Cowman

"Whoa, I didn't touch a thing," the Cowman said quickly, stepping away from the spinning machine with his hands in the air. Refastening his gas mask over his face, he watched the orbs shoot off lightening, growing brighter and brighter.

"Um.... you guys can handle this, right?" He nervously edged his way towards the door.

Marcus Kirke watched from the rooftop as the man in the alley below fell to the ground, a rifle bullet in his head.

Kind of his own fault, Kirke thought. Everyone knew that this area of town was heavily patrolled at this time of day, and the now-dead villain had made a brazen assault on some super group's HQ.

The team of heroes had defeated him, but he had escaped. Teleporting to the alley to lick his wounds. Unfortunatly one of the city's unregistered vigilantes had found him and taken advantage of his weakness to put a hollow point through his skull.

After the vigilante had left, Kirke made his way down the fire escape to examine the body, hoping there might be some salvagable equipment left intact. However, the dead man's powers seemed to be internal.

All Kirke found was a Jack of diamonds playing card and a piece of paper listing a meeting place. Slipping the paper and card into his pocket, Kirke decided to check it out. A villain took advantage of every oppurtunity thrown his or her way.

He arrived at the cemetary well before the meeting time on the paper, taking up a spot where he could see the meeting spot, but hopefully remain undetected.

He planned on keeping this a simple observation mission, but wore his full costume just in case. An old, dull blue overcoat over a similar dull blue hooded sweatshirt. The hood was up covering his head, while a pair of welding goggles and a ventilation style gas mask covered the rest of his face. Underneath the coat and jacket he wore a bullet-proof vest and a simple long-sleeve blue shirt. His loose pants were also blue with black military boots.

The only weapons he had with him were his two Desert Eagles. He wished he could have brought some of the heavier artilary, but his ammo supply was all but gone. The Eagle rounds were the only bullets he still had a healthy supply of.

After 45 minutes of waiting, some people started to appear. Their looks and mannerisms suggested villians, but you could never be sure. They talked amongst themselves for a little before another figure appeared.

This one seemed to be in charge of the little get-together and they all started to head towards a nearby building. Making his way from his hiding place, Kirke hurried to the side of the building, quietly climbing up by a side window.

He remained outside, but kept close to the window's edge so he could hear what was going on inside. He hoped he would remain undetected long enough to find out what was going on. Kirke silently cursed at himself, just now thinking of the possibility that there might be a telepath down there.

Crouching low on the ledge he watched as the others entered, praying that he wasn't making a huge mistake.

The Cowman picked up another carrot and poked at the strange machine until the vegetable became dried and cracked.

"Could be a trap," he said, taking a bite out of the ruined carrot, "or maybe there's something about us that makes us the only ones to put this thing outta commision for good."

He munched the carrot thoughtfully. "I hate magic," he grumbled, glancing at the reflections in the smooth metal.

"Hey," he said suddenly, "is it me or is there something different about our reflections in this thing?"

The Cowman listened to all that had happened up to that point.
"Kooky stuff," he said, scratching his chin. Walking up to the device he pulled his gas mask down around his neck, leaned close to one of the spheres and sniffed it.

"One thing that bothers me," he continued, stepping back from the sphere, "whether this thing's a teleporter or some dimensional gateway; why did the scientists dream of us specifically. I mean, I'm not exactly "Man of the Year" here. This whole thing sounds like some sort of "prophecy" thing."

His forehead creased in a scowl.
"I hate prophecy things."

The sound of the door spiraling open split the air as another person entered the room. He wore an old blue hooded sweatshirt and brown cargo pants, a katana was stuck behind his belt. His eyes were hidden by a thick pair of welding goggles as he surveyed the room and a gas mask covered the lower part of his face.

"Hey, some Bob Marley-lookin' guy said that..." his light-hearted greeting was cut short when he saw the device in the center of the room.
"Crap in a hat!! It can't be!!" He pointed a shaking finger at the device, panic and disbelief in his voice.
"You fools!! You fools!! Don't you realize? It's... it's..." he flung his arms up dramatically. "IT'S A METAL BOWL!!! Quick, get me five gallons of Raisin Bran. Stat!!"

For a couple minutes, silence reigned. Then the stranger's posture suddenly relaxed, his distress seemingly forgotten.

"Anyway," he said conversationally, "I'm the Cowman. The mummy outside said you guys were trying to figure this thing out." He picked up a carrot from the table and munched it noisily. "So, anything interesting happen yet?"

((Sorry if I caused any confusion. Drakor mentioned an explosion from the whole vortex thing. That's what I was referring to. I know it hadn't happened yet, which is why I didn't describe what happened on the ground. I was just trying to describe what happened to the Cowman in the explosion. If for some reason the explosion is stopped, just disregard the ending of my post and assume the Cowman's still sitting on the window sill.))

"Soul Eater?"

A bit too melodramatic a name for the Cowman, but then most things were too melodramatic for him. He pulled up the hood of his jacket, watching the scene in the building from one of the high windows. His squinted a little behind his thick welding goggles as the energy from the vortex below whipped his long, red and green scarf about.

He had come across creatures with a similar appetite before (a succubus he thought it was called) and had never faired well with them. The one he'd fought had disarmed him in less than a minute and tried to rip his soul from his body. It had spent ten or fifteen minutes rooting around inside of him, trying to find his soul. Finally, frustrated and angry, it had tossed him off a cliff and left.

'That was a fun little fight,' he thought to himself, looking back down to the fight below. He watched as the one with the rifle led the "soul eater" around towards it's own energy. 'Not to smart I guess,' he chuckled softly as the thing crashed into the vortex energy. His smile faded, however, when the energy began fluctuating wildly.

Pulling his gas mask over his mouth, the Cowman pulled the strings on the hood of his jacket, closing it over most of his face.
"Explosions. Why am I always in explosions?"
The loud boom from below was followed by a wave of heat and energy that sent him crashing into the ceiling. He expected to fall into the whirling storm below, but was save by a piece of broken ceiling impaling him through his left shoulder.

The Cowman looked over at the jagged piece of architecture protruding from his shoulder.
"Maybe my luck is changing for the better after all," he thought brightly.

"How'm I supposed to know?" he answered to the mumbled question. "I was just mindin' my own buisness when robots started tap dancing on my kidneys." He paused, feeling his side. "Actually that may just be KIDNEY, now."

He nudged her head slightly with his foot.
"Hey, you brain damaged or anything in there. Cause I already got blood all over my jacket and I don't need brain drool all over it too."

The Cowman picked himself up, heavily from the ground. Many of the Clocks had taken a few shots at him as they had passed and now he had bled all over his good jacket. The ground was littered with smoking robots after that bomb had gone off.

"Gave me a nose bleed," he thought, irritably. He made his way through the motionless Clocks, his steps slow and slightly labored. Without even seeming to realize it, he grabbed the ankle of a woman in some type of armor as he passed, dragging her along behind him.

Walking up a flight of steps to a platform surrounding a building, he finally dropped her leg and stopped, sighing heavily. A whirring made him look over his shoulder to see a Sprocket clicking towards him.

"Maurice, would you go away," he sighed, wearily, casually booting the small robot back into the middle of the battle. Sitting down against the wall, he tossed his katana on the ground and pulled down his gas mask. Rummaging through his pockets he finally pulled out a Pez dispenser and tilted the head to eject a piece.

Then he paused, looking at the single piece of candy. Then he looked at the sea of Clocks attacking the heroes. Then looked back at the single piece of candy. Then he snapped off the top of the dispenser, dumping the entire contents into his mouth.

"I officially hate today," he thought as he crunched.

- Savior -


It hadn't happened since the Rikti invasion. The total closing of an entire zone. All trams and highways to King's Row were shut down, teleporters were drafted to evacuate citizens and teleport in other heroes. King's Row was declared a disaster zone, only registered heroes were permited in. The tar-men were everywhere. They forced their way into every major building they could. The heroes stood against them, but they were losing ground fast.

The black creatures seemed to have learned that the hospital was an excellant place to find weakened heroes (something they seemed intent on doing) and had beseiged the building. The heroes barricaded themselves in, standing guard in the lobby, ready to protect the other patients less capable of defending themselves.

Other heroes entered King's Row in large groups, mounting rescue missions to apartment buildings and offices. Force fields and elemental shields seemed to keep them at bay, and they could be driven off through normal attacks, but they would never be gone for long. Always coming back in greater numbers and with new tatics. The heroes pushed forward, mostly through sheer numbers, but they couldn't seem to make a dent in the tar-men's forces.

But the real horror was in what might come next; the reason for closing off King's Row. It was a desperate attempt at keeping the tar-men contained. They had spread through King's Row like a plague, and if they got into the rest of Paragon....

Most of the heroes didn't talk about it. They focused on the fight, on saving others. But that fear always lurked just beneath the surface, never allowing itself to be forgotten.

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In an effort to aid the psychic heroes of Paragon, M.A.G.I., E.L.I.T.E., and all the other organizations called on all their most powerful psychics who weren't out in the field. It was one of the largest tasks they had ever undertaken. With a group of support heroes standing by, boosting their powers, the group of psychics reached out to every psychic hero they could in the entire city.

They took the psychic pain attacking them and dissipated it across the astral plain, taking away as much as they could. The visions still persisted, but more mental heroes were able to aid in the fight against the new threat. But there was something else there as well. The group of psychics detected something interwoven into the mental attacks. It seemed to be a message of some kind, but the amount of mental static made it next to impossible to make out. One of the group WAS able to make out one part of the message, seeming to be the origin of the psychic energy.

A name; Rebecca Kerny.

"Ah, sorry," Cowman said, absentmindedly as he took a swig of his beer, "thought I say some guy standing with ya. Brain wasn't workin' too well still." He went back to his drink, finally noticing the other people's discomfort when a man next to him had a violent gagging fit.

The Cowman had always found a slight irony in people's hatred of garbage. He wasn't too fond of it himself, but it still seemed slightly amusing. Garbage was the parts of people's lives that they threw away, tossed out, swept under the carpet. The parts no one else was supposed to have to look at and naturally they would be repulsed by these dirty parts of their lives showing up.

It sort of mimiced humanity itself. The parts of itself that humanity didn't like where usually not spoken of or ignored. Slavery, the holocaust, genocide of native peoples; all these topics are normally taboo in "polite society".

Of course, this philosophy, like all others, was full of holes and contradictions and the Cowman never really pursued it beyond a passing thought. He didn't really pursue much beyond a passing thought. He didn't see the point. He DID see the other customers holding their noses and despartely breathing through their mouths, however.

He started rooting around in his pockets again. He KNEW he had one. He had bought it just recently since he had started thinking about getting a car. Finally finding what he was looking for, he pulled out a pinetree shaped air freshner and hung it around his neck; a satisfied look on his face as if he had just solved some world threatening problem.

The bartender set a glass of water on the counter and he turned to hand it to Charlotte. He considered finding a bathroom and washing in the sink, but this place was too classy for that. At least not with the generic brand of shampoo he used.

"Whoa," Cowman muttered as he felt his ribs snap back into place, "head rush." Squinting a little he looked at the woman in front of him, though he kept seeing flashes of some older guy now and then.

"Hey, thanks," he said, pulling himself up to the bar, "let me buy you a drink." He turned toward the black robot again. "Barkeep, bring me my brewski, and get this lady and her father a tall, refreshing..." he paused, digging around in his pocket for a little before pulling out a couple crumpled dollar bills. He looked a little nervously back at the girl as he leaned a little closer to the robot. "She'll, umm... she'll have a water."

He turned back, smiling a little guiltily. "Uh, water and... um... PRETZELS." He grabbed one of the nearby pretzel bowls. "And peanuts," he continued, grabbing a bowl from a nearby man who let out a string of curses at having his food stolen. "And..." the Cowman pressed on, convinced water, pretzels, and peanuts weren't sufficient. He reached into his jacket, rummaging around before pulling out a wriggling ball of fur. "And a rat."

After about a minute of holding the thing by it's tail, it seemed to dawn on him that this might not be an appropriate contribution, and quickly stuffed the animal in his pocket, where it squirmed around until finding a piece of refuse from the dumpster to chew on.

And so he stood there, with "dumpster funk" radiating outward from his body in what he could swear were visible waves. There was a slight wet sound from his garbage soiled pants as he sat on one of the barstools.

"So, is this some kind of charity meet or something," he asked calmly, popping a couple pretzels in his mouth, seemingly oblivious to the patrons who inched away from his newly acquired, pungent aura.

The two heavies, after dribbling his head against the pavement a few times, had finally lost interest and tossed him away, returning to beating the man in the white coat. The Cowman sailed through the air, vaguely wondering if it always hurt this much to fly.

"Have to remember to ask that Iron Stinger guy," he mumbled, as he fell into a dumpster. Luckily a swarm of large rats broke his fall. The sounds of the beating filled the musty air of the alleyway, almost matching the soft thump of the music from inside the club. Lying in a broken heap inside the dumpster, his face fixed on the starry sky above him.

He always liked the nightime. Not because he was "dark and brooding" or anything like that. It just seemed to be quieter than the day. The black sky with it's tiny pinpoints of light seemed more forgiving than the bright blue of the daytime. Ironic really, he thought, since nightime was when most crime happened.

He was saved from feeling TOO guilty about the bruised and battered victim, when he heard the back door to the building open and someone confronting the thugs. "Watch out," he rasped hoarsley (his windpipe being slightly crushed by the big man's grip) "they've got fists." After a brief sounding scuffle and the flash of a teleporter, things were suddenly quiet.

He heard someone talking and a metallic voice asking for a baby. "Don't do it," he croaked, inaudibly again, "they're all bones." The mechanical voice seemed to depart while the other started talking to the man in the white coat. The Cowman decided it was time to leave, especially since a couple of the rats were making a determined effort to have a face to face confrontation with his spleen.

Dragging himself out of the dumpster, he crawled to the nearest door leading into the building. He pulled himself up the small set of steps inside the door that led to the backstage area of the club. Unzipping his jacket a little and pulling back the hood, he made his way past a couple startled performers out to the main area.

He startled a few more people as he walked/stumbled across the club floor, his blue hooded jacket and brown baggy pants dropping bits of garbage on the floor as he went. Finally reaching the bar, he leaned against it heavily, grinning at the black robot behind it. The gas mask he usually wore now hung from a broken strap around his neck and the heavy goggles covering his eyes reflected the lights as he addressed the bar-bot, adopting a particularly bad spanish accent.

"How much, senor," he slurred, pointing to a toaster sitting on the bar, "for your sister." He chuckled a couple times before falling to the floor and demanding band-aids and a "brewski".

Nobody appreciated the alleyways of Paragon City. They were what alleyways were supposed to be; narrow, dark, smelling of garbage and urine. The Cowman always appreciated it when things were done right.

The fist slamming into the side of his head interupted his thoughts. The fist had been doing that for awhile now. He had been enjoying the over-all "rightness" of the alley when he noticed someone being hassled by some thugs. Stepping into the scuffle, he tried to intervene on the side of non-violence. The others respectfully declined this option by ripping away his katana, and proceeding to practice bongo drum lessons on his face.

The man that currently was rearranging his skull's bone structure, obviously had super-strength, and the Cowman had already broken his foot trying to kick the guy's nuts. Resigning himself to the fact that he wasn't going anywhere right away, his mind had drifted back to the alley.

Yes, the alleys in Paragon were everything that alleys should be. Dark stretches of shadow, swallowing up light and goodness. Their black depths cold enough to freeze your soul if you dared to enter. Rat eyes peering out from cracks in walls and from underneath dumpsters, like demons' eyes, watching and waiting for you to step close enough to grab. A place where time stood still and everyth **BAM**

That fist was starting to annoy him.

The Cowman sighed again.
Great, now not only was he suffering from "arcade withdrawl", but now his butt was all icy. He pried himself off the frozen robot, brushing some of the ice off his jeans.

"I'm gonna be all damp when this stuff melts," he thought to himself. He looked around, watching the mass of little robots advance on the heroes, completely unable to keep the score from "The Lord of the Rings" out of his head.

He suddenly noticed that his sword was missing. He found the katana, frozen to the machine's back. Reaching down, he grabbed it, yanking hard, but unable to dislodge it. Getting a better grip, the Cowman strained against the ice until the sword suddenly came loose with a pop, sending him falling over backwards off the robot.

Laying on the cement, trying to get his breath back with hordes of robots swarming past him, the Cowman looked up at the sky.

"Maybe I'll just lay here for awhile," he thought, breathlessly.

-Savior-


Bayne stood on top of a skyscraper, perched on the antennae that rose from the roof. He watched King's Row from his spot, focusing on different parts of the city as he noticed something new. Most of what he saw, however, was much the same. Crime, violence, people hurting one another. There seemed to be no end to it.

"What kind of place am I in," he wondered to himself. The flames surrounding him flickered about agitatedly. He suddenly felt like he was being watched. Whipping around he found himself face to face with the little girl he thought he had seen in the cave.

"What will you do?" she asked, hanging in mid-air in front of him.

"What are you talking about?" Bayne asked, totally confused. The girl seemed familiar to him somehow, but he couldn't place it.

"You're here to do something," she stated, her voice eerily calm, "You are here to fix things."

Bayne was silent for awhile, pondering what she said. It felt right somehow, and the more he thought about it, the more sure he was.

"Yes," he whispered to himself, "I'm supposed to fix something. Something to do with this city."

"Good," the girl answered, though she didn't show any signs of happiness, "Now you must decide what you will do."

Then she was gone, as suddenly as she had came. Bayne looked around a little bewildered. He now knew that he was here to do something about this city, but he would have to decide himself on what that something was. Looking around the city again, he winced once more at the acts of violence he saw occuring everywhere. Yes, he would have to do something about this.

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The population of King's Row were now very much aware of the threat of the tar-men, but that did nothing to stop them. Their attacks and the disappearances they caused continued to escalate. A state of emergency was soon declared, people were told to stay in their homes, and more and more heroes were asked to aid in quelling the rising monsters.

But no matter how many battles the heroes won, there just seemed to be no stopping the black creatures. Hero casualties began to stack up (the fallen heroes disappearing just as the citizens had done), and panic began to seep into other areas of Paragon.

The Cowman was bored.

Sitting with his elbows propped on his knees and his head in his hands, he looked out over the city and once again faced the truth. Yes, there was no denying it. This place just didn't have a real first class Arcade.

Sure, a couple of the malls had some small ones, but nothing you could really sink your teeth into. He sighed again as his seat jerked violently to the side.

"Could ya keep it steady?" he shouted over his shoulder, pounding on the metal surface under him, "Some of us are tryin' to be angsty over here."

His eyes narrowed behind the thick welding goggles and a small frown formed beneath the dirty gas mask he wore. This seat was starting to become unbearable. He didn't really mind the hardness of the metal, and he could mostly ignore the rocking and swaying, but to be honest, the screams and general panic were starting to bug him.

"Quickly, get out of here," he heard another hero yelling at the fleeing civilians, "That's Babbage, one of the Clockwork King's minions."

The sound of an energy blast filled the air and Cowman's seat jerked about again. Absently mindedly he banged on the metal again, not caring enough to shout this time. He heard a whoosh and a thunking sound as the hero who had shouted was suddenly thrown to the ground.

The hero tried to rise, but found he was too hurt. Looking up, he was amazed to see what looked like another hero, riding on the back of Babbage.

"You've... got to... stop him," he gasped at the man, "He's headed... for City Hall."

The Cowman listened as the downed hero shouted at him. Zipping up his jacket a little and pulling up the hood, he returned his gaze to the skyline. He would LIKE to stop the thing, but he had already sat down on it..... and there just weren't any good Arcade's around this town.

-Savior-


The first reported attack took place on the third day. A newspaper photographer was set upon by the tar-men he was photographing. Many thought that he had just been too over-zealous. Getting too close and provoking the creatures with his camera flashes. But then another attack was reported, and then another. The fourth report was of an attack in someone's home. The tar-men had entered the building and attacked the occupants.

What was even worse; the victims could not be found. Witnesses told of how the tar-men swarmed all over them, but the victims of the attacks seemed to disappear. Sightings of the creatures were sky-rocketing, there didn't seem to be a section of Kings Row that they were not in. Even the Skulls and the mysterious Lost had been attacked by the gelantinous monsters.

But so far, they were still confined only to Kings Row. So far.

-----------------------------------------------------

Meanwhile, the psychics' visions continued, becoming more bizarre and more solid as time went on. A few heroes had even been sent to hospitals, the visions becoming too much for them and threatening their very sanity.

-Savior-


The skeletal creature stood still for awhile, seeming unsure of what he should do. He looked around the cavern, watching, unconcerned, as the black liquid continued to pour out of the rock, oozing around the large stone that the man had shoved into the opening.

The creature couldn't remember why it was here, where it had come from, or even who it was. A name suddenly stuck in it's mind. 'Bayne'. It seemed like as good a name as any, so the creature decided to adopt it. Yes, from now on it would call itself 'Bayne'. Having made this important decision, Bayne decided to find out where he was, but hesitated to leave.

Mainline's reaction had given him pause. Suppose all people would react to him like that. Sure, Mainline had been easily brushed aside, but there could be more powerful people who might attack him. He would have to lay low, observe the world and determine the level of danger to him.

As he turned, he suddenly caught a glimpse of something out of the corner of his eye. When he looked back, however, it was gone. A little girl; that's what he thought he had seen. A small girl in a dirty dress, her jeans and shoes poking out the bottom. Not a menacing vision at all, but then why did it make him feel strange.

Shaking his head, Bayne turned and moved away. He floated, his feet mere inches from the stone floor, towards one of the cavern walls. The fire around him intensified and the rock and dirt melted away in front of him. He tunneled through the ground. He would find a safe place to hide, and then he would go find out everything there was to know about this world.

Behind him, the black creatures were oozing up the walls, climbing out through the hole in the ceiling.

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When heroes would later be asked when it all started, none of them would be really sure. It had started so small. They would all be sure it began in Kings Row, but that was it. It was a slow trickle at first, one or two sightings of the black creatures. As the sightings became more frequent, the media immediatly latched onto it. They were dubbed tar-men, and the name stuck.

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About the same time that Mainline was being hoisted up by his own guts, psychics across Paragon were being struck by a wave of mental energy. Headaches and even some spasms were felt by all of them, while some of the more powerful "superhero-level" psychics were plagued by random visions. These visions varied wildly, but one thing was always the same. A feeling of finality. A sense of time, a clock stopping. One psychic hero described it best with his vision.

"I felt like I was inside a clock," he said, "and I could feel each tick as the gears turned. It was slowing down, the ticks gettng further apart, until after one tick there was nothing but silence."



Okay, next part done. I'll be putting up the next "chapter" soon. No posts yet, but it is just starting up. Remember, your hero doesn't HAVE to only deal with this story. He/she can be involved in their own plot to begin with and then be effected by the broad plot later.

I thought I'd try something a little different here. I'm going to write a story that involves all of Paragon City. Well, I'm going to try anyway. I'm going to stick mainly to broad events, things affecting the city itself. I thought others could write their own heroes story as it takes place in the broad plot. Whether your hero takes a direct hand in the main story or whether they have their own story that is only influenced by what is going on. You can write a solo story or team up with other posters. I'm hoping this will give people a little extra freedom in writing their heroes. I'm not sure if this will work or not, but I'd like to try it anyway.


City of Heroes:

-Savior-


The woman had been standing on the same street corner of Kings Row for almost 3 weeks. No matter what the weather, she stayed in the exact same spot. The police would come and try to get her to leave, but she wouldn't go, and they couldn't take her since she wasn't really doing anything illegal.

All she did, day in and day out was talk. She didn't shout or scream at the pedestrians, she simply spoke normaly but urgently. 30 days; that's what she predicted when she first appeared. 30 days before "It" would arrive. She never said what "It" was, she simply spent her days warning people against it.

Those who took the time to listen to her were told of Paragon City's descent into ruin. She insisted that the crime that practically besieged the city was a syptom of a personal apocolypse for Paragon and it's citizens. And, according to her, time was almost up.

On Wednesday, of the third week, she collapsed on the pavement. Fall was slowly turning to winter, and one too many days of standing in the pouring rain had finally taken their toll. It was around 20 minutes before an ambulance arrived to take her to the hospital, but it was all in vain anyway. She died within 10 minutes of arriving.

The police identified her as Rebecca Kerny. She used to live in Galaxy City, and was actually in the process of applying for superhero registration, before she disappeared about a month ago. Rebecca had been a burdgeoning psychic, and had displayed a slightly above average talent for mental powers. How she had ended up on a street corner, preaching about the end of Paragon City, was a complete mystery to even her closest friends.

Rebecca Kerny left no lasting impression. There were many crazy things and people that showed up in the city, and Kerny was written off as another sad case of insanity. Her message was forgotten almost before anyone heard it. The corner where she stood became just another dirty patch of concrete. And life went on as normal.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

One memory that always stuck out in Howard's mind was the swing in his backyard. As a child he would always play on it with his father. Howard was certain that, if only he could get high enough, he could touch the sky by jumping from the swing. His father would encourage him in his plan and whenever his mother was away (she didn't approve of the game) his father would push him on the swing until he could go no higher. At the top of the arc Howard would jump from the seat, his arms stretched upward as far as they could go.

It was on an especially high jump, one sunny spring afternoon, that Howard was sure he had almost achieved his goal. He seemed to swing higher than ever that day, and when he launced himself from the swing, he could feel himself flying up. He could see the sky in front of him, almost taste it in his mouth. But gravity had pulled him back down to the earth, breaking his arm in the process. As his father rushed over, Howard continued to stare at the sky.

"Did you see me?" he asked his father, breathlessly. "Did you see? I was so close. I could almost touch it."

But that had been back when he was 6 years old. Howard Robern was grown now, and was much too busy to try and touch the sky now. His power to control kinetic energy had manifested in his teens, and he had jumped at the chance to become one of Paragon's heroes. He had been so eager at the beginning, but after fighting battle after battle, and seeing the gangs and monsters STILL going strong, he had quickly become disillusioned. Whenever that memory of the swing entered his mind, he couldn't help but grieve a little over the bitter man he had become.

But he soldiered on. His parents had raised him to fight for what he believed in. Howard, registered as 'Mainline' in the city hero registry, didn't have a dramatic origin like many of the city's heroes. His parents had died peacefully of old age a few years ago before the Rikti war, even. He had never had any personal run-in with any criminals before becoming a hero. It was mostly just wanting to help out and be part of the exciting, colorful world of the other superheroes.

Now it was later and many things had changed for Howard 'Mainline' Robern. Now he stood outside a run-down office building in King's Row. Some utility workers had been examining the power lines in the basement and had reported some strange occurences. Magic was suspected and Circle of Thorns involvement was speculated. Mainline was sent to investigate.

Making his way to the basement, Mainline knew almost immediatly what the workers had been talking about. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end, and the slight tingle down his spine was a sure-fire sign of magic. Finding the spot were it seemed strongest, he concentrated, using the vibrations around him to wrap his hands in glowing energy.

Tearing through the floor, Mainline tunneled down, hitting dirt and stone before finally breaking into a large cave underneath the building. Not seeing any Thorn monks, Mainline carefully dropped to the ground. Getting up and turning around, he jumped as he found himself looking down at a small girl. She wore a dirty pink dress over a t-shirt and jeans. Her hair was straight and black, hanging down to her jaw line.

"I'm sorry," she said, sadly, after staring at him awhile, "but you're the first."

Then she was gone, just as quickly as she had appeared. Shaking his head Mainline looked around again, wondering if he had imagined the child. His eyes finally fell on a formation in the center of the cave. The rock seemed to suddenly grow upwards, forming a sort of chimney. A large flame pulsed and sputtered from within the cylinder.

Mainline watched as the fire grew bigger, wavering more violently. As he stared, something appeared from within the flames. It was a hand, but with no flesh or muscle on it. Another appeared soon after, grabbing the sides of the rock and pulling the rest of the thing up. What emerged was a skeleton, the bones seemed broken and cracked, held together by nothing but the mass of flames that surrounded and followed the thing.

The thing looked around, confused, paying no attention to Mainline. He, however, was paying attention to nothing else BUT the creature, which is why he almost missed what came out of the rock after it. At first it looked like nothing but black ooze, but soon started seperating into individual blobs that began taking on vaguely human shapes.

Mainline was starting to panic. None of this could be good. The black things attacked first, launching themselves at him. Summoning the energy to his hands again, Mainline batted them away, striking back as they fell to the ground. He ran into the middle of the group, punching and throwing the things into the walls and ceiling of the cave. But they kept coming, bubbling up through the hole in the rock.

Summoning as much power as he could, he tore rock from a nearby stalagmite and rammed it into the hole, trying to block it up. The black monsters that he had knocked down were already picking themselves up, their bodies oozing back together as they rose. Mainline didn't know what to do. The things didn't seem hurt by his attacks and there were too many for him to keep contained for long.

Just then he thought of the fiery skeleton. The black things had come out of the rock right after it, maybe it was controlling them somehow. Looking around he saw it, still standing still, looking as if it didn't know where it was. Taking advantage of it's distraction, Mainline drove his energy covered fist into the back of the skull. The flames were agonizing to touch, but he pressed the attack, hitting the thing's head as hard as he could.

The skeleton, however, reacted to the blows as more of an annoyance than an attack. Catching the hero's fist, the thing thrust it's arm forward, tearing through Mainline as if he were made of tissue paper. The flames licked around the hero and the teleporter that should have taken him to the hospital in case of serious injury, sparked, sputtered and died.

Mainline hung in the air, suspended by the flaming arm imbedded in his chest. His longish hair hung about his face, a slightly surprised expression frozen on his features. In the back of his mind he knew he should try and escape, but he couldn't seem to move. The skeleton suddenly pulled back and threw Mainline upward. He crashed through the rock, the floor above, and every other floor in the building, finally flying through the roof and into the air.

His speed slowed, and time itself seemed to stop. The sky stretched out all around Howard Robern, the city lay below, but all he could see was the blue of the sky, white cottony clouds streaking across it. For a second he hung in the air, until gravity finally caught up to him and his limp body was dragged back to the earth.

The cracks in the sidewalk spread out from his body in a spiderweb-like pattern, flowing from an impression in the cement where he lay on his back, his face still looking up to the sky. Many people saw the incident. The paramedics were on the scene in 10 minutes, but it was already too late. As blackness overtook his vision, Howard found himself once again thinking of that spring day on the swing with his father.

"Did you see me? Did you see? I was so close. I could almost touch it."




Okay, that's the first "chapter". Now I have a basic plot that all leads to an ending, but I've tried to allow room for flexibility for when other people start adding their posts. Just some basic information here: All characters so far are not in-game. Mainline (who, yes, IS quite dead) and the skeleton are just made up for this story. I may throw in one of my heroes futher down the road (don't worry, it would only be in a minor way) but not anytime soon. Also, just to be clear, the skeleton is NOT controlling the black things. Beat up the black ooze as much as you want (it will soon be infesting the city) but I'd appreciate it if no one takes on the skeleton just yet. Or if you HAVE to meet up with him, just don't kill or beat him up. He's an integral part of where this story is going. Well, hope I've sparked some interest here. Hope to see some posts.

Davis Slate slowly regained consiousness, and immediatly wished that he hadn't. It felt like every inch of him hurt, and it was only worse when he moved. But move he did, for he knew he wouldn't remain undetected for long and he had to find a way out. Looking down at his side, Slate checked to see if the wound in his side had stopped bleeding.

He was shocked when he found that, not only had it stopped, it was almost gone. Now that he thought about it, he could feel that old familiar tingle as his body stitched itself back together. Having his healing abilities back, even if they still weren't as strong as they should be, gave Slate a new boost of confidence. His outlook on his future had been pretty bleek, but now he had hope of actually escaping alive.

In another room, the woman who had interragated Slate was studying a group of computer monitors as read-outs flashed across their screens.

"So," she asked one of the technicians, "what can you tell me?"

"Well ma'am," he answered, "the analyzer chip you slipped into the wound on his side is working perfectly and it is clear that his abilities are not natural."

"You mean he wasn't born with them," she clarified.

"Exactly. We estimate that he's only about half strength right now, but it's enough to tell that his abilities were introduced later."

The woman nodded, "Anything else?"

"Well," the technician pointed to a monitor, "you can see here that there seems to have been some brain surgery done. Several masses seem to have been attached at the base of his brain. You can see the synapses in this area are firing at an incredible rate."

"And what about the gloves," the woman asked, referring to Slate's large metal gauntlets.

"There's definite signs of Rikti technology," he said.

"Of course there is," the woman scoffed, "the stuff's everywhere."

"No ma'am," the man continued, "this is pure Rikti tech, no human job, I can tell you that. That's why we've only made a cursory glance at them. None of us are really qualified for untouched Rikti tech. We've sent a call to command for Dr. Shtuffen. He's the best man we've got on the Rikti."

The woman nodded. Now she just had to decide what to do with this Davis Slate. Recapturing him would likely require them to almost kill him again, but on the other hand, they couldn't have some "hero" running around their base. She knew that the Commandant had wanted to forego violence in this operation, but in the case of Slate it had been nessesary. He was a soldier, and violence was his language. She knew this, she was a soldier herself. It was the way soldiers were.

I actually think the last name of your guy would work rather well. Although you'd probably get people who thought you were ripping off Street Fighter.
However, if your looking for a more traditional name, perhaps something like "Visceral". Has a meaty sound to it which sorta goes along with your guy's powers.

Slate was busy swimming in visions of his female tormentor in varying degrees of mutilation, when the pressure from the knife in his side suddenly dissappeared. Forcing his eyes open, Slate found himself staring at the soldier, her face mere inches from his, her expression one of intense interest.

"You REALLY wanted to kill me, didn't you?" she stated more than asked.

"What do you mean by 'wanted'," Slate growled at her. She merely smiled at this, backing up a few steps.

"Very well," she said, "you want me that bad, come and get me." She tapped on the door and the chains holding Slate upright went slack, dropping him onto the floor. Unlooping the chains from his arms, Slate painfully began pushing himself up from the floor. With his healing abilities currently on the fritz his legs felt like wood. His hands ached from going without circulation for so long and the slice in his side was still bleeding.

However, the chance to get away, no matter how slim, was enough to get him moving. The woman waited until he was half way up, before removing her jacket and gloves and striding towards him. Slate's movements felt sluggish and clumsy as he pulled himself up, trying to catch her by surprise with a quick hook to her jaw.

The woman was skilled, however, and the hours of abuse had taken their toll on Davis Slate. She dodged the attack easily, grabbing his arm and delivering a kick to his gut, the heavy combat boots she wore adding weight to the blow. Using his arm as leverage, she pushed him to his knees, driving her elbow into the back of his neck.

Slate collapsed to the floor, grabbing her leg as he fell and throwing it upward, sending her falling back. He managed to roll away, pulling himself up just as she regained her feet. His vision swam in front of him as he tried to track her movements.

He knew he wasn't going to win by superior technique, Slate had always been more of a brawler than a martial artist, and he was having enough trouble staying on his feet after the punishment he took. He suddenly jumped straight at her. She hit him hard across the jaw, but he allowed his greater weight to carry him forward, slamming her against the wall.

Pressing his forearm against her throat, Slate kept her pinned to the wall, not allowing her enough room to manuver out. His teeth ground slightly as he pressed harder and harder into her neck, watching her expression as he cut off her air. The door suddenly flew open and two guards ran into the room. Dropping the choking woman, Slate ignored the pain wracking his body and laid into the two soldiers. He got lucky, catching them by surprise with his ferocity, and they were soon both lying on the floor.

Turning back, Slate suddenly noticed that the woman was not where he had left her. Glancing over, he saw her through another doorway on the other side of the room. He ran towards her, but she casually closed the heavy door, smiling as it closed. Slate turned from the door, looking through the window on the left where officers probably viewed interragations. He slammed against it several times, but the bullet proof glass wouldn't give.

The sound of guards from the hall made him turn. He didn't have time for revenge right now. Turning back to the woman, he leaned forward. Staring darkly at her as she stood behind the window, smirking. "I'll be back for you," he growled at her slowly, before turning and running out the door. She wouldn't have heard him through the glass, but he was pretty sure she got the jist of his meaning.

He ducked into a side corridor as guards ran past towards the room. The adrenaline that had kept him going was starting to wear off and his legs were giving out on him. Stumbling further down the hall, he found a supply closet that looked reasonably out of the way. Slipping inside, he pulled himself behind a stack of boxes, finally falling to the floor and slipping into unconciousness.

Back in the observation room, the female soldier's grin widened slightly. "All according to plan," she smirked.

The 5th Column soldier moved towards Slate again, casually unsheathing a small military knife as she walked.

"You seem to be having some 'control' problems," she talked calmly, as if discussing the weather, "and I'm inclined to wonder if you're losing control of yourself or something else in you." She paused in her movement to wipe some of her own blood from Slates mouth.
"I would like to find out," she continued, "and so I'd also like to apologize in advance." The knife suddenly sunk into Slate's side. Not too deep, but she held it there, pushing ever so slightly on it.

Slate grit his teeth against the pain, his vision starting to get red and cloudy at the edges. The woman pushed the knife in a little deeper, twisting it only slightly. Slate shut his eyes, hoping that the loss of sight might help him keep it together, but now his sense of smell was suddenly full of the soldier in front of him.

Not any perfume or shampoo she might have on her, but the smell of humanity, sweaty and earthen. It poured into his nostrils until he could almost taste it. Images of ripping out her throat began swimming into his mind. The knife was suddenly pushed in deeper and twisted more violently, sending a white-hot flash of pain through Slate's mind.

"Forget alien influences," his mind raged to itself, "I'll kill her myself."

Slate looked around the room again. He had managed to push the Rikti personality back down, but he was still worried. He would have expected the woman to become angry and order the guards to "soften" him up a little more. And two guards DID burst in the door and move towards him, but she had stopped them, motioning them to leave.

She just stood there, smiling a little as she watched him. Slate didn't like it. With guys, you pretty much knew what to expect. Beatings, torture, and/or death. But women; women could get mean.