The following fictional story is based on the intellectual property of City of Heroes and City of Villains. That property was used as a backdrop for this story with the permission of both Ncsoft and Cryptic Studios. While this story uses that world as a backdrop, it is not meant to reflect either gameplay or storylines with the massively multiplayer online world. Some of the images used with Spirals of Fate have been taken from the game and modified to suit the illustrative purposes of this story. This story is intended for entertainment purposes only.

Spirals of Fate: Chapter One - Part One
By Michael Lafferty and Matthew Eberle

Alone … no, not quite alone for it was there. It was always there. Vincent could feel it, even when dreams and nightmares overwhelmed his sleep. It lurked just beyond the edge of his nocturnal visions, whispering softly, lulling him to trust, to listen, to obey its incessant pleas to release to the anger, to the rage, to ‘it.’

Images began to race, underscored by the voice, a montage of images, past memories. Power growing, strength unleashed, unrepressed, coupled with a quickness that belied belief and a disregard for personal safety, supplanted by the rage orchestrated by the voice.

A spring day, a disgruntled young man walks down a side street in Paragon City’s Steel Canyon district. The Bronze Way district is populated by a gang of Outcasts. Vincent feels like he should be among them, but they are mostly jerks that pick on the weak. Rough braggarts with seemingly little commonsense, they roam, taunt, and mug bystanders at will. Vincent is not in the mood for that this day.

When one steps out from an alley and blocks his path, he moves to the side. Another is there, then another.

“Leave me alone,” Vincent growls.

“Ah, the little baby wants to be left alone,” replies one.

“Ain’t gonna happen, sport,” another adds. “Fork over the goods.”

Vincent tries to push through, but they form a wall, pushing back.

The voice is there, also pushing. So easy. They are soft. Don’t take it. Release it. Feel the power. Free it. Be who you are meant to be.

An outcast moves in from the back, striking the tall, muscled young man across the back of the head with a bottle. The glass shatters, along with attempts to control the building emotions. Vincent roars, the beast unleashed. Fists balled up, lashing out. One Outcast goes down under the thunderous jackhammer punch, eyes rolling back in his head as he falls. A backfist sends another flying, a trail of blood from a broken nose and split cheek leaving a trail in the air. The moments blur. Blood splatters, dotting the ground, staining flesh and clothes. They were there; now they are not.

So easy, says the voice within.

“Leave me alone!” Vincent screams, pleading, and defiant.

You can destroy them. I am part of you. Never will I leave, replies the voice.

There are sirens, wailing, growing louder.

Suddenly Vincent’s side erupts in pain. Someone blindsided him, breaking several of his ribs in a single blow. The young man struggles not to fold over as he turns to face the new attacker. A hero in a green and brown spandex uniform – no one he recognizes. “How’s that, Skull?” the hero taunts as he sways from side to side, weaving like a professional boxer.

“I’m not a Skull!” Vincent coughed as he sagged against the brick wall of the building behind him.

The hero refused to listen. His right fist shot towards Vincent with incredible speed. The young man barely had time to dodge. Broken chips of stone flew from the gaping wound the hero’s attack had left in the building. In the background the sirens were getting closer. Just around the corner now.

Vincent dodged several more attacks, narrowly avoiding serious injury by inches. Something within him snapped. Instead of avoiding blows he surged forward. His right fist connected solidly with the hero’s face. The force of the blow staggered his assailant. Wisps of black smoke clung to his opponent’s face, temporarily blinding him.

Yes, the silent voice exulted.

The young man rained down blows on the hero. Shadows had surrounded him, protecting him from hard counterattacks. Everything was fading, bright colors replaced with shades of gray. The objects around him were outlined with faint traces of light, like a star’s fire clinging to the fringes of things. Vincent felt his opponent stagger and fall beneath his blows.

Suddenly he stopped. The hero was lying unconscious before him. Vincent shuddered. What had …

A police car spun around the corner. He turned to face the officers, raising his voice to explain as the policemen raised their shotguns. The sirens were deafening. Repeating with an odd tone. They don’t sound like police sirens. Vincent’s shoulders slump. “Now what?” he murmurs, expecting no answer. But then he realizes, this is not normal, this is not part of the dream.

Eyes open, the sirens are louder, ringing off the concrete walls of the Zigg. He looked around curiously. Something was going on. Across the way he saw movement in another darkened cell. “Mara, what’s going on?” he called.

A young woman’s voice answered hesitantly. “I don’t know. I mean, first I was asleep and when I woke up the alarms were ringing.” Vincent could see the girl pulling the thin blankets over herself for some meager protection.

Vincent rolled off his bunk, standing in the center of his cell. The orange prisoner’s uniform contrasted with his sickly pale complexion and rich brown hair. Eyes the rich green of a pine tree’s needles scanned the hall beyond his cell. He cautiously approached the bars of his cage.

“Vincent,” Mara hissed, “step back. You don’t know what’s going on! It could be another riot.”

The young man spared her a glance. Vincent still marveled at how good his night vision was becoming. Even in the darkness he could make out Mara as she sat in her cell. Long bangs shaded her chocolate brown eyes, the rest of her dark hair edging toward her shoulder blades. A dusting of light freckles graced her nose and cheeks. Her arms were clutching at her shoulders as she tried to fade into the shadows, still and silent. Her slender frame was bunched up at the head of her bed with the blanket pulled up to her chin.

Vincent shot her a reassuring smile. “Don’t worry, Mara. As long as we’re all still stuck in our …“

There was a distant explosion, cutting off the rest of the thought. Then, with a metallic clang, the doors to their cells swung open to clatter against the walls. Vincent’s eyes shot wide. He froze, every nerve ending tingling, as the prisoners raised their voices in celebration. A mixture of yells, howls, and darker noises filled the halls. Mara met his eyes with a terrified gaze. He could see her shivering in fear. Seconds later the alarms died out with a whine as the lighting flickered and vanished. Emergency lighting sprang to life, the faint red lights scattered about giving the prison a hellish air.

Vincent stepped out into the hall and looked around. Fellow prisoners were running here and there, creating a chaotic scene. To his left a band of ex-Outcasts were forming a tight knot, pushing their way through the general riot by force of numbers. To his right two mutated prisoners had begun attacking one another in a brawl. A creature that looked like a cheap imitation of a werewolf was battling a reptilian prisoner with four arms and generous fangs. Vincent quickly walked into Mara’s cell.

His hand extended, palm up, to the wide-eyed girl. She looked so small, so vulnerable. She stared at the hand, as though it was something never before seen. Vincent felt trouble moments away, felt an urgency.

“Mara, come!” it was not so much a command as a plea. The girl looked up into his eyes, saw a tenderness, a protectiveness, and reached out her own hand to his.

The reptilian prisoner, apparently done with the werewolf wannabe, stepped into the path exiting Mara’s cell, mouth slavered with the foam of insane battle-lust tainted with blood. It looked first at Mara, predatory, then at Vincent.

Vincent’s free hand shot out, grabbing the creature’s throat, and effortlessly tossing it aside, much like a rag doll, into another small group of freed prisoners, muttering, “get outta our way.” His gaze turned back to Mara.

“It’s going to be all right, but we have to move away from here.”

The twosome hugged the cell wall, easing past impromptu gangs and brawls without notice.

… to be continued!

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