In the long, dark night of the mind that comes with sleep, human voices screamed then went silent. Outside, he had slept for a good twelve hours. Inside, time was meaningless and nightmares could last forever. Inside, people were dying. Not all at once, but in a rising and falling wave, one right after the other. The last moments of countless men and women rolled on top of each other, without pause. Their individual experiences flickered by like pages in a flipbook, soundless, save for a long, sustained scream that, at times, continued quietly beneath the picture, barely noticeable, then built, adding a new voice to the chorus as a new face was swallowed up... destroyed. The scream would branch out, then compact in on itself, never ceasing. It grew louder and higher, and more shrill, until the black void was pierced by eyelids opening to dawn and the scream of a hundred voices became a train whistle.

Corey Jobe winced as he lifted his head slowly from the vibrating train window. Outside, buildings flew by in a haze, broken up by large, green trees. Outside the train, the world was somber in the glow of morning. The inside of the train was gray, cold, and very, very quiet as the few passengers around him sped along at over a hundred miles per hour.

It was the mornings like these that slowly suggested to Corey that he was losing touch with his sanity. His life was a haze. The ordinary markers that seperate night from day and day one from day two were gone, replaced by tense shifts where he woke up miles away from wherever he fell asleep, with nothing inbetween but intensly vivid dreams.

The barriers were eroding and he knew it. How long could he expect to live his life when the line between dream and reality was so thin, he wondered. In his waking hours he would wander from place to place, not sure where he was or how he got there. When, finally, sleep would take him, his wearied mind would wander again, travelling with his otherworldly counterpart, the Spectre, as he made his rounds. His dreams were glimpses of the Spectre's crusade through the night, punishing the guilty, sinful, and depraved. Before they died, he would often peer into their lives, seeing what they had done, what acts they had committed, to earn their fate. In the morning, though, it all blended togethor. Individual faces were hard to remember. Certain scenes were cut up, scattered, and reorganized into a collage of sin and death.

But the dreams were so real. So lifelike. And his sense of perspective, in them, so warped. Some nights he was the Spectre, creeping along silently in the shadows. Other nights he was the man with the gun, pointing it at the woman at the cash register, then turning, suprised, as a shadow swallowed him whole.

And then he would wake up, wherever he had been dropped last.

Corey turned his head to look at the man next to him, who had a finger jabbed lightly into his shoulder.

"Hey," the man said. "Sorry to wake you, kid. But the conductor just called back and the next stop is coming up soon. We're making a stop in "Ghent." That sound like you?"

"Might as well be," Corey mumbled, wiping the sleep from his eyes.

"Eh? Sorry?," the man questioned, leaning in.

"Nothing."

The figure next to Corey smiled and leaned back in his seat, cracking his back as he relaxed. His unusually long legs were adorned in black slacks and dress shoes, and a wrinkled dress shirt clung to his body. His sleeves were rolled up over pale arms. The top button of his shirt was unbuttoned and a black tie around his neck had been loosened. He smiled a wide smile, dotted with freckles. A massive crop of red hair was combed neatly over a pair of bushy red eyebrows.

"Hi," the man said, offering his hand. "My name's Wes."

"Corey," he answered, returning the man's shake.

"Where are you from, Corey?"

"Atlanta," the boy mumbled as he put his head back against the window.

"Your parents with you?"

"No."

"Coming later?"

"No."

"So, are you going to Grandma's or just Military school?"

"Neither."

Wes's eyes focused straight on Corey as the boy tried to ignore him. Dead silence pervaded the moving car and the only sound filling the area was the constant clack and whir of the train wheels hurttling along the track in steady rythm.

"You a Hawk's fan, Corey?"

The boy just closed his eyes and silently begged for silence to win the battle.

"Good. They suck this year," he pressed. "So, would this be more painful for you if I just continued this one-sided conversation or if you were forced to make some contribution?"

Corey's eyes drifted over to him lazily. A self-satisfied smile tugged at his freckled cheeks.

"What are you, lonely? I just don't feel like talking."

"Then what's the point of travel? Why get on a train and travel miles away to some destination if you aren't going to meet the people along the way? Nobody believes in adventure anymore."

"Trust me, I'm not on the train because I want to be."

"Where are you headed, then?"

Corey turned his head slowly to look at his travelling companion. His eyes wandered up and down the man's body. With a loud, deep breath, he turned his short body around in the seat, facing sideways, and pulled his knees up to his chest, resigning himself to conversation. "Where are you going?"

"Okay. I'm going to an airport that's going to get me to Detroit. I've got a sister there and we're going to set up a tire store."

Big, blue eyes rolled back in Corey's head. "Yeah, you know all about adventure, man."

The slipping noise of a zipper broke the quiet pall in the passenger car as Wes slid a long, black square out of a leather bag and set it on his knees. The lock clicked as he opened a sleek laptop. Corey could see his face, the bags under his eyes, the messy hair, in the computer monitor as it bounced along with the train.

"Yeah, I'd expect that from a kid," Wes conceded as he searched blindly in his leather case. "But taking your life and livelihood into your own hands is the greatest adventure most of us get when we grow up. You'd understand if you were ever totally without money."

Corey's face hardened into a full leer, but the look went unnoticed.

"I was about to make partner at the software company I was at, right? I was going to run a plant. Six figure salary. Complete job security and benefits. All I had to do was move down to Texas. Just pack up my family and move..."

"Yeah?," Corey interjected. "And you didn't?"

"I did not," Wes beamed back proudly. "Can't stand Texas. And I can't stand eleven hours a day in an office either."

Corey passed a hand softly over his stomach as it growled with hunger. Memory told him that he hadn't eaten in days. His gut rippled softly under his tender skin.

"So I called my sister, convinced her to go into business with me. I'm going to hire about ten guys and run a small shop. I can make enough to live off of, but I get to play with grease and tools, and talk to real people, and eat dinner with my daughter at the end of the day."

He pointed to the screen of his computer, now humming with life. The long, bony finger led to a portrait of a smiling girl of about eight in sweat pants and a t-shirt from the zoo, trying to feed a slice of birthday cake to a cat.

"That's my girl, Casie. She doesn't want to move because we won't have Cable anymore. She likes to watch.... well, Dave Chappelle's Show actually... I know I shouldn't let her watch it, but what the hell? Anyway, she's glad she's going to be able to see her cousins more."

"Why? What makes you wake up one morning, pack everthing, and head for Detroit when something you've worked years for is right in front of you?," Corey asked, still mildly bored with the conversation but mildly curious. There was something about the skinny rail of a man before him. A naivete, but also, an earnestness that, though it was an annoying, still picked at the back of Corey's mind.

"Because," Wes answered, never taking his eyes off of the computer screen. "You can get a job right out of high-school to put you through college and wind up working there for the rest of your life. Just by accident. Life keeps you poor, pushes you up the corporate ladder, and forces you in a direction you may want to go, just because you never had the sense to fight the current at some point. I've seen too many friends and family members let someone else choose the direction of their life."

He turned back to Corey. "A man's got to be the one to decide where he wakes up in the morning. You can't let something just control you."

Corey smiled, biting his tounge beneath two rows of teeth. "So, what does your wife think of you giving up a couple hundred g's so that you can be in charge of your fate?"

He looked away. "We're... uh, divorced actually."

"Not over the job or anything," he added, thinking it over. "We split before that..."

"Oh... sorry, man."

"It's okay."

Corey cracked the knuckles in his hands as silence again filled the cart. The image of the girl on the screen disappeared, covered by a full, black screen saver.

"I'm going to Gotham City," Corey offered after a moment, leaning into the man next to him. "The Justice Society Museum."

Wes perked up instantly. "No kidding? What's there? For you, I mean. It does seem like kind of a far way."

"It's just... I don't know. Call it research. I know somebody that used to be involved with the JSA and I want to find out more about him."

"The Justice Society... those are the wartime heroes, right? Green Lantern, the Bobcat, that sort of thing? Who do you know that used to be involved with those guys?"

"Yeah, you got it right. I don't know if I'd call them heroes. I don't know a whole lot, but I think they make some questionable friends. But my Grandpa used to know them, I guess. Here..."

The small boy reached into his back pocket, struggling a bit with the slightly baggy, very faded jeans. His hand reappeared, clenching a dull, crumpled photo in black and white of a young black man waving to the camera, surrounded by the Green Lantern, another man, and the Spectre.

"That's why I'm going to Gotham."

"'Scuse me?," a female voice rose from the seat in front of them. Two sets of eyes blinked as a tired-looking girl hoisted herself up by the arms over her seat to face them. Her green eyes matched the green ski cap on her head as she considered the two other passengers. She was a petite, lithe young woman with a face that showed both cuteness and confidence. Wisps of black hair trailed haphazardly out of the back of her hat as she moved. Though Corey tried to watch the girl, his eyes kept going back to the huge amount of colorful plastic rings decorating her forearm.

"I totally didn't mean to eavesdrop or anything, it's just... I heard you talk about the Justice Society. Did you say they weren't heroes?"

Corey Jobe scanned the room, dreading the idea that his conversation with the annoying man next to him would draw more people.

"I didn't say they weren't heroes. I said they might not be. Who really knows, right?

"I do," the girl protested. "They're heroes. They save the world constantly. Just like it was a friday at the office. They saved my grand-dad's life once during a bank robbery in the forties."

"So? No offense to your grandpa or anything, but there's thousands of these "super-hero" guys. How are we supposed to know that they're not just a bunch of glory hounds out to kill a Sunday, y'know?"

"Actually, he could be right," Wes piped in, thumbing the gold watch on his wrist as he packed up his laptop. "Some of the lesser known costumes... they're more like vigilantes. And some of the new people I've seen on the news, they don't really seem like concerned citizens."

"These guys are the Justice Society though!," she whispered with a flourish. "They've been around for over half a century. They've saved the country from supervillains, like, a hundred times. They're probably not in it for movie-deals or because they're masochists."

The wide open landscape, miles and miles of yellow corn, flew by Corey's head as he gazed out the window. The climbing sun burned the sky around it a mellow purple. He saw his reflection again in the glass before him. His expression was angrier than he had intended to make it. In fact, he was mad, though he could not place a reason for it.

"How do you know?," he countered. "These guys put on a cape, call themselves judges, even though nobody asked them to be. And then they have fights with big scary monsters, and when somebody's home gets wrecked, they expect a god damn parade!"

"That's not true! That's just what people think because they don't like being saved."

"Hey, you guys-," Wes tried to interject.

"I like being saved just fine! I wish Aquaman or whoever the hell else there is was there to save me when...."

"When what?," Wes asked, concerned.

Corey looked away again. "How do you know so much about the JSA?"

My grand-dad used to tell me stories as a little girl. The Wildcat... Wildcat, not Bobcat, by the way... signed a baseball for him. I've studied them ever since."

"You know about the Society?," Corey jumped, pressing in a terse whisper. "Can you tell me anything about the Spectre?"

She frowned and her gaze drifted to the side. "Not... not a whole lot really. He's a less public hero. He was one of the founding members, but wasn't officially with them when they resurfaced. He never went public with his identity, like some of the other members, but he's supposed to still be active. He operates mobilely, not sticking to any one city. He's supposd to have some kind of supernatural powers."

"Oh," Corey offered, dismayed, as he sunk back into his seat.

"Why do you care about him?"

"....He's a bad guy," Corey mumbled into his fist.

"You don't know that. You're just skeptical. The Justice Society were a group of men and women who had power and chose to use it to protect others. They came from a time when people helped other people just for the sake of it. You wouldn't get it."

The girl's cheeks reddened. Her eyelids, heavy in black make-up, blinked once in apology. For a moment her eyes seemed like a pool of empty shadow and Corey remembered the blank look of the Spectre's face, cloaked in darkness beneath his heavy green hood. "Sorry... I get kind of worked up. It's the writer in me. I'm at Kentucky University. Major in print journalism. It's just that... the Justice Society are heroes. Shining examples from a time when a man who tried his hardest could do no wrong."

"You're wrong. Everybody's got-"

His response flickered through his mind, then faded and disappeared as the train around him, and every person on it, shattered. The people, walls, and landscape fractured and split, scattering along the floor of conciousness. Thick red clouds of smoke rolled across a pure black backdrop, filtering in from the edges of nowhere. He felt himself look around wildly, but his perspective never shifted. He clenched his fist but the feeling was numb and very far away. He could not see his hand nor any other part of his body. In this realm, he was no one.

Light played across the smoke with no discernable source. The color shifted between light red and crimson as deep and thick as blood. Images started to take shape in the smoke. In the backyard of a large, expensive-looking house, a large red shadow with a man's face hugged another shadow. They played with little shadows. The image dissipated and reformed, turning into a tall, glass skyscraper. Inside, the man from before and a woman, her features murky and blurred, stood before a computer smiling. The two kissed, combined... then another cloud formed. In it, stark, well-defined figures milled about inside the skyscraper. The man walked through a door, took out a gun, and shot the woman who had stood with him at the computer. Corey heard the bang echo in his mind as one rose shadow fell to the ground and bled more of the same.

"Hey.... kid, what's up?," the girl's voice interrupted his reverie.

No response.

"Corey!," Wes whispered harshly. "Hey, is something wrong?"

The train whistled again. The loudspeaker crackled as an older man's voice rasped that the train would be arriving in Ghent and all passengers for that stop should stand and exit the train in a moment.

Corey watched the seats a few rows ahead of him as a muscular man with long, thick, blonde hair pulled his baseball cap over his eyes and collected his briefcase.

"Hey! Earth to Corey. Everybody's got what? What were you about to say?"

"Demons...," he whispered, his two travelling companions now gone from his mind. "Everybody's got demons..."

The rythm of the train wheels beat their way to a stop and the great machine lurched. The blonde man stood, adjusted his sweater, and walked briskly towards the back of the train. Right past Corey.

The boy followed his target as he walked forward, avoiding eye contact with anyone in his way. Corey detected the bulge in the waistline of the man's khakis. Something small, heavy, and shaped very much like a handgun was tucked into the man's pants. Corey looked around wildly, desperate. He stood in a blind rush, pushing past Wes's legs to get out in the aisle. "Hey, somebody stop that guy!," he shouted, drawing the angry and mystified stairs of everyone one the train. But the blonde man had already walked straight out of the open door.

"Hey, somebody-!," Corey shouted, pointing wildly.

A thick man with an ugly gray combover and blue uniform marched out from the other car and grabbed Corey by the arm violently. "Hey, you causing a ruckus back here?"

"Hey, man, hold on! There's this guy-," he tried.

"Say," said the uniformed man as he examined the boy in his grasp. "I didn't see you get on... let me see your ticket."

Corey winced and looked at the floor... but his gaze caught the man in the baseball cap, eyeing him through the glass of the train, before he turned and walked on down the ramp.

Scott was a handsome guy. Scott F. Fitzgerald, as he was named by his mother, had been constantly reassured, again by his mother, through the awkward chaos of puberty, that he had good genes and was a handsome boy. Taking the idea of his attractiveness to be a priority in life, each year thousands of dollars a year had been devoted to hair appointments at upscale salons, rigorously mandated tanning sessions, and a series of botox injections that had most definately not found their way into his income tax reports. His masseuse had once recommended, while driving his elbow deep into some long-forgotten muscle in Scott's back, a pedicurist that was extremely adept at his job. Scott had grunted, relieving the throbbing tension in his back, and scoffed at the man. Getting a pedicure would be way to womanly, he said.

He pulled a whisp of golden blonde hair behind his ear as his SUV pulled through two golden gates and into his driveway.

He sighed into his cell-phone. "How could MGM still want negotiations on the contract? We've been in... yes, I know, I'm saying, we've been in talks with them for over three months now. Who have we got on it?.... Hm? Well, put Keye on it too."

His body adjusted clumsily as his cell phone shifted from the crux of one shoulder to another. He glanced out from behind his sun-glasses and pulled the car into a large garage. "... So how have you been doing, Josh? How's Annie?... Good, good. Vacation's next week, right? Look, I'm serious, take the extra day. We've got no work for you here... I swear to God, Josh, if you come in, I'm going to have you running for my coffee all day... Ha! Okay, see you later."

The phone found its way back into his pocket as the garage door slid shut behind him. A tall, lean body in tight jeans and a Chief's hat climbed out of the front seat. His trim biceps move subtly under his white tee as he reached back in for his briefcase. His sneakers squeeked on the floor as he walked out past his wife's California orange SUV and the prize Mustang he was remodeling as a side-project. It was just the frame now, a patchwork of metal on wheels under a drop-cloth, with a grease-soaked engine sitting off to the side. He smiled as his baby slept under her blanket, until he saw the monkey-wrench lying on the ground, exactly where he had left it nights ago. He had asked Jeff to do some work with the gas line...

Scott only shook his head and walked out of the garage and up the walkway toward his house. At least, he would call it a house. To any other casual observer, the word for it was clearly "mansion." It stood up against the blue Georgia sky as a monument of reddish sandstone, four floors high. Lush green trees, trimmed every two weeks by Wayne, the landscaping guy, dotted the front yard, while a generous expanse of grassy field stretched out for what seemed like miles in the backyard. A red stone wall cordoned off the area, although he always left the gates open. He had reasoned to his wife years ago that he couldn't control that the house had a monstrous wall to isolate it, but his "house" didn't have to be the scary place where kids were afraid to lose their frisbees. He wanted to leave the gate open so that the neighbors wouldn't feel intimidated and would stop by and talk. Neighbors rarely came, but he left the gates open anyway. He remembered once being slightly worried about vandalism. His peculiar sense of logic had explained it away, deciding that if regular houses had to risk being egged by kids at Halloween, there was no reason his shouldn't. But no high-school hoodlums ever came. It would seem the wall was such an imposing mental force that a closed gate would have completed the challenge, daring the young and reckless to attempt to champion the wall. With the gate left open, however, the challenge was non-existant. It confused the mind. And so, rarely was Fitzgerald's lawn accessed by anyone save the Fitzgerald family.

The Fitzgerald family who, Scott realized as he tripped over a plastic bat, was very bad at putting their toys away. He discarded the toy and walked through the egg-shell white door with gold-painted trimmings around the windows.

"Honey! I'm home!," he called, but no answer came.

He kicked off his shoes and walked into the living room. More toys littered the ground, but he kicked them off to the side, carving a path to a sleek, gray answering machine. The latest model of the Verizon 350 package. Not even in stores yet. He hit a glowing button and went about throwing action figures into a box on the side of the room.

"You have. 5. Messages," a robotic voice, female, almost... sultry, informed him.

The first was just silent, a replaying of static air that ended with a click and a beep.

A telemarketer offering discount rates on cruises droned in his ear as he plopped down on a soft, white couch and curled his upper body around a pillow, flipping the TV on. Colors flickered for a moment on the big-screen as it sat perched above a closed chest full of additional items, like the VCR, DVD player, and the kid's X-Box. Big speakers rested on either side and they combined with the answering machine to fill the room with artificial voice. A news program was playing on Channel 78 and he decided to let it stay. He contemplated moving upstairs and taking his relaxation to it's full potential in the den. He had a small room upstairs that was just for him, a dimly lit hideway with his favorite leather chair, flatscreen TV, and a DVD library of all the movies he loved and had watched a thousand times already. The idea turned and processed behind his forehead, but eventually went away when he realised that his sore body was just too tired to move.

He missed the third message as he listened to a thin, old, black man with sagging jowels relay the day's news. A picture of a blonde in a tight, white costume lifting an entire ocean liner away from a tidal wave changed to a graphic of adollar-sign with an arrow pointing downwards. "...And with the aid of rescue workers, the recently reformed Justice Leauge Europe* managed to limit the loss of life in Italy. In other news, the DOW dropped 2 points today, but investors aren't worried..."

*See "Justice Leauge Europe" #1, in stores now!- Jonah

Scott stretch an arm beneath his pillow and sighed luxuriantly at the tension under his ribs. He closed his eyes and yawned. His business conference in Des Moines had lasted a day longer than expected and he had stayed up until dawn every night schmoozing a business ally that, at sixty years of age, was somehow still interested in pursuing a wildly youthful night life. A hangover nagged at the corners of his eyeballs, but it was fading now.

"Hey, Scott, it's me, Josh," the machine told him. "Just wanted to see if you were home yet. MGM stalled signing the contract again. Said they had a few problems with it and wanted to go back into the talks. I don't know... I'll try your cell later, I guess."

Scott kept his eyes closed and smiled in a contented manner. Josh was so anal, he mused.

"...rebel Israeli forces possibly moving on the Gaza Strip. We'll keep you posted....," continued the anchorman from behind his desk.

The machine beeped again.

"Hi, Scott. It's me, Jennifer."

Scott's eyes snapped open and he rocked upwards. Oh my God, he thought, instantly panicked, she called me at home!

"I typed up those proposals on the Dangerosity 4 deal, but I don't really know what to do with them. Your secretary said to you were out for the weekend, but if you have a second, can you just give me a heads-up so I can send it in to whoever by the deadline? You know the number. Thanks."

Oh my God... his mind repeated, over and over again.

"Scott, is that you?," a faint voice called from upstairs.

"Yes...," his voice squeeked. He cursed himself and cleared his throat. "*ahem*...Yes!"

"How was your trip?"

"Good!," he answered, standing up from the couch as he clicked the off button on the remote control. He pulled the baseball cap off of his head and tossed it angrily onto a book-case. His manicured fingers ran through his soft blonde hair as he racked his brain for a solution. You're going to Hell, is all his mind returned at the moment, so he moved slowly up a winding staircase.

One floor up and down the hall, second door to the right, was the small room his wife used for working out. They had a full gym, with mirrors and various types of equipment on the top floor. It was a great hangout, one of Scott's favorites, with a giant, glass sun-roof. Scott frequented that room often. But one of the first things Ruth Fitzgerald had done when they moved into the house was to take a bench and her old set of barbells from college and move them into this tight little, out-of-the-way room with one window and a boombox. Scott could never think up any reason for it. He turned a corner and founder her in her little gym, stretched in front of the window. Yellow sunlight was cast onto her body, making her look hazy and surreal. White high-tops were planted firmly on the ground as she bent sideways. She wore tight, black athletic shorts, which were barely noticeable under the massive, ratty gray Kansas State sweatshirt she wore over it. Perspiration gleaned on her forehead.

"Hi, Ruth," Scott said quietly, watching her from the door.

She stopped her workout and turned around, giving him a little smile. She sat down on the bench. "Oh... hi. How was... Detroit?"

"Des Moines," he corrected.

"Des Moines, then?"

"Better than Detroit," he joked, but the energy intended was lost in his voice. His eyes played over his wife's form. Her body was red and flushed, and though she turned forty recently, still looked athletic and sexy, despite a little extra weight straining her spandex shorts that she may not have been too pleased about. He looked at her pretty body and her pretty face and felt... tired. Just tired.

"You look good," he told her.

"No," she smiled, looking off to the side.

"No, you do," he pressed, moving a bit closer, timidly.

"You're such.... a liar."

Scott watched her face, and though it made no move or change whatsoever, he could have sworn that he detected an invisible shift somehow. A biting of the lip or a movement of the eye that was almost indetectable.

"Did you get the answering maching?"

"Yeah," he mumbled. "...yeah"

"Josh called."

"Yeah."

"Some Jennifer girl too. Sounds like she's from work. She... she wants you to call her back."

"Yeah... maybe, I don't know," he said.

The two looked at each other in silence.

"So, where are the kids?," Scott asked.

"I just got back from running Ruthie to a friend's house and Amber won't be back until tomorrow from Band Camp. Sonya's taking a nap."

"And Jeff?"

"I don't know. Upstairs probably. He's in his room a lot lately. I... I think he likes the new computer."

Scott leaned his weight up against the door frame. "I asked him to work on the car for me a bit before I got back. Doesn't look like he did anything."

"He must have forgotten," Ruth offered.

"Yeah."

He waited in silence for a moment. "You want to hang out? Watch a movie or something?"

"Actually, I was going to go out. There's a play at the High School, you know?"

"Oh, really..."

Silence.

"...You want me to go with, or...?"

"No. No. I'm sure you're probably tired from your trip. I'll be back in a little while, okay? You relax," and with that she walked towards the door. The passageway was tight, but she squirmed past without touching Scott. He raised up a hand awkwardly to touch her shoulder as she turned past him, but he hesitated and withdrew it to his pocket as she walked out.

Scott had been much shorter in college. The effects of being a very, very late bloomer. Ruth had been much taller at the time. She had played basketball in high-school and a scholarship had taken her right into Kansas State, where she played for the college team. They were at a party togethor, though Scott was aware of that fact and she wasn't. He watched her through the doorway of a connected room as she sat on the couch, talking and laughing with her friends. She was a full ahead above all of them, even when sitting, and to Scott, she could not have looked any more beautiful. Her smiling face, her easygoing air... he envied them. And loved them.

It was stupid, he would say in the back of his mind, over and over again. It was stupid that he had chased her here. He would tell himself that he had chosen Kansas State because it had a good business department, but really in the back of his mind, he knew he had placed all his hoped and dreams in this place. When he had applied for colleges late in his senior year he knew that the simple fact was, that he had gone to school with Ruth Hennisy for four years, that she didn't know he was alive, and that he couldn't have her, and that drove him crazy.

She. The popular girl. One of many, but the only one for him. She sat there, surrounded by friends, like-minded girls, and boys that wanted to date her and sleep with her almost as much as Scott did. They. Who would hit on her in shifts all night. Dozens of different boys, each more attractive, or more masculine, or more funny than Scott. She. They. Him. And a thousand invisble walls around him that kept him from having the one thing in life that he wanted, taking it, and making it his.

His fingers had to trace the outline of his wallet in the back of his jeans to make him remember. He had one thing that no other man at that party had. Money. For the first time in his life, he had money. His business contracting graphic designs for movies, albums, and other media had skyrocketed, becoming a staple in the nearby community. He was already looking at branching out, taking on partners. The clothes had been the first thing he bought. He stood up from his seat and set down the red plastic cup of beer on the table. His clothes were the sign of his money. He reminded himself that his clothes were a hundred times more expensive than the clothes on any person at that party. His were distinguished, mature. They made him attractive. They made him powerful.

This thought was what pushed him forward, walking a straight line, for the first time ever, proudly holding his head high and his eyes straight. The invisible walls disappeared as he walked straight up to Ruth Hennisy, interrupting her conversation with all of her popular friends. The silence was fittingly awkward. All eyes rested on the intruder. Scott Fitzgerald held his ground in possibly the most foreign, hostile territory any young man can possibly find himself standing.

"Excuse me," he started. "It's Ruth, right? Ruth Hennisy? We went to High School togethor. Scott Fitzgerald."

He waited. Her eyes flickered across his face, then dropped straight away. She took in Scott. Weighing her decision. An expensive belt buckle caught her attention. The matching sweater held it. Her eyes drifted back up to his again and her smile warmed his heart.

"Yeah, yeah," she responded. "It's nice to see you, again. Sit down."

He smiled and sat down next to her.

She went home with him that night.

The amount of noise surrounding Corey upset him, but he couldn't really figure out why. He simply sat in an uncomfortable plastic chair, growing increasingly annoyed with constant ringing telephones, the dull buzzing of a hundred different conversations occurring simultaneously, and the quiet milling about of so many very busy people.

He sat in a big hall that reminded him of his old elementary school, sans lockers, underneath a weak fluorescent light. He had been there for hours, so long that he had already resigned himself to counting the colored tiles in the patchwork linoleum floor a good three times. One-hundred and eight, he repeated to himself as he fidgeted with the uncomfortably tight hand-cuffs around his wrist.

The door straight across from him, a light tan with a window in the upper-center that was faded so as to prevent viewing through it, creaked as it opened, revealing a massive Asian man with an even more massive black moustache sitting on his upper lip. The man's brown eyes were squinty and had so many bags under them that Corey briefly found himself longing to count them as well.

"Well, Mr. Buckwheat," the cop growled as he crouched down to eye level, an act which, considering his hefty beer-belly, seemed like an uncanny task, "we dug and we couldn't find any record of you in our files, so if you feel like not being a smart-ass...?"

Corey's lips remained closed.

"Fine. All it takes is time, son. And you have quite a bit of time. Because no matter who you are, you were on that train without a ticket, which means you snuck on board illegally. So if you've got a real name and a real relative we could call to straighten things out, this could all be a lot easier. As it stands now, with you not playing nice, you're gonna have to spend a couple nights in jail, 'least 'til we figure out what to do with you."

"What about the blonde guy in the baseball cap?"

"You mean the tip you gave us that this anonymous man is going to go to work and blow some woman away that he's having an affair with? The tip that came from the homeless boy, in clothes that smell like piss and dirt, who snuck on the train, who doesn't have a real name, who has a "feeling" that this guy is going to commit a crime?"

Corey looked at the floor sullenly.

"I have to be honest with you," the cop smiled. "It's not our top priority right now. Now, you feel like giving me a name?"

One...two...three... Corey counted in his head. Let the silence keep him off guard, he thought. Look said. Defeated. Look up.

"Murphy. Edward Murphy."

"Now that's better," said the policeman as he clapped Corey on the shoulder and walked back towards his office. Now just let me punch your name into the computer and we'll try to get you out of this mess okay?"

Corey Jobe closed his eyes and groaned inwardly, a picture of frustration. The stalling tactic had worked, but he took no joy in it. He needed to find the man's building, so he could stop the murder, but nothing came. He screwed his eyes shut even tighter and let his mind drift back to the scenes that had played out for him in red mind-smoke. He remembered the house with the little smoke children. Nothing there. He remembered the scene at the desk kissing the woman. His mind went back to the outside of the office buliding before the killer rode the elevator up to his destination. It was a large, non-descprit building with no distinguishing markings, just a bunch of smaller smoke figures moving around at the bottom if it.

Wait! His mind finally hollered. He focused his brain as much as possible, remembering any details he may have missed. One small figured, almost squarelike... moving along in front of the office complex. It took a left, and pulled off to the building right next to the one in the vision. It was a van. What did the van say?... There were markings.

Suddenly, Corey remembered. The letters on the side of the representative truck read... "NutraFresh Fruit Juice."

It was a longshot, Corey cursed, but he knew he had to take it. He glanced around at his surroundings. It was a small police headquarters in a small building. To his right were the big wooden doors that led straight out to the street. All he would need would be one clean break.

"Excuse me, officer?," he called timidly into the office across from his sitting position. The fat policeman stuck his head out.

"Yessir?, he asked.

"Could I get some coffee? I'm really thirsty."

The man leveled one eye at Corey. "Aren't you a little young for coffee?"

"I like coffee, sir."

"Well, okay," the man laughed. He disappeared from sight for only a moment. When he reemerged, Corey gave him a wide, toothy grin. The cop knelt down, handing Corey the styrofoam cup. The hot material squeaked in his hands as he cupped it in both palms, despite the cuffs. He pulled it up to his nose and took a long, luxuriant whiff. When Corey's nostrils were filled, he blinked, took one square look at the cop, and tossed the hot coffee as near to the man's eyes as he could. The large man fell backwards and bellowed a string of curses. Every eye in the place had turned their direction...

But Corey was already up on a row of chairs, running off and out the doors before anyone could catch him.

Years ago, Scott would hop off of the bus from school and make his way down the city streets to his grandfather's apartment. He wore faded old tennis shoes that hurt his feet because he couldn't afford new ones and he would wear the ratty, woolen sweater his mother had knitted him years ago, no matter what the weather. He would pull it tight around his neck when it was cold and when it was blisteringly hot, he would still only stretch out the neck and fan himself with it. The boy was eleven years old on one of those days, a particular May of the thirteenth.

Scott was a quiet, obediant boy who mostly kept to himself and watched television. He liked to watch the movie stars who would come on the late night talk shows and tell stories and laugh. They would talk about their fabulous lives and parties and Scott would stay up every night until he fell asleep in front of them, curling up on a chair as the TV's glow covered his body.

His mother and father had died when he was young, so Scott had gone to live with his grandfather. This grandfather didn't like his son and he liked Scott even less. A sour, bitter man with balding white hair and a foul disposition, he was prone to mood swings that carried him from "pissed" to "good an' pissed," to "madder'n hell." His wife, a good twenty years younger than him, was no catch either. Where he would spend his days lounging around the house with a scetchpad, drawing, she would come home from her job at the hotel and scream at him about whatever she could find.

Scott hurried home that day, hopping a faded brown fence into his backyard, overrun as it was with weeds. He jumped up the porch and let the screen door slam shut behind him. He waited, silently for a moment. The very absence of someone yelling at him to not slam the screen door should have been the first indicator that something was wrong.

He moved into the kitchen looking for his legal guardians. The various oddities and signs of uncleanliness passed beneath his notice, though they sat out bravenly for anyone to see. In the dim light of the kitchen, greasy pots and pans were stacked to fill the sink, pouring out over the sides. A toaster lay on the floor, it's wires cut and frayed. Breadcrumbs and dust were in every little corner of the room. The paint was peeling.

"-what you do all day?," cried a muffled voice from the other corner of the apartment. Curious, Scott crept towards a half-closed door on the opposite side of the family room. He tripped over a bean bag and hoped no one noticed the noise.

"And what do you do?," a male voice returned. His grandfather. Montagio Fitzgerald. "You get off work at five o'clock. Five o'clock, every day! You don't do overtime! I called Gatsby. I called him yesterday and the day before. He says you leave at five o'clock. How come you don't get home 'til eight?"

"What, now I have to explain to you where I'm going all the time? Am I your slave or something? At least I leave the house. I leave the house to work! I leave the house to talk to people! You stay here all day on your ass, you lazy bum!"

"You leave the house to meet men! You meet 'em, and you show 'em a good time, and you know it! You'll give it away to anybody!"

"Shut up!," the female voice protested again. Scott snickered a little. It was his grandmother. He knew it was true.

"Baby....," came the soothing voice of his grandfather. Scott pressed his ear to the door, straining to listen. "...I love you. Come on... You know I'm just trying to sell my pictures. It's been a little dry lately, and..."

Scott heard only silence.

"These pictures?," asked his grandma quietly.

Suddenly, the door jerked open, and his grandmother flew out like a bowling ball down a long lane. Scott yelped and jumped back, but the woman didn't even notice him. His grandfather gave him a dirty scowl as he followed his wife out the door.

"These pictures, Monty?," she yelled, gesturing her arm around the room. Hung in frames all over the wall were large sheets of white paper. Hanging on all four decadent, gray walls of the tiny little room were framed sketches, each one signed with the moniker F. Montagio. They were long and thin or short and fat. Sketches in pencil, or some in pen, and some in varying degress of each. Pictures of men and women, animals, scenery, little still-life objects. All beautiful. Just subtle, detailed shapes turned into stark representations of the figures they were meant to mimic. They were virtually realistic.

Scott's grandmother, her brown hair turning slightly gray over a wrinkled face with a long scar down the bottom of her lip, stood with her head in front of a portrait of a cracked vace on a desk. Her eyes flashed with rage.

"These pictures?," she yelled once more, ripping it off the wall and throwing it to the other side of the room.

"Damn it! What are you-?"

"These pictures?," she yelled, taking a sketch of a young lady reading at the park and ripping it straight through the center with long, fake, red nails. "These pictures that are so important that you can't get a real job and so beautiful that you can't sell a single god-damned one?"

"You don't know what-"

She turned around again and broke the frame on a potrait of a cat. She grabbed the face of a pencil-drawn teenage boy eating his lunch outside of school, and ripped it off the frame. She smashed a drawing of the moon over her knee.

"Damn it!," Monty cried, mortified as he saw his work shredded before his eyes. "I'm drawing them for you! They got you this house didn't they? They paid for our wedding!"

"Our wedding? Our house? Look at our "house!" What a joke. It's crap! You're crap! I wish, they never bought us anything!"

She pulled a portrait of her, the only one that had been lightly touched with oil paints, an experiment tried many years ago by Monty, and jerked it out of the wall, nail and all, and chucked it through the far window, which screamed as it buckled and shattered.

"Forget it. I'm gone."

She turned on her heel, and walked briskly out of the kitchen, sidestepping the toaster, without so much as a backwards glance.

Montagio Fitzgerald just looked at the open screen door for a very long time. Eventually he collapsed onto the couch, looking very old and tired. He put his head in his wrinkled hands and Scott couldn't really hear the quiet sounds he was making.

After a while, Scott thought he could move without being heard, but his grandfather, snapped his head up and looked around. When he saw his grandson huddled against the wall, his face took on a withered, annoyed look. But it softened a bit, just a bit, as his eyes glanced back to the now almost bare walls around their room.

"Si'down," he commanded in a gruff voice.

Timidly, Scott shook his head and obeyed, circling the room to sit on the far end of the couch, as far from the old man as possible.

"Your grandma's gone away and she's not coming back so get used to it. Good riddance. She was sleeping with somebody and when somebody does that to you, you have to cut 'em loose. Understand?"

No, Scott did not understand and did not feel like saying so, so he just nodded his head once more.

"Women...," Monty groaned as he looked away. He stretched his ragged body out over the couch. "All I wanted to do when I was a kid, was draw and marry your grandmother. That's it. No other dreams. We had much smaller dreams back then."

"But I guess that's not enough. A man has to pay the bills and even that won't keep your wife happy. Everybody's got to have something more and when they're done taking it from you they'll leave and sap some other sucker. Nobody's looking out for you, so you gotta' look out for yourself. Understand?"

Again, no. But he nodded.

"I'm not making any sense," the old man sighed and shook his head. Then he jerked it to look straight as his young grandson. Little eyes staring out beneath bushy white eyebrows. "You're not going to get the life you want. Only the rich do. You have to be born a certain way and then you get to live your dreams. Everyone else takes the crap that's handed to them and then they die. But.... but if you wind up with one thing that makes you happy, you grab it, hold onto it, and beat the hell out of anyone who tries to take it away, understand?"

Scott shook his head.

His grandfather stood up, walked into his room and closed the door. Scott turned on the TV. He would wake up in the morning and be confused when no one was in the house with him. A policeman would later tell him his grandfather had been arrested for picking a bar fight with a man over some woman and sending the other man to the hospital.

Scott went to another home after that.

Ghent University. A small, private college with Episcopal affiliation, seated in the northern-most corners of Kansas. Catering mostly to children of wealthier families who did not get the grades necessary for one of the more notable universities.

The dorms. Seperated between boys and girls, girls reside in the expansive Sonnenfield Hall Dormitory. On the third floor facing the East side, Jennifer Cullen lived with her roommate.

She lay flat on her bed, a petite blonde girl with a taut body, stylish glasses and a ponytail. Like most college age young women, she opted for comfort when alone within a building composed entirely of people the same sex and age as she. She thumbed absent-mindedly through an advanced chemistry textbook in a pair of small athletic shorts and a baggy t-shirt.

"Hey Jen, did you go shopping?," her roommate, Karen asked. Karen was a tall, African-American girl with her hair tied up under a bandana.

"Oh... nope, sorry, I forgot."

"It's cool," her friend responded, dumping a massive collection of large hardcovers down on their shared counter. "Did he call you back yet?"

"No. And it's starting to piss me off. He'd better not be having second thoughts."

Karen flashed a toothy grin. "Wouldn't second thoughts require you to have only done it once?"

"Shut up, you know what I mean," her friend huffed.

"Aren't you taking a risk, calling him at his house like this? It could mess up this whole thing you have going."

"I'm sending him a message. I can't have him go moral and tell his wife. The only way out of that would be to fire me. I have to let him know I have the power here and that I can tell his wife, or anybody else, whenever I want."

"Damn, you are malicious."

"It's the only way to get to the top and you know it," Jennifer replied, pushing herself up from the bed. Just then a white phone hanging next to the door rang. It was lifted off it's hook.

"Hello?," Jennifer asked into the mouthpiece.

"Hi, Jen. It's me, Scott," crackled a voice. "Hey, I have this new project I'm working on. Can you come in late tonight?"

The blonde girl just pulled her lips back into a wide grin, like a jackal licking at the entrails of some sick, dead beast. She winked at her roommate.

"Sure," she said.

Corey Jobe sat in a phone booth on the corner of some street he had no name for, facing, at his best guess, one of four possible cardinal directions. His knees were curled up to his chest with a phone book propped on them and he looked very frustrated as he turned the pages.

"Nutra....Nu....N...," he mumbled as pedestrians outside gave him the eye. He kept one eye on the pages and one watchful eye on the street. He had taken a great amount of care dodging the police and waited until he had run very, very far to sit down and begin his search. Still, they had cars and he was a small, young man who had never done well in gym class.

"Why aren't they in here?," he bellowed, slamming his fist against the thick glass, and atrracting the stairs of even more passersby. He looked around, aware of how conspicuous he was making himself, and went back to the phone book.

He flipped to the yellow pages... F. Fruit juice....

Nothing.

J. Juice....

Nothing.

He smacked himself soundly in the forehead. Back to F. Food!

He scanned the page. NutraFresh Fruite Juice was labeled in the bottom-right corner, at 1501, S. Dixon St.

"1501, S. Dixon St.," he whispered as he scribbled the address onto his hand with a stolen pen.

"1501, S. Dixon St.," he repeated again for memorization as he walked out of the glass door, determined and hopeful.

"Now where am I?"

Jeff Fitzgerald's door was closed. Loud, aggravating, death-metal rock music was, as usual, the only sound coming out. Jeff's room had actually been moved upstairs twice because his musical tastes upset and confused his younger siblings. Scott tried his best to understand the lyrics as he walked through the hallway towards the door. He often wondered to himself if the lyrics to these hardcore songs might actually be cute or incessantly happy, but were sung unintelligably and intensly for some reason.

His knuckles rapped on the door, with no response. He knocked once more. Then he took his whole fist and began to bang as hard as he could, shaking the door to it's frame.

The stereo blared then died. "What? What!?," came a young voice from inside.

"Come on out, Jeff. I want to talk to you."

Scott listened to his son wade clumsily through a dirty room. The door creaked and opened, and in it stood a skinny young man with his father's long, blonde hair hanging straight down over his face. Tattered shorts hung down far, extending halfway down his calf and the t-shirt over his absent chest sported the ridiculous name of some irrelevant rock band. Various decorations adorned his two slender wrists and Scott had no idea what any of them were.

"Yeah?," came the arrogant voice of youth.

"Hey Jeff.... Umm.... How's it going?," Scott tried.

"What?," his son asked, confused.

"Nothing. You know, I just got back. That's all..."

Jeff's befuddled expression remained on his face.

"...Wanted to let you know," Scott attempted again.

"Great." And with that, the teenage boy shoved a backpack out of the door's way to ease it's movement, and turned to shut it.

"Now, hold on a 'sec. I want to talk to you."

"So talk! You're creeping me out, just standing in the door looking at me."

Scott's keys jangled in his pocket. "I came up through the garage. The gas line hasn't been touched."

"Yeah?"

"Well, I thought you were going to check it. How are we going to finish the car if you don't work on it when I'm gone?"

"Why would I work on your car for you? You're not even paying me."

The door attempted to shut again, but the taller man of the two slammed a firm palm down on it's face. Two sets of teeth ground against each other in a vain attempt to reign in Scott's slowly building tantrum.

"I shouldn't have to pay you. This is a father/ son project. I thought you knew that."

"Father/ son...," Jeff repeated, seeming to play with the word softly in his mouth, as though he weren't sure of the taste. He seemed to decide, then rolled his eyes and moved away from the door. "You're so lame."

"Hey!...," Scott followed his son into the room. "Hey!"

Suprised at the urgency in father's voice, Jeff turned around to face him, even as he sat down at the computer.

"Yes. A father/son project. Like a birdhouse, dammit. Or a bike trip. Or Boy Scouts."

"Jesus, when are you going to stop holding Boy Scouts over my head?"

"Sorry," Scott tried as he pushed his legs through a pile of magazines, knocking them over. He stuttered as he tried to pick them up and place them in some sort of order again, failing miserably. "It's just... I want to do things with you. I want us to be close. You know I never-"

"Never got to know your father and grandpa was a son of a bitch. You told me."

Scott winced. He gave into silence, seeming to swallow something in his throat. When he spoke again it was in a slow, serious voice. "I have told you. And you don't care? How can you just not care?"

Jeff simply stared right at the man in front of him. Right at the heart. He shrugged, "Just don't."

It hit him like a brick to the face. Scott put his hand on the boy's shoulder, more for support than any affection. His other hand brushed uselesly against his forehead, as though it were suddenly very hot in the room. Like everything was muddled in his brain, and just by touching his head, perhaps he could sort through the mist.

"I just...," his voice wavered. "I just..."

His hand tightened on Jeff's shoulder and he slowly pressed Jeff back into the computer desk.

"Ow! What-?!"

"Do you understand? Do you understand how much I've worked? How much I've sacrificed? For this life? I deserve it! I deserve it!," he spoke slowly, to no one.

Jeff pushed back and his arm dug painfully into the keyboard.

"Call me Dad," Scott whispered.

Jeff only looked around his room, and to his father's hand on his shoulder, very close to his neck.

"Call me Dad!," Scott screamed.

"Dad-!," Jeff barked, his voice cracking. He said it not as a response to the command, but out of fear and suprise. It didn't sound right in Scott's ears. It did not sound right at all.

He pulled his hand off his son, looking embarrassed, and wiped the palms on his pants. He mumbled an apology and stumbled out the door.

It was evening now. She would be home.

Scott franticly, confusedly, punched the numbers of his cell phone as he bent over the wheel of his SUV, peering into the dark roads of the night. The dim beams out in front of him barely pierced the thick blackness in front of him.

The phone rang. It rang three times before there was a click.

"Honey?"

"Hey baby," Scott beamed as he talked into the phone too his wife.

"Scott, where are you?"

"Just went out for a drive. That's all."

For a second. Neither person said anything.

"Do you love me?"

"What?," Ruth asked.

"Do you love me? No matter what?"

"Well- I-"

"No matter what I do. You know I love you and you love me, and nothing can become between that, can it?"

Her voice broke and he could hear her sob escape from miles away. "Yes."

"If I went away for a long time. No matter how long. Would you wait for me?"

"Of course."

"Okay, that's all I wanted to know."

"Scott, what's going on?"

Scott shook his head to clear it. He took a breath and a little bit more composure returned to his voice. "Ha... nothing. Jeez, I'm sorry. Just.... Just kinda.... felt weird for a second there. Wanted to hear your voice."

"...Okay," she managed, disbelieving.

"No really. Sorry to scare you. Look I'll be home soon. I just forgot some papers at the office, that's all."

"Okay."

"I love you," he pressed.

"I love you."

He closed his eyes, clicked off the phone and proceeded to drive into the night.

It was dark when Scott pulled into his private parking space of his office building. The large complex that he owned and maintained had been perfectly selected. Perfectly built. An uncanny model of modern architecture, it stood as a sleek, efficient white tower sticking straight out of the quiet, suburban landscape. The building stood on it's own, overpowering the only nearby neighbor, a tiny gray facility with the bland lettering "NutraFresh" printed along the top. It was a small concession, barely even a pockmark on the face of beauty.

Liberty Productions was a monastery. A church. In this place, at this time of night it was the only thing in the world worth looking at, the grandest sight on Earth. Tiny stars were sprinkled across the night sky, but below... below, the only lights for miles were the outdoor lamps, arranged beautifully among the garden bushes. They cast powerful beams of light straight up into the sky, as far as possible, but still not reaching the top of the tower. It stood supreme. An awe-inspiring chapel that stretched up to the night sky itself, a powerful creature of metal, mortar, and shimmering glass. Painted against pure midnight, it seemed to sparkle.

Every sound seemed wrong as Scott Fitzgerald stepped out of his car. The silence of the night was pure... divine. He winced at the slam of the door and the sound of his footsteps. They just seemed out of place. Wrong. He caught himself trying to make the least amount of noise possible as he crept towards the door. He admonished himself for being so foolish. As though there were anyone for miles that could hear him. Then he stopped admonished himself again, because he knew, in the back of his mind and the pit of his stomach, that someone could.

He looked up, trying to move, but found himself rooted to his spot on the neatly swept sidewalk. His tower loomed above him, dwarfing his tiny shadow of a figure. He tried to follow the span of it's walls up to its zenith, but the spacial journey was impossible to make. It seemed to twist and arch, stretching it's fat girth out along the night sky, overpowering him in anyway. He stood framed in the lamp light, completely illuminated as the yellow beams highlighted every minute detail of his form. The wrinkles in his shirt. The stain on his pants. The light filled his eyes and he winced, not because it hurt, but because he knew that this tower he had sweated and payed for was not his own. He belonged to it and would do anything for it and with this admittance on his mind he walked on, released towards the door.

They opened and shut with a "clang" behind him, and he sank to the ground in the plush, though heavily-shadowed, area of his lobby. He gasped, surprised to discover that he had not been breathing. He was unprepared for the sheen of sweat upon his brow as well.

With the brush of a sleeve the sweat was removed and Scott climbed the long flight of stairs up to his office.

The Spectre emerge from the trees first. A layer of light forestry, preened every morning at five o'clock, surrounded the bare grass fields which surrounded Liberty Productions. The moon's rays stopped at the first instance of foliage however, casting a long wall of solid shadow that spanned miles. Far from the northeast wall, one shadow out of the million that joined to form the thick patchwork of the forest line... rustled. It shifted. Black against black. Barely noticeable and yet somehow...

From it, the white face emerged first. Simply a stark white nose and jaw, which togethor formed a frown like none seen on any human face. The head followed. What looked like a hooded cranium eased itself out of the shadow wall as though it were rising from a bed of black paint. The hood was green, and it's shade covered the eyes and neck of the Spectre. The body, wrapped in a heavy green cloak, followed the head.

The Spectre moved slowly and silently across the lawn.

Corey was the last to arrive. He had stopped at three gas stations for directions after getting lost, at his count, officially five times. The feeling of dread and defeat that had washed over him when he heard that Liberty was more in suburbia than it was the business district. He managed to find a cap that didn't ask for payment up front, then bolted as soon as the car was close enough. But still, as always, it had taken some running.

"Always... gotta... run everywhere," he complained, through panting and wheezing as he collapsed uncermoniously onto the green. Sweat seeped through his white undershirt and onto the chest of his sweats. The sprinklers had just recently turned off and the cold stinging water droplets on the grass soaked his jeans.

No sooner had his knees hit the ground then the visions came. A spasm of electricity shot through his brain and he was back in the red place. Smoke everywhere. Coarsing, churning smoke.

Snapshots of Fitzgerald's life flowed into Corey's brain and took home there. In fact, for the first time, even since he's seen the man on the bus that morning, he knew the identity of the man he tried to save.

Some Jennifer girl, too. Sounds like she's from work. She wants you to call her back, said a voice inside Corey's head.

How can you just not care, a voice answered.

Call me Dad! Call me Dad!

I have this new project I'm working on. Can you come in late tonight?

Do you love me? No matter what?

Hey, somebody stop that guy, the last voice screamed. His own voice. He said that. And then the voices stopped and Corey could see inside the building. Through the haze, one red smoky figure waited in a lighted office. Another rose up slowly, passing each floor of the building. The elevator. And one figure, one other figure, seemed to have found a staircase and was slowly making its way up.

The voices didn't end, just the vision. They dulled and melded togethor, buzzing behind his brain as he stood. In a few minutes, he knew from experience, Scott Fitgerald's life would take permanent residence in the recesses of his mind and he would know everything there was too know about the man.

With hope, he though, he could still be saved.

But Corey faltered as he took his first step and allowed himself for one moment, to wonder. Was it for the man's sake that he was trying to save his life? Or was he struggling merely to struggle, to interrupt the Spectre's plans? Was it possible to save a life simply for the sake of bitterness?

He shrugged and took to running once again.

"More power to the monkey wrench," he mumbled as he pushed forward.

Scott waited peacefully as the elevator slowly made its way up the many stories. The small conveyance hummed as it crawled up the shaft, slowly clicking away little orange numbers.

The doors slid shut behind him and he made his way through the corridors headed for the only place in the building with the lights still on. The reason he hadn't needed to use his key to open the door. She already had one.

Fluoresecent lights buzzed from behind the expensive wooden door of his office. His name was on the window and yellow office radiance poured through the glass.

Jennifer greeted him with a smile as he walked through the door. She didn't even notice him lock it. She simply sat on the corner of his desk, a slim blonde in tight, faded jeans, as were the fashion these days, Scott thought to himself. He glanced over the rest of her outfit. A white blouse under a tight sweater-vest. Hair in a ponytail. She knew what she was doing.

"Hey Scott," she tilted her head to the side. "It's late. I don't think I've ever been here this late. What's up?"

"Oh, you know...," he mumbled hanging up his coat on a hanger in the corner. His eyes stayed rooted to the floor.

"Some special, secret new project?," she cooed. "Must be very imporant if we have to sneak around like this."

He simply hung his hat on the hook. Then stared at it.

Seeing his lack of reaction, she pressed on. She kicked her legs up on the desk and hugged them under her butt, just like a pre-teen sitting on her bed with a bestfriend, talking about boys. "Come on. Want to show me your project? I'm just dying for you too teach me all about it."

"Or...," she pressed, rolling the monosyllabic word around on her tongue, savoring the taste. She jumped up and walked slowly over to him and wrapped her small arms around his neck. His nostrils filled and drank in her perfume, though he tried not to let them. He grimaced, even as he small, soft breasts pressed against his chest.

"Or... did you just get a late night urge and you knew wifey couldn't satisfy it?"

The smile on her face died as she felt a cold piece of metal press against the soft flesh of her stomach.

"It's probably not a good idea to talk about my wife that way," he droned impassively as she backed away, staring wide-eyed at the pistol in his hand.

"No!," she gasped, bringing her hands up to her mouth.

"I don't expect you to understand," he continued. All life, all color, had drained from his face. The head itself, once proudly sporting his wavy blonde hair, now sagged a little to the side, as though he just didn't care to lift it. Bags under his bloodshot eyes swelled and puffed, looking sickly purple. His eyes stared ahead boredly, only barely following the young girl's movement. Even the pistol in his hand was held with barely any effort or conviction. It just hung there, lazily aimed somewhere on Jennifer's body.

"You're too young to really get these things. A man works his whole life for something. He takes the load that was handed to him, takes his beatings like a man, and wraps his life around the strength of character it takes to make something of himself."

She gasped louder as he took heavy, lethargic steps towards her. "I never got anything. Nobody tossed me a break. I made all the breaks myself. And in the end, what did I want? Did I want to rule the world? Be powerful? No. I just wanted... to carve out a little happiness for myself. To take what EVERYBODY ELSE gets for free."

Menace started to seep into the man's dejected face. Anger found it's way to his eyes and Jennifer sank back against the desk, sobbing. "And then what happens? Then you make one false move... you sleep with some stupid, little college slut-!"

He barked the last words, smacking Jennifer across her jaw with the handle of the pistol. "-and the entire house of cards falls around you."

His eyes faded again, looking sadly at crying girl, cradling her red cheek on the floor. His shoulders sagged. He became tired.

"I hope you understand that I'm sorry," he said, raising the gun, looking down the target with his right eye. His eyebrow twitched and he gritted his teeth. He cocked the gun. Jennifer screamed.

But the scream lost all sound.

The terrified screams tearing from the girl's throat were swallowed up and obliterated by the sound of Scott's door, wood, glass and all, completely exploding. A shard of glass flew past Scott's neck, cutting him just lightly enough to really make him bleed, right behind the ear. He cried out and sank to his knees, turning and drawing the gun while his other hand probed the spot where blood ran down the back of his neck.

As before, at first there was just the blackness. Then the face. Then the head. Then the body. Leaping from the shadows, the Spectre jumped onto Scott's desk. He drew his cloak around his ghostly form, wrapping himself in green folds and looked silently at the handsome, bleeding man on the floor.

"Jesus-!," Scott exclaimed, firing off a shot at the Spectre's presence. The ghost simply made no move, no indication of being hit. The glass window behind him though exploded immediately, shards of tinkling glass crackled then shattered, falling down hundreds of feet to crash against the ground below. The cold night seeped in through the smashed window. Howling wind snuck in through the new opening and as Scott crept back on his feet and elbows, unable to pick himself off the ground, he looked at the Spectre, simply a hovering, grim face, framed against a huge night sky, and for an instant, his heart, for the first time ever, completely froze.

Jennifer however, had backed herself into a corner and been shrieking the entire time. She closed her eyes and simply screamed, not even bothering to fight, or interrupt her cries of terror as Scott grabbed her ankle and jerked her to her feet. Her eyes just flew about in confusion as he pulled himself up behind her, pressed a quivering hand and cold pistol against her temple and backed slowly out the door.

The second they were outside the office doorway, he grabbed his hostage, turned and ran.

The door slammed shut behind Corey. The darkness of the lobby confused his senses and he fell, throwing out a blind arm to stable him self. Hands grasped wood and he fell against the desk. Exasperatedly, he leaned his head back and sucked in oxygen like some dying fish. Breathe came in only thin, high-pitched little wheezes. Aching pangs wracked his chest, like a shard of glass caught in his lungs.

Modest chair were arranged to the left of him, opposite the desk. He knocked over a pen-holder and a jar of candies as he fought to right himself. Moonlight playing off the exotic, potted plants cast eerie shadows on the wall.

He was too far below the action to hear the gunshot, but it went off inside his mind. He yelped, confused and fearful for himself. Uselessly his hands covered his ears as the sound of splintering glass overtook his brain.

Eyes raised up to the point on the cieling where he knew Scott Fitzgerald was holding his own against the demonly Spectre. The small boy ceased to breathe entirely as he bolted for the stairwell.

Scott's Executive Assistant's office was on the other end of the sixteenth floor. He dragged his small, blonde captive with him the entire way. The grip of his white-knuckled fist around her wrist never slackened. Never released. He flew through the maze, dancing from hall to hall and room to room.

My tower, droned over and over in his head, like a mantra.

My tower.

He practically threw his hostage into the room when he finally found it. He slammed the heavy wooden door, latching it shut. A strong arm wrapped around the midsection of Jennifer Cullen and the end of handgun pressed lightly against her fleshy, pink temple.

"What was that thing?," she shrieked, but Scott jerked her and pushed her violently against a bookcase, knocking official-looking leatherbounds into heeps on the floor.

"Now, would be a good time to shut up," he whispered forcefully, drilling the gun barrel against her head.

"Why are doing this?," she moaned desperately. "Please.... Please just let me go...."

Scott made no indication of even hearing the girl. He simply pressed his back against the bookshelf, feeling her rapid, inconsistent breaths as she heaved against his body. Skittish eyes flashed to every corner in the room, back and forth and all over, in a petrified pulse beneath his eyelids. The gun hand he used to loosen his tie, ripping the buttons that secured the collar to his neck. He was disapointed to find that it didn't help him breathe at all.

He listened and in that moment of peace, where the only sound in the universe was Jennifer Cullen's wet, choked sobs, his feet turned to lead and he swore he could have given up and stayed like that forever. But when he was satisfied that no footsteps could be heard, he resumed his hold on the girl and moved her to the other side of the room throwing the latch on a metal door and moving slowly into a cold, dark, stone emergency stairwell.

The Spectre was a picture of morbid grace. His cloak moved as he strode forward, but it did not flow. It just moved with him, framing a human-like body that must have been there but couldn't be seen. The shadows moving over his mouth made him frown a million different ways, but it was always still a frown. He moved as little as possible, like some kind of attraction pulled him forth and he had but to let it carry him.

Corey Jobe, however was much less elegant. His footsteps padded the carpeted halls and their echoing clomp could be heard throughout the entire floor. The boy faltered as he whipped past a corner, knocking over a water cooler in his absent-minded pursuit.

He balanced the water tub and pulled his wet sweatshirt about himself, running forward even as he probed his mind to discover the whereabouts of his targets. He found two moving just beneath him... but the third...

He turned another corner and passed right through and intagible figure in a long green cloak.

"Guh- AIIIGH!," he screamed, turning around and falling, against on his rear. The Spectre's gaze did not even fall upon him, though he lay strewn across the floor. His heart thumped even more powerfully than it had before and beads of sweat raced down the muscles of his neck.

A long pale arm reached out from inside the Spectre's clock, disturbing the garment with only the utmost care and dignity. His fingers spread apart, as if beckoning the agreement of his teenage hoste.

"Corey Jobe," spoke a dull, passionless voice. "This is no place for you. Sleep well, wherever you may sleep."

And with a turn of his hand, Corey was gone, swallowed up by the shadows in which he stood.

Just like that, all hope for Scott F. Fitzgerald evaporated.

"Let go of me!," Jennifer howled, finally struggling she shifted and pitched her body, but Scott only forced her arms down, strengthening his hold across her belly. He dug his fingers deep into her side, just to show he was serious. He squawked in pain, but quieted down.

The beat of Scott's dress shoes against the cheap stone came unsteadily. His feet would clop-clop-clop down the steps then stop as he adjusted his awkward position, before charging down again. He flew like a madman possessed, down in dizzying, twisting spirals past one floor, then another, then another.

He didn't hear a door open or shut. He didn not hear footsteps. He simply paused for a moment to look skywards, and he saw a dead face looking down on him from the top level of the stairs. He allowed himself to cry out, increasing his pace. His fingers slid on the slick metal banister.

Poor Jennifer Cullen's feet dragged roughly against the stone. Her ankles started to bruise and bleed from slamming against metal pipes. She screwed her eyes shut when she saw the gun reappear. It flashed out of Scott's belt, pointed up at the carefully watching monitor and fired off three more rounds that rang out as they struck the wall harmlessly.

Scott huffed and puffed, slippery, fidgety fingers replaced the gun's clip. The two people rocketed past the other levels. Dull, gray door slid past them like nothing.

Floors ten and nine passed. Scott smiled, briefly, only for a second at the small victory. He looked up to gauge his predator's progress, but found himself more scared at the discovery that the Spectre had not even moved. Not an inch. His tiny face simply stared blankly from it's place on the top level, the swirling mortar stairwell leading up to one apex. Him.

"What the hell is wrong with you!?"

Scott's voice cracked and splintered as he screamed at the figure above me.

He fired off more rounds, thinking he'd missed before.

No effect.

He turned once more, Jennifer in tow, and continued on. He had started to feel really safe when he rounded the third floor door.

He must have given up, I outran him, his inner voice praised.

He doesn't have a gun! He can't get to me.

His food had just touched down on the second level when the Spectre, straight up above them, reared up... and jumped over the railing of the sixteenth floor stairwell. Scott looked up in terror, trying to discern the flapping black shadow above him, but all he saw was the swirling, dark cloak as it lapped hungrily at the air. It made the most horrible flapping noise, folds of the cape slapping against themselves as he fell. It was the most calm act in the world. The form of the Spectre just fell. Never moving more than he had too. Just plummeted... straight down like a rock past levels thirteen, ten, nine, five...

And without a single sound more than the slapping of the cloack against concrete he landed and stood upright. The face peered out of the darkness and leered up at it's victim. The Spectre stretched out an arm and simply pointed. Pointed straight at Fitzgerald.

Scott threw himself back against the wall. His gun flashed yellow and belched out six hot bullets. Two sturdy white hands lashed out from the Spectre's hidden figure and grabbed the metal railing. With a mighty heave, the metal and rock groaned, twisted and cracked. Scott and Jen shouted as their footing gave way beneath them. The Spectre tugged again and the two were flung apart to land on either side of the small corridor's bottom level.

Jen grabbed her leg, moaning in pain at the shocking fall. Scott simply flung himself at the door, drawing up against it like a caged animal. The wrinkles of his face tugged at each other and his eyes were wide in mania underneath the damp locks of blonde hair that clung to his forehead. The gun was still in his hand and trained dead on Jennifer.

"I'll shoot her! I will!," he barked.

"I believe you."

Scott cocked the weapon but a transluscent hand stretched out from the Spectre's arm and passed through the gun's chamber, then it was drawn away. Scott's eye twitched as he pulled the trigger, but when the gun exploded in a blaze of yellow and red his irises shrunk to about their smallest possible size. He simply stared silently at the bloody, fingerless stump, that had been his hand.

"What did you-?! You-!.... AIGH!," he cursed and screamed, grabbing the forearm as if trying to coax the pain away. He looked up. Jennifer was gone. Vanished into thin air.

"Safe," The Spectre said.

His eyes searched for the Spectre, but it was too late. Strong arms hoisted him into the air and threw him forcefully through the door. He landed with a crack on his back and howled out in pain. As he pulled himself up on his elbows, he saw the Spectre approaching for another blow. He darted into the bathroom, slipping and sliding against the sterile, damp linoleum. The Spectre follwed. He burst through the doors, lifted Scott by his shirt and slammed him against the metal wall of a toilet stall. Scott gritted his teeth, reared up his legs, and kicked out against the Spectre's chest, freeing himself. With one good arm, he charged forward for a punch, but the Spectre's cold fingers simply wrapped around him, flipped the man over his shoulder and sent him crashing down into a row of three sinks. His side smashed against the linoleum and metal pipes and a vicious cracking could be heard. He fell to the ground, covered in shards of white plaster and formica. Cold water poured down over his battered body, drenching him. He lay on the ground, twisting and groaning. It was a whole minute before he even tried to stand. Fire was in his brain and things popped in his back, but he pulled himself up to a stand. No sooner did he stand fully erect, looking the Spectre in the face though, then a pungent green smoke started to wrap around the lower bodies of both, beginning to engulf them.

"What- What are you-?," Scott started.

"I want you to throw yourself from your tower," was all the Spectre said.

The smoke pulsed and swirled, stinging Scott's eyes. For a moment, all he saw was green. When the smoke pulled itself from his lungs and dissipated he was standing in a long dark hallway, back on the top floor of his office building. He looked around. The same carpet. The same walls. The same window at the end of the hall and the same shadows in between. And he was all alone.

Did the fearsome ghost mean for him to commit suicide, he wondered?

He scoffed, vowing to never give his opponent that satisfaction. A smug look sat on his face, even as he brushed the soaked hair from his eyes with his good hand. Blood still leeked down his forearm.

Then something moved. He caught it from the corner of his eye. Something green. A pang flew through his heart and soul.

The enemy.

He turned and stood tall. Down at the far end of the hall, as far down as could be, was the face of the Spectre. Scott Fitzgerald latched his eyes onto the dim figure of this spirit that had attacked him so ruthlessly. With fury in his heart, he lifted a large vase, dumped out the contents, and hefted it above his head. With a frenzied scream he ran. He ran for a long time, beating his legs as fast as they would go, running from one end of the hall to the other. His eyes registered the green cloak. The sorrowful white face. As he was almost upon his victim he reared back and prepared to dash the pot against him with all his force...

Only to hear a crash, find himself running right into the figure, and then flying, cold night air nipping at his exposed body. In a falling storm of broken glass, Scott Fitzgerald fell very, very far to the ground below.

On the ground inside the building, next to the destroyed window, the shards of glass that lay scattered about the hall began to move. Some of the shards lost their green or white color, and the pigments started to slide across the floor convalescing into one figure. The lone form of the Spectre.

Corey Jobe's eyes opened and he looked about him terrifiedly. His heart beat to bursting within his chest. He was in a large bed, with stained brown sheet and a lumpy pillow beneath him. The crimson glow of an alarm clock illuminated the bare, claustrophobic room he found himself in. The one window on his wall looked out to a glowing flourescent sign that spelled out most of the word "motel."

Corey sighed, closed his eyes, and dropped his head heavily back onto the pillow.

Spirited Writings

Man, sometimes, all you need is that little push. I had just started a few stories I was working on all at once, and one by one, they all started to get slower and slower to the point where I thought about scrapping the whole deal and starting over. Ugly, ugly words. Boring. No fun. The usual superhero comics I might pick up for that little jolt of inspiration didn't quite do it. Read 'em all. Been there, done that.
Then I went to the library and decided to fill my bag with some out of the usual stuff. I came back and locked myself in a room with Will Eisner's "A Contract with God," "Sandman: The Furies," Chuck Dixon's "Way of the Rat," and Max Collins "Road to Perdition." I even threw "The Dark Knight Returns" on the pile because I hadn't read it since I was a kid, and I had just finished the book "Eisner/Miller," a collection of conversations between the two on the subject and craft of comic books.
I read every single one of those stories in the span of about two nights.
Man, anybody who never ventures outside of superhero comics is missing. And I don't mean to sound like one of those people who dismisses superhero comics as childish in comparison to indy-material and non-genre work. I'm not. I think superhero comics can be as smart, moving, entertaining, and downright awesome as any other genre of any other medium out there. In addition, most indy-comics suck.
No one's even going to argue that.
I'm just saying, that as a general novice (I've dabbled before) to the world outside of the Fantastic Four and the Justice League, this stuff rules. "A Contract with God," is the first true graphic novel ever written/drawn, and as such, is simply amazing. "Road to Perdition" is dark, moody, and violent, but heartfelt, crime fiction with artwork that is simply the best. "Way of the Rat," might be the first Kung Fu comic I've ever read, having grown up after the 70's with "Master of Kung Fu," etc. It's an incredibly fun, kinetic comic. Although I've only read one other of Crossgen's graphic novels, "The Path" by Ron Marz, those two alone are enough to prove what a shame it is that the Crossgen company failed. And although I firmly believe that should Frank Miller ever go to Hell, he will be tormented there by being forced to suffer eternity at his own self-(over)narration, "The Dark Knight Returns" is among the best Batman stories ever. I also recommend Eisner/Miller, published by Dark Horse Books. It's just a very interesting discussion by two of the historic bookends of comic book culture.
To anyone who has yet to track down a comic book outside of those produced by the big two, I urge you to do so. Superheroes will always be my first love, but they are only a part of a larger picture, one that is constantly testing the boundaries of what can be done with graphic storytelling.
Anyway, it's that kind of raw talent and creativity that made me decide, "yeah, I can probably finish this Spectre-story."

Peace,

Jonah

P.S. This issue is dedicated to Jim Aparo, who passed away on July 19th, 2005. Jim Aparo, as well as being a stalwart member of DC Comics and one of the most original and talented artists ever, was associated with one of the definitive runs of the Spectre. Jim drew the Spectre's escapades in Adventure Comics, one of the few regular appearances of the character at that time. His violent, action-filled, supremely detailed drawings brought to life a short comic-book run that many consider a classic. If nothing else, he drew a damn good Spectre. Jim Aparo was a master of his technique all the way through his life and his work is greatly appreciated.