#15 – Through The Underground

Amar sat down at the cleanest and most polished picnic table he had ever seen.

On one level, he was slowly eating a reasonably bland bologna sandwich. On another, he was telepathically reaching out for signs of people. He had been enlisted to use his telepathic senses to find people who might be inside any theoretical maintenance shafts. The effort was exhausting, wearing down the entire body and causing a sensation not unlike standing on top of one’s head for too long.

What kept him going was anger. Anger at being cheated once again at a chance at a quiet life. Anger at having been drugged for he didn’t even know how long. And even anger at how Jon rejected him, as soon as they were safe.

However, just beneath the anger there was a kind of hopefulness. Not much, just the slightest of touches. However, it was enough to protect him from falling into the old indigo rage that colored the old days.

“Do you sense anything?” a woman’s voice demanded from the back of his head. It was the voice of one of the two people who had given him a reason to hope, Julia DeMatteis, a.k.a. the Spider. “We have ten minutes before the Archons will show up to make sure you’re not up to something.”

“Nothing yet,” Amar said, his exhaustion beginning to overcome his willpower. “I can usually sense something even if someone is trying to hide their thoughts. I’m not even getting that.”

“Damn. At least Mr. Query thinks there could be at least five more.”

While she was speaking, Amar made one final push. It was faint, but there was a mind, far under the ground of a suburban house near the edge of the park. His anger forgotten, Amar grinned.

***

One week ago, Amar was sprawled out on his couch, trying to wrestle with the nausea that seemed to be killing him. The Spider leaned against his living room wall, absent-mindedly playing with a set of keys in her left hand. She wore a dark blue blouse in a way that revealed more of her statuesque figure than the other women in this place. Mr. Query never told his real name to Amar, and Amar didn’t care enough to extract the information from his brain. He was  a tall, thin, and sickly man, perched on the edge of the recliner.

“I hope you are finished vomiting,” Mr. Query said.

“I hope I’m dead,” Amar whined.

The Spider stopped jangling her keys. “I’m really sorry. The medication doesn’t wear off without a fight.”

“So you saw who took you, and it was someone in a Silver Scorpion costume, right?”, she asked Amar, abruptly changing the subject.

“Yeah. Two of them, actually.”

“We were regulars of the Silver Scorpion,” the Spider explained with no small hint of pride. “The original, real one, I mean.”

Mr. Query chuckled. “We were the best regulars any so-called superhero could hope for. I trust you heard of us?”

Amar was too sick to politely lie and shook his head. Mr. Query grunted his displeasure.

“We can worry about our legacy when we get out of this hellhole,” the Spider said.

Amar sat up, trying to get his bearings. “Didn’t the Silver Scorpion die years ago?”

Mr. Query and the Spider exchanged glances. “We actually do not know how many years we have been here,” Mr. Query explained. “We attempted to keep that knowledge, but even I lost count. However… yes, he died.”

“How do you know?” Amar asked. “He could have gone into hiding or something.”

An indecipherable look overtook the Spider’s face as she signed. “No, he’s definitely dead. I would know.”

“How?”

“I just do.” Amar could tell from her tone it was in his best interest not to pursue the answer.

Mr. Query cleared his throat. “It may be useful for you to know that it turned out that the Silver Scorpion’s civilian identity was the heir to an electronics and automobile fortune, Christian Scott. He retired the identity of the Silver Scorpion and died two years later. After all the death traps, serial killers, and international shadow organizations he survived, it was leukemia that finally claimed him.”

“He quit the game because…well, there was an incident,” the Spider added.

A gloom descended upon both of the former supercriminals. Mr. Query, whose eyes had been watching Amar, now wandered the room. The Spider took off and began absent-mindedly to play with a silver ring on her finger.

“He called himself Zoltaro the Magnificent,” Mr. Query said. “His entire modus operandi was based on acting like a stage magician from a century ago.”

“I hate saying it, but he was brilliant. No prison could hold him, and it looked like nothing could keep him out either,” the Spider added. “Some people thought he actually did have supernatural powers.”

“He certainly may have been a literal demon,” Mr. Query said, more to himself than anyone else.

The Spider could not help but nod in agreement. “The first few years he was active, he wasn’t that dangerous. I mean, he stole millions and took people hostage, and a security guard or a cop would get hurt once in a while, but then, well…”

“He started killing people. At first, it was just…occasional collateral damage from his plans, but then he just killed. It became murder as performance. Even the less…stable among us not only stopped working with him, we shunned him.”

Amar suddenly remembered something through the fog of sickness. “Wait…Zoltaro? I think I saw a documentary about him. They called him one of the worst serial killers in history.”

“’Serial killer’ doesn’t quite cover it, but yeah,” the Spider answered. “At the end, it got really awful. This elementary school was supposed to have career day, but instead the teachers and students went to the cafeteria and instead found an unscheduled, impromptu performance of Zoltaro the Magnificent. I don’t even remember how many survivors there were, anymore.”

“18 out of 353,” Mr. Query said without hesitation.

“Anyway, after that, the wife of one of the teachers who died gunned Zolatro down. The day after that happened, there was a message sent to all the major local news networks around the city declaring that the Silver Scorpion would never show up anywhere again. I never knew why he did that; if he thought he inspired people to become vigilantes or if he blamed himself for not stopping Zoltaro sooner. But, anyway, the Silver Scorpion never walked the streets of New York again. Not the real Silver Scorpion.”

“Before you ask, we have no idea who could have taken up the Silver Scorpion’s mantle,” Mr. Query added.

“Whoever it is, the real Silver Scorpion would have hated what they’re doing,” the Spider added. Mr. Query solemnly nodded his agreement.

“Well, that does me a lot of good, doesn’t it?” Amar said. “So why stick your necks out to recruit me?”

“Quite simply, you are a bigshot,” Mr. Query explained.

“No, I’m not,” Amar protested.

“That’s not what he means,” the Spider said in a manner that sounded like a teacher elaborating on a lesson to a slow student. “That’s what we used to call supercriminals with powers. Damn, how long have we been gone?”

“We hacked the database of new arrivals. Well, I should say, I hacked it, along with parts of the surveillance system so that it won’t register me and the Spider,” Mr. Query said, not bothering to hide his pride. “Unfortunately, the system is highly decentralized and encrypted, so there’s only so much we can do. We haven’t even been able to access a map of the entire facility or whatever this damned Tartarus is, and it took me literally years to accomplish what we have done.”

“That’s where we’re hoping you come in,” the Spider said. “The Archons are all remotely controlled, but there must be actual human beings working on an operation this massive somewhere. We’re hoping you can use your telepathy to find them, and through them find a maintenance shaft, a tunnel, anything, so we can go straight for it and not get caught looking.”

“All of that is assuming we are not off-world or in another dimension,” Mr. Query said. The Spider glared at him, and he mumbled an apology.

“We do have to consider that kind of thing, like it or not. We have no idea what kind of resources are at work here,” Amar said while getting up. Already the nausea was passing, but he still felt wobbly. “Let me rest for a day, and we’ll see what I can do.” Then, suddenly, the obvious question leaped from Amar’s mind. “Um, so, how close have you all come to escaping before?”

The Spider’s expression at least showed Amar that she was hoping he would not breach the subject. “Yes. Starting two years after the original Silver Scorpion died, his regulars began disappearing, one by one, including us.”

“All of us ended up down here, even the minor league ones like Death Fly, the Patchwork Girl, and Were-Scorpion,” Mr. Query interjected. “Most of us tried working together to find a way to escape. Azalea, the Reaper, Professor Volt, Saint-or-Sinner…all of them are gone now.”

“Gone?” Amar felt a chill. “Where?”

“We don’t know,” the Spider said after a lengthy pause. “But we call it the Box anyway. Whatever it is, they never came back.”

***

Whatever the Box was, a week later, Amar found he could not banish it from his mind. The three of them had snuck into the house at the edge of the park. It was identical, the Spider explained, to every other cookie-cutter, one-story house in the town – except for the small matter of the large, perfectly round pit with a gleaming silver ladder attached to one side of it where the bathroom should be.

The Spider couldn’t help but do a little dance. Mr. Query smiled for the first time since Amar met him. Amar wanted to shout for joy. Having to pretend to remain under the power of the drugs whenever he went to work or encountered the Archons was as taxing as it was nerve-wracking.

“Be sure to keep a couple of feet behind me. I’ll keep scanning for minds ahead,” Amar thought at them.

The tunnel was made of pale concrete and was given a dim, ugly glow by a series of green florescent lights lining the top of the tunnel. The ambiance was unnerving, giving Amar nothing less than the impression than the tunnel his people said led to the Underworld. He could sense the fear even in the Spider, who Amar knew had the steeliest nerves of all three of them.

As they silently dived deeper into the tunnel, though, their anxiety gave way to relief when they saw a light ahead. Even though Amar knew for a fact there was no one ahead, he moved as cautiously as a cat in a dog kennel. Amar could not help but exhale with relief when he saw the end of the tunnel led into a cozy little breakroom, complete with a cutting-edge coffee maker and a snack vending machine. Amar had the nearly overwhelming urge to sneak a cup of coffee.

Besides the tunnel, there was a nondescript metal green door. The Spider carefully tried to open it. “It’s locked,” she thought. “But it seems to be a pretty standard lock. I guess they don’t think anybody would get this far.”

As she pulled out a makeshift lockpick she made out of a paperclip, Mr. Query rested on a cheap, plastic chair and Amar leaned against the wall, his eyes closed. The initial presence he sensed was apparently gone, but he still scanned the tunnel ahead for thoughts. Suddenly, without warning, he felt an aura that was too familiar.

“We need to get out of here!” Amar shouted.

Before any of the others could say a complete sentence, the green door was flung open. Behind it was a young man in faded jeans and wearing a vintage Silver Scorpion t-shirt that looked ancient. He was flanked by two Archons with smiling faces.

“We are very sorry you are dissatisfied with the conditions of your rehabilitation center, but I am afraid you must be reprimanded for attempting to escape,” one of the Archons said blandly.

“Rehabilitation?!” The Spider screamed. “You psychos were planning to keep us drugged up here until we die!”

“But even you have to admit, this facility is an improvement over Oxrun or St. Helena,” the man said, his eyes fixed on Amar.

“Having trouble violating my mental privacy? Or trying to do something even worse?” The man scoffed and tapped his own head. “A nifty little device, surgically inserted right into the tegmentum. It generates an electromagnetic field that interferes with the connections that make telepathy work. I know how it sounds, but we ran plenty of tests and it’s quite safe. Please don’t worry about me.”

“I know you,” Amar said, quietly. The man smiled.

The Spider made as if she was quietly going to place herself into the custody of the Archons. Instead, she leapt for one of the Archons, launching a kick mid-air. Effortlessly, it grabbed her from the air. With the other hand, it stabbed her in the neck with a needle that was protruding from the ring finger. The Spider passed out in a matter of seconds. The man looked down at the Spider’s unconscious body with no interest. “The usual,” he told one of the Archons. The other one walked toward Mr. Query, who meekly accompanied the Archon. Before he disappeared into the doorway, he smiled weakly at Amar. “Sorry,” he whispered.

“I’ve played this moment over and over in my head for years,” the man said. “And now, I’m forgetting all my lines.”

“Hello, Galaxy Knight,” Amar said. It felt as if he was talking in a dream.

“It’s just Jeremy now,” he replied, sneering. “You of all people know that.” Before Amar could react, Jeremy punched him. Amar fell over to the ground.

“Can’t do anything without your telepathy, huh?” With that, he began kicking Amar in his stomach. Through the pain, Amar was thinking how this was very much not how he wanted to die. “Sir!” a worried voice shouted. Amar looked up to see that one of the Archons had placed a calming hand on Jeremy’s shoulder.

“Right,” Jeremy mumbled, panting. “I’m not a thug. Or a monster, like he is.”

Jeremy leaned over and looked down at Amar. “Besides, we can finally put him to good use.”

14 – Interlude: The Last Adventure of the Galaxy Knight

Jeremy Sanchez’s hands shook as he handled the envelope. He had almost fully expected a rejection, but the contents of the letter were too fat for that. Or were they? Still, he hesitated before he ripped into it.

“What is it?” Lamorak’s voice, which spoke clearly from the back of his mind, was mechanical and alien, yet it was the most comforting thing in Jeremy’s life.

Jeremy scanned over the letter and the paperwork that were inside the now destroyed envelope. “The Rooks. I think they’re saying they’ll give me a provisional membership.”

“Just provisional?” Lamorak asked. He would be scoffing if he was capable of such an emotion. “We almost single-handedly exposed the Sahara Corporation and stopped them from opening up the Veil of Tears.”

“I think they do it to everybody,” Jeremy said as he re-entered the house, not realizing his stepbrother Fernando was within earshot in the living room.

“What’s that?” Fernando – or as he demanded everyone call him, “Nando” – asked disinterestedly.

“Uh, just…I joined a Professor Lore fan club,” Jeremy said, hoping Fernando wouldn’t look up from his phone and come over to grab and skim through the contents of the letter, as he might have done.

Fernando snorted. “Figures you’d be into that kiddy crap.”

Jeremy should have countered by pointing out that Fernando was a year away from going to college, but he still read fantasy and sci-fi novels for middle schoolers. He knew, though, that this was the worst possible time to let matters escalate. “Where’s Luis?”

Jeremy froze up when Fernando stood up. Instinctively Jeremy tried in vain to hide his letter and its contents behind the back. Instead of grabbing for it, though, Fernando “playfully” slapped him against the head. “You’re losing it, bug. Dad teaches two classes tonight.”

“Oh, right,” Jeremy said, choking down his anger and ignoring how the voice in his head literally growled. “I wasn’t thinking.”

“And what else is new?” Fernando said, heading into the kitchen. “Oh, don’t forget to take the trash out today.”

“What? It’s your turn!”

“It’s called delegating, bug,” Fernando called from the kitchen, the tone of his voice a sneer. Jeremy stormed up to his room.

“I cannot wait until the day I can turn into Galaxy Knight right in front of his fat face and then throw him through a window or something,” Jeremy thought. Lamorak answered calmly, “Pride is the warrior’s worst enemy.”

“I know, I know,” Jeremy answered in his head. “The Rooks have a no-hiding-your-identity-from-family policy, anyway…”

“And, at any rate, soon he will be undergoing the four-year rites of adulthood the bourgeois and elite ranks of your culture thinly disguise as advanced education,” Lamorak observed.

“And I can’t wait,” Jeremy said aloud. “Anyway, since Mom’s going to be at work and Dad’s at the college, I guess we can go out on a mission today.“

Lamorak was silent for a few minutes while Jeremy scanned his phone for news, and then suddenly spoke up. “You just received a communication from Dr. Bilatz.”

“You mean an e-mail?”

“As you say,” Lamorak said. “It sounds like Dr. Bilatz needs our help again.”

Jeremy sighed. “I hope he hasn’t ripped the fabric of space and time again,” he said. He had to read over the e-mail three times. The word that stood out each time was “the Exile.”

“How should we respond?” Lamorak asked, with a hint of timidity in his voice.

Jeremy fished out his special watch from the drawer on the nightstand. Lamorak made him promise he would never keep it on him, especially not when he went to school, but it still felt weird keeping the watch that could teleport him anywhere in the world and to sundry dimensions in a cheap piece of furniture. “We go and show the Rooks we can bag one of their regulars.”

***

In one minute, Jeremy was still standing in his bedroom. Then one minute later, he was standing at the end of a long, gravelly driveway that winded up a mountain and ended at a large metallic gate, flanked by two stone satyrs. Behind it was a massive gothic castle.

As they walked up to the castle, Jeremy wondered, “Why on earth did Dr. Bilatz set up his main laboratory in a scary castle in the middle of Nowhere, Colorado?”

“If I recall correctly, he said something about ambiance. Also the castle was reportedly haunted and he wanted to investigate the physics of post-biological survival as a side project. May I suggest we suit up?”

“Right,” Jeremy said, silently cursing himself because this was not the first time he forgot to fully activate Lamorak just when he was about to step into danger. With a thought, the ring Jeremy wore glowed and suddenly he was surrounded by an aura of purple energy that took the shape of Lamorak’s own form, a knight in armor that looked like he had walked out of an average person’s imaginings of Europe’s High Middle Ages.

“PASSWORD PLEASE.” An electronic voice chirped out of seemingly nowhere as they stepped near the gate. Jeremy was surprised that the gate had not been left open for them, but he supposed it was possible that Dr. Bilatz had been in some way incapacitated. According to the e-mail, he had just been robbed by a telepath, after all.

Lamorak read the password to Jeremy, who recited the numbers back awkwardly. He didn’t know exactly how Dr. Bilatz’s security system worked, but he had a vision of nothing left of his body except a small, smoking crater in the ground if he messed up too badly. “7069 zeta xi 891705 tau iota gamma 62875231486.”

The gates opened with a melodramatic creaking. Across the threshold was an elaborate garden, split precisely in half by a literal yellow brick road. On the left was a scene of classical gray statues that reenacted the Greek philosopher Archimedes defiantly contemplating a mathematical diagram under the glare of a Roman soldier about to slay him. On the right were statues playing out the execution of the occultist Jacques Cazotte by guillotine during the French Revolution. The theme was the destruction of knowledge by thoughtless brutality, or so Dr. Bilatz once told him.

Inside was not some cold, sterile scientific complex but a Baroque palace with a chessboard floor and walls and high ceilings in shades of gold and black. Jeremy called out for Dr. Bilatz, but there was no answer, not even from any of Bilatz’s assistants.

Jeremy began climbing a grand spiral staircase downward into what he knew was Dr. Bilatz’s main laboratory.

“You do realize…” Lamorak began.

“What?” Jeremy asked in his mind.

“If you do join the Rooks, you’re going to have to start working out regularly and perhaps even sacrifice Oreos.”

Despite the situation, Jeremy scoffed aloud.

The central laboratory looked little different from the main hall and the residential rooms, just with computer terminals and technical equipment interspersed and in some cases built into mosaics and statuary. Jeremy stopped at a terminal that was part of a body of a classic European Gothic gargoyle. Without him asking, Lamorak took over Jeremy’s fingers and skillfully hacked into Dr. Bilatz’s mainframe so quickly and gracefully Jeremy’s conscious mind could not keep up.

“I’m scanning the raw data from security and there is absolutely nothing of note, much less anything related to a break-in by the Exile. Also…” Lamorak became ominously silent.

“What’s wrong?” Jeremy whispered aloud.

“Dr. Bilatz is away in Addis Ababa for a conference and has been for this entire month. I suggest we teleport away immediate-.”

“Lamorak?” Jeremy whispered. Then he nearly shouted, “Lamorak?”

Jeremy reached for his watch and began inputting the coordinates for home. Without warning, though, he could no longer feel or even see his watch. With the speed and uncertainty of a nightmare, he was suddenly once again pounding on the closet door while he heard Fernando laughing at the other side of the door. Jeremy was once more choking back his frustrated sobs and threatening to tell Fernando’s dad, who was then about to become Jeremy’s new stepdad. Still, he knew he wouldn’t because he was terrified of Fernando and knew what Fernando was capable of doing when his father was away on campus and his mother was working. And that was only if they would even believe that Fernando, who was a straight A student and was flawlessly polite to all the adults in his life, could be such a bully.

Even though the closet was barely big enough for two people, Jeremy stopped hitting the door when he became aware that someone was standing behind him. Not only was that person behind him, but he was standing several feet away, even though that shouldn’t have been physically possible in the space.

“As someone who knows a thing or two about sibling rivalry, you almost have my sympathy,” the voice of the Exile said. “Almost.”

Jeremy whirled around and saw the Exile in the black and gray cloak he usually wore. Apparently the cloak was a mark of shame in his homeworld. On Earth, he made it into something of a badge of warped honor.

“Lamorak, enact the psychic assault protocol now!” Jeremy screamed.

The Exile chuckled amiably. “Don’t excite yourself. It’s too late.”

“Lamorak!” Jeremy shouted. “I need you now!”

The Exile suddenly dropped the almost amiable façade and practically growled in anger. “What did I just say?” Before Jeremy could react the Exile shoved him through the closet door. Instead of a mocking Fernando and a carpeted hallway on the other side was a half-collapsed temple out on the Jordanian steppe. It was the exact spot where Jeremy as the Galaxy Knight, along with half the Rooks, managed to stop the Exile from summoning some mad, forgotten Babylonian god.

“What did you just do?!”

The Exile sneered. “A computer virus uploaded to this laboratory’s online network, perfectly calibrated for an alien AI consciousness dependent on a human mind. Prodigy is going to want me to thank her periodically for the next 50 years, but it’s so worth it, don’t you think?”

As he backed away, Jeremy tripped over a collapsed column half-buried in the ground. He knew he was inside his own mind, but the fresh bruise he felt on his buttock definitely seemed real.

“What did you do to Dr. Bilatz?”

Rolling his eyes, the Exile replied, “Try to keep up. I’m not after Dr. Bilatz. I’m after you.

Suddenly, the Exile was holding a shotgun that appeared from nowhere and began pointing it right at Jeremy. “This is a tad less imaginative than I like to be, but I’ve got better things to do with my day and would like to wrap this up. Goodbye.”

Jeremy closed his eyes. Even though he was not quite sure if the Exile could kill him in his mindscape, he was still absolutely confident that this was the end of his life. The reality that his career as a superhero could end this way had always been in the back of his head. Facing the reality in the form of a gun was very different, so different that he could not really comprehend it until now.

Then there was a sound of flesh cutting and the Exile whimpering. The familiar purple-energy broadsword that Lamorak usually wielded when in his physical form was sticking through the Exile’s stomach. He gurgled and whimpered, as if trying to say something, before he slid forward and collapsed to the ground. In compliance with dream logic, the Exile’s body crumpled into dust and blew away, even though Jeremy felt no wind.

Lamorak reached out and Jeremy grabbed his hand and stood up. To his embarrassment he realized his eyes were stung with tears. “Thank God it’s you, Lamorak. He was…he was…”

Lamorak’s embrace felt like being hugged by a life-size plastic figure. Still, the gesture was very much welcome. “I know. It will be alright now. He must have wanted revenge for the last time you and the Rooks thwarted him.”

“What a lunatic,” Jeremy sighed. He had been instrumental in defeating the Exile’s scheme, but he was hardly the one involved. “We better get back before Mom gets home or Fernando notices I haven’t taken the trash out.”

“Oh, the watch…” Lamorak said, his robotic voice betraying a hint of concern.

Jeremy looked down and there was a dent on the edge of the watch. “Oh. Do you think it might have damaged the teleportation apparatus?”

“Possibly,” Lamorak answered. “But if so, it will only be minor damage. I should be able to affect repairs right here.”

Jeremy sighed in sincere relief. “Thank God. Here you go.”

The instant he handed the watch over to Lamorak, everything changed. Instead of Lamorak standing before him, it was the Exile, who triumphantly held the watch before him like a trophy. They were also no longer in the Middle East, but back in Dr. Bilatz’s laboratory.

“That was really easier than it should have been,” the Exile said, laughing. It was not the menacing laughter that Jeremy always expected out of lifelong supercriminals, but the laughter of someone who had just pulled off a smart move in a card game. “It looks to me like you’re not even Rooks material, Galaxy Knight.”

The Exile started walking away and waved with one hand while messing with the watch with the other. “Good luck getting back home.”

Jeremy closed his eyes and called on Lamorak to appear on his own and stop the Exile, more than he ever wished for anything in his life. Suddenly a blurry figure, which looked like a video game glitch manifested in reality somehow, appeared close to the floor and grabbed at the Exile’s legs, tripping him.

“Destroy the watch before he can focus and use his powers,” Lamorak’s voice hissed in Jeremy’s mind as the deformed figure of Lamorak kept wrestling with the supercriminal. “I will not be able to manifest in this form for long.”

“But I won’t get home and my family will know-“

“Please, you can’t let him have it,” Lamorak pleaded.

You have to act like a hero, Jeremy sternly told himself as he joined the fray and tried to wrestle the watch out of the Exile’s hand. He wasn’t sure if it was his imagination, but he thought he could feel the Exile telepathetically clawing his way back into his consciousness. It was this fear that gave Jeremy a strength beyond even his normal ability. He slammed the watch against the floor repeatedly with a demented energy. The Exile screamed in rage while broken pieces of precious alien technology flew everywhere. At least Fernando will now find out I’m a superhero, Jeremy thought bitterly.

Panting, Jeremy tried to stand up, but his legs failed him. “Don’t bother,” the Exile said, also audibly exhausted. “I just managed to make your brain temporarily forget how legs work.”

The Exile stood up. Lamorak was now gone from view. Jeremy tried to crawl away, but the Exile was quickly on top of him, grabbing at his hand.

“Leave me alone!” Jeremy shouted. A part of his mind thought how this wasn’t playing out like any encounter with a supercriminal he ever managed. He kept trying to resist, but the Exile managed to grab his hand and violently jerked the ring off his finger.

Jeremy realized what the Exile was doing and screamed, even pleaded with him to stop. The Exile held the ring up and looked at it, almost admiringly. “So this really is the source of your power.” Pulling his body with his arms, Jeremy tried to reach the Exile but he slowly walked back, mocking him. “I did my homework, you see. And you’ve been way more open to the public than you should have been. I don’t know your real name, but I do know your ‘Lamorak’ is an artificial intelligence copy of a dead alien mind. Centuries ago, there was some interplanetary peacekeeping force that was betrayed and destroyed, and the survivors uploaded the dying minds of their greatest champions to these rings so that their legacy could live on. Plus they could keep fighting for the sake of civilizations that enter perilous periods in their technological and social evolution in conjunction with the minds of heroic natives. Or something like that, right?”

“Please,” Jeremy begged.

Faintly, Jeremy could hear Lamorak’s voice. It was barely coherent, but he could still make it out. “I’m so sorry, Jeremy. I know – I know what he’s about to do. Please listen to me.”

“And they adapt to the culture of whatever native they choose to enter a symbiotic relationship with, and hence we had Galaxy Knight,” the Exile chuckled.

Lamorak kept speaking. “Don’t let this break you. Don’t let this change you. Just keep-.”

“Shame, really,” the Exile said just before he dropped the ring to the floor and stomped on it several times, until the glass on the ring was utterly shattered.

Jeremy felt not only Lamorak’s voice but his very presence fade from his mind. Even though he felt exhausted, both physically and mentally, he still found the strength to scream one more time, “You murdered him!”

“Your Lamorak was just the memory of a ghost, if that,” the Exile said with an infuriating matter-of-factness, nonchalantly kicking what was left of the ring that once contained Lamorak’s essence across the floor.

“You murdered him,” Jeremy repeated, this time in a whisper.

The Exile shrugged and began to walk away. “You’ll be able to walk again in five minutes, at most.” With that, he was out the door.

 

 

 

 

#13 – Sentenced to Paradise

By the eighth day, Amar had gotten into a routine. He would wake up and eat his mildly flavorful and protein-rich breakfast , which was delivered through a vending machine-like device that fed right into the kitchen (coffee was nowhere to be had in this place, but he couldn’t remember ever minding that, just noting it). Then he stepped out of the simple, tiny one-floor house he found himself in and walked out into the street (which no cars ever drove on) with other one-floor blue-and-white houses perfectly lined up on both sides. He walked about a mile to work, an office in a lovely, colonial-style building. There he sat down at a cubicle where he sat down and proofread medical and legal transcriptions from all over the English-speaking world for four hours. He had co-workers whom he socialized with, although their conversations were brief and never went beyond petty annoyances with work or how good the meals from last night were or what was on television last night. (They would have talked about the weather too, if it wasn’t always sunny with just a few clouds; the only “rain” came down in broad daylight).  Then he would go home and watch television. There was only one channel, though, and it was full of cheerful sitcoms and light dramas with just a mild infusion of conflict. His own favorites were Murder She Wrote and Three’s Company.

He dimly remembered how his rage and despair burned brightly that first day, how he felt that once again he had a normal life stolen from him. However, he felt much better by the second day. Even the fact that his telepathy was muted, to such a degree that he could barely even go inside his own mind, didn’t bother him that much anymore.

Nothing did, really.

Amar was only slightly disturbed by his supervisors. They said nothing, but his co-workers and friends called them the Archons. The men always wore black, white, and gray khakis and pollo shirts while the women dressed in colorful blouses and slacks. Where their heads would be were sleek black-mirror screens on which faces were usually shown, although occasionally they would flicker with flashes of blue dancing through the dark. The faces were always pleasant and uninspiringly attractive. And they never failed to be anything but polite.

The only breaks in the routine were picnics and sporting events and community theater and the like. He thought of auditioning for the role of Macbeth, even though the play didn’t have the scene where Macduff’s family gets killed. And Lady Macbeth goes to prison, instead of committing suicide. Still, something about the role of the Scottish king spoke to him.

What was this place called, he sometimes wondered. No one ever told him, and it never occurred to him to ask one of the Archons. It didn’t really matter, anyway. It was now the whole world to him.

***

The only thing that bothered him, aside from the fact that the rice and vegetable meals that were provided on Wednesdays always tasted over-salted, were the dreams.

He dreamed of an old-fashioned ship that sailed through the sky and the feeling a man’s beard rub against his own while they kissed and of leading an army into battle down a mountain path while drunk on hate. He also dreamed of his own blood and the feeling of a cold, metallic wall against his back as he slumped against it.

One afternoon on the weekend, he had walked down to the nearby library, a sleek, stylish building that was like being inside a state-of-the-art cell phone. All the books were works of classic literature, moral philosophy, and self-help books. It barely even occurred to him now that this was something that should be questioned.

As Amar perused the literature signature, trying to find a decent translation of the Epic of Gilgamesh and only faintly annoyed he could not find a copy with the original Sumerian, he became aware that a man had been staring at him. He was a tall, thin, middle-aged man who somehow gave him the impression that he had walked off the set of a 1950s television show. Amar could not shake the feeling he had seen the man before around his neighborhood.

It took a surprising amount of willpower, but finally, Amar asked, “Can I help you with something?”

Unfazed, the man chuckled and said, “It’s nothing. Well, a small, little thing. I just thought I would test something out.”

“Test?”

“My companion, whom I suspect you’ll be meeting later, asserted that this was a bad idea, but I usually prefer the direct approach. And, besides, for people in your condition, a little confusion goes a long way.”

“My…condition? But I’m perfectly fine.”

“Exactly.” With that, the man theatrically leaned closer, even though he was still a couple of feet away, and asked, “Query: Can you guess what number I’m thinking of? Your clue is that it is between the numbers 1 and 50.”

Any thoughts as to the man’s identity and what he wanted were chased out of Amar’s mind. Suddenly, he could only think of the odd question asked of him.

“I guess I could try…but why?”

The man smiled paternally. “Just a test, just a test, like I said. Please try clearing your mind.”

Amar closed his eyes. Within seconds, the answer came to him. “Um…23. No, actually, 23.5726.”

The smile grew larger. “Excellent.”

“Do you need help finding anything?” a woman’s voice spoke beside him.

Startled, Amar whirled around. An Archon stood near him, the beaming face of a young blonde woman looking down at him while taking up most of the screen. “Oh, no, but thank you. Thank you very much.”

As the Archon moved on to reshelving, Amar looked around for the bow-tied man, but he was nowhere to be seen. Even stranger was how he supposedly guessed that very specific number and supposedly got it right. The whole thing must have been some prank. Although…wasn’t he able to guess what other people were thinking accurately before, a long time ago? He couldn’t really remember.

***

“So first thing’s first: your number-one suspect is dead.”

Jon thought that he had misheard Liz. After all, she was just on speaker via his cheap and nearly kaput cell phone. “What was that? I’m not…”

“He’s dead. He’s been dead for 11 years now.”

Jon looked at Heracles, who was reclining majestically on his couch as if he was on a throne overseeing the inspection of plunder taken from an enemy. Also, for some reason, he was wearing a t-shirt and a blazer tailored to leave none of his muscles to the imagination. It would have been better if he had met Liz in person at her home or her office on campus, but Jon found himself surprisingly hostile to the idea of Heracles coming in contact with Liz. Having him seduce Amar was bad enough, and Liz had a thing for superhuman muscles herself.

“Are you sure?” Jon asked the phone perched on the table.

“Of course I am!” He could almost hear the eye roll. After a pause and a few audible clicks of her mouse, she continued, “There was only one Silver Scorpion, and he was apparently really well known back in the day. Are you sure you’ve never heard of him?”

“No,” Jon replied. He looked again at Heracles, who shook his head.

“Well, he was a pretty big deal in New York City history, more than even Sparrow and Viper or Cerberus. In fact, he once…”

Jon cleared his throat, his usual signal to get Liz off lecture mode.

“Okay, okay, sorry. But it might be important that he was so respected he was one of the few vigilantes in New York to ever be granted an exemption from the McIntyre-Cranston Act.”

“So he was allowed to fight street crime?”

“Yep. You really do remember what I tell you. But most of the time he was asked to deal with supercriminals. Then things with a particularly nasty supercriminal went south and he retired. He passed away not many years afterward. The producers of some documentary found out he was the heir of an electronics fortune.”

In a gesture of impatience, Heracles leaped to his feet. “I thank you for following our clue so extensively, as always, Elizabeth, but this does sound like a dead end.”

“Could be. There is one really weird thing, though, that makes me think it’s at least worth looking into.”

“What?”, Jon asked.

“You know how it’s not that unusual for supercriminals to just up and disappear, right? Either they’ve gone straight and gotten new identities or they, well, die. Or worse. Even then, it doesn’t seem likely that every single one of his surviving regulars, whether they were in jail, in a mental hospital, or reformed vanished without a trace one by one after he retired, and they kept disappearing even after he was dead.”

Relief washed over Jon. Now here was a lead. “What’s the time frame we’re talking?”

“Five years.”

Jon definitely thought they were onto something, but suddenly he realized that Heracles had invited himself into this investigation. Reluctantly, he turned and asked, “What do you think?”

Heracles grinned. “Comrade, it seems as if we’re finally getting close to me being able to just punch someone.”

***

Although the incident at the library was so brief, Amar’s thoughts kept straying to it. What did that man want? And why was such an innocent little thing make him feel so unsettled? If it was a joke or whatever, why did he guess such a bizarre number to begin with?

Then, on his way home from work, he encountered a tall, athletic-looking woman who looked like she was in her 40s. Her black hair was in a tight bun, and she moved down the sidewalk with a tense grace. Unlike any other woman Amar had seen since he…relocated here, she wore her blue shirt in a way that rather complimented her breasts. It occurred to Amar then that everyone other than the Archons wore a blue shirt and gray pants. That was also what his entire wardrobe consisted of.

That didn’t sound right either.

“Amar, right? Hello. Good to see you,” she said cheerfully and aggressively, grabbing his hand and shaking it.

“Um, hi. Do I know you?”

“Oh, we haven’t met, but I’ve been keeping tabs on you.”

Amar would have normally been afraid or startled or perhaps even angered—or some combination thereof—but he wasn’t. Instead he only felt a dull curiosity. “Why?”, he asked.

She smiled. “We’ll catch you up soon, I hope, but in the meantime, you take our advice.” Suddenly, she shook his hand and then disappeared, moving fast without sprinting, down a side street. It took about a full minute to realize he had a crumpled sheet of paper in his hand.

“IT’S IN THE FOOD THEY GIVE YOU. AND DON’T LET THEM SEE OUR GIFT.” It was signed with a sketch of a spider.

Amar’s thoughts were consumed by the mystery of the note, especially that second sentence, as he made his way home. Then, almost as soon as he stepped through the door, he found that someone had somehow broken into his house only to leave boxes full of food on paper plates that were carefully wrapped in plastic.

#12 – A Royal Kidnapping

“No, this is too…” Amar couldn’t find the word.

“Intense?” Dr. Phan replied as he looked around a bloody battlefield with a professional mild interest. The corpse of a man who couldn’t have been much older than a teenager was at his feet. “This was your first memory to surface.”

“I know, I just…” The battlefield abruptly faded into black like a show on TV. Amar was back on a steep hill that inclined down into a lush forest. The hillside was an old and happy place he knew in his childhood and was what Dr. Phan termed his “neutral place”. “Sorry if that was too…forceful,” Amar said. “I know I’ve been your patient for a while, but I’m still not used to sharing my head with another telepath.”

The body of Dr. Phan was gone. Instead he heard his voice, sounding a bit like a voice coming the other end of a landline telephone. “Just think of it as like talking, only more…visceral.”

Without consciously willing it, the grass under his feet gave way to a carpeted floor and the other side of a room was his own body, bleeding from his wrists and slumped against a wall. “Oh, Ishtar,” Amar whimpered.

“I could sense the thought of your suicide at the fringe of the consciousness when we began our session, and you said you wanted to talk about your sense of guilt and responsibility,” Dr. Phan explained. Somewhat poetically, as he talked Dr. Phan was standing on the other side of the transparent barrier of Amar’s cell. Amar wondered if it was deliberate.

“No, it isn’t,” Dr. Phan said with a smile. Now he was standing in the cell with Amar.

“Sorry,” Amar said. He was about to mutter out another line about how he was unused to dealing with another telepath again when Dr. Phan interrupted him.

“Clearly there’s some sort of connection that might be worth investigating here. Do you remember what you were thinking just before you decided to take your life?”

Amar was shocked by how little he really thought about it and how much he tried not to think about it since his little adventure with Jon. “I’m not sure. I just know, when I decided to do it, I really did feel like I had no future, that I might as well have been a corpse.”

“I don’t doubt you were thinking about the future, but it seems the past was on your mind as well.”

Unbidden, their surroundings began to shift at the speed of thought: a ritual Amar participated in to bring back the undead serial killer Lonnie, giant arachnid robots marching on the streets of Miami as he grinned from a penthouse window above, a teenager screaming at Amar in rage, and Amar’s only sibling sobbing, pleading with him not to take her memories away…

“Stop,” Dr. Phan said, gently but firmly reaching further into Amar’s mind and pulling his psyche back to that lovely green hillside. A nice breeze blew under the flawlessly clear sky. Now where Amar was standing there was now a red couch and a red cushioned chair.

“Maybe for the rest of our time together it’s best to slow down and just talk the old-fashioned way in this lovely memory,” Dr. Phan said helpfully.

***

Amar lingered in a small café over a mediocre vanilla latte. He wasn’t there for the coffee, but for the view of the wide green spaces of a nearby college campus (the fit, shirtless guys who played touch football or frisbee were not his only motive for frequenting that cafe, but they were an added perk). Also the shop never had a solid clientele, so it was easier not to have to shut out other people’s noisy thoughts.

Amar liked Dr. Phan, but he couldn’t honestly say he liked their sessions. It had been too long since Amar lived in a place where running into and dealing with other telepaths was a routine occurrence. And where he came from, telepaths were the ones who worked as the closest thing his society had to psychologists, but then he never experienced what his people called “the treatment of the inward gaze”. He could only imagine what it would be like for people who didn’t have telepathic gifts and couldn’t even go inside themselves to construct their own mindscapes.

It was especially disconcerting because Dr. Phan wanted to talk about Amar trying to take his life far more than his past as a supercriminal. Amar hadn’t even really thought about his suicide attempt. It felt as if it had happened to someone else, after all, and he had only attempted it because Yori came to loathe him and he had the new life he built ripped away. Or was that the only reason?

His thoughts were still burdensome as he realized he might as well brood at home than waste more money on not-too-good coffee. On the way home, he cut a shortcut through a narrow street, as he usually did when he didn’t feel like lingering. Halfway down the street, he sensed someone behind him who was deliberately masking his thoughts. Amar looked behind him only to see an object that looked like a spearhead, attached to an electric wire and flying right towards him. With only microseconds to spare, Amar fell backwards and caught himself against the pavement with his right arm. It wasn’t exactly graceful, but the pain from the fall was negligible at least. He shouted out, but no one answered. No doubt his assailant made sure to attack him in a place where there wasn’t a single pedestrian anywhere nearby.

The taser or whatever it was fell harmlessly near Amar as he rolled toward the closest thing to cover, a jeep parked on the curb. From there, he darted into an nearby alleyway as quickly as he could.  Amar glanced over and saw a man in a silver costume that had the emblem of a scorpion on the chest and a mask with an insectile look, not far behind but just far enough.

Amar rushed over behind another row of parked vehicles, reaching out again to find any pedestrians. There. He located the minds of a group of teenagers coming back from the movies and slowly making their way down a nearby avenue. Amar was prepared to make another dart in their direction, but under a truck, he could see the silver boots of his stalker on the other side of the street.

“Time to stop playing defensive,” Amar thought. His attacker had some rudimentary psychic shields up, making it difficult for him to find a foothold. But before too long, he could feel a tingle of fear, a stray thought of worry that he had lost sight of Amar.

That was all he needed. Amar blasted his attacker’s mind with gibberish-filled, incoherent thoughts that no doubt severely disoriented him, enough to buy Amar enough time to find those teenagers or some other pedestrian. Just as Amar was emerging from cover and preparing to take a photo of his attacker with his cellphone, he heard a fire escape somewhere nearby rattle and the sound of a heavy weight dropping to the cement. Just as he was turning around to look, he felt the prick of a needle on his neck and the feeling of his muscles melting into liquid.

***

“You are a hard man to reach these days, you know,” Heracles said, grinning.

“Yeah, I know,” Jon said. “They haven’t quite worked out the kinks of communication between the universe and outside the space-time continuum. But I really do appreciate you letting me know.”

Heracles shrugged. “Of course! I know you…ah, care for Amar.”

Jon chose not to pursue that implications of that “ah”. “Well, yeah. I’m just surprised that you…”

Heracles gave Jon a confused look. “Do you think I shouldn’t care about his well-being?”

“No, I’m just – well, uh, are you two dating?”

Heracles’ face darkened. “Do we need to be in some sort of courtship for me to be concerned that the prince may be in danger or, may the Fates not will it, worse?”

Jon gulped. Earning the ire of someone who could break his neck with a twitch of his fingers was not on his calendar. “No, what I mean is – I’m just wondering how close you two have gotten since I went away.”

Heracles seemed to ponder that for a moment before the storm clouds apparently lifted and he laughed again. “Ah, friend Jon, I understand now. No, the two of us have only shared a bed and good conversations. And even then, our talks would too often end in him asking me to swing him around and…”

“Shh!” Jon said, noticing amused glances from the bar’s other patrons.

From what little Jon knew of Heracles, he was no doubt proud of his “lovemaking” with a rogue royal from a kingdom in another dimension. This was probably far from the only time he let certain details slip. Now this time it was Jon’s turn to feel his mood darken.

Before Jon could mull over Heracles and Amar’s relationship for too long, their food was delivered by a group of cheerful yet menacing-looking robots with sleek red metallic skin and a somewhat devilish look. When the Final Guard first established their own official café for members and associates in 1968, Club Limbo, they had used the appropriated robots of an old regular of theirs at the time, Dr. Daedelus, as staff. Since the robots had mostly kept themselves in good working order over the decades and, more importantly, lacked free will according to multiple psychological and engineering tests and still actually seemed happier as servers than as a madman’s soldiers, there was no reason to replace them. It took only one robot to deliver Jon’s meal of a Reuben and fries and iced tea. It took three to deliver Heracles’ one-man feast, which includes roast lamb, figs, fried lampreys, grape leaves stuffed with rice, an entire jug of wine, and half a chocolate cake.

“Besides,” Heracles said with a smile, “you should know I take care of all my friends. In the old days, I sailed all the way around Greece to try to save a woman I did not know that well and had only laid with once.”

“How did that turn out?”

“Oh, I not only saved her, but I went to war against the entire clan that took her and then…” Heracles stopped himself awkwardly. “But that was a very different time.

As he ripped into his banquet, Heracles happily changed the subject. “So who do you think is responsible for Amar’s disappearance? Some former ally or rival of his from his former nefarious career?”

That was Jon’s own first suspicion, but after thinking it over, he had changed his mind. “I doubt it. God knows the supercriminal community has plenty of backstabbers, but they’re generally pretty good at regulating themselves when it comes to their own just going berserk against each other. Any act of hostility without a really bad act of provocation is a sure way to get oneself quietly disappeared one day, even if the victim had gone legit. And it should have been old news long ago that Amar got his pardon because he helped me stop the reality warp, not because he ratted anybody out.”

Heracles signaled his agreement by grunting with a mouth full of lamb. “Some rogue superhero or law enforcement agency then?”

Jon sighed. “That’s my fear. Josephine Manners swears she investigated her own turf over it and I believe her, but she’s not omniscient.”

“Close to it, though,” Heracles said with no small bit of awe.

“There was a big crackdown on vigilantes sometime in the mid-‘90s and there hasn’t been a resurgence since, if I remember one of Liz’s impromptu history lectures right,” Jon said.

“Hmm. But it wouldn’t be the first time a hero snapped or had a grudge against one of their regulars that drove them to break the law and their own supposed code of honor.”

“Yeah, exactly,” Jon said. There was a strong third possibility, though. Human trafficking of the superpowered and paranormally empowered was a lucrative international black market that sometimes involved rogue governments and terrorist organizations. And the rarity of telepaths made them particularly valuable. But Jon suspected that Heracles didn’t want to consider that hypothesis anymore than he did, at least not until they exhausted the more likely and less frightening possibilities.

“I read everything I could about Amar’s past as the Exile and there were…a few candidates,” Heracles said. He paused, clearly weighing his words, and continued. “But that said…well, the last time you saw Amar was at the anniversary party, yes?”

Jon nodded.

“Did you see your friend and former teammate, who goes by the name ‘Tell’?”

“Well, yeah,” Jon felt his heart sink. His involvement honestly did not even occur to him until now. “What are you thinking?”

“I was with Amar most of the night, and a few times I saw Tell staring at Amar from a distance. Indeed, I thought about confronting him, but he left long before the festivities were over.”

Jon shook his head. “He definitely has a grudge against Amar. But that doesn’t –“

Suddenly, Jon’s cellphone came to life with an old-school landline ring. “Um, sorry. I better answer in case it’s about Amar.”

“Of course,” Heracles said, his full attention already dedicated to his meal.

“Hello?” Jon said, rising from his seat and ducking into a quiet, empty corner of the café.

“Um, hey. Is this Jon?” A nervous teenager’s voice said.

“This is he. Who is this?”

“Hey. I’m Juan Romano. So I was walking home from the movies with my friends and, uh, I got this…message.”

“Message?”

“It was crazy! Like I just blanked out for five seconds and your name and number was in my head and I just knew the whole thing was from some guy named Amar.”

Jon, who was confused and thought this was some bizarre hoax, audibly gasped. “Wait. Amar? Is he okay?”

“I don’t know, man! I just got this message and your phone number in my brain and this feeling that I better call you. And I’m crap at remembering numbers, you know? But I don’t think I can forget your phone number now even if I try.” Suddenly his voice raised with a real note of panic. “Is – is something going to be wrong with me?”

Jon choked down his impatience. “No, Juan. You’re safe.” You might remember my phone number for the rest of your life, though, Jon thought, but did not dare add. “Just tell me what the message was, please.”

“It was weird, but I swear it was all of it,” Juan said, talking as if he was sharing state secrets. “It just said, ‘It was the silver scorpions.’”

#11 – The 430th Anniversary

It had been six months since Amar had been arrested by the Final Guard, and it was actually a relief that the most evil thing he had done since was forcing his seven students to master the Sumerian language’s sexagesimal numeral system in one class period.

Here he was, about to step inside his townhouse with something called a “pizza Margherita” hot on his arm. He was even able to go by his real name or rather a version of it that fit with his new manufactured life story as a scholar from the Middle East. Luckily, he was never nearly as famous a supercriminal as someone like The Roman or Mr. Punch. Even in an age of everyone carrying around digital cameras on their phones, plausible deniability would be his friend, or at least that’s what Josephine Manners assured him on three separate occasions.

As Amar awkwardly managed his keys and his pizza, he turned his head and called out, “You want any?”

Out in the darkness beyond his porch, a gruff voice replied flatly, “You knew I was there?”

“Don’t worry,” he said, opening the door and leaving it open for his guest. “You’re really good at silencing your thoughts for a mindblind, but you also give off some of the strongest psychic radiation I’ve ever experienced.”

Abu Oginyae silently followed. As much as he tried to convey the sense that he could shut down his entire nervous system in a minute, it did unnerve Amar how Abu Oginyae managed to move without even making the floor creak slightly.

“Would you like any pizza?”

Adu Oginyae was silent for a few seconds. “No, thank you.”

“Well, the offer’s open. I guess you’re here to spy on me, making sure I’m not hanging out with the wrong crowd again?”

“Something like that,” he answered.

Amar set down on the table two plates with a slice of pizza on each.

“Why you, though? Is the c-team off fighting a demonic invasion of Manhattan or something?”

“Let’s just say I’m personally curious,” Abu Oginyae said. “You likely know that I have seen very few people reform in my time, especially not among my own regulars. I do hope you will be different.”

Amar quietly ate, wondering if Jon’s preemptive break-up did make the Final Guard nervous that Amar would revert back to his old career. Just as Amar was starting to wonder if Abu Oginyae would simply stand there and watch him eat, he spoke again.

“You will be receiving an invitation in the mail, but I might as well tell you. You’re invited to the 430th anniversary of the Final Guard’s founding.”

“Oh. Well, thanks.” In spite of himself, Amar asked, “Will Jon be there?”

“Most likely.”

Amar got up and made his way to the fridge to get some iced tea. “Can I at least get you a drink?” When he next turned around toward the front door, Abu Oginyae was gone along with the second slice of pizza.

***

The boat pulled up to Citadel Island, an artificially built island lying roughly six miles east of Cobb Island, Virginia. Since the 1970s, it had been the main base for the Final Guard. Once upon a time, the Final Guard had been located in Manhattan. It took a surprisingly long time for people to realize that collecting Earth’s most powerful humans and miscellaneous beings, who were also routinely targeted by deadly superhuman, paranormal, and extraterrestrial forces, in a densely populated urban area was a terrible idea or at the very least outweighed the benefits of having them conveniently at hand.

Liz had been silently watching the water since they departed from the village of Oyster. As they got off on the dock, Jon asked her teasingly, “Thinking back to the time when you were a cape?”

Liz chuckled. “A little, actually. I still can’t believe I thought I was being all feminist by taking the name ‘White Witch.’”

I thought it was clever.”

They reminisced all the way into the tower and through the multiple body scans (making sure they had no weapons or explosives, ensuring they were not shapeshifters or androids, etc.). They stepped into a ballroom that were a rainbow of superhero costumes, here and there broken by much more mundane tuxedos and dresses. Jon himself was in his Mantra costume, even though he had been working with Dr. Bilatz for weeks now doing random tasks and using the Mantra gem to help him monitor and manage mystical energies. Liz was in a red dress that was at least an unconscious homage to Lydia Deetz.

“What are you doing in that…interdimensional nexus or whatever anyway?” Liz asked.

“He’s calling it The Outside now.”

“Really? Nice and simple. It’s better than the White Witch.”

They separated and mingled, Liz eventually chatting with a rapper who was also rumored in the cape press to have lycanthropy, Jon making the rounds of his various former teammates in the Rooks. Standing alone, apart from the crowd and nursing a Shirley Temple, was Tell in his full classic Robin Hood-esque get-up.

They exchanged awkward and token greetings, but it wasn’t long before Will got to the chase.

“Amar is supposedly coming tonight,” he said, clearly scanning Jon’s face for a reaction.

“Really? That was nice of them to include him.”

Tell didn’t even try to suppress a groan. “Hm. I bet it was Sans Pareil’s idea.”

Jon couldn’t help but chuckle at that. “Probably, but you never know.”

“Look, I didn’t – I’m glad you’re not dating Amar. Seriously.”

Jon was surprised at the slight chill in his own voice. “I didn’t do it for you.”

“I know. Liz told me. Well, she didn’t tell me everything, but she implied you had other reasons. Still, though, I should…” Whatever Tell was about to say, he trailed off.

“What?”

“It’s nothing. I really need to go find my plus one. She’s some journalist I met on a mission and I better make sure she’s not trying to score an interview off somebody. See you.”

Before Jon could engage another of his colleagues, the band that had been alternating between soft rock and something not unlike jazz surrendered to Athena, who took to the stage to give the requisite speech in her full breastplate and tunic.

After speaking eloquently but briefly on all the triumphs and the tragedies that had been experienced in the past year, Athena turned to the organization’s history. “Contrary to popular belief, I actually wasn’t on this plane of reality at the time, but I have heard this story told to me so many times in so many ways I may as well have been. 430 years ago, frustrated at the failure of his grand armada to conquer England, King Philip II of Spain, in a grotesque act of hypocrisy, had one of the kings of Hell, Viné, summoned and sent him against the English people. In response, Queen Elizabeth I gathered together the strongest but also the most unusual champions in her dominions – the Boggart, Sir Bedwyr, the Brass Head, Madam Pigot, and Jack-in-Irons. Only by using their gifts in tandem were they able to prevent tremendous loss of life and completely defeat what we would today call a class-A1 paranormal threat. It was a grateful Elizabeth herself who gave this menagerie of misfits the name the ‘Final Guard’, deeming them the last protection of her country when all other defenses failed.

This group continued to ultimately through tumultuous shifts in membership and even periods of total disbandment such as when Oliver Cromwell furiously condemned them as demonic and drove them all underground or out of England, but the Final Guard would always return in one form or another whenever the need was great. We have evidence that such gatherings of – let’s say – unique and exceptional individuals existed even as far back as ancient Rome and Nara Japan, but – and Liz, feel free to correct even the goddess of wisdom on this one [sincere laughter came from the audience] – but none lasted for longer than a generation. The Final Guard did, however, even after all of its original members had passed on or faded into legend.

However, its service still strictly belonged to the English monarchy until the horrors of the Seven Years War provoked the Masked Dragoon and Jill Holland to reach out to France’s premier champion, the Vicomte de Calbec, and set out to establish a new Final Guard that would no longer serve as the arm of any one government and would instead fight for the entire human race against exceptional threats. This mission has rarely been a simple one and many times the Final Guard has had to take sides in spite of our own ideals, most famously when we agreed to work in conjunction with the United States Army during the Second World War. But even in these tumultuous times we have kept true—“

Jon was listening with rapt attention until he thought he heard heavy footsteps coming in his general direction followed by a familiar laughter. He casually looked behind him and for reasons that were a mystery to him his heart stopped at the sight: a tall, very muscular, shirtless man, dressed only in leather boots and what could only be described as some kind of ancient man-skirt, along with perfectly combed and trimmed facial hair, long hair crowning his shoulders, and a forest of curly chest hair. It was Athena’s half-brother, Heracles, and walking with him with a hand against the chest that was far broader than Jon’s own was Amar.

Amar waved at Jon in such a way that it was almost theatrical. Jon fired back with about half a nod.

He was shocked out of his reverie by the room’s applause. Jon half-heartedly joined in and tried to go back to mingling, but his eyes kept turning back to the site of Amar fawning over the giant trash heap of hair and muscle.

Unable to do anything else, Jon walked casually up to Heracles and Amar. “Hi, Amar. I didn’t think you’d come.”

“Jon! I’m glad to see you again. It’s been a while.”

“Well, well, Mantra,” Heracles said with a grin. “I haven’t seen you since…”

“The Nero Imperative. Particularly that escape from the New Millennium Faction’s base.”

“Yes!” Heracles playfully slapped Jon on the shoulder, very nearly knocking him down. “I remember that well! Your friend here has quite the knack for running away from explosions,” he told Amar.

“Oh, I’ve seen him in danger, too,” Amar replied.

“Oh? We should arrange some kind of deadly, absurd adventure so you can say the same about me.”

“Well, you have taken every possible chance to show off,” Amar said before turning to Jon, almost as if he had forgotten he was there. “Did you know he’s so strong he can bench press a ten-wheeler? He did it as part of a workout routine while I was visiting him. Barely broke a sweat.”

“That is impressive, although I can name four or five people off the top of my head who can do the exact same thing,” Jon replied, trying to make it sound like just friendly teasing and failing.

As the war of barbs continued, Athena stood back in the crowd of talking people. She was making a beeline for her brother to confront him about yet again coming to an event uninvited when he hadn’t been a regular member of the Final Guard since the 1950s, but instead she stopped to observe Jon’s interactions with Amar and Heracles.

Sans Pareil saddled up next to her. “It’s a shame that Amar ended up with Heracles. I really was rooting for him and Jon.”

Athena was about to explain to Sans Pareil what was going on in the same tone one would talk to a too-old child about the non-existence of Santa Claus, but thankfully Adu Oginyae, who appeared out of nowhere as was his custom, did it for her. “You’re joking, right? You do realize that he’s trying to make Jon jealous, don’t you?”

Sans Pareil twisted his face in disgust. “You’d think someone who can read minds would just communicate his feelings honestly.”

“He’s still a human being,” Athena countered.

“And it’s still wrong,” Adu Oginyae added.

“So says the man who dates gorgeous yet love-starved celebrities and the saintly heads of affluent non-profits just to keep up his secret identity.”

Suddenly Heracles grabbed Amar, lifted him four feet in the air, and kissed him briefly yet deeply. Laughing, Amar then made his way to a door leading to an outdoor balcony. Jon said his farewells to Heracles – his words were terse, Heracles’ boisterously sincere. Seeing her moment, Athena walked up to her brother.

Forgoing the greeting, she simply said, “I trust you actually know what this is about, right?”

“You mean make some boy jealous?” Heracles said, chuckling. “I haven’t spent as much time with the mortals as you have in the recent centuries, sister, but I’ve never been that naïve. We’ve just been having a good time the past few months. And besides, I haven’t been with either a woman or a man of royal blood since that one glorious night in Edinburgh.”

“Please consider breaking it off gently,” Athena said, even though she suspected Heracles would ignore her advice as he always did in matters that did not involve storming enemy strongholds. “You shouldn’t even be involved.”

Heracles shrugged his massive shoulders. “He seems fine to me.”

“You’re worse than Father,” Athena growled. “At least he has the decency to delude himself that he’s in love.”

Amar pretended to be making the rounds, but only ran into former adversaries who had either played a role in foiling some plan he at least was involved in or knew him by reputation. The most Amar could be grateful for was that the shallow greetings outnumbered the icy glares. The only one who struck up a conversation with him was the Sentinel, who stood out even from the blindingly colorful crowd in his costume and its red, white, and blue motif.

At first, they chatted and joked about a little incident where Amar tricked the Sentinel and some British superhero, the Ebony Knight, into gathering together the scattered pieces of some superweapon or another. It soon turned into an argument about the merits of monarchy versus American democracy.

“I respect your people and their long history, but after living in this world for so many years, how can you still defend a system where power passes from one person to another just because of what family they were born into?” the Sentinel asked, gesturing so passionately that he nearly spilled his drink.

Amar rolled his eyes. “Yes, exactly. Why do you think I still believe in my people’s government, even after getting overthrown and exiled? I absolutely think that some societies could use at least a nominal leader who’s trained from birth for the role and isn’t some corrupt, unqualified lunatic who managed to game the system…”

Neither man was aware that their argument was being observed at a distance by Tell. Retreating further back, Tell whispered into his cell phone, “No, of course, you shouldn’t even think about taking him. He’s dating a veteran cape apparently, Heracles. So you’ll have to be more careful. Sure, we’ll keep watching until we finally get the opening we need.”

 

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