Mil_Mascaras

[ QUOTE ]
Information that may or may not be a side point.

Originally, in Beta, Blasters were supposed to have Melee as their Secondary. This changed after they were determined to be too squishy for melee.

Irony?

In any case, Blaster melee attacks should be stronger than Tanker melee attacks because they are in their secondaries (like Tankers') but are also based upon Blaster 'high' damage rather than Tanker 'medium' damage.

However, Blaster melee damage should be no more than 80% of Scrapper melee due to the Primary > Secondary rule.

That being the case, Blaster secondaries should be strong enough to balance the fact that they do not have Scrapper defenses or hit points.

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I wish I could remember his name, but do you remember that first video right after CoH went live? The gent and his wife who were proto-blappers, showing just how ungodly effective blapping would be? They nerfed Blaster Melee effects off of that video and the subsequent outcry. They'll do it again if it keeps going the way it's going, too.

The only 'bother' about blapper melees is that as an AT, their melee attack (a secondary) is more feared and in some ways much more effective than the melee attacks of many Brute and Scrapper AT's. Ye olde Manual describes Blasters as the best at damage, not the best at toggle dropping, and certainly they should be well behind Brutes in melee ('the best there is in a straight melee fight').

We've seen what happened in the old days when some AT's secondaries were better that some AT's primaries in a direct comparison. It will happen again.

Tremendous!

Yes, it's called idiocy. Frequently occurs in humans.

22 November 2003 - Evanston, Illinois

Jon Swifteagle moved cautiously, oh so cautiously, toward the far end of the library's bookshelves. He'd been out of sight, but not out of earshot, so he heard the quick commands of whoever was leading this group to 'Find Swifteagle, and get him here, NOW!' He didn't need three guesses to figure out who wanted him, and why. Now the question was, what to do next?

Fortunately, the library itself, like the campus, was nearly deserted, as students headed home for the holidays. He peered through a break in one shelf at the front, to see the few students and the lone librarian herded behind the main desk. No time to help them, Jon realized - he had to think about how he was going to get out of this. He cast around wildly, but he saw the few windows were small, and VERY high up on the wall. No help there. Growing frantic, Jon moved deeper into the shelving.

Looking back, he saw his pursuers - three of them. The lights glistened off the brief looks he had at the trio, through the maze of tomes, on the steely knives they carried. Suddenly the realization came to him that although they may have wanted him alive, they weren't going to be real particular about how healthy he was. Jon knew what he could do, but unarmed, it wasn't much. He needed an equalizer, and fast. Spying a small wooden stepstool, he quickly moved to it, flipping it upside down and taking off the long legs with audible cracks as he pulled them from the frame. He then moved deeper into the stacks, away from the noise he'd made - they weren't belaying pins, but they'd work for what he needed, Jon thought. The two legs were half an inch thick tapering at the end they were forced into the step, and about six inches long. As he shifted them, he kicked off the sneakers he wore.

His three pusuers, hearing the sound, froze for a brief instant to locate it, and then in unison split apart to flank the area the noise came from. One each approached from the side, while the third hung back, trying to keep tabs on both of them, shifting from one side of the bookcase he stood by to the other. The three didn't realize that Jon had backed out of the area of the stool and his shoes, swiftly running pointe around the farthest bookshelf to come up behind the three.

His feet made no sound on the carpeted floor as he approached the lookout from behind. He quickly whipped one of his stool legs to the back of the unsuspecting Nazi's head. There was a satisfying thud as the Nazi hit the floor, but a very unsatisfyingly loud crack as his improvised club broke cleanly in half. Jon realized that the other leg would do much the same if he attempted anything serious with it, as he saw the closer of the two remaining kidnappers turn sharply at the crack and, spotting him, rush forward with his knife held low in front of him.

In seeming desperation, Jon threw the small piece of stool leg at the face of the oncoming Nazi, who stopped to slap it aside. That was the opening Jon needed, as he moved forward swinging his other club. The club connected solidly on the back of the Nazi's knife hand, causing him to drop it from his suddenly nerveless fingers and jerk backwards. Jon followed his move into a small hopstep and his left leg came shooting out, straight into the jaw of his opponent. The 5th columner, losing blood, teeth, and conciousness at equally rapid rates, fell backwards onto the carpet. Without a pause, Jon began running over the top of his foe, headed back the way he'd originally come from. As he did so, the third bandit rounded the corner and with a shout, launched his knife spinning through the air at his fleeing target.

What the subverter had never learned was, unless they're balanced for throwing, knives are about as effective as bowling pins at piercing flesh. Although it DID hit Jon, it landed midflip, hitting his lower back between hilt and pommel of the knife. As he felt the impact, he did a quick forward roll to allow himself time to recover his balance. When Jon came to his feet, he turned to meet the onrushing attacker. He quickly rolled forward again, plucking the knife from the ground as he did, and lifted the point to meet the neck of his speedily halting opponent. 'Here you are, in a library and all, and exactly WHAT have you learned?' Jon quizzed his helpless adversary as he goggled pitifully. 'Well, I'll tell you,' continued Jon, 'here's what happens when a stick meets your temple.' With another loud crack, he whipped the other club against the side of the Nazi's head, dropping him like a stone.

Jon looked with some satisfaction. Three down. Then he realized there were still two up front, with hostages. 'Okay, only one thing to do, I guess,' he muttered to himself as he began to move toward the second body.....

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

Gary Froemmer wasn't so sure this was a good idea. He knew his cell leader had informed him that the mission was important, and had been authorized at the highest levels, but he had no idea why it was so important to get one unknown college student. Sure, beating up on an inferior was fun and all, but it had gone beyond any back alley brawl - all of a sudden he had hostages. And he'd heard the sounds coming from beyond the bookcases, and he didn't like the silence that had fallen back there. He felt much more relief as he saw one of the three come out from the bookcases dragging a body. Then he noted the mass of blood on the body being dragged.

'You fool, you were supposed to take him alive!' he raged as he and the other hostage taker approached the oncoming gray suited figure.'Is he dead? Where are the others?' The suited figure appeared to ignore him, clearly spending his attention on the person he was dragging. He stopped next to Gary, lifting the body, when suddenly it came to the dissident that none of the men he'd brought on the mission were that BIG.

'You're not - oof!' Gary's protest was cut off by the body slung into him with force, knocking him off his feet, the soldier laying on top of his legs. As he struggled to get out, he saw the disguised target turn to his second in command, launching a quick low kick that bent his knee in a way that pained Gary to see, dropping him writhing on the ground in agony. He had no more than gotten out from underneath the body when the figure had approached him, knife glistening in hand, saying 'Move and you'll regret it.' He stood watching in helpless rage as the figure called for the students and librarian to get out of there and call the police. Tricked, beaten by a damned Indian! He cursed all the way to jail at being bested by an inferior, and a college boy at that.

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

Jon Swifteagle, back in his room, quickly came to a decision. He had no idea where or when the next attack would come, but he knew one was coming. He couldn't stay at the college, it obviously wasn't safe. Where to go, though, was another question. Finally, he came to the conclusion that he knew he'd make all along, but had tried to avoid in his concious mind.

He picked up the phone, dialed a number. As the secretary's voice came over the line, he heard himself calmly state 'Yes, I'd like to speak to General Kinnison, if that's possible. My name is Jon Swifteagle.'

As he waited for the page, he reflected back to the events of the day and realized his life had changed, maybe forever. Or, at least, until I get The Peregrine off my back, he thought wryly.

to be continued....

Edit: Still 2003. Graaah!

Your wish is my command!

22 November 2003 - Evanston, Illinois

Jonathon Swifteagle sat at the desk in the Northwestern University library, poring over the small pile of books in front of him. Anyone passing by who might have cared to notice the titles might have thought the young man was working on a history paper of some sort. It wasn't anything school related that kept him bent over the book entitled Superheroes in the Second World War, however, but something more personal that he would have had a hard time describing, even to himself.

Not for the first time, Jon went over the sketchy details that (General!) Kinnison had given him about his father's history. At first, the anecdotes and tales had been a wonderous boon to the young scholar - he'd never been told much about his father by his mother, aside from the fact that he worked for the government, and that he'd last been seen about a month before Jon's birth. As he mentally reviewed what he'd been given, however, it became less and less impressive in it's revelations about his father. Clearly Kinnison had a firm grasp of 'need-to-know' that kept him from imparting his full knowledge, even to the son of one of his best friends. Finally, it had come down to this, digging in the deepest parts of the NU library to discover what he could about it.

A deep emotion rose to the surface as he gazed at a picture of his father - The Night Fighter! 'So this is what dad did for a living,' Jon mused, as he stared intently at the photo. 'I wonder if he ever told Mom, or if Mom just wouldn't tell me.'

Absently, Jon traced the outline of the picture - a well built man in a black suit of some shiny material - leather? vinyl? Jon didn't know. Capped off by the visored helmet, though, he could certainly imagine what a normal criminal would have felt when face to face with the hero - absolute terror. Rather than the bold colored stylings normally found on the heroes he'd grown used to seeing on TV, his father's image looked warlike and fearsome. Reading the text along with it, he learned that The Night Fighter was no Statesman, charging into groups of thugs and engaging in broad daylight. No, his father was a creature of darkness, who stalked and divided his enemies before taking them piecemeal, letting fear and terror work for him.

'Fear and terror,' thought Jon as he began to turn the page, 'I -' What he thought was never fully formed, as the photo on the next page shocked him into focus after his mind-wandered reading. On the page was a picture of a German of some rank - Jon noted with some surprise that it was none other than Josef Goebbels - decorating a fierce and bestial looking Axis hero. Jon took in the silvered beaked mask and the impossibly sharp looking claws on the man before the name hit in the next microsecond. The Peregrine!

At that point, the words of Art Kinnison came rushing back. 'The man we suspect of killing your father is The Peregrine. He was one of the most ruthless killers of the Third Reich, and he's insane. Plus we have a report that your father hurt him bad, real bad, the last time he fought him. Someone with that level of insanity MAY visit the sins of the father on the son, if you get my drift.'

This man killed his father! At the thought, Jon focused again on the picture in front of him. He never realized that his face darkened, or that his expression became that of a fevered jungle beast, as he gazed at The Peregrine. How he'd love to get him on the end of a Grand Baton and -

and it was pointless to think like that. The man was a trained killer, not an average human. The claws were certainly proof enough of that! Not to mention the fact that he had to be at least 80 years old now. And, of course, that he probably didn't even know that there WAS a Jon Swifteagle, let alone care.

Just then, he recalled Kinnison's final words. They caused him to jerk upright, quickly.

'At any rate, you be careful, Jon Swifteagle.'

At which point, just like in a comic, a commotion outside was followed by the slamming of the doors inward as a hand of gray dressed figures entered the library.

22 November 2003 - Paragon City

The Peregrine hated Paragon City. Hated it with a passion. Had he the strength, he'd have torn down the statue of Atlas himself and leveled Freedom Plaza. Since he didn't, though, he had to content himself with this office building in which the 5th Column had headquartered this cell, planning, planning. The organization needed his direction.

His attention was snapped back by the droning voice of his current 'public relations' voice, Heinrich Huber.

'We have currently planned training exercises for Sacramento, Washington, and Chicago for the following -'

The Peregrine interrupted. 'Have you sent the men to take Swifteagle?'

'Well, yes, Mein Standartenfurher. Although we are still unsure as to why this is necessary..'

'It is necessary because I have ordered it. Do you wish to question my authority?' A slow flexing of the right hand.

'Ah, no, no, sir. There is no question of your authority.'

'Good.'

Edit: 2003. Not 1993. Sheesh.

Excellent intro! I look forward to more.

24 May 2004 - Paragon City

Jon Swifteagle made his way towards the small group outside the warehouse. As he stopped to prepare himself, he heard the faint carry of the conversation.

'...you'll never make the Raserei with that kind of work ethic.'

'....Rifle's too heavy for that kind of....'

Having identified his target, Jon activated the fiberoptic mesh lining his suit. Suddenly he went from being a figure in black leather and metal to seeming invisibility, as the mesh began projecting what was visible behind him. The only way one could tell he was still there was a faint blurring as his head slowly moved to check for others. Seeing nothing, he moved in.

The three 5th Columners there never had a chance. The first one noted the slight blur that was Jon as he leaped in front of him, but gaped helplessly until the perfectly executed chasse median impacted directly on his solar plexus, causing him to literally fly the distance between where he stood and the large metal girder he impacted with a meaty thud, slumping to the ground unconcious.

The second one was quick on the trigger, but too quick. He worked that 'heavy' rifle off his shoulder with amazing speed and triggered off two shots toward the patch of empty air where his compatriot had been assaulted from, but Jon had already started moving. As soon as the first kick landed, he was rolling towards the rifleman, springing up out of the roll and planting his hands as he drove forward with his feet. They impacted solidly on the flak jacketed chest of the rifleman, knocking him sprawling but not out. He had some martial arts training, Jon noted as the traitor came out of the sprawl with a back roll of his own and a swift stand, but not nearly enough to prevent the whip kick that came from a place he couldn't see to strike his temple and send him off to sleep. Jon turned to face his third adversary.

This one was obviously trained in hand to hand, as he'd dropped into a martial arts stance facing the blur that was Jon and launched forward with an aggressive side kick. Jon quickly took a step backward and slapped the incoming foot, turning the attacker awkwardly. He then lifted his forward leg in a swift back and forth whipsaw across the opponent's head that left him reeling. Jon then moved in quickly and struck with a sharp right hand fired straight out from the body into the face of the disoriented Nazi. The quisling tumbled to the ground, dazed and half unconcious. He looked up through the haze of pain at a black figure that had suddenly materialized from the blur, a large fearsome looking individual in an outfit designed for battle.

The figure knelt and attached a Paragon port disc to the front of his chest. As the hum of the disc began to grow, he heard the figure say one thing before he winked into the Paragon City jail......

'Tell your masters the Night Fighter hunts again.'

the end, for now........

17 Oct 2003 - Chicago, Illinois

Jon Swifteagle walked slowly away from the ring, savoring the cooldown time after his sparring session. Twice a week, he appeared at Shoney's Gym for his savate training. He found it a welcome break from the academic grind, although there wasn't much in the way of training left for him, according to his instructors - they swore up and down he could probably gain his silver glove if he were so inclined. Mostly it was sparring and refinement of what he knew now. His thoughts wandered from his athletics to his classwork as he made the walk to the showers until he heard an unfamiliar voice calling his name.

'Jon Swifteagle?'

He focused on the person calling him - a medium sized man in some form of military dress was the first thing that struck him. The second was that this person, although they hid it well, was old. Very old. Jon guessed his age at about 60, give or take a few years. His response was almost formal. 'Yes, I'm Jon Swifteagle. What can I do for you?'

Had he known what Jon was thinking, Kinnison might have felt happy knowing that he looked a good 20 years younger than his actual age. As it was, he was a bit busy scrutinizing the son of his long lost friend. And what a son!

Tall, much taller than his father - Kinnison's best guess was that Jon topped out at about six feet five. Had the thinner sculpted body of the athlete that his father had had, and the same easy, graceful walk. He wouldn't have thought of the body as a powerful one, though, had he not witnessed what was going on in the ring with the silent appraisal of the fighting man. Indeed, the power in this young man had not been developed in the upper body, but the legs! He'd seen the young man deliver several kicks that propelled his opponent halfway across the ring - and it wasn't due to any lack of balance on the part of his adversary, but from the sheer force generated by his lower body. It was obvious that anyone not watching themselves could end up hurt badly on the end of one of those feet.

'My name's Arthur Kinnison. I knew your father. You remind me a lot of him from many many years ago,' he began.

'You knew my father?' Jon replied with a bit of surprise. After all, his mother hadn't talked much about his father or his work as he grew. He knew his father had disappeared before his birth, but his mother hadn't told him about why he left or where he'd gone, only insisting that he hadn't abandoned his son. She also hadn't had many visitors around who could or would talk about him, meaning that what he'd learned was bits and pieces, and not very informative ones at that.

'Yes, I did. Worked with him off and on for about forty years, actually. I have some information about him I need to give you,' Kinnison stated. The cast his face took on gave Jon a good indication of what the news would be; it certainly wasn't good news.

17 Oct 2003 - Evanston, Illinois

Jon Swifteagle sat on the edge of his bed, digesting the events of the last several hours. Or trying to. It would have been difficult under the best of circumstances, though. His talk with Kinnison after he'd showered covered a lot of time and space, and had revealed truths about his father that he'd never guessed.

'We met in '42,' he remembered Kinnison saying. 'After the Paragon City thing and the death of Atlas, the government was in a frenzy, trying to recruit heroes left and right for the fight. I was the intelligence officer for the Hero Brigade that Wild Bill Casey put together from heroes who ended up serving. That's how I ran into your father.'

'My superpower? Nope, didn't have any.' He laughed. 'There weren't enough for a full brigade's worth of competent people, so you ended up with citizens like me here and there. In my case, I was intelligence - I was keeping track of all those Nazi 'heroes' HItler was using. Thankfully there weren't many, because the ones we DID have to fight were ruthless, barbaric killers. Fortunately most of them are dead or imprisoned for the rest of their lives.'

'I don't mean to interrupt,' Jon said in the middle of one of Kinnison's many stories related to his father, 'but you DID say something about information on him? Is he hurt? Is he in trouble?'

Kinnison's good humor faded. 'No, son, he's dead. A DNA match confirmed it.' Of course, Kinnison hadn't figured out a way to tell this younger image of his friend that they'd taken the DNA sample off of a deactivated cadaver on a raid of a Vahzilok lair. Nor did he think the son would be served by the full picture of the abuse suffered by his father before his death - they had that info from a mid level 5th Columner who had served in Brazil and was now jailed for a long, long time. 'The thing is, the danger may come to you, son. That's why I came to give you the news in person.'

'To me?' Jon was thunderstruck. 'But wh-?'

'Easy,' Kinnison interrupted quickly. 'The man we suspect of killing your father is The Peregrine. He was one of the most ruthless killers of the Third Reich, and he's insane. Plus we have a report that your father hurt him bad, real bad, the last time he fought him. Someone with that level of insanity MAY visit the sins of the father on the son, if you get my drift.'

'At any rate, you be careful, Jon Swifteagle. The world needs folks like you around a while.'

27 Jan 1981 - Sao Paulo, Brazil

Jorge Santana had been a practicing doctor of sorts for many many years, but what he came across as a result of the visit at his home - well, it was beyond anything he'd done.

House visits by people taking him to patients was not an uncommon thing. He'd spent the better part of a decade plying his trade for a variety of people who needed medical attention without benefit of hospital. Drug cartels, terrorist cells, wanted men had all used his services in one form or another, so he was used to the late night summons to the 'patient' by an armed guard. However, the most he'd seen prior to that was a series of nasty gunshot wounds - not the ruin that was his patient tonight.

It appeared from his first look that someone had shot the victim in the face, with additional damage done by the mask that covered it, until it occurred to him that someone shot with something that large wouldn't still be alive to get a doctor. Indeed, looking closer, he realized that some blunt trauma had crushed the mask INTO the face of his victim. Removing pieces wasn't problematical - it was physically impossible with what he had to work with. The best he could do was remove what wasn't imbedded in the face, the larger pieces that stuck out, and bandage the rest.

'I'm afraid there's nothing else I can do right now with the tools I have at hand. Your friend here will need extensive surgery to get the rest at a full hospital,' Jorge was explaining to the blank faced man in the black outfit, when sheer terror at what happened next made his voice die, advice unuttered.

The ruin behind him spoke!

'There is....one....other....thing....you can do.'

Trembling in terror, he turned to see the figure before him coming slowly, oh so slowly to it's feet. As its' hands came free, he noticed the sharp steel claws on the ends of the hands.

'We....can't have you....telling tales, can...we?'

Jorge screamed as the claws flashed.

29 Jan 1981 - Sao Paulo, Brazil

Swifteagle awoke slowly. The sensation of being in a chair. The feel of restraints on his arms. The sweet smell that spoke of an untreated wound. He felt hot, heavy. His thoughts moved slowly, as if in a mud lined canal, finally focusing when he heard that voice.

'Wake up, Night Fighter.'

His eyes came open, unfocused. He saw The Peregrine, bandaged heavily under his eyes, blurry. He saw a hand up. Something gleamed in it.

'Almost 40 years....I've waited for this. But it....must be.......lengthy. So.....I brought....you.....this.'

The needle came into focus.

'Your...first...course. Liquid sulfur. Enjoy.....Night Fighter.'

The burning began as soon as the injection started. The blackness came later. Much later.

26 Jan 1981 - Sao Paulo, Brazil

People like to look at the night sky in Brazil. It's understandable when you realize that a large portion of the country is well above sea level. With the lack of industrial pollution in the sky, it offers a sky full of stars the like of which no one in a Northern Hemisphere city will ever see.

Even looking at the sky, however, they would have been hard pressed to see the dark shadow that moved from rooftop to rooftop.

The Night Fighter was back on the prowl.

Swifteagle loped easily along the edge of one roof, one eye checking his leap to the next and the other looking at his target - an ordinary warehouse, from all appearances. Ordinary to one who didn't notice the military posture of the sloppily dressed gate guard or the extra touches here and there where the doors had been reinforced. To a person of Swifteagle's experience, the warehouse screamed hardsite.

Which was fine with him. Hardsites ALWAYS had a weak spot. In this case -

He made one quick leap, coming down softly on the roof with a small thump, barely noticeable beyond a couple of feet. His target, a dirty, half covered skylight, beckoned at him from across the roof.

As he moved cautiously towards the rectangle of muddy light, he flashed back over the last few days. The quick briefing on the plane to Brazil, where he read about the upsurge in 5th Column activities in South America, and the reports on refugees from the dying Nazi regime who fled Germany in the final stages to the more hospitable climes of the Western Hemisphere. Some of them were content to live out the rest of their lives in relative isolation and secrecy. Some had chosen to reignite the nightmare. And among them, the man - if you could call such a monster 'man' - who he'd last seen in the flames and rubble of the Reichstag, before the explosion that blew them apart from the death dance they were locked in.

Swifteagle felt a sympathetic throbbing low down on his torso. It was illusory, of course; the claw marks had long since healed. The mind never quite forgot.

He edged close to one side of the skylight, crouching low to avoid casting shadows inside. Eyes just over the edging, peering downward. A range in view, figures in a familiar grey shooting, watched by men dressed in neat black uniforms.

A flash in his peripheral vision, a quick skittering out of the way of a whistling hand. The eerie sound of something sharp puncturing the hard surface of the roof. A brief glimpse of a red and black blur with a pair of shiny extensions.

A grating, aged voice. 'I knew you'd come. I knew I'd have you.'

Acting almost entirely on instinct, Swifteagle rolled back into a standing crouch, and sprang forward, feet extended. He heard the satisfying sound of impact on armor, and has a split second to realize that his opponent, instead of jumping out of the way of the kick, had actually moved forward into it. The sound he'd heard was his feet crashing into his opponent's mask. Any trimuph he may have felt at that moment was swiftly dispelled, however, when his opponent flailed forward on impact and pierced the side of his leading left leg, leaving deep punctures and a leg much too damaged to stand on.

Swifteagle had a brief second to see the mass of blood pooled under his entangled adversary's face as he rolled over to begin crawling away. He then saw the pair of black boots attached to the gun that crashed down on his head, sending him to blackness through waves of pain.

Here's my toon's origin, for better or worse. Hope you enjoy it.

THE NIGHT FIGHTER RETURNS!


19 Jan 1981 - Washington D.C.

The buzz of the intercom made a loud sound in the office of Lieutenant General Arthur Kinnison, disturbing him. He shook his head out of the trancelike state he had been in, staring at the file marked MOST SECRET. Glancing at the intercom, he hit the connection to his secretary, and asked 'Yes, Alice?'

Alice, in her normal businesslike voice, answered, 'A Mr. Robert Swifteagle here to see you?'

'Ah, yes.' Kinnison replied. 'Send him right in.'

As he waited for Swifteagle to enter, he thought back to their original meeting and subsequent work together. Not with the warm glow he expected, but with a cold hard ball in his stomach at the thought of what was in the file.

'Art!' Kinnison looked up. It was almost enough to turn back the clock.

Robert Swifteagle was some form of Indian, that was for sure - if the name hadn't given it away, the reddish brown complexion and the face that belonged on a nickel certainly would have. Of course, he would have been conspicuous had he not been an obviously well shaped athlete who stood a good six feet tall. Combining the two with a uncannily youthful appearance, and you had a showstopper in a crowd. Hell, the only way he looked different from nearly 40 years of life to Kinnison's eyes was the greyish streaking in the hair and a barely noticeable slowing of the reflexes that only a longtime acquaintance would have seen.

Kinnison grabbed his longtime friend in a large bear hug, for all he was half a foot shorter. 'Robert, you're a sight for sore eyes! Glad to see you, buddy!'

Swifteagle returned the hug with a touch less oomph than Kinnison - after all, his friend hadn't weathered the years QUITE as well as he had. 'I'm glad to see you too, Art. Now what in Geronimo's name did you drag me here for? Martha was NOT understanding, seeing as how she's due in a month. What's going on?'

'Robert, I'm afraid we're going to need the Night Fighter one more time. I wouldn't have asked had it not been this important.'

Swifteagle frowned as he stepped back from the embrace. 'Hold on, Art - I'm retired. Been retired about 30 years now and I'm not the superhero I once was. Not to mention that I've got a pregnant wife at home and a baby on the way. What could you possibly need an old warhorse like me for?'

Kinnison's face curdled like he'd drank sour milk. The terse words he spit out were enough to do the same to his longtime friend.

'We've found The Peregrine, buddy. And he's in Brazil.'

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

It's well known in history that Benito Mussolini was rescued by Axis forces from the mountaintop chalet of Gran Sasso on September 12, 1943. The exploit of Otto Skorzeny to rescue him with the use of gliders is regarded as one of the greatest escapades of the World War.

It's also total fiction.

The 'rescue' was actually done by one person - the Axis soldier known only as The Peregrine. Instead of everyone peacefully surrendering as the 'history' tells us, he left 34 dead Italian soldiers at the resort. Records of the event were changed for obvious reasons by the Wehrmacht.

It should also be noted for the sake of historical record that The Peregrine was also cited as the cause of the death of at least 14 superheroes and countless civilians during the War. After a large battle in the streets of Berlin with the OSS's Hero Brigade, The Peregrine was reported killed in the collpase and burning of the Reichstag.The last person to see him alive on the Allied side of the battle was the hero known as The Night Fighter.

1000 is way too limiting here, anyways.