Asylum 5

Asylum 5: Crimson Dragon, Red Mustang

4:31 PM, Interstate 69, South Chicago

Travis was having the time of his life. He was behind the wheel of his Mustang convertible, putting the pedal to the metal. His long, black hair whipped about in the ninety-five mile an hour wind. The sunlight glinted jaggedly off of his mirror shades. He had the radio turned up about as loud as it could go in order to hear The Speech over the thundering roar of his ride's three hundred horses.

He'd known The Speech was coming as soon as he'd heard about the moths. He'd watched excitedly as they converged on Chicago, clogging the city and behaving as no moth had before. Metas were involved, and they were doing something big. He could taste it. And then the President made his announcement, and Ultraviolet started doing the rounds in earnest. Oh, yeah, he had known this was coming, and he wasn't about to be left out. He'd said as much to Sylvia, fifteen hours ago back in Houston.

He'd been standing in the junkyard he used for a dojo, crushing concrete blocks and tearing cars apart with his dragon claw strike. Sylvia had come over to watch him, and the conversation had come around to Travis' plan to travel to Chicago.

"Boo-yah, baby! This is it! Even if they don't ask for volunteers, there's still bound to be a shitload of press around. I'll head north, kick Mothra's ass, and look good doin' it. After that, it's gravy, honey. We'll be swimmin' in the Benjamins, our smilin' faces on the cover o' People an' shit! It'll be me on Letterman instead o' Ultraviolet."

Of course, Sylvia was less enthusiastic. "What happens if you get hurt? You don't have any idea what's really happening, and even PRIMUS are running scared. There's some pretty heavy stuff goin' on up there, Trav. There are some things that kung fu can't solve, y'know."

Travis gave her his winningest smile, a wide, lopsided affair that just oozed sexy confidence. "I know that, honey." He tapped the side of his head. "But I'm smart as well as strong, and everyone in Texas knows my ass is as bad as it gets. Anythin' goes wrong, I'll figure a way out. I always do. And this is the freakin' brass ring, baby-doll. This is my name in lights an' our happy asses on Easy Street."

Sylvia's only reaction was to cross her arms over her spectacular chest and shoot her fiancee an unhappy, skeptical look.

He leaned over and kissed her on the forehead. "Don't worry, babe. I'll come home to ya, an' I'll do it as the king o' the fuckin' world."

He'd gone directly from that conversation to grab a shower, change into his costume, and start motoring north as fast as the road would allow. Fifteen hours later, he heard the words he was waiting to hear.

"America's heroes, 'It's on.'"

"Fuck yeah!" he shouted into the wind, shoving his foot even harder on the accelerator and tapping the power button on the 'Stang's CD player. The needle climbed toward one hundred and then beyond. He shot past the other motorists, weaving in and out of the freeway's light traffic and singing along with Korn at the top of his lungs.

A little over an hour later, Travis slowed to something approaching a reasonable speed. Traffic had picked up a little as Chicago hove into view, but that wasn't what deterred him. Most of the other drivers were headed in the other direction, creating a south-facing traffic jam that went on for a few miles. Instead, he'd slowed by the moths. Hundreds of them died on his windshield, and thousands more danced in the air around the city. Most impressive was the opaque brown cloud that hovered over the city's center. It made a strange roaring noise rather like the surf off of Galveston's coast on a windy day. A wall of white noise, it smothered other sounds, making everything seem both eerily quiet and painfully loud at once.

For the first time in years, Travis wondered if he hadn't bitten off more than he could chew. A part of him suggested taking Sylvia's advice and turning back. The rest of him shot that down in flames, refusing to take the cowardly way out. He was Crimson Dragon, and Crimson Dragon never backed down from a fight. Still, he did pull over and put the Mustang's top up. It wouldn't do to have bugs in his teeth when he showed up to the post office. Certainly, it wasn't because the little things were beginning to make his skin crawl.

Eventually, after navigating the maze that was Chicago and wondering what kind of fucking losers would agree to put toll roads everywhere so that their saviors would run out of change and have to take the longest possible way to get anywhere, Travis' bug-spattered Mustang finally pulled in at the edge of the mass of vehicles that surrounded the central Chicago post office's entrance. Its engine, still going strong after the beating it had just been through, reluctantly fell silent. The car knocked and pinged as it made the transition from activity to passivity.

Travis stepped out of the car and stretched as he made the same transition in reverse. He rose to his full height, towering like an NBA star, smoothed out his black silk costume, and ran a hand through his thick hair. Satisfied with his primping, the enormous red-skinned man put on his game face and strode purposefully toward his destiny. It was time to start kicking some ass.

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