Millennium Man tome #20
"Overlap"
(The Once And Future Buddha Act I)
By Jacob Milnestein
The wall shattered upon impact with his fist, crumbling to dust and rubble beneath the rough skin of his knuckles and leaving a terrible wound in the building's side. For a moment it groaned, the foundations protesting at the violence thus inflicted on its structure before finally caving and accepting gravity's embrace.
Bilious clouds of dust and ash rose up from the ground as the building sunk awkwardly down into the dirt and shattered concrete of the ruined streets. By the time the first shower of glass and debris hit the ground he had moved several streets away, indifferent to the ruination of the buildings and focused only on the sinewy movements of his opponent.
The Paper District had never been the most reputable of areas within the city's boundaries. Over-industrialised and crowded with the poor, the immigrants, the destitute and the unfeeling it had been the dumping ground for all those who had failed to properly contribute to the city's economy in a way that current American dictated Western thought approved of. Those who lacked the means or the aspiration soon found their way to the Paper District whilst across the world Little Americas continued to grow unchecked and uncontrolled.
The previous mayor, an American himself, had done little to improve the fare of the Paper District's permanent residents. In fact it was by his decree that the engine that had so torn up the streets in conflict, was born. The current mayor, sometimes an Englishman, sometimes an English woman, showed at the best, contempt for the desolate streets. In that way the tradition of dictatorship by the two most notable English language empires of the past three or four centuries had made its mark on Pacific City.
Of the other men notable for the role in the Paper District's exhilarated decline into rubble was the city's once hailed protector and saviour, the man who stood with bloody fists amidst the chaos of falling buildings, Michael Manly.
Face creased in concentrated fury, Manly ploughed his fist forwards through Earth's heavy atmosphere. His opponent sidestepped with ease, moving fluidly past and placing two extended fingers against Manly's throat.
The motion stopped abruptly and Manly folded, coughing and dragging deep breaths down into his starved lungs. He looked up, eyes watering from exertion and brow creased. The other looked down at him, his pale robes stained with dust.
"You're still too slow." He announced, his voice firm and accented by his American birth and complicated upbringing.
Manly rose up from the ground, absently rubbing at his sore throat. The other's nostrils flared in resolute anger, as if Manly's casual soothing of his wounds was an insult.
"Your arrogance insults me." He snarled, suddenly vicious and impatient.
Manly turned away, affecting a look of boredom and disinterest, his eyes turning up to the cloudy moonless skies above.
"You're being too impatient." He murmured, pushing his hands deep into the pockets of his black jeans. "I'm still not comfortable with pushing my powers this far."
"Then you're an idiot. You know as well as me that there's something big out there, don't try and tell me any different because I know you can sense it." The other leant in close to Manly, his whispers harsh and agitated. "There is something fierce craving a way into this city, something unspeakable."
"You're being melodramatic, Aristotle." Manly answered in a dismissive tone. "There's nothing on Earth that we can't deal with." He turned back and fixed the other man in his eyes, holding the silent expression of rage in his mind. "If not me or you then Romanova and the New Mages."
"And what if it's not of this Earth?" Aristotle Licuan demanded, arching a single eyebrow. "What if it's bigger than that?"
Manly's expression soured, his eyes narrowing and his mouth becoming a straight line.
"Then I'll use the full extent of my powers." He answered.
"Show me." Licuan snapped.
Within the blink of an eye, Manly's body ignited in twisting flames of ghost fire, rising up and pulling away in different directions. Veins bulged in his face and limbs as his aura began to expand, pushing the energy of his body into muscle and bulk and increasing his physical size several times over. The concrete shattered beneath, the glass of the few remaining Paper District buildings shattering violently and still Manly's power continued to grow.
Across the city the ground trembled and glass rattled in window frames whilst miles away, in the heart of the outlands, the tremors triggered decline in the ancient red mountains that saw them descended once more into sand.
Aristotle didn't even blink refusing to acknowledge that the terrifying expansion of Manly's power in any way that would have perceivable to the other. Deep inside however his very guts rumbled in fear, the foundations of his physical being trembling in time with the glass and metal body of the city around him.
With a smug grin and a sudden flick of the wrist, Manly snapped his hand open directly in front of Aristotle's face.
"Bang." He said simply as light exploded from the palm of his hand and engulfed Aristotle's head whole.
The sound of warfare rolled out over the city, buildings rattling in the centuries' old dirt and concrete that buried the foundations. Standing solemnly on the furthest point from downtown Pacific City, the rumble of destruction made known their presence amongst the wild grass and bent trees.
Dressed once more in the universal purple and white of the venerated New Mages, Officer Doroshi Hayate considered the sprawling mass of glass and metal she was about to destroy. It had been four weeks since she had arrived in the city, four weeks to remain silent amongst the filth and wretchedness of its abandoned housing estates and fear crippled children. Along with her partner, Ozma Ikazuchi, she had been despatched to investigate and rectify the foundation of a rogue Mage cell - their investigation had spiralled into chaos ending with a decimated building, a confrontation with the wolf-priestess Eldritch and an unlikely ally in the shape of an enigmatic machine.
Over the past few weeks she had come to think of him as a 'him'. It was difficult maintaining distant and objectivity when, to all purposes and intents, he was so human. A wave of guilt rose up deep within as the foundations of the plan they had all agreed on surfaced once more - the last resort, a solution none of them had ever wished for: warfare.
She felt sudden warmth and the tender touch of Ozma as she slipped her delicate hand into Doroshi's own. Slowly she turned, regarding the other woman's deep, almond shaped eyes, the shimmering crystals of her tiara resting amongst the locks of her flowing blonde hair. She smiled weakly, absently noticing that Ozma had also dressed in the standard combat uniform of the New Mages.
"Don't worry." Ozma smiled, squeezing her hand reassuringly.
Doroshi nodded sadly as she gently brushed a stray strand of hair from over the other woman's left eye, neatly arranging her fringe with melancholy perfectionism.
"He's already left, hasn't he?" She asked sadly.
Ozma's eyes tellingly turned away from her gaze.
"Yes." She answered, her tone dropping. "He said…he said that if he were to fail that we shouldn't come after him…that we should head to America and find a lady named…" She paused, frowning as she tried to remember the name. "Ah, Miss Ann Thrope."
Doroshi's face soured with disdain, her eyes solemn beneath her fringe of darkest black hair.
"Idiot." She whispered, her eyes filling with tears. "He's throwing his life away. I have no intention of leaving for America."
Ozma smiled broadly, squeezing her eyes up and tilting her head in a childlike manner.
"I told him you'd say that."
"You'd think he'd know us better." Doroshi continued, still fuming. "We can't turn our back on this, no more than he can…" She turned away, blinking the tears from her eyes.
Ozma tightened her grip on her partner's hand.
"That encounter with Xero-X really spooked you, didn't it?" She asked, a sudden note of seriousness in her voice.
"I didn't expect them to send another agent," Doroshi confessed. "Especially not someone from outside the bureau…and a tarot-smith as well!"
"You've never been comfortable with the cards, have you?" Ozma asked.
"They're impractical and unpredictable. That makes them the worse kind of weapon."
Ozma arched an eyebrow.
"And yet you never said that to him, did you?"
Doroshi looked up, a curious expression settling upon her face.
"For a while there I thought he had a chance. Of all the decks those idiot tarot-smiths use his seemed the most practical - the most reliable. If he'd bothered to stay then we could have syndicated his cards, founded an army, defeated Romanov once and for all but no, he had to rush off, prove that he was the big hero. So eager to kill himself, so eager to save the world that he forgot that the world's only worth staying as long as the people you leave behind can bear to live in it. Idiot!" She spat, her voice rising to a shout. "Stupid idiot!"
The grass beneath their feet swayed gently in the wind as Doroshi collapsed into the arms of her partner, her chest heaving with sobs. Beneath the tiny hill and its faint pretence of wildlife, Pacific City trembled violently.
***
There were no lights on in the office, he had made sure of that. Over the past few weeks he had come to resent direct sunlight on a deeply symbolic level, recently he had acquired a distaste also for artificial lighting, finding it too reminiscent of the burning plasma that illuminated the day. He knew what everyone else in the building said about him, he'd heard the whispers and bloodsucker jokes but he just didn't care enough to respond.
On the desk before him, wide open in the darkened office, were the only facts that mattered, the only truths that really had any significance. Michael Manly was Millennium Man, end of story. For Trevor Mason the biggest crime wasn't in finding out that Millennium Man, like everyone else, had a real face, it was in discovering that the face was one he had known all along, one he had passed in the corridor, exchanged pleasantries with, invited to parties.
In the back of his throat he could feel the bile rising, his stomach rising up into his throat, ready to spew out all the filth he had breathed in from the ugly city streets. His teeth turned red, his mouth filling with blood as he tore at the ulcers that now marked the soft flesh within. With determination he snatched up the phone.
Today he was going to change the world; today he was finally going to make a difference.
Today he was going to put an end to superheroes.
***
The pavement rippled, solid chunks of concrete and tarmac splashing like waves before the structure collapsed completely and broke open, revealing the fields of churned dirt and building foundations beneath the city. Sound escalated, rising up from a distant cry of thunder and blossoming into a deafening roar that ripped holes in buildings. The solitary figure stopped abruptly in mid-air, light still playing across the surface of his reflective, black helmet. For a moment he remained in the air, observant and unmoving, the ruin of the city behind him.
A second passed and instantly he burst into motion, diving forwards, his arms thrown back as shards of luminance tore upwards from the ground, exploding particles of oxygen and hydrogen about him. The figure moved on, darting effortlessly between the beams of light, his feet slamming into the ground once, before leaping forwards once more in a gravity defying burst of movement.
The cannons that had been erected about the primary complex that housed the city's resources continued their brutal bombardment of the air, explosions scarring the horizon. The interloper ignored them, focusing solely on the daunting shape of the complex's central buildings, the heart and organs of Pacific City's technological core; Lansing Technologies.
As the ground erupted in fire and broken concrete the figure landed solemnly before the shape of the building. With slow, calm movements he reached back and retrieved the colossal blade from his back, twisting it to catch the light of the cannons as they spastically continued to recalibrate their target radius, desperate to lock onto the single, human shape of their opponent.
"You…" The figure whispered, his voice masculine and firm. "Are not my true rival."
With a fluid burst of movement his hands peddled backwards from the sword as he hung motionless in the air before. The cannons focused, red markings staining the ground about him and prepared to fire. From deep within he cried out and slammed the palm of his right hand into the hovering hilt of the sword. The blade exploded forwards, shredding the air before it as he turned away, the battle won.
As the cannons completely their final checks and fired to open fire the entire complex exploded in a lotus blossom of reaction. Without another word, the figure leapt upwards into the air and far from sight.
***
The city's suburbs were universal. In every city across the world the middle class presented themselves in much the same way; a garage for one car and another parked on the drive, three bedrooms, one for beleaguered parents and two for the children. Pets that died too quickly, bicycles propped against back walls, familiar memories of places long forgotten.
With her hands deep amongst change and rusting dog tags, Eldritch stood awkwardly on the doorstep of one such home, decidedly conscious of how uncomfortable she looked outside of her traditional uniform. A moment passed, a long moment in which her bare feet twitched upon the warm concrete beneath and her body twitched subtly in reaction to the flared denim of her jeans and T-shirt. The door opened slowly revealing an astute young man in a pair of oil-splattered overalls. Her eyes narrowed as she regarded the defining scar that marked his face and the curtains of greasy brown hair.
"Who are you?" He asked, his voice sulky and standoffish.
Instinctively her fingers were in her hair, curling around copper strands in a manner that she hoped came across as coy.
"Hi," She said, her voice warm and unfriendly. "Erm, my name's Estella."
The boy in the doorway arched an eyebrow, the scar running beneath his eyes twisting in an ugly reminder of whatever personal tragedy he had experienced.
"So?" He asked, his tone impatient.
"I was wondering if you mum and dad were in." Her voice faltering with embarrassment and perhaps, the faintest hint of her own tragedy.
"Alex, who's at the door?" A third voice interrupted.
Eldritch felt her heart leap into her throat as the boy's mother stepped out from the kitchen to peer over his shoulder at the girl on her doorstep, her arms folded across her cooking apron and her cream, polo neck jumper betraying signs of the meal she was preparing. She was older than Eldritch remembered, more severe looking and with signs of grey amongst her long, black hair and yet the way in which she stood watching over her son denoted a certain tenderness, a patience that had not been present before.
"Is there something we can help you with, young lady?" She asked, raising an eyebrow in an identical gesture to the one her son had performed.
It was her; older, more protective and certainly more domestic, but it was still her. Tanya Clandestine, the once proud and fearsome heart of their sect, the same woman she had spent five years walking the dusty plains of Braeburn away from.
"No," Eldritch whispered, shaking her head and forcing tears from her eyes. "No, sorry. I think I've got the wrong house number."
Tanya nodded slowly, a glint of suspicion in her eyes, but said nothing. Eldritch opened her mouth to say something else, to talk about the Bowler, about Winters, about Braeburn, about Henry, but found nothing but sound and the threat of sobbing. Desperate, she turned away without another word, tears streaming down her face.
***
Victoria Burke dragged the toe of her shoe through the ash and debris, grinding dirt beneath her heel and turned away from the destruction, her hair falling softly over her shoulders and her lips drawn in a distasteful pout.
Her eyes narrowed and fixed upon the slouched form of the city's mayor, leaning back against the side of her overly polished sports car and leering out from behind his sunglasses. With a delicate movement of nonchalance he pushed away, swaggering slowly towards her, his hands deep in his pockets.
She tensed, her hands suddenly becoming fists as she felt familiar wounds of haunted passion ignite as he approached. Something dark and sinister whispered to her from the scarab brooch on the lapel of her jacket and for a moment the air crackled between them.
"Erlend…" She whispered.
He smiled down at her.
"Lover." He answered with a smirk.
She turned away, suddenly feeling nauseous and pitiful.
"Not your lover…" She whimpered weakly.
He pushed his face close to her, nuzzling into the side of her neck with gentle kisses.
"By proxy," He whispered gently, his stubble tearing against her exposed neck. "Everything Anna is, everything she feels, is mine." His smile broke open into unmasked savagery, a line of spittle trailing from his lower lip and resting upon her neck. "I love you just as much as she does, Victoria, you're my cherished sisters, both."
Victoria shivered and tried to push away, the scarab sparking with her rage and impotence.
"Have you ever thought," Romanov's voice whispered, disembodied and rooted deep within her head. "What it would be like to manifest as Yehovah during intercourse? You, me, Anna and the hand of God, all wrapped in one shivering bundle of flesh?"
She staggered, bile rising up behind her teeth and seeping through the cracks as she collapsed in the debris, holding onto her stomach. The world sharpened and cleared and the nausea deserted her as abruptly as it had arrived. Still, shaking she rose from the ground, turning to see Romanov far behind the police tape that cordoned off the area, acting as if their previous conversation had never happened.
He turned to her and smiled amiably.
"So what do you make of this?" He called out.
She shivered. Had he been distant from her all this time? Suddenly she found herself untrusting of memory and recollection.
"I-I-I…I'm not s-sure…" She answered, shaking her head, desperately trying to clear her thoughts.
"They've taken out our first line of defence," Romanov announced, acting as if oblivious to her confusion. "Which means that either they mean business and are too weak to do any significant damage or they want us to know just how important they are, either way it puts us in an uncomfortable position. It only takes one snowball to start an avalanche, and all that."
She couldn't think straight; her thoughts like dark water flooding the foundations of her mind.
"W-Why would they target Lansing Technologies though?" She asked, putting a hand to her head and fighting back a migraine.
"My guess is that they were looking for something very specific…" He began before his voice was suddenly drowned by the rise of the wind.
Victoria staggered and felt something swift and agile dart by her, instinctively she threw her arms up over her face, feeling the sharp sting of metal as it slashed at the material of her jacket and the flesh beneath. She span round, alert suddenly, blood running down her forearms just in time to see a thin figure in a simple, one piece suit land amongst the ruins of Lansing Technologies.
Slowly the figure rose up, his right hand still clutching the handle of a sword at his side and his head masked by a sphere of pure reflective black.
"Kamen no 1000 Ninpuu," He announced, voice soft and gentle as petals. "Sanjou."
***
The city filled with morning light, the only constant reminder that beneath the glamour of dissidence and independence Pacific City was still very much a city like any other, a city that thrived on media and entertainment.
In Shinjuku-gyoen Square in the very middle of the city's cosmopolitan centre, towering above a billboard depicting Japanese actress and singer, Eumi Komatsubara smiling warmly and brandishing an ice cold can of SUNNY Up!, the mammoth KGPC television screen flickered into action. Abruptly it shifted from the loop of broadcast adverts and commercials to the image of a quiet, dimly lit newsroom within the KGPC building, deserted now aside from the haggard and sleep deprived man sitting behind the desk, his suit worn and dishevelled and the papers before crumpled and folded.
'Ladies and gentlemen, my name is Trevor Mason…' His voice faltered and his expression became one of harrowed distress. 'I-I honestly don't know how to begin telling you this…' He stammered, staring at the sheaf of papers before as if they held some comfort beyond words. 'I've been with in business with Burke Enterprises since I graduated university because, well, I've never had any real reason to do anything else…my father owns a large share in KGPC and is on the board of directors for Burke as well as being the figurehead of our own company…
'I was told since I was young to look away from the streets and the filth that crowd them and to look up at the heavens…' His voice faltered and tears began streaming down his face. 'But I can't do that, ladies and gentlemen…I can't look to the heavens because the sky is filled with murderers and tyrants.
'When I was 10 years old I saw the previous Millennium Man beat Fireczar to death within our very city. No one questioned whether this was right or wrong they just turned way and let him sail off into the sky… last June the current Millennium Man did the same thing to KGPC cameraman, James Finnegan.
'Nothing changes. When I was a kid I wanted to believe that those people who dare to put themselves above us by merit of power or strength were there for our benefit. That belief died with Fireczar. This city has produced grotesque murderers who hide behind cloaks and masks to conceal themselves from the law.' He bowed his head, raising a shaking hand to wipe the tears from his eyes. 'I can no longer be an accessory of such an abhorrent and corrupt lie.' Slowly he lifted his head and faced the camera directly. 'Ladies and gentlemen, a few months ago certain files and reports came into my possession. We have confirmed our sources and the evidence these documents with authorities independent of this city's corrupt leadership and have found them to be true.
'These files confirm the real name and identity of Pacific City's most evil man.' He paused; his eyes still damp and his voice still shaking. 'Ladies and gentlemen,' He whispered. 'Millennium Man is Michael Manly.'
***
Solemnly he dropped the sunglasses into the ash beneath his feet.
"I thought you might turn up eventually." He said darkly. "Too good to stay away, eh?"
The figure in the black one piece turned to face them, the mask dissipated and folded into tiny squares that retracted into thin air to reveal a sharp face with high cheekbones and thorns of black hair over dark, unfathomable eyes.
"I see that whatever you disregarded about Yujiro Komatsubara you at least kept his face." Romanov smirked.
"I do not choose the faces that appear in the deck, Romanov, simply the order in which they are used." The machine with Komatsubara's face answered, his voice dry and studied.
"But you chose to reject poor Yujiro as your host, didn't you? At least that's what the current rumours concerning you indicate."
Kamen no 1000 Ninpuu remained staring directly ahead.
"I had to reject Yujiro…" He paused, his voice slightly troubled. "If I had not then he could never had achieved the powers that include within the 1000 Ninpuu tarot deck…"
"And you were already aware of his presence in the deck, weren't you?" Romanov stepped forwards, pushing his verbal assault. "In fact, I'd hazard that you were aware that Yujiro was in the deck the moment the 20th century died and your lecteur de tarot recreated themselves. How very, very heartless of you." He paused, smiling as looked over at his opponent. "I wonder, have you ever thought about joining the New Mages?"
"I have come here to destroy you, Romanov. Please prepare yourself for the afterlife." The machine announced, ignoring the other's invitation.
Romanov sighed dramatically and turned away, walking slowly back towards Burke's shimmering red sports car.
"How very tiresome. Victoria, be a dear and a dispose of our unwelcome guest."
The scarab on Victoria's label ignited in flame as she snatched it off the jacket holding it high and allowing its raw power to mix with the fire of her own chi. Light blossomed from every pore of her body, her hair growing at such a dramatic rate that it touched the floor in a moment, suddenly transformed to a pale silver and twisting as if alive amongst the ashes.
Her clothes burnt away, revealing broad shoulder-pads and delicate armour of the bleach bone tattooed upon her heavenly flesh. Her eyes turned white and with a roar she threw herself forwards, her chi blossoming like an obscene lotus flower.
Kamen no 1000 Ninpuu remained unmoving as he bore down upon her, her scream becoming almost deafening. With a single twist of his wrist he snapped into motion, his hand slammed into her face and clamped over her whole head. Beneath his gloves her hair snaked and spat like fierce serpents.
Without breaking a sweat he changed her course of movement and threw her sideways through the nearest building with such force that the entire structure collapsed upon her. There was silence for a moment in the destruction's wake, clouds of dust rising out of the wreckage and clinging to his costume.
Romanov turned to look at him, unmoved and expressionless.
A moment passed and the rumble moved slightly. Neither man moved and a moment later, Victoria Burke emerged from beneath the wreckage, naked and covered in blood, staggering blindly about the ruins, her powers receded.
Romanov reached into his card and drew forth a single tarot card, its back shimmering like the underside of a circuit board.
"This is what you attempted to destroy, I believe."
The machine's eyes widened as it fixed on the card. With a languid movement he threw the card through the air. For a moment it flittered about before gently falling like the lightest of feathers at Victoria's bruised and bleeding feet.
"This is what I had Sommers and his staff at Lansing Technologies develop for me, a hybrid of the lecteur de tarot system and the scarabs which you and Tanya Clandestine used to ascend to your respect angelic forms. Six cards, one deck: the Abare-ru Hattatsu Siege Henshin Armour."
Victoria reached down and scooped the card up with her blistered hands, turning it over and over, her eyes widening as it reached inside her mind.
"Would you care for a demonstration?" Romanov asked with a smile.
Kamen no 1000 Ninpuu kept his eyes fixed on the mayor.
"No. You are my opponent, Romanov."
Romanov fixed his adversary with a cold glare, nodding his head slowly to indicate his understanding. In her chest, Victoria Burke felt cold fingers tighten about her heart.
A moment later and the world exploded in burning light and raven feathers.
***
Aristotle rose up slowly from the shattered pavement, his face bleeding and his robes stained by ash and dirt. He straightened; his eyes suddenly alight with anger. For a moment Manly stood there, the flames of his aura twisting about him like peacock feathers. There was a distinct lull in sound, the traffic and noise of the city fading completely into silence and then, with a terrible scream he threw himself forwards.
The Bodhisattva's aura exploded about him in turbulent shades of blue as he threw his arms up in a cross, blocking Manly's punch and ducking to the right. The veins in his face and neck bulged and his pupils dilated. With a silent scream he jabbed two fingers outwards, slicing into the soft white flesh of his opponent's neck. Blood spurted upwards, splattering his robes and face and yet nether man registered the severity of the damage, each continuing past each other and twisting amongst the torn pavement.
Manly twisted his arms, drawing breath through his nostrils as he cupped his hands together and light flickered into existence in the space between his palms. Without warning he launched the sun bolt in a continuous stream, channelling the energy directly from his own body.
Aristotle leapt upwards, sweat streaming from his forehead as he extended the first two fingers of his right hand and twisted them into a position of prayer, held up by the left hand. The sharp outline of Sanskrit letters carved themselves into the empty air before him and in a single fluid motion he pulled his hands back and forwards, slamming his joined fists into the ghost letters and transforming them into a fierce chi attack of his making.
The two energy waves met in mid air and erupted in a blinding flesh, the shockwave pouring further dust and ruin upon the already decimated graveyard of buildings about them. In silent agreement both men allowed their aura to flicker out, the Bodhisattva stepping gently upon floating clumps of dirt still hanging in the air until reaching the ground before his opponent.
"The ferocity of your spirit has increased," Aristotle announced, his tone faintly more forgiving than before. "But the range of your attacks are still stifled by the moral limitations you impose on yourself."
"What would you suggest?" Manly asked, brushing a strand of short, dust covered hair back from his forehead.
Aristotle turned away.
"A true Buddhist does not resist evil." He said, hiding his face in shadow. "To resist evil is to empower it, to allow it to flourish. By turning away, by fighting you can only give it strength."
"I-I don't think I understand you." Manly murmured, his soft expression creasing in a frown.
Aristotle sighed heavily.
"In order to fully understand your power you must first learn to walk other paths, Michael." He turned, fixing Manly with a terrifyingly earnest expression. "You must give into evil, allow yourself to become that which you object to. Only by consenting to blackness and devilry can you truly become one with the light of your power, only then can you understand what is to be a Bodhisattva."
The two men stood before each other for a moment longer before Manly nodded his agreement and turned slightly away, walking from the ruins about him, hands in pockets.
"Once you commit yourself to evil I will not be able to help you," Aristotle called out after him. "This city binds me so that I am forced to defer to those who are charged with heroism, even if in truth their actions and heart may not be focused on such ideals."
His words echoed through the dust but met no reply. In the distance the shape of Michael Manly continued to recede into shadow.