TENSEN 2099UG	Writer/Artist/Editor: Gary M. Miller  |  Creator: Peter David  Editor-in-Chief: Michael Shirley  |  AEIC: Chris Lough
May 22, 1998 #10

Click the pictures to see character profiles!

John Tensen	Theodora Remsen	Keith Remsen	Stephen Hazzard

Shortly after returning to his home and finding it had been twisted into a dictatorship by the evil Reed Richards, John Tensen was confronted in a dream by an old friend -- Keith Remsen, the man known in his time as Nightmask. He seemed eager to help Tensen reclaim his past. But when Tensen met Nightmask outside of the dream realm he was confronted with an awful truth -- that somehow in the waking world Remsen had become psychotic, evil! Stunned by this development, Tensen could scarcely defend himself, unfortunately resulting in his untimely demise at the hands of someone whom he once called friend.

2049:

The call was followed by each of the men in each of the successive divisions. The feeling spread then from the facility to others like it, emanating like a cosmic wave of fury, of loss, of everything good and evil rolled into one. It was, in short, a psychic cry which none had ever experienced before ... and none would likely ever experience again.

The call emanated further....

Outside New York City:

He sat up, his combat clothes clinging to his sweat-covered skin. The fire in the barrel fifteen feet away was still blazing, still throwing him its warmth. It was no consolation to his spirit. Something was wrong. Nothing had ever made him -- afraid before.

His great-grandfather, whom he never knew, would laugh at this situation -- that he knew. There were many stories floating about the great mercenary Mark E. Hazzard, and his companions -- Treetop, Mal, Priestess, and the rest -- stories which had been passed on down the line, to Mark's son Scott, then to Scott's son, Jack, and finally to him. There was a legacy of living without fear, without any emotion save duty.

And duty was what pushed young Stephen to do what he now did -- for the love of what was his grandparents' country -- for the love of the lost United States of America. Decked out in the colors of the past -- his camouflage green mixed with small pins and patches of the good old red, white and blue -- he fought for the cause, that which had come to him -- in the Dream.

For the cause he'd traveled across the world, committing espionage, converting followers as human as himself, all in the name of the Dream. He'd investigated urban myths -- most notably that of the wildman of Wisconsin, the so-called Wompus -- a giant, probably paranormal man reduced to primitive nature long ago -- who was still somehow possessed of enough cognitive thinking to know of the threat other paranormals posed -- and enough physical strength to wage its own little war up north. He liked the Wompus -- but that wasn't to say he liked any paranormal who wasn't blind to what his or her kind were doing to humanity.

Hazzard stood finally as he saw the first coming of dawn through the murky horizon. He coughed, the volcanic ash which he breathed in being heaved up in his mucous. Spitting to the side, the self-proclaimed Man Without Fear hefted his guns and continued his hike toward the dome of New York City.

Washington, D.C.:

She didn't like solving the paranormals' problems. At the very least, the fact that she hadn't manifested paranormal abilities in years, but continued to be a card-carrying member of the paranormal movement was a joke. She'd been relegated to a position just above human slave -- not gratifying, not at all. But what could she do? Rebel and face having the remainder of her rights stripped away?

Theodora, or Teddy, as she still liked to be called, pulled herself away from the window using the special hoverchair she'd been given by the Emperor. Her work kept her awake all night, so she had little choice but to go off to sleep now, in the hour before dawn. Of course, there wasn't that much of dawn to be seen in Washington, D.C. anymore, not since some sixty years ago, when the Pittsburgh volcano kicked up a gigantic plume of ash that clouded the sky, making the temperatures fall and hard times set in like never before.

Teddy remembered how young she was back then -- she was practically a child of fifteen when the Black Event occurred -- in Georgetown, the old Clinic -- in the dream of a paranormal, an empath --riding with her brother Keith in a car .... when the disaster struck! It left her in a coma for months ... during which her brother went out of control, psychotic -- either due to the lack of her presence as his "psychic anchor," or from the effects of the Black Event on all paranormals, or perhaps both. All she knew was that her brother brought her out of the coma -- and then left just as suddenly, never to return.

That was in 1988. Now, Theodora was a woman of seventy-five ... and as she rested from the activities which sickened her, she felt herself struck by some -- force, a force which threatened to overwhelm her. It was, however, a familiar force -- which brought to her conscious mind an onrush of memories, one which might perhaps bring to light mysteries whose solutions had escaped her; like, for one, how she could be seventy-five years old -- and still not look a day over forty.

Theodora closed her eyes, drifting back, back in her chair ... not noticing the dark blue-hued shroud that seemed to entangle her and then collapse in upon itself, carryingher with it, leaving the Ballad Clinic unattended...

Nowhere, Now:

My interest has been piqued, and traveling forward (or is it backward?) I search for the origin place (or is it the end place?) from which these tracks come (or is it where they go?). White noise fills my ears, white smells assault my nostrils, white tastes wisp across my tongue. I am everywhere and nowhere, following the tracks.

The white noise is interrupted by a ... by a whistle, yes. Shrill, high-pitched, yet nonetheless pleasing. Where does it come from? I still don't know. Looking I see nothing, no hint of the origin of that sound.

Suddenly the wind is at my back, fiercely -- and fear drifts through my heavy heart, causing me to jump. Behind me is the train, come from the aether, smoke billowing up (down?) as it lies stopped. It lies on the tracks, perfectly still, and a thin figure steps out of one of the nearest cars, out into the nothingness, stepping on nothing. He is dressed in a conductor's outfit, with shades of blue and white covering him from head to toe. I realize I should recognize him, either from the uniform or from the moon-shaped tattoo on his forehead.

"All aboard!" he yells, and with one white glove he ushers me to come nearer.

"Are you coming?" he asks.

I answer. "I can make it ... on my own," I manage to say, not knowing where I am going, not even aware of my present location.

"Nonsense," the man whom I should know replies, "from now on you're always going to need help to get there from here."

"Where from where?" I ask, blindly.

"Exactly," the man says, smiling keenly, knowingly. "Now you've got your baggage, so hurry up and decide whether you're going to get on board or not. We don't wait forever, you know .... and I know you'd prefer to not stay here the rest of, well, just, are you coming?"

No sense can be made of his words. I look down to behold that by my side are several bags in many shapes and sizes. They have labels that I can't quite read. One I do recognize, a black and misshapen bag, has the words "Net Prophet" taped onto the side. So do all the others, I realize now.

"I'm coming," I say. "Just give me a minute to--"

"No can do, John." (John? My name is John?) "Can't wait that long. Besides, those bags won't do you any good where you're headed."

"But I can't just leave them here!" I say.

"You can, and you will. They're not who you are anymore. Now let's be off. You've got people waiting for you." He takes my hand and guides me up the stairs, through a door and into the train. The door closes behind him, and now he guides me down one hall which is lined with wooden panels, the floor plush and blue. He stops outside one particular door and knocks before outstretching his hand to me."Ticket please?" he asks.

I reach down to behold that I am dressed in a strange and curious manner. I wear a long-sleeved, light blue shirt with a lightning-bolt insignia imprinted in yellow and orange through the middle, with a heavy, loose belt at my midsection. Tight white pants cover my legs, and the design is completed with brown leather boots that go up to my knees. I cannot recall ever having worn this uniform before now -- having worn any uniform before now -- but know that somewhere, somehow, I must have done so.

Searching myself, I feel something underneath my sleeve, and pull out a long, envelope-shaped object which I then hand to the conductor. He thanks me, and proceeds on down the hall. Alone, I wait, until finally the door opens.

In the doorway stands a tall woman with strawberry-blond hair, dressed in a white nightgown. She is radiant, her green eyes looking at me so sweetly, so eagerly. She immediately pushes her body against mine, pressing her lips to mine.

"John! My darling! I can't believe it!"Irene, my wife, says ... and I am swept away by joy!

"I can't believe it either, Irene! It's ... it's great to see you!" Words can't express how I'm feeling now .... but suddenly again I feel a tingling I cannot place, even as she embraces me and I her.

"I hadn't dare hope--! God, John, how I've missed you! But you can't--!" The shadow of doubt creeps over her, now, too. I see it in her eyes as I ease her into the room, shutting the door to the cabin behind me. It's a room I remember -- from our honeymoon, when we went cross-country ... every last detail is there. But this can't be that moment ... I can't have gone back ... in time?

"Sssssh. What do you mean, I can't? I'm right here, with you, after so long I---!" I can't remember anything else -- whatever there is outside of this life, outside of Irene, my lovely wife, it doesn't matter. John Tensen is home to stay. Inside me I somehow realize there's nothing I wanted more -- and also, I wasn't quite ... right without her ... as though I've been without her?

"I mean, I hadn't hoped to see you this soon! Never dreamed that--! But we can't."

Again I'm mystified ... this is the woman I love, the woman I married! "I don't know what you mean, Irene ... but whatever's wrong," I say, kissing her softly, my hands caressing her, "it's nothing that can't wait...."

"You're still as wonderful as I remember," she says to me. From the look of love in her eyes, I can believe every word. "But you can't stay."

"Why can't I?" I ask, mystified. "I'm here, you're here ... my life is complete, only..." A fleeting thought assaults my brain. "Where's Angela?"

From the bed, Irene lowers her head -- from shame, from something, I don't know. I get up, my clothes -- that ridiculous uniform -- still on the floor. She doesn't know where she is. My daughter -- our daughter, our flesh and blood. "She's not here,"Irene says, "and neither should you be. You should be where she is ... and you've got to go."

"Go? I still don't..."

Irene, still naked, still beautiful, tosses me a more normal set of clothes, as well as a coat which I didn't see before -- yet, like the uniform I wore, seems strangely familiar."Put these on, John," Irene tells me, "There's a storm coming. You'd best be prepared for the worst." She steps out into the hall as I pull the shirt, pants, shoes and long brown duster onto me, kissing me one last time.

"We'll meet again, John. But not soon -- you've still got a long time before you'll come back to me. But I want you to know I love you, no matter what. You've been doing the right thing, John. I know it, you know it too. But you've got to let a little of the you I know -- the you I love -- in. Or else ... all is lost."

"I don't under--" I don't get to finish the sentence. The door closes behind her, and I'm left alone, empty, out in the hall. Well, perhaps not empty, per se -- but lonely ... definitely lonely. But I won't, I won't .... I .....

I will cry. For Irene...!

Again I walk down the lonely hallway, looking right, out the window. As Irene told me, there's storm clouds out on the horizon. I get the chills again, as though something's ... wrong. After applying my hand to the glass briefly, feeling the coldness from outside, I move down the hall to the door leading to the next car.

After entering the next car, I can't help but choke. Smoke wafts up through the air. This room, it seems familiar ... as do the people within it. There are tables, round and square, situated in no particular order around the car. A bartender waits at the far end, mixing drinks which a beautiful black woman takes to the men at the largest table. At that same table sit two men whom I feel I should know -- one large, gray-haired, mustachioed, goateed, wearing an animal skin of some sort which drapes across his back and over his shoulders. The other one is thin, wiry, with blond hair, piercing eyes, wearing a purple cape and a black suit. The one with the gray hair raises his eyebrows as he looks at me from the far end of the table. He and the others seem to be playing ... poker??!?

"We weren't expecting you quite so soon," the man says, "but what the hell ... won't you join Damon and I for a game or three?" He gestures to a nearby, empty wooden chair which I hadn't seen before. I step up and remove my coat to place it on the back of the chair, when I realize that I'm wearing a white, long-sleeved shirt, blue jeans, and tennis shoes. This strikes me as odd, but nonetheless I sit down, putting my hands up onto the green-clothed table, awaiting the next deal.

"It's been years since you tried to bust me, Tensen," the man says, grinning from ear to ear like some cheshire cat. "And Daedalus Darquill has every right to payback time." The name reminds me of something -- of pain, somehow ... and of illusion, of drugsparanormalkillescape.....

...but I push it all back. All I need to know is that Darquill made my life a living hell ... once upon a time. "Of course you do." Something's not right here, I realize as he deals me in. But I'll deal with it.

"What's the game?" I ask.

"Something very special," the one called Damon (Damon Conquest, I wonder to myself?) says. "You call it poker ... we here call it 'Eye For An Eye.' Five card stud. Go."

"Fine," I say, picking up the cards. King of Diamonds, King, Queen, Jack and Ten of Hearts.

Everyone exchanges their cards with the dealer .... and as I look at each of the men, I rub my eyes ... and see images superimposed on them -- images of doglike creatures. What in the name of God transpires here?

"Tensen," Darquill asks, "how many cards?"

"Just one," I respond, giving him back the King of Diamonds, passing it along the table slowly. Picking up the other card, I don't let my "poker face" down, not for a second. The card is the Ace of Hearts. In the back of my mind I think of how lucky I was to spend all that time learning the basics of poker from Irene. Doesn't matter what variation we played -- it's paying off at last. Or ... is Darquill giving me these cards on purpose?

Darquill finishes off the card-trading, with his lackey Conquest trading in two cards. The idiot doesn't even know what a poker face is. Then Darquill settles into betting without even giving himself any cards. Now I know something's up. There's very little chance he's just plain lucky.

It takes a while for the betting to get to me. Only thing I've got to fear is if Darquill has another Royal Flush. I have nothing to bet, I realize, just before looking down -- and seeing several stacks of poker chips. I know the colors -- know how much each is worth. I could've sworn I didn't have any of these mere seconds ago. But looking down I see the case holding the chips has my name written on it. I look at my cards again. And then I push a few of the thousand dollar chips forward. "I see your thousand and raise you ten thousand," I say boldly, not really sure where the money for those chips came from.

The others snicker and laugh as the bets go around the table. The men whom I saw as monsters go out quietly. Evidently they weren't as confident as they seemed. At the end there stands me against just Damon Conquest, and "Dad," Daedalus Darquill.

"Let's see your cards," Darquill says.

I turn my cards over one by one. Ace. Ten. Jack. Queen. King. Royal Flush.

Conquest takes his turn, spilling the cards onto the table. Six, Seven, Eight, Nine of Hearts ... with a big fat Five of Spades in the middle. Busted flush. The idiot thought he could bluff. I smile.

"Now, Darquill, you were saying something about payback time...?" I hold my smile, even as he lays down his Ace, Ten, Jack, Queen and King of Spades. Another Royal Flush.

"Dealers win ties," Darquill says, laughing. And as I look closer at the cards, my vision falters ... and I begin to see things, like I did with the other men at the table. This time I see the image of five Jokers superimposed over Darquill's Royal Flush. I blink again. The conclusion is undeniable -- I can't trust what I've seen, what Darquill tells me is truth.

However, Darquill and Conquest also notice by now that I'm onto them ... Conquest draws a gun, as does "Dad."

I move quickly, flipping the poker table over, onto them, triumphantly. Conquest is pinned, but Darquill is free as I run toward the door. I look back and--

The bullet pierces into my right eye .... and I tremble back ... back ... back ....

"Justice!"

I hear another familiar voice through the darkness, and immediately open my eyes. I hold my right hand over my eye to keep it from bleeding ... but there is no pain. No pain at all! But there has to be ... for I was shot, wasn't I?

The voice is above me, now. Must've collapsed just as I stumbled through the door to the next car ... this car. Whoever it is, he's familiar, just as the others were. But this one's different -- this one's businesslike, professional.

"Come on, Justice. Get up, will you? And stop holding your eye like that, it's annoying."

"Who...?"

His hand rests on my shoulder as I bring myself up, sitting on the floor now instead of lying flat on my stomach. I see his charcoal gray business suit, then look up at the badge on his lapel. Looking further up, I see the wrinkles along his neck and chin, the gray around his temples. "You big lug, you'd better get up. It's me. It's Updike."

"Updike???" I ask, fumbling for the right words. "NSC?"

A boom of thunder assaults my ears, signifying the storm is upon me, upon all of us. Updike lifts me up. Still I hesitate to peel my hand from my eye. "That's right, bucko. I'm surprised, did you know that most people around here still mistake our kind for the cash register people? Heh-heh. Anyway, your appointment's still not till later ... and we certainly weren't supposed to rendezvous right here." He directs me to a booth to one side of the train car, and now I realize that this is the dining car. The lights are bright, unlike the last room. Everything is better, higher-class -- like what I remember in my days in the National Security Council. Only ... only I can't remember anything else now.

A rather short waitress comes by and pours a cup of hot coffee into the mug that's on my side of the table. I thank her and drink eagerly from the cup, finally releasing my hand from over my eye. And that's when I go all dizzy.

"Justice?" Updike asks. "Tensen? What's wrong? I told you to keep an eye out for powerful paranormals ... but this is getting ridiculous."

"Got shot. In the eye ... only I wasn't..." A blur of colors runs across my vision. It seems I see things that aren't there ... and then they really aren't there anymore. It's almost as if my psychic aura detection's working overtime. But just as everything seems to drive me mad ... it all stops. I feel my eye again ... and discover that a patch now covers it. Like magic.

"Take your time," Updike says. "You haven't worked for me for a handful of years. But I still know you. I know what bugs you. It was the guys that drugged you. Made you have that delusion you were under when the NSC went to get you."

I sit up and look at Updike, now able to see him for what he is -- someone who can help. "How did you know that?"

"Came down from the man upstairs," Updike says. "He figured you'd need me to be able to rattle off little-known facts about your previous life while you recuperate."

"Recuperate from what? From this injury? Where am I supposed to go? Back with Irene?"

"In order: No, you weren't sent to me to recuperate from that puny injury. It's a much more serious condition. Two, you're supposed to go back. Not back to Irene, not just yet. You're on reprieve, momentarily. Then you have to decide if you're working for me again."

"Working for you again? I didn't think the NSC was still around in 2049!"

"It isn't, and yet, it is," Updike replies. "Look, it's all hard to explain. You won't be so much working for me as working for Him. The guy upstairs."

"You can't mean--!"

"Of course I can mean. Yeah, Him, the guy you thought you were taking orders from all those years. You've gotta loosen up, have to free your mind. Yes, I work for Him now, too. Just like you've got to. Because if you don't, you're going to end up right in the gutter, and you'll never get to see Angela ever again."

I grab Updike by the collar. "What have you done with her?" I ask.

"Easy, easy," Updike says, taking my hands from him and brushing off his suit. "We haven't done anything with her. Believe it or not, she's trying to help you right now, just like we are. But you and I, we have a schedule to keep."

"Schedule?" I ask, again dumbfounded.

Updike takes the badge from his lapel and hands it to me. "You always got a future with the 'Almighty' NSC. You've got to leave here. As they say in the movies, destiny's a-waiting for you in the next car."

"But I'm not prepared!" I say. I don't really know how I know I'm not prepared -- but I'm not.

Updike rises from the booth, and I follow. He looks out at the storm, out the window, to behold a purple skyscape with pure white lightning striking downward. The image resonates in my brain. I know it, but cannot place it. "It's time again," he says, and leans down to pick up an object from the floor of the train car. He outstretches his hands to me, but I see nothing in them. "Use your imagination," he says.

I lift up the eyepatch and place it over my good eye, somehow knowing what it is that will accomplish. Suddenly from the nothingness of before I see Updike holding a perfectly round shield with the image of a lightning bolt upon it. "Don't go playing Captain America, okay? Just do what you do, and you'll meet up with Angela again ... and later, if you're lucky, you'll see me, and Irene, and your parents ... well, you get the picture. But now you've got to face your challenge. Through that door, into the next car. And no, I can't help you out. So go already!"

I take the shield in my left hand and charge the door.

"It's about time you got here, Justice," a shrill voice says. I look over the man, my right eye showing me his evil nature -- his nature as a paranormal. This fact alone allows me to remember the form, associating the aura surrounding him with a name.

His name is Seraph. He thinks he's my opposite, my "evil half," whose only purpose in this existence is to be my arch-enemy, in true comic-book fashion. I'm not going to let him earn that title -- it'd be dangerous to my image.

I switch my eyepatch so that I have my normal vision. My shield disappears from my left hand, although I can still feel it. Seraph stands in his trademark garb -- an old world-style white shirt, with a black cape and pants of the same color. Long-haired, bearded, he looks like a swashbuckler out of an Errol Flynn movie -- all except for his scythe, long and sharp. He's a one-man army, or so he thinks.

"Thought you'd never arrive," another man says, stepping from the shadows. I remember his name as well: He is Judge Mental, paranormal who can only read projected thoughts. In other words, someone who's not worth too much at just being a psychic. I should know, because that's how I defeated him before. "Now that you're here, I shall have the privilege of watching my servant Seraph best you in immortal combat for all time!"

"You're a caricature of your old self, Judge," I say, watching as the stout ex-leader of the Forsaken strides from left to right and back again.

"Show him some manners, Seraph!" the madman cries. "But first ... give him a weapon, if you would. It is only fair...!"

Seraph is none too happy about being commanded by one such as the Judge. I suppose it's all those years of putting up with him here (where is here?) that are finally catching up with him. Nevertheless, he reaches from underneath his cape and pulls out something -- something invisible -- which he throws directly at me.

I catch the weapon with my right hand (Right hand? Wasn't it -- wasn't I--?) before I can even flip up my patch to see what it is I've caught. After doing so, I find it is a longsword, seemingly forged from the finest steel in the hottest fires. It fits perfectly in my hand. Too perfectly.

I charge Seraph, and he delights in the onset of battle, even as Judge Mental watches over us. I swing, and swing, and swing yet again, driving Seraph back even further.

"You'll never win," he says, "because none of us can ever win. You may think the battle is turning in your favor, but just wait. I cannot tire, and neither can you ... this is a war that can and will rage for all eternity!"

"Not if I can help it," I say, grabbing hold of Seraph's scythe suddenly, letting go of my own weapon. I tug at it while staring my enemy in the face. He doesn't notice that I am my knee for his groin, and by that time, it's too late. The scythe is mine, in my hand, and Seraph has fallen, unable or unwilling to get up.

"You still need your sword!" Seraph screams at me, laughing all the while. "It's part of you, isn't it?"

I remember other things, now, and shout back while standing at the door to the last car. "You know, you're right about that. This sword ... it feels right. But I think I can put this weapon of yours to good use ... besides, in a way you taught me, many years ago, that once you have psychic potential ... you can exploit it in most any way. So, take my sword ... please." With a smile, I command my old sword to somehow levitate into my hand while I levitate Seraph's scythe and plunge it down through his body, pinning him to the ground. Curiously, he does not die, he merely lies there, writhing. As Judge Mental rushes past me to take the side of his fallen, I take my leave, saying nothing.

Here I am. It's the last car ... and if I want to get off this thing, if I want to leave everyone I've loved, everyone I've hated, then this is my chance. It's tempting to go ... but it's even more tempting to go back several cars, to see Irene once more, to stay with her...

This car resembles the more casual train compartments. Regular seats -- lining both sides, not like a train car really but more like a subway. There seem to be two people on this car besides myself. One of them, I can feel, radiates good, everything that is heroic, noble -- a true warrior for peace. The other is one of the most evil natures, or at the very least, fearful ones I've ever encountered. The second is the more familiar to me -- perhaps, because she fits my situation right now? (What situation?)

I walk down the corridor and stop beside the seat where both of these people are sitting. The noble one, in the aisle seat, looks like he's reading a newspaper. He sits, chained to the other one whom I fear, who is nearer to the window.

"Sit," the noble one implores me. I do so, in the seat across the aisle from him. Casually, I look him over. If ever there were a man who represented everything good, everything that one should fight for in the world, this was that man. He sat, dressed in a red and blue uniform which covered him from head to toe; golden blond hair was atop his head; his eyes shone of the brightest blue; on his chest he wore an emblem of a star; and on his wrists he wore golden bands like none I'd ever seen before. This man was a hero.

"You don't belong here. Your choice to leave is the right one." His voice, calm and collected, portrayed the silent hope within me.

"Excuse me? Who are you, sir?"

The noble soul beside me put down his paper. "I am a man whose time has come and gone. I knew when it was time for me to move on, and I surrendered; I left the world. Now I see you here. You're of noble spirit, John Tensen; I admire that. That's why I have to tell you that while my time has come, yours hasn't. You're free to go; nothing binds you here unless you let it."

"I'm free to go? Where am I?"

"You haven't sensed it? No, surely you haven't. Being who you are, John, you haven't stopped to think about where you are, and thus, you haven't even begun to accept it. Don't you see, it's all part of the plan?"

"No, I--"

"I came to terms long ago; I knew immediately where I was. That's how one knows it's his time. You can't dwell on it any more ... the less you realize about where you are and what you're doing here, the better it is for you. Go, before you do suffer that realization."

"But I must know--!"

"By Hala, John! Don't hesitate!" the hero exclaims, rising to his feet. The fearsome figure in purple cloak rises slowly with him. "Go the path of the hero now! Leave here!"

"Leave ... of course!" Finding the truth in his words, I run for the rear of the car -- this, the last car -- and kick open the door leading outside. From in here I can see the windows reflecting certain doom, the storm growing more fierce by the second -- but looking outside after kicking open the door, I see nothingness -- the same whiteness from whence I came here! That, and a familiar presence stands now at my back.

"Jump, Tensen!" Keith cries to me, as he applies his hands around my neck. "Jump, and carry me with you!"

I hesitate. Keith -- Nightmask? -- is he...? I remember--!

"I'll explain when we're free! Just go!"

I leap forward, away from the train, out into the nothingness, my patch once again over my right eye. As we tumble round and round, I look back at the last train car to see the hero, staring out at me, his face seeming to disappear (into space?), eyes still staring out at me -- even as the hand of the purple-cloaked one pulls him backward to rejoin him/her/it in their seat.

Once again I am in the whiteness from whence I began this ride -- and now, with Keith alongside, I still can see no way out. Perhaps it would have been best to stay on the train after all...

"You're thinking with a defeatist attitude, Tensen! You've got to get us out of here ... and I think you know how to make something out of nothing!"

Keith's words strike me as odd ... but now they make sense, as well. Something out of nothing....

At once I take the patch from my right eye, and place it over my left. Suddenly, everything comes together ... and I find myself in the same world as I saw outside the window. The sky is all purple, lightning streaking across the sky left and right, up and down, matching the design I now see on my shirt. Mountains are near and far, the structures high, dark, and eerie. As I stand on the ground, it begins to quake, to move, to come apart.

"Run!" Keith yells, and this time I don't dare hesitate. As the ground cracks open beneath us, we try desperately to run away from it all. Keith loses his footing and, behind me, I hear his screams of torment. Then the only sounds I hear are those of the winds, the thunder, and the ground closing up underneath me. It seems what the earth wanted, it devoured.

I stop, looking down at the closed-up earth before taking a look upward. I immediately wish I hadn't.

Up in the sky above me is a massive stone goliath, a being whose sheer size I have never before encountered. It seems that it is lying on the earth in an upside-down position but -- NO! I know now that somehow, I am on the underbelly of this world -- that this millennial giant is somehow holding up this entire world, resting it upon its gigantic shoulders!

Everything feels surreal ... this cannot be, and yet it is. I see the arm of the giant nearby, and want to run for it ... but before I can, another quake begins. What can be the cause of this??? Then I look back up at the form of Atlas, to behold the beginnings of -- movement! Indeed, Atlas now moves, as though desperately trying to remove the earthen body from its shoulders ... and now I see that its form begins to shift, to grow, its muscles bulging, its face contorting as eyes open themselves, red and angry. The skin of the goliath turns to pure purple and its chin ripples. It is still a bald creature, but now has taken on the hint -- no, the appearance of purest evil -- evil which once again I feel I should recognize but cannot!

The giant grows larger still, and, remarkably, now it holds this globe in his hand the way an adult would grasp a scale model of the Earth itself! It stands in the all-encompassing darkness, staring, grinning -- at me?

"SUBMIT!," the giant titan orders. It still stares directly at me. I, who am but a speck of dust compared to him!

Then the immense behemoth balls his free hand into a fist -- a gigantic purple fist which approaches faster, faster toward me and only me!

"Live!" her voice cried out. The people watched from over her shoulder as the slightest of miracles was performed.

John Tensen sputtered, coughed, and then finally awoke with a start. He felt ... odd. There wasn't any other way to phrase it. He lay, on his back, gazing upward at images which wouldn't come into focus. He saw forms which gave off a multitude of hues, from pure white to red to purple and everything in between. Just as quickly he saw the images of faces, people ... and he just gave up trying.

"Can you hear me, dad?" a voice said. Soft, feminine, but still with a firm quality to it. Tensen found it instantly recognizable.

"Angela...?" He began to sit up, but found it amazingly painful to do so. "What--?"

"Don't try to talk. You've been hurt, rather badly."

"How badly?" he asked, coughing yet again, feeling sharp pain in his side as he did so. "Should have ... burned..."

Angela's voice shouted at the others: "Was he burned at all?" And then Tensen heard nothing for a few moments. Her voice resumed. "You weren't burned at all. But I think you'd better start answering some questions as soon as you feel up to it."

Again Tensen tried looking to see what was going on in front of him. He didn't want to be blinded -- didn't want the error in his vision to prevent him from seeing his daughter, seeing where he was now.

("You're thinking with a defeatist attitude, Tensen! You've got to get us out of here ... and I think you know how to make something out of nothing!")

"Give me something ... a handkerchief, some cloth ... I need to cover my eye," Tensen said. A few moments later, he felt a piece of cloth put into his hand. With his eyes still closed, he began to wrap the cloth so that his right eye would be covered, leaving his left eye free to see. When he opened his eyes, everything immediately came into focus.

First he looked down at his hands -- his hands! -- with his right arm suddenly, somehow, re-grown, regenerated. He wondered what could have happened to make such a miracle occur -- wondered if Angela indeed had the power to--!

In front of him sat an elderly woman who wore a green sweater and a long jean skirt. She sat in an rickety old wheelchair which looked to be from the latter twentieth century. Her hair, while holding some minute shades of the strawberry blond it once possessed, was largely white. Still, she had those eyes Tensen remembered ... baby blue eyes ... her father's eyes.

"Angela .... is that you?" Tensen asked, unsure of whether to believe what his eyes showed him now.

She answered in a voice wracked with the pain of realization. "Yes ... daddy, it's me. In fact ... it's all of us, here, now."

"All of us...?" Tensen wondered, dragging himself to his feet.

"Welcome back to Coney Island, daddy ... the home of the Diseased Paranormals." A thin wiry hand extended as Angela pointed out the myriad of people gathered all around the both of them.

"How did I get here?" he asked.

Another woman stepped from the crowd to answer Tensen's question. "We skimmed ya 'bout a mile north of here, where the camps stop. You were beaten pretty bad. Weren't even breathin' -- we thoughtcha been wiped. Gran'ma didn't know if she'd be able to pull you back or not." This woman, with her long, golden blond hair -- her piercing green eyes, seemed eerily familiar, drawing with her some feelings ... of lust, lust that had been awakened in Tensen once before, somewhere else. (Back in 2099....?)

"Grandma?!?" Tensen asked. He was thoroughly confused now.

"Daddy, I'd like you to meet Sintilla ... Sintilla Pasko-Harris. She's your great-granddaughter."

"Great-granddaughter??!?" Tensen asked, again. "Looks like we have ... a lot to catch up on."

"Yes, we do -- seeing as you disappeared without a trace fifty years ago, and now you come back, not looking a day older...!"

"Somehow, I'll explain. But now, where's Victor? Where's your husband? Last time I saw him was--"

"Victor's ... dead, daddy," Angela said, with a deluge of loss in her voice. "He was one of the first."

"First? What are you talking about? And why are you all here at Coney Island, anyway? You're calling yourself diseased--?"

Another man stepped forth from the crowd. He was little older than twenty, but his face showed signs of premature aging -- and when he lifted up his shirt, Tensen knew exactly why he was here. He had the telltale outer signs of cellular degeneration -- of cancer. "The reason we call ourselves D.P.'s is because we are," he said. "Most of us here are dying -- dying from Pasko's Disease."

"Pasko's--? Victor? What happened to Victor?" Tensen ran over beside his daughter. "Tell me what's happened! I need to know what's happened to you all ... what's happened to this world. You've been here from the beginning ... I haven't ... so please, give me the answers I need!"

Angela began to shake then, her hands trembling, her eyes rolling upward as though she were convulsing. Quickly Tensen took to her side, holding her hand even as he felt a wave of pain wrack his heart. Gripping his own chest, he watched Angela. When it seemed Angela's sudden episode had ended, Tensen also felt the pain subside within his own breast.

"What was that, Angela?" he asked, in a voice full of fear mixed with concern. "My -- heart -- just somehow stopped ... but only while you had your--!"

Angela's voice was weaker than before. She tried gripping her father's hand more tightly than before, but failed. "That's what I have to tell you, dad."

"Tell me what?" he implored. Then the realization came to him. He remembered her paranormal abilities, remembered how, years ago, she had saved herself from a madman paranormal who called himself Quill who had abducted her. They were in a cemetery and she ... brought the dead to life ... to punish, to kill Quill.

"You brought me back to life. I wasn't just not breathing ... I was..."

"Dead," Angela said, nodding. "It's why I'm so weak now. You're still the relatively ripe age of fifty, while I'm eighty-one. I'm old. Things just don't work as good as they used to. I ... used my parability to bring you back. I couldn't stand the thought of not knowing what had happened to you ... where you'd gone. I needed to know your excuse for not defending us against Richards. I..."

"You what?" Tensen asked. He could feel his heart sinking deeper as he heard his daughter talk more.

"But I neglected to think about ... what would happen afterward. You see, when I was young, all I had to do was will something to life. I even did it subconsciously with Figaro, you remember my cat ... but now I not only have to concentrate to give something life ... I have to keep concentrating or else...!" She stopped to regain her composure. "I'm so happy to see you, daddy ... but I'm so tired...!"

"What you're saying," Tensen said calmly while choking back tears, "is that you can keep me here ... as long as you concentrate on doing so? What happens when you stop concentrating, Angela? What happens?"

Angela swallowed hard. "I have to keep every ounce of energy this tired old body has left focused on you ... because if I stop concentrating, or if I ... die, which will happen sooner or later..."

"...then I'll die again."

Angela nodded. "And next time, there'll be no coming back."

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Site created and maintained by Gary Michael Miller, tensen2099@yahoo.com Tensen and all related characters are © 2001 Marvel Characters, Inc. No copyright infringements intended.