Eric Haldane's Story

"Ring... Ring... Ring..."

The phone rang consistently. An old, rotary phone from god knows when. It sat on the little old-fashioned table, black and tarnished. A real antique, that has seen better days. It certainly wasn't appreciated. But, it didn't stop, so somebody was going to have to answer it. Muttering under his breath, the tall, good-looking man stretched in the sunlight that poured form his window, still stuck in that place between awake and asleep. He glanced wearily at the clock; four in the afternoon. Ugh... It had been a very rough night, and the bouncer hadn't gotten into bed until nearly nine that morning. His shift started again at nine-thirty that evening, and tonight was Friday night. TGIF all across the city, drunken party goers everywhere. He pinched the bridge of his nose at the mere thought of it. By the time he got up, put tracksuit bottoms on and got to the phone, it had stopped ringing.

"Shit," He mumbled, running a hand through his mop of messy hair. Well, he was up now. He walked the length of his small apartment, flopping onto the couch and turning on the TV. He sat up however as he saw the news flash on the screen... Some kind of robbery at the bank. There had been gunfire, and at least one confirmed killing. That was it; Eric was on his feet in a flash, heading back into his room to get his costume together...

The Abettor stood over the body of the young woman... The 'robbers' had been so distracted by the yelling of one man with a jammed weapon that they'd simply allowed one of Atlas's most prominent heroes to waltz in the front door. He vaguely recognized the woman... That helmet... Hmmm, she obviously hadn't been prepared; what were the chances that she of all people would be the one chosen to be killed in a hostage situation?
He crouched down with a small smile to feel for a pulse. To an ordinary person, it would seem impossible that she could survive the loss of that much blood.
"Stop playing around, Necrosis. It's getting old." He straightened up, offering out a hand to his blood-soaked colleague. They had only met a couple of times before, but her knew well of her regenerative abilities, and her ability to cheat death everytime.

He smiled at the group, daring one of them to make one false move. "I'll give you one chance to get up and leave while you still can."

A wiry young man with pale skin and thick glasses was sitting at a desk in front of a computer, hard at work. The desk was situated directly in front of a very grand looking office on the top floor of one of the tallest office buildings in Atlas City. That office was the office of Victoria Rosario. Editor in Chief of Rogue Magazine. The worlds #1 most popular magazine. It covered everything that anyone would want to read. Fashion, Stars, Movies and most importantly, Supers. IT was one of the only known magazines that kept up to date on the super human community and their deeds and misdeeds. It was all due to the vision of Ms. Rosario. It was her baby.....the man in front of her office however, was her bitch. The young man was Christopher Coleson, her personal assistant. Though she never quite got his name right, even though it was on his desk, she depended on him for a lot. Even though Chris had a lot of work to do, he was about to get a lot more.

"Coleman!" The familiar voice screamed over the intercom.

"Yes, Ms. Rosario?" Chris said in a very concerned and polite way.

"Get in here, now!" She screamed once again.

Chris simply sighed and got up from his desk. He walked over to the double doors and opened them. He walked inside the large luxurious office. There was a small waterfall and a zen garden, along with a bonsai tree and several modern couches and coffee tables. At the center of it all was a large black desk that looked very modern with a large red chair situated behind it that almost looked futuristic. Ms. Rosario was in the corner of her office, looking down and out of the wall of windows in her office. Chris approached her. "What do you need, Ms. Rosario?" Chris asked patiently.

The woman who spun around to meet him was, to put it simply, beautiful. She had tanned skin with natural blonde hair wrapped up in a very professional bun. She wore a blue button up with a grey woman's suit jacket along with a grey work skirt. As long as Chris had known her, she had never worn pants. "Calvin, I need you to round up our on the scene team and alert the Super writers. The Abettor just flew past my office and there is smoke rising from the Atlas Central bank. It happened not 10 seconds ago. We need to be the first with this story and we have to fit it into to tomorrow's issue, understood." From the moment she had started talking, Chris had been writing down almost every word she said. He looked up at her. "On it ma'am." He the turned around and went to work on his Blackberry. He BBMed everyone she had told him to contact and explained the situation to them in under 3 minutes. He then sat back down at his desk and felt good. A voice suddenly rung in his head. "Christopher, why be you laxed? Did you not understand thy lady. Villainy is afoot! This is why I brought you back, to combat the forces of evil and to protect the innocent mortals of Midgard." Chris sighed. "Baldur, I have work to do and...." he was interrupted. "I'm surprised at you Christopher! Does not the safety of your fellow man not concern you more than this monotonous clanging of keys upon thy board. Come my friend, let us to battle!" Chris glanced at his key board, then down the hall to the stairs. "Your right. Let's go!" Baldur sounded in his head. "Verily."

Chris walked to the stair case and opened the door. He ran up them one flight to the roof of the building. He rant to the corner and looked down at the bank below. He shook his left wrist and a very strange watch came out of it. He brought the watch to his face and spoke. "As the darkness consumes the light, so does the light consume the darkness!" A huge flash of light came from Chris, turning him into a shining beacon. When the light faded, a tall armored man with glowing blue eyes and glowing blue lines on his face stood where Chris once stood. Baldur stood on the edge of the building and screamed before leaping off the edge. "For Midgard!"

Baldur landed with a very loud crash. The force of his body indenting the pavement and shattering some of the windows of the bank. He then stood up and walked into the bank. He surveyed the scene with his glowing eyes and saw many armed thugs and a man in a strange suit he had never seen before. He also noted the dead near the safe and a woman with a helmet covered in her own blood. The lines on his face glowed a bit brighter at this sight. "Thy villains would display such acts of barbarism before children!" Baldur yelled at the criminals. If they hadn't noticed him before, they sure as hell did now. One who was not 5 feet from him turned around and aimed an assault rifle at his head. Baldur did not even look at him. The thug then opened fire on Baldur, aiming for his head, the only thing that wasn't armored. The bullets flattened against Baldur's incredibly dense skin, but the force caused him to move his head a bit.

After the thug stopped firing. Baldur simply turned his head and stared at him. "You dare attack a son of Odin!" Baldur took a step towards him and flicked him in the forehead. The thug went flying back and smacked against the wall of the bank. "I will offer Amnesty once, all of you lay down your arms, or face the wrath of an Asgardian."

"Stop playing around, Necrosis. It's getting old."

The woman opened her eyes fully, a smirk spreading across her face. She wasn't fooling Abettor, that was for sure. Ordinarily, she would have refused his hand and got to her feet by herself, but she was still feeling a little light-headed. She reached up and gripped his hand, hoisting herself up again. The room rolled, and Necrosis stumbled slightly, using the hero beside her to hold herself upright until it passed. She touched her throat gently with one bloody hand, frowning as she noted the progress of the healing. It was closed now, but only just.

She flinched slightly as something rather large and heavy impacted on the pavement outside, peeking over Abettor's shoulder to see, lo and behold, Baldur. Norse god or not, he was walking freaking cliché, in Lilith's own, haughty opinion. She would love to use her negating abilities on him, just once, to see what would happen to him. However, doing so at the moment would affect everyone, and she really didn't want the crowd see her getting shot to pieces, only for her to pull herself back together again. Another time, maybe.

"Thy villains would display such acts of barbarism before children!"
Lilith rolled her eyes behind her visor, looking up to the other hero. "Is it just me who can't take this guy seriously?" She muttered, just loud enough for Abettor to hear. At least his crassness was diverting attention away from her own set-back, and the fact she was still holding onto... She suddenly stepped away from the black-clad hero, turning pink under the helmet. When the hell did she turn into Lois freaking Lane?

Another person, a civilian by all appearances, came charging into the bank next. He went from panicking to a blind rage in seconds. "WHERE IS SHE?!"
Before anyone could stop him, he lost it, taking his rage out on one of the nearby thugs. The bullets... Necrosis frowned. He was one of them, but obviously not a vigilante. He was a threat not just to the robbers, but to the civilians and the vigilantes and maybe even himself if he did not let up.
"Fancy checking around back, big man?" She addressed the Abettor with a slight tilt of her head, quickly wiping her hands on the back of her skirt.

Walking calmly over to him, she reached out to touch his shoulder, eying the other 'villains'. They were wary of her, nervous. They'd just seen her die in front of their very eyes, yet here she was. She hoped that this man didn't try anything... He was powered-down, and she had a scalpel within easy reach. "How about you just calm down a little, mate?"

Tristan watched wide-eyed as, one by one, superhumans--or should he use the word the newspapers gave them?--landed, slammed, and barged into the bank. He soon realized that the young woman who had seemingly died was standing up with hardly a scratch (but plenty of blood splatter). He knew superhumans were a part of society, and there had been quite a few costumed ones in New York, but it still gave him a little bit of initial shock when he saw them. Shock that quickly turned into bitter distaste which morphed into mercilessly sarcastic inner-commentary.

There was the classic costumed hero. The Norse God who had somehow been demoted to mortal living quarters. The goth-looking heroine, too balance it out (there always had to be a female, but God forbid she be too feminine.) And the average, every-day non-hero driven mad by love.

Heroic antics were sure to follow. Much of it would appear in the papers the next day, an inspiring case of triumphant justice.

Inspiring indeed.

Most likely completely oblivious to yet another superhuman. One who had gained much of his abilities through an inspired man.

But enough of that. Tristan shook his head, ridding himself of those thoughts. Those belonged to a past Tristan. The one who was so steeped in grudges, he was too stubborn to move forward and heal. The present Tristan needed to be focused on this still dangerous situation at hand.

Although the "heroes" had arrived, Tristan was still wary of the gunman. The arrival of the last super had proved that the men weren't entirely scared into inactivity. They still had guns, and all but one was in perfect working condition.

Well, not if he could help it.

Within the next minute, he had all the firearms blocked. Should any of the men try to fire, it would either result in a jam, or even better, a backfire. There were a lot of guns, though, and spread about the room at that. He could already feel his body relaxing, and if he wasn't too careful, he'd be relaxed all over the floor. Taking a bit of a gamble--he was still new to this particular ability--he strengthened the gravity on himself so that he was effectively rooted to the ground. Hopefully it had only taken a hold on him. It wouldn't do well if the other normal civilians couldn't escape because the ground had taken a special liking to their undersides. Forcing his eyes to stay open--they had an annoying habit of closing when he wasn't completely within his body--he waited to see who would make the next move.