Chapter 26: “Something: Not By the Hair of my Chinny-Chin-Chin.”
Written by: gratton@worldnet.att.net (Falstaff)

 “Okay, it seems to me that our first step is to . . . .” Laura Dean's
voice trailed off.  “Hey, Kara, wake up!”
 Persuasion's eyes snapped away from the apartment's door. “Sorry.  I'm just--y'know--a little anxious.”
 Laura's eyes twinkled.  She tossed a playful glance at her twin sister. Goblyn snorted.
 “Oooh, Whit,” Laura cried melodramatically, “I love you!”  She rose, crossing her arms.  “No, I hate you. I never want to see you again!”  She knelt again. “Wait, I love you…”
 “Stop that,” the harsh voice of the Betan known only as Wyre grated. “It's bad enough when she does it.  I didn't come here all the way from the Alaskan border to listen to the pair of you prattle.”
 Their host, Northstar's boyfriend Alex, turned to the pockmarked man. “Monsieur, would you kindly extinguish that . . . . thing?”
 Wyre's lip curled above his cigarette.  “Nope.”
 Goblyn looked at her sister and flared her nostrils, her equivalent of a shrug.  The silent mutant didn't have to speak to convey her thought: 'It is going to be a long wait.'

* * * * *

 One would expect that superheroes, when racing to the rescue of other superheroes (even aboard a borrowed DC-10 officially licensed to Air Canada) would be deep in some meaningful, momentous discussion, or perhaps planning some form of battle strategy.  One would expect that.  But one must first take into account the fact that said heroes are--at least in all the ways that count--human . . . . 
 “You are too thin,” Saint Elmo pronounced in his booming brash voice.
 Snowbird's tone was exasperated and faintly icy.  “It has been many years since I have required a nursemaid, Saint Elmo.  I am perfectly capable of regulating my own diet.”
 One who did not know the formerly dead Welshman well would have missed the
fatherly twinkle in his deep gray eyes.  “Nonetheless, O daughter of Nelvalla, it is plain that you are far too thin for a woman of your age.” 
  He mock-glared at Shaman.  “What are you feeding this child, old friend? Your shuffled eggs and bowls of raw wheat?  Pah!”  Now there was no mistaking the smile in his eyes, for it was matched by one on his face.  “A few loaves of good rye bread, a bowl or three of thick mutton stew, and you'll be fit to walk the world again,” (a wink), “my tiny one.”
 “You leave my mommy alone!” Snowbird's son piped up from her arms.  
 The assembled Alphans laughed, but Elmo was absolutely serious as he turned to the child.  He nodded gravely, his bristling red beard alight in the rays of the rising sun that streamed through the window.  “As you wish, little master.  Elmo ap Elphan is forever at your service.”
 “Okay, Redbeard,” Elizabeth Twoyoungmen said.  “I'm sick of this cloak and
dagger stuff.  Who are you, and what were you doing in the Beast's realm?”
 Elmo raised an eyebrow at Shaman.  “Is she always this ill-mannered, friend Michael?”
 A quirk of a smile graced Michael Twoyoungmen's stately features.  “More
often than not.”
 “I am Elmo ap Elphan, from the humble village of Ffydrich Garan in the north of Wales.  For five thousand years, I have been in the service of the goddess Nelvalla.  And I was in the realm of the Sons of Misuse for reasons of my own.”
 “_What_ reasons?” Talisman asked, eyes narrowing in suspicion.
 Beneath the russet beard, the Welshman's jaw tightened.  “Reasons of my own, Binder.”
 “And that's it?  That's all you have to say?”
 Elmo's eyes bored into the young woman's.  “Quite so.”  His eyes flashed like a storm in the midst of a peaceful sea.  “Step carefully, Binder of Spirits.  Some things are not for mortals to know--not even she who bears the talisman.”

Chapter 27: “A Name for the Littlest Alphan”
by: Wngtom@CompuServe.COM

  Donovan Walker hesitated on the doorstep of the RCMP station. He looked down at the photo of the pale blonde young woman Mountie in his hand. “Anne McKenzie,” it read on the back.
  According to RCMP records, Anne McKenzie had been assigned to this post in Yellowknife in the Northwest Territories. Donovan felt that he should see her as soon as possible.
  He steeled himself, and stepped into the building. This police station was bustling with activity.
 A young brunette woman Mountie looked up from behind her desk. “May I help you, sir?”
   “Er...yes,” Donovan said. “I'm looking for a Mountie by the name of Anne McKenzie.”
 “Anne McKenzie....” the young woman reflected. “She disappeared ages ago. She and Sergeant Douglas Thompson. I should know, because I was assigned to take over her duties as Records Officer. Perhaps there's something I can help you with....?”
  “Thanks, but, no. It's Anne McKenzie I have to see,” Donovan said,
turning to go. “Thank you anyway for your help.”
  He stepped outside again and reflected upon what he had just been told. Now what was he going to do? Anne McKenzie had disappeared, and he didn't have a clue as to where to find her. Where could she have gone?

  The erstwhile Anne McKenzie --who was in reality the resurrected demi-goddess Narya AKA the super-heroine Snowbird-- now sat in the seat of a DC-10, her small son sleeping in her arms. She was deep in conversation with her seat-mate, the dwarf Judd, also known as Puck.
  “Don't mind St. Elmo's teasing, eh?” Judd said. “That's just his way of showing his concern for you and your son, too. Say...what is the little fella's name gonna be? We can't keep on calling him 'Baby'. Especially after the way he's grown in such a short time.”
   “I have just been considering this, Judd,” Snowbird said. “I have thought of the name Richard, from that of my mortal father, Richard Lawrence Easton.”
   “That's a fine name, eh?” Judd grinned. “And it's got a noble lineage. Richard the Lion-Hearted and so on. A good name for a demi-godling. And how about a middle name for the little guy? Something birdlike for _you_, eh?”
   “You flatter me, Friend Judd,” Narya responded with a slightly warm smile. “Do you have a particular bird name in mind?”
   “How 'bout Peregrine? It _is_ a real name, eh? There was a Peregrine Churchill. Grandson of Winston, I think he was.”
   “Another name with noble overtones,” Snowbird responded in a deeply satisfied voice. “And the peregrine falcon has many fine qualities that I hope my son will have in his bird forms. A skilled hunter...a most excellent bird of prey. And my son already gravitated to the form of a gyrfalcon as his avatar.... Yes, Judd, I think your suggestions are quite appropriate. Very well...as of this moment, my son will be known as Richard
Peregrine Thompson. Thank you, Judd.”
   “You're welcome, eh?” Judd said, with a grin. “I feel like the kid's godfather already.”
  “He will have much to learn from you when we finish this mission,” Snowbird said. “And I for one will look forward to seeing his progress.”
  Suddenly, she went pale and clutched the top of the seat before her. Judd was alarmed at the change in her appearance, and called out, “Michael! Come here quick!”
  Snowbird straightened, a little more color in her face. “I am quite better now. It was a small dizzy spell,  nothing more. And it was mystical in origin, as Michael would tell you.” The plane had begun its descent. “We draw ever closer to the confrontation with the children of the Beasts.” She looked concernedly at the child beginning to stir in her arms. “If only he were a little older. Judd, you and the rest of the Flight will yet have
much to teach him.”

CHAPTER 28 : “Cryptic Writings”
Written by: Adam-X@juno.com

 “What do ye mean, 'the rest of the Flight will yet have much to teach him?' You say that like you plan on leaving us, Birdie.”
 Snowbird was silent for a moment.
 “Tell me you're not going to be leaving us,” Walter leaned forward. “I'm just getting used to the idea of someone else returning from the dead!” It was a jest, in reference to the time “Walter” died as well.
 “We never plan on leaving,” Snowbird said, her voice chilled.
 “Fasten up people, we're coming in for a landing...” 
 It was the voice of Mac Hudson. Yet another who had apparently returned from the dead. Northstar was beginning to question his own sanity at this given time. It seems most of Alpha Flight had returned from the dead at one time or another. Is it no wonder he hated being a part of this team - he wanted a normal life - or as normal as it could be - but being a mutant, as he was - could he turn his back on the world when it needed him most?
 “We're not getting a response from the tower,” Mac's voice came over the intercom again.
 Shaman looked out the window. No planes were coming or going from the airport. For that matter - all the lights were out. Suddenly, Shaman felt a shiver render itself through his body, as if a rollercoaster burned through his nerves!
 “Vindicator! Get out of here! Get out -”

 There was an explosion.
 It looked beautiful.
 Had it not been Alpha Flight's DC10 that had exploded...
 

 Fragments of metal came crashing to the ground, ablaze.
 “That was quite a light show,” a twisted voice spoke.
 “Don't be foolish, Retribution,” came another voice. “That explosion did not rid us of Alpha Flight... The Cursed Child is among them. This is unexpected. And unfortunate.”
 Silence.
 Then coughing. “Is everyone all right?” it was the voice of Heather, also known as Guardian. “What hit us?”
 “The Children Of The Great Beasts... they're here... in the airport...” Snowbird whispered, cradling her child. “My son sensed them, and cast a Globe Of Protection around us, just prior to the plane's explosion...”
 “I can smell them,” Jean-Paul commented.
 “The smell of decay is strong...” Shaman added, reaching into his pouch, casting magical dust around them for protection, inside the airplane hanger.
 Just then two security guards entered Hanger 18, where Alpha Flight was. One guard looked at the other and shot him through the heart. The fallen security guard looked up at the other, holding his bleeding heart, and spoke in an English accent. “A message for you, sir!”
 The other security guard who had shot him, looked surprised and leaned over and picked up a note that had been stuffed under the fallen security guard's badge. “Let me see. Ah yes! It reads, 'Help me O' Brave heroes! I am in great danger! Children of Evil wish me to marry Mother Earth, and corrupt her precious soul!' “
 They looked animated. As if they were controlled by strings; like hand puppets. Then the first officer who had shot the other, took his gun under his chin, and pulled the trigger.
 A lifeless body fell to the ground.
 The note blew over and stopped just outside the circle that Michael Twoyoungmen had made. He leaned forward and read the note.

 “WE'RE COMING FOR YOU.”

Chapter 29: “Endless Night.”
From: sengmah@iinet.net.au (Seng Mah)

  The smoke cleared.
  Heather MacNeil Hudson coughed, clearing her lungs of the foul, acrid stench
that hung in the air.
  “M-Mac?” she gasped.
  Silence. Only the roaring echo of the explosion in her ears, only the chill
quiet of the northern night.
  “Judd?”
  She stumbled and cried out in shock.

  Bodies, in the hundreds, littered the stretch of tarmac between the DC-10's
crash site and the buildings some hundred or so meters ahead. Carnage of a proportion undreamed of. A sob threatened to rip out of her throat.
  “Impressive, don't you think?”
  Heather spun around, the chill of that voice sliding deep into her heart.
  A pale man -- ghostly and sallow-skinned -- stood swathed in midnight blue;
the color of his great coat a stark contrast to the pallor of his skin. There was no need for questions: Heather knew that this was her foe - one of the children of Somon the Artificer - a Child of the Beasts. At his heels crouched another man: not as tall or reedy, this one was broad, burly and clad in black, his face drawn in a feral mask.
  “Allow me to introduce myself,” the Beastling purred. “My name is Retribution. You see before you the seeds of my labor.” He seemed pleased, almost proud, as he made a florid gesture in the direction of the dead. 
  “You're a monster!” Heather growled, even as she reacted when the burly man
sprang at her. Her shields deflected his blows and she blasted him off with power enough to stun. He crashed into the tarmac, howling, but was quickly on his feet, coming at her.
  Suddenly, her world spun, darkened. Heather fought for balance, orientation,
yet an inky blackness struggled to take hold of her consciousness. She fell back, shields up as the man in black struck her again and again. His blows were stronger than those of a man his size and build, but her shields held.
  Must take to the air, she thought. Scarcely had that crossed her mind when
her suit responded, lifting her upwards. She surged with the E-M currents, turned and directed a barrage of plasma missiles at the sallow man. The bolts struck home, but passed cleanly through the figure.
  Damn, she cursed: should have known better than to think that one of them
would face me fair and square in the field. That only leaves the bruiser to be dealt with. This is all obviously a distraction. Trouble's brewing elsewhere.
  She redirected her plasma, aiming this time for the other, the sounds of
Retribution's laughter at the edge of her consciousness.

* * * * *

  Laughter rang heartily in the control tower. Devolution clapped his hands.
“Splendid, brother,” he said. “I didn't know that you could do that.”
  Retribution stopped laughing. “There are many things about me that you do
not know, Brother Devolution. Creating that mental projection was just one of those.” He paused, surveying the scene on screen. The Alphan known as Guardian circled her quarry -- the man once known as Brian Coltrane. 
  “What of Brother Malignance?” Devolution asked.
  Retribution turned to another screen. “Let's see how he's doing with our other thrall...”
  Lights flickered.
* * * * *
 
 

  If there was a hell, then this was it. Narya, also known as Snowbird,
shuddered, cradling her child close to her, as if the warmth of his little body could stem the icy chill in her heart.
  “This is madness,” she said.
  “You're not far off the mark, eh,” Judd agreed, his face grim as he surveyed
the sea of corpses before them. As both mercenary and hero, he had been places, seen things, but nothing could compare with this. His eyes scanned the horizons. Ahead, the lights blinking atop the control tower taunted them. Where're the others, he though anxiously. I should be with Heather -- but I gotta remember my duty. Narya, and 'Little Richard' need me here. 
  Suddenly, a flash of light to the side caught his attention. He pointed.
  “Look! I'd know that golden-glow anywhere. It's gotta be either Mac or
Heather. Narya-?”
  “I'm, as you would say, ahead of you,” the bird-woman said. She lifted her
child. “Come my child. Our friends need our help.” Her form shimmered, as did that of her son.
  Wings beat the empty air.

* * * * *

  The Beastling known as Traction lay slumped in a drunken stupor in the room
of some seedy hotel en route to Yellowknife. The television crackled white noise; outside, a truck roared down the highway, but Traction slept. 
  He dreamed of another man's life, and another man's past. Of a golden haired
woman and her name: Anne McKenzie. Of the heart break he felt when the woman
suddenly vanished, of the guilt he had borne in his heart since then - loving another, yet trapped by his own devotions to... his wife?
  Traction's eyes opened. Wife?
  He had no wife. He was Traction... one of the Sons of Somon. Wasn't he?
  Slowly, the dream faded. Traction rose, groaning, the alcohol still clouding
his brain. Clumsily, he fumbled at his shirt pocket, drawing out the image of the golden-haired beauty. He stared longingly at her, the compulsion that had pushed him north and westwards welling once more in his heart.

  He got out of bed, pulled his jeans on and stumbled out, oblivious to the bite of the night air, and almost ran into another man.
  “'Scuse me,” he grunted, straightening.
  A hand fell on his shoulder, the grip firm, steadying. He blinked, looked up.
  The man was well-dressed and neat, yet there was something in his expression
that told Traction that this was no soft-pawed office-worker from the city.The eyes of a seasoned veteran looked him over.
  “You alright, buddy?” the man said.
  Traction nodded. He could smell the whisky in his own breath.
  “Just some advice,” the man continued, smiling. “If you're gonna come out in
public, make sure you've got your fly done up.” He gestured at Traction's trousers. “Or I might end up having to arrest you for indecent exposure.”
  Flustered, Traction quickly zipped up his jeans and muttered some apology.
So the man was a cop. Well, so was he.

  “Hey,” the man said. “You been here long?”
  Traction, wanting to truncate this encounter, nodded dumbly and began
shuffling off. “Wait!” the man called. He grabbed Traction again on the shoulder. “Have you seen this woman?” He pulled out a wallet from his pocket and flicked it
open. Traction's eyes bulged.
  The same woman -- golden haired, ethereally beautiful -- emblazoned on the
inside of that wallet.
  “Uh...”
  Hesitation. It was all that Donovan Walker needed for confirmation.
  “Where did you see her?” he pursued, then quickly ducked as one ham-sized
fist swung near his head.
  “Figures,” he grunted and slammed his own fists into the bigger man's gut.
Traction collapsed with an exasperated gasp. Walker crouched down beside the
wheezing body, held the photograph closer to the man's ruddy face. “Now, you
gonna tell me -- where have you seen this woman?”
 

Chapter 30: “A Single Candle, A Spark of Hope.”
From: Falstaff

 A young, dark-haired boy, exclaiming with delight over a chemistry set.
 A girl in pigtails struggling to hold back her younger siblings as they run around in circles, refusing to return to bed.
 A serious young man in a lecture hall, face sober as he takes scrupulous notes on human anatomy.
 A girl of perhaps two years, her scarlet eyes flashing, glaring up in resolute fury at a red-bearded man, declaring that she will _not_ finish her porridge.
 A tiny man, eyes burning dangerously under his thinning black hair, dares the hulking mercenary before him to call him 'Shorty' again. 
 A dark haired girl clutching a teddy bear as her mother tucks her in, smoothes her hair, and says that Daddy's sorry he can't be here to say good-night, but he's working a double-shift at the hospital.  Again.  
 A young man trying not to wince as his father asks him why in the name of God he wants to waste his brain playing a moronic sport like football—American football, no less?
 A nightgown-clad girl soaring through the sky, whooping as she turns somersaults in mid-air.
 A young man, sardonically grinning as he mock-bows to his defeated opponents
as the strains of 'O, Canada' fill the Olympic stadium.
 A tousle-haired youth sitting on a hill, looking out at the western sea, wondering if there really is an Avalon far away . . . . and resolving to find out.
 A boy, eyes wide in rapt attention, watches his father dress in a scarlet uniform, complaining that Mounties don't get a quarter of the respect they used to, by God.
 A too-thin young boy with hollow, frightened eyes hears the sound of broken glass and angry screams, knowing his father's 'sick' again.  
 What's all this about, you ask?  What does this have to do with anything?
 Even heroes—even government agents—yes, and even sinister psychopaths—were young once.  The point of which is, they are human.   
  Something even they forget.  Sometimes it's a blessing, other times it's a curse.  Which it would be this time—ah, but that would be telling, wouldn't it! 
* * * * *

 There is nothing more terrifying than waking up and not being able to remember where you are.  But—as Elmo well knew from years upon years of barroom brawls—a few shakes of the head will put everything right.  
 Except it didn't.  Elmo could not see anything.  Then—in the dim light of a lightning flash—he saw his surroundings.  He was in the hold of a ship, chained to the deck.  And seawater was quickly flowing in through a hole in the floor.
 [No!] he thought, stupefied.  [This all happened five thousand years ago! It cannot be real!]  He heard a rat scream as it drowned, thrashing about in the deepening water.  [Can it?]  
 And for the very first time in nearly four thousand years, Elmo ap Elphan—the Arctic Avatar, the Champion of Nelvanna, living incarnation of the Northern Lights, patron saint of all those who sail the seas, bravest of all brave souls—was afraid. 

* * * * *

 Gardener Monroe's grin was so big, it looked like it was about to split his head in twain.  “Now that,” he said, smoothing the white cowl of his costume back onto his head, “is something else.”
 “Parlor tricks,” Somon the Artificer said.  He'd taken the shape of a human male for the sake of expedience.  As it happened, the form was that of Jacob Brightwind, a particularly annoying Sacree chieftain a hundred mortal years dead.  “My sons have no artistry.  No subtlety.  _Look_ at these sheep,” the Son of Misuse said, pointing at the bodies of the ten motionless Alphans.  “They don't even know what is happening to them.”  Somon shook his head sadly in a way that every father—from the most insignificant mortal man to the great Hodiak himself to his brother Great Beasts—could recognize.  “No originality.  My brothers and I passed this point in our infancy.”
 Flashback shrugged.  “Kids.  What can you do?”
 Something--something decidedly unwholesome—glimmered in Somon's eyes. “What would you say to a wager, my maniacal mortal ally?”
 Beneath the scarlet glass, Flashback's eyes darted in weasel fashion. “What kind of wager?”
 The Artificer smiled.  It was not a pleasant nor a welcome sight.  “Do you recall our first meeting, Gardener Monroe?”
 “When I was in Gamma Flight?  Sure.”
 “And do you recall the . . . . item I took from you?”
 Now Flashback was honestly intrigued—the vein in his forehead was pulsing so hard it could be seen beneath his ivory mask, as a fine sheen of sweat appeared above his upper lip.  “Of course I remember.  You think I could forget something like that?”
 If the Beast was moved by the angular mortal's enthusiasm, he hid it well. “Would you like to have this item back, Gardener Monroe?”
 Flashback's jaw dropped.  “I thought you said I could never get it back!”
 “I was lying,” Somon said frostily.  “But we were discussing a wager. 
What say—simply for our personal amusement, of course--we pit my rather lackluster offspring against your erstwhile associates.  In a real battle—no illusions, no tricks: skill against skill alone.  They fight for you, my sons for me.  And the item goes to the winner.”
 “So I get—” here Flashback's voice faltered—”what I lost—back if I win?”
 “Quite.”
 “And if you win?”
 The frozen tundra on the bleakest December day was a blazing sun compared
to the Great Beast's smile.  “I get whatever I want, Gardener Monroe.  I get whatever I want.”