Chapter Two
(One Year Ago)
(The following is an excerpt from the Paragon Times archives. A copy of the full story can be found, enlarged and framed, where it sits in the main lobby of The Tucker Foundation Headquarters, Paragon City.)
The Ever-Burning Fire
By Susan Daniels
Paragon City has had its' fair share of heroes in it's time. Indeed, even today, a normal, everyday person can't turn his or her head without seeing a caped individual rush past on their way in the pursuit of justice.
But what about the heroes behind the masks?
Whilst few would have heard the name of 'Fire Guardian' before, there is little doubt that the name 'Jason Tucker' is one everyone would recognise. Recently found out to be the winner of the first Annual Worldwide Lottery, held almost exactly one year ago today, and subsequently, founder and head of the Tucker International War Victim Foundation, Tucker led a quiet life, until an unknown circumstance brought him here, to our own Paragon City. An unknown accident brought him close to death, and then to a rebirth – a rising from the ashes, if you will – as The Fire Guardian. He re-discovered a lost love, the now missing Emily Campbell, former aide to the former Mayor. Alongside his close companion, the recently deceased Samuel Robert Edwards, Tucker began to live his life as a Superhero. One that lived his life in the constant pursuit of freedom and economic equality for all, in spite of his turn of luck that made him one of the most wealthy individuals on the planet. Indeed, this change of fortune did not alter his personality, as we find it does with others. Rather, it sharpened his dreams into definable goals.
Goals which he nearly achieved.
His close friend and business partner, Michael Anson, now elected Mayor of Paragon, remembers a bright, funny, and intelligent young man.
"He was a good person," Mayor Anson relayed to me upon our first meeting, at Tucker's funeral. "The world will never see another Jason Tucker again."
With Mayor Anson now fully in control of The Tucker Foundation, will he continue the good work that he and his deceased partner set up together?
"Absolutely", we are assured. "The Tucker Foundation will never stop the work I have set out for it. In Jason's memory, we'll continue. We're even planning on relocating our main offices here, in Paragon. That way, there will always be a part of Jason looking out on the city he helped bring out of financial ruin."
Whilst Tucker's death remains shrouded in mystery, we can take some comfort in knowing he is now at rest. Although police are still looking for his missing lover in relation to his death, as well as the death of Mr Edwards, Mayor Anson assures us that it is strictly routine. "I wish to meet Ms Campbell, and look her directly in the eyes when she's finally brought in."
So, is she guilty of murder?
"Who's to say?" Anson says, with a shrug of his shoulders. "I only know that she went missing the same night Jay was killed, last week. And, as Jason used to say, there's no such thing as a co-incidence."
With his friend elected to public office, and his charity relocating to our fair city, we acknowledge that The Fire Guardian may be dead, but Jason Tucker will live on. Perhaps forever.
Jason Tucker wished he was dead.
'It isn't as if this damned disguise is doing anything for me,' He reasoned to himself. 'Other than it's putting my bloody back out.'
It had been a week since he had 'died' in a warehouse fire, set by Mike Anson in an overly-elaborate plot to take his money, his Foundation, and his life. Since then, having to hide his face, he had sent his only remaining confidant, an overly chatty doctor from the Chiron Medical Facility named Wilks, out to a tailor to have his Power Belt repaired, and a new costume loaded onto it. Having gotten the idea from his girlfriend Emily, who had used a Power Belt in a similar way, Tucker's instructions were specific, and Wilks returned, a few hours later, with a second identity programmed into the belt.
"Now, without you there, the tailor had to go by your instructions, so it may be a bit constrictive." Wilks was rambling. He handed the belt over to Tucker, who snapped it on, and activated the costume by pressing a red disk in the centre of the belt.
Half a second later, he was an elderly man, with a long white ponytail, tweed suit, and a hunched over back.
"Oh….shit, that hurts!"
"Yes, well, the tailor only went by your instructions. You appear to be hunching over somewhat. Is that the costume, or just you?"
The old man turned and glared at Wilks. "What do you think, Doc? I say something hurts, and you can see my back is more crooked than a politician. Put two and two together."
"Yes, I see." Wilks stared at the old man. "At least the facial overlay is working. At least, I assume it is. You currently look like you're mouthing the words 'I'm going to kill you' over and over again."
"I am."
"Ah, then it's working."
"Oh, yes."
Wilks surveyed the small room his friend was living in. "You know, I would have thought you'd buy a house, or an apartment."
"Too flashy."
"Be that as it may, Mr Tucker, it's not as if you couldn't afford it."
Jason chuckled. "Doc, if you're going to ask me to move out, I'll be more than happy to."
"Nonsense. My house is your house. So to speak."
It wasn't so much a house that Wilks was referring to; so much as it was a hospital. Jason had only returned a week ago, and although he was physically fine (Thanks, as Doctor Wilks would be the first to point out, to fine medical care) he was refusing to leave.
"Jason," Wilks began, before pausing and looking his charge in the eye. "You know, it's difficult to talk to you when you're wearing that thing. Could you turn it off, please?"
"Sure." The 'old man' pressed the disk on his belt again, and became Jason Tucker.
"Now, Jason", Wilks began again. "You know, this isn't healthy. You've become shut in. Your legs were repaired; you've had numerous blood transfusions, all quietly, subtly. Nobody knows you're here but me. I daresay nobody knows you're alive except for me."
"And Emily." Jason interrupted.
"And Emily." Wilks allowed. He had no doubt that Emily was still alive, having given Jason a note from her a few days ago. "However, you have a disguise. You can walk about Paragon freely, and nobody will know who you are. This reminds me." He fished inside his lab coat pocket, and produced a small card, which he handed to Jason.
"John Fernandez?"
Wilks shrugged. "When I saw the finished disguise, it seemed like a John."
Jason shrugged back. "Fair enough."
Wilks smiled at Jason. "You know…your funeral is today."
Jason blinked. "Already?"
"It's been a week. My point is, Jason, you can go to your funeral. Move on, as it were."
"I don't know, Doc. Going to my own funeral seems morbid, somehow."
"Actually, psychiatrists hold 'mock funerals' for certain patients of theirs, with them in attendance. It's supposed to be life affirming."
"I'm not going."
"Jason…"
"I'm not going."
Jason stood, hunched over a cane, watching his own funeral.
"Damn Wilks, and his 'life affirming' bullshit", He grumbled to himself. Secretly, however, he was stunned, and somewhat pleased, with the turnout he had gotten.
He watched in silence as the priest said some truly nice things about him, about his need to make sure people were safe, and happy. A blonde woman in a nice suit caught his eye, as she was writing in a notebook as everyone mourned.
When the mourners started to leave, a sight caught Jason's eye.
Mike Anson. Lawyer, chairman of The Tucker Foundation. Friend, advisor, traitorous snake.
'I'll get you soon', Jason swore to himself, as Mike looked on, his face blank. I promise you, Anson, I'll be coming for you soon'.
He turned his head, and noticed the blonde woman was looking directly at him. Jason nodded to her gently, and, out of the corner of his eye, saw Mike approach her. Jason couldn't help himself. 'Watch your back, lady. That guy's trouble.' He smiled at the thought, and turned to walk away. As he did, he heard Mike speak to the woman.
"Can I help you, Miss?"
"Oh." The woman stammered. "No, I'm just here to pay my respects."
Jason shuffled on, silently cursing the damn tailor for making his back hurt, trying to find a better vantage point on top of a nearby hill.
"Somehow," I mused to myself, "I simply have to find a way to pay back Wilks for these digs."
It had been several months since my funeral. At least, I think it has. Time has an odd way of passing when you live as a hermit, nearly cut off from the world at large.
When I returned to Chiron one day, Wilks had gone off on some errand. He left me two things, however. One was a note (no, not the note from Emily. I'd already received that, remember?) And the other…
Let me explain a few things. Superheroes operate best in teams. Certainly, they can go out by themselves, but the information they get given by their contacts or informants is very rarely complete. A Hero who goes out to perform a simple mission such as 'meet So-and-So', or 'retrieve a piece of Clockwork' can find themselves overwhelmed. I know, I can hear some of you reminding me that Superman works alone. I've got two words for you. Justice League. Besides, I've never met the guy, but…come on. The invulnerable, super strong, super fast, super everything Last Son of Krypton doesn't need any help. Us more…earthbound Superheroes need sidekicks, partners, and mentors. A 'lone wolf' Superhero is one who's, more than likely, intimate with the every ins and outs of the medical facilities scattered throughout Paragon, and has used his emergency teleporter so many times, Statesman would probably have to award him a badge for being so resilient.
I would, naturally, replace the word 'resilient' with the word 'dumb'.
If you find you can't do something right, don't bloody do it.
Anyway. Where was I? Oh, yes. Teams. Sometimes, teams work so well together, they'll form a more permanent team, which are officially called (and I shudder at the name) Super Groups. Like Super Friends, I suppose, but without the cloying cutesiness. These Groups, once they've registered with the City Council, are awarded a plot of land, which can only be accessed by members of that group after they've had what're called 'IdentiChips' embedded into them, allowing them to enter.
It's one of these IdentiChips, which Wilks had left me.
I scanned through the note quickly. Something I had discovered was that, with my artificial eyes, if I looked at something once, I could recall it instantly. When I had asked Wilks about it, he mentioned something about .avi clips and JPEG formats, and muttered something else about a hard-drive lodged in my brain. I tried not to think too much about that, as I've never had much luck with computers.
'John.' I wondered about that for a second, then realised. John was my 'new' name, according to my ID. Of course, Wilks would be careful enough to not leave any evidence of my real identity behind.
'John. Please find enclosed an Identichip, which should allow you access to a SG base. The exact state of the base is unknown, however, all members were unfortunately killed, or left the group for greener pastures, shortly after the war. Normally, you would have to have the chip surgically inserted into you, however, you can embed it yourself in your artificial legs with a minimum of pain. You will find concealed cubbyholes in your legs, where your calves should be.
'I'll be in touch with I can, and I meant to be there. Sadly, I have to meet with my grand-daughter about a matter of some urgency.
All the best, Wilks.'
After leaving Chiron, I made my way to the nearest Base Portal, closed my eyes, and stepped inside.
When I opened them, I stood in a small room, covered wall to wall in metal. The lights flickered on and off, and it was clear to me that the base had fallen into disrepair. As I walked further along, I came into a large hall, with a broken desk covered in cobwebs, cubicles fallen into disrepair, a large monitor which had seen better days, and, to one side, the only new additions I could tell of were a single…I wouldn't even call it a bed. It was a clunky cot, with a battery operated lamp on a nightstand with three legs, two of them cracked and wobbly.
I made my way through the gloomy room, and turned my eyes over to night-vision. Finding an old, near mouldy desk, I sat down on the battered leather armchair, put my feet up, and leaned back.
The chair broke.
As I picked myself up from the floor, and dusted myself down, I frowned at the chair, the desk, and the horrible base…my new home. It'd take a lot of work, and a lot of money, to get this place habitable again.
"Somehow," I mused to myself, "I simply have to find a way to pay back Wilks for these digs."