Millennium Man tome #23:
“Defeated Hearts”
By Jacob Milnestein
A cold wind blew across the desolate city, rain and refuse gathered to its breast and scattered across the cracked sidewalks and battered shop-fronts of its once peaceful streets. More so than any other place on Earth, Pacific City had been defined by the calibre of superheroes that graced the skies over its towers and apartment blocks. When the very focus of the city’s celebrity, the heart and soul of its popularity, had succumbed to the internal bleeding of moral cancer then the city had been left with little choice but to adapt, to internalise every experience and become a pale reflection of the once glory days that had seen Henry Burke III in residence in his manor on the outskirts of town.
Pacific City, alongside the rest of the world, had changed.
With an idle flick of the wrist, Romanova sent her cigarette cascading down the side of the building, the tiny marks of red embers flaring briefly in the wind and rain, falling for what must have felt like an eternity before being swept away into the open arms of the violent weather that besieged them. Upon the horizon the city laid in ruins, buildings cut down in their prime; squat and ugly constructs now half their size. Electricity sparked within the gutted corpse of the metropolis, the sacred and bleeding heart now exposed to the cruel environment.
Footsteps echoed across the roof, the sound of soft shoes crunching gravel. She didn’t need to turn around, there was no reason - from this point onwards she knew how the situation would unfold. Reaching into her blood spattered coat she drew out her battered red and white carton of cigarettes, gently teasing another from beneath the silver foil and blue seal and turning away from the wind to cup her hands and spark the lighter.
“Romanova…” The short figure at her side murmured by way of greeting.
The city’s self-appointed mayoress turned to face the girl. A child, no older than 14, her shoulders marked by blood and scars. In her hands were the stolen essences of Kamen no 1000 Ninpuu’s existence.
“Lin Tsang-Hsia,” She smiled sadly. “How is my little general today?”
“The machine is dead.” She answered, tossing the scratched lecteur de tarot and chipped wooden mask at the feet of the older woman.
Romanova nodded sadly.
“Thank you.” She said, her voice a whisper. “And what would you like of me in return, little Lin?”
“Freedom.” Lin Tsang-Hsia responded her voice sharp and her eyes fixed.
Romanova raised an eyebrow.
“You don’t want to stay here for the final fight?” She asked.
The young girl shook her head.
“No.” She responded quietly.
“I’ll be sad to see you go, Lin. You were a credit to the New Mages…”
“The New Mages are dead.” Lin interjected. “From the moment you allowed Manly to regain his powers the New Mages have been dying a slow and painful death. The power that Manly has walked into is not natural.” Her eyes narrowed as she fixed the older city official with a glare “You were the one who cut him off from his power weren’t you? Just as you were the one who allowed him access to it once more. That episode on the moon was nothing but a charade.”
Romanova smiled fondly, inhaling deeply from her cigarette.
“Ah, you’re sharper than I gave you credit for, Lin. Yes, I really will miss you, I fear.” She turned away. “There was more than charade at Moonbase Churchill.” Gently she tapped the inside of her coat pocket. “Without Mysteria then I would never have gained access to Tanya Clandestine’s silver scarab. But, yes, you’re right, the ECT did very little irreversible damage to the structure of Manly’s brain tissue, it simply reordered things: if he’d waited long enough I’m sure he’d have re-opened the door to his power sooner or later, with or without me. But I wanted him to believe in the mythos, you see. I needed him to see Ura God and to believe in a broader sense that all Millennium Men are equal. Without that the city would have had no single identifiable martyr.”
“You used him.” She spat.
“It was too easy not to.” Romanova sighed sadly.
“And now you have to stop him.”
Romanova sighed once more.
“Yes, I suppose I do, really.” She looked away, back towards the light filled horizon. “I didn’t intend for things to become as entangled as this, Lin, I really didn’t. I wanted to build a place where people had a chance to live, where it didn’t matter whether you had powers or not.”
“You failed.” The young Chinese girl pointed out abruptly.
Romanova’s lips twitched into an unbidden smile.
“Yes, I did, didn’t I?” She turned and looked down at the young girl. “You best be on your way, I suspect they’ll be a queue to leave the city by now.”
Lin nodded and bowed before quickly turning away and heading towards the fire escape.
“Oh, one last thing,” Romanova called out. The young girl paused and turned momentarily. “If you happen to fancy killing Weisz or Carter on your way out then please, be my guest.”
Lin smiled, a tight smile that seemed uncomfortable on her lips despite the apparent youthfulness of her features.
“Perhaps.” She answered and turned away once more.
***
In the darkness he waited, half-expecting to hear the whisper of waves washing against the shores of that distant beach. Sudden recollection filled him and he remembered Braeburn and its final demise, - The ground shattered in a crater and the flames of his aura grew stronger, his mouth stretching in a scream as he drew in the planet’s energy. His muscles bulged, veins standing out like thick knots of blue beneath skin stretched tight and for a moment he was reminded of the image of Majestic Man all those months ago. Just like everything else he had decimated the sacred beach with the Midas touch of his powers.
He turned, finding his face pushed hard against a wall. Rain beat against a window behind him, rain that could almost, in another life, have been sea-spray.
“Michael?” A tender voice whispered at his side.
His heart shuddered in his chest.
“Regina…” He whispered. “Where am I?”
Gently she placed her hands upon him. They were cold but reassuring, like the familiar memory of something comforting in the moments after waking from a frightful nightmare.
“You’re home, Michael…you…you fell out of the sky. I…we brought you back here before the TV crews arrived.”
“Who’s ‘we’?” He asked, his eyes remaining closed.
The sound of shoes against the carpet signified the definite presence of another. He waited patiently for them to speak.
“Hi,” An awkward voice murmured and for a moment he imagined it was Jeremy, returned once more through some twist of fate, free of the death Demerite had inflicted upon him. “My name’s Alex. You, ah, knew my grandfather when you were…you know…inside Alhazred.”
“Millennial Boy.” Manly said quietly, speaking into the wall.
“Pardon?” Alex Chrysostom asked, stepping up to Regina’s side.
Manly shifted, keeping his back to them and his eyes closed.
“When I used the Super Nova Heart I saw something…” He murmured. “As if I was looking through the dragon’s eyes perhaps…” In a violent explosion of raw energy the silver ghost fire erupted into a furnace. From his chest a lithe and terrible silver dragon of almost liquid complexion burst forth, streaming through the wall of flesh and unfolding into the real world. The dragon howled in fury, its gleaming red eyes falling upon the dwarfed shape of the Bowler. “…Somewhere far away from here, you are Millennial Boy.”
Chrysostom opened his mouth but remained silent.
“Michael,” Regina whispered, her eyes moving gently on the bare flesh of his exposed back and the new scars that had gathered there. “Michael…on the television they said that you attacked the city, i-is that true?”
“I don’t know.” Manly answered honestly. “I remember waking the dragon and I remember the world turning white…” He paused, shuffling again on the heaped blankets he lay upon. “I’ve changed, Regina. I’ve become someone…I don’t even know if it has a name…I think that I’ve sacrificed too much of myself to my power…I don’t know where I stop and Millennium Man begins or even if there should be a dividing line.”
“The city is dying, Michael,” Regina continued, reaching out for him and he pushed her hand back, standing with his back to them as the ghost flames ignited, welling up in his stomach and blossoming through the pores of his skin.
“This city is a funeral waiting to happen.” He announced. “For the last time, I want you to leave here and go somewhere safe. I can’t protect you…least of all from what I’ve become…”
“Michael, please…” Regina whimpered.
He whirled around snatching Alex Chrysostom by the throat and lifting him up into the air with a single hand. His eyes flashed with rage as they fixed upon Regina Darling’s weeping face.
“How many people do I have to kill before you know when to leave, Regina?” He shouted above the sound of Chrysostom’s choking. Spittle fell like drops of rain upon his face…rain, or sea-spray.
“Don’t do this, Michael…” Regina sobbed, shaking her head. “You’re not like this, Michael, you’re not like this…”
“I AM!” He screamed. “Don’t you understand? That’s the point! I am like them! I have to be otherwise we’re all going to die. I have to be better than all of them, better than Ura God, better than Millenius, better than Romanov - I have to be stronger than everyone.”
Chrysostom’s eyes rolled in his flushed face and the choking sounds became a damp, wet gurgle. With a brutal flick of the wrist, Manly snapped his neck and threw the corpse across the apartment and into the corner of the living room.
“Get out, Regina. I won’t tell you again.”
Shaking violently she rose from her crouched position at his feet, backing awkwardly away.
“You bastard…” She whispered again and again. “You bastard, Michael…I…I love you…”
“GET OUT!” He screamed.
Light flared about the palm of his hand and the wall behind her exploded suddenly as a sun bolt slammed into it. She screamed out loud, her voice hoarse and shrill as she all but toppled over, throwing her hands over her head.
Whimpering and sobbing she scrambled through the rubble and pushed the broken door of her apartment open, darting down the hallway and out of his life. Silently, Michael Manly faced the balcony doors tears streaming down his face.
***
Doroshi Hayate stood on the hill overlooking the damaged city, static electricity sparking through the air as the wind blew across the crushed grass beneath her feet. Behind her, Ozma Ikazuchi gently took hold of her cold hand, slipping her own between the other woman’s narrow fingers.
“He’s really dead isn’t he?” She asked, her voice trembling slightly.
Doroshi nodded slowly.
“Yes.” She whispered. “I think he really is.”
“And Romanov?” Ozma asked.
“I-I don’t know.” Doroshi murmured, her heart beating a solemn rhythm of grief within her bosom. “I can’t tell from this distance…we’d have to get closer…”
“Doroshi-san, they told us to fight Romanov, to stop him from becoming so powerful.”
The tears dried and hardened in her eyes.
“They also told us that Gift Horse would be waiting here for us.” Doroshi spat. “But that didn’t turn out as they’d anticipated either.” She shook her head. “I-I don’t know what to do…I want to know. If there’s even the remotest chance that K-san survived then I…I…want to help but…” She looked at her partner with large, imploring eyes. “I’m so scared, Ozma-chan…”
Ozma nodded, her dyed blonde hair dancing over her smooth narrow face in the violent winds that had gathered on all sides of the city.
“Should we go to America and make contact with Thrope?” She asked, her tone uncertain and scared.
Doroshi turned and looked over her shoulder at the ruined city behind her.
“This world…this Earth…is nothing like my home.” She whispered.
With gentle tenderness she disengaged her hand from Ozma’s and walked away from the city, her hands deep in the pockets of her overcoat as she marched towards the dark shape of the rental car, parked abruptly a short distance from them.
Ozma looked down over the dying Australian city for a moment longer and then turned away also, following Doroshi back towards the rental car…and America.
***
The air sliced wounds across his naked chest as he flew forwards, leaving behind every last scrap of his former identity. The power of the dragon writhed within him, discolouring his aura and tainting the flames of his power a sinister, silver hue. The short hair that had grown back since his stay, through the previous mayor’s hospitality, at the now destroyed Alhazred Asylum flew back from his forehead, dancing in the winds.
Below him Pacific City unfolded like an unripe fruit, the sour seeds of its future revealed within the rot of its present form. From the scarred ruins of the Paper District to the mutilation of Bretonside at its centre and the burning harbour at its tip, Pacific City was dying an undignified and cruel death. Something inside turned and twisted, uncomfortable with the direction in which his returned powers had thus far carried him. He suppressed it, drowning out the doubt with the fierce, raw shrieks of emotional over-involvement.
There was no way to free Pacific City from what it had become without embracing Romanova’s philosophies and following them through to their bloody conclusions. He understood that now, long after they had first met within the quiet room he had occupied in St. Jude’s following the operation on his head - only the first time the doctors had taken instruments to his cranium, it later transpired.
Romanova had been the first to introduce him to history, to the role of Millennium Man as a working cog in a larger machine. Through her he had learnt of Winters and the Faustian Four, of Victoria Burke and her father and, most recently, of Ura God. Without her leadership the New Mages would have never existed and without the New Mages they would all have fallen victim to the tyranny and scheming of Eldritch’s former team-mates.
That familiar discomfort shifted inside him. Despite Romanova’s speeches, despite the commitment she had made to the city, he had often found it difficult, in retrospect, to consider Earth #746364’s Mages that much of a threat. They had been weak and unfocused, desperate to repair an unchanging event from their past - a point in history which they could never have any real control over…and yet he had killed Mikael, just as he had eventually killed Eldritch. The corpses began to pile up at his metaphorical feet.
At some point he had crossed a line.
A final blow shattered Finnegan’s face.
The memory returned unbidden and he did nothing to fight it. He had murdered Finnegan, just as he had murdered Demerite, Prentice, Mikael, Alfonse, Eldritch, Alex Chrysostom…seven small deaths that no one would ever remember; seven deaths that had set the course along which he now flew.
The gutted remnants of the KGPC building appeared on the horizon surrounded on all sides by the remnants of the city’s downtown. Standing atop the roof he could just make out the shape of Romanova, her coat billowing in the wind and her hair damp upon her shoulders.
Solemnly he flew onwards and into history.
***
Trevor Mason crouched in the dark of the office, the cigarette trembling between his fingers. In the corner of the room Tracy Newman lay in darkness, silent aside from alternating sobs of damp sorrow and the occasional snore. They had broadcast their last expose of Millennium Man from within the confines of her KGPC office, Newman standing behind the camera and filling the job that technically should have gone to Jim Finnegan whilst he had sat behind the desk, orating his personal tragedy. The image of Finnegan, decayed and sunken, standing behind the camera surfaced and he giggled childishly.
From the corner Newman wept as if somehow sensing his mockery. After the broadcast the fighting had begun, the bombardment of the city that had resulted in the lower half of the building being torn wide open. Desks, computers, even people had been ripped out of the building’s interior and thrown out into the turbulent winds before plummeting to the streets below. At first they had assumed it was the work of Millennium Man, burning with fury and bristling for revenge.
They had cowered in the corner, arms wrapped around one another in fear and, as the explosions had grown louder, they had become closer, eventually resulting in the messy, stuttered and frantic intercourse that had occurred moments before the white light had streamed through the shattered windows and the outside had turned silent.
After the explosion, Newman had crawled into the corner, dragging her legs behind her as if the terrifying events outside and the violence of their coupling had somehow made her lame. He had resigned himself to remaining in an opposing corner, dressed only in his shirt, tie, boxer shorts and a single sock, smoking cigarette after endless cigarette, waiting for the world to end.
They had not become heroes as he had at first expected. The news of Millennium Man’s real identity had dovetailed neatly into disaster, the number of people watching their television sets when Mason had first made his speech had been undoubtedly dwindled by whatever war was being waged outside. No one cared about superheroes or their legacies, it appeared, just as long as the fireworks were loud enough and the lights impressively dazzling. The world turned a blind eye to Michael Manly and embraced the carnage of the streets.
“In any other city on Earth,” He announced, his voice like broken glass crushed under bare feet. “We’d be goddamn heroes.”
Newman whimpered in response, her sniffles and snores giving way to another bout of tears. He turned his head away, unable to look at her. Women had always disgusted him, their weak little way of tiptoeing through life left him exasperated and agitated. He had no time for those that lacked the stomach to face up to the challenges of life.
The image of the original Millennium Man grinding Fireczar into the dirt resurfaced and he shuddered, conceding quietly to himself that maybe there were some things that should be left untouched. He saw no contradiction in this apparent double standard; in fact, for the most part of his life he had been aware that his father’s wealth had brought him special status in everyday society. This, as far as he was concerned, was not a privilege but a right.
“If we were in Atlantic City or any of those goddamn little American paradise cities with their white fences, we’d be celebrities.” He announced again to his whimpering audience. “People would hail us as the heroes of a new era - Trevor Mason and Tracy Newman, the innovative everyday people who took down a superhero not with violence but with words, with the power of knowledge. We’d be goddamn role models to every little bucktoothed, cross-eyed American kid from here to the Mexican boarder. We’d be invited to drink iced tea on the lawn of the White House as their idiot cowboy president shook our hands and said to me: ‘Son, because I like you and you’re a hero and all, I’m gonna give you the choice as to where I next drop my big old US bombs. Go ahead, son, pick a city, any city’ and I’d turn to him and say ‘Pacific City. Because nothing ever good came out of Pacific City’ and together we’d laugh and slap each other on the back and I would win because I’ve got more guts than any goddamn Millennium Man.”
He dropped his still burning cigarette onto the office carpet, rising up and striding over to the broken windows to look at the wounded city.
“This world we have fashioned for ourselves doesn’t work.” He said quietly so as not to arouse more murmured sobs from the woman in the corner. “That bastard Demerite shouldn’t have stopped at one tower, he should blown up every single building in this city, levelled it to the ground. Whoever’s attacking us right now has the right idea. We can’t carry on like this, running after America, desperate for scraps flung from the table of some misinformed democracy. Everyday people are dying for America, people whose only relation to the ideal of American politics is to be born in the same hemisphere. Civilian hostages are being murdered in godforsaken pits whilst America reaches for the television remote control and guzzles more of the world’s resources. I hate America. I want to see every American citizen made into a little Demerite. I want to see them kill each other,” From his shirt pocket he drew a final cigarette. “And then, when there’s only a handful of Americans left in the world perhaps they’ll have the decency to come over and put us all out of our misery; finish what they’ve already started.”
The cigarette ignited, the paper, tobacco and finely ground glass burning in spite of the wind and rain. He looked down through the broken glass at the devastated city.
“There is a perfect solution to all of this.” He mused, exhaling smoke from his flared nostrils. “All it takes is to just…” He moved his bare foot forwards, hanging it out over the shards of glass and feeling the rain as it flattened the fine hair of his pale white flesh. “…stop.”
Taking a final drag from the cigarette he stepped out with the other foot, tipping over the side of the building and falling downwards, his eyes closed against the wind that battered his frail form. His final thought was not political or even groundbreaking, but simply that the air was very cold for the time of day. Moments later his body broke upon the shattered streets.
In the corner of the office, Tracy Newman continued to sob, oblivious to the passing of her lover.
***
His eyes snapped open instantly, the pain flooded back into his body. Slowly they focused on the shape of the young woman, crouched upon her hunches in front of him. Her green eyes narrowed beneath her fringe of auburn hair as he struggled to lift himself up from the floor.
She continued to watch as he struggled, motionless and unmoved by his plight. With considerable effort Aristotle Licuan managed to drag himself up enough to rest against the wall, his nostrils flaring as he desperately dragged air down into his wounded lungs. He looked at her with distrust, taking in her dispassionate expression and the vulgar leather jacket with the flame motif she wore.
“Who are you?” He demanded, gasping for breath.
Her eyes remained dispassionate.
“Emma Randolph,” She answered, pronouncing the name with a spat of anger. “Henry Burke’s true daughter. The real heir to the Burke name.”
She stretched her limbs and rose from her crouched position on the floor.
“W-W-Why have you come here?” He stammered, the fear displacing the pain he felt in his limbs.
She turned away and shrugged.
“To kill you.” She stated. “If I kill you then she’ll have an easier time killing the other New Mages. Once I remove you I remove the city’s ability to protect them and that will give her more of an advantage.”
“Her who?”
She held up her sword, its blade glowing, vibrating almost as if in anticipation.
He opened his mouth and blood welled up. His eyes rolled and when he regained focus he found that he was leaning on the girl’s shoulder, his hands clutching hers…and the sword that she had buried in his stomach.
“Don’t say anything.” She whispered in his ear. “You bore me, really you do. Everything that comes out of your mouth is a question. I don’t care for all of this talk..In fact the way I heard it you were this big, important healer - like some priest following Romanov’s valiant soldiers into battle but I guess I should have known better. What you really are is Burke’s little pet Bodhisattva and now that both daddy and Vicky are dead there’s no point in you caring on.” He choked, blood spewing from his mouth and over her shoulder. “Hush, hush, I understand.” She whispered soothingly. “But it’s best not to fight it. Don’t resist evil. Let this city and its memories die.
His eyes rolled a final time and his body convulsed, falling back from her and hitting the wall before sliding slowly down. From his dry lips a final gasping whisper escaped and then Aristotle Licuan, the once protector of Pacific City passed away.
Randolph looked down at the fallen body with disinterest. Without even the slightest suggestion of regret or triumph she turned away, gently closing the door behind her so as not to disturb the dead man. Through her descent to the apartment building’s gutted lower floor and her exit into the cold, damp streets beyond, her face never once registered emotion.
***
The wind gathered, howling at her side as he appeared on the distant horizon. Less than seconds passed as he closed the distance, stopping abruptly in the air above her, his eyes looking directly down. Around him the familiar tongues of ghost flame seemed to warp, occasionally taking on the face of some grotesque dragon.
“Anna.” He said, looked down at her.
She looked up and nodded. The wind died to a whisper.
“Michael.” She answered.
There was silence between them. Moments passed as slowly, she lit another cigarette. Manly remained motionless in the air above.
“What’s the matter? Is this not what you expected?” She asked, turning her back on him.
He paused for a moment, a frown crossing his face.
“I expected something more dramatic.” He answered.
“Oh, the drama will come, Michael, don’t worry about that. If all you’re looking for is the trappings of herodom, the adrenaline rush and the pretty lights, then we’ll get to that sooner or later, I expect. But it’s the real emotion that’s lacking isn’t it?”
“I expected to feel…” His voice trailed off, words deserting him.
“Like a hero?” She asked, turning to look at him and smiling with cautious pity.
He nodded sadly.
“Yes.”
“That’s gone now, Michael, you can never get that back. Perhaps once upon a time, before the Siege Engine, before the Imperial Magistrate…before me, but not now.”
“I understand.” He said, slowly landing upon the rooftop.
They stood facing one another, the terrible inevitability of their violence weighing heavily between them.
“Oh, Michael,” She sighed, flicking the half-finished cigarette away and shrugging free of her stained overcoat. “What have you become?”
His eyes remained upon as the hideous dragon faces emerged from his aura.
“Stronger.” He snarled.
The flesh rippled and the flames grew.
Romanova nodded sadly and closed her eyes, putting her hands in her pockets. Beneath her face something liquid and inhuman crawled, tendrils of shadow wrapped up beneath a human face. The rain stopped falling, the only sound the heartbeat of the dragon aura that engulfed Manly.
Gently she lifted her head and opened her eyes. Around them the building exploded as her chi emerged from within, burning in patterns more marvellous and complex than even the dragon faces of Manly’s own power.
“This is what you wanted?” She asked and, for a moment, it seemed to him as if both Romanova and her brother were speaking at once.
He nodded slowly, studying the delicate mandala of the energy that surrounded her. Without another word, he stepped forwards, his feet crossing on chunks of falling concrete as his cupped palms ignited with the first spark of an energy attack. Trailing darkness, Anna Romanova dived forwards on the wings of dead birds to engage him.
Beneath their dancing forms, the city trembled with thunder once again.