NARCOLEPTIC DOGS PRESS, IN ASSOCIATION WITH COHERENT COMICS UNINCORPORATED, PRESENTS... WARDEN: AN ASH UNIVERSE COMIC (ASH property of Dave Van Domelen. Warden property of Matt Rossi and Dave Van Domelen. All Rights Reserved. Copyright 1999 by Matt Rossi) ISSUE NUMBER 11: TORN Part two of Warden: Year Two (Adult content, language and situations - Please be advised.) [COVER: Warden is lying on a pile of garbage overflowing from a dumpster, obviously beaten within an inch of his life. Standing around the rim are an obviously grinning, leering Conflicto, an impassive Labryinthe and a violently agitated Burnout. Also surrounding the scene are a horde of Paragangers, all celebrating the defeat of Warden.] The destruction that brings an eagle from heaven is better than mercy. *Robinson Jeffers, FIRE ON THE HILLS 30 January 2024 8:45 PM Warden had been in a lot of fights. But he'd never been mauled before. Unless you count Raoul, and that had been an actual mauling, with teeth and everything. This was more of a figurative one. It would have even been interesting, if they weren't killing him. Every time Warden tried to use his superior physical abilities, he found that he couldn't get to his feet. The floor would just....slide out from under him. And his hand slipped whenever he tried to get a grip on his weapons. A foot slammed into his gut. A club came down on his left leg. A chain lashed across his neck. Something, Warden had no idea what, drew blood from his lip. "Ooh! That *had* to hurt!" Above the fracas, watching on a catwalk, were three members of the Conclave of Super-Villains; Warden managed to filch that information from the mind of the loud, annoying one, who though of himself as Conflicto even though his name was Eugene Kwan. The other two, the annoying man thought of as Burnout and Labyrinthe...who was thinking about a woman...his sister? It was hard to focus.... As another foot slammed into the side of Warden's head, he finally realized something important. The annoying man was doing this to him. One of the larger Paragangers crushed Warden's left hand. It would have been incredibly painful. Save that he was no longer capable of feeling anything. After another few minutes, the crowd of gangers and cyborged enforcers got tired of beating on an unmoving body. "Hey...uh...I think he's dead." "Really." Burnout landed on the floor. "Clear a path. Or we'll clear it *for* you." The gangers did as they were told. Not that the ghostly body of Lana Smith couldn't get past them...but the raging mind of Tyra Dumont inside that body wanted them to show her deference. They did so. Before these three had shown up, nobody had so much as laid a *hand* on Warden in over a year...now, he seemed quite dead. That made them bad-asses. Well, that and the fact that they'd killed a few of the more hesitant- to-cooperate members of the Cyber-Nostra hierarchy upon arrival. That helped. Burnout put her ear *into* Warden's chest and listened for two minutes, while Labryinthe and Conflicto descended via the French-Canadien's space- warping abilities. Time in the warehouse slowed to a crawl. After two minutes, Burnout raised her head. "He's dead. Conflicto, did you get that on tape?" "You know it, shady lady!" Laughing, the slight man held up a portable vid unit. "All dead and pretty for the camera." "Keep it rolling. You," Burnout pointed to one of the gangers. "Check him yourself. I want plenty of witnesses." 30 January 2024 10:12 PM Rex Umbrae looked up from the small vid-screen on his desk, with an expression of slight disappointment on his face. "Well?" 'Andrew' looked over at him. "As we agreed...the death of Warden." "Yes." Umbrae turned the player over in his hands. "How...sad. I was hoping for more from him. More of a challenge. Still, a deal is a deal, and I've spoken to the seven witnesses you collected for me." "So, you'll do as I asked?" "Oh, yes. By now, the first steps have been taken." Umbrae stood and walked to look out the window; his private offices, located near the top of the World Building's Spire, had a great view of the city. "She'll be in position by tomorrow morning." "Excellent." 'Andrew' walked to the door. "Unless there was anything else?" "No, not at all." Umbrae watched as his lieutenant, now somehow the tool of a third party, walked out the door. "Save that I dearly hope that this 'Warden' is as capable at coming back from a confirmed demise as I am." 30 January 2024 10:15 PM The Consolidated Iron Works, built early in the twenty-first century to take advantage of New York's position as a major port with tons of recyclable metal just lying around, had ten huge smoke-stacks that constantly vented black, dirty plumes into the air from the enormous forges below. It was a hideous mess that even Combine regulation seemed helpless to stop. The air over #7 shimmered at the exact moment that 'Andrew' walked out the door of Umbrae's office, and Warden's carcass fell in. Then, two seconds later, Warden's hook sword came arcing out of the smokestack and caught on the edge. It lurched, scraped cement, and then bit hard onto the very lip of the tube. Three seconds after that, pulling himself up the nylon cord he'd tied to the handle of his sword by his unbroken arm, Warden dragged himself out of the smokestack. His bandana had fallen off of his face during the warehouse beating and was even now probably being touted about by some minor ganger as a trophy. Tales of his death were no doubt circling the city. Warden bared his teeth. It was not a smile; there wasn't a trace of humor in it. He'd spent a year getting a reputation in this city. In less than five minutes, he'd lost almost all of that ground. It was not going to stay that way. Sitting on the lip of the smokestack, purposefully pointing his head away from the edge and breathing as much clean air as he could get, he twisted his mangled arm into shape, ignoring the crunching and popping of the bones. Then, once the arm was back into line, he concentrated on it. The hideous color faded. The bones knitted. After sixty seconds, the arm was whole again, responding as ordered while Warden flexed and contracted it, testing the muscles and bones. It hurt. It would probably hurt much, much more had he allowed it to. Luckily for Warden, one of the compensations of his strange condition was a nigh-absolute control over his bodily processes. Healing, breathing, reflexes, even heart-rate and involuntary systems. They thought he was dead. Warden got a good sonar echo of the ladder leading down the side of the smokestack, and began stumbling down the side of the enormous grey-black cylinder ten rungs at a time. Hours later, his whole world rimmed with pain, he managed to reach the side of Madalyne Chin's Grocery Store. He could smell his own blood, from a wound on his arm that had re-opened, all the way down the brick wall. He was so beaten up he'd actually had to hide from both the Rust Brothers *and* the Ginch. He staggered into the door, praying that she was home. He didn't think he could make it to his apartment, and if he passed out here he was dead. There was no way around that. His good arm beat feebly on the door. "Who the hell..." Madalyne opened the door warily, cradling a shotgun in her hands, and despite herself actually gasped when she saw the form huddled against the alley wall. "*Thomas*?" "Barely." He moaned, and then passed out. 31 January 2024 9:17 AM The pandemonium was just getting *started* by nine in the AM. Dumpster fires, flipped cars, and demolished real estate all said one thing quite clearly if you were of a mind to hear it; Leave Wall Street. Hell, leave *Manhattan* if you could get out. The entire borough was having a Warden Free Zone party. The telling and re-telling of Warden's death was already passing into the realm of urban myth. The fact that it had happened in *Brooklyn* didn't change things much. Brooklyn was no-man's land; the Paragangs held Manhattan and Staten Island. So it was Manhattan that found itself convulsing at the news. In the streets, the Rust Brothers played at an impromptu block party, and the streets convulsed to their music, if that was the kind of thing you called it. Bathory stood in the window of an old bakery that the Snow Leopards had converted into a fortress and Jaz-house and looked down on the chaos. "Hmm." "Something wrong, kittykat?" Cockatrice entered the room, naked and sweating lightly from her work-out. "You look pensive." "Pensive?" Bathory arched herself, bathing her fur-clad body in sunlight, quite insulated against the winter chill. "You've been watching your old movies again?" "I don't have to watch them *again*. I can remember a word just fine from one viewing. Besides, I like them. Especially the '70's. _Midnight Cowboy_ or _Mean Streets_." Cockatrice was even more at home in the cold than Bathory. She sat down in a rather expensive divan and began tracing frost-circles in the air with her finger. "You never heard the word *pensive* in those films." "True enough." The ice-witch cocked her head and smiled, letting her glacier-white hair cascade down her neck. "Why are you standing all the way over there? I'm in a celebratory mood." "I'm not." Bathory got dressed. "I don't know why, but something's *bothering* me. I don't trust Umbrae, and I don't trust the reports of Warden's death. Something...I don't like it." "You're just mad because *we* didn't kill him." Cockatrice stood up as well. "Well, toss me my shirt and jacket, would you? I'm going to go make the rounds at the Stock Exchange party. If these idiots are going to party all day..." "We might as well make some money." Bathory held up the clothing in one wickedly-clawed hand. "When you come back, I'll try to be in a better mood." "You do that." Cockatrice dressed efficently, then smiled. "Relax a little, would you? With ol' No eyes dead, it's smooth sailing for us." She turned and headed out the door. Bathory watched her leave, the smile fading from her feline features as soon as her partner left. She turned and stared out the window, watching the party continue to spiral out of control. "I don't trust it. I just *don't*. Be careful, Trish." 31 January 2024 11:02 AM Tom woke up. Waking up was always strange for him. He always had a strange sense he was *missing* something at first. Unlike sighted people, all of his senses were on while he slept, and unlike normal blind people, they provided him with a pretty good idea of who was in the room, where they were in relation to the room, and what the *room's* layout was. So, oftentimes, his dreams took on strange elements from the environments he slept in. The dreams he'd had this time were very, very odd. There was an enormous Joy Buzzer, easily the size of a baseball diamond. There was a Wooly Mammoth. And there was a long stretch Duesenberg Silver J. Now that he was awake, he could tell that the Joy Buzzer, the Wooly Mammoth, and the Duesenberg were really a flat disk hanging from the ceiling, an animal carcass of some kind stuffed in the corner...and a Deusenberg. It was on blocks under a tarp with the engine treated for long storage. There were lots and lots of display cases around the room...at least Tom *thought* they were display cases, they were about six and a half feet tall each, with glass fronts...and a bank of machinery to his right was beeping and pinging in time with his heart rate and breathing. And he could smell Maddie. She was looking at one of the devices to his left, and her lips were curled downward. There were many, many ripples on the flesh of her forehead. "Where am I?" "Tom!" She turned to face him. "You look better. How do you feel?" "Like a bullet in the head." He tried to stand, but couldn't, as acute trembling began spreading through his whole body. He gave up and fell back into bed. "How long have I been out?" "Not long enough. A few hours. Your body is absolutely *drained*, Tom. It took all you had to heal you enough that you could get here and pass out. And you've got a badly mangled arm...it looks like it was broken recently and isn't done healing yet...a concussion, sprung ribs, deep hematoma all over." She smiled wanly. "I had to take you down here to get you the attention you needed." "Which would be where? And is there an elephant carcass in here?" "Wooly Mammoth, actually. This is the Black Opal's mothballed Sanctuary." A hint of pride crept into Maddie's voice. "Located some three hundred meters below the Grocery Store." "You have a fully stocked hospital in your basement*?" "Not exactly. It *was* fully stocked in 1997, but by now almost all of the drugs are gone, and the machines are all out of date. Still, it was the best place for me to make sure you were okay. *Are* you?" "No. I nearly died. They beat me. Worse, everyone *saw* them beat me." "The news is all over the streets. People are scared, Tommy." "They should be." He was frustrated with himself, and with the situation. "Haven't you heard? The Warden is dead." 31 January 2024 11:12 AM "He ain't dead." Barnes spoke up from his corner of the Retro Rogue, the newest Paragang-chic hangout in the city. It was within spitting distance of the Threnody, right in the heart of Soho. "I don't get that lucky." "Look, all I know is what I hear, and I'm hearing that he's dead." Hook sucked down another Vogue-Ghoul Susy and peered across the table at the third person in their little party. The place was practically deserted, what with most of the 'gangers out enjoying the 'wake.' "What about you, Gimble? Heard anything?" "If I did, I wouldn't tell you." The woman...if you could call her that at all, which was in doubt...reached out with a feeler and lifted another ball of fecal matter off of the plate in front of her. "Because I don't have to." "You tell him, Gimble!" Barnes hooted, and Hooks frowned. Of everyone in New York, the tinkerer of the black market *would* be the one who'd be immune to his strange ability to wheedle info out of people. The fact that she was a human-sized beetle probably helped her with that. "Besides, is it such a good thing if he did kakk it?" "Are you nuts?" Hooks looked around nervously. "If anyone heard you say that..." "He's right." Gimble munched on another ball. "I'd be out of work in a few minutes." "You could always make weapons..." "I don't do weapons for *anyone*, Hooks. *Ever*." She rotated one of her black, beady eyes and dropped her horn menacingly. "No matter what. There's enough pain without me adding to it." "I didn't know you were a sophist." Barnes took another swing of his drink, then looked up. "Hey, I *read*. Enough to know that Warden ain't dead, that's for sure." "You willing to bet on that?" "How much?" Barnes opened his wallet. "Gimble, you want in on this?" "Sure." She made a gesture that might have indicated amusement. "Put me down for two hundred that he's not. I like optimism." 31 January 2024 11:31 AM The NYSE. A huge fire in the center of the floor. Screeching Paragangers riding motorcycles, stolen horses from *somewhere*, and even a 1968 Camaro all about the inside of the building. It made Times Square look like a carnival...the squeaky clean state fair type. *Everyone* was there. The Snakeaters. The Onyx Eye Brotherhood Association. The New York Macoute. There were Rust Brothers and Cyber-Nostra enforcers eyeing each other but making no hostile moves, the burning eyeball insignia of Satan's Eyes could be seen next to the Crossed Switchblades that meant the Razors. There were kegs and three makeshift bars, and several clumps of Jaz-heads or Sim-slotters getting off in their special ways. Cockatrice found it...charming. She'd made more money for the Snow Leopards in ten minutes then they had all *month*. She smiled, giving a few of the lower echelons a thrill of fear as she walked past them. After all, she was the woman who could turn you to ice. On her way out the doors, she smiled and waved to a few Rust Brothers who'd been goggling their eyes at her. Then she began walking down the large stairs, flanked by Juan Pushe and Niall Pi, her old lieutenants from her days as a solo operator in the Cyanide Blues. She had to admit...the partnership with Bathory had really worked out. In lots of ways. "Excuse me?" A male voice with a noticeable accent...she couldn't tell if it was French or not...spoke from the column to the left. "Are you leaving so soon?" "Hey, matey, grap the urge t'addie the lady..." Niall didn't get any further. Instead, he began choking as the spit in his mouth and the mucous in his throat suddenly attained the consistency of tar. Niall's 'jump' teleport ability depended upon total concentration. "Muer Negger!" Pushe yelled. "Supernorm, all about..." A ghostly woman came *out* of the stairs. Her face was contorted...she looked like a picture Cockatrice had seen once in one of her Twen-Cen vids, from a performance of _Medea_. She reached a hand out...there was something in the hand...and placed it into Pushe's head, then removed it. There was a broken slot-deck, about the size of a wallet, somehow solidified into the area between Pushe's eyes. He died gurgling, his brain cut in half. Cockatrice tried to freeze the ghost, but the power just passed right through her. She turned very, very slowly, her face now torn between rage and glee, lines shifting back and forth on the skin. "Not as much fun for you when *you're* the helpless one and *I'm* the one with all the power, is it?" "'Ain a clue what yer flipping bout, Tizzik," Cockatrice snarled, lapsing back into the street patois she'd spent the past year trying to unlearn. "Ain a care, nevvir." "You will." She kept coming, walking right through two more blasts that transformed part of a decorative column and the ground into solid ice. Niall fell at Cockatrice's side, slowly strangling on his own phlegm, which by now was only slightly less rigid than quick-pour concrete. Nitro would have been required to clear his throat. Cockatrice looked around for whoever was killing Niall. That was a mistake. Spatial relationships began to twist and shudder around her. Niall was a mile away. Juan's corpse was above her. The street was a step from her side, and the door was under her feet. She tried to get a bearing, and then the ghost was upon her. A foot slammed into her stomach, knocking the air out of her lungs. Despite looking frail, the ghost had a remarkably solid kick. Cockatrice lost consciousness after the second blow to the head. Burnout looked down at her. Labyrinthe, who'd folded space so that he and Conflicto had been directly above their targets the whole time, stepped out from behind one of the pillars. "We *have* her." "Conflicto," Labyrinthe spoke up. "Is it neccessary for you to asphyxiate this one?" He nudged a nearly blue Niall Pi with his foot. "Nah. But it's *fun*." "Merde. Well, madame, we have your target. What now?" "We take her to our office inside. And we *break* her." 1 February 2024 5:53 AM Jess Dumont looked out the window of her motel. The cops were giving up on Manhattan. The gangs had been in full riot mode for a whole day now, and no sign of Warden. The rumor was he was dead. Jess hadn't gotten any sign of that. That didn't mean he *wasn't* dead, merely that she didn't know if he was or not. It seemed possible. Her motel room had a good view of the Brooklyn Bridge, and with her powers she could clairvoyantly watch the Holland Tunnel and Verazanno-Narrows. There were checkpoints on every single one of them. Armed ones. Each of New York's rare Anchors was stationed on one of them. This wasn't the same old same old anymore. No one wanted to take the next step, though. The city didn't want to *admit* it was about to give up. The people (there were a few hundred thousand people on Manhattan island) couldn't just up and leave, and the gangs didn't really want them to. If the people left, then who would they dominate? What would be the point of running New York if it was empty? And it wasn't like anyone had anyplace to *go*. Jess had spent the past day scanning the area, trying to pick up some clue as to her sister's whereabouts, but it wasn't happening. Something in the mood of the city was *ugly* and it was jamming her quite effectively on that score. Sometimes, she actually thought she could feel someone out there *laughing* at her. "Tyra. Why did you come back here?" Jess walked away from the window and tried to figure out what to do next. She didn't see the red eyes on the wall outside the window watching her. But they were there. Hidden by slowly fading shadows, but there. 1 February 2024 8:17 AM Tom Malfeas was feeling slightly less like reheated dog food that morning. He was running through a series of martial arts kata he'd learned from various opponents, trying to get the cramps out of his still-healing muscles, when he heard the pneumatic elevator lift descend into the Opal's Lair. He could smell them, but he pretended not to. Warden leapt into the air, split his legs and kicked two dummies hung twenty feet above his head, then grabbed the line of cord above himself and spun twice on it, building momentum. When he released the cord, he arced to the wall and descended it in a series of controlled falls, kicking off and catching wall and kicking off again until he hit the floor and grunted in pain as his ribs squealed in protest. On the floor, he was Tom again. "Still not looking yourself, dude." Jimmy Willot's voice rang off of the walls and display cases, giving Tom a near-perfect sonar 'picture' of the setting; himself in the center of the room, near the elaborate 'gym' the Black Opal himself had once used to train for his endless crusade against crime. Jimmy and Beth Willot near the lift, their postures indicating concern and exasperation, with luggage on the lift itself, where Maddie Chin waited. Her posture gave nothing away. "Maggie told you where I was?" "I made her." Beth walked over to him. "After I heard the rumor that you were dead and cut class to fly out here. Did it maybe occur to you that that might upset me a little?" Her tone was inflection-free, almost as if she'd given up the effort as futile but was going through the motions. For form's sake. He thought he might understand that. "Yes." "But you didn't even try to contact us. Let us know you were okay." "I wasn't. In fact, I still am not." "*Don't* pull that 'impassive' shit with me, Tom." Beth stepped even closer, getting in his face. "Maddie says they nearly beat you to death." "She's right. I had to stop my heart or they would have." "Jesus. Jesus." Beth looked away. "I can't do this. I can't stay here and *watch* this anymore, Tom." "I know." He smiled sadly. "And I can't leave with you." "Why not?" Jimmy spoke up. "Tom, *nobody cares*. The cops are getting ready to just admit defeat. The Combine doesn't want to admit it screwed up. Those STRAFE people are making *deals* with the gangs! Why do *you* have to get yourself killed to fight something you can't *beat*?!" Tom smiled faintly. "Because I want to." They all looked at him, even Maddie, with something akin to disbelief. "You don't know what it's like, Jimmy. I'm the only free man left in this whole city." He held up a hand as they each tried to answer. "Don't bother. I know what you'll say, and you aren't wrong. But it doesn't matter." "What? Tommy, please..." Jimmy was on the verge of tears. "Just *give it up*. There's a whole world out there." "My world is here. Someone has to stay, Jimmy. For no other reason than to spit in the face of it." He walked to Jimmy, put his hand on the older man's shoulder. "Go on. Do the sane thing and get the hell out of here. And don't look back." They didn't say anything else. Jimmy wiped his face on his hand, turned away, and got back on the lift. Beth walked over to Tom. "I guess this is goodbye." "I guess." He frowned. "I'm sorry that I can't be what I should be for you. Take care of Jimmy for me." "I will. You take care of yourself, Tom." She wanted to say a lot more, but they both knew it wasn't going to work. She was leaving. He was staying. It was over. She got on the lift. "Thomas." Maddie spoke up from the lift. "I made you a whole rack of supplies. It's the one without glass on it. There's canned food and water down here...it should last five years under full Hazmat conditions, if my grandfather's journals are right." "Thank you, Maddie." "I could stay..." "That'd be insane, Maddie. Get out of town, already." The lift rose. Tom 'watched' it leave. When it was out of sight, he began to strip down, checking himself for serious injury or bleeding. It seemed more or less under control now. Then he walked to the rack Maddie'd pointed out to him. First the pants. Traditional blue jeans, nothing fancy. Black bandana tied over the head, hiding the face. Long-sleeved black t-shirt. Cestus on the left hand. The joints were snug, and it didn't impair his grip, which had been his biggest concern. The spikes reflected sound nicely, and tapered to wickedly sharp points. And on the knuckle, a special refinement of Maddie Chin's...a hundred yards of micro-line cable attached to a bio-mimetic winch that rested on the forearm. Long black coat. This one was a little different...instead of a trenchcoat, it was a black duster with a leather cape-hood over the shoulders. Inside, the coat was lined with lightweight armor of a type the Black Opal himself had invented. It was bullet- and fire-resistant. It wasn't thick enough to actually protect him, but that was okay. It was a nice coat, and at least he wouldn't have to *replace* it all the time. He'd gone through ten trenchcoats last year. Hook sword in back sheath over the duster. Iron nunchaku in left inside pocket. Seven chinese throwing coins in right inside pocket. Steel tonfa police baton in sheath on right hip. He reached down and picked up the newest Katar. He couldn't see the shine, but the weight was superbly balanced, the edge keen. The handle was steel. This wasn't a decorative weapon. There was no beauty to it, just precision. He walked to the lift and called it back down. It was time to go to work. 1 February 2024 11:11 AM "Harris, turn the thing off." "John...let him have till noon." Harris Wu stood underneath a slate grey darkening sky, as snow prepared to drop down on New York, and looked off of the roof of One Police Plaza at the city. "Noon? Hell, why not give him till Judgement Day?" John Kelly, the other officer dragged into the NYPD's newborn Liason Department, stared at the siren that made sounds so high-pitched he couldn't hear them. "I mean, while we've only got the bloody gangers going psycho telling everyone who'll listen that he's dead and you want us to stand on this rooftop for another forty-five minutes and wait for him?" "I don't believe he's dead." Harris turned around. "Look, I have to admit it...I like the guy. He didn't let that statue kill him, so I don't think some jumped up Paragangers could pull it off." "Then where's he been for the past two days?" John walked up to the siren and turned it off with his foot. "Harris, I'm not glad about this, but *he's dead*. Why don't you come with me out to Ellis Island? If the rumors I've been hearing are true, we can ask *them* for help." "John...look, if you want to go, go. I'm going to give him till noon." "All right. I'll see you later." Kelly's craggy face bent into a frown, and he turned and walked away, heading towards the roof access door. Wu reached out with his right foot and kicked the siren back on again. "Come on, kid...don't be dead. C'mon..." "Could you *please* turn that off?" Wu jumped at sound of the gravel scraping voice that came from the ledge beneath the rooftop. "It's really very annoying." As Wu complied, Warden leapt up from the side of the building. Wu could see that he was favoring the left side of his body, and the lower half of his face was bruised a deep blotchy purple. "What..." "There's no time for you to be outraged at me. I would have come sooner if I could have...they nearly *did* kill me. There's a new power in town, and he has allies. Dangerous ones." Warden said nothing else. "The three members of the CSV. We've been trying to find them ever since they jumped Cockatrice..." "They did *what*?" Warden's expression didn't change, but his voice went up an octave. "That's...that actually makes sense. First me, when I'm looking for Dumont, and then her...." "What are you talking about?" "Never mind. Wu, your people are spread out too thinly. I think I can find the CSV and maybe put an end to this before it gets any worse, but I have to do it my way. I need a favor from you." "What?" "I need you to pull your men away from Fifth Avenue." "Pull my men *away*? It's already almost total chaos there! If I pull my men out now...." Even as he objected, the logic suggested itself. "You know where they are?" "Yes, I think I do. If not, I know someone who can help me find them." "And it isn't Fifth Ave. So you want to divert the 'gangers?" Wu smiled. "All right, I guess I can do that. What are *you* going to do?" "Improvise." He stepped to the roof's edge. "And thank you. For the diversion, and...." He went quiet. "You know." Then he was gone. Wu looked over the rim of the rooftop, but Warden was nowhere to be seen. "Don't get all mushy on me, man." =========================================================================== NEXT ISSUE: Warden vs. the CSV vs. Bathory vs. Umbrae vs. Warden! Jess Dumont finds her sister! Strange alliances are formed, and when the smoke clears, New York will never be the same again. =========================================================================== Author's Notes: Jess Dumont, Tyra Dumont, and the CSV created by Dave Van Domelen and Tony Pi. Used with permission. Sister Christian created by myself and Marc Singer.