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01. The Metahuman Runaway

I. Rain

efore you decide that there is no such thing as hope, let me tell you a story—a story with immortals, and lunatics, and women and men who could do the sorts of things that we can only do in books and dreams. This story ends with the world, as all stories should, but begins with one man, as so many stories do.
      But I won’t tell you about the day they killed everyone he had ever truly loved. Not right now. And I won’t tell you how, before that day was through, he came to walk along that busy, American road. No need to yet. I’ll tell you about the day after the day after that, the day it started to rain. That was the day it all really began.
      The story of our world begins on the third day.
      Because he was a special, 73 had lived an unfortunate life, so it should come as no surprise that it started to rain just then. One drop tapped the perfect center of his scalp. Another fell on the left shoulder of his coveralls, yet another on the right, and so forth and so on until both shoulders were nicely damp. But he never noticed. In fact, it wasn’t until the wet soaked through the cuff of his sleeve and chilled his wrist that he finally looked up and saw the grey sky scowl back.
      He blinked once, looked ahead, and watched the sign in the door of the roadside diner just ahead flash “Welcome” in bright, pink, neon letters. The wind caught his cough when he glimpsed the happy, dry customers in the corner of his eye, cozy in their chairs, sipping warm drinks. For a moment he imagined their loud laughter at the overstated tales they spun for one another, but the only thing he could hear was the hard patter of rain on gravel. He shoved both hands as far as they would bury in his pockets to keep them as warm and dry as possible. The diner stood before him, next to him, and soon the pink neon flashed bright against his waterlogged back. He couldn’t afford to stop now.
      After all, there were things far worse than rain.

      A nugget of old wisdom passed among American truck drivers is that the best place for potential hitchhikers is the rear view mirror. The good old days when a man could leave his front door unlocked were gone. Tall iron gates had replaced white, picket fences and only the angry mouthed bulldogs pacing suburban yards knew what they’d done with the pet poodles of yesteryear.
      73 had been away far too long to know any of that, but after three days of cars billowing by he was surprised when the blue semi truck pulled over. He walked up to its passenger side just as the door swung open. The old driver quickly looked him over and declared, “Being kind’s gonna get me killed one of these days.” Apparently, 73 looked safe enough. “Well, hurry up and get in before I change my mind.”
      “I don’t think I should.”
      “It’s raining. You’ll end up catchin’ something if you stay out there. Get in. I’ll drive you ‘till the rain clears.”
      The young man looked back toward Washington D.C. and worried. He needed more distance. “Thank you,” he dripped and jumped in.
      “Well, where you headed?”
      “South.” And that was about it.
      “Listen, I know it ain’t my place,” the old man began, “but whatever you’re running from, you might wanna go back and settle things, you know? A man’s gotta face what’s troublin’ him.”
      A loud, unexpected beep broke in and startled 73. The truck driver laughed and drummed the trusty, old electronic box. “You act like you never seen a radar detector before.”
      “I haven’t.”
      The truck driver eyed him again. “The name’s Bob. What’s yours?”
      The answer took a moment. “73.”
      “73?”
      “It’s a long story.”
      “I believe you,” Bob resigned. “Where you from?”
      “Near here, I think.”
      “You think? Your name’s a number and you don’t know where you’re from?”
      “I just got back from Japan.”
      “Japan?” There was bona fide enthusiasm in the old driver’s voice. “You know karate?”
      73 stared at the exposed space of belly protruding from the break between Bob’s worn shirt and straining belt. “You should go some time.”
      Bob laughed. “Maybe I will.” He turned a knob and the windshield wipers slung the water faster. “You got family there?”
      “Not any more.”
      “They moved?”
      “Where’s your family?” 73 asked, moving the conversation to more comfortable ground.
      Bob pulled out his wallet and let the long line of family pictures unfold. “My wife and two daughters live in Utah. I always hoped I’d get nothin’ but boys ‘till my first girl was born. That’s her book right down there.”
      73 quickly rescued the hardcover from the dirty floor space under the right leg of his dripping coveralls, wiped it dry, and flipped from one random page to another.
      “Old lady says I need to read more,” Bob said.
      It was a collection of short stories, it seemed, and 73 stopped at one of the title pages. Motel chickens could find inspiration, apparently.
      “You like that kinda stuff?” Bob asked.
       “I don’t know.” 73 had studied the written works and teachings of such men as Lao Tse, Rousseau, K'ung Fu Tzu, Sun Tzu, and Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi. Science fiction had never even entered the equation.
      “Seems there’s a lot of stuff you don’t know.”
      73 flipped to page one.
      The radar detector beeped and Bob let his foot off the gas. “Well, the kid says it’s good.”
      Page two.

      Two hours later the book was finished and nestled in 73’s drying lap as the truck whizzed passed more tall buildings, cars, and people than he had ever seen. Lively kids jumped two or three at a time from cars while hurried adults filled tanks with cheap gas. Old couples, those carefree and care filled years now gone, took it slow.
       “There are good people here,” 73 mumbled to no one in particular.
      “Lots of good people here,” Bob answered. “Never been to Japan or nothing like that but I’ve been to every state in the good ol’ U.S.A. Land of the free, home of the burger. There’s a lot of good people out there.”
      “What’s your favorite state?” 73 couldn’t sleep.
      The answer tumbled from Bob’s lips like those kids from cramped back seats: “Utah.”
      “Your home,” 73 said.
      “Home,” Bob replied.
      “What’s it like?”
      “A lot of times I meet people like you. Everybody wants to get away. But I’ve spent a lot of years doing a lot of miles, and let me tell you nothing beats getting back to the wife and kids. Sure, they can get to me sometimes, but when I’m out here, they’re all I can think about.”
      “It’s good to know where you belong,” 73 said.
      “Funny thing about all those people trying to run away from their problems: most of the time, their problems came along for the ride.”
      “My problems couldn’t fit in your truck, Bob.”
      “I’ll be retired soon.”
      The guy on the motorcycle riding next to them eyed 73. He stared at the truck for a while before finally pulling back.
      The car between Bob’s semi and the motorcycle was a convertible. The mother in the front was arguing with one of her kids in the back while the father sighed and rubbed his temple. Family vacation.
      The oldest teen took a drag from her cigarette. A chunk of ash fell between her father’s new car and their truck. 73 watched the smoke escape her lips as her mother continued to reprimand her brother.
      73 turned back to Bob. “When?”
       “Six months, five days. I was gonna vacation in the Bahamas but who knows? It doesn’t snow in Japan, does it?”
      The country music stopped abruptly, but it was the alarm in the news reporter’s voice that caught 73’s attention. There was a dangerous fugitive on the loose and the information had just been leaked to the press. He had been missing for three days but an exhaustive search of the district’s metropolitan area found nothing.
      “Days?” Bob stared at the radio in disbelief. “They couldn’t hide something like that.”
      But now the authorities were worried the man had found a way to leave the Washington D.C area fast—by car, bus, or some other means. Even planes were being grounded. Then the announcer read a description: he was a bald black man, aged twenty-four, approximately six foot one with a muscular build. He had last been seen wearing blue coveralls but they warned that after three days that may no longer be the case.
      Bob looked at the muscular, tall, black man. He glanced at his bald head and gazed at his dirty, blue coveralls.
      73 wanted to let him know everything was all right. He wasn’t dangerous. Don’t be afraid. Just please keep driving.
      “I need gas,” Bob said.
      “Okay.”
      No sudden movements, not another word. Bob pulled off at the next exit and into the first gas station. He cut off the engine and removed the keys. “I’ll be right back. Stay here.”
      “Okay.” When Bob walked into the store and out of sight, 73 stepped out and started walking.
      73 had almost reached the interstate when he watched the three men roar past on their motorbikes. He could no longer head south, he thought, but there might be a nearby port. Perhaps, if he could just stow away, he could eventually make it back home. Then he realized he had forgotten to leave the book in Bob’s truck but it was already too late.
      Wait! One of those motorbike guys looked familiar. He looked back and saw Bob surrounded. One of the men sneered, while the one 73 had recognized spoke. He watched Bob’s head nod as his eyes darted back and forth frantically.
      He was in trouble. The police were coming for 73. The police were coming but they would be too late for Bob. Bob’s retirement was coming in less than a year. He had a family.
      The list of considerations went on but 73 knew there was nothing to consider. He unzipped his top, shoved the book under his dirty coveralls, and started back to the gas station.
      “Can I help you?” he asked.
      “Walk away,” said the man with the biggest fists. He didn’t care for tender-hearted, wannabe heroes.
      “He drove me here.”
      “Can’t you hear?” one of the other men asked. “He said walk away.” This one placed a hand on his side arm. Final warning.
       “This is how you prove yourselves, by preying on the weak?” 73 really meant it when he added, “I suppose it can’t be helped.”
      He quickly took care of the situation.
      
      And a blip appeared on a monitor in a car far away.
      One boot came down hard on the new, polished dashboard, then the other. Codek stretched himself along the reclined passenger seat and ground his body into its comfortable leather. “We’ve got metahuman activity,” he yawned.
      “Where?” It wasn’t the metahuman’s direction that worried DiAngelo, but his distance traveled. She had read his files extensively and he could be too far away to catch. Everything from his personal history to his name at birth and psychological profile had been there for her perusal.
      The United States government had kept him in their underground Washington, D.C. laboratory for almost his entire prepubescent childhood. During those thirteen years, the metahuman (or simply meta) had served as a nonviolent but unwilling medical subject of the government’s Department of Metahuman Research and Control. Unfortunately, he had somehow escaped (the only test subject to ever do so) and spent the last ten years outside captivity before being recaptured three days ago.
      She reviewed these facts. He had been a nonviolent child, true, but the fact remained that a meta could learn a lot about violence in ten years. Enough, she feared, to overpower or kill a civilian for a faster means of transportation.
      Where the Research half of her department had failed in restraining him, however, the Control half would succeed in detaining him.
      Codek poked the dot on the computer’s screen and it zoomed in on the satellite image feed. “One hundred twenty miles straight ahead. Just off the interstate. He went south, just the way Dogg expected. Pretty far too.”
      DiAngelo tightened her grip on the steering wheel. One hundred twenty miles straight ahead in three days was humanly impossible on foot. Even if his metahuman gene would allow him to travel fast enough, she reasoned, there was no ignoring the fact that he would have caused a satellite blip the moment he activated his power.
      The metahuman was not on foot.
       “He got wind of that ‘news leak’ we let out, and now he wants the hell out of Dodge,” she said. “We’re the closest, just like Dogg wanted. Call in and give ‘em our location.”
      “They know where we are.”
      “By the book.”
      Codek sighed. Two buttons on his department issue cellular phone and it completed the long dialing code.
      “We don’t know for sure how fast he can travel,” DiAngelo continued. “If we can’t catch up in time, they’ll have to fly in Chess.”
      “You’re really scared, aren’t you?” Codek asked.
      “I was being trained and chasing down every rogue meta deemed a threat to national security when you were still getting drunk off your ass, reading college physics books for fun, and dreaming of getting laid, Doctor Codek. I’ve got a one hundred percent retrieval rate and I’ll secure any target by whatever means. You want to be a field agent on my team, you need to know two things. First, I don’t like questions, especially when they undermine my authority. Second, I don’t scare.”
      “Eighty miles per hour says otherwise,” Codek grinned.
      DiAngelo actually smiled a little before she caught herself and hit the gas, shooting their Ferrari around the next tight curve and through the straightaway.

II. South

      “You didn’t have to come back,” Bob called out as his truck rolled along. It was starting to rain again.
      There was no doubt in 73’s mind that they were coming for him now. Hopefully, he could lose them if he took the long way home.
      “I owe you.” Bob tried again.
      “I’m keeping the book.”
      Bob almost laughed. “I owe you more than a book.”
      73 and the truck continued toward the highway.
      “I never called.”
      They both stopped.
      “Why?”
      “Somebody sent those guys. They wanted whatever’s in the back of my truck.”
      “What’s in the back?”
      “I don’t know.”
      “I don’t believe you. Who were they?”
      “Don’t know that either.”
      “Seems there’s a lot of stuff you don’t know.”
      “I didn’t call.”
      “Of course you didn’t,” 73 said. “You don’t even know if the stuff you’re carrying is legal. And I’m betting it isn’t.”
      Bob didn’t respond.
      73 turned north. Whether or not Bob called didn’t matter. They knew where he was now and they were coming for him, he was sure of it. “Why did you pick me up?”
      “I couldn’t just let you keep walking in that rain.”
      “You’d be helping a wanted man,” he warned him.
      “If you wanted to, you coulda forced me.”
      That was understood.       
      “There’s another book under the seat,” Bob offered.
      73 rubbed his bald head. “Really?”
      “It’d just go to waste.”
      That got the job done. As 73 buckled himself in, Bob smiled and said, “You know, I’d thought I’d seen everything.”
      They drove off.

      After almost an hour of uneasy sleep, 73 finally asked Bob to pull off at the next exit. The sun was finally setting when he opened the cabin door. He almost slipped when his foot hit the wet mud.
       “Thanks for the ride.”
      “We’re still not even.” Bob’s smile quickly faded. “We can keep going. This ain’t the best place for--”
      “I’ll be okay,” 73 stopped him and shut the door. But he wouldn’t be okay. If they could find him in another country, he doubted his trail had cooled in the last few days. His right hand slid a business card in his side pocket and jingled the loose change Bob had given him.
      “I’ll help you. Take you as far as you need.”
      “You can’t drive me where I need to go. Besides, a man’s gotta face what’s troublin’ him.” The dozens of American control agents chasing him had already proven that they were willing to hurt and kill innocent civilians to bring him back to their government labs and learn more about that special little quirk in 73’s genes. “I’ll be faster if I stop and get a little rest.”
      “Faster than my truck?”
      73 looked up at the man who had brought him so far. “Don’t stop driving unless you absolutely have to. Don’t pick up anyone else,” he said. “Get back home.”
      There was no getting around it. “You too,” Bob said with a nod and drove off.
      The floor of Rocky’s Bar was dirty. Dirt filled the air and filmed the windows. It tainted every glass and crusted every corner. But the looks 73 got were even dirtier. He rested his head on the cleanest spot on the bar top and held up the menu. It couldn’t be helped, he supposed.
      The angry barkeep with the grease-stained shirt finally walked over and leaned in. “Can I help you?”
      “I think I’d like an American burger.” Land of the free.
            
      “Turn on your glasses.” DiAngelo’s words traveled over the secure line and into the audio device in Codek’s ear.
       “They’re shades,” he retorted. He looked at the sign above and pressed a small button in the frame of his right lens, bringing his ranking control agent’s computer screen to life.
      “Rocky’s?” she asked.
      “Doesn’t make sense.”
      “Don’t make a fuss and don’t let them notice you,” her orders came. “Get in and get out. I’m reading at least a few dozen civilians inside.”
      Codek walked in. The place was seamy and he liked it. His digital lenses began clearing up the dark and smoke-filled image automatically as he surveyed the room.
      “Wait,” DiAngelo stopped him. “Turn your head to the right, slowly.”
      He did.
      “Stop.”
      Codek waited for her to zoom in on the guy at the bar.
       “That’s him,” she finally said.
      Codek walked through the crowd of men and women playing pool, drinking beer, and watching the game. This would confirm it: “A42!”
      The black man at the bar snapped up. Runaway metas always reacted when they heard their project ID number. He turned just in time for Codek to catch his shoulder.
      “Don’t bother getting up on my account.”
      “I’m not causing any trouble,” 73 told him.
      “Doesn’t matter.”
      “I don’t want to fight.”
      That’s when someone called out, “Hey, what’s with his hand?”
      Now more people turned, looked, and glommed the shine that ran from the fingertips of Codek’s left hand, passed his knuckles and palm, and through the long sleeve of his leather jacket.
      “I’m coming in there,” DiAngelo said in Codek’s earpiece.
      “No you’re not.” Because she outranked him, he added, “Just trust me. I’ve got everything under control.”
      “Don’t make any noise you don’t have to.”
      Codek handed his target a pair of custom made earplugs. He needed the meta unhurt if he wanted a real fight after he was done with this bunch. “Cowgirl, noise is what I do best.”
      “Who the fuck you talking to?” Mick rumbled as he stepped out of the crowd of onlookers. “You one of them meta freaks?”
      Mick was two hundred and seventy-five pounds of southern brawn. He wasn’t afraid of anyone, even one of them.
      “You want a meta?” Codek snarled. “You picked the wrong guy.”
      “Whatever. We don’t want any of that shit around here, so I’d suggest you just turn around and go back to where you came from?”
      Codek was losing the small amount of patience he had for civilians. He could have flashed his badge, of course, but flashed a toothy smile instead. “Shut up.”
      Mick answered with a wild fist to his jaw, but Fused stopped it effortlessly with a clank.
       “You like it?” Codek pulled down his sleeve with his fleshy hand while bearing down on Mick’s fist. His entire right arm was made of the reflective material. “It’s all the rage overseas,” he joked.
      Before Mick could connect with a left swing, Codek tightened his grip and cracked four of his knuckles. A simple flick broke his wrist. Mick’s scream as he dropped to his knees was enough to make everyone in the room step back.
      “So,” Codek looked around the room, “which one of you dick weeds is next?”
      “You’ve got your mark,” DiAngelo said in his ear.
      One man charged in with a pool stick, but he dodged the blow and slipped out of his coat in one sweep. He followed with a kick in the chest while his human thumb ran along his shiny arm. From behind, three men ran in as the bionics hummed to life. He saw them just in time, aimed in their direction, and twitched his fourth finger just right, vibrating every organ of their bodies. Without a touch, all three fell to the ground at his feet.
      More people got up now, and he wished the grin on his face would show on his field commander’s monitor screen. He moved his fingers in a specific series, releasing a widespread sonic pulse, and the entire room seemed to freeze. One after another people fell to their knees, retched, and vomited violently.
      He turned to the metahuman, glad to see the earplugs had done their job. “A42-44073,” he said, “I’m Venn Codek, Control Agent Number 1045D-X018. But you can call me Fused. Uncle Sam wants you back. I’m here to take you in.”
      “I can’t go back.”
      “I’m not like the other control agents and trackers,” he warned, waving a finely polished finger. “I give my marks one chance to come peacefully, that way I can really let loose when they don’t.”
      “I can’t go back.”
      “That wasn’t a request.” Codek lined a fingertip along his bionic arm again and the pitch of its metallic hum increased. He aimed his open palm directly at his mark’s bulky chest. “Those earplugs I gave you are top notch government issue. Good shit.” He smiled. “But they ain’t that good.”

To be continued…

02. A Matter of Will

I. Royal Darlings

is name was Spencer Windsor and he was only seven years old—the product of the blessed union of a blue-blooded British prince and a beautiful lady from Sheffield. Spencer could never stay in one place, to the chagrin of the royal maids who dressed, bathed, and adored him, and he loved to play in the gardens of Buckingham Palace. It was the young Windsor’s habit to laugh and show his boyish smile for the cameras, and thus he became the royal darling of an entire nation.
      And when he suddenly died two days before London was set to celebrate the coming of his eighth birthday, all of Britain cried for blood.

      His name, it had been decided, was William Disraeli. For years the secret little apartment had been his home away from the prying eyes of both the public he served and the royal family he treasured. But now, seven nights after the death of the young boy he had loved like a brother, he could no longer stay in the seclusion of its four walls. He felt powerless, and restless, and he needed to clear his head.
      But William was no fool, so no one but the alley cats and sewer rats saw him walking in the shadows of the business district that surrounded London’s Queen’s Square, wrapped in the winter clothes of a commoner.
      At 9:58 p.m., he stopped where he stood, across the street from the rustic, green door of Henry’s Pub.
      He wondered if they would hate him.
      At 10:05 p.m., he finally walked in.
      The place was as loud and alive as always. The beer flowed freely and the people drank. They laughed and cheered and did all the things good British people do. Friends chatted with strangers. Strangers became friends.
      Apparently, the rest of the world had continued to turn without William. He sat at the stool in the deepest corner of the bar.
      “What can I get ya, friend?” the barkeeper asked.
      William removed his hat, placed it on the table, and pulled down the thick, grey scarf that buried half his face. “Henry, it’s me.”
      “Prince William Taylor?”
      “Please, I’m no longer Prince anything or even a Taylor for that matter. My name is Disraeli, just like you.”
      “What—?” but Henry caught himself and leaned in close. “Do you need a place to stay?”
      “I wouldn’t dream of it,” William said. “Besides, I’ve never been one to pay a visit before, have I?”
      “You’re always welcome in my home. You know that.”
      And that was why he was William’s favorite uncle. “Thank you, Henry.”
      “So what did you come here for, then?”
      “I’d like a drink.”
      “A drink?” Henry chuckled.
      “That’s right.”
      “Will,” Henry began, leaning back, “how many times have you been here in the last few years?”
      “A dozen or so, I suppose.”
      “And how many times have you ordered a drink?”
      “Never.”
      “And how many times in all your twenty-five years—?”
      “Twenty-four,” William corrected.
      “How many times in your twenty-four years have you had a drink?”
      “Once.”
      “And when was that?”
      “When I was six, at Aunt Belvia’s wedding.” William almost laughed as he remembered. “I snuck a mug of ale when no one was looking.”
      “You were drunk. I never saw your folks so embarrassed. They never let you drink again.”
      “They never had the chance to stop me, did they?”
      “No, no they didn’t. But you were lucky, Will, luckier than the rest of us.”
      Some papers had declared the proclamation a publicity stunt. Most others had taken the cue to commend the Queen’s charity. Either way, it made the news everywhere, even lands outside the United Kingdom.
      After both his parents had died in the service of their country, the Queen had seen it fit to take William in as her own. It was an unprecedented move but one within her power, so no one dared question it. The eyes of the entire world turned to a ceremony that proved both sensational and stately. Thus, by the Queen’s highest authority, William Disraeli III became William Taylor, the adopted prince.
      Unfortunately, the rest of the royal family saw things differently. When they looked at poor William Taylor, they saw William Disraeli, a common Brit of Jewish stock. His naturally blonde hair and blue eyes would never change that fact.
      They treated him as such.
      So at the age of twelve he made a promise to himself for the sake of the parents he had lost. He would prove his Jewish blood more than worthy by learning the ways of the society that had protected the crown and land. He would be chosen to wear the ring of the Protectorate. He would earn the power.
      “But the royal family kicked me out. Can’t say I blame them.”
      “You’re not perfect, Will. You can’t blame yourself for everything.”
      “Spencer was under my care, Henry. The blame falls squarely on my shoulders.”
      “That’s not how most people see it.” Henry handed him a copy of the latest newspaper. “Second page; and you may want to consider taking off that silly disguise. I won’t turn the heat down for any man.” He tossed a new cleaning rag over his shoulders and left to attend to others.
      William’s heart sank when he saw the photograph of the funeral procession on page one. The journalist had certainly gone in depth. The article ran the entire first page and beyond. She had even obtained quotes from several of the more withdrawn members of the royal family.
      The second page showed the latest public opinion polls concerning the matter. Thirty percent of readers blamed William for Spencer’s death, while close to seventy percent blamed the rogue metahuman he had been forced to fight.
      Spencer had wanted to see the sights and the people, but, of course, the family did not approve. It was decided that the world outside the palace was too dangerous a place for adolescent royalty, but William knew better. He knew the real country and its people—no one knew Britain better than its greatest guardian, after all—and he knew how much Spencer was loved.
      He also knew that the wall between the royal family and the common man had always been too high.
      So he asked the queen for one day to show Spencer his land. He promised that he would act as Spencer’s personal companion and guard. She granted him the duty of protecting the child as a gift to both.
      He and Spencer were in Ilfracombe, a small, seaside town on the coast of Devon, England, when the metahuman appeared in Aberystwyth. Thousands of lives had already been lost when William finally received word. The National Library was in cinders, the university decimated. No one knew why. There was no motive, no reason.
      The British Royal Air Force had been the first to respond. Within ten minutes the meta had completely destroyed the three Sentry aircraft, seven Tornado F3s, and an entire RAF Jaguar squadron. Then he changed course. He was headed further inland. The Protectorate was Britain’s last defense.
      The distance between Ilfracombe, England and Aberystwyth, Wales was 135 kilometers. Ilfracombe, England to the safety of Buckingham Palace to Aberystwyth, Wales was 576 kilometers. William knew that. More people were dying. So William made the decision to leave young Spencer in Ilfracombe and head straight to Aberystwyth.
      And why wouldn’t he? The trouble was 135 kilometers away, after all.
      No one could have foreseen that the worst that could happen would. The fight spun out of William’s control as he and the meta zigzagged across the skies above Hereford, Worcester, Newport, Bristol, Taunton, and Exeter. Hundreds more died as the meta burned a crooked path through the trees, buildings, and clouds.
      It was an old building. William didn’t even know until after it was over, after the meta escaped across the sea and out of English waters. Witnesses said the boy had followed others inside when they saw the streaks of fire approaching the town from high above.
      One of the metahuman’s random fireballs had torn through the old stone roof. It didn’t take long, but he and William were already flying across Bristol Channel when the foundation finally gave way.
      Two hundred and thirty-four people were buried in mortar, murdered by flame; two hundred and thirty-four people, including one little boy.
      Thirty percent of Britain blamed William for his death.
      But that was why he had come to Henry’s Pub. Here he had never been just a Protectorate. In this place where strangers became friends, William was William, a man who had lost someone he had loved more than any country could. Here mistakes were forgiven and redemption could be found, if only for a time.
      That was what he hoped.
      Perhaps Henry was right. Disguises were for the weak of heart, after all. William removed his gloves and placed them at the bar; then the scarf, the coat, and the dark shaded glasses. Then he sat in his bar stool and waited for the angry words, for the hatred and the ridicule.
      Amazingly, the world continued to turn. The beer flowed freely and the people drank.
      In truth, Henry was one of the few who noticed. “Well, now that that’s settled, you still need that drink?”
“Now that that’s settled, what’ll it be?”
      “Not sure, Henry. I don’t drink.”
      “How about some lager?”
      “Lager?”
      “Here.” Henry slammed a bottle of Fosters Ice on the bar with his right hand and popped the cap with his left, as was his fashion. “It’s an import. The bar’s favorite.”
      “I can’t drink this.”
      “What do you mean you can’t drink it? I already opened it, Will.”
      “Henry, listen, no disrespect, but I’ve been sober for eighteen years. If I’m going to drink a beer, I’d like it to be British.”
      His dear uncle hesitated.
      William surrendered. “I’ll pay for the extra drink.”
      “Good man.” Henry reached under the bar, pulled out a glass, and poured a pint of something new. “It’s English ale, the strong stuff,” he warned. “This may be slightly more bitter than you were expecting.”
      “Please, uncle, I’ve fought mutants and monsters. I think I can handle it.”
William downed half the mug before the taste finally hit. Henry handed him a napkin for the tears.

II. Greatest Weapon

      Three pints of lager later, William was rightly lit. An opportunity had finally shown itself. “You’re Taylor, right?” asked a man.
      “Nnnnnope!” he slurred. “I’m Disraeli now!”
      “Terrance, leave him be.” Henry eyed them both from his place behind the bar. If it had been anyone other than Terrance, Henry would have let them be, but this man was brash and squirrelly enough to cause real trouble when he had a few pints in him.
      “Yeah, you’re him all right,” Terrance charged, ignoring the old barkeep. “You’re the one that got the prince killed.”
      William stood from his chair and grabbed the bar rail for support. “Let me guess,” he said slowly. “You’re the thirty percent.”
      There was no ring on William’s finger. If there was ever a good time to give him the beating he deserved, Terrance thought, it was now. So Terrance leaned back and swung.
      Now, it must be understood that the Society of the British Protectorate was established in the year 349 A.D. to serve in defense of the British crown. It stands to bring justice and peace throughout the nation. The men who hold the rank of Protectorate are counted among the world’s highest caliber.
      The golden ring of a Protectorate is his defining mark and most would say his greatest weapon. Each ring bears a smooth, rounded fragment of the crimson red jewel that is the Philosopher’s Stone, the last and greatest accomplishment of the ancient alchemists who sought to turn lead into gold. Those who wear the ring hold the ability to transfigure and control the very building blocks of matter itself, within limits.
      Only three such rings exist in the world, and so there can only be three Protectorates at any one time. Prince William Taylor was Britain’s five hundred and fifty-second Protectorate and the only one active until the Queen requested that he relinquish both his last name and the ring he wore.
      The rings themselves require a nearly inhuman amount of focus and will to use, thus any man who wishes to become one of the few chosen to protect the land must train himself to perfection. He must not only forge muscle and sharpen his mind but also discover true purity of spirit. To control the physical, the alchemists believed, one must first transcend it.
      That was the reason Terrance’s punch never connected; it was also the reason William’s elbow did. Drunk or not, fighting was automatic and William was one of the best. He followed with a grapple and throw that smashed his opponent against the wall.
      Terrance sprinted back and darted for William. He found old Henry instead.
      “Get out.” Henry kept both eyes fixed and both arms crossed. This was his establishment and he had no tolerance for violence of any kind. The entire pub watched Terrance lumber out the front door.
      There would be no bar fight in this chapter.
      Henry turned to his drunken nephew. “Sit down,” he said, and William crashed on the wrong stool. Protectorate or not, Henry was still his uncle.
      Henry crossed the crowded room to another man sitting dumbstruck with friends. Meanwhile, William swaggered in his chair and watched his half empty mug of beer closely. He surmised that if he could somehow catch it in his hand the world would stop wobbling.
      Henry returned a short time later with the man in tow. “Will, this is Matthew.”
      “Hi, Matt.”
      “Matthew is going to take you home.”
      “I don’t want to go home.”
      “You’re going home, William.”
      “Okay.”

      Matthew Harrison hated this. He hated people who didn’t know when they’d had enough to drink, and furthermore, he hated being responsible for walking them home safely. Worse yet, he was having a difficult time understanding the young man’s directions.
      Young man? Scratch that. William couldn’t be any more than five years younger than himself. However, there was no comparing William’s full head of blonde curls to Matthew’s clump of oily, receding hair.
      He suspected it was the difference in the lives they’d led that made him look and feel so much older. The tragedy: Matthew had worked hard to earn himself a slightly better than miserable life, while William had been given everything for nothing, riches, fame, and, if the rumors were true, any woman he’d ever wanted.
      And of course that damn ring. This drunken fool had spent a good part of his life carrying more money on one finger than Matthew had seen in his entire life. Matthew decided right then that he would have given everything he had, wife and all, for the wealth that little trinket alone could bring.
      Hell, could you even put a price on something like that?
      “Left on Fisher,” William said.
      “All right,” Matthew replied.
      To his merit, William had made it five blocks before puking all over the city road. Now, four blocks later, Fisher Street was still two blocks away. Not only that, but it was already two o’clock in the morning and they were walking in the opposite direction of his home. Matthew’s wife was going to kill him.
      “Left on Fisher,” William said.
      “Shut up,” Matthew replied.
      A bottle smashed against the ground no more than two feet away. Matthew looked up but saw nothing but the night all around.
      Another bottle landed in front of them. “Who’s there?” Matthew called out. There was a parked car nearby, but no one inside. Then he saw something. There was someone or something moving in the shadows. Protectorates made enemies, he remembered, and some of them were nothing like normal humans. “Don’t come any closer!” He hurried around the shattered glass, wishing he’d never accepted Henry’s bribe of free drinks the next night. He looked at William. “If you’ve got something, you better do it now.”
      “Left on Fisher.”
      Damn! Matt considered leaving him right there. They wanted the ex-Protectorate, after all, not him.
      The third bottle barely missed his head. William whispered something in his ear.
      “What?”
      “Let me go,” William said a little louder, his head hung low.
      Matthew started to protest but the drunken fool wouldn’t listen. He left him there, exposed to the shadows by the streetlight above.
      But Matthew did not run away. Something in him needed to see.
      It seemed as if the world finally stood still for William as he swayed from side to side. “You want somethin’ to punch?” he yelled, spinning around. “You want somebody to fight?”
      Matthew didn’t see the fourth bottle flying in the dark toward the back of William’s head. Neither did William, actually, but that did not matter. He spun around and caught it. It was as simple as that.
      Now, despite the alcohol, William knew what direction to eye. He waited. It was up to their attackers now.
      The silence was broken by the sounds of very heavy footsteps scurrying away.
      William walked over to the nearest trash bin and pitched the discarded bottle inside. Then he tossed the remains of his breakfast, lunch, and dinner until his stomach was sore. When he was finally through, he wiped himself clean and walked back to Matthew. “I’m sorry,” he said.
      William Disraeli had just caught a glass bottle he couldn’t even see and stared down an unknown number of goons of questionable nature. All this while drunk and near vomiting. Ring be damned, this man was a Protectorate. Matthew draped one of William’s arms over his shoulders, offering his support once again. “Left on Fisher?” he asked.
      “Yeah.”

      Matthew was more than a little surprised to see that William Disraeli, the man who had been both prince and hero, had taken up in such a small dwelling. A dim overhead light did a less than admirable job of illuminating the one room apartment. Perhaps it was for the best, though. The sullen off-white shade of the wallpaper was lost in a sea of putrid green rocking horse and teddy bear silhouettes. Then there was the pile of dirty dishes craving the loving attention of a good, soapy sponge.
      One soft push and William plopped face first on the bed, dead to the world. Nothing in the deal said Matthew had to make sure the man was comfortable, but he covered him with a blanket. He owed him that much, he supposed, for everything he’d done that night and everything he’d done for his country.
      Suddenly, the light flickered off and on. Even the electricity was second rate. Oh, how the mighty had fallen.
      There was an envelope propped up on the dresser. Strange, he hadn’t seen it before. A bright, silver design embellished the edges and words were written on its face in thick, black calligraphy. “For Your Immediate and Most Surreptitious Attention.”
      Curious.
      Matthew would have contemplated the situation or at least given it a healthy pause but after the night he’d had he lacked the patience. The envelope flap gave way to the might of his meddling with a heavy rip.
      A golden ring fell to the floor.

To be continued…

Wednesday's sure taking his time with this.

It's been almost a Year, Man!

Coming soon.

Ragtag Heroes coming soon!

A brillion points!

That's probably a very big number.

Ut!

Cumming Soon!

How soon?

uh oh these banners are generating some buzz for this story. or maybe its just buzz for the cumming. either way, Perkins has to step up!

Personally, I'm with She-Hulk's ass.

I've spent the last few weekends working on the first story arc. I wish I had more time to devote, but I refuse to rush it. The wait has been way too long for that.

That banner really is one of the characters, btw.

Is that my arm?

Yup. Minus the chrome sheen.

do I have a character named after me?

Ragtag Heroes is pretty much my version of the JLR. All the main characters are named after JLR characters and/or their creators.

Why am I always the bad guy?

For once I'd like to be the good hero and end up with the hot chicks!






































(unless I can get hot chicks as a bad guy)

Does LLance class as a hot chick in Denmark, cause thats who yer gettin?

MisterJLA gets a new gimmick.


Coming Soon!

I have several to choose from!

You could always borrow Oakleys.
He hasnt used it for a while!

was that the got milk gimmick or some other gimmick I failed to notice?

I'M GONNA PUNCH YOU IN THE FACE YOU FUCKING TERRORIST!!!

Michael Eybye
Nygade 57 1. sal
6900 Skjern
Denmark

Here's my adress, come by anytime

Nygade?
Skjern?

That's not even a word!

Wii Wii?

No thanks.