11: The Man in Charge (Quentin September)

Mayor September was all smiles as he entered the room. He was campaigning, after all, and had to put his best face forward. "Thank you for coming out today, ladies and gentlemen. As you know, I recently announced my intention to run for re-election. I'm here today to let you and the good people of this city know what they can expect in my second term."

A sea of hands shot up. Quentin September pointed at the most familiar face.

"Gabe Norris, KBCN News. Some of your decisions have proven to be controversial. Are you fully prepared to debate your policies in a public forum?"

"I'll say this much; it'll be a welcome change from the last election." Laughter rippled through the crowd, then faded away. The mayor pointed again, acknowledging a woman with a hand-held recorder.

"Resmi Sanders, Beacon City Herald. How do you respond to allegations of collusion with the Henchman's Union? There are people who feel your dealings with them are essentially giving political power to criminals."

The mayor thought a moment. He knew he'd have to word his answer carefully--Sanders didn't miss a trick. "Please remember, the country was in a recession when that deal was made, and henching was almost the only growth industry. Those deals helped a lot of families keep food on the table, while at the same time allowing our police force and district attorney to focus their efforts on the real criminals. I don't know about you, but I'd rather have one Critical Mass in prison than two dozen underlings."

"But Critical Mass isn't in--"

September quickly pointed out another reporter, though the look on Resmi's face told him that he hadn't heard the end of that topic.

"Andrew Riesen, the Voice of Riesen."

Shit, the mayor thought, not this clown. But he kept on smiling.

"How do you address the controversy around your surgery?" Riesen asked.

"It was eight years ago; I don't think there's much need to address it at all." Before Riesen could ask a follow-up, Quentin launched into one of his speeches. "It comes down to this. In the last four years, the city has become cleaner, safer, and more productive. The economy never bottomed out like it did elsewhere, and continues to grow. If I am re-elected, I will spend the next four years making Beacon City an even greater place to live."

Riesen--much like Resmi Sanders--was not let one to let go. "So, you don't think the fact that you used to be a woman bothers the voters?"

Mayor Quentin September allowed himself a bit of a smirk. "I think that, regardless of the operation, I've proven I'm the right man for the job."

10: The Price and the Value (Lewis & Lewis)

Another vaguely disappointed customer walked out of L&L Pawn in Donegan Hills, a few dollars richer but several possessions lighter. One of the proprietors, Clayton Lewis, picked up a box and took it into the back office. He set it on the desk in front of his business partner, Fred Lewis (no relation), who was on his lunch break.

"Frederick? What do you make of these items?" Clayton asked. He spoke the way he dressed--precise, one might say fussy...but completely lacking in flash.

"I dunno, Clay. Lemme take a look," Fred said around a mouthful of shrimp and rice. There were one or two stains on the napkin he had tucked in his collar, which he pulled out and set on the desk. The sleeves on his electric blue shirt were rolled up, and his black tie hung loose around his neck.

Clayton scowled. "Don't call me Clay."

"Don't call me Frederick." Fred Lewis set down his carton of Kung Pao Ming Har and looked into the box. He grabbed items randomly, took a quick glance at them, then tossed most of them in random directions.

"We can get a couple bucks each for most of this stuff...this Cowboy action figure might be something if it still had the guns. Eight bucks otherwise. How much did you pay for all this?"

"Fifty," Clayton answered.

"Eh. I guess we can make a little profit. Where did you start?"

"Fifty."

"Dammit, Clay. How many times I have to tell you--lowball 'em to start, and then haggle."

"It wastes time. It was going to cost fifty dollars, so that's what I offered."

Fred shook his head. "If you let them talk you up, they feel a little better, and then--whoa!" His eyes went wide as he grabbed a handful of sports cards. He flipped through them quickly--some of them went back in the box, others went on the floor--until he found the one that had caught his attention. He had a smile on his face and dollar signs in his eyes when he showed it to Clayton.

"You know I don't watch basketball," Clayton said. "Who is Colin Nemitz?"

"I don't know," Fred said. "But his card's worth ten grand."

09: Full of Grace (Hail Mary)

Father Preston had been sitting in the confessional for two hours. A few had come in, but not as many as he would have liked. So many in the city, needing to be saved...

He'd been waiting for fifteen minutes when someone finally entered. By the voice, he could tell it was a very young woman, probably just over eighteen.

"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned," she said. "It has been three years since my last confession."

"Go ahead, child," Father Preston responded.

"I have had many sinful thoughts. I have committed greed, lust, and wrath in my heart. I have...committed violent acts toward others, on five occasions..."

A sudden rumble of thunder distracted Father Preston for a moment. I thought the weather was supposed to be clear today, he thought idly. The confessor seemed to take no notice.

"...I have turned my back on those in need, and I have stolen from the poor, and from the church itself."

Father Preston shivered as a cold gust of wind blew into the room. "Th-th--" he stuttered. "Excuse me. These are very serious sins, young lady. Absolution is possible, but it will not be easy. First, tell me...do you truly repent for these sins?"

"Yes...well, all but the last two." There was something strange about her voice...as if she was no longer interested in the act of confession.

"Why not?"

"Because..." Another clash of thunder, this time much closer. Impossibly close, in fact. "...they're yours."

Father Preston's eyes went wide, and he bolted from the confessional booth. Two steps out the door, he slipped on a patch of ice and skidded across the church floor. He barely had time to think about how strange that was--an icy floor, inside, in June--before he collided with a pew.

Dazed, he looked up to see that the girl he was talking to had also left the confessional. It had been some time, but he still recognized her. In fact, he was so surprised to see her that he barely noticed the large, black cloud that had formed inside the church.

"Mary MacDonald? But...you can't be in here! You were excommunicated!" Three years ago, he realized.

"That is the least of your worries, Father Preston," she said as her body lifted into the air. "Now, about your penance..."

08: Brother's Keeper (Matthias and Henry Dugan)

"MOOOOOOM! Henry's on my side!" Matt whined. For the record, Henry was nowhere near Matt's side.

Mr. Dugan tightened his grip on the steering wheel. "I swear, if we weren't two days from home, I'd turn this car around."

Mrs. Dugan patted him on the arm. "I know, honey," she whispered. Then she turned around and addressed her boys. "Henry, stay on your side. Matthias, stop making trouble."

"Yes, mommy," Henry said. "Yes, mommy," Matthias repeated, in a much more annoying voice.

Matthias turned to make a face at his brother, when he saw an old ICM Jamboree passing them. "Jam slam!" he shouted, and punched Henry in the arm.

"Matthias Montgomery Dugan!" his mother shouted. "Do you want to spend all week in the hotel while the rest of us have fun?"

"No..."

"Then behave yourself for once! Your behavior has been awful ever since we left--"

"SHIT!" Mr. Dugan yelled, as the Jamboree ahead of them suddenly blew a tire and swerved into their lane. He tried to steer around, but he clipped the back fender of the other car and spun out of control. The car skidded to the edge of the road, and started rolling when it hit the ditch. Matthias screamed, and Henry started to cry.

On the second roll the windows shattered, sending shards of glass into the car. On the third, Matthias slammed his head against the door, knocking him senseless. After the fifth, the car collided with a billboard post, finally coming to an upside-down stop.

Matthias didn't know how long his eyes were closed, but eventually he felt brave enough to open them. Once he had wiped away the tears and blood, he saw his father's arms hang limply, his hands dragging through the pool of his own blood on the roof.

Tears streamed down his face as he looked toward his mother, who was still alive. Her hand was clutched to her abdomen, and as she coughed, she spat up blood.

"Promise," she rasped.

"Huh?"

"Take care of your brother, Matty." Her eyes were pleading, even as the light faded from them. "He needs you. Promise me."

"I promise, mommy."

And then, Matthias blacked out.


"You 'kay, Matty?"

Matthias Dugan snapped out of his reverie. He'd been counting the day's take--nearly six hundred dollars. Not bad for a day of rigged card games, but he'd have to find something more lucrative soon. Henry needed new clothes, and he ate so much...

Matthias looked up at his little brother, who now stood at over seven feet tall. "I'm all right, Hank. Just thinking about Mom and Dad again."

"Oh." Henry had always been quiet, but he'd been almost silent since the accident, fifteen years ago.

"It's all right, buddy. We'll pick you up some new shoes tomorrow before we go to work." He flashed a warm smile, ignoring the fact that new shoes would mean he'd have to skip dinner for a few days.

Not that it bothered him, of course. After all...he made a promise.

07: Forget It, Jake... (Rudo King)

(Translated from Spanish.)

"ONE! TWO! THREE!"

The bell rang, and while that would normally be fought by raucous shouts, tonight there was only silence. No sound would drown out the breaking of Milagro's heart.

He weakly tried to stand, but could only prop himself up on one elbow. He saw his adversary, beaming to his followers. Two masked minions reaffixed his royal purple cloak.

"You fought very well, young man. Your sovereign is impressed."

Even in defeat, Milagro showed defiance. "You are not my sovereign. One day, I shall have your mask."

The victor idly put his hand up to his head and felt the gold plush crown that was stitched to his bright blue mask. "I think not, my friend. I believe the crown shall stay where it is."

"Not that sham," the loser rasped. "Your true mask. The one I should have taken four years ago, when I defeated you. The mask of El--"

No one else was close enough to hear the name Milagro was about to speak, but that did not stop his opponent from kicking him in the head.

The attack enraged the técnico in the audience, and even his own followers seemed taken aback. He knew he had to regain control...fortunately, control was something he was very good at.

He raised his right arm and pointed skyward. "Look, my subjects!" he shouted. He had no microphone, but his booming voice carried throughout the arena. "Look at the poor, broken man who lies at my feet! This could be any one of you, or all of you! Know tonight, that this is what happens to those who oppose the will of the Rudo King!"

His own supporters gave a cheer, and the rest seemed to back down. There were a few still ready to fight, but they recognized that the odds were not in their favor. Rudo King motioned for his huge manservant, El Volcán, to enter the ring.

"I sentence this one to exile," he said, motioning to Milagro with his foot. "Get rid of him." El Volcán nodded, and effortlessly hoisted the fallen hero onto his shoulder.

Two hours later, police found Milagro--bloody, bruised, unconscious--just inside the boundary between the luchadores' domain and Shepherd's Cross neighborhood.

"Shit," one of them said. "Call the hospital; tell 'em we got a luchador down."

"Another one?" the second asked. "We've been getting these about once every other month." He looked down the street, toward the arena at the center of the closed-off neighborhood. "We've gotta do something about this soon."

The other cop held up his arm. "Slow down, kid. There's a lot of reasons why, but the short answer is...we don't get involved in Ciudad Máscara."

06: Can You See Me At All? (Nowhere Man)

Miranda Clyburne instinctively curled up against the radiator when she heard the footsteps. When she felt the hand against her head, she tried to turn away...but of course she couldn't go very far, tied up as she was. She felt the hand pull the blindfold away from her eyes.

Miranda kept her eyes closed--she'd heard the stories about what happens if a kidnapper sees your face.

"Not this again," a male voice said. "I'm not going to kill you. I don't even have a weapon."

Slowly, Miranda opened her eyes. Once they adjusted to the light, she saw a tall, blonde man wearing a sand-colored suit, black gloves, and a wolfish grin.

"Good news, Miss Clyburne," he said. "The ransom has come through already. The police should be here to pick you up soon."

A wave of relief washed over her, along with a spark of defiance. I can't let him get away with this, she thought. She made a point to study his features as much as she could.

He noticed her increased focus, but made no attempt to hide his face. In fact, he slowly turned to the side, to let her get a better look. "I'll even tell you my name, if you want. Not that it will help."

Miranda didn't understand what he meant by that, but she certainly didn't appreciate being toyed with. Not after all that she'd been through. "You bastard," she spat.

"I've been called worse. Now...just sit there and be good, and you'll be home in time for cocktails. Have a pleasant evening." He gave her a quick nod, and walked out the door.

Miranda went over the details in her mind. His blonde hair, parted to the left. The wicked glint in his brown eyes. His well-trimmed...wait, did he have facial hair? Not a full beard, not a mustache. Maybe he was clean-shaven.

She thought about his olive green suit and black gloves. No, that wasn't right. Brown? Brown suit, no gloves. But he must have been wearing gloves...the gloves were brown, and his hair was black. That must have been it. And his tie was...wait. Was he wearing a tie?

Miranda began to panic as more and more of the details slipped away. Did he smile? Did he touch her? What had he said about her parents? Frustration and despair set in as she tried to hold onto even one thing that would help her identify her kidnapper.

When the police came ten minutes later, Miranda Clyburne was in tears...and she didn't know why.

05: Like-Minded People (The Crowd)

For a party that was seventeen guys and no girls, it was going pretty well.

Six of them were hanging out in the kitchen, next to the well-stocked fridge. They were talking about important current events, and washing down the conversation with Bud Light.

"If I had to?"

"If you had to, dude."

"I guess...Clooney."

The others laughed. "GAAAAAYYYY!" one of them shouted.

"You said if I *had* to! And don't tell me you wouldn't at least think about it!"

"..."

Over on the couch, four of them were playing video games, while another group of four waited their turn.

"BOOM! Suck it, Donkey Kong!"

"Dude, I have got to learn how to block someday."

"Ah, it's more fun like this. Makes the game go faster."

"This is no fair. I'd be schooling all of you if someone" --he jabbed an elbow to his left for emphasis-- "hadn't picked my guy. And if it wasn't for our stupid house rule where we always have to take different guys."

"What's that? I can't hear your whiny-ass complaining over the sound of my FALCON PUNCH!"

"Ahh! You dick!"

Meanwhile, over at the stereo, the remaining three were trying to pick the music.

"What next? Dave Matthews?"

"Dude, I will throw you right out the window."

"Yeah, I was kidding. Put on that Acid Magnet demo; that shit is legit."

"YES! Great call, dude. Remember that show we caught at the Pyramid last month? They fuckin' KILLED it!" He tried to replicate the lead singer's signature scream, and fell well short.

"Dude, you're flat."

"Dude, your mom's flat."

"OHH!" Two of them shared a high five, while the third frowned.

"OK, I don't even have time to go into all the ways that you're dumb."


At this time, the door opened, and an uninvited guest entered. He waited for a lull in the noise before he spoke.

"Excuse me," he said. "I'm looking for Troy Griffith."

Seventeen heads turned. "Yeah, what?" they asked.