There are psychopaths like The Giggler and Madjack in the fight. But Meggido decided that even his group would need medical attention. So he hired Doctor Piecemeal, a low level bio-manipulater who can do some healing if needed. Of course, he can also manipulate his own bioenergy also.
He worked out well, healing or manipulating the bio-mass of members of the team Meggido wishes to do so, and avoiding healing those in the group Meggido didn't wish to survive. Or worse, use the more harmful version of his powers. He managed to survive himself, mostly by making others think he died in the battle. But faking his death is child's play for a bio-manipulater like himself.
Ghostscythe was an old compatriot of Hawksmythe's - they'd run together in the E-Star Gang before either was well known or considered dangerous. But where Hawksmythe had become an infamous supervillain, Ghostscythe, with her powers of intangibility and lethal razors, had made a lucrative life for herself in the assassination world.
However, when Hawksmythe and Meggido contacted her about the op, she saw an opportunity to make more of a rep in supervillain circles, maybe up her price or even get recruited by one of the big names.
Her job was to run primary scout, find the targets, then let the flashy boys finish the job. She was fine with that. But when the wrecking group busted in, one of the members, a speedster called Rumbler, was conspicuously avoiding the fighting. Ghostscythe found that interesting. She informed Meggido, and trailed the man to what proved to be a pay-off by the cops for warning them about the break-in.
Rumbler has been seen a few times since, but that was subterfuge on Ghostscythe's part - the real Rumbler is resting in pieces at the bottom of a nearby river. Neither Ghostscythe nor Meggido is quite sure what to do with the information, so they're holding it close to their chests for now.
Nobody knew when Madjack graced the fight. But one thing was clear...neither side invited or wanted him. He used his powerful leaps, steal-like fingers and claws, fire breath, and stuff to litterly tear asunder both cop, crook, and even agent. It is said that he was so bloody afterwards that his very skin turned black as it dryed.
Few knew that Madjack was in really Marvin Jackson, son of the founder of Jackson Industries, who gained his transformation when he injested a strange drug dating from the Victorian era in a quest to get high one night.
Nobody knew when Madjack graced the fight. But one thing was clear...neither side invited or wanted him. He used his powerful leaps, steal-like fingers and claws, fire breath, and stuff to litterly tear asunder both cop, crook, and even agent. It is said that he was so bloody afterwards that his very skin turned black as it dryed.
Few knew that Madjack was in really Marvin Jackson, son of the founder of Jackson Industries, who gained his transformation when he injested a strange drug dating from the Victorian era in a quest to get high one night.
Flexra Mentalla was once a 90 pound weakling. When her boyfriend was picked on by the bullies of the beach, she sent away for one of the Buddie Mussels guide book for Mussel Masterie. When her boyfriend scoffed and left her, she started to read and follow the techniques inside the book herself. She became Flexra Mentalla, Heroine Of The Beach. Now she stops crimes by flexing her biceps in strange ways. She is also superhumanly strong and tough.
Flexra Mentalla was once a 90 pound weakling. When her boyfriend was picked on by the bullies of the beach, she sent away for one of the Buddie Mussels guide book for Mussel Masterie. When her boyfriend scoffed and left her, she started to read and follow the techniques inside the book herself. She became Flexra Mentalla, Heroine Of The Beach. Now she stops crimes by flexing her biceps in strange ways. She is also superhumanly strong and tough.
Some villains are, how can I put this ?, rather precious or thin skinned. So when Megiddio was mocked by actor Neil Ripsworth on Howard Stern's show, the villain lost his rag completely. Instead of merely kidnapping the actor and torturing him before a slow gruesome death Meggido blew up a two block radius just to be sure that he got Neil. Neil surprisingly was found still alive among the rubble by rescue services and heroes who raced to the scene searching for survivors.
Neil was rushed to hospital but his situation was deteriorating. One of the heroes was able to bend reality just a bit but this would only postpone the inevitable. The heroes were able to come up with a solution but they put it to Neil's consciousness first. They could save his brain but nothing else. Neil who had been shocked by the devastation agreed and so it was that he was transferred into a new cyborg body. Calling himself Hamlet Neil has taken up heroing and is being trained by the heroes and will try to find out what happened and why. Neil has a tendency to quote from plays but Shakespeare's work is all most people recognise.
Meggido in the meantime is amazed that no-one knows he was responsible and has no idea that Neil still lives
This is Professor Yorick VonDerghist, who was kidnapped by Doctor Destroyer and had his brain removed and kept alive for study. After a super team saved him, he was eventually given a manipulation exoskeleton and fought crime as The Crimson Brain. In spite being a brain in a jar, he has yet to develop full fledged psionic powers. He relies on his artificial bodies high strength and resistance along with his incredible intelligence and a slight ego problem.
Strech Killem was once a syrup filled stretching 'action figure'. Modified in his golem self, he bounces about and strangles all he comes across. Or expels some of the syrup inside him to tangle targets.
The Animagus better watch his back. During the event which Control Phreak took control of him, Alexander Leon's whole family was injured by the animal based mystic. Swearing revenge, Alexander was given a suit of armor which was especially 'profed' against magic and styled like a lion. He became The Golden Lion.
He is not so fond of Control Phreak either, but can work with him if needed. His suit also has countermesers against mental powers, and claws for offense.
Constantly Changing Hairstyle/Fashion: each time the character is seen anew by anyone, she would style her hair differently or wear something else. This only happens if there is a 'logical time' for such a change. This is usually paired with Questionable Fashion Sense.
Questionable Fashion Sense: the character constantly wears clothing which has no business being worn together. Like stripes and plaid. Hawaiian shirts. Loud colors which clash when worn together. Oversize clothes. Undersize clothing. Clothing for the wrong gender worn wrongly without a thought (so it can't be called Crossdressing cause it is not done right).
Alaisingae are two female war goddesses of the Celtic/Germanic area. They have habbit of doing everything together, including finishing each others sentences. There goals are merely to have a good fight, and being "supervillains" are a good way to get what they crave.
Alaisingae are two female war goddesses of the Celtic/Germanic area. They have habbit of doing everything together, including finishing each others sentences. There goals are merely to have a good fight, and being "supervillains" are a good way to get what they crave.
He is a member of the Chaos Clowder also known as the Grim Glaring, a group of cats who possess superior intelligence and can wield bad luck magic that can cause all manner of calamity. They are countered by the Power Paws a collection of good luck cats who try to prevent the disasters and schemes initiated by the Clowder. His human familiar, Lucian Somerset, carries out mundane tasks and provides Fiasco with tasty yum yums and chin tickles.
Since we are doing multiples, I'll comment on this one. She is ×+@or, a artificial being original designed to infiltrate a group of teenage superheroes, then lead them to their doom. Growing to like them, she betrayed her maker, and was triggered to explode. She was later rebuilt and improved upon, and renamed Xtra-Girl.
Please note, many Golden Age Comics not only use rubber science (see the origin of the Wizzer), but also don't really believe in continuity. So don't be afraid of having a villain you just introduce announcing that he is some guy's arch nemesis, and everyone plays that they know and haye each other, just because.
All right, looks like three entries is all there is going to be for this one. Again, I am _sort of_ sorry about picking the image, but look at the composition! The set of the jaw and the sadness in the eyes-- it's all just.... It's a great picture.
Cold Steel is our winner, though-- and I mean this with all sincerity-- it really was a hard choice. the belching commonality of Captain Uncouth got a chuckle from me, and the idea of the fate of the world resting on one eating contest brought back shades of Uresei Yatsura that made me all warm and nostalgic during this particularly cold week--
But I've got to go with Steel Cold, on a technicality: They were all good, but his had the little edge of working with the entire image: the strange skies, the city that seems almost stagnant in the background...
Your turn, SC! Have fun with it.
-------------------------------------------
And now that a winner has been chosen, this was the story that popped to my mind when I first saw the image:
Any minute now. He glanced off over his shoulder to be sure the plane was leaving. He caught it rising into the sky, and was surprised by just how fast it shrank it away and disappeared. He wanted to cry-- not for himself, but for them. He knew they loved him; he knew what was going to happen to them when they found out, and that they wouldn't understand, and his eyes watered, wishing he could be there for them, wishing they didn't have to experience it until they were older, more prepared. The tears were fat on the edges of his eyelids, distracting to his vision. It tore him apart that the pain they had coming was necessary, and that there was nothing he could do to comfort them. Just so long as they remembered; just so long as Joan kept her promise. She had to! It wasn't for him, after all; it was for _them_, and surely even that cold witch could understand that they needed to know....
Joan. Man, that had been a disaster. Sure, it was great at first-- he was young and cockstrong and had the world by the ass, what with that union job _and_ a fat inheritance he had never expected. Money was rolling in, and the most fun he ever had was spending it with Joan. They got married just about the time he had gained enough seniority to get in on that new reactor. Not that he doubted he would. He was one of the best, after all. That's what got him the job. I mean, _nobody_ really knew a damned thing about building a fusion reactor, so it's not like there was an expert that could bump him. Best part was that he swung that cushy department head of maintenance job as soon as the plant went live. Why wouldn't they hire him? He was the default most experienced man in his field by then. No more travel, no more twelve hour days. Just him and Joan and a little house in the burbs and a fat nest egg in the bank. Just ride out his cushy, seriously-over-paid job for the next twenty years-- Hell! They'd still be young enough to really enjoy everything they ever wanted to do. Why wait until you’re decrepit to retire?
The accident changed things. He didn't understand what happened; he was blacked out for most of it. He had come to with that nine-foot lavender gorilla-- Doctor-what's-his-name; the one that argued with himself, all the time. Out loud. The one that designed the reactor. Yeah. You know, when he was a kid, you just didn't have giant super-intelligent synthetic monkeys with seven brains. You just didn't. Today.... Damn it's a weird world. That thought called him out of his memories for a moment and he stared skyward. No sign yet, but he knew it was coming. There was something strange about this one: he could ... almost.. _almost_, mind you.... _feel_ it. It was coming. That's okay. He didn't need it to hurry. The longer it took, the further away they would get; the better the odds for them, if he should-- he put the thought out of his mind. No. I won't fail. I'm not sure I _can_ fail.
At least, he / it /they had told him he couldn't. Maybe. It was so damned hard to understand Doc even when he was talking about things that were actual _real_ science, like fire and light bulbs and such. But then he'd get cranked up on fusion and metagenomes and gravitorks or something, and blah---- it didn't make sense, and the arguing didn't help. Now that he thought about it, it seems the last coherent thing he had ever heard from the Doc was that there had been an accident and that he had been involved.
"ME?"
"Yes; I am afraid so. Do you have any idea what you've been doing the past few days?"
"Few days?"
"Yes. The accident was nearly two weeks ago."
"Two weeks?"
"Dear _GOD_, why are you wasting time talking to him? Clearly his head isn't right! I disagree, Sir. I suspect he is merely addled. Well of course he's addled; he's got a kidney where an actual _brain_ should be! Would you all just shut up, please?! Forgive the curtness of it all, but clearly he has not sensed the passage of time during his coma and--"
"Coma?"
"You see?! He seems to be stuck on 'parrot.' I think we should revisit the brain-damage angle of this again, just to tick off a few boxes, at least. Fine, yes; but you know good and well that this is just a mild disorienta-- I know no such thing, Sir, and I will thank you not to put words in my mouth again! I say the man is brain damaged. Possibly irreparably so, "
"Irreparable brain damage?"! there as a rising edge of terror in his voice.
"You see? You see that? Brain damage! The man is nothing more than a fleshy dictaphone! Experiment over; We lose; everyone go home; don't forget to burn the corpse before you lea--"
"Burn the corpse?!" The terror was quite clear, and increasingly sincere.
"I know; his arguments are _terrible_, but you can't deny the evidence supporting his hypothesis.... Silence! Silence, all of you! This man has been traumatized and needs our help! He needs a sympathetic euthanising, you dolt! I say; how dare you! We are discussing what can be learned from this very sad but practically fortuito-- STOP! I need to speak to him, and we all need to listen, and we need to help him! Oh, fine, you damnable humanitarian. What happened to "science in its purest," you sell-out?"
"What's ... are you okay?"
"I'm sorry; what? Oh, yes; of course. Yes, I am fine, as am I and me and the rest of us. We're here to help you."
"Are you sure? Because I think I might not be the worst case here...."
"I don't follow. The others are... They're families have made the arrangements; many ceremonies have been concluded."
"Are you sure you're okay?"
"We are _certain_! We cannot just be so casually (dropping to a surfer's drawl) 'sheeeuurrrr' like some common cretin! We are in excellent condition, excellent health, and prepared to share with you all the reasons you are not!"
"uhm... That's good, I guess...."
"Oh, _gooOOoody_... it guesses things.... Ooh! I saw a chicken that could guess things once when I was at a fair as a child..."
The conversation had been slow, and a more painful ordeal he could not remember. The gist of it was that Doctor Solomon Abraham was a collection of seven super-genius super-scientists from across several dimensions whose minds were all stuck inside the synthetic gorilla thing that anyone could recognize at a glance. He eventually learned that when he was tired of listening to the crazed conversations, he could toss out a political topic and distract them for hours on end. That was a really useful thing to learn.
He also learned he had superpowers. Like _real_ ones. Oh sure: flying and running fast or being superstrong-- those were seriously decent. But apparently they couldn't hold a candle to what he could do. He was a multiplier. At least that was what he took away from the days of painful conversation with Doc. He could absorb energy. All of it. _Any_ of it, too. Everything from the kinetic impact of a bullet to the noise of someone else's heartbeat to the illumination of a flashlight-- any energy that came into contact with him was absorbed. And stored. And he could release it any time he cared to. Controlled bursts seemed best, but he could release massive amounts of power, too. In fact, it seemed he _had_ to release at least a bit of it periodically, because in addition to absorbing and storing it, he could somehow _multiply_ it, something that the months of tests showed "just happened" when he released it.
"You are effectively invulnerable, Simon" Doc had told him once. There doesn't seem to be any amount of energy that can overwhelm you. And of course, you will always release far more than what you store. If I were to direct the force of one ton of TNT directly at you, you could, in a matter of seconds, return to me the force of a megaton. You may well be the most powerful man that ever lived, with proper care and training." In retrospect, he probably should have looked more into that "proper care and training" thing. It couldn't have hurt to have had that under his belt right about now. Well, too late to ask now; he was pretty sure the Doc had been out there with the supers, fighting in vain...,.
He looked out over the empty city. He could, on the very edges of his hearing, detect panicked honks and the occasional scream, as more people than the city streets could handle at once all fled under the evacuation order. "Why?" he wondered. Why bother? They must know it's too late. From what he'd been hearing on the news, there was just no way to get far enough by car. He tried very, very hard to just listen. Just hear what was going on. He didn't want to take his gaze from the heavens; he must remain vigilant. Mostly, he didn't want to see the bodies. Not just the suicides, or the people who were trampled or run over in the blind panic, but those who had come to help. Emergency workers, police officers. And the supers. Oh dear God, the supers. Their bodies were out there, just laying in the streets. It was like that, he supposed, everywhere. The silent war had come to a sudden and instant head, and the combined might of the military and earth's most powerful defenders had been for nothing. Dead. All dead. As far as he knew, he was the last one. The only one. Most of all, he was acutely aware of what he wanted to do, what he had to do, how completely opposite the two where, and how much the whole thing sucked. if there was to be a last chance for humanity, then it should be ... well, _anyone_! Anyone who wasn't _him_! Simon Belkar was _not_ the right guy for the job. Simon Belkar didn't _want_ the job! Simon Belkar wanted his life back, and---
'Do I?' He thought some more about his life. At first, he didn't really know what to do with the idea that he had powers. It had been a fun little gag to share with Joan, of course. But then, _Joan_ was the thinker, really. He loved her, and he was pretty certain that she loved him. But she could really think; she could think long-term. It had been with her help that his inheritance had been invested toward their future; it was her pushing and coaxing that kept him working and saving and framing his life.
It was her idea that his powers could get them everything she ever wanted. It was quite the shock, really. He had no clue they were broke. He really believed that all his money and all his work was going to their future, but it had been going to Joan's appetite for expensive things, and her passion for high-stakes gambling. Joan _loved_ high stakes gambling. She wasn't an addict; she didn't even _like_ the gambling part. It was the part where she plunked down large chunks of money as if it meant nothing. The part where she could win and treat it like an everyday occasion, and the part where she could lose and maintain an air of ambivalence, as if six pounds of wrapped bills was but a pittance, and she was bored with the game already.
He had no idea just how much Joan owed, how much she owned (he found out after the divorce that there were at least four houses-- including a penthouse apartment-- he had unknowingly paid for), and finally he had to admit he didn't really know a damned thing about her at all.
Back when things were good, though.... She had the plan. She even managed to wrangle a costume together. He operated as the super-criminal Megaton, a small-time manipulator of energy. Joan had insisted he keep it small scale, and that he not vary too much in the way he used it, lest Doc Abraham get wise and foul up the whole thing for them. He really hadn’t wanted to do it. He couldn't even psyche himself up to it. Not until she had come clean, she had told him they were always one paycheck away from poverty. Even then he didn't want to do it, clever, meticulous Joan found a way to pull his strings. It was the anger that did it. The rage. The sense of betrayal, and the pain of the whole situation. That drove him to do it. Just so long as no one got hurt, he supposed. Just until they had enough to be safe...
It took him longer than it should have to realize that there was never enough and that there probably never could be enough. Blinded by the love of the woman he knew, he fought himself to keep from seeing her as the woman she had become. At one point, Joan had bragged to him that she had been laundering _millions_ in loot from his various heists. He wanted to stop; they had more than they would ever need, and they fought over her insistence that he keep going. The anger, the rage, the pain, the-- the absolute _humilliation_ of knowing he was being used, his heart was being twisted to keep him doing this completely against his will, and that he was devotedly in love to a horrible, horrible person who quite likely married him just for the money he was worth at the time-- all the emotion... It was then, while he was deciding to put his foot down and to force her to accept that Megaton was _over_, that he realized that even the pain in his soul-- his emotions-- they were an energy, too. They appeared to be the thing inside him that multiplied the power he absorbed. He also noted that the more unbearable it all became, the more difficult it was to use his powers carefully, without hurting anyone.
Then the girls came. First Tabby, then two years later, a little sister. It was natural, he supposed. He was still in love with Joan-- or at least, with the memories of her that he managed to project onto the woman she was now. And every time he had a successful haul, .... well, everyone has an aphrodisiac, he supposed. Turns out Joan's was money, and the power it could buy. But the girls-- instantly, they were the center of his life. They were so beautiful. His life, he decided, from that moment on, was to be nothing but devoted to his daughters, nothing but the best example of a human being that he knew how to be. When little Beth turned two, he told Joan he was done. They had, by her admission, been making money faster than she could clean it. There were millions upon millions stored in offshore accounts and invested in everything from tech stocks to mushroom farms. Megaton was becoming more and more dangerous, and harder and harder to control, and there was no way they could ever want for money again.
Two days later, he came home to an empty house. Joan was gone; the girls were gone, and the only thing she had left was a mirror in the hallway with an envelope taped to it. He had to admit, he hadn't been surprised to find it stuffed full of divorce papers, most citing irreconcilable differences. The final insult was the claim that her hard work and investing skills had been carrying the entire family while he had become more and more lax about his job until he eventually lost it-- he had forgotten that. Joan's constant pushing and arranging for Megaton's moonlighting career had cost him his job. Even the union can only protect you for so long, and they won't protect you long at all when your wife simply stops sending them their dues.
He had nothing. The pain was overwhelming, and it took everything within him to hold it in. He had felt the tremors. He knew that even screaming his frustration would have leveled half the city before he could get it out. More than anything-- more than Joan, whose lost he was surprised to find brought him a sense of almost-relief-- more than the money, more than the beautiful things they had owned, he missed his girls. Through all the craziness, those two sweet creatures had become the anchor for his troubled soul, and the center around which he had decided to rebuild his life. He loved them, and he wasn’t sure that Joan ever could. It wouldn’t surprise him to find that she had taken them only because he loved them.
He started from scratch, determined to get his girls. His sister helped him a lot. He went to court, over and over and over and finally won a small stipend to be paid monthly from Joan. The insult of that-- and of her fighting against it, no less!-- was enough to trigger a spiral of depression. Depression was almost interesting. It blurred his days into an almost-unnoticed background noise; that had been nice. But the depression itself... it just amplified everything. Depression was its own kind of emotion, in a way. And of course, he couldn't turn off his ability to absorb. It was running every moment, adding to what he had to keep bottled up inside. There were a few close calls, here and there. The depression made that problem, like all the others, distant and almost unreal. It was so easy to decide that there was no priority there and just let it out-- it's not like he would really have to _do_ anything to let it out, right? His sister had been a godsend then, too. She helped him through his depression. She helped him get his life on track, get back in good with the Union, and get him to hearing after hearing until he finally got custody of his daughters. He cried not just for joy, but the pain of knowing that Joan had only given up fighting because she had either lost interest in the children or decided to cut him out of her life completely and forever. Finally he realized that she was no longer willing to spend even that small amount of money to keep them. That hurt him, the realization that his children had spent all this time in a loveless home, and the final understanding that Joan was incapable of loving someone. It's just too damned hard to let go of a dream.
But he had his girls. Depression hadn't been good for his health, and particularly not his physique, and as he had started lapping the southern shores of middle age, there was probably nothing he could do about it now. The next few years, though-- they were a dream. Him and his girls. He was happier than he had ever been, even in the early days when it was just him and Joan and no superpowers and he didn't know any of her secrets. The girls were his life. They still are, at least for now. Now-- damn it; I've got to pay attention!
He _could_ feel them! They were out there, and they were getting closer. He had learned that trick from Joan, actually: “if you can absorb energy,” she would complain, “then you should be able to sense it somehow, dammit! Look for the most powerful source, and absorb that first: just in case you get full, you want to get full of the good stuff!”
Doc had told him several times that it wasn't possible for him to get full. The last few years had taught him that, too. He still had it. He had every bit of it, saved for the past nine years, every single wave of ultraviolet light; every single click of blinking eyelids, every stray bit of heat from the toaster, every noisy footfall from the girls upstairs, every car horn, every erg of energy that had made contact with him in the past nine years was still there, waiting to be multiplied and released. It was.... it was too bad. It was going to be glorious. Something to brag about. Something they would make _movies_ about! Something people would talk about for fifty years! Damn this sucked. But the girls-- they would be okay. His sister-- and her girlfriend; he made sure of that-- they would all be okay, no matter what. Even if this didn't work-- he shut down those thoughts immediately. Stacey would make sure they knew, even if Joan didn't. Maybe he shouldn't have told Joan after all: it's not like she'd put a favorable spin on it or anything. _All_ the details-- at least, all the worst ones-- would come out if it were up to Joan. Stacey wouldn't do him like that.
He forced himself back the current situation and to look back at the sky. It wouldn't do for them to slip by. Damn them. Damn the minds of the people that created them. Damn everything that led to such incredible stupidity! He thought back to the silent war. He really couldn't remember much about it; it had been so low-key, so under-the-radar. He remembered that, like everything else wrong with the world, it started with politics and political parties and trying to force people to agree to things and goddamn it, politics was just _stupid_, never solved anything, and was the problem with the whole damned modern world, really. Computers. Something about AIs and military secrets. All he really remembered for certain was that there was another dimension, and some kind of inter dimensional warp gate thingy, and agents among us and an invasion. Earth would simply be removed. Wiped out. Then the rest of our universe was up for grabs. He wished he had paid more attention. Honestly, when alien parasite warriors began popping up and wiping out entire armies just a few days ago, he was pretty sure that _everyone_ had wished they had paid more attention. He had just-- well, he had been so damned _distracted_....
"Mr. Belkar, this is positively amazing!" For once, the giant ape had little to say. The air in the room was electric, every silver-tipped lavender hair on Abraham's synthetic body stood erect as if on goosebumps.
"So it's not cancer?"
"No, Mr. Belkar. It's not cancer. It's ... well, I'll have to talk to me, consult with a couple of me, but it seems to be... well, for one, you really _can't_ get full! You've absorbed every bit of energy that's ever struck you since we first met. Apparently, you've not discharged any of it. I believe I told you that you should have considered, if not becoming a costumed lunatic crime fighter, something in the energy-production field. After all, there was really no way of knowing what would happen if you never vented the energy you were multiplying. And now...."
"And now.. _what_, Doc?"
"And now, Mr. Belkar, I don't know if you _can_."
"What do you mean?"
"Mr. Belkar, I don't think it's possible for you to live long enough to _release_ all this energy, even at maximum output."
"I thought you said I had no limits to what I could absorb!"
"That is still completely true, Sir, but.. you _do_ have .... limits..."
"Like what? I've played with this a bit, when you first told me I had powers. I wanted to learn what they were, and how they worked. One time I discharged _everything_, all at once. I damned near fell unconscious! I barely made it home, and when Joan dragged me into the bed I slept for two days straight." He felt it best not to discuss just how that situation had come to be.
"I have no doubt, Mr. Belkar, that you were, at that time, capable of such a feat. Today, however, I don't think you can release any energy at all, at least not safely. _Certainly_ not safely in any populated area! There is so much energy stored up inside you that if I didn't know better I'd say that belly of yours contained an entire sun!"
"Uh, Yeah-- that's cortisol, I think. And stress. And stress eating. And you know, my metabolism is slowin---"
"Yes, Mr. Belkar. I understand human aging quite well."
"And stress, Doc. I've been through some stuff....." he trailed off.
"I am sorry to hear that, Mr. Belkar, and I do not wish to devalue the milestones of your life, be they good or ill, but the fact is that I believe, with all my heart, that at this point, an attempt to release _any_ energy would result in a chain-reaction that would dump everything you contain, and multiplied via whatever that mechanism may be--"
"Pain."
"Beg pardon?"
"Pain, Doc. Loss. Humiliation. Depression. Emotion, I think. That seems to be the multiplier."
"Not particularly scientific. At the end of the day, those are just random chemical actions on-- "
"Like I said, Doc. I've been through some stuff." he cut, flatly.
"As you say, Mr. Belkar. This multiplying mechanism-- _whatever it may be_-- would make the release of the energy you contain positively catastrophic."
"What do you mean by "catastrophic," Doc? Take out a building? A block? A neighborhood?"
"Well, I don't like to use the word "Biblical" as an adjective, but in this case...." Abraham trailed off, and let the thought remain heavy, unfinished.
Simon sat quietly, taking it all in. Fourteen minutes passed without either talking. "I see. And me, Doc? What about my limits? Is it something I can do okay?"
It was Abraham's turn to sit quietly, a pained compassion playing in his too-human eyes.
"I... I see." Simon choked. "So the pain?"
"Is something you will have to live with, Sir. I may be able to arrange prescriptions-- perhaps even find a way to drain off some of that energy. But for now, I'm afraid you are going to have to live with it."
"No problem, Doc. I'm got pretty good at being miserable."
The next few months were a blur-- a joyous one, as he went out of his way to savor the lives of his children, to insert them into his every moment. The war wasn't silent anymore, and the alien parasites were everywhere. Armies were leveled, missiles flew through the air all hours of the day, then the supers themselves joined in, and within a week, it was clear that they could not win. Simon's sister had told Simon what was on the news reports: the aliens had withdrawn their parasite warriors through the gate, confident in our inability to defend ourselves against a missile barrage that would continue until the entire planet was an airless cinder. "I've got some money, Sis. You and Kenna come get the girls. Take the money. Get a plane--"
"I don't think money's any good anymore, Simon."
"Never underestimate human greed, Sis" his mind flashed to Joan: he had called her, begged her: ‘Come get the girls,’ he said. The world is ending, but they can live. Everyone can live. I’ve got more power than ever! Megaton can end this, but I don’t want anyone within five-hundred miles of me at the least. You have to get them out of here, and you have to tell them I love them, that I did it for them. I… I’m not going to come back from this one-- too much power to control….” She had simply sighed and hung up on him.
He shut her out and focused on the situation at hand. His sister would come; she would do what he asked. "...and never doubt that there is always someone out there who hopes and believes that he will get through this, and that things will be okay. Get the money. Get a suitcase full of it! Get the girls, and get the fastest damned plane you can out of here."
He hung up his phone and turned to his girls. "Girls, I have _great_ news! Aunt Stacy and Kenna are going on a trip, and they want to take you with them!"
"A trip? Dad! There's supposed to be a war going on!"
He kept up the excitement, for them "_Yes_, but they are tired of the war, so they are going somewhere that there isn't one, and they want you to come with them!"
"But what about you, Daddy?"
"Oh, Daddy has things to do!"
"Like what?"
"Well, it doesn't matter." He made a point of dancing happily out of the room, then he headed straight for the attic access in the garage. In the attic, he found the boxes of Christmas decorations, and pushed them carelessly aside until he found the one he sought. Closing the attic access, he headed to his bedroom and opened it. He pulled the dusty orangey-red spandex suit out, held it in front of him and inspected it, frowning.
"That's not going to fit you, Dad...." startled, he spun around, the shock raising a panicked tingle as the energy inside him burned to release itself in self-defense. Painfully, he fought the urge, holding it in, sweating from the exertion, forcing himself to not grunt in pain. His daughters were standing behind him. He stared at them, unsure of how to spin his situation.
"Dad....?" Tabby started.
"Are you.. are you a superhero?" asked Beth, incredulous, but an edge of doubt ringing through her voice.
"Well... "
"Dad, don't be silly. You can't be a superhero. We've known you our whole lives. We'd have noticed." Fourteen going on forty, with the wry arrogance of a teenager dropped Tabby’s left eyebrow into an almost-mocking frown.
"Daddy, you can't be a superhero! They're all dead! The aliens are killing the superheroes! Don't be a superhero, please!" begged Beth, eyes wide and wet with a fear she could feel but not understand. She lunged for him, wrapped her arms around his waist as best she could-- "Please, Daddy! Don't be a superhero!"
Simon felt a shuddering pang of pain, of love for his children, of sympathy for what Beth was going through, and that, more than anything else could have, drove the reality of the situation into Tabby's mind and tore through her heart like a dagger of ice. "Dad...." she asked, her voice a quiet tremble, her knees weak and her stomach turning. "What.... what are you going.... what are you going to do....?"
"I'm going to stop them” he said, not quite able to sound as casual and carefree as he had intended. He was flat, his understanding that this would be his final decision almost showing. He reached out to her narrow chin and raised her eyes to his and managed a small smile. “You guys are going to be okay. I'm going to save the world."
"Daddy, NOOOooo!" wailed Beth, her grip tightening, teardrops coming so fast and furious as to be rivulets of anguish pouring down her pale angelic cheeks. "Noo!" Tabby's eyes had closed, crushed shut, but it was no use. She, too, was crying, but trying so hard to fight it. She understood that there was something she should be doing, but wasn't yet mature enough to get her mind around it....
"It's okay, Bethie. I'm not like the others. I'm invincible."
"No you're not! Don't go!" she shrieked.
"Yeah, he _is_." Tabby finally said, her voice warbling. She was beginning to understand what she had to do. “He's super-invincible. That's his power."
"Really?" The tears hadn't stopped, but curiosity had gotten the better of her mind.
"Yeah, really."
"You don't know that!"
"Of course I do! He will tell you all about it on your birthday."
"My birthday?"
"You have to be twelve before you can know who the superheroes are."
"You're lying!"
"Whatever, Beth, but howcum _I_ know and _you_ don't?"
"But I'm almost twelve!"
"Yes you _are_, Sweetie," Simon said, bending over and picking her up, wrapping her in his arms and kissing her tear-soaked cheeks. "And in three weeks, I can tell you everything about it! And you know what, Aunt Stacy can tell you all about it, too, while you are on vacation with her!"
"But you can tell me when we get back, right?"
Simon's chest went hollow for a moment and he felt his lower lip spasm into a stretch that spread to the corners or his jaws for the briefest of seconds, he felt his chin disappear completely. "Well _of course_ I can....!" But you have to let me do my job, Bethie. You have to let me save the world!"
Tabby's checks were now running with tears, but her face held firm, and her voice barely betrayed her. "Well you can't do it in that suit, Dad. That's for like, some really buff guy. I don't even know where you go it."
"That used to fit, you know!"
"Yeah; I'm sure."
Beth perked up. "We can help you, Daddy! I know how super heroes should look!" She pulled open the drawers of his dresser until she found his boxers. "Here! Put these on!"
"Uhm, Bethie, Daddy already has his underwear."
"No, Dad," she said, with all the patience of a parent correcting a toddler. "These are your _outside_ ones!"
"My outside--? Oh, yes! of course! Thank you, Sweetie! I don't know what I was thinking!"
"Here," drawled Tabby, tossing him his cheap plastic mask. "_This_ probably still fits."
"Gee, thanks!"
A knock at the door interrupted them; Stacy and Kenna let themselves in. Bethie screamed her greeting: "Guess what, Aunt Stacy?! Daddy's a SUPERHERO!"
"He's a _what_?!" Stacy said, her jaw dropping as she followed the noise to the master bedroom.
"He's a superhero!" Beth beamed proudly, "But his costume doesn't fit because he got kind of fat, and so I have to help him make a new one."
"_OH_!" Stacy relaxed, understanding what was going on. "I see--"
"No;" Simon said," It's okay. I told them."
"Everything?!" she shot back, horrified.
"_Enough_. I told them that I was a superhero, and that they need to go with you so I can save the world."
"Wait-- what are you... Are you doing-- do you think that you --?"
"Stacey, please. You and Kenna take the girls-- take them _anywhere_! Keep them safe, just for a few hours, please; that's all I need. But you have to get just as far away from here just as fast as you can. I've made some calls. There's a plane waiting for you, and both of those old gym bags in my closet are full of cash Joan had stashed in the attic and forgot about."
"As bad as you needed money after the divorce--"
"I wasn't gonna touch that money; not _that_ money, not where it came from!"
Stacy picked up a gym bag and handed it to Kenna, shouldering the other one herself.
“I can't.... I can't believe... Simon, are you sure about this? Are you sure you can--?"
"I can do this. I _have_ to do this. I promise you, Stacy, I _will_ stop them. I will destroy the weapons, the Gate, and every parasite anywhere near it on the other side."
"I know what's wrong!" Beth yelled, then ran out of the room. She came back with Simon's red windbreaker, previously stored in the hall closet. She jumped up onto the bed and tied its sleeves around his neck. "superheroes have _capes_, Dad! There! Now you can save the world."
"Why, Simon? Are you crazy? Why do you think you can do this?"
"I have to save the world, Stacy."
"Why?! " she began to cry. "Why do you think you can do it? The Army still has _something_ left; we have to wait--"
"Not an option."
"There have to be other supers who--"
"There is one super left. You are looking at him."
"Why, Simon? Why you?"
"Because I'm the last super-- the last chance for anything at all-- and as crazy as it sounds, I have enough power to do it."
"And when it's over? Where do you want us to meet you?"
He very subtly, almost imperceptibly, shook his head, his eyes cast at the floor.
"Oh God!" she butted, instantly in a blubber. She fought for composure, for the girls, and tried to speak again. "Simon....?" Stacy began to shake.
"There's no choice, Sis. I _will_ save the world. I _have_ to!"
"Why?!"
He slowly, longingly took in the four faces in front of him. "Because you guys are in it." He winked. "it wouldn't be worth doing, otherwise." He flashed a smile, his eyes pouring the love he felt for those around him. He kissed them all, and chased them to Kenna’s car. He climbed into his own car and drove to the old water tower on the hills outside of town- easily the highest vantage point for miles. The mandatory evacuation order had been given for every major city on the coast; he caught it on the radio before he got out of the car and began puffing his way to the top of the water tower. The ability to fly suddenly seemed more important than it ever had before.
He stood attentive now. He could feel the gate, obscured by the lead-and-ash colored sky, colored by the fires and explosions of the last few days of the war. He didn't have to see it. He could locate it just by the energy it radiated. He could feel the first wave of missiles coming, and he realized that fate had placed him at precisely the right spot. The first two would hit nearly on top of him. Doc had told him that there was no limit to what he could absorb, and he knew he could send it all back a hundred-fold, ten thousand-fold, if he could find the right mulitplier. In his mind, he could see more and more missiles exploding as they hit the wave of his own energy, and he would in turn absorb, multiply, and reflect that, causing more detonations, that he would absorb---- in his mind, he saw what must happen. He hoped he could multiply it enough. He hoped he could hold himself together long enough.... He sought it now. The missiles were close, and he sought the memories and the pain Joan had caused him, depression had caused him, humiliation and subjugation had caused him, and he felt waves of searing pain and agony as the energy already inside him grew and tore at his very being, desperate for release after so many years-- it wasn't enough! It was enough to destroy half the state and it wasn't enough! He searched his feelings, his memories, and even used the physical agony he was in, and it grew and grew and still wasn't enough and he began to silently beg his absent family for forgiveness for failing them. He addressed each in his mind and as he saw their faces, looking to him with pained understanding his love poured-- tore its way out of his soul and to them, and the power within him exploded a thousand fold. He thought of his sister and her girlfriend, and his flesh expanded and glowed, then he pictured the beautiful innocent Beth and sarcastic teenaged Tabby and the power folded again and again and again and as the missiles tore through the sky toward him there was no smoke and ash or haze or deafening explosions or quaking earth--
Instantaneously, soundlessly-- to every horizon and beyond-- Filling the sky, burning through the earth itself-- there was light,
Copyright 2020 D.E. "Duke" Oliver
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I have, in the past, been told it's difficult to believe that things like this occur as an actual, single, instantaneous thought. In truth, I suppose only people who enjoy writing, who take inspiration from outside sources, really understand that it's the absolute truth. That story did not form, it did not grow. That story, to me, _is_ the story that photograph tells. That is precisely the story it told me the moment I saw it-- that entire story, from beginning to uncertain end. It told that story so clearly that immediately after posting the picture here, I wrote it down. What you see here is a copy-past from my G-drive. I didn't write this story: the person who took the picture wrote that story.
The figure of the man, though clearly wearing an exaggerated belly suit, is a man pushing middle age, with what could be a jacket, a towel, or a tablecloth wrapped around his neck. He is overlooking a city-- a gloomy city, with a sky that smacks more of destruction than pollution, and yet his gaze is cast over his shoulder. His jaw is set with resolve, yet his eyes are pained, regretful, in spite of his commitment. And when those elements hit me all at once, this story appeared: the story, the characters, the dialogue-- all at once, complete. "A picture is worth a thousand words" is _easily_ the most understated idea in all of human history. I tell you this not to humble brag or goad or whatever the hell the cool kids are calling it now, but to ask this question: knowing this, is there anyone here who cannot understand my absolute, agonizing jealousy of those who can draw? Of those who can compose pictures? Of those who can sculpt? Those who can craft one single image, and in an instant of pure magic, tell a story as beautiful as this? No matter how many words I use, no matter how many phrases or thoughts I craft, I will never be able to tell this story as perfectly as someone once did with single image. There are _no_ words for just how painful that is.
Kenji Yakamoto is Yamato. A mutant from Nagasaki, he thinks being a supervillain with his fire powers is the path to fame. The media started calling him Yamato mostly because his costume unintentionally resembles a uniform from the anime Space Battleship Yamato.
Skybot was designed to be a great manuvable in the air robot. It has energy blasters in it's arms, extendable arms, and various kinetic thrusters which can be used as weapons if anyone gets close.
It was designed for second story robberies, and like his other bots is the third redesign of it.
Phantasm was a brilliant chemist who created a chemical smoke which could linger and which he could add various other chemicals to. His favorites are combustion clouds (a triggered RKA which sets anyone who is at the edge of his darkness field on fire), hallucinations (NND, NCC -1 Mental Illusions based on CON), accuracy decreasing gas cloud (NND Drain DEX, OCV, and DCV), and such. If you can't see, and don't have a backup air supply, he can and will affect you.
Xandor is an alien with powers beyond a normal human, including things like super strength, flight, and nigh-invulderbility. He is assigned to a backwater little planet named Earth. As for his look, his race was always pear shaped.
steriaca got a reaction from Quackhell in Create a Villain Theme Team!
steriaca reacted to Sundog in Create a Villain Theme Team!
steriaca got a reaction from death tribble in Create a Villain Theme Team!
steriaca got a reaction from Amorkca in Forgotten Enemies metathread
steriaca got a reaction from drunkonduty in ZERO POINT DISTINCTIVE FEATURES
steriaca got a reaction from JackValhalla in Create a Villain Theme Team!
steriaca got a reaction from Duke Bushido in Supers Image game
steriaca got a reaction from pinecone in Golden Age Champions Table Top Game.
