Mordaris_

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Speaking of 80s commercials, here's a link to one that I think is appopriate:

Create a Villan Ad

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I entered that contest..

I never got my Super Heroes Puffy Stickers(tm), either. *pouts*

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I got a question...

How many licks does it take to get to the center of a Tootise Roll pop?



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Three (and if you get that joke, you're old).

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"A-one.. A two-hoooo.. a-thrrrree.." -{CRUNCH}- "A-three."

/feels old

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Well I open my box and discover - ONLY SIX

I am missing ghost widow!! The box was still sealed and didn't look tampred with... everything else was in the box.

Very disappointed. =( Anyone else have this problem ? any way someone can fix this travashamockery of packaging?

I want mah Ghost Widow!

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I just learned of this recently myself... we'll fix it. Keep an eye out for news on how- we're still trying to figure out what happened.
-Loki

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I'm going to toss this out here, since someone has already pointed out that it's odd that it's the most-sought-after figure that just "happens" to be the one missing from all the packages..

Ghost Widow auctions were on eBay BEFORE the game was available, for upwards of 50 bucks a piece. Methinks Loki, that you should probably investigate this. It's AWFULLY coincidental(read:suspicious).

The GameStop that I picked mine up from got exactly three copies of the Collector's Edition. All three were missing Ghost Widow.

I am also one of the ones that wanted her the most.

70+? How do you have room for all the binds?

Okay, everyone. That's it. It's been a long ride, and I thank each and every one of you that took the time out of your days to read my story, and that stuck with me all the way to the bitter end. I hope I have provided you with some enjoyment.

I hope to see some of you online sometime.

- The End

High above the alleyway, a massive figure regarded Martin with intense hatred. The steroids, and other hormones that coursed through his veins caused his heartbeat to pulse in his skull with a deafening thud. Immensely strong metal limbs twitched in near-silence coated, in a black, anodized finish with an odd sheen about it, a product of Crey Industries, Ltd.

“Soon, Thorny. Soon,” Dawg said to himself, “we’ll be ready for round two, you and I.”

That had been three years ago.

Vanguard had handed Martin a rulebook and a double handful of police-issue penal teleporters that transported the perp directly to the prison infirmary in a stasis field. Had he had just one of those teleporters within a minute after Darla losing consciousness, she might have been saved, but it was not to be. Martin stuck to the rules like a good hero, but he still had been reprimanded on several occasions about his excessive force. It didn’t matter and he knew it, for Martin could wade in where other heroes fell, and hold the line while they recovered. His ability to render the powers of most villains null and void had saved nearly all of Vanguard’s personnel on countless occasions, including Davis and the Sentinel. Martin and the Scarlet Sentinel grew even closer, and began seeing each other socially on occasion, but Martin’s first love remained the taking down of metas that abused their gifts. Shoulder to shoulder, Martin and members of Vanguard had faced down Dr. Vahzilok, to whom Martin had owed a special debt, the 5th Column, and even the Malta group.

However, going after the big fish didn’t stop Martin from occasionally patrolling the streets, getting his hands dirty, and looking out for the little guy, much like the dark alley he now stands in;

"Oh, lookie, gentlemen,” the cyborg began, “we got ourselves a hero!” He turned to address Martin directly, “There’s three of us, and one of you, hero. Even if you win, you get battered and beaten, we go to jail, our boss bails us out, we come back to finish with sweetie-pie there, then a dozen of us come to kill you. What about it, hero? Gonna take us to jail?" the cyborg snarled, raising an arm with an obvious weapon to point at Martin.

Martin reached into his breast pocket and withdrew a cigar. Clenching this in his teeth, he nonchalantly fished a Zippo out of his coat, sparked the lighter deftly, and lit the cigar. The cyborg snickered at him, and his two buddies' laughter drowned out the frightened girl's sobs. Snapping the lighter shut and dropping it back into his pocket, Thorne smiled a smile at the metallic thug that made dark promises.

"No," Thorne hissed and triggered his firearm. The weapon spat teflon bullets that ripped through the thug's armored chest like butter. The cyborg charged Martin, only to feel the power to his synthetic parts sputter and die, as he dropped to the ground motionless at Thorne's feet.

"BOLT! KILL HIM!" the smaller of the two remaining thugs screamed. The taller one leapt into the air, energy crackling and dancing all around his body. Bolt streaked towards Martin Thorne, his fists arcing with energy that promised exquisite pain. 10 feet from Martin, a worried look faded into view on Bolt's face as his energy field suddenly spluttered and died. Martin sidestepped the path of Bolt's now-uncontrolled flight, snapping a viselike grip onto Bolt's trailing ankle as he rocketed past. Using Bolt's considerable momentum, Martin pivoted in a semi-circle, and released his hold on Bolt's ankle. Bolt’s redirected trajectory slammed him into the side of a brick building with a wet crunch, and he dropped to the ground like a marionette with its strings cut. The shrimp of the hapless trio bristled with rage. "You FOOL! Those two were nothing! You face The MAGE!!" Hissing some arcane incantations, a barrier of force shimmered into being around the spellcaster. Martin nonchalantly snapped a fresh clip into his weapon and placed it into a holster under his coat while the smaller man glared defiantly at Martin. The Mage uttered some more arcane gibberish, and searing jets of flame shot from his fingertips toward Thorne. The grim smile faded from the Mage's face, as the flames simply died a dozen feet from their target. Martin began walking forward, burning hatred etched on his features. The Mage frantically spat some more magic phrases and several feet of entombing ice sprang into being around Martin, yet he could still be seen through the translucent prison walking inexorably forward. As he advanced, the ice simply ceased to be, as if erased from existence. An area 12 feet around Martin was utterly devoid of any sign of the spell. With only seconds before the advancing Martin reached him, the Mage, panicking, drew a small pistol from his belt and fired wildly.

Martin felt the searing pain in his shoulder as one of the smallbore bullets found a ***** in his body armor, striking home. "Stupid!" he silently berated himself. "You overconfident idiot!" The Mage watched in disbelief as Martin's left hand flashed up to his right shoulder to clutch the wound. A vile smirk crept onto his face as the Mage strode forward, cocking his little pistol in the process.

"I don't know why my spells didn't affect you, but I'll wager a .25-caliber slug to the forehead will suffice just as..," the Mage trailed off as the resounding “BOOM” shattered the night sky. As the Mage dropped to his knees, his pistol dropped from lifeless fingers. Looking at the ruin that was his stomach, the Mage turned his look of shock to Martin, and the still-smoking pistol-grip, double-barreled shotgun in his hand. "What....are....you?" were the last words that the Mage rasped before slumping to the ground to breathe no more.

Martin cracked open the shotgun and shook the spent shells from the breach. Placing a pair of fresh ones inside and snapping it shut, he strode toward the frightened girl. "P..p..please don't hurt me," she sobbed.

"I'm not going to hurt you, you silly woman," Martin snarled. He pulled her to her feet and shoved her toward the mouth of the alley. Martin thrust her purse at her and she took it hesitantly. "Go. Home. NOW." Stepping gingerly over the ruined remains of the thugs, she picked up speed as she approached the end of the alleyway, and broke into a dead run once she reached the street.

Martin searched himself, taking a quick mental inventory. He found he still had three full clips of teflon ammo remaining in his belt, and a double handful of shotgun shells in his coat pocket. He picked up the Mage’s discarded .25 and dropped it into one of the pockets in his pants. Rifling through the Mage’s pockets, he came up with a couple of hundred bucks, and an obviously stolen wallet with about 80 dollars. He placed a hundred-dollar bill into it, and placed the wallet in the pocket with another wallet he would return to its owner later that night. “Hopefully, that will ease some of the hurt for their victims,” he thought to himself. Pocketing the rest of the Mage’s cash, he moved to Bolt, and found another wad of cash. He would split the money amongst the many wallets and purses he would return to their owners that night. At least that might help ease the sense of helplessness that the victims of metas out of control inevitably brought. He pulled a couple of city-issue teleporters out of his pockets and activated them as he tossed onto the bodies of the two thugs. As they faded from view, Martin wondered for the hundredth time why he bothered. He'd told the cyborg 'no' when asked if he was going to send them to jail. Sure, he was tempted to just leave them all here in the alley to the crows, but he’d made a promise.

Hearing a groaning noise behind him, he turned to see the cyborg in a sitting position with his weapon trained. Martin dove forward as the thug triggered his arm. The shot fizzled and died before leaving the muzzle, and the bleeding 'borg dropped back to the ground. The look of terror in the thug's eyes was evident as Martin strode over to the would-be criminal’s prostrate form. Sitting down, straddling the cyborg’s body, Martin rested the business end of his shotgun on the creep's chest casually. "Somehow I didn't think I had done enough damage to take you down," Martin said with a sneer, "but I suspect that you’ll need quite a bit of 'body' work". Martin looked over the cyborg, and saw that seemingly the only remaining human parts were parts of his shouders, and most of his head. Presumably, several of his internals were still human also, otherwise, the bleeding wouldn't be so pronounced. The thug was mouthing the words "who are you" weakly, producing only a groaning, rasping sound. "Ah. An electronic voice box I see. You can call me "Lodestone". With that, Martin Thorne triggered both barrels of his shotgun. He took out a heavily modified stungun, and placed it against the cyborg’s chest and each of its extremities. Each time he triggered it, the ramped-up current fried the internals on the cyberware it touched, rendering it useless. Martin withdrew a Bowie knife from a sheath at his belt and cut three notches to add to the dozens already in the mahogany stock of his sawed-off Winchester. Placing the knife back in its sheath, he took a long drag from his stogie, flicked the ashes onto the cyborg's chest, tossed his last emergency teleporter onto the creep, and walked towards the street, into the night.

Martin met Davis in the same alleyway, this time out in the open. Martin had been cleared of any wrongdoing.

“Stone was a Malta spy. He was trying to bring down Vanguard from within, or perhaps seize control of the organization. I’ve been authorized by the new head of operations to offer you that position with the group that we talked about.”

Martin considered this for a long moment. Martin had his doubts about whether he could work under the same rules that Davis did, even though his time with the ROTC had prepared him for military-style life.

“You’d have the help of an old friend,” said the Scarlet Sentinel as she dropped lightly to the ground from above. Her dazzling red suit now sported a bright Vanguard emblem on his chest. “They asked me to join up after we helped clean out the Rikti,” she said with a smile.

“I don’t know. You people show too much mercy. The scum I’ve seen doesn’t deserve any.”

“Martin, I know that’s how you feel. You’ve sent three of the thugs to the hospital already, and one guy nearly didn’t make it. For whatever reason, Dawg didn’t show up at the prison infirmary. We’re still trying to figure that one out.”

“Then it sounds like I’m batting .250,” Martin said with a scowl.

“Martin, you can’t do this. You’re not judge, jury, and executioner,” said Davis darkly.

“Martin, those tactics make you no better than the thugs you take down,” said the Sentinel.

“Tell that to the young woman I helped last night! The three guys I nailed had her pinned to the ground with a knife to her throat. I happened upon her just in time to hear them tell her they had ever intention of cutting her after they were done. What do you think she would have to say about your ‘rules’? What about her young daughter who was home waiting for mommy to come home? The scum doesn’t play by any rules. Why should we?”

“Because we’re better than they are,” said Davis.

“I’ve been on the streets for two days, and already some of the thugs are scared of me. There was a fourth guy in that one group that I sent to the hospital that lit out like a scalded cat because he’d heard my name. Can you say the same?”

“I wouldn’t want to. Are you aware that some of the very innocents you save are terrified of you also? You come off as some sort of avenging psycho,” said the Sentinel pointedly.

“I’m doing a job.”

“Then do it with us. Join us and make a bigger difference. Stop striking at the small timers, and strike back at the ones that fund them. You’re hitting the product, while Vanguard is about taking down the factory.”

Martin thought about this. It made sense. He’d heard of heroes that took down thug after thug, and no matter how many they caught, two more seemed to spring up to take their place. Finally he said, “okay. I’ll try it, but I do things my way.”

“No,” said Major Davis.”

“Fine. Then we go our separate ways,” said Martin as he turned to leave.

“Martin, please. Consider what we’re offering,” said the Sentinel.

“Martin, you can’t be a member of Vanguard and go around committing what amounts to assault and battery, and possibly murder. Think about what you’re doing,” Davis said with a scowl.

Martin stopped and stared at his own feet for a long moment. He looked Davis in the eye, and said, “If I don’t like it, I leave.”

“Fair enough,” Davis returned.

“Okay. I’ll do it. For now.”

“Excellent. Let’s go to Vaguard HQ and get you signed up.”

The Scarlet Sentinel threw her arms around Martin and squeezed. He had to dampen her powers just to breathe. “This is going to be fun,” she said with a giggle.

Dawg was number from the neck down. He couldn’t move. He hated Martin with everything that he was, but at the same time, he was deathly afraid of him. He knew that if he and Martin ever crossed paths again, the results would not be favorable. The teleporter had deposited him on a metal gurney. He was still disoriented from his trip and things were a bit blurred. Orderlies hovered around him, and he noticed at last that they had locked him down to the gurney with metal clamps across his wrists, ankles, hips, chest, and neck.

He tried to mumble in protest as one of them locked some sort of device to the table that had a rubber-coated bar that fit snugly between his teeth, robbing him of what little movement he had left. He looked questioningly at the orderlies as they filed out, and it was then that he noticed that they each had a Crey Industries insignia on their arms. He was suddenly very afraid again.

“Now, my boy. We shall discuss your failure, and why the skinsuit we loaned you did not work.” Dawg was able to turn his head a tiny bit toward the voice that was speaking and he spotted the rat-faced man that had presented him with the suit. His greasy hair was plastered to his skull, and the little, wired-rimmed glasses he wore perched on the tip of his pointed nose. “You’re probably wondering how you ended up here. Well, let us just say that some associates of ours worked with us in developing a rather expensive way to divert teleporters, given the correct circumstances. Now, shall we get started?” Professor von Richter whipped a green cloth off of a nearby table, and Dawg could see the blurred images of the dozens of medical instruments that had been hiding under the cloth reflected in the stainless steel surfaces around him. “We shall be spending quite a bit of time together, you and I. But let’s get those nerves of yours working again, shall we?” He picked up a wicked-looking surgical blade. “This is likely to sting. A lot.” Dawg understood the purpose of the rod in his teeth as he bit down hard. The professor began emitting his creepy giggle as Dawg began screaming in earnest. Countess Crey nodded at the professor as he made eye contact, and left the room so that von Richter could work in private, and so that she would not have to watch.

Martin drove to the hospital where he suspected Dr. Stromberg would be. To his dismay, there were Vanguard vehicles all over the place. The closest he could get to the hospital-proper was a dead end alleyway next door. He looked at the hospital forlornly, longing to know how Dr. Stromberg was doing when a voice spoke from behind him, startling him nearly out of his boots.

“He will be fine, Thorne-san.” It was Shuriken, fading into view behind him.”

“How did you know I was here?” Martin asked. He waved a hand dismissively. “Never mind. I probably wouldn’t understand the answer anyhow. He’s going to be fine?”

“Yes. He was near death for a time, but thanks to the timely intervention of Clarissa—that is, the War Witch, his powers were held in check long enough to get him to this facility. He has asked about you.”

“Can you get me in there?”

“No, I cannot. There are too many there with the mental fortitude to see through my deceptions. I am powerful, but some of the ones there to pay respects to Dr. Stromberg are more powerful still. Take heart though, my friend. I will relay to him that you have come to see to his well being. Nurse Grey should be here.. ah! Here she is.”

Nurse Grey had taken up a position at the edge of the alleyway facing towards the street. She acted as if she was taking a break, and talked with Martin under her breath. “Dr. Stromberg is going to be fine. I suppose Shuriken has already told you that.” She dropped a large pill bottle in the shadows of a nearby trashcan. “That is the entire supply of the drug that allows your powers to remain active while you sleep. Use them sparingly. There are enough there for roughly a year, if you take one a night.”

A male voice suddenly began speaking. It was Major Davis. “Hello Nurse Grey.” Martin shrank back into the shadows, hoping he hadn’t yet seen him.

“Hello Major,” she returned curtly.

“What are you doing out here?”

“Just taking a break. It’s been a long day.”

“Yes. Yes, it has. You haven’t seen Martin, have you?”

“Why would you ask that?”

“No reason. Have you?”

“If I had, I likely wouldn’t tell you.”

“You know, I am under orders to arrest him, right?”

“Yes.”

“And keeping him from me is aiding and abetting. You know that, right?”

“What are you accusing me of, Major?”

“Oh, nothing. It just appears that Martin still has some pretty good friends around, even if he thinks he is alone.”

“That he does. Friends that will fight for him, rather than see him sent unjustly to jail. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do. Are you coming?” With that, Nurse Grey went back inside.

Major Davis leaned against the wall, facing away from the alley. Martin could see just the edge of Davis’ elbow from his hiding place. “I really am under orders to arrest you if I catch you Martin.”

Martin didn’t answer.

“But then, I haven’t seen you, either. Have I?”

Martin remained silent, but a grin began to cross his face.

“Stone is under investigation because of his actions. I am due to testify at a tribunal in two days. You can thank Nurse Grey for that for the most part. Well, her, and the security cameras that recorded your every move at the base. I’ll likely face discipline for my inaction in letting you escape. Sometimes, one has to break the rules to do the right thing.” Davis turned so that Martin could see his profile, and the grim expression he wore. “I hope you got everything done that you wanted to. I’ll be back at this alley after the tribunal.”

Martin dropped Dawg’s head, and levelled the weapon at the source of the voice, lowering it when he realized who owned it. “Leave. This is none of your concern,” he growled, moving back toward Dawg.

“Martin, you know it is, and you know what I would have to do if you went through with this.”

“Don’t. Threaten. Me.”

“Martin, you know I’m not. I like you. You seem to be a nice person, but you’re hurting.” The Sentinel looked over to see Darla’s motionless body, and tried another tactic. “Do you really think your mother and father would want this? Do you think Darla would?”

Martin whirled on the Sentinel, eyes blazing. “I don’t know!” he bellowed, “why don’t we ask them? Oh, THAT’s right. They AREN’T HERE!” He punctuated the last two syllables by punching the air violently with his free hand.

She tried again. “Martin, please. You’re better than this. Look at him.” Martin looked with disgust at the sobbing thing at his feet. “He’s beaten. He knows it. You know it. Don’t be like him. I heard what you did to the Freaks; how you got the information you needed from them.” She shuddered. “As of this moment, no charges are being filed against you. Being a hero has it advantages at times, and a couple of people have put in a good word for you.” Martin looked directly into the Sentinel’s eyes and raised an eyebrow. “Yes, I was one of them. Davis was the other. Self-defense is one thing, but this.. Martin, he’s paralyzed. Not even Dr. Stromberg will be able to help you if you commit cold-blooded murder.” That made Martin wince visibly, and she knew he was getting through to him.

“Martin, ask yourself. Is he REALLY worth going to jail over? Is that pathetic creature at your feet really worth spending the rest of your natural life behind bars with others just like him?”

Martin wrestled with the internal conflict. He really hadn’t thought that far ahead. All his life he’d resented metas, with their reckless use of their powers, and here he was about to commit the very same act. He was so very angry, and so very alone in the world, but there was a voice in the back of his head telling him this was wrong.

“Okay, assuming I let this scum live, what happens?”

“We drop a penal teleporter on him, he goes to the prison infirmary, and goes to trial, just like everyone else. That’s the way the system works.”

Martin stared at Dawg’s blubbering form, the twin barrels of his late father’s weapon aimed between Dawg’s rapidly-reddening eyes. He though for a long moment, and finally came to a decision. He pocketed his weapon and turned away from Dawg. He walked past the Sentinel, not even looking at her. “Thank you, Martin. I knew you were better than this.”

Martin had scarcely gone a pace beyond the Sentinel when he stopped, staring at the ground. “One thing. I’ll go to trial. I’ll testify, or whatever. I’ll do whatever ‘my civic duty’ requires of me.” Martin turned to face the Sentinel. “But if he ever puts foot to ground as a free man…” Martin let the threat hang in the air. The Sentinel closed her eyes, and nodded. “I understand,” she whispered. Martin turned and continued walking. He’d gone about ten feet when the Scarlet Sentinel finally got brave. “Martin,” she said, “would you consider coming to see me some time.. after?”

Martin didn’t turn around, and took a long time to answer. The Sentinel had just begun to assume he was going to ignore the question when he hissed a single word; “maybe”, before walking out the door. The telltale roar of Mary Ann’s engines told he that he had gone. She turned to the crying man on the ground. As she dropped an emergency teleporter onto his prostate form, she spoke to him with not an ounce of sympathy in her voice. “I hope you realize how lucky you are. My advice to you is to go to jail for as long as you can. If you two ever cross paths again, I won’t be there to save you.” As Dawg whimpered “Thank you thank you thank you” over and over again, his shape faded slowly from view. The Scarlet Sentinel hovered into the air and flew solemnly out the window. Perhaps she could convince Martin to join her, and maybe the relationship would grow into friendship, or even something deeper. Only time would tell.

I still haven't forgotten about the story. Lot of things going on in real life, including vacation. I had about 3 minutes to post this. To everyone still waiting for the conclusion to Martin's story, please just be patient with me a little bit longer. I'll post the last few parts starting next week. I promise.

As Dawg stepped around the rusted-out bus, Martin stood up from Darla’s lifeless body. “Yoohoo! Guess who’s come to dinner!” Dawg called in a singsong voice to Martin’s back. Tears fell unchecked from Martin’s cheeks onto Darla’s still form. He’d failed her. After all he’d gone through, he’d failed her. Martin was utterly unresistant when Dawg plowed into him from behind. Dawg laughed like someone possessed as he bull-rushed Martin into the side of the bus. At the last instant before Martin’s face would have been smashed into the side of the corroded vehicle, the grieving man fought back. Martin’s legs came up and absorbed the impact against the bus. Dawg managed to get Martin to bend his knees but could shove no further, despite the fact that Dawg had the greater strength. Martin flexed his powerful leg-muscles, straightening his knees. This sent the pair of them sailing across the rubble-strewn floor, to impact into the cinderblock walls of the abandoned warehouse. Dawg, being behind Martin, took the brunt of the impact, leaving a cracked crater in the wall. He dropped his hold on Martin, who simply stood there, staring at Darla’s face across the room. Dawg extracted himself from the hole in the wall, and began advancing on Martin again. “That wasn’t funny, Marty-boy,” Dawg growled. Just before Dawg got close enough to Martin to punch him in the back, Martin spun on Dawg, a perfectly-executed back kick announcing his entry into battle with a vicious impact to Dawg’s jaw. With Dawg’s stone-like skin, the blow did little more than bruise, but it did serve to cause him to step back.

“Wow, Thorny. That wasn’t bad. However, I am stronger than you, and you know it. What’s more,” Dawg said as he pressed a pad in the waist of his black bodysuit, “I’ve got quite a bit more mobility than you, now.” Dawg hovered into the air, and soared high above Martin, laughing maniacally. Martin just stared holes in Dawg, his expression betraying nothing, his voice utterly silent. “What’s wrong, Martin? Cat got your tongue?” Dawg dove at Martin with his fist outstretched. Martin’s whipcord muscles snapped into action almost faster than Dawg could follow. In one, fluid motion, Martin grabbed a nearby manhole cover and hurled it with all his might at Dawg like a discus. Dawg’s reactions were too slow to avoid the hundred-pound disc, and it struck him head-on in the forehead, tearing a hole in the hood of his suit. Still, Martin simply stood, staring at Dawg. Dawg rubbed at his forehead, noticeably concerned. This wasn’t going at all like he planned. Martin was supposed to be a basket-case, crying like a baby. “That hurt, Thorne. I’m going to kill you, you know,” Dawg snarled.

“You already did,” said Martin. With no warning whatsoever, Martin jumped at Dawg with all his might. Dawg, new to his flight mechanism, had no time to move. Martin plowed into Dawg like a rocket, and wrapped his legs around Dawg’s like a vise. Martin reached down to grab the pad that Dawg had pressed to give him the ability of flight. Dawg managed to keep Martin’s hand from closing around the control, and wrench free of him. He punched Martin full in the face and sent him reeling, plummeting to the floor. Dawg knew he had to stay clear of Martin, for he had already felt his powers slowly fading, even through the small rip in the hood of the suit.

Martin landed hard, but he ignored the pain. He was on his feet in an instant, hurling large chunks of brick, stone, rebar, anything he could lay his hands on at Dawg. Dawg managed to dodge most of them, but as he spun in a circle to avoid a particularly large filing cabinet, he was again met by Martin. This time, when Martin jumped at Dawg, he rotated his body in midair, and met Dawg feet-first. Martin’s feet connected with Dawg’s vulnerable throat with enough force to send Dawg crashing into the concrete ceiling, and plummeting to the floor below. Martin landed lightly on his feet, his powerful musculature absorbing the impact of the landing. Dawg recovered quickly, but not quickly enough to get back into the air before Martin was on him again. This time, Martin’s iron grip closed around Dawg’s control panel and crushed. Sparks flew from the back of the suit, and the acrid stench of burning flesh filled their nostrils as Martin tore the ruined device from Dawg’s abdomen. Dawg managed to kick Martin off of him before Martin’s dampening field drained all of his power.

“Nice moves, Marty. You almost had me there,” Dawg sneered. He reached down and began hurling debris Martin’s way. He had to keep outside Martin’s sphere of influence at all costs. Dawg worked his way back toward the body of the Freakshow creep that had murdered Martin’s mother. The guy had a revolver, if Dawg could reach it. “What’s the matter, Martin? You’ve always been full of crap to say. You lose your voice?” Martin remained utterly silent as he concentrated on avoiding the makeshift projectiles that Dawg sending his way. Dawg was four feet from the body of the thug with all his attention on the weapon now, when Martin threw a projectile of his own. A piece of the twisted rebar that Dawg had used to bind Darla to the concrete slab came whipping through the air and smacked Dawg in the small of the back. It didn’t hurt Dawg much, but in that moment of distraction, Martin sprinted to Dawg, and leapt to where Dawg was trying to reach for. Dawg had just turned his eyes to the gun that was his salvation when a pair of heavy combat boots came down in front of him; one next to the firearm, and one on Dawg’s outstretched hand.

“OW!” Dawg squealed, as Martin reached down to grab Dawg by the front of his jacket. Martin jerked the hood from Dawg’s face, drew back his fist, and cracked him right across the nose. Dawg went sailing across the room to hit the wall with a dull thud. Dawg got weakly to his feet, and stared defiantly at Martin. “Say something!” Dawg spat, his nose broken and running freely with blood. Martin stalked toward Dawg, as he screamed a curse and charged Martin. Martin sidestepped the charge and gave Dawg a ridgehand strike to the throat for his trouble. Dawg flipped head-over-feet and landed facedown in the sharp stones littering the floor. Martin jerked Dawg to his feet by the hair, and gave him a vicious punch to the stomach, which sent him flying once again. This time, Dawg collided with the corner of a wall awkwardly, and hit the floor screaming. “My legs! I can’t feel my legs! I can’t move! I can’t feel my arms! Please!!’

Martin dug into his pockets, and pulled out a couple of shotgun shells, which he loaded into his father’s antique weapon. He reached the immobile form of his nemesis with a cold, unfeeling look in his eyes. Dawg did his best to face Martin, crying. “Please, Martin! I give! I give! I’m sorry! I’m SO sorry! Please!” Martin wasn’t listening. He jerked Dawg’s head back, and shoved the barrel of his weapon into Dawg’s mouth. All he had to do was pull the triggers.

Several yards away, a pair of beautiful, blue eyes regarded Martin with infinite sadness, tears glistening on freckle-kissed cheeks. The Scarlet Sentinel was hoping, praying that he would step away from the dark path he had chosen. “Please, Martin. Do the right thing,” she whispered to herself. Martin’s fingers were tightening on the metal triggers that would erase the pathetic, sobbing thug at his feet, along with hopefully all of the pain in Martin’s heavy heart, when he heard a familiar voice behind him. “Martin. Don’t do it,” the Sentinel said, silently pleading with him.

I haven't forgotten about the story, everyone. I haven't had the time to write on it like I would like to, and I have already posted everything I have written ahead. I'll try to get some more written on it and posted as soon as I am able.

Short update. More later on.

Martin desperately tried to shrug the two undead things off, but they were too tenacious. Finally, Martin managed to break Zapp’s grip on him, which gave him the needed leverage to wrench free Duke’s grip. Martin executed a shoulder throw which sent Duke sailing into Zapp. Once clear of both, Martin fired his Uzi into them, emptying the clip and sending them both back to their eternal rest. Martin ran back to Darla, but before he could reach her prostrate form, his mother and father intervened.

“Uh oh, Thorny. Whatcha gonna do now? Looks like Mommy and Daddy do not approve of your new girlfriend!” Dawg laughed.

Martin was paralyzed. The twisted, misshapen figures before him were his parents in flesh only. Their spirits had long since gone on to a better place, but still he could not bring himself to attack. His trembling hands would not answer his call. The abominations before him were not so hindered, however. They both released a gout of acid in Martin’s direction, and despite their aim being faulty due to the damage to their bodies, they managed to hit Martin square in the chest. Stinging, burning bile dug into Martin’s flesh where it seeped through the cracks in his armor. The searing pain snapped Martin out of his trance, and he numbly drew his father’s shotgun. There was 10 feet between Martin and the twisted parodies of his parents. Martin pointed the weapon, closed his eyes tightly, and pulled the trigger on both barrels. The 12-gauge shot tore the unlife from the things that were his family, and they dropped motionless to the ground. Martin stood unblinking for a long moment. At the end, it was Dawg who snapped him out of his rancor.

“Hmmm.. Looks like you forgot about someone, Marty. I guess you don’t wuv Darwa as much as she thought you did,” Dawg sneered, mimicking a baby-voice.

Martin snapped his gaze on Darla’s body as he realized how long she had been unconscious. Martin dashed to her side and began attempting CPR again. Dawg jumped down from his perch and began running toward Martin. The hulk of the rusted-out bus was positioned in such a way that Dawg would have to go around it to get to them, which gave Martin a precious few seconds to revive her. He worked feverishly to get her to breathe, but he could already tell that his effort would likely prove fruitless.

A little cliffhanger for the weekend before Halloween. Enjoy.

Martin fought the urge to retch, though the stench from the things was overpowering. His strength would soon fail him, and he would be crushed under the hulking bus, if the advancing cadavers didn’t finish him first. Dawg’s father was closest, and he opened his mouth to spew forth a gout of that caustic puke from 30 feet away. It splashed onto Martin’s lower legs, and immediately began to sizzle on the Kevlar armor. Martin looked at Darla weakly and whispered, “I’m going to get you out of here.” Darla squeezed her eyes shut tightly.

“No, Thorny. No, you’re not. Duke and Zapp are the first of the four “freshly dead metas” that I promised my doctor friend. You and Darla are the other two. And now, it’s time for Darla’s dramatic death scene.”

“You leave her alone,” Martin snarled through clenched teeth. Dawg’s late father again belched a volley of that foul bile, this time from about 20 feet. It hit Martin in the side, and found the cracks in Martin’s body armor. His skin felt like it was being par-boiled.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. ‘I’ll kill you’ and such. I heard the same crap from Duke and Zapp while I was doing their families. Funny how I’m still breathin’ and they ain’t, huh?”

Dawg picked up the roll of duct tape and tore off a strip. He walked over to Darla and laid down behind her, staring at Martin from behind her. “Now, tough guy. You get to watch the whole thing. Say goodbye to your girlfriend.” Dawg reached over Darla, and applied the tape to her nose, sealing her nostrils.

“No! Dawg! Stop it!!”

Dawg ignored Martin, and stood up. He walked over to a nearby staircase, and walked up to a catwalk overlooking the scene. He just sat there on the edge, watching the whole scene with wide eyes that belied a severe mental imbalance. Martin risked holding the bus one-handed long enough to try and stretch one hand toward Darla’s convulsing form. She tried as best she could through her panicked attempts to get oxygen to her screaming lungs to close the distance, but the iron rebar held her immobile. Martin barely managed to just brush the tip of Darla’s nose, but no more. He attempted to shuffle forward, but the rubble-strewn floor, and the awkward undercarriage of the rusted hulk would not allow it. Martin considered the bulk of the undead slob that was once Dawg’s father off to his left, and a desperate plan began forming in his mind. Martin kicked a couple of stones in the cadaver’s direction, hoping to enrage it. Dawg’s father had closed to within Martin’s field of influence, and tried to vomit again. This time, about half as much came out, followed by a sound similar to a fluid pump that has gone dry. Martin guessed (quite correctly) that although his power wouldn’t keep the zombies from puking their caustic payload, it would prevent them from producing more. Dawg’s father charged in some undead parody of anger, and began clawing at Martin. Martin kicked the thing in the side repeatedly, driving it around to his front, between himself and Darla. Looking over the thing’s shoulder, he could see that the frantic spasms of her abdominal muscles had weakened and her eyelids were fluttering as lack of oxygen began to take her. After what seemed like hours, Martin managed to get Dawg’s father under the bus between himself and Darla. Martin then began pulling the bus down on top of the thing. The gamble paid off, as whatever rudimentary instinct for survival took over and the cadaver pushed back on the bus. Martin dropped the hulk and ran to Darla’s side. In its stupidity, the zombie continued to hold the hulk up, despite the fact that the weight began to crush the unlife from it immediately. Martin held no illusions that the thing wouldn’t hold up the bus for more than a few seconds. He tore the tape from Darla’s nose, and began dragging the slab that held her from underneath the bus. His own strength did not compare to Dawg’s, but he still managed to jerk the stone to safety just at the bus collapsed onto the undead thing that held it. Martin’s fears were realized when he saw that Darla wasn’t breathing. Martin pulled the tape from Darla’s lips and jerked the rag out of her mouth. Jerking the rebar free, he tore the tape from her arms so that he could lay her flat. He hadn’t thought about CPR since his 8th grade class had to take it, but he needed it now. He began mouth to mouth as best as he could remember, but he wasn’t sure he was doing it correctly.

“Woohooo!!” Dawg cheered, “Go for it Marty!! Nice lip-action there! You da man!” Dawg laughed luridly.

Martin had managed about three breaths, and was about to start chest-compression when he was grabbed from behind. The fetid breath of the cadavers caused his eyes to tear up as Zapp and Duke dragged him away from Darla, puking their acid all down his back.

“Hiya, Thorny!” Dawg said with a sneer, “come here often?”

Martin said nothing, raising his weapon so that there was no mistaking that the barrel was pointed squarely between Dawg’s eyes. Dawg reached up and pulled some kind of form-fitting hood over his head, totally obscuring his features under a black, latex-like material. Upon closer examination, Martin saw that Dawg was, in fact, wearing a body-suit made from the same material under his street clothes. Warily, Martin moved inside the warehouse, stepping to the side to get his unprotected back away from the door, and against a nearby wall.

“Welcome to the party. I was just pumping some iron,” Dawg said, lifting the bus up and down a couple of times. This elicited a muffled squeal from Darla, as the protruding jagged edges of metal came dangerously close to her unprotected body. “Why don’t you put your little popgun away and come on over here. Fight me like a man, monkeyboy.”

Martin didn’t lower his weapon. He wasn’t stupid. However, he did begin advancing on Dawg. As he closed the distance to just within his field of influence, Dawg began moaning, and acting as if he was about to drop the bus. “Oh. No. I think I am going to lose my powers. Oh, woe is me,” he said mockingly. He was shaking and staggering in an exaggerated manner. Martin finally noticed Darla’s helpless form and ran to her side. Just as he reached her, Dawg moaned again out loud. “Oh. No. I am dropping this big, old bus. I hope no one is underneath it.” Martin worked out Darla’s predicament instantly. Dawg was going to drop the bus regardless and kill her, Martin too if he could. Martin backed a step or two away, dropping his weapon in the process which dangled loosely on the strap around Martin’s arm, and lifted the bus on straining arms as Dawg ducked out from underneath it. Martin stood facing Darla mutely, his whole body trembling from the strain of holding the hulking scrapheap aloft and off of the young woman. Because of the way Dawg had positioned the bus, Martin could neither shift it, drag it, nor push it in any direction in order to get it away from Darla. He was stuck where he was, holding the thing up.

Dawg whooped from behind Martin, leaning on Martin's back, and looking down at Darla from over Martin’s shoulder. “You’ve been working out, Thorny. I figured on just dropping the thing on sweetie-pie over there, and then killing you with my bare hands when you fought me, but this is even better than I dreamed of. Oh, by the way. I know all about your little power there, tough guy. I was in no more danger of dropping the bus than I was from suddenly turning into a toaster, thanks to some help from some friends of mine.” Martin heard someone come into the warehouse, and Dawg moved away from him. “Speaking of friends of mine, I’d like you to meet one. I think you know him. C’mon over here and say hello,” Dawg said as he pulled his hood off again.

Already drenched with sweat from the strain of holding up his burden, Martin turned toward the sound of Dawg’s voice. Dawg led the new visitor over into Martin’s field of vision. Standing at Dawg’s side was the very Freakshow wannabe that had murdered Martin’s mother. “’sup, dweebie?” sneered the freak, “how’s mommy?”

“This young gentleman made quite a name for himself when he nearly offed that hot redhead the day he got your mommy, Thorny. I just wanted to shake his hand.”

Dawg shook the freak’s mechanical hand in front of Martin, and then suddenly grabbed the wrist of the freak’s other hand. Twisting the arm with the blade behind the freak, Martin watched grimly as the tip of the blade erupted from the sternum of the shocked thug, as Dawg plunged it into the freak’s back. Dropping him to the ground, Dawg spat on the body, and snarled, “Thorny is MINE. His family is MINE. NO ONE touches them but me.”

Martin closed his eyes, and tried to concentrate on breathing. There was no way he could handle the strain for long. Opening his eyes, he saw Darla regarding him sadly. Her dirty, tear-streaked face belied a sorrowful affection for him. The defeat in her eyes betrayed the fact that she thought that this whole thing was her fault. “You didn’t do this,” Martin whispered to her.

“On the contrary, Thorny. She was positively vital. I couldn’t have pulled off getting you here without her. But wait! You haven’t met the rest of our cast of characters. Some other new friends of mine helped me get them together for you.”

Martin turned to look toward the darkened alcove that Dawg was indicating. He fought back the urge to wretch in disgust as the first of the necromantic horrors shambled through the doorway. “I think you know them, actually. It’s amazing what you can do with the help of some new friends, some shovels, and a dead morgue night watchman.” The first one to appear had lopsided arms. It was obvious that whoever had reanimated Dawg’s father had been unable to find a large enough arm to replace the confiscated cybernetic one. “I have this new buddy, you see. He’s a doctor, and in return for the promise of four freshly-dead metas he helped me gather the old gang for one more party,” laughed Dawg. The sheer madness in his voice was almost gleeful in its intensity. As the undead forms of Zapp and Duke shuffled stiffly into view, Dawg skipped over and placed an arm around either one’s shoulder. “They were reluctant to follow me in my quest at first, but the doctor’s miracle treatment soon changed their minds.” The sight of Dawg’s vibrant, living face between the death-pale, slackjawed, drooling countenances of Duke and Zapp was positively surreal. “And last, but certainly not least. Back by popular demand from an extended tour in the afterlife.. They need no introductions!!” The awkward angle of his head, and the ugly gash in her throat threw the aim off as they came out immediately belching their acidic bile in Martin’s direction, but the fact that they were once Martin’s mother and father was unmistakable, as the shambled forward jerkily.

‘Mary Ann’ purred like a kitten when idle and roared like an angry demon when Martin put his foot down on the accelerator. It was a good thing that Martin’s father had installed “acceleration-style” seats in the thing, or Martin would be nursing a pained neck for days. Martin parked the car in one of the many parking lots, locked the doors, and activated the alarm system. Martin hoped it would do more than simply sound a siren, or there wouldn’t be anything left of the car when he returned.

Cautiously, Martin walked the concrete between warehouses. Darla and Dawg could be anywhere, not to mention the roving gangs of thugs. Martin was low on ammo for the multi-purpose combat weapon he brought, his pistol had only a single clip left, and his father’s shotgun had perhaps a dozen shells. He didn’t want to get into trouble. Unfortunately, trouble was exactly what he found. The Hellions saw him before he saw them, and immediately began closing in and shouting taunts.

“Hey, fellas. We got us a trespasser,” a thug holding a battered sledge hammer snarled.

“Yeah,” barked another, this one with an Uzi, “let’s skin ‘im.”

Martin assessed the situation as quickly as possible. These guys all had conventional weaponry, so his power would be all but useless. He would have to rely exclusively on his weaponry to get away from them. Perhaps he could talk his way out of it. Going the tough guy route would likely be the best bet. Martin produced his advanced combat rifle, and his pistol. He pointed each at a different target, and growled, “I don’t want any trouble. I am just here looking for a friend, and a dead man.”

“Dead man? Dead man? What’re you? A Vahzzy? You work for the doc? You lookin’ for more zombie parts, dweeb?”

Martin was backing slowly away from the group, trying to keep them from noticing until he could put some distance between him and them.

“Why you want a dead man, dweeb-boy?”

“He’s holding a friend of mine.”

“I thought he was dead. He a Vahzzy?”

“No, he’s just a corpse.” Martin pointedly cocked his weapon. “He just don’t know it yet.”

The thugs laughed. “You don’t understand. Nothing happens here without OUR say-so. And we might just not say so,” said one of them, armed with a large-caliber revolver.

“But I think we’ll just test you. Turn around and start walking. Walk, don’t run. We’ll give you until the count of twenty to walk as far as you can, then we’re going to open fire. If you can get away, you can find your dead man. One.”

Martin turned around and began walking, tensing for a jump.

“Two.”

Martin took a few steps, gauging the distance to the nearest rooftop.

“Three.”

“Hey, Blazer. You reckon he might be talkin’ ‘bout that dude over on the southside that has that chick?”

Martin stopped. The grenade launcher under his weapon suddenly felt like it deserved a workout.

< === >

Darla was so terrified she was almost numb. Cruelly silenced, immobile, and desperately weak from hunger and lack of sleep, she fought to hold onto consciousness, when all she wanted to do was let go and slip into oblivion. She knew Dawg had dark plans for her, and she truly didn’t want to be awake for them. Her will just wouldn’t let her give up.

Dawg was pacing impatiently, angrily having some kind of argument with himself about Martin. It was surreal to Darla to hear someone arguing with himself whether he should kill her now, or wait for Martin, or kill Martin, and keep her. Dawg turned angrily on Darla, and talked over to her prostate form. He called her a dozen filthy names and raised his fist. Thinking that this was it, she closed her eyes tightly, and braced for the end.

The blow never fell. She opened her eyes, and Dawg was still frozen in the same position, except that he was staring off into the distance, as if listening to something.

Darla heard it too. Gunshots and explosions were going off nearby. Dawg leapt to his feet and ran to the door, peering to the north. Hope blossomed in her as she thought perhaps that she might yet be rescued.

< === >

Later, the police found the Hellions that had accosted Martin. They were still alive, but only just. One of them was bound in steel cable that had been ripped from a nearby security fence. He was the worst off. “Dave, look at this guy. Someone’s been carving on him. You see any Vahzilok around?”

“No, I don’t. What do you imagine happened?”

“No clue. Call the infirmary and tell them to expect these guys. These wounds aren’t characteristic of the Vahz. They aren’t that deep. It almost looks like he was tortured or something.”

“Well, if he was, he talked. Believe you me. Just look at the guy.”

< === >

Martin walked toward the warehouse that the thug had told him about. He wiped his knife on his pants, and cut a mark in the stock of his father’s shotgun for each Hellion. Seven so far. “There will be more,” he told himself with a grim smile.

< === >

Dawg rushed back into the warehouse, talking to someone on a cellphone.

“Get over here. He’s coming,” he barked, and then hung up. He fished a device out of his pocket and pressed a button, then threw it away. Darla vaguely heard some kind of shuffling behind here in another section of the warehouse, and it unnerved her. Then, he stalked over to the beams that help up the bus over Darla’s helpless form. Lifting the bus with one hand, he used the other to throw both of the supporting beams as far away as he could, and just stood there holding up the hulk, facing the only door into the warehouse, as if waiting for something. Darla didn’t have long to wait to find out what, for shortly after that, Martin stalked through the door, a newly-acquired Uzi in his fist. He pointed the weapon at Dawg, and snarled, “You’re dead.” From his angle, Martin couldn’t see Darla, for she could just barely see him over the rubble, from between Dawg’s feet. She couldn’t even make any noise to warn him. If he killed Dawg now, she would die when the bus fell, but if he didn’t, she was certain that he was walking into a trap.

Nearby, his father’s car, the one referred to as ‘Mary Ann’ in reference to Dawn Wells’ character on Gilligan’s Island, sat mutely under a tarp. No one ever touched the car. It had been his father’s vehicle all through high school and college, and remained his pride and joy. He had even proposed to Martin’s mother in it. The only thing Martin knew for certain was that his father had been restoring and tinkering with the vehicle for as long as Martin could remember. Martin needed transportation, and the car was the only thing available. His mother and father’s regular cars had been vandalized, and impounded respectively. Martin opened the box where his father kept the keys, and jerked the tarp away.

His breath went with it.

Under the tarp was a 1967 Plymouth Barracuda, with a pearlescent, white paint job, jet black interior, and chrome everywhere there needed to be. Martin knew very little about cars, but he did know that his father had dabbled in mechanical engineering in his college days, had a few engineering buddies that he emailed once in a while, and that even though the car looked like it just rolled off the showroom floor, the chrome intake jutting six inches out of the top of the hood was NOT factory-spec. Martin emitted a low, impressed whistle as his eyes took in the vehicle. He opened the door gingerly, and was immediately assaulted by the smell of his father’s cigars. Now he knew what he REALLY did out here when he locked the garage door. The cockpit was a mix between 60’s muscle car, and something right out of a Jules Verne novel. The steering wheel looked like any other, and all the customary gauges were there, such as speed, engine temperature, tachometer, etcetera. The similarity ended once one began examining the dash further. Temperature readings for every fathomable component had been installed, including one for a gas injector, whatever that meant. To the left of the dash was a console with two more readouts, and a double row of four toggle switches each, labeled things like “Fuel Preheat”, “Injector”, and “Turbine”. His father’s notes on the car were on the seat, so at least Martin might get an idea as to how to use the car to its fullest, but for now he needed to get moving and get to Darla.

Martin put the key in the ignition, depressed the clutch, and tried starting it. The car sputtered like an old clunker and died. He tried again with similar results, and began to get discouraged. Perhaps his father was just another shade tree mechanic that really didn’t know a whole lot about cars. As a last resort, Martin began thumbing through his father’s notes. After a few pages he began to understand. The engine in the car had been heavily modified. It was a prototype racer that his father and his father’s friends had been working on the design of for years. Martin divined from the notes that the reason the car had failed to start was because this car had an actual “startup procedure” that Martin hadn’t followed. The engine was a heavily-modified racing engine, and it actually had a smallbore jet turbine married to it that provided insane amounts of acceleration and horsepower. “That’s my dad,” Martin thought, “Let other folks mess with nitrous. He’ll take something REALLY dangerous.” To make matters even more complex, the car burned a mixture of gasoline and natural gas, to increase ignition efficiency. Martin’s dad filled the natural gas tanks right off the house. From the driver’s seat, Martin could see the gas nozzle sticking out of the garage wall, with a hose attached. Martin shook his head, and wondered if he should even try starting the beast.

Martin ran through the checklist in the notes carefully. He flipped the “Fuel Preheat” switch, that the notes said increased the vaporization rate of the fuel. Next came the gas injector, then finally, the ignition switch. He turned the key, and the engine roared to life like a hungry lion. Once the car was started, he flipped the switch to start the turbine, and rumbling became a muted roar. It seemed awfully quiet for a jet engine, but the notes had said something about special mufflers, and baffles that kept the noise to a minimum. Martin hit the button for the automatic garage door opener, and rolled out into the street. He would make dockside, ten miles distant, in very little time at all.

Okay, everyone. Once again, I must apologize for the length of time between updates. I thank you all for your kind words, your support, and your patience. I just wish real life would leave me alone to my fantasies.

The Sentinel glided down the corridor until she was fully out of Martin’s sight, and paused. She hadn’t intended the kiss to mean anything more than ‘good luck’, but now she hovered here awash in emotions she didn’t think she should have. Sure, Martin seemed like a good kid, but she had only known him for a few hours, what with being unconscious for so long. Still, although he had endangered her life accidentally, he had taken steps to save it deliberately, never leaving her side until she was better. Unknown to her, much of her attachment to Martin lay in her subconscious, along with the long hours he had spent talking to her about, well everything. At the edge of her awareness, she felt that she knew him better than she ought to.

Then there was the kiss. Invulnerability carries with it a certain curse. If you can’t be hurt by anything, neither can you feel much. She’d had boyfriends before, so it wasn’t like she’d never kissed anyone. This time was different, though. She had been inside Martin’s field of influence, so her power had been dampened. Her nerve endings suddenly reacted with a clarity she had never known. Firm, invincible flesh became soft and feeling. She felt. For the first time in her life, she truly FELT. During the kiss she shared with Martin, she felt real, alive, and above all, vulnerable. And she LIKED it. There was nothing that could be done to pursue it, though. Martin had Darla, even now racing to save her life. Blinking back tears that she knew she had no tangible reason shedding, she continued down the hall, all the while, the unconscious reasons she knew nothing of swam around just beneath awareness.

<===>

Martin raced through the hallways. Doors and signs became a blur as he focused on the guiding line at the base of the wall. The line dead-ended at a door marked “No Admittance”. Martin touched the keycard to the access pad, and the door slid open. Inside was an impressive underground tram system. Thanks to Major Davis, the tram was unguarded. Quickly, Martin bounded toward the waiting car. He passed a control panel, and the map caught his eye. He paused and examined it more closely, finding to his relief that the map served to program the tram to take itself to any station on the map. He examined it closely and found that there was a station in the same district as his home, and stabbed the button. The button lit up green, and the running lights of the tram came on. He ran to the car and leapt aboard. At the driver’s station, he started the vehicle.

After an uneventful half-hour ride, the tramcar pulled into the designated station. There were no guards. Major Davis must have come through again. Martin sprinted to the door exiting the station, and came out of a hidden door in the city’s sewer. The door ‘snicked’ shut behind him, leaving Martin on a service catwalk. He ran along the catwalk to an access ladder, and climbed out into the sun. Sliding the manhole cover back into place he dashed through alleyways and streets toward his home. He amazed himself at his stamina. He’d never been able to run this long before, and his legs seemed stronger than he remembered. He hadn’t done any type of distance running since before the incident with the Scarlet Sentinel, and now all of a sudden, he seemed to be able to run for days. Martin was so lost in his new revelation that he didn’t notice the oncoming truck until it was right on top of him. Desperately, Martin jumped out of the way, knowing he couldn’t clear the truck’s path before it struck him, but clear it he did. His uncontrolled leap carried him right into the side of a nearby building with a painful ‘thud’. Looking back, he realized that he had just made a 30-foot flatfooted leap from an off-balance starting position. He stared at his own legs in dumbfounded disbelief. Dr. Stromberg had said something about additional muscle groups, but he’d never even hinted at anything like this. Martin eyed the top of the three-story tenement he was standing next to, and backed up. Crouching down, he jumped.

Martin cleared the roof by several yards, and landed hard. Elation flooded through Martin. Looking in the direction of his house, he took a running start and leapt again with all his might. Rooftops and streets flashed by beneath him as gravity rocketed him through the air. He landed heavily in an empty lot. It stung quite a bit, but his legs absorbed most of the landing like shock absorbers. He looked back and realized that he had just cleared four city blocks in one leap.

“And me with no red “S” on my chest,” he chuckled to himself. The sudden remembrance of his task at hand killed the buzz from his new discovery, and his face became set in an ominous scowl. Looking again in the direction of his home, he got a running start and jumped again. In just eight minutes, he covered the entire three miles to his house. The sense of urgency hot on his heels, he unlocked the door and ran inside. He knew exactly what items he was after. Running to his room he tore open his closet and grabbed his official Rambo collector’s knife. It had been a lark, and the knife itself was a little cheesy, but functional. The waterproof compartment in the handle held matches and other small survival-type items, but the hardened steel casing and the foot-long, surgical steel blade would serve him well.

Next, he went to the living room where a sawed-off shotgun sat on a shelf above the fireplace. His father had worked his way through college as a bartender, and a very good one. He’d met his mom there, where she had been working as a waitress. The bar’s owner had kept a double-barreled Winchester beneath the bar as a precaution. The bar had closed just before his father graduated, and the owner had made a gift of the weapon to Martin’s father. For their tenth wedding anniversary, Martin’s mom had the weapon fully restored and fitted with solid mahogany woodwork. Engraved in gold gilt on the stock were the words, “David, after ten years you still blow me away. All my love, Mary.” Martin’s mom had an odd sense of humor, but his father had roared with laughter. Martin grabbed the weapon and pocketed it. Out in the garage, Martin rifled through the boxes until he found a box of shells. His father had taught Martin how to fire the shotgun, so he knew about where to find them. Martin also happened upon his father’s stash of Cuban cigars. Martin inhaled the aroma of the cigars deeply and tears began to come as Martin remembered the smell of his father after he’d been “working in the garage”. The finality of his parents’ deaths came rushing upon him. He had kept the pain pushed way down deep for far too long. Martin sat down and wept bitterly for a long time. Emotion flowed out of him like blood from a wound. Martin wiped his stinging eyes and stood up, pocketing his father's cigars. His heart had poured out onto the floor of his parents’ garage until there was little left but anger and hate. The only light left in his soul was Darla, and all the fires of hell wouldn’t stop him from getting to her.

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Bah! Now I actually have to work....at work...

[/ QUOTE ]



Heaven forbid!!

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Great story! More more more!

[/ QUOTE ]

Thank you very much. I plan to post more in the very near future.

The trio had ducked out of the melee at the insistence of the Scarlet Sentinel as soon as the situation looked to be in hand. Creeping from shadow to shadow, they managed to avoid the soldiers. This wasn’t so great a feat, considering that the majority of the ones they encountered had been wounded, and lay unconscious on the floor. Martin had protested at first, wanting to help them, but his companions reinforced the need to get him out of the base as quickly as possible. Still, they stabilized the ones that needed it with a little first aid just the same. Shuriken had kept them hidden using what he called “Form of the Clouded Eye”. Martin was confused as to why Shuriken's powers functioned within Martin's field of influence when no one else’s seemed to.

“My powers are not from the same source as so many others, Thorne-san.” Shuriken began in a thickly-accented whisper. “Under the tutor of my sensei, I learned to disrupt the natural balance of the metaverse without disturbing it. The powers of most break natural laws. I merely bend them a little. In the case of the form I am now using, our observers, even though they might be looking for us, are subconsciously expecting to see nothing. I am merely allowing them that illusion. As I understand it, your power dampens the powers of those around you, yes?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, I do not have ‘powers’. My abilities could be taught to any average person with the drive, discipline, and time to learn them. What I do is no more mystical than someone breaking a board with their hand at a martial arts show. It is just quite a bit more advanced.”

“I see,” said Martin, thoughtfully. In truth, he was filing this information away for future reference, as it gave him some insight into the strengths and weaknesses of his own power.

“I must drop this form now. I can no longer maintain it,” said Shuriken, obviously fatigued. They had made it deep inside the base, and it had been many long minutes since the last time they had seen a conscious soldier, so there really was no need to keep it. “My powers of stealth task me severely to hide others from view. Apologies.”

“None needed,” returned the Sentinel, peering down a nearby hallway. She turned to look the other way, and tapped the others on the shoulder. At the end of the hallway, perhaps ten feet distant, stood Major Davis, his weapon’s laser sight painting a clear dot on Martin’s forehead as Martin turned to face him.

The three of them didn't say anything. Shuriken moved to attack, but Martin stayed him with an outstretched hand. “No,” he said, “I’ll not be responsible for hurting anyone that doesn’t deserve it.”

Davis didn’t say a word to them. He touched the communicator in his ear and spoke. “This is Major Davis to all troops. Concentrate your searches toward the front of the facility. Move in standard formation, and leave no room unsearched. Davis out.” He paused for a moment, as if listening to a reply and spoke again. “Yes, commander. I understand that despite your earlier truce, you want Thorne found and arrested. Yes, sir. I understand. I gave that order because Thorne is making for the exits. He couldn’t possibly know where the underground tram back into the city is located unless he knows to follow the black paintline at the baseboard of the walls.” Davis pointed at a solid, inch-wide, black line with arrowheads pointing down the hall on the baseboards about half an inch off the floor. Martin nodded. Davis continued, “even if he found the tram sir, he still would need a keycard with sufficient access.” Martin moved to take a card from a nearby guard. Davis snapped his fingers and shook his head. He pointed to the guard that was unconscious at his own feet. Shuriken moved to take the card, and Davis nodded. Shuriken handed Martin the card. “Yes sir. If I ever see Thorne again, I will arrest him.” Davis looked pointedly at Martin. “I have a feeling that he is going to bring some kind of firefight down in the city if he gets out.” Davis removed the communicator from his ear and addressed Martin finally. “You could have left us to die, but didn’t. Even at your own peril, you have been stopping to give aid to my men. I won’t forget this. If things get straightened out, that position in Vanguard is still open, but I meant what I said to commander Stone, ‘Marcus’, as you know him. I don’t see you again until such time, right?”

Martin nodded gravely.

“I know what it’s like to lose a loved one, Martin. You’re clear until the tram. Go get ‘im, kid.” With that, Davis turned and left.

“It appears that you have made a friend, Thorne-san. I will take my leave now, and go aid in the cleanup,” Shuriken said after Davis had gone. He began stripping off his trench coat. Martin now noticed that it had some type of odd lizard skin on the inside. The scales were the size of small dinner plates. No way could they be from any existing beast. “My sensei gave me this duster when we parted ways. He said that his master gave it to him, and that I should present it to someone I found worthy. Your selflessness has shown me that you are that person. It will give you some small protection in your trials ahead. I understand you are on a quest for vengeance, something I do not personally agree with. Should you come back to us cleansed, I should like to show you a better way. I do hope we do not end up on opposite sides. It would not please me to have to battle you.” With that, he gave Martin the coat, made some motions with his hands, and faded from view, leaving Martin and the Sentinel by themselves.

“Well, it’s just you and me, tough guy,” said the Sentinel, turning to favor Martin with a stunning smile. Martin nodded. She moved to unzip the back of her leotard. “I guess since we’re giving you our costumes, I might as well peel this off and hand it over.” Martin’s eyes got as big as saucers, and he blushed deep red. “Gotcha!” she giggled. “In your dreams, pal,” she quipped, zipping back up. But I will give you this.” She moved to Martin and put her arms around his neck. At barely an inch shorter than he, she leaned toward him, and for a long moment she kissed him deeply and thoroughly. “You seem a decent guy, Martin. Darla’s a lucky girl. I would have very much liked to get to know you better, but I fear that the next time we meet, we’ll be on opposite sides of the law. Be careful, okay?” Without another word, she hovered a bit off the ground, streaked down the halls and disappeared. Martin could swear that he had heard a crack in her voice, and detected the hint of wetness in the eyes of the older woman. Martin was 15 years the Sentinel’s junior, and they technically really hadn’t known each other more than a few hours, since she had spent the lion’s share of their time together unconscious. He couldn’t imagine what he had done to impress her so, unless what they say about coma-patients was true, and she had sub-consciously heard some of his ramblings when he thought he was talking to himself.

Martin looked after her for a long moment, wondering what might have been, and what may yet be, either with her or with Darla. He looked at the black stripe near the floor, and then to the keycard in his hand. Slipping on the coat that Shuriken had given him, he sprinted in the direction of the tram. His time of reckoning was nearly at hand.

Martin’s weapon spat armor piercing ammo for thirty seconds, and Rikti dove all over each other to get to cover. Once the majority of the opposing force was forced down, Martin released the trigger and knelt near the assembled defenders. “Okay, here’s my plan. I found out that the Rikti tech is vulnerable to my dampening field. Their energy bolts just dissipate when they contact its borders about 12 feet away. This makes me invulnerable to their weapons,” Martin began, “however they also are using stolen small arms, evidently because of that very reason. Although I am wearing armor, I am NOT immune, and a headshot would take me out handily.” Martin looked at the stunning redhead nearby pointedly. “You, however, shrug off bullets like gnats, even though the Rikti bolts seem to harm you.”

A wide grin split the Scarlet Sentinel’s face as the shape of Martin’s plan became clear to her. “Tag team?”

“Tag team,” said Martin, rising to his feet. Marcus stepped in front of him.

“That would be all well and good, except that you are currently under arrest.”

Without a word, Martin grabbed the smaller man by the throat and lifted him into the air, as Rikti power bolts splintered against his dampening field. Martin shoved the 6-barrel weapon into Marcus’ face and growled, “get in my way again. PLEASE.”

Major Davis had intervened by this time. “Martin, put him down.” Martin did not move, and kept his eyes locked on those of the base commander. Marcus attempted to return the stare, but the coldness in Martin’s eyes was uncompromising. “MARTIN!” Davis shouted. Martin turned to look at him. “Stand down, Thorne. Now. There are others at stake, here,” he said, his hands sweeping out to indicate the wounded, including Dr. Stromberg.

“I’ll see you in an execution chamber, boy,” said Marcus once he was back on the ground.

“Marcus, come to your senses. With Martin here, we have a chance to repel the Rikti. He could have saved himself, but he came back to help. We can settle other things up after these vermin have been put down.”

Marcus considered this for a minute, and he and Martin exchanged glares for a long moment. “Agreed,” he finally said at last.

Breathing a sigh of relief, the Sentinel spoke up, “okay, boys. Ready for round two?”

Martin had already spun the barrels of his weapon up to speed. “Time for pain,” Martin snarled, as the six-mouthed dragon in his hands leapt to life again. For a full minute, Martin swung the weapon back and forth, chewing up flooring, ceiling tiles, and barricades. The depleted-uranium bullets ignored almost anything they hit, tearing through Rikti like angry hornets. Soon, the opposite concrete walls of the cafeteria were riddled with small craters. The Rikti regrouped quickly and began firing back with their stolen weapons. “TAG!” Martin shouted, as he dropped his field. An awkwardly-fired bullet or two glanced off his Kevlar armor before the Sentinel got into position, but that is all. She stood firm, and took all they had to throw. The bullets bounced off her hide like water off a duck’s back, and she had nothing to fear from the minigun roaring in rage behind her. The Rikti were harming themselves more than the defending force, as ricocheting bullets buzzed by them, striking some of their drones. Martin’s stream of destruction finished off the damaged drones, and more of their number fell under the onslaught. Seeing the futility of this, they changed tactics again, and began firing both types of weapons at once.

“DOUBLE-TEAM!” shouted the Sentinel, as she stepped outside of Martin’s influence. No sooner had Martin re-asserted his field than the first bolts sizzled against it. The Sentinel had little trouble dodging the bolts, knowing that they wouldn’t get past Martin. The Rikti tried forcing her aside with energy bolts to get a good shot at Martin with their conventional weapons, but their inability to effectively wield the earthbound devices, coupled with the Sentinel’s sheer speed meant that the base defenders had an unbreakable battle machine. That’s when they changed tactics again. The ceiling of the cafeteria was 20 feet high, and the alien soldiers began firing into it, even as the Sentinel started ripping up chunks of floor to hurl into their midst. “What are they doing?” shouted the Sentinel.

“They’re firing wildly, hoping to hit one of us,” returned Martin, arcing his weapon upward to miss the Sentinel’s back.

Nurse Grey was the first to recognize the tactic, as the heavy ceiling began to crack, and several tons of concrete slab started to fall. “Look out!” she shouted, erecting a force field. Martin released the trigger of his weapon, and spun around to see the spectacle unfolding. The descent of the crushing weight was slowed by Nurse Grey’s field, but the strain on her face made it plain that she could do nothing to stop it. The only reason her force bubble worked in the first place was because she was outside Martin’s sphere of influence. The Sentinel dashed past Martin and positioned herself under the slab. Martin moved away so that he didn’t dampen her power, and she caught the slab. With her formidable strength augmenting Nurse Grey’s bubble, the slab was held aloft, but Martin’s flanks were now exposed, and the Rikti were already firing their captured submachine guns. Martin dove to the floor out of reflex, and turned to get a bearing on the situation. As he faced the opposing force, a tall figure clad in a black trenchcoat leapt in front of Martin. Martin recognized him as Shuriken, Master of Blades.

Gleaming, arced blades grew from Shuriken’s palms as he began to weave them in complex, graceful patterns. The patterns grew quickly to a pace that no eye could follow, as Rikti bullets ‘tinged’ ineffectively off of Shuriken’s whirling blades. His wall of steel was protecting Martin from harm. “Now, Thorne-san. Fire your weapon. I will guard you.” Martin couldn’t help but notice that Shuriken was within Martin’s field. “Hurry! I cannot continue this form for long! It is most taxing!” The staccato pinging of bullet-to-blade was punctuated by the odd ‘thunk’, as Martin noticed Shuriken hurling the occasional steel throwing blade into the midst of the Rikti. Shouldering his weapon, Martin again began raining judgment on the Rikti force.

The Sentinel and Nurse Grey held the concrete slab aloft as the others moved the wounded, and before long, the way was clear, allowing the Sentinel to again take her place in front of Martin. Shuriken collapsed, exhausted. Major Davis dragged him aside. He had taken a couple of grazing hits, but nothing serious. He would recover from the fatigue soon. Working as one, the valiant group managed to force the Rikti back into the hallways. Even Marcus joined the fray, lending his formidable powers to the fight. The Rikti soon ran out of ammo, as their overconfidence had not allowed them to bring extra clips for their stolen weapons. Martin’s minigun ran out, also, but one of his duffels had two more ammo belts, and he wielded advanced combat rifles fitted with grenade launchers under the barrels, that he had procured from the other duffel. Once the pack was reloaded, Martin switched back to the minigun. Martin kept his power focused forward, allowing the rest of the assembled fighters to use their powers on any stragglers that snuck in behind them. Room by room, and hall by hall, they forced the remaining Rikti toward the front portion of the base. Martin had discarded the minigun once it ran out of ammo the second time, and was running low on what he brought. The other heroes were showing signs of fatigue as well. They had just forced the last of the Rikti force towards a base entry when an explosion of flames erupted from behind the alien invaders.

When the smoke cleared several heroes, including the War Witch, who was pulling her flaming blade from the back of a dead Rikti soldier, stood ready to join the battle. During the melee, Nurse Grey worked her way toward War Witch, and dragged her back to Dr. Stromberg. She explained the situation, and War Witch covered the good doctor’s body with ice, keeping his temperature in check. Shivering, he thanked her. With the Rikti all but defeated, Marcus again turned his attention to Martin, but Martin, as well as Shuriken, and the Scarlet Sentinel were nowhere to be found.