Legends: A Story of Lies [Star vs. The Forces of Evil, Gravity Falls, Big Bad Beetleborgs]

[The Ero-Sennin]

As it was discussed on the Discord, there are two possibilities to consider when you witness a scene like the one with the publication. Either the author did not think about the full implications of what he wrote and you roll your eyes at some TV series writing by ignorant scriptwriters or the author did think about these and you are terrified.

I am terrified of Misao because I have a slight understanding of what this little show-off scene means, and this more than anything else shown previously with her or any other character, puts her right at the top of the pecking order in my threat list. High enough that the only reasonable answer is to be nice without overdoing it. Nice and honest with such a being is the likeliest route to endured healthy survival.

Terror is the reasonable reaction to the what Misao is, and as you explore her character further...

The terror is supposed to grow.

 

[Rufus Shinra]

Terror is the reasonable reaction to the what Misao is, and as you explore her character further...

The terror is supposed to grow.

Terror is the initial reasonable reaction. Acceptance is the next one: it's silly and unproductive to feel terrified over a constant force in the background that you have no control over and that can wreck your ass on a whim. If it is utterly unstoppable and untouchable, well, resistance is futile.

 

[The Ero-Sennin]

It's been a minute. A long minute. With my work on Legends resuming (including a lot more 1899 stuff), it's time for the blood to get flowing here.

= - = 7-EX = - =

|Final Result|​

"Kombat Knat has been destroyed," Vexor reported to his generals. "With that, we've lost a key asset."

The Magnavores were gathered in front of Noxic's workshop, Vexor looking at the mostly finished project with his back to his minions. "A new approach will be needed to deal with our enemies."

He turned just enough to look back and address them. "Any suggestions?"

Jara spoke first, and forcefully. "We must lure them out onto a battlefield of our choosing, where they cannot escape to their precious base or school–even if they escape the Gaohm Zone."

Typhus agreed. "This is the third time our guys showed up at that school of theirs and they pulled out some muscle or firepower that made life harder for us."

"That dump they call a base is a no go, too. Anti-Teleport, big honkin' guns, and all their kit is there too," Noxic complained.

Jara spoke. "We need a comprehensive strategy. Not merely throwing things against the wall. We need to take what we have learned from each of these encounters and use it to gain the advantage! These are children with ruinous powers at their fingertips playing at being heroes, not soldiers fighting a war, this should not be a puzzle for us!"

Vexor faced Noxic's workshop. "All of you are correct."

Noxic was surprised that he was being praised. "We are?"

Jara was given pause. "What is it?"

"This is a war, and we are warriors," Vexor began, "We've crossed swords with the Melzard Tribe and survived the attentions of Bill Cipher. Though limited in resources and clarity, we do have the advantage of experience and tenacity. Most importantly, however, we are free to prosecute this war as we see fit. To our own tune, at our own pace, and not to the convenience of the enemy."

Typhus and Noxic looked at each other, before the latter asked. "So… what, we're going to start doing stuff after they go to bed or somethin'?"

Jara understood what Vexor was getting at. "Yes, exactly that. At night while they sleep, during the day while they hide behind their pet troll. From the start of this, we have been the ones who control when a battle begins, and we must press that advantage!"

"Yeah, okay, but what if they decide to fight us anyway?" Noxic asked.

Vexor chuckled. "Then it is even better for us."

Now that part Jara was a little lost on. "What do you mean?"

Vexor gestured to Noxic's workshop. "This will be a war of attrition. And this is our weapon to win that battle."

He turned to face them. "So let them come in the night, let them break their social obligations to play hero. We will wear them down with battle after battle, and their delusions of heroism will allow them to fall exhausted at our feet."

Typhus punched his palm into his fist. "All right! Let's fight a real war! They won't know what hit them."

"You're still gonna need that order of Scabs, right, Vexor?" Noxic asked.

"They are essential to the plan." He then turned to Jara. "And this force will need a commander. One able to work in the field, independent of you."

Jara nodded. "Then we have some comics to read, there is one I have in mind for what you ask."

Vexor tilted towards Jara in a nod. "I expect nothing but good results."

@@@@@​

Sitting in the back of the Hyuuga Heavy Industries SUV, Shego worked her jaw and rubbed her face against the door to finally peel the sticky tape from her mouth. The moment it was free, she turned and looked at Señor Senior Junior, who was seated peacefully on the other end of the bench seat at the very back of the vehicle. He was wearing the nervous, goofy smile of a man hoping to not get his face bitten off but knowing he likely will.

Rather than bare her fangs to start tearing off strips of his face, she broke into a dangerous smile. "So… Junior… can you answer me a question?"

"Yes, of course," he quickly and obediently answered as two of the armed guards got into the front seats and the SUV started up.

"What…" Shego began quietly, prompting Junior to brace himself for the vocal eruption to follow. "THE FUCK?!"

Junior recoiled, pushed back just as much by the fury in her voice. "YOU HAD A LITERAL MAGIC BULLSHIT POWERED ARMOR IN YOUR BACK FUCKING POCKET, AND YOU PUT IT ON THE FUCKING HOSTAGE?!"

Junior shrank with every boiling word from her mouth. "Look! Look! Please understand, I had to do it!"

"YOU KIDNAPPED A FUCKING HYUUGA JUST TO HAND HER BACK ON A SILVER PLATE TO HER MOM, AND FOR NOTHING!"

She threw her head back against the door and its bullet-proof window.

"I HAD TO FIGHT A MAGICAL FUCKING GIRL, SSJ, DO YOU UNDERSTAND HOW BULLSHIT THAT IS?!"

When Shego didn't start screaming again after a few moments, Junior let out a sigh. "I suppose that you would not understand."

"You're right, I don't." Shego snarled. "So, enlighten me, SSJ. Why did you go through all the trouble to hunt down and kidnap Misao Darlian? If we just took that thing that you gave her, we'd be running the world instead of scores!"

Junior responded promptly. "Do you remember when I said that this was a matter of family pride?"

"It's why I've been on board with this until very recently."

He winced at the growl Shego trailed off into but maintained his composure. "Running scores is fun. It is the most fun I have ever had, and I have learned a lot from you, Shego. What I've learned has opened doors for me that my wealth alone could never, and I want to step through them."

Curiosity replaced Shego's anger. "Hold on, what are you trying to say here, exactly?"

"I am saying that by kidnapping the daughter of one of the most powerful people in the world–who can do anything up to and including taking everything a billionaire has and vanishing his children–I have proven that I am worth more than just my father's name or money."

When he put it like that, Shego couldn't be mad anymore. "You little shit, I get it now! You pulled the big one and lived."

"We pulled the big one and lived," Junior corrected her.

Shego chuckled. "Every time I think I'm going to demote you to paycheck provider, you remind me that you're the best I've worked with, SSJ. Man, now I wonder what's next for you."

Junior let out a reluctant sigh. "Sadly, you will have to wait and see."

Wariness returned, and Shego gave him a look. "Huh? No, the second I get a gap with these restraints off, we're out of here."

He shook his head. "No, I mean, this is the end of our association. From here on out, I doubt we will see each other again."

The SUV pulled to a stop, and Shego immediately noticed flashing lights outside. "Huh? Wait." She turned back to Junior. "What's going to happen to you?"

Junior shrugged his shoulders. "That's up to fate, I guess. Either way, it's been fun." He brightened. "Oh, and do not tell my father, please? You know how he gets worried about me, okay?"

The door opened, and an LA County Sheriff grabbed Shego and pulled her out of the car. "Up to fate…? Junior! I need a little bit more context?! What's going to happen to you?!" She yelled as she was dragged out of the vehicle.

She kept shouting, asking what he meant, before just calling out his name, before the closing of an armored police van's doors cut her voice off.

A few moments later, the flashing lights receded as the Sheriff's units drove away to take her to lock up. A few moments after that, the door to the SUV opened, and in climbed Momiji Hyuuga.

"I've heard stories about Shego having a good partnership with you, but hearing her actually concerned for someone else was… odd," she admitted while she closed the door and sat beside him.

Junior nodded. "She is a good teacher who values competence, innovation, and assertiveness. You don't even need to appeal to her ego, she likes if you do something she hadn't thought of."

Momiji weighed on that with a hum. "That is something I will keep in mind for later, thank you."

As Momiji buckled herself in and the SUV got moving, Junior asked. "So, what happens now?"

Momiji reached into her pocket and pulled out the strange necklace that Junior had given to Misao, and activated the armor that allowed her to defeat Kombat Knat. "You completed an impossible task, even if it did end with you being arrested. You demonstrated all the qualities needed during your trial–patience, daring, cunning, ruthlessness, restraint, and determination in the face of unwinnable odds."

"Once I knew Kim Possible was on my trail, it was certainly over," Junior admitted. "But those other guys… I did not expect them to be so aggressive!"

"If you only knew," Momiji said with a small laugh. "But you will soon enough. You'll know everything, and that will be your true final test."

Junior looked disappointed. "There is still one more thing?"

She nodded. "A simple yes or no question: Do you believe you can handle the truth of what you are becoming part of?"

Señor Senior Junior's disappointment vanished, but before the joy of success could reach him, he stopped and considered the question. "… That is a good question." Slowly he nodded. "I believe I can. I accepted this trial and every risk that came with it, the truth should be no different."

"Good answer," she said before reaching over and unlocking his handcuffs.

"Welcome to the 47, Señor Senior Junior."

@@@@@​

In the back yard of the Pines' home. Mabel opened the back yard's gate, carrying a box stacked with closed cardboard trays. "Hey, brocephalus, the food's here! Also, the Beetleborgs all made it home without a problem."

Dipper, sitting at the other end of the picnic table across from Kim, nodded to his sister. The Pines twins, Marco, Jackie, Janna, and Star were gathered with Team Possible, waiting for the victory feast that they ordered on their way back from the Vanderhoff residence. Misao was already in bed. Worn out as she was after her the day, she'd gone straight up to their room and fell asleep with Waddles in her arms, leaving everyone else to socialize as the evening deepened into night.

"Okay, Dipper and I have Steak Picado! For Kim we have a Chicken burrito," Mabel announced as she went around the table. "For Ron and Rufus, we have Tacos and Nachos, Chile Rellenos for Janna, Aguachile de Camarón for Jackie, and Nachos for Star and Marco!"

"Thanks Mabel," Dipper said as he took his tray, before he turned his attention back to Kim, Ron, and of course Rufus. "So, I wanted to say thanks again for coming to help deal with this, especially on such short notice."

"It's so no big," Kim assured him, "We do short notice all the time. Plus, I got to spend a day in LA–even if it was The Mathter causing you trouble I'd be here."

Marco chimed in. "After fighting Shego, I'm gonna say I'd rather fight the Mathter."

Star protested. "Math is way harder than fighting Shego, what are you talking about?"

Ron was in full agreement. "Yeah, Shego is just trying to kill us. Math is actual torture."

"Thank you!" Star exclaimed in vindication.

"Still," Ron then conceded, "Even if it was the Mathter, I'll come out here so I can visit the Tex-Mex Mecca… Bueno Nacho Headquarters."

At that, Marco made a face. "Oh yeah, I forgot that you like that stuff. Honestly? Bueno Nacho sucks."

Ron's mouth dropped open, as he slowly turned to stare at Marco, Rufus joining him.

Kim rolled her eyes and turned back to Dipper. "Anyway, we've actually been waiting for you to get back to us about Shego and SSJ after Mabel first gave the heads up."

"We would've gotten to you sooner, but as you saw, we've been dealing with other business." He explained.

"About that," Kim replied, "If you need our help with the Magnavores, don't hesitate to call again, they sound like bad news."

"I'll keep that in mind, you were crazy out there."

Kim preened under his praise. "Heh, thanks."

"What do you mean Bueno Nacho sucks?" Ron asked, as if Marco Diaz just insulted his family and Rufus.

"Exactly what I mean, it sucks," Marco explained.

Jackie, beside him, agreed. "It totally sucks."

Ron looked directly to his left at Star. "Tell me you've had Bueno Nacho and tell them that it doesn't suck."

"Ooh, that means Good Nacho, doesn't it?" Star asked. "I've had Bueno Nachos, made by Marco."

"Thank you," Marco said to her.

"But Bueno Nacho the restaurant? Is there even one in Echo Creek?"

"Like ten years ago, yeah," Jackie explained. "It went out of business in like a year because no one went."

"How is that possible?" Ron asked.

Janna, who was eating her chile rellenos, looked over. "Britta's Tacos kicked its butt, that's how."

"Yeah," Marco continued, "A big chain making glorified lunch food isn't competing with authentic local flavor."

Ron looked down at the cardboard container, and then turned his nose up. "Well, I'm not eating this, then."

Kim looked away from Dipper. "Ron, just eat the food."

"No, not until they stop disparaging the good name of Bueno Nacho!" Ron declared.

Kim stared at him. "You mean the same Bueno Nacho that changed the entire menu and got rid of your Naco Night discount?"

"It's a misstep on their part, but I'm still going to stand up for them!"

Janna called over. "Bueno Nacho is a multi-billion-dollar corporation. You don't need to defend its honor."

"I'm practically its Employee of the Year!" Ron retorted. "I put the Naco on the menu! I even get royalties for it… though my parents and our accountant said I can't touch it until I'm eighteen."

Dipper perked up and looked at Ron. "You're finally gotten paid for it? How much?"

"Since I get a percentage of every sale, it's about a hundred million dollars."

"WHAT?!" Dipper, Mabel, and Marco shouted at once.

"Wow, you could buy a peerage in Mewni with that cash," Star said.

Jackie was impressed and disturbed. "That many people like Bueno Nacho?"

Janna leaned over. "There's no accounting for taste, babe."

"They should be held accountable!" Marco demanded.

Ron shook his head. "I really thought we could be friends…"

Mabel, ever the benevolent, finally weighed in. "Boys! Boys! There's no need to fight over who's better, Bueno Nacho or Britta's Tacos. What matters now, is that we kicked Shego and Señor Senior Junior's butts, and have good food to celebrate."

She held up a wad of cash measured in 50s and 100s. "Good food that we didn't pay for!"

Dipper stared at the money. "Mabel, where'd you get that from?"

"I took it from Trip's bedroom just before we left, it was just lying around all willy-nilly!" She waved the money back and forth. "We don't have to worry about petty cash for the rest of the school year with this!"

Dipper figured as much. "Oh, well, okay. Hopefully there's more when we go back after the cleanup."

Ron, fine with not fighting over food, still had a lingering issue with that. "Is that okay? Just… taking their stuff?"

Dipper nodded. "Ron, even as I'm fairly certain Misao's mom is part of some huge shadowy organization that controls the world from the shadows and allows her to get away with what she did, I'm perfectly fine with what happened to Trip and Van and I'm glad we never have to deal with them again."

"This really feels like some kind of crazy dream now," Jackie admitted from where she sat between Marco and Janna. "Not only are we done with those turbo dweebs, but I got to fight Shego, too. Shego! And I did pretty good."

"You did better than me," Star grumbled, figuratively and literally sore about getting knocked out by Shego during the brawl.

Dipper looked over at Jackie as she stuffed several lime-cooked shrimps into her mouth. "Yeah, I have to say… you went really hard against her and that Goblin idiot. I wish we had you on sooner."

Jackie smiled as she swallowed her food, then replied. "It'd be nice if Marco, Star, and I could dodge like Kim or take a hit like the Beetleborgs, but I'm still ready to fight the Magnavores anytime."

Star, with a mouthful of chips, suddenly raised her hand as she tried to speak. "Ooh! Ooh! I'm working on something for that!"

Everyone turned to Star as she forced down her food, coughed, then eagerly explained. "Flabber isn't the only one who can magic up some armor and superpowers!" She placed a hand on her chest. "I am planning cool magical armor for everyone who is not a Beetleborg!"

Based solely on his own experience with Star's magic experiments, Marco felt uneasy at her declaration–but stopped short of expressing that concern out loud.

Jackie, Mabel, and Janna on the other hand, were immediately hooked, with Mabel gasping aloud. "Let me help design the armor. LET ME HELP DESIGN THE ARMOR! I HAVE SO MANY IDEAS!"

Jackie was enamored. "Dude, can I have like an ocean theme? There's a thing I wanna do with it!"

Janna hummed, and then chimed in. "I want something dark and cool. Like Raven from Teen Titans–with just as much leg on display."

"Huh," Dipper said, "You'd square up if you had armor?"

"Nah, but I would be there to look good."

Star squealed at the support she had for the effort. "I'm already working on the materials for it. According to the Magic Instruction Book, my Mom has her own armor she wears for battle, so I'm going to ask her where she got the materials from and then grab them myself."

That Marco could comment on. "Is that a good idea? Your Mom might find out what's going on."

Star dismissed it. "Pshaw. All I have to do is tell her that I'm studying at all from the book, and she won't even care about the smaller details. She'll just think I'm being more 'studious and queenly' or something."

Ron chimed in. "It's not too much to ask for something like that for us, would it?"

Kim turned to him. "Wade's already working on something, so it's no big."

At that moment, the Kimmunicator app in Kim's phone chimed and she perked up. "Speaking of…" She pulled her phone out of her pocket and brought it to her ear. "Hey Wade, what's the sitch?"

She paused and brightened even more. "Oh, hey!" She turned towards the gate leading to the driveway. "You're at the right address, come on back!"

Ending the call, she turned to the others. "I thought it was Wade, but it's just our ride."

The gate opened, and the others looked over to see a young man step through. He was tall, almost as tall as Dipper and Mabel, with the physique of a quarterback. He had a handsome face free of the ravages of puberty, slicked back neck-length brown hair, light brown eyes, and wore a blue v-neck sweater and black cargo pants.

Seeing him, Mabel, Jackie, and Star all stopped to stare at the high school heartthrob straight out of a magazine, while Janna raised an eyebrow and Dipper took note of the discrepancy of their reactions.

"Hey," he said as he let the gate close, "So you guys are the monster hunters I heard about, right?"

Kim jumped up from her spot at the table and bounded over to him, before throwing her arms around his neck and hugging him. "Babe!"

The young man laughed as he hugged her back. "Hey, Kim! I'm glad that you're safe." He looked over at Ron and Rufus. "And you guys, too. Wade told me you kicked SSJ and Shego's butts."

"Bro, you know it!" Ron replied as Rufus clasped his paws together and waved them back and forth over his head like a reigning champion.

Smiling up at the young man in adoration. Kim turned to the others. "Since he's here, let me introduce you. This is my boyfriend, Eric."

@@@@@​

In the parking lot of Echo Creek Academy the next morning, the discordant, mediocre tunes of a keytar echoed off the sides of the school and its new sports complex. Sitting on the hood of a beat up 1980s two door coupe was Oskar Greason, a young man in disheveled gray cut-off shorts, purple high-top sneakers, a brown t-shirt, and red bandana. His brown hair covered his eyes as he divided his attention between the electric green keytar he held, and the smartphone that was propped up by its case on the hood of his car beside him.

On the screen of the phone, the interior of a typical all-American suburban home could be seen. On the plain dark gray couch that was normally the center of the universe for such shows, two young African American men in plain suburban clothes were sitting.

The older of the two, in his early twenties, wearing a pair of Ray-Ban sunglasses and having long, tightly braided hair pulled up into a messy upward pointed bunch was sipping a drink. The younger brother, a high-school aged, lean young man with immaculate waves in his short cut and well-styled hair, was staring up at the ceiling of their home.

"So… what happened?" The older of the two asked.

"I asked Melissa to go to the dance with me." The younger brother replied.

"And what happened?"

"She said no–she's already going with somebody."

The older brother lowered his drink and looked at his brother. "With who?"

The younger brother shook his head. "Some foreign guy… I think she said his name was Aintcho Beeswax."

A moment hung as the older brother turned and looked at his despondent brother, the camera closing up to his face and the studio audience rumbling in amusement as he lifted up his Ray-Bans to look at his brother directly.

Oblivious to his brother's stare, the younger man sighed. "How am I gonna beat a foreign dude, man? You know how fresh their drip is."

As the older brother rolled his eyes and the studio audience laughed out loud, Oskar was right there with them, chuckling as he hit three notes on his keytar to make a "Wah, wah, waaah" sound effect.

Still laughing, Oskaar fiddled with those notes, trying to make a song out of them, before another boy walked up to him. "Yo, lil bro."

Oskar stopped and looked at the young man, a sandy-haired caucasian boy wearing–in spite of the already warm morning promising an even hotter day–black jeans, a thick black hoodie with the picture of a mustachioed man in his late 40s wearing a hard hat on its front, and a black baseball cap with a deer skull in the center.

His clothes appeared extremely damp.

Oskar stared at him before replying with a slow surfer-esque drawl. "Hey, sup?"

"You take requests?"

Oskar nodded. "Yeah, sure bro."

"Hotel California?"

Oskar thought about it. "That's like… a grandpa song. I'm more into indie-electro fantasy folk-punk."

The hoodie-wearing boy shrugged his shoulders and walked away. "Aight then, play on brother, play on."

"Word," Oskar said, almost immediately forgetting the encounter happened at all as he resumed playing.

"Oskar Greason!" Principal Skeeves yelled at him from the edge of the sports field. "Knock off that racket! The football team is trying to practice!"

Oskar looked up from his keytar and called back. "You're not my Mom, dude."

Principal Skeeves glowered at the boy, as he began to play the keytar even louder in protest. Beside him, the school's usual blonde-haired, mustachioed janitor turned to the Principal as they resumed walking. "Why do you even let him park car here?" He asked with a thick Slavic accent.

"Because I'm dating his mother," Principal Skeeves replied. "And she'd take my head off if anything happened to him while they're having their 'disagreement.'"

"What is disagreement?" The janitor asked.

"That she's dating his former High School Principal." Principal Skeeves grumbled back as they headed down along the bleachers under the school, where in addition to the sound of Oskar's keytar playing bouncing around, they could hear the echoing cries of crows in a spot up ahead. "Oh great, the crows have gotten to whatever's died back there."

A strange smell had been reported coming from this part of the sports field, just behind the bleachers. With no one willing to go near, it was down to the Principal and the Janitor to resolve the matter.

"Good thing I have gloves and bag, should be enough for a raccoon," the Janitor said before going back to the previous subject. "I did not take you for a dating man."

"It's all in how you play the game, my man," Skeeves boasted.

The janitor got a good long look at the principal. Short, wide, bespectacled, a hairline less receding and more in full rout with a bad combover of a few lines to delay the advance of age in vain. "… It must be pay to win."

Principal Skeeves gave his janitor the hardest possible look. "You're lucky you're the only janitor in this entire state who doesn't mind dealing with Star's messes."

"Mental preparation is key," the Janitor replied before they were stopped by the sudden fluttering of numerous crows startled by their arrival.

The cawing birds flew around them in every direction, scrambling to race into the sky and flee the two men shielding their faces. When the last of the crows fled, the men lowered their arms and looked into the tucked away spot behind the middle of the bleachers.

Both men stood in silent, growing horror at the sight before them. The entire alcove created by the bleachers' metal supports was splattered in dense, bright red blood. It covered the backs of the bleachers, the pillars, and almost every inch of the concrete ground. The stained remains of a human lay strewn in the splatter, the end of a right foot, a bit of organs, and the torn off remains of a skull from the eyes up lay in the mess, along with a set of broken eyeglasses.

At the end of that long, unbroken silence, beholding the gruesome mess in front of them, the Janitor spoke.

"I quit."

= - = 7-EX = - =​

Let the blood flow…

 

[The Ero-Sennin]

Holy crap, folks, we are back with Volume 8. Expect a release every Saturday and Wednesday until the completion of this Volume. Strap in guys, new enemies, new allies, and new question are coming in hot. Brace yourself as the Story of Lies reaches into the past and connects to the present in order to fight for the future.

A special warning: Several chapters of Volume 8 (and for the next several volumes) are set during a time period of extreme racial prejudice and traditionally sexist views towards both men and women. Reader discretion is advised.

= - = 8-1 = - =

|Echo Creek, 1899|​

In 1847, a caravan of California-bound settlers led by Bonson Bonner descended into a valley northeast of Los Angeles following word of another party of California settlers being devastated by poor preparation and a particularly cruel winter while trying to find their fortunes further north. With this decision, some clever dealings, back-stabbings that would make the Northwest family proud, and a battle against some extremely determined marsupials, the settlement of Echo Creek was established.

For the next few decades, Echo Creek would grow and flourish, going from a small settlement to a prosperous rival of neighboring Los Angeles in short order. A pastoral town centered around ranches and vineyards, Echo Creek became known for being a restful retreat for visitors from back east–a place where one could relax and find peace from the hectic world at their own pace.

Then, in 1890, Oil was discovered.

By 1899, the vast stretches of rolling cattle land and rows of vineyards that one could look on from the slopes of the valley were gone–replaced by a forest of oil derricks wreathed in the haze of industry. Echo Creek was all but no more, a cloistered city center surrounded by oil derricks and pipes, siphoning the vast reserves of black gold that lay beneath the Earth.

The nascent Southern California oil boom has made Echo Creek extremely prosperous. But even as wealth is pulled straight from the Earth and into pockets, the ravenous need to overflow every cup has seen the derricks spread–climbing the hills and spreading into the neighboring lowlands and valleys of the San Gabriels. To the remaining farmers and vintners in Echo Creek, the growing industry approaching the edges of their lands is an inevitable progression–heralded by an inexorable force that would sooner see fertile grounds turn to worthless dust if it meant one drop more of the bounty beneath.

Three such heralds stood on the other side of a plain wooden fence separating them from the front yard of a farmhouse overlooking the encroaching forest. In the afternoon heat, the men were dressed in loose white button-down shirts, blue jeans, boots, and wide-brimmed hats iconic of the formerly wild west. The leader of the men, holding a stack of papers in his hand, held them aloft like a flag of truce–displaying it to the man who stood on the porch armed with a double-barrel shotgun.

"Now Mr. Baldwin, there is no need for any of this hostility. We're only here to persuade you to consider the handsome offer that's been presented."

The bare-chested, bearded man on the front porch of his home closed the breech of his loaded shotgun and answered promptly–his voice heavy with contempt. "Handsome offer?! You boys come here demanding I accept not even half of what my pappy paid for this land, just so I can watch my family starve while you oil jockeys get rich?! I'll tell you what, you can take that offer of yours and see if the Devil himself will take it! Then you come back to me!"

The man holding the papers raised his other hand. "Whoa, whoa, whoa…! Hold on there, sir! This does not have to resort to violence!"

"You come past that fence, and I'll have every right to!" Mr. Baldwin raised the shotgun and aimed at the three men, everyone involved aware that at this range all he would have to do is squeeze the triggers of his weapon to solve most of his problems. "I'll leave you right where you fall so the Sheriff knows it!"

The two men accompanying the paper holder went to their left sides. The man to the negotiator's right reached straight down with his left hand, while the man to his left reached across his own front, to shiny revolvers nestled none too snugly in their holsters. Seeing this, the man holding the papers called out. "Hold, damn it!"

He looked back at Mr. Baldwin. "We don't need to start somethin' unavoidable, gentlemen. Cycles of violence happen when you shoot one man, then another man shoots back, and the shooting goes on until something truly tragic happens and a family loses everything."

Mr. Baldwin narrowed his eyes at the negotiator's words, fully understanding their intent.

"This can all be resolved peacefully-like; you can take the offer, we can leave, and we won't have to come back." The man shook the papers again. "It's either that, or these tense and meaningless confrontations keep happening, sir, until someone slips and does something they can't take back."

"I'm plenty firm where I stand," Mr. Baldwin replied. "The only ones here having a problem with slippin' are you boys with the oil on yer shoes and blood on yer hands."

Lowering the papers, the man trying to negotiate realized that terms would not be arrived at so easily. "This is the best deal you're going to get, sir."

Mr. Baldwin's attention shot past the three men and to the path behind them as his opponent drawled on.

"Men with less land than you have made much more agreeing to close, it's a seller's market."

Behind the three men, the voice of a young man called back. "A seller's market? Oh Mr. Hutchinson, do go on."

The men beseeching Mr. Baldwin turned to face a Caucasian man with a dark goatee and mustache calmly stepping off a bicycle and setting it against the fence bordering the path up to the home. In spite of the afternoon heat he was impeccably dressed in a purple suit over an orange vest and a yellow ascot tie with purple top hat. He carried in his hand a cane he slipped from a basket aligned with the legs of the bicycle's front fork. Twirling the cane and setting it down, he began a leisurely stroll to the three men, beckoning them as he did.

"As a matter of fact, I would like an appraisal of my own land while you're in the neighborhood. Because I've heard that you've–" He stopped when he saw Mr. Baldwin on his porch, and recoiled a full step back, his dark eyes widening in amazement.

"My word," the newcomer addressed the man he called Hutchinson, holding the papers. "Are… are you shaking down a white man?"

Hutchinson glowered at the newcomer. "Well, if it isn't the alleged Doctor. This ain't a matter involvin' you, son. Why don't you hop on your fancy bicycle and mosey off to where you came?"

The newcomer shook his head. "I'm afraid I'm here for an appointment. Mrs. Baldwin is several months along and I'm here to perform a weekly checkup."

"The hell you are," Hutchinson replied. "A sane man wouldn't trust a snake like you with a haircut, let alone his wife and child."

The man in purple brought a yellow fingerless-gloved hand to his chest, as though in pain. "Don't besmirch my handiness with a blade either. I've cut plenty handsome heads of hair in my time and guarantee you won't find a closer shave west of the Mississippi or south of Skagway–but I digress."

He gestured past the men to Mr. Baldwin, and then side to side, indicating the farmer's land. "I was under the impression that your employer was more discriminating when it came to land acquisition. Are you genuinely out here going back on what I recall was… your word?"

Hutchinson's glower intensified. "This is strictly business, it's something a new resident like you wouldn't understand."

"Oh, my disciplines are wide and varied, Mr. Hutchinson. I'm no stranger to the 'You and Yours Discount.'"

"You and Yours?" Hutchinson repeated.

"You and Yours. A buyer offers to take the land from you at a lower price than what it's actually worth… one you accept so that nothing happens to you and yours."

He looked to his right, at the derricks off in the distance. "I've lived here in these parts long enough to see it as the standard model of business. Except, it would appear your employer is all out of Mestizo and Tongva to force off their lands, so they've gone after the white growers and herders. I applaud the progressive shift, but it's no less abominable."

Hutchinson's left eye twitched. "Good God man, you talk too much."

The newcomer walked right up to the three men, his lips curved up in an amicable smile. "Sirs, I am a man of confidence, it is my nature to talk a great deal."

Seeing hands moving to revolvers, he stops short and brings up his left in a halting gesture. "With that in mind, I would like to make a counteroffer on behalf of Mr. Baldwin here."

Hutchinson rolled his eyes. "You're no one's representative, Hill–"

It all happened suddenly, explosively. The cane in the newcomer's right hand came up and smashed into the chin of the man on Hutchinson's left. The man on Hutchinson's right reached across for his revolver, but the newcomer took his cane in both hands and bashed him in the jaw with the head of the cane. Hutchinson himself dropped his papers, for the pistol in the shoulder holster he wore, when the glint of sun off steel stayed his hand.

Hutchinson, frozen, looked at the slender, razor-sharp blade connected to the head of the cane and pulled from its shaft to be placed at his throat.

Underneath the brim of the man in purple's top hat, a cold and level voice calmly intoned. "That's Doctor Hillhurst, friend, Doctor Aloysius Hillhurst. Now, you'll pass on the closest shave of your life, Mister Hutchinson, take your men I've dinged good, and leave these fine people alone."

Hutchinson, persuaded by the metal against his jugular and the two men unconscious at his sides, slowly nodded.

Keeping the exposed blade in his cane held to Hutchinson, Dr. Hillhurst pulled from Hutchinson's holster and gave it a look in surprise. It wasn't a revolver, nor was it one of the unmistakable Mausers that were becoming popular back east. It was a black, slide-operated semi-automatic pistol with the magazine stored in the handle.

"Good God man, how much are you being paid to afford a Browning?" He asked in amazement.

Stepping aside, he let the blade slide back into his cane as he disarmed the other two men as they regained consciousness. Keeping his newly acquired Browning pistol held on them, Dr. Hillhurst gestured to them with the gun. "Go on now, be on your way and don't let me find out that your employer has sent anyone else uphill to start pestering people for their homes."
Hutchinson glared at the man, as he and his groggy associates complied, gathering themselves and leaving. "Don't you worry, none! We'll be coming straight for you, Hillhurst! You'll see!"

"That's Doctor Hillhurst!" Dr. Hillhurst called after the three men as they staggered off, towards several horses tied up near the dirt road. Satisfied to see them go, and doubly sure his coat was well-lined with the ammunition of the heavier weapons the men kept on said horses, he turned towards the Baldwin farmhouse.

And stared at the barrels of the Baldwin farmhouse's shotgun.

"… Well."

Mr. Baldwin gestured with a quick upward motion of his barrels. "You'll be on your way, too. I don't need the sympathies of no damn Mexican and Injun lover."

Putting the pistols away, Dr. Hillhurst turned on his heel and strolled away on his cane. "No good deed goes unpunished, I see. Worry not, I have no intention of lingering."

Dr. Hillhurst returned to his bicycle, climbed onto it, and spared the farmer a final look before he rode off. Making sure Hutchinson and his friends were well ahead, he began coasting down the long slope from the verdant hills overlooking Echo Creek and down into the haze of the derrick forest that surrounded the town and stood on every other block.

@@@@@​

"No Saloon! No Saloon! End the sale of Wine and Booze! No Saloon! No Saloon! End the sale of Wine and Booze!"

Dr. Hillhurst could hear them as he rode down Echo Creek's main thoroughfare, the dried and caked dirt leaving a trail of dust behind him. Looking ahead, his hand atop his hat, he frowned when he saw a gathering of women in wealthy-looking dresses of the Victorian style raising white signs lettered with red paint.

They were marching back and forth on the wooden walkway in front of an old Mexican-built saloon, a place he had every intention of visiting after his errands. In front of the town's post office, right next door to the saloon, a small crowd of residents hurled jeers and insults at the protesting women. Across the road from the saloon, more residents pretended to ignore the rabble as they ducked into the town's biggest bank.

Riding wide around the protestors and their detractors, Dr. Hillhurst brought his bike up to a post outside the post office and tied it up securely. Seeing the well-dressed doctor, some of the protestors' opposition broke into cheers and greeted him quite warmly. One man in particular stepped forward, the head of the Echo Creek Post Office.

"Hey, Doc! You know, you treat that bicycle better than most treat their horses!" The middle-aged, rotund man greeted him with a lingering Irish accent as he walked over.

Dusting himself off, Dr. Hillhurst turned to the man. "Afternoon, Harrison, what's the news today?"

Harrison O'Durgeson looked at the crowd of protestors and shook his head. "Oh, the same old. Ms. Bonny's gotten it in her head to have the saloon shut down because it's a 'blight on the community.'"

Dr. Hillhurst looked up at the sunny sky, tinted a light sepia by the faint fumes collecting in the town thanks to the oil derricks in every direction. "Here we all are, choking in the noxious fumes of industrial potential, but the saloon is the blight, of course."

The two men had a laugh and looked on at the protest. At the center of the rabble was a particularly elegant woman dressed more slenderly than her peers, her dark green dress inlaid with crystal accents that made her appear like a peafowl. Indeed, her large hat, protecting her from the shade, sported several large feathers from a peacock, pinned in place by hat pins adorned with pearls and other rare stones.

"Across this great nation, as society moves forward into the next century, the vice of alcohol continues its relentless scourge!" The beautiful, narrow-faced, brown-haired woman declared vocally over the chanting. "It steals husbands and fathers from families, sons from the arms of mothers, and workers from the factories propelling our country!"

She scanned the crowd as she continued. "The moonshiners, brewers, and…" She stopped when she saw Dr. Hillhurst. "… The vintners that profit off the suffering at the hands of alcohol are only one arm of the unholy alliance! The other are the bars and saloons that serve as the middlemen between upstanding men and the temptation of sin!"

Dr. Hillhurst visibly cringed. "And they say I talk too much."

Harrison nudged him. "The lass is looking your way."
"I would much rather lock eyes with a gorgon." Dr. Hillhurst turned away from the protestors. "So, anything in the mail for me?"

Harrison nodded. "As a matter of fact, I was surprised to find a letter addressed to you, my boy, instead of the usual packages."

Dr. Hillhurst was intrigued. "Just a letter?"

Reaching into the dusty brown apron he wore, Harrison pulled out a single envelope and handed it to him. Looking at its face, and finding it indeed addressed to him, Dr. Hillhurst sought the name in the corner and his lips curved downward.

"… Benjamin Wintersmane…"

"Wintersmane?" Harrison was surprised. "Of the Cape Hatteras Wintersmanes?" He gave him a nudge. "Now I'm curious. What business does a scoundrel like you have with a young man of such high society?"

Dr. Hillhurst tucked the letter in his coat. "He and I shot a man in Skagway, just to watch him die."

At the skeptical look Harrison gave him, Dr. Hillhurst broke into a grin. "Truth is, he and I were associates and co-owners of a claim. Though I stayed in Skag to keep anyone from trying to snatch it from under him while he did the real work."

"That sounds more like you." Harrison looked at where the letter had been placed. "So, still in business with him?"

"Afraid not; he sold the claim without so much as a flake and we parted ways soon after."

"Wait, wait–if you didn't make any gold off the claim, then where'd you come up with the money for that land your fancy little château sits upon?"

Waggling his eyebrows, Dr. Hillhurst answered candidly. "I ran a business of separating fools' gold. It was quite lucrative."

Harrison found that confusing. "How'd you…?" At the persistent waggling of the doctor's eyebrows, realization dawned on the postal clerk. "… Ohhh!" He burst into hearty laughter and slapped the doctor's back. "You scoundrel!"

Dr. Hillhurst laughed with the clerk, before he patted his chest where the letter lay. "Well, if this is all, I'm going to stop by Hidalgo's and enjoy a much-deserved meal before I ride back. You're free to join me, old friend."

Harrison chuckled. "You know? That doesn't sound like such a bad idea. He's open now, in fact. We can just go through the back entrance and leave the furies to their wailing."

"I beg your pardon, Mr. O'Durgeson?"

Both men stopped and froze as the crowd of counter-protestors thinned and broke to reveal the woman who'd been making an exhaustive speech about the evils of saloonery.

"Women standing up for a righteous cause aren't furies, or harpies, or whatever slur you're quick to call them."

Harrison gave the woman the side-eye. "Aye, I agree, Ms. Bonny. That's why I'm not."

Dr. Hillhurst nodded. "The man speaks the truth, Ms. Blakesfield-Bonner. We cynics only disparage the ill-intentioned and sinister."

Emily Blakesfield-Bonner's brown eyes narrowed into a contemptuous glower at the sharp-tongue jab thrown without a care in her direction. "A man as well-spoken and intellectual as yourself wastes his gifts on being a poor example to the community."

His shoulders slumping, Dr. Hillhurst leans onto his cane and heaves a weary sigh. "There is a difference between being a patron, and patronizing, Ms. Blakesfield-Bonner. I engage in one, you are a virtuosa in the other."

Harrison's chuckling at the sharp spike in tension between the two was interrupted by the sound of gunfire erupting from inside the bank across the street. As the townspeople looked on, several men in dark clothes with bandana hiding their faces stormed out of the building firing revolvers in the air, and in seconds people were scattering in every direction.

"Damn it all," Dr. Hillhurst exclaimed. "Of all times to do this sort of thing."

Emily gasped and nearly swooned at the sight of the mayhem, while Harrison scrambled for the door of his post office. "Good God, man, get to cover before you get shot!"

The three bank robbers, still shooting into the air, turned from the bank towards the saloon and post office–and the short alleyway between them. One stopped, however, when he saw the well-dressed teetotaler. His eyes, flying wide, burned with rage as he aimed his revolver at her.

In the very instant before he could shoot Emily dead, a whip swung down at high speed and struck the weapon from his hand. As he screamed in pain, the other two robbers turned to look.

A woman emerged from the haze and dust kicked up by the panic. She wore a pink skirt with tassels and matching vest over a magenta-colored shirt with rolled up sleeves, and black boots that came up to her knees. Atop her head, covered in chin-length black gradient colored hair, she wore a pink ten gallon hat with a magenta cheetah-print band around its base. In each hand she carried a pair of long, whips with pink handles that matched her fashion. The one she had used to strike the first bandit twirled through the air above with the deft movements of her right hand, while the whip in her left remained coiled in her grip.

"You boys picked a fine time to rob a bank," the woman in pink declared with a bright but rough voice, "I was on my way to make a deposit."

As the first robber gripped his hand in pain, the other two turned their weapons on the newcomer, who lashed out with the whip in her right hand. The whip, aimed with sharpshooter precision, slapped the revolvers from the hands of both men. As she brought the whip in her right back, she uncoiled and struck with the whip in her left, bringing it up to clock the robber to her left in the side of the head.

The last man quickly tried to reach for a second gun, but the intervening vigilante brought her right-hand whip down and wrapped it around his ankles, bringing them together, while her left-hand whip caught his shoulders and bound his arms together. With a quick tug, she dropped the last man down with a thud.

"Though now I'll be making a dropoff at the jail, too," she quipped before the onlooking townsfolk broke into cheers.

For a bright moment, the chaos brought by the villains and the order restored by the whip-cracking woman brought an end to the divide between the saloon protestors and their detractors. All gathered around her, applauding and praising the woman as she got to rounding up the robbers.

On the outside of the crowd, still in front of the post office, Dr. Hillhurst made an unkind face in the direction of the woman in pink. "Ugh… so tacky."

"You are one to talk," Emily snapped. "You, who wears a mask of civility to fool the unsuspecting into handing over their hard worked for money."

Doc Hillhurst took offense to that. "There you go again, the prima donna of patronizing."

Emily's arrogant glare turned to something baser at his chiding. "You belong in a cell alongside these evil men."

Dr. Hillhurst's heart sank. He looked over at the three men on the ground, being mocked and insulted as the brave vigilante bound them up for carting to jail, and then turned his gaze back to Emily.

"Madam, this misery and evil is not the product of ill minds, but empty stomachs. Offer a man enough to feed him and his, and he'll do whatever is necessary."

He went back over to his bicycle and untied it. Harrison walked over to him, concerned. "What about lunch?"

Climbing onto the bicycle, Dr. Hillhurst turned to his friend. "Good man, I can't bring myself to it. Something ghastly has stolen my appetite."

Harrison yielded. "Take care of yourself. I'll see you tomorrow."

With a nod to Harrison, a quick glance at the heroine of the hour, and an acidic glare for Emily, Dr. Hillhurst pushed off and rode towards the town's limits.

The long ride was hilly and grueling on the rocky dirt path, but it improved immensely as Dr. Hillhurst escaped the forest of derricks and the ever-present miasma that hung around it. As the brown tint faded into the bright vibrance of the world, the young man took a deep breath and let his lungs fill with the clear air rolling off the mountains and valleys towards the distant Pacific Ocean.

As the hilly fields began to transition to rows of trellises overgrown with vibrant grapevines, Dr. Hillhurst reached into his jacket and pulled out the letter sent to him. He looked at the sender's name again, before looking ahead.

"Benny… what have you been up to all this time?" He asked aloud as he crested one more hill and his home came into sight.

It was a simple Victorian style two-story home; painted white with a gray tile roof and surrounded by a matching white fence. The house the ultimate prize for all of his dealings in Skagway, and ironically the source of all his troubles presently.

Still, as he rode past the open gate and up to the front steps, Dr. Hillhurst couldn't be happier to be back at his mansion.

Until he noticed the young man, a boy really, slumped unconscious on his front steps.

= - = 8-1 = - =​

Fun Fact: Echo Creek isn't a real place in Los Angeles, and in canon it takes a bunch of motifs from various parts of LA to make up its own little locale. Against my better judgement, I've put Echo Creek somewhere in LA for the sake of my ability to write this story.

Spoiler: Where Echo Creek is located in Legends

Echo Creek has entirely replaced the city of Pasadena in Los Angeles, thank you. Also don't @ me about all of the earlier geographical errors that may result about this revelation.