Lawnmower Boy

Damn it, I'm working that day!

Worth buying for hot girl-on-girl action (oops, spoilers) and a likeable cast doing what they can with the material handed to them. ("Wait. Why isn't my character crippled with guilt now? His character gets to be crippled with guilt! And his, too!") Also for Magik being cool. I hesitate to say Ilyana since the baseline reading would have her being a clone out of X-23's batch, although given the gonzo implications of that for the backstory of all the characters, I'm guessing that the script only said that, as opposed to meaning it.) Though if I started giving the movie the "Everything wrong with" treatment, I'd be here all day.

Theory confirmed! Kang is going to the Phase 4 Big Bad! Fathers lock up your Celestial Madonnas!

I resent that! I vote every election!

I gather that because it was a Rothschild space laser, and the family is all intermarried, it was, crucially, not a Jewish space laser. I'm sure we're all glad to have the troubling clouds of anti-Semitism dispelled!

I figured that they worked as well for heat vision/breath and speed/flight. Silver Age Superman is pretty close to a cosmic character. Remember the time he sucked in the entire contents of a supertanker?

And a neighbourhood in Babylon. I forgot how much time I spent introducing the characters before getting them there, though. On an early October day, two superheroes were chilling in Dora Guzman’s bedroom. Dora’s Dad turned in the doorway to her bedroom. But before he did, he had one last comment over his shoulder. “You know, in my day. . . Dinosaurs, caves, something, something.” The last thing Charlotte saw of him before the door closed was his smile. Charlotte Wong lay down on the bed, carefully, so that her head fell next to Dora’s, her curly, black hair, just past shoulder length ten months after radical surgery to remove a 'do gone wrong. At least she could move. Charlotte had already removed the veil of her aunt’s wedding dress, but the carefully stitched and the embroidered panels of the gown had incredible play, only creaking-ever-so-slightly as Charlotte relaxed to lie prone. Of course, that meant that she had to stare at the ceiling, which was the one thing she hated about Dora’s room. “You really should repaint the ceiling, Dora.” “Or you can get over your brother having a girlfriend who likes that colour. Either or. You look incredible in that gown, Char-Char.” Charlotte blushed. Her Aunt Yili had been beautiful, trailing admirers everywhere. Before her brother killed her. Charlotte’s dad. God, that was an awful thought. Charlotte decided not to think it anymore. “Thanks, Dora. I could stay in this room forever. I’m just so jealous.” “For this dump?” “For reals." The door opened. Charlotte felt the puff of cold as the draft curled round the crack in the door jamb. Yep, still cold. As the door opened all the way, Charlotte saw Rose and Father Asplin. “I caught this one trying to infiltrate,” Father Asplin said. “Should I kill her for you?” Squealing, Charlotte ignored all that as she jumped up from the bed. “Father Asplin!” Her feet slid a little on the pine, and Charlotte grabbed for Rose and Dora’s shoulders. For effect, not for balance: one of the curses of the Kung Fu Princess is that it’s pretty hard to be klutzy unless you’re faking it. “Where have you been, Father Asplin?” Charlotte had been so worried that she’d even gone to a service at Saint Elizabeth’s. The relief Filipino pastor had been okay, but no Father Asplin. “Archaeological dig,” he answered. “Look, I brought you a cursed artefact of a forgotten abomination!” He pulled his hand from his pocket and opened it. “Oh, no. Other suit. Never mind, I’ll get that for you later. Girls? We need to talk.” “I didn’t do it!” Dora protested. “Yes, she did,” Rose said, straight-faced. “I saw it.” “Girls, girls,” Father Asplin said, calmingly, “There’s no need to fight. You can all be in trouble.” Charlotte let go of her friends and stepped back, her hands up. “Neutral like Switzerland. Which means I get the last Toblerone.” Dora threw herself through the air, landing on her chest on the edge of her bed so that she could grab the Halloween Toblerone bar that the girls had been splitting. “Not a chance, Kung Fu Girl!” Except that Rose was already there, holding it up. “In dark, post-apocalyptic future, there is only nougat!” Dora rolled over, giving a sigh that wracked her chest like a mountain range in an earthquake. “It’s a chocolate bar!” “Only chocolate-nougat,” Rose amended. Father Asplin stepped onto a Hello Kitty throw rug. “Now, now, Rose. Don’t swipe.” “Hunh?” The girls said. “Swiper don’t swipe?” They looked at him blankly. Except Dora, who was a bit sensitive about that stuff, so Charlotte explained. “You’re getting Dora the Explorer confused with Hello Kitty, Father.” His eyes brightened. “Ah. You know, I spend so much time watching Nickelodeon at the daycare, you’d think that I would have that all sorted out, but it’s like that stuff soaks into your brain subliminally.” His tone shifted, and his eyes glazed over. “Must…kill…Caillou.” Then he shook his head. “I’m sorry that I was unable to come and see you girls immediately you returned from your summer adventure, but I really was at an archaeological dig. On an island only thirty miles from Monster Island, so security was extremely tight.” Charlotte’s eyes went wide. Monster Island was one of the scariest places on Earth. “UNTIL thought it might be from the Old Red Aeon. They were right. A Thûnese outpost. I think we have it locked down, now, though.” Father Asplin paused, then continued. “Which brings me to my business with you girls, tonight. I’ve read your report, Char-Char, and your summary, Dora. “You really need to get it finished, you know.” “My dog ate it?” Dora offered. “You have a dog now, Dora?” Charlotte asked. “Can I see it?” “Keep it away!” Rose interrupted. “If I met a homework-eating dog, it would just get fat!” “Girls? This isn’t about who is to blame. No-one is to blame. Although, in another and equally important sense, Dora is totally to blame. It’s about your reports. Charlotte? You brought the Pearl Harmony Sword with you today, didn’t you?” Of course she had. Charlotte stepped over to Dora’s overflowing closet and pulled her sword free of the assorted clothes that she had stuck its scabbarded tip into. Gripping the sheath, she pulled the handle. The ancient blade her aunt had wielded came free, and spilled perlescent light into the room that licked the pearls embroidered into gown, shimmering up and down them like an underwater flame. “Charlotte?” Father Asplin put out his hand. Charlotte looked into his eyes, saw the old pain, offered him the hilt. Father Asplin touched it. “Charlotte, you said that a spell of worm-yellow and shining darkness was cast on the Pearl Harmony Sword. That the blade turned it back.” Charlotte nodded, biting her lip. “Dora? It was what it seemed to be?” Dora nodded, her face stricken. Rose pounced. “Dora? Have you been holding back?” “The Maid of Gold knows…” Dora began, then stopped, as though confused about where to go next. “But we shouldn’t. This isn’t something that deserves to be known.” “The truth shall set you free,” Rose pronounced. “Oh, give up.” Dora answered, crossly. “When they say that there are things people aren’t meant to know, this is exactly the kind of crap they mean.” “Superstitious… I’m sorry, Father Asplin.” Rose could be quick to go the Full Dawkins, but she liked the old priest. “No offence, Rose,” Father Asplin answered. “The less said of shining darkness and worm yellow, honestly the better. “But, there are…forces in the world that seek to use the shining darkness for their ends. The Thûnese, once. The Lemurian rebels. Your enemy. That last is particularly frightening.” “Why?” Charlotte asked. “Because if he is who I think he might be, he is congenitally naïve about the dangers of dark magic. He probably thinks of this spell as another technique, a machine." “He’s not right about that?” Rose said, skeptically. “He is more wrong than he realises. Magic is not a machine as he thinks of them, but neither are machines just machines, as he thinks of them. For him the world, life, is something he can manipulate, not something of which he is part. He is moved by a pain he does not understand and will destroy the world and himself trying to end it.” "Dark!" Dora said. "So this is about more than just Char Char's magic butter knife." “Of course,” Father Asplin said. “Takofanes is not moved by self delusions, and neither is he a servant of the shining darkness, but he can use it. He was ended last time by the Seven, Two and One: The Sword Auralia. He is back, and we need the First Light of Dawn and it is in danger.” “So We need to go find it and take it into custody,” Charlotte said. Rose’s eyes brightened with fresh enthusiasm, even though she had been talking about nothing else for two months. “And you know where we should look? The Library of Babylon!” Dora poked her friend. "The Library of Babylon is your answer to everything!" “As a matter of fact," Father Asplin began. Rose literally jumped. “We’re going! Library here we come!” “You,” Dora said severely, “Are such a nerd.” 2 The next day was Friday. Charlotte, Rose and Dora took their spares together in the library. This was the second month the girls had been at Tatammy High, the Big Boy School. Because school starts in September, duh. Charlotte could not get used to it. Down here in the States, school was like in Archie. There were four grades in senior high, with Freshman, Sophomores, Juniors and Seniors. Charlotte was still trying to get that straight. Why would you call Grade 11s “Juniors?” To Charlotte, that meant young, and seventeen year-olds were, well, old. And meanwhile, here they were, she and the other kids coming up out of Pemberton Elementary, totally spaz. Charlotte was the tallest kid in class back last year at Pemberton, but that meant all of squat there. Lots of girls in Grade 8 were taller than the boys, and in the ceiling-scraping Wong household, she was never the tallest, not even amongst the girls. (Take that, Chinese stereotypes, by the way, she thought.) But here? Here where she was the youngest class, the class that was always messing up their outfits, who laughed too loud and got looked at like this, and not like that? Here she felt like a freak, all big and gangly, with her hair frizzed out like a clown’s. I have got, Charlotte thought, to stop thinking like this. Across from her, her brother’s girlfriend, Kumi, got up from the table where she’d been visiting. She waved. “Hi, Charlotte, Dora, Rose! Catch you guys later!” Charlotte held a smile. Dora, across the table, mouthed, “OMG.” Charlotte glared back but only with her eyes. Rose nudged Charlotte, elbow to arm. Hard. “Sorry to interrupt the Five Minute Hate, but Boys alert, 10 o’clock.” Charlotte looked. Then, “False alarm.” It was just Brian (admittedly, squee), Bruce and Twelve. Twelve pulled out a chair and sat down with a thump. Bruce held the edge of another, looking tentative, as if he meant to ask for permission, before realising that it would make Twelve look rude, and just long enough so that everyone could figure out why he was doing it in the first place. Read you like a book, Bruce, Charlotte thought. Before Bruce McNeely could figure out what to do, Brian slid his long, sinuous leg over the back of a chair and sat down astraddle, his arms wrapped around the shoulder rest. His long, elfin, smooth-skinned face, with giant, wide green eyes balanced atop a perfectly shaped, long, but just too-wide-to-be-narrow chin, which balanced on his fist. Bruce nudged Twelve. “Hey, girls, meet Richard Roe!” Rose arched her eyes. “Thought you were going by “John Doe?” “Decided to change it up,” Twelve answered. “That’s, uhm, not how we do things in the real world, you know.” Twelve raised his hands. A sparkle of energy crossed them, just long enough for the girls to notice. “And I’m not a real boy.” “Oh, Twelve,” Rose began, but Twelve cut him off. “I’m a clone soldier! Bred in the lab to fight for my maker! I’m not a name, I’m a number!” Bruce looked like he had more to say, Charlotte noticed. She looked at him, holding a question in her eyes. “I’m hearing through the grapevine that we’ve got a supermission?” “What?” Brian asked. “I barely even know what my superpower is!” “Look it up. You’re in the friggin’ Monster Manual,” Bruce answered. “I am not a Dark Elf. And I have a natural aptitude for High Elven magic. That’s why I’m enrolled in your stupid school.” “Woah, boys,” Charlotte said. “Yeah, we have a mission.” “We’re too young to have a mission,” Bruce pointed out. “Nuh-unh,” Rose said, and then burst into scarlet blushes across her cheeks as everyone looked at her. Rose! Using slang! “What? We’re going to the Library of Babylon, and Dora set it up. Best bud ever!” Her friends kept staring. Well, we all know Rose, Charlotte thought. She’s going to Heaven, and I guess we all get to come along for the ride. The nerdy, nerdy ride. That evening, home at the Yurt, the girls, and the boys, got the rest of it. The barbecue table had been set up on the wide back porch so that their visitor from San Francisco could sit in the open, the cool October air enveloping the veteran super-wizard, Eldritch, with Mr. and Mrs. Wong at either end of the table. As was apparently usual for Eldritch when he went visiting in other people’s homes, he wore a tattered old bathrobe over what looked like a shapeless, sleeveless shirt and mid-calf pants that went down just far enough to be caught by the worn loops of leather sandals. They were both made out of potato sacking. Not that anyone around these days knew what a potato sack looked like, Charlotte thought, update your references, girl. Around her, it seemed that the very air was dripping with October rain. A little drop got onto the mirror with which Charlotte was watching the scene downstairs. “What’s going on out there?” Dora whispered. “Are we going? Are we going?” Rose asked. “Shh.” Dora wiggled in the crook of the porch roof and the wall of the Yurt to position her mirror for a better view. I’m a ninja, she thought. And, as she did so, she nervously checked for actual ninjas, which was a kind of thing that could happen around here. Eldritch was explaining the facts of life, sounding like Professor Explaining Very Serious Things to Very Smart Young People, which is who he actually was. Hard to believe as it was when he dressed like a hobo’s embarrassing cousin. She hoped it helped when the aging supermage was trying to sell nights away for Charlotte and her buds to Auntie Ma. “No.” Charlotte’s aunt looked as severe as her words, with her hair up in a bun and a black blouse. “I’m sorry, Sister. I can arrange for a direct portal to Babylon that the children can use for their research, but it only opens one way, reversing every twelve hours. It’s the best I can do.” “Which means that they will have to stay over Friday and Saturday night in Babylon with no adult supervision. No. and please don’t call me ‘Sister.’” “I’m an adult,” Eldritch protested, sounding almost hurt. Charlotte’s Uncle Henry cleared his throat. “The last time I was in your apartment, the only thing in your refrigerator was a tub of coleslaw and some LSD.” “Yeah, that was a pretty lean weekend. Look, they won’t be staying with me. My pad in the City is for swinging bachelors only. They’ll be staying with one of my Babylon contacts. Doctor Smythe has as proper a household as you can imagine." “I’m amazed he puts up with you, then.” Auntie Ma crossed her arms. “Doctor Smythe owes me some favours. Why don’t I take you two across tonight? You can meet the doctor and his household, check out the place. I think that you will find that it meets your approval. Honestly, the Doctor is as square as you are.” Auntie Ma snorted. “As though I can spare the time. You know that I have a double wedding and my husband’s retirement party to plan, and the garden to put down for the winter, and…” “Not to worry,” Eldritch answered. “I can bring you back within the hour.” Auntie Ma pounced. “Then why can’t the children go and come back on Saturdays?” “Because I will be needed to cast the spell. The point of the portal is that it will remain stably open, whatever I am doing or not doing.” “All right, then,” Auntie Ma answered. “We will meet this Doctor Smythe and his household. Oh, and Charlotte, get inside before you catch your death up there.” Charlotte wiggled back up into the room. There was only one reason that Auntie Ma would put up with Charlotte eavesdropping. “We’re going.” Rose jumped up. “Yes!” “Is there a point when you’re going to stop being excited about this?” Dora asked. “No.” Rose answered. 3. In the back of an abandoned house, in what seemed like a vacant lot, overrun with neglected fruit trees and weeds, only entered by a the back fire exit of a strip mall chain restaurant, was a patch of burned ground. And that, it happened, was where Charlotte, Dora, Rose, Bruce, Twelve and Brian were standing that Friday night with Eldritch. Who was wearing his visiting clothes. Which turned out to be a blue denim shirt, open two buttons below the collar to show a saggy white undershirt, with a green down vest over it. The shirt was tucked into brown work pants, and they into knee-high, dark green rubber boots with faded yellow trim. Fingers of down discretely fled tiny pinholes and slits low on the side of the vest. His watery eyes peered over old-fashioned bifocals. "Why are we here, again?" Bruce sounded suspicious. "It is a powerful place. Its energies are not bogged down by the tedious rules our minds have made up and call ‘reality.’” He tapped his temple with one stubby finger. “So I decided to cast a gate spell here. It turned out well, I think. Twelve hours up, twelve hours down, then a reversal. You will be able to return tomorrow evening. Are you ready?” Bruce lifted his oversized overnight bag and scowled. He was wearing a long, Batman-y, dark green overcoat with flapping tails at calf length. It somehow made his scowl extra broody. “I don’t understand why we’re in such a rush. I had plans this weekend.” “Rush rush rush go go go right now!” Rose stamped her right foot. The shiny black wedge heel that Charlotte and Dora had helped her pick out (“In the dark, post-apocalyptic future, the only shoe store is Lady Footlocker”) were so cute, Charlotte thought. Total self-five. Was Twelve checking Rose out? Whether he was or not, Twelve turned his eyes straight back on Bruce and snorted. “Your plan was to beat the new Dark Souls game” “And it was a good plan!” Bruce crooked his left wrist and let the handle of his bag slip down over it so that he could push his hand into his pocket. Somehow, it made him seem mopier still. His right hand he lifted so that Twelve could give him a high five. “Preach it,” Twelve said. Frankly, beating that game had been Charlotte’s plan for the weekend, too. “Ms. Telantassar was going to show me how to do some High Elf magic meditation practices!” Brian protested. Not very convincingly. Even Charlotte found her patience tested by “meditation practice,” and she was all about the kung fu. Eldritch turned his old, blue eyes to Brian. “And I regret pulling you away from that, Brother. The death of universes has looked on you. Now see. Let us take evil to be parameterised entropy.” He drew his fingers in the dark, cold October air, and kabalistic signs took shape in fire where his fingers dribbled through the air, as though drawn out of autumn latent with magic. Or it was algebra? Charlotte was almost sure she could tell the difference. Then he stopped in mid-symbol. “Never mind, and I mean it. There is crawling degradation in that last effort to escape death. Nor is that the only danger I see here.” Eldritch turned to Twelve. "Brother, you are the creation of a dread enemy, but your principal thinks that you can be redeemed. What do you think?” Twelve stuck his hands into the pockets of his PLA-style olive green jacket and pushed one Doc Martened foot forward into the wet grass, like he was trying to turn “sulk” into a dance repertoire. “You Americans with your redemption. I was born to the battle. Simple as that. If orders are to do recon in Babylon, I do recon in Babylon.” “Indeed.” Eldritch’s gaze turned to Rose. “What about you, Sister? Do you still plan to destroy an entire future because of the suffering of some?” Rose blushed and looked down, not saying anything. Oh, that was a question, wasn’t it? Rose was your classic time traveller sent to cancel out a post-apocalyptic future, with a crush sent to stop her. Eliminate that future, and Rose probably would stop existing –and her crush would for sure. Question was whether Rose wanted either of those things to happen. Charlotte didn’t know. Eldritch looked at Rose’s down-turned eyes for a long moment. “Oh, to be young again.” Then he stepped up to Bruce, swinging his right fist at the Hobgoblin’s gandson’s face far faster than Charlotte would have thought that an aging sorcerer could. Bruce’s right hand intercepted his wrist without fuss. Great technique, Charlotte thought. But not sublime technique. “I see the family likeness. Good at everything.” Bruce looked back at him without saying anything. “Do you know that for the trap it is? To be good without ever striving? Would it surprise you to know that there is an entire city of people like that?” Still Bruce said nothing. “There is no good that is not becoming, brother. Through practice we become excellent. Through excellence we grow good. How do you grow, brother?” Eldritch turned back to Dora. “Sister. You try to be flippant. A ‘magic manic pixie girl.” “You’re mixing up two things, sir,” Dora answered, levelly. “Don’t call me ‘sir.’ Yes, I am mixing two things up. You’re mixing three things up, aren’t you? Because down there where your soul bonds to the needfire, there’s a heart that loves your friends and the world they’re in. The serious, serious soul that you inherited.” Now it was Dora’s turn to say nothing. “You need to learn to own your true self, Sister. You can still be fun it you try.” Eldritch turned back to Charlotte. He reached out his hands, as though to take hers. Charlotte put her hands in his. His skin was wrinkled and old, but his grip was warm and firm. “These are a warrior’s hands,” Eldritch said. “What did your friend say? Born to the battle. As dauntless in battle as tender in love.” Charlotte blushed. She’d never even had a boyfriend! Eldritch’s eyes bored into hers. Why had she ever thought they were watery? It seemed magical, the way they penetrated. “And they are the hands of a healer.” Charlotte shivered. "I'm not a paladin!" “Healing is your calling, Charlotte Wong.” Eldritch drew back, somehow a little taller than he had been a moment ago. His voce came loud and penetrating. “What is the hurry to go to Babylon and learn the fate of the First Light of Dawn? What is ever the hurry of learning?” Look at you! So young and sweet and fresh. It tears my heart to see how beautiful you all are. I cannot think of the years that you will live, and the lives that you will make, without crying.” An actual tear leaked out of the corner of Eldritch’s eyes. From anyone else, Charlotte thought, it would be totally corny. “And you will learn so much in the doing, my children! How can you not hurry to that?” “Amen!” Rose shouted. “Oops. Inside voice, Rose, inside voice.” Eldritch did not seem put out. “Thank you, Sister. Now, if you will prepare yourselves, we will be in the City of Art and Man momentarily.” 4. Eldritch’s left hand rose high in the air. Multicoloured light glittered around it, forming into shapes that just barely eluded meaning. Trippy, Charlotte thought. And, for a hippie, Eldritch sure has a nice watch. His hand fell. Just like that, Charlotte’s nose was in a place. It was a place of horses, and of hay. Of dark leather, all soaped up, and varnish and sawdust, mineral oil and kerosene lamps, all coming in at her in a sensation that was closer to hitting your nose against something than smelling. It actually took a moment for her eyes to get her attention, to let her know that she had gone from an autumn sunset to a dark room barely lit by the familiar, comforting colour of a kerosene lamp. Off to the side, a horse nickered, and another answered. “Is this a stable?” Rose asked. She sounded disappointed. A square of warm light abruptly opened in the darkness ahead. In it, Charlotte could see Eldritch, silhouetted against the door that he had opened by the light of some kind of white fire. “Yes,” he said. “I thought that a private location for the Babylon-side gate might be better. Now do please come with me.” “They have horses in Babylon?” Rose sounded even more disappointed. “They have horses in Babylon,” Eldritch conceded. “And Ferraris. And chariots. And that, even.” He waved. Under streetlights that guttered like Bunsen burners, Charlotte could see that he was gesturing at an aging Volkswagen van, painted in psychedelic swirls and flowers. “That’s my ride,” Eldritch sad. “’How stereotypical,’ you are probably thinking. But that’s the point. Babylon is every city that ever was or could be. You will find Oz here, and the real Babylon, and the Eiffel Tower. And flying cars, too, although you will probably have difficulty getting into the “Ancient Atlantis” or “distant future” sectors to find them. Well, Rose might be able to get to the future, since she is from the future herself.” “Eat my dark, post-apocalyptic dust, Twenty-First Century plebes!” "Twentieth Century," Charlotte pointed out. “How about an ‘Other side of time and space’ sector?” Dora asked. “Do I get my own hangout?” “Do you really want one?” Eldritch asked. “No,” Dora said. In the gleaming light of the giant Bunsen burner, Charlotte could see her shudder. “But such a place does exist, I fear,” Eldritch said, “Deep under the Rookeries.” “Rookeries?” Bruce asked. “The slums of Babylon.” “Wait. Babylon has slums? I was getting that it was some weird, poetic metaphor or something, come to life,” Brian protested. “That is the Land of Legends that you are thinking of, Brother. Babylon is the essence of city, and it cannot be that without being concrete and real, without having politics and class, wealth and poverty, war and peace. The Emperor is a real man; its megacorporations make real money, and its aristocrats own real estates; the last civil war killed real people; the agents of Istvatha V’han who plot against the city and emperor are real enemies. Think about it: if the Library of Babylon existed in the Land of Legends, it would be no more real than the knowledge you dream at the edge of sleep. But the Library is real. If you can find it, the knowledge you seek is there.” “Um, okay then,” Brian said. “As long as the hot girls are real, I’m fine with that,” Bruce added. Charlotte felt a flicker of anger. Bruce was so dumb for a smart boy! Charlotte looked around. They were standing strewn along a brick pathway that ran beside the cindered driveway that led from the from the entrance of the stable to the street. They could see Eldritch’s van, parked on the street, and also a tall house that crowded the narrow sidewalk across a narrow, cobbled street lit by the giant Bunsen burner. In front of them to their left was the back of another house, so big for its lot that the only sign of garden was a tiny sliver between the pathway and the driveway. And, behind them, a solid line of towering trees that probably marked the alleyway edge of the property. In some ways, it reminded Charlotte of the Yurt, as probably any street-front house with a back alley would. It was different in that the stable gave on to the street in front rather than the alley behind, but not that different in layout. On the other hand, the Yurt was not piled up into three stories and even four at the turrets, all in weirdly darkened stone with open, billowing windows streaming more of the gleaming light of open fire into the darkness of the city. Which, Charlotte realised, was full of city sounds, just not the familiar ones of home: horseshoes clopping, wheels squeaking, people shouting rhythmic calls about –something. For a moment she imagined that she had fallen into some boring English TV series, until in the distance she heard the roar of a diesel engine doing something it didn’t want to do, a sound that called her attention to the sussuration of engine noises, just at the edge of hearing. Somewhere over her shoulder to her right, Charlotte decided, an Interstate climbed a hill through a deep cut that almost baffled the sound of traffic from where she stood. Nice neighbourhood. Eldritch had classy friends. Which Charlotte figured. It was weird. Charlotte couldn’t imagine Eldritch using “proper” as a compliment. More like explaining that he was arranging boarding for the kids with complimentary murder mystery. Charlotte just hoped that it didn’t turn out that all the inhabitants of the Smythe Mansion were murderers, including the one who seemed to die first. Because that would be cheating. The kids moved hesitantly up the walk. There was just so much strangeness to take in. Bruce slowed up in his step, and, in a moment, Charlotte found herself walking beside him, Tail-End Charlie. “Hey?” Bruce said. “What?” For some reason, Bruce’s goofiness was upsetting Charlotte. Just then, Charlotte heard a new sound from the street –a strange, just unrhythmic clanking. “I, uhm. What’d I do?” You know what you did, Charlotte thought. But she didn’t say anything. “So,” Bruce said, after the silence stretched on just too long. “You hear that.” He gestured over his shoulder to the street. “Oh! I thought it was my imagination or something.” Charlotte looked back. On the street, through the light of the weird, Bunsen-burnery streetlight, a thin man in a top hat, what looked like the top half of a business suit, just too long for him top hat, and grey, calf-high capri pants that exposed pale, white calves going down into black loafers. Which were peddling vigorously. Because evidently he thought he wouldn’t be weird enough if he weren’t on a unicycle. His eyes were fixed on the kids, and when he saw that Charlotte was looking at her, he gave her a cold smile. “You have a very weird imagination, Char-Char.” “I dunno. If you saw it too, it’s probably not my imagination, Boy Wonder.” As much as she knew how much the nickname annoyed Bruce, Charlotte couldn’t help smirking when she said it. Then she raised her voice. “Can we go in? I’m starting to get cold.” Eldritch, standing on the back porch, looked over his shoulder at her. Then his eyes lifted over hers, to the sliver of the avenue visible from where he stood. “Ah. Someone is playing an amusing little game. Here. Play with something more serious.” He gestured, and a half-glimpsed image scurried from his hands. Brian looked at him, and Eldritch shrugged, defensively. “I know some pixies who owe me favours. Not to worry, nothing lethal, and hopefully they will come back bearing tales.” Brian didn’t look convinced. After all, he probably had some second cousins once removed who were pixies, and just the nicest people. The door opened. An ancient man in a butler suit straight out of the comics stood there. “Ah. Doctor Eldritch and company. Do please come in.” “Thank you, Hartwell. It is always a bummer to see you when I visit.” “I am sorry that I cannot follow your advice, or my bliss, sir, but a man needs a place.” He swept an arm down a dark hallway filled with knicknacks on pedestals and lit by a tiny, weeny little Bunsen burner in a lamp bulb hanging from the ceiling in the middle of the room that cast the knicknack’s shadows on incredibly ornate wallpaper. “If you would be so kind as to follow me into the drawing room?” Bruce bent his head close to Charlotte’s. “The butler did it.” Charlotte tried not to laugh, and ended up snorting. Hartwell, somehow, must have caught the whisper, because he looked over his shoulder, fixing his eyes on Bruce. “Quite. Two murders in a locked room every day before teatime. It is expected, you know.” The other kids stared back at Hartwell, who raised an eyebrow and then led them through a door so low that Bruce had to duck to get through it, and Charlotte felt the brush of the lintel on a stray hair. Her hands, apparently under local control, were patting down her ‘do when she walked into the drawing room, which turned out to be a room about twice as large as the living room in the Yurt, which was not small, with a roaring fire at one end and an open window at the other with billowing drapes and a draft that seemed to suck all the heat of the fire right out of the place. Two girls, perhaps about nineteen, were sitting on a sofa right next to the fire. They were wearing long, Victorian frocks in dark brown and rust colours with black velvet trim that actually did quite a nice job of bringing out auburn hair piled up in an old-fashioned up-do. Charlotte felt self-conscious of her own frock, a black and white striped number over grey leggings and pumps, even though she’d borrowed everything except the black belt and gold necklace from her Cousin May, who was a very sharp dresser. Black and white look good on everyone, was what Charlotte had been thinking. Now she was having second thoughts about putting her bright yellow blouse in her overnight bag. Oh, sure, it wouldn’t blend in, but she wasn’t going to do that, anyway. Besides the two girls, an old man sat on an individual, upholstered chair, a pipe in his hand. Even with the roaring draft, Charlotte could pick out the smell of pipe tobacco. Memories of particularly pretentious substitute teachers flooded back. “Eww,” Dora whispered. Oh, right. Smoking indoors. No-one did that in 2012. “Doctor Siddhartha Eldritch and companions: Miss Rose Eley, Miss Dora Guzman, Miss Charlotte Wong, Master Brian Ferguson, Master Bruce McNeely, and, ahem, Master Richard Roe.” The old man in the room sat in the burnished, dark leather chair nearest the fire. His voice was thin and reedy. “Sidney,” he said, ignoring Eldritch’s incredibly stupid given name in favour of the one he used in the real world, “Please, sit. Your young friends are welcome in my house for as long as they need to use the Library. May the dear Mother of Babylon bless your endeavours.” His right hand traced a circle in front of his chest as he spoke the title ‘Mother of Babylon.’ The other seated people did the same. Instinctively, Charlotte made bandha and bowed her head slightly. Twelve snorted audibly, but their host ignored him. “I am your host, and master of this humble domicile, Doctor Fortunatus Smythe,” –now it was Bruce’s turn to snort, quietly, while Rose stifled something—“And this is my ward and niece, Miss Jane Smythe, and her companion, Miss Psyche Pomp. We are very pleased to meet you. Now, Hartwell. If you will see our guests to the nursery?.” Hartwell inclined his head slightly. “As you wish, sir.” Hartwell led them down a less-cluttered corridor and up two flights of stairs. Finally, he threw open an oak door and let them into a large room that gave off into seven smaller rooms. It was filled with low couch-like things that reminded Charlotte of Victorian beanie chairs, and had a lit fireplace on one wall and a wide open window that kept the room cold and draughty in spite of it. Dora crossed the room with decisive speed and had her hands on the sash before Rose spoke up. “Don’t close it, Dora. The house is lit with gas. They say that carbon monoxide poisoning is way less fun than it sounds.” Dora turned her head over her shoulder and stuck out her tongue. “Nerd.” But she didn’t close the door. Bruce threw himself flat out on one of the not-quite beanie sofas and laughed. “We’re staying in Doctor Lucky’s mansion!” “Spill, nerdling,” Charlotte demanded. “It’s a Cheapass Game.” “None of those games you play is cheapass,” Charlotte pointed out. “Fifty bucks for some cards and army men.” “It’s a company, not a description. Kill Doctor Lucky. The game. It’s like some insane version of Clue. A bunch of guests at an Edwardian mansion follow Doctor Lucky around trying to kill him.” Rose sat down on her own beanie bag, and cupped her hands behind her head. “Plus also, Psyche Pompa? Oh, please!” “Uhm, Psychopomp? Guide of the spirits of the dead?” Bruce guessed. “Pretty much,” Rose conceded. Twelve scowled. “This is all so, so…set up. It stinks.” There was a knock on the door. Charlotte went to open it. It was Eldritch. “Ah, children,” he said, slipping through the door and shutting it deftly behind him. “Do, please, make yourselves comfortable. Sit. Take your shoes and jackets off. Choose a guestroom. And do not let your guard down for a moment.” Charlotte opened her mouth, felt a laugh make its way out. “Yeah, we kinda figured. What kind of mess have you landed us in?” Eldritch shrugged. “The last time I was here, Doctor Smythe was living a quiet life with his niece. The companion out of a BBC murder mystery is new to your visit. I doubt it is a coincidence.” “What about the guy on the unicycle?” Charlotte asked. “Oh, that’s just Avant Garde, pretending to be one of the leaders of the Rebellion. If you’ve read Ostrander’s classic Grimjack run, you’ll recognise him as the character that Tim and John modelled Mac Cabre on.” Bruce snorted. “Well, Avant Garde runs with Professor Paradigm, so I can see him falling for Dancer. I mean, the real Dancer. I mean, the real guy that the fake character Dancer is modelled on. I mean… You know what I mean.” “Don’t underestimate these people,” Eldritch answered. “Trust no-one?” Dora asked. Eldritch paused for a long moment. “Yes. I foresee some uncomfortable conversations with your parents and guardians in the near future.” “In dark, post-apocalyptic future, all sleepovers are at haunted mansions,” Rose intoned.

Well, he's got a big chunk of strength, resistance, flight and maybe senses in his naked build, and then two VPPs, one for "brick tricks" and one cosmic. So I can certainly see why he'd be taken as a Silver Surfer clone, but my thought was that Silver Age Superman can do pretty much anything, including outsized feats of strength and survival that can be accommodated by buying Aids in the cosmic pool. As a result, this build can do pretty much anything Silver Age Superman can do, while retaining the character's quirky limits of a panel earlier (or later.) And on a standard length writeup, no less. So it is an elegant build, although a GM's nightmare, what with two separate VPPs to juggle.

Vanguard is the CU's equivalent to Superman, but is strictly a background, historical character. I've seen two Superman tribute writeups, Viperia in Viper: Coils of the Servant; and Supernova, in Galactic Champions. I don't much like the Viperia writeup, but Supernova is an elegant design that does practically everything you want from a Superman at a low, low 2000 points or so.

It seems a bit unfair to use someone's past actions against them like that. O-Chul might be a different person now!

Only Xykon seems to have done something very, very mean to her. Out of character, I know, but maybe he was having a bad day.

So I noticed back in Mystic World days where Dean was going with the "Byzantium" themes. Thing is, our imaginations seem to do cities differently. I'm the kind of guy who likes to point out when the texture of the sidewalk changes. Well, maybe Dean is, too, but I hope I bring something a little different to the City. “Woo-hoo!” Dora yelled. “They’re running!” Dora held her phone up. Squinting a bit, Charlotte could make out Jamel pinioning the human form of Black Fang while Kerry Washington gestured magically at him. “Hood, represent!” She gloated. “It’s a new day for race relations in the city,” Twelve said. “Not.” “Does everything have to be about race to you guys?” Brian asked. “What is with the denial from you, Brian?” Dora snapped back. Charlotte waved her friend down. “Okay everybody, let’s just be glad that Takofanes’ forces are retreating here and focus on figuring out where the baddies took Auralia!" Charlotte looked around the ancient Atlantean shrine. You'd think it would be mighty columns and marble flagstones, or whatever you called those floors of shiny white rocks, but instead it was all old and dark and grey. On the lost altar of Mater Matuta, the weird, wooden pillar that had held the sword Auralia lay fractured into splinters of ancient timber. Charlotte looked over at Bruce. “This is kind of what we keep you around for, Ace Boy Detective. Where did they go? "The Chrysophase in Babylon. They're putting in a hit on the Emperor." Charlotte looked at Brian, who nodded. "Okay, everybody, let’s stand real close to Brian while he do-do that voodoo.” And, quick as the transition to Rome had been in the first place, they were elsewhere. “Hee,” she heard Dora say, “Car Char said ‘doo-doo.’” And just like that, they were standing on the Esplanade on the banks of the River of Babylon, in front of the Forbidden City, the vast and rambling city within a city. Tower after tower of carnelian gem and green blue window reflecting the sun rising over the vast pavement of the Esplanade. From the city hall to the administration building to the archives to the grand museum and the Imperial Place down to the vast Technical University that guarded the Bridge of the Golden Horn, last before the Ringing Sea of Babylon. This was the place that governed the City of Art and Man, and wanted everyone to know it. It was dawn here, just like the city they'd left, because that was the way that Babylon was. A jogger went by, young and muscular and incredibly fit, wearing tight jogging clothes and running like a tribal warrior chasing buffalo. Charlotte tore her eyes off him. “It’s a song! Okay. Esplanada. How do we get into the Forbidden City from here?” “Look for a ventilation/emergency shaft.” Rose’s voice had that certainty that said that she knew what she was talking about. Even if sometimes she cheated and used it when she was pulling stuff out of her butt. “We’re . . . three hundred meters south of the east gate of the Chrysophase, should be some kind of covering structure right there.” Rose pointed at what looked like a tiny little ancient Greek temple in a little hollow cut out of the esplanade to be invisible except at their angle. Her finger-pointing direction, Charlotte noted, went through a clutter of yummie mommies pushing expensive strollers and carrying walking-around coffee in those artsie cups that companies that wanted you to think that they were way more exclusive than Starbucks gave out. Because of course there were Starbucks in Babylon. In fact, the only reason they weren’t on every corner in Babylon was that there was so much else that wanted to be on the corners of the City of Man. Great, thought Charlotte. Yummy mommies sucked as much as their nickname. If a bunch of teen supers went pushing through them on their way to save the world, it would serve them right if their perfectly gelled short ‘cuts got messed up, on account of their having their lives so together. Except that other people had that idea, as a cluster of what looked like college kids wearing black matching shirts and pants with “Junior Leader Programme” blazoned on the back of the shirt. It wasn’t that they were being rude. It was that they were hustling. On the flank of the group, three of them were actually jogging to keep up on the wheel, and the short Asian girl in that group was moving faster than anyone should be able to jog. “Why isn’t there a Junior Follower Programme?” Twelve asked. “Because it would be for losers?” Dora asked. “In this world, most of us are going to end up followers. That’s the programme we need.” “And you approve of that?” Bruce asked. “No! I disapprove of leaders! Sorry, Charlotte. Self-appointed leaders. Programmes like that one—“ Twelve gestured at the oblivious college kids, “Teach them to expect the rewards of leadership, not the duty of its practice. Truth is, most of the time and for most purposes, social groups not only should make their choices collectively, but actually do. When you see how the world’s screwed up, and you know that the purpose of institutions is to do what they do, that’s when you realise that you have to reject leadership before you can have a better world. Be a follower. Together. And change the world.” “This is the part where he starts talking about global warming,” Dora announced to the air. “Well! It’s important!” “No politics!” Dora announced. Bruce stepped in between them. “This has been a very interesting seminar on advanced anarchist practice. Now can we fight evil for a while?” In front of her bickering friends, Charlotte tried to push through the knot of Moms with trailers and Junior Leader Programmers. Considering that a superhero in a black-and-white cowl was trying to get through the crowd, they seemed pretty calm, looking towards another cluster of random people coming around the temple-exit-building-thingie. Well, random except for the fact they seemed way too well-put together for dawn-in-the-morning. In the middle of the clutter, one guy put his violin case down and began to play something familiar. Charlotte tried to edge around them, heading for the little temple structure, but now there were even more people coming down the Esplanade. By now she was close enough to see the big, emergency-type doors. Nice. She figured it had to be locked from this side, of course. Charlotte was seriously thinking about putting the elbow into the small cracks between way too many people, Hong Kong-style (awesomest Spring Break ever!), when she heard a tinkle of change on change from behind her. A chill, incomprehensible, went down Charlotte’s back. She looked back. One of the yummy mommies had thrown change into the violin case, and then stopped to fish something out of her case. It was a violin, of course. She started playing it, the same familiar tune as the first violinist. The other yummy mommies had by this time formed a semi-circle around the two performers, looking like people who were waiting for Something Important to happen. One of them even pulled her baby out of the stroller and began dancing the baby, who was dressed in an adorable pink jumper, by her chubby little arms. Two of the Junior Leaders stepped up. The little Asian girl had produced some kind of mouth-blowing thing from somewhere, and now a third one came up on the esplanade from a ramp down into the plaza in front of the Technical University, pushing some kind of drum. But by this time more “random” passersby were congregating from all directions. More and more instruments were joining the performance, which was even more familiar to Charlotte now. Bruce stepped beside her. “Flash mob,” he spat out, mouth grim. Another group of “random” passersby formed up in a group and began to sing, Classical style. “I never thought anyone in Babylon could be so evil,” Charlotte said, trying for lightness. Truth was, she only found flash mobs annoying, not evil. But still. Not her business. They just had to stop the hit. Except that now there were a couple of police on Segways gathered around the emergency exit. Charlotte elbowed over to them. “Hey, officers. We’ve got information about an emergency in the Palace.” The nearest officer looked at her through frosted sunglasses that seemed ridiculously too dark for the dawn’s light. “I’m sorry, Ma’am. We can’t have people opening up restricted accessways. They’re restricted for a reason.” “But this is an emergency! We have to get in there.” “We’ve no information about an emergency in the Palace, Ma’am,” said the second officer. “There will be soon!” “As soon as we have confirmation of that by dispatch, we will open the accessway for you, Ma’am,” said the third officer. “It’ll be too late!” Charlotte protested. “Why not just let us in now?” From the corner of her eye, Charlotte saw the Junior Leaders Programme Junior Leader step out in front of the group and begin conducting. He had the giant, oversized gestures of every self-important conductor ever, but mainly he reminded her of her band teacher, plucking and gesturing through “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star,” and “Oh, Canada.” “I’m sorry, Ma’am,” said the first officer. “A bystander might be hurt!” “It’s a flash mob!” Charlotte said. “There are no bystanders! It’s all a put-up!” Too late, she realised that she probably sounded a little angrier than she ought. Yet another person stepped around the emergency exit, so short that Charlotte could only see his legs through gaps and spaces for a moment. Her legs. Assistant Library Vice-Director Nazfre. She looked at Charlotte. “Tone, young lady! If you have a point, it will not suffer from maintaining an appropriate tone. If, on the other hand, you are being hysterical again. . .“ The librarian’s voice trailed off, dangerously. “But you were kidnapped!” Charlotte protested, weakly. “Appearances can be misleading. I have been attempting to secure the city’s legacy from reckless misuse. And, now that that is well in hand, we can all enjoy some music in a culturally uplifting setting.” Behind them, the choral voices soared in triumph. Charlotte tensed. If this came to a fight— Assistant Vice-Director Nazfre jerked a thumb at the sky. Charlotte’s eye was drawn up. A police zeppelin had floated up from the still gloomy west. A turret, hanging ponderously from the gondola, flicked back and forth with an apparently randomness that somehow suggested that it was just this close to opening fire. “It sure would be shame if some of these random bystanders caught a rubber bullet shot hard enough to affect a superhero,” one of the officers said. His mouth broke into a smirk for just a second as he said it, before reverting to I-don’t-care calm. “The Emperor will be dead in a minute if we don't--" Charlotte stopped. "I'm open to ideas." “Relax and enjoy the music,” Dora said. “Everyone’s coming.” She pointed. A gigantic balloon man was bobbing its way up the esplanade, multiple cords held by –mimes?—each struggling with their tie down, even though there didn’t seem to be that much wind to make the ballon man dance. Actually, it almost looked like the balloon was moving on its own while the flash mob kept getting bigger, the music louder and more triumphant. The people still looked like they were trying to be casual, but had somehow ended up taking just a bit too much care with their outfits. The guy standing next to Charlotte clanging a triangle actually had foundation on, just the perfect amount. He looked, Charlotte realised, like Michael Cera. And, grossest of all, when he noticed that she was noticing him, he gave Charlotte a total “Hey, babe, how you doin’” look. I’m, like, ten years younger than you, creepy-face, Charlotte thought at him, hard. Then she turned her eyes back at the immediate problem, the patrolmen she’d have to hit very hard if she wanted to proceed with her plan. (Which was not the world’s most brilliantest plan ever, being mainly to get into the fire escape stairs inside the concrete shed in front of her, and get into the most securre building in Babylon so she could stop a bunch of supervillains and some Migdalar from trying to kill the Emperor. But it was a plan.) “Hey, babe, can I have your number?” He even sounded like Michael Cera, and in the time she’d taken to side-eye Mr. I-want-to-be-Andrew-Garfield-When-I-Grow-Up things had gone from bad to worse. The gun-zeppelin that was still hovering overhead, for one thing, had grown a buddy. The light of the rising dawn was coming in so low to the horizon she hadn’t even noticed it flying up. Also too, the police standing around the door in the vent shed were becoming more numerous, now, flocking around Director Nazfre. Nazfre wouldn't even make eye contact at all. Like she knew they couldn’t explain herself. “’Scuze me,’ scuze me,” Charlotte heard from behind. “Oh my God, it’s Scott Pilgrim,” Rose gushed. “For the love of . . .”Dora trailed off, unable to think of what thing people might love that might make up for the fact that her friend liked that movie. Or those comic books. Whichever. Charlotte looked over, and right into the glasses of the Michael Cera lookalike. Which, as she watched, sprouted ridiculously fake, giant, half Ping-Pong ball eyes on springs. Director Nazfre stepped in front of him. “Really? You people are going to make an issue of this?” A dancing motion in the sky caught Charlotte’s eye. The balloon man had come up, surprisingly quickly. And not all the people in the group below it were holding trailing wires. Some were carrying bagpipes. This, Charlotte thought, was starting to get weird. And not just because their kilts were fluorescent orange shot through with metallic green. The orange, she thought, actually looked pretty good, drawing her eye down to some impressive legs. The rest, though. . . . “Hit it, guys!” Michael Cera said. And they did. So, apparently, you could do London Calling on bagpipes. Charlotte would not have guessed that before she heard it, but, there you go, and went. The Michael Cera lookalike did some very-unpunklike dance moves at Director Nazfre. “We do not—“ Director Nazfre began. Michael Cera lookalike held his finger up to his mouth in an exaggerated shushing motion. As if summoned, two dozen of the flash mobbers nearest simultaneously shed their ever so-decorous winter coats and tied-just-so scarves to reveal the tight, clowny clothes that Charlotte associated with mimes. Because, of course, their faces had, in the interim, somehow turned the painted shock-white of mimes. Clasping the trademark little bowlers on their heads as they advanced, the flash-mobbers-turned-mimes formed up in a straggly dance-off line behind the Cera lookalike and began advancing, with disco-boogie style spins and flourishes, towards the police. It was all out of tune, and style, with the punk bagpipe music behind them. And, in the sky, the balloon man’s jiggly, random, windblown dance had somehow brought him and his trailing lines into a tight embrace of the police zeppelins. Somehow, seagulls were perching on every wire tightened level, and their calls began to penetrate the music. With dancing mimes somehow penetrating their lines, the police began to fade backwards, towards whatever stop position they had, far behind the emergency exit, Charlotte was glad to see. “I do not recognise your, your, lack of authority here!” Director Nazfre yelled. “The Shadow Cabinet will hear of. . .” but whatever else she had meant to say was lost in a sudden gust of wind, one that, somehow, blew through the ever-rising, ever more triumphant orchestral music of the flash mob, sweeping it into discordant oblivion. In the midst of dancing mimes, fleeing police officers, and now bagpipe players slam dancing without breaking what passed for the tune, Director Nazfre stood straight and impassive, as though hoping that a solid, impassive glare would save the day. The Michael Cera lookalike swept into the air, pulled down a Power-Up and karate-kicked them flying into the air like in some lame movie. Oh, right. Scott Pilgrim. She wasn’t very impressed with his moves, either. And he landed, looked over at Charlotte, and said, “Can I get your digits now?” Charlotte looked over at him and narrowed her eyes. “Yeah, no. I don’t think so. Shouldn’t have dumped Knives in the first place.” “What?” He said. “She’s crazy!” “You bad-mouthing my cousin? Bugger off!” “Hey!” Brian shouted. “How come when I do that joke about all the Wongs being your cousin, I get glared down?” Charlotte gave him a quick glare down. Dora wrenched open the emergency door with a golden, extended forcefield hand. And then Charlotte was in the lead, her feet slamming on the first landing as she vaulted down the entire first flight of the steel-lattice steps of a spiral fire exit that wound down a concrete shaft. “What the heck was that?” She yelled behind her. “No need to kill yourself, Char-char,” Rose said from in front of her. “Action hasn’t started. It’s Carnival.” “It’s what?” Charlotte said, take a more normal step off the landing down onto the next flight. “What happened upstairs. See, there’s two official political conspiracies in Babylon. The Shadow Cabinet is the conspiracy of order, authority, and maybe oppression; and the Fools’ Parliament is the conspiracy of revolution, riot and maybe terrorism. The Shadow Cabinet is popular with government and the police, and is pretty much in charge where things are all organised and professional.” “Your kind of people, Rose,” Charlotte said. “Yeah, like you’re little Miss Wackypants, Char Char. Anyway, wherever the Shadow Cabinet is getting a little too high on itself, like, I guess, when it tries to stage an assassination in the Forbidden City, the Fools’ Parliament declares a Carnival, which is like Mardi Gras on steroids, and everything falls apart.” “I told you we just needed to relax and enjoy the music,” Dora said from behind them. “You knew this was going to happen?” Bruce asked. “No! Well, had a feeling. Did you?” “Actually,” Bruce said, “Yes. Once I figured out who the Emperor was, and what this was all about.”

Fellow former idiot here.

Not to worry, it's the off season so if they don't get it right the first time, they get a mulligan.

I've probably been around here too long. I figured out that this was Hermit's work two thirds of the way through in spite of being still in full recovery from my work week. (Or, you know, I wouldn't have had to guess it from the style.) In case you're all chuffed that people are paying attention, Hermit, Aquaman still sucks.

MCU Thanos was in love with death. That was his motive. The whole "save the universe" thing was just gaslighting, as he himself reveals in Endgame. MCU Thanos just had a better publicist than MU Thanos. "Dude. You can't just say that!"

And I thought we were buddies! PS You're not allowed to say "Nextwave" again on pain of being full of many useful devices

Yeah, but I didn't like the Inhumans. I know, I know, minority opinion compared with the great groundswell of demand for more Inhumans-related entertainment product of the teens, but it is my opinion and I am sticking with it. (Although I did like Agents of Shield.) Also, so how about this guy who definitely has his finger on the pulse:

Five yard penalty ---Facts on the Internet.

Monica seems to have some issues with the SWORD weapon programme. There's only one possible way this could be going I have decided, and I am casting NEXTWAVE in my head right now.

Yeah, I don't know. America seems pretty sane right now compared with the McCarthy era. So far, no-one's been fired, no-one's been executed, and, well, there were journalists at MacArthur's rally on the Mall who honestly thought that if the General had been willing to give the word, the crowd would have sacked the White House. It's amazing how things that embarrassed the press get forgotten. We remember McCarthy's every misstep and the outrages of the HUAC, but not the mass hysteria stirred up by MacArthur, or the way that the Republican establishment tried to ride on McCarthy's coat-tails in the 1950 and 1952 elections. The fact is that Trumpism does not exactly look like a winning ticket right now.

Back by complete lack of demand! Beside Charlotte, her best friend, Nita Guzman, muttered, "Hey, let's go on a field trip to Babylon, City of Art and Man. It'll be fun!" Charlotte didn't look at her friend, because she was busy not falling as she reached the top stair in the middle of the crowd of people getting off at least three subway trains and a bus stop far below their feet. She was following their Parent Volunteer, the impossible Eldritch. (Who was actually a bachelor, and substituting for Nita's dad, who was busy principaling.) In front of Charlotte, through a high, brilliantly clean blue-green glass wall, was the East Plaza, and, beyond it, the Library of Babylon. Charlotte assumed. Honestly, if she didn't know it was the Library of Babylon, she would have thought it was a city. A very fancy city with a front of four story Gothic buildings giving way to shiny towers behind. The flow of the crowd, commuters with maybe more teenagers with book bags than usual, was heading to the west, through wide doors; but now Eldritch took the lead, taking them across the flow with more than a few "Excuse mes" and "I'm sorries," to doors set on the south side of the station. Once through, the crowd thinned out, and by the time they reached the wide, stone steps at the edge of the plaza, they were walking amongst a scant few grown-ups, mostly dressed on the tweedy side of fashionable, although there were a few outrageous eccentrics to make Charlotte feel less embarrassed for Eldritch. At the top of the stairs, three flights up, a tall woman with a short, rounded pixie cut, small, hexagonal, frameless glasses, and a matched, ivory blouse and mid-calf skirt was clearly waiting for them, her eyes registering recognition of Eldritch at least. "Class," Eldritch said, "This is Ms. Livremore, and she'll be your guide today." He turned around, squinting down through his Three-D-themed sunglasses, and said, "Ms. Guzman? Your nametag?" "Sorry," Nita said, clearly not sorry at all, as she pulled her name tag out and stuck it to the school blazer that her Dad had had to bribe her into. ("What's even the point of going to a regular high school if I have to wear this in public?") "So You are the Tatammy High School Special Criminology Programme Field Trip? Do you have names?" Ms Livermore's voice was quiet, yet crackled with authority, like a boss, Charlotte thought. Librarian. Librarian boss. In descending order of clarity and enthusiasm, Rose, Twelve, Charlotte, Bruce, Brian and Nita gave the usual name, rank and serial number routine. That's my team, Charlotte thought to herself. "Well, if you'll come with me, we will get started on this tour, and maybe even answer some questions you might have." "Good," Bruce said. "Because as long as Auralia is in the wind, there's no time for sightseeing." Ms. Livremore pretended to ignore him, which Charlotte totally didn't get. As irritating as Bruce was these days, his voice was sexy enough to make you think that that was the reason that Bob Kane had ripped his Grand-Dad for the inspiration for that comic book character. You know the one. With the gadgets. Ms. Livremore led the group up to spectacular, story-high doors of metal banded wood in the middle of a façade of gray stone cut with niches filled with statues in pure white marble spectacularly touched in brand new paint, engraved with friezes, highlighted in gold or even bronze, and hung with a few extra-polite and orderly falls of ivy. "This is the library's original main entrance." She paused for a moment, probably because even she could tell that there was something wrong with a main entrance that wasn't actually being entered by anyone very much. "Nowadays most people go in through the big foyer around the corner." "Surely not the original original," Bruce said. Ms. Livemore raked him with a librarian's glare. "I'm sorry," she paused for a moment, "Bruce, is it?" "It's Drindrish-influenced human art," Bruce said, all cool, like that explained everything. "Ah," Miss Livremore said. "You're young superheroes. With the time travel and such. You've seen Drindrish work before." "Also, space travel," Nita interrupted. "And it's not Drindrish. It's Drindrish-inspired," Brian said. "You can tell because the statues have pants." I totally wasn't going to say, Charlotte thought to herself. "And is, there, like, some kind of chastity belt for guys? Because those statues are missing a bit here and there," Nita added. "The human sculptors must have been ex-slaves," Twelve said. "They're symbolically emasculating the Elvish One Percent." "Former Elvish," Brian said, a Faerie-American himself. "I love it when you talk dirty, Twelve," Nita said, because it had been, like a sentence since she'd interrupted last. Bruce cleared his throat. "But the point, is that we came here because you supposedly have a collection from the Old Red Aeon, and it ended twenty thousand years before the Drindrish Exodus." "Exodus? Curious. I think you'll find more than you wanted about the King of Ivory in our stacks," Ms. Livermore said, politely avoiding saying 'Kal-Turak' or 'Takofanes.' "And in answer to your question, the Library did not put on a welcoming face in those days, and that wing of the building is behind later construction. In fact, it might be fun to take you by it. Now, if we can get on with the tour?" Through the great door was an echoing hall that somehow gave off a feeling of dinginess in spite of being immaculately clean and in good repair. Just something seemed worn and old, in the stairwells to either side, the closed, glass-fronted doors in front of them, or the hallway of checked linoleum leading to inside doors immediately ahead. Most of the few people who came in with the group were climbing the stairs, down which spilled bright light and the sound of too many voices all trying to be quiet at once. Charlotte could just imagine a public library study space above, all computer desks and writing tables, filled with high school students studying for exams. (At least, that would be what they'd told their parents.) But instead of there, Ms. Livremore led them through the main doors in front. As Charlotte walked through, it was like she'd passed into another building entirely, a vivarium, almost, with a glass roof, a glass outside wall facing a garden inside the library, fronting a featureless and ominous dark tower with its lowest windows facing them across the garden, three vertiginous stories, at least, above the garden visible through a good half of the floor, which was all shiny glass until it met a brushed metal seam, and polished white inside it. The outside view of the dark tower and its garden was so compelling that it took Charlotte this long to notice that on the side they'd come in, the glass-walled gallery was levered off the inside wall of a building that looked as though it reached at least five stories above them, and three more below. Charlotte had no idea how that could be on one side of the door, and the building they'd come through, on the other side. At last, she thought, place is living up to its hype. "This way," Ms. Livermore said, setting a fast pace for a woman in high heels with an unsettlingly bondage-y design to go with the thoroughly librarianly outfit she wore, otherwise. At the end of the hall, the group entered a gigantic elevator foyer. Ms. Livremore went to the elevator at the left end of the bank and pressed the down button. Eldritch walked up to the central elevator and pressed the up button. Turning, he said, "Unfortunately, I have some research of world-shattering import to do myself, and so I will leave you in Ms. Livremore's tender care." He did his best to give them a threatening glare, which unfortunately was completely beyond the old hippy teddy bear, as far as Charlotte could tell. "You're going to find out how to save the world at," Nita said, reading the sign above the elevator, "Centre for Research into Arboriculture, Forestry and Timber?" "Yes," Eldritch said. "You know, before the trees take over the world," Bruce explained. "Exactly," the old wizard said. The elevator in front of them dinged open, and Ms. Livremore made an impatient gesture. The group crowded in, and Charlotte saw on the panel that they were apparently on the fifth floor, and were headed for the second. She thought about asking how that was even architecturally possible. When the door opened, they walked out into a gorgeous wood corridor with polished hardwood floors and half-paneling of even more lustrous wood reaching up to plaster walls halfway up. A floor above them, translucent windows let in the glorious noon sun. Below the windows, doors of the same vintage, with smoke-glassed windows decorated with time tables and indecipherable cartoons, lined the wall. On the other side, though, the doors were incongruous metal, each with a conspicuous fire-door handle and an old-fashioned red EXIT sign above. Tiny little windows, just big enough to see if someone was opening the door from the other side, were lined with metal mesh. As they passed the third door, a man in tweed came out through one of the metal doors, and Charlotte caught a glimpse of a long, low-ceilinged room lined with gun-metal bookshelves crammed with books, some beautiful, some more pamphlets, in ugly, functional sleeves, some pierced for coil bindings, others so big that there was only room for two or three, lying flat on a whole shelf. Rose gasped. Charlotte summoned her ch'i and reached out with the speed needed to take her friend's shoulder before Rose darted through the closing door at Mach 1, leading to an incident involving in the book love that dared not speak its name. "I think you need a library card to go in there," Charlotte whispered." "But I want to. . . "Rose's voice trailed off as Ms. Livremore glared back at her. At the end of the hall, Ms. Livremore led them through a double door and into a long, linoleum-floored room that belonged in an office building of, oh, say, a hundred years ago. Well, the lights were modern, which Charlotte could probably appreciate more than most, but on each of the ranks and ranks of desks reaching from windows on one side to the other, were machines of gray-on-gray, with ranks of keys and switches and dials, rolls of paper, card feeds, illuminated reading screens, foot pedals, and a discrete crank here and there. From each station, a metal pipe the width of a soup can reached up to the ceiling, joining a maze of similar pipes that fed into one extra-large pipe at the far end of the room. At each desk sat an operator, mostly women, but also a few men, all keying, punching, switching, cranking, and, occasionally, taking whatever results the machines fed out, inserting them in a little container, and putting that container into a door in their pipe. "A library is only as good as its catalogue," Ms. Livermore said. "And the Library of Babylon collects the literature of every human dimension. To be honest, its origins lie far back before the King of Ivory or the Graven Spear before him, before the days of the Drakines and before the world was split, indeed, before even the Silence." Ms. Livermore paused, as though waiting for an argument, but Charlotte had no idea what she was talking about, and neither of her know-it-all friends spoke up, either. "How do you manage a collection older than memory, in languages not spoken, from forgotten civilisations? With catalogues! And with catalogues of catalogues! Each entry a precious distillation of the metadata of volume that might, itself, take a lifetime to read and another to master. Each only as good as the librarian who composed it, and none of them ever to be seen by human eye again without the most meticulous cross-referencing, the most assiduous citations! And on top of the catalogues, reference guides, like maps of the surface of a bottomless ocean." Ms. Livremore paused, discretely dabbed the spittle from the corners of her mouth. Ms. Livremore seemed to be very passionate about catalogues. A moment of silence. Charlotte reflected on the snarks, bookworms, detectives, communists, and would-be gay blades in her party, and, well, she guessed this was her job. "That's great. Now, we actually do have a research project that we'd like to work on while we're here. Bruce has already mentioned that we're looking for an artefact from the Turakian Age called. . . " Which was how they ended up, fifteen minutes later, in a high-ceiling study room, sitting at a table across a waist-high map cabinets from another group of teens wearing silver lame two-piece bathing suits, laced sandals of the same glittery material, and metal hats that looked like oversized bugles. Charlotte was very tempted to stare, if only because the alternative was a book trolley laden down with the thirty volume Guide to the Turakian Collection and a thick pad of blank recall slips so that they could ask for the books they found. "'Let's go on a field trip to Babylon, City of Art and Man,'" Nita said. "'It'll be fun!'"

"Someone really, really wanted the acronym to spell out DOGDBTR."

The next time I go fishing for corrupt bargains around here, I'm going to have to be a lot more explicit. Maybe something along the lines of >>>>>PAY ME LARGE AMOUNTS OF MONEY TO CHANGE MY VOTE!!!!<<<? Yeah. Can't think of a flaw in this plan.

And it was actually canon! Well, no, it wasn't, but Book of the Empress backers got to provide Steve Long with character backgrounds which then appeared in a backer's only online supplement. Mine introduced the Babylon-based multidimensional conglomerate, Piper & Norton, and I say that it's canon. (Although none of the details in my vignette are included.) . . . . (Cut, pasted, edited, because I can!) The teenage runaway sits, huddled in the booth at the interstate truck stop, nursing one more coffee than is good for his skinny, skinny frame, wondering where he's going from here. It turns out that truckers aren't happy to give a pimpled, gangly kid in not-at-all-fashionably distressed clothes a ride to the big city. His eyes slowly focus on the man in the next booth, who is enjoying a heart attack on a plate. Their eyes meet, hold. For some reason, the trucker doesn't react for a long moment. Then he sighs, beckons the boy over. "Lisa says you wanted a ride to the city." He gestures at the counter, like the boy should know who Lisa is. One of the waitresses, he guesses, because he's not as dumb as his teachers say he is. The boy nods. "You look like the kind of kid who needs out of where they're from, but this is just a stupid way of going about it. And I'm not going to the city, least not any city you've heard of. But you shouldn't have seen me at all, so there's something going on, and I think I might be the ride for you. He stops for a moment. "That don't scare you off, get your stuff, get cleaned up, take a dump because we might hit traffic, meet me in twenty minutes at my truck." He gives the kid a parking lot number. The boy was told that he'd have better luck with an independent trucker, but when the runaway gets to the rig, he finds a double, blazoned with a corporate livery. It's Piper & Norton, which the boy's never heard of, but then he doesn't know much about the world. About that, at least, his teachers are right. A half hour later, they're rumbling down the Interstate, next stop coming up one of those towns in Ohio that start with a "C." The evening skies are bright ahead, just past a wooded rise. The kid guessed that they'd top it in a minute, and be the middle of the lights and the local exchanges, and he would have to decide where he wanted to be let off, if he couldn't talk the driver into taking him to Chicago. Not what the kid had in mind, but better than home. Anything was better than home. That's when the trucker nudged over to the outside line and lined up an exit only he could see. For a moment, they're headed right off the road, and the kid spasms and sets his foot hard against the floor like that's going to help. "Watch out," he begins to say, knowing he's not even going to finish the words before they plunge off the road and die in a burst of flame, just like a car accident on TV. Instead, they're suddenly on that exit that doesn't exist. The truck curves around a bend, and they're in the middle of the knot of trees, climbing just slightly up the rise as the road curves round. The driver is braking, turning, and hits about forty as the pavement ends. Soon, they're picking their way over a washed out gravel road. It's weird, not what a double rig is made for at all. "This is the part where I'd turn out to be a serial killer in most versions of this story," the trucker points out, as the road suddenly acquires asphalt again, and the scenery . . . changes. They're on an Interstate on ramp now. Oh, and it's suddenly full night, because clocks are boring. Or. . . not an interstate. Because the route sign is orange, not green, and round, not the badge shape of an Interstate sign at all. It says, "Via 5," and the distances are marked to Watershed Pass, 1 Mile, and Babylon, 25 miles. The kid is surprised, but not completely, because he reads science fiction, and the world's got superheroes and aliens, and after that, he's ready to believe in weirder things. The driver looks over at him. "I don't know how well you know the Interstate system. . . " "We're in an another dimension, aren't we?" "Kids today," the driver mutters. He shifts up, just a bit. It's obviously quite a climb, the last mile to the summit, and then they're at the top, and looking down at a valley stretching towards ever-thicker clusters of light and at the end a bigger city than the kid has ever seen. "That's Babylon, City of Man and Art," the trucker says. "Chews up kids like you and spits you out, don't mind me saying. But maybe you're meant to go there. If you get cold feet, though . . . " The driver pauses as they drive down the mountain slope, occasional, rudimentary exchanges leading on to places marked as "Loon Lake, 4 miles," and the like. At last the driver speaks again. "Look, I'm not telling you, but Babylon's full of rich people who like to get away to a cabin by the lake for the weekend. They don't come much in the off season, so if you know how to pull a B&E, which you look like you do, you could probably make it through the winter cabin surfing. " The runaway just shakes his head. The interstate, or, no, the Via, levels out and fields open out around them, pretty soon they're flying by a big high school campus. "That's Norma Jean Mortenson Memorial High across that field. I let you let you off on the shoulder, it's a half mile from campus through the hayfield. You wait at the door, there'll be an outreach worker in the morning. The valley towns, they lose enough of their kids to the Babylon streets. Maybe they'll help." The kid shakes his head. The driver sighs. "Just as well. There are people who go to that high school who don't go down to Babylon when they graduate, but I'm not sure how real they are ." Soon the school is well behind. The kid sighs. He's not exactly running away from do-gooding school counsellors who will do anything except actually help, but he figures he knows their kind well enough. The next notable exit is at the top of a rise, so that the kid can look down into a hollow valley along the river that runs towards Babylon. Lights spill around tiny, rectangular lots stuck too close together, a street grid only too small. It's a mobile home park, the kid realises, for the kind of people who work in the city but can't afford it. "More your kind of place?" The driver asks. "They've cleaned up good since the last flood. Or was it a tornado? I can drop you." His hands tense on the wheel, but he does not turn it. BEcause the kid knows the drill. B&Es again, only for damn sure not unoccupied places. You look for users, take their stash. Or a bullet. Whichever. No thanks. The kid shakes his head. This was what he wanted away from in the first place. The driver exhales in relief. Next it's a suburban shopping mall, probably an hour from closing, the kid figures. Place where the kind of people who work in the city but live in a big house in the suburbs shop on their way home. By this time of the night, only the anchor stores would be open, and a lot of security would be gone. Good shoplifting, not that the fences who used to run him ever let him keep anything over what he needed to keep his stepdad happy. The driver looks over at him, but the kid shakes his head. Better than ripping off druggies, but still awful. He wanted something better. And then, as though they'd passed some kind of barrier, they were in the city. Full stop. Lights, buildings, cheapass-looking apartment buildings way too close together. Warehouses. Parking lots. "You can come to the City in a wagon train, you know," the driver says. "They go right through a city gate, with towers just like Lord of the Rings. Or you can take a train and get off at a big old station, or parade down a grand avenue. Or you can be like us and come in like a trucker through the ugly side." Then the entire highway goes under a massive concrete pile straight out of the urban maps of Lego Racers, and suddenly it's an entire multi-lane freeway, but underground, lanes and stanchions stretching to both sides and great overhead lamps glaring down. Signs with arrows point to exits and lower levels. A convoy of black SUVs blasts by on the right, flanked by sleek motorcycles, with an incredibly cool sportscar following on behind so fast and so close it was like they were watching a car chase. Who knows? Maybe they were. "So this is the Understate, kid," the driver says. "Buried for no distractions, and also not much traffic, for a change. No more sightseeing, no more delays. Just a twenty minute run to the Piper & Norton depot to drop my trailers and hook up a return load. Looks like I'll be home on time. And before you ask, I live in a little town in Ohio just like yours, because I can afford an acreage and horses for my daughters there. This is your last stop, kid, sidewalk outside the truck gate. There's a 7-11 across the street, so unless you get yourself run over, that's where the rest of your life starts." He pauses, then reaches into his pocket and pulls out his wallet. "The 7-11 is the only place in Babylon where you can buy a map that's worth a damn. Maybe it'll even show you where you need to go, if the city has a plan for you." He thrusts out his hand, offering a bill. The kid takes it. "To buy stuff, you'll need money. That's five Babylon sovereigns," the driver says. "Twenty bucks, give or take. Try not to do either 'till you've got the lay of the land."