FAQ/Intro
Hey, everybody. This is an intro to the story, as well as a FAQ to keep you guys...
Hey, everybody. This is an intro to the story, as well as a FAQ to keep you guys...
Torchbearer (DC SI)
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FAQ/Intro
FAQ/Intro
Hey, everybody. This is an intro to the story, as well as a FAQ to keep you guys posted on questions I get asked often or imagine might be asked often. I'll add the FAQ later, but the intro will be right here. I hope to engage in updates every other day.
From the top, this is an SI fic, where my SI, Joseph Winfield, goes to a more sensible DC Universe, with powers similar to those from an old fantasy series I'm fond of, and a fanfic I wrote based off of that series and a dimensional travel story.
If you'd like, you can spoil yourself and learn Joseph's powers now, as they won't be fully revealed until later in the first episode. Bear in mind, these are his natural abilities, not those he may gain from other sources.
An FAQ will likely be added down the line, but I don't think it's necessary as of yet. It'll be added in spoilers if I do. With that said, on to what you guys came here for!
Hey, everybody. This is an intro to the story, as well as a FAQ to keep you guys posted on questions I get asked often or imagine might be asked often. I'll add the FAQ later, but the intro will be right here. I hope to engage in updates every other day.
From the top, this is an SI fic, where my SI, Joseph Winfield, goes to a more sensible DC Universe, with powers similar to those from an old fantasy series I'm fond of, and a fanfic I wrote based off of that series and a dimensional travel story.
If you'd like, you can spoil yourself and learn Joseph's powers now, as they won't be fully revealed until later in the first episode. Bear in mind, these are his natural abilities, not those he may gain from other sources.
*Flight
*Protective aura/force field
**automatic at a certain point of development, but needs focusing at earlier stages
*Laser blasts
**Concussive, disintegrative, explosive, electromantic
**at later stages, disintegration spheres like the Ubers
*Telekinesis
*Transmutation
*Healing
*Solidcraft
**Solidcraft=manipulation of solids from a distance
**sort of an offshoot of telekinesis
*Super-vision
**X-ray, telescopic, microscopic, thermal, scrying
*Truth telling
*Language transmission
*Glamour
*Protective aura/force field
**automatic at a certain point of development, but needs focusing at earlier stages
*Laser blasts
**Concussive, disintegrative, explosive, electromantic
**at later stages, disintegration spheres like the Ubers
*Telekinesis
*Transmutation
*Healing
*Solidcraft
**Solidcraft=manipulation of solids from a distance
**sort of an offshoot of telekinesis
*Super-vision
**X-ray, telescopic, microscopic, thermal, scrying
*Truth telling
*Language transmission
*Glamour
An FAQ will likely be added down the line, but I don't think it's necessary as of yet. It'll be added in spoilers if I do. With that said, on to what you guys came here for!
Last edited:
Arc 1: Rags and Tatters 1
Torchbearer Arc 1: Rags and Tatters 1
Location: ???
Date: ???
Waking up in a new place is always bizarre. There's always a brief moment where you aren't quite sure what's going on, and then it takes you another moment to remember exactly what's going on. I've got the waking up part down part, it's just the knowing what the hell is going on part that's eluding me.
I'm lying on cold, hard stone, in a pitch-black room. No, concrete, now that I think of it. I sit up, my back aching a bit, before shakily getting to my feet. Guess I've been here awhile. That's worrying. I look around, heart starting to pound a bit faster. It's dark as fuck. I squint a little, and my vision goes- woo! That's... zoom! It's like suddenly rushing forward, and then, bam! Binoculars!
Okay, okay. Joseph, get it together, will you! My eyesight goes back to normal as my panic skyrockets, and I try my best not to hyperventilate. Okay, just chill, man. I don't even remember what I saw, that whole psychedelic (or whatever it was) thing caught me off guard!
Deep breaths. Deep breaths.
Right. I don't know where the hell I am, and I can do... that... with my vision. Or, I guess my vision can do that, might be a better descriptor. Can I do it again? That's a good question, but I'm not sure I want to at the moment. Figuring out where the hell I am is the boring, but practical option.
Warehouse, from the looks of it. All sorts of crates and stuff around. Now that my (normal) vision is adjusting to the light, I can see that there is a small amount of moonlight pouring through the windows, most of which are tinted, and the rest were, but have now been broken. Eugh. I guess I'm not in a nice warehouse.
How the hell did I even get here? I don't drink, and I don't feel hungover, or at least I don't feel anything similar to what hangovers are supposed to feel like from my knowledge of pop culture. I don't feel like I've been drugged- okay, except for the weird vision thing- but besides that, I feel about like I usually do.
I look down at myself. Glasses, but I had already figured that part out. Black t-shirt for the movie Get Out, my navy blue pajama pants, my worn camo Crocs. I briefly check… nope, no underwear. Perfect. I'm in a strange and unfamiliar place in my jammies.
I growl, and try to remember the most recent thing that happened to me. I went to bed at stupid o'clock on a school night, but that would lead me to feel like a dumbass in the morning, not waking up in some nasty-ass warehouse!
It's chillier than it was back home. As my panic dulls to a constant throb, I begin to gradually notice the cold more and more. I'm wearing clothes suited for Florida's early spring, not... wherever this is. Oh shit. Am I seriously not in Florida anymore? No, no, maybe this place just has bizarre air conditioning. In the dead of night, though? It doesn't look or smell like there's anything that needs preserving, and if it were, it's not cold enough to be a freezer.
I need to move. I take a step forward, getting my bearings back. Damn, it's dark in here. I could use a... light. "Ah! Ah!"
My body's glowing! Fuck, fuck, what the fuck?! It's this sort of brilliant golden color, there's this aura around me- "Ah! Fuck, fuck goddamn what the-"
Okay, okay, chill. Chill. More deep breaths, Joseph. That'll have to do the trick. The glow dies away, and I put my hands on my hips, catching myself.
Can I do that again? That was actually kinda cool.
I focus again. Light. I will have a light. I'm prepared for it this time, and a shaky aura reemerges around me. "That's so cool! Emperor Joseph," I mutter, remembering one of my old fanfics, Coascendancy. Is this another scenario like that? Focus... Chronicle! The area in the woods where they found that meteor thing. Transport... transport... no. Guess not. No dimensional travel for me. Just weird glowy thing, plus the LSD vision.
I giggle as I take a look at my hands. Maybe I don't have dimensional travel, but I might have some of his other abilities. We share the golden aura and the super vision, after all. "Okay... laser blast!" I stretch out my arms, extending my hands into a sort of air-five, and aim myself at a crate to my right. Destroy- no! That's someone's property! What the fuck am I thinking?
I shake my head. Get out of here. Find somewhere that isn't a sketchy warehouse to sleep in. I make my way over to a padlocked door, willing my aura away, because apparently that's something I can do. That's a problem. I'm going to need to get out. I try to open the door and... nope, it's jammed tight. I tug at it a couple of times, to no success.
Fine. Joseph Winfield, superpowered vandal. I don't even know if this will work, and it's a testament to the kind of person I am that I'm A, so calm in this situation, and B, perfectly willing to try and go for a magic power I'm not even sure that I have.
Am I dreaming? That would actually make sense. But... nope, I can see my hands clearly, and a brief test concludes that pinching my arm and lightly biting my thumb both hurt. Okiedokie. Let's try this superpower thing.
"Destroy... destroy... concussive force-" I say, forcefully, and a rush of golden light zips out from my outstretched hands, slamming into the padlock and the metal double doors, ripping through both almost casually; the doors tear off their hinges and skid loudly across the concrete sidewalk next to what I belatedly realize is a pier, before coming to a stop abruptly in the water, banging against a small fishing boat as they do so. I was thrown back by the sheer sudden force, and I barely catch myself from falling flat on my ass.
"Woah," I say dumbly, looking at my aura-coated hands. "That's... something I'm going to want to do more."
"What the fuck was that?" I hear a snappy male voice say from a short distance away. Vaguely Italian accent? Shit, no matter that, I need to hide! In a moment of panic, rather than escaping to the outside world, I duck back into the warehouse, forcefully dispelling the aura, and hiding behind a crate.
"Somethin' musta fallen," a different voice says. More of a Midwestern accent there, but with more of a drawl. Also male.
Somehow I manage not to trip over anything, and I hide behind another crate. Whew. I'm glad I didn't blow any of these things up. They would notice that.
Like they wouldn't notice the fucking door, you dumbass? the sensible side of my brain explodes at me.
"Jesus Christ, what happened to the fuckin' doors?"
The second fellow sounds equally disturbed. "Y'wanna call the boss?"
They're getting closer. Quickly. "Fuck no. He'd skin us alive. You bring your gun?"
"Think so- no. Shit."
There's a brief pause in the conversation. "You fuckin' moron," he says, quieter than before. "Hey! You in there! I don't know how the fuck you did that, but get out here before we fuck you up!"
Tempting, but no. Can I... I could use the blast to break through a side wall, but I don't know that I have that level of control over it, and they would almost certainly notice, and shoot me in the back. I probably couldn't survive that. One, I think the Italian, whispers something to the other.
So... it's dark. They probably can't see me either... and one of them is pulling out a flashlight. Fuck. I'm fucked. Kill them. Can I kill them? They're trying to kill me. No, they're pointing a gun at me. Same fucking difference. They aren't pointing a gun at me, they're pointing a gun in my general direction. Again, same fucking difference. They mentioned a boss who would skin them alive. Does that mean mobsters? Or are they the night shift? Fucking fuck this situation has escalated quickly.
What sort of night shift would mention 'fucking me up'? Okay, that settles it. I sneak a look from behind the crate. It's still dark, and the flashlight isn't even in my direction. I catch a glimpse of two white men, one with a small pistol, the other with a flashlight, looking agape in the entryway of the warehouse. I stand up quickly, both turn towards me, and I don't give the Italian time to shoot me. I flare up my golden aura, and force out a swirling blast of energy in the direction of the door, the gunmen in particular.
It... oh God.
Location: ???
Date: ???
Waking up in a new place is always bizarre. There's always a brief moment where you aren't quite sure what's going on, and then it takes you another moment to remember exactly what's going on. I've got the waking up part down part, it's just the knowing what the hell is going on part that's eluding me.
I'm lying on cold, hard stone, in a pitch-black room. No, concrete, now that I think of it. I sit up, my back aching a bit, before shakily getting to my feet. Guess I've been here awhile. That's worrying. I look around, heart starting to pound a bit faster. It's dark as fuck. I squint a little, and my vision goes- woo! That's... zoom! It's like suddenly rushing forward, and then, bam! Binoculars!
Okay, okay. Joseph, get it together, will you! My eyesight goes back to normal as my panic skyrockets, and I try my best not to hyperventilate. Okay, just chill, man. I don't even remember what I saw, that whole psychedelic (or whatever it was) thing caught me off guard!
Deep breaths. Deep breaths.
Right. I don't know where the hell I am, and I can do... that... with my vision. Or, I guess my vision can do that, might be a better descriptor. Can I do it again? That's a good question, but I'm not sure I want to at the moment. Figuring out where the hell I am is the boring, but practical option.
Warehouse, from the looks of it. All sorts of crates and stuff around. Now that my (normal) vision is adjusting to the light, I can see that there is a small amount of moonlight pouring through the windows, most of which are tinted, and the rest were, but have now been broken. Eugh. I guess I'm not in a nice warehouse.
How the hell did I even get here? I don't drink, and I don't feel hungover, or at least I don't feel anything similar to what hangovers are supposed to feel like from my knowledge of pop culture. I don't feel like I've been drugged- okay, except for the weird vision thing- but besides that, I feel about like I usually do.
I look down at myself. Glasses, but I had already figured that part out. Black t-shirt for the movie Get Out, my navy blue pajama pants, my worn camo Crocs. I briefly check… nope, no underwear. Perfect. I'm in a strange and unfamiliar place in my jammies.
I growl, and try to remember the most recent thing that happened to me. I went to bed at stupid o'clock on a school night, but that would lead me to feel like a dumbass in the morning, not waking up in some nasty-ass warehouse!
It's chillier than it was back home. As my panic dulls to a constant throb, I begin to gradually notice the cold more and more. I'm wearing clothes suited for Florida's early spring, not... wherever this is. Oh shit. Am I seriously not in Florida anymore? No, no, maybe this place just has bizarre air conditioning. In the dead of night, though? It doesn't look or smell like there's anything that needs preserving, and if it were, it's not cold enough to be a freezer.
I need to move. I take a step forward, getting my bearings back. Damn, it's dark in here. I could use a... light. "Ah! Ah!"
My body's glowing! Fuck, fuck, what the fuck?! It's this sort of brilliant golden color, there's this aura around me- "Ah! Fuck, fuck goddamn what the-"
Okay, okay, chill. Chill. More deep breaths, Joseph. That'll have to do the trick. The glow dies away, and I put my hands on my hips, catching myself.
Can I do that again? That was actually kinda cool.
I focus again. Light. I will have a light. I'm prepared for it this time, and a shaky aura reemerges around me. "That's so cool! Emperor Joseph," I mutter, remembering one of my old fanfics, Coascendancy. Is this another scenario like that? Focus... Chronicle! The area in the woods where they found that meteor thing. Transport... transport... no. Guess not. No dimensional travel for me. Just weird glowy thing, plus the LSD vision.
I giggle as I take a look at my hands. Maybe I don't have dimensional travel, but I might have some of his other abilities. We share the golden aura and the super vision, after all. "Okay... laser blast!" I stretch out my arms, extending my hands into a sort of air-five, and aim myself at a crate to my right. Destroy- no! That's someone's property! What the fuck am I thinking?
I shake my head. Get out of here. Find somewhere that isn't a sketchy warehouse to sleep in. I make my way over to a padlocked door, willing my aura away, because apparently that's something I can do. That's a problem. I'm going to need to get out. I try to open the door and... nope, it's jammed tight. I tug at it a couple of times, to no success.
Fine. Joseph Winfield, superpowered vandal. I don't even know if this will work, and it's a testament to the kind of person I am that I'm A, so calm in this situation, and B, perfectly willing to try and go for a magic power I'm not even sure that I have.
Am I dreaming? That would actually make sense. But... nope, I can see my hands clearly, and a brief test concludes that pinching my arm and lightly biting my thumb both hurt. Okiedokie. Let's try this superpower thing.
"Destroy... destroy... concussive force-" I say, forcefully, and a rush of golden light zips out from my outstretched hands, slamming into the padlock and the metal double doors, ripping through both almost casually; the doors tear off their hinges and skid loudly across the concrete sidewalk next to what I belatedly realize is a pier, before coming to a stop abruptly in the water, banging against a small fishing boat as they do so. I was thrown back by the sheer sudden force, and I barely catch myself from falling flat on my ass.
"Woah," I say dumbly, looking at my aura-coated hands. "That's... something I'm going to want to do more."
"What the fuck was that?" I hear a snappy male voice say from a short distance away. Vaguely Italian accent? Shit, no matter that, I need to hide! In a moment of panic, rather than escaping to the outside world, I duck back into the warehouse, forcefully dispelling the aura, and hiding behind a crate.
"Somethin' musta fallen," a different voice says. More of a Midwestern accent there, but with more of a drawl. Also male.
Somehow I manage not to trip over anything, and I hide behind another crate. Whew. I'm glad I didn't blow any of these things up. They would notice that.
Like they wouldn't notice the fucking door, you dumbass? the sensible side of my brain explodes at me.
"Jesus Christ, what happened to the fuckin' doors?"
The second fellow sounds equally disturbed. "Y'wanna call the boss?"
They're getting closer. Quickly. "Fuck no. He'd skin us alive. You bring your gun?"
"Think so- no. Shit."
There's a brief pause in the conversation. "You fuckin' moron," he says, quieter than before. "Hey! You in there! I don't know how the fuck you did that, but get out here before we fuck you up!"
Tempting, but no. Can I... I could use the blast to break through a side wall, but I don't know that I have that level of control over it, and they would almost certainly notice, and shoot me in the back. I probably couldn't survive that. One, I think the Italian, whispers something to the other.
So... it's dark. They probably can't see me either... and one of them is pulling out a flashlight. Fuck. I'm fucked. Kill them. Can I kill them? They're trying to kill me. No, they're pointing a gun at me. Same fucking difference. They aren't pointing a gun at me, they're pointing a gun in my general direction. Again, same fucking difference. They mentioned a boss who would skin them alive. Does that mean mobsters? Or are they the night shift? Fucking fuck this situation has escalated quickly.
What sort of night shift would mention 'fucking me up'? Okay, that settles it. I sneak a look from behind the crate. It's still dark, and the flashlight isn't even in my direction. I catch a glimpse of two white men, one with a small pistol, the other with a flashlight, looking agape in the entryway of the warehouse. I stand up quickly, both turn towards me, and I don't give the Italian time to shoot me. I flare up my golden aura, and force out a swirling blast of energy in the direction of the door, the gunmen in particular.
It... oh God.
Arc 1: Rags and Tatters 2
Torchbearer Arc 1: Rags and Tatters 2
Location: ???
Date: ???
I get a good glimpse at what my... power... does now, as a spiraling blast of energy rips towards them. The two flip towards my general direction and a shot rings out. I yelp girlishly, and dive to the floor. I don't think the bullet hit me. I don't feel anything. Adrenaline? A cacophony comes from the direction of the doors, a disturbing mixture of twisting metal and crumbling stone, combined with an undertone of... splattering. I can't see anything from the position I'm in.
I hit the floor with a noticeable thud, and with a correspondingly noticeable pain in my side. Dunno where the bullet went, but I can think about that later. I hesitate for a moment, before lifting my head. I haven't heard anything for the past few seconds, so... maybe it's safe. I reluctantly turn my head towards the exit.
It... oh God.
There's- there's nothing left of the guy with the gun. Just giblets and smeared organs across the floor. I... you can't even tell that he used to be human. I retch instantly and involuntarily, leaning forward to vomit, but nothing comes out. I exhale and inhale deeply for a few moments, trying to catch myself. "Jesus," I mutter.
Is the other guy still... from the looks of it, maybe. He's definitely not bothering anybody, half of his left side has been ripped off, and the rest of him looks absolutely mangled. There's still a torso, his right arm and right leg look twisted, his head is covered in blood, but that part of him seems mostly okay.
He's no threat. I try my best not to look at what little remains of the Italian fellow, and instead look to the one who's still… intact. God, that's a macabre way of looking at it.
Macabre? You wanna talk about macabre? You fucking killed a guy! I want to scream at myself. I refrain from doing that, and finally arrive by the limp form of the second guy. I put my fingers on his neck, feeling his pulse. He gurgles something unintelligible. There's still a pulse. I thumb through his jeans pockets, finally finding what I'm looking for.
It... that's a bizarre cell phone. It looks older than most phones you'd find today, without a touch screen, and I'm sort of surprised when a part of it falls out, or more accurately, extends out. Fine. Not that strange, I guess. I turn it on. It's 4:33 in the morning. No location or anything, and it needs a code to open.
Thankfully, there's an emergency button that doesn't need said code. 911. Call nine-one-one. I hear it ringing. "Hold on, sir," I tell him. "I'm... I'm sorry about that," I say lamely to him. His face is covered in blood. He looks middle-aged, but he could be either white or latino. Maybe mixed. I can't tell.
"This is police operator 1-0-4-2. What is your location and emergency?" the operator asks. It's a woman on the line. Sounds like she has a New York accent or something.
"Uh, hi. I don't know where I am, some sort of warehouse by the docks, I think, you'll have to trace me, but there's a man here. Severely injured. He's... uh, he's got most of his left side ripped off by something, his right side is all mangled, his face is covered in blood, uh…"
My voice trails off. The guy mutters something unintelligible again. Can he see me? No, not in this light, or with the blood in his eyes. Is he... yeah, I think the shockwave got his left eye too. God, does he have brain damage from that? He's fucking lucky he was standing a fair distance away from the gunman. I feel his pulse again. "Sir, please calm down. You don't know where you are?"
"No, uh, listen, I think his pulse is getting weaker. Warehouse by docks. I... I'm gonna go, but I'll leave the phone on so you can trace it."
"Sir, don't do-"
I put the phone down, and start running. I can faintly hear the operator for a time.
God dammit. I just killed a man. Probably two men. I make it about thirty feet away from the warehouse before I start vomiting uncontrollably on a nearby wooden post.
I'll spare you the gruesome details in that regard. I wipe my mouth off with my hands and rub the vomit off on a post. That's... probably not good to leave evidence. I think for a second, before I start to hear sirens off in the distance. I panic. I've always been afraid of police sirens, and without thinking, I blast the post into splinters.
"I gotta get out of here," I mutter to myself. I can barely see where I am. I don't want to project the light. That seems like a good way to draw attention to myself, and get myself in prison or... some Area 51 dissection table or whatever. I'm in some weird run-down city, by the docks, that's cold as fuck, I don't know where I am!
I want to be home. I will be home. I will be home!
No? No teleportation power? Okay. Energy blasts, golden aura and super vision, then. Fine. The sirens are getting louder. I notice a squeaking noise coming from my Crocs. Oh... oh God. I've stepped in blood. I practically rip them off, before throwing them in the air and disintegrating them. Not really disintegrating them. Hitting them with enough concussive force to render them into dust.
Ow. Ow. Ow. I'm running barefoot. Get to a safe place. Get to a safe place. This place... wherever the hell it is, it's seen better days. Am I in fucking Detroit or the shitty parts of New York? How? I would... I just went to bed in my dorm? How am I here?
I hiss in pain as I step on something that draws blood. A pebble, thankfully, not a rusty nail. Gah, I should have just put the Crocs in the water to rinse them off, not blow them apart. Stupid idea. Stupid.
The sirens stop. They're about a ten minutes walk behind me. I'm sure as hell not going back there, so I keep going along the shoreline. Jesus, this place is entirely dilapidated warehouses and unused shipping crates. Creepy ass looking boats, a couple of homeless people who scurry away when I draw near or are just sleeping- I want to get out of here. Can I fly? No, Joseph, probably not, and if you can, it's just going to create the very obvious glow. Experiment later, dammit!
It's about an hour later when I make it to a safe-looking alley. Safe is variable in this shithole, obviously. But it's secluded, there's a rusty metal bench to sit down on, and I'm tired as fuck, my feet are aching and bleeding, cold as hell, and I've been running for an hour. So, rest.
That metal bench is sketchy as hell, but after the night (morning, I belatedly realize) I've had, it's a goddamned godsend. I literally groan out loud in relief and pleasure as I sit down, the rusted parts of the bench scraping off against my pajamas. Sort of gross. But whatever.
I rest my head in my arms. Fuck, this has been a hell of a night.
Location: ???
Date: ???
I get a good glimpse at what my... power... does now, as a spiraling blast of energy rips towards them. The two flip towards my general direction and a shot rings out. I yelp girlishly, and dive to the floor. I don't think the bullet hit me. I don't feel anything. Adrenaline? A cacophony comes from the direction of the doors, a disturbing mixture of twisting metal and crumbling stone, combined with an undertone of... splattering. I can't see anything from the position I'm in.
I hit the floor with a noticeable thud, and with a correspondingly noticeable pain in my side. Dunno where the bullet went, but I can think about that later. I hesitate for a moment, before lifting my head. I haven't heard anything for the past few seconds, so... maybe it's safe. I reluctantly turn my head towards the exit.
It... oh God.
There's- there's nothing left of the guy with the gun. Just giblets and smeared organs across the floor. I... you can't even tell that he used to be human. I retch instantly and involuntarily, leaning forward to vomit, but nothing comes out. I exhale and inhale deeply for a few moments, trying to catch myself. "Jesus," I mutter.
Is the other guy still... from the looks of it, maybe. He's definitely not bothering anybody, half of his left side has been ripped off, and the rest of him looks absolutely mangled. There's still a torso, his right arm and right leg look twisted, his head is covered in blood, but that part of him seems mostly okay.
He's no threat. I try my best not to look at what little remains of the Italian fellow, and instead look to the one who's still… intact. God, that's a macabre way of looking at it.
Macabre? You wanna talk about macabre? You fucking killed a guy! I want to scream at myself. I refrain from doing that, and finally arrive by the limp form of the second guy. I put my fingers on his neck, feeling his pulse. He gurgles something unintelligible. There's still a pulse. I thumb through his jeans pockets, finally finding what I'm looking for.
It... that's a bizarre cell phone. It looks older than most phones you'd find today, without a touch screen, and I'm sort of surprised when a part of it falls out, or more accurately, extends out. Fine. Not that strange, I guess. I turn it on. It's 4:33 in the morning. No location or anything, and it needs a code to open.
Thankfully, there's an emergency button that doesn't need said code. 911. Call nine-one-one. I hear it ringing. "Hold on, sir," I tell him. "I'm... I'm sorry about that," I say lamely to him. His face is covered in blood. He looks middle-aged, but he could be either white or latino. Maybe mixed. I can't tell.
"This is police operator 1-0-4-2. What is your location and emergency?" the operator asks. It's a woman on the line. Sounds like she has a New York accent or something.
"Uh, hi. I don't know where I am, some sort of warehouse by the docks, I think, you'll have to trace me, but there's a man here. Severely injured. He's... uh, he's got most of his left side ripped off by something, his right side is all mangled, his face is covered in blood, uh…"
My voice trails off. The guy mutters something unintelligible again. Can he see me? No, not in this light, or with the blood in his eyes. Is he... yeah, I think the shockwave got his left eye too. God, does he have brain damage from that? He's fucking lucky he was standing a fair distance away from the gunman. I feel his pulse again. "Sir, please calm down. You don't know where you are?"
"No, uh, listen, I think his pulse is getting weaker. Warehouse by docks. I... I'm gonna go, but I'll leave the phone on so you can trace it."
"Sir, don't do-"
I put the phone down, and start running. I can faintly hear the operator for a time.
God dammit. I just killed a man. Probably two men. I make it about thirty feet away from the warehouse before I start vomiting uncontrollably on a nearby wooden post.
I'll spare you the gruesome details in that regard. I wipe my mouth off with my hands and rub the vomit off on a post. That's... probably not good to leave evidence. I think for a second, before I start to hear sirens off in the distance. I panic. I've always been afraid of police sirens, and without thinking, I blast the post into splinters.
"I gotta get out of here," I mutter to myself. I can barely see where I am. I don't want to project the light. That seems like a good way to draw attention to myself, and get myself in prison or... some Area 51 dissection table or whatever. I'm in some weird run-down city, by the docks, that's cold as fuck, I don't know where I am!
I want to be home. I will be home. I will be home!
No? No teleportation power? Okay. Energy blasts, golden aura and super vision, then. Fine. The sirens are getting louder. I notice a squeaking noise coming from my Crocs. Oh... oh God. I've stepped in blood. I practically rip them off, before throwing them in the air and disintegrating them. Not really disintegrating them. Hitting them with enough concussive force to render them into dust.
Ow. Ow. Ow. I'm running barefoot. Get to a safe place. Get to a safe place. This place... wherever the hell it is, it's seen better days. Am I in fucking Detroit or the shitty parts of New York? How? I would... I just went to bed in my dorm? How am I here?
I hiss in pain as I step on something that draws blood. A pebble, thankfully, not a rusty nail. Gah, I should have just put the Crocs in the water to rinse them off, not blow them apart. Stupid idea. Stupid.
The sirens stop. They're about a ten minutes walk behind me. I'm sure as hell not going back there, so I keep going along the shoreline. Jesus, this place is entirely dilapidated warehouses and unused shipping crates. Creepy ass looking boats, a couple of homeless people who scurry away when I draw near or are just sleeping- I want to get out of here. Can I fly? No, Joseph, probably not, and if you can, it's just going to create the very obvious glow. Experiment later, dammit!
It's about an hour later when I make it to a safe-looking alley. Safe is variable in this shithole, obviously. But it's secluded, there's a rusty metal bench to sit down on, and I'm tired as fuck, my feet are aching and bleeding, cold as hell, and I've been running for an hour. So, rest.
That metal bench is sketchy as hell, but after the night (morning, I belatedly realize) I've had, it's a goddamned godsend. I literally groan out loud in relief and pleasure as I sit down, the rusted parts of the bench scraping off against my pajamas. Sort of gross. But whatever.
I rest my head in my arms. Fuck, this has been a hell of a night.
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Arc 1: Rags and Tatters 3
Torchbearer Arc 1: Rags and Tatters 3
Location: ???
Date: ???
It's getting bright out, so I finally lift my numb, shivering body off of the bench. I figured out I could create heat for myself with my powers, but I didn't want to do too much to draw attention from unsavory individuals (like guys who splatter people with their superpowers, the nasty side of me thinks), so I used it sparingly. Stupid idea, in hindsight. I'll probably catch a cold, and I can already catch myself sniffling.
I spent the remnants of the night practicing with my powers. I didn't do anything too explosive, or anything that triggered my aura. Just the vision powers. I can zoom in, I can sense heat, see through walls, it's honestly goddamn incredible.
It's a testament to how exhausted and aching I am that I'm not completely awestruck by those facts. I spent the past hour using my x-ray vision to look around the immediate area, and while in some cases I sort of regret doing that, it gave me something to do, and I discovered a thrift store that'll be useful for getting clothes. That is, if I have money in my pajama pants... and of course I don't.
God. I've spent the past few hours dicking around trying to pass the time until daybreak. I run my hands over my face, leaning against the brick walls of the alley for initial support. Thankfully the alley road is paved, albeit shoddily, so I'm not wandering around in mud.
I killed a guy. Two guys, maybe. And I ran away. The thought hits me like a sledgehammer. And I…I don't even think I feel that bad about it. That's…god. I knew I didn't really think like normal people. But... that's borderline psychotic or something. Shock? Who the hell knows.
I pause in the middle of walking. Yeah, I killed two people. That's not something I can escape. Well, legally, I can probably escape it. Just the memory of it, that's not something I should let myself forget. It was self-defense, yeah. I can justify it. It was in the midst of panic, when my life was being threatened. I gotta remember that while I didn't do the right thing, I didn't really do the wrong thing either.
Yeah. I'm probably not going to feel good about it, but... I can't let it consume me. I step out of the alley. There are quite a few people milling about. It's the dawn of a new day, after all. And in... this city, the people presumably have work to go to. Work. Today's a school day. Fuck, I'm going to miss philosophy. I hope he's not doing an iClicker quiz today. It would suck to miss one of those. I've already missed a few.
I guess focusing on stuff as banal as that will keep me sane in an environment like this. I sigh, finally stepping out of the alley. A barefoot teenager in vomit-stained pajamas with blood covering his feet draws the attention of a couple of people, but city people tend to ignore everyone else and just mind their own business. I make my way down the block to the thrift store. And... it's closed until eight.
Goddammit.
I don't know how long I waited, but a freckled teenager about my age shows up an eternity later and unlocks the door. I'm sitting cross-legged on the ground by the store, mostly twiddling my thumbs, and I actually don't notice him until he unlocks the door. I hastily stand up, trying my best to smile.
He looks at me, then down at my feet. "Long night?" he asks, his voice nasally and vaguely condescending.
I pause for a moment, contemplating what exactly to say. "... yeah. You could say that."
"I've been there. Come on in," he says, drawing out the last phrase. He pushes the key in, and opens the door for me. It's a Goodwill, basically. He gestures for me to enter before him, and I do so. Clothes of all sorts hung on racks with glass tops atop them, upon which miscellaneous pieces of junk are placed. I note a variety of commemorative glasses, cups, and snowglobes by the entrance. Philadelphia, Minneapolis, Keystone- I'm sorry, what?
The clerk opens the swing door that leads into the storefront counter with another key, before pulling out his phone. He presses something on the side, and an object the size of an iPhone fragments into three parts sort of like a brochure, before reforming into an object the size of a tablet. I do a double-take at the sight. Thankfully for what's left of my dignity, he doesn't notice, and absent-mindedly, he says, "Men's clothes are by the bathroom."
Bathroom. That would have been nice to have about a few hours ago. I had to pee on a wall like a dog. "Thanks," I say, making my way over. It's accessible through a narrow hallway built into the side of the store... and it's right next to the stockroom in the back.
I make sure he's fully engrossed with his phone/tablet thing. After confirming, I conjure up my vision powers. Look in the back storeroom... employees only door by the bathroom where I am, and yes, a dozen or so laundry bags filled with clothes. Exit door in the back... and no, it's not an emergency exit. I feel guilty for this, but... there aren't any other options that I can think of that don't involve really awkward questions.
First of all, I need new clothes. Second of all, find out where I am. Third, get home and get safe. I place my hands on the door to the men's room before looking to the right towards the storeroom door. I use my x-ray vision to look through... yep, he's engrossed in his phone. I reach over to the doorknob, and... it's locked. Shit. Come on, come on.
Do I have telekinesis? Anything's possible, right? I can't just blow down the door. That guy was being generous, or at least as generous as could be expected. I'm going to take one or two sets of clothes. That's it. I gotta try it, don't I?
Okay... microscopic vision. Zoom in... x-ray vision now... shit. A lotta complex mechanical stuff. I don't know what do with that interior that won't slag it. Can I even use telekinesis? Well, I can do energy blasts and super vision, two entirely unrelated powers, so, why not? I... okay, focus on the knob... pull it to the side ever so slightly... pull it to the side ever so slightly- it twists! Ever so slightly.
Telekinesis! I grin widely, despite myself. This is so cool! And it's way easier than it should be! That's actually something that should concern me, now that I think of it. Something to think of when I'm not committing theft.
So now, x-ray vision on the other side... and yes, there is a mechanism on the other side of the door that will unlock it. I use telekinesis to grip it, and give it a little nudge. Getting the grip right is something that takes a minute or so, but eventually, it works. I rush into the back room, quietly closing the door behind me, and rummage into a clothing cart until I find a shirt.
One cart is entirely full of shirts with the Superman symbol on them, as well as of other superheroes to a lesser extent. I grab an XL shirt, and dash over to another pile, a stack of jeans and other pants. It takes me a while, but I find a 38x36. Close enough, I guess. Bit large, but nothing too huge. No luck on underwear, but I don't think I would want thrift store underwear anyway.
I find a pair of sandals that are about my size, and finally, a collection of plastic bags hastily tossed in a corner by one of the building's exit doors. I shove the shirt, pants and sandal into a plastic bag, and open the emergency exit, dropping the bag by the exit door behind a trash can.
I re enter the store, using my x-ray vision to check on the clerk (should have done that before exiting the building, I belatedly realize), and he's still on his phone. Couple of people in the store now. I check again, before closing the stockroom door behind me and telekinetically locking it. I return to the store proper, and smile apologetically at the clerk.
"You spent a while in there."
"Yeah. Uh, don't go in there for a while."
He winces. "Yikes."
"Yeah. Hey, uh, I realized I don't have money in these pants, so I'm heading out. Thanks for the help, though."
He nods, returning to his phone. He's... playing some sort of game. "You have a good one."
"You too."
I head out, and retrieve the plastic bag from the alley, hastily putting on the sandals. They fit a little tight, but it works for now. Now to just find a public restroom to change in.
Location: ???
Date: ???
It's getting bright out, so I finally lift my numb, shivering body off of the bench. I figured out I could create heat for myself with my powers, but I didn't want to do too much to draw attention from unsavory individuals (like guys who splatter people with their superpowers, the nasty side of me thinks), so I used it sparingly. Stupid idea, in hindsight. I'll probably catch a cold, and I can already catch myself sniffling.
I spent the remnants of the night practicing with my powers. I didn't do anything too explosive, or anything that triggered my aura. Just the vision powers. I can zoom in, I can sense heat, see through walls, it's honestly goddamn incredible.
It's a testament to how exhausted and aching I am that I'm not completely awestruck by those facts. I spent the past hour using my x-ray vision to look around the immediate area, and while in some cases I sort of regret doing that, it gave me something to do, and I discovered a thrift store that'll be useful for getting clothes. That is, if I have money in my pajama pants... and of course I don't.
God. I've spent the past few hours dicking around trying to pass the time until daybreak. I run my hands over my face, leaning against the brick walls of the alley for initial support. Thankfully the alley road is paved, albeit shoddily, so I'm not wandering around in mud.
I killed a guy. Two guys, maybe. And I ran away. The thought hits me like a sledgehammer. And I…I don't even think I feel that bad about it. That's…god. I knew I didn't really think like normal people. But... that's borderline psychotic or something. Shock? Who the hell knows.
I pause in the middle of walking. Yeah, I killed two people. That's not something I can escape. Well, legally, I can probably escape it. Just the memory of it, that's not something I should let myself forget. It was self-defense, yeah. I can justify it. It was in the midst of panic, when my life was being threatened. I gotta remember that while I didn't do the right thing, I didn't really do the wrong thing either.
Yeah. I'm probably not going to feel good about it, but... I can't let it consume me. I step out of the alley. There are quite a few people milling about. It's the dawn of a new day, after all. And in... this city, the people presumably have work to go to. Work. Today's a school day. Fuck, I'm going to miss philosophy. I hope he's not doing an iClicker quiz today. It would suck to miss one of those. I've already missed a few.
I guess focusing on stuff as banal as that will keep me sane in an environment like this. I sigh, finally stepping out of the alley. A barefoot teenager in vomit-stained pajamas with blood covering his feet draws the attention of a couple of people, but city people tend to ignore everyone else and just mind their own business. I make my way down the block to the thrift store. And... it's closed until eight.
Goddammit.
I don't know how long I waited, but a freckled teenager about my age shows up an eternity later and unlocks the door. I'm sitting cross-legged on the ground by the store, mostly twiddling my thumbs, and I actually don't notice him until he unlocks the door. I hastily stand up, trying my best to smile.
He looks at me, then down at my feet. "Long night?" he asks, his voice nasally and vaguely condescending.
I pause for a moment, contemplating what exactly to say. "... yeah. You could say that."
"I've been there. Come on in," he says, drawing out the last phrase. He pushes the key in, and opens the door for me. It's a Goodwill, basically. He gestures for me to enter before him, and I do so. Clothes of all sorts hung on racks with glass tops atop them, upon which miscellaneous pieces of junk are placed. I note a variety of commemorative glasses, cups, and snowglobes by the entrance. Philadelphia, Minneapolis, Keystone- I'm sorry, what?
The clerk opens the swing door that leads into the storefront counter with another key, before pulling out his phone. He presses something on the side, and an object the size of an iPhone fragments into three parts sort of like a brochure, before reforming into an object the size of a tablet. I do a double-take at the sight. Thankfully for what's left of my dignity, he doesn't notice, and absent-mindedly, he says, "Men's clothes are by the bathroom."
Bathroom. That would have been nice to have about a few hours ago. I had to pee on a wall like a dog. "Thanks," I say, making my way over. It's accessible through a narrow hallway built into the side of the store... and it's right next to the stockroom in the back.
I make sure he's fully engrossed with his phone/tablet thing. After confirming, I conjure up my vision powers. Look in the back storeroom... employees only door by the bathroom where I am, and yes, a dozen or so laundry bags filled with clothes. Exit door in the back... and no, it's not an emergency exit. I feel guilty for this, but... there aren't any other options that I can think of that don't involve really awkward questions.
First of all, I need new clothes. Second of all, find out where I am. Third, get home and get safe. I place my hands on the door to the men's room before looking to the right towards the storeroom door. I use my x-ray vision to look through... yep, he's engrossed in his phone. I reach over to the doorknob, and... it's locked. Shit. Come on, come on.
Do I have telekinesis? Anything's possible, right? I can't just blow down the door. That guy was being generous, or at least as generous as could be expected. I'm going to take one or two sets of clothes. That's it. I gotta try it, don't I?
Okay... microscopic vision. Zoom in... x-ray vision now... shit. A lotta complex mechanical stuff. I don't know what do with that interior that won't slag it. Can I even use telekinesis? Well, I can do energy blasts and super vision, two entirely unrelated powers, so, why not? I... okay, focus on the knob... pull it to the side ever so slightly... pull it to the side ever so slightly- it twists! Ever so slightly.
Telekinesis! I grin widely, despite myself. This is so cool! And it's way easier than it should be! That's actually something that should concern me, now that I think of it. Something to think of when I'm not committing theft.
So now, x-ray vision on the other side... and yes, there is a mechanism on the other side of the door that will unlock it. I use telekinesis to grip it, and give it a little nudge. Getting the grip right is something that takes a minute or so, but eventually, it works. I rush into the back room, quietly closing the door behind me, and rummage into a clothing cart until I find a shirt.
One cart is entirely full of shirts with the Superman symbol on them, as well as of other superheroes to a lesser extent. I grab an XL shirt, and dash over to another pile, a stack of jeans and other pants. It takes me a while, but I find a 38x36. Close enough, I guess. Bit large, but nothing too huge. No luck on underwear, but I don't think I would want thrift store underwear anyway.
I find a pair of sandals that are about my size, and finally, a collection of plastic bags hastily tossed in a corner by one of the building's exit doors. I shove the shirt, pants and sandal into a plastic bag, and open the emergency exit, dropping the bag by the exit door behind a trash can.
I re enter the store, using my x-ray vision to check on the clerk (should have done that before exiting the building, I belatedly realize), and he's still on his phone. Couple of people in the store now. I check again, before closing the stockroom door behind me and telekinetically locking it. I return to the store proper, and smile apologetically at the clerk.
"You spent a while in there."
"Yeah. Uh, don't go in there for a while."
He winces. "Yikes."
"Yeah. Hey, uh, I realized I don't have money in these pants, so I'm heading out. Thanks for the help, though."
He nods, returning to his phone. He's... playing some sort of game. "You have a good one."
"You too."
I head out, and retrieve the plastic bag from the alley, hastily putting on the sandals. They fit a little tight, but it works for now. Now to just find a public restroom to change in.
Arc 1: Rags and Tatters 4
Torchbearer Arc 1: Rags and Tatters 4
Location: ???
Date: ???
In hindsight, I should have asked the clerk what exactly this city is. Might have been helpful. I also should have taken a jacket. Fuck, it's cold. It's almost freezing, and I look like a total dumbass wandering the streets in a t-shirt and jeans. I make my way over to a man standing in a newspaper stand, a bald white man, probably of middle age or thereabouts.
"Hey," I say to him, looking around for a second, wishing I could use my powers (that is never going to stop sounding bizarre) to warm myself up. I must look ridiculous, carrying a bag of clothes around with me. Actually, I should probably drop these.
"Hey," he says back, in a very Jersey accent. "Why the fuck aren't you wearing a jacket? It's thirty fuckin' degrees out!"
"I noticed," I reply.
He shakes his head. "Jesus. You gotta be kiddin' me. You homeless or something?"
The question catches me off guard, but… "Yeah. I... guess I am. Hey, um, this is a weird question, but... do you know what city I'm in?"
He stares at me, eyes boggled. "Gotham. You're in Gotham City, kid. Ah... two hours from Philly? Hour and a half to New York?"
I... what? "Did you just say Gotham City? Where Batman lives?"
"Are you fucking high?" he demands of me. Another person walks up to the stand, and he shakes his head, turning to them, basically dismissing me. "How ya doin', Rob?"
"Doin' just fine," the other says. I drown out the rest of their conversation, focusing instead on the newspaper. The Gotham Gazette. My hands find their way down to lifting it up.
'Suarez/Bedi introduce sanctions against China, announce that Taiwan's sovereignty will be defended by PAITO' 'Comm'r Gordon on recent mob arrests, Bat involvement suspected' 'Michaels cocaine scandal winding down' 'Queen Bee orders execution of 37 accused dissidents' 'Construction of Atlantean embassy in Metropolis finished'
Holy shit. I'm in the DC Universe. I flip through the paper- dammit, articles on local news. "Hey, druggie, this isn't a goddam library. You gotta pay for that," he snaps, snatching it out of my hands. "Jesus."
"Sorry," I reply. "You know where I can find the library?"
He shakes his head in exasperation. "See what I gotta deal with, Robbie? Kid, if it'll get you outta here, I'll tell ya. In that direction-" he points to the area behind me, "-nineteen blocks down, two to the right. The streets are numbered. Get outta here."
I don't hesitate to follow his instructions, no matter how rude, the sweet, inviting release of heating beckoning. I duck into an alley to use my vision powers (I checked in the bathroom mirror, they glow when I do that), having not used them on such a large range before, and find that he was roughly right. It was eighteen blocks down, by my count. Innocent mistake, given how huge the building is.
There are a lot of stairs to walk up to get into the library, a massive building constructed in vaguely Greek-ish style. The paint job is kept fairly uniform throughout, and while I notice that most of the buildings in this city (Gotham City? Really?!) are a drab grayish shell of their former selves, the Gotham Public Library (the name helpfully established by dozens of signs around the premises and an enormous banner draped from the seventh floor windows) is a bombastic shade of white.
Civilians (Gothamites, I suppose) mill to and fro, down the stairs and sidewalks here and there, and I probably look like a tourist gawking at the library. Fuck, it's cold. I'm going in. I give a hurried apology after I bump into a man in a Griffins jersey, which I guess is a local sports team? Or it could be from any of the cities in the DC fucking universe, a voice in my head reminds me.
Jesus.
I drop my plastic baggie of clothes off behind a set of garbage cans, before I enter through the sliding doors, a row of receptionists' desks greeting me. The rush of heat when I open the doors is most certainly welcome. I get an odd look or two from some people in the room, but most at the desks are concentrating on their own work, and I do my best to make it look like I have a purpose, strolling confidently towards what looks like an area with a lot of books.
I see an older woman with a Flash t-shirt pass by me, flipping through some strange tablet-y thing. It looks sort of like if you made an iPad out of a frisbee- oh, she presses a button on the side, and it retracts into a circle the size of a drink coaster. This is so friggin' surreal. She notices me staring, and hurriedly shoves it into her purse, not taking her eyes off of me as she speeds off.
God. I must really look like hell. I tried to make myself look better in the public bathroom, that shithole with two out of five working sinks and cracked mirrors, but apparently not to much success. I guess washing my face and doing something with my bedhead wasn't that successful.
I make my way over to the information desks, one of which is open. There are five or six, and of course the only one open is operated by a pretty redhead. Who I'd have to talk to find the computers. Nah. I think I'd rather stumble around and find them on my own.
I find a series of rows containing fifty or sixty computers in total a short walk behind the information desks. They're stored in a glass room of sorts, and they… … look sort of like desktops, but there aren't any mice. Looks like there's a touchpad of sorts on the keyboard… no elongated space bar like on computers back home. Those rolling chairs they use in offices line the room, in varying shades of disrepair.
There's a bored-looking library employee standing by the door to the room. He's a tired, greasy-looking fellow, and he's probably going to be much easier to talk to than the gorgeous redhead. His nametag says Carl. "Um, hi," I say, walking up to him.
"Dude, aren't you cold in that outfit?" he asks, staring at me, the dumbass in a t-shirt, jeans and sandal in this fucking weather.
"... yeah. I am. But, ah, I just wanted to use the computers."
He looks me over, obviously suspicious. He purses his lips. "What for?"
"Research, mostly."
He folds his arms. "What kind of research."
Oh jeez. One of these kinds of people. "The state of the world. Magic. Superheroes. Aliens. Whatever catches my fancy, I guess."
"What do you need to do that for?"
I'm not very good with patience. Try as I might, I can't stop the scowl from developing on my face. "Intellectual curiosity," I force out, trying not to be rude.
He looks inside. Early morning, so it's not too crowded. "Guessing you don't have a library card."
"Not a local," I reply.
My buddy Carl runs a hand through his greasy hair, before reaching over and opening the glass door. "Use computer thirty-nine. It's on the end of the third row. You've gotta guest account, it lasts for an hour. No more than that. At ten thirty, we got a class coming in, and we've gotta clear it out."
He gestures at a rather massive clock attached to the side of the wall. The ceilings in this place are rather high, the first floor alone being at least twenty feet. The clock alone is probably the size of me, and I'm 5'11, last I checked.
"It's nine thirty. Chop chop."
I nod, and walk through, taking a seat in my assigned spot. It... I sort of know how to use this? It's designed differently from desktops on my... homeworld, I guess I'm gonna call it, but I can sort of grasp how to use it. It's already turned on, so I don't have to jump through that set of hoops.
The links to the various programs are on the bottom of the computer screen. I tenderly move my finger on the touchpad, and the cursor moves in response. Okay... let's open the Internet browser.
No... that's the Word equivalent. Okay... that one works. The blue/green yin-yang symbol, the icon glowing a bit. Giggledome, a local internet browser. Fine. Whatever. I guess Firefox is a bit of a silly name, too.
It opens to the home page and... Giggle. The search engine is called Giggle. Ha ha. I type something in…'america'. Let's look up 'america'.
The United States of America (U.S.A.), colloquially known as the United States, the U.S., or America-
Okay, that's enough. DigiPedia, the Wikipedia equivalent. BBC still exists, online versions of the Daily Planet, Gotham Gazette, New York Times, Toronto Star. I'm going to assume that the BBC and those other papers are all still trustworthy sources. Let's see what exactly this terrifying universe has in store for me.
Author's Note: This will be the last update for today. I hope to have 1.5 up on Wedneday.
Location: ???
Date: ???
In hindsight, I should have asked the clerk what exactly this city is. Might have been helpful. I also should have taken a jacket. Fuck, it's cold. It's almost freezing, and I look like a total dumbass wandering the streets in a t-shirt and jeans. I make my way over to a man standing in a newspaper stand, a bald white man, probably of middle age or thereabouts.
"Hey," I say to him, looking around for a second, wishing I could use my powers (that is never going to stop sounding bizarre) to warm myself up. I must look ridiculous, carrying a bag of clothes around with me. Actually, I should probably drop these.
"Hey," he says back, in a very Jersey accent. "Why the fuck aren't you wearing a jacket? It's thirty fuckin' degrees out!"
"I noticed," I reply.
He shakes his head. "Jesus. You gotta be kiddin' me. You homeless or something?"
The question catches me off guard, but… "Yeah. I... guess I am. Hey, um, this is a weird question, but... do you know what city I'm in?"
He stares at me, eyes boggled. "Gotham. You're in Gotham City, kid. Ah... two hours from Philly? Hour and a half to New York?"
I... what? "Did you just say Gotham City? Where Batman lives?"
"Are you fucking high?" he demands of me. Another person walks up to the stand, and he shakes his head, turning to them, basically dismissing me. "How ya doin', Rob?"
"Doin' just fine," the other says. I drown out the rest of their conversation, focusing instead on the newspaper. The Gotham Gazette. My hands find their way down to lifting it up.
'Suarez/Bedi introduce sanctions against China, announce that Taiwan's sovereignty will be defended by PAITO' 'Comm'r Gordon on recent mob arrests, Bat involvement suspected' 'Michaels cocaine scandal winding down' 'Queen Bee orders execution of 37 accused dissidents' 'Construction of Atlantean embassy in Metropolis finished'
Holy shit. I'm in the DC Universe. I flip through the paper- dammit, articles on local news. "Hey, druggie, this isn't a goddam library. You gotta pay for that," he snaps, snatching it out of my hands. "Jesus."
"Sorry," I reply. "You know where I can find the library?"
He shakes his head in exasperation. "See what I gotta deal with, Robbie? Kid, if it'll get you outta here, I'll tell ya. In that direction-" he points to the area behind me, "-nineteen blocks down, two to the right. The streets are numbered. Get outta here."
I don't hesitate to follow his instructions, no matter how rude, the sweet, inviting release of heating beckoning. I duck into an alley to use my vision powers (I checked in the bathroom mirror, they glow when I do that), having not used them on such a large range before, and find that he was roughly right. It was eighteen blocks down, by my count. Innocent mistake, given how huge the building is.
There are a lot of stairs to walk up to get into the library, a massive building constructed in vaguely Greek-ish style. The paint job is kept fairly uniform throughout, and while I notice that most of the buildings in this city (Gotham City? Really?!) are a drab grayish shell of their former selves, the Gotham Public Library (the name helpfully established by dozens of signs around the premises and an enormous banner draped from the seventh floor windows) is a bombastic shade of white.
Civilians (Gothamites, I suppose) mill to and fro, down the stairs and sidewalks here and there, and I probably look like a tourist gawking at the library. Fuck, it's cold. I'm going in. I give a hurried apology after I bump into a man in a Griffins jersey, which I guess is a local sports team? Or it could be from any of the cities in the DC fucking universe, a voice in my head reminds me.
Jesus.
I drop my plastic baggie of clothes off behind a set of garbage cans, before I enter through the sliding doors, a row of receptionists' desks greeting me. The rush of heat when I open the doors is most certainly welcome. I get an odd look or two from some people in the room, but most at the desks are concentrating on their own work, and I do my best to make it look like I have a purpose, strolling confidently towards what looks like an area with a lot of books.
I see an older woman with a Flash t-shirt pass by me, flipping through some strange tablet-y thing. It looks sort of like if you made an iPad out of a frisbee- oh, she presses a button on the side, and it retracts into a circle the size of a drink coaster. This is so friggin' surreal. She notices me staring, and hurriedly shoves it into her purse, not taking her eyes off of me as she speeds off.
God. I must really look like hell. I tried to make myself look better in the public bathroom, that shithole with two out of five working sinks and cracked mirrors, but apparently not to much success. I guess washing my face and doing something with my bedhead wasn't that successful.
I make my way over to the information desks, one of which is open. There are five or six, and of course the only one open is operated by a pretty redhead. Who I'd have to talk to find the computers. Nah. I think I'd rather stumble around and find them on my own.
I find a series of rows containing fifty or sixty computers in total a short walk behind the information desks. They're stored in a glass room of sorts, and they… … look sort of like desktops, but there aren't any mice. Looks like there's a touchpad of sorts on the keyboard… no elongated space bar like on computers back home. Those rolling chairs they use in offices line the room, in varying shades of disrepair.
There's a bored-looking library employee standing by the door to the room. He's a tired, greasy-looking fellow, and he's probably going to be much easier to talk to than the gorgeous redhead. His nametag says Carl. "Um, hi," I say, walking up to him.
"Dude, aren't you cold in that outfit?" he asks, staring at me, the dumbass in a t-shirt, jeans and sandal in this fucking weather.
"... yeah. I am. But, ah, I just wanted to use the computers."
He looks me over, obviously suspicious. He purses his lips. "What for?"
"Research, mostly."
He folds his arms. "What kind of research."
Oh jeez. One of these kinds of people. "The state of the world. Magic. Superheroes. Aliens. Whatever catches my fancy, I guess."
"What do you need to do that for?"
I'm not very good with patience. Try as I might, I can't stop the scowl from developing on my face. "Intellectual curiosity," I force out, trying not to be rude.
He looks inside. Early morning, so it's not too crowded. "Guessing you don't have a library card."
"Not a local," I reply.
My buddy Carl runs a hand through his greasy hair, before reaching over and opening the glass door. "Use computer thirty-nine. It's on the end of the third row. You've gotta guest account, it lasts for an hour. No more than that. At ten thirty, we got a class coming in, and we've gotta clear it out."
He gestures at a rather massive clock attached to the side of the wall. The ceilings in this place are rather high, the first floor alone being at least twenty feet. The clock alone is probably the size of me, and I'm 5'11, last I checked.
"It's nine thirty. Chop chop."
I nod, and walk through, taking a seat in my assigned spot. It... I sort of know how to use this? It's designed differently from desktops on my... homeworld, I guess I'm gonna call it, but I can sort of grasp how to use it. It's already turned on, so I don't have to jump through that set of hoops.
The links to the various programs are on the bottom of the computer screen. I tenderly move my finger on the touchpad, and the cursor moves in response. Okay... let's open the Internet browser.
No... that's the Word equivalent. Okay... that one works. The blue/green yin-yang symbol, the icon glowing a bit. Giggledome, a local internet browser. Fine. Whatever. I guess Firefox is a bit of a silly name, too.
It opens to the home page and... Giggle. The search engine is called Giggle. Ha ha. I type something in…'america'. Let's look up 'america'.
The United States of America (U.S.A.), colloquially known as the United States, the U.S., or America-
Okay, that's enough. DigiPedia, the Wikipedia equivalent. BBC still exists, online versions of the Daily Planet, Gotham Gazette, New York Times, Toronto Star. I'm going to assume that the BBC and those other papers are all still trustworthy sources. Let's see what exactly this terrifying universe has in store for me.
Author's Note: This will be the last update for today. I hope to have 1.5 up on Wedneday.
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Arc 1: Rags and Tatters 5
Torchbearer Arc 1: Rags and Tatters 5
Location: Gotham City, New Jersey, United States of America, Earth, Sol, Sector 2814, Milky Way Galaxy, Universe-1 (DC-Prime)
Date: Tuesday, March 12, 2002
Right. So Gotham City is in New Jersey, like I thought. Mayor is a fella named Hamilton Hill, who I vaguely remember from the comics, but only as a background character. Population of 3.2 million, fourth in the country after New York, Metropolis, and Los Angeles. America as a whole has a population of around four hundred million, far, far more than on my homeworld. World population is already seven billion, which, considering that the date is 2002 (strangely, that's almost more surreal than the dimensional travel aspect. How is the Internet this developed in 2002?), is astonishing.
The American President is a younger man (D-FL), a former Senator named Martin Emanuel Suarez, and the veep is an older woman named Simone Laig (D-OR). They ran on a platform of expanding the 'spheres of protection', a term that, in this universe, seems to be defined as the universal healthcare system, the surveillance state, and the military.
All in all, this America seems much more liberal than our own, despite the worrying implications of the 'surveillance state'. Gay marriage was legalized nationwide in 1997, for instance, and UHC has been a thing since the seventies. Guessing it's because of all the extra cities.
But that's academic, and I can focus on that when I don't have a library employee giving me suspicious looks every thirty seconds. I've already spent fifteen minutes figuring out these computers and looking up basic facts on the world. Superheroes.
Whew. That's a fair bit of info. Okay, I'm going to start with the Justice League. Let's see... founded after a fight with a Star Conqueror- oh shit. I remember reading R.E.B.E.L.s., the newer one from the 2000s, Starro is fucking dangerous. I think the ones that usually visited Earth were lesser offshoots. Fuck, if I ever meet the Justice League, I better warn them about that guy. He was supposed to have conquered/subsumed eight galaxies.
Think about that later. There's a ton of shit they need to know about. Mageddon, the Beast and the Shadow Dog, lots and lots more. The League presently has... one, two- eight members. Superman, Wonder Woman, Flash, Green Lantern, Aquaman, Martian Manhunter, Zauriel, and Aztek.
That's the Morrison line-up, from the '90s, isn't it? No, Aquaman still has his hand, the Lantern is Stewart, Flash has those eye-holes so it's probably Barry, not Wally or Jay... plenty of differences from what canon was. Canon? This is a real world. Why the fuck am I blathering on about canon?
I rub my hands against my forehead. Contact information... no, not for the public. Apparently the heads of the EU, US, Russia, and India have direct lines with the League through an organization called PAITO... what's PAITO? With twenty minutes left, I continue my WikiWalk- ah, I should say, DigiWalk.
The Pacific/Atlantic/Indian Treaty Organization. Founded in the 1960s, officially as a bulwark against communist aggression, grew to include Russia after the Soviet Union fell. That's a pretty heavy supranational union. India, America, Europe (looks like the EU is significantly more united than ours, but I doubt a quick DigiPedia glance is enough to tell me much), Brazil, Russia, South Africa, the CANZ countries… and the list goes on. It's almost its own miniature UN.
Right. This is neat, but... magic? I think my powers are magic. They were in the fanfic I wrote, and in the books I based them off of. From what I can tell, these abilities aren't that different. I look down at my hand, almost summoning a glow, but I resist the urge. Public space, remember?
Magic turns up a variety of results. Doctor Fate, the Spectre, Zauriel, Giovanni Zatara (who went missing ages ago, apparently), Wonder Woman, Atlantis, Captain Marvel, the list goes on. Not really any methods to seek help with magic. It's not like Dr. Fate hands out business cards, I guess.
Fine. I'm running low on time anyway. Seven minutes left, by my count. I need a place to stay. I have no money, and no connections. I'm in a strange universe, on the verge of panic- okay, dude. Just chill. Just chill. Who in Gotham City can I contact? Gah, I shouldn't have wasted time looking up politics!
Okay, fine. Fine. Batman's the obvious first choice, but he's a paranoid, neurotic lunatic, and he won't react kindly to me showing up in his base unannounced. 'Bruce Wayne' contact information? His publicist has a Twitter (no, a Twunter on this world) and an e-mail, but it's business only, and somehow I doubt Batman will want me outing him like that to his publicist.
He's out. Anyone in the GCPD? Renee Montoya? Crispus Allen? No, I've nothing to offer them. There's Jim Corrigan, but everyone knew he was corrupt, they just didn't have proof, and I don't remember anything from Gotham Central that would help, nor am I sure that it would even apply in this universe. The obvious choice left is Rory Regan.
With five minutes left on the clock, I look up 'rags and tatters antique shop'. I get an address, and I spend a frustrating amount of time on maps software trying to figure out where exactly it is. Looks like... the other side of the city. God damn it. I close out the windows and tabs, and I exit the office chair.
Carl gives me an annoyed look as I leave, and as such, I leave the building quickly. I run my hand through my hair, more than a little annoyed, anxious and tired. I've a long walk ahead of me.
Author's Notes: Against my better judgment, I've decided to cancel the hiatus for now. I may resume it at a later time, but I'll resume posting updates for now. Sorry for the short update, but I didn't want to hit you guys with too much information, hence this update being split from 1.4.
Location: Gotham City, New Jersey, United States of America, Earth, Sol, Sector 2814, Milky Way Galaxy, Universe-1 (DC-Prime)
Date: Tuesday, March 12, 2002
Right. So Gotham City is in New Jersey, like I thought. Mayor is a fella named Hamilton Hill, who I vaguely remember from the comics, but only as a background character. Population of 3.2 million, fourth in the country after New York, Metropolis, and Los Angeles. America as a whole has a population of around four hundred million, far, far more than on my homeworld. World population is already seven billion, which, considering that the date is 2002 (strangely, that's almost more surreal than the dimensional travel aspect. How is the Internet this developed in 2002?), is astonishing.
The American President is a younger man (D-FL), a former Senator named Martin Emanuel Suarez, and the veep is an older woman named Simone Laig (D-OR). They ran on a platform of expanding the 'spheres of protection', a term that, in this universe, seems to be defined as the universal healthcare system, the surveillance state, and the military.
All in all, this America seems much more liberal than our own, despite the worrying implications of the 'surveillance state'. Gay marriage was legalized nationwide in 1997, for instance, and UHC has been a thing since the seventies. Guessing it's because of all the extra cities.
But that's academic, and I can focus on that when I don't have a library employee giving me suspicious looks every thirty seconds. I've already spent fifteen minutes figuring out these computers and looking up basic facts on the world. Superheroes.
Whew. That's a fair bit of info. Okay, I'm going to start with the Justice League. Let's see... founded after a fight with a Star Conqueror- oh shit. I remember reading R.E.B.E.L.s., the newer one from the 2000s, Starro is fucking dangerous. I think the ones that usually visited Earth were lesser offshoots. Fuck, if I ever meet the Justice League, I better warn them about that guy. He was supposed to have conquered/subsumed eight galaxies.
Think about that later. There's a ton of shit they need to know about. Mageddon, the Beast and the Shadow Dog, lots and lots more. The League presently has... one, two- eight members. Superman, Wonder Woman, Flash, Green Lantern, Aquaman, Martian Manhunter, Zauriel, and Aztek.
That's the Morrison line-up, from the '90s, isn't it? No, Aquaman still has his hand, the Lantern is Stewart, Flash has those eye-holes so it's probably Barry, not Wally or Jay... plenty of differences from what canon was. Canon? This is a real world. Why the fuck am I blathering on about canon?
I rub my hands against my forehead. Contact information... no, not for the public. Apparently the heads of the EU, US, Russia, and India have direct lines with the League through an organization called PAITO... what's PAITO? With twenty minutes left, I continue my WikiWalk- ah, I should say, DigiWalk.
The Pacific/Atlantic/Indian Treaty Organization. Founded in the 1960s, officially as a bulwark against communist aggression, grew to include Russia after the Soviet Union fell. That's a pretty heavy supranational union. India, America, Europe (looks like the EU is significantly more united than ours, but I doubt a quick DigiPedia glance is enough to tell me much), Brazil, Russia, South Africa, the CANZ countries… and the list goes on. It's almost its own miniature UN.
Right. This is neat, but... magic? I think my powers are magic. They were in the fanfic I wrote, and in the books I based them off of. From what I can tell, these abilities aren't that different. I look down at my hand, almost summoning a glow, but I resist the urge. Public space, remember?
Magic turns up a variety of results. Doctor Fate, the Spectre, Zauriel, Giovanni Zatara (who went missing ages ago, apparently), Wonder Woman, Atlantis, Captain Marvel, the list goes on. Not really any methods to seek help with magic. It's not like Dr. Fate hands out business cards, I guess.
Fine. I'm running low on time anyway. Seven minutes left, by my count. I need a place to stay. I have no money, and no connections. I'm in a strange universe, on the verge of panic- okay, dude. Just chill. Just chill. Who in Gotham City can I contact? Gah, I shouldn't have wasted time looking up politics!
Okay, fine. Fine. Batman's the obvious first choice, but he's a paranoid, neurotic lunatic, and he won't react kindly to me showing up in his base unannounced. 'Bruce Wayne' contact information? His publicist has a Twitter (no, a Twunter on this world) and an e-mail, but it's business only, and somehow I doubt Batman will want me outing him like that to his publicist.
He's out. Anyone in the GCPD? Renee Montoya? Crispus Allen? No, I've nothing to offer them. There's Jim Corrigan, but everyone knew he was corrupt, they just didn't have proof, and I don't remember anything from Gotham Central that would help, nor am I sure that it would even apply in this universe. The obvious choice left is Rory Regan.
With five minutes left on the clock, I look up 'rags and tatters antique shop'. I get an address, and I spend a frustrating amount of time on maps software trying to figure out where exactly it is. Looks like... the other side of the city. God damn it. I close out the windows and tabs, and I exit the office chair.
Carl gives me an annoyed look as I leave, and as such, I leave the building quickly. I run my hand through my hair, more than a little annoyed, anxious and tired. I've a long walk ahead of me.
Author's Notes: Against my better judgment, I've decided to cancel the hiatus for now. I may resume it at a later time, but I'll resume posting updates for now. Sorry for the short update, but I didn't want to hit you guys with too much information, hence this update being split from 1.4.
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Arc 1: Rags and Tatters 6
Torchbearer Arc 1: Rags and Tatters 6
Location: Gotham City, New Jersey, United States of America, Earth, Sol, Sector 2814, Milky Way Galaxy, Universe-1 (DC-Prime)
Date: Tuesday, March 12, 2002
Fucking finally, I'm here. I'll spare you the hours of walking, freezing my ass off, and having awkward conversations with people at information desks.
Rags 'N' Tatters (looks like I spelled the name wrong when I Googled it) is a humble pawn shop built into a brick building. The shop's title is painted on the window, both outside and inside from the looks of it. The store interior itself is nothing special. It's an antique shop. Old lamps, figurines, instruments, and assorted accoutrements dot the place. There's a glass case in front of the window, not really storing very much beyond some interesting baubles. I wonder why- oh, maybe to make it harder to break in through the window?
I peer inside the window, and I see a bored-looking brunette man leaning on the counter, staring into space. He's wearing a white t-shirt with the name of the shirt written across it. Is that Rory Regan? I honestly can't tell.
There was never really a good shot of him without the Suit in Shadowpact, and depending on the writer, his appearance changed a lot. I remember he was blonde in his Suit of Souls one-shot. Can Jews even be blonde? He doesn't look that muscular. Actually pretty skinny, in fact. I remember in the older comics, like Cry of the Dead, he was a Vietnam vet.
I don't even know if the Vietnam War happened on this Earth. If it did, Rory probably wouldn't be a veteran of it. I move myself over to the front door, an old wooden thing showing signs of rot- looks like he hasn't noticed me yet. The door window is barred.
I hesitate before opening. In some comics, Rory had trouble controlling the suit, the evil souls threatening to overwhelm him. If I run in there... wait, I don't count as an evil soul. I've never murdered, raped, tortured, done anything to belong in the Suit of Souls. Wait- besides those two guys. Oh fuck fuck, please no. That was self-defense. But I don't even feel that bad about it yet! Am I going through shock? Still?
I've gotta assume that I'm not a possible candidate for his suit. Rory worked with people like June Moone and Jim Rook in the comics, and I bet they've probably killed people in self-defense. Assuming that it works the same as in the comics then, my biggest potential problem is Rory himself panicking and attacking me, which I don't think is a possibility, but could happen anyway.
Rory Regan is a fairly dangerous person, by the standards of a sensible universe, but in the DC Universe, he's downright street-level. Rory Regan, better known by his superhero name, Ragman, possesses an arcane outfit called the Suit of Souls, composed of hundreds, maybe thousands of evil souls throughout the centuries, who reside in a dimension within the Suit and offer their services to the wielder of the Suit, in exchange for eventual redemption in the eyes of Heaven.
Of course, Ragman has to be cautious how he uses the souls, because too much force applied to the souls can permanently damage them, or even destroy them altogether. The Suit itself can be damaged by fire or excessive force. I remember Eclipso ripping into the Suit in Day of Vengeance, and she managed to destroy hundreds of them. Some older incarnations of Ragman also have the souls in the Suit able to influence him. I hope that's not the case here.
Okay. Here goes. I open the door and walk through. Oh man, that sudden rush of heat is fucking nice. I've been walking in the cold for way too fucking long in friggin' sandals.
The man at the desk is a bit startled by my entry, and I belatedly realize he was close to falling asleep when I saw him through the window. He's a pale, lanky white man, a bit shorter than me, with trimmed brown hair, a white t-shirt with the logo of his shop on it, and blue jeans. "Ah, hey! How are you doing? Can I help you?" he says politely, in a mostly Midwestern accent, but with a Jersey tinge to it.
Last chance to back out. It's always awkward talking to strangers and clerks, even when they aren't probably magical superheroes. I hesitate for just a moment, before forcing myself to speak up. Hope his last name is pronounced like the President's name, but I'm not sure. It could be like the comedian. "Uh, yeah. Are you Rory Regan?"
His initial polite smile fades into a suspicious look. "Ah, yes. Yes, I am. Why?"
You gotta ask him, Joseph. Otherwise you'll have virtually no other options than to bother fucking Batman. "Does- does the phrase Suit of Souls hold any significance to you?"
I see a flash of green at his wrists, that disappears almost as quickly as it appears. Uh... fuck. "It doe- who are you?"
I raise my hands, in what I hope is a disarming gesture. "My name is Joseph Winfield. I'm not here to attack you or anything, I'm here to talk and hopefully ask for help. I don't think I have an evil soul or anything, so…"
I trail off. He purses his lips, looking a bit nervous. "O-kay. What... what are you here for?"
"Do you have a lot of time? It's sort of a complicated, long story."
He scratches the back of his head. "You hungry?"
It's been, what, nine, ten hours since I last ate? "God yes."
"I needed to go on lunch break anyway," he says, reaching for a heavy brown jacket, before he frowns at me. "Why aren't you wearing a coat? Aren't you cold?"
"Yeah. It's a long story."
He absorbs that bit of information, before looking towards a door at the back of Rags 'N' Tatters. "You'll have to tell me at the restaurant. Wait here, will ya?"
Rory returns in a moment with a hoodie for me. "Might be a bit tight on you, but it's all I got. I live on my own, so I don't have many clothes."
"It's no problem," I say, slipping it on. It is a tight fit. I'm not fat or anything, but I have a noticeable belly, and this jacket might suit a skinnier guy like Rory fine, but it really does stretch uncomfortably around me. Still better than the alternative, though. "Thank you so much."
"No problem. So, talk on the way?" he says, gesturing towards the door.
"Uh, sure."
He goes first, shoving a closed sign in the windowsill, before opening the door for me. There's a sudden chill, but the hoodie makes it a bit better. "Who exactly are you? How do you know who I am? About the Suit?"
Rory locks the door behind us, and as I begin to speak, he shoves the key back in his pocket. "Ahm, I told you the basics in the shop, but here are the details. They're pretty fucked up and weird, so brace yourself, I guess."
He nods. Should I tell him about the comics? Yes. I'm not the kind of person who can keep that secret, and if he thinks I'm crazy, so be it. I can't come up with a good enough lie for my knowledge anyway, and even if I could, I wouldn't be able to keep it up for very long.
"Okay, um, my name is Joseph Winfield. I'm a college student, eighteen years old, from what I think is a parallel universe," I tell him, and he takes it remarkably in stride. Must be a side effect of living in the DC Universe. Or maybe being a superhero in the DCU. It occurs to me that I forgot to Google Ragman when I was at the library. That would have been smart, wouldn't it?
"Okay," he replies.
"And in that universe you're a fictional character."
He stops abruptly. "I'm sorry, what?"
I follow suit. "Ah, yeah. There's this comic book company where I come from. On, ah, my homeworld. DC Comics. They've been writing comics about superheroes for... seventy years, maybe? Eighty? I don't really remember. But, they write about Superman, Batman, Green Lantern, their best selling characters. And in a universe where magic, aliens, Atlantis, all that exists together."
I point to myself. "I'm a pretty big DC fan. I don't know if that has to do with anything, but my homeworld? None of that stuff. Weirdest thing is our President, honestly. No superheroes or anything."
"So, at like three in the morning I wake up in a warehouse here in Gotham City by the docks, in my pajamas. With some sort of superpowers. They mostly involve light, and they're really obvious, so I'd rather not show them off on a crowded street. I... two thugs arrived in the warehouse a little after I got there. I think they heard the explosion when I blew up the locked door to get out, and came running. They had a gun, threatened to kill me, and I... I panicked. I ran away, stole some clothes from a thrift store, visited the library to figure out what the hell was going on, where I was, and how to find you, and uh, here I am."
"Okay," he says. "Um, wow. Holy shit. So... I guess I'm not a famous character?" he asks nervously, in what I think is an attempt to inject levity.
"No, you're not. Sorry."
"No TV appearances?"
"Actually, yeah. On a TV show about Green Arrow, you appeared in one of the later seasons, your suit being powered by radiation instead of magic. I think you died, like, one episode later, though. I dunno. I never watched the show."
He frowns. "Who's Green Arrow?"
I tilt my head in confusion. "Vigilante in Star City? No powers, but uses trick arrows? Dresses like Robin Hood?"
He looks taken aback at my comment. "What moron would go out and fight crime without superpowers?"
"Batman?" I reply instantly.
His eyes widen. "The Bat doesn't have powers?!"
I whirl around, looking at the people near me. They don't seem to have noticed his outburst, thankfully. "No, just a normal guy- well, not normal, but a baseline human with a lot of dedication."
"Holy shit. That's... almost weirder than me being a comic book character. You... I, um, I think we should continue this at the restaurant."
He starts walking again, and I follow his lead. Wait a minute… "You're paying, right? Because I don't have any of this world's money."
Location: Gotham City, New Jersey, United States of America, Earth, Sol, Sector 2814, Milky Way Galaxy, Universe-1 (DC-Prime)
Date: Tuesday, March 12, 2002
Fucking finally, I'm here. I'll spare you the hours of walking, freezing my ass off, and having awkward conversations with people at information desks.
Rags 'N' Tatters (looks like I spelled the name wrong when I Googled it) is a humble pawn shop built into a brick building. The shop's title is painted on the window, both outside and inside from the looks of it. The store interior itself is nothing special. It's an antique shop. Old lamps, figurines, instruments, and assorted accoutrements dot the place. There's a glass case in front of the window, not really storing very much beyond some interesting baubles. I wonder why- oh, maybe to make it harder to break in through the window?
I peer inside the window, and I see a bored-looking brunette man leaning on the counter, staring into space. He's wearing a white t-shirt with the name of the shirt written across it. Is that Rory Regan? I honestly can't tell.
There was never really a good shot of him without the Suit in Shadowpact, and depending on the writer, his appearance changed a lot. I remember he was blonde in his Suit of Souls one-shot. Can Jews even be blonde? He doesn't look that muscular. Actually pretty skinny, in fact. I remember in the older comics, like Cry of the Dead, he was a Vietnam vet.
I don't even know if the Vietnam War happened on this Earth. If it did, Rory probably wouldn't be a veteran of it. I move myself over to the front door, an old wooden thing showing signs of rot- looks like he hasn't noticed me yet. The door window is barred.
I hesitate before opening. In some comics, Rory had trouble controlling the suit, the evil souls threatening to overwhelm him. If I run in there... wait, I don't count as an evil soul. I've never murdered, raped, tortured, done anything to belong in the Suit of Souls. Wait- besides those two guys. Oh fuck fuck, please no. That was self-defense. But I don't even feel that bad about it yet! Am I going through shock? Still?
I've gotta assume that I'm not a possible candidate for his suit. Rory worked with people like June Moone and Jim Rook in the comics, and I bet they've probably killed people in self-defense. Assuming that it works the same as in the comics then, my biggest potential problem is Rory himself panicking and attacking me, which I don't think is a possibility, but could happen anyway.
Rory Regan is a fairly dangerous person, by the standards of a sensible universe, but in the DC Universe, he's downright street-level. Rory Regan, better known by his superhero name, Ragman, possesses an arcane outfit called the Suit of Souls, composed of hundreds, maybe thousands of evil souls throughout the centuries, who reside in a dimension within the Suit and offer their services to the wielder of the Suit, in exchange for eventual redemption in the eyes of Heaven.
Of course, Ragman has to be cautious how he uses the souls, because too much force applied to the souls can permanently damage them, or even destroy them altogether. The Suit itself can be damaged by fire or excessive force. I remember Eclipso ripping into the Suit in Day of Vengeance, and she managed to destroy hundreds of them. Some older incarnations of Ragman also have the souls in the Suit able to influence him. I hope that's not the case here.
Okay. Here goes. I open the door and walk through. Oh man, that sudden rush of heat is fucking nice. I've been walking in the cold for way too fucking long in friggin' sandals.
The man at the desk is a bit startled by my entry, and I belatedly realize he was close to falling asleep when I saw him through the window. He's a pale, lanky white man, a bit shorter than me, with trimmed brown hair, a white t-shirt with the logo of his shop on it, and blue jeans. "Ah, hey! How are you doing? Can I help you?" he says politely, in a mostly Midwestern accent, but with a Jersey tinge to it.
Last chance to back out. It's always awkward talking to strangers and clerks, even when they aren't probably magical superheroes. I hesitate for just a moment, before forcing myself to speak up. Hope his last name is pronounced like the President's name, but I'm not sure. It could be like the comedian. "Uh, yeah. Are you Rory Regan?"
His initial polite smile fades into a suspicious look. "Ah, yes. Yes, I am. Why?"
You gotta ask him, Joseph. Otherwise you'll have virtually no other options than to bother fucking Batman. "Does- does the phrase Suit of Souls hold any significance to you?"
I see a flash of green at his wrists, that disappears almost as quickly as it appears. Uh... fuck. "It doe- who are you?"
I raise my hands, in what I hope is a disarming gesture. "My name is Joseph Winfield. I'm not here to attack you or anything, I'm here to talk and hopefully ask for help. I don't think I have an evil soul or anything, so…"
I trail off. He purses his lips, looking a bit nervous. "O-kay. What... what are you here for?"
"Do you have a lot of time? It's sort of a complicated, long story."
He scratches the back of his head. "You hungry?"
It's been, what, nine, ten hours since I last ate? "God yes."
"I needed to go on lunch break anyway," he says, reaching for a heavy brown jacket, before he frowns at me. "Why aren't you wearing a coat? Aren't you cold?"
"Yeah. It's a long story."
He absorbs that bit of information, before looking towards a door at the back of Rags 'N' Tatters. "You'll have to tell me at the restaurant. Wait here, will ya?"
Rory returns in a moment with a hoodie for me. "Might be a bit tight on you, but it's all I got. I live on my own, so I don't have many clothes."
"It's no problem," I say, slipping it on. It is a tight fit. I'm not fat or anything, but I have a noticeable belly, and this jacket might suit a skinnier guy like Rory fine, but it really does stretch uncomfortably around me. Still better than the alternative, though. "Thank you so much."
"No problem. So, talk on the way?" he says, gesturing towards the door.
"Uh, sure."
He goes first, shoving a closed sign in the windowsill, before opening the door for me. There's a sudden chill, but the hoodie makes it a bit better. "Who exactly are you? How do you know who I am? About the Suit?"
Rory locks the door behind us, and as I begin to speak, he shoves the key back in his pocket. "Ahm, I told you the basics in the shop, but here are the details. They're pretty fucked up and weird, so brace yourself, I guess."
He nods. Should I tell him about the comics? Yes. I'm not the kind of person who can keep that secret, and if he thinks I'm crazy, so be it. I can't come up with a good enough lie for my knowledge anyway, and even if I could, I wouldn't be able to keep it up for very long.
"Okay, um, my name is Joseph Winfield. I'm a college student, eighteen years old, from what I think is a parallel universe," I tell him, and he takes it remarkably in stride. Must be a side effect of living in the DC Universe. Or maybe being a superhero in the DCU. It occurs to me that I forgot to Google Ragman when I was at the library. That would have been smart, wouldn't it?
"Okay," he replies.
"And in that universe you're a fictional character."
He stops abruptly. "I'm sorry, what?"
I follow suit. "Ah, yeah. There's this comic book company where I come from. On, ah, my homeworld. DC Comics. They've been writing comics about superheroes for... seventy years, maybe? Eighty? I don't really remember. But, they write about Superman, Batman, Green Lantern, their best selling characters. And in a universe where magic, aliens, Atlantis, all that exists together."
I point to myself. "I'm a pretty big DC fan. I don't know if that has to do with anything, but my homeworld? None of that stuff. Weirdest thing is our President, honestly. No superheroes or anything."
"So, at like three in the morning I wake up in a warehouse here in Gotham City by the docks, in my pajamas. With some sort of superpowers. They mostly involve light, and they're really obvious, so I'd rather not show them off on a crowded street. I... two thugs arrived in the warehouse a little after I got there. I think they heard the explosion when I blew up the locked door to get out, and came running. They had a gun, threatened to kill me, and I... I panicked. I ran away, stole some clothes from a thrift store, visited the library to figure out what the hell was going on, where I was, and how to find you, and uh, here I am."
"Okay," he says. "Um, wow. Holy shit. So... I guess I'm not a famous character?" he asks nervously, in what I think is an attempt to inject levity.
"No, you're not. Sorry."
"No TV appearances?"
"Actually, yeah. On a TV show about Green Arrow, you appeared in one of the later seasons, your suit being powered by radiation instead of magic. I think you died, like, one episode later, though. I dunno. I never watched the show."
He frowns. "Who's Green Arrow?"
I tilt my head in confusion. "Vigilante in Star City? No powers, but uses trick arrows? Dresses like Robin Hood?"
He looks taken aback at my comment. "What moron would go out and fight crime without superpowers?"
"Batman?" I reply instantly.
His eyes widen. "The Bat doesn't have powers?!"
I whirl around, looking at the people near me. They don't seem to have noticed his outburst, thankfully. "No, just a normal guy- well, not normal, but a baseline human with a lot of dedication."
"Holy shit. That's... almost weirder than me being a comic book character. You... I, um, I think we should continue this at the restaurant."
He starts walking again, and I follow his lead. Wait a minute… "You're paying, right? Because I don't have any of this world's money."
Arc 1: Rags and Tatters 7
Torchbearer Arc 1: Rags and Tatters 7
Location: Gotham City, New Jersey, United States of America, Earth, Sol, Sector 2814, Milky Way Galaxy, Universe-1 (DC-Prime)
Date: Tuesday, March 12, 2002
Weng's Chinese Restaurant is like most of the buildings in this Gothamite neighborhood. Humble, quiet, a little-run down. It's one in the afternoon, according to Rory, and the exhaustion from being awake so long, plus all the walking I've done today, is starting to catch up with me.
That's why I'm a little annoyed that Rory's chosen a poorly-lit, out of the way spot in the back of the restaurant. Sure, no one will hear us talking about confidential superhero stuff, but the temptation to fall asleep is really great. I order a local brand of soda at random, none of it is familiar to me, so I'm assuming this universe has different brands of food than my own.
"Mrs. Weng probably won't be back for a few minutes. Can you show me your powers real quick?"
I glance at the aisleway, before nodding reluctantly. I move out my hand, willing that aura forth, and a golden light starts shining.
"Whoa," Rory blinks. "You can do more than that, right? What with those guys you, ah…"
"Killed, yeah. I can make laser blasts, I've got a form of telekinesis, and enhanced vision powers, plus some other stuff I haven't figured out yet. I, um, wanted to ask, am I a... candidate for your Suit?"
He shakes his head. "No, I can tell that from a glance. You're a bit... gray, but nowhere near enough of a bastard for the souls to be interested in you."
"Good to hear. So, you aren't upset with what I did at the docks?"
"Nah. Technically, I kill all the people I take into the suit."
Oh. I guess I should have figured that much. I lean forward. "So, um, since I have these powers, and you need to go hunting for souls- you do need to go hunting, right?"
He nods. I continue. "Well, I was thinking I could train up my powers. Help you out with capturing souls for the Suit. In exchange, you give me room and board. Because, ah, I'm homeless. With no money. And while I think I know how some other people could help me with that, you were my first choice. I think I can help you and vice versa."
Rory purses his lips, and we're interrupted by a short, elderly East Asian woman scurrying over to our table with a platter of our drinks. Looks like mine is a lemon-lime, sort of like Sprite or Sierra Mist, while Rory's is a traditional cola.
We give polite smiles to Mrs. Weng, and Rory orders something called beef chow fun. I don't know what that is, but I don't really get anything else on the menu either, so instead of ordering a burger and looking like an asshole, I'm going to go with that as well. She leaves, and Rory turns back to me while I'm taking a greedy sip from my glass of soda. "You're sure you don't have anywhere else?"
I have plenty. Just none convenient to get to in my current state. "I do, but they're all on the other side of the country, or they require me talking to some dangerous people. Or both."
I wonder if I could contact Dharma if this goes south. I bet he'd be able to get me set up and trained. On the other hand, he's neurotic, isolated, secretive and power-hungry, even if he's working to save the world. The next option that comes to mind is shouting 'Clark Kent is Superman' at the sky until the Man of Steel shows up, and that doesn't sound like a great idea. Baron Winters? No, that's even dumber than Dharma.
He bites his lip, thinking, looking down at the tabletop, before back at me. "That shop, Rags 'N' Tatters. It's the last thing my dad left to me before he died."
Um. Okay. He continues. "If I let you stay there… I want you to promise that you won't steal anything, that you won't fuck with anything, that- yeah. Basically, promise along those lines."
I nod almost immediately. "Yeah, of course. I promise. I'm not that- I'm pretty sure I'm not kind of person."
He sags back into the booth. "I can tell. Your soul only shows the marks of some minor selfishness towards loved ones and other... misdemeanors, I guess that's a good way to phrase it. Outside of that killing in self-defense, anyway."
"That's good to hear, at least," I say. At least I'm sitting in a heated building, rather than walking through the freezing cold. There's something nice about this awkward situation. "So, do you have a couch or something I can sleep on?"
"Yeah, there's a pull-out bed on the couch upstairs, where I live. I'll show you when we get done here."
"Awesome. Thanks," I reply. Rory gives a tight-lipped nod in response.
There are a few moments of awkward silence, before Rory speaks up again. "How do you plan on training with your powers?"
I shrug. "I really don't know. I can feel this... instinctive force inside of me, this sort of aura, and I know that I can shape it in all sorts of ways. I might not be able to train the explode-y laser blasts inside your home-" he sort of smiles at that, "-but I think my enhanced vision abilities and other stuff might work. I really don't know how long that would take. I figured out some basic abilities in maybe... a couple hours? So who knows."
"This weekend, I can probably drive you to my dad's cottage in the Pines. It's all alone in the woods, so you can practice the more explosive stuff freely if you'd like."
"Oh, thanks," I say, before frowning. "What's 'the Pines'?"
"It's, ah, this really forested area. Not much of it since Gotham, Bludhaven, New York and Philly are growing every day, but there's more than enough for privacy."
"You're sure there's no one there?"
He considers the possibility, before shaking his head. "The campers and hunters, maybe, but it's not really the season for it, I don't think. Even Dad rarely used it once he got a hold of the Suit."
"Got a hold of it? Like, keeping the souls from getting antsy?"
"Yeah. They can get rowdy when you don't give them new roommates. Was that in the comics?"
"Sort of. I know that in the older comics, from the early 90s and before, that you- or, sorry, the depictions of you- struggled to keep the souls in check, and that you had to rein yourself in from absorbing souls."
He looks absolutely befuddled. "Why would I care what happens to a child molestor or a guy who beat his wife to death? Hell, they're getting redemption from going in the suit. Otherwise, well, I'm guessing you know what happens to them."
I try to churn the gears of my memory, thinking back to Cry of the Dead and the Batman crossover (what a missed opportunity that was. A bunch of skinheads? That was the bad guy you picked? Just because he's Jewish? Always pissed me off.). "I think it was because y- the depiction of you in the comics- he was concerned with losing control of himself to the souls."
Rory nods. "That's something that can happen if you go into the Suit blind. If I went in without preparation, those bastards would have eaten me alive," he explains. He leans forward, folding his arms on the table. "But before the leukemia got him last year, my dad called in a friend. Rabbi Benjamin Sinnowitz."
I nod. "I've heard of him. He was a supporting character in a comic called Xombi. Ever heard of two women named Nun of the Above and Catholic Girl?" I ask, belatedly remembering a man named Julian somethingas well.
"What the hell? No," he laughs. "Are those real names?"
I can't help but chuckle with him. "In the comic, yeah. They worked with a guy named David Kim, who became immortal and gained high-speed regeneration thanks to an accident with nanobiology. He became something called a xombi, spelled x-o-m-b-i. Immortals, basically. Somehow the accident was magical in nature, and he got involved with Dakota City's magical world."
Rory takes a moment to absorb that information. Xombi's one of my favorite comics, sure, but I understand the premise is more than a little weird. Then again, I guess it's not a comic anymore, it's reality. Or part of it, anyway. You know, come to think of it, I guess that people like Vandal Savage and Mitch Shelley would be xombis, too.
"Dakota. That's where Icon's from. Rabbi Sinnowitz, too, obviously," he hastily adds. "Did he use golems in the comics, too?"
I nod. He continues. "I... don't want to go into too many details, because it's not a fun thing to talk about, but my dad, the rabbi, and a friend of the rabbi's, Julian Parker, managed to cook up a ritual to help bind the souls to me, and the reverse as well. That way, the souls would mostly have to listen to me. They still act up when I get anxious, and whenever I get too close to an evil soul, the Suit flares up entirely, so I try not to go out into crowds too much, but otherwise, it's a lot better than it could be."
"Was... was this voluntary?" I ask, almost meekly. Because if it wasn't, bonding your kid's soul to a bunch of evil souls could be seen as a… Suit-worthy prospect.
"Oh, yeah. It definitely was. Dad had practically raised me from birth to prepare for this. Freaked the hell out of me. But... when he was on his deathbed, he begged me to take up the responsibility, so that the Suit wouldn't just go around and take control of some poor sucker."
"Do all Ragmen have to go through those rituals?" I ask. "I don't want- you don't have to talk to me about the ritual if you don't want to, but how did your dad manage it when he put on the Suit? Or those before him?"
"Either taught by their parents or self-taught, I guess. I feel bad for those guys who were on their own. The souls can be a handful at the best of times."
Mrs. Weng starts walking down the aisleway right as I was about to ask another question. Beef chow fun... looks like a mixture of beef, noodles, and greens? Ah... onions. Oh well. I suppose I can handle it. I won't be rude to Rory, he is paying for this meal, after all. She handed us chopsticks, and each of us gets a little paper baggie with a fork in case we're sissies. Well... nah, fuck it, I'm going to use the fork.
The two of us dig in, our conversation quieting down, both of us hungry as hell. It's... weird tasting, but not that bad. It's probably just not something I'm familiar with. Whatever. It could be made of bugs and I would still devour it in my current state of hunger.
We finish our meals, Mrs. Weng handing Rory the bill, and after she scurries off, he speaks up first. "So... what kind of comics was I in exactly?"
Author's Notes: Accidentally uploaded this without links. That would have been bad.
Also, I've written up to 1.9 thus far, but I'm going to take a break from the story after posting the latest updates (1.9, probably), for personal matters. This story will return someday. I'll continue updating every other day until 1.9 is up, and then a hiatus.
Also! If you want to understand Ragman, most of Shadowpact #8 is accurate for this story, and it should be all you need to understand the basics. There are differences. The Jewish mystics created the Ragman suit earlier than WW2 in this universe, Rory is an only child in this universe, Rory doesn't operate as Ragman that publicly yet , and so on, but the basics are the same. PM me if you want a link. Hopefully, though, I'll explain it well enough so that it won't be necessary.
Location: Gotham City, New Jersey, United States of America, Earth, Sol, Sector 2814, Milky Way Galaxy, Universe-1 (DC-Prime)
Date: Tuesday, March 12, 2002
Weng's Chinese Restaurant is like most of the buildings in this Gothamite neighborhood. Humble, quiet, a little-run down. It's one in the afternoon, according to Rory, and the exhaustion from being awake so long, plus all the walking I've done today, is starting to catch up with me.
That's why I'm a little annoyed that Rory's chosen a poorly-lit, out of the way spot in the back of the restaurant. Sure, no one will hear us talking about confidential superhero stuff, but the temptation to fall asleep is really great. I order a local brand of soda at random, none of it is familiar to me, so I'm assuming this universe has different brands of food than my own.
"Mrs. Weng probably won't be back for a few minutes. Can you show me your powers real quick?"
I glance at the aisleway, before nodding reluctantly. I move out my hand, willing that aura forth, and a golden light starts shining.
"Whoa," Rory blinks. "You can do more than that, right? What with those guys you, ah…"
"Killed, yeah. I can make laser blasts, I've got a form of telekinesis, and enhanced vision powers, plus some other stuff I haven't figured out yet. I, um, wanted to ask, am I a... candidate for your Suit?"
He shakes his head. "No, I can tell that from a glance. You're a bit... gray, but nowhere near enough of a bastard for the souls to be interested in you."
"Good to hear. So, you aren't upset with what I did at the docks?"
"Nah. Technically, I kill all the people I take into the suit."
Oh. I guess I should have figured that much. I lean forward. "So, um, since I have these powers, and you need to go hunting for souls- you do need to go hunting, right?"
He nods. I continue. "Well, I was thinking I could train up my powers. Help you out with capturing souls for the Suit. In exchange, you give me room and board. Because, ah, I'm homeless. With no money. And while I think I know how some other people could help me with that, you were my first choice. I think I can help you and vice versa."
Rory purses his lips, and we're interrupted by a short, elderly East Asian woman scurrying over to our table with a platter of our drinks. Looks like mine is a lemon-lime, sort of like Sprite or Sierra Mist, while Rory's is a traditional cola.
We give polite smiles to Mrs. Weng, and Rory orders something called beef chow fun. I don't know what that is, but I don't really get anything else on the menu either, so instead of ordering a burger and looking like an asshole, I'm going to go with that as well. She leaves, and Rory turns back to me while I'm taking a greedy sip from my glass of soda. "You're sure you don't have anywhere else?"
I have plenty. Just none convenient to get to in my current state. "I do, but they're all on the other side of the country, or they require me talking to some dangerous people. Or both."
I wonder if I could contact Dharma if this goes south. I bet he'd be able to get me set up and trained. On the other hand, he's neurotic, isolated, secretive and power-hungry, even if he's working to save the world. The next option that comes to mind is shouting 'Clark Kent is Superman' at the sky until the Man of Steel shows up, and that doesn't sound like a great idea. Baron Winters? No, that's even dumber than Dharma.
He bites his lip, thinking, looking down at the tabletop, before back at me. "That shop, Rags 'N' Tatters. It's the last thing my dad left to me before he died."
Um. Okay. He continues. "If I let you stay there… I want you to promise that you won't steal anything, that you won't fuck with anything, that- yeah. Basically, promise along those lines."
I nod almost immediately. "Yeah, of course. I promise. I'm not that- I'm pretty sure I'm not kind of person."
He sags back into the booth. "I can tell. Your soul only shows the marks of some minor selfishness towards loved ones and other... misdemeanors, I guess that's a good way to phrase it. Outside of that killing in self-defense, anyway."
"That's good to hear, at least," I say. At least I'm sitting in a heated building, rather than walking through the freezing cold. There's something nice about this awkward situation. "So, do you have a couch or something I can sleep on?"
"Yeah, there's a pull-out bed on the couch upstairs, where I live. I'll show you when we get done here."
"Awesome. Thanks," I reply. Rory gives a tight-lipped nod in response.
There are a few moments of awkward silence, before Rory speaks up again. "How do you plan on training with your powers?"
I shrug. "I really don't know. I can feel this... instinctive force inside of me, this sort of aura, and I know that I can shape it in all sorts of ways. I might not be able to train the explode-y laser blasts inside your home-" he sort of smiles at that, "-but I think my enhanced vision abilities and other stuff might work. I really don't know how long that would take. I figured out some basic abilities in maybe... a couple hours? So who knows."
"This weekend, I can probably drive you to my dad's cottage in the Pines. It's all alone in the woods, so you can practice the more explosive stuff freely if you'd like."
"Oh, thanks," I say, before frowning. "What's 'the Pines'?"
"It's, ah, this really forested area. Not much of it since Gotham, Bludhaven, New York and Philly are growing every day, but there's more than enough for privacy."
"You're sure there's no one there?"
He considers the possibility, before shaking his head. "The campers and hunters, maybe, but it's not really the season for it, I don't think. Even Dad rarely used it once he got a hold of the Suit."
"Got a hold of it? Like, keeping the souls from getting antsy?"
"Yeah. They can get rowdy when you don't give them new roommates. Was that in the comics?"
"Sort of. I know that in the older comics, from the early 90s and before, that you- or, sorry, the depictions of you- struggled to keep the souls in check, and that you had to rein yourself in from absorbing souls."
He looks absolutely befuddled. "Why would I care what happens to a child molestor or a guy who beat his wife to death? Hell, they're getting redemption from going in the suit. Otherwise, well, I'm guessing you know what happens to them."
I try to churn the gears of my memory, thinking back to Cry of the Dead and the Batman crossover (what a missed opportunity that was. A bunch of skinheads? That was the bad guy you picked? Just because he's Jewish? Always pissed me off.). "I think it was because y- the depiction of you in the comics- he was concerned with losing control of himself to the souls."
Rory nods. "That's something that can happen if you go into the Suit blind. If I went in without preparation, those bastards would have eaten me alive," he explains. He leans forward, folding his arms on the table. "But before the leukemia got him last year, my dad called in a friend. Rabbi Benjamin Sinnowitz."
I nod. "I've heard of him. He was a supporting character in a comic called Xombi. Ever heard of two women named Nun of the Above and Catholic Girl?" I ask, belatedly remembering a man named Julian somethingas well.
"What the hell? No," he laughs. "Are those real names?"
I can't help but chuckle with him. "In the comic, yeah. They worked with a guy named David Kim, who became immortal and gained high-speed regeneration thanks to an accident with nanobiology. He became something called a xombi, spelled x-o-m-b-i. Immortals, basically. Somehow the accident was magical in nature, and he got involved with Dakota City's magical world."
Rory takes a moment to absorb that information. Xombi's one of my favorite comics, sure, but I understand the premise is more than a little weird. Then again, I guess it's not a comic anymore, it's reality. Or part of it, anyway. You know, come to think of it, I guess that people like Vandal Savage and Mitch Shelley would be xombis, too.
"Dakota. That's where Icon's from. Rabbi Sinnowitz, too, obviously," he hastily adds. "Did he use golems in the comics, too?"
I nod. He continues. "I... don't want to go into too many details, because it's not a fun thing to talk about, but my dad, the rabbi, and a friend of the rabbi's, Julian Parker, managed to cook up a ritual to help bind the souls to me, and the reverse as well. That way, the souls would mostly have to listen to me. They still act up when I get anxious, and whenever I get too close to an evil soul, the Suit flares up entirely, so I try not to go out into crowds too much, but otherwise, it's a lot better than it could be."
"Was... was this voluntary?" I ask, almost meekly. Because if it wasn't, bonding your kid's soul to a bunch of evil souls could be seen as a… Suit-worthy prospect.
"Oh, yeah. It definitely was. Dad had practically raised me from birth to prepare for this. Freaked the hell out of me. But... when he was on his deathbed, he begged me to take up the responsibility, so that the Suit wouldn't just go around and take control of some poor sucker."
"Do all Ragmen have to go through those rituals?" I ask. "I don't want- you don't have to talk to me about the ritual if you don't want to, but how did your dad manage it when he put on the Suit? Or those before him?"
"Either taught by their parents or self-taught, I guess. I feel bad for those guys who were on their own. The souls can be a handful at the best of times."
Mrs. Weng starts walking down the aisleway right as I was about to ask another question. Beef chow fun... looks like a mixture of beef, noodles, and greens? Ah... onions. Oh well. I suppose I can handle it. I won't be rude to Rory, he is paying for this meal, after all. She handed us chopsticks, and each of us gets a little paper baggie with a fork in case we're sissies. Well... nah, fuck it, I'm going to use the fork.
The two of us dig in, our conversation quieting down, both of us hungry as hell. It's... weird tasting, but not that bad. It's probably just not something I'm familiar with. Whatever. It could be made of bugs and I would still devour it in my current state of hunger.
We finish our meals, Mrs. Weng handing Rory the bill, and after she scurries off, he speaks up first. "So... what kind of comics was I in exactly?"
Author's Notes: Accidentally uploaded this without links. That would have been bad.
Also, I've written up to 1.9 thus far, but I'm going to take a break from the story after posting the latest updates (1.9, probably), for personal matters. This story will return someday. I'll continue updating every other day until 1.9 is up, and then a hiatus.
Also! If you want to understand Ragman, most of Shadowpact #8 is accurate for this story, and it should be all you need to understand the basics. There are differences. The Jewish mystics created the Ragman suit earlier than WW2 in this universe, Rory is an only child in this universe, Rory doesn't operate as Ragman that publicly yet , and so on, but the basics are the same. PM me if you want a link. Hopefully, though, I'll explain it well enough so that it won't be necessary.
Last edited:
Arc 1: Rags and Tatters 8
Torchbearer Arc 1: Rags and Tatters 8
Location: Gotham City, New Jersey, United States of America, Earth, Sol, Sector 2814, Milky Way Galaxy, Universe-1 (DC-Prime)
Date: Tuesday, March 12, 2002
"... so outside of the older comics, where you were just some guy who thought green rags would look intimidating-" Rory laughs, "-which I really didn't read, since they were old and the dialogue was all dumb, there was Ragman: Cry of the Dead."
He grins. "Sounds dramatic."
"Oh, it... basically, it was a sort-of confusing comic from, like, the late eighties or something. At that point they had figured out the Suit was made of evil souls, so that's what they were writing. You just didn't have much control over it, and didn't like taking people into the Suit. I remember there was this scene in that comic where the rags left the Suit and converged on this one woman, and you were absolutely horrified that they consumed her."
Rory looks at the ground thoughtfully. "I don't... think I've ever cared that much about the souls I absorb. Whenever I take them in, I get a flash of the... just horrible shit they've done."
There's a brief interlude as Mrs. Weng stops by to return Rory's credit card. As we leave our seats, I ask him, "How many souls have you taken in?"
"I do my best to take in at least one per week. The long nights are annoying, it's rarely fun, and I usually don't wind up with very useful souls. Sometimes I'll get lucky and find a couple thugs, but... that's about it. Hopefully, when you get trained up…"
I catch his drift. "We can start going after the big wigs. Who exactly are they, anyway?"
We exit the restaurant through the door, waving to the couple who own the restaurant as we do so, starting the ten minute walk back to Rags 'N' Tatters, before Rory answers. "Too many to list, really. The Bat and the cops have been hitting Falcone, the local mob boss, pretty hard, taken down a couple of his top guys, but the mafia are still alive and kicking."
Carmine Falcone. I remember him. A minor character from the comics. "I guess we aim to change that."
"Fuck yeah. I've seen what those assholes do to people. Someday, hopefully someday soon, Falcone will get his own rag like anyone else."
"Who else is there? I remember when I read a comic about Gotham City's cops, there seemed to be a lot of division within the gangs."
"Oh yeah, definitely. Falcone keeps order, the mob has its own hierarchy and 'clans', I guess you could say, but there are plenty of other gangsters we need to worry about if we're going to eventually step up our game. Casa Nostra, Rupert Thorne, the Bertinelli's, the Sullivan's, Ibanescu's, the skinheads, the other, lesser gangs. Then there are the lunatics, like the Joker. He ever pop up in those comics?"
I nod. "Batman's arch-nemesis. Somehow still alive after years of being a murdering psychopath."
Rory sighs, running a hand through his hair. "He's a fucking lunatic, and the cops can't catch him. Bat hasn't found him, either. Showed up last year sometime, and he's killed seventy-four people since then. Sixteen kids."
I get the feeling I don't want to know, but… "The kids. What did he-"
"Nerve gas. He calls it Smilex. He videotaped it, and sent it to their parents," Rory bites his lip as he finishes that sentence, his hands clenched into a fist. Pisses me off, too.
"We see him, he dies," I say, looking straight ahead at the street. Did I just... am I suddenly the kind of person a-ok with premeditated murder? I don't even have the power to reliably enforce this threat yet!
Rory turns to me, a sober look on his face. "That was never up for discussion."
Well, I guess it's the Joker. I don't give two shits if he dies. "I've still gotta train."
"Yeah, me too," he agrees.
I frown. "Thought you'd already had the suit for a year?"
He shakes his head. "Yeah, but I haven't been using it consistently enough. It's... an intimidating thing to wear, and while I do have fairly full control over the Suit, it's…really hard to resist the urge to just jump on someone and drag them into the Suit kicking and screaming. Which would normally be... not fine, but tolerable, I guess, but when it's a cop or something, and you risk bringing the whole GCPD down on your head, it gets worrying, to say the least. 'Course, I might just be a coward. That could be it, too. Or both," he mutters to himself.
We arrive back at Rags 'N' Tatters, and Rory unlocks the door. "His name was Marcus Wise. He was a bastard, but... a useful one. Since I picked him up a couple months ago, I've been talking to him. Getting data on the gangs of Gotham. I was going to see about attacking the mob bosses in their sleep, once I worked up the courage. But-" he opens the door for me, "-now that you're here, I think I might have some more options."
"When we go to the Pines, will you be training too?"
He nods, taking the closed sign out of the window. "Definitely. I've been putting it off way too long, acting on pure instinct."
"In the comics, you had to call on your souls to give you extra strength. Is that still the case here, in the... the real world?"
"Yeah. It's not pleasant, but I can do it. If the souls volunteer, they get one step down the thousands of years of redemption. If not, they get bupkis. Either way, they help me out."
"What about injuries? I remember comics-you used the souls to take on his wounds."
Rory returns to the space behind the counter, pushing past a small, waist-high door. "The souls take those on for me, too. They usually heal over time, but if they're seriously lethal, then the souls could be destroyed. I have to spread those kinds of wounds out among the souls, and do it quickly. One of the many reasons I usually go after soft targets."
I lean over the glass counter, facing him. I glance down at the antiques in the aforementioned counter. Clocks, toys, figurines, the whole menagerie. Not my scene, really.
"Do you have a laptop or computer or something?" I ask him.
"Dunno what a lap top is, but yeah, I've got a portable upstairs. Why?"
"I'd like to do research on the state of the world. I'm relying on contradictory info from the hundreds of comics I've read, and this world already seems way different from most DC universes."
"Makes sense. It's the black one on the coffee table upstairs. Press the red button on the front and it'll flip open."
"Thanks."
He shrugs. "No problem. Oh, hey, we never finished talking about the comics that I- that the depiction of me was in!"
"Shit, you're right."
He smiles teasingly. "Come on, dude, I've got an ego to feed here."
I laugh. "Okay, uh, we were on Cry of the Dead, right?" He nods. "Okay. Well, comics-you fought voodoo beings in New Orleans. It was pretty confusing and bizarre, but there were some neat visuals of the Suit of Souls."
Rory frowns. "What's New Orleans?"
What? "It's... a city in Louisiana? Mardi Gras? Creole? Gumbo?"
"That's St. Roch, isn't it?" he says, pronouncing it like rock, instead of roash, like how I always pronounced it.
"Isn't St. Roch where the Hawks live?"
"Hawkman and Hawkwoman? Yeah."
"Huh. I... guess it makes sense that if you guys have extra cities, then you're also missing some."
Rory leans forward, confused. "Extra cities?"
"Ah, Gotham doesn't exist on my... my homeworld."
"What?"
"Neither does Metropolis, Bludhaven, Coast City, and so forth."
He purses his lips, and looks down at the counter. "Weird."
"You know, I'm absolutely astonished that you believe me. I figured you'd call me insane for saying I read comics about you on my earth."
Rory grins wryly. "After I saw my first golem, I figured, hey, anything's possible."
"Sensible. So, um, after Cry of the Dead, there was a Batman crossover. Or maybe before that. I dunno. The two of you fought skinheads."
"Sounds fun. I've been trying to build up enough courage to take those fuckers down."
I look out the window as a woman looks in the shop. "You know a guy named Rabbi Luria?"
He suddenly gets a worried look on his face. "He's like a... yeah, I know him. I know him well, in fact. Dad was usually out using the Suit when I was a kid, so Rabbi Luria taught me most of life's lessons. Why?"
"In the comics, I don't remember how, but he wound up dying."
His expression darkens. "The skinheads, right?"
"Probably."
He stares off into space. "Then I know what I'm doing for the next couple of nights. Thanks, Joseph."
I should probably feel a bit guilty about this, but... ah, they're Nazis. Fuck 'em. "No problem."
The window shopper, an elderly white woman of a skinny stature, walks in, and I'm guessing now's probably a bad time to continue talking about extradimensional comics. "Can I head upstairs? Specifically, to sleep? I've had a pretty long day."
"Ah, sure. Door's open, just head up the stairs. There's a spare blanket in the closet by the bathroom. Couch is in the living room, you'll see it."
I wave goodbye, and follow his advice.
Location: Gotham City, New Jersey, United States of America, Earth, Sol, Sector 2814, Milky Way Galaxy, Universe-1 (DC-Prime)
Date: Tuesday, March 12, 2002
"... so outside of the older comics, where you were just some guy who thought green rags would look intimidating-" Rory laughs, "-which I really didn't read, since they were old and the dialogue was all dumb, there was Ragman: Cry of the Dead."
He grins. "Sounds dramatic."
"Oh, it... basically, it was a sort-of confusing comic from, like, the late eighties or something. At that point they had figured out the Suit was made of evil souls, so that's what they were writing. You just didn't have much control over it, and didn't like taking people into the Suit. I remember there was this scene in that comic where the rags left the Suit and converged on this one woman, and you were absolutely horrified that they consumed her."
Rory looks at the ground thoughtfully. "I don't... think I've ever cared that much about the souls I absorb. Whenever I take them in, I get a flash of the... just horrible shit they've done."
There's a brief interlude as Mrs. Weng stops by to return Rory's credit card. As we leave our seats, I ask him, "How many souls have you taken in?"
"I do my best to take in at least one per week. The long nights are annoying, it's rarely fun, and I usually don't wind up with very useful souls. Sometimes I'll get lucky and find a couple thugs, but... that's about it. Hopefully, when you get trained up…"
I catch his drift. "We can start going after the big wigs. Who exactly are they, anyway?"
We exit the restaurant through the door, waving to the couple who own the restaurant as we do so, starting the ten minute walk back to Rags 'N' Tatters, before Rory answers. "Too many to list, really. The Bat and the cops have been hitting Falcone, the local mob boss, pretty hard, taken down a couple of his top guys, but the mafia are still alive and kicking."
Carmine Falcone. I remember him. A minor character from the comics. "I guess we aim to change that."
"Fuck yeah. I've seen what those assholes do to people. Someday, hopefully someday soon, Falcone will get his own rag like anyone else."
"Who else is there? I remember when I read a comic about Gotham City's cops, there seemed to be a lot of division within the gangs."
"Oh yeah, definitely. Falcone keeps order, the mob has its own hierarchy and 'clans', I guess you could say, but there are plenty of other gangsters we need to worry about if we're going to eventually step up our game. Casa Nostra, Rupert Thorne, the Bertinelli's, the Sullivan's, Ibanescu's, the skinheads, the other, lesser gangs. Then there are the lunatics, like the Joker. He ever pop up in those comics?"
I nod. "Batman's arch-nemesis. Somehow still alive after years of being a murdering psychopath."
Rory sighs, running a hand through his hair. "He's a fucking lunatic, and the cops can't catch him. Bat hasn't found him, either. Showed up last year sometime, and he's killed seventy-four people since then. Sixteen kids."
I get the feeling I don't want to know, but… "The kids. What did he-"
"Nerve gas. He calls it Smilex. He videotaped it, and sent it to their parents," Rory bites his lip as he finishes that sentence, his hands clenched into a fist. Pisses me off, too.
"We see him, he dies," I say, looking straight ahead at the street. Did I just... am I suddenly the kind of person a-ok with premeditated murder? I don't even have the power to reliably enforce this threat yet!
Rory turns to me, a sober look on his face. "That was never up for discussion."
Well, I guess it's the Joker. I don't give two shits if he dies. "I've still gotta train."
"Yeah, me too," he agrees.
I frown. "Thought you'd already had the suit for a year?"
He shakes his head. "Yeah, but I haven't been using it consistently enough. It's... an intimidating thing to wear, and while I do have fairly full control over the Suit, it's…really hard to resist the urge to just jump on someone and drag them into the Suit kicking and screaming. Which would normally be... not fine, but tolerable, I guess, but when it's a cop or something, and you risk bringing the whole GCPD down on your head, it gets worrying, to say the least. 'Course, I might just be a coward. That could be it, too. Or both," he mutters to himself.
We arrive back at Rags 'N' Tatters, and Rory unlocks the door. "His name was Marcus Wise. He was a bastard, but... a useful one. Since I picked him up a couple months ago, I've been talking to him. Getting data on the gangs of Gotham. I was going to see about attacking the mob bosses in their sleep, once I worked up the courage. But-" he opens the door for me, "-now that you're here, I think I might have some more options."
"When we go to the Pines, will you be training too?"
He nods, taking the closed sign out of the window. "Definitely. I've been putting it off way too long, acting on pure instinct."
"In the comics, you had to call on your souls to give you extra strength. Is that still the case here, in the... the real world?"
"Yeah. It's not pleasant, but I can do it. If the souls volunteer, they get one step down the thousands of years of redemption. If not, they get bupkis. Either way, they help me out."
"What about injuries? I remember comics-you used the souls to take on his wounds."
Rory returns to the space behind the counter, pushing past a small, waist-high door. "The souls take those on for me, too. They usually heal over time, but if they're seriously lethal, then the souls could be destroyed. I have to spread those kinds of wounds out among the souls, and do it quickly. One of the many reasons I usually go after soft targets."
I lean over the glass counter, facing him. I glance down at the antiques in the aforementioned counter. Clocks, toys, figurines, the whole menagerie. Not my scene, really.
"Do you have a laptop or computer or something?" I ask him.
"Dunno what a lap top is, but yeah, I've got a portable upstairs. Why?"
"I'd like to do research on the state of the world. I'm relying on contradictory info from the hundreds of comics I've read, and this world already seems way different from most DC universes."
"Makes sense. It's the black one on the coffee table upstairs. Press the red button on the front and it'll flip open."
"Thanks."
He shrugs. "No problem. Oh, hey, we never finished talking about the comics that I- that the depiction of me was in!"
"Shit, you're right."
He smiles teasingly. "Come on, dude, I've got an ego to feed here."
I laugh. "Okay, uh, we were on Cry of the Dead, right?" He nods. "Okay. Well, comics-you fought voodoo beings in New Orleans. It was pretty confusing and bizarre, but there were some neat visuals of the Suit of Souls."
Rory frowns. "What's New Orleans?"
What? "It's... a city in Louisiana? Mardi Gras? Creole? Gumbo?"
"That's St. Roch, isn't it?" he says, pronouncing it like rock, instead of roash, like how I always pronounced it.
"Isn't St. Roch where the Hawks live?"
"Hawkman and Hawkwoman? Yeah."
"Huh. I... guess it makes sense that if you guys have extra cities, then you're also missing some."
Rory leans forward, confused. "Extra cities?"
"Ah, Gotham doesn't exist on my... my homeworld."
"What?"
"Neither does Metropolis, Bludhaven, Coast City, and so forth."
He purses his lips, and looks down at the counter. "Weird."
"You know, I'm absolutely astonished that you believe me. I figured you'd call me insane for saying I read comics about you on my earth."
Rory grins wryly. "After I saw my first golem, I figured, hey, anything's possible."
"Sensible. So, um, after Cry of the Dead, there was a Batman crossover. Or maybe before that. I dunno. The two of you fought skinheads."
"Sounds fun. I've been trying to build up enough courage to take those fuckers down."
I look out the window as a woman looks in the shop. "You know a guy named Rabbi Luria?"
He suddenly gets a worried look on his face. "He's like a... yeah, I know him. I know him well, in fact. Dad was usually out using the Suit when I was a kid, so Rabbi Luria taught me most of life's lessons. Why?"
"In the comics, I don't remember how, but he wound up dying."
His expression darkens. "The skinheads, right?"
"Probably."
He stares off into space. "Then I know what I'm doing for the next couple of nights. Thanks, Joseph."
I should probably feel a bit guilty about this, but... ah, they're Nazis. Fuck 'em. "No problem."
The window shopper, an elderly white woman of a skinny stature, walks in, and I'm guessing now's probably a bad time to continue talking about extradimensional comics. "Can I head upstairs? Specifically, to sleep? I've had a pretty long day."
"Ah, sure. Door's open, just head up the stairs. There's a spare blanket in the closet by the bathroom. Couch is in the living room, you'll see it."
I wave goodbye, and follow his advice.
Arc 1: Rags and Tatters 9
Torchbearer Arc 1: Rags and Tatters 9
Location: Gotham City, New Jersey, United States of America, Earth, Sol, Sector 2814, Milky Way Galaxy, Universe-1 (DC-Prime)
Date: Wednesday, March 13, 2002
Rory, using some type of weird mini-binoculars and a pair of tweezers, looks over a small piece of jewelry, as an elderly woman looks on with what looks like a bit of apprehension. I can't tell what the jewelry is from this position, both from my limited powers and my own lack of knowledge... it's green. My scrying and microscopic vision don't combine that well yet... it's still so cool that I get to say that now. Even if the situation itself is a bit inconvenient.
I laugh, dispelling the scrying effect. I'm getting a bit greedy, aren't I? I turn my gaze to the tablet/laptop hybrid on the coffee table in front of me (the portable, I recall idly). Since I went to bed around two in the afternoon yesterday, my day was already starting at one in the morning, and while I did my damnedest to fall asleep again after that, I didn't find much success.
So I worked on my visual abilities, and another of my powers, one that I was hoping I had and was ecstatic to find out that I did. Wound up going back to sleep around five in the morning, and woke up at ten or so.
Transmutation. Now, for the record, I'm going to spare you long, lurid descriptions of how exactly I train. When I reach out for a power that I think I might have, there's this instinctive feeling that I either have it or don't. From there, I need to extend my will, focusing on what I want to happen, and eventually, it will.
Control over this ability is minimal at first, to say the least. When I first started training transmutation this morning, for instance, I practically had a hernia trying to change the color of the lined paper to a darker shade of gray. I managed it, but I had to focus on a spot the size of a freckle, and it took a little over a minute. I was able to repeat that trick quicker after a while, but it was still goddamn exhausting. Essentially useless outside of being a parlor trick, thus far, anyway.
Telekinesis, on the other hand, is progressing well. Developing finer control over it is going fairly smoothly. I managed to lift the coffee table with my mind today, and it's among the coolest things I've ever done. The crash it made when it fell a couple inches to the ground was, admittedly, a bit worrying. But fortunately it's not broken. That would have been a fun conversation to have with Rory.
After the coffee table incident, I decided to tone it down for a while. No need to push my luck any further, after all. I used Rory's portable to do a bit more research on this world. I started with the Gotham (apparently, when it comes to those cities that have City after their names, you usually just refer to them as the first part, rather than the whole name, so instead of Gotham City, it's just Gotham) crime scene.
There wasn't that much, I'm afraid. People going free when they probably shouldn't have, the Bat taking down minor gangs and crippling the Bertinelli's, nothing too terribly useful. I took the time to create a Twunter account, and I made sure to follow as many superhero and newspeople types as I could. I, ah, wasted an embarrassing amount of time on there.
The fact that I can follow both Clark Kent (seventy thousand followers, regularly uses shorthand, spends way too much time talking about baseball) and Superman (one hundred and twenty-four million followers, I'm assuming some are bots, only updates every couple of months with some news on a supervillain takedown or something) on the Twitter-equivalent is hilarious.
There's also Lois Lane (she tweets a lot, reminds me of Maggie Haberman, more libertarian than I was expecting). As for superheroes, most of their accounts aren't used very often. Knight, an obscure British street-leveller I vaguely remember from the comics, has a fair following, but I get the feeling most of it is ironic, considering his feed and reputation alike are essentially watching a man's life fall apart, and I'm just not interested in that.
The Flash keeps people updated with numerous daily tweets (I think they're called wuns in this world) on criminal activity and civic awareness in Central and Keystone Cities, as well as Missouri and Kansas in general. Wonder Woman has a representative from the Themysciran Embassy (who I do follow, even if they're mostly run by American associates), who tweets for her about matters of Themysciran relations with the outside world and women's issues worldwide.
Green Lantern regularly wuns (gonna be weird using that instead of tweets, but okay) out facts about the galaxy, and the workings of the Green Lantern Corps and its affiliates, and it's genuinely fascinating. It looks like it's mostly stuff about Sectors 2813-2815, which is still details and factoids about hundreds of species, of the roughly four hundred and eighty thousand sapient species which exist in the Milky Way. On average, each sector patrolled by the Corps has one hundred and thirty-four naturally occurring sapients.
This is so fascinating! I'm getting caught up in it... okay, the predominant organization in Sector 2814 is the Cooperative, founded by the far kraan (better known to comics fans as the Xudarians) and the mikdufs(better known as the Terminans). It was founded in the seventh century, by an alliance of the reigning mikduf civilizations and the far kraan-unified Xudar, when an alien race called the yoongar, who had invaded the area using wormhole technology, attacked them both.
After the yoongar were defeated and 'civilized' (Taldegan propaganda says that it was a regrettable treatment, but understandable at the time, I respectfully disagree), Terminus and Xudar agreed to a formal alliance, which grew into a peaceful federation between them and one hundred and sixty-eight other sapient races.
They've got matter replication and teleportation technology, which puts them as one of the greatest powers in the galaxy, if they put their minds to it. But the Cooperative, based out of the 'Justice Moon' of Taldega, which I vaguely remember from Icon, is strictly non-interventionist. Well, at least Earth probably doesn't have to worry about any alien invasions beyond stuff like the Star Conquerors. Seems like we're under the nuclear umbrella of the Cooperative.
I just jinxed it, didn't it? I take some more looks at the member-species of the Cooperative. Ungara's one of them. Looks like Abin Sur regularly had meetings with Cooperative leadership to help defend Sector 2814, before his untimely demise. No public details about that, by the way, beyond the fact that he died and the current Lantern took his role as the protector of 2814. Guess the Guardians don't want the world knowing about Atrocitus.
Zauriel, Aztek, and Martian Manhunter all have verified Twunter feeds, but they have tweeted- sorry, wunned- exactly zero times. Ted Kord's feed goes over my head most of the time, but I follow him anyway. President Suarez and Vice President Laig get follows as well.
I won't go into detail about the twenty to forty newspeople I also followed, but suffice to say, I spent a couple minutes making sure they weren't kooks. To be honest, I only followed one woman because she regularly seems to diss G. Gordon Godfrey, who seems like a Sean Hannity equivalent. Wonder if he's Apokoliptian here as well?
Rory walks up the stairs as I continue scrolling through Green Lantern's feed, reading about crecks, an alien species that looks sort of like a taller E.T. with a wider neck. Apparently they were a nomadic, bronze age civilization from Sector 2813 uplifted by the far kraan in the fourteenth century… "Hey, dude. What's up?" he asks, taking a seat in the chair opposite from the pull-out bed on which I'm sitting.
"Ah, nothing much. Reading through Green Lantern's Twitter feed- ah, sorry. Twunter."
Rory nods. "Heavy reading."
I laugh. "Yeah, I probably know more about the Cooperative now than I do most South American countries."
Rory frowns, as if remembering something, opens his mouth as if he was about to say something, but then apparently a lightbulb goes off in his head and he waves his hand, as if saying 'forget it'. "Ah, I was going to ask what that was, but then I remembered. Icon's from there, right?"
I purse my lips, pondering the question. "He was in the comics. You closing down for the night?"
He nods. "Yeah, it's six right now. You get anything done with your powers today?"
"Just a little work on my vision powers and telekinesis. Baby steps with transmutation. Once I got to a stopping point, I decided to use the portable to do a little research. Got, ah, out of hand," I chuckle.
"I've been there before."
I look at him cautiously, not sure if I should ask this question or not. "Heard you leave last night. You take care of the skinheads?"
He nods. "Richard Allen Green, Elmer Christopher Rees, and David Kilroy McCoy. Three souls for the suit," he says, and a flash of dark blue and green appears on one of his arms. I belatedly realize those are their souls as I see three faces suddenly appear. Cool. He dissipates the effect. "Two others. I told them in the scary Ragman voice to turn themselves in."
"You found them easily enough?"
Rory sinks back into the chair. "Oh, yeah. Rees and Green liked to hang around my synagogue and sneer at old ladies," he says, balling his hands into a fist. "But, they won't be doing that anymore."
Oh shit. "Wait, was it really a good idea to let them go to the cops? What if they tell the GCPD about you?"
The soul redeemer shrugs. "Dude, in a couple weeks we'll be at all-out war with the gangs," he says. "They're going to know we're here. Plus, they might not even believe them. That, and what was the other option? Killing them? They might be Nazis, but I don't kill innocents."
"It just... seems reckless."
"It... probably is. But I just... when you told me how they killed Rabbi Luria, it- it turned off the rational side of me."
"I guess I understand."
He smiles politely. "Thanks, I guess."
"When we spoke yesterday... you said something about building up courage to take on those guys. I didn't pay it much mind at the time, but what did you mean by that?"
Rory grimaces. "I don't like fighting groups. Too much risk of one of the souls getting damaged because I've lost control of the situation, or getting destroyed, or something horrible. I was lucky that the quote-unquote Aryan Reich didn't have any guns on them at the time. Just switchblades, brass knuckles, the gangster basics."
He points at me. "That's what I'm hoping you can help me with. That radar vision you've got... hopefully you can warn me of potential attackers."
"Or just take them down myself and let you eat them."
"That, too."
We bask in an awkward silence for a bit, Rory slouching back into his chair. "You know... you never finished telling me about those comics."
"You're right. I didn't. Um... we finished the Batman crossover, right?" He nods. "Okay... after that, you- sorry, comics-you- was a member of a team called the Sentinels of Magic through most of the... I wanna say, late 90s, early 2000s? They never really had their own title, as far as I can remember. They had guest appearances whenever magic stuff showed up. You were in JLA: Black Baptism, some magic demon things knocked you into your suit to take you down."
"JLA?" he frowns.
"Justice League of America."
Rory looks confused. "The Justice League protects the world, not just America. Are you sure you aren't confusing them with the JSA?"
I shake my head. "No, some comics had them called the JLA. There was a Justice League International for a while, though. Ah, anyway, the Sentinels didn't really do much. Then there was this event, Day of Vengeance. Event comics are basically tie-ins that are super-duper, everything you know will change, yadda yadda."
I lean forward. Rory's still listening. "You've heard of the Spectre?"
"Um, yeah. He was one of the original JSA guys, right?"
"Sssort of. I don't really know the story there, he was in the comics, too, but his thing is that he's God's Angel of Wrath, and he goes around being super-powerful and punishing the guilty."
Rory's face scrunches up as he thinks. "I... think the JSA guy had that gimmick?"
I shrug. "Well, a supervillain manipulated the Spectre into falling in love with her, and convinced him that all magical entities needed to be destroyed. You were part of a team called Shadowpact who formed to take him down."
I decide to show some tact, and leave out the scene with him and the Enchantress. "Two things," Rory holds up two fingers, "number one, how in the world did I help, and number two... what happened to the Sentinels of Magic?"
"I don't know the answer to either of those questions. But, ah, after the Spectre was defeated, and in doing so, somehow started a new age of magic, you were part of a team called the Shadowpact, the 'representatives of lost causes'."
"Who else was there?" he asks.
"Blue Devil, I think he's active in San Francisco now. Enchantress, comics-you, Detective Chimp, Nightshade. Couldn't find any of them on Giggle or DigiPedia. The team leader was a guy named Nightmaster, who got sent to a fantasy world and got a magic sword for his trouble."
"Shadowpact's the comic where I was first introduced to you as a character."
"I hope you were a fan."
I nod. "Yeah, I guess you could say I was a fan of that portrayal of you. Relatable. Cool concept for a character. I just... I don't want that to impact our acquaintanceship. You're a real person. That guy was a fictional character."
"A... startlingly accurate portrayal of a real person," Rory raises an eyebrow.
"Inaccurate in a lot of places, though," I mildly retort. "I just... you're a real person, and I'm damn sure this isn't a dream. I don't want to rely on comics for how I look at this... this new world, and I sure don't want it to affect how I treat people."
He nods. "I understand. It's... that's a good way to look at things. I used to- heh. I used to write self-insertion fanfiction for some of my favorite fantasy series. Empyrion, Daemonstorm, Space Wars. I wonder how I'd actually cope with meeting Dirk Firmwalker or Morokin, outside of, you know, dumb wish fulfillment stuff."
I... wait. "You used to write self-insert fanfics, too?"
Author's Notes: From here on out, Torchbearer is on indefinite hiatus.
Location: Gotham City, New Jersey, United States of America, Earth, Sol, Sector 2814, Milky Way Galaxy, Universe-1 (DC-Prime)
Date: Wednesday, March 13, 2002
Rory, using some type of weird mini-binoculars and a pair of tweezers, looks over a small piece of jewelry, as an elderly woman looks on with what looks like a bit of apprehension. I can't tell what the jewelry is from this position, both from my limited powers and my own lack of knowledge... it's green. My scrying and microscopic vision don't combine that well yet... it's still so cool that I get to say that now. Even if the situation itself is a bit inconvenient.
I laugh, dispelling the scrying effect. I'm getting a bit greedy, aren't I? I turn my gaze to the tablet/laptop hybrid on the coffee table in front of me (the portable, I recall idly). Since I went to bed around two in the afternoon yesterday, my day was already starting at one in the morning, and while I did my damnedest to fall asleep again after that, I didn't find much success.
So I worked on my visual abilities, and another of my powers, one that I was hoping I had and was ecstatic to find out that I did. Wound up going back to sleep around five in the morning, and woke up at ten or so.
Transmutation. Now, for the record, I'm going to spare you long, lurid descriptions of how exactly I train. When I reach out for a power that I think I might have, there's this instinctive feeling that I either have it or don't. From there, I need to extend my will, focusing on what I want to happen, and eventually, it will.
Control over this ability is minimal at first, to say the least. When I first started training transmutation this morning, for instance, I practically had a hernia trying to change the color of the lined paper to a darker shade of gray. I managed it, but I had to focus on a spot the size of a freckle, and it took a little over a minute. I was able to repeat that trick quicker after a while, but it was still goddamn exhausting. Essentially useless outside of being a parlor trick, thus far, anyway.
Telekinesis, on the other hand, is progressing well. Developing finer control over it is going fairly smoothly. I managed to lift the coffee table with my mind today, and it's among the coolest things I've ever done. The crash it made when it fell a couple inches to the ground was, admittedly, a bit worrying. But fortunately it's not broken. That would have been a fun conversation to have with Rory.
After the coffee table incident, I decided to tone it down for a while. No need to push my luck any further, after all. I used Rory's portable to do a bit more research on this world. I started with the Gotham (apparently, when it comes to those cities that have City after their names, you usually just refer to them as the first part, rather than the whole name, so instead of Gotham City, it's just Gotham) crime scene.
There wasn't that much, I'm afraid. People going free when they probably shouldn't have, the Bat taking down minor gangs and crippling the Bertinelli's, nothing too terribly useful. I took the time to create a Twunter account, and I made sure to follow as many superhero and newspeople types as I could. I, ah, wasted an embarrassing amount of time on there.
The fact that I can follow both Clark Kent (seventy thousand followers, regularly uses shorthand, spends way too much time talking about baseball) and Superman (one hundred and twenty-four million followers, I'm assuming some are bots, only updates every couple of months with some news on a supervillain takedown or something) on the Twitter-equivalent is hilarious.
There's also Lois Lane (she tweets a lot, reminds me of Maggie Haberman, more libertarian than I was expecting). As for superheroes, most of their accounts aren't used very often. Knight, an obscure British street-leveller I vaguely remember from the comics, has a fair following, but I get the feeling most of it is ironic, considering his feed and reputation alike are essentially watching a man's life fall apart, and I'm just not interested in that.
The Flash keeps people updated with numerous daily tweets (I think they're called wuns in this world) on criminal activity and civic awareness in Central and Keystone Cities, as well as Missouri and Kansas in general. Wonder Woman has a representative from the Themysciran Embassy (who I do follow, even if they're mostly run by American associates), who tweets for her about matters of Themysciran relations with the outside world and women's issues worldwide.
Green Lantern regularly wuns (gonna be weird using that instead of tweets, but okay) out facts about the galaxy, and the workings of the Green Lantern Corps and its affiliates, and it's genuinely fascinating. It looks like it's mostly stuff about Sectors 2813-2815, which is still details and factoids about hundreds of species, of the roughly four hundred and eighty thousand sapient species which exist in the Milky Way. On average, each sector patrolled by the Corps has one hundred and thirty-four naturally occurring sapients.
This is so fascinating! I'm getting caught up in it... okay, the predominant organization in Sector 2814 is the Cooperative, founded by the far kraan (better known to comics fans as the Xudarians) and the mikdufs(better known as the Terminans). It was founded in the seventh century, by an alliance of the reigning mikduf civilizations and the far kraan-unified Xudar, when an alien race called the yoongar, who had invaded the area using wormhole technology, attacked them both.
After the yoongar were defeated and 'civilized' (Taldegan propaganda says that it was a regrettable treatment, but understandable at the time, I respectfully disagree), Terminus and Xudar agreed to a formal alliance, which grew into a peaceful federation between them and one hundred and sixty-eight other sapient races.
They've got matter replication and teleportation technology, which puts them as one of the greatest powers in the galaxy, if they put their minds to it. But the Cooperative, based out of the 'Justice Moon' of Taldega, which I vaguely remember from Icon, is strictly non-interventionist. Well, at least Earth probably doesn't have to worry about any alien invasions beyond stuff like the Star Conquerors. Seems like we're under the nuclear umbrella of the Cooperative.
I just jinxed it, didn't it? I take some more looks at the member-species of the Cooperative. Ungara's one of them. Looks like Abin Sur regularly had meetings with Cooperative leadership to help defend Sector 2814, before his untimely demise. No public details about that, by the way, beyond the fact that he died and the current Lantern took his role as the protector of 2814. Guess the Guardians don't want the world knowing about Atrocitus.
Zauriel, Aztek, and Martian Manhunter all have verified Twunter feeds, but they have tweeted- sorry, wunned- exactly zero times. Ted Kord's feed goes over my head most of the time, but I follow him anyway. President Suarez and Vice President Laig get follows as well.
I won't go into detail about the twenty to forty newspeople I also followed, but suffice to say, I spent a couple minutes making sure they weren't kooks. To be honest, I only followed one woman because she regularly seems to diss G. Gordon Godfrey, who seems like a Sean Hannity equivalent. Wonder if he's Apokoliptian here as well?
Rory walks up the stairs as I continue scrolling through Green Lantern's feed, reading about crecks, an alien species that looks sort of like a taller E.T. with a wider neck. Apparently they were a nomadic, bronze age civilization from Sector 2813 uplifted by the far kraan in the fourteenth century… "Hey, dude. What's up?" he asks, taking a seat in the chair opposite from the pull-out bed on which I'm sitting.
"Ah, nothing much. Reading through Green Lantern's Twitter feed- ah, sorry. Twunter."
Rory nods. "Heavy reading."
I laugh. "Yeah, I probably know more about the Cooperative now than I do most South American countries."
Rory frowns, as if remembering something, opens his mouth as if he was about to say something, but then apparently a lightbulb goes off in his head and he waves his hand, as if saying 'forget it'. "Ah, I was going to ask what that was, but then I remembered. Icon's from there, right?"
I purse my lips, pondering the question. "He was in the comics. You closing down for the night?"
He nods. "Yeah, it's six right now. You get anything done with your powers today?"
"Just a little work on my vision powers and telekinesis. Baby steps with transmutation. Once I got to a stopping point, I decided to use the portable to do a little research. Got, ah, out of hand," I chuckle.
"I've been there before."
I look at him cautiously, not sure if I should ask this question or not. "Heard you leave last night. You take care of the skinheads?"
He nods. "Richard Allen Green, Elmer Christopher Rees, and David Kilroy McCoy. Three souls for the suit," he says, and a flash of dark blue and green appears on one of his arms. I belatedly realize those are their souls as I see three faces suddenly appear. Cool. He dissipates the effect. "Two others. I told them in the scary Ragman voice to turn themselves in."
"You found them easily enough?"
Rory sinks back into the chair. "Oh, yeah. Rees and Green liked to hang around my synagogue and sneer at old ladies," he says, balling his hands into a fist. "But, they won't be doing that anymore."
Oh shit. "Wait, was it really a good idea to let them go to the cops? What if they tell the GCPD about you?"
The soul redeemer shrugs. "Dude, in a couple weeks we'll be at all-out war with the gangs," he says. "They're going to know we're here. Plus, they might not even believe them. That, and what was the other option? Killing them? They might be Nazis, but I don't kill innocents."
"It just... seems reckless."
"It... probably is. But I just... when you told me how they killed Rabbi Luria, it- it turned off the rational side of me."
"I guess I understand."
He smiles politely. "Thanks, I guess."
"When we spoke yesterday... you said something about building up courage to take on those guys. I didn't pay it much mind at the time, but what did you mean by that?"
Rory grimaces. "I don't like fighting groups. Too much risk of one of the souls getting damaged because I've lost control of the situation, or getting destroyed, or something horrible. I was lucky that the quote-unquote Aryan Reich didn't have any guns on them at the time. Just switchblades, brass knuckles, the gangster basics."
He points at me. "That's what I'm hoping you can help me with. That radar vision you've got... hopefully you can warn me of potential attackers."
"Or just take them down myself and let you eat them."
"That, too."
We bask in an awkward silence for a bit, Rory slouching back into his chair. "You know... you never finished telling me about those comics."
"You're right. I didn't. Um... we finished the Batman crossover, right?" He nods. "Okay... after that, you- sorry, comics-you- was a member of a team called the Sentinels of Magic through most of the... I wanna say, late 90s, early 2000s? They never really had their own title, as far as I can remember. They had guest appearances whenever magic stuff showed up. You were in JLA: Black Baptism, some magic demon things knocked you into your suit to take you down."
"JLA?" he frowns.
"Justice League of America."
Rory looks confused. "The Justice League protects the world, not just America. Are you sure you aren't confusing them with the JSA?"
I shake my head. "No, some comics had them called the JLA. There was a Justice League International for a while, though. Ah, anyway, the Sentinels didn't really do much. Then there was this event, Day of Vengeance. Event comics are basically tie-ins that are super-duper, everything you know will change, yadda yadda."
I lean forward. Rory's still listening. "You've heard of the Spectre?"
"Um, yeah. He was one of the original JSA guys, right?"
"Sssort of. I don't really know the story there, he was in the comics, too, but his thing is that he's God's Angel of Wrath, and he goes around being super-powerful and punishing the guilty."
Rory's face scrunches up as he thinks. "I... think the JSA guy had that gimmick?"
I shrug. "Well, a supervillain manipulated the Spectre into falling in love with her, and convinced him that all magical entities needed to be destroyed. You were part of a team called Shadowpact who formed to take him down."
I decide to show some tact, and leave out the scene with him and the Enchantress. "Two things," Rory holds up two fingers, "number one, how in the world did I help, and number two... what happened to the Sentinels of Magic?"
"I don't know the answer to either of those questions. But, ah, after the Spectre was defeated, and in doing so, somehow started a new age of magic, you were part of a team called the Shadowpact, the 'representatives of lost causes'."
"Who else was there?" he asks.
"Blue Devil, I think he's active in San Francisco now. Enchantress, comics-you, Detective Chimp, Nightshade. Couldn't find any of them on Giggle or DigiPedia. The team leader was a guy named Nightmaster, who got sent to a fantasy world and got a magic sword for his trouble."
"Shadowpact's the comic where I was first introduced to you as a character."
"I hope you were a fan."
I nod. "Yeah, I guess you could say I was a fan of that portrayal of you. Relatable. Cool concept for a character. I just... I don't want that to impact our acquaintanceship. You're a real person. That guy was a fictional character."
"A... startlingly accurate portrayal of a real person," Rory raises an eyebrow.
"Inaccurate in a lot of places, though," I mildly retort. "I just... you're a real person, and I'm damn sure this isn't a dream. I don't want to rely on comics for how I look at this... this new world, and I sure don't want it to affect how I treat people."
He nods. "I understand. It's... that's a good way to look at things. I used to- heh. I used to write self-insertion fanfiction for some of my favorite fantasy series. Empyrion, Daemonstorm, Space Wars. I wonder how I'd actually cope with meeting Dirk Firmwalker or Morokin, outside of, you know, dumb wish fulfillment stuff."
I... wait. "You used to write self-insert fanfics, too?"
Author's Notes: From here on out, Torchbearer is on indefinite hiatus.