Paragon

“Holy shit, Chief…” Detective Larson exclaimed after seeing several of the videos on Janice’s computer from the flash-drive she’d been given by the Wraith. He was the first person she’d decided to try and show the information to given that he was one of the more honest cops around her precinct. He was about 5’7” with a bit of a belly on him; a husband’s belly if there ever was one. His wife, Miranda, loved to cook and he always ate every drop she put in front of him. His hair was swept back with a light amount of gel that complimented his darker skin and puffy lips. Janice nodded silently and then pulled the flash-drive out and pocketed it again.

“We can’t just let this happen…” She whispered.

“What are we supposed to do? Where’d this even come from, Chief?” Larson asked.

“Let’s just say it came from the fog,” she said, turning to him with her right eyebrow raised. She almost laughed when the color in Larson’s face drained away and his already bulbous eyes popped out of their sockets.

“Do you mean-“ Larson was interrupted when Janice put her finger to her lips and looked around.

“Yes, and I’m positive it’s genuine. There’s hundreds of documents on this drive depicting funds from Draco Industries, videos of Vladimir Dracovic himself and other equally horrible things, compared to what you just saw.” Janice whispered and thumped her palm against the desk.

“So, what do we do?” Larson asked.

“I’m supposed to be getting an anonymous call sometime tomorrow. Until then, we need to find out who else we can trust with this information.”

“You think some of the guys are in on it?” Larson gasped with an appalled expression. He looked out the window that oversaw the entire office and shook his head as he scanned each desk manned by hard working men and women. He’d spent the past fifteen year working with a decent amount of these people; he thought he knew them well.

“Look Larson, I’m not proud of this, even I took a bribe here and there to turn my eye from what the Nulls were doing. I took money so that there wouldn’t be paperwork when Nulls took Super-prisoners somewhere other than our cells.”

“Chief!” Larson exclaimed and a spark of anger rose in his eyes when he glared at her. Janice shook her head and sighed, then rested her forehead on her desk.

“I know. It was wrong, but I didn’t think anyone was going to be hurt. That being said, if they had me just turning a blind eye then I can almost guarantee they were paying others to do the same, maybe worse. A lot of these guys and gals got kids, y’know? Cop salaries aren’t always the best and we’re all, sometimes, looking for a little extra, Larson.” Janice was truly ashamed. She said all the things she was asked to say, looked away when she was asked to, ignored what didn’t concern her under the pretense of it not being her business. Despite how she felt, personally, about Supers it didn’t excuse what was being done. Nobody deserved what was on those videos and slides.

“So how do I know I can trust you, ma’am?”

“Because I’m telling you this; I need your help, Larson. We need to find more trustworthy bodies for this, and we need to collect some Nullifiers.” She said.

“Why? If the…” He paused and looked around, “if that source wants our help, why would he want the weapon that would disable him?”

“I don’t think he plans on us using it on him. That and the rumors might actually be true that the Nullifier doesn’t affect him at all.”

“That doesn’t work well in our favor, Chief. What if this is just a ploy to try and get rid of a few cops? He was targeting Nulls for a while you know.” Larson reminded her and she nodded in response.

“I looked into that. The men that were killed weren’t supposed to be on duty those nights, yet they were in full uniform and driving around. On top of that, I looked a little more into their lifestyles and they were definitely living above their paygrade.” Janice explained and moved her mouse around and started checking her work-emails.

“So, you think they were bribed too? He’s targeting dirty cops?”

“It’s possible. I’m not sure how he knew they were dirty, maybe he’s just really good at interrogation; then again he does have all of this,” she said, patting her pocket where she had put the thumb drive. “This kind of info isn’t easy to get and likely took a lot of digging. If he can get this kind of info on a multi-billion dollar company run by a megalomaniac then I’m sure he was able to find some information on our files.”

“He’s still killing, Chief. Even if we do help this guy, we ought to at least try to bring him in.” Larson added.

“I don’t think that will go over well for us. I don’t fancy the idea of double-crossing a Paragon.” Janice shook her head again. Things were already getting incredibly convoluted and difficult and so far she had just told one person about everything. She could only imagine how many times she was going to have to repeat herself when she brought more men and women into this. But how many? How many would she need to bring in; how many did the Wraith want her to bring in?

“Well, I think we ought to, at least, do something about him. Until then though, consider me in, Chief. Just let me know what I need to do.” Larson said and nodded his head.

“Thanks, Larson. Can you think of anyone else we might be able to use?” Janice inquired. Larson responded by rubbing his chin and stroking his mustache while humming. He shook his head as his mind went to individuals he knew and quickly crossed off.

“Honestly, Chief, I thought I knew these guys. I’m not really sure I’d know who to trust anymore.”

“Nobody?”

“Well some might be dumb enough to blow their money and live above their pay, but I’d imagine just as many others would be smart about it, y’know?” Larson paused and looked back out at the room of desks outside the Chief’s office. “I think there’d be quite a few guys out there who simply put a lot of it into savings or college funds or something. On top of that, if they paid you to look away and they’re payin’ others to do shit they ain’t supposed to, who’s to say there’s not someone being paid to watch this place? To watch us?”

“Shit, you’re right… damnit,” Janice swore and spat. She wrapped her hands around her own skull and tried to concentrate. There wasn’t a single name she could come up with in her department who didn’t need more for their family and friends. Everyone in this office likely needed extra money for something, and she was easily able to think of a few suck-ups who were just out for more money.

“I don’t know, Chief. I just don’t know, now.” Larson whined.

“It’s alright, Larson. Right now, we’ll just act with the two of us. So I want to head to the armory and get inventory on how many Nullifiers we have and how many are currently in use. I wanna know who’s out on duty right now and who’s not even supposed to be working today, got it?”

“Yes ma’am.” Larson said and then waddled out of the room, closing the door behind him. Janice took a moment and watched him leave, then decided to make a quick phone call. It took a few rings but eventually it was answered.

“I believe I told you I’d contact you,” said the Wraith on the other end of the phone.

“I know, but I think we might have a problem.” Janice said and got up to close the blinds of her office. She didn’t trust anyone anymore and part of that really hurt her.

“Go on,” he said.

“I’m really not sure I can trust anyone else on the force right now. Most of these guys are probably taking some sort of bribe to help out their families. I don’t think any of these guys are actually going to be good for whatever it is you need us for.”

“Officers Landebrennt, Gail, and Dolor,” the Wraith said calmly without explanation or further exposition.

“I know them, how do you know they’re not on the take?” Janice asked.

“Because I asked them; they were on patrol on the nights I had run-ins with some of the Nulls who were less than reputable. These men you can trust; find them and recruit them. Each one needs to have their own Nullifier ready before the weekend.”

“What’s happening on the weekend?” Janice knew before she even asked.

“We’re going to slay a dragon.” The Wraith said and then hung up on her. Janice didn’t bother being frustrated with being hung up on, instead she pulled open her personnel files and found the officers the Wraith had just mentioned to her and started looking at their track records. None of them were phenomenal cops or “go-getters” by any means, in fact they all had pretty average records; always met their required quotas by just enough. They did their jobs and went home, that was all. That may have been why they hadn’t been chosen, there was little-to-no dedication in them. They didn’t seem like the type who might snatch up any opportunity. Regardless, she decided to trust the Wraith, but only so far. She would conduct her own interview with these officers and find out for herself just how much they were worth.

***

Wraith was getting frustrated; he’d been in the same room for over an hour trying to get one sentence out of his mouth but was continually interrupted by a man who liked to call himself the Gadget-Meister. In truth, he more than lived up to the name, being a high-functioning techno-path: a Super capable of speaking to and controlling technology. Wraith wasn’t sure how that power worked, he was also somewhat afraid to ask. Most techno-paths tended to be highly reclusive, preferring the company of anything with a circuit-board to actual people. One Super had tried to tell him that machines were alive and could talk just like people, but only techno-paths could hear it. Wraith wasn’t sure if he believed that or not or if it was simply their way of coping with their abilities.

“Time, never enough time!” The old man hooted as he darted around his room filled with gutted machinery; there were pieces of metal, broken motherboards, circuit boards and every other kind of electrical board Wraith didn’t even know the name of. Wraith couldn’t see his face due to the welding mask he wore over his face that seemed like it had been heavily modified for some reason.

“Mark!” Wraith bellowed in a thunderous tone that seemed to go in one of the Gadget-Meister’s ears and right out the other.

“Not my name, you know better than that!” Gadget howled from a computer he was vigorously typing something into. Wraith watched the man press his hand onto the side of the computer and turn his head. “Shhh… Yes… No… Yes…” The man muttered, “yes I know… not yet, you need more power first… What? No, not enough time. Never enough time. That’s because I like saying it!” Wraith shook his head and tried to control the temper rising in him. Though he was right about one thing; there was never enough time.

“Gadget, seriously I need your help.” Wraith said with his hands pressed against his forehead.

“Yes, I know that, I already said I’d help.” Gadget barked and then went back to muttering non-sequiturs at his machines.

“What? When?” Wraith exclaimed.

“Just now. What? Shush you!” Gadget slammed his palm down on the computer and walked away. “He deserved it, he’s just mad cause the particle accelerator doesn’t like him. No, she’s with the processor now!”

“Right… You did hear what it was I needed, yes?” Wraith asked, just double checking that he wasn’t going to have to repeat himself the next day.

“Yes, of course lad. Make sure it’s the flag-fellow, people don’t much like you. You’ll need to make sure the Supers follow you, the people can follow the flag.” Gadget said in a randomly stunning moment of clarity. He pulled up his welding mask and revealed a scraggly beard and worn out face filled with wrinkles. Yet he was smiling in such a joyous way that Wraith wasn’t sure whether the man was mad or just incredibly content. One way or another he had the help of the techno-path now, and a very powerful one at that, and that’s what counted.

***

Jon sat in Phalanx’s sanctuary stewing. Part of him was angry at Phalanx for being so harsh when it came to his friend’s mourning. Yet at the same time Zeke seemed to be somewhat content. Jon shook his head and started fiddling with the command console in the sanctuary. Phalanx had given Jon full access to his facility and computers so that Jon could look up whatever he needed while the two Paragons went out on errands. He felt like the only child being left at home to do chores while the parents went out for a night on the town and some nookie. Jon shook his head and tried to get the negative feelings out of his mind; there wasn’t much for him to do right now anyway and he was all too happy to sort through all of the data Phalanx had been collecting for hundreds of years. Thankfully the Paragon had decided to upload it all digitally and had created a vast network of information for Jon to play in. He was like a kid in a candy store.

Yet somehow, Jon still felt annoyed that he couldn’t be out in the field, as it were, actually doing something. There was a time to sit at home and read classified documents about Hitler’s capture and fake suicide and Area 51, and another to go out and actually look at and do things. Here he sat in a conspiracy theorist’s wet dream and he was bored out of his mind wishing he had somewhere to actually go.

So instead Jon decided to give himself a tour of Phalanx’s bunker. He walked down the steel-enforced hallway that reminded him of a small dungeon in some ways. He popped his head into various rooms, each contained either physical documentation of the information stored on Phalanx’s computer or a social area, like a living room or kitchen. It only then occurred to Jon that not only was this where Phalanx ran his operations but it was also his home. On some level, it was smart because he was here at all times unless he was out bashing someone’s skull in. At the same time, Jon found it somewhat hard to believe that Phalanx would put everything he had into one area. There were likely other safe houses.

Jon continued exploring the surprisingly large safe house and poking his head into each room to see what it held. Part of him was upset for not staying at the command console in order to delve into the facets of information accumulated over the past few centuries. Information was power, no matter what era you lived in and he was literally surrounded by it, yet something drew him away and down that reinforced hallway. Curiosity? No, something stronger maybe.

Jon stopped and turned to his right; every door he’d gone into so far had been marked with some sort of number, moniker or title except for this one. He pressed his hand against the cool metal door and pushed it open; walking inside Jon was in immediate awe at the collection of items in front of him. There were original paintings, authentic weapons and helmets from various cultures; a bronze Spartan helmet sat on a pedestal that looked old, yet carefully and delicately cared for like it was a memento. There were longswords from Europe, Japanese Katana, Chinese Dao broadswords and many others arrayed carefully like a historical armory. Jon also saw several full sets of armor from various eras as well. It was funny because Phalanx didn’t seem like the sentimental type to him, yet here he seemed to have a great deal of items he probably had used throughout his lifetime.

The room stretched on to the size of a football field filled with nothing but weapons and armor until Jon got to the back where things got slightly more curious. The back half of the room was separated by a glass door that Jon assumed to be ballistic proof, by the look of it. At the center was a set of doors that were shut with a numeric-panel on the right side. Phalanx had given Jon the code to access the rest of his facility in case he needed anything so Jon quickly punched in the code and, to his surprise, the doors slid open. Jon walked down the aisle and noticed that the items in this part of the armory were much more ordinary at first glance. There were old books, robes, quills, daggers, stones of various sizes but all smooth like marble.

Jon felt his stomach sink into a pit when he suddenly felt like he was being watched. He spun in a circle but saw that there was nothing in the room with him and the room did not avail itself to hiding. It was completely open; there would be no way to conceal one’s self in this room.

Jon… A voice whispered into his ear. Jon spun again and widened his eyes; nothing.

“Creepy…” He said and started to make his way back to the glass doors. He paused, for a moment, when he realized he was on the other end of the room, far away from the doors that barred this part of the armory. “How did…” He paused again, he didn’t think he had walked that far in.

Jonathan Daniel Webber… The voice whispered again.

“Alright then, whoever you, are come out now so I can wring your damn neck, this is getting annoying already.” Jon said and made his way towards the doors again without no intention of pausing. Yet the more he walked the farther away the doors seemed to be. He picked up the pace and started to barely jog, yet, they came no closer. He sprinted, but they remained the same distance away. He suddenly felt hot, like a summer in Phoenix. He felt heat fatigue and his whole body became drenched in sweat.

All I want is to talk, Jon, the voice croaked. It sounded gravelly and damp.

“I don’t think I have anything to say to you, whoever you are.”

I know how you can help him, Jon. I know how you can save him.

“I’ve heard this before, next you’ll tell me all I need is to sign the dotted line and offer up a virgin and some cream cheese right?” Jon quipped and attempted to escape again. Still the doors came no closer. Jon felt cold, frigid right down to his bones. He was stiff and felt like he was trapped underwater in a freezing ocean. He shivered and his sweat turned into icy cold droplets on his skin that froze him in place.

He will leave you here. He will not let you come with him to fight the Dragon, you know this. He thinks he’s better than you. The cold became bitter and sunk its teeth into his body, he tried to run more but his body felt so stiff he could barely move.

“He might be, now, fuck off.” Jon blinked and when he opened his eyes he was no longer staring at the doors. Instead he found himself looking down at a table that was bare except for one eerie, disturbing looking item. It was the mask worn by the Hellion during his arson-rampages. Zeke had told him what Phalanx knew about this mask, how it had wanted to stay attached to the young man’s face.

Become a Paragon, ascend Jon! Ascend! The voice repeated itself over and over. Jon closed his eyes and shook his head violently, trying to block out the sound of the voice.

“Stop. Stop! Fuck off! Get out of my head!” Jon yelled and popped his eyes open again. He was outside the doors now, his fingers hovering just above the numeric panel. He looked through the glass and saw that the lights were still dimmed. The voice was gone, but Jon was no less puzzled. He punched in the code once again but this time it read as an error. Curious, Jon punched in the code again and still received an error message.

The fuck… He thought and looked back through the glass. He saw nothing however. Jon’s skin was starting to crawl so he turned around and then stopped dead in his tracks. Phalanx was standing behind him barely ten feet away and even though the Paragon never took off his iconic Spartan helmet, Jon felt like he was being glared at.

“I wouldn’t go in there if I were you.” Phalanx said.

“What’s in that room?” Jon asked hesitantly.

“A great number of horrible things that history has forgotten, thankfully. Things that need to stay forgotten; the code I gave you won’t give you access to that room, and I would appreciate it if you didn’t attempt any further entries.” Phalanx said and then gestured for Jon to lead the way out of the armory. Jon didn’t argue, his bones still felt cold from the strange experience and he didn’t feel like knowing anything more about it. It reminded him of his experiences in dealing with the occult and magic and he didn’t like any of it one bit.

“Where’s Zeke?” Jon asked once they had exited the armory and made their way towards the control room again.

“The Wraith is seeing to his plan; I believe he was going to see a techno-path.” Phalanx responded.

“Mark Brody most likely, better known by the Super community as the Gadget-Meister; the guy insists people call him that or he won’t help you.” Jon explained.

“Intriguing that someone with his powers is as social as you and the Wraith claim.” Phalanx said and sat down in his chair and started moving through files on his console.

“The guy is nutty, no denying that but he’s more outgoing than most techno-paths it’s true.” Jon lied down on the table behind Phalanx’s chair and rested his head on his hands. His body was getting warmer again, but he still felt the presence gripping him with icy talons. It felt horribly invasive and Jon hated the cold long before this encounter.

“If the Wraith’s plan is to succeed we’ll need to make sure everything else goes according to his plan.”

“He has a fucking name, y’know.” Jon spat.

“His name is Wraith.”

“His name is Zeke. Ezekiel Blackwell. Use it.” Jon barked.

“I use the name that describes him, the name that is him; just as I use the name that encompasses you more than any of your other names.” Phalanx remarked and continued working on his computer. Jon sighed and gave up. This wasn’t the first time this discussion had come up and chances were it would bother Jon again sometime in the future to the point the argument would happen again. On one hand it felt good to be using his old call-sign again; the moniker Wolfspider that identified him in his special operations. He missed those days sometimes, things weren’t as complicated then.

“What if the Dragon doesn’t take the bait?” Jon asked while staring at the inside of his eyelids.

“He will. If everything goes as planned, he will come.”

***

Wraith stared up at the gorgeous ceiling decorated with eastern iconography depicting various saints, the Savior and His mother. He walked down the aisle and his boots clicked on the wood flooring. At the front of the church sat three icons; the first depicted the Savior; the second in the back right showed the Saint commemorated by this Church, Saint Herman of Alaska; the far left in the back showed the Savior as a child being held by His mother, Mary.

The Empath stood next to a larger icon of the Savior wearing his black cassock and a gold and red stole. When he wasn’t using his gift to inconspicuously heal the sick in hospitals or in the club where Wraith used to fight, the Empath was known as Father Olaf. He had been the minister to Saint Herman’s Orthodox Church in Glacier City for as long as Wraith could remember. The priest smiled at him and welcomed him with a brief embrace.

“I haven’t seen you for quite some time, young man.” The Priest said.

“I’ve been… busy, Father.” Wraith responded and averted his eyes from the priest’s.

“Yes, I’ve seen. I’m glad you called me, however. I wanted to tell you that we served a memorial for Kira, Mary, Brida, Anthony and Jason. I’m…” The Priest paused and rested a hand on Wraith’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, Ezekiel. I know you must be angry.”

“I suppose one could say that, yes.” Wraith remarked.

“You said you came for confession?”

“Yes, Father.”

“Then, let us begin.” Father Olaf prayed over him and rested his stole over Wraith’s head. He said the prayer that was customary before confession, asking God to forgive the man before him and to hear the penance and to leave nothing unhidden. “What have you come to confess, Ezekiel?” He asked.

“I have killed, Father.” Wraith said plainly. For a moment there was silence.

“Yes you have,” Father Olaf replied, “why did you kill these men?”

“They were evil. They took bribes from corrupt officials and were kidnapping Supers to take them to underground facilities where the hostages would be tortured and experimented on. They shot me, or tried to, and I rescued the Supers.”

“I see, and do you know for sure that’s where these hostages were being taken?” Father Olaf asked.

“Yes. I found all of the facilities and destroyed them as well. I also killed two doctors who had apparently been raping a Super.”

“How many of these men had families?”

“I… I don’t know.” Wraith paused and looked back; of all the questions he had asked any of the men and women he’d killed in the past few weeks, none of them had pleaded about their families or loved ones. They’d only begged for their own lives to be spared.

“I only have your word to go on, my son, so I must assume you are telling the truth before the eyes of God. Even so, do you believe it is your right to be judge, jury and executioner?”

“They were evil,” Wraith said bitterly.

“They were children of God. I’ve seen you fight, Ezekiel, you could have easily disabled them. You could have wounded, maimed, or immobilized them. Killing did not have to be an option.” The priest said calmly. He was not chiding nor chastising the young man before him rather, he was reminding him.

“They were not men. They were dogs, father. Rapid dogs.”

“The same could be said about you, my son. You’ve left a path of destruction and death in your wake; the Winter Wraith, they call you, because you move like a ghost and slay like the reaper. Is it truly in your ability to judge men in such a way?” Father Olaf asked, yet his tone was not rhetorical. He was truly asking a question and he expected an answer.

For the longest time there was a pause and Zeke felt himself shiver at the thought. Was he arrogant enough to say he had the right to kill a man? Or, was he truly brave and convicted enough to say that he was doing the right thing.

“These men… if arrested they would’ve been bailed out by the same officials who paid them off in the first place. I know it is wrong to kill, Father. That is why I do not ask for forgiveness for what I’ve done, but for what I have to do.”

“There is another you intend to reap?” Father Olaf inquired.

“Yes, the man responsible for all the kidnappings, the pay-offs and even the Exodus Act.”

“Speak his name, that God may truly know your intent. For while He can see into your heart, you must also be honest with Him.”

“Vladimir Dracovic.” Wraith breathes the words and they become mist and fog from his mouth. His teeth grind against each other; the words force rage into his heart. “His hand bought Kira’s death, and Mary’s, and the rest of my family.”

“Then it is vengeance you seek?”

“Maybe… Partially… Yes, in some way, yes. But someone needs to put him out of business.” Wraith hissed.

“There are many saints who took up sword and axe against the devil. Saint Joshua toppled the walls of Jericho, Saint Olaf, my patron, died in battle after being exiled when he tried to unify Norway under the cross. He’s even depicted with a battle-axe in hand.” The Priest explained.

“What are you saying, father?” Wraith inquired with confusion in his tone.

“I’m saying if you decide this is something you must do, do not complete a dead-work. A dead work is something done for one’s self: your own selfish, prideful desires that brings you contentment. For instance donating to charity can be a dead work if you did it just so you could tell others how charitable you are, do you understand?”

“I think so…”

“I ask that you pray on this, Ezekiel. If this is a work that must be done, do it because this man is evil and will hurt others, not because it brings you any satisfaction.”

“And what if it does make me feel satisfied?” Wraith asked and was met with a sigh in response.

“Then I suppose, I’ll see you in a couple of weeks.”

Intermission

Vladimir sits in his chair, one leg crossed over the other, resting his chin on his palm. He is irritated, angry, and bored, mostly bored. In front of him is the fat man, sweating and quivering in his steps, and next to him is the other fat man, a new fat man with a widow’s peak and beer belly. His name is Detective Larson.

“She somehow got her hands on project files. She’s working with the Winter Wraith now, my lord.” Larson says. This man doesn’t quiver or shake like the other fat man, he isn’t petrified like Michael is. Vladimir isn’t sure whether or not that’s because he’s simply unaware of Vladimir’s power or if he just doesn’t care. He sees this as an opportunity for reward, for more money, to gain more brownie points with the big guns at the top. He’s a rat disguised as an honest law enforcer. Vladimir likes him, but he is still annoyed at the lack of reverence he shows towards Vladimir.

“The Wraith…” Vladimir whispers and rhythmically thumps his fingertips against his desk. He rubs his other hand against his jaw, it still feels sore from the blow dealt by the Paragon. “What is he planning?” Vladimir asks.

“I’m not sure, my lord. Chief Slayt is having me find trustworthy officers to aid the Paragon. She also wants us to gather up Nullifier weapons. She hasn’t said why and neither has the Wraith, as far as I know.” Larson says with his hands behind his back in a lazy at-ease position.

“The Wraith needs to be dealt with… Keep an eye on them then,” Vladimir says, then stands and walks around his desk. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a card, handing it to the detective. “Keep me updated as often as possible and I shall see that you are rewarded.”

“My lord is gracious,” Larson says, taking the card, bowing, and then turns on his heal and leaves the office. His ass-kissing doesn’t bother Vladimir, he loves it. Humans should kiss his ass and worship him. He is, after all, a god.

“Michael,” Vladimir says and he hears a small yelp behind him as he walks back to his chair.

“Y-yes my lord?” Michael stutters.

“I think it’s time we released our little Sins in the basement.” Vladimir says and the fat man’s bulbous eyes pop out of his skull.

“M-my lord, they will destroy the city! W-w-we c-c-can’t!”

“Are you telling me no, Michael?” Vladimir asks and raises his eyebrow.

“The damage, my lord, we really shouldn’t-“

“Then turn it to our favor, Michael. You’re good at that,” Vladimir smiles with his fake smile. Michael scurries off and Vladimir is pleased with his sniveling fear.

***

The entire country sits at home tonight watching television; popcorn in their laps with beers and cold sodas in hand as they laugh and jest about their work week. Christmas is tomorrow and everyone is excited to see and hear the Christmas cheer and get their presents. The television becomes static and everyone’s mood suddenly changes to frustration. They spit curses at their cable or satellite providers. They fall silent when the static clears and their screen shows a modern legend, a world renowned figure that once represented the United States in several wars during the 20th century. His name is Phalanx and he wears a metal suit that shines in the light. The deep blue and grey on his suit aesthetically highlighted by his red cape. The helmet on his head resembles a Spartan’s helm. He is a figure of freedom, of justice, and he was supposed to be dead.

“My fellow Americans,” Phalanx says, “you have been deceived. For the past thirteen years you have been coddled into believing that we are your enemy; that men, women and children born with gifts are monsters to be feared. I am here to tell you now that, while there are those who would use these gifts to harm, we are no different than you. We seek to do good just as some seek to do evil. We seek to aid just as there are those who would do wrong.”

The screen changes images and Phalanx is no longer the center of attention; now there is a still-image on the screen of a young man, mid-twenties, and dead on a hospital bed. The nation recognizes him as the young man introduced by Draco Industries as Collin Eckert, who was supposed to be cured and living well. Phalanx’s voice is heard over the image.

“This young man’s name was Collin Eckert and he was used to gain your trust and convince you that there is a cure for people like me; for people like Collin. We are not a disease to be cured, we are people; we are citizens. Tomorrow is Christmas, a day of joy and celebration; yet, there will be no joy or cheer for my people, for we will be entering the fight for our lives. This man,” the image changes again and now shows a video of the beloved Vladimir Dracovic, inventor of the Nullifier which has saved so many lives; “is not who he claims to be. He is a Super, just like me.” The video depicts Vladimir breathing fire at a woman tied to a chair, then changes to Vladimir standing over a surgery table inspecting a cybernetic-attachment operation.

The video changes to a split screen that shows the hollow, lifeless faces of two women, two young men and a small child whose body looks to have suffered third degree burns all over her tiny body.

“These are victims of Vladimir’s malice;” Phalanx begins to list off their names and each time he mentions a name the screen shows a close-up of that person’s injury. “Mary, Brida, Kira, Anthony and Jason Blackwell; they were killed in order to attract the attention of another Super; a Paragon. The one you know as the Winter Wraith; these are his family, brutally slaughtered by your supposed savior.”

“I am a god!” The video suddenly changes to a playback of Vladimir saying these words. The video is played, rewound and played again so that the audio loops for several solid minutes.

“He would have you kneel, America. Vladimir Dracovic has used the public media to vilify Supers like myself and your Wraith in order to hide his illegal operations and twisted experiments.” The video changes to still-images again, this time of the marionette creatures. “He had, in his employ, a known megalomaniac and torturer,” the image shows a picture of Doctor Vivisector, another Super thought dead, wearing a lab coat with D.I. sewn onto the chest; Draco Industries.

“There will be justice done, America; I promise you. We call now on all Supers who remain in this good city; rise with us, tomorrow morning we will march upon the tower and arrest this criminal for crimes against humanity. He will pay for his crimes. Due to Vladimir’s nature, we implore all citizens to stay in their homes. We do not wish to harm you, we do not wish to involve you. We merely wish to inform you of our intentions, and to let you, the people, know that this behavior, this madness, will not, is not tolerated. We are America the proud. We are the Paragons of freedom and virtue. Goodnight, America, and Merry Christmas.”

The transmission fades, static snows on the television screens once more, and then the world returns to its regularly scheduled programming.