Some stories are becoming more and more lost to my memory…their details grow vague, while their pitched moments flash brilliantly in my mind.
For one reason or another Zaav Al’Craz commissioned a renowned painter to do a portrait of himself. It became a function of his days to sit for the painter each morning. As time went on, the fiscal opportunities the painter could potentially afford the nobleman began to present themselves. The man’s paintings were cheap now, but there were great mutterings of his brilliance and mastery, and if he were to die while a great number of the artworks were in Zaav’s possession…he could make quite a ‘killing’, as it were.
Shamus pulled up to the demolished storefront. He grunted some surprise at the sight of the mess. “Haven’t seen a hole put in a wall like that in months, lad! Funny, how quick you get used to a normal life.”
Agent Slate looked gloomily at the cracked and shattered brick, littering the sidewalk and street alongside the thousands of shards of glass that had once been a rather nice storefront window. “This is always how it starts Shamus. A little hint that the clear skies you’ve been walking under might be a bit more turbulent that you thought. Just about enough time for a smart man to grab his umbrella before the shitstorm hits.”
Section 9 eventually assembled in Central City, their membership dividing into two groups: Day Crew, consisting of Agent Slate, The Tempest and Max Powers – the public face of Section 9 – and Night Crew, consisting of the Ghost Diver, Midnight Man, and Shade – the nightly crime-fighting muscle.
Over the next month, Agent Slate set up the offices of what would become Central Headquarters, while Tempest put in some face time at her new job at W-Tec Industries. Max Power…well, all right, he just went boozing and womanizing when he wasn’t on call to beat criminals into submission, living the expense account lifestyle that he had signed up for.
The moon had been out and shining over New York City, but soon after leaving the perimeter of the metropolis, Ghost Diver became lost amoung the clouds and the darkness of the night.
He had no need to waste time gathering belongings, seeking out and informing family members, or all the other concerns, trials and tribulations that accompanied moving from one city to another. Such tedium was for the living. No, he departed immediately, and at great speed. Encased in his bubble, the spectre could fly at hundreds of kilometers an hour. Night had not yet passed before he had followed the eastern seaboard to Central City.