The Hornet/Origin?

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October, 2005...

Early Sunday morning, 5:30am, and I get a phone call from the only remaining contact I haven't completely alienated or otherwise pissed off. It wakes me up from much-needed slumber with a start... an unwelcome reminder that I have a job to do today. Better a phone call though than his normal habit of banging the living hell out of my front door. I don't owe him money this week, though, so I guess I get this "kinder, gentler" treatment. Yay, me. Woo. I'm blessed.

I put my well-worn shoes, make some instant coffee... which I find I unfortunately have no sugar for... of course, and get ready to boogie... schlepping around, following some lawyer jackass who's decided his lovely wife and his two small children aren't enough reason to keep him from making it with some saline-chested bimbo he met at a strip club here in the Row. Nice guy. Nice life.

I cough up what appears to be the remnants of my lungs into the sink, take a quick swig of whatever has been sitting open in a glass on the coffee table since I passed out last night... it tastes like whiskey, and probably is... grab my jacket and I'm out the door.

An hour later and I'm all set up on the roof of a building across the street from the aforementioned bimbo's apartment on a stakeout, waiting for the opportunity to get a few shots of them in the act... all the proof I need to get this lousy, distasteful job done with and collect my fee. It starts to sprinkle out. Figures. At least my camera isn't getting wet, covered up by a dark grey blanket acting as camouflage against the drab, tar-covered Row rooftops. I need a cigarette... badly... but I can't afford to be noticed at this particular moment. So I sit and wait, antsy. The nature of the game.

Of course, now I have time to think... to do some introspection. I hate that.

Being raised and trained by my father... the fourth "Hornet" in a legacy of costumed vigilanteism started by my great grandfather and passed down through my grandfather and uncle... I sometimes marvel that I was able to retain so much of my own personality throughout my formative years, remaining free of his influence. Perhaps this was due to being a sort of counterbalance to the man... joviality to his utter seriousness... optimism to his pessimism... light to his dark. You get the idea. If he came down too hard on me sometimes... well, I used it to propel myself to greater heights. I wanted to be just like him. Just like all of the Hornets. In those early training years, we functioned as a team... partners. The Hornet and his little ninja-suited protégé. Those were good days. Really good. Of course, then I had to go and ruin everything by growing up. I had to realize that Dad wasn't perfect after all. Not even close. The real problem was, though, he expected me to be.




"Wake up, Cole! You need to concentrate!" Marc yelled sharply as the tranq dart passed within an inch of his son's right eye. "Pay attention!"

"It's okay, Dad," Cole replied, flipping backwards and out of harm's way. "I've got it all cover-... whoa!" He gasped as another dart clipped his shoulder. Losing his balance, the boy fell from the ceiling mounted parallel bars, twelve feet above his father's head. Spinning into a somersault, he landed awkwardly but safely upon the padded floor below. He met his father's disapproving glare with one of his own.

"Dammit, Cole. I told you..." Marc started.

Cole cut him off. "You anticipated my moves! You knew where to throw the darts! That isn't fair!"

"Unbelievable. Is that what you're planning to do? Start whining when criminals pull something unexpected?"

"I-I... but..."

"Your head wasn't in the game tonight, Cole. That could be fatal in the field. You aren't like the rest of us, son... the men in our line. You've got the smarts, sure. You'll end-up smarter than the lot of us... but you're awkward, skinny... a dreamer. You need more training than any of us ever had if you are ever going to take up the mantle someday."

Cole bristled. The words cut deeply. He knew there was an element of truth in them. "Dad... I," he started to apologize.

"I don't know what's been getting into you lately, son, but..."

That was it. The younger man had had enough. "What has been getting into me," he said calmly, the anger evident in his voice. "What has been getting into me? The great and powerful Hornet doesn't have a clue, huh? That's just hilarious. You haven't noticed that between training and school, I have no time for anything else? You don't see that my grades are falling off as you keep piling on extra training? Sure, I'm still getting through science easily enough... I could probably teach chemistry better than my instructor... but still. It's too much, dad."

Marc stared coldly at his son for a moment, then started to turn away. "Fine. I had no idea you felt so much 'pressure'. Very well. Until the end of the school year, no more training... no more field work."

Cole's jaw dropped. "What...? No!... I didn't mean..."

"I will handle King's Row. You'll work on your grades. Take on some extracurriculars. Whatever. They're clearly more important to you than..."

Cole stood in shock. "No! You're twisting my words, dammit!"

"You did say your studies were suffering due to your nightly activities, didn't you?... impacting your performance in the field?" Marc's voice was cold and resolute. "These are valid concerns. As of this moment, your schooling is more important than any other pursuits. If you can't handle being trained right now, then..."

"Dad!," Cole said desperately, "please don't do this!"




And so it ended. I never did complete my training. My father was finally captured and murdered a few months later by the 5th Column. I went on to college at Paragon University with a full ride science scholarship. I graduated and found a great job at Crey Industries in their genetic research facility. I was doing well enough, but my father's death and the disappointment I felt over not being able to take my rightful place as the Hornet continued to plague me. I started to drink... a little at first, but eventually too much. Stopped taking care of myself. I lost my job, lost my girlfriend, lost my self-respect. Started taking on private investigation work to sustain my miserable life. That was two years ago.

So anyhow there I am feeling sorry for myself again and suddenly I hear it... some shouting from the alley below... not at all untypical for the Row with all the Skulls and such around, but I decide to take a look anyhow. There's this nice looking couple... obviously in this neighborhood to go to church or to help in a mission or soup kitchen, I figure, since they're nicely dressed and the guy is carrying a bible... and they're surrounded on all sides by the Lost. Admittedly, those guys freak me the hell out. Hate them. They have some weird mind mojo and all that... like the Rikti. Nothing worse than having your mind messed with, the way I figure it. I of course assume the couple is already dead. I want to help them but I can't... what am I gonna do to the Lost, cough on them? Slap them around with my lovehandles? Right. So I do what I can... I take a few shots with my camera to give as evidence to the police.

Then he shows up.

I didn't recognize him at first due to the distance and the light haze of rain still falling. He moved with incredible grace and speed, appearing out of nowhere. He was like some kind of jungle cat... only more fluid. One movement blending seamlessly into another. Then it hit me. I recognized the moves. Sinjin Cross. I had seen him at work before, cleaning up the Row like my father did in his heyday. The guy has everything... looks, charm, grace, women, the moves... and he's a hero. I sit there admiring him, though it feels like a kick to the groin. He's everything I should have been. Wanted to be. He could have been the Hornet. Maybe he should have been.

He makes short work of the villains and gets thanked by the religious couple while he waits for Paragon's finest to show up. That's when I notice that I've been made by the lawyer and the bimbo. The shades are drawn before I can even reach my camera. No payday for me today. Great. Just f---ing great.

I plop down and sit there for awhile, pulling out a flask from my jacket and a cigarette. I guess all this crap must have really gotten to me, because I just sat there, eyes misting up like some sappy idiot... wrapped-up in my own filth. I hated my life, but I had been too stubborn to end it, too lazy to fix it. My great granddad was probably spinning in his grave. The first Hornet was a legend in this town. He'd been friends with Statesman, for Pete's sake... and every male in my family had been trying to live up to his example since. I'm the last male in my family, and I've brought nothing but shame.

So I sat there for hours, drinking, crying and cursing my life... pathetic.

I passed out at some point and didn't wake up until it was getting late. My clothes were filthy, my whole body was filthy. I dusted myself off, collected my equipment, and started to climb down the ladder to the fire escape when I noticed a billboard for Regal Heights Apartments, a recently completed apartment building here in King's Row. It was a nice looking place. Good design. So anyhow, it says "Regal Heights Apartments... Start over in luxurious 2000 sq. ft. living spaces, designed for modern living."

"...'Start over'..." I thought to myself. "Good idea."

Yeah...I know, I know... inspired by a billboard... that's pretty damned weak, and not even particularly interesting... but sometimes you just have to take what you can get.

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