When disaster strikes, it often strikes with the suddenness of a massive coronary, and the force of a bolt of a freight train to the face; though just as often as not, one cannot see the tracks which the train is using.

Not that a such a mundane thing as seeing the single halogen light breaking it's way across you alleviates the train's impact any.

Norman Bradley clocked in to the facility promptly at 9am, like always. He arrived early, but ever since a chewing out by the boss a few years ago for clocking in early, he made it a point to never give the damn company any more of his time than they wanted, which was exactly eight hours.

The company in question was the Arkham Research Consortium, though everyone knew the Department of Defense and the military wrote the checks for this particular branch. Norman had been told upon starting his employ all about the illustrious history and important job the installation had, as part of an attempt to indoctrinate him in corporate culture.

He was proud the effort had failed in his case. Like the other installations he was cleared for, this one was for keeping certain powered beings cryogenically frozen. Unlike most ARC facilities however, this one actually predated the Consortium itself, by a good several years. It was made by the army and DOD just after World War 2, back when cryogenics was still a devisor game and giant concrete bunkers were the height of prison technology.

It was the first Popsicle prison.

As a result, it housed many of the worst powered scum the planet had to offer from before the modern era, all stacked in nice rows, floor by floor, worst (at the bottom) to least. The elevator ride alone was a good 10 minute commute. It wasn't under a mountain, or even on a map, and had thus far avoided serious public interest.

It had never seen a break in, or a break out.

Norman headed to the break room and to the coffee machine. It was the most up to date piece of engineering here, a relic from the 80's. The vending machine guy came to refill it every week, which was really all he cared about. He couldn't use the break room for the eggheads; the scientists and techs that maintained the place. He was a security pleeb, one step up from janitor.

He made his way in just as his supervisor started out. The same one that put a black mark in his file for showing up early.

“You're late, Norman.”

“Clocked in promptly at 9, boss.”

Norman mentally dared him to check.

Instead the fat balding jerk simply sighed and walked out without so much as a 'see you later.' Dick.

Marty showed up as he was retrieving his morning cup of joe from the ratty machine., a few candy bars from it's brother already hanging out of his front pocket. Martin Jones was also Norman's superior, having been working here for fourteen to Norman's six years.

Nearly bald (unwillingly, as opposed to Norman, who was bald by choice) with just a few stringy white hairs, and almost as wide as he was tall, Marty was every inch the professional security guard. From his spotted tie, to his spotted shirt and stained dress pants, to the spotless gun holstered at his side behind the pepper spray, he screamed competence.

Even to Marty, the coffee machine was old.

“You ready kid? Time to get down to the freezer before the night shift gets antsy.”

“Yeah let's go.”

The night shift often got antsy, but then who wouldn't in this graveyard? They had been forced to make allowances due to the boss not letting Norman clock in early. Since it took a few minutes to walk down to the second elevator, then a few more to take it, they regularly had to clock out 10 minutes later than their eight hours, which they then passed along in a revolving door of lateness that somehow mostly worked out to give them all exactly eight hours.

They did so love driving the supervisors nuts.

The second elevator was more normal than the first, appearing to be something right out of a department store or office building. One walked right past the “no food or drink beyond this point” to take it.

It opened directly into the third floor security office, the only open portal leading to the recesses within, blockaded by a door more at home on a bank vault than anywhere else. The desks facing the elevator had bullet proof shields with holes cut for the rather dusty .50 caliber machine guns, loaded with armor piercing rounds that hadn't been checked or changed since Norman started working here.

The guards all swore they changed them as protocol dictated, every month. The supervisors never checked, or if they did, they didn't change it either. Turn over among the guard staff was so rapid that many hands were full simply training new staff. It was even higher among the ex-military.

For whatever reason, the powers-that-be did not want to use military resources to secure the site, preferring instead to use a private contractor which hired ex-military. Norman himself was ex-army, and had an insight into the mind of those who left this fairly cushy job.

They weren't mad about the town, which was the butt end of nowhere and full of redneck hicks, they weren't missing creature comforts or excitement. They didn't trust their own bosses. Some, like Normans old friend Ralph (who left after only three months) viewed the place as a major accident/national security incident waiting to happen.

This despite the nearly constant inspections by ARC personnel. The inspections were of course a joke. Supposedly all surprises, the management always had prior knowledge, even if by no more than a few hours by grace of being in the butt end of nowhere; it was easy to track flights when there was only one reason anyone ever flew here.

Tracking ARC personnel was even easier. Even the spies they tried to slip into the staff as janitors or scientists were ferreted out well before any could get a glimpse of what went on here. The security staff was very good at that particular job.

The other desks, the ones facing inward, were actually bunkers. They held a variety of cold war surplus small arms. The strongest were the grenade guns capable of firing high explosives by the dozens a minute. They were a joke; only the suicidal or supremely stupid would think to use them down here.

No the best weapons were the industrial tazers inside the actual desks of every guard, primed and ready with three shots each. With a needle more like a miniature harpoon, and enough voltage in each charge to stun a charging Rhino, those were the weapons Norman would grab first if the shit hit the fan.

The computers controlling this particular floor of Popsicle alley used to be inset in the wall, behind a blast shield. Those were just after the days of Univac, and the key cards on chains which they still used; they were so old they were an extra security measure again, unable to be duplicated. That computer was replaced however.

The new computers were actual workstations.. if you could consider Tandy's using Windows 3.1 workstations. The stupid things couldn't even play solitaire. Hell you couldn't even play pong on the damn things. Oddly enough they never froze or blue screened however. There wasn't even cable, and no television allowed even if there were, so the staff had resorted to sneaking a laptop in to help relieve the boredom of endless card games.

The security cameras were more up to date, using actual VHS tapes and closed circuit television sets. Not the new kind of course, the old ones that had tubes. Luckily, the facility had a great surplus of empty tapes.

“So what's on tap today gentleman? And I use that term loosely.”

Paul, ever the sociable leader type, answered for the group.

“Cards and that new paranormal movie, followed by more cards and that new zombie movie, followed by....”

“Alright, I get it, I get it, more of the same. Quarter bets again?”

“Yep, just to make it interesting.”

With the ease of routine, Norman, Paul, Stan, and Marty sat down at the table next to the metal detector (the one where you'd normally check bags) while the low man on the totem pole, Phil, kept watch on the Tandy at his desk, and the cameras. One word from him would have them all scrambling to respond to either a threat... or to a supervisor. After exactly four hands, Norman would switch with Phil, then Paul, then Stan, then Marty.

Seniority, after all.

Death rode in on the third hand. It didn't bother with the card keys, or the elevator, or the other security personnel on the other floors... at least at first. No, there was a pattern to these things, a sense of proper order; and it did so like to begin at the beginning.

“Damn it Paul, you cheating bastard.”

Said cheating bastard had just plunked down a full house, making Norman's aces and eights worthless. Deprived of almost three dollars in the heavy betting meant that the coffee Norman was currently drinking was the last he'd have today, unless he borrowed his change back. Paul just grinned that insufferable grin of his; he'd charge interest.

Finally, irrational anger completed the pattern; and Norman threw his coffee at Paul. Paul, being Paul, dodged. The coffee hit one of the ancient computers directly, the one on Phil's desk, which he was using to peruse the fules. normally not an issue. But after years of such abuse, this time was different.

This time, it took a bit too much liquid directly through the floppy drive, fizzled, and died.

The five other Tandy's lit up, displaying a warning. Alarm klaxons sounded.
“Dude, what the hell did you do?!?”

“Why the hell did you dodge?!?”

Marty chopped the air with a hand.

“SHUT UP! Check your computers now. Phil, what were you looking at?”

Phil paled as he responded.

“One of the angels; file 03A.”

“Is your computer as dead as it looks?”

“restarting it now.”

Norman was staring at the screen; the muttered 'no' from somewhere behind him didn't even register. All he saw was an old identification, from well before the time of MID's, where none were pulled up before:

Name: Simon Crane.
Code name: Omega Man.

Known powers:
Exemplar 5.
Energizer (radiation generation, several types) 5.

Former Army operative.
Former CIA operative.

Considered armed and highly dangerous, DO NOT APPROACH. Flee on sight.
Lethal force authorized to subdue.
Lethal force recommended to subdue.

Page two of course, had a full psych profile and list of weaknesses. But what occupied Norman's full attention was the glowing option under the first page, the same one that was always there, but never glowed before in the history of the facility. There wasn't a single soul who knew what the people of this facility knew, who would dare make that option glow by choice.

It was the 'wake' option.

Norman tried to hit the cancel option, to stop the sequence, but the Tandy was unresponsive. From what he could hear, his finger wasn't the only one stabbing a cancel button.

“It's not working!”

Marty responded, his voice a bucket of ice water on the proceedings.

“The Tandy's are slaved together as a security measure, remember? Sabotaging one sabotages them all. Rule 1 in the case of incursions. We won't have any control until Phil get's the computer up and running.”

“Well how long is the wake up cycle?”

“About 5 minutes I was told. But it's never happened before. But we don't even know that the cycle is going on; it could just be that the computers are showing a wake up, when no command was issued.”

The intercom crackled to tinny life.

“Martin! Martin! What's going on down there!”

“Computer malfunction boss, we're trying to determine just what it's doing. Might want to rouse the response team, just in case.”

Norman didn't want them to hit the panic button. If word of how this happened got out after wards, and it would, he would be fired. But he had read the files too; it was required reading. Omega Man had 1337 murders to his credit. Those were just the intentional ones. So his job was the least of his worries at the moment.

A quick zoom in from the security camera in that section, and his heart skipped. The stupid thing couldn't see the pod. They were supposed to be able to see every pod with these cameras, but he couldn't get the camera to pan right enough.

“Camera won't pan.”

Marty glared. Norman had never seen Marty angry before, and it scared him a little.

“Then you my friend are going to go in and see what can be seen. Take your walkie.”

Looking into the small sea of hardened faces, he knew. He was the canary in the coal mine. He grabbed his walkie quickly among the silence before he was all but led lamb style to the door. The requisite code was punched and he was ushered through.

The place was right out of a movie set, all large wires and hoses connected every which way, or draped across the concrete floor haphazardly. It was well lit for a change, the janitorial team had replaced all the fluorescent bulbs last week. It wasn't silent, with all the clicks, hums, and whirring noises one might expect would be right at home at an automated machine shop. His breath puffed misty in the bright air.

But to Norman it was dark as pitch, and pure silence greeted his ears.

“Test.”

Sometimes the radios died, even on the charger; the batteries had been defective before.

“Read you loud and clear.”

Marty's voice, now with a tinge of worry. That gave Norman some hope, however faint, that he might be forgiven.
“Get a move on Norman, time is of the essence. Check the pod and interrupt it's cycle manually if you have to.”

They had all been briefed on how to interrupt a pod's wake up cycle manually when they were hired. It was a simple matter of putting your card key in, and putting in your code. His code was 1173; easy enough. He stepped up the pace.

The camera was sheathed in ice; that was fairly common, and the motors that moved the cameras were proof against such moisture, but every so often one got locked in place from the ice growth and the motor wasn't strong enough to dislodge it. There was no time for that now though.

At first glance, Norman felt cheated. He was supposed to have 5 minutes! The hatch was already half open, fully popped, and Omega man was already stirring within.

“Marty, the pod's opening! Initiating manual override.”

His key card was hanging around his neck; it always was. He slotted it, almost missing, and waited for the key pad panel to pop open. Then he realized like the camera, it too had a thing sheath of ice. His frustrated (frightened) fist quickly shattered it, and the panel popped open with the sound of snapping, brittle metal.

The pad seemed to be fully functional, and he was on typing the 7 when a hand, colder than the grave and stronger than any vise, grabbed his.

He screamed.

…................................................................................................................................................................

Simon Crane was not groggy. He knew exactly who he was, and where he was, and most importantly, why he was here. He was here because despite it's best efforts, the United States government had found no way to kill him. No poison could penetrate his hide like skin, no bomb could hurt him, radiation was his friend more than anyone else's.

They had tried to trick him into eating poison once...but the cyanide hadn't killed him. He'd been... annoyed about that incident. He wasn't really a bad sort though, just misunderstood.

The government had made him a super soldier. He had exceeded their wild expectations, easily able to fend off the predations of well, anyone. Killing the Terror had just proven it, really. With the powered enemies of America quiet, he had been looking to retire. The government hadn't really wanted to lose their best field agent. They always had more infiltration's, assassinations, and general wet-work for their best.

But he was a simple man; he preferred honesty and action to words and deception.

What that meant was, people had one chance. They listened, did as they were told, and didn't anger him – or they died. So when the guard just kept on trying to input some code into his pod despite the fact that he was already awake and clearly not going back to sleep any time soon, gibbering all the while, well...

Simon Crane got upset.

Stepping over the charred remains, he took stock. As the doctors had told him, he had continued to grow. He was now easily seven feet tall. A quick brushing with a hand revealed not a single hair left on his head, also expected. He looked, if anything, more fit than ever after who knew how long in enforced sleep.

And of course he was naked; they had taken his suit. What was wrong with people, anyway? Say you want to be left alone, and they try to kill you. They finally manage to knock you out, and then steal your clothes and lock you up in a freezer. They should have tried harder to kill him, honestly.

The guard’s clothes were ash, and the walkie-talkie was a lost cause. Too much microwave energy. Oh, and he was alone in this frozen sepulcher with all these lovely ne'er do wells. He counted a full 50.. and he recognized two of them. He had been the one to put them down.

Well that sort of made several things clear didn't it? How his government valued his service, and how they considered him, to place him among the worst of the worst. Well he didn't care, he could still remove scum from the world.

A pulse of a few of the more fun types of radiations, and any who weren't dead soon would be. He always did like going nuclear; it smelled like burning, like melted wreckage... like freedom. Civic duty complete, he strolled up to the door.

With no means of communications (the intercom was so much slag running from the wall) this next step would be tricky. He really did not want to walk through the installation dispensing death to one and all. He didn't really care, he would if he had to, but if it was avoidable....

The intercom panel gave him an idea. Usually such places were weaker structurally than the walls themselves, and that panel hadn't taken his radiation well. A single punch proved the theory, as his hand sank in to the shoulder through the wall. A quick wiggle brought it back out, and a quick look confirmed it had gone all the way through.

“Excuse me.”

A rough voice from the other side answered.

“Yeah?”

“Let me out, or I shall be forced to release all sorts of unhealthy radiation into that room, and kill you all.”

“...What happened to Norman?”

“Was that his name? I'm afraid we did not see eye to eye on certain matters regarding my detainment, so I was forced to kill him.”

There was some whispering on the other end of the hole; he was far too much a gentlemen to listen in, however.

“How do we know you'll keep your word?”

“You've read my file, yes?”

“Yes.”

“Then you know I will. Let me out, stand aside, and I will let you all leave, life and limb intact.”

There was of course, more whispering. Then the door cycled open to reveal a portly man with gray wisps of hair and road mapped face screwed into an expression of cautious fear. Behind him were other guards, more fit... ex-military, no doubt. The desks, the boxes with television screens attached, the weapons were all taken in at a glance.

There was a puddle in front of the door, where he would have to step.

He raised an eyebrow. He assumed he still had those, but he didn't know.

“The leak was the reason for the error that allowed your pod to open.”

The old man responded to the silent question well. No hesitation or stuttering. He was afraid, but collected. He was plotting something. One cautious step out confirmed it.

“Light him up!”

Little daggers flew through the air, not at him directly, where they would do no good, but at the puddle. Electricity arced, and his body followed, dancing then stiffening until the power packs on the guard;'s unknown weapons died.

All in all, it was a nice try. He came out of it, and clenched his jaw.

“That.... I get it, I do. You're only doing your jobs. It was a good attempt, and I'll honor it. If asked, I'll say you all did the best you could. But that was your one chance. One more attempt, by any of you, and you all die. Understood?”

Nods were his answer.

“Ahh good, a working intercom. Excuse me, is anyone there?”

“Yes, this is lieutenant Al Kowalsky. To whom am I speaking?”

“You would know me best as Omega Man, Lieutenant. I am free of my incarceration, and wish to be free of this installation. So far only one man has died, and he died for not granting my request. You will grant my request, or I will kill everyone in the installation above me, including you.”

A moment passed.

“Would you mind very much if I asked for a few minutes time to consult my superiors?”

“Not at all lieutenant. You may have 5 minutes, after which I will assume your answer to be negative.”
He sat down in one of the chairs facing the elevator to wait, the guards behind him. Exactly 3 minutes, 39 seconds later he had his answer.

Both the rest of the security staff and the on-call heavy armored battalion watched him walk out the front door.