Anthology Two Presents...
World Without a Millennium Man: "The Wanderer"
By Michael Franzoni
Late night in Pacific City, and the town was enveloped in an unnatural silence. A storm had rolled in from the seas and angrily battered the glass and mortar of the high spires. Even the hoodlums and hooligans - all normally partial to the nocturnal cycle - had sought refuge from the hard rains.
All save for a single soul.
That man lay on his back, staring upward into the dark night. The stars were blotted out by strafes of gray and the torrential rains that fell from their depths. Somewhere out on the street, a mercury lamp sputtered and winked, playing like lightning against the backdrop of shadows and dirty alley walls. And there, captured in the slow-motion strobe effect, a lone figure walked toward him with slow, foreboding footsteps.
If he had been asked just an hour ago, Skeeter Donati would have imagined his night to be quite different. It was supposed to be a simple B & E, in and out with no complications and a couple of keepsakes to make it worth his effort. After all, why should someone small-time like him attract the attention of Pacific City's science heroes? But then again, as the saying went, shit in one hand...
As the footsteps echoed closer, dread seized his heart, and Skeeter's eyes shot wide. Trying to speak, his words came out in a painful, breathless mumble. He jerked his head to the left and coughed violently, spitting blood into the puddle forming beneath his broken body.
"Do you believe that I should pity you? Do you believe that I should show mercy? That I should behave justly in the face of one who so clearly has not?" The figure asked in a sanctimonious monotone. A roll of thunder acted as fierce, rumbling punctuation.
Turning his gaze once more skyward, Skeeter looked up into the silhouetted eyes of his pursuer. Those eyes burned like fresh cinders, red as fire and just as unforgiving. This time, Skeeter managed to push his words through the bubble of blood in the back of his throat, and he whispered, "What the fuck are you?"
The answer should have been obvious. The figure was, after all, wearing a pair of tights and a cape, a domino mask hiding his face, and all in that reminiscent red and white. And yet, there was still something vastly wrong with this picture. Even in these deep, strobing shadows, Skeeter knew the face of the man he was looking upon, and he knew that things were not supposed to turn out like this.
Millennium Man was supposed to be a hero, right?
The masked hero shook his head slowly, but his expression did not change. Lowering himself to one knee beside Skeeter, the hero wrapped his fingers in Skeeter's collar and raised the broken man halfway off the ground. "You have done disservice. Is this not the justice you deserve?"
But was Skeeter supposed to say to that? He certainly didn't know. Granted, he had heard the stories, and he knew well enough to stay away from the science heroes and their ilk. He knew to keep his ambitions low and avoid their attentions. After all, a petty thief was a matter for the police. Only the criminals locked up in Alhazred Asylum were worthy of disturbing the capes.
And then there were the rumors. Supposedly, Millennium Man was long gone. Sure, there were other heroes populating the city, but the main man was thought to be out of the picture. Skeeter had chosen to believe this rumor.
Clearly, he was wrong.
Skeeter shook his head, and once more, he coughed and sputtered. A mixture of blood and saliva dribbled down his chin. Before he could voice his objection, a seizure wracked his body. Wheezing breath escapes his mouth, and a rush of fluid took its place in his lungs. Seconds later, Skeeter Donati passed from this world with one thought on his mind:
Somehow, despite the ferocity of the downpour, Millennium Man was not even wet.
***
Across town, Jakita Adams was once again cursing the graveyard shift. It wasn't as if she had a choice, though. Four-year-olds didn't take care of themselves, and as a single mother, she had no one else to rely on. So, she could either take whatever work she could manage, or explain to her baby why they couldn't eat tonight.
Outside, the rain continued to bang down against the tin roof, coming down in sheets and drowning out the soft lyrics of the jukebox in the corner. There was no end in sight, and any hopes of the night passing quickly were long gone from her mind. Heavy rain meant fewer customers and shit for tips. Wasn't it always the way?
Jakita stood back and took a long look at the empty diner. The tables were wiped immaculately clean and fully stocked with condiments and napkins. The floors were swept, and all the coolers were fully stocked. Dejected, she dropped her chin into her hands and leaned against the counter with a deep sigh, silently hoping that something - anything - would happen.
The front door swung outward, and rain pattered down onto the linoleum floor. A sharp wind whistled in through the opening and was soon cut-off as a man in an overcoat and brimmed hat pulled the door shut behind him. Shaking the rain from his shoulders with a violent shiver, he gave her a brief glance and then made his way to a booth in the far corner of the room.
Plucking the chewing gum from her mouth, she dropped it into the wastebasket beneath the counter and started the long walk along the length of the counter. Jakita pulled a menu from the holder and approached the man's table. She offered him a warm, but fake smile and said, "Specials of the evening are skillet potatoes, and of course, as always Mama's Mess is avail…"
"Just coffee. Black," the man said, interrupting. His tone was chilling and to the point, and it sent shivers down her spine.
Damn, she thought. She was going to have to work to squeeze a tip out of this one - especially if he was only having coffee. She hoped he'd turn around with some quality service, and maybe it was only the cold and the rain that made him seem a little cranky. Silently, she poured a mug of coffee and brought it out to him.
"Can I get you anything else, or would you like some time to look at the menu?" she asked in a singsong tone, trying to seem as friendly as possible. "If nothing else, I'd recommend the pie. It's made fresh every night, and you've got your pick if you want it."
The stranger looked up from his table and affixed her with a peculiar stare. His eyes were harsh, penetrating orbs, and they cut to the center of her. "Do you have some curiosity in me? Is that it?" He paused for a moment. "What is it you wish to know?"
In truth, she hadn't given the option much thought. It was normal - especially during the quiet hours of the night - to regard the customers with some degree of curiosity, to wonder what walk of life they came from, what brought those lives into this intersection. Offering a timid, thin smile, she managed to say, "I don't get many of customers at this hour, and with it raining outside, I expected even less than the usual lot. I guess you can say I'm happy for the company."
"I am hardly what one would consider to be good company," the man replied. He returned his gaze to the table, hiding his eyes beneath the brim of his hat. Reaching forward, he folded his hands together and interlaced his fingers.
After a few moments of silence, he seemed aware that she had not yet left, and with a sigh, he said, "Very well. If it is your wish to intrude upon my privacy, then so be it. Do not say that you were unwarned..."
She took the seat opposite him, turning her body halfway to the door. "I understand. But please; only as much as you feel comfortable telling. I wouldn't want to impose."
He affixed her with an accusatory gaze, and then, with a brief pause to sip from his coffee, he began, "I first opened my eyes on this world in the summer of 1954. As one might imagine, it was not under the most ideal of circumstances..."
***
Pacific City
August, 1954
It was the sound of hushed whispers that returned him from the dregs of sleep, but it was the dull aching in his muscles that prevented him from returning to the distant shores of dreaming. Through squinted eyes, he first saw the confines of his new habitat.
The room was large and circular in appearance, but it was difficult to tell if this was its true nature. Shadows draped the walls, rounding any corners that may - or may not - have existed. Thin, spindly windows were evenly spaced every six feet along the walls; he counted seven in number. The light that poured in from these windows was tight and focused, projected through a suspended frame of stained glass.
And it was this light - or more specifically, the rose-colored shapes formed from the light as it passed through the stained-glass frames -- that kept him frozen in his position. It struck him from all seven sides, and each beam cast upon his naked body a symbol of unknown writ.
"Ahh, the silent guest awakens," a man's voice called from deep within the shadows. Footsteps echoed against the stone floors until finally a face came into view, just to the left of one of the stained glass frames. The man's gaunt features were exacerbated by the unnatural shadows. "Do you realize how long I have waited to say those words?"
The man's speech was in an alien tongue, and yet, the intent behind his words was evident to the prisoner. He made motion to answer, but the bindings of his prison prevented him from doing so.
Crouching down to the floor, the man looked up at his prisoner and smiled coldly. "Thirty years. That's how long I have looked upon your unmoving form and wondered what it was I had caught."
The man paused there and settled into place with one hand balancing upon the ground. "The gathering of the spell's materials took such little effort; the preparation of your prison only just a bit more. And at last the time of casting arrived. I followed each instruction to the letter, and at the conclusion, I was awarded my boon."
He coughed suddenly, turning his face back into the shadow. When the man returned his gaze toward his guest, red had settled had settled into his cheeks, and a rasp into his voice. "I watched you wandering in the mists of my spell. Your silhouette looked so different, so alien. I was fascinated by the possibilities, but all those hopes were dashed when the mists cleared and revealed you to be no different than I or any other man. So disappointing.
"I should have released you then, but there was a nagging at the back of mind, a specter telling me to keep you bound, to bide my time. After all, sometimes truth requires great patience. And that, brings us to today," the man chided. Reaching forward, he beckoned with two fingers. "Will at last grant me a vision of your true self? Will you at last settle my endless wondering?"
The prisoner opened his eyes wide and stared upon his captor. Slowly, his features melted away, adopting a form that existed only in his hazy memory. Humanoid, but not human, the prisoner's eyes were now great glass pools reflecting with moonlight in their depths and his skin carried a pallor similar to that sun-paled gravel. His face seemed to ask if his captor was satisfied with the truth.
It was then that full darkness fell upon the room, drowning even the lights coming from the windows. And the prison doors were thrown open.
***
"It was a moment of fate and nothing more. The sun had been cast behind the shadows of both Venus and the moon. All natural light was robbed from the entire continent, thus breaking his bindings. Freedom was mine at last - even if I had been unaware of my imprisonment," the man said uneasily. His hands separated and then wrapped around his coffee cup.
Jakita sat in silence throughout the story. Not once did she glance toward the door, but it was no matter. There were no other customers to arrive during their conversation. Now, as the stranger finished and paused, she asked timidly, "What was it you showed him?"
The man shook his head. "I showed him myself - the same as he had seen on so many occasions - only without masks or veils. And oddly enough, the face I showed him did not feel right. It did not feel like my own. You see, in my slumber, my mind had reached out and fashioned my identity after those around me. And when I found myself loosed once more upon the world, I returned to that image."
Turning full forward, Jakita relaxed in her seat somewhat. "You mean that you're something that's not human? What the hell are you then?"
"Something from far beyond this world," he answered. His gaze went to the window, but his eyes appeared to be looking farther - past the city, through the night, through the storm, and past the stars that lay beyond. "But it matters little. I have spent many years in this city, watching its people and acclimating myself to its way of life. I have learned to adapt to my surroundings. My home is here now, and that much can never change."
"Why not?"
"It was some time before I remembered for myself." He closed his eyes and hung his head. "The world I once knew was long gone before I came to this place. I was the final survivor, and for many, many years, I had wandered the desolation alone with my memories and my shaping ability."
This piqued her interests, and she reached across the table, squeezing his hand in reassurance. But her next questions closed upon a different part of speech. "Does this mean that you're one of those science heroes?"
"Something like that..."
***
Pacific City
March, 1987
He had followed her from one side of the city to the other. She had made no effort to hide her efforts, and the trail of blood had left many clues. Cornering her in an abandoned warehouse, their battle had been met, and since it's beginning, circumstances had not been falling in his favor. And the molded metal of his armor had long since failed beneath the thrumming of her fists.
The next punch had rocked him from his feet, but it was the accompanying blow that sent him barreling through the wall. Rubble and brick dust rained down upon his head as he struggled to climb back to his feet. It hurt to breathe, but he did his best to ignore the stabbing shards of pain that shot through his chest.
The golden-clad woman followed him through the hole in the wall, her intent evident in each eager step. Wrapping her fingers in the collar of his cloak, she hauled him off the ground and slammed him back down, then repeated the process three more times. "Die, damn you!"
Pressure cracks spider-webbed beneath him as the floor began to give beneath the pressure of the blows. Frustrated by the seeming lack of success, she rotated her hands to his neck and started to squeeze.
Desperate, he balled his hands into fists and hammered them into her temples, trying to negotiate his release. It took three more attempts before she finally dropped him to the floor, where he gasped for new air.
Stumbling backward, the Murderess reached up to her ears and dabbed at the blood that dripped from their canals. A guttural growl erupted from her throat, and she bore down once more upon her opponent.
But he had learned in that one instance. She was vulnerable. She was not the goliath that his intelligence had led him to believe. Scrambling backward on his hands and feet, he looked up into her face and locked eyes with the killer. And then, without another moment's hesitation, he released the light of a long-dead sun from his eyes.
The smell of bubbling and burning flesh filled the dusty room only half a second before her screams echoed across city blocks. As she fell away from him, the pair of beams tore through the roof and erupted into the night sky.
Seconds later, the building collapsed under its own weight, burying the combatants in its wreckage.
***
Jakita gasped. At the sound, the man looked up from his empty coffee cup and shook his head. "The Murderess was taken away to Alhazred Asylum, and if it had not been for the timely intervention of Millennium Man, that too might have been my fate. Luckily, he recognized the good in me and helped me make good on my escape.
"He was an inspiration, a giant among men. I owe much for the words of advice he offered me that night. And yet, as soon as we had met company, we parted. I have watched him silently from a distance, on rare occasions since then, and I have continued to learn from him." The man paused and tilted his empty cup toward Jakita.
"Wow, you've met Millennium Man," she whispered in response. A wide smile spread across her face, and she rocked back and forth happily. Stepping away from the table, she returned with a fresh mug of coffee and then retook her seat. "But that doesn't answer my question. Are you a hero or not?"
"Until recently, that one instance - that night when I wore the guise of the Gilded Saint - had been my only turn down that road. I had only wanted to understand the makings of a hero - why these men did as they did. I failed in my quest, and I was discouraged from continuing," the man replied.
Reaching upward, he took the hat off his head and then loosed his coat. Beneath the folds of his collar, the bright fabric of a red and white union suit could be seen. "However, with Millennium Man's recent disappearance, I have renewed my explorations. Tonight, I have taken his place and acted in his stead. I have played the part of hero. And despite my differing methods, I have made this city a safer place."
She stared at him in silence. In her mind - and written plainly on her face - she repeated the words 'differing methods' over and over again. For the first time, she found herself doubting this man's stories. Slowly, she began to slide her chair away from the table.
Reaching across the varnished surface, he grabbed her by the wrist and applied pressure against her veins. His eyes changed from brown to deep crimson, and she became the object of his ire. "I have learned a great many things tonight and on that night so many years ago.
"However, my education is not yet complete. In order for me to fully understand what it is that makes the hero, I must also understand what it is that does not make the hero but instead makes the villain. I must have the full scope," he said, allowing defiance and arrogance to seep into his voice. "And there is no education better than experience."
And then, the fire flowed from his eyes and burned the scream before it left her throat. Jakita Adams would never again know the goodness of men.
Or the eyes of her son.
And as the fire roared behind him, consuming the small diner in its wrath, the Wanderer walked away into the night. He had much work to attend to.