.|. 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 #7, "Spirits" Part II of THE SLOW BURN by Marc Singer Copyright 1999; a Legacy House production ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- [Cover shows Richard Hendrick in a long trenchcoat and hat, walking through the streets of New York. The shapes of all the buildings and urban debris...a curve of lit windows, a drainpipe sticking out in a semicircle, a tall and narrow skyscraper, a piece of dirty laundry fluttering from a gutter, another skyscraper, a wide television antenna, and a curled mass of newspapers blowing down the street...spell out the word SPIRITS.] ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- The elevated train rumbled noisily through Manhattan. The cars, swaying back and forth over the creaking tracks, were nearly empty at this late hour. At the back of the train, far from the nervous eyes of the engineer and the portly transit cop who guarded him, one man sat alone. He drew human predators into the car, like fresh meat drawing sharks. The emergency door grated open and four teenagers stepped into the shaking car. They were young, but they already had cybernetic replacements to augment their paranormal powers. Their target was one man in a blue hat and trenchcoat, fit and energetic but at least fifty years old, which made him literally a survivor from another world. Easy pickings. The leader stepped forward, sliding a microblade out from its sheath between his radius and ulna bones. "Bad news, godtimer. This pede just rolled into our turf, you cog? You pay, maybe you walk." The older man looked up at them, his eyes an icy blue underneath the brim of his fedora. "I don't think so." The teens laughed. "Who the hack are you?" said the leader. The older man stood up, drawing gloved fists out of trenchcoat pockets. "I'm Richard Hendrick," he said, "Agent of SPIRIT." The paragangers laughed and charged him, the leader first. While Hendrick was easily twice his age...almost as old as all of them put together...he casually stepped aside and grabbed the leader's outflung arm with his left hand. He slammed his right into the small of the leader's back and flipped him over while holding the knife-arm steady; there was a satisfying crunch as the shoulder dislocated. He grabbed the boy and shoved him into the second paraganger, sticking the microblade through the second para's armored metal thigh. Both boys fell into a screaming heap. Two down. The next one in line, the girl, was trying to form a crackling ball of energy between her hands. Hendrick grabbed the commuter straps...relics from the days when there were enough people in New York to pack trains at rush hour...and hauled himself up, kicking over the two fallen paragangers, into the girl. She fell into the fourth just as the train hit a sudden curve. Everyone except Hendrick tumbled to the floor. Hendrick swung from the straps and landed on the last two, clipping the girl in the temple and kicking the final boy in the groin. Hendrick stood over the paras and clapped the strap-dust off his gloves. "First of all," he told them, "this is not your 'turf.' This is not any punk's turf, this is a once-decent city, but if it belonged to any paragang it'd be the Cyber-Nostra and you, if I am not mistaken, are Rust Brothers." He surveyed their bargain-basement cyberware. "A poser gang that aspires to be Cyber-Nostra. You're not even from New York, you got your start in Jersey City. You're only here because of the vacancy caused by the sudden deaths of lots of top paragangers. And you're going to tell me who's killing them." The leader tried to stand. "We didn't crash 'em!" Hendrick punched him squarely in the face, breaking his nose. "Of course you didn't. You only prey on the weak and frightened. You'd never kill your betters." He towered over them, the ceiling lights and the hat throwing his face into a sinister shadow. They were completely cowed. "But someone is, and I want to know what you know about it." "Nothing," the girl pleaded, "honest! Straight scan!" "Then tell your friends that I'm out here. Looking for the killer. And I won't stop until I get him." He'd timed it perfectly. The train pulled into a station and its doors hissed open. The paragangers stayed on the floor, looking at him fearfully. "Well, get the hell out of here," Hendrick barked. He flexed his muscles as if he were about to pounce on them. Not willing to be humiliated again, the paragangers scampered out of the car. Hendrick let out the deep breath he'd been holding and he walked back to his seat. He was glad they'd left. He didn't want them to see the nasty limp in his right leg, the wheezing breaths and heaving chest, or the twitching in his hands. They might have realized he wasn't an avenging spirit after all...just a tired, aging man. * * * * >From the casebook of Richard Hendrick: Crime is not a bitter weed, a man-made stream, or even a dirty business. Not if you live in New York City. It's just a way of life. The few hardy souls who still tough it out in Manhattan have to put up with a daily dose of theft, arson, black market rackets, paragang violence, and even murder. Nobody asks why anymore, it just happens, and at some point the "why" no longer mattered. Long before my time; maybe even before my father's. He was a cop back when the bodies started piling up too quickly to be explained by society; I'm a government agent in a time when society doesn't even try. I started out as an agent of SPIRIT...the Super-Powered Information Retrieval and Investigation Team. Misleading name aside, none of us had any powers at all. We were the few, the brave few, who stepped in to fill the gap when the old superhumans disappeared and the new ones were still being born. Each of us holding the line for society with nothing more than two fists, a gun, and a badge. And the unfailing sense that we were right. SPIRIT isn't around anymore; they gutted it, turned it into STRAFE when the new generation of superhumans grew old enough to fight. I supposedly got bumped up to second in command, but I share my authority with Captain Daniel Tracey, a fresh-faced young paranormal who has the annoying power of being perfect. He and his friends are crowding out us relics. I've only just turned fifty-one and I'm already being made irrelevant. Maybe that's why I took notice when, in the middle of a nasty little mission to negotiate a truce with the New York paragangs, I first heard about the murders. Paragangers ran New York, unopposed by anyone except a few diehard cops and a paranormal vigilante named Warden. But lately some top paras were turning up dead. The Cyber-Nostra Rangers were found hanged on their own wires; a shapeshifting Snow Leopard had been impaled on his own claws; a pyrokinetic from the Onyx Eye was shot in the head. Society, happy to be rid of them, is shrugging its shoulders and going on about its business. But something in me has to know *why* they died. Maybe because it's my job. Maybe because it's the senseless deaths that hurt society the most. Or maybe because it's something these cocky little superheroes should be solving and aren't. The three paranormals stationed in New York with me don't care any more than the rest of society. Jen Kleinvogel, the flying conscience, wants to take direct action against the paragangs. And she and C.J. Brown, who has never liked me since an unfortunate falling-out early in her career, would rather play babysitter to Carl Smith, the infant son of a former friend turned enemy. Only Tracey seemed interested when he heard I was looking into the murders...but I'm not giving this case to Tracey. This killer is mine. For old time's sake. * * * * Hendrick checked more of the South Manhattan paragangs, counting on his spreading reputation to forestall any further battles. Once they knew he wasn't looking for a fight...and wasn't worth starting one with...the paragangers were willing to talk. Several of the gangs were amused by his punishment of Rust Brothers and Onyx Eye and traded information for juicy, mostly invented details about the fights. Hendrick wasn't above exaggerating to get what he needed; he only wished he could wipe the cocky smirks off all the other paras' faces. One gangleader, the self-styled houngan Dr. Jacky, was quite forthcoming. He held court in an abandoned art gallery, seated on a high-backed wooden throne while lesser members of his neo-hoodoo mob writhed on platforms and sculptures. The houngan was clearly impressed by Hendrick's surprise entrance...he'd activated the large loading dock door and walked right into the gallery amidst a cloud of ankle-high fog, silhouetted from behind. Dr. Jacky grinned indulgently and intoned, "Welcome, old father." "You know why I'm here. Tell me about the hummers." The paragangs had an incomprehensible, ever-changing slang; new words mutated in and out of parlance every day. A 'hummer,' which had meant something else in Hendrick's day, was their term for the murders. Apparently many of the dead paras were humming strange, atonal tunes shortly before they died. The paras thought it was a strange malady spreading through their ranks. "You t'ink the good Doctor's loas are responsible, old father?" He clucked his tongue and wagged a reproachful finger. "I-and-I assures you, seen, these riders be the work of Babylon." Hendrick tried to cut through the strange mishmash of voodoo and Rastafarian patois. "You're saying someone is riding the paragangers? Controlling them?" "Of course. Trust the wise an' wicked Doctor Jacky to know a horse from a rider." He motioned to his own paras, supposedly 'horses' in the grip of dozens of different voodoo loas. "Why else you t'ink these fools be killin' themselves, seen?" "Then they really are suicides," Hendrick said. "Except for that one pyro who got shot..." The houngan misinterpreted the questioning note in Hendrick's voice. "Is you sayin' the New York Macoute killed that rude boy? You t'ink I-and-I's got to hide behind another man's loas?" His horses hissed and twisted menacingly. "Or is you lookin' for another fight, old father?" The horses started to rise. "No," Hendrick said. His voice was cold and hard enough to cut glass. "Are *you*?" The horses froze. As one, they looked to their Doctor. He stared at Hendrick, found his gaze matched by Hendrick's unblinking gray eyes. And then he laughed, a deep throaty laugh that echoed off the gallery walls. "You amuse us, old father, Babylon hunter. Tonight, you may go in peace." Without turning away, Hendrick slipped back out to the loading bay and the fog. A wry smile played across his face. Yes, the punks were laughing at him. But the laughter was forced. Hendrick's good mood lasted about twenty seconds. Just long enough to distract him when he should have been most cautious. As he rounded the corner to come around the side of the gallery, a heavy metal fist slammed into his gut. Hendrick dropped to the ground, more from pain than reflexes. His hat rolled into the gutter. He looked up and saw two huge men covered in low-grade and out-of-date cyberware. Loose wires sprang from tarnished brass headplates and shoulder pads while cut-rate cybereyes whirred and clicked into focus. Some of the parts even looked like analog machinery. None of this lessened the threat of the hulking cyborgs, for they matched the descriptions of Gifford and Gibson...the original Rust Brothers themselves. "We scanned you was downgrading our mods," Gifford said. His artificially-modulated voice sounded metallic and distant. So did Gibson's. "Nobody hacks our wetware, prod." "Not without us giving some offline mil support." "Nobody crashes the Rust Brothers!" Hendrick curled into a fighting crouch. Before any of them could move, a dark form dropped off the gallery roof and landed on Gifford's back with a loud clang. Gifford took most of the impact and was driven to his bulging metal knees. The assailant planted his hands on Gifford's shoulders, flipped, and drove his feet into Gibson's face. It was Dan Tracey. Hendrick lunged forward and tackled Gibson's midsection; the heavy cyborg didn't budge. "Tracey," Hendrick growled, "get clear!" Tracey flipped back onto Gifford and Hendrick drew a pocket taser. Gibson swatted it away with his giant gauntlet. Another punch caught Hendrick on the side of his face; it drove him back to the pavement and would leave a nasty shiner. Tracey was scrambling across Gifford's back and shoulders...the cyborg tried to grab him, but Tracey was too lithe and fast and kept slipping past Gifford's arms. In the darkness Hendrick could only make out the white gearwheel emblem on Tracey's jacket, ducking and weaving around the paraganger. Tracey was doing something to make the Gifford scream, but more Rust Brothers were pouring out of the surrounding alleys. Hendrick briefly hoped the Macoute might come out to defend their territory, until he saw them grouped around the high windows of the gallery, watching the fight with pleasure. Gibson was charging him. Hendrick grabbed his hat and shoved it in the cyborg's face, then threw a ferocious right hook at the giant's cybernetic eye. He felt glass break at the same time his knuckles did. Gibson howled as the punch drove the shards back into his eye socket. While Gibson stopped and screamed, Tracey leaped off his brother's back, trailing something. Tracey pounced on Gibson and began plugging Gifford's wires into his sockets. Then he flipped away as the two cyborgs rattled and groaned in a feedback loop. On the streets around them, other Rust Brothers were being routed by a flying blur: Jen Kleinvogel herded the paragangers into traps of flame set and controlled by C.J. Brown. Within seconds, the paranormal STRAFE agents had chased off or captured most of the gang. Police cars were already pulling into the street. Tracey, who hadn't even broken a sweat, walked up to Hendrick. "I hope you're all right, colonel. You could have been in some serious trouble if we hadn't been tailing the Rust Brothers." "And why were you tailing them, Captain Tracey? Don't tell me you're suddenly interested in the paragang deaths?" "God only knows why," C.J. said. She trapped two more fleeing cyborgs with another squirt of her flamethrower. "We've got better things to do than worry about them." There was an implied 'or you for that matter' directed at him. "You should return to the field office. We're much better suited to handling this sort of thing." Hendrick couldn't detect any malice or gloating in Tracey's voice, but then the kid never showed any emotions if he could help it. Inside, he might have been laughing at the old man he'd just saved. "You're better at handling fights with maniacs who think they're super-villains." He spared a glance at the Rust Brothers, whom C.J. was prodding roughly into a waiting police truck. "This is an investigation. And investigations are what I handle best." Tracey was still an officious schoolboy. "But colonel..." "Alone." Hendrick placed his battered hat back on his head, turned his back to the flickering firelight and police sirens, and walked out into the night. * * * * >From the casebook of Richard Hendrick: The Rust Brothers scrape ruined me for any more paragang work; now any punk knew he could get a piece of me. But I'd gotten what I needed from Dr. Jacky. I still had no idea why anyone wanted these kids dead. Or why they would go to such trouble to make murders, which were done through forced suicides, look like murders again. But I did have a suspect to track down the next day. He didn't like the paragangs. He had a knack for controlling other people's bodies. And he lived right here in New York. When an entire city is a prison, who watches the Warden? * * * * From the roof of One Police Plaza, Hendrick could see all the glittering skyscrapers and lights of New York at night. He could also see the helicopters flying to quell riots that had started as peaceful protests at City Hall before being made worse; the strobes flashing in the parks where the paragangers held their revels; the columns of smoke rising from burning arms warehouses that the embattled fire department couldn't quite manage to put out. Maybe the city looked better from this height once upon a time, in his father's time; now the skies were becoming a war zone, too. Hendrick didn't even realize he was lost in thought until he heard five quiet, clear words: "You wanted to see me?" Hendrick spun around, drawing his pistol. He was looking at a young man, skinny and pale, wearing a T-shirt and sandals in the February cold. The wind whipped his black trenchcoat in time with Hendrick's midnight blue one. A black bandana, a mask with no eyeslits, completed the costume. And as quickly as Hendrick aimed his gun, the boy pointed a short Japanese bundi and a hook sword straight at his heart. Hendrick smiled. "The Warden." The vigilante nodded. "I've already shut off the ultrasonic beacon." The wire running from the modified air raid siren to the building had been sliced in half. "You know, that thing is *damned* annoying. So tell me who you are and why you're here. And where's Lieutenant Kelly?" "I'm Richard Hendrick, agent of SP...of STRAFE. And I'm here because I pulled rank on Kelly." That wasn't strictly true. Lieutenant John Kelly, one of the NYPD officers assigned to 'liaison' with Warden in a desperate attempt to control him, had been quite unwilling to cooperate; and Hendrick hadn't wanted to pull rank, at least not a STRAFE rank. He'd waited until Kelly flew out on riot patrol and then searched his office, finding the ultrasound generator. He'd correctly deduced its function, though somehow it didn't seem as dignified as the pulsing opal blacklight the NYPD had used when he was a young man. Hendrick lowered his gun. "I'm investigating the paraganger murders. Do you know of any gangs that would benefit from them? Or any local paras who have the power to control other people's minds?" Warden warily lowered his swords. "Not to the point of murder. But tell me more about these killings." He seemed genuinely unaware, wasn't getting spooked by Hendrick's knowledge. On the other hand, maybe he was acting, waiting to pump information from Hendrick or to kill him. Hendrick briefly regretted his decision to come up here alone, without any anchors or back-up. But he had to do this by himself. Time to force Warden's hand. "Someone is making the paras kill themselves," Hendrick said, "Mostly the Cyber-Nostra, the Snow Leopards, one of the Onyx Eye...someone is turning their own bodies against them. Sound like anyone you know?" "Are you implying I killed them?" The swords came up again. "If the sandal fits." His gun came up to match. He stared down at the boy. "If I had, then you'd be dead now, too. But murder isn't my style." "I know," Hendrick lied. "That's why I came here alone...as a show of faith. But it looks like someone out there is framing you..." sure, why not? "...and any information you have could help catch them." "I can't tell if you're bluffing or not. Your heartrate is remarkably even. Almost as steady as that other STRAFE guy. The one they call Grind." "You've *met* him?" "Not exactly. He's been investigating me, too. Asking the paragangers the same questions you've been asking the cops." Hendrick had in fact been up and down the NYPD hierarchy during the daylight hours. "You've been following us?" The boy smiled. "Turnabout is fair play. But to answer your questions...no, I'm not killing them, and I have no idea who is. I can tell you one thing, though. The Cyber-Nostra, the Snow Leopards, and Mephis of the Onyx Eye...hell, even the Snakeaters and the Rust Brothers...were all involved one way or another in this major cock-up a few days ago, fighting over a gangleader named Cockatrice and some crippled woman named Dumont. Tyra Dumont." Hendrick's eyebrows shot upwards. "Oh, you liked *that*. Well, I think you can rule her out; she died in the chaos." Warden didn't sound proud of that. "Her sister Jessa was trying to save her, though. A former paraganger. She seemed like a decent sort, but maybe Tyra's death snapped her..." "Leave the theories to me. You just give me the facts." Warden explained the entire debacle: Tyra Dumont, the Conclave villains, the kidnapping of Cockatrice, the hasty alliance between Warden and Bathory to free her, the accident that claimed Dumont's life. "And that's it," the vigilante concluded. "Did I answer all your questions?" He twirled a sword idly. "You going to haul me in?" Before Warden arrived, Hendrick had been thinking of the vigilantes of his youth. How Black Opal cooperated with the police in New York, or Morgan Adams's brief run-in with his father down in D.C. They would always be romantic figures to him, even after they'd disappeared and failed society so horribly. He had expected the Warden to be similarly dashing. And possibly just as great a threat to society, if he broke his promise to protect it. This was just a blind, underfed kid, promising nothing. "No," Hendrick said, "I'm just going to thank you for your help. There is one more thing you can tell me, though." "Shoot." "You were tailing both Tracey and me. Why'd you come to me?" "Well, I...ah..." He could read the answer in the kid's face. "Skip it." He walked back to the stairwell and slammed the door behind him. Warden hadn't actually chosen him. He'd been afraid to confront Dan Tracey. Hendrick shuffled down the stairs, faintly disappointed. * * * * >From the casebook of Richard Hendrick: So the late Tyra Dumont was involved. I walked the empty streets and did some thinking. A pattern was emerging, though not a pattern I liked. I pulled out my palm computer and called up Kleinvogel's report on Dumont, Lana Smith, and the Conclave of Super-Villains. According to her, Dumont had been a friend of Smith right before Smith joined the Conclave as 'Burnout.' Dumont's legs had been turned to ice by Cockatrice; the mage Peregryn offered to look for a cure. This was immediately before the Conclave attacked Peregryn, Kleinvogel, and Brown; at that ambush, Smith covertly helped them escape. It was a strange show of mercy, considering a few days later she shoved a live neutron bomb inside Tony Drake's stomach. Then, a week ago, Dumont and Smith both showed up in New York. Smith and two other Conclave villains kidnapped Cockatrice; Dumont was at the building where Cockatrice was held and died in the battle. Warden seemed to think she was innocent, but the obvious deduction was that Dumont wanted Cockatrice to cure her, maybe even arranged the kidnapping. And Smith helped her. That suggested two obvious suspects for the murders: Smith, the embittered cohort, and Jessa Dumont, the sister who saw Tyra die. There were two catches, though. Jessa Dumont had mental powers but didn't seem to be the killing type; a DSHA report even suggested the Conclave tried to capture *her* at their public debut. Smith was a ruthless killer but didn't have the right powers. She'd never tested positive for any psionic abilities. Except for one odd detail: down in Haven, a telepath tried to take over Jason Teller's mind, and process of elimination indicated it was Lana Smith. Warden also believed some of New York's mobsters had been taken over by a psionic, during roughly the time that Smith was in town. Or... Tyra Dumont was also in town then. It was Dumont, not Smith, who benefited from all those contradictory acts, saving Peregryn and kidnapping Cockatrice. It was Smith, not Dumont, who was changing sides faster than a weather vane in a whirlwind. And mental powers ran in Dumont's family. If I'd had to name one person as the puppet-master pulling everyone's strings, it would've been Tyra Dumont. The only problem was, that meant my prime suspect was dead. Or was she? A psionic wouldn't necessarily be hampered by the death of her original body; those two kids in ASH, Zander and Mahler, proved that well enough. Maybe Tyra Dumont's mind lived on, in Jessa Dumont or Lana Smith or some other puppet who was walking around New York, killing paragangers. Tyra Dumont was avenging her own death. That only left the question of whose body she was doing it in. And how to find it before she killed more of those kids. I balked at that thought: "kids." They'd just been paragangers before, or simply "paras," which implied they were scum for being paranormals, not parasites. Over the last two days I'd seen too much of their world...the pathetic struggles for position and respect, the meaningless parties and turf battles, even the dark vigilante who was just as young as they were...to ignore their humanity any longer. I didn't feel an ounce of sympathy towards them. I didn't excuse one single crime they'd committed. But I couldn't pretend they were anything other than kids. All of them, even Dr. Jacky and the Rust Brothers and that pyro who got shot... And suddenly, I knew who Tyra Dumont's latest puppet was. * * * * Hendrick raced through the streets. He was on his own. He'd called the city jail and there was no answer; he'd called STRAFE headquarters and no one had believed him. Davis Stern himself told Hendrick that he was carrying his distaste for the paranormals too far. He was being given a leave of absence and the kids would pick up the investigation. That left only one option. After he vaulted over a fence, Hendrick snapped out his palm computer and transmitted his casebook, including all the attached reports and the name of the killer, to Tracey's computer. Using the phone would have tipped the killer off immediately. He did have one last chance to catch her in the act, and save a couple of worthless lives. He ran into the Tombs, the NYPD's aging Manhattan holding facility. All the police officers inside were sound asleep. Hendrick drew his gun and stepped into the cell blocks. The Tombs were dark, empty, completely silent. He slid along one bank of holding cells, aiming his gun in front of him, advancing slowly towards one cell at the far end and the dark shapes in it. He stepped forward and got a good look at the prisoners. He was too late. Gifford and Gibson Rust were wrapped around each other, their metal fists clenched around each other's throats, their black tongues lolling out of their mouths. Their fading cybereyes were still blinking dimly; they must have only just been killed. Hendrick heard a faint, atonal humming behind him. He turned and pointed his gun... Straight at C.J. Brown. The young woman stepped into a small pool of light from a lone lamp hanging overhead. "So you figured it out," Brown...or Dumont...said appreciatively. "I was *sure* it would have been Tracey." "Guess again." He aimed the gun straight at her face. "And I was so careful to hide my trail," she pouted. "A little *too* careful," Hendrick said. "You had everyone else kill themselves with their own powers. But you shot the Onyx Eye's pyrokinetic... because you didn't want to use fire." "Nicely done," she said. "I think I'll add you to my collection." Suddenly he felt it in his mind...a web of filaments trying to burrow their way in, stoke his anger, sap his free will...it had a name for itself...Mr. Strings? Hendrick didn't even blink. His eyes, like his fedora, were still an icy blue. "Nice try," he growled. Then he swung his gun down to her thigh. Hoping the real C.J. would forgive him, he pulled the trigger. And nothing happened. "She controls fire, remember?" Tyra Dumont gloated. "Your powder will never ignite." She threw a spinning kick...she still had all of C.J.'s combat training...and caught Hendrick in his stomach. He decked her in the jaw, but Dumont no longer cared what happened to any of her captive bodies. She flashed a bloody smile and grabbed her STRAFE-issued flamethrower. Hendrick tackled her and tried to pry the weapon out of her hands, but she fought with a demonic strength. She slipped a finger around the trigger. Hendrick pinned her to the floor and pointed the arm and the flamethrower away from him. Flames licked harmlessly on the dirty tile floor. The killer laughed and grinned with C.J. Brown's mouth. "Never underestimate me again." The flames curled up into the air and lanced back into Hendrick's arm. She kicked her feet into his stomach and shoved him off her. Hendrick tried to swat out the flames, then to shed the burning trenchcoat, but the fire spread too quickly. She pointed the flamethrower at him again. He dropped to the floor and rolled. The first burst of flame sailed over his head, but she soon trapped him in a circle of fire. He couldn't move. The smell of burning hair and flesh was sickening. Hendrick heard a hideous screaming, and realized it was coming from him. The killer spirit watched him burn. When his screams were drowned out by the alarms, she shouldered her flamethrower and walked away, humming innocently. Richard Hendrick was still flailing, screaming, burning. A few feet away, his battered blue fedora spun a few times and then slowly settled to the floor. [Burning bits of paper and ash twist and curl into letters spelling THE END...?] =========================================================================== NEXT ISSUE: ? =========================================================================== Author's Notes: In case you couldn't tell, this issue was my tribute to "comics noir," particularly Will Eisner's _The Spirit_. Be sure to check out Matt Rossi's _Warden_ for more noir action and a plot that runs parallel to this one! Warden and Dr. Jacky created by Matt Rossi. Tyra Dumont/Mr. Strings created by Tony Pi. STRAFE #7 written by and Copyright 1999 Marc Singer. A Legacy House production. A note on timing: this issue happens after Warden #12 and ASH #15, roughly a week or so into February 2024. - Marc