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 down sides, as Michael is a sorcerer with a dark past, 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 government agents Avery and Lexi Stone, who see Tommy as more than just nother 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. He's also experienced a romance with the superheroine Knock-out that's threatening to change his life.

"Could this 'superhero' be less in control of his actions?" The Metafight civil rights guy is in full rant mode. "We've heard word that Omega broke the nose and collarbone of yet another victim."

"Change the record, Maury! We're talking about a 'victim' who had just finished pulling the trigger of a fully automatic weapon and struck an innocent fourteen year old kid in the shoulder!" the other commentator says. "That punk deserved a lot worse than a bloody nose!"

"Bloody nose! So do the ends justify the means?" the loudmouth yells.

"Fuckin' right they do," I say, swilling a beer. I can see Maury Anderson's nostrils flaring; you gotta love big screen TVs (and the beachhouse I'm buying to put it in). "Hey, Patrick!" I shout at the third personal assistant that I've had this month. "How about you hustling that San Fernando Valley ass of yours over to the fridge, and bringing me another fucking Budweiser!"

"Yes sir," Patrick says, heading to the refrigerator. He passes a woman wearing huge horn-rimmed reading glasses who's turned my new kitchen table into a temporary home office. That's Livia Stewart, Century 21's finest, who's about to close the sale on the house. She finishes scribbling and notarizing, and comes over to me with a stack of paperwork that's twice as fucking big as I was expecting. Her smile is cloying and phony, and it pisses me off.

"As you can see Mr. Champion, the house is fully furnished," she says.

"The décor sucks," I mutter, mostly to myself. It definitely has all the signs of modern interior decorating. I don't want to live in a fucking show home. I don't even have a trophy wife yet.

"Well, it may not be what you're used to back in Nebraska...," She adds a completely artificial laugh to the end of the sentence.

"I don't want cows either." I sigh. My bank liaison's done all the necessary financial work. I put my signature in all the wrong places. I don't get any premonition of impending doom, so I have to assume that I'm not signing over my soul or my first-born in any of this shit. "I do have permission to redecorate, don't I?"

"Of course. As long as you make no alteration that will upset the neighborhood association, you shouldn't have any problems."

"I'm going to have to go to the store for a beer." Patrick comes out of the kitchen, empty-handed.

Patrick's not working out well at all -- he's way too nervous and easily upset. The last thing I need is to have someone working for me who doesn't have the balls to stand up for himself; he'd be way too easy for supervillains to intimidate. So I'm running the kid ragged with errands and insults, and seeing how long it'll take him to prove me wrong, or quit.

The realtor finally leaves, and Patrick's taking his time at the store. But the silence is welcome. I take the time to look out the living room window and take in my new view. It's mine. In a few weeks, I'll learn to recognize when the tide's coming in. The waves are fucking awesome right now. The sea is choppy, and there are a couple of seals playing on the beach. The realtor warned me that they're a nuisance, but I kinda like them. I've got a lot in common with them. We like to play around, and eat, and make a lot of fucking noise. I guess they're family -- fuck, they're smarter than Buck. I've already started using telepathy to communicate with them. It's like talking with a very small child.

There's a jogging path on the edge of the property, and I spot a couple of kids riding these ridiculous scooters (whatever the fuck happened to roller blades?) along the path. But they look happy, so I shouldn't be bitching. They must be neighborhood kids, since the path is off-limits to the general public.

There's a gentle slope to a grand, white beach. Fuck, is the sand ever a bright shade of white; it fucking blinds my eyes when I look at it. Once I get the (reluctant) permission of the local homeowner's association, I'm going to grow some modest vegetation on the hillside to absorb rainwater and prevent the house from sliding in the first monsoon. I'm also going to place a few layers of shale and and stone under my house, just to make it a little harder for the supervillains to tunnel into it. I doubt it'll stop anybody as tough as Sandstone (and if I want a real fortress against supervillains, I'll have to buy real estate in orbit), but it might dissuade the minor league riff-raff. And then there are the magical wards that I'll see if Michael can erect...

My neighbors haven't come over to visit. I think Dana Carvey has a house down the road, and so do Rick Fox and Vanessa Williams. I hate basketball, but it'd be kinda cool to lure a few L.A. Lakers into a three-on-one game, and then kick their asses.

I could use some action, so I decide to take a patrol.

We're heading into fall in Los Angeles: that means hot, short days and cooler evenings. I head down to some of the scruffier parts of L.A., and play Captain Helpful. For some reason, I've become the Bill Clinton of white superheroes for the local African-American community; I'm as fucking whitebread as they come, but they all seem to like me. I'm not sure why. I'm not into rap, and I don't handle the street lingo well at all. I think they just like the fact that I get into people's faces, and I don't look down on them, (or at least, I don't treat them any different than I do whites). Nah, it's probably because a lot of the same people who dislike me don't like them either.

I land in the middle of a pack of black teenage boys. "Hey, guys, you seen anything I should know about?"

They shake their heads and look at each other, and I look at them each in turn. It's amazing what eye contact will do for you when you use it correctly. I don't have mind control, but I'm intimidating as any fucking mentalist when I need to be. "Just minor shit," one of them admits.

"I'll leave the minor shit to you," I say. "As long as nobody's life is danger, you can handle it." There's a collective sigh. "Fuck, what's with that?" I complain. "You'd think I was a cop, or a dentist or something."

"A dentist. Shit that's funny," one of the kids replies with a heavy, forced chuckle.

"Humor's one of my fucking super-powers," I say. "Well, I gotta go patrol. Have fun, but don't get into too much shit while I'm not around."

I start to rise into the air.

"Hey, Omega, kick Avatar's ass!" one of the kids yells at me. I can see the results of that Gallup poll have made their way into South-Central. I guess the whole fucking country's talking about that -- the Olympic match-up of the superhero world.

"He's gonna be my bitch!" I promise as I depart, emphasizing the vow with a finger thrust. It's only smack, of course, but it feels good to see these kids nod and smile and laugh.

I turn away from the inner city and head north, past Hollywood, and into the Hollywood hills. My plan is to scope the San Fernando Valley, and then go supersonic over the water until I reach San Francisco, a seven-minute trip at maximum speed. But as soon as I pass over the Valley, I get a premonition, and it's a serious one. It leads me into a large warehouse off Highway Five. The place looks pretty run down.

I don't have probable cause, (or at least anything that would get a conviction in a court of law, and even my powers can't teleport a search warrant into my hand when I need one). So I have to satisfy myself with breaking into the warehouse, risking a B&E charge, and hope that I manage to stop something horrible in time that it'll make the hassles worthwhile.

I become intangible, and float down through the roof. My first glimpse is that of some rundown movie studio, cameras, lights, a couple of people running around. There's a big naked guy (he's not good looking; his muscles are losing the competition against his love handles), and there's another guy who's stroking the naked guy's dick and trying to arouse him. Fuck, is this a porno shoot?

Everyone's heads are turned away from one of the corners of the room, and after a second, I can see why. I hear a man screaming obscenities, and I hear the sound of a face being slapped. Some thirty-year-old balding shithead is slapping a ten-year-old boy, who's wearing jeans and no shirt.

Fuck!

"Anyone who leaves now is fucking dead!" I shout into the room. All heads turn toward me.

I immediately grab the director, and throw him into a couch. The couch spills over and topples, and he goes rolling into a wall. The cushions probably save his life.

"You asshole!" I scream. "You fucking asshole! I am going to fucking kill you!"

The director stirs, nursing broken ribs and a possible concussion. "Please..."

"Don't you fucking beg!" I snarl. He cringes. "You're fucking worse than any fucking villain I've ever faced, and I'm going to..."

The director is sobbing. And the kid is sobbing. I take seven deep breaths to calm myself down, spit on the director, and turn toward the boy. After all, he's the only real important thing here. I put on such a big-ass, phony grin that even Officer Shithead would be proud. "Hey, kid, cheer up. Everything's going to be okay. That's a promise."

The kid looks up at me with an absolutely terrified expression on his battered face, and fights to speak through his sobs. "Is it time to drop trou'?" he finally asks sheepishly.

Shit!

"No. You wait a few years before doing it again, okay?" I say, fighting to avoid throwing up. I stagger over to the cameras and equipment and casually destroy them. I really want to break them in a more violent fashion, but that'd just scare the kid.

"Where are his parents?" I ask the director.

"He's my son," the director states.

"Not anymore," I reply. I concentrate on the broken equipment, transforming the camera into a primitive transmitter and call the local police. "This is Omega. I'm in the San Fernando Valley, off the interstate." I give a series of rough directions and describe the situation. "And call social services," I add.

"This is private property!" The director has finally worked up the nerve to scream at me.

"So is he."

The police show up; they're locals, not the LAPD that I'm used to dealing with, and they're pissed that they won't be able to pin an arrest on the perpetrators that won't get thrown out by the DA, and they treat me like I've really screwed the pooch. Fuck them. And (for once) Social Services is actually on my side. I wish I could be happy about that.

I head back to the beachhouse, feeling fucking empty. Just fucking empty, like the whole world is just a shithole, a shithole filled with puke and piss, and diseased people, and greedy dads who take pictures while greasy, sweaty fat guys fuck their own children. I stagger into my bedroom, and stare into a full-length mirror.

"I'm right, you know." I hear the Black Priest's voice tell me.

Of course, I smash the goddamn mirror into pieces -- again -- and look around. I don't sense his evil. No, he wasn't here, except in fucking spirit, except in my fucking head, which is just as bent as fucking Buck's. It's not the first time; whenever things get bad, I think I hear the Priest fucking mock me, hear that old man cackle coughing in my ears, and I can't get it to fucking stop.

"You aren't going to break me!" I snap, and I pound my fists through the floor and break into tears. Jesus fucking Christ, it's been a long time since I fucking cried. Not since the Jaguar Grill. And I haven't really cried since I broke up with Rachel.

Patrick comes into the room five minutes later, and starts bothering me with phone messages. I fire his ass, and cut him a big enough severance check that he won't whine. He looks like he's real happy to be getting away from his psycho boss.

Maybe it's time to get out of Los Angeles for awhile. I haven't been home in over two months. I can go back to Milford for a few days, and get back in time to catch the opening of the Olympics. With Frank in Sydney, that gives me almost three weeks to see if I can seduce Leona and see if she's as good a fuck as she looks when she's doing it with Frank, while Mr. Water Polo's bunking with the rest of the Speedo set 'Down under'. There's something about Leona that makes me feel better about myself. And that's what I need right now. I consider phoning Sarah, but she's got her own problems, she doesn't need this shit.

I mentally open a skylight, and shoot through the ceiling like a rocket. I almost built myself a secret tunnel and considered shape-changing myself whenever I was home so I could have an honest-to-god 'secret identity', and if this gig goes south, that's probably what I'll do. But I'll do that as a last resort. Hopefully, the villains will learn from the lesson I taught the Chain - you shit on my house, and you will pay a price.

So I head northeast, having carefully plotted out some landmarks. It's about four o'clock when I leave, a half-hour flight when I don't screw up the flight path.

This time, I only lose about ten minutes from the optimum time. I don't do much thinking during the flight, and that's good, that helps me feel a lot better. By the time I reach Milford and the farm, I'm feeling good about myself again. At least until I get another premonition of danger, in my own home.

It's coming from one of the tool sheds off the sides of the East Field. Immediately, I make a break for the shed, looking for people in danger. I'm ten yards away when it blows, and it blows big.

The impact's is heavy enough that even I can feel it. Shit, there's fucking smoke everywhere, and my ears are ringing and hurting like a son of a bitch. I scope the area and spot Buck crouching in a field, holding a homemade remote control detonator in one hand, with a truly insane fucking grin on his face.

"Buck, you fucking idiot, what the fuck were you thinking!"

"Shit, did you see that!" Buck laughs. "It blew up like a fucking atomic bomb!"

I take a deep, heavy sigh. I really want to wipe the ground with Buck; I got over blowing up shit years ago. Instead, I point to a patch of empty ground about fifty yards, and trigger my own explosion.

"Big fucking deal..." I smile, and I turn and walk toward the farm. Buck is standing there gawk-jawed, and finally starts screaming 'shit' at the top of his lungs. "Brain damaged fucking moron."

I walk into the house, really pissed off. Christ, I need a shower. "Somebody needs to do a fucking Cuckoo's Nest on my fucking cousin's skull," I snarl as I stomp in, hoping that dad's not within hearing distance.

"Uh... hey, Tommy..." It's Steve Doerksen, wearing a T-shirt and overalls, hauling a pair of pails. "What are you doing here?" he says reluctantly.

"What do you think, you dork?" I snap. "I live here. What the fuck are you doing here?"

"Actually, Tommy..." Steve's hemming-and-hawing worse than usual. "I live here now too," Steve says.

I'm a little shocked, shocked enough that it washes away the pissed-off feeling I got from Buck. I half-stagger into a seat. Doerksen's living here? "What happened?" I ask.

"Well," Steve said. "Last month, on my eighteenth birthday, well, Dad's idea of a birthday present was kicking me out of the house and telling me never to come back."

"Why the fuck would he do that?" I ask. I knew Noah Doerksen was the biggest asshole in the fucking state, but I never suspected he'd pull this shit again on his kid. I thought that got straightened out two years ago, after Steve's attempted suicide.

Steve shrugs. "'I'm not a proper Doerksen.' That's all he said. I think everyone knows the real reason."

"Shit, Steve, I'm sorry," I say, and I put my arm around his shoulder. "So Dad took you in?"

"I'm working on the farm in exchange for room and board. I figure I'll take a semester off to catch my bearings, and then head for college."

"That's cool. Well, man, let me know what I can do. Where are you staying?"

"Your room."

I stop breathing for a few seconds. Steve notices the reaction and moves my arm off his shoulder. "I can move, if you want..."

"Steve, I just bought a two million dollar beachhouse," I say through gritted teeth. "What the fuck do I need with a room on a farm?"

"I haven't touched anything, except I put my clothes in two of your drawers," Shit, Steve's being even more neurotic than usual. "And I cleared out a bit of closet space...

"Steve, it's not a big deal," I insist. "I know you're not the sort of person to mess with another person's shit. Just don't make a big deal over it, okay."

"I was worried..," Steve rambles. "I remember how pissed off you were at me the last time, and I--"

"That was months ago." I shake my head and smile. "Goddammit, even I ain't a big enough asshole to hold a grudge that long." I sit down at the kitchen table. "So put the fucking pails down and bring me up to speed on how everyone's doing."

Steve takes a deep breath and obliges. "I haven't seen most of the gang since grad," Steve answers. "Wiseman's gone off to college in Omaha. I think he's taking physics..."

"Fucking brain." Wiseman was one of the few people at Milford who regularly beat me on tests.

"...Francie's is helping out his dad's gravel business, Martin's an assistant manager at McDonald's."

"That'll last five minutes. What about Kenny?"

Steve takes a deep breath. "Working for his uncle's feed company. I think he's going to try to become a cop next year."

"And Rachel?"

"Uh... she's a bank teller over at Wells-Fargo."

He's not telling me much. "Is she and Kenny still going out?" I ask. Steve reluctantly nods. "I guess no one remembers me," I say.

"You're pretty hard to forget," Steve replies, which is Steve-speak for "stop this bullshit, Tommy." He doesn't have the balls to openly insult me. Good ol' Steve, why the fuck do I like him? It's probably male bonding from all those times I beat him up back in grade school. "We talk about you all of the time."

"I guess you're all pretty glad I'm gone," I respond.

"We enjoy reading about you," Steve says.

"Must give you a few laughs." I smile.

"Sometimes, at least for the ones who never liked you," Steve says. "But most people want you to do well. Like it or not, you're now Milford's favorite son."

"Whoopee," I say. If I could properly push the sarcasm out of my lungs, I'd be screaming. A favorite son. I get to meet scared children who want to know when they can "drop trou'" for me. What a fucking gift.

At this point, dad comes in, holding a palmtop that he's been using to record crop yields. "Dad!" I yell in a voice like a tattling teenaged sister. "Steve stole my bedroom and Buck has blown up a toolshed!"

"Welcome back," Dad says. "And we know about the shed. We let Buck blow it up to blow off some steam."

"But how the fuck am I going to get the stench of loser out of my room?" I complain. Steve gives me an injured look. I punch him in the arm, and that finally gives the doofus the signal that it's okay to relax and roughhouse with me. Steve's put on an impressive amount of muscle in the last year, but his wrestling technique still sucks. Even without my superhuman strength, I pin him on the kitchen floor in about thirty seconds, and hold him there for several minutes while he struggles. The one thing I do like about Steve is that he's not a quitter, not when you ignite his fighting instinct. That's the difference between him and the guy I fired an hour ago. It's actually a good release for me, after everything I've been through today. Dad just watches us.

"You're awfully hard on the hired help," Dad says as we finally get to our feet. "Steve, I could use a hand..."

"Go ahead, Mr. Champion. I just have one more thing I need to say to Tommy."

Dad nods and leaves. Steve looks at me hard, as if he has to tell me I have fucking cancer. "Well?" I say.

"It's Buck. He's been acting up a lot lately," Steve says. "I know your dad won't admit it, but I think your cousin's getting worse. You were the only thing keeping him in check. Now that you're gone..."

"Shit!" I snap. I was afraid this would happen. "Well, I am thinking of coming around here a little more often."

"We're starting to get close, and I'm hoping I can help your dad get a handle on him. Although I can't roughhouse with him like you could...," Steve says.

"You can't roughhouse worth shit," I state. Steve looks at me mournfully. I smile and punch him in the arm. "Steve, Buck was a major handful for me until I got my powers," I state. "Don't try to manhandle him unless you can catch him off guard. He's really fucking strong."

"I noticed," Steve responds. I wonder what's already gone down between the two of them?

"And please, if Buck hurts you, remember that it's not his fault," I add. I don't know why I'm telling him this. Perhaps I'm worried he's listened to too many of Kenny's horror stories about my cousin. "Read Of Mice and Men. Mr. Kennedy gave it to me back in tenth grade, and it really helped put a lot of things into perspective."

"I'll trade you the Kipling anthology he gave me after my problems," Steve says. "By the way, is it true about you and Knock-out...?"

"Yeah, she's a lot of fun, but it's not serious, not yet."

"That's cool," Steve says. "That's very cool. Well, I really should get back to work. By the way, we're really proud of you. A lot of people are."

"You sentimental shithead." I laugh. "Get the fuck out of my face."

I let Steve get back to work. Nebraska's not a good place for someone who's come out of the closet. One day, I'm going to have to take the boy into Los Angeles and see if the big city can bring him out of his shell.

Just as long as he doesn't have to see what I saw today.

Meanwhile, I fly into Milford. The town is a small cluster of small businesses surrounding seven Mennonite Churches without a Walmart in sight, marred only by a McDonalds at each end of town and a Burger King in the middle. After living in Los Angeles for three months, I've come to realize just how sleepy Milford feels. The town is more of an appendage to the local farms and the local religion, rather than a central place for the people to come together.

Some would argue that's the way America should be. But they've never been to the Jaguar Grill.

I fly around town for about twenty minutes, watching necks crane and hands shade people's eyes. I don't stay in one place long enough for a crowd to gather. I finally land near the bank, entering in costume.

All eyes are upon me, but not in the usual way. I swallow hard.

One of the bank officers gets out of her chair, brushing her client aside for a few moments. I think I've seen her in church, but I don't remember her name. "May we help you, Mr. Champion?" she says in a clipped tone.

"I was wondering if Rachel was here...," I say. It would have been easier to tell her "this is a stick-up." She gives me a phony smile.

"Rach has gone to lunch. She should be back in a few minutes," one of the tellers says.

"Thanks," I say, and I take a seat.

A few minutes later, Rachel enters the bank from the front door. Kenny's with her. They look like they've passed the infatuation phase into the 'relaxed companion' phase.

And then I see a diamond ring on her finger.

It's really hard to describe that emotion I'm suddenly experiencing. I'm sure the Germans, who are in touch with the sturm and drang of human psychology (like a dispassionate scientist observing a lab animal) must have a word for this feeling, that sinking feeling in your stomach from bad news that's completely unexpected but which makes perfect sense once you get your head to stop spinning enough to think about it. That feeling. You know, sturmadrangalungtenshitofuck. Good old fucking Germans.

I teleport out of the bank and with a sonic boom, I leave Milford. I head for the Rocky Mountains, and I start smashing at granite peaks and screaming at the top of my lungs. There's something good about hearing the word "fuck" echo over and over again. There's something cleansing in that good ol' mountain air.

Once I've finished my tantrum, I pick myself up and head back to Los Angeles. I check in with the police and ask about the kiddie porn guy (at least they're alerted in case he tries this shit again, and the kid's going to a foster home) and some other old cases. Apparently they've hired some hotshot private investigator to look into the blood diamond allegations involving all those Warder suit attacks. It's about fucking time we solved that one. Once I'm finished chatting with Jeff - that's Officer Surly's first name, in case you were wondering -- I head back to the beachhouse. The place is a bit of a sty -- maybe I should've waited until after my man-bitch had cleaned up the damage I did to my bedroom floor before firing him.

I check my voice messages.

Message One: Sunday, Twelve A.M.

"Hey, Tombo! It's John." Permafrost's voice is so "chipper" it's obscene. "I'm in Philadelphia, attending a fashion show near the campus where all those sorority murders took place. Hopefully I can get to the bottom of it..."

I'm suddenly overcome by a really bad feeling, a premonition. I don't hesitate to phone John's hotel. Unfortunately, he's not there, but I leave a message.

"Hi John, it's me, Captain Nebraska," I say. "Look, if you run into an angry hockey player and you need some help, don't hesitate to call me. Those Philadelphia Flyers can be pretty tough." I pause, swallow, and turn serious. "I've got some bad feelings about what's going down where you are, so keep your head up, okay?"

Message Two.

"Hi Tom, this is Steve. I spoke to Kenny and Rachel..."

Push button. Erase message.

Message Three.

"Hi Tommy, it's Sarah -- you know, uh, Knock-out. Well, I guess the Protectorate don't need me as a new recruit. I'll talk to you later."

Shit! I wasn't expecting them to be such idiots. Well, I told Sarah that I'd kick Avatar's ass if they didn't accept her, and now it's time to make good on that promise. The American public has been waiting for me and Muscle Boy to tussle, and who the fuck am I to disappoint my fucking country?

I've also been meaning to see if I can fly in space; I've been as high as 50,000 feet, where the air's practically non-existent, and I've breathed normally there. Doc back in Colorado told me after the tests that I should be able to survive in space, but I've never worked up the courage to try. I should have attempted this months ago.

But it's one thing to fly into orbit, another thing to dock with a spacecraft that's traveling at several miles a second. Guys train for years just to learn how to dock spacecraft that are capable of much closer relative velocities. Fortunately, the Protectorate's HQ is pretty big, a fucking monolith that's visible from the ground. I know where it orbits, so it's not too hard to plot a course where I can intercept it.

It sure would be embarrassing if I couldn't even get aboard the fucking thing.

I make a number of preparations; I borrow a GPS and a hand computer, and persuade some friends at the LAPD to link the computer into the public access sections of the NSA orbital database. Once I've calculated where I need to go (and when), I head skyward. Fortunately, the orbit will take it over the Northern Hemisphere. The closest rendezvous point is somewhere off the East Coast of central Mexico. I'm not sure how well the GPS will work when I gain some altitude, so I start by flying close to the ground.

It's a long, tiring flight, although the Mexican countryside looks great from the air. I don't pass over much in the way of settlements, sticking to the GPS for guidance and to some homemade calculations. This is the time when a "super-genius" power would be nice -- I'm smart and I'm sharp, but I'm no fucking Stephen Hawking.

Once I've hit the point indicated by the GPS, I check my watch, hope that I haven't gotten the time zone wrong, then head skyward at top speed. I remember watching the Protectorate satellite pass overhead when I was a kid, watching the stars from the roof of Old Man Doerksen's barn. Buck and I always wondered what it was like to go up there. I suppose part of the appeal was that it was just so fucking exclusive. The satellite wasn't made by human beings - it was alien, and they didn't even let President Bush or Clinton or the Secretary-General of the United Nations go up there. I think they even said 'no' to the Pope. The satellite is Protectorate property, and no one who doesn't belong there ever gets inside (except for some aliens and shit who got their asses kicked by them a few years back).

No one, until today.

It's the middle of the fucking night on the southeast coast of Mexico, and I hope I don't have the angle of ascent wrong. I boost myself to my best flying speed: a bit over Mach 4, or about 3,000 miles per hour -- a little under a mile per second. That's a lot slower than a satellite. I really shouldn't be worrying so much about orbital mechanics, but that satellite has to weigh at least five hundred tons, and if it hits me at that velocity, I'll be turned into a fucking orbiting Omega ragu.

Then there's the heat. My clothes get burnt off, but the rest of my body is unaffected. I mentally form a new costume, only to watch the second Omega suit get incinerated in a matter of seconds. Fine, I'll fly in the buff until I leave the atmosphere. That shit never bothered me.

After a few minutes of courting heat rash, I'm out of the atmosphere. Shit, this feels weird. My lungs act like they're breathing, but I'm not -- I know it's colder than the fucking Arctic, but I don't feel it. The sun is incredibly bright. And there's no gravity. Yeah, I can fly, but this feels just plain weird. At one point, I overcompensate when I shift direction and find myself doing a wild, almost uncontrollable, spin. Now I know how they felt on Gemini-8. I almost lose my supper.

While I acclimate myself to zero-G, I take a few seconds to enjoy the scenery. Clouds, and ocean, and a sky blacker than shit. If I ever get tired of this view, please fucking kill me. The earth is spinning beneath me, and there are surprisingly few clouds. Is that Europe? Jesus fucking Christ, it is Europe! I've never been to Europe! What the fuck would that be like?

I think I'm at the right altitude. I scope the distance for orbiting objects, using the datalink from the NSA. It's a good thing that data on the Protectorate satellite isn't considered a national security issue; they've even got a fix on my position. Now that's fucking scary.

It's coming. I vector myself to try to match its direction, and slow down to Mach 2 (unfortunately, my "mojo" is pretty limited when it comes to performing tricks at my maximum velocity). I can see it coming in the distance. It's only a few seconds from my current position. Thank god I'm at the right altitude. Sarah, I hope you fucking appreciate this. If not, well, I suppose it's cool that I'm making history.

I visualize myself going mano-o-mano against Avatar, and find myself looking forward to that fight, more than anyone really should get off on that shit. Fuck, it's so immature of me; it's not like I haven't had a few superhero wannabees take a run at me, and they have the same exact same fucking reason, and I fucking hate that. I hate the whole goddamn gunslinger mentality.

But Avatar is the champion, and I'm too fucking competitive for my own good, so call me a fucking hypocrite. I really want to fight this guy. I don't care if he kicks my ass, I just want to see who's better. You cannot transcend yourself until you've challenged the best.

Shit! Where'd that fucking come from!?

The Monolith is almost here now. I draw a bead on it, and fire a telekinetic tether into the distance, extending it for several kilometers. It connects with the vessel. I immediately fly wide to clear the approaching juggernaut, and brace with my flight against the shock. The satellite flies by me at a speed I can't even begin to match.

Suddenly, my right arm, which was holding the tether, has been pulled out of its socket, and there's the unique feeling of ripping muscles and tendons. Everything goes red, I get incredibly dizzy, and I pass out.

I awaken about -- I dunno, thirty seconds? -- later. My line is still holding, and I'm now being dragged along at a speed that matches the satellite, about five hundred yards in its wake. But I'm still alive, still connected, and my body is healing itself. If I weren't so tough, I'd be sooo dead -- fuck, whose bright idea was this?

I give myself a few seconds to recover, concentrating on the torn tendons and ligaments, putting my arm back into its socket. Shit, that hurts.

After about a minute, I'm ready to proceed to stage two of the operation. I crawl up the tether. There's velocity, but no wind friction or pressure to fight against. I rappel up the tether effortlessly, and find myself confronted by hundreds of thousands of tons of alien metal. The satellite. There are no seals or obvious hatchways. I attempt to phase myself through the metal, and my hand just bounces off the hull.

"But that fucking trick always works!" my airless voice shouts. Goddamn fucking alien phase-proof metal!

If I try teleporting at this velocity, I'll probably bounce off the hull and go flying into space and lose it forever. I guess the only way to get into through this rock is if I bust my way inside. I can't hear through the vacuum of space, even with my ear against the hull of the ship. I guess I'll just soup my strength up to maximum, wind up for the granddaddy of all right crosses, and see if this thing is as unbreakable as the press says it is. Of course, nothing on Earth is full of more bullshit than the American press. Nothing.

But I've been noticed. I'm half expecting something over-the-top, like maybe an Ultra-Protector Grand Cannon, to come jutting out of the ship and fire at me, but instead, a door materializes out of fucking nowhere, and shafts of purple light come radiating out from within.

Purple. Ew! How artist once formerly and now currently known as fucking Prince can you get?

The corridors are perfectly smooth, despite the eerie light, it's a welcoming sight. A hatchway slams down behind me. Everything suddenly gets cold: it takes me a few seconds to realize that the oxygen that's suddenly saturating my lungs is cooling down my body now that it's shifted itself out of space survival mode.

I pass down a number of corridors, with rooms and sections sealed off with force-fields. Purple force-fields. It's not like they could keep me out, but do you have to live in a fucking disco? Still, this is a good way to make sure I get where I need to go as quickly as possible. I feel my body knit itself together as I walk. Good. If I'm heading into headbreaking territory, I can't afford to show a hint of weakness.

And then I step into the main hall. Avatar isn't here (fuck!) but the rest of the gang is seated at a big round table. There's Paragon, a guy very much like the Tin Man from The Wizard of Oz. Except instead of tin, he's covered in sub-microscopic machines called nanites. Trinity is next to him, a computer expert and martial artist who can duplicate herself (or is that triplicate herself?) into three versions of herself. More important, she's also gorgeous. Does she ever fill out that fatigue top and shorts!

I hear a growl, coming from a feral lady in the corner. That's Lioness, a shapely, highly acrobatic cat-woman with big claws. I smile at her, and glance at the others. At the center of the circle is Zodiac, a tall, skinny half-alien with zodiac symbols swathed across his albino-pale body -- he can warp reality in major ways, well beyond what I'm able to do with my mojo. And finally, in the corner opposite from Lioness, there's the Outsider, the oldest active superhero in the whole fucking world, a trenchcoat-clad vigilante and master detective, master of shadows. Or, as they say in the movies, the guy with the Big Fucking Guns.

They're all glowering at me, and that really pisses me off. After everything they've done to Sarah, after everything I've been through, I deserve fucking better from this high and mighty fucking assembly than a collective stare that tries to slice and dice me.

"May we help you?" asks Zodiac. His ridged brow is creased in disapproval.

"Not really," I sneer. The hall is intimidating, a high-tech cavern: Jack Kirby meets Frank Lloyd Wright. But I'd sooner be gang-raped by these clowns than show them any sign of trepidation. "I just wanted to share my opinion of you, and your decision not to induct Knock-out. It sucks, and so do you. And if the Gay Boy of Babylon were here, I'd tell him that too."

"I think you mean Babylonia," Paragon corrects. Man, does he give me the creeps: no visible pores, opaque white eyes, a cropped solid mass representing hair, and an extremely angular face spotted with faintly recognizable nanite swarms. "Avatar is the spirit of Babylonia."

"Holy dipshit, Professor Paragon!" I mock with a laugh. "If I weren't such an ugly American, I'd actually give a fuck about what you just said!" Fuck, am I cocky. "And if Avatar were here, he'd be showing a little less spirit, and a lot more unconsciousness." I snap, balling my right fist and jabbing it into the palm of my left hand.

The Outsider casually takes aim at me with his gun, and fires off a shot. Shit, I didn't even get a premonition! The bullet lodges itself in my shoulder; there's a chill that suddenly crawls up my left arm (shouldn't it be burning?) and it hurts like Hell. Fuck! He hurt me with a bullet! That shouldn't be fucking possible, not with the composition of my skin. "You cocksucker!" I shout.

The rest of the team looks at the vigilante with either an aghast expression, or a here-we-go- again look.

"Avatar ain't here," the Outsider says. He side-steps into a shadowed corner, allowing its darkness to consume him. And just like that, he creeps up behind me and whispers, "But we are."

It feels like someone's walking on my grave.

"You've got some balls," Lioness growls, the only other member of the Protectorate who looked like they were spoiling for a fight.

"Settle down. He's mine, children," the Outsider declares. But Lioness ignores his implicit order and jumps me. Zodiac sternly motions at the other members of the team to hold their ground. It's going to be two-on-one, for now.

Lioness tries to grapple me, while the Outsider draws another bead. I smile slightly, grab Lioness, and swerve her, using her as a human shield to block the incoming shot. Better her than me.

But Christ, the Outsider is fucking unbelievable. He suddenly shifts his position, aims his guns downward, and fires repeatedly into a shadow. The bullets disappear into the ground, and then I feel another chill as multiple bullet rounds pierce my back. Shit! He's using the shadows to fucking teleport his bullets! "You son of a fucking bitch!" I shout. I knew the vigilante could use the shadows, but not like this!

"You didn't think I haven't seen the ol' human shield trick a hundred times?" I can't see the Outsider's features behind his faceless mask, but I know he's fucking smiling at me. He's like a veteran pitcher chewing tobacco and pitching a beanball at a talented rookie. "Show me something new, shoe-boy."

I squeeze Lioness, who rakes my face ineffectually and growls. I fly upward, slamming her head into the ceiling, which makes the sound like a big, deep bell. Shit, that alien metal must be harder than ten feet of fucking concrete. I throw Lioness to the ground, and she doesn't land on her feet. She's out.

She's the first woman I've ever beaten up; it's a sick milestone. "She should've listened to you," I say to the Outsider.

"You think this is a joke?" the Outsider asks. "Laugh at this." Anticipating my dodge like I shouldn't even be trying, he casually shoots me again, this time in the leg. The shot numbs me for a second.

"Damn," he says. "Missed the crotch."

I close with the Outsider, looking to tackle him. He vanishes at the very last second into a shadow, and I find myself hurtling uncontrollably into a wall. There's another sound like a gong. Fuck, that wall is hard. I get to my feet, half-dazed, another shot rings out, and a bullet brushes against my ribs. Ow. I roll, pivot, and spot the Outsider vanishing into the shadows again.

"Who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of metahumans?" I quip, spinning around, looking for any sign of movement. The other team members just watch us. "When I get hold of you, old man, you're gonna be turned into the Inside-Outsider."

"News flash, you powder puff. I've heard that one too." The Outsider was obviously not impressed by my slurs on his butt-buddy Avatar. I leap in the direction of his voice, only to find myself tackling the bulkhead. Cunning little asshole used some sort of ventriloquist's trick. I turn around, and receive another bullet in the ribs. I finger the icy wound and my fingers come up nothing. What the fuck? What kind of bullets can puncture but not make you bleed?

"Enough of this shit...," I say, and then I concentrate and flood the room with light. There are no more shadows for this bastard to play in. Now I spot him in a corner, where he realizes what's happened. I close before he can fire again, grab his guns, and teleport them through the wall. To my surprise, the tactic works. He gives me a karate thrust to my wounded ribs that stings like a son of a bitch, but I grab him by the throat, and deliver three quick jabs to his face.

Crack!

Crack!

Crack!

He's wobbly: his eyes cross briefly, and it takes a concerted effort for him to concentrate. Somehow -- and I'm not sure how -- he escapes from my grasp, leaving me grasping only the scruff of his trenchcoat. He pulls something from his belt, a very powerful concentrated dose of tear gas, which he delivers directly in my face. I wince and howl. He then blocks my counterblow while landing a simultaneous knee to my balls. Fuck, this guy is good. I gasp for air, feint, and connect with a roundhouse. It takes the vigilante off his feet, and he hits against the side of the Protectorate Round Table and topples in front of me.

"Got you now, asshole," I say. Paragon makes a motion to stop the fight, but I ignore it. I grab the Outsider by his shirt cuff and deliver a finishing blow. The crack seems to echo for seconds. That's two down, three to go, if they're in the mood for a fight.

"Omega's more dangerous than I anticipated," Paragon snaps. I guess he's annoyed that I attacked an opponent when he was down. His arm morphs into a blaster cannon, but I instinctively sense the attack and dodge it.

"Paragon...," Zodiac says.

"I'lll deal with this intruder," Paragon declares. "This is a good opportunity to field test the defense protocols upgrade."

Great, time for fucking round two.

Cables start jutting out of the walls and hook into the machinery that's jutting out of Paragon's arms. Within seconds, the android transforms himself from a humanoid robot into a web of alien machinery, with himself as the spider in its center. The machines are generating a big-ass force-field, encasing the hero in a fucking impenetrable looking sheathe of energy.

Great, I'm not just fighting Paragon, I'm fighting Super-Paragon.

About twenty blaster cannons come jutting out of every wall, aiming in all directions. I dodge, but the android hoses pretty much the entire room, hitting me simultaneously with four blaster shots. Fuck! I'm knocked groggy, and suddenly about ten alien alloy tendrils grapple me and start to squeeze the life out of me.

"We seemed like child's play to you, didn't we, Omega?" Paragon says in a cold, inhuman metal voice that echoes everywhere. "We have saved this planet a dozen times, but as far as you are concerned, we are just another cheap fight, a source of entertainment...

"Ugh!" I moan, struggling against the tendrils.

Shit, has this guy lost it? Who knows how Paragon's fucking nanites are interacting with all the alien technological shit that's on this ship? Or is this just some supergenius plan by the android to freak me out and scare some respect into me? If so, it sure the fuck is working, not just for me, but for his teammates too. Trinity looks especially freaked.

"Knock-out...," I gasp.

"What about her, Omega?" Super-Paragon's voice asks.

"She has guts... talent...," I manage to blurt before I'm too choked to speak.

"All striving athletes have these traits, shoe-boy," the Outsider replies, getting to his feet. "That doesn't mean they all make the Olympics."

"Funny..." I've loosened the tendrils, and concentrate all my strength in an effort to break free. "I thought Mastodon was... an Olympic... caliber opponent."

"He is," Zodiac says. "Release him, Paragon."

"He has not been neutralized," Super-Paragon says. "When the base is assaulted, defense protocols require..."

"Overrule them," Zodiac says.

I don't have time to see if Super-Paragon's going to obey the order. I flex and squirm and scream; ignoring the red that's flashing in my eyes, I push myself with everything I've got. I practically shit myself, but after a very long second, I hear the cables make a satisfying snapping sounds, one after another, and about a second later, I'm completely free. I'd expect the team to be used to seeing feats of physical strength, given their association with Avatar and all the muscleheads they've fought, but even they seem to be impressed. Super-Paragon's metal face is emotionless, but his posture indicates surprise. Good.

I can't afford to hesitate. I charge with a single motion towards Paragon. He fires several taser lines into me and pulls the trigger, but, with my remaining strength, I transform myself into a solid beam of light so the high voltage can't hurt me, then I shoot through Paragon's force shield, rematerialize inside it, and grab him. Trinity gasps, and moves into a combat stance. Oddly enough, it's the Outsider who holds her back.

"Alright, C3P0," I say, throwing a hard right that connects with the android's face with a loud clang. "Time to fight your own battles."

"No one man can defeat the Protectorate," he says, transforming his arm into a blaster cannon and firing it at me. It barely misses me. "It is a statistical impossibility."

"News flash, genius," I reply. "I ain't attacking the Protectorate." I connect with another solid right. "It's just you and me."

This is a fight that I don't deserve to win -- Paragon ain't Avatar, but he's strong enough to hand me my head, and I've taken a real major pounding. But he seems distracted -- perhaps the machine-link trick drained the "nano-humanoid" -- and I'm really pissed. So it's a surprisingly fair fight.

"Paragon, stop!" Trinity shouts. Paragon shoots her a glance.

"He is an enemy, Trinity," Paragon responds. "Our enemy."

"I hear you're a supergenius," I snap, grabbing an arm and twisting it. "But all it takes to beat a supergenius is a very fast chicken."

There's no response. Paragon's arm spins, drops off, bounces on the floor and is promptly replaced by a stream of nanites that coalesce to form another big fucking blaster cannon. I grapple the new appendage and turn it aside to prevent him from shooting me, and head-butt him repeatedly into unconsciousness just as he's about to fire a fucking big cannon that's formed in his chest. Score another one for the new kid.

If only I didn't feel like complete shit.

"Who's next!" I shout, ready to collapse.

Trinity goes over to inspect the fallen Paragon, a look of complete horror on her face. This makes me feel even shittier: she's the one person in this room I don't want to hurt. "Stand down, Omega," Zodiac insists.

"I didn't start this!" I snarl.

"For God's sake, can't we just call this a draw!" Trinity snaps, still tending Paragon as he slowly regains consciousness.

I take several deep breaths. I'm not sure what I'm going to say next, but I turn to Zodiac and start ranting at him. "Knock-out deserves better than what you gave her. There's some serious issues in her life. She could really use the guidance of colleagues, and you're turning your back on her..."

"Obviously you care very much about Miss Steiner, and she is very privileged to have you as her friend," Zodiac declares, stepping to the front. Lioness has regained her footing, and so has Paragon. Zodiac waves the Protectorate members off, and in turn they step back, though from the look on Lioness's face, I think she'd rather eat shit. "But it is also obvious that you haven't contacted Knock-out in regards to her meeting with the Protectorate recruiters."

"So you aren't turning your back on her?" I ask.

"No," Zodiac says. "We are not."

I take a deep breath. I take a look at Trinity. "Goddammit, I overreacted," I admit. Shit, that was dumb, flying into fucking outer space and nearly slamming myself onto the surface of a fucking satellite for nothing. "Sorry," I add in a barely audible voice.

"We were at fault as well," Zodiac says, looking at the Outsider.

"Don't look at me." The Outsider shrugs. "We've got a responsibility to defend the base. It's in the damn team charter. Look it up."

"I am aware of what the charter says," Zodiac responds. His tone is emotionless, but his choice of words suggests that he's really annoyed.

"And it looked like Shoeshine here wanted to strut his stuff," the Outsider says. "So I obliged him. I can't help it if Paragon overreacted."

"I did not overreact," Paragon insists. Trinity is looking back and forth between the two of us with an odd expression. Is there something going down between those two? Don't tell me the metal fucker is jealous!

"So how'd I do?" I ask the Outsider.

"Do I look like a scorecard to you, kid?" The Outsider snaps back.

"He's very worthy for one so young." The Lioness half-smiles.

"No, Lioness," Zodiac says. "I think he should leave. No offense, Omega"

"None taken, Astrology Guy." I smile back. "By the way, these are nice digs. I'll have to get my own satellite one of these days. We can be neighbors."

"There goes the neighborhood," the Outsider mutters.

"This kind of real estate comes at a premium," Zodiac says. "And nobody enjoys paying it." I nod, not really understanding what he has to say. It must be an alien thing.

A door opens, an obvious signal for me to exit. I wave and walk away.

"I fear we have another Echelon," Zodiac says. I leave a lingering sense presence behind, so I can listen to their conversation. Echelon was a powerful hero of the early-1990s who joined the Protectorate, only to develop such a homicidal jealousy towards Avatar that he sold out the team (and the Earth as well) to some alien race that looks like a cross between a Utah-raptor and asparagus. Or at least that's what the comic books say. I heard Avatar trapped him in something called the Zero Prison; he hasn't been seen in five years.

"No, he's not a new Echelon," Paragon replies, to my surprise. "If he was, he'd have forced his way onto the team. He's something else."

"It's impolite to eavesdrop, punk," a voice whispers behind me.

I shudder, spin, and spot the dark avenger grinning in the shadows.

"Whatever," I say. "So you got something to say, or you just gonna fucking spit on me as I go flying off into space?"

"You've got a big mouth," the Outsider snaps. "But I like that, as long as you say something that's worth listening to once in awhile."

"It's been known to happen," I say. "By the way, where's the Sumerian musclehead? If I was going to get into a fight up here, I should have at least had a chance to get in some primo macho moments." The Outsider shakes his head. I scowl. "Let me guess, I'd be out of my league and I'm an idiot for wondering whether I'd have a prayer against him."

"You beat Brazos. You clobbered Sandstone. Trust me, you're worth taking seriously, even for Ava-dabba-dubba-tar," the Outsider admits. I break out into a fit of laughter. "Nah, I was just thinking the two of you have a lot in common." He shakes his heads. "Of course, other people's fights bore the hell out of me."

"Are you two close?" I ask.

"If you beat him up, I wouldn't care," the vigilante answers.

"Thanks."

"And if he beat you up, I wouldn't care either."

"I'll send you a fan club membership," I reply as snidely as possible.

"Fine," the Outsider says, and then he gets serious. "There was one thing I did want to tell you. I ain't impressed by muscles, or by a big mouth, or by a PR campaign, but I do like people who pay attention to the details. I'm impressed that you're actually trying to learn some detective skills. A lot of you kids could care less. So maybe there's hope for you."

"I'm touched, Outhouser." I smirk.

"Don't push it," the vigilante warns me.

"Okay," I say, remembering Michael's old advice about not offending my colleagues. Fuck, did I ever ignore that today! "This is probably the wrong day to tell me that. Some days, this is the shittiest job in the entire world."

"You're telling me that?" the Outsider says.

"I broke up a kiddie porn ring today," I admit. "Ten year old boy being abused by his own dad. When I tried to comfort the kid, all he did was ask me if I wanted him to 'drop trou.'" The Outsider starts to laugh. "Fuck you, asshole!" I yell back at him.

"I ain't laughing about that, shoe-boy," the Outsider says. "It sounds like you've been 'baptized.' Well, I've got news for you -- this is just the tip of the iceberg. It's too bad you're hurting, but it gets a lot worse, so suck it up and deal with it."

"Thanks old man," I spit.

"You're welcome," the vigilante responds. "By the way, did you kill him?"

"What? The pornographer?" I wonder aloud. "I wanted to, but I came to my senses before I tried."

"Pity," the Outsider says. "With your powers, I'd track him down, go invisible, grab him when he's alone, dig a tunnel several miles deep, leave him down there, and cover it up. No one would ever know."

"Thanks for the advice, old-timer," I say. "But I didn't put on the fucking tights so I could murder people and pretend to look clean."

"You are going to kill, you know," the Outsider promises. "One day."

"With my power, that's always a strong possibility. But I ain't gonna put it on my fucking daily planner," I say. "Can you respect that?"

"No," the Outsider says. "But I don't have to."

"Fine," I say. "Since we're now pretending to be buds, can I ask you for a small favor to compensate for all freaky bullets you shot me with?"

"Probably not, but you can ask," the Outsider says.

"I just need someone to get a message to Avatar," I ask. "I need to see him. And not just so I can kick his ass, although that'd be cool too. There's shit that I need to discuss with him. Mystical, godly shit."

"Fine. I'll tell him the next time I see him."

"I owe you a favor."

"No," the Outsider contradicts me. "You don't. And you don't want to owe me. Trust me on that."

Goddamn fucking superheroes. I hate them all.

I can't land right away, unless I want to touch down somewhere in Turkey. I can already tell I don't like flying in space for any real length of time -- the view is incredible, but the way my body's adjusting to the cold and the radiation is really uncomfortable. My sinuses (both nasal and ear canals) are incredibly stuffed, my throat and my tongue are so dry it feels like they're shriveling up, and even my anus has shrunk, like a killer case of constipation. One wrong head turn, and the sun fucking blinds me. Move my body just a fraction of an inch in the wrong direction, and I go into a spin.

But it is gorgeous up here. A wash of white and blue on that magnificent globe beneath me, and stars of all colors set in a beautiful field of blackness. I wonder if I could push myself faster up here?

I head around the globe at Mach 4, watching the world revolve under my feet. I think I'm gauging the altitude right. I'm going for a slow, controlled reentry, straight down so I don't bounce off the atmosphere, somewhere just off the West Coast of California.

So I didn't get the big fight with Avatar. I did help Sarah -- I think I helped Sarah -- and while the Protectorate may or may not hate my guts, I think they respect me, enough that we can probably work together in the future when the chips are down. And I got to fly in space.

All things considered, this should have been a great day. It's too bad this fucking rose has such goddamn huge thorns.

And I'm really worried about John.
 

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