.|. COHERENT COMICS UNINCORPORATED ---X------------------------------------------------------------------------- '|` PRESENTS DVANDOM | -. -. -. | ________| ____ \ ,___ \ ____ \ ________| | .' \ | | / ` | | | | | | | / ___| | | | | ` / | | __| | | < | __| | | | ,--- \ \ | | | \ | | \ ` | | | / | \ / | ___| _______-' ___| ____\ -______-' ____________| ANNUAL #1 - In Memoriam copyright 1995 by Dave Van Domelen and many others ============================================================================= [cover is simply a shot of a granite statue of Sig.Lad with the Sun over its shoulder and a shadow across its face.] ============================================================================= Chapter One - Remembrance [Steve Hutchison] In the, well, bowels is as good a word as any. In the bowels of the LNH there is an area where few people go. The janitorial staff, being superheroes in their own right, spend time there, because it's where they store those supplies that they don't just summon from CleaningSupplySpace. Once upon a time, Panta, the cat-girl, lived in a room down there, because it was warmer, and because a certain annoying personage (the self-appointed conscience of the LNH) didn't like to go down there. It's warmer because of the furnace. The LNHeadquarters is a large and very energy-inefficient building; it's cold and drafty in winter, and too hot in the summer, and therefore it needs the traditional massive heating and cooling plant. However, the LNH is on a budget. The question of where it gets its funding has been mercifully left un-answered, but one thing is known: if it weren't for the Ninja Accounting Skills of the Ultimate Ninja, the LNH would have gone bankrupt and been sold off to its creditors, just to pay damage bills alone. But there is no tightwad like a tightwad who knows the Almost Ancient Art of McNinjutso-corporate. Yes, the deadly, long-dreaded, and highly arcane secret arts brought by a mysterious Highlander to the merchant classes of Japan during the turbulent years of the Re-Opening, blended with the ruthlessness and zeal of the Ninja, had created this Art. And of course, the Ultimate Ninja, master of all secret fighting arts, nonpareil in every aspect of the skills of the Shadow Magicians, knew how to use McNinjutso-corporate. And the strange and sometimes stupid way that the Legion membership was granted, was proof of his consummate skill. Who else would find an overweight, cheesecake-obsessed young man with a quirky unexplained power: creation of fattening desserts as an offensive weapon -- and allow that person to be a member of a team of heroes who faced death, devastation, and public humiliation, as a matter of daily fare -- and all because it saved on the food bills. Who else would find not one, but two people, two cleanliness-obsessed people, with quirky, unexplained powers: the summoning of cleaning supplies from CleaningSupplySpace, and the unbelievably rapid application of those supplies -- and then allow them to be members of the same aforementioned team of heroes -- and all because it meant that cleaning services were free. Who else, discovering that one of the founding members of the LNH, an unfortunate who was inadvertently transformed into an elemental by way of a peculiar accident in continuity, an elemental of Flame and Lurk -- who else would provide that member with a furnace to live in. After all, it meant that the heating and cooling of the LNHeadquarters, and a good deal of the power- generation tasks, would be (you got it) free. But what the heck, it's a comfortable furnace, and I like it here. What I didn't like was the way that the LNH kept ... well, dying, for lack of a more accurate word. And the latest one was Rich Franklins, one of my oldest acquaintances. No, I don't make many actual friends here. It's hard to get close to someone you can't touch or really see, especially when they get too hot to be around. So, while people know me and sort of have an idea who I am, they don't really become friends. Besides, the basement is kind of unpleasant. It's the last place that gets cleaned, y'know? Well. So Rich was known as Sig.Lad. Poor guy, I've only seen one other person retconned so constantly, and he finally got married and left. Hope he likes the bedwarmer. So they're planning a funeral service for Rich, even though they don't have a body. I've been wondering about the wisdom of having that self- appointed guardian of virtue (everyone's but his own) doing the "sermon" -- I'm this close to just incinerating the guy, even if he does have the right to say what he wants to say. He doesn't have the right to hurt people I care about. I suppose I shouldn't get upset. Kopicat is handling the actual funeral arrangements. I'm pretty sure she doesn't know that the noisome fulgency himself managed to get himself listed as Legion Chaplain, entitled to be officious at any Legion ceremony. Then again, the name "Sig.Lad" is on the Reservist list, not the Active list, so I don't think it'll matter. Anyway. Rich. I looked hard for a body. Being a net.elemental has some advantages -- when I move into the Lurking, I can find things out. The Master of the Lurking is this mousy, goth-wannabe kind of fellow who says that he rules everything there, but mostly everyone that Lurks just sort of does what they want and he shrugs it off. I went timeways into the sidelines around the whole thing, and I didn't see any sign of Rich's body. Now I'm going hunting. One thing people don't know -- you can get almost anywhere from Lurk, and the places you can't, well, there's almost always a friendly Portal that you can talk into taking you somewhere that you can get there from. Of course, you can't tell anyone about it. The first place I'm going is Limbo. Everyone ends up falling into Limbo at some point. There's two ways to fall into Limbo -- either you die in some ambiguous way that might be real and might not, or else you just end up being forgotten for too long. Of course, if you know how, you can get there by other means. The reason I'm going to Limbo, well, if this is one of those ambigious deaths, then Rich will be there, and if it's real, well, he'll be there anyway, because the Afterlife can only be reached thru Limbo. It's that "tunnel of white light" thing. So how does that go again? Oh yeah. "That's just a jump to the left, and a step to the right ..." [The thing I like about Limbo is that I can see myself.] [Hmm. Do I really look that weird?] [Where did I put that manual? Oh, yeah, left hip pocket.] [Limbo... rules of travel in limbo... ah, here it is. "Think of the person or place you wish to meet. If they have ever been in limbo you will be able to interact with them. Do not cause unnecessary paradox."] [OK. Tsar Chasm.] The mildly impressive form of the Master of Emotional Putdowns was still the same as ever. The look of sheer boredom on his face wasn't. "Hi," I say. "How's it going?" "Incendiary?" "In the approximation of flesh." I smile, because I can. He blanches. I guess I do look that weird. "Why are you here tormenting me? I thought this was the afterlife, I should be free from this sort of thing." "Huh? Tormenting?" I know I sound dumb, but after all, I haven't done anything to him, right? "You've damped my powers again, and you're here in that ... shape." He makes a face and shudders. "Hey, I can't help what I look like, and you don't have your powers because you're dead, at least, until They get around to bringing you back." He looks at me like I just ate his last child. "What do you mean, 'They?'" "Them. The overriding fates. The Powers That Am. Never mind. If you're here long enough, the world will forget you and you can go off to your Afterlife, but I suggest you try and make up for your sins first. The trouble with the Afterlife is that it's the sum of your Life, only it all happens to YOU." He looks at me funny again. "So, if you aren't here to torment me, why ARE you here?" I try not to smile again. "Looking for someone. A fellow LNH member, seems like he just got killed and if he did, I want to say goodbye first." "Oh. Who was it, if you don't mind?" "Sig.Lad." "Ah. Yes. I remember facing him a number of times. So why are you coming after me, instead of going directly to him?" I shrug and he flinches. "Part of the nature of Limbo, I guess. If I could just go where he is, I'd be there already. But I can't so I'm going the long way. Whenever someone comes to Limbo for the first time, they sort of bop along bumping into their old friends and enemies. I figured you had made an impression on him, he'd probably be here." "Well, I haven't seen him." "Thanks. Good luck with the Afterlife, or with coming back." I extend a hand to him, but he cringes back. OK, so there are spikes coming out of it, not my fault. It's just one of the drawbacks of being a net.elemental, y'know? [So, the landscape fades and I'm back in the blank bit.] [Strange, that last bit. I thought the Tsar had infiltrated the LNH as Kid G, maybe this was before he got the idea. Uh oh, I hope I didn't have anything to do with his changing his mind about being a villain, I'm not supposed to create any paradoxes...] [Rich. Who else does he know? Well, of course there's that one.] [Acton Lord] I never have understood why this guy thinks corruption is cool. The smell in this place is amazing -- like ten-month-old sweatsocks. He's sitting there naked in his leather recliner, reading a magazine ... just as I thought, this is the sixth clone. He turns the magazine sideways, lets the centerfold fall open. What a perv. "Hey, you. Get your head out of that Playbeing and talk to me." I raise my mental guards against his power -- it works best on people who have a high angst level, and angst isn't something I do. He looks at me with one bloodshot eye and doesn't so much as blink. "What do you want, Incendiary?" "Information." "You won't get it." "By hook or by crook, I will," I say, and give him the "be seeing you" hand-sign. He looks tired. He scratches at his appendectomy scar. "All right, fine. He was here, briefly, he left. Go bother someone else." He returns his gaze to the Playbeing, and I wonder why he doesn't just summon the real thing -- this is limbo, after all, and it's malleable to the will. Oh well. If that's his kink, so be it. "stupid wanker," I mutter under my breath as I leave. He was lying, and I knew it, and he knew I knew it. [Again in the whitespace.] [Maybe he has some friends he's visiting.] [Can't think of any. Well, wait, there is one.] I wonder as the place takes form around me what is wrong with my timing. Must be some leftover bit of nastiness from being in that degenerate's personal space. It's an over-large, really over-decorated, marble and gold leaf, vault- like, cavernous, executive rest room. There's a sign on the wall: "Watch your own trenchcoat, cloak, or other mysterious garb -- the Management is not responsible for loss of personal property to theft or accident." There's a row of shining clean stalls behind me. In front of me is a row of highly polished black marble urinals. I hear a flushing noise, and the door to one of the stalls opens. "Hey! You're not supposed to be here," says the person who is adjusting the fastenings of his belt. "What's wrong?" I smile, knowing it won't disturb One Who Has Seen more hideous things than the true shape of what shouldn't be seen. "You don't have a key and you're not a member of the union," he says. "Right. You guys put your washroom in Limbo you're gonna have to expect a few Lurkers to drop by. Besides, why do you think I'm not a member of the union?" I flash my union card (pulled from the Lurking). Invisible Incendiary Member in good standing Union of Mysterious, Unseen, Strange, & Vague Surreal Entities membership #0004 He blinks. "Oh." He pulls his trenchcoat around him and takes the Editorial Staff from where he leaned it against the door of the stall he's standing half-in. "Don't bother with the intro," I tell him. "I already know you're a Stranger, and remember, I knew you when you were just 'Dial D'." "OK, just don't spread it around, huh?" "No problem. Who's gonna believe me anyway?" I scratch behind my ear and notice that for some reason I have too many arms. Hrm. Maybe it's a good thing to not be able to see oneself. "I've got to get back to continuity," the Stranger says to me. "Fine. Just one question. Did Rich drop by while you were here?" "Oh, so that's what has you going." "Yeah. I wanted to say goodbye to him." "Well, don't." "Why not?" I manage not to smile. Hope jumps around in my chest briefly. "He going to come back?" "You know I can't tell you the answer to that." The Stranger looks peeved, so I press the question. "Then why can't I just say goodbye to him?" I smile wider, and he starts to look a little nauseous. "After all, it's not like I'm going to spoil any great surprises or anything." "Look, because you're a brother in the Union, I'll tell you this much. The Powers What Am don't really know yet if they're gonna bring him back, but if they do, then you saying goodbye to him will mess up his mind, and if they don't then he won't have to go to the Afterlife with the memory of what you look like." "Oh." I sigh. "OK. Fine. Just... if he is going to the Afterlife, tell him I said goodbye and I wish him well." "I will do what I can," he says, "But in the final analysis, I can promise nothing, for I am but ..." "A stranger," we say at the same time. He makes a face and vanishes in a cloud of greasy orange smoke. I walk over to the basin and splash some water on my face. The mirror cracks as I dry myself and meet the gaze of my reflection. Always a critic. I Lurk and return to my home in the bowels of the LNH. * * * * [Rob Rogers] It was to his credit that Professor Theodore Wong, otherwise known as Easily-Discovered Man, was able to herd Easily-Discovered Man Lite from Legion Headquarters to a vacant classroom at Dave Thomas Deluxe University before the latter exploded. "So let me get this straight," Lite sputtered. "Squidman kills Sig.Lad, and suddenly *he's* the new leader of Dvandom Force? What is this, the MacBeth theory of political succession?" "The events surrounding the demise of our illustrious friend and Secret Dvander are hardly that elementary, my indignant aide-de-camp," Easily- Discovered Man replied. "By all accounts, He Who Wields the Power of the Squid was required to do what he did in order to prevent the enslavement of our future society." "He wasn't required to do any such thing," Lite said, pacing back and forth through the rows of wooden desks. "There's always a way to win your battles without killing someone. YOU taught me that." "True, Lite, but there are times..." "No buts, Prof. When Substitute Lad accidentially fried Superconductor, the woman I loved, in our fight against the RoboMACs last year, I wanted to kill him. But I did what you told me and sucked it up because what happened was an accident. "This time, it was no accident," Lite continued. "Squidman meant to kill Sig.Lad -- Squidman, the guy who should've known better than anyone else that no matter how impossible it might seem to save a character from some horrible fate, it can always be done without killing him off. I say we do what Van Domelen and the Mystic Mongoose didn't have the guts to do a year ago and nail his little tentacled head to the wall!" "And what purpose do you believe that would serve?" the professor asked. "I'd probably get a medal!" Lite snapped. "Look, Prof, I'm not sure how you felt about him, but to me and a lot of others at the LNH Sig.Lad was someone to look up to. He was one of the few older heroes you could actually talk to -- what with Ultimate Ninja just being this side of certifiable, Deja Dude a cipher, Continuity Champ never around and Kid Kirby incomprehensible most of the time. He gave me a shot at taking on Acton Lord back when most of the other heroes thought we were jokes...not that any of that's changed at all, but...he even gave me this sword, if I could just find it..." "I am sorry, Lite," Easily-Discovered Man said. "It, like all the other GIFs Sig.Lad created, dissolved upon his dismissal from the mortal coil." "Well that's just great," Lite said. "Now I don't even have anything to remember him by." "If Sig.Lad was truly the mentor you believe him to be, Lite, it seems to me you would have quite a bit to remember him by -- the things he taught you, the advice he gave you, the example he set for you, and the people who were dear to him. Some of the people who were dearest to him were the members of Dvandom Force." "Yeah, well, clearly they didn't deserve it," Lite muttered. "That is not for you or I to judge," EDM replied. "I share your grief, Lite, and I too feel I have lost a friend and respected ally. And I will honor what he lived and died for by lending my support to Dvandom Force -- and Squidman -- now, when they need it the most. I will encourage my fellow Legionaires to do the same. Damning Squidman will not restore Sig.Lad to life, Lite. Helping what he created survive will make his death meaningful." The professor's words hung in the chalk-crowded air for a long time before his sidekick spoke. "Fine," Lite said. "But don't expect me to call off the 10,000 Jehovah's Witnesses I've instructed to go over to Squidman's house and explain Scripture to him. There are some things a man's gotta do." * * In another room, in another section of Net.ropolis, a lone typist put the finishing touches on a resume he was preparing before unrolling it from his typewriter and holding it up to the light. It would have to do, Substitute Lad thought. He'd spent the last few months duplicating the powers and playing the role of Easily-Discovered Man. Now that the hero had reclaimed his former position, however, Substitute Lad found himself adrift. Although he had made a few friends during his tenure with the Legion of Net.Heroes, and been on more than a few missions, he had never truly felt at home with the group. It was time, he had decided, for a change. Hearing of Sig.Lad's death shocked him, but shock quickly gave way to other thoughts. With Sig.Lad, Rotanna, and Cheeez Arrow gone, Dvandom Force might be willing to accept a new member into its ranks -- particularly one versatile enough to fill in for any other hero who happened not to be around. It was opportunistic, Substitute Lad knew, but his powers had forced him to be opportunistic all his life. This was one chance he couldn't pass up. He sighed, trembling, then picked up the phone. "Sig.ago, please," he said. "I'd like the fax number for Dvandom Force headquarters." * * * * [Jamas Enright] The Library of Infinite Stories. Much had been said about it, and about its strange extradimensional properties, but now was not the time for that. Now was the time for mourning. A hero had died, and Fan.Boy, in a subdued manner, had come here to commemorate that event. He felt that he didn't belong in at the funeral service. He'd never met Sig.Lad personally and would feel out of place surrounded by those who called him 'friend'. Instead, he visited the Library. He walked through the library, looking for one section in particular, and finally found it. The Eyrie. The area of the LoIS that housed the tales of the Legion of Net.Heroes. Fan.Boy could have just as easily absorbed the entire history of the LNH just by concentrating on the relevant news.groups, but he wanted to do something that felt more personal, more...intimate. Fan.Boy considered which book to start first. He went over in his mind the various stories Sig.Lad had appeared in. Electrocutioner's Song. The Kinda Big Darkness Saga. The Sound of Clashing Metal. The Bellerophon Gambit. Also various Constellation issues and Dvandom Force. Today...today he would read them all, reliving each moment, retelling each story, but there was one he had to start with. He picked up a copy of Dvandom Force #48. Today was Sig.Lad's funeral. It was time to relive Sig.Lad's death. * * * * Chapter Two: Preparations [Mike Escutia] Gary stood in the Hall of Heroes, gazing upward at the gold statues of those net.heroes who had died in the line of duty. Admittedly, there weren't many, thanks to retcons, resurrections and the like, but they were there. And now they numbered one more. The statue of Sig.Lad, newly sculpted of granite, stood in its place in the circle of statues in the giant chamber. He was in full costume, gauntlet and all, and looked confident yet vigilant, which was, Gary guessed, exactly what Sig.Lad would have wanted. It stood closest to the door, not for any symbolic reason but for the simple fact that it was to be moved outdoors later that day for a time of public display. And next to him stood the statue of a boy named Eric. Eric, known to the world as Echo Lad, had died saving Pliable Lad from the Chessman during what had come to be called the "Crisis of Infinite Sidekicks." He had also managed to defeat the villain by reflecting a bullet he had fired at Pliable Lad. No one really knew how he had done it, but in the end, it didn't matter. He had saved the world with a single sacrifice. Just like Sig.Lad did. There came the sound of footsteps behind him. Gary turned around to see Amorphous Lad walk up to him. Gary remembered that the shapeshifter had been around as long as Sig.Lad had, but hadn't been seen much until he was rescued from the Master of the Net by Pliable Lad and several other LNHers. "Er, hello," Amorphous Lad said. "You're Reverb Boy, right?" "Yeah, that's me," Gary answered. "Nice to meet you. Uh...sorry about your brother," Amorphous Lad said. "Yeah, I know it's been a few months, but still...." "That's okay," Gary said. "I've gotten over it. At least we were able to say our goodbyes." Amorphous Lad raised an eyebrow. "Oh?" "Long story," Gary said. "Gotcha." There was a long silence as the two gazed at the statue of Sig.Lad. Gary wondered just how many LNHers had died in the line of duty, and then wondered how many of them STAYED dead. "I can't believe he's dead," Amorphous Lad said quietly after a few moments. "I can't believe these people die so frequently," Gary said. "And then they come back," Amorphous Lad added absently. "Do you think he'll be back?" Gary asked. "Hard to say," Amorphous Lad shrugged. "In a way, he already is back, albeit in the forms of Acton Lord and future versions of both of them. But, then, none of them are the Sig.Lad that died." "Sounds complicated," Gary said. "It is. That's why I don't think about it." Amorphous Lad paused. "It could also depend on the writer," he finally said. "The writer?" Gary asked, rather confused. "Yeah, the...you've read the files on the writers yet, have you?" Amorphous Lad asked. "I've read them," Gary said. "But I don't understand why whether or not Sig.Lad comes back depends on the writer." "Some writers bring characters back from the dead almost immediately," the shapeshifter said, his eyes wandering back to the statue. "Others... others will never bring theirs back. I can't tell for Sig.Lad...I've never been written by his writer." Both stood there for a few moments, taking in what had been said. Finally, Gary spoke. "What about my brother?" Amorphous Lad closed his eyes and breathed in. He didn't know what to tell the young man standing there. The young man whose brother had died defeating a villain and saving the lives of sidekicks everywhere. "...I don't know," he answered. There was another pause. The tension was thick enough to be cut with a saw blade. Amorphous Lad silently hoped the younger net.hero wouldn't ask the obvious question. "What about your writer?" Gary asked. _Oh, no._ "I don't have a writer," Amorphous Lad practically growled. "I was created...and then left to fade into limbo, eventually being replaced by a similiar character with a stronger...tie to his writer. And the few times a writer actually...*uses* me, I'm either mind-controlled or bloody depressed! Why can't I be given a better -- BLOODY HELL!" "What? What?" Gary asked, having nearly jumped out of his costume at that last exclamation. "You have the same writer as Pliable Lad, right?" Amorphous Lad asked sharply. "Uh...I think so. I'm pretty certain I have the same writer as Eric, at least. And I think he has the same writer as Pliable Lad, so, yeah." Amorphous Lad groaned. "No wonder I could barely talk about this. We're being written by your writer. He doesn't like to break the fourth wall much. *sigh*" "Maybe we should just not think about it," Gary suggested. "Good idea," Amorphous Lad said as he headed for the door. "I'll see you at the funeral." "Sure," Gary said. He watched as the elder LNHer walked out of the room, a grim, yet sad look on his face. The shapeshifter passed by Gary's friend Jeff, otherwise known as Neon Lad, who had been watching from the doorway, but didn't acknowledge his presence as he did. Jeff watched him head down the hallway before turning to Gary, a bemused look on his face. "HDA," Jeff said. "Definitely HDA." "Agreed," Gary sighed. "What was all that about, anyway?" Jeff asked. "I'll tell you later," Gary responded. "just as soon as I figure it out for myself. Come on, let's go get ready for the funeral." * * * * [Saxon George Brenton] Retcon Lad again nervously fiddled with straightening his freshly cleaned costume for the remembrance service, for what seemed like the fiftieth time. "It's getting to you, isn't it?" asked Fourth Wall Lass, though it was hardly a question. Retcon Lad momentarily looked abashed as he realised what he was doing and slumped onto the bed. "Yeah, a bit," he admitted as he sat on his hands to keep them out of trouble. "These things happen, especially in our line of work." "I know that. That's not it. No. I mean...that might be part of it, but that's not really what's bugging me." He frowned, trying to collect his thoughts. "I keep wondering if I could've done something." "You weren't there," she reminded him gently. He stared at her for a second, his face unreadable, then said by way of explanation, "I mean, after the fact." "Oh," she replied, getting the point. "I thought you tried to avoid making those types of changes." He nodded. "Uh-huh. Changing things like that tends to tie reality up in knots. Or at least, it does when I do it. And the bigger the change, or the more contrived, or the further back in time it was, or all three, the bigger the knot is. That's not really a hindrance though. If I thought it was for the best, I'd bring him back, and damn the consequences." "Really?" "Uhm. Yeah. I think so. I mean, I'm a bit leery about messing with the character of another writer...Dvandom says Sig.Lad's dead and staying dead, and he'd probably get pretty ticked off at me if I meddled with that, but.... It's someone's life we're talking about here. It's like the whole Legion of Occult Heroes thing all over again, you know?" "So you'd change it, just because you didn't like the story outcome?" Fourth Wall Lass looked a bit dubious at that. "Maybe. I don't know. Back before I got my powers - the first time around - I would've. Us grubby little fanboys had very firm opinions on that sort of thing. But actually being a comic book superhero changes your perspective on things, because it's a lot different when you're on the receiving end of BS like that imposed from above." "Mmmmf. So you couldn't be sure that bringing him back wouldn't do more harm than good?" He shook his head. "Nope. And not just because of creating knots either. Like, if I were back home, er, in my original world, I wouldn't worry about this at all, because back there we didn't know we were fictional, but here I have to consider whether a contrived resurrection would harm a character's integrity. It could create accusations of his death being nothing more than a sales-driven marketing ploy." He paused before adding quietly, "I don't think Sig.Lad'd thank me for that." They sat in uncomfortable silence for a moment, painfully aware of the limitations of RLad's powers in this type of matter. "Contrived" was indeed the operative word. FWLass knew there was no way he could just change history so that somehow Sig.Lad survived disintegration and was still around, rah rah. He'd have to explain the observed facts up to the present, which meant coming up with some absurdly convoluted reason why Sig.Lad would have survived, but _seemed_ to have been utterly destroyed; like, maybe he was shunted forward in time because of the vagaries of the quantum field, or out across to one of the moons of Jupiter. Or maybe off into another dimension, perhaps one where one of the LNH had gone mad and ruthlessly taken over the world, slaughtering most of the heroes such that only a small band of freedom fighters remained. [Flame Writer #1-2 - Footnote Girl] Fourth Wall Lass glanced at the footnote and said, "Yeah, thanks Petina." "I hardly knew him," RLad said after another silence. "Dvandom Force had already moved to Sig.ago when I started my probationary membership. What was he like?" She considered. "Friendly. Charismatic, in an approachable way. Not, you know, intimidatingly awe-inspiring like some of the other Legionnaires. Level-headed - usually." He raised an eyebrow at this. "He didn't always think straight where Acton Lord was concerned," she clarified. "And he wasn't exactly a morning person, either. Usually he needed a really long shower, or better yet a few more hours of sleep, to get him going in the morning." She smiled sadly at the memory. There was a knock on the door, followed by the appearance of Kid Not Appearing In Any Retcon Hour Story. While the dress uniforms of the others were freshly cleaned for the occasion, his was even more immaculate than normal. "It is almost time. Are you both ready?" Retcon Lad breathed out and stood up. "Ayup," he replied with a forced casualness he didn't feel. "Let's go." * * * * Chapter Three: To Honor The Fallen [Jeff McCoskey] "Am I to understand you will not allow a man of God to preside over Sig.Lad's memorial service?" Self-Righteous Preacher's voice was thick with indignation. Kat's fury was readily visible on her human countenance. "No, Witch Doctor. I'd rather you not even be _present_ at the service." "Arrogant soulless creature. How dare your personal prejudices deny Sig.Lad his Final Grace?" Preacher's pale, gaunt face began flushing red. Only the solemnity of Sig.Lad's tribute kept Kat at human size. And likely kept Self-Righteous Preacher alive. Even so, all nuances of humanity left Kat's voice. It was a cold machine that spoke next. "If your God is so small that your presence dictates his good will, Sig.Lad is better off without Him." Kat swelled her mass enough to look down on the tall minister. "Stanley. Remove this vulture. He'll not feed on Sig.Lad today." Stan King, the former Cheeez Arrow, looked uncomfortably to LNHers who had begun noticing the disturbance. "C'mon Father. She won't bend and this is doing nothing but dishonoring Sig.Lad. Let's take a walk." S-RP allowed himself to be led away, though his eyes stayed locked with Kat's -- meeting her cold fury with hot condemnation. * * * * [Specter] "Are you going to be alright?" Video Victor looked at DoomMonger. "Yeah...I guess so. I got most of it out of my system back at the LNHHQ," DoomMonger answered. Both of the Net.Heroes were dressed in formal suits, and only the most observant of people would have noticed the holster DoomMonger was carrying. The two entered the hall where the funeral service was taking place. Although it was still an hour or so before the services began, the room had several other Net.Heroes there already. Video Victor stiffened when he saw who one of them was. "DoomMonger...don't cause any trouble, ok?" DoomMonger turned to see what Video Victor was talking about and his eyes narrowed. "I wasn't planning on it. Not here. Not now." He turned and walked away from the other Net.Heroes and went back outside. Video Victor sighed in relief. Although everyone knew how Sig.Lad had died, some were not taking it as well as others when it came to his 'killer'. And with Squidman in the room, Video Victor was hoping that tensions would not get too high. * * "Excuse me, could I have a word with you?" DoomMonger turned around to see who was talking to him. When he saw who it was, he closed his eyes. "I don't have anything to say to you. Not to a man who would kill one of his own team-mates." DoomMonger turned and walked away. "But..." Squidman stared as the LNHer walked off. He was prepared for this kind of reaction...he'd faced it in his own team. But not with this intensity, especially from an LNHer he barely knew. He let it drop.... * * * * [Dave Van Domelen] Squidman stepped up to the podium set against one wall of the domed Expo Center. He was in costume, which looked formal enough already, and wore his cowl. An expectant, perhaps even hostile silence fell over the assembled net.heroes. Squidman looked over at the statue. In lieu of a body to bury, Sig.Lad was to be honored by a statue placed next to the other icons on TMBV Mountain. Everyone agreed that Constellation would approve. The LNH apparently also had plans for a separate memorial of some sort, but hadn't seen fit to include Squidman in their planning. Turning from the cold granite image of his friend, he met the gaze of Sig.Lad's doppelganger, the alternate future version of Acton Lord who had turned rebel leader and hero. In many ways, this Richard Franklins was attending his own funeral and living to tell the tale. A familiar feeling for Squidman. Slowly and calmly, Squidman removed his cowl so he could be heard better. Astute observers noticed his eyes were slightly red and puffy, as if he'd been crying. "About a year ago," he started softly and hesitantly, "most of us were at another funeral. Mine." He paused, hoping he hadn't sounded too flippant. "I know many of you...resent me for the circumstances of Sig.Lad's death. Some of you may even be harboring thoughts that it would have been better if *I* had stayed dead...then Sig.Lad would still be alive. Maybe with me out of the way, some other hero could have saved Sig.Lad without dooming him to life as a pawn of Master Workload. And just about all of you are expecting me to make some kind of impassioned speech which will justify my actions and maybe even restore hope for Sig.Lad's return." Another pause. Squidman took a long, deep breath and exhaled. "Well, you aren't going to get one." A shocked murmur rippled through the room and more than a few figures started to stand. "The truth is that I killed my friend and leader to save the world. I hoped my actions wouldn't kill him...I desperately hoped the arrow would only crack Sig.Lad's armor and free him. But I *knew* it could kill him. I made my choice, and the choice is made. It was an attempt to change someone's past that led to this, and any attempt to go back and change my decision could only do more damage. For what it's worth, I'm sorry I couldn't find a better way. But I have no regrets for TRYING. Even here, sometimes what's done is done. "Sig.Lad was a hero, one of the best of us. He may not have always been at the front of the battle, or even always been there at all, but when he was there he was a hero. He knew that he may have to die someday to save the world, or even to save one life. As do we all. Something he also knew, that I now know all too painfully, is that sometimes a hero must kill to save the world...or even one life. The important thing is to make sure the loss of life, no matter whose it is, MEANS something." With that, he replaced his mask and stepped down to let the next speaker take the podium. He could tell he hadn't swayed many, if any, opinions. This morning he would have been desperate to at least get the approval and forgiveness of some of the Legion. But that was before he got the letter from Suicide Squid.... [Editor's note: it happened at the end of DF #49] * * "David," opened the impossible letter, "I can't stay long or say much. I'm dead in the Looniverse, after all, and there's only so much a ghost can do. In fact, I don't really know if I can even hold out long enough to tell you what I have to, or return after that, so I'll get right to it. "Sig.Lad told me to tell you he understands and forgives you." Squidman put his head in his hands and for the first time since Sig.Lad died, the tears came. * * * * Chapter Four: Epilogue [Jeff McCoskey] A lone figure rolled up in a wheelchair. The replica of Sig.Lad's statue outside the LNHHQ was adorned with personal mementos, flowers, and the good wishes of the Looniverse's mightiest heroes. Strangely, the heroic sculpture stood alone, as if the loss it represented was simply too large to share. The wheelchair creaked to a halt at the foot of the memorial. A nearly bald, wrinkled man slowly straightened himself to look up at the determined granite face. The old man revealed himself to be massively proportioned. In his younger days he must have been fabulously muscular, now he was merely bulky, with frail muscles and joints that could not long support his own weight. The man pulled a small pill from his pocket and squeezed it between thick fingers. A muted pop and hiss sounded from his clenched fist, and as he opemed his hand a softball of styrofoam was revealed. With careful strokes, the old giant carved the soft foam into an intricate carnation, then painfully laid it at the statue's feet. "All an old man can offer is regrets, gratitude, and styrofoam flowers. I guess they really don't mean a thing to you." A hand set soflty on the old man's shoulder. "What matters now is that they are meaningful for us." The old man looked up into the shaded eyes of Self-Righteous Preacher. The priest wore a wide-brimmed hat against the late afternoon sun. "Father. I didn't hear you come up." "I did not mean to startle you." They silently regarded the statue for long moments. "Did you know Sig.Lad well, my son?" "No I didn't know him." The old man was silent for a beat. "But I helped kill him." "Ridiculous. Squidman bears that responsibility alone." "It was my research that brought him to the dire straights leading to his death. None of us are free from that sin, Father. Some are just more Sinful than others." Self-Righteous Preacher's lean face drew in on itself. "Wise words, sir." The LNH's Moral Major seemed to want to say more, so the old man left plenty of room with silence. Eventually, the words came out. "Whatever your hand in his death, it cannot match the magnitude of my own failure. Not even Squidman can match it." Again, the bulky senior citizen left silence for the other to fill. "The man went to his death without the grace of God. Squidman's failure took a noble hero from the world that loved and needed him. My failure condemned him to an _eternity_ of torment. Whose failure is the greater?" The old man sensed better than to argue theology with the priest, even to comfort him. He tried a different tack. "Father, you are not responsible for Sig.Lad's religious choices. It's why we have free will. You don't have responsibility for his soul." S-RP closed his eyes in pain. "Oh, but I do. The LNH, they all take responsibility for others' lives. It's what makes them noble, it's what gives life and breath to the word 'super-hero.' Sig.Lad died battling for the lives of people he didn't even know, yet without thinking, without hesitating, he took their lives into his hands and saved them. He always did it. They all do. "I am not the physical warrior Sig.Lad was. I am a spiritual warrior. How can I be any less heroic? Where he would save lives, I would save souls. But where Sig.Lad can measure success in lives saved, all I can measure is Sig.Lad's soul lost." Self-Righteous Preacher's face was tightly clenched, and though his voice had not wavered a single tear trickled down his cheek. "He was no friend. He was a hero. Perhaps that will be enough for a second chance in Purgatory. >From bits we are made and unto bits we shall return. Pixels to pixels, bits to bits. You proved the greater hero. I'm sorry Sig.Lad." Self-Righteous Preacher kissed a small silver cross and set it in the ground at the statue's feet. The old man squeezed the Preacher's arm as he turned to leave. "Can I help you, sir?" S-RP asked. "No I think I'll stay a while longer." As an afterthought, the man in the wheelchair almost asked after Panta, but the Preacher was already gone. Instead he bade his regrets to the fallen hero. "I might find some cruel irony that I was allowed to live to see the bitter fruits of my labor, while the others all sleep the sleep of the just. But we're all crafted of imperfect stuff. There's no challenge to measuring men by failure. Sig.Lad, your successes gave life and hope to thousands, millions. That must count for something with whatever God holds you. It certainly counts for us." As the sun lowered over Sig.Lad's granite shoulders, bright rays seemed to stream through his outstretched fingers. The old man in the wheelchair turned and rolled away.