Opal City
Now

Too soon. Too close. He'd come too far to have it unwind this quickly. He could feel it all slipping away, feel the panic winding up inside him, deliciously gnawing at his insides. And at the center of it all, the son of his enemy twisting in his grip, desperation played across the younger Knight's face. Delicious.

With his legs wrapped tightly around Starman's midsection, the Ragdoll squeezed, and an oomph of air, an exhale mixed with pain, escaped from Jack's pursed lips. Merkel resisted the urge to laugh. The joy and excitement could exist inside him but never escape – despite the twisted homage designed upon his mask. No, this was a mission of revenge, and the pleasure could only come when success was assured.

Below, Opal's streets awaited them, tumbling closer and closer with each passing second. They plummeted end-over-end with Jack Knight trying to flatten the fall pattern and the Ragdoll thrashing and squeezing, furthering the chaos. Ripping an arm free, Jack threw a wild, uncontrolled punch at Merkel's chin. Ragdoll felt the fist snap against his jaw, and his head jerked back in response. But the power wasn't there, and this time, Merkel let the laugh burst free, ridiculing Knight's feeble attempts to win the day.

Victory could still be mine, Merkel thought.

And then, the winds changed, and the Ragdoll realized he was no longer in control. Another light arose from behind him, and for a brief second, he let his grip loosen. Knight thrashed and tumbled loose, releasing his hold on the cosmic rod. Merkel pulled the rod tightly to his chest, contorted and slid his legs under him, balancing his feet upon the heft of the cosmic weapon. As the ground spiraled near him, the Ragdoll turned a flip and landed upon the ground on all fours, like a cat.

A blast of energy struck the concrete to his left, and Merkel snapped his head to the skies. The blue Starman had joined the fray, hovering in the air with Jack Knight held to his hip. The jewel glowed against the alien's blue skin, and Peter Merkel blinked. He hadn't been expecting this, hadn't expected any interference from the hero's allies, not this soon in the game. Turning in place, Ragdoll hurled the cosmic rod into the air, throwing it like a spear at the hovering heroes.

Jack Knight leapt loose from Mikaal and caught the rod in mid-air. An exclamation of rage tore loose from the younger Knight's throat, and as he turned to fire, he found the sidewalk vacant, his enemy gone.

And as the Ragdoll slipped away into the darkness, he vowed to plan better for the days ahead. There would be another time, another chance, and then – finally then – Ted Knight would know the death of all his sons.

	"Tattered Hearts" Part Three of Four
Starman # 3 - April, Year Five	by Chris Munn & Michael Franzoni

Gotham City
One Year Gone

It had taken a year of shadowing and stalking, a full twelve months of research that had led them to that particular street on that particular night in rainy Gotham gloom. Picking the victim had been easy, of course, as Gotham City was filled to the brim with a bottom-feeding class of prey for the predators to feed upon. This particular sacrificial lamb was a waitress at a gentlemen's club a block down from the charmingly named "Crime Alley". Her name wasn't important, because no one of importance would remember her once she was dead and gone. Her death, in fact, would be the only thing of note done with her wasted excuse for a life.

Her death would draw down the city's dark guardian, and she would play her part to perfection.

Abigail Moorland stood in the shadowed doorway, chain smoking her menthol cigarettes with a pile of lipstick-marked butts collecting at her heeled feet. She had a love/hate relationship with Gotham, for while the wet and dank made her elderly bones creak and swell she couldn't deny the intoxicating effect of a city so thoroughly infused with fear. That feeling surged when her man Malcolm entered the alley, dragging the shrieking waitress by her hair, the screams playing like music to her ears.

Malcolm didn't acknowledge his mistress's presence, his attention focused on the crying, mewling girl hoisted into the air by her ponytail. The rain slapped against his bare chest and shaved head, trickling down the creases of his chiseled musculature, and each tiny movement made by he and the large axe held in his free hand caused the young woman to scream more and more frantically. How long would it take to bait their true prey, he wondered.

His question was answered when the caped vigilante descended into the alleyway, landing crouched between Malcolm and the alley's mouth. "Let her go," the avenger snarled, his shroud moving around him like a thing alive.

Malcolm smiled, and then buried his axe deep into the girl's neck, the strength of the strike nearly cleaving her head from her shoulders. Her screams stopped suddenly, and the protector of Gotham City visibly flinched in disbelief. Malcolm dropped the mutilated woman and hefted the axe over his shoulder, the smile still beaming from his face. "What will you do, little hero?"

It was that moment precisely when the Ragman lost his composure. He had seen much during his time as a vigilante in Gotham ; arguably not as much as the city's more well-known hero, but he believed that even the Bat would have been taken aback at the senseless brutality he'd just witnessed. The Ragman leapt forward, catching the much larger Malcolm around the waist, and his momentum carried them crashing into a ring of metal trash cans at the alley wall. "Sick bastard!" the hero yelled as his fist collided with the killer's face over and over again. He barely felt the axe handle smashing into his ribs, his rage giving his already enhanced durability and strength an increased vitality.

Abigail watched from the doorway as her agent fought half-heartedly against the hero, just as she had commanded. With his superior strength and the occult power flowing through him, Malcolm could have murdered the Ragman just as easily as he had the girl, but that wasn't the plan. She had to admit that the chance to see the Ragman in action was a curious experience, seeing the man's patchwork quilt of a costume flowing around him as he moved, the cloak apparently aiding him in his fight with Malcolm. From what she'd read, the Ragman was a man cursed to take the souls of murderers, trapping them forever in the folds of his costume. Each sewn patch represented the soul of a killer taken by the hero's supernatural sense of justice, and it wasn't difficult to predict the fate that awaited her faithful servant at battle's end. In fact, she was counting on it.

"Never in my days," the Ragman said as he clutched Malcolm by the throat, "have I seen a soul more deserving of punishment!"

The hero activated his curse, ripping free the soul of the madman he'd beaten so easily - something a better hero would have questioned - and allowing the empty body to fall with a wet thud to the concrete. His costume moved and rippled like a pond, making space on his chest for the latest patchwork addition, just as it had always been when a killer had been taken. Imagine his confusion, then, when a crippling sensation of lightning ignited throughout him, causing to fall to his knees in agony. As he teetered over onto his back, fear ran up his spine - he was paralyzed, his body locked in painful rigor mortis. Only his eyes remained capable of movement, and he watched as the old woman emerged from the darkness to stand over his prostrate form.

"So, so easy," she said as she clumsily crouched over, her aching joints unwilling to cooperate with her, to sit beside her victim. "I suppose I owe you an explanation, boy. My dear, sweet Malcolm and I hail from Opal City , and before we left our home we were responsible for the murders of thirteen innocent men, women, and children. I am the Prairie Witch, Rory chile, and with my power I bound those thirteen innocent spirits to the soul of the man you just took."

She knew his real name, she knew about his curse, she knew everything. Ragman tried to hide the fear in his eyes.

"Had you ever wondered what would happen if you absorbed the soul of an innocent?" she asked while fumbling through her purse. "Looks like you couldn't handle the stress, poor thing. Don't worry, though..."

Ragman's eyes widened when she produced the surgical scalpel from her handbag.

Keystone City
Now 

“…must admit that this is wholly unorthodox. I've heard so many stories – of course, the years go by and there are always stories, so many wonderful tales of the adventures and the far-off places – but they hardly do you justice. You are rather exquisite company, and it is my pleasure to be sharing a cup of tea with you…”

The voices drifted from the next room, and Jay Garrick paused only briefly to place his hat on the hall table as he entered the house. Joan's dulcet tones carried the bulk of the conversation, as was often the case, interrupted only briefly by the clinking of spoons against the side of the fine china. A touch of good-humored laughter, natural and free, the reason he fell in love with her in the first place. Her free spirit had touched his, and he'd never intentionally let her out of his sight since. Love had long held him in its grip.

Jay closed the door softly behind him, fearing to interrupt Joan's good day. He wrapped his hand loosely around the molding of the door jamb and spun into the room, clearing his throat as first Joan and then her guest came into view. Jay paused in mid-step, and it took every ounce of self control to push back the urge to break his walking stride and burst into the speed that was his gift.

Through gritted teeth, he leveled a glare at Joan's guest and said, “This is how it is now? You come into my home, and you think you can…”

“Ahem.” Joan cut in, lowering her tea cup to the table. “That'll be just about enough of that blustering, Mr. Garrick. You know better than to treat a guest with such disrespect. I know your mother, God rest her, raised you better than that. If I had known that you'd go off on a gait, then I'd have called JSA Headquarters to give you some forewarning, but I believed my husband to be a level-headed and forward thinking man. Was I wrong?”

A blush rose in the Flash's cheeks, and he turned away, gathering himself. “I apologize, Shade. I let my temper get away from me.”

The dark gentleman bowed his head once and waved a hand through the air. “Were it not for as rocky a history as our own, I would be offended. One can hardly doubt the intentions of a villain sitting in the parlor of his one-time enemy, but you can rest assured, my good sir, I come unto you with only the best. Surely, you've heard of troubles arising from Opal City and Gotham? Were it not for my intervention, the same would have befallen this industrial little burg, and well, we couldn't let that happen – could we?”

Jay allowed a slump to roll through his shoulders, a silent resignation to the idea that maybe the Shade wasn't the bad guy of past days. “I've been running myself ragged, patrolling the city for any sign of the Ragdoll's goons. I couldn't find hide-nor-hair of them anywhere.”

“Well yes, I was able to see to some minor indiscretions before they became – well, indiscretions. Appropriate measures were taken to ensure the marauders were taken off their path, and you should have nothing more to fear in those regards.” The Shade paused there, taking a slight lift from his cup of tea and placing it back in its saucer, all without making a sound. “However, in as much time as it takes young Knight to dispatch with the mastermind of this wicked operation, I would suggest that you and the missus perhaps seek out more secure holdings. Justice Society headquarters would be a splendid choice.”

“And what of your hand in this, Shade?”

“Mine is merely one of observation. Jack Knight is of particular interest to me, and I have a certain degree of investment in watching him become the hero he did not wish to become. If a willful nudge or a veiled action is required of me, then I shall be obliged to do my part. After all, someone must be about to oil the clichéd squeaky wheel.” With that, the Shade stood from his seat, placed his hat gently upon his head and once again took hold of his walking stick. As the shadows gathered about him, he added, “The tea was wonderful, Mrs. Garrick. We must deign to do so again.”

Black flooded the room, and when Jay's readjusted to the light that followed, he reached out to Joan's hand and squeezed it tight, knowing the danger that had narrowly been averted. “I…”

Joan leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek. “I know.”

Opal City
One Year Gone

The Prairie Witch sat in the basement of her Opal townhouse, her withered bare feet shuffling against the dirt floor as she rocked back and forth in her chair. "The contents of that grave haven't seen the light of day in over a decade," she said before taking a sip of her tea, "so be careful lest you feel like joining it beneath the ground."

The two burly men nodded in fearful affirmation, both thankful that their faces were hidden beneath the sack cloth doll masks, and continued digging. Their shovels uncovered several feet of unholy earth before they struck their target true, and with just a moment's hesitation both were quickly hefting the body free of its resting place. Moving carefully, the two men placed the cloth-covered corpse onto the table, trying to ignore the putrid stench. "Leave us," Moorland commanded as she slowly creaked to the table.

When she was alone, she pulled away the cloth shroud, exposing the burned and shriveled body of Peter Merkel, the Ragdoll. "I promised you would live again, my friend," she whispered into his melted ear, "and that day has finally come."

In her right hand rested a scalpel and in her left a torn scrap of cloth, removed from the Ragman weeks prior. The hero still lived, her magicks had depended on his curse remaining active, and the power resting in the patch extracted from his costume would allow her long-suffering comrade to once again breathe the breath of life. The Ragman's cursed cloth coupled with the tortured souls of thirteen innocent victims had made a potent spell, all that was needed was the application. With hands shaking from palsy, the Witch sliced into Merkel's charred flesh, pulling free a jagged square. In its place she affixed the damned scrap of fabric, sewing it to the madman's body with a jagged stitch.

"Now rise, Peter Merkel," she ordered as she took several backward steps, "rise and live once more!"

For several long moments nothing happened, but then slowly an appendage began to twitch. Bones snapped and muscles stretched, the spell's power giving animation to a body that should have long ago dissolved into dust. The Ragdoll screamed in pain and triumph as his consciousness returned to him, his joints swelling with articulation greater than he'd had even in during his youth. Though his flesh was still burned, his face horribly disfigured, Merkel felt no pain as he stepped down onto the dirt floor.

"I live?" he asked, his voice a withered rasp.

Moorland stepped forward, offering to her reborn ally a rumpled garment to clothe himself. He dressed quickly, each second bringing more strength to his limber joints, and finally he accepted her final gift. The hooded mask, with the strings of red cloth "hair" falling over the stitched mouth. He pulled it over his head and thrashed around the room, the final piece in place. He felt complete again, and his discolored eyes glared out through the jagged eyeholes of the mask, his true face now and forever.

"Work to do," he stated, "work to do..."

Opal City
Now

Dark bruise mixed with dark ink as Jack peeled his shirt over his head and winced. The Ragdoll had decorated him pretty badly, and it would be a good while before the reminders of this fight went away. He traced his fingertips gently along his ribcage, testing for tenderness – or worse, any kind of cracking or breakage. Everything felt more-or-less intact, which was, for the moment, a relief. Live to fight another day and all that jazz.

Behind him, Mikaal stood in silence, staring out the window at the night skies. Orange light crackled at the horizon line as fire danced its way toward the heavens. As Jack slipped his arms into a clean shirt, he placed one hand on Mikaal's shoulder and said, “Glad you came to my rescue, man. I wasn't too set on plans when I took him out that window. Guess this hero thing takes some learning.”

Mikaal stayed silent, merely nodding in response.

With a squeeze, Jack took his hand from Mikaal's shoulder and paced away slowly. “Believe it or not, I know what you're thinking. This city has seen way too many riots lately. The Mist. His daughter. Dr. Pip. Seems like we're losing more ground than we're gaining, and I'm sorry for that. You and I haven't had that chance to share a beer in Solly's memory, have we?”

Once again, Mikaal remained silent.

“Still, I appreciate you coming through for me out there. It meant a lot to have you at my back. Grand entrance and all that…” Jack let it hang there, not knowing what else to say. It was clear that he wasn't going to crack through Mikaal's stoic façade, and he wasn't sure if there was time enough to explore the option. And then it occurred to him. “Did they make a play for you?”

Mikaal shook his head. “I was wandering the streets. All around me, people were running in panic and anger. No one seemed to take notice of me – not the police, not the Ragdoll's men, no one. I was a ghost at the periphery of a war, and I didn't want that anymore. I've been silent for much too long now, and if your father's enemies are going bring battle to our doorstep, I will meet them on the field and fight until my last. I am a warrior at heart, and my heart yearns for that which it has not had in so long. Does that scare you?”

This time, it was Jack that stood in silence, letting the words run through his mind over and over again. Finally, he said, “No, it doesn't.”

“You are a bad liar, Jack, but I appreciate the attempt.” Mikaal paused there, bowed his head to the floor and let out a sigh. “It sure as hell scares me.”

“Then maybe we should get out on the streets and work out way through the fear together?”

Opal City
Two Months Gone

Time had moved quickly for the Ragdoll following his resurrection. To his delight, his followers had not forgotten him; though they had disbanded following his death, it took little time for word to reach all that still lived that their leader had returned to them. The cult was eager and prepared to pick up where they had left off thirteen years before, all it would take was the word of the Ragdoll to set things in motion.

But in that year, Merkel had watched and waited as events unfolded around him in Opal City . The eldest son of Ted Knight had died at the hands of the Mist, a doddering old fool that the Ragdoll remembered from his days of crime and villainy, and the younger son Jack had taken up the mantle of Starman. It would have been easy to strike in the early days of this new Starman's career, Jack Knight was fumbling and feeble as a hero at first, but Merkel waited still. The Ragdoll was patient and methodical, and he was content to allow things to play out while the world believed him dead. The Mist's daughter caused a single night of chaos, followed by the threat of the mad bomber Pip, each event causing Opal City to sink deeper into the mire of horror and fear.

Still the Ragdoll waited, until the day came when Ted and Jack Knight were absent from the Opal. He'd heard whispers of the plot the Wizard had concocted, and while he had no desire to take part in such a foolish fancy he knew that the time to strike was nearing soon. His people had inserted themselves into the veins of Opal City , allowing him access to every nook and cranny of the metropolis. Three names burned with hatred in his mind: Theodore Knight, Alan Scott, and Jay Garrick; the three "heroes" who had murdered him thirteen years ago would pay in blood.

It took little effort to locate the workshop of the dispatched Doctor Pip, using his discarded weapons of mass destruction to ensure the chaos appropriate for signaling his return to his home town. Special care was taken to deliver such devices to the Gotham City building owned by Alan Scott and the Keystone City home of Jay Garrick, striking at them at a distance with simultaneous attacks. The world would quake with fear when his name was whispered aloud, and his revenge would be complete.

"Time has come," he addressed his followers in the very same theatre that had witnessed his death, "tonight."

His people had of course noticed the change in their leader's speeches. Before he had been overly-verbose, his words streaming from his throat with a command performance of the language. Since his return, however, he spoke only in clipped, terse sentences. The spark that had made him a master orator had taken leave along with his humanity, and when he spoke now it was short and with single-minded purpose.

"Tonight," he said, "we murder."

And with the explosives placed in the bridges along Libra Avenue , Merkel alone took his place on the top floor of the high rise. He sat at the window and peered out into the night through the scope of his high-powered rifle. He would take the life of Ted Knight's son.

With a single shot, he very nearly succeeded.

Opal City
Now

"Open, open," the Ragdoll whispered as he slid open the window of the large Victorian home, "says me."

Merkel slithered into the upstairs room of the dark house, silent as a ghost and careful not to disturb anything that might give away his presence. The master of the house was absent from the city, an absence the Ragdoll had taken great pains to orchestrate without the man's knowledge. The Shade had gone to Keystone City to save the life of Flash Garrick, and it had been Merkel himself that had tipped the shadowy Englishman off to the plot against his old foe's life. He of course hoped his strike against Garrick and his wife would be successful, but he was forced to admit that the outcome would likely not be in his favor with the Shade's interference guaranteed. Fine, fine, all fine he decided as he slinked through the Shade's home; plenty of time later to take Garrick's life, after all.

As mad as he was, though, even the Ragdoll knew to fear the power of the Shade. Were it not a necessity he wouldn't attempt to break into the man's - was he even a man still, or some shadowy demon? - sanctum, but a necessity it truly was. There was an artifact he had been tasked to steal from the Shade's collection of antiquities, an artifact he had no choice but to find.

The Prairie Witch, the old woman responsible for the Ragdoll's resurrection, had asked for this single artifact as payment for all she had done throughout the past decade plus. Unhinged from sanity though he may be, Peter Merkel still paid his debts with prompt determination. He only hoped the Shade didn't return home until he was clear and gone from the premises.

The Ragdoll slipped into the Shade's study and took note of the desk resting beneath the towering gallery of bookshelves. Atop the desk itself sat a hardbound book, the latest in the long list of journals the villain had scribed throughout his eternal life. How queer, the Ragdoll noted before moving to the bookshelves, that an immortal man would be so consumed by the past. Pushing the thought aside, Merkel studied the objects resting in meticulous order on the shelves - each artifact marked with a time stamp on an accompanying card - until he finally found the object of his search.

The crystal vial was small, and within it was contained a miniscule amount of blue liquid. The Ragdoll lifted the vial to the desk lamp, gripping it between his thumb and index finger. Moorland had not said what the contents of the vial were, nor what use she would make of it once it was in her possession; but it was not his place to question, if this was the price for his return to life than it was a price he was all-too-willing to pay.

He slipped out of the Shade's home as silently as he had entered, wanting to give the Witch her prize as quickly as he could. The night was far from over, and Starman was still his to kill before the morning light.

To be continued...

Next Issue: "Tattered Hearts" comes to its grim conclusion!

LOST IN THE STARS

I suppose an apology is order, isn't it? This issue was supposed to have been released way back in May, and now here it is at the end of January. Oops. I guess all I can say is that sometimes life decides to come up and kick you in the crotch when you're least expecting it, and that's certainly what happened to Franzy and I in the latter part of 2009. But we're back now, and things should begin to proceed as normal once again.

Cool? Cool.

Now, onto this month's batch of feedback!

Scott Redmond, our resident Titans writer here at JLU, has this to say about issues 1 and 2:

Starman #1: Issue # 0 wet my appetite for Starman, and this issue was the meal to sate that appetite some. Never once did I stop and wonder about who a character was, or how they related to Starman and such. The story was just that engrossing, and that is great to see in a first issue. From first hand experience I know that first issues can be very hit or miss a lot of times depending on how and if things have to be set up. I liked the time jumps to show the different events from the day that had been mentioned slightly in the first section. Definitely looking forward to seeing how Ragdoll is back, and I know you guys won't disappoint. Count me in for the long haul ride for this title.

Starman #2: What can I say....besides the fact that the issue had me from the word go. Even with so little of Starman himself within the issue, it was still fantastic. The setup for the return of Ragdoll and his cult...loved it. I had faith that you guys wouldnt' go the cliche route with the return, and I was right. Not a lot to say cause I really enjoyed the issue lol. Though this series has inspired me to now read Robinson's run of the title. That is my reading before bed tonight.

Glad we've hooked you for the long haul, Scott! And that's awesome that we've inspired you to go read Robinson's series, it warms my heart to hear that I'm responsible for more people picking up my favorite comic series!

Meanwhile, our esteemed Aquaman author, Mark Anderson, had this to say about issue # 2 on the JLU forum:

The Ragdoll is extra creepy the way he is portrayed here. This is greatness. This is Arkham level creepy. Excellent.

Damn... "Kill in the name of the Ragdoll" ...great scene.

Awesome...the Prairie Witch and...eww. Damn...that's some villain there. Excellent.

This series is turning out to be dark...and I love it. Looking forward to more.

You've got Franzy to thank for that super-creepy rendition of the Ragdoll, he absolutely nailed how I envisioned the character in my head! For those who might be interested in this sort of thing, Mike and I split up the writing on chores in issue # 2 by having him script the present-day sequences and me handling the flashbacks.

And finally, our beloved editor-in-chief, Curt Fernlund, came down from the mountain and wrote this awesome "not-review" of the series-so-far on the forum:

There just really aren't enough words to praise Chris Munn and his work anywhere in Fanfic. A few years back he provided me with my very first issue that required no editing whatsoever in Firestorm. Having worked with the man on JLA/Avengers I know that he is bursting with ideas. He is considered THE Horror writer, and has proven himself on Man-thing, Ghost Rider and even here at JLU w/ Hellblazer in Subculture. But if ever there was a superhero that he was meant to write, it is Starman. Coupled with Mike Franzoni (another mythical writer in our midst) he's taken the character to new levels while still holding true to the mainstream ideas as presented by Robinson. He captures Jack and (so far) the supporting cast perfectly, including Ted, and the Shade, and even the homicidally insane Rag-doll, along with the lesser cast that don't see the screen time like Bobo and the O'Dares.

Not to be outdone, Franz is the master of mood and the obscure, and whatever Chris might miss, Mike is right there to make up and expand, catching the very tiny portion of slack and filling in the minuscule gaps. Mike Franzoni has the ability to take a series (like Planetary, which I never read) and make me want to go out and buy the TPB's and back issues just to see what I've been missing.

They are not the Lee/Kirby of Fanfic- they don't write that way. Nor would I label them the Robinson /Harris of Fanfic, as that would be too limiting. Rather Wolfman/Colan... Versatile on all fronts, knowledgeable and just plain, damn good!!

So that's it this issue, come back next month (next month, I promise, for real this time, lol) for the conclusion to our opening story-arc! And then stay tuned for some special stories that lay ahead, such as our first "Times Past" story (issue # 5), our first "Talking With David" (issue # 6), and our first "Times Yet to Come" (issue # 9)! Until then, keep looking to the stars...

Chris Munn
1/20/10

Story © 2010Chris Munn and Michael Franzoni and may not be reproduced without permission.