that had these foot-long eyebrows. It turned out that his
powers came from insomnia. Not being able to sleep gave him the
ability to talk to the dead and communicate and fight through the
dreams of others.
Borland sneered at the stupid pack of made-up
geek talk, but he found the story and pictures interesting enough,
and easier to read than a wordy eBook. The story followed Team
Omega fighting the Robot Maker—a mad scientist who wanted to rule
the world with machines.
Borland had read through most of it the last
couple nights, but had just finished the final chapters and
epilogue.
He flipped it back to read the last page
again:
With the world safe from evil once more,
the team returns to Omega Island to unwind ...
One joker named Blackout wore a dark hood
with a single eyehole. He got his powers from boozing.
Borland liked him .
Deciding he needed air, Blackout tucked the
bottle of whiskey under his arm and took the long stairs to the top
of a tower to relax and, Borland imagined, get stinking drunk.
That’s the spirit!
And that was when Blackout ran into the
prissy caped hero, this Zombie fellow, standing up there in the
dark, watching the full moon and thinking.
Blackout was at the top of the stairs, and
drinking up a storm. Then he noticed light coming from ahead.
Blackout said: “Oh, Zombie, can’t sleep
either, huh? Want a drink?”
“No my friend, drink will not help,” replied
the taller hero. The full moon was behind him. “I never sleep. That
is the source of my power. I could not speak to the dead
otherwise.”
Blackout drank.
“And because I never sleep. I can never
dream,” Zombie lamented, while Blackout kept swigging whiskey in
the foreground.
Zombie drooped into a sad pose overlooking
the moonlit sea and said: “And without dreams, life has no
meaning.”
That switched in the next frame to Blackout
sliding down the wall plastered drunk saying: “Sure sounds to me
like you need a drink.”
Borland knew that was supposed to be a funny
ending to the adventure.
He turned the comic over in his hands before
setting it down. The cover was frayed, and the pages tattered. It
was clear that the issue was important to the Zombie Borland
knew.
He had read it to pieces.
Dreams .
The kid got something out of it. Maybe
something that made him decide to quit training for a mechanized
army unit to volunteer for the Variant Squad.
Maybe something he thought would give his
life meaning.
But it was something that got him killed.
Death can have meaning, too .
Borland struggled to get comfortable on the
couch, but the action brought a riot of twinges, cramps and pains
from his rewired guts.
Felt better, but just a bit .
He’d lost some weight too.
But just a bit .
Brass had come through on his offer to get
Borland’s hernias fixed. That was five weeks ago, and the doctors
said they wouldn’t do it unless he lost a lot of weight, but Brass
just started pulling strings. The big man was good at that. And
like his bosses, he thought pulling strings didn’t leave
fingerprints.
Borland winced again as his muscles cramped
around the steel threads.
The sutures on all three hernias still
stung—a mess: umbilical, right and left inguinal—both sides of the
groin. There were disconcerting ridges of sewn muscle tangled in
twists of fat, and post-operative drainage left his scrotum looking
like a rotten avocado.
Not much of an improvement.
But even with the pain and discomfort, he
couldn’t miss some of his old confidence creeping back.
How can you have confidence after what
happened?
Because you’re a Captain and they’re the little people.
He was overcome by a wave of nausea as new
memories crowded. Ghosts freshly buried shimmered in his mind.
It didn’t go well .
And right on the heels of the Parkerville
tunnels and the business with Hyde’s daughter—it was almost too
much for him.
And then...
The hernia operations were supposed to be
simple. Textbook. Easy.
A bore .
Nothing to
powers came from insomnia. Not being able to sleep gave him the
ability to talk to the dead and communicate and fight through the
dreams of others.
Borland sneered at the stupid pack of made-up
geek talk, but he found the story and pictures interesting enough,
and easier to read than a wordy eBook. The story followed Team
Omega fighting the Robot Maker—a mad scientist who wanted to rule
the world with machines.
Borland had read through most of it the last
couple nights, but had just finished the final chapters and
epilogue.
He flipped it back to read the last page
again:
With the world safe from evil once more,
the team returns to Omega Island to unwind ...
One joker named Blackout wore a dark hood
with a single eyehole. He got his powers from boozing.
Borland liked him .
Deciding he needed air, Blackout tucked the
bottle of whiskey under his arm and took the long stairs to the top
of a tower to relax and, Borland imagined, get stinking drunk.
That’s the spirit!
And that was when Blackout ran into the
prissy caped hero, this Zombie fellow, standing up there in the
dark, watching the full moon and thinking.
Blackout was at the top of the stairs, and
drinking up a storm. Then he noticed light coming from ahead.
Blackout said: “Oh, Zombie, can’t sleep
either, huh? Want a drink?”
“No my friend, drink will not help,” replied
the taller hero. The full moon was behind him. “I never sleep. That
is the source of my power. I could not speak to the dead
otherwise.”
Blackout drank.
“And because I never sleep. I can never
dream,” Zombie lamented, while Blackout kept swigging whiskey in
the foreground.
Zombie drooped into a sad pose overlooking
the moonlit sea and said: “And without dreams, life has no
meaning.”
That switched in the next frame to Blackout
sliding down the wall plastered drunk saying: “Sure sounds to me
like you need a drink.”
Borland knew that was supposed to be a funny
ending to the adventure.
He turned the comic over in his hands before
setting it down. The cover was frayed, and the pages tattered. It
was clear that the issue was important to the Zombie Borland
knew.
He had read it to pieces.
Dreams .
The kid got something out of it. Maybe
something that made him decide to quit training for a mechanized
army unit to volunteer for the Variant Squad.
Maybe something he thought would give his
life meaning.
But it was something that got him killed.
Death can have meaning, too .
Borland struggled to get comfortable on the
couch, but the action brought a riot of twinges, cramps and pains
from his rewired guts.
Felt better, but just a bit .
He’d lost some weight too.
But just a bit .
Brass had come through on his offer to get
Borland’s hernias fixed. That was five weeks ago, and the doctors
said they wouldn’t do it unless he lost a lot of weight, but Brass
just started pulling strings. The big man was good at that. And
like his bosses, he thought pulling strings didn’t leave
fingerprints.
Borland winced again as his muscles cramped
around the steel threads.
The sutures on all three hernias still
stung—a mess: umbilical, right and left inguinal—both sides of the
groin. There were disconcerting ridges of sewn muscle tangled in
twists of fat, and post-operative drainage left his scrotum looking
like a rotten avocado.
Not much of an improvement.
But even with the pain and discomfort, he
couldn’t miss some of his old confidence creeping back.
How can you have confidence after what
happened?
Because you’re a Captain and they’re the little people.
He was overcome by a wave of nausea as new
memories crowded. Ghosts freshly buried shimmered in his mind.
It didn’t go well .
And right on the heels of the Parkerville
tunnels and the business with Hyde’s daughter—it was almost too
much for him.
And then...
The hernia operations were supposed to be
simple. Textbook. Easy.
A bore .
Nothing to
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