.|.  COHERENT COMICS PRESENTS
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         Superhuman Tactical Resources and Affiliated-Field Experts
                    original concept by Dave Van Domelen
              development by Marc Singer and Terrone Carpenter

                          Issue #12, "Vanities"
                         Part IV of THE BONFIRE
                             by Marc Singer
                 Copyright 1999; a Legacy House production

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     [Cover shows dozens of paragangers and police locked in combat.  
      Jen flies at Sister Christian; Teller and Saturday fire at each 
      other; Dan faces off against Bathory; Tony attacks Lana Smith.  
      In the center of the battle, a heavily-wounded Warden grapples 
      with the hulking Rex Umbrae.  Far above them all, Burnout holds 
      her hands high and flames lick across the entire cover, threatening 
      to consume the STRAFE logo completely.]
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     Officer Rani Chavez pointed her pistol straight at Dan Tracey's head.
Her partner, Ben Whitman, and the other police officers tightened their
circle around Dan.  They were too distracted by him, by the screaming Jaz
dealer in the back of the squad car, by the mob rioting through the streets,
by the reports of a paragang invasion.  None of them paid attention to the
billboard where Burnout was passing sentence on the entire East Village.  And
nobody but Dan saw the bolt of fire shoot down at them.
     Dan lunged for Chavez, and she fired.  Anticipating her actions, he
ducked under the bullet and tackled her into Whitman, shoving both of them
roughly across the sidewalk.  The fireball hit their squad car and the
flames, acting with a malicious sentience, sought out the gas tank.  The car
exploded, taking the shrieking Jaz dealer along with it.
     "*Now* will you let me call in STRAFE?" Dan asked.  "We can help you."
     Chavez coughed the smoke out of her lungs while her radio buzzed with
reports of more paragang attacks.  She nodded for him to call.  Dan shed his
dirty trenchcoat, revealing his black covert-ops outfit.  Chavez gawked:
something in the way he held himself, to say nothing of the white gearwheel
symbol on his jacket, suggested he might actually be the superhero he
claimed.  While Dan slipped on his headset and called in a priority alert,
Chavez said, "Are you really government agents?"
     He nodded curtly and called in his team.  Whitman pointed up at the
billboard and said, "And who the hell is *that*?"
     Dan frowned.  "A former teammate."

     Jen Kleinvogel was the first STRAFE agent to arrive.  She dropped Tony
Drake and Jay Teller beside Dan and said, "I'm grabbing Burnout."  Then she
launched skyward.
     Burnout posed on the giant Chrysler billboard, lighting up the night
sky.  The floodlights cast her shadow and the loudspeakers carried her rants.
The holographic letters of the slogan ("INDULGE YOURSELF") warped and twisted
in the heat of her flames.  Jen had a hard time thinking of her as the
possessed C.J. Brown anymore...she'd even bleached and dyed her hair the
color of fire.  As Jen flew closer, she saw several other devices on the
catwalk alongside Burnout: kerosene lamps, portable gas heaters, even a few
torches and braziers.  All of them had tiny, flickering flames.
     Before Jen could close in, the flames burst to life.  Burnout was using
C.J.'s power to control fire.  The flames spiralled around her, forming a
bubble of almost liquid consistency.  Jen pulled away before incinerating
herself.  Burnout smiled underneath her oxygen mask, pointed a military-grade
flamethrower at Jen, and sprayed a stream of ignited napalm at her.
     Jen dodged out of the way, but the flames curled and followed after her.
Jen had to fly around the billboard and out of Burnout's sight to shake them.
She landed beside Dan, coughing, and said, "It's no use."  Next to them,
Teller was trying to shoot Burnout but found it impossible to see her through
the fire and smoke.
     "This is pointless," Dan said.  "We can't touch her and there aren't any
other paragangers here."  In fact, the only threat this far inside the East
Village was the rioting.  Panicked residents were searching for any escape; a
group of NYU film students had broken into a video store to screen film noir
classics, heedless of the violence outside.
     "We need to keep the paragangers away from the Village," Dan explained,
"and take them out on our terms."
     "And how do you propose to do that?" Chavez said.
     "By taking your advice," he said, "and making STRAFE their target."
Lana Smith and Agent Mulholland had arrived, and Dan outlined the new plan to
them.  Within seconds the team parted, sprinting in six different directions.
     "Where are you going?" Burnout taunted.  "The party's just getting
started."

               *              *              *              *

     The elevator doors slid open and Andrew Trumbull stepped out, joining
the party.  To his right and left two huge semicircular Art Deco windows...
relics from the days when the World Building had been the Chrysler Building,
relics which Rex was planning to remodel...showed two spectacular views of
New York, the park and the lights of uptown, and lower Manhattan and the
fires in the East Village.  The cavernous hallway between the windows was
filled with the city's paraganger elite.  They had been proffered a rare
invitation to midtown and the top of the city, and they had come out in style
and in force.
     There was Varru'Ke chatting with her father in Cantonese, while one of
Rex's junior aides nodded in polite confusion.  There was Embeth Alloun of
the Cyanide Blues, slouching against a pillar with other Soho thrillgangers
and trading cutting whispers about everyone else's clothes.  There were two
Manson Haights, envoys from a minor paragang who didn't know how lucky they
were merely to be included.  The raven-haired clones discussed whether to
indulge in appetizers or murder, while the waitress who stood between them
tried not to tremble.
     Andrew tugged on his shirt cuffs so they poked through his tuxedo's
sleeves and weaved through the crowd.  He nodded deferently to Dr. Jacky; the
dreadlocked paraganger stood listening to the string quartet, his head cocked
appreciatively to one side while the assassin Saturday waited behind him,
patient as a shadow.  Not every paraganger blended so well with the finer
surroundings.  Sister Christian's cybernetics emitted a monotonous whine as
she grabbed people on their way to the buffet tables and preached the graces
of the Machine.  Her followers flaunted their cyberweapons and shoulder
holsters, lacking any trace of tact.
     Adjusting his handkerchief, Andrew stepped up to the main bar, as
thirsty for advancement as he was for white wine.  He found Rex speaking to
Bathory and Cockatrice, the women who had been their only real rivals for
Manhattan...until tonight.  The paragangers wore matching silver dresses
that nevertheless captured each woman's individual highlights: the color
suited Cockatrice's frosty skin while the sparkle played off of Bathory's
fur.  They were directing Rex's attention to the large ice sculpture in the
center of the table.
     The sculpture showed a little boy running, his body twisted in mid-
flight.  He resembled some mythological creature, with catlike legs but a
very human terror in his face.
     "It is quite a curiosity," Rex Umbrae said.  He watched as a drop of
water rolled off the chin and fell to the tablecloth.  By morning there would
be nothing left.  "Wherever did you find it?"
     "Just a little something Cockatrice whipped up," Bathory hissed.
     The other woman beamed with pride.  "I call it 'Little Actaeon.'"
     Umbrae finally noticed his subordinate.  Raising one bushy black
eyebrow, he asked, "And what do you make of it, Andrew?"
     Andrew pursed his lips and thought about it.
     "I call it 'The Price of Service,'" he said.
     "If you will.  I'd rather examine another work of art.  One of less
aesthetic worth, perhaps, but much greater value."  He swept a huge arm past
the ice sculpture and to the far wall, where an eight-foot-tall map of
Manhattan had been placed, by no small accident, over a fat turkey waiting to
be carved.

               *              *              *              *

     The strategy had worked; by making themselves visible annoyances all
over the neighborhood, STRAFE got the paragangs focused on them and not the
East Village.  Jen was particularly useful, flitting from battlezone to
battlezone and leading the gangs to the central fight.
     Dan picked Astor Place as their standing ground; the irregular
intersection offered plenty of obstacles and good defensive terrain.  The
Boys of Pain were already occupying it, until STRAFE and the police arrived.
The paragang outnumbered them, but they made a coordinated assault that drove
the undisciplined mob back inside the art-nouveau ironwork of the Astor Place
subway.  Dan watched the Boys retreat, then fired several tear gas cannisters
into the station.
     "That'll give us a short breather," Dan said.  He handed the tear gas
launcher back to Chavez and told her, "Now's probably your only chance to
leave."
     "This is *my* home, ace.  I'm waiting for *you* bastards to leave."  The
other cops...the ten or so who'd decided to come...nodded their agreement.
     Dan looked up and spotted Jen flying hard up Broadway; he also saw the
giant shadow on the Chrysler billboard turn and take notice of them.  "Then
set your cars up as barricades," Dan told the police, "and get away from them
*now*...."

     The Cyber-Nostra and their groupies, the Rust Brothers, had been one of
the closest paragangs; they'd also been the most eager, charging into Astor
Place ahead of everyone else.  They stumbled into a brutal crossfire, with
Teller, Mulholland, and the police firing on them from concealed positions in
the buildings around the intersection.  Lana Smith ghosted up from the street
and grappled with the huge cyborgs, phasing away their armor or cyberweapons
so the others could get clean shots.  Teller, perched atop the blocky
abstract sculpture in the middle of the intersection, severed power couplings
and blew up ammo compartments without killing.  The cops didn't have that
kind of skill, and Mulholland, if he did, wasn't using it.  Their targets
died in the street.
     When the gangs reached fifty percent casualties, they retreated back
into Nolita.  Dan let the cops cheer for ten seconds before he barked, "It's
not over!  The Snow Leopards and Cyanide Blues should have been here by now!"
     "They're holding back?" Whitman said, slamming another clip into his
rifle.
     The police cars exploded as a full spectrum of paranormal attacks hit
the intersection...everything from light beams to matter transmutation.
"There's your answer," Dan grumbled as the Leopards, the Blues, the New York
Macoute, the Onyx Eye Tong, the remains of the Cyber-Nostra and a host of
lesser paragangs stormed Astor Place all at once.

     "Tracey."
     At first Dan didn't actually hear the voice in his earphones.  He was
too busy kicking an Onyx Eye footsoldier in the face, then locking arms with
the Macoute Guede behind him, running his feet up the body of the
unconscious-but-still-standing Onyx Eye, flipping over the Guede's head and
ripping out his technoloa control unit along the way.  He was punching three
Manson Haights when he heard the voice again, more insistent: "Tracey!"
     The other STRAFE agents heard it, too.  Tony, knee-deep in overdressed
Cyanide Blues, said, "Colonel Hendrick?"
     "That's right, Drake.  I'm calling from the hospital.  Doctor Cortes
rigged up an ingenious little radio."  He sounded mildly amused by that.
     "Good to hear from you, sir..." Dan paused to flip a Manson Haight into
the path of a Jolly Molecules lightning attack "...but we're a little busy
right now."
     "I know.  Cortes and I've been digging up information for you here in
D.C.  Burnout and a man with the unlikely name of 'Rex Umbrae' negotiated a
treaty between the paragangs, and you're a part of it."  The STRAFE agents
detached their minds, listening to Hendrick as they continued to battle.
"All the gangs will stop fighting and turn to Umbrae for supplies, financial
services, and arbitration.  They're cementing the deal by wasting the East
Village and killing you."
     "Great," Teller grumbled from his sniper's nest.  "We're a pinata."
     Tony staggered back from a shotgun blast, then lunged forward and turned
the shotgun around on the Cyber-Nostra.  "How do you know all this,
Hendrick?"
     "Because Umbrae's also made a deal with D.C....they'll look the other
way if he can end the gang war.  In fact, you're going to be officially
recalled as soon as the DSHA can locate you."
     Dan knocked out the Jolly Molecule sparker and ducked for cover in the
abandoned offices of the Modern Language Association.  "Hendrick," Dan
shouted, "we are not leaving now..."
     "Easy, Captain.  *I* haven't officially located you.  I'm telling you
the treaty is being signed in Rex Umbrae's offices at the top of the World
Building.  It may be your last chance to nab the leaders and win this war."
     Panting, Dan watched the battle for Astor Place.  "We can't fall back,
sir.  Burnout is here, and...."  He stopped cold.  "Why is Burnout *here*?"
He hopped back out into the battleground, running over to Lana.  He tried to
grab her, but his hands passed through her shoulders.  "Burnout's treaty is
up in midtown.  Why is she here?"
     "I...I don't know," Lana said, in her petite and ingenuous voice.
     Tony snorted and rolled his eyes.  He'd seen the act before.
     "She's here to kill us," Teller said, dropping a Tong leader.  As if in
answer, a streak of flame sizzled down at him from the billboard.  Teller
yelped and jumped off the sculpture, which exploded in a fireball.  "She'll
celebrate later."
     "She'd never celebrate the treaty," Lana said.  She grabbed Dan and
ghosted him just before a volley of bullets passed through them.  "She hates
the paragangers more than she hates us.  If she's not there, it's because
she's planning to kill them!"
     "So let her," Mulholland said, shooting a Macoute in the head.
     "And then what happens to Manhattan?" Jen asked.  For a moment the
Doppler effect distorted her voice as she swept down Stuyvesant Street,
wielding a broken STOP sign and knocking over every paraganger in her path.
"With their leaders dead, the gangs would go into a frenzy."
     Tony threw a Snow Leopard lycanthrope onto the burning sculpture.
"You're not saying we should save the treaty?"
     The disgust in Tony's voice lingered over the headsets; Dan could tell
everyone was waiting for him to speak.
     "Jen," he said, "take Teller and go to the World Building.  Stop
Burnout."
     "WHAT?" Teller exclaimed.
     "That's an order, Jay."  Hendrick snorted across the fuzzy connection
from D.C.  Dan wondered if that was ridicule or approval, but he didn't
really care.  Dan broke away from Lana's protective grip and jumped back into
the fray.

               *              *              *              *

     The World Building jutted out from the surrounding skyscrapers, its
curved and terraced top rising far above them into the night, like some
quaintly modern ziggurat.  The Babylonians or Egyptians who had erected it as
the Chrysler Building were long gone; now even the name was lost, sold to an
international economic development group.  One run by the man who was uniting
all the city's paragangs.
     Something about the flight into midtown cleared Teller's head.  It
wasn't because the neighborhoods were any better than the East Village; news
of the paragang attack had triggered riots up and down Manhattan.  If it went
on much longer, the whole city would burn.  But once he was far above the
streets and the fighting, Teller could slow down his pulse and stop looking
for targets to shoot.  He remembered a time when he would have had no problem
saving a building full of people, no matter who they were...but that was some
time before he came to New York.
     As they approached the skyscraper, they saw tiny flashes of light
twinkling around its peak.  When they buzzed in closer they heard the crack
of gunfire.  Teller could just make out a human figure leapfrogging between
the curved terraces, battling the building's defenders.
     "Warden," Teller snarled.  The target-vision and the anger of the East
Village clicked back on.  "So much for doing this the subtle way."
     "Forget Warden," Jen said.  "I'm looking for a way in."  She bobbed over
the battle and searched the upper levels for a door into the building.  As
she skated past the gleaming metal walls, she triggered an automated defense:
floodlights activated and shone on them, even through the dark aura of Jen's
antigravity field.  The guards beneath them opened fire.
     Sounds of battle echoed all around the building; they could see gouts of
flame shooting from the other side, where Warden was.  Apparently more
paranormals had gotten involved.  "There's no way we're not going to do this
guns blazing," Teller said.  "I say we go for it."  Jen nodded, and they
moved.
     Jen rocketed down the World Building, toward a huge semicircular window
beneath them.  They could see a glittering party on the other side.  Two
guards spotted them and raised their rifles; Teller fired two shots.  The
guards screamed and tumbled off the building.  Teller tried not to think
about it.
     "Hurry!" Jen screamed.  Other guards had seen them and their shots were
coming closer.  Teller raised his guns and fired at the window.  Only a tiny
crack; it was bulletproof.  He fired again and again, looking for the weak
spots in the glass...trying to connect the spiderwebs of cracks...the guards
were drawing beads on them...the window rushed forward and he fired
again.... 
     The party guests were shocked at the sound of gunfire.  They turned,
wine glasses in hand, just in time to see the window shatter.  Two bodies
careened through the breaking glass and rolled to a halt on the polished
marble floor.
     Jen and Teller looked up, into the angry faces and the gun barrels of
Manhattan's top paragangers.

               *              *              *              *

     The offices of the Modern Language Association were a flaming ruin.  The
paragangers had fallen back, lurking in the cross streets, but Burnout was
now hurling down bolts of fire.  STRAFE and the police had to abandon their
defensive positions and scamper for cover around Astor Place.  They hid under
the smoke from the burning wreckage.  Ducking his head low, Dan ran up beside
Chavez and asked, "How are we doing?"
     "Andreson's wounded, but no losses so far.  We just lost our cover,
though."
     Dan looked at the radio unit clipped to her shirt.  "What about
back-up?"
     Chavez shook her head, unable to speak the answer.
     "Damn!"  Dan pounded his fist, pulling the blow just in time to avoid
breaking it.  "There'd be Combine troops all over the block if this were
uptown.  Maybe we should just let them march through and rattle the windows
on the Upper East Side..."
     "Hey."  Chavez squeezed Dan's wrist, hard.  "I know you're kidding, but
this is my home.  None of that talk."
     Mulholland crawled up to them on elbows and knees.  Behind him, another
bolt of flame struck the subway entrance.  "We need to take *her* out.  Too
bad you just sent away our flyer."  He didn't hide his bitterness.  "And our
sniper."
     "Burnout's protected against us," Dan said, "and we won't be shooting
C.J.  I've sent someone who can get through her defenses."
     Tony Drake's voice carried over the headset.  "Oh, no."  He jumped out
of his foxhole and ran across the intersection, weaving to avoid the rain of
fire that poured down on him.  Tony skidded down in front of Dan, his face
dark purple with rage, and he said, "What were you *thinking*?"  Above him,
barely visible through the smoke and haze, the rail-thin Lana Smith climbed
up the billboard towards Burnout.
     "Whatever she did to you in the past, Tony, she's still part of the
team."
     "Depends on who you ask, doesn't it?"  He turned to Mulholland.  "She
killed your partner.  You want to make sure Burnout doesn't get away this
time?"  Mulholland nodded and smiled.  The two men sprang up and dashed
across Astor Place.  Dan started to run after them, but was stopped by a
stream of gunfire.  The paragangs were charging back into the intersection.

               *              *              *              *

     Neither STRAFE agent bothered to reason with the paragangers; Jen
launched up to the high ceiling and Teller rolled underneath a buffet table,
both leaving bullet holes in their wake.
     "This is not an attack!" Jen screamed.  She moved again, flying along
the hall as the paragangers readjusted.  "We are here to warn you about a
double-cross!"
     Andrew Trumbull chose that moment to lower a cellular phone from his ear
and shout, "Warden's here, too!"  The startled paragangers redoubled their
attacks.
     Reason obviously wasn't working, Jen decided.  She flew up against the
ceiling, weaving back and forth in an erratic zigzag pattern.  Cyber-Nostra
killers tried to track her with arm-cannons and ended up shooting out the
lights.
     Teller reloaded his guns and bolted across the tops of the catering
tables.  He figured Umbrae might be able to end this madness.  Teller jumped
from table to table, casually planting bullets in the legs or gun hands of
anyone who tried to intercept him.
     Jen reached the end of the hallway and doubled back.  Her nightvision
goggles gave her a clear, computer-green picture of the chaos.  The fancy
tuxedos and evening dresses, the classical music and champagne fountains, the
inescapable presence of money...all of it ripped apart, a flimsy fabric that
couldn't hide their true natures.  The Boys of Pain jumped the Manson
Haights, grappling with the intensity of men who knew that even the victors
would only be minor players.  The Cyber-Nostra, seeing a chance to retake
Chinatown, tried to quietly spit Varru'Ke and Barrukh on monofilament
stilettos; the Onyx Eye masters murdered their would-be killers in complete
silence.  Umbrae's staff panicked and ran for the elevators, except Andrew,
who hid in an alcove.
     Teller hopped over a strange ice sculpture, shot a cocky Satan's Eye in
his stomach, and ran to the center of the party.  He spotted a large man with
Caucasian features but dark skin, cut like a Greek statue.  That had to be
Umbrae.  A clot of guards had materialized around him, but they hadn't
noticed Teller yet.  He lowered his guns and trotted quietly forward.
     Then he saw why nobody had noticed him.  The window at the other end of
the hall had been broken, too, with a smaller man-sized hole, and the guards
were being knocked aside by a whirlwind of flying hands and feet.  Teller
tried to reach Umbrae, but the flurry of violence spun over to the crimelord
first.  Umbrae very deliberately swung out one heavy fist, catching the
whirlwind in his head.  Warden shook it off, giving Umbrae time to shed his
evening jacket.  Then the grimy vigilante and the immaculate crimelord lunged
at each other.

               *              *              *              *

     The curtain of fire shimmered and parted; to Lana Smith, the flames were
as immaterial as the billboard's flickering holograms.  Burnout looked mildly
suprised when Lana appeared on the catwalk, dove for the flamethrower, and
ghosted it out of her hands.  Lana tossed the flamethrower and it clattered
harmlessly to the street below.
     Burnout's mouth twisted and issued a deep, coarse laugh.  "What are you
going to do now, little girl?  *Starve* me into surrender?  You're barely
substantial even without your powers."
     "Let her go, Strings."  Lana's voice was still high-pitched but
unusually determined.
     "It's going to take more than bold words from those pouty lips, girl.
I'm going to destroy this town; the most you can do is hide."  Down below,
the tiny little defenders were fighting three times their number in tiny
little paragangers.
     "Why are you doing this?"  Lana waved her arms histrionically, and a
note of whining crept back into her voice.
     Burnout stepped forward, shoved her face right in front of Lana's, and
smiled.  "Because if Tyra Dumont had to die," she exulted, "then *everybody*
does!"
     She waved her arms and all the kerosene lamps and heaters spewed drops
of flame down onto the city.  "All the paragangers who attacked me!  The
businessmen who exploited me!  The police who couldn't bother to protect me!
The government that ignored me!  The whole town of cannibals, so busy chasing
after their vanities they couldn't save ONE.  LITTLE.  LIFE!  ALL GUILTY!"
She poured fire on the city, pushing her power further and further until
sweat broke out on her forehead and the billboard's INDULGE YOURSELF motto
burst into flames.  "ALL FUEL FOR THE BONFIRE!"

     Dan, the only remaining STRAFE agent in Astor Place, formed the police
into a roving commando unit.  They moved from building to building, hitting
the paragangers and then retreating before anyone could target them.  Dan
himself picked up an assault rifle and shot to kill; it was the only way to
stay alive.
     Sprinting through the burning tents of an open-air market, they came
across a group of Jolly Molecules.  The Molecules were spoiled techies, kids
who discovered their powers and ran away to New York to test them on human
subjects.  Dan opened fire and shot them through the skull and atom-symbol
crossbones on their jackets, but not before two of the kids electrocuted
Straker and turned Whitman's right leg into lead.  Dan picked up Whitman and
kept running.
     He didn't notice the persistent beeping on his wrist for several
seconds.  It was his Tesla Branch psionic detection bracelet; it meant one of
his agents was being possessed by Burnout.

               *              *              *              *

     Sister Christian stood in the middle of the hallway, one foot planted
firmly on a smashed cello, surveying the carnage.  The yellow pupil of one
cybereye, the red crosshair in the other tracked across the party, absorbing
data and beaming instructions.  She saw Umbrae's executives dashing for the
elevators and mowed them down; they'd worked so hard to purchase the
paragangs, Sister Christian felt, they shouldn't leave without sampling their
wares.
     Then something grabbed her long copper hair and yanked her bodily down
the hall.  Sister Christian was dropped at the feet of Varru'Ke and Barrukh.
A blur flashed overhead and seconds later, they were joined by Bathory, who
rolled to a more graceful landing.  Then Dr. Jacky, who'd lost his top hat in
the sudden flight.
     Jen Kleinvogel hovered over the five paragang bosses.  "I figured you
might listen to reason," Jen said.  "Either that, or you can fight each other
directly instead of taking Manhattan along with you.  What's it going to be?"
     Another figure leaped from the shadows and grabbed her ankle, pulling
her lower.  Her darkfield and his black suit blended perfectly with the
shadows; the only sign of struggle was the motion of his white tie and
gloves, turning the whole battle into a strange pantomime.  She tried to rise
again but the man planted his other hand inside her armpit and spun her into
the floor.  He pounced on Jen and lightly placed the barrel of a gun to her
forehead.  "There's another way, Babylon sister," said the man called
Saturday.  "We kill *you*."
     Jen stared up at him calmly.  "Then I can't save you from Burnout's
double-cross."
     Sister Christian drew a monofil-blade and advanced on Jen, but Dr. Jacky
held her back.  Varru'Ke grabbed Dr. Jacky until Bathory traced a claw across
her throat.  Barrukh aimed a killing strike at Bathory's temple but pulled
back when Cockatrice ran up, threatening to stare everyone into ice.
     "Okay," Jen said, focusing only on Saturday and the gun sitting above
her eyes, "now that you're all here...."

     Teller wasn't sure who to root for.  Warden had dished out some nasty
lumps the other night, but he was taking them now; Umbrae picked up the
smaller man and rammed him back into a bar and its collection of liquor
bottles.  Part of Teller considered that the price for Warden's constant
interference, but then STRAFE was just a bunch of interlopers in Manhattan,
too.  So he should have pulled for Warden to win, to beat the crimelord and
save the city, except Umbrae was the only chance they had to keep the
paragangs from exploding.
     Warden slammed his fists into Umbrae's ears and the huge gangster
stumbled backwards.  Warden hopped off the bar; just the sound of broken
glass tinkling in his back made Teller wince.  Warden limped over to him and
said, "What's the matter, cowboy?  Won't you lend a hand?"
     Rex Umbrae strolled forward and said, "Help me dispatch this criminal,
Mister Teller, and I can make it *very* worth your while."
     Teller looked from Umbrae to Warden, Warden to Umbrae.  When he didn't
make any move, they dove into each other again, Warden throwing a spinning
kick into Umbrae's head while Umbrae drove his massive bulk into Warden's
back.  Teller shook his head.  He just couldn't tell the good guys from the
bad anymore.
     Bullets whistled past both men's heads...severing the knot in Warden's
bandana and shearing a lock of Umbrae's hair.  They stopped fighting and
looked at Teller's smoking guns.
     "Now that I have your attention," Teller said, "*listen up*...."

     "THERE IS NO REASON TO FIGHT HERE!"  Umbrae's bellow echoed up and down
the hallway.  "EVERYONE DROP YOUR WEAPONS!"
     "Do it," Dr. Jacky commanded to his paragangers.  Varru'Ke conveyed the
same instructions in Cantonese, Sister Christian in binary transmissions.
Cockatrice did it with a stare.  The lesser gangs fell in line behind the
leaders, and the fight was over.
     Somebody clicked on the auxiliary lighting.  The hallway was a wreck,
with dead executives and paragangers everywhere.  Most of the living ones
still looked at Jen, Teller, and Warden with hatred.
     Jen climbed free from Saturday's relaxed grip.  She unconsciously rubbed
a spot on her forehead, and said in a loud, clear voice, "Burnout has set up
all of us.  She wants a gangwar to destroy every paraganger on this island."
     "Burnout was trying to unify us," Sister Christian said, folding her
arms across her chest defiantly.
     "Only so she could get you all in one place," Jen explained.  "You'll
notice *she's* not here.  I don't know if she wanted you to fight, or..."
     "No."  Umbrae shouldered through the milling paragangers.  "No, she
knows exactly how to kill us all.  From the time she possessed...."  He broke
into a run, surprisingly fast for such a large man.  He ducked into an alcove
and grabbed the man who was trying to slide towards the elevators, holding
him aloft for all to see.
     "Andrew!"  Umbrae hissed at his lieutenant.  "Dumont's still in you,
isn't she?"
     Andrew quivered at first, stuttering while his blue eyes rolled back in
their sockets.  Then he became incredibly focused again, and smiled at
Umbrae.  "Dumont, Mr. Strings, Burnout...call me what you like.  The tie is
*never* severed, Rex.  You'll never get rid of me."
     Saturday stepped forward.  "I disagree."  He raised his gun and fired
two bullets straight through Andrew Trumbull's eyes.
     Umbrae dropped the corpse and searched inside his pockets.  "It doesn't
matter if he's dead...I've wired the building with explosives..."  He pulled
out a small detonator and sighed.  "As a security precaution."
     The timer showed less than two minutes to go.

               *              *              *              *

     Burnout ignored Lana, turning her wrath on the city below.  Lana had
ghosted off her oxygen mask, but the maniac no longer cared.  Lana solidified
and tried to grab Burnout physically, but the healthier woman slapped Lana
down and continued to direct the flames.  Lana could only lie sprawled on the
catwalk and watch.
     Suddenly the ring of flames parted and Tony Drake lunged through,
swatting his clothes and hair where they'd caught fire.  He sneered at Lana
and said, "I might have known."  Ignoring the flames, Tony slammed Burnout up
against the billboard and growled, "Let C.J. go."
     Burnout smiled.  "Why don't you make me, sport?"
     Tony snarled incoherently and punched her in the stomach.  The screens
of flame collapsed and then Mulholland was on the catwalk as well, holding
Burnout from behind and screaming "Let her go!" while Tony slapped her.
     Lana jumped up and said, "No...no, you can't do that...."
     "Reverting to form, Smith?"  Tony punched Burnout across her jaw.  "Let
both of them go, you little bitch!"  He drew his fist back again.
     "Don't, don't say that."  Lana solidified and tugged on Tony's fist.
"C.J. was your friend."
     Tony hesitated.  Burnout, pinned in Mulholland's arms, looked up at him
and said, "I think I'll keep both of them."  A thin line of blood trickled
from her mouth.  "Problem with that, Drake?  Do I need to feed you *another*
bomb?"
     Tony howled, pulled his fist free, and hit her again.  She doubled over
in pain, but Mulholland grabbed her head and held her up for more.  "Let the
girls go!" Mulholland screamed.  Tony added, "Let 'em go, you bitch, you
heartless *bitch*!"  He swung again.
     His fist passed through C.J.'s body and hit Mulholland, knocking the
agent flat against the billboard.  Tony spun to see Lana, who had ghosted
Burnout free from their grip.  "That wasn't right," Lana said.  "Mr. Strings
is the killer here, not C.J.  And you will *never* hit him out of her."  It
was both a prediction and a promise.
     Tony stared at her.  Mulholland rose beside him.  "So she has you now,
too."  Tony cracked his knuckles.  "Looks like I get payback for Haven after
all."
     He swung at her, a flurry of punches, and Mulholland fired at her.  Lana
lifted her chin up and didn't blink at any of the attacks.  None of them
could touch her.  "Mr. Strings has *you* now, Tony.  Mulholland too.  Don't
give into the anger; that's how he gets you.  He tells you he can make it go
away."
     "You're *lying*, you little *bitch*!"  He swung again, impotently.
     "You know it's true.  Listen: my bracelet is the only one beeping."  She
held it up for them to hear.
     Dan Tracey's voice cut in on the headsets.  Gunfire carried through his
microphone.  "Tony, Lana's right.  I'm reading a psionic attack on you and
Mulholland.  Get out of there *now*...."
     Lana stood as tall as she could manage.  Burnout squirmed in her grip,
unable to strike or run away because she couldn't touch anything.  Lana
calmly said, "And don't call us 'bitch.'"
     Tony gritted his teeth, trembled, and howled.  He was ready to attack
again, but Mulholland grabbed him.  "Tony...Tony, she's right.  We can't beat
Burnout this way."  Dan's voice reassured Tony, and Hendrick started trying
to calm him as well.  "Tony, we have to stop."
     Tony screamed, tears streaming down his face, and he sank to the
catwalk.  Mulholland slumped down behind him.  That jolted Burnout, but she
quickly masked the surprise in her face with her typical derision.  "Touching
as this is," Burnout said, "I can't settle for it."
     She reached out with her stolen power, kicking the heaters and lamps
into overdrive.  The entire billboard exploded into flames.

               *              *              *              *

     The paragangers panicked.  Many rushed for the elevators, not realizing
the elevators couldn't possibly ferry them all away in time.  Others raced
down the stairs, gambling that their legs could outrun the blast.
     Their leaders chose speedier evacuations.  Sister Christian's habit
parted as a bulky jetpack emerged from her back.  "The time has come.  We're
motoring."  She sneered at Dr. Jacky.  "What's *your* price for flight?"  She
and her surviving Rangers flew out the shattered window, laughing and
blasting power-chords.  Dr. Jacky flashed a smile, showing the voodoo
fetishes engraved on his teeth, and he took several technoloa control units
from out of his tailcoat.  He and Saturday hurriedly attached them to two
dead Cyber-Nostra.
     The doctor stiffened as he felt a gun pressed to the back of his neck.
"Either we all get out," Teller said, "or *no one* does."  Saturday sprang up
to defend his master, but Warden was already waiting for him, holding him in
place with his bundi sword.  Dr. Jacky nodded and attached technoloa units to
all the Cyber-Nostra he could find.
     The cyborgs shambled up to a semblance of life.  Saturday controlled two
with a handheld unit that resembled a doll, and Dr. Jacky ran the rest by
clicking his tongue against his teeth.  The cyborgs grabbed their new masters
and lurched for the window; Teller hopped on the back of Dr. Jacky's, still
training the gun on him.  The cyborgs grabbed the other leaders and roared
out the window, wobbling on their jetpacks.
     Jen wrapped an arm around Umbrae's waist, then looked for the vigilante.
"Warden..."
     Disgust emanated from the young man's blind, unfocused eyes.  "I can get
myself out."  He vaulted out the window; Jen and Umbrae flew after him.
     The first charge went off.  The impact knocked the ice sculpture off the
table and shattered it beside Andrew's body.  Then the fire hit, incinerating
both of them.  Licks of flame shot out the two huge Deco windows, nearly
burning the fleeing vigilantes and paragangers.  The next round of explosions
destroyed one curving terrace, then another, then another, until the top of
the World Building was no more.

               *              *              *              *

     Lana had less than a second to decide.
     She could hold onto her prisoner.  Burnout would be brought into custody
and C.J. might be freed.  Tony might survive the explosion and the fall, or
might not; Mulholland would certainly die.
     Or she could grab and ghost them, floating them to safety.  But Burnout
would get away, or C.J.'s body would die.  All the ordeals of the past month
flashed through Lana's mind.  Including Burnout's jeremiad against a city
that couldn't save even one little life.
     From the ground, it looked like the Chrysler billboard was suddenly
consumed in a dramatic burst of flame.  The billboard collapsed in on itself
like crumpled paper, then the fiery mass tilted forward and toppled to the
ground.  The holographic letters lingered in front of the falling billboard
for a while, then were pulled into it, imploding and fracturing into hundreds
of tiny replicas, raining down their message of INDULGE YOURSELF before
disintegrating into nothing.
     The terrified paragangs didn't know what to make of it.  One Cyber-
Nostra climbed up on the burning sculpture and pronounced the billboard a
message of divine retribution.  The paragangers fled the East Village before
the retribution spread any further.
     Dan ran across Astor Place, trying and failing to raise anyone on his
headset.  He ran to the billboard, and jogged helplessly to a stop.  It was a
twisted, burning wreck.
     Dan stared at the debris, ignoring Hendrick's cries over the radio,
wondering what he'd done to his team.  Chavez ran up behind him, shouting
"Tracey!" with a joy that sounded completely perverse.  Then he saw she was
pointing skyward.
     Lana Smith was floating down, with Tony Drake and Mulholland cradled
intangibly in her arms.

               *              *              *              *

     The bombing of the World Building had attracted police cars from all
over town.  There were National Guard vehicles, too, and Combine soldiers
from helicopters that had landed at the abandoned U.N. Plaza.  The eruption
of violence in midtown had finally caused someone to take notice of
Manhattan.
     Most of the paragangers scattered long before the police arrived, but
STRAFE insisted the ringleaders stay together and hammer out the treaty.
They gathered behind Grand Central Station, amid a pile of dead cyborgs.  "We
want the same treaty as before," Jen stressed, "and an end to the violence."
     "That would satisfy me," Umbrae said, looking at his burning building.
"I've had quite enough of this war.  Burnout, of course, will be _persona non
grata_ to us all."
     "C.J. is just another hostage of Tyra Dumont," Jen said.  "You can't
kill her."
     "Very well.  But you'll have to do something for us.  STRAFE leaves
Manhattan tonight."
     "But the East Village remains paragang-free," Teller countered.
     Umbrae looked to the others, and they all nodded.  "But the government
leaves us alone.  Total amnesty."
     Jen and Teller thought about that in silence.
     Warden, perched on a cornice above everyone, threw his arms up in
disgust.  "You can't be serious!  You're really going to let these bastards
walk away?"
     "We can deliver peace," Umbrae said quietly, "for a small fee."
     Jen stared down at the street and muttered, "We can't make that kind of
decision."
     Umbrae nodded.  "But I'm sure the Combine will be in touch."  He began
shaking hands with Bathory and the rest.  "And that, I believe, closes the
treaty."
     The Warden stood up on his cornice.  "Screw you, Umbrae.  *I* haven't
made any treaty, and I'll still be here...watching over you."
     "Then in that case," Saturday said, smiling faintly, "I'll be catching
up with you later."
     Warden spat, a thin and dried little glob that landed in the middle of
the negotiating party.  He turned and vanished into the city's shadows.
     Umbrae cleared his throat and, ignoring the little message at his feet,
finished his handshaking.  Then he turned to the STRAFE agents.  "And
finally, the people who saved us.  This city owes you its gratitude."  He
held out his hand.
     Jen turned away.  Teller said, "Don't push your luck, 'Rex.'"
     They slouched out of the alleyway.  They were in no mood to fly.

               *              *              *              *

     Astor Place was a burned-out ruin, but the rest of the East Village was
virtually untouched by the paragangers.  It did suffer from rioting and
looting, mostly by citizens who already lived in the East Village anyway.
     The STRAFE agents sat in Astor Place, staying out of the way of all the
firefighters and paramedics.  Tony and Mulholland shivered underneath
blankets, trying to shake Burnout's touch from their minds.  "It had to be
Dumont doing those things," Tony said.  "We would never hit C.J."
     Mulholland coughed out a weak and hollow chuckle.  "I guess you forgot
about our training session," he said.
     Lana placed comforting hands on their shoulders.  "Mr. Strings was
feeding your anger," she said.  "Using it against you."
     Tony looked up at her.  "But that anger...those things...they came from
Dumont, right?"
     Lana raised her eyebrows and sighed.  "No.  They didn't."  He tried to
speak and she continued, "I would know, wouldn't I?"  Tony looked like he
wanted desperately to disagree, but couldn't find any words to do so.
Mulholland accepted her speech in silent guilt.  Lana Smith stood and said,
"I've accepted my responsibility for Burnout and Haven.  Now it's your turn."
     And she walked away, no longer a little girl.

     Dan found Rani Chavez by the ambulances, with her partner.  Ben Whitman
clutched her hand fiercely while paramedics tried to treat him.  "Rani...
Rani..." Whitman's voice was weak and confused.  "I stayed behind...never
left the Village..."
     "I know you did, Ben."  She stroked his hand.  "I'm so proud."
     "I stayed behind...because I was taking cash...from the Snow
Leopards...."  His laughter was fluting and deranged.  The paramedics tried
to calm him, but he fought them and kept staring down at his transmuted lead
leg.  "Those fucking paragangs...fucking paragangs...."
     The paramedics shoved Dan and Chavez away while they injected Whitman
with drugs.  "Officer Chavez," Dan said, "don't let him get too bitter about
the leg.  Even if they never fix it.  Promise me that."
     "O-kay...."  She lit a cigarette and sucked half of it down in one drag.
"Mind if I ask why you're so concerned?"
     "Because that's how Tyra Dumont started out, and it's depressing enough
to see this come full circle.  I can't bear the thought of it starting all
over again."

     Jen and Teller landed a few minutes later, dropping down slowly from the
sky.  Some of the emergency crews paused briefly to watch, still filled with
enough hope to feel wonder at the sight of a woman who could fly.  But there
were still fires to be fought.
     The team reunited in the center of the intersection and surveyed the
damage around them.  "We did manage to hold off the paragangs," Dan said.
"And we...put a huge dent in them."  Rescue workers were still loading body
bags.  "But as for C.J., there's been no sign of a body."
     "And we all know what *that* means," Teller griped.
     "Look, I...."  Dan rubbed his head in his hands and gave a short little
scream.  Everyone was taken aback.  "I know we didn't save C.J., and we
didn't even beat the paragangs.  But we made the city a little safer.  We did
the right thing when we didn't have to.  That counts for something."
     Chavez pushed through the crowd.  "And now you're just going to walk
away?  Ditch Manhattan and leave us holding the mess?"
     Dan nodded his head.  There was something admirable about Chavez,
something in the way she wouldn't tolerate cruelty or indifference no matter
how overwhelming the struggle...he regretted that wedding ring on her finger.
"Yes," Dan said, "we'll leave and we won't like it.  We won't get to make
sure that the peace works or that Umbrae doesn't bleed this city dry.  And
good people like you and Warden will curse us, while the Combine sends us to
some other job in some other city where they'll curse us too.  And we'll keep
doing it, because it's better than the alternative."  The other veteran
agents bowed their heads and nodded, and Dan and Rani silently forgave each
other's outbursts.
     Only one person was still confused.  Dan placed a hand on Lana's
shoulder and led her through the burning square.  "That's the deal, Lana," he
said.  "Welcome to STRAFE."



                                THE END

============================================================================

     Next issue:  A little change of pace, with "Carnivalesque."

============================================================================

Author's note:  

     I cannot end this story without giving a big word of thanks to my fellow
ASH writers; it's very easy to write when I'm motivated to keep up with their
work.  Dave and Tony, thanks for making the ASH universe one I wanted to
write in.  And a special thanks must go to Matt Rossi, who created a
fascinating city in Manhattan and then started all the dominoes falling.
Hopefully someday you'll get to see Warden's side of the gang war....

     Lana Smith created by Dave Van Domelen/Tony Pi.  Cockatrice and Tyra
Dumont created by Tony Pi.  Bathory, Dr. Jacky, Varru'Ke and Barrukh, Rex
Umbrae, Embeth Alloun, Manson Haight, Andrew, and Warden created by Matt
Rossi.  Sister Christian created by Matt Rossi/Marc Singer/Kelly Keagy.
STRAFE #12 written by and Copyright 1999 Marc Singer.  A Legacy House
production.