And, in case you haven’t figured it out, I’m not any of those people. Nor do I have much hope of ever becoming any of them.

But, when you’re writing full on fiction, without pictures… you can write human stories about superhumans. For example, this one.

This story actually predates “Interviewing Leather” in short story form. This is an expansion of said short story, to better fit the mosaic novel style thing I seem to be building. And it follows out of last week’s prologue in ways that should be obvious.

This is a story about supervillains and superculture, sure. But it’s also a story about fans, cons, con culture, and whatever else seemed to fit. It tells a story (I hope) and sets up a few other stories (I hope), and I hope you like it.

*** *** *** ***

May 27, 2005.
Friday – 1:32 pm

Elle was leaning against the hotel’s outside wall. She’d pulled a chair out with her, but hadn’t sat down. It was sunny, and too hot, but the only place you could smoke on this floor of the hotel was in the bar, and that was too far away from the dealer’s room. This was just a five minute break from setup.

Out here, Elle had a cloak on over the ‘show off the goods’ suit. Back in the day, the first few suits had been modified swimsuits. Then, she went with lycra leotards. And after she made a name for herself she’d gotten her costume supplies from Undercrime Mail Support, like everyone else. She was still on their mailing list, though she’d dropped down from VIP to ‘valued customer.’ The price of legitimacy.

Besides, they were being killed by the internet. But then, that was Elle’s bread and butter.

“Excuse me?”

Elle slipped the cigarette out of her mouth, putting on her Convention smile. It was even odds that a congoer would track her down out here — this door was used by vendors to get their goods into the dealer’s room, but there was a parking lot. She turned, and was slightly surprised to recognize the young man who’d seen her. He wore a silver and black bodysuit, festooned with mirrors and lenses along his belt. Early twenties, with short brown hair. His face was pretty, not rugged — really, too pretty to be Bar Sinister. “Yes,” she said, smiling winningly.

“I’m sorry — I didn’t mean to interrupt. But… aren’t you Elle Chemical? Lady Velvet?”

“Charmed… Refraction, isn’t it?” She held her hand, poised to be kissed instead of shaken.

The young man didn’t pick up on it, sliding his hand underneath it and pumping firmly. Children, she thought to herself. This is what they called a super villain these days. “That’s right,” he said. “I’m surprised you’ve heard of me. I mostly worked out of Paramount City. I thought I was more of a regional thing.”

“It pays to keep abreast of one’s peers,” Elle said. She didn’t want to admit to this twenty two year old that the great Lady Velvet spent her days watching the Superwatch channel like some fangirl. “You were one of the Beacon’s rogues, weren’t you? I hadn’t heard you retired.”

Refraction laughed, somewhat uncomfortably. “Yeah, well — I had a change of heart. But still — I mean, you’re Lady Velvet. You’re one of the greats!”

“Maybe, once,” Elle said, sitting in her chair. “But I was never better than second tier. Sometimes lower. I’m sure Nightstick — or, I suppose, the Nightwatch — rued my name a few times. But, by the time I packed it in he considered me a light week. A relief after one of Jack O’Knaves’s rampages.”

“Have you actually met the Jack O’Knaves?”

“Well, of course, dear. I actually worked with him once or twice. Come, surely you’ve met Darklord or Bandolier, fighting the Beacon and all.”

“Well, sure — but the Beacon… I mean, she’s a tough fight, and all, but her rogues are… well, we’re all a little lame. The Nightwatch’s rogues–”

“Are psychotic mass-murderers in greasepaint and top hats?” Elle finished for him, her painted lips quirking in a smile. “Yes. And that’s why I packed it in. Twelve or thirteen years ago, you could be slightly ridiculous and still give Nightstick a run for his money. Today? I’m more comfortable knowing the Nightwatch is stopping some of those twisted freaks.” She smiled, seeing a heavyset older man in the parking lot, wheeling a hand truck with plastic tubs on it. “Clinton!” she shouted. “Daaaaahling!”

The man smiled, waving back. “Please, Mistress Chemical. Not that name. We are on the field, and ’tis appropriate to adopt our sobriquets!”

“Who is that,” Refraction whispered.

“Clinton Potipher. The Cipher. He’s guest of honor this year.”

“Oh,” Refraction said, shaking his head. “Why him and not you? I mean, I remember him and all, but–”

“I was guest of honor at Villify 3. Then last year it was one of Paragon’s lot — Walabyne. You know, the alien with the Australian accent?”

“Yeah, sure. But–”

Elle shrugged. “They treat us the same. They pay us the same — which is to say barely, except for room and board. There’s a few perks for getting your name on the masthead, but for the big fan run cons you wait your turn and smile when your number doesn’t come up.” She stood as the Cipher approached. “Daaaahhhling,” she said again, in the trademarked purr of Lady Velvet. “You look faaaabulous. But you’re incognito.”

“I had no desire to soil mine attire with the sweat of manual labor. While I haul things in to my table, I elected to remain dressed for utilitarian purpose. I’ll be prepared for the opening ceremonies.” He took Elle’s hands, leaning close to kiss both her cheeks.

“You have a table here?” Refraction asked. “In the dealer’s room?’

“Of course, dear,” Elle said. “Cons like this are business. They don’t really pay us, but they give us room and board and sometimes travel expenses, and they let us sell our wares in the dealer’s room. I have a whole line of perfumes and remedies, as well as autographed photos and my CD.”

“A lovely disc, I would add,” the Cipher said. “She brings the standards to new life. I have books of puzzles, and my poetry and short stories, and of course tee shirts and photographs — dear Lady Velvet, are you working your own table this year?”

“On and off — I have a neighbor’s two daughters helping out. They love dressing up in the garb and walking the walk, so they’re willing to do it for food money and Con dealer passes. You?”

“My friend — Thomas? You remember. He sells the science fiction books and toys and the like? He has added my table to his and is handling sales. Mine schedule is too full with guesty activities for me to really stay too long at the table.”

“I can’t believe you two are selling things in the dealer’s room,” Refraction said again. “I mean… you’re… you guys fought the Nightwatch.”

“Once upon a time,” the Cipher said. “Once upon a time. But tales of terror and the warm memories of crossing swords with the the Greystone Guardian do not keep me in sandwiches and cable television. We all must make a living. Elle — I’ll see you at Opening Ceremonies?”

“Of course, dahling. I wouldn’t miss it.” She kissed his cheeks again, and watched him fondly as he pushed his tubs into the dealer’s room.

“He’s… not what I expected,” Refraction said. “I mean, he’s not… well, you. But still….”

“We were peers, really,” Elle said, sitting back down. “I hated him for a while. So pretentious, and he hits on anything in panties. About the ninth time you shoot a man down, you want to use real bullets.” She half-smiled, shaking her head. “But he grows on you. He loves these things so much.”

“Really? I’d think…” Refraction paused, trying to find the right words. “I’d think they’d be… embarrassing for him. Beneath him. Really, beneath both of you.”

Elle chuckled. “Are you kidding? He lives for these weekends. Do you know what he does the rest of the year?” Elle watched Refraction shake his head. “He works at a bookstore. Not even a mystery bookstore — he works for Barnes and Noble. Just another store worker — a fifty year old man and a pack of twenty-two year olds fresh out of college with an English degree they barely stayed awake to get.”

Elle closed her eyes. “But for the next three days, he’s the Cipher, all over again. A brilliant man who decrypted the most sophisticated defenses to commit the most daring crimes, leaving encoded clues that Nightstick and Cudgel themselves were hard pressed to decipher before his master plan went off. He was one of the dark gods of Greystone City, set in inexorable opposition to their greatest champion.” She opened her eyes. “Honestly, how do you begrudge a man his last few seconds of infamy?”

“Huh,” Refraction said. “I guess I never thought about it.” He looked at Elle. “Is that your story, too?”

Elle chuckled again. “Please, dahhhling. This is just business.”

May 27, 2005.
Friday – 4:14 pm

Bill Wallace had been Con Chair of Vilify as long as there had been a Vilify. A true fan of supervillainry, he had published papers on the sociological impact of super powered criminals and on the psychological necessity of the villain in a society that had superhuman heroes. Elle knew all of that, but seeing him in his tuxedo shirt and pants, and the vest with all the buttons (“Villains Do It Any Way They Want,” “Mad Science Means Never Having To Say You’re Sorry,” “I Told Those Fools At The Institute They Would Pay,” and a number of Star Trek based ones) he just screamed fan to Elle. Bill and guys like him were the reason she could make a living selling glamour shots taken when she was eight years younger and perfumes that were overpriced but ‘brewed by the diabolical hands of Lady Velvet.’ They’d show up to these things even if no retired supervillains were on hand.

But they were so happy they were.

“We have over two thousand preregistered guests,” Wallace was saying at the podium. “So, just in preregistrations alone we’ve matched last year’s attendance.” He paused for the applause from the audience. “Thank you. It’s all thanks to you. And we’re looking at the biggest and best Vilify ever. Vilify 5′s theme is “Married to the Mob,” and you’ll see any number of gangster themed panels and events. We’re also pleased that Chattergun Calhoon has been able to be a special guest. He’s not at the opening ceremonies, but you can see him at a special event in the Cedar meeting room on the second floor mezzinine at four-thirty. So you can leave from here and head right up to see a man who took a shot at the Shroud.”

Bill paused for a sip of water, then grinned. “But you’ve probably not come to hear me talk.” He paused again for laughter — Elle had seen it at every fan con. The Con chair made a joke like that and half the audience played along with pantomimed ‘no, reallys?’ There was nothing like it anywhere else. “You’re here to see our very special guests. So, without further ado, let me introduce you to the masters of perfidy… the lords of larceny… the men and women who stand up to gods and do tug on Paragon’s cape… the supervillains!

There were cheers and applause then. Leathertooth, at the end of the head table, pumped his fist in the air. Elle gave her best diabolical smile. It was like performing. She had always put on a good ‘Lady Velvet,’ even when the Nightwatch scared the piss out of her.

Refraction had sat next to her — he clearly didn’t know much about these things, and he looked a little uncomfortable. She leaned close. “Smile,” she whispered. “Or glower. They’ll love you either way.”

There was a hum in her brain, and she heard the mental voice of Madame Hypnos — another old Con vet — whispering to her. “Who’s the preschooler, Elle? He looks good in tights, but still….”

Refraction, she thought back. Years of seeing Medea at cons had lent Elle good practice in projecting her thoughts to the telepath. One of Beacon’s. It’s his first con.

“And staked him out already? Aren’t we robbing the cradle?”

I’m a supervillain, dahling. I have to steal something.

“Why are they cheering?” Refraction whispered. “We’re criminals.”

“To them? We’re celebrities. Just enjoy yourself.”

“On the end,” Bill was saying, “the winged raptor from another age… eternal nemesis of the Azurewing… it’s Leathertooth!”

Leathertooth stood, flaring his wings out, and crouching to give a toothy growl. He couldn’t keep from grinning though. He was good with kids, even giving some supervised swoops around the ballroom when their parents let him. The crowd loved him.

“On his right… you know her as the woman who brought Paragon to his knees…” there was a chuckle at that thought. “The mistress of the mind… Madame Hypnos!”

Elle smiled, watching Medea rise crosslegged into the air, reaching out to life two of the younger audience members telekinetically. There were the appropriate oohs and aws.

“We’re supposed to have a trick?” Refraction hissed to Elle. “No one told me to have a trick.”

“Then just stand and wave, dear. Do you have any of your equipment with you?”

“I… I don’t… well, yes….”

“I’ll swap places. Give you a moment to think.” Medea, she thought towards the mentalist, who was just getting her seat. Tell Bill to introduce me before Refraction.

“You’ve got it,” Medea thought back. “He didn’t come with a trick, did he?”

Ahh, the follies of youth.

“Next… the one archer able to go arrow to arrow with Arrowhead himself… the dead eye deadshot. The ice woman… it’s Fletcher Joan!”

Joan was wearing the good leather outfit — the bondage outfit. Elle was jealous — Elle had made her name by showing skin, and that meant she couldn’t easily cover it up now that she was pushing forty. Joan covered head to toe in imperfection-concealing leather still made the fanboys pant. She fluidly drew and fired four target arrows into the ballroom’s rafters, where she’d strung up the targets before. The targets exploded harmlessly into sound and light, thrilling the crowd as always.

Elle took her own deep breaths while Titan James and the Hook did their routines. She should have been the last one called before the Cipher — she was certainly one of the star attractions — but this would work out too. After all, either he’d pull through and dazzle the crowd with something new, or he’d fall on his face and make her look better.

“And now… the First Lady of Felony… the Seductive Siren of Scams… the bane of Nightwatch himself… Miss Elle Chemical, the Sensual Lady Velvet!”

The crowd fairly exploded — especially the men. Elle gave her famous red lipped smile, rising and posing, squeezing her hands tight and cracking the vials she held in her protective gloves. Columns of multicolored smoke swept into the air, with glistening motes of light flaring, the scent of jasmine filling the room, forming a frame while Elle tried to project pure sex in her bearing.

It worked, of course. The applause turned to hoots and whistles. “Daaaaaahlings,” she crooned, loud enough to need no PA. “Prepare yourselves for a sinfully good weekend.”

Elle slid back down as the smoke cleared. She glanced at Refraction, who had two of his small prisms in his hands. He glanced up, and hissed “when you see the flash of bright light, get up and pose again!” to her.

Elle blinked, about to ask what he intended, when Bill’s voice came back over the PA. “And finally, a newcomer to Vilify this year. A talented and dangerous villain who has contended with the Beacon on her own terms and even faced Paragon himself down. The Lord of Light… give a warm Vilify welcome to Refraction!”

Refraction stood, clearly nervous, and lifted his hands. He brought them down, slapping the prisms together, and a burst of white light filled the room to startled shouts and gasps. Elle, having expected it, pushed to her feet and struck her pose, even though her own vision needed to clear….

As it did, she realized there was a hologram over the audience — a hologram of her in the pose she was holding. She threw her best wicked smile back on her face, and held it. I’ve finally finished my transition, she thought. From super villain seeking to rule Greystone City to scantily clad magician’s assistant.

The crowd, their own eyes recovering, began to applaud anew. The same guys who’d hooted and whistled for Elle did so again, and the people who’d seen Lady Velvet’s act before applauded for this new, larger than life wrinkle.

“Nice,” she murmured as she and Refraction sat back down.

“They already love you,” he whispered back. “Seemed ridiculous to try and compete with that.”

“And we couldn’t have you being ridiculous, now could we?” Elle smiled more, sliding a hand along Refraction’s arm. The young man blushed slightly. She still had it.

“And now,” Bill said, as the applause died out. “Vilify 5 is proud to present… the connoisseur of conundrums. The exemplar of enigmas. A man who on no less than nine occasions stopped the Greystone City Police Department dead citywide. The Grand Master of Greed… our Guest of Honor, and one of the few men to truly challenge the Nightwatch on his own terms and at his own level… he is… the Cipher.”

There was a tremble as bass heavy music began to play. A thick black smoke began to swarm and weave — Elle couldn’t see how the trick was done. The lights seemed to dim, and then as the black clouds parted the Cipher stood where Bill had been. He wore his grey three piece suit and bowler hat, like he was an evil butler, and held his trick cane. Numbers and letters covered his suit, of course, a panorama of codes and symbols, and he laughed that spooky laugh of his. Most years the Cipher didn’t get to go all out with his entrance, but Elle had to admit he understood the theatrics involved.

“Greetings, fellow scions of the dark society. Greetings, brothers of the fraternity most sinister. Welcome once again to the lodge where justice holds no sway and darkness rules the night. Welcome to Vilify… may you survive to leave!” And he laughed once more, lifting his arms and causing another cloud of smoke to wend around him.

The audience went nuts. They ate the Cipher’s act up with a spoon.

Refraction watched the Cipher gesture, drinking in the crowd’s applause. And Elle watched Refraction. She saw him frown, ever so slightly.

Smiling a touch, she squeezed his arm. He blinked and looked back at her. “Don’t worry about him,” she murmured. “There must be better things to talk about.”

Which is, in the end, what a prologue is supposed to do.

I hope you like it.

*** *** *** ***

December 24, 1985

“–throwing these… I don’t know. Sharpened metal letters and numbers at us? Attacking us with typography?” Nightstick chuckled. “It was bizarre.“

“They were like throwing stars,” Cudgel cut in. The teenager was excited. “Like Cipher was a ninja or something? He starts chucking them and he’s making some joke about us getting the point–”

“You’re kidding,” the Lieutenant asked. He had the SWAT team helmet he always wore off, and was drinking a ginger ale. “He actually did a pun about sharp things?”

“Oh yes,” Nightstick said. “And what’s worse, he overemphasized it. ‘Let me send you a letter, Nightstick! I trust air mail will suffice? I’m sure you get my point!‘” He shook his head. “It was like being locked in a room with Adam West.

Freya laughed. “Spoken like a man who’s never been locked in a room with Adam West.”

“Wait — you were locked in a room with Adam West?” Cudgel asked, staring. “Really?“

“It was an auto show a couple of years back. He had that car from the television show.” She considered. “Nice guy. Worked hard to talk to my face instead of my chest.”

The Ancient Mariner snorted.

Freya arched an eyebrow. “Comment, Mare?”

“You can’t tell me you’re that worried about people staring at you. You’re essentially wearing a bathing suit and feathers.”

“You’re wearing a bathing suit and no shirt.”

“I swim for a living. A bathing suit makes a certain amount of sense on my patrol.”

Freya smiled. The smile fairly smoldered. “And I’m a fertility goddess. Honestly, you mortals should be glad I wear clothes in the first place.”

“That’s okay,” Cudgel said. “Don’t feel like you have to on our account.”

“Clean thoughts, chum,” Nightstick said with a grin.

The Centurion walked back in with a tray of drinks. “I think I’ve got everything,” he said. “If I didn’t say before, thanks for coming over tonight. I just thought would be nice… you know.” He was a little flushed, his helmet’s visor up so the others could see his face.

Freya giggled, accepting an Arnold Palmer from the tray. “As sad as it is to say, it’s not like I had anywhere else to be. Astrid Bixby was just going to sit at home and watch the Yule Log on channel 38.”

“What about that Air Force Major of yours? He couldn’t be convinced to make it a Merry Christmas” Nightstick asked, smirking slightly. Off to the side, the Centurion turned magenta.

“Oh, I’m sure if the Goddess Freya swept onto his doorstep wearing something slinky and fur trimmed, he’d make most merry,” Freya said with a laugh. “But the Goddess Freya doesn’t observe your heathen rituals, now does she? And Major Storm had little interest in taking Astrid Bixby out for a Christmas Eve dinner.”

“You know, I noticed you do that,” the Lieutenant said, cocking his head at Freya.

“Do ‘that?’” She asked. “Giggle? Make innuendoes that have Cudgel’s heartrate up and threatens to make our host burst a blood vessel? Give me something to work with, my dear Lieutenant.”

“You speak of ‘Astrid Bixby’ and ‘the Goddess Freya’ as two different people,” the Lieutenant said. “I mean, I sometimes refer to one or the other of my identities in the third person. I think we all do. But you do it every time, as near as I can tell.”

Freya opened her mouth to answer, when there was a thump on the terrace. They were on the eighty-fifth floor of Baldwin Towers, which meant the new arrival had flown in.

“Hm. It’s about time,” the Ancient Mariner said. “I was beginning to think Centurion’s last invited guest would be a no-show.”

“No chance of that,” Nightstick said, smirking once more.

Paragon swept into the room like a gale force wind, his grin threatening to split his face. He scooped up Freya and hugged her, far more firmly than he could dare hug any normal mortal woman. “You look wonderful tonight,” he half-shouted, eyes darting from hero to hero. “You all do! Merry Christmas, everyone!”

“Look at him,” Cudgel “Something tells me Paragon’s been hitting Christmas cheer a little early.”

“Not likely,” Nightstick said, smiling slightly. “A tanker truck full of Christmas cheer couldn’t affect him. What is it, Paragon? Had a good fight?”

“The best fight,” the Crown City Champion said, clapping his hands together. “It was… it was glorious! Leo Lucas had teamed up with Doctor Nebula, and this time they weren’t kidding around. Nebula had synthesized a kind of concentrated nerve gas — a single canister would have taken out half of Crown City. Naturally, Barbara Babcock had gotten herself tied to the gas bomb–”

“Oh, naturally,” the Centurion said. “You want something to drink?”

“Huh? Oh, yeah. Tea. Or whatever everyone else is having. Anyway — there were all these robots, and I’m really pushing to my limits, and there’s a chunk of Xenonite somewhere in the room to boot. Barbara’s shouting about how they won’t ever get away with it, and Doctor Nebula’s gloating while Lucas is trying to get a bead on me with one of those blasters of his — why does he always go back to the blasters? They’ve never hurt me, even when I’m weakened by–”

“Whoa whoa whoa,” Freya said, putting a hand on Paragon’s back. And leaning forward slightly as she did it. Always on display, or so it seemed. “Don’t lose the trail when we’re so close to base camp.”

Paragon laughed. “Right, right. Anyway. I managed to breach one of the force fields protecting the bomb. See, I cracked open one of the robots and discovered their power was focused through an artificial ruby…” Paragon chuckled, shaking his head. “It doesn’t matter. I mean, it was a great fight, and of course I won, but that’s not the point.”

Nightstick grinned a bit more. “Then what is the point,” he asked.

“Look at us,” Paragon said, gesturing around the room. “In the — what, four years since we started our careers–”

“Just shy. You were the first, and your fourth anniversary is January the third of next year,” the Ancient Mariner said. He was always a cool customer, taking a pull off his pipe but standing just slightly off from the rest of the group.

“Close enough, close enough,” Paragon said, waving the correction off. He was still recovering from the adrenalin of the fight, the exhilaration of the win. Cudgel was more or less right. If the Diamond Hard Man wasn’t drunk, he was the next best thing. “That’s not the point. I understand now.”

“He ‘understands’ now,” Centurion said, shaking his head. “I thought I left late night conversations like this one back at Crescent Bay University.”

“What do you understand?” Freya asked, quietly.

Paragon looked around. “Look at us. Me. You, Freya. Nightstick and Cudgel. The Centurion. The Lieutenant. The Ancient Mariner. A new breed of hero. No one’s ever had the battles we’ve had, with the stakes as high. I saved an entire city tonight. Freya saved half the Eastern Seaboard last week. Nightstick, you and Cudgel saved the nation last month. Centurion — didn’t you save the world earlier this year?”

“Who keeps track,” Centurion asked, shifting slightly. A little uncomfortable, perhaps.

“Don’t you all see?” Paragon asked, looking around. “Given the stakes we and the other heroes have had to endure, shouldn’t we have lost some of these fights?”

Cudgel blinked. “What?”

“You heard me, son,” Paragon said, leaning closer to the teenaged hero. “What are the odds that we’d win every fight, every time?”

“Not good enough,” the Ancient Mariner said. “There’s always a price to be paid–”

“Yes yes yes,” Paragon said, shaking his head. “I know that, Mare. That’s not my point.“

“Then what is your point?” Freya asked, grinning full out. “I’m beginning to wonder if we’re ever going to hear it.”

Paragon’s smile grew. “We’re never going to lose.”

Nightstick blinked. “Excuse me?”

“We’re never going to lose, Nightstick. Don’t you see? Oh, our line of work is dangerous — there’s no doubt of that. We might die or be injured or something… but we’re never going to fail. We’re always going to keep the bomb from going off, or at least hurl it out to sea so it can’t hurt anyone. We’re always going to foil the nefarious plans set against us. We’re always going to win.“

“Well, sure,” Cudgel said. “That’s what being a hero is all about.”

“That’s an expression of faith, not statistics,” Nightstick said. “And statistically–”

“Statistically, Paragon has a point,” Centurion said, gesturing with his gauntlets. A blue holographic computer terminal appeared in front of him, and he began to type. “By the law of averages, we should have lost some of these fights. Only we really haven’t.”

“Are you saying we’re unbeatable?” Freya asked, frowning. “That smacks of hubris. The Gods–”

“No no,” Paragon said. “Any one of us can be beaten. But so long as we stick to the straight and narrow, none of us will fail. Don’t you see that? The bad guys won’t win. They can’t win.”

The Ancient Mariner leaned back in his chair. “Well,” he said after a moment. “It’d be a comfort if it were true.”

“It is true,” Paragon said, practically bouncing. “It feels true, Mare.”

“Well, good enough,” Nightstick said with a grin. “That makes this a Merry Christmas indeed.

July 25, 2003

The Paramount City Monarchs were up three runs to two, taking on the Crown City Uniques at home. Paramount City hadn’t been selling out the Garrick County Coliseum as a matter of habit that season, but the rivalry betwween the Monarchs and the Uniques was old and bitter, so even the bleachers were full that Friday.

Darren was sitting in those bleachers. He was in sweats and a baseball cap. That was the easy way to cover up the bodysuit until he was ready. Sweats, a ball cap, a pair of black sunglasses. It was the top of the fifth.

He had to admit, it was hard to kick the plan into high when the Monarchs were up by a run. After all, there was home town pride involved. He considered holding off — let them get into the late innings, so they’d count this as a Monarchs win instead of a ‘rain out’ or the like.

But if he held off, people would start to leave, and he wanted as many people here as possible. The biggest splash. The biggest impact. And the best bait for the Beacon.

He pushed up his sleeve. The crystal bracer on his left arm functioned as his watch as well as one of his control units. He checked the time. With a tap, he checked system status on the remote units. Green lights. He tapped again, going into the blacklight laser controls — the blacklight lasers took time to charge up, and they were the most effective weapons he had against the Beacon, so he needed to charge several capacitors at once for them.

It looked like everything was running. It was just moving into sundown, so they’d turned the giant arclights on, which meant the systems he’d painstakingly installed in the towers were online and ready.

Showtime.

Darren pushed up out of his seat. He made his way up the steep stairs to the top ring of the stadium, and started to circle around for the stairwell. Down on the field there was action going. Smits had hit a sweet one between left and center — a double that had two runs batted in — the Uniques went on top, four to three, with Smits on second and only one out.

Darren shook his head, taking off his cap and replacing his sunglasses with his control visor. Looks like he was going to do the Monarchs a favor after all.

Darren got his ID and money clip out and slipped it into his uniform’s belt pocket. His sneakers and socks he slipped off and dropped into a concrete wastebasket along the walkway. They were WalMart specials anyway. The sweats joined them quickly enough. There weren’t that many people in the cheap seats even today, so he went unnoticed.

Darren grinned. That was about to change. He keyed in the activation code.

Hidden concussion charges went off in the light towers even as they burst into polychromatic light. These were unnecessary, of course, but it was good theater. There were shrieks of surprise, even as lances of deadly light arced onto the field, burning large furrows. The exit tunnels had golden bars form in front of them — solid light tricks. You couldn’t take hostages without sealing the exits. The storage batteries kicked in, so that if someone killed the power to the Stadium all his tricks would keep going.

Darren laughed a solid villainous laugh, his voice feeding into the PA automatically. He jumped up, the magnetic repulsors on his boots letting him skate along the metal superstructure of the stadium down each tier to the field. Seeing a group of Stadium Security guards running for him, Darren sent a pulse of light in front of them, setting the turf on fire. The Monarchs and the Uniques were fleeing for the dugouts — let them flee. The solid light grid cut off those exits too.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Darren shouted, his voice echoing all around him. He brought his hands together, bringing the holographic projectors online, and creating a seven hundred foot tall duplicate of himself in the middle of the field. “There is no cause for alarm! Cooperate, and no one has to get hurt!”

“Oh my God!” he heard one of the bat girls shriek. “It’s Refraction!”

Bullets began to spark off his defensive field. The hologram was sparking too — some of the guards were dumb enough to waste bullets on it, so he needed to waste power on solid light for it — the last thing Refraction wanted was for rent-a-cops to shoot through his hologram and hit bystanders. That kind of heat he didn’t need.

Refraction spun, letting his visor tag the guards with guns. The system locked on them and he lifted an arm. His wrist unit burned with light, attracting peoples’ eyes while the tower projectors locked and fired, slagging the guns in their hands. Some guards would get burns, but nothing too serious. “You threaten the Lord of Light with those toys?” he shouted over the PA. “Not too bright, boys!” To be honest, Refraction was a little tired of the light puns. Still, you had to work the crowd.

That got the guards scrambling. Refraction laughed, gesturing again and incinerating second base. He’d start making demands in a couple of moments, when the crowd was sufficiently lathered up. Then, it was just a question of waiting for the Beacon to arrive. His grid was in place, so even at lightspeed she’d be intercepted and driven into human form. From there, he would finally end this little feud once and for all.

She just needed to take the bait.

#

The Beacon shuddered, throwing up into the wastebasket for the third time. Arrowhead knelt next to her, holding her hair to keep it out of the line of fire.

“God,” she muttered. “Justice Wing’s finest moment.”

“Hey, don’t sweat it,” Arrowhead said. “We all get sick sometimes.” He glanced over to where Paragon was looking out one of the huge windows. “Well, almost all of us. Anyway, you should be home. After you have crackers and some weak soup.”

Paragon didn’t answer. He just kept looking out the window, down to the city far below.

“I’m on duty,” the Beacon said, miserably. “With Flight Control taking the night off, I have a responsibility–”

The system monitor chose that moment to ping.

“Speak of the devil,” Arrowhead said. “C’mon, sit up. I need to go check that.”

The Beacon managed to sit up. Even though she was the current leader of the team, she was still one of the younger members. Her costume reflected that — very twenty-first century chic: cargo pants and a bustier in burnt orange, and a black leather coat over them. A matching orange mask set off her black hair. It was a good look when she wasn’t this pale. “Where’s the call,” she asked.

Arrowhead made sure the Beacon wouldn’t throw up again. He then walked around the couch to the system monitor. It was a huge computer, largely glass and metal, with a holographic display. He was sometimes embarrassed to play video games on it. He glanced at Paragon. “You know, you could have checked this for me,” he said.

“I’m not actually on duty tonight,” Paragon said mildly.

“You’re here, aren’t you? If you’re not on duty, why show up?”

Paragon didn’t change his expression. He kept looking out over the world, his eyes picking out microscopic details from hundreds of miles away. The color of her dress — blue. Last time she wore white. The sharp angles of her man’s black bow tie. The candles along the walls. “What else do I have to do on a Friday night?”

Arrowhead shook his head. “That is weirdly pathetic, ‘Goner.” He pushed the right keys on the unit, and frowned. “Arena taken hostage.”

“What one?” the Beacon asked, rubbing her brow through her mask.

Arrowhead paused. He considered lying, but decided that wouldn’t work. “Garrick County Coliseum,” he said. “Paramount City. Refraction terrorizing the crowd.” He opened up a window to the ESPN broadcast.

The Beacon shuddered. “Great. Of course. My villain, my city. Okay, I’m gonna need something. Dramamine maybe–”

“No way,” Arrowhead said. “No way. You can’t walk twenty feet without throwing up.”

“Don’t need to walk, remember?”

“Don’t be stupid. I’ll take Refraction down.”

“He’s out of your weight class,” the Beacon said, pushing up to her feet.

“I been fighting guys out of my weight class for twenty years!” Arrowhead snapped.

“Sixteen,” Paragon said, quietly. “Next month.”

“Oh, sorry — I didn’t think I was being graded.” Arrowhead moved to block Beacon from the launch tubes. “You’re not going out there. You know this is a trap. It’s too public to be anything else.”

“We do this,” the Beacon said, trying to stand without trembling. “He tries to trap or kill me, and I send him back to pri… puh… ohGod….” she half-dashed back for the wastebasket, before her muscles locked and she went down. The vomit hit the floor, a good six feet from the basket.

“Jesus. Why didn’t you light-shift there instead of running?”

“Shut up. Gotta get going…”

“Forget it.” Arrowhead looked up, over to where Paragon was standing. “You could always go instead.”

Paragon didn’t turn to face Arrowhead. Far away, she was smiling. Her hand still had a slight scar from her old wedding band. The new ring covered it over. “I’m not on duty tonight,” he said, quietly.

“Yeah? You’re the one who asked if there was something better to do on a Friday night.”

“S’okay,” the Beacon said, pushing back up to sitting. “I’ll go. Refraction’s my villain.”

“Not an option,” Arrowhead said. “If big Blue doesn’t feel up to it, I’m heading for the launch bay.”

“I’ll go,” Paragon said, quietly.

The Beacon looked at the Diamond Hard Man. “That’s… that’s okay,” she said. “I just need–”

“No,” Paragon said. “Arrowhead’s right. Get some rest. I’ll take care of it.”

The Beacon watched Paragon slowly turn, and walk back towards the launch tubes.

“There,” Arrowhead said. “Three cheers for the blue and gold, right?”

The Beacon shivered, then crawled closer to the wastebasket to throw up again.

“Hey, Kid?” Arrowhead asked. The Beacon hated it when he called her ‘kid.’ Which is why he did it of course.

“Yeah?” she croaked.

“You sounded like you didn’t want Paragon going. I know why you didn’t want me to go — I’m just some guy with a bow. Why not mister Last Prince of a Dead Civilization?”

The Beacon looked away. “No reason,” she said. “We’re playing Crown City today, and we really hate the Uniques, so–”

“So you didn’t want the Crown City Champion to save the stadium?” Arrowhead half-smiled.

The Beacon looked down. It sounded like he was buying it. “Something like that,” she muttered.

#

Refraction had activated the drone program, which caused a series of holographic projections of himself to buzz the crowd, keeping things stirred up. They were collecting the box office receipts and bringing them to him now. He resisted the urge to check his watch. He’d been worried she’d show up too fast — if she’d been in the crowd he’d have been screwed. But late? The woman turned into light — she was never late.

Maybe she was on another call or something. Damn it, he’d probably make a profit off the box office receipts even with all the money he sunk into the emitters and prepwork, but when was he supposed to get another shot at–

His visor pinged. Incursion from above! By the time he turned, his blacklight lasers were already firing–

There were explosions from all twelve tower arrays. Refraction staggered back, slapping at his controls as his visor became a chaotic mess of conflicting information. Power supplies and solid light emitters reported sudden failures, then cut out entirely. Refraction bit his lip, clearing his vision and looking up–

And freezing, shocked into silence along with the entire crowd.

Paragon was two hundred feet up in the air, his arms folded. Clearly standing on air. His golden cape fluttered like a flag in a breeze. The golden starburst logo on his chest gleamed in the stadium’s lights. His blond hair seemed to shine like a halo over his head.

The crowd went apeshit. Cheers and shouts from all sides echoed all around Refraction as the Diamond Hard Man stared down at him.

“What the Hell are you doing here?” Refraction finally managed to sputter, over the PA.

“Are we done here?” Paragon asked, curtly. Even at two hundred feet in the air, the hero’s voice could clearly be heard. He did not sound happy.

Refraction bit his lip. “Not even close!” he shouted, triggering his primary laser lances. They burned into Paragon from all sides, from emplacements Refraction had carefully installed over the weeks he had prepared for this.

Paragon didn’t move. He let the lances fire, but didn’t acknowledge them even as they seared into him. “Are we done here?” he asked again.

“It wasn’t supposed to be you,” Refraction spat, bringing his arms up. His wrist units pulsed as he brought his personal arsenal online–

Paragon swept up another hundred feet, curving in the air. His eyes glowed for a half-second before golden light — his ‘beacon-vision,’ ironically enough — seared out, burning the laser lance emitters out. Before Refraction could adjust his aim to compensate, Paragon shot down to ground level, closing his hands around Refraction’s wrists. He squeezed just hard enough to turn the crystal lattice of his control units into cracked junk, though Refraction barely felt the pressure of it. Refraction’s visor flared and lost power. Refraction found himself staring in Paragon’s glowing eyes, even as he felt heat on his side — Paragon was burning out the leads to Refraction’s suit power pack.

“Are we done here?” Paragon asked softly, still holding on to Refraction’s wrists. His eyes stopped glowing, and seemed all the colder as a result.

“Yeah,” Refraction said, swallowing. The PA link had cut out when the suit had lost power. “Yeah, we’re done here.

Paragon looked at him, his brown eyes burrowing into Refraction’s for a long moment. He then pushed gently, and Refraction fell over onto his butt, looking up. “Good,” Paragon said, and shot straight up into the air. Far above the city, Refraction heard a sonic boom.

The crowd was still going crazy, cheering and chanting Paragon’s name. On the sides, Police and SWAT were now streaming in the now-opened exit tunnels.

Refraction knew he’d get dogpiled any moment, but he didn’t move. He just stared up into the now empty night sky.

#

“Hah hah,” Arrowhead was saying. “Punked out. I thought you said that guy was big leagues.”

The Beacon was sitting, a blanket around her, watching the ESPN coverage with Arrowhead. “No,” she half-whispered. “I said he was out of your league.”

Arrowhead laughed harder at that. “Yeah — okay. Point. Ain’t no one out of Paragon’s league. Hell, who’s even in Paragon’s league, boss?”

The Beacon chewed her lip. On the screen, one of the announcers was talking. “Well, we’ve received word that Major League Baseball is officially postponing tonight’s slugfest between the Monarchs and the Crown City Uniques. They are not saying when the game will be picked up at this time, until Monarchs officials have a chance to thoroughly examine the stadium and discover the extent of Refraction’s modifications and any damage. Dick, the crowd seemed pretty excited to see Paragon come to the rescue.”

“Well, that was unexpected for sure. I guess Paragon must have been at home in Crown City watching his home town team play the Monarchs. You’d think — who is it who’s in Paramount City?”

“The Beacon,” the first announcer said. “I guess maybe she’s not a baseball fan.”

“I guess not,” the second announcer said, laughing.

“No one,” the Beacon said quietly. “No one’s in Paragon’s league.”

#

“Was that supposed to be cute?”

Chad Keillor reclined back on the deck chair. He pressed the beer bottle to his head. “Don’t you start, Gus.”

Augustus Fitch didn’t answer. He cradled a beer of his own, his white hair contrasting with his dark skin. Just another old sailor living on the coast. An old sailor who’d looked the same age as long as Chad had known him. “I’m serious. Was that supposed to be cute, Chad? You’re pissed off, so you clocked in a ten second collar on that kid?”

“That kid had taken a sports stadium hostage. I wasn’t going to endanger their lives to make a good show.”

“That’s the game,” Gus said. “You know that. You invented it. You do that kind of thing, and people’ll get scared of you. Maybe Paragon’s too powerful. Maybe we need to do something. They haven’t forgotten Freya, you know.”

“Jesus, Gus, what’s the point?”

“Things aren’t always good for us,” Gus said. “Everybody loves you, and that helps, but they don’t always love us. So if you–”

“That’s not what I mean.”

“Then what do you mean?” Gus sat down on the deck chair next to Chad. “Or is this about Barbara remarrying?”

Chad lay back onto the chair. “Of course. But it’s not just about that, Gus.”

“So what is it?”

Chad looked out over the ocean, before tipping more of the beer back. “When I first started out, I had a route.”

“A route?”

“Yeah. I split the city up into two halves, and split the two halves into a grid, and every night I’d fly out over the city and check every square of the grid out, using beacon vision and my hearing. I wanted to make sure I was there if I was needed.”

Gus nodded. “Most capes do that, starting out. I found there wasn’t much need, but then the Seven Seas aren’t really ‘grid-like.’”

Chad didn’t acknowledge Gus’s interruption. “After four or five years, I found myself skimming over bits. A few years after that, I’d just cover chunks of each city half. And then I just started flying wherever I felt like it.”

“Sounds healthy. Or at least less anal.”

“These days, I don’t even bother, most nights,” Chad said, finishing off the beer. “I just listen really hard from my apartment.”

Gus frowned. “That seems a touch cavalier.”

“Yeah, well — you’d think.” Chad looked at the empty bottle for a long moment, then flung it out. The glass arced a few hundred feet in the air, down towards the bay.”

“Jesus. Don’t litter, okay?”

“You know the difference between my old anal grid days and now, Gus?”

“I know I’m going to have to clean broken glass out of the bay. Things live down there, you know.”

“I’m serious. Do you know the difference between my active patrolling days and today? In the grand scheme of things?”

Gus sighed. “No. Tell me, Chad. What’s the big difference between then and now.”

Chad looked at Gus. “Nothing.”

Gus frowned. “You can’t tell me Paragon doesn’t make a difference to the world.”

“Of course Paragon makes a difference. But I don’t make any more or less of a difference now than I did then.” Chad leaned back in his chair. “Crime statistics are exactly the same. The number of crimes I foil in a year hasn’t changed. The number of threats or monsters or Leo Lucas plots I stop hasn’t changed. I’m always there. I’m always on time. I always win.” Chad shook his head. “So tell me. Why should I bother to fly around at night? Why not sit at home and actually get some television time in before something happens and I need to suit up?”

Gus shook his head. “We don’t always win, Chad.”

“Of course we do.”

“Yeah? Tell Paragirl that. Or Shillelagh. Hell, tell Freya that.”

“I didn’t say we always survived. I didn’t say we never got hurt. I didn’t say we don’t pay a price, Gus. But Scourge was stopped. The Overking was defeated. And Freya redeemed herself in the end, didn’t she?”

Gus took a deep breath. “Maybe so.”

Chad sat back up. “Besides. Have you checked the crime statistics in Evergreen City?”

Gus frowned. “Now why would I possibly do that?”

“Paragirl used to live in Evergreen City.”

Gus looked down. “I suppose I knew that, once upon a time. What’s your point?”

“My point is… things aren’t demonstrably worse in Evergreen City now that she’s gone.” Chad looked down at his hands. “Threats come up, of course. But other heroes show up to deal with them. I’ve dealt with one or two myself.”

“So you think she didn’t matter?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Let me guess. You’re thinking that if you disappeared tomorrow, there’d be no change at all. Someone else would beat Doctor Nebula or Madam Hypnos.”

“Madam Hypnos retired.”

“Don’t be that guy, okay Chad?” Gus pushed himself back up to his feet. “So what do you intend to do about it?”

“Nothing. Everything. I’m going to retire too.”

Gus snorted.

“You don’t believe me?”

“No. I don’t believe you. You’re Paragon.“

“So let someone else be Paragon.”

“No one else can be Paragon, Chad. It’s a singular position.”

“Centurion retired. He passed the name on to a successor.”

“Mason wore power armor, Chad. He gave his power armor to someone else, so they could become Centurion. You’re the ‘Last Prince of a Dead Civilization,’ remember? You have any idea where we’re going to find another ‘last’ prince?”

Chad looked down. “I gave Paragirl her powers. She got a blood and marrow transplant from me while we were on Interplanet Station Seven. I could find someone–”

“Didn’t they say Paragirl was a one in a million fluke? Didn’t they say your bone marrow would have killed almost any other human? Are you going to take that kind of risk with someone’s life, so you can retire? And are you honestly saying the retirement would even take, after that?”

“‘Take?’”

Gus leaned down, gesturing at Chad with the stem of his pipe. “Even if someone else wore your cape and had the beacon vision and everything, the next time some planetkiller showed up you’d be the first phone call. Once a year — maybe once a month you’d have to suit up all over again. What would the point be?”

“So — what. You’re saying I can’t retire? I’m not allowed?“

Gus shook his head. “You’re talking to the wrong man here. I have an eternal curse, remember? I’m going to be the Ancient Mariner until such time as my sins are absolved.”

“I wasn’t aware I had sinned.”

Gus shrugged. “Either way. You’re Paragon, Chad. You have to live with that. There’s no rest for either of us, this side of the grave.”

Chad frowned. “Excuse me?”

“Nothing. I’m gonna grab another beer. You want one?”

“Yeah. Yeah, thanks.”

Chad watched Gus head into the beachhouse. He looked back out over the water.

And slowly he smiled.

Or “look, in today’s society, the nymphs and sirens who once wielded allure and song to draw sailors to their doom have cell phones and the internet like all the rest of us do. What makes you think the old ways apply.”

Today, we discuss the fundamental underpinnings of the universe. Also, we discuss coffee.

The world is a reflection of the people who live in it.

This has always been true, of course. It is a function of the conscious mind. Absent the conscious mind, the world exists as a combination of potential and backstage politics. The old canard about trees making sounds when they fall in the woods, ultimately, asks the wrong question. The real question is, is there a tree or the woods if there’s no one around to perceive them.

On the one hand, the answer is no. Without a mind, connected to eyes, the tree, the woods, all the little animals and plants and that damned poison ivy your girlfriend got all over her (and we do mean all over her) when you two were doing things in the woods that you shouldn’t do which made the camp counselor restrict you two to your campsites for a weekend just don’t exist. If you somehow managed to visit without your brain or your perceptions, you’d see a cleanup crew and a few sprites smoking cigarettes.

But on the other hand, the answer is yes. The answer is yes because our world demands the answer be yes. If the woods vanishes in a puff of smoke (or, more rationally, is disassembled by a stage crew who needs to redress it for another scene) when you’re not there, then the world makes no sense. If the world makes no sense, then it can’t possibly exist, because the world only exists to make sense of existence. So, by definition, if the world disappears when we can’t perceive it, then we’re careening through the void and our house of cards wouldn’t possibly have gotten built in the first place, much less sustain our illusions of desks, jobs, New York and all the rest.

So. To have a proper understanding of the world, you must simultaneously understand that the world only exists because we can see, hear, touch, smell and taste it, and yet the world must forever endure outside the range of our perceptions so that it doesn’t collapse and take us with it.

That mutual contradiction is the cornerstone of reality. And that means that there’s terrific potential in the universe that we’re stubbornly not taking advantage of. After all, if our perceptions shape the universe, and if the universe must persist where we can’t perceive it directly… we get to decide what’s in the bits we can’t see.

We used to do this as a matter of course. When lightning rained down on us from the Heavens, it scared us and made us defecate in our rather primitive garments. To distract the other folks in our tribe from our little ‘accident,’ we explained that the lightning came from Zeus, or Thor, or maybe Zeus and Thor having beers and watching bowling on television. I’m not really clear on the details. We couldn’t see Zeus or Thor, mind, but we knew they were there.

And so, they were.

Over time, every phenomenon on the planet was explained by mythological figures and processes in the world unseen. Some enterprising oracles and seers even bridged the gap between the seen world they could look at and the unseen world they could only intuit through the use of fungi, the goo on the backs of toads, or breathing in whatever fumes were naturally coming out of holes in the caves they set up their office in.

The amazing thing is, these things worked. They could in fact see Thor and Zeus and Raven and all the rest of those figures using these processes. Unfortunately, they were tripping so hard that anything the mythological entities would tell them would inevitably be garbled. Just because you can see Osiris and he seems to have the head of a bird doesn’t mean he does. It means the mushrooms are screwing with you, son.

Which isn’t to say that Osiris didn’t have the head of a bird. Though he didn’t — you’re thinking of Horus, a bird headed guy that Osiris sired after he was dead. Now, that there was a player. I’m just saying. Wilt Chamberlain may have had sex with twenty thousand women, but he didn’t get any after interment.

That I know of.

If you know differently, please for the love of God don’t tell me.

Anyway, the point is, the oracles who used psychedelics or huffed glue to get their visions did get authentic visions, but their testimony couldn’t exactly be considered solid, if you get my meaning. And I assume you do.

There were other oracles and seers, of course. Diviners who used water, or playing cards, or dice, or went into trances and walked other worlds. They had a better time of it, since their journey wasn’t complicated by that distracting Jimi Hendrix music wherever they went. But for the most part, those seers learned to refine their intuition, which was the same sense that told that guy with the dirty loincloth that Zeus was shelling the camp with lightning. Which didn’t make them wrong, since the point is they can’t be wrong. The world reflects our impressions of it, remember.

Eventually, most of these things fell out of favor. This was largely thanks to a combination of organized religion, which had its moments but wasn’t great for encouraging individual intuition, and science — which was far more prosaic but was also far more directly useful. Yeah, it was great to call upon Ares to come down and drive your enemies before you, but the method was unreliable. Ares might show up, or might not, or might answer your enemies’ call, all depending on factors like what goats were sacrificed and how and his mood and whether or not he was going to get royalties from Sony’s God of War franchise.

For the record? No. And he’s pissed. But I digress.

Anyway, Ares was fantastic when you could convince him to join your team, but Science could offer you automatic weapons and missile launchers. And they just worked. Every time. Assuming you didn’t screw up or forget to do regular maintenance.

This extended through all of life. A mythologist might intuit that the spirits of the angry waters that separated you from the mainland would need to be appeased and your body would need to be conditioned through trials of strength, speed, courage and wit before you could swim across and be regarded a hero on the other side, but a scientist could say “screw that — let’s build a bridge.”

Given a choice, most people took the bridge option. And when Science explained that lightning was static electricity in the person of an old Revolutionary with a penchant for kite flying and a mistress-total that Wilt Chamberlain could only dream of, it made sense to people and was somehow more comforting than Zeus taking potshots at their barn. And then Science turned around and harnessed that lightning to light and heat homes, interconnect us with communication, gave us television sets and the internets and provided a hair removal method that had longer term results than other depilatories? Zeus couldn’t really compete with that.

He did try. Hell, he got Charlton Heston to play him in a movie. If that doesn’t impress you, you do it.

And so, crushed beneath the heels of scientific achievement and mind-numbingly boring Episcopalian Masses, humanity slowly stopped intuiting the unseen world, letting it fade into disrepair and disuse.

This is problematic.

Oh, I know, it’s easy to say that it’s problematic because there was once magic and mystery and comfort in the world, faces in every rock and life in every tree beyond the process of photosynthesis. Yeah yeah yeah. That’s not what I mean. Honestly, compared to indoor plumbing, microwaves and seven cent packages of Ramen Noodles? I can live without the trees making fun of me behind my back, thank you very much.

No, the problem is this. Intuition is a part of the human condition. It is something we cultivated from the first days we started to conceptualize beyond “fire bad for hand” and “sex more fun than sticking hand in fire.” Belief in the unseen is going to be a part of who we are, and if we don’t have some kind of organization around it, bad things are going to happen.

Oh, you don’t believe me?

Look. Right now there is a dedicated group of human beings who regularly look up to the stars and dream. They dream of a better world. A world without poverty. A world without racism. A world without fear or hunger or war. They dream of a galaxy that teems with life, with potential, with untold adventure and untold providence.

The world is a reflection of our impressions of it. Which means if these morons are the ones controlling our impressions of the unseen, sooner or later we’re going to be attacked by a Klingon warfleet. And you can’t tell me that’ll be good.

So. We need modern seers and oracles, preferably ones not dropping acid to get there. We need modern mythologists who can embrace the scientific and work around it. Science just plain works, but it’s verifiable in the lab or it’s not science, and if it’s verifiable, then it’s something we can directly perceive. Intuition needs to work with what we can’t perceive, without contradicting it. Or not contradicting it too badly.

Fortunately, we have coffee.

Coffee is a remarkable thing, if you think about it. It’s largely made of various oils, but it blends perfectly with water without separation, which is utterly unlike any oil I’ve ever used in the kitchen or poured onto the surface of a lake.

Don’t ask about the lake thing.

Anyway. It stimulates us and gives us energy, but it contains essentially no calories when drunk black. It works well with cream, with milk, with soy milks, with “non-dairy creamer,” with sugar, with artificial sweeteners, and tastes good when made into ice cream. It is the basis of espresso, of lattes, of mochas, of frappucinos, of coolatas, and of most Swedish social gatherings. It is one of the top three liquids drunk in the world, and one of the other two is water for Christ’s sake. It is an economic powerhouse, often a religious sacrement, the object of early morning worship by a majority of the people reading these words right now, and an economic powerhouse that so vastly beats out hamburger on the worldwide market it’s not even funny. What’s more, you can add anything to it and it just plain works. Roasters add nuts, add vanilla, add chocolate, add cinnamon, add dried blueberries — look, I have a K-Cup for my Keurig right here in my office that’s called “German Chocolate Cake,” and I swear to Christ they’re not kidding! That’s what it is! Except it’s also completely, perfectly coffee.

I’ve seen recipes that call for coffee to be added to casseroles and used as part of a marinade for meat.

And the spent beans and grounds? Are ideal fertilizer.

You can’t tell me you believe this stuff doesn’t have some kind of spiritual or mystical connotations. You might not believe in magic. You might not believe in anything beyond what your eyes can see. But you know damn well that coffee doesn’t make a lick of sense if we think about it rationally.

Within coffee’s sweet, sweet bitterness can be found insight into our world. It is a social lubricant. It is a pipeline to the muse. Drink the right amount of coffee and you work faster, with more confidence. Drink too much and you vibrate into another plane of existence and become convinced you can fly.

When you sit down with friends, what do you do? You drink coffee and talk.

When the date has gone well and that girl you’re really, really into doesn’t want the night to end? She invites you in for coffee.

When Rockstar Games “accidentially” puts a playtested sex minigame into Grand Theft Auto? They call it Hot Coffee.

We don’t need unhealthy gases from the wall or mescaline to intuit the unseen world. We just need coffee.

And coffee is something I have in abundance.

See you next time.