Childhood's End - Chapter 2

As it went, Rowena's experience with alcohol in the vodka bar was decidedly bipolar: After being brought up with, at most, a glass of mild wine for dinner, knocking back a shot of liquor was a new and not very pleasant experience. On the other hand, Rowena had the guts (and responsibility) to switch her next order to a coke - which, in turn elicited a very contradictory reaction from Trish, who at once egged her on about not cutting loose while simultanously congratulating her responsibility.

Once Rowena noticed that Trish was now standing behind the bar with an apron tied over her clothes, the whole situation made slightly more sense.

"You work here, too?" Rowena asked.
"I own it."
"You dragged me to your own bar? Shameless," Rowena said, then took another sip from her coke. "Shameless," she repeated.
"That's me, girl. I'm the Don of the district," Trish said, grinning from ear to ear.
"You got any orange peels?"
"No Corleonin' in my house."
"Fair enough," Rowena said. Her look swept the bar, taking in the clientel - or lack thereof. "Bit early, innit?"
"Yeah, I guess. I don't usually open up until 9."
"And the piano?"
"If you can figure out how to get it down from that pedestal, take it. It was here when I bought the place."
"Does it work?"
"It makes sounds when you bang on the keys."

Rowena shot her that look.

"Can I try?"
"You play?"
"A bit."

Trish soon realized that her definition of "a bit" differed markedly from Rowena's. Even if "Fuer Elise" was about as cliche as they came, Rowena proved her chops by playing on after the intro and actually finishing without major stops. After her finish, she rose from the seat and returned to the bar, where Trish was still standing with that deer in the headlights look.

"I'm a bit rusty," Rowena said. "Oh, and the soft pedal is busted, just, you know, if you want to get that fixed."
"Faye," she said, making Rowena's eyelids flutter until she recalled her impromptu cover, "do you need a job?"
"Why, do you need a pianist?"
"I need someone to help me run the place, and you're already on top of my 'responsible' list. Piano skills are a plus, certainly..."
"If you need help, why didn't you hire someone else?"
"Tried. You know what kinda people apply? Endless streams of burned-out potheads who think working a bar is cool. You're already more mature than the whole lot of them."
"I'm just a kid."
"That's not what your ID says."
"...debate club?"
"Nope," Trish said, smiling. "Just a hobby of mine."

The door creaked open, admitting Mark into the bar. Rowena had one look at him and then tried her hardest to be captivated by her beverage.

"Your stuff's still caught in traffic," he said, taking in the surroundings.
"Okay."

Mark walked towards the bar, his boots summoning groans from the wooden floorboards.

"Any particular reason you two are hanging out here?"
"Quite the funny story there, Mr. Rollins..." Trish began, but Mark cut her off.
"I don't do funny. What's the score?"
"I was...I was offering your niece a job. Uh, provided you're okay with that."
"It's your time, Faye. You can work evenings, just don't start skipping class."
"I'm, well, I'm kinda home-schooled, you know," Rowena cut in for Trish's benefit.
"That's great! Do you...want another cola, Faye? On the house. Do you want anything, Mr. Rollins?"
"Are you letting that vodka breathe?"

Bus-ted! thought Rowena, while Trish scrambled to make the bottle disappear without explicitly acknowledging its presence.

"I'll have one," Mark finally said, defusing the ackward situation before it had a chance to settle down by itself. The way he slammed back that shot suggested that he was on friendly terms with the entire ethnically diverse cast of hard liquor found in a well-stocked bar. "Well, it's been fun, but we need to move. You coming?"

Rowena drank the last of her coke, then followed Mark to the door, sending a silent "We'll talk later" gesture to Trish. Mark held open the door for his student. Outside, he silently guided Rowena towards his car, and she was not surprised in the least that it was a Dodge Charger. He didn't exactly force her into the car, but with his big frame in the way, the direction "backwards" had temporarily lost all meaning.

The engine roared, and soon they were on their way south. Even to the geographically challenged (read: Rowena), the destination was clear: Staten Island.

"Making friends?" Mark asked, his voice detached and calm.
"I'm just rolling with it for now."
"Good call."
"...really?"
"I'm not a monk, and I don't go for that bullshit. If you don't live, you're only gonna snap one day. Just keep it away from your day job."
"Okay...can you stop scaring my landlord, then?"
"Maybe, when it stops being fun."
"Fun?"
"Did you see her squirm? You just can't pay for that kinda entertainment."

Rowena rolled her eyes, and she had the sneaking suspicion that it wouldn't be the last time in her tenure here, but the destination of their trip showed some promise.

The first lesson loomed on the horizon.

Childhood's End - Chapter 1

It could be worse, Rowena kept telling herself. It could be Harlem.

Mark had rented her a loft sight unseen, smack in the middle of Manhattan's Meatpacking District. While the area had moved away from its name-giving origin, it now housed a large contingent of hipsters, artists and other bohemians, and Rowena didn't know whether putting her into the middle of that was an act of cruelty or ignorance. There was literally nothing in the whole unit except for what Mark had promised to have delivered to her, so Rowena reached into her duffel bag and withdrew a tightly-packed bedroll for the first night. She pondered unpacking her stuff, but there were no cupboards or closets to put anything in. And God, did these people ever clean the windows?

She got up from her semi-crouch, walked into the bathroom - at least some evidence of civilised life! - and took a good hard look at herself and where she had gone wrong.

Trinity always went on about how Rowena had her father's eyes, but that was demonstrably false - her brown was much lighter, obviously so. Maybe they shared the same soul behind it, but it seemed like Trinity was all too eager to draw parallels between father and daughter, both for her own and Rowena's benefit. The hair? Okay, she had to give Trinity the hair, that was pretty close, even if Rowena's black was razor-straight to her father's slight creasing. No matter; she wore it short, and somewhat spikey - judging from the people she'd seen on her way in, her bad hair day was Standard Operating Procedure for the people here, and she didn't feel vain enough to fuss about with it that much. The face was a dead giveaway...that Italian heritage shone through, as if Michelangelo himself had chiseled the archetypical Logan family face onto one of her ancestors. She dumped her jacket, and began to examine her body a bit more self-consciously. There was no denying that Rowena was in excellent physical shape - she'd met girls who'd kill for her figure. But that ackwardness of being in the middle of a growth spurt was hard to shake. Her limbs seemed long and lanky, a semi-detached look at her breasts left her wondering whether that was worth the attention of fine young men, and she didn't have to uncover her belly to be haunted by the picture of that long, surgical scar again. Oh, and then there was the gun, that damn Belgian Five-seveN Trinity had talked her into, which was atleast more practical to wear in a shoulder holster than an albatross around her neck.

This is your life, Rowena Logan.

There was a knock on the door; Rowena checked her watch and figured that her benefactor was a bit early. She grabbed her jacket, walked over to the door and opened it a crack, spotted Mark and let him into the apartment. He was a big, hulking presence as always, uncharacteristically decked out in slacks and a sweatshirt underneath his trenchcoat, but he carried himself like a dangerous man and Rowena knew that he was hiding more weapons than most soldiers would carry openly.

"Nice," he said, taking in the bare walls and windows. "I have some furniture in storage down in Jersey, it'll be here later tonight. Power, telephone, cable, net - already here, the sockets should be live. Do you..."
"No, I have..."
"'kay."

The two looked at each other, and Mark shrugged, unable to figure out what to say next.

"So, when do we train?" Rowena asked.
"After you're settled in. Oh, almost forgot..."

He reached into his coat, drew out a small package and gave it to her.

"Birth certificate, social security number, driver's license, gun range membership, concealed carry license..."

Rowena opened the package and riffled through the documents, giggling all the way.

"What?" Mark asked, his face dark with concern.
"Faye Rollins? Where'd you come up with that?"
"It's just a name."
"A stupid name."
"I had it lying around, the documents work for you."
"So that's the name on the lease here, too?"
"'fraid so, kid."
"I oughta kill you..."
"We'll practice later," Mark said, and his grin agitated Rowena, because she got the distinct feeling that this guy was playing an elaborate private joke on her.

"Knock knock," came a voice from the door, and Rowena spotted a 20-ish woman whose sober blouse and skirt combo was fighting valiantly to resist infection from the sheer zaniness and multicolor sparkling that was her hairdo. "Hello, guys. You're Faye, aren't you?"
"Yep, that's me," Rowena said, trying to inject some cheer into her voice. "Faye and Fayer."
"I'm Trish, the landlord."

Rowena gave her a mock salute. Trish laughed at that.

"What's it with us perky girls and the business suits, anyway?" She walked into the loft and shook Rowena's hand, then turned to Mark. "And you're...Daddy? Uncle?"
"...uncle," Mark replied. "Gordon Rollins."
"Nice to meetcha," Trish replied. "So, what brings you guys here? The history? The artistés? The choice of ten Starbucks in walking distance?"
"I just need a place to stay," Rowena replied.
"Striking out on your own for the first time, hm?"
"Pretty much."

Trish nodded as her face took on a more motherly expression.

"Don't worry, sweetheart. You're in good hands here."
"I, well, I should be leaving," Mark said. "I'll be back with the stuff later."
"Bye."

It didn't take Mark very long to clear out.

"How old are you?" Trish asked.
"...18."
"Really."

Rowena fished her new ID from her pocket, accidentally letting her holster straps show without noticing.

"Wow," Trish said. "That must've set you back a good bit."
"My uncle took care of it."
"Figures. Why aren't you staying with him?"
"It's the whole 'striking out on my own' deal."
"That why you're carrying?"
"...girl's gotta defend herself."
"Let me guess, you have a license."
"Right here."

Rowena fished out the document.

"You're a straight-up Byron, girl," Trish said.
"Mad, bad and dangerous to know."
"Just like everyone else here," Trish replied and smiled. "Now, how about we put that fake ID to good use? There's a watering hole at the corner..."
"Right behind you," Rowena said.

Ultimates - The Story so far...

A few months before the collapse of the Archer Pact, Mark Simmons - a hitman, but don't call him that - became tangled in an operation of The Shop and killed a Telepath working for them in New York City. The Shop, a large organisation dedicated to eradicting the human race in favor of Psions, attempted to salvage the operation by recruiting Mark and setting him against the local Archer cell. This drew the attention of Dr. Lothario Algernon, Archer's specialist for paranormal phenomena and leader of Division Nihil, who apprehended Mark. After convincing Mark that he'd been fed bad intel, he gladly agreed to turn the tables on The Shop. In an explosive showdown, Mark and Division Nihil took down the local Shop cell, earning Mark a position as Archer "freelancer".

An ambitious agent of the European Archer chamber - Brandon Logan alias Equinox - was likewise entangled in his own private war against The Shop; having taken down Villain X, one of The Shop's lieutenants, Equinox assembled a new group of agents for an even more daring mission: Rescue Fade, the enigmatic European chamber control, from The Shop. Mark participated in this plan, both as "insurance" and big fat distraction. Together with the other Ultimates, Mark and Equinox managed to spring Fade.

Then, the collapse happened.

In the aftermath, Equinox - now part of The Umbrella, Fade's private organisation - recruited Mark as his personal "Enforcer", a term that stuck for what Mark would subsequently do: Travel around and solve the problems that were too difficult for diplomacy, yet didn't warrant an all-out assault. Mark also helped out Dr. Algernon in his fight against the Architects of the Fringe - madmen yearning to rule this world from the Fringe - and silenced that threat. Today, Division Nihil still lives on in the New York underground, and Mark and Lothario are actually roommates in Mark's apartment. Lothario also became rather smitten with Dr. Kyla Thrace, Mark's personal physician.

Recently, Mark came into conflict with The Assassins on a trip to St. Petersburg. The Assassins were enemies of the Pact from way back, and Mark was led to believe that they were conducting a house-cleaning operation against corruption from within, using Mark as their cleaner and offering him money in exchange, with a view towards recruiting Mark for themselves. Mark fell in with Misri, an Assassin, in Australia, where they plotted for Mark to take out the Assassin leadership and replace them with Misri, in exchange for her future loyalty. Since Misri was his target, he had to pretend to kill her.

He was then led to Tokyo, where he found an elaborate ambush waiting for him - police, Yakuza and Archer's corrupt Asian chamber were all after him. Mark found refuge with the Ten Tiger Vigilantes, a group dedicated to cleaning up the chamber, but soon found that he'd been cloned by the Shop to further the deception. Tracking down his clone, the two duelled, and although the clone proved to be stronger and faster, Mark prevailed through quick thinking. Already seriously injured from the breakneck pace of his fights, Mark finally led the assault on Tien-Kai Tsong, the corrupted leader of the chamber who'd been revealed as being in collusion with The Shop. The two duelled with swords, Tsong proving to be far superior, but Mark's remarks about the trickery that had been played on him led Tsong to remark that this wasn't his doing - and realize that The Shop had set up both of them. Before Tsong could explain, he was killed by being pushed onto Mark's sword by an unseen assailant. Mark realized shortly thereafter that the entire affair had been an elaborate game to use him to both weaken the Assassins and get rid of Shop operatives that were no longer needed. Enraged at being tricked again, Mark left Tokyo, vowing to one day get his revenge on The Shop.

Meanwhile, Fade's efforts to consolidate his contacts and resources had come together into the construction of a new Umbrella stronghold on Staten Island - a project Mark in particular viewed as important. Several weeks after Mark's return to NYC, he was approached by Equinox, who had supported Mark with equipment back in Australia and now wanted to cash in on that debt. He asked Mark to train his daughter - Rowena Logan - as an Enforcer. Mark accepted, and now he may face his greatest challenge yet - raise a teenager.

Ultimates - Introduction

("Ultimates" is a shared story background based upon the very good Shadowforce Archer campaign setting for the Spycraft RPG. More info can be found at Crafty Games - and the forums hold more stories by my esteemed comrades.)

It's nearly impossible today to imagine just how easy it would have been for the world to self-destruct during the Cold War. That we are here today might be considered the largest lucky break ever granted to anyone - but I can tell you that, like so many things, this was not left to chance. A worldwide conspiracy - the Archer Pact - helped us survive by manipulating international politics. They were the shadows behind the scenes, playing entire countries in an intricate game of chess to keep the balance of terror from tipping either way.

Then the whole gig went to shit, and it was every man for himself.

The Archer Pact is dead, and its chambers are clinging on to a desperate existence, but the last generation of Archer agents isn't quite ready to let go yet. Old enemies still abound along with new threats, and they have taken up the mantle of protecting the world from itself. They are the psionic powerhouses, undying mystical experts and highly-trained operatives that stand ready to deal with any - any - danger. They are, simply put, the absolute best at what they do.

They are The Ultimates.

One of them is Mark Simmons, a hitman turned secret agent who's already feeling the years. He is competent but human, and where others might tap into their supernatural potential, he has to make do with his wits and skills. His unkempt, loudmouthed attitude may be that of a thug, but it is an essential part of what makes him so effective - people keep underestimating him.

Needless to say, a guy like him keeps making big impressions - positive and negative...

And so it begins...

Yes, I've opened a blog for my writing.

Most of what you'll be seeing here will be new (I might bring up older stories later), and new readers will quite probably require a somewhat lengthy introduction to the various story backgrounds. That, too, is forthcoming.

Then again, I'm doing this mostly for the benefit of people who are already in the game, so to speak. Also, being a blogger legally requires me to note, at some point, that I am THE WORLD'S WORST PROCRASTINATOR. I figured I should get that out of the way right at the beginning.

Above all, I hope you'll have as much fun reading this as I'll have writing it. Because writing is fun, dammit, even if I have to get up sometimes, step out of the house and let out a big ol' shout of frustration. I dread waking up one day and realizing that I'm actually doing work here.

Let the games begin! (Eventually...)