From: The Silicon Spider Newsgroups: rec.arts.comics.creative Subject: NTB: Fall of the Daemon TEB [finally] Date: Sun, 25 Dec 1994 18:17:13 -0500 (EST) Here's a late christmas gift... * * * Fall of the Daemon. Cover: A bloodred pentacle on a golden background. A black crack passes through it's center... THE BEGINNING.... Damien floated in a vaguely familiar white fog. The last he remembered, he had been facing the Apathetic, at the Baron's mansion. Had he won? Had he lost? He couldn't remember. "You have awakened." came a leaden, and highly unfriendly voice, "Welcome to your doom..." Damien whirled about, searching for the source. Unfortunately, he had forgotten the basics of physics. With nothing to support him, he just kept spinning, and spinning. Snarling, he raised his hand, chanting a spell of power and death. Nothing happened. "The Time has come, once again... Rise and fight, O Netrigan!" Nothing happened. Damien cried out in rage and frustration. And something happened. Unfortunately, it was that the voice started laughing at him. "You have not learned yet....Welcome to Tartaros, where *I* control the power. You have no magic here...but I do." "What do you want?" Damien shouted. "I want to defeat you utterly. I want to humiliate you, and when that is done, and you are groveling at my feet, I want to destroy you, and that horned buffoon as well." "Take your best shot..." Damien stated, his brave pose only slightly weakened by the fact he was STILL spinning. A low chuckled filled his mind, "I will not touch you. You see, one of my minions has asked to claim the honor...Come, my child." A dark rift opened in the fog, and a white-suited figure strode out into the nothingness. Richard Rourke, Damien's first adversary, began to speak: "You stole my life, young Damien. But this is now, and that was then. What once was mine, be mine again. Let YOUR name vanish from mortal ken. And trapped the soul of Netrigan!" The results of this spell were spectacular. Crimson lightning arced from Rourke to Cross, casting highlights on the clouds. As the final line was spoken, Rourke raised a diamond studded cane, and with a cry of despair, the draconic form of Netrigan felt itself being ripped from it's resting place within Damien's soul, and drawn to the gem, which reddened as he was bound within. "I have your power..." Rourke sneered, "and your life...Go, and learn what it is to be outcast." The ruby glowed sullenly, and with a cry of pain, Damien vanished. * * * KINGSTON, RI The alley was dark, the perfect place for biz. As the young toughs waltzed in, ready to buy [and sell], they found that it was already occupied, by a figure wearing a tattered, but expensive looking, red suit. "Aw sh*t," one replied, effortlessly pronouncing an asterisk "we can't do the buy with this bum here!" He turned to leave. One of his companions stopped him, "Wait! I remember this guy! He took out Juan and Billy! They had to go to the nuthouse, rememeber?" "Yeah, I 'member. he don' look so tough." The figure under discussion looked at the gangbangers, fearfully, "Excuse me, but do I know you? I....can't remember..." The leader grinned slowly, revealing a vicious combination of gold and bad dental hygeine, "As far as I know, your name is....mud. Get him, boys." The group moved in, and got to work. A sharp whistle pierced the night, and the gang looked up. Blocking the alley was a prime specimen of local law enforcement, nightstick at ready. "What's this then...you boys are out a bit late." He strode over to the fallen derelict, "Now we have three ways to handle this. I could drag you all down to the station, where there'd be a lot of paperwork. I could simply beat the bloody hell out of you, but that could take too long. I want to go home." He locked eyes with the leader, "Or you could start running...now" "Iceman: Taylor wasn't afraid of much. Most of the cops he'd seen were donut-eating, money-taking, lazy slobs who were easy to corrupt. But this guy, this complete lunatic, worried him. He motioned to his posse, "Form up. It's past our bedtimes. Isn't that right,...officer..." The man in blue silently watched them leave. When they were out of sight, he looked down at the man at his feet. As his clothing shifted, turning golden, he sighed deeply. "Damien, old chap. You really blew it this time..." the Golden Agent murmured. A few hours later, the man we know as Damien Cross, [even if HE doesn't] stared across the booth at his vaguely translucent benefactor. "Thanks for everything," he muttered, "but tell me one thing. Who the HELL am I!" Brother Cain sighed. He does that a lot. "You are Damien Cross, former host of the daemon Netrigan. You were put under a spell which caused your existence to be erased from all mortal recollections." "Assuming I believe this crock...how did those kids remember me. For that matter, how did YOU remember me." Cross smiled in victory. He had him, now. "The kids never knew your name. All they knew was your face, and THAT, you still have." "And what's your story? You somebody special?" Damien demanded. "I said you'd been wiped from MORTAL memory. Mortal means able to die. I'm already dead...." the Agent grinned. Damien stood up, eyes blazing, "Bull... you are some kind of loon." Turning, he stalked out of the diner. As he turned a corner, he saw a golden glow appear in mid-air. As he stood watching, the Agent reappeared. "We are going to have to do this the hard way. You have to get Netrigan back. And that means you'll need help." Damien sat heavily, glancing wildly from side to side, "What do you mean?" "You'll be visited by three spirits of the past..." Damien shook the cobwebs from his sanity,"Waitaminute...I don't remember much, but isn't that a Dickens thing?" The Agent shook his head, not willing to reveal the author's peculiar plan. He merely continued, "It's time you went to school. Watch, and learn." He faded into the glow, which circled wildly, before plunging into Damien's mind. As his consciousness slipped away, he heard a musical voice intone, "Greetings, honorable one. I am the Lama Feng Shou. I bore the mantle of Netatron in the year 1844 after the birth of he called Christos." In his mind's eye, a figure with skin like aged ivory and a sparse white goatee began to take shape. His clothes matched the era he'd described, save for the oddly speckled black skullcap on his head. As he spoke on, the scene formed about him... "You must learn to master yourself, if you wish to regain what was lost. We of the Shaolin know to master the body, it is necessary to master your spirit. Watch...and learn what the mind can do." GOLDEN GULCH, CALIFORNIA... AUGUST 24, 1850 The town of Golden Gulch had had great hopes, with several promising sites for mines in the near vicinity. But they had panned out, and now the town was dusty, barren, and corrupt. As were it's few remaining inhabitants. The only business in town that showed a profit was the Lucky Lass saloon, owned by an ex-actor from San Francisco, who spent most of his time drunk as a lord, declaimng garbled lines of Shakespeare. Since the weather was hot, and there was little else in town, most of it's citizens were in a similar, if less dramatically oriented, condition. On this particular day, tempers were running high. Peg-leg Paul had been caught cheating at poker [again] and his erstwhile partner, Deadshot Dan, was trying his best not to get them killed. And then the door swung open. Standing in the foyer was a sight unlike they had ever seen. It was a man in a long black dress, with slanted eyes, and yellow skin. Raising his gaze from beneath his wide-brimmed hat, he slowly queried. "Excuse me, honorable sirs. May I have a glass of water?" The peculiarities of his accent [which the last vestiges of PCness forbid me to attempt to duplicate] and his outlandish [for Golden Gulch] attire, were the cause of a gout of raucous laughter by the tavern's denizens. Paul, seeing the distraction this offered, played his cards [metaphorically]. "I know what you are" he slurred, "Yer one of them Chainamen, aintcha..." The figure bobbed it's head, stringy goatee quivering. Silverhand Bob, the most sucessful miner of this passel of losers, staggered over, whistling slightly, "Well, doggie, that's a purty dress you got there, old man. Yer mamma forget to do your laundry." The stranger [yeah, it's Feng Shou], raised his eyes, gazing at Bob stonily. A wiser man would have fled. Bob, however, was not wise. He was drunk. "Sorry, old timer, I forgot how you Chinamen speak..ah, vely nice dless. Heap good. Mama cheap whore?" Feng Shou removed his hands from his sleeves, revealing his long fingernails. This reinforced his admittedly feminine appearance, as one fluttered like a butterfly over to Bob's shoulder. "You lack manners." Feng replied. Turning slowly, he easily threw Bob over his shoulder, sliding him down the bar to the end, where his head impacted upon the customary cuspidor. Paul, Dave, and the rest of the bar sat in silence, hearing only Bob's groan's, and Lawrence's mumbled "In Xanadu, did cuckoo clock..." Then they attacked. Shou acquitted himself well, easily dodging their inebriated blows, without working up a sweat, or even wrinkling his robe. However, he made one tactical error. You see, while most were knocked unconscious by his swirling manuevers, many were not. These were annoyed, and armed. So the battle escalated to a shootout. He wasn't worried. Dodging bullets was fairly easy, when the ones doing the shooting were completely stonkered. But the battle had spilled much spirits on the floor [if very little blood], and one of the bullets hit a lantern... The flames spread quickly, driving the combatants out into the midday sun. They stood in somber reflection as the heat baked the ire out of their blood. The Lucky Lass was ruined, and the flames reached for heaven. A great fireball marked the demise of the cellar, and several barrels of whiskey. "It's all that Chinaman's fault..." Paul mutterd, "where'd he go?" Staring at the inferno, Dave replied, "He's still in there." The collapse of the ceiling punctuated his utterance, and the assembled townspeople removed their hats, bowing in solemn respect for the deceased. "LOOK!" Lawrence roared. With calm deliberation, Feng Shou walked through the flames, Silverhand Bob slung over his shoulder like a sack of rice. He carried his burden over to the crowd, depositing the lunkhead at Paul's feet. "Gentlemen," he bowed, "I give you your friend's life. It, like your own, is a precious thing. Do not waste it." Returning his hands to his sleeves, he began to shuffle away. Suddenly he stopped. Eyes twinkling, he called back, "Check Mr. Pegleg's left boot. You will find the fourth ace there..." He moved into a cloud of dust, chuckling quietly. When it had passed, so had he. THE PRESENT Damien slowly rose to his feet, body aching. Whatever the man in the suit had done to him, he now knew his name. He still was without money or shelter, but these things could be accquired. First things first, he had to... "Hey, gringo! Back for seconds?" They were back. Apparently, their fear of law enforcement only worked when the law was in sight. The "cop" had left, and they were drifting back to their alley-of-choice, ready to do biusiness. Damien looked them over, a peculiar tickling in the back of his mind. "I thought you'd gone home..." he murmured. The leader smiled, "On a night like this? Not a chance, amigo." "I think you should reconsider," Damien replied, as the tingling spread. "Die," a lietenant suggested, flicking open a knife. Damien moved. One arm flowed up, over, and around the switchblader's wrist, propelling him into a handy brick wall. The others looked on in amazement, a state of mind Damien shared. The jangle of a chain broke the tableau. Damien blocked the wild swing on his wrist, coiling it in his grasp, and yanking it from it's owner. "Thank you," was his reply, as he set it spinning. The owner and his posse-mates were not receptive to his gratitude. They charged. Damien became a spinning blur, dancing from assault to assault, disarming, deflecting, and otherwise defeating his adversaries. This time, they, not he, lay groaning on the pavement. The blur resolved, and Damien inhaled deeply. He was exhilarated, if rather confused. The sound of clapping drew him to a gold and black motley-clad figure, wearing speckled black tights. "Nice job," he announced, from his perch atop a dumpster. He leapt down, bells a-jingle, "I am Jack O' Gold. I bore the mantle in the reign of Richard of Anjou. Nice to see you." The outlandish figure strode over to Damien, tripping suddenly. Before Damien could react, Jack had performed a flawless somersault, landing on his feet before his baffled audience. "B-b-but I thought I'd been dreaming. The Chinese guy, and that Cain fellow..." he spluttered. "Shou's been at you already? I should have known." Jack smiled, "When I'm through with you, you'll KNOW the difference between fantasy and reality." He lifted a flute to his lips, and began to play... ENGLAND, 1210 Mary of Warwick was bored. There was no news from the Holy Land, and she wasn't going to spend one more minute in that drafty old castle. So accompanied by her ladies-in-waiting, she rode out into the countryside, to smell the fresh air, pick some flowers, whip some Saxons. The usual. It was a beautiful day for it. The sun was shining, the birds were singing, and the brigands were surrounding them. "Wait a minute..." she thought, "Brigands?" Unfortunately, due to her lack of foresight, she had forgotten to invite a troop of guardsmen to accompany her on this sojurn. While the sun shone, and she daydreamed, she had been found, considered, re-considered, and accepted as a target ripe for plucking. "Well met, my lady." the leader, a man carrying a truly impressive length [of steel], announced, "I was wondering, in the spirit of good christian charity, if you might donate all of your jewels to myself, and my poor, destitute companions." "Donate!" Nurse screeched, "To rascals like you? I'd rather die!" From his station at Mary's reins, the leader appraised the plump, matronly servant. "In your case, that might be arranged...for my lady here, if she refuses to feel charitable, we'd have to take our alms in ...other coin." His eyes fell speculatively on Mary's heaving bosom. [She practised heaving daily, so she could give her lord a proper greeting on his return] His meaning was clear, if unprintable. "Do you know who I am?" Mary queried imperiously. "Yeah," came a voice behind her, "a proper wench...I'm tired of barmaids." The ladies-in-waiting, not being completely addlepated, had already begun removing every scrap of jewelry from their bodies, not willing to have to disrobe further. Mary stood mute, eyes blazing at this betrayal, and the sheer arrogance of this display. The leader waited...she stared...he waited... A shrill whistling broke the tableau, as a pied piper strolled into the glen. He stopped, taking in the obvious activity. "Oh dear, that's not right." He walked out into the center of the clearing, "Gentles, while I'm sure the lord of the manor appreciates your attempts at industry, I doubt he meant for his wife to be the focus of your labors." There were a few trails of laughter, as the robber band worked this out. Eventually, they shrugged, and drew their swords. "Oh my," Jack sighed, "One...two...um..seven of you, and only one of me? That will never do...not at all." A quick phrase of music trilled from his pipes, and several duplicates of his clownish form appeared about the clearing, each paired with a brigand. "That's MUCH better," one announced, "Don't you think?" "Oh yes!" another replied, "quite smashingly done..." As a sword passed through his head, a third chimed in, "I'm impressed!" While Mary clapped her hands in joy at this exciting spectacle, the leader snarled at his troops, "It's all an illusion. Find the real one, and kill him!" "Quite right!" the nearest Jack piped up, "One of us is real...is it me?" "Or me?" "Or me, perhaps?" "Who knows?" the first added, "Maybe I'm not here at all? I could be miles away..." A quiet voice whispered, "Or right behind you..." The leader whirled, only to meet Jack's gaze. As his face grew blank, Jack continued, "Now that I have your attention. You will cease this attack, and any like it, or I will visit upon you the torments of the damned. Nod once if you understand..." Dazed, the leader nodded. "Good. Now gather up your men, and leave the barony. I suggest joining the Crusades....now." The brigands resisted, but the sight of their strongest member meekly strolling away chilled their so-called hearts. Mary watched them go, a look of triumph in her eyes. "Thank you, good sir for rescuing me..." She turned to face him. The clearing was empty. There was only the sound of pipes, drifting on the breeze... THE PRESENT, AGAIN. The song ended. Damien faced Jack, eyes wondering. "Did I, I mean did you really? That was WILD!" Jack smiled, "I'm glad you approve. Not that it matters, really. It happened, more or less the way you saw it." "Was that magic?" "Partially. Since that time, many men have discovered that the mind is a powerful weapon against the weak-willed. One, Franz Mesmer, tried to influence it. Thus came what you call hypnosis..." Damien blinked, "Is that all it is? Hypnosis?" "You show your ignorance, boy." Jack stated, "That 'all' is the secret to magic. Belief is a strong tool. If you truly believe, and he [whoever he is] belives as well, together you can accomplish miracles..." He began to sing, "And if just one person, believes in you..." Against his better judgement, Damien joined in, "Hard enough, and strong enough, believes in you..." They harmonized, as the song reached it's crescendo. Then Damien was singing alone. Shamefacedly, he left the alleyway. He had to find a place to sleep. He slowly walked down the rain-spotted street. There was a shelter nearby, he thought, or maybe ...the Baron? The name meant something, but he was unsure what. As he pondered this shard of memory, he noticed a flicker of movement in the all-concealing shadows. Without delay, or preparation, he stalked within them. A sable figure tried to brush past. Damien easily blocked his way. "Let me goooo." it hissed. Damien wasn't in a kind mood. He grasped it about what appeared to be it's scrawny neck, and bore his gaze into it's eyes. "Who sent you..." he intoned. "The master wants me to watch you..." it whined. "Who is the master..." "I can't tell you, he will destroy me!" Damien smiled at this, "I can do worse..." The imp took his cue, "How?" "I will keep you alive..." The goblin paused, searching for bravado, and finding none. "Mortals call him Richard Rourke..." An image flashed in Cross' head. A boy, a room, a sacrifice. He let the pooka go, and smiled thinly, "Oh yes...I remember now..." "Then it is time for your final lesson..." came a voice as dry as parchment. Standing before him was a patriachal man, dressed in a golden toga, and the now familiar speckled undergarment. "Greetings, young one. I am Chrysophanes, first to bear the mantle of Netatron. You have mastered the world of matter, and the world of souls. I will show you the world of forms, and the birth of Netatron..." ALEXANDRIA It all started in the year of the City, 449. I was working as a scholar at the great Library of Alexander. One night, close upon the heels of the winter solstice, I beheld a new star, rising in the east. Such a sight was rarely witnessed, although there had been rumors in the writings of Archimedes. So many of our best stargazers were casting the horoscopes, and reading the future. A small group rode to Judea, to see if what they foretold was true. Of this, the outcome is known. One however, returned to the Library, bearing a small scroll, sealed in a tube of gold. He said he'd found it on the road, and felt beholden to bring it here. After considerating the facts, we decided not to break the seal, fearing some fell spirit saw imprisoned within. Soon, the scroll was forgotten, as we began to copy the results of the great census the Empire had undertaken. A decade passed, and the scroll was forgotten. I became head librarian, and dedicated myself to the pursuit of knowledge. Only once did I recall it's existence. A carpenter of Nazareth had fled the will of Herod, bringing his wife and son to Egypt. The boy was quick of mind, and several of our younger members tutored him. One day, I found him seated at a table, the scroll lying before him. "Joshua!" I called, "Do not open that! It is perilous." The boy turned his gaze upon mine. "Perilous indeed. But the day will come, when I have served my father well, when you will open it, and take on it's burden." "Rubbish! Come away from there! We will discuss the Republic of Plato, not the fancies of youth." Joshua smiled, and came along. The scroll faded from my mind, once again. Years fled like the feet of Hermes. In the spring of the year of the city 486, a messenger came from Rome. "Augustus wishes the Library closed. What books he finds of use, will be sent to Rome. The others, will be destroyed." My heart trembled, at these words of doom. The nephew of Caesar was well-read, but would he preserve all? As the darkness overtook my heart, it was reflected in the sky outside. All became black, and the earth shook. A goldem gleam caught my eye. I followed it, finding it's cause to be the sealed scroll, hanging in midair. The seals popped of their own accord, and the scroll unrolled, inviting me to read what was enscribed within. The words spoke to my soul, not my intellect, speaking of wonder, and of loss, and of the quest for knowledge. When it's message was engraved in my heart, in letters of fire, it vanished, taking the darkness with it. I turned to the fearful herald, and spoke in a voice like thunder, "Tell the emperor that the library is not his to give or take. It is eternal, and will outlast the glory of Rome." "Then I will take your books, and put them to the torch..." he snarled in return. I closed my eyes, not in defeat, but in contemplation. I bent my will on the world of forms, seeking to find the true essence of the Library. It came to me as a lamp of gold, and with cheer in my heart, I clasped it to my bosom. My eyes opened, to find a ruin where the proud scrolls had been stored. I turned again to the messenger, and calmly replied, "What books?" THE PRESENT, AND FUTURE "You see, what men call real is simply shadows. In the glow of Netatron, I saw the light, and that which caused the shadows. By grasping the essence, I transformed what was once ink on papyrus, into a true spirit of wisdom. I aged, and passed it on. This spirit, bound in a golden scroll, and merged with the knowledge of the Ancients, is what men call Netatron. I am the first, and you are the latest." Chrysocles began to glow, and Damien squinted at the vision. A calm, seldom heard voice, echoed in his skull. "Rememeber all. You have earned the Right. Netatron is." Golden light flared, as his memory flooded back. Chains of enchantment snapped, as a man in white awoke, feeling sudden dread. Damien grasped the fabric of reality, twisting it, and garbing himself in a new attire. Black boots and jeans enclosed his head. A yellow and black hooded sweatshirt, topped by a black denim vest, hid his torso. Atop his head was a black bandana, sprinkled with the stars. Damien snapped his fingers, and sunglasses grew from his eyes. "Now, Mr. Rourke, I am coming for you..." There was a swirl of light, and he passed into the void. Outside the manor that once was his, he found his way blocked. A garden of glass shards surrounded the house, barring all but the brave. Damien smiled. Wards might prevent his flying in, but he could always walk. And so he did. The sharp edges flayed his boots to shreds, but his feet were unaffected. He simply strode across the lawn, not hurrying, nor picking his path, but with a nonchalant air, and rang the front door. A familair dybbuk opened the gate, "We're expecting you," he gulped, "May I take your trenchcoat." Damien snapped his fingers, "I *knew* I'd forgotten something. The Brigade will never forgive me...ah well, you might as well just attack me now." The imp shrugged, and flung open the way. The large foyer was filled with ghoulies, and ghosties, and long-legged succubi [well, Rourke had a thing for them]. Damien stood, gazing at the assemblage. Then he carefully folded his sunglasses, and placed them in a pocket. The army of darkness rustled, waiting... Damien raised his arms, proclaiming: "Ignis et Acqua, Ventus et Terrum. Donibus meus, Corpus Dracorum!" His eyes glowed, and his body began to shift. Great golden wings erupted from his shoulders, as his clothes ripped asunder, and his tail grew. "Let's rock!" his draconic voice rumbled. The forces attacked, little noticing a door open and close behind them. Damien returned to visibility, pacing toward his mystic forge. There, as he'd expected, Rourke stood, cane in one hand, and his Key in the other. "Although I cannot make this work," he hissed, holding the Key up, "I can use it to protect myself, while your own ally destroys you. No tricks of the mind will defeat me. I can see through your illusions." "Then watch." Damien rolled up his sleeves, motioning smoothly. "Nothing in my hands? Presto!" A golden gleam, like yellowed quicksilver, poured from his right palm, extending in a viscid stream to the floor, where it stiffened, forming a yard long length of metal. Rourke stared in amazement. "That is real! But how? Netrigan is mine!" He raised his cane, brandishing the glowing ruby. "Ah yes, my errant brother, I'd like him back." "Brother? You mean you are?" Damien swung his magic bat, crashing it into the cane, "Netatron!" Lambent energy erupted, destroying the gem. Rourke wailed in defeat, as his power slipped away. A red fog hung in midair, "You have won, brother fair. Shall we make one, what now's a pair?" As Netatron nodded, and they flowed together, a new voice chimed in: "I forbid it! IT MUST NOT BE DONE!" Damien, caught up in the joy of the merge, recognized the voice. "Tartarus....but when you shouted...you!" "I AM TARTARUS! LORD OF PAIN!" "No," Netrigan/Damien/Netatron chorused, "That is a mask...you are one of the 'Elders of the Net!'" "Very good," came a feminine voice, and Sister Mary Agnes, of the order of Saint John, strode in, shedding her mortal guise, "You have given us the power we need to gain true mastery. We will claim it now." "Correct." came a mechanical voice, from the innocent lips of 'Timothy'. "By this merging of opposites, you have completed our plan. The knowledge of Netatron, combined with Netrigan's power, is something we have searched for for 2 millenia." "Pity I have to disappoint you. We stand alone, the Three-made-one. Rise again, Lord Net-Amon!" the merge proclaimed. Damien, suspended in the web of power, saw the truth. The daemons were meant to be one, but the birth of the Son had split them asunder. For that day, Netrigan was cast to the Abyss, and corrupted, while Netatron hid. Now, for the first time, they were anchored in the same body. His. He WAS Netrigan. He was Netatron. Together, they were, once again, Net-Amon. The elders poured power upon him, but he merely shrugged it off, as a red and gold striped headress , and a black-starlit kilt, became his attire. With eyes like novas, he faced his puppeteers. "You have tried and failed. By the Word, and my will, I bind thee. Thou shall not walk this earth again, nor shall thy powers influence it. I call upon the Watchers in Grey, who stand at the Borders, to hear, and obey..." Three grey robed figures appeared behind the "elders", enshrouding them. A fourth appeared before him, "You do not belong here. It is not permitted for you to manifest here for long. Return the body to your mortal anchor. It is his world, not thine." Net-Amon nodded, and bowed his head, "May I return one day? My sleep is troubled." "Someday, perhaps. But for now, the Tales of the Daemon are ended.' The End? Well, that's that. As a bonus, here's the final, official roster entry for the Daemon. Name: The Daemon. Real Name: Damien Cross Created by: Mario Di Giacomo Color of trenchcoat: Rusty red, sometimes gold, sometimes black. Mystic Abilities: Darn near everything, but he doesn't use any more power than necessary. History: Damien holds the net.record for most crowded cranium. Not only does he host the spirits of Netrigan and Netatron, but also the memories of 2000 years of Netatron's avatars. Netrigan, for his part, is a disembodied spirit of pure magickal power. He prefers to speak in rhymes, although that is not necessary. He does it mainly to annoy his brother. Netatron is a spirit of knowledge. If it's a historical fact of the past 6000 years, he probably knows it. Recently, as a dig against his brother, he's begun to speak in haiku. Damien usually wears SOMETHING black and speckled with white glitter, as well as Netrigan's trenchcoat [the color of dried blood]. At very rare times, he and his two associates can merge into Net-Amon, who is just goddamn powerful. But the merge cannot hold for long, in this dimension at least. Right now, Damien is rebuilding his shattered life. Someday, he may return. <( | )> | Mario Di Giacomo, aka | Caretaker of the Otaku Files \\O// | The Silicon Spider | Creator of Netrigan, the Daemon //o\\ | digicom@conan.ids.net | Fountain of Useless Trivia. <( ^ )> | Welcome to my parlour | Editor-in-Chief, Web Comics, Unc. Coming Soon: Silicon Spider #1!