Welcome to Part 1 of The Cloak of Shrouded Men

The Cloak of Shrouded Men is the complete story of Cotton Colinaude, the "Angry Avenger" otherwise known as the Eidolon, a vigilante whose story involves the fall from grace as outlined in this, his original adventure. To read the chapters in sequence, follow the label links on the right. Enjoy!

Epilogue

Had you been a citizen of Traverse reading the “Tracks” in the days following, you would not have read about these events, or most of them. There was one, considering a round-up by Godsend of several outstanding miscreants, written by a fellow named Don Ott, and an obituary of Rodrigo Ramirez which, as usual, did not disclose cause of death. It listed his favorite hobby as coin collecting.

There was also not a word about the Eidolon’s retirement. Cotton Colinaude achieved this in a fiery blaze, when he piled all but one of his uniforms, his costumes, onto a stack and lit it like a Roman candle. The effort caused considerable discomfort for his shoulder, which would never fully heal. Had he moved back to his native New England, he might have been able to be one of those human weather predictors old folks so regularly become, like super heroes for the geriatric. But he stayed right in Traverse, except for a brief foray, as if he were tied to it, tethered like destiny. Colinaude could not express enough gratitude to Godsend for the favor he had shown, for the brief shining moment in the Eidolon’s twilight when a measure of victory could be won. Not one more loss was felt that night, except for Rodrigo Ramirez. For the briefest of moments, the Tandem had returned, as if to honor the fall of their old foe Rancor.

It was no great loss to the community, this retirement. Crime was still combated. Colinaude made his peace with that, owing to Cassie’s last words to him. He paraded out the one costume every now and again, but he spent most of his time tending bar at Tin Can with Greenwood, Alonzo, and Andy. There were still enemies out there, still demons to be exorcised, but in the end, there was also a man named Cotton Colinaude, who had wrestled his own demon and made his peace with it. He was determined to make it a lasting peace. It was the only way he was ever going to get any sleep at night, and he was sleeping again, too. There were no more patrols, no more marathon sessions gathering information from contacts. There were others handling things, just enough so that the Eidolon was no longer as necessary as he had once imagined. There were other heroes.

He relocated from No. 33 Cobb Lane. In fact, after that day, after he had retrieved the Terrific Beacon, he never once set fit on that road again. He would meet Aubrey Oldenburgh’s widower every now and again, play with her grandchildren at the local rec. department. It was something he owed the old woman. He also scrubbed clean the stop sign, so that it no longer read “go.” Random Red, who had a nervous breakdown several years later when his father was gunned down, began to frequent the same rec. department, and he probably never realized the smiling man by the pool table, watching Marty Jennings dazzle every now and again some new batch of pupils, was the real reason for it.

All the same, it was an awkward retirement. People always seemed to comment how Colinaude seemed restless, like he was itching to do something he was purposely denying himself. He became more alert, turning his head every time someone entered a room, or anywhere near him, like he was expecting a familiar face, or an unfamiliar one.

There was also a new habit he took up; some called it a nervous one considering. He carried with him at all times an old coin, and every once and a while he’d take it out and start flipping it around his fingers, for long stretches at a time. He claimed it was good therapy for his shoulder, but nobody much cared to believe that. What made it all the more peculiar was that he insisted on doing it in the dark, so that whatever room he was in at the time, seemed to be possessed by a dancing coin. Fling fling fling.

And once and for all, was Colinaude a hero? Looking past his failings, past his triumphs, past his perceptions, past his fears, past his ambitions, past his ideals, past his passions, he could think of only one answer to that. He thought it would help his sleep if he made peace with that, too. It did. He no longer took naps on the subway, and when he encountered Hopper riding it, he would try to think of idle chatter, like a friend would, to talk about. He had more or less reasoned that Hopper and Denny were one and the same at some point, and decided the best thing to do about that was to be there for him, just give him some comfort. For Hopper had miles to go yet before he slept, and he was going to need as much of that as he could.

There was the lasting peace, and then there was also the realization that even that would never be enough. Colinaude, for the rest of his days, would struggle with himself, with what he had done, with his continued frustrations, with lost friends and futures. He began to realize, too, that he couldn’t ask for more. What was more, he grew to understand that he didn’t really want to.

Chapter 29: "The Cad"

Try as he might, Rodrigo Ramirez could not help but be charming, to men and women, to enemies and friends. It might have made him endearing if he weren’t filled with enough bad habits to threaten negating that charm. He had also needed to build his operation from the ground up. It was no mistake that he was off everyone’s radar, because he had needed to work for everything he had ever gotten. His courtship of Delia was legendary, among his miniscule inner circle. Those he trusted were few indeed.

And with good reason. His climb had been a difficult one because he had done it all alone, and not because of his conflicting personality. His father had been a police commissioner, but he was disgraced and exiled, leaving the young Rodrigo, already a sensitive lad, expelled from the academy he had been at the top of the class in, and torn from the arms from his lover. For several years he was aimless, and when he tried to make the journey to America his raft was blown off-course, leaving him lost, afraid, and desperate. Some said his less savory instincts were developed then, and he held fast to them later as a badge of honor. When at last he came ashore, far from the usual landing places, he had forged himself a new resolve, to never again suffer the whims of misfortune. Inch by inch, favor by favor, union by union, he began to build his empire. Yet he knew to succeed he could not overplay his hand, not too soon, or bandy about his name. The timing, the circumstances, would have to be right.

Delenda would prove to be the last stepping stone that he would need. He had made two useful acquaintances during this time, men whose ambitions sprang from singular aims, and they gave him the confidence and the ability to fulfill his promise. He would make his father proud. He would have his redemption, at the cost of all those who had sought to bury him. Where his father had been a victim of corruption that ran too high for him to be anything but a scapegoat, Rodrigo built for himself a loft, where he would never be touched. He had learned from his father’s mistakes. He was strong, and his foundation was too.

Rodrigo sat alone now, in his office below The Complex. He played with a dollar coin, a habit of his, flipping it around his fingers, letting it dance. In his other hand sat a lit cigar, but he had not taken a puff for a few minutes. Periodically he’d tap it against a brimming ashtray, and action that did not in any way interrupt the coin’s recital. He made sure to hear its every movement, which bothered others but never himself. This extra effort did not in any way hinder its progress. He found it soothing, reassuring. It was a coin he had had for a long time.

It would not be long. Soon he would have everything he had ever dreamed about. He had taken measures to eliminate his chief competition, and that was all but accomplished now. His empire was waiting. He would no longer hide underground, but sit in a royal throne. The adulation he had received in the park was but a small token. Imagine, that he could receive that, by promising to those who would carry the majority of the burden for his perch things that were in no way to their benefit. All it took was his charm. Sometimes, but not often, he found it to be too easy, like his fortune was something fate had been keeping ready for him, for the right moment. He did not forget what it had taken, what had been taken away from him.

No, he was not a happy man, and he never would be. But he would settle for content. He found he could do that. He concentrated on his coin, and let the cigar burn. It was very late, but he could no longer sleep; no, he was too impatient for that. Fling fling fling sang the coin. He hummed along with it in his head, dreams no longer contained to rest. At this moment a bad dream was being put to rest, one that had been haunting his for months, hounding him. It had been his only hindrance, and happily his associates came tailor-made to take care of it. This dream was a shadow he was exposing to light, nothing more, and soon to be nothing less. It had been a dream filled with the same ambitions he had always had, the same strengths, the same weaknesses. It stood in his way because it was too close, too familiar. It was competition. And in a way, it had done itself in, just as Rodrigo had built himself for inevitable success. They had taken equal, opposite tracks.

The coin was becoming a waltz. Rodrigo felt like dancing, but Delia was asleep, along with everyone else. He had no one guarding him, and he didn’t need to be guarded. Why should he? He rested in the very lap of luxury. Soon he would be luxury itself. He would be his own loving embrace. He wouldn’t have to worry about Delia, sleeping or not. He would dance alone. It was a lovely thought. He enjoyed having those, and he supposed he’d miss them, after attaining all he had ever wanted, had ever been owed. As impossible as it seemed, he was feeling better all the time.

He took a puff of the cigar, but choked. It had spoiled. He threw it aside in disgust, vowing to never bother with such inconveniences again. Why should he need to? But it was lingering. He began to choke, to cough uncontrollably. The coin threatened to end its dance; he struggled to maintain it, and he succeeded for a time. One last, violent hack, however, and he slammed forward, his feet falling from his desk and his hands sailing to break his descent. The coin crashed to the table, spun for a time, spun right off the desk, clattering to the floor. He shook his head, adjusted himself, swept the cigar and the ashtray crashing after the coin, spreading black dust everywhere. He was too upset to care. What a frightful event. He was angry with himself for having let it happen; he swore off cigars that instant, and now couldn’t fathom why anyone had ever been enamored of them.

The black dust was settling, but a black cloud was taking its place, in Rodrigo’s mind. At least he thought it was in his mind; he hoped. He felt a presence. That could not be possible. Even without guards the compound was too well protected. It would take a genius to crack its security measures, and he had in his employ Traverse’s only genius. He sometimes wished he was, but he also saw the advantage in being in a position to lord over such men. He was stronger than they were, and that was better than smarter. Yet he was alone, alone in this moment to face this black cloud. What was it? It had to be his imagination. Yes, that was it; he was allowing the spoiled cigar to spoil his mood, to spoil his triumph over Traverse and soon so much more.

He hated to be so foolish. Yet the black cloud was here. What was it? It couldn’t be a man. That just wasn’t possible. Perhaps the winds that had been buffeting the city for much of the day, spoiling his hair when he went to the park to make his grand address, were hounding all the more harder. That could be it. Couldn’t it? It could. It could very well be. Yes, it was probably the wind. Rodrigo made a mental note to enforce the integrity of his next abode, the throne of luxury, and stooped to pick up his coin. He let it dance again, fling fling fling. He was calming himself. There was nothing to be concerned about. There was no black cloud, only an overactive imagination. He sat back and replaced his feet as well, the coin never being disrupted.

Something brushed up against him. He did not turn around, did not stop the dance of his coin. He had not heard anything. Perhaps he was imagining things. That could still be possible. What could happen to him now, on the eve of his ultimate victory? He scoffed at himself, and brought his feet down again. He calmly placed the coin down on his desk, savoring the clicking sound it made. When it came down to it, he was a man of simple pleasures, and of simple ambition. Where his life had taken him, he had followed. Maybe he helped himself along during rough patches, but that was life. Above all else, he survived.

The light in the hallway outside his office was out. No matter, he knew his way around. He could do without. There was still that uneasy feeling, that something else was there, but he was no longer letting it bother him, or so he told himself. He strode on, confidently, until he ran right into what seemed like a wall. But it couldn’t be. He was no buffoon. He would never be so careless, even in the dark. Being lost had given him a remarkable sense of direction. He reached out, his hand, the one the coin had danced in, trembling now.

It found another hand, one that quickly enveloped it, crushed it. A slow growl emerged in the darkness, and Rodrigo whimpered. "Eidolon?" he whispered. "Eidolon?" There was no reply, not for a few moments. His hand remained trapped, remained crushed. "Eidolon?"

Another hand struck him, knocking him onto his back. His hand was not released right away. Soon he was being struck, again and again. And again. And again. In the corner of his mind danced the coin. Fling fling fling. He lost consciousness, faded to black. The end.

Chapter 28: "The Angry Avenger"

Colinaude asked Godsend for help. He knew after the quick disposals of Calypso and Silt that victory against the cadre lined up against him was going to call for desperate measures. He also knew that the revelation about Peter Cooley was pushing him against the barrier of all he had struggled against, and that Cassie Dawes lying in a hospital bed was only helping him along. If ever he had found his redemption, Cassie would have been the instrument. Yet now she was the latest victim of Cotton’s folly. If there was anything the day had taught him, it was that he was going to have to accept humility, so he knuckled down and activated the Terrific Beacon, a device, the only device the Eidolon had ever used, which called either half of the Tandem to the other in the opening moments of a crisis at hand.

"I’ve had a moment of clarity," he told Godsend, who appeared on the roof of Cassie’s last stand in the blink of an eye.

"I’m listening," Godsend said.

"I need help," Colinaude said. "There’s a destructive force out there. It has already claimed more than you would have ever suspected. I’m not blaming you. If anything, I must blame myself. There are two men out there right now who’re holding everyone who matters in my life hostage, waiting to slaughter them if I make the slightest move against them. One of them is Viper. His former master, Rancor, is dead, at Viper’s own hand, at the beck of the Cad and with the assistance of one called the Barracuda."

"Rancor," Godsend said, "dead?"

"Our old friend," Colinaude said. "He’s gone. Put aside our prior differences. Put aside the words we shared today. Put aside your misgivings about Rodrigo Ramirez. I need you. Damnit, I need you!"

Godsend stared at Colinaude for a moment. He betrayed no sign of his thought process, save for the end, which came within a matter of seconds, when he smiled, thinly. Colinaude knew immediately what he had decided, and hated him for it, as much as he was relieved that the Alabama Lamb had been so readily receptive, so easy to put aside past conflicts. He was…too perfect. "I’ll do it."

The wind flapped around the Eidolon’s soiled cape, and in the same instant Godsend’s own flew behind him majestically. Colinaude reached behind him, where he had an envelope tucked into his trousers. "These are pictures of Barracuda and Viper, in as many guises as I’ve known them. You should be able to locate them quickly enough. Traverse was never good at keeping its secrets. It was always better at spoiling them."

Godsend accepted the envelope without hesitation. "Cast your fears aside," he said.

"Weren’t you the one who said fear was a good thing?" Colinaude said.

"So I did," Godsend said. "It’s something to think about. I assume you’ll be going after the Cad."

"Soon enough," Colinaude said. "There’s one last thing for me to do."

"I bid you all clear waters," Godsend said. Once again, he was gone, as if he was never there. If anything had ever bonded the Terrific Tandem immutably together, it had been their mutual defiance of reality, of the senses. There were senses now Colinaude wished he didn’t have. His last task before the Cad was to visit Cassie. After having dropped her off here originally, he had made the journey to the "Traverse Tracks" building, where he made one last tarry with Peter Cooley’s office. There on his desk was Hopper’s paper, the one that had told Cooley everything he already knew, in considerably greater detail. Colinaude thought about how he had needed to work at retrieving Hopper’s notes in a new copy after leaving that one behind, discovering all the Cad’s appointments for himself, not needing Cooley after all. Perhaps he never had. Perhaps Cooley had never even decoded Hopper’s work. Perhaps, in the end, Colinaude had never needed Cooley.

It was an unpleasant thought. Colinaude had searched the rest of Cooley’s office, finding in a locked drawer the photos he would give Godsend, the only evidence that there was more to Cooley than met the eye. Had Colinaude not trusted Cooley, if he had made this sweep before and discovered these photos, he might have saved himself heartache. It was probably the reason the photos were there to begin with. Cooley had wanted him to find them, to learn the truth earlier. It had been a test, one of many Colinaude had failed.

Returning to the roof of the hospital after retrieving from No.33 Cobb Lane the beacon, he knew he had left Cassie alone for a very long time. He knew every word he spoke with Godsend only delayed longer his return to her side. He was afraid to see her again, as if the ghost of the Cotton from Stonewine Alley would be waiting instead of a broken woman who had trusted in him, believed in him.

He entered the sliding doors, still clad as the Eidolon, and struggled wordlessly for a moment with the desk clerk before striding past her and directly to Cassie’s room. He hesitated at the door, then pushed in. A solitary pulse greeted him, the only sign of life, a monotonous mockery of it. Colinaude broke down, removed his goggles, his mask, and collapsed on the bed beside her. For a long time, he didn’t move, didn’t breath, didn’t think. He couldn’t bear to. Something stirred, however. It was Cassie. She lifted an arm punctured with an IV unit and rested it again on Colinaude.

"Hello," she said.

He struggled to look up, to look at her. "Hello," he replied in turn. "Left you in a bit of dire straits, I’m afraid."

"It was bound to happen," she said. "I think I was owed it. Something you delayed."

"No," he said. "It was something you delayed. I happened to be the instrument. And the instrument again. I play a lousy tune."

"You play a good one," she insisted. "You play a beautiful one. You just have never heard it, yourself. You deserve that. I’d like to help you, but there seem to be other plans for me."

"They’re lousy ones," he said.

"They’re plans," she said. "And I think I’m going to have to follow them."

"No," he said. "No, you don’t have to. You can make your own."

"I’m a little past that," she said. "Besides, it happens to the best of us. And the worst."

"Some of us are in between," he said.

"Not you," she said. "I wish you’d see that. You deserve to." She was quiet for a moment, breathing irregularly, but somehow strongly. Colinaude could feel each rise and fall. He was following them. "You know. You know, there are moments I don’t want to, moments I can’t, but in the end, I do love him. I do love Bobby. I love him."

Colinaude didn’t reply, and Cassie’s chest did not rise again. The pulse of mocking life reveled in itself, as if it had been engaged in a struggle with Cassie and won. He didn’t react at all, didn’t move, didn’t scream, didn’t try to fool himself into believing Cassie could be saved again. It was over. Over. Over.

Tears streamed down his face. Colinaude walked away as the nurses and the doctors rushed past him, preparing to engage in their own futile folly. The tears began to sting, to stain his face, and he let them. They were turning bitter along with him. He exited the hospital, and kept walking. That thing inside him? The one that kept him walking the line? The one that had told him to recruit Godsend to help him take care of the treachery of Peter Cooley and the rogue agent Neville? It was no longer there. It was gone. It had snapped.

For so long now he had been battling himself, trying to hold the line between impulses, the ones he knew stood between the most rigid of definitions. He knew what a hero was, and what a hero did, and what a hero didn’t do. He was about to cross that line, the one he had always sworn himself against. Too much had been taken, too much hope for redemption for a boy who could never have known what was expected of him, of the implications all the things said about what happened had to mean about him, of the desire, the need, the lust, the will to avenge himself, to avenge others. What hope had he ever had? What hope could he have had, if Cassie had never had any? What hope did he deserve? What hope could there be for anyone?

There could be none. The Eidolon was an avenger, and for a long time that had meant a devotion to ideals he had believed in, but had never really been there. He was through with illusions, through with trying to fool himself, through with trying to pretend two and two made four. The world was a black and white globe. He had willed gray upon it, and the world in its vengeance had forced red to run deeply through him. Red was a conduit between the only true colors. He had tried to cut off this conduit, and instead become it. He was now going to embrace it. He was now going to make someone pay, as he should have all those years ago, forced everyone who told him of Stonewine to see things for what they really were, including himself. He was a coward, and he was going to take the coward’s way out. And all those who stood in his way were going to know his wrath. He was going to take his vengeance, the revenge of the angry avenger.

And who was standing in his way now? Who had set him about this path? Who had been the agent of Cassie’s demise, the conduit of Viper and Barracuda? Who had murdered Rancor, who had put in jeopardy all the people he had ever cared about? Who had made him see Godsend for what he truly was, a demon working with demons to sow the beginning of entropy?
The Cad. The face of evil, wrapped in benevolence, the jester for all the world to see, harmless and unassuming, the essence of all that had gone wrong. Colinaude would set things right. Oh yes, he would.

Chapter 27: "The Secret Origin of the Eidolon"

Despite his name, Cotton was not a son of the South. Simon and Eileen Colinaude chose that name, they always insisted, on a whim, perhaps a whim based on the convergence their career paths happened to take. Simon, point man for a department chain, met Eileen Blackman, fashion designer, on one of his many business trips, this one to New York. They settled down in his native New England, where they found the time to raise one son, Cotton Colinaude, who thereafter followed Simon on all his business trips. One, when Cotton was eleven years old, brought them to the Alabama city of Traverse. It had been the farthest Cotton had ever traveled. He was not an alert child as it was, and the trip had only dulled him further, but not enough to rouse him from his one true passion, and that was to wander off on his own, in search of adventure.

It wasn’t adventure Cotton found in Traverse, at least not right away. It was a small boy with oversized ears named Denny. Denny was lost, having been separated from his parents on the subway, and Cotton took it upon himself to take care of him. This amounted to recruiting Denny into his adventure, which was the exploration of the city, which if he had asked would have been the last thing Denny wanted to do right then.

But he didn’t, and so the two boys began their adventure. They must have searched every nook and cranny of the business district, Cotton never once getting bored, always finding something to amuse himself. There was no one looking for him, which liberated his intentions, allowed him to become careless. They found themselves soon enough thoroughly engulfed in the world they had created for themselves, and the result was that the worries they’d left behind came back to haunt them.

Denny noticed it first. In his twitching way, he indicated to Cotton that they were being followed, which Cotton brushed off at first as paranoia. He insisted to Denny that they had nothing to worry about, and they carried on, as if it really was true, but the truth caught up with them in Stonewine Alley. Denny panicked first, running off, forcing Cotton to try and keep up with him, which he managed to do by the time they’d reached the end of the alley. But by that time, they realized they were cornered, a gang of four, each emblazoned with handkerchiefs reading "Nashville Deep" covering their faces, fast approaching.

And Cotton froze. He lost all awareness, of Denny, of where he was, of what he was doing in Traverse. For the first time in his life, he was powerless, and it wasn’t because he had trusted his father to always be there, or because he had followed his father on the business trips, or on one business trip too many, or because this one had been the farthest yet. He had allowed himself to be lost in his own world.

The next thing the boy knew, he was in a hospital, in a bed next to Denny’s, and his father was watching over him. He wondered aloud why Denny didn’t have anyone with him. His father said because there was no one to come see Denny. He wondered aloud what had happened. His father said that Cotton had fought off the gang members, saved Denny and himself. Cotton couldn’t understand, about why Denny didn’t have his parents with him or what his own father had said about how he and Denny had survived Stonewine Alley. He couldn’t remember doing that, fighting the gang members. He couldn’t remember being a hero. He didn’t believe it even after the story in the paper, the story in the news he wasn’t featured in because his father said Cotton wasn’t strong enough yet. He didn’t believe it when the mayor gave him the keys to the city in a special ceremony two weeks later, and he couldn’t believe it when his father told him he couldn’t see Denny again, because he had been taken in by a shelter and they would have to go back home. What was a shelter? What was home?

He didn’t know anything anymore. Cotton never went on another business trip with his father. He instead spent the time trying to figure out what had happened in Traverse, what had happened in Stonewine Alley. He read stories of real heroes, of a hero called the Sidewinder who had made his home in Traverse a century ago. He tried to imagine himself as a hero, and could only ever fail. No, it wasn’t possible. He had frozen, he had failed. He had led Denny into a trap. Denny was taken away because of him, would never see his parents again because of him.

Because of this, Traverse became an obsession for Cotton. He grew up, knowing he would go back there. It had become his destiny. He owed it to Denny. He also owed Denny his life, and the way he would accomplish that would be to live up to all the lies that had been told about Stonewine Alley, about how he had been a hero. He read the reports of what became of the Nashville Deep, how the members who had been there in the alley never rose from that life, how the Nashville Deep evolved with their offspring, a product of a news story that had seen them defeated by an eleven-year-old. It had no doubt created a stain on them, something they could only hope to redeem themselves from.

Cotton was looking for his own redemption. He trained himself, day and night, trained even to go without sleep. He couldn’t sleep, not with the nightmares always there. He perfected his body, but never had a means to measure his abilities by. He was a solitary figure, always the outcast in school, looking from the outside on social groups. He distrusted them, and trusted only himself. It was the only way, he continually told himself, the only way to avenge Denny, the only way to redeem himself. His parents had no idea how to handle him anymore. He distanced himself from them as well.

If there was a saving grace, it was that he very soon learned, when he began to seriously look into becoming a hero the likes of which he’d read about, that he couldn’t hope to achieve success without help, not the kind of success he set his hopes for. Following the Nashville Deep had forced him to realize how complicated things could be. He did not want to make a cursory attempt. He didn’t even want to make an attempt. He wanted to do, and to be a hero he would need connections, to reprogram his aversion to others, to outside trust.

It was in this way that he first encountered Godsend. Cotton was in search of an approach, and found the Alabama Lamb, nestled right in Traverse. Godsend was the ideal, in most regards, the kind the general public thought first of when they thought of super heroes, so naturally he was the first one Cotton thought of, too. For a while, the Eidolon employed the only thing he was sure of in his arsenal, his ability to get around, to shadow Godsend. He had never lost his taste for wandering; in fact it had only enhanced his opportunities to contemplate things. If Stonewine had robbed him of that, the Eidolon would never have been born, and who knows what the fate of Cotton Colinaude would have been.

By copying Godsend’s meager approach, mostly limited to other heroes like Moonraker and Threshold, Cotton gained the confidence to start his own contact group, and although he never realized it Denny was the first. It was on the subway, where Denny seemed to live. He was known as Hopper now.

When Cotton finally got around to designing a costume, he chose his mother’s old crew, but she never found out because Simon and Eileen Colinaude passed away in a car accident before the Eidolon had a chance to emerge. He mourned them, briefly, and moved on, straight to Traverse. With the costumes the family friend made, thinking Cotton was part of a production team and not knowing him well enough to ever think otherwise, Cotton set about his new life. He never forgot what had set him on this path, but he did stray from it.

Godsend was as much the reason why he grew confident in his craft as he was the reason Colinaude drifted away from his original focus. He began to see himself as a hero, not in the sense of accepting what everyone had always told him about Stonewine, but as the man beneath the cowl of the Eidolon, as half of the Terrific Tandem, as the figure who regularly sparred with the likes of Viper and Rancor, who fought foes like Lt. Limbo and thought nothing of it. It was as if he was becoming cocky, arrogant. He did worse than despaired of others. He despised himself. That was how Colinaude, the Eidolon, came to battle himself. And nothing he did, follow the example of Switchblade, pursue those others felt unimportant, could, or would, change it.

The Eidolon was born impure, and Colinaude had no idea how to change it. He didn’t even know if he wanted to. His singular thought was in redeeming himself, and everywhere he turned he found another opportunity to do just the opposite. As much as Traverse was his destiny, the city had also always promised to be his downfall. But he knew no other way. Here he made his stand, here he awaited his fate. Here he would find out what would become of Cotton Colinaude. This was the end of his exploring, the end of his adventure.

Chapter 26: "The Fate of Peter Cooley"

The Eidolon turned his attention squarely toward Viper. Not far off lay the body of Cassie Dawes, otherwise known as Calypso, a hero-turned-villain-turned-hero that’d joined forces with Colinaude to defeat the Cad. The Cad had joined forces with an agent named Neville, also known as Barracuda, and that union had spawned Viper, a frequent opponent of Colinaude’s who’d fired a wrist rocket at Cassie. It had found its mark. Also nearby was a puddle of mud that was also Nick Sanders, better known publicly as Silt, the Sand Man. That predicament was also courtesy of Viper. Colinaude was struggling to keep his emotions in check. He knew what kind of hero he was, and what kind he desperately did not want to become.

"You will live," he told Viper. Earlier on this day, he had seen Viper without his mask for the first time. It was at an auto dealership called Mad Jack’s, where Colinaude had planted himself to meet with a contact known as Freddy Ratbeard. As it happened, Mad Jack’s was hosting a promotional event, and the entertainers were all dressed as super heroes. Viper came disguised as Godsend, Colinaude’s one-time partner in the Terrific Tandem. Ratbeard had been fooled, but he hadn’t. To achieve the effect, Viper had needed to dye his hair a brilliant flaxen, which might have thrown anyone else off, coupled with the other main difference with the form Colinaude had seen the face before. "You will live to see another day, Peter Cooley."

Viper sneered, removing his mask, which until now had only revealed his eyes, eyes that had always been too probing, too knowing. "So, you’ve figured it out."

"The glasses Cooley wears," Colinaude said. "They fool some people, but they don’t fool everyone. You were an idiot to go as Godsend."

"I took a chance," Viper said. "Everything is always a chance. I took a chance for how many years that none of you heroes would ever be able to connect the dots between Cooley’s supposed exclusives and your encounters with the assassin Viper? That the man known as Solvent just happened to know the right things Eidolon always needed? I’ve tried to tell you, to warn you. You never caught on. Even today, I tried to distract you, turn you from the path I saw you headed toward and honestly wanted you to avoid. So it wasn’t the one it seemed to be. That wasn’t the point. I wanted to help you, one last time, and you wouldn’t let me. But you don’t bugger off easily, do you? You don’t know when to quit."

"And it wasn’t just you," Colinaude said. "There was also Neville. Or should I say Buck Bukowski?"

"It’s taken you too long," Viper said. "Too long, and now you’ve walked right into our trap. The only question remaining is, what’re you going to do? There’s only one solution. It’s the one we’ve all been dying for. Walk away. Do it. You can end everything right now if you just walk away. Think of all the lives you can save by doing it. I can think of a few. Lou, Alonzo, Ratbeard, Hopper…Cassie Dawes. Take her to the hospital. It’s that easy. Go ahead. Save her, them. And yourself."

His friend for all these years, his confidant, the man he had always turned to. For some reason, that had changed even before he knew on this day. He had taken too much for granted, trusted too much, or maybe trusted too little, and this was his reward. Peter Cooley, for as long as Colinaude had known him, had been living the same double life Solvent had been meant to help the Eidolon lead. He should have known just by how far Cooley had been able to adjust with his handicap. Why stop at merely appearing perfectly normal? Normal was never good enough, not for someone who had been pushed outside out it by mitigating circumstances, and pushed back to reach it. No, Cooley wanted it both ways. It was a familiar struggle, one that couldn’t stand company. Colinaude would know.

It was too perfect an arrangement for Cooley for anyone, least of all Colinaude, to ever suspect. He had arranged to have it both ways, to be Traverse’s champion for heroes and one of their deadliest opponents, far deadlier as it turned out than all the regular forced that worked against them: apathy, jealousy, anarchy, all closer than Colinaude had ever dared imagine. He’d thought to have had circumvented them. He was wrong. And what made it worse was the thought that it had been so much easier to accomplish than anything Colinaude had ever done. The ease of evil made it attractive, but it was the expedience that made it so prevalent. He should have known. He should have.

"I have another idea," he said. "You. Go. I will take Cassie to the hospital and I will not see you again. This I promise you. You can tell the same to Barracuda."

Neville was another case. Whatever his motivations, or perhaps he had never truly worked for the government, he had set his sights on Colinaude, and had used a legitimate post to gather as much information on the Eidolon as Solvent couldn’t. Buck was a recent addition to Colinaude’s contact list, and now it came as no surprise that he had become interested in Colinaude via the Cooley call. He had been searching for the Eidolon, and Colinaude led him straight to him, to himself. What a fool. What a fool to make such an amateurish mistake, to take such a chance. No one ever found something they weren’t searching for. That Buck would be able to make the leap from a conversation to understanding the context of that conversation should have been too remarkable to trust. That had been the very reason Colinaude never called Cooley. Why had he slipped? Why? Why?

"I have another idea," he said again. "I will drop Cassie off at the hospital and then I will hunt you down, and then I will hunt Barracuda down. You will both die."

"You can always try," Viper said. "You can try, and fail, just as you have always done. You couldn’t even defeat Rancor. I could. What did you think I was off doing, when Lou missed me today and the disappearance of Peter Cooley had even Cotton Colinaude concerned? Imagine that, Cotton Colinaude concerned. That was something new, I have to admit. You surprised me. Bravo!"

"I’ll have to think of something bigger for the next time," Colinaude said. "To trump yours."

"Oh, I’d love to see that," Viper said. "I really would. But I doubt very much I’ll ever see it. You’ve been defeated. Deal with it, and take my suggestion. It’s the only way for you to win. What do you think Neville is doing at this very moment? He’s no longer guarding Ramirez. He’s preparing our insurance policy."

"Does it matter to you that you can’t possibly win, even if you beat me?" Colinaude said. "All the heroes that have been neglecting Cad won’t be doing that any longer, not after it becomes known that his scope has increased triple-fold?"

"We’ll see about that," Viper said. "I’m afraid I’m taking you up on your offer. I’ll let you take Cassie to the hospital and see if you can catch up with us again. It’s an awful risk, though. You’re taking quite a chance. Let’s hope you don’t end up on the wrong end yet again."

Colinaude watched as Viper made his exit. Yes, he was letting that happen, one more time he told himself. He also told himself that Nick could wait, that whatever shape he was in, dead or alive, his priority lay in Cassie. It was probably his latest grand mistake, but he was going to live with it. He had to let Viper go, if he was going to be able to hold fast to his ideals. He had other plans to deal with Viper and Barracuda, but he couldn’t neglect Cassie, not if he was going to hold onto his sanity.

Yet he could feel it slipping away, just as his sense of control was disappearing. The control he had always believed he had over his personal life, the thing that had allowed him to parade as a hero named Eidolon, all of the measures he had taken to ensure his safety and in turn the safety of everyone he thought he could depend on. It was the foundation for the new life he had claimed for himself, the one he had assumed after parting ways with Godsend, when he told himself that all the ideals he had always cherished were about to be fulfilled. Everything had been undermined. Everything.

He picked up Cassie Dawes, her body covered in blood, and the wound to her torso still oozing profusely. He knew enough about basic medical practices, courtesy of the few spare hours his life afforded him and the necessities of Tin Can, to know he to move Cassie without injuring her further. Yet he was in a greater hurry than the greatest care would allow him, so he had to compromise. Fortunately one aspect of the Eidolon’s existence could still be counted on. He still had his sense of body control. He would need every bit of it.

To hell with the questions that would be asked about Cassie’s choice of clothing. The general public had never really gotten to know Calypso, and the authorities might have forgotten her in three years, if they’d ever known her. The extent of Cassie’s hindrances had always been Colinaude. He now prayed he was no longer one. He had his doubts. His fears were worse. And as he made his way, he thought it ironic that for the first time in its history, Traverse was a destination instead of a means to an end. Well, not the first time. The first time had come nearly a lifetime ago. It had been what created the Eidolon.

Chapter 25: "Direct Current"

When Nick reformed inside the museum, after having insisted on crossing the doorway in a quivering lump of sand, Colinaude had to hold back a gasp. The man known as Silt couldn’t achieve a complexion with any moisture, as if his skin had long ago dried out, which gave him an unearthly appearance. Even his eyes were dull, and this Colinaude wasn’t sure if it had to do with his strange molecular properties or because the life of him had spread out through the years, gradually becoming irrevocably lost. From the few words Nick had spoke, he even sounded hollow, a shallow shell of a man who had entertained possibilities and had all but used them up. What was left survived out of shear force of will. He apparently still had things to do.

"We have drawn ourselves a trap even now," Nick said. "This hour draws the Viper toward us."

"That is what we had hoped," Colinaude said, Cassie nodding in agreement, "yes."

"It is not something to be taken lightly," Nick said, resting against a pillar inside a building made to resemble Roman architecture. His was a resigned stance. "I told you Rancor was murdered. The Cad has thusly exceeded his grasp, and by this we are to assume we were all wrong about him from the start. He was waiting in ambush for us, and we have all fallen into the trap."

"I just don’t see him as accomplishing all this by himself," Colinaude said. "Perhaps it was Neville alone who pushed him to this new plateau, but that seems unlikely."

"Why?" Nick said. "What do you know of Neville?"

"Maddeningly," Colinaude said, "very little."

"He’s a wild card," Cassie said. "A spoiler. An enigma."

"That’s what he was supposed to be," Colinaude said. "He has achieved everything I have always striven for, in terms of anonymity. And I thought you had done that."

"By necessity," Nick said. "Here is what I know: Neville, until he surfaced six months ago as the most recent agent assigned to you, was entirely off the charts. Other agents I have managed to converse with, including my own, know nothing of him."

"You may be the first hero I know who has done that," Colinaude said. "Talk with an agent, let alone your own."

"I don’t have one," Cassie said. "Do I?"

"You were never a hero long enough," Nick said. "And you have not returned long enough to merit one. I doubt even the government is that good. Unless there are things you are not telling even me."

"The Eidolon drew Calypso out of retirement," Cassie insisted.

"But not before Calypso realized she was not really vanquished," Colinaude suggested.

"True," Cassie said.

"What is also true," Nick said, "is that we are not alone. There should be no one else here, yet there is. I have felt it."

"Through his connections," Cassie said, pointing downward for Colinaude. "No matter how good the janitor is, he always leaves just enough behind."

"Yes," Nick said. "And there is rumor that this dust is from my own person. I believe the rumor is your own."

"Guilty as charged," Cassie said. "But technically you just spread the rumor yourself."

"Where is Viper now?" Colinaude said.

"Not far," Nick said. "Fortunately, he is unaware of our presence. He walks without caution."

"I have never known Viper to use caution," Colinaude said.

"Nor have I," Nick said. "It should have made him more vulnerable, but he has always seemed to compensate well enough."

"He’s a real scumbag," Colinaude said. "Yeah. A scrappy scumbag. And unfortunately I have to give him a measure of respect for that."

"I have a proposal," Cassie said. "Let’s ditch the respect and Viper along with it."

"Sounds good," Colinaude said. "He never was much of a dancer."

"I beg you to not take him lightly," Nick said. "That is the first step toward underestimation, and defeat."

"I’ve fought enough times to know what he’s capable of," Colinaude said. "He doesn’t have anything to surprise me with."

"He would no doubt say the same," Nick said, "about you."

"It would make a good piece by Peter Cooley," Colinaude said. "If the paper would print it."

"What name did you say?" Nick said.

"Peter Cooley," Colinaude said. "He’s a reporter. You should be more than familiar with him. He somehow manages to get in good with every hero."

"I have never—" Nick began, just as Viper struck, which sent the Sand Man splashing away in a most effective defensive gesture. Colinaude and Cassie were ready before Viper had a chance to recover.

"I’ve fought you enough times to see how you do against one," Colinaude said. "How do you fare against three?"

"Better than you’d think," Viper said. "Did you know Rancor’s Three Kings each have Achilles’ heels? I could only suppose you would. You encountered them enough times with Godsend. How did you fare?"

"Better than they did," Colinaude said. "Better than you will."

"Don’t count on that," Viper said, before firing off a shot from his wrist rocket at the sprinkler overhead. "That should take care of your friend Silt. Does he fight well as mud? Not that I’ve heard."

"You monster," Cassie shouted, clearly shaken as she watched Nick’s form, which had only just begun to take shape again when the shower broke out, fall again, crashing against the tiled floor and splattering against the walls. She threw herself at Viper.

"No, he is," Viper said, easily fighting off Calypso as Colinaude attempted to make his own move, only to be blocked by Cassie’s hurtling body. "Or at least he was. There’s no telling now."

"Do yourself a favor," Colinaude said, looking after Cassie, "shut up for once."

"I’m afraid I never could do that," Viper said, now facing off against Colinaude alone, each stalking the other as Cassie tried to compose herself. "I never could take a hint."

Colinaude launched himself at his foe, and as at Mad Jack’s they began a back-and-forth that saw no clear superior. Cassie revived herself enough to rejoin the fray, and Viper seemed to back off a little, but not for long. He compensated with weapons, which neither of the heroes had at their disposal. He fired a few more shots from his wrist rocket, throwing each in turn off balance, and pulled out a few sharp objects as well. He was an accomplished marksman with these, but Colinaude with his instincts managed to avoid them, and Cassie appeared to have comparable skill. But this kept both on their toes, and swung the advantage back toward the middle. Nick was not showing any signs of recovering, and this had an obvious continuing impact on Cassie.

Perhaps the advantage was Viper’s after all. He caught both with his dagger, sending them back, but Colinaude responded by kicking it free of the assassin’s hand, and Cassie followed up with blows that dizzied Viper. He flicked a few more blades their way in a successful bid to regain his footing. He seemed to have a never-ending supply, and relish the thought of it, sporting a wicked grin through setback and triumph. In contrast to Nick, his eyes also seemed to glisten with delight, as if he was never going to have his fill. This Colinaude supposed was Viper’s driving force. The eyes were the only part of his face visible, the rest of it and his person clad in a modified ninja’s outfit, seeming to be made of scales in an attempt to make good on his moniker. He was able to pull it off through sheer force of personality. Viper gave off an aura of venom, which seemed both natural and an effort at the same time.

But it was more than his aura that Colinaude and Cassie were battling now. The corridor they fought in was free of any priceless displays, since it was a back entrance away from even the archives. Cassie would have recognized it as the loading area for her ad projects, the stepping stone for their journey to presentation. But Colinaude doubted she was concentrating on that aspect of her life right now. Calypso was undergoing a rebaptism of fire, and the trial had begun with the disablement of a mentor-figure, perhaps the reason the hero had returned in the first place. She seemed to be growing more confident, more formidable, by the minute.

And yet so did Viper. He was indefatigable. Nothing the combined efforts of Colinaude and Cassie threw at him unsettled him for long. This was more than a little distressing. Nick had been right. There were new things to learn about him. Colinaude tried not to think about the fact that he was doing this against two opponents.

"You will be forgiven if you beg mercy," Viper said. "You may even surrender."

"Not on your life," Cassie said.

"Maybe yours," Viper said. He shot another wrist rocket as he said so, and it struck Calypso square in the torso. She collapsed into a heap, blood pouring from her. Colinaude screamed, let loose a savage blow to Viper’s head, which connected. And yet, even beneath the hood he visibly smiled. "I seem to have hit on something."

Colinaude was seething, but he wasn’t moving, and neither was Viper, who despite his cocky words had not expected to hit Cassie. He almost seemed to have remorse in his eyes, but Colinaude was not about to feel sorry for him. Perhaps it was the adrenaline still pumping through his veins, but the Eidolon still managed to hold his composure, even though he had all but been defeated here in the museum. "We finish this now?" he managed to ask, and it came out almost as a plea.

"Perhaps," Viper said. "It would be a shame if the moment were spoiled by indecision."

"It’s not indecision you should be worried about," Colinaude said.

"That attitude," Viper said. "Could that be the resolve you were never able to muster before? Should I fear for my life? Hero?"