The Scare-Crow Comes

This is the first part of a superhuman saga that occurs in an Earth that mirrors ours. There is no sexual content in the first few episodes, but it will build up to an epic encounter that builds into a sexy threesome and eventually a quad polycule. All characters are adults over the age of 18. But will eventually evolve into a third person real-time account as the group assembles, Avengers-style. Trigger warnings for readers: Attempted rape, racism, and war. Later chapters will parallel real-world events.

Prologue

I am sitting at a coffee shop in my city on a normal Tuesday morning, enjoying a well-brewed espresso. It's partially cloudy, but this summer is a warm one with a good amount of sun. Most people wouldn't give me a second look in public; it's not that I'm physically unattractive, I just have an aura of unavailability about me as I sit in the Café chair in black jeans, a Led Zeppelin t-shirt, and black leather boots. My hair is down my neck in a tail, I have a goatee, and a chain necklace. I like to have some bits of metal on my person at all times, not necessarily visible but accessible. Using my custom-fit prosthetic hands, I sip coffee and read a magazine, nibbling on a scone, nothing too interesting.

My calm is broken as I notice a man coming up to the cash register and pulling a gun out of his pocket. I know its an armed robbery before he points it at the barista and demands she open the register. Everyone in the coffee shop screams -- except me. Guns don't impress me, any more than the people who resort to them. Now I consider doing nothing, as the robber just wants money, and won't hurt anybody if the girl gives it to him. But I have standards that are rather old fashioned in this modern day, and these ethics prevent me from sitting by while an innocent is threatened. Also, I can't let my favorite coffee shop take a loss. Business insurance aside, I don't like the idea of someone getting off Scott-free.

My stare fixes on the hand holding the revolver, and the man is surprised when his safety clicks on. Then the gun whips around like it has a life of its own and clocks him on the side of the head, dazing him to the point that he drops it. Everyone's eyes are on the attempted robber, so nobody notices as I stand from my seat. I walk towards where the man is trying to understand why his weapon turned against him, though nobody can see me or hear me. When I choose, that is how it is. Then I am standing next to him unseen as I place one of my mechanical hands on his shoulder, gripping firmly. I whisper in his ear, "Don't move."

The robber trembles in fear, not knowing where his sudden vulnerability has come from. I let go and step back, Allowing myself to become visible again as I pick up the revolver with my left replacement hand. Other patrons of the Café have already called the police and there is much confusion.

I point my other fake limb at the miscreant and intone, "Give it up, pal, and let justice be served. It hurts less that way."

The fellow can only sputter in frustration, and doesn't move from the spot; he literally can't. My words tend to have a binding effect on the cowardly, and in my opinion most people who use guns, particularly criminals, are weak inside. The cops come and arrest him, I hand them his gun, and they take their witness statements. As things quiet down, I go back to my chair and my coffee. Sitting calmly once again I watch things go back to a semblance of normalcy. But I'm not normal, though I am purposeful about not making it obvious. Yes this is a world where superheroes and their antithesis exist, there are news stories and vlogs online that detail their public exploits. I however am a covert power, a stealth talent, and I don't want publicity. I try to make a difference, but not gain recognition. Out of costume, I am careful to be anonymous. It's my Alter ego that allows me to be most effective. Tonight, I will put on the mask, and deal with those that wait in the dark, seeking their gratification by evil means. And as Scare-Crow, I will stop them.

Chapter 1: Haunted

On some nights, the atmosphere just seems primed for crime. It could be the weather, it could be the phase of the moon, it could just be human nature on the unconscious collective. But the baddies come out to play, and they feel like they just can't lose, that nothing can stop them, as the dark is on their side. That feeling is about to change, and with good cause. Human control of their environment is an illusion. Entropy is always chipping away at certainty, at stability. I don't mean death, as that circumstance is part of the process. It is change that is the rule, and most men fear it, are unprepared for it. That is what I am supposed to represent: the unknown, the unexpected, the uncontrollable.

I stand upon a thick tree branch, high up from the forest floor. The moonlight keeps me from melding with an otherwise pitch black night. My body is encased with steel ring mail that weighs 15 pounds over a layer of Kevlar. About my shoulders hangs a cloak that shrouds my upper body, and beneath it are a pair of crossed bandoliers. Five slender, needle-sharp Daggers 10 inches long are stored on each sash. This getup resembles that of the titular anarchist antihero in my favorite movie from my adolescence, "V for Vendetta." All similarity goes away above the neck, however: instead of a Guy Fawkes mask and hat, I have a cowl and the face of a crow. The eye-holes are specially-fitted with lenses that filter light beyond a certain intensity that would induce blindness, though I can see just fine through them as though it were daytime. Below the false beak of the bird is concealed a breath filter that keeps me from inhaling adverse gasses. This is how I am equipped when going on patrol. Currently my patrolling is being done mentally, and what I see and hear 900 feet away concerns me greatly.

Suddenly a phantasmal black crow appears before me and croaks, "Come." Then it flies straight at my body and disappears inside. Instantly I know what is about to happen, and I spring into action by stepping off the branch I was perched upon. Rather than falling, my body swoops gracefully through the air and I weave between the trees. The black cloak ruffles silently around me as I glide, but the garment is not how I remain aloft; it is Crow's spiritual wings that carry me and also warp reality to the point I travel undetected by eyes or ears. I am one with the night-breeze, seeking for those whom I sense will be out and about taking advantage of the protection of darkness. But as I mentioned before, that won't work out as expected. After half a minute I come to a clearing which is open and illuminated by the moon as well as a bonfire. There are twenty-one people in the clearing and it is easy for me to identify them. Ten males are skinheads, biker-types, with Neo-Nazi tattoos and white supremacist regalia. Each of them holds by the hair or neck a bound young woman on their knees, each of them of varying skin colors, but none of them white. Another man stands near the fire which is in the middle of the two concentric circles formed by the others. He wears a black robe, and has an inverted pentacle burned into his forehead. The occultist raises his arms and howls.

"Tonight we shall thru ritual summon our benefactor, Belial. He requires the forced sex with these inferior females as an offering to His Dark Majesty. Do not worry about breeding which shall bring forth unworthy mixed offspring. The vital essence of your expenditures and these virgins' blooded submission to your clear purpose of victory, shall be consumed and allow Him to cross the barrier between worlds. Once that is accomplished on this auspicious night, He will aid us in winning our struggle against the impure masses that would extinguish our race from the Earth. Let it begin here!"

The Nazi scum hoot as they begin tearing the clothes from the young women, who start to scream in terror, while their leader chants in an ancient tongue that sounds like Latin. But before the rapes can be committed, the occultist pauses in his chanting and turns away from the bonfire.

He snarls, "Something is here, that should not be. It means to stop this ritual."

I come to stand just outside the ritual circle without any concealment save my costume and intone grimly, "You've got that right. But I should indeed be here, because it's where you are, assholes. So we have a problem."

The bikers let go of the women and reach for weapons as their leader shrieks, "Take him down!"

Then it's on. Two of the Nazis nearest me have blades, and lurch towards me. The battle fury descends upon me as my cloak flaps away from my body to reveal that I have arms that end at the elbow. Two daggers leap from their places on their straps and spin through the air to counter the vile men. First my floating blades cross theirs and then twist their weapons free. Before they can react to their weapons falling, the keen edges slice their wrists, then their trapezius, and as they reel, their hamstrings. When their bulky forms hit the ground besides their blades, mine fall like a diving raptor's claws and sever their spinal cords just above their shoulders.

My feet leave the ground as two more charge me. I spread my half-arms straight out to either side, the daggers flying swift as an eye-blink to strike the goons center mass. They fall and I see 5 of the six remaining thugs are brandishing guns; why do bad guys have to be so boring? They are each standing five feet apart and its like playing with children at basketball. In a flash, two more knives spring from their places on my bandoliers into midair on attack. One points his.45 at my zig-zagging form crossing the distance between, and gets off two shots. One bullet glances off of my side, stinging like a firecracker.

But then I'm too close; one blade rips the Glock out of his hand, the other pinions his right biceps. The first knife spins around and stabs his wide-open eye. He screams just like the others and I get tired of that noise so the 2^nd Dagger pierces his voice box too. The five fingers of the devil's remaining hand are more cautious, as they saw how I used their comrade like a meat shield until he fell. Two raise hunting rifles, but too slowly as my daggers fly again, and they drop the long guns.

Each screams bloody murder as they cover the slashes on their arms. Another swings a tomahawk at my head, but another pair of knives quickly draw up into a high cross, blocking the falling blade. The two blades turn the axe to the side, so it slips from the Nazi's sweaty grip, and then puncture liver and lung respectively. The last two fighting fit goons unload a.357 Magnum and a Desert Eagle in my direction. One missile flies past me, the other grazes my right arm, but I'll be fine, that's what Kevlar is for. The minor pain barely registers as I close with the pair of pukes, another brace of knives out and hovering at shoulder level.

One punches at my head, while the other circle-kicks towards my ankles. I become horizontal in mid-air between them, avoiding their blows and turning towards the ground as my arms spread straight out. A Dagger pushes into the bodies of each white "supremacist", gut and spleen, put there by my mental force. The idiots who had the rifles come at my back as I stand on my feet again, but my last two knives spin in reverse, exploding their hearts. I ignore their dropping bodies as my attention trains on the only remaining threat: the occultist. He has one of the girls by the hair and a sawed-off shotgun held against her head. I watch him, my handless arms hanging still at my sides, and he likewise measures me up.

"I don't know what you are, but there is power about you, stranger. You may have stopped my ritual tonight, which would have allowed Belial to possess my body and use it to make war on the unclean, but you have killed my men. Still you have only delayed the inevitable. Let me leave here, so I can recruit a new band, or I shall kill this virgin right in front of you. There is always more fodder to find. My design shall not fail."

I decide to answer because this guy's monologue is tiring me out, "What I am is a consequence, a counterbalance. The devil may find useful tools in people like you, but you aren't really that important in the big scheme of things. I'm not either, as I'm just a man, like you. But my role is more relevant, and I have a beneficial relationship with my patron. He came because we need each other, and this partnership is why I win, and people like you lose. Parasites have got to go."

My arm whips out and the shotgun flies out of the cult leader's hand and comes to hover in front of me, held by an unseen force. The girl squirms away, fainting in terror from the carnage. I grin above the weapon aimed at the evil tool.

"Now I really hate guns so please don't make me use this. Just leave. I can always track you down again. There's been enough bloodshed tonight. Even though they were Nazi garbage, they would still be alive if you hadn't led them to this juncture. Its over."

The occultist laughed in a deranged cackle, "Fool, why would I surround myself with weapons I am vulnerable to? I see you have supernatural control of matter, but it is irrelevant: before this gathering I cast a spell that makes me bulletproof. Not only that, but any gun fired at me will turn itself on the wielder."

I chuckle at the irony and drop the firearm. But my greatest weapon is my mind.

Belial's bitch boy sneers, "Now what will you do, stranger? Haul me in to the police? I have no blood on my hands." I laugh like my namesake, croaking at the irony of not having hands.

The occultist scowled, and said, "I think I will allow myself to be detained -- as a person of interest. The law will be much more interested to learn about your vigilante actions and will ignore your ravings about devil-cults when your unmasked self is in prison."

My cowl falls back from my head on its own and the mask drops off, while I make sure none of the girls can see my face. I glare stones at the fool who thinks he planned for everything. "I'm guessing your spell covers all metal objects just in case, so my knives will be useless as well, I assume?"

The occultist grins and nods his head. "So now I would say in turn, fool: Its over. I see you now, and your tricks have run out."

I don't smile because I'm concentrating, so I just reply, "Tell the devil Scare-Crow sent you, when you meet in Hell."

The man frowns archly. "Instead I shall bring Hell on Earth, arrogant vessel of an old spirit."

My head turns side to side negatively as I speak with the voice of that same ancient Totem, "Not tonight. Time to pay your dues."

With that I blink and the 50 pound rock drops from 100 feet above the man, having been lifted there by my will working in tandem with Crow's unseen presence. It squashes his skull like a melon. The former devil-worshipping Neo-Nazi's headless body drops like a sack of potatoes. I put my headgear back on and turn my back on his corpse.

The scene that remains lit by the moon and the firelight is calming down. None of the biker-trash Nazis are alive, and the girls who are not unconscious are huddled together in part of the clearing. I retrieve my knives and clean them on the dead men's clothing. Then I approach the group of women and they tremble at first, seeing my missing limbs below the dark Cloak I wear.

I query, "Do any of you speak English?"

Two of them raise their bound hands, and one says, "I can't believe what you did to those men, but you saved us."

I lean down and one of my Daggers slowly extends toward her handle-first. "Now save yourself. Cut your bonds, help the other get free. One of these men will have a cellphone. Use it to call 911. The authorities will take you back where you belong."

Standing, I begin to walk away. The other girl asks, "But what we say to dem about what happened?"

I don't turn as I answer, "Say whatever you want. Whether anyone believes you is irrelevant. From now on, you write your own stories."

The young woman who had finished cutting the ropes on the others said, "Don't you want your knife back?"

I raise one half-arm and the dagger instantly flies from her hand to its place next to the identical blades on my bandoliers. Without a word, I vanish into the forest and that is the last they will see of me.

Several hours later it is dawn and the crime scene in the clearing is being processed. Medical examiners are loading up the Nazi corpses, CSI's are taking photos, ambulance crews are taking care of the women, and cops are talking to each other to put together working theories. The senior officer on duty, Lieutenant Kilkenny of the Knoxville PD homicide unit, is interviewing the most lucid of the survivors. She is a wise, insightful soul despite her youth.

"So, your story is that you were kidnapped, brought here with the other girls by these Neo-Nazis and now they are all dead. Did these 11 men kill each other, fighting over their spoils?"

The girl, Marisol of the Dominican Republic, replied, "Befo' dey cud rape me or de otter girls, some'n came and challenged de white men. Dey try ta punish him gettin' in der way, but dey fail."

Lieutenant Kilkenny says his thoughts aloud. "Miss, I've been a cop for 20 years, and have seen a large measure of death in my time, but this scenario is unbelievable. Was this someone a lone man?"

Marisol shrugs, her dreads swirling. "It seem to be, wid a man body and voice. But him head was like a bird in black hood. He seem fast as da wind. Him didn't care what weppins de white men had, he carve'em up wid knives. I see no blood even when dey shoot at him. Den when der were jus' one man by de fire, he had one of de girls by de hair, de bird-head talk'd to him fer a bit. Den a rock falled and kill'de last man."

The veteran cop looks over by the cold ashes of the bonfire and sees the rock lying there, which is covered with blood after the medical examiners had hauled away the headless body. Kilkenny grunts, "A rock huh? And then what - this bird-man just left?"

The girl points into the trees, and mumbles, "He gone, and de world is better den it was, now der are less terrorists around."

The Lieutenant stares into the woods and asks one last question. "So you wouldn't call this lone man a terrorist, despite killing all these men?"

Marisol shakes her head and chuckles. "Policeman, dey were bad, dey try to kill him, and if dey had, you wud never be here to find us. We'd bin gone, slaves to de white men. But we free now, so I glad him come, and where he go to I don't care. I never see him face, but him voice a nice one."

Kilkenny closes his notepad and walks away from the Dominican girl. He clearly has heard enough and goes to exchange info with his sergeant.

"Mullen the witness statements from the two that speak English are congruent. I'm sure when we get these girls into social services and have translators available, they will still line up. What about weapons, did your unis find anything out of the ordinary?"

The sergeant replies, "Preliminary searches turned up weapons consistent with a biker gang like these guys were. Their causes of death were clearly by blades that were then removed from the area. That rock though, what do you make of it? Most men wouldn't be able to move something that heavy in a way that could kill somebody like that."

Lieutenant Kilkenny shakes his head and explains, "The girl said it fell on him."

Sergeant Mullen looks upwards and sees nothing but tree branches and clear sky. "From where? We aren't by a cliff or anything. What is going on here? Are we calling this a paranormal case?"

The senior officer shrugs, and declares, "That's the department's call, though I'm sure the brass will when we turn in all our evidence. Then it gets put in the cold files and we go back to normal murder investigations."