Cyrania
Guardian Angel Haruki
N3v3rM0r3
Lurking Krog
RPM
Finetales
mattmanganon
| Armed Forces Retirement Home
| Gulfport, Mississippi
Patrick O’Toole had been a character in his youth.
A Brooklyn native who had lied about his age in order to join the Army during the Second World War, those who had served with him wouldn’t know a Patrick O’Toole. They knew Knuckles. Knuckles O’Toole, the Brooklyn brawler.
Officially, Patrick O’Toole had fought in the war in Europe, become a decorated sergeant, served as a drill instructor for a time before retiring from the Army. He didn’t really talk about it with his wife or kids, or grandkids, because that was how it had been. Loose lips sink ships. No one talked about the war, even though they’d all been living it.
What wasn’t in the public records was the fact that Knuckles O’Toole had been one of those enamored and foolish wartime youths who had been inspired by Steve Rogers and the Howling Commandos to form a group they’d called the Young Allies. Fools, the lot of them.
And no better friends.
Today, Patrick O’Toole was ninety-eight. The oldest living veteran inside the retirement home. Soon to be ninety-nine. His wife had passed five years earlier, his children had all moved away, and so he spent the twilight of his life as alone as when he’d snuck away to join the Army at fifteen.
Back then, in 1943, Knuckles had met one other kid who had snuck away to the war.
“We were...” the old man began, trailing off as he raised a spindly, frail arm. His skin was translucent with age and marked by spots. It was a far cry from the heavy handed mitts that once fought their way through ranks of Nazi soldiers. “Where were we?” the man asked, seemingly talking to himself, as he tried to recall the details of the memory that had come to mind. “Marseilles. We were in Marseilles and Tubby... you remember Tubby?”
Turning his head, the aging spectre of Knuckles O’Toole looked over and down at Billy Batson. A young kid with a bedhead mop of black hair and eyes that were as blue as the sky. Midwesterner, the sort who was Minnesota nice by nature, from Fawcett City, Ohio. In more than eighty years, that face hadn’t changed. “Yeah,” the boy said, wistfully, as though sharing in the memory of yesterday. “Yeah, I remember Tubby.”
“Tubby wanted to crawl up a... a...”
The old man stammered, his mouth falling open as the memory seemed to fade on his tongue.
“It was a church bell tower,” Billy supplied softly.
“It was a god damn church bell tower,” Patrick echoed, as though now invigorated. Arms outstretched, the man seemed almost a shadow of his former self as he said, “And there he is, with his fat ass, trying to shimmy up this wood scaffolding...” the man uttered, lapsing into a familiar laugh.
Then the laughter became a cough, which seemed to wrack the man’s entire body.
Reaching out with one arm, the boy placed a hand on the man’s back. The truth was, what Billy saw was more than just the shared memory. Pulmonary hypertension. He could see it. See the threads of time starting to fray and shorten as they extended out from Patrick O’Toole.
The man wouldn’t live to see his ninety-ninth birthday.
Could Billy change that? Reverse the ravages of time and ease the burden of age on Knuckles’ body? Yes. All that, and more. Restored youth. Renewed vigor. With but a whim and the word, Billy could change it all back to the way it was -- to the way that he remembered him -- with but a snap of his fingers.
He didn’t.
He wouldn’t. Which was not to say that it was not, still, more than a passing thought. After all, if one had the power to do something, to change something, wasn’t it at least worth a thought?
You are not entrusted with the Rock of Eternity that you may install yourself as a god, Billy Batson. You are the guardian of man’s mortal life. Never forget that. One before you once thought himself a god, and was brought low by it.
The lessons of the past. Which were no less the lessons of the present.
As the coughing fit subsided, the man emerged back into the cloud of confusion that had first greeted the boy. “Billy?” Knuckles uttered, as though looking at the youth for the first time. Then, seemed to have at least the wherewithal to realize that wasn’t true. “Who was we talking about again?”
A pained smile tugged at the sides of the boy’s face. “Tubby,” the boy supplied patiently. “You were talking about Tubby.”
“Huh. Tubby,” the old man echoed, sinking back into the seat. “Ol’ Tubby...” he murmured, his eyelids starting to flutter. “He died in... seventy-nine?”
Had it been a question? Or a memory? In either case, Patrick’s head rolled back as the old man fell into a quiet sleep.
A heavy, wearied sigh slipped from out of the young boy. He remembered vividly the Brooklyn native who had taught younger Billy Batson how to fight. Like, really fight. The kind of fighting where your life is on the line. Because their lives had been on the line and it had been Knuckles’ strong hands that had carried their asses out of the fire on more than one occasion.
A hand brushed across his shoulder. Turning his head, Billy looked up to see one of the nurses motioning him out of the room. “He talks like you were there,” the woman -- Annie was her name -- remarked as the two stepped out into the hallway.
“He says I remind him of someone he knew then,” Billy answered cryptically. This particular ward of the retirement home was the assisted living section. It more closely resembled a hospice, with a nursing station monitoring the rooms.
Waiting for the inevitable.
“Anything you want me to help with before I leave, Ma’am?”
“I just appreciate your spending time with them,” Annie answered, as the woman made her way back behind the nursing station. “I know they appreciate it as...”
She’d glanced up then, trailing off as she realized that the boy was no longer there. Turning her head to the left and right, she was presented with an empty hallway.
“I swear that kid’s a ghost.”
A Brooklyn native who had lied about his age in order to join the Army during the Second World War, those who had served with him wouldn’t know a Patrick O’Toole. They knew Knuckles. Knuckles O’Toole, the Brooklyn brawler.
Officially, Patrick O’Toole had fought in the war in Europe, become a decorated sergeant, served as a drill instructor for a time before retiring from the Army. He didn’t really talk about it with his wife or kids, or grandkids, because that was how it had been. Loose lips sink ships. No one talked about the war, even though they’d all been living it.
What wasn’t in the public records was the fact that Knuckles O’Toole had been one of those enamored and foolish wartime youths who had been inspired by Steve Rogers and the Howling Commandos to form a group they’d called the Young Allies. Fools, the lot of them.
And no better friends.
Today, Patrick O’Toole was ninety-eight. The oldest living veteran inside the retirement home. Soon to be ninety-nine. His wife had passed five years earlier, his children had all moved away, and so he spent the twilight of his life as alone as when he’d snuck away to join the Army at fifteen.
Back then, in 1943, Knuckles had met one other kid who had snuck away to the war.
“We were...” the old man began, trailing off as he raised a spindly, frail arm. His skin was translucent with age and marked by spots. It was a far cry from the heavy handed mitts that once fought their way through ranks of Nazi soldiers. “Where were we?” the man asked, seemingly talking to himself, as he tried to recall the details of the memory that had come to mind. “Marseilles. We were in Marseilles and Tubby... you remember Tubby?”
Turning his head, the aging spectre of Knuckles O’Toole looked over and down at Billy Batson. A young kid with a bedhead mop of black hair and eyes that were as blue as the sky. Midwesterner, the sort who was Minnesota nice by nature, from Fawcett City, Ohio. In more than eighty years, that face hadn’t changed. “Yeah,” the boy said, wistfully, as though sharing in the memory of yesterday. “Yeah, I remember Tubby.”
“Tubby wanted to crawl up a... a...”
The old man stammered, his mouth falling open as the memory seemed to fade on his tongue.
“It was a church bell tower,” Billy supplied softly.
“It was a god damn church bell tower,” Patrick echoed, as though now invigorated. Arms outstretched, the man seemed almost a shadow of his former self as he said, “And there he is, with his fat ass, trying to shimmy up this wood scaffolding...” the man uttered, lapsing into a familiar laugh.
Then the laughter became a cough, which seemed to wrack the man’s entire body.
Reaching out with one arm, the boy placed a hand on the man’s back. The truth was, what Billy saw was more than just the shared memory. Pulmonary hypertension. He could see it. See the threads of time starting to fray and shorten as they extended out from Patrick O’Toole.
The man wouldn’t live to see his ninety-ninth birthday.
Could Billy change that? Reverse the ravages of time and ease the burden of age on Knuckles’ body? Yes. All that, and more. Restored youth. Renewed vigor. With but a whim and the word, Billy could change it all back to the way it was -- to the way that he remembered him -- with but a snap of his fingers.
He didn’t.
He wouldn’t. Which was not to say that it was not, still, more than a passing thought. After all, if one had the power to do something, to change something, wasn’t it at least worth a thought?
You are not entrusted with the Rock of Eternity that you may install yourself as a god, Billy Batson. You are the guardian of man’s mortal life. Never forget that. One before you once thought himself a god, and was brought low by it.
The lessons of the past. Which were no less the lessons of the present.
As the coughing fit subsided, the man emerged back into the cloud of confusion that had first greeted the boy. “Billy?” Knuckles uttered, as though looking at the youth for the first time. Then, seemed to have at least the wherewithal to realize that wasn’t true. “Who was we talking about again?”
A pained smile tugged at the sides of the boy’s face. “Tubby,” the boy supplied patiently. “You were talking about Tubby.”
“Huh. Tubby,” the old man echoed, sinking back into the seat. “Ol’ Tubby...” he murmured, his eyelids starting to flutter. “He died in... seventy-nine?”
Had it been a question? Or a memory? In either case, Patrick’s head rolled back as the old man fell into a quiet sleep.
A heavy, wearied sigh slipped from out of the young boy. He remembered vividly the Brooklyn native who had taught younger Billy Batson how to fight. Like, really fight. The kind of fighting where your life is on the line. Because their lives had been on the line and it had been Knuckles’ strong hands that had carried their asses out of the fire on more than one occasion.
A hand brushed across his shoulder. Turning his head, Billy looked up to see one of the nurses motioning him out of the room. “He talks like you were there,” the woman -- Annie was her name -- remarked as the two stepped out into the hallway.
“He says I remind him of someone he knew then,” Billy answered cryptically. This particular ward of the retirement home was the assisted living section. It more closely resembled a hospice, with a nursing station monitoring the rooms.
Waiting for the inevitable.
“Anything you want me to help with before I leave, Ma’am?”
“I just appreciate your spending time with them,” Annie answered, as the woman made her way back behind the nursing station. “I know they appreciate it as...”
She’d glanced up then, trailing off as she realized that the boy was no longer there. Turning her head to the left and right, she was presented with an empty hallway.
“I swear that kid’s a ghost.”
| Normandy American Cemetery & Memorial
| Colleville-sur-Mer, France
“I saw Knuckles today.”
A tear slipped down the right side of the boy’s face. Craning his head back, the youth drew in a breath as, for a moment, the myriad of emotion seemed ready to overtake him.
He didn’t know what to say.
Should he say anything?
He was here. It seemed he needed to say something. “Seven kids, thirteen grandchildren, and now he’s got five great-grandchildren. I think he’s done well,” the boy said. Then, paused with a pained laugh as he added, “I think he’s done the best of all of us. Who’d have imagined, right?”
Another tear slipped down his face. He continued to stare up, but couldn’t help the fact that he was crying openly now. It was a pregnant pause before Billy found the courage to look down again.
At his feet was a simple headstone. It was identical to rows and rows of white marble headstones. He knew the names of many. Some better than others, but these had all been a band of brothers. The Americans who had died fighting in Europe against the Third Reich and Axis Powers.
Brothers and Sisters.
A tear slipped down the right side of the boy’s face. Craning his head back, the youth drew in a breath as, for a moment, the myriad of emotion seemed ready to overtake him.
He didn’t know what to say.
Should he say anything?
He was here. It seemed he needed to say something. “Seven kids, thirteen grandchildren, and now he’s got five great-grandchildren. I think he’s done well,” the boy said. Then, paused with a pained laugh as he added, “I think he’s done the best of all of us. Who’d have imagined, right?”
Another tear slipped down his face. He continued to stare up, but couldn’t help the fact that he was crying openly now. It was a pregnant pause before Billy found the courage to look down again.
At his feet was a simple headstone. It was identical to rows and rows of white marble headstones. He knew the names of many. Some better than others, but these had all been a band of brothers. The Americans who had died fighting in Europe against the Third Reich and Axis Powers.
Brothers and Sisters.
Elizabeth Lawrence
Women’s Airforce Service Pilots
Our Liberty Belle
Women’s Airforce Service Pilots
Our Liberty Belle
“They’re everywhere!”
“Snipers in the bell tower! Toro, can you..?”
“I’m pinned down. We’re in a crossfire!”
“Billy, you have transform.”
“We’re too close!”
“They’re mowing right over us. IT’S A TRAP!”
“Billy, just say it!”
“I can’t.”
“You’re the only one who can! Billy, say it now!”
“God... fuck...”
“BILLY!”
“Shazam.”
He remembered.
He remembered all of it.
He could still hear the echoes of the German machine guns. Shells exploding in massive clouds of earth, as the tanks had rolled into view, blocking their only escape. It was supposed to have been a simple assignment, a rendezvous with British intelligence.
The whole thing had been a set up.
But the sound he remembered the most was the thunder, when the flash from the lightning had cleared. And he would never forget what he saw when the smoke had cleared.
Billy had been the one who had pulled them out of the fire that day, but he’d only managed to save less than half of them. Toro. Knuckles. Tubby. Wash Jones.
The strength of Hercules. The wisdom of Soloman. The speed of Mercury. Billy Batson had the power of the gods themselves at his command. He was tasked to be the savior of humanity. And, in the end, he couldn’t even manage to save his friends.
Lizzie had been pressed up against him. They’d been pinned down, taking cover together with German fire coming from both sides.
It was different then. The power hadn’t been Billy’s, it had been the wizard’s. Billy would say the name and the power would come down and literally strike him like a bolt of lightning. Which was every bit as fearsome and destructive as it sounded. He’d learned early to be careful of when and where he transformed, or even adapted it to be a weapon when he’d had to.
“Billy...”
In mid-air, a holographic window seemed to appear, containing the image of a horse-like alien.
When Billy had looked up, he wasn’t sure just which of the two of them were more startled.
“...are you okay?”
“Yeah,” Billy tried to utter, though he’d choked on the word even as he brought his arm up to wipe at the tears running down his face.
He wouldn’t have believed him either.
Clearing his throat, he tried again. “Yeah, I’m fine.” Still wiping at his face, the boy straightened up to ask, “What’s up?”
“Friday just picked up some trace energy readings. We believe that there is a Zn’rx ship hiding on the dark side of your moon.”
Billy was still having trouble with Earth geography. And the hundred-however-many nations. Keeping up with the different alien nations in the galaxy was, frankly, more than his brain seemed ready to handle. “Is this bad?” the boy asked finally. Might as well get to the point of it. It was either a good thing... or it wasn’t.
With aliens, he honestly was never sure what constituted good or bad.
“Potentially. The Zn’rx are space-capable, but quite primitive even by human standards. I do not imagine that they are here to open peace negotiations.”
Great. If it wasn’t Hell on Earth, it was the threat of alien invasion. What ever happened to the days when stopping a single nation dictator was all that being a hero required?
The air around the boy seemed to shimmer. His clothing and form crackled with an electric energy, as a red costume emblazoned with a golden lightning bolt appeared. As a white cape draped over one shoulder, the boy said, “Well, we should probably ask them.”
“Are you certain that you are okay?”
“Just... catching up with old friends,” Billy offered cryptically, before glancing back up toward the sky. “Dark side of the moon? See you in a bit.”
The holographic window blinked out of existence, giving Billy another moment of privacy in which to glance around the cemetery and memorial one more time.
Then he turned his head back toward the sky.
“Up, up and away.”
“Snipers in the bell tower! Toro, can you..?”
“I’m pinned down. We’re in a crossfire!”
“Billy, you have transform.”
“We’re too close!”
“They’re mowing right over us. IT’S A TRAP!”
“Billy, just say it!”
“I can’t.”
“You’re the only one who can! Billy, say it now!”
“God... fuck...”
“BILLY!”
“Shazam.”
He remembered.
He remembered all of it.
He could still hear the echoes of the German machine guns. Shells exploding in massive clouds of earth, as the tanks had rolled into view, blocking their only escape. It was supposed to have been a simple assignment, a rendezvous with British intelligence.
The whole thing had been a set up.
But the sound he remembered the most was the thunder, when the flash from the lightning had cleared. And he would never forget what he saw when the smoke had cleared.
Billy had been the one who had pulled them out of the fire that day, but he’d only managed to save less than half of them. Toro. Knuckles. Tubby. Wash Jones.
The strength of Hercules. The wisdom of Soloman. The speed of Mercury. Billy Batson had the power of the gods themselves at his command. He was tasked to be the savior of humanity. And, in the end, he couldn’t even manage to save his friends.
Lizzie had been pressed up against him. They’d been pinned down, taking cover together with German fire coming from both sides.
It was different then. The power hadn’t been Billy’s, it had been the wizard’s. Billy would say the name and the power would come down and literally strike him like a bolt of lightning. Which was every bit as fearsome and destructive as it sounded. He’d learned early to be careful of when and where he transformed, or even adapted it to be a weapon when he’d had to.
“Billy...”
In mid-air, a holographic window seemed to appear, containing the image of a horse-like alien.
When Billy had looked up, he wasn’t sure just which of the two of them were more startled.
“...are you okay?”
“Yeah,” Billy tried to utter, though he’d choked on the word even as he brought his arm up to wipe at the tears running down his face.
He wouldn’t have believed him either.
Clearing his throat, he tried again. “Yeah, I’m fine.” Still wiping at his face, the boy straightened up to ask, “What’s up?”
“Friday just picked up some trace energy readings. We believe that there is a Zn’rx ship hiding on the dark side of your moon.”
Billy was still having trouble with Earth geography. And the hundred-however-many nations. Keeping up with the different alien nations in the galaxy was, frankly, more than his brain seemed ready to handle. “Is this bad?” the boy asked finally. Might as well get to the point of it. It was either a good thing... or it wasn’t.
With aliens, he honestly was never sure what constituted good or bad.
“Potentially. The Zn’rx are space-capable, but quite primitive even by human standards. I do not imagine that they are here to open peace negotiations.”
Great. If it wasn’t Hell on Earth, it was the threat of alien invasion. What ever happened to the days when stopping a single nation dictator was all that being a hero required?
The air around the boy seemed to shimmer. His clothing and form crackled with an electric energy, as a red costume emblazoned with a golden lightning bolt appeared. As a white cape draped over one shoulder, the boy said, “Well, we should probably ask them.”
“Are you certain that you are okay?”
“Just... catching up with old friends,” Billy offered cryptically, before glancing back up toward the sky. “Dark side of the moon? See you in a bit.”
The holographic window blinked out of existence, giving Billy another moment of privacy in which to glance around the cemetery and memorial one more time.
Then he turned his head back toward the sky.
“Up, up and away.”
