[Christian Underwood]

Post your roleplays here by deadline. Good luck and have fun!

[Terrorfexx]

Symphony of the Iron Underbelly, Movement No. XVIII – The Problem of Evil

[The Present – All Angels’ Church, 66th Street, Atlantic City, New Jersey, USA]

Powerful chords born on compressed air reverberate round the high-vaulted ceilings; reflected by buttresses framed by stern-looking saints and wrathful angels as the organ sings its powerful glories to god. Dozens of brass pipes ringed by silver bands climb up clustered together, rising in a descending slope of absolute height based on pitch and tone. Tapestries depicting the Crucifixion and the Virgin Birth and all manner of Saints, intricately stitched with rich reds and blues and bordered in gold, flutter in the artificial breeze made by each blown note.

Polished stonework and pink granite reflect and redirect the music, forcing the composition back in on itself and down from high overhead – creating a rolling wave of discordance that presses down on the shoulders of the parishioners, backs bent over thumb-worn bibles and huddled in their dark oak pews. Some of them grit their teeth at the auditory assault, others close their eyes and let it consume them.

Immediately above my head a Gargoyle leers out from the balustrade running three-quarters of the length of the altar. Its sunken eyes are narrowed, rock-hewn teeth sharp, angular; carved lip pulled back in a permanent, rictus snarl. It stands sentinel over a large cross fashioned from shining, stainless steel. A metaphor for the ever-presence of dark things, perhaps. A crass one, heavy and thrown over the heads of those with no subtlety or complexity or ability to appreciate the finer detail. Such obvious darkness is no real threat: after all something so two-dimensionally, unequivocally twisted is hardly a danger. There is no permutation in which someone – even the dullards mindlessly mumbling along to their favourite passages all around me – could be caught unawares or surprised by it.

This is not the evil that men have built such houses of the Lord to guard against. Fortresses of faith to stand against. No, there is something subtler, more fundamental which hollows the soul and poisons the nebulous “good”.

Evidence of it comes in the hacked cough of an old man sitting over to my left. The sags in his pockmarked, gnarled skin shake and swing with every rattle of his birdcage chest. He seems to put more gusto into every spasm until his entire body shakes with effort. A crisp white linen handkerchief is pressed up against his lips but drops down out of sight splattered in red.

On the balance of probabilities, he probably does not deserve whatever is rotting him from the inside-out. That is evil.

Then, there is the pristine vision in candy-red sat to my right. Miss Cassieopia Mearns. She is ramrod straight, hands perched on her lap and staring straight ahead at nothingness. Deep in thought. Or simply lost. She has been that way since witnessing the end of a Hurricane in a basement in Long Beach. That was a difficult lesson, one she has not quite yet finished learning.

She does not want to be here. She does not want to so much as look at me but some small part of her has foolishly rationalised this as an opportunity to keep an eye on my whereabouts. As if a few hours snatched by my side mitigates the other twenty or so within which I am free to go where I please and do concurrently.

Cassieopia did not deserve to be used as a tool to achieve my desired ends. That is evil.

And yet all around, I am reminded of the need to guard and rise against such threats at vast expense. Monetarily is only the most obvious, since master craftsmen and their Gargoyle effigies do not come particularly cheap. The most valuable is temporal – time. Who can say how many gave such precious, irreplaceable time to create this vast edifice and testament. Those that laboured with love to create the organ currently professing that love to the Almighty? It serves only to make the very effort that much more ironic.

Without the darkness it professes to stand against … What precisely is all of this for? What use is a defence without its corresponding threat?

“Why’d you bother coming here?” Cassieopia says, eventually. Her eyes never leave the steel cross ahead, but the tightening of her cheek betrays that apparent laser-focus is weak and diffracted. She only pretends not to be consumed by the questions and confusion, because she has never known what it is like to ask. Only answer.

The answer should be obvious, if she took any time to step out from the molasses-thick, turgid wastewater of her own so-called problems and look at something bigger. Something greater. “It is useful to see the face of my enemy, so to speak.”

Those eyes tighten and for a moment, I think she is about to disappoint me by seeking some further context she should already know – burnt into the deepest parts of her psyche along with the scars I gifted her Hurricane – but at the last moment, the skin around her cheeks relaxes. Comprehension.

“You think you’re standing against everything that’s good.”

It is a statement. Declarative, unambiguous. It is not quite accurate – I think of myself as standing against everything this represents, but it is their word against mine that it constitutes something as nebulous as good. Still, what a shame it has taken her far too long, coming far too late, to finally find this sharp intellectual edge. A useful sword finding its blade long after the battle has ended.

The pandemic has given me the relative luxury of cloth masks, far more comfortable and socially acceptable than my usual composite facsimile and so when I turn to look at Cassiopeia, she catches all the intensity transmitted her way. She visibly flinches because she is simply not all that sharp or keen-forged after all. How unfortunate.

“Do you think I am evil?” I ask. It is a relatively simple question but through some great cosmically-organised underscore or coincidence made by worn rubber diaphragms or stuck valves, the enormous organ ahead and above us on the balustrade rings out with a discordant note – the all-too-human at its keys making an error, or the tarnished brass and wood wearing out under the strain of so many hymns sung unto god. Whatever the reason, it blares and hurts the ears as if to protest at anyone asking something so base and offensive in the House of the Lord.

Cassiopeia turns to look at me – directly at me. Into me. For a few seconds she stares, but it is not to help her make up her mind. Intrinsically, intimately, I know she is in fact looking for a reason to disagree. For any reason to say no.

But she cannot. “Yeah,” She says, and then she looks away. Back towards the cross.

The organ finds its song again, tremendous, powerful and coherent and I am left considering what feels like a paradox; growing as bloated and overwrought as the gold-trimmed, arched ceilings, precious metal-inlaid goblets and sterling-silver angels that stand all around me.

What is all this for, if not because of me? What purpose does any of it serve, if it is not to oppose my existence?

WIthout me, there is no reason for any of this to be.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

You find all kinds of folk in these kinds of places, but very few of them have faith. Not real faith, anyway. Most are here because it’s preprogrammed like some fast-cook setting on the microwave. They just come hard-wired because of bad experiences masquerading as some kind of salvation, or indoctrination courtesy of plenty of Sunday Morning sermons on the quickest way to achieve spiritual damnation with a side-order of hellfire. A few have run out of options on a long road that could’ve led to anywhere but here, so they wear out the varnish on the pews, scuff the tilework underfoot and hope something prophetic will just descend to trumpets and harking heralds and show them the error of their ways.

A slither do, though. A handful believe all of this. Breathe it. They’re not just mouthing the words half-heartedly alongside the clergy swinging stinking censors that make your eyes water; they’re two steps ahead trying to divine the intent behind passage. Working through the word of god to divine the ecclesiarchial lesson of the day. They’re the most dangerous, because nothing is harder to reason with than a fanatic. Faith – true faith, at least – is right up there with one of the most dangerous weapons a person can wield. Comes in too many forms to count, but they all work the same. Hurt the same but harder.

I squeeze the thread-worn rim of the fedora in my hand as I look down at one such example from high up on the balcony. She’s far more liberal with her public appearances nowadays, and I can’t think of another person who’s benefited quite so much from killer respiratory viruses. With a simple face mask covering her mouth, she could be any number of young-ish professional women squeezing in devotion to the Father in-between Zumba and tickets for the New Jersey Symphony. Not with those bright blue eyes though. This one’s a killer. Seen her handiwork.

Almost became a statistic myself.

She sits next to that curious young lady. Always dressed in red. Another Flowergirl Named After the Stars … Cassiopeia. Company talent manager, drawn into a tangled web woven between the Rapture, a Hurricane, a Songbird and a decent man in the shape of Mac Bane. Spot the odd one out.

The corner of my stubbled cheeks twitch up in a smirk. That’d be the gumshoe.

That’d be me.

I slink out into the cool evening air, hymnals still blaring behind loud enough on the organ’s forced air to ruffle the leaves overhanging the Church’s southern entrance. Things are drawing to a close just like the five or six hundred copies of the Good Book(s) inside foretold. Just a matter of time …

Still, there’s other business to attend to. The business that pays bills and shines shoe leather and the walk to get into it takes me along smog-stained high-rises and miles of orange-flecked, rusted chain link fence. Way above my head three-lane freeways get carried over the horizon on huge concrete pillars – like the city just gave up trying to fix the decay down here and plain decided to build a way to get away from it up there. The odd streetlamp spits a dirty sodium-orange light in flickers that cast shadows on the rolling trash as it sweeps around in tiny spirals. It’s a miserable place, full of miserable people low on hope and high on all manner of narcotics and vices designed to suppress the need to feel that former.

The apartment block on the corner of 75th and Roosevelt Drive is probably too old and feeble to remember the good-old days when it looked like anything else but shit. If I look close – close enough to risk a fist through any number of the broken windows lining the ground floor – I can just catch a glimpse of the original brickwork facade hiding underheat the jutting lips of gouged windowsills. Everything else is black-and-grey, poisoned by the bumper-to-bumper snarl of traffic rolling past for the last sixty years.

Still, it’s a home to folk. A home to one-less tonight than two days ago and I’m here to help look into why.

Detective O’Mallory doesn’t really want to be here – and who can blame him? Solving this one is purely procedural or, to use a fancier term, the law. Ultimately nobody except the odd surviving grandparent is going to care much about finding out who did this and seeing them pay something back in return. It’s always a grandparent. The people who die in places like this are invariably estranged from every other family member. Mother, father … Kids. Seems statistically unusual, now I come to think about it, but O’Mallory doesn’t really have time for that. Or much of anything.

“Fexxfield,” He grunts without looking up from the trials and tribulations of his Fantasy League team. I stand there for a good few moments, waiting, until eventually he sighs and stuffs his phone deep into a pocket. Doesn’t let go of it though. “Be my guest.”

Stepping underneath the chevron-slashed warning tape, it doesn’t take long to case the scene and find it to be thoroughly, completely and utterly by the numbers. Standard forced entry by someone desperate looking for something – anything – of value. Desperate because only someone in serious strife or lacking in the brainpan would break into a godforsaken concrete box like this and expect to find anything worthwhile. Shame someone died for it.

And she died. Shot straight through the throat. There’s an antique golf club off to the side next to her outstretched, slack hand; the manufacturer’s plastic logo insert cracked and yellowed by age. Guess she heard him working the lock and had enough time to find something to fight with.

A poor hand to gamble your everything on, though. Gun beats Golf everytime.

That’s when I notice the distinct lack of … Anything. No crime scene analysis of any kind. No tags, no evidence bags. Not even the telltale streaks in the blood stained carpet which mark where the coroner knelt in protective overalls that would never see such a shade of white again. It’s like she died a half-hour before and not the two days and change ago.

“Kev?”

“Huh?” He looks up from his phone, follows my frown and shrugs. “Cutbacks,” He says and then glances back down.

That’s not good enough. “Cutbacks?”

O’Mallory sighs, puts his phone away for the second time – still doesn’t let go, does he have big money on this or something? – and blows his cheeks out with whatever’s left in his lungs. “Does “reprioritisation of focus” work better for you? Department’s figured out where to pump the green and it isn’t on applying the scientific method to nobodies like this.”

“No offence Ma’am,” He adds, glancing down at the corpse.

Pawing at the shadow of a beard making my chin itch, I glance over my shoulder. “Where’s it going instead?”

From over near a coffee table, examining one of those generic bone-china decorative plates covered in floral patterns that constitute ninety percent of a Thrift Shop’s rolling stock, he takes a turn to frown. “Don’t you watch the news? Or TikTok?”

“Don’t much feel like being told what I should worry about,” I reply. “ … And I’m too old to watch folk twerk.”

“Twerk? Jesus Christ Terryl–” He cuts himself off with a shake of his flat head. “Whatever. Anyway, we don’t need to bother investing in solving crime anymore. Got a superhero to do it.”

Now I get exactly what he’s talking about, as I carefully step over the lolled head of the unfortunate lady down below. Her glass eyes are locked in an unwinnable staring contest with an unsettlingly child-like doll in pigtails and gingham dress over on a nearby shelf. “You’re talking about the one with the incredible power to just walk into any police station in this city and conduct her own interrogation?”

That gets a chuckle. “Would have thought flying was the most impressive thing she could do but, yeah. Her. How’d you know about that anyway?”

“Can’t fly, but know some folk,” I shrug. “They talk. Breeds as much animosity as it does good. You know that.”

O’Mallory’s tone takes a hard right and leaves black rubber streaks on the tarmac. “Fucking right I know it! Here I am pissing around with this Jane Nobody-Knows – Again, sorry Ma’am – while all the choice assignments are following that superhero around, following her in … And just watching her do it all. Then clapping politely and back to the Precinct to wait for the next reason to fire up the massive projector on the roof of HQ and ask her to come and do our jobs for us again.”

I stoop down, knees bent and slip a latex glove over one hand. Gently I brush a lock of blood-flecked hair at my feet back behind an ear.

“Doesn’t matter how great she is at sleuthing, Kev. She can’t replace you; superhero or not.”

Something sarcastic bubbles up from his overhanging gut, mixing with laughter to make the resulting laugh caustic enough to burn the splattered carpet underfoot. “What makes you say that?”

One of those decorative flower plates is lying upturned near her thigh. Carefully I slip a finger underneath the rim and flip it over to reveal half a bootprint pressed into the fibre. Bingo.

“Because she isn’t here,” I shrug, climbing to my feet. “As good as she might be, she’s just one person. Might be an incredible flying, superstrong, super-charismatic A+ measure of a woman … But there are certain laws of physical nature even superheroes can’t beat no matter how much Unobtanium gave them strange and freakish powers. One of those laws is impermanence. She can be uncovering serial killers with multiple personalities and a fetish for putting masks on dead peoples’ faces … Or she could be here trying to find out who killed …”

That gives me pause. “What was her name?”

“Estell Thomas.”

I glance around. What did poor Miss Thomas here die for? I spot it on my second pan around the Living Room. A loose power cable dangling over the tabletop. Stepping across, I reach behind and pull the plug free from the wall.

AMAZON ALEXA ASSISTANT is embossed on the hard black plastic.

“She could have been here working out why Estell got shot through the voicebox for an Alexa,” I say eventually, snapping the plastic glove free from my fingers. “But she isn’t. And we are. That’s the thing about superheroes. They can’t save everyone. That’s for normal folk like us to try our best at instead.”

Taking a final glance down at poor Miss Thomas, I sweep the fedora left on the book by the wall up and onto my head. “They hardly save anyone. Happy to take it from here?”

“Ecstatic,” O’Mallory grumbles, taking my pep talk with as much enthusiasm as he can spare from the glowing screen of the phone in his palm. “See you around, Fexxfield.”

She cuts across me before I get much further than the adjoining corridor and in the blur, all I can do is stumble back to create space. The shift in my equilibrium makes a surprise situation worse and I fall, ending up levered half-up on the painful points of my elbows. And then she stands there, in the fucking flesh, taken straight out of my nightmares and given a form plucked from fever-dreams and sweat-soaked sheets.

“Hello Terryl,” Masque coos, blue eyes cutting into my soul from behind a ceramic mask painted crimson-red; deep enough to make my thoughts bleed. “It is so very good to see you again. I have missed you.”

She steps forward on long legs that signpost the way straight to hell. “I would like to talk to you about superheroes,” She breathes, voice somehow rattling against the shit-stained walls as nothing much more than a whisper. “Tell me – what do you know about Roxi Johnson?”


[The Rapture]


The Australian Philosopher, John Leslie Mackie, once pushed the blade of a theological problem through the thin skin of organised religion with a carefully-constructed papercut: that there is no way to reconcile a benevolent, omnipotent, omniscient God with the existence of evil. For if the Almighty works with kindness as his principle motivator, can do anything, know everything – how can that exist in an existence premeditated on suffering and misery? It is the beginning of a paradox more powerful than the most daring biblical tales of man-eating whales and strong, independent women turned into pillars of salt. Instead, we must consider three components:

God is all-powerful.

God is intrinsically, fundamentally, good.

Evil exists.

Only two from three can be true, and one from three must always be the existence of evil. Of course we can sample it empirically at our leisure; all around us … Filling our eyes and ears and heart with so many terrible, awful things and sometimes, poisoning us from the inside-out. This world is full of magnificent examples of the terrible things we both do to each other and in turn have done upon us. Look no further than Climax Control recently passed, and remember the wide, wild eyes of Miss Fisher-Johnson as I squeezed the venom from her veins and made her into something less than nothing.

The existence of evil is beyond question … All the most awful atrocities. Most sickening acts. But I digress, it is so easy to get distracted. If I close my eyes I can still feel the way Keira jerked and thrashed in blind panic on the end of my prosthetic …

Perhaps we can make this even simpler. If God is fundamentally a force of good and therefore willing to prevent evil – but cannot because he does not have the means – then he is not all-powerful. If he has such mastery, but refuses to use it, then he is a cruel and capricious God and in no way, shape or form, good. If he is all-powerful and benevolent … Then from where can evil spring forth? Not from his divine hand in such a case, but from nowhere else since all is his domain and glory.

The answer seems so simple. So clear. God is dead, and we have killed him and built an Iron Underbelly on his montheistic corpse. Thus, it is not a problem of evil that must be considered, because its solution is simple. Instead, consider its reason to be. Its purpose.

What is the rationale behind something evil?

That answer, of course, is all too often lost in the wrong question asked. Foremost on the lips of those who should know better is how it can be defeated. Destroyed … But something that is defined by its lack of definition exists above and beyond such easy annihilation. Evil is simply the absence of regulation, of rulesets. Of law. It is the expression of random inputs – an output which subscribes to no common-sense, no rhyme or equivalent reason. It is because nobody made it not, and that is all the associated reason required to exist and function. It is wonderfully liberating but otherwise hollow. Understanding what it is, what defines it, is an exercise in futility or academic literature review.

Instead of asking how it can be overcome, a far more compelling question is why it is there in the first place.

It exists because of people like you, Miss Johnson. It exists because without it, remarkable heroes … Like you … Cannot be rationalised. After all, what use is the ability to fly if all the world could do so without the use of tens of thousands of kilograms of metal and plastic propelled by controlled explosions twelve thousand metres above the ground? If good people did not die screaming, begging for someone – anyone – to help them, what benefit would you bring to anything?
 
Do not wonder where it came from, or what it is supposed to do. Instead only ponder why it exists in the first place. Then, it will become clear and suddenly The Problem of Evil is re-characterised. Rebranded and remade. Reforged.

The Problem is only a variable within a greater calculation. A Superhero Equation of sorts.The Johnson Theorem, made manifest by understanding what exactly comes for her at Violent Conduct a week on Sunday. Who comes for her in that quiet, contemplative-turned-horrorful night.

We are all a product of our origins, for good or ill. Some of us carry those lessons as stories and others as scars; a few lucky enough to bring both. These experiences combine with the environment we are born into and transition through to form the factors, the variables, which derive who we are. By its brutalist definition, such derivations will create the uninspired, the average, the middling and the good. Occasionally, it will produce the truly great.

Greats like you, My Heroine. Remarkable people for remarkable times.

But of course if everyone could fly safely, there would be no need for aeroplanes. Or Flight Data Recorders. Or teams of highly-trained investigators to comb through the shattered fuselage pressed into the side of a windswept hill, carefully picking their way between broken seating and the odd, colourful flicker of a stuffed animal twisting inside a noose of burnt electrical cabling. Such remarkable people are needed in those remarkable times.

And so, what use is the Champion without those that seek to dethrone her? What possible justification is there for a Superhero without a climatic, world-shearing tussle to emerge victorious through? She is defined only by the opposition to her.

You are made real because I exist.

A curious thing has come to pass recently which marks a crucial turning point, although perhaps not the one you have come to expect. Up until our first encounter at Summer XXXTreme, much was made of my so-called streak. It occupied precious electronic and printed column inches, the topic of frequent conversation around catering tables and on any number of podcasts. The incredible analytical powers of Miss Vargas – when she was not attempting to separate my head from my shoulders – even waxed lyrical about it. Interestingly, perhaps, the focus of this streak was not its length, but that it proved the exact opposite. With every individual beaten, I became less credible. More likely to suffer imminent defeat. In some inverse representation of any other competitive occupation the world over, my success made me less successful.

And then of course, it came to an end as all things do. I should have disappeared. What more was left?

Gradually, the narrative shifted. Numbers, records, they all began to sink into irrelevancy. Now they spoke with trepidation, worry. Fear. Where before catering would sing to the cackle of those who waited for the next sacrificial lamb to fail to prove their worth against me, now they hesitated. Even the legendary Miss Vargas trumpeted survival as a victory of sorts.

Incredibly, the narrative I had always espoused – simply that I stood here and therefore would endure and that streaks and records were meaningless – gained traction. New weight. They started to believe it. I ceased to be a threat because of what I had achieved, and became one purely because I existed. A self-justification loop.

I am here so that you can do such great things. I am here because there cannot be something wonderful without something terrible. The Johnson Theorem must balance, My Heroine. There can be no remainder left over by which to shrug and scribble out on a lined page smeared with other errors.

That is the theoretical. The possible. The what-if. It is the what-was that tantalises and offers a glimpse of something so much more exciting. You saw it yourself, so recently when you strode out from behind swishing black curtains to save your wife from herself because once again, she did not listen. A common occurrence, I think and a critical dynamic between both of you. Does it bore you to repeat the same warnings, time after time, only to have to rescue her?

Unlikely. There is no such thing as a Superhero minus a Saviour Complex. What else would you do with your time?

In Keira’s rage and her hate, she was blind and slow and ponderous. Do you know what I saw this week past, in Chandigarh, as I watched your wife roll out from underneath the bottom rope, tear the ring bell from the Timekeeper’s grasp and bring it back inside? Not vengeance. Not a so-called “Mama Bear” – the notion is laughable, because she could no more protect her offspring than she was able to protect herself – and not a threat. No; I saw weakness. Fear. Another way inside. Another way to you.

You cannot save any of them.

What did Keira meet after she finished intimidating pudgy referees and wizened officials struggling to jump to conclusions? She met and tasted the plastic forefingers of my prosthetic as I crushed the soft palate of her mouth. Stole the air from her throat that should have been used to give her agony a voice, a scream. The way her knees sagged and her body became a whole, burdensome weight. The feeling of limpness as that rage and hate drained away to be replaced by the dawning realisation that she was mine. I wonder if in some strange way, this is what it feels like to give yourself to someone so completely, as you and your wife must exchange in your most intimate moments. I feel as if I have shared something intimate with Keira as I felt her resistance fade. Made her mine. It is so difficult to describe, because I am not sure I have ever felt it so keenly before. That feeling of submission …

It is something to be added to my box of treasures, alongside the professional life and career of Amber Ryan. When I open the lid it sparkles and shines with such magnificent radiance. It is so heady, my mind swims and my soul rolls in the glimmer of such strength laid low. Taken as my personal property.

Your wife came to defend her honour – your honour, Miss Johnson – and ended up on her back mewling softly around my crushing grip. Gurgling for mercy, until you decided to intervene in spectacular, multicolour glory. Another dramatic entrance and appearance to save the day and yet, what took you so long to make an intervention? You must have foreseen how this would end because you know, intrinsically as if your very bones had foretold it with some paganistic spell of scrying etched into their marrow, that she could not stand against me.

You knew it. Must have known it when I left her sprawled, concussed and insensitive on the concrete. But you chose to let her endure. Suffer. Perhaps you were teaching her a valuable lesson about overreach. A tough love of sorts, so she picks future battles more wisely.

Or, perhaps, you cannot save any of them.

You appointed yourself a saviour in a place that consumes martyrs as effortlessly and easily as it annihilates amateurs and pretenders. In amongst the Zdunichs, the De Salcos, the Bentons – all manner of wannabes, never-weres and never-will-be – strides a living superhero self-installed as this Company’s conscience and morality. You were certainly never sought, because this is a place which runs on hurting others for fame and glory. And money. There is no place for an arbiter or gamekeeper. And yet here you are, operating on a mission of interventionism and justice. Uncalled for and unilateral.

For how long did you think you could discharge your duties as Judge liberated from the need to preside over their Jury? Did you think your action would disappear into the wider cosmos without generating anything resultant? The truth that you will one day find wounds more deeply than the loss of your Championship, again, is that you set into motion what will happen between us in New Delhi. The path that has led me to you was built by the sum total of all the mistakes you have made under the inflated ego masquerading as a moral compass.  In a way, Roxi … You made me.

As a Mother … Of sorts, you should be intimately familiar with the fundamental purpose of those that are made in your image. They exist to eclipse. To replace. Is it not wonderful to think of the things I will achieve in your image and stead?

I am the natural correction of the system to your influence. Your corruption and usurpation. For too long you have changed the natural order of things; saved those who should never have been allowed to endure in their bumbling, blind thrashings. Acted as a brake to those who should have been allowed to embrace their most terrible potential.

So I am born to correct this anomaly. To correct you.

No matter how intensely you fight, you cannot save any of them. For all the powers you have over me, made only of flesh and bone and plastic, you did not save those who deserved your help. Where were you when I crushed Miss Chloe Benton under my heel? When the entire Company rose up against my excesses, when the need for a hero was acute and burning … Where were you?

Plotting another failed attempt to defeat my formerly Resplendent Hurricane. A task you achieved by happenstance, temporarily, only after entropy had used the vehicle of time to wear her down sufficiently that even your dumb-luck, shit-fling strategy eventually found mark on the wall and purchase. Instead, I defeated her permanently. Broke her body, took her spirit.

Where were you when Keira struggled to spit out your name? All your idle threats to me, my bodily integrity. All of which counted for nothing as I felt your wife’s lips flex and writhe around my composite fingers as a simple pressure. My prosthetic did not register the pain of her teeth scraping against its paintwork. I could not feel the wet heat of her blood-choked mouth: all there is was a deep and intense pressure. Nothing more, nothing less.

I want you to know that if you had waited any longer, I would have snapped her jaw in half and she could have saved her vitriolic rambling for the written word, while speech therapists spent months teaching her how to reform glottal stops with the stitched remains of her soft palette.

Would you have stayed home, and nursed her through that long and painful recovery? Washed out the feeding tube used to pump high-nutrient paste directly into her stomach, bypassing the ruined mouth that had gotten her into so much trouble? Somehow, I do not think so. The wider world could not do without its saviour while you tried to decide between Chicken or Beef.

And between saving the world and saving your wife, perhaps you might find time to be Bombshells’ World Champion. There are so many vying for that prize, but they all desire it for such selfish reasons. Fame, glory. Money. They see that you have it and so they want it.

But that is not why I want it, Miss Johnson.

You are not carrying an accolade, some trinket trimmed in gold and shining stone. You are carrying a Heart. It is representative of something I have worked for so long and so hard to make mine, and it is the final piece of a celestial machine so many agonising months in the assembling and priming. With it I intend to seal my greatest triumph and hold in my plastic hand the sum total of an entire life spent in sacrifice, in the chase for a strength that could never be found within. Amber’s strength. Not yours.

In your hands, it tarnishes. Copper turned green. A sickly patina of corrosion that risks heartbreak.

You are an accidental Champion and this was never your time. Happenstance made you mighty; fate intervened where fortitude and grit had failed you previously. You are stronger than most, better than most – me, by the simple metric of our cruise together – but you are only one person. You are not a Hurricane. It should never have been yours to take.

And with her gone, with any potential to put such ghosts of doubt to rest for all time dead and buried, there is only one road that will take you past an opportunity to test those hypotheticals. Learn whether you truly are worthy in your own stead, or a blurred and lined copy of a greater Champion cut down before their time. Before the time of my choosing.

Summer XXXTreme was meaningless, because it gave neither of us what we truly wanted. It did not answer anything of substance, leaving open only the opportunity to ask those same questions again, with the only difference being this time they will be answered. Conclusively and absolutely.

You made me, My Heroine. I am the natural response of the system to so-called order. A Rapture forged not through hedonistic, willful thrill but a swirling maelstrom of violence and pain and misery … And consequence. Everything that has happened, that will happen is because you forgot in your rush to act as a beacon of light – a lighthouse for this company to shine against the splintered, black rock of said Rapture – that the light must turn. Must move. By its nature it will look away from time-to-time, shine elsewhere.

And when it does; when its attention and luminescence light up some other place and time, the dark settles in and down.

Where you go and do such great works, I will unmake them elsewhere. Everything that you strive to build will be destroyed when you leave it shining and complete. Your career is forfeit, because I will take that which has come to define your time as this Company’s self-appointed Guardian. Your family is forfeit, because I will finish what I began with your wife until she is as much mine as yours, laid down at my feet and begging to be spared my most beautiful miseries. Your legacy is forfeit, because these feckless, capricious fools will not remember what you did for them and who you saved.

They will only remember those that died alone, nervously clutching a golf club in their sweat-slick fingers, sobbing as the door began to shake on its hinges. They will forget about serial killers wearing masks and multiple personalities, but they will talk about Estell Thomas. Murdered for a talking alarm clock. For no reason at all.

Because you were not there, Roxi. Because your light was shining someplace else, and in every other azimuth it did not, terrible things happened to people who did not deserve it. I wonder … What awful events will come to pass while you are focused on me in New Delhi, a week on Sunday? While your wife and her fat baby boy share the same apple-flavoured mush while the former nurses a badly bruised throat and ego? Will they stay squirrelled away behind locked doors?

It is such a dangerous world, and we cannot rely on others to save us. Even superheroes cannot be everywhere all the time – especially when they are fighting for their very life. If nothing else, if a promise counts for anything in terms of everything we have exchanged up until this moment, then rest assured even when restless, staring at Keira as she sleeps beside you, that it will take nothing less than everything you are capable of to best me.

You will leave the Indian Subcontinent as World Bombshells’ Champion or you will not leave it at all. The time for games and masks and innuendo is over. You have something I need, I want and there is no other way to get it other than to pry it from your hands. Fortunately, it is far easier to do so when you can only grasp it with one; the other holding on to everything else you hold dear. All the other things vying for your attention.

I am singular. You are my world, because you made me. Created me. There is no other reason here, now, in the present for me to exist. I do not think you can say the same. I know you cannot say the same.

A million little demands, all combing into some overwhelming, nebulous, consuming drain. Making some natural toxin to your power, a glowing stone of weakness that forces you down and onto your knees whenever it appears.

Oh, My Heroine – I am your equal. Your opposite. Your Kryptonite, if you will pardon the metaphor. It is time to test the mettle of your steel when you are at your weakest and discover whether Roxi Johnson represents the pinnacle of this Company, or whether she was nothing but a sidekick to the true superhero in the whirling dervish of a Painted Hurricane.

It is time for you to step out of her shadow. Time to take a deep breath, forget justice. Forget morality, step off your plinth so high above me that I must press my hand to my eyes to blot out the sun and come down to join me in the shit. Here, we will kill each other for the right to finally, unequivocally know in the absence of god, what will triumph. Good? Or Evil …

I hope before you drown in it, my prosthetic wrapped around your throat, you come to regret all the things you have done, did not do, that led you to that moment. If you had defeated Amber on any one of the previous myriad occasions, if you had taken more time for your family and less for those that would not stop to look at you lying on a blood stained carpet, gold club by limp hand, if only you had stopped long enough to see what was stalking you in the blindspots created by your burning need to save everyone …

There is no longer any reason for you to ask, to define what the absence of light is.

There is no longer any need to ponder the shape of things left when good is gone for a while.

There is no longer any point in trying to imagine a world where you are no longer World Bombshells’ Champion …

… Because the answer to all three, the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit, is me.

Welcome to the Rapture. It will make you pay for all the things you should not have done.

[Roxi Johnson]

{The scene opens at the tail end of a heist, there’s cop cars all around, surrounding a large warehouse and there’s cops moving into position. Lt. Murphy is on scene and getting SWAT ready to move.}

 

Lt. Murphy – I need people on the parimeter! Go! Give me a full 360! 

 

{Move officers move into position around the back. Murphy checks his watch, and continues to monitor the area. He grabs the police megaphone and bellows into it.}

 

Lt. Murphy – This is the police! We have you surrounded! Come out with your hands up, or we will come in and take you! This is your only warning!

 

{The team at the rear entrance all get into position. The leader radios to Lt. Murphy.}

 

Team 2 Leader – This is Team 2, in position.

 

Lt. Murphy – Be ready to move on my signal.

 

Team 2 Leader – Roger.

 

{Suddenly there is a rumbling coming from inside the building, the team look at each other, confused, and anxious, each man gripping his weapon a little tighter. The team 2 leader places his hand on the rear door, and begins giving a silent countdown, but over the radio, Murphy can hear the shuffling and scooting of people moving.}

 

Lt. Murphy – Somone has their radio key’d!

 

{Team 2 stops, and checks, but before anything else can happen, the door opens from the inside and a small grenade is rolled out. The hiss of gas billows from the door, causing team 2 to have to back up, coughing and being stunned.}

 

Team 2 member: CS Gas!

 

{As they men back up, a second CS grenade goes off. From another rear door, men begin trying to haul whatever loot outside the door. Team 2 can’t quite radio for anything, but Roxi shows up, in full gear, flying and landing in front of the would-be thieves.}

 

Roxi – I don’t think so.

 

{One of the men simply whistles.}

 

Henchmen – She's here. Hammer!

 

{Breaking through the wall, the massive Hammer emerges, causing Roxi to sigh.}

 

Roxi – Really Hammer, I thought we had an understanding here. What are you doing?

 

Hammer – I'm just here to bust up the supers that show up. And that means you.

 

{Roxi simply shakes her head.}

 

Roxi – You know good and well –

 

{Hammer doesn’t let Roxi finish as he begins swinging wildly at her, but is unable to hit her. Roxi backs up, dodging Hammer’s blows, before simply grabbing his arm and lifting him high into the air as she takes flight.}

 

Hammer – Hey! No fair! Put me down!

 

Roxi – If you insist.

 

{Roxi lets Hammer go and he plummets back down to the ground landing with a thud onto a parked car. Roxi attempts to head back to stop the stealing of the valuables out of the warehouse, but Hammer is already back up and charging her. Roxi avoids the charge and goes back to dodging Hammer’s attacks, before she grabs his arm and tosses him again through the building wall. Roxi turns to see a van beginning to speed away. She tries to chase after it, but Hammer is there again, this time grabbing Roxi from behind in bear hug.}

 

Hammer – Gotcha!

 

Roxi – Get....OFF!

 

{Roxi uses her energy to send Hammer off of her, against the wall where she ends the fight with a punch to the face. Hammer’s powers causing him to turn it into his own strength, but his body can’t handle that much of an increase, and he puffs up, becoming way too bulky to even move.}

 

Roxi – Now... you’re going to tell me what the hell this is about. 

 

Hammer – I ain’t....saying nothing.

 

Roxi – Have it your way.

 

{Roxi begins to flick Hammer’s nose, and the increase in energy and power causes him to puff up even more.}

 

Roxi – I can do this all day.

 

Hammer – Aghhh! Okay! There’s a war coming! We need to be ready!

 

Roxi – We? Who’s we?

 

Hammer – All the gangs! I’m...gonna lead my own...

 

{Roxi flicks Hammer’s nose again.}

 

Hammer – Aghh!

 

Roxi – You don’t fart unless somebody is paying you, Hammer. I’m not stupid. 

 

Hammer – There’s... there’s a new guy! Nobody knows him! He’s starting a war!

 

Roxi – Nobody knows him? Don’t lie to me, Hammer.

 

Hammer – I AIN’T! He’s new! That’s the word on the street! 

 

Roxi – I'll ask around then. But if it comes back and you’re lying to me...we’re going to have a problem.

 

{Roxi shoots up into the sky, looking for any sign of the van. Unfortunately, the van has made enough ground that Roxi cannot get a clear line of sight. Roxi heads over to wear Lt. Murphy has the two teams that were going to storm the warehouse with him.}

 

Lt. Murphy – Super.

 

Roxi – Well, that didn’t go well.

 

Lt. Murphy – No. It didn’t. 

 

Roxi – Are your boys okay?

 

Lt. Murphy – The gas is going to last a minute, otherwise yes. This is alarming trend.

 

Roxi – This happened before?

 

Lt. Murphy – A couple of weeks ago. Another shipment was intercepted, just like this one.

 

Roxi – What was taken.

 

Lt. Murphy – Last week is was some precious metals, this week it was guns. Guns that were coming for the police.

 

Roxi – Who knew about these shipments?

 

Lt. Murphy – Everybody on the force. 

 

{Roxi ponders this for a moment.}

 

Roxi – An inside job?

 

Lt. Murphy – It's a possibility. I don’t want to think that way, be it’s possible.

 

Roxi – Hammer did say there was a gang war on the way. Mentioned someone new on the scene.

 

Lt. Murphy – Great.  At least we got the leader, right?

 

Roxi – I don’t think so. Hammer’s a mercenary. He’s not smart enough to do this by himself. And if there is a gang war brewing, he’s trying to be in the winning team, and he’s not going to risk trying to do it himself. I’ll take him to the Guild for more questioning.

 

Lt. Murphy – At least there’s that.

 

Roxi – Look, I'll ask around. I know just where to start. But I’ll keep an eye out for anything else. But I think there needs to be a close look at your men.

 

Lt. Murphy – Don't tell me how to do my job, Super.

 

Roxi – Well, someone’s got to. I’ll let you know what I find.

 

{Roxi goes over and grabs the still puffed-up Hammer and flies him towards the guild as that scene fades.}

 



{The new scene is at the Guild where Hammer sits in his cell, resistant to his abilities as Roxi stands on the other side of the bars.}

 

Hammer – I ain’t saying anything else without a lawyer. I know my rights.

 

Roxi – You have a lawyer?

 

Hammer – I might. You don’t know.

 

Roxi – So... that’s a no. Why don’t you just tell me what else you know. You’re not getting out of here without giving the information up. Like who hired you.

 

Hammer – The new man hired me. 

 

Roxi – Really? We’re going to play the pronoun game? 

 

Hammer – The same guy trying to take over.

 

Roxi – Take over from who?

 

Hammer – The little man.

 

Roxi – I'm going to slap you.

 

Hammer – You know, the little guy. Always running his mouth.

 

Roxi – Wait, you mean Louie?

 

Hammer – Yeah, him. He wants to stay in control. But the new guy moving in, he wants all the control.

 

Roxi – What does the new guy need with the precious metals then?

 

Hammer – What metal? The only job I did was the guns.

 

Roxi – Wait, so whole stole the metal?

 

Hammer – Beats me detective.

 

Roxi – How did you know the guns where even there?

 

Hammer – A little birdie told me.

 

Roxi – Very funny. I will come in and puff you up again.

 

Hammer – I got hired for a job. I didn’t ask for details.

 

Roxi – Just to steal the guns?

 

Hammer – No, to make sure you didn’t stop the new guy.

 

Roxi – Just for me? He shouldn’t have.

 

Hammer – So having me in this cell ain’t gonna do you no good. I did my job.

 

{Roxi stops and paces for a few seconds.}

 

Roxi – That does make sense, nobody would hire you to do anything you’re not capable of doing.

 

Hammer – Ha.

 

Roxi – Well then, I guess you’re no longer useful and he’s going to leave you here.

 

Hammer – Probably. But sooner or later you’ll have to release me.

 

Roxi – And I’ll be here to put you back in here again.

 

Hammer – Not until I fight your partner.

 

Roxi – Good luck with that. I wouldn’t hold my breath about being strong enough.

 

Hammer – I'll take her down, and then one day I’ll get you like I did before.

 

Roxi – That was a long time ago, and times have changed. Enjoy your stay.

 

{Roxi walks away from the cell, and out of the area before heading home as the scene fades again.}

 

 



 

{Now back at home, Roxi heads down to the basement to look up some information when Keira comes in, holding a piece of paper in her hand.}

 

Keira – He drew this today?

 

{Keira holds up a picture of a turkey traced using Nate’s hand like most children do.}

 

Roxi – Awww... nice. He’s a little artist now.

 

Keira – Has he said anything different to you about school?

 

Roxi – No. He likes it. He likes the teacher, and he likes the kids. They play well together. Why?

 

Keira – I was just wondering. What are you up to?

 

Roxi – There's been two warehouse shipments robbed. I’ve gathered some information on who was there and involved. Hammer says hello by the way.

 

Keira – Is he ready to fight yet?

 

Roxi – No, the second robbery was last night and Hammer was there just to make sure one of us, if not both of us, were distracted

 

Keira – Damn, if I’d of been there...

 

Roxi – Relax. You’ve got your own stuff to worry about. 

 

Keira – Yeah, I guess.

 

Roxi – It wasn’t anything I couldn’t handle, I just need some more information.

 

Keira – I can help with that.

 

Roxi – No, I got this. With any luck, I’ll be able to get to the bottom of it soon. I just need to look up a few things.

 

Keira – Like what?

 

Roxi – The second theft does make some sense. Guns and ammo. The first one is weird. Precious metals. 

Keira – Gold? 

 

Roxi – Gold, silver, platinum. 

 

Keira – Those are highly valuable. Maybe it’s to fund an army.

 

Roxi – That could be. I won’t know until I talk to Louie.

 

Keira – Ew. Him again?

 

Roxi – Hammer said he was behind the first theft. So he must have a reason to actually be stealing them. Outside of possibly selling them. Maybe it is to fund an army. I won’t know until he and I have a little chat.

 

Keira – I can go with you.

 

Roxi – It's fine. I can handle it. If I need help, you know I will tell you.

 

Keira – Alright. 

 

{Roxi turns toward Keira and smiles.}

 

Roxi – I appreciate that you want to help. I really do. We’re a team, and I know you will always have my back. I know I can count on you and I’m proud of what you have become. Let me just do this, it shouldn’t be a problem. But if it is, I know you’ll be there.

 

Keira – You can count on it.

 

Roxi – Besides, somebody’s got to be here in case something is needed with Nate. 

 

Keira – He'll be asleep.

 

Roxi – He should be, but you know how he is. Anyway, I keep your theory in mind for why it was stolen. But I’ll sweet talk Louie into giving me what I want.

 

Keira – I hate that you do that with him.

 

Roxi – It's what gets the job done. We go way back. I’m sure he’ll have no trouble seeing me.

 

Keira – Just be careful.

 

Roxi – I always am.

 

{Roxi looks into the first theft and has the information she needs. She stands up, cracks her knuckles, and her neck, before she blows a kiss to Keira, and teleports away. The scene fades as Keira sits down to also have the information Roxi has.}

 



{The new scene is the Lucky Ritz building. As it usually is, a bar dressed up like a cabaret with drinks and dancing girls. Roxi simply walks in, as the bouncer eyes her.}

 

Bouncer – Hey! No Supers are allowed in here!

 

Roxi – I think Louie will make an exception for me. Unless you think you can stop me.

 

{Roxi waits for the bouncer to make a move, but he waves Roxi off.}

 

Bouncer – Lousy supers. Think they run the town.

 

Roxi – I thought so.

 

{Roxi walks right in, eyes stare her down walking through in her costume, and the room falls silent. Roxi stops in the middle of the room and shakes her head.}

 

Roxi – I'm not here for any of you....yet. 

 

{Roxi walks right past the stage and pushes the button for the service elevator. It opens, and Roxi pushes the button for the third floor. Once the door closes, some elevator music plays, and Roxi just waits as she rides up the elevator. Once the ding plays and the door opens, Louie is seated at his desk, cigar in hand and a scowl on his face as he sees Roxi.}

 

Louie – God damn it. 

 

{Roxi walks out of the elevator as several of the guards aim their guns at her.}

 

Roxi – Hello to you too, boys. Louie, we need to have a little chat.

 

Louie – I ain’t got much to talk about since you continue to ruin my business. How am I supposed to make a living when I’m under constant harassment!

 

Roxi – Well, if you quit breaking the law, we don’t have to have these types of conversations. Now, I’m being civil. So unless you want all your boys here to have many painful injuries, I think you should tell them to stop pointing guns at me. Makes me a bit nervous and twitchy.

 

{Louie angrily scowls and then hand waves the guards to lower their weapons.}

 

Roxi – See? Was that so hard? I just wanna talk about these precious metals you stole, and why you stole them and where they are now so I can take them back.

 

Louie – I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about.

 

Roxi – Well that’s funny. Are you telling me that Hammer lied to me about you stealing them?

 

Louie – I don’t need to steal nothing, and there ain’t no gold or anything here.

 

Roxi – I know you wouldn’t keep them HERE. I’m not as dumb as you look. But I do need to know why you stole them.

 

Louie – I told you I didn’t steal nothin’! I don’t know what Hammer is talking about, and he led you on a wild goose chase is what he did.

 

Roxi – So, there is no gang war about to go down. There’s no new guy in town? 

 

{Louie’s tone changes to one of annoyance and secrecy.}

 

Louie – That's my business. And if I need to handle it, I’ll handle it.

 

Roxi – Hammer says there’s a war coming and there was a shipment of guns taken, and he says the new guy hired him to help with it. So, either you stole the precious metals to use for something, or you’re already behind the 8-ball in the gang war. And I know you, Louie. You have people everywhere and I know I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know. You’re not that dumb.

 

Louie – What's it to you, anyway. If there is a Gang war, and that’s a big IF, it doesn’t involve you. Hell, it helps you out. 

 

Roxi – It wouldn’t help me out with people getting caught in the crossfire because you scum are trying to kill one another. Because that’s what’s going to happen. So, don’t make this any more difficult than it has to be. The metals, where are they, and what do you need them for?

 

Louie – Unless you got a warrant, you ain’t searching nothing here. In fact, you’re trespassing. 

 

Roxi – Do I look like a cop, Louie? Do you REALLY want to push me today?

 

Louie – I ain’t saying nothing. I’ve heard anyway that this new guy is looking for you. Maybe he stole the metal and Hammer told you it was me. You ever think of that? If there’s a war coming, I’m already ready. I’ve been here since before you ever stepped your cute little ass in my city. I have survived everything else, all these supers, people trying to kill me. I’m still here, and I’m not going anywhere. So, if you find this new guy, and you deal with him, it’s one less issue for you. But at the end of the day, I’ll still be here, and I’ll be ready.

 

Roxi – So if you didn’t take them...who did?

 

Louie – Don't know, don’t care. That’s how it is, Super. So, unless you have something else, you want to discuss, I suggest you leave before things get messy.

 

{Roxi looks around and sighs.}

 

Roxi – If you want to play it that way, we’ll play it that way.

 

{Using her speed to her advantage, Roxi is able to move quicker than the blink of an eye and not only disarms all of Louie’s guards, but destroys the guns, and knocks each man unconscious. In no time at all, she’s standing right in front of Louie’s desk, catching the cigar that falls out of his mouth.}

 

Roxi – Now, do you want give me the answers I want, or do you just want to be next?

 

Louie – Whoa, whoa, take it easy. I’ll give you what you want.

 

{Louie slowly starts opening his desk drawer, and Roxi eyes him suspiciously.}

 

Roxi – Don't do it, Louie.

 

{Louie holds up his hand as he produces a manilla folder, he places it on the desk.}

 

Roxi – What's this? 

 

Louie – What you’re after.

 

{Roxi slowly takes the manilla folder, but as soon as she opens it, it’s revealed to be nothing but blank paper.}

 

Roxi – Really?

 

{Louie however has reached under his desk and looks to have some kind of gun, which is fires, and it emits a wave of air that disorients Roxi and causes her to stumble and become nauseous. She stumbles around as Louie runs and enters a special door in his office, which quickly closes. After a few seconds, Roxi is able to regain her equilibrium and shake out the cobwebs.}

 

Roxi – What the hell was that. Dammit, I’m 0 for 2... But... what if the new guy IS looking for me...

 

{Roxi pulls out her “hero phone” and dials.}

 

Roxi – Lt. Murphy... we need to talk.

 

Lt. Murphy – Yeah... we do.

 

{Roxi shakes it off and departs from the bar as the scene fades.}

 



{Roxi returns to the Police HQ, on the roof, as usual when she was meeting with Lt. Murphy. He waited as he always did, puffing on a cigarette for her to arrive, as she was still trying to shake off the effects of whatever weapon Louie had.}

 

Lt. Murphy – You alright?

 

Roxi – Fine, just healing kicking in, Have you had a chance to interview any of your men?

 

Lt. Murphy – Not all of them. Most of them swear up and down they had nothing to do with it. 

 

Roxi – Then who else would know about it?

 

Lt. Murphy – That's what I’m trying to find out. 

 

Roxi – I mean, I guess the city people know about it. The Dock workers. Security when the shipments come in?

 

Lt. Murphy – Like I said, I’m working on it. What did you find out?

 

Roxi – Louie wasn’t giving up if he stole the metals. He told me he didn’t. I don’t want to believe him, but...why would he steal them? Louie deals guns and drugs. He wouldn’t need gold for anything. This is just not adding up.

 

Lt. Murphy – Well... maybe this will help figure it out.

 

{From his jacket pocket, Murphy pulls out piece of paper.}

 

Lt. Murphy – It was sent to us, but it’s for you.

 

{Roxi takes the folded up paper and opens it to read.}

 

Lady Bedlam - 

3rd street tower. Top floor. Come alone.

 

Roxi – Any idea where it came from?

 

Lt. Murphy – It was left attached to a rock left by the door. No one saw anything. Your guess is as good as mine.

 

Roxi – Well... I’ll look into it.

 

Lt. Murphy – That tower’s set for demolition in a couple of weeks. 

 

Roxi – I'll keep it in mind. I’ll let you know what I find.

 

Lt. Murphy – Hopefully it’s something useful, right now we have way more questions than answers.

 

Roxi – Something tells me it’s just not going to be that simple. It never is this simple. Unless this is someone wanting to squeal.

 

Lt. Murphy – Could be, could be a trap. 

 

Roxi – I guess I’ll find out.

 

Lt. Murphy – Good luck.

 

{Roxi nods as Murphy heads back through the door. Roxi turns and departs, headed for the 3rd street tower.}

 



 

{Arriving at the 3rd street tower, Roxi looks up at the massive tower, and decides to skip the elevator this time and not wander blindly into a trap if one was set. Instead, she simply flies up, and to the top floor, breaking through the glass. With no lights, she quickly shines a flashlight and there, all by itself on desk, is a laptop, sitting on top of a charger with several USB plugs plugged in, and a sticky note with “open me” written on it. Roxi cautiously approaches, not seeing another or nearly anything in the pitch black. She opens the laptop and a zoom meeting has already been going, the other participant simply has the default no photo on the screen.}

 

Voice – Hello Lady Bedlam.

 

{The voice is distorted, clearly some voice changing software being used.}

 

Voice – I suppose I should introduce myself. I am... well, I’m sure you’ve heard people call me, the New man. I think that’s a terrible name, I prefer what I truly am. The Hidden Hand.

 

Roxi – Can we get to the point?

 

Hidden Hand – Ah, yes, very well. You see, I admire superheroes like you. You and the Guild have served this city for many years. You do wonders for the city, for its people, and for me. You fight and save countless lives all the time. And while you have done an admirable job, you know you’re really only putting out fires. There’s not one, or a thousand of you that could actually do anything to really change how the city actually is. How the WORLD actually is. But when there is a problem, you spring into action. But really, it doesn’t get noticed unless you’re fighting Hammer, the Peak Twins, the freaks and the super villains of the world. And when you do that... that’s when I make the most ground.

 

Roxi – You sent Hammer as a distraction, I’m aware of that. 

 

Hidden Hand – What you aren’t aware of, is that I can keep sending them your way. It’ll be endless. More so than any silly Hamilton creation, more so that any group or army. Because when you fight them, it helps me.

 

Roxi – You think I fight crime to help you? 

 

Hidden Hand – No, but you do, once you’re fighting those cretins, the regular criminal is free to do what they please. Those men, my men. 

 

Roxi – You're just going to keep sending them...

 

Hidden Hand – Precisely. But there is a way out of this never-ending cycle. And that’s the purpose of our meeting tonight. I can keep giving you the bad guys you want to fight, you thrash them and send them away. You can still LOOK like the hero, and... I’m even prepared to pay you handsomely for it. All you have to do, is look the other way when the time comes. You simply work for me, and everybody wins.

 

{Roxi takes only a split second to answer back.}

 

Roxi – That’s not something I do. No deal.

 

Hidden Hand – Very well. This could have been very easy, but in what is coming... you won’t be able to stop.

 

{With that, the meeting ends and the laptop powers down automatically, and as if on queue, fizzes and sparks, as if someone has remotely destroyed it. Roxi shakes her head, looking at out the window of the top floor, down on the mostly quiet city.}

 

Roxi – I will stop this war. I will find a way.

 

{Roxi leaves out the window she came in as the scene fades one last time.}

 



 

“I've done something far worse than kill you, Fisk. I've beaten you”

- Spider-Man (Amazing Spider-Man Vol 1 #542)

 

Hello, SCW.

 
I have been having this feeling lately. It’s not the anger that managed to manifest itself for a little bit last week. I know what that feeling is, and this? this isn’t that. It’s not anger or rage, or sorrow. It’s not fear or anything like that. It’s not even anxiety of having to dip my fists in glass in order to fight my opponent. But it’s a very familiar feeling.

 
Now normally I would be talking about how I feel good for successfully defending the Bombshell’s championship, but as good as I felt doing that, and the sense of pride that washed over me for doing that, there was still this other feeling. And it was there, in the back of my neck, the back of my mind, and it was just there. 
 

The word for what I’m feeling is Déjà Vu. 
 

This... this thing. This whole thing just feels... I don’t know, it feels like I’ve done this before. It feels like I’ve been sitting in this very spot, and the same people having said the same things and now it just... it just feels like everything is running together in one giant memory. I have an opponent that is playing mind games with me. They are trying to get under my skin to gain an advantage. Trying to figure me out and think of the correct time to strike. I’ve been in this spot a lot of times. Too many to recount, but the only thing that seems to be changing is the name of the person trying to do it. 

 
This time, it happens to Masque De Lune. Yes, I am aware this is a rematch, but all of this just feels... the same. I don’t why, but it does. 
 

Now, I am proud of my wife for trying to extract just a little bit of revenge on my behalf, but that was more for her. She’s the one that really felt the rage build up inside and well, I’m just sitting here, and while I was upset as well, I saw it for what it was. It was supposed to be triggering me for a reaction. Because again, I’ve played this game before. And to be honest, I expected a little more from Masque on this end, perhaps my expectations are just too high at this point. Maybe I’m thinking about this the wrong way because all it does is conjure up feelings of this having happened a bunch of times before.
 

But while I have this feeling, I understand what’s in front of me. The odds, as they usually are, are stacked against me. This is a Taipei death match. And well, I don’t have a mask covering my face. I don’t have a fake hand so I can ignore cuts and scrapes. I know full well that in this match, I’m going to probably bleed. I’ve bled before and I am not afraid to bleed again. It’s just the same feeling that I’ve already gone down this route before. It’s not anything new. But that’s what Masque is offering me right now.
 

I’m still waiting for the string of beautifully flowing words to describe my upcoming downfall. But I know last time I didn’t get it, because I forced Masque to stop doing that nonsense and get to the point. Fancy words don’t sway me. But that draws that all-too-familiar feelings of boredom from me, when it comes to Masque. I never thought that I would say that about the resident boogeywoman of Sin City Wrestling, but yet, here I am. I stand here today unafraid, but not because I’m trying to rely on bravado, but I’m actually disappointed. 

 
I gave Masque all the credit in the world after our first battle. I walked away the winner, but I knew once that bell rang that it wasn’t over. It was a victory for that night, and I was delaying the full force of the Rapture. But then...something happened. I don’t know exactly what it was, but something happened and now, I stand here, not dreading having to go against this dominant force, but rather questioning what happened to make me feel this way. It’s a weird feeling.

 
Masque seems to have lost that edge. I tried to tell everyone that Masque is still as tough as they come, and it appears people took my words to heart. Perhaps they felt that when my hand was raised, that Masque was no longer the same person. The aura of invincibility is now gone. No more streak, no more championship, now, just a contender and a woman out to get everything back in order. And then... the struggle continued. Masque didn’t beat Mercedes Vargas. That was a double countout. And just last week, while Masque did beat Keira, it was more so because Keira got herself disqualified because well, I don’t think she really cared about winning that match. In fact, she said so herself. And as much as Masque tried to continue on like nothing happened, as much as she called attention to it, she still faltered.
 

Which, I know has put an even bigger target on my back. Much like Mercedes, Masque has the opportunity to right all these wrongs, and missteps. She can prove I’m a fluke and that was a lucky victory. And that Mercedes didn’t actually give her more than she thought, and that my wife was just some easy victory and didn’t beat her down last week. These as blemishes on her record. And to do that, she has to beat me.
 

She can claim all she wants this is for Amber Ryan, but it’s really not. Do you mean to tell me right now that Masque is just going to give the championship back to Amber and after all the mental and physical torture, it’s just going to be okay? That attack with the crowbar? Water under the bridge. No, this is about trying to do the job that Amber was never and is never going to finish. This is an act of clearly someone who is all over the place and has no real plan. A desperate woman. Wounded and scarred by the fact she thought she was going to get the job done and I would just go away after that. 
 

But as it turns out, I’m a little harder to beat than a lot of other people. Crazy, I know.


Much like I said that I would. I beat Masque. I took away all the things from her, but that wasn't the important part of it. The most important part of the whole thing, was that I beat her. I stopped the monster. I showed everyone it could be done. I temporarily had slain the beast. That was most important. Nobody, nobody in this company, nobody in this game is unbeatable. And I know deep down Masque believe she would simply walk all over me. She can hide her face with the mask, but every time I look into those eyes, I see the true feelings of disappointment and anger.

And the things is... I told her this would happen.

People blame me for a lot of things around here, and in general, but I told Masque to her face, when she failed, she could blame me. Blame me, because I would be the cause of her failure. This time it would actually be warranted. And, I always like to keep my promises.
 

So now Masque has to resort to tactics that should quite frankly be beneath her. She has the size and the ability to beat almost anyone without giving it a second thought. But there has to be this careful planning and when things go sideways, it was always part of the plan anyway, because she’s going to make it fit into the perfect plan and I’m just over it, and really, Masque should really be embarrassed that this is what she’s doing right now.
 

Even when she says things like she has so much more to show me, I can’t help but feel let down. Like I want to give this the time and credit it deserves, but I’ve seen this before. I’ve heard this before. She’s going to show me pain, she’s going to make me hurt, and it’s all in the name of Amber Ryan because I beat Amber Ryan. Is that REALLY what this is about? Wasn’t the idea to beat up Amber anyway? Wasn’t she making a choice whether or not to have this happen? This is why I asked for Masque to cut the nonsense and get to the point, because all of this has just been silly. 
 

And now it seems she has what she wanted and got Amber to surrender, whatever that means, and now we’re here. Despite getting what she always wanted, now I’m just here and now what? What if I had lost the title to Mercedes or Seleana? Would this still be some kind of issue between myself and Masque? Would this have any less high stakes? It’s still the championship, right? I really don’t think Amber needs anyone to fight her battles for her, so this whole pretense is just ridiculous. 

 
But I know, I must be missing the point. I don’t see the forest for the trees and all that fun stuff, because of course I don’t. This is another fun little game that Masque has been playing with me, I don’t see the point to the plan, because the plan always changes and at this point, I’m kind of done with this.

 
I would just prefer it is Masque just said “I want to be the Bombshell’s champion.” We can go on and on about who and what this is for, but if this was just about the championship, or giving it to Amber, or any of that nonsense, she would not have mentioned my son’s name to try and get a rise out of me. We would not be playing these games like we are now. Masque would not need to stoop so low in order try and get in my head mentally. She would be just fighting for Amber. That should be enough motiviation, right?

 
I mean, that’s what it was last time right?

 
Last time it was the grand plan and then the grand plan failed. But of course, like a good villain, there’s always more than one plan, but the goal is the same. We’re building a better mousetrap as it were. Something that will put Masque over the hump. I mean, in the back of my mind, along with that feeling, is the feeling that this whole thing is a setup and that Amber is going to have something to do with this match. She has been incredibly quiet and that makes me suspicious. She wanted to apologize, and then nothing. Silence. 

 
So, when I hear these things, and then nothing comes of them, it makes me suspicious that something is going to happen and that Amber is going to try something to try and “help” everyone for the damage caused by Masque. I feel it in the back of my head. I can see it all happening and it sounds like it could easily work. If that is the plan, then it makes all the more dangerous for me, adding an unknown element like Amber into the mix.
 

But hey, it’s not the deck isn’t already stacked against me, right? 
 

Despite the fact that I am the champion, despite the fact that I beat Masque in the ring, despite that I’ve been champion for six months. I feel like at this match here, is where everyone is expecting me to finally be beaten, because Masque is inevitable. Again, I heard this all the first time, and then I won. Yes, I barely won, yes it could have easily gone the other way. I will fully acknowledge that. But the fact is, it went the way it did, and Masque is now another challenger. The luster seems to have worn off. She’s struggling and reducing herself to trying to use my family.  Struggling to find anything that can give her the advantage.

 
So here we are, and the desperation has reached its peak. Masque herself has reached the crossroads and she must decide what to do. She either finally wins the championship and then just...gives it to Amber or whatever, or she loses, again, and she fades back and tries to come up with another better version of the mousetrap in order to try again. 

 
Despite how it looks, I feel that I am in control of this situation. It’s not me trying to talk about Masque’s family or involve anyone else. It’s not me searching for a means to have an advantage, I already have it. Masque has to beat me. I already beat her. I’ve shown I can do it, and I will do it again. If I am to bleed for it, fine. If I am not able to walk away under my own power, so be it. But just like I told Amber all that time ago, so long as I can fight, I will fight. I do not back down, I do not give up the fight, even when the fight appears hopeless. 

 
Because it’s not only what heroes do, it’s what I do.

 
At Violent Conduct, I’m going to beat Masque, again. There will be no accidental wins, no fluke pins or submissions. I’m going to beat Masque and then, she can find another way to give Amber her “heart” back. In fact, if Amber wants this back, I already told her to her face, that I will be waiting, I will ALWAYS be waiting to fight her. She can just as easily come back and try and get it, herself. But after this, once I beat Masque and send her to the back of the line, this nonsense needs to stop. 

 
I took most of it all the first time.

 
The second time... I will take everything else.

 
But fear not, We’re just getting started.

[Terrorfexx]

Symphony of the Iron Underbelly, Movement No. XIX – Saviour Complex

[The Present – 75th and Roosevelt Drive, Atlantic City, New Jersey, USA]

Wood rotted through with damp and burrowing worms bends under my worn shoe leather, sending a groan out that bounces against the water-damaged walls and gets even louder in the space between my ears. A whole bunch of doors present themselves as potential escape routes, all looking identical save the tarnished brass numbers that change as I scramble past.

They’re counting down in an allegory that hits too close to a certain home, one I’m too far away from to reach the comfort of. Out in the dark, running out of places to hide.

She’s standing there made in a silhouette, courtesy of a flickering fluorescent tube overhead that paints sickly yellow light in spasm. The shadows around that plastic face shift by a hundred and eighty degrees every few moments, making those painted features flex and warp. Still, those bright blue eyes never change. Feels like they’re counting down too.

“We must stop meeting like this,” She sings, and the tonality is all out of kilter with the serious penchant for violence it feels like is about to come my way. Before I can do much of anything, let alone think, I’ve already taken a half-dozen steps back until there’s nothing behind but those brass numbers on their way straight down to hell, intent on taking me along as a tenant six months behind on the rent.

“Not by choice,” I manage, swallowing in between the words. Inside my insides are split on a decision; what to do to get myself out of this tremendous world of shit that I’ve accidentally stepped in. No, leapt into headfirst with gusto based on how far down I’ve managed to end up. Part of me suggests the rapid application of my first upside her exposed jaw is the most expeditious solution, but that’s drowned out by the knowledge of the rest of the face underneath that pretend one …

As if on cue, she reaches up and begins to unclip the straps bunched around her platinum-blonde locks.

“Stop.”

And, in a genuine surprise that just makes this whole escapade that much more ridiculous, she does … Hands hovering in midair above her head.

She cocks her head to the side. “Would it not be wonderful to see her again?”

My eyes roll closed because my heart needs just a moment alone; despite the likelihood of a mischief or ten being delivered my way if I take those eyes off this evil standing in front of me and about to pretend to be something – someone else.

“She’s dead,” I manage, and even though it’s objectively and absolutely undeniably true, the tremor in my voice makes it sound like there’s room for doubt. Underneath that ceramic mask, I can tell she’s smiling and my gut twists in on itself another half-dozen times. “Got no use to see a ghost.”

“A ghost?” She seems to roll the word around her mouth as if trying it out. “A ghost …” Savouring the taste like some vintage wine or ridiculously expensive glass of aged grape juice that rich types spend a three bedroom suburban home’s equivalent on, then let it gather even more dust in their brickwork racks down in whole-floor basements.

She shrugs. “What a cruel way to talk about someone you once cared for very much.”

And then she pulls the mask free and I’m sent back years into the past, dragged there kicking and screaming and begging to go to hell instead for a while.

~*~*~*~*~

There is something wonderfully pure about fear. It has a truthfulness that no other emotion, except perhaps rage, comes close to equating. It does not rely on some complex moral or ethical framework to exist, because it is rooted in the deepest parts of the psyche. At the very core of any animal – the base fight or flight reflex and the programming that goes into deciding which stimuli triggers which response.

Contrast fear with something more virtuous, like compassion, and the latter requires some intermediary. Some processing to allow it to be distilled and collected and framed. Fear on the other hand, is direct from thought to reaction with nothing so time-consuming as impulse control. It is where we meet the real person underneath the layers of self-deception and neuroses and flat-out desire to be and act like someone else.

That is the truth I see written all across his face as he climbs up to his feet and turns away. He does not run; some semblance of machismo, or dignity – equally misplaced – keeps his pace to something akin to the maximum speed one is restricted to navigating through a busy airport terminal while their flight commences final boarding. He walks away with purpose, a singular one to put as much space between myself and him as possible.

Fear is a far more useful tool in the long-run. It breeds so many other useful weapons. Obedience being the principal. Alternatives such as compassion might give rise to powerful concepts such as love, but that is a dangerous and fickle thing to make use of.

I pause, frowning behind the plastic over my face. I am not even sure I know what love is. With so little time left, there does not seem enough of it left to find out.

He did not answer my question. He told me nothing about Roxi – except to signal his unwillingness to tell me anything at all. That is expected: we are not on the best of terms given our previous encounter ended one of his twin professional careers. I had not expected to see him again and yet, here he was. Perhaps I should have expected his involvement, given what I did to his beloved Amber. If I had stopped to give it further thought, I might well have made use of such a trumpet call earlier. Finished what I had started those six long years ago in Atlantic City …

I turn the corner and he talks of ghosts. A romantic notion, but one playing for time. He considers his options – he thinks about hitting me, but I know that will not happen. Not yet. It is too soon, and he is not ready. The inflection in his voice climbs some significant percentage of an octave, throat rasping. Dry. He swallows as my hands reach up and in his desperation, pleads for me to stop.

Surprisingly, I do. His tone is plaintive. Begging. Who would not be moved by it?

Fortunately, I am not moved for all that long and with a final twist, the straps fall loose around my shoulders and the mask drops down and free.

His eyes widen, then blink reflexively. Pupils dilate, fists ball. He sees, he recognises, but he does not really understand. How can he? After all, Mister Fexxfield is looking at one of his ghosts. Brought back to remind him of all the mistakes and indiscretions that have led up to this singular moment.

Something that might be anger flashes across his face; perhaps indignation at all of this. It is occupying precious real estate required for fear, however, and it is quickly extinguished. I drink in that delicious purity, allowing it to replenish me where it depletes him.

“Do you have anything you would like to say to me?”

His lips work wordlessly for a few moments, expecting something from impulse control and receiving nothing but staccato bursts of half-spun thoughts. His eyes narrow, as if he is trying to stare through something – burn through it and find some reality in the resultant gaping hole.

Fexxfield shakes his head. “You’re not her,” He mumbles, trying and failing to believe his own words. “She’s dead. Watched them put her in the ground myself.”

I smile, the same way she smiled and I can hear his heart stop for an agonising moment in total spasm. “And yet, here I am. I came for you.”

He squeezes his eyes closed, but he knows when they open again I will still be here. “Why’re you doing this, Abigayle?”

“Annabelle,” I correct, and he grits his teeth at the sound of her name. “Because you have not yet paid for the mistakes of your past. Now …”

Moving forwards, I close the gap courtesy of the locked door pressing up against his back until we are almost nose-to-nose. He cannot look at me, so turns his face away to present a cheek. My lips hover scant millimetres from his ears.

“I have answered your question,” I whisper. He shudders. “Now, I would like you to answer mine. What do you know about Roxi Johnson?”

He struggles to find some lump in the plasterboard of the ceiling to focus the sum of his attention on. “Beat you a few weeks ago. Broke the spell.”

Gently, I blow across his cheek and he shudders. “I do not believe in magic. There is no such thing. No spells. No miracles, no superheroes. No monsters. Only monstrous people.”

The first blow drives the air from his lungs and he doubles over. WIth the gentlest of pressure applied to the back of his neck, he collapses down into the dust on the flats of his forearms. I circle around, looking down. How disappointing.

“What do you know about her?”

His breaths come in ragged, strung-out gasps. “ … Isn’t here …” He manages between heaving. “ … Saving the day someplace else …”

The flat of my boot drives him into the dirt-caked floor just as he struggles up. “What else?”

It takes him longer to reply, this time. I imagine the taste of decades of foot traffic and rodent droppings takes some time to acclimate to. Eventually, the self-professed “Gumshoe” rolls onto his back and stares up at my face. He blinks away the pain until he meets my gaze and then tries to blink that away, too. “She stands for something better than you …”

Interesting. “Something better?” I drop to my knees, and run a single plastic forefinger down his temple. “She stands for nothing tangible. Nothing real. She is nothing but a symbol.”

“Symbols can be mighty powerful …” He rasps, jerking away from my touch and regretting the induced pain in his skull almost immediately. “Gives people hope.”

“False hope,” I correct. “Such a symbol did not help Miss Thomas.”

He lunges up and takes me tight by the exposed throat. I do not move, and he squeezes. The usual physiological response begins. My heart, engorged and enlarged behind the thick knot of scar tissue running the length of my chest reacts to the pressure by trying to pump more, pump faster through. My eyes begin to water, vision swimming. Still, he squeezes. My lips go slack, parting for air that cannot find a way further down than the back of my throat …

But he will not finish the job. He is a coward. “You bitch …” He hisses, resolve wavering.

Sure enough, the pressure begins to slacken and the window slams shut. His single opportunity ends as I press my neck in, forcing his grip back until my lips hover just above his. A little closer, until they graze …

He twists, pushing me away and rolling aside. “There are consequences for killing folk like that.”

“I did not kill her,” I reply, and that is the truth. “This city does not need any encouragement to turn on itself. I simply waited for it to do so, knowing a symbol is worthless if those that would do evil against it know it lacks any substantive power.”

A chuckle leaks past his blood-speckled lips. “The fuck are you talking about …”

“She is not here,” I clarify. “She was never going to be here, to help substantively. Meaningfully. On any given night, this miserable place and all its miserable people visit any number of awful things on each other, and she does nothing. With the gifts she is given, she engages in games and brinkmanship against chosen peers and tantalising prospects. Mask-wearing serial killers and other mysterious ne’er-do-wells. Where the lights are brightest and the eyes of the world can clap and fawn and indulge her Saviour Complex. A media forge to make her, cast her as a symbol.”

I climb to my feet. “Not here, at the corner of 75th and Roosevelt Drive. There is nothing to tease her cerebrally, vex her talents. Be worthy of recognition. Here, there are no dramatic interventions, thrilling face-offs or titanic clashes of good versus evil. Nothing worthy of comic book lore and crossover. Instead, here, people simply die. Alone and hopeless.”

“Perhaps if you are some criminal mastermind or worthy foe, Miss Johnson might deign to intervene and be something more than an idea or a name. If you are only intent on selling an Amazon Alexa for one more hit of something bulked-out with baby powder, something worthy of killing in desperate, hopeless cold blood … You are invincible. Untouchable and immune to any symbol.”

With pain writ across his features, Fexxfield drags himself over to sit up against a wall, still refusing to so much as look at me.

Standing over him, I reach down and sweep up the fedora sat overturned on the floorboards and run the threadbare rim through my plastic fingertips. “I want you to tell her something. Tell her something I know she so desperately wants to hear.”

He doesn’t bother replying, just concentrates on breathing in through aching lungs.

“Tell her I am bored of symbols, but that there is one in particular I am very much interested in making mine. Making more than a metaphor …”

The material is paper-thin in places, where years of exposure to inclement weather, poor drycleaning and too many narrow scrapes and tough escapes have combined to age the fabric well beyond its years. And yet, it has somehow become synonymous with Fexxfield. What was it my Resplendent Hurricane used to call him?

The Man in the Hat. Another symbol that stands for nothing of consequence when examined; when forced to give something more useful than hope. After all, Golf does not beat Gun, and Hope beats neither.

Although it is a mile-plus away, the throaty boom of a Church Organ fills my mindscape. Just like faith – a meaningless symbol without the strength behind it to act. To give it meaning. Purpose.

“ … Tell her I want to be Bombshells’ World Champion.”

Footsteps echo behind me, and for just a moment – a solitary fat and struggling heartbeat – I think she has caught me by surprise. In that single cardiac spasm I imagine turning to see her face, taut with anger and framed with red-fire locks. Fists balled, ready to strike and–

She is decked in red, but it is not a Painted Hurricane that has come to intervene. Instead, it is a Flower Girl Named After the Stars; announced by the clack-clack-clack of plastic heels against gouged wooden floorboards.

“Who are you here on the behalf of?” I ask, cocking my head to the side. She stands out in an agonising clash: cherry-bright lipstick, strawberry coat and patent-shining shoes.

Cassieopia does not answer for a while, instead she exchanges something wordlessly with the Gumshoe. Something I cannot translate; something I do not understand. The plastic fingers of my prosthetic writhe and unfurl in some subconsciously-driven loop.

She finally breaks eye contact with him to find it with me. “Myself,” She answers simply, as if that explains everything.

“Perhaps I should have let you jump off that bridge.”

I expect to see hurt, regret … Pain register in those usually contrite and conflict-averse features but instead, there is something less like suffering and more like cold and aloof agreement. “I think you probably should’ve. Would have made things easier.”

Interesting. But ultimately, a distraction from the task at hand.

“You are no longer relevant,” I summarise brutally, but accurately. The fedora in my hand spins away to land and kick up a thin pall of dust in the flickering mercury ion-light above. “It is almost time for me to make someone else’s heart my own.”

Drawing level with Cassiopeia, I turn to bring my lips to her ear. She continues to stare directly ahead, but the subtlest shudder at my breath on her skin betrays she is only playing the role of a statue weathering some storm.

“Your usefulness to me is at an end. If you inject yourself into my affairs again …”

Setting the composite mask back over my face, I push forwards and press the cold ceramic against her flushed temple. “ … I will end you.”[/size]


[The Rapture]


For someone who is so keen to hear my prose, flowing and verbose and oh-so-cultured, you do not seem willing to listen, or take the opportunity to enjoy my lessons …

Perhaps you have spent too long switching between Business-Casual Johnson, notepad in hand and pen behind the ear as she scores scoop-after-scoop for the Daily Planet and the Superhero who triggers automated Traffic Collision Avoidance Manoeuvres as she loop-de-loops between commercial airliners. Too long such that the membranes between those two personalities and realities have become porous and paper-thin. I cannot think of any other more coherent reason for your inability to see events as they are and comprehend them as they were.

You talk above me, as if you soar above me, My Heroine. With the classic trappings of overconfidence – arrogance if you were any normal person without the ability to bend steel beams at will and leap tall buildings via a single incredibly tenuous jumping to conclusions – you think you have seen above my oh-so-mortal, pseudo-Machivilian schemes. My shallow efforts at manipulation, so obvious they are polished to a mirror-finish and shining brightly in the midday sun I squint at high above and you circle around at fantastical speed. Childlike efforts at cape-and-dagger, so easily ignored.

Triggered.

My Heroine, what were you doing when you rushed to ringside at Climax Control? Reacting to the sight of your wife struggling to scream around the composite fingers of my prosthetic pressed in and down her throat.

Triggered.

How exactly did you see through my transparent effort when you lauded and sang the praises of your “Momma Bear” and all the ways she would leave me wounded and still and blinking up at blinding spotlights overhead … Only to intervene as she struggled and gurgled and begged for me to stop? You were proud of your wife for being reduced to scratching the painted thorns from my plastic knuckles with her bare teeth, eyes streaming?

Triggered.

You have the strength of a goddess born of Themyscira; tall, striking and powerful and the emotional intelligence of a child sent alone to Earth from some distant world long since lost to space and time. You have the curious talent for spotting the truth in things like a trap primed in your path, only to step on some pressure plate or trip a wire and set it off so that you can gesture proudly to all and sundry of how right you were all along, even as it crushes your limbs or rends them from each other. Miss Johnson – you were triggered. I received exactly the reaction I desired which only builds on everything I have said before.

You cannot save any of them.

You think that your intervention at this Climax Control past saved Keira from some irreparable harm; but the damage was done deep inside her skull independently of it being crushed against steel ringpost and structural concrete. Miss Fisher-Johnson set out to teach me a lesson and instead, it was she who learned something valuable while in spasm and agony under my special attention. You did not save her – you simply arrived in time to watch her realise she had lost everything.

Unable to protect her child. Unable to fight her battles without help. Unable to do it on her own. Relevant and able to survive to see that child again only because of the post-hyphen of her surname. Because of you on that solitary occasion you were in the right place, at the right time to intervene as you so rarely are when it comes to the people and things you love. As if that alone granted superpowers. In the same way that she did not live up to my expectations, I am so very sorry to have failed to live up to yours. To have underdelivered. To bore you. To have let you down in the same way you did your wife and she did me. Although if I am honest, I am not sure in what way I disappointed, when I have done nothing that you have not done.

Namely, lose.

Do you think because my shoulders stayed pressed to the sweat-slick, bloodstained matting for three seconds that constitutes the end of everything I am? Everything I represent? No good villain could be so easily dispatched, even one drawn straight from the fantastical world you inhabit. That a single solitary defeat makes irrelevant all those who have been dispatched before; forced to recognise my great works and take their place amongst them? The idea is absurd like a work of pop-art: brightly coloured fiction.

Your rationalisations are as two-dimensional as the images on the printed pages of your comic-book origins. Your wife might not have cared about winning our match, but it makes such precious little sense that she cared so minimally as to end up in my agonising embrace until you saved the day. Perhaps it is you who continued on as if – quote – nothing had happened.

If a single defeat and a no-contest, equal exchange of beautiful miseries with Miss Vargas constitutes the end of my time as a legitimate threat, how can you be considered anything but a Pseudo-Champion? A BombShell-In-Name-Only. Tell me, Roxi … How many times did you fail? How many times were you defeated? It is heartening to know that for all your wondrous talents, your ability to resist the deleterious effects of a hard blow to the skull and the resultant post-concussive memory problems is no more developed than mine.

That is, presumably, the only way that you have overlooked your own innumerable and embarrassing failures and chosen an otherwise hypocritical logic which is as much applicable to you as, supposedly, me.

… How many of those occasions began and ended against a Painted Hurricane made Resplendent and then made Irrelevant by my thorn-painted hand? Where were your superpowers and that superhuman-powered overconfidence when Amber Ryan pressed her weight against your chest, blurry lights spinning overhead, until the bell sounded like a toll marking the end of another fruitless attempt at relevancy?

Even in your final victory over her, the spectre of inadequacy hunts you more effectively than I ever could. Because even after the wonderful agonies you inflicted on each other, through so many brutal encounters, leading to the archetypal triumph of the underdog – because you were never as good as she was – the asterisk remains poignant and heavy on the page …

*Defeated half a Hurricane and never got a chance to prove the world wrong.

Perhaps you would have somehow emerged triumphant in the inevitable rematch – cemented your status and put to pasture to see out its autumn years all those underhand comments and snide observations, but there was no rematch. I did not allow it to happen. I took away your chance to make your reign legitimate.

You are still Champion because I allowed it, and you will cease to be because I demand it.

In the same hesitant fashion you eventually took that Bombshells’ World Title, leaving so many lingering glances and so much cheek-chewing hesitancy to recognise your achievements as being legitimate, your so-called victory over me at the previous Supercard told you nothing. Proved nothing. You have already said as much, because you know it.

Your hypocrisy radiates from your in palpable ways like any number of villainous plot devices that bamboozle the mind or poison the soul or cut you from crotch-to-temple with no expectations to talk – only die. I disappoint you because I have lost my edge with one defeat and a no-contest … And yet somehow, My Heroine, you remain sharp and keen with how many more failures to your resume?

The spectre of that inadequacy hunts you more effectively than I ever could, but I will still hunt you. I will still take it from you.

The precipice that stands before you at Violent Conduct is so very deep and dark that its rocky bottom is shrouded in shadow, made from all the things you fear to speak of. At the bottom lies everything they have ever whispered about you, made true and heart-rending. Transitional Champion. Right place, right time. Wannabe … Should never have been. This reality now stepped free from the frames of your comic book pages is that you, Miss Johnson, have so much more to lose than me.

Faced with such a fate, it is no surprise the thin veneer of your plastic disinterest has split to reveal the surging, tumultuous feeling underneath. The apathy you wear as a shield is an off-brand alternative to Miss Ryan’s, and equally inferior. The RC Cola of indifference to her Pepsico disregard. No amount of aggressive marketing will compensate the former. Nine out of ten consumers prefer the taste of a real Champion with flame-red locks and a professional attitude and personal pleasure towards inflicting violence.

You are a discount, truck-stop second-best.

You are simply a poor facsimile of her. A photocopy made imperfect by aliasing and spectral bleed. That you have not been challenged openly on your market dominance in the absence of a major brand is only because the remainder of your middling, irrelevant challengers cannot so much as secure shelf space in this commercial and corporate metaphor. The absence of that major brand is by my design, not yours.

She would have taken that title back from you, and that is a truth you know to be indisputable and inarguable. That I prevented such makes your continued time as World Champion a reign at my pleasure, not yours. Your badly-fitted aloofness rattles against the frame of all your anxiety and internal recriminations and the sound of doubt-on-fear reverberates loudly like a pealing bell. The real you is so close to the surface now, imperfect and afraid.

I did not have to work particularly hard to expose the real you, Roxi – it spills out in foetid chunks and bubbling riptides like the turgid, dirty flow of the Ganges from every pore. Sanctimonious, patronising and smug self-superiority. The truth, stinking in the heat of a hot New Delhi Summer Sun, is that you cannot ever see beyond your own selfish desires, wants and needs. You do not process things as they are or were, but only how they relate to – how they advantage or disadvantage – you. Your maladjusted worldview, wearing a mask of its own in the form of a Saviour Complex, simply hides the reality that you do not give a shit about anyone else.

Take your attitude towards the stipulation of our match. How could any person with a stable moral and ethical base underfoot believe that having lost a hand is somehow a benefit? Do you hear yourself, or does the brightly-coloured ribbon tied around your forehead press too hard against the ears? How twisted up must you have become in your self-righteousness to believe such trauma can be reconsidered as a boon? Is it because I am not the darling of an understaffed and under-resourced police force? Is it because I am not as blue collar as Lieutenant Murphy? Is it because I do not Live, Laugh, Love in some equivalent of your apparent domestic bliss?

Do you know what it is like to have your arm blown off and reduced to a fine red mist? Have you ever been cut across your chest by the splintered fragments of your own ulna sent spinning back behind? Have you ever watched your forearm peel at the wrist like the writhing meat petals of some grotesque flower?

And yet somehow, I have the advantage in our upcoming match? Where is your compassion, the supposed hallmark of your profession?

Realise the reality, which strikes you down like no corruscating laser cannon or atomic disintegrator lined up against you by myriad fantastical super villains could, that it is not you who stands as some living embodiment of righteousness. Of justice – of truth.

It is me. I am the way and the path to the only truth that matters – the primordial truth – is through me. Return to that first garden, under the direct oversight of God in his greenery and finery and see that it is not my sibilant hiss that tempts Eve to partake of knowledge best left unknown and unsaid; it is you. After all, what else could describe someone who so repeatedly spares people the consequences of their actions? You are the ultimate enabler of behaviour which should reap justified consequence – swooping in on something unworldly to save the sinful from themselves.

They wallow in their moral filth, waist deep in the shit, scratching and fucking each other over for nothing but percentages; incremental leverage, meaningless victories that do nothing but give one some vanishingly fleeting advantage over the other, and you perpetuate it all through choice interventions that continue that cycle. Where is your enhanced sensibility to complement those other superpowers? Or is it, perhaps, less about the lasting change you bring about and altogether more the appearance of that change. The optics of what you do, not the material difference it makes.

The noiseless click of those digital cameras as they contextualise the online space with tales of your daring-do, while the honest work of investigating those left in pools of their own blood who were otherwise daring-don’t … Or more accurately, daring-didn’t-make-the-papers.

Unless, of course … You simply cannot help yourself. Perhaps it is less a purely narcissistic urge that drives you to inject yourself into the wider affairs of a cold and indifferent world, and something altogether more deep-seated. Less a want, or desire and more a need. A super-complex befitting a superhero. Something worthy of a saviour. Does it bubble up from the pit of your gut, or flood free from the deepest recesses of the most animalistic part of your mind? What first made it real? A painful childhood experience – some innate helplessness born from youthfulness? Did you clack the carriages of your wooden choo-hoo together, head bowed as your mother and father “talked” through the medium of broken glasses and shattered crockery and doorframes she did not see coming as she walked …

Perhaps you were never even there in-person to witness the chequered board so threatened and urgently in need of its White Knight; summoned after the fact and too late – left to carry the wound in your heart and your head for all time. A rudder hard-over which steers your ship in those same, tired circles. Doomed to chase its own wake trying to fix those that do not want to so much as acknowledge they are broken.

They will not acknowledge the truth because they are flawed, broken people who like the colour red and enjoy mint ice cream. They prefer to walk barefoot and feel the sun on their shoulders. Does any of this sound familiar? If you had listened, perhaps so but instead you are singularly focused on building some imagined version of me. A concept that cannot possibly emerge to fight you in New Delhi on Sunday.

Whatever drives you, Miss Johnson – some potent cocktail of delusion and ignorance, inflated, ponderous egotism or personal tragedy that demands self-sacrifice – the solution comes in the form of irresistible, immovable truth delivered courtesy of my thorn-painted hand; the facsimile of the one blown off to give me an apparent advantage in some arbitrary combat sport years after the fact, as you so eloquently noted.

The truth that I have spoken unwaveringly for every moment I have held dominion over a dark garden-of-sorts. My own Eden. One of creation, of the birth and gestation of a new Bombshells’ Division. One reshaped in a way that pleases me, that will be capable of so much more than the current rotten edifice propped up by mewling sycophants, deluded influencers and spearheaded by your imposter title reign. Tirelessly, I have overcome every significant obstacle to my rebuilding effort. They have all fallen by the wayside, some harder than others, as Miss Ryan learned to her permanent maiming and subsequent cost.

The truth comes in the form not of you as my final roadblock, but me as yours.

In the finest tradition of the graphic novels and tissue paper-thin comic serials you leap straight from the ink-bled pages of, I am the form of your rebirth. No hero remains static: the laws governing such superhumans are no more forgiving than nature is of a vacuum, and so you must change. You must grow … And nothing encourages that growth more than suffering. To become the better version of yourself, the current one must be proven insufficient to the task at hand. Be demonstrated as obsolete and inadequate.

At Violent Conduct, in your current iteration and configuration, you will be retired. What you choose to return as, in what guise and associated colour-coordinated outfit of spandex and plastic is for you to decide. The manner of your retirement, however, is not. 

Oh, My Heroine, you have fundamentally misunderstood why I want to take your everything and make it mine. None of this is for Amber – she ceased to be a factor in my mind when she ceased to be by my hand. That you believe all of this is to return the title to her simply betrays your failure to understand the complexities, motivations and machinations of your opponent until it is far too late.  She could no more take it from me willingly than she can reach a bathroom in a single journey without a preceding comfort break. Miss Johnson … We have already traded such special miseries adrift on the lonely sea, and you still do not really know why I am doing any of this.

It is my turn to be disappointed. Listening is clearly not amongst your repertoire of unearthly talents. Perhaps if you had done so, you would not have wasted such precious time exploring jarring discontinuities which make such little sense when you consider all I have striven for.

I grow tired of watching those I have gifted such greatness to conspire to find ways of squandering it. My gifts should not be taken so lightly.

I have spent so very long making others burn more fiercely so their radiance scorches the sky and sows destruction in all directions. For too long, I have been made a gatekeeper by corporate hierarchies looking to enforce their coercive will on the inexperienced, the foolish and the soft-headed dreamers stuck in Darling Dreamscapes. Manipulated, weaponized by those who thought they understood how to make use of my foibles and flaws to better serve their purposes by singing such sweet birdsong.

Now it is my time to control everything, my turn to seize the means of production of glory and hold it against all the hopeful and the hopeless who would dash themselves to pieces on the rocks for an opportunity to fail to take it. 

You can continue to attempt to build an image of me that does not really exist, and attack that instead. Continue to polish the facade of the challenger you would like to face, and not the one who will stand opposite you in New Delhi on Sunday. Wax lyrical about the aura of invincibility I never crafted – one given to me by fools, part-time superheroes, scared little girls and sometimes, their World Champion husbands and their love-triangle Private Detectives. Slay the persona constructed out of heaped generalisations concerning what I look like, rather than what I say. This phantom you have put such effort into making is not real, and what really lies beneath the painted ceramic is no more slowed by your victorious cawing than she will be when she takes your title and completes the final ascension towards rapture.

The only embarrassment is you, scrambling desperately for any workable rationalisation to explain your hypocrisy given the supposed moral and ethical high ground you occupy. With one breath you talk of your apathy, your boredom and your general indifference to the chaos swirling around you, and your title – a coolness which relegates all other problems to somewhere down beneath your feet and out of sight. With the next gasp from your lungs, you sink into paranoia and second-guessing.

You would be surprised what you can learn from the orderly staff of hospitals, and what they hear when changing bedpans and bedsheets. A little bird who could not sing told me you visited Amber, when she was restricted to communicating through increasingly aggressive blinks. You saw her cocooned in a forest of plastic pipes and softly-beeping machinery, held together by bandages and the most complex concoctions the pharmaceutical industry could lobby to provide. I destroyed her.

And yet, you think someone so comprehensively annihilated would sooner side with the Herald of their Destruction, to plot to dethrone you on the other side of the world? Do you hear how absurd you have become, Miss Johnson? You heard her groan in agony, blessed by the life-changing injuries I have visited upon her and still, you think she will work against you, for me?

Perhaps it is you who is overly-obsessed with Miss Ryan.

We come finally to the validation of all the cruel, but necessary things I have said about you thus far. Your internal monologue finds its route via a bypassed impulse control out into the wider world and speaks with your voice about all the things it fears. Those feelings of inferiority, of truck-stop second-best – of being a symbol of transition and nothing more – come spilling out. By your own words … Six months, having defeated one of the greatest Champions of all time …

They should be uttering your name in the same breath as hers. Elevating you to join Hurricanes and Raptures on a deserving dais under which the bright lights shine on all those accomplishments. Surely, it is nothing more than you deserve. And yet …

The world simply waits with the expectation you will lose.

No joyous outpouring for your ascension to the summit. In the place of a ticker-tape parade, only the weary resignation that eventually, somehow you would stumble upon success given the relentless opportunity thrown your way to somehow achieve a victory. Chance after chance, until entropy and statistical probability agreed to give you what it is you wanted in exchange for a chance to break the same, repetitive, tired cycle.

Now, the world simply waits for correction. For the natural order of things to reassert itself. An expectation you will lose.

You have been wrong about so many things, My Heroine, and you are wrong that this is some sort of beginning. It is not. It is an end. The end. After all, what greater irony sums up the current reign of Roxi Johnson as Bombshells’ World Champion, than the fact she has defeated the eldritch horror known only as Masque – the only one to have done so in nine long months – to have snapped a streak, broken the back of a monster … And proven nothing doing so.

To have beaten Amber Ryan, myself … And still feel like a silver medal hangs around your neck. Does that not seem fitting?

Even your affirmations and validations are temporary pauses between questions surrounding your worthiness. No matter how you answer those critics, they simply turn to a fresh page and draw question marks interspersed with  Superman-inspired “S” motifs as they doodle and wonder how long it will be before the natural order of things reasserts itself, and you are relegated back to perennial challenger.

At Violent Conduct, you stand to lose everything because you cannot save anyone, including yourself. You are a paper champion, an empty symbol. A transition from one era to another with a newer, grander, more rapturous design. A footnote and an asterisk, the combined contents of which summarise your reign as one of self-doubt and self-delusion.

It is the most delicious irony that your Saviour Complex could no more save you than it did anyone else who mattered. In the end, you were the victim of circumstance made happenstance. A perfect storm that made for a perfect ending, until those clouds made way for something altogether darker and you were caught out in the rain. Feel the ground turn to a quagmire that saps even your superstrength from every footfall, and see that it is too far to walk and much too dangerous to fly. That shining cityscape teasing you on the horizon is my grand design finally realised across this entire division and company. It is there so you can see what might have been, but not so you can be a part.  There is no place for part-time heroes, or empty symbols of strength.

Perhaps Keira can challenge me thereafter for an opportunity to become World Champion in your name, bicep circled by a black armband marked “R.J.”

There is just one thing left unsaid – something you asked for. Something I am pleased to be able to give you and say:

I want to be the Bombshells’ Champion.

I think I like the way it sounds, but you will not be around to hear it.

Welcome to the Rapture.

[Roxi Johnson]

{The scene opens where we left off as Roxi heads back to the police station. She had placed another call to Lt Murphy and she had to meet him again. Murphy was already on the roof, cigarette in his mouth as he puffed on it as she landed. He crushed out his cigarette and let out a billow of smoke.}

 

Lt. Murphy – Well, you’re alive. 

 

Roxi – Yeah.

 

Lt. Murpy – What did you find out.

 

Roxi – The new guy calls himself “The Hidden Hand”

 

Lt. Murphy – Cute.

 

Roxi – It appears he’s trying to start the gang war in the hopes that Louie and the others take themselves out and he can move it. At least that’s my working theory. Hence the thefts. People are bulking up for the oncoming war.

 

Lt. Murphy – Dammit. That’s just what we need. Thugs running around the streets with firearms.

 

Roxi – I still am working on who stole the precious metals, but honestly my gut tells me that it wasn’t Louie, and that Hammer was feeding me a line. Perhaps it was to get me to deliver the message to Louie himself. Hidden Hand knew that if he told Hammer to tell me that it was Louie, that’s I’d go to Louie. So, perhaps I inadvertently played into their hands. Now Louie knows, and I’m sure he knew about it already, even if he didn’t do it.

 

Lt. Murphy – So you think someone else stole the metal?

 

Roxi – I do. Perhaps there’s a third, or even a fourth plater. Louie and the Hand are clearly in on this. But I don’t know if there’s another gang around that’s ready to pop up. The only other one I can think is... Hamilton?

 

Lt. Murphy – Heather Hamilton leads a cutting-edge technology company. I’m sure if they wanted to have metals like that, they’d just buy them. 

 

Roxi – Maybe, and maybe not. I won’t know until I do some snooping at Hamilton.

 

Lt. Murphy – The place was condemed after that monster weapon thing broke out.

 

Roxi – Bio-Sin.

 

Lt. Murphy – You can call it whatever you want. But Hamilton was removed from the area, and they relocated. 

 

Roxi – And you guys didn’t do an investigation into the new place?

 

Lt. Murphy – What exactly would we be looking for? You think I’m going to risk my men trying figure that out? They’ve been pretty low-key since they returned to the city. Nothing of note, we do have people keep tabs on them, but so far they’re coming up with new fabrics for office chairs, and something called the Jabber-Wockey Project.

 

Roxi – What is the Jabber-Wockey project?

 

Lt. Murphy – We don’t know. And from anyone we’ve spoken to about it, they don’t either.

 

Roxi – That sound like a Heather-led project.

 

Lt. Murphy – They have been making major strides to clean up after all that was discovered. 

 

Roxi – And still, Heather didn’t go to jail. Or prison. Or have any consequences for her actions.

 

Lt. Murphy – And neither have you for the countless millions of dollars in property damage you’ve caused over the years.

 

Roxi – I did it saving this city from things you can’t fight. 

 

Lt. Murphy – Tell that to the tax payers.

 

Roxi – There’s no income tax in Florida.

 

Lt. Murphy – That’s not the point. I still think you and your group are bad as any gang out there. You just put on costumes. 

 

Roxi – And they don’t?

 

Lt. Murphy – Not like that.

 

Roxi – The point of all this is, that I think you should contact the Mayor, or even the Governor. You’re going to need some serious firepower to combat this if the weapons hit the streets.

 

Lt. Murphy – I don’t know if we’re going to get that right away.

 

Roxi – It’s why I’m saying it now. Look, I’m going to do all I can to stop this from becoming a bigger problem than it already is. But if things continue down this path, there’s going to be war in the streets.

 

Lt. Murphy – My guys will be out there. I suppose you have to make sure you’re guys are out there too.

 

Roxi – That’s another thing though. It seems that the hand is hiring the “super villains” to stop me. He said it himself.

 

Lt. Murphy – That was never an issue in the past.

 

Roxi – Yes, but they aren’t there to do anything but stop me from helping you. 

 

Lt. Murphy – Sound like you need backup then.

 

Roxi – I’ll handle what I can. If there’s any sign of any of those guys, you have to alert me, but we now have the understanding that all they are there to do is cause a distraction from the real issue. 

 

Lt. Murphy – This Hidden Hand guy sounds like a real piece of work.

 

Roxi – Yes, I’m going to have to consult with some other people, because whoever this guy is, clearly he’s been planning this for a while. 

 

Lt. Murphy – And just in time for the elections.

 

Roxi – Yeah. No doubt the politicians may try and take advantage of this for PR purposes.

 

Lt. Murphy – Cleaning up the streets has worked for a lot of people.

 

Roxi – Yeah, I know. Look, I’ll be out there. I know you and I aren’t the best of friends, but we’ve got to work together on this. You guys are going to be outgunned very soon. The best we can do now, is maybe make sure they aren’t out-manned. 

 

Lt. Murphy – You do your job, I’ll do mine.

 

Roxi – As we do. I’ll be in touch. Let me know if you have any issues.

 

Lt. Murphy – Yeah.

 

{Roxi nods and departs from the roof. She tries to ponder her next move as the scene fades.}

 



 

{The new scene is Roxi arriving at the home of her friend, Amy Jo Smyth. AJ is already outside, in her back yard which just basically woods. She is still as sharp as ever shooting her pistols and shotguns at makeshift targets when Roxi arrives. AJ sees her, nods and puts her pistol down.}

 

Amy Jo Smyth – Let me guess, you need something?

 

Roxi – There’s a gang war brewing.

 

Amy Jo Smyth – What makes you say that?

 

Roxi – Guns have been stolen. Precious Metals have been stolen. There’s a new player in town trying to get it all set up for blood in the streets.

 

Amy Jo Smyth – And... how do I fit into this?

 

Roxi – I mean, you don’t fit in it, AJ. I would very much rather have you not involved, but I’m trying to figure out the best way to approach this. 

 

Amy Jo Smyth – What do you mean? You have super powers and shit. You can end all this before it starts.

 

Roxi – As much as I want to believe that’s true, even super powers have limits. I can’t be everywhere. 

 

Amy Jo Smyth – Keira has powers too. You have like a whole team.

 

Roxi – Guild.

 

Amy Jo Smyth – Whatever.

 

Roxi – I just... I don’t want bloodshed in the streets. I mean, how would the cops handle this.

 

Amy Jo Smyth – Like they have before, I suppose. If you have a gang war coming, it’s best to prepare. 

 

Roxi – But that could cause a panic.

 

Amy Jo Smyth – It’s either they complain now, or they panic later. And panic later leads to more death.

 

Roxi – Could I ask you to pull some strings with the CIA?

 

Amy Jo Smyth – You could, and I’m assuming you are right now, but I think I’ve called in about as many favors as I can. They aren’t going to listen to me and try and stop a gang war in a city without some kind of... you know major reason. Wait... are there drugs involved?

 

Roxi – I don’t know. I don’t think so. Weapons though.

 

Amy Jo Smyth – No, that’s ATF. And after the stuff they kind of went through in the ‘90’s. I don’t know if they’re going to the favorite around there. 

 

Roxi – But wouldn’t drugs be the DEA?

 

Amy Jo Smyth – HA. They wish. The CIA and FBI jump ALL over that shit. I mean, they might be into too...But you didn’t hear that from me. I can neither confirm or deny anything.

 

Roxi – AJ, that’s not helping.

 

Amy Jo Smyth – I don’t think I can be of much help to you otherwise Roxi. If you got a gang war, there’s gonna be gangs, and shooting. I’m not a cop anymore, and I don’t have the connections to pull CIA off of what they are doing to help. 

 

Roxi – I see. 

 

Amy Jo Smyth – I really wish you’d find better reasons to visit me.

 

Roxi – Well, I don’t know if telling you I cried like a baby when Nate started school a couple of weeks ago is the most productive. I don’t want to throw ALL my problems onto you.

 

Amy Jo Smyth – HA. Never stopped you before.

 

Roxi – That’s a bit unfair.

 

Amy Jo Smyth – Unfair?

 

Roxi – Look, you’re... part of the team, and invaluable part of the team. And I owe you so much for everything you’ve done. You saved my life a bunch of times.

 

Amy Jo Smyth – And you’ve saved mine, but every time you visit you always need something. I would very much like that jacket you owe me. 

 

Roxi – Alright, alright, I promise, next time, I will bring you a jacket.

 

Amy Jo Smyth – Cool. But uh... about Nate.

 

Roxi – Yeah?

 

Amy Jo Smyth – Was it rough for him too?

 

Roxi – I don’t think so. Trust me, Keira and I were sobbing messes and he just... he took it in stride. He was ready.

 

Amy Jo Smyth – I knew he would be. Now, be sure to bring him over for science lessons.

 

Roxi – He’s not going to blow up part of the school because aunt AJ decided to show him how to make explosives.

 

Amy Jo Smyth – Not with that attitude.

 

Roxi – It’s not going to happen. I’m trying to prevent a gang war, and I really don’t need my son blowing things up.

 

Amy Jo Smyth – Life is better with explosions. You know that.

 

{Roxi sighs.}

 

Roxi – Yes, well... thanks anyway AJ. Just... if things get crazy, just be safe. I’m going to do what I can to stop this.

 

Amy Jo Smyth – If any of these mother fuckers come to my door, I will blow them all to hell. These bitches better not try me.

 

Roxi – Just... be safe, okay?

 

Amy Jo Smyth – You got it.

 

{Roxi shakes her head and departs as AJ goes back to shooting, the scene fading.}

 



{The days pass and Roxi does her nightly patrols each night, but there is no activity to speak of. Each day and night, she simply waits for something to happen, but it never does. No robberies, no shootouts, really...no gang war at all. She sits at her laptop the only light source in the room that glow from it. Keira eventually comes in, placing a hand on Roxi’s shoulder as she looks concerned.}

 

Keira – What are you doing?

 

Roxi – I... I don’t know honestly. I keep waiting for something to happen, but nothing is happening. I feel like I’m missing something and I don’t know what it is.

 

Keira – You'll drive yourself crazy staying up til all hours trying to catch something.

 

Roxi – I don’t want bloodshed on the streets.

 

Keira – There's no way you can always prevent that. You can’t, I can’t. Nobody can. 

 

Roxi – I'm just trying to prevent this from happening. There’s a way to do this. I’m just missing something.

 

Keira – No, if anything, whatever is behind this is making you paranoid. You need to rest. You’re just chomping at the bit here.

 

{Roxi sighs.}

 

Roxi – Maybe I am. I don’t know. I feel like there’s a lot more here and I don’t have everything I need.

 

Keira – We’ll figure this out. But you spending every waking moment trying to stop this isn’t healthy. You’re going to make it worse if you go out there and you’re not mentally focused.

 

Roxi – I just need one thing, just one. 

 

Keira – No, you need to rest. If something happens, we’ll deal with it, but waiting for something to happen isn’t going to help. There’s no use in doing that.

 

{Roxi turns and kisses Keira’s hand on her shoulder.}

 

Roxi – That's it.

 

Keira – What's it?

 

Roxi – I'm being reactive, and not proactive. There’s got to be at least three parties involved. I’ve got to find another lead. I can’t wait for one.

 

{Roxi stands up as Keira sighs herself.}

 

Keira – Just be careful, and call me if anything happens. And if nothing comes up tonight, promise me you’ll come back and rest.

 

{Roxi smiles.}

 

Roxi – I promise. I will be back as soon as I can. 

 

{Roxi kisses Keira and then goes right back to putting on her costume and heading out on another patrol. She travels around, heading to the more unsafe areas of the city trying to find a lead on anything that could be happening. At first, her pursuit appears fruitless as again, nothing seems to be happening. This would be where Roxi would lean on a snitch for her, but he was killed by Ameila a while back, and Roxi hadn’t found someone else to give her information. Roxi eavesdrops on whatever she can, but none of the information pertains to anything important. People looking for spots to score drugs. People looks for sex. Not that these were great things to have to overhear, but Roxi was more concerned with other things. Roxi rested on a rooftop and shook her head.}

 

Roxi – I don’t understand. There’s got to be something.

 

{Roxi continues to look, but it looks like the search in in vain. She looks to be calling it a night, when she hears an argument ensuing. She moves over to see what’s going on. Three men are surrounding another.}

 

Man #1 – This is our territory punk! I don’t care who you think runs this town, this is Louie’s territory.

 

Man #2 – You think maybe we should teach this guy a lesson?

 

Man #3 – How about we break his ribs? Send a little message that way.

 

{The man in the middle however, does not appear to be too intimidated by anything.}

 

Man #4 – I only come with the message to be delivered. I hope you are prepared for war.

 

Man #1 – You hear this guy? What a waste!

 

Man #4 – I wouldn’t do that if I were you.

 

{The man in the middle opens up his jacket and reveals something, that makes the other 3 men back away.}

 

Man #2 – You're crazy man! 

 

{The three men who were accosting the man in the middle step away and give the man some distance. He walks into the building past the men and he’s in and out in a matter of seconds. The other men watch him walk away, mumbling to themselves. Roxi, having seen this, follows the man walking away, who seemingly breathes a sigh of relief. Once he is out sight of the men, he turns into a full-on sprint to create even more distance and dips on and out of alley’s before stopping to catch his breath and laugh to himself. Roxi decides this is as good as time as any, and simply grabs the man who stretches his arms, only to have them both gripped and he is lifted high into the air, face to face with Roxi.}

 

Roxi – Impressive show back there. Would you be a dear and tell me what’s going on?

 

Man #4 – I don’t know anything, I’m just a messenger!

 

Roxi – And a scared one at that. Now it’s a long way down, and I’ve had a long day and night, so I’m a little tired. You never know when I might lose my grip. So, what were you doing?

 

Man #4 – I... I was... delivering a message. I got paid to do that.

 

Roxi – About a gang war... I’m gonna need a little more.

 

{Roxi dips the man, causing him to yelp.}

 

Roxi – Oops.

 

Man #4 – I don’t know! Something about a war... I was paid in a manilla package, I never saw anybody high up! I got contacted to do this job, just walk in, and drop off a package. That’s it! 

 

Roxi – What was in the package?

 

Man #4 – I didn’t look... it smelled horrible though. Like rotten garbage. 

 

Roxi – And who hired you?

 

Man #4 – I never knew his name. Or her name. Nobody told me anything. Just pick up this package at this address and deliver it to this address.

 

Roxi – And what is in your pocket.

 

Man #4 – They strapped it to me. Said that if I had trouble to show it.

 

{The man opens up his jacket and reveals a live grenade. Roxi quickly snatches it with one hand and launches it high into the air, where it explodes harmlessly.}

 

Roxi – They made you a suicide runner? 

 

Man #4 – I swear! I didn’t know it was going to be like that! 

 

Roxi – Give me the address of where you picked that up from. NOW.

 

Man #4 – Okay! Okay, it was... 698 Candlewood! I picked it up there.

 

Roxi – Good boy.

 

{Roxi gently lands the man on the roof.}

 

Roxi – What's your name?

 

Man #4 – O... Owen... It’s Owen, why?

 

Roxi – Because now, Owen, you’re going to work for me. When I need something, you’re going to tell me the information. Because I'm going to stop this gang war before it starts.

 

Owen – But I.... but I..

 

Roxi – You were obviously useless to whomever hired you. They expected you to not only encounter resistance, but wither kill yourself, or they accidently set this thing off and killed anyone you encountered. They were banking on it. So, I’d say your allegiances leave something to be desired. Plus, I’m not going to kill you. I might just drop you out of a two-story window. Nothing that you won’t survive, but I can put you in the hospital for a long, long time.

 

Owen – You... drive a hard bargain.

 

Roxi – It's either that, or you die in the streets with this thing kicks off. Because either you were going to die tonight, or they will remember you’re the person that delivered the package and use that to kill you. 

 

Owen – Dammit.

 

Roxi – Yeah, I’m glad you see it my way. You keep yourself out of trouble, and at the end of all this, I will make sure you don’t end in jail because of your value as an informant. It’s win-win.

 

Owen – … Fine.

 

Roxi – Good. Be seeing you Owen. Oh, and … if this address turns out to be fake, or a trap, I’ll be coming back here, and I will give you to those guys you pissed off. Just an FYI.

 

{Roxi leaves Owen on the roof, and flies off, headed for the address as the scene fades.}

 



 

{Roxi arrives at the address, a small building that seems to serve as a mechanics garage. Roxi thinks about simply busting the door down, but hears voices from the other side, and so, she gets on the roof, and peers through the skylight, as Louie is flanked by a couple of body guards, and a man Roxi has never seen before in a sharp suit.}

 

Louie – Mr. Hamilton. I haven’t had to say that in a long time, I’m hoping we can still do business.

 

Mr. Hamilton – Of course, our families have worked together for a long time. It’ll be just like old times. You tell me what you need.

 

Louie – Well, I did hear that some metal went missing, and that some guns got stolen. I think there’s something brewing here and I need to be ahead of the game. And the Super is snooping around too.

 

Mr. Hamilton – So long as our name isn’t involved, we can surely help each other.

 

{Suddenly one of Louie’s other henchmen comes running in. }

 

Henchman – Boss! It’s Johnny!

 

Louie – What about him?

 

Henchmen – They whacked him, Boss!

 

{Louie looks angry at this revelation.}

 

Louie – Damn this fucking new guy. Who the fuck is he? He’s already starting shit he can’t come back from!

 

Mr. Hamilton – As I said, I can be of assistance.

 

Louie – You need to get me weapons and people and anything we can use to do damage. Because...

 

{All of a sudden there’s several pounds at the door, and soon enough it’s blown off, and multiple people charge through the door, but all of them are exactly the same person.}

 

Roxi – Crazy Wolf...

 

Crazy Wolf – Good evening, gentlemen. 

 

Louie – What the hell are you doing here Wolf?

 

{Under Wolf’s arm is a laptop that he sets up, and the same live zoom call with the default avatar with the initials “HH” is shown.}

 

Hidden Hand – Thank you Wolf. Gentlemen, I  trust you know my new associate, and I trust, Mr. Pinciotti that you got my message?

 

Louie – I don’t know who you are, but you’re fucking with the wrong people.

 

Hidden Hand – You old types always take things so personally. I would like this city to operate at the next level. Which means no more old school La Castra Nosa nonsense, and no more... Evil corporation either, Mr. Hamilton.

 

Mr. Hamilton – I assure you that we are not in that line of work.

 

Hidden Hand – Yes. Well... I am just here to let all you both know, and anyone else who may be thinking about entering this game, that it’s MINE. And -

 

{Roxi finally crashes through the skylight and into the garage.}

 

Hidden Hand – Oh, that must mean Lady Bedlam is here. Your presence here is...certainly a surprise.

 

Roxi – I don’t know, nor do I care what’s going on here, but this is going to stop.

 

Hidden Hand – On the contrary My dear, it’s just getting started. Wolf, eliminate them all.

 

{Wolf splits into multiples of himself, creating an even 20. Roxi is forced to engage them all, as Hamilton and Louie escape in the confusion. Roxi tangles with Wolf, and she can’t help but think that this wasn’t a distraction, but that Wolf was actually here to do that job. Roxi is able to quickly take out multiple Wolf copies, searching for the real one in all the confusion as well.}

 

Crazy Wolf – Now we can get a bonus.

 

Roxi – There’s only one, Wolf.

 

{Roxi sees all the Wolf multiples are starting to recover, and so she leans back.}

 

Roxi – Eney... Meeny... Miny...

 

{Roxi closes her eyes, and punches one of the Wolf clones in the face, and the rest fall back over onto the ground and then absorb back into Wolf.}

 

Roxi – Mo.

 

{Roxi turns back to the laptop.}

 

Hidden Hand – Well done. I guess that means you won’t reconsider my offer?

 

Roxi – No, I’m not looking the other way, and there’s not enough money in the world to make me. I will stop this before it starts. 

 

Hidden Hand – Oh, I believe you will try. But you can’t stop what’s been put in motion. Not at all.

 

Roxi – This was just the first step. I’m on to you now. 

 

Hidden Hand – You have...inconvenienced me tonight. But you are no closer to anything I have planned. 

Roxi – Was that... doubt I heard in your voice. Yeah, even though you’re using a voice program, I can still hear it in your voice. I will not stop until I find you, and then I put an end to your little plan. Keep the light on...

 

{Roxi turns to leave, gathering up Wolf and slapping some zip cuffs on him.}

 

Roxi – Because I'm coming for you.

 

Hidden Hand – Good luck...

 

{Roxi takes Wolf out and takes him over the Hillsborough River, and dunks him into the water to revive him. He splashes around wildly, until Roxi takes him up and further out before straight up dropping him into the water. Still zip-tied, Wolf struggles to stay afloat.}

 

Crazy Wolf – What are you doing?! I can’t swim!

 

Roxi – I know. We’re going to have a chat about the Hidden Hand. Either that, or you drown.

 

Crazy Wolf – You're the crazy one!

 

Roxi – Yeah. I know. Now, any information, or you are you enjoying testing your buoyancy?

 

Crazy Wolf – Get me out of this! Come on! It’s not funny!

 

Roxi – Information.

 

{Roxi comes down and attached a secure line to the zip cuffs and then around the wrists of Wolf, lifting him up, above the water, but dunking him back down.}

 

Roxi – I'm growing tired of this already.

 

Crazy Wolf – I don’t know, he hired me for a job. I never met the guy. Said he wanted me to deliver a message and then take out whoever I came across. 

 

Roxi – That's not very helpful.

 

Crazy Wolf – I swear that’s all I know. Wait... wait... whoever this guy is, he has ties to Hamilton. I overheard him talking about it. Maybe a deal gone bad or something. Maybe that’s why he wanted Hamilton there. 

 

Roxi – See... now that was more helpful. You’re lucky I’m in a good mood Wolf. Now I have something to go on.

 

{Roxi takes Wolf away, back to the Guild base for his temporary imprisonment as the scene fades.}

 

I know Hamilton is a player now. If that man was A Hamilton and not just sharing the last name, that means Heather knows about this as well. The Hidden Hand... The HH initials? Surely Heather’s not that blatant about it? But if Hidden Hand wants to take out Hamilton, why would they work with them? And being so brazen as to kill one of Louie’s top guys? Hmm... The rabbit hole just keeps getting deeper.

But I will get to the bottom of it.

And I will stop this war.

 



 

“When you put on the suit, you become larger than life. You become a symbol. And then you don't have a choice. You have to live up to what you've made yourself into. The mask hides your fear. No one knows what you're thinking. And it's double edged. It frightens your enemies and feeds your strength. But no suit-- no mask-- can ever hide you from yourself!”

- Batman (Batman Vol 1 #455)

 
I continue to struggle with this feeling as this match draws closer and closer. The feeling of having been here before. The feeling of déjà vu. I’ve just been mentally preparing for the barbaric nature of this match and just how much blood I might have to lose to win. Wondering just what Masque will try and pull in order to win. Wondering how low she will stoop, and just how much I’m going to have to deal with in addition to how good she is.

 
Make no mistake about it, Masque is damn good. I’ve said as much from day one. The feeling I get is that I have already done this, and now I just have to do it again, and I feel pretty good about the whole thing. I know from having been victorious that I can do it again, and let’s face it, I have to. I have to do it again in order to finally put this to rest, at least for the time being. I don’t want to continually put up with Masque’s nonsense over and over and over. It’s growing very tiresome at this point.

 
At the very least, I finally got what I wanted from Masque this last time out. The long-winded completely ridiculous interview that graced your screens is exactly what I expected. Did you hear those beautiful words? Did you hear the malice behind them? The harmful intentions. The cold matter-of-fact-ness that came from beneath that formless, shapeless mask? It sounded so wonderful. It made for perfect background noise while I was sewing. 

 
But while the vast majority of it was babble, the ramblings of a woman on the edge, the main point of that whole thing was that Masque exists because I exist. Good and evil. The yin and yang thing. Two sides of the same coin. This is what I am expected buy when it comes to this. It was and I’m sure the next one also will be more rambling nonsense that sounds really good until you actually examine it. 

 
Let’s just be real here: I have been here for close to a decade. I have become a pillar of this company, and I have seen people come and go, I helped bring people here, because it was either where I was, or I thought they could help SCW. I have been doing my thing all this time. I have played the hero because it’s more to me than just something fun to call myself. I have been put in the toughest situations and persevered. I have tried my best to set a good example for how to not only be wrestler, but to be a professional. And the reason I have been able to do that, is because I’ve tried my best never to waver on my principles. I have given my heart and soul to be here and to lead by example.  And when you do that, people will come and try and take you down. It’s as simple as that.

 
I’ve been blamed, judged, ridiculed questioned and accused. I am the scapegoat for many people’s issues. When something goes wrong, it’s my fault. I wasn’t there, I didn’t help enough. I didn’t do what I was supposed to do, because I’m the “Hero” and I’m supposed to do everything for everyone, and when I don’t, I’m the bad guy. I’ve been through this for the past 10 years of my life. So, it is all very familiar to me. The only thing that has changed is the name and face of the person doing it. Now, it happens to be Masque. The appearance is the only thing different.

 
I didn’t put Masque in the category of evil, she did. I didn’t start this fight, she did. And now, not only is it because I have the championship, but now we’ve added that I created Masque, and I caused all this, because of course I did. If we’re just going to keep moving the goalposts, this is never going to end. I wrestled here, before Masque got here. There was no fight, no war between her and I before this year. Masque I’m assuming wrestled elsewhere before she came here. So no, there was no Roxi did something and now we have Masque. Been blamed for similar, but this one pretty much takes the cake in terms of silliness. 

 
I am not responsible for Masque. I don’t need the evil to make myself feel good. I don’t need a beast to slay. I don’t need an evil to combat. All I need is a ring, and an opponent. And then, my mission just resumes. Good, bad, or in between. I wrestle and I face my opponents. It has never mattered what side they were on, once the bell rung, that’s it, we do what we can, and in the end, I either win, or I lose. If you showed up to fight me, I’ll fight you. 

 
If I remember correctly, Masque came here, to finish her thing with Amber, and now all of a sudden, I am the creator of this great evil. I am the cause of her pain and suffering. If she didn’t care about the Bombshell’s Internet title, why is the Bombshell’s championship itself so important? Given what I heard, again, it’s just because Amber had it. But also, because I am good and I need the bad and Masque is doing the bad role. But the truth is, and will always be, Masque would be doing the same thing she’s doing now, with, or without me in the picture. It had nothing to do with me for all this time. But just now, it seems to be all about me. I did not summon Masque as the next great evil I have to face. It was her, who came to me, looking to fight a “hero.” 

 
She wished for me to play that role the first time, and she ended up on the losing end. Now, she has embraced the bad side of things to try and make this some moral issue. It is not a moral issue. It’s a woman throwing anything and everything she can against the wall to try and make it stick. Nothing more is going on here. She can as long winded as she really wants to, but at the end of the day, I did not create Masque De Lune. Masque came looking for me. And as I’ve always said, I’m not hard to find. And now she’s using this nonsense to try and appeal to all of you that I am the bad guy. I created her, and I set her on this path of evil. But the truth is, she did these things, to draw me out. She came and knocked on my door. She touched my title. She had an issue with me. She was fighting for Amber. She was using my son’s name in order to get a rise out of me. I was just here, doing what I always do. 

 
I will be the first to admit that I should do more, and it pains me when I can’t help someone. I can’t be everywhere, and I can’t help everybody and I don’t like to admit that. I take on way too much on my own shoulders, because I firmly believe that I can handle anything. I do it to a fault. And I firmly believe that is what Masque is trying to exploit. As it is, sometimes, I cannot make a move. Sometimes, I cannot be there even when I want to be. I have to exercise restraint and not try and take on every battle for everyone else. Sometimes, my hands are tied in a way that I cannot always be a part of everything. I have learned that I’m damned if I do, and damned if I don’t.

 
I give people space, and that works against me, and at the same time, I don’t want to smother anybody by trying to do too much. It is a constant struggle for me. But I will never believe that this makes me a bad person or bad friend. I try. Goodness knows I try. And sometimes, that’s too much, and sometimes it’s not enough. And for those I have let down, I apologize and I’ve tried all the time to make it up to you. But I just ask for one favor: 

 
Don’t ever believe that I didn’t try or that I purposely left you. 

 
As much as people like Masque want to throw this on the table like it’s suddenly a good poker hand, I would like to believe that everyone knows that I try to be there for everybody, but sometimes, I physically can’t. And a lot of the time, I don’t want to interfere and tell anybody how they should do things. If you make a choice, I can give my opinion, but I won’t stop anyone from making the choice that they make. All I can do, is be who I am.

 
And yes, I understand I’m saying all this as I’m about to walk into a match where I’m going to get punched by hands dipped in broken glass. I understand that I’m going to have to bleed, sweat, and pay the price. I understand that I will not walk out of this title defense the same that I come into it. But neither is Masque. 

 
Because it boils down to this, either Masque takes the title, or she loses again and she goes to the back of the line, and someone else comes right in to take her place. I realize that I took quite a bit from Masque, and now, she has almost nothing to lose. That’s why we’re stooping as low as we are now. That’s why we’re having these types of discussions. I made Masque more dangerous by removing anything of value from her, and now, it’s all on me. I’m the one with a championship. I’m the one with an undefeated streak. I’m the one who has to overcome the physical disadvantages of this type of match. The deck is stacked against me. 

 
I suppose, as it is for every Hero.

 
So, I will assume that role, but I think I finally figured out why, I am feeling this sense of déjà vu. Yes, I have given it a lot of thought, and I am now fully understanding it. Masque wants the Hero. She wants to invoke my family’s names. She want to try and manipulate me and my friends for her advantage. She wants to play these mind games with me, and throw me off my game. And the reason I’ve felt the déjà vu is because I have been here before.

 
And I have to say... Amber Ryan did it better.

 
Amber Ryan did the exact same thing to me when she first showed up here. The pattern is undeniable. This is exactly how it all went. Amber came in here, and played these minds games, pissed off my wife, played with my emotions. And now, here we are again, with Masque simply trying to replace Amber Ryan.

 
Yes, I’m seeing it now that Masque did all this, and that is some sort of weird homage of Amber. All this talk about breaking Amber, getting her to surrender, destroying Amber and then rebuilding her. It all makes sense now. This is all simply to take Amber’s place, like some kind of replicant. This is why Amber was taken out, she has simply assumed Amber’s place and tried to make it seem like there nothing had changed. I see all this now, this isn’t about me, it’s about Amber. 

 
But I hate to break it to Masque in this way, but... 

 
Masque De Lune is NO Amber Ryan.

 
All the time to play with some many different personalities and emotions and still, none of her own. I almost pity Masque at this point. But there. Its been said, and now, I don’t need to talk about this anymore. I’m going to beat Masque De Lune and retain this championship, not for anyone else, but me. As I said, I will assume the role Masque wants me to play. I will be the Hero. I will the Hero I need to be.

 
Because while I am just one, I am every hero. I am all of them. A part of all of them resides inside of me, much like everyone who takes up the fight and faces down the challenge in front of them. We are all one in the same. Variants. The names, the faces, the genders, everything and anything can be different, but we are all the same. We will stand, we will fight, and we will win. 

 
I am coming to Violent Conduct, ready to bleed. I am unafraid of bleeding. I am unafraid of the pain. That comes with the territory. I will lose blood, in order to win the match. It’s that simple. I know where my convictions lie, I know where I stand, and I know how to be the Hero. I know I will win, and I will still be the Bombshell’s champion.
 

I didn’t create Masque De Lune.

 
Masque De Lune created this.

 
And at the end of Violent Conduct, she will only have one person to blame when I beat her again, retain this championship and she walks away with nothing...

 
Herself.

 
See you all Sunday.