==== From the files of William Duggan ====

In addition to the traditional news gathering techniques, 99 has agreed to give
longer answers to questions intended to delve more deeply into this mystery, and
the man.

Q: When was the first time you knew you had powers?

[transcribed]

The whole episode has several parts....I'll just try to keep them logical, and
we can edit it into a whole. It involves racism, killing, my father, a professor
and the Dean. And it wasn't so much knowing I was hard to hurt, but my
relationship with Death.

English Composition:Opinion--The assignment was to draw the widest analogy that
was still meaningful and unambiguous. The whole thing started with a midnight
daydream--Standing on the viewing platform at Niagara Falls on a day with a
temperature. I've never been there, but I could see the ferocity and the power
of the falls, plus the spray, frozen and driving; an updraft abrasion. Standing
there, two park rangers walked up to me....just conversation. I think they were
just checking I wasn't suicidal. There was an ominous tone from the shorter man:
"It would be so easy for a man or men to slip or struggle their way down there."
They asked if I wasnted coffee, but I said I'd just jog to thetrain, and warm up
heading back to the city.

And that, and they, became my analogy. Lincold and Davis and a massive, cold,
uncaring torrent. And there was a barrel. The mythology of Niagara is that's
what you try to navigate the falls with. And Lincoln and Davis were both
standing is a huge barrel, with Lincoln trying to explain the enormous damage he
was contemplating. Davis was at full bluster--he would survive the trip, or
someone would take both of our places.Lincoln described this war as the Battle
of New Orleans multiplied a hundredfold. And then I couldn't hear them over the
roar of the falls. And it seemed I was going to be some arbiter or calyst to
whatwould come. The nation wobbled over the precipice, and I was watching, like
everyone else, wondering which way it would tip.

I was only a sophomore, but it felt like my best work. Grading was a catyclism,
and I was back to grinding as hard as I could. One monday morning a few weeks
later, Professor Sorenson had me fill the coal scuttle, and gather pens to
whittle the nibs to the ultrafine line he preferred. Picking up a paper, his
inkwell toppled onto his desk. I had both hands full, and nothing to clean it up
with, so I turned away to dump the coal. Dr. Sorenson was a "big game hunter",
and one of his dearest trophies was a strip of Rhino hide, ablut three feet
long, three inches wide. He used it like a huge riding crop, leaving huge red
welts if he struck with the flat, and deep, painful cuts with the edge. For
minor infractions, there was his hickory cane, which doubled as a bourbon flask.

When I turned, I expected his rage; the rhino hidemade a sickening wet sound
when it hit my back. The second stroke, and part of my sweater fell to the
floor. There was no pain, no rage. Just cold, raw power. When I turned to face
him, he swung at my neck when a bellow came from the classroom.

"What in the Frozen Circle are you *doing*, Sorenson?"

"Punishing a student"

"For?"

"That's irrelevant; this is *my* classroom"

"MrPoling!"

Ed Poling jumped to his feet "Yes, sir?"

"What happened?"

"The professor told Mr. Munroe to fill the coal scuttle and take pens for
whittling...when Mr. Munroe retrieved the pens, the Professor's inkwell spilled"

"And for this you used deadly force?"

...

"Mr. Poling, how many times this term have you been told to perform these
chores?"

"Never, sir"

"Have any other students?"

"No, Sir"

"Thank you, Poling. Sorenson, why are these Mr. Munroe chores"

"Well, he sits in the back of the room, and....nothing else"

"Oh, there *is* something else. Do you recall Mr. Munroe's paper on comparing
the civil tension to atrip over Niagara Falls?

"I have 20 students, so-"

"Oh, you didn't see it elsewhere? A fellow student sent a copy to the Washington
Post. It was printed, under byline, in their Sunday paper. They didn't believe
it came from a second year student. Now, Sorenson...what grade did you give this
publishable work?"

"I don't recall"

19 voices called out "B-minus"

"I was given a petition from the vast majority of students in your class,
outlining your treatment of Mr. Munroe--I assumed they were sticking together
for a popular student. And I didn't believe it. There is no room for a racist in
my school. Hand in your grading book and get out. You may, of course, take this
up with the Board. You will lose. Out"

The rest of the day was a blur...the Dean insisted that I have my wounds
evaluated, but they had already scarred over. By mid-afternoon, it felt like the
whole campus as talking about me. And I marched, coldly and inexorably through
my day. It was just more anger and tipping on the edge all around me.

I should have known better, but I kept my usual routine, and Sorenson found me.
From ten feet away, I could smell the liquor. And the frozen fog was surrounding
us.

"Before you decide to assault a younger, fitter man, I have a brief
philosophical point I'd like to bring out." He drew his sword.

In Hell's Kitchen, in the city, two men kidnapped Roger Roosevelt. 14 years old,
he had the length of bone, but not the muscle, and was easily subdued They had
him tied to a chair, and displayed the butcher tools they would use on him
should his parents fail. When one man left the room, a phenomenal adrenal
strength overtook Roosevelt, and he broke the legs of the chair, somewhat
freeing his feet. He lunged, they crashed into a wall, and the son of one of the
most influential men in New York tore out his kidnapper's throat. At the sound,
the other rushed in. The scene he faced---a huge spill of blood, much of it
running down the boy's chin and down his front.

"We were never going to hurt you!"

"HELP! POLICE! HELP!

The first man to come up the stairs was one Noah Malone, and when he yelled for
the police, men in Conneticut took notice. Ever the reporter, he began asking
Roosevelt about what happened, while standing with his foot of the kidnappers
neck. Police arrived quickly, and took them both away. Noah asked if he could
speak to him n a couple weeks. Soaked in blood, missing two front teeth and
smiling, "Yes"

The only thing unusual was....the trachea and teeth weren't found in the killing
room. The story gripped the city, and several articles filled the papers, but
the family remained silent. Two weeks passed.

The Roosevelt land and mansion were....imperial. Noah, press pass in hand (he
had grown weary over the years of being asked if was looking for manual labor)
Robert's mother spoke in hushed, weepy tones: "He's done almost nothing but cry
since he came home. Please be brief.

"Roger?" A sniffle in response. "Do you remember me?" Nod. "Son, I came up here
as a reporter, but I'd rather talk to you man-to-man. You're hurting because
you're a good man, and you took a life"

"And then he said they weren't going to kill me"

"Roger, when you attacked to free yourself, did you use a knife, gun, hammer?
No. You used the only tool you had. And what the survivor did...he used the only
tool he had: he lied. You'd seen them both, probably had enough information to
catch them. And when I said it was his only tool. Yes, he had a gun. But no man
knows whether he can kill until he is faced with it. You can, and did. There is
no shame in that...you're not a stew chicken, grown only to be killed. You're a
Man, an faced death. And now you know"

"But--"

"And....and it never made the papers, and I worry that it haunts you...but I
talked to three doctors, and they all said that swallowing was pure reflex.
There was nothing you could do about it. Does that cover the tears?" Another
nod. "Visit me in the city soon, and I'll buy you a sandwich, and we can talk
about it. Rest, Roger" Walking past everyone in the house, without raising his
eyes, Noah left.

"And Professor, that story was for one purpose, and one purpose alone--to let
you know that if you attack me, I *will* kill you, even if you mortally wound
me. I am cold, powerful, and relentless. And with all your strength, you
couldn't even make me bleed. Also, knowing you are a coward who needs to fortify
himself before committing violence---you drank fast and recently. So the story
was to take time for the liquor to finish you. I took your hate every day, and
desperately wanted to respect you, so I could learn from you. But no. All you
get from me is the cold of the grave" Something flowed out of me, and Sorenson
fell face first to the ground.

I finished my walk to the library, and felt nothing. no pain, no hate, nothing

Then there was the shooting m senior year....but I'm about done talking, now.
Take care, Billy.

-----

I looked it up; in the world wars something less than 20% of soldiers fired
their weapon at an enemy. Modern training is designed to make a man *willing* to
kill. But shuffling through my notes so far, 99 hasn't admitted to killing
anyone. Maybe the important thing is that he knows. And leaves me wondering if
part of my love of the romantic ideal of the war correspondent is just me
avoiding the question. Is this book even going to be *about* him?

--My Novel classes always said you have to write at least 900 pages to make a
300 page novel. I think they were being optimistic, but I'm not going to be
trendy and make it a trilogy...Noah, 99 and me