The images haunted her now, more than ever.

She was all alone. In the desert. The sun shone radioactive fury on her body. It was so hot, that the scraps of clothes that she did have on make her bake all the more. Then, as she drudgingly crawled on the sand dunes, images of death and destruction plagued her poor psyche.

The picture finally went into focus. A man, she saw. All in black. Then, all at once, four claws, two on each gloved hand. His name was Wayne Tucker and he had plagued Kathy Ling's dreams for weeks, now. Then, faster than the eye could follow, this man swung his arms forward, his claws ripping tufts of her hair.

Kathy, totally panicky, bucked backwards, trying to find the slightest sign of cover that she could hide behind or in. No such luck. Her throat screamed when two of Wayne's claws slash across her stomach. Her t-shirt tore and blood spurt all over the brown-colored sand.

Her eyes shut close, for a second and in that brief second, she wished with all of her might that somehow, someway, that this man would just go away and never come back. In her previous dreams her wish was granted and so it was in this one.

She opened her eyes and he was gone. As always, she yelled for joy. Now, she was in no more danger.

In her previous dreams, she woke up now. In this one, that was not so.

"Kathy," a voice said in the distance.

She looked where she heard the voice. Nothing.

"Kathy."

A fuzzy, blurry figure.

"Kathy."

The man who was speaking came into view, right in front of Kathy. He was tall, with stiff red hair, and he was totally buff. His name was Thomas Boyd, formerly of Psi-force, just like Wayne.

Kathy gasped when the buff man towered right in front of her. He was huge. His size nearly killed her in the darkness of her dream.

"What do you want?" she managed to say, at last.

He grinned. "Your life, dear girl, and possibly, your identity."

The words that he uttered made no sense to her, but it did not matter, as his hard fist crashed against her soft cheek. Black and blue all over her face, she tumbled to the ground, in disbelief that so kind a soul could perform so hideous a deed. Her hand wiped against her mouth, which had already started to bleed profusely. "Why?!"

He did not answer, but instead, edged closer to her.

Her mind on fire from stark terror, she gestured her hands and twin bolts of telekinetic energy was released.

Thomas glowed for but a second, and he disappeared into thin air.

Her body fell on the sand in relief.

"Thank God, he's gone," she whispered to herself.

A hand tightened on her shoulder.

She turns around. "Who?!"

"My name is unimportant," the man says politely, "but I must speak with you. But, first..."

His lips flowed onto hers with a passion that she had never felt before. She responded with a vengeance and enjoyed every moment of her personal, private ecstasy.

But, on instinct, her eyes opened and she saw a horror unlike anything before. This horror had the face of Emily Proudhawk, the woman that she most hated in the world.

This revelation finally jolted her awake from her dream into her bed, at home.

INTERLUDE:

Same day and the same hour, for that matter, at a crack house somewhere in Montreal, Canada, a small child about seven years old strolls down the huge room, passing half-dead teenagers on dope lying around and wooden boxes with cocaine in them marked fragile. His name is Brian Keaton, I shall learn that later, and he has been living here half his life.

Glad that he is not noticed yet, the people here either tired snorting some nasty stuff up their noses or a pair of them each of the opposite sex engaging in an act of false love, Brian sneaks into a nearby room and sitting down against a wall, starts to finish the book he just began last week. He didn't even finish the first page when one of the heaviest crack dealers there, whom we shall call Victor for privacy reasons, whapped a rubber stick over his head.

Brian reeled back in pain and gave Victor that ever-so-cute puppy-dog face that just wanted to make you cry with happiness and forgiveness. But unfortunately, Victor wasn't so affected and instead, he pressed the stick against Brian's throat.

Victor commanded to him, "Now, you little, snot-nosed brat, I want you to clean up this place or I don't give your dear ol' mom another gram of coke ever!"

Brian nodded in the affirmative and when Victor left, he started to do the job he was given, no matter how menial it was. He began to remove the dirt off of the filthy floor, when he saw a yellow and crimson medallion in a corner.

He picked it up, admired its shiny frame for a minute and when it started to burn his hand with its incandescent radiance, he dropped it to the floor. Curious as the proverbial cat and aware what happened to it, Brian retrieved it and watched with awe, as the Star of David in the medallion's center, glowed like a new born star and started to move ever-so-slowly counter-clockwise. He inexorably let the object go and it glided in the air, beginning to move clockwise in the opposite direction of the star.

Time and space seemed to stand still and move at the same time, as the medallion let out an energy akin to that of pure lightning and the light formed a perfect oval sphere with nothing in it but infinity.

Brian's eyes almost popped out of his head when he saw a huge, monstrous figure take form in the light. The man, for that is the only term to describe the monstrosity, stepped out of the sphere and approached the little boy.

The man, seen out of the boy's eyes as a true barbarian, fixed his iron helmet to its proper position and slapping his mace against his gloved hands, began to snarl and growl like an animal. Instead of panicking and crying, Brain Keaton smiled for his dreams have come true.

It was unlike any other day, with the cool air bouncing back and forth on the skyscrapers of the Big Apple. Early morning, the prime protector of this city-- Captain Manhattan-- received a notice to be the guest speaker at a very special comic book convention on 46th street and Madison Avenue at the Roosevelt Hotel.

Donning his costume, he went to the convention and started to talk to the numerous adults and children there. As the day went on, he was having the time of his life. For the first time in a long time, he was enjoying himself, without having to beat some heads. Then, a party crasher arrived.

He called himself DNA and began to wreck the display cases and comic boxes. He challenged the Captain to a duel to see who was the better paranormal. When they were alone, he revealed that he thought that the Captain would be an obvious obstacle in his quest for criminal power. And the fight began, with the first blow delivered by DNA.

The force of impact forced the Captain to bleed profusely. He knew that this man was strong indeed and more powerful than he appeared. He tried his best to land a single punch but he failed, miserably. Then, DNA, as a last resort, maneuvered a choke-hold and energy, never seen before, crackled around his body.

Captain Manhattan started to feel weak and nausea flood his body. During the whole fight, his opponent bragged how his paranormal power could steal the DNA from a living person to himself. In fact, he boasted, that if the person he was attacking was a paranormal, he would gain his or her powers and otherwise, gain their personality. He could think and act like they would, in every situation.

And this self-same process commenced on the Captain. As the energy grew in intensity and crackled louder than his ears could withstand, he felt his whole identity-- what makes him so unique-- slip away from him, like sand through his fingers. There was a huge explosion in his brain and it was over!

To complete his ultimate triumph, DNA stripped the Captain of his costume and threw him in an adjacent alleyway, while he was unconscious. He then, knowing that the former superhero was finished, took a taxi to his apartment.

The Captain, on the other hand, was totally demolished. In exactly fifteen minutes he was robbed of his identity and his parability. He was finished. He didn't know that, his greatness was just beginning.

Captain Manhattan opened his eyes and realized that he was dreaming the whole thing. What being or paranormal could alter his perceptions and enter his dreams in such a way as this? It was probably nothing, just some random daydreaming, is all.

He continued his flight.

Washington, D.C. The White House. A building as beautiful as this deserved to be surrounded by equally beautiful countryside. The grass was calm and peaceful and the trees swayed back and forth-- to and fro-- in the afternoon wind. It's a perfect day. Inside the building itself, in the mighty and sometimes considered, legendary Oval Office, the President of the United States of America, Philip Nolan Voigt sat in his <chair, brooding. He had many things to think about on this day-- and everyday since he was elected and to the ends of his term. He was the President and he was a very busy man.

Each decision that he made decided the fate of this great nation. Make the wrong choice and this country would certainly go to a living, breathing hell.

He sat up and looked at the time. It was ten after three. He didn't think that it was that late. Time flies when you're having fun.

The door to the Oval Office swung open and Presidential aide Jonsen entered the room.

"Sir," he said, stamping his feet together on the floor. "There is a meeting in front of Congress that you must attend in fifteen minutes. I thought that I will remind you of it."

"Thank you, Jonsen," Voigt responded. "Oh, yes. Before I go to the meeting, would you inform the Vice President that I wish to propose an amendment to the Constitution?"

"Which is, sir?"

"I wish to make a Paranormal Rights Act."

"Of course, sir. Anything else?"

"No. You may leave."

Jonsen left and Voigt was once more alone in his office.

Damn, he forgot to tell Jonsen something. Oh, well, it wasn't anything important. No, what he wanted to tell him was that he wanted to supply funding to the National Institution for Paranormal Research. Like he said, nothing important. Nothing, indeed.

After DNA left and he regained consciousness, he put on clothes that he found in the garbage. Just an old pair of jeans and a t-shirt. They were a size too much. He could feel them tighten on his legs. They were a little uncomfortable, but he would wear them anyway.

His next move should be ... hmmn ... now, this was a tough one. He cannot get a job for revealing bits and pieces of his past or his paranormilty. Getting back on his feet doesn’t interest him, right now; all he wanted was some food... or a drink.

He crossed to 42nd Street from Madison Avenue and entered one of the bars there. The first thing that he noticed when he went in was the people. They were all teenage punks; drug addicts, derelicts and alcoholics. These were the kind of people he would have fought against in his 'previous’ life.

The kind of people that made his stomach churn and boil when he saw them as a child. Now, though, he didn’t mind them.

Now he was one of them.

He approached the bar and the female tender asks for his order.

"I'll have a scotch on the rocks, ma'am.” He stared at her at a different way as he would have before. She was wearing a t-shirt, under an apron that has the words, ' Charlie’s Bar,' written on it, and a leather mini-skirt and heavy boots. Her hair was black.

"Really going all out, today, eh kid?" She said as she went to get the drinks.

He, strangely enough, found her attractive when before, he would be disgusted by her. This disturbed him.

A minute later she served his drink. She watched as he drank the beverage in one gulp. He slammed the glass on the table as if to impress her that he could do it in one gulp.

She was unimpressed.

"Anything else, white bread?" she asked him.

"No" he replied, smiling. "Take care of yerself, kiddo."

He then left the bar table, as she shook her head in disapproval and continued her work.

He saw two punks, about eighteen each, playing pool. They were each wearing a shirt and jeans similar to his. He approached the pool table watching as one of them got four balls into each pocket.

"Great one, Roddy," commented one.

"Thanks, Artie, pal o,' mine," said the other.

Then, the blond, called Arthur, and the other, Rodney, noticed that they are being watched and aren't pleased about it, not one bit.

Captain Manhattan woke from his dream with a start. He didn’t know who was controlling his dream. Maybe it was Nightmask, after all. But it didn’t matter. Judge Justice and Ken Connell had gone to the Ballad clinic to search him out. Maybe they could convince him to join their cause.

Somewhere in New York, a meeting was taking place. It was in a huge building with hardly any furniture at all or any paintings on the walls. All over the long table, certain people sat and chatted of what their plans were. At one end of the table was Sgt. Hadleman, a telepath who could cause Weltzmertz, world pain. Then, there was the French woman Electrique, who could generate electrical bolts from her fingertips. Next to her was Bloodhound, who could hunt down paranormals by their distinctive scent. Bazooka was over to his left, followed by Vice Versa, now called Inertia. At the head of the table was the leader of the small group of headhunters. He was wearing a long robe like a monk. No one knew his true name, but members of the group called him Mister Satan.

The leader of this little club slammed the gavel on a stump on the table. "Okay, okay. Simmer down, guys and gals. I call this meeting to order. So, let it be noted."

"Cut the dramatics, dude," interrupted Bazooka. "Just get on with it, so that we can see some action."

The rest of them cheered in accordance to the black man's sentiments. Mister Satan saw this, and decided that they were right. "Okay. I see where you're coming from." He slammed the gavel on the stump again. "You probably all know why you have been called here. But in case, there is someone that doesn't I will repeat our objective." He put the gavel away and stands up, regal-like. "In each of your lives, you have been opposed by certain individuals who do not want you to gain the proper respect that you deserve. These people have always been a thorn in your backs. I propose that we band together to strike fear and terror into these people's hearts and minds. Show them what horror really is and break their spirits, at the same time that we break them physically."

"There are maybe hundred of paranormals in the world today," spoke Electirque, wanting a clear and concise answer. "And probably at least twenty gangs of these people that you speak of. Which one shall we break?!"

"A good question," said the leader, "requires an equally good answer. The paranormals that we shall attack are the closest to our present position. They live in Soho and are comprised of four known members. Does the names Landers, Harrington, O'Brien and Beck ring some bells?"

Everyone, expect for Electrique, yelled in anticipation to get these displaced paranormals. She had never met these people. Well, maybe one day she shall get her hands on the ones called Psi-Force. One day.

The leader soaked the praise like a cat to milk. The culmination of nearly half his life's work had finally reached fruition. He smiled at his Headhunters. He shall finally get his revenge on the one person that has made his life now a living hell.