About two years into his first tour, sitting in some hot dirty hellhole where Uncle Sam told him he was defending Freedom, Marcus figured something out. He had joined to escape the streets of his neighborhood, where murder was ordinary and the gang was the only thing that mattered. In the hood, he had to obey orders from his superiors and be ready to kill to protect the honor of his brothers. He had to be unquestioning in his loyalty to his friends and in his hatred for the enemy.

It wasn’t during a battle or even on a mission that Marcus figured it out. It was during a bull session, when he and some other grunts were bored, sweaty, and there were no officers within earshot. They started talking about girls, bragging on how many they had been with, and what they would do to the next one they saw. They also talked about sports and cars and drinking and drugs. Suddenly Marcus knew that, despite the fact that the faces around him were not all black, that he had been there back in South Central.

Marcus had just joined a bigger gang. They defended a bigger territory, and they were praised instead of arrested, but the essential nature was the same. That included the knowledge that blood and death stalked the young men in the circle.

When Marcus came home from his last mission in Special Forces he had to face the difficult concept that he might live to a ripe old age. He had lived with the expectation of death since he started doing errands for the gang at age ten.

What does life mean if no one is trying to kill you?

He tried to bury his fear of life by going into a dangerous profession. He was a bodyguard for the rich and famous. He could legally carry a gun anywhere. He felt naked without it.

Then his childhood friend Randall Moss, CEO of Mossoft Software, offered him more than he could make anywhere else.

Gun or not, the job was boring. People liked Randall. He had a good public image. He gave large amounts of money to charity. Guarding him was like guarding Santa Claus. Marcus had an expensive condo he barely used with a home theater he never watched. He went to bodyguard training, learned defensive driving, climbed rock faces, and in every way he could think of dared death to remember him.

When Randall revealed his plan to become a costumed crime fighter, in a high tech suit of armor, Marcus said it was ridiculous. He refused to train Randall, he said it was the stupidest idea he had ever heard. Then he went to work turning Randall into a fighting machine.

Dangling upside down, in the grip of an eight foot tall woman, surrounded by supervillains, and wearing Randall’s Knighthawk suit, Marcus realized was back where he belonged, on Death’s short list.

That didn’t mean that he was going to make it easy.

Marcus twisted, bringing the Knighthawk sword up. The stun-blade went through the giant woman’s legs. Her legs were bare; she didn’t wear the typical skin tight costume but instead an arrangement of furs, with high boots. PETA would hate her, but since she was a villain she probably didn’t care.

Her knees buckled, and Marcus’ head almost hit the floor. She didn’t drop, though. If one stun wasn’t enough, Marcus figured, he would repeat the treatment. He waved the blade all around him as his viewpoint spun around the room. Sometimes the blade went through the giantess, sometimes it just cleaved the air.

She shook Marcus, making his head bang in his helmet. After one more stun, she dropped him. Marcus tried to orient himself enough to stand., but he felt a great weight slam into his chest. The stun sword left his hand and skittered away across the floor, the blade going out when he released the switch.

Someone laughed. Then more voices joined in. Something was very funny. Marcus realized that the giant woman had fallen on him. She was out cold, with her giant weight pinning him to the floor.

“That’s Helga,” a voice said. “Always fighting, even when she’s out.”

Through the eye slits of the Knighthawk helmet, Marcus saw Buzz Kill standing over him. “Tess,” Buzz Kill said.

“Yes, sir,” someone said off to Marcus’ right.

“Get his sheet,” Buzz Kill said. “I want to know everything about knight lad here.” Then he leaned over. “No superstrength,” he said. “Or you wouldn’t still be down.

“No energy blasts or eye rays, or I would be dead. I think what we have here is a clam.”

Marcus mentally listed the things that Randall had built into the suit, and the inventory of items in the many pockets. He could pick locks, cut through any rope, light the darkness, find his way anywhere in the world, listen in to faraway conversations, and of course make phone calls. Except that his arms were pinned down so he couldn’t operate the keypad. Also, the person he would usually call was tied to a chair nearby, beaten and bloody, possibly unconscious. Randall constantly swore that he was no longer a superhero, that he needed to stay alive for his adopted son and his girlfriend. Yet here he was, without even a Knighthawk suit to protect him.

“Clam?” the person Buzz Kill called ‘Tess’ asked.

One item Marcus had that Randall had not provided, that he always kept on him, was his Glock. The idea that heroes never carried guns seemed stupid to him. If you’re going into dangerous situations you need to be prepared for anything.

“A soft, chewy center in a hard shell,” Buzz kill said. The half dozen or so villains in the room laughed. “A normal who thinks he can take on supers just by wearing a suit.”

The fat young man with a big “T” on his shirt came into Marcus field of vision. He was holding a piece of paper. “Well, there’s not much here,” he said. “Not even a name.”

“I thought Tess was a girl’s name,” Marcus said.

“Tesseract,” the fat man said. “Buzzy just calls me Tess ‘cause he knows I hate it.”

“Don’t talk to him,” Buzz Kill said, yanking the paper out of the fat man’s hand. “Let’s see, name unknown, alias unknown, first reported appearance, a fight with the villain Buzz Kill. How’s your flying car doing? I trashed that thing good, didn’t I?”

Marcus couldn’t help himself, he swore at Buzz Kill, using every insult his South Central upbringing had taught him. He also struggled to get out from under the weight of the giant woman.

“Tess, make a new entry on his sheet,” Buzz Kill said, grinning. “Disguises voice electronically. Under “Race” put African American.” He looked directly into Marcus’ eyes. “Can’t disguise those boyz in the hood vocal stylings, can you?”

Marcus could just reach the pocket that contained his pistol with his right hand. Before this evening was over he would be very glad to see Buzz Kill in its sights.

“Now let’s get that helmet off,” Buzz Kill said. “We need a picture for the file.”

Helga - that was the name Buzz Kill had used, Marcus thought - shifted a little. She was waking up.

“I’ll do it,” Tesseract said.

“No,” Buzz Kill said. “We need you. Ivanhoe might have some surprises in him.”

Marcus filed away that information. The fat man was more important than he looked.

“Heat Wave,” Buzz Kill said.

A red and orange clad villain walked into Marcus’ field of vision. His costume had the kind of mask that covered the face, except for the mouth. His blond hair was also exposed. Heat Wave sneered in a very unpleasant way.

“Don’t cook him too much until we take the picture,” Buzz Kill said. Heat Wave raised his hands and Marcus was bathed in searing heat. It was amplified by the metal of the helmet. He could feel sweat break out on his face.

“That’s just a sample,” Heat Wave said. “If I have any trouble getting that bucket off your head, I’ll turn you into a pot roast.”

The other villains in the room gathered around, all trying to see as Heat Wave reached to pull on the Knighthawk helmet. One was kind of short and scrawny for a villain. A kid? His blue costume covered him completely and gave no clue to his age.

Helga stirred a little more. Marcus considered his options. He had the Glock, and he had his head. Shooting Heat Wave would still leave him trapped under the giant woman. Maybe another approach would get her to move.

Marcus raised his head sharply and banged his helmet against Heat Wave’s face.

“OW!” the villain screamed. He stood up, placing his right hand against his nose. “Godamn it!” he shouted. “Ow, damnit, ow!”

Blood dripped through Heat Wave’s fingers. “You bastard!” he screamed.

Buzz Kill laughed, and Marcus could hear the others laughing too.

Heat Wave took his hand from his nose and pointed both hands at Marcus. This is not going to be pleasant, Marcus thought.

It was worse than all the hellholes Uncle Sam had ever sent him to. It was a furnace, molten steel. “I told you!” Heat Wave shouted, his voice liquid and bubbles of blood forming on his lips. “I told you what would happen!”

As Marcus had hoped, Heat Wave was not careful with his blasts. Helga opened her eyes, then pushed herself onto her hands and knees.

“What are you doing?” the giant woman shouted with a Scandinavian accent. “You heat me? You don’t heat me!” She was on her feet faster than Marcus had thought she could manage.

Heat Wave hadn’t thought about her at all. He certainly didn’t expect her to hit him with her dinner plate sized fist, sending him sprawling backwards, spraying blood from his nose.

Marcus hopped to his feet too, and ran. He glanced at Randall, but the villains seemed to have forgotten him and he didn’t want them to realize they were connected. He could do more if he found a secure place to think of what the hell he was going to do next.

As he ran the familiar buzz in his head began. The buzz came when he was in a car with his gang brothers looking for the enemy, then shooting and driving away as fast as they could. It came when he and his army brothers were breaking down doors, not knowing whether they would face frightened and cowering civilians or AK-47s.

When the buzz came, Marcus was ready. He was ready to be the one who made the final sacrifice, the one who was left sprawled in the street with a pool of red gathering under him. It didn’t matter if the street was L.A. pavement or a dusty rutted path through a village.

When he wasn’t the one, when he lived to see another day, he asked himself why. What did he do wrong? Wasn’t he good enough to be chosen? He asked himself these things but he never told anyone else that he asked himself these things. He knew his brothers were all asking themselves the same things. Anyone who didn’t know the buzz, who had never fought and watched his brothers die, would never understand.

The hardest thing for a soldier to do is live.

Marcus had to do it, though. He had to get Randall out of there. Randall was his brother now.

The large warehouse space was littered with wooden crates, some piled high enough to hide behind. Before he made it behind a pile, a crate crashed next tom him, spilling straw and boxes. He almost tripped over a box.

Instead of ducking behind a pile he jumped up and climbed the boxes. More crates hit near him. He managed to glance back, and surprised to see the blue clad kid, if he was a kid, lifting crates like they were made of styrofoam. The kid threw one, and when it hit it smashed open.

By that time Marcus was over the top of the pile and climbing down the other side. Then he heard what he expected to hear. A buzzing noise was coming closer.

Marcus would have to take out Buzz Kill if he had any hope of surviving the evening. He could only think of one way.

BK came through the crates instead of around them.. He either had a reinforced helmet or a head made of granite. Wood, cardboard, packing materials and colorful packages full of plastic toys sprayed out towards the far wall of the warehouse. He missed Marcus, but he was close enough to knock him off the pile. Marcus fell painfully onto some lower crates, then to the floor.

Marcus tried to crawl away, but found himself lifted off the floor. He was tossed up and then caught, like a small child. He saw a blue costume and realized he was was being handled like a rag doll, by the kid.

“Hey, over here,” an accented female voice said. The kid threw Marcus and Helga’s meaty hands caught him. “This is fun,” the giant woman said. She tossed him back.

The kid caught Marcus by one leg and spun around, letting go of him when he had maximum speed going. Marcus tumbled crazily through the air and slammed into the wall of the warehouse.

About twenty five villains gathered around Marcus as he lay on the floor. No, there were only six or seven, but his eyes saw more than one of each. Multiple Buzz Kills, Tesses, Helgas, kids, and even Heat Waves, all holding their hands to their noses. Some others were too out of focus to worry about.

There was one in the back with skulls all over him, and a necklace of eyeballs.

And come to think of it, there was a woman walking on the ceiling. Marcus could see her, with her long dark hair streaming down. He hadn’t noticed her before.

His military training told Marcus one important fact. This situation was FUBAR and he probably wasn’t getting out of it. However, some of the villains were going to hell with him. He put his hand on his pistol.

Buzz Kill walked up and kicked Marcus. “Somebody kill this clam,” he said. “We can pry him out of his shell and take a picture when he’s dead.”

“I got the camera,” Tess said, pushing forward. He carried a pretty fancy looking digital SLR.

As much as Marcus wanted to see BK dead, he had a better target. They needed Tess for some reason? Then they wouldn’t have him. In one smooth move, he pulled the Glock out and aimed it at Tess. He started to pull the trigger.

Then something with wings fell from above and knocked over Buzz Kill. He fell in front of Tess, ruining Marcus’ shot. The skull and eyeball guy reached up and knocked two villainous heads together, and the villains went down.

What the hell? Marcus thought.

With a loud crash, something came through one wall of the warehouse. It was a brilliant light shaped like a man. The light cast a harsh glare on the scene, with costumed figures pounding on each other.

An old fashioned brawl? Marcus thought. He pocketed the Glock. Well why not. He smiled. The buzz was back.