----------
Blackbird & Countinghouse, in association with Narcoleptic Dogs Press
and 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.)

ISSUE NUMBER 13: Changing Hands 
Part One of CHANGE IS GOOD

copyright 1999 by Tony Pi (wildfire@lsh.org)

(Adult content, language and situations - Please be advised.)

     [COVER: The cover of Para Magazine, showing the silhouette of
      Manhattan.  EXPOSE'! is slapped across the front.  A half-scaly 
      zombie's hand claws down the cover, ripping the cover in places.]

     It's been two months since the truce.
     I don't much care for it, truth be told.
     Doctor Jacky's favorite killer, the immaculate death-dealer who calls
himself Saturday, is fighting my meal ticket on a rooftop across the square
while I sit behind this wall and let my cybernetic eye...all hail Khadam,
importer of alien goods...record the whole thing in X-Ray frequencies.  Up
until a few months ago, I was a CyberNostra; then Supernaut got aced and I
decided to get into the print trade.
     My name is Robert Coulter, and I'm the first writer of my generation.
The paragang generation.
     "You really don't know when to quit, do you?" Saturday's immaculate
voice...just deep enough to be menacing, without tone or intonation...comes
over the wall.  "I pity you, Warden."
     "Save it," spits Warden, dodging the assassin's bullets and leaping over
the twitching bodies of the mambo priestess and her hounsis, towards their
intended sacrifice.  The comatose girl is tied to an altar next to the corpse
of Sarah Kimball, ex-Fifth Avenue Snakeater.  "The blood sacrifices end
*now*."  He severs the bonds with precise strikes of his bundi, the grating
sound of metal against concrete piercing the air.
     Saturday involuntarily drops his gun to clutch at his ears.  "ARGH!"  My
guess is, his scream only made things worse.  Warden must have peaked his
sense of hearing.  If so, then Saturday must hear the roar of the motorcycles
clawing the stairs up the tenement.  The metallic crash of the rooftop door
sends Saturday reeling, and he goes down for the count.  But Warden's luck
has run out: five Ihimaera Reapers scramble onto the roof.
     Round two, Warden versus the Fifth Avenue Zombie Snakeaters.
     After Burnout's killing spree, Dr. Jacky's New York Macoute raided the
morgue.  They liberated the bodies of their late rivals and put them on ice,
reanimating them one by one through blood magic this past month.  The Fifth
Avenue Zombie Snakeaters rose from the dead, the fastest and deadliest
corpses on wheels.
     My eye tells me it's Baron Crossroads leading four Zombie Snakeaters.
I'd guess the headless rider's Tristan Mann, undead teleporter who got
decapitated by Burnout.  The charred half-lizard's none other than Paul
Marko, ex-leader of the Snakeaters; I don't have a lock on the other two.
     "Nevah feah," laughs Baron Crossroads, "We heah."  The Guede waves his
sawed-off shotgun towards Warden and barks something foreign to the Zombies.
     The Zombie Snakeaters rev their engines and charge Warden.  
     "Seems it's the Fifth Avenue Snakeaters who don't know when to quit.
Not even when they're dead," says Warden.  He heaves the woman over one
shoulder, and leaps onto the ledge.
     Tristan Mann teleports his Ihimaera Reaper onto the ledge behind Warden,
roaring fearlessly down the thin brick to smash Warden, who has mere seconds
to react.  Warden *back-flips* over the cycle and rider with the girl in his
arms!
     Warden has little time to breathe as Paul Marko guns his cycle towards
Warden, jumping the Reaper into the air to kamikaze the vigilante.  The
eyeless one falls backward off the building with his damsel in distress, as
the Snakeater and the bike likewise tumble off the roof.
     Seconds later, an explosion rips out at ground zero.  Just my luck: that
alley is out of range for my X-ray vision, all I see is clutter.  I curse and
switch my cyber-eye back to visible spectrum.  Has Warden died?  If so, I'll
have a first-hand account of his death: a journalist's equivalent of winning
the lottery.  But what are the odds of that?  More likely, he has escaped by
the skin of his teeth.  Where would he go next?  Take her to a hospital?  No,
these days the hospitals are under Umbrae's thumb.  Warden's more likely to
take the girl to the new Dumont Free Clinic in the East Village.  That's my
next stop, but first, I need to check that alley.
     Just in case it's my lucky day.

               *              *              *              *

     Five days ago, I marched into Renny Moss's office with the latest issue
of Para tightly in my hand.  "I thought you were going to run my article?" I
asked.  "Where is it?  Maybe I'm missing a page or two?"
     Moss twirled his pen in minor annoyance.  "Calm down, Coulter.  There
simply wasn't room in the Pope commemorative ish.  That last one for Pollux
tripled our sale figures, and so should this."
     "Oh, bumped for the Pope," I grumbled.  "And here I thought people would
be interested in the true confessions of an ex-CyberNostra."  I calmed down.
"So, is it going to be in next month's ish?"
     "Actually, there is another reason I've put your story on the back
burner," said Moss, a grin starting to replace his frown.  "I like your idea.
Really like it.  An inside eye on the paragangs will grab the masses."
     "So what's the problem?" I asked.  The hair on the back of my neck stood
straight up.
     "We can't very well publish your article before you finish your
undercover assignment, now, can we?"
     "Excuse me?"
     Moss stood up, loosening his tie, his face flushing with excitement.
"Imagine it!  Not just your take on the CyberNostra, but *all* the paragangs.
'Manhattan After the Truce'!  An entire issue featuring Robert Coulter, hot
new ace reporter!"
     I blanched.  "An *entire issue*?  What do I have to do, kill someone?"
     "No, no, nothing so drastic.  I just want you to go back into Manhattan
and interview the paragangs."
     "Oh, is *that* all," I said.  "Why didn't you just say it was a suicide
mission?"
     "Hey, you've been there and lived: that sells.  So will your escapades.
People want to know how paragangers live.  Find out how the paragangs are
coping under the terms of the truce.  Who Rex Umbrae really is.  What the
people of New York City think, and why they still live there.  I want you to
use your connections and net me those interviews."
     "If I survive," I said.
     Moss grinned.  "You will.  Paragangs are your scene.  It'll make you...
but you have to pull the legwork.  You might need this."  He opened his desk
drawer and took out a pistol.  He leaned in closer and pushed it across the
table.  "And, if you get me an exclusive interview with Warden...."
     "NOW you're asking the impossible," I blurted.  "All right, I'll bite:
what if I get Warden?"
     "Besides immortal fame?"  He laughed and told me.
     And that's why I'm running down the stairs, a gun tucked in the back of
my pants, sneaking around New York Macoute territory to stalk Warden.
     Funny what ambition makes us do.
     I play it safe, and sneak into a discreet position across from the alley
to spy with my cyber-eye and cyber-ear.  The fire claims the Ihi but Paul
Marko rises from his date with the pavement, looking no worse than when he
first died.  The lurching corpse frightens away a poor old squatter in the
wrong place at the wrong time.  Baron Crossroads and the Zombie Snakeaters
emerge from the building, though Saturday has usurped a Reaper from one of
the living dead.
     There is no sign of Warden.
     "Ah tell you, he no powah ovah zombie," gloats Crossroads.
     Saturday nods.  "He knew he could not win this one.  And we will ensure
that he lose the next as well."  He glances towards the East River.  "What
did you find in Tudor City?"  Tudor City is a group of twelve buildings
situated on a bluff above First Avenue.  It rests there, unoccupied by
Umbrae's decree.
     "New neighbahs, brothah.  'Otakuza' come tonight."
     "Ah, Hooks was right.  Umbrae's business associates have accepted his
invitation at last."
     The Otakuza, here, in Manhattan?  The word is a blend of 'otaku', a
derogatory term for fans who obsess over their anime cartoons, and 'Yakuza',
the Japanese crime syndicate.  Otakuza clans in Japan prove to be as much a
problem for Tokyo as paragangs here in New York City, but there the
similarities end.  Though the Otakuza are too recent a development in the
East to have any foothold in Manhattan, apparently Umbrae is wooing Eastern
investors, and bringing a new faction onto the island.
     Crossroads nods.  "Doctah Jacky will be wantin' to know."  He gestures,
and Marko doubles up with Tristan Mann.  As they ride away, Saturday glances
my way briefly.  A chill runs up my spine.
     Perhaps I'd overstayed my welcome in Gramercy; it's time to leave.

               *              *              *              *

     I head south for the East Village, avoiding any Zombie Snakeaters or
Macoute.  The New York Macoute now controls the Lower East Side, Gramercy and
Stuyvesant Town, boxing in the East Village.  The East Village is left alone
by the paragangs, as part of Rex Umbrae's truce.
     These days, New York City is in the iron grip of the King of Shadows...
as we in the press have taken to calling Rex Umbrae.  New gang territories
have been laid down by Umbrae's law, and surprisingly, his rule is obeyed.
Most of the gangs are willing to treat Rex Umbrae as a first-among equals.
After all, isn't Umbrae the guy with the government juice, and the guy who
kicked Warden's ass in their first fight?  Needless to say, they are in awe
of the man.  Some might even call it fear.
     Machiavelli would have been proud.
     One effect of Umbrae's benevolence is affluence among the paragangs.
Deadlier weapons, harder drugs, and faster motorcycles.  In fact, whole new
cliques of 'road-ragers' within each paragang have formed.  Sure, they're
ripping off the Rogue Voguers on the Parabahn, but the Combine is always a
few steps behind Eurasian trends.  Umbrae gifted each paragang with a supply
of state-of-the-art motorcycles from up-and-coming New Zealand manufacturer
Ihimaera, a move that consolidated his position of power.  I mean, what
paraganger wouldn't bend over backwards to own a pristine Ihi?
     With the rise of road-ragers, the streets have become unsafe in quite a
different way.  The FDR Drive and the West Side Highway are the stalking
grounds for the road-ragers, and pedestrians are warned off Fifth Avenue,
which has become the favoured intra-city speedway for these rabid riders.
With gang wars no longer allowed, the paragangers vent their anger in quite a
different way: racing, chasing, and terrorizing.  These cliques have become
enforcers of Umbrae's laws.
     I breathe a sigh of relief as I cross Fourteenth Street, and head for
the clinic.  The Dumont Free Clinic occupies the old Odyssey House on Sixth,
and is run by Jessa Dumont.  Once known as Scry when she ran with the Fifth
Avenue Snakeaters, Jessa became infamous for being the sister of Tyra
Dumont...Burnout herself.  Opened soon after that reign of terror, the Free
Clinic offers twenty-four hour care, to victims of paragang violence in
particular.
     Some fast-talk to the receptionist and I discover that a comatose
patient had been admitted in the last hour, surprisingly by Jessa Dumont
herself.  Does Ms. Dumont have a personal relationship with Warden?  I intend
to find out tomorrow.

               *              *              *              *

     I decide to use my press connections to snare this interview.  Ms.
Dumont is cordial, and dresses elegantly.  There is an opulence about her
office, perhaps too rich in decor for a clinic that caters to the public for
free.
     "Ms. Dumont..."
     "Please, call me Jessa or Jess.  Most people do."
     "Jessa, then."  I switch on my cyber-eye, recording everything I see.
"We at Para know the official story behind the Free Clinic.  What I think our
readers are interested in are the personal motivations.  Do you mind if I ask
some tough questions, about your Clinic, your sister, and your past?"
     She nods slowly.  "There are some questions I'd rather not answer, but
some I feel I must.  Go ahead, Mr. Coulter."
     "In light of your sister's actions, which have caused much mixed
feelings in this city, why was the choice made to name it the Dumont Free
Clinic?"
     Jessa leans back in her chair.  "Some residents despise her for her mad
rampage.  Others hail her for ridding the city of many paragangers.  I do not
name this clinic to condemn or condone her actions.  I name it in hopes that
our family name may be one day remembered for the good we have done, not
evil."
     "Are you not one of the last surviving Snakeaters, Scry?"
     Jessa casts her eyes down.  "Yes, to my eternal regret.  I was a
Snakeater.  They recruited me to track down Universal Donors.  I was naive: I
thought if I didn't take a direct hand in catching the UDs, my hands wouldn't
be soaked in their blood.  If I'd chosen a different path, perhaps my sister
would still be alive.  Perhaps this city would have been spared her wrath.
This is my repentance.  My family has caused enough pain.  I will do all I
can now to help the people of New York City."
     I steeple my fingers.  "There are those who believe your sister should
be treated as a vigilante like Warden."  I watch her eyes carefully.  "What
do you think of the comparison?"
     "My sister committed her crimes out of revenge and hate," answers Jessa,
staring straight back at me, and I can't help but feel she sees deep, deep
into my soul.  "Warden is an innocent fighting a lonely war for justice.  And
you, Mr. Coulter, are best advised to stay away from him.  Your greed shines
as strongly as mine did, and it will lead you into trouble, especially where
Warden's concerned."
     I break eye contact and fake a laugh.  "So is that how you are able to
afford all this luxurious furniture?"  I stare at her desk, trying to avoid
looking into her eyes again.  My cyber-eye catches sight of something
interesting written in her appointment book while fiddling with different
wavelengths.  Jessa Dumont has a meeting two days from now in Atlantic City
with Devlin Marx, one of the richest men in the world...or used to be.  The
casino tycoon disappeared in December, and his assets were liquidated.  His
resurfacing and his association with Jessa would explain where the money for
the clinic is coming from.  Another mysterious connection to be investigated.
     "Our income, as you know, is provided by a generous philanthropist who
would rather remain anonymous," answers Ms. Dumont politely.  "If you don't
mind, I have a new doctor to interview."  She stands to shake my hand.  "You
have a promising future, Mr. Coulter.  I will keep a close eye on your
career."
     I don't know whether to be flattered or frightened.

               *              *              *              *

     Though Sunday night is a slow night at the Hog & Hamlet in the West
Village, the newest bar on the paragang scene to open since the road-rage
craze, it's the right night to find Hooks, the street snitch who can weasel
out information from almost anyone and any 'chine.
     I pull up my untooled Ihimaera Scavenger, marking myself as CyberNostra-
friendly but no longer a 'wiresguy'.  The CyberNostra Charioteers tool up
their Scavs to the gills, making each 'Chimaera' unique.  Many excellent
specimens can be seen parked out front.  I wave to a few cybers I recognize,
and snap a couple of pix with a blink.  I see Ihi Ticks, the motorcycles of
choice among Manson Haight's Pod Squad, alongside Ihi Badgers, trademark of
the Basilisk Blacks, road-ragers among the Cyanide Blues.
     Strange to see the CyberNostra in the West Village, to begin with; they
still control Little Italy but were given Soho and the West Village by the
terms of the truce.  Stranger still is seeing the Blues hanging with the
CyberNostra: the Blues gave up their former turf but moved north to grab the
Garment District, and one might expect them to be bitter.  But under the
terms of the truce, no inter-gang violence is permitted; the King of Shadows
arbitrates all.
     Well, not *all*.  There has to be some way for paras to vent their
pent-up anger.  Thus, the rage-races: settling old scores by speed and skill.
By the looks of it, there may be one tonight between the Pods, the Blacks,
and the Charioteers.  That explains why the the Pod Squad clone-slaves are
out of Yorkville.
     I head in.

               *              *              *              *

     I corner Barnes, Hooks and Gimble in the billiards room with free beers.
I tell them I am a reporter right off; with Hooks' powers, I figure he would
find out anyway.  They slowly open up.
     "Hooks is in luuuuuv," taunts Barnes, one of Scry's former rivals in the
organlegging trade.
     "Spizzit, she was lava," admits Hooks.  "Last night at the Cornerstone,
she danced into my life.  Raven hair, sapphire eyes, and grace on Jaz, scan?
It was love at first sight, mekk, swear."
     "You fall in love all the time, Hooks," says Gimble.  Gimble is the best
street-fixer in town, much prized for her ability to make advanced non-
Supertech gadgetry that everybody can use, including Anchors.  That she looks
like a humanoid rhinoceros beetle tends to put certain people off.
     "Naw, fess, she's different.  She was *alive* on the dance floor,
drinkin' in all the attention," says Hooks.  "She was on the arms of some
CyberNostra I ain't seen before either, tearin' up the dance floor.
Then..."
     "She ditches her paizan, comes by and *asks* Hooks to dance!" hoots
Barnes.  "Can you believe it?!  A lady like that..."
     "Oh, please," says Gimble, waving her antennae in disgust.  "A single
dance doesn't mean true love."
     "You weren't there, Gimble," retorts Hooks.  "You don't know grazz.  She
kissed me!"
     "I bet you don't even know her name," mocks Gimble.
     Hooks blushes and mumbles.  "Well, no...my power couldn't worm her, or
him."  He buries his head into his arms.  "I might never see her again."
     I pat Hooks on the shoulder.  "Hey, look...I'll help you find her.  I'll
hunt down that guy for you, then you can find her."
     "Really?"  Hooks' eyes light up.
     "Ra, don't give him false hope," begs Gimble, looking at Hooks with her
beady eyes.  "I can't bear to see him cry again."
     "Just tell me something I might want to know," I press.  "Tell me about
the Otakuza."
     "I'm leaving," says Gimble.  She flutters her wings.  "Be careful,
guys."  She disappears into the back.
     Hooks frowns, then looks around to make certain no one is eavesdropping.
He speaks in a quiet tone.  "You ain't heard this from me, scan?  They came
last night, and moved into Tudor City.  Word is, the King of Shadows is
making them a deal.  The 'Takuza claim they have something which will steal
Warden's power.  Make him blinder than grub.  Ain't saying what is or isn't,
mebbe some whacked Oriental magic or Nippontech.  Their head man's Kizu; he
holds It."
     I whistle.  "What's Rex paying for that?"
     "Tudor City, f'starters; place's a fortress now.  Maybe cut room to make
new 'Takuza turf.  Dunno which gang'll get frazzed.  A share of the profits
that comes when Warden's outta pic."
     "When's this going down?" I ask, my curiosity piqued.
     "Nad," curses Barnes.  "Scatter.  NOW!"
     I turn to see what startled Barnes.  Marc Iachex, owner of the Hog &
Hamlet, who also owns the Cornerstone.  He is accompanied by the cold-blue
Medusa herself, Cockatrice, and a Manson Haight.  The original Haight, or one
of his clones?  Doesn't matter; they're all crazier than Ebon.  Finally,
Sister Christian herself, Blessed Mother of the Machine.  Each was carrying a
metallic silver briefcase.
     We sit, frozen in our spot.
     It is too late to run.
     "Hey, Coulter, long time no see!" says Marc, who knows just about
everyone.  He slaps me on the back, leaving a fluorescent green handprint on
my jacket that will last hours.  "I thought you quit the CyberNostra?"
     "No one 'quits' the CyberNostra," says Sister Christian indignantly.
     I smile weakly, nodding to Sister Christian and the others.  "Blessed
Mother is right.  Old habits die hard.  Missed the scene, so, here I am
again.  Wanted to see a few friends and maybe catch a rage-race or two.
Right Barnes?"
     "Haha, that's right."  Barnes kicks me under the table, hard.  Did I
just rejoin the CyberNostra?
     I can feel Cockatrice looking me over.  I avoid her killing gaze.
"He'll do nicely," she says to the others.
     "Ek-excuse me?" I stutter.  Cockatrice, taking a personal interest in
us?  I turn quickly into a study of frozen terror, and pray to the Machine it
won't become literal.
     "Throw in Barnes and Hooks, too," says the clone.  "That will draw his
attention."
     "You want to catch a rage-race, you say."  Cockatrice slips on her black
leather gloves, and smiles.  "You get your wish.  Tonight you'll be the stars
of the race."
     The three of us are each handcuffed to a briefcase.  Needless to say, we
have little choice in the matter.  We stare at each other in fear of what is
to come.
     "The hunt is on," cackles the clone.
     Barnes stares daggers into me.
     "Next time, just shoot me between the eyes?"

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

NEXT ISSUE:  

     Coulter, Barnes and Hooks are bait in a deadly mousetrap.  Will Warden
save them, or will they doom Warden?

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

Author's Notes:

     Matt Rossi asked me to take over for a stint on WARDEN, and I am deeply
honoured.  I will try to uphold the degree of excellence both he and Marc
Singer have put into the development of New York City, while bringing some of
my own ideas into play.  Matt must be credited for writing the first few
paragraphs of this story, introducing Robert Coulter.
     You may detect some of my influences, some of which correspond to
Matt's: DAREDEVIL - THE MAN WITHOUT FEAR, and THE DARK KNIGHT RETURNS.  But
some of my other influences recently have been GRENDEL (comics), PULP
FICTION, RONIN (the movie), BLACK MASK (the movie), WILD CARDS (the novels),
and SHADOWRUN (the game).
     For my run in Warden, I intend to take Warden to places quite different
from what he has known.  I also intend to focus more on the paragangs, and a
few surprises are lying in wait in upcoming issues.  I hope you enjoy the
ride....

Credits:

     All characters created by either Matt Rossi, Tony Pi, Dave Van Domelen,
Marc Singer or some collaboration of two or more of them at a time.