Millennium Man #15
"Tracy Newman"
(Millennial Boy Act II)
by Jacob Milnestein

Earth #746366...

Alex Chrysostom faltered, his bleeding hands reaching up and touching his shattered facemask. Pain coursed through his body, dark patches appearing underneath his once immaculate blue and white costume. He stood helplessly by and watched as Millennial Pink fell backwards, collapsing into the black sand of the alien world and shuddering as she tried desperately to cling to life. Her eyes rolled behind her own broken mask and he could clearly see the trails of blood that ran from her nose and mouth. Her blonde hair once radiant was now damp with sweat.

Chrysostom sensed movement but dared not look up. The stench of cigarette smoke and death was almost overwhelming, pushing down on him and drawing out the air from his lungs. His muscles tensed as he felt the world coming to an end and then, with a warm, damp sensation of pain, Alex Chrysostom, last of the Millennial Rangers, ceased thinking.

* * *

Earth #746387...

Tracy Louise Newman yawned and tried not to think about the warm space she had left in bed scarcely half an hour ago. The steaming cardboard cup of machine coffee rested dangerously on the corner of her desk, failing completely in its attempt to lure her towards it. She yawned again and emptied a cigarette from its packet. Loose tobacco spilt all over the shooting schedule she had been reading and she cursed loudly and violently, her face twisting in such distaste that her hair fell from where she had tucked it behind her ears and her glasses all but slid from her nose.

Muttering loudly she adjusted herself and lit the cigarette, catching a glimpse of her own face in the mirror as she did. The reflection was far from pleasing.

The person looking back at her was tired and jaded, hair once dyed blonde now returned to the dull, brown colour it had previously been and thick lines dramatically pointing out her recent sleeping problems to all she came into contact with. Before the year ended she would be 47 and her husband Fred would be 51. When she was younger 47 had seemed so far away and now that it was barely a few months in the future Tracy found herself more dispirited than she had ever been in all her life. She had spent so long getting ready for her future that it felt as if whatever opportunities the future may once have possessed had long since expired. From school to college to work to marriage to children; all of these decisions had been made not on what she had wanted at the time but because she was preparing for her future and of course, now that that the future had finally arrived it couldn't help but be a bit of a let down.

She sighed and looked around her small office, taking in her cluttered desk and the obligatory family photo that hung at an awkward angle upon the wall, dwarfed by the massive posters of various KGPC co-financed motion pictures. With a heavy heart she dragged her attention back to the shooting schedule, skimmed through and flicked over to the memo that accompanied it.

Both the note and schedule pertained to KGPC's recent acquisition of the rights to a Japanese tokusatsu (or 'special effects') series produced by music and television giant SUNNY. The series was entitled Magenta Kamen and was loosely based on the old Science Hero, Magenta the Magician. Tracy had been appointed the role of producer for KGPC's adaptation of the material for Australian audiences, meaning that whilst the costumed action sequences would remain intact the original Japanese cast, location, etc. would be replaced with actors and locations more suited for the Australian market.

It was a complete waste of time as far as she was concerned especially as principal photography would take place in New Zealand in order to take advantage of the cheaper labour and production values which in turn would mean that she would have to relocate for several months later in the year. She slammed the memorandum down on the desk and barely suppressed a scream of frustration.

Her entire life was dictated by a thankless job with poor wages. Angrily she killed the cigarette in the ashtray and closed her eyes, trying desperately to pull herself together. Sweat ran down her forehead and blossomed under her arms as she cursed the faulty air conditioning. The day was early and already she felt exhausted. With a sigh she picked the papers from her desk once more and begrudgingly resumed her reading.

* * *

Alexander Chrysostom looked up at the grey of the early morning sky, his arms folded beneath his head and his feet swaying from side to side as some half-remembered song drifted through his head. He had been a self-proclaimed Science Hero for a whole month and, aside from rescuing the odd cat from a tree and returning stolen purses he had nothing to show for it. It was almost as if, for some reason or another, all the major supervillains were avoiding Pacific City. In fact even the minor villains seemed in short supply, occasionally he would catch an item on the news - Bush43 loses track of Putty, Mysteria puts the Al and Ike twins in hospital - the usual stuff about occasional and infrequent small time villains, mostly refugees from Alhazred with nowhere else to go. Aside from these minor blips on the radar, Pacific City was completely free of villains.something that made his job as a new hero decidedly boring.

He sighed loudly and wondered if maybe he should take advantage of the apparent absence of any major crime spree and set himself up in opposition to the city's heroes. It would certainly be a lot more profitable than sitting around waiting for the next Hammerhand to turn up and with the mayor and all the heroes out of the city at present there really was no better time to make himself a quick profit.

A cunning smile crossed his face and he brushed the comma of dark hair back from where it had fallen over his right eye. If there were no villains about for Jet-Bastard to apprehend then he would simply become his own arch-nemesis. He sat bolt upright, a plan suddenly forming in his head. If he could sneak out tonight wearing his grandfather's old Lord Omega costume then he'd stand a good chance of not only attracting attention, due to the familiar costume and his grandfather's aborted raid on the Pacific City First Bank a year or so ago, but also, if he made enough noise about how Jet-Bastard was a powerful hero then people would get it into their heads that his heroic persona was serious enough to attract a major villain back from retirement.

It was perfect. There was no way it could good wrong, all he had to do was play it safe once the mayor and the big leaguers returned, wait a few months for them to find another significant mission outside of the city limits and then turn up in the Omega costume again. He'd have to be careful not to appear as Omega every time the big shots left the city but if he limited it to now and again then everything would be fine.

Carefully he clambered back up the slate roof of his house and ducked into the open window of his attic bedroom. He had a lot to do before the end of the night, not least of all thieving the old Omega costume from his grandfather's room. Everything would have to be carefully orchestrated if he was going to get the best results and that would involve a significant amount of thought.

Kicking off his heavy boots, Alex Chrysostom dropped into the battered old swivel chair in front of his desk and swiftly unfolded a map of Pacific City.

* * *

"Large bacon double cheeseburger, large fries and a large Pepsi." The man in the dishevelled yet expensive looking suit announced.

Joe Langford forced back a yawn and averted his eyes from the customer.

"It's Coke. Burger King has Pepsi, we have Coke." He looked up from the till, the price tag emerging in green numbers on the machine's display.

The man in the dishevelled suit dug into his wallet and placed a crisp note down on the table, far more than was needed in fact. Joe glared at the small green note, the horrible feeling that the man in the suit had something to prove about his own worth now sadly confirmed.

"It doesn't make any difference, does it?" The man commented in his increasingly ineffectual manner.

Joe looked up from where the note rested.

"Well, yes it does. Brand exclusivity is an incredibly powerful marketing tool." He looked disdainfully at the customer's suit. "I thought you would have known that, sir."

The man in the suit flushed red with anger and embarrassment. "Say, Joe," He said, emphasizing the name that he read from the employee's badge. "Isn't this the McDonald's where Michael Manly works? So why don't you bring him out here, Joe, I'd kind of like to have my dinner served by a minor ex-celebrity."

Joe's fingers knotted into tight fists beneath the counter, the note still resting between them. "Michael doesn't work here anymore." He said through gritted teeth.

"Well, that's a shame." The man in the suit smirked, making a show of looking over Joe's shoulder as if he didn't believe him and expected to see Manly flipping burgers behind him.

Joe took the note, placed it in the till and deducted the meagre cost of the customer's meal from the ridiculous total. Quickly he turned away and called out the order and dropped the change on the counter, relieved that soon the man in the suit would be out of his life for good.

Moments later the food slid down the metal surface of the waiting area in its neat wrapping and Joe scooped it up, dropped it into a brown bag with the McDonald's logo emblazoned across it and poured the man a large Coke.

He turned to see the customer scrawling a number onto the back of a small square of cardboard that he slid across the counter much as he had done with the note earlier.

"That's my number. If Manly does turn up again tell him Trevor Mason would like a word." The customer smiled dangerously, his eyes locking with Joe's.

Joe made no motion to take the card from the counter, instead placing the brown paper bag down on the surface, fitting the large cardboard cup with the plastic top inside and rolling the paper of the bag over at the top before sliding towards Mason.

"If I see him then I'll pass on your message." Joe said.

"That's all I ask, Joe." Mason smiled. He reached down for his food paused and looked back up at the younger man. "Manly's hiding something. Something so important he's dropped completely out of sight. Soon I'm going to get confirmation of what I think that 'something' is and then we'll real see how loyal your company is to its ex-employees." He smiled viciously, scooped the bag from the counter and strolled out, whistling to himself.

Joe stood silently for a moment, seething with anger as he rhythmically clenched and unclenched his fists, squeezing the knuckles till they were white. Quietly Jake emerged from the back, his bleach blonde fringe brushed away from the startlingly hazel eyes.

"You hear any of that?" Joe asked, turning slowly to face his fellow employee.

Jake nodded in his casual manner. Like a fair amount of Pacific City's populace, Jake and his family had immigrated from mainland China when he was a child and he's upbringing since had been an eclectic mix of half-remembered places, long distance phone calls, old traditions mixed in with the powerful stimuli of the large Australian city. Like many of his friends, Jake's upbringing had been truly Australasian. He was tall, especially when compared with his parents and the mess of bleached hair and deep eyes gave him the appropriated look of a rebellious outcast, which in many cases he was.

"Some of it." He answered with a half shrug. "Something about a message for Mike."

"Yeah." Joe nodded slowly. "A message and a threat. I don't how but I'm pretty sure that obnoxious yuppie idiot has worked out what Mike's hobby is."

"Hmm." Jake responded, nodding seriously. Despite his lack of words a simple glance would have assured Joe that his fellow worker's mind was now completely devoted to the problem of finding a resolution.

Of course Joe no longer needed to double check. He knew Jake; they had been friends since school. He didn't need to know the other was applying his intelligence to the problem at hand, the tone of his voice said everything.

"We better phone Regina. Looks like we're closing early." He said with a sigh.

Jake nodded slowly in distracted agreement but said nothing.

* * *

He adjusted his mask, turning up the collar of his cape and admired himself in the full-length mirror inside his wardrobe door.

Thieving the costume had been easy. His grandfather had never found it in himself to throw the old uniform away and conveniently spent two hours on a Tuesday with the psychiatrist, one of the many stipulations of his continued freedom.

Placing his hands upon his hips, Alex threw his head back and attempted an evil laugh. Swiftly he twisted his cloak about him, drawing it over his eyes till the lower half of his face was completely concealed.

His hidden face twisted in a smirk and he allowed both his arm and cloak to drop as he fell back into his normal posture and laughed self-depreciatingly at the absurdity of the situation. Despite living in Pacific City and his status as Jet-Bastard he had never met or been confronted with a supervillain close up. Yet now he stood in front of his mirror, dressed in his grandfather's former costume as he prepared to head out into the night and play the role of one. The stupidity of the situation was not lost on him - the idea of ingratiating his Jet-Bastard persona to the people of Pacific City by specifically creating a villain for him to oppose was a somewhat underhanded move. As long as he could postpone an actual confrontation between Lord Omega and Jet-Bastard for as long a lengthy period of time then he was in the clear.

Smiling contently to himself, the new Lord Omega returned to his quiet scheming.

* * *

Creep reclined in his comfortable armchair; exhaling thick rings of cigar smoke with non-existent lungs and swirling the brandy in its fine crystal glass slowly, the worn bones of his fingers creating a sharp confrontational whisper of noise with each movement.

The small room was cluttered with objects from centuries past, an entire catalogue of items forgotten and abandoned by their respective cultures. The room had initially been a storeroom and it had taken a week of hard effort (by other people on his behalf, of course) to reorganise it. During the cleaning process he had discovered several forgotten and potentially lethal weapons of magical mass destruction, four manuscripts in languages that no living person could read and two talking rats who had complained about the noise.

Having cleared the clutter he had made sure the room was dimensionally restructured (an old trick learnt from a very old friend) and had set up redecorating. The storeroom now boasted heavy drape curtains that hung on either side of large delicate windows looking out on non-existent fields, a chandelier hanging from the ceiling and, amongst other things a large grand piano and an out of season open fire. Of course by next week the entire decor would probably be completely different but for now he didn't like to think about any possible whims of taste. For now he was more than happy with his brandy and his cigar, in fact all that was required to make the day perfect was the love of a fine woman and he was sure he wouldn't have much of a reason for leaving the storeroom again and pursuing his position as the gallery's curator of mysterious objects.

The storeroom itself was located deep within the old museum's labyrinthine interior, always locked and covered by a thin layer of dust that made it appear as if it had been untouched for many years. Two lonely metal poles, a thick red rope running between them, marked the door as out of bounds and as such no one had bothered to try and turn the handle before Creep had ordered the younger staff to clean it out. It had taken them almost month just to locate the sixty-year-old key to the door's lock.

He felt a great affinity for the quirky storeroom (talking rats still included despite its aesthetic overhaul) and as such was greatly irked when he found his privacy being invaded. He listened to the soft sound of something appearing in the room's darkest and furthest corner. A slight breeze drifted across his cold ivory cheekbones and he sighed with annoyance, placing the brandy down on his coffee table and rising from his comfortable armchair.

"I don't remember inviting you here, Doctor." A deep, accented voice announced from the darkness.

Creep shrugged and put the cigar in the corner of his mouth.

"Funny you should say that. Binzuru Harada said much the same thing when I turned up in Tokyo a few years back." He regarded the darkness with his absent eyes. "Besides, this is my broom closet, buddy and I don't see no reason why I should be explaining myself to you in my own home. 'Specially not on my day off."

The Bodhisattva stepped out of the shadow, his dark eyes taking in every detail of the curiously displaced room. "I am not concerned with your days off, Doctor." He announced and folded his hands behind his back as he turned to glance at the spines of several archaic leather bound volumes on an overcrowded bookshelf. "I am however concerned about the significance of your arrival."

Creep scratched his skull with a pale digit, the sound of which caused an uncomfortable whisper of scraping bone, and cracked the bones of his face into a ghastly parody of a smile. "You know, people worry too much. I get this a lot. I turn up at some casino in Vegas and suddenly everyone's like 'Oh, it's the end of the world'. It ain't like that, I'm just a regular guy trying to make ends meet, y'know."

Aristotle Licuan glanced over his shoulder.

"Don't lie to me." He said, his tone severe. "I know what your presence means and I won't stand for it."

Creep dropped his pretence of innocence and straightened his deathly posture.

"I'm not lying to you, pal." He said seriously. "Yeah, there's a reason for me being here but as far as I can tell it doesn't have anything to do with you. I ain't no Henry Burke that you can tell what to do. Don't mean to burst the bubble and all that but poor old Hank's dead and that Manly kid certainly doesn't look like he has the stomach for running around in a pair of tights."

Aristotle's eyes burned angrily in his dark face.

"This doesn't concern Manly." He announced quietly.

Creep shrugged and turned away.

"Maybe not but he's part of your plan, ain't he?" The familiar sickening simulation of a smile spread across the smooth bone of his face as he looked out at the illusion beyond the window. "Let's not mince words anymore, Joe. I know exactly why it is you're come back to Pacific City after spending thirty odd years up a goddamn mountain in Tibet and I know exactly why you didn't bother lifting a finger to save Hank." He turned back and regarded the intruder in the ashen robes with his dark eyeless sockets. "You didn't save Hank because you know the same thing that Charlie Winters knows - grand old Henry Burke the Third wasn't strong enough to save Pacific City."

Triumph radiated from Creep's body language as a cloud of cigarette smoke drifted between him and his unwanted guest.

Aristotle remained silent, unwilling to confirm Creep's accusations and unable to deny them. Without a word he turned away and stepped cautiously back into the cold shadows.

"Hey, Joe. Before you go answer me this one question, will ya?" Creep called out after the Bodhisattva.

Licuan paused but didn't turn round.

"Did you find out before or after Winters found Earth #746364?"

Silence drifted between them for a moment and then Aristotle finally answered:

"Before."

Creep dropped back in his armchair, his entire posture radiating smug satisfaction.

"And you decided you'd let good old gullible Professor Winters find out so he could do your dirty work for you, yeah?" His tone shifted suddenly becoming abruptly sinister and threatening. "Well congratulations, friend. I bet even Romanov would have been proud of that one. How many people have died because of Winters and his fall from grace? How many lives could you have saved if you'd just faced Burke yourself or at least armed Winters with an adequate version of the truth?"

"They will be reborn." Aristotle uttered faintly. "All unenlightened life returns to the Wheel."

"And that's your excuse is it? You decided you were going to let all those people die because you think they'll turn up again sometime during the next wave of baby boomers?"

"Goodbye, Doctor." Aristotle whispered quietly and stepped forwards, slipping into the shadows and out of the room, shrugging free of the other's attempts at calling him to accountability.

If Creep had still possessed the gift of flesh then his face would have soured at the sudden departure of his unwelcome guest. Wearily he imitated a sigh and slumped further down into his chair, wrapping skeletal fingers around the glass once more.

"Well there's one to piss on a perfectly good day." He muttered to himself and turned, with irritation back to his drink.

* * *

The end of the working day brought with it the most awkward of Pacific City's many and varied unspoken rituals. As department stores closed their doors and coffee shops emptied their tills so the restaurants and pubs that lay at varied intervals about the city's sprawling centre slowly began to fill with customers. It was an elaborate changing of the guards with businessmen in their uniforms of pin-stripe and Italian cut cloth departing home, briefcases in tow, via cars, trains and buses whilst their children, the generation of righteously angry youth with fashionably ugly facial decorations and obscene images on their oversized hooded jumpers crept out of darkened bedrooms and begin filling the streets, searching for a place to belong.

Gerald Chesterton was a nervous man with an intense fear of heights. He was overweight and often stammered around people he found intimidating, including his wife and daughter. Of the few things he took pride in was his duties in the service of the Pacific City First Bank. With a smile of satisfaction he locked the large front doors and thus completed the first arc of the conclusion of his working day. If anything it had been the unbreakable routines in his life that had given him the will to carry on despite adversity. As long as he was able to maintain routine then he could keep the madness of the world outside at bay.

He turned happily and the smile faded with a sharp intake of breath. Standing upon the checked floor of the bank's interior was a faintly familiar figure. He was dressed in a bright blue outfit and had a small, red omega on his chest. A black cape trailed behind him like a stain against the highly polished floor. In fact his very presence clashed with the bank's plush interior, contrasting harshly with the smooth glass partitions that, during the day separated customers from employees and the prestigious decor of the building's interior - the kind of decor that only a substantial amount of credit and reputation could buy.

In his hands the stranger held a large burlap bag, whilst his face was hidden behind a black mask that covered all but his eyes and the lower portion of his face.

"I kn-kn-kn-know you!" Chesterton stammered, the words heavy in his throat.

The figure's lips curled in a patient smile.

"Of course you do, Mister Chesterton. I'm the mighty Lord Omega," His eyes narrowed. "I'm here, of course to conclude the business I was so rudely called away from last time I visited."

Chesterton shook his head softly from side to side, sweat run down his bulging forehead. "N-n-no, you ca-ca-ca-can't! P-P-P-Please!"

There was a swift glimpse of movement and suddenly colours exploded before Chesterton's wide eyes and he felt his legs give way, the hammering in his heart now also vibrating through his head. He collapsed onto the perfectly polished floor and blinked several times, trying to look up at his attacker.

Omega towered above him, hands on hips. "Idiot. Have I not outwitted Millennium Man and escaped the destruction of Alhazred? When will fools like you realise that Lord Omega has no equal!" Yet even as he spoke the supervillain began to look troubled. He turned away, so confident in his power that he did not need to keep his eyes on Chesterton's movements. "However there is one in Pacific City who does genuinely pose a threat to me. One so strong and graceful that the police and the media have been conspiring with the other heroes to prevent him from getting the recognition he deserves."

"W-W-Who?" Chesterton stammered, curious despite himself.

Omega turned back and fixed him with a broad smile.

"The Science Hero known as Jet-Bastard, of course!" He declared loudly.

Chesterton blinked again.

"Je-Je-Je-Je-Jet-Ba-Ba-Ba-Bastard?" He enquired with a frown.

Omega's smile faded.

"Yes, Jet-Bastard. I can see the media has concealed the truth from you also." He glanced behind him at the locked offices behind the glass. "But enough of this idle chit-chat, we have business to attend to."

With a swift kick the villain knocked the overweight bank manager across the floor, his large bulk screeching as it slid over the tiles.

"Get up, fool and open the vaults for me!"

Bruised and tearful, Chesterton meekly rose from the floor and bowed his head in obedience.

* * *

Tracy Newman stubbed the hundredth cigarette of her working day into the ashtray and glanced at the clock. She sighed with relief as it slowed dawned upon her that she was at last free from the confines of her cramped office for another day.

The sound of a sharp knock on the office door soon awoke her from joyful realisation and she turned to see the shape of Trevor Mason creep languidly inside. He dropped into the chair facing her and began talking without bothering with the formalities of greeting.

"I spoke to Julia on the phone last night." He announced proudly.

Tracy Newman frowned as she tried to recall exactly who Julia was amongst the sea of female faces that she already thought of as 'companions' of Mason's. It had been a week before Christmas when they had last spoke, introduced through a mutual friend at the KGPC Christmas charity dinner. Her eyes glazed over as she remembered Mayor Jerrod's rousing speech that night.

"Hey, Newman, are you listening to me?" Mason snarled, leaning forwards and snapping his fingers in front of her face.

She jumped and almost fell out of her chair.

"Don't do that, you idiot. Jesus, yes I'm listening to you." She pulled her glasses roughly from her face and dropped them onto her desk. "Hello, by the way."

Mason waved her greeting off with a backhanded gesture.

"Yeah, whatever." He murmured, which as good as a greeting as she was going to get from him today, she decided.

Before she could question him as to who Julia was he began speaking again.

"So I spoke to Julia on the phone." He looked at her puzzled expression, sighed and explained thus:

"Julia Squire, moody Goth girl, used to date Manly's kid brother and worked at Alhazred before our gracious new mayor decided to redecorate."

Sudden understanding washed over and she felt giddy with expectation, sweat forming on the palms of her hands. She remembered the fumbled and drunken exchange that had occurred between them in the toilets and she remembered feeling absolutely no guilt but becoming tearful after the event none the less. Her tears were not for her marriage or her briefly forgotten husband as they were both on autopilot, but rather they were tears of anger and frustration directed at one man and one man alone: Millennium Man.

Tearfully she had confessed her hatred of the superhero and when the awkward words of comfort had failed to stop her crying he had promised to help her hurt Millennium Man. Then and only then had Tracy Newman's grief been satisfied.

"She has the file, Newman." He said, his voice heavy with the significance of his statement. "She's playing hard to get at the moment but give me a few more days and she'll crack."

"The file." Newman whispered in hushed awe. "Michael Manly's medical file...does she...?"

Mason shrugged.

"If she knows whether he's Millennium Man or not she's not letting on. Not that it matters. I'll get the file off her and we'll get famous by plastering our great superhero's private life across every front page and television channel in Australia."

Tracy Newman's eyes were wide with wonder.

"I hope to God it is him," She whispered, her hands tightening into fists under the desk. "To finally get back at that son of a bitch, to force him to stand trial for Jim's death." Her voice trailed off as her mind filled with thoughts.

Mason nodded, smiling darkly.

"For everyone that Millennium Man's ever hurt, not just Finnegan. With this we can force the government to take back the city from that freak dictator in the mayor's office and we can lobby for a register of these so-called heroes in every city. We can change the world, Tracy."

She nodded slowly, her eyes still refusing to focus.

"And it all begins with Millennium Man." She whispered.

Mason grinned and leant back, lighting one of her cigarettes as he did.

For the first time since Jim Finnegan's death, a smile slowly cracked over Tracy Newman's face.

"That's right, baby." Mason declared with pride as their eyes finally met. "Millennium Man is dead, long live Australia."