The Womb slunk around the deserted alleyways of Perth. He had lost any pursuers, not that he had tried. It was as easy as walking away. He had come to know his surroundings as Australia. The land of Criminals and Aborigines. He had visited the place in his past, yet he did not remember it being so Babylonian in scope. Buildings tore into the sky like mighty fingers reaching. They were impressive. As impressive as the Incan pyramids or Tibetan temples. He wondered what it was they represented, if they were used for worship or some other kind of tradition. The sun had begun to touch the horizon, and the skies were turning an eerie blood red in their twilight. As he walked and pondered, he spotted a gruff looking man at the end of the alleyway. He was clad in black leather, spikes adorning the outfit. He had a hooded jacket underneath, and fingerless gloves and boots. He seemed to be meddling with a metal horse of sorts. 

“Fackin motor, she’s nearly there, come one,” the man muttered to himself as he bent lower and twiddled at the insides of his vehicle. The Womb approached from behind and stood motionless behind him. After a short while, the man leant back in triumph, “there she is! Good as new. Let start ‘er up,” He stood up and turned to straddle the bike, yet as he did so he was suddenly met with The Womb’s naked form. “Jesus mate, what the fackin ‘ell are you doing? You looking to catch a beating? Where’s yer fackin clothes? Are you drunk?” The man didn’t seem to notice The Womb’s genitalia, or fleshless face; the twilight skewing his vision. 

“I am not this Jesus you speak of. I believe you mean Yeshua. He was a good man. He wanted peace. But he worshiped the wrong God,” answered The Womb. 

“What the fac--?” The man’s expletive was cut off as the Womb’s hand shot out and gripped the the leather clad brute by the throat. With seeming ease, the Womb gradually lifted the man from his feet, slowly choking him to death. The man kick out, but his kicks did little to nothing to Phase The Womb. Soon enough the man was limp, the only life left in him being the twitching of his nervous system. The Womb threw the body to the ground and began to rifle at its clothes. 

“If I am to survive in this world, I must dress accordingly,” muttered The Womb to himself, as he eased off the man’s trousers and jackets. Soon enough, The Womb was suited and booted in the biker's outfit. It was a snug fit, but would work for now. He took the bikers full face helmet and eased it onto his head. He took the bike by the handle bars and sat aboard it’s seat. He fiddled with the controls, trying to figure out how to work the machine. After some time, he found out how to start the engine. As he continued to investigate, he pulled back on the throttle and was suddenly thrust forwards at a high speed. At a good forty miles per hour, The Womb sped out onto the streets of Perth. He swerved and nearly hit a car. Using his enhanced reflexes, he was able to right himself and keep balanced, however he did not know how to slow himself down. He drove on into oncoming traffic, cars veered out of his way as he tried fruitlessly to understand what he was doing. He came to a corner and turned himself into a skid that sent him rolling across the ground and his bike sliding in a sea of sparks further down the road. 

The sounds of horns and sirens alerted The Womb. He couldn’t have lawmen approach him again. He had already created enough of a scene in his disoriented state on the beach. He ran to the bike, hoisted it up, and rode it yet again. This time he took it to the side in which others seemed to be driving and found himself in a much better position. He took little notice of road signs or lights, and zipped through the streets at high speed. Using his reflexes, he began to find it easy dodging through traffic, only having to slow at corners. The streets were more or less straight, and were wide. This made things much easier for The Womb. Soon enough he was on the outskirts of the city and felt safe once again. He slowed down outside a string of backwater stores. He leant his bike against a nearby lamppost and gazed into a shop window. Inside were many screens with moving pictures. He remembered when these were grainy, soundless spectacles. ENjoyed by the masses with piano accompaniment. 

“How far have my children come? These images, they look like portals…” The Womb whispered to himself. He stared into the screens and could make out the faint sounds of speaking. 

[i]”...The Champions have been difficult to get hold of after the incident with only limited statements being released. After Nagoya many are wondering if the Champions should be arrested, or hailed as heroes for stopping a dangerous mafioso group. We have Ben Shapiro and Noam Chomsky debating the topic with us here tonight on the Hannity Show on FOX News…”[/i]