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.) ISSUE NUMBER SEVEN: A YEAR IN THE LIFE (Adult content, language and situations - Please be advised.) (Cover: Warden in the pose from http://www.physics.ohio-state.edu/ ~dvandom/raccgallery.html. Behind him are the faces of Bathory, Cockatrice, Jimmy, Barnes, Aaron 'Contact' Zander and Beth Willot, all looking at him.) One exists in a universe convincingly real, where the lines are sharply drawn in black and white. It is only later, if at all, that one realizes the lines were never there in the first place. **Loren Eisley, ALL THE STRANGE HOURS 22 June 2023, 2:17 AM EST The Cyanide Blues were feeling cocky. And it wasn't like they were without reason, either. Juan Pushe scanned the crowd at the Cornerstone, a Rogue-Vogue establishment that had become the center of Paragang nightlife. It was owned and run by Marc Iachex, who knew _everybody_ of any note, Pushe sometimes thought. The lighting was low and casual, and there were happy people chatting it up all along the bar and at the tables. Except for one table. Cockatrice's table. Since the Oblivious went down over the winter, The Cyanide Blues were on their way up. New York City was their playground. Pushe smiled as he walked over and waited for Cockatrice to nod. When she did, he pulled up a chair and sat across from the stammering wreck of a man trying feebly to plizz his way out of his duty. "Look I know I owed Random money, and I know you assumed the Razor's spizz so's that means you get it I just need a little time is all. Things is groppy right now." "I know, I know." Cockatrice's voice was like ice clinking in a glass. "So you can make it easy on yourself and just do me a favor. My furry little friends are getting anxious. I'd like to offer them some special goods." The look that slid across Barnes's face made Pushe laugh out loud. He looked like a little worm on a big fucking hook. "I...I tossed that." "Untoss it. Now. For instance, who in this fine establishment would suit my friends' tastes?" Cockatrice, her white hair tied back in a severe braid, let her eyes flash like the noon sun off an ice floe. "You _can_ still see that, can't you?" Barnes swallowed. Pushe watched the lines of energy underneath Barnes skin, the lines that were his own Paranormal gift to see, flash as Barnes looked at the bar. But there were too many people there for Pushe to read Barnes's expression, and a quick look to his side told him that Cockatrice couldn't tell either. She raised her right hand an inch off the table, and Pushe drew his carbide steel knife with flickering ease, lazily waving it in the air. Not many people in the club noticed. Paragang posturing was nothing new to the Cornerstone. The knife glinted in the soft gold light and stopped waving against the small of Barnes's throat. He smiled as an old standard, the Crystal Method's "There is Hope," began to play. "Y-you don't scare me, malchik." "_She_ does, though. Doesn't she?" Barnes's eyes glazed with fear as Cockatrice smiled, and Pushe lazily drawled on. "She scares you a lot." "S-somebody else scares me more." "That must be one dangerous fucker, then. Who?" "I believe," a deep, raspy voice spoke from directly above Pushe's head, "he means me." And then two feet landed on the back of Pushe's head and slammed it into the tabletop. The ghostly figure stood, seemingly unconcerned by the chaos of his appearance, moving like smoke on the shattered marbled table. He dropped into a crouch, kicked off of Pushe's unconscious body and landed behind Barnes all in one motion. The hiss of metal sliding out of stiff leather told Barnes that the infamous bundi had been drawn. The ex-organlegger looked over the table as the icy woman hissed and the rest of the Cyanide Blues began making there way towards their leader. "I thought you were a myth." "Everyone does." That gravel-against-gravel voice was in motion, moving slowly to the side and taking a central position in the room. As soon as he felt he could without humiliating himself, Barnes dropped to his knees and slid underneath the cracked table. Brave men came and went, but cowards held onto life a lot longer. Barnes had survived three gangs by the judicious use of this motto. "So what brings you to the Cornerstone?" Cockatrice smiled, her teeth pressed tight against her lips, and subtly gestured with her left hand. As the bar watched, three of her men began to move in on the skinny pale man wearing a trenchcoat easily two sizes too big. It would have been funny if the chest exposed by it wasn't bristling with ropy muscle, if the hand didn't hold a two foot blade with the kind of grace and ease most people never even get to see, and if the man's face wasn't obscured by a red bandana that covered his eyes. He ignored Cockatrice's chatter and scanned the room. They'd all heard of him. Warden walked in a circle, keeping his senses keen, letting them lick out over her gang: Embeth Alloun, who could shake things apart; Dareth Randall, prankster teleporter; Niall Pi, an arrogant little half-Irish bastard with a hypnotic voice. And of course, the unconscious Juan Pushe, who could see if a person was Paranormal, Supernormal or Supernatural. They were dangerous. "Not much for conversation, are you?" "No." "Fine. He bores me, Cyanides. Kill him." "No problem at all, boss." Niall Pi opened his mouth to say something to Warden. And felt his vocal chords go dead slack. All that came out was a choking hiss, an exhalation that didn't have anything to do with real speech. His power was intact, of course, but it's almost impossible to hypnotise people when they can't understand you. Even as Alloun sent a shockwave blasting where Warden was, he wasn't any longer: instead, he hopped up on another table and flung himself sideways across the room, heading straight at nowhere in particular. For a second, it looked as if he'd gone mad. Then Dareth Randall appeared in that space, his two guns drawn and ready to fire. The bundi that slid into his ribs before he managed to port away surprised him so badly that he dropped one of his guns. He then reappeared a few feet away, his hand pressed up against his side, shock already beginning to knock him painlessly asleep. Warden stripped that shock away and increased Randall's pain to the maximum his nerves could carry. The teleporter screamed and wiggled on the ground. Even as that happened, Warden was in motion, dodging again as Alloun turned the table he'd been standing on into shrapnel. "Shit! Shit shit shit he stabbed me Jesus he _stabbed_ me make it stop make it stop make it...." As Randall screamed, Cockatrice snarled and grabbed him by the back of the hair. "Shut up, you idiot! It's not that bad! He's _doing_ something to you. Now get it together and get me out of here!" Warden flipped up in the air as Alloun tried again. Somehow, and she couldn't understand how, her shot went wide and blew the ceiling into fragments. As she wiped at her face with one nearly-palsied hand, the pins and needles feeling her powers caused her crossed the threshold between discomfort and pain. Her fingers clutched into claws, digging into her palms. "But he stabbed me..." Randall's whining was cut off as Cockatrice held one hand in front of his face. "If you'd like, I could pack it in ice. Permanently." Warden's foot slammed into Alloun's chest just as Randall shook his sweaty head, closed his eyes, and sent his leader away. He opened his eyes to see Warden crouching over him. With his bandana gone. And an expanse of blank skin where his eyes should be somehow peering quizzically down at him. "Where?" "The the Port Authority. By now she'll be moving everyone." "True." Warden stood. "Does it still hurt?" "Yes." Randall could barely see now as the pain from his ribs radiated out into his body. Red lines colored over his vision. "Good." Warden stood up and walked away. Then he stopped next to the table Pushe's face had cracked and spoke to the air. "You made a good decision tonight, Barnes." "Uh um uh...." "Continue to do so." Then he was gone. 22 June 2023, 3:12 AM EST Cockatrice led the last battered truck out of the warehouse. All of the boats were already gone, and she was reasonably secure in the knowledge that their contents would get to the safehouses in time. Now all she had to do was wait. Warden would be coming. She intended to make sure he never left. "You know...suicide runs are passe." Cockatrice turned and let loose a blast of light in one easy motion. It changed the main pillar of the building into a tower of blue-white ice...and the strangely feline woman standing next to it smiled. "You missed." "I won't this time." "I don't think there needs to be a next time. We've got a common enemy...you know, pale guy, wears long coats, has a nasty habit of dropping in unannounced on people?" It took Cockatrice a few seconds to place her visitor, but she finally put all the pieces together. Then she smiled and straightened from the crouch she'd sunk into. "Bathory, right?" "I'm glad to see I haven't been forgotten. What say you and I talk?" "Sure." Cockatrice looked out the open warehouse doors. "But we should probably do it someplace else." 22 June 2023, 3:23 AM EST Warden dropped through the skylight and into the now deserted warehouse. As he expected. There was _something_ wrong, though.... A smell. And worse. The central pillar was already melting in the summer heat (80 degrees at night...Warden didn't know how people managed to move around during the day) and that was bothersome. Why would Cockatrice turn the pillar into ice? But it wasn't his main concern. That _smell_ was. It was horribly familiar, but he hadn't smelled it in months.... Walking the warehouse, he let his senses extend into the few empty crates that had been left behind, feeling the traces of dust inside them...Jaz, Pranir gift to those who wanted to burn their brain cells out. Warden didn't know if the Pranir made it or just sold it, and he didn't care: Jaz made heroin look like sugar. Apparently the Cyanide Blues were branching out. Another few minutes, and then the groaning of the ice told him that he'd better leave before it gave way. Warden jumped through the skylight to the roof, and from the roof to a cargo crane, and from there he went rooftop to rooftop. What was that smell? Why couldn't he place it? Not for the first time, he wished he could ask the Mentor for help. But she was gone, had been since the beginning of the year. He'd angered her by placing the life of his friend Jimmy over that of vengeance, and now she was gone and he had no one to advise him. He leapt over and landed on top of a electric bus, letting it carry him back into the city. Jimmy had been after Thomas lately...sometimes Warden thought of Thomas as someone else, some one he _almost_ was...to give up the nights and to work in the dojo again. But Warden felt the most alive, the most free, when he walked the rooftops. Besides, the dojo was known by his enemies.... It hit Warden suddenly, a realization that seemed too simple to have been missed. _Bathory._ That was _her_ smell in the warehouse. He remembered it from last Christmas, when she'd kidnapped Jimmy and tried to make Warden her slave. The day he angered the Mentor. Bathory and Cockatrice together. Warden began to grow uneasy. 7 July 2023 2:07 AM EST Somehow, the news had gotten out: perhaps a ganger with future flashes leaked it, perhaps a Combine drone spoke when he shouldn't have. But it was out: China had just been hit by a nuke. "We're all gonna die! It's Ragnarok all over again!" The rioting was so far contained to New York...hell, the Combine might very well have kept the _news_ contained...but poor battered Central Park was a war zone. The weir was strewn with trash, and huge bonfires were being lit. The NYPD was surrounding the park, but they weren't too optimistic about their chances: there were quite a few paragangers in there, and some of them were fluctuating wildly in power, as if God himself had opened a door and let havoc out inside their bodies. "Just shut up and get ready." Lt. John Kelly pulled his riot helmet on and prepared himself, his taser charging. Part of him wanted to say _The Hell With This,_ get on the phone and call Andrea, who'd been called in mysteriously to MetaPsych yesterday morning. If the end _was_ coming, he'd rather be with her. But most of him was a cop. And he did his duty. The seething mass of humanity in the park were apparently ready to make their move. The wall of police blue surrounding them prepared for the crash of flesh, the sting of teargas, and the shock of taser fire. The fires burned brighter. The mob pulsated outwards. And suddenly everyone, cop and scared kids and callow gangers and concerned families, everyone for a mile suddenly saw the light flare up, and heard a sound like a hundred hammers at once, and mystified, realized it was their own hearts. And then the voice, like glass rattling against the inside of a trash can. "People." On top of one of the buildings surrounding New York, there he was. One of the policemen managed to turn a spotlight and catch him in the harsh blue incandescence. A tall thin man, ropy and well muscled, wearing a black trenchcoat with no sleeves and a red bandana tied over his face. He gestured, and then, as senses in the crowd returned to normal, he spoke. "I am the Warden. I am my brother's keeper." He was quiet a moment longer, allowing his words to settle down past the reptile need to do _anything_ in the face of impending doom, and then he spoke again. "You are my brothers. Do you need to be kept? Go home." Then he dove. Everyone gasped as he fell, his coat fluttering in the air behind him, dropping down the side of the building, the light tracking him. And then he kicked back against the wall, and flew outward across Central Park East. He was almost gliding. "Son of a hairy bitch." Kelly whispered as the kid he'd spent the better part of a year chasing leapt from branch to branch like a squirrel, dropping down directly between the wall of police and the largest spur of people pinned in the park. "They'll kill him. How did he _do_ that?" Hook sword in the right hand, bundi in the left, he stood directly between them, his bandana lit by the orange light of the bonfires. "Please. Go home." "The bombs, man! What about..." "They do not matter." Warden turned his head, somehow finding that one speaker in the crowd of hundreds. "I know you are confused. Many of you are different now, changed by something. I feel it too. What good will destroying our home do? Will it stop the bombs?" "We gotta do something!" "Then pray. Why do this for them? If the bombs come, they can come without you burning this park down." Warden threw his bundi down point first, and dropped his hook sword. "If you think killing me will stop it, then kill me. If you think attacking these policemen will stop it, then attack them. You will be wrong." Warden's arm swept, indicating a city he could only know through his strange magnified senses and the eyes of others. "My friend James says that you are mostly good people. Prove him right. Go home." It was like wind, an arctic express, suddenly cutting through the agitated night. They could disbelieve their government...it wasn't hard... and they could de-humanize the police...they were all wearing the same blue, after all, and they were all wearing teargas masks, looked more like bugs than people...but this strange pale man, barely a man at that, he said what they were all thinking in the back of their heads anyway. Their fear could submerge that, but it couldn't kill it. The mob began to scatter. The police, for their part, let them. "Boss!" Sgt. Steve Eibel yelled as Warden gathered up his weapons and leapt into the trees. "He's getting away!" "Steve...were you sleeping just now?" Kelly lifted the visor off his mask. "That kid may have just saved your life." 17 August 2023, 1:13 PM EST Thomas woke up groggily. Most of the strange enhanced power he'd gained on the anniversary of "Ragnarok" had long since faded, but it had taken Warden the better part of a month to beat the gangs down after the flareup of activity it had triggered. Several members of various gangs had developed new powers and had been eager to test them by killing Warden. First there was Dr. Jacky, who led a contingent of Jamaican posses. His voodoo had suddenly begun to work. Then the Fifth Avenue Snakeaters had gotten up out of the gutter where Warden had left them, led by a man calling himself Mountain, a hulking Chinese man who seemed to have a link to the power of the rock of the island itself. And of course Cockatrice and Bathory were still out there...he was more worried that they _hadn't_ tried to kill him yet. The sunlight poured through his open skylight. He felt it making him sweat, a feeling Thomas liked. Truth be told, Thomas enjoyed a variety of sensations that would seem downright aberrant to anyone else. He stood up, tossing the sheets off, and walked out of his room and into the kitchen. He'd been living in the apartment above the dojo alone for the past month. Since he'd smelled Bathory in the warehouse he'd been afraid for Jimmy...she did know all about the dojo, and unlike the Onyx Eye she _hadn't_ sworn to leave Jimmy or Beth out of it. So Jimmy was living down the street in an apartment rented to him by Madalyne Chin, who owed Warden her life. Besides, she was sweet on Jimmy. Thomas wasn't quite sure what that meant, exactly...he understood it intellectually, but his experience of it was sorely limited. He began to day dream about the idea, letting his mind wander aimlessly. He poured himself a glass of orange juice...it was his favorite drink, and turned around to sense Beth Willot letting herself into the apartment with the spare key Jimmy'd given her. She looked up at Thomas. Who was still naked. He blushed deeply. She began to laugh hysterically, which, while making him blush more deeply, did allow him to run into the bedroom and pull on a pair of jeans. Then he let loose a shuddering breath and walked back out into the kitchen. "I am sorry, Beth. I should have sensed you coming in...." "Hey, it happens, Tommy. To be honest, it's refreshing to see you make a mistake. Proves you're really human." He could feel the upturned lips curling into a smile, and he relaxed slightly. "I am very tired." "I'm not surprised. You're all over the newspapers...granted, mostly you're all over the _underground_ newspapers, but you get the occasional nod from the Post and other more reputable rags. Even made a vid the other day. The Central Park thing." Thomas took a seat near the couch, and Beth dropped her bags in front of it and curled into the corner facing him. "Where's my brother?" "Staying with Madelyn." "So, you figured while there was no one around to tell you to cool it, you'd better run around like a madman, flinging yourself at every sixteen year old with a switchblade?" "I have not...." "You didn't even sense me coming, Thomas. Me. And I wasn't being subtle." Thomas looked down. It was the truth, after all. He was exhausted, bone weary, so tired that even now the room felt fuzzy and he could barely feel the walls. "I...you are...I mean...." "Just say 'Yes, Beth,' and get dressed." "Why?" "Because you and I are going to go out and _see_ the city you've been killing yourself to protect." Thomas considered. He was more than a little afraid to spend time with Beth without Jimmy there...she confused him. Most women did; he didn't understand the feelings some of them inspired in him. But she _was_ right. The Mentor hadn't spoken to him in months...he was doing this on his own, now. "Yes, Beth." "You're learning." 13 September, 2023 11:37 AM CMT Christine Simon wouldn't talk to anyone, and she'd been that way since January. She ate, without enthusiasm. She scribbled furiously in a journal that she wouldn't let anyone read. And she tried to get away from the Anchor they'd assigned to her, more or less constantly. "She's been like this for months." "Hmph." It was Aaron Zander's body speaking, but it was Paul Mahler's voice. Ever since the Arcanovore [See ASH #9 - Ed.] had nearly killed Paul, and _had_ killed his body, he and Aaron had been living in a union of minds at once familiar and novel to them, a union more private and yet more personal than even their previous/current relationship as lovers. But Christine Simon was a key to a case that came out of Paul Mahler's past, and he was the one who'd decided to attempt to talk to her, taking a break from his current search for answers about himself. "She doesn't really match the picture I'd built in my head." "What _had_ you expected?" Andrea Roguelin, the MetaPsych empath who'd taken over the case when Paul had been re-assigned, looked over at Aaron's body with a touch of awe. "I don't know...Gregory Peck?" Aaron/Paul turned and looked through the observation window. "I'd really like to talk to her." "Sure. When?" "How about now?" Aaron's features twisted into a smile unique to a person in his situation, a smile at once full of and devoid of mirth. "I've got the time and she isn't doing anything she can't put off." * * * * "Go away." "No." Aaron sat down across from Christine. The room they were in was shielded. He began to flip through a magazine he'd brought in with him. Christine pointedly ignored him for the next half hour. +-How long are we going to do this, Paul?-+ -+As long as it takes. Besides, we have the advantage of each other. We can sit here all day.+- It took an hour before Christine shifted in her chair. Another ten minutes before she looked expectantly at Aaron's impassive features. "What?" "I didn't say anything." "I know you didn't. What do you _want?_" "What does anybody want? Love, security, a feeling of fulfillment..." "I mean, what do you want from _me?_" "Warden." Paul's voice slid out like a stiletto. "I want to know all about Warden. What you did. What you think he's doing now. Why he's still doing it without you. Everything, Christine." "And if I don't tell you?" "I can have them bring me some books. I've always wanted to read Thomas Mann, and now I have the time. You and I can be like roomies. Won't that be nice?" Aaron leaned back in his chair. Christine sighed. "You know how it started...." An hour later, Aaron left the room. Waiting for him outside was Andrea Roguelin. "That girl is _sick._ She honestly doesn't care one whit what she's done to him." -+She's broken/ill/diseased.+- "I know." --Calm,-- sent Andrea. "Sorry. He's just a bit upset." Aaron took over, as Paul kept mulling over what he'd just heard. "He wasn't expecting that. She's...I only wish she hadn't been placed in the same ward as Thomas." "If she wasn't, no one may have ever figured out he was reachable. We'd given up on him." Andrea walked next to Aaron as they got themselves away from Christine's room. -+It's easy for us to think he'd be better off still asleep,+- Paul's mind-voice was again even and measured. -+We're not him. Whatever we think about what he's doing, at least he's getting to do _something._ Do you two think he's re-educable?+- --Hard to speak/say.-- Andrea's 'voice' was much less practiced than either Paul's or Aaron's. --Need/want/desire to talk/listen/understand him first.-- +-Everyone's re-educable if they want to learn.-+ Aaron 'spoke' up. +-He may not.-+ 13 September, 2023 1:42 PM CMT Peregryn finished his sweep of the hallway and prepared to enter the stairwell and ascend to the top floor of the World Trade Tower South. What awaited him there might answer a rather important question...or pose several more. When Contact stopped at the Chicago HQ on his way from MetaPsych to New York City to deal with some unfinished business of Paul's, Peregryn had decided to take advantage of the trip to investigate a minor mystery which had been nagging at the back of his head for several months. Namely, why had Manhattan experienced such drastic upsurges in paranormal activity in the wake of the Barrier being peirced? Simple observation had quickly eliminated the easy answer...while a few of those gaining new power were getting it from extradimensional beings, most of them were just "normal" superbeings, not priests of pagan gods. And while there seemed to be a disproportionate number of first-generation Chinese immigrants coming into greater power, the death of the Premier and the ending of his world-spanning Anchor effect could not explain the large number of occidentals who were being empowered. Unfortunately, with the whole world being thrown into a panic these past few months, such minor issues as increase paranormal activity in Manhattan didn't warrant the resources required to study them properly. Even Peregryn's visit now was barely a scratch, playing a hunch and checking up on a possible source of power. The fact that it was in the same building that Contact was visiting only made it easier. Making one last check to ensure that none of the Norse runes lining the stairwell was actively generating a magical effect, Peregryn opened the door to the penthouse level of the tower. Here, Odin had set up his High Throne, the all-seeing perch he used to observe the Nine Worlds under his supposed rule. When he and all the other gods were sealed off from the mortal plane, the throne had remained behind...in a manner of speaking. Cautiously, Peregryn walked towards the center of the room. Once, the wind had howled through solid walls at Odin's wish, but now the walls were solid once more, if somewhat weakened by the passage of time and lack of maintainance. The High Throne stood in the center, its simple construction belying the awesome power it held, power which even a normal could feel, and which washed over a sensitive like Peregryn like heat from a blast furnace. Runes carved into the floor and ceiling had ensured that the effect was blunted outside of this room, and a cursory examination told Peregryn they were still in place. And now for the final test. As Peregryn neared the throne, he could see the ring of clean floor around it, where the dust hadn't fallen. But, unlike last time he had been to this place, the clean floor wasn't totally clean. He carefully reached out his hand.... ...and touched the carved wood of the High Throne. A thrill of power ran over his arm and down his back like an electrical charge, and he quickly stepped back. The last time he had visited this room, during his studies several years ago, the High Throne had been visible but untouchable. The Barrier wrapped around it, giving proof to the idea that it really didn't exist on Earth at all, but was merely a projection from Asgard. Now the projection touched the Earth again, and power was leaking out of it and into the city. Odin's blessing of the warrior was being given out indiscriminately to all warriors on the island, escalating conflicts and providing a beacon to Odin that access was once more possible. Had not the self-styled Warden of the city received what seems to have been an extra dose of the High Throne's leaking power, well.... Even just what *was* happening, needless to say, was not good. Peregryn sat on the floor and contemplated the High Throne, seeing with a vision that was not sight, examining the threads which held the piece of Asgard in place. After several minutes of this, he found the thread which could be pulled to unravel the whole tapestry, and stood. As a projection, it needed an infusion of energy to be maintained if it were used too heavily. At its current rate of leakage, it might last for months, or maybe years, giving Odin time to bring his attention back to this era, possibly dooming mankind. So Peregryn had to use up all the stored energy at once and seal the path. Peregryn sat upon Odin's All-Seeing chair. Peregryn saw EVERYTHING. A maddening tumult of images bombarded his senses from all sides, smashing against his mind like a wave against an eroding cliff. Sights, sounds, smells, tastes, feelings, joypainennuisorrowangerecstacyshock.... A normal man would have gone mad in an instant. Odin would have calmly checked for items of interest and moved on. Peregryn, being something more than normal and less than godly, found himself struggling to find his center, an island of calm in this sea of imagery. He needed something to lock onto. The cacophony receded and he saw, as if standing a few meters away, Essay with a group of children. She seemed to be in Mexico City, and was amusing the local youths with a variety of toys and gadgets of her design, helping improve the public image of the Academy of Super-Heroes. Peregryn paused a moment to wonder why he had focused on her, above all others, then mentally filed it for later. He could feel the High Throne's power being drained off...in doing its intended task it used energy much more rapidly than could be replentished passively through its link to Asgard, and in moments it would become inert. Before it faded totally, Peregryn decided to use it to look in on Contact, who had been spending the past several months trying to come to terms with his new status as a combined-soul being. The High Throne didn't merely give visions of what the eyes could see, it could also look into souls, and Peregryn looked deep into Contact's, to see if he could answer any of the questions the two men, now one, had. He raised an eyebrow at what he saw. He had his answer, but as insensitive as his teammates might think him at times, he knew it was an answer Contact was not ready to hear yet. As the last of the power faded and the High Throne became merely a backless wooden bench inlaid with gold wire, Peregryn wondered exactly how he would lie to Contact if asked about his shared soul.... [See ASH #10 for how that scene played out - Editor] 3 October 2023 4:43 AM EST Warden leapt over the car, avoiding the spray of bullets from the chain-gun mounted on the side of...whatever that silver ball _was_. The car shuddered, and the engine block fell apart from multiple strikes. _It doesn't think._ Warden could feel the tight beam of heat the ball was using to track him, but there was no way for him to befuddle it. Instead, he could merely keep kicking his reflexes and speed up higher, trying to keep them too quick for the machine to anticipate his moves. So far, it was barely working. As the device popped another barrel out of itself, this time a large round chamber with six cylinders, Warden slid underneath its arc of fire. He hadn't expected this thing when he'd first heard that the newest Paragang in town...they were calling themselves the Snow Leopards...were going to be making a delivery to a small club in Manhattan. He'd only intended to observe. Instead, within seconds of his arrival, this damn thing had been all over him. It fired, and a streak of anti-tank rockets blew a Zabar's apart. Warden nearly goggled in horror, and could only thank whatever might be listening that the store had been closed. He couldn't let it shoot again. So he stopped moving. In an underground room several blocks away, Cockatrice hissed. "Just kill him already." "So impatient. He's up to something. I know him." Bathory smiled and leaned back in her chair. The Snow Leopards had worked hard over the past months, slowly taking over the territories of those gangs that blindly flung their membership at Warden. Despite her partner's anxiety, Bathory had learned a valuable lesson from her initial fights with Warden: he didn't think like normal people. That, as much as any powers, was his biggest asset. "I don't expect our allies' little toy to be _able_ to kill him. The Optimal-Killers are nice, but...." "Look, could you just give it a shot, to make me feel better?" Cockatrice looked around anxiously. She'd brought her ice powers, her mostly intact gang, and her connections to the organlegging and drug trafficking networks. Bathory had brought the ten feral forms sliding around in the darkness that dominated the room. That made the Snow Leopards _the_ most paranormally...hell, supernormally...powerful Paragang in the city. They stank of the wild, and made Cockatrice more than a little nervous. She didn't think she could get them all if they decided to turn on her. "Very well." Bathory slowly pushed a red button with a curved talon more at home on a wild lioness. "Let's see what you do now, Thomas." The silver ball tracked Warden's unmoving form for thirty of the longest seconds he'd ever experienced. Then both the chain gun and the missile launcher began to hum, the sound of a relay throwing. Warden smiled. And jumped directly on top of the thing. It attempted to rotate its guns, but they were built on circular mounts and didn't have the ability to move that far. The designer had never expected anyone to actually be _standing_ on it. Warden felt around the silvery hull for a small seam, and felt one under his right hand barely the size of a pencil-drawn line. His right hand went back and slid the bundi out of its sheath faster than even the silver ball could track...if it could have seen it, which the ball couldn't, because its sensors suffered from the same design blindness that its guns did. Boosting himself as much as he could, his head burning, Warden slammed the bundi home and let the thrust toss him off of the thing, landing in a Shen Dao crouch facing it. The guns re-acquired him, but whatever had been keeping the thing aloft failed in a rather spectactular shower of fire and sparks, and it fell into the pavement. Then it fired the missiles and blew itself to shreds. Warden 'watched' as the handle of his bundi went flying up in a spiral directly above him. His ribs hurt, and he was pretty sure he'd dislocated his shoulder. _I really liked that one. I wonder if Madalyne will make me a new one._ "I told you." "You know, there has never been, and there will never _be,_ a person in all of the world who can say that without sounding like an asshole." "Sore loser." Bathory stood up, her whole body arching like a cat awakening from sleep, her deep green eyes blazing in the darkness. "I'm going to go get this lot fed before sunup. You want to come along?" "No thanks. Bloodsucking isn't my thing. Besides, we've got that meeting tomorrow with the Italians and their snakeowl friends, and I want to be sharp." "Good idea. Once we've got that connection hammered down, we can begin expanding again. And then we can deal with Mr. Malfeas at our leisure." 12 November 2023, 11:29 PM EST Warden stood on top of the building, practicing with the new bundi. The crisp air clung to his ribs beneath his loose coat. He enjoyed the feeling. One of the larger surprises in his life to date (and in his two years of being awake, there were lots of them) was the fact that quiet, reserved Madalyne Chin was an expert weaponsmith. She'd only let that information slip _after_ the day Warden had dropped from her skylight and disabled three Onyx Eye soldiers, including the paranormal King Snake. Apparently it had something to do with her long-disappeared great grandfather and other things that she didn't want to talk about. And Warden was very good at not asking the questions people don't want to answer. Slash left. Spin right, block, block, slash left. Flip off roof, drop, kick off ledge, fold blade back against arm, land on dumpster, scare the crap out of Barnes. "Morrison's fleck-bald gob!" Barnes leapt into a pile of trash bags, then poked his head back out. "I didn't do it...whatever it is, it wasn't me." "I know. I have some questions. What do you know about the Snow Leopards?" "Nothing. And that's how I'd like to keep it, if you know what I mean." Warden frowned. Barnes didn't have fuzz over his thoughts anymore, but Warden has always been pretty bad at reading minds, and he wasn't sure if he could trust the little ex-Paraganger. "Look, I really don't know. I ain't heard skizz. On Ellis's rugburned knees." "If you are unlucky enough to hear anything, I need to know. And for your own sake, you should tell me." Warden leapt up, grabbed onto a fire escape and flipped to the other side of the alley, then back across, ascending with each jump. Then he was gone. "I so wish he'd stop _doing_ that." Barnes brushed some of the garbage off and turned out of the alleyway, heading north towards his current dingy squat. Half an hour later, Warden climbed in the window of the dojo apartment, where Jimmy Willot and Madalyne Chin were both sitting and waiting for him. They seemed as if they were about to fall asleep, but they perked up when he slid the window shut. "Hello." "Thomas! How is it? Did I get the weight balance right?" "Maddie, I still can't believe you made him that thing...." "Hush. This whole neighborhood owes Thomas for his keeping the Onyx Eye away, and if all he asks for is a new katar, I can certainly make him one. Well? Is it as good as the old one?" "It is much better, if I were being objective. You used better materials, and the balance is much more evenly distributed. This one," he drew it with his typical inhuman ease, "is _made_ to be sword-length. The other was obviously just a wide blade forced into a crosswise handle. However, I was attached to it." "Give it time. I'm glad you like it." "Angels and ministers of grace..." Jimmy shook his head and went to the refrigerator door. "Do you want an OJ, Thomas?" "Yes." He slung his jacket and weapons across a chair and stretched, popping his joints as he did so. "I haven't been able to find out anything about the Snow Leopards. Everyone either has fuzz over her thoughts or doesn't know anything. The fuzz makes me think Bathory is involved." "You think she's behind everything anyway." Jimmy handed Thomas his glass. "Why these guys? They seem a lot subtler than her last group." "Possibly Cockatrice's influence. Perhaps she just learned from her mistakes. I am not sure it is safe for you to come back...." "I'll take my chances. Drink your OJ." Thomas did, and fell quiet as Jimmy slid his arm around Madalyne. Lately watching couples was making him feel a quiet sense of...loss? Despair? Envy? He wasn't sure. He still remembered the way he'd followed that pair of young men up 12th Ave, protecting them from several assaults while at the same time wondering what being that close to another human being felt like. The memories he'd inadverdently stolen didn't answer that question for him. "So, are you in for the night, Thomas?" "I...hadn't thought about it, Madalyne. I could leave if you two need..." "Don't be an ass, Tommy. We weren't trying to run you off." Jimmy yawned. "In fact, I think I'm heading to bed. Are you coming, Maddie?" His head cocked down to look into her eyes. Thomas could actually feel the contours of their faces...he knew they barely remembered he was there. "I suppose so. Tommy, take care of yourself, okay?" "I will, Madalyne." "Night, bro." "Goodnight, Jimmy." As the two of them went to bed, Thomas deliberately made himself lower his hearing so that they could talk in peace without worrying about him overhearing. He then took another sip of his orange juice. He could still hear them. They were whispering not much of anything to each other. It made him want to cry. In a fluid motion he threw his sheath and jacket back on, re-tied his bandana, and headed out the window. There had to be a crime out there somewhere. NEXT ISSUE: Warden Annual 1! Warden vs. The Snow Leopards! Warden vs. the Conclave of Super-Villains! Warden vs. ASH! It's big time action as Warden re-enters ASH continuity with both feet and his bundi slashing...the meat grinder awaits. Writer's Notes: Wordy...I feel wordy.... I had originally intended this to _be_ Warden Annual 1, actually. I was just going to write a brief prologue that dealt with the past year in our eyeless wonder's life, getting him all caught up on ASH continuity and all. Then let the hounds of hell loose on him, as it were. The problem was...there was so damn much to deal with! I wanted to show Warden developing a little bit as a character, to throw in some of those typical Warden fights, to begin laying the groundwork for the villains, and there just wasn't any way to do that without _writing_ it all. (You should see the stuff I cut _out_ of this.) [And, of course, once I added the Peregryn scene, the whole "keep it small" idea went out the window. - Dave] Anyway, just so you don't feel cheated, take heart: next issue is the Guest Star extravaganza, which leads into the inevitable, simply has to be done confrontation between Warden and the Mentor. After that, who knows? There are lots of things I'd like to try and get done, so we'll see. Matthew 'Badger' Rossi, feeling sorta guilty...