Morning in the L.A. dust bowl, it's the time of year when you get so thankful to God for air conditioned limousines, it practically makes you want to kill a calf. I wouldn't call this big white stretch the "Omega-Mobile", but give me time and I'm sure I'll build a cool car. Thinking of how easy it'd be to build it with my powers depresses me yet again. Ralph, who's sitting next to me and holding a folio of legal briefs, tells me (also yet again) the one thing I don't want hear more than anything else: "even if your powers don't come back, thanks to your fight with Autocrat, you'll still be able to keep the cash coming in for years, long enough to be rich for life."

"So Trinity's a better doctor than Paragon?" Ralph asks.

"Duh..." I say, jostling him slightly with a grin on my face. "Despite all the rumors, I don't have a robot fetish. Trinity's a little too distant... a professional, but she's pleasant company in her own way. Of course, maybe I should hold a little misogynistic grudge - after all, all the shit that's happening now is all because of a woman."

"Bandita." Ralph points out.

"You got it pardner," I say in a Western twang.

"So what was she like?" Ralph asks. It's a curious fucking question, but I don't hesitate to answer.

"Ah, Bandita. I don't remember much. She had a nice smell," I say. "Earthy, unpretentious, a little bit like dried leather. It's weird, you know. I think of guys in terms of feeling, in the interaction of muscle and how hard it is to beat them in a scrap. Women, though, I think of their smell. The only thing I liked about Bandita was her smell - well, maybe the twang in her voice too - but the smell was intoxicating. It didn't make me want to screw her, but it made me remember her..." Well, that and the rape allegation. "It wasn't S&M bullshit leather, it was real leather like somebody who knew how to ride horses."

"You ever rode a horse, Mr. Champion?"

"Yeah, although for some reason I tend to spook them easy," I answer with a smile. "My cousin Steve, on the other hand, he's so fucking good with horses it's scary. It must be a gay thing."

"I never heard of that, Mr. Champion," Ralph says.

"It's a pet theory," I reply. "Probably bullshit. Anyway women are all smell to me. Anytime I think of Rachel, it's not just the red hair, it's cornfields, dandelions, lilacs, that perfume she used to wear that I never really liked that much. And then there's Sarah, she's kinda this really odd combination of sweat and roses, gym socks and expensive perfume..."

"You're exaggerating." Ralph said, less a statement than a question.

"Okay I know, I'm feeding the jock - or the joquette - paradigm, but it's not meant as an insult, I really like how she smells," I admit. "Then there's Orchid..." Holy shit, I didn't want to go there. Corpses. She didn't even smell like a fucking flower.

There's a long silence, and I can't bring myself to look at him. The limo rattles when we pass over a bump. Doesn't anyone in this town fix the fucking road? "Was any part of you in love with her?" Ralph asks.

"That bitch murdered Rachel..." I begin to interject.

"No, not Orchid," Ralph says, a little embarrassed and insulted by my misinterpretation. "Bandita, I mean..."

"How the fuck could I be?" I throw up my hands. "We were just a pair of horny fucking kids rolling around on the ground." Kids. It wasn't that long ago, Tommy, you idiot. Dad says that you can tell when you're an adult when you've gathered enough experiences that trying to remember things fucks your brain. Shit, I need to calm down. "I thought sex was just sex, its own thing, without politics or bullshit. You goof around for a bit until they say yes, then you have fun. I didn't realize it was more complicated than just making sure both people get a physical rush - isn't there enough bullshit involved in just that?" I taker a deep breath. "You don't have to answer that, Ralph."

"People are complicated." Ralph says. "I still haven't figured you and that Michael guy out."

"Me neither," I admit. "Mikey's a bud, but for a pair of people who've never fucked, we sure have sexual issues. Or maybe we dress up our real issues in sexual terms, who the fuck knows?" I can't help but laugh. "It's just fucking crazy."

As in, I'm fucking crazy.

So here we are. Driving down the streets of L.A. on a morning so hot that even the dust is getting a sunburn, a mile or so from the courthouse and I'm bearing my soul to a guy who'll probably write a tell-all book about me the minute his NDA expires. Would this be a good time for a supervillain attack? Fuck yes. So suddenly the limo stops abruptly and tilts upward at a 90 Degree angle, and Ralph and I are upended and pile into each other like lovers.

The limo smashes to the ground upside down, and there's the unreassuring crunch of glass and metal as the car loses about two inches of height. Then there's a sound like a grinding girder, and a crunch, and the limo door is ripped from its side. A strong arm juts into the car and grabs Ralph, who's doing his best to cushion me and keep me from smashing my skull on the roof. I'm too stunned to react. There's the sound of struggle, and I crawl out of the limo to see Ralph, suspended about six inches off the ground, his legs dangling frantically like an overturned bug. Our attacker's an all-too-familiar one - the wide frame of his back is the size of a fucking Buick, and this time he's dressed in a leather jockstrap and an S&M leather harness that's replaced the spandex suit he usually looks. He looks bigger than he's ever looked before, he's wearing his black hair longer to give him the Hercules look, and the sight of Ralph struggling in his grip makes him seem much less like a joke than he ever has before.

"Omega, come out and play..." the Brickyard says.

The Brickyard. I've probably fought him more than any other opponent - he's not that tough, but he sure is fucking persistent. For those of you who need a flashback: the Steroid Wonder's a member of the Triumvirate of Terror along with Dr. Stygia and the Jabberwock: they're one of those bullshit minor league supervillain teams who think they're halfway tough. Last year, when the whole Ireland thing went down, the Trio accepted a presidential pardon, fought the enemy, then came home and immediately became villains again. Shit that pissed me off. Last time we fought, I stopped them when they were committing some robbery in San Francisco and pretty much humiliated them, especially the Brickyard. Man, did the musclehead ever look pissed - as he was being dragged away, he promised to "make me his bitch". The odds are pretty high that he meant that literally, especially given how his current "leather pride" ensemble shows off his pecs. Fuck.

I get to my feet. Man I'm going to have to play this one carefully. But not too careful, I can't make him suspicious.

"Omega, come out and playah..." the Brickyard repeats.

"Cribbing dialogue from a cheesy '70s flick?" I reply, doing my best not to show the effects of the crash. "And what's with the new look? Mid-life crisis hit the gym or you finally coming out of the closet?"

"I've grown, Omega." The Brickyard says. "I've found a way to keep the Brickyards inside me and draw on their strength." Fucking exposition. The Brickyard can summon the "Brickyard Men", eight or so stone elementals to fight alongside him, though they were never that tough. "I'm ten times stronger than I was before."

"Well congratulations, asshole." I smile. Fuck, am I scared. Time... I need to stall for time..., that's the only way I'll fucking survive this. "Bricks, you know I'm heading to court to get custody of my kid. Now I enjoy our little tussles as much as anyone, but can't we do this another day? I can pencil you in for Thursday."

"Nope." The Brickyard smiles. It's the sort of sick smirk that makes you want to take a cup of acid to someone's face and give them an origin.

"Look Bricks, getting in my way right now is a little personal," I warn him. "Do you really want to piss me off that much?"

"I'm just sorry your boy ain't here to witness when his daddy becomes my bitch." The Brickyard replies, as friendly as ever.

Shit, I think, though I don't say it out loud. I have to keep up the Omega bravado. "Oooo," I smile, doing my best to ignore the fact that that the "bitch" threat is no longer just posturing. "You can't really make me your ass-monkey while you run around playing Darth Vader. Put the hostage down, and I'll be glad to take you to school once again."

Somehow Ralph, in the middle of his bout of asphyxiation, finds the resolve to shake his head frantically. I ignore it. The sick thing about talking to the Brickyard right now, when he can break me into fucking pieces with a sneeze, is that it's a genuine Grade A Testosterone Rush. Come on, asshole, a piece of me is screaming, Okay, so it's the piece of me that should be locked up in a fucking asylum, but it's still screaming and it's still a rush.

"I think he likes the view just fine from up here," the Brickyard says, smiling at Ralph, who looks pretty spooked, all things considered.

'You've always been a talker not a fighter, Bricksie." I say, taking off my jacket and loosening my tie, hoping that a display of testosterone either baits him, or keeps him talking. "Million dollar body... two cent brain....and less than a peso's worth of balls."

"Give me a break," the Brickyard growls. "I never backed down from you, and you know it," That remark is actually more than bravado - whatever else Mr. Roid-Rage's problem is, he is not a fucking coward. Which is why it's so much fun to get under his skin. And I do need to get him away from Ralph - yeah, I know right now Ralph can take the punishment better than I can, but it's still my job.

"So why break with tradition?" I smile back at Bricks, arms stretched outward, palms upward in a gesture of invitation. "Why lower yourself to taking a hostage? Why not step up to the plate, and see if you get lucky and catch me on a bad day, so you get to plant that 'roid shrunken two inch member of yours up my fine Nebraska ass?" Okay, I know it's being crude, and it's crazy when the guy can probably rip my limbs out of their sockets in less than five seconds, but... I can't fucking stop being myself, you know.

The Brickyard dangles Ralph like a marionette. "Maybe I just want to see you sweat, Omega," he says. Bricks actually thinks he's being clever, but it actually gives me an opening.

"No," I say. "I know what the fuck you're up to.... You're playing for time, distracting me so the rest of the Triumvirate can do something really nasty." I refer to his teammates, Dr. Stygia and Jabberwock, though this whole mess feels like a solo job. "Well, it won't fucking work."

Then I turn around and sprint away as fast as my legs will carry me. Hopefully, he'll be so surprised that he'll drop Ralph and come after me. Of course, it could be that I accidentally hit on the truth. What if, as Brickyard's distracting me, Dr. Stygia and Jabberwock are making a play at kidnapping my boy?

Immediately, I grab my cell phone from my pocket while I'm running and hit Blur's number on speed dial. I get a direct line to Los Angeles's other primo young hero... no, it's just her answering machine. "Hey this is Tommy. I'm scared shitless something nasty's about to go down at the courthouse, and I need you to cover..."

In the meantime, I hear a thud sound, like a car hitting a trash bin, and I give a quick backward glance, a distance runner checking his pursuers, and he's there, the Brickyard, about six meters behind me - he's been leaping after me - and he looks pissed. Shit, he really does looks like he's been using his Wheaties, he's reached "holy fuck!" levels of mass. I need to get out of sight. Quickly I round a corner and scamper up a fire escape as quickly as I can. Fortunately, I'm still a prime jock even without my powers, I can do it in seconds, without even breaking my stride.

So I scuttle up to rooftop level over some Korean bakery and I see Brickyard leaping up to join me. Immediately I charge him and connect with him squarely in the chest with a pro wrestling dropkick (this is the only time this stupid move has ever seemed practical), hoping to punt him back to the ground. It's meant as a delaying tactic, but he barely feels the impact. I bounce off him and immediately roll to my feet while he lands squarely on the roof.

"You've met your match, Omega," he growls, doing an involuntary "most muscular" pose while he advances on me.

"But we haven't even dated yet, Bricks." I quip, circling warily. This is getting way too dangerous - I need to derail this fight, or I'm dead in ten seconds. My posture abruptly straightens. I need to keep him talking. "C'mon Bricks, how many times do I have to beat the shit out of you?"

"All I need to do is win once," he replies, and he jumps me. Talk's over. The first thing he does is plant his fist into my mid-section with enough force that if I hadn't managed to squirm my way to the side, he'd be playing with my intestines. I try to scramble away, but he grabs me from behind with one arm in a half-chokehold - shit, even his body odor is nearly enough to finish me - and he rips off my shirt with his free hand like it was rotten cloth. I lash out with my elbow and connect with his temple - doing no damage whatsoever - while he grabs at my chest and squeezes hard. I yelp, and suddenly feel a surge of power go through both of us. Shit, this feels an awful lot like what happened to me during Michael's ritual.

"Welcome me to the big leagues, Omeg-duh. Goose Bailey just hit the jackpot..." The Brickyard's referring to his normal ID in the third person. That is not a good sign. "Increasing my power tenfold made me strong enough to go for the real prize - a spell that will give me the same proportionate physical strength as yours... except that I'm a lot bigger than you."

He doesn't quite understand the smile on my face. My heart pumps pretty fucking furiously in my chest, and I can see by the growing disconcertion on his face that he's pretty racked too. I turn around, grab him, yank him hard toward me, and let him experience a Tommy Champion psycho grin at close range. "I can turn off my powers, you idiot. You just fucking made yourself my equal without my metahood."

The Brickyard barely throws me off him. I think he just shit in his loin cloth. "Tell you what, big guy," I smile, enjoying the tension that's building up in my muscles - his physique's shrunk noticeably (though he actually looks better without all those popping veins). "Why don't we keep this just the way we are. Mano-a-mano. No powers, no excuses."

"Yeah, right...."

So he doesn't believe me. Fine. We close and start to wrestle. He reaches for my throat with his fucking huge hand, but I grab his wrist to keep him from establishing the choke, block a solid knee that's aimed at my groin, and step back and convert the wristlock into an armbar, holding it with one arm at the shoulder and applying pressure on his elbow. He clearly didn't expect such a basic counter. Gradually, I force him down to one knee, slowly circling away from him as we wrestle, trying to keep him from lashing out at me. Alarmed at losing control of the fight so easily, grunting manfully, Bricks powers his way to a standing posture, ignores a half-hearted right hook to the face, muscles his way to the edge of the building, latches onto the side of the roof with his free hand, then lashes out with a kick that catches me in the side of the thigh.

Damn, That hurt. I'm glad it didn't connect with my knee, or they'd have to call me "Limpy". I loosen my hold, and he's suddenly on me, tackling me like a fucking linebacker, desperate to put me on my back. I spread-eagle my legs for support, but there's enough loose gravel on the roof so that what would normally be an effective counter is pretty feeble. He stands me up, and after five long seconds of trying to get an inside advantage, wraps his arms around my ribs and bearhugs me to my back - shit that hurts - and the muscle factory is thinking up new ways to hurt me while he holds me down. He begins to mutter a another sexual threat. How fucking original, Bricks.

But I was always good at reversing my opponent's holds, and all my old high school wrestling instincts are kicking in now, so I bridge (ignoring the ugly chafing feeling of gravel scratching the top of my head), hook one of his arms at the elbow, and I take him for a ride. Immediately his hand reaches for my throat again, but I keep going with my momentum and hurl him off before he can cinch it. I'm on my feet first, in less than a second, just in time to smack him in the face with a roundhouse right as he regains his footing- once, twice - then we're wrestling again. Man, he's still freaking strong, even with the spell holding down his strength, he's still gotta be close to three hundred-twenty pounds of solid muscle - and then he's bulled us over to the edge of the building and he's trying to throw me off the roof.

I look down, say a prayer, hook his arm, and we go down together.

The reason I took the fight downstairs was because I saw a trash container directly beneath us, a plastic top garbage bin about eight feet across, soft enough to break our fall. Better to hit there than pavement. I land on my stomach and I can feel my ribs crack on impact. Bricks lands a lot worse than I do; in pushing off me to break the fall with his arm, he overshoots the bin so he just catches it with his shoulder, then lands on the sidewalk with a thud. The bin wobbles but doesn't upend. His harness, which was hanging a little bit loose after his attempt to steal my strength backfired, catches on the side of the bin and is completely shorn off, taking the athletic cup with it.

Great. So now I'm fighting a fucking bareass naked Brickyard, just what I didn't fucking need to see. Goddammit, I need to stuff my cousin Steve Doerksen in the fucking Omega suit; a queer superhero would have way more fun with all the goddamn macho men and muscleheads that populate my Rogue's Gallery than I do! I jump down to the ground, while, holding his right arm tight to his side, "Goose Bailey" struggles back to his feet.

"You're dead..." the Brickyard snaps, ignoring his current condition.

"I owe you an apology, Bricks," I smirk, pointing at his dick, which is swollen to an impressive size. "That's gotta be at least three inches."

Yeah, I know it's crude, if not disgusting. But the only fucking joke that anyone knows anymore in Hollywood are dick jokes, and one can't help but pick up the local lingo.

"To hell with you, Omega."

I block his weak attempt at a punch, grab his injured arm, yank it, pull it between his legs, and press him against the wall in a real embarrassing position. "You lost big time, this time Bricks," I snarl, yanking on the arm, and I drive an elbow into the side of Brickyard's face.

"To hell with you, Omeg... UH!"

That Excedrin moment was courtesy of me, as I tugged on the hold. He's trying to freeze his facial muscles so they're as rigid as an aging actor who's had too much plastic surgery, but he's not having much success. "Fuck you, you sexually dysfunctional steroid-ridden piece of shit-for-brain loser," I snarl, deciding not to mince words. I let go of the hold, but I keeping pressing against him with my body, and so pin my bigger opponent to the wall with sheer pressure like a bug. He's not in fighting shape, so he just stands there, grimacing and looking at me. "When you and I fought before, it wasn't personal. I don't fucking know you. But now..." I take a deep breath. "You jumped me when my family was involved, and you knew it, and that sort of shit I don't forgive." And that's when I grab him by the genitals and begin to squeeze. I don't want to describe what that feels like (you know touching them, it's pretty fucking disgusting). For him, though, it's pure torture. He starts to yowl. Good.

The Brickyard looks at me with tears welling in his eyes - nothing like busting someone's balls to give them a bad day. But he's still defiant - there's no fight left in his body, but he's still not broken, not yet. Given what I'm doing to him, for the first time, I almost admire the guy. But I've got one more reason why he deserves to be treated like shit.

"Of course, Bricks, what really pisses me off about you doesn't involve family. Let's talk about Ireland." I say. His eyes widen. But if he has anything to say for himself, it's drowned out by another hardcore Tommy rant.

"Let's talk about streets full of corpses," I tell him. "Let's talk about cities that echo with the cries of raped women. Let's talk about the eyes of dead kids, staring at you through charred faces like some obscene totem that you can't get out of your fucking dreams!" It takes an effort of will for me not to rip his balls off right there and then. "You saw it! You were fucking there! Why the fuck didn't it change you? You had a real goddamn shot at making something good happen out of that hellhole! You could have become a goddamn superhero, but instead of honoring the people who fell... the soldiers, the common folk, the kids... and changing your goddamn life for the better, you used a fucking Presidential pardon for asswipe!"

I let go of the hold. The Brickyard crumbles. He slides down the wall to the seated position and hides his genitals with his upraised legs. He looks like a little kid.

"We had to get back to normal," he tells me in a low, child-like whisper. And that's all he can say.

"Well, fuck you," I finally reply. I grab him by the throat, get on top of him, and hit him three times in the face with good right roundhouses. When I'm convinced he's not getting up soon, when there's a comforting swash of blood on my knuckles, I get back to my feet and head to the limo. I should do more to him - I want to do more, but... screw it, I've got better things to do with my life than serve as some outlet for some musclehead's sexual aggression.

My cellphone's not working. Maybe when I find a working one, I'll call 9-1-1. Maybe. But only to cover my ass.

I return to the limo. It's a wreck, but neither Ralph nor the driver were too badly hurt, and that's the best news I've had all day. I feel like shit, but that's pretty much been the way I've felt since before I lost my powers, when Hellblade gutted me and put everything that's gone wrong in motion. Do I ever owe that asshole big time.

"Omega?" Ralph asks. "What -?"

I look at my reflection in the limo's tinted window. It talks back to me. "You know Tommy, maybe asking a Judge for custody of your kid after you've stripped the supervillain naked, crushed his genitals and left him without knowing whether or not he was dying wasn't such a fucking good idea." the reflection says. I have to bite my tongue to keep from talking back to it. You're a fucking schizo, Tommy. But I ignore the voice, electing to smile at Ralph as I say with a smile:

"I'm still breathing. You'd better call an ambulance for the other guy."

It takes awhile to clean myself up and look presentable in court, even with Ralph lending me his suit. When I arrive, Blur comes out to greet me, accompanied by a familiar looking figure in red, white, and blue.

"Omega," he greets me. "I heard you were in a scrape..."

I nod. "The Brickyard."

"I'm surprised you're still in one piece, given your condition." Glory tells me. Fuck, he knows?

"Shhh!" I tell him sotto voce, giving his arm a friendly tug. "No one's supposed to know I'm pregnant."

"Who's the father?" Blur quips.

"Avatar." I frame my quip with the perfect obnoxious smile. I turn back to Old Glory. "Weren't we supposed to have had a fight?"

"Already taken care of," the flag-faced old man says. "When everyone thought you were dead while you were trapped in the Zero Prison, I went to visit your dad. We decided to honor the promise with a little boxing match."

"I hope you didn't hurt him too bad." I say, shaking my head. The old superhero cocks an eyebrow.

"He wasn't fragile." Glory says. "In fact, he impressed me - as much as anyone has in years. I'd have been honored to have had him at my side at any point in my career. Good soldier, good man, good conversation, and his whiskey wasn't too shabby either."

"Yeah, though I was never allowed to touch the stuff." I reply. Although if Buck and I raided his stocks two or three times a year, it wasn't such a big deal.

We enter the courthouse together (I guess Blur and OG constitute my "posse"). After a quick trip through the metal detector, we're intercepted in the lobby by my lawyer; a battery of them, actually, like a travelling road show, like that Antiques thing on PBS.

"The Judge doesn't like it when people are late..." one of them tells me.

"I'm certain the Judge will understand it when you tell him I was fighting a supervillain... or else," I snap back. I love threatening lawyers. They make such a funny girlish giggle. I don't have much time to appreciate the joke - the place is fucking packed with media.

We enter the courtroom through a pair of oak double doors, built as solid as the fucking tree they were carved from, and enter a gallery that somehow looks wider and bigger than anything you see on television, a cathedral of justice (or at least cathedral of procedure). The galleries are fucking packed with spectators, all of them gawking at me. And each face represents a million people who are waiting for me to fall hard on my ass. Everyone's looking serious here; even the big painting of justice, blindfolded, sword outstretched, flying like a superheroine, scowls at me in disapproval. I glance over and spot Angelica, with Baby Jorges fidgeting in her arms, struggling to get a good look at me. First thing I do is change the kid's name to George. The lawyers have told me I shouldn't try to look at them. Of course I flash my kid a big smile.

"Hiya Mr. J." I tell him. "Daddy's here." Angelica pulls him away, while her lawyers wonder how they should threaten me.

"All rise," the Bailiff pronounces as the Judge walks in, obviously pissed. He's a man in his mid-50s, a crown of white hair surrounds his bald head and makes him look like Friar Tuck on a bad hair day, but the wrinkles that jut like lunar crags around his eyes though his walk gives his face an almost mask-like appearance, though his body language and walk reminds me of a younger man's - he must get a lot of exercise. "Court is now in session, the Honorable Judge Cyrus F. Benberg presiding," the bailiff says.

The Judge's hook-nose shifts in my direction like a compass needle. "Mr. Champion," the Judge snarls at me. "The court does not appreciate the fact that with all your superhuman abilities, you still managed to be twenty minutes late for your scheduled court time."

"My client apologizes to the Court, your honor," the mouthpiece stands up and recites.

"I would like to hear it directly from your client, Mr. Brewster," the Judge insists.

"My apologies, your honor," I bow my head slightly in penitence. "I was waylaid - literally - on the way to the court. If you check with the LAPD tomorrow morning, you should confirm that I wasn't capriciously wasting the court's time." Shit, sometime I can speak these assholes' language.

"So noted," the Judge says. "But surely that speaks to the heart of the matter. Is anyone who engages in the superhero lifestyle really fit to raise a child?"

My face flushes. The head of my legal team gives me a quick glance, a signal to make sure I'm not about to lose my temper. "Sir, with all due respect, that same lifestyle makes them leaders of the community..."

"I also seem to recall Mr. Champion stating on several occasions that he did not want to be a role-model," the Judge sniffs. "And what is a father if he isn't a role model?"

"Sir," I interject, and the lawyer sighs hard. "I don't want to be everybody's role model. But there's a world of difference between being a stranger's role model and being my son's role model..."

"He's is not your son!" Angelica shouts, and any decorum the place had disintegrates into a riot of screaming lawyers and loud comments from the gallery.

The Judge looks down at his watch and then back at the furore. Angelica is on her feet screaming, while the lawyers are screaming at us. The weird thing is that I should be pissed, really and royally pissed, but I've got an odd feeling of calm. Shit, this is almost funny. I flash Jorges a quick smile and he seems as fucking amused as I am. I glance back at Old Glory, but his eyes are intently on the Judge, who's letting this go on for about thirty seconds before the gavel comes down.

"Order!" he finally shouts. "Order! Mr. Champion, as you started this disruption, I have no choice but to find you in contempt!" he shouts, and my eyebrow lifts even as my lawyer's jaw drops. "And the sentence for contempt is... death." Then the Judge's form morphs as the hologram that overlaid his form wavers, and I find myself facing a faceless goon in a very sophisticated set of power armor. "Death at the hands of Black Phoenix!"

I give a long sigh. Okay, I should have known there'd be a supervillain somewhere in all this. But who the fuck is this motard? I rise to my feet and shout over the crowd. "Earth to Black Phoenix. You're facing me, Old Glory, and Blur. On the list of really dumbass things to do, that ranks just below the words 'Avatar ain't so tough' and 'come and get me, your Protectorate dorks...'"

"Perhaps we should even the odds," a familiar man's voice says from behind us, and the doors of the courtroom open, and out of an energy field that encapsulates them steps the Porter, along with Hellblade, Core, Operative Barnes, the Carnifactor, the Chain, Jabberwock, Dr. Stygia, and some woman I don't recognize who's covered from head-to-toe in red velvet.

Great. It's ten versus two supers and one poseur, with Bandita playing the role of Wild Card. And the dozens of people in the Gallery are suddenly finding themselves as merchandise in the aisles of Hostages 'R Us. I'll bet their stock price is tanking too...

"Tommy, can you hear me?" Red Rioting Hood asks through a voice distorter. Yeah I knew one day a supervillain would use that line - next she's probably going to vow to make me deaf, dumb, and blind. "Tommy, my dear, I want to share a dream with you. I want to share the dream of young Thomas Champion lying dead in this courtroom in a pool of his own blood, spread over the floor like Nebraska rain, courtesy of... the Omega Revenge Squad."

Shit. There's only one person that could be. And it's the one person who scares me more than anyone else alive. Angry as I've ever been, I plant my feet and shift my body to face the Lady in Red. "Orchid, you fucking bitch, why don't you take off the fucking mask and show your face?"

"If I were Orchid, I would," Femme Fatalla replies, the distorter adding a "scratching the blackboard" quality to her voice. "But no Tommy, I'm not some insecure Vampirella wannabee who snaps the necks of cheerleaders for fun, just like you did to chickens when you were a boy. And I also understand that the word 'bitch' isn't an insult, it's an anthem. And I'm not going to reveal myself publicly, so that one day people will be able to pin your death on me. Instead, we're going to kill you, the whore who slept with you, her offspring, and anyone who defends you, and we'll get away with it too."

I don't thing I need to mention there's a real strong hate vibe in the air, but if she's not Orchid or Bandita, who the fuck is she? Harridan? The bitch uber alles mode fits, but we've never clashed. Macha? No, she's way too straight forward - she wouldn't need some dorky second identity, she'd come at me direct and try to shove a spear down my throat. As for Angelica, she deals with the threat (and the unexpected insult) in the exact same manner that I'd do in her place: she gets to her feet, a gun appears in her hand, and she immediately fires on Neutering Natalie. But she's ready for it; the bullet veers away from its trajectory and swings around Red Velvet in a slingshot orbit, then plants itself firmly in my lawyer's shoulder, drawing a spray of blood that gets all over my suit.

Glory suddenly presses a button on his watch, and about six force fields suddenly erupt over the gallery. One of the backdoors opens up, and several costumed figures come striding out: Blockade, Permafrost, Cavalier, and the Zebra.

Time for all hell to break loose. And it does.

"Take your kid to the shelter!" Glory shouts at me, and I nod. Inside every major government building that was built after the Dagnabits invaded in the 80s, you can usually find a bunker, a Supervillain Shelter. It's the only secure place in the building. Immediately Glory dodges an attempt by the Operative to plant a well placed kick in his spine and they square off - old cynical patriot vs. new cynical ex-patriot.

"Angelica!" I shout at Bandita who's looking totally confused by the situation. "I'll get us to safety! Follow me!"

All hell is breaking loose, and after two agonizing seconds she nods and follows me, with lawyers following like dogs in our wake. But a man in a gladiator mask that makes Russell Crowe look like a piker gets in my way. It's fucking Hellblade.

"I don't think so, Omega..." Without my powers, the villain's movements are remarkably supple and smooth. He grabs me by the throat, raises that godawful pigsticker and suddenly finds himself knocked backward as Jorges, who's flying faster than any baby in history, plows into the guy who's about to shiskabob his old man, and knocks the knife out of his hand.

I ignore the impulse to say some flip "good boy" or "give the kid a cookie" remark. There's no time, plus it's a little scary when you suddenly realize that right now, your baby can kick your ass from L.A. all the way to Nebraska. Scary, and yet... you gotta have some parental pride.

But Hellblade could hardly be expected to share this fatherly emotion. He gets to his feet, snarling "You first..." at my kid. The blade reappears in his hand, and I'm halfway between the dagger and the kid when a huge fucking hand suddenly grabs Hellblade by the wrist and I can hear a sickening, wonderful, crack.

"I didn't like that sort of thing when they did it back in the old days..." Avatar announces, hurling Hellblade through a wall. Shit!

For a second the fight stops, and I want to ask Avatar why he showed up - last time I heard he was in Ireland, helping rebuild the place. We make eye contact for a second - one of the most reassuring seconds of my life - then Earth's Greatest Kicker of Ass (including, unfortunately, mine) closes with Core, one of his oldest and nastiest enemies. Behind the force field, several camcorders are wildly panning the room as the action goes back and forth, and Blur, grabbing the Chain's chain, plays a game of crack the whip in every corner of the room, almost hitting Cavalier as he desperately does his best Adrian Paul imitation while fighting the Carnefactor. MNN is going to have a fucking field day with this. Angelica pulls Jorges along behind her (the baby appears transfixed by the melee. I can tell he's going to grow up to be a pro wrestling fan).

"I know the way, Angelica..." I shout as I weave my way to the door to the Judge's chamber.

We run. I take one look back to see the Lady in Red yell at someone to break off from the fight and get me. We hurry through a pair of corridors and one concealed exit - fortunately I've been in this courthouse often enough to know the emergency route - and I direct her to a stairwell. Unfortunately, as soon as we open the door, Black Phoenix shimmers into view, weapons protruding out of the battlesuit, and aimed directly at Jorges.

"Don't move Omega, or the kid gets it," he says.

"Look," I shrug, debating on whether I can tackle him and knock him down the stairway. "The other guys out there I know. But who the hell are you?"

"Does the name 'Benton Ashe' mean anything to you?" Black Phoenix asks.

"You're Arthur Ashe's nephew?" I wonder. Keep him talking, but let him do the explaining. Keep your own speeches short, and try to keep him from getting too excited. Hostage Training 101.

"Don't you remember Las Vegas, Omega?" Black Phoenix snaps.

"Yeah," I say, honestly wondering what his deal was. "Last time I was there, I won twenty grand in blackjack. You were the blackjack dealer?"

"No, you idiot!" Black Phoenix snarls. "On the Strip, behind the alley, when you beat up the pimp who was slapping one of his women around. Remember?"

"Not really," I admit. I haven't been to Vegas all that often, and usually got pretty wasted every time I did.

"I was the bodyguard you threw into a wall!" Black Phoenix said.

Okay, now there's a good reason to become a supervillain and get revenge. After all the things I ever did to all the punks in five states, that's the best they could come up with for a vengeful goon? "It still doesn't ring a bell." I tell him. "Of course with your face blocked by that faceplate..."

Black Phoenix sighs. "Fine," he says, and he lowers the faceplate so I can get a good look at his broad African-American features. I can't believe the guy's dumb enough to do this, but he's giving me a chance to land one good sucker punch between the eyes, and I'm going to take full advantage of it...

...and that's when the gunshot goes off. The bullet lands squarely between Black Phoenix's eyes, killing him instantly. Shit!

Nobody messes with her kid. I can respect that. "Move it!" Bandita snarls, as she steps over the body, pistol still smoking.

"Ah... sure," I say, and I look back at the conga train of lawyers. "They won't be pursuing you." Probably. "You can scramble out the window." The lawyers groan and struggle to remove iron bars from the window - fortunately they're so poorly fastened, they're a bit of a joke. I duck down before they ask me for help and continue to the vault. No sense in advertising my power loss - especially when doing so to Bandita's lawyers won't be protected by lawyer-client privilege.

We climb down three sets of stairs into a musty sub-basement, and Bandita and I make our way down to the security vault. A little hesitantly, I seal the door behind us. As long as she still thinks I'm Omega, I'll be safe. "You didn't bring a change in diapers?"

"He doesn't make that sort of mess," Angelica says.

"You'd better not let that factoid get out," I quip. "Every mother in the country will want one."

"I doubt you could change a diaper anyway," Bandita snorts.

"Chicken shit, baby shit, it's all pretty much the same," I reply as Bandita looks around for a place for the kid to lie down. It's pretty spartan in here, about 20' square and 10' high, metal walls, harsh red emergency lights, canisters with emergency food, water, and zodox (for when things really get desperate, they're lozenges that release concentrations of oxygen into your bloodstream to augment the air supply when it starts to get foul). We can hear the distant noise of Armageddon rattling in the works above us, like distant bomb blasts. "Most superheroes get the 'everyone gets involved in a big fight' gig at their wedding," I remark. "I get it at my child custody hearing."

"There wouldn't have been a custody hearing if you'd been reasonable!"

"Give me a break!" I snarl. "You hid the kid from me and then you threw him in my face!" I snap. "There was nothing goddamn reasonable about this whole stupid media stunt - and then you nearly get the kid killed! You proud of yourself Angelica?"

"Yes I am, no thanks to you. You raped me, you broke your word, left me to rot in jail, and left me pregnant and never even bothered to check on me!"

"Well, you could have written!" I retort. "You could have told me you were pregnant when you still had options! I could have helped you - you're only marginally superhuman, Angelica, and you had no idea what was inside you. Little Jorges could have ripped you apart at birth. I could have helped you."

"Maybe I didn't want your help." Bandita says, and she draws her gun and aims it between my eyes. "Maybe I want you dead."

I smile. "Bulletproof, remember?" She pulled the trigger and fires a round into my shoulder. "Shit!" I shout. Fuck, first the fucking Brickyard and now this! I fall to the ground, clutching my shoulder. "Shit!"

"They're very special bullets... shaman blessed... and there's more where they came from." Angelica says. She doesn't know I'm powerless. She cocks the trigger. "Say a prayer, Omega..."

I get back to my feet. "Are you really going to kill his father right in front of him? He won't like it."

"He's young. He'll get over it." Angelica says.

"You sure about that?" I reply. "The boy's smart. You're not dealing with a normal six month old kid, and you know it. And he likes me. The bond's already there." Which it should be, given that he's virtually a clone of me. "There's no question our past is pretty whacked." Shit, the wound hurts. And I'm losing blood. "Now I may be biased, but a murder rap isn't gonna help you, the kid, or me."

"It's closure."

"Only for me. Closure is bullshit, Angelica." I reply. "Life accumulates, and we collect more and more wounds and the scar tissue never fully heals. We learn to deal with it, or we don't. Closure is just a bullshit way to help us deal. But it doesn't really put an end to anything, and every psychologist who uses that word knows it."

She aims at my leg and pulls the trigger again. I fall to one knee. "Shit..." I say through clenched teeth. The bullet lodged itself in my thigh. Small caliber... a larger gun would have caused real damage, though Bandita's skill with firearms looks to be a lot better than it was a year and a half ago.

"That one's for swearing in front of the boy." Bandita says with a bit of a smile. "I like you on your knees, Omega."

"I'm sure you do, darling..." I grunt, involuntarily imitating the Texas twang. "But before you pull the trigger one more time, I've got one question."

"What?"

"Who's the lady in red?" I ask. She looks at me vacantly. "Oh come on, Angelica. You set this whole Omega Revenge Thing in motion, just to get back at me."

She shakes her head. "'Twasn't me. You think I'd expose my boy to that level of danger?" She draws back on the trigger again.

"All right!" I throw my hands in the air. "I believe you. But that still leads us with this little stand-off. I can tell you that killing me won't solve a thing, but right now, I have the distinct feeling there's a creditability issue. Why don't you sit back and think this through?"

"I killed Black Phoenix..."

"He was threatening to kill your child. We throw enough lawyers at the charge until they suspend your sentence." I smile as best as I can with two bullets in my body. "The law is an ass, and you throw enough money at it, it kicks its own ass any time." She gives me the sort of look that says: I wish you wouldn't say that sort of thing around my son. Tough. "Fine. I'll shut up."

Angelica cocks an eyebrow, looking at me with the same regard that you'd give a poisonous snake - hate and respect. Maybe she's wondering why I haven't used my powers to defang her. "Take off your clothes, Omega."

I nod, and begin to struggle with my suit. "You should have asked me to do that after you shot me."

"You can suffer," Bandita replies, though there's no amusement on her face. It's as still as stone - it has been since the beginning.

"It's bad enough that I take a tumble off a high building with the Brickyard..." I mutter, pointing out a nasty scratch on my back and the welts on my body. God, I was lucky I didn't come out of that fight a lot worse than I did. Though Bandita appears ready to remedy that. I strip naked. The shoulder wound is still bleeding badly. "And by the way, it's Tommy. If you're going to kill me, you may as well make it personal."

"Fine, Tommy."

"By the way, if you kill me, you'll be missing out on one helluva grandfather for your kid."

"He raised you." Angelica isn't convinced. But I keep her talking. "Doesn't seem like much of a loss to me."

"And the fight won't last much too longer..." I point out. "Old Glory and Avatar are up there, and I don't care who the villains are, they won't last long against that combination. If you're going to make a decision, you'd better do it now."

It's probably the worst thing I could say, but what the fuck. "Why wouldn't you play for time?"

I smile. "Blood loss," I tell her. "It's making me stupid. And I don't want you to have to shoot anyone else, if that's what you've got in mind. You're planning on making a mess, Angelica. You know how these hostage-homicides often go down...." I try to draw her a mental picture. "People with their hands on the trigger, feeling the rage and sorrow that comes from taking a life, doing things even they don't expect? Even after Black Phoenix threatened to kill your baby, and you're still upset that you put a bullet in his brain. You aren't in a good place right now, and I don't have time to calm you down."

She says nothing.

"When the cavalry comes, can you at least make sure they only find one dead body? Make sure you don't kill Avatar with your shamanized, JFK special? I don't want them dead. I don't want my kid dead, and to be perfectly honest, I don't want to see you dead, either."

"You're a liar," she says. "You're just trying to get me so upset that you'll take the gun away."

"So you can teleport it back into your hand?" I wince. "Yeah, that'd be a real smart plan." Your move, Angelica.

"You think you're smart?"

"I think I'm naked and bleeding right now."

"Naked and bleeding. Just how men like their women," Angelica sneers.

"Naked sure," I reply. The blood loss is starting to get to me, I'm feeling cold. "But I don't understand some guys' obsession with virginity. And as for beating them - it takes a lot to get me to do that to a woman - someone like Orchid."

There's a long silence. I hold my hand on the wound, pressing hard. Jorges watches the scene with wide blue Champion eyes. "Why did you hate me that night?" Angelica finally asks.

I frown. I remember that night vividly. I remember the feelings of sexual obsession I'd been feeling, and how I'd been frustrated when I saw her with someone else, and how it made it so easy to take advantage of Bandita, to give her a bullshit offer of freedom and smile when the police took it away.

"I just did," I tell her. "But I didn't like hurting women. Sex is for women, violence for men. I didn't force you, Angelica. There wasn't a scrap of love in what we did, and not much lust in it, though you're pretty enough when you're not holding a gun, but if you'd have said 'no', I'd have stopped."

"And you know this because..."

I swallow hard. "My grandfather raped a woman, during the war. I promised my dad I wouldn't be like him, not in that way. Family is important to me, Angelica." I shudder. Shock is beginning to set in. Not good.

"My son is important to you." Angelica says. "Me, I'm just white trash, aren't I?"

"Actually, you're worse," I admit. "You're supervillain trash. You've been infected by two generations of people who had no regard for life, no respect for others, hardened killers who... were stone cold about it and paid the price. I remember how your dad got gunned down, and how your granddad got the chair for what he did, and after all that, you still went out on that stupid mechanical horse and committed crimes? You were like some stupid kid whose dad had just croaked from lung cancer but couldn't stop himself from fucking smoking at the funeral." I take a deep breath. "Lemme guess, after your dad died,' you didn't know what else to do'." I inadvertently imitate the hopelessness that had been in the Brickyard's voice when he told me that.

"That's right."

"Now you're lying." I shake my head, the gun in her hand not registering on whatever's controlling my tongue. "And if getting you pregnant broke you free from the supervillain family treadmill that you were chained to, then you should be fucking thanking me. You've got a beautiful little boy. He doesn't even shit. You can be free of the life that killed the last two generations of your family; all you gotta do is want it. Take it. You're young, you're pretty and you're now a celebrity. Just see what you've got going for yourself and fucking take it!"

I'm pretty fucking sure she's going to pull the trigger, but instead she drops the gun, leaps on top of me and begins to kiss me. Holy shit.

"I'm going to hate myself," she says as she finishes caressing me with her tongue. She seems a lot more passionate this time, maybe it's a sense of control.

"I won't," I promise, and believe it or not, the day ends as it began, with sex, except that this time I've got busted ribs, a bruised back and two bullet holes, and I pass out some time before the orgasm. I always thought that dying while making love would be a perfect way to go.

There's a crowd just outside my hospital room, I can tell, even as I'm awaking. I know it's a hospital room, because even a snowstorm - hell, not even Heaven is this white and sterile. The sheets cling slightly to my skin, and it hurts to roll over.

"Don't," the nurse warns me, and I flash her a grin. My shoulder's heavily bandaged. I sit up in bed watching the transfusion work its way through my veins. I'm drinking blood, it makes me feel like a fucking vampire. "You can see him now."

"Hi guys," I say, as Old Glory, Avatar, Permafrost, Blur and Cavalier walk into the room and surround the bed. "Where are all my fucking chocolates and balloons?"

"He must have taken a heavy blow to the head!" Permafrost exclaims with a smile. "The Tommy Champion I remember would never swear."

"Fuck you..." I tell my frosty Canadian friend. "So I take it the Omega Revenge Squad didn't do much revenging?"

"The Zebra's in a bed two doors down," Blur reports. "Everyone was captured, except the Woman in Red and the Porter got away. In fact, according to the people in Purgatory, the Porter never left his cell."

"That's fucking bullshit." I spit, and I turn to Avatar. "Hey big guy, I have no idea why you showed up..."

"You came to my defense, not just in Ireland, but numerous times in the press," Avatar explained, cutting me off fast. "I owed you."

"Well, I'm fucking grateful. Especially for saving my kid." I state. "I know you weren't particularly ready to step back into this bullshit lifestyle..."

"I wasn't and I'm not," Avatar confesses. "But don't worry about it. Blockade took the brunt of Core for me." Sounds like there's a story there.

"You okay, now?" I ask, sitting up on the bed. He shakes his head. "Anything I can do?"

"We both have our problems. I have... battle scars... while you've got a major telepathic entity in your head, blocking your powers..."

"Uh..." I suddenly interject. What the fuck? "Wait a minute? Major telepathic entity? Did the Protectorate find out something they didn't tell me about?"

Avatar raises an eyebrow. "I have many gods in me, Omega. Some are attuned to the voices of the mind. Ishtar likes them, though Anu finds them most annoying..." He almost smiles; from what I understand of Babylonian mythology, Anu liked the quiet life of the high heavens. "There's a demon inside you Omega, one who's desperate to keep you from yourself. How this demon can be overcome, I cannot guess."

I shake my head. Fuck, this sounds bad, and yet... if it's a demon, that implies it can be fought. "Well big guy, you just racked up a couple of I.O.Us from Tommy Champion. And when I'm back to full strength, feel free to collect on them any time."

Avatar nods. "I hear you," he tell me.

"So what's next for you?" Glory asks tentatively, talking to Avatar. Man, you could hear a fucking pin drop in here right now.

"I need to return to Babylon," he tells us; his voice is clipped and a little cracked.

"I feel the same way about Nebraska," I reply; I can tell it's getting hard for him to talk. "And if Babylon's too Saddam Insane for you right now, you're welcome to stay at our farm." Fuck, that sounds ridiculous. Why don't you invite the fucking President and the Pope at the same time? But Avatar nods without any indication he's offended, and so I give him an emotional breather and turn to everyone's favorite fighting fossil. "So how'd you deal with Barnesie? Told you he was tough."

"He definitely lived up to his billing. I think I had more fun against the Rook," Glory says, unconsciously rubbing his back. Looks like Barnes lost none of his talent for throwing a good kidney punch. "But the point wasn't to beat him. We let him run, in hopes he'd lead us to this 'Proxy' organization."

"You were expecting trouble before the court date?"

Glory nods. "The FBI had intercepted message traffic from the Proxy that indicated that something was going down. Permafrost and Avatar were coming there anyway to provide support, and Cavalier and Blockade were attending a NORAD meeting, so things just fell into place."

"There was some trouble at your house." Permafrost said. "Something about spider robots, and a big fight, we're not sure about the details..." He swallowed hard. "The beachhouse is a smoking ruin, Tommy."

"Shit!" I snarl. I'm going to have to go to Plan B, the secret identity backup plan. "What about Bandita and my boy?"

"The police are holding Bandita for questioning in Black Phoenix's... well you know, yuck," Permafrost explains. I nod. "And Bandita's lawyers had a contingency in place to handle the situation, and your lawyers are keeping an eye on it, so it's being..."

"Handled." I sigh - that's one of my least favorite words in the entire language. "Well, at least I managed to get through the trial without anyone learning that I'm powerless."

"Uh, Tommy..." Blur finally speaks up. "I'm afraid that's not feasible anymore."

"Why not?" I ask, dreading the answer.

Blur bows her head. "I encountered Smax! this morning on patrol, and mentioned that things were going to be a little tricky in Los Angeles until you regained your powers. I figured he'd keep it quiet, but an hour later he held a press conference to 'reassure' the city that it was in safe hands despite the fact that Omega was powerless."

"WHAT!" I exclaim. Smax! is Reebok's sponsored superhero, an underachiever who was pissed that he had not been chosen as my replacement as Nike's chosen spandex spaniel. That fucking little piece of shit.

"I'm sorry Tommy. And here I thought Halcyon was a low life..." Blur looks almost as pissed as I am.

"I think you should lay low until we figure out how to get your powers back," Glory suggests - very strongly, of course, but then we're talking about a person who's prone to phrase his suggestions with the words "I order you to..."

"No fucking way." I insist, and I look at each of them in turn. "During my entire career as a superhero, I've heard people dismiss me time and time again just because I'm so goddamn powerful. And ever since Ireland you've got doorknobs coming out of the woodwork who say that every meta relies too heavily on their powers, like somehow real heroes can't have fucking exceptionable abilities to start. Well, I'm gonna put on some kevlar, get myself a motorcycle, start packing a rifle with rubber bullet ammo, and I'm going to show every fucking disbeliever out there that Tommy Champion doesn't need powers to be a force to be reckoned with!"

Permafrost rolls his eyes. "We'd better get his powers back and fast," John quips, and to my annoyance, everybody's heads nod in agreement.
 

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