Direwolf: Point of Arrival
by Glen Mitchell (Direwolf)

Stone teeth sliced through the flesh of his forearm, lodging in bone. With empty sockets shining red, like tiny coals, the fossilized skull shook, tearing muscle and scattering droplets of blood. They splattered his face as he fought the impossible in eerie silence. The only sounds were his own labored breathing and the click of the fossil’s stone talons on the museum’s tiled floor as it scrabbled for purchase. With a wild yell of fear and alarm, he snatched at anything he could use as a weapon, pulling free the thick cable that lighted a display case. He smashed the canius dirus with the cable. An eruption of red light washed away everything in a soundless explosion…

The young man snarled as he fought up from the depths of sleep. His left arm ached where the faint white scars from the dire wolf fossil’s attack lingered. He sat up groggily, trying to remember where he was and what he was doing. The dream lingered, playing back a memory only a few months old.

With a tired, asthmatic hiss, the bus jerked to a stop on the cracked concrete apron. The doors swung open, admitting a wash of warm summer air tinged with the city’s smells of heated asphalt, diesel fumes and old metal.

“Paragon City Transit hub!” the driver announced. “One hour please, then we are on to Bay Point.”

An assortment of muttered comments rose from the several dozen passengers in the bus as they stood, stretched and collected purses and bags before heading for the terminal. If nothing else, this was an excuse to stretch their legs. A trans-continental bus was not a luxurious way to travel.

Once everyone else had left the bus, the young man in the back seat stood up and pulled a worn, olive green duffle bag out of the overhead compartment. As he moved down the empty aisle, the bus creaked as if a massive weight were shifting. He stepped down from the bus to the oil stained cement and turned a slow circle, taking in his surroundings.

To the east, past the chain link fence topped with razor wire, he could make out the edge of Independence Port. The water lapping at the shore brought the smells of salt water, tarred lumber and dying kelp. Out in the bay, he could just make out the top of the huge statue of Talos, gleaming with the last rays of the sun against a dark purple sky. The city itself spread to the north, a maze of towering buildings and elevated roads that had once been a landmark of what the world could look like in the next century. War changed all that. The scars of the Rikti invasion marred the skyline. The clearest evidence came from the shimmering curtains of blue green light, like captive aurora borealis that crossed the sky. As daylight faded, they took on a stronger sheen. He’d read about them. They were curtains of force that separated the city into more manageable zones. Another sign of the dire situation the city faced. He realized it was more than the city in danger. If the threats to Paragon City weren’t stopped here, they would spread like a carpet of weeds. He didn’t think it was an over estimation to think that given the chance, they might swallow the world.

“What have I got myself into?” he whispered.

The still air didn’t answer. With a sigh, he put his bag over his shoulder and started for the terminal. His worn motorcycle boots thudded on the ground.

Past the fence, three young men sat on an abandoned car in the terminal parking lot. Their hungry eyes tracked the last straggler leaving the bus. Any beat cop from the city would have recognized them instantly by the clothing they wore, white, pale blue and shades of gray. White makeup or death’s head masks gave their faces a ghostly pallor suggesting bones or long dead flesh. The Skulls claimed the territory around the Transit hub though Hellions came as well to test would-be members. They were always on the watch for fresh arrivals that might be useful. The leader of this group assessed the young man standing on the pavement beside the bus.

The Skull ganger figured the stranger had to be about six and a half feet tall and broad shouldered, built like a linebacker. Despite his size, he moved smoothly, with the grace of an athlete or trained dancer. He could tell the stranger was blond with a ponytail hanging to below his shoulders. Though the light wasn’t good enough to make out details, he seemed to be wearing simple dark clothing. He assessed the new arrival reflexively, judging threat and possible profit. If he gave the word, the four of them could be over the fence in an instant and descend on the man like a hammer from above. They had done it many times before.

Then the newcomer stopped and turned to face them. For a moment, the Skull leader felt a tremor of fear ice his spine. He decided it wouldn’t be a good idea to try to take this guy even though he had let himself become isolated like marks were supposed to. Later, when he was boasting with his gang mates, he’d say it was because he could tell the mark was broke, most likely didn’t have even twenty dollars in his pocket. That wasn’t the real answer. The truth was, when his eyes met the stranger’s across fifty feet of distance and through the rusted chain link fence, he had felt a shiver of primal fear. Like what a grazing deer might feel confronting an apex predator.

The Transit Terminal was a testament to art deco excess. Built for the 1936 World Fair, the terminal’s designers had envisioned a hub that would sit astride the land routes that spanned the eastern seaboard. Rail and bus lines fed passengers and supplies into the growing metropolis so this would be their nexus. Problems arose almost instantly. The highway network was insufficient to handle the heavy cargo so the rail hubs were diverted to the harbor and further west to the interstitial areas outside the city. Train passengers preferred to take routes that led to the heart of Paragon City, rather then transferring. And the rise of air travel further marginalized the terminal. The once proud structure declined in use until only a few interstate bus lines used it for bargain fares to Paragon City or as a fueling stop for travel up and down the coast. Meanwhile, urban blight swallowed the borough around the terminal and it closed in on itself. Guarded by fence and wire, it became little more then a memory to most or a testament to poor civic planning.

The stranger examined the cross-shaped building as he walked towards it across the cracked pavement. The four-story cement structure was built along neo-classical lines, complete with pillars and flourishes that suggested a Babylonian temple. There were even hawk-winged lions with bearded human heads guarding the corners of the building; their wings swept back as if ready to launch into flight. Dim, yellowish light shone through the arched windows, speckled with grime. He pushed open the tall gray doors and realized they had been cast from aluminum and worked in complex geometric shapes. The metal was a uniform dark gray except where it had been rubbed bright by the touch of hands.

The interior was cavernous. The center of the tile floor was set in a mosaic of a huge compass rose with fanciful creatures disporting around the rim. In places, missing or broken tiles had been inexpertly patched with flooring compound. The walls were arched like the interior of a cathedral with more geometric designs like those on the door. Long rows of worn wooden benches, nearly empty except for a few listless sleepers, lined the walls. A half dozen or so small shops offered pre-packaged foods, reading matter and other sundries to weary travelers. An aura of tired neglect permeated the terminal like an invisible fog, seeming to weigh down the twenty or so people he saw. A worn cardboard sign by the door waned against soliciting on the premises.

“Welcome to Paragon City, the Metropolis of Tomorrow you can visit today,” he growled, shifting his duffle bag as he looked around. He spotted his goal by the far wall; an unassuming booth no larger than a car rental agency that looked slightly newer then the rest of the run down Terminal. The curved sign across the front read “Paragon City Provisional Authority Registration.”

Rather than heading directly for the booth, the young man headed for the bathroom located along side a coffee stand tended by a bored woman watching a portable television mounted below the counter. Two customers watched over her shoulder, sipping from paper cups. Neither of them spared him a second glance.

The bathroom displayed the same rundown mixture of architecture as the rest of the terminal. Most of the pebbled glass windows were cracked or broken allowing in the night air. He paused to wash his face and hands with tepid water. It had been a long trip. While he reached for a paper towel to wipe his face, a harsh voice behind him interjected:

“Pass over your wallet, easy-like and you’ll walk from this!”

Slowly, he turned. A pair of fever-bright eyes regarded him over a red and black bandana worn like a mask. His would-be assailant wore grungy jeans and tattered back shirt under a dark red vest. Interestingly, the vest had been painted with what looked like cabalistic symbols.

“It’s not worth it. I’ve only got a couple of bucks, so I’m really not worth the effort.” He dropped the paper towel and watched the thug.

“Cut the talk before I cut you!” The mugger waved a long, bright steel knife that looked like it came from an army surplus store.

“You can have the money, but not my ID, I may need that.” He reached into his pocket, unwilling to fight over two dollars.

The mugger took the opening, stepped forward and stabbed the man in the abdomen. It was a wicked, underhanded stroke intended to shock the victim and quickly kill. Though it was right on target, it did not have the desired effect.

The blade sliced through the thin T-shirt, struck flesh the density of wet sand and glanced off, leaving only a thin red welt.

“Ouch,” the target growled, as if he’d banged his shin on a table, and not just survived attempted murder.

The mugger stared in horrified amazement at his knife. The blade was visibly deformed. The tip looked like he’d tried to stab through a brick wall. He was so surprised by the turn of events; he didn’t even see his target’s counter-strike.

The punch lifted the mugger from his feet and hurled him twenty feet across the restroom. His flight ended abruptly against a wall. Tiles cracked under the impact and the man slumped to the floor with a soft groan then lay still.

“Ah, jeeze, another shirt ruined,” the stranger grumbled. He picked up his duffle bag and headed for a handicapped stall. “Saved two dollars, at least.”

He emerged a few minutes later after changing his clothes. A pair of worn brown leather pants had replaced his blue jeans. They were tucked into the top of black motorcycle boots. He wore another black t-shirt, this one emblazoned with a white and brown paw print worked in fabric paint. He’d tried to reproduce a snarling wolf’s head but wasn’t a good enough artist. They always ended up looking like a cartoon dog. His hands were covered in short black gloves and mask cut from an old jacket covered the upper part of his face, leaving his hair free and his mouth exposed. Normally, he’d wear the long, chocolate brown leather coat he’d found at a church rummage sale back home but it seemed more appropriate for the foggy rooftops of Sunset City than the more sultry summer in Paragon City, so he left it in his bag.

He wore a belt comprised of stainless steel links held by a large steel buckle. It was a gift from his collage roommate. Devon had objected to his plan to go to Paragon City, pointing out that Sunset City had plenty of need for heroes of its own. Jason had insisted that he had to travel east to answer the call of the Paragon City Provisional Authority. He couldn’t explain why, just knew he had to go. So, Devon had crafted the belt, saying that at least they could use it to identify the body.

Jason looked critically at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. Compared to many of the pictures he’d seen of the costumed champions who came to Paragon City, he thought he looked rather drab—a crow among peacocks. “Well, it’ll have to do.”

He looked over to the far wall where his assailant was still out cold. He wasn’t sure what to do but it felt wrong to just leave him there. What if another victim wandered in after the mugger woke up?

“Not as easy as it looks on TV, is it?” He grumbled as he shouldered his duffle bag then casually lifted the unconscious man, draping him across his other shoulder.

Bearing his first citizen’s arrest, Jason walked out of the Transit Terminal bathroom and headed for the Provisional Authority Registration desk, boots echoing off the worn mosaic floor. The woman at the coffee stand looked up, her mouth widening to a surprised “O.”

He paused in the middle of the compass rose and looked around. Full night had fallen; the sky was black beyond the grimy windows. Moonlight fought its way through the stained panes of thick glass. The moon was full tonight. What he always thought of as the Hunter’s Moon when predators emerged. For a moment a sense of running across a sea of grass, chased by a cold wind after prey he scented, swept through his mind. It seemed a memory that wasn’t his.

Jason shook his head and the sensation faded. The man on his shoulder groaned faintly.

“Right, need to deal with you.” He shifted his burden and resumed walking. At the desk ahead, he saw a poster of Statesman standing against an American flag; arms folded across the white star inscribed on his chest, his helmet gleaming like burnished gold.

“Paragon City needs you!” bold silver letters proclaimed.

“Well, that’s what you got,” Direwolf murmured.

Continued in Part Two