From the world of Dark Champions by Hero Games

November 6: Thursday 01:23

Thomas Hart wheeled toward the new threat. Beside him a man screamed with pain, the shriek muting suddenly as it breached the decibel safety cut-off in Hart's amplified earphones. A handgun went off, the pop of the cheap nine millimeter making its own bulb of silence in his ear.

Something tapped him in the chest, and Hart grinned then, just as he let the shotgun do its job. The punk with the pistol went backwards, made no sound except for a gurgle. Since Hart didn't have a fix on who else was in the alley, he blew away the one dim light with another shot and slapped the infra-red goggles down over his eyes.

Hart spun slowly in a deep crouch, taking in the alley and the street beyond. He was alone, except for the dead and the screaming. The other punks must have taken the path of least resistance, he mused. Just then the radio crackled. Whatever his fellow vigilante had to say was lost in the screaming.

Placed firmly on the punk's throat, Hart's boot brought quiet to the alley.

"Say again."

"I said what do you need?" Nighthawk's slightly amused tenor was clear over the scrambled radio link.

"Nothing. The bad boys I was watching had the bad taste to notice me." Hart looked down at the punk who was clutching feebly at his leg. "Don't scream," he said.

"Don't what?" said Nighthawk.

"Not you, nimrod, this punk I just shot," Hart said.

Hart lifted his boot. The kid - Hart could see now the one that might live was just a kid stopped screaming. His breathing was labored and loud in Hart's earphones, but he didn't scream. Wearing a full-face combat helmet wasn't confining if you had amplified hearing and infra-red goggles. Below him on the street, the punk's face was a red blotch on cool dark grey concrete.

"Oh great," Nighthawk said. "Not again. Will he live? Remember what happened the last time -"

Sirens in the background roused Hart from contemplating the simple courage of the kid he'd shot. Hart wasn't sure he could stop from screaming if he had a leg full of buckshot. Or maybe it wasn't courage, he reflected just a bit more, but the maw of the shotgun pointing casually downwards. There was a lesson there about human nature, he decided.

"Cops," said Hart then as he scanned the end of the alley for a discreet path of retreat. "Some citizen did his civic duty."

"Hell yes. And the police are coming twice as fast, knowing it's you," said Nighthawk.

Hart felt a sharp pain in his side as he went over the fence at the back of the alley. From there he could make a roof easily. The pain reminded him he'd been shot. Probably a broken rib. Not enough to bother the family doctor.

After he ditched the cops, Hart thought to himself as he went hand over hand up to a rooftop, he'd rendezvous with Nighthawk, one of a handful of the vigilantes who fought crime with steel, lead, and unquenchable spirit.

November 6: Thursday 02:06

The darkness was comforting for a man with infra-red goggles. The night was alive with heat. It always was. He could see Nighthawk's cycle blocks away, despite the fact his fellow vigilante was driving with his headlight off.

"Dangerous habit," he said into the mic in his helmet. "I'm four blocks farther down. Nice place to park right behind the dump, sters."

"Thanks," was all Nighthawk had to say. He parked the bike.

They stood looking at each other for a few moments.

"Police radio says one dead, one in intensive," Nighthawk said finally. "They're calling it a Heartwrencher shoot. They've got a witness who made the I.D. on your souped-up army helmet."

Thomas Hart mulled that over. Around them the night was quiet and cool, but the nearby dumpster added a dirty taste to the air.

"So?" he said finally.

"So? For cryin' out loud, the cops are going to be all over us for weeks ......"

"Aren't they always?"

Nighthawk shook his head. When he wasn't wearing his motorcycle helmet he used a scarf to cover his features. It slipped now with that motion, but it didn't matter much. Thomas Hart and Mike Stone knew each other. The mask was for other watchers.

"They'll be all over the streets for the next few weeks at least. Some mother will come out of the woodwork, get some air time, do Oprah and Montel, go on and on about what bad vigilantes we all are." Stone Nighthawk - challenged Hart with a direct stare.

"You ever wonder why they don't go after the Harbinger like that?" Hart said.

"Harbinger didn't start his career by shooting a cop," Nighthawk was going to say.

"I know, I know," Hart interrupted. Those words made something wake inside him. He preferred the dead feeling. He preferred it to be left undisturbed.

The silence stretched.

"Sorry," Hart said finally.

"You like it, don't you?" Nighthawk said. "Did you have to get into that firefight? Did you?"

"I didn't start that one," Hart said.

"Oh yeah? Did you have to be in that alley? Cops on the radio described the scene: those were close-in shots. We're talking about a few small-time dealers here. Popguns."

"I took a bullet," Hart said, his pride stung., "It wasn't that easy."

"Oh, you took a bullet." Nighthawk turned Rwayl kicked at a crack in the concrete. "We're supposed to be different. Make a difference without killing. Harbinger gets away with it because... because the cops know he won't hesitate to shoot... because he's so damn good. When it gets down to us, we're do-oble, man, we're a promotion waiting to be earned by some hot-shot cop. And they're gonna be out looking for us, now. In spades."

"You wanna tell Dancer?" Hart said after a few seconds.

"No need. She'll never get picked up by the cops. Too subtle."

"What's she been up to?" Hart was glad to change the subject.

"Hear about those muggers in LeMastre Park? Those were hers."

Hart laughed, a few short barks of laughter. "I should have known. I mean, who else leaves two guys with symmetrical broken bones?"

"Yeah. Right wrist, shoulder, knee and foot on one guy and left wrist, shoulder, knee and foot on the other." Nighthawk laughed too, a gentler guffaw. "Where do you learn to do that to a guy?"

Hart thought he knew, but it wasn't for him to talk about Dancer's Company connections.

"It's getting late for me," Nighthawk said after awhile. "Some of us actually work for a living, you know."

"Sure," said Hart, thinking about the cot he slept on in his warehouse. He didn't look forward to sleep. Never did.

November 6: Thursday 14:55

It wasn't the Father dream, of that he was certain and grateful. It was the Government Center. Night. Half-lit corridors, one after another. The terrorists had the Mayor. Right.

That night it had said so on the TV. The Mayor, taken hostage by terrorists in the Government Center. Unspecified demands. Building surrounded, negotiations to begin soon. It was all a trap, meant to bring vigilantes to justice. A re-election campaign trick. Hart remembered this, in his dream, but he still had to dream the dream.

Nighthawk was there. Dancer was there. Scapegoat and Toecutter were there, and in the dream he knew them, wasn't meeting them for the first time.

The door in the stairwell was metal. Fire code, some part of Hart said, that's the fire code. A random thought, enshrined forever by the dream. His amplified earphones picked up idle chatter, the sound of terrorists comfortable and safe inside the building.

With a silent gesture, Heartwrencher and Nighthawk readied their weapons. A countdown of fingers. On three, the door.

The dream says dream with slow-mo. Kicked door swings. Heartwrencher's first target is in jeans. He's got an AK-47, casually slung. He's got coffee in a styrofoam cup. Heartwrencher blows him away.

Nighthawk's submachine gun chatters. His target wears a vest, is dressed in police blue. Something's wrong. Something's phony.

Heartwrencher watches the rest of the dream with detached angst. There's nothing he can do about the cop he just shot, the cop dressed as a terrorist. He dreams bitterness and bad luck: Nighthawk's target wore a vest and lived.

Escaping the trap meant running, smoke, pain, a red haze from leg and chest. Dancer muscling him to safety just past the fake cordon they'd busted open with smoke and frag grenades. The deja-vu of a dream of real life.

And awake, to cold sweat and darkness and the smell of gun oil, the shotgun cleaned and loaded one handbreadth away.

"Damn," Hart said to no one in particular. He reached for the light.

November 7: Friday 02:04

"So I'm worried about him, Nighthawk said. He'd arranged a private meeting with Dancer with the cell phones they all carried as backup for the scrambled radio link.

"You said that already," Dancer replied. LeMastre Park was quiet around them. Two in the morning. She wasn't a tall woman, but the way she held herself promised strength and speed in a fight.

"He's trying to get himself killed."

"Aren't we all?" Dancer's voice was tinged with sarcasm. "This isn't a desk job..."

Heartwrencher's voice came over the radio. "Got a dealer here, maybe. Can't tell. I'm going in to look. Two blocks south of the Barton Street Mission."

Nighthawk flipped his mic to 'live.' "Give us a few minutes, we'll be there."

"No need," said Heartwrencher.

November 7: Friday 02:07

The dealer - he was certain it was a dealer, but he couldn't get close enough to the transaction to see the goods-was half in the mouth of an alley, just barely silhouetted by the one working streetlight half a block down. Hart had watched him for half an hour. People stepped up, stepped away. Infra-red was no good for detail. He had to see the goods to be sure. Hart radioed his fellow vigilantes, just in case. Then he got ready to take a stroll.

Hart's bulky combat helmet went into the bag he slung over his shoulder. He flipped the safety off the shotgun and held it under his coat. Pulling his overcoat around him, Thomas Hart made his way down the street.

Some small part of him said "stupid, stupid" but he kept walking. The dealer had his arms crossed, waiting. Hart walked right up.

"What you got?" he said casually.

"What you want?" said the dealer, tense and tight.

Hart swung the shotgun up and into the dealer's belly. Equally fast, the dealer unfolded his arms. One hand held a pistol. It came to rest on Hart's forehead, just right of center. The dealer held it in the sideways grip so popular on TV these days, Hart noted.

"Now lissen' here, asshole," said the dealer. "Just you back away."

Something hot boiled up inside Hart. The night receded around him until all he could see was the dealer, the dealer's arm and hand and the gun just above his right eye. There was also a row of blue shirts, the color guard at a cop's funeral, a waving flag, a dead feeling inside his belly.

"Yeah, sure," Hart said. And he pulled the trigger.

Something boomed. Something went bang. A red flash of lightning lit the inside of his head. A tremendous CRACK! deafened him. The dealer went backwards, guts a red mess.

Then Hart was falling to his knees. He couldn't quite understand why. Something was wrong with his legs, he thought. Something was wrong with his arms. The shotgun clattered on the dirty sidewalk. Numb, he was numb, his ears were ringing.

Hart toppled forward with a smile on his face. His head came to rest next to the dealer's feet.

November 7: Friday 02:16

Nighthawk and Dancer scanned the scene. The dealer was clearly dead. Sirens in the distance suggested that company would soon arrive. They were two blocks south of the Barton Street Mission.

"Where's Heartwrencher?" said Nighthawk. Dancer stooped low, shined her light upon the ground. She picked up the dealer's nine with a gloved hand, sniffed the barrel.

"Somebody got shot here," she said, straightening.

"No kidding?" quipped Nighthawk, gesturing at the corpse.

"Somebody got shot here," Dancer repeated, and pointed her light downward. "Look at the blood pattern. This guy didn't get shot in the foot, did he? Where'd this blood come from?"

"This is the corner. Let's assume this is the dealer Heartwrencher mentioned. So where's our man?"

"Gone," said Dancer, backing away to Nighthawk's motorcycle. "Which is what we should be."

"Don't have to tell me twice."

Nighthawk thumbed his cycle to life and Dancer swung on behind. Slowly they wheeled down the dark street, leaving the scene to the police.

November 9: Sunday 16:35

Heartwrencher was blind. His face was tightly bound. A strap dug into his arm. His other arm felt dead from the elbow down. His feet felt like they were under blankets.

Puzzling this out exhausted him, and he fell asleep.

November 9: Sunday 21:48

"You're awake. I can tell."

The voice was male, a gentle baritone. Heartwrencher cursed to himself. He must be in a hospital. Caught.

"First of all, you're not in a hospital, like you must be thinking. Second, you've been shot in the head. I took the liberty of taking you off the street."

Heartwrencher tried to clear his throat. it was dry, and he coughed. A trickle of water soothed him. "Who?" he managed.

"I'm a friend. So far as I can tell, one of few. Of course, one might blame your singular friend the Idiot King for your lack of a social life, Mr. Hart. Having your night identity linked with your day identity has a way of scaring one's friends away."

"King ... no ... friend of mine," Heartwrencher managed. He tried to move his arms, but they were tied down.

"Now, now, I was just being facetious. And you're strapped in for your own good: you've got I.V.s in both arms."

"Fashy-what?"

"Come, come, Mr. Hart. You're no lowbrow know-nothing. Five years of Army Intel. All those years of college."

"Where am I?" Heartwrencher felt his mind clearing moment by moment. Drugged. He must have been drugged. He also felt a thumping headache coming on.

"You're completely safe. I have to be going now. I'm glad you're coherent. A head wound like that ... let me just say you have an amazing skull, Mr. Hart. Although it's not medically recommended for patients with head wounds, I hope you sleep well."

"Wait ... don't..." Heartwrencher managed, just as drug-warmth spread through his body and dragged him into sleep.

November 10: Monday 01: 15

"No luck?" Nighthawk asked. Again they'd arranged the meet via the cell phone. With Heartwrencher's radio in unknown hands they were taking no chances.

Dancer shook her head. They were meeting next to the enclosed pond in LeMastre Park.

"Nice pond. No tourists," Nighthawk said.

"Vigilante privilege. I'm out of ideas on this Heartwrencher thing. He wasn't picked up by the police?"

"No way. We got there ahead of them. Besides, after a few days they'd let the press know. Who else, then? Some druggie gang7"

"For what? Ransom? Besides, my street contacts say nothing doing on that story. They're not Republic serial villains, Nighthawk. They'd just shoot him if they got the chance."

"Yeah, you're right. Any news about our ... other favorite friend?"

"Nothing weird on the evening news that I know of," said Dancer.

"Where does he go?" said Nighthawk.

"If we knew that, there'd be no more Idiot King," declared Dancer. "Come on. Have we tried the radio lately?"

Nighthawk flipped on his voice- activated headset. "Heartwrencher? Nighthawk. Come on in, Heartwrencher."

Scrambled radio signals went into the night. Arrived. Descrambled themselves.

"Nighthawk?" said a voice into his headset. Not Heartwrencher's.

"Jesus!" exclaimed Nighthawk. "Did you..."

Dancer's hand shot out and cupped his mic. "Shhhh."

Laughter over the radio link. "I'm more an Old Testament figure, Nighthawk. I have news about your friend. He's been shot in the head. He'll have a terrific scar. I'll be able to turn him over in a few days. For now he's stable. But he should be more careful. That's all for now."

"Who are you? Where is Heartwrencherr' Nighthawk demanded. Silence.

"Can't you guess who that was?" Dancer said after a quiet moment.

"Harbinger?"

"I'd say Hart's in good hands so long as he doesn't piss him off. They say he knows a little about everything. Must know some medicine, too.,,

"Oh, man, oh, man..."

"Shut your mic off. I'm right here."

"Oh, man, oh, man..."

"You said that already. Lets get going. They do patrol the park, you know." Around them the night was November--brisk, and utterly dark.

November 13: Thursday 11:27

Heartwrencher came awake like a swimmer coming to the surface of a dark pond. For minutes he lay there, remembering. The pain in his head was a throb that kept time with the beat of his heart.

His head was still wrapped. His arms felt strapped. He was thirsty again.

"Would you like a drink of something, Mr. Hart?"

Damned mind reader, Heartwrencher thought to himself. He tried to nod, thought better of it.

"Yes," he gasped. A trickle of water soothed his throat.

"It's been five days since you were shot. I'm about to turn you over to your friends. They are very concerned. How are you feeling?"

"Head hurts. Who are you?" Heartwrencher took care to keep his head still.

"Haven't you guessed? I'm the grand old man of your current profession, Mr. Hart. Or should I say Heartwrencher?"

Heartwrencher struggled against the muzziness the drugs induced. Grand old man? His current profession? Then he felt cold.

"Harbinger?"

"Or as the press prefers, and I must admit, more romantic, the Blue Moon Killer. You're very lucky I came by when I did, Mr. Hart. You were bleeding to death quite nicely when I arrived."

Heartwrencher was too stunned to reply immediately. Instead he tried his arms. They were still strapped. He felt helpless. Faced with silence, he spoke again.

"Why do you do it?"

"Why do I do it? To make a difference. Same as you, one might suppose. Or not, if one looks to particulars. Psychologically speaking. Why do you do it, Mr. Hart?"

"Father ... killed..."

"Oh yes. I believe the press did a nice expose after the Idiot King so thoughtfully exposed you. Mr. Collins of the Mirror, as I recall. You're sure that's all? Walking into a nine millimeter pistol is something even I avoid doing, Mr. Hart."

"Seemed like a good idea at the time," Heartwrencher said.

"It would appear that even you know that's not true," said the voice. "Don't forget," the voice continued. "I have you wired to six different monitors. They serve quite nicely as a lie detector. Unfortunately, I don't have time to serve as your confessor. Or as your therapist."

Heartwrencher yanked against the restraints. His head ballooned with pain, but the straps held. He had a hard time believing he was speaking to the legendary Harbinger, said to have killed thousands, even a Governor at one time. All in the name of justice.

"Shall I ask how you think I've survived this long in this business7 Allow me to answer my own question." The man cleared his throat. "I do not have even the slightest impulse to suicide, Mr. Hart. I suggest you consider us different in that regard. I suggest you ponder that fact. You can't make a difference if you're dead."

The voice stopped speaking. Heartwrencher dismissed his words, listened carefully to hear if the Harbinger was still in the room. He could hear nothing except the beating of his own heart.

Then he felt the drugs coming back into his system. Heartwrencher fought to stay awake, repeating the mantra 'it isn't true, it isn't true, it isn't true' over and over again.

November 13: Thursday 23:12

"It isn't true," mumbled Heartwrencher.

Word had finally come over their radio link. Where and when. They found him strapped to a stretcher five blocks from the warehouse Heartwrencher used as a base of operations.

"He said something," said Dancer. They were in a small room, once an office.

Nighthawk came out of his doze and sat up. "What?"

"Something about truth," said Dancer. "Heartwrencher? Thomas Hart! Wake up!"

Heartwrencher struggled once again to consciousness. His head hurt, but he wasn't tied down. And he could see. Almost.

"Whoa there," Dancer interrupted his rise. "You're not going anywhere for awhile. You've been shot in the head. You won't believe who took care of you..."

"Harbinger," Heartwrencher gasped. "Water."

Nighthawk poured him a cup. Heartwrencher's head was swathed in bandages, but his color was returning.

"You talked to the Harbinger?" asked Nighthawk.

Heartwrencher drank. "Sure. Nice guy. Uses big words. Veddy eddicated." He slumped back onto his pillows.

"What's not true?" asked Dancer, but Heartwrencher was sound asleep

November 14: Friday 18:44

Heartwrencher opened his eyes. Someone was driving a ten-penny nail directly into his forehead. He looked around. Whoever it was, they were invisible.

"You awake?" Nighthawk. Or merely Mike Stone, a man without his mask.

Heartwrencher closed his eyes. "God, my head hurts," he said.

"Take some of these. He said you'd be wanting them as soon as you woke up." Nighthawk offered pills and a glass of water, watched bleakly as his companion struggled to sit up and drink.

"How do you feel?"

"Veins full of library paste, head has a nail in it, and I have to use the toilet."

"What? Oh. Here, use this jar. Unless you. .." Nighthawk handed over a jar.

"No, not yet. And I'm hungry."

"You should be thankful you're alive after what happened to you. Say, what did happen ... ?"

Heartwrencher settled back onto his pillows, closed his eyes. "I did something stupid. Dealer must have been suspicious, had his gun ready when I walked up. We faced off. I figured... I dunno what I figured. I cut loose, he cut loose, next thing I know somebody with a fifty dollar vocabulary is..." he yawned, drifted. "Is, uh, talking to...."

Nighthawk waited, but it was clear his patient had fallen asleep. According to the Harbinger's polite letter and medical instructions, this would continue for at least a week as 'Mr. Hart' recovered from the extreme shock of his wound.

November 24: Monday 19:58

"This is it, this has got to be it!" Nighthawk exclaimed. Dancer patted him on the back. He was as excited as a boy before Christmas.

"We still have to took into it, but it is promising. It explains where he goes when he's not raising hell. It explains his kookiness." Dancer was always careful when prognosticating about the Idiot King.

"Too bad that poor guy had to die for all this to come to light."

"Too bad?" Dancer stood, glanced at Heartwrencher sleeping peacefully. It was now two weeks since he'd been shot. "This is the guy who was helping the Asylum Director, whatsername, cover up all those escapes. All those years of grief! He deserved to make the acquaintance of a Mack truck! And what other lunatics might have been waltzing in and out of that place? We'll be checking all the possibilities."

"Mack truck?" asked Hearrwrencher, groggy but awake.

"Some state medical administrator bought it over the weekend. Turns out he was concealing escapes from the loony bin outside of town. Nighthawk pointed to a newspaper next to the bed. "It's all in there."

"It's been years. We figure maybe that's where the Idiot King comes from. He's crazy, we've always said that. And if he isn't out there, maybe some other wacko is. We're going to check it out," said Dancer. "Just an initial investigation. You're staying here, of course."

Heartwrencher's bandages had just come off, and the scar was as dramatic as promised. A deep welt covered in stitches ran from just over his right eye back along the top of his head. A round burn pattern made the start of the welt even more apparent.

Now that welt and developing scar flamed red. Heartwrencher struggled to sit up and stand . Weakness dragged at his limbs, and he coughed with the sudden effort.

"You're in no condition, hero. Besides, we're just taking a look. When the time comes, you'll be with us." Nighthawk patted his shoulder. Heartwrencher fell back into bed, breathing heavily.

Dancer and Nighthawk left. Heartwrencher leaned over, opened the drawer in the bureau next to his bed. He took out his radio headset, rested a minute, then pulled the .3 5 7 Magnum out of the drawer and onto his lap. He rested a few more seconds before swinging his legs down to the floor.

"Like hell I'm not going," he said to himself, and began the long journey to an automobile, any automobile.

November 24: Monday 21:23

The radio told the story to Heartwrencher as he drove through the night. He was minutes behind them. Critical minutes. He cursed again and struck the steering wheel feebly. Why did he rest so long at the bottom of the stairs? Why did he rest after he'd broken into the car? Now he would be too late!

The state's most dangerous lunatics were housed at the Asylum. And now one of them was loose. Or maybe he hadn't ever been contained. Not the Idiot King, but evil enough.

"Watch out for that wire!" Nighthawk.

"Uhn. Damn, it's wrapped all around him! Don't close-!" Dancer.

"Dancer!" Nighthawk.

"I'm OK! Cut my f-" Dancer.

"Duck!" Gunfire, Nighthawk's submachine gun. "Look at him move!" Nighthawk.

"I'm coming!" Heartwrencher yelled. "Just hold him off for a few minutes!"

It was Sin, it must be: one of the asylum's most famous psychotics. It sounded like his treatment program hadn't quite weaned him from his trademark: barbed wire. They didn't respond to Heartwrencher's call.

He slammed his hand against the steering wheel again and pushed the car faster through the night.

More gunfire, Nighthawk's submachine gun. Then a few feeble pops; Dancer's polite nine millimeter pistol.

"Dammit!" Nighthawk.

"Don't pull against it!" Dancer.

"It's got me!" Nighthawk, voice tinged with fear and pain. More gunfire. The submachine gun.

"Just a second-uff!" Dancer, with effort.

Heartwrencher careened around a curve, the car weaving wildly. Luck: no oncoming traffic. More luck: three figures struggling in the distance, near the asylum's front entrance.

"It's me! It's me!" Heartwrencher 'yelled. "Push him in front of the car!"

Still no response.

"Car!" yelled Dancer, as she saw Heartwrencher's headlights.

"!" and a choke from Nighthawk.

"Pull him toward the road! Make the car hit him!" Dancer.

"Yes! Yes!" screamed Heartwrencher. He gunned the car for all it was worth. A stolen Ford, it wasn't worth too much more than it was doing already, but it lurched ahead.

In the distance, Heartwrencher could see Dancer wheeling about, trying for a shot. Nighthawk was wrapped in a coil of wire, and a third figure, bleeding and wrapped in wire himself, was dragging Nighthawk toward him.

"Break him free!" Heartwrencher shouted.

"Cut me loose!" Nighthawk yelled, the shout in the earphones deafeningly loud.

Dancer leapt, kicked, connected. Sin stumbled backward into a maple tree. Nighthawk gained a yard or two of slack. Heartwrencher cut the car, aimed it straight for the tree. His right hand fumbled for the seatbelt. At this speed he was a goner without his belt.

The car floated along. Time seemed to slow for Heartwrencher: it was amazing what adrenaline could do during a crisis. Nighthawk scrambled around and behind the tree while Sin, dazed, reg~ined his balance and stared at the onrushing car. His eyes glowed red like a dog's, caught in the light. Dancer fell, clutching her leg where she'd struck Sin. The barbed wire wrapped around his body had cut through her boot and into her foot.

Why buckle? Heartwrencher though to himself. It would be a good way to die, pinning Sin against the tree. Heartwrencher saw himself in the windshield, dimly lit by the dashboard light. The others could take care of the Idiot King, even if it turned out he wasn't at the asylum as they thought.

The Ford left the road, but the shoulder was reasonably flat. Seconds to go.

Why buckle? Wasn't the Harbinger right? Hadn't Mr. Thomas Hart, vigilante, been trying to find an easy death all these recent months7 Well, here it was.

The cop he'd shot came back to him then. He'd been dressed as a terrorist. It had been a trap. Then why did he feel so damn bad about it?

The car rocked. Nighthawk curled up behind the tree. Dancer stood, stared at the windshield. "Heartwrencher," she whispered.

What had the Harbinger of Justice said? "You can't make a difference when you're dead."

Damn straight. The world became clearer, then. Thomas Hart, Heartwrencher, clicked the seatbelt home. There were some things you couldn't change. And there were some things you could.

The Ford smashed into Sin. Bone and wire and blood spread everywhere. The hood crumpled. Glass shattered. The tree splintered but held. A bit of bumper wrapped around the tree and struck Nighthawk in the leg, shattering it. He screamed, a sound lost in the din of the crash.

Heartwrencher lurched forward. Even with a belt, he felt the crash. Ribs gave. Part of the floor crumpled upwards, trapping his right foot and snapping three toes. Glass came in from front and side.

And a second later, silence, except for Nighthawk swearing into the night. Lights from the main asylum complex came on.

Dancer pulled at the door, then yanked at Heartwrencher. She looked at his face: dead white in contrast to the red blood pouring from his nose. His eyes looked bloodshot.

"We've got to get the hell out of here," she said.

"Good thing you're here to carry me," Heartwrencher said. "Idiot King?"

"No sign. But something is definitely fishy. If he's here, we just flushed him out." Dancer grunted with effort.

"I can stand," Heartwrencher said. The car defied Hollywood and did not explode. Dancer let him go.

"Oof," he said as he fell. "Why don't you bring the car around?"

"Men," Dancer said, but left at a limping run.

Nighthawk crawled over. "Nice to see you up and around, Heartwrencher."

"I'm feeling much better, thank you." Heartwrencher felt attached to the ground. He couldn't have stood to save his life.

"Say, why didn't you use your radio to tell us you were coming?"

"I did!" In the distance, Dancer eased her bitchin' Camaro out of the bushes.

Nighthawk reached over to Heartwrencher's headset, flicked a switch. "It helps if you turn the mic on."

Heartwrencher laughed, then, and Nighthawk joined in.

Dancer found them that way, laughing and crying and moaning all at once. "If you can laugh, you can get in the damn car. Come on."

November 30: Sunday, 10:33

They sat in the coffee shop, bandaged and bruised. Mike Stone had his leg in a cast. Thomas Hart had his ribs and toes bandaged. Dancer, with cuts to the bottom of her kicking foot, was least hurt. She got the coffee.

"It's not enough I have to do this all day, I have to do it for you guys, too"

"We're buying," said Hart.

"Nice to get out?" asked Stone.

"Yeah," said Hart. He sipped his coffee. "You know, I should get out more. Maybe I'll buy me a coffee shop like this one. What do you say?"

Stone rolled his eyes. "It's your money, man. Me, I gotta work for a living."

"You seem a bit more cheerful these days, Thomas," Dancer noted. She toyed with her cookie, breaking it into small bits.

"It helps to put old bones to rest," Hart said. He drained his cup. "More coffee