Paragon City, the capital for superheroes and villains, remains full of surprises. Some can bring changes, and some can be apocalyptic, especially as old mysteries resurface. Follow the Dallevan League one more time as old friends return, new allies and foes arise, and the end of everything looms over the choices they all have to make.

Author's Note: This story is the end of an entire trilogy. While "Just a Paragon Girl" comes first chronologically, it is recommended that you read "These Tights" first due to the former's ending. Also, the explicit rating is more for a single sex scene that happens late in the story; I hope it doesn't deter anyone from reading this, otherwise.

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Prologue
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Four Months Ago

“The city . . . of Paragon!” announced the tour guide, Devon.

A group of people followed him out of the old tunnel—a wonder that it still stood, all things considered—on top of a hill where they finally got to see the city renowned for being the superhero and villain capital of the known universe. Some of these people were simply from out of town, some were from out of the country, but all of them marveled at Paragon.

Not even moments from Devon's announcement, something, or rather someone, fell from the sky and crashed into the ground. Judging by the colors of the person’s costume, he was either a villain or a hero with a love for dark things.

And the hero was starting to moan in agony. Devon knew that the man needed medical attention, whomever he was.

The group of tourists, however, crowded around the fallen man, and started snapping pictures, as well as “oohing” and “aahing” rather than asking questions or calling for help.

Devon reached for his phone, calling out for everyone to step back from the mystery person on the ground. The line was busy, and none of his two attempts to dial for help were succeeding. He noticed only then that the sky around the city was void of something.

Where were the many metahumans who could fly?

***

Eight Days Later

He woke with a start. It was three in the morning, still a couple hours before Devon would need to wake up to get ready for work.

Since the Event, which took place about a week ago, tourism in Paragon City declined, though not by much. Apparently, the danger kept a lot of people coming back for more.

Which was amusing, because the city’s danger was also its draw.

Unable to fall back to sleep, Devon got out of bed and wandered his studio apartment. He felt more groggy than usual, but being up this early was almost a routine. Walk around a bit, maybe read up a bit on his studies, then sleep some more until the alarm went off.

Master’s degrees for history and archeology hanged in frames upon the wall. Books and notes were scattered everywhere that Devon could manage in something resembling an organized mess. Somewhere among the myriad of literary madness hid a few notes to call back concerned friends and family who heard that Devon, with all his education and experience, was working as a tour guide for one of the most dangerous places on Earth.

If they only knew. He had a reason for staying here. Something did not add up about this city. Devon had every intention of discovering what that something was.

When the Event happened a week ago, it did nothing to help nor hinder his research into the hole of knowledge dating back four years. Devon spent a few days compiling what he could on the Event to see if it tied to what he was looking for, but it did not.

The search ended up being a red herring. The only thing he got out of the incident was the memory of a hero in his final moments.

No, there was more to the Storm of Sirens, but even then it was related by proximity to the mysterious crater further to the north. It was just like every other thing that Devon could witness or find in his time in Paragon alone, let alone everything that happened beforehand that he was yet to fully realize. There was something just outside of Devon's grasp. The truth was his Tartarus. The, fact that he couldn't reach it, no matter how hard he tried was aggravating.

Fury hit him, and Devon screamed internally I must be going mad! Look at this. All this time and effort, wasted! He kicked at one opened book on the floor, and threw another at the window.

Devon ran up to the sliding glass door, pulling the blinds, and asked to the dark city outside, “What are you? What kind of place can exist perpetually like this? No answers, just good guys and everyone else duking it out. Give me what I want, damn you! Give me those answers that don’t exist. Paragon City . . .”

He opened the door.

“. . . City of Paragon!”

Devon was interrupted, before he could go any further, by someone screaming in anger and dragging another person by the skull down the side of the apartment building. The two bodies passed Devon, who swore after them for the little it would do.

Meanwhile, in the corner of his deranged mind, Devon wondered what he was doing. He was better than this, wasn’t he? Not tonight.

Then, at several points of the city, narrow pillars of red light flashed across land and sea. Devon watched and watched until they all lit up again in a bright white. The city rumbled. Devon fell back.

The pillars of light exploded. Something hit Devon on the head—twice, it felt like—before he fell unconscious.

Night became day. The alarm clock had reset to flashing the midnight hour around the time that the phenomenon occurred outside, and Devon awoke on his own by the time the clock flashed past five in the morning, despite it clearly being much later, judging by how bright and loud it was outside. When he woke, both panic and regret stole away with half of his senses, and ransomed them off to the other half all in the course of seconds.

Devon turned on the news, taking with him the two books that landed on his face. The phenomenon last night was known now as Rancor Night. The cause was unknown, but the city was devastated with an unusual wave of theft, violence, and murder that the many heroes were powerless to stop. A few were even involved in such crimes, and were being questioned for it.

Mysterious violence. That, in essence was what he was researching, but it couldn't be more directly related to that, could it?. Devon looked down at the two books he had in his grasp. One was on the famous gang wars in history, along with an added noted of his own making that, while published two years ago, the book glossed over the infamous gang war four years ago as though it didn't even happen. The second book, which usually sat on a shelf away from the research, specialized in the major wars depicted in legend or mythology.

As impossible as the epiphany was, it still came. It came, and it sent unnerving impulses over Devon’s mind as if he stumbled upon something forbidden.

Something brilliant.

***

Yesterday

The past few months felt like the start of a breakthrough, and now, Devon was appearing on a daytime talk show to talk about his new blog that received vast amounts of attention.

Then again, a lot of that attention was either from people scoffing at him, or lunatics and fanatics believing every single thing he said or did. The lack of reasonable middle ground and proper discussion was far from ideal or scholastic.

Devon was here to set the record straight on his sanity and profession and research.

The show’s host said to him, “So, first, let me ask you. Why history and archaeology?”

“I have always loved the idea of seeking answers,” said Devon, “no matter how fascinating or boring they turn out, no matter how well accepted or unpopular they become. I picked both fields of study because I had a lot of questions about where we come from that may or may not have been answered.”

“That doesn’t sound like it pays very well.”

“It really doesn’t. In either field, these days, the only pay comes from becoming a teacher, which is why I spent time working as a tour guide.”

“Oh my.” She laughed tauntingly. “Is that why you came up with your theory?”

What the host was really asking was if being a tour guide was what made him a nutcase. Devon chose not to take the bait.

He said, “Since before I came to Paragon, I’ve been researching the so-called gang war from four years ago. We all know that violence broke out through the streets of various cities around the world, all of it following a pattern that led back to here with similar marks and colors. All I’m doing is offering an alternative by saying that this was not two or three gangs who appeared and vanished across the globe within the space of a couple months. Why does no one remember these gangs, or what they looked like?”

“Sure, but gods and goddesses? That’s hard to swallow.”

“Not when you consider how many people there are with superpowers. This city of ours is the renowned capital of metahumans and technologically equipped wizards of our time all fighting for any number of reasons. Many may well claim godhood, themselves, but you have to ask yourself who among them might share some truth in it? If you asked me four or five months ago about this, I wouldn’t be able to say this much, but now I’m positive that there was some involvement from a higher, or at least separate plane.”

“If that is the case, then why don’t we call down the gods and goddesses now and ask them?”

“Because we can’t, for some reason. That’s what—.”

“Convenient.”

“It’s what I intend to find out. It’s the big missing piece. What better place to look than here, the superpower capital of the world, the city of Paragon?”

A stage light fell then. Its immediate fall missed the host of the show, but the roll caused the hot canister of glass and metal to smash against her leg. The sudden discord caused the broadcast to end, and the audience to change their tune from poorly restrained laughter to screams.

***

Devon picked up his case, and turned to the door out of the guests' make-up room when something blinked in the corner of his eye. It was a note, appeared with a poof and a flash of light, with his name on it.

Turning his head to see if anyone was watching him, Devon grabbed the note, and read it. At this point, what else could go wrong?

Mr. Tartakovsky,

As a scientist and seeker of knowledge, I commend your search for answers regarding the events of four years ago. However, as a surviving witness and concerned human being, I ask that you hold off on drawing too much attention to yourself or your findings. Mankind is not ready to know, as much as it pains me to say this. There will not be a second warning; the consequences of digging any deeper will be your own.

Take care,
W/M

No return address or anything else was present. The only hint to the writer's identity was a generally masculine handwriting.

Devon exhaled sharply. He said, “Alright, Mister W-M. Thanks for confirming my suspicions. Now to find out what you know.”