.|. COHERENT COMICS PRESENTS ----X----------------------------------------------------------------------- '|` =====, ======== ====. ===. ======= ======= // // // )) //|| // // ===== // //===< // || //=== //=== // // // \\ //==|| // // `===== o // o // // o // || o // o ======= o Superhuman Tactical Resources and Affiliated-Field Experts original concept by Dave Van Domelen development by Marc Singer and Terrone Carpenter Issue #6, "We Care a Lot" Part I of THE SLOW BURN by Marc Singer Copyright 1999; a Legacy House production ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- [Cover shows Dan, C.J., and Jen walking into an alley filled with armed paragangers, silhouetted against a fiery red sky.] ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- "New York." The agents of STRAFE could see the city across the water, through the gaping bay doors of the Ellis Island immigration center. There was a photograph of the city anyway, nearly identical to the view, projected on the portable screen as Colonel Richard Hendrick began their briefing. "The paragang situation has always been bad on the island of Manhattan. Last year, it got worse. The city is being overrun by bands of teen and twentysomething criminals with paranormal powers. The gangs are forming alliances, the police department can't keep up, and a local vigilante may only be aggravating the problem." Hendrick ticked off the dilemmas on the fingers of his left hand. Behind him, Dr. Ellen Cortes and her Tesla Branch technicians were still setting up equipment, converting the abandoned immigration center into a field office. Dan "Grind" Tracey, Jen Kleinvogel, and C.J. Brown sat alertly in folding chairs, trying to shut out the extraneous noises of the headquarters under construction. "Normal citizens are evacuating Manhattan in droves, paragangers are threatening to expand across the rivers, and now some Conclave of Super- Villains members have been sighted in the city. The government feels sending in the Academy of Super-Heroes now would be a tacit admission that it has let the situation spiral out of control. That's where we come in." C.J., a New York native, leaned forward eagerly. "We quietly kick some paraganger butt?" Hendrick paused for a moment. "No," he said quietly. "The government has decided to contain and weaken the gangs through diplomacy. We are in New York to...negotiate treaties with the paragangs." C.J. dropped her mission file folder. "You have *got* to be kidding." "That does seem rather underhanded," said Jen. "I thought we were here to fix the problem." "And fix it we will," Hendrick said. "But this is how our leaders want us to start." "Screw *them*," C.J. spat, "they don't have to live in New York." Hendrick's voice turned weary. "May I remind you, Ms. Brown, that you are still here as a provisional member of STRAFE?" In fact, she needed no reminder; her leather jacket was still blank, lacking a circled emblem like Dan's gearwheel or Jen's rising bird. "You don't have to be here." "Yeah, well, I don't really have a choice. Circumstances keep sidelining me. And I'm *not* turning my back on my home town." Hendrick coughed. "Yes, well..." "Unlike our government." "*Thank you*, Ms. Brown, that will be enough. Any further objections will be tabled until later. This is our strategy...." The screen-image switched to a map of Manhattan, with multiple colors and icons representing the different paragangs' spheres of influence. Dan watched closely while Jen hunched forward, unable to look at anyone else. C.J. tapped her foot incessantly, and stormed out when the briefing was done. * * * * A bank of winter stratus clouds hung low in the sky. That and the pollution from across the river in Jersey turned the sky a dull red at sunset, as if a huge fire were burning slowly behind the clouds. Jen stood on a rooftop in Chinatown, surveying the skyline. The World Trade Center was still clean, and reflecting the red sunset, but the rest of the island had seen better days. She and Dan had been scouting out the paragangs. The dark distortion of her antigravity field let her fly through the steel canyons unnoticed; Dan somehow just never let himself be seen. They had quietly observed the gangs' territorial borders, memberships, relative positions of power...and along the way they'd seen countless protection rackets, burglaries, black market dealings and acts of vandalism. All of which they were bound to ignore for secrecy's sake. They hadn't seen anyone physically endangered by the gangs yet. But then, it wasn't quite nightfall. Dan hauled himself up the fire escape and joined Jen on the roof. Jen was shivering without her aura to warm her. Without looking at Dan, she said, "It's wrong. We should be doing something worthwhile, like hunting the Conclave. Or protecting Lana Smith's baby, in case she comes back for him." She had lobbied several times to have little Carl Smith transferred to their personal custody, but STRAFE's directors ruled that would be too dangerous. "I know you feel a strong sense of responsibility there," Dan said. Jen had saved Lana from a suicide attempt, long before she'd given birth to Carl or become the villainess Burnout. "I'd love another crack at the Conclave myself. They certainly took their toll on us...." His voice softened. "How is Tony doing, anyway?" Jen thought of the last time she saw him, with a twinge of guilt. * * ...She'd made a special trip to Rome to visit Tony Drake, a day before she had to be in the city for Pollux's memorial service. His hospital room looked decades out of date, with bright orange plastic furniture, but it had an amazing view of the Villa Borghese. The Eurasian Union's parabiology wards weren't as advanced as the North American Combine's, but when Tony first arrived the doctors deemed him too critical to be moved anywhere else. He was looking much better now. The burns around his face were fading and he greeted Jen with a jaunty if weak thumbs-up. An IV drip slowly pumped nutrients into his blood, circumventing his damaged digestive track. "A few more days and I'll get solid food," he said. "Not too shabby for a guy who swallowed Burnout's neutron bomb, eh?" "Not at all." She rubbed his bald head, and the stubble where his irradiated hair had been shorn. "I wish I'd been there." "Yeah? Me too." He stared up at her, with an affection and a *need* that went far beyond the bond of teammates. Jen withdrew her hand. She turned to Jason Teller, who slouched amid a pile of cafeteria trays and incomprehensible Italian celebrity magazines. "You're setting up camp here," she said. "How much longer are you staying?" "As long it takes this guy to get better. He saved my ass in Haven. He did real good." Tony made an exaggerated gagging noise and Teller pegged him with a rubber band. "Anyway, it gives me more chances to rub shoulders with Arc." Tony shook his head. "I still don't know what you see in her, Jay." Teller obviously wasn't going to give a straight answer with Jen standing there. "Besides those tiny Gallic lips? She's the only woman in this business who doesn't have the hots for Dan Tracey, Mister Perfect." Tony was too weak to blush, but still looked mortified. Teller bit off his next comment, and Jen shuffled her feet. She placed a hand on Tony's ankle and broke the awkward silence. "I thought we were here to talk about Tony," she said, "and you *did* do great." He smiled again...but it contained that same puppydog need for her to like him. And she was already wondering how quickly she could leave Rome.... * * "Tony's doing just fine," she mumbled. "But then, he's not being asked to ignore the paragangs...or worse." "We aren't ignoring them," Dan said. "We just can't stop this problem by punching it." "And you don't have any ethical qualms about this?" "Of course I do, Jen. I simply won't let them get in the way of the mission." Jen snorted. "And they said you were perfect." She had never seen Dan taken aback before. He actually stammered and scratched his scalp in confusion. "I...I don't know what you're talking about..." "Sure you do. You're Dan Tracey, sound of mind and body. Back at the Academy, we all thought you were some kind of superman, especially after you caught Radner. But can you really be a superman if you don't have a heart? If you're blindly taking instructions from the Combine, then...you might as well be taking them from anyone. How can you be super without a super conscience?" She thought Dan might get embarrassed, even enraged; instead he turned very quiet and withdrawn, the way he had been back at the Academy. "Jen, I don't know where to start...I've never claimed to be perfect." "I know you haven't." She wanted to touch him, let him know it was okay, but the man still radiated some kind of intense anti-personal force field. "It's everybody else who thinks you are. I'm not getting on your case, Dan, we *like* you for it." "Doctor Cortes certainly does. The way she keeps coming along on missions, outfitting my gear...I'd guess she's harboring some sort of crush on me." Dan wasn't feeling it, merely deducing it. "Am I supposed to be everything *she* expects of me, too?" "Dan, that's a little different..." "It's *exactly* the same!" He slumped onto the ledge. "You want my moral support. She wants my affection. I wonder what Jason and Tony think about serving with a 'perfect' leader...." His voice trailed off as he noticed Jen pacing around the rooftop, rubbing her shoulders in silence. "Jen?" he said. "Is something wrong?" Somewhere down in the streets, a police siren wailed. They were bound not to answer it. "That's an understatement." A black aura crackled as she activated her powers. She kicked off the roof and flew home, alone. * * * * As she returned to Ellis, Jen spotted C.J. walking on a broken brick pathway that ran the perimeter of the island. Jen landed next to her, saying "What's on your mind?" "As if you can't tell." C.J. held a lighter in her hand and was compulsively flicking it open and lighting the flame with a snap of her fingers. "I'm completely behind you about this mission," Jen offered. "I think it's appalling. I may refuse to participate." "I don't have that luxury," C.J. said. She sparked the lighter with another snap. "This is the first official mission I can actually go on. I was held in reserve for most of Singapore, thanks to Hendrick's trainers." His agents, Jen recalled, had savagely assaulted her during a test combat, triggering an inferno which Hendrick blamed on her 'loss of control.' C.J. dispelled that memory with another snap. "The Devastator case and the crisis control afterwards got filed under 'emergency' so nobody counts it." Snap. "I couldn't get to Haven because we got ambushed by the CSV...never mind that I survived it." Snap. "I'm still treated like a mascot." She eyed Jen's shoulder-patch emblem, and snapped the lighter shut. Jen wrapped an arm around the younger woman. "C.J., I've seen you in action more than anybody and *I* know you're a great agent." "That doesn't really help me out," C.J. said. "I still have to go on this mission, and...." She tried to grab the air in front of her as she groped for the right words. "And I'm so angry, and I don't know what to do...." "Tell you what. I'll go on the mission with you, and back you up whenever we're asked to do something unacceptable." She steered them back towards the command center. "Thanks, Jen. I don't know what I'd do without you around to..." C.J. suddenly perked up as they re-entered the immigration building and saw two men setting up a satellite dish. "Hey, Milken!" She ran to greet the agent; Jen, a little miffed, trailed after her. Milken and his partner, Agent Keating, were two of STRAFE's mundane agents...Affiliated-Field Experts, to use company parlance...who got by on skill and experience rather than super powers. They were lifelong spooks and Hendrick's proteges, but they'd proven decent enough on the Singapore mission. The talkative Milken had formed a bond with C.J. while they were cooped up in a safe house. He waved to C.J. while Keating, still working on the satellite dish, nodded curtly. "It's not Milken any more," the agent told her. "It's Holiday now. And this is Agent Garrett." His partner rolled his eyes and kept working. "Why do you keep changing codenames?" C.J. asked. "Style," said the grinning spy. "If we'd gone on the Haven run, I think we would have been Welles and Gernsback. Or maybe Ballard." "He picks them," grumbled Keating or Garrett or whoever. Richard Hendrick walked into the huge lobby; Jen noticed C.J. instantly tense up. "We've got a meeting with the Fifth Avenue Snakeaters, people. Let's move. Milken, Keating, you're coming with us." "It's Holiday now, colonel." "Be cute on your own time. It's Milken and Keating until I say otherwise. Come on, let's *go*!" * * * * Manhattan didn't look any better at street level, or by night. Dan rendezvoused with Jen, C.J., Hendrick, Milken, and Keating...a mere token force...in the war zone between Chinatown and Greenwich Village. It might have been the worst part of the city, an area claimed by so many paragangs that soon no one would be able to live in it. The lawabiding citizens had retreated into their homes long before dark. Only the six STRAFE agents walked the streets, ducking and hiding from the occasional car full of howling paragangers. The meeting was in a broken shell of a courtyard, on a smashed asphalt square presided over by one rusty basketball hoop. The crumbling walls were covered in ornate graffiti tags, legible only to the paragangers. Dan recognized some of the tags as territorial markers belonging to the Fifth Avenue Snakeaters, the Cyber-Nostra, the New York Macoute, and the Cyanide Blues, who had recently been absorbed into the Snow Leopards; this was hotly-contested turf. Dan and the other agents scanned the walls for any sign of ambush. This would be an ideal killing ground. Slowly, voices filled the alley. A low chuckling, then a high-pitched clicking sound, then a stoned giggle, then a bird call, then more and more noises until the courtyard was awash in a cacophony. Shadows appeared as people in surrounding courtyards lit barrels of burning trash for warmth. From every direction, gang members poured into the courtyard and surrounded the STRAFE agents. Their leader, a young man named Paul Marko who went bare-chested to show off his rippling pattern of scales, posed underneath a sinuous graffiti tag. "You," he said, "have entered the territory of the Fifth Avenue Snakeaters." Dan wasn't impressed. The courtyard obviously wasn't their territory, and many of the teenagers surrounding them looked like groupies or hangers- on, probably not even paranormals. And Marko couldn't quite stifle his shivering. This was all a show to conceal the Snakeaters' third-rate status. "We're your contacts," Hendrick said. "Then you've accepted my terms?" Marko stepped down off a pile of bricks. "Full amnesty for all of us?" "Once the gangs are pacified, yes. There's a lot of work to do before then. You'll need to cut down on crimes for us, barter truces, provide information..." "Not so fast, godtimer." Marko hissed and grew fangs. "That's assuming we choose to cooperate. But we won't sell out our own kind without a little...show of faith." One of the distant trash-barrels erupted into a tower of flame and C.J. shouted, "You sell out your own kind every day, you little...!" "Temper, temper." He sidled around the courtyard, his torso swaying disturbingly. "We're just asking you to preserve our way of life. We can't be your partners if the competition squeezes us out, right?" "What do you want?" Hendrick growled. "The Onyx Eye." He pointed to another tag, this one doubly incomprehensible because its twisting lines hid Chinese characters, not English ones. "One of their street gangs took over Washington Square Park after Mountain died, few weeks ago. We want it back. Then we'll talk." * * * * A speedboat carried them back to Ellis Island. A helicopter would have been faster and warmer, but also more conspicuous. Still, the chilling wind and roaring motor didn't silence the agents' conversation, which continued as the boat docked. "You're shutting down a vicious paragang," Hendrick said. He was only shouting to be heard over the motor, but it didn't make him sound any more pleasant. "That's what you wanted to do." "Not for another paragang!" C.J. yelled. "Christ, how far are we going to bend over for these creeps?" "The Onyx Eye are the worse of two evils right now, and we'll have some control over the Snakeaters. It's not a pretty situation and I don't like dealing with these para bastards any more than you do. But sometimes you have to take whatever compromise you can get. That's what life in the *real* world is like." C.J. frowned and hopped out of the boat. The other agents filed after her in the same awkward silence. Only Dan stayed behind, tying off the boat so he could speak to Hendrick privately. "I understand the practical considerations here," he said, "but that personal comment didn't help any. My people are unhappy enough as it is." "It isn't our job to be happy, Tracey." "But we do need to be a functioning team. I thought we'd reached some sort of rapprochement after Singapore." "If you mean I accepted you're fit to be the lead agents, then yes. That doesn't magically fix everything. Brown, for example, still has some serious self-discipline problems. If you won't address them then I will." "I will address them, colonel, but in a more productive way. My people are shorthanded and demoralized, and now the Combine is asking them to perform an odious task. They need a little encouragement." Hendrick sighed and brushed his silver mustache. All the energy and anger drained from his voice, though the words didn't soften. "Show me something, Tracey. Show me something worth encouraging." Milken and C.J. walked around the island. Out on the western end, the foundries and shipyards of Jersey stood distinct against the horizon. While the sun had set long ago, they still belched fire into the night sky. Milken was rambling on about their mission while C.J. walked beside him, her hands clasped behind her back. "...And did you check out the *font* on our handouts?" he said. "A semiotic nightmare." C.J. laughed. "Milken, you are like no one else. How did you end up in Hendrick's outfit?" "Ah, Hendrick isn't so bad. He cares a lot about his job." "But he doesn't care if it's a job worth doing." Milken responded instantly. "That isn't true. We care a lot. But sometimes the jobs we get aren't very nice." He shoved his hands deep into his jacket pockets, looking like an overgrown schoolboy. "The noble battles go to ASH. We're down in the gutter with our paraganger allies, and we always have been. Welcome to STRAFE." "But there's a *line*, Milken." She clawed her fingers, shaking her hands, grasping at nothing. "Hendrick's goons beat me up in a training session. Tell me STRAFE has to be *that* way. Tell me we're all that worthless." Milken lowered his head. The winter bluster swept his dark, slightly graying hair around his face. "C.J.," he said, "I want to be honest with you...and you must understand how much that means, coming from a guy who changes his name every three weeks..." She stopped walking. "Oh no." "Yeah. I was one of the trainers, Carol. The other guys, they're no different from me." "And you're no different from them." He didn't look away from her. "It comes with the job. I'm sorry, Carol. It wasn't right." She backed away from him. "They were never supposed to hurt anyone, C.J. Just to test your control..." "Skip the excuses." She couldn't look at him any more. "I'll see you when we're breaking faces for paragangs. Or in hell." C.J. ran back to the headquarters. Milken leaned on a rusty railing and stared out at the burning foundries. * * * * Two nights later, the Onyx Eye "Brotherhood Associations" gathered in Washington Square Park for a party. They were street gangs that received money and paranormals from the dread Onyx Eye Tong, so they had good cause to celebrate...the only question had been when they would do it in the disputed zone. The Asian-American paragangers converged on the square, not realizing they were being tailed from far above by a flying, nearly invisible Jen Kleinvogel. The party began around midnight. The Onyx Eye Brothers, their hangers- on, and a few Tong supervisors drank from kegs they'd "liberated" from Village bars that were under Snakeater protection. Others raced motorcycles around the square or danced to a mix laid down by two of the Rust Brothers. The dancing stopped when the speakers emitted ear-splitting squeals of feedback. On the DJ stand, the Rust Brothers shook their cyborged heads in confusion. And then Paul Marko's voice rang out across the square. "ATTENTION, ONYX EYE. YOU ARE ON SNAKEATERS GROUND. GET OUT...OR GET BEAT." Snakeaters poured out of the cross streets. STRAFE agents in unmarked black jumpsuits ran alongside them, carrying riot rifles. Others rappelled down nearby buildings or on the large arch in the center of the park. They fired CS gas cannisters into the stunned crowd. The gasping, choking paragangers didn't know what hit them. The STRAFE agents pelted them with rubber bullets and tasers...a concession the supers team had insisted upon. The Snakeaters showed no such restraints, and hit the Onyx Eye with an assortment of claws, lightning bolts, psi attacks, and combat-teleported grenades. Marko sliced through the Asians, aiming for their soft bellies. The motorcyclists, outside the circle of gas, spiralled in on the battle. One rider extended her arm, forming a long metal lance; another dragged a thin metal rod across the cobblestones beside him, kicking up sparks that slowly coalesced into a huge Oriental dragon. As they closed in on the Snakeaters, three manhole covers in front of them lifted and Hendrick, Milken, and Keating rose out of the ground. They threw barbed chains in front of the tires, then ducked back into the manholes as the cycles spun out of control over them. The riders tumbled to the ground. Hendrick stood again and smiled. Dan Tracey, also in a black jumpsuit, was trading kicks with a jumping, spinning Onyx Eye. He quickly analyzed the man's style and switched to a kempo attack that left his opponent crouching on the ground, clutching his kidneys. C.J. sprayed her flamethrower at the gangers, reshaping the flames into barriers and flying wedges that herded them out of the square. Most of the gangers were already fleeing, if the Snakeaters let them. The ranking Tong leader, a tattoo-covered woman, tried to rally her people. She gracefully leaped onto the DJ stand, where the Rust Brothers were frantically packing their precious turntables and vinyl, and bellowed at the crowd in Chinese. Then she pointed imperiously at Dan. Waves of pure force rolled out of her hand, rippled the sky, and slammed Dan across the park. C.J. howled. Her barriers collapsed into curtains of uncontrolled flame...Hendrick scowled...and she squeezed off a few shots at the Tong leader. The Onyx Eye crossed her arms into an X and the flames were stopped several feet in front of her. Other paragangers, no longer herded by the walls of flame, began to retaliate. Then a low whistling sound rose over the noises of battle. Only the STRAFE agents knew what to look for: Jen's aura still concealed her against the night sky. She was trying a new application of her aura, using it to increase gravity rather than nullify it, and she was dropping from the sky like a bomb. The Tong leader was taken completely by surprise. Jen punched through her force field and landed on her upper torso at several times her natural weight and velocity. The Tong leader was kicked through the DJ stand, which collapsed on top of her. The Rust Brothers jumped clear and bemoaned the loss of their mixer. Jen immediately reversed her gravity and shot back above the wreckage, no worse for the wear. The other Onyx Eye hadn't quite seen what destroyed the stand, and they ran for the nearest alleys. The Fifth Avenue Snakeaters stopped beating the fallen gangers and cheered their victory. The STRAFE agents remained silent. * * * * The STRAFE squad delivered the surviving Onyx Eye to a drop spot a few blocks away where the NYPD would pick them up. Marko had refused to vacate the square or to allow the police inside it. STRAFE could have retaken the square easily, of course; but that wasn't part of the mission. The agents trudged back to Washington Square Park. The cavorting Snakeaters invited them to join the party...the Rust Brothers, sensing which way the wind blew, were spinning discs again...but the agents marched straight up to Paul Marko. Marko, each arm wrapped around a woman, smiled at them. "Welcome, friends. Nice job you did there. Come to celebrate?" Hendrick cut through the nonsense. "We did our job. You have the park back. Now it's time to negotiate..." "Whoa, whoa, *whoa*," Marko said, laughing. "You took it back from the *Onyx Eye*. The Macoute think it's theirs, too." He pointed to a stylized stick-figure man scrawled across the arch. "You're going to have to help us hold it. I figure strikes on the Macoute and Onyx Eye palaces..." "Go to hell," C.J. spat. "Brown..." Hendrick cautioned. Marko laughed again, baring his fangs. The bimbos on either arm tittered as well. "You're the feisty one, aren't you?" "Go to hell," she repeated. "What more do you want? We've already given you a dream deal and we got you your damn park. You keep terrorizing the people of this town and just because the Combine is too sleazy to admit it you think that means you have us over a barrel. You're already getting more than you deserve." "Careful, honey. You have to be nice to me, remember?" He licked his lips with a forked tongue. "Maybe I'll ask for something else." "That does it!" C.J. raised her flamethrower and pulled the trigger. She also ripped the hose loose from the fuel canister, spraying the fuel into the air. Everybody dove for cover. The open flame caught the fuel spray, igniting it into a fireball. Hendrick's eyes met Dan's, each of them unhappy to see him proven right. The fireball collapsed in on itself; amazingly, nobody had been harmed. Then the flames stretched out in a network of horizontal bars suspended at chest level. The bars turned at sharp right angles, spreading and trapping the Snakeaters in a grid of flames. It was the furthest C.J. had ever pushed her fire-control powers. She stepped forward and got in Marko's face. "You listen to me, little boy. We put you in this park and we can take you out of it. There are a dozen gangs out there that will jump for the chance we've given you and they will jump over your grave to do it. So you do what we say, when we say it, and you don't ask for any more favors. Unless you'd like to see how things turn out with *me* running the Snakeaters. You got that?" Sweating, Marko nodded furiously. "Good." The flames consumed the fuel and died in a falling shower of sparks. C.J. turned from the paragangers in disgust, shaming them by exposing her unprotected back to them. None of them moved on her. "The treaty's all yours, Hendrick," she said. "I think they'll sign." She walked back to the congratulations of her teammates. * * * * They held their next briefing a few days later in the completed Ellis Island command center. Jen and C.J. were still grumpy and withdrawn as Hendrick listed the details of the treaty and the information that a fearful Paul Marko was already feeding them. Hendrick concluded with the rumors of Conclave activity and then said, "That only leaves two more matters of business. Captain Tracey?" "Thank you." Dan didn't bother taking the lectern, he simply turned to face his teammates. "Some more good has come out of the way you handled Marko. I convinced Colonel Hendrick to pull a few strings, and the DSHA now agrees that Carl Smith is safest in our custody." The door opened and a tall blond man entered the room, carrying baby Carl. Jen bounced up and ran to greet the baby she had saved, but never seen. "This is Stephen Stockard, Carl's personal guard." The blond man had a STRAFE badge with a small anchor symbol, marking him as a person who nullified paranormal powers. The anchor didn't look terribly happy about his permanent babysitting job, but he was good-natured about it. Dan reached for a bag by his chair. "There's one more thing. Given her long record of service, and her sterling performance at Washington Square Park...." He pulled out a leather jacket. The left arm and the back bore an emblem: a flame inside a circle. "Carol Jackson Brown is hereby promoted to the rank of full STRAFE agent." C.J. accepted it in tears. "Dan, I...I don't deserve this..." "Nonsense. You earned it long ago." Dan, Jen, and Milken came over to pat her on the back. Richard Hendrick watched silently. C.J. put on the jacket, and slipped her lighter in the pocket. =========================================================================== NEXT ISSUE: More New York action as Hendrick goes it alone to investigate a string of murders in the story I had to call "Spirits." Check out this tribute to one of the founding fathers of comics noir. =========================================================================== Notes: Paul Marko created by Matt Rossi. STRAFE #6 written by and Copyright 1999 Marc Singer. A Legacy House production.