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                #65 - "Born To Be Run Part 4 - Up To Speed"
                    copyright 1996 by Dave Van Domelen
===========================================================================

     [cover has the fat chevron pattern of the previous three issues
      being shattered as Kid Macro, in his yellow costume, is thrown
      through it by a shadowy figure with a glowing red eyeslit on its
      chest.  Corner banner has an "RI2" on it, indicated a tie-in
      with Robot Invasion 2, Constellation #23]

===========================================================================

     My first funeral in the old continuity was Lost-Cause Boy's.
     My first funeral in the next revision was Sig.Lad's.
     My first funeral in my new memories was Macroman's.
     They share one thing in common: somehow people knew this death was
for good.  The hero wasn't going to come back in some cover-enhanced
special issue a few months later, or even a few years later.  Maybe he'd
be back someday, but not soon.  These were deaths as permanent as it gets
in the Looniverse.  I should know...it's been over fifteen years and he
hasn't returned.
     Thousands of people attended the funeral, filed past the small casket
holding his costume and wristcomps.  I walked past with the rest, perhaps
lingering a little long, but not presuming to stay.  If I'd come as Kid
Macro, I'd have been assured a place of honor by the side of his only
mortal remains.  But I didn't think I deserved it.  Sure, I know now there
wasn't anything I could have done if I'd been there with him, but when
you're a grieving ten-year-old, you don't think like that.
     I'd failed him.  And I didn't deserve to be there even as myself,
but I knew that if I didn't go I might make people suspicious.  And even
though he was dead, I felt I had to do my best to keep the secret he'd
entrusted me with.
     So I watched with the rest, from a distance, as the casket was sealed
into a granite pedestal in front of the city hall, a grand old 1800's-style
town square center.  The pedestal was bare for now, but a bronze statue was
already being constructed to top it.  Maybe he hadn't been as legendary as
other heroes had been and would be, but he was a hometown hero, and he was
accorded that legendary status here.
     The day passed in a sort of numb haze for me.  My hopes that he was
still alive somewhere, somehow, warred with the oppressive certainty that
months of absence gave to his demise.  The cold, grey November sky was
a perfect backdrop for my mood.
     For days afterwards, teachers and friends wondered at my deep blue
funk...they knew I was a fan of Macroman, but they couldn't know how much
he meant to me.
     I tried playing the net.hero bit to shake the mood, careful to avoid
any publicity, but somehow it didn't seem right.  Without him, everything
was wrong.  Eventually I just put away the costume and wristcomps and
tried to live a normal life.
     Even that went wrong.

               *              *              *              *

     "Like, DUH, Karl...it means to use someone's own stuff against him,"
I said, whapping my best friend across the back to the head as he puzzled
over "Ham.net" in the cafeteria.  It was 1984 and we had just gotten into
High School, graduating from big fish in a small pond (well, medium fish,
neither of us was exactly Captain of the Football Team material) to small
fry in what seemed like a huge ocean.  Clue Valley High took students from
all over that part of Net.braska, so the attendance was almost at the
levels you'd see in a big city school.  Of course, I'll grant you that the
students tended to be more farmboys than homeboys.
     Karl grinned and mussed my hair, since he knew I hated it.  "Hey,
bookworm, I haven't read this before, okay?  Oh...sorry, didn't mean to
bring that up," he apologized as he saw my face fell.
     By then, it was more or less public knowledge that Macroman had been
Alan Berry.  Glory knew she couldn't bury the facts, so she revealed them
as respectfully as she could.  And while I kept my own secrets now for my
own reasons, people knew I'd known Alan.  Specifically, in this case, Karl
knew Alan'd given me a copy of Ham.net to read when I left Keystroke City
at the end of the summer.  Karl didn't know *why* that book specifically,
but he knew there was a connection.
     I just snorted and tore into my fries.  I was *finally* hitting my
growth spurt and putting on some serious height.  Being 5 feet tall in
9th grade is a major bummer, and I was glad to be going up in the world.
Of course, always being ravenous and usually being in minor pain from the
growing bones were acceptable prices to pay.
     "Whoa, Doug, ease back on the munchage!" Karl gasped.
     Then I realized I was eating at super-speed.  And while the fries had
all vanished down my mouth, my arm was still moving.  And I couldn't stop
it.
     Panic making my heart stop for a moment, my eyes darted to the watch
on my left wrist.  Smoke was coming from it.  For some reason, it wasn't
able to keep up anymore.
     And then I realized another price I was paying for getting taller.

               *              *              *              *

     Of course, this meant the end of my secret.  I spent days in the
hospital in restraints, shivering away in a state of uncontrolled motion
whenever the sedatives wore off.
     Glory, bless her heart, had figured out my secret years before, and
was by my bed as soon as she heard, telling the doctors what little she
knew about my condition.  When I could talk, I told her where to find my
wristcomps, but it turned out they weren't able to dampen my nervous
system anymore either.
     They brought in some scientists to study the technology and try to
improve on it, but they couldn't.  Alan was years ahead of his time in
design work.  Someone got the idea of contacting the Sapster, on the
grounds that Alan couldn't have built his original pair alone, but the
Sapster professed ignorance.  Probably just to get revenge on Macroman
through me.
     Eventually they designed a harness for me.  A clunky affair of struts
and hydraulics, which could slow me down at the level of muscles instead
of nerves.  That way, my body wouldn't move before my mind could catch up.
But it was ugly, and I was always tired from fighting against the pistons.
I had to drop out of school and get private tutoring, because I simply
couldn't function normally in that gear.
     First gear.
     And so I ground along in first gear for the next seven years.  Having
nothing better to do physically, I threw myself into my studies, earning
degrees in computer science and engineering.  I even managed to improve
my harness to the point where I could *almost* pass for normal for an hour
or so at a time.  I also considered adding positive hydraulics to the
negative set so that the next time someone called me "Kid Macro" I could
throw him across the room.  But, no, I didn't do that.
     When I hit 21, right after graduation from college, I discovered the
wonderful world of drink.
     Y'see, alcohol is a centeral nervous system depressant.  And guess
what?  My artificial nervous system's pretty easy to depress.  Kinda like
I was at the time.  So, by getting totally smashed, I could ditch the
harness and pretend I was normal for a while.  In the space of months, I
went from a respected student and holder of a few moderately lucrative
patents to a drunken bum who woke up shaking uncontrollably in strange
beds or alleys.
     The really scary part was that once my system recovered from the
immediate effects, it very quickly repaired all the long-term damage.
Destroyed brain cells were replaced by intrusion of the artificial system.
Liver damage healed.  I could drink with impunity, because the physical
effects just didn't touch me.
     At least, that's what I thought.  Fate's funny that way, though.  I
was immune to the normal effects of alcohol addiction, but I'd found my
very own addiction.  As more and more of my nervous system was replaced
by the artificial neurons, my condition became harder and harder to
control.  I needed to drink more and more to get the same release.  I was
in a downward spiral that would have probably ended with my death inside
of another few years.
     Of course, this WAS the Looniverse.  So I wasn't saved by something
as mundane as intervention by relatives or the help of a kindly old
clergyman.
     Nope, I was saved by an invasion of giant robots from another
dimension.

               *              *              *              *

     It was the middle of a business day and the streets were almost
completely empty.  No one dared venture out, for fear of the Robots.  They
had descended on the city earlier in the day, several dozen strong, and
imposed their rule.
     Conventional forces had already met defeat at the hands of the hulking
metal monstrosities, even though it seemed that the Robots weren't as smart
as, say, the tanks.  And Keystroke City hadn't had a net.hero of its own
since Macroman died and I...retired.
     Of course, it took me a while to realize what was going on, since I
was busy being falling-down drunk during the actual invasion.  I woke up
to find I was alone in the bar, which was enough of a surprise that I got
up the rest of the way and put on my harness before the shakes could start.
Normally I'd just lie there until I could barely make myself move.
     But now the hangover was clearing and I could see straight again, and
I didn't really like what I saw.  The empty city as people cowered in their
homes or had already fled the city center.  The edges of the city were a
junkyard of piled-up cars as people trying to flee the city were cut off by
a ray blast from a flying robot.  But here where I was, there were almost
no cars.  No anything.  Just those too brave, stupid or drunk to leave.
     I guess I fell in all three categories, especially since I wasn't
drunk anymore but I wasn't running away.
     I'd found a TV and turned it on, but the only thing on all channels
was a message from the invaders...the MAC Empire, whatever that was...for
humans to submit to their rule.  It would cut to scenes of defeated LNHers
every so often, to underscore the hopelessness of the situation.
     Basically, it seemed like the end of the world.  Nothing could stop
these monsters.  Humanity had just been knocked from the top of the totem
pole, and nothing could put them back.
     Then a funny thing happened.  Here I was, a former hero who had spent
the last couple of years industriously drinking himself into an early
grave...and I didn't even think of just rolling over and letting the Robots
win without knowing they'd been in a fight.  I could have just gone back
to the bar, broken in and started emptying the shelves.  But I didn't.
     Of course, I'd still need a crowbar or something for breaking and
entering, but I wasn't looking to get into a bar.

               *              *              *              *

     City Hall was as deserted as the rest of the city center.  Apparently
the Robots didn't believe in ostentatious seizure of central locations
like humans did.  Either that, or they simply were busy elsewhere.  A few
homeless people crouched in their customary corners, either refusing to let
some invaders push them out or more likely just ignorant of the threat.
     And there it was, in front of City Hall.
     The statue of Macroman.
     For years, I'd refused to let them remove Macroman's wristcomps from
the pedestal for my use.  To my mind, that would have been the final, utter
betrayal.  Admission that I really believed he would never come back, that
he was dead.  And somehow I felt more comfortable with my own death than
with accepting his.
     I guess it finally got through my stubborn, ten-year-old's brain that
day that there were better ways to honor his memory and keep his name alive
until he could return.  Like reclaiming the mantle of net.hero.
     I hefted the sledgehammer I'd gotten out of a construction site
nearby, and strode towards the statue.
     Then a mound of blankets lurched up from the sidewalk and hurled
itself at me with an incoherent cry of anguish.  The smell knocked me back
almost as much as the force of the blow did, and I nearly dropped the
hammer.  Bony fists feebly beat on my chest, and I managed to make out what
the mad wretch was saying.
     "I don't care if the world's ending today, I won't let you desecrate
his grave, you hear!"
     I dropped the hammer, and as it thudded dully to the ground I grabbed
him by both wrists and started to yell back at him.  Then our eyes met.
And there was a spark of recognition.
     It had been more than a decade, and both of us looked to have aged
five times that much, but we knew each other.
     "Echo Emperor?" I hissed, letting go in disbelief.
     "Kid Macro?" he wheezed in reply, before breaking into hacking
laughter.  "Looks like Macroman got off better'n either of us...<hak>"
     I just stared at him in disbelief, unconsciously rubbing my own
scraggly beard as I stared at his matted tangles.  "You...you wanted to
kill him!  Why're you protecting his grave?"
     "A man's gotta start atoning someday," he muttered.  "But you're
gonna rob it!  Why's that?"
     I looked down at the discarded sledgehammer.  "There's...more to
honoring a man's memory than worshipping some relics.  There's standing up
for what he believed in, fighting the good fight.  Even if you can't win,
you have to try.  That's the lesson his death taught me, though it took me
until today to learn it.  But if I can't get at his wristcomps, I'm just
another bum."
     Echo Emperor gestured at the dirty castoffs he wore.  "It ain't the
costume or weapon that makes you stop being a bum...or start."
     "I know.  But this is one case where it goes a long way.  Please,
I need those wristcomps.  Don't make me have to hurt you...."  I looked
closely at his face for the first time, and could see the marks of broken
bones and unhealed scars, injuries I'd put there.  "...again."
     Echo Emperor shuffled aside.  "No, no...I suppose you have as much
right to them as anyone alive.  Just, please, leave something there for
me to remember him by."
     I nodded and stepped up to the pedestal.  With a few strokes of the
hammer, the facade had shattered and fallen aside.  I pulled out the
casket and opened it, hearing the faint hiss as the hermetic seal was
broken.
     There they were.  The only things left behind when Macroman...died.
I picked up the wristcomps and slid them, one after the other, onto my
forearms.  There was a moment of dread as nothing happened, but then they
booted up and I could feel the strain leaving my body as I finally was able
to stop fighting my own body without being drunk.  I started pulling off
the pistons and hydraulics, then looked at the costume.  I shook my head.
     "No, I don't deserve to wear that.  Not yet.  Okay, Emperor, I'll
leave the costume there."
     Then I heard a faint whirring behind me.  I turned in time to see
a scooter driving down the road towards us.  But it wasn't making the noise
you normally hear coming from a two-stroke engine.  And it had no driver.

               *              *              *              *

     The scooter kept coming, and it was speeding up.  Just before it
would have hit us, it leapt into the air and rammed the statue, sending it
to the ground in a hail of bronze pieces.
     "NOOOO!" Echo Emperor shouted, suddenly multiplying into dozens of
copies of himself and rushing at the scooter.  I stood there stunned for a
moment at this.  I didn't think he'd still have any of his old gadgets, but
I guess he saved one for a rainy day.
     Then the scooter unfolded, twisting around into a humanoid form, one
without a head.  Where the head should have been was the rear wheel of the
scooter form.  A faceplate was instead built into his...its chest.  A long
thin blade sprung from its right forearm and it looked in amusement at the
horde of Echo Emperors assaulting it.
     "Nice gimmick, squishy, but the others don't cast shadows," it sneered
as it sliced Echo Emperor in half with the blade.  The echoes sparkled for
a moment, then faded.  "And here I thought I wouldn't get to kill any
supersquishies...who was that, Maalox The Multiple Bum?"
     I wanted to shout something like, "He was a good man!" or "He was a
friend!" but I couldn't.  He was an evil, insane man, a man I had wanted
to kill once.  He might not have been as bad as he was, but I couldn't
find any real pity for him.
     I stood there for a second.  Now, why was I fighting this fight?  Not
to avenge Echo Emperor, certainly.  To save lives?  None seemed in danger.
To stop the invasion?  Uh uh, destroying this guy wasn't going to put a
dent in the robotic horde.  All the "fight the good fight" talk seemed to
be very far away right then, looking at the blood dripping from the Robot's
blade.
     It seemed to sense my uncertainty, and started to mock me.  "You're
his boy sidekick, right?  Bum Lad?  C'mon, I'll need to know for my
scrapbook...when I put scraps of you in it!"  It advanced, blade held out
tauntingly, then thrust at me, intending to miss by inches.
     Old reflexes kicked in, though, and I was much more than inches away
from where the blade ended up.  The adrenaline started to flow, and
memories came bubbling up from my childhood, memories of similar fights
against net.villains and their goons.
     "You're a fast squishy, I'll give you that.  But Wasp's faster!" it
shouted, swinging the blade in an arc that would have beheaded anyone with
merely human speed.  I was already on the other side of the Robot,
hammering away at its armor with fists that hurt with ever strike.  I had
to find a weak spot, but there wasn't one.  Wasp reeled back a little with
each hurricane of blows, but that was it.
     "HA!" Wasp shouted as it kicked out with one spindly leg and smashed
me across the square.  "Too predictable, squish!  Not that you stand a
chance against me even if I couldn't figure out where you'd be...you're
just not hitting hard enough to make my integrity field break a sweat.
If it could sweat, of course."
     Wasp's tirade gave me time to recover, but I think it knew that.  It
simply didn't care.  It knew I couldn't hurt it, and wanted to prolong the
cat and mouse game this time.
     I grabbed a handful of marble gravel that had scattered from the
broken pedestal and hurled it as fast as I could at Wasp.  It held up
one arm over its vision plate, letting the gravel ping off the seat cushion
attached to the limb.  I didn't see any damage to the rest of its body.
     "I spy, with my little eye...well, optical sensor, anyway...your
wristbands!  Unless I miss my guess, they've got something to do with your
powers, right?  They're just screaming on the electronic level," Wasp
sneered.  I got ready to dodge...if he hit them, I was toast.  "Let's see
how well they stand up to an electromagnetic pulse!" Wasp laughed as its
faceplate flared green, almost blinding me and sending sparks of pain into
my slightly-hung-over brain.
     I started to shake a little, and could see sparks coming out of the
wristcomps.  This was it, there wasn't anything I could do.  I was dead.
I had maybe one good shot left, and picked up one of the statue's arms
to use as a club.  Not that I could do any damage with it.
     "If you believe it, you can be it," echoed in my ears.  I looked
around for the source.
     "Looking for a last-second rescue?  You're not going to get it,"
Wasp mocked.  "Go ahead, gimme your best shot...not that it's gonna be
too good with your powers shorted out."
     "If you believe, anything can happen," came the voice of memory again.
I like to think that Macroman's spirit, or soul, or whatever, was nearby
that day and whispered in my ears what I needed to be reminded of.  Or
maybe it was just another of his lessons finally taking root.
     And this time I did believe.  My life had gone nowhere for so long,
but I hadn't really believed it would be any different.  And I finally saw
how right Alan had been.
     I believed I could do it.
     While every rational part of me screamed that it was impossible, that
one bright spark in the core of my being shouted even louder.
     YOU CAN!
     I didn't fight the seizure I felt coming on.  I let the vibrations
build and build without trying to stop them.  I'd only done this once
before, but I KNEW I could do it again.
     And when I felt like I was going to shake apart, I leaped.
     And vanished.
     And reappeared an instant later, the statue's arm merged into Wasp's
body.  They say two things cannot occupy the same space.  That's not quite
right, as I learned in my science classes.  Matter is mostly empty space,
so it's not really a problem of two objects, like the arm and Wasp's chest,
being in the exact same place.  However, thanks to electric forces between
the newly-merged pieces, the end result is just about as messy as if they
really did occupy the same space.
     In other words, Wasp's torso tore itself apart in a horrible
shrieking wail, the remains falling to the ground in a clatter.
     I followed suit.

               *              *              *              *

     "After the whole thing settled down and the MACErs were transported
back to their world, the LNH took me in," I told Aunt Glory.  She was
starting to show signs of greying in her hair and wrinkles around her eyes,
but she still gave off a feeling of youthful enthusiasm combined with a
wisdom beyond her years.  Of course, this was from my point of view, and
you can excuse a little idealizing.  "Doc Stomper and Sig.Lad managed to
build me a set of wristcomps that at least did an okay job, although I
wasn't able to actually get into action as a net.hero again until shortly
before Constellation left the Looniverse."
     Glory nodded.  "I've been following your career, I know.  But I
decided to let you contact me first...we both said some ugly things a few
years ago and I didn't want to force a reunion unless you wanted it."
     I looked away as I recalled the scene I'd caused when Glory tried to
get me to stop drinking.  And I couldn't really explain why it had taken
me so long to go visit her..."I only got this set of memories the other
day" may work with other LNHers and the readers, but I don't think she'd
have bought it.  Especially since I could have called her during my new
retconned history, and didn't.  I guess it was just a combination of being
too busy with other things...and being too ashamed when I wasn't busy.
     Glory cocked her head and looked hard at my face.  "You know, it may
just be that the Writer can't draw more than a few faces, but you look a
lot like Alan did."
     I looked in a nearby mirror.  She was right.  I'd grown up to be his
spitting image, or as close as a hack artist could protray.
     "You know, kiddo," Glory said, her eyes taking on a serious cast.
"It may not just be coincidence.  Think about your birthday."
     I nodded.  I had one of those "suspicious" birthdays, in that I had
been born less than 9 months after my parents got married.  I'd always
figured that was part of the reason dad hadn't really shown much affection
towards me.  I'd come along and trapped him in a marriage.  Maybe he'd have
married mom after all, but I doubt he liked the pressure put on him.  It
may have been the hedonistic late 60s, but it was also middle of nowhere
Net.braska.
     "Your father's never admitted it to me, but I'm starting to wonder
if he's your biological father."
     "Huh?"
     "Doug, I did some more digging into Alan's past after we...parted
ways.  It turns out the real Alan Berry was four inches shorter and black.
He was part of a long list of missing persons who were later tracked to
the Sapster's attempts at gaining superspeed.  I think that maybe our Alan
was another of these victims, but decided to take on a new identity found
in a fellow abductee's wallet.  Maybe he had some trouble he was trying to
run away from in his old life."
     "So what you're saying in a roundabout manner is that you think he
was my real father?"
     "Maybe.  He'd have been pretty young, younger than your mother, but
it's not impossible.  Especially since my brother was in and out in the
Net.ional Guard.  She might have gotten together with someone else to
pass the time."
     The image of my mother as a "loose woman" struck me as wildly
incongruous.  But, then again, who can ever believe that their parents
were once young and foolish?
     "Well, that's certainly something to think about, Glory.  Now I've
got a revelation for you.  You're the first person to know this...I'm not
going to be Kid Macro anymore."
     "You're quitting?" she said with an air of disbelief.  "After that
story you just told me?"
     "No, I'm not quitting.  I'm just not going to be Kid Macro anymore.
I think maybe I've finally grown up, grown out of the sidekick role.  And
I don't think Alan would mind, wherever he is."
     I activated a costume change macro and stood before Glory in the
green and gold bodysuit I'd had the LNH salvage from the wreckage and keep
for me in storage.
     I didn't say anything.  I didn't need to.  Macroman had returned after
all, hadn't he?

===========================================================================

NEXT ISSUE: The Sig.Files begin as we finally get to hear what it is that
     Kid Pocky ran cross-country to warn Dvandom Force about!

Author's Notes:

     This issue takes pretty much nothing from Flash #65 except general
inspiration.  Thanks for writing Born To Run, Waid.
     #66 probably won't come out for a while, unless my candidacy exam gets
delayed more than I think it will.  I really shouldn't have even spent the
time to write this one, but it plotted itself Sunday and I had a free
night tonight while my advisor rethinks things.