Firestorm #95

Firestorm returns to Eden and is confronted by Shango of the Orishas, He-Who-Is-The-Storm. Dr. Rice receives troubling news about the Institute from the Mayor of Pittsburgh. Sunderland Corporation makes an offer to Dr. Rice. Firestorm meets Olorun, He-Who-Is-The-Sky, and learns of the coming danger of the Shadow, the Orisha-Nla.

Firestorm826's Panel-by-Panel Story Summary (Spoiler Alert)

Ogaden. East Africa. The valley called Eden. Mere hours ago, the Man of Fire walked through this valley, cleansing it with flame. It had become warped and misshapen from his own well-intentioned terraforming.

Since then, Firestorm has been to Japan and battled other Elementals. He has flown to Pittsburgh to capture a freed Killer Frost, help bring a would-be killer to justice, and confront a part of his sundered soul. He has had not time to think - - to grieve, he does so now.

The memories flicker in his mind, forgotten thoughts reigniting lost feelings. All another time, another life. He was here with his other selves, his former self - - Mikhail and Ron, along with Ron’s father - - come to examine the plight of famine in East Africa, a famine caused not only by the elements, but by the political pressures of warring factions.

Their guide was a selfless cleric - - Sister Agnes Martinon - - but the discovery was of a kindred soul, of the native they knew only as Jama, who was drawn into the Firestorm matrix during a brutal attack on his village.

For all too brief a time, Jama was a part of the process that was Firestorm. He died here in this valley they had thought to make another Eden…and was buried somewhere here with only the simplest of headstones to mark his passing, and only a few who called him brother to mourn. And now Firestorm can no longer find the grave where his brother lies.

“Nothing has changed here,” Firestorm thinks. “The civil war continues, the land is ravaged, and even I cannot heal…I can only destroy!”

RRUMBLE! The Earth shudders with the struggle. “How much more must this land be made to suffer, abandoned even by the gods?” Firestorm asks. “I hear it groan and cry out, begging for release! If man makes war upon the Earth…perhaps it is only because the gods have done so first! Where are you, Lord of Eden? What sin has the Earth committed that you punish it in such a fashion? Are you a god of hate?! Are you dead?! Are you deaf?! I swear by my mother Maya and by the fire that burns in my heart, I will have an answer! Where is the god of this land?!”

KKRAKKLE! BABOOOM! And the answer comes from heaven in the form of lightning that strikes - - and stays! And down the crackling pathway, a giant descends!

“Across the worlds, the cry has come, and I have answered,” the giant announces. “The voice in the Void has whispered that it it time to walk the mortal world once more. So I have cast Ogun’s Golden Chain across the worlds and have come seeking the Lord of the White Cloth. So let the thunder roll and mortal lands tremble and know the return of He-Who-Is-The-Storm - - I, Shango of the Black Gods!” Shango hovers in a swirl of energy, poised in tribal dress with a massive hammer in his right hand.

The Institute for Metahuman Studies. Vandermeer University. The office of Emily Rice… “Yes, I understand the Council’s action, Mister Mayor,” Dr. Rice says into her telephone. “I’m not feeble-minded. I think it ill-advised, but I don’t suppose my thoughts count for much at this stage do they? Yes, I consider myself duly notified you’ll pardon my not implementing the decree until I’ve had the University’s lawyers look at the wording. Thank you, Mister Mayor. Good day.”

She hangs up the phone as a colleague enters the office. “Problems, Dean Rice?” asks Roger as he opens the door.

“You might say that, Roger,” Dr. Rice replies.

“The City Council finally dropped the other shoe?” Roger asks.

“They’ve declared Pittsburgh a metahuman-free zone,” Dr. Rice explains. “Our esteemed City Fathers don’t want ‘em anywhere within the City. I don’t think it will stand up in court, but, in the meantime, it looks like the Institute for Metahuman Studies is going to be forced to close down!”

“Can we move it?” Roger asks.

“Where?!” Dr. Rice answers with frustration. “Lord, this would have to happen just when La Grieve has come out of his coma! He’s on the mend, but this news may cause a relapse!”

“Maybe you’ll want to see this guy from Sunderland?” Roger asks. “He’s been waiting in your outer office now most of the day…”

“Roger, I already have a headache,” Dr. Rice protests. “I don’t need Sunderland. Ask him to come back some other…”

A man cheerfully enters the office. “Dean Rice? How are ya?” he announces. “Rodney Hawkins, Sunderland International. Say, I hope you don’t mind my just coming in here, but I’m just so excited about this idea I want to shoot past you. It was an impulsive thing.”

“Well…you’re here, Mr. Hawkins,” Dr. Rice replies. “What is this all about?”

“Listen, I couldn’t help overhearing your problems with the local aldermen, and I think we have something very timely,” Hawkins begins. “It’s a coincidence thing. Sunderland has this research facility just outside the City limits that’s not being used right now. As you may or may not know, Sunderland has been doing extensive work in the industrial use of metahumans. What we’re suggesting is that we pool our resources. We turn this facility over to your IMHS people and share such findings from your research that might help us. It’s a trusting sort of thing.”

“I mistrust coincidence sort of things, Mr. Hawkins,” Dr. Rice replies. “What else does Sunderland want?”

“Sharp. You’re sharp,” nods Hawkins. “I told the big guys, ‘Hey, this lady’s sharp. The only way we’re going to get anywhere with her is to be absolutely, ruthlessly honest with her.’ So I’m going to be. We want to have an in-house group of metahumans at the Institute. In addition to being test subjects…they’ll help provide security. We call them the Captains of Industry. It’s a trademark sort of thing. Tell you what - - come out and look at the space right now, no obligation, and we’ll talk afterwards. Fair enough?”

“I…guess,” Dr. Rice sighs. “Roger, get my coat.”

Meanwhile, at Eden…Shango descends onto the barren, scorched land near Firestorm. “I have looked into your soul,” he tells Firestorm. “You do not possess the heart of Obatala. Tell me - - where may it be found?”

“I have no idea what it is - - not what you are!” Firestorm answers.

“I am one of the Orishas, the Gods of the Living Land of Ifè!” Shango explains. “I am the Storm, the thunder and lightning. I am Shango. The Living Land is in danger! The way to the Lower Lands at long last opened and I have come seeking my brother, Obatala, Lord of the White Cloth, for only he may save us now!”

“Then you and your people - - you were the gods of this land!” Firestorm observes.

“Yes!” Shango nods, pushing Firestorm away. “Now I have no more time for words. Somewhere on this misbegotten plane, what is left of Obatala exists and I must find it!”

“Turn around,” Firestorm asks. “Make some time. I have a few more words to say. Turn around! Turn around!” FASH! FASH! FASH! Firestorm casts lances of fire that begin to close like cell bars around Shango. “If you’re the god to these people and to this land - - where have you been?! Look around you! Even now, can’t you see the drought - - the famine - - that ravages this land?! Are you blind? Are you deaf? Or merely indifferent in your arrogance?! ANSWER ME!”

“One does not compel the gods to answer. One, rather, begs them,” Shango replies, looking over the flaming bars. “I begin to think you do not have the proper respect.”

“I have all the respect for you that you deserve!” Firestorm says with a burning scowl.

“Beware, flaming man!” Shango warns. “I have not come here for war, but I will indulge myself if you continue to annoy me.”

“Fair enough,” Firestorm answers as flames rage around his face. “Let’s make war.” FWOOMP! He casts twin fireballs at Shango from his outstretched hands.

“So be it,” Shango answers, raising his hammer in defense. BAKOOM! The hammer strikes with thundering power, blasting Firestorm back violently. “So ends our war. Learn, Flamehair, the folly of facing Shango of the Rolling Thunder. Ponder it. Let it teach you wisdom. I leave you your life. Gain from my mercy. Go in peace.” He turns and begins to walk away.

“GRRRRRR….!” Firestorm snarls, getting back to his feet. “GRRRRAHHRRR!” he yells as he lunges towards Shango. WHAM! The two collide! KRAKOOOM! Shango is blown back as Firestorm sweeps past!

“You’re a being of great power, Shango,” Firestorm says as he descends to the ground. “I’ll grant you that. So am I. Come on out and we’ll match power for power. Shango? Are you listening?”

“I HEAR! AND I AM HERE!” yells Shango, exploding in a blast of lightning. “You seek war with me, mortal? Well, war you shall have! No mere god of the storm, of lightning and thunder, is Shango! I do not merely command the elements! I AM THE STORM!” KRAKASHABOOOM! KRADOOM! Shango smashes his hammer down onto the Earth, and it shudders.

“Uhhh…!” Firestorm gasps.

“No. No more words, Flamehair! I have no more time for words!” Shango yells. “You have impeded my way. You do not understand. I have no time to make you understand. BEGONE!” KRAKKLE! Shango’s hammer sweeps through the air. BADOOOM! A sphere of lightning explodes around Firestorm!

The air calms for a moment. Shango looks out over his hammer. “The way is clear at last,” he says. “Let others teach you patience, Flamehair. It is not something I possess in abundance. And now to find the heart of Obatala!” Shango turns and walks away through the smoldering battleground.

Elsewhere (very elsewhere)… “Awake!” calls a voice from a tree limb.

“Awake!” calls a voice from a face on the tree’s trunk.

“Uh, where am I? And who’s talking?!” Firestorm asks. He lies next to the tree on an expanse of green grass. The gras partially overgrows around the edges of his body.

“You stand in the Living Land and it has a name - - Ifè,” says a radiant sun. Its rays project out from its face. “Everything that is truly alive in Ifè has a name…for to have a name - - to know your name - - is to have great power. We are beings of great power. We are the Orishas - - or what you would call gods.”

“And you are the Chief God?” Firestorm asks.

“No no no,” the sun continues. “I am first-born, yes, but we are all equal here, for we are all the land, and the land is us. I am Olorun - - He-Who-Is-The-Sky. What is your name and why are you here?”

“I’m Firestorm,” answers Firestorm as he stands beneath the tree. “I quarreled with Shango and I guess he sent me here, but I don’t know why. He said the land was in danger, but I can’t see it. This place seems so…so peaceful!”

“The Storm spoke truly, for Ifè is under siege by the Shadow Land!” Olorun continues. “See, see how even now the shadows reach for us! Flee, Man of Fire!”

“But why, Olorun?” Firestorm asks. “If these are only shadows, how can they hurt us?”

“These shadows are hungry, Man of Fire!” Olorun warns. “They consume! Beware them! Beware the Orisha-nla!”

“Eh?” Firestorm asks, looking around at the shadowy sections of land. One seems to spring up from the ground, and its shadowy tendril wraps around Firestorm’s ankle. “What’s this? Are these the shadows I’m supposed to…fear?” he gasps. “Maya! Olorun was right. I do sense great hunger. And they don’t seem to fear - - or be affected - - by fire!”

FZAAP! Firestorm fires twin bursts of red energy from his eyes. “If I can’t fight, I’ll have to flee them!” he thinks as he leaps to the air. “But which way?”

Up! Down. In the end, there is no escape. The shadows quickly blot out the light and begin to absorb Firestorm into them. In the end, they are everywhere…and fighting them is like trying to smash shadows, to strike smoke. In the end, they simply swallow up the Man of Fire. In the end, his power fails him. In the end, the silent, heavy darkness wins. The end..?