Aberrant: Nova Reality - Broken Heroes

[Sam 'The Crusader' Hill]

The horror....

He stood mutely while the thing tore into his teammate, the man who he himself had named Turbo.

He stood mutely while a blue blur battled against the monstrosity, finally bringing it crashing down in a red mist.

He stood mutely while that mist resolved into...a man - nothing more, nothing less.

He stood mutely while his colleagues began to work through the carnage to help those who could still be helped.

Mutely, he complied when someone took his hand to guide him out of the street. But at the last, as the friends he had failed tried to lead him away from the scene, The Crusader found his voice.

It was a scream.

He was somewhere else now. He didn't know where, but it didn't really matter. Everywhere was that street, everywhere he looked was that red sheen over everything. Everywhere, his cowardice mocked him. And the scream still rang in his ears.

[Sandcaster]

I was supposed to be on vacation....

Every once in a while, that selfish thought would rise, unbidden, to the front of Sandcaster's mind. One look at the man sitting in the chair in front of her was enough to make the thought embarrassed for having interposed itself and slink off to the depths of her subconscious.

The man had been handsome, and some amount of that shone through even now. But the fluorescent lights of the small, secure room deep in the heart of the WCK building did no favors for the unshaven and slack jaw, did nothing for the sunken cheeks. The eyes...the eyes couldn't be made worse by bad lighting; those stricken orbs, the deep blue within them seeming to be some great and turbulent sea in which the man was lost, told volumes in pain in their own right.

Sandcaster sighed for perhaps the thousandth time as she looked at the sound body that held the shattered mind of The Crusader. "Is there anything you can do to help him?" She didn't need to turn to face the addressee of that question, there was only one other person in the room. But tearing her eyes away from the broken hero was a relief, and so she did look over at the golden winged form of Samhra. "We can't just leave him like this, and I don't think that on his best days he had the tools to deal with whatever the hell is wrong in there."

[Ghostwriter]

"Golden Age comics never dealt with the kind of realities that can crop up when superhuman powers are let loose indiscriminately," Samhra answered softly, looking upon the shattered hero without any visible distress or discomfort. "That never happened until the mid-Nineties or even stories like Watchmen or V for Vendetta from the mid to late Eighties."

She leaned against the wall to give her aching leg relief. "The question is whether you want Crusader the way he was or a new psyche, because I think the lights are on but nobody's home... literally."

[Sandcaster]

Samhra's words lingered in the air, as Sandcaster indulged in guilty thoughts of a reconfigured Crusader. Indulged in...and dismissed with a deep sigh. Much as she may cringe whenever the big lug lets loose with another of his painful monologues, it was his right to be what he was if he wanted to be; it would be wrong to customize his recovery for the sake of putting a dimmer switch on his over-optimism.

"If you think you can put Humpty here back together again like he was, that's probably for the best...I don't think it's really our place to build a different person to stick in there. But the big question is: can it be done? Can you actually put him back like he was?"

[Ghostwriter]

"It can be done," Regan said slowly. "He won't remember a thing though. His worldview cannot comprehend such... mess, I guess you could say."

[Sandcaster]

That uncomfortable feeling, absent for the past few weeks, returned to the pit of Sandcaster's stomach, and she found herself craving the bubbly comfort of Alka-Seltzer.

"So...what you're really telling me here is that we can fix him, but only by wiping what happened...and that if it happens again, we're probably looking that this" - she pointed at the catatonic Knight - "all over again?"

She sighed in frustration. "That's just not going to work. Is there anyway that we can give him...hell, I don't know, some sort of a coping mechanism? Maybe in the literal sense, considering his limitations?"

[Ghostwriter]

"Yeah - I can make him collapse," Regan retorted sarcastically. "We are talking about a guy with less intelligence than a turnip whose worldview is based on Golden Age comics. Short of rewriting his personality, there's not that much I can do without making him forget things."

[Sandcaster]

Sandcaster was taken aback by Samhra's sharp tone...but only for a moment, as the truth in the words was sound.

"You're right." She gave another deep sigh. "It's just...I've never had to deal with anything like this before, you know? This is way, way outside of my realm of experience. And truth be told, I'm not sure that I should be making the decisions on what we do with his marbles. Do I really have that kind of ethical authority, Samhra? How can I stand here and make that kind of a call? Hell, I don't even know what it looks like in there; you're the one with a view into his mind. Is there any way to tell what he wants?"

[Ghostwriter]

"I have an idea," Samhra finally said slowly, cat-slit eyes thoughtful. "Crusader, I know how he erupted. He told me once when we were in T2M together. I'm going to have to weave these things into the archetypes that inspire him. I have one in particular, a hero called Majestic who was a Superman clone in the Wildstorm comic book universe. He isn't Golden Age per se, but he's a lot more capable of handling brutality than a Golden Age archetype could."

She looked at Sandcaster. "Anne, I have enough experience with the Project's methods of handling mental illness that I would rather make the ethical decision than let them do it."

[Sandcaster]

There was a whimper from the subject of the conversation, and Sandcaster's eyes turned to The Crusader again. He had done this occasionally since they had brought him in. His flat empty gaze would suddenly spark, his face would twist in a rictus of terror, and then....

"Aaaaahhhhhgggg!"

Both of the women were ready for the scream this time, but it didn't make it any less heart-wrenching. As the scream faded away, there were a few more whimpers, and then the face went slack again.

That decided it. Sandcaster turned to Samhra and simply said, "Do it."

[Ghostwriter]

Samhra nodded, her eyes suddenly gleaming. "I've got a distinct idea that should let him be able to function more effectively in times of extreme brutality. You can thank the people who screwed with Stormwarden's mind to create Kayla for it."

She allowed herself a savage smile before entering the room with Crusader, catching his blue orbs with her own golden ones and putting him into a trance with a flex of quantum and will. In his distressed and distracted state, it was an easy thing to achieve, and the expression on his face eased into something more peaceful.

A light touch on his mind dismissed his mental defences, allowing Samhra to glide into the depths with a warm touch. Text whirled around her head and shoulders as her own expression went vacant, indicating her attention was elsewhere.

Within Crusader's mind, Samhra assumed her usual psychic form, an opalescent bird shining about her slight body. Her catsuit was of the same shining opalescent fire as her glow and anima, seemingly almost akin to something a comic book heroine would wear.

*Crusader, this is Samhra. Can you hear me? Please, I need your help.*

[Sam 'The Crusader' Hill]

Rich, deep, vibrant color flooded Samhra's vision in her mind's eye. At first, india blue-black blotted out the surroundings, streaks of bright crimson painting the bleakness with horrific splashes of cruelty. And in the middle of it all, a small figure fought to be free of the encroaching gloom, cowering and flailing in turns.

But then, she heard her own voice faintly through the mirk...and the face of the figure changed. Terror and horror and fear swept away, as four critical words reached through to his mind: I need your help. Powerful hands grasped tendrils of jet ink, tearing them free from their grip on his soul. His vestments were cleansed of the red spray, and shone in bright white and cobalt blue once more, his cape picking up a phantom breeze as he stood erect.

"I'm here!" he announced in a voice that tore tiny gaps in the black surroundings, gaps through which shone for a moment a pure bright blue with cotton brush-strokes of light clouds drawn upon it. "Where are you? I'll save you!" With a fist thrust in the air, The Crusader took to jet-and-crimson skies, trying to find his way free of the blackness around him through to the blue skies and bright colors outside.

[Sandcaster]

Sandcaster watched as Samhra set to work. She hadn't known the winged mentalist all that long, but that short time had proven that she was up to the task of dealing with delicate mental issues.

Like my own.... The stray thought had snuck up on her, and Sandcaster clamped it back down as quickly as possible, focusing on the tableu of The Crusader and Samhra. The last thing she needed right now was to address her own aftermath...to address the guilt she felt for all those lost lives, lives that would still be very much alive if she had not come out in such a public fashion, if she had anticipated just how fixated Edward could be...if she had simply thought things through.

Despite the best efforts, dirty tears streaked down her face as she watched Samhra work her miracles.

[Ghostwriter]

*I'm over here!* Samhra cried out, conjuring creatures straight out of comic-book horror - slouching scaled aliens with blazing crimson eyes, wickedly sharp fangs and massive claws. They altered shape into evil amalgams with a striking similarity to Edward as they cavorted around her, seemingly having her trapped.

*CRUSADER, HELP ME!!!!!!!!!!*

[Sam 'The Crusader' Hill]

The Crusader looked about the darkness, focusing on the cry for help...and there she was! A damsel in distress in a lone beam of light, surrounded by countless nightmarish creatures of pure evil!

"I'll save you! TALLY HO!" With a rolling turn, the stalwart hero dove toward the horde, eyes blazing in blue fire as he gave the foul fiends a blast from the Atomic Beams. With a path clear, he swooped in. One of the creatures was almost atop the beautiful woman, tentacles reaching for her, but with a crashing blow from a huge right hand, The Crusader shattered the vile thing, even as he deftly swept up the golden girl in his left arm and climbed skyward, cape streaming behind him, up toward a hole in the inky blackness through which streamed a shaft of light.

"Are you alright, miss?" he said as they broke through the darkness; bright sunlight in a perfect blue sky reflected from his dazzling smile and incredibly deep blue eyes as the two arched gracefully over an endless metropolitan vista, between silvery art-deco spires that reached for the heavens.

[Ghostwriter]

*I am. Thank you so much!* Samhra answered as she deftly wove the psychic program into the subconscious portions of Crusader's mind. The silvery art-deco spires and dazzling blue sky faded into a scene of Mount Rushmore, above which a black-haired man with keen blue eyes and a white uniform slashed with red hovered above the stones, arms folded as his white cape flowed majestically behind him in a non-existent wind.

*Crusader, I would like you to meet someone. This is Mr. Majestic and I think he can help you with what happened with the monster you and the Knights faced recently.*

Mr. Majestic's face broke into a smile that was grim and sad as he looked upon the great hero.

"Crusader." His voice was a deep basso like black velvet rubbed against grey stone, ringing and hard with the weariness of a thousand battles. "You passed my test. Like a true hero you faced off the army of monsters who threatened to destroy Samhra without concern for safety. But there are more monsters, and worse monsters, than you can comprehend. But I can. I've faced them."

The broad-shouldered hero looked out over the vista of the Black Hills with far-seeing eyes. "I need a hero to fight them in your reality, because I cannot. I have duties to my own people, my own world. I have chosen you. Take my hand, and I will share all my knowledge with you."

He held out his hand, waiting expectantly for Crusader to take it. Samhra watched silently as she wove the quantum into the shape - it could only be set by Crusader's assent.

[Sam 'The Crusader' Hill]

In awe, The Crusader regarded the striking hero standing before him. "Mr. Majestic, I would just like to say that it is both an honor and a privilege to meet you! I would be honored to carry forth your work on my Earth; I won't let you down!" He reached forth, and grasped the mighty heroes hand in his own...and the knowledge and wisdom of the elder hero washed over his mind.

[Ghostwriter]

Using techniques gleaned from the creation of Kayla Ravenwing within Stormwarden's mind, Samhra wove the archetype of the Iron Age hero Mr. Majestic into Crusader's subconscious mind, linked to trigger at signs of extreme violence or carnage. When faced with these situations, Crusader would reflexively boost his intelligence and quick wits the way he boosted his strength and stamina now to be able to deal with it. He would be competent and calm in the face of unspeakable acts of violence, able to react with precision and a basic knowledge of science, engineering and investigation. Samhra was honest enough to admit the first two weren't on her list of favourite academic subjects, but Majestic was noted for his ability with them, and it would allow Crusader to be relatively useful beyond being a bullet-sponge.

Mr. Majestic smiled at the Crusader proudly. "Thank you. I knew I could count on you." The hero stepped back and saluted before the scene faded back into the Golden Age metropolis.

Samhra, dressed in her opalescent catsuit, looked at Crusader sombrely. *Ready to head back and face the world, Crusader?*

[Sam 'The Crusader' Hill]

There was a touch of sadness on The Crusader's face as one of his personal heroes faded from sight; but he knew that the legend lived on within him now, and that he would be destined for great things.

Ready to head back and face the world, Crusader? The words brought him back to what passed for the here and now; with a beaming smile, he nodded. "Yes, I think it's time to face the world once more, to step forward onto its veranda of hope and open wide those doors of promise, looking to see what wonders will be waiting for us in those foyers and halls of life. Lead on, fair maiden; lead on!"

[Ghostwriter]

Regan sighed inwardly and twisted reality, bringing herself and Crusader to consciousness once more.

Her eyes opened and she looked at Crusader critically. "I would advise you take a shower and shave, then get something to eat," she said softly. "Out-of-body experience can be hell on the body. I know."

[Sam 'The Crusader' Hill]

"Well yes, cleanliness is next to...huh?" The Crusader's broad grin vanished in all-too familiar confusion, as his mind tried and failed to cope with the sudden change of setting? "Wh...where did the city go? We were high in the skies over the vast metropolis of...uh...you know, I can't say I really know the name...did...uh...telepor...um...er...did you say 'out-of-body'?"

He struggled with this latest term for a moment, and then his face brightened in childlike wonder as he reached the obvious conclusion: "You're an angel, aren't you? I must have dying after the confrontation with that thing in the street, and you pulled my spirit out of the Queue Celestial, so that I could meet with Mr. Majestic in the spirit world before shuffling back onto the mortal coil to return to the fleshy goodness of my physique...no doubt healed to perfection by young Turbo in my brief absence."

He gave a quick wink to the 'angel', and said, "Well, your secret's safe with me, celestial worker of spirit-bound wonders; I shan't tell a soul, in or out of body. But just between you and me, it's obvious in retrospect - I mean, with the wings and the golden glow and the unearthly beauty - so you might want to tone it down just a touch for us mere mortals if you want to live among us as a guardian angel in the guise of a nova."

[Sandcaster]

Sandcaster heard the muted voices through the door, and stood from her chair with no small amount of relief to see The Crusader grinning and winking to Samhra on the other side of the small glass window.

She started forward, then stopped for a moment. A quick expenditure of quantum produced a dusting of sand on her face - enough, she hoped, to absorb whatever wet streaks may have been there, though it would do nothing for the redness in her eyes. Only with that done, and having scattered the small bit of loose sand around the floor a bit, did she continue forward and open the heavy door.

With a half-forced, half-real smile, she simply said, "It's good to have you back, Crusader."

[Ghostwriter]

Regan opened her mouth to speak, then snapped it shut again before she swore at the big idiot.

"Angels aren't the only winged spirits out there, Crusader. Why don't we just say I'm closer to an aspect of the Egyptian goddess Ma'at, whose name means 'Truth', and leave it at that?"

She walked over to the door as it opened. *Here's what I've done, Anne,* she said, passing on the information in a compact psychic package. *He's actually going to be more effective than some of the other Knights when it comes to situations like the one you were just involved in.*

Aloud, she said, "It is indeed."

[Sam 'The Crusader' Hill]

The Crusader reached out and encircled Sandcaster's hand in his own meaty paw. "Glad to be back on the job, Captain," he belted out while pumping her arm hard enough to make her wonder if she'd have to have Stormwarden try to work some Icy-Hot into her shoulder that evening.

"Well, my fellow novas," he said with a massive wink to Samhra, "if you'll excuse me, there's a great city out there just waiting for a diligent patrol. Villainy waits not for the laggard, so I had best not, um, lag." With that, he stepped briskly out through the doorway...and took an immediate wrong turn as he disappeared into the service corridor, only to correct a moment later with an about-face and strident march out of the security section.

[Sandcaster]

Watching the lovable if luggish Utopian leave, Sandcaster couldn't help but shake her head. "How someone like that wound up with a node, I haven't the slightest idea," she said, punctuating the remark with a deep sigh as she sagged slightly - though with relief or fatigue was anyone's guess.

[Ghostwriter]

"The gods' sense of humour?" Samhra asked, looking tired but determined. "Now we get to you, Anne. I don't need my empathy to know you've had a rough few days. Are you going to be stubborn or do you want to talk about it?"

[Sandcaster]

"Me?"

Sandcaster did her level best to look shocked. Her level best wouldn't have fooled the golden telepath on the best of days, however...and this was far from the best of days.

Realizing that resistance would just prolong the inevitable, the sand-covered nova simply sighed and dumped everything out on the table. "Fine. If I hadn't gone public with the QNA like I did, there would be eighteen bar patrons and three police officers who would still be alive. I didn't think things through despite Edward's obvious fixation, I made a hasty decision, and as a result there's twenty-one deaths on my hands. I don't think you have a magic cure for this one, Samhra."

[Ghostwriter]

"I agree that you should have considered Edward's feelings before coming out so blatantly, but you aren't responsible for a psycho cannibalistic sonuvabitch killing a shitload of folks either," Samhra answered with a sigh. "Wakinyan could have kept his fucking beak shut over fighting for a mate for starters, and I was the one who told you to be honest about your feelings. Anne, you get off on being a martyr. You deserve to be happy - everybody does - and if you feel guilty over an overreaction to a misinterpretation, then I'll psychically kick your ass from here to my island and back."

[Sandcaster]

Sandcaster slumped further, and finally sagged with a thud into an available chair.

"Look, it's all well and good to say that. Indeed, it's all well and good for me to understand it on a cognitive level...which I do, I might add. But this isn't just about rationality; this is about what is weighing on my...well, on my soul, or whatever it is that passes for one in a devout agnostic. I understand it here," she said, pointing to her head, "but not here," and she moved her hand to cover her heart.

[Ghostwriter]

"Then I will tell you, and have Rhayne tell you, until you realise differently," Samhra says, but not without sympathy. "This is something I can't cure with my powers, I'm afraid, but can only use words."

[Sandcaster]

Another sigh, and then Sandcaster offered a weary smile. "I didn't really expect any instant solutions for this one, Samhra. But thanks for the words. It's just something I'm going to have to work through on my own...and that's going to take some time, I think."

She pulled herself up from the chair, and stretched; fine granules of sand drifted down as she did so. "I think maybe it's time for me to go home; I've been up for the past two days now. Thanks again for the work you did with The Crusader; he might not remember it in a week, but I sure as hell will."

[Ghostwriter]

Samhra smiled briefly.

"You're welcome. I had the knowledge and the power to fix up another nova, and my fellow Terats be damned. Get some rest, okay, or I will kick your ass from here to my island and back."