Living_Hellfire

Some really great replies!

The Man in Black winked at his friend from behind those burnt orange shades. "Jes' be yerself, mate an' dinnae concern yerself how others go about their affairs. Take folks as they come an' be kind. That's all ye can do."

Yeah, I get that, that's why I'm "not it", but I'll tell you this... I will help however I can.

Not if it's not for profit.

Seriously, someone should organize that. Not it. But someone should. Wouldn't take too much, probably just a nice hotel somewhere with a reasonably large conference centre attached, done over a weekend. Let's get the conversation started.

Dude, I can literally watch your writing improve with each post. Keep it up!

The Man in Black used his sleeve to polish the strangely onyx coloured plaque outside his office at the far end of the main campus building. Grinning behind the cigar he nodded to himself, reading the words again; "Mr. McRae" "Guidance" He pushed the door open to his little office, buried in the bowels of the building. Beyond the administrative office, past the cafeteria, behind the janitorial wing in a long forgotten back end of the campus. The interior was hardly plush, but almost entirely black. A functional, if institutional looking desk, a strange and heavy yet functional chair behind it. Book cases lined the room, filled with tomes and volumes of known and even occasionally unfamiliar lore. All made with the same strange mineral, black as the heart of a singularity, drinking in the light around it. Four actual torches lit the room, one in each corner the open flames licking at the black ceiling. Two chairs sat before the desk, cushioned but not extravagantly so, the way one might think of a chair to welcome a guest for a short time. A guest that may have something important to discuss but is not interested in lounging. Mr. McRae rounded the desk and sat himself slowly into his articulated, heavy Infernite chair and leaned back, kicking his feet up onto the desk. His enjoyment of the moment was short-lived as the three foot Demonling sauntered around the corner and into the room, posting up against one of the black book-cases. "So, this is what we're doing now?" The Man in Black puffed his cigar and stared at the ceiling. The imp snorted in derision "Of all the things you could do, you choose this?" Infernal is a guttural language, comprised mostly of grunts, growls and snorts. The syntax is fairly sophisticated, relying mostly on emphasis and context but at the end of the day one can only spend so much time Downstairs before one becomes inured to it. It's the kind of language that sinks into your bones. "Shut it, Screwtape." Replied The Man as he turned his head to regard his tormentor from behind opaque shades. "This is what I've chosen fer the time bein' an' I'll have none o'yer saucy lip about it." The little demonling snorted. "You have the power to rule this world, and you choose... this?!" His wings fluttered as he motioned around at the little office in the backwoods of the building. "You have the power to usurp both Marcus and Stephen, you could burn this entire world to ash! You could send all of humanity Home and you choose to spend half your time standing on the end of a dock pulling fish and the other half telling children how to not be children? What's wrong with you?!" "Aye!" The Man in Black stood, resting his hands on the desk as he leaned forward in anger. "I do choose it, ye gobshite! It's the place where I may make a difference in guidin' these youngsters, summat ye failed tae do with yer own nephew, didnae ye?!" Screwtape snarls in response. "An' yer failure tae guide yer kin is what tied ye tae me as penance, isnae that the case, ye feckin' bellend?!" The Demonling launches himself across the desk at The Man in Black who smacks him out of the air, sending him rolling into a corner behind the desk. "I'll nae have it, Screwtape!" Declares The Man as he takes the cigar from his mouth, the blue smoke encircling his hat like a halo. "I'll-" "Ye'll be feckin' silent! That's what ye'll be, ye bastard! This is what I've chosen fer the time bein' an' Granda himself kens quite while that it's temporary, but fer now I'll aid these youngsters howe'er I may, and ye'll be feckin' silent about it!" And silent he was, in a very tense moment as the little Demonling picked himself up off the floor with as much dignity as possible. There was a knock on the doorframe... "Excuse me, Mr. McRae? May I have a word?" The Man in Black and The Demonling turned their heads... [OPEN TAG]

"Owning of public spaces" I'm gonna need you to read that again. It's public. You can't own a public space. If you're RPing in public then it's a tacit invitation to anyone around to join in as they see fit, that's how it works. You can either welcome them or move along to another location. If they start following you around, well... then that's a little different, particularly if you've asked them in a polite /tell OOC to stop then it becomes harassment, but one has a responsibility to do what one can prior to it getting to that place.

Honestly, based on your post I'm not sure I would want to RP with you either. There are no set of hard rules, beyond what's listed in terms of codes of conduct, friend. You don't get to pick and choose and then complain when others do the same. Take the L and move on and find others that are more like-minded. Maybe, if you do that long enough you can create a reputation such that the group you're complaining about rethinks their position.

The Man in Black followed Dean Richards into her office, clocking the wooden furniture enrobed in cloth and leather. "I'll stand, if'n ye dinnae mind, madam, but d'ye mind if'n I smoke?" He asked as he reached into his breast pocket. Despite the few minutes buried in his jacket, the cigar was somehow still lit as he placed it between his teeth. "This is a non-smoking campus, Mr. McRae." "Would it help if'n I tol' ye it wasnae a real cigar but an exhaust of a sort?" Constance Richards, having been around the sun more than once understood that the world she lived in wasn't black and white. "What do you mean when you say it's an exhaust?" The Man in Black pulled slowly on the cigar, sending a plume of blue smoke into the ceiling. "Jes' that. I'm afraid I've certain... gifts, ye may call'em. Y'see, I'm a conduit." He gestured to the sink through the open door to the Dean's private bathroom. "Nae unlike a faucet what cannae be shut off." He gestures with the cigar "This aids me in dissipatin' the heat so's nae tae do harm. It's nae toxic tae mortals, I assure ye, e'en though it appears an' smells like it may be." The Dean leaned back in the big chair, considering The Man in Black. "So, I assume you'll feel to smoke that thing in our classrooms?" "Aye. If'n ye'll have me." "And why should we make an exception for you on this, a non-smoking campus? Are you expecting us to make explanations for your to every parent, every student, every single complaint or question?" She leaned forward, resting her elbows on the large mahogany desk. "You're not off to a good start, Mr. McRae." After a brief, tense silence Dean Richards snaps open a set of reading glasses and opens a manila file and begins sifting through paper. "You have an impressive, if brief career as a teacher. Less than ten years at PCHS here in Steel Canyon. Well liked by students and colleagues." She looks down again, rifling some more through the pages. "An impressive recommendation from Principal Decker. Multiple student awards and an exemplary pass percentage." She looked up, lowering her glasses slightly, making direct eye-contact, getting the sense that whatever was behind those shades was staring right back. "What makes you think that you're ready to make the jump from teaching high school to educating at a university? Don't get me wrong, Mr. McRae, your education is stellar from what I can see and I don't doubt that you were a brilliant teacher at PCHS, but from what I can tell here, according to your own records you don't even have a Master's degree, let alone a PhD." Another tense silence. "I'm really trying to help you here." Constance sighed, dropping the veneer slightly and in so doing becoming slightly more human. "Look, Mr. McRae, I think I know very well who you are. It's here, in the file. It's one of the most open secrets in Paragon City. The teacher that disappeared after the Malta takeover of Steel Canyon High School in 2004. It's right here in black and white. Nobody ever seems to mention it or want to talk about it, but here we are." "I dinnae like tae talk about that, madam." Dean Richards tapped her index finger across her mouth thoughtfully as she leaned back again in the chair. The silence was slightly less tense. She sighed, closing the folder. She removed the reading glasses, placed them back in their case and then positioned them precisely in the spot on the desk. "I'm afraid I can't offer you a position as an instructor, Mr. McRae you just simply aren't qualified." The Man in Black nodded. "I unnerstand, thank ye fer yer time." He grinned amiably and turned to leave. "There might be another option, however." "Aye? An' what's that, then?" "We live in a complicated world, Mr. McRae. Many, I might even say half of our students are powered. They're young, they need guidance from an old hand and I daresay that there are no hands at this sort of thing that are older than you. You've been here from the very beginning, when Paragon City was young and fresh, when it birthed its first heroes." She stood and came around the desk to lean herself against the front, arms folded. "It's Liv, right?" The Man in Black nodded. "Look, Liv, I'll speak plainly; These young people certainly need and desire an education, it's why they're here. The thing they lack, however, particularly amongst the powered students is guidance and that's something that most of our professors lack in terms of understanding." She gestured to herself "For example. I lack superpowers entirely so I have no idea how to guide these young people. Maybe... you might be able to help with that." The Man in Black pulled on the cigar thoughtfully, the blue smoke obscuring him briefly. "Y'mean, as a kindae guidance councilor?" Constance waggled her head back and forth "Yeah... like that. Would you be willing to be available for that kind of thing?". **** The door to the dean's office swung open and The Man in Black strode out towards the exit without a word. The dean approached the receptionist's desk and spoke softly, in that way that office workers do. There was a hushed conversation and Dean Richards placed an alabaster card on Johnny's desk. "That's the guy?!" Johnny exclaimed, only to be immediately hushed and reminded of where he was and that professional conduct was still required. "That's the guy?" He whispered to his boss. She made direct eye-contact and nodded, her eyes bearing a warning before returning to her office. With a few keystrokes Johnny opened the staffing file in the central database, created a new row and column to accommodate the new entry for Guidance Consultant. With trembling fingers he began to type the name 'Fergus McRae A.K.A. The Legendary Living Hellfire'.

Thunder rolled over Steel Canyon as The Legendary Living Hellfire descended from the heavens and the pressure wave from the sound barrier collapsed. He slowly cruised above the campus, taking note of students, both powered and not as they made their way about their day to and fro. The old man remembered wistfully his days as a teacher at Paragon City High School, the excitement in the eyes of a student as they came to a realization, connecting dots in knowledge. The camaraderie that came with young people eager to learn, finding friendships and new beginnings. He pushed through the Hellfire towards the rear of the main building, tearing through his armour into more appropriate attire. The Man in Black nodded to the custodian exiting the rear entrance. Large, black plastic bag in hand, the custodian simply nodded back at the man as they crossed path, the scent of the cigar smoke both sweet and acrid in the man's wake. Sharp, hard-soled footsteps in the hallways in the secret, hidden places of the building. The parts that students and even staff rarely see, the places where the business of maintenance and care-taking are done. Where cleaning supplies, custodial equipment are kept. Where breaks are taken, time is spent lounging and the occasional birthday cake candles are blown out. These are the secret, hidden places of a school. The Man in Black knew them well from his time spent educating the youngsters of Paragon City. He found himself in a hallway on the first floor. Carefully avoiding close contact with the various persons moving from place to place, he managed to glean directions to the Dean's office from a passerby, despite their obvious distaste for the fact that he was smoking what appeared to be an enormous cigar indoors. The Man in Black was unsurprised both at the distaste for his habit as well as the directions given. A school is a school is a school. He found his way to the main office in short order and stopped. He was an old man. He's retired. Does he really want to do this again? Does he want to relive this? Again? He can't just stand at the end of a dock and fish for the rest of eternity, at least not where there was opportunity to make a difference. He steeled himself and passed through the door. A desk, behind which was a youngish looking, bespectacled man stops him short. "Hello, how can I help you?" Asks the receptionist. The Man in Black clears his throat, taking the cigar from between his teeth and tucking it into his breast pocket. "Howdy. Me name's Fergus McRae an' I'd like tae speak tae the Dean about a teachin' position. Can ye aid me?" "Ah" says the young man "Do you have a resumé?" "Nay, nae on me, anyhow, but I hold degrees from Oxford in History an' English an' I was a teacher at Paragon City High School in Steel Canyon prior tae o'four. I'm sure ye can find me records." The bespectacled young man types some more. "Ah, yes, Mr. McRae?" He pauses "You're Scottish, right? The spelling of your name is odd. Usually with Scots there's an 'A' before the 'C' in a name like "McRae". When there's no 'A' that usually means Irish." "Aye, that's so, well caught." The Man in Black grins. "Me da wasn'ae from here when the name was took, but I assure ye, I'm as Scottish as they come." "Well, Mr. McRae, please have a seat and the Dean will see you shortly." The Man in Black glanced at the highly flammable office furniture and balked slightly. "I'll stand, if'n ye dinnae mind." "As you like, Mr. McRae."

Oh, I'm sorry to hear that. I remember your name as well, I didn't think we had beef. My "bleating" as you put it is and has always been in fun. I'd be happy to discuss whatever issues you have with me if you'd like.

I feel I may be remiss in neglecting this channel on the forums, but I hope to make up for that now. Some of you may remember me from Justice. I played in Beta, I led the team that won the first ever Time-Force competition. I was a member of the Forum Cartel on the Live Forums and I'm a friend. I currently exist on both Everlasting and Excelsior. Don't be afraid to say hello.

Khalisti Wharf was quiet. It's always quiet. The man stood at the edge of the dock, fishing pole in hand as he watched a squad of Sky Raiders head East, out over the Atlantic. A three foot tall demonling lounged nearby, clearly bored as he picked at his teeth, his eyes tracking the same movement as the man with the fishing pole. "I suppose you'll be investigating their purpose?" Screwtape asked. The man pulled slowly against the line, reeling slowly, saying nothing. "An entire squad of top fliers with breathing apparatuses accompanied by a Sky Skiff, heading over the ocean, gaining altitude and you're just going to stand there, fishing? Who are you?" The demonling snorted. "When I've a mind tae hear yer opinion I'll give ye a sharp kick, ye feckin' gobshite." But his eyes still tracked the progress of the Sky Raiders as they grew smaller in the distance. The clicking and sucking of Screwtape picking at his teeth competed with the cry of the gulls and the restless washing of the tide as the man slowly dipped a shoulder in surrender. "I'm s'posed tae be retired." Screwtape said nothing. "Feck it." The man said, collapsing his fishing rod and bundling his kit. He drew a circle in the air, opening a portal to a pocket dimension and dumped his fishing gear before stepping off the dock and into the air. Lightning struck and thunder rolled as The Legendary Living Hellfire hurtled upwards into the early morning dawn in hot pursuit, a trail of burnt orange flame in his wake. The fish would never recover. *** He knew that he was not unknown to the Sky Raiders. They had heat-sensing tech that could detect him so he hid in the best place he knew; in plain sight. Keeping himself between the sun and his quarry, The Ghost of Paragon City tracked the pirates as they continued to climb, gaining altitude quickly well beyond 20,000 feet. Before long the target of this enterprise made itself apparent. A Norwegian Airlines A-340 on long approach to Paragon City International Airport appeared in the distance. Four Sky Raiders equipped with jetpacks and self-contained breathing apparatuses, accompanied by a Sky Skiff manned by two officers looped around to the North of the approaching aircraft, taking up escort positions behind and alongside the passenger plane. He didn't have a radio, but he knew what was being said to the captain of NOR.198. He was being diverted and forced to land elsewhere on pain of destruction. The Legendary Living Hellfire poured on the speed, diving towards the Raider lagging behind and below the port wing. The Celestial blade Lightfire passed through the pirate, immolating him in a flashing, vengeful burst , sending the debris and what was left of a man tumbling to the hungry waves below. One down, four to go, but now he was behind, his interception spent. He arced around, reducing speed and tightening his turn and he oriented back towards the tail of the airplane, the air behind him screaming its scorching objection, the sound of reality itself shredding behind him aurally, The Man on Fire broke the sound barrier to catch up to his prey. The Raider above the tail section opened fire on the port wing, leading his target and getting lucky, shredding the critical leading edge and the Airbus dipped left, falling into an uncontrolled dive. He then rolled over on his back to engage his pursuer. A veteran and not easily flappable the senior Sky Raider selected his weapon to burst fire and with carefully managed aim greeted his foe with the contents of the clip of his rifle. The burnt orange flame grew larger as the clip emptied and as the Raider reached for a fresh one he realized he was too late as he scrambled to take aim before he was engulfed and carried forward over the leading edge of the port side wing, his equipment fried and immolated he had only a few moments to consider his existence before oblivion took him and his remains were released to tumble down into the water. The Legendary Living Hellfire soared above the left wing, channeling heat and rage from Downstairs, reducing the air pressure above the wing thereby lifting it and stabilizing the aircraft temporarily before looking to his right to see a ten year old boy. Blond haired and blue eyed the boy gazed in wonder. Liv gave him a wink before opening his arms against the wind. He barrel rolled around the aircraft, sending a blazing bolt of concentrated Hellfire into the Sky Raider on the starboard side of the aircraft. The woman tumbled away, dead before she hit the surf. Three down, two to go, including the Sky Skiff. The lone Raider raised his weapon against his enemy, but for some reason didn't pull the trigger. Instead he placed the safety on and dropped from view, disengaging his jetpack briefly before flaring again and heading to shore. He was allowed to live. Years later he would tell the story of how he quit piracy and who it was that convinced him to do so. The Angel on Fire carried on towards his quarry. The Airbus-340 was in rough shape. The leading edge of both wings had been shredded and the passengers traumatized. The damage from the turbulence of the fight had weakened the integrity of the aircraft itself and it was now in what could only be described as a controlled fall towards Paragon City International Airport, but the battle was not yet done. The Sky Skiff oriented its guns towards its aggressor, but to no avail as both pilots were witness as a very angry, bearded man wreathed in flame landed on their craft. Teeth bared, eyes aflame he gripped the clear cockpit of the Skiff, digging his hands into the windshield, the plexiglass melting away beneath the heat. The officers watched in horror as The Legendary Living Hellfire literally dug his way into the space, ripping open the plexiglass shielding. The captain of the skiff actioned the only option available and pulled the ejection cord, sending himself and his navigator into the sky, leaving the skiff to erupt in flame, debris cascading and rattling along the fuselage of the airplane they were meant to hijack. Liv let the craft go and concentrated on his priority; The safety of the aircraft and the civilians aboard. He pushed off from the wreck and pointed himself towards the nose of the A-340. Its approach was too steep, it would slam into the earth well before the button of the runway. Liv pressed forward towards the nose of the aircraft. As he rolled over on his back both above and ahead of the plane he caught a glimpse of the two pilots, both straining against the yolk to pull the aircraft up. He channeled Hellfire. The air temperature above the airplane spiked, reducing the air pressure, forcing the nose upwards. Inside the cockpit the OAT indicator rolled over, smacking hard against the pin as the passenger aircraft righted itself just in time to slam down onto the runway. The main gear collapsed, issuing a shower of sparks as emergency vehicles screamed their approach. The Legendary Living Hellfire disappeared into the sky, leaving a trail of burnt orange flame in his wake.

[Oslo, Norway, circa 2012] Bjorn Johannsen loved airplanes. His entire life, all ten years of it he'd been obsessed with the idea that a person might design, construct and operate a machine that could take a human being into the sky, defying gravity in order to travel at speeds that defy organic ability. So when his mother told him that they were going to board a flight from their home in Oslo to visit family in New England the excitement for his first time aboard an actual aircraft was unbearable. Hannah, Bjorn's mother regretted telling him so early as she faced weeks of harassment about their departure date and had to deal with the grumpiest of children because the boy could barely sleep. Lesson learned, she thought to herself. The main terminal of Gardermoen Airport was enormous. Bjorn's skin tingled as the bouquet of burnt kerosene and hot bondo assaulted his nose as he and his mother exited their taxi at the departure lane. He could hear, from the other side of the terminal the orchestra of "air-side" operations; Auxiliary power units sipping Jet-A1 fuel as they powered the internal lights and processes of the aircraft parked at gates. He heard the sound of a 737-800 series landing, thrust reversers at full. He breathed deeply as he listened to the excited chatter of his fellow passengers. The taxi driver hauled their luggage out of the trunk, handing the boy his carry on and helping his mother load the baggage onto the push-cart that would accompany them to the check-in desk. "Good morning, gentlefolk, my name is Captain Halfnir Andersen and I am your captain for this morning's flight to America. We here at Norwegian Airlines take pride in our efficiency and service and we welcome you aboard flight NO.198 bound for Paragon City International Airport. We will be travelling at a cruising altitude of thirty-eight thousand feet at a speed of approximately eight-hundred, seventy kilometers per hour. Barring any trouble we should arrive at our destination in approximately eight hours. We ask that you buckle your seatbelts, please pay attention to the pre-flight instructions provided by our flight attendants and obey all instructions given by our in-flight crew. We hope you enjoy the flight." The message repeats in English as the pre-flight pantomime begins. Strapped tightly into his seat by the window, negotiated as such by his mother, Bjorn watched the runway lights flash by with increasing speed as the inertia of the A-340's thrust pressed him back into his seat. His feet kicked involuntarily with excitement at the back of the seat in front of him as the aircraft approached V-1, rotating upwards into the sky. The runway retreated away from view as they lifted off. He watched as the air-side of the airport slid past the window and, not unlike angels in a story book the airplane took to the sky. He relished the feel of valsalva by working his jaw, the eustacian tubes clearing the fluid gathering in his ears. There was nothing about flight that Bjorn did not love. He reached out to his mother beside him, held her hand and quickly fell asleep. Bjorn awoke suddenly to find himself staring at the screen displaying the most recent Toy Story movie. He yawned and stretched. "Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking, please fasten your seatbelts as we are about to enter a period of turbulent air." The stewards immediately begin coursing the aisle, ensuring all passengers are secured before strapping themselves into the jumpseats in the galleys fore and aft of the aircraft. Bjorn glanced out the window spying a tiny speck. He pressed his forehead against the window, trying to focus but was foiled as the speck that caught his attention suddenly flared and disappeared from view. He looked up at his mother who was focused entirely on the door of the flight deck. He squeezed her hand, causing her to look at him. He smiled. "Everything will be alright, momma, I think we have an angel with us." She squeezed back, smiling at her brave son. The plane shook, eliciting cries of panic from most passengers, but not the boy and his mother. They gripped hands as they both looked out the small portal window, watching as a streak of burnt orange flame soared past, rolling over the top of the airplane and out of view. The plane shook again, the roar of an explosion on the port side of the aircraft shaking it out its path, forcing the nose down as the explosion swallowed the air pressure around it. The A-340 dove as the passengers rose in their seats. Hands rose to the ceiling of the cabin as the mortals aboard screamed their terror. Suddenly the nose of the airplane turned up, the dive turning to a low climb, slamming the passengers back into their seats. The cries began anew. Bjorn looked out the window, just quick enough to catch a glimpse of a man on fire. The man glanced at the port-hole window, making eye-contact with the boy, winked one flaming eye, opened his arms against the wind and vanished in a trail of burnt orange flame and black smoke. The boy squeezed his mother's hand. The plane rocked again, shuddering hard to starboard. As the plane dipped right that same streak of burnt orange flame scorched past above the critical leading edge of the wing, reducing the air pressure and lifting the wing thereby leveling the aircraft. Against all caution Bjorn unbuckled himself from his seat, wrestling away from his mother his sprinted down the aisle toward the tail of the plane, tracking The Angel on Fire barrel rolling around the Airbus. It was only then that he spotted the Sky Skiff as it soared past. The boy dove at the steward strapped to his seat in the rear galley, finding welcoming arms wrapped around him as the world shook and trembled and all the population of that tiny place screamed in terror. The explosion rocked the aircraft. The boy peeked out from his shelter through the little port-hole windows, spotting flaming shrapnel and debris as it fell away. He looked up at the startled steward who had caught him, thanking him silently before crawling his way back to his seat, fighting against gravity and inertia as the Airbus somehow managed to climb against all odds. "Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking! Please stay in your seats as we are about to make an emergency landing at Paragon City International Airport!" Bjorn scrambled his way back into his seat, enduring the onslaught of his mother's recrimination for his escape. He didn't care, he had seen something very few other people ever had. The Airbus A-340 smashed down, the main landing gear collapsing with the impact. In a shower of sparks the plane slid slowly to a stop, the emergency doors bursting open. Green fire trucks and blue and white ambulances rushed down the runway to greet passengers as they slid down yellow, inflatable slides. Bjorn Johannsen looked up as the paramedic checked him over, his mother hovering nervously nearby. A streak of burnt orange flame disappeared into the night sky.

This is a good one. Liv certainly has enemies but they tend to be groups and not individuals. He has allies and associates, but no real rivals. I'd never thought of it in those terms. The closest I can get to is that there are certain characters that he's met that are rather more villainous and yet he remains friends with them. Their conversations are cordial and even affectionate, but every now and again there's a comment made to the effect of "... but if I catch ye doin' it, yer done. Well done indeed."

I'd like to add this to the list of Liv's theme songs.

**Content Warning - This story contains elements of suicidal ideation - Please see the author's note at the end** Circa Spring 2022 The boy stood at the edge of the building, just him and four hundred feet of open space to the sidewalk. He stood, in the cool May evening, staring down wondering what he was waiting for and finding no answer. He stepped up onto the eight inch ledge, the toes of his sneakers above the sidewalk and then stepped back and down again, cursing himself for his cowardice. He wiped another tear from his cheek, cursing himself again, this time for weakness. He screamed his rage into the dark sky, hunched over, fists clenched, eyes closed. His cry flew into the night without even so much as an echo. He approached the ledge again, this time with determination. His fists still clenched, his cheeks wet. His Misfits t-shirt fluttering slightly in the sudden breeze. "Alright, mate?" The boy spun around at the sound. In the shadow of taller buildings, up against the structure housing the HVAC installation was a shadow. The cherry of a cigar burning brightly in the dark. "Who's there?! What do you want?!" Three clicks of hard-soled leather loafers later a man emerged from the shadow and into the light. A fedora atop his head, a burning cigar jammed between his teeth, shirt, pocket square and opaque shades to match the burnt orange pin-stripes of his flat black suit. He jutted his chin out as he straightened his tie, the blue smoke from the cigar hanging above his head like a halo. "I asked if'n ye were alright." Silence. "So? Alright, then, lad?" "You think I won't jump?" The Man in Black puffed his cigar. Thunder rolled in the distance. "Ach, I think ye may very well jump, lad." He strolled past the boy to the edge of the building, looking down at the street below "Indeed that's me concern." The boy stared at the man, looking at him side-on. Between the edge of his sunglasses and his temple, where one might be able to see the gap between a person's eye and the inside of the lens was a jaunty flame, all reds and whites and burnt oranges. It capered against the inside of the shades, malevolently, as though pressing against them to escape. The boy gasped and staggered back and away from the ledge and the stranger. "Who are you? Are you The Devil?!" The Man in Black straightened and turned to his left, taking in the boy in full. Grey Misfits t-shirt, blue jeans and white sneakers, his arms now wrapped instinctively around himself in fear. He took the cigar from his mouth, letting it dangle between first and second finger at the length of his arm, a friendly grin on his face. "Nay, lad, I'm nae The Devil. I reckon Ol' Scratch has far larger fish tae fry than ye." He held up in hands in a placating gesture "Nae offense meant, o'course, it's jes' that ye've nae e'en been alive long enough tae catch his attention. He's a busy bastard, that one. I should well know." "So, then what, a demon? Are you here to make sure I jump so you can take me to Hell?" The Man's brow furrowed in concern, his hands now slightly outstretched, palms to the sky, the blue smoke from his cigar coiling around his arm like a serpent. "Nay, lad, I'm nae a demon either, although I've been called that an' worse. Nay... I'm here tae help." His posture relaxed as he stood still in the cool night air. "I don't need your help!" The boy cried, raising his voice at the stranger. "I'm fine!" The Man in Black waited, silent. "It's just... " tears welled in the boy's eyes, cracks forming in his bravado. He mastered himself and straightened in defiance, all passion and bluster. "What do you care, anyway? You don't know me! You don't know my life, why should I even trust you, I don't even know your name! You just appeared out of nowhere in that fancy suit with your eyes on fire!" The Man in Black waggled his head slowly back and forth, considering this encounter for the first time from the boy's point of view. "Aye... yer quite right. Truth is that once upon a time I was a teacher, here in this very city, but that was a long time ago an' I'm retired now." He paused slightly, as though considering and then deciding "Ye may call me Mr. McRae." "You don't look that old." "Appearances are often deceivin', lad." "So... why are you here? Why are you bothering me?" "It's nae me intent tae bother, mate, I'm here tae help, as I mentioned. I'm here tae make the attempt at convicin' ye that temporary problems, as weighty an' oppressive an' enormous as they may seem in the moment do nae warrant permanent solutions." He shrugged "But I cannae do aught but make the attempt fer at the end o'the day the choice is yers." "So, you're not going to try to stop me?" "Nae by force, but I am concerned yer about tae make a decision that ye'll regret fer the rest o'yer life, all 5 seconds of it should ye choose the path yer considerin'." The boy hadn't considered that possibility, the idea that he might jump and then wish he hadn't all the way down. "Tommy, I can spend the entire rest o'the night, haulin' ye physically away from that ledge, but I cannae do it tommorrae, ye unnerstand? If'n yer determined tae do this, then there's naught I er anyone can do tae prevent it forever. At some point ye'll find the right proper opportunity an' there'll be no-one here tae stop it. Keepin' ye from that ledge this evenin' by force would only be a temporary delay tae addressin' a larger problem." The boy stared at The Man in Black, who simply shrugged sadly, almost in surrender. "It pains me tae say that, lad, but it's the truth, but enough about that fer the moment, why dinnae ye jes' tell me what's got ye so upset, an' p'raps we can go from there?" The fight seemed to go out of the boy as his shoulders dropped. His eyes welling, he began to pace, the words began to fall "I just... I don't feel like I belong anywhere." The words came faster now, tumbling out as though a dam broke within him "My parents are divorcing and they hate each other, all they do is fight about money and who gets to see who when and how. They fight about everything and it's all they talk about, even to me and my brother. All we hear from our mom and dad is all about how much they hate each other and all about all the nasty shit they accuse each other of doing while they were married." He stops pacing, turning abruptly, the tears flowing freely down his cheeks. "As if any of that matters anymore!! It's done! It's over, but neither of them can let anything go!" His voice hitched as he wiped away tears, slowly taking the burnt orange pocket square offered. "And, I get so angry about it that it's all I can think about! I can't concentrate in school, my friends don't understand, they just don't want to be around me because I'm so fucking mad all the FUCKING TIME!!" The last words screamed at the sky were followed by sobs. The Man in Black waited patiently as Tommy had a good cry, wishing desperately he could hug the boy and comfort him. "And my brother has it just as bad, maybe worse. He's graduating this spring from High School and he didn't get into any of the colleges he applied to because his grades are so bad, when they never were! He always got good grades but now... " Tommy sighed "He got arrested last week on account of him and his friends spray painted the side of a store and then robbed it. Not with, like a gun or anything, they just shop-lifted some beer and stuff, but... Greg would NEVER have done that a few years ago. Now he's going to miss his own graduation, not that he even cares anymore." The boy slowed down, inspecting the pocket square for the first time. It felt odd and strangely warm in the chill night air and every time he turned it over it seemed dry. "Wait... " he looked up slowly, somewhat suspicious "How did you know my name?" The Man in Black reached into his breast pocket, producing a small, alabaster business card. Tommy could see four words scrawled on it in black, but couldn't make them out. "Because a long time ago I gave yer mum this card an' told her that tae use it if'n she e'er needed me, an' tonight I heard that call." He replaced the card. "I ken yer name, Tommy because when I heard the call an' arrived both yer mum an' da were there. Supportin' each other, distraught at the disappearance o'their son. They tol' me yer name an' how tae find ye. Yer parents luv ye, mate, dearly. As much as any parents e'er luved their bairns. An' that luv is so strong that it eclipsed e'en the anger they feel t'wards each other." The tears flowed fresh as Tommy sobbed softly into the pocket square. "Mate, I must tell ye that it'll nae last. In a day er two, p'raps a week they'll return tae squabblin', but fer now, fer tonight they are united in their luv fer their boy, but this isnae about them, it's about ye. They've got tae solve their own problems, but do remember that they're mortals as well, an' jes' as flawed as anyone. They're in pain as well, but that's nae yer concern. They're the grown-ups, it's nae yer responsibility tae act on their behalf, it's theirs tae act on yers." The boy nodded, still looking at the burnt orange fabric in his hands. "Y'see, m'boy, troubles come in all shapes an' sizes. Some are large, some are small, but no matter how large they are they often get smaller on their own giv'n enough time. Tommy, ye've got quite a large trouble at the moment, an' at yer age as a result of yer experience an' the boundaries of the world ye live in at this moment, at this young age, your "space" as it were is small. Ye've got a large problem in a small space. Yer trouble is so large an' yer space is so small that the trouble fills every corner an' hides behind every shadow. Ye cannae escape it, it's always there, in yer noggin', eatin' away at ye an' that's nae yer fault, but that doesnae mean that ye cannae do summat about it, if'n ye choose tae." "Yeah? What, Mr. McRae? What can I do about this, I'm just a kid, I can't solve an adult's problems, even if those adults are my own parents." "That's nae what I meant. I meant that ye can act tae make the space larger. Yer allowin' yerself tae go through this trouble all by yer lonesome. As is yer brother. If'n ye talk tae Greg, remind him that he's nae alone, be honest with him about how ye feel an' ye may find that he feels the same, an' in doin' that ye may find that ye can support each other through this. That makes the space a wee bit larger. Ye can talk tae yer mates, tell'em why ye've been so cross, ask their forgiveness fer treatin' 'em so and ask fer their support. I think ye'll find that they're all too eager tae aid ye. That makes the space a wee bit larger, still. Talk tae yer parents, p'referably with Greg, both of ye supportin' each other, an' tell'em how ye feel. How they've made ye feel an' ask'em tae be aware of it an' how they carry on movin' forward. That might make the space e'en larger." The Man in Black placed the cigar back into his mouth, gripping it between his teeth, speaking around it as he accepted his pocket square back. Tommy's face was splotchy, his eyes bloodshot, but he seemed to have stopped crying and therefore didn't need the patch of cloth. "Ye cannae make the problem smaller, that'll happen on their own time, but fer now, mate... ye must find ways tae make bigger spaces." The boy nodded, looking away thoughtfully. "I've two gifts, lad. The first is that I've a mate who's a family therapist. She's quite good an' she owes me a favour. I'll put her in touch with yer folks." Tommy sniffed "My parents make good money, but they spend it all on lawyers, there's almost nothing left, we can't afford a therapist." "Dinnae fret, mate, as I said she owes me a favour. I'll make sure any cost is billed tae yers truly. The second gift is this." The Man in Black snapped his fingers, and with a flash of flame and smoke produced another alabaster business card. He looked down at it for a moment and made a face, placing it with the other in his breast pocket "That'll nae do..." He snapped his fingers again, once more looking down at the card, smiling in satisfaction. He handed it to the boy. Tommy looked down at the card, white as the pure driven snow and, again oddly warm. Upon it were scorched the words 'Mr. McRae'. "Jes' toss it intae the nearest open flame an' I'll hear ye, whene'er ye've need." More nodding. "Now... " Said The Man, straightening and pulling at the his immaculate suit "Pardon me fer sayin' so, but ye look like a wee lad what's in awful need of a hug er three, an' I happen tae ken jes' precisely where ye may be able tae find such a thing." He motioned to the stairwell leading to the top floor elevator bank. "Shall we?" Tommy looked from The Man in Black to the ledge, then back to The Man and then he and his new friend, Mr. McRae strolled casually towards the stairwell. *** Author's note - Most of the time I bang out these stories in a few hours. This one took me days. I have suffered from suicidal ideation and have obviously gotten through those times, but I have friends who haven't and I miss them dearly. I wish most days I had been there for them, the way Liv was there for Tommy, but I wasn't and I have to live with that, despite the fact that I just simply didn't even know until it was too late. I wrote this very genuinely, taking the subject matter as seriously as possible because to me, it is serious and very personal. Liv's advice to Tommy is how I've come to approach my own ideation when it happens from time to time. I realize that some of you may disagree with the advice or my approach to this subject, some of you may even disagree to the point where you think that writing about this is offensive or insensitive. Please know that that was never my intent. I'm not a therapist, I'm just a man struggling with an ugly reality and doing my best to approach it as honestly, sincerely and empathetically as possible. If you are experiencing thoughts of suicide or self-harm, please talk to someone you care about. A friend, a teacher, a colleague, family member... whoever. As long as you know it's someone who cares about you. Failing that, you can always talk to me, my inbox is open and I always have time for a friend in need. Below is a link to a list of most if not all regional suicide hotlines. https://blog.opencounseling.com/suicide-hotlines/ I remain yours and in your service; -Will

I get that, I know what that's like, I go through long dry spells writing as well. I'm glad that there's a chance that I was able to help in some small way!

Well done, mate. Keep it up! Keep writing!

This might be better for the general chat, but if feels "RP" to me. Some of you may have read my writings about Liv which means that those of you who have done so understand my attachment to the character. While I can write about his various exploits and lay out his back story in painfully morbid detail, what I can't do is share the music in my head while I think about him. At least not in a narrative, I lack that talent. Having said that there are certain tracks of music that I associate with Liv very strongly and I would like to know if you feel the same about your "main" character and if so, what are some of those pieces of music? Liv's primary song of province is "My Hero" by the Foo Fighters, particularly the accoustic version which I've posted as a link. The other is fairly specific and has to do with an action piece that I've yet to write, and frankly likely won't, but it's "Renegades of Funk" by Rage Against the Machine. Share with me the pieces of music that immediately make you think of your main character or the characters that are important to you. EDIT - This song, this version specifically was non-stop in my head when I wrote "Fighting Fire with Fire".

Continued From 'Perdition', circa 2008 Earth Time. The Lord of Hell descended from his throne. "I'm so glad that you're willing to hear my offer, nephew." Fergus said nothing as Lucifer slowly sauntered around him, seeming to enjoy every moment for some reason. "I'm going to let you go. You're going to return to the Ground Floor and rejoin your mortal friends. What do you think of that?" Fergus stared, his face impassive, not really understanding what his uncle was saying but the lesson learned in The Pits was clear; Show no weakness and no fear. He remained silent as Lucifer bloviated. "It would seem that you're not welcome Upstairs, as you are keenly aware. It would also be the case that we cannot break you down here either... " He leaned in conspiratorially "which, between you and I was largely the point, if you recall what I told you on our last meeting." He grinned and winked, a habit that Fergus would pick up, though he would never admit it. "Anyway, you can't go Home and you can't stay here, in fact given that you're not welcome in either place I have no choice but to send you back to the Ground Floor. I therefore present to you your first gift, are you ready?" "Get on with it." His uncle smiled slowly as he backed away. He clapped his hands and spread his arms wide "You! Cannot! Die! At least not once this conversation is over! Oh... make no mistake, you will die, over and over again, but you've nowhere to go. You can't go Upstairs and you're sure as shit not welcome Down here anymore, so... guess what? Every time it happens, every time some asshole shoots you or you end up crushed by falling debris or some dickhead crushes your skull or however it is it happens, you'll just be reborn moments later! Isn't that exciting?!" His smile fades to one of smug satisfaction. "You can't die, Fergus. You will never die, not permanently. No matter what you do, no matter what anyone else does to you, you will be reborn within seconds, or at most minutes." Lucifer smacked his lips "You will watch everyone you love age and die. You will witness the end of humanity, and even the end of the very planet that you call home when the sun swallows it billions of years from now. You will be alone. Forever, until the end of time, forsaken and unwanted with no family, no one to call home and nothing to show for it. In fact, you might even outlive me." He chortled to himself as he ascended the dais once more to drape himself across his throne. "You might even outlive Father." The Lord of Hell shrugged. The silence was deafening as Lucifer savoured his vengeance. "Would you like to hear your second gift? It's a doozy..." Fergus glances to his left, seeing the same demon that had dragged him to his cell all that time ago. Snakes for hair, six arms, bristling with scimitars, from the pelvis down a serpent's tail. The Merilith smirked and shimmied, almost seductively. "Go on, then." He replied, returning his gaze to the Fallen Angel on The Throne. "You're gonna love this... Because of your time Downstairs you will now be a conduit on the Ground Floor! Isn't that exciting? You will channel the very essence of Hell with your very touch. You will burn every single thing with which you come into close contact. You will never hold a glass in your hand again, turn a doorknob, eat a sandwich, shake a hand, give a hug... " Lucifer leaned forward "You will never make love ever again. You will destroy every single thing you touch, quite literally." He chuckles to himself "It's enough to make even the likes of Midas jealous, which is frankly my favourite sin, if I'm being honest." Another shit-eating grin. He doesn't show it, but Fergus' heart sinks as he begins to realize his fate. "Finally..." Lucifer motions and the giant, ornate doors rumble open. Fergus turns to see a two and a half foot tall, blood red demonling being shoved into the room. The creature's wings beat rapidly, like a heartbeat as it realized where it was. It turned to seek escape but the doors had already rumbled closed. It screeched its outrage as it pounded its little fists against the ornate doors. "This..." says The Lord of Hell, bringing Fergus' attention back around "... is Screwtape and he is your third and final gift." The demonling turned and following the most basic rules of Hell attacks what he believes to be the weakest target; The human. Taking to the air on little wings he launched himself at Fergus, clearly unaware that he was attacking a Champion of The Pits. Fergus' well-time backhand knocks him out of the air, sending him to the ground sliding towards an ornate plinth where he comes to rest with a groan. The man who would become The Legendary Living Hellfire immediately bends in half, vomiting the entirety of his nearly empty stomach, his soul stretched and thinned, like dough beneath a rolling pin. In his peripheral vision Fergus notices the demonling doing the same, the stench of bile and half-digested stomach contents permeates the air. "And so it is done." Grins Lucifer "You are now soul-bound. Your third and final gift, nephew!" He stands again, descending the dais to get a closer view of his victory. It seems clear that he has cherished this moment, nurtured it, even orchestrated it. "He will be with you for as long as your first gift allows, Fergus. Oh..." he continues "You might kill him, destroy him, snap his neck, burn him to ash, stab him, dismember him... whatever... but he now suffers the same fate as you. He cannot die, he will always reappear, he will always be at your back, slashing at your tendons, hampering your movements and making your life miserable, the way you made mine miserable. Didn't you?!" The braziers flash with Enraged Angel's fury. The Demonling whimpers. Lucifer masters his temper. Not for the first time Fergus notices the key swinging on the chain around his uncle's neck, like a pendant. He had seen it on his first visit but didn't realize its significance until he had reached The Pits and heard tell of it. He had listened in as his fellow gladiators had spoken in hushed tones about a Key. They had called it The Key to the Room of Many Doors and it allowed Lucifer to teleport to any place. Fergus glanced left again, noting the Merilith, then right where stood a mighty, armoured Glabrezu. A plan began to form. Reaching through his newly formed bond with the disgusting little creature he relayed his intent. Screwtape was less than impressed, but agreed given the lack of other options. Screwtape slowly climbed to his feet, whimpering and holding himself cross-armed. "I reject yer offer, Uncle. I'd jes' as soon stay here, tae be honest." "My boy... it's not yours to reject or otherwise, the deal is done. You had no choice in any of this. You never did." The joviality and feigned familial affection fades from the face of the Lord of Hell as he approached, standing toe-to-toe with Fergus "You are not welcome, Angziel. You are an abomination. You are Nephilim!" The final word shaking the room with the rage of the the Forsaken Son's words. Angziel, born to Molly McRae and son of Kadziel, Opener of Ways stood impassive in the face of his uncle's rage. "I thought ye'd say that." His right hand gripped the chain around his uncle's neck, hauling downwards. Fergus extended his left hand towards the Merilith unleashing a blazing bolt of concentrated Hellfire, slicing her in two at the waist and destroying a burning brazier which spilled onto the floor igniting various detritus, the start of what would later be called "The Ignition" amongst Locals, a tale told of how one mortal started a rebellion. The stream of Hellfire continued its arc burning most of the way through a support column holding up the roof of the chamber as the blast went by. The chamber rumbled. Pressing inwards into the new bond he shared with Screwtape, he gave the signal for the little demon to drive into the lower tendons of the Glabrezu standing guard to the right Screwtape's charge would also be a tale told in the quiet recesses of Hell for some time. The demonling, pressed by an influence he had never experienced beat his wings once, twice, thrice and took to the air while his new Nephilim master grappled with The Devil. Coursing around an ornate column he latched onto the calve of the Glabrezu guard, tearing into muscle and tendon with claw and tooth. The Tanar'ri roared, distracted from his purpose of guarding his master and swung around but to no avail. Screwtape scrambled up the demon's leg to the buttocks taking a sizeable chunk before the Glabrezu got wise and tried smashing himself backwards into a pillar. Screwtape was having none of it, circling inside the larger demon's thigh he took the Glabrezu's entire genital package in his fanged mouth and bit down. The demon roared in agony, slamming all four fists down at his attacker only to mash an already twisted and perforated area for Screwtape was no longer there. Lucifer grabbed his nephew by the throat and gasped in agony as he drew his hand back, realizing his mistake. His second gift was already in effect, any physical contact would result in immolation. A prisoner of his own jewelry and unable to defend himself physically he staggered back and forth as his nephew dragged him to and fro. Fergus' grip slowly burning through the chain that held The Key to The Room of Many Doors. With a final twist of his hips Angziel, son of Kadziel flung his uncle into yet another support column. Holding onto the still disintegrating chain around his uncle's neck Fergus paused a moment, holding him close. He watched, pitilessly as his second gift seemed to melt his father's brother, flesh sliding off his face, bones and muscle mass expanding and cooking with the proximity "How much time do I have tae decide, Uncle? Are ye certain this is the deal ye'd like tae strike?" They both turned their heads to watch as Screwtape scurried out from the torch-light of a nearby plinth, his six inch claws scrabbling along the stone as he charged his foe, clawing his way up the Glabrezu's right leg, along its back to stand on its shoulder. Four inch talons dragged their way across the face of the minor Demon Lord, blinding it with sickening twin popping sounds. The Glabrezu roared its outrage. Without answering The Lord of Hell ripped the key from the chain and drove it into his nephew's chest. The Celestial key tore open Angziel's flesh and bone, settling itself into just behind where his sternum might be, assuming it hadn't been shattered by the blow. Fergus staggered back, breathless. He coughed, the blood spattering on the marble floor. Like a statue toppled, the Nephilim fell over onto his back and breathed his last. There is a splat as Screwtape's corpse hits the marbled floor and rolls into the centre of the room, as thrown by the maimed and whimpering larger demon. The glabrezu leaned against the column, his shuddering gasps of pain rivaling the sharp inhalation of his master as The Lord of Hell slowly straightens and turns back towards his throne. This had not been a good day, and it was about to get worse. The corpse of his nephew began to burn. It was subtle at first, as the King of Hell ascended his throne. The edges of his nephew's corpse ignited slowly, tiny flames dancing their way around the edges. Embers formed. Embers became cinders that danced in the torchlight. Flesh became ash while Lucifer watched in horror, finally understanding the curse he had laid upon himself in his wickedness. Angziel's first Gift made itself apparent as he rose from the ashes, whole and unharmed, floating above the marble floor. "Thank ye, Uncle, I'll remember this gift all the days o'me life." He grinned and winked and acessing the Key to the Room of Many Doors now buried in his chest, Fergus dashed towards an open flame and the tiny demonling followed.

The Legendary Living Hellfire descended from the heavens over Sharkhead Isle, leaving a trail of orange flame in his wake. He slowed his descent, the pressure wave from the broken sound barrier collapsing returning to his ears the snapping of his shredded cape and the crackling of his flaming trail as it ripped the sky apart behind him. Casually performing a low-and-over over The Crush he noticed the guards for the Cage Consortium reaching for their radios as opposed to their weapons. Not one to fire first, Liv let them be but noticed that one guard in particular was smirking slightly as he finished his exchange over the air. As Liv descended a little more, testing the tolerance of the guards he noticed that the smirking guard wasn't looking at him so much as past him. 2,500 hundred pounds of scorpion shaped cyborg smashed down on top of The Man on Fire, sending him tumbling and twisting through the air. The first thing he heard was his spine snapping and the second thing he heard the was Black Scorpion's rumbling laughter and the hissing, hollow sound of Ghost Widow's voice "You'd best pray you didn't kill him..." Everything went black. *** He awoke strapped to a table, staring at the ceiling of what could only be a laboratory or workshop of some kind. He looked down at himself. He was still armoured, his cape bundled up behind him as a makeshift pillow. His wrists and ankles clamped tightly with an all too familiar looking metal ore. In fact, the entire gurney upon which he lay seemed to be constructed with it which would explain why it wasn't already ashes. He caught a glimpse of himself in the reflective surface of a surgical tray that had been propped up. Long, burnt red hair, disheveled and splayed across his face, twin flames capering and dancing, one in each eye-socket. "Ah, good, you're awake, Mr. McRae" said a light, effeminate and somewhat frenetic sounding voice. "I see you've come to understand your predicament quite well." A goggled face with wild black hair leaned over him. He giggled. "Oh, not to worry, Mr. McRae I think you'll find your bindings quite secure, quite secure indeed! No need to try to burn through anything, even if you wanted to which I understand is often not the case, but that's a conversation for another time." That manic giggle again as he tapped the bindings on his prisoner's wrist. "Yep, you guessed it, Infernite, harvested from the very shores of the Lake of Perdition itself! And don't think I'm not also aware of that little key in your chest, you know the one I mean." One magnified eye winks grotesquely "What do you call it, again? Ah, yes... the key to The Room of Many Doors. You won't find any shadows to pop through here, Mr. McRae, no you will not!" Liv dropped his head back onto his cape/pillow, sighing, wishing Black Scorpion had just killed him. This would be vastly easier if that had been the case. "Doctor Feckin' Aeon... what is this about then, ye gobshite." He coughed the last word, feeling a stabbing pain in his chest. Clearly it wasn't just his back that was broken. He still couldn't feel his legs. "Oh, I'm not your adversary, Mr. McRae, not at all, nope, nope, nope!" The madman capered about his lab, fiddling with this tool or that. "At least not this time. This time, I'm just the delivery man. It would seem that you've caught the attention of- " he pointed up. Liv stared at the ceiling, confused. "Y'mean, Upstairs?" Aeon paused, "Upsta... no! Lord Recluse! He wishes to speak with you!" A light flashed on a panel "Ah, it would appear your ride has arrived." With that the door to the lab hissed open admitting five young women in green, skin-tight fatigues, swords strapped to the backs and swagger in their steps. Knives of Artemis. Mercenaries and glorified murderers. "This him?" asked The Hand. "Yes, oh, yes! Secured and ready for transport!" The Hand waved the four Blades forward before Dr. Aeon blurted "Ah... just one thing... don't kill him. Whatever you do, do not kill him." "Yeah, yeah, doc we know Lord Recluse wants him alive." "That's... not exactly what I mean, just... don't kill him." The Hand waved him off and out the door they went, hauling The Legendary Living Hellfire strapped ignominiously to a gurney. *** It's a short flight but a long drive to Grandville from Sharkhead Isle. The armoured truck bounced and jiggled its way to the ferry, sending stabbing pain into the top half of Liv's body, the only half in which there was any sensation whatsoever. Futilely he continued to try to channel Hellfire through the Infernite bindings but to no avail. He realized that the only way out of this was to die. He briefly considered engaging the Knives to see if he could provoke them to kill him but discarded the idea, largely because he was curious about what it was that would make Lord Recluse go through all this trouble. More bouncing, more jiggling until finally the truck rolled to a stop, the rubber tires hissing their submission to the blacktop, the squeak of air as the parking brake engaged. Without a word and with the professionalism of any EMT the Knives kicked open the back doors and rolled the gurney out, the legs expanding and locking into place with a soft click. This was the back entrance of Recluse's tower, in the alley on the North side of the building, opposite Grandville square. He remained silent as the young women wheeled him through a service entrance, down a hall and into a commercial elevator which then hummed as it climbed the tower. "Y'know what?" Asked The Hand as she leaned over her prisoner "After all my sisters that you sent to Elysium I should actually kill you." she hissed at him. "Ach, would ye be so kind, lass? Please do the honours, it would make all o' this quite a bit easier on both of us." He grinned. She snorted "Not like this. If you survive what happens next I will find you on the battlefield and I will take your head." "Have it yer way, lass." He winked one flaming eye. The doors dinged open, another hall, another set of doors until finally they reached the throne room. He was wheeled to the centre of the room, feet first towards an enormous throne upon which sat Lord Recluse himself. He was a big man, well over six feet tall, burly and encased in armour. His six cybernetic appendages folded into the themselves as the tyrant lounged casually. "Ah, Mr. McRae, so good of you to join us. Ladies, your payment awaits, please see Arbiter Finch on the way out." The Hand of Artemis nodded curtly and motioned for her lieutenants to follow, the door hissed closed behind them as Lord Recluse rose to his feet. "I do apologize for this, Mr. McRae but sometimes Mr. Rodriguez can be a little... over-zealous, shall we say?" The villain smiled sympathetically. Liv rolled his head left to find Black Scorpion leaning his shoulder against the wall. The cyborg pressed his hand to his lower back and winced in pain, mocking the injury. "Aye, well he an' I'll have our own palaver about that at some point, but I- " He coughed blood as he spoke, it spackled and smeared against his cheek and beard "I would like tae say that the gentle, guidin' hands o'Ghost Widow were most appreciated." He rolled his head right to take in the undead woman "E'en if she does look like a refugee from a Type O Negative concert. Tell me, are they still big with the kiddos? How much traffic is yer Myspace account gettin' these days?" The woman hissed at the insult. A deep, rasping voice from behind him shouted "FIRE MAN BE NICE TO MISTRESS!" The Legendary Living Hellfire paused. Wretch. Wretch was in the room. A plan began to form. "I think that's enough pleasantries for now, Mr. McRae, would you like me share with you why I've gone through this enormous expense and effort to bring you here, as my guest?" "I couldnae give a shite, Stevie." This time the blood was a deliberate projectile, landing about eighteen inches from Lord Recluse's feet. It sizzled and smoked as it burnt through the exquisitely polished marble. The Tyrant's eyes flashed with anger as he worked his jaw, mastering his rage at the insults both in his ears and marring his floor. "Good luck buffin' that out, ye wanker!" Liv chuckled, sending him into another fit of bloody, wet coughs. "ENOUGH!" Raged The Spider King, descending from his dais. "Your insolence does you no service, Mr. McRae! We know you've been in contact with the Freedom Phalanx and that they've offered you membership!" He took a breath, once again controlling his anger. "You will divulge to me what they offered you, as well as your answer." The predatory smile returned to his face "Before, of course, you hear my counter-offer." "I told'em the same thing I'll tellin' ye. Are ye ready?" The man on the gurney, surrounded by arch-villains grinned. "Go feck yerself... Stevie." "My Lord," Began Ghost Widow, her voice like wind through dead leaves, "He will not cooperate, we must contain him, we have the chamber prepared. It will sustain his life without ending it and he will no longer be a threat." Recluse held up a hand for silence, his rancor at Liv's impertinence almost palpable.. "Nay, Stevie, she's quite correct, I'll nae cooperate with ye, ye'd best let the trollop take me tae me room without supper!" He rolled his head right to address Ghost Widow directly "That is what ye do when the men in your life disappoint, aye? Ye enslave'em, like poor Paolo? Insae that right... Belladonna?" Ghost Widow hissed and darted forward only to stop suddenly, her mouth a perfect 'O' shape as she stared down at the blade impaling her. The thing about Infernite is that it counter-acts Hellfire, but it's useless against Celestial Fire. It's as though someone has hit a 'pause' button as everyone takes a moment to register what's just happened. Belladonna Vetrano, also known as Ghost Widow stares down at the six feet of Celestial Gladius so named LightFire running her through. She follows the flaming blade up to the hilt, staring at the hand of the man who has just wounded her so grievously. He releases his grip on the hilt of the Heavenly blade and it extinguishes, forcing her to collapse. She'll "survive" such as she does, the way any undead being "survives" any wound. She knows it, The Legendary Living Hellfire knows it and so does everyone else in the room. With one exception. "FIRE MAN HURT MISTRESS!! RAARRGH!!" Five things happen, very quickly and in the following order. Black Scorpion identifies the landscape of the situation and ducks quickly out of the room. Lord Recluse reaches out, seemingly in slow motion, his mouth forming the word 'no'. Ghost Widow collapses and dissolves into ether, passing through the floor to heal. Wretch charges the Infernite gurney, bringing his enormous fists down upon his target, shattering the entire assembly. Finally, The Legendary Living Hellfire grins and dies, smashed to a pulp. *** "You imbecile!" Screams Lord Recluse. Wretch looks up at his king, his massive fists dripping with blood and viscera. "Have you any idea what you've just done?!" The Spider King flicks open a panel on the wall behind his throne and slams his hand against the button revealed. The tower erupts into alarms. "FIRE MAN HURT MISTRESS?" "Yes, 'fire man hurt mistress'" Lord Recluse mocked "And now 'fire man' is going to hurt us all!" Wretch is confused, staring down at the gooey mass at his feet. He has only a moment to register the embers that burn to cinders that flicker to life as the remains of his victim turn slowly to ash. He looks up, hoping to find some answer from his Mistress' Master but finds nothing but a hidden door closing behind the massive throne as Lord Recluse flees. Wretch steps back, whimpering "Mistress?" The throne room is immediately ablaze as The Legendary Living Hellfire rises from the ashes, whole and uninjured. The concussive force of his resurrection blows Wretch out the enormous, gaudy stained glass window on the South side of the building and he lands as a pulpy, blackened mess in Grandville square. Pedestrians and on-lookers look up, witnessing the angry inferno engulfing a room that most if not all have never seen, but that all know is the throne room of their ruler. Glass and molten rock shaken loose by the explosion rain down on the citizens of Grandville, forcing them to find cover as a streak of burnt orange Hellfire rockets into the heavens, the sonic boom shattering glass and eardrums alike.

Circa 2013 The Man in Black was on time and he knew it as he lounged against the corner of a building across the street from a non-descript warehouse in Peregrine Island. He puffed his cigar once, twice and then flicked it onto the pavement, the embers splashing in the cool night air, contrasted by the little puddles of the recently fallen rain. The only witnesses are the streetlamps glaring down impartially as he crosses the blacktop. As he presents himself at the main entrance of the warehouse he is aware of the high-mounted camera following his progress. He slows to a stop in front of the door and from a speaker set into the wall beside the door there is an automated voice. "Fergus McRae, also known as The Legendary Living Hellfire. You are granted admittance. Please enjoy your visit." The Man in Black smirks, knowing full well that this is hardly a neighbourly visit. Not after all this time, not after all he's done. They wouldn't want to see him at this stage if they didn't want something. The door opens to reveal not a lobby, nor a front loading bay that one might expect of a warehouse. Instead, it's an elevator. He steps inside. There is the inevitable and predictable humming as the lift descends, reaching its stop after a moment or two. The doors hiss open revealing a familiar face covered by goggles, skin-tight suit all red and violet. "Hi!-I'm-Synapse-nice-to-meet-you-welcome-to-the-HQ-I'm-supposed-to-guide-you-to-the-meeting-but-can-I-just-say-how-pleased-I-am-to-meet-you-..." at this point listening to the young man becomes like drinking from a fire hose. The Man in Black finds himself nodding along with the rapid-fire patter of the established hero as he strides along at an inhuman walking speed. The high velocity rambling continues as they walk past security gates with steely-eyed guards and more cameras than there are sticks to shake at them. Gated detector after gated detector, to the point where The Man begins to wonder how much of this security is for show and how much is real. This is the Freedom Phalanx, how much security do they truly need? Corridor after corridor, elevator after elevator as he endured Steven Barry's verbal onslaught. A statement followed by a question followed by an observation, none of which allowed any time whatsoever for a response. The Man in Black followed. "-so-anyway-I-found-the-Trolls-hunkered-in-the-cellar-and-they-were-loaded-for-bear-and-I-just..." "Enough!" The Man stopped, his shoulder dropping slightly. "Enough, mate... I cannae unnerstand a single feckin' werd ye've said" Steve Barry looks somewhat crestfallen "I'm sorry... I talk fast when I'm excited." "It's quite alright, lad, I unnerstand yer enthusiasm, it's jes' hard tae keep up." he pauses, recognizing that he's hurt the younger man's feelings. "Yer a good bloke an' I ken ye mean well, it's jes' a wee bit much, aye? I didnae mean any harm, it's jes'... a lot." Synapse nods, mollified slightly but his embarrassment is clear. The Man in Black would recall his teacher's training and recognize that he failed this young man in that moment in that he did not give him the attention that he needed. They arrive at a door. It's always a door. The hallways is a pristine white. The floor is white, the ceiling is white, the door before which they stand is white. It hisses open revealing a council chamber complete with the V-shaped council table. A lone, armless chair sits square and centre, facing forward at the apex of the table at which sits none other than Marcus Cole, Statesman himself. Synapse is already seated at the far left of the table, doing his very best to appear relaxed. From left to right around the table are Synapse, a bundle of nervous energy. Next is Dr. Raymond Keyes in his metal suit, followed by Citadel the android. From right to left are Michael White, also known as the Back Alley Brawler, an enormous man in a tiny chair followed by Shalice Tillman Sinclair and her husband, the rich socialite Justin Sinclair, Sister Psyche and Manticore. Statesman rises from his throne at the head of the table and motions to the chair obviously meant for The Man in Black. "Fergus McRae, it's a pleasure to finally meet you! Please, join us.". The Man in Black grins back at Paragon City's foremost Hero, reaching into his breast pocket producing a cigar. "Aye, a pleasure tae finally make yer acquaintance." He nods to the assembled heroes, jamming the cigar into his mouth, the cherry burning immediately. He saunters slowly toward the chair indicated and casually shoves it with his toe on his way past towards the apex of the table. "Smoking is not permitted in this room". The Man in Black ignores Positron as he approaches the internal apex of the table, standing a respectful distance from The Throne he hauls deeply on the cigar, blowing a plume of smoke into the ceiling of the room. The chair continues its roll, as though fleeing the scenario entirely of its own volition. "So yer Marcus Cole, then?" The Man asks. "Yer the leader o'this wee outfit what apparently does very little tae aid the folks o'this wee city?" Statesman pulls himself up to his full height, the smell of ozone in the air. "In this room you will address me as Statesman, Mr. McRae. Please allow me to remind you where you stand. You were invited here as a courtesy." The Man in Black grins and takes the cigar from his mouth, letting it hang from his fingers as he turns slowly back towards the centre of the chamber. "Aye? An' what courtesy is that, Marcus?" He asks pointedly, jamming the cigar back into his mouth, the smoke rising above his hat like a halo. "Ye've clearly done yer homework on who I am, but ye ferget that I was a teacher. I've done me own homework on who ye all are, what ye can do an' so forth. Moreover, I ken jes' fine when I've been called tae the principal's office." He pauses, turning slowly to address the room. "D'ye ye reckon' I dinnae ken a trial when I see it? It's hardly me first." Justin Sinclair clears his throat, his bow cornered against his chair as he leans forward on his elbows, his fingers interlaced on the polished oak. "Mr. McRae I think we've gotten off on the wrong foot. We've asked you here to discuss with you some of the wonderful work you've done in protecting the citizens of this city and, in fact our very reality as we know it." The Man in Black stands motionless waiting for Manticore to continue his placation. "Largely due to the work of Dr. Keyes and Citadel we have analyzed your productivity. Your interventions have all been excellent with high praise from the media and witnesses, your civilian death rate is quite low, surprisingly so given your skill-set and abilities. Even your social media mentions are favourable. Mr. McRae this is not a trial or a a call to disciplinary action, we asked you here in the hope that you would join us." There is a brief pause. "No." That smell of ozone again. "Why?" asks Statesman, still on his feet, his arms folded. The Man in Black draws on his cigar, this time blowing the smoke directly at the apex of the table. "Because ye called me 'Mr. McRae' an' very few folk have the right er privilege o'callin' me that er any other name. Ye dinnae care about me er what I b'lieve. Ye only care about what I can do an' ye wish tae leash me like a dog behind yer precognistic algorithms about probabilistic outcomes." "Make nae mistake, I reckon ye meant well when ye started out an' I've had me encounters with various malefactors, as ye've so ably communicated." With a nod to Positron and Citadel "However, ye've made a critical error, Marcus." "And what's that, exactly, Mr. McRae?" "Ye've corporatized bein' a superhero. Ye've made it an establishment issue an' profession. Ye've established yerself as a resource tae be at least respected by an' at werst funded by public money." The Man motions around him at the impressive conference room ensconced deep within the bowels of the city. "Yer nae interested in aidin' folk, ye jes' wish tae maintain yer reputation. Ye dinnae care a lick fer the average bloke, the average firefighter, police officer er fast-food worker. Ye allow these cretins tae invade yer city, the city ye were sworn tae defend because intervenin' in this er that incursion might harm yer image." The silence is deafening. "An that goes fer all o'ye." The Man in Black scans the table. "O'er the years I've aided all o'ye with yer various tasks an' errands an' nae one time have I see ye engage in defence o'this city! Ye stand at yer posts, crossin' yer arms, baskin' in yer authority an' reputation accomplishin' nothin'." "I'll nae join this band o'layabouts." *** The Man in Black steps into the cool evening, the sky above him welcome and inviting. The Legendary Living Hellfire steps lightly into the air, welcoming the lightning as it strikes from the Heavens. A burnt orange streak of Hellfire carves its way into the night sky.

Engine 5 screamed past pulled over traffic on the freeway in Skyway City, lights and sirens. The noise in the truck is deafening, but not so much so that the mobile affixed to the dashboard was drowned out. "Engine five from Dispatch" Captain Norm Smith reached for the hand-held, pulling it out of its cradle as the rig bounced down the road in what could only be called a 'controlled fall towards danger'. He glanced at his operator in the driver's seat to his left as he brought the hand-piece to his mouth. A senior man on the department, Gavin Gilchrist was as solid as they came. Captain Smith noticed Firefighter Gilchrist's eyes flick to the mobile, but made no other indication he had even noticed the transmission. Norm thought to himself in that moment, and not for the first time that Gilchrist would make an excellent officer. "This is Engine five, go ahead, dispatch" "Engine five you are responding on a high priority to a reported working fire at 528 Washington, cross-streets of Delaware and Fourth. Multiple crews on location reporting flames visible sides 1, 3 and 4. Reports of civilians trapped. Car 20 is in command, car 40 is fire control. Please be advise that you have been assigned as RIT." "Engine five copies, responding." Captain Smith replaces the hand-piece in its cradle, grimacing to himself. RIT stands for Rapid Intervention Team and is the crew assigned to assist in the event that a firefighter requires rescue within an emergent scenario. It was largely a boring job that required standing around waiting for something to happen that rarely ever did. He looks back to his crew, Howard "Duck" Marsden and Talia Swayne. Both rookies. The turn-over at PCFD has been high the past few years. The inferno loomed in the distance as Gavin took the off-ramp, black smoke and open flame were the order of the day. **** Engine five pulled up to scene, spilling out all four members. Captain Smith and Firefighters Swayne and Marsden swaggered away while Firefighter Gilchrist took his post at the Engine control panel to the rear of the cab. The radio chatter almost constant as crews reported progress to fire control. Captain Smith led his members to the accountability board, passing in their tags so that they could be counted amongst the crew assigned to various tasks. The building itself was fully involved. Flames showing from multiple floors on no less than three sides. There was an urgency in the air that wasn't normal. Working fires, even in large, multi-unit residential buildings weren't uncommon, but what was uncommon was that people were trapped and in very real danger of life and limb. As horrifying as it might be to be burnt alive, not being burnt alive and having to suffer through the process of recovery from severe burns was worse. Not to mention the slow asphyxiation that comes with carbon monoxide poisoning as a result of exposure and inhalation of smoke. Captain Smith understood after 25 years on the job that his role as RIT commander at this particular fire carried a weight that it hadn't at most other fires. His brothers and sisters were at real risk because they would be inclined to take chances that they normally wouldn't in order to save people in real danger. Norm gathered his crew, briefing them on what he knew at the time, the radio screaming with the voices of firefighters both within and without the building, calling for reports, asking for windows to be taken out for ventilation, asking for progress updates and so forth. As he reached for the radio on his belt to turn down the volume, the Mandown alarm came in. A keening, warbling wail that signaled that a firefighter was in distress. The radio cuts off and the channel dedicates itself to the transmission, uninterruptable and insistent as the 12 second LIPA is transmitted. "Sixth Floor! Firefighter Moore! Trapped behind a collapsed ceiling, require immediate rescue! Will attempt to to self-protect and await rescue!" Captain Smith was cool as ice. He glanced briefly at his crew to ensure that they had their RIT packs secure and motioned them forward at a brisk, yet unhurried pace. His pulse raced, but he wouldn't dare show it to his crew. They needed him and he needed them. What he didn't need, or so he thought was an intrusion. "Beg yer pardon, mate." "I don't have time, sir! Please step back behind the line!" Barks the officer as he strides past. "I dinnae think ye unnerstand, I can aid ye." Out of curiosity at the brazenness of his addressor, Norm spins on his feet as he continues toward the building, just out of curiosity as to who would be bothering him in this moment. It's a red haired man in a flat black suit, burnt orange pin-stripes, a fedora atop his head, a cigar in his mouth. He couldn't be more out of place. Captain Smith stops and almost gawps at the gall of the man. "I told you to step behind the line!" The Man in Black grins and rolls the cigar between his teeth from the left side of his mouth to the right. "Mate, I ken ye've a man in distress." He motions to the burning building "That's of nae danger tae yers truly. Tell me where yer man is an' I'll aid ye in rescuin' him." That grin. Again. Norm Smith is no dummy. He knows where he lives, he knows what his reality is and he now recognizes that this is no ordinary civilian, but time is of the essence and he must affect rescue as soon as possible. He waves his crew forward towards side one entrance of the building, finding himself briefing a total stranger in a bespoke suit about fire rescue. He would later consider this the strangest day on the job in his life. "Firefighter Moore is trapped on the sixth floor in an unknown unit of this building." He shouts over the sound of the radio, the roar of the two and a half inch hoses hitting the building from the outside and the almost deafening sound of the raging fire consuming the building itself. "He is behind a collapsed ceiling and he's believe to be on side 2 of the building, but we cannot confirm." The fire crew and The Man in Black step over the coiled hoses stretching into the lobby of the building. "We have elevator control but it's being used to facilitate crew relief, so we have to take the stairs." Captain Smith looks back to find The Man standing at the threshold to the building. As he places his hand on the door to stairwell A he calls back "Are you coming, or not?" The Man in Black grins that same grin, taking the cigar from his mouth, flicking it out onto the pavement. "I'll meet ye up there, mate!" and disappears. At some point in the next few days Firefighter Swayne asks her captain if he heard the clap of thunder from outside just shortly after that exchange. *** The first flight of Stairwell A was very different than the second flight. The fire had clearly started on the second floor and was well established by the time Engine 5 had arrived. It was an old fire and it was angry and hungry and fire always burns up. "RIT team from command" Captain Smith reaches for the lapel mic "Command, RIT" His voice muffled over the radio from the SCBA mask. "RIT what's your status?" "We're just passing the fourth floor in Stairwell A. Smoke conditions are heavy, heat is high. We're making good progress." Norm glanced back at his crew, taking a moment of pride in how firefighters Marsden and Swayne were keeping up with their high-rise packs and SCBA tanks. There were no finer firefighters in the world than Station 5 of the PCFD. Opening the door to the sixth floor was like opening the door to Hell. The entire hallway was fully involved, from the carpet runner on the floor to the wallpaper, to the light fixtures to the spackled ceiling. The mandown sounded again on the radio, screeching its urgency. "Sixth Floor! Firefighter Moore! High heat conditions, flashover imminent, require immediate rescue!" Firefighter Moore's prophecy turned out true as a pocket of oxygen from a neighbouring apartment lit, blowing the door out of the unit, slamming itself into the opposite wall. The roaring inferno consuming all the air within the hallway and rushing towards the crew of Engine five as they stood huddled against the door to Stairwell A. Captain Smith instinctively tried to shield his crew against the blast, knowing in those deep parts of his heart that his effort would ultimately be futile before they were consumed entirely. But it didn't come. Norm Smith opened his eyes to see The Man in Black standing between him and a roiling inferno. The Man seemed unconcerned, even smug as he somehow simply blocked the raging fire with his presence. That damn cigar still gripped between his teeth, the cherry glowing brighter than ever. "Ye'd best hurry, Captain!" The Man whispered, somehow audible in the cacophony. Engine five crew charged left and down the hall unencumbered while the inferno raged behind them, slowly creeping up. They checked door after door, giving the all clear every time until they reached apartment 614. The outside of the door was black, charred and warped. It took very little time to beat it down and upon entering the unit the crew of Engine five found their lost man. Huddled behind the charred remains of a frightfully inexpensive couch was Firefighter Andrew Moore. Unfortunately he was trapped behind the collapsed ceiling he had initially reported in his first mandown. Now there was a new problem. Firefighter Moore was trapped behind a collapsed assemblage of drywall, wood and melted concrete all of which was entirely ablaze. Without order, the crew of Engine five unlatched their fire axes and halogen tools to dismantle the obstacle to rescue their fallen brother. "Command from RIT" "Go ahead RIT, this is command" "We have made contact with Firefighter Moore and are affecting rescue at this time, however he is trapped behind a significant obstacle. We are attempting to breach this obstacle at this time in order to bring him to safety." "Command copies, RIT please advise if you require additional assets as well as further updates on progress." Norm Smith inhales deeply, his exhale fogging the interior of his SCBA mask as he unlatches his own halogen. "May I be o'service, Captain?" That voice again, that damned Scottish bastard who thinks he can just walk in and out of a fire scene. Annoyed to the point of distraction, Captain Smith just simply gestures to the obstacle before them. The Man in Black steps into the apartment unit, that grin still on his face. How he could just simply walk about a burning building in a fancy suit and tie, that stupid hat on his head and not even have so much as a char mark on him, Norm Smith would never understand. But there he was, in fancy civvies waving Engine five crew aside. It was at that moment that Captain Smith understood who this man was. He watched as The Legendary Living Hellfire held out a hand and manifested a burnt orange blade of Celestial Fire. The temperature in the already burning building spiked. The Man dropped the blade onto the mass of twisted rebar and concrete trapping Firefighter Moore, severing it in the middle. He stepped back extinguishing the blade, allowing Engine five crew to do their work of clearing the debris. *** Engine five crew staggers out of the elevator on the ground floor. Standby EMTs are there to catch Firefighter Moore as Firefighters Swayne and Marsden collapse in exhaustion. On their trip down the elevator from the sixth floor Captain Smith heard command declare the "under control" but couldn't understand why given the state of the sixth floor when they arrived. Leaning against the command vehicle is a man in a black suit with burnt orange pinstripes. He winks behind opaque orange shades and then is gone.