Smersh

XI - On the Translation of Variable Energy Waves Within Interdimensional Space-Time

Frustrated, Tatyana went back over the equations once more. This data set was proving most troublesome. The mathematics were, to her, a second language, one she could read as easily as if it were Russian, and easier than English came to her. Still, there was the ever-present threat of calculation errors creeping in, and it is for this reason that she always gave her results a ‘common sense’ check.

Some would tell her that she was being a fool for not using a computer to do these calculations, but they would have been wrong. The computational tools for this project were new, and were not available on any computer program that she was aware of. Even Mathematica was not capable of the latest discoveries in applied interdimensional mathematics.

Ah, there was the issue! Tatyana ripped off the bottom quarter of one sheet of graph paper, and discarded the next three. She had failed to carry a negative sign on one term, thus completely corrupting the work that followed. It was another hour of work to come to the correct solution.

The office that she had to share with three other graduate students, this calm place to work on her dissertation, was little larger than a walk-in closet, and it contained two desks, four chairs, and four computers. It was cramped, ill-lit and smelled of mildew, and was seven and half times more welcoming than the facility in Colorado.

It was good to be home. As much as this could be called home, compared to the other places she had lived. On the other hand, it was the best place she had lived since she was nineteen years old, so it did have its advantages.

She sighed. She knew she had to finish her dissertation, On the Translation of Variable Energy Waves Within Interdimensional Space-Time, very soon. It had to be taken to the printers, so that the theoretical physics faculty could read and dissect it, and then the dissertation defense. That last she actually looked forward to; the idea of meeting every challenge put to her was an exhilarating thought. What she did not admit to herself was that this, her field of study, was the only part of her life that she could go through with complete self-confidence.

Some people might think it odd that a person who had control over two disparate elemental forces and could bend them to her whim would pursue their studies with such dedication. Tatyana did not claim to have mutant super-intelligence, or even the genius of a Feynman or an Einstein. Jack might flaunt his many doctorates, but Tatyana thought of him as a dilettante, not a brilliant scientist. She did have power, it was true, and she did bend it to fight for the People. It was not that she had always dreamed of being a powerful person, or that she resented having to use her power in this way. It was just…

The simple truth of the matter was that, while Tatyana enjoyed the teaching aspect of her current position, occasionally filling in for one faculty member or another, what she truly loved was the field itself. She had even worked on problems of interdimensional physics during her time of exile, using a piece of charcoal on the walls of the cave she had called home. She hoped the hydra natives of that world had not located and ruined her work there. She had kept herself working, telling herself that the world’s greatest scientists of history had had little more. Einstein’s relativity was all done on paper before the eclipse observations were able to give any experimental data that tended to prove it. Computers had still been decades away for him.

The doctorate was a difficult goal to pursue, but without that piece of paper she would be unable to work in the field at a high enough level. Whether it was pure research or a professorship, she wanted to be there, doing the research and…

She sighed. Woolgathering did not collate data, nor were there friendly fairies that would wander in and perform the equations for her.

She glanced over at the digital clock that was on the desk behind her. 10:17pm! She had been at this too long. With a sweep of her hands, she gathered up all of her loose papers and swept them into her briefcase. A second check to make sure that no papers had been left behind, and then she locked the case. The discarded papers, the incorrect drafts, were herded up into a file folder. That folder would make its way into the fireplace at KGB Headquarters. She smirked. The methods of handling confidential files had clearly rubbed off on her. On the other hand, her work would prove quite difficult to plagiarize prior to publication. Short of some ambitious graduate student sneaking into KGB Special Section 8’s residence hall and taking photographs of her personal whiteboard, her methods and equations should be safe.

Tatyana walked down to where the bike racks were, and noted that hers was the last one there, as usual. She strapped her belongings down to the rear deck, unlocked the bike, put on her helmet, and rode for home.

Had she been feeling lazy, she could have used her base teleporter, or the KGB teleportation network to call in her armor with the rocket boots. But, then as now, Tatyana enjoyed a good bike ride. Even when the sun was down and the city was dark, it could be an exhilarating thing. She thought of the clear night air as energy waves, of the roads as the boundaries between them, and the stars as the possible method of triangulation that was the centerpiece of her dissertation.

She supposed that it could be thought of another way. On a bicycle, she had total freedom and control over her path. Her life had been a series of moves beyond her control, forced to the Udachny facility, spun throughout the dimensions after the Incident, hauled out of that obscure world here to Paragon. Her bicycle was freedom of movement in a life that had lacked it.

Tatyana rode on, a small smile forming on her lips.

Only the Outcast that tried to mug her marred the ride, and he would be regretting that decision from behind bars in the Ziggurat.

X - Conflict and Conundrums

Olga took her helmet off to rub at her temples. Any meeting of the Cosmonaut Ninja Corps was going to be loud, boisterous, undisciplined, and completely and utterly insane. She had no clue how she had managed to survive the voyage with her sanity intact. Perhaps faster than light travel was inherently destabilizing, and was the reason for the changes her crew had undergone, both physically and mentally. Or perhaps she was insane. Or merely cursed by some malevolent cosmic force to suffer for some imagined slight.

She mentally cursed her brother again for coming up with this Cosmonaut Ninja nonsense, and cursed her crew for choosing to embrace it and live it so… emphatically.

Lana and Zoya were discussing the esoteric politics of plant life within the hydroponics lab. They apparently spoke vegetable fluently and were in the midst of peace negotiations. Yuri and Ivan were, as usual, yelling slogans at each other at the top of their lungs. Toma was adjusting his boxing gloves. Thankfully, Toma took his belief in being strong and silent to new levels; Olga had not heard two words together from him in several years.

The general hubbub was rising exponentially, and Olga finally let loose with a glare. Zoya saw it first, and managed to bring the rest of the brightly-clad ninja to order in relatively short form. Ivan and Yuri were managing to shake in their boots while standing at ease.

Sometimes, it is better to be feared than to be respected, Olga reflected.

***

A whirling storm of blades and flame stormed through the Council base. Orders were barked, weapons fired, wolves let slip from their leashes, but nothing could slow them. The masked council soldiers fell back in confusion.

“What were we supposed to be getting again, Merry?” she asked, disarming a machine-gunner of his weapon with an effortless flick of her brass-colored katana. Yulia was not tall, but her lean form gave the illusion of height. Her raven hair called into mind that of her father, as did her stark black and white clothing.

“Claw of D00m,” Merry replied. She was busy cutting a vampyr’s legs out from under with her left-hand blade, one that matched Yulia’s in color. She was identical to Yulia in visage, but her carriage and movements were much more those of her mother, as was her clothing. Her father was constantly after her to dress more modestly. Apparently, what was good enough for his wife was not good enough for his daughter.

“Claw of D00m? Man, that thing has like, a million calories in the apple filling alone! But why are we fighting all these guys just to get to a donut?” Yulia ducked, and then slashed upwards to bring down the Warwolf. Her Godcutter was only half of what her father’s had been, but it was no matter.

“I think it’s something else, some kind of artifact thingy, Yulia.” Merry was a whirling dervish of blades, one in each hand, deflecting bullets and other attacks. The flames of the Council’s weapons impacted harmlessly on the burning blue aura that sheathed both of the twins.

“Still, be it donuts or doomsday claw things, Fate’s Soldier and Fate’s Champion to the rescue!” Though the heritage of the Eternal Templar had only been passed on to them, the youngest of seven children, and it had been split between the two of them, they were still a force to be reckoned with.

Merry spun and parried the negative energy bolt of a Galaxy soldier. “You’re such a geek, Yulia.” She rolled her eyes.

***

Doctor Steven Sheridan was weaving through traffic, cursing every second of delay. His specially armored Oldsmobile was causing immeasurable amounts of incidental damage as he cut corners and sped through red lights. Fenders were clipped, hydrants knocked down, pedestrians scattered. The city would pay for it all, so he was completely unconcerned.

The red countdown light on his dash kept glaring at him, a solemnly ticking countdown clock of impending doom. It was an unusual feature for an Oldsmobile, but for a scientist-hero, essential. He was considering patenting and marketing it.

As he passed through the gate into King’s Row, a series of police motorcycles fell into formation around him, a police escort. Finally, Dr. Science was able to make good time.

He parked illegally on the steps of the main police station, and rushed past the huge metal disc that proclaimed that this was Paragon City – The Birthplace of Tomorrow. He must have been a strange sight to the young heroes standing around, paying homage to Blue Steel. Sprinting though the main doors, he waved his identification at the guards standing by the metal detectors before leaping around them.

They could arrest him later, he thought, if there was a later. It wasn’t every day that an anti-matter bomb was planted in the basement of the main police station.

He flew down the stairs, taking them two at a time. The echoes of his footsteps resounded in the poorly lit concrete and metal hallway. He rounded the corner to where he had been told the bomb was, and…

“Hey, Steve. Could you hand me that paperclip on the table over there? Can’t quite reach it from here.”

Sheridan fumed. Here he was again, still in that damned beat-up white coat of his. He had half a mind to refuse, but relented and transported the paperclip to the squatting doctor, who had his hand holding open a spring that would have detonated the bomb otherwise.

“Here you go, Jack.”

“Thanks, chief.” Doctor Jack Paladin bent the paperclip open, holding one end in his teeth, and then inserted it gingerly into the bomb’s housing. “There we go. All better. Catch you later, Steve.”

Dr. Steven Sheridan was simply not about to let it go at that. “Off to spread more lies about me, Dr. Paladin?”

Jack fixed Steven with a one-eyed stare. “Nah, I’d never lie about your glory-hounding and trying to take full credit for the team effort that was the Alpha/Omega gambit. Besides, I’m sure you’ll want to try to steal the credit for the bomb here, too.”

Steven Sheridan grumbled, “It was my overall idea, and you must admit that. Now, if you’ll pardon me, I’m going to make sure you don’t make a mess of that bomb, like everything else you touch. You’re a lousy scientist, Jack, and nothing’s going to fix that.”

Jack Paladin shook his head, deciding that it just wasn’t worth fighting about, and left the way he came in. Steven Sheridan crouched down beside the bomb casing, trying to ascertain what would be needed to make Jack’s ramshackle, jury-rigged solution permanent.

***

“All right, soldiers, listen up,” Olga spoke into the assembly room. Her voice was soft, but it carried into the back corners, silk-wrapped iron. “I am sick and tired of being captain of a broken-down old diesel tractor. I was chosen to be a young pioneer for all of humanity, as were all of you. Our mission, as you may well be aware, was a partial success.

“However, a partial success means that it was also a partial failure! We returned here to Earth for refit, resupply and repairs, not rest and relaxation! And we certainly did not come back so that some of you,” she thundered, looking with particular ire at her brother Ivan, “could run around in your pajamas, yelling out nonsense from children’s cartoons!”

The room had fallen into a deadly silence. Olga knew that she was pushing the bounds, but she felt it was necessary. This ninja nonsense had spread through the crew like wildfire, becoming a way of life. They had put aside their uniforms for costumes with capes and helmets, and it was like a children’s show all the time.

She had allowed herself to go along with the nonsense, rather than face mutiny. Now, here on Earth again, she knew she had to whip this crew back into the fine bunch that had taken the world’s finest star vessel sailing to destinations unknown, in the name of the Revolution. Now was the time.

She would get this ship running again, and this time, they would complete the mission.

***

The final shell casing had fallen, and the minigun’s multiple rotating barrels whirred to a stop. Merry grinned over to Yulia. “See? Piece of cake.”

The red emergency lighting here in this Council data center was not flattering to either of them, and Yulia found herself wishing she had time to disable the klaxons. The Council had been unprepared for the assault, and the twins had made short work of the defenses.

Yulia looked to her sister, and said, “So, can we find this mainframe and search it before they, I dunno, send in an army of robots or open vents that drop magma on our heads or something?”

Merry shook her head. “Wet blanket,” she teased. “What would dad say about that?”

Yulia replied as she scanned the area, looking for a data terminal, “Something like, ‘the job’s the job, and the sooner done the better?”

Merry laughed. “No way. He’d say, “No matter what the problem, there’s always time for a cup of coffee.”

The twins looked at each other and both said, “Ick!”

They searched for a few minutes. Yulia rushed over when Merry cried out her success, leaping deftly over a wrecked hoverbot. Merry was typing away furiously, hacking at the security subsystems with ease. Yulia looked over her shoulder for a moment before hip-checking her sister out of the way and taking over the keyboard herself. “Could you possibly be any slower, Merry? We were cracking things like this when we were four!” she exclaimed, her fingers flying over the keys.

Merry stuck out her tongue. “At least I can cook,” she retorted.

Seconds later, Yulia was staring at a search prompt. At last, some progress.

ENTER SEARCH TERMS:
>SAVIOR MACHINE

***

Jack sat on a low brick wall in Brickstown, savoring some of his coffee. The tar-like, lukewarm substance was ambrosia so far as he was concerned, the staff of life.

He took the opportunity to flex his right hand, to try to work the stiffness out of the brand-scar across his palm. One of these days, he would try to get that fixed, but he had his doubts about actually being able to pull it off. He’d returned from the dead, and showed up with a set of scars that had nothing to do with how he had died. He smirked to himself. I guess that’s the price you pay for having a multiply-recursive multiversal origin story, he thought.

Jack drummed his fingers, nervous. There were not many factions in Paragon capable of acquiring that much anti-matter. The manufacture of anti-matter in quantity was strictly controlled, and not something easy to conceal. Jack started ticking off suspects.

Positron or Dr. Sheridan could have done it, but it was completely out of character and without motivation. Nemesis would certainly have the motivation, but there were no reports of anti-matter or equipment thefts. And the bomb itself did not have any of the hallmarks of the nihilistic Freakshow.

Jack took another swig of his coffee, and considered. His brain was furiously making connections and inferences on one hand, and discarding them on the other. Some imperfect fits were filed away as requiring more data.

Who had the motive, opportunity and means to attempt to destroy an entire city with an exotic weapon?

The best fit was a threat that he had thought was past. He had fulfilled his duty as Templar, slain the Godking with his blue stone blade. The weapon was gone, absent, but he felt the familiar stirring within his breast.

The Godcutter was a part of him, a weapon of spirit as well as of material, and it was considering reawakening. Apparently, his job as Eternal Templar, champion of chaos, was not over. The Imperial Combine could have the means to do this, but what was the motive?

On the other hand, an Exodus Hunter from the Combine had attacked his family just recently. They were active here.

And there was one question niggling away at the back of his brain. A question his daughters from the future had asked him. “Dad? What’s the Savior Machine?”

He had no idea. But he was certain that it was important.

***

Deep below Paragon, it stirred, microscopically shifting. Its world was in danger. Soon, the time would come.

The Savior Machine knew that soon it would rise again.

It could have been worse...

Frank Miller's PHALANX.

I would hate to think of the horrible fates in store for Numina and Psyche there.

Wisecracker, how did you get that broadsword into Manticore's left hand? /curious

Right... but fun trivia fact:

GoM up there had a petition for the assault rifle to be replaced for quite some time. He even proposed a model...

...that looked suspiciously like the Vanguard Redding Rifle looks today.

You knew it was going to happen...

I proudly present... the PEOPLE'S PHALANX!



Statesman - The Proletarian will strike you down with the mighty Hammer of the People! (I kept the helmet, but added a mustache.)

Sister Psyche - Comrade Psyche of the Soviet Psychic Warfare Division would have words with you. She also does double duty, modeling for propaganda posters.

Positron - Cerenkov will crush you! This was an easy one - I added a Lenin-style goatee, and just ran with my favorite armor design.

Back Alley Brawler - The Soviet Man-Bear fears no capitalists! This inner-city radical with leftist leanings defected to the Soviet Union in the 1960's.

Manticore - The Internal Security Division does not go in for flashy nicknames. (This is my favorite design of this group, and I will probably steal the look for a new character.)

Numina - A simple uniform and severe hairstyle underlie Comrade Kirlian's true power.

Synapse - The Soviet Speedster fully intends to take home a number of gold medals at the next Olympics.

Citadel - The Stalingrad Class War Robot is a fine example of Russian engineering: The vacuum-tube artificial intelligence is second to none, and the diesel engines give it the strength of ten bears!

Here's my entry. I think a few notes on my, er, design choices are in order.

Statesman: Stars are too easy for an all-American patriotic hero. It takes a real big hero to pull off the stripes, too.

Sister Psyche: A little more modesty is called for when you can hear the horny thoughts of teenagers. I was never a fan of the all-green costume, anyway.

Positron: This is one of my better ones. That armor suit is mean, green and ready to blast some bad guys with radioactive beams.

Back Alley Brawler: Powergloves? No way. This Brawler has a little armor on his forearms, just enough for knives and chains. He does his job with street smarts and attitude.

Manticore: I went the Batman route, here. He's supposed to be a sneaky natural kind of guy, not averse to using psychological warfare. So, he has a scary mask to freak out the bad guys. Have to figure that it's also got a built-in voice changer, air filter and nightvision, right?

Numina: I really like her in-game look as it is. This is an update that is trying to keep true to the original.

Synapse: So I was watching some speed skating the other day....

Citadel: Now there's a robot that's going to be like a wall between you and the bad guys.

(Note: Absolutely no one saw me accidentally post this from my wife's account. This is not the mistake you are looking for.)

IX - Passing the Torch

Smersh sat back in his chair, laying down the stack of papers he had been reviewing onto his desk. He rotated around in the chair, scowling at the one spring that jabbed into his lower back. He would have to attempt to fix it himself, and furniture was never a part of his expertise. He had some training on breaking furniture; on searching it for secret compartments containing documents, microchips or cash; on using it to shield himself from explosions. But fixing a spring without ruining the upholstery would be a technical challenge.

He sighed. Typically, this was something that would be replaced, but the revenue streams were drying up. Tough economic times meant that some donors were donating less, and some had ceased their donations entirely. Smersh had not brought this to the attention of the rank and file agents, as they had their own worries. The city had cut hero reparations enough, and…

Bah. He hated to admit it to himself, but his protracted absence from the hero scene was causing enough problems. Special Section 8 had evolved, entirely against his wishes, into a sort of personality cult, where everything rested on his shoulders. He had not led a team exercise in two months, and the activity roster was showing the strain. Not that things had been that wonderful before, mind. Still… so few agents around, and none bothering to attend meetings. He had been forced to miss a couple; this is true, but for the past three weeks…

It was somehow obvious. The Section needed Comrade Smersh, Armored Hero to lead it into battle, and he had not been there.

The officer corps was also strangely absent. Siberian Spring was off working on her doctoral thesis out of state. Soviet Shadow was still on detached duty, undercover. Only Iron Joe was still there to try to make things work.

Smersh smirked to himself. He had even been pulling double shifts in the soup kitchen, as the duty roster there was just getting too thin. And… bah. No one was assigned to sewer duty. He would have to go down there to ensure that the Nemesis Army, the Council, or the Circle of Thorns were not down there, trying to get in again. Smersh hated sewer duty with a passion; it was the reason he considered it a punitive detail.

Those few agents he did have available were rotating through on guard duty for the Space Battleship Potemkin. Smersh considered pulling those agents, and making sure that the Cosmonaut Ninja Corps was the primary unit responsible. He rejected the idea out of hand, however. The Cosmonaut Ninjas were rather unstable, undisciplined, and unsuited to such work. At least, that was his experience of them. He smirked. Other than their Captain, who was a forbidding, imposing figure, the ninja were interchangeable to his mind and impossible to keep track of. He was certain there were differences, but they would be easier to track if he was a fan of American cartoon shows.

Smersh lifted his glasses to rub at his eyes. Where the devil were all his agents? He needed to create an officer corps that was capable of running the Section without him, but it was so difficult. Somehow, it was heartening: The agents were so filled with their belief in communism, he supposed, that none of them really wished to be set above the others.

Smersh looked to the papers, and instead reached down to the bottom drawer, pulled out a flask of vodka and poured some into his glass. The cool liquid burned as it raced down his throat.

The Section had certainly been through hard times before. There had been times when it had been just himself and Red-Eye, carrying the flag. There had been times when it seemed that it was just himself and Sasha trying to preserve the name. These days, though…

Smersh sighed. He just felt alone now. It had been a long time since he had felt this alone, and this was not the way he needed to live. He needed people around him, and he knew that he had been driving people away for the last year. It had been a conscious decision; one that he thought was a necessary one. It had gone beyond a choice, though, and become a way of life.

He missed Cog Sprocket on days like this. She always kept him grounded in reality. And she had been a friend. A friend, just one or two, was all he really needed these days. Someone who could treat him as an equal.

Perhaps that was why, despite the bruises and pain from the bar fight, he had enjoyed drinking with Hal the Truckinator. Hal had not held him in awe, not expected him to be the most noble and ideal of all communists. Hal had known he was just a human being.

Smersh winced as he shifted in his chair. A human being who was far too used to fighting in armor, it seemed. There had been a time when he would have been able to fight like that, drink all night, and still get up at 0500 for drill in the morning. It seemed that those days had gone long in the past. Back before the Soviet Union had fallen. Even at the tender young age of 32, he had started having trouble waking up in the morning. A focused and disciplined application of willpower had managed to carry him through the next twenty one years, but every day was getting a little bit longer, a little more painful, a little harder.

Smersh reached over to the cigarette box he kept on his desk and removed one of his filthy unfiltered cigarettes. He supposed that he brought it on himself, not living a clean and fit life. He was really only committed to the exercise program that kept him in shape because it was easier than adjusting the fit of his armor. He lit his cigarette, trying not to think of the intensive program he had had to go through when he first applied for his hero license. He had not worn the armor for thirteen years at that point.

Yevgeny sank down deeper into the chair. Many men his age would be thinking about retirement. He shook his head. The idea of retirement was not even something that had crossed his mind until now. How does a hero retire? Can someone accustomed to living in the shadow of death just… work in his garden?

Of course he could. There was no retirement pension, no place to go, but he could manage it. Perhaps a third… no, fourth… no, fifth life as a technical consultant to a power armor firm.

But what about Comrade Smersh? The world still needed Comrade Smersh, a bright red star shining in the darkness. Symbols of hope should not retire, should not fade out into nothingness. The world needs heroes, and for better or for worse, Comrade Smersh had become the paragon of social justice in a world that was lacking it.

Cigarette drooping from his lower lip, he turned to his desk computer and typed a few search terms onto the internet. He read on heroes of the past, and considered his own. He had not been the first to bear the name of Comrade Smersh. The armor had been new to him, but there had been a Comrade Smersh before him. The codename had come back into circulation when its previous bearer had been killed in action.

Other heroes of the past had retired, but allowed their legacy to be carried on. There were numerous incidences of the mask, artifact, or whatever being passed on. The encyclopedias had several hero names that were marked with a (II) or a (III), in one instance a (VI). Comrade Smersh could live on in the form of another. The torch could be passed.

Yevgeny drummed his fingers. He could even stay on as Field Commander, be the administrative leader. He was just… tired of it all. So damned tired.

VIII - Bar Room Blitz

The Dirty Duck was a chain of poorly lit bars with seedy furniture that could be found on many a street corner in Paragon. The clientele was extremely variable, but many of the franchise locations had a specific customer base that adopted it or, in the case of the Prometheus Park location, annexed it for their own nefarious purposes. (The franchise owner there drew the line at demon summoning.)

One location was frequented by reporters, another by off-duty police officers. The one that Yevgeny Korsakov found himself in was chosen completely at random, without any regard to the sorts of people he would run into there. It was a decision he would soon find himself regretting.

It had been a long, hard day. There were so many long, hard days these days. Paperwork. Hero work. Unexpected emergencies. Today, he had saved a schoolbus full of children from the Circle of Thorns, disrupted a plot to obtain nuclear materials by the Malta Group, managed to get to a black-tie fundraiser for the Section, and fought off a zombie invasion. Time was a blur, days blending into one another. So much work for Comrade Smersh, because no one else could possibly handle it.

He had decided that he needed the night off, and was taking it. In fine Russian tradition, he planned to drink until he felt no more of the pain and bruises of his daily work, and then become morose and philosophical. He would then stagger home completely drunk. It was a vice he seldom permitted himself to indulge, and the best way to do it, absent a good friend in similarly dire straits, was to drink alone surrounded by others who were having a good time.

Perhaps someone would strike up a conversation, perhaps not. The only imperative was that he become impaired, immediately.

He found a corner booth that was unoccupied, and staked his claim to it. He had to speak louder than he wanted to in order to communicate with the waitress over the blaring jukebox. The combination of 1980’s “classics” and heavy metal was jarring, but he knew he would soon cease to care. He promised the waitress a fine tip if she ensured that his glass was never empty, and that the words “I think you’ve had enough” would not pass her lips tonight.

He was frowning into his vodka, thinking of times past. It used to be that he had friends, comrades, who could have met him here, who would have been happy to match him drink for drink, or at the least keep him company. He drank down a drink to absent comrades: Dwarf Star, Captain Valor, Dueling Dervish, and others who he never saw anymore. Even Koldunia, the withdrawn Soviet sorceress, had been a good drinking companion on occasion. He smiled bitterly as the vodka burned down his throat, and reached for his pack of cigarettes.

Comradeship, for him, had given way to leadership. The world required Comrade Smersh, a bright symbol of hope for social justice in a city where it was so often denied. The demands of the office, he supposed. But he had never asked for the responsibility, never sought to become the leader of a group that was often respected, sometimes reviled, but always a force to be reckoned with. It had been easier, he thought, in the early days in Paragon, where all he had to deal with was the Komisar, his constant demands for updates, his occasionally insane requests, and the sewer duty. It had just been easier when he was the follower, not the leader.

It would not be fair, he thought to himself, to ask him to predict how all of it would work out. The Komisar an interdimensional foe, the manipulations, the divorce… the troubles, all of them, had driven him to where he was now. Not driven him to drink, though he was drinking now, but driven him into a corner. There was so little time for Yevgeny Korsakov now. Only Smersh could do the things that needed doing. Yevgeny Korsakov always had to wait.

His family had suffered for it, he knew. And that was even before his fateful, morally wrong, somehow cosmically right decision. Since then, he had, unconsciously, let Yevgeny Korsakov hide, let Comrade Smersh be the armor. Yevgeny Korsakov was imperfect and weak, but Comrade Smersh could be strong, could always be depended upon.

It was strange, really. He had always worried about how much the Komisar had altered his mind with psychic power. Was Yevgeny Korsakov the man he’d been meant to be? He liked to think so. Now that the Komisar was dead, his mind should be his own. A mind that was weak and wavering, with insufficient talent or ability to be useful to the world. He spent more of his time in the guise of the hero… an image and identity which had been forged by the Komisar.

Bah. He slugged back another glass of vodka, felt his eyes water up at the potent drink. He stubbed out his cigarette and lit another.

As he lit up, he allowed his situational awareness to kick into gear. Certainly, he was drinking tonight, but he knew better than to allow that to cut into his vigilance. Hong Kong and East Berlin had taught him those lessons well. There was tension in the air, hanging like… well, like cigarette smoke in a poorly ventilated bar. (Analogies were one of the first refuges he sought when he had been drinking, and he was particularly proud of that one.)

Yevgeny saw a large number of young men and women sizing him up, muttering to each other. It was clear that at least some of them knew who he was, and wanted to do something about it.

Yevgeny supposed that it was the price he’d paid. He had never really attempted to conceal his identity here in Paragon City. When he had put on the armor after years of inactivity, he’d had no friends, no relatives, nothing really to lose here, and the hassle of a secret identity was not something in which he had been interested. Events had only served to raise his public profile: Special Section 8 was a common rallying point for certain politicians in the city. He had saved the city several times, and his picture had been on the networks and on the newspapers.

The scar he’d acquired last year made him stand out all the more.

As a large, corn fed, husky man approached his booth, Yevgeny affected disinterest, pulling on his cigarette with a lazy sigh. Internally, he was preparing for sudden violence, shifting to a position that would be easier to move from, taking stock of available improvised weapons. The old spy still had some reflexes intact, it seemed.

Yevgeny looked, really looked, at the patrons of this fine boozing establishment. He had not been here before, not checked it out. He knew the Dirty Duck was notorious for the stratification of clientele at various locations, but he had not known the crowd this one would attract.

Hero wannabes. Bah.

They were a motley bunch, wearing castoff sporting equipment, goods from the military surplus store, or costumes they had made themselves. They had low-level mystic artifacts, combat boots, rifles and ninja garb. And many of them were looking at him.

This was not how he wanted to spend his evening. He hoped the waitress would return, so that he might settle his bill and find another place, any other place to continue his consciousness-altering.

The large man settled in front of the table, waiting for Yevgeny to make eye contact. Smersh did not want to deal with this tonight, but his life was so rarely his own that he was unsurprised. He deliberately ignored the gaze, and blew some cigarette smoke in the direction of the interloper. The interloper coughed and stepped closer.

“Hey, you’re that Russian guy, aren’t you?” Bulging biceps strained at a too-tight football jersey. A scarf that was meant to be worn around the lower portion of the face, but was free and loose at the moment. Smersh thought him to be a former high school star looking to reclaim some of the old glory he had once known.

Yevgeny finally looked him in the eye. “No. Leave me be.”

The football player smiled a little and moved in closer. “You can’t fool me with that accent of yours. I’m All American Joe, and you’re like, a legend. You’ve got to tell us about it, show us some moves. C’mon, we’ll buy your drinks.”

Yevgeny considered a variety of answers, ranging from the rude to the vulgar, and let out a bone-weary sigh. He went with the polite, “No. Leave me be, please.”

All American Joe was not going to be put off. He stepped even closer, and poked Yevgeny in the chest. “Hey, man, we all look up to guys like you. Hero of the City and all that. All we’re asking is GACK!” This last came as Yevgeny reached out and grabbed the fingers that were tapping at him, and twisted them around. All American Joe had turned around to avoid a rotator cuff injury, his arm sticking out directly behind him.

“I am in no mood to coddle your illusions. Perhaps one of you here might someday make something of themselves, though the odds are against it. I came here to enjoy my drink, and to have some time to think.” He gave another twist, and Joe went to his knees. “So, if you will pardon me, I will pay for my drinks and leave, and I shall even throw in a pointer for free: Do not tug on Statesman’s cape, do not spit into the wind, and do not presume to poke heroes in the chest when they are enjoying a drink!”

Yevgeny planted his sneaker in the middle of Joe’s back, and sent him rolling towards the bar.

Five or six of the bar’s patrons stood up, as Joe dusted himself off and turned to them. “I told you guys he really was a no-good dirty commie! Let’s get him!”

They outnumbered Yevgeny, they had youth and enthusiasm on their side, and they were not quite as intoxicated as he was. Yevgeny knew that this would hurt, but he was committed now.

The first came at him with a police baton, thrusting it towards Yevgeny’s midsection. Yevgeny pushed the strike aside with one hand, and stepped inside the weapon’s effective reach. He smashed his forehead into the unfortunate attacker’s nose. The attacker dropped, blood gushing from his nostrils.

Movement to the left, coming high. Yevgeny dropped to one knee, bringing his head below the level of the flying kick. He raised a fist as the foot passed over him; the attacker impacted on the fist in the most obvious nerve pressure point of them all.

Yevgeny stepped aside and grabbed at a barstool, using it as a shield against a hockey stick slashing towards his face. A second too slow; the blow stung across his forehead. His vision doubled for a moment, but the stool was large enough that swinging it in an arc gave contact with someone or something. The stool broke apart, unsurprisingly.

Yevgeny knew that the greatest danger was being flanked. He was almost certain that All American Joe was coming in behind him, so he lashed out with a mule kick to the rear. His movements were not those of a martial artist with grace and style; they were instead the moves of a commando who only knew one way to succeed in an unarmed brawl against multiple attackers. He struck defensively, and decisively, because in a situation like this, there was no fighting dirty.

Arms caught him in a full nelson, and the female of the group, resplendent in her colorful ninja garb that was missing about sixty percent of its material, dealt him a couple of strong blows with a pool cue to his stomach. A third sharp blow hit his kidney, and he doubled over in mock pain. Dropping to one knee, he shifted one shoulder forward to throw off the grappler, and send him barreling into the ninja. Yevgeny get quickly to his feet, and faced the last of them, a young lady in fatigues and night vision goggles. She surveyed the wreckage and ran.

Ten seconds had passed.

Yevgeny looked around, embarrassed, and threw a few bills down onto the counter and left quickly.

He ensconced himself in another bar, trying to be anonymous this time. He slumped down at the table, rubbing at his head. The vodka was doing little to ease his pain.

He turned over the events in his head, and disliked the answers that he was coming up with. His response had been completely out of proportion to the stimulus, and he was ashamed. There was a time when Smersh would have nurtured the young heroes, answered their questions frankly, spoken of the nobility of the crusade, of service to the People. The logical corollary of “to each according to their means” was “those who are strong must be so for those who are weak.”

Certainly, few of them would ever rise to the ranks of Hero of the City, or the People’s Hero. He had seen many cases of those who had thought to try hero work discovering that they were not suited to the lifestyle, but still found room for devotion to the People in their daily lives.

KGB Special Section 8’s heart and soul, Yevgeny knew, was not in the hero work, but in the soup kitchen and clinic, in the food bank and the job placement, the retraining and labor representation. Helping the People was never about beating in the face of the bad guys, it was preventing the fascists from harming the proletariat, keeping the corporate from harming the laborers.

Why, then, had he chosen to crush the hopes of those who might possibly follow in his footsteps?

He waved over another drink, and downed it without much of a thought. It was clear what the problem was, and it was connected to his earlier thoughts. Comrade Smersh would have been the shining ideal of the Soviet superman, the crusader for a lost cause. Yevgeny Korsakov was… not a nice man, these days. He had been denied the sunlight, and had withered in the past year.

Smersh was still a symbol of hope and a good man. Yevgeny Korsakov had turned into a loner, a martyr, and unappreciative of what life had given him. A family that was strained, to be certain; that was his own fault. His friends had become strangers, absent, distant; it was a response to his own absence and distance.

What, then, was the solution to Yevgeny Korsakov’s problems? Comrade Smersh required fifteen and sixteen hour days, sometimes longer. There was little room for Yevgeny Korsakov to grow, to become a man worthy of Comrade Smersh.

It was at this point that Smersh looked up to see that a man had joined him in the booth. You’re getting old, Korsakov, he thought to himself. Fifty-three this year. It was not as though the person who had joined him looked the stealthy sort. The orange highway safety vest was another strike against the theory of the subtle approach.

“Hey. Buy you a drink?” An Orioles cap over a jowly face. Yevgeny thought he looked somehow familiar.

Yevgeny waved a hand, as if he did not have a care in the world. “Go ahead, comrade. It is a… free country, da?”

The large man settled himself into the booth, setting down his mug of cheap yellow American beer. “You look like a man who’s got a lot on his mind. Name’s Hal.”

Yevgeny nodded, then favored the waitress who brought him another drink with a tight smile. “Comrade Hal, I am called Yevgeny. You need not try to pronounce it if you do not wish.” The slur in Yevgeny’s voice was somewhat hidden under his Russian accent.

“Thanks, I’ll pass on it. What’s your trouble, amigo?”

Yevgeny considered it, and chortled to himself. “I suppose it is the usual, da? I work too hard, I am breaking myself, and I am not giving enough time to my family. All I want is to be a good daddy, and I hardly ever see my children these days. Or my grandchildren. It is just the same troubles that everyone has these days, I suppose.”

Hal shook his head. “Not everyone. I’m a trucker by trade, but the company’s been laying off owner-operators and I can’t make a living as an independent. Parts ‘n’ diesel are running me out of house and home, so I’m pretty much out of work. I reckon it’s been on its way to happening for about four years now, but I just kept on truckin’. Even had my truck wrecked this time last year, but like a fool I got right back into it, and now I’m here.” Hal fixed Yevgeny with a look. “’Leastwise you’re still a workin’ stiff.”

Yevgeny rubbed at his head. “I suppose there is that. I am just… wondering about choices I have made, and if I can live the life I have created for myself.”

Hal took a long pull from his beer. “One thing you can say for being out of work: gives you time to pursue other things you just never got around to. I’ve been trying to make a name, do some hero stuff. Always wanted to try my hand at it, but I just never found the time. It’s tough when you’re on the road all the time.”

Yevgeny raised an eyebrow. “Oh? You are operating under a hero license?”

Hal’s face was impassive. “Yeah. Tried on Hal the Truckinator for size, but I wasn’t really feeling that. It was what was painted on my old truck, the one that got wrecked. Ended up calling myself Owner Operator. Works well enough for me. It’s been, well, something I’ve always wanted.”

Yevgeny lit up another cigarette. He had no idea how much he had smoked tonight, but he knew that his throat would pay for it tomorrow. “Always, comrade?”

Hal tipped his ballcap. “Grew up watching Westerns, and later on in life, I always think about’em. Yeah, the good guy doesn’t always wear a white hat, but you can tell who the good guys are because they’re tough, and willing to be tough enough to stand up to folks in the wrong.” Yevgeny smirked, interested in how this man, who might be of an age with him, a man who had grown up in a completely different country, a completely different world, could echo his own thoughts. “I was always big for my age, and I just never let a bully push people around because they could. Tried to join the Army, but I’ve got a bust eardrum and they wouldn’t take me. So I went to work, got married, tried to live the American dream.”

Yevgeny sympathized. “You know, marriage just did not work out for me. Myself, I can almost understand your problems… for much of my life, I was always travelling around the world, with never a chance until these last few years to settle down. I suppose part of me still likes being rootless, but part of me wants to put down an anchor and say, ‘Here I shall stay, and no man shall ever move me.’”

The Truckinator put down his empty beer mug, and looked Yevgeny in the eye. “And how’s the hero work for you, mister Smersh man?”

Yevgeny ran a hand over his bald scalp. “Am I so well known, comrade? Just in the last place I was in, I was… mobbed by people who recognized me, da?”

Hal frowned. “Yeah, I was there. Followed you here. And right now, I’m debating whether I should kick your *** and ask for an apology, or if I should ask for an apology and then kick your ***.”

Yevgeny focused his eyes on the burning tip of his cigarette, suddenly unwilling to submit to the stare coming his way. “I suppose that those were friends of yours? I am sorry, the situation just went beyond my control, da?”

The Owner Operator sank back in the booth. “You have no idea, do you? You really have no clue why I’d be upset with you. Sit back and listen, Comrade Man, because I have a tale to spin for you.

“It was just about a year ago, February 11 to be exact, when my truck got wrecked. I was making the Skyway run in Paragon here, up from Baltimore with a load of medical supplies. I’m driving along, minding my own business, when suddenly I run into a multicar pileup. Being a nice guy, really thinking about myself being a nice guy, I get out to try and help the people who were injured in the crash.

“Do I get a minute on the local news for it? Nope. Instead, I get a guy who calls himself a hero being a big bully. He caused the car wreck, which hurt people, so he could stop my truck with its supplies. He beats me up and blows up my truck. And now, a year later, he can’t even remember it.

“So, Comrade old buddy, I think you owe me an apology. I was just trying to be a good guy, and you decided that was a good enough excuse to put me in the hospital a couple of weeks, put me out of work a couple of months while I had to fight the insurance company because my truck got totaled.

“So how about it?” Hal’s normally red face had gotten a bit redder, and not from drink.

Yevgeny’s cigarette had burned down to his fingers while he listened to Hal speak. He muttered a curse and dropped it into the ashtray. It was all an excuse so that he could have a moment to think. He started to speak, but stopped himself before any words came out. He reconsidered, and then began again.

“Comrade Hal… I am very sorry. It was all my fault, and I have only the flimsiest of excuses for it. I know you do not care to hear about it, so I shall not even pretend to defend myself. I thought I was trying to do the right thing at the time, as hard as that may be to believe, but it was wrong, very very wrong. I am sitting here, admiring your drive and your spirit, because I know that you are a better man than I am today. I have had advantages you have not, and still I sit here, feeling sorry for myself. I have even done wrong at the Dirty Duck, beating those would-be heroes senseless, completely out of proportion with their actions. I am wrong, and if you feel a need for further penance, all you need to do is to ask, da?”

Hal looked at Yevgeny, then at his empty beer, then at Yevgeny again. “Ah, hell. That All American Joe character is just another bully who was looking to dress it up in red, white, and blue. He deserved what he got and more.”

There was a momentary pause, and then both Yevgeny and Hal began to chuckle. “I think you did in fact size him up correctly, da?” Yevgeny stopped, then, sobering for a moment, and looked to Hal. “But… as to the rest of it?”

Hal let a breath out through his nose, slowly, and then placed his palms flat on the table. “You know, I resented you for a long time. Got angry, got to be a right pain in the tuckus. But its settled down, and I’ve never been a big one for revenge. Live and let live has been my motto.

“I’ll admit, I got right pissed when I saw you in the bar. I followed the whole thing about you in the papers. And, honestly, bud? I think you got yourself all wrapped up so tight you didn’t know which way was which. And I think you’re on your way to it again, today.

“You don’t need a beating. Hell, my insurance covered everything, even most of the lost wages. You just need someone to tell you to get your head out of your butt and look around. So, pax.”

Hal extended a hand. Yevgeny took it.

VII - Entr'acte

Natasha Popov, also known as Cosmonaut Alpha, drummed her fingers and sighed with disgust. The new duty rotation was moronic, as was the company here. She found herself studiously avoiding contact in these close quarters and checking her watch every five minutes.

This Space Battleship Potemkin was certainly more advanced than the Vostok Zero rocket she had ridden into space. The accommodations were quite spacious, more like a naval vessel than a fighter cockpit. The hum of the engines, the lighting, the computers – she had done most of her calculations with a pencil and instinct! – all added up to a twinge of jealousy.
Overall, though, it was an improvement over sewer duty.

Still… had the standards of the Soviet Space Program fallen that low since she had launched into space in 1960? Drive to chase a star was all well and good, but it should come with a modicum of stability. And competence.

She was hiding herself down in the hydroponics lab, perusing a technical manual. The technologies that went into this ship were four generations more advanced than the stuff she had been most familiar with: Vostok and, before that, her MiG-19. (She had always counted herself lucky that her aircraft had not exploded in midair – the decision to locate the fuel tank between the two jet engines was, while very efficient for fuel transfer, not the safest design decision she had ever encountered.) Of course, her new job, flying supplies on a Vanguard shuttle to their orbital watch station, had her in a craft that made the Vostok Zero look like a firecracker under a trash can. It even made the Space Battleship Potemkin look like a poor-quality movie set compared to reality.

She really would have to reward Irina again for finding a job that let her transcend the atmosphere once more.

Natasha patted her perfect Soviet propaganda poster hair back into place as she thought about her first trip into space. Her memories of it were blurred, being in orbit. The launch, the cramped quarters, the endless briefings, the emergency precautions; all of those were clear to her.

When she had been recovered in the Atlantic Ocean, her craft's records showed that she had been out of radio communication for only forty eight seconds. Here on earth, it appeared that forty eight years had passed. After she had been reconstituted, the dreams began, and so did the power.
Fate was cruelly twisted and ironic: of the power she did have, the one that she would have asked for was the one she did not receive. What good was a superpowered cosmonaut who could not fly?

Natasha lowered her technical manual, and let out a little yell. There was a face hanging upside down in front of her, square-jawed and handsome, wearing some sort of blue and yellow crash helmet.

"Hallo! I am Ivan! Am Cosmonaut Ninja! I am awesome!"

His Russian was even worse than her English, even though it was presumably his native language.

Natasha harrumphed and raised her technical manual again, studiously ignoring the interruption. Not one of the Cosmonaut Ninja Corps had impressed her yet. She granted that she was hard to impress, but at least one of them should have had some sort of skill or talent or insight or… anything besides quirkiness, really.

"Is pleasure to be meeting you! I am navigator of this fine vessel! You are being?" This Ivan was most insistent, and was beginning to edge into Natasha's personal space. That was an accomplishment in and of itself – Natasha, while prickly, was not all that particular or claustrophobic. Perhaps Ivan's aura of idiocy extended far past the normal bounds.
Natasha looked up from her technical manual, and fixed Ivan with an icy glare. "Busy."

"Well, comrade miss pretty girl Busy, I can give tour! Busy is very strange for name. Must be for code name!" Ivan executed a little half-flip as he returned to ground level at a more standard orientation. "Is for hydroponics lab, site of great war between rutabagas and potatoes! Cosmonaut Ninja Zoya and Lana are for brokering peace accords in name of Rutabaga Revolution and People's Republic of Potato!"

Natasha sighed. Clearly, this caped cretin required more direct instruction. "You are on watch as well, da? Go check the security doors or something. I am occupied here."

"Is no need! I have just checked the radar and sonar! Is clear all around us for miles, not even whales in water! And other watchperson is for sleeps, so I am for speak to you! Are cosmonaut too, yes? Other is not cosmonaut, but is ninja, so two of you could have cosmonaut ninja child!" Ivan was a constant blur of motion, not unlike a three year old child with a heaping dose of sugar.

"Wright is not likely to ever father… wait. You said sonar. Do you even know what that means, comrade Ivan?"

"Da, is for using sound waves to see area around!"

Natasha pursed her lips. "This is an interstellar starship, designed to travel in deep space and travel to distant worlds. Why, in the name of Lenin, does it have a sonar system installed?"

Ivan gave a silly grin. "Space Battleship Potemkin is finest vessel ever to fly. It has everything! Is awesome!"

Natasha rolled her eyes. It was going to be a long, long shift. Even Paul Wright would be preferable company.

***

The place was half headquarters, half temple. The light was low, but it did not affect those assembled here. Their perceptions were in higher dimensions, where more light was available to them.

At the head of the table, Exodus Hunter Maya slapped her palms down on the table in frustration. "Why is this world such a challenge? We have five targets to extract and two probability lines to eliminate. I have myself and several Hell Divers for resources. We should be able to pacify a world with this! Why can we not even perform such a simple mission?!?"

Maya had largely recovered from the injuries she had received during the attack. She ran a hand through her green tresses, looking at the others here. They had all been here too long.

"Well, Maya, had you ever served as a Hell Diver, you would know what a little chaos can do to a world," the one called Hector said. Maya did not trust him, as she thought he had gone a bit native. She had even heard that he enjoyed gambling, a completely foreign concept to the Imperial Combine. "This world's even worse. The natives call it Primal Earth, and they're not far wrong. When we eliminate chaos, it has to go somewhere, and that somewhere is here. Why do you think all these time travelers and dimensional rejects end up here? It's the low point on the gravity well."
The one called Cryovex said, "The Datragonians are hardly worth the resources being devoted to them. The lost psychokinetic translation weaponry is a minimal threat. I believe that the resistance fighter is no longer on this plane, and is therefore no longer our problem. And I think that, despite the fears, the Savior Machine was destroyed by the fleet."

"Then what of the other two?" Maya demanded.

"You're trying to wipe out strong probability lines in a place where our usual tactics are less than useful. Of course chaos is going to intervene, especially in the case of the Templar," Cryovex explained.

Maya steepled her fingers. What none of them dared to mention was that the Eternal Templar had stood up to the Singularity, the prime mover of the Combine, and had destroyed him here in this dimension.

The Prime was far, far greater than any of them.

"Very well, then. You two seem to be in love with this world so much, you tell me what I should do. How I can strike at them, how I can expedite my mission and get out of this hellhole." Maya was disgusted by this place. She could feel the chaos dripping off of her, polluting this flesh. Fortunately, she would be able to shed this body and assume a form more like her original once this assignment was over.

“Sterilization. Reduce the planet to a cinder, rendering it lifeless.” The Vex-class clone was perhaps the most stable among them and suggested an eminently workable solution.

“Impossible. The Imperial Combine Navy will not touch this world until they receive confirmation that the Atlantis Event will never repeat.”

“Then I suppose that we shall have to acquire the knowledge that we require. I shall locate the fate of the Savior Machine.”

Hell Diver Hector guffawed. “The chaos is thick here. There is no way you’ll be able to backtrace the Savior Machine; it has been millennia. Even you, Exodus Hunter, will find it difficult.”

“I shall perform my task. If I am not capable of doing so, I shall have to call in another Vex-class Exodus Hunter.”

Maya nodded. “And I shall endeavor to complete our assigned tasks before additional aid becomes necessary. The irritants shall be eliminated.”

***

The sky was burning with a brilliant, blinding sunrise coming through a cloudless sky. The thin, clear air was burning in her lungs. Tatyana was unused to many of these things, including the elevation.

Tatyana tried to make a point of getting some exercise in the early morning, because it was the only time she had to herself. She barely saw the student housing she had been assigned, and, well, she felt cramped and confined there, in a way she never had in KGB headquarters. It reminded her too much of the Udachny Dimensional Facility.

The running was a new habit, one she alternated with swimming in the heated pool. Those who knew her would scarcely credit the new regime; Tatyana had never been one to exercise for the sake of exercise. But, months of long, hard hours had taken their toll: too much time in a chair in front of a computer, too many takeout meals. She had seen herself in the mirror, and had been displeased. For the first time in her life, she had been gaining weight.

Heroing is, apparently, hard work; enough to burn off the calories of a good, solid Russian meal. She had been doing that for… eight years, counting the extradimensional jaunts that had aged her six years in a matter of months on this Earth. Before that, the world in which she had been stranded, living on fish and a few berries that were edible; she had considered herself doing well to keep body and soul together. Before that, she’d been back home in the old country, where only the Party members grew fat.

She was motivated not by vanity, but by shame. If she had continued, she would have had to ask Yevgeny to let out her armor to accommodate new bulk, and that thought was all that it took to drive her to work. The armor had a certain degree of tolerance, but not eight kilos worth.

So, she ran. The high lands around Colorado Springs could almost stand in for Siberia, if she perceived with her nose, her ears, everything but her eyes. The cold, dry breeze promised a hint of snow to come, though the sky was dry and cloudless. It was more a sense of impending change than any concrete evidence.

Much like her project. While the equipment here was far in advance of anything she had worked with in the Soviet Union, and the microcomputers simplified the calculations amazingly, the sense of a breakthrough was floating above the project without showing itself. It was frustrating, working at collating data for the projects of others for a chance to use the equipment she needed for half the time she wanted it, and only after the rest of the science group had gone home. Of course, the equipment was giving her the data she needed for her thesis, but it was not dedicated to that purpose; it was taking approximately four times as long as it should to get the readings.

Still, her work on wave propagation in dimensional media should give her, someday, a thesis worthy of defense before the mathematics department. Working with sound wave theories gave her an edge: the phrase ‘music of the spheres’ was less an analogy and more of a deep truth.

Tatyana returned to the ramshackle little housing unit, pausing to gulp down a bottle of water. She bent down to stretch out calves that were protesting the torment that they were grudgingly adjusting themselves to.

Her KGB-issue communicator had a flashing icon on it, a message awaiting a key that would grant it purpose in existence. The message was from her administrative assistant, Kate, and contained no information in itself, just a request for return communication. Thus having achieved its karmic goals, the message dissolved itself into digital nirvana. The communicator chirped happily, its duty done for the moment.

Kate was another find for the Section, well worth the investment. A professional administrative assistant, she had fallen on hard times and had been in the soup kitchen. She had been the sort who refused to be served; she volunteered before she would allow herself to take the charity offered. Tatyana was uncertain that Yevgeny knew that Kate was even on the payroll, but it was no matter. Kate could almost predict what Tatyana was going to ask for before it was asked, was organized and worked so efficiently that she had time to surf the internet prodigiously while working. Tatyana could not ask for better help.

Tatyana sighed. She would call in later, to receive updates on the Section and the Field Commander. Last she had heard, he was still following his wicked ways, failing to delegate and taking on the entire world. The world would eventually overcome him, she knew.

***

The doorbell rang insistently and repeatedly. Jack looked over his shoulder and yelled, "Just a minute!" This was an extremely delicate, time-sensitive and biohazardous operation. The substance was being expertly cleaned, but there was a sudden chain reaction. Jack yanked his hands back to protect them, and fetched more absorption materials. Emergency protocols were observed.

Three minutes later, the substance was disposed of, and Jake Paladin was asleep again, sucking happily on a bottle. Jack kicked the door open, and said, "Hey. Sorry about that. Diaper emergency. C'mon in, girls."

Two young girls, about twenty years old, walked in and sat on the couch.

"Hi, dad!" said one of them.

"Hey, Merry," Dr. Paladin replied.

"Jeez, dad, I'm Yulia."

"Sorry about that. Only been a couple months, remember?"

Meredith and Yulia Paladin sat themselves on the couch. Merry asked, "Oh, dad, can I hold Jake?" Jack was happy to oblige, handing over one of his firstborn.

"Hey, Jakie! Remember the time you cut my doll's hair off? Not yet? You will. I'm totally gonna get you back for it after you do it, too."

Jack shook his head. Merry and Yulia were, apparently, his twin daughters from the future. Which also made them Smersh and Tatyana's granddaughters.

They claimed to be the youngest of several children, and survivors of a devastated Earth sent back in time to save it. A common enough story around Paragon.

Yulia poked her sister. "Remember? Dad said we weren't allowed to talk too much about the future!" Yulia was the slightly more serious of the two. Merry was less so, being distinctly underdressed by Jack's standards. Apparently, she took after her mother that way.

"Don't think it matters all that much. You've changed the timelines just by being here. On the other hand, quantum collapse does say that most things don't really make all that big a difference, and that the butterfly effect is bunk, so… I guess I trust me. Don't talk too much about the future, ladies." Jack was babbling, a side effect of far too little sleep over the past couple of weeks.

"Yes, dad!" the twins chorused.

Jack gave himself a moment to collect himself by stepping into the kitchen to pour himself a cup of coffee. He spent a moment considering how odd Jake, and Jack Junior, would end up looking at their families. Their grandmother was, due to a dimensional accident, only three years older than their mother, and not the grandmother from this dimension anyway. Other than Alisa's twin, none of their aunts had the same mother, and one of them was only about four years old in any case. Now they had their little sisters there, 20 years older than they were. And that was before you even considered Ma and Pa Paladin.

Only in Paragon, right?

"All right, girls, I'm back. Surprised you didn't want any of the coffee, though. Made plenty," Dr. Paladin said, sipping from his cup. "Would have thought you would have learned to appreciate it. I've got a doctorate in…"

"Bad coffee. We know, Dad," Merry said. She started baby-talking to Jake, "Our mama told us better, didn't she, Jakie Jake?"

Yulia put in, "Hey dad, where's mom at?"

"Went to the store with Junior. Said something about 'getting out of the house.' Believe me, I don't blame her a bit. Makes me wish your grandpa would order me to do something ridiculously complicated."

The family chatted for a little bit, exchanging pleasantries and generally being awkward. Jack finally looked at his watch, and brought the issue back around to the original point. "Well, girls, you said you had something important to talk to me about, and I guess now is as good a time as any. Some major problem you need me to fix?"

"Well… kinda, dad. I mean, you taught me a lot back when, but… Dad, where's your Godcutter?" Yulia asked, concerned. "We haven't been able to sense it at all."

"And ours are only a Godcutter in combination. You said we'd inherited the Eternal Templar gene, but we have to be together for it to work. You need to have yours ready, Dad," Merry amplified.

"Uh… girls, it doesn't work that way. I don't have it anymore because I don't need it. The God-King is dead. It's gone, and I can't see any circumstances in which I'd need it back." Jack shook his head. "I'm not sure I can bring it back. I'm a retired Eternal Templar, and now I'm just Dr. Paladin, loving husband, father, troubleshooter and generally all around nice guy." Jack smirked. "Besides, we've got Fate's Soldier and Fate's Champion to take up the slack now, right?"

Yulia and Merry, Soldier and Champion, looked to each other. "Uh oh," they said in unison.

VI - The Potemkin Issue

Smersh rubbed his eyes. The events of the night had not put off the negotiations on what was euphemistically called the “Potemkin issue.” He would ordinarily not be a party to these negotiations, which he would be grateful for at this instant.

No, he was here because he had de facto control of the Space Battleship Potemkin and its present resting place. A fact that was driving both the American and Russian negotiating teams quite mad, Smersh did note with some amusement.

The Space Battleship Potemkin was a major accomplishment for the old Soviet Union; a fully armed interstellar warship, tasked with exploration. Its launch in 1986 from the Gagarin Space Station was a part of the protracted space race that had helped to eventually bankrupt the Soviet system. It had barely survived re-entry, and had been hard-abused during its travels.

Much of the crew, likewise, had not returned from the trip in mint condition; most of them had low-level psychoses in Smersh’s inexpert opinion. Why else should they have returned, proclaiming themselves to be the Cosmonaut Ninja Corps?

“…we simply cannot allow such equipment to remain outside the hands of a government,” the American representative was droning. “A Star Hammer class cannon, sixteen Core Sickle torpedoes, two Industry class engines. The list goes on. There is also the matter of the crew, who have applied for asylum here in Rhode Island.”

Smersh knew that there were only nine of the torpedoes left in the weapons bays. Not that it mattered; the launching mechanisms had not been of terribly high quality to begin with, and Cosmonaut Ninja Yuri had reported that the firing bays had been considered very hazardous duty, that they had required hosing out and extensive overhauls after each firing.

“In principle, we agree with our American colleagues on the matter of the weapons,” one of the Russians was saying. “In practice, however, our view is much more direct: Those assets, as well as the Potemkin itself, are the property of the Russian government. As to the crew, that matter is covered by the Non-Defection and Superpowered Parity agreement our governments signed in 1993: The crew are still subject to their ten year enlistment. As the… superpowers exhibited by the crew were developed while they were enlisted, they are retroactively covered and must be returned to our country.”

Smersh raised a tired objection. “The term of their enlistment has passed, and according to the crew, had passed when the event occurred that empowered them. They are not covered by said agreement, da?”

The Russian scowled at him. “Nyet. We were unaware of the nature of the time dilation during long interstellar travels. The ten year enlistment is still in force, with three years to run. Clearly, we meant to have ten years service, and ten subjective years have not passed for the crew.”

The American replied, “We do not believe that those enlistments are still in force, and think that the asylum requests are still valid. I move that we wait until a federal judge rules on the asylum request next month.”

The Russian glared at Smersh. “Very well, but we must request that Mr. Korsakov turn over the crew for detention until that matter is resolved.” One of the ways that the Russians attempted to belittle Smersh’s standing was to refuse to acknowledge his rank or his superhero identity. The effort was working well enough, as the Americans were also researching whether Smersh had any standing to negotiate at this level.

Smersh knew he did not, and did not care. “My agents, comrades, will remain free at this time. They presently serve the People of Paragon City in many ways, and I will not allow them to be incarcerated without trial merely so that you can score a small diplomatic victory.” The Russian representative’s eyebrows shot up into his hairline. This was a point that had been argued before, but the blunt words were a new intrusion into the discourse.

The American representative opened his mouth to speak, but Smersh cut him off. “Even if you pressure the city government of Paragon to withdraw their licenses, I shall keep them within our secure facility, as per section eighteen point two point seven of the city’s supergroup licensing laws, permitting us to hold them in an extraterritorial fashion for up to thirty days before turning them over to civil authorities. We shall, of course, ensure that they are ‘held’ most securely in house arrest.”

The American drummed his fingers, one corner of his mouth quirking slightly. Diplomats make for very good poker players. “Mister Korsakov, your record is hardly clear and free from suspicion itself. I imagine, should your attitude persist, it might also extend to your local civic authorities. It would certainly be a shame for the protections that you claim to evaporate in a cloud of paperwork, and you might consider dealing more civilly with others.” He wrote something down quickly and passed it to his aide.

Smersh snorted. His patience had been razor-thin to begin with, and now it gave way. “Oh, comrade, I do not think that you will be able to coerce me. Our Section has had innumerable challenges over the years on the legal front. Its persistence will amaze and surprise you.

“Do you know that I had a pair of grandchildren born last night? And that, while I was at the hospital, I had to deal with an Exodus Hunter, a being of incredible power and evil that is but a single representative of a multidimensional force that would enslave everything; I nearly lost an agent to the creature. I have had ten minutes of sleep in the past 36 hours.

“You, on the other hand, have legal teams, aides, attaches and liaisons to make your lives easier, while I am here by myself. You are attempting to use some sort of state power to take for your respective governments items and people upon which you have no rightful claim. I have had enough of this, da?"

Smersh’s voice kept rising until he was bellowing at the other representatives, channeling his former life as a non-commissioned officer in the Red Army. He slammed his fist down on the table, stood, and walked to the door.

Before he exited, he turned his head one last time. “If you want the Space Battleship Potemkin and the Cosmonaut Ninja Corps, just try to take them from me.”

V - Hell Hath No Fury

Behind the creature, the pile of rubble exploded in a hail of ice and concrete. The figure spun, only to have the floor beneath her coated in a slick frost. A voice called out, “Eedee k'chortu, bleeyat!” Tatyana stepped in, throwing shards of ice at the intruder.

Frozen fury poured into the corridor. Smersh was slightly chilled, but the vine that held him, strangling the life from him, withered and contracted, giving him slightly more room to breathe. He was unable to free himself, but he could at least support himself and prevent his impending demise.

Tatyana was directing her power at the unidentified woman, an arctic gale of righteous anger. The woman’s feet were not human, but three-toed, clawed extremities that bit into the slick floor, keeping her stable. Tatyana directed one of her hands subtly, and encased the woman in ice, immobile, frozen.

Tatyana turned to Smersh. “Yevgeny, are you…”

She was interrupted by a sharp crack behind her. The attacker had extruded curved quills from all over her body, snapping out like switchblades through the ice. A small twist, and the icy prison was reduced to a pile of shards.
The invader spoke, sultry voice dripping with menace. “That was a mistake.” The last word was punctuated by a spine slung at Tatyana’s head. Tatyana barely managed to duck it, and replied with a concentrated blast of radiation. The alien woman leapt to the ceiling, and let loose with a barrage of projectiles, one of which caught Tatyana in the shoulder.

Tatyana struck back with a flurry of razor-edged ice flakes, but the alien was moving too fast.

One of the ice flakes lodged itself in the ceiling near where Smersh was hanging. If he could only reach it… one hand gripping the vine he was dying on, he tried to swing his body to reach the improvised knife.

Tatyana traded attacks with the creature; holding her own and giving Smersh time, but the being was just too fast for her, too ready to employ lethal force. A pod was thrown at her, and she took the impact on her forearm; it sprouted more vines and threatened to bind her tightly. Tatyana burned it off with a radiation burst.

Back and forth they battled, while Smersh got closer and closer to his goal. Finally, he could touch it with a fingertip… one more swing, and he grasped it. Ignoring the cold and willing himself to hold onto the fragment despite its slipperiness, he began to saw away.

Tatyana hurled one last ice bolt at the intruder, who ducked it and ran into grappling range. Tatyana felt a burning brand insert itself into her stomach, and a face swam in front of her, inches away, eyes gleaming with triumph.
Tatyana brought both her hands up to that beautiful, horrible visage.

Holding it close, she spat at the creature and gave everything she had to a two-handed spray of alpha particles at point blank range.

Smersh dropped to the floor, holding the pathetic fragment of ice before him. The invader hissed, and dumped Tatyana unceremoniously to the floor. The eyes that locked with his were no longer blue, but glowing orbs of green energy surrounded by a charred, dead face. The ruined invader lifted a hand, prepared to end Smersh’s life once and for all.

Bam! Bam! Bam! “Hospital security, freeze!” Bam. Bam. Bam. Four security guards, weapons drawn, were firing on the alien. Technically, they should have ordered a freeze before they started firing, but Smersh doubted any board of inquiry would ever question their version of events. The alien turned to deal with those guards. Those poor, brave, foolish guards.

Smersh was running as fast as his old body could take him, Tatyana over his shoulder. She needed a medic, and soon.

The invader screamed.

***

The fireman’s carry was usually contraindicated for stomach wounds, but Smersh knew that leaving a fallen comrade behind was an even worse proposition. He took a circuitous route, ducking under a broken steam pipe and going carefully over broken glass.

“Comrade Natalie!” Smersh set Tatyana down on the floor gently. “Medic!”

The evacuation was proceeding with haste and a fair degree of panic. Smersh did finally manage to flag down a passing individual in scrubs, who applied a pressure bandage to Tatyana’s wounds, and called for more assistance. It was not coming quickly, as other casualties were appearing.

Smersh hesitated a moment, shifting from foot to foot. Should he try to do more here? He did have some basic first aid treatment, but that had been years ago and a world away. On the other hand, he could attempt to fight this thing at the source. He was without his armor, but he did have resources. Spetznaz training. It could not be a straight-up, toe to toe battle, but it could be a battle of traps and attrition.

His decision was made. Smersh shed his jacket, stained with his comrade’s blood, and padded away, beginning to look for tools to use.

***

The alien stepped over the remains of the security personnel. The viscera did not faze her. This was not going as she had foreseen. She would shed no tears if this world burned.

She drew forth a pod, pulsing with pent-up energy, and tossed it to the ground. It grew rapidly, extruding tentacles into the corpses and drawing nutrients from them. It unfolded into a nightmarish creature, a plant with tentacles and teeth and thorns. She issued a command to it, to seek and destroy the bald man, and walked away from the desiccated corpses.

She would focus on the primary target. All she had to do now was to locate the invisible probability line.

***

The plant creature used a tentacle, wrapping it around the door handle and pushing the door open. The lights were out, but this did not affect the creature, as it had no eyes. It slithered past a series of lab benches, turning its flytrap head curiously at the whirring sound that had begun as it passed.

A rattling sound followed, and then a large bang as the series of unbalanced centrifuges tore themselves apart. The beast’s primitive pain response made
it give out a high-pitched scream, inaudible to human ears.

It took stock, noting that it had taken only minor injuries from the glass and metal debris. Its chemical receptors picked the trail up again, and it continued, silent and sinuous.

***

Jack tapped his foot, holding Jack Junior. Alisa was holding Jake.

Jack pursed his lips, nervously, and then raised his eyebrows. “Okay, babe, the Exodus Hunter is coming. I guarantee she’ll be after me.”

Jack reached out to touch his wife’s shoulder. “She’s had just enough time to figure out where I am, so it’s time to move. You up to it, babe?”

“Nyet, Jack. I shall stay here.” Alisa’s look brooked no argument.
“…you sure you’re up to that?”

“Da.”

They communicated at a level far below the verbal, to the instinctual. Jack did not like it, but there was nothing that could change her mind.

“Right, babe. Hand me Jake… that’s good. I’m going to start running… give me about twenty-seven seconds from when I say go, and then you’ll be good.” Jack leaned in and gave his wife a soft kiss. “Love you, babe. And don’t hold anything back.”

Alisa smiled slightly at her husband, and nodded to him. Jack began to run.

***

The beast saw its target, its reason for being. It redoubled its speed, and flung thorns at the man, attempting to skewer him with crossbow bolt-sized stickers. The thorns stuck into the door the man had closed behind him.

The creature took a moment to process this change, and then followed the trail again. It was a simple creature, with simple needs and simple intelligence.

The door was not fully closed, so it barreled through at top speed. A vat of a viscous substance fell onto it, coating it thoroughly and knocking it to the ground. It attempted to right itself, and the ground slipped out from under it again.

The bald man appeared from behind a counter, and flung a mop at it like a spear. The blunt impact sent it sliding across the tile floor, to a rack of cylinders bolted to one wall. The plant’s chemical receptors detected a burning plant substance, dried, near a valve assembly.

The plant tried to right itself and flopped once more as the bald man rushed out, slamming the door behind him. Then there was heat, and light, and nothing more for the plant creature.

Smersh smirked. That was the first time he had defeated an enemy with a vat of industrial strength floor wax, a mop, an unfiltered cigarette and a few oxygen tanks.

***

Alisa was counting. “Twenty two, twenty three, twenty four…”

The door flung open, and a terrible figure strode in, sheathed in black bioarmor, extruding a variety of nasty pointy things. She scanned the room, focused on Alisa, and growled, “Where is the Templar?”

Alisa smiled sweetly. “Spakoyni noche, sooka bleeyat.” And blasted with the full fury of her brain. Her training was such that the unrestrained blast would kill any unprotected human ten times over within 100 feet. The intruder dropped to her knees.

***

Natalie was in the parking lot, directing some triage efforts, and trying desperately to keep children from wandering loose. There was a shattering of glass, and she looked up involuntarily.

A white-coated man leapt out of a fifth-story window, hit the ground with a few rolls, and stood, holding two newborns. “I’m good, don’t worry about me.”

Natalie harrumphed. No matter what was going on, there was absolutely no excuse for that man’s smirk, no matter how impressive he thought he was.

***

Alisa came to, blinking. The blast had taken a lot out of her, as had the whole recent traumatic experience. The attacker was gone, and the vines that were enveloping the hospital had withered and died. A pair of firefighters came in and hustled her onto a stretcher, taking her downstairs.

***

Smersh strode down to the makeshift hospital in the parking lot. The devastation, even when viewed from outside, was enough to make an insurance agent blanch. Ambulances were arriving with emergency supplies and to transport patients to other hospitals.

A semi truck slowed as it approached Smersh. “Hey, boss, Hal the Truckinator with bottled water. Any idea where I should set up?”

Smersh replied that he hadn’t a clue, as he wandered through looking for his daughter, son-in-law and his… Strike Leader. People milled both with and without purpose, and finding anyone or anything was a pain.

A team of personnel were clustered around a gurney, and Smersh rushed in. He caught part of a doctor’s diagnosis, “…neurotoxin in her system.”

Tatyana was on the gurney, her body twisting and foaming at the mouth. An IV was in her arm, and a nurse was yelling something about an anti-venin kit.

“Pa’penka!” Alisa was being wheeled by in a wheelchair. “Is she…?”

Smersh looked grim. “It is… not good, da?”

Alisa stopped the wheelchair with the hand brake, to the surprise of the attendant who was pushing her. She stood and staggered, painfully, towards Tatyana. She held her hands out, with the obvious intention of laying them on Tatyana and healing her. Smersh stepped in quickly, grabbing her wrists. “Nyet… you cannot. You can barely stand… you have the children to think of. Trying that may kill you, Alisa.”

Alisa knew a dozen ways to throw an attacker who grappled her in this way. She considered six of them before looking into her father’s eyes, seeing the pain there. She sighed, and collapsed against him.

Smersh supported her, looking on as the doctors rushed about. An insouciant voice behind him said, “Hey, boss, can I press you into babysitting a minute?”

“Jack!” cried out Alisa.

“Relax, everything’s great. Just need my hands free if you want me to save these little buddies’ babushka, babe.” Jack passed off his children to their grandfather.

“Hey, who’s in charge?” Dr. Paladin yelled at the gaggle trying to save the fallen agent’s life. “Mind if I butt in? I know what’s wrong with her and can fix it…”

“Who the hell are you? Where’d you get your medical degree, sending in boxtops? Are you putting coffee in her IV?!” the doctor in charge spluttered.
“Relax. Dr. Jack Paladin. Board-certified, licensed to practice in Rhode Island, neurosurgery’s the specialty. But here… I’ve dealt with it before. I need ten cc’s of SAIMR Boomslang stat. And about another fifty in reserve. Or you can make me stand back and lose her. It’s up to you, Dr… Cottage,” Jack said, looking at the doctor’s identification badge.

Doctor Cottage threw up his hands. “Fine, you’re the attending now. I’ll go deal with another case.”

Jack looked over to Alisa, Smersh, and the boys. “Go grab some rest, kids. I’ve got this handled.”

“You had best, comrade mercenary son-in-law,” Smersh grumbled. “Come, Alisa, let us find you something to eat.”

Alisa took one last look at her husband, but her gnawing hunger got the best of her. “Da, pa’penka. Let’s go.”

IV - Hard Boiled

As the hospital alarms sounded, Alisa watched helplessly as her papa and… mother rushed out to help direct an evacuation.

She needed to heal in areas she’d never so abused and fought desperately to clear the dual fogs of exhaustion and hormones from her system. There was no way she could teleport the babies to safety in this mental state, if it was even safe to do so.

***

As the hospital alarms sounded, Tatyana quickly passed Jake back to Jack and rushed out to see what the danger was. Seeing vines cracking through windows and walls, she instantly set to work shielding Yevgeny, and what hospital staff she could see, with thick layers of insulating ice. An orderly shivered for a moment before continuing on his rounds.

Cabinets were coming loose from the walls and dumping their contents on to the heads of anyone passing near them as she called out the sequence to retrieve her armor from the locker in the base. Nothing happened. After trying, and failing to retrieve the armor twice more, she turned towards Yevgeny to warn him there was a glitch in the teleportation system and reapplied his ice armor instead.

Catching the beginning of her broken off sentence, he remarked with a wry smile, “I had noticed, da?”

***

All throughout the hospital, horrible things were happening. In the intensive care unit, an oxygen tank caught fire for no discernable reason. In radiology, one of the MRI machines became an impromptu rail gun, the projectile knocking out the emergency power to one of the operating rooms. Two giant vines smashed through the floor on the fourth floor, causing a sharps container to fall on the head of a phlebotomist rushing though.

Smersh and Tatyana were helping to evacuate the maternity ward, though that was chaotic in and of itself. The security precautions there meant that parents and children could not be separated without one of the maternity staff present, and there were just not enough people.

The building shuddered again. Huge, wrist-thick roots were beginning to intrude into the center of the hospital, ripping and tearing at the structure itself, and any hapless victims in the way.

***

“Should we not be leaving too, lubov?” Alisa asked her husband. Jack had shut the door, and was pacing, holding both the boys and humming to them, to try to calm their cries.

“Nah, babe. We need to be here. I don’t know why, but here is the place. We’re more secure in here.” Jack frowned at himself. “Don’t say it, I know what you’re thinking. I’m going soft because I’m a daddy. That’s not it.” Jack mumbled a little. “Wish I had my Godcutter.”

Alisa frowned. “We can protect each other. We can leave. I can…”
“Alisa, babe, please… it’s not time. I can’t say more than that. Will you trust me on this one?”

***

“Go show your stuff, Russian. Check that hall for me; make sure we have everyone out.”

Natalie had taken charge of the evacuation. She was the sort who was calm in a crisis, assuming command with a natural flair. She would be the last one off the floor, and would make sure that everyone else was safe.

Smersh went down the hall, checking the doors. He wished he could track down the source of the attack, but without his armor or, indeed, any weapons, all he had was his old training to fall back upon, and his aging 53 year old body. He was not as spry has he used to be, nor as strong.

The ceiling was beginning to crack, the invading plants beginning to make it shudder and buckle. It was dangerous, but Smersh paid it no mind. Some things he just did, without heed to the consequence. Many people would make that the mark of a hero, but the wiser would say it was the mark of a martyr.

He heard a crack behind him and then a loud crash. Dust rushed past him; he turned. The ceiling had collapsed behind him, blocking the way.

Smersh had time to cough as the dust coated his lungs, and then his breath stopped entirely. A loop of vine had wrapped around his neck and lifted him a foot from the floor. Smersh pried at it with his fingers to no avail, as bits of red began to swim around the edges of his vision.

Out of the dust strolled a figure; the figure of a female, lithe and dangerous. Her green hair and long, pointed ears betrayed her non-human origins, and the mask over the lower half of her face made her eyes all the more piercing.

Her body was covered in some sort of bio-organic coating, flexible but tough. She held out a hand with an inviting gesture, one that was suddenly filled with menace as a two-foot long curving spike extended from the base of her palm.

“I have been looking forward to this,” she said in a sultry voice.

***

“What is happening, lubov?”

“Exodus Hunter, babe. Big nasty. I’ve tangled with her before.”

III - Code Atlas

New Year’s Day held no meaning. Annual cycles were meaningless; the cycles that held meaning were all much shorter or much longer. Time moves much differently to beings that perceived in many dimensions.

Today was just another day, save that two probability lines would intersect in an auspicious location. The location was propitious because she had made it so. She had committed many resources into making it so.

Two probability lines. One burning a bright crimson, marked and shaped by one much more… perceptive. This line would be easy to follow, and had been watched for what would be considered a long time by the inhabitants of this plane. The other was invisible to her, a woven braid of chaos, drawn down from many worlds to this one. She could only see this line in its absence, a black hole altering the spectra of stars as they passed.

The hell of being here, on this home to universal chaos, was the imprecision of the probability lines. On her home plane, her casting of probability lines would have been impeccable, and the consequences of the actions she took perfectly predictable. Here, it was much less the case.

She would gladly see this world burned to a cinder, as it would reduce the number of variables dramatically.

Still, she had been able to stack a shuffled deck somewhat, and she believed that her actions tonight would have the desired result. Two probability lines that deeply offended her would end this night.

And, thus, crouched in shadows, she waited. Bits of chitin and bone shifted in anticipation.

***

The night nurse stopped him at the elevator, informing him sternly that visiting hours were over. Listening to the tirade, Smersh made no response, but instead pulled out his credentials. The hero ID was not enough on its own, but the KGB credentials and the Omega clearance card were enough to give her pause. “Please, comrade miss nurse, er… Natalie, I just wish to see my daughter. I promise I shall not cause any troubles at all, da?”

The nurse considered her clipboard, and sighed. “She’s a popular girl tonight. You’re not the first one trying to abuse their authority to get in there. Go ahead, but you’ve only got half an hour before I roust all of you.” Natalie flexed a strong arm. “And don’t think I won’t, mister hero man!”

“Spasiba, comrade nurse Natalie. And remind me to give you my card, as we are always looking for help at the free clinic. I shall be out of here in twenty seven minutes or so, I promise,” Smersh said, consulting his watch.

“Go on, she’s in 527. And that clinic’s the only reason you’re getting in here… you folks do good work. Keep meaning to get down and volunteer every so often. Now scoot.” Natalie turned back to the nurse station, pointing Smersh down the appropriate hallway.

Smersh pushed the door open quietly, trying to make only minimal noise with his footsteps. The lights in the room were down low. The curtain around the bed was open, and Alisa lay there, resplendent in her charming hospital gown, covered in pink and blue ducks. She was bedraggled, exhausted, but radiant in her sleep. She held the hand of her husband, Jack, who was also asleep and snoring softly in the bedside chair.

Two rolling bassinets were against the far wall, empty. A chair was facing them, and a figure, a silhouette really, was rocking in the chair, crooning an old Russian lullaby. Smersh was transported back, as it was a tune he had not heard since he was a boy, his mother singing to him and his sister.

Still moving quietly, so as not to wake the sleeping family, he approached, and laid a hand on Tatyana’s shoulder.

She let out a loud gasp in surprise and in that moment, his hand suddenly cold, the two infants she was rocking started a harmonic screech that set his teeth on edge. Tatyana sighed in relief for approximately one quarter of a second before returning her attention to the twins.

Jack flipped on the lights, instantly alert, and Alisa stared. She rolled her eyes, sighed, and said, “Privyet, Dedushka.”

***

The story was being told by both Jack and Alisa, about how little sleep they had gotten, about how annoying the daytime nurse was, about how hungry they both had gotten. Alisa had given natural birth to twins without an epidural, which they both considered a rather heroic effort.

Smersh and Tatyana were each holding an infant, making silly grandparentish cooing noises over the little boys. Jack Junior was doing his best to try to focus on the people who were doing the talking, while Jake was trying to fuss himself back to sleep.

Jack Senior, sitting back in his chair, suddenly sat up straight, as though he had been stuck with a pin. He looked to Alisa and said, “Babe, my weirdo sense is tingling. Someone’s out there.”

Smersh paused his baby-talk, and looked to Jack. “What do you mean, someone?” Then the lights went out.

***

The lights were only out for a moment before the emergency lighting kicked in. There was a rumble from deep below of massive diesel generators whirring to life.

And somewhere in the dark, an inhuman being smiled, then moved with a catlike grace, travelling with a purpose. The plan was in motion.

***

Smersh jogged down the hall to the nurse’s station. “Comrade Nurse Natalie, you may wish to call out an evacuation order for the hospital due to superhuman attack.”

Natalie rolled her eyes at the old Russian. “Just because the power’s gone off for a minute, doesn’t mean that …”

The building shook and the sounds of shattering glass came from all sides. Natalie reached up from under the desk she had dove under for safety, and patted around until she located the phone receiver. “Code Atlas,” she called into the handset, and it echoed throughout the hospital over the loudspeakers. “Code Atlas, this is not a drill. Code Atlas.”

Red emergency lights flared and bells began to ring. It was only the beginning of the chaos.

II - Long Nights

Smersh leaned back in his chair, taking off his glasses and rubbing at his eyes. He glanced at the old Soviet military-issue chronometer, naval style, which had been a Christmas present some years back. The band had given out long ago, but he had mounted it on a stand so that it might be used as a desk clock. 21:37. If he were to go to bed now, he might be able to get six hours of sleep. He would have to get an early start, for the next round of interminable negotiations.

Few in the Section had access to his private file room, and it had an internal lock that would prevent access from the outside. It was intended to provide privacy to those looking at highly classified documents, but he had been using it as a private sanctuary where he could sleep uninterrupted. After the first few times, he had even stopped hitting his head when climbing out of the old military cot he had placed there.

He was fishing his key ring out of his pocket when the intercom buzzed. Smersh clenched his jaw and tightened his fist briefly before turning and pressing the button. “What is it, Ilya?” Smersh muttered. The static-filled voice answered, “Just a few things that require your attention, sir.”

Smersh sighed, crossed the battered, thin industrial carpet, and opened the door to his outer office. Ilya Semovich, a pale, balding, non-descript man with thick glasses stood there with a thick stack of files. Ilya might have been fifty kilograms, and his true height was concealed by the stoop of his back. Smersh knew that the timid exterior housed a steel spine and hands that could kill a man sixteen ways with a ball-point pen.

“Do you never sleep, Ilya? Do you know the hour?”

Ilya met Smersh’s gaze mildly. “I do, and I also recall that it is New Year’s Eve. I was hoping to leave here before midnight, and you should do the same. So, if we can just go over a few things…”

“Bah. I shall get to them, comrade Ilya. Just because both of my Strike Leaders are on hiatus…”

“…and because you refuse to utilize your assistant effectively!”

Smersh ignored the interruption. “…does not mean I am incapable of taking care of the business of the Section. I did it before, after all.”

“Da, when you had a quarter of the agents and nowhere near the social programs budget. Face it, Yevgeny Ivanovich, you simply cannot do this all alone!” Ilya slapped down the files on the desk. “Now, we will deal with these, and then we shall hopefully go elsewhere and not be here at midnight!”

Smersh knew that, in matters of paperwork, he would never be able to defeat the bureaucratic equivalent of a hermit who had spent twenty-seven years in the mountains under a vow of silence, eating only roots and berries and perfecting his kung fu technique. Smersh threw up a hand in defeat, and beckoned Ilya to take a seat. “Well, comrade, show me the requisition forms and memos and all of that nonsense, and let us get to it.”

“Excellent, sir. Now, this is a requisition for fifty cases of anti-armor shells…”

***

22:37 by the chronometer. Five hours of sleep might still be possible. Smersh, bleary-eyed, scrawled his signature on another form. Perhaps it was a commendation, perhaps some city-required form. He just signed where the little red stick-on arrows indicated, having given up entirely on comprehension. How was it that the paperwork multiplied and expanded to fit all times and places not otherwise occupied? If such knowledge were to be applied to foodstuffs, world hunger could be ended.

Smersh gathered his stack of files, grumbled as the top half-dozen made an ill-advised escape attempt, and shuffled over to the front door of his office, working the handle with his elbow. He scooted the door open the rest of the way with his foot, and turned, intent on keeping these files under control for the six feet to Ilya’s box. If only Ilya would give up on using the horrible multicolored plastic file folders, it would have been a trivial task. Paper file folders might be less durable, but at least friction made them much less likely to imitate the Soviet ice dancing team.

He looked up, and stopped suddenly. Needless to say, with such a precarious stack of paper, a beautiful waterfall of multicolored folders began before he could clamp a hand down on top. The pressure now coming from both sides of the stack transformed the effect from water feature to fifty-two card pickup.

Ilya and Tatyana sat on the floor, surrounded by piles of paper. Ilya gave Smersh an aggrieved look, while Tatyana did not look up from what she was doing. Fiercely, she said, “You almost tempt me to break a promise, Zhenechka, spread so thin and failing to utilize resources. You know I must return for my doctoral work, but this!?”

Both Smersh and Ilya were taken aback at the familiarity. Ilya, because he had never heard Tatyana refer to Smersh as anything but Field Commander, and Smersh because he had not heard her refer to him otherwise for a long, long time. Feeling the weight of their stares, Tatyana looked up, glancing first to Ilya, then to Smersh.

And blushed.

“My apologies, Field Commander.”

Smersh stood in the middle of a pile of papers, dumbfounded.

***

23:37 by the chronometer. As it turned out, Tatyana had been just dropping by the headquarters to check in, and Ilya had shanghaied her into working on the commander’s piles of paper. Smersh had volunteered to help, to assist them and get them out the door earlier. Ilya had vetoed it, as the entire purpose of the exercise was to have Smersh delegate more authority to him.

Ilya had, however, been more than willing to keep Smersh in his office to deal with piles of paper as they were sorted through. “You may be an inhuman *******, Ilya, but the rest of us require some sleep,” Tatyana had told him in no uncertain terms.

Ilya had finally relented, and Smersh had retired to his cot. Despite the heavy insulation of the area, he imagined that he could hear low voices murmuring, and papers being rustled about. He must be a pathetic figure, to require so much aid. After all, was he not Comrade Smersh, the great and glorious field commander, who was capable of doing all things for all people?
Bah. He was trying his best to become comfortable, to attempt to get at least four hours of sleep. If only he could will himself to sleep before midnight, he could…

Comrade Smersh’s snores were faintly audible, even in the front office, as Ilya and Tatyana were locking up and leaving before the New Year’s ball dropped.

***

Smersh awoke with a start. What was that noise? His perceptions were foggy, as though the entire world was coated in a thick layer of engine grease. His eyes refused to adjust to the darkness, and his ears were connected to his central nervous system only tenuously.

Finally, the source of the irritation swam into view: his cell phone. Smersh
blinked a few times, willing his eyes to look at the exterior screen. And then immediately wished he hadn’t.

Pressing the accept button, he rumbled into the phone (roaring being not available for another three minutes or so after waking) “Dr. Paladin, this had better be really very damned important. I have had perhaps twenty minutes of sleep. It is 00:07 in the morning, and I am not very happy at the moment!”

Jack Paladin’s voice on the other end was, as usual, completely unfazed. “Yeah, boss, I know. Just thought you might want to know that you’ve got yourself a new pair of grandkids, Jack Paladin Junior and Jake Paladin. Alisa’s doing great, too, to answer what should be your next question.”

Smersh forced himself calm, and mentally wrote off the entire concept of getting any sleep tonight. “Well, comrade mercenary son in law, I am on my way. I do not suppose you have details, such as weight, length, and Apgar scores, da?”

(Posted here by specific request of my wife.)

I - Beginning's End

Yevgeny Korsakov stared at the heavy oak table, polished to a fine finish. The table was, at present, buried in piles of papers, maps, computers, cellular phones and other, less definable, debris. But not a single ashtray was to be found, as the other two parties to these intractable negotiations had both stipulated that this was to be a smoke-free zone.

What sort of Russian believes in a no smoking sign, anyway, Smersh thought irritably to himself as one of the Americans, a clean cut, freshly laundered, completely interchangeable Ivy League youth, droned interminably about something. Non-militarization of space, an idea that had fallen to the wayside back in the seventies. Smersh shook his head, and looked below the level of the table to his custom-built cell phone, checking his email. The duties of running the Section were not on hold just because two governments were trying to strong-arm Special Section 8 out of being a space power, and probably handing over a somewhat eccentric crew for tests, interrogation, and probable vivisection.

Smersh scrolled through the emails, wishing that he could foist most of them off onto the UNOSOV hackers that kept trying to get in. Let them deal with the inventory reports for the soup kitchen and the maintenance logs for the generators.

One email was short and cryptic, but was marked as Important by his… Strike Leader. The text was simple and to the point.

Field Commander,
Please contact me by telephone when the opportunity presents.
Tatyana Stepanova, Strike Leader, KGB Special Section 8
It is scientific only to say what is more likely and what less likely, and not to be proving all the time the possible and impossible. –Richard Feynman

If nothing else, this would give him a chance to have a cigarette or two. When the American finally wound down his horrid PowerPoint presentation (that should have fallen under a treaty regarding the non-militarization of Microsoft products), Smersh moved for a fifteen minute recess of the session. The Chair accepted the motion, and it was voted into the minutes unanimously. Smersh was in motion before the gavel hit the block: if he caught the first elevator, it was three minutes to the front area, and three minutes back, leaving nine glorious nicotine-filled minutes.

Shortly after lighting that cigarette, Smersh flipped his phone to secured mode, and clicked on Tatyana’s contact.

As it rang, he almost found himself wishing, simultaneously, that she would pick up and that she would not.

Smersh watched with detached interest the traffic outside the building. The idiots on the ninth floor could wait while he made a phone call. The small microphone in his ear was ringing, and then it picked up. “Hello?” said the voice on the other end.

Smersh subvocalized into the throat mike that was a standard part of his equipment. “Privyet, comrade Strike Leader. I understand that you wish to speak to me, da?” A garbage truck moved slowly in front of the building’s anti-crash barricades, honking at a bus that was blocking traffic. Smersh’s brain went into a brief reverie, thinking about how he had seen his father once in a similar circumstance, before his mother had died. He realized that his reverie had caught him out to lunch. “I am sorry, comrade Strike Leader. Could you repeat that?”

“Da, comrade Field Commander,” she said, her eyes rolling almost audibly. “I was asking what the status of the Potemkin negotiations was. I believe that I might be able to cull useful data from it for my thesis, if we still have access to it.”

“For the moment, da, we do. Though speed would be of the essence, as these nekultunry bastards want us to lock it down until negotiations are concluded.” The garbage truck shuddered visibly, an off-putting sight to say the least. The collection bin rose up, and disgorged a score of small, round brass automatons. Simultaneously, the bus split down the middle, and a troop of blue clad, brass-armored soldiers marched out. Smersh muttered an oath in Russian, and threw down his cigarette.

“Comrade Field Commander?” Tatyana inquired, a note of concern in her voice.

“Bah, it is nothing. A division of Nemesis army troops,” he muttered, punching some code keys to call in one of his armored suits. “It should be no issue. You are coming back to town, then?”
Tatyana thought she detected a note of hope in his voice, but that might have been the sound of a ricocheting high-caliber bullet impacting concrete.

“Da, comrade Field Commander, I should be back for a few days around the New Year.”

“Good, good. I hope you will pardon me, but the bus has just disgorged a zeppelin-equipped war hulk, and it does require some of my attention, da?” Sounds of machinegun fire mixed with the sound of a Bogatyr-class suit’s hyperthrusters and shattering glass.

“Da, comrade Field Commander, I shall see you in a few days. Das vedanya.”

“Das vedanya, comrade Strike Leader.”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Smersh turned to the negotiators hiding under the table, as the zeppelin rose and the war hulk that had been attached to it fell, hitting street level with a loud bang. “I presume the meeting is ready to return to order, da?” he asked, striding fearlessly over the thick shards of glass that had been a very fancy ninth-floor window. He straightened out his cape, sat his battle-armored body down into his chair, and shuffled his papers.

“Mind if I smoke, comrades? I did leave a window open, da?”

Depends on your normal playstyle. Dual Blades/SR is a beast, no two ways about it.

Is your partner going to build with IOs? If so, the first major benefit (shields) of a Cold is skipped. Great when you team with others, but not really needed for a soft-capped SR. (This is a great spot for dual builds, incidentally.)

The other benefits (debuffs) are so spectacular that AVs should present little challenge, and you'll be able to take on hard targets, +3 or +4, with ease.

If, instead, you prefer lots of slightly less hard targets, Storm has great AoE carnage to add. Also, of course, in an IO build, that O2 boost is all that's needed to support the scrapper, so the rest of your attention can be focused on the enemy.

At least the immobilize protection isn't in Burn.

If it's cramping your style, take Combat Jumping for another 12 mag immobilize protection.

As to why? Well, Grounded is a bit of a strange power as it is. Only works while you're on the ground... I seem to recall it being a bit problematic when it was introduced for Brutes.

Did you skip grounded?

I shall suggest red as the base color, comrade.

Just a reminder...

The Party expects you tomorrow!

Be certain to wear your finest Soviet costume! Prepare to scour the city on the Scavenger hunt, and remember all the Communist trivia you can wrap your brain around!

The People are counting on you!

...my wife and I.

We decided that we needed to dress up the little one in costume, and, well...













Yes. A Smersh costume.

Made it this far? Go ahead and take a look at the thread for KGB Special Section 8's Communist Party event!

http://boards.cityofheroes.com/showthread.php?t=197376