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The LEGION of NET.HEROES
OMEGA!!!
by Peter "Tick" Milan
Through time immemorial, there have been parallel universes. Floating through the inky void of reality, seemingly existing apart from one another, these...different planes, if you will have lived their separate, solitary existences.
Oi! You with the 'puter!
As the secondhand of history ticked along its merry way...
I'm talkin' ta yer, mush!
What? I'm trying to narrate.
When d'the fights start, then?
Well, we've got to set up a bit of exposition first, ya know. I mean, I can't just start out with a big fight. The readers have to really want it, and—
Aw, sod all that. We wanna see the fights, not a load of Stephen Hawking crap. Come on, then, get on wi' it.
*sigh* Nobody wants to take the time to set up the story anymore. No patience, you kids. Why, I remember Airwave & Vigilante Guy #1! Nothing but exposition, that was!
What d'yer need to set up this story for? It's not as if we haven't read the miniseries yer makin' fun of, is it?
Can't I have a bit of set up?
All right, yer baby.
'Kay. Uh...the Omega and LNH universes just noticed one another and...and... uh...they're gonna make everybody fight! Yeah. That oughtta do it.
Cool. Make with the fighting, then.
Ooooh. This oughtta be good. All fulla speed lines and such.
Kid Macro did his 5,349th lap around the racetrack, all the while looking at his watch. Seconds later, as he was passing the 6,000 lap mark he looked up at...at...er... what are you looking at?
"I'm wondering when the other guy's going to get here. I've been waiting here five whole minutes! That's a little much for me, you know."
Something buzzed on Macro's belt. He reached down and picked up his cordless phone.
"'Lo? Oh, hey, where are you? We've got a race to... huh? Held up? By what?" Macro looked up again. "He wants to talk to you."
Thanks. Hello? Oh, hi, Bill...what? Well, yes, I have every intention of finishing Rapidfire #12. Sure I do. I'm not just saying that. Come on, you know I love you! Rapid—Rapidfire! Aw, come on, you know all the best issues take time. Do you know how long the wait was between Camelot 3000 #11 and 12? Well...well, yes, I realize I'm not Mike Barr...or Brian Bolland...I do not like Decibel Dude better! I love you all the same! Billy... look, he's crying. Can we just move on here?
NOW we're talkin'. This is gonna be great!
The darkened room reeked of the ozone-sharp scent of magic. The only light came from a large, black candle, dripping its wax upon a skull. The entire thing hovered an inch above a square, oaken table.
Seated around the table were three figures. Leviathan Lass, Demon Boy and Green Trenchcoat gazed expectantly towards the door.
"I'm nervous," Leviathan Lass whispered.
"It'll be okay. There's nothing he can do to us," Demon Boy replied.
"At least," Green Trenchcoat droned, "nothing worse than what we have already endured."
The door swept open, nearly extinguishing the candle. Standing there, silhouetted in the ethereal light, stood the figure of Allen Covenant.
"So. We are all arrived." Covenant crossed to the table and sat down. He carried a black case in his remaining hand. "You are all aware of the rules?"
Nods all around.
"And of the consequences we face?"
"We're not afraid," Green Trenchcoat said.
"Very well," said Covenant, grinning manically. "Then let the battle be joined!!"
"Okay," Leviathan Lass said. "I'll tap my black mana."
"I counter with Siena Angel," Covenant said.
"I use my Undead Warrior," Demon Boy said.
"Er...I think I brought the wrong deck. We're not using Overpower cards, are we?" Green Trenchcoat asked.
Oi! OI!
Wait your turn.
I will bloody not! Now look you, I paid my $3.95 like everybody else—
No you didn't. This is RACC, free to anyone willing to shell out about twenty bucks a month in fees.
—and I want to see a proper fight! You can't even do a game of Magic well!
How about Vampire: the Masquerade?
NOW!
"ME?! WHY DO I HAVE TO FIGHT HIM?!" Swordmaster shrieked as the Load Island Renegades dragged him towards the field of battle.
Well, see, you're both Matt "Badger" Rossi's characters! Don't you see the inherent irony there? It'll be neat!
"NEAT?! NEAT?!"
"Relax, Joel. They say it's just like going to sleep," CAW!, the gleaming and glib robot said.
"Better you than us, too," the Radiant Rollerblader asked.
As the struggling continued, Eric Anderson, the Tempest, stood in the middle of the field of battle, brooding. Let's watch.
Boy, having unlimited power really bites it. I'd really be much happier as...oh, I don't know, maybe a bus driver. I'd drive the same route over and over, meeting a vast cross-section of the great American populace! Then, at night, out to the clubs to bag me some dames!
I never knew Tempest was so shallow, did you, folks?
"Hey, narrator? Shut up or I'll wipe you out of existence. And those weren't my real broodings either. My real broodings are better written."
Meanwhile, Swordmaster wept like a woman as his dad handed him his sword-hilt.
"YOU'D CRY TOO IF YOU HAD TO FIGHT GOD!!"
"Now, son, I want you to remember that I love you. And I'll miss you."
"Dad, I never loved you. I hate you. I hate people that look like you."
"It's good that you're keeping your sense of humor, son... oops, here comes Tempest. Let the battle be joined."
Tempest walked over to the quivering Swordmaster and looked him over.
"So I must defeat you. Well, I want you to know that I will take no pleasure in utterly destroying you."
Swordmaster wanted to say something witty, but there was a snot bubble in his nose. Instead, he triggered his swords into life. He charged forward, screaming at the top of his lungs.
Tempest sidestepped the blow, sending Swordmaster hurtling towards...oh SHIT!
*stab*
(gurgle of blood)
"Wow," Tempest said. "You killed the Narrator. I guess we don't have to fight now."
"We don't? I can LIVE? YAHOOOOOOO!" Swordmaster wiped the blood from his swords. "That'll learn him! So what happens now?"
"Well, I guess we should say something pithy and walk off into the sunset."
"Oh, yeah. Kids: Don't procrastinate and write."
With that, Swordmaster and Tempest turned and walked towards the sunset.
Wait! WAIT! If the Narrator is dead...THEN WHO'S NARRATING NOW? WHO'S?! NARRATING?! NOWWWWWWWWWW?!
THE END...
OR IS IT?
Yeah, it's the end.
Tick (Peter Milan)
"I'm so very, very sorry."
