Cotton Colinaude, the Eidolon, was most of the time a model heroic figure. He was kind to the ordinary citizenry, dispatched the criminal element with detached efficiency, and even took the time to rescue small kittens from trees. He was very much cast from the ideal mold.
Most of the time.
Lately he had been spending most of his time setting a snare for a delinquent he’d nicknamed the Cad. He’d secured his contacts on the streets of Traverse, those from among respected folk and otherwise, making it now all but official that the latest scum had been cleaned from the windshield of society. The problem was, Cad was not alone. As Eidolon, a denizen of the shadows righting the wrongs and injustices that routinely sprang up in the everyday affairs of civilization, Colinaude had faced a thousand Cads. He was always keenly aware that thousands more than he had caught up with personally were not only a thing of the past, but of the present and future as well. He was not the only hero in town, nor was his town at all unique. This was a collective effort, a continuing cycle.
Colinaude’s problem was that he saw it as a cycle of futility. There was no greater enemy for such a man, not even those deemed archenemies. Eidolon’s ostensive archenemy was a crafty and ever-elusive man he’d long ago dubbed Rancor. Funny thing about most conventional criminals was that they didn’t actually coin their own cartoonish aliases. It seemed they were mad, but not mad enough to actually refer to themselves as names like Lieutenant Limbo, another of the men Colinaude had incapacitated in their quests of chaos. A reporter had come up with that one, Lt. Limbo, probably because it felt like a clever extraction of the man’s given name, Lionel Limn, and the fact that he’d purportedly served time in the military. Surprisingly, he never made it on a recruiting poster.
Limbo had been, in the end, a baffoon, perhaps a brilliant mind at some point but long since past the point where he could have seriously given Eidolon a run for his money, which the hero earned through means other than heroic. Paychecks were a matter for Colinaude. You just weren’t paid to skulk and flaunt the law, no matter which side of it you were on. Some said there was never going to be a way to change that, walk the line and get paid for it, since there was no money in the random business that was cleaning up rabble, wherever it was found. Most of the activities Eidolon and his kind got publicity from involved colorful figures like Limbo, or legendary struggles like those with Rancor. Sometimes it seemed the main benefit of being a hero was in making a name for oneself.
It certainly didn’t come from the thankless undertaking men like Cad typified. At best, Cad would have been an incidental anecdote in anyone’s chronicle of Eidolon’s activities. Cads wasn’t after personal conquest or mass carnage, just a decent score at the cost of at best deserving victims, the ones who allowed themselves to be swindled. By conventional reports, Eidolon would spring in, knock down the operation, and leave Cad begging for his life, and by the end Cad would rot in prison for the rest of his life, not being worthy or capable of other encounters, and Eidolon would move on to bigger things, the kind that seemed to carry real meaning, real weight.
Cad, however, was the real meaning, the real weight for Colinaude. He was symbolic of the predators that were all around him, sprinkled about the population like a plague, a contagious and never-ending one whose victim was none other than Colinaude himself, for he had long ago pledged his life against it. What a mistake that had been, at least in some regard. He really did accept this charge wholeheartedly, selflessly, altruistically. He was not in it for monetary gain, to accept laurels, or with reservation. If there were laurels to be accepted in the first place, there was plenty in place to deny him receiving them anyway. It seemed that not everyone wanted heroes cavorting in their backyard. The police had an ongoing arrest warrant out on Eidolon, again because of the issue of walking that line. If some cops were appreciative, others and their bosses, plus the elected officials had other notions entirely. Cotton Colinaude’s activities were more a nuisance, unsanctioned and unpredictable, than an asset for those who worked essentially the same beat. That was one of the reasons for invoking the identity Eidolon, which he found as generally more appropriate than what some other heroes had come up with.
Some other heroes were also among his detractors, at least in principle. Godsend was definitely among them, not that Colinaude cared. Not only did they have different approaches, but different all-around goals as well. Limbo would have fallen on Godsend’s radar. Rancor definitely would (and in fact, had a number of times, with about the same amount of success). Cad never would have, and never would. Even among the loose association of heroes that sometimes tied Eidolon up with Godsend and others, Cad would never come up, not once in a thousand crises. Cad was too petty, too small-time.
Which was fine with Colinaude, because catching up with Cad’s type was a large part of his calling. Those affected directly by Cad would be grateful. Those not directed affected by Cad, but by Colinaude’s efforts to subdue him would not be. Such was his life. Such was not the object of his discomfort. He had long ago accepted that Eidolon’s activities would not be universally accepted. There was no point in doing anything if the only reason for doing it was because everyone applauded it. It was, however, a contributing factor. There was no doubt about that. How could a hero not feel a tinge of ingratitude from that? The risk was life and limb on his part. The risk for everyone else was one more sycophant being eliminated. How could that possibly be a bad thing?
There were plenty of answers for that, and not all of them involved greedy kickbacks or other signs of corruption. Corruption was what Eidolon fought everyday. He was fighting the forces of Cane, the seeds of the fruit of Eden. There was no easy answer possible. He couldn’t concentrate on that, not if he wanted to carry on. Trouble was, he did.
And carrying on in the face of that made Colinaude the man he was today. He was not very happy with the face he saw staring back at him from the mirror, so he had long ago taken away all the mirrors from his own home. In a way, he was sort of like a vampire. Count Eidolon. He was not so bitter he couldn’t laugh about that. He was still basically a good man, good-natured and of good humor. He was not grim, not yet, not entirely.
There were plenty of criminals who could dispute that, plenty who never experienced his smart aleck remarks. Such remarks had, ironically, become more and more common, Colinaude’s coping mechanism, his attempt to slow his slide toward irreversible bitterness and malice. Eidolon the hero was in danger of becoming Eidolon the villain. Colinaude had seen it happen before, to better men. Not to the likes of Godsend, but to enough of lesser ones. The best of the worst had begun as the best of the best. Colinaude was as much at war with men like Cad and Rancor as he was with himself.
He was drawing himself a line in snaring Cad. He was going to reverse the irreversible, or die trying. Or worse yet, retire. There was nothing worse in the heroic world than retiring. Age was never an issue. Brave men had worn themselves out in their battles against apathy. They were the type that didn’t die. They were either killed, or wore themselves out, which amounted to sacrifice, martyrdom. The heroic ideal carried with it the notion of nobility.
Noble heroes did not retire. Colinaude was on the verge of it. The one thing that was really holding him back was not having anything else to do. Eidolon was his life, his calling. But he knew the time was fast approaching for a reckoning. He would carry out this mission, this crusade against Cad, and then he would decide what the rest of his life was going to be. There was no longer a choice in the matter. He could not slide any further. He couldn’t. He couldn’t.
Cotton Colinaude, the Eidolon, was going on the warpath again. From his home on Cobb Lane, he prepared his warrior’s garb, cast entirely in midnight blue. He wore a cloak, because it was a sign of intimidation; it created the impression of stature, at once disarming and threatening. He wore a cowl, adorned with silvery goggles, that gave him mystery and anonymity; he was also aware that the goggles gave it a crazed look, and that was exactly what he intended. The two-piece, lightweight kevlar bodysuit, set off by gloves and boots, that completed the ensemble, was simple. There was no utility belt, no emblem. He carried no weapons of any kind with him. He was not a world-class athlete, but his body was an effective weapon all the same. He achieved his victories in the grip of astonishment. This he was good at. He had perfected it to an art. It was the one thing he never worried about. You generally did not remain a hero for long if you couldn’t guarantee a high rate of success. Colinaude’s means was never in question.
Thus dressed, Eidolon set about the continuance of work he’d been at for months, work that would soon enough reach its fulfillment. Not unlike Eidolon himself. He was coming for the Cad, and Colinaude was coming for himself, and there was not going to be anything spared.
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