After awhile, most of the supervillains become a barely distinguishable blur. Oh sure, there are people like Hack and Orchid, and the Priest, who’ve made things personal, and I’m not going to forget them. But then there are others: the Tyrannical Trio, the Porter, the Dictator, the Chain, the Zebra, who have all become a blur of muscle, Technicolor costumes, and distantly remembered grimaces.

When I was back in high school, I wrestled in one hundred and nine matches in four years: meets and tournaments. God, I loved the vast majority of those contests. For my last two years, I wrestled heavyweight, and most of my opponents were fat farm boys who tried to sit on me, sweaty linebackers who should’ve stayed on the football field. They had no business competing against a serious athlete. When I brought these opponents down to the mat, I reveled in pressing down on their bodies, feeling them jerk predictably while I mauled them, playing with them like a cat playing a musical instrument; I gave sick, virtuoso performances. But as much as I enjoyed those contests, I don’t remember much about them either, not in detail. I think the older we get, the more we perceive that our lives are a story. Our brains filter out the boring crap and try to rearrange it into something interesting, something significant, like a fiction.

And as far as my story goes, it’s getting harder and harder for me to take most of these game-playing assholes seriously, after all the shit I’ve taken from Hack and Orchid and the Priest. I wonder if a trip to Ireland, the fight against this so-called "Royal Elite" might not be the best thing for me. Especially after Dr. Wight tells me it’s probably going to be a few days before he successfully divines Hack’s location from the garment we’ve given him, and as far as I can tell, Ireland’s in deep shit. It needs all the help that it can fucking get.

Sarah’s in my hotel room, but she’s also got some business back in New York City to take care of (fortunately, New York and Philly are practically suburbs, and she can get back at a moment’s notice).

"I think I’m going to take a trip across the ocean," I say. "This whole Ireland thing is really starting to bug me. And I could use the distraction."

"Ireland? Have you talked with the Protectorate about that?" Sarah asks.

We're interrupted by a knock on the door. I answer it, and a tall, lean man smiles, hands me an envelope, and says: "You have been served."

"What the fuck?" I say as the man walks away. Not another fucking lawsuit! If this is from the family of Alan Dyment, I’ll puke. I quickly open the envelope Me, the undersigned, is hereby forbidden by some fucking old judge from a circuit court with some meaningless number, from using the name "Omega" in public, courtesy of Marvel Comics?

Sarah leans back on the bed, her tits pointing at the ceiling like twin rocket ships. "What is it?" she asks, apparently oblivious to the way her tight T-shirt is straining over her breasts. "What's it about?"

"Thirty years ago, Marvel Comics published a comic called 'Omega the Unknown,'" I explain. "He was a character who was so lame that Marvel killed him off and shit-canned the book after only ten issues. The character was so bad that he's about the only person Marvel Comics hasn't raised from the dead. And they're suing me over this loser?"

"Marvel is suing you?!" she exclaims.

"Maybe it's a Greek thing," I speculate.

"Jeez, what about 'Knock-out?' Mom and I thought long and hard about a name, but we didn't think to check to make sure no old comic-book characters had used it shit, maybe I could get sued too."

I can see the worry in Sarah's face. It isn't that long ago she was mentioning that her parents were in financial trouble; hopefully she's made some headway in that direction. "There's a DC Comics character named 'Knockout,' but I think you're saved by the hyphen," I speculate. "It's all nuisance bullshit anyway. I wouldn't worry. Although I do see one problem -- they've named Nike as a co-defendant. Nike might just pull the rights to the name from me and give it to their next costumed stud."

"Well, it's only a name," Sarah says, sitting up again.

I get up close and personal with her, putting my arms around her, a casual, yet intense hug. "Names are very important in mystic circles. And I'm as magical as they come."

"I know," Sarah says, not stepping on the bravado. "But didn't you tell me you hated the name 'Omega'?"

"Only when I first started. It grew on me." I press my lips softly against hers. "Omega has that effect on people."

"He does." Sarah's giving me that really intense stare, the one with the power to cause me to remove my clothes

"Sarah, do you think if we uh keep giving in all the time it'll get cheap?"

Biting her lower lip, Sarah looks away. "You know," she starts -- and I can tell by the tone of her voice what’s coming -- "I've been feeling a little guilty over this thing we've got going. I'm thinking maybe we need to cool it for a while. Until we both figure out what's going on in our lives. I mean, I love the sex. It's just well I've been thinking about Alex, and how this is kind of unfair to him. It's not like we're dating steady or anything - we've only been out once - but I'm still feeling a little weird about it. Am I making sense? The last thing I want to do is screw up my relationship with you"

"With our hormones, sense don’t come with the package," I note with a sigh. "Do what you need to do, Sarah, and I’ll respect you." Given what I’m really feeling, this is such complete and utter bullshit that I can barely believe saying it. But I continue doing my best Matthew McConaughey impression. "Part of me is such a goddamn fatalist that I want to give into what I’m feeling and not give a shit if the sun never rises again. But it’s complicated, and it’s not fair." I stroke her muscles, gently, playfully, and her grip tightens a bit.

"We’re going to survive. We’re both real strong," I say. The last sentence is almost a whisper. "So do what you need to do to keep things from getting too complicated, and if things start to suck, I’ll be here."

Two hours later, we've gone our separate ways; Sarah to New York and (unfortunately) her mother and this Alex guy, and me to Dublin. It's a little over an hour and a half flight-time to Dublin from Philadelphia, and even using my powers to eavesdrop on various GPS installations, it's not easy to do the navigation. But I'm getting better at it.

I’m also better at a couple of other tricks, including using telecommunications satellites to send phone messages to my friends while I’m flying. My first call is to my favorite government mystic, to check on my folks. Stone assures me that my dad and Buck are still in the best anti-occult protective custody that the Feds have to offer -- they’ve also moved Kenny into the same custody for the duration.

"How’s New Orleans?" I ask.

"Do the words ‘gone to Hell in a hand basket’ mean anything to you, Mr. Champion?" Stone replies.

"I guess that means it’s a pretty shitty place right now," I reply.

"Believe me, Mr. Champion, there’s nothing pretty about it."

"What about Ireland?"

"Still no word," Stone says. "Even unofficially."

"Well, here’s a newsflash for you, Stony. It’s the Royal Elite," I say. "One of the Priest’s disciples showed me a vision."

"Oh shit," Stone responds.

"I’d think this was good news," I posit. "After all, it’s not like they haven’t been beaten before. At their heart, they’re just an embarrassment and an anachronism that espouses a totally bogus philosophy. They’re not all that different than the Dictator."

"Tommy, you’ve got a lot to learn if you think the Royals are anything like the Dictator."

I have no response to that. My next move is to check in on the West Coast. Michael’s offering his own form of protection to the people I care about (and a few I don’t), putting some serious spells around Michelle and a few others.

"You’re really starting to owe me a lot," Michael says with a laugh.

"Yeah," I acknowledge, biting my tongue to avoid the issue of all that magical energy that Michael’s been covertly harvesting from me without my consent.

"Don’t worry, farmboy. Just don’t get so screwed over by the Royals that you won’t be able to return and clear your name."

"That won’t be a problem."

"Well, if it is, you don’t have to worry about passing the torch," Michael reports. "Some new kid showed up at Nike yesterday to lobby for your job. I think he was from Minnesota Justin Justin Bradley, that’s it." Michael rolls the name off his tongue, either to mock it, or annoy me, or both.

"Justin? What a fucking boy band name," I say. "So what tricks does this trained jackass perform? Does he fetch shoes?"

"Superstrength and some other shit. I think he’s magical too," Michael reports.

"Fuck, everyone’s magic. Magic ain’t very magical anymore, is it?"

I can’t stay long on the channel; I need to use it for navigation. The sea beneath me is a huge, lonely black expanse, crowned by cords of whitecaps like surging muscle. The Atlantic is fucking everywhere, and it’s totally awesome: that is, it’s awe-inspiring, not awesome in the California sense.

I don’t think about much. I guess I’m just really burnt out on how shitty my life’s been lately. A couple of times I wonder about Sarah and this Alex guy, and then I smile. When I start to get jealous over a girl as gorgeous and cool as Sarah, I know I’m finally starting to get sane.

The first sign of just what shit I’m stepping into occurs when I try to contact several British communications satellites and the GPS is unable to calculate a signal for me. I have to backtrack a hundred kilometers or so to catch a signal (and my bearings), then I pick a direction and barrel straight for the Irish coast. About twenty minutes later, I hit land -- whether it’s southern Ireland or northern France, I have no idea. Whatever it is, it’s green like I’ve never seen green before, a land of fields and gentle rolling hills, covered with grass so thick it looks like fine moss. It takes me five minutes to find a road cutting cross-country, and so I follow it north.

There’s not even a lick of radio traffic. Shit, what the fuck happened here?

About thirty seconds later, traveling just below the speed of sound, I spot an old station wagon driving down the road in the distance. I fly down, phase through the car top, and plop myself in the back seat.

"Hi," I say.

The station wagon has two occupants: a middle-aged man and his wife. The car is stuffed with bags and other belongings -- I have to sit on a big rucksack. I can tell by the way the driver slams on the brakes that he’s not happy to see me. I use my powers to telekinetically cushion the couple (and their vehicle), and to keep the doors locked. I don’t want them bolting.

"Easy!" I say. "I need your help. I’m Omega, not Royal Elite. No one in the United States seems to be able to contact Ireland, so I came over to see what the trouble is."

"You’re that murderer from Philadelphia!" the man accuses. The accent’s Irish, so I’m in the right place, even if I have to have bullshit thrown in my face.

"I thought the media was supposed to be better over here than in the States. You’d think an Irishman would be willing to give someone named ‘Tommy’ the benefit of the doubt!" I protest.

"I want nothing to do with you. Let us go!" the man replies, starting to panic.

"Jesus," I snap, annoyed. "If people are in trouble, telling me what you know could make it easier for them," I then add. "It’s not like I came here to steal your Lucky Charms."

"Get away from us!"

I shrug, and fly out through the roof. And here I was going to repay them by cleaning off the car, removing the rust, and making the paint job appear as good as new. Too bad for them.

I repeat the trick three more times, coming to the conclusion that Irish hospitality is highly overrated. Finally, I find a talkative old man, who (despite having no love of hitchhikers) tells me of the situation.

"It’s the English, or some poufters who act like them. They’ve built bunkers all over the place, and they’re rounding people up. Are you Irish?"

"American."

"I know that. I mean, are you Irish in your blood?"

"I’m pretty much a mongrel," I admit. "The Champions were originally French. I think they originally grew mushrooms, and the name’s a corruption of the French word for mushroom. But mom and grandmom were both descended from German Mennonites; mom’s maiden name was ‘Martens’, and grandma Champion was originally a ‘Warkentin.’"

"I wish I could find that more interesting."

"Hopefully, me kicking the Royal Elite’s ass out of your country will be more interesting." I laugh.

"Are you working with the American military?"

"I’m a proud volunteer," I say. "How could I stand back after all the help you gave us in World War II"

"We were neutral in World War II," the man informs us. "Although we didn’t have anything against you Yanks, you’re a fine people. We just wanted to see the Brits get their asses kicked."

"Uh sure," I say. "You have any idea where the nearest bunker is?"

"Somewhere outside Killarney."

You know, I’d probably like this guy more if his accent didn’t bear an uncanny resemblance to Shane Barlow’s.

I get enough information from the guy that I’m ready to proceed on my way. I nod, smile, and do a minor magical fix to his car, then proceed in the direction of Killarney, the seat of County Kerry.

Killarney’s a small town, about 10,000 people, and it was a green and pleasant land -- once. Now, buildings are demolished, trees and landscapes scratched and leveled as if the land had been subjected to a giant, hurricane-driven rake. The town is deserted and completely without electrical power. Shit, this is creepy, in an after-the-bomb Fallout sort of way. And I’m a Nebraska boy who’s used to wide, empty spaces.

I look for a television station, settle for a radio station, and find it’s empty too. I find only one clue to what’s going on, and that’s from the stations’ computers; although the machines are dead, someone made a print out of an e-mail from a computer science student at a local college.
 

They’ve been very clever. The worm they’ve used to infect our systems -- the so-called Royal-2 -- is far more sophisticated than anything the department’s seen. One of the local boys says that he thinks they must have used psionics as part of the cover-up. It makes sense. How they’ve kept the Protectorate out of it is still a mystery, as well as how they’ve produced so many metahumans.

I had better send this while the wireless lines are still working. Godspeed.

Reggie

I check the transmitter. It’s dead, but it’s not hard to use my powers to generate a signal, and keep it running for an hour or so. So I’ve got Radio Omega repeatedly transmitting: "In today’s news, Mastodon sucks Autocrat’s dick."

Hey, I think that’s funny.

Next, I broadcast my signal into orbit and try to track it – I need to see how the Royals have been interfering with local transmissions. That’s a real tall order, but in the four star restaurant of magical abilities that is the smorgasbord of Tommy Champion’s mojo, I’ve got exotic senses that’ll let me do the job. The signal heads up into the upper stratosphere, about twelve miles above sea level, then scrambles and dissipates. That’s fucking unusual. I hook into a satellite to see what it’s receiving, and find that my signal is being replaced by a fake signal’s that’s broadcasting from god knows where. It’s transmitting standard AM radio prattle -- I think it’s the fucking Backstreet Boys. Shit, it’s bad enough that the Royal Elite has gone global.

I expand my senses to check on all of the signals that the satellite’s allegedly receiving from Ireland, which leads me into a tangled kite string of fake television and radio signals. A little research turns up that nearly every signal originating from Ireland is a fraud: someone’s faking hundreds of signals, telling the world what it wants to hear and leaving them completely in the dark about the Royals’ Irish takeover.

I should leave this alone, just get back to the muscle club and have a fight or two, but this shit is starting to bug me. I don’t understand how you can cover up the takeover of an entire nation. I can only think of one way to find out (well actually two, if you count the "pounding the shit out of Autocrat until he confesses" method), so I leave the Irish coast, head west until I’m out of the jamming field, and report what I know back to Stone. He manages to pull a few strings and gives me the location of a spy satellite that’s supposed to be taking pictures of Ireland from low orbit. I hook into it, and discover that what I suspect is true. It’s being fed false images.

Imagine if you could cover up the eyes of the watchers of the world, and make them see what you want them to see. In today’s age, with nations slaved to their machines, what couldn’t you do?

The pieces of the puzzle are coming together, and the picture’s really not pretty. The next question I consider is when: when did the Royals start pulling this shit? The communiqué from the radio station is dated from three days ago, which means that the Royal Elite managed to hide their plan from the world for three or four days before people finally caught on. Fuck, just think about that. Pulling the blinders over the whole fucking world it’s just in-fucking-credible. I try to imagine the logistics of the plan, what it would require to pull a fraud on this sort of scale, and my mind is fucking boggled. Autocrat, or whoever handles his planning, may be a power-crazed psychopath, but the asshole’s a brilliant power-crazed psychopath, and he’s got fucking balls that are the size of basketballs.

It makes me want to beat the shit out of him even more.

I return to Killarney and scour the town for another hour, looking for clues. It occurs to me that it would be smart to do so invisibly, so I fade from sight.

The town yields nothing except a growing sense of creepiness. Oh, and the radio transmitter’s been leveled. Somebody decided to shoot the messenger.

By hour’s end, I finally get tired of searching this buttfuck village, so I decide to head to where the action is -- Dublin. But about five miles east of the city, I spot a large concrete bunker, and that looks like a good place to find out what’s really going on.

So that’s where I head.

The bunker’s a small fortress with molded walls. It’s not pretty, except for little high-tech machines I see lining the walls. The mechanisms include cannon mounts, but I’m still invisible. I concentrate on the invisibility field and expand it to include radar. Hopefully I was traveling low enough that I didn’t present a blip on some sensor's monitor.

Unfortunately, as soon I get within two hundred yards of the place, a large force field dome suddenly encompasses the bunker.

"Omega," a booming voice announces over several loudspeakers simultaneously, giving that Lou Gehrig "Luckiest Man Alive" reverb effect. "Aren’t you a little far from home?"

"Home is where the hard-on is," I shout back, becoming visible, putting the magical power I was expending on the invisibility field into my back-up reserve. "And right now I have a real big hard-on to stay here and kick the Royal Elite’s ass until Autocrat comes out, because I really want to rip on that asshole. I’ll show the world not only does the Emperor not have any fucking clothes, he doesn’t have a fucking dick either."

"You are a crude, stupid, ill-mannered cur." I can picture the speaker’s lip curl in contempt. Fucking drama queen.

"Y’know, there’s a funny thing about manners. If a homicidal cocksucker like Autocrat expects me to show him an ounce of respect, he’s even stupider than he thinks I am. The only thing I can think of that’s even stupider than that would be a moron like you, who follows him and his obsolete political philosophy like a fucking sheep."

"Ask the Irish about the price of defiance," the voice retorts. He sounds pissed.

"I did. You can set up all the Stalag 13s you want, and you all still fucking suck in their eyes, and mine," I answer. "So why don’t you fucking ‘might is right’ types quit cowering from behind that force field, and tell me all that fascist bullshit directly to my face. I’ll even let you wait until you’ve managed to regain control of your bowels; just promise me you’ll clean yourself off before you come out, since I hate fighting people who’ve shitted in their tights."

I feel like I’m on a roll.

"How dare you you peasant!"

"Yeah. I’m a peasant," I say. "And I couldn’t be more fucking proud of it. There’s not one fucking drop of in-bred, self-deluded royal blood in my veins. My country rejected you totalitarian assholes centuries ago, and so did this one. And we didn’t lose a fucking thing when we did it. So stop whining, motard, be a good little sheep, bend over and say ‘Baa!’"

"The ant may defy the boot that looms over him, but it changes nothing!" the voice shouts, getting even more pissed.

"Oh fucking Baaa!" I mock back, shaking my ass like a stoned 70s guy in a disco. "Baa! I’m a sheep that enjoys being fucked by Hypocrat. Baaa! I have no brains and a sore sheep ass!"

"How dare you!"

The earthworks under the fortress abruptly open up, and suddenly the sky is swarming with flying beasts. A dozen squadrons of winged purple-black furry creatures, half-man, half-bat, flood the sky, shrieking as they pour out of the bunker.

"Shit!" I exclaim, but with a bit of a smile on my face.

"Are you laughing now, Omega?" the voice shouts.

Can’t mock now, too busy shit-kicking I don’t say it, but that’s what I’m thinking as I slug the first Royal Beast that gets close to me. He tumbles comically, but before I can laugh, three of the monkey-assed cocksuckers gang up on me and nail me with three coordinated eyebeams that make cigarette burns in the ol’ Omega suit. "Ow!" I shout, annoyed.

I’m pretty much surrounded, and I can’t begin to count how many of them there are, probably fifty, maybe even seventy. The eyebeams keep stinging me, so I put up a reflection field around myself, and the beams start reflecting back at their point of origin. Several of them drop out of the sky, encouraging the rest to go to close quarters with me.

I immediately realize there are too way many of them for me to handle, and surprisingly, I’m cool with that. I have a few tricks in my arsenal that will let me deal with a horde like this -- I figure we’ll try the high-tech one first. One of them grabs me, and they begin to dog-pile on me. Awesome.

Yeah, I can’t take this kind of beating for very long, but hopefully I won’t have to. I concentrate on my magic, and try to focus that piece of their genetic code they possessed before they were mutated -- they’re too organic to be robots, and mutants is a better fit for Autocrat’s M.O. than magical constructs -- so I use my mojo to reverse whatever mutagenic process they’ve experienced. It takes a few seconds more than I’d like (fifty of these ass-monkeys will fuck you over pretty fast) but the change begins to work, and the results are spectacular. The ones who are touching me revert back to their human form, and the ones grabbing them as part of the swarm that’s trying to suffocate me also become "infected" with my magic, and revert to human form.

There are days I’m tempted to do this to myself.

Within twenty seconds, I’ve managed to transform thirty of the cocksuckers back to normal. It doesn’t do a thing about the Royals’ mind control -- they still want to kill me. But the process makes them much less capable of doing so. I have to slow down the transformation just to give the people who are holding me enough toughness to survive the incoming attacks, since they’re serving as impromptu ablative armor against the beast-horde’s attacks, but I’m still in pretty good shape.

Finally, once I realize I’ve reached a point of diminishing returns, I cut loose, shrug off the dog pile, and rise into the air, leaving behind a stack of about forty naked men (and a couple of naked women): some in shock, others desperate to complete their mission.

"Reality to Royal Elite." I smile, dodging eyebeams from the twenty or so remaining man-beasts. "Baaa!!"

I wade into the remaining man-beasts, like a Fuck, who am I kidding? "Avenging angel"? Cornball. "Man possessed"? Cliché. If I wanted that level of bullshit I’d say "Like someone giving a hundred and ten percent." By now, people have got to know that I ain’t a pansy -- fuck, I even got the Mastiff seal of approval. I am a fighting machine, and I now grind my gears into overdrive. I take quite a few hits, but I’ve bolstered my defenses pretty fucking good. The eyebeams don’t hurt me much, the claws bounce off the costume, and there are too few of the cocksuckers to nickel and dime me to unconsciousness now. I’m covered in sweat (but no blood for once) and having a fucking jolly time in merry ol’ Ireland. Something about this feels so right, like I belong here.

And when the last mother fucker goes down, the force field drops, and an armored figure and a hologram come through the front entrance of the bunker and walk toward me. It’s Parley Time.

The hologram is the most noteworthy of the two. Blond hair, blue eyes, perfect features. He looks like a fucking god. Shit, this cocksucker looks almost as good as I do! There’s something very wrong about that...

"So you’re Omega," the hologram says with a smirk.

"That depends on a pending lawsuit with Marvel Comics," I reply. "And who the fuck are you?"

"Harbinger," the hologram answers.

"You too scared to face me, Harby?"

The nickname doesn’t even phase him. "You? Hand-to-hand? Well, that’s really not my thang," Harbinger answers slyly. "That sort of brutality I leave that to the people who like it, like Mastodon or our newest member."

"Avatar," I say. Harbinger’s eyebrows rise.

"Interesting," Harbinger says. "I think your threat rating is going to have to be reevaluated."

"I would have thought it was pretty high to start," I muse.

"We have high standards." Harbinger laughs. "The name ‘Royal Elite’ isn’t a boast or a promise, it’s who we are."

"And that’s why you’re hiding behind a hologram." I spit, fighting an urge just to fuck the exposition and head straight into putting the one guy who’s tangible in the hospital.

"Actually, I’m broadcasting this from a pub in Dublin," Harbinger explains. "Trust me, if I was there in person, you’d be dancing naked and begging Autocrat to do all those things to you that you’ve been teasing poor Herzog about."

"You do not need to be here, Harbinger," Herzog, the armored figure, hisses. I recognize his voice as belonging to the guy I was mocking. "I can assure his lordship that everything in the southwest is proceeding on schedule, in spite of this," and he gives a fake chuckle while his no-wit brain struggles to find the right insult, "insolent distraction."

Harbinger’s hologram looks annoyed, and not at me. "Baaa," I say to Herzog, and then I turn to Harbinger again. "So why did you assholes decide to fuck over Ireland?"

Harbinger just smiles and ponders the question like a really good wine. "Haven’t you ever wanted to totally screw over a country? Isn’t there just one country in the world that really bugs you?"

"Yeah. Iraq," I answer. After all, I missed dad for nearly a year when I was nine thanks to that fucking asshole Saddam. Remind me to pay you a visit some time.

"Well for Autocrat, Ireland was on top of the list."

"I’ll bet it’s a big list."

"Uh huh. It’s huge," Harbinger says. "Autocrat’s never made that a secret. He wants it all."

"So what made you Autoclot’s ass-monkey?"

I don’t know if that remark annoys Harbinger or not. I think I see something register on his face, a brief peak under a carefully placed mask, or like catching an accidental glance of another man’s dick. But I can’t read it all.

"What made you Nike’s?" Harbinger snaps back. "Omega, what gives you the right to throw around insults? You’ve just been framed by a pair of second-rate psychotics who murdered your girlfriend because you were too ineffectual to protect her."

"Don’t go there," I snap.

"Why not? You are a joke to us, Omega. When we want a good laugh, we turn on MNN, watch you give one of your stupid interviews, count how many times you embarrass yourself, and we laugh our heads off. Sure, you’re a lot tougher than the average meta, but we’re the Royal Elite. We’re ready for you. If you step one foot in Dublin, you’re dead. The best thing for you to do is to bow down right now, beg Autocrat for forgiveness, and maybe he’ll find room for you, as, say, his stable boy."

"I’ll fucking die first."

"What a surprise." Harbinger smiles. Man, I’d love to punch the smugness off his fucking pretty-boy face. "I believe the correct term for you is ‘loser,’ Omega. You are a swaggering, foul-mouthed, bad-tempered, Grade-A American teenage loser. And one day, your overblown ego will finally realize it, and you’ll crack like an egg."

"Let’s talk it over when I hit Dublin." I smile. "Or will you be too busy speaking ‘thees’ and ‘thous’ and spouting Divine Right monarchist bullshit?"

"Perhaps. It certainly takes more to rattle me than a few tasteless bestiality jokes," Harbinger says. "Insults and prattle are easy, Omega, but results as spectacular as ours well, as the saying goes: ‘you do the math.’ We’ve gotten results that no one has seen since the days of the Third Reich. We conquered Ireland in hours, and the world didn’t even notice. Avatar, the so-called champion of humanity, is now a dog who cringes behind Autocrat’s heel. And then there’s the Protectorate. If you want to tell jokes about someone, try them. We made even bigger fools of the Protectorate than you did during your visit."

Shit, how’d they know about that one?

"By the way, when Paragon lost control attacking you and all those machines came tumbling out of him -- that was us having fun," Harbinger reveals. "He doesn’t even suspect that he’s carrying our programs inside him. He’s our puppet, and the Monolith has become a symbol of Autocrat’s authority over this planet."

"I’m sure the Protectorate will appreciate the information."

"It’s much too late for that, Omega. Our plans--"

"Are just totally fucking perfect. Except for that debacle with that kid in New York," I say, remembering Sarah’s friend Alex. "Y’know, if the Royal Effete is so fucking infallible, how come Rook and Proctor can’t even successfully grab a rookie?"

"Well, confidentially" Harbinger smiles. "If I’m given a choice between conquering Ireland and turning the Protectorate into our whipping boys, and kidnapping a second-rate musician, I’ll take Ireland and the Protectorate any day."

Man, is this asshole ever smug. Although I have to wonder why he was so open about the Elite’s plans for Paragon. This punk is a calculating bastard -- not the sort who casually spills the beans.

"Herzog, end this for us, will you?" Harbinger asks. "Mr. Champion is acting like a quintessential American, and that bores the hell out of us."

Herzog nods as the hologram vanishes.

I charge at Herzog, impact an invisible force-field, and end up teleporting two inches in front of a concrete wall. I make a rather spectacular hole in it.

"You’re a fucking puzzlebox," I say, stepping out of the hole. I guess I’ll have to find some way to neutralize his teleportation

"I’m not the one you’re here to fight," Herzog says. "He is."

With that appropriately ominous introduction, a figure in black armor steps out of the bunker. Even from a distance, I can tell he’s even broader and taller than I am, and he walks like a fucking champion, supremely confident in his power.

It’s the armor I saw in the Priest’s vision, except that he’s wearing a black helmet that completes the Darth Vader ensemble. Shit, this must be Avatar!

How’d they get him from Dublin to Killarney so fast?

The black-clad god says nothing, but strides over to me and takes a swing. I dodge, but he measures my feint and connects with my jaw as though I weren’t trying. It’s a short, solid blow that puts me on my back.

I roll to my feet, shake the cobwebs out, and watch as, in a perfect boxer’s stance, my opponent throws a hard jab. I take the blow, spin, and lunge to grapple him. He deftly sidesteps the attack and throws another jab.

Shit. Why the hell is Avatar fighting like a boxer?

I stand back, create a glob of glue under his feet, then close with him. Deprived of his footwork, the figure still keeps slugging. But I’m in a much better position to fight now. I land a blow to the ribs that drives a big crack into the armor, brace against several other blows, then connect with two more body shots. He’s managed to free himself from the glue, but my punches have peeled the armor away, revealing a brawny pair of pectorals.

But it’s not Avatar. I’ve seen footage of all of Avatar’s fights -- every one of them, and you can bet I’ve watch each of them at least thirty times. Avatar always fights macho style, bare-chested, and I’ve practically burnt his physique into my fucking retinas. Both of these guys possess enough muscle mass to fill a fleet of bodybuilding mags, but Avatar’s build is even bigger than this guy (though not quite as cut), and the King of the Fucking Musclegods has more chest hair. My opponent ain’t him.

I’m both encouraged and disappointed that I’m not getting the marquee match -- I want to fight Avatar, but I really don’t want anything more than pride on the line. I lunge at my opponent again, and barely manage to catch him in mid-stride. We wrestle a bit. Whoever he is, he’s fucking strong -- he belongs in my league, even if he won’t win the pennant. After a few seconds of grunting and pushing, I get my hand around his head and I pop the helmet off.

I have no idea who this guy, except he looks like he’s in his late 30s, with short flaming red hair, and green eyes so piercing that Steve Doerksen would have a world-class hard-on if he were in my position. This guy’s almost as handsome as Harbinger. I lock his limbs, stare into his eyes, and try to make telepathic contact with him. If he’s Irish, maybe he’s another dupe

The world takes five uneasy breaths, and after a really confused telepathic nudging in which I read practically nothing, he blinks, and the movements look genuinely confused. "Wha -- ?" The guy's voice is ragged.

"You okay?" I ask, withdrawing the telepathy.

There’s a moment in time when I loosen the grip, and he screams, throws me off, and charges with a berserker yell -- straight at Herzog. Herzog looks like he’s ready to panic, but quickly gathers another teleport field around himself. Mr. Ireland makes contact with the field, appears out the other side, and falls to the ground in agony.

His left forearm didn’t teleport with him. The elbowless stump is lying next to Herzog.

"Shit!" I exclaim. I’ve never seen anyone lose a limb before, except in the movies. Shit, that is so fucking gross!

"Let’s try that trick with your head!" Herzog snarls, looking directly at me -- I get the impression that while Big Red’s amputation wasn’t planned, this one sure the fuck is!

The light show around Herzog is meant to intimidate me, but I’ve got higher priorities. A weird energy field surrounds me, and I feel myself start to fade. Ignoring the lurch in my stomach, I concentrate, and the teleport field disperses with a thought. "Nice try, asshole."

I make my way over to Mr. Ireland. He’s going into shock. I put my hand on his shoulder to comfort him, and turn toward Herzog. I gotta end this fight quick. "You’re fucking toast," I promise the teleporting asshole.

Herzog screams, a panicky dog-like yelp that reveals just what a cowardly shit he is, channels his powers into a wide area, and suddenly a teleport field encompasses me and the Irish Muscle. Next thing I know, we reappear in the middle of some remote wilderness area. The bunker isn’t anywhere in sight, and neither is Killarney.

Fuck! I didn’t even have a chance to grab the poor mother’s fucker’s arm!

Scooping Jock One-Hand into my arms, I leap up and get some elevation. It takes me about ten seconds to reach two thousand feet, and there’s still no sign of Killarney or any landmarks that would give me a clue as to where the fuck we are. Along the way, I quickly cauterize the wound, and use my powers to dampen his pain. Then I head east at top speed, hoping to find help. The big guy stirs in my arms, an intense look on his face.

"You’ll be okay. That’s a promise. I’m Tommy Tom."

"Damon," he says weakly. "Also. Red Lion."

I vaguely recall "Red Lion" as the name of a native Irish super-hero. I don’t know much about him, except that he’s fought Macha at least once, and the few reports I’ve seen about him on MNN have placed him pretty high on the power charts. I guess everyone in this part of the world pays so much attention to England’s Ensign team that Irish metas don’t get the international coverage they deserve. "Well, Damon, just hang on."

"Heal me in Ireland, boy," Red Lion says. I guess he wants native soil.

I sigh. I wish I could be more helpful for the poor son of a bitch. I end up landing on a military ship in the channel, a British transport vessel that’s been called over to help support the campaign against the Royals. I hear there’s a stand being made at Dundalk, north along the coast from Dublin, where apparently a lot of the resistance is gathering. So I head to Dundalk.

"You’re taking me away from Killarney."

"It’s a ghost town," I report. "The Royals have rounded everyone up. God knows what they’re doing to them."

"I have a wife and two kids," Damon admits in a thick Irish brogue. "I hope."

I was going to mention that the Royals had vowed once to destroy all humans who didn’t live up to their standards. This didn’t seem like a good time to bring up that subject. "What’d the Royals do to you?"

"I’m not sure. I was fighting a pack of mutants, and something hit me from behind," Red Lion says weakly. "I passed out. And after that brainwashing, I suppose."

"You ever get screwed over by psionics before?" I ask.

"Never." He swallows hard. "My arm."

"I know," I say. "I’m sorry."

"What are you sorry about? You weren’t the one who cut it off!" he says.

"Well, I should have held onto you longer."

"Avatar himself couldn’t hold onto me when I get pissed. And I can’t find fault with your grip."

That’s not fucking true at all. "Maybe we can get the arm back and reattach it," I suggest.

"I suspect we’re a little too late. Knowing the Royals, they probably burnt it out of spite."

"Or they’re using it to clone you," I say, and when I suddenly realize that what I just said is probably not bullshit, I nearly drop him.

It takes about twenty minutes to get to striking distance of Dundalk, traveling just under subsonic velocity. When I’m ten kilometers from my target, I receive a radio transmission asking me to stop and identify myself. Before I can answer though, I’m greeted by another hologram -- this time it’s the Zodiac.

"I didn’t think I’d be so glad to see your face," I say.

"Omega, what are you doing here?" the Protectorate commander asks in a voice that would be condescending if it wasn’t so dispassionate.

I hold up Red Lion as though he were a prize. "I’m trying to help save Ireland’s collective ass," I say. "Starting with this guy."

Zodiac casually scrutinizes Red Lion. "Shouldn’t you be in Philadelphia?" he asks me.

"There’s nothing for me to do there except wait for Dr. Dwarf to divine where Hack and Orchid are"

"Dr. Wight," Zodiac corrects, "is an eminent professional with many years of exceptional service to the human race, and far more deserving of respect than you are showing him."

"Sorry," I respond. "Actually, I kinda like the guy. He’s like a midget wrestler with brains. As to why I’m here, when I heard the first reports of weird shit over here, I had to help out. I tried to contact you"

"Omega, you’re in no condition to fight a war," Zodiac declares.

"I’m fine. All the wounds I took from Hack are healed."

"That isn’t why you’re unfit, and you know it," Zodiac answers.

I swallow hard. "It’s because of Philadelphia?"

"No," Zodiac says. "It is because of what happened in Nebraska. Because Miss Wiebe’s killers have not yet been delivered to justice. And because you are a young man with intense emotions, and because nothing you have faced could possibly prepare you for such an ordeal. It is no mindset in which to fight a war. You should not be here. Not yet."

I’m stone-faced. "I’m just trying to do the right thing," I finally say. "You know, the whole greatest good for the greatest number crap."

"What happened to you, boy?" Red Lion asks. I flash him a sympathetic look, but otherwise ignore the attempt at male bonding, at least for now.

"And where the fuck were you?" I finally direct my anger at Zodiac. The spleen surprises me, even as I’m saying it. "If the Protectorate knew the living hell I was going through, why didn’t you assholes send me a message? Why didn’t you let me know that what I was going through was worth at least a few seconds of your precious fucking time?"

"Because we had our own problems, Omega. The situation here, in India, in New Orleans; we have not faced so many difficulties on so many fronts in years," The Zodiac answers. The asshole’s right, of course. "And because we did not part on the best of terms. And also because some battles are best fought alone. Most heroes prefer us not to interfere in their personal problems."

"That’s just fucking pride," I say. "I admit most of the time I think I can take the entire goddamn world with one hand tied behind my back. But when it comes to those two," I say, shaking my head. "Shit, I’m so goddamn scared that I can’t even think any more."

"You did not show fear when you faced Hack in New Jersey," Zodiac notes.

"Fights don’t scare me," I admit. "What frightens me to fucking death is the prospect that the bad guys are going to win. That I’m never going to find John, that the press is going to continue eating up these fucking lies about me, that one by one my friends are going to die and Orchid will keep getting away with it. That the Priest will keep getting away with it, as he has for fucking centuries And not just that I’ll die, but that even my death won’t mean anything." I snarl and then I pause. Zodiac’s goddamn stoic face is impossible to read. "Is any of this getting through?" I snap.

"All of it," Zodiac declares.

"I have so much fucking power that it drives me half-insane most of the time. But what the fuck has all this power done for me? I can’t even keep my fucking job. Rachel’s dead," I say. "Shit, I bet this all sounds like a pity trip to you."

"I don’t experience emotions, Omega, not as you do," Zodiac says. "But I remember. And even when I view things rationally, I cannot deny there is considerable justification for your emotional response."

"If you will, Zodiac," Red Lion finally interjects. "Let me talk to him."

"But your arm," I object.

"As you wish," Zodiac tells Red Lion. "Omega, when you are ready, the camp is clear for your approach."

"Wait Paragon has a virus," I object. But Zodiac’s hologram has faded.

"Set me down, boy," Red Lion instructs.

I find a deserted section of rocky beach, and we land. Red Lion sits down on a rock, cradling his stump. I sit down, pick up some stones, and start tossing them into the sea. Red Lion sighs, and finally begins to speak.

"Mr. Champion, I’ve lost my arm, my home, maybe my family, and definitely the country I once knew. More than anyone, I’ve got the right to tell you to stop feeling sorry for yourself, and face up to your problems."

"Fine. Message received," I say.

"But that’s not what I’m saying," Damon replies. "What I’m saying -- the only thing worth saying -- is that you’re not alone."

I look at him hard, but I can’t really say anything.

"Tom, I have a recurring nightmare. I’ve had it for years," Damon says. "A dream of falling. Falling without anyone to catch me. The last couple of days, I was living that nightmare, but you caught me."

"Shit," I say, half-smiling and shaking my head. "You work for Hallmark?"

"Is there something about friendship that bothers you, Tom?"

"Friendship?" I smirk. "I kicked your ass."

"Maybe. Of course there was someone who decided to interfere in my thought processes." Damon laughs at the machismo -- you gotta love the Irish -- but then he shudders.

"You okay?" I ask, worried about his health.

"I lost my arm, what do you think!" Red Lion exclaims, but with a bit of a smile. Shit, if someone cut off my fucking hand, I wouldn’t be making jokes about it. "Maybe I can get a cyborg replacement." He pauses. "And if they make me a silver hand, and I can change my name to Nuada."

"Ain’t that’s some old Celtic god?"

"The chief god. The wife wouldn’t accept anything less."

I suppose I can bring myself to chuckle about it, except that whole Celtic mythology gives me the creeps. After the Brazos incident, I did a quick review of the world’s major mythologies, and the Celtic stuff was the one that most weirded me out. Every fucking hero in those myths was a rat bastard who got screwed over by a woman in the end, and not in a good way.

"Well, losing a hand may have mythic significance, but I still think it sucks horseshoes through a fucking straw."

"You could always grow me a new one," Damon says. I look at him like he’s fucking crazy. "Have you ever tried to do it before?"

"Grow people’s limbs back on? No fucking way," I say. "I can’t do that shit."

"How do you know?" the Irishman looks me in the eyes, and holds up his stump.

"I’m not fucking Jesus Christ," I say, shaking my head. "Lame men walk, blind men see, that’s not my deal."

But Damon’s not the sort of fucker who accepts no for an answer. He clutches my shoulder with his good hand and gives me a such heartfelt look it could "Scrooge" Jesse Helms into becoming a Democrat. This guy’s powers are almost as obnoxious as mine.

"Tom, please give it a try," he pleads. I shake my head in disbelief at what he’s asking me to do. "Please." He repeats, steadying me as I have half a mind to bolt.

"Fine." I shrug. "I just didn’t want to get your hopes up."

I look at the stump, look back at my own left hand, then at his right hand, and I concentrate. I concentrate hard. I think about the injustice of the whole thing, having your mind being used as the Royal Elite’s Slinky. Watching your land get raped, and being forced to join in. Shit, that’s a Hell that’s beyond any even I’ve imagined. What would it be like if Orchid took control of my body and forced me to kill dad, then relive that moment for the rest of my life? That’s Damon’s Hell.

The word "injustice" doesn’t even begin to cover it. And now I have to pretend that I’m helping Red Lion escape that whole Northern mythology one-handed hero bullshit. The poor fuck.

"I can feel something happening," Damon says.

I nod, as stupidly as Buck agreeing to one of my plans when he only wants to blow shit up.

"I’m going to be very grateful to you, Tom," Damon says.

"You got a daughter?" I smile.

"I’m not that grateful," Red Lion replies.

"Well, it’s not like we wouldn’t go out in the backyard and do the whole John Wayne/Victor McLaglen scene first," I say, remembering The Quiet Man. I loved old movies when I was a kid, and that one’s probably tied with Treasure of the Sierra Madre and Bridge on the River Kwai as my all-time favorites.

"Ha!" Damon exclaims. "In a real fight, McLaglen would’ve handed Wayne his head. And that film was more about John Ford’s romantic aaak"

Damon grimaces with a really sharp pain fuck, I didn’t mean to hurt the guy

Holy fucking shit!

Damon’s hand has been replaced. Red Lion now proudly displays a strong left hand that’s a perfect (if oppositely aligned) match for the right.

"You" Damon is looking at me harder than a Republican at a Bill Clinton rally. But I don’t hear what he’s saying, and I can’t stand looking at him. The sight of the hand is more than I can stomach. Yeah, I know, since when is a restored hand more disgusting than a severed one? But think about it. Just think hard. Me, I can’t stop thinking right now -- my life has just become a whole lot fucking complicated.

If I can restore people’s lost limbs, what the fuck can’t I do? Should I really be running around in skintights bashing people like Hack when I could be going around hospitals, healing the sick like a modern day apostle, regardless of the whole unlicensed practitioner bullshit?

Can I cure Christopher Reeve’s paralysis? Can I cure Ronald Reagan’s Alzheimer’s? Can I cure Buck’s brain damage?

Can I go to Rachel’s grave and call her from the dead?

And if that works, shouldn’t I be wandering the planet’s cemeteries, waging some insane, godforsaken war against death itself? Am I now responsible for the life and death of every single goddamn person on this planet?

Am I God? Am I?

I can’t take this. What person could take this? God, I wish I was stupid. Only an idiot, like my cousin Buck, who’s too dumb to consider the consequences of their actions, could take this. Only someone too dumb to realize what’s possible. There was a reason I didn’t try this sort of shit before, I didn’t need to know I had this sort of power. This is as bad as when I woke up after the thunderbolt. Maybe even as bad as when I heard that Rachel had died.

Damon is holding onto me like a sex addict who’s desperately holding onto his last fuck. I shake him loose, catching a look on his face that’s wondering what this crazy son of an American bitch is doing. Why the fuck isn’t Omega staying behind to fight that good fight, to share some Irish stew with him and his goddamn family when it’s over? I say absolutely nothing. In a few seconds, I’m where I want to be -- out of sight.

So I fly westward, over glen, dale, and Royal Elite fortresses. Some of the installations even fire at me as I pass over, but I’m getting the fuck out of here much too fast for their gunnery systems. I’ll head back to Philadelphia, where life is simple -- just a matter of survival -- and I can deal with the world’s problems two at a time. Maybe, just maybe, once I get Hack and Orchid under control -- and find John -- I can figure out what to do about the rest of this shit. But for now, I need things simple.

Black hat simple.
 

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