Children of the Vortex

CHILDREN OF THE VORTEX: MIDNIGHT'S SON

Chapter One: Opening Moves

By FinalStand

*When heroes embrace expedience, villains can be made heroes by necessity*

'Blips' -- normal humans who spontaneously evolve into a super-being ~ usually rather weak, or short term ~ burning out, or being consumed by their powers.

'Legacy (ies)' -- the children of super-beings.

'Crash Cases' -- people who became super-beings thru external means.

'Vortex (es)' -- powerful blips/crash cases.

[FIRST STEPS]

"What ... is ... it?" the man strapped to the chair mumbled. He didn't think it was time for his feeding. His weekly 'shower' was still three days away.

"The courts have decided to cut you loose, Atticus Styx. You've done your time. You are being released," the Human guard announced.

"How long ..." they could barely make out the inmate's words.

"It is June 3rd, 2025, Old Man. A few bleeding hearts have decided your civil rights have been violated so they are cutting you free."

"Seventy-nine years ... it has been ... that long ... already?"

"Yes. They have decided you have been punished enough and now we have to let you go."

"Oh ..." he barely spoke above a whisper.

"He doesn't look like much," Nightingale, an extremely enhanced metahuman, turned to her equal empowered female companion, Sonic Storm. The target of their focus ~ his skin was a sickly-grey color, his frame was skeletal and his visible hair was a grey-white bristly stub. The man's eyes were sunken, lifeless orbs imbedded deep within his skull. His voice was a thin rasp; a clear sign of disuse.

"He's been in solitary confinement for almost all of his 79 years," Sonic Storm chortled. "He was just a kid when he was sent away. I imagine he looks fine for a person who hasn't seen the light of day since before your grandparents were born."

"What did he do?" the younger metahuman gasped.

"An assortment of Crimes against Humanity -- murder, theft, kidnapping, criminal conspiracy to overthrow the US Federal Government. He was a criminal henchman with delusions of bad-assery in his day."

"How old is he?"

"He is 94," one of the five regular guards responded.

"He was sentenced to Life in Prison when he was fifteen?!? Didn't they take his youth into account before they threw him away?"

"They sentenced him to Death, Nightingale" Sonic Storm snorted.

"It turned out he could survive all conventional/accepted means of executing him back then, so they settled for putting him in a lightless hole, strapped to a chair, subjected to power-dampening fields strong enough to screen a small city until he died of old age."

"And now the Supreme Court has ruled ..." Nightingale continued.

"Yes. Idiots."

"No!" Nightingale protested. "You mean he's been kept in a seated position for nearly eighty years? Can he even still move? What he has been subjected to is barbaric."

"Barbaric? I'll show you pictures of his victims, Kid. As for his mobility; we are about to find out." "Power down #1," she commanded via Blue Tooth. Nightingale felt the first pinpricks of energy tingle her flesh then fade away. She was about to step into the room when Sonic Storm stopped her. "That is the first of three. No. 1 is the section wide dampener. No. 2 is for this detention block and No. 3 is for his individual cell."

"We are not here for him -- beyond his '

un-kill-ability

', he's a 'blip'," Sonic Storm informed her. "We are here in case the other inmates get antsy. They didn't tell me this was your first prison-release."

"Candid had a personal problem come up, so they sent me," Nightingale confessed. "I volunteered for the assignment actually."

"Disappointed?"

"Somewhat. I've never heard of this guy ... Midnight Sun ... his powers," she scrolled through the briefing on the crook -- former crook, "appear small-time."

"World War II -- different times."

"Three down," a voice announced over their Bluetooths.

"Come on, you," Sonic Storm stepped into the cell. It smelled ripe -- stinking of unwashed humanity, urine, feces, despair, and hopelessness. She kept an eye on the felon while Nightingale undid his solid ankle, wrist and neck restraints. They both noted the drain in the floor as well as the sores on his flesh which were the result of constant, highly restrictive confinement.

"Don't do anything stupid, Old-Timer," Nightingale cautioned him. "My reflexes are faster than you can track, I'm stronger than you and have extensive martial arts training. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

"Good. I don't want to hurt you," she eased up.

"Too late for that," he murmured. Once Nightingale pulled him to his feet, she slipped her left arm around his waist and placed his right arm over her shoulder.

"We are going to take you upstairs to the Transition Facility, get you squared away and prepped for your new life of freedom. For you that means an assisted-care facility and a Social Security check," Sonic Storm went on with what must have been boring routine for her.

"You do know what Social Security is, don't you?" she added in a condescending fashion.

"Yes ... No ... I'm not sure."

"It means the government is going to keep picking up the check for your room and board," Sonic Storm snorted. "On the plus side, you will finally be able to see the Sun once more."

"You don't need to be so mean to him," Nightingale frowned.

"He's a soulless butcher," Sonic Storm scoffed. "I doubt the past seventy-nine years buried inside a mountain have changed that."

"Do you have any skills?" the younger woman inquired.

"I ... used to ... for a few weeks ... stocked shelves and swept floors ... I worked at S. Klein 'On The Square'," the ancient one recited as if it meant something. "Union Square, New York City," he added.

"Never heard of it," Sonic Storm commented. They had made it to the elevator, but had to wait for the first and second dampener fields to be reenergized before proceeding up.

Only on the surface level of Copperhead Super-Max did the old man finally meet his legal team. He had never met them face-to-face before -- civilians weren't allowed into the locations housing inmates like him; it was considered too dangerous. They couldn't even meet with him in private because of those continuing concerns.

The news for the guy wasn't good. He had been stripped of his citizenship in 1947 only to have it be returned by a Supreme Court ruling in 1980. His claims of being experimented on by associates of the Federal Prison system went nowhere -- the records from the time period remained classified plus he had been a 'stateless' person when ~ 'theoretically' ~ those bad things had happened to him...

He had never held a prison job so he had no prison savings account. The majority of his possessions had been misplaced long ago so the government reimbursed him $225 plus three sets of formal yet rather shabby clothing. He still had his criminal costume though ... from when he was a scrawny fifteen year old. He had no known surviving next of kin, no external property and no sponsors. It seemed most jurisdictions didn't want a super-powered ex-convict retiring in their jurisdictions, despite his octogenarian status.

The first serious hiccup came when the prison's metahuman psychologist collided with the legal team's knowledge of Constitutional Rights. The Federal Government wanted to use telepathic means to determine his mental state. They didn't want to release him only to have him become violently psychotic a week later.

"This isn't a parole hearing," his cute female lawyer, Ms. Giselle Chasme, insisted. "You should have been monitoring his mental state while he was your prisoner."

"We are legally permitted to 'spot-check' any employee, visitor, or inmate for signs of telepathic manipulations," the accompanying Assistant Warden countered. "Besides, your client has been actively blocking our attempts to monitor him the entire time he's been in custody."

"For seventy-nine years?" Nightingale muttered.

"Come on, you old fossil," Sonic Storm joked. "Let the nice telepath inside your skull so we can let you take care of yourself for a change."

"No. I won't let you take them," he shook his head.

"Take them?" Nightingale worried.

"Ah," the prison telepath nodded. "Mr. Styx, it has been illegal for the government to edit, alter, or remove a person's memories without a specific FISA court order since 1959. Your mind is perfectly safe. All I need to do is be sure you aren't exhibiting psychotic impulses. It won't take five minutes."

"No."

"No?"

"No. I don't trust you. Take me back to my cell then."

"We have a problem then, Ms. Chasme," the Assistant Warden shrugged.

"No, we don't," she countered. "You may expel him for non-cooperation. Refusing to submit to a mind probe isn't grounds for arrest, merely cause for dismissing visitors and holding employees for 48 hours. As for not trusting you ... you animals kept him in a hole for almost eighty years. Damn right he doesn't trust you!"

"You are partially correct. If he fails to comply, I may expel him. I also have grounds to interrogate him if I feel this prison's integrity is being compromised by a refusal to cooperate," the Assistant Warden riposted.

"Right. Fine. Overrule the Supreme Court of the United States and see what that does for your career, Assistant-Warden Carmichael," the young lawyer snapped.

"He is ninety-five years old," Sonic Storm pointed out. "Let the old bastard go."

Conceding the point, the prison official tried to convince him to sign a written agreement for his post-institutional housing. Pen in trembling hand, the man finally looked up at his ... fellow humans and metahumans.

"Am I free?"

"Yes," the official grudgingly admitted. Nightingale was troubled by his historic lack of effective legal counsel as well as his feeble mental and physical states. She decided she would talk about it with her mentor, Candid, later.

"Good. I'd like to go," he spoke. The pen dropped to the paper unused.

"We have set aside housing for you, Mr. Styx," the official coaxed him. "The World is a very different place now. You need to be familiarized with the changes and the effects new legislation has on your citizenship status. As a metahuman, you will have to register. You are going to have trouble adjusting."

"I'd like to go," he repeated.

"Where are you heading to, Old Man?" Sonic Storm put a hand on his shoulder, partially turning him to face her. "We'll drop you off."

"I'm going to take a walk."

"Where?"

"Am I free?"

"Yes."

"Then I don't have to tell you. I have no one to see and nowhere to go, but I definitely don't want to be here with you people."

"That would be a mistake," Sonic Storm's posture grew aggressive.

"Why? Are you really prepared to take what little life I have left? Having taken so much, it what I have left still too much? Everyone I have cared for has either died at your hands, withered away and perished in this Hell-hole, or passed away outside forever beyond my embrace. Why can't I simply take a few steps outside ... on my own?"

"Mr. Styx, the problem is the prison complex is on a Restricted Preserve. There is not normal traffic and all people are restricted to one road, or two air lanes. There is no 'walking' out of the Copperhead Super-Max," Nightingale clarified.

"Oh ... I was beaten into a coma before they transferred me here ... I didn't know," his head lowered. "I just ... like to ... feel the Sun again."

"How about I fly us out of here? Once we've left Restricted Air Space, I'll drop you off anywhere -- in the United States -- you want to go," she offered.

"I need to finish up a few items of a personal nature," the lawyer inserted herself.

"He can call you tonight?" Nightingale suggested an alternative.

"Alright," they both agreed.

"Okay," he nodded sadly. "Can I go now?"

"Sign for your personal items and you Reintegration packet," the Assistant Warden shoved a different set of papers his way. The lawyer looked them over, gave her nod of approval before he painfully scrawled down each letter of his name. His eyes remained locked on his print.

"What?" Sonic Storm snorted. "Your penmanship sucks."

"I haven't written anything ... for a long, long time."

"You never wrote anyone?" Nightingale asked.

"They never let me. The only person to write me was my Mother. They never gave me her letters and only told me about them after she had died. I imagine those were the only letters she ever wrote. She had no education," he muttered.

"Oh ..."

"How sad," Sonic Storm's words dripped with sarcasm as she rolled her eyes. "Nightingale, don't forget this sorry sack of shit is a mass-murdering scumbag."

"Don't you think he's paid his debt to Society?" Nightingale retorted.

"No. He's not sorry about a damn thing he did. Letting him loose is a mistake," she replied confidently. "I'll be running across him again soon enough."

The prison provided him a second-hand piece of luggage with his legal paperwork, clothing and new toiletries. He hadn't bathed, or shaved, himself during his entire incarceration it seemed.

The exterior blast doors opened and the ambient light flooded the area between the general courtyard and the outside world. The old bastard gave a phlegmy gurgle as if he was drowning before toppling forward onto his hands and knees.

"Mr. Styx?" the lawyer tried to rush to his side. Sonic Storm stopped her. Nightingale was about to catch him except she felt '

something

' wash over her. It was indescribable. She shot Sonic Storm a concerned look. Sonic Storm was concentrating on the exiting felon who was struggling to return to his feet on his own.

"Mr. Styx?" Ms. Chasme repeated.

"Sonic Storm is it?" the old man croaked. He remained fixated on the cascading natural light.

"Yeah ... going to come look me up sometime?"

"Nah," he scoffed. "You might misconstrue those words as a threat. I've learned my lesson. I won't be coming back here."

"We'll see about that," she chuckled.

"I know you will," he mumbled. "This time ... this time, I'll be ready."

[HIS PAST]

{SOMETIME LATER}

"The shower is all yours, Mr. Styx," Nightingale offered. They were at some highway rest stop in southwestern Oregon. This was the direction he'd picked and she'd flown him to the closest sign of habitation. Afterwards she had glided off then doubled back and hovered some distance behind him.

The old man had started walking west the moment she departed, never slowed and showed no interest in hitching a ride with the handful of trucks and cars transiting the roadway. He'd paid for a meal at a touristy rest stop and got a room with twin double-beds for the night. He hadn't appeared surprised when she came knocking on his door.

Nightingale had spent some of her time aloft researching Midnight Sun. First off, she realized the bureaucracy had his name wrong -- it was Midnight's Son. There was no reference to a 'Midnight'. He'd ended his career as part of a super-powered group called 'The Sinister'.

In World War II, they had attempted to capture and control FDR and his cabinet, worked with fascist super-soldiers and even attempted to hijack the two atomic bombs heading toward Japan. The details of the 'secret' trials were murky with serious discrepancies ... things like heavily redacted references to items such as the 'Valhalla Project' and the 'Delphi Metagene Experiment'.

The ringleaders ~ the Red Dynamo, the Conductor of Crime, the (original) Wrath and the (original) Gestalt were killed during the final confrontation. The (1st) Killjoy along with Midnight's Son both earned the Death Penalty. Seventeen other super-powered beings received sentences from 5 years to Life in Prison. In the mid-1950's, most of those had been conditionally pardoned ... and recruited by US Intelligence Agencies for service overseas -- 'killing Commies' in Vietnam, Latin America and beyond the Iron Curtain.

Midnight's Son had first appeared in the newspapers back in 1937, working alongside Killer Mime and Songbird (the second metahuman with that name) -- two equally low-powered petty criminals. During the closing days of the Great Depression they had been low-rent crooks with the precursors of real power. Mostly they were busted by the elite law-dogs of the era and costumed vigilantes -- all small-time stuff. It was normal, Depression-Era shenanigans ... until 1940.

In July of 1940, the trio resurfaced in, of all places, Paris -- fighting Nazis. It turned out the Killer Mime was a Jewish mobster named Hiram Heinzburger. They were seen helping British heroines (1st) Clarion and (1st) Spitfire battling Blitzstrahl, Jäger, Juggernaut, Kriegerin and Überläufer either looting the city (the Nazi version), or rescuing captured British 'diplomatic' staff (the British version).

In October of that year, they were involved in a British espionage mission against the Kiel Canal in Germany. Songbird and Clarion died, Killer Mime was captured -- then publically executed -- while Spitfire and Midnight's Son made their escape thru a neutral Sweden.

In the spring of 1941, Midnight's Son reappeared in Canada acting as a stooge for Red Dynamo, robbing a depository of British art shipped for safe-keeping to Ottawa. Red Dynamo was a different kind of villainess. She was a renegade Swedish super-genius, mentalist, cutting-edge engineer and Trotskyite (a Communist faction opposing Joseph Stalin's Union of Soviet Socialist Republics {USSR} aka Russia).

Two months later came the kidnapping of the US Ambassador to Mexico and his family. Precisely what happened wasn't clear yet is 'felt' like the hostage rescue attempt by US vigilantes was botched and the ambassador and his wife died. In the final analysis, the US Government laid the blame on the Sinister hiring the White Ninja Clan to do the deed ... and that was that. With the US gearing up for war, the duo had been left in limbo -- both castigated and recruited. Then came 'The Sinister'.

By 1943, the Sinister was US's Public Enemy #1. Still, Midnight's Son remained a 'tool', messenger, and all-around henchman, not a ringleader. He certainly wasn't a criminal mastermind. His main distinguishing feature seemed to be he was one of the few members who constantly evaded capture even after the Allies got their act together and squashed the others ~ thus their persistent menace.

Their last 'crime' was their attempt to take the nascent United Nation's hostage at their inaugural session in San Francisco. For some reason, the US government pointed him at a slaughterhouse of dead bodies -- nine to be precise. There was no extenuating circumstances given for his murder of an old, rich and reputable extended family of San Francisco's Old Money Establishment and a few of their staff.

It was an uncomfortable aberration in a terribly non-lethal criminal career. Midnight was an 'Oliver Twist'-style crook. He'd been arrested for the first time when he was nine years old. In the early days, his minimal supernatural talents had allowed him to easily escape confinement ... and he'd shown a remarkable proclivity toward burglary and a peculiar, indefatigable loyalty in rescuing his 'friends'.

The minor talents which kept him one step ahead of the law in 1937 were utterly inadequate in combating the powerhouses of the US war effort at the conclusion of World War II. At 15, he had become a worn down, has-been covered in the fresh blood of the innocent. Had his life played out today he would have gotten some severe psychological counseling and intensive, super-being rehabilitation. Instead, his whole life had been a waste.

Nightingale was mulling over her possible approaches to him when she heard the shower cut off. She gave it a minute ~ still he hadn't emerged.

"Mr. Styx?" she called out. She was reclining on the closer of the two double beds in the motel room.