I Lost Count What # Day This Is

The faucet went dry this morning. I have twelve gallons stored in the pantry, though, and found two bottles of Fireball whiskey in an abandoned flat down the hall. Parching is not imminent.

Around 11 o'clock last night, a strange glow came through the slats nailed over my windows. I grabbed my horse track binoculars and sneaked up two floors to the roof.

That's Gaiman Woods. I could feel the heat on my face, but worst of all were the screams. This is Hellion handiwork, and I know that not because of the obvious. It's because there were scores of Skulls chained to trees throughout the forest.

Nothing remains. It's a massive, smoldering inkblot held in check only by Everett Lake.

I've yet to see a single hero, and the truth be told, I hope I never see another one again. You couldn't walk to the mailbox without tripping over ten capes a few years ago, but now? The world's going up in smoke and they can't be bothered? They called themselves "defenders of justice", but in the end they were nothing more than fair weather friends.

Activity in my building subsided altogether, at least for now. Something down Hell's Highway captured the goons' attention and I'm curious what it might be. Have you heard anything? Is the gate still sealed? One part of me likes to think these troubles are confined to the park, while another reasons Atlas Park might be the biggest prize of all.

My cabin fever's getting bad. It's only a matter of time until someone discovers me, but oddly enough that gives me hope. Being so unavoidably alone gets old fast, and who knows - maybe there are others like me trapped here? Should it be a Hellion or Skull or a Circle Jerk instead, so be it. They're not getting my whiskey, though.

On a brighter note, I found an old copy of the Times underneath a box in the closet. Boy, has it been a welcome distraction. I'll leave you for now with an excerpt from Jane Hallaway's interesting piece on those E.T.'s coming to Paragon City:

     Rhett Lindsay was completely detached from the rest of the world. As if circumstances weren't awful enough, the childhood accident which so cruelly robbed him of his family also stole his sight. The driver of the delivery truck walked away without a scratch, as is so often the case, while the distraught boy got bounced between foster homes. It's hard enough for orphans to get adopted in Paragon City, but even more so for those in his condition, so off he went for an indefinite stay at the Gimry Ridge Children's Home.

     The old, gray structure was a converted office building that could be described as ramshackle, at best. The tap water was brown, lead paint flaked off the walls and floorboards routinely buckled beneath even the lightest of feet. Despite all of this, Rhett was probably the happiest child under their leaky roof. Nurses marveled at how quickly he'd adjusted and even the boy himself was surprised at how well he'd handled the tragedy thus far. Sure, some of the other kids made fun of his "catarax", in a butchered attempt at describing the appearance of his eyes, but that was the least of his worries.

     What was the secret to his happiness? It wasn't the accommodations, it wasn't the company and it certainly wasn't the food. But late at night, when the rest of the house was fast asleep and the moon hung high in the Steel Canyon sky, Rhett would sneak down to the common room and fire up the Philco. It would start with a low hum, followed by the warmth of the tubes basking his face, and finally the signature fanfare introduction to "Dr. Merrell and the Hour of Peril".

     It was riveting and filled his darkness with images of daring exploits and dangerous escapes. Paragon City's super heroes were still only secrets and rumors (and subversive ones, at that). To most, these masked vigilantes were merely common hoodlums with a little panache, but this mysterious Dr. Merrell and his booming voice knew the truth and offered it to anyone willing to listen.

     After one such hour of rapt attention, Rhett slowly navigated the rickety staircase back up to his room, careful to avoid the creakiest spots discovered during his frequent forays. Upon reaching his cold bed and pulling up the covers, he soon felt another warm glow on his face. What could be so calming and yet so odd? He'd felt it through the frosty window at first, but now the warmth seemed to be hovering directly over him. Was he dying? Was it an angel? It felt as if a total stranger was also his best friend, and when the voice finally whispered, it sent shivers down his spine.

"I am not here to harm you, little one," it intoned. "I am a bringer of peace and I've come to offer you a choice. I've observed you for months and believe you're path is already laid before you. I merely seek to bring form to your function."

"Wh-- Who are you?!" Rhett cried. "I-I-I want my mom!"

           

"We both know that is no longer possible," the entity patiently replied. "You've suffered more than someone ten times your age does in a lifetime. There can be no recompense for the hurt, but a resolve to prevent it for others is possible. We can be one, child. We can soar through these nights and fight the forces of darkness with pure light. When the time is right, we shall cease to age and children will hear of our feats just as you learned of others tonight."

"B-but, how would I do any of that?" Rhett retorted. "I can't even see you, mister, so how am I gonna fly?"

     The warmth seemed to come closer, almost directly onto his face. The corners of Rhett's mind slowly parted like a long-closed door, revealing the sharpest sliver of brightness.

"Boy," the voice whispered in what felt like a smile, "This will be your crucible and your chrysalis. All you must do is call me to the fore and I will make you see again."

     Rhett couldn't believe what he was hearing. If the choice was to remain in this condition, at this location, or fulfill his wildest dreams with restored sight, it was an easy one to make. With the slightest of nods, he acquiesced to the warmth and felt as though he'd opened his eyes for the very first time.

"What is our name?" the voice whispered from inside.

            "Rhett," he replied to himself, studying the cobwebs in the corner above. "But most people around here call us Catarax."

Time to power down and save some battery, friends. Until next time, stay safe and please share any information you may have. I will continue to do the same.