would. He killed them and made his way inside.
Forty dead bodies later, he arrived in the private room of their boss: Cenotaph, the man of marble.
Cenotaph looked grimly at Tank as he walked into the dark room. He was large and powerfully built, with skin, hair, and eyes resembling a roman sculpture of white marble. Tank noticed this made it hard to tell whether his eyes were open or not, but he definitely noticed his entrance. "Who are you?" he asked. "Why are you wearing a gas mask? And what's with those damn shoulderpads?"
Tank wanted to say something witty but failed to think of anything. Instead, he just said "Shut up!" and hoisted his Carl Gustav, firing an 84mm rocket into Cenotaph's face.
When he didn't see bits go flying everywhere - he was pretty sure an anti-armor round would've demolished real marble, he noted sourly - Tank quickly started loading in another round. Sure enough, from the dust and smoke came Cenotaph, his suit ruined and his face a bit of a mess, but still intact.
"That hurt, you little shit," said the crime lord. Tank was suddenly aware that the man was actually quite menacing, and realized this must be why he ran practically all the crime in New Jersey. "I'm going to take you apart like a cheap watch. And after all the men you killed, I think I'm gonna enjoy it."
He charged at Tank, who didn't manage to reload in time to stop the fierce punch that launched him to the edge of the room and three feet into the stone foundations of the dock area. He hadn't known Cenotaph was this strong. It was kind of amazing.
But not the most amazing thing.
"That," Tank said, grinning under his mask as he slowly pried himself out of the rock, "Didn't hurt." He started laughing as he picked up one of the dozen large weapons that had fallen off as he'd careened across the room. "Not a damn bit!"
Cenotaph sneered. This was going to take a while, apparently.
"Right," I said, "I think that's everything here for now."
"Well you were down there long enough. What happened to the other cultists?" asked my partner in fighting crime. I shrugged. "They decided to surrender and spill everything they know; I have them in protective custody now." I didn't bother explaining that they were in a pocket dimension inside me and that I'd been down there so long in order to teleport to Alejandro's home and pick it up for him. And his family along with it.
He started to ask where and then apparently thought better of it. Just as well; I don't like talking about the only way I have to access my personal dimension, since it's... well, you know.
"Okay," he continued, "So if I find another one of these temple things, how do I contact you?"
"You have my card, right?" He checked to make sure, and yes, he had it. "Hold it in your hand and focus on me. It'll put you in telepathic contact with me. Just be careful what time you call, okay? It's about the harshest way you can wake someone up."
"Hold on, let me give it a try to make sure." His faced scrunched up in concentration - which was almost my favorite part about handing the cards out. I mean, y'know, after it making my job of policing the supernatural element on Earth a lot easier by getting people to report sightings to me.
"Can you hear me now?" he thought at me.
"YeeEEEsss, my chiiiild," I thought back in the best over-the-top camp spooky voice my mind can manage - which is very good, by the way. "Iiiii heaar yooou".
I heard his mind laughing at that, which is another weird experience I wish everyone could have at least once.
I wasn't surprised he wanted to test it to be sure it worked - a lot of people want to do that, which is completely understandable, given that even ten years after the Reality Quake, there were still a lot of people who didn't even believe magic existed, dismissing even the most public and obvious stunts by sorcerers or magic creatures as any number of really silly things. Arrow probably wasn't one of these, but he would probably still be dubious about the whole thing.
Probably.
"Hey, it works," he responded, dropping his concentration and talking out loud again. "I need to tell my cousin Cleo about this. She's a magic user too, this would save us a fortune on phone calls."
Or maybe he had a relative who used magic and this was more or less normal to him. Huh.
We talked for a little bit about professional stuff, and then I left, nonchalant as you please. I'd already taken care of the family, and the day was still young, and I had a couple of other people to visit on the west coast, which actually went a lot faster than I'd thought. There had been a little bit of a team-up to fight a giant monster that had come in search of true love. I swear, sometimes you just can't make this stuff up. But I'd been able to help clear that up (translation magic, hurrah); we found the guy's true love, which was the most unbelievably hideous creature that some half-blind old lady had mistaken for a stray dog and taken under her wing. After the saccharine reunion, I had handed out my cards and made my pitch, and decided to head off to Texas.
I'd been making lists of large cities with vigilantes and superheroes, and had been surprised to find a lot of them along the gulf coast, and quite a lot across Texas. I'd thought the place was mostly desert and stuff, but apparently that state was chock full of cities with close to or more than a million people, which is where most superpower populations tend to pop up (with a few notable exceptions like Hadron, Champion-Defender of Bad Knee, Utah).
The only tricky thing after this would be getting in touch with the people who tend to operate globally like... well, like myself. There were a couple more besides myself, of course, mostly people capable of flying quickly. But I was going to handle the easy stuff first, so I just set off for the next spot on my list.
A lone figure watched as the archer and the sorceress departed the warehouse temple. The archer he was familiar with; he showed promise, and might one day be worth becoming more involved with. The sorceress was new, however. And she was different, although she wasn't showing it overtly.
The figure decided that she bore further watching, and went to follow her as she flew East.
So, Texas. Never saw any cowboys there; I was pretty disappointed. Once again I felt like I'd been lied to all my life, and so on.
Austin was boring. I found the resident 'superhero' there leading a student protest, but apparently he never did any actual superheroics, nor did he have superpowers. He was just an activist organizer with a lot of good press. I gave him a card anyway just to be sure.
El Paso was more along my expectations, but nothing really happened there either. I found the two supers of the town (it was a lot bigger than I thought) on patrol, made friends (they liked that I'm fluent in Spanish - although with the right magic training, learning languages is so easy it might as well be cheating), and headed off because it was a quiet day for them. It wasn't until Houston that things got interesting.
See, there was sort of a little zombie apocalypse. Except that term is completely inaccurate, because what everyone thinks of as a 'zombie apocalypse' doesn't involve zombies at all, but rather ghouls. Zombie-ness isn't a contagious state, and really neither is ghouldom. Zombies also don't eat people. They don't eat anything. They're just flesh puppets motivated by an external will only. They're not even as good as real puppets made of wood or metal or what have you, and would probably never be used except that necromancers tend to be too lazy and stupid to make things, and just play around with everyone else's leftovers.
Sorry, I'll get off my high horse now. It's just, y'know... Goddamn necromancers.
So it was that when we came face to face with the necromancer that had raised these ghouls out of an outrageous nine graveyards, I was itching to give them what-for. Mostly psychologically, tho.
"Hi there!" I said in a chipper tone, because I was about to thwart this brat's plans and I love thwarting plans. Maybe Coyote was right about me there. "We're here to thwart you," I continued. It could also maybe be that I just love the word 'thwart'.
"Did you really say that?" asked my current temporary partner in crime-fighting, Rocket, the armored hero of Houston, Texas. I'd gotten to know him while we were fighting the ghouls - it's so easy, once you know how, that it doesn't really require much effort. He was nice, even though it was clear magic gave him the heebie-jeebies and it took effort on his part not to freak out about the wizards and ghouls that were suddenly in his life.
Turns out his suit of supertech powered armor had started out as an experiment to see if he could make a portable air conditioned environment, and just kind of ballooned from there once he realized what he was creating. So now he could fly, shoot stun lasers (he was proudest of those, really) and lift heavy things and so on, and he used it to fight crime because, as he said, "Hell, someone has to". Houston turned out to have a sizable superhero population (and it was a lot bigger than I expected), and really, Rocket was the best of them. He was smart, capable, and his suit was quite powerful. He also made the best candidate for a card because he hated magic and would love to have someone he could call in to take care of it for him, which suited me fine.
Anyway, he was a little on edge at this point so when he replied, it was "Please tell me you did not just say 'thwart'."
"I did!" I responded.
By now the necromancer, a man who was going bald but still had pimples, was getting upset that we were ignoring him. "Who are you, to dare assault the great--"
Rocket zapped him with his stun blaster, which made him fall down and be quiet for a little bit, although he was still conscious. "Thank you," I said. He just nodded.
"We've stopped your insidious plan to do whatever you were going to do," I said. And I waited.
"You've defeated my army of zombies?" asked the necromancer.
"Ghouls," I said. "And yes, yes we sure have. We're superheroes - defeating evil armies is kind of what we do."
He sneered. "Zombies sounds cooler!" he barked, as he started casting a spell. "But now it doesn't matter, because with their defeat, I can do-- THIS!"
And nothing happened. I put on the biggest smug grin I could and said "We didn't kill them ourselves; I saw that enchantment you put on all of them, and you know, it wasn't half bad. Each ghoul we killed ourselves would pollute us with an energy you could use to corrupt and control us later. Lucky for Rocket, his stun blasts don't work on undead. And for me, I came up with a better solution; I made them all kill themselves."
"WHAT?" squealed the Necromancer. "How! How did-- oh, NEVERMIND! GET HER!"
I wondered who he was talking to until some of the stone mausoleums suddenly jumped into motion, attacking Rocket and myself. Giant rock monsters aren't normally my bailiwick, and at the moment I was more or less wrapped up keeping him from creating more, using the gravestones and trees. He was cheating, the little bastard; he had a staff that was apparently made for this sort of thing. I didn't have time to fight the rock monsters while keeping him from animating every hard object in sight, but thankfully Rocket was on top of it. While I sat there trying to keep the situation from getting worse (and mostly succeeding), he shoved the mausoleums out of the way, putting them back in roughly the spots they belonged in, and then he turned and shot the necromancer a few more times with his stun rays. This time the punk was out like a light.
We stood there quietly for a while. After a while, Rocket shook his head and said "I still can't believe the zom-- the ghouls went for the Hostess® Fruit Piestm. Or that they exploded when they ate 'em."
"Believe it," I said. "Like I told you, decomposition speeds up when--"
"I hate magic," he interrupted. I just nodded.
We were quiet a little while longer. "I like those stun rays of yours," I said. "Can you maybe explain the principle of it to me?"
"Not right now, but I'll write something up for you."
"Cool. Just remember, if you need help with magic stuff, don't hesitate to ask, alright?" He nodded, I thought for a bit, and then I said "Oh, and hey. Where's a good place to have lunch around here?" It was a bit late for lunch, but I was starting to realize that I was hungry, and I didn't have any more magically delicious Hostess(r) Fruit Pies(tm) since I'd used them all on the ghouls.
"Depends on what you're in the mood for," he said. I said barbecue - hell, I was in Texas, wasn't I? - and he said "Okay. Goode Company isn't far from here. Go try them out." I nodded, we said our goodbyes, and I headed off.
I headed to a densely wooded park first, found a place where I could be sure nobody was watching, and changed out of my superduds into some normal clothes. I'd decided to make a point of never spending money while in my superhero clothes, just in case, so if I was going to be eating at a restaurant, it would be in my civilian duds; T-shirt, jacket, jeans and sneakers.
After that I took a short walk to the restaurant he'd pointed out to me, going in the door and taking a deep breath. I reflected again that it was nice to have money again, and to be able to pay for things. Like, y'know, food.
I ordered an enormous stack of food at the counter. The lady working the cash register gave me a strange look but shrugged and sold me what I was buying. By rights three people my size shouldn't have been able to eat what I ordered, but I was starting to learn some things about my weird metabolism. A lot of it related to that little dimension that was part of me and where I had my job stuffed away so I could tinker with it as I liked, as well as some Mexicans that I was sheltering from their evil god. I was learning, for instance, that I could eat a rather astonishing amount of food. The joke is that if people ask 'where do you put it all', I can actually tell them, although they probably won't understand without a lot of explaining and an introduction to the idea of pan-dimensional metaphysics. Anyway, this would be useful in the future; I'd be able to get into a fight and as long as I didn't get too badly messed up, I'd have enough raw material on hand to heal up and walk away afterwords (whether or not I won was another matter - I don't heal fast enough to regrow limbs mid-fight or anything crazy like that).
So there I was in my civilian togs while feeding my freckled face when a man came in, sat down across from me, and said "Hello, Spellbinder."
I damn near choked on my soda.
Tank took a moment to collect his thoughts as Cenotaph finally fell to the ground, more from apparent exhaustion than actual damage. It had been a long fight, but Cenotaph was beginning to crack and become fatigued, and Tank was neither. He was exhilarated, but despite the fact that they had been fighting for two full hours, he wasn't the slightest bit tired.
The fight had ranged across the docks district, and had resulted in the destruction of most of the warehouses, several of the docks, and even the sinking of a tanker. Tank did not care; he was sure the tanker had been smuggling something anyway, for reasons he couldn't pin down and didn't bother to think about. More gangsters had come to try to stop him, and he'd killed them. Some police, probably under the gangster's pay, had come to try to stop him as well - they must be crooked to try to stop his quest! - and he'd killed them as well.
And now he had Cenotaph, the criminal head of most of New Jersey, at his mercy. He grinned.
Reaching into some of his pouches, he pulled out blocks of red putty; semtex he'd managed to get his hands on, and he was glad he had, now. He wrapped several wads of it around Cenotaph's head, stuffing more into his nostrils and mouth before wiring up the detonator he pulled out of another pouch.
He walked away about forty paces - normally not a safe distance from this much plastic explosive, but he just wanted the view. Pushing the switch, he watched with satisfaction as Cenotaph's head exploded and bits of it landed all around him. The late gangster's nose bounced off his forehead and he laughed. He checked to make sure, and there was nothing left but a headless stone body, which was starting to crumble, as if the animating spirit was all that had held it together.
Satisfied, Tank went home. He didn't notice the reporter and the cameraman who had been watching him for the last half hour; they hadn't tried to stop him.
I think this is as good a time to mention, in case I haven't explained it already, that I really valued my privacy.
Even though it did in fact rise to the level of paranoia, I think it was pretty reasonable. At the time, I had a list of gods who I expected to want me dead that consisted of the bulk of four pantheons (it had been five until my talk with Coyote that morning, in fact). Quite a few of them would also want to bottle my soul up so they could do nasty things to it for the rest of eternity, or until they got bored, whichever came first. I was also on the run from family members (worse than it sounds) and all sorts of other nasties, and was probably pissing off other people without even knowing it (that is part of the territory when you're a superhero; random newspaper editors and corporate bigwigs will abruptly blame all their problems on you for little to no apparent reason), so since the logical assumption was that an enemy's uncovered my secret identity, such as it is, I did what any sane, rational person does in these situations. I reached for a weapon while planning on how to kill the guy without revealing who I am.
"Please do not be alarmed", he said, which totally didn't help. Then he said, "I am altering the perceptions of the other patrons in the restaurant so that they do not pay any attention to us." Which kinda helped, but was also really creepy. "I have been observing you, and I believe we can establish a working relationship now."
"I am the Knight of Cydonia," he added after a pause.
Oh. That explained it - the Knight of Cydonia, a superhero from another world, was known to have shape-shifting powers he used in combat. I guess he could use them cosmetically too. He was really one of the top end super-people, if not the top end super-person. Between telepathy, super-strength, shape-shifting, some sort of psychic sword, and a bunch of other odds and ends, he had a solution for just about every problem.
"Except magic," he said. Which meant he was reading my mind. "I've discovered that there are forms of magic that are damaging to me, and which can be used by even apparent neophytes."
"Ah," I said. "And you want to set up the same deal I've been setting up with all the other supers." He nodded. "Great," I said. "First, tho, please stop reading my mind. It makes conversation awkward."
"Sorry," he said, somewhat abashedly. "Yes, I would like a means to contact you, as well as others. I am thinking of constructing a team."
"Some sort of guild of just intent?" I asked. "Interesting. Well, I guess I can be your go-to-girl for my field of specialty."
"That was my hope, thank you. I was wondering if you might be amenable to full member status, but in the look I had at your mind I noticed a lot of..." he frowns. "Sharp edges, I suppose. I'm sorry, I am unused to trying to explain psychic impressions to those who can't experience them."
"It's fine. I'm pretty sure I know what you're talking about anyway. And besides, I've made great strides in the last couple of years. I'm much better off than I was," I lied.
He opened his mouth like he was going to say something to that, probably to call my bluff, but then changed his mind. Maybe it was wrong, but that bothered me; even before I asked him to stop he'd already looked more closely at my thoughts and emotions than I had for the last decade or so. What had he seen in there? I made a mental note to do some introspection (which I wouldn't for a while), and continued.
"Okay, well. I have this," I said, handing him a business card. "Slightly psychic posterboard. If you focus on it, it'll put you in mental contact with me no matter where I am. I'm pretty sure it even works through time differentials."
He looked it over. "Crude, but functional." I swallowed my pride on this one - even the best mages could usually only fake psychic phenomenon, emulating it through magical means. This guy was the genuine article, whether through birth or training or being struck by lightning while holding a walking stick and mixing chemicals in a cosmic ray storm on an experimental bomb range. (That totally happened to a guy, too. Seventeen simultaneous OSHA violations.)
"Right, okay. Well, anytime you have some trouble, let me know, alright?" It was kind of an awkward meeting, and so it was kind of an awkward goodbye. He simply nodded and walked out the door, fading into invisibility as he went. Hey, neat. I didn't know he could do that.
I sighed. That had been quite a startle. I made another mental note, this time to see if I could set up some sort of warning to tell me if someone was focusing on me with hostile intent. Not to kill any drama, but I did some searching and it turned up fruitless.
After thinking for a while, I decided to head home and kick back for a while. I was still way ahead of the schedule I'd set for myself, and after the scare I'd had at the start of this, I decided it was a good time for some 'me' time. Later tonight I'd head out to talk to the night-prowling sorts of heroes and peddle my services to them in turn.
Rocket took off his helmet as he came through the secret entrance to his house, concealed in the trees along buffalo bayou where it ran through the city. He wanted to take a load off after the weirdness of the day. He'd had to walk through a car wash twice to get all the zom-- er, ghoul guts off of him.
"Television on," he said, and the television turned on. He'd patented a lot of neat little knicknacks like that, and they were starting to make him wealthy. Which is why he could afford the mobile comfort zone that was his suit, as well as a nice house in an affluent part of town.
He grimaced when the evening news came on. That wasn't what he wanted to see. But something caught his eye in the report. And it wasn't the gorgeous anchorwoman who was reading it. Well, not just her.
"--in New Jersey tonight, as what people refered to as 'a guy with a huge gun and a gas mask' leveled half of the docks area in the city of Blackgoat, shooting and killing fifteen policeman and over one hundred gangsters and eventually killing super-gangster Cenotaph with high explosives. The perpetrator is described as being between six foot four and six foot eight, and having a mullet, a trenchcoat, and, quote, 'a whole lot of pouches'. Reports say the perpetrator was bulletproof, and displayed superhuman--"
Rocket cursed to himself. Something needed to be done about this, and fast. He would have to get together some people and go after the guy before the media said--
"Could this be a new kind of super-hero, one willing to break the law and even kill, in order to hand out their own idea of justice?"
...damn. Before they said that. Those were the magic words that would screw up everything.
And Rocket was starting to really hate magic.