The Visitation

(The events of this story take place right after the events of Part Five of "Who Will Die")

The trained senses of Patrick Norvell told him he wasn't alone on this Founders' Falls ledge. He slowly rose to his feet and lifted the rifle he carried. The costume he wore that marked him as the hero known as the 'Sting of Justice' insulated him against the chill wind of the late New England winter. He was expecting company but given recent events didn't want to lower his guard.

"Grant, is that you?" he asked the empty space nearby.

"You summoned me using the most secure channel I know. Who else could it be?"

The man didn't fade in so much as was just suddenly standing there. It was like he'd been spliced in between frames of film. He wore a dark blue trenchcoat and a wide-brimmed hat like Patrick's own. Underneath the coat, over some body armor, he wore a pair of holsters carrying antique but functional semi-automatic pistols. Covering his face was a blue and yellow mask that gave him an unfortunate resemblance to the Crey Corporation's 'Paragon Protectors' that patrolled the streets below. He'd never said as such, but Patrick suspected the hero known as the 'Gunmetal Protector' wore it as an open challenge to the Crey scientists who'd cloned him from Patrick's grandfather.

"I've got enemies," Patrick said. "Some of them would love to take a shot at me."

"You should be cloaked as well, then." The mask's blank stare seemed judgmental, somehow.

"I needed to be sure you could find me. This is important."

"Then make it quick. Something's going on below. I can feel it, spreading through the city like a plague. A general malaise." He kept talking despite Patrick's wince at his use of the word. "By the time I noticed it, it would have been dangerous to open my mind and investigate further."

"Statesman is dead."

"What?" Grant's voice, normally a gruff monotone, actually lost its edge and for a few moments he sounded like a normal human being. "How? When?"

"Just a short time ago. That's what you're feeling." Patrick swept an arm out to indicate the city below. "Word is already filtering out to the city. A man named Darrin Wade put together some sort of ritual that was able to drain his power and kill him."

"Where--" Grant started, gripped by rage and only interrupted by Patrick's raised hand.

"We don't know. He summoned an aspect of Rularuu and fled the scene."

"Rularuu..." The clone of Patrick's grandfather reached back through the memories that had been unwittingly implanted into him from the process that created him. "I only know that creature vaguely."

"Anyhow, I thought you deserved to know what happened, since you have memories of working with him. I know you didn't personally know Statesman, but..."

Grant's head lowered and behind his mask, his eyes closed for a moment.

---

The Stinger was vaguely aware of the screams in the distance, but he had no time to go back and check. He pushed forward, guns blazing away at the smoke-belching constructs that rattled through the streets. As one dropped he swung his semi-automatics to the next one and fired before even turning to face it, a reflex like swatting a fly. His cloak billowed around him, making it hard for Nemesis' marksmen to target him as he dashed forward.

His manic cackle startled a human soldier clumsily swinging a bayonet like a reaper's scythe at his head. Any who threatened Steel Canyon knew the Stinger's laugh and the bitter pain of the sting of justice that followed. He ducked under the swing and slapped the rifle out of the man's hand. He stood and put his gun up against the front of the man's helmet.

A black leather glove swooped into the Stinger's field of vision faster than his eye could track and knocked out the soldier standing before him. He turned to face the interloper and found himself face to face with a man in a domino mask and a bright red leather jacket with golden buttons. He recognized him from the papers.

"Not that way," Statesman said with a disapproving frown.

---

"But I remember him nonetheless," the Stinger's clone, back in the present, whispered behind his mask. "Marcus was a good man, and even if I didn't have any memories of him I would mourn his loss as the city does."

Patrick raised a confused eyebrow as Grant unsteadily reached up to pull off the mask. He had learned to suppress the unnerved shudder that came upon him when he saw the recreation of his grandfather's face behind it. He watched as Grant pulled off one of his gloves and reached up to touch his own face, seeing wetness on his fingertips as he pulled them away.

"Grant, I..." Patrick paused, not sure what to say. "I'm sorry."

"Sorry you had to see me like this?" Grant bitterly asked. "Or sorry for 'my' loss?"

"To be honest, a little bit of both. I worry about you, sometimes."

"Don't worry, I haven't killed anyone else." He put the mask back on and turned as if to leave.

"That's not what I mean." Patrick took a few steps forward, pulling off his hat and cloak and setting them on the ledge. "You've plunged yourself into a shadowy world of justice and violence and... and vengeance, and sometimes I'm not sure you realize that isn't the world you're living in."

"It's the world we live in. You just don't see it." He looked out where, somewhere in the distance, someone in a brightly-colored costume flew between the buildings. "The lights are brighter. The shadows are darker. Nemesis is still out there, as deadly as ever. Even after the threat he poses to the city, after what he did to m-- after what he did to the country at the end of the war."

---

The Stinger's teeth chattered as he fought to keep standing, let alone breathing. Nemesis' nerve gas reached into his very core and tried to shut him down. While other heroes had crossed the Atlantic and were celebrating victory in Germany he'd remained behind to keep the home front secure. And in the absence of the others, the Stinger and the meager few who stayed weren't enough to stop Nemesis from marching his robots across the White House lawn and claiming the title of Emperor of the Americas.

He leaned against the building, a few blocks from where the assault had taken place, and his vision was swimming. He lost feeling in his extremities and didn't know if the shakiness in his vision was a direct effect of the gas or another of the seizures that now gripped him. An unsteady hand reached for his holster as he pushed himself towards the end of the alley. He'd go out fighting at the feet of an enemy rather than gasping his last all alone amidst the garbage cans and dead rats.

The Stinger heard his gun clatter to the ground, fallen from the loose grip of numb fingers. He was dimly aware of a metallic crashing and then he was looking up at a blurry sky, wheezing. A red and blue shape settled over him and he lost track of vital seconds. Then the only thing he could feel was an uncomfortable pinch -- a needle. The brief pain -- a glorious oasis of sensation in a desert of numbness -- marked the return of feeling to his body. And as proper vision returned to the Stinger, he saw a distinct, familiar form flying off to seek out more people to cure. Someone, he couldn't help but think, could have put an end to this years ago.

---

"Yes, Nemesis is still out there," Patrick said. "But you're not the only one fighting him. It's not the 30's, when you would have trouble filling a train car with the city's superhero population. There are as many superheroes among the Midnighters now as there are researchers and mystics."

"And yet the threats remain."

"There are more of them now. It's the nature of things. Escalation."

Grant opened his mouth to say something but paused and shook his head.

"It's a never ending struggle," Patrick said after a moment. "I learned that from Richard's old journals. There are no victories, only battles. And all you can do is pick when and where you stand."

"I know where I stand. I'm not going to apologize for that. I know you disapprove of what I did, but I still believe that to keep you and Justin safe I had to put a stop to that man."

"I'm not asking you to apologize for it. Because, for a few moments, when Statesman... when Marcus was murdered by Darrin Wade, I understood. My first thought -- and one that still emerges from time to time -- is that I wanted to tear his heart out with my bare hands and watch it stop beating."

"And yet you would stop me if I wanted to do the same."

"I'd want someone to stop me. It's an urge, and occasionally an attractive one. But we don't have the right to casually decide who lives and dies. Those are the sorts decisions that signify the people we fight. You know who thinks they do have that right?" Patrick held up one hand and started counting off fingers as he named names. "Recluse. Requiem. Countess Crey. Nemes--"

"Don't you dare!" Grant interrupted, wheeling on Patrick. "Don't you dare imply that I am anything like him!"

He noticed the hard breeze was pushing back Patrick. His hat and coat blew away and Patrick was leaning into it. Then he realized the 'breeze' was his own telekinetic force, lashing out in his anger. He reined it in and took a few steps back.

"Patrick, I..." He waved a hand and reclaimed the hat and cloak, drawing them back to the ledge with his psychic abilities. "I'm sorry."

"Then don't be like him," Patrick said stoically, his eyes like steel as he snatched the hat and cloak out of their and put them on. "Marcus has -- had -- the power of the gods themselves. Literally. And you know as well as I do that it was his choices that made him a hero instead of a monster. You're not just a vigilante. You're a hero."

"Is there a difference?" Grant's voice was still a little shaky.

"When Richard began doing this, where your memories of his life begin in you, he was striking out from the shadows and bringing justice to a world that had none. He didn't expect any thanks or accolades for what he did."

"And now?"

"Now people notice. They aren't ignoring the shadowy figure keeping them safe at night. They celebrate heroes now. They look up to them."

"You're saying I'm a role model now?"

"Yes. And don't snort," Patrick chided. "If you didn't want to be a role model, why do you work with Miyavi?"

That took Grant back. Miyavi Mashu, a female clone of Patrick's boyfriend Justin, was another intended weapon of Crey's design who now used her talents to fight against the injustice they wrought. She had adopted Grant as sort of a brother figure and sought training from Patrick.

"She defends you to me," Patrick continued. "She knows I disapprove of what you did to the Twinsteel Stinger but she won't have it if I say anything about it. I teach her how to use a rifle, but she's learning how to stand up and be a hero from you as well. So what are you teaching her?"

Grant stood there, silent, not sure of what to say.

"Richard began this all in a different time," Patrick continued. "He didn't work with anyone and wouldn't stand for someone telling him how to do things, but he grew up in a world where he didn't have anyone to mentor him. Given the opportunity, despite his respect for Marcus Cole, he turned down the opportunity to join the Phalanx. But you work with Miyavi and let her learn from your experience. You're fighting to defend the city and the world alongside hundreds of other heroes at any given time, some of them ready to learn and some of them ready to teach. You're not Richard Norvell and this isn't his time."

"Maybe you're right." Grant said, his tone inscrutable. "Maybe I... should accept that I'm part of a larger world and my actions have effects on people besides my enemies."

"I didn't bring you out here to read you the riot act on this. Marcus died because he had the opportunity to kill Darrin and didn't and I'm still agreeing with his choice because it's a burden I'm not ready to shoulder. But I'd appreciate it a great deal if you would at least think about the larger picture. Make sure that if -- God forbid -- you have to make that choice again that you make it for the right reasons."

"It's not a burden you should shoulder," Grant said so quietly that Patrick could barely hear him around the mask. "I have no life here, so it's less of a loss if I decide to shoulder it. I'm not... proud of that."

"You have a life waiting for you, Grant. You just have to embrace it. You have friends and family whether you realize it or not. Just think about the path you follow. Please. With Statesman gone, we're all burdened just a little more. Our share of the work is greater. But you don't have to shoulder that weight alone." Patrick slipped his arm through the strap and slung his rifle over his shoulder. "Justin's waiting for me at home, he's probably worried I'm looking for Darrin and about to get myself killed. But keep in mind that Marcus had his powers and refused to kill. Darrin now has them and is willing to murder with impunity."

Grant simply nodded.

"That said," Patrick said as he clicked on his rocket boots and lifted a few feet off the ledge. "Feel free to scare the hell out of those scumbags in the streets every now and again. I think some of them have forgotten what the Stinger's laugh sounded like. I'm not gonna tell you how to fight them, just reminding you that it's up to you where each battle ends."

The Sting of Justice shifted his weight and flew off into the night sky. The Gunmetal Protector watched him go, seeing his outline against the glow of the War Walls until he used his cloaking device to fade out. After another half-hour of silent vigil the Gunmetal Protector also left the ledge, unseen by mortal eyes.