Heroid

The words were pretty, full of fancy and romance. There was something in the poems about lost kingdoms and vengeful kings that was unsettling. Many times he thought to put the book down and finish it in the light of day, but he felt like he could easily finish it and still catch a couple of hours sleep before the sun came creeping across the desert. Greedy had turned in hours ago and left Killian the lamp, the stove, and the coffee to get him through the night.

Outside, the wind howled up the street and the sand hissed steadily at the windows like an angry snake.

Just as he turned to the last page, Killian heard a sound. It was a mournful chorus, like he had heard once, back east, before he realized he wasn't a scholar and quit the university and looked westward for his fortunes. It was a Requiem. He couldn't remember which one of those European's it belonged to. Vivaldi? Mozart? He had heard it – or something like it – one time in Charleston. That was a long time ago and a continent away, and the remembrance filled him with sad remorse. Had the sound been in his imagination? Like a mirage of sound? It had to be, because if he had really heard it, then it had come from the book itself.

He closed the book and tossed it to the countertop. The last page remained unread.


"Wake, up, Sheriff!"

Someone kicked Killian on the bottoms of his boots. Instinctively, his hand went for his gun, but even though the morning sun was streaming through the window, blinding him, he still recognized the voice of his friend.

"Don't shoot me!" Greedy said with mock fear and more than a touch of excitement. "At least don't do it today!"

Killian rubbed his stiff neck and yawned. "What the hell are you going on about, Greedy?"

Greedy walked to the front door of his store and pointed across the street. "Something new, Sheriff. The wind last night blew in something new."

It was pretty clear the old man wasn't going to tell him what was going on, that he was going to have to get up and look out the door for himself, but that was no mean feat considering he had fallen asleep sitting in a straight-backed chair. His knees and back felt like they were knotted up like a noose. Still, he struggled up out of the chair, picked up the coffee pot and swished it around to see if the last of it had boiled away, and when it hadn't, he poured himself a cup and staggered to the door.

"Looks like Sam sold the Lost Lake when we wasn't looking," Greedy said.

"Funny. He didn't say nothing about it when I saw him yesterday."

"Well, sure does look like new owners are moving in."

And so it did. A large, wagon, something like a circus or carnival would use, but without any decorations and garish colors painted on it. It was pink, but anybody who had ever started west in a wagon painted red knew that it didn't start out that way. The six draft horses hitched to it remained perfectly still as two big men worked unloading canvas-covered objects -- furnishings probably -- out of the back.

The big men wore rough denim overalls and short-billed caps that shaded their faces, exposing wide, fishlike mouths, but hiding their eyes from view; the caps did nothing to keep the sun off of their short necks and tiny ears and the backs of their bald heads. They wore no shirts under their overalls which left their pale, hairless shoulders and backs exposed to the Arizona clime. If they suffered from sun or wind burn, they showed no signs or ill effects.

A smaller, older man, dressed in a brown herring bone suit and an eastern-style derby hat seemed to be supervising. He stood on the walk beside the swinging doors of the saloon instructing the men to be careful. Beside him, completely concealed in a blue and gold silk wrap stood what appeared to be woman of damn near perfect shape. With that silk wrapped tightly around her, Killian could see almost every detail of her figure, and the seeing made his mind race to imagine the beauty of the face that was hidden from him.

Greedy sighed and said, "Lord, thanky for letting me wake up this morning."

"Ain't something you see here every day, is it?"

"No she ain't." The old man got a faraway look in his eyes that he usually reserved for his best old soldier stories. "Makes me wish I was your age, Nick."

Killian waited for the advice. Greedy never called him by his first name unless he was about to talk to him like a father to son. Such times as that made Killian uncomfortable, but the advice was always earnest, even if it sometimes shot wide of its mark.

"Nick, you should go right over there and introduce yourself to that little gal."

Killian pulled his papers and tobacco out of his shirt and said, "I don't think so."

Greedy stepped away from the doorway and poured himself the last cup of last night's coffee. "You're scared of a little lady?"

"I'm scared of the business end of a Colt when it's in the hands of a jealous husband."

Greedy appeared back at his side and they continued their gawking. Suddenly, the man in charge looked straight in their direction as if he noticed them for the first time, then he put his arm around the silk-shrouded woman and ushered her inside.

"Then again, as sheriff, I guess it's my business to see that a new proprietor in town is on the up and up."

((As always, feel free to comment. And thanks for reading! ))

"Going to be windy tonight, Sheriff," Greedy said in his high-pitched, nasally voice as Killian rode past the General Store.

Killian pulled Rain to a stop and looked down at the old man who stood on the weathered planks in front of his store. Greedy was as close to a friend as Killian had west of Missouri. Hell. Maybe he was as close to a friend as he had period. The old man seemed simple and weak. He stood barely up to Killian's chest, and his wind-cracked skin and sun-bleached hair made him look even older than he was. When he spoke, it was more with an old woman's voice than an old man's. But Killian and the other people in Liar's Lake knew that appearances were deceiving. The old man had fought Mexicans, Indians, and Johnny Rebs. He could tell you stories that would curl your hair and make you draw your saddle up inside you. Greedy had that quiet kind of strength like the Joshua trees that get gnarled from the weather, but keep on standing.

"Yep," Killian replied to his comment.

"Reckon everybody better close the shutters and stay inside tonight."

"Yep."

"You're not talking much there, Sheriff," Greedy said as he looked the Sheriff in the eye. "Usually means you've got something on your mind there."

"Just got a feeling, Greedy. Just got a feeling."

"Well, then," the storekeeper said, "if you need something more than a feeling to occupy your thoughts, then how about stepping inside."

Killian patted Rain and looked to the stables at the blacksmith’s down the street and the way the wind was already kicking up dust between there and here.

"Tie her around back in my shed. There ain't nothing much left in there anyhow, and I'll give her a bag of oats to boot."

Killian nodded, and dismounted. After he had led his mare around back and set her up with a feed bag full of oats, he joined the old man inside the store. Greedy already had the stove lit -- not so much for heat in the desert night, but for comfort from it -- and put on a pot of coffee. Killian sat down and rolled himself another cigarette.

"Pour yourself a cup, Sheriff -- this ain't no restaurant."

Killian made a sound that was almost like a laugh. It had the same timbre as a laugh, the same rhythm. Also, it had a sense of humor to it, but that was as far as it went. What it was lacking was mirth. Mirth was not something Killian did well, and although Greedy was one for telling humorous stories and jokes, he never seemed offended at Killian's lackluster attempts gratify him.

Killian poured himself a cup and asked, "What is it you want to tell me?"

"Not so much to tell you as to show you."

The General Store wasn’t large, but Greedy kept it tidy and made good use of his available space. The bare wooden floors were rowed with shelves, most of which were mostly empty now. The storekeeper stepped around the store counter then bent down and disappeared behind it. When he re-emerged, he had in his hand a book; not large, not thick, not ancient, but bound in dark leather with its title impressed and delineated in blood red ink upon its spine. He carried the book to Killian and handed it to him.

Killian glanced down at it, then looked up at Greedy and said, "You opening up a library here, old man?"

If Greedy found humor in Killian's remark, he didn't show it. Instead, he began, "Listen here, Sheriff. You know I'm planning on moving back east when this town of ours finally gives up the ghost." He paused while Killian nodded in reply, then continued, "And you know I've been keeping a tight rein on my stock here, trying to make sure you all have the supplies you need, while making sure I ain't stuck here at the end with no money and inventory I can't move."

"So you want to sell me this book before you go?"

Greedy smiled, then shook his head. "Nosir. I just want to tell you that I ain't never had no books to sell. All them that would have need of such usually brought them with them."

"Old man, you're trying to skin this buck before you shoot it. Quit hemming and hawing. What are you trying to say?"

"This book wasn't here last week when I did my inventory."

"So? Somebody brought it in here and left it by accident."

"Nosir. It was in my gun cabinet, and I'm the only one that has a key to that."

Killian thought for a moment. He could see the old man's point. "... and who would break into it to leave a book and not take the guns and ammo?"

"And there you go."

Killian opened the book and riffled through the pages. Lines of verse were on most pages, with an illustration of a rose on three out of four corners of each page. The pages were almost too white, too fine, and the words seemed to near jump off of the page at him.

He closed the book and looked up at his friend. "You want me to ask around? Maybe see if I can figure out who might have left this here?"

Greedy shook his head. "I might have fought for the Union, but I grew up in them Appalachian Mountains of northern Virginia. I've heard tell of or seen with my own eyes critters you wouldn't believe were real. Flats. Behinders. Guardinels. There's things in this world that we ain't imagined yet. I think that book's one of those things."

Killian fought the urge to throw the book on the floor.

Greedy pulled up a chair beside the stove and poured himself a cup of coffee. "I can read passable. But I figure you might have a sight more education than me."

Killian looked down at the cover of the book and its title: The Song of Cassilda and Other Poems then in smaller letters under that, from the King in Yellow. Again, he fought the urge to get the thing out of his hands.

"Sheriff, I want you to read that for me."

(Santa Fe, New Mexico Territory, 1898)

The stranger walked into the saloon and slapped his gloves on his long tan coat, stirring up a cloud of fine southwestern sand.

“Dust,” the bartender said.

The stranger looked up as if someone had called his name.

“Dust. Lotta dust ya got on yerself. Been ridin’ a long ways?”

The stranger wore a tan wide-brimmed hat that shadowed his face, and later, when the bartender would try to describe him to the regular patrons of the saloon, he would find that he was unable to even remember the color of the stranger’s eyes.

The mysterious man walked over to the bar and said, "You could say that." Then he looked at the bottles that lined the shelf behind the bartender. "Give me whatever it is you keep hidden for yourself."

The bartender looked surprised, then smiled and reached for a bottle of dark amber Kentucky Bourbon. "I guess that's a pretty common practice, good whiskey being as hard to get as it is."

"It seems to be," the stranger replied and accepted his glass. He dropped a piece of Her Majesty's gold on the bar.

"Thought you was one of them English. Could tell by your accent."

"Astute of you," the stranger said, this time with a hint of a Central European accent.

The bartender looked confused. "What brings you to this part of the world?"

The stranger took a sip of his whiskey, then one corner of his mouth turned up as if to threaten a smile and he said, "I’m here looking for a rose."




(Arizona territory, 1898)


Liar’s Lake looked like Hell. The sunset washed the sky crimson and the dying fires of day lit roofs and windows and made the town look like it was burning and that God had struck the match.


Whosever big idea it was to build a town in a dried-up lake bed in the middle of the desert, Killian figured they were the biggest fools he’d ever heard of. The hot wind that blew across the flat surface had nothing in its way to slow it down. Everything that wind carried blew into the town. Usually that was only tumbleweed. Sometimes it was other kinds of riffraff.


Killian, on his paint, Rain, rolled another cigarette and wondered how much longer he would have a job. There were fewer than thirty people left in Liar’s Lake. Twenty-seven now, to be exact – he himself included – since the Bower brothers had taken off for some place called the Klondike where the gold was supposed to be laying like rocks on the ground and folks said the conditions were far fairer than here in Arizona.


Twenty-five miles to the north, and thirty miles to the east, hills that once were busy hives of gold-miners stood as silent witness to the transience of wealth. Eighteen years after the first poor soul had sunk his pickaxe into the face of Hallelujah Bluff, the harshness of the heat-baked rock had refused to yield further treasure to the weak bags of flesh that strove against it. Eighteen years: time enough to make a fortune and lose it; time enough to build a town and watch it die.


Killian hadn’t been paid in weeks. That was all right with him. Greedy down at the General Store let him have whatever he needed. Killian figured when the store was emptied out, it would finally give old Greedy the excuse he needed to go back east and live with his brother in St. Lou. When the General Store and the Lost Lake Saloon were closed down, there wouldn’t be much call for a town sheriff.


Killian lit his cigarette and took a long draw. Really, there wasn’t much call for a sheriff now. He reckoned that the only reason he kept the title now was that it was the only office left in town. The mayor had passed away from the heat last August, and nobody saw any need to elect a new one. If a decision needed to be made, they would just get together as many as would come and make it. Any dissent didn’t last long. When there’s fewer than thirty people in your world, you don’t really want to piss them all off.


From out here, on the lake’s edge, Liar’s Lake looked dead already. A collection of buildings that had once housed businesses of which only the General Store, the saloon, and the the blacksmith still operated.

At the end of the town’s only street stood a church that had never seen the salvation of a single soul; no hellfire and brimstone inside it. No need for it. There was plenty of hell for miles around.

Liar’s Lake was a dead town.

Dead.

The word scratched at the sheriff’s thoughts like the sand on his throat. Nick Killian picked up the reins and gave Rain his head back to town. An ill wind was blowing, and there was no telling what would blow in with it.

A week ago...

Samantha Budgie, aka Angelflight was trying to concentrate on her new duties in the Youth Police program of the PCPD. She took this new extracurricular activity seriously. She even dressed the way her supervising detective had suggested -- in a manner that would distract and disorient the average thug.

All was going well until the night she met the September Morn. September was a sister to the sisters, and as such, she was an unforseen variable in an already unstable situation.

Budgie flipped out. Inside her, the third sister screamed and begged to be let out so that she could possess September, but Budgie wouldn't let her. She fought her into submission, but in doing so, she lost herself.

The human veneer she had worked so hard to build in her mind was gone. Once again, she was simply an idea, a collection of concepts, a curse spat on the lips of a murderess.

She was the guardian of the sisters. That was her only purpose.

Just as this realization dawned upon her, she began to feel as if one of the Roses was in danger. Not like before when one Rose stole the other Rose. Even if one had killed the other, their souls would have bonded inside the survivor. No, this danger was very real and very imminent.

Rose, the heroic Rose, had gone to Oranbega.

It did not matter that it was another dimesion and another Oranbega. No matter where Oranbega was, it was still a place where one's soul may be stolen and imprisoned.

And make no mistake about it -- the souls of the sisters would make a mage powerful indeed.

So, while she was helpless to follow Rose to that other-dimensional Oranbega, Budgie was waiting for her when she emerged from the portal.

She grabbed Rose and stole her away. She would keep her safe, even if it meant she had to keep her as a prisoner.

For days, she moved Rose from remote location to remote location. One time Nick Kinsolving almost found Rose.

But he didn't.

Two days after she had taken Rose, she went to a food store to purchase the sister some food. A strange man was there.

"My, what a pretty bird you are," he had said.

"I am Budgie." she had said.

"Yes," the man said. "I know who you are, and I know what you are. I've been trying to locate you for... oh... I don't know... a century or so?"

Budgie had looked at the man and tried to remember him. The sister inside her seemed to. She left the store.

She left the store, but she didn't leave the man now. Inside the store a song was playing. The lady in the song sang, "In my heeead, in my heeeeeed; zombie, zombie, zombie."

She knew what the lady was singing about. The man was in her head now.

"Pretty bird," he said.



Two days ago...

Budgie had to leave to a food store and buy Rose more victuals.

It had gotten increasingly hard to keep hidden from both Nick Kinsolving and his friends, and the strange man, Bitner (as he called himself).

When she had finished purchasing food items, Budgie had come back to their hiding place -- on an island near Talos -- to discover that Rose had escaped. Or maybe she had been rescued.

No matter. She had failed to keep Rose protected.

At least the strange man, Bitner, hadn't gotten her. Budgie would know if he had.

He was still in her head.

There was a knock on her door, and Blitz got up to answer it.

"Betsy?"

It was Nick.

"Yes?"

"There is someone who would like to meet you."

Blitz looked past his should to see a tall, striking blonde standing behind him. From the way the woman was biting her lip and avoiding eye contact, Blitz could tell she was nervous.

She also recognized the woman's face.

"Come in," she bade them.

Nick stepped aside and let the woman into the room.

"Rose," he said, "this is Betsy. Betsy, this is Rose, my fiancee."

She smiled at Rose.

"If you don't mind, I'll leave the two of you alone."

The woman spun around and said, "Nick...!"

But Nick just smiled and closed the door as he left.

After a minute of strained silence, Rose said, "He's right. You are beautiful."

Blitz blushed and said, "I had beautiful parents."

Rose laughed, which in turn made Blitz laugh, then they embraced.

For an more than an hour they chatted, Rose telling Blitz about Nick and how complicated he was; about the staff gossip at the Rock and how her boss' ex-girlfriend was working for him and he with a pregnant wife; about Ireland Love's death and resurrection; about her own questionable past and the split that had created two identical people on different sides of the law.

In her turn Blitz told Rose about the Legion of Love and the many times they had saved the Earth from threats both Earth-born and extraterrestrial; about how the United Republics of Earth had given her the Crest of the Order of Bono for her humanitarian efforts after the Missouri quake of 2001. And she told her, as best she could, of how her mother had also been a valiant hero and her father had been a high-level operative in the World Security Agency before they died of the Rikti virus. She told Rose that on her Earth, Nick and Eileen Arden were considered legends for their good deeds and selfless service to the people of the world.

"... and they say they died in each others' arms," she finished.

Blitz and Rose both had tears streaming down their cheeks at the end of the story.

There was time for a little more small talk before Rose excused herself to attend to a previous commitment, then left.

Blitz watched her leave, then returned to her bed.

Truth and lies were funny things. Depending on the circumstances, one could cause as much hurt as the other.

Should she feel guilty for the lies she had just told?

When Nick Kinsolving had told her that her mother's counterpart was employed by the school, she had done some asking around. The giant security guard with the long grizzled beard, had told her about Rose's past; her battle with her "sister", Cracklin' Rosie; and her insecurities concerning her identity.

Rose didn't need to hear the truth: that yes, her father was indeed a high-level security operative, but her mother was something less than heroic. Eileen Arden -- aka the hero known as Bombastic Woman -- was a double agent, a spy for the coming Rikti invaders.

Nick Arden had had to issue the order to arrest his wife, and he had witnessed her execution by atomization.

Blitz flipped open the buckle of her costume's belt and took out a photograph. A beautiful face smiled at her from it. A face that matched that of the woman who had just left the room.

Rose McAden didn't need to hear that she had also had a split persona in that other universe. Blitz had told her the most inspiring lie she could come up with.

It was a lie she had made up to tell herself a long time ago.

Blitz lay on her new bed in her new room and felt so... alone.

All of her friends -- dead. If anyone besides her had survived the death of her Earth, she had no way of knowing. And any hypothetical survivors might not have come to this universe. Fletcher had not had time to explain where the emergency escape portals would take you; if they were supposed to take every one to the same universe, or if they would disperse the refugees to different spacetime continuums.

Somehow she had wound up here, a place so much like home, and yet so different, full of strangers with familiar, beloved faces.

And Fletcher here was... not a genius.

If it were not for Nick Kinsolving, the despair would overcome her.

She struggled with what to call him. Mr. Kinsolving? No, he was more than an aquaintance to her. Nick? That didn't seem right either. Daddy?

She sighed and smiled at the thought. Daddy.

Like almost every young person who had grown up on her Earth, she had grown up without knowing her real parents. All she knew about them was what she could find in periodicals. And she had had pictures.

The first time she had seen Nick Kinsolving, she had recognized his face. It was the same as the one on the picture she had kept on her nightstand. She loved him the moment she saw him as only a long-lost child can love a long-lost father.

But he wasn't really her father. Her father was Nicholas Arden, and he had died with her mother, Eileen.

And now Nick Kinsolving says that her mother's counterpart is also alive and well, and working at Maggie's Rock, her new home.

She didn't know how she should feel about that. She didn't know what she would do when she faced her.

She shouldn't have told Nick -- Daddy? -- so much about her home universe and her history. Yet, he had asked and at first it seemed only right to tell him.

"Were your parents...special too?" he had asked.

"Mother was," she had said knowing that when he said "special", he meant "super-powered".

"What could she do?"

"She died when I was very young, of course," she answered truthfully, "but I understand she was a 'battery' like me." Which was also the truth. Her mother, Eileen Rose Arden, could absorb and store almost any form of energy and release it with devasting results.

"Did she die when your father did?" he asked, with a wistful look in his eyes.

Blitz could tell he had a romantic notion of her parents dying in each others' arms, loving and affectionate to the end.

"Yes. They died together during the Rikti virus."

She lied.

((Bump))

Ben Kirby-Love was growing up.

It would take him 100 years to age 20 years, so growing up was going to be slow. But still, he was growing up.

Left behind this year was his belief in cooties and the inherent ickiness of girls. Questions about other long-held beliefs were also coming to him. It was all part of growing.

Ben awoke in the night thirsty from eating too many cookies the evening before. He padded across his bedroom, slowly opened the door and looked down the hallway. The coast seemed clear.

He had just reached the corner to the stairs when he heard a sound. To his ears it sounded like the tinkling of a jingle bell. With practiced ease he turned invisible and ducked around the corner to see who or what was coming.

The beliefs of childhood are precious and once let go, they never return, because after you know something, you cannot unknow it, no matter how much you wish you could. And once one of those fragile ideals is shattered, the rest begin to fall like glass balls from a Christmas tree.

Ben had wondered if he was too big to still believe in Santa Claus. He had wondered if the jolly old elf was a fantasy made up by adults to entertain "knee-babies" and kindergartners, and to encourage good behavior in children during the holiday season.

When he rounded the corner and saw the man in the big red suit, trimmed with white fur who was laying out treats at every door of every child in the house, he turned straight around and went quietly back to his own room.

If Santa wasn't real, and if consequently the vision he had just seen also wasn't real, then he didn't want to know. At least for tonight, he would believe.

At least for tonight, he was still a child.

((Merry Christmas, every one.))

((Yes it was!))

As soon as she was handed them, Rosie held the folded stack of prison clothing close to her. The chill in the room was raising goose bumps on her bare skin and the matronly guard was giving her strange looks.

She still felt like she’d been through hell. The prison doctor had given her a pill for her headache and passed her on to be incarcerated with the general prison population. She wasn’t considered a high-threat prisoner.

As she dressed under the steady vigilance of the matronly guard, she wondered what it had all been about, and for the first time asked herself, “What if she’s telling the truth?”

Nah. Couldn’t be.

Dressed now, she was escorted down the cell block in the women’s section of the Zig. She avoided making eye contact with the other prisoners and kept her head down, her eyes ahead.

Someone yelled “Hey, Bethany!”

Even though the call was answered by someone in a neighboring cell, Rosie turned as if someone had called her name.

Wondering why she did that would occupy her for most of her short stay in the Zig.

She was broken. She could feel it. Whatever hopes Rose had for a relationship with her “sister” were dashed. She had been a fool to think there could ever be anything there. There could be no more looking back. Nick. The kids at the Rock. That was her life. Her future. The other Rose could have the past.

I felt like a hero. Well… a lot o’ times I feel like a hero. But this time I really felt like a hero, even though Rose actu’ly did most o’ th’ work. An’ I ain’t gonna never tell Rose that I almost dropped ‘er.

Hadda couple o’ rounds bounce off me while I wuz headed fer th’ boat where Shae Firewarder’s friend, Thomas, wuz waitin’, but nothin’ hit neither o’ th’ girls. Cheapest getaway ride I ever saw. All I hadda do wuz take a li’l ol’ box back ta Paragon City. I think it wuz a present fer Shae.

We met our flier an’ wuz outta there in no time.

When we got back ta Paragon City, I offered ta carry that ‘lectric look-alike in fer interrogation, but Rose – she won’t let me call ‘er Rosie no more – insisted she carry ‘er in by ‘er lonesome. Shape she wuz in, I had my doubts, but she hoisted ‘er over ‘er shoulder an’ strutted in like a trooper.

All in all, it wuz a successful mission an’ I’m perty sure Rose’s gonna be just as good as new.

Rose felt stupid. Grab and drop. That’s what she had called it -- what this other her still called it. Fake an escape, wait in ambush, then grab your opponent and fly high enough so that a fall would be fatal. It was an old trick and she shouldn’t have fallen for it.

“I’m gonna fry you, [censored],” Rosie told Rose.

The sound of the Zappsuit energizing told her that her twin was about to make good on the threat. She had to do something, but what? Rosie had her in an almost complete bear hug, with only one arm remaining free.

Rose closed her fist, and punched Rosie in the face, but in her condition the blow hurt her more than it did her opponent. The her arm, bruised where the IV had been, throbbed in protest.

She felt her hair fill with static as the electricity charged the air around them. Then there was the tell-tale hissing and popping. There were only seconds left before Rosie would electrocute her. With her free arm, she unholstered the .45 pistol Roy had brought her and held it to her double’s head.

“Go ahead, if you have the stomach for it.”

“Oh, believe me. I do.”

“Then do it! We’ll both die!”

Rose squeezed the trigger.

No. She couldn’t do it. She thought she hated this woman for what she had done to her, but she could not bring herself to shoot her.

From below she heard Roy shout, “Hold on Rosie! I’m comin’!”

But he would never make it in time. The suit was ready for the big burn. Up to 2000 volts would soon course through her.

Then she remembered the one weakness of the Zappsuit. The jewel which regulated and stored the energy which gave it its powers -- a Crey industries approximation of the same jewel that powered HEROID. Rose moved the .45 away from Rosie’s head, put it to the jewel, and fired.

There was a release of energy. She felt the heat singe her face, and smelled her burning hair. Rosie let her go and they both began a free fall. As she fell, she reached out and grabbed the dislodged jewel.

Please, Roy... make it in ti--

The thought was ended jarringly as a red and white figure streaked up through the sky, and, with his wide reach, caught them both. He tucked them one under each arm, and with the admonition, “Don’t wiggle too much,” they went bounding high over Cap Au Diable.

She was alive, and if they made it to that flier, she would make it back to Nick. But she had no idea what she was going to tell him.

Roy was a sight for sore eyes. She had wondered how she was going to get out of the Rogue Isles after she was discharged, but here he was -- her savior. She didn't much care for firearms, and she would rather have had her longbow and specialty arrows than this crossbow and its bolts, but he had done his best and she appreciated it.

She hurried to get dressed and equipped, then stepped out into the hall.

The hospital staff were there. If Brother Jeremy was not a priest, she would have kissed him. Instead, she shook his hand and offered a sincere thanks, then she thanked all of them.

When she shook hands with Brother Balaam, he held the handshake a little too long for her comfort, and he had a strange smile on his face as if he knew something...

She shook that off as a result of her mentally preparing to run the gauntlet they would surely face when the went out that door.

"Gotta boat waitin’ fer us ta take us out ta meet a flier," Roy said.

Rose nodded and they both turned toward the door, Roy in front. It was just as well because, at that instant, the heavy steel door sprung from its hinges and came flying squarely at them. Roy took the brunt of the impact as Rose somersaulted over both him and the door and landed in the now open doorway.

It was just as she thought: The other Rose was here. She remembered – before the split – using the electromagnetic properties of the suit to open security doors in the same way.

"Hello, you fake," Cracklin' Rosie said. “That bloody trail outside made this place easy to find.”

"I'm going to kill you," Rose replied in greeting.

"Oh?" Cracklin' Rosie said with a smile, "And what about that quiet conversation you wanted to have?"

Rose held the crossbow at the ready. "Not gonna happen," she said.

"Good. Let's do this then."

"Let's."

Suddenly, Roy's voice boomed out, "Rosie duck!"

He held the steel door above his head and was preparing to throw it.

"Roy! No!”

Rose tried to warn him, but it was too late, the door sailed down the short hallway to the door where Cracklin’ Rosie merely smiled and watched it approach. Then with a zap the door reversed directions and flew right back over Rose’s head and squarely into Roy. The blow knocked him backward about ten feet where he went through a wall.

A cracking sound was heard, and pieces of ceiling tile began to fall.

“He’s knocked out a load-bearing wall!” Brother Balaam shouted, “Run!”

But the ceiling caved in before the startled clergy could escape. Down it came, filling the hallway with debris and effectively cutting Rose off from any route of escape.

Roy shook off the dust and pieces of ceiling and made toward her.

“No, Roy,” she said, pointing at the collapse, “Make sure they’re all right. I’ll take care of this... electric hootchie-momma.”

When Rose turned back to the door, Cracklin’ Rosie wasn’t in it. She was escaping! Rose ran outside after her.

That’s when Cracklin’ Rosie said, “Gotcha!”

And she did too.

Gotta tell ya, she wuz a sight fer sore eyes. She looked like she'd been through hell, skinny, pale, dark circles unner her eyes. But even with all o' that, she wuz still a beauty. An' fer a gal with just a eighth-grade education, she wuz perty smart. One o' them people that got some sense, even if they ain't got so much book smarts. O' course she wuzn't itenerate 'r nothin' like that. She reads alot -- ever time I see 'er takin' a break at th' Rock, she's gotta book o' some sort. They ain't like no girly novels neither. Stuff with titles like, "Man an' Superman"; "A Brief History o' Time"; an' "Walden". That last one's th' only one I heard of. Figger it's th' book they based that old show with "good night, John Boy" innit.

But there I go again off onna tangerine.

She wuz a sight fer sore eyes. Even though she looked like she wuz next ta dead, she wuzn't, which wuz a step up from what I wuz 'xpectin' ta find. Everthing woulda been copacetic 'cept I noticed there wuz about a half dozen nuns an' priests with guns pointed at me.

Titanium's perty much bullet proof. Take a helluva gun ta take me down in robot form, but ricochets 're a diff'rent matter. Can't take chances in a real closed in area, ya know? I'd hate ta find Rosie ta rescue 'er just ta have 'er git hit by a stray bullet. That'd really cheese off ol' Nick.

So I put my big ol' metal hands b'hind my head, knelt down on th' floor, an' told 'em how I had ta change ta robot form because it heals up my wounds. Shae seems ta think that maybe I don't really have ta do that, but I ain't never tried ta figger it out. Might need ta work on it one 'o these days.

One o' th' young priests give a look ta this one older priest, an' th' ol' priest give th' young one a nod an' they took their guns offa me an' let me git up. They even let me git inta my storage compartments an' take out th' stuff I brought fer Rosie: a suit o' light body armor; a .45 pistol; a crossbow with some o' them li'l arrows; an' some o' them tangle-up grenades she likes ta use.

I thought she wuz gonna kiss me when she saw that gear.

While Rosie wuz gittin' dressed ta leave, I asked 'em how much we owed 'em fer Rosie's stay, an' th' ol' priest said, "Ya don't owe us nothin'. She's done enough just by bein' here."

Well, he didn't exactly say that, but that's what he said. It didn't quite make no sense ta me, but hell, I don't know nothin' 'bout no priests an' charity hospitals. But it wuz okay. I had their P.O. box address. I could send 'em a connerbution later. I wuz just ready ta git outta there.

So Rosie popped outta th' room she got dressed in, lookin' more like herself, decked out fer biz, lemme tell ya.

" Gotta boat waitin’ fer us ta take us out ta meet a flier," I told 'er.

She nodded, tol' the nuns an' priests thanks, an' we headed toward th' door.

'Course, wouldn't ya know it? Just at that moment, there wuz a loud pop an' that heavy steel door wuz headed toward us.

((Geez, Sailor... How ya gonna get outta this? ))

Rose’s eyes popped open from a sound sleep. She was certain she heard gunfire.

The IV’s were out of her arms as of this morning. Brother Jeremy said that a doctor would be in late this afternoon and if he gave the okay, she could leave. He didn’t ask her if she had a place to go. It wasn’t a function of the hospital to do anything beyond treating emergencies. As soon as a patient was declared improved enough, they were released with the offer of a free follow-up visit in a week. Brother Jeremy said that most didn’t return for the follow-up. She didn’t intend to be an exception.

She sat up and listened. There it was again –gunfire, and lots of it.

She climbed out of bed and crept across the ward. The four other patients in the room were medicated into obliviousness. The sixth bed was empty. Rose opened the door just enough to peek into the hallway.

There was a lot of activity out there with the older priest who had helped rescue her – Brother Balaam – directing a group of nuns and younger priests. Some of them were preparing weapons while two young priests readied a gurney.

“Get hold of Dr. Sisk!” Brother Balaam shouted to someone. “Get him ‘ported here pronto!”

She stood at the door and waited as the gunfire continued to erupt outside.

As soon as the shooting was over, the nuns and priests went into their well-practiced drill. The heavy steel door opened and they all poured outside, then, seconds later, they came back in with the gurney filled.

And filled it was. Two nuns held the patient’s bloodied legs up because his knees overhung the gurney. They all struggled to push him through the door and into the hallway.

There was a lot of shouting and barking out orders.

“Get him matched, stat!”

“Dr. Sisk is on his way!”

“Prep him!”

“He’s dying people! Let’s move!”

All the while they continued their struggle to push him toward the operating room.

When the gurney passed the ward where Rose was she couldn’t believe her eyes.

“Kirby!” she yelled.

There was a shimmer about the body, then a flash; which was a good thing because it made the people moving the patient jump back as the gurney gave way and collapsed under 900-plus pounds of titanium alloy.

“Hiya, Rosie,” Roy said.

The professional thief and sometime mercenary called Cracklin’ Rosie flew high above Cap Au Diable and saw a commotion below. An Arachnos patrol was firing at a rather large man. The man wasn’t going down easily and she flew down closer to offer him assistance, but then reconsidered. But maybe he had done something to deserve it. Maybe he was a Marcone. She observed the scene for a few seconds, and flew away.

Dust, leader of the Lion Brigade -- and her paramour -- wanted her to continue working with Arachnos. It was convenient for him to have someone on the inside of the organization. And there was something about the man that made her want to do anything he said.

That was why she had to keep this… what? Clone? Extra-dimensional twin? Whatever. She had to keep her away from Dust and his sister. Competition. She could handle her complex relationships, but for this other one to enter the picture…

And why else would the fake want to get in good with her?

All of that crazy talk she had been told about a “split”. People didn’t “split”. She was still who she had always been. The crazy talk was just that – crazy.

In moments she was standing beside Marshall Brass, handing him her report on Professor Echo. She had faced him months ago, and Brass had just last week required her to write up a report. It was as if the man was trying to get her goat. If this kept up she would have to look for another contact inside Lord Recky’s organization.

Brass glanced over the report then said, “Rosie, I need to talk to you.”

Here we go, she thought, Small potatoes again…

Brass held up a yellowing newspaper and pointed at a picture beneath a headline that read, “Hero Indicted in Abuse Charges.”

Rosie looked at the picture closely. The man she had seen earlier.

“What about him?”

Brass smirked like he always did lately when she asked him a question, then said, “He’s here in the Isles and he’s been asking some questions. Earlier today, one of our guys pulled an operative called the Stainless Steel Rat out of the bay who'd had a run-in with the guy.”

“Never heard of the rat.”

“Not important. But somehow, the Rat knows about you.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes. Seems this Kirby guy is looking for a woman who fits your description. Tell me, Rosie, have you ever had a ‘Hero ID badge’ for Paragon City?”

Rosie had a sick feeling. She had hoped to find her double and put an end to her before too many others in the Rogue Isles found out about her. Now, that might be impossible, unless…

“Um… no. Never have. But I think I’ve seen this guy. I might know where to find him.”

Brass nodded. “It might be better for you to find him before he finds you.”

Rosie nodded back as she looked at the picture under the headline. Yes, she was sure it would be better.

Ya know, it wuz easier ta find out where them tires wuz bought than it wuz ta find out where that goddamned hospital wuz located. It wuz almost like they didn’t want ya ta know th’ freakin’ place wuz there.

There ain’t a whole lotta tire stores in th’ Isles. Most people that use tires tend ta be th’ people like would have ‘em brought in illegal-like in hijacked cargo ships. But I guess a charity hospital ain’t got them kinda connections. So “Manny & Moe’s Auto Supply” wuz able ta point me in th’ right direction by givin’ me th’ name o’ th’ place.

Problem after that wuz that the address they give me wuz a billin’ address. That don’t tell ya much, an’ by th’ time ya write ‘em a letter an’ ask ‘em where they’re actu’ly located ya might as well ‘ve hoofed it around an’ found th’ place th’ hard way.

Which is perty much what I done

I’d tell ya what all happened ta me while I wuz tryin ta find that hospital, but what parts of it that ain’t borin’ ‘re kinda violent. Took a couple o’ days more an' I had ta kinda do some stuff ta keep th’ locals from thinkin’ I wuz a do-gooder. I ran inta a couple o’ good guys workin’ there, an’ them guys, I felt sorta sorry fer. Real unnerdogs, ya know? I mean, I used ta feel like we wuz way outnumbered in Paragon City, but these guys… they have ta make up new numbers fer ‘em, they’re so outnumbered.

It wuz one o’ them that told me about a emergency hospital on th’ south side o’ Capo Diablo that mostly catered ta civs that got caught inna crossfire. Seems that th’ perfessional criminals got their own health care system, sorta like th’ heroes do in Paragon City.

So finally, after five days o’ huntin’, I wound up in th’ neighborhood where th’ hospital wuz s’posed ta be.

Really can’t call it a neighborhood. Wuzn’t nothin’ neighberly about it. Buncha empty warehouse-type buildin’s sprayed with grafitti. Wuzn’t no shingle hung up sayin’ “Hospital” ‘r even a red cross showin’ where it wuz. How th’ hell wuz I s’posed ta find th’ freakin’ place?

Sometimes, when yer doin’ what needs ta be done, ya gotta do what ya gotta do.

Everwhere in th’ Isles there’s them ‘Racnos guys. They strut around like they own th’ goddamned place, ya know? An’ they carry big guns.

Me standin’ there in my human form, all big an’ strong lookin’, had ‘em lookin’ my way, but when I picked up that rock an’ threw it…

Twelve guns trained on me. I turned an’ ducked my head – didn’t want another bullet in th’ brain – jus’ b’fore them guys started blastin’ away. Their bullets started hittin’ me rippin’ through my arms an’ legs an’ one of ‘em hit in my back an’ ripped outta my gut, I think bringin’ a piece o’ kidney with it. They shot me so full o’ holes I swear I could see dots o’ sunlight on the ground in my shadda. Each impact knocked me back a few feet an’ one of ‘em turned me around an’ I wuz worryin’ about that headshot an’ what would happen an’ how much trouble it wuz last time I got killed.

Didn’t happen though, Took me three tries with them bullets hittin’ me an’ forcin’ me ta move in ways I didn’t really wanna move but I finally wuz able ta fall down.

A few more rounds an’ th’ shootin’ stopped. Th’ spider-capes marched away.

As soon as they wuz outta sight, th’ doors opened in one o’ them buildin’s, an’ a couple o’ priests come runnin’ out with a gurney. They got me rolled over on it then rolled me inside. I wuz hopin’ them guys moved fast cause I needed ta git inside an’ do th’ magic robot thing b’fore I bled ta death.

“Ah! You’re awake!”

Rose turned her head to see who had entered the ward. She was weak and groggy. Tubes were attached to her right arm that went up to bags that were attached to bottles and dripped steadily into the tubes. Another tube was taped to her nose shooting supplying her with pure oxygen. She hurt all over, but not nearly as badly as she had the last time her eyes had been open.

“We were starting to worry,” the young man in the clerical collar said as he checked the tubes that were keeping her alive.

“Whr mm uh?” which was as close as Rose could get to, “Where am I?” at the moment.

“Grace Emergency Hospital,” he said, “And I’m Brother Jeremy.”

“Urr ooo uh dktr?”

Brother Jeremy laughed lightly, “No, I’m not a doctor; just an R.N.”

“Oh.”

With gentle ease he checked her blood pressure and took her temperature. Then he smiled as he opened a Styrofoam cup full of ice and said, “Here, let this melt in your mouth.”

She opened her mouth a little, and he dropped two chips of ice onto her tongue.

“Thanks,” she said weakly. At the moment, that ice was the sweetest thing she had ever tasted.

“I’ll have you some lunch up here after while. If you can keep it down, then you should be out of here in a day or so.”

Rose tried to remember what had happened to bring her here, but she could not, so she asked, “Wh-what happened?”

“Ah,” Brother Jeremy replied, “Morphine drips and memory loss. Well, Miss… um… Doe, we saw a leg sticking out from under a pile of old crates and thought we were stopping to pick up a body.”

“Oh. Oh god.”

“Yes, He definitely had a hand in your survival. We thought we’d lost you that first day.”

“I feel… hurt… inside. Something’s not… right.”

Brother Jeremy’s smile faded. He looked at her with pity, which made her feel even more “not right”.

“I’m sorry, Miss Doe,” he began, speaking as if the words were painful to him, “Your injuries caused you to hemorrhage and that, well… I’m afraid it caused a spontaneous termination...”

“I… I don’t understand.”

“Sorry your… wait. You didn’t know?”

“Didn’t know what?”

“You were… you were pregnant.”

Dunno how Nick's gonna take this. He’s prob’ly gonna be duck-fittin’, cow-birthin’ piiiisssed off. Prob’ly gonna wanna fire me. Too freakin’ bad. He’s a smart guy, but sometimes he’ll go in swordfirst when he oughta lead with his brain.

Took me a couple days ta git my bearin’s. Last time I wuz in th’ Rogue Isles wuz with Maggie huntin’ Shae Firewarder an’… well, let’s not talk about that, okay? This time things wuz a little easier ‘cause I had th’ Rat with me.

Dunno who it wuz what done that ta that rodent, but whatever they done, he’s now one smart rat. (I’ve heard stories about how he used ta have a montage o’ mercs that folla’d ‘im around until th’ mercs that folla’d th’ other criminal masterminds started makin’ fun of ‘em.) Th’ Rat seemed real happy that I wuz impressed with his smarts, an’ I found out that if I kept blowin’ smoke up his [censored], he’d keep tryin’ ta impress me. Some o’ them genius-types’re like that, ya know.

Anyways, th’ Rat took me out ta where he’d seen Rosie. Showed me this stack o’ old crates that had this blood stain unner ‘em. Th’ Rat said she wuz practic’ly layin’ inna pool o’ blood so he figgered she wuz dyin’ anyways, an’ that’s why he took ‘er hero ID without thinkin’ twice.

I usu’ly ain’t one ta pass judgement, an’ I wouldn’t’ve this time ‘cept I like Rosie. She’s got some supershitty taste in boyfriends, but she’s real sweet – too sweet fer a stick in th’ mud like Nick Kinsolving. But that’s not stayin’ on th’ subject.

Peggy says I go off onna tangerine when I talk sometimes. Like I fergit what I wuz sayin’ ‘cause I start talkin’ ‘bout somethin’ else…

Uh… what wuz I sayin’?

Oh yeah! Th’ Rat.

I really felt like stompin’ th’ critter inta a spotch on th’ pavement, but I needed ‘im. So I held back my temper an’ said, “Hey, Rat, where ya figger she went from here?”

He scampered around in ‘er dried blood fer a little bit then started scurryin’ in circles around th’ crates. Every circle got bigger an’ bigger an’ then he kinda changed th’ focus o’ his snifflin’ ta just one area where there wuz some tire tracks I coulda found on my own if I wuzn’t so busy tellin’ th’ Rat how smart he wuz.

But that wuz as much good as he could do me. From here on out, I wuz on my own. So I took th’ rodent an’ stuck ‘im unner my big ol’ foot an’ squashed ‘im.

Just kiddin’. What I did do wuz I found a fifty-five gallon drum an’ stuck ‘im innit, then tossed it out inta th’ bay with him inside. Figgered he’d find a way out soon enough.

After that, I took some pictures o’ th’ tire tracks an’ some samples o’ th’ rubber that wuz left in ‘em. That ain’t much ta go on, but if ya can find out what kinda tires they are an’ where they’re sold, ya can narrow down a search by a lot.

Turns out that even works in th’ Rogue Isles. After analala… alanalyz… figgerin’ out what brand they were, there wuz only one dealer fer ‘em in th’ Isles – legal dealers that is. Unless she got picked up by a vehicle with hot tires, it wouldn’t be no problem ta track Rosie down.

Grace Emergency Hospital.

It wuz a charitable hospital run by a religious order called uh… th’ Order. So two days, an’ I knew where ta go find Rosie.

Funny how things can seem so simple when they really ain’t.

((Figured I couldn't roll him up so... But don't tell! ))

Roy kissed Peggy goodbye and boarded the Longbow helicopter. It wasn't fair, what with the Christmas ball coming up and whatever had happened to her on the way to work that morning. When he had told her he wouldn't be escorting her to the ball -- and that he had asked Yegeny Korsakov to take her in his place -- he could see the letdown in her eyes.

He had already tried to tell her the morning after he'd found the Stainless Steel Rat with Rose's ID, but as usual, he found difficult things to say... well... difficult to say. So he had only hinted, saying things like, "Them dances ain't so much, ya know," and, "I dunno... uh... ya never know what might happen if all th' heroes in town stop doin' their jobs an' go ta a dance."

But he had to be up front with her. She deserved that.

So he finally told her, and he told her why he wouldn't be able to go.

"I gotta go get Rosie," he said, "An' don't tell Nick. He'd go in there hackin' heads off an' askin' questions later."

Peggy understood. And Yegs was the best pal a guy could have for standing in his place like that.

The Longbow flier took off and he watched Peggy shrink to a dot.

Oh god, she hurt.

She remembered stepping into the teleporter. She remembered stumbling through the streets, avoiding anyone who looked as if they might be "connected", which in the Rogue Isles was damn near everyone. She remembered the pile of weathered, empty crates wherein she took refuge, and the rat with the steel plate in its skull, and metallic tail which had taken her hero badge while she lay sobbing from the waves of pain that sqeezed her gut and made her wish she could just die. She remembered at least one cycle of day and night. There may have been more, but she couldn't remember.

Now as she awakened, the pain was not as intense, but it was constant. She opened her eyes and felt like she was looking up from the bottom of a swimming pool. She could see that she wasn't under the pile of crates anymore, and that people were moving around her. Then a man bent close to her and she could see him well: an older man, sixtyish, with thinning grey hair and a clerical collar. A priest.

She knew it. She was dying.

Then she heard the sound -- high and wailing -- and knew where she was. Or, rather, she knew what she was in.

Another man bent low over her, younger, also in a collar. "We're almost there. Just hold on."

Her vision cleared a little and she saw a third person in the back of the ambulance. A nun.

The older priest said, "Okay, Sister Lucia, you take point. Brother Jeremy and I will get her inside."

Rose's eyes moved slowly to the nun. She saw her nod at the old priest, then from somewhere Sister Lucia produced a large automatic rifle which she held before her as she kicked the vehicle's doors open. The old priest and Brother Jeremy hustled Rose out of the ambulance and through the heavy steel door of a graffiti-covered building while the nun fired off a few warning rounds.

Rose closed her eyes and wondered what kind of hell she was in.

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

Roy Kirby stood at the pinball machine in Pocket D and swore quietly under his breath. Up and straight down, between the flippers so that neither side could knock the shiny ball back into play. Damn.

It wasn’t 8-Ball, but the Grab-n-Go in King’s Row had gotten rid of that classic (though the manager of the store had called it something more akin to a “space-wasting relic”), so the D was the nearest pinball action that Roy could find. But this machine… the third ball, always up and straight down, between the flippers…

CRACK!

Roy looked up at the digital score screen. A match. Free game – after setting the machine record, a free game was the goal of every pinball player, and whether it came by meeting the required score, or by matching the last two digits, it didn’t matter.

Free game.

CRACK!

That wasn’t the pinball machine that time. There seemed to be a commotion at the blue-side door. Roy went to see.

“This exit’s for heroes only,” Chuck the bouncer said. “Villains exit on the red side.”

At first Roy didn’t see who Chuck was talking to, but then he looked down near the bouncer’s feet. Roy almost laughed out loud. It was a rat.

It wasn’t just your average, run-of-the-wheel rat. No, no. This one had a shining steel plate on it’s little skull and a shining, segmented metal tail. The rest of the rat appeared to be normal.

“But I am a hero,” the rat said. (Oh, yeah. It appeared to be normal except for that too.)

“Look, rat,” Chuck said, “I’ve seen this gal before, and believe it or not, I’ve seen you before too. ‘the Stainless-Steel Rodent’ is famous.”

The rat suddenly raised up and stood on it’s hindquarters. “Really?” it said with it’s squeaky voice. “I mean… really?”

“Yeah,” the bouncer said. “We take bets on whether it’ll be Moggie, Mwrwk, or Rowr that’s gonna make a meal outta your scrawny carcass.”

Roy laughed and walked back to his machine. He almost pushed play when he heard more:

“You listen to me, you dolt! I have a hero badge! I demand passage!”

“Listen, Rat,” chuck said, “I’ve seen the owner of this badge before, and believe me, you are no Rose McAden.”

For the second time Roy left his free game and went to where the rat and bouncer were fighting.

Roy picked the rat up by the tail and said, “Yer gonna tell me where ya got that hero badge, an’ yer gonna tell me now, ‘r – so help me God – I will take ya through that door, but it’ll be a one-way trip fer ya.”

Then he lifted one foot from the floor and held the rat against its sole. As large as the rat was, Roy’s foot dwarfed it.

“I figger one quick stomp’ll take care of you.”

The rat started talking.