Millennium Man #3:
"Intervention"
(Night And Day Act II)
by Jacob Milnestein

Victoria Stroh screamed; mouth open, arms flailing, desperate hands clawing at the thin spider-webs of IV feeds that ran down from distant machinery and deep into the pit of her very being.

There was unrest in Alhazred that night, the kind of unrest that sets the teeth of even the most hardened and cynical of villains chattering.

In his cell of near-arctic conditions the Vapour struggled to transmute his body into the insubstantial mists from which he had taken his name.

Next door Venus Mantrap rallied against the steel bars that ran beneath the draping poison ivy, shouting to her captors in a voice that was no longer alluring but merely terrified.

And in the cell of a nameless and unknown prisoner dark gods walked once more.

Valiantly he struggled against them, lashing out against their cold, featureless forms but for every felled deity a thousand-fold more sprung up to replace it. Expressionless, they wrestled him to the ground, overcoming his fearful struggles through the sheer weight of their congregation.

Thick tendrils of night overcame him, leaving stains of lavender distortion upon the pale, pock marked flesh he had so readily bargained away on that fateful night.

Briefly he imagined himself as a scholar, a wronged Faustus struggling with the daemons of his lesser self - and indeed, the lesser realms if they could be called that - only to be cast down at the last hour. There was no Germanic romance in his tale, only the bitter, uncompromising end to which he had so eagerly agreed.

The bruises spread, claiming further ground on the landscape of taunt and shivering flesh, rising up arms and legs, over genitalia and face alike.

Something in the back of his mind compared the experience to drowning.

The faint whisper of memory, his brother's hands forcing him beneath the surface of the cold, icy water on a pale, winter's morning.

He had only been a child then, given to fits of hysteria yet with little understanding of the root that nourished such dread. Now, as a grown man, he was more accustomed to the root of his fear. At one point, if asked by a casual interloper into the carefully sculpted procedures of his life, he may have claimed to have been at one with his fears, to have slept steadily in their presence and not batted a eyelid.

Nowadays he had seen too much to make such brave and stupid statements.

He knew them all for what they really were: empty gestures.

What had been born in arrogance and resentment now blossomed in terror and fear, kicking and screaming, bursting forth from a womb of warm, stained shadows into the soft light of a world neither truly imbued with the qualities of complete darkness nor given to the shine of angelic radiance.

For the first time in his life he began to understand the meaning of the name they had inferred...

Shadow...

Wraith...

'I am Wraith. I had neither father nor mother: I leaped out of a lion's mouth when I was scarce half an hour old, and ever since I have run up and down the world, with this case of rapiers, wounding myself when I had nobody to fight withal. I was born in hell - and look to it, for some of you shall be my father.'

Faustus again.

He felt sick to his stomach.

The bruises clouded his vision, black tumours obscuring the pale moonlight up above.

Clouds brushed the lunar surface.

Water clogged his eyes, not tears but perhaps the disturbed depths of the frozen lake that had ran in the grounds behind the house of his childhood.

No, not that water.this water was black.black as any river running through the heart of Hell itself.

He choked back vomit, trying to subdue the urge to spill forth further blackness upon the darkening flesh of his claimed body.

A strange yet familiar odour filled the air.

Perhaps it was not water that he swam beneath, perhaps instead it was the ash of some hideous inferno as yet unnamed.

Yet surely a fire of such magnitude would have given off light.

As a child he had loved to watch embers dancing playfully from the heart of those illicit summer bonfires. Sometimes he had even imagined that they were faeries...or angels...

Not angels; devils!

Memory adapted once more.

He saw his brother, arms blistering in the heat as he was forced beneath the surface of the flames. The flames ran up his nose and got into brain, they clawed at the corners of his eyes, tip-toeing through his conscious and clawing through the drawers of long dead memory.

Once bright, his eyes shrivelled to dead olives.

Yellowed bones the colour of nicotine stains cracked, snapping and reforming, the anatomy of the insane and the deeply disturbed.

Standing back the old gods looked upon what they had created and saw that it was good.

Again they intoned the name.

Shadow...

Wraith...

Cool air whispered against its dark skin.

The shrivelled olives turned, looking past the faceless expressions of their creators and seeing the landscape beyond.

Not the empty beach upon whose shores the ordeal had began but rather somewhere else, somewhere familiar.

Stone had fallen away, replaced by the city's horizons in the distance.

Deftly, he - it - clambered onto misshapen feet.

The gods parted and then faded once more into nothingness, taking with them the terrified shrieks of the shade's former companions.

Calm once more settled in the disturbed minds of that house's inmates as orderlies rushed from cell to cell administering sedatives and other narcotic cocktails.

Without thinking once the creature lunged towards the empty space where the wall had once been, its sleek black hide disappearing into the shadow beyond.

It curled its twisted mouth in a twisted smile and lumbered forward, driven by darkness yet still boasting a human heart within its blackened chest.

Beyond was the tangled nest of the city's lights and amongst them the light that burned brightest had already been named.

Millennium Man...

Light flickered behind the blinds, the first pale ambassadors of morning.

Trying his best to ignore the pounding in his head, Michael Manly rolled over, pushing his face down into the soft pillow and trying not to think about getting up.

He remanded inbetween dreams and waking for a short time, walking patiently along the imaginary line between the two, anything not to focus on the world outside and the dull aching in his head.

He had tried to drown out Victoria Burke's words with alcohol, tried to push the comments to the back of his mind and subdue them, force them into a place where he wouldn't have to think about them. For a short time it had worked but in the pale early light of the morning after those words, cutting and impersonal, still remained.

'Our 'personal' lives have nothing to do with our working relationship. I made a professional decision and I'll be damned if I don't stand by it.'

Swimming through the pain in his head those same words returned to haunt him.

Grunting he lifted his head from the pillow, casting back the sheets of his bed and wandering to the bathroom.

The face that greeted him in the mirror was one he didn't at first recognise. It was neither Millennium Man nor was it Michael Manly.

The hair was an inch of two longer than it had been since his operation, underneath the eyes were thick black rings of the kind his mother used to wear following the birth of his younger brother, his chin was adorned with stubble, dark specs of hair forming a phantom beard or sorts.

Hesitantly he reached up to his chin and plucked one of the dark hairs out, wincing in pain. Brief tears formed in the corner of his eyes as he carefully inspected the removed hair.

After a moment he decided that it was perfectly normal and dropped it down the sink. He wouldn't be turning into a giant fly quite yet.

He smiled at his own stupidity. Odd how cinema can impose ritual, he reflected.

At the back of his mind the worries that filled his waking life started up again, a symphony of panic and concern that he found himself unable to suppress.

There was enough money in the bank to pay the bills and rent at the end of the month but beyond that he was unsure. The loss of his job at KGPC was not only a blow to his ego but also to his financial standing. Through gritted teeth he cursed Victoria.

Deep within he felt that familiar outrage brewing. He was the heir to her father's legacy and this was the way she treated him.

Silently he shook his head.

The least she could have done was talk to him before making her decision.

But that was tired ground now, he had to look forwards to the future. God, he didn't relish the idea of filling out unemployment forms.

'I know you from somewhere, don't I? Weren't you on the telly a few weeks back?'

He scowled and sauntered into the living room, turning the television on as he passed by.

'And so it seems, Mister Manly isn't the manly man we all thought he was.' A shrill voice rang out from behind him. An audience laughed politely. 'Looks like Mikey's got quite the eye for the ladies. And who would have guessed he was Victoria's type?'

He groaned silently.

Regina Darling, bane of his existence.

Turning, he confronted the television screen.

"Don't you ever get off the air?" He snapped angrily, hunting for the remote control.

Sadly the remote control refused to come out of hiding and Manly resigned himself to the talk show host's oh, so sophisticated line of gossip.

'In other news today, it looks like the Todd family estate have lost their case against Cook, Castonzo and Carrington publishers in regards to the publishing of the late playboy billionaire Bruce Todd's journals. The book, entitled 'Secret Identities: A Look Into The Life Of Bruce Todd' has enjoyed a small print run until now and will be going nationwide with a second printing this Monday. Keep a look out for it, some of the comments are real eye openers.' She flashed a quick, polished smile at the camera and continued reading.

Manly cocked his head, looking at the young woman from a curious angle.

"That's where I went wrong." He muttered to himself. "Spent too much time flirting with the guests and not the camera."

'On a more serious note, it appears that one-time Pacific City supervillain, ShadowWraith has escaped from custody in Alhazred Asylum.'

A chill ran down his spine, hands instinctively reaching up to brush against shaven hair.

'...so keep a look out, folks. The first sign you see of a man in an ill-fitting costume - and I'm not talking about the Silver Shadow - you know who to call, and I don't mean the Police.' He stared blankly at the television screen.

Regina Darling continued talking but he no longer heard her words, all he could think of was ShadowWraith and the result of their previous encounter...

The smaller man howled in anger, the cloth of his suit tearing to reveal foot-long spikes of pure shadow. Blood trickled from the wounds upon his hands and arms as slowly the darkness within broke through, twisting up from torn flesh like some arcane armour breaking through his human guise.

Something behind the other's eyes flashed, something truly inhuman.

With a speed previously unseen, the other man leapt forward, lashing out at him with its shadowy talons. Swiftly, he stepped out of the way of the oncoming blow only to watch in horror as another blade of darkness burst from the skin above the elbow and sliced upwards, tearing through shoulder muscle and colliding with his head.

He staggered, lights exploding before his eyes as blood began to run freely from his wounds. His vision was blurred, clouded by the sudden pain erupting in his head.

ShadowWraith cackled quietly, the shafts of darkness that protruded from beneath his skin quivering in anticipation.

He looked up, trying to catch a glimpse of his adversary.

Another blow against his head and he almost crumpled to his knees.

Again and again, the attacks continued, each one more fearsome than the last until finally, palms pushed together, pain and anger welling within him, Manly unleashed a blind sun-bolt into the shadows beyond.

The darkness scattered, the room flaring with illumination as the fiery dagger tore a shadow protuberance from its moorings, spilling forth blood and darkness from the wound.

He glanced at his forlorn Millennium Man costume draped over an arm-chair in the front room. He needed to get away from being Michael Manly for a little while, needed to focus on being Millennium Man, especially if ShadowWraith had escaped again.

He couldn't let the problems of his 'civilian' life cloud his true calling.

A part of him that he didn't like acknowledging wished Anna Romanova was still about, although she hadn't been seen in Pacific City since his clash with Majestic Man and the Imperial Magistrate.

Quickly he moved to the phone, dialling in the number from memory and waiting patiently as the line connected.

The phone rang for several minutes before someone finally picked up.

"Julia?" The voice on the other end asked, permanently tired and warped by god knows how much marijuana smoke.

Manly sighed.

"Jon." He said by way of greeting.

The voice said nothing. For a moment Manly imagined the younger man's face knitted in concentration, pluming the depths of his absent memory in order to place a face to the voice.

"Jon, its your brother, Michael. You remember me?" He waved his hand in a futile gesture of greeting.

"Oh." Jonathan Manly replied. "I thought you were Julia."

Julia was Jon's on-off girlfriend. Michael had met her a few times when both brothers had converged upon their parents' house. She was a year or so younger than Jonathan, constantly wearing black, face painted up like a Geisha.

Michael's father did not approve.

Both Jon and Julia were well known regulars at the High Castle, a Goth club in the old business district, despite Jon's distinct lack of enthusiasm about the club. Apparently it was Julia who wore the trousers in that relationship.

He caught himself before his mind started wondering what his younger brother's girlfriend would be like in bed, pushing the Bad Thought to the back of his mind where it would no doubt resurface from in dreams later that night.

"Listen, Jon, I need a place to store some of my stuff and I was wondering if you could keep it round your place? Its only for a little while, I just need to get out of the city and everything and don't want to hassle Dad about helping me."

"Hmm." Jon's voice declined to commit either way on the matter.

A frown crossed Manly's stubbled features. They were brothers, for Christ's sake.

"I wouldn't normally ask this but I could really use a hand." He continued, angry that his younger brother was forcing him to beg.

"Oh yeah, I heard about that." The voice on the other end of the phone burst into life again, suddenly animated by his older brother's misfortune. "Your show got axed didn't it? Bet that must have been a bitch."

Manly was becoming more and more impatient.

"Are you going to help me or not?" He snapped.

"Woah." Jon replied, still running on the sudden burst of energy. "Calm down, Mikey. I guess we can accommodate you but only for a short while, mind. And you owe me."

Manly clenched and unclenched his fists.

"50 dollars?" He asked.

"80." Jon smirked from behind the safety of the phone.

"Fine." Manly snapped, in no mood to start another discussion with his younger sibling. "I'll leave it on the counter in the kitchen. You can come and pick the stuff up though, you've got a van. I won't be in when you call round."

Jon began to say something that would have annoyed his older brother more but Michael had already put the phone down.

Standing with his back to the kitchen, facing the drawn blinds of the living room, Michael Manly was slipping his Millennium Man costume back on over his unwashed skin.

The beast huddled beneath the arch of a large bridge, safe in the cradle of shadows and refuge and away from the glaring light of the sun.

Whilst it still thought like a man, its stature and appearance had now completely shifted into the realms of undefined nightmare. It was the proverbial Bad Thing that showed up to haunt children in the dark hallways of their houses after nightfall, the slithering creature that lived under their beds or in their wardrobes waiting to snatch an ankle or foot and drag them down into the abyss with it..

It tried mouthing the name they had given it only to discover that its new teeth severely impaired its pronunciation of the words.

"Ssssshad...ow...raith."

Briefly the image of its older brother appeared, hands wrapped tightly around its neck, choking it beneath the water.or fire.

It glared back at the face of the spiteful child and watched as it transformed into the empty, featureless masques of the Old Ones.

The anger welled up inside of it once more.

A sudden scurrying distracted the beast's attention. Dark, piggy eyes turned and looked down at the shape of a small mongrel, fur matted by years of wondering the streets alone, ribs exposed under taunt skin, visible from where patches of fur had fallen out in clumps.

The dog looked up at it, tongue lolled to one side as it wagged its tail, not quite understanding the threat that the huge monstrosity before it truly posed.

In its youth the creature's family had owned a dog, a stupid animal called Major, given to chasing its own tail and humping the furniture.

Dogs were far too trusting, the shade reflected.

Silently, ShadowWraith's claw descended...

Shirley Winters opened their hotel room door, a mug of steaming tea in her hands and a bleary expression on her face.

She wore a cotton dressing gown, framing what looked like the top half of a pair of man's pyjamas.

Slowly she looked him up and down, regarding the long black coat he wore over his Millennium Man costume in an attempt not to look too suspicious.

"Its Michael." He prompted, realising that she might not recognise him due to her having, apparently, only recently woke up.

Shirley Winters looked down and saw the edges of his cape poking out from under the coat.

"I know." She replied, voice deadpan. "You look like a stripper."

Without another word she turned her back on him and walked away, door wide open.

Manly waited another moment and then, assuming that was the best invitation he was going to get, crossed the threshold of the Winters' hotel room.

Laid back upon the bed, arms crossed behind his head, lay Charlie Winters, wearing a similar dressing gown and the other half of the pyjama set. On the television screen, animated characters danced back and forth.

He smiled at Michael.

"Nice to see you," He announced. "To see you nice. You're looking very incognito there, mate. I bet no-one guessed that you're really Millennium Man, what with the way you disguised your costume underneath that coat and everything." He sat up, tearing his eyes away from the children's cartoon and reached for his own cup of tea, resting safely on the bedside table. "What can we do for you, my son?" He enquired.

Manly shifted his weight from foot to foot, uncertain of how to phrase his question. Finally he decided that the best approach was a direct one.

"I need a place to stay." He said bluntly. "Just for a short while, until I can get back on my feet again."

Charlie Winters stared blankly at him, as if he hadn't quite understood the other man's request. Very slowly a wide smirk crept across his face followed shortly by a burst of over-enthusiastic laughter.

Shirley Winters appeared from around the corner, towel in hand, wet hair hanging over the shoulders of her dressing gown.

"What's so funny?" She asked.

Her husband, still laughing, jabbed a thumb in Manly's direction.

"Mikey here wants to stay with us because he can't pay the rent." The former English superhero proclaimed.

"Its not like that." Manly protested. "Its just.well.I can't deal with the problems of my current life and be Millennium Man. I need a base of operations to fight crime from but can't really afford a place right now."

Shirley Winters looked back at him, her face devoid of sympathy.

"Why don't you get a job then?" She asked bluntly.

Manly could feel his face turning red. Desperately he struggled for an answer but found none forthcoming.

"Awww, can we keep 'im, Shirl, can we?" Charlie laughed.

Shirley Winters folded her arms but said nothing.

For a moment or two there was silence, aside from Charlie Winters' low sniggers as he tried to prevent wetting his pyjama bottoms with laughter.

"Two conditions," Shirley finally said. "One: our hotel room is no-one's 'base of operations'. Two: you get a job as soon as whatever current crisis it is you're fighting is over."

Michael nodded enthusiastically.

"Of course. Thank you so much, Mrs. Winters." He said, feeling like a schoolboy visiting a friend's house.

"We could be the Faustian Three!" Charlie Winters proclaimed, leaping to his feet and bouncing on the mattress, fist held in the air and dressing gown swinging open to reveal his bare chest.

Shirley Winters shot her husband a look that stopped him dead in his tracks.

"No." She said quietly but certainly. "We can't."

With that she turned and walked away, returning to the bathroom and the task of washing her hair.

Charlie Winters slumped back on the bed and patted the empty side of the mattress.

"Pull up a pew, Mikey boy. Sailor Moon's on in ten minutes."

Michael Manly hesitantly sat on the corner of the bed and turned his attention to the television screen.

Life with the Winters was going to be difficult to say the least.

Its large claw tugged at the filthy animal's fur, combing the tangles from the dog's ragged appearance.

The dog whined appreciatively, curling up on the soiled newspaper beside it.

It hadn't had the heart to kill the animal, despite what its better nature had told it to do. For some strange reason it felt an odd kinship with the abandoned animal.

Outside of the world it had created beneath the arched bridge the sunlight was growing stronger, beckoning the approach of mid-day. After that prolonged period of sunlight would come twilight then finally night and ShadowWraith would be free to walk abroad once more.

The dog whimpered, rolling over and exposing its belly to the beast it had formed a friendship with.

Absently, ShadowWraith patted its soft stomach.

It had waited such a long time for its revenge and now, despite the circumstances and the cruel intervention of the elder gods that had granted its power in the first place, its vengeance would finally be realised.

Softly the daemon continued to rub the dog's belly and patiently waited for nightfall...