strength and bulletproof skin that made him different from the rest of humanity. It was his origins.
He was an artificial man, grown like a plant. He had been intended to be a super-soldier, a warrior who would both inspire Americans and strike terror into the rising tides of the enemy.
His garb was mostly black with a skull-and-crossbones motif. This had been carefully crafted by the men and women in charge of the project. The pirate-style boots and overall design would appeal to the roguish spirit inherent in many Americans while simultaneously implying that he was a figure of death to those he fought.
To complete his creation, he’d been mentally fed a false life. He had initially believed himself to be a simple chemist who had gained his powers through the use of “Formic Ethers.” According to his memories, he had a girlfriend and a kid sidekick, but these had been mere fantasies. After an adventure alongside Lazarus Gray 5 , he’d not only gained knowledge of his true past, he’d also broken free of his captor’s control and used their own technology to bring his friends to artificial life. They had no knowledge of what they actually were and he planned to keep it that way. Tim and Jean were good people and what did it matter if they’d been born of flesh or science?
Currently, he was crouched atop a rooftop, a cutlass held tightly in his right hand. He usually preferred to go into battle with nothing more than his fists but there were times when he knew that he might need something a little more… severe.
He was fairly certain that tonight would be one of those times. Lately, he’d been encountering crime that was a little more… mysterious… than usual. Where he most often fought gangsters and would-be criminal masterminds, he’d encountered Satanists several times as of late. All of them were babbling about the “end times” and the return of dark gods.
His most recent battle had been with a slovenly gentleman who’d called himself The White Worm. The Black Terror had learned that The White Worm was supposed to meet a witch called Cassandra outside a dive bar called The Blue Labyrinth and he’d taken it upon himself to attend in The Worm’s stead.
Down below, Cassandra stood waiting in an alleyway with four men at her side. The goons were poured into their suits, muscles visibly bulging. The Black Terror could tell that they were packing heat, as well. He spotted the telltale signs of guns holstered under their jackets.
Cassandra was quite a sight, the hero had to admit. Tall and curvaceous, she had wavy blonde hair, bright blue eyes and a beauty mark just above the right corner of her mouth. She wore a white dress that shone like moonlight in the gloom and when he heard her speak, her voice sounded like the tolling of church bells.
“The Worm’s late,” she said. “Something’s not right.”
One of the men grunted and replied, “I don’t see why we need him. He’s only good for bringing in cash from his whores and booze. We could replace him easy enough.”
Cassandra’s pretty face twisted into a grimace. “Don’t speak of such things in front of me!” she warned. “I’m a lady, remember?”
“Sorry,” he muttered.
The Black Terror shifted. He’d heard enough to confirm that this was the woman he’d been looking for. The White Worm had made it clear that Cassandra knew what was going on and why the entire town had been acting crazy lately—hell, maybe even beyond this town, if the news from Sovereign could be believed. A rash of suicides? That was enough to bring goosebumps to The Black Terror’s flesh.
Throwing himself off the roof, The Black Terror allowed his cloak to billow out behind him. He landed in a crouch and, before the stunned goons could even comprehend what was happening, he launched himself at them. He seized the nearest of the men by the throat and threw him at another. The two men’s bodies collided with the force of a freight train, their heads
He was an artificial man, grown like a plant. He had been intended to be a super-soldier, a warrior who would both inspire Americans and strike terror into the rising tides of the enemy.
His garb was mostly black with a skull-and-crossbones motif. This had been carefully crafted by the men and women in charge of the project. The pirate-style boots and overall design would appeal to the roguish spirit inherent in many Americans while simultaneously implying that he was a figure of death to those he fought.
To complete his creation, he’d been mentally fed a false life. He had initially believed himself to be a simple chemist who had gained his powers through the use of “Formic Ethers.” According to his memories, he had a girlfriend and a kid sidekick, but these had been mere fantasies. After an adventure alongside Lazarus Gray 5 , he’d not only gained knowledge of his true past, he’d also broken free of his captor’s control and used their own technology to bring his friends to artificial life. They had no knowledge of what they actually were and he planned to keep it that way. Tim and Jean were good people and what did it matter if they’d been born of flesh or science?
Currently, he was crouched atop a rooftop, a cutlass held tightly in his right hand. He usually preferred to go into battle with nothing more than his fists but there were times when he knew that he might need something a little more… severe.
He was fairly certain that tonight would be one of those times. Lately, he’d been encountering crime that was a little more… mysterious… than usual. Where he most often fought gangsters and would-be criminal masterminds, he’d encountered Satanists several times as of late. All of them were babbling about the “end times” and the return of dark gods.
His most recent battle had been with a slovenly gentleman who’d called himself The White Worm. The Black Terror had learned that The White Worm was supposed to meet a witch called Cassandra outside a dive bar called The Blue Labyrinth and he’d taken it upon himself to attend in The Worm’s stead.
Down below, Cassandra stood waiting in an alleyway with four men at her side. The goons were poured into their suits, muscles visibly bulging. The Black Terror could tell that they were packing heat, as well. He spotted the telltale signs of guns holstered under their jackets.
Cassandra was quite a sight, the hero had to admit. Tall and curvaceous, she had wavy blonde hair, bright blue eyes and a beauty mark just above the right corner of her mouth. She wore a white dress that shone like moonlight in the gloom and when he heard her speak, her voice sounded like the tolling of church bells.
“The Worm’s late,” she said. “Something’s not right.”
One of the men grunted and replied, “I don’t see why we need him. He’s only good for bringing in cash from his whores and booze. We could replace him easy enough.”
Cassandra’s pretty face twisted into a grimace. “Don’t speak of such things in front of me!” she warned. “I’m a lady, remember?”
“Sorry,” he muttered.
The Black Terror shifted. He’d heard enough to confirm that this was the woman he’d been looking for. The White Worm had made it clear that Cassandra knew what was going on and why the entire town had been acting crazy lately—hell, maybe even beyond this town, if the news from Sovereign could be believed. A rash of suicides? That was enough to bring goosebumps to The Black Terror’s flesh.
Throwing himself off the roof, The Black Terror allowed his cloak to billow out behind him. He landed in a crouch and, before the stunned goons could even comprehend what was happening, he launched himself at them. He seized the nearest of the men by the throat and threw him at another. The two men’s bodies collided with the force of a freight train, their heads
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