Frank Bigelow/DOA
From Unofficial Handbook of the Virtue Universe
(This is the origin story of Frank Bigelow of The Cerulean Legion)
I fight against a pool of ink and ether, because that’s all there is in the world. That, and the pain. Then a force, blue and relentless, pulls my head back above the surface. I take a gulping breath out of reflex, feel the chilled slab beneath me. Later, I’ll realize that I wasn’t swimming, at least not in water. Right now, my mind has bigger hills to climb.
King’s Row wasn’t the best shortcut, and deep down, I knew it. But living in a city of heroes can make a smart person dumb. Worse, I wasn’t even paying attention. My dress shoes clacked against the concrete as my mind ran through the evening’s list: Grade the film noir papers and prepare for next week’s lesson on Italian neo-realism. (Note: Reserve The Bicycle Thief at the PCU library.) Send the suit to the cleaners, the pinstripe one that Donna likes. She wants earrings for her birthday, set with her birthstone. (What’s in March? Not diamonds, I hope.) Tivo the Bacall marathon on that classic movie channel. (What did I just step in?)
I paused, certain I was forgetting something. Ah, right. Cancel my Thursday plans with Mary. Schedule at least an hour to listen to her questions about when I’m leaving Donna. This part would be tricky, as Donna was due home in roughly 90 minutes. Hence the shortcut.
I spotted a man on the street ahead, pleading with the people passing by him. I assumed he was asking for money, but the jerks wouldn’t even acknowledge him. Good ol’ Kings Row, always looking out for number one. I dug in my pockets, preparing a quarter or two for the bum, but then I noticed his suit. It was expensive, sharp. Not a single thread out of place. I was suddenly quite curious to hear what the guy had to say.
When it was my turn, he grabbed me by the arm and gave me a pleading, wild stare. “Help me, man. There’s a guy back there bleeding to death. He got mugged. I saw it, dear god, I saw it. I couldn’t stop it.” His calloused finger pointed behind the building nearby. I told him to call out and that a hero would be around shortly. His face fell. “That’s what everyone says, but nobody’s come yet.” Well, that did it. Before long, I was picking my way past overturned trash cans looking for the victim. Somebody had to help, and for once I decided that it should be me.
I flipped over a slimy piece of cardboard and discovered the victim. Except, he didn’t resemble any mugging victim I’d ever seen. Not unless he got mugged by the grim reaper himself. The body was all stitched up, mostly nude. A crude “V” was carved into its right shoulder and a putrid smell smashed me in the nose. I tried to throw up, but my stomach was light on juice. Skipped lunch. I couldn’t look at my new friend, so I rattled out my quick list of excuses. I said that he was too far gone, that I needed to run and call the police. If the cops needed to hear my testimony, they could look me up in the yellow pages. I gave him my name – Frank Bigelow.
All I got back was silence. When I finally craned my neck around to see my well-dressed companion, I caught him switching his suit for a sullied doctor’s smock. He grinned wickedly at me. “I don’t need to know your name,” he says. Just then, the corpse on the ground laid a steel grip on my shoulder.
This time, my stomach has no problem emptying its contents. I let loose what seems like gallons. The process is so violent that I slip a bit and get some on the walls. Momentarily done, I wipe my mouth and look at the man in front of me. Wait. Not a man. The light is dim and flickering, but I can make out some things. Green, horns. A troll? The costume looks familiar, but I can’t focus. Can’t think straight.
A fire is coursing through my veins. Later, I’ll learn this is the shard doing its work, clearing my body of infection. Oh god, my body. A fresh barrage of flickers gives me just enough light to see my hands. Stitches, rot. These aren’t my hands. My eyes dart up to the troll. My brain is screaming, but my body won’t join in. Legion, right? Something about a Legion? The room flips on its side, putting me back on the floor. I’m convulsing in a pile of my own sick. Great. It’s only now that I can tell what exactly I was throwing up.
Formaldehyde.
Everything makes sense now. My life before… was no life. I have a sense of purpose and responsibility, and a strength I never thought possible. The troll – I guess I should call him Joshua Caine now – gave me the good news and the bad news. The bad news is that I was kidnapped by the Vahzilok, which is a one-way trip. He found me in one of their Faultline dens, another patchwork job like the one I found in King’s Row. I watch his eyes as he explains it to me. There’s a rage in there, but there is also pity. He says that the shard guided him to this place, to me. Anyone else might have had a different reaction when they saw their shard glow blue near a corpse. Disbelief, revulsion. Maybe. But Joshua used to be a monster, too. The shard – and the Cerulean Legion – saved him. The good news is that now it’s saved me, even from death. There are still questions to answer. Why didn’t it fix my body? Why do I still look dead? And why me – this -- anyway? There are so many questions that my head aches thinking of them. And I need to be fresh, because it’s time to practice.
Caine helps me channel my energy while John Talbot looks on. There were some serious discussion for a moment, but I don’t ask what about. Instead, I try to master this newfound power. The shard does most of the work, I just have to aim and will it. At first, I can only manage a light show, but within an hour I’m blowing holes in the rest of Faultline’s ruins. Call it a service to the construction crew. They’d have to tear this stuff down anyway for the rebuilding. Caine guides me, gives me room, but keeps me in line. He’s a stoic sort, not talkative. All I want to do is chatter his ear off, since talking reminds me that I’m still alive. Nothing else does anymore. Still, I try to give this the gravity that Caine wants it to have. I’m being trained as a warrior.
Six weeks. I was dead six weeks. My blood-stained wallet was found in that King’s Row alley, along with several bits of my body. They must have kept my brain alive somehow. Anyway, my students seemed to take my death all right. They probably all got A’s. I mean, if they can score a grade for a suicidal roommate, there has to be a sweet incentive for “your teacher became a zombie.”
After careful consideration, I’ve decided not to inform the world of my return. Is that cruel? I can’t decide. I watch Donna eating lunch at her favorite bistro in Founders Falls. She looks more alive than ever before, vibrant. The big surprise of the day is when Mary walks up and sits down. They greet each other warmly. Bewildered, I inch closer on the roof until I can make out some of their conversation.
Wow. Turns out they met at my funeral. I draw in an unnecessary breath just to laugh it back out. These days, I force myself to breathe. Not only to pass air over my vocal chords, but to pass sanity over my mind. Have to keep up appearances.
I climb down from the roof and change into my disguise in the alley. Hat, sunglasses, long coat. And, just for good measure, foundation and Old Spice. I wonder about the conversation they're having, but I’m just glad they'll be there for each other. A sleazy man would be tempted to stick around, wait for his name to drop. That man might have been me, but that was a lifetime ago. As it stands now, I just about have time to take in that new movie Rise of the Council before my next training session with Joshua. After that, the Legion is meeting up to discuss our plans to clean up this planet. And I’m a part of that. Ain’t this the life?
