It was as if there were hundreds of people who wouldn’t normally commit a crime, but who gave into the temptation once the costumed crusader left.

As per Nathan’s orders, Roger had cleaned out the Roost. The armoury had been emptied to take on the crusade, but Roger took down the trophy wall, storing everything in a safe deposit box. One computer terminal was dismantled and sold, the other Roger was using nearly nightly. The Roost was now nothing more than what Nathan bought; two utility rooms with some walls knocked out.

So now without American Eagle, and without a Roost to create a new Eagle, it was up to Roger to figure out how to compensate the loss of law enforcement.

*****

September 28th, 3:00 pm
Northbank Mall, St. Theodore

Roger walked down the mall casually, wearing a jacket, jeans and a backpacker’s pack half as large as he was. This was his standard outfit these days, as he figured a backpacker wouldn’t attract undue attention, and if someone did notice him, they were more likely to notice the large pack before his famous face, or worse, arms. Thus, a seven-foot-tall prosthetic-arm-wearing man could pass almost unnoticed through town.

Roger had spent the day as he did every day; waking up slowly, checking that hell hadn’t broken loose while he slept, and checking the news for details on American Eagle’s exploits.

American Eagle’s crusade had been met positively at first, everyone was happy that someone was out there making a change for the better, and more so because it was an independent hero from a medium-sized town; not one of the New Patriots, not a Homeland Hero, not even someone from the big cities like LA, Municipal City, New York etc. It was a man who made a difference simply by wearing a symbol and being an active citizen.

So American Eagle was an instant celebrity, and someone everyone loved because he had earned his fame. The response to this was incredible: fan clubs, increased tourism to St. Theodore, talk of movie deals and a double edged sword: impersonators.

By making Eagle a celebrity, he was becoming someone to look up to, and as such there was an increasing number of people wearing homemade costumes and running around throwing knives at criminals. And an increasing number of said impersonators being bashed by the criminals they were attempting to fight. And when any impersonators were caught by police, they were charged with vigilantism, earning them a long sentence in prison.

Which led to lawsuits against American Eagle, the Department of Justice, Department of Metahuman Affairs and everyone even remotely involved. These lawsuits led to a press conference with representatives from the Departments of Justice and Metahuman Affairs and also the nationwide Vigilante Watch program. All the representatives gave the same answer: American Eagle is NOT a vigilante, he is a card carrying superhero, working with the St. Theodore Police Department. American Eagle has been vouched for by both the STPD and the FBI, with ties to the latter during a state wide operation. American Eagle is combat trained and experienced at choosing confrontations. American Eagle did NOT condone or encourage vigilantism. Therefore, the recent lawsuits that the media have labelled “Eagle Cases” have nothing to do with the American Eagle or the Government, but are the results of the individuals involved, no-one else.

Most of the lawsuits collapsed after that, and the people went home and shut up again. It was unusual that so many lawsuits could fall apart with no-one to blame, especially since it involved so many people. This was because a few years ago the US Government had spent millions on legal advisors to ensure that it was covered from every angle when it came to superhumans, as there was an enormous potential for injuries, property damage, accidental death and assault charges. The public always found it amusing when a super villain attempted to charge a hero with assault, though in the million-to-one case that the hero loses the case, the villain ends up being lucky to leave the courtroom alive when they confront the enraged public. Killjoy and The Inhuman were two villains who have won cases against heroes who arrested them. Killjoy was shot by a sympathiser two minutes after leaving the courthouse, The Inhuman was pelted with debris by an angry crowd as he walked out the court door.

So it became clear to everyone that any sort of attack to a well respected superhero was not going to be well received by the public. After these incidents, villains returned to the old ways of using death rays and superpowers to frighten the public, and engage the hero in one on one combat.

With American Eagle cleared of the impersonation lawsuits, it started looking good. Agent VII from the FBI had volunteered to help clean up St. Theodore, and Karma had been approved by the Department of Justice and was now an official super hero, so could help clean up the streets without having to worry about Vigilante Watch breathing down her neck. There was another new face on the streets: Superstar, a teenager with metabolism altering abilities who on his first appearance had apprehended Trick or Treat, a Halloween themed bank robber.

Roger then devoted his time to organising the sudden influx in crime fighting talent in St. Theodore, making contact between the heroes and Captain Lin, and ensuring that they all had background on the famous villain faces in St. Theodore, and things started working.

So now he was actually catching a few hours sleep each night, knowing that the city was safer these days then it was in June or July. However it was a struggle for him to sleep without knowing how everything was going, especially because the heroes hadn’t ever worked together before.

Today though was tough; he had to check up on one of American Eagles back-up rooms.

Roger had shut down the Roost as per orders, but had left the three emergency bunkers open just in case. Each had American Eagle equipment, emergency cash, a communication console and sleeping quarters. One was in apartment buildings outside of town, one on the southside of the city, and one not far from the Mall. This was the one that had its security system offline for the past two hours.

It was probably a false alarm; maybe a problem with the power or something. But if it wasn’t...

He’d called Karma just in case. She would meet him a couple of buildings away, and they would check it out together.

Thinking of Karma, Alicia Garner, was always enough to brighten his day.

Three months before Sparrow’s death...

Roger was walking down the docks of Fortitude Hills, the old neighbourhood he used to take care of. The scenery hadn’t changed too much, just as he had been making headway, he was attacked by that damn alien. He still had a few friends out here, but apart from that not much called him down this far anymore. The crime rate was lower than it had been for years, in fact it was as low as the time he had run around the streets in a grey and dark green suit. Unlike American Eagle he hadn’t bothered with a symbol on his chest. What would he have anyway, a letter ‘B’ or ‘BS’ for Backstreet?

Neither prospect appealed to him, so he left his costume blank, simply using his size and the colour scheme to show who he was. He wore a dark green domino mask to hide his identity, but there weren’t many people who were as tall as him, especially with such wild hair. So hiding behind a small piece of fabric wasn’t going to do much. Still, the message was received by the public, as no-one ever called Roger Worthington ‘Backstreet’ and no-one called Backstreet ‘Roger’.

Not within earshot, anyway.

Roger approached the old movie theatre, 5 Star Movies, and felt disgusted. Upkeep had obviously been minimal, troublemakers had been frequent, and what looked like an arson attack seemed to be the straw that broke the camel’s back; because the once popular theatre was boarded up and scheduled for demolition.

Roger sighed, and kept walking, noticing that the entryway to the theatre had been stripped of light fixtures and that the boards covering the front door had been removed from the doorway. Making sure he was still carrying his taser, he entered the theatre.

At least four or five people slept in the lobby, where posters for movies three years old sat in soot covered frames. There was a barrel in the centre of the room, with soot markings all around it, showing the remains of years of campfires. Roger pushed aside the compulsion to leave some money; the sleeping men would more than likely spend it on alcohol or drugs, and even if they bought basic requirements, they would run through it faster than necessary. So he left, not leaving so much as a quarter, and continued with tonight’s mission.

*****

This was the fourth night that Roger was walking down the street toward the Japanese restaurant, the one with the name he could never remember. For the last two nights, he was fully aware he was being watched and followed. American Eagle had let him go on this mission, but requested that he take some equipment, just in case. So Roger carried a stun-gun and emergency beacon, figuring he would be left alone due to his size, but the extra fire power wouldn’t hurt.

Roger was quite certain that his follower was this mysterious vigilante who had recently started cleaning up this neighbourhood. He wondered what he or she was thinking at the moment. Did they recognise him? Did they think he was up to no good?

He was walking up to the restaurant when a baseball bat suddenly swung at his head. He ducked, bringing up his prosthetic arm. The bat clanged off the metal, dents appearing on both surfaces. The man with the bat struck again and again, each time Roger was catching the hits on his arms. He then kicked Roger in the face, causing him to overbalance. As Roger hit the ground, he felt another sickening thud between his shoulder blades.

“Alright, alright, don’t get too rough now,” Roger muttered. He had to pretend to put up a fight, so that the figure following him would reveal themselves. The mugger raised his bat and readied to bring it down on Roger, but Roger rolled out of the way.

“Damn it” swore Roger, as he felt a kick in the side, and the man spoke to him “Give me your money, dumb tool” he sneered, stained teeth showing a life of smoking more than tobacco.

With the cracked ribs and pain in his back, Roger wouldn’t be able to get up fast enough, and using the taser was out of the question, it was in his belt at the back of his jeans. The mugger would step on his fingers before he let Roger touch it. Then again... Roger reached for the taser, waiting for the inevitable.

The mugger didn’t disappoint, he swore, and stomped hard on Roger’s fingers. Either he was monumentally stupid, not noticing that the bat couldn’t break Roger’s arms, or he didn’t remember. Roger’s fingers didn’t break, but before he could reach the taser, something struck his attacker in the face.

A staff thrown by a costumed figure standing on an awning of a nearby building struck the mugger in the nose, breaking it and causing him to step back screaming. The staff continued flying, until it suddenly stopped and flew back to the outstretched hand of Karma, the new resident vigilante of St. Theodore.

She leapt down from the awning, flipped and midair, and landed without fuss, bringing the staff straight up into the attacker’s stomach. He fell to the ground with a woof! of air escaping his lungs. She then twirled it above her head like a drum major, and brought it down on his forehead with a satisfying crunch.

The mugger deflated, drawn into the sweet embrace of unconsciousness, and Roger took a good look at her, his mouth nearly hitting the pavement.

She was incredible, dark brown hair flowing down to her shoulders, a figure hugging night-black leotard and regular jeans. Fishnets covered her arms, and she wore fingerless gloves. A belt around her waist with a silver letter ‘K’ completed the ensemble. She stared at the mugger for a second, waiting to see if he got up, before turning to Roger.

“Are you alri...” was all she got as he stood up, and she could see him entirely “... Wow. I mean, are you okay?”

“I’m fine thanks, miss...?”

“Call me Karma” she responded, blushing slightly, then she stopped and frowned “Wait, do I know you from somewhere, mister?”

He smiled warmly, and was happy to see the effect it had on her. “That depends. Were you hanging out around here about six years ago?”

Her eyes widened, and she said “You’re that Backstreet guy, aren’t you?” Then she looked angry “Wait, how could a piece of trash like that get the drop on you? As far as I remember it, you could shrug off rounds from a .22 and knocked around trash like him every day.”

“Contrary to urban rumours, I actually did lose my power when that freak showed up here a few years back, and since then my reflexes haven’t been what they used to be.” He looked down at his metal hands “These aren’t exactly what I’m used to when it comes to cleaning up the streets”

She raised an eyebrow, sceptical “Maybe so, but I’m sure you’re not as helpless as you make out to be.”

“No, really. He got the drop on me and—”

Before he could finish, the armoured staff struck him in the gut. He collapsed, losing his breath. She followed up with a strike to his skull, but Roger intercepted it with his arm. He grabbed the staff and pulled, throwing her off balance.

She let go of the staff, and attacked with her bare hands, attempting to bring him down. Unfortunately for her, in the time Roger had spent working for Nathan he had learnt a bit about martial arts, and her style could have been learnt at a community centre. He blocked with the staff, and swung at her feet. She jumped, leaping right over him, and when she landed she struck out with a foot.

Roger sidestepped a second too slow, and fell to the ground, aggravating his already painful torso.

“Argh! Ok, ok, you made your point” conceded Roger “I may have been hoping you’d show up, so I could see if the stories are true” He pulled himself into a sitting position and tossed her staff back to her “They are, and I’m impressed.”

“Thank you” she replied simply.

“You’re welcome” he tried to stand up tenderly. Yep, at least three broken ribs there. Great. And I don’t even want to know what’s happened in my back. “Well, I should get going. I don’t get beaten up this often any more, and I think I may have gone soft.”

“Oh, no you haven’t. You’re pretty impressive yourself ‘Street.” She smiled “No-one’s managed to get this cane off me before, let alone use it against me

“But you’re right, I should keep looking around. I’m betting there are more people who need the snot kicked out of them, it’s that kind of night.”

“Well, good luck and have fun. It was a pleasure to meet you Karma.” Roger turned and started the painful walk back to the Roost. He stopped a few metres down the road. Ah, what the hell, she has that look in her eye.

“One last thing” he called out, jogging back to catch her as she started climbing the side of a bulding “What are you doing this Saturday?” She raised an eyebrow, intrigued “Saturday?”

“I get a couple of days off in the bodyguard business, and it so happens I have one this Saturday. We could go grab something to eat, trade stories, get to know each other.” An awkward silence filled the air, as the implications of the question sunk in. Roger was fully aware that his face was probably as red as a tomato, and that she could burst out laughing any second but he held his ground. A smile spread across her face.

“Yeah, I’d like that”

*****

And after a few minutes that Saturday night, the chemistry was obvious, and they were on first name basis. After a few months, they were spending entire nights at each other’s place. And things were brilliant, until that night that claimed the life of BJ, and things started unravelling around everyone.

Eagle leaving, crime rates soaring, Roger making arrangements so that no-one would know that he was in St. Theodore and not accompanying Nathan to a business meeting with Pierre DuPont, a French philanthropist.

Of course, Pierre DuPont wasn’t aware he had a visitor. In fact, most people Nathan Wagner had meetings with didn’t exist. He had several aliases he could assume should his identity or company be compromised. In fact, even his registered Department of Justice identity was fictional, so that no-one in the government would be taking too much of an interest in the Lord Wagner Foundation.

So after leaving America on the Wagner Jet, Roger was snuck onto a plane back to the US to finish his work. Karma, Aleisha Garner, stood by him the whole time, even though they were spending less time together. Emotions and tempers ran high a few times, and strain was put on from the amount of work they were taking on, but they kept coming out on top.

And now that she was officially a superheroine, she could catch criminals without having to send text messages to a confidant in the police force, and old friend from High School. Now, she could make a call straight to Gina Lin.

Roger starting reminiscing about the events that removed Adam Cooper from the Police Department, and the first meeting between Captain Lin and American Eagle. It didn’t last long, however, as he saw Aleisha standing at the bus stop just ahead.

He pulled out the key to the building, and opened the door as quietly as a mouse. Aleisha reached into her trench coat and pulled out her mask, gloves and new collapsible staff made by Circuit. Roger took off his jacket and eye patch, swapping it for a grey and dark green hooded splash jacket, a green domino mask, and some sprayed green boxing gloves. He felt ridiculous, but it was better than the prosthetic hands that weren’t made for breaking jaws.

The safe house was in an apartment building, and there were plenty of people who could have accidently triggered a short circuit or something. The fact that it had never happened before wasn’t exactly comforting though.

Backstreet walked along the ground floor as quietly as a mouse, Karma following suit. They walked up to the back of the building, and heard someone coming down the stairs. Karma raised her staff for battle, but lowered it when she saw it was an older man in a faded blue suit and bowler hat. He stared at them, then hurried back upstairs.

“Why don’t they use the elevator?” asked Karma

“The elevator doesn’t work” responded Backstreet “well, not for them at least.” He took off one glove, tearing off the yellow caution tape from the doorway. He then pressed the ‘up’ button with one metal finger, and twisted it like a key. When the arrow was pointing to his left, he let go and it popped out and turned back up.

The doors opened.

“That was impressive” admitted Karma, before stepping inside. She looked at the buttons and sighed.

Backstreet raised an eyebrow “What’s wrong?” Karma pointed at the buttons. There was one for each floor, and then one hidden away from them all with a faded picture of an eagle on it.

“That’s whats wrong” she pressed the button with the eagle on it “Why not leave a business card, or a photo of himself without a mask.”

“I agree, he does go a bit overboard with it sometimes. But the symbolism is what makes him work. In his early days, he had this flashlight with an eagle silhouette that he would shine on criminals before revealing himself. Some of them surrendered right there and then, not even wanting to get in a fight.”

The elevator pinged, and the doors opened to a room the size of an apartment. It was rather Spartan, containing a bed, large medical kit, a cupboard with emergency cash and clothing and a locker full of long life food. There was also spare uniform (but one without many of the more expensive or high maintenance gadgets), and a computer terminal.

Sitting at the terminal was a man wearing infantry camouflage, but without any badges or emblems to indicate which army. Two duffel bags sat under the table, and he had a portable hard drive and a toolkit set up and was attempting to download everything from the terminal onto his hard drive. He looked up at Backstreet and Karma when they entered, and gasped.

“That’s not fair, not fair at all. The elevator took only thirteen point two seconds for you, but it took fourteen point five for me. Well, this throws that whole plan out the window. Might as well give up right now.” His eyes narrowed “Or not.” He stood and drew a pistol with his right hand, and aimed it at Backstreet. “Don’t move.”

Karma flicked her wrist, extending the collapsible staff. She then telekinetically threw it straight at the man’s hand, and pulled it back to her hand. Spinning around, she delivered a kick to his gut, sending him straight into the wall.

Standing up, the intruder found a green boxing glove heading straight for his face. He brought up his left hand and grabbed Backstreet’s wrist, clenching.

But the prosthetic arms were made from titanium, so there was no chance of him causing damage. His eyes widened. “Prosthetic arm? Interesting, very interesting. Well, that would lower your weight by at least two pounds, four if both are metal.” He then kicked Backstreet in the stomach, and reached for something on the table.

Everything on the table suddenly went flying around the room, courtesy of Karma’s telekinesis. “Don’t touch” she called, twirling her stick at his head.

The intruders eyes never blinked as he ducked the attack, he just tracked the movement of all the small objects, keeping his eyes on a metal gauntlet.

“Two metres per second, three kilograms” he muttered, before jumping and grabbing the gauntlet, landing on his feet. He strapped his hand into the gauntlet and a soft hum was heard.

Backstreet’s eyes widened “Damn it, a power glove.” Power gloves were one of the trends in the metahuman world, one from the late seventies to early eighties. Before that, everyone was wearing signal watches, and since then there had been signal lights, but power gloves were remembered as the worst.

They were created by a Russian engineer named Vladimir Heskett, and were originally developed for use by special forces and rescue operations, but the designs were stolen by an international thief and found their way onto the black market. A power glove uses an electromagnetic coil to allow the user to lift approximately four times as much with half the effort, and increases the striking force by at least five times with an attract/repel magnet set up. This was demonstrated when the intruder struck Karma in the abdomen, sending her flying into the wall, and falling unconscious.

Backstreet tackled the man, who simply pushed him back with the glove before bringing it crashing down on ‘Streets head.

Stars flashed in his eyes, and he collapsed. The intruder laughed, and walked over to the table, picking up his gadgets and pistol, packing them into one the duffel bags. Slinging it over his shoulder, he started talking.

“Two minutes and thirty four seconds. I am rather disappointed, I was told to expect a challenge. Oh well. In three minutes and eighteen seconds, this building will collapse.” He pulled a remote from his pocket, and pressed it. A beep sounded from the second duffel bag, which he left lying on the floor.

“Approximately fourteen seconds for the elevator. Terrible, truly terrible. Why they couldn’t make it uniform, I should register a complaint, I really should.”

The timer read two minutes, fifty eight seconds when the intruder exited the elevator, which is the exact amount of time it took him to exit the building and cross the street.

“Too easy.”

Legacy and all characters contained within ™ and © 2009 David Kachel.
Metahuman Press and all related content ™ and © 2003-2009 Nicholas Ahlhelm unless otherwise noted.
Some fonts by Blambot.