There was a little glade just off the path that had a ropes course set up on it. It was peaceful there. Idyllic. And absolutely frigid. The bone-chilling temperatures had dropped below the comfortable mark for most, and left Tom needing to wear a long-sleeved shirt. He had thrown on a flannel and headed out. Canadian, go fig.

 

Tom found a nice rock to sit on, and brought his denim-clad knees to his chest. The little velvet bag was yanked out of his pocket, thumb brushing the ridges along the front of the coin. Tom swallowed heavily, then tugged open the drawstring of his bag. He tipped it up, dropping the coin from the bag and into his palm.

 

FWAZAM

 

The entire universe exploded into a million different fragments of neon, brain-meltingly bright colors of every hue and tone. Octarine blazed in Tom's imagination, a brand-new color that he had never even seen before, as well as Glizumber, Fraz and Blue2. Tom could feel the ground drop out from under him, the snow evaporating in a matter of milliseconds and the earth shredding into noctilucent vapor. He fell into an inky abyss, tumbling madly through the infinity of space.

 

This. This was what it felt like to be in the embrace of the power for more than a millisecond. Tom could feel quantum waveforms crashing on the beach of his mind, hammering his perceptions with the crude hulks of reality's shipping leaning their bowsprits against the tender nerveclusters of his reality.

 

And it hurt like nobody's business.

 

As Tom tumbled through the darkness-that-was-every-color-at-once, he fell past an astral projektion of Cancer Jiles. The Guru of COOL looked up from his medicinal cigarette, startled and pissed at the intrusion by the irritating Canadian kid, but Tom just zipped past him.

 

A single bright spotlight hit Tom's face, dazzling him with the burning heat of the focused attention of that-which-slept-here. The creature he had come for. The primeval serpent that had burnt out the hearts and souls of so many others.

 

Like a gigantic predatory snake-turtle, Tom could feel that thing staring down at him.

 

“I... I want it. The power. I need it to fight the Untouchables.”

 

Oh, little one? Now you want it? After all the temptations I have thrown at you, you just stroll in after your loss, and you say you WANT it?

 

The hissing voice, like some kind of nightmarish abomination that was half cat, half snake, broke apart and reformed. Tom could tell that that which he faced had changed. The presence was adopting a new shape. Out of the spotlight it walked... Many things at once. Facepainted, with hair a brilliant gold like perfect wheat. Simultaneously barechested and betassled and in leather and magical and in a suit and homophobic.

 

“YOU DO NOT HAVE THAT WHICH IT TAKES TO WIELD MY POWER! GNOARGH!”, the presence within the coin bellowed, throwing in a snarl at the end. 

 

Tom puffed up his chest, sticking his chin out. “That's why I'm here. I need to be good enough to do anything. I need to be able to stop the Untouchables by myself. So nobody else will get hurt.”

 

The presence facing Tom, that eternal Warrior, turned away, one mighty fist coming up to grab at the papery flesh of its face. It tore the maskstuff off, revealing a horseshoe moustache, baldness and a creepy desire for one's wifedaughter. Spinning, sending pieces of the discarded facade fluttering away, the figure pointed one finger square at Tom's breast.

 

Somewhere, a crowd chanted “YOOOOOOUUUUUUUUU!” in unison.

 

”YOU DON'T GOT WHAT IT TAKES, BROTHER! THIS POWER'LL EAT YOU ALIVE, JACK! WHATCHA GONNA DO, WHEN I RUN WILD ON YOU?”, the presence bellowed through lungs inflated with decades of spraytan abuse.

 

“I'm gonna stand up! To anyone! Anything that even smacks of tyranny! DEFIANCE cannot be tethered to any fascist regimes! No Goldmans, no Andrews, no corporate overlord or antiheroes grasping for one last run in the starlight!”

 

Flexing and howling and snarling, the presence simply exploded the tatters of its previous two guises away, leaving it with simply the one that Tom was most familiar with, the power and presence of the man who had always been little Tommy's hero above all others.

 

Cowboy hat. Beard. Sunglasses. Indescribably cool voice.

 

“You little punk-ass turkey! What makes you think that I even WANT any part of you anymore! You lost all the big shots! You're yesterday's news! Yer cuppa cawfee was yesterday, not tomorrow!”

 

The presence stomped forward, coming dangerously close to Tom's danger zone.

 

“I don't see any reason to GRANT you my power, kid. Not anymore, at least.”

 

Tom set his chin, and leaned forward.

 

“Then I'll take the power.”

 

And Tom reached up, shoving his hand right through the presence's breast. He shoved his hand right into the thing's head, grabbed, and twisted. Upon exit, Tom pulled something cool, something metal clean out of the heart of the presence.

 

He looked down at the little coin, and gave a smirk. 

 

“So, that's what you were holding back?”

 

Tom glanced up and over his shoulder. The snowy glen in Mechanicville had been occupied with Tom showed up. On the ropes course, standing on one foot atop a pillar, meditating peacefully, had been the former wrestler, current Buddhist. And tai chi instructor.

 

Serbo smiled, as he slid down the side of the pillar. Tom closed his fingers around the coin.

 

“The tool you used in the Aggro Crag. And against Watkins. This will deliver you from the Untouchables?”

 

Tom nodded, glancing down at it as he opened his fingers once more.

 

“I sure hope so.”