Issue # 2
"A Dream of Friends" Part Two: "Let Me Stand In Your Fire"
By Thomas Deja

So Far: Responding to dreams of superhuman adventurers that may very well be comic book characters brought to life like himself, Miracleman has left the Pendragons. His search for fellow miracles has brought him to Patrick Steed, a clerk with Inland Revenue who houses the Man With No Time For Crime, Big Ben, within him. Meanwhile, a mysterious man obsessed with 'The Typewriter Gods' is convinced that Miracleman must be stopped in his quest…. 

Comon' baby, light my fire.

Comon' baby light my fire.

Come and set the night on…fire.

Nigel T. Smalls launched into the instrumental bridge of the Doors classic and wondered yet again what was wrong with him lately. 

Why was he compelled to create these sets for his daily performances that were so…well, fire intensive? He wasn't an arsonist by any means, and the thought of starting or indirectly causing a fire made him sick. It was only since the Black Mass that he began to think about flames dancing in his head, flames that he expressed through song. 

He took a surreptitious glance down at his open guitar case and did a quick tally of the morning rush's take. There was barely five quid in coins, along with a couple of matchbook covers and rave handbills that the commuters thought he would mistake for cash (how could he do that? Some of those things were fuschia, for Christ's sake). Barely enough for the ploughman's lunch at the nearest pub…. 

Nigel bent down and scooped up the coins, slipping them into his pocket surreptitiously. He whistled a snatch from Nirvana's "Lake of Fire" and rose. His fingers went to his fretboard and he started carefully tuning up his guitar. Maybe if he was lucky, he reasoned, he'd get another quid or two and maybe afford a pint with his bread and cheese. 

He caught the man staring at him out of the corner of his eye. He was older, in his mid-30's or so, with close-cropped blonde hair and what looked like two day stubble. Something about him struck Nigel as familiar, especially around the eyes. Once it became obvious that the man wasn't moving from his spot, Nigel put out his cigarette and asked, "Oi, you got something to say to me?" 

He had a suspicion that this geezer was one of the homeless that multiplied in and around London once the Barrier cut them off from the world--people who depended on keeping touch with other countries and cultures suddenly found themselves useless, incapable of making money and rapidly found their way to the dole they spent so long deriding. It appealed both to Nigel's socialist tendencies and his sense of irony. Hell, Warren Zevon couldn't have written a better fate for some of these arseholes. If he was right, Nigel just needed to go a little more aggro to make the man scuttle off like a crab. 

The older man continued to stare through Nigel. He licked his lips, looked at the guitar, then the guitar case, then Nigel himself. 

"You best leave." 

"Why? You have a badge to show me?" Nigel shot back. He strummed a few chords. 

"I'm giving you fair warning," the older man continued. "If…if you don't leave, I'll have to take special steps to protect Winter and…and neither of us wants that. Only the Typewriter Gods want that." 

"Look, mate," Nigel said, looking both ways, "you want I should call a bobby? Sure, they'll roust me out, but I can always go to Waterloo. You'd go in the nick to dry out." 

The older man continued staring. Nigel swore he saw his eyes sparkle, like he had stardust caught in them. "I warned you I did. Remember that." 

As the older man stalked away, Nigel hissed, "nutter" under his breath and strummed the first bars of "Eternal Flame." 

It left a bad taste in his mouth, but he had no choice. 

"So you're saying I'm not…real, exactly?" the flying man in the bowler hat and domino mask asked his companion. 

"Not quite, exactly," his companion responded, a tall blonde man who was beautiful in the way only the best classic works of art were. "From what I can gather, you're like me--as real as anyone--but you were constructed out of the childhood memories of a madman with reality warping powers called Jamie Braddock.*"

*--see the now classic 'A Secret War' storyline in PENDRAGONS.

"But Patrick remembers seeing you fight The Sterling Scavenger in the skies above London in the 60's, Miracleman. It was one of his earliest memories." 

"Not surprising, Ben," Miracleman replied. "This Braddock bounder managed to retroactively give me an entire life that the British public remembers as if it was gospel truth." 

The man called Big Ben pushed his bowler back on his head with the handle of his umbrella. "If that's so, I would think the public would remember me. I seem to have an entire battery of memories, accounts of battles against The Crimson What and S.T.O.A.T. and other menaces indicative of my time." 

"You would think that, but no. If I hadn't started dreaming of you and the others*, I would never have known you existed."

*--See PENDRAGONS #23-25.

"Ah, nothing like a mystery to solve, is there, Mr. Miracleman?" Big Ben said with a hint of humor in his voice. 

"Nothing at all," agreed Miracleman. "And I think we'll get a better sense of what's going on once we find the others." 

"Agreed. Then we can reconvene at headquarters and plan what we intend to do." 

"Who said anything about a headquarters?" Miracleman asked. 

Ben lazily shifted his body in the air so that he was flying backwards, facing his ally. "We have to have a headquarters. I distinctly recall MI51/2 having a headquarters. We cannot seriously proclaim ourselves a crime fighting organization without one." 

Miracleman considered this and nodded. "You're quite right. We'll work something out." 

"After we find the others." 

"Yes. After we find the others."  

 Love…is a burning thing…

And it makes…a fiery ring.

I fell for you like a child…

Oh, but the fire went wild.

Nigel watched the commuters pass him as he continued his show. This was the slow period, those long hours that stretched between the two commuter times. Oddly enough, on some days this was when he did the best business, as tourists looking to take the tube to Buckingham Palace or Saville Road or Carnaby would be charmed by his musicianship and tip him generously. 

I fell in to a burning ring of fire.

I went down, down, down

But the flames got higher.

He was doing his alternative arrangement of 'Ring of Fire' today--the one inspired by the Wall of Voodoo remake, one that was more discordant and ominous. Small pockets of people drifted by for a few seconds apiece, dropping coins or bills in his guitar case. A gnome in a child's business suit had dropped a small gold nugget into the case and commented on how he enjoyed songs about the pain of love. A small group of pixies had gathered and sat on the edge of his guitar case, twittering and applauding in delight. Looking down at his take, it looked like he could afford a trip to the local grocery to stock up on the basic food groups. He was certainly going to eat tonight. 

And it burns, burns, burns…

This ring of fire.

This ring of fire.

One man lingered longer than most. He was a short man, his dark skin indicating he was of Indian or Pakistani origin. He wore a very elegantly cut three-piece suit of a dark gray material, and was drinking from a bottle of spring water. When Nigel caught glimpses of his eyes, he felt a chill go through him; there seemed to be no there there, like he was dead on some level. 

Nigel took a quick glance at his duffel, to make sure there were still demo tapes on hand. This guy looked like he could be a customer. 

"So how are we going to locate these other gentlemen and ladies of power?" Big Ben asked. He was still following Miracleman's lead, and where the younger hero was leading was an underground terminal. 

"Shevaun--Dark Angel--she worked out a spell by which I can locate the distinctive double aura you and the others give off. It's how I found you." 

"And here I thought you were naturally drawn to my sparkling wit and charm," Ben commented, an arch smile playing on his lips. "Is this Shevaun one of us?" 

"Not hardly," Miracleman replied. His cheeks flushed with color. "She was a teammate of mine in the Pendragons." 

"And quite a bit more, judging from your reaction," Ben suggested. When Miracleman's cheeks got redder, Ben thought it best to change the subject. He pointed at the Underground station. "So there's one of us down there." 

Miracleman nodded. "He's remaining steady, so he's not a commuter." 

"At least not yet." 

"Yes," Miracleman agreed. "At least not yet." 

You're not supposed to smoke between the sheets

But my heart burns and you supply the heat.

I can feel your engine combusting

And nothing in the world can quench this lusting….

Burn, baby, burn, burn, burn.

Nigel sometimes liked swapping in obscure songs in the middle of the standards every busker was expected to know. The small crowd that had gathered around him during his renditions of 'Ring of Fire' and 'Smoke on the Water' had slowly drifted away when he began singing 'World On Fire.' 

How could he expect people to get into the groove of a song by an ex-Go-Go for pity's sake? 

Well, while humans didn't appreciate the pure sugar pop of Jane Weidlin, the more supernatural denizens did; his pixie admirers danced and flitted around his head, big smiles on their faces. 

The Indian man stayed where he was, still nursing the one bottle of water. In between songs, Nigel had opened up the duffel; from where he stood, he could see a number of his demo tapes lying on top of the wires, pedals and other accoutrements of the modern busker. Since the man had stayed for the really obscure song, he figured a sale was in the bag. 

He went through the chorus lustily, ending the arrangement with a mad flourish that was bald-faced showing off. With a smile, he unhooked his strap and put aside his guitar. The Indian man clapped. 

"Thanks, mate," Nigel said and extended his hand. 

The Indian man did not take the proffered hand. Nigel wondered briefly if the man was from one of the cultures where extending the wrong hand was a sign of contempt. "You are very good, young man." 

"Thanks. I've got a tape for sale if you'd like." 

The Indian Man nodded. "I think I would like that very much." 

"Right," Nigel said and bent down to get a tape for his new fan. 

One of the pixies flew down next to his right ear and hovered there. "Prepare to defend," it whispered in a voice that sounded like the wind disturbing the reeds on the riverbank. 

"What are you going on about?" He had turned to face the tiny, winged being. 

A second pixie joined the first. "He is a badverybad bad man," it warned. "It is time to release the Firedrake." 

Nigel shook his head. "You got the wrong man, mates," he told them. 

The pixies followed him, their flight paths etched in sparkly dust behind them. Nigel handed the Indian man a cassette. "It is the Firedrake's time," they warned. "It is verygood for him to come out and defend you." 

The Indian man slipped the tape into his jacket pocket. "I will listen to this with much interest, young man." 

"Thanks. That'll be one pound fifty." 

"Yes, with much interest," added the Indian Man as he took another swig from his bottled water. "It will be a grand souvenir of my murder of you." 

"Pardon?" 

The Indian man then spit out his water. 

For a second, Nigel thought this was some form of insult that the Indian man was visiting upon him prior to a fight. But then he felt the water move. 

Against gravity. 

His clothes were not absorbing it. Rather, the water was pooling and gathering, taking on a vaguely humanoid form, blocky and squat, with thick hands--hands that were presently covering Nigel's face. 

The pixie family shrieked and flew around the tube crying for help. One of them stayed with him, shouting, "Ignition! You must call for Ignition! We do not want you to die! You are too nice!" 

As they made their way into the Underground, Miracleman and Big Ben were met by a smattering of people running away from the tube platform. 

Ben frowned. "This doesn't look pastoral." 

"No, it doesn't," Miracleman responded. "Looks like we're needed." 

"Agreed, Mr. Miracleman," Ben said before the two heroes took flight and start travelling against the grain, toward the disturbance. 

Two small pixies with wings the color of warm toffee flew into the heroes. Their wide, vaguely insectile eyes shone with tears. Miracleman cradled one in his hand and said, "Hold on now, little friend, what's the commotion." 

"Oh yes, oh yes, it is a Pendragon, our friend might be saved, is verygood good!" the pixie said in a hurried little squeak. 

And the tale came out in a torrent, as if the creatures were afraid their friend who made music was drowning. 

Nigel struggled, water filling his mouth, his throat, his lungs. The one thought ran through his mind like an endless loop. 

I'm going to drown on dry land. 

The Indian man discards his bottle of water. "My employers, they insist I use a code name of some sort, ever since my abilities were amplified by the Barrier," he explained as the water being--now vaguely in the shape of a hideous mockery of a man who happened to be sitting on Nigel's chest--tried to force more of itself down Nigel's gullet, "but I personally do not see the point. A fancy name will not advertise my abilities more than deeds will…." 

Nigel thrashed around, the pixies flitting about his head and coercing him into saying a single word. 

"Still, if it will make them feel better, perhaps it is best for me to comply. I was thinking Tigris--after the river. What do you think?" 

Nigel slams himself against the Underground wall. Droplets of the water creature shake off to evaporate into the air, but the creature retains its cohesion. 

"I'm sorry, I forgot. You are too busy with your dying now," the Indian said casually, hands in pockets. He smiled lopsidedly. 

"By all that's holy, you best hope he's not dead," came a powerful voice from the top of the elevator. Tigris looked up. 

"Oh, my…this is an honor. To encounter a legend like yourself, Miracleman," Tigris said with genuine admiration. Flying down parallel to the escalators was the handsome hero and a second figure in a bowler and black suit. Tigris gestured toward the water creature, which expanded and split in two. One remained on top of Nigel, while the other started moving toward the two heroes, stepping in any puddles in its path and growing in height and mass. 

"Someone's been diligent in paying his water bill," The man in the bowler said as he careened toward the larger water creature--and burst right through it. 

Nigel, meanwhile, suddenly found a small amount of air rushing into his lungs; the fissioning of the water creature had lessened the amount of water in his respiratory system. The pixies still hovered around him. 

"Found help we did," they said. 

"You help too," they added. 

"Call for Ignition," they insisted. 

So Nigel did. 

Ben turned in mid flight, water droplets running off his elegant, massively muscled form. "I do believe that if that was an actual human, I'd be covered in intestines at the moment." 

Miracleman lit down in front of the larger water creature, which was slowly reforming. "Try not to think too hard about it," he advised before taking a swing at the monster. "See to the busker." His fist simply displaced more water, liberally spraying a portion of the creature's chest onto the rails below. 

The water creature seemed to grin before it launched itself high in the air like a waterspout, twisting in flight to land on the god-like hero's head. Ben moved forward and stabbed at the smaller creature with his umbrella, opening it up just as the tip punctured the monster's form. The water beast discorporated in a series of splashes that let the tile of the Underground glistening and wet. 

"A man who carries his umbrella," Ben said as he helped the young musician to his feet, his umbrella protecting them from the downpour. "need never fear rain." 

The water beast that had attacked Miracleman kept its form tight around the hero's head and shoulders. It quivered in what seemed to be rage, a rage engendered by the fact that the blonde man was seemingly unaffected by the monster's efforts to drown him. Miracleman actually looked…bored. 

Ben, propping up the busker, slowly floated toward the Indian magician called Tigris. "Sir, if we may have a word." 

"Certainly," the Indian man said. 

And then he said the word he intended to give to Ben. 

And the hero and his charge were both swept away by a torrent of liquid that swept them onto the railway tracks. 

As a result of this latest development, Big Ben was the first person to hear Nigel Smalls say "Ignition." 

The first thing that happened is there was a burst of blistering heat the likes of which Tigris had never experienced. He was thrown off his feet and into a wall, his clothes smoking. 

The second thing that happened was that the tube station was now suffused with a thick cloud of steam; the immediate area had found itself devoid of water. 

The third thing is that a man who looked sort of like Nigel Smalls but not Nigel Smalls rose from the railway tracks on a pillar of fire. This Nigel Smalls was taller and leaner, with muscles bunched under his whippet-thin body like copper wires. Dreadlocks fell around his face, partially concealing his features. 

The fourth thing that happened was that this Nigel-who-wasn't-Nigel spoke. 

"I'm a firestarter," he told Tigris as he coaxed tongues of flame from the column he was standing on, "twisted firestarter." 

The final thing that happened was that the Nigel-who-wasn't-Nigel pointed… 

And the flames attacked. 

 As the flames hurled towards Tigris, the magician could confirm one thing: 

Your life did flash before your eyes as you faced death. 

Tigris struggled for some runic words, a power spell, anything that he could use to protect himself. The heat coming off of the rapidly advancing wall of fire singed his eyebrows and, for the first time since he became a magus for hire, his mind was blank. 

Luckily for him, a blue streak suddenly appeared in front of him and dispersed the flames. The figure of Miracleman looked none the worse for wear for taking a fireball the size of a compact car for him, which indicated to Tigris that the time was right for him to leave. He turned to run… 

And ran straight into the broad, pinstriped chest of Big Ben. 

The domino-masked gentleman put a firm hand on Tigris' shoulder. "Why leave so soon? And after all the fun we had." 

The lean, scarecrow-like figure with the dreadlocks floated forward slowly on a pillar of flame. He gestured, and a portion of fire leapt from the mass at his feet to land in his right hand. "We don't need no water," he growled. "Let the fire water burn." 

Miracleman put his hands on the man's chest. "Look, we're going to take care of him, all right? He's not worth it, and we all have to talk. There's something special in you, something we can use to make the world better." 

The lean figure snarled. "Jack talked…Jack talked like…Jack talked like a man on fire." 

"Listen to me," Miracleman continued, smiling genially. Even though the people around him were sweating, the god-like hero was pristine in his blue and red spandex. "You know me, right? You know we used to be friends? Good friends?" 

The lean figure that was Nigel's eyes narrowed. "I burn…for you." 

Miracleman nodded. "Yes. We were friends. And I know that that man tried to kill you. But you came out for a reason, and it's not to kill people. It's to give them hope. We're in a world that's a little frightening right now, a little intimidating. I know Ben and me, we're constantly looking over our shoulder trying to figure out what's next. 

But the world needs us, mates. Especially now. It needs Miracles to spread the hope that things will get better." 

"I bring you FIRE!" the thing that was Nigel roared. 

Miracleman kept his eyes locked on what was once Nigel. "Listen to me, mate. You're not destructive fire. Think of yourself as a new Prometheus, as someone who's bringing fire to light the way to a better day. That's what we need." 

The lean figure stared into Miracleman's eyes. Posters on the walls nearest them were peeling away, the wheat paste having long since evaporated. Ben moved forward, ready at a moment's notice to lend his hand to restraining the creature. 

But then the figure that was Nigel muttered, "Ignition." 

And Nigel Smalls collapsed into Miracleman's arms. 

He curses himself as the next Miracle flares into existence. 

He should have finished the little tosser when he had the chance, should have snapped him neck and left him for dead…but that would have entailed his using the Word. 

In the next room, Winter makes soup for their lunch--chicken with dumplings. She burns with a white radiance; if anything, her life force seems to be amplified with each Miracle found. 

He gets up, gets his coat and hat. Tells his wife he's going to go out. 

He has to act now…and in his mind, that means finding the next Miracle before they do…maybe turning it against them. If he's lucky, the lot of them will kill each other off and he'll be left alone. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the bald typewriter God, the one who apparently only got hold of his friend Dickie in that horrible universe. He shudders and runs down the stairs into the streets…. 

Nigel kept staring at the teenaged kid who was outlining the plans. 

There was no way…simply no way he was Miracleman. 

The nervous guy in the glasses Nigel could see as Big Ben…but the kid, Miracleman? He'd have to be the youngest looking old age pensioner he'd ever seen! 

"…if I can trust the 'glamour' that Shevaun put on me, there are four more of us. It's weird, but the more of us I find, the brighter the auras of the others get." 

"Any idea where our next Miracle is?" the guy who was Ben asks between bites of his cheese roll. 

The teenaged blonde kid motions with his hand. "There's this weird…tugging sensation that's pulling me toward the courts. I think that's where we'll find our next candidate." 

The guy who was Ben turned to face Nigel. "D'you mind taking a short trip with me? It sounded like your Miracle form might need some pharmaceutical help to stabilize itself…hopefully temporarily." 

Nigel keeps looking at the kid. "Yeah, sure," he mutters before asking the kid, "Aren't you too young to be…you know?" 

The teenager laughed. "Aren't we all? It wouldn't be an adventure if we were old enough." 

"I guess," Nigel mutters. He leans back in his chair and wonders what the day will be like tomorrow now that everything for him has changed…. 

And in his head, words dance like flames, speaking to him of miracles.

NEXT ISSUE: Miracleman's search for the Miracles takes him, Big Ben and Firedrake to a law office in London's East End and an unhappy solicitor by the name of Evelyn Crème. Why is Crème convinced he's being watched by himself, and why is he so obsessed with mechanical things? And who will our mysterious opponent enlist in his efforts to stop the miracles and keep the Typewriter Gods out? Find out as "A Dream of Friends" continues! 

THE MAILBAG OF VERY WEIRD LETTERS 

No letters for this month -- but be sure to drop a line and let us know what you're feeling.

Thomas Deja (nywisdom@hotmail.com)