Published at 12th of August 2022 9:14 pm

Book 2: Chapter 73: From the Mouths of Monsters…

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Champion’s face was unmistakable, less iconic than his masquerade mask and suit, but no less well known. The man had submitted himself into police custody, the moment of his arrest and unmasking captured forever in the history books. It had marked the end of an era, the end of a dream for some, and the first victory of the Vigilante Acts. Every child born in the past half century had seen the man’s face, at least once.

He had barely aged a day. Champion had been in his mid-thirties upon his death. Now, fifty years later, and he looked almost exactly the same. Gregoir peered hard at the man’s features, searching for signs of makeup or prosthetics. He knew thousands of others were doing the same, all across the country. The live broadcast had over four-hundred thousand concurrent viewers, and it was climbing quickly.

Champion looked healthy, but his companions were far worse off. Standing under bright lights and in front of camera, Gregoir could clearly recognize the the man standing at the shoulder of the former vigilante leader. Bastion, the People’s Shield. The ever-present second, who protected Champion from all who thought to harm him. He had been quite successful in that mission, failing only to save the man from himself.

Bastion looked terrible. His eyes were sunken and his face, gaunt. His limbs were lean and lacking muscle, and he subtly trembled as he stood, the effort of standing in place taking a toll on the man’s ravaged body. Clearly, he’d seen better days. But just like Champion, his features belied his age. Bastion was a young man when Champion fell, and the People dissolved into fractious factions.

Gregoir struggled to remember the exact details of Bastion’s passing. It had been covered in his school years, if briefly, but it was Gregoir himself who had researched the lives of various famous Naturals in the years after gaining his own powers. His research said that Bastion had died in a building collapse in the late sixties, while in his civilian guise. John Adams Shepherd had been just one of many victims of what had eventually been deemed as a villain attack, the destruction of a large office building that killed dozens. In what Gregoir now felt was an alarming coincidence, Shepherd’s body was never recovered.

Shepherd’s identity as the vigilante ‘Bastion’ had only been revealed during a cleaning of his apartment. He had no immediate family, and no will. His apartment lay untouched for nearly a week after his death. His landlord had decided to donate the contents of the apartment to charity, only to uncover Bastion’s full regalia hidden inside a locked trunk. Had that never happened, John Adams Shepherd’s identity may have remained hidden forever, and Bastion’s disappearance would have become just another of history’s mysteries.

“My name is Jackson Keller,” the dead man said to his audience of countless thousands. “I was once known as the Champion of Chicago. Years ago, I’ve been told.” He chuckled, shaking his head with a wry smile. “I seem to have overslept.”

Gregoir watched him speak with narrowed eyes. Champion was said to have possessed almost supernatural charisma. Almost, meaning it was not a result of his power. It’d been the way he’d carried himself. The way he’d spoken to others. He’d held a genuine interest in the lives of those around him, and expressed it in a way that seemed natural, welcoming, and eager. He’d been lighthearted, always ready with a laugh or a smile. A gentle soul, always ready to forgive even those who did not deserve it.

Gregoir felt those things, now. He felt that this was a man who cared deeply about those around him. This was a man with genuine empathy, humble, wise and benevolent. All it took was a handful of words, a joke, and a smile. The man’s character was revealed clearly in those few moments. Gregoir felt it instinctively. It was a thought that couldn’t help but cross his mind. This man is the genuine article.

That thought was joined almost immediately by another: This man is not Champion.

Why? Why did Gregoir think that? Why did he suddenly know it, with bone deep certainty?

All accounts agreed: Champion’s charisma was not a result of his power. It was something the man was born with, and completely mundane. Even before becoming a Natural, Champion held a strong cadre of close companions willing to die for him. But these things took time. Trust was not built with a handful of words and a smile, no matter how stunning. Yet, Gregoir also knew that the man speaking on the screen was being absolutely genuine.

How could this be?

Gregoir liked to believe the best of people. He hoped that everyone he encountered could eventually grow into the best version of themself. He hoped that he could be the catalyst of that change. And when he found someone willing to go along with him, he hoped that they were genuine.

He hoped, but he never knew. He was not so arrogant as that. He believed in the goodness of others, but belief was not certainty. It couldn’t be. Otherwise there would be no need to believe. He couldn’t possibly know if someone was genuine. It was impossible.

The dissonant thoughts clashed with each other for a long moment, confusion warring with certainty just long enough for Gregoir to register something off. There was a battle going on in his head, and like in any battle his fighting spirit SURGED—!

And the clarity enforced upon him popped like a soap bubble.

“Rumors of my death have been greatly exaggerated,” the imposter continued to speak. “I did not pass away in federal custody, after submitting myself to the mercy of the courts. I’m sure that this is a shock to many of you. I’ve been informed that my story has been told many times over the years; I’ve been told that my deeds have made history. I’m honored by that fact, but I’m here to correct the record: I am the Champion of Chicago, and I’ve been a captive, and test subject, of the United States government for over half a century.”

Gregoir watched with horror as more and more of his fellow officers fell under the sway of the man’s words. He watched, uncertain of what to do for the first time in years, as the broadcast continued. Should he break the screen, break the spell, dispel the lies? Would that work, or would it keep his brave companions forever stuck in their ignorance? Should he pronounce the man a liar, and hope that others would believe him? Was that truly wise?

The broadcast needed to be watched. There was critical information here. A story was being told, a purpose unveiled. Someone had arranged this show for a reason yet to be revealed. Only by witnessing it, could truth be found. Gregoir needed to watch, if only because his eyes were clear. It had to be now; any recording that existed might be purged by federal order. These were dangerous times, and if this false Champion was indeed spilling state secrets, it was unlikely for the video to remain up for long. Gregoir would watch, and discover what he could. His fellows could be seen to; he only hoped the effects would fade in time.

“I was kept in a secret facility at the heart of Death Valley, suspended in cryogenic sleep and kept unconscious for decades at a time. I was not alone there, as you can see.” Champion gestured to his companion. Bastion’s gaunt face bored into the camera, his dark eyes filled with anger. “He is only one of dozens. Few of us can even stand, unaided. Time has taken its toll, among other things. I regret to inform my fellow Americans of the truth: Many of my People were captured, imprisoned, and experimented on. Our existences were deemed too disruptive to continue, but our powers were deemed too useful to lose. By studying us, replicas were made. Cheap imitations. Patterns for those abominations called upgrades.” He spat the final word with surprising vitriol.

There was an uncomfortable muttering among the crowd at that. Disbelievers, here and there, gave Gregoir hope. Several of the federal agents milling about the building had joined them, their eyes glued to the broadcast.

One asked, “Can we shut it down?”

“How?” another asked. “It’s a livestream.”

“The website?” suggested someone else.

“Impossible,” it was decided. “Not in time.”

“There were changes made, of course,” the false Champion continued. “Our powers were a threat; that is why we were removed to begin with. Our strongest abilities were neutered, and distributed amongst the military and the police. Those vaunted A-class and S-class were harvested from our bodies, and handed out to enforce laws that claim we are dangerous, hazardous things that should be avoided at all costs. Who knows what other cruelties Naturals have been subjected to, to create the vast plethora of available upgrades? How much blood must be spilled to sate the bottomless greed of amoral monsters?” He shook his head as if in profound disappointment. “I once placed myself at the mercy of my government, truly believing that I’d have a chance to plead my case, to speak in front of a jury of my peers and explain my goals and my dreams. That chance was stolen from me by frightened old men and women with too much power and too little sense.”

The imposter raised a fist, and slammed it down against his palm. The clap of skin on skin radiated through the room. “No more, I say. Never again will I hand myself over to those who would not see me judged fairly. Instead, I will warn others who are following the same path. You are being lied to. Every minute of every day, in your history books, in your news broadcasts, you are being lied to. History is not as you know it.” He smiled, then. It was perfectly genuine, something sad and worn. “I won’t ask you to rise up. I won’t demand a violent upheaval of all that is wrong in this world. I simply wish for the truth to be known, to be acknowledged, and for things to change.”

His fist unclenched, and he sighed. The slump of his shoulders seemed so real, his weariness could not possibly be faked.

“To my fellow citizens, I ask only this: be the change you want to see in the world. To the mutates of the world, I give you this warning: today it is the Naturals who are taken, tomorrow it may be you. And to my fellow Naturals, I extend an offer: the People have a place for you. You are not something to be feared. You are necessary. Your existence is vital, and good, and right. Join with us, and be free.”

The screen winked into black. Silence reigned in the room.

The hard taps of booted feet echoed from just behind Gregoir. A voice spoke, feminine, cold and hard.

“That is not Champion.”

Gregoir turned to face the newcomer, and for a moment he thought he was seeing Abigail. But no, his eyes were fooling him. There were hints of Gregoir’s friend in the woman’s face, but she was too old, too cold, and too angry to be that gentle girl. There was hatred in her eyes, in the lines of her face, oozing out of her pores like miasma. She stared at the blank screen, twin ice chips glaring white-hot fury at where the imposter had given his speech.

“That is not Champion,” she repeated, her voice razor sharp with authority.

“Then who was it?” a brave soul called out from within the crowd.

Anastasia Summers, for that was the only person it could possibly be, did not move an inch. Her eyes roamed the dark screen for a moment, and her lip curled upwards into a derisive sneer. Her voice was still controlled, but the slightest hint of black rage slipped into her tone.

“Just an Echo.”

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