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1 yr ago
Current A Perpetual Motion Engine of Anxiety and Self-Loathing

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So there I am, in Sri Lanka, formerly Ceylon, at about 3 o'clock in the morning, looking for one thousand brown M&Ms to fill a brandy glass, or Ozzy wouldn't go on stage that night. So, Jeff Beck pops his head 'round the door, and mentions there's a little sweets shop on the edge of town. So - we go. And - it's closed. So there's me, and Keith Moon, and David Crosby, breaking into that little sweets shop, eh. Well, instead of a guard dog, they've got this bloody great big Bengal tiger. I managed to take out the tiger with a can of mace, but the shopowner and his son... that's a different story altogether. I had to beat them to death with their own shoes. Nasty business, really. But, sure enough, I got the M&Ms, and Ozzy went on stage and did a great show.

Most Recent Posts



Character you have created: Dennis Connolly
Alias: The Aquilifer

Speech Color: Standard Forum Text, Golden Rod

Character Alignment: Hero

Identity: Identity kept secret to the public due to alien magic imbued within the Golden Rod protecting his identity. Identity known to his grandfather, the original Golden/Silver Age Aquilifer… and now to The Vigilante.

Character Personality:

Uniform/costume:

Origin Info/Details:

Season 1 Summary:
[/hider]
Season 2 Summary:
[/hider]

Hero Type:
Normal Human who wields Energy – Alien Technology/Alien Magic imbued weapon.

Power Level:
Potentially 3. World Level, or possibly even 4. Cosmic. However, Dennis is still finding his own way and is therefore currently somewhere between 1 and 2 – Street Level/City Level.

Powers:

Attributes:

Weaknesses:
- Psychological – Dennis has large self-confidence and inferiority issues to his late brother,

- Has numerous self-destructive bad habits.

- Still just a regular guy, who has access to a remarkable tool.

Supporting Characters:
Alan Coghlan, grandfather – Alan was the original Aquilifer, from a different time. Having lost 20 years of his life had a traumatic effect on the old Golden Age hero, and the heavy adjustment to just how much the world had changed in those years have taken their toll. Now more than ever Alan believes the role is necessary... and he’ll mould Dennis into someone suitable even if it kills the both of them.

Do you know how to post pictures on RPG boards?:


Wait... no. You didn't see that. What? No, of course this isn't all just a rip-off alternate take on DC's Jack Knight Starman. How could you say such a thing?

Also, here's a link to my Spotify playlist for the Aquilifer, which starts off with David Bowie's Starman...

Sample Post:


Post Catalog:




Character you have created: Isaac Fontaine
Alias: Vigilante

Speech Color: Bold standard text

Character Alignment: Hero

Identity: Secret. Maintained by a level of what could only be described as extreme paranoia.

Character Personality:


Uniform/costume:
Fontaine is more about effectiveness than style, as such everything he takes/wears has to be justifiable. He wears a black balaclava, generic black tracksuit top and pants, strapped with duct tape at the wrists and ankles to avoid leaving DNA evidence, wears rubber surgical gloves under leather gloves allowing him to remove leather gloves for greater dexterity.

Origin Info/Details:


Season 1 Summary:


Season 2 Summary:


Hero Type:
Muscle - Brawler/Thinker

Power Level:
A. Street Level – But is capable of functioning on a B. City Level

Powers:


Attributes:


Weaknesses:
Poor marksman, but doesn’t really use firearms anyway – mainly affects use of grapple-gun. Is very intelligent, but needs it focused to be applicable. Quite (extremely) socially maladjusted; too frequently speaks his mind. Is only human in a world of superhumans. Inability to feel pain results in more serious injuries since he pushes his body to further and further extremes.

A non-conductivity to magic. This swings both positive and negative. Magical allies can not heal him, he can not transport via portals, etc. Likewise swinging both ways is his “Luck”, whilst the universe seems attuned to provide a suitable “fit” for Isaac, life does seem to drag him in all kinds of outrageously ridiculous directions. Directions he’d often rather not take or have to deal with.

Supporting Characters:

Do you know how to post pictures on RPG boards?:



Sample Post:


Post Catalog:







Wesley blinked repeatedly and winced, hoping the world would come back to him. Soon, his home began to reappear, first the outline of objects, then shaded silhouettes, and finally he blinked everything back into full living colour. He breathed deeply, relieved at the restoration of what he felt fairly certain was reality.

The Dodds family curse. It was becoming harder and harder to tell.

He left the bathroom and its mirror, feeling safe in the knowledge that his tie was on straight. Or at least fairly confident that it was in a straighter condition than he was. The living room’s television echoed; a cacophonous chaotic rumble that sounded like a jubilant crowd, which stood in stark contrast with the general ambiance of the empty mansion and its perturbed resident.

“Morph’? Was that you?” His call echoed out through the stark open halls, despite his being fairly certain it was. After all, who else could it be?

Wesley walked into the living room to confirm, after all, it’s not like he could really expect an answer. He saw an old 1994 Soccer World Cup game blaring on the television - the bright California stadium being a clear giveaway of the American hosted event. With live sport called off due to the sickness, sports networks had been desperately cycling through old classic moments to stir nostalgia and desperately capture the eyeballs and imagination of people trapped in their homes. With the pandemic over, people’s lives were returning to some sense of normality – but the carefully planned calendars of various sporting leagues had to be re-scheduled.

“Did you do this?” He looked down with a smirk.

Morpheus, the retired greyhound Wesley had adopted after Dian’s passing, merely yawned and stretched. Well within character, since the dog slept about sixteen hours of the day. The dog’s paws stretching once more onto the remote and this time rapidly turning down the sound on the television set.

Wesley turned back towards the tv set, just as the stadium’s advertising signage rotated over.

FIFA IS FAIR P L A Y * FIFA IS FAIR PLAY * FIFAIS F A I R P L A Y


FAIR PLAY


The world froze around Wesley and seemed to drop away.





Terry Sloane


The eight men stood around the grave. What procession there had been was long gone. The Preacher moved on to the next funeral, marriage or baptism and the small group stood around occasionally breaking the silence with a memory or two.

Ted Grant had produced a flask from the inside of his suit; a rare sight, since the former heavyweight contender was still generally in the habit of treating his body like a temple. That said, it was being passed around with little regard for the recent sickness, moreso than carrying Grant through. Seems he had brought it more for the community of the occasion, than to drown in its contents himself.

Which Wesley was pleased to see. Johnny Thunder had been “Wildcat” Grant’s partner, after all, and Wes had no small concern as to how he would take the news.

As the flask was passed around, Wes took a small swig, even though he was usually tee-total and passed it on to Terry Sloane.

Al was telling some old story, reminiscing about his own swashbuckling days. A yarn they’d all heard many times before. Where Al had stormed in over his head and fists a blur, and even his partner Terry would not be enough – a truly rare occasion, when numbers were so great that even Hoover’s pet, the one they all playfully called Mister Terrific, was seen to not be enough – and further backup had been called.

Sloane took a drink from the flask and clapped a hand on Grant’s shoulder. Offering him a smile, and the flask. Ted took another belt and passed it on to Al, who was by now already drunk on nostalgia.

“And they called you, and this little kid in to bail us out.” Al said, far too obnoxiously for the cemetery environment.

“And I thought to myself, sure… send in the guy who was gonna fight Cassius Clay back in the day…”

“Ali.” Wes gently corrected, albeit too quiet for Al Pratt to hear now that he was in full swing.

“…but this pre-pubescent kid is going in with him? Ha ha ha!” The flask found its way to Rex Tyler as Pratt laughed.

“But you did it! You never did tell us how, exactly, but you did it!”

Grant had gone quiet. He reached out to Tyler to retrieve the flask before his turn. Sloane’s sharp eye watched as Grant took a heavy slug of its contents.

“I think that’s enough Al.” Sloane said.

“Enough? ‘s fine. We’re all just talkin’.” Al kept smiling and laughing.

“Al.” With a word, he quelled the smaller man. Without conflict, without condescension. His tone and inflection were perfect for getting his message across and understood.

And when it all came down to it, that’s what Terry did best. Sure, he had degrees in more scientific fields of endeavour than you could imagine, and yes, he was an athletic marvel who could do the unthinkable and make it look simple, but above all else he could connect with people.

He was an agent, just like any other in the taskforce, with no apparent leverage and yet he was able to talk Hoover and government handlers into giving them a considerable amount of latitude. Not enough to grant those who didn’t want ‘in’ their freedom, but he convinced them to make things far more comfortable than they had to.

At the time he’d wondered if perhaps there were something more there with Hoover, considering how enamoured he seemed to be with the man. But as time went on, Wes saw that most people seemingly wanted to please him and he was just naturally convincing – people want the popular guy to like them. Mister Terrific. And Terry Sloane also did pretty much embody the traits that Hoover had originally claimed he most wanted for his FBI, and therefore his JSA members. It was well worth the Director’s efforts to keep that man happy, on side and comfortable.

“Ted. It’s alright. We miss the kid too…”




Slowly the world restored to its all too temporary focus and Wesley found himself staring at the silent television and a soccer game over two and a half decades past. More deep breathing. The decline was happening so fast now and almost without warning. There was no medication. No respite. He turned and looked to Morpheus, bending down to pick up the remote from underneath his paws.

The two came face to elongated face. For a second he saw the dog’s face re-shape and start to take the appearance of a familiar World War I era gas mask. Wesley gasped. The dog licked his face, breaking his flawed reality. Quickly he picked up the remote before the truth could distort any more, a pat on the head the meagre reward for Morpheus temporarily restoring the old man’s sanity.

He held the remote out to the television and pressed at buttons, just as the remote turned to gold in his hands. His face once more contorted with a horrific loss of control.





Ted Knight


The eight were dispersing to their cars. Rex had the smart idea to continue the “party” at a local bar he knew to be very discreet, Al was more than happy to second the notion and the rest merely fell in behind to prevent the two from getting into too much trouble.

Nothing ever changes really.

Wes hobbled along, whilst Rex tried to race Al back to their cars in the parking lot. Al never backing down from any challenge, and Rex desperate to turn back the clock to glory days of yore.

“You riding with me?” The aging scientist asked of the much older man.

“Looks like it.” Wesley replied.

“Noticed you were talking to Chas earlier.” Ted mentioned. “Everything all OK there?”

Dodds considered. He probably saw the irritation on his partner’s face, so Wesley decided to come all the way clean.

“I asked him about the autopsy. Given who died, I was a little too insistent. Insensitive. Stupidly so.”

Ted nodded his head, which told Wesley that he was right. It was unsurprising. Knight and McNider were probably the most solid unit back in the old JSA days too. Both were balanced and careful in their consideration. Charles with his surgical background, and Ted coldly logical with his own engineering roots. Both had each other’s backs at every turn.

Wesley got on well with both of them, but it was sometimes frustrating as they seemed surprised that other partnerships didn’t always find it so easy to be on the same page.

“He told me he has a line on the autopsy report, once it’s completed but couldn’t safely be involved with the cut. Which, all things considered, makes sense I suppose.”

Ted kept nodding his head, seemingly confirming things he’d already gleaned and following the explanation of facts.

“So…” Wes broke the silence.

“So, what?” The taller man asked.

Wesley stopped and levelled a weary older glare at the younger man, his eyes looking over the rim of his glasses. A glare that said wasting time was for the young.

The two understood each other well and had their own ways and actions.

Ted Knight saw himself as the family man, settled down and got married after the disbandment of the Justices for the Society of America. From what Wesley had heard, he’d had a few kids with his old sweetheart, before their marriage soured – whilst Ted continued in the adventuring business, using tips from a network of sources both in the FBI and local law enforcement. Wesley knew for a fact that anything that ever crossed the crime desk of any officer who went by the name “O’Dare” in the PD, chances were Ted already knew about it.

Wesley meanwhile, took full advantage of the breakup of the group. Dove headlong into his whirlwind romance with the lovely Dian Belmont, and whose leads on adventuring mostly came from his own prophetic dark dreams.

They both knew exactly what Wes was asking. Ted was just trying to make him come out and say it.

“The FBI’s not handling it, to the best of my knowledge. They’ve been informed, since the body’s flagged, but to my knowledge their attitude is pretty much ‘the less the public knows about the JSA these days, the better’. Unless it gets messy and needs to be cleaned up, it looks like it’ll be kept local.”



@nitemare shape knows there's something coming up later for Bowie fans in-game as well...


Don't tease me like this Hound.


*whistles nonchalantly*
.
2...


January 7, 1929 - Lost Haven, MAINE



“We passed upon the stair,
We spoke of was and when,”



A gangly youth scrambles across rocks on his day off, his breath visibly hanging in the cold Maine winter morn. Alan Coghlan had a great new job after interning as copyboy for the local newspaper for the past 3 summers... And he didn’t even have to leave the Haven to work it! Just under $10 a day and he’d be doing mostly the same thing! Wowsers! Some big shot called Walter Midas had bought the rights to the Gardiner Journal over in Kennebec and was moving it to Lost Haven with the express intent of making a new state-wide paper called the Maine Journal, he wanted hard working experienced young talent and Alan Coughlan fit the bill! Heck, he might even be able to ask Mindy if she wants to go to the pictures! Before the first paycheck, but he’d be able to afford it.

He’d planned to take her to see one of the new talkies he’d heard were coming this year. He’d seen The Jazz Singer, a bit gimmicky but still, what a world we live in! Sandy said Mindy prefers the comedy laff-fests anyway. Well whatever Mindy wants, Mindy gets! Maybe there’s another Buster Keaton short coming up this weeken-- Hullo!

Alan catches a glimpse of something golden, poking out of the snow under a tree. It’s glittery promise coaxing his eye...




“Although I wasn’t there,
He said I was his friend”





January 8, 1948


The Aquilifer saw a bright light reflect and flinched away as Ironsides was blasted and sent sailing over his left shoulder, just missing him. Doc Miracle knocked out some more of Flare’s Chronocrew with some good old-fashioned straight rights. If he could just buy the Doc some time to get to the panel, he would be able to jam Tempus Flare’s temporal pillager again, just like they had bested him the first time!

Suddenly he heard a woman’s scream. Lady Liberty! The dastardly time pirate had used his personal time device and appeared right behind her. He had a fistful of her hair and was holding a laserblade to her throat.

“Zippy, Go!” called the Aquilifer.

Zippy the Maestro of Motion sprinted at a pace most couldn’t imagine. He blindsided Tempus Flare and snatched away Lady Liberty before he could drop even one word of monologue.

“Foiled! Damned you!”

“Sorry for the quick haircut, Lady! I’m sure a doll like you could make it work for you though!” Zippy said, showing her the vibrating hand that had given her locks a quick trim.

Alan began to take to the sky. The Golden Rod making a crackling sphere around him as the Aquilifer floated to the fore with a stern look on his face.

“Stealing the works of Mister M. C. Escher here is bad enough Flare, you dastardly blaggard, but to hold one of your future daggers on the likes of Lady Liberty… there’s only one word for you!”

“Yes, Aquilifer? And what word might that be?”

“Scoundrel! And now you’ll get what’s coming to you!”

As he looked into the cold, unfeeling eyes of Tempus Flare he could have sworn he saw his devious grin grow in the corners of his mouth in retrospect. However, even more true with the Time Pirate than any other villainous foe they ever dealt with; “retrospect” would mean little to nothing. A wasted moment could be an eternity. The Aquilifer threw a charged blast and there was suddenly a blinding light.

When the dust settled the world would change indelibly.

Tempus Flare and his Chronocrew, The Aquilifer, Zippy the Maestro of Motion, The Bold Bowman and Dark Masque were all gone.

For a long time, that scene as well as the sounds of Lady Liberty’s sobs echoing throughout the main gallery of New York’s Museum of Modern Art would haunt Doc Miracle in his quietest moments.




“Which came as a surprise,
I spoke into his eyes”







January 12, 1967


“And as we walk through this hallway, we see the works of Roy Lichtenstein, one of the more exciting new artists of the past decade. As we move deeper into the realm of Pop Art that the likes of Andy Warhol and Jaspar Johns have so graciously introduced us to, Roy Lichtenstein has an interesting comment to make upon this exciting new development in the art world. Mr Lichtenstein believes that pop art need not necessarily be AMERICAN art, but is actually merely INDUSTRIAL art--” A tour guide stated, walking faster than a comfortable pace and with a heavy lisp.

“--as you can PROBABLY tell, Roy Lichtenstein has been heavily influenced by a basic comic strip style. Notice the use of dots in colouring, similar to common pulp comic book fare. We have been blessed to have Roy Lichtenstein grace us with quite a significant collection of his recent works. Particularly his pièce de résistance, the centrally framed “Crying Girl”. Now over--”

A flash of light and a significant rip can be heard.

Four heroes stand triumphant and returned. A bound and gagged Tempus Flare at their feet. And a torn up framed duplicate print of “Crying Girl” in pieces floating through the air which was previously unoccupied.

The tour guide has dropped to her knees, weeping uncontrollably over the destroyed art piece.




“I thought you died alone,
A long long time ago”





January 7, 1929


The young Alan Coghlan walks over to inspect the shiny object beneath the tree. It appears to be a metal bar of some kind.

“Wowsers! Is that-- Is that a gold bar?!”

A fantastic new job AND he finds a gold bar? The universe must be smiling on ol’ Alan Coghlan!

He reaches down to pick it up, and as he does, he’s taken a million lightyears away.




“I laughed and shook his hand,
And made my way back home”





December 24, 1968


It had been nearly two years now, and they’d felt like twenty ever since they’d got back. The Bold Bowman had quit, and you could see Zippy was close to coming to the same conclusion. Too much had changed about the world. They returned to a place they barely recognized. Dark Masque went underground after his return, which was perhaps the least surprising thing about any of this. He was looking to crack a cypher for a string of murders he would rant about as the “Zodiac case”. His isolation was unsurprising of course, because even in their heyday in the Roarin’ Fourties Dark Masque seemed less to have pals or teammates so much as he had resources.

Zippy got beaten badly after rescuing the Georgian Governor from a fire. Little did he know that such an act could be seen as a political statement. He thought he was just helping a person. He’d made little attempt to re-acclimatise himself to the new world he found himself in – having only ever wanted to help people.

The Aquilifer on the other hand, worked hard to understand this new world he found himself in, and dove back into his work – almost driving a crusade against crime and towards working to get the world to look upon itself and strive for more. A push for humanity to bring the best out of itself.

It was the night before Christmas and still he was working, even in the harsh Maine winter. Tonight Apollo 8 would enter into orbit around the moon, not for the least reason being some of the new technologies Alan Coghlan had brought into the world after his mysterious sabbatical. Frank Borman, Jim Lovell and William A. Anders would become the first people to see the dark side of the moon. He also has them on schedule to hit John F. Kennedy’s deadline of within the decade of the 60’s to get a man on the moon. If they can keep schedule, mid next year in fact.

He feels a slight pang at the fact that JFK would never live to see that optimistic, high-minded goal ever get achieved. But more than anyone he understands that such high-minded goals are to bring hope and faith in the ability of human endeavour and collaborative effort towards lofty goals.

From the streets below he sees a man out of place. On the night before Christmas this was supposed to be just a quick patrol. Most people would be in their cosy home, or with family somewhere. Even the homeless community were off the streets for the most part as shelters tended to receive extra help over Christmas.

The Golden Rod glowed in his hand, he watched as the man below picked up a garbage bin and hurled it through a pawn shop’s front.

“On Christmas..?”

The man ran inside and sprinted out seconds later with his pockets filled with jewellery, and carrying out a heavy tv set, straining under the colossal box in both arms.

The box stopped, pressed against the force of one of the Aquilifer’s contructs.

“Why? Why would you do this? It’s Christmas.” The Aquilifer asked, perhaps looking old for the very first time since his return.

“What’s the point? Our leaders and the Russians are playing chicken with nukes… now the French have the H-bomb. How long’s it gonna be until someone or another’s finger slips on the button? What’s the point of any of this? How can you even care? How?!? HOW!?” The man started to break down crying.

The Aquilifer gently lifted the tv set out of his arms and placed it back in the building. He wrapped his arm around the man and consoled him. Sirens now starting their crow-call from the distance.

“It’s ok… Shh… It’s ok.”

“How?! How can you know? How can you think it could possibly be ok?!?”

“Because it has to be… Because I’ve seen worse…”




“I searched for form and land,
For years and years I roamed”





January 7, 1929


Alan Coghlan looked around at sights heretofore unseen by human eyes.

“Wooooooowsers. Where am I?”

“You’re exactly where you were one second ago.” Spoke a prim, concise voice that somehow came from everywhere at once. “Or at least your physical form is. Your mind, however-- your mind has been redirected by the conduit of the Golden Rod. That is the means by which you came to be here.”

“And where is here?” Alan spoke into the void.

“This is the Pocket Dimension of Concordat. Alan Coghlan of Earth, you have a very big decision on this day.”

Alan put his hands in his own pockets and rocked back and forth in amazement at the incredible landscape. Wowsers. This week just gets bigger and better.

“Who made this dimension? This is incredible!” Alan could see all the way to the horizon in every direction. He whistled to himself in appreciation.

“A good follow up question. The Golden Rod was made by a people called the Arlaaekans. These probes are the culmination of great leaps in Arlaaekan technology and magic. They are designed for first contact, and to enable the finder’s the chance to consider The Great Concord.”

“What exactly do I have to consider?”

“The quality of your own life… And the fate of your own world. These two things are in the balance.”

“Wowsers! You’re kidding me!”

“I assure you that is not the case.”

“Well, what IS the case?”

“The device you now hold contains the means to great power. With that power you could become a great King. A new Lord over these people. A powerful man to be respected, feared and adored. Whatsoever you choose.”

“Yeah… but the fate of the world? How does that come into pl—“

Suddenly images flew across the entire landscape. Many years of entire civilizations played out before his eyes in moments, he absorbed generations of alien worlds’ histories almost instantly.

“I am sorry, Alan Coghlan of Earth. I have been informed The Full Disclosure can be a quite traumatic experience…”

Alan flinched away from the sudden shock of information as it was all unfurled before him, but there was no escape as his mind’s eye took in the full 360° vista.




“I gazed a gazeless stare
We walked a million hills”





January 7, 1929


It wasn’t long until Alan was flinching for another reason - abject terror - as the global histories of the worlds which had received Golden Rods began to fall down extremely similar lines.

He watched as Hlrzzt of Glorburon Prime accepted the Golden Rod, accumulated incredible wealth and power. Lived a full, rich life as unquestioned King of his people. Died, bequeathed the Golden Rod to his son Jrzzt… Until a massive space armada landed and attacked. Jrzzt amassed the armed forces and squared off with the teal invaders. But they were outmatched. The teal conquorers laid waste to their armies and cut the Glorburon Prime lines back, they were forced into orderly retreat repeatedly until backed against the gates of the mighty palace, King Jrzzt ordered everyone to fight to the last, and in desperation even used the Golden Rod for the odd blast and shield construct himself. But the day was lost. All that was ever Glorburon Prime was gone. Their world’s bountiful natural resources going to the vanquishers as spoils of war.

He watched as Q’r of Plinsy accepted the Golden Rod, accumulated incredible wealth and power. Lived a full, rich life as unquestioned Emperor of his people. With forethought for his people he spent hislife working on his world’s defences, pumping impressive funding into technological advancement in this field whilst many of his own people starved. He eventually died, bequeathed the Golden Rod to his son Pr’zar… Until a massive space armada landed and attacked. Pr’zar amassed the armed forces and doomsday weapons and squared off with the teal invaders. But their weaponry and their troops were outmatched. The teal conquorers countered their greatest weapons and laid waste to their armies and cut the Plinsy lines back, eventually they were forced into orderly retreat repeatedly until backed against the gates of the mighty palace, Emperor Pr’zar ordered everyone to fight to the last, and in desperation even used the Golden Rod for the odd blast and shield construct himself. But the day was lost. All that was ever Plinsy was gone. Their world’s bountiful natural resources going to the vanquishers as spoils of war.

He watched as Kwander of Jabiru…

He watched as Pons of G’farris…

He watched as Adelphate of Burr…

“AAAAAHHHHHHHhhhhhhhhhhh!”


Not every person accepted the Golden Rod… but the results made little difference.

He watched as Olfandis of the peaceful land of Mylo Xyloto saw no need for the power and refused the Golden Rod. A few years later the planet was descended upon by the teal blue armada. The conflict was so fast it flashed past young Alan’s eyes in an instant. There was no war, to war suggests opposing forces. There was just the mass genocide of the people of Mylo Xoloto. All resources were taken by the conquorers.

Tyune of the warrior Opastathemolon homeworld experienced The Full Discolsure and rejected the Golden Rod for strategic reasons. He now knew great wolves were at the gate. He spoke with warlord Piule and informed them of the impending threat. The Opastathemolon were an honour-driven warlike race, and immediately trusted the honour of Tyune who had never been known as anything but honourable. He awarded Tyune the equivalent rank of a general or colonel within the Opasthathemolon forces and sought his advice, having the experience of The Full Disclosure to scout against the invasion force. It made no difference. They were slaughtered mercilessly and all of value was pillaged.

Qazlik of Skrlind…

K’ph’ar’sy of J’un’J’nna…

Ph’yndris the Ghorgax of Mud…

“The army of teal aliens... these-- these are the Arlaaekans, aren’t they?” Alan asked, as he watched the Yorthikagi get annihilated.

He already knew the answer.

“Yes.”

“You’re responsible for The Full Disclosure. That means you have to tell the truth, yes?”

“Yes.”

“Has ANYONE ever beaten them? Has anyone ever stood firm and stopped them?”

“Out of 2,586 worlds which have presently made contact with the Golden Rod, 2,341 have fallen to the Glorious Arlaaekan armada. 213 worlds are presently awaiting the end of the treaty period to conclude after agreeing to the terms of the Great Concord so that conflict with the Glorious Arlaaekan armada can proceed. 31 worlds refused the Great Concord with the Golden Rod and await conflict with the Glorious Arlaaekan armada. And 1 world is presently entangled in conflict with the Glorious Arlaaekan armada.”

Alan quickly did the maths in his head and calculated the answer to his question. Before confirming it.

“So that’s a no…”

“That’s a no.”

“Wowsers…” the young Alan Coghlan trailed off, as he watched more war. More death. More genocide.

Refusal seemed to mean certain annihilation for a home world. Acceptance seemed to mean annihilation with complicity. What kind of choice was that? Everything that everyone before him seemed to have tried had resulted in total destruction.

Unless he could think of something different…

“What exactly are the terms of this Great Concord, specifically?”

“By accepting the Golden Rod, you or any wielder of the Golden Rod has full use of its powers. The Golden Rod features advanced scouting beacons and sensors. Your species’ lifespan is now being estimated at 54 in understood regional timespan of circuits around this world’s sun…”

“Fifty four?!”

“...with 4% likelihood of surviving to age 85 ‘years’. Alan Coghlan has already survived 18 ‘years’ to date. Estimating health of representative. Using algorithm…”

Fifty four?!

“...treaty will last another 87 years. After this time has passed, the treaty will have concluded and warfare may resume.”

These aliens factored in greed and fear of consequences. The treaty expired after the person in question was almost certainly to have died.

But what chance did humanity have regardless? He’d seen aliens with more firepower than standard machine guns. Explosions that looked like columns of flame from hell. Explosions where the devastation was marked by billowing clouds like tree foliage or a mushroom where little could remain in their wake. Could this decision ultimately even have any kind of impact on humanity’s chances for survival?

“Alan Coghlan of Earth… Do you accept these terms?”

Alan looked out upon the vista, having seen the battles of 2,341 different worlds and the abject slaughter that took place in them from ground zero.

Winds seemed to sweep through this barren place.




“I must have died alone,
A long, long time ago”





The Present Day


Alan Coghlan walked to his kitchen and took down a cup from a cupboard at head-level, filled it with filtered tap water from a tap and downed his day’s worth of pills. He walked over to the living room and turned the television on to the news. He sat down in his own recliner, separate from the sofa.

DING-DONG!

Isn’t that always the way?

With some effort he got to his feet and, shuffling at first, he made his way to the front door.

DING-DONG!

“Alright. I’m coming! I’m coming! Hold on!”

He opened the door and found himself inches away from him. Of course it was him. That man in black. Complete with balaklava in the middle of the brightest part of the day.

“Are you going to let me in, or am I going to pick you up by your lapels and carry you inside for this talk, old man?”

Alan sighed and looked both ways down the street.

“I suppose I’d better let you in then…”

Alan Coghlan seemed to age another ten years in that moment, he shuffled back to let the masked Vigilante into his home and the pair went into his lounge room.

“Where’s the other? I don’t want any surprises.”

“He lives out the back. But it’s too early yet. He doesn’t generally wake up until 10.”

“So Grampa, the city has this-- Oh, Hi.”

Isaac raised his eyebrows at the old man with skepticism.

“Alright. You can sit down next to your grandfather. He’s got a story to tell us.”

“No. He doesn’t.” Alan said stubbornly. His resolve returning. Not like this.

The Vigilante’s eyes steeled. He checked the layout of the house. The old geezer seemed willing to talk, just not in front of the kid. The kitchen was isolated from the rest of the house.

“Change of plan. Your grandfather could probably do with a cup of tea--”

“He doesn’t drink tea. He drinks coffee.” The younger man stood his ground and crossed his arms obstinately. Dennis didn't care for how this man had walked into his home and started barking orders, but he also didn't exactly understand the situation.

Isaac’s brow furrowed. Even Alan was close to snapping at his grandson in frustration. But gathered himself.

“Coffee, then.” Isaac spat between gritted teeth.

“Dennis, please. I’ll be alright.”

Dennis walked out into the kitchen to get to work on coffee, but not without giving the man in black a glare.

As soon as his grandson left the old man uttered “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me. You have as long as it takes water to boil to tell me why in the Hell I saw an old former hero associating with the known terrorists behind the Pax Metahumana bombings. So you’d better make it good.”

Isaac sat in a red velvet antique chair that gave him the angle on both the kitchen and the old man. He leaned forwards onto his haunches so his face was inches away. He wanted to be close enough to read every tick, every involuntary wrinkle, any possible attempt at deception crossing the old man’s face.

“Well… it all started in the winter of 1929…




“Who knows?
Not me
I never lost control
You’re face to face
With the man who sold the world”





* Songwriters: David Bowie
The Man Who Sold The World lyrics © Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC, TINTORETTO MUSIC
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