🚀 go-pugleaf

CONTINUITY NOTE: This episode takes place shortly after the events of
the Winner Take All epilogue ("Task Force Aurora #24", by Chris
Angelini.)

THE BEANSTALK
ESSEX, ONTARIO, CANADA

     Ensign Victor Martin held up his hands to protect his face as
Ronnie the Rhino, wings beating furiously to slow his descent,
touched down inside the Beanstalk hangar. When the beast had finally
settled, Victor ran to greet its rider, who dismounted and looked up
at him expressionlessly.
     "Vic. What's going on?" Rick Stoner inquired.
     "You didn't hear? Task Force Aurora was disbanded the day
after you left. The entire operation's closing down in a few weeks."
     "So what are you still doing here?"
     Victor blushed, and stared at the floor. "Well... to tell you
the truth, I wanted to spend a little more time with Margaret." He
looked up, expecting to see a smirk, and perhaps to endure some
ribbing from Ensign Stoner, but Rick just nodded, and gazed past Vic
to some indeterminate point in space.
     "Rick? Are you there?"
     "Where's the commodore?" Stoner inquired brusquely, looking
back at Victor.
     "He... headed back to San Diego this morning," Vic replied.
"Said we could both take Ronnie back once you returned."
     "So I guess you need a lift, right?"
     "Well, I was sort of hoping that, yes--"
     "All right, then, go. Get your stuff. We'll leave right now;
it's gonna be a long trip as it is."
    Victor took a few steps backward. "All right, Rick. Is
everything OK?"
     "Yes, I'm fine!" he snapped. "Just go... I'll meet you back
here."
     A bit miffed, Victor turned and headed for his quarters.
"Whatever you say, then... I'll be right back," he muttered.


SAN DIEGO INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT

     Commodore Amiga proceeded through the terminal, eyeing the
throng of travellers around him warily. He had no clue as to what
to do next. Surely by now they'd be missing him at the base, if they
hadn't already learned what he'd been up to for the past several
days. He rubbed his nose in irritation. These sunglasses pinched his
nose terribly, but all in all, it was a small price to pay for
anonymity.
     Amiga turned and entered the airport gift shop. He went past
the T-shirts, trinkets, candy bars, and hardcover novels (all at
prices only a monopoly could love), heading straight for the magazine
rack.
     As he'd suspected, the leading weekly news magazines featured
the recent global crisis as their cover story, and each had devoted a
fairly large chunk of space to a summary and analysis of the conflict
and as much of its origins as they could piece together. He picked
one up and leafed through it.
     It was an impressive piece of work, given what must have
been fairly short notice. The piece featured generous helpings of
battle maps and gory photographs, interviews with the more famous
superguys involved in the conflict, and a detailed chronology, laying
out the main events of the epic "Winner Take All" storyline... the
Windsor plague. The nukes in Canada. The involuntary recruiting of a
new super-army. The struggle for control of this army and its
subsequent use against the "mysterious" horde of pseudo-demons (their
origins being one of many details that remained undiscovered by the
general public, for now.)
     And there it was, just as he'd feared.
     "...control of the plague victims had to be wrested from
Minister Maladroit. But who was to bear the burden of telepathically
controlling an entire army? After some deliberation, the impromptu
superguy coalition decided that the best man for the job was
Commodore Dan Amiga, USN, despite his status as a virtual unknown in
the superguy community...."
     The commodore sighed. Well, it had been unrealistic from the
start to hope that that, at least, wouldn't get out. At least there
were no photographs of him. Better still, there was no mention of how
he'd betrayed his troops in the days following that final battle.
     Not that he was trying to sweep that under the rug. Far from it.
He'd committed a great wrong, and he would have to pay the price for
it. But the past week or so had been utterly crazy. It would be good
to have some time to sort it out for himself, without having to worry
about a deluge of bad press in the meantime.
     Meanwhile, the bridge of his nose ached like Hell(TM)... he
looked around. No one was in sight, save the apathetic cashier in the
center of the gift shop. Surely it couldn't hurt to abandon the
protection of the Mask Principle for just a second... He replaced the
magazine, whipped the sunglasses off, and massaged the pinched area,
his eyes closing reflexively as he did so.
     He opened them again and was subsequently blinded by several
dozen flashbulbs and television lights.




DM's ASComIIcs proudly presents:


             * * THE ADVENTURES OF COMMODORE AMIGA * *
                            Episode Ten:
                          "Hero's Welcome"

                                 by
                          Brendan LeFebvre


     "Commodore! How does it feel to--?"
     "Mr. Amiga, sir! Can you tell us what it was like to--?"
     "Dan-- may I call you Dan?-- is it true that--?"
     Under assault from the lights, Amiga spent a moment blinking,
during which time the press horde thoughtfully set up a podium and
hung a tasteful blue curtain in front of the magazine racks on the
wall behind him. By the time he could see again, the press conference
was well underway.
     He gaped at the cluster of three dozen microphones in front of
him. They represented a handful of local affiliates and nearly all of
the 24-hour cable news networks. Before his eyes, the horde
multiplied, increasing the cacophony as it continued to shout over
itself. In a matter of seconds, it had expanded to fill the entire
gift shop, in the process destroying most of the shop's priceless
merchandise. The cashier was allowed a few seconds of chagrin before
the horde crushed her beneath its feet.
     The commodore cleared his throat. He'd have to talk his way out
of this one. But what to say? The horde's voices formed a thick haze
of sound; it was nearly impossible to discern any one question.
     He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, calming his senses as
he'd taught himself to do. The mindsea no longer awaited him, of
course. Every time he closed his eyes, he anticipated its presence,
and he still couldn't quelch the agonizing emptiness that he felt
when he failed to find it. But the techniques he'd mastered while
adrift on the thoughts of his troops remained a part of him. With
the same mental dexterity he'd utilized so well as the Mastermind, he
sifted through the horde's incessant cries and extracted one thread
at random....
     He re-opened his eyes, very slowly.
     "My favorite... *color*?"
     The other horde members fell silent in an eyeblink, and swiveled
as one to glare at the offender, a trembling young lad who now
clutched his spiralbound notebook to his chest in a futile effort to
contain his terror.
     "H-hey, guys, c'mon. It was an honest mistake! I mean, we're all
scrambling for that unique angle, right? And we sometimes get a
little desperate, right? Right?? RiIIAAAAAIIIIEEEEEE....."
     The horde morphed around the unfortunate rookie, obscuring him
from Amiga's view for a mere second, then resumed its original shape,
leaving only a faint pink smear on the chair where he had been
sitting.
     Amiga swallowed hard. "Next question, please."


SOMEWHERE IN MICHIGAN

     As they approached the outskirts of a medium-sized town, Ronnie
began to snort and wail.
     "He's hungry," Stoner deduced. They were his first voluntary
words since their departure from the Beanstalk; Victor had tried
several times to engage him in conversation, but to no avail.
     "He likes donuts, right?" asked Vic.
     "Yeah."
     "I think that's a convenience store down there," Vic said,
pointing to a gray spot alongside the main road below them.
     Stoner nodded, and brought Ronnie down to a perfectly smooth
landing outside the store. As the two ensigns dismounted, a piercing
scream came from inside, followed by some angry male shouts.
     "Mmm-hmm," Stoner nodded grimly. "Just as I suspected. Cover me,
Vic!"
     "Huh?" queried Victor, but Stoner was already bolting for the
door. As he sprinted, he donned a pair of sunglasses and tore off
his street clothes, revealing an outfit of shiny, form-fitting neon
and fluorescent fabrics underneath. (The exact color combination is
perhaps best left to the imagination.)
     Victor blinked, then ran after Rick. He burst through the door
just in time to see his comrade subdue a masked gunman with one
spectacular punch. The unfortunate criminal was lifted off his feet
by the blow, his body crashing against the Hostess rack, which
toppled, scattering dozens of processed snack treats across the
floor.
     Stoner assumed a triumphant stance, hands on hips, looking down
with unabashed contempt at his vanquished foe.
     The teenaged cashier's head appeared above the counter. Seeing
that the danger was past, she got to her feet and quickly composed
herself, coming around the counter to rearrange the Hostess rack. She
smiled at Stoner. "I can't thank you en--"
     "My dear lady, don't even think about troubling yourself
with this! I'll take care of it," Stoner boomed. His voice sounded
deeper and louder than Vic had ever heard it before.
     Rick reached down and hauled the masked gunman to his feet.
"Now, look at this!" he shouted. "Look at this mess you made!"
     The gunman's head lolled in a generally floorward direction.
     Rick shoved him down into a kneeling position. "Start cleaning."
     The gunman collapsed in an inert heap.
     "Hmm. I'll just have to do it myself, then," Stoner conceded.
"But I promise you'll regret this when you wake up." He turned to the
cashier. "Call the police, won't you? They'll take care of this scum.
Vic, keep an eye on him for me while I tend to this mess." With that,
he knelt and began to gather up the snack treats.


SAN DIEGO INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT
HOURS LATER

     "Commodore! Do you have any comment to make regarding the
disbandment of the Task Force Aurora, so soon after their success
against the recent global threat?" From his position in the tenth
row, the earnest reporter had to scream to be heard over the noise.
When he finished asking the question, he attempted to sit back
down in his folding chair, but found it blocked by an irate French
correspondent who'd been displaced from his relatively cushy
fifth-row spot. A scuffle ensued, during which ethnic slurs flowed
freely from the mouths of both participants.
     "Well," Amiga replied hoarsely (his voice was hanging onto life
by a thread, but the horde showed no signs of weakening), "all I can
say is that the Aurorans behaved very professionally during and after
the crisis, and it was a pleasure working with them. I'm confident
that they'll all have bright futures, despite the disbandment of
their Task Force. Anyway, it's been a pleasure, but I really must
be--"
    The horde ignored his attempted exit and continued its
interrogatory barrage without mercy.
     He closed his eyes; his retinae had begun to ache under the
spotlights' glare, and the unrelenting heat sapped his ability to
move and think.
     "I...."
     He couldn't even remember what they'd just asked him. The horde
mumbled expectantly, awaiting his response. What did they want,
dammit?
     He tried to lick his lips, but his tongue grated across them
like sandpaper.
     "I... could you..." But now his voice had left him entirely; he
could manage little more than a harsh whisper.
     A stray "We can't hear you! Speak up!" rose above the mumbling,
which grew steadily louder as Amiga struggled to speak.
     "All right, that's enough!" an unfamiliar voice boomed into the
mike, suddenly and without warning. Amiga started. His eyes snapped
fully open, and he regarded the new arrival.
     The man's appearance was not particularly inspiring. He needed a
shave, his remaining wisps of brown hair were in disarray, and his
suit jacket pulled just a bit too tightly around his short, stocky
frame. Even so, Commodore Amiga couldn't help but detect an almost
heavenly aura about him.
     "You heard me, folks. The Commodore's not taking any more
questions. This conference is over."
     The horde dispersed within seconds, leaving only the gutted
wasteland that had been the airport gift shop. Amiga's savior turned
to him, grinned broadly, and gave him a pat on the back.
     "Come on, let's get you a drink."


SOMEWHERE IN MICHIGAN

     "It's, er, great that we stopped there, huh, Rick?" Vic asked
his comrade (who had put his street clothes back on at some
indeterminate point in time) as the two ensigns hurtled through the
skies once more. "I mean, we've got more than enough donuts now to
get us back to San Diego. Jelly, no less. Plus, free Toasty Tarts for
you and me!"
     Rick, who had been gazing solemnly at the horizon ahead,
swiveled his head, that he might re-direct his solemn gaze toward his
comrade. As he could not swivel it a full 180 degrees, however, he
was forced to waste half of it on the empty air. "The Toasty Tarts
are a fringe benefit; nothing more," he lectured anyway. "We can't
let material rewards become our only motivation. Especially those
that may prove hazardous to our health in the long run."
     "Hazardous?!" Victor exclaimed. "What's the matter with you,
Rick? A few weeks ago, you'd have done *anything* for a Toasty Tart!"
     Ronnie emitted a great rhinoceritic honk; Vic cracked open a
fresh box of powdered jellies and passed two of them forward to Rick,
who leaned forward and reached around to deposit them into Ronnie's
waiting maw as he replied, "That's true. Toasty Tarts will always
hold a special place in my heart. But ever since I underwent the
change, I've had to look at things a bit differently."
     "Yeah..." said Victor slowly. "I've been meaning to ask you
about that."
     "What about it?"
     "Well, it's just that, back at the Beanstalk, before you left,
you seemed pretty opposed to the idea--"
     "Times change. Minds change."
     "Right. It's just that, I remember, you were quite vehement
about not becoming a... you know..."
     "Go on, say it!"
     "I believe your exact phrase was 'angst-laden vigilante.'"
     "Yes. I suppose it was. But, remember, I never actually said I
was opposed to the idea. Only to everyone's assumption that that's
what I might become. It's happened, though. So that really doesn't
matter now, does it?"
     "Well... I guess not. Don't take this the wrong way, Rick,
but... it's going to take some getting used to. I mean, I've never
seen you like this before."
     Rick's eyes hardened, and he stared forward once more.
     "Not to worry, Vic. Just as soon as I have a talk with the
commodore, I'll be completely angst-free. You'll see."


WHATEVER DOES RICHARD MEAN?
WHAT THE HELL(TM) HAS HAPPENED TO HIM SINCE LAST ISSUE?
WHAT THE HELL(TM) HAS HAPPENED TO VIC SINCE LAST ISSUE?
AND DO THEY, IN FACT, HAVE ENOUGH DONUTS TO GET BACK TO SAN DIEGO?
MEANWHILE, WHO IS AMIGA'S NEW PAL?
AND WHAT, IF ANYTHING, AWAITS THE COMMODORE WHEN HE FINALLY RETURNS
TO WORK?

Stay tuned, 'cause the answers await you... only on SUPERGUY!

Visit the official Commodore Amiga Home Page!
http://www.eyrie.org/~dm/taca.html


AUTHOR'S NOTE:
Did you know that "The Adventures of Commodore Amiga #1: The Toasty
Tart Incident" was *also* posted on a Friday the 13th (October 1995)?
<cue scary music> See you next issue!

---
Copyright (c) 1996 Brendan LeFebvre. All rights reserved, except for
archival and summarization purposes as outlined in the Superguy FAQ.
"Task Force Aurora" and "The Beanstalk" are trademarks of Chris
Angelini.