MV1 COMICS PRESENTS		#42
	by Locust

(Note to readers: This story contains mild profanity.)

In the short time since moving from Ohio to New York City, Klara had spent precious little time trying to make friends, and, of the few people she'd met so far whom she would call "friend", only one would have the audacity to call her ten minutes before bedtime--Gage Reynolds. Of course it also happened that Gage was the only person she'd answer the phone for, so things worked out for the best. "I don't like this one bit."

"What's wrong?" Gage asked?

Klara pursed her lips and rubbed the palm of her hand against her forehead. "I really don't know." She whispered the words, partially because of the late hour and partially because she was afraid she couldn't answer his question.

"I've cast your lot five times so far and each time it's ended up like this." She gestured to the three pairs of rune carved dice in front of her on the stage. Each was half the size of a normal die and had identical glyphs carved into each of its six faces. However, the unusual thing about these dice was, no matter how Klara threw them, they would split off into three distinct pairs. The dice would end up side-by-side, almost touching, and there would be no less than three inches of space between one pair of dice and the other. Atypical behavior for any set of dice, that was certain.

"Well what does that mean then?"

Klara gathered up the dice and began to rub them nervously in her hands. Her eyes had suddenly become glassy as she struggled to hold back tears. "I have no idea."

Gage reached out for her and placed a tender hand upon her shoulder. He hesitated then, unsure of what to say, or do, that would make her feel better. His previous relationships with women--not that he was in that sort of a relationship with Klara--had been distant at best and these new feelings were alien to him. To be honest, they frightened him almost as much as learning what was behind his insomnia did. Almost.

"It's OK," Gage began, but stopped when he realized he could offer no reason as to why things were 'OK'. Instead of speaking, he drew Klara close to him, enveloping her shoulders in his arms. She seemed to like this and responded by relaxing into his embrace. He could feel the tension leave her body as she settled in against him. In her hand, the dice had stopped moving.

From this distance, her scent was intoxicating. Clean, with just a hint of wildflowers lingering beneath. And not synthetic blossoms either. The smell was fresh, alive in his nostrils; nothing that could have come from a bottle. How a city girl like Klara managed to hold on to such an unspoiled fragrance amazed Gage, but when Klara turned her brown eyes towards his, what his nose perceived suddenly became very unimportant.

Her eyes seemed lighter today, softer somehow. The color of gently brushed leather, they captured his attention as nothing else had ever managed to before. In the instant that their eyes met, things suddenly became clear for Gage. All the poems that he'd read, all the music that he'd heard, all the plays that he'd acted in, everything washed over him at once, as if the dam holding back his emotions had finally broken. He realized then that he was in love with Klara.

While she held his gaze with eyes still wet from unshed tears, Gage's mind raced. Skimming over sonnets, lyrics, even dialogue, he looked for a way to express his feelings. He became a drowning man, lost in the sea of his own memories, frantically searching for the one phrase, the one expression, that could be his lifeline. In the end, he turned to Klara, opened his mouth to speak, and . . .

. . .let out a huge yawn.

Had the Earth chosen that moment to open up and swallow him whole, Gage would not have been satisfied. His face started to burn as his cheeks filled with blood, but Klara seemed unaffected by his display. On the contrary, she found it to be quite charming. Putting on her most reassuring smile, she told him as much.

"I'm sorry; it's late," was all Gage could manage in reply. His face still hadn't cooled and no other words came to him. He had wasted his best--perhaps only--chance to open his heart to Klara and the lame apology he'd managed didn't open many avenues for a return.

"It is late, isn't it?" Klara asked. Gage yawned his reply.

"You know," she said, "instead of going all the way back across town, you could stay at my place." Klara's eyes gleamed in the soft light and, this time, it had little to do with the tears in her eyes.

"You don't know how much I'd like that," Gage said. "But I can't. At least not right now."

This time it was Klara's turn to lend a comforting hand. "I understand, " she said, taking the time to brush a few loose hairs from his eyes, "but if you change your mind, the offer still stands."

"Thanks," Gage replied relaxing into Klara's embrace. "I'll keep that in mind."

The reply came over his ear piece loud and clear. "No, nothing yet."

"OK, keep me posted."

Barnes sighed. The party had begun shortly after sunset and, as these parties often do, it was still in full swing two hours before sunrise. Disguised as a fund-raiser, the party was little more than an excuse for the rich and powerful to rub elbows and show off their latest conquests--both in the business world and their personal lives--all while quieting their conscience with a five-thousand dollar a plate dinner held in the name of charity. But Randall Barnes was no fool. He'd been around the Grand Ambassador long enough to know that no one charity would benefit much from the fund-raiser. There was just too much "overhead" to make a real contribution. But he also knew how to use the situation to his advantage.

Attach yourself to the biggest fish in the pond and don't leave his side for a minute.

The words were as fresh in his mind today as when he'd heard them for the first time nearly five years ago. Back then he'd been a busboy, eavesdropping as the maitre 'd briefed the attendants on their assignments for the evening. Each attendant was assigned a guest whom they would shadow for the entire evening, catering to their every whim. Exceptional service usually resulted in a very large tip, but if, at the end of the evening, the guest had anything negative to say, the attendant would not be invited back. Despite the risk, Randall applied for the position when the next charity event came around and he'd been doing it ever since.

He'd started out working smaller functions, parties that drew no one more important than local celebrities and minor political figures, but he treated each of his assignments as though they were the most important person at the party and quickly worked his way up. Along the way, Randall gained a reputation as being patient--a definite virtue when dealing with some of the pampered prima donnas these events attracted--thorough and prompt and each successive fundraiser brought him another step closer to the top, leading up to this evening's party.

Tonight, Randall Barnes had reached the pinnacle of his short career as an attendant at the Ambassador. He'd be assigned to Tony Stark for the evening, an assignment that was destined to be both simple and profitable. From what he'd heard, Stark was not a demanding guest, seldom asking for more than a glass or two of champagne and a few private moments to conduct his business. Otherwise, he was content to mingle with the crowd and spend the evening in the company of the beautiful women who were a staple of the Ambassador's fund raisers. This suited Barnes fine, as his last two assignments had gone far from smoothly and, although he had never experienced it firsthand, Stark was rumored to be a notoriously liberal tipper. Not long after he'd begun working as an attendant, he'd heard tales that Tony Stark would routinely hand out enough gratuities in one evening to cover the cost of a decent used car and Barnes was eager to find out if this was true or not. Now if only Stark weren't running so fashionably late.

Barnes was just about to radio the front to ask if they'd seen Stark yet when the sound of commotion caught his ear and he rushed off toward the Ambassador's Centennial Ballroom, the direction from which the noise originated. At first, Barnes thought that Stark had finally arrived--and it would be just like Julie, the girl who was scheduled to work the front desk tonight, not to tell him that his guest was there--but, as he drew nearer the Centennial, the terrified screams of guests and staff alike quickly changed his mind.

When he stepped through the staff entrance, the Ballroom was in a state of utter confusion. People were fleeing for the exits, fists and elbows flying about in an effort to clear an escape route. In one corner of the Ballroom, a well-dressed woman of about fifty--Barnes had seen her several times before but had never served as her attendant--was caught in the wave of bodies and quickly disappeared beneath a sea of tuxedoes and glamorous gowns. In another corner, three of Barnes' fellow attendants beat frantically on the locked Fire Exit door, completely unaware that a pair of frightened guests were trapped between themselves and the door.

While these scenes were repeating themselves nearly everywhere there was a door, Barnes realized he was the only person fighting their way back into the Ballroom. Tonight's guest list was said to have numbered well over five hundred and, add to that the dozens of attendants, servers, and managers working the event, and you had a riot in the making. All that was needed was something to set things off and, by the time he reached the small stage at the front of the Ballroom, Barnes knew all-too-well what that catalyst had been.

where is Tony Stark? The voice seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once, as though it were being spoken directly into his head. It rose above the commotion of the crowd; the screams, the pleas, the shouts, the breaking furniture, everything. It was a voice Barnes knew he would never forget no matter how often he tried, but there was something even worse than that voice in the Centennial that night.

where is Tony Stark? The voice repeated itself in his head, allowing Barnes to get a lock on where it was coming from. Not that it was particularly hard to locate the source now that the mass exodus of guests had nearly emptied the ballroom. Near the center of the room stood a tall, lean man dressed in very ragged clothing, a dirty fedora drawn tight against his head. But, the feature that stood out the most was the thick, red scarf he wore wrapped tightly around his face. Not only was the weather much too hot for the scarf to be comfortable, but the ends were almost impossibly long and each was wrapped tightly around the head of one of the party goers, neither of whom now moved. While the scarf obscured the rest of his face from view, Barnes was almost certain that this was the man who was asking for Tony Stark.

Without realizing he was speaking, Barnes heard himself say, "Stark's not here."

Instantly, the man was onstage beside him. Barnes had not even seen him move, but suddenly he was on the darkened stage with him. do not hide Stark from me. he is guilty--as are you all--and he will be punished.

While not physically imposing, the man frightened Barnes more than anything ever had before. He was only a few inches taller and several pounds lighter, but at this distance, he was the most imposing figure in the room. The sweet smell of rotting garbage was thick in the air around the stranger and the fact that he had crossed the forty feet to the stage before Barnes had even seen him move only served to unnerve the young man more. But he stood his ground. "Stark is not here," Barnes repeated, "and we wouldn't tell you if he were."

The strangers eyes narrowed, now little more than tiny slits beneath the brim of his hat. you lie! your punishment will be the most severe for hiding Stark from justice!

Suddenly, the end of the stranger's scarf came alive, wrapping itself around Barnes' face before he could even react. The cloth was dry and scratchy and smelled worse than the stranger, but Barnes could not tear the material free. Slowly, almost methodically, the scarf tightened its iron grip, cutting off precious oxygen to Barnes' body. All the while the stranger looked on, neither moving nor speaking, until Barnes was brought to his knees.

no crime shall be committed while the Tatterdemalion walks the Earth. there is no hope for the guilty.

Barnes continued to struggle weakly against the scarf. He was rapidly losing consciousness but found the strength to speak.

"Always . . .hope . . ." The words were muffled by the scarf, but they caught the Tatterdemalion's attention.

He regarded Barnes the way a hunter would an animal caught in his snare. When he spoke, there was no remorse, no pity, just the dry whisper of his voice in the now empty ballroom.

there is no hope, the Tatterdemalion said, there is only darkness.

Darkness.

"I'm getting real sick of this shit," Gary said. Truthfully, he had run out of patience more than an hour ago and had spent the last twenty minutes explaining to Danny exactly how he felt.

"Yeah, but you know the drill by now." Danny had also grown bored from waiting around, but, unlike Gary, he was somewhat better at keeping his opinions to himself. Somewhat.

"Just once I'd like the prick to be on time. You know how much action we're missing out on because we've been holed up here for however many hours? You've gotta wonder if maybe he does this on purpose, to keep us off the streets."

The thought had crossed Danny's mind too, but they had never been late to a meeting before, let alone missed one, and he wasn't very anxious to find out what the boss would do if it happened. "I'd rather not think about it," was all Danny said.

"Yeah, I know you wouldn't." Gary fell silent then, disinterested in pursuing the conversation especially since Danny wasn't up for it. Instead, he reached out in the darkness and felt around the filthy floor of the warehouse until he came across something. What it was, he wasn't sure--a rock, a bottle cap, something--but he picked it up and flung it into the darkness in disgust. It was just one of a dozen or so things he'd pitched into the darkness since they'd sat down and he was beginning to wonder how much more garbage could be on the floor around them.

On the far side of the warehouse, a sliver of light suddenly became visible, growing quickly until it became apparent that a door had been opened. When their eyes had adjusted, Gary and Danny quickly scrambled to their feet as a silhouette that could only be the boss appeared in the doorway. As he walked slowly across the length of the warehouse, the door behind him snapped shut, once again leaving everything in the grip of the darkness.

It seemed like an eternity before the other man reached them on the far side of the warehouse, and both men were sweating by the time he got there. "Hey, boss," Gary began when he thought the new arrival was in earshot, "hope we didn't bother you or anything."

"You have something for me?"

Satisfied that he wasn't just talking to the darkness, Gary continued. "Yeah, maybe. Hope you can use it."

"Last night Danny and I were. . . out, and we came across what we thought was a homeless guy mugging someone over in the Bowery." The lie came easily to him, despite the knot of fear balled in his throat. He wasn't sure how much the boss knew about what he and Gary did at night, but they were both paid to keep their eyes and ears open for anything unusual, and if last night didn't qualify as unusual, nothing they ever saw would.

"And?"

"Well, the mugger killed him," Danny said. Gary shot him a dirty look that he knew would have silenced his friend had he been able to see it.

Instead, he started talking before Danny could say another word. "Right. That's not too unusual by itself, but the way he killed him was."

"He wore this red scarf that was somehow alive and smothered him with it."

"I assume he fled when he saw the two of you. Which way did he go?"

Gary shook his head, though he doubted anyone could see the gesture in the darkness. "That's just it, neither one of us saw. He just showed up in the alley one minute and, after he killed the guy, he was gone."

"Teleporter?" The word was whispered, but Gary had heard it and he was almost certain Danny did too. "Anything else?"

"No, that's about it . . ." Gary began, but Danny quickly interrupted.

"He called himself the Tatter-d-something or other," Danny recalled, "and he said that he was out to punish criminals."

"Is that all?"

Gary was first to reply, but both agreed that nothing else of note was said. The three men stood in silence then, as, above, the first rays of sunshine began to filter through the few remaining windows that hadn't been repaired with plywood. Gary couldn't believe that it was after sunrise already. They had spent the better part of the night in the darkened warehouse and neither had anything to show for it. Maybe today should be the day he or Danny mentioned something about these arrangements.Maybe.

"This information is very useful," the boss began, "but you have left things out. I've heard things about the two of you for quite a while now, disturbing things, and you are not the only operatives I have."

"You were seen accosting the doctor last night, intimidating him, attempting to rob him of both money and drugs. This Tatterdemalion was a wildcard. He interrupted you--and he will pay for his crimes--but the two of you must be brought to justice."

Things seemed to happen in slow motion. A muzzle flash illuminated the warehouse for a brief second--was that a skull mask the boss wore?--and then Danny hit the floor. Hard.

His ears ringing from the gunshot, Gary now regretted putting their backs to the wall when they chose a place to wait for the boss. "What the Hell! C'mon now, can't we talk this out?"

Without another word, the masked man turned and fired at Gary. He smelled the pungent odor of gunpowder, now thick in the air. He felt the bullets hit home, tearing into his body, shattering bones and puncturing organs as the force of the rounds threw him into the wall behind him. He watched the blood fleeing his body, viscous and red even in the dim light of the warehouse. He heard the air leaving his lungs, felt the last breathe escape his lips. And then he felt no more.

"Justice is served!"

The Scourge of the Underworld turned on his heels and headed back the way he'd come. Indeed, justice had been served here this morning, but there was a new threat loose in the city and he would see to it that the Tatterdemalion was brought to justice.

Gage groggily shook his head. Another sleepless night had come and gone and, as usual, he felt worse when he woke up then when he finally fell asleep. "Not at all, Klara. I'm sorry you had to cancel rehearsal again today."

Klara waved off his apology while she sipped gingerly from her steaming cup of coffee. "Don't worry about it. When the time comes, we'll be ready. Right now, I'm more interested in getting you well."

Gage couldn't help but smile. Klara had been there for him through this whole mess. Whether it was canceling rehearsals or lending a sympathetic ear over a cup of coffee, she had been his rock, his beacon in the darkness. Sappy, but true, so it was little wonder he had found himself falling in love with her.

"I appreciate it," Gage said after setting his own cup of coffee back on the table. "But I really think maybe I should pull myself from the show. Having me around certainly hasn't been helping."

"Really, Gage, it's OK. There's nothing to worry about. I'm sure everyone enjoys the time off, and, besides, we're ready to go. You know it, I know it, the rest of the cast knows it. Take your mind off of the play and let me help you."

"I'll try," Gage yawned, "but I'm not promising anything. I just want what's best for everyone."

"And I want what's best for you."

"I'll be right back, OK?" Gage excused himself from the table to get a refill for his cup. Directly across the street from the theatre, the coffee house was abuzz with activity despite the early hour. There was an almost constant flow of people through the doors, some on their way to work and others on the way home. So far none of the other cast members had stopped in for a java, but with the cafe so close to the theatre, Gage wouldn't be surprised if they did. It had been nearly a week since the whole cast and crew had been together but he wasn't ready for a reunion just yet. First of all, he wasn't sure how they would react to him. Despite what Klara had said, he knew that some of them resented the recent downtime and most held him responsible--and rightfully so, he reminded himself. However, they were professionals and no one would ever voice their opinions while he was in earshot, but he knew what they were going through.

Second, like most of the others, he had been an actor for as long as he could remember. It was in his blood, always driving him on, and it was practically tearing him apart not to be doing what he loved most. Worse, he was responsible for keeping others from pursuing their dreams and that hurt him nearly as much as the lack of sleep did.

However, when he turned back to the table, the most important reason for his thoughts of a postponed reunion smiled at him. In his eyes, Klara Jones was beyond beautiful. She was also the kindest, most inspirational person he knew, always willing to help others despite what it may cost her. Even now, it was hard for him to believe that she had been there since the beginning and he had turned a blind eye to his feelings until last night. Naturally, he wanted this moment to last, free of interruptions from disgruntled cast mates or anyone else. Just the two of them, together while the rest of the world burned for all he cared.

When he returned to their table, Gage had decided that now was the time to let her know how he felt. Now was the time to finish what he'd only just dreamed of beginning last night. But, Klara had other ideas.

"I found out a couple things that might help us with your problem," Klara said as soon as Gage was seated. "I did an online search for the Tatterdemalion after you left and got a few hits that might be useful."

Although not what he'd wanted to talk about, Gage was interested in Klara's information and settled himself in to listen. His confession would have to wait for another day.

"There were about three or four different AP news articles from a few years back that mentioned the Tatterdemalion," Klara began. "All of the stories were about a clash between the West Coast Avengers and a group of costumed criminals called the Night Shift. Seems one of the criminals was identified by the Avengers as the Tatterdemalion. I don't know if this has anything to do with your problem or not, but it's worth looking into some more. I'm gonna head to the University tomorrow and see if I can't scare up some more information on the Night Shift and the Tatterdemalion."

Gage nodded his head in agreement. Perhaps this was simple coincidence, perhaps not, but it was still a lead worth following. "Anything else?" he asked, eager to steer the conversation back to his confession.

"This one is a little more vague, but I think it's a stronger lead." Klara took another sip of her coffee and then continued. "In Jewish mythology there were some references made to a vengeance spirit called the Tatterdemalion."

"Once upon a time, there lived a very wealthy merchant who dealt in the finest clothing imaginable. In the town in which he lived, he was known as a very prosperous man, but he was also a very greedy man and always wanted more.. He owned the largest shop in town and had two homes to call his own, but he shared none of his wealth with those in need. He was even miserly when it came to his synagogue, rarely tithing anything for his religion."

"And so it came to pass that one night he was alone in his shop, going over the books for the day, when he heard a window breaking. Going to investigate, he was confronted by three young men from a neighboring town who couldn't pass up the chance to rob the shop of the wealthiest merchant in the area. While they weren't expecting him to be working so late into the night, the lure of so much easy money was too tempting and they beat the merchant to death when he refused to surrender his wealth. Not content with robbery and murder, the young men then set out to destroy his shop, rending and tearing his fine cloths and silks and then turning their rage on the building itself. By the time they were finished, everything the merchant had worked his whole life for was destroyed."

"But, the worse part was that his neighbors had heard his cries while he was being beaten, had witnessed the destruction of his shop, but had done nothing to save him. With his dying breath, the merchant had vowed he would get revenge not only on the young men who were responsible, but also on the townspeople who did nothing to stop them. And so, when the young men had finally finished destroying his shop and were preparing to return home, a pile of tattered cloth came to life and struck them down, exacting the merchant's vengeance."

"But that was far from the end of the story. For three days and three nights, the townspeople were terrorized by this creature made from the tattered remains of the merchant's lifelong business. Few were safe from this ragman's wrath. He struck at random, killing everyone who crossed his path, and destroying whatever money, jewelry, and valuables they had with them. Some say it was a demon unleashed from Hell by the merchant's dying breath. Others claimed it was the spirit of the merchant himself, drawn to the cloth he had spent his entire life working with. Whatever it was, the townspeople were too afraid to leave their homes until the local rabbi banished the spirit to the desert."

Gage sat quietly for a moment, letting it all soak in. Was this myth somehow related? Was there some common thread connecting it to him? However, his question would have to wait for answers, as the television set above the counter came to life and the morning news anchor read the day's top story.

"Repeating today's top story: Three are dead and at least a dozen more injured after a homeless man calling himself the Tatterdemalion instigated a riot late last night at the famous Grand Ambassador Hotel. The riot started after the man suddenly appeared in the middle of the hotel's Centennial Ballroom and began demanding that Tony Stark be brought to him. A spokesperson for the billionaire industrialist confirmed that, while Stark was indeed on the guest list, he was out of town on business and was in no immediate danger. The police have not yet released the names of the deceased, but because the Ambassador was hosting a five-thousand dollar a plate charity fundraiser, rumors have begun circulating that every prominent New York socialite is among the dead. We'll bring you more on this story as it story as it becomes available."

Gage couldn't speak. He wanted to, but no words came. The news report had been a like physical blow, knocking the wind out of him. What was happening? To him? To the city? Something very bad was hanging over him, something he didn't yet understand. There was something he was missing, some piece to the puzzle, some common thread linking everything together, but, until he found it, he was putting himself and everyone in New York in danger.

"I have to leave, Klara. It's not safe for anyone while I'm here." She could only nod in agreement.

remember the Tatterdemalion.

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