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. Michelle Jude,the local Nike marketing head and enemy of Michael, has been Omega's implacable enemy; she's made multiple attempts to sabotage his career, including feeding damaging information to MNN reporter Alan Dyment.

Despite this, Tommy and the young Canadian hero John Wolfe (better known as Permafrost) 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 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. Unfortunately, he's also attracted the notice of other supervillains, who are about to make his life more interesting.
 
 

Fuck, I'm exhausted. Going into space (and going head-to-head against the Protectorate) is about as grueling a workout as I've ever given my powers, except for time I fought Sandstone. I don't get tired in my superhuman form, at least not in the same way as I do when I'm normal, but even I've got my limits. It's pretty late in the morning by the time I finally get back home, and fuck, am I glad to be home, even if I haven't repaired all the damage yet.

I have an urge to check in on John, and so I head directly to the nearest phone. I don't carry a cell phone -- there are too many people whose voice I don't want to hear. I have about twelve messages; when I play the first five, and they're all from the Philadelphia PD asking me to see them as soon as possible. I almost freak out, but I stagger to the computer and plot a cross-country course that will get me to Philly as quickly as possible.

With a sonic boom, I embark on yet another long cross-country trek. My course is a pretty easy one, even at night; Denver to Topeka and then due east.

So I head out. It's about an hour's flight at top speed to Philadelphia, and adding three hours for the time zones, I hit the city of Brotherly Love around dawn. Philadelphia's a dirty city; it looks a lot like some of the more rundown parts of Los Angeles, only older. Unlike San Francisco, I can't see much in the way of compensating charms; just urban sprawl. But undoubtedly my opinion is colored by the current crisis, and I don't have time to play tourist and look for the more upscale areas and get a second opinion. It takes me about ten minutes of searching and high-speed flights before I locate the main Police HQ.

"Where's Permafrost?" I say, passing through a metal detector (they're everywhere in these fuckig buildings) and enter the main office.

The whole place stops and looks at me. There are a lot of uneasy glares and penetrating stares. Fuck them.

"I'll page Detective Whitaker," the lady at the front desk tells me.

Everyone else is oddly silent. I start listening around the room, and through the walls. It doesn't take me long to find the most interesting conversation in the building.

"Alright men, we'll take him in here," a bass voice says. I can hear the distinctive noise of energy weapon power tests; at least a dozen weapons are tested within a five-second interval. They've got a squad of men in power armor in there! "Let's do it," he adds.

At this point Detective Whitaker comes out of the room. African-American in his late 30s with salt and pepper hair, and all smiles. "Mr. Champion, a pleasure to meet such a fine hero as yourself."

"Is that why you've invited all the fucking Draughtsmen to join us?" I snap, referring to a group of government agents that uses powersuits.

"Codeblack!" Whitaker shouts into a radio, and suddenly a whole fucking flock of men in power armor storm out of the adjacent office and surround me, weapons drawn. I'm tempted to moon them.

"Wht the fuck is this?" I wince.

"I have several questions to ask you, Mr. Champion," Whitaker responds.

"And you need the whole power-armor Gestapo to hold your hand while you ask them?" I say. "Shit."

"We know your powers and your temper," Whitaker says. "I don't intend to take chances."

"I don't answer questions at gunpoint," I say. "You can fucking arrest me and let me call my lawyer, or you can lower the guns. Your choice."

It occurs to me that one of the Black Priest's Black Mass shitheads is a shapechanger, a fucker who calls himself Doppleganger. He probably fucking impersonated me! That'd explain a lot about why the cops were being such shitheads -- I've been fucking framed! But why in Philadelphia -- wouldn't it be easier for the Priest to strike at me in Los Angeles? And where the fuck is John?

"We just want to ask you about Howard Higgins," Whitaker says.

"The guy from My Fair Lady?" I wonder aloud. No, that was Henry Higgins, wasn't it? "Who the fuck is Howard Higgins?"

"He was the man who exposed your involvement at the Jaguar Grill. He was found dead in a hotel room, crushed by someone with superhuman strength. And he was overheard by people outside the room screaming your name, begging you not to hurt him at what coroners indicate was the time of his death."

"Why hasn't the LAPD talked to me about this?" I ask.

"It would save you a lot of trouble if you simply confessed," Whitaker says.

My mouth opens wide. Did he just say what I think he said? "Oh, this is fucking stupid," I snap. "If I wanted to murder fucking someone, there's no fucking way I'd let them get overheard screaming my name."

"People get careless."

"Who the fuck taught you procedures, detective?" I snap. "The whole Jaguar Grill incident is ancient history, with no fucking long-term impact on my career. And unless Howard Higgins was actually a Nike marketing rep named Michelle Jude in drag, or a private detective hired by Ms. Jude to track down my actions, there is no way that he could be the one who 'exposed' me. I know who fed Alan Dyment that story, and it wasn't Howard Higgins."

"Then you'll have no problem submitting to a polygraph test," Whitaker insists.

"Has anyone ever taught you about legwork?" I can't fucking believe what I'm hearing. "Have you ascertained Higgins' whereabouts on the night of the incident at the Jaguar Grill? Have you spoken to Alan Dyment to verify that Higgins was involved in the story? Did witnesses actually see me in the hotel? Did you find my fingerprints or any other forensic evidence of my presence? Even if Higgins did expose my activities at the Jaguar Grill, what was his motive? Have you checked with the LAPD to see if I was spotted in Los Angeles at the time of Higgins' murder?"

Well, one thing's for sure, it's probably not the Priest. He wouldn't even be remotely this sloppy. If this idiot wasn't gunning for national publicity, this conversation wouldn't even be taking place.

"I understand you have the power to warp time and space." The detective talks in a slow drawl. "That means any alibi you provide is going to be suspect. That also means that you could go back in time tomorrow and remove all evidence from the scene at the moment you committed the crime. That would explain the lack of forensic evidence."

I cannot believe the bullshit I'm hearing. If I went back in fucking time, then why didn't I prevent the idiot from crying out my name? I just start laughing. "This is fucking fantastic." I smile. "You know, I've been taking it on the chin with a lot of stupid fucking lawsuits.

"Your point?" Whitaker asks.

"Now I finally get to bring my own lawsuit and give some of this shit back to someone!"

"You're just making it harder on yourself."

I begin to suspect the guy's being mind controlled -- no one could be this dumb without help. "Did somebody lace your Kool-aid with mercury when you were a kid?" I ask him. "Oh fuck that. Where's Permafrost?"

"Kidnapped by two metahumans," Whitaker says. I turn as ashen as my frostface friend. "You and he are rivals, and then he gets kidnapped in the same city where Higgins was murdered. It sounds like you have accomplices."

"Oh, fuck you!" I get to my feet, seeing red. The Draughtsmen know my intention; they train their weapons on me and fire. I bring up a deflection field and most of the shots fall harmlessly into the ground. Most, but not all. There are a lot of fuckers, and I can't counter all of them. A couple of ass-blasters connect, and I feel static fucking plasma charges bite into my back. It's painful, but I manage to ignore them and grab Whitaker by the shirt cuff. They daren't shoot me now.

"Listen, you little shithead, and listen good!" I shout in the asshole's face at maximum nasty. Even the hardened agents recoil. "John Wolfe is one of my best friends in the entire fucking world, and if anything happens to him because you fucking can't separate reality from a couple of goddamn commercials, I will find a way to make sure your career is as dead as your fucking brain! Now tell me as much about his assailants as you know!"

"We don't know much," Whitaker says.

"What a fucking surprise," I say, letting him go.

The pugs move around for another shot. I give the lead agent a glance. "Put down the weapons. I'm not going to hurt this little shit. I ain't going to be able to find John by myself, and until the FBI show up, you're all I've fucking got."

"I'm afraid we're going to have to hold you here," Whitaker says.

"On what charge?" I ask.

"You attacked me."

"You fired first," I say. "Try again."

"Fine," Whitaker says. "Your tights bulge at the crotch. They're breaking local obscenity laws." I look down, an embarrassing, involuntary action. Whitaker smiles and motions at the power-armor brigade. "Lock him up."

I shrug, concentrate, and suddenly a human figure appears beside me. It's another of my automatons. They can't fucking arrest that! I make him look like Michael. "Call Nike," I tell the automaton. He nods, and walks away. Nobody in the room has the balls to try and stop him. I smile and stretch. One of the goons almost fires on me, the same nervy bastard who fired the first shot earlier.

I ought to break his trigger finger, but it's not nice to emasculate people.

"I've never been to prison before," I say. It's a lie -- I've been locked up a few times by Sheriff Goetz (Kenny's dad), mostly when Buck and I blew up some shit and Buck was too stupid to run. But those records are sealed. And Seward County lock-up isn't downtown Philadelphia.

"You'd better get used to it," Whitaker responds. Asshole. Dumb asshole too.

I share a cell with three other guys, one Caucasian, one Latino, and one African-American. No one bothers me. I get a lot of stares, but the minute anyone looks like they'll bother me, one look encourages them to shut their fucking holes and keep their distance.

I listen around. There's a lot of talk about me being in jail, and a lot about Whitaker strutting like a peacock thinking that he's already gotten a conviction. Nobody's talking about John, which is the only thing I'm really worried about. Fuck them!

A few hours later, a deputy rattles the cage and opens it. "Champion."

"Thanks," I say. "Just between the two of us, is Whitaker always such an asshole?"

"We'll ask you to stay in town for awhile," the deputy's response is pretty curt. "We haven't finished asking questions." Of course, he deliberately ignores my question.

I strut out of lock-up, and am escorted by several power-armor boys to the front desk. I expecting to be greeted by a faceless lawyer, one of Nike's worldwide network of business drones. Instead, I come face-to-face with the last person I expected to see.

"Michelle?" I blurt out in surprise.

It's Michelle Jude, the person who hates me more than anyone else on earth. She doesn't even have that sour look that's glued to her face when she has to deal with me. How did Frigia get here so fast?

"I was in New York City on business, and...," Frigia says.

"Screw that. Nobody has said a thing to me about John, aside from some unspecified troubles and something about a kidnapping. Is he okay?"

"No. He was kidnapped last night at a fashion show by a large metahuman with a chainsaw who appears to go by the name 'Hack,' and a second metahuman woman in a tight leather costume," Michelle informs me. "Permafrost hasn't been seen since."

"Fucking fashion show," I say. "Why the fuck did Nike want us attending that bullshit in the first place? And what about a ransom?"

"There's been no ransom, to my knowledge. Nike hasn't received any demands. Neither has his family or the Canadian government."

"I'm gonna need a full briefing on the perps' powers," I say with a sigh worthy of Al Gore.

"We're assembling a dossier..." That's the one thing I'll give Frigia; she may be a vicious little control freak, but she's an efficient vicious little control freak."

As we head out of the police headquarters, we're surrounded by a cordon of media. "Omega has no comment!" Michelle says repeatedly. The mob gets tighter.

"Is it true Mr. Champion confessed to the murder of Howard Higgins?" It's Alan Dyment, the MNN guy who reported on the Jaguar Grill. What the fuck is he doing here?

"No comment!" Michelle shouts, shocked that someone who was her confidante has suddenly turned up here.

"Hey Omega, is it true that Howard Higgins begged you for mercy?" Dyment's question gets a lot of looks, both from us, and the rest of the press.

"No comment," Michelle replies, intensely.

"Where were you last night, Mr. Champion, at the moment Permafrost was kidnapped?" the asshole shouts at me, trying to goad me.

"Having tea on the Protectorate satellite," I finally say. The reporter scowls. Other journalists, seeing me actually answer a question, jump in front of Dyment and start shouting their own questions, drowning out the reporter's innuendo.

"I understand the Canadian government has contacted the State Department to express their concerns...," another reporter says.

I finally hold up my hands and stop everyone in their tracks.

"Time out guys," I say. "I need your help for something important. I need to get a message out to the people who kidnapped Permafrost." I look directly at one of the cameras, then continue. "I don't know what your game is, but if you've got any...," I pause, as I was about to say "fucking," and force myself to swallow the word, "...humanity, you'll let him go free, now. We're talking about a man who helped thousands of pensioners keep their homes warm after last year's ice storm knocked out power in three states and two provinces. He saved dozens of firefighters and thousands of hectares during last year's fire season. He's the best of us. He doesn't deserve this. Let him go, now, unharmed."

That's the speech. Once I've delivered it, the crowd pounces on me again, and Dyment's the first one to raise his voice. The asshole asks me how I entered Howard Higgins' hotel room. That's fucking enough. I pick up Michelle and fly her over the assembled media to Nike's waiting limousine.

"I'll bet you always expected me to give you a rise." I smirk.

"Go to Hell...," she replies, acting like Frigia for the first time since we've talked. Good.

I get inside the limousine and wave good-bye to the assembled press. "They thought you were grandstanding, you know," Michelle notes.

"About John?"

"They think you're milking this to look good." The driver starts to take off.

"They're full of shit," I say. "I don't care what they fucking think of me. Even the mighty fucking Alan Dyment."

"If you'd just hold back...," Frigia says.

"I ain't nearly as obnoxious as I was in my first week as Omega," I say. Michelle winces. "But if I don't act like who I really am -- that's no good either. People can sense a poseur coming from a thousand press conferences away."

"We have spin doctors for a reason, Omega." Michelle tries a rare attempt at reasoning with me.

"And I fucking hate them. But this situation isn't about me, it's about John. We've got to find him before they kill him."

"What if they kill him?" Michelle asks.

"Then I'll die too. Or I'll go to prison. Because if John's dead, I won't rest until those two burn in fucking Hell." I stare at Michelle, who's silent. "Where's the argument?"

"What good would that do?" Michelle stews. I don't say anything. "We don't know that he's dead," she adds.

"Right now, we don't know much about these two at all, how they operate, how they think, what powers they have." I spit. "It's driving me fucking nuts!"

"Do you think these two could be responsible for the sorority murders?" Michelle says, part question, part suggestion.

"I don't think it's a coincidence. Let's assume that's true," I say. "And the fact they chose sorority sisters is pretty interesting. It sounds like someone may have a 'Janis Ian' complex."

"The girl in leather was described as very attractive," Michelle provides a counterargument.

"The appearance could have come with the powers," I say. "I know, I know, it's pointless speculation, we have no grounds..."

"Not entirely," Michelle adds. "Metahumans often receive an appearance enhancement when they acquire their powers. She could have been the object of scorn and ridicule before becoming superhuman. And the big guy could also be a victim of rejection."

"Fucking right. He's over seven feet tall and wears a hockey mask on his face," I reply. "If I were a chick, I'd fucking reject him too. Unless he has a really fucking huge dick, of course."

"He adopted the horror movie motif to empower himself," Michelle concludes, ignoring my use of the words "chick" and "dick." They don't like those "ick" words.

"'Empower,'" I snort. "I fucking hate that word. Next thing you'll be saying is that he hasn't come to terms with his 'inner child,'" I scoff.

"Hate the word all you want," Michelle responds. "The pattern fits."

"A pair of fucking social lepers who suddenly get superpowers and start lashing out at the people who hurt them. Like the Columbine duo with powers instead of bombs and guns," I speculate.

"They think their pain justifies anything," Michelle says. There's something in her tone that suggests she empathizes with their conclusion. Not that I give a fuck.

"Why couldn't they have chosen somebody else to spread their fucking leprosy? And where does this Higgins guy fit into this?"

"From what little we've heard about him, he was a major scumbag. Real estate magnate, playboy, party boy, a first class user," Michelle answers.

"And the best they could come up with for this asshole is framing me for the Jaguar Grill?" I shake my head.

"They did kidnap Mr. Wolfe," Frigia reminds me.

"At a fashion show." My muse begins kicking me in the ass. "Like the sorority girls, a clique of young, beautiful people. Privileged. Maybe Slash has some serious hang-ups about people who aren't as repressed as she used to be."

"Slash?"

"He's Hack, so leather lass has gotta be 'Slash,'" I say. "It's the Law of Motifs." I pause to think. "But why me? I ain't in the Philadelphia area. I ain't done anything to them. There's no way that the fucking Jaguar Grill story would hold up under the slightest bit of scrutiny. It makes no sense that they'd take a run at me."

"Hate," Michelle says. She says the word with a lot of intensity. "You're a role-model for handsome, spoiled, privileged, obnoxious brats. And some people really, really hate those people."

"Spoiled? Fucking right." Sarcasm is welling in my throat; I don't want to recognize any truth whatsoever in what Michelle is saying. "I fucking broke my back on the farm doing four hours a day of chores, plus school, and I'm supposed to be spoiled? My dad's a wheat farmer, and I'm supposed to be privileged? Goddamn idiots."

"Superpowers are a privilege," Michelle counters.

"And hers would be too," I note. Maybe I'm not interested in facing the truth. Because, quite frankly, the truth is (if Michelle is right) that at least two homicidal assholes with issues have latched onto me as a symbol for everything that's fucking wrong in their lives, and have decided to make my life into a living hell. And they've done it in the most cowardly way possible, through my friends.

"You never know," Michelle says in a whisper.

There's a long pause. "So why are you with me?" I ask. "I'd expect you to be first in line for the prosecutor and calling for the death penalty."

"Normally, I would," Michelle answers. "But what happened to Permafrost is much more important. Not only do we value Mr. Wolfe as an employee, his defeat is a serious blow to our corporate image. Nike stands for winners."

Now that's Frigia talking.

"Not to mention the fact I didn't even know Howard Higgins, let alone kill him," I add.

"There's no corroborating evidence so far. Nike will support you until such evidence materializes," Michelle states.

"I'm so reassured by your confidence." I spit.

"You're still a loose cannon and a disgrace," Michelle says, and then we arrive at the hotel. At least this part of Philadelphia doesn't look so much like urban decay. Frigia's booked at the Bellvue Hyatt, not far from the airport. The moment we get out, a courier comes over to her and hands her several packages.

"Videotapes of the fashion show," Michelle says. "Now we can see what we're dealing with."

"We should see about getting copies of these to the Canadian Shield," I suggest. Michelle nods.

"What about Knock-out?" she asks. I shake my head.

"If we're right about the way they think, a natural beauty like Sarah would be a prime target for them," I argue. "I don't want to introduce her into the equation and see them transfer their fixation to her, at least not until I'm sure we can put them away."

"You're Omega. You're invincible. How can you be unsure?" Frigia mocks.

"Only my ego's invulnerable. My body's just semi-invulnerable. On the other hand, there aren't many tag teams that can score a pinfall on The John. If they beat him, I have to take them seriously. But just how seriously depends on what's on the footage."

We make our way to Frigia's hotel room, a place that looks like virtually every hotel room I've ever seen. Some people consider corporations to be the ultimate in evil. They aren't. Corporations are the ultimate in neurosis; they're little insecure children who have been so emotionally whipped by their mothers that anything that's out of place or messy can trigger a breakdown. That's why hotel rooms are as charmless and cookie-cutters as a Starbuck's -- corporate cowardice. The only thing that makes them remotely tolerable is when you can get past the corporate façade of those who run them and getting to know them as people.

Frigia removes a videotape from a package, and sticks it into a waiting video player. At the end of the program, some guy in a hockey mask whose body was crafted, not by Soloflex but by 'Roids 'R Us, breaks through the bottom of the stage. That's the signal for chaos to break out everywhere.

During the middle of the fight, John appears disoriented. Is that some sort of psionic effect? John is decent against mental attacks, but he's not as good as me. He also looks like he's getting tired a lot sooner than usual; normally Permafrost's stamina is strong enough to endure an Arctic winter (or worse, a four hour corporate meeting). Someone's doing some fancy mojo on him.

John finally manages to put Hack down, only to be jumped by a woman who takes off her clothes to reveal a leather S&M ensemble.

"She's magic," I say, instinctively.

"I cannot believe this!" Michelle snarls. "This woman just kidnapped one of your closest friends, and all you can do is indulge your hormones!"

"That's not what I mean," I say, sensing things beyond the physical in the footage. Fuck! "She's magical. She's touched by demons. She might even be a demon herself. And her physical appearance may look like a million bucks, but what I'm sensing is the ugliest, most hideous woman alive. A spiritual Medusa."

Shit, where'd that come from? I listen to myself as I'm speaking, and once again, I don't fucking recognize the person who's talking. Fuck, I really hate that.

"Just think, you're not even our target. You are just the bait, little man," Slash says as she's kicking the shit out of an exhausted John. It's pretty fucking obvious that she's really, really strong, and her kicks move like lightning. She sticks a stiletto heel into John's mid-section and grins as she grinds it in.

"Bitch," Michelle says. And that's coming from an expert on the subject.

Hack recovers, and the two of them pretty much massacre poor Permafrost. I can barely bring myself to watch. Hack takes the fucking mother of all chainsaws and opens some massive wounds on my friend. Using that thing on a normal man would transform him into instant blood sausage, and even John, whose ice armor is nearly as tough as my skin, can't handle this monster's Evil Dead 20 treatment. That's one fucking nasty weapon.

"This... wasn't supposed to... end this way...," John says as he slumps to the ground. Slash smiles and poses with her trophy.

"Fuck!" I say, putting my fist through the television. I turn to Michelle with an expression on my face that I don't even want to begin to describe.

"Exactly," Michelle agrees with me.

"I can't let anger make me lose this fight before it's even begun," I say. "What they're lacking in brains (or more likely, experience) with that totally lame frame job, they more than make up in sheer brawn. They took out John pretty easily. I can defend myself against the fatigue and the mental influence, but two people of that power level beating on me... I can't guarantee victory." Fuck, do I ever hate admitting that I might not be invincible. Of course, the adrenaline's not flowing right now -- when that happens, I'd never admit that, not even to myself.

"What about back-up? I understand at least one other superhero's in town...," Frigia says. I shake my head.

"I can't guarantee they'll be stupid enough to stick around." I puff. "If this footage is any indication, they get their jollies from having the unfair advantage."

There's a long pause. I reassemble the television, and Michelle rewinds the footage and watches it again. I can't stand to see it again, at least not right now. "They said he was the bait," Frigia notes. I nod.

"Noticed that," I say.

"They're idiots," Frigia says. "Of all the people on earth to get fixated on..."

"Killing me could probably give them a ticket to any supervillain team on the planet," I speculate. "And you're one to complain about other people being fixated on me." I smile.

"Don't be ridiculous," Frigia replies. "You and Mr. Carleton are just minor annoyances."

"Hardly. What's with you and Michael, anyway?" I ask.

"What do you mean?" Michelle's eyes narrow.

"I've noticed a lot of intensity between the two of you," I say. "There's got to be a backstory."

"What business is that of yours?" Michelle says with a sneer. "Hasn't your friend told you everything? I'll bet you've had a good laugh over it."

"Michael's not one to divulge his secrets," I respond. "He doesn't laugh about personal shit. He puts it in a strongbox and throws away the key."

"At least that much hasn't changed," Michelle says. I cock an eyebrow.

"What happened?" I ask. I sit down on the bed and look as sympathetic as I can. And that's fucking sympathetic.

Michelle fights against my charisma and some memories that must truly suck. But it's a losing battle. "I caught Michael having sex with Diane Reims. She was the second superhero that Nike brought on board last year, code-name Cygnet."

"The one who committed suicide by walking into the reactor?"

"Yes."

"If she was a consenting adult, what business was it of yours?" I ask.

"Michael and I were engaged."

"Shit!" I exclaim. I never fucking guessed at this. Not even remotely.

Hell hath no fury like a bitch who catches her man cheating on her.

Michelle is silent. "That is a pretty shitty way to end a relationship," I say, remembering catching Rachel and Kenny doing pretty much the same thing to me.

"It didn't end. I forgave him. Until I caught him in bed with the next Nike hero."

"That Matt guy? Pumice?" I say. "Holy shit." I pause for a minute. "Are you sure they were actually having sex?" I remember the time dad caught Kenny and me wrestling in the buff... fuck, that was embarrassing, but it was also fucking funny, in retrospect, especially when dad tried to have a 'talk' with me about it afterwards.

"I'm sure," Michelle says, her voice unwavering.

"Now I'm insulted," I say, half-mocking. "I'm way better looking than that Matt guy, and Michael's never put the moves on me."

"I assumed that he had."

"Nope." I don't know if Michelle believes me. "Maybe Pumice had some sort of power," I wonder. "Super rape or something."

"That's disgusting!"

"Right now we're dealing with stiletto-heel-bitch and chainsaw-boy. Disgusting comes with the fucking territory," I reply.

At this point, the hotel room phone rings. I lunge for it, only to find it's in Michelle's hand. Shit, she's fast.

"Jude here," Michelle says. "What the Hell do you want?"

"I need to speak to the superbrat." My superhuman hearing can pick up the voice on the other end as easy as if I was holding it against my ear. I recognize the voice as Alan Dyment's. MNN's attack dog wants to bite my in my fucking hotel room.

"You worked for me, remember?" Michelle snaps.

"That was then, this is now," Dyment responds.

"Well, now you can go to Hell," Michelle says. She's about to hang up the phone, but I project my voice into the line.

"What do you want?" I say.

"Ah, if it isn't the killer."

"I ain't a John Woo movie. What do you want?" I reply.

"Well, kid, I found out your secret," he says.

"Shit!" I exclaim. "Okay, Dyment, you got me. I'm... I'm... I'm left-handed. I know it's a terrible burden being a southpaw, and it's somewhat gauche, and maybe even a little sinister..."

"Laugh all you want, but what I know is worse than that. Enough to get you thrown off Nike's 'good little boy' list, and probably enough to put you in Purgatory Prime." He pauses. "I... I understand those Alaskan superprisons are real cold."

"That's what they say," I respond, trading glances with Michelle. "Of course how do I know you have this information?"

There's another pause. "You don't honestly expect me to give a straight answer!" the reporter exclaims. "I give you even a hint, and you'll use your powers and make it disappear, and probably me with it."

"I leave that sort of shit to the bad guys. Like Hack and Slash!" I laugh. "Man, are they ever idiots! Especially that Hack dude, he looks like a complete dork. Hockey mask villains are such an '80s motif; who's next, the Boy George villain? How would you like to rant about him on your next exposé?"

Michelle gives me a "cut" signal, and she's absolutely right, I'm being way too cute, and telegraphing the fact that I'm pretty fucking positive that H&S are holding a chainsaw to Dyment's throat during this whole conversation. Any further displays of "cute" could spook them, and that'd put John's life at risk. I continue with a different tactic.

"If you want a scoop, how about this? I've seen the footage of what those two maniacs did to Permafrost, and they don't impress me. Permafrost may be a weak little Canuck, but Omega is the fucking king of the fucking superheroes! When I get my hands on them, it'll make what I did to the Chain look like a fucking love tap."

Now that's better -- let's make them think I'm an obnoxious, overconfident boor who'll stumble into their trap like a drunken rabbit. They obviously don't have a high opinion of me, so I can play it to my advantage. Frankly, in a fight, I don't have many fucking advantages over these two. And I want Dyment on the line as long as possible; the longer he talks, the more likely it is that something important will slip out.

"I want $50,000. Tonight. Nine o'clock. There's an alley just off Chestnut Street, downtown."

"You want fifty thousand in cash? Give me a fucking break!" I say. "Do you know how long it takes to get that sort of money together? You haven't even told me what the fuck this so-called secret is!"

"You know your hands aren't clean, Omega." Dyment pauses again before speaking. "$50,000, nine o'clock."

There's a long silence; to my surprise, I'm the one who breaks. "Look, I'll pay you ten times that amount if you tell me where Permafrost is. Please, I need to know. I'm begging you..."

Shit! That was fucking dumb. I fell out of the role. There's a long pause, and I hear the man on the other end of the phone give a nervous swallow. "Don't try to get on my good side by pretending to care about your colleague." Dyment finally says. "We've known for a long time that you hate working with him. Don't give me this bullshit. Just be there, with the money. Rob a bank, put on a different costume and rob an armored car, or something: just get the money."

"Fine. I'll be there," I say. "Nine o'clock. Hundred dollar bills."

I put down the phone. "That doesn't make sense," Michelle notes. "Alan Dyment is no blackmailer. He's a reasonably respected journalist."

"He's a poor son of a bitch!" I say. "He may or may not be a respectable journalist, and he may or may not be an asshole, but whatever he is, he doesn't deserve to die because of this shit."

"You think Hack and Slash will kill him?" Michelle asks.

"He's probably dead right now," I say. "I'll give H&S one thing -- they're learning. Dyment is a much more effective target for a frame than Higgins; not to mention he provides a connection to the Jaguar Grill exposé that makes the Higgins accusation more credible. They're not as dumb as I thought."

"I wonder how they got him to Philadelphia?" Michelle ponders.

"He was probably hunting down the Permafrost story," I say. "And man, did he go down the wrong trail!"

"So you're going to be there," Michelle says. It's more a statement than a question.

"It's my only realistic shot to get John back," I reply. "And yeah, I know it's a trap." I pick up the phone. "Hello, this is room 718. I need to call a limousine as soon as possible. And a taxicab."

"What are you doing?"

"If they're kidnapping my enemies and killing them to smear my rep, you'd be at the top of the list. I've got to get you out of here, now."

"Nobody knows that I hate your guts!" Michelle protests.

"Dyment does," I reply. "You're leaving, now, no argument. Take the cab to New York City, and fly back to Los Angeles. The limo is a diversion, though I hate to put any poor son of a bitch at risk."

"I am not going anywhere!" Michelle says.

"You're getting out of here even if I have to phone Michael and bring him here so he can drag your fat ass back to Los Angeles."

"There is no way in Hell I'm letting him touch me!" Michelle snaps. "And my ass isn't fat!"

"Maybe not, but your head sure is," I say. "They're killers. They don't like glamorous women. They don't like me, and they kill people who hate me, just to make me look worse than I goddamn am. First, you market glamorous women. You're their pimp. That's strike one."

"I am not a pimp!" Michelle insists.

"Second, you're associated with me. That's strike two. Third, you hate my guts to the point where you've tried to sabotage my career, and you were the person who fed Dyment all the information on the exposé. Strike three. You couldn't be a bigger fucking target for these people if you tried!"

"I have never backed down from a fight in my life, and this isn't going to be the first time!" Michelle says. "I'm staying."

"You'd rather be dead than run away from certain death?" I mock. "Jesus fucking Christ, you're an even fucking bigger nutcase than I am!" I grab the phone and start dialing.

"Don't you dare call Michael!" Michelle objects.

"I'm not," I say. "I'm calling someone who's a little more useful." I pause while the connection's made. "Hello, connect me with Detective Hawkins. Okay, let me leave a message on his answering machine." I pause. "Hi, this is Omega. Bad shit is happening in Philly. A pair of psychopaths has kidnapped Permafrost and they're trying to frame me. It's a pretty obvious attempt to goad me into a trap. I think they've killed Alan Dyment. I just want to inform you about what's going down. Bye."

"I am not going," Michelle insists again when I put down the phone.

"What the fuck am I going to do to get through to you?" I snap at Michelle. "These two obviously have huge control issues. Otherwise they wouldn't have gone to such lengths to get me into a situation where they control the battlefield. Your presence here offers an additional lever for them. If I'm going to get Permafrost back, the one thing I have to do is to take away their sense of control. And you're getting in the way of that."

"What would it take for you to keep me here?" Michelle asks.

"I dunno. Having sex with me?" I say, flippantly.

"What?" Michelle says.

"You ask me what you could do that would make me want to keep you here. That's the only thing I can think of."

"You're insane!"

"That's beside the point!" I shout. "What's it going to be, Michelle? Will you fuck me, or fuck off!"

"I should have known this would come down to sex," Michelle says.

"I'm an eighteen-year-old guy. Of course everything comes down to sex!" I say.

"Well, grow the hell up!"

"Becoming so frigid that I try to regain my virginity isn't my fucking idea of growing up!" I shout. "It's my idea of fucking stupidity!"

"You should know about that!" Frigia snarls. "If the cape fits..."

"That's it! I'm phoning Michael now!"

"No you goddamn won't!" Michelle yells back at me. "I'm leaving!"

"Good!" I declare.

Michelle makes a grand, hissing gesture, and quickly packs her overnight bag. "I don't know why I bothered to try to deal with you. You can rot in Hell!" she shouts, as she storms out. Of course, the door slams hard enough to hurt even my ears.

"I didn't want to fuck her anyway," I mutter to myself. God, that woman is a pain. Even if she's fucking cute when she's angry.

The rest of the afternoon is spent gathering the loose cash and getting on the phone with assorted people. Michael warns me to be careful. Fucking duh. There are a couple of superheroes who want to speak with me, including some midget superhero who's been on the trail of the sorority murders. I send him a message that I don't want to risk being detected contacting other superheroes, for fear that they'll do something I'll regret. I hope they understand. With my luck, they'll think I'm guilty of all the things Whitaker has said about me, and I don't want them around to keep a watchful eye on myself.

The honest to fucking God truth is that I've never been more scared in my life. Of all my friends, John's the only one who fights beside me, the only one who shares that part of my life. He makes me laugh like no one else I know. I've never been very good on my own; I need friends to keep me stable and centered. I don't know what I'll do if anything happens to John.

"You will fail, Omega." I hear the Black Priest's voice tell me. "You have no idea of the horror that awaits the spirit-vessel. You will fail in more ways than you can imagine."

"Bullshit." I snarl, turn around, and of course he's not there. He never is.

At five o'clock, a briefcase with the money arrives. I leave it in the hotel safe; if, by some fucking fluke, Dyment is legitimate and not working with H&S, I can easily summon the money if I need it.

At six o'clock, I should be having dinner, but I'm not hungry. I turn on the television. There's nothing about Dyment, but the local news is full of stories about Whitaker, who's proclaiming that "outside metahumans" will never be allowed to come into Philadelphia and hurt its citizens, "and that definitely includes Tommy Champion."

Innocent until proven guilty. Isn't American law such bullshit? The asshole has to be making a run for political office.

At seven o'clock, I consider the consequences of winning and losing. If I beat both of them, H&S get shipped to Purgatory Prime in Alaska, and will probably escape like Abbatoir just did, and come back to torment me. If I just beat one of them, their partner will probably run away and kill John out of spite. I lose, and I'm dead and John's dead too. There has to be a better way. The direct approach won't get the job done.

At seven-thirty... actually, I'm not sure what I'm doing at seven thirty. I'm kinda numb.

At eight-thirty, I throw up, look at myself in the mirror, and go out for a flight.

After spending a half-hour clearing my head, I land on Chestnut Street. I have to search through a few alleys, relying on intuition to keep me from being ambushed. The directions were good, but not concise. Each empty alley only increases my anxiousness.

At the end of the third alley, I spot a gargantuan man in a goalie mask, beckoning me to come forward and fight. Oh my god, I think to myself in a mocking tone worthy of John, I think I'm going to have a fucking heart attack! What a goddamn surprise!

Hack's beckoning hand makes a slow, almost masturbatory motion. Of course, superhero combat is a form of masturbation, when you really get down to it. Hack is bare-chested (yet another instance of borderline homosexual, overcompensation bullshit), and his build is so huge it's obscene, a roadmap of veins on a mountain of fucking muscles. His mask has a weird aura that I can't quite place, except that it's fucking frightening. Hack reminds me of some morbid cross between Jason from the Friday the 13th movies and that WWF wrestler, Kane -- except he's bigger, meaner-looking, and even more fucking evil. And unlike a killer from a slasher movie or a goddamn pro wrestler, this guy isn't a fucking character, but a real goddamn nightmare in the flesh.

I take a moment to see that no hostages are visible, look at Hack and smile. This is the moment. I gotta take away their sense of control, and hope to fucking God this doesn't come back to kill John.

"You're a fucking coward," I say. "Instead of coming at me direct, you go through my friends and do a pair of frame-jobs worthy of showing on America's Dumbest Supervillains. Well, I ain't playing your fucking game. You tell Slash that I'll come back here -- alone -- after Permafrost is safely released. You want me, that's how you get me. Provided the Canadian Shield -- all seven of them -- don't track you down first for what you did to their countryman. Canadians are funny like that."

I shout into the air. "You didn't think of that, did you, you dumbass, cowardly bitch?"

And then I begin to fly away.

As soon as I get out of sight, I become invisible. I need to follow them back, find their hideout. But as soon as I get back within sight of Hack, he disappears in a shroud of darkness. Fuck!

It's the old horror movie trick. No, not the anyone-who-separates-dies trick, it's the monster-vanishes-as-soon-as-it's-not-being-directly-observed trick. I guess I was one of five people who hated Scream.

I go to the area where Hack disappeared, trying to sense the presence of black magic. It's fucking everywhere. I try to pinpoint the direction of the enchantment, trace where it's going, and follow it. But that's no fucking good... there's so much evil in the fucking air, I choke on it every way I turn.

"Let's hope you get the message," I say out loud. "Because there are some things in this world a lot worse than a big fucking chainsaw."

I patrol the area for a little while longer, looking for cold spots, places where Permafrost might be. I move in a spiral search pattern, using the alley as a central point. Nothing fucking shows up on my "radar." The best thing I do that night is to prevent somebody's Black Labrador from getting hit by a car. By midnight, I'm ready to give up the search. I return to the hotel. Michelle's not there. I give Michael a call, but he's not home. It's ten after nine on the coast, so I can't feel too guilty.

So I crash on a bed, and I put myself to sleep. The sounds of Philadelphia Night, sirens and cars and screams, are the angels that sing me to my rest. If you can call it a rest.

I think the best thing to call it is a mistake. And what a colossal fucking mistake it is.

I know I'm dreaming, I know it's a nightmare even as I'm dreaming it, but it's so fucking clear and painful that it wouldn't matter if I was sleeping or awake. I don't think I'll ever forget it. Picture me naked and chained to an altar of black stone. Okay, that's not too fucking bad. But picture me naked, chained to an altar of black stone, and unable to break free, even though I strain and struggle like a rabid son of a bitch on amphetamines. And, to make things even worse, let's add the Black Priest, his entire Black Mass, the Chain, Bandita, and Hack and Slash.

"Struggle, boy." The Priest's voice takes a commanding tone as he takes Hack's chainsaw and runs it across my chest. "Struggle and weaken, so that in the final battle, death will easily embrace you."

Hack hands the Priest a dagger of ice, and he impales my right arm with it. It hurts a whole fucking lot more than the chainsaw. Tears start streaming down my face. Slash is next. She hands the Priest a dagger of woven straw, a dagger that's already covered in blood. The Priest stabs me in the vitals. It easily cuts through my flesh and burns me; the blood on the dagger is a poison that's a lot worse than the actual wound. I scream.

"You called me a bitch!" Slash declares, spitting in my face.

"You are a bitch," I barely manage to say.

"Only because you made me one," Slash replies.

You bitch. But I can't say the words. She has absolute control.

"And the name isn't Slash, you pig!" she says. "It's--"

Her revelation is drowned out by a chant. A procession of three cloaked figures walk into the room, chanting something that sounds like a hundred voices in pig Latin shouting questions at a press conference. Their faces are shining, they're so bright that I can't recognize any of their features. The Priest walks to the back of the room and draws a dagger marked with an Omega symbol. He casually strikes down the cloaked figures, and smears their blood on my lips.

"Awaken, boy, and examine your wounds. And know, although others have handed me the daggers, the hand that has struck you is mine."

"Wha -- ?" I say, groggily.

"Know that all your pain has its origin in me. Awaken, Champion, and ask yourself whether Halcyon's life is worth the price you have just paid."

I awaken to hear the Priest's laughter in my ears. He's nowhere to be seen.

I fall out of bed, and crawl to the telephone. Acting pretty much on instinct, I phone a number.

"Stone, here," the voice answers.

"Help me...," I say. I listen to myself speak; it's as weak and as plaintive as my voice has ever sounded.

"We're coming. Stay on the line. We'll need to hone it for the teleportation ritual."

I couldn't hang up the phone if I tried. I have enough presence to drag a blanket over myself so I'm not naked when they arrive, and that's it. About a minute later, two figures materialize in the middle of the room.

"What happened, Omega?" Stone says.

"You said...," I'm still hyperventilating, "...to get in touch with you if I ever... ever had a really bad dream about the Priest..." I give a weak smile. "Tonight's the night."

Lexi bends over me. I've actually never seen her before; she prefers to be invisible. She has a certain mature beauty that her twin brother lacks. "It's hard to get an impression of his mind," she says, referring to me. "It's very powerful."

"What about the Priest?" I ask.

"There's no sign that he was ever here." Avery states, after performing a divination.

Great, I am going fucking crazy.

I give a detailed description of the dream, and they're sympathetic, but they're not really very helpful. They promise to keep their eyes open, and to have some higher-ups in the FBI have a talk with the Philadelphia PD about Whitaker; the last thing they want is to have some opportunist fuck over one of mankind's most effective weapons against evil because someone's got a political fucking agenda. But his final words aren't encouraging.

"The best we can do is get you a fair shake," Stone says. "But there's plenty of room for you to screw up on your own."

Thanks for the fucking encouragement.

Lexi says she's keep some sort of spell in my room to monitor it for Priestly activity for the rest of the evening, and that I should stay here until morning. I really want to head out and look for John, but I gotta face facts, I'm a fucking mess right now. They perform a teleportation ritual that fills the room with the stench of black magic, and vanish into the ether. I'm alone again.

I don't want to sleep again, so I spend the evening meditating. I'm not a Zen novice, let alone a Zen master, but I essentially drug my body to a state of calmness, and I try to fill my mind with the visual of the Omega symbol, and nothing else. Perhaps this will help me get back my focus.

Yeah, I know it sounds like bullshit, but it actually seems to work. By morning, the memory of that nightmare is mostly gone.

Michelle didn't come back last night. A quick call to Los Angeles finally locates her: she's safe, sound, and really fucking pissed at me (given that I woke her up at six in the morning, her time). Better pissed than dead, that's for sure.

At eleven o'clock, I get the call I've been dreading.

"Mr. Champion, this is Detective Grier. We need you to come down to the station now."

"Have you found Permafrost?"

"We just need you to come to the station, Mr. Champion," the detective says.

"Be there in two."

Less than two minutes later, I arrive back at Philadelphia Police Headquarters, a place I've learned to hate more than any other in this city of cheese-steaks, a place I hate even more than fucking Los Angeles, which is shallow, decadent, and ugly, but at least it's sincerely shallow, decadent, and ugly. Philadelphia is a city of self-delusions: the importance of its role in history, and the neurosis of being so close to New York City, all contribute to a place that I've learned to despise.

As I walk in the door, I see Detective Whitaker staring at me. I smile insincerely at him, and move to the front desk.

"I need to see Detective Grier."

The receptionist directs me to a cluttered office. I check it from the outside, and it's pretty quiet. Good. I open the door and I'm greeted by a bald man in his mid-40s; Detective Grier has a slightly bulging mid-section but otherwise appears to have weathered twenty years of police work just fine.

"I don't see any guns."

"Whitaker does things his way, I do things my way," Grier says. "He can handle the Higgins case however he wants. This is my case."

"Have you found Permafrost?" I ask. Grier shakes his head. "I guess you must have found Alan Dyment's body. Poor fucker."

"What do you know about Dyment?" Grier practically jumps from his chair.

I sit down and produce a tape recorder, complete with the conversation between me, Michelle, and Dyment. It's a simulation -- I wish I'd thought of recording the actual talk, but my memory is excellent, and I can always get Michelle to sign an affidavit to verify the truthfulness of the faux recording.

"Some people would call this motive."

"I would call that bullshit," I say. "I got Dyment's money waiting for me in the hotel safe back at the Bellvue Hyatt. With what Nike's paying me, I get fifty grand for just farting."

"Were you at the alley at Chestnut St.?"

I nod. "I was looking for a way to find Permafrost. I found Hack there instead, as I expected. I told him I wasn't playing his game, then I flew away, went invisible, and flew back to track them and turn the ambush on them, but the assholes teleported away."

"Them?"

"His partner. Caucasian female, late teens to early twenties." I give a description of Slash, based on what I saw on the videotape. "She was the one who helped Hack subdue Permafrost."

"So you can become invisible?"

I demonstrate the power. Grier cocks an eyebrow. I become visible again.

"We received this video footage from a witness...," Grier says, and he shows me a videotape. It's a brief glimpse of me flying away from the Chestnut St. alley, and the camera panning to show Dyment's body.

"I really, really hate those fuckers," I say, shaking my head. "Goddamn demoness and her fucking chainsaw boy-toy."

"The witness gave us a statement. He said he heard snatches of conversation, something to do with someone needing money and what sounded like threats to reveal some sort of information, but he didn't catch what. He then heard Dyment give a startled 'No! No, wait!' and shout your name as he scrambled for his camcorder and ran to the window."

"Fuck, I thought that level of melodrama went out with Snidely Whiplash," I say.

Grier gives me a dirty look. "He saw you kill the reporter but only got the camcorder out and the lens cover off in time to video him flying away. He refused to come to the police station, begging the police to leave because he was afraid you might figure out that he saw the fight."

"So he lived long enough to give you the statement... is he still alive?" Grier shakes his head.

"The officers on the scene were waiting for the witness, to escort him to the precinct, but he was murdered in his own bedroom. Right under our noses. And it was apparently by you."

"Let me guess, he shouted 'Omega did it' with his final breath," I snap. "Or maybe he etched it in blood."

"Curb the sarcasm, Omega," Grier says sternly.

"Sorry. It's really been a shitty couple of days."

"Don't turn on me. I'm not Whitaker. This whole business is too obvious," he says. "I mean, there is a motive, and the supporting evidence shows you at the scene of the crime. But you're Omega, for Christ's sake. It's just too sloppy for a guy who could probably vaporize any physical evidence, especially a body."

I stifle an impulse to laugh. "The motive's pretty weak; just what scandal was I supposed to be covering up? Where's the smoking gun?"

"Exactly," Grier admits.

"Besides, if I want someone dead, I can sneak up to them invisibly, and give them a fucking heart attack without them even noticing. Or do the same procedure except teleport them twenty or thirty meters into the ground and leave their body trapped in solid rock where it'll never be found."

"That would work," Grier notes.

"Or mentally command them to drive their car at 120 mph, and then make them fall asleep at the wheel. Or just use mind control to make them retract their statement. Or shapechange into a spitting image of them, have myself photographed screwing children, and use the fake photos to counter their blackmail. Or use mind control again, command them to pull a gun on the cops while they're giving their statement and let the police do my dirty work for me..."

"I get the point, Omega!" Grier winces.

"Good," I say. "Because I really don't want to think about nastier shit than that. I guess the decision you have to make is whether I'm a psychotic who's playing an elaborate, sick game, or whether I'm being framed. Either one is possible... I mean, I've looked at case studies of psychotics, and they get a real hard-on from playing the whole 'hide in plain sight' game, especially metahuman psychos. On the other hand, how many times do superheroes have to be set up by their enemies before the authorities get wise to it?"

"Those are both questions I've asked myself."

"Well, I'm glad to hear it, and I will give you whatever help I can," I say. "I honestly don't know what to say. I've got to find John... uh... Permafrost, now more than ever. But if I stay in this town, the death count's just going to keep rising. You've already got the midget here, and I expect more superheroes will be on their way. Hack and Slash have just crossed too many lines that superheroes don't like to see crossed."

"Why didn't you inform us when Dyment blackmailed you?" Grier asks.

"I told my contact at the FBI. Check with Special Agent Stone. I didn't want to involve the Philly PD because, frankly, Whitaker had been a shithead from whom I could expect no cooperation, and even if I got cooperation from you guys, what could the police do against Hack and Slash, except die by the fucking busload?"

Grier frowns. I'm right, and he knows it, but he's still a little pissed to hear me say it.

"Why did you run away when you saw Hack?"

"I didn't. I ain't scared of no freak with a chainsaw," I say. "But my goal wasn't to beat the fucking assholes in a fight, it was to rescue Permafrost. Even when I beat H&S, do you think they'd ever tell us where they stashed him? John could starve to death in a sewer or a log cabin somewhere. My only hope of rescuing them was to rattle H&S, get them to run, and follow them back to where they'd stashed him. Unfortunately, I didn't know the assholes could teleport."

"I see. And preventing any further deaths from Hack didn't concern you?"

"Of course it did. But me and Permafrost together would have a better chance of bringing both those assholes down," I say.

"Okay." Grier can actually see the virtue in my argument.

"Letting the bad guys control the battlefield is never a good idea," I say, mostly to myself. "They were just trying to get me to dance, but I don't do requests from fucking supervillains. I'm going to get them both, though, but it'll be on my terms."

One of the officers takes that opportunity to interrupt us. He points my attention to a hastily called press conference at Nike in Los Angeles. It's Michelle.

"...we are well aware of the numerous incidents involving supervillains who have framed superheroes under similar circumstances and we are more than open to the possibility that Omega will have his name cleared, at which time Nike will restore its sponsorship of Mr. Champion."

Shit! There goes millions of fucking dollars a year down the drain. Fuck them!

"The villains involved in this incident shouldn't congratulate themselves, because when Tommy Champion has been cleared, he can expect full restitution, and I guarantee that Hack and his...," Michelle coughs, "...partner will receive full restitution too -- of a completely different kind." The look in Michelle's eye is different than any I've ever seen in it: angry but focused.

"Does Nike believe Mr. Champion is innocent?" a reporter asks. I think it's that guy from USA Today who always scratches his ass whenever he asks a question. I don't know his name, but the ass-scratch is always a dead giveaway.

"Of course we do. Not only is the fundamental principle of this country's justice system that people are innocent until proven guilty, but no criminal charges have even been laid," Michelle says. "The revoking of sponsorship is merely an issue of sensitivity. If Omega is the champion that we think that he is, he'll overcome this adversity and demonstrate the Nike philosophy, which is to turn adversity into a positive."

I don't really have anything to say about that right now.

"What about Permafrost?"

"We're in touch with the authorities. I can't comment on what is an extremely sensitive situation. I would advise the individuals responsible for the abduction to release him immediately, before things get worse."

"Michelle, shut the fuck up before you piss off those psychopaths...," I say through gritted teeth. Grier flashes me an odd look.

"If Omega is found guilty, what will Nike do?"

"Our disassociation with Mr. Champion would become permanent, and the rest would be decided by the appropriate court. Either way, Nike will cooperate fully with the authorities. There's nothing lower than a person who believes their physical advantages give them the right to torture and murder the weak, regardless of their motivations. Nike has a word for those kinds of people -- losers."

"Shit, Michelle... I hope to fucking God that was too subtle for them."

"I thought she was talking about you," Grier counters. "Is she a friend?"

"Fuck no," I say, shaking my head. "Michelle is a mega-bitch and the biggest fucking pain you can imagine. She thinks she can get away with anything, that the universe wouldn't dare to touch her. But I don't want to see Hack and Slash increasing their body count, not even with her."

I sigh. "I'll need to check your story with the FBI. Even if you return to California, I'll want to keep in touch with you."

"Not a problem."

"I'd advise you to stay away from the press. These two have a fixation on you. The more you say, the more likely they'll be to get annoyed and do something to Permafrost."

"God..." I sigh. "You know, before I met John... oh, fuck it!" I was about to get nostalgic. It's not the time, not now.

"Get some rest, Omega. We'll be calling."

I nod and become intangible.

"And next time something happens that affects our jurisdiction, don't just tell the goddamn FBI.," Grier adds.

I almost manage to laugh. I give him a robotic nod, and fly straight upward, avoiding the media circus that's gathered outside the building, a circus that wants to swarm like army ants over the carcass of my life. I head away from Philadelphia as fast as I can fucking fly, hoping that a long cross-country flight can clear my head.

I take a detour at the Rockies, and just explore the wilderness for awhile, looking for deer, for bear, and other wildlife. At least all they want to do is eat you.

After an hour, I fly over to Yosemite; I've always wanted to visit it, and I spend a few more hours there. It's a great place to visit, though some of the camp sites are pretty badly run.

I go to San Francisco. I alter my form into that of a slim, middle-aged African-American man, and I ride the cable cars. I listen to the conversations. They're talking about me. Most of the people think I'm guilty. A few people suggest that the President should call in the Protectorate to deal with me. I smile and call Omega an asshole. You gotta love that bandwagon. I'm O.J. without the fucking knife and gloves. Everything a superhero should be -- someone who's at more water coolers than Sparklett's.

I finally return Los Angeles at late afternoon. I fly invisibly (I don't really feel like being seen), over that huge sprawl of stone, wood, and asphalt on a cake of infinite layers of dust. It's really dirty here this afternoon. I alter the Omega suit slightly -- bare arms, no Nike symbol. I ain't a fucking billboard anymore.

Once I arrive at the beachhouse, I become intangible and slip into the house, only to learn that I'm not here alone. Michael has barged his way into the house (I didn't give him fucking permission!) and so, to my complete amazement, is Steve Doerksen.

"Steve, what the fuck are you doing here?"

"Thank god you're alright..." Michael says, and he rushes forward and embraces me. I'm a little embarrassed. I expect Steve to cock an eyebrow, but instead his face is a mask of anguish. It takes a few seconds for him to work up the nerve to make eye contact.

"Tommy, something's happened...," he says.

"Oh no..." I gasp. Dad

Steve shakes his head, tears welling in the eyes. "No. Your dad's okay."

"Buck?" There's a long pause.

"It's Rachel," Steve says. "She's dead. Someone killed her."

And at the end of my next, very deep, breath was a sob, and the moment my world fell apart.
 

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