What has gone before... Tommy Champion, Nebraska farmboy, and all-round hellraiser turned superhero, arrived in Los Angeles to become the official superhero of Nike. His cocky attitude, foul mouth, and bad temper did not win him any friends, except for Michael Carleton, a Nike image consultant who gave him the superhero nom de guerre "Omega", and Leona Blade, Michael's friend and confidante. Both of these friendships have their dark sides, as Michael has proven to have an explosive personality that's at least a match for Tommy's, and Leona has become the object of Tommy's lust, despite Leona's engagement to Frank Rodgers, a UCLA psychology student and Olympic athlete.

Tommy and the young Canadian hero John Wolfe (better known as Permafrost) have both won positions as Nike's sponsored superheroes. But there are other forces, represented by the enigmatic Lieutenant Hawkins, who see Tommy as much more than just another superhero -- they think he's one of the Seven Chosen who will fight an important battle against the forces of darkness.

Tommy's recent battle against Sandstone and the Black Priest have drawn attention to Tommy's role as guardian against the forces of darkness, but he's still attempting to come to terms with that role, and the more general roles of corporate superhero and protector of Los Angeles. Most recently, a whirlwind romance with the superheroine Knock-out has opened Tommy to certain possibilities.

"One hundred fucking million dollars!" I shout into the telephone at the top of my fucking lungs. "Tiger Woods just signed a deal with Nike for one hundred million fucking dollars! That's just great, Chester! That's just un-fucking-believable!"

What looked like it was going to be a really boring Monday morning has been interrupted by some interesting news, the sort of news that causes one's ego and one's id to discover each other and fuck each other even harder than I did last week with Knock-out. To tell you the truth, the news isn't that bad. I may sound like a Republican who's just gone into his bedroom and discovered Bill Clinton screwing his wife (or his favorite intern), but I'm not really having that big a temper tantrum. This is really just a ploy, a cheap, childish ploy. But if I stay quiet, Nike will stick me on their fucking front porch every time it rains, so I pull the string on my back and have myself a good ol' fashioned fucking rant.

Welcome to marketing and the fine art of blowing your stack at just the right fucking moment.

"Look at it this way, Tommy." Chester is in his full 'I better calm down this asshole' mode (probably with a touch of 'why the fuck did I get into this goddamn business' added in for good measure). "Tiger Woods sells his own line of golf clubs and shoes, and balls. He allows Nike to expand their merchandising lines. That's gold. But superheroes, on the other hand"

I'm pacing as I'm talking, turning abruptly every time I get a chance to speak, as if the pivot will add drama and emphasis to my words. "Yeah, each week he spends a few days putting balls that are smaller than my gonads into a little fucking cup. That's worth one hundred fucking million dollars, all right!" I have a real nice, evil sarcasm voice. "God fucking knows that risking your fucking life every fucking day isn't worth it, so screw that asshole who's talking to you right now."

"Tommy, listen" My agent tries to interrupt.

"Fuck, Chester! Are you honestly telling me that I should be making less than some country club shithead who's named after the goddamn dog from the Brady Bunch?"

"There are policemen who do the same damn thing you do and they don't make eight million a year. They'd be happy to make one goddamn percent of what you earn each"

"When people think about Tiger Woods, they think of golf. When people think about Omega, they think of Nike. Marketing is all about identification. I'm way more valuable to that company than that putting little shithead!"

"You've only been doing this a few months, Tommy." Chester gives me the argument I was expecting to hear. "I cut you a three year deal worth twenty-four million. Now I can renegotiate the contract after one year, but I won't be able to get you anything more until next June."

"You point out to those sonuvbitches that not only did they screw me over when they set up their little test period a few months ago, that I've gotten a much higher profile than we projected."

"Your Q numbers still stink, Tommy. Half the supervillains out there are more popular than you are." Chester countered. "You saw the last fucking Gallup poll. Eighty percent of all Americans want to see Avatar kick your ass."

"Yeah, like that'll ever happen." I smile, forming a mental picture of Avatar, the fucking Sumerian muscle-god, on his knees and kissing my ass. "I've turned my Q numbers around in Los Angeles, and with minorities. It'll happen in the rest of the fucking country eventually, and they fucking know it!" I insist. "So let Nike know that I'm unhappy. Put the pressure on them, Chester, and remember that you get a fucking big percentage of whatever you negotiate. Hit a fucking ace for me."

I put down the phone, and take a deep breath. Chester will do his best, but I don't know if that'll be good enough. I'd be nice to get more money in, just to cover some of the legal expenses I've incurred. Maybe I should reconsider holding off on that deal with Gatorade

I'm supposed to go into Nike and meet with them; I'll just play hooky instead. I start a patrol through downtown Los Angeles, flying slow and low over the streets, waving at tourists like I'm Captain Mayberry instead of the nastiest piece of shit on Earth. I pretty much put my brain on autopilot so I can do this without getting bored out of my skull. I wish I could see through everyone's clothes, it'd make this less interesting. I don't have that power, so I do the next best thing: I listen through the walls and see if there's anything interesting I can investigate.

About eleven o'clock in the morning, I get a feeling that something's wrong. I'm drawn to a bank that's about to start the noon hour rush; the alarm goes off as I get within fifty yards of the place.

"Shit!" I say.

Assuming it's armed robbery, and seeing no obvious signs of big muscle-bound metahumans in tights trashing the place, I immediately gain some elevation to see if I can spot the wheelman. I spot a car near the front that's revving its engines, a red Acura; from a distance, I glare at it for a few seconds, and suddenly its brakes lock in place. It won't be going anywhere, but the driver won't notice until he puts the pedal to the metal. With the getaway blocked, I turn my attention to what's going on inside the bank. With a thought, I become intangible, and sink through the roof. I flip, look downward, and peak through the ceiling. I spot two men in ski masks, brandishing automatic weapons. Yeah, guns don't kill people, just the dickless wonders who carry them who'd find it a helluva lot harder if they were disarmed.

Nervous tellers are emptying out tills and safes. I perform a little secret surgery on the robber's guns, then drop down into the center of the room and resolidify.

"Omega says this bank robbery is ovah, shitheads!" I say.

The gunmen pivot and train their weapons on me, only to discover that their firing pins are stuck. Heh. I ain't a gun nut by any stretch, but I'll happily give credit for that trick to Smith and Wesson's gun safety class. It's handy to know the weapon's fucking anatomy.

One of the gunmen reaches for another weapon, so I look at him hard for a few seconds, and as he pulls it from his belt and brings it to bear on a potential hostage, an energy field surrounds him and suddenly he finds himself naked. That's completely nude, not just "I'm naked without a gun" nude (though that would work too). It's a cute trick, except that it takes so long to perform that any villain with faster than normal reflexes would hand me my head before I could do it to them.

"Lose the beer gut, candy ass," I quip. The naked gunman isn't used to the Blink 182 look; with an 'oh shit' look on his face, he bolts for the front door, but one of the tellers, a big young kid, takes advantage of the opportunity to play hero and jumps on the thug. Good for him. Go ahead and fuck his gun-toting, hostage-taking, naked criminal ass.

Me, I'm feeling like I should be the total asshole tonight. I perform the same nudity trick on the second gunman, disintegrating his clothes and weapons, and then I transform one of the bank tables into a pair of stocks (the pillory kind, not Wall Street). The gunman gulps. I grab him, throw him into the stocks, and lock them tight. Meanwhile, Beer Gut Boy is losing the fight against the Young Bank Jock, who's wrestled him to the ground and is punching the shit out of his face with a series of straight lefts.

"Hey, that's my job, okay?" I say to him.

Young Bank Jock grins, breathing hard, and he nods at me. He gets off the prone, naked thief, and wipes the blood from his knuckles onto his opponent's body. He also picks up a button that had been torn from his suit during the fight: "Ask me about our low interest home mortgage loan."

I guess the fucker should've asked him the right question, not "ask me about robbing your bank when Omega's near the scene".

I grab the bloodied thief, and throw him in the stocks along with his accomplice. Then I write the words "Property of Tommy Champion" with masking tape on their asses, and follow it up with a dose of intense UV to give each of them a fucking nasty sunburn.

Shit, that was fun, although it'd be even more fun if I could have grabbed them, flown them out to the desert, and let their asses bake under the hot summer sun. The police collar the wheelman while he's still trying to figure out what happened to his brakes. It's a bad day for losers in the city of Angels.

"You're one of a kind, Omega." Hawkins hits the bank about two minutes after the fight's over. Shit, how did Metahuman Affairs get to the scene of an ordinary bank job so quick?

"I thought you said there were six others like me," I retort.

"Don't you recognize a rhetorical statement when you hear it, Mr. Champion?" Hawkins says. I try to catch a hint of a smile on his stone face and fail miserably.

I take time to thank the fighting bank teller and offer to take him to a bar and buy him whatever the fuck he wants to drink. The press is around him so tight that it's hard to even get to him; oh, just let the kid bask in his moment of glory. But he wants to talk to me, and takes me up on my offer, and I grab him and fly him four blocks to a sports bar. The Dodgers are playing (badly), and there's an Olympic preview on ESPN, but no mention of water polo or wrestling. The kid mentions his name (but I quickly forget it); he's some USC accounting student who does part-time work in the afternoon working in that bank branch. He's engaged to an actress who's working on a CBS soap opera, and this was the first bank robbery he'd ever experienced in person. And he likes Sam Adams. Nice guy, good taste in beer. I give him an autograph and shake his hand. I think my Q rating just shot up a couple of points.

The next stop is Paramount Studios, where Blur's doing pre-production test footage for a movie (it's the same one that Knock-out auditioned for; Sarah won't know if she gets the part until later this week, I guess). I fly into the lot just before noon, locate the soundstage, and wait for the union to wrap morning production. The huge soundstage door lifts up like a garage door, and there's a rush of a dozen crewmembers running directly for the catering truck. Blur is sucking on an orange no, make that sucking on three oranges in rapid succession.

"Hey, girl, isn't it about time we did lunch?" I smile as I land.

"About time you showed," Blur says. "You've been in this town how many months?"

"I didn't quite know where to call." I smile. "You get around."

It's obvious from this moment that my relationship with Blur isn't going to be as physical as my relationship with Sarah. Blur is cute, but there's a lack of sexual tension, as opposed to the earthquake of sexual energy shared by me and Knock-out which probably registered on the seismograph over at Cal Tech.

"How about that lunch date?"

"Sure," Blur says.

I scoop her up and fly her to a Chinese restaurant that's just off the lot. It doesn't look promising; a mini-mall crossed with a greasy spoon that's gone Shanghai. "I have no idea whether the restaurants around here are any good." I say. A tacky bell chimes as we enter, and everyone looks at us, of course. The people at the counter appear to be Chinese, but everyone else in the restaurant is Caucasian. Not a good portent for an afternoon of fine dining.

"This look good to you?" I ask.

"I'm afraid for me, food is just food," Blur replies with the slightest hint of a sigh.

"Liar," I say, taking a huge plate of chow mein (or as they call it here "lo mein" -- somehow California restaurants have gotten the idea that "chow" means they get to serve you hard, crispy, less appetizing noodles.)

"That's a great way to win friends and influence people," Blur says in a bitchy voice.

"At least I don't lie to them," I mock, with a big fucking smile.

"No, you just insult them. No wonder your Q rating's so low," Blur mocks back.

"Well, if certain superheroes wouldn't bad mouth me on MNN"

"Oh c'mon, it was all in good fun, and you know it," she protests. "As Nike's posterboy, you should know that no harm means no foul."

"I felt royally fouled at the time," I answer. "But whatever. By the way, have you been cutting down on your patrols lately?"

"Why do you ask?"

"Well, I've got this weird sort of intuition about people in danger," I explain. "And sometimes the intuition would alert me to something going wrong, and I'd fly to investigate it, and then the danger would vanish, like a candle being snuffed. And when it happened suddenly, and I didn't feel bad about it, it was almost always because you'd beaten me to the scene and already dealt with it."

"Well, I can tell when you get involved in a crime, too," Blur replies. "Although it's usually by the number of ambulances that are on their way to the scene, and by how loud the cops are cursing."

"Very funny." I smile, catching the uncontrollable wicked look on her face. "But lately I haven't felt the 'Blur drop-off.'"

"Actually, there's a good reason. I've had to cut out my patrols. It's because of this movie I'm doing: the insurance company told Bruckheimer that if I fight crime while it's shooting, my rates go through the roof."

"That's fucking ridiculous!" I'm starting to raise my voice.

"Not really, not when you do the math," Blur counters, giving me a "calm the fuck" down motion with her hand, which is somewhat undercut by the speed that she's eating her rice. She's eating so fast that she can actually keep up a conversation between bites. Now I know how freaked Sarah was when I showed off with my powers.

"We can't leave everyone defenseless just because we want to be movie stars," I argue.

"Look, Omega, don't look at me that way," Blur says. "I like crime fighting, but I can't fight crime 24-7. Crime rates go down in the fall, so this is the best time for me to take some time off to do this."

"It just seems wrong to me."

"I understand, but this is something I need to do. Both financially, and to be a role-model." I snort in derision. "I know how you feel about role-models," Blur continues.

"Fucking right"

"But there's a lot of positive messages in this film, and I want to do it."

Positive messages? Bullshit, Blur. You're only in this for the fucking money. But you've probably convinced yourself that what you're saying is true, and the issue's not important enough that I'd need to rock your worldview. I have a feeling that if there was a real emergency, she'd tell the insurance companies and Jerry Schlockheimer to take a flying fuck.

"That's your business," I tell her, sullenly. I'm trying to stay fucking positive, but it's hard. "I was kinda hoping we could team up. I think you, me, and Permafrost, we'd be a great team."

"Well I'd love to try it, after the movie's finished. By the way, forgive me if this isn't any of my business, but is there any truth to the rumors about you and Knock-out?"

"We like each other. We're not formally dating," I say.

"That's cool. I met her an audition. She seems nice enough."

"Watch out for her mother." I take a deep breath and hold my arms like a measuring stick. "Maaajor bitch. No, make that a Four Star General Bitch."

"Right," Blur says, not believing me. Fine. "Have you had any interesting cases lately? Anything I should know about?"

"Nothing that hasn't been in the press," I say. "Oh, by the way, I'm still looking into that rash of industrial diamond thefts."

"Those ones?" Blur remembers them. "That trail has to be long cold. Do you have any leads?"

"Well, when I first heard 'diamonds,' I figured that the corniest thing they could do with them would be to build a giant drill and destabilize the San Andreas."

Blur laughs. "Now that would be comic book. Let me guess, you came up with this theory after you met the Dictator?" I nod. "I guess I can't blame you, but not everything's four-color, Omega."

"The theory didn't pan," I report. "I'm now wondering if the uncut diamonds weren't stolen so they could be cut somewhere else. With all those wars in West Africa and people boycotting 'blood diamonds,' it could be a way for one of the companies to launder money to one of the rebel factions and make a fortune."

"Politics," Blur sighs. "I think I like four-color better."

We finish up lunch and open our fortune cookies. "Now is a good time to travel" is hers. "You bring your friends great happiness" is mine.

"Between the sheets," I add.

"I knew you were going to say that," Blur says smugly.

She doesn't kiss me, but she does give me a hearty handshake. I watch her as she disappears into the distance. Nice ass, although she disappears from sight way too quick.

After lunch, I take a patrol around the beaches, at least until sunset, then cross over to UCLA. Some maniac has been on a killing spree against sorority houses back east in Pennsylvania, so I've decided to make protecting the local campus a priority.

It has nothing to do with grateful, scantily clad college girls and lingerie. No bullshit.

While I'm passing over the campus, I can detect a muffled scream echoing from a courtyard, and suddenly I get a sense of wrongness that's as intense as any I've felt, except in the presence of the most nasty supervillains. I head down to investigate. The campus is almost empty at this time of the evening -- everyone's either gone or in class -- but a careful eye can see motion in some bushes. Once my attention is drawn to the scene, I know almost instinctively what's happening: some big drunken college frat is wrestling a woman in some bushes and trying to tear her clothes off while he holds a hand over her mouth. The little shit.

I land on top of him, dispel the effects of the booze so he can realize what the fuck he's doing, and then pull him off. He's in heavy shadows, and he probably doesn't realize who he's dealing with, so he cocks his fist. I harden my body, and let him connect with me in the face. There's a loud crack, and he screams -- the punch shattered his fucking hand. If only I could get away with fucking killing you, you goddamn son of a fucking bitch.

I grab Rape-Boy by the scruff of his scrawny neck, and fly him to the top of a lamppost. I adhere his feet to the top of the lantern, then fly back down to help the rape victim. I do all the things that the police training told me to do: she shouldn't clean herself off until after she's been examined and the appropriate DNA evidence has been gathered, and she's been hooked up with the appropriate woman's shelter and support group.

"She made me do it," Rape-Boy mutters, tears in his eyes. "She asked for it."

I'm really tempted to turn Rape-Boy into a woman and make him understand what the fuck he was doing, first-hand. But he'll get a taste of that when he's put in prison.

The high of the capture is followed by a report to the first security guard who hits the scene, then two more security guards, then police, then reporters, and finally grateful sorority sisters, and social workers. Goddamn, it doesn't take much to turn these crime scenes into a circus. I spend about a half-hour being interviewed for a report about an incident that took about five seconds of actual time to resolve. Oh well, I suppose it beats having to appear in fucking court all the time.

I continue to patrol around the university for awhile, then turn my attention back to the downtown area. It's getting late, so I head down to the sunset strip and look for some fun.

I'm approaching Sunset Boulevard when I get another premonition. Either business has picked up tonight, or my senses are getting more attuned to crime. (Maybe I need to put on a big floppy hat and a trenchcoat and tell people that I know what evil lurks in the hearts of men. I've only listened to a few tapes of the old radio plays, but when I was a kid, I'd listen to The Shadow just to hear The Laugh. Of course, then I had to listen to that show again when I was sixteen, and it sounded so fucking corny that I just wanted to hide from the world for two days.)

The trouble is coming from some sort of sedan, a green Chrysler. I still need to work on identifying a car's year and make by sight. The Chrysler opens its window, and from a distance, I can see the setting sun glint off what looks like a gun barrel. It's targeting a pair of Latino kids who are sitting near a storefront window. I won't be able to reach the car in time, so I erect a force shield between them and the car. There's a spray of bullets, but they bounce off, except for one which breaks through my barrier and strikes one of the kids in the shoulder.

Fuck, now I'm really pissed. Nobody should have been fucking hit. I dive down, grab the car, envelope it in a force field so parts don't go flying off it when I lift it off the ground, and then I start doing a fucking corkscrew roll with it while we're airborne. Shit, I can hear the screams of the shitheads inside, and I see how the centripetal force is pressing them against the glass. I fucking love it. I stop for a few seconds, give them a chance to get their bearings (and if they have any fucking brains, strap themselves in their seats), and then corkscrew again, this time in the other direction.

Enjoy the fucking e-ticket, assholes.

I land the car at the nearest precinct house. There are three people in the car, and two of them require medical attention. It's only a few broken bones, but shit, that's another fucking lawsuit coming my way. Hopefully, I'll get a hard-ass judge who'll slap me on the wrist, instead of some criminal rights pansy who likes to suck a murderer's dick. I quickly fill out the report, and get ready to leave before the press arrives.

"Hey, Omega" Hawkins approaches me, looking a little winded. Has the bastard been chasing me across the city?

"What's up?"

"I wanted to talk to you about your meeting with the Black Priest," he says.

I blink. "I wouldn't call it a meeting. I'd call it a fight. And why didn't you come to me right after it happened?"

"That's a long story," Hawkins says. "Let's just say I've been on assignment. What did that bastard say to you?"

"Something about Christianity being bullshit, and how he was happy to see me, since my appearance means that some big apocalypse is coming." I answer with a shrug. "You know, the standard 'I've got bigger mystical balls than anyone else on the planet' shit."

"Have you had any odd dreams since you met him?"

"A few nightmares," I say. "They faded after a couple of days."

"Has there been anyone that you've been strongly attracted to since you met the Priest?"

"Yeah, Knock-out. She's fucking hot!" I answer.

Hawkins rolls his eyes, which is about as emotional as I've ever seen him get. "What about Mr. Carleton? Have you noticed anything unusual about him?"

"Yeah, he started growing horns in his forehead." I bullshit. "Look, I'd really fucking appreciate it if you'd stopped planting this whole 'seeds of suspicion' bullshit in my head and just tell me what you think is going on. Be straight with me, man! Michael is my fucking best friend. What kind of a friend would I be if I didn't stand up for him?"

"Your loyalty may be misplaced," Hawkins says.

"Bullshit. I've known him for months," I snap. "Yeah, he's got his secrets, and he has more mood swings than the entire bipolar ward at UCLA Medical combined. But I'm not fucking perfect either."

"There are people who specialize in getting close to people and becoming their best friend, then inserting the knife in their back at the right moment," Hawkins says. "You're a superhero, Tommy. That makes you especially vulnerable."

"If I were tell you that you shouldn't trust your closest friend, and then refused to give you any good reason for it, why the hell wouldn't you tell me to fuck off?" I argue. "Give me a fucking answer now, Hawkins, or back off!"

"Fine." Hawkins sighs. "Over twenty-five years ago, Michael Carleton led a cult in the Midwest who worshipped the Black Priest. They committed a lot of ritual sacrifice."

"Uh, earth to Hawkins," I mock. "Take a good look at the guy. He's in his late twenties. Michael was supposed to have led this cult when he was four?"

"He's a practicing sorcerer. He's very well preserved," Hawkins answers. "We believe he was in his early 20s when he led the cult."

"Fine." I shake my head. "Although even early 20s is still a little young for a cult leader, don't you think?"

"You'd be surprised," Hawkins says.

"How do you know all this?" I ask.

"It's my business to know." I roll my eyes. Hawkins shakes his head.

"Oh, just tell him." A female voice says out of nowhere. I've heard that voice before

"Alright, I suppose we've seen enough of you that we can trust you." Hawkins shakes his head, and sits down, resigned.

"Fuck, this town is paranoid," I mutter.

"I come from the one city in America that's even more paranoid than this one." Hawkins pulls out his ID, and suddenly his form shifts, and the world around him bends, and all of a sudden, he's looking a lot less like Avery Brooks, and a lot more like a dark haired Caucasian man in his late 30s, with gaunt, hawkish figures. "Forgive the glamour, but I need to maintain my cover with the LAPD. My name is Avery Stone." He sits down, and takes a long drag on a cup of coffee. "Sit down, Tommy."

I stagger into a seat. He continues, "My partner, whose beauty can only be masked by an invisibility spell, is standing next to me."

"You narcissist," the woman's voice is chiding.

"Your twin sister Lexi," I say. Things are starting to get a lot clearer to me

"I see our reputation proceeds us," the man notes.

"Michael's mentioned you a couple of times. I believe the term he used was 'walking abortions.'"

"We don't love him much either," the woman says.

The government agent formerly known as Hawkins sighs. "But yes, Tommy, we're from the federal government, and yes, we are here to help you."

I'm really tempted to get up, kick the shit out of him, and leave. Fucking feds. Goddamn deceptive sons of bitches. "I hate having someone play fucking games with my fucking life." I blurt out. I didn't mean to say that out loud, but fuck, I'm starting to lose it again.

"Get used to it, kid," Avery spits. "There are a lot of people who want to use you. Not only are you a member of the superhero meat market, you're pretty high on the occult hit parade. Frankly I'm surprised that a lot more people like the Priest haven't taken a run at you."

He's right, the fucker. But acknowledging it will just invite this shithead to waltz deeper into my life, and I'm really not ready for that.

"So what next?" I finally work up the courage to ask.

"You need to find the other Six Chosen," Alexi says, interrupting what I'm pretty sure was going to be a half bullshit answer from her brother.

"How do I start?"

"We think you'll know instinctively when you meet them," Avery states. "But we can't be sure. There's some debate on whether Avatar is another of the Chosen or not."

"The Priest indicated I was the first Chosen he'd encountered. If Avatar was another Chosen, I think the Priest would have figured it out years ago," I state.

"I'm not sure about that," Avery says. "We think that at least some of the other Chosen are already existing as superheroes -- or villains. But their Chosen powers won't be awakened until they make contact with another Chosen -- a Keystone."

"And since the Priest recognized me, you think I'm that Keystone?"

There's a long silence, made longer by the weight of the moment. "Exactly." Lexi finally states.

"And if they kill me, the other Chosen don't get woken up, and so the universe pushes the snooze alarm on the big bash against the forces of darkness?" I ask.

"That's also a strong possibility," Alexi says.

Which means (if I'm interpreting her words correctly) that I can expect to be the prime target for a lot of powerful psychotics for the rest of my fucking life. And not just me, but also the people I care about. Dad. Buck. Mom. Rachel and Kenny. Maybe even Steve (on a good day), or Sarah and John, or Leona and Frank. And then there's Michael, if he isn't positioning himself for an early shot at my back.

Shit! Why couldn't these fuckers have told me sooner? Goddamn these secretive bastards!

"You've given me a lot to think about," I say. "I'm sure we'll do lunch sometime soon." I turn to fly away.

"Omega," Avery says. I look back at him. There's a coldness in his voice and his eyes, as if he were trying to enforce his command by will alone. "Stay away from Carleton."

"Whatever." I shrug, and I fly away.

I fly across town -- and of course I head straight for Michael's place. I'm expecting the sky to darken as if there was a storm brewing, but it remains absolutely clear. The sun has set for a perfect, Southern California summer evening.

"Hey!" Michael's in a good mood, but I haven't seen him for nearly a week, and he's almost always friend when we've been apart for a few days. Hell, he even gives me a friendly hug, something he normally hates. "So what's up? I've heard your day's been real busy."

"Yeah. Busy," I say.

"You okay?" Michael asks.

I nod. Right now, it's hard for me to fucking speak.

"Well, I don't have any plans for tonight," Michael suggests. "Wanna to head over to the Grill?"

"Not really."

"Want me to call you a girl?"

"Don't want one tonight," I say.

"Shit. How about if I take off my shirt, and you can safely indulge all those homoerotic feelings that you have for me with a friendly wrestling match?" Michael says with a smile.

"Don't feel like it right now," I say.

"Okay, you didn't tell me to 'fuck off,'" Michael says. "Something's definitely wrong here. Are there problems back home?"

I shake my head.

"You're scaring me, farmboy," Michael says.

"I? Scare you?" I spit, suddenly raising my voice. Michael looks at me. "One of us is a superhero with the power of a fucking god. One of us isn't. Which one of us should be scared?"

"When you see me, Michael, you know what you get. But when I look at you, there are times when I wonder if you're just wearing a fucking mask."

"Goddammit!" Michael says, and he nearly knocks a lamp over. He takes a deep breath, then turns and looks at me. "What the fuck's gotten into you, farmboy? What did I do to you, or what do you think I did to you?"

I'm stone-cold right now.

After about ten seconds of silence, Michael walks over to me, grabs me, and tries to shake me to force me to look at him. I don't budge. He shakes his head, walks away and begins to pace. "You know, I wish for the first time that whatever's happened, that you'd just beat the shit out of me, and get it out of your system," Michael finally says.

"Me too. Some things can't be solved by beating the shit out of people." I say.

"It'd be a lot simpler world if it could."

"Very four-color," I say.

"Yeah. That." Michael turns to me. "Well, you got two choices, farmboy. Talk or walk."

"When were you born, Michael?"

"June 23," Michael says, eyes narrowing.

"What year?"

"1966." Michael replies. "What's this fucking about?"

"Somebody told me that twenty-five years ago, you were the leader of a Black Priest cult," I finally admit.

Michael is ashen. "Do you believe them?"

"There were books on sorcery in your room. I felt black magic emanating from there when I first arrived in the apartment."

There's a part of me that's being incredibly analytical, waiting to see what bullshit that Michael's going to use to cover his ass. The other part of me is about to fall to pieces.

"We've been friends since you first blew into this town. Whenever you needed help, you came to me. You came to me all the fucking time. Shit, you were a goddamn nuisance, but I put up with it."

"Except when you slammed the fucking phone in my ear."

"Yeah, I'm sure that you return phone calls at two in the morning all the time," Michael says sarcastically.

"Michael, suppose someone realized what I was, somebody magical?" I say. "And suppose they figured that the best way to neutralize me was to become my best friend and then stab me in the back at the worst possible moment?"

"Well, ask yourself if that 'friend' has already had a good opportunity to backstab you," Michael counters. "And if he hasn't done it yet, then maybe your scenario isn't as well thought out as you think." He pauses. "I'm not against you being suspicious, Tommy. Jesus Christ, if I were in your position, I would probably be too scared to have any friends. We've done good shit together and we've done bad, farmboy, but I think the good outweighs the bad. Don't you?"

"So far, sure," I say.

"So give me a fair shake, okay?"

Our heads are bowed, almost as if we're in prayer. I finally turn to him. "That's very nice, Michael, but you've still got a lot of fucking secrets."

"I've never denied that there was shit I wasn't telling you." Michael says. "But fine. Yeah, I'm a sorcerer. I know fucking black magic. I speak to the dead, draw circles of blood, and make funky shit happen. Yes, I'm actually 45 years old. And when I was your age, I did serve in a cult for the Black Priest."

"That's fucking good to know now" I'm about ready to leave.

"But Tommy, I grew up. I haven't seen the Priest in twenty years, and I don't want to see him. I'm scared to fucking death of him. And whatever fucking black magic spells I've cast while you've been here have been protection spells meant to mask your true nature from the forces of darkness, and I swear to fucking God that that's the truth!"

"And that's all your secrets?"

"That's all you need to know," Michael says. "Except that nothing would give me greater pleasure than if you grew into the most powerful fucking superhero this planet has ever seen, so that the next time you face the fucking Black Priest, you'll send that asshole to Hell permanently."

"What'd he do to you?" I ask.

"Don't go there," Michael says.

"So there's more?"

Michael nods. "A lot more." He pauses. "I didn't want you thinking of me as 'Michael the Sorcerer.' That really isn't me, at least it isn't very often. And if I tell you the rest of my story, there's some even worse shit in there, and I don't want you thinking of that shit every time you look at me."

"I guess that's fair, as long as it doesn't come back to haunt me," I say.

The truth is that I really want to believe Michael. I really want to like him. I really want our friendship to turn out to be more than something that can be conveniently discarded when our paranoia levels rise. Of course, if I'm wrong, and this friendship is some backstabbing mystical political bullshit, I don't know how I'll survive.

Maybe I'm being a fucking moron, but I don't want to live without friends anymore than he does.

"Thank fucking God," Michael says, and he gets to his feet, and he embraces me. I return the hug.

"Faggot." I say, still holding the embrace.

"Only losers call people 'faggots,'" Michael says.

"You're still a faggot," I reply.

"And you'rel a lily-white ass sheep-fucking piece of Nebraskan farmboy shit."

"And you're a dickless, old lady fucking, goddamn bullshitting Tom Cruise wannabe faggot."

Michael lets go of the hug. "Tom Cruise?" he ponders.

"Yeah, Tom Cruise," I say. "I thought you looked like Cruise the first time we met."

"Shit!" Michael exclaims. "No wonder you thought I was gay!"
 

"Well, now I know you're gay." I smile.

"How do you figure that?" Michael's nose crinkles.

I grin. "Well, you're a forty-five year old single guy with big pecs, a flat stomach, and perfect fucking hair who lives within a five minute's drive of West Hollywood. What the fuck else could you be?"

"Fuck you," Michael says, and he starts laughing.

I laugh as well, and we spend the next hour throwing insults at each other, stripping off our shirts and wrestling, and finally getting so drunk that we pass out.

We really haven't resolved the issues between us. Yeah, I fucking know it, and I'll bet he does too. Michael's still feeding me bullshit and omissions. But unless he drops a fucking bomb on me, I'm gonna stick with him. I've had lots of weird friendships -- hell, you could write a fucking psychology textbook about my relationship with Buck -- but Michael is different. The realization of Michael's occult past means that he knows a lot about the shit that's going to be coming at me down the road, and if anything, that ought to solidify our friendship.

And God knows, I don't deserve friends after a lot of the shit I've done to people, but I sure the fuck need them.

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