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City of Gods IC - SpaceBattles.com

It started out so typical. A tip leading to the South Central residence of a unknown drug dealer began normal as such things did, doors broken down and occupants dragged out whilst shouting their innocence despite the five kilos of crack and heroine spread through the house.

Miranda rights were explained, suspects were pushed with some force into the back of the squad cars and the whole incident was to be a two-line notice on the seventh page of a local newspaper. When the nine-foot tall monstrous creature appeared and used a empty squad car as an projectile, it became city news, despite events like this happening on a monthly basis.

The creature began to tear up half the street, injuring four police officers as it threw them aside with great force.

At this point the famous superhero known as the Captain appeared, flying into the fray and began battling it, the ordeal became a minor headline on the constant moving news updates on CNN. After a short and confused struggle where the creature seemed reluctant to fight back, it tried to flee.

But the Captain, aware of the newly arrived TV crews and the recent criticism in the media about him being too lenient on the new generation of ruthless criminals, he forwent his normal passivity and attacked the creature before it could escape.

Again it fought back, pleading for the hero to leave him alone.

The Captain first broke it’s arm to disable it, than pulverized it’s left kneecap to prevent it from running.

While this happened, people from the surrounding houses became a watching crowd.

But instead of the usual cheers of praise and admiration, they were screams and angered shouts.

The superhero was unable to understand what they wanted, the sound and sensation of his fist smashing in the face of the creature overwhelming his senses. It was only when a soul-piercing scream of a woman in the crowd that broke through his frenzy, and ceased his attacks.

He looked back, and saw a middle-aged black woman trying to break the line of police officers holding back the angry masses.

Her tears and her desperate urge to go over to the battleground, made the Captain feel uneasy, as if something was very wrong. Only when he turned back to the creature he just beat into a bloody and messy state in order to have it stay down, did he realize what was.

The creature, a hideous humanoid with leathery skin and boney extensions, was suddenly losing all of those features rapidly.

It was growing smaller, soon even smaller than a average man. It only took ten more seconds for the superhero to flee the scene, leaving behind a bloodied and comatized mess, no older than ten or eleven years.

The woman later turned out to be his mother, the drug dealer who lived across the street his uncle with no criminal record whatsoever, and the boy himself part of a government program to keep his powers and identity secret to avoid exploitation by criminal or terrorist elements. Most people would have called it a very unlucky combination of factors and circumstances;

The press and the boy’s family called it Rodney King 2.0.

Most the footage made that day wasn’t used, including the destruction the boy caused in his reaction to his uncle’s arrest, but the part with the Captain slowly backing away from the morphing metahuman and fly away in a hurry was endlessly replayed.

Protest marches were soon called for, and heads were called for, especially that of the superhero whom the media depicted as someone who couldn’t fight crime but instead beat up young black metahumans.

That it wasn’t fair against a decade-spanning career of saving the city, the country and even the planet, was easily neglected for the increased viewing rates.

Even when the first news reports were awefully fast to arrive after the incident, and had details that couldn't be confirmed but were still consumed by the masses. When the Captain stopped appearing in public, not even his allies knowing where he has gone, few felt sorry for that fact.

Which soon was something they would come to regret. Two Days Later, 08:57 The black car slowly drove through the street, giving it a ominous appearance, despite the slowness being because the driver and the other occupant were watching out for a specific person.

One that matched the file they had been given, with annoying little detail on current presence or even a decent phone number. "So Joe, what exactly did we do to deserve this shit?" The driver asked.

He seemed young despite nearing forty, and had the same personality of someone acting younger than they ought to be.

Sometimes, it was rather annoying. "Stop whining Mark.

We could as easily have gotten the Aquarium." The older collague grumbled, all too glad with a easy drive-by assigment where they could just wait for their target to pass along instead of looking in every dark and wet crevice of an abandoned building. "Yeah, but those fellas know where to look at least and go home if they don't see anybody." "Why don't you s-Wait, there's the target." The car came to a sudden stop, leading to angry replies from vehicles behind and drivers already infuriated at the previous slow pace.

While keeping a close eye on their target, they sought the nearest parking spot. Despite having read the entire file, or at least Joe did, and carrying customized tasers that were improved to take down more exotic things than just humans, they were nervous. While theirs and the others were not exactly supervillains, some of them weren't exactly superheroes either.

And with the current Captain business downtown growing out of control, their offer could possibly create violent reactions. So the both of them carefully approached the target from behind, waiting for the opportune moment, until the target suddenly turned around, smiling and said 'Yes, I'll do it'. "..Excuse me?" Mark stood confused, while Joe more actively held reassuring hands on both his sidearm and the taser. "Yes, I'll accompany the two of you, Special Agent Millar, Special Agent Quesada, to the FBI Los Angeles Field Office for a matter of national importance." Their target, a man in his late forties, wearing clothes for someone in his early twenties.

The long hair he kept to make himself seem more youthful, made it seem more desperate. Special Agent Millar stood still confused, but his partner was faster. "You're a telepath, Mr Johnson?" "You can call me Chris, and a mindreader?

No. Mine power is beter." The smile turned into a smirk.

"I can see and predict everything that happens over two minutes." Than his face changed to resemble that of an deer caught in the carlights of it's death on wheels.

Than his head vanished in a pink mist. "What the f-!" Joe grabbed his younger partner and almost literally smacked him into the pavement, before pulling his Glock and screaming for bystanders to get down and look for cover.

While Joe pulled Mark to the presumed safety of a nearby parked car, Johnson's body realized it was dead and began to drop ungraciously.

A squad car in the distance noticed the ruckus and began to approach. "Jesus.." Joe remarked as he observed the bloody mess that was his assigment.

"..Hope the other guys got more luck." On a rooftop, on a distance that would require that a bullet from a Barret M82 .50 to need two seconds to cross the distance between the barrel and Chris Johnson's face, a man was disassembling the weapon.

He placed the seperated parts into a fiberglass suitcase and picked up the spent casing with his gloved hands before putting it into the pocket of his black coat.

Than he placed dark shades to protect his eyes from any witnesses, and calmly exited the rooftop and the building. More people would need to be killed today.

His boss on the other hand would be the one to talk to people.

The both of them had a busy day ahead.

Murphy eyed the city from atop his perch.

One of the many skyscrapers that dotted the area, he was listening to the police frequencies and watching. There was no visible means for the costumed character to have scaled the building, indeed there was no roof access on this particular structure.

Just the way Murphy Lawmaker- sometime hero, liked it. "It's a wonderful sight, I can see how someone like you would be motivated to do...

What you do," said a voice.

Murphy didn't turn around- he felt the two FBI agents as they had materialized on the roof, distrupting the delicate quantum bonds that held the atomic structure of...

Everything, in place.

Murphy was no scientist, but he had a very keen understanding of how his powers worked. "Silent entry.

Sounds like the mark five...

No, the mark six- I can't smell ozone," Murphy remarked, without turning around.

The two agents had been following him for the past week, almost but never quite making contact with him.

He had called in a favour from one of his contacts and gotten a bit of information on the two- provided they weren't wearing facemasks and vocal maskers. "Very good, Mister Strauss," said the lead agent, one Robert Liefeld.

"I'm agent-" "Liefeld, out of Anaheim.

And your partner, Agent Nicieza, out of New Jersey," Murphy said.

"And call me Murphy while I'm on duty.

Wouldn't do to get out who I am." "Of course...

Murphy. You know our names, so I suppose you know why we've come?" Liefeld asked.

Murphy chuckled in response. "No?

I assume you're here to ask me to accompany you back to your headquarters, to question my motives and perhaps secure my allegeances to this nation?" Agent Nicieza frowned. "Oh please, the word is out gentlemen.

I might not be the average cape and hood type, but I still pay attention to splashes in the pond," Murphy said.

"In any case, I appear to have hit the nail on the head, so, how about tomorrow, at eight?" "How about now?" Nicieza said quietly, hand reaching into his jacket.

Murphy's knowledge was begining to annoy the agent, and he was tired of dealing with stuck up metas, all high and godly. "How about..." Murphy turned, catching sight of something falling.

Given that it was early evening, this was a remarkable feat.

"You get the hell down!" It took a wave of his hand and the tightening of his will, and abrubtly the object lost motion.

A plume of rapidly heating air swelled out from it, motion transfering into heat.

But that heat was not being replaced fast enough- and even as a localized weather distortion started to manifest, something in the falling object gave way. The explosion didn't travel far, losing its mass and guttering all too quickly.

The wave of heat resulted in a sudden breeze, though, and it gave Murphy an instant. "I suggest you recall gentlemen, someone doesn't want me going with you.

I'll see you at eight tomorrow, your place," Murphy shouted, then pushed them away.

Nicieza grabbed Liefeld's hand, barked out a command at his wrist, and was gone.

Not a moment too soon, the entire roof erupted into flames- a wide scale attack aimed to catch Murphy unawares. But whoever was behind it had never dealt with someone like Murphy.

He drew up the friction from around him and cast it aside, reversing it in a sphere about him.

The explosion slid past him.

Though hot, the molecules never came near enough for proper heat transfer. "Oops, keep forgetting that I can't breath when I do that," Murphy remarked.

He tapped his belt twice, then jumped off the edge of the building.

Before he fell ten floors he was whisked away by the Mark thirteen carefully secreted in his 'work' car, a heavily modified vehicle that incorporated many pieces of technology designed by his own nemesis- the somtimes bumbling Doctor Quantum. As soon as he finished materializing, his costume vanished, substituting civilian garb and tinting the windows.

The car then shifted into gear and roared off, all at the automated behest of its sole occupant. "Someone appears to want me dead," Murphy said. "Someone wants all of us dead- or under their control, said the voice of Doctor Quantum, who had materialized in the chair next to Gerald.

"No, don't get up- I'm not really here.

Hologram, homed in on the Mark Thirteen, which reminds me, how the hell did you fix the problem with the matrix degradi- tell me later." "[i]Why?" Gerald asked.

That his nemesis knew his 'secret identity' didn't particularly bother Gerald- he didn't have anyone special, and only kept his heroic persona separate out of habit. "Because there's more going on here then you our I, Gerald.

Someone stole the Mark Three.

They tried to torch the lab, but I managed to divide their atoms before that happened.

I suspect they were hoping their sleeping dart got me- after I turned their 'offer' down," Raul explained.

"I don't know about you, but I'm rather happy with our current arrangement- without someone like you constantly curbing my more dangerous urges, I'd never be motivated enough to invent anything." "And this leads you to appear as a hologram in my civilian car as I'm headed home why?" Gerald asked, growing a bit annoyed at having all his security bypassed in such a manner. "Because, my sometime nemesis, you really ought to check out the rest of your gallery.

If they approached me- no doubt attracted by my greatness, then there's no doubt they approached the rest of your gallery.

And unlike myself, some of them are quite dangerous all the time," Raul continued.

He held up a hand as Murphy started to ask a question.

"I'm coherent because about two months ago I invented a cure to my- and anyone's OCD.

Promptly forgot it, of course, but one of my peons started lacing my food with it." "Doctor, I understand you're extending a professional curtesy as part of our longstanding...

Relationship, but none of that explains just why?" "Why?

I plan to change the world.

I can't do it if the world is in ruins.

The Evil League of Evil might seem like a great ego booster and a means to access resources beyond one's station, but in the end they're a bunch of...

Idiots. They can't see beyond the tips of their noses, let alone their next plan, and they're all ready to go on with the changes that are happening.

It's not just here- all across the world- which I've seen in the Panovision mark three- just completed it, things are happening.

I'd love to tell you more, but- gotta go Gerry, they're attacking lair eighty three again." There was a sound, and he vanished, then several noises that sounded like "Rally to me, my minions!" and "Coffee makers to the fore, pizza makers to the back.

I'll take the leader!" as well as the distinctive whoop-fzz noise of the J-18 series 'Death' Ray, which for all its varied effects, but all seemed centered around inverting things.

The J-7, for instance, inverted people, turning them upside down in a split instance. There was also the underlying sound of gunshots...

And something else.

Then the sound cut off with a fizzle, and a cry of "not the cage!" "Why do I have the premonition that this is going to be a long month?" Gerald asked nobody in particular.

Nobody responded, and so he eyed the GPS and noted that during his informative session with his 'nemesis', the car had driven itself home.

"Time to go find out who makes 'Bagley's Bombs', though I suspect his name is, could it be, Bagley?" There was no further interrupting in Gerald's evening, though a search on the usenet revealed a smalltime crook operating out of Brooklyn by the name of Bagley.

Interesting.

Six Months ago… Los Angeles International Airport The woman had just passed beyond a girl, or was a girl who had transcended into womanhood from purely physical appearances.

She was actually older, but being upon the path to Nirvana offered many benefits both subtle and not.

Good health. Stout heart.

Merry spirit. Honed skills.

Fit body and the ultimate goal of all true warriors, the blending of mind and body and spirit into one human being. Not a human thinking. Or a human doing. A human being. Eleuthera Damashi meant ‘Free Spirit’ in the ancient languages of the West and East.

It was not coincidence that was her new name.

She had been born in Mexico, passed onto India, travelled the world, and now had come into the West again, to begin her quest and define her path which would aid her in finding Nirvana and encouraging others into making the right choice, free of poison and wickedness, as she had been given the chance.

As a student, teacher, healer, warrior, chronicler, monk, journeyer, and a plethora of other job roles she had held in her short life time, she was well equipped to choose her path. Reflecting her ascetic lifestyle, she only brought a few items with her. Clothes.

Journals. A map. A handful of money.

This journey would begin simply. She brought her sword as well, but the courteous Customs agents at the airport did not find it. She mailed it to herself through a P.O.

Box using FedEx. Six hour later… She was walking along the street, her sword sheathed across her back in a finely woven scabbard of cloth and fiber, made for her by her fellow dob-dobs for her journey.

She was searching today, for lodgings to stay at during the night.

The motels were expensive, and detached.

They also did not allow one so armed into their premises.

Something she was used to actually.

This was an age where carrying a weapon openly was frowned upon, but concealing the fact you were armed, was a sign of power and pride. She saw the auras of many passerbys on the street, recognizing their shade shared the hues of the night itself.

Spirits and minds blackened, darkened, by their place in life.

Did they have a choice or a chance to redeem themselves like she had? Eyes scowled at her.

Judged her. Eleuthera knew why.

She took long and straight strides, had clean skin, perhaps because she was a female who was alone, and walked with a quiet confidence.

Did they think her rich, or ignorant, or arrogant?

Or all three? None bothered her. Because she carried her sword openly. Others were not openly armed, they were the victims she noticed this night. And the next… --- Five months ago… She spent her time wandering the streets at night, and doing volunteer work during the day.

She had a passport for identification but many were not hiring for the long term.

She found herself doing neighborhood cleanups in neighborhoods that looked very clean already, or helping in Boys & Girls Clubs, or once, a homeless shelter.

Fulfilling work, but it lacked the energy she desired. Her walks brought her timid daylight lifestyle the spice and the verve she was hungering for.

All around her, she could sense, and see, and feel, and hear the negative and positive energies contrasting, in conflict.

They were crying out for a champion, one who was not answerable to an alien authority, or tied to bureaucracy or any laws written by man. Just someone who could do the right thing and prevail. The ronin was defined as a rogue who did what he wished and made choices on the spur of a moment.

But all ronin were once samurai and held themselves to a code of honor and valor.

She too was a ronin, a wandering, masterless warrior.

When war did not satiate their bellies, ronin became merchants or farmers.

But when the need arose, they took to the sword again. There was a great need here. She would take to the sword. --- Four Months ago… Jared Rollins and Robert Ruddick were armed and dangerous.

They were armed with semiautomatic pistols, and had a rap sheet filled with assault, battery, and robbery charges.

No murder, but that was more through happenstance then lack of intent.

They had left a shopkeeper unharmed but terrified as he cowered in the corner as the two tough twenty something thugs unlocked his register and started filling their bags with cash. “Where’s the fucking videotape?” Jared growled, looking up from underneath his out of season black stocking cap.

At the end of the counter, his partner, wearing a red bandanna around his florid face, spun about and simply pointed the pistol at the shopkeepers head. “Show me the VCR!” he stated with loud simplicity. Before the shopkeeper could respond, another voice cut in from the back of the store as a black garbed warrior wielding her sword in the right hand pointed at them.

To the untrained Western eyes, her garb was not that of the Sul Sa Do fighters of ancient Korean history, but the more popularized Ninja of Japan.

“The VCR is behind this door,” Eleuthera said.

“It will be used to incriminate you in this crime.

If you stop now, perhaps leniency will be shown.” She waved her fine katana blade before them.

It glinted in the convenience stores light. The two thieves exchanged confused glances, then turned their guns on her and opened fire. Eleuthera could not block bullets. --- Forty Five minutes later… Eleuthera was just finished with her first intense session of meditative healing, using her internal power for effect, knitting skin, having muscle push bone back into place, slow her blood, relax her body, balance her wellness.

She had laid a towel out beneath her in the middle of her apartment floor, streams of crimson blood finally staunched by both fresh gauze and her own willpower, crisscrossing her body, staining the towel.

What lifted her from her restoration was the mention of the incident she had been a part of.

Her most valuable belonging, money wise, was the laptop she had brought along and now was using to watch a stream of live local news.

It was all about her in fact. “The scene is horrendous Michael.

The third assailant used, according to witness statements and the surveillance footage, a sword upon the two gunman after confronting and being fired upon by the robbers.

It is bloody here.

Both suspects, one is in serious but stable condition and the other is still in surgery at the County Medical Center,” the field reporter stated. “Yes Janet, what about this ninja that interceded?

Was she an accomplice or vigilante?” asked the man behind the news desk. “Police state that according to the video, she may have been wounded and according to witness statements, is another as of yet unidentified vigilante.

Police have asked for the communities support in bringing this person to justice,” the field reporter continued. She closed her eyes.

Her skin and body had been torn by the thieves bullets and her body battered in the brawl that followed as she tried to stop their aggression without slaying the two outright.

It was bloody. Mostly theirs but she felt her own spirit darken.

It could have been so easy to take their lives, but she had restrained herself.

A small victory, and a great price for her to pay for the experience.

It would take weeks for her to fully recover properly… without the use of Western medicine. --- Three Months later… True ninja avoided direct confrontation.

They were more often used as shadow agents, gatherers of information, and as spies.

They hid in plain sight as often as they hid in the shadows, able to sneak upon their foes while nondescript amongst a crowd.

She had mastered this ability, able to shadow those unsuspecting of her, even in the most desolate of streets.

She had gone to restaurants, sitting with others, or by herself, and found herself missed by servers, or hostesses while all others had been asked. She had tried shutting down this pimp before, but a direct beating was both dangerous and futile.

The police did nothing.

Without witnesses, without proof, their strong legal code was helpless.

So she used the last of her money to purchase a digital camera and she perched on a window sill and started to take pictures. What a beatdown did not do, a hundred anonymous pictures stuffed in an envelope to the local police substation did wonders.

She would clear this block of the whores and pimps, then move onto the next, then the next. And if she happened to find any muggers or violent Johns, she would move to her bokken, the wooden sword. --- Two Months later… Bang.

Bang. Bang. Like the rifleman in Heart of Darkness firing into the endless savage jungles of Africa, the drug runner fired into the night sky, not blindly, but just as ineffectually as if he had.

All the benefit that the gun gave him was enough security not to wet his pants.

For her, his utilizing a firearm was a blessing.

It announced his presence, legitimized his aggression to potential witnesses, and actually revealed vulnerabilities.

Where ever the gun was pointed, was where he thought she was and he would use no weapon but the gun.

Why take away such an advantage by disarming him?

Not yet anyways. From the side, her treaded sneakers struck the asphalt.

A normal man, even a highly trained military man, could have seen her come from the side.

But not her. She was a master of manipulating her body to take in the shadows, take advantage of the angles of his vision.

He did not know she was upon him despite being clear in his peripheral vision the entire time until the fist struck out, smashing into his temple. The other drug runner spun about, gym bag of narcotics in one hand, a crowbar in the other.

The crowbar was a good weapon, but lacked control and screamed choreography.

She choreographed the swing, parrying it with her bokken in an upside down grip, using momentum, stripping him of the prybar, sending the hunk of metal skittering across the alley.

He was unarmed now, facing down the ninja. In the movies, they would keep fighting. He surrendered… honorably. She accepted and called the police. --- One month ago… If the shotgun bellowed some manner of scattershot, she might have been maimed, but as it was, her bokken was shattered by a single solid shotgun shell as she held the weapon above her head and to the side.

A fine weapon shattered, its tip splintered… and sharp.

She swung the weapon down, stripping the gunman of his weapon, and then pressed the splintered end of her bokken at his face, the longest point at his eye. “Eyes are mirrors to the soul, I want to see in yours…” she said, her voice crisp yet muffled from behind her balaclava.

It was a new costume, no more black ninja pajamas.

No more dressing like a black clad medieval Asian peasant. “What…?” the criminal responded, terrified as he saw the potential fate of being blinded by a splintered weapon soon in his future. “What did you desire from this path?” she asked. “M..

M… money…” he replied. “You will not escape justice, but you may yet live through this with your eyes.

Tell me where to find your masters money,” she then followed up before pushing the splintered bokken closer to his face, so much so he was terrified of blinking lest it scratch him.

Of course, she wouldn't do anything as horrendous as gouge his eyes out, especially with her having all of the power in this situation now, but, the leverage was still quite useful in these situations. “There’s a poker game that Artur Minoggio holds at-,” he started to speak. --- Today…

John was going to the bank to make a withdrawal- not a particularly unusual thing for a college student to do.

After that, he planned on going to the grocery store nearby to get some food- the dining hall food had gotten bland long ago, and working at Burger Baron for almost a year had rather soured him on fast food of any sort. All of this was fairly normal behavior for him.

At least, it had been before the accident, the reason that his former workplace was now covered by an "Authorized Personnel Only" meta-crime containment tent.

However, he knew from both comics and reality that having a secret identity was important to protect himself and his family from anyone who might have a grudge, or just want bragging rights for having bagged a...metahuman?...mutant?...psionic?

Whatever. An emPowered.

Of course the first thing anyone would look for is an unusual change in routine. It was something of an annoyance having to buy food, since he really didn't need to eat much anymore unless he wanted to gain mass- having essentially complete control over his own body meant that he could synthesize any nutrients he needed to, and his high-efficiency digestive abilities would let him subsist for quite some time on a tiny number of calories. Then an unusual combination of odors caught his attention.

A normal human wouldn't have detected it, but John's sense of smell was at least on par with that of a bloodhound, and could be altered to be much better. hm.

Sweat. Reasonable- it's fairly warm outside.

But mixed with adrenaline byproducts?

Oil? Is that some kind of copper compound?

How strange. By this time he'd identified the source of the smell- a young man, perhaps in his twenties, with a mohawk (dyed purple, for some reason) with a number of violent-looking tattoos and several piercings, wearing a rather baggy jacket. I know I shouldn't be prejudiced against him just because of the way he looks, but he certainly looks tense.

And that's an odd thing to wear if he's hot. As John entered the bank shortly behind the odd-smelling individual, something clicked. What if he's planning on robbing the bank?! As the thought struck, an idea formed on how to stop it.

Step one- go to the bathroom. Not the men's bathroom.

I don't want to give away my identity.

Good thing my clothes are fairly gender-neutral. A few relatively minor alterations later, and John looked like a rather androgynous woman (with what he was wearing, it didn't take much of a change- almost unnoticeable, and his facial features were virtually untouched) Entering a stall in the women's bathroom, John made some rather more significant changes-hair lengthened, skin darkened, he became a few inches shorter, and a number of other alterations occured.

Meanwhile, the clothes he had been wearing were absorbed into his body for storage in a specially-formed cavity, to be replaced by the attire of a well-to-do businesswoman, perhaps on her lunch break. I have got to find a better way to hide my clothing. Waiting a bit, John then left the bathroom- to find a gun pointed at his face. "Alright, lady.

Get down on the ground.

If you haven't figured it out, this is a stick-up.

Nobody move, nobody gets hurt." declared the thug holding the gun. John complied, but took the opportunity to look around and analyze the situation.

Five men with guns- apparently machine guns of some sort, though he didn't know anything about guns that wasn't common knowledge.

Four of them were wearing ski masks (seriously?

Ski masks? That's just pathetic.) but the one who wasn't, the one who was now ordering the tellers to "fill up the sack, loose bills only.

No tricks." was the same one he'd noticed earlier, and appeared to be the leader.

Aside from the man who was still menacing John with the gun, the other three also appeared to have hostages- an elderly couple, a small boy, and an attractive young woman who John thought might share a class with him, though she didn't recognize his disguise. Damn.

Why couldn't I have been wrong?

Oh, well. A few tweaks to his body, and colorless, odorless sedative gases began emanating from the shapeshifter's pores.

As the gas began to take effect, people began drifting into sleep, thugs and hostages alike.

Except for the leader, who didn't seem to notice until the teller he was threatening collapsed, asleep. "What the hell?" He whirled around, looking for the cause, and saw a well-dressed businesswoman retrieving one of the guns.

She leveled it at him and spoke calmly. "I suggest you surrender and wait for the cops to arrive before I have to hurt you." "Up yours, lady.

It'll take more than that to scare the Brawler!" With that, the thug charged, heedless of the gun.

Acting on reflex, John pulled the trigger, and a spray of bullets erupted from the gun.

He quickly stopped, not wanting to kill the would-be thief, before realizing that said individual was still coming. Oh.

Bulletpr-*WHAM!* John went flying back, slamming into the wall hard enough to crack it- he hadn't gelatinized fast enough to avoid the impact, though he wasn't actually injured. "Ha.

Waddaya say to that, lady?" came an arrogant voice.

Picking himself up, and altering his shape yet again, John replied. "I say that that messing with me was the worst mistake you've ever made." John's smile was predatory, first in the figurative sense, then becoming literal as his nose and mouth elongated and changed into a snout with remarkably large teeth.

Fur erupted from his body, fingers and toes elongated into claws, and bones and joints visibly changed configuration.

The thug calling himself Brawler found himself face-to-muzzle with something seeming an awful lot like a werewolf.

The beast's mouth opened, and a guttural voice emerged. "Unless your guns have silver bullets, you might as well give up and wait for the police." This was a bluff, of course, but it was effective. A few minutes later, when the police arrived, they found a number of unconcious bodies and a low-level "brick" metahuman being restrained by what appeared to be a large wolf. Later, at the police station, just after Shifter is questioned by the police A pair of men wearing black suits walk up to John, back in his normal form as a somewhat androgynous young man, roughly 5" 10' with brown hair and blue eyes. The man on the left spoke up. "Excuse me, sir.

I am Agent Moy of the FBI," At this point, a badge was flashed, "and this is my partner, Agent Wasden." "What do you want?

I already told the cops the story, and I've registered my powers with the Feds as non-combat/self-defense." Agent Wasden now spoke. "We are not here regarding your exploit earlier today, except insofar as your presence here was registered by the FBI, permitting us to facilitate this encounter.

We are here to request a more...in-depth meeting, regarding a matter of national security.

Please come to this address" at this point he handed John a business-style card with an adress on it, "tomorrow at eight o'clock in the evening.

We assure you that you will be compensated for your time.

Failure to comply will be treated as noncompliance with the US Humanity Protection Act, and will be prosecuted." With that, both agents tapped buttons on their wrists and disappeared in a shimmer of light, leaving the shapeshifter staring. "Ooookaaay.

Meeting with spooky FBI guys tomorrow at 8pm.

Got it." He said into thin air, before turning to go back to his dorm.

After all, he still had classes tomorrow. OOC: So how was that?

I used italics to designate what John was thinking, and I mostly called him John because that's still how he thinks of himself.

I've been dying to use the werewolf bluff since not too long after I came up with the guy.

Zimmerit looked down the range at the six plywood targets, standing up in various positions, partically hidden by concrete berms and sandbag walls.

They stared back at him with their thick, painted on eyebrows furled.

They were designated "Ivans", Russian soldiers that were for a long time, believed to be seconds from landing in Alaska, New York, and California and destroying all that was good and wholesome in America.

When the wall collapsed, most "Ivans" were retained, rather than repainted as the US's other token enemies, since there were so many in such a short period of time, and none of them seemed as serious a threat as the USSR. An engineer stood behind a brick barricade, stooped over and holding a small tube-like object that resembled a large silver flashlight with cooling jackets and a pistol grip.

It was connected via thick rubber wire to a small backpack behind him, which held a large, dense chemical battery and a small quantity of water.

There were several dials on the side, facing the gunner. "Fire in the hole!" The engineer squeezed the trigger, and a hissing sound emnated from the gun.

A linear trail of ionized air appeared in front of the thick muzzle, and at the far end of the range, a spot on the metal wall glowed red and began to melt.

The spot swept over the six Ivans, cutting right through them and immolating their halves in the process, all the while melting a 2-inch-wide gash through the concrete and sandbag fortifications that concealed them.

After four seconds of sustained fire, the engineer let go.

The beam dissappeared, and the backpack pumped up a small stream of water through the barrel and along the lenses, keeping them from melting.

The air around the cooling jackets at the end of the barrel was distorted by the heat being radiated away. "Perfect!" said Kevin Walt, Ph.d, as steam from the vaporized material began to fill the room.

"It looks like we've fixed the overheating problem.

It exceeds all specifications." "Yes," said Zimmerit.

"But the Army wasn't concerned about that." "Those pen-pushers don't know what they want.

What were they concerned about?" "The same problem as the variable yield fusion Holy Hand Grenade.

Too big, too expensive, too fragile, and too much maintainance." "This isn't nearly as dangerous, though.

I really wish they'd just leave the decisions up to the two groups of people whose opinions matter-the engineers and the troops.

Every soldier allowed to test the weapon has given it rave reviews!

They would all love to get their hands on this." "Well of course the soldiers love getting to try out our new "top-secret death ray".

It's many of their dreams come true.

But when the time comes to use it in combat, they won't want to lug around the 20-pounds of steel and baradium, and they won't like having to constantly replace lenses, refill them with water, and stick in a new fist-sized battery after every 30 seconds of effective fire." "It's no more troublesome than the flamethrower, Gustav." "There are a number of reasons, legality excluded, that flamethrowers aren't used anymore.

And also, there's the issue of keeping the weapon in a ready-use condition while protecting it from sand...

A few grains of anything getting inside of the lense chambers and they get vaporized, turn into sticky muck, and turn the weapon into an expensive flashlight." "Imagine the look on Hadji's face when he and his fellows get scythed down by the wrath of our god..." "It will probably never happen.

I still hope Raytheon accepts the scaled-up point defense version...

But they seem to be content with their own expensive garbage." He shook his head and walked off the range.

Kevin ordered the engineer to repackage the weapon, and then followed Zimmerit out. "You know, considering everything we've come up with, they aren't very receptive to our ideas." "I blame the Nazi stigma.

I hated them as much as any of us, but when they threatened to kill my family...

I had to do what they said.

I still worked errors into all of my work on purpose..." "You've more than made up for that in the last 60 years." "Thank you.

Yes, I remember the look on Guderian's face when I convinced him that slat armor would increase vulnerability to HEAT warheads..." Zimmerit walked across the quiet mountain ridge to the main building of his compound, which was surrounded with high electric fences and several guard towers mounted with enlarged versions of the laser weapon that wouldn't be.

It was actually quite modest, considering all that went on here, but he kept the location a well hidden secret, telling only a few people, including the FBI, so they could contact him, and so that American intelligence in general was less suspicious of him.

He still knew a lot they didn't regarding the storage of Zimmerit property. Stepping inside the high-windowed building, he waved a gloved hand to his secretary, and focused his computer-telescopic retina on the large TV in the corner ceiling.

There was a news story about a supernatural event in the South Central of LA, involving a crack bust.

What was alarming were the photos of a large, blurred, Hulk-like monster, and a man in garish superhero clothes fighting him.

Apparently, the monster was just a boy, and the superhero, called The Captain, was facing flak for hurting him.

The news program cut to rioting in several other cities over the event. This was intrigueing-and it followed a trend of similar events lately.

Zimmerit, not knowing what to think, recalled what he'd heard of last week, concerning the dead "superhero" Hammerhead, and the goings on of the chilling youtube vigilante, Crimewatch9.

He had actually undertaken several personal efforts to track down the latter, but never with even a modicum of success.

Even his best hackers were loathe to figure out anything about him. The phone rang, and the secretary picked it up. "Sir," she said.

"You're getting a call from security." Zimmerit took the phone from her.

"Hello?" "Hey, Gus.

We've got an incoming helicopter.

Looks like a... MD530MG Paramilitary Defender." "Can you contact them?" "We've tried-they're not responding.

They seem to be coming right toward us, so they know where we are.

We think they're the CIA or something." "Permit them to land, but...

Send a squad down here to escort me to the landing zone." "Right." After several more minutes of watching the story uncover on the news, he saw a group of white-clothed security personnel standing outside.

He joined them, and then heard the quiet sound of the small helicopter's rotors.

It whispered overhead and settled on the helipad on the other side of the compound.

Tower lasers zeroed in on it as Zimmerit and the guards walked over to it. Two stereotypical black-and-white-suited no-faces stepped out of it.

They looked around, clearly nervous, as they should have been.

Intrusion on this sort of operation without warning was not only rude, it was downright foolish.

Nevertheless, Zimmerit greeted them with a smile and a light skip to show that he wasn't hostile.

The security personnel were ordered to lower their weapons. "Hello," said Zimmerit, standing three feet from them.

He extended his left hand, and as the man on the right advanced, his left hand lengthened on motorized chords and grabbed his, then shook it.

The agent gave a half-amused smile. "Hello.

I'm Stan and this is Miller," he said, dropping Zimmerit's hand, which flopped into the ground, then snapped back to his wrist.

"We're here with the FBI." "Ah.

And what do you want?" "We would like you to come with us." "Why?" "We would prefer to give details later." "We can't talk about it here?

This is as secluded a place as any." "We strongly suggest that you come with us immediately." Zimmerit looked at them, still smiling, but inwardly surprised that they would be so forthright, especially since he could order them incinerated where they stood.

Still, he was fairly trustful of them, given all he'd done for the US government, and his excellent terms with US intelligence.

He stepped foreword into the helicopter, and the agents followed.

Now Raul fought. The K series prototype was magnificent.

It killed. All the K series would kill, Raul knew.

Not that he'd ever let it get out that he'd actually succeeded- instead he would skip the K series concept and move on to a different one.

One that... did something else.

The prototype would be labled as...

A Turkey Baster, perhaps. The lair was on fire, though automatic systems were dealing with the blaze.

Around him piles of dust- the result of the K series prototype's blast making contact with the quantum structure of half a dozen human beings.

Contracted agents. "Boss?

Looks like they're all dead," declared one of his minions, an ex sidekick operating under the name of Halberd.

He held a sensor of some sort- Raul identified it as the Factorizor 2000, an experiment in higher dimensional maths. "So it seems.

Have you identified how they broke in?" Raul asked.

He already knew, of course, but the first step towards loyal minions was letting them think they were being helpful. "The deflection matrix was sabotaged.

Apparently Vector was lased with a nanoswarm when he tested the J-15 on that super team out of Malta," Halberd said.

He sighed. "We've gotten Vector cleaned up- some were still hiding in his liver, but the damage is done.

However, their sabotage managed to give the team some insight into a real problem with the defenses.

The void shadow has a hole- it doesn't cover the space between the eighth and ninth dimensions." "Really?" Raul asked.

He had known there was something he had missed in the design, but not what- not until now.

"Perhaps a triaxlating frequenly on a cross barrier poll with....

Get me Rails." Halbered nodded, and strode off.

Rails was Raul's pet engineer- and a minor nanoscale manipulation meta.

His first inclination towards revolution had been to design a sniper railcannon in his basement and attempt to assassinate the 9.Knight.

Raul had managed to save him from that folley before the kid found himself in the Turrasic period. "Sir?

I haven't finished the layer grid defenses yet..." Rails said, looking rather nervous.

He still wasn't used to Raul's unique way of handling the business of taking over the world. "Rails.

Calm down, I'm not going to toss you in the shark tank.

I need you to work out a prototype for a..." Raul passed from normal english onto a language that can only be understood by an advanced nanoscale engineer- or perhaps a character from Star Trek. Then Two weeks earlier The hacking attempt was subtle- and bore the unique codifiers of a technically inclined meta.

Raul effortlessly redirected it into a terminal system, and watched as the 'hero' set up a rapid series of commands to overload the main reactor- without laying a single feeler on any critical or secure systems.

As the 'hero' implemented the final command, Raul sent a netspike back through the link, burning out the computer behind it. "The first time's free- after that they've got my attention," he remarked, tapping a series of commands into his personal terminal.

The 'hero's attempt had been average- someone who had little grasp of the security that a veteran such as Doctor Quantum possessed.

However, the terminal system was an exact virtual representation of the very real system Raul employed.

He set about correcting the flaws, even as his incredibly intellect tried to grasp the reasoning behind the 'hero's logic. Raul awoke from a programming trance several hours later and stared at what he had built.

A single hacking attempt had uncovered enough flaws in the system that he had gone into a trance and build an entirely new operating system.

One secure against this sort of intrusion- and many others. An alarm whirred- Lawmaker was on the news- fighting a large red man with a giant maul. Or more specifically, dodging as the giant red man ripped up pieces of the road- stuck to his feet, then slipped and tripped over himself trying to hit the nimble friction hero. Then, abruptly, the red man stopped and began to glow. "A magic user.

How quaint," Raul said softly.

It was early morning, and his main team of minions were all alseep, or at home with their families.

Raul picked up a small contraption, looking for all the world like a ruby and a sapphire stuck together like two magnets, and covered in crystalline sand.

It was a magic inhibitor- low level, enough to cover a single human.

Raul had invented it during his brief tour of Australia, in order to counter the actions of a rather well known shaman-mage there who had taken to foiling his plans.

It had worked. Once, then burnt out, incapable of handling the magical stresses brought against it.

Proof of concept, though. Onscreen the red man finished chanting, glowing, and picked up Lawmaker by the throat.

The hero's attempts at altering the localized friction quotient seemed to have no effect- and he grew panicked.

The red man smiled, and threw him at a wall. "Bad move, mister magic," Raul said, chuckling.

The moment Lawmaker was free he halted, midair- sending off a roil of heat in displaced ions.

He gestured at the red man, and for a moment nothing happened.

Then the red man fell to one knee.

"What is he- ohhhh." For a moment Raul had no idea what Lawmaker was doing- the large red man had used a magic spell in order to allow him to move unimpeded.

A significant expenditure, but one that rendered Lawmaker's particular suite of skills useless.

Then Lawmaker had upped the anti, and made it so the red man couldn't breath.

Red man was rapidly becoming blue man- and promptly tumbled.

The faint glow of the active spell faced, shattered, and Lawmaker made another fancy gesture, no doubt sticking the red man to the ground.

He turned, glanced at the cameras, smiled a cocky grin, then vanished, skating off as though the ground beneath his feet was ice- which in a manner of speaking, it was. "Finish recording, scan, and analyze," Raul ordered.

The lair's computer system- newly implemented, complied.

Within seconds it beeped, then when prompted, began spitting out vital data. "So Lawmaker was serious about his dedication to improve his fighting capability- but still has a significant weakness against magic.

That concurs with my own analysis," Raul mused.

"Still, that spell seemed to take over muscle movement and move through force of will- which explains why he didn't fall." "Forcefields.

That might just work," Raul continued.

He dotted out a set of equations, eyed them, then began building.

Forcefields. Perhaps there was a way...

The kid looked nervous, and well he should.

A freshman from the looks of him and trying to sneak into one of the more popular clubs downtown.

Though as he looked it over Craig had to admit it was a good fake.

Got the design right but the picture was off.

Guess the kid was in a rush at the end. "Hey kid, a tip.

The picture shouldn't be lopsided.

Now get lost." Ten miles away Craig smiled as the kid turned beet red and took off.

At the moment he was in a park looking for trouble.

He had spoted a few junkies and what might have been a dealer but he had let them pass.

Craig had bigger fish to fry.

Word was that there was a minor gang starting up and were assaulting woman.

No one had been raped, thus the police weren't paying too much attention, but there had been some close calls.

So Craig had decided to do something about it. After about an hour or so of pretending to sleep on a park bench two woman walked past him.

Both were young and one was clearly drunk.

Her friend had no doubt convinced her to call it a night and they were taking a shortcut back home.

Stupid really, but can't expect everyone to have common sense.

But at least they served nicely as bait.

As they ended the part of the path shaded by trees three men appeared from the dark and began to follow them. Grabbing the piece of rebar he had found Craig got up and quick moved after them.

He caught up with them to find that the men had grabbed the two woman but had gotten no farther than that.

"Ok boys fun's over." The three men looked at reach other and laughed.

"Dude you just got yourself killed.

Jimmy deal with this bastard." The thug was quick and managed to land a punch, knocking Craig to the ground.

He then drew a knife to finish the job. Grabbing the dropped bar Craig got up from the ground...and got up from the ground, and again, and again.

The four of him squared off against three very surprised thugs.

The fight was short and ugly and within minutes the thugs were on the ground, out cold.

The woman had run off, smartest thing they had done all night, and with them any evidence against the three men.

So Craig grabbed them and carried them off while he looked through their wallets for id.

They were from the area so public humiliation would have to do. Grabbing a bag under the bench he had been using Craig carried the men to one of the lampposts.

He positioned them as he duct taped them to the poll and wrote large 'rapists' signs to hang on them.

Just like the old days.

He worked quickly since at the club he had been approached by some FBI agent.

This had happened before with the local police but they always left him alone after watching him work all night.

This guy didn't seem convinced.

Plus he had mentioned something about a partner... "Fine work Mr.

Reynolds." Damn. "I didn't know dealing with street gangs was something the FBI took an interest in." That got a confused look.

"How...oh...yes of course.

Well allow me to introduce myself.

I'm Agent Whedon and we're actually interested in you.

Not many heroes bother to hunt down petty crime." "That's because they're too busy fighting superpowered bank robbers or fighting giant monsters to give a damn about regular people.

And since I always told your partner I don't wear a costume because it draws too much attention and some are just silly looking, and I don't have some code name since I never saw the need.

Figure the media or some internet forum will get around to naming me.

The point?" "I assume you've been following the news about the Captain?" Craig nodded.

"He beat on some kid.

Went overboard, but from what I heard the kid needed a good smack.

The Captain can be a jackass but he doesn't deserve being strung up.

What does that have to do with me though?" "That's a question that can be answered in a more secure location.

I'd like you to come with me." Craig was all ready to tell the agent to shove it, after all the odds were four to one, when a shot rang out at the nightclub.

Craig had moved slightly to check out a possible fight and that had ended up saving his life.

Instead of his heard he took the bullet in the arm.

Hurt like hell but after some thougt at the park he decided it wasn't too serious.

Still badly needed medical care but once he pulled himself together it wouldn't be that bad.

Problem was that one of him was now being taken into the custody of the FBI.

He needed the healing that came with him just being one person and he didn't think it would be very fun trying to break himself out of jail. "Alright I'll play along...for now."

San Fransisco FBI Office "Damn it, six different trails on this guy's ID all leading to bloody dead ends." Agent Ditko snarled as he stalked through the hallways of the San Fransisco FBI office.

"Hell, the person on his registration has been dead for ten years!" "The file in what little it had on him did note that Gray Magus is a rather cautious and private, to the point where one might say he is a bit paranoid." Agent Bendis, who was older and much more experienced then his younger partner, said with a wry shrug.

"I have to admit though that I didn't expect it to be this hard to find one man, especially a meta." "I mean we've been trying to track him down or at least ID him for nearly two weeks now and haven't really found anything." Bendis said with a sigh as he pulled open the door to their small office. "Good evening gentlemen, I've heard that you wish to talk to me." A voice suddenly said from inside the office, causing the agents to jump in utter surprise as their hands flashed towards their holstered pistols. The very man that had been utterly eluding their every attempt to find him for the past two weeks was simply standing in the middle of their office, leaning lightly on his ever present cane. "How in the hell did you get in here!?" Ditko said shaking his head in disbelief.

It wasn't exactly easy to sneak into an FBI office without landing oneself in deep trouble, even if one was a meta. "Eh, there are ways." Gray Magus said with a small half-smile and a shrug. The agents had to admit to themselves that it was weird looking at the mage's face.

They could make out the basic features of his face, yet at the same time it was so obscured with a dark shadow of no apparent source to the point where they could see no true details. "Anyway," Magus said as he gracefully took a seat in one of their chairs, "I suspect that you want to talk to me about coming to the meeting tomorrow at 8." The FBI agents, dressed in twin government style suits, blinked in surprise at the mage's words. "I felt I should drop on by and let you good gentlemen know that I will be at said meeting." Gray Magus said, continuing before either agent could get a word in.

"I cannot say that I will agree with anything that is put forth at the meeting, but I will present." "How about you just stay here with us until the meeting, hmm?" Ditkol said, starting to reach into his coat towards his tazer. Bendis just shook his head and reached over to place a hand on his young partner's shoulder.

Ditkol just let his emotions control him a little too much at times, though he had to admit that he was frustrated over the last two weeks himself. "Don't bother it won't do any good, I've seen things like this before." The older agent said with a sigh, turning to look closely at the mage sitting in the chair across from his desk.

"It's either some kind of illusion or astral projection, he isn't really here in the flesh." Gray Magus chuckled and gave the older agent a nod of respect, it wasn't often that he ran into people with enough knowledge of magic to tell all that from just looking. "Eh, both my sisters are hedge-mages remember." Bendis said as his partner turned to look at him in surprise.

"It's part of why we got assigned to this case, though I thought this building was warded." "And indeed it is warded." Grey Magus said simply and calmly, seemingly unconcerned about the protective spells that should have prevented him from doing what he was doing. "When people have already made it quite clear that they do not want me attending this meeting, I feel it is better to err on the side of caution." Grey Magus said, shaking his head with a small amused smile.

"Why people assume that I am unfamiliar with technology such as car bombs simply because I am a mage I will likely never know." The grey and black clad mage stood up from the chair and gave a formal bow towards the two federal agents. "And with that my business here is done, and I must bid you goodbye." Grey Magus said, "I hope you have a good day Agent Dikto and Agent Bendis, perhaps I will see you at the meeting." With that his form seemed to waver for a second before vanishing like a mirage, leaving no sign of the mage's presence within the room. "No offense to you or your family." Dikto said, looking over to his partner with a frown.

"But sometimes I really hate mages."

Http://NinthCrimefighter.blogsylum.com/ The Ninth Crimefighter A Blog about the World from Without Who is CrimeWatch9? I’m actually surprised this question doesn’t come up more often. I don’t usually hear much talk about it at all when I get up in the morning.

I tend to eat breakfast and do my morning exercises without any regard to my clandestine alter-ego;

It’s a brief but welcome isolation.

It’s not until I sit down to calibrate and test my equipment that I take a look at my computer and see what people are saying about me today. I find it as conceited as you do, looking for people who are talking about me.

Some might say it’s insecure of me, and some expect me to say I don’t really care what people think.

After all, you’ll remember the poll I posted a few month’s back, where the result had absolutely no bearing on what I decided to do.

That I take the time to read such responses when I don’t seem to consider them at all can only logically be attributed to either to amusement or a failing self-esteem. Well, I think I will be rarely honest in my response: I do care about people talking about me.

I read the blogs and the message boards, watch the news feeds and read the newspapers (startlingly enough, the old-fashioned paper ones as well as the websites – there’s something to be said for antecedents) specifically because I care that things are said. Now, I don’t necessarily care what is being said.

People’s opinions are like snowflakes – plentiful, diverse, and evanescent.

I can’t be restructuring my business model based on what a stock jockey in New York hates about my effects on weapons manufacture shares, what a teenager in Dubai loves about my no-pussyfooting style of justice, or what a Japanese human rights activist considers an affront to human society and common-sense morals. Part of the reason for this is that…well, would you compromise your viewpoint based on what someone halfway around the world, or right next to you, says?

Would such a person really make you change what you believe, in a mere moment? “If they have a good argument, sure.” And that makes sense.

We’d all like to think that we’re open-minded individuals, willing to consider and adopt all viewpoints.

The word ‘fanatic’ is an obscenity, the mark of someone who believes with impossible fervor, yet blatantly ignores anything that could cause that belief to evolve.

And rightly so, I might add – zealots are primarily destructive, striking out at anything that challenges their worldview directly with desperate violence. I have been called a ‘fanatic’, and a ‘zealot’, and many other synonyms and euphemisms in many different languages.

And while I respect their right to express their opinion (a trait of my local government I have adopted out of utility), I find it to be erroneous in describing my methods. Unlike a zealot, I don’t feel a need to challenge or even dismiss arguments.

In truth, I read arguments specifically to find insights or criticisms I would not make myself.

I am not entirely autonomous, and can’t possible look myself from every possible angle.

If I could, what need would I have for cameras to capture moments of a raid on some caped terrorist’s safe-house, or to write this account here on this page?

I would never have a reason to make my presence known beyond the blast of a gun or a crack of broken bone, the bloodstains surrounded by chalk and the bodies, living or dead, left in some dumpster. (It’s possible I may not even need that in such circumstances, but I choose not to explore that road too deeply.

Existentialism has a tendency to dig mazes in stone.) No, I do not deny that there could be a point or nuance that I have missed, one that invalidates my methodology and skews the parameters of my experiment.

I make my videos specifically (well, partially) so that I can harvest the wheat of opinion that grows where my media lands.

Grain or chaff, it’s all worth going through, in case I find that one golden grain that changes everything, that makes a farmer sell his crops and head south. In all honestly, I have looked through every stray comment, every leet-speak-laden forum post so glutted with ‘lols’ that you’d think a typewriter exploded onto the screen, every well-reasoned blog post by a critic or criminology major (or professor), and every podcast or news panel discussing that ‘gas-masked nutjob’, and I’ve not seen one statement or idea that refutes or debunks my strategy in any way. Some statements are blatantly wrong (fewer than you might think), but many have well-reasoned and valid points to make.

One of the most commonly-held views I’ve heard on a message board that stated, in a nutshell that ‘supervillains should be held to the same legal standard as anyone else.

Their powers don’t put them above the law.” Well, for one thing, this should probably read ‘superhuman’, rather than one of the moral differentiations people have grouped the transcendently-endowed into.

I’ve never really seen much of a difference at the core of either;

When you look at them from an ethical standpoint, they are functionally identical.

I won’t go into the differences right now, as that is an entire dissertation in its own regard, and it’s almost time to go. The major error in this statement that I find is the statement that the superhuman must be held to the same ethical guidelines as we hold everyone else.

Legal codes do not treat everyone as equal – killing is split between ‘murder’ and ‘manslaughter’, and those are further split into numbered categories, each of differing echelons of transgressions.

There is a world of difference between killing a man with a stray billiard ball in a pool hall that was hit too hard, to beating a child to death because he’s throwing a tantrum.

Another legal analogy would be the concept of jurisdiction;

The law is not a singular entity, monolithic and whole to blanket all of humanity.

It is rather more like a shoddy patchwork of half-finished cloth, a hodge-podge of different by-laws and licenses passed off as a singular garment.

Where one jurisdiction ends, another begins, and the two jealously guard their rights to their little scrap of mandate.

The laws may at times cross over, if the two patches are similar – of similar nationality, for example.

But look at a globe of the world and you will see the immutable quilt, their divisions serving as impassible walls where two national ethics meet.

Even within nations, even within cities can different distinct designs be laid, defying others who would push their edges back. Like the separations within crime, there is a division between the laws of the human and the laws of the superhuman.

Modern laws, even with nearly eighty years of superhuman presence, cannot adapt its laws for those who can phase through walls, shoot fire from their fingertips, or see beings beyond the ken of their mundane parents.

Does a person who can fire spines from their arms have to register them as one would a gun, and will they be forcibly removed if he will not?

How can privacy laws account for a Connecticut boy who can read minds, where every secret thought is blared into his skull?

Can Pygmalion legally marry Galatea when she is made of stone rather than flesh, when a man cannot marry a monkey?

Would immigration laws apply to a welfare mother in Portland who can summon demons?

For such occurrences, new laws would have to be made – precedents to establish the permissible utility of mind reading, licensing procedures for natural or psychokinetic energies, immigration and customs systems for aliens and demons, and plethora of new clauses and rulings to cover an entire new echelon of ability. But who will write these laws?

Who has the right to create laws for beings that are measured in qualities that the general consensus simply does not have? More pressing still, who would enforce them? Friedrich Nietzsche, in a fit of supreme irony, wrote of the Superman, a being so advanced he was above all moral restraint, able to act any way he chooses.

Valid or not, the philosophy becomes much more imminent now that real supermen are present to enact the philosophy.

Many of these will decide that the law, made for mortal men, is inapplicable to them.

And who can properly tell them they’re wrong, when they can only imagine those faculties that others actualize by their very existence? There is one particular aspect I ponder, though – whether another superman, another transcendent being, is empowered to write laws for the superhuman population.

After all, is he not superior, just like the rest of his mighty counterparts, able to defy human norms and call forces that have only been seen in super-colliders and laboratories?

And is he not an equal to his brothers and sisters who command angels and demons, who rewrite the laws of physics, and who build machines out of dreams or nightmares? Surely, such an entity could uphold laws that restrain the sometimes-sociopathic will of the creator.

It would be such a person’s – or people’s – purview to enforce a code of ethics through prevention and punishment (I adore alliteration).

The superhuman, if not hampered by human law, much police itself. Almost time to go.

I do tend to rant on from time to time.

Opinions are welcome, as always;

They have such a mirroring effect. This is CrimeWatch9, switching off. **** The heat was universally oppressive.

Obscuring as well as suffocating, it wrapped the city in crumpled yellow gauze, stained with smog.

The towering Los Angeles skyscrapers wavering in the heat, gleaming with reflected metal until they were like sunbeams themselves.

If there were birds, then they were swallowed in the wavering mantle, practically invisible in the sky’s fiery cloak. The heat gathered near the ground, rising off the street in a thick, ghostly ocean.

The concrete beach weathered its airy waves unyieldingly, looking stark and unforgiving.

At ground level, the buildings were even more oppressive, their tops seeming to vanish as if into water, a sea above the people’s heads.

Windows glared out, their contents obscured by light. People walked the sidewalks quickly and sparsely, desperate to stay out of the sunny storm.

Several boys remained under an awning, talking about teenage troubles and juvenile fantasy.

A girl walked by, wearing little in order to bear the heat, and distracted the teens quite entirely.

A man in a cheap suit shared their rapt fascination, but concealed his leer as he got into his faded car. The neighborhood was a rundown section of the City of Angels, the kind of place you don’t see on the travel brochures but do see on the crime dramas.

People’s clothes were generally as faded as the streets, decay creeping at the edges.

Buildings of decent construction were made more beautiful by contrast to run-down apartments and cluttered storefront.

Alleyways boasted shade, but also warned of unseen things: gangs, drug-deals, and much worse.

Cars drove by quickly, waiting nervously at traffic lights with doors locked and windows up even in the heat. In a convenience store, a radio played quietly at the counter.

The cashier, a bored, middle-aged Chinese woman, lounged lazily on a stool and read a magazine.

With one eye on the articles about motorcycles and leather jackets, she kept the other on the dark-skinned teens at the back of the store, who took their time selecting which over-caffeinated energy drink that would have the honour of dehydrating them further.

A balding man with glasses thumbed thought the newspapers with halting hands.

A portable fan buzzed, barely audible over the sound of the radio. “…and as the heat-wave shows no sign of letting up, there is rumour that Governor Schwarzenegger will declare a state of emergency if the temperature continues to rise. … In other news, the investigation is still ongoing regarding the incident where the local superhero known as ‘The Captain’ beat a young boy nearly to death in a pitched street battle.

The boy, who possesses the ability to transform into a towering behemoth, was struck down brutally even as his mother begged the so-called ‘hero’ to relent.

The boy was recently announced to have survived the attack, but is in a critical condition in an undisclosed hospital and is purported to be in a coma.

No word the Captain’s whereabouts are available at this time. Public concern regarding superhuman beings has increased dramatically since the attack.

This is also attributed to the rise in violent villains and heroes and a general spike in supernatural crime in the last year.

Community leaders have begun speaking out against--” A girl on a skateboard, her hair tied back under a red baseball cap, rolled past the store and down the block.

She nimbly avoided an obstacle course of pedestrians as she turned a corner, passing by an old apartment building.

Stopping, she dismounted from her board near a side alley kicking her wheels up to her hand. With a yawn, she leaned against the fence, popping a piece of pink bubblegum into her mouth.

The apartment opened onto the lot, enclosing it all around with brick-cast arms.

Chewing vigorously, she looked out over the stony lot, vague and distorted in the heat.

Several cars were scattered about, mostly old and worn like their surroundings.

An old van sat near the entrance, and an old 60s-style car, so rusted and dented that its age could not be mistaken, sat in the corner, more abandoned than parked.

The lot was deserted, only the cars standing in silence repose. The girl turned away to shouts of her name.

Spitting out her depleted gum, she joined her friends, leaving it and the parking lot behind.

The wad sizzled a bit on the hot pavement.

All was completely silent, and alone. Game time. The van’s doors sprang open, a single, sharp sound in the light.

A shadow leapt from the back, carrying a large case and wrapped bundle;

Entirely black, it was more like the ghost of a man.

The van doors slammed behind it, as if by invisible hands, before they clicked to lock with grim finality. The dark figure wasted no time, moving low and quick to the wall.

It did not head to the main entrance, instead making way to the steel-cast double doors on the lot’s side, denoting the entrance to the fire escape stairwell. The simulacrum set the case down, rubber-gloved hands reaching his plastic-paneled belt.

Producing a key, he removed the lock from his way, swing the doors open.

He retrieved his case and entered the building, closing the doors and replacing the lock.

His heavy-duty books make strangely little sound as he carefully ascended. I should bribe people more often.

It’s a win-win situation – some security guard gets the week off to visit his girlfriend, and I get an entry point that doesn’t set off the fire alarm. He stopped at the third floor, poking a thin rod through the door.

The camera showed no-one in the halls;

They would be out at work, assuming any of them had jobs.

Those that didn’t weren’t in any condition or disposition to leave, anyway. Target should be arriving by the elevator or main stairs, other side of the building.

Arrival estimated sometime within t-minus-30 minutes, closer to 15, as per the tip I got from the flunky.

Destination will be at the end of the hall to the and to the left for him;

Fastest route for me is down the hall and to the right, and he’ll be right near the other end.

Room is 321 – Countdown.

Heh. The hallway was caked in dirt, with bits of trash everywhere.

The faded walls were wood paneled, or at least apparently – the ‘apparent’ was losing its potence as the wood-finish faded to reveal plastic.

Doors were scratched mercilessly, and many rooms had piled of trash outside of them.

One had what looked like a full box of Chinese takeout, that due to the number of flies dancing about it was probably not last night’s dinner.

Someone coughed in one of the rooms, loud and retching. Man, I am so glad this thing is sealed.

He checked his time.

Almost noon – this should be time. Heh.

I love the irony of an enigma-oriented hero moving in the day.

But that’s what they’re counting on – though I’ve always tried to maintain a healthy introspective assessment of patterns.

Unpredictability is key.

They hate it so much, and the fans adore it. The figure set the case down gently – it still made a heavy sound.

Lifting the bundle in one hand, he stripped away the cover, revealing the contents as he did I final check. Cameras on, feed is established and encrypted.

They’d have to be SHODAN on crack to see this if I don’t want them to.

Wait for the update, propeller-heads. He finished loading the Jackhammer, and then paused for a moment in silent contemplation.

Thoughts ran through his head, a more private and subtle diagnostic, the mind priming for ignition. We’re rolling. Setting the shotgun aside, his hands dropped to the huge case, popping the locks with a pair of sharp snaps.

The lid lifted without a sound.

All was utterly void of sound. Lights, Camera… The metallic, ovular pods reflected in the vigilante know as CrimeWatch9’s tinted visor, his gas mask muffling the sounds of controlled breathing. And…action.

Quote: : WhatChair replies: I think we may be talking past one another in some ways.

Granted, many individuals are capable of leveraging their powers into useful, legal purposes.

But so many don't.

I'm not talking about the ones who make it their job to protect the planet (or solar system/galaxy/universe/whatever) from cosmic horrors, alien invaders, major disasters (like asteroids and such) and that sort of thing- hell, I've got all the respect in the world for them.

But what about the ones who don't?

The ones who are at that level, but persist in threatening baseline humans?

If the only thing that can beat them without resorting to nukes or other WMDs is another emPowered, where does that leave baseline humanity?

After all, baseline human criminals can't hope to stand against even a relatively low-level emPowered, but baseline cops simply don't posess the means to deal with emPowered crime. Then there's the whole non-violent crime thing.

As a shapeshifter myself, I could fool pretty much any biometric analysis on-market today, from retinal and fingerprint scans (provided I was able to obtain samples first) to voiceprints even to the DNA.

What's stopping me (aside from my own morality) from, say, teaming up with a telepath and getting rich from ID theft?

And who besides a technopath or emPowered genius could possibly counter a technopath in computer crime? I apologize, I'm probably not being as clear as either of us would like.

ManhattanProjek Replies: No need to apologize.

I'm enjoying this debate with you.

Part of what I'm trying to change about the world is the very fact that emPowered individuals can chose to attack baseline humanity with little worry of retaliation from their victims.

I intend on giving all of humanity the choice of becoming emPowered, and to what level.

I need only a decade or two of research and the willing assistance of meta-humans such as yourself.

If you would be interested I'd love to converse some time face to face and perhaps discuss a proposal. As for the debate itself, fear or their own morals is what keeps humans, powered or not, from committing crimes.

People without fear or morals will do what they wish, often they commit crime to gain monetary wealth.

A majority of these people are then caught and punished by either 'heroes' or by the governmental crime fighting organizations.

The belief that one is above anyone/thing else is invariably incorrect, as there is always something more powerful than oneself.

If you were to commit Identity Theft there would be a chance that some other meta-human with the ability to see into the past would find out that you had done so and accordingly report you to the police or the FBI. If I were to decide I was tired of working within the system for reform some meta-human would find me and likely easily cause bodily harm to me, as I am baseline human, other than my high intellect, and my gifts for the sciences and rapid study. I seem to be repeating myself, as in the end we're still faced with the dilemma that on the high end scale, only meta-beings can deal with other meta-beings. While I have enjoyed our discourses, I feel I must end them as I am unable to progress past points already mentioned. Quote: : WhatChair replies: I guess what I'm trying to do is come up with a better way, one in which the baseline majority can actually matter even at the higher levels of the power scale without having to bring in WMDs. For instance, no offense to you, but the techniques you described wouldn't work on me.

As a shapeshifter, I don't actually have vital organs, and my brain is redundantly distributed throughout my body, so getting shot would be, at most, an inconvenience, and biochem weapons really don't work too well against someone who can alter body chemistry with a thought.

I'm using myself as an example, but there are others who would be similarly immune- how would you take out a telepath or clairvoyant, or someone who can go intangible, for instance? Sorry I can't post more right now, but I have to get to class.

Pleasure discussing this with you!

With proper planning and correct intel you can take out anyone who isn't utterly immune to physical harm.

I think in your case I'd either need access to high-explosives/anti-tank weaponry or incendiary weapons such as white phosphorus grenades.

Failing those I might drop a car on you and get myself out of combat with you, you're above my level unless HE or fire will take care of you.

While I might hypothetically have access to such weaponry, deploying it against you would attract unnecessary attention and given a choice of walking away or fighting you, I'd walk away and inform whomever told me to take you down that I'm not capable of dealing with you and that i will be refunding their money shortly if they have already payed me. I'd deal with a telepathic by finding where they sleep at night and introduce their living quarters to some nice, tasty CS gas while they were asleep.

With that accomplished i can terminate them easily with little collateral damage if I'm being paid to do so, If I'm to capture them then some nice tranquilizers will keep them from being able to mind-rape me while I'm transporting them to where I'm supposed to bring them. It's amazing how easy it is to deal with someone who has super-powers when they're sleeping. It does bear repeating though, If i think i can't handle something, i tell my employer (or prospective employer) and walk away, I have enough money for a year or so of expenses.

My life is much more valuable than money or a reputation for getting things done.

I shall have to continue this discussion later, someone is at the door. After turning off his computer Johnathan Pesenti walked down the set of stairs leading to the main floor of his home and looked through the peep-hole installed in the oak door.

The visage of two men wearing black suits and mirrored sun-glasses surprised him only slightly, he figured he'd simply be re-activated, regardless of his less than honorable discharge, then ordered to co-operate with the FBI. --- "So Lee, why are we here?

I fell asleep during the briefing." "Agent Banner.

We are here because PFC Pesenti is one of the many people that need to be 'invited' to the meeting tonight at eight." the two agents stare at the door, waiting for Mac to answer. The wooden door opens, standing there in his gray uniform is mac. agent lee nods in greeting to mac "Hello Mr.

Pesenti, I'm Agent Lee, and my partner is Agent Banner, we're from your friendly local FBI branch and we'd like to invite you to a meeting tonight at eight." Johnathan shakes his head.

"nope, not tonight, I've got work tonight, for that matter, i have work arranged for the foreseeable future with the CEO who asked me to move to LA.

Feel free to mail me the details if you have a job for me, I'll reply if i'm interested." Agent banner reaches inside his jacket for the taser he'd been supplied with and pulls it out, opening the glass/screen door that was keeping them from physically touching mac.

"I'm afraid, Mr. Pesenti, that declining is not an option." the taser stops moving once it leaves his coat as the man who calls himself M.A.C.

Smiled "Surely the FBI has my powers on record?

I did get discharged from the armed services in part because I had them.

Your little stunner has a wonderful battery, something with nickel, which is magnetic, which means I can control it.

Please leave me alone agents, my doings are perfectly legal, I have licenses for all my equipment and for the types of work i do.

Attempting to force my cooperation will only result in futility." Johnathan Pesenti, the iron sniper, closed the front door to his house and locked it before gathering up his gear, he would need to leave for the HQ of his employer soon.

John flopped down in front of his computer- literally flopped, relaxing his cellular cohesion slightly, since his roommate wasn't in. "Okay, so, gotta write a two page paper for philosophy, then I can goof off.

Wait. I need to leave by 7 this evening to make sure I'm on time for that meeting.

Three hours. Better get started." His resolve lasted for about 10 minutes before caving.

Rationalizing that maybe there would be something of use in one of the online philosophy discussions he was participating in, he logged on. Nope, nothing I can use for this, though that ManhattanProjek guy's offer sounds interesting.

I wouldn't mind knowing how my powers work either. He left a short response, saying that he might be interested in such a meeting, but that he did have to deal with things like school and other aspects of reality. That done, he went back to the paper.

St. Louis Aquarium Outskirts of Los Angeles The outside of the aquarium was desolate and run down, indicative of its abandonment over the last twenty years.

Despite this it also seemed stoic and resilient, as if intent in proving themselves to be a testimony to the workmanship of man over the forces of nature.

The fences were in a state of disrepair but miraculously were still standing;

The gate while broken and on less than half its hinges still stood firmly closed.

Weeds and wines overgrew the cobbled pathways – but a single piece of stone had been upturned yet.

The same fate wasn’t shared by the buildings though. The Aquarium’s three domes were arranged in a triangular formation with all three entrances facing towards a central fountain in the middle of the compound.

The fountain had long since run dry, now being reclaimed by the soil and garden as weeds overgrew the statue of a dolphin frozen in a mid-air jump.

It was a pictoral scene – and a rather eerie one to the FBI Agent that now stood at the gate. He was tall and well built, the short black hair gleaming in the evening sun.

His tie was blown to the side as a stiff breeze blew past from the shore and behind him.

His brown eyes were shielded by a pair of sunglasses from the wave of sand that came with it though.

He gave a single look up to the sign. St.

Louis Aquarium – this was one of the last places in a long list of places Agent Brown had searched over the past day or two.

Most had turned up empty, while the rest had been filled with bums and homeless people.

He could only hope that this one turned out to be just like those.

Sighing, Brown shook his head.

If only things were that easy.

Feeling a bit of tension in his back, he reached into his pocket and withdrew a packet of Marlboros.

A second later a single cigarette was in his mouth and lit up as he took a deep puff of it, leaning back against the hood of the car as he pondered the Aquarium and the best place to start. A soft ringing filled the air – a moment later it was replaced by the soft click of a cell phone flipping open. “Brown.” He spoke – the voice was soft, but the tone was controlled and polite.

The tone on the other end though was hardly so.

It was erratic and clearly quite stressed;

Either from overwork or from whatever dire situation had come up again. “Brown, it’s Powell.

We found some surveillance photos back from the military – have you reached St.

Louis Aquarium yet?” “Yah, I’m here.” He spoke, taking another puff of the cigarette as his eyes scanned the three domes. “Good.

It’s definitely the place we’re looking for.

Sat Recon recorded the target’s presence three days ago, moving between the buildings and the gate – he may have setup traps on the like so be careful.

Most likely location is within the building onto your right – the closest one to the sea.” “Got it.

I’m moving in. Do I have any backup incoming in case things go tits up?” Brown eyed the gate, getting off the hood of the car.

He approached it slowly even as he listened to the reply on the phone. “Negative.

We’ve lost a lot of agents going after the others already - we can’t commit anymore to your location.

Besides, all indications suggest the target may be non-hostile but evasive.

Whomever this fellow is, he or she went to a lot of trouble not to get caught.

In case it agrees though, there’s a transport chopper that’s circling overhead.

Call and they’ll come in.” He nodded.

It had been bad enough that his partner was unavailable, but now he’d be doing this alone – against an armored behemoth no less.

A hand went to the pistol in its holster – regardless of what the guys at HQ said he couldn’t take the chance that this would go well – he was invading what was obviously a private lair or hideout of some sort.

Plus he’d seen the videos of the figure in action – the prospect of having his guts being excavated out with a drill was one that Brown didn’t like one little bit. “Not very bright if he goes out in the open though, is he?” “Most likely outdated, actually.

We did an analysis of the suit and found something interesting in the old navy records.” “Oh.

What did you find?” Brown asked as he moved away from the gate, approaching the side of the fence instead.

He considered it for a moment before reaching into his pocket and pulling out a small black spray can.

He sprayed the contents all over two of the bars and let the acid do its work, weakening them. “Well…its an old design.

1960’s or 1970s – very limited production and test trials before it was out phased.

All the suits were destroyed, except for one batch that had gone for deployment on a navy vessel and were due for destruction later.” “Yah, so?

Obviously that last batch must’ve gotten into someone else’s hands.” Brown commented as a moment later the acid died out.

Putting the phone into the crook of his neck he reached to the bars with both hands and pulled them to either side.

They moved easily, weakened by the acid as they were.

He pushed them apart till there was just enough space for him to squeeze through.

Powell continued speaking even as he did so. “Except they didn’t.

I got the vessel’s name from the suit’s records – the Neptune’s Bounty.

But I couldn’t find out what it was supposed to do or even its class.

No navy officer had ever heard of it, while the crew rosters show nothing.

It’s as if the ship never existed – and the CIA and Pentagon want to keep it that way from the looks of things.” “That could be bad.

But then the Pentagon have tried to keep stuff secret from us before.” Brown replied, glancing around his position.

The sun was starting to set towards the horizon far off in the beach – twilight was fast approaching.

Brown took off his glasses as he glanced towards the third dome. “Yah, but not to this level – there is literally nothing about this vessel there, Brown.

Even the most classified ships so far we’ve managed to find fuel records, photographs, navy numbers – something.

Here the only thing I’ve got is really just a receipt of these suits, a name and the fact that it had to do something with divers and diving considering they had a bunch of navy divers onboard.

That’s it.” “And what does that say about our friend then?” “That most likely he’s either one of the original crew members, someone who found the ship’s wreck or part of whatever sunk the ship.

Other than that, we have no clue.

Again, save for his name that is.

We know that he used the name “Henderson” in the incident at the zoo, but not much else.

We can’t find any connected records either – but the boys are doing as good a search as they can, plus we’re getting some independent hackers to help us find answers, if nothing else.” Brown opened his mouth to reply, but suddenly froze as he noticed something alongside the gate.

The gate was hinged at an odd angle from this side and attached to several old ropes, hidden cleverly amidst the grass.

The ropes moved at angles within the cobblestones in such a way that they were virtually invisible to anyone coming from the gates – and the other ends were attached to what appeared to be a firecracker under a tree.

The tree itself was full of birds and nests – so full that upsetting them would likely incite quite a riot of a sun. It was only by luck and the twilight sun did Brown notice the chains – anyone coming from the gate or even shaking the fence too much would’ve triggered off a natural alarm that would’ve alerted anyone in the buildings.

It was an ingenious low-tech solution – one that Brown couldn’t help but admire for a brief moment.

A glance went to the entrance of the third dome.

It was hard to make out any more traps from this angle and distance, but Brown could bet with some assurance there would be secondary alarms there too.

He quickly pulled out the wireless headset and placed it into his ear before placing the phone back. “Powell, listen - I’ve spotted some traps near the third dome’s door.

Any back door in?” A few moments later a reply came in. “Yes.

Schematics show a basement entrance thirty meters to your east.

You can take that directly through the basements and into the aquariums.” Looking in the indicated direction, Brown spotted the double doors hidden low into the ground.

He quickly moved in their direction – he had the uneasy feeling that he was being watched. “Found them.

I’m going in.” “Good luck.” With that the line clicked off as Powell hung up.

Whatever happened next, Brown was mostly alone.

The sound of a chopper in the distance reached his ears though, as if to prove him wrong.

Still, the chopper was hardly anything he could rely on. With a slight sigh he took a deep breath, finishing off the cigarette.

Throwing the bud into the ground he extinguished it before reaching down and pulling on the basement doors.

They were stuck initially, but a strong tug forced them apart, revealing a set of stairs and a long corridor after that.

Drawing his tazer, Brown slowly took the steps down into the damp basement. The corridor ahead of him was long and especially dark – it was closer to pitch black, actually.

Muttering slightly, Brown put on the goggles and switched them to night vision modes – all the while keeping one hand on his tazer as he took a few hesitant step away from the twilight sky behind him and into the darkness. *** Fifteen minutes later Brown couldn’t help but be incredibly fearful right now.

It wasn’t the dark that scared him –oh no, he’d gotten used to that after the third aquarium he visited – no, it was the sounds. He kept hearing things in the darkness – loud thumps that were far off in the distance but hard to distinguish as being machinery or something heavy and gigantic walking towards him.

The fact that he corridor around him was completely dead and easily echoed anything – including the loud beats of his heart and his labored breathing didn’t make things any easier.

It was as if he’d stepped into a graveyard or cemetery at the middle of night – such was the stillness of the corridor around him and it sent chills down his spine. And then there was his mind.

Everytime he came to a corner he would stop and his heart would beat as he peaked around it;

Always imagining the beast coming out at him with the giant drill at him – the vision alone was enough to scare the crap out of him and his imagination seemed to have a field day trying to terrify him.

In many ways Brown was simply tempted to turn around, leave and say that he found nobody – indeed, if that was an option he’d take it right then and there…save for the fact that he was now lost. He was now lost in the pitch-black darkness, in a maze of corridors God knows how long and how deep underground with absolutely no method of reaching the surface or even a map and potentially facing a beast easily three to five times his strength and mass.

The corridors had been extended into a maze and all directional signs had been sealed over so that each one looked identical to the next and the one previous.

Whomever this person was, he had anticipated this mode of entry and dealt with it in a far more effective way than the main entrance.

He had even anticipated modes of contact – there were no signals (radio or otherwise) down here to communicate with the outside world. Something tells me I should’ve just gone through the front door.

Brown sighed to himself, shaking his head.

Still, there was little he could do save pressure onwards and keep trying…even if it meant him dying here looking for the way out. The very thought terrified him in many ways – and it nearly drove him to panic.

But Brown just held it down and pushed it aside – he couldn’t afford to panic.

Not now. Not at this junction.

Speaking of junction, Brown thought he noticed something at the intersection up ahead.

Squinting, he tried to make out what it was – and then realized a moment later that it was light.

Whether it was sunlight or something else was unclear – but there was definitely something up ahead. Keeping the Tazer at the ready he cautiously stepped forwards, moving towards the light.

A few moments later and he had cleared the junction – yes, it was definitely getting brighter.

He took a few more steps forward, making sure to glance constantly behind him as well in case he was followed.

He could feel his heart beat faster – both in anticipation and abject terror, considering he was approaching the belly of the beast. He followed the light till he approached a curve in the corridor – the source was at the other end of it, out of immediate view.

It was bright enough now that he didn’t need the night vision to see, though, so that was a relief.

Taking a few careful steps forward he turned the curve to see…the last thing he could have possibly expected. It was clear that he was at the heart of the Aquarium now and clearly significantly below the surface.

Ahead of him was a large clear area that curved around a central pool in a semi-circle before going off into various corridors.

The entire area wasn’t empty though.

Work tools, desks and benches were scattered about the place in patterns that suggested very recent use.

Someone had converted the entire area into a workshop – one that now seemed empty and safe enough. Brown took a few hesitant steps forward, taking a look into the source of the light – the central pool.

Or at least, above the pool.

Blue floodlights shone weakly up near the exposed and shattered rooftop, leaving glimmering blue rays of light radiated into the pool.

It was when Brown glanced into the pool though, that he was truly caught in awe.

He took a few steps forward, lowering his gun as he there was no present and immediate danger and looked into the pool. The pool was massive in size;

Its diameter was easily the same as that of a football field.

What caught Brown’s attention though, was what was in it.

Several layers of sand filled up the bottom of the vessel, while all along the side walls a massive coral reef had been created.

The interesting part was that it wasn’t a fake one either – it was a living, breathing one just like Brown had seen in the many documentaries.

There was even a large amount of wildlife floating around – from puffer fish, lionfish to even a giant tiger shark that swam from one end of the pool to the other.

There was even some wildlife that Brown couldn’t recognize – crabs, shrimp and prawn the sizes of which he’d never seen before. Whoever had built it must’ve taken great care in doing so though – Brown knew that to this day, not one Marine ecologist had been able to build and maintain a Coral reef in an artificial environment, much less have one grow so well like what he was looking at here.

The reef’s colors were mesmerizing – especially when combined with the blue light.

One could even say that the patterns were hypnotic in a way, drawing attention to itself… “Beautiful, isn’t it?” Brown very nearly jumped out of his skin when the loud, deep voice spoke behind him, sounding almost like the distant rumble of thunder. Combat instincts immediately took over as Brown whirled around, Tazer in hand.

His eyes caught glimpse of a flash of light as a massive hand struck out much faster;

Catching Brown’s hand almost immediately what was literally an iron grip before forcing Brown to complete his turn and face his assailant.

It was then that Brown got the first good look at person he had been sent to contact. The massive diving suit was literally in Brown’s face;

Old and rusted the rounded helmet’s many portholes emitted an unearthly light as they shone in every which direction, almost blinding him.

Despite appearing quite hunched up, the figure was massive – easily towering over Brown as it looked down and held the tazer with its left hand, which was heavily gloved.

The right hand though, had the drill on it – a long, evil looking drill that was coated with a red substance he could only surmise was blood. In the shadows behind Henderson, Brown could make out the faint outline of a figure – standing incredibly still and looking up towards him.

The Emperor Penguin’s pair of eyes shined in the darkness with an uncanny intelligence that frightened the FBI Agent far, far more than the possibility of his face being drilled ever could.

There was something behind those eyes – something wrong that Brown couldn’t just quite place.

He immediately turned his eyes away and looked to Henderson. Somehow – somehow despite his mind going into sheer, abject terror and about to fling itself into a panic Brown managed to suppress the urge to scream, instead forcing it into a slight swallow as he cleared his throat and uttered – perhaps a bit too softly. “Mr…Henderson?” A very slight nod was his only reply.

Brown took it as his cue to continue. “Please – I’m Agent Brown from the FBI.

Let me go - I’m not here to harm you.” Not as if I could. The thought rang through Brown’s mind.

For a long moment there was silence – Henderson’s grip on the arm remained iron and the hand was starting to go numb.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity the Penguin gave a single squawk;

One that echoed into the largely empty chamber.

A moment later, the diver forced Brown’s arm against the glass of the pool, smashing the Tazer out of his hand and sending it clattering into the ground nearby.

He then let go of Brown’s arm, taking a slight step backwards – but still easily within striking distance to impale Brown onto the drill if needed be. With a slight sigh of relief and a thankful prayer Brown rubbed his arm and winced slightly as the feeling came back into his hand.

Henderson stood patiently, as if waiting for an explanation. Not much for words, are you?

But then I guess you wouldn’t have much to say if your home was being invaded by strangers. Brown pushed the thought aside and instead reached into his pocket slowly, one hand up.

He withdrew the FBI badge and somehow managed to retain a calm exterior as he spoke calmly. “Henderson…do you have a military rank?

I understand you were with the Navy, however we can find no records of either you or your ship, the Neptune’s Bounty.” If the name caused any familiarity the diver didn’t show it externally as the voice rumbled in reply. ”It is a faded memory, like the last traces of shimmering sunlight before the black depths.” The FBI Agent frowned.

A faded memory? A terrible, horrible theory began to form in his head – one that sent chills down his spine. “Henderson…were you on the Neptune’s Bounty?” A nod was his only reply “Where were you for the past thirty to forty years, then?

Were you here, in this Aquarium or onboard another ship?” This time the figure shook his head, indicating a negative answer.

Brown pressed onwards;

Determined to find an answer here as to who or what was standing in front of him – but before he could do so, Henderson spoke, interrupting him. ”What is your purpose here.

Do you hunt me, like the CIA does?” Brown considered his answers and then realized that he was running out of time.

He’d totally forgotten about the outside elements – about what he had been sent here to do. “No, we’re not.

I was sent here to ask you to come with me to the FBI Los Angeles Field HQ for a matter that concerns national security.” ”For what purpose?” Henderson asked, pressing the matter. “That will be revealed when you get there – but suffice to say that we know the CIA are after you as well – but if you come with us, we can make sure they don’t get their hands on you.

But we need to move immediately – they won’t be far behind us, not to mention other elements that have may attempt to kill you.” There was a long silence once more as the diver contemplated the request.

It was interrupted once more by a loud squawk from the Penguin.

The helmet glanced between Brown and the Penguin before settling back on Brown for a long moment.

Finally, Henderson stepped forward;

The sheer weight of the heavy footsteps shaking the ground slightly around him as he approached the glass.

He placed an armored glove on it as he shook his head slightly.

The Diver turned back to Brown then, but before he could speak the FBI Agent was the first one to go ahead. “We can get the reef moved if you like – or you can regrow it elsewhere.

But if you stay here Henderson, I can guarantee that you will die, and that the reef will die out after that anyway.” The Penguin squawked again, as if in agreement.

It then wobbled over, out of the shadows.

The Emperor Penguin was large enough to easily come up to the top of Brown’s waist, once more affixing him within the stare of its eyes.

For a long moment there was silence once more before Henderson broke it this time. Very well…but Jeff comes with us. He waved to the Penguin.

Brown only smiled and gave a nod. “Agreed.

We’ll take…Jeff along as well.

I’ll wait outside for you with the chopper.

Take as long as you need to get what is necessary.

I believe there will be a lot of people at the HQ who’d like to listen to your story.” Henderson gave no reply, instead simply turning around and moving towards one of the desks.

Brown for his part noted a sign saying “exit” and moved towards it – his job was done here.

All things considered, it had gone pretty well too – a lot better than expected. Doesn’t change the fact that I’m going to need a long, long break after this.

Luxurious Apartment (Kyle’s) Downtown of Los Angeles The gruff, bloodcurdling Warhammer ringtone played out from a cell phone, walking up slightly sleep-deprived Kyle Collier as he fumbled around from bed before finally found it and looked up the caller identification.

The ID indicated that it was ‘John Foyer’ calling him on a secured line.

He recognized this name as one of shell identifies belonging to Adam aka ‘Doctor Awesome’, his friend, mentor, and contract agent, and answered his calling with a single push. With a sigh, he announced his primary shell identify into his cell phone as a mean of authentication while rubbing his face one-handed.

“Shawn Baldwin here.” “Sorry to having to call you so soon after you moved two days ago.” There was a hint of concern in Adam’s voice. For Kyle, it was a sure sign of his life getting very busier in new place called Los Angeles with moving, new jobs, making new friends, and especially his big life adjustment.

Having Adam calling him meant he would be getting a real job, one concerning his superpower and skills. “It’s cool with me, what’s going on?” Kyle asked. “Listen to me carefully because I will say it once.” He instinctually retrieved a small notepad and pen from the drawer table with an intention of writing down important information, one of his die-hard habits of his secret career and past military life. “Go” Said Kyle softly, fully ready to scribe important bits down. “Okay, I am here in Los Angeles.

Meet me at Fifth Avenue, inside of the Wilmer Plaza building, lobby floor, five oh clock.

Be there so dress yourself nice.” The Wilmer Plaza building...

One of my employing company’s offices not far from here, few minutes ride away from here. He was done scribing down what he needed to know, his throat cleared.

“I got it… I will be there at five oh clock.

See you there, Foyer.” “You too, Baldwin.” Adam told him before hanging up. With a glance at the digital clock on his cell phone’s LCD, it was nearly 2:00PM – two hours before the meeting.

Even so, Kyle would have more than enough time to hit shower, get dressed, eat, and do whatever he wanted as pleased which was a good thing for him.

Getting on his feet, he shut his cell phone, placed it down on drawer table, and exited the room into a living room where a young, beautiful maid of Hispanic origin was duly polishing a mini-bar’s marble countertop. Kyle froze as he inhaled deeply, trying to not looked surprised by her presence.

He found her to be very attractive: fairly tall, early twenties, jet black hair, toned skin, green eyes, and, of course, nice body in that maid apparel. The maid looked up and let out a startled grasp, “Sorry, I don’t know you was here.

The service tag was on the doorknob, so I came in.” “No no… it is alright with me.” He waved his hands at her, smiling.

“I forget to take it off last night… I meant the tag.” “Ah, I see… you are new here… are you?” She asked. “How do you know?” She chuckled softly, “Your accent gave you away.” “Well, in that case, you are right.

Kyle Collier, I just moved here from New York two days ago.” “Kati Carrillo, I am one of these maids working here.” She extended her proffered hand, “Welcome to Los Angeles.” He shook her hand, “It would take me bit to get used to this place.” “You would like here.” She said breathily. “That’s what they tell me.” Kyle nodded sagely.

“Oh, I forget to tell you… actually, I am not living here, just renting this place for few more days while moving company is hauling my stuffs across the country.

This place is only fully furnished rental apartment in this city I could find on short notice.” Kati pouted slightly, “Ah I see, it’s a shame because you would like this place.” She inhaled and exhaled heavily with her eyes widen, “I better get back to work before my boss catch me fraternizing with you.” The maid whispered seductively as she walked pass him and slapped his rear on her way out of this unit.

“I hope to see you around for few next days.” She just made my day more interesting. “Wow.” He told himself quietly with wide grin, spun around to watch her exiting into the hallway.

“I think I am already in love with this city.” - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - Two hours later Wilmar Plaza building was founded by the owner of Blackraven Security Solution, one of renowned corporate security consulta