Supermaxx

Absolute Comics - Season Two: The Monster Within

A M B E R M E M O R I A L P A R K

---

^{Night | Queens Borough, New York City}

Cyclops reaction to Spider-Man’s words was difficult to ascertain. Most of his face was hidden behind either the dark blue- nearly black, even- fabric of his mask, or the ruby red visor locked around his eyes; the only window into Scott’s thoughts was his pursed lips and the crossing of his arms over his chest. Silence held in the air like a fog for a time as he mulled over the black clad vigilante’s story. His serious demeanor and tight frown clashed spectacularly with the over-the-top spandex that clasped around his tall, lanky form like a glove.

“No, I don’t get it.” He finally said, letting his arms fall down to rest on either of his hips, like a cowboy searching for his missing holsters. “You broke into a police station and attacked law enforcement officers. I don’t know where you learned to ‘superhero’ but that’s not how we operate. It was reckless. And stupid. They could’ve killed you.”

He rubbed his thumb against his forehead in an effort to sooth the pounding headache he was starting to develop. Summers had plenty more to lecture the other vigilante on, but Jean decided to cut into the conversation first.

“What was so important you risked getting murked, anyway?” She called over, her tense voice muddled by her piqued curiosity as she motioned toward the duffle bag.

The boy seemed to move away from Jean whenever she spoke. Those bulging bug eyes of his stayed locked on her and he fell closer to the ground, balancing on his haunches. He rested his hands on his knees. He swallowed.

“Someone… Someone very important to me had something bad happen to them that I couldn’t stop. But now, with this? Maybe I can do something about it.”

Jean kept her eyes locked with the white voids of Spider-Man’s ‘eyes.’ There was an unnerving energy pulsating from them, like an aura of malice sewn into the very fabric of his costume. Grey was far from some withering, backbone-less violet, but there was just...something about this guy that made her wince. It didn’t match his cadence or body language at all- he looked and sounded tired. Vulnerable.

So why did she feel afraid of him?

Cyclops’s headache spiked again and he wasn’t sure why. He tried his best to shake it off and get back to the pressing matter at hand. “Maybe- maybe we can help each other.” Scott hesitantly suggested. Trusting a stranger like this after what he admitted to doing didn’t match the Professor’s modus operandi for the team, but after their enormous screw up in Bayville...Scott was desperate. “Like I said before, helping mutants is sort of what we do.”

The fabric on Spider-Man’s forehead scrunched, along with the filament covering his eyes. He looked right into Scott’s visor, for the first time.

“You guys keep saying -- uh, not that there’s anything wrong with it, or anything, but, uh, I’m not a… Yknow. Mutant. Oh, uh, sorry, am I not supposed to, yknow, say it? Is there another…? Well, uh, either way, I’m not, uh, that. Sorry.”

Scott’s mouth slipped open, revealing the surprise that his facial expressions couldn’t. “You’re...not-”

“I know,” Jean spoke over Summers in a tone like hot coals. She pulled herself up onto the jungle gym and stepped out into the open air, landing with the speed of a feather against the playground mulch. “Just looking at you makes my head feel like it’s gonna...explode, so what’s wrong with you, Pe-”

She caught herself, her teeth sinking into her bottom lip hard enough for an iron-taste to wash over her tongue. “...Spider...Man…”

“Wrong with me? What’s wrong with u--” Spider-Man bounced up to his feet, chest out and hands wound into tight fists. It was as if he’d grown a full inch, it looked to Jean almost like the surface of his costume was moving. Something twitched on the surface and he shook his head. He looked down and his shoulders dropped, all the air had gone out of him.

“I, uh. It’s been a long night. Did you just…?”

The moment he moved it felt like somebody had set a thousand alarm clocks off in her head. Pulsating, pounding pain shot through her frontal lobe. She stumbled backward a step, an open palm pointed toward the nearest piece of playground equipment for the half a second that Spider-Man looked like he was about to pounce. Jean didn’t answer his unfinished question with anything more than a glare.

“Whoawhoawhoa, breathe. Both of you.” Scott was on his toes, thankfully, and was quick to step between the two, a hand held out toward either. He turned to his teammate first. “Marvel, take a break.” He ordered, before turning his attention fully to the apparent non-mutant.

“What was…?” Spider-Man rubbed his temples and closed his eyes, the lenses closed with them, quickly fading into a silver goop and disappearing into the rest of the fabric. He took a long, shuddering breath before he opened them again.

“I’m...sorry, for that. She doesn’t have a lot of control over her telepathy. Sometimes...she gets her thoughts and other people’s mixed up. Shit just slips out sometimes.” Summers calmly explained. “She didn’t mean to do it, I swear to God.”

“I… Yeah.” Spider-Man waved it off. He looked down at his hands, turning them over one at a time. “Felt a little Freaky Friday for a sec there.” He stooped down, reaching for his bag.

It wasn’t hard to tell the man in black was in a hurry to get out of there. After everything that went down, Scott couldn’t exactly blame him for that, either. “I meant what I said before. Even if you’re not a...mutant, we’re here to help. I don’t know what all you’re going through but you don’t have to do it alone- I...uh...do you have a pen?”

“Memory’s a steel trap, Eye-guy.” He fastened his bag over his back as Scott gave him the phone number for the mansion.

Watching Spider-Man turn to leave still wasn’t anything like watching a man move. White webbing shot from his wrists and he pulled himself into the air, light as a feather. He twisted in the sky and came back down, landing on one of the branches at the park’s perimeter.

“Hey, since your girlfriend over there already knows, I’m Pete. Thanks for, uh, this, I guess.”

Name Change Request part 2

Can I get my name changed to ComradeMaxx so that I might further my efforts to democratize the Guild? thx

Absolute Comics - Season Two: The Monster Within

N E W A P O S T L E S C H U R C H

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^{Nighttime | Bayville, New York City}
Hundreds of people gathered for the wake celebrating the lives of Officers Dean King and Joseph Martin, the NYPD officers that lost their lives saving the students of Bayville High School from their deranged peer that had terrorized the community just two nights before. They'd packed the church full of people to the point where there was barely any standing room left. Many of the front few rows were filled with men and women in NYPD uniforms sitting beside their families. Even with all those people packed in there it was nearly silent. One could've heard a pen hit the floor.

Griff didn't want to be there. His tie was too tight, he had sweat running down his forehead, and the sound of Mrs. Martin's sobs was echoing painfully throughout the entire church. And of course they had to sit him and his classmates in the front row with the families of the deceased. He knew he shouldn't be annoyed by that sound. He knew it made him a piece of shit. But he just-

He needed her to stop.

Rem and Duncan sat on either side of Griff. Duncan's fat face was contorted in anger while Rem's hung in sober stoicism. None of them had been the same since the attack, but they hadn't bothered to talk about it yet. Nobody was sure what there was to talk about. 'Hey, remember when we all nearly got killed 'cause we messed with the school's freak? Wild time, right boys?'

Griff felt lost. Lost in his own thoughts. Lost about what to do next- how to move on. Every time he closed his eyes he could see Lance standing there, that rage on his face burned into Griff's retinas. He'd been a second away from death more than once that day. Tortured, too. How was he supposed to move on from that? How in the hell could he forget how...how powerless Lance had made him feel?

Someone coughed into the microphone, drawing Griff's eyes up to the front of the church. An aging man was leaning on the side of the podium, his grey hair disheveled and dark bags hanging underneath his eyes. He looked like he hadn't slept since the incident. Whoever he was, he'd abandoned his suit jacket because of the heat, and he'd rolled up the sleeves of his button-up shirt to his elbows. His arms were surprisingly thick for a guy his age. Griff...wasn't sure why he noticed that. He wasn't sure why he did a lot of things anymore.

"There's a lot of new faces in the crowd tonight." The speaker started off. His voice felt small in a sanctuary that large, even with the mic beside him. "I...wish it were a happier occasion, but I welcome all of you to New Apostles Church. For those of you who don't know me I'm Reverend Stryker, but you can call me William. I've been the pastor here at New Apostles for goin' on twenty five years now. And If you'd come by last Sunday you would've been greeted at the door by Dean. Officer King was a busy, busy man- every officer in this city is- but he still made time on Sundays to serve his congregation. He was one of the best, most devout men I ever had the pleasure of knowing.

"Dean was a man of strong conviction. He believed in justice, righteousness and loyalty above all else. We're here to mourn him and his partner, Joseph, yes- but I think it's important we remember them, and all the good they did for this community..."

Stryker went on for awhile about Officers King and Martin, and about their lives, service, and families. Griff had zoned out for most of it. It all felt so far away from him. He didn't know either of them. He hadn't even seen them in the school when the incident happened. The only reason he came was because he and the other students had been invited, and because he mom was close to finishing Lance's job and killing Griff if he didn't finally get out of the house.

He was just about ready to 'go to the bathroom' and skip out on this whole, depressing shebang when Stryker said something that dragged him back into the real world kicking and screaming.

"...Their deaths were a tragedy, yes. But not an isolated one. It tears at my very soul to even think about it, but I cannot ignore my conscience and continue to be silent about this. King and Martin lost their lives to a sickness. A sickness that has taken root not just in our neighborhood, not even just in this city, but in our whole nation. This disease takes more and more people from us to meet the Lord every day. Just an hour ago, in fact, a...friend of mine...and his wife were found slaughtered and mutilated on a back road in Connecticut."

Stryker paused. If it was for effect or because he was starting to choke up on his own words, Griff couldn't be sure. But he managed to continue after a few moments of composing himself.

"I must stress this: I am not a bigot. I do not hate anyone for being born a certain way, nor do I hold an ounce of hate in my heart for the...people...that did these things- Christ did not make us to hate. But while I am a Christian, I am also a pragmatist. And anyone with workin' eyes can see that there is a group of people in this nation who hold far, FAR too much power over the rest of us- they make us feel so weak. So...small. They have no accountability to anyone because the government turns a blind eye on their atrocities, and that makes them very, very dangerous. America is sick, folks. And it is in desperate need of a cure."

Griff didn't know he'd been holding his breath until it started to hurt. It felt like he'd been holding it in for the past two days and nights, and there was a great sense of relief that washed over him as he let it spill out from between his teeth. He didn't notice, either, that he'd begun to sit up.

"Our politicians refuse to be a part of that cure, only a desperate few of them even willing to acknowledge the disease that's lopping our arm off as we speak. Their sin- their greed, their vanity, their lust for power- keeps them from saying what needs to be said and doin' what needs to be done." Stryker wasn't as quiet anymore. The weakness in his voice when he was speaking about the fallen officers had vanished- replaced by a powerful conviction that was sweeping across the crowd. The spirit was working within them; William could tell as much.

"It is we the people who must take matters into our own hands. We must protect our friends, families, churches and communities from the plague growing within our midst. It is we the people who have the power, the real power, of Christ, and we must use that to our advantage!" William pounded his fist against the podium suddenly, and it sounded like thunder through church's expensive sound system. "Do you hear me men and women of God? We can do something about this! We can make sure that more civil servants like Joseph and Dean don't have to go to an early grave- that no more of our brothers and sisters have to leave behind wives, husbands, and children. We can prevent further tragedy. You and I have that power."

There was a mumbling among the crowd. Some of it was from unconvinced or uncomfortable strangers that hadn't heard such speech before. People who felt it inappropriate talk to be had at an event like this. But they were in the minority. Most of the gathered people were bobbing their heads in agreement. A few, empowered souls let out whooping cheers at Stryker's rallying cry.

Griff was as silent as the grave, enraptured by William's words.

"If you want to talk further about how we can be that cure, and I'd humbly ask that you stick around after the service is finished. We'll be having refreshments downstairs in the basement- Dinah made her signature chocolate muffins and I'd urge you all that try them before you go." Stryker quieted down again, retreating back behind the podium to wrap things up. But there was still an urging in his voice. A powerful, deep eagerness to convince people to stay behind and talk to him about the cure.

Any desire Griff had to leave was gone.

---

Several hours had passed and the sun was creeping closer and closer to waking, but Griff had never had this much energy before. He could feel it pulsating through his entire body, running through his veins like electricity. The sparks of it kept his fingers from sitting still for more than a second. It was like he'd downed eight Redbulls in a row.

Duncan and Rem were equally pumped about this. They'd sat around a table in the church's basement for what felt like an eternity, just pouring their feelings out to one another over a couple of mugs of coffee. Both of them felt almost exactly as Griff had, and Stryker's speech had hit them just as hard, too. This was their chance to stop feeling so powerless. To be able to take back control over their lives and stop feeling like victims of some unstoppable force of nature. William had came by and explained it to them- these things they were dealing with weren't unstoppable.

In fact, Stryker and his people had been stopping the disease for longer than Griff had been alive. And he was giving the three of them- and a whole lot of other people who felt the same way they did- a chance to join in.

The three of them stood together in a half circle in some warehouse a friend of the church owned. It was huge. There were crates everywhere, and shelves covered in crates, and crates stacked on top of other crates. A whole lot of boxes, too. Most of them were marked by what was inside them, or what company they came from, but the few they'd been brought to were all barren. Stryker took a crowbar from one of the workmen beside him and jammed it underneath the crate's lid, prying it open with strength someone his age should never have had.

Anxiety and excitement in equal distribution built up in Griff's chest at the sight of its contents.

"You boys ever shot before?" William asked, hoisting up an assault rifle between his hands. It's black, nearly polished sheen made it out to look brand new.

Rem and Duncan both shook their heads, but Griff gave a short nod. "My dad used to take me to the range on weekends. It's, uh, been awhile, but I remember most of what ya gotta do."

"Been awhile?" Stryker raised a brow.

Griff shifted uncomfortable. "He passed awhile back."

A look of realization dawned on William. He stepped forward, letting one hand fall away from the gun so he could grab Griff's shoulder. "You have my condolences, son." Griff was struck by just how sincere he sounded. Most people got real uncomfortable when Griff mentioned it, but...Stryker...

"Thanks." He nodded, quickly trying to change the subject. "So, uh, what's this? An AR?"

"This would be a select-fire M4 Carbine fitted for 30 round box magazines." Stryker corrected, passing it to Griff. "It's not loaded. Ammunition is stored over there." He said, motioning with his head toward a line of olive-green boxes stacked on some nearby shelves.

"Ain't these illegal?" Rem spoke up, his voice shaking with uncertainty.

William gave Rem a long, serious look, like he was staring right into the boy's soul. "Sometimes the law of man and the will of God don't line up. And God's will always supersedes whatever whims made men criminalize these tools. That's what these are, boys- they're just tools. Isn't a single about them that's immoral. It's how you use them that matters. And what we do today is going to save many, many lives in the future."

Griff furrowed his brow, looking up from the carbine and back to the pastor. "And what are we doing today?"

Stryker grinned, and led the group over toward another series of crates. These ones, unlike the others, were marked with a name in big, bold letters.

Stagg.

Absolute Comics - Season Two: The Monster Within

Also, speaking of Doctor Fate and the #spooks... _{looks longingly at Zatanna sheet, feels tempted, cries instead.}

@Hexaflexagon

I will give you all of my meager belongings if you bring back Zatanna. Well, I won't- I need my shit- but it's the thought that counts.

Absolute Comics - Season Two: The Monster Within

_{THE BOOK OF FATE}

Issue #2: CONTRACTUALLY OBLIGATED

---

_{Viceroy City Police Department ♦ Viceroy City, South Carolina}

Music: Memories in Shadow

Viceroy City was a crumbling husk of civilization. Back in the 50s it had been a bustling hub of activity, boasting over fifty thousand residents and acting as the seat of over a dozen corporate headquarters. The financial and political elite of the city were some of most important rising stars of the period- speculation had even been made that it might one day rival New York City in terms of economic and cultural importance.

It couldn't last forever.

Greed had rooted itself into the very foundations of Viceroy City. Everyone, from the highest offices to the lowest of the low, had become embroiled in a race for vanity and power. Not a single soul was clean of that dark influence, and for that reason powers beyond our understanding decided to intervene. Calamity befell Viceroy. A natural disaster, followed by a financial crash, culminated in political upheaval so widespread and violent that the city never recovered.

Much of the suburbs lay abandoned. Smashed windows, overturned cars and the crumbling remains of burned-out homes marred the outer layers of Viceroy, and traveling deeper within the city only revealed further disrepair. Entire office buildings were empty. Businesses on every corner boarded up, many of their 'for sale' signs covered in profane graffiti or rubbed clean of anything assembling words. Any business with a lick of sense had moved over to Greenville and hadn't looked back. Less than ten thousand people remain, those still there either too poor or too stubborn to leave with everyone else.

The Viceroy City Police Department was one of the last remaining vestiges of authority in town, but even they were faltering. It was 8:30 PM and the station was nearly empty, every cop on their payroll busy dealing with some altercation, accident or some such. There was barely a skeleton crew remaining to deal with everything from phone calls, walk-ins, and all sorts of administrative duties.

That beleaguered staff couldn't really be blamed, then, for not noticing the sudden flash of light coming from inside the supply closet.

An odd man wrapped up in a fine suit of emerald fabric stepped out of the threshold first, a cigar jammed between impossibly perfect teeth- it's smoke was wafting up toward that smattering of ginger and white locks he called hair. He took a step to the side of the hall and pulled the door further open, motioning for another figure to join him.

Kent Nelson gave a reluctant shake of his head as he stepped out of the portal and into the dirty and rundown police station. It'd been decades since the last time he remembered getting Displacement Sickness- teleportation had once been trivial for the famed Doctor Fate. But Kent, the old magician with sagging jowls, deep wrinkles and arthritis in his hands? It was quite another matter entirely.

"Don' mind the stench," Corrigan chuckled, letting go of the door a second too soon, allowing it to smack up against Nelson's shoulder as he shuffled inside. "Think that's just the rats. Nothin' 'ta worry about, 'ol pal."

"The odor isn't what concerns me." Nelson mumbled. He could feel his connection to Order weakening by the second. There was a thick, repugnant power in the air that was stifling Fate's ability to commune with Nabu. It made him feel uneasy, like a thousand eyes were staring daggers into his back. A shaky hand found it's way into the pocket of his old suit jacket, running its fingers along the golden surface of Nelson's pocket watch. He could feel the whispers of Inza's comfort in its touch. And the pulsating power of Fate sketched into its very existence. "Chaos reigns here, doesn't it?"

Jim gave a nod. "One way'o puttin' it, yeah. Sorry fer bringin' you to a place like this, Doc, but I need your help."

"So you said earlier, but I'll need more details than that."

Instead of replying with a straight answer Jim chose to start walking down the hallway, setting a pace too brisk for Kent to easily match. Rather than protest he chose to follow, knowing full-well how beings like the Spectre operated. Ancient entities of judgement living within the corpses of long dead men didn't have a habit of being forthcoming with information. It was always games with these people...Even when lives were at stake, it was as if nothing truly mattered at all.

They rounded the corner and came to a stop in front of the station's interrogation room, marked by a rusty plaque bolted onto the steel door. Corrigan waved his hand through the lock and forced it to pop open, allowing the two entry into the observation area. A one-way pane of glass in the wall with a desk sitting just underneath it, scattered files and papers lit by the light of a dying lamp.

Jim kept his eyes on the glass- or more specifically, the man beyond it- while he slid a file across the desk and toward Nelson. He waited until it was in Kent's hands to describe it's contents. "His name's Mitchell Shelley. Been calling himself 'Resurrection Man' since he got to Viceroy, though. You heard o' him?"

A pair of reading glasses slipped onto the end of Kent's nose from out of thin air. He thumbed through the files pages, but it didn't have much to tell. His priors were all vigilantism and various minor infractions related to that. Some two-bit meta playing at superhero, if he had to guess. "Should I have?"

The Spectre just shrugged, taking another puff from his cigarette. "Figure a guy like you knows a whole lot more'n the rest'o us. He's old school, like us. Been running away from Death since the first time some poor sobs tossed his body into a coffin."

"So he's immortal?" Kent raised a brow. "A rarity, I suppose, but I'm not sure why that would require my intervention."

"He's not just immortal," Jim grunted, "He can't die, Kent. Period. End'a story. No loop holes, escape clauses, hell, we don't even know if there'sa expiration date. Man might live on past the known universe n' I wouldn't be all that surprised."

That caught Nelson's attention. Death was supposed to be a certainty. It was one of the seven Abstracts- laws of existence that could not be broken no matter what. Kent had heard of attempts to escape the fundamental guidelines of...well...everything, but he didn't think anyone could ever succeed. "How?"

"We dun know. Spectres before me spent a whole lotta time tryin' to put him down, but we've never had any luck. Hell, just this year he's gone down over eight hundred times and he's still chuggin' along like it ain't anything. Decided 'bout a hundred o' so years ago that it wasn't worth the effort 'ny more, so we made an...agreement with Mitch. A contract. Heaven wouldn't try'ta collect his soul anymore n' he'd go on being virtuous. Part of that agreement was that we couldn't talk to him without a 'neutral arbitrator' to ensure everything was on the up and up."

"And something's happened that requires contact, so you came to me." Kent finished, finally beginning to understand the situation. "Seems more suited to someone like the Sorcerer Supreme if you ask me."

"He's a busy fucker these days. You hear that apprentice'o his ran off? Kids these days, no respect. 'Sides, what kind'o friend would I be if I let you wallow in self-pity all the live long day?" Corrigan gave a slap to Nelson's shoulder that very well could've dislocated it. Nelson didn't so much at wince at the searing pain it sent through his ancient joints, too proud to let Jimmy see what had really become of him. "Now come on. Can't leave the ol' boy waitin' forever, now can we?"

Absolute Comics - Season Two: The Monster Within

@Simple Unicycle Thank you for your service.

Absolute Comics - Season Two: The Monster Within

<Snipped quote by Saint Maxx>

I'm honored, but you're not my type.
_{I'm into people who actually post on time.}

@Retired

Your self-loathing makes so much more sense now.

Absolute Comics - Season Two: The Monster Within

I will eat your ass Ethan

Absolute Comics - Season Two: The Monster Within

A P L A Y G R O U N D

---

^{Night, later | Queens Borough, New York City}
A dozen disparate sirens screamed in the distance as the NYPD searched high-and-low for the man that attacked the 105th precinct. They wouldn't suffer someone attacking their own, especially not after everything else that had happened that week. Scott couldn't be sure what would happen if they found him, but he trusted his gut enough to know it wouldn't be good. They couldn't turn 'Spider-Man' over to the cops. Not yet, at least. He needed to find out more before he made a decision.

The three of them had managed to sneak through several backyards and parking lots to avoid capture, but they'd been cut off. Backup had been called in and there were officers swarming throughout the neighborhood. In time they'd start to scatter, but for now the mutants needed to keep their heads down and wait this out.

Scott, Jean and the Spider had found their way to a small playground located in a local park called the 'Amber Memorial Park'. Most of it was just grass and oaks, save for the parking lot at the entrance and the rundown walking path circling the edge. A stream was running downhill on the far side, a quaint little bridge covered in bike locks built over it. It wasn't particularly large, but there were lines of trees on nearly all sides so they were fairly well concealed here. A good enough place to hide out, Scott reckoned.

They'd have plenty of time to get to the truth.

"Looks like we'll be safe here," Scott called to the others, stepping away from the treeline. "For now, at least. I gave the rest of the team a call and they'll be by to pick us up in a bit. In the meantime..." He stopped walking in front of the mutant spider, crossing his arms over his chest. "I'm gonna need you to start talking. Who're you and why'd you break into a police precinct?"

Jean was seated a ways away atop the jungle gym, one foot dangling down from between the bars. She was glaring daggers into 'Spider-Man', more than a little uneasy about this whole arrangement. Whoever this guy was...he wasn't like them. There was something going on in his head that made the hair on the back of her neck stand on end. Jean Grey was a lot of things, but easily frightened certainly wasn't one of them.

'God, I hate this,' she grumbled to herself. 'Can't we just beat this guy into a pulp and be done with it?'

Absolute Comics - Season Two: The Monster Within

_{THE BOOK OF FATE}

Issue #1: HUMBLED

---

_{Salem Willows Park ♦ Salem, Massachusetts}

The Price of Failure

Kent Nelson had sat on that bench many a time before. Sometimes with Inza. Sometimes alone. It'd been there for quite awhile in one form or another. His favorite was the wooden one, made from the same Willows planted all 'round him, that they'd put up way back in the 18th century. This one wasn't great, he had to admit. It's deep black, wrought iron frame was sturdy, sure, but it was so uncomfortable. He hated what it did to his back.

Hell of a view, though. Hell of a view. Especially now when the sun was starting to dip underneath the water of the Ram Horn, almost like the channel was swallowing Earth's star whole. It's light cascaded across the open water like God throwing stones across a pond. They shot out in a spray of a thousand, individual tendrils of fire that reached from the horizon all the way to the stony shore. Every time Kent saw it it took his breath away. He thought he'd caught lightning in a bottle, and the next time he sat on this bench, the majesty of it would disappear. It kept, somehow. And that made it all the more special.

It'd been far too long since the last time, he realized. He couldn't even remember when the last time was. Kent felt a tinge of guilt in his chest. The only reason he'd come back was because he had nowhere else to go now that the Tower of Fate was locked to him. And he had the audacity to stain this poor bench crimson. Terrible as it might be, it didn't deserve to be bled on.

"I've lost my way, haven't I?" He muttered, followed shortly by a sigh. A painful one. That last blow he'd taken to his side must've done more damage than he initially thought. Reaching down he pulled at the dark blue material of his costume, lifting it up to reveal the mangled flesh that still clung to his side. Blood, pus and dark magic dripped down it- all of it flowing from the big, ugly mark in the center.

Arrogant. Stupid. Reckless. He should've known challenging Mordru in his own domain was folly from the start, and yet the mighty Doctor Fate did it anyway. Threw himself into the fires of Hell and expected not to get burned. Even an amateur would've had the forethought to know it was a bad idea.

"But not you, right, Kent?" Nelson laughed, only for it to transition into thundering coughing fit. "Kent Nelson, biggest moron in the Nine Realms, at your service."

The helmet was sitting in his lap, those empty eye sockets glaring up at him. 'I told you so!' They seemed to scream. 'I told you how it'd end, but you went anyway, and now look what you've done to me!' The Helmet of Fate was older than anything Nelson had ever encountered. Though he'd found it in an Egyptian Tomb, even then he'd known it was far more ancient than the Pharaoh it'd been buried with. It'd spent the vast majority of its existence spotless. Shining, like polished gold. Now Kent looked down at it and saw that polish fading. He could see small cracks along the faceplate and the crown. He used think the thing was indestructible.

Just like him.

But Nobu was dying. The Lord of Order had gone silent. If it wasn't for his uneven breathing in the back of Nelson's soul, Dr. Fate would've thought him dead. But his time was running out, and when he went so too would Kent. And there was no telling when existence would join them. Could be tomorrow. Could be in a hundred thousand years. But without Nabu...Without all of the Lords of Order...

Time was going to run out eventually.

"Stupid, Nelson. Stupid, stupid, STUPID!" Dr. Fate roared as he leapt up from the bench where he sat. With a great heave of his arm he chucked the Helmet of Fate, watching it sail through the air until it landed like a stone in the Ram Horn channel. Despite it's weight it didn't sink. Instead, the helm floated atop the water, refusing to flow with the current. Just sat there, staring up at the rapidly darkening sky.

"I killed us." He breathed, falling back down on that uncomfortable seat. "I killed us all."

"Death's not so bad once ya get used to it." A gruff voice, corrupted by one too many cigars over the years, called from behind Kent.

"I need your help, old friend, n' it sounds like you need mine."