TENSEN 2099UG	Writer/Artist/Editor: Gary M. Miller  |  Creator: Peter David  Editor-in-Chief: Michael Shirley  |  AEIC: Chris Lough
Feb. 11, 1998 #7

Click the pictures to see character profiles!

John Tensen	Thanatos	Reed Richards	The Collection Agency

After reconstructing the Virtual Unreality portal in Las Vegas, John Tensen, Xina Kwan, and Meanstreak were assaulted by the madman known as Thanatos.  In the ensuing battle, Tensen's hand was burned off, and Meanstreak suffered a crippling injury to his leg.  Tensen and Thanatos went through the portal, leaving the others to fend for themselves.  Once they were gone, Xina had no choice but to amputate Meanstreak's leg, but the hero continued to slip into a coma.

In a dream in between realms, Tensen encountered beings from his past, including Keith Remsen, better known as Nightmask--but curiously absent of that persona.  Waking on the world of Tensen's birth, Tensen and Thanatos faced execution at the hands of the deadliest man alive--Reed Richards, Emperor of the New Universe Earth entire.  Having no choice, the adversaries teamed up against the group of paranormals led by Richards.  Richards threatened to kill his own people if Tensen and Thanatos did not surrender, and so, a decision had to be made...

Beneath New York City, 2049:

The others, two men and a woman, seated themselves as soon as Tensen himself was secure. Tensen wondered, however briefly, where Thanatos was at this moment. He had denied Richards to the very end. In fact, the last thing Tensen had seen before he was shipped off here was Thanatos being struck down while held in place by the mad emperor. His mortal enemy couldn't be dead -- could he?

"We're all ready for transport," The man at the control deck, obviously a Native American, said into the microphone on the dash.

"Trans-Manhattan tunnel all clear, number one," a rather robotic, yet feminine, voice responded.

"Looks like we're gone," the other man said. Tensen noticed then that the man had obviously peculiar skin. Just by looking at it he could tell that the black flesh didn't really resemble flesh at all -- but rather rock, stone, some abrasive substance. It marked him as paranormal. The other two, well, who knew at this point?

The low hum that had been present the entire while suddenly kicked into overdrive as the pilot took the wheel and hit the accelerator. In a flash the craft's velocity shifted from zero to roughly one hundred fifty miles per hour. Just as soon as the speed kicked in, however, the feeling, the pressure, was gone, and the craft slowed back down as it docked into a similar port. Tensen was dizzy as the others brought him to his feet. The technology here was remarkable -- an entire series of underground tunnels, probably made from the remains of the old subway system and sewers. It was clean, precise -- cold, sterile.

The woman walked around to face Tensen, then pulled out what looked like a credit card. She placed it at each set of cuffs which held Tensen, and, after she ran the card through slots on each article, the shackles tumbled to the ground, and Tensen was free.

"Come with us," the woman said, gesturing toward an elevator to the far side of the corridor. As Tensen looked at her, he saw something ... something almost familiar. She had the look of the faintest innocence, or so it appeared. Perhaps it was innocence forever lost ... yes, now Tensen could see that in her eyes. He looked over her form, five-foot-seven-inches tall, roughly -- long dirty blond hair, blue eyes that somehow maintained the illusion of innocence. She wore a skintight bodysuit that adhered rather well to her shapely form, accentuating her rather large breasts and her well-shaped, round derriere, her flat belly and long sleek legs. She had the look of a streetwalker about her, and was none too obvious about portraying such an image in public.

"Who are you all?" Tensen asked them as they escorted him down the hall, the blonde and the man with rock-hard skin flanking him while the Native American led the group ahead into the corridor which led to the lift, a hundred-odd feet in the distance. He clenched his fist as he walked side-by-side with the other paranormals.

"You could say we're the Emperor's special forces," said the man to Tensen's front. "When there's new assignments to be made at the Long Island facilities, then we're the ones who help the new overseer adjust. Especially if he's in the same situation as you. Especially if he's been an outlaw."

"For short," the woman said, "you might make easy reference to us as a collection agency of sorts." When she said the name, "collection agency," her voice hit a sort of barb, and the others turned briefly in her direction, on full alert, angry even.

"Then ... you are my ... superiors?" Tensen asked, not liking this situation one iota.

"Until you're fully trained," the one in front said. "You should get accustomed to referring to us by our rank. To your right," he gestured to the rocky, dense human being standing there, "that's Lieutenant Vic Stone. At your left is Captain Kylie Munro. I'm Major Richard Proudhawk." He guided them even further down the corridor. The name ... Proudhawk. It sparked a faint memory in Tensen's mind.

"Prepare yourself for your assignment, Mr. Tensen," Munro said, taking him by the arm as they walked into the glass-encased lift. She looked at the pad on the elevator's near wall, took one of her gloves off, and pressed her right thumb to the scanner pad.

A feminine voice, the same one as which had received Proudhawk's earlier orders, immediately responded. "Kylie Munro. Captain First Class. Floor please?"

"Ground floor, Recantation Facility J1-32," Captain Munro replied, then she took her thumb from the plate and slid the glove back onto her hand.

"Affirmative," the computer replied, and the ascent upward began at a quickened pace. Tensen just then noticed that the voice of the artificial intelligence was precisely matched to Munro's own -- they were, in fact, identical.

Just as soon as the order had been given to the computer, it seemed they had arrived at their destination. The lift came to a soft halt and the doors opened to a large stage with a podium, almost like what Richards had had in the town square. Spread out immediately past the end of the stage was a facility the like of which Tensen had never before seen. He heard the whirring of gears, the buzzing of saws, the chunk-a-chunk of coal being thrust into hot stoves. Bells rang, alarms sounded, sirens blared, and men and women shouted and screamed in equal shares of success and pain. Tensen saw all manner of members of both sexes working as hard as he'd seen anyone -- manufacturing toys, electronic devices, anything he could ever envision. Overpowering amounts of perspiration assaulted his olfactory sense. That, and the scent of one other thing -- death, personified.

These people were being worked to death.

"What ... is this??!?" Tensen asked. Nothing shocked him so much as this. Nothing made the anger more pronounced. Nothing made him more angry for vengeance. And nothing made him wish so badly that he had not lost his right hand only hours before.

"Mr. Tensen ... or shall we make that Sergeant Tensen now?" Proudhawk asked, assigning him his rank in the scheme of militaristic rule that was Richards'. "This is your new base of operations." The Major then took a stance at the podium where he then pressed a button on its underside, bringing down a huge television set, similar to what Tensen had seen at professional sporting events. Tensen then looked up as he saw his own face on the monitors, and heard Proudhawk speak into the podium microphone.

"Attention, people of Long Island Recantation Facility number J1-32. As of today, the Sixth of September, Two Thousand Forty-Nine, you have a new sergeant to preside over the labors conducted in this facility. His name is John Tensen." Proudhawk motioned for Tensen to speak to the denizens of this "facility." "Sergeant Tensen, a few words...?"

Tensen had to think, briefly, as he looked at his own image on the screens, then the hundreds -- no, thousands of people, normals he guessed -- who stood at their work stations. Sick. It made him sick. Like he had to do something about the state of affairs here. What in God's name had happened during his absence?

"People," Tensen began, forcing himself to remain composed, alert, aware, stern. "I am Sergeant Tensen. Serve me well, and so shall I serve you." He couldn't stand it. Such insanity. Men. Women. Children. No treatment of one above another, no mercy. He had to leave from the stage out into the crowd. As he did so, the other paranormals made their exits.

Aisles upon aisles of different divisions of labor were all around Tensen. He saw welders, seamstresses, builders with their diagrams and templates, assemblers, every terrible, hard-labor task he could imagine, multiplied tenfold. He strode down the concrete walkway between work stations, and as he did so, the normals laughed and gazed with anger and fear at Tensen. They spat at him, called him names, even punched him. Didn't they have the right?

As they all continued to assault him (Did he really deserve this punishment? Then again, weren't these pathetic people entirely deserving of being shut away from the paranormal populace?) others dressed in plain militaristic garb came between Tensen and the normals to defend him. After they had driven the infidels off a suitable distance, the officers ran to Tensen.

"Sergeant," one of them said, touching Tensen where the men had struck him, "we were unaware that we would have another leader so quickly. Allow me to tend to your injuries."

"That's quite all--" Tensen stopped as he felt a sort of healing energy funnel through into his body from the man. He could feel his bruises mending already ... and just as quickly they were gone. All the wounds gone, save for his missing hand. He straightened his manner. "Thank you. I'm sorry, you are...?"

"Corporal Vance Harrington, sir," the man said, snapping to a rigid posture. He wore a white armband with the same star-shaped insignia on it, much like the crowds Tensen had seen earlier.

"Corporal, are all these people ... are all of them normals?" Tensen asked.

"Yes, sir," Harrington said. He then noticed that his sergeant had no armband on his own sleeve, and opted to remedy the situation immediately. "Sir, if I may offer my armband to you? The head of the facility must show his authority to all."

Harrington held out the band with the star insignia to Tensen. Did Tensen want this? He had no good feelings toward the oppressive government nor its supreme ruler, Richards. However, he had the obligation to do as he was instructed by the upper echelons. He supposed this was part of his indoctrination -- the acceptance of the armband and all it represented. Tensen slid the armband up his sleeve. But he did not do so with pride or conviction of any manner -- it was another task to perform, nothing more.

"No one is to touch or harm the Sergeant!" another one of the soldiers said, whipping normals into submission. He was using long, barbed tendrils which extended from his forearms. "Go back to your work! Manufacture your product!"

Another one of the Paranormal Guardsmen stepped forward. The thin, wiry man looked Tensen over and laughed. "What manner of fools are you others, anyway? Y' persist in making this man out to be a paranormal -- when he hasn't even shown us what he does yet!" The man proceeded to punch Tensen in the stomach while the other soldiers stood at the ready, unsure as of yet how to approach the situation.

Tensen then concentrated, letting his mind wander outside his body. Yes, his psionic powers had increased, changed since he had last been here -- and perhaps it was for the better. He felt his mind connect with the one who threatened him, and then -- then -- nothing. It was as though his attempt were being blocked, by either some outside force or at some subconscious level. As it was he could only see a light radiating from around the paranormal -- the aura, he could sense. And this aura radiated black light. Unworthy.

Tensen turned to look the man in the eyes. As he did so, his own eyes glowed red with the energy of his sword. Two seconds later, the beams shot forth and burrowed into the soldier's own eyes before he could defend himself. The force was too great, and the soldier felt some manner of pressure build, increase, until finally, finally he could feel it no longer -- and his head exploded in a mess of blood, bone, and gray matter.

"Still you question my authority?" Tensen asked the rest. He had indeed hated what he had just done. But this was what he did best, wasn't it? To punish paranormals who believed themselves better than the rest of humanity? The image of what was right had obviously been twisted, perverted during his absence. That meant two things: one, he had a lot more work to do now than he'd ever believed possible; and two, he'd have to be careful in continuing his battle, for the system inside which he now operated was part of the filth he hoped to absolve.

The feelings were coming back again, along with the rush of adrenalin from the fresh kill.

Tensen turned to the men. as he did so, he looked upward but briefly to behold what he thought was a lithe form of a man, on the roof, where a skylight shone down. It was approaching dark.

"I need some rest," Tensen said to the soldiers. "Keep me informed of any ... trouble."

And he walked away, the stench of death and guilt still drenching his senses.

Under the large dome that separated the old New York City from the wasteland of swirling volcanic ash that was the eastern North American continent, one building stood above all others in the sky, a beacon to all. Some called it the Emperor's palace; others called it the seat of all paranormal power in the new world order.

Its official name was the Baxter Building. And eighty floors from street level were the Emperor's bed chambers.

The bells of a nearby clock tower tolled twelve times in the darkness. Midnight.

Reed Richards sat up in the bed in his Imperial chambers. He'd just finished his day's meetings with his rulers from around the world. He had Earth firmly in his grasp, and yet -- he believed somehow, something was evading him. Some minor detail was left unfathomable, unknowable. But Reed Richards knew everything. It had been so for an entire age -- for the last fifty years. And now, the two who threatened to depose him as he was in the midst of bringing the world under his control -- those two had returned. He thought he could keep them away, but somehow, somehow they came back. Richards thought again then; perhaps this was the God-given opportunity (or perhaps it wasn't God, per se, as Richards hadn't believed in a God for a long time; fate was more in his character) to put his opposition down for the final time. One final test of his supreme, superhuman power, and his enemies would be reduced to bloody red smears to be cleaned off the streets by the Paranormal Guard -- no need to involve himself in the affair.

Then again, it would be greatly satisfying to make sure the duo were dead so that they could not return later. Richards had had great problems in the past when he faultily believed his enemies were vanquished.

As he sat up before the fireplace, he clicked to the News of Earth on his vision set above the bed, and watched for the briefest of moments as the Richards Imperial Network gave its view of the world. A riot of normals in Oslo, the same in Krasnoyevsk, and in Sydney, Lima, even in Casablanca. And every time, his paranormal elite were putting an end to the uprisings -- whether it was his Kickers, or the Medusa Web-led MAX Force. Each time hundreds were left dead, their bodies put in massive graves far apart from paranormal society. Then more Recantation Facilities were built over top of the burial sites. The normals were destroying themselves. So mote it be.

As he began to crush the remote for the vision set, he heard the faint pitter-pat of footsteps in the bedchamber. An even fainter closing of a door, however muffled. Then his senses detected a hint of fragrance in the air -- of course, a woman's perfume. Sloppy, far too sloppy to be an assassination attempt.

"I know you're here, Captain Munro," Richards said, and smiled. Before him, a vision of a woman drifted into being from thin air. Blond, buxom, young. Just the way the Emperor liked.

"Hello ... darling," Captain Kylie Munro said. She wore her military uniform -- skin-tight as per Richards' instructions. The Emperor rose from the bed, wearing dark blue pajama bottoms, showing off his toned upper body. She came to him, gently running her fingers through her long hair. "How have you been?"

Richards moved from out of the sheets to a sitting position at the edge of the bed.

"Troubled ... tell me, has Tensen arrived safely at his position, given his mission?" He cut directly to the point. All business ... no pleasure. Kylie would have to change that.

"Of course, Emperor Richards ... Reed." Her voice softened as she lowered a hand to the zipper on her uniform, which she toyed with, pulling it downward just a few inches. The Emperor didn't seem to notice.

"You and the others made a complete check over the premises on the Long Island facilities, made sure all of the sergeants' needs were attended to?"

"Of course, Reed, but" -- she ran her fingers ever so gently through his brown hair, especially teasing the hints of white at his sideburns -- "that isn't entirely why I came to report to you tonight." There it was. The bait, as much as she may have detested it. "Something's troubling you. Something's wrong," she continued, crossing her arms. "You can tell me. Tell me what it is."

"It's ... too complicated," Richards stated flatly. His resolve straightened. "It's nothing you should concern yourself with. I'll have everything worked out and back to normal as soon as I can." He looked at her again, as she lifted her hand from his hair. "Now can you go away, girl? I've a million things to do in the morning."

The nerve of him, commanding her to go. It was almost as if he could see right through him -- which was certainly difficult, now. "Surely, Reed ... darling, I might be able to do something" -- she reached for his hand and pulled it to her zipper -- "to calm your nerves ... to make you forget about your troubles for a while."

"But--!" Reed seemed emphatic when he had first used this insistence to the contrary. On reflection, he seemed to almost be giving up.

"No buts," Kylie said, guiding his hand to pull the zipper all the way down. With that done, she eased the outfit down and off her shoulders, tugging it further until it all accumulated in a satiny pile on the bedroom floor. Kylie stood naked before him. Naked, before the Emperor of the Earth -- as had been done so many times before.

The Emperor rose immediately to comprehend her full beauty. Perhaps it wasn't her personal beauty but rather the beauty of another, and this one only resembled that other. His beloved.

He put his hands to her face, then ran them through her blond hair, enjoying the softness, the silkiness of every stroke. He closed his eyes as he brought his hands to her shoulders and began to force her downward.

Kylie decided to entertain Richards' whims -- after all, what more could she do here? "What an animal you are," she said to Richards, forcing a smile. She kneeled before the Emperor, and immediately she knew what task she was to perform next. With a pained expression on her face, the woman took hold of Richards' pajama bottoms and loosed them, letting them fall to the floor. Here goes, girl, Kylie thought, you can do it. Just close your eyes and detach yourself, just like you've done a thousand times before.

"Oh ... Susan," Reed then said as Kylie brought him into the primary stages of pleasure. "I love you."

Kylie said nothing as Richards mouthed the words -- the name of another whom, she guessed, the Emperor had once loved and possibly lost. She dared not say a word, not any more than she dare risk losing concentration on another task.

"Darling," Richards said then in between the feelings of pure enjoyment, "Sue, it seems like you aren't giving your all tonight, love ... honestly, you seem almost a million miles away."

Kylie would not respond.

On the positive end, Thanatos now had plenty of time to think. Since he'd entered the Gulag several hours ago, thinking was all he'd done. They'd removed his mystical armor and placed it in their vault. Then they'd told him to dress himself in the ordinary prison garments, things of drab olive and black. After that, he'd been put in his special cell, walls of white, with a bed that came from the side of the wall when necessary. Thanatos used this bed now, sitting on the edge, doing nothing save thinking.

Since he'd inhabited this body, he'd had feelings that he'd been someone, somewhere -- and now that he'd remembered them all, here he was with no way to use them. He'd discovered that he'd once been immortal -- incapable of dying in the natural sense. Now, as he felt the blood course through his body, his heart beating strong in his chest -- he realized that with this body, that was no longer true. He had a human body now, slightly modified for his purposes, but still he couldn't make it as durable as his old one. And right now, he needed to be durable to survive the threat of Richards. That was the reason he'd surrendered so soon earlier in the day -- he'd felt the weakness and couldn't go on without the risk of dying ... again. So he'd sat here, to think, to scheme, so that when he got out of here, and get out he would, he'd have the precise plan to lead him directly to Richards and crush his neck.

He'd known Richards for several years before this, talked with him. It would be an astute assessment to say that he knew this Reed Richards better than anyone else. He knew how strong this Richards could be when he set his mind to it. They'd been adrift in the annals of Interspace together, after all. It was only after their escape that Reed had betrayed him. Some might see it the other way around, but mighty Thanatos considered his version of events the definitive one.

And there was Tensen. If he didn't hate him so completely, he might actually envy him. Certainly he had many years ago, before the events leading to his second plunge into Interspace -- into the infernal thing which Jordan Boone had called Virtual Unreality -- and Tensen's first, together. The body, the powers, they were all well-suited. However, Tensen hadn't shown up at the same time Thanatos had exited Unreality and returned to Earth, and so the then-disembodied being had to find another humanoid form suitable to his needs. Aaron Delgato had served well enough, but still, he was no John Tensen.

As Thanatos lamented, a door-shaped square appeared in the corner of the room. They masked the door from his view somehow, to prevent his escape. It was midnight now, so it wouldn't be time for any of the main meals, so ... what was going on?

The door opened, and two figures emerged, each wearing commanding officer uniforms with the star-shaped insignia on their sleeves. One of them, a Native American, threw him what turned out to be a government-issue officer's uniform.

"Don't ask questions, just put it on," the man, Major Richard Proudhawk, commanded.

"Thanatos demands to know--"

Proudhawk shoved a gun barrel into Thanatos's face. "You don't need to know anything. If you want to be free, come with us."

"You wear the seal of Richards. You stink of his influence."

Stone interjected. "If you want to be rid of Richards ... come with us."

Thanatos smiled and garbed himself in the new costume. Then, he went to the door to exit with them, when he looked back and saw a doppelganger -- himself, sitting on the bed, in his prison uniform.

"A clever illusion," Thanatos said as they sealed the room and walked down the hall toward the exit. "But clever is all. It will fool no one."

"It'll fool security long enough to get you out of here," Proudhawk said. "The cameras won't come back on for another fifteen minutes at least. Right now they're running video loops off everyone's cells. Let's go."

"Very well," Thanatos said. "But will you be true to your word? How do you aim to accomplish this ... undertaking? How do you intend to be rid of Richards?"

"Don't worry about that now. Our third member is doing the best she can, keeping our Emperor occupied and helping us at the same time here, getting you out. It's amazing what her parabilities are."

"It's also pretty amazing what some of her non-parabilities are ... isn't it, Major?" Vic asked, sneering. Proudhawk knew what he meant, and his face ever slightly grew redder.

At long last, they reached the gate at the end of the hall. A few seconds later they were outside the building, where a sleek new Chrysler-Richards automobile waited. All three men climbed inside. The car then drifted up into the sky and away from the Gulag.

Thanatos could stand no more, and concentrated so as to restore his mystical vesture, though it had been left back at the Gulag. The military uniform disappeared, replaced by his armor. "What manner of deal have we made ... for my freedom?"

Proudhawk spoke up. "Someone wants you out. Wants you to help us locate something, an object of power believed lost somewhere on this planet, in this vicinity. He tells us that you're no stranger to peculiar talismans."

"Tell me more," Thanatos urged.

"Not until we meet up with the remaining member of our little Collection Agency," Proudhawk said. "She's the one who's behind-the-scenes helping you escape."

"When will I have my shot at Richards?"

"Soon enough," Proudhawk resolved. "Soon, we'll all have a piece of Emperor Reed Richards. The bastard."

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