St. Roch, Louisiana - 1878
The upbeat melody rang out across the saloon, clearly audible above the drone of its many patrons. Smoke from cigars and cigarillos hung in the air, their distinctive aroma adding its flair to the smell of the free-flowing alcohol that often splashed over the floor and tables. The laughter of sloshed men and the flirty giggles of painted women echoed within the four walls while a game of cat and mouse was exchanged between the two parties over the guise of the playing cards laid across the table. Men pretended to only come to these establishments to play a hand of poker or a round of blackjack, but the working women knew what they really wanted. They, after all, were the lifeblood of most of the frontier and St. Roch was no exception.
Suddenly, the doors to the saloon flew open. Slamming against the walls on either side of the frame, a dark silhouette filled the doorway. The echo of spurs was the only sound that could be heard through the saloon, aside from the continuing melody of the play piano. A hush had fallen over the patrons while they seemed to unanimously decide what sort of threat the man in the doorway held.
Each of his hands rested on his holsters, one strapped to either leg. A mask concealed his identity beneath the wide-brimmed hat above his head, and you'd be forgiven for mistaking him for another vigilante were it not for the white bird emblazoned on his chest.
"I’m lookin’ for ‘Gentleman’ Craddock." The man yelled into the saloon. His eyes darted back and forth, looking for any sort of reaction to the name. Not a word came from the collective gathering in front of him.
His arm was no more than a blur before a deafening gunshot rang out, silencing the player piano before the masked gunslinger spoke again.
"Perhaps you folks didn't hear me, I said I'm looking for 'Gentleman' Jim Craddock." The man in black repeated.
"Turns out ol'Jimmy doesn't quite live up to his name, and I intend to see him wear a hemp necktie."
Not a word came from the crowd. The masked man continued to study the room; he could tell some of the bolder men were getting itchy trigger fingers and would soon be throwing lead if he didn't get a better handle on the situation. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched a man slowly begin to slide his hand towards the table's edge. His other hand shot up, revolver in hand as he cocked the hammer and levelled the barrel with the man's face.
"Not another move. My quarrel ain't with you, partner. I'm only after the man who tried to force his way with my girl." Spitting in disgust at even the mention of the act committed, he turned back to the man.
"Now don't try to tell me you wouldn't want to see the man who committed such a heinous act get his comeuppance."
"You promise he'll hang?"
The woman's voice asked nervously, prompting the masked man to turn his gaze towards the source. Her face was painted, she was obviously working, but even with her face obscured, he could tell she was young. Younger than Cinnamon, perhaps too young even for the line of work she had fallen into. But that was neither here nor there, Craddock had dishonoured Cinnamon, and Hannibal Hawke wasn't about to stand for it.
"I'll string him up myself if the Sheriff won't see justice done, little lady."
"He's a horrible man." The young woman replied.
"Was here the night before last, bragging to everyone about the business he had and flashing all sorts of coin." There was a slight pause as though the girl was choosing her words before a slight shrug of her shoulder indicated she decided against being tactful.
"Surprised he made it out of here alive showing off that kind of money."
Hawke knew Craddock believed himself to be invincible. Some old gypsy had told him he'd only meet his end at the hands of 'noble blood.' It was why the coward had fled England for America in the first place. There was no nobility in the frontier.
"Did he say where he was going?"
"Said he was meeting a Mister Alan Wayne." The name may not have meant anything to the folks in St. Roch by Hawke had travelled enough to recognize a name like Wayne. No doubt that Craddock had swindled Wayne into meeting with him.
"You’ve been very helpful." Hawke replied while holstering his guns. Tossing a small wallet towards the barkeep, he spoke again.
“Drinks for all my new friends, keep the change.”
Suddenly, the doors to the saloon flew open. Slamming against the walls on either side of the frame, a dark silhouette filled the doorway. The echo of spurs was the only sound that could be heard through the saloon, aside from the continuing melody of the play piano. A hush had fallen over the patrons while they seemed to unanimously decide what sort of threat the man in the doorway held.
Each of his hands rested on his holsters, one strapped to either leg. A mask concealed his identity beneath the wide-brimmed hat above his head, and you'd be forgiven for mistaking him for another vigilante were it not for the white bird emblazoned on his chest.
"I’m lookin’ for ‘Gentleman’ Craddock." The man yelled into the saloon. His eyes darted back and forth, looking for any sort of reaction to the name. Not a word came from the collective gathering in front of him.
His arm was no more than a blur before a deafening gunshot rang out, silencing the player piano before the masked gunslinger spoke again.
"Perhaps you folks didn't hear me, I said I'm looking for 'Gentleman' Jim Craddock." The man in black repeated.
"Turns out ol'Jimmy doesn't quite live up to his name, and I intend to see him wear a hemp necktie."
Not a word came from the crowd. The masked man continued to study the room; he could tell some of the bolder men were getting itchy trigger fingers and would soon be throwing lead if he didn't get a better handle on the situation. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched a man slowly begin to slide his hand towards the table's edge. His other hand shot up, revolver in hand as he cocked the hammer and levelled the barrel with the man's face.
"Not another move. My quarrel ain't with you, partner. I'm only after the man who tried to force his way with my girl." Spitting in disgust at even the mention of the act committed, he turned back to the man.
"Now don't try to tell me you wouldn't want to see the man who committed such a heinous act get his comeuppance."
"You promise he'll hang?"
The woman's voice asked nervously, prompting the masked man to turn his gaze towards the source. Her face was painted, she was obviously working, but even with her face obscured, he could tell she was young. Younger than Cinnamon, perhaps too young even for the line of work she had fallen into. But that was neither here nor there, Craddock had dishonoured Cinnamon, and Hannibal Hawke wasn't about to stand for it.
"I'll string him up myself if the Sheriff won't see justice done, little lady."
"He's a horrible man." The young woman replied.
"Was here the night before last, bragging to everyone about the business he had and flashing all sorts of coin." There was a slight pause as though the girl was choosing her words before a slight shrug of her shoulder indicated she decided against being tactful.
"Surprised he made it out of here alive showing off that kind of money."
Hawke knew Craddock believed himself to be invincible. Some old gypsy had told him he'd only meet his end at the hands of 'noble blood.' It was why the coward had fled England for America in the first place. There was no nobility in the frontier.
"Did he say where he was going?"
"Said he was meeting a Mister Alan Wayne." The name may not have meant anything to the folks in St. Roch by Hawke had travelled enough to recognize a name like Wayne. No doubt that Craddock had swindled Wayne into meeting with him.
"You’ve been very helpful." Hawke replied while holstering his guns. Tossing a small wallet towards the barkeep, he spoke again.
“Drinks for all my new friends, keep the change.”
Location: Midway City - Michigan, United States of America
Ghosts of the Past #1.01: Fugue State
Interaction(s): None
Previously: None
The older model American built pick-up truck weaved in and out of the busy afternoon traffic. Exiting the interstate, the rebuilt engine let loose a loud rumble before the vehicle took the ramp and merged into the multilane road that wove its way through Midway City's downtown. Inside sat a scowling man who held a white knuckle grip on the steering wheel, all the while cursing under his breath to himself. While he supposed he should be lucky he wasn't facing jail time, court-ordered anger management was far from high on his list of priorities on his day off.
These days the driver tried to spend as little time in the city proper as he could. The world had certainly changed in the last five years, ever since the blue pyjama-wearing-boy scout the media had dubbed 'Superman' had literally flown onto every television screen in North America. Before that, it felt the world had never had to worry about a 'super-villain.' The bad guys in movies were still Germans, Russians and gang bangers. Now the world had to worry about interdimensional starfish and hive minds attacking New York every other Wednesday. It wasn't the driver's fault that he was angry about it. Everyone should have been upset by it, thoroughly enraged even.
Problems used to be solved by the guy with the bigger gun. But now, problems were solved by the guy with the bigger team of metahumans at their disposal. First came the Justice League, then came S.H.I.E.L.D. with their Avengers. What happens when either one of those teams decides to seize power for themselves, what happens when the Justice League decides they want to be the 'Justice Lords'.
Ruled over by a man dressed as a rodent.
Not on my watch.
"Carter Hall?"
The driver had been so caught up in his thoughts, the rest of the drive had disappeared. Snapping back to reality, he found himself sitting in a semicircle with several other adults, each looking about as happy about where they were as he was inwardly feeling.
"Mr. Hall, unfortunately, as this is your third time attending, I do need you to actually speak or else I can't sign off on your court papers."
It was as though Carter had been on auto-pilot. One moment he had been in his truck and the next here. He scarcely remembered parking the vehicle, let alone entering the building, taking a seat or even where the piping hot cup of coffee firmly grasped in his right hand came from. The out of body experience was something Carter was all too familiar with. Visions of other lives regularly haunted his slumbering mind. Worlds, languages and adventures he could have never known, never imagined vividly came to him while he tossed and turned only to wake in the morning with no apparent thought of where they came from nor any sort of rest. Even now, the heavy bags hung under his eyes, which no doubt prompted his unconscious need for coffee.
"One moment," Carter replied, breaking the heavy silence that hung over the room while the other individuals tried with no avail to not awkwardly stare at the man who seemingly just came out of a trance. Taking a long sip of the sobering beverage in his hand, it took almost all of Carter's willpower to not rear back in disgust. The burnt taste of overcooked cheap grinds invaded every corner of his mouth, prompting him to swallow hard and fast—the scorching liquid searing every inch down the back of his throat. With a slight sputter, he placed the styrofoam cup on the ground, before standing. Crossing the semicircle of chairs in a few strides, Carter positioned himself behind the podium the counsellor had previously held.
Gazing out over the group, Carter realized this was the first time he had ever truly looked over his fellow 'inmates'. It was a small group all said and done, only about five of them. One looked to be exactly the type you'd expect in an anger management session. Neck tattoo, gym and steroid inflated arms, too tight of a tank top clinging beneath a very loud jacket. The man next to him was the polar opposite. He wore glasses, a rumpled business suit and a tie that was clearly too tight. Another was a young woman who looked barely out of high school. Her eyes darted from the floor to the clock adorning the wall. Her left leg shook while she chewed the end of a pen held to her lips between two fingers, clearly in need of a hit of nicotine.
That left only two others. Another male with absolutely nothing remarkable about him, if Carter had to guess why the fourth figure was here, he'd go with spousal abuse. It was a shot in the dark. He had no grounds of justification for it. But he knew the type, and Mr. Bland screamed it. That left only 'Inmate Number Five'.
She was stunning. Maybe not in the traditional sense, but there was something about her that immediately took Carter's breath away. Well dressed, prim and poised; obviously white collar, which led to several questions about why on Earth she'd be in anger management. Red hair spilled over her shoulders, outlining the angular features of her face. A pair of piercing green eyes were raised to meet Carter's own gaze. They were fierce and full of life as they stared back defiantly, seemingly glowing in comparison to her radiant olive skin.
"Mr. Hall? Uh, you actually need to speak."
Carter shook his head, breaking the staring contest with the captivating woman. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her smirk.
Suddenly, he didn't hate this group quite as much.
These days the driver tried to spend as little time in the city proper as he could. The world had certainly changed in the last five years, ever since the blue pyjama-wearing-boy scout the media had dubbed 'Superman' had literally flown onto every television screen in North America. Before that, it felt the world had never had to worry about a 'super-villain.' The bad guys in movies were still Germans, Russians and gang bangers. Now the world had to worry about interdimensional starfish and hive minds attacking New York every other Wednesday. It wasn't the driver's fault that he was angry about it. Everyone should have been upset by it, thoroughly enraged even.
Problems used to be solved by the guy with the bigger gun. But now, problems were solved by the guy with the bigger team of metahumans at their disposal. First came the Justice League, then came S.H.I.E.L.D. with their Avengers. What happens when either one of those teams decides to seize power for themselves, what happens when the Justice League decides they want to be the 'Justice Lords'.
Ruled over by a man dressed as a rodent.
Not on my watch.
"Carter Hall?"
The driver had been so caught up in his thoughts, the rest of the drive had disappeared. Snapping back to reality, he found himself sitting in a semicircle with several other adults, each looking about as happy about where they were as he was inwardly feeling.
"Mr. Hall, unfortunately, as this is your third time attending, I do need you to actually speak or else I can't sign off on your court papers."
It was as though Carter had been on auto-pilot. One moment he had been in his truck and the next here. He scarcely remembered parking the vehicle, let alone entering the building, taking a seat or even where the piping hot cup of coffee firmly grasped in his right hand came from. The out of body experience was something Carter was all too familiar with. Visions of other lives regularly haunted his slumbering mind. Worlds, languages and adventures he could have never known, never imagined vividly came to him while he tossed and turned only to wake in the morning with no apparent thought of where they came from nor any sort of rest. Even now, the heavy bags hung under his eyes, which no doubt prompted his unconscious need for coffee.
"One moment," Carter replied, breaking the heavy silence that hung over the room while the other individuals tried with no avail to not awkwardly stare at the man who seemingly just came out of a trance. Taking a long sip of the sobering beverage in his hand, it took almost all of Carter's willpower to not rear back in disgust. The burnt taste of overcooked cheap grinds invaded every corner of his mouth, prompting him to swallow hard and fast—the scorching liquid searing every inch down the back of his throat. With a slight sputter, he placed the styrofoam cup on the ground, before standing. Crossing the semicircle of chairs in a few strides, Carter positioned himself behind the podium the counsellor had previously held.
Gazing out over the group, Carter realized this was the first time he had ever truly looked over his fellow 'inmates'. It was a small group all said and done, only about five of them. One looked to be exactly the type you'd expect in an anger management session. Neck tattoo, gym and steroid inflated arms, too tight of a tank top clinging beneath a very loud jacket. The man next to him was the polar opposite. He wore glasses, a rumpled business suit and a tie that was clearly too tight. Another was a young woman who looked barely out of high school. Her eyes darted from the floor to the clock adorning the wall. Her left leg shook while she chewed the end of a pen held to her lips between two fingers, clearly in need of a hit of nicotine.
That left only two others. Another male with absolutely nothing remarkable about him, if Carter had to guess why the fourth figure was here, he'd go with spousal abuse. It was a shot in the dark. He had no grounds of justification for it. But he knew the type, and Mr. Bland screamed it. That left only 'Inmate Number Five'.
She was stunning. Maybe not in the traditional sense, but there was something about her that immediately took Carter's breath away. Well dressed, prim and poised; obviously white collar, which led to several questions about why on Earth she'd be in anger management. Red hair spilled over her shoulders, outlining the angular features of her face. A pair of piercing green eyes were raised to meet Carter's own gaze. They were fierce and full of life as they stared back defiantly, seemingly glowing in comparison to her radiant olive skin.
"Mr. Hall? Uh, you actually need to speak."
Carter shook his head, breaking the staring contest with the captivating woman. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her smirk.
Suddenly, he didn't hate this group quite as much.
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Next Issue: Old Flames Burn Brightest
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