Date: Tue 12 Nov 1997 23:41:43 EST From: Mike Escutia Subject: [RP] RACC Presents #5 Yes. We're back. /* John Williams "Main Title" _Star Wars: A New Hope_ Special Edition soundtrack */ R E C . A R T S . C O M I C S . C R E A T I V E P R E S E N T S An anthology that celebrates the diversity and creativity found on rec.arts.comics.creative. Volume One, Number Five March, 1999 Editor: Mike Escutia Assistant Editors: Chris Gumprich, Stephen Reid -Contents- * Meaning in a Proverb [Misc] Ben Rawluk * The Winter Solstice Festival [StarFall] Ted "Arsenal" Brock * Meanwhile, In A Little Corner Of Nowhere... [LNH] Chris Gumprich * Justice [ASH] Dave Van Domelen * Calhoun [Omega] Matt Rossi III * Notes From the Editor: Whatever Happened To RACC Presents? Mike Escutia ********************************************************************** "Meaning in a Proverb," by Ben Rawluk. [MISC] Imagine. Long ago, all the way across land and sea. Some little, cliched Chinese man, sitting on a little rock, fishing. A long, silver beard. "One generation plants the trees; another gets the shade," said the man. A fortune cookie waiting to happen. Near the rock, in freshly tilled soil, was a tiny tree. Raindrops hung from its branches, and it was most definitely not providing any useful shade. And so, the old man sat and contemplated that little tree, watching the raindrops hold onto the weak branches, weighing it down toward the ground. Deep down, the old man wondered when the tree would have a great height, when it would make proper shade. "I wonder," he said, "if it will be my children who sit in the shade of this tree, or my children's children?" Whenever he wondered about things like that, his kids would roll their eyes and call him a "senile, old fart." He didn't mind. But he did sigh when they said that he should chop down the tree for firewood. "What use is shade when you die of cold?" "Legacy," the man answered. "It is a legacy until someone cuts it down," said the old man's eldest son. "We should be your legacy, Papa!" "Until you die. And if I should cut down that tree for firewood, should I not cut you children up for food?" The children scrunched up their faces in horror. "My point exactly," said the man. "I have worked the earth, and planted that tree, because it'll last for years and years. I know it will stay there, growing and growing. And I know that when I am gone, that tree will remain and grow. And after a great while, it will be a mighty oak. And that those who come after me will sit by that oak tree, protected from the heat by that tree's shade. And they will still remember me... and I will still live in their memory." He paused, collecting his thoughts. His children stood in silence. He looked up, and said simply, "That is legacy." ********************************************************************** StarFall: The Winter Solstice Festival by Arsenal (author's note: for the reader's sake, all spoken text has been translated from the original Spanish) A crisp, cold breeze nipped at Kara Vichana's nose and ears as she made her way through the cobblestoned streets of Cuzco. The mountaintop Peruvian city bustled with people, many of them moving simply to stay warm. El Nino had hit the city with an unseasonably humid summer, and now La Nina threatened to make the coming winter even more harsh than normal. Stepping inside a corner cafe, Kara scanned the booths. Smiling, she made her way through to the far corner, and slid into the seat across from an older man. "Hello, Dr. Ollandanto." "Kara! This is a pleasant surprise. How's my favorite pupil doing?" "Surviving. I just thought I'd stop in for a few days for the Solstice Festival." Dr. Ollandanto shook his head. "The current Festival here is a tourist attraction. Hell, this whole town in a tourist trap. I know of a small village, about fifteen miles north of here, that still holds the Festival the way it was held four hundred years ago." He pulled a small, hand-drawn map out of his jacket and opened it up on the table. "Follow the river downstream for two miles, then cut across to the train tracks. Follow that for another two miles. Instead of going over the bridge, hang a right at the crevice, and follow that for a mile." "Thanks, Dr. O. Will you be coming along?" "Sadly, no. This tired old body of mine won't be able to make the hike." "Too bad." She glanced out the window. "Well, if I'm to hike the whole way there, I might as well head over to the hotel, and get my stuff together." "Take care, Kara." "You, too, Dr. O." An hour later found Kara walking through the city, heading towards the river. She was wrapped in a llama-skin overcoat, with a llama-skin cap pulled over her ears. Her face was wrapped in a thick cloth scarf, leaving only the eyes visible. Most of the people she passed on the street paid her no attention, being similarly dressed. For a brief minute, she stopped in front of a costume store, one that advertised "Authentic Inca and Conquistador Costumes". Hesitating, she stepped inside. Half an hour later, she stepped back out, carrying an overloaded paper bag, which she promptly stuffed under her coat. As she passed an alley, she heard a scuffle coming from within. Peering into it, she saw a pair of men dragging a young child, no more than ten years of age, into a car. The child was wide awake, kicking and scratching at the men. "Let the kid go!" Kara yelled out, running towards them. One of the men moved with lightning speed, and, pulling out a small pellet, slammed it against the wall. The resultant flash blinded Kara momentarily, long enough for the car to disappear into traffic. "Dammit. Too slow." She looked down. While the snow had started to cover the tracks, they were still visible. And they were headed in the same direction she was. (* Maybe I'll be able to help after all. *) The tire tracks ended at the river. What caught Kara's eye were the tracks leading away from the car, and followed the river downstream. "Curiouser and curiouser," she muttered. "Something's just not right about this trip. I just can't place my finger on it." Three hours later, Kara found herself in the village Dr. Ollandanto had told her about, in a small crowd of people entering the local temple. The tracks she had followed had led here, despite her hopes that they'd lead elsewhere. Standing near the doorway, she watched as an older man in ancient Inca ceremonial garb led a now-sedated child - the exact same one Kara had witnessed being abducted, and clearly a girl - to the altar, and tied the girl down. (* Child sacrifice, *) Kara thought. (* Looks like Dr. O's statement that the Ceremony here is unchanged was too close to the truth. I've got to do something... I'm the Champion, dammit! *) She reached inside her overcoat, and fiddled with the jade amulet hanging on a chain around her neck. (* I'm Inca, and this is part of my heritage. It's barbaric. But it's who we are. *) Up by the alter, a trio of robed priests started lighting candles. (* It's starting. Make your decision, Kara. What am I thinking? I'm the Champion. I can't let that girl be killed. *) Slipping away from the crowd, she slipped into one of the temple latrines. When she exited, she wore a scarlet robe, similar to the ones worn by the priests. Wandering back into the temple, she was pleased to see that the sacrifice had not yet been performed. She made her way up to the altar. The head priest noticed her, and gave her a scowl from under the hood. She ignored him. She waited the ceremony had progressed a bit. It was as the head priest reached for the ceremonial dagger that she acted. Moving with a speed that surprised even her, she threw off the robe and grabbed the knife out of his hand. Without thinking, she spun and threw the knife at the far wall. The knife embedded itself in the stone. She stood in front of the head priest, decked out in ornate Inca ceremonial garb. The outfit was made of bronze, with gold and jade trim. Her wrists and ankles were wrapped in gold serpents. Atop her head, keeping her hair out of her eyes, was a serpent-head headband. But most prominent was the jade amulet she'd uncovered months before, dangling on a chain from her neck; it seemed to glow with an unearthly light. "As the Inca Champion," she exclaimed in fluent Inca, "I *demand* that this child be set free!" "How *dare* you?!" the head priest asked, indignant. "This is an important ceremony! Do you know what your interruptions will do? The Sun will be furious!" "You are not the only one with a direct link with the Sun," she replied. "I'm here to deliver a message, straight from the Sun. Stop the child sacrifices in His name." "Could it be?" she heard from the crowd. "Has the Champion returned?" She glared at the priest. "What do *you* think?" she asked, slamming her fist into the stone wall, leaving a sizable impression. The priest nodded. Standing up, he walked over to the altar, chanted a few Inca phrases, and released the girl from the altar. A llama was brought in, and tied to the alter instead. Kara nodded. "Continue with the ceremony," she stated. (* Well, *) she thought with a smile. (* It might not be the ceremony they expected, but it *is* educational. *) ********************************************************************** R.E.J.E.C.T.S. '98 "Meanwhile, In A Little Corner Of Nowhere..." by Chris Gumprich If he had been feeling like Bette Davis, he would have muttered some melodramatic line like "what a dump". But he didn't, and for that we are all eternally grateful. The bar wasn't anything pretty, the entrance was off an alleyway lined with garbage cans and emaciated cats. Ten feet away from the smelly wooden door lay an equally smelly man, dressed in a black and silver spandex costume. A crumpled hat was on the ground in front of him, beside a cardboard sign that read "Supervillain -- Please Help". The hat was empty, and it remained so as the net.hero known as GirlWatcher walked by. Taking a deep breath (through his mouth, not his nose), GirlWatcher pushed open the door and entered the bar. It was as dank inside as it was outside. The room appeared to be small, yet it contained an infinite number of tables. The tables were, as always, packed with spandex-clad characters. The lost, the forgotten. Another busy night at the Last Tavern On The Left, sometimes known as the Land Of The Forgotten, or the Refuge Of The Damned. But more commonly, it was called Limbo. (Except on Sundays, when it became a McDonald's.) Squinting his eyes in an attempt to navigate the hazy atmosphere of the bar, GirlWatcher saw a familiar face. He walked over to the table, and sat beside a young man in a purple costume with green trim. A purple cowl lay crumpled on the table, in amongst approximately thirty pint glasses. GirlWatcher took a deep breath. "Hello, Roy." Retcon Roy turned, and squinted at GirlWatcher. He struggled for a moment, trying to place the newcomer. Then recognition dawned, and his unshaven face lit up. "GirlWatcher! This is a surprise... never expected you to end up here." "We all do, eventually. How have you been doing?" "You're looking at it." Roy snorted, finishing off another pint of Guinness. "Been here... hell, I don't know... three years now?" GirlWatcher signaled the bartender, a blue-faced man in a red trenchcoat and insane smile. "Yeah, I heard that the 'Godfist' crossover never actually took place." Roy coughed. "Not quite, it did happen, but nobody heard of it. I got a little carried away at the climax, and retconned all of it. Even the Writer forgot that it had happened. Next thing I knew I was here." The bartender brought over two more pints of Guinness, then disappeared in a puff of infringement. "What the heck--?!" exclaimed GirlWatcher. "I don't remember his name, but that bartender was the reason I'm here. See, he was a takeoff of some trademarked animated character or something, and he was supposed to be your replacement in the R.E.J.E.C.T.S.," Retcon Roy explained. "But the lawyers got antsy, and cancelled the whole thing. The storyline just went down the tubes after that." GirlWatcher sipped his stout. It tasted... perfect. It made him never want to leave. "So what happened to everyone else?" he asked. "I haven't heard from them in a while... I figured they would all be here with you." "Where you stranded us, you mean?" grumbled Roy. "...Excuse me?" Roy pushed away his drink, and stood up, poking an angry finger in GirlWatcher's chest. "It's your fault we disappeared. Maybe you forgot why we became a team. You jumped to the LNH as soon as they gave you the chance, leaving us in the dirt. And that 'Best New Character' nomination ...that went right to your head! Suddenly, mister big-shot-sidekick was too good for his old teammates!" GirlWatcher pushed away Roy's finger, and stood up. "Hey, I only did what any of us would have done, given the chance." "But we weren't GIVEN the chance!" screamed Roy. "And we never would have been, and you KNOW it! We were only created to give you a vehicle, a chance to break in! After all, the Writer couldn't have written four hundred lines of you staring at women, could he?" "I think you've had a little too much to drink, Roy," GirlWatcher whispered, sitting down. "Just have a seat, and we can talk about whatever's bothering you." His rage overwhelming him, Roy shoved GirlWatcher out of his chair, sending the net.hero crashing to the floor. "We were just incidentals!" he screamed. "But you would NEVER have existed without us! And you ABANDONED us! Left us to vanish!" "That's not true," replied GirlWatcher calmly. "The third issue came out after I left. Plotlines were set up for you. I left you in the Writer's hands." Slowly, GirlWatcher stood up. "The only reason I lasted as long as I did was because another writer picked me up," he continued. "I tried to bring you guys along, but there just wasn't the room. I'm in the same boat you are now... my new writer didn't need me any more, and the Writer just isn't interested in returning to super-hero parody. So I ended up here with the rest of you..." GirlWatcher looked around. "Which reminds me, just where is everybody else?" Sitting back down, Retcon Roy quietly picked up his glass. "Not here. Last I heard, Omnipotent Man was in negotiations with Blue Light to appear in one of their books, Ugly Girl retired back to her home town, and Mister Melodrama... well, he was here for a while, but he was beaten to death by a group of Eleck heroes." GirlWatcher signalled the replacement bartender, an unshaven man in a green trenchcoat, and two more pints of Guinness appeared in a puff of smoke. "Obviously a former NTBer." he observed. "I wondered what happened to them." Quietly, the two forgotten heroes drank their stout. "So, now what happens?" asked Roy. GirlWatcher shrugged. "Well, there's always a slim chance someone will come and use us. Then again, with the 'talent' involved right now, I doubt that would be a good thing. Then again, now that my old series has returned, there's always a chance I could cameo." "What about me? I doubt I'd be back, unless they finally do that sequel to Retcon Hour. Hell, even then... I doubt most of the so-called 'new talent' has even heard of me." Roy grimaced. "That's probably a good thing." GirlWatcher put down his empty glass, and again looked around the room. He saw the faces of the other forgotten characters, miserable, united in their desire to return to the world which spawned them. To be back amongst the continuity, fighting injustice, beating people up, then disappearing again for months. Most of them would never come out of limbo, and they knew it. Some had a chance, particularily the more obscure ones (oddly enough). But there was a greater chance that they would appear in one issue of a badly-written title, nothing more than a cipher to attempt to force continuity on an otherwise ignored series. To end their careers as two-dimensional imitations of what they once had been. The hell with that, thought GirlWatcher. I'd rather be forgotten. He raised his empty glass. "To the forgotten heroes. I hope I stay one for a long, long time." ********************************************************************** ASH UNIVERSE: "Justice" Copyright 1999 by Dave Van Domelen [2024] Colin Shaw stumbled through the Black Forest, trying to get as far from the so-called "Parabahn" as he could. He'd pissed off the wrong Vogue-ghoul once too often since arriving on the Continent, and now he was as good as dead if he couldn't find a good hiding place. Or a weapon. A weapon would be nice. His own paranormal powers of microwave generation were almost useless in a fight unless he had something metal in his hands. Then he could make it spark, like a fork left in the microwave oven. Hence his tag of "Sparker." Right now, though, that spark was about to be snuffed if he couldn't get away from the roads before someone found his ditched motorcycle. [1994] Sofie Rasch stumbled through the Black Forest, trying to get away from the autobahn and the sweep of police running up and down it. She was nobody, just another junkie soon-to-be-ex-college student who happened to be at the roadside party. She didn't even *know* anyone there except Heinrik, and he was a nobody too, no matter what he said to try and impress her. She was getting cold, her buzz was wearing off, and a dim corner of her mind said she'd be dead by dawn if she didn't find shelter. Presuming the police didn't send out dogs into the forest. Dim moonlight splashed here and there across her path, turning alternately into fairy sparkles and police flashlights in her drug-hazed mind. [2024] Colin had one advantage...none of der Zepters, the gang he'd gotten on his bad side, were trackers or fliers. They'd have to ditch their bikes and follow on foot under the moonless sky, and it was starting to snow. If he could find a place to go to ground soon, his tracks might be totally erased before any of the Vogue-ghouls could find him. Cold wouldn't be a problem, since he could always make his own heat. He almost fell into the cave before he spotted it in the beam of his pocket torch. Risking a quick shine of the light around the cave mouth, he saw there was a serious overhang of snow at the entrance. If he could get far enough back and then drop the overhang, he could hole up for a day or two and not be found. He'd done without food for a couple days at a time back in the old neighborhood, when he was on the run from his father. And der Zepters were slightly less terrifying. [1994] Vaguely, a part of Sofie's mind noted that at least there was no snow to leave footprints in, it had been a relatively dry winter thanks to the disruption of weather patterns last year...some superhero thing. On the other hand, the dogs would have an easy time. Cold...so cold. The three beers she'd downed were wearing off, and she was starting to feel the wind cut into her ragged jacket. She needed to find shelter, any shelter. Darkness loomed before her. She staggered back, at first uncertain if it was real, or some kind of hallucination. Blinking, she realized it was a cave of some kind. It might not be warm, but at least she'd be out of the wind. And right now, the cold was so vicious that the idea she'd be trapped if the police came around never entered her mind. [2024] The cave was deep, deeper than he'd expected. Colin dropped the snowy overhang without trouble, and was gratified to see the entire mouth of the cave buried. He could melt his way out in a few minutes if he needed to, after all. With the entry safely covered, Colin turned his torch back on and started to probe the depths of the cave. It was just possible someone had used this place to hide stuff, and whatever the stuff was might be useful. Especially if it was food, or weapons. Contraband would be nice, too, but he'd have to defend it to get any good from it. Deeper he explored. This was definitely dug out by someone, it was way too deep to be naturally occurring in this kind of countryside. Then, suddenly, the tunnel opened out into a middling-large cavern. In the center was a pedestal, and on that rested a large axe. Colin lunged forward. A weapon was a weapon, and a metal blade meant he could toss some sparks if der Zepters did find him. His brain only barely registered a greenish glow around the meter-long curved blade of the tremendous axe as he reached for the leather-wrapped haft.... [1994] Sofie stumbled blindly through the cave. She thought she had a cigarette lighter in her pocket, but either she'd dropped it or her hands were too numb to feel it in there. The wind was gone, but blind impulse ran Sofie's legs now, and she kept moving forward, leaning against the tunnel wall for support. The wall vanished, and Sofie crashed to a hard stone floor, letting out a gasp that was more surprise than pain. She saw a faint greenish glow and shook her head to try and clear her senses. The glow remained, and Sofie wobbled to her feet. Her eyes were starting to adjust to the darkness of the cavern, and she could just make out that the glow came from something resting a few meters away, at stomach level for her. She unsteadily made her way over, lacking anything better to do. Then she saw the axe, and bit her lip to suppress a cry of surprise. It was the axe of Rechtigkeit...Justice...Germany's patriotic hero! He'd retired almost a decade ago, then been murdered by his own son last year, but she remembered seeing him on the news almost every night when she was a girl. She'd even seen him in public once, as he towered over everyone else at the podium...some fair or something. He'd held the axe like it was a hatchet, but it was nearly as long as Sofie was tall. The blade glowed with a faint green hue, just enough that she could see her hands as she slowly reached out to touch it. And then a voice whispered in her mind.... [2024] And then a voice whispered in his mind.... [both] "Arise, warrior for justice. Be cleansed, body and soul, and go out to bring the light of Rechtigkeit to the world!" [1994] Sofie shuddered and leaned over. She felt like she was going to vomit, scream and explode all at the same time. It was like she felt when she went too long without a fix... but a hundred times worse and all at once. Then it was over. Sofie stood up again, holding the axe lightly in her hands. She was no giant like Rechtigkeit... the original... was, but she felt strong enough to swing the axe as if it were a tennis racket. Somehow, she knew that she was no longer hooked on heroin, meth or cocaine. More importantly, with the constant haze lifted from her brain, she knew exactly who she'd seen at that party that the police must be after. And she'd find him first. Rechtigkeit had returned to Germany. [2024] Colin felt like his eyeballs were going to launch across the room, like all the Jaz he'd ever taken was shooting out through his tear ducts at once. The pangs of hunger he'd been starting to feel were gone, and he felt like he could take der Zepter on all by himself. Moreover, he felt like he *should*. That stunted little thing in the corner of his soul called a conscience seemed to have muscled its way to the front of his brain and was giving the orders for the first time in Colin's miserable life. Tentatively, he put the axe back down... but the feeling stayed. Grinning, he picked up the weapon again. No whispering voice this time, if you didn't count the loud screaming of his long-silent conscience. He concentrated on the blade of the axe, focusing his power into it. The cavern lit up a brilliant bluish white as a lightning bolt snapped from the blade to strike the wall, blasting loose a few chunks of rock. And he'd barely been trying! Colin ripped the Vogue-ghoul patch from his jacket and tossed it to the floor, incinerating it with another massive spark. He wouldn't need it, or the free passage it brought on the autobahn. Not the Parabahn, he thought grimly to himself. "Guess I'm not just a Sparker anymore," he mused aloud. "More like lightning. What was it in that old comic book? Justice, like lightning? I guess they can call me Justice now...." ========== Notes: Der Zepter and the Parabahn name created by Tony Pi. That old comic book created by Kurt Busiek. The rest created by Dave Van Domelen. ********************************************************************** Calhoun An Omega story by Matt "Badger" Rossi III Denise Solosbee was just relaxing on the couch when the doorbell rang. She didn't especially want to answer it. Bo was napping in his room, it was getting dark and she wanted to have some time to herself. But it might be mom and dad, or even Chip. Ever since the aliens left, they'd been coming by, pressuring her to forgive her other brother for his outburst when Denise was being interviewed about Pat by that Rutledge man. She blew an errant lock of hair out of her face and decided to see who it was after the doorbell rang again. "I'll be right there." Tired, weary from that place down inside that holds onto hope well beyond any reason, she walked to the door and opened it. "Mrs. Patrick Solosbee?" The man speaking was a slight man... at least three inches shorter than Chip or Brian... with an unruly shock of brown hair and a boyish face marked only by lines around the eyes that made his age hard to fix. He could be sixteen or in his thirties. But his eyes... they were almost hypnotic, even though they were merely an amber brown that wasn't that remarkable. She felt something lurking in those eyes, waiting to jump out and consume her. Unaware, she crossed her arms over her chest. "Yes. Can I help you?" "My name is Danny Anderson. I have some bad news for you, and I'd feel more comfortable telling you if we were both sitting down. Can I come in?" Anderson... his name was bothering her. Why did she know it? It wasn't until she remembered the special she'd watched on the Eye of Justice... the one they'd interviewed her for... that she remembered: The Jamaican man saying "Danny Anderson started the Colony, a long time before..." He smiled as she put the pieces together. It looked almost as tired as she felt. "Yes, I'm *that* Danny Anderson. Can I come in? I've got several other stops to make..." "Yes, come in." She moved, and he stepped into the room, and Bo came tottering around the corner, apparently awakened by the noise or just the presence of a stranger. "Oh, I'm sorry, Bo, I didn't mean to wake you up." As she picked up her son, Danny smiled gently. "My daughter's around that age. She'll be three this month. Gets into trouble constantly." Denise looked at him again, tried to picture what kind of woman would marry someone who could reach into her mind at will. "Would you like something to drink?" "Sure." "Is Coke alright? This is Georgia and all..." "Denise," Danny's smile finally managed to get into his eyes for a second. "Believe me when I say that a Coke would be absolutely fine. Maybe two or three." They ended up sitting in the kitchen, Bo half-sleeping on her lap, Danny drinking his third Coke from a can with condensation beading up on the surface. "Uhm, Mr. Anderson..." "Danny." "Danny, you said you have bad news for me?" "Yes." He closed his eyes. "I'm afraid I have some of the worst news. Your husband Patrick was one of the Dynamax Experimental Victims. He died February 7th, 1995. His body, and that of several others, was inside Dynamax Detroit when it... exploded." Denise felt black horror threaten her: she nearly dropped Bo. Then, suddenly, the emotion faded, dulling until it was a cold memory only. She looked at Danny. "Are you doing that?" "Yes. You'll be able to feel it later, but you were going to drop your son. And I know you want to ask me some questions." She looked at him, this gaunt young-old man who'd just walked into her home and cut the hope out of her. Those eyes, that shade of light brown that tends to reflect light rather than absorb it, held behind them everything there was to know about her husband's death. "How do you know this?" "I recently met two people in San Francisco who had a disk containing a complete list of _all_ the victims, taken from a computer in Dynamax Columbus. I stole that disk, since I knew it wouldn't be useable as evidence after the invasion, since..." "They were all Pardoned except for the actual surgeons, and most of them are dead." Denise couldn't believe the cold statement she'd just made. "Could you please let me feel again?" "Yes." She put Bo down, and suddenly it all came rushing back, the sorrow, grief, relief, revulsion at that, anger at the revulsion... she cried quietly for several minutes, unable to stop, not even wanting to. Danny waited. Finally she managed to stop, and looked back at him with wet lines on her face, not even wiping at them. "Was he... was he an Omega?" "Yes." She almost felt happy for him. Even if had killed him, it was always his dream. It was why he left her... a suspicion came into her head, a way to salvage even that part of her relationship with him, and to prove Brian wrong once and for all. "Was he... did they kidnap him, the way they did others?" "Do you really want to know?" "Yes... I really do." "No. He actually walked up to Dynamax Detroit in January of 95 and volunteered for COED testing. He'd apparently been living as a transient until then, going from job to job, since about May of 94." Danny knew that wasn't what she wanted to hear, but he couldn't bring himself to lie to her. "His Omega power apparently consisted of generating a shell of psi-static, similar to a psi-shield but on a non-interference level." "I don't understand." "Your husband had the Omega ability to trigger COED's and other Omega detection abilities, even at range." Danny didn't tell her that when he first downloaded this disk and read the files, he'd laughed at that. "Basically, in the files he was listed as a BH-O, meaning an Omega with basically human abilities. No superhuman ones." She looked at him, her eyes wide and unbelieving, for several seconds. "You mean... he got himself killed by insisting he was this great and superior Omega, when the only thing he could do was make gizmos that detected Omegas... detect him? That's it?" "Yes. That's basically it." Danny looked at Bo, who was tottering around on the floor. Unlike his father, he read clean to Danny's aura sense, absolutely mundane. Of course, that didn't mean he wouldn't trigger later. "But useless power or not, he _was_ an Omega, and he did pass the possibility of being an Omega on to your son." "Bo's not... does Bo have that Omega detector thing?" "No. His aura is normal." "How do you... oh. I forgot." "Patrick probably triggered sometime after Bo was born, when his fantasies of being an Omega and the stress of being a father dovetailed. Stress, either mental or physical, is one of the leading causes of triggering." Danny looked at Denise. "The stain on your neurological system when the trigger pulls is hard to explain... it feels like a forest fire inside your brain to some people. My brother went into a coma for nearly a month. It's different with everybody. If your husband became flaky, or cruel, that might have been why." "Pat was always flaky." Denise very quietly admitted. "I don't think we can blame that on his Omega." They sat there quietly for a few moments. "Thank you for telling me." "I'm sorry it happened." He stood up, offered her his hand. After a moment's hesitation, she shook it, and walked him to the door. As she opened it, he stopped and took out two cards. "The first one is the private line to Overtech. A friend of mine owns it. The other is Omega House, up in Maryland. If Bo triggers, which is a big if, call Omega House and ask to speak with Anne. Tell her Danny told you to. And if anything happens that seems bigger than the law, you can call Overtech and ask for Jimmy. Tell _him_ what it is, and tell him to get in touch with me." "I... thank you. I hope I never need to use them." "Me too." He smiled again, and again it barely managed to reach his eyes, and then he stepped out the door and was gone. She closed it behind him. For a few minutes she stood there. Then she sat down on the couch, and began to cry again. Bo came up and began trying to see what was wrong, and she picked him up and rocked back and forth, trying to calm down. She looked at the phone. Almost despite herself, she picked it up and hit the buttons with one finger while holding Bo with the other arm. "Brian. Yeah, it's me. I'm sorry too. I just... I just found out that Pat's dead. Could you come over? I'm going to call Mom and Dad in a minute, but... yeah. Call Chip for me too? Thanks, Bri." Hanging up the phone, she sat holding her son and hoped. ********************************************************************** Note From The Editor: Whatever Happened To RACC Presents? by Mike Escutia It's 11:40pm on a Saturday night as I write this. I should be getting ready for bed, in hopes that the roads won't be too bad tomorrow and I'll have half a chance of getting to church in the morning. But we've already been hit with several inches of snow, and it doesn't look like it'll stop before dawn, let alone when I usually head out on Sunday mornings. So here I am, contemplating the immediate future -- which, apparently, will involve a lot of white -- and the future of RACC Presents. It's quite a daunting task, really; I created this magazine over a year ago as a means of presenting a sample of the different types of stories available on RACC. It was an experiment, something that had never been done before on the group, and it was insanely popular. It was also subject to problems. I discovered the hard way that being the solo editor of a project like RP was next to impossible, particularly when the duties wound up including reformatting posts (which can melt the brain rather easily) and dealing with writers who seemed to think that I was at their beck and call. (Yes, Virginia, there is a human being behind the curtain.) I got two co-editors (Chris Gumprich and Stephen Reid) in hopes that having three people editing RP would make things easier... and then I got a job. And three months after that, I got a *full-time* job. Needless to say, RP hasn't seen much activity since. Or has it? We've tried to keep this zine afloat and active, to not let it die out from inactivity and disinterest, but... well, I think it's gone and done just that. I had such plans for it, too. If I had been able to keep it up, and keep it monthly, we'd be up to #17 now, and RP would be the great "Welcome to RACC, here's your guidebook" series, giving new readers a concrete starting point and established writers something they can all take part in, regardless of what imprint(s) they write for. But... A full-time job takes a lot out of a person, leaving little energy for much else. Trust me, I have experience. To attempt a volunteer job such as this one... I don't know. I just don't know. I think I can see why editing is a thankless job. You spend about half the time dealing with formatting, and the other half dealing with people, and I'm not sure which is worse. I guess it depends on things are going. And right now, they're not going very well for me as far as RP -- and RACC -- are concerned. I'm tired. So very tired. I've been involved in RACC for over six years now, way back when it was alt.comics.lnh (and, in a sense, rec.arts.comics.misc). Things were simpler back then, and I enjoyed the opportunity to hone my writing skills. But not posting much in the past few years, particularly in the past sixteen months, has given me a new perspective, and I've realized that, whether I like it or not, the time has come for me to let it all go and move on. I want to get published in the next year, but I can't focus on both that and RACC. Something has to go. So, this is it. The big goodbye, as it were. What happens now? I have no idea, but I feel *great*. See you in the future... -Mike Escutia Somewhere in New Hampshire March, 1999 ********************************************************************** "Meaning in a Proverb" copyright 1998 Ben Rawluk, all rights reserved. "The Winter Solstice Festival" copyright 1998 Ted Brock, all rights reserved. "Meanwhile, In A Little Corner Of Nowhere..." copyright 1998 Chris Gumprich, all rights reserved. "Justice" copyright 1999 Dave Van Domelen, all rights reserved. "Calhoun" copyright 1998 Matt Rossi III, all rights reserved. Editorial copyright 1999 Mike Escutia, all rights reserved. All stories used with permission. This issue is dedicated to everyone who waited for it. Sorry it took us so long, but we hope it was worth the wait. The RACC Presents Homepage: http://www.eyrie.org/racc-presents/ Copyright 1999 The RACC Presents Editors Go. Live. Write.