The Milk of Paradise
Part One
In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
A stately pleasure-dome decree:
Where Alph, the sacred river, ran
Through caverns measureless to man
Down to a sunless sea.
So twice five miles of fertile ground
With walls and towers were girdled round:
And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills,
Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree;
And here were forests ancient as the hills,
Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.
But oh! that deep romantic chasm which slanted
Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover!
A savage place! as holy and enchanted
As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted
By woman wailing for her demon-lover!
And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething,
As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing,
A mighty fountain momently was forced:
Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst
Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail,
Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail:
And 'mid these dancing rocks at once and ever
It flung up momently the sacred river.
Five miles meandering with a mazy motion
Through wood and dale the sacred river ran,
Then reached the caverns measureless to man,
And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean:
And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from far
Ancestral voices prophesying war!
-Xanadu, Samuel Coleridge
November 19, 1340
Waves of blasting cold air swept the tundra, inhospitable and fierce. Wispy, wind-blown trails of snow blew in entrancing swirls over the permafrost, great beauty in the deadly force of nature. Alone in the wilderness, one visible sign of life broke the stillness. Step by step the man plodded, wrapped in scant furs, ice clinging to his dark lashes, cheeks burned by the ever-present wind beneath the thin dark beard. Dark-haired and dark-eyed, his features presented a mix of origins. His clothing was soaked to near freezing in this vast wasteland, but he struggled on, persistent in his determined attempt to achieve his goal.
Tao Cáo had come upon a wanderlust in his 30th year. Things were not well in this province for folk of either of his heritages. In the days after the Great Khan, things had fallen apart. His successors had, for the most part, undone all the glory that he had achieved. Now, the On Dynasty was crumbling. Tao Cáo knew it was only a matter of time before his presence would merely be a bad reminder of days past to those who supported a new regime. A reminder most would wish to do without, no matter the method of destroying those memories. Chuckling to himself as he trudged onward, he knew from whence this wanderlust came. His grandfather had been a foreigner, a Venetian trader that had charmed the Khan, even to being given a governorship in the great Dynastys administration. He sired a daughter on a concubine in his province before returning to his homeland far to the west. Tao Cáo had never know this woman, who was to be his mother. When the Khan died, and turmoil erupted, she had been taken under the wing of a soldier in the armies, a man of some influence, an illegitimate grandson of the Son of Heaven himself. They grew to love one another under his protection, and Tao Cáo was the inevitable result. But the complications of birth had torn his mother asunder and she did not survive to see her son. His fathers grief was that of the weeping sky, and in his sorrow and rage, he bestowed upon Tao Cáo that name in his vengeance and gave the boy to some peasant farmers to raise as their own. But he did return one last time.
In his 12th year, a stranger came to Tao Cáo. He said he was his true father, though the boy had known no father but the farmer. He told the boy the story of his birth, and that as things began to crumble for the man he had no where to go, no one to love and decided to seek after the greatest prize of all. Maps, letters and notes were given to the boy as a keepsake of where his father had gone. The boy complained that he could not read these things and would be able to make no use of them. The older man smiled, and told the boy that learning these things would make him a better man, that knowledge and communication transcended our limited life-span and this was a way to live on past your days. The boy took this advice as a form of immortality, and relished the thought. Little did I know then, thought Tao Cáo, grinning wryly. The maps and papers did indeed involve immortality, as the boys increasing learning skills revealed. But not the figurative immortality of literature, rather literal eternal life. The stories and notes were of Xanadu, noted pleasure domes of the Great Khan. The papers revealed that what people assumed was not true. Xanadu was merely thought another name for Shangdu, the summer palaces of the Khan, but it was not so. Xanadu was something else, something
more. The river Alph was not where people supposed, but much father in the north, even north of where Tao Cáos ****** ancestors had ruled the steppe. The boy became man, poring over the papers and investigating other sources. It became his lifes obsession, eschewing social and familial ties after leaving the farm, seeking, ever seeking.
It was a combination of unrest in his village and unrest in his soul that had driven him to this frozen place. He followed the trail he assumed his father had walked, supplies slowly running down, barely scrabbling an existence from the hard-packed earth almost devoid of vegetation. His horse had died three days before, removing transportation but providing sustenance for a while longer. On the tundra, food is life and life cannot be sustained long without it, much less strenuous activity of travel. Yet he went on, more stubborn than determined, but at the same result. Onward, ever onward.
Tao Cáo climbed the rocky foothills leading to a pass in small mountain range. If the old sorcerer in the last village had not steered him wrong, he was within reach of his goal. He knew the time had come. As he rested before attempting to mount the last approach to the pass, he gnawed the last of the horsemeat that had been able to get him this far. Raw and gamey, it still tasted of life to him. The tools for fire he had, but not the materials. There was naught here but rock and scrabble, nothing to burn. He knew his exposure was catching up with him. He knew today he would reach his goal, or give his life in the attempt. He could continue on desire alone only so long. With a sigh, he forced his weakened body to stand and began to climb to the pass. Fingers bleeding, knees and back aching he reached the summit.
Tao Cáos eyes grew wide with awe. There, nestled in a hidden valley was the thing he sought. Grandiose and immense, a gigantic dome filled the valley. The sun glistened on the icy blue exterior of the dome that covered ten square miles. Four towers rose at each of the cardinal points of the compass, appearing as if inverted icicles a mile tall. Before the dome, an incredible waterspout rose, a natural heated geyser, claiming a hundred times the height of a man. Below, in the rainfall from the geyser, the tundra had been transformed, filled with flowering plants and fruit trees, a splendid natural garden. Tao Cáo fell to his knees and stared for long minutes, transfixed by the beauty and grandeur. But his weakened body protested at the delay. It sought the life-giving garden to ease the suffering of the long hard quest. Within an hour, Tao Cáo lay by a small warm pool, basking in the heat and the feeling of a belly full of dates and pomegranates. Soon refreshed, he steeled himself to approach the dome.
As he neared the glassy structure, it grew again cold. The geyser was too far away to affect the area of the dome. This impeded not at all a man who had passed the test of cold before. His confidence grew as he approached, but also his trepidation. What would he find? Was this the place where immortality could be achieved? Or was it merely an oddity
a beautiful, but ultimately an earthly place? Would he find his father here? Or perhaps his bones? At the edge of the dome, he spied an opening, an ice cave, the entrance twice his height. The old man in the village had warned him. Had said that no one who entered here had ever returned. That it was a place of spirits, of the type that devour the souls of men. Tao Cáo had no fear. What fear can a man have who has nothing to lose? His entire life had been built up to this moment. He entered the cave.
The cave inside glistened in refracted light. Haltingly, somewhat blinded, Tao Cáo advanced further and deeper. Strange creaking sounds, like ice grinding on ice softly echoed around him. He smiled in the dazzling light, knowing this was such a place as could hold magical powers. His mind drifted to the future, and what would come. In his reverie, he did not notice the clear icy door sliding from the wall behind him until it butted up against the other side, closing him in. As he turned to see, two mechanical arms snaked out and grabbed him.
Natives in the area later named the area enclosed by the mountains The Valley of Screams, for on days when the winds blew strong, it released the sounds still echoing from that day.
Dec out.
The Milk of Paradise
Part Two
The shadow of the dome of pleasure
Floated midway on the waves;
Where was heard the mingled measure
From the fountain and the caves.
It was a miracle of rare device,
A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice!
A damsel with a dulcimer
In a vision once I saw:
It was an Abyssinian maid,
And on her dulcimer she played,
Singing of Mount Abora.
Could I revive within me
Her symphony and song,
To such a deep delight 'twould win me
That with music loud and long
I would build that dome in air,
That sunny dome! those caves of ice!
And all who heard should see them there,
And all should cry, Beware! Beware!
His flashing eyes, his floating hair!
Weave a circle round him thrice,
And close your eyes with holy dread,
For he on honey-dew hath fed
And drunk the milk of Paradise.
-Xanadu, Samuel Coleridge
May 3, 1823
The bright sunlight twinkled off the blue waves of the Aegean, a wonderful view for breakfast on the terrace. The dark-haired, dark-eyed traveler delighted his palate with a wonderful golden wine made locally here in this southern Greek port village. It was a small, but clean village, the whitewashed walls of the houses gleaming in the sun. In several hours, the man would board the sailing ship he had bought and embark for the island of Kythria. He appeared as a gentleman of western Europe, in dress and manner, but something appeared to not quite fit to the residents of this out of the way village. His Greek was flawless and unaccented, so his exact point of origin was difficult to determine. But as he had plenty of money to disperse amongst them, they paid it no mind. He caused no trouble, paid more for lodging than asked, and had commissioned the local shipyard for an extravagant yacht of his own design. If he seemed strange, he harmed no one and brought prosperity to most. He had resided in the village for three months, as the boat was built to his specifications. He charmed the local populace in general, yet stood off from making too close of ties to anyone in particular. Children trailed after him, as he would tell them wild tales of adventures past, and then distribute sweet treats and candies among them.
He was well-liked, as he had planned. Long centuries of trial and error had taught him many things about human nature, how to insert himself quietly and without suspicion into the everyday mortal lives of ordinary people. It had not always been thus. Early on, he had made many mistakes, been chased from villages, hounded by those who thought him a witch or agent of the Devil. He learned quickly, although his life was never in danger. Simple injuries lasted but a moment, and more severe ones healed in a mere fraction of the usual time. More painful was the loss. Any friend he made, any lover he took, he must watch grow old and gray before his eyes. Or else leave them in their youth, and transfer his pain to them. Human lives were as to an eye-blink to him, but not the sorrow or the memories.
Memories. His mind drifted, remembering where it all began. He had awakened deep in the caves of ice, no memory of what had happened after he entered. A great preternatural fear had come upon him, triggering the flight instinct long before his clouded mind was truly aware of his surroundings. The barely conscious man had bolted through tunnels, running as if the sprits themselves hounded his trail. His awareness came fully upon him on exiting the caves, the frigid winds calling him back to the world in earnest. The geyser he remembered no longer rose. In fact, the hole from whence it had came was solidly covered in ice, and there was no sign of the lush garden that had spread idyllically before the font. He heard a loud CRACK behind him as a strange voice rang in his head. He swore he did not know the language (though he would later learn over a hundred different languages, he was never able to identify this one), but the message came into his mind with clarity.
EXPERIMENTAL SUBJECT COMPLETE. BEGIN DISSOLUTION.
His mind reeled as he saw alien geometries, planes and angles not seen in this reality as the gigantic dome with its towers began to fold IN on itself. His eyes reported things his brain could not resolve with reality and his bowels emptied in atavistic fear. Within seconds, he was alone in the valley, no trace of the huge structure to be seen. His memory faded in and out for a long time after that. He only vaguely remembered the months and months following the setting sun. He became aware that his body was not as it had been. It was stronger, healed much faster, did not need food or sleep (although it still appreciated both) and had endurance to continue on indefinitely any activity he desired. It did not inure him to weariness nor weakness, yet his body could be pushed beyond these feelings. And an ominous pink line of a scar had appeared, down the center of his chest, from collarbone to groin, fully healed, but ever present.
It was not until decades later that he was able to determine that what had seemed like a blink of an eye in the frozen caves had actually been a century and a half. His long trek through the Siberian wastes towards civilization had taken several decades as well, as he stopped for whiles at villages that would have him, in no hurry to move on when contented. He had headed west, fearing to see his homeland and people he knew in his new state. And many times, then, and thereafter, he would suddenly find himself living in forests and woodlands like an animal or a barbarian or, he thought as he looked at the slim cigar he had just lit, like one of those Red Indians on the American continents from whence came this excellent tobacco. Months, years or decades might pass while he was in such a state, with no recall at all of how he got into such a position and why. After returning to civilized lands, first in Western Russia, and later traversing most parts of Europe and the Mediterranean, he learned to amass and hide away small fortunes to facilitate reintegration after such incidents. With much time on ones hands, it was easy to learn to manipulate economic situations in his favor, and make wise investments yielding long term gains that his son or cousin might be bequeathed with upon his death. It was a long life, and often an easy one, but putting down any roots was impossible, and he was always on the edge of having to move on to areas unfamiliar. He had lost count of how many names and identities he had adopted, and remembered even less of various peoples he had encountered. Faces blurred together over the long centuries, if for no other reason than sheer volume.
The name he was wearing at this time was Etienne Bernaux. When he bothered to reveal, he claimed to be an Austrian merchant of French parents. He often appeared prosperous, but never overly so, a modestly well-off merchant but not a superior one. Enough to have a few conveniences, but not enough to draw undue attention. His exotic good looks often drew women to him, but he turned away their advances for the most part. There were families to consider, and he did not like disappointing people, but nor did he wish his secrets discovered. He fulfilled his physical desires with the usual detached fallen women, knowing there would be no ties, or chance of discovery. Some times, in moments of weakness, he had revealed his secrets to the occasional friend or lover (and that blasted poet, Coleridge, who had sworn to never reveal the secrets, and had no doubt begun his illustrious poem the moment he had departed! At least he had not been mentioned, but it taught him to be more careful, even in more sophisticated times.). For the most part, he had been considered to be a teller of tales, or someone good, just addled in this specific area. He was relieved in retrospect when he was disbelieved, and more than once had to flee when he was taken at his word.
In many and various guises, he had sought news of others of his kind. Eternal life can be lonely and empty and the need for immortal company was very strong at times. In all his travels, in all his seeking, he had only found one who was possibly one of his kind. In the mid-17th century, he had heard tales in Saxony of an area protected by a god. Scouring the area, he eventually encountered a red-bearded giant of a man, boisterous and bred for battle. The meeting was a strange one. He would answer no questions without a fight, but without malice. He merely enjoyed battle to that degree. Vladamir surprised the giant. Though he was stronger and more impervious to injury than any of his peers, the giant was slow wielding his huge mace. While Vladamir could do no harm to the Teuton, nor could the mace harm him. Smaller and faster, Vladamir ran rings around the great bear of a man, earning his admiration and trust. He said his name was Thunor, and that he had been sent by his father, Wotan, to protect the mortals of the world. He laid claim to being a thunder god, and had been living in northern Europe for more than a millenium. It was difficult to tell if he was serious, as he was given to telling long (and often obscene) tales full of obvious falsehoods and contradictions, with a smile on his face and a flagon in his hand. He actually gave little indication of protecting anyone, spending most of his days wenching and drinking, and occasionally getting in random fights. It is supposed that his very presence kept away marauders and bandits, for the tales surrounding him grew larger with every telling. He was a good companion, sincere in friendship, laughing at death and hungering for adventure! Vladamir spent 75 years in his company, but eventually grew tired of the lifestyle. He had questions he wanted answered, questions Thunor had no interest in. Why and how meant nothing to Thunor. As long as his immediate physical desires were sated, he was content. Vladamir eventually took his leave.
One. In five hundred years, only one, and that only a maybe. Nothing had happened to Thunor that he knew of. He persisted in his godhood claims and decried any knowledge of an icy blue dome or times when his mind went blank for long periods. Etienne shook his head sadly. He thought there no connection to this immortal roisterer, save shared experience and friendship. He continued to seek.
Now at last he felt he had a solid lead. Tales in historical documents, especially those of the historian Herodatus, had led him to this corner of Greece. The mentions of an island called Praxidae, meaning Vengeance, had drawn him towards the island of Kythria between the Greek mainland and Crete. More investigations had revealed tales of the Well of Furies containing the Fountain of Zeus, a source of immortality that seemed more credible than any other claims. Whispered in villages and ports along the coast were smatterings of information about a group of sisters, supposedly centuries old living in the same area, now residing on Kythria. A lead to be followed, to be sure. Etienne finished his wine, stubbed out his cigar and pushed the small breakfast table aside as he rose. It was time. His boat awaited.
The folk of Kythria were obliging, with a few silver coins thrown their way, with directions to the Sisters on the Hill. Except one old crone, who pointed the way, but cackled at the offer of compensation. The Sisters will exact their toll soon enough. I need not your coins, she chuckled toothlessly, as she took her basket and her leave.
At dusk he approached the villa, darkness creeping across the sky. Three tall women with sharp features and long curly dark hair stood outside, as if he had been expected.
Good evening, man of many names. I am Alexis and I know where you have been, claimed the first.
And I am Megan, and I know what you are, the second said.
My name is Phoebe, the last said, and I know where you go. Come in, and have a glass of wine.
Dec out.
The Milk of Paradise
Part Three
"To seek the sacred river Alph
To walk the caves of ice
To break my fast on honey dew
And drink the milk of paradise...."
I had heard the whispered tales
Of immortality
The deepest mystery
From an ancient book. I took a clue
I scaled the frozen mountain tops
Of eastern lands unknown
Time and Man alone
Searching for the lost--Xanadu
-Xanadu, Neil Peart
July 5, 1930
Flashing lightning streamed across the Illinois sky. The storm had held off long enough to allow the Chicago residents to enjoy a marvelous Independence Day celebration capped by a glorious show of fireworks. But the hour was now small, and the people tucked snuggly into their beds while rain pattered on rooftops and thunder boomed in the sky. One particular man stood atop a tall building, waiting, and not of his own volition.
He went by the name Bill Cooper, and he worked for the City in the Records Department. He knew his co-workers would be astonished and aghast to see him, standing naked on a rooftop, elements flailing furiously around him. He would have been astonished as well, if he were not so angry! A trap, he thought, it was all a trap! Curse them for doing this to me!
The three sisters had welcomed him cordially. The Kindly Ones. Ha, that was a laugh. Never were there any so unkind, at least to Bill (or Etienne, as he went by at the time). He had been invited into warm surroundings, and given a golden wine that made the wonderful drink of the mainland seem like ditchwater. Something about these sisters both frightened and intrigued Etienne. In the flickering candlelight, he had ALMOST seen larger figures encompassing them
terrifying, winged creatures that would flicker in and out of his vision. He laid bare his soul to these three, and begged for their assistance.
Do you know of any like me? Etienne asked, voice quivering with emotion, I cannot bear the solitude, nor the mystery. My entire long life has been nothing but questions for which answers I have none!
Things have progressed as they should, said Alexis
Today you will learn more, answered Megan
We will help you with where to go from here, spoke Phoebe
Etienne squirmed a little, uncomfortable with the cryptic nature of the answers and the odd speech patterning amid the three.
I have
heard tell that you may know of something. A place called the Well of Furies wherein lies the Fountain of Zeus. The claims go that he who drinks from the Fountain gain a life eternal, like mine. I seek it to find connection, and perhaps some solace for my loneliness.
You were not brought here for that, cautioned Alexis
Such a place is not for you, warned Megan
Others have been chosen to find the Well, explained Phoebe, the time is not yet ripe.
Not brought here for that? exclaimed Etienne, I brought myself here! And if I have been brought, then for what?
The way has been prepared long ago, bristled Alexis.
You are here at our will, and are but a mere tool! cried Megan, raising her voice.
You will do as we bid, whether you will or not! shrieked Phoebe, the invisible figures flashing in and out of Etiennes sight with flickering madness.
Fear struck Etiennes heart. He became aware that there was more here than met the eye, and that it had been a mistake to come. He rose hurriedly, intending to flee these strange women with unnatural knowledge and trappings of power and fear.
It is too late, wailed Alexis
You will HOLD! shouted Megan, and Etienne froze in his tracks against his will.
You will do our bidding! You have no choice! screamed Phoebe.
Limbs rigid, unable to move anything below the neck, Etienne struggled. Why? Why? he screamed, but no answer from the sisters came. For they had vanished, and in their place, tall winged violent looking creatures, taloned and fearsome, stood near. It was then Etienne recalled the tales of the Furies, Greek goddesses of retribution and vengeance. Etiennes mind spun out of control, and he nearly lost consciousness. But he remained awake, as each of the fearsome creatures kissed his forehead in turn.
You are now bound to us. You have outlived your life, and may be used as we will, moaned the thing that had been Alexis.
You need know no more, hissed the thing that had been Megan.
When the time comes, you will simply do. No thought of yours is required, snarled the thing that had been Phoebe. And as her lips had touched the flesh of his forehead, he had slumped unconscious.
Thirty years later, Bill recalled awakening in the deserts of northern Africa, frightened and confused. He knew his questing had been in vain. He was in the grips of powers far above him. Beings he had not considered existing, and yet, real as any other on this plane. He vowed to seek no more, and live his life as he would. He threw himself into more mundane pursuits, a more ordinary existence
until last night. He had felt something coming, some event of such magnitude that he himself was naught but a flea by comparison. And then, at the stroke of midnight, he KNEW. He knew it all. What he was to do, what his place in this sweeping change would be. He knew he was but a sidebar, one of many. The main thrust of what was happening was aimed at Paragon City on the east coast, and those related to it. The Champion and the Adversary were about to be born, along with the Maiden, the Elemental, the Watcher in the Darkness, the Thinker and the Acter. He knew not who they were, but what they represented. War between good and evil was about to begin on a larger scale than any time in the past. Bills was a task of reinforcement. He would aid those to come, those that would help the Champion and his allies. More than help
create or facilitate the creation of. But details he had none, he could but follow the instructions of his mind. Fight it though he would, he found himself stripping off his clothing and climbing to the roof in the storm. He stood motionless.
Hours passed. Around 4 am he felt something stir. The rains stopped abruptly. He blinked as phosphenes flickered across his eyes. But they were not that luminous ocular illusion, they were REAL! Blinking like fireflies, balls of energy flitted across the sky. One
four
ten
the sky was soon full of the flying fireballs of energy. The Well had been opened! The Fountain had been drunk from! The energy released!
Without thinking, truly unable to think, Bill thrust his arms into the air and screamed a banshee-like cry! The fireballs in the sky turned as one in his direction. Rushing headlong towards him, the fireballs fused as they came near, until they formed one gigantic mass. It struck Bill with the force of multiple hurricanes, but Bill did not budge. His body absorbed all the energy, until it glowed in the dark night like a beacon. Bills body twitched and writhed, trying to contain the incredible power, but he knew it could not. Whatever supernatural power was guiding him directed his expanded senses outward, towards a small meteor just entering the atmosphere. Bill instinctively released some of the great power in its direction, a blast streaking through the atmosphere, colliding with the meteor and dragging it down. The now basketball-sized meteorite slammed into the ground in a vacant lot on the south side of Chicago. Bills body slowly calmed as much of the excess energy drained from him to the muddy space rock below, but he felt more of the energy inside him. It was stable, but he could not touch it in any way. He was merely a receptacle, a storage container. He could feel its presence like a separate entity, one that would be with him until it released when and where it would.
Below in the lot, a young lad, stunted in stature but with an intellect that more than made up for his physical shortcomings, approached the cooling meteorite. He stared at the rock until its glow had diminished greatly, but did not disappear. He rumbled around in the trash piles until he found several plates of lead, constructing a box. Using two long metal bars, he picked up the space debris and placed it in the box, then fled to the abandoned building he had been squatting in. Bill knew this boy now, though he had never met him. The guidance he was receiving from powers well above his status was keeping him informed while forcing his actions. The boy was an orphan, parents killed in an automobile accident some time ago. He had fled his home to avoid being sent to an orphanage and had lived on the street since. He was small, almost dwarfish, but he was also a genius. No, far more than a genius. At the age of 8, his intelligence was already off any known scale. It was not his real name, but he had chosen to call himself Hermonius Brinkman. Ahead of him lay his destiny.
When the boy acquired the meteor, Bills body stopped shaking, but he swayed precariously. His head rang with a screeching sound he had only ever heard on a small island in the Aegean.
THE FIRST HAS BEEN CHOSEN, BUT NOT THE LAST!
Tears streamed from his eyes as he staggered towards the roof door, covered quickly by the return of the rains.
I
wont
be
a
puppet! Bill gasped weakly, before collapsing like a marionette with the strings cut.
Dec out.
The Milk of Paradise
Part Four
To stand within the Pleasure Dome
Decreed by Kubla Khan
To taste anew the fruits of life
The last immortal man
To find the sacred river Alph
To walk the caves of ice
Oh, I will dine on honeydew
And drink the milk of Paradise
-Xanadu, Neil Peart
January 5, 1947
Smearing his greasy hands across his coat, the bum waited calmly in the alley. Most people didnt even notice him there, even if their eyes crossed directly over him. The unfortunate had always been invisible to the prosperous. He had seen it all through known history. Even here, in the capitol of a country riding high on a great victory throughout the world. The facility he stood behind housed a secret super-soldier program, although none on the street was aware. The man had been on the run for almost 17 years. Fear had been the major part of his life since the events on that Chicago rooftop years past. He fled aimlessly at first, and randomly. Many cities had known his presence in that time, but he was always restless, always felt pulled in some direction or another. He had ended up in Washington DC a month ago, seemingly having chosen that place at random like many another. There had been no repeats of the events in Chicago
until now. He had awakened from his slumber this morning in an alley across town KNOWING. Tears streamed from his eyes as he attempted to fight the urge to go to a particular building. He struggled, but knew in his heart that it was fruitless. There was nothing he could do. His will was not his own.
He stood outside the building, staring blankly. He didnt want to be there. He had long ago given up name and identity, hoping to hide from his fate. He knew now he never would. Terror and anger fought a continuing battle in his mind. He would NOT be treated like this! But he would. At the appointed time, he flung his arm out and felt a part of the energy leave his body. It disappeared through the wall, where it stole the life force of a volunteer for the super-soldier program. It appeared as if the experiment had killed the man, so no further investigation occurred. The slovenly man knew he would encounter this man again.
August 22, 1981
He was tired. So tired. He had slept away decades, not wanting to live, not being able to die. He merely awaited the next time he would be called. He was resigned with apathy. He could do nothing, his life was no longer his own. Nothing mattered. There was only the waiting and the praying for release. Release did not come. He was in Spokane, Washington. He waited on the street, waited for the young bride to walk by. In this case, it was all it took. A mere nod sent the energy flowing invisibly to this woman, infecting the newly created fetus with the energy, mutating the yet-unborn girl with a toughness beyond human capability. Just the previous week, he had been called on to send the energy to a random gang member in the streets of New York City. A young boy of 10 had been in danger, affluent and not wise to the streets. He and his older brother had taken the wrong bus, and ended up in a very bad neighborhood. The energy crazed gang-banger had come out of nowhere and leveled his gun at the boy, but his brother had dived in front, taking the fatal wound instead. The desolate immortal had cried in grief along with the lad, knowing that this is what his fate wrapped around. That this was the boys trial by fire that would temper the sword of justice he would later become.
The bum wandered into a small glade and lay down. As he closed his eyes, he thought about how they were coming closer together now, how it all must be coming to a head. And then he slept, knowing nothing but the sorrow of awaiting his next call.
June 14, 1995
He pulled off his glasses and wiped his brow. It was hot! The school district had had the air conditioning turned off for the summer, with school out for the year. He had just come by to gather his things and move on. He was Paul Jennings now, a substitute English teacher at John Adams Elementary in Oconomowoc, Wisconsin. This one had pushed him to more elaborate means to attain his goal. He had spent most of the spring with discussions of heroic tales in literature and in real life. Mr. Jennings had seen how Will Jeffersons eyes had shone when the discussion turned to the modern age of heroism, particularly the stories of the heroes in Paragon City. He knew that nothing would stop Will from becoming the thing he desired most
a super-hero. His work here was done.
June 30, 2006
He had been in Paragon City for ten years. He knew he would never leave. It was here that his job would complete. He hoped that when he was done, he would be released from this horrible mockery of a life into oblivion. He craved nothing less, and nothing was further from his reach. He had survived the Rikti Wars in hiding, knowing he was protected from such things by the forces that manipulated him. He had attempted to walk into the battle hoping to get caught in the melee, but had been unable to move from his hiding place. He had no control, no volition of his own. He was a shell, with nothing inside. He had become what he had been called, merely a tool for those that used him. He wept often, but it was hollow. He had only recently been compelled to release the energy again. He did not know how these things were affecting some. He was at a loss to understand the release of the energy into that discarded radiation suit behind Crey Laboratories. He was just as mystified by his action of moments ago. He had wiped the identity of a poor boy that was being experimented on by the vile Circle of Thorns mystics. He hoped he helped the trauma of the boy, but feared it was just another manipulation, as the one he thought of as The First rescued the lad and gave him up to the authorities. The admiration in the boys eyes gave a clue. He would follow The First. Another soldier in the Kindly Ones dirty little war. To them, the means were always justified by the ends. What they did was right to them by the very virtue that they had decided to do it. They felt above mortal morals, and did what they did for justice and vengeance. As the boys memory of his previous existence disappeared, the grimy dark-haired, dark-eyed man with the haunted look knew that there was one more. One more pays for all. He had been noticing of late changes in his body. Inside, at the core, there was something
stiffening, growing. Whatever had been done to him was progressing. His forearms and his calves felt particularly stiff. But he had long gone beyond feeling things like heat, cold, comfort, etc. on anything but a subconscious level. He was a somnambulist, walking through his shattered life in zombie-like fashion. He cared for nothing, and nothing cared for him.
August 21, 2006
The entire east coast was under siege. The creatures conjured by the time master, Anachronus Caesar slaughtered and destroyed at will. It was this that Future-Man had been sent back in time to combat. It was the final battle, and the Evil Emperor of Time had nearly defeated him. Bleeding from his mouth, ears and nose, Future-Man prepared his final assault. He would call from the past a champion. Atop the tallest skyscraper in Steel Canyon, Anachronus Caesar approached the hero, laughing at his fate. Far below on the street, a vacant eyed homeless man stared straight ahead, although he was seeing the scene far above his head. Future-Man would fail. He had not the energy to draw a fly from the time-stream, let alone a hero. With a sigh, the grubby man waved an arm, releasing the life-force of a man he had absorbed nearly four decades before. The final flailings of energy from Future-Man intended to bring forth the hero were absorbed by this new glowing avatar instead, and then redirected into the crazed time traveling conqueror, dispersing his atoms through the time-stream and ending the threat. Future-man died, making the ultimate sacrifice.
But the chronal energies did not mix well with energies of the Well. Feedback shot into the exotic wastrel at the base of the building. Lights fired in his brain and eyes
And
his
mind
shattered
into
glittering
shards
Dec out.
The Milk of Paradise
Part Five
Waiting for the world to end
Weary of the night
Praying for the light
Prison of the lost--Xanadu
Held within the Pleasure Dome
Decreed by Kubla Khan
To taste my bitter triumph
As a mad immortal man
Nevermore shall I return
Escape these caves of ice
For I have dined on honeydew
And drunk the milk of Paradise
-Xanadu, Neil Peart
October 3, 2006
He fought a bear in the Arden Forest in 1623. He made love to a Indian ranee in 1512. In 1780, he moved from Paris to London, anticipating the coming turmoil. 1972
he slept. 1698
he wept. 1901
he wandered the desert aimlessly. 1745
1520
1986
2001
1890
1914
Catatonia, they said of the drooling man wearing the straitjacket in the cell with the padded walls. A complete shutdown of mental activity. But they were wrong. If anything, his mind was working too well, flashing from time to time and place to place so rapidly as to be undetectable. He had been released by the Furies, his job done. That much was true. But the chronal energy would not release him. His mind couldnt focus for more than a millisecond at a time. He was unaware of his presence in the cell. He was unaware of his surroundings. But his mind raced and raced. He relived again and again the [censored] of his will, the manipulations and the sorrows, the few joys and many regrets. He would never be sane again. He hated the Furies for doing this to him. He wanted nothing more than death. But he knew the THINGS inside his body would never let him die, would keep repairing him and healing him until the planet exploded, and perhaps even after that. If he could just find something to latch onto
something to help him focus on the here and now. Anything. He was tired of being a puppet. Tired of being an amusing plaything
The ever present television mounted high on the wall responded with the squeaky voice of Joe Pesci
So, Im funny? I amuse you? What am I, a clown for you?
A
clown?
A hideous grin broke out on the face of the patient. For the first time, but not the last, the abused tragic figure in the padded cell let out a sound that was more a howl of insanity than anything else, loudly ringing through the asylum, sending many patients into a frenzy
HAHAHAhahahaHAHAHAhahahaHAHAHA!
The
end?
Dec out.
Acknowledgments: Many thanks for inspiration go to Samuel Coleridge, Neil Peart, Poul Anderson, Anne Rice and Roy Thomas. And if the Bee Gees and Olivia Newton-John are waiting...keep waiting (although Gene Kelly was always cool). 
Dec out.
This story had much more impact with my SG mates because the final line reveals which of my characters this immortal man was (that is his signature laugh). It is Cut-Up, my Krazy Killer Klown with Klaws character (Claws/Regen Tech origin Scrapper, lvl 20 as of last night). Cut-Up was created to be a fun annoyance. He's got a bunch of really bad joke binds ("I tried sniffing coke once, but the ice cubes kept getting stuck in my nose!"), and battle cries like "BURMA SHAVE!" and "FLUFFY BUNNIES!" A silly, stupid frivolous character that at this point had no back story at all, he was just for having fun with and annoying my teammates with. 
His entry into game is often met in SG chat with "Oh, god not again!" and "Yipes, it's Cut-Up! Everyone hide!" So this was the absolute LAST character anyone thought would have this deep and serious a background (although it has been mentioned "OK, that explains why he's so crazy!").
Hermonius Brinkman in part three is the father of my main, Decorum, and almost all my other Victory heroes are represented in part four (my Dragyn got left off, only having been "born" recently and just didn't fit the format). Thunor (Mighty Thunor in game) in part two is also one of my Victory heroes.
So, I hope this can still be enjoyed without that information up front. Feel free to critique, hurl brickbats, laud, praise or otherwise show indifference to my little tale, and if anyone has any questions, feel free to ask.
Thank you for your time.
HAHAHAhahahaHAHAHAhahahaHAHAHA!
Dec out.
Great story, Dec! Thanks for sharing with us!
I still think it's a great story, and you need to write like this more often. 
I wrote this and posted it on our SG's site, where it was very well received. There are large parts that are specific to my characters, and I don't think it will have the impact it did there, where they know these characters, but I thought I'd give it a try here, anyway. I'll put in a post explaining at the end.
Dec out.
LEGION OF VALOR - Be a part of the Legend!