[RP] Baptized with Fire

((This was written for a story going on within Tangent, but I thought I'd share it with folks here. It was a bit hastily done, so it's all rough-draft quality, but I hope it gives at least the general idea of what was going on in the arc.))

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12:43AM, Monday, January 14, 2011

Seven minutes.

That's all the time Martin had given him. Seven minutes to fly from Paragon City, Rhode Island to the Yellowstone Caldera in Wyoming, to stop the plot set in motion by the twin Widows, to put an end to the bargain they made with Marcus Cole. Seven minutes to get there to find the biological superweapon, and keep it from unleashing the fury of a forty-seven mile wide volcano. Seven minutes or life on Primal Earth was over.

Hero Prime flew, racing at hypersonic speed across the New England states, a thunderous report echoing in his wake. He didn't have the luxury of caring about the effects of the sonic boom trailing him, about shattered windows and wailing car alarms. He had to be fast, or those things, among others, simply would cease to matter. Martin, the synthetic intelligence in charge of Tangent Station, kept him apprised of the time, audibly marking off every fifteen second block. Six minutes, forty five seconds. Six minutes, thirty seconds. Half a minute gone, and he was only over Ohio. He was not moving fast enough.

Summoning up every ounce of his own will, he drove himself to greater velocity. As Martin relayed the message, “Six minutes, fifteen seconds”, Yellowstone Park came into view. Two thousand miles in forty-five seconds was quick, maybe the fastest he had ever allowed himself to fly within the Earth's atmosphere, but with only just over six minutes left on the countdown, he just wasn't sure it was going to be enough.

“I need a read on that energy signature, Martin,” he shouted. “And I need it now.”

“Interfacing with your comm now, Michael,” came the calm reply.

They had just saved his sister, he and a team of Tangent and its allies. A psychic artifact given to Blue as a gift had driven her mad, and in her insanity she was captured and brainwashed by the former Widows, Pleasure and Pain. He smirked as he thought about the description they had been given during the conversation just a few nights before. Psychic Nazi ninja lawyers. They had been easier to take down than the title suggested. The psychic dampener Kris had designed to protect him from the psionic assaults of others worked amazingly well, and with the help of other heroes from Tangent and friends from outside the group, they had taken down the double threat.

“Six minutes,” rang Martin's voice. “I've found a likely entry point. It's directly below you.”

Like a cannonball, Hero Prime launched toward the energy signature, his eyes flaring up with golden light. Six minutes to stop this menace, this weapon of world destruction. Six minutes to save the world. The ground sped upward toward him, and he did not slow as he drew closer. At one hundred feet above the surface, he spotted a burrowed-out hole, maybe three feet wide. There it is, was all that managed to register before he plunged into it, downward, the last two hundred miles of his journey. The cavern was thin, but smooth and perfectly straight, as if cut by an intense beam. In the distance, a red-orange light glowed, a beacon signaling the end of the tunnel. And then he was there, bursting out of the darkness of the empty shaft and into the caldera's immense magma chamber. The cavern was huge – it stretched out in every direction as far as the naked eye could see – and mere mile below him bubbled an ocean of molten rock.

“Martin,” he called. “Martin, do we have a connection?”

Martin offered no reply. He was on his own.

Keeping his own mental countdown, he began to scan the surface of the boiling magma. Martin told him, before he left, that the energy signature was his own. That could only mean one thing, and that one thing was far from good. The Iradu, the secret order of deep-science zealots from the future of the Rikti homeworld, had made more than one planet-busting super-weapon. That had been Hero Prime's own destiny, in a far-flung future, a metahuman with origins rooted in magic, science, and raw human energy, he had been reared and adapted as a means by which the Rikti might win any war. He had the ability to absorb tremendous amounts of energy, then output that power, redirecting it as an assault. If that was what waited for him here, another being like himself, he had to stop it before it subsumed the energy of the caldera, then released it on an unsuspecting world.


12:45AM, Monday, January 17, 2011

“You're my personal John the Baptist, you know.”

Hero Prime spun around, his cape whipping behind him. If the voice was familiar, the body and face were even moreso. He was looking at a perfect replica of himself, or at least how he looked during his recent mind-trip excursion to the Rogue Isles: pulsing red eyes and hair so white it defied shadow itself. The reflection was dressed in black leather motorcycle pants and the rags of what must have been a heavy canvas coat, and a t-shirt. The sheer heat of the magma vault had burned most of the material away, leaving tattered cloth hanging from his shoulders.

“You know what I mean, right?” he continued.

“I don't have time for riddles,” Mike responded. “Neither do you. You have no idea what you're doing.”

“Of course I do... and so do you. I'm doing what must be done, for Blue, and for us all.” He said it simply and as a matter of fact. “I am the hand of God, laying the foundations of the coming world, and you are my harbinger.”

“Stop. I know you're drawing the energy from this caldera. I know what you plan to–“

“You know nothing!” the white-haired man shouted. “Who do you think you are, anyway? You were sent before me, but you could never do the job I was intended for!”

Mike hung there in the blistering air, appraising the alternate version of himself. If this replica, this other him was designed the same way, with the same genetic code, the same implementation of Iradu technology, he would have the same powers, the same strengths, the same weaknesses. It was no help, knowing these things, except that he knew he could never stop the alter-Mike in time. Seven minutes – five minutes, thirty seconds, he corrected himself – was not long enough. A fight between the two could last hours out in the open world, but in this magma chamber, where there was virtually unlimited energy from which they could both draw, there was no telling when it might end, and what the consequences might be.

“I wasn't sent. I escaped the Iradu and came here on my own. You can escape, too,” Mike said as he extended a hand. “We can help you, show you a better way.”

Alter-Mike barked a laugh, wicked and exact. “The Iradu were tools in the hands of God to make me what He needed me to be. He was the mastermind behind your escape, and it would have never happened without Him. You were sent, Michael Mars, because the world was about to change. You were to preach a message, and you have done so.”

“What message?”

“The message of the Most High, of course, that his son would come.”

“I don't–“

“I baptize you with water, but one comes, who is greater than I, who will baptize you with fire. That was your message! You were soft, you attempted to cleanse the world, like water. Now they have shown their unfaithfulness, and I will consume them with fire!”

Mike narrowed his eyes. He had bided his time so far, letting alter-Mike weave his monologue, while he began to absorb power from the caldera, himself. He needed to be ready if it came to blows, and each second made it more apparent that it would.

“I can't let you do that.”

“Oh?” Alter-Mike glared at him, the violence in his eyes making the fiery red glow spark and flare. “You have no choice. You are here to bear witness, Michael Mars, to the birth of a new world and nothing more. Consider it a favor from your brother that you haven't been destroyed already.”

“You're not my brother.”

The air crackled as Mike shot toward the pontificating replica, both fists glowing with furious light. Alter-Mike, however, was fast, just as fast as Mike, and had taken more time to gather energy from the blazing heat of the magma vault. He dodged to the side and Mike flew past him, coming to a sudden stop as the vice-grips of his reflection's hands clasped around his ankles. Alter-Mike spun, the centripetal force of the whirlwind motion flapping Mike's cape over his shoulders and outward.

“No, I suppose I'm not. I am you, Michael Mars.”

The villain released Mike's ankles, flinging him down at an angle at a startling velocity. Mike crashed into the livid molten rock like a stone hitting soft mud, penetrating its surface and leaving behind a deep crater that slowly began to close over him.


12:47AM, Monday, January 17, 2011

The molten rock settled in over Hero Prime, and he let it. Shrouded in the thick paste of magma, he floated, feeling both the heat and the pressure, and taking comfort in both. His suit burned away; the arachnofiber weave was strong, but the nearly three thousand degree temperature of melted stone was beyond its burning point. His comm and the snagtag Deus has passed to him before he left the Longbow base were gone, too, victims of the scalding temperature. All that was left was him, all that remained to stop the end of the world was his own body, his own mind, his own will.

Pushing himself upward, he emerged from the slag, rising up to meet his opponent. “We're not done here,” he called out.

A smile broke across alter-Mike's face, malicious and hungry. “No, I didn't expect we were, Hero Prime.”

This time he launched himself at Mike, beams of fervent light blasting from his eyes. Mike caught the energy in the palm of his hand, absorbing what he could of it, deflecting the rest, but realized too late that it was nothing more than a distraction. His enemy's fist caught him in the jaw, sending him reeling through the broiling air. He righted himself, then sped back toward alter-Mike, fists extended, much like he did before being thrown into the lake of magma.

The reflection thought he knew what was coming, believed Mike was predictable, and reacted accordingly, swerving to the side. Hero Prime, however, changed tactics at the last moment, spinning so that he was coming at alter-Mike at a perpendicular angle, barrel-rolling toward him like a flying log. He caught the snowy-haired villain off-guard, colliding with him and sending them both crashing into a nearby spire of obsidian. Mike pushed away, then swooped in again, hammering the man with machine gun punches to the chest and head.

“Argh! Enough!” A burst of energy exploded out from the imposter, knocking Hero Prime back, tumbling head over heals. Before Mike could right himself, his replica caught him, accelerating until Mike slammed into another tower of volcanic glass. He grunted as sudden pain shot up his back and into his shoulders, and tried to push away, but alter-Mike had him by the back of the neck. Mike flailed about until a sudden kick sent him wheeling through the air again, toward the ceiling of the cavern.

“I'm you, Michael Mars, version two point oh,” raged the villain. In a flash, the man was above Mike, meeting his upward motion with a two-fisted slam that sent Mike crashing once more to the lake of magma below. “I'm better, faster, stronger, and more powerful. I have won. Your sister has won. God has won.”

Hero Prime lay, splayed out, as the magma began to crowd over him again. His head spun, and he did his best to concentrate on moving, on getting out of the way of whatever might come next, but he was struggling just to get his body to respond. His legs were numb, and he couldn't feel his toes at all. Doing a quick mental check of his body, he found he could neither move nor feel his legs or his feet, or even wiggle his toes. He realized the horrible truth: his back was likely broken, his spinal cord severed.

There was a shattering screech, and when alter-Mike finally flew into view, he held column of obsidian a hundred feet thick above his head.

“They call you Hero Prime,” he sneered. “They call you this because you are Right. Always Right. If I'm your opposite, that makes me wrong in their eyes. Or... left. That makes me Left, doesn't it? Do you know what the word for Left is, Michael? Sinister.”

He stretched, hefting the obsidian boulder even higher. “To you, I am sinister. I am evil. I am vile. If you are Hero Prime, I am Sinister Prime. But to the new world, I will be a messiah!” And with that, he slammed the volcanic glass down, the black stone forcing Mike even farther into the thick, molten stone.


12:49AM, Monday, January 17, 2011

Michael...

The voice was silk, stretched out over his mind like a comforting sheet. It called to him, whispering his name time and again, beckoning him.

Michael, your time is not quite come.

He tried to respond, tried to say something, but he could barely move under the weight of the magma and the obsidian pinning him into the depths of the molten sea.

Open your eyes, Michael.

He did as he was told, expecting to be met by the blackness of volcanic glass or the glow of the roiling magma. What he saw instead was indeed a bright light, but confined to a hovering shape, human but androgynous, with wispy wings and skin of blazing light. He pinched his eyes shut, blinded. “Who... are... you?”

Michael, you have work to do. This world must not be lost, nor the billions who live upon it.

A hallucination. It had to be a fevered vision resulting from his condition. He dared crack his eyes open again, and the being was still there. Mike shifted his gaze to the left and right. There was no magma, no obsidian. The world was dark; the only light emanated from the angelic figure. He shook his head, then reached up to clear his eyes. When he opened them once more, it was still there, hovering before him.

“Who are you?” Mike repeated.

That does not matter. I have come with a message.

“I'm tired of messages.”

Take heart, Michael, for I come to you bringing news of comfort. You are my chosen champion, and you must stand against this menace. I will give you the strength.

“How? He's beaten me. There's nothing left I can do.”

Search inside yourself for the truth, Michael. Stop him, and I will lead you into your rest.

Pain lanced through Mike's body, and he let out a sudden cry. He was there again, buried under tons of stone, molten and otherwise. He still could not feel his legs, but he had control of his arms. He cocked a fist backward, then thrust it at the obsidian above him. He felt it give way, and he struck it again, then again, continuing as cracks laced the boulder.

Above, in the magma vault, alter-Mike, who had become bemused by the name “Sinister Prime”, drew in the last of the energy he needed. With one last blast, he would activate the Yellowstone Caldera, causing an eruption of cataclysmic proportions. Those who did not die in the initial blast would gradually fall prey to the volcanic winter and the choking ash filling the skies. It suited his purposes well. He closed his eyes and reveled in the moment. The end was near, indeed!

Abruptly, a splintering crackle brought him out of his reverie, just in time to see the obsidian boulder he had dropped onto Hero Prime shatter into a million shards of black glass. From within the explosion, a column of magma arced upward, Michael Mars at its apex, molten stone dripping from his outstretched arms like a rising phoenix. The hero caught his enemy by the waist, latching his arms around the man. As the molten spire splashed back to the lack of fire below, Mike hung from alter-Mike, lifeless legs dangling below.

“You're too late, Hero Prime! This world is over,” alter-Mike cried as he began to glow with feverish power. “I have what I need! Witness the end of an age and the dawn of a new world!”

Mike spoke with determination and grit, his voice like steel. “No. This ends here. Water smothers fire.”

He squeezed as Sinister Prime's glow grew, engulfing both of them. The power embraced him, and he drew from it as his reflection pushed it outward. Like a sponge, he absorbed every mote of energy output from the other man. It filled him, raced through his veins, sent his heart and mind racing, and his body ached from the need to release it. He flung his head back and let out a howl, and his alternate self did the same as the power drained from alter-Mike into the true Michael Mars, Hero Prime.

Finally, it was over, and the replica of Mike hung limp in his grasp. The villain whimpered, and tears streamed from his eyes.

“You don't understand... this was supposed to be. For you. For me. For Blue. We would be gods...”

“We're not made to be gods,” Mike whispered. “We're just men.”

Shaking, he descended, dragging alter-Mike into the magma with him. He felt nothing as his feet touched, but the warmth soon washed over his waist, then his chest, then his head. Soon, they were both immersed in the fiery, liquid rock. Mike held on to the power the other man had expended, not wanting to give the villain another chance to end the world. Instead, he began to draw even greater amounts of heat energy from the magma around them, and as he did so, it solidified. Soon, they were encased in a stone tomb a hundred feet thick.

Mike closed his eyes. The power... it was part of him now, but it threatened to overwhelm him. He needed rest. He was promised rest.

Michael...

He didn't respond, couldn't respond.

Michael, come with me. I will lead you into your rest.

Mike had come awake in a room with walls of smooth nacre. *There were no entrances, nor were there exits. *There were only the walls, and the ceiling, and the floor, all with that somewhere between glass and stone quality unique to mother of pearl. *In the center of the room was a pedestal of the same material, the top contoured to the shape of his body, and toward one end, a thin, white pillow with gold embroidered trim. *The edges and corners of the pedestal were rounded, bracketed by gold to match the thread framing the pillow, and the same metal described each of the borders of the walls surrounding him. *Mike flung a sheet covering him to the waist off his body, swung his legs off the edge of the table, and hopped down to the floor. *He stretched, his body arcing backward, hands raised high as his toes curled. *He felt good – amazing even – much like he did after a flight through the Sun. *Power raced through his limbs.

More importantly, his back did not seem to be broken. *

You are welcome here, Michael Mars. *I welcome you into my home.

There was no way to pinpoint just where the voice came from. *It was everywhere at once, in Mike's mind and in his ears, and even thrumming in his very bones. *He felt a chill race from his skull all the way down his spine, and his knees felt like they would buckle underneath him. *He held on to his erstwhile resting place for support, then yanked his hand back, stumbling away from it. *It felt, warm, pulsing with life! *He stared at it intently, and came to the quick realization that the pearl-like patterns swirled around, like currents of opalescent water, ebbing and flowing under a thin alabaster skin.

“Frak,” he muttered.

There is no need for such vulgarity, Michael. *My home welcomes you, as well.

“Who are you?”

There will be time for that after you have feasted. *Your work is done, Michael Mars. *It is time for you to find a new calling.

Mike narrows his eyes and his back went rigid. *“I'm not hungry. *What I am is confused. *Who are you? *And where are we?”

Silence followed, but not a silence full of dread or foreboding. *It was, instead, one of thought and consideration. *He could sense the voice's response being fabricated around him, the humming of a thousand bees somewhere in the distance, mixed with the feeling of tiny droplets of rain peppering down upon him from above. *A light pulsed in the milky swirl of the walls, and the scent of vanilla and – Mike couldn't quite identify what is was; maybe anise? – wafted through the air. *The copper-and-salt taste of blood filled his mouth, and Mike noticed that, in the tension, he had bitten his own tongue.

I am your namesake.

Silence again, then, “My what?”

I am Michael, Archon of the Circle of Thrones. *You may know me as Michael the Archangel.

It was two weeks before Mike actually met his angelic host, and another two weeks before he was allowed out of his room. *Led by two winged soldiers – honor guard, he was told – he was brought to the Archangel's chamber. *The room was tremendous, with seats lining both sides, like a basketball arena formed of the same living nacre of his own quarters, trimmed with glimmering gold. *At the far end rose a pedestal, upon which sat an austere, high-backed throne. *Like the trim, the throne was breathing alabaster edged in gold. *Gems were set along its front, and in an arch over the head of the person sitting upon it. *That person, the Archangel himself, stood, bowing slightly at the waist.

“Enter, Michael Mars,” he called. *“We must speak.”

Flanked by his honor guard, Mike strode the length of the chamber. *Dressed in flowing robes of white silk, a golden sash tied about his waist, he reflected on how Proximo, the battle-hardened trainer *from Cimerora would laugh if he saw Mike now. *When Imperious had first commissioned a suit of armor for Mike, the man had laughed; the man from the distant future was fit, but he wasn't hard. He would never be worthy of real Legionnaire armor. *Of course, he completed the commission – after all, it was a direct command from Imperious – and when he found out why he was ordered to have the armor built, he regarded Mike with a little more respect. *Since then, Mike and Proximo had become friends. *Proximo taught Mike how to play Petteia, an ancient form of chess, and beat him regularly; Mike, in turn, was a better hand at a more modern version of chess, a game Proximo never did quite understand.

Like so much else, that was in a life he could no longer live.

“Please, have a seat, Michael,” the angel said as he drew near.

“This will go a whole lot easier if you call me Mike,” he replied as he sat in a nearby chair. *“Or I call you Mike, but I guess you probably have more right to the full thing.”

The angel laughed. “Very true. *Though Mike seems to lack the respect I should accord you. *I will call you Mars, instead, after the Roman God of War.”

Mike could only respond with a chuckle. “Whatever floats your boat.”

“You humans have curious expressions. *I have another one for you; a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush. *Tell me, what does that say to you, Mars?”

It was one thing to be told he would be called Mars, and something else entirely to have it happen. *The name felt awkward, like it implied something about him that he was not. *Still, it was his name, the one he brought with him from the creche and into his life in Paragon City.

“It means it's better to take the good thing you have now,” Mike said, “than to try and snatch what you think might be a better thing somewhere else.”

“Very good. *That is essentially what I wish to speak to you concerning.”

“What do you mean?”

The Archangel stood from his throne and descended the stairs. *“You have a grand opportunity in this place, Mars. *You are in Empyrea now, a land of purity and grace. *There is nothing evil here – no hatred, no crime, no violence. *You can explore this world, even command it to a degree, as that is your right.” *His hands rose, and the wispy wings on his back spread outward, and as he reached the bottom of the platform, he spun slowly. *“Another human expression: the world is your oyster. *You have but to go out and find your pearl.”

“I heard a 'but' in there, close to the end.”

“You listen well, Mars.” *Michael turned to face him. *His face timeless, both young and old at the same time, with eyes of flame. *He wore nothing from the waist up, and his skin was the color of burnished bronze, with the same metallic sheen, though it rippled with perfect musculature underneath. *“I wish for you to consider staying here. *We are embroiled in an endless war for the lower planes, my friend, and our numbers are finite. *Each soul who joins us brings us one step closer to defeating the Enemy.”

Mike sat there, dumbfounded, then slowly stood. *“You're saying... you want me to be an Angel?”

The archangel laughed again, a deep, goodhearted chuckle. *“Don't be silly, young man; I lack the power to do such a thing. *I only wish to make you a Saint.”

The demonic surge broke through in the wee hours of the night. *The front lines, the ranks of foot soldiers who represented the army's first line of defense, fell with little resistance, crushed under the feet of the shadowy horde. *Screams of terror filled the air, carried on the billowing, black smoke like invisible banshees. *The second rank, a dozen phalanxes, men standing twelve side by side and twelve deep, with long pikes and heavy shields, held the hellish host off by sheer numbers alone. *Each man, Mars knew, would soon succumb to the vicious onslaught of devils, if their plan failed.

The clanging of a gong sounded; time to begin had come. *A hand gripped Mike's arm. *“We should be on our way, Mars.”

He turned to face Karl, a gnarled stump of a man who had joined the angelic army around the same time Mike – or Mars, as he had come to be known – had. *Like Mars, Karl wore the shimmering armor of his station, a Saint, though it was scarred from combat and dirty from wear. *Mars imagined his looked much the same – white metal as specular as glass, chipped and dented from a hundred battles with their demonic rivals, soiled with grime and the blood of hell itself. *Captain Mars nodded, signaling his men. *The plan called for two companies, one to the north, and a second to the south, a mere two hundred men flanking the devouring horde of monsters, but two hundred would have to be enough. *Each of the men had been mortal at some point, before coming into this world, and each of them excelled in their training to such a degree as to be made True Saints. *Of their number, the Captain could count on one hand those who had marched in the army longer than he and Karl.

The two of them had only been under Michael's command for nine months.

Captain Mars and his men – Company Leonis – moved silently through the brush surrounding the battlefield. *Subversive tactics were not their normal mode of operation, preferring instead to meet the foe in combat face to face. *But the hammering assault had left them outnumbered and overpowered, and there was little time before the tide would overwhelm them. *When Karl suggested something a bit out of the ordinary, Mars thought it best to listen, and pass the suggestion on to his commanding officer. *The Colonel, however, was unimpressed. *Sneaking about in the forest was for saboteurs and assassins, he claimed, not for warriors bound by the light. *And so, with the aid of a circle of compatriots – which included Captain Norris of Company Serpentis – Mars and Karl had worked out the plan, keeping it hidden from those in higher ranks.

“Here's good,” Mars whispered. *Karl held up a hand for the others to fall in behind them. *Together, they scanned the horizon to the south. *It was only a moment before the flare arced upward, a flaming arrow sparkling in the gray of the dusky sky. *Mars signaled for his own archer to respond, and then they were moving again, rushing to meet Serpentis at the center of the battlefield. *Company Leonis burst from the brush, swinging their shining blades and shouting battle cries exalting the light...

… and were met by a battalion of twisted hellspawn, rushing at them with equal force. *They were tall, the smallest of them nearly nine feet in height, with broad shoulders and jagged features. *Their skin, red as human blood, was covered with the scars and pockmarks of a thousand battles and duels, and their eyes betrayed only a desire to kill. *Each of them brandished a cruel weapon – barbed lances, serrated swords, spiked mauls – and were covered in the brambled armor of the Enemy.

They knew, was the only thought racing through the head of Captain Mars. *They knew!

“We've been betrayed!” he cried out. *“To arms, to arms!” *And then the battle was joined, the hundred men of Company Leonis against a force many times its size, eight hundred demons. *Blades clashed against each other and shields clattered as the air filled with the sounds of victory and anguish. *Somewhere in the fray, Mars lost his sword, but he kept on fighting, using the edge of his shield and his gauntlet-covered fists to beat back the Enemy. *The demons roared out their attacks, but remained as disorganized as ever. *It was perhaps the only saving grace for the Company of Saints – the devils were inherently selfish, and could never work as a single unit. *They were driven by greed and hunger and lust and pride, each one thinking himself better than the others. *Though they were possessed of greater strength and superior numbers – in every battle! – they lacked the sense of humility it took to take orders, to rely upon others.

A cry of pain, a familiar voice, caught the Captain's ear. *Mars turned as a demon hoisted Karl from the ground, impaled on his lance. *With a shout of rage, he launched himself at the hellspawn, charging in and slamming it with his shield. *The creature dropped its spear, swinging a backhand strike at Mars, but he brought his shield to bear just in time. *Karl tumbled to the side, his hands grasping the shaft of the pole, and Mars shifted to the side to get between the monster and his man-at-arms. *The demon hunched downward and took another swipe – too slow – and the Captain swung his shield in a quick upward slice. *There was a splatter of black blood and a gurgling shriek, and the beast toppled backward, its windpipe crushed by the blow.

Captain Mars spun, dropping to his knees next to his friend. *“Karl...”

Karl coughed up a mouthful of blood. *“Captain, it's been an honor.”

“No, Karl. *I'll get you back to...”

“Don't be a fool, Captain. *You have a chance; destroy the phylactery.”

The Captain looked up sharply, glancing toward the center of the field. That had been their goal, the destruction of the phylactery, and he could see it from where he knelt, a giant obsidian gem, spinning above a silver font of blood, carried in a spiked, blood-soaked cart. *It was unguarded! *How could they have left it unguarded? *He looked back down to his friend, the man who had saved his life a dozen times – and whose life he has saved as many. *“I can't. *I can't leave you to die, Karl.”

“Mars, you can carry me back, and all ou–“ Karl coughed again, choking on his own blood and bile. *“All our men will die, sir. *You'll get the sword for disobeying orders. *Or you can destroy that fu– ugh, frakking thing, and save 'em all.” *One hand, trembling, lifted from the shaft embedded in his abdomen, closed into a fist, and came down to his chest in a salute. *“Go, you idiot.”

Captain Mars stood again, shield hanging from his arm, and turned once more to the source of this demon battalion's power. *The devilish horde lacked the ability to operate outside of the lowest of realms without a phylactery, a connection to their home. *Without it, they would simply cease to be a threat, transforming from vile monsters of the battlefield to wisp-like spirits whose temptations simply held no sway against an Empyrean. *Moreover, the demons required the phylactery to be nearby, as only those in close proximity could draw power from it. *If he could smash the gemstone...

There was no time to lose.

He lanced forward, dodging between, under, and over combatants. *A particularly tall creature blocked his path, and he leaped up as it stooped down to swing at him. A foot landed square on the demon's forehead, and Mars dropped his shield, leaping onto it and sliding down its back. *He tucked into a roll as he hit the ground, and came back up, shield in hand. *Look at you, he thought with sudden mad laughter. *Ninja Prime!

Then he was at the phylactery, and the only thing standing between him and it was another man. *Captain Norris.

“Charlie,” Mars said, “Help me smash it. Help me destroy it.” *He hefted his shield in both hands, prepared to rush the gemstone.

Captain Norris smirked. *“Tsk, tsk, Mars. *I don't think so. *Not today.”

“What? *We destroy it, and we win! *One more battle in our favor, Charlie.”

“No, I don't think that's the best idea.”

“What do you mean?”

“You're not too bright, are you?” Norris drew his sword, a silver blade inlaid with a golden serpent, the sign of his company. *“In our world, back on Earth, I was powerful. *I was rich, famous. *Damn it, I was good. *And look at me now? *Is this my reward? *Is this what I get for being the kind of man I was? *Children looked up to me! *Now what do I have? *A sword, a shield, and a death sentence – an eternal one! *This is not the Heaven I was promised!”

Mars twitched. *Norris was the betrayer.

“So I made a deal. *I give them the keys to Michael's stronghold, and they send me back. *I get to be myself again, Mars. *Wouldn't you want that? *To be yourself again? *I know you would!”

“I...” the Captain paused to consider Norris' words. *He had passed into this world ten months before, and served in Michael's army nine of those. *He had never forgotten Tangent, never forgotten Lexi. *Of course he would love to return, but he was told it could never happen. *Never.

Each man may die once, and then must go to his judgment, Michael had told him. *Mars assumed, of course, that certain men were given a pass for being clever enough to cheat death. *But a return from Empyrea? *Never.

“They're demons, Charlie,” Mars spat. *“Demons. *Don't you get it? *You've been had – they've fooled you. *It's what they do.”

“No, you're wrong! *And now, all I have to do is kill you. Don't you see? *I know who you were in our world – Hero Prime, bigtime superhero. *But here? *Your powers are gone, and you aren't any better than any other human. *Me, on the other hand, I was something different. *I trained. *I maintained the perfect body. *I know how to fight, and never needed to be a metahuman to do it. *And now you're going to see what that means!”

Norris rushed, swinging his sword. *Mars dodged, but quick as he was, the man still clipped his arm at the joint of his armor. *A thin line of blood soaked through the leather. *Mars spun, swinging his shield offensively, catching the other Captain's sword hand. *The weapon spiraled to the ground, and Norris snarled. *He caught Mars in the chest with a snapping side kick, and the Captain staggered back.

“Do you think I need a weapon to fight you? *Don't you know who I am?” *He closed with a barrage of blows, too fast for Mars to dodge them all. *Mars managed to get his shield between them, however, and most of the strikes fell against steel. *The man dropped into a crouch and swept his foot out, catching Mars' ankles, and the Captain fell. *His opponent was upon him in a flash, delivering strike after strike to his face and chest. Mars fended him off with his hands, returning the blows when he could, but he was losing; his vision blurred and he knew he had little more than moments of consciousness left.

Norris reached for his sword, pulling it to him. *He held it in both hands, pointing downward. *“Die, Captain Mars. *Die, and let me go back to my li–.” *He drew back, and then his eyes rolled back in his head. *A shaft of steel two inches thick protruded from his chest. *He toppled to the side, and Mars saw Karl, barely able to stand, blood dripping from the hideous wound in his gut.

“Go, damn you,” he grunted as he dropped to one knee.

Mars did not wait. *He stood, and climbed into the wagon, then brought his shield up, one hand clasping either side. *With a shout, he swung it down on the obsidian gem. *The volcanic glass shattered with an explosion of shadow that burst outward, rippling across the battlefield. *Each demon it touched turned to ash, then crumbled, until there were no more. *The soldiers of the phalanxes, those who still stood, looked about in shock, then began to cheer their victory.

The battle was won. *This one, at least, was over.

6:45PM, Monday, February 7, 2011

Two hundred feet under Paragon City, in the office of the Special Workforce for Operational Research and Defense, two men stared through one-way glass into a room. *The first sat at a keyboard, glancing from the window to half a dozen different monitors from time to time. The second stood with military stiffness, his eyes narrowed.

“Interesting, Milton,” the standing man said.

“Wh-what's that, sir?” Milton replied, his voice uncertain.

“Was the Chuck Norris reference really necessary? *After all, Norris is alive and well.”

“Oh, uh. *Sorry, General. *I mean, I know it wasn't n-necessary, but under the circumstances, I thought a little f-familiarity, you know, like that rockstar in P-Postm–“

“Tom Petty,” the general interrupted. *“I can see how that might work to our advantage.”

“Besides, he d-doesn't know Chuck Norris isn't dead.”

“True. Carry on, Milton. *Carry on.”