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Mutants & Masterminds: Legacy - On The Rocks


Bannon

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*Sometimes, or so it's said, a person has to only take so much pain before Death comes to free them. That God, or Allah or the Creator or Gaea or the Universal One has everything all worked out that we never experience more bad stuff than we can handle.

"Oh, they died after getting their skin flayed off and seeing their loved ones clubbed to death. Well, that must have been the point God designed them to stop at. Everything is working as intended, nothing to see here, move along." That's the kind of bullshit lopsided thinking that makes me want to grab the nuts of the nearest theologian and turn them into ice cubes.

It's so peaceful here, alone in my head. My thoughts, my dreams have been slowed by my induced sleep, each memetic image falling into view like drifting snowflakes. I can see each one, experience each memory without the familiar ache, the phantom pain caused by simply living too long. This, right here, is how I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that I'm human. People can throw 'transhuman' and 'posthuman' and 'metahuman' at me, but the truth is if I really *was* some hotshot evolutionary leg-up I probably wouldn't have felt the decades sliding through me like long spikes pinning me to some insane cosmic lepidopterists index card, securing me to the past while the future sprays me with preserving fluid. Thankfully, I don't feel that right now. I don't feel much of anything.

It's nice.

A snowflake drifts into view, it's facets showing me something. Dimly, I hear something. Music. Nice enough, but it's*

...too damn loud Jason thought to himself as he tried to sit casually, whilst still keeping most of the New York speakeasy's clientele in front of him. The band was a shoddy six-man affair that were murdering "Shanghai Shuffle", partly because they were taking their wages in cheap drink, he admitted to himself, but mainly because they were a bunch of no-talent bums. One of the joint's girls sashayed up to him, the red-sequinned flapper dress slithering around her body as her mascara'd eyes gave the white-haired young man an appraising once-over. He was neatly-groomed, wearing a dark suit with gold cufflinks, and obviously a little ill at ease here - a rich boy slumming for the first time if she'd ever seen one. Apparently making her mind up, she planted her hands on her hips and gave him a coy smile.

"Whatcha having, sweetie?" Jason blinked and tried to decide what to say. Fortunately, help was at hand.

"Nothing from you, Grace. The kid's with me and we ain't talking pleasure. But I'll tell you what: go and get me some proper Canadian juice from the bar and you can have a glass on me." The gravelly voice matched the sinister, scarred visage as Jim "Bear" Bolton slid into the seat opposite Jason. The pale grey left eye studied the young man even as the white, scarred left eye did likewise. Whatever both eyes saw, the silent scrutiny ended when the girl came back with a bottle of good whiskey and two glasses. Making a show of pouring for both men, Grace took an ostentatious sip from Jason's glass before winking and shimmying off, grinning over her shoulder as she noted him following her with his eyes.

"Don't think it, kid. Grace is bad news in a helluva package." Bear said with a good-natured snort. "Last fella she was with ended up floating down the Hudson. She's trouble."

"Maybe I like trouble." Jason said with a wry smile, tearing his eyes back to Bear. The older man studied Jason for another breath before shaking his head in a 'dont say I didn't tell you so' gesture.

"So, you're Jack Bannon's kid."

"Yes." Jason gazed back levelly, not flinching or looking away.

"Hmm. You got yer daddy's eyes, right enough." Bear took a gulp of whiskey, then set down the glass. "So what brings you to my humble establishment, kid."

"Cho." Jason said quietly, measuring the other man's reaction. Bear didn't so much as bat an eyelid, and Jason fought to restrain his own reaction to that. The club owner hadn't been surprised to see him, and hadn't been surprised to hear that name.

"Cho, huh? Sounds like a chink name." Bear said casually. Jason set a small pouch on the table, resting his hand on it as Bear's good eye focused on it warily.

"He killed three cops and a friend of mine up north." Jason said quietly. "He's not just a bootlegger, Bear. He deals in worse things than good booze and guns, and he's got bigger plans than supplying gin joints forever. He's up to something bad. I just need an address." He pushed the pouch with his fingertips towards Bear. The larger man took it and pulled it open, noting the gleam of clear stones within, and whistled.

"Are these...?"

"Yes." Jason said in a low, firm tone. "And that should tell you how serious I am. Don't play dumb with me, Mr Bolton. You know everything and everyone in this town. All I need" Jason repeated steadily "Is an address."

"Okay kid. You're a chip off the old block, I can see that." Bear rubbed his bristly chin and grinned. "Have another drink, and let me see what I can find out."

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*Yeah... I like trouble alright. Especially when the trouble is female and comes with Dead Man's curves. Thing is, that liking has gotten me into plenty of *bad* situations. But weirdly enough, it's gotten me out of *deadly* ones. Go figure...*

...Dad's old criminal informant couldn't be trusted. Jason mused sarcastically to himself as he spat blood. Tied to a chair in a liquor storehouse, getting worked over by a Chinese man bigger than a bull with Bear over there hanging around trying not to gloat too obviously as he waits for his payoff. Nice work, Jason. Everything's going completely according to plan...

"Master Cho will be happy to see you, Mister Bannon. Your Society's little raid up across the border cost him considerable amounts of time and money." The large Chinaman slapped Jason across the face again twice, then reached for a black bag tucked into his belt. "Apology for the bag. So sorry, but Master Cho knows better than to let the son of a powerful mentalist like Jack Bannon have the use of his eyes. Also, you will see that the bottom of this hood has a thick rope around it. I will be right behind you, Mister Bannon, with my hands on this noose. I can strangle a buffalo - I do not think your thin neck will protect you. So sorry for threat."

"Oh, that's okay." Bannon coughed as the large man slid the bag over his head. "You're just doing your job." His irony wasn't wasted on the audience: a small rustle of laughter went around the watching bootleggers. Then they started talking quietly among themselves, patiently waiting for the main event. Jason took stock.

Two busted ribs - bad. Four broken fingers - ouch. Mild concussion, some internal bleeding from the beating, and the bullet wound in my leg - all things I could do without. Worst is to come though. Cho likes to do the whole 'Death of a Thousand Cuts' on people he really hates. He surreptitiously worked at the knots around his hands, then gave up. I'm no Houdini, worse luck.

"Mister Bannon." This voice was cultured, with only a hint of Orient in the accent. "I am very glad to see you took my invitation." Steps came closer, stopping in front of the chair. Jason judged the voice was perhaps fifteen feet away as Cho continued with cultured malice. "I am Master Cho. Forgive me for not removing your hood and shaking your hand, but we are not truly friends, nor are you likely to live long enough to become so."

"No offense taken. I'm sure I could do better for friends anyway." Jason said with a smile under his hood. The rope tightened around his neck warningly, but Cho laughed and clapped slowly.

"Oh, droll. Very droll. Much like your father, Mister Bannon. You have his wit. He was quite a foe - there are times I miss him."

"You'll forgive me if I doubt that." Jason grated a little, the false gentility starting to wear on his nerves. "After all, you killed him." There was an intake of breath, then a laugh. A happy, delighted sound.

"However did you figure that out, Mister Bannon?"

"The poison that killed him. The symptoms that his partner described to me were identical to the effects of a rare Far Eastern pollen: a very powerful hayfever attack that closes off the throat and strangles the victim." Jason felt his anger building as he spoke, and struggled to keep his voice level. "You killed Frank and those Mounties the same way three months ago. I found hints of the pollen on their clothes. Curiously inert, though."

"Yes, the pollen must be harvested only a day or two before use, but one flower's worth is enough to kill a few men, if they are in an enclosed space. I have used it sparingly so as not to create a pattern that can be detected, but it seems at least one has put the pieces together. Well done, Mister Bannon. You have a fine mind to remember details of a death that took place twenty years ago."

"Well, it was rather important to me." Bannon flexed his fingers and tensed a little. Any moment now...

"Understandable. And naturally, you want revenge. A pity that I cannot assist you in that." Cho must have nodded or made some other silent signal, for the noose began to tighten. "Ordinarily, I would have killed you with hot knives for interfering in my business Mister Bannon, but seeing as I have already wronged you gravely, I will give you the quicker end."

"Damned... civil of you..." Bannon croaked, then smiled. "You're wrong though... I... don't want... revenge..."

"Oh?" The tightening noose stopped it's closing. "And what do you want then? Recompense? I fear that I cannot pay blood money for everyone I kill. I am a businessman, after all."

"Justice." Bannon said, and as he said it every man present felt shivered, as though they'd felt a chill. Then the thugs and bootleggers realised that the chill wasn't metaphorical, and that their breath was condensing to ice crystals in the air. Cho looked sharply at his right-hand man, but the large Chinaman was pale, his lips turning blue and ice riming his skin.

A chorus of cries and groans of pain echoed in the storehouse as two dozen men collapsed, hugging themselves against the bitter cold that suddenly filled the room, presenting immediate danger of frostbite. From the shelves and crates came a myriad of explosions: sharp cracks as bottles shattered under the expanding weight of their now-frozen contents. Against the far wall, four stacked casks of moonshine splintered, the hyper-frozen wood too brittle to withstand the frozen moisture within.

Jason flexed his hands, and the rope splintered from around his wrists and fell away after only a little pressure as he stood, pulling the hood off his head. An ice-cavern met his eyes as he looked around, every surface, including the still-living ones, was covered in shimmering frost.

Before him, huddled on the ground like the rest, was Cho. The Oriental crime-boss and mind-controlling genius was shivering and shuddering, close to asphyxiation in air that was too cold to breath. Jason stepped to his side and toed him over onto his back, wincing a little at the tearing sound of a layer of skin coming off the man's face where it had been pressed to the concrete floor. Unaffected by the cold, the white-haired young man bent down to look in Cho's eyes.

"Don't worry, you'll live. I know, it's funny that two mentalists could produce someone that can play with thermodynamics, but that's life. You're going to jail, Cho. There's this great new place, nigh-inescapable, and you're going there for life. That's my condition with the U.S. Justice Department for bringing you and your bootleggers in: they keep you alive and well until you die." Wincing again as he straightened up, this time from the pain of his busted ribs, Jason walked to the door of the storehouse and opened it.

The oppressive chill left the room as he did so, but the ill-effects lingered in the incapacitated men. As men in suits and uniforms rushed towards the door from across the street, Bannon stepped to one side and waved them through, then staggered a little.

"Hey baby." Grace cozied up beside him, slipping a shoulder under his arm and steadying him. "I did like you said, but you don't look so good for a big crime-fighter." She smiled at him as she helped him to a car. "Don't worry though: I know a great doc."

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*Grace... Yeah, she was a gin-joint gal and a floozy, but she had more going on than most during the Twenties. A month after Bear was in the slammer, Grace was moving into running his old businesses. Of course, being Grace she tried to get me to stick around and frighten the competition. I stuck around a little, I won't deny it. What can I say? Grace was persuasive.

But I'm not really cut out for criminal enterprise and illegal hooch-running. I hung around New York for a couple of months, healing up and living in the fast lane. I spent a lot of the reward money for Cho's capture on jazz, booze, and flappers. To quote a soccer player who wouldn't be born for another 30-ish years, the rest of it I just wasted.

Then I got word through the Society grapevine that some of Cho's old compatriots were up to something in India. I'd had my revenge on him for my parents, but I wasn't done yet. There were people out there as bad as Cho, seeking wealth and power at the expense of others. Idealistic? A little, perhaps. But mainly I just hate seeing bastards get ahead by treading on those they consider the 'little people'. So I packed up and said my goodbyes to the New York scene, and to Grace. That didn't go so well - the woman had one hell of a passionate streak and couldn't, or wouldn't, understand why I didn't want to stay and play gangster. I gave up trying to explain and just walked out before she threw anything else at me.

Sometimes...*

"...you just haf to learn ven to cut losses und quit."

Jason looked over his shoulder at the man who'd spoken. Bruno Untherlieber was a two-fisted giant of a man, towering a foot over the slender American. Tanned, hairless but for his impressive moustachios and built like a mobile fortress, Bruno was one of the Society's more dependable strongarms. Right now, though, the large German had removed the bush hat from his bald pate and was wiping it with a handkerchief, sweat and humidity making his dome sparkle. Jason grinned at the sight, prompting a scowl from his partner.

"Oh, fine. So you, Jason Bannon, are not suffering in the heat. Fresh as a spring daisy. Vell ve are not so lucky." Bruno gestured at the baggage bearers behind him, all of whom were wilting in the Mid-day furnace of the Indian summer. Jason wasn't feeling the heat as much, that was true, but even with his built-in resistance to temperature extremes, the young adventurer was tired as only a day-long hike through the thick forests of the Chhotanagpur Plateau could make a man. He looked back at the towering cliff face in front of him, festooned with green moss and verdant creepers, even a few small trees growing from clefts in the rock, and threw up his hands in surrender.

"Alright, alright." he sighed, turning back to Bruno and their guides. "We'll stop for a break and figure out how to get over that ugly brute of a cliff tomorrow." His announcement didn't exactly cause overwhelming celebration, but the bearers sighed gratefully and unshouldered their packs, starting to make camp. The location was as good as any, Bannon supposed. A few dozen paces to the left a small waterfall played down the cliff into a stream, and he'd seen a few game trails in the area. He took a drink of water from his canteen, cooling it slightly first with a brush of his power, then handed it to Bruno who grunted in satisfaction after taking a swallow, then emptied it over his head.

"Verdammt, but that is good. Nothing vorse than tepid water." Bruno sighed as he stoppered the empty canteen. "If you vere a pretty girl with big tits, you'd be the perfect travelling partner, Jason."

"Can't have everything. Besides, didn't the last pretty girl with big tits you chased end up being interested in other women?" Bannon replied absently as he studied the cliffs again. Bruno barked a laugh.

"True. Zat is true. Ahh, vot a waste that was. A great shame. Why cannot all the ugly women be that way instead, eh?"

"Because God isn't cruel enough to want you to be lonely." Bannon returned with a smile as he sat down on a rock. Bruno laughed again.

"Cold and cruel. I have many fine qualities." Bannon shook his head, still smiling, and turned as he noticed the head guide, Parath, approaching.

"<Bannon Sahib, I would have words.> The Indian man, a veteran of many treks through the wilderness and a famed local hunter, unshouldered his rifle and laid it across his lap as he sat cross-legged on the ground. He spoke his native tongue of Chhattisgarhi, knowing that the strange white-haired sahib understood him. In truth, Parath was a little in awe of this 'Bannon'. He never suffered in the heat, and spoke many tongues, and was cooler to the touch than the surrounding air. The big German, Bruno, was as strong as ten burly men and had knocked out an angry buffalo with one punch, so the tales said. Clearly, these white men were more than ordinary.

"<Of course. Speak what is on your mind.>" Bannon said as he took back his canteen from Bruno and unstoppered it. A little touch of his power and the water in the humid air inside the canteen condensed, then the air above the open mouth of the vessel likewise gave up it's moisture. In a few moments, he had a quarter-full canteen of cool clean water, which he offered to Parath. The guide drank gratefully, having lost the superstitious fear of that trick he'd had upon first seeing it done.

"<Many thanks, sahib.>" he said, touching his forehead then his lips as he handed the canteen back. "<Sahib, you know that I wish you nothing but success. However, my men are nervous. They say that you are chasing a forest demon, and that is most terrible bad luck. You are tracking something, this I know. I am a tracker too, sahib. The tracks you are chasing change: now they are a man, then a panther, now a wolf, then a jackal. But even as the tracks change one after the other, the trail remains one trail. Sahib, is it a demon, or worse, a god you chase? For it is not given for mere men like us to meddle with gods and demons.>"

Bannon sighed, exchanging a look with Bruno who raised one eyebrow quizzically, not having understood the conversation.

"He wants to know if we're foolishly chasing a demon or a god." Jason explained.

"Hmmph. Tell him then." Was Bruno's answer.

"<Parath, we give chase to a creature that can change it's shape. I think it is a man like me and Bruno sahib, a man with abilities beyond normal men. A god would not leave a trail a man could follow. We seek to meet with this person and talk to them, for we believe that they can help us.>" Parath nodded as he absorbed this, then slowly stood.

"<I know that you do not believe in gods or demons, Bannon sahib. I know that you are a man of science, so you seek worldly explanation. I think you are making a mistake, but I will hold my counsel and my tongue, for I too am curious to see whether a forest demon can be hunted by men.>" Parath smiled wryly and bowed. "<If indeed, you and Bruno sahib BE men.>"

"<We are assuredly not women, Parath.>" Bannon quipped with an answering smile. Parath chuckled, and Bruno looked at him as he wandered off, then at Bannon.

"Well, vot vas that about?" The large German demanded.

"I told him you weren't a woman." Bannon answered as he lay back on the mossy rock, covering his face with his hat. "Give me a nudge when they get dinner ready, would you?"

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