[center][i]"In the weeks following Theodore's death, the question of who should lead the party came to the top of everybody's mind, my womanhood being an obvious disqualifier for my nomination. We pushed through the prairies of what would be called the Territory of Nebraska, wanton for guidance. From God, who left us with the bible locked in my husband's gelid embrace. From civilization, who's Columbian trappings were bogged at the gate-mouth of the Mississippi. But principally, we sought to each other, and soon the voice of fear was heard with eminence in the cacophony of the pioneers, embodied in a frail farmhand from the Carolinas. They called him Slim. I never learned his Christian name, nor did I care to. It was not who he was that mattered, but what he represented. He stood a height shorter than my own, and was a sickly child, with his negligible masculinity beared on the back of his aggression. For the mind he spoke to was one built on ignorance, his voice weighted by an ardent survivalism that had been nailed into the party's minds. He informed me, soon a week into my widowhood, that the typhoid fever which took my husband's life was none but the work of the Cheyenne, who conspired against good Christians like Theodore, and who adulterated our water with disease. That we should wreck havoc and vengeance upon the savages, and stood with rifle ready. I brushed him off, but his conspiracy grew in popularity. Soon, not a day went by without discussion of Cheyenne savagery, of encroaching violence. The only man in the party who did not suffer these delusions was the Negro, Julius. A free man, Julius was an expert carpenter, having bought his emancipation from his master through the utilization of his mastery. But aside from his profession, the black man was premier in all judgement; he stood strong like an oak, with a sculpted physique and a kind smile. In the wake of the party's hysteria, Julius and I became friends and confidantes, him being surprisingly well-read, and a widower himself. We spent long hours chatting about the weather, scripture, and the infant which clung to my bosom, and I found comfort in the freed man's company. One sable night, Slim and his followers approached me in camp, and advised me that Julius was an agent of the Cheyenne, that the colored peoples work together to destroy White civilization, and that were I to continue our friendship, I would surely find my honor defiled. I assured them of their foolhardiness, to which they responded that, though they are understanding of the way a woman's thoughts are clouded by tragedy, if Julius were to continue seeking my company, thus would only confirm their suspicion, and they would be forced to take action. I took Slim's ultimatum with no gravity, my mind dismissing him due to his impishness, and the next day continued as normal, and approached Julius, offering him some bread I had baked. He seemed aloof, and ignored me. I pressed him, when he explained that he had been approached by Slim in a similar manner as I had the previous night. Finally understanding the severity of the situation, I walked away, but the damage had been done. The next day, Julius was gone. I knew what happened, but could say nothing, for an infant clutched to my bosom."[/i] - Eliza Montgomery, Autobiography[/center] [hr] It was a sunny day in Esperanza, if not a bit cold, and a rain of typicality was falling over Mission Hills. Bikes and Priuses have started replacing the beat up trucks of days past, and going to a diner was 'retro' rather than something to do at the end of a nine hour shift at the plant, but the transient heart of Mission Hills still beat strong, especially in the landmark Gold City Records, who's famous sign still hung high above the building. It was quiet inside; nobody was in the storefront except for the eclectic collection of records and vintage memorabilia, but in the back was where the magic was coming to life. [i]Why did you leave me?[/i] [i]Why did you cleave me?[/i] [i]Why are you breaking my heart?[/i] A young man and his three friends were recording in the most famous studio in Esperanza. The singer/songwriter wore a t-shirt that was too tight, while his friends didn't, but all of their jeans were tight. The song wasn't very good, and the producers weren't into it. Then a legend entered the recording booth. Greg, the producer, turned and smiled at the building's aging owner, the corners of his lips reaching up into his bald head. "Tommy! How's it going man?" He went for a high five, but was ignored as Tom instead looked at the band in front of him, his face buzzing with interest. "Who's this?" He asked, nodding at them. He didn't know what to make of the band; he didn't like them, that much was obvious. Very cliché, very wannabe-Nirvana. But they had a potential, something that the producers couldn't see; Tom was used to feeling things other people couldn't. "Oh, uh, they call themselves, 'Firebrand', from up in Santa Maria," Greg answered, hands rested on the pot belly he attempt to hide with his black shirts. It had been a while since Tom was in, at least a couple of weeks, but it's understandable, what with his first grandkid being born. The old man was wearing his usual leather jacket, now worn from years of abuse, and a GCR shirt underneath. His hands, previously hid in his pockets, were produced, and began quivering as the band played their song. "Ah. That's unfortunate," Tom quipped. He bent down and spoke via the intercom. "Hey guys, hold up." The band stopped playing, the last few drum patters tailing off as they looked up towards the recording booth, and all except the singer had wide eyes as they looked at Tom. "Alright, first, lets turn that bass up, I can barely hear it. Ah...second, let's not use an amp emulator for distortion, let's get you a fuzzbox. Now-" Suddenly, he was cut off by the singer with a tight shirt. "I'm sorry, who are you?" His bandmates began stifling their laughs, and he turned around to hush them, as Tom began chuckling himself. "My name's Tom," he said, and the singer's face grew white with shock when he realized his mistake. "Oh shit...sorry man, I-" "It's all good," Tom responded with a light laugh. "Take it again guys." [hr] [h3]1970[/h3] Tom layed back in the plastic diner booth, staring up at a plaster ceiling. He wore the same leather jacket, though it was much more pristine, and had the same long hair, with black instead of gray and white. His coffee rested half-drank on the table and the plate that housed his waffles and eggs was now clean. Across from him sat his wife, Daisy, who's hair was wrapped in a scarf and was looking over the newspaper with a smile. In the background played, "Got to be Free", by The Kinks. "Hey, so uh...we added a couple tour dates, heading out to Texas," he said, hesitating as he knew what his wife's reaction would be. "Are you fucking kidding me?" Daisy said with a drop of the paper to emphasize the [i]fuck[/i] of it all. He curled away from her to escape the anger, and she sat back in her seat with her arms folded. "You said it was ending in Albuquerque, and I've got my gallery showing the week after!" "I know, I know, but uh...you know we're starting to record again, and Harry just thought-" He sat up and looked at Daisy. "I don't know, it's...I'm sorry, okay?" He was sorry, he meant it. But he'd rather be sorry than at that gallery showing. He didn't like Daisy's art friends, nor did they like him. He was a factory boy hanging out with a bunch of college kids, and everybody knew it. Daisy looked down at the paper, not making eye contact with him, and he reached out a hand to stroke her cheek. "Hey, look at me." Suddenly her eyes widened. "Oh my god!" She exclaimed. Tom pulled his hand back. "What, what is it?" His wife picked up the newspaper and showed him the headline. [center][b]LADY LIBERTY, DEAD AT 48[/b][/center] [center][hider=Article] Claire Wessex, better known as Lady Liberty, the super-powered woman known for her service on the western front during the Second World War, as well as her many films and modeling career, has been found dead today at the age of 48. Though no autopsy has yet to have been performed, an official spokesperson for the caped crusader has issued this official statement: "For the last year, Mrs. Wessex has been fighting a long battle against breast cancer. With a lifetime of fighting battles, this was one she unfortunately could not win. But she will be remembered in the hearts of her family and friends, and in her fans everywhere." Mrs. Wessex leaves behind her husband, French director Jacques d'Isle, and a ten year old daughter. Her death is amidst a nationwide debate on the safety of Controlled Radiative Therapy, the method through which Lady Liberty gained her extreme strength, impenetrable skin, and an ability to catapult herself to distances once deemed impossible. Seymour Starling, CEO of Starling Science, the company at the vanguard of CRT research, has releashed the following statement: "I knew Claire to be a strong, dedicated woman. She lit up any room she entered, considering we were all squinting men in lab coats back then, and she truly knew what it meant to live a life of devotion, to her fans, to the public, and to science." Mrs. Wessex's films include titles such as [i]Lady Liberty[/i] (1946), [i]The Iron Lady[/i] (1950), [i]The Star Spangled Gal[/i] (1952), and [i]Femme Forte[/i] (1954), the film where she met her husband, which would go on to win the last Grand Prix before the Internation Film Festival changed to the [i]Palme d'Or[/i]. Fans around the world are shocked by her untimely death, and (continue on page 11) [/hider][/center] Daisy rested her head on her hand in confusion, while Tom sat back in his seat and looked up at the ceiling with a sigh. "I can't believe it!" Daisy exclaimed, shaking her head in shock. "I...it's dangerous. These powers..." Her husband looked at her in confusion. "What, these powers?" He sat forward, quieting his voice. "Powers aren't dangerous. POWER is dangerous." His wife looked back at him in surprise at his sudden aggression. "Tom-" "You think she would've sat in that machine, or her chair or...or whatever, if some fucking general didn't-" Their waitress approached the table, oblivious to the conversation at hand. "Can I get you folks anything else?" She asked. "We're good!" The singer shouted back, not looking up at her, and she walked away insulted. "Tom, you're scaring me!" Daisy said, and the artist looked back at her, in her eyes, and sighed, sitting back in his seat. "I'm sorry, Days, it's just..." He couldn't think of the right words before she shook her head and left the restaurant. That night, Tom was practicing with his band, the Jipsees. He sat on the floor of the studio with no shoes and his acoustic guitar, while his bandmates talked and joked without him. There was a weight on his mind that sealed his lips and brought his hand to the guitar strings. Finally, his bass player noticed him and spoke up. "Hey, Tom, you good man?" Tom snapped back into reality. "What? Yeah, yeah man...I uh...I wrote a new song, it's in G, four four time." The band looked around to each other, and Jim, the other guitar player and singer spoke up. "Yeah man, just give us a sec-" "Or you could do your fucking jobs, that's an option," Tom retorted mockingly. Jim bit his lip and looked back at after a good few seconds. "Sure. Whatever you say." They assembled their equipment, Jim his guitar, the drummer grabbing a bongo, and the bass player, Paul, grabbing an acoustic bass. Tom started without counting them in. [i]Hey Mr. Nixon, What’d you do with all the flowers? Hey Mr. Nixon, Why’d we go to Vietnam? Hey Mr. Nixon, I know you’ve got all the power, But don’t you forget just who put it in your hands. Hey Mr. Nixon, I can hear a new wind blowing, Hey Mr. Nixon, Will you ever understand? Hey Mr. Nixon, With the secrets that you’re knowing, How could you see all the callous in my hand? Oh, I just want to be somewhere, Where a man musn’t kill his fellow man, Oh, I want to see the people, Across the world just stand hand in hand. Hey Mr. Nixon, Now that we’re together, Does a dead man walking, Weight heavy on your mind? Hey Mr. Nixon, You won’t be alive forever, So don’t you forget just who you left behind. [/i] Tom didn't know this song would be his undoing.