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Asylum 15:
The Draft

7:00 PM, Chicago.

"The eyes…"

He was something out of a '50s sci-fi movie. "It Came From Outer Space" or "Forbidden Planet." He'd come in contact with something so disturbing and alien that he'd lost all reason. All he needed was a high-collared silver space suit and some blinking lights in the background. But when Violet remembered that he was ultimately going to be her responsibility, she saw him as he really was, and it was less than cinematic. The PRIMUS agent was strapped into the cot, his face a sheen of sweat. An IV tube was attached to his left arm; the other arm was encased in a cast. The man had begun to thrash and mutter a half an hour ago, but he had yet to come fully awake. The broken arm and two broken ribs were his only injuries, despite his trip through the sewers in the mouth of an alligator, and his continued unconsciousness was a mystery. PRIMUS did not want to ship him out to a medical facility until they had a chance to talk to him.

"…eyes are watching…"

"Is that all he says?" Violet asked the medical technician. She knew what his answer would be, but damn it, she was desperate for information.

"Pretty much."

The others in the room exchanged questioning glances. The Post Office had gotten crowded with upper management. In the past hour, Mayor Daley had arrived, as well as Commissioner Wochowski of the Chicago PD, Major Eston of the Illinois National Guard, Special Agents Dunleavy and West of the FBI, Silver Avenger Stephen Sinclair from New Orleans, and the topper, Leonard Thwaite, the United States Postmaster General. Miss Illinois was probably en route from a boat show even now.

"Well, let us know if he wakes up, or if he says anything more helpful," the mayor said.

The tech gave him a quizzical look.

"I don't know," Daley said. "Like, 'Stranger is weakened by Kryptonite' helpful."

"Perhaps," Sinclair said, "we should head back to the conference area—"

"There's more room in the loading docks," the Police Commissioner said.

"For crying out loud," Agent Dunleavy said. "I've already said that—"

Ultraviolet turned abruptly and flicked on her forcefield. She pushed her way through the crowd of lieutenants, assistants, aides de camp, and hangers on until she was back in the hallway. The pack of white men in suits followed the glow.

The need for a leader only grew with the arrival of each new leader. Violet had decided that for better or worse, she was it, even if her hair had been ruined. It had taken two long showers and a lot of serious work with her exfoliating sponge to scrub the stink of the sewers off her, and the rinse and repeat cycles of shampoo and conditioner had left her hair limp as seaweed. She'd spent nearly thirty minutes drying and brushing, but she hadn't packed nearly enough product to repair the damage. Maggie, who'd also showered in the postal clerk locker rooms, had simply combed her long blond hair once and walked out, looking beautiful as ever. But there was no way that Violet was TV-ready. What did it take to get a stylist in here? She had a theory that a carefully-placed halo could both obscure and distract, but she doubted she'd have a moment alone with a mirror to practice it. Just one more thing to add to the list.

She swept into the big mail-sorting room that had been converted to a conference room, and stopped dead.

Mark Forrester, PRIMUS Golden Avenger, sat at the head of the table, looking calm and confident. He was talking to Maggie, and Crossfire and Bolt had taken seats next to her. Bolt looked liked he'd cleaned up, too. Only Crossfire had avoided being dunked in the slop.

Forrester looked up with a smile. "Good to see you again, Ultraviolet. I have the data you need on your potential team members."

The Golden Avenger was an average-looking man with conservatively cut brown hair and light blue eyes. He wore a tailored light-gray suit, a blue shirt, and a gray tie flecked with blue that matched his eyes. He looked more like a CEO than a super-human crimefighter, but Violet supposed that made sense: PRIMUS was, first and foremost, a corporation. She'd met him once before, in New Orleans after the Adam business. The man had stepped out of a van and nonchalantly made Mr. Hyde—or Thomas Bright, or Checkmate, depending on who you asked—disappear. Touch teleporter, he'd said, as if that answered any more questions than it raised. Hopefully, now that he had a use for her, he'd be a little more forthcoming. Self-serving company man.

"About time," Ultraviolet said with a smile.

Pete shuffled his feet idly, eliciting a scuffing noise from the cold floor that startled the fat man in the costume sitting next to him on an overturned shipping carton. "The Scryer," as he called himself, had been nodding off. Pete didn't bother to apologize.

The dead letter bins in the far dark corner seemed to be calling to him. Sheer boredom. Sheer as the north face of Everest. He wondered how many letters to lost sweethearts lay in there. How many long expected checks? Most of it was probably just crap. Soliciations for Cyclist magazine and pre-approved credit card offers.

After a good thirty minutes of watching the milling crowd in front of the post office from the ledge of the building across the street, he'd decided to just take the plunge and go in the front door with the other metas. His appearance, after vaulting nine stories to the pavement, had caused quite a stir among the rubberneckers and reporters. He could still hear the whir of the cameras and see the microphones being jabbed in his face to the accompaniment of a couple dozen different inane questions.

He'd never realized just how much he'd missed being in the limelight. The premiers, the clubs, the charity appearances, fourth of July at Disneyland… It was scary.

Scary because for him to put himself in the forefront like this was a career hazard. As Pan he'd never allowed himself to be subjected to public scrutiny. There were old acquaintances to think about. Family he hadn't seen in forever, but who would suddenly become very dear if the plethora of enemies he'd made in his years as a crimefighter were to suddenly become aware of them. What a story it would be for the scoop who put two and two together and figured out that a rarely seen and mostly feared West Coast vigilante was in reality James Michael Barrie, teen hearthrob from the most popular cable television show of almost fifteen years ago. Add to that the fact that he hadn't aged a day in all that time, and it was a helluva story alright. All it took was one nosy World News reporter to draw a green cowl on one of his old publicity photos from Neverland…. hell, it didn't even take that much imagination. Just buy the boxed set and watch him slow mo in all his wire-fu glory against Jeremy Irons in his Captain Hook get up. Goddamned actor. Goddamned Hollywood. Why had he been so dramatic as to go around in a Peter Pan costume? Maybe in true Hollywood fashion he was just unimaginative. Suddenly he wished he'd called himself The Screamin' Meemie or The Blue Whizzer or the Goddamned Easter Bunny. Yeah. And gone around in a big pink bunny suit, leaving half gnawed carrots or fucking painted eggs as his calling card. He glanced at the red skinned guy and wondered what his monniker was. The Big Red One, maybe. He wondered if even now somewhere in America or overseas some fanboy in a faded Neverland t-shirt was rewinding the evening news on his Tevo and scratching his patchy goatee…

He felt like he was in the waiting room of a casting call again. He didn't know anybody there, and hadn't spoken to anyone as yet. The PRIMUS agents had made a couple dry comments about his age, and he'd made like he hadn't heard.

It posed a problem though. As far as any casual observer was concerned, he WAS twelve years old. There was a good chance if there was some kind of selection process going on upstairs he would be discounted on that alone. Maybe his avoidance of the spotlight would work against him here. A lot of his early career as Pan had gone unnoticed. He couldn't remember the first time the name Pan had shown up in the LA Times, and not owning a TV, he had no idea if anybody had ever heard of him outside of the greater Los Angeles area. It was a safe bet they didn't. He didn't get involved in a lot of high profile stuff, and rarely crossed paths with other metas. Hell, this WAS just like a casting call. Only all his reliable references were either behind bars or dead.

So what to do?

There were a lot of choices, but none that were particularly appealing to him. He could reveal himself, maybe to one of the PRIMUS higher-ups, or that glory hound on the television who seemed to be spearheading this operation. He could spill his whole story to one of them and risk it leaking out. The direct result of that, besides the threat to his extended family and friends who didn't even know he was still alive, was the garbage scow load of fan mail from suicidal Japanese schoolgirls and preteens in Boise, Idaho. Public attention. Maybe more frequent visits from that maniac in the gilded power armor who called himself Hook. No, that wasn't appealing. Besides, it was doubtful he could reveal his identity to a single person and still be publicly allowed to accompany the team. There would probably be public outcry from Child Safety groups.

What else, then?

He could argue the matter, but what argument did he have to put up without revealing himself? Probably it would have to be something on the fly. He had to see the man (or the woman, if it was the one from TV) in charge and read him. See what he had to work with. Maybe he'd think of something yet… It was unlikely any of these others would be of any help to him. They thought he was a kid too. No one had spoken to him since he'd been here, except the Scryer. What the hell was his deal, anyway?

He could accept their dismissal at face value and then follow them into the Tower secretly. He'd already admitted to himself that this was a job well beyond his sole capabilities. He'd never faced a threat like this before, and was no fool to go in alone. No, he would need the support of the other metas. But maybe if he tagged along and revealed himself to them once he was inside they would be forced to admit him. He didn't like that. It was kiddish Treasure Island bullshit, but if it came down to it… yeah, that might work.

The only other option was not an option. He couldn't just shrug it off and leave. He kept thinking of those kids in the daycare center, somewhere in the middle of all those moths.

Pete cracked his knuckles as he thought, one small green gauntleted fist massaging the other in turn. The Scryer was staring at him.

"I know, I know," Pete mumbled. "Arthritis. My mom always warned me." Dumb ass, he thought. Did you just mention your mom?

The Scryer stared at him intently, eyes flickering to his hands for a moment.

"I don't think so. Not yet."

Pete sighed and stood up. It was an odd feeling being around other costumes. He felt a little ridiculous for a minute. Almost wished he had a drink. But that was a road he didn't need to think about, let alone take another tortuous waltz down. The drink had led to the needle. Christ, what were they waiting for up there?

He stared up at the cobwebbed ceiling, and wondered how those kids were doing in that damned Tower. Why couldn't the freaks inside just leave them alone, let them go? Then he could get out of all this and just go home. Why had he seen that goddamned television? Call it fate. He had to be here now, one way or another. He was in, wether they wanted him or not.

Scryer was looking at the dead letter bins now, rubbing his upper lip with one gloved finger. Any minute now he was going to pick his nose.

The guy in the motorcycle leathers was leaning against the wall, arms folded, cool as the other side of the pillow.

The big red-skinned one was shoveling stuff of a desk in the corner, trying to find a place to lay down.

The one with the accent and the golden glow seemed to be at home among the PRIMUS agents.

The other two… maybe he had seen one of them somewhere. Hell, he couldn't keep up with all the capes running around these days. He grinned to himself. It was like a comic book convention in here. What a silly goddamned joke life was…

"As some of you know," Mark Forrester said, "PRIMUS has the most complete database of metahumans in the world."

"That you know about," a voice said.

"Thank you, Agent Dunleavy," Forrester said. "The possibility always exists that the FBI has their database online at last."

This raised laughter from the room. Violet never felt more out of her league. These white men were part of a club of power brokers, with their own in-jokes and private feuds. What the hell was she doing in the middle of it? Solving their problems, she told herself, in ways they couldn't. She was part of a pretty exclusive club herself, and none of them—with the possible exception of the Silver Avenger—were up for membership.

"Crossfire and Bolt, you've already met," Forrester said, indicating the two men. "You should know that Matthew Bolt's identity has been verified. As for Crossfire, his height, weight, and eye color are consistent with what we have in our database, and Maggie has vouched for him. Both men have excellent reputations, and from what I've heard, they've already been of help here. Welcome, gentlemen."

She nodded in acknowledgement at the two. Crossfire may not have looked anything like what she'd expected, but he certainly had the attitude Maggie had described. And there was no mistaking Bolt, or the miniature camera strapped to his head.

"The other potential members are still in the lobby. My people have photographed and interviewed them, and we've compared them to what we have on record." He tapped several keys on his laptop, and the projector lit up a square of the wall behind him.

The screen showed a young man with jet-black hair surrounded by a golden glow. He was dressed in jeans and a plain shirt. "This is Van Varrett, otherwise known as Sanctuary. He's a forcefield specialist, and practically invulnerable to physical and mental harm—the specs are in the report. We've known about him for some time, and Maggie knows him personally. He's dependable, level-headed, and courageous to a fault. We recommend you take him."

"Agreed," Violet said. "Everything I've heard about Sanctuary, both about his powers and himself, has been positive. And it's about time I met the guy."

"He also has an uncanny ability to make my computer go bonkers," Maggie pointed out. "Though I doubt it'll be of much help. He screams 'hostage rescue', too."

The screen changed again. The man wore a Zorro-style mask and motorcycle leathers. The jacket was open, revealing a black t-shirt over a yellow star symbol. "This is Morningstar. Plasma projection, flight, forcefields. In short, a heavy hitter. PRIMUS has worked with him before. He had a reputation as a hot-head, but he's matured, and we've found his assistance very valuable." Forrester nodded to a man standing at the back. "We recommend you take him, and Agent Fahey from our Miami office gives his personal backing."

Morningstar. She knew him by his reputation only, just a sound bite out of Florida here and there, but if he were as powerful as Forrester said, she didn't need to hear any more. Violet hoped the other candidates would be this easy.

"The others are more problematic."

The screen showed a young man with deeply red skin, golden eyes, and long black hair. "This is Travis Roper, AKA Crimson Dragon. A metahuman with increased strength, speed, and stamina, but a highly trained martial artist as well. He's made a name for himself in Houston fighting small-time hoods and a few metahuman criminals, including Warpath and one called, believe it or not, the Hag Fish."

"How is that any less believable than 'King Cod?'" someone asked.

Forrester nodded. "Excellent point. It's not." He showed a new picture, a black and white scan from a newspaper. A hulking man and a lithe looking woman in a tight-fitting body suit were being led in handcuffs into a courthouse. It was familiar.

"This is Burt and Monica Roper, known as—"

"Tank and Speed Queen," Violet interrupted, then realized she'd spoken aloud. "Sorry. Go ahead."

"So you know them. They were meta criminals active in the 1970's, surrendered in 1979. Travis' parents. They've not broken parole, and have no criminal record after being released from prison, but we're still not sure how far Travis falls from the family tree. We have… no recommendation."

"I see." She exchanged a look with Maggie.

"But as for this man…" The picture changed to show the pudgy man in the red cape and goggles she'd seen earlier. The room burst into laughter. "His name is Scryer, and he's only made one appearance, in Darien, Illinois. Darien's a suburb about forty minutes away. He claims to be able to see through walls, and to make matter disintegrate by concentrating very hard, but both abilities are unverified, and he refuses to demonstrate them. He has no defensive capabilities whatsoever. The PRIMUS recommendation is to leave him behind."

Bolt cleared his throat, interrupting Forrester's briefing.

"I can't really speak to any ability to disintegrate things," he started, "but Eyes—uh, Scryer seemed to be able to pick out Magnitude through the wall. He apparently saw her go down the manhole cover as well. It's how I knew where she had gone. I thought he was just staring at the most wanted posters. Defensive ability or not, he could be useful in determining exactly where all of the hostages are in the building."

Defensive capabilities or not, Bolt had a point. The Scryer looked ridiculous, but then again, what's in a costume? So the guy couldn't afford more than some goggles and a table cloth—it didn't seem fair to leave him behind just because he didn't fit the mold. Besides, she thought, he might provide some comic relief. He'd play well to the 18 to 34 bracket.

The next picture was of a young boy in a heavy leather costume. A robin-hood style hat dropped low in front, forming a cowl. He looked to be perhaps twelve years old. "This is Pan. As you can tell from the costume, he means it as in Peter, not the Greek god. He's been showing up on our radar for the last year or so in Los Angeles and Southern California. He's been taking on child predators: child pornographers, black market baby sellers, drug dealers hitting the schools. He's extremely fast, very strong, and of course, he can fly."

"Does he have a shadow?"

"What about Tinker Bell?"

Forrester coughed. "The last Tinker Bell sighting was in Miami, well before Pan first appeared. Now…" He talked through the laughter. "…PRIMUS does not recommend sending in a child, meta or no. We suggest leaving him behind."

"I'd like to talk to him regardless," Violet said, heedless of the chuckles. It was about all she could say—she'd been rendered nearly speechless by the picture. She was taken back to junior high, when a poster almost identical to Forrester's slide hung on her bedroom wall and her life revolved around a TV show called Neverland. As a native Californian, she'd naturally heard of Pan, had even seen him at Disneyland a couple times on July 4th, flying from the Matterhorn to Sleeping Beauty's Castle, but she'd never seriously stopped to consider who it was, probably because she kept her own true identity so closely guarded. She wondered how many other people in the room may have been similarly struck by Pan's picture, then quickly realized none of them had. Maggie, Bolt, and Crossfire certainly didn't react, and the suits were all either too old or too uptight. It was probably nothing, she thought, but she was compelled to take him onto the team regardless, probably for the same reason she liked to visit locations from her favorite films: it was about as close as she was liable to get to the real thing. This Pan might not be the Pan she knew from TV, but he was close enough for jazz.

Forrester clicked off the laptop. "Those are all the metas currently assembled. Does anyone… yes, Detective?"

Detective Hammersmith, the short, balding detective Ultraviolet had met earlier, stood up. "There's one other meta that I think we have to mention here. He's not even in the lobby yet, but the Chicago PD feels it's only a matter of time until he appears. Over the past several months, a vigilante dressed all in black—black bodysuit, black mask—has apprehended a large of criminals in the downtown area, in each case leaving behind a videotape of the crime for us to use in the prosecution, each tape labeled simply 'The truth.' He's been very effective. The vigilante doesn't leave his name, and the reports of his powers are contradictory. In fact, we don't even know if he is a she. All I'm asking is that if you see this man, or this person, don't shoot on sight. The Chicago Police Department is especially fond of them."

Mysterious vigilantes, Violet reflected, did not occupy a place of honor in her crimefighting experience; she and JusticeMaker had never gotten along, even apart from his shadowy creepiness. However, if the CPD were that attached to the guy, it would have to be considered, if he ever showed himself.

"Thank you, Detective," Forrester said. "And you've reminded me about something else. There are no guarantees that these prospective heroes we've interviewed are who they say they are. In fact, there are no guarantees that any of you are who you say you are—or that I'm Mark Forrester. Some people in this room have come face to face with shapechangers who can copy a person down to their fingerprints. And even if we took a DNA sample of every hero who answers Ultraviolet's call, it wouldn't do us much good, because with the masked heroes, we don't even have fingerprints or DNA to compare them to. "He shrugged. "All we can do is exercise caution. Now, any questions?"

"I may have missed it in a news report, or something," Bolt asked, "but is there any power going to the building or does it have internal generators?"

"Bolt's got a point." Crossfire scraped his chair back on the floor and stretched his legs out. "I want to know what we're getting into and who we're going up against. Like this King Cod, and I may have started to get a taste of his power before I took him out with an arrow."

"We'd of course like any information you have on the metas you face," Forrester said to Crossfire. "We have no data on anyone except Stranger. Anyone else you meet—King Cod, whatever's growing in that cocoon—all will quite possibly be first contacts."

"Right, well for what it's worth right now…" Ultraviolet listened as Crossfire told how he'd come down into the sewer, between one figure in the darkness to his left, and the boy and the alligator to his right.

The archer detailed how he'd taken down the boy and the unknown figure in the dark. He finished by saying, "I only knew it was Cod by Stranger's reaction. I probably would have left him alone and continued to get Bolt out of there if a sonic power of some kind hadn't started to build in intensity. I'm not sure what it would have done, but with so many lying unconscious I didn't want to find out." Crossfire snapped his fingers. "One arrow and the power stopped. And from Stranger's reaction, I stopped Cod pretty hard as well."

Violet nodded. She hadn't had a chance to get the real story from anyone after the fight, and truth be told she was a little reluctant to call attention to her barely-conscious state during the majority of the fight. As Crossfire described the action she'd half- hallucinated, things started to make more sense. Relatively speaking, of course. It occurred to her that, at this point, the only unbelievable thing about a giant prehistoric albino alligator with cucumber slices on its eyes would be the size of the cucumber.

"Stranger doesn't strike me as a guy with morale problems," she said. Violet thought of Bruce Lee wiping that first trickle of blood from his mouth and then going apeshit on the mook who caused it. "If King Cod is as severely injured as you think, he's going to take it out on us—and on the hostages. If he hasn't already. So what about the building—can the hostages still use the elevators?"

Detective Hammersmith rose again. "Power is still flowing to the building—we wanted to keep the elevators, water, and ventilation running, for the sake of the people trying to get out or stay alive. But the building also has generators, scattered at intervals up and down the building, most of them above the 103rd floor where they power the elevators. We have the floorplans of the building, such as they are, and we'll make those available to you. Most of the floors have no detailed layouts, because the interior is mostly open plan—businesses can arrange cubicles any way they want—and they don't have to record the changes."

"Thanks to Ikea." The floorplans would be invaluable, Violet knew, and she couldn't wait to give them to Maggie to study. Maggie liked studying things almost as much as Violet didn't. Maggie would've called this an inverse relationship; Violet called it convenient.

"While we're waiting on that," she suggested, looking around at the others, "let's check out these prospective team mates of ours. It's about time we did something solid about the situation."

Travis lay atop a desk he'd found in one of the basement's corners. He'd had to shove boxes of envelopes, paper clips, and other office supplies aside to get to it, and it was short enough that either his butt or his head hung off an edge when he lay flat, but it was better than just standing around amidst the clutter. Currently, only his head and the upper portion of his massive back were actually on the desk. The rest of him was arched up and over his head in a truly impressive yoga pose.

He held the position for a few seconds, then leapt to his feet by kicking at the air. He landed in a classic kung fu crouch as the desk shot away from him with a mighty screech. It came to a stop against a set of ancient blue lockers with a clang, almost upsetting a stack of battered cardboard boxes labeled in illegible magic marker that was balance precariously atop them. The noise was impressive in the unbaffled room, and some of the other occupants had started at the noise.

"Day-um! How long they gonna keep us down here? We only got eight hours, people!" he complained in his heavy Texan drawl. It wasn't the first time he'd made that outburst. The enormous red man hadn't sat still for more than five minutes since he'd arrived.

Exhausted by an eighteen hour drive and little sleep the night before, Travis was mostly just trying to stay awake. If he'd known that they were going to be ignored for hours, he'd have caught some shut-eye. But no. Nobody seemed to have a plan or a clue, so here he was with the rest of the rescue team, cooling his heels.

The team was pretty interesting, at that. Interesting the way Sylvia said it when she really meant unappetizing, that is. For crying out loud, they consisted of a frickin' kid, a nice but normal Cajun guy, and a fucking lard-ass with a dish towel around his neck! At least Morningstar was a name, and one with a rep for being able to handle himself at that. So was Ultraviolet, wherever the fuck she was.

"Well," he said as he stepped to the desk and planted his rear on its edge, "we might as well introduce ourselves while we're waitin'. I'm Crimson Dragon. Who're ya'll?"

"Van Varrett, pleased ta meet ya," said the man with the golden glow. He crossed the floor and extended his hand to the martial artist. The accent was pure Louisianna swamp-dweller. The smile seemed genuine and open.

Crimson Dragon wrapped a hand around Van's and returned his smile. The bigger man's skin was both supple and hard, like an alligator's hide. His smile contained fangs, and his golden eyes were slitted like a 'gator's, too.

"Back atcha. If we're goin' by real names, then I'm Travis. You got a superhero name, or are you just Van?"

Van pursed his lips, his expression turning somewhat embarrassed.

"Well, dey call me Sanctuary sometimes. Never thought of it like a superhero name though."

Travis nodded, mildly confused. What the heck was this guy doing here if he wasn't a superhero?

The man walked over to the small figure in the hard green leather and the pointed cowl. The cowl even had a red feather in it. "You mentioned your mom," Van said, extending his hand. "You really just a kid, or… ?" His voice trailed off as he extended his hand to the boy. "If you don' mind my askin', dat is."

The boy stared at the Cajun for a moment, as if considering, then shook his head, the first hint of a smile briefly passing across his lips. He had one of those light, rosy cheeked complexions, like on a cherub—the sort of face that flushed scarlet in the cold.

"No," he said, in a voice that sounded like it had just turned with puberty, "to both questions. But I don't know if the powers that be are going to believe that." His blue eyes flashed briefly toward the ceiling, indicating Ultraviolet and PRIMUS, no doubt. He put out one gauntleted hand to the Cajun, almost tentatively, as if he hadn't shaken hands with anyone for awhile. He nodded in turn to Crimson Dragon and the others. "I'm Pan."

"Van Varrett, Pan. Good to know you." Dust motes sparkled in the soft glow that surrounded him.

Morningstar pushed off from the wall. He'd been leaning against an empty stretch of the wall, arms crossed over his chest, looking for all the world as if he had plenty of time. He hadn't started at any of Travis' exclamation, nor did he look particularly surprised. Just… amused. He hadn't moved much since his arrival, in fact, except to get a cup of coffee and to nod to the PRIMUS agents standing around. Morningstar's eyes had flicked over each of the other so-called superheroes, lingering for several moments on the one they called Scryer, and even longer on the kid. At no time did his expression give anything away. It simply altered between thoughtful and amused.

The man scratched idly at his nose where the mask ended. "Nothing personal, but if you're really just a pre-pube skater punk looking for a thrill then I'm guessing you're going to be sent home." He was obviously addressing the youth—or maybe not-so-youthful—Pan. "You still might. You've obviously got something going for you or you never would've been allowed in here, but you have to know that you're a public relations nightmare, not to mention a whole slew of child endangerment laws waiting to happen."

The boy (?) let go of Van Varrett's hand and put his fists on his narrow hips. He didn't look flustered, and when he spoke, it wasn't in the tone of a kid desperate to prove himself.

"You're not telling me anything I don't know. But I'm not concerned with public relations. I'm here for those kids trapped in that day care center on the tenth floor." Pan inclined his head toward the man in the motorcycle leathers. "You look familiar to me…"

He addressed the group as a whole. "I'm Morningstar, by the way. Late of Miami." His eyes touched on each of the others before continuing. Morningstar smiled again. "You're not thinking it through—Pan, was it?" He nodded once. "Pan. You're best bet for helping those kids is by working with the team." He gestured vaguely upwards. "Your best bet for getting on the team is by making sure people know that you're not just a kid awaiting his first pimple, and that you're bringing something to the table. Same thing'll go for him," he nodded toward the man in plain clothes. "And him," he nodded again towards the guy in the goggles. "I'm guessing they're discussing whether to let you in or not right now, so you might as well give them a reason to seriously consider it."

Crimson Dragon nodded his approval. Morningstar was obviously as good as his rep said he was—assuming he could blast the bad guys as well as he could talk. Even if he couldn't, he was right. None of them was going to be able to kick the Moth Gang's collective ass alone, and none of them was getting onto the team unless their PRIMUS baby-sitters thought they were worth a damn.

"Yeah," interjected Crimson Dragon, "Morningstar and I, well, we're known, even if we ain't on Letterman now and then. Might be a good time to give each other an idea o' what we can do, an' whether or not we can do this thing together. That way, we can expedite matters a bit when these guys—" he pointed a finger at the PRIMUS agents in the room "—report to their bosses. After all, we only got eight hours." The last sentence was obviously directed at the PRIMUS men.

Pan glanced at Crimson Dragon as he spoke, and nodded.

"Agreed," he said. It was hard to take him seriously. He really did look like a kid in a Halloween costume. But he spoke purposefully, unhurried, thinking his words through before he spoke. "I'm no media darling either, and my usual quarry is street level thugs, maybe the occasional low-powered meta. So I'm aware I need all of you, both for your powers and your experience with this sort of thing. As for me, I'm stronger than most. I'm fast, and I fly. And this knife isn't for show. On top of that, I'm smaller than anyone here. Now I haven't been inside the Sears Tower since I was a kid," he paused slightly, as if expecting someone to say something. When they didn't, he glanced up at one of the ventilation grates here in the basement. "But I'm sure there's plenty of tight places—ventilation shafts, dumbwaiters, that kind of thing—that I can get through that the rest of you can't. Plus, eleven years of stakeouts and tailing has taught me a thing or two about stealth. I'm betting I'm quieter than most of you." He paused again. "But like I said, I'm in way over my head when it comes to this kind of phenomenon. What about you? I don't have a TV… not cause I'm one of those art house snobs. I don't even have electricity." He smirked ever so slightly, but it faltered, as if he were uncomfortable talking so much. "Anyways, I'm not familiar with your work. What do you all do?"

"Well," replied Travis, "I guess it's pretty obvious I've got some badass kung fu moves—Shaolin Dragon Fist, and I've been taught by a metahuman to boot. My mom can move like lightning on crack, an' my dad can catch tank shells. I take after 'em both. I may not be the li'l ninja like Pan here, but I can be pretty quiet when I wanna be." He paused to move some of his long black hair out of his face. "I ain't never worked with a group before, or even a partner. But I don't have a problem with it. It'll be nice havin' someone watchin' my back for a change." He raised his eyebrows and looked around the room. "Who's next?"

"Whew," Morningstar said, exhaling slowly. "Been a long time since anyone asked me that flat out. Plasma generation, mostly. Blasts of superheated plasma that can melt a Volvo," he added with a chuckle. "Flight. Um, a plasma field that has thus far kept me relatively whole." He shrugged. "A few other tricks but those are the highlights." His brows creased momentarily. "How strong is 'stronger than most'?" he asked Pan. "And how fast is 'fast'?"

Pan scratched the back of his neck.

"Well, I've never really tried to document it. Let's see… that guy on the Nike billboards… I'm not as fast as all that, but I can avoid bullets most days… I tangled with a metahuman archer once and was able to catch his arrows, or knock `em out of the air. I guess it's more an accelerated reaction time than a long distance kind of thing. As for strength… hmmm…a couple tons, I guess. I demolished a stilt house in Malibu last week, but it was just a matter of hitting the supports with a truck axle. I can pick up a midsize car no problem."

Van shook his head, a look of wonder on his face. "No matter how many times I see dis sort of thing, it still take me by soo-prise." He stuffed his hands in the back pockets of his jeans.

"Ting with me is, can't hardly nobody hurt me or the one I touch."

"No kidding?" asked Travis. "So that glow is some kind o' force field or somethin'? Can you protect more 'n one person at once?"

Van shrugged. "Somethin like dat I guess." He smiled and extended a hand. "And a bit more… want to take 'er for a spin?"

Travis thought about it for a second, then shrugged. "Sure, why not?" Once again, he grabbed Van's hand.

The glow that surrounded the Cajun quickly flowed over the Dragon, shading his vision with a light golden filter. At once he felt a sense of safety, a surety of purpose that seemed unshakeable. Aches and pains he hadn't even known he had were gone between one breath and the next.

"Fun, huh?" Van said through his grin. "S'long as I got aholdt of you, you ain't got to eat, you ain't got to sleep. You ain't got to breathe, won't feel no cold. All kinds of things."

He let go of the man's hand and the glow was gone—leaving the world looking just a shade darker.

Travis gave Van an appreciative look crossed with a goofy grin. "That was pretty cool, dude. If someone ever figures out how you do that an' sticks it in a bottle, they'll make a killin'. So, can you do that for more 'n one person at a time? Like maybe a daycare full o' kids?"

Van shook his head. "'Fraid not. Jus' one at a time."

Morningstar chuckled. "If our friend's expression is anything to judge by," he nodded toward Travis, "Then I'm thinking your power is going to be very welcome here."

Turning slightly, Morningstar's smile faltered just a hair as his eyes came to rest on the man with the goggles.

"What about you?" he asked amiably. "Care to share with us any details about yourself?"

The man in the homemade cape seemed not to hear the question, but then he spoke without shifting his gaze. "I am the Scryer," the man said. "I am the Seer of the Unseen."

Travis could hear him capitalizing the words. Hell, he probably practiced catchphrases in his room, and spent his time daydreaming about kicking supervillian butt. Well, Travis thought a lot about butt-kicking too, but at least he actually could knock 'em out. The little dude looked about as fit as the Pillsbury Doughboy.

Trying like hell to keep the smirk out of his voice—after all, that Van guy had turned to to be able to do some cool shit—Travis replied, "Um… Okay. So, can you tell us how the kids in the daycare are doin', or who Stranger's got with him?"

"Stranger? You mean the man in black, with the metal mask. Well." The Scryer wore a close-lipped, pained smile. "He had a giant crocodile with him, and a little boy. But I don't think they matter. Stranger doesn't need anybody else."

The man's goggles moved about the room, but didn't quite make eye contact with anyone. "I saw the fight. Ultraviolet passed out before she could do anything. The PRIMUS and SWAT agents were mowed down. Then Stranger knocked out Maggie Thorin in one punch. Then he knocked out Bolt with one punch. He would have knocked out the archer, if the archer hadn't run away."

"Okay," Travis said, sounding a little annoyed. After all, it wasn't like the guy had answered any of his questions. "So, you're tellin' me there was a fight where Stranger kicked everyone's ass, an' that's why Stranger don't need no one else. Well, Scryer, Stranger ain't met me yet, so don't go makin' him God just yet."

Scryer cleared his throat. "That's not all. The archer made a mistake. He killed one of Stranger's friends. I think we're all…" He smiled again, but it looked like a wince. "Well. I think we're all in a bit a trouble."

Van's smile vanished, replaced by a look of surprise. "Killed?" he asked the goggled man. "You say killed? You sure?"

"Looked that way." He shrugged. "The arrow went straight through the little man's chest, and he dropped to the ground and didn't get up. I don't know how you survive that. Stranger carried the body out."

Travis frowned. Whoever this archer was, he wasn't in the room. Whining about what he did or didn't do wasn't going to get them anywhere. Besides, it was incredibly easy to cause amazingly nasty injuries when you were a metahuman. Every time he held Sylvia in his arms, he remembered that horrible thing his daddy said about skulls and eggshells. And control was all too often the first thing one lost when the shit hit the fan—especially if you were fighting someone as nasty as Stranger seemed to be. So, until he heard otherwise, Crimson Dragon was going to give archer-guy the benefit of the doubt.

"Okay, Scryer," Travis said. "You got anythin' on what's happenin' inside the tower right this minute? Like what's goin' on with the kids in the daycare center or where the bad guys are? You know, stuff that might be useful?"

Van opened his mouth to say something to Travis, but at the last minute he stopped himself. He looked at Pan when Travis mentioned the daycare center, but then looked away quickly.

He didn't look at all happy. And neither did the Scryer.

"I can't see to infinity," the man in the goggles said petulantly. "Do you know how much steel and concrete and bio material is in the way to make out one group of people in some room on the fiftieth floor? No, you don't." He got up from his seat and stood on the other side of the room.

"Look, I'm sorry, dude," said Travis. "So you can't see through everything. Ain't the end o' the world. You watched that fight pretty good, though, right? So, if we was to get you on the ground floor over there, you might be able to tell us who was on the next few floors? That would still be a lot of help. An' Van here could make sure you were protected while you did it. 'Less you got some other powers you wanna share?"

The man hunched his shoulders and muttered something Travis didn't catch.

Briefly, Travis considered yelling at the guy. After all, he was the one who figured he could play in the big leagues. If you couldn't get over a little ribbing, then there was no friggin' way you wouldn't go to pieces at your first sight of Stranger in the same room with you. Still, yelling wouldn't do anyone any good, and it might convince PRIMUS he needed to sit this one out, too. He let it go with nothing more than a sour look.

There was a knock, and the PRIMUS agent nearest the door opened it a crack and spoke to someone outside. He nodded, and swung open the door. "All right, boys," he said. "They want to have a look at you."

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