It's about eleven inches tall at its longest points, seven wide at its thickest. It appears to be a mix of high tech metal, and plastic mesh. It could probably take a shotgun blast to its temple without even getting cosmetic damage. The eye slits are covered by one way thick plastic of a darker blue hue. Its primary color is gold. It's the helmet of the Surge armor; and it's looking at me.

BEFORE...

On the waters of northwestern Ireland, energy arced and lanced out at the tentacled things below. Surge weaved through the loops of the rising appendages, as his companion on the shore tore free from one.

"What the fuck are these things?" Manslaughter cursed. The cyborg's razored hands and arms tore at yet another tentacle.

"I believe they're nicknamed Squids, unless it's a variant," Surge explained, thinking not for the first time how unnatural it felt to be fighting beside one of his oldest foes. Manslaughter had lived up to his name, and his inhumanity went beyond his mere appearance; after all, Manslaughter too had once gained his 'powers' from powered armor, until he'd decided it wasn't enough, and deliberately had his body altered to become as much machine as man. Still, Manslaughter had stayed by his side through all of this, covering his back more than once; perhaps he really had changed his ways?

"Heads up Hero." A rain of razor sharp projectiles shot past Surge and sunk into one of the tentacles. "Hey, stop holding back and FRY these sons of bitches, will you?"

Under his helmet, Surge frowned, he had indeed been holding back, somewhere inside many of the monsters they'd fought, were human beings; Innocent victims of Autocrat's madness. He also knew the wounded being e-vaced by boat would never make it out alive if he continued to pussyfoot around. A thought, and the safety locks in his armor went wide open; he spread out his hands and shot a mega-bolt along the waters.

It was like water catching on fire, as the Squids squealed with tentacles writhing. Surge gritted his teeth, and kept pouring it on. God, please don't let these have been people, let them have started out as something else, anything else, he thought. Yet still he poured it on.

What felt like hours later, but was more likely mere moments, it was done. Surge looked up at the floating and fried corpses, "The wounded are already on their way I take it?"

Manslaughter grinned, metallic teeth shining, "Yeah, thanks to you. They're already out of sight. How are you holding up?" He asked from behind the hero.

Surge nodded, the armor felt heavy, "I'll be fine... a bit bashed around, and it will take a few minutes to rebuild my power supply."

Manslaughter smiled, and from the underside of his forearms, spikes extended. He'd been waiting for quite awhile for this, "good to know." With that, he put Surge in a vise grip, one arm puncturing through Surge's chest, the other in his back, and the thick needle like weapons seeking to meet somewhere in the middle. Without enough energy for his protective field, the armor, strong as it was, just wasn't enough.

Surge screamed. On one level of course, he was realizing his foolishness in dropping his guard, or in trusting Manslaughter for even a moment. Another was already calculating what he could do to get out of this situation, and which option had the best chance. Still, as the blood flowed from the puncture wounds and down on his golden armor, mostly he just screamed.

Jessica Blake paced the deck of the ship, casting her gray eyes to the even grayer waves, waiting. After a pause, she tapped her short nailed fingertips against the railing, and wondering aloud, asked for the umpteenth time to herself...

"Damn it William, where are you?"

She hated this, but really, she reminded herself, it would all turn out as it always had. Surge was a veteran superhero, and thwarting death was so typical for the breed it had become cliché'. Staying on this medical vessel hadn't been too bad, and the last batch of wounded brought in had brought with it stories of Surge clearing a path. As she was indeed a technician, but hardly a medical one, she had gotten out of the way.

A glowing figure lit the sky, and a smile lit her face in response, Surge was coming in. Her exultation was short lived. Surge's flight path was slipshod, even erratic. She gripped the railing, eyes wide.

Surge snagged the railing himself, from the other side, and hauled himself over like a beached whale. The holes and rends in his armor were stained with the blood that had been flowing from them. He slammed to the deck, and looked up to see Jessica hovering above him.

"Hi angel...sorry 'm late." He joked. Jessica wasn't amused. She never did appreciate my jokes; the armored hero found himself thinking in the increasing darkness of his sight. Right, time to get serious then.

"Jess, dying, get me out of armor... don't let anyone see...Baltimore needs Surge..."

Jessica eyes narrowed, that stubborn streak of hers was most endearing, if he'd been 20 years younger... mm interesting how the mind rambles as one dies, Surge mused.

"You are -not- dying." She hissed, and with what was left of his strength to help, her, she started to strip him," We're getting this off... Secret identity be damned. You're lucky everyone is down below in the med bays or they'd have heard your nonsense." Her face paled though, as she saw what was left of his chest.

Surge, William wheezed out, his helmet now removed, "No, I'm one of the wounded Surge brought in. Surge's armor was badly hurt, but he's fine. Now, if Doctors can't save me..."

Her mouth fluttered open in protest, but he went on, "My son, you've been told about him... here's what I want you to do."

Jessica found herself nodding, struggling to hear the weak rasp of what was left of William Stone's voice.

RECENTLY...

I lifted my glasses and rubbed my eyes a little. I love my work, really, being a graphic artist for a comic book is kind of fun. Like making dreams come alive, and besides, just enough of the fan boys have pretty sisters to make the convention scene all worthwhile. Still, any job can get stressful with a deadline breathing down your neck, and your editor insisting he wants the lightning looking like a living thing. Dad corrupted me I guess; too many years studying science for me not to want to at least consider Newton's laws firm guidelines.

A knock on the office door, which surprised me, Horizon isn't exactly a big comic-book company, so most folks who know of it, just walk on in. Apparently the ability for a 'Temperamental Artist' to intimidate anyone is highly over rated. I turned my head to announce, "Come on in." and she walked into the room.

While it may surprise folks to know this, even women who's breasts all defy gravity can grow dull when they're only two dimensional, so I, true to my suave and witty self, stared at her. She was, bundled up sort of, no nonsense practical clothes, hair in a bun. There was a large case at her side. I'm sure she would be attractive on some level, if she weren't giving me a look in exchange. It was the sort of look when you open up a package, and decide you want to take it back into the store for a refund. Gee, thanks.

"Mr. Peter Stone I presume?" Her voice was crisp, vaguely Bostonian I think; Kind of Charles Emerson Winchester but a few octaves up. I wasn't used to being called Mister, and I certainly wasn't used to being stared at like a meal someone spat back out.

"Some folks even just shorten it, to Peter Stone, or even, dare I suggest.." I arched a brow and paused dramatically, ok, melodramatically, I'm not a good actor, "Peter?"

Much like Victoria, she's not amused. "Mr. Stone, I'm Jessica Blake, I knew your father."

"My sympathies." I reply. She gives me a startled look, clearly wondering if I'm joking or not. I'm not. I've got next to no respect for the man who loved his lab more than his wife and kids. I'm tempted to tell her so, but this isn't Jerry Springer, and I was taught not to air dirty laundry to strangers.

She tilts her head up, just so, "He's dead, and left a few things to you. Things separate from the will." My jaw drops, and I get the sinking sensation I'm going to feel like an ass before all's said and done.

"He's dead? How... What? When?" Christ, can I come up with any more interrogatives? Dad was a scientist for crying out loud, an electrical engineer and, contrary to the message of bad horror movies, that's not a high-risk job.

"Ireland, he was trying to help out." She lock the door behind her, which I confess, I don't really notice until a bit later." Officially, technical support for the military and metas there." She puts the suitcase down in front of me.

"You're shitting me, right? Dad was a genius, sure, but we're talking about a man who wouldn't come to half of my ball games when I was a kid because he 'abhorred violence'" Ok, definite bitterness there, I admit it. See, you don't need a shrink for closure, just honesty. I pause, something... "You said officially?"

"Open the suitcase, something of his is in there for you." She's giving me the 'you aren't worthy' look again. I don't want to open that case. More than anything, I don't. So why are my fingers fumbling at the latch?

It opens, and I see a set of gold and blue armor. It's all too recognizable, especially to me. I draw that suit almost every day. I watch TV clips to make sure I'm getting the look right. The helmet looks at me like some sort of decapitated god, almost accusing. I'm not stupid, far from it. I know what this means. I think I'm going to hurl.

Denial sounds, mighty tempting right now. I try it.

"This is a sick and twisted trick, Lady." I give her a glare to make me feel like I believe it.

My glare is met, and matched. Her lips part with one contempt filled word.

"Fool."

Ok, so much for that, my eyes break free first. She wins, whatever. "What do you expect me to do with it?"

"Frankly? Not much. Your father spoke very highly of you Peter", I can't help but note the 'Mister' has been stripped from me, I know I requested that, but I get the feeling it's not to respect my wishes she did so. "He spoke of how bright you are, how far you could have gone in any scientific field you wanted. What a good man you'd become. How you could handle the suit, continue his legacy. But I've done some research on you as well. You could have been brilliant, but instead you rebelled against your father out of some childish pique. You could have made a difference to better the world, and instead you wrapped up in yourself, turned your back on your potential, and decided to draw in some children's books."

That's it, who the hell does this bitch think she is? I rally, "Back off. My father was never there for me, never there for my mom, and now I'm supposed to become Surge Jr just because he says so? I don't OWE him anything."

I can see I'm this far from getting slapped, but instead she grows colder still. "Fine," she hisses. "Your father wasn't there for you; I suppose you were in 'another' city when he saved this one? The criminals he put away could 'never' have threatened you, your mother, or others he loved. Yes, let word get out Surge is dead, let chaos hit the streets and innocents die as it becomes known the city's protector can't stop them. All because little 'petey' is angry that his father didn't hold him enough, and wants to go back to his pretty pictures." She whirls, and exits out, I start to follow, and get a door in my face.

I'm half way tempted to lob the damn thing out after her, I turn to grab the now open case.. and stop. It's staring at me. The reflective glint from the lens shining a hundred accusations at me.

"I don't owe you anything" I whisper at it, but it's still staring.
 

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