Have A Big Fight
by Scott Bennie
And suddenly, unexpectedly, I was free.
The charges against me have been dropped like a fifty pound stone off a bridge -- one big splash and they ain’t never coming back. Hack and Orchid are out of my life, and hopefully those two psychos will receive the help they so desperately need. There’s a part of me that feels sorry for them, even for Orchid, even after Rachel. Fuck me if I know why.
Now, there was only one thing left to do, and that’s take my rightful place as Nebraska’s favorite son and Nike’s spokeshero. I decided to check on Nike in person, and take back what is mine. (Of course, the whole "one thing" bit is complete bullshit; a casual look down my life’s checklist reveals a ton of unresolved crap. Ireland is still a mess, Permafrost is still missing, and I have serious lingering doubts about whether we actually collared the real Hack and Orchid -- I mean, how do I know I wasn’t facing a Hack or Orchid simulacrum on the docks, just like the Hackenstein that Sarah and Dr. Wight fought in the arena?)
This business is fucking crazy.
I listen to MNN as I trek across America, and there’s barely a mention of Philadelphia. Everyone is talking about Ireland. Apparently Old Glory and Avatar have just finished a big fight, and Old Loser lost bad (the old American, not the old Babylonian). There are a lot of people pissing their pants right now -- if Avatar’s gone bad, and Old Gory can’t handle the job, who the fuck is going to stop him?
I may have an answer to that question.
I arrive in the L.A. basin and do the usual subsonic deceleration to avoid breaking every window on the east side of the valley. It’s warm for this time of year, and the city is its usual cloudless, clueless self. There’s a Santa Ana wind kicking up and the air is cleaner than usual; even Riverside, the place where kids grow up asking the question "mommy, why is the sky brown?" doesn’t have its usual monoxide crust. I forgo the trip back to the apartment in favor of a visit to the shoe factory. It’s time to take back what’s mine before they give it away to the Minnesota Kid. I have a mental image of them holding a press conference, and arriving just in time to watch them hand the red and gold Omega suit to some young, sneering, boy band punk. The thought of that is almost enough to make me go supersonic and arrive with at Nike with a boom.
But the city is quieter than normal, and the Shoehole is almost dead. I land on the street, restore the Nike symbol to my costume, and head in the building. "I need to talk to whoever’s in charge right now," I say.
"Sure Omega," the receptionist smiles, only it’s not just a smile, it’s a fucking bellweather. If they’re giving me teeth and grins at the front desk, it means things will probably go my way on the inside.
After a few minutes, I’m given the go ahead to get to the head office. Michael comes down and greets me with a big hug that catches me completely off-guard.
"You know, I haven’t come out of the closet yet," I joke, but I still return the embrace. He grunts slightly and lets go of the hold.
"I’m glad things finally went your way, farmboy," Michael answers with his Tom Cruise grin, patting me firmly on the back.
"So is everything squared with Nike?" I ask with crinkled nose and furrowed brow. "What about this Justin kid?"
"He’s been informed that his services aren’t needed," Michael answers the second question first.
"I’ll bet he was pissed," I say. Michael nods. "I hope this doesn’t turn into a fucking supervillain origin," I add, mostly to myself.
"And Vice President Shales wants to see you immediately."
"I need to get hold of my agent and rehire him," I say. "And I want a press conference. Nike has to reaffirm their confidence in me -- in public," I insist.
"Well, let’s see what the Shalesman has to say before we go anywhere," Michael adds.
"I’m not asking for an apology, but I’ve been more than fucking patient in this whole matter," I reply as we step into the elevator and turn the key to get to the top floor. "And I want more reward for it than a fucking cookie and a pat on the head."
"I know, but trust me, we’ve got a proposal that will hit you in the balls."
"Mastiff hit me in the fucking balls, twice," I mutter.
"No, I mean in a good way," Michael says, and he cuts off my reply. "Don’t ask. I won’t tell. It wouldn’t be smart for me to undercut the manager of operations when he wants to act Vice Presidential and give you good news."
I’m pretty much silent for the rest of the ride. We head up to an office, not a conference room, and Michelle and a few other important types are there. It’s Shales’ office, but he’s not here. The room is a spartan mix of oddly molded metal and plastic furniture, statues of naked art deco gods, framed with a huge picture of Nike’s god of gods, Michael Jordan, plastered on the wall. To err is human, but Air Fucking Jordan is a franchise that’s positively divine.
"How are you doing, Mr. Champion?" Michelle Jude is sitting on a weird sloped couch with a cellphone at her side and a laptop perched on her lap. That’s fucking odd, she usually ignores me. I smile, nod at her, and mouth the word ‘fine’ under my breath. She doesn’t notice, though: everyone has turned their attention to the arrival of the Vice President. Alan Shales is a thin man in his late 40s, he’s blond, blue-eyed, thin and handsome, marred only by a balding crown that gives him a striking resemblance to a skinny Friar Tuck.
"Your arrival is opportune, Mr. Champion," Shales says. "Nike, like the rest of America, is deeply concerned about what is happening in Ireland, particularly with Avatar’s moral shift."
"It ain’t a moral shift" I say, omitting the word ‘asshole’ at the end of the sentence. Fuck, why am I leaping to the defense of the Mesopotamian musclehead? "He’s being mind controlled."
"Yes, of course," Shales says. "Be that as it may, we’re still deeply concerned, and that provides an opportunity for you. I understand that you’re an extremely competitive individual."
"He is, sir," Michael says. I give him a nasty look.
"The public is very concerned about Avatar," Shales continues. "And anyone who takes him down is going to get world-wide acclaim, so here’s the offer. If you can defeat Avatar in single combat, Nike will tear up your current contract and offer you a new, twenty million dollar per year, five year deal, and give you a twenty million dollar signing bonus."
I’m practically fucking speechless. I like the money, but Jesus, could these assholes whore me more blatantly? Do they have any fucking clue about what’s happening over in Ireland?
"I won’t pretend that I don’t want to take down Avatar," I say. "But I think it’s way more important to beat these Royal Elite assholes. You want to place a bounty on someone, try Autocrat."
"Mr. Champion, you misunderstand me." Shales smiles and leans back in his chair. "This isn’t a bounty. It’s appropriate compensation for someone who reaches the top of his profession. If you prove yourself to be the best superhero in the world, you’ll get paid accordingly. Do you have a problem with that?"
"I got a problem with the numbers." I smile. "I’ll let my agent hash out the details, but if I prove myself to be the best in the world, I want at least twenty-five mil a year, a thirty million signing bonus, and a five million per year bonus performance bond. If I put my life at risk against the baddest and the best to sell your shoes, it ain’t coming cheap."
"There are other heroes where you come from," Michelle snaps, finally breaking the unspoken truce between us.
"Hey, bring on Captain Minneapolis." I smile. "I could use a light workout to loosen the kinks. Everyone here knows there’s only one heavyweight superhero in this company, and his name is Tom Champion. The press practically kills their fucking kids just to get a sound bite from me. So you’d better take me seriously, and not keep throwing bullshit my way, because if I keep hearing talk about how replaceable I am, I might track down this loser you hired, pick a fight with him, treat him the same way I treated Halcyon, and set an example."
"Mr. Champion, no one’s suggesting," Shales says.
"Fine. Don’t fucking suggest it," I say. "This company has treated me like shit from day one, forcing me to audition after I signed, and publicly disavowing me because of these bogus murder charges when it was obvious even to an idiot with a white cane that I’d been framed."
"We did maintain private support, Mr. Champion," Shales interjects.
"Big whoop. You’re lucky I didn’t go to Johnny Cochrane and sue all your asses until a judge forced you to strip naked in the streets. And you’re real lucky I haven’t walked over to Converse. Now you can talk to my agent, because win, lose, or draw against Avatar, my stock has just climbed sky high and you can either pay my ass what it’s worth, or kiss it good-bye. Now I’m going to Ireland, because someone has to take care of that mess."
And, leaving a room full of gaping mouths in my wake, I fly through the ceiling and head to Ireland. I have a very strong feeling after all the shit I just said that I’d better win this fight. Provided I even find Avatar -- if I were the Effete, I’d send more than just one guy out to fight me.
I take a polar route this time, monitoring the channels to make sure I’m keeping up to speed. For all I know, the Protectorate could come in, do something cool, kick the Royals’ asses, and I could be just stuck doing mop up duty. I send a signal to the Protectorate satellite.
"Omega to Protectorate, come in please. Zodiac, do you copy?" Shit, stuff like that actually sounds pretty cool when you say it.
"What can we do for you, Omega?" the Protectorate leader asks in his usual neutered, dispassionate voice.
I swallow an urge to be a smartass. "Zodiac, I’ve finished in Philadelphia and I’m on the way to the Emerald Isle, ETA, sixty minutes. Request instructions."
"It would be unwise to advise you on an open channel, Omega," Zodiac says. Shit, why didn’t I think of that? "Nor do I have the authority to instruct you. Proceed at your discretion. If you rendezvous with us, we’ll advise you further."
"Roger. Omega out," I say.
I thought of setting course for Dundalk again, but I think I’ll try Dublin first. Dublin is set on a bay on the east coast, next to the Irish sea. In the meantime, I get a great view of a lot of ice. It’s like the plains, except icier. It reminds me a lot about John.
But the natural Arctic desolation is nothing compared to the view of a ruined city. I arrive over Ireland with a sonic boom and streak straight to Dublin, adding thunder to a partially clouded sky. But it doesn’t matter a fucking bit, because there’s no one here to annoy. The entire country is an unburied corpse that’s been left for the dogs. I’ll be fucked if Dublin isn’t the saddest place I’ve ever seen, sad because it’s so fucking obvious how magnificent all these buildings and all this architecture used to be, before the Royals came. Fuck them all. Fuck the goddamn Royal Elite. Everywhere there’s rubble and pieces of fallen buildings, columns, brickwork, and crushed signs. Millions of lives have been reduced to raw fucking sewage. These assholes think of themselves as Royal, and then they start destroying all this beautiful shit like a horde of barbarians. What’s so fucking royal about that?
I find a building that’s particularly beautiful -- from the signs I find, I guess it was the National Museum - and I use my magic on it. I wonder if I can rebuild this city, one building at a time, and once again I’m fucking terrified by just what my powers can do -- it’s enough to make me wonder if my mother isn’t really named "Endora." The rubble shifts and suddenly reforms, bricks dance and form well-mortared rows, the columns stand and straighten as if held by titans, and finally the façade goes back into place. The building is full of cracks when I finish my reconstruction, and there are pieces missing, but at least it’s not powder and rocks anymore.
"Stand and fight, Omega," a deep voice behind me announces, echoing through the quiet empty streets.
I turn and it’s a figure in black, a hug fucking mother fucker wearing some sort of high tech plastic-metal armor breastplate and a sleek black helmet, a dragon of destruction.
Yeah, I know who he is. I can see his true self in my brain, blood, balls and spirit, and I don’t think even the best psionic in the world could mask that unmistakable baritone or place that titan’s presence onto someone else. I have no idea how he found me so quickly, and it doesn’t fucking matter.
"I said, stand and fight!" Avatar scowls, waiting for my reaction.
Fuck, he’s magnificent. Just look at the size, the muscle, and the confidence in his posture. Even though he’s been mindfucked into Autocrat’s service, he’s still a fucking figure of awe. It’s to my credit that my muscles are tensing with anticipation, not nervousness, and that my face is smiling broadly. I deserve to be here, and not because some aging Nike asshole with a title and bad office furniture offered me a lot of money to become his hit man.
"I heard the liquor here is fucking awesome," I tell my adversary. "You care to join me for a drink?"
"I do not believe there are any drinking establishments have been left standing," the man says. "All traces of this city’s plebian past have been eliminated."
"Doesn’t look like much of anything is left." I shrug. "That’s what you get when you try to eliminate the ‘plebeian’ influence. It sort of removes the whole point of life."
"We will offer the world a new way," my opponent says.
"It looks pretty old to me. Pain. Suffering. Yeah, that’s way fucking old," I respond. "Now don’t get me wrong, I really enjoy pain and suffering, particularly when I get to inflict it on complete assholes."
"Such as us?" Avatar sneers.
There’s a long pause. "Avatar, if I were tell you that you’re being used as a telepathic puppet and that we should be fighting side-by-side, would it make a fucking bit of difference to you? Would you even stop to look and see if you can spot the strings?" His expression is unchanged. I sigh. "I guess I’m just going to get the whole ‘I was told you’d try to deceive me’ bullshit?"
"I was told you would try to delay the fight with idle banter and insults against me and my lord Autocrat." The god answers in a matter-of-fact tone.
"I see. Same difference," I say, disappointed.
"Although your relative civility surprises me. Perhaps you are not as ferocious as I have been told. You are less willing to insult me to my face than you are behind my back."
I almost laugh. "Do you want an insult?"
"I have heard many things about you, Omega," Avatar says. "I’m simply surprised. And perhaps a little disappointed to see you holding back."
Now I do laugh. "Fine. How about ‘you’re a deluded, musclebound dork with the brainpower of a fucking inbred Chihuahua,’" I say. "And let’s add ‘I’m going to fuck your gay Babylonian ass so hard, you won’t be able to shit for a month.’ Happy now?"
"Happy?" Avatar sneers, not breaking eye contact. "With an arrogant, foul-mouthed boy like you? I’m going to break you in two."
"Cool. Okay. I’m ready," I say, limbering up.
I know he meant his insult, but that’s cool. This fight should be personal. We’re the best, at least until I’m proven wrong. I get into a defensive crouch, and put all of my magic into strengthening my muscles, giving them more tensile strength than vanadium steel. I always feel like I can take the fucking world when I pull this trick, but this is Avatar. He’s the fucking Michael Jordan of superheroes, and has been for twenty-something years. Compared to him, the rest of the world is on the B-Team.
He charges. I brace against his approach, and there’s an impact. I don’t know what it’s like to get hit by a runaway freight train, but this is probably pretty close. Our chests butt, our arms lock, and we’re doing a serious grind against each other. We wrestle for about five seconds, five glorious fucking seconds where neither of us has the advantage. Fuck, he’s strong, but I expected this. Fuck, he’s even stronger than Sandstone, but I expected that too. I’m giving it everything I’ve got, and for a second the pounding in my chest and in my balls tells me I’m going to take him.
And then he steps around my attempted throw, hoists me over his head, and hurls me into the reconstructed museum. Then the building collapses on top of me. Shit. All that work for fucking nothing!
I manage to tunnel out of the wreckage, and I hover in the air to face him. The frustrating thing is that he’s wearing that black helmet; not only does it provide extra protection, it masks his entire face except for the eyes. I like to look at my opponent in a fight, catch their expression as I beat the shit out of them. All this outfit does is tell me that the greatest hero on Earth has been reduced to the Royal Elite’s black clad ass monkey.
"Nice throw," I say, shaking my head to work out the kinks. "So let’s say you’re not being mind controlled by the Royals. You’re Avatar. You’re a god. What the fuck are you doing serving Autocrat? Shouldn’t they be following you?"
"I serve them to avenge the fall of my brother, Metatron," Avatar declares, ending any hope I had at deceiving him by playing to his god-like ego.
Shit! The brainwashing is worse than I fucking suspected -- Metatron was Autocrat’s son, killed fifteen years ago in a fight with the Protectorate. It’s been rumored that Avatar has felt guilty about that death for years; if I were a psionic, that’d be the edge I’d exploit to get Avatar to join the Elite. And I guess someone did.
So I advance, cleaning off the dust on my costume with a thought, and meet him in the center of the narrow Dublin avenue. We wrestle again, some serious Graeco-Roman upper body mauling; we’re so close he can probably smell the sweat beads as they form on my forehead. I try to underhook his arm and set him up for a throw, but Avatar does a perfect instinctive counter, muscles past my guard, and then bearhugs me. Shit! This is as fucking painful as getting ripped apart by fucking Hack, except that pain didn’t last as long.
"Yield, Omega, or I’ll break your back!" Avatar promises.
"Not that easy dude," I say. I try to muscle out, and I’m locked tight. I shove my hands in his face and drive his neck backward; he grunts but the hold doesn’t budge. I won’t be able to break free, not that way. In desperation, I try another trick. I transform myself into a sound wave, vibrate through Avatar’s fingers, through his armor, and materialize behind him. As soon as I’m solid, I clutch him in a waistlock, suplex him onto the back of his head, then roll him to the ground.
If I’ve got an advantage, it’s pretty fucking momentary. Avatar lands on his stomach, with me on top, but he’s already countering the move. The two of us, arguably the two strongest metas in the world, are rolling around on the ground like a pair of schoolkids. Shit, five years from now, I’ll bet we’ll be laughing our asses off about this. I try to grapevine his legs while I’m still on top, struggling to keep him held down, but it’s like trying to wrestle a tornado. He bridges while he turns, an explosion of raw strength that’s impossible to counter, and he ends up on top of me. Reversal, two points. Before I can effectively react, he lands a solid punch to my face, making a rifle shot-like sound that spooks every pigeon within a mile radius, and probably cracks my cheekbone. Shit that hurts!
I bridge, and manage to throw him off before he can cinch the hold. Okay, Tommy, twenty-five million. That would be sweet. Don’t drop the fucking ball.
Our eyes lock, and we go to close quarters and wrestle again. I deliver a short punch to Avatar’s left kidney, but he spins behind me, gets his massive forearm around my throat, and begins to choke me out. I struggle, but he drags me to the ground, wraps his legs around my torso like a fucking python, and I get to feel his leg strength crushing my ribs. Holy fucking shit, why the fuck am I wrestling this monster?
I pull up against the constrictor grip around my chin, arc my back to fight the grip, then deliver a sharp elbow to his ribs. That loosens his grip enough that I can teleport out. He’s still on his back; I see my opening and do a simple orientation change, teleporting on top of him as I muscle up. Avatar’s caught with his guard down -- he’s not used to fighting close quarters against a teleporter who’s also willing to muscle him. He lifts up his right arm to block me, but somehow I manage to connect with a thunderous right cross to the face. All it does is piss him off. I lock our legs together, hope he’s used to fighting Graeco, and I throw another punch. Avatar’s trying to push me off, but a man has to be a lot stronger than you when he’s fighting from his back, and Avatar isn’t that much stronger than me. My left hook lands, hard.
But I’m not even remotely close to a win. Avatar clubs me with a two handed blow that finally pries me loose, and we both get to our feet with perfect synchronicity. I leap on him, powered by pure testosterone. But he’s had had enough. Avatar shouts something in a language I don’t recognize, and suddenly lines of force swell around us, forming the outline of an ancient warrior. The shape lifts its spear and says in a thundering god's voice:
"Me, ù-ma!"
Marduk! In divine strength, victory! The words etch themselves in my head in English, and I get the vague impression of just what’s about to happen.
Great, he just had to go He-Man on me and pull out the fucking sword of Greyskull.
Everything around us goes white. I have a feeling we’re in real deep shit, but before I can react, the world explodes. I’m thrown upward and backwards about thirty meters, blacking out for a second. I find myself getting to my feet without really understanding what’s happening around me. I should be hearing sound, but there’s a painful whine. Everything in a five hundred-meter radius around us is burning, including the concrete (although the pressure wave from the explosion was powerful enough to snuff out the fires in our immediate vacinity). Avatar is also getting to his feet, peeling away the shattered bits of the Royal Elite armor, and shouting something I can’t hear at me. I also notice that whatever Avatar did, my costume’s completely shredded too. Neither of us are Comics Code right now. Somehow it seems appropriate.
My hearing clears, but fuck, I’m wobbly. Avatar isn’t. "You have spirit," he declares. "I shall crush it."
"Yeah," I babble, breathing harder than a triathlete at the finish line. "Bring it on, dickhead."
Avatar strides toward me, showing no sign of any effect from the fight. I become intangible at the last second, step through him, rematerialize, and try to lock him in a full nelson. With luck, I can hold him for a few seconds, give me that much more time to recuperate, that much more time
He sidesteps my attempted hold like I was an amateur, spins, and backhands me to the ground.
Time for the adrenaline of the fight to overwhelm his senses and snap him back to normal. Somehow, somewhere, I remember But wait, I’m already on the ground nothing’s working
As I get back to my feet, he backhands me again. I feel myself hitting the ground hard this time. Gotta talk. Distract him. Play for time. Only fucking chance I have.
"You’re beaten, Omega."
I hate the sound of those words, and the truth in them, and that hatred is enough to give me a semblance of a second wind. No, I’m saying nothing. Avatar watches me as I crawl to my feet, a slight smug smile on his face. But my slowness is deliberate, careful, and I’m focusing as hard as I can. As soon as I’m standing, Avatar throws another backhanded slap, but I lose the fake wobble and sidestep him. Then I deliver a sharp punch to the solar plexus to my off-balance opponent, and follow it up with a serious roundhouse to his face. Avatar goes hurtling in a heel over head tumble, falls backward ten meters, and lands stomach-first on the scorched pavement.
"I don’t give a shit how strong you are, how long you’ve been doing this, or how big your dick is," I declare. "Get off the fucking ground, Avatar, because I’ve got a lot more fight left."
Avatar gets to his feet, and advances, his face expressionless. Man, I’d fucking hate to play poker against this guy. I throw a wild right cross, but he’s got way too much combat experience to let me land a punch that’s that sloppy. He smiles slightly as he blocks it, locks my right arm, and tools my torso with three left body blows that definitely test my rib cage. My stomach’s in my mouth, and the last of my second wind has faded. I claw at him weakly, but he backs me up against a huge mound of rubble that’s part of the twice fallen National Museum.
"Praise Autocrat, and I’ll let you live," he issues an ultimatum that’s literally in my face.
I don’t know if it’s the gag reflex, or just the fact that what the Royals have done here sickens me, but I spit in his face. "You fucking coward," I say. "I am so sorry for you. When you come to your senses you are going to feel like such a completely worthless piece of shit."
He puts his hand on my forehead and forces me down with ridiculous ease. Still, I struggle against his strength, and attempt to grab the arm and lever it into a throw -- I end up falling on my ass without doing a thing to Avatar. At least I’m out of his grasp. I do a quick roll and get back to a combat stance. After a few hard breaths, I manage to puff: "I ain’t begging. But one day, you will. For forgiveness."
Avatar backhands me again, knocking me to my back. I crawl to my feet again. Avatar’s ready for me when I get up; we wrestle again, and Avatar slams me on my head, hard. As I fight against unconsciousness, the Babylonian god grabs a huge piece of rubble, lifts it high over his head, and brings it down on my skull. Shit! I become intangible a split second before it hits, and rise out of the cloud of dust and debris, a battered fucking angel. He curses. I hover in the air and stare my opponent in the face.
Avatar straightens and looks back at me. Despite the fight, he’s still proud, unbeaten. Everything I’ve done to him has meant absolutely nothing. "I’m tired of this," he says. "Run like a coward or die like a man. Your choice, Omega."
I say nothing for several seconds. Instead, I stare at Avatar, his beautifully formed godly muscle, the power and the determination in those steel black eyes, the absolute perfection of his game face, and a reluctant truth dawns on me. This isn’t a game. This is fucking life and death. The Nike pay-off is a fucking joke, and if I stay here, the odds are pretty good that I’ll die a hideous, painful death. Fuck, I can just imagine the look of perfect joy on Orchid’s face when she hears how I perished. And John’s still out there, and so is the Priest.
I realize this, and it’s almost a hard choice. Almost. I materialize, and land on the ground five meters from him. "Fuck you, Avatar," I tell the world’s greatest hero. "Bring it on, you weak-willed piece of shit!"
He advances. I know I’ve only got one chance now, so I play the telepath card. It’s time for the Vulcan mind meld. I do my best to make contact with Avatar’s mind, hoping all that anger and adrenaline will play into my hands, make it harder for the Royals to control him. But I’m unable to make contact. The Royals have anticipated I’d try this, and they’ve constructed a fortress around his mind that an amateur like me doesn’t have a hope in fucking hell of breaking. Goddamn Harbinger.
Avatar attempts to grab me by the throat, but I brush his hand aside, and throw a right cross. He dodges it, almost without effort, and plants a hard left that lands perfectly in the pit of my stomach. It shouldn’t surprise me that he’s outclassing me, he’s been fighting metas since before I was born. The only surprising thing is that I thought that I actually had a chance. I fall to my knees, despite my best effort to remain standing. He grabs me by my throat and lifts me up again. "One last chance," he says. "Beg."
"You I’d beg." I weakly say, but with a smile. "But Autocrat can kiss my fucking ass," I say with choked laughter.
"Sad. You’ve been an opponent worthy of the gods, Omega. Almost as formidable as Old Glory," Avatar says. "In a few years, you might even have become a threat to the Elite. It’s best to stop you now."
Old Glory? I don’t measure up to that fossil? I think to myself. But I can’t bring myself to say anything. Avatar and I wrestle again for a few seconds -- I give it everything I’ve got left, but Avatar outmuscles me, lifts me high over his head, and with a godly shout, he slams my back over his knee. I can hear a cracking sound, and my world goes completely black.
******
I awaken in a lot of pain, and I instinctively realize that’s a good thing. My back is killing me, and that’s a real good thing. I guess the same regenerative powers that helped me against Hack came to my aid when Avatar broke my back. I struggle to get up, and a lot of klaxons start to go off.
A man comes into the room, dressed in a patriotic garb. Fuck, it’s Old Glory. Are we prisoners? But I hadn’t heard he’d been captured
"Easy Omega. You’ve been through the wringer," Old Glory says. "But you’re in friendly hands."
I sit back in bed and sigh. Not a prisoner, good. Still, Soldier Boy ain’t my favorite hero. "What the fuck do you want?" I ask him.
"I was in the same situation that you’re in two days ago," Old Glory responds. "When you were brought in, I thought I’d stick around and see you through it."
"Well, go fuck yourself, you goddamn fossil," I tell him. "Get the fuck out!"
Old Glory nods, and turns around, and is about to walk out the door. "Idiot," he mutters under his breath.
"Fuck you, ‘Stolen Glory!’" I shout, even if the effort causes my back to hurt like a son of a bitch. He doesn’t stop. "You screwed my grandfather, you son of a bitch!"
"What did you just say?" Old Glory abruptly turns and gives me a hard, wonderstruck gaze.
"My grandfather!!" I snarl. "Captain Thomas Champion. Commander, Company E., 39th Infantry." I pause and took a deep breath. "Right after D-Day, you and your goddamn sidekick decided to steal his unit’s mission to Rouen, and you embarassed him. You disgraced his honor as an officer."
"Christ, that was fifty years ago!" Old Glory exclaims, and he’s lost in thought for a minute. He stares at my face, trying to remember, I guess. "Was he a captain?" I nod. "A blond brute with the foulest mouth you ever heard, but brave enough that he’d lead an infantry charge into hell?"
"He was one of the first on Omaha Beach," I say.
"Now that was hell," Old Glory says. "Yeah, I do remember him. His company had borne the brunt of the fighting in the early days after D-Day, and they should have been held back, but instead they were given orders to assault a German position that was sheer suicide. A lot of his surviving grunts were midwesterners, farmhands. I didn’t want them to suffer any more casualties, so I took over the mission. Your grandfather and I came to blows over it." Old Glory unconsciously rubbed his jaw. "He had a great right hook, if I recall. Didn’t he win the Medal of Honor?"
"Dad still has it."
"I see. How’d he die?" Old Glory asks, interpreting what I’d just said correctly.
"Pancreatic cancer," I reply. "About twelve years ago."
"Damn. That’s a horrible way to go," Old Glory says. "And he held a grudge against me all these years?"
"The way he told it, you were practically arch-rivals," I say.
"Hardly. But I wish we’d had a chance to set things right." Old Glory sighs. "Tommy Champion, I’ll make a deal with you. When this is over -- and if we’re both still alive -- I’ll give you a chance to avenge any and all loss of your family honor, and we can call the feud over."
"Works for me," I say. "I’d enjoy kicking your ass. But fun shit aside, has anything happened since I’ve been out? You guys haven’t managed to get Avatar back to the real world, have you? And how’d you guys get me back here?"
"Not much new has happened, unfortunately," the patriotic hero says. "Except that Autocrat has invited representatives of major world leaders over for a meeting. He says he wants to address the ‘lessers,’ provided they come to him. Arrogant bastard."
I lift an eyebrow. "That’s a little harsh, ain’t it, Boy Scout?" I chide him.
"I’m no Boy Scout. Boy Scouts don’t have my body count." Old Glory shakes his head. "Do you kids think just because we’re the ‘greatest generation’ that we’re terminally repressed? Well, we are, but that didn’t start until Eisenhower." For some reason, I find that remark hysterically funny, but my ribs hurt too much to laugh. "Do you know what we called the word ‘fuck’ back in World War II?"
"The word that won the war." I remember something grandpa once told me. "Because you guys used it so fucking often, what else could it be?"
"It’s nice to see your education is a little more developed than your common sense. We’re not saints. Don’t treat us like them," Old Glory answers. "As for how you got here, Avatar left you for dead. It was easy to go in and extract you. Red Lion volunteered."
"I don’t buy that ‘leaving me for dead’ bullshit," I say. "He’s too good for that. Avatar knew I was alive, and he knew I’d heal. They may control him, but the real Avatar’s still inside that body, doing what he can."
"You may be right," Old Glory said. "You already craving a rematch?"
I have to stop to consider that one. "I’ve never walked away from a fight, except when it was an obvious trap," I say.
"That figures. We have some computer reconstructions of your fight with Avatar, based on some reconnaisance pictures and satellite overviews." Old Glory informs me. "Before you leave the hospital, would you mind just sitting down with me and having a tactical briefing?" I nod. "Although from what I’ve seen, a wrestling coach would probably be more effective. You need to cut down the testosterone a little, son."
"Don’t call me son. I ain’t your boy," I say with a smirk.
"No, if you were my boy well, come to think of it, I was a much better superhero than I was a parent." The admission doesn’t come as that big a surprise. "Are there any other questions, anything else I can do for you?"
"Well, first, where the fuck am I?"
"Oh," Old Glory says. "You’re in a hospital, just outside Liverpool."
"I hate fucking hospitals," I say. "And could you get me some food? Real food, that is. I’m fucking starving!"
"Do I look like a waiter to you?" Old Glory asks me, a sly smile on his face.
"Fuck no. You look like you’re dressed up to sell used cars on the fourth of July weekend," I snap.
"Better that than selling overpriced running shoes to urban kids who shouldn’t be wasting what little money they have on that crap," Old Glory says, no smile on his face, his tone completely serious.
"Better shoes than drugs," I respond.
"How do you think some of them earn the money to buy them?" Old Glory retorts. Fuck, I know it shouldn’t, but that remark really gets under my skin. Accusing me of being a fucking accessory to drug trafficking! What does somebody who wraps himself in a flag know about the streets?
"Asshole." I snarl.
"I’d rather be an honest asshole than a corporate whore," Old Glory replies. "But don’t take it personally, Mr. Champion."
"Like hell I won’t." I snarl. "But I’ll save it for the fight," I reply.
Old Glory just shakes his head and walks out of the room. I hear a woman’s voice in a heavy British accent asks "Captain Crusty" how I’m doing.
"Conscious -- although I think Avatar needed to hit him a few more times," Old Glory answers, but there’s humor in the voice. Fuck him. If he thinks I’m a joke, I’ll show him. "You’d better watch your step, doc. I think he bites. Somebody better get some food inside that boy, fast."
"Thank you, but we need to take X-Rays first." The doctor rounds the corner and smiles at me. She’s a young woman, young 30s and attractive, with short brown hair and small breasts. "I’m going to need to take some tests, and then we’ll have to take you down for some X-Rays."
I sigh, concentrate -- using my magic hurts a lot worse than usual -- and produce a packet of X-Ray photos of various parts of my anatomy. "Here you go."
She stops for a second and stares at me. "Um well, we’d really like to take them ourselves."
"I’ve saved both of us a lot of time and hassle. Be thankful," I say. "And I’ll probably check out in a few minutes, once I’ve finished recuperating."
"And I thought doctors were terrible patients!" the doctor scolds.
I don’t see a ring on her finger, and she’s attractive: a little old, but "Well, if you give me some additional motivation, I’ll stay and let you play doctor with me."
"I don’t play, Mr. Champion, but thanks for the offer," she says. I must look like absolute shit for the old Champion charm to fail so completely. She takes my temperature and my pulse. I smile obnoxiously each time she touches my body. "Now we don’t have anything here capable of taking blood samples from you."
"No demon chainsaws?" I say.
"No. None of those," she deadpans.
I pull out a vial with a sample of my blood. "And some of the unmentionable stuff," I add, pulling out a vial of urine. "Now as for sperm"
"I don’t need a sample of your sperm, Mr. Champion," the doctor says. "Or your lip, for that matter."
"Doc, most women would love a sample of my lip." I smirk.
"A pity they get so much ego instead," the doctor replies, and she turns to walk away. "Don’t leave until I’ve had a chance to go over your test results."
I sigh hard, and summon some food to take care of my stomach pangs. I create a holographic television, and tune into a satellite feed of MNN. A woman on a street is standing in a downtown London scene, and there’s a transparent banner proclaiming "Ireland in Crisis." A few minutes into the broadcast, there’s some relevant news.
"This continues to be a bad week for Los Angeles bad boy meta Omega. The corporate sponsored superhero, now formally cleared of all charges in the death of MNN reporter Alan Dyment and two other Philadelphia natives, has barely survived a battle against the Avatar, who’s now firmly aligned in the camp of the Royal Elite."
"So what is Omega’s condition?" the anchor asks. As if he cared
"He was admitted several hours ago to a medical facility in Liverpool in serious condition, but doctors did remind us of his extraordinary recuperative abilities. No one has stepped forward to make a formal statement. The area around the fight scene is scorched for nearly a kilometer, indicating just how brutal this particular battle must have been."
"Has any footage of the battle been uncovered?"
"Battle" -- I guess that’s a more newsworthy word than "fight."
"Dublin is deserted, Mark, so the only people with pictures are the Royal Elite. Autocrat has released several still photos, which reveal both combatants to be badly burned by the explosion that erupted in the middle of the battle. Naturally, they show Avatar holding the upper hand."
There’s a cropped photograph of Avatar hoisting me against a rubble wall, holding me by the throat. Jesus fucking Christ, I’ve never seen myself look as badly beaten as I am there. There’s almost no determination in my eyes. The fight’s been beaten out of me.
Fuck. I’m suddenly ready for the rematch.
"So after that explosion occurred in Dublin, and Omega and Avatar were caught at ground zero, both combatants continued to fight?"
"It appears that way."
"Unbelievable."
I begin to rise out of bed. Shit, I’m more wobbly than a dozen Weebles, but I’ll get better by the time I hit Dublin, and this time I won’t make mistakes.
"Where do you think you’re going?" Old Glory, suddenly sticking his head in the door, asks.
"Fuck you," I say. "My reputation is fucking ruined, and I’ve got to fix it!"
Old Glory just laughs. "Omega, losing to Avatar, especially after you’ve fought like a son of a bitch, won’t dent your reputation. On the other hand, flying off like an idiot and getting yourself killed when five Royals jump you -- now that’ll wreck your reputation."
"They’re releasing fucking propaganda!" I snap. "They’re using me to make themselves look fucking invincible! We’ve got to do something, now!" I just shake my head. "First Hack, and now fucking this! I am not a loser!"
"Well, go ahead," Old Glory says sarcastically. "Fly away without thinking about the consequences, or the people you say you care about. You have a dad. He’d probably appreciate spending some time with you now that Hack and Orchid have been imprisoned and he doesn’t have to hide anymore. I don’t think he wants you running into a trap."
"Fuck you!" I snarl, ready to throw a punch.
"Use your brains, kid." He instinctively moves into a block position. "The Royals have already gotten the propaganda victory they wanted when they sent Avatar against you man-to-man. They don’t need to give Avatar a second shot at you in a fair fight. Next time, it’s going to be five or six on one, and you’ll be dead in ten seconds."
"Fuck!" I say, breaking the bed with my fist. It fucking hurts my ribs, but I don’t care. "You’re really pissing me off, old man," I snap.
"Good for me. I don’t like babysitting young superheroes. I have no patience for it," Old Glory responds. "For fifty years I've worked for the military. But before you make some jibe about my age or what I stand for, remember that I've been where you are. I've taken the beats, I've had my ass handed to me more times than you can count. But I've learned, I've adapted, I've survived. And if that’s not enough for you to respect my advice when you friggin' well know I’m right, I’m more than willing to wash my hands of you and watch you die."
I sit down in the middle of the broken bed. Shit, deep down, I actually like this guy, and I wasn’t expecting that at all. "What do you want me to do?" I say.
"Nothing. As you said, I’m not your father. Or your commanding officer," Old Glory says. "But if you calm down for one second and swallow just a bit of your pride, you’ll understand that what the press is saying right now doesn’t mean squat. Okay?"
He looks at me hard. Fuck, this guy may not be dad, but at close quarters he’s just about as intimidating. I turn my head away from him, but he forces it back and keeps staring at me.
"The battle’s far from over. You can become another hot-head like Echelon and watch your life go down the drain because of your ego, or you can grow up and actually be a useful player in a team victory against the Royals."
He looks at me hard for ten more seconds, and then I just laugh. "I am going to enjoy beating the shit out of you so much."
"Nah. All the strength in the world won’t help you if you can’t lay a glove on me," Old Glory boasts.
"Fuck you," I say. "I’m going to make you wish that you were fighting Avatar again."
"Only if you keep running off at the mouth," Old Glory says with a smile. "At least Avatar keeps his trap shut in a fight. Now, could we get you to spend one day recuperating without annoying your doctors?"
"I’ll try," I promise.
"Good. And no watching MNN. No anxiety, no worries. Right now, your mind is in a lot worse shape than your body. That’s what we need to concentrate on. You’ll see action soon enough."
"Sooner than you think, sir," a voice from behind us says. I recognize it -- but it’s a friend. Dr. Wight strides into the room, flanked by Cavalier and Blockade of the Canadian Shield.
"Cool! Reinforcements have arrived!" I smile. "Doc, I never thought I’d be so glad to see your face. Now the Royals haven’t got a fucking prayer!"
Dr. Wight bows his head slightly. "Actually, Omega, I came about the other matter. I think we’ve found Permafrost"
To be continued
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