“Yeah, I’m a hero.  Hell, we all were. Biiiig fucking heroes, with our public adoration and Pepsi sponsorships. Well, THEIR public adoration and THEIR sponsorships. I wasn’t even a blip on the radar, and for a long time, that was precisely how I needed it to be. Dozens of missions, hundreds of confirmed kills. Even more unconfirmed. I’ve been under assumed identities almost as much time as my real one, which is just eight different kinds of fugly when you think about it.” A mild Virginian accent peppered his rant, becoming more pronounced or less as emotion dictated. 

“Big fucking heroes.”

Dante huffed out his monologue while stacking crates, each curiously marked with both, “Educational Materials” and “Danger: Observe Precautions When Handling” in spray-on block script. His breath seemed to scream in the otherwise absolute still of his surroundings, surrounded by temperature-neutral grey and brown stone deep beneath open air. 

“Nineteen… Twenty. Ok, about enough ‘Educational Materials’ to last until bellbottoms are cool again. Heh.” He chuckled at himself, and wiped the sweat from his face with his shirt. It took a near herculean amount of effort to get him tired, but he’d been at this for days without rest. He looked at the fruit of his efforts, boxes upon boxes of many and varied supplies, stacked evenly and with great care. Electric droplights, each burning away with LED bulbs carefully illuminated his rows and columns of intentionally mislabeled wares. Orderly, neat, unlike the swell of clustered thoughts trying feverously to express clearly in his mind. Dante laughed again, with a derisive snort.  

“I was a [i]fucking shadow[/i].” Dante hissed to himself, “I was a memory. People didn’t even believe I existed.” 

In truth, no one really knew for certain who he was. His image was out there, sure, and people knew the handle that went with it, but so far no one could connect Dante to Captain Stabby. At least, no one that also didn’t have something to lose. There was a sense of security in trusting other people that trusted you with information one might use to royally screw them over. Still, even a definitive public image was irksome. 

“Had to step out of the dark, like the rest of them. Then what happened, hmm?” 

He sat heavily on a nearby box, this one marked “MRE - BULK”, and took a long drink of from a clear green plastic bottle. He thought about the Battle of Adventbrook. Well, the Absolute Failure of Adventbrook, and all of the implications of that loss. They came with six carriers. Six. This wasn’t an invasion, it was a strafing run. He’d done enough of them to recognize defenses being tested. You swoop in, make a lot of noise, gather intelligence on troop strength and technology. Launch a token offensive to see how they respond. 

“My God, they must think we’re ripe for the picking…”

And the bodies of the fallen. Comrades in arms, civilians, everyone who died, taken away. The Hell that wasn’t for research, or infiltration, or both. For all Dante knew, there were already walking around in shiny new Human Suits. At the very least, devising new and interesting ways to scour humanity from the planet without soiling their dainty tentacles. “Well, fuck that.” He very eloquently reasoned aloud. He didn’t have to be psychic to figure out that sooner or later they’d be back. They would be back, and he meant to endure, no matter what else. 

The last few years and no small amount of personal income were spent on just this purpose, from the moment the joyous news came of the imminent arrival of our brothers from across the stars. Let the optimists talk peaceful exchange of ideas; Dante was going to stockpile tinned beef and sharpen his knives. Lots and lots of knives. More than a hole in the ground with supplies, he had spent considerable time domesticating and fortifying a cavern network high in ‘Squatch country. When he wasn’t working, of course. A few more features, another month or three, and it might even become sustainable. It was an obsession. 

“And I wanted to play hero. Yuppers, big hero Stabby, fighting the good fight and letting all that fame take me away from where I needed to be. Stupid, prideful bastard.” Accustomed to working alone the last couple of years, he had taken to speaking to himself more and more. The habit went away if others were present, most of the time. The times it didn’t, he tended to play up the hermit-like role that was granted him by the people living in town. A short drive or moderate hike away, it served as a weigh station of sorts for him, an airlock between he and civilization proper. Not too near to a major city as to be a target, and not too far as to make deliveries impossible. Fewer prying eyes. Fewer people to speak to, hence the habit of speaking his thoughts aloud. Problem was, Dante’s thoughts weren’t all that pleasant. 

“Meaty elephant-squids from the sky. Couldn’t be like Starman or E.T., could it? Noooo… had to come down and rip our collective asses wide open.” In his mind, he could still smell the burning, torn dead, hear the screams of the living. When it became apparent that nothing he was capable of inflicting was effective, the good Captain set to locating and evacuating survivors, trying to lower the day’s body count. It was a newish feeling, taking damage to save people, but he could heal so much faster than anyone else on the battlefield, and the people of Adventbrook deserved better than what they were getting. 

Maybe he saved lives. Maybe he just prolonged them for a little while. I guess it didn’t matter anymore. He could save a few more lives up in these mountains, if it came down to it. His own citadel under the earth and rock of the Cascades, a potential community underground. Now, how to decide who to tell about it, let alone invite. It’s not like he had an abundance of friends from which to choose. Or he could simply wall off humanity and be alone with his thoughts for an eternity. Considering his cheese was already starting to slip off his cracker as it was, more alone time was probably not the best idea. 

Slowly, Dante started out of his cavern and into the basement level of a well-appointed vacation cabin. Climbing stairs, he caught his first glimpse of daylight in days. Cool blue sky filled his eyes and verdant evergreens lifted his spirits somewhat. He took it all in for a moment, reminded himself that the world was still here for the present, still beautiful to look upon. There was the tiniest sliver of hope as long as he set his pride aside and acted like what he was: He was a soldier. He was a tactician. He was a collector of information and an agent of change. He was still Captain Stabby, but not in the way the media used to portray him. 

It was time to get back to his roots. He strode to the kitchen and put on a pot of coffee. Staring into the fridge for a few minutes gave him just enough motivation to throw cold cuts between two slices of bread. “Yup, five star cuisine here, lemme tellya.” He sat on a barstool next to a prep counter, sipped his coffee, and fired up a secure laptop. 

“We need to prepare. We need to start. I’m almost done on my end; I can defend, I can hide. Now, I need to find others to help attack. We need a plan. We need to get the band back together. So… where do I start?”

The old numbers probably weren’t in service, or didn’t belong to their original owners anymore. It wouldn’t hurt to send a coded message to Email addresses, or check out old online haunts. And it certainly wouldn’t hurt to talk to some of the more benevolent contacts from his former occupations. 

“What’s the point? These people were as broken and useless as I was, maybe more. Most didn’t want to speak to me then, failure and absence probably made that worse.” Still, the possibility that he was wrong lingered. Maybe they were making their own plans. Maybe they just need each other, if for no other reason than the fact that no one else could understand what they’d been through. 

Dante sent off a series of messages, different and varied in form, despite the fact that they all seemed to say, “I’m listening.”

Where to start, indeed.