The Flames Of Justice
Foreword:
I owe a huge debt of thanks to various people with this story. I'll try to keep the list brief, but concise:
Firstly, Weasel and Stasis, for keeping me entertained in the public forums. Many a day has passed by when I've found myself 'chasing' Weasel's replies to various posts I've made, and each one has been fun.
Jacqueline and DreamWeaver, for being…random.
GForce and Krunch, for sharing their various ideas, opinions, etc.
Rae, Annie, and Anne-Marie for being my test bunnies.
And….last but not least…DarkRose, Hoplite, Ravenswing, FFM, ShadowGhost, Ashtoreth, MarvinKosh, and, of course, Wordmaker and Zortel. All of those guys and gals posted their opinions on how to get out of a Superhero slump, but Wordmaker and Big Z not only did this with enthusiasm, they deserve medals for putting up with me whilst drunk.
Guys, without your help, there'd be no sequel, and probably no Fire Guardian wandering around Paragon today, and for that, I thank you.
This story is for a woman I'll always love, and always miss. Where-ever she is, I know I'll always be with her, because she's always with me. This story is for C.
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Forget all you've learned. The new day dawns here.
Prologue
(Now)
The masked and armoured man stood in the rain, looking down upon Paragon. Despite the stillness of twilight masking the world below his feet, the lights from cars and small buildings illuminated the roads far below him. He felt almost…peaceful. Tranquil, as the world passed him by. In all the years he had been hiding in the shadows, trying to make the world a better place for all humanity, one man had consistently, and continuously, stopped him.
The masked man shook his head, clearing raindrops from the visor of his yellow lab goggles, allowing him to see properly, and he kept his focus straight down. He had spent years watching over his shoulder, but he no longer needed to do that. He knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that the man whom he had hunted, and been hunted by, was standing behind him. The revolvers' metal hammer clicking back into place, ready to fire, had told him as much.
'It's strange.' He mused to himself. 'After all this time, this is how I die. All my battles, all my plans…shot in the back of the head by a man I thought I knew'.
There would be no last minute rescues this time. No faked bodies, or identity switches. Nothing to stop his death.
His opponent had amassed a figurative army of followers, each of them ready to do his bidding. He had more money than Croesus, the outward appearance of a benevolent, kind man, and the internal savagery of a beast.
"Are you ready to die, yet?" The man behind him asked.
"Just…give me a minute." He pleaded with his old friend…his confidante…his assassin.
"Take your time." His murderer muttered. "I've got all night."
Jason Tucker and Michael Anson stood atop that skyscraper, in the rain, on a dark, moonlit night in Paragon, and both of them knew that only one would be walking away. They knew this, not because of a pointed gun, but because they know they are merely actors, playing out a scene. Pawns in the chessboard of life, competing against each other, measuring the moves the other makes.
White and black.
Light and dark.
Right and wrong.
Jekyll & Hyde.
Good and evil.
The first war ever fought, and the last. The only war waged. Tonight, however, for these two men, captive and captor, victim and murderer, it will end.
This is how.