Twilight of Justice: Journal of The Phantasim




comments welcome

The Phantasim

Journal entry #1
In the Beginning

My name is Thomas Gunne.

I know that much, the rest is somewhat…fuzzy.

I seam to have suffered a certain amount of brain damage from my “sleep” and have been informed that an effective way to combat the loss of memory is to keep a journal of what I do remember.

So, let’s see.

It was 1943 and I was investigating a possible attack of the West Coast by the “Divine Wind”, the elite Japanese super-human commando squad. The leads lead me to an unused warehouse near the docks of San-Francisco. The place was well guarded, but with a moment of concentration, I stepped into the shadows in the alley, and stepped out of the shadows onto the rafters above the main floor surprising the agent in charge of the operation. His name was…
His name was Uncle Sam…that doesn’t seem right, maybe I should go back further, maybe to the beginning.

I was born on March 15th, 1900 to Thomas Sr. and Colleen “Colt” Gunne in New Orleans with the assistance of a lady by the name of Marie LaVeau (I have recently read reports that Madam LaVeau died in 1863, but I have reason to believe otherwise). Our stay was brief, however. My mother had made a name for herself in the various Wild West shows that were popular at the time, and my father was, what was called at the time, an adventurer. Both of my parents where possessed of an insatiable wanderlust that had them traveling the world from the darkest depths of Africa to the deepest parts of the Amazon and from the secret placed in the South West to the Arctic Circle and they had gained a certain amount of fame and fortune along the way.

Not that I remember any of that, of course. My first memory is of us flying over what I would eventually come to know as the Himalayas in my father’s dirigible. I remember wondering at the time how something that looked so much like a bullet could stay in the air without falling, but then there was a loud buzzing sound and the sound of fire-crackers. Then with a great explosion, the giant balloon that was holding us up began to burn. I began to cry and my parents became very excited, as the snow and rocks, at first slowly then with increasing speed, rushed up the meet us.



Journal entry #2

The Joys of Youth

Let’s try this again.

1943, San-Francisco.

I remember the air. It seamed to sick to your lungs and smelled of dead fish and mosquitoes.

The guards outside the warehouse had not been a problem, most I had slipped by and a few I had put to sleep. Teleporting from the alley to the ceiling rafters of the old building was a quick way in and afforded me a great view of the head agent, resplendent in his red, white and blue tails and top-hat, directing the movement of an odd, cylinder shaped machine.

Considering the war I was outraged at the gall of the Japanese saboteur wearing the colors of the county he was trying to destroy. I dropped to the ground in front of him, looked into his blue eyes, grabbed his over-coat and…

…Over-coat?...Blue eyes? That’s not right. This is all wrong.

Okay, than, back to the monks.

I was only four years old at the time so I feel it was understandable that I was terrified when I awoke in a strange place surrounded by strange people and my parents nowhere to be found. Fortunately one of the strangers was capable of speaking a language I could understand and the patience to explain to a four-year-old what had happened.

Apparently I had been injured in the crash and my parents, fearing for my safety, had decided to have me stay at the monastery until it was safe. To that end they had left within a day of our arrival of the holy place in fear that the same “Bad Men” who had shot down our airship may be in search of any survivors.

A month later a message arrived from my father. I found out sometime later that my parents had gotten involved in the intrigue surrounding the Russo-Japanese War, but all I knew at the time was that they would not be coming back for me soon. Within days my training started, mostly, I suspect, to give me something to do other than pout, scream and generally be a little monster.

I had not taken my imagined abandonment well and the physical requirements of sweeping the cobbled courtyard clean of snow, though it did not improve my temper, did make me to tired to make a nuisance of myself. Nor was I alone, there were several local children near my own age, and the few minutes away from polishing cobblestones were spent with my new playmates. Strong friendships were formed quickly and when my father returned eight months later and, with a serious look on his face, asked me, newly turned five, if I wished to go away with him or stay in my new home, I chose to stay.

The years passed quickly and I soon left the cleaning of the courtyard to younger students. My mother and father visited regularly and, after a few years, began to tell me tails of their exploits. The “Badman” whom had shot down our airship all those years ago had been a madman by the name of The Black Scarab. He was seeking revenge on my mother for thwarting a scheme to return the ancient Pharoes of Egypt to power by stealing an Aztec artifact.

I did mention he was a madman.

My training advanced quickly and I was nearing the final test. Then on May 7th, 1915 The Lusitania was sunk by a German U-Boat.



A brief intermission with no connection to the ongoing story

Jack had Powers

He didnt know where they came from, but he decided to make himself a costume and battle Evil. Not some sissy thing of spandex, or leather, but a cool costume. He baught a dark pair of Dockers( relaxed fit),a red, long-sleaved t-shirt, and a full-faced ski-mask that all seamed to look imprssive in the mirror.

Jack would go out every night looking to right wrongs, but since he never saw any damsels in distress, or people getting mugged from his car, nothing ever came of it. so after several weeks he would go out "on patrole" less and lessl, and finally he put the "coltume in the back of his closet and didn't go out at night any more.

One day, on his way to work, Jack came upon an accident. Two men were standing beside their wrecked vehicles arguing and waving their arms at each other.

One of the men was tall and stocky. The other was someshat bookish, he also had a gun.

Jack, Finally seeing his chance to use his powers for good, jumped from his car and ran to intervene.

The small man turned to Jack...

...and shot him.


OOC: Thank you for you patience more journal excerps are forthcomming



Well i think jack should have stayed in his car and left while he was able to but now i suppose he got a quick pop and then saw a tunnel for his long jurnie had finaly come to an end......



Journal entry #3


Maybe it would help if I tried to remember something more recent.

I woke up from my “sleep” to an odd beeping sound that shot through my brain like that German bullet had shot through my hip in the Argonne. Reaching blindly to the noise in a half conscious effort to make it stop my hand hit something cold and metallic immediately. Adrenaline jerked me to full alert as I flailed weakly in the ferric coffin that I had suddenly found myself in.

The relief of finding the lid easily opened was dampened by the weak light that sliced into my eyes and added itself to the steadily growing headache that the incessant beeping had caused. I pulled myself over the edge of my sarcophagus and became noisily ill.

The room I found myself in looked to have been an office in better days, but now it was covered in dust and cobwebs, the only light coming from the boarded up windows and the glowing “3:15p.m.” on the front of the little box that was making the demonic beeping.

I tumbled out of my “bed” and wobbled over to the desk that supported the -what I realized was a- clock and, finding a small switch labeled “ON-OFF”, ended the infernal, head-splitting beeps. Next to the clock was a manila envelope, a glass of water, two pills and a note that read “Take the aspirin and open the envelope”.

No. My memory of thing that happened after I “awoke” seems fine. Back to the beginning then I guess.

Okay, where was I then. Ah, yes, the sinking of The Lusitania.

Although I had lived in an obscure monastery I had never been isolated from what was happening in the world. My parents had supplied me with a constant flow of world-wide current events and had instilled a healthy dose of patriotism for the land of my birth. Expecting America’s immediate entry into the Great War that was racking the rest of the planet, I packed my few belongings and prepared to journey back to my home-land and then to war.

At the great doors to the outside world I was mildly surprised to find the monk who had first calmed me when I was left there thirteen years earlier.

“Your parents asked that I give these things to you on the day that you left our…your…home.” He said motioning to a box sitting on the cobbles beside him.

In the box was a beat-up fedora, an old full-length duster and, on a carefully folded piece of paper, an address in a place called Paragon city.