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Breathing in Tennessee air at night in November at a height of 50 feet in the open is an experience. Sitting at the top of the Nashville Parthenon was his favourite place in the world now since he'd moved home.

Moving homes had never been hard for Charles, probably as he'd always moved somewhere for the better. From the home he first remembered in Utah, the home of the Madisons; who gave him both his surname and his upbringing. Kane County wasn't a bad place unto itself; just some of the people who happened to be in it tended to lean that way. He had not enjoyed life in Utah, and yet Charles had been almost sure of himself that he'd have requested somewhere in Utah to be his designated area when he graduated. But he didn't.

And then he moved home. This time to New York, the 'Blythe Institute for Powereds'. Dr Blythe was kind. Kind. What a word. A weighted word. A very important word. A new experience for him, at the time. He made friends. He was comfortable. Maybe that was the problem. He was 'comfortable'. It was routine. A routine built on care and understanding, but routine nonetheless. Routine can be very beneficial, and Charles had embraced that. Routine was an anchor; strong, reliable and hard to break. But anchors also weigh you down, and yet Charles had been almost sure of himself that he'd have requested somewhere in New York to be his designated area when he graduated. But he didn't.

And then he moved home. This time to Vermont, to the 'Hero Certification Program'. He'd been chosen to undergo an experimental process and have the honour of trying to be a 'Hero'.
He experienced something he'd been searching for his whole life; family. He learned more in those short years than many do in several lifetimes. Routine could be a weapon to be used against you. Decisions are almost never black and white. Faith couldn't be your foundation, only a pillar to lean against when the world was at your back. And anyone, everyone, can and will fail or falter. It's how you deal with that that defines you...
And Charles had been almost sure of himself that he'd have requested somewhere in Vermont to be his designated area when he graduated. But he didn't.

And then he moved home. This time to Georgia, under the tutelage of Stormlord himself. He was and is a good man, and Charles, now officially 'Dirge', respected him greatly. A man who portrays such immense power and figure in public, and underneath loved nothing more than movies you'd see a nervous teen take their partner to on a first date.
Stormlord first taught him something incredibly important; do not be afraid of your own Power. The desert was an incredible place to practice that. Months passed of just becoming more sure of himself, until Dirge knew he had full control. Then came the Wall.
Dirge knew it would be hard. It was. But it stripped any doubts he had that this was the job, and Dirge took that to heart. The 'Battle for the Mile' was when Dirge felt his most scared. Not scared he'd die. He'd seen death so many times now. He was scared he'd fail. Johnny... his friend, who risked his life to get Dirge the power, was bleeding out at his feet. The voice called to him, the POWER. He tried to resist, he did. He knows he did. But he had to use it. So he did. He heard it was described as 'Biblical'. He didn't care for the term, but he understood. He'd seen the footage. After all was said and done, he wasn't ashamed, but disappointed in himself. He'd fought the good fight. He'd seen a brother die... a Mother sacrificed herself to bring back her Son, and Charles said goodbye to a Mother he never knew. He loved Viktor for letting him say goodbye. He hoped his daughter liked the gift...
And that voice, that insidious evil was gone now. Gone. Thank God for you, Charlie...
And Charles had been almost sure of himself that he'd have requested somewhere in Georgia to be his designated area when he graduated. But he didn't.

He gave that choice to those who knew better, to send him where he was needed most.
It seemed right. It was apt. He'd never chosen where to choose home before, why should this be any different. God moves in mysterious ways, and that had led him justly so far, he hoped, so why stand in the way of that.
They chose Nashville, Tennessee... and my God, the view from up here is ast....

Movement. North field.
The Parthenon on which he currently stood was in Centennial Park; 130 acres of beautiful land. It was flat enough from his vantage point to see anything out of the ordinary. Not many frequent the Park at 3am, and those that do tend to either need protecting or are out for no good. There was Cult activity near here not 3 days ago too. The young couple who'd been taken by them had only been on a clandestine walk a few days before they were suddenly and unwillingly 'summoned' to a profane altar.
He didn't want to think Mr Schlader had gotten to him. He hadn't. He'd said some things of severe interest, to be sure, but he hadn't gotten to him.
"Bye Bye Preacher"...
He wasn't the 'Preacher', he never would be. That Monster is g... FOCUS.
The movement he was following clearly now. A woman, too far to tell age, but she wasn't jogging. She was running like Hell was following her. No athletic gear; jeans, hoodie. Probably cutting through the Park for a short cut. So why is she ru....
There: 3 individuals, fast pursuit. Based on body frame they were all male. Heavily built. Oddly heavy... Now he listened. She wasn't screaming. Wait, now she was; as she entered the area of the Parthenon, she called out;

"Somebody! Anybody! Please help me!"

He watched, held low and shrouded, just for a moment. He looked at her again. Unless she was an Olympic hopeful, she was running too fast, just enough to convey extreme urgency, but too much for maybe anyone bar someone at the height of the world's running career or... they had Powers.
He regarded the chasing men in the same regard now. They were running, sure, but they didn't look like they were exerting themselves, and keeping pace...

This was a trap.

Dirge grinned and looked around now with a more tactical eye.

Oh yes. This was a trap. And I intend to spring it.

Dirge breathed in the air.
And ran down at speed to the screaming woman.
She stopped, breathing hard.
"Oh thank you, THANK YOU! These men are chasing me!"
She turned briefly to regard the three men, who'd now unsurprisingly slowed their run to a comfortable jog.

This. Is. a. Trap.

Dirge straightened his tie. He was proud of the suits he'd bought, they served him well. He was most happy with the mask; pure white with nothing but two eyeholes, but one of the eyeholes seemingly burned out from... well. Yes.
He played the part up.
"Keep them away from the Parthenon", he thought.
Draw them out.

"You're safe now" he said to the woman, disguising his voice in a low growl he'd become used to. Was easier when his armour was on. That did it for him naturally. This impression does well enough until then.

The woman ran behind him with feigned fatigue.
"Please.... please they want to kill me! Or worse!"
The three men spaced themselves out well, too well, to surround him.
Dirge sighed.
"Are there anymore? Only these three to brave my storm?!" he shouted to the wind.

From the shadows of the building and the lining the path trees, ten more figures revealed themselves and placed themselves in positions around Dirge and the woman.
"Ah..."
More slender than the woman and original three men, but armed; pistols and shotguns.
"Every person with a gun may as well be a Super..." he thought.

Dirge gulped.
"I see. Fear not, m'lady, I shall protect you!"

The woman behind Dirge laughed, then spoke;
"Easiest money we've ever made..."
Dirge felt bad. Bad not only that they'd chosen this action, but bad that they didn't realise what was about to happen.
They were far enough away now from the Parthenon. Monument secured.

"Verily, I bid thee farewell..." as Dirges clone faded into nothing but red and black sparks.

The woman's concealed knife hit nothing.
That would be the last attack that didn't hit it's mark.

Dirge, still atop the Parthenon, armoured himself and leaped down. His clone was exceptional at luring out the full party, but draining. He'd have to finish this quickly.
"Leave one alive" he told himself.

He landed behind the woman who was retracting her now missed deathblow to his Clones spine.
The Armoured Demon did not speak, it demanded;
"Give up now. I will be merciful."
The woman, Dirge mentally commended her, reacted swiftly and turned her blows to try and stab Dirge in the stomach.
"A Pity" the Demon remarked.
The woman witnessed briefly her heart protrude from her chest before being retracted by crimson claws out her back. Dirge did not know at which point she perished.
There was the sound of several, but not all, guns present being racked, and the three heavy men took a small step back in surprise.

"Alas..."

They were fast, the three men, they were. Some nearly matched Dirges level of speed. The gunmen however did not. 250 miles per hour is something people only ever experience in Racing Vehicles. For Dirge, it was breathing. Combine that with reflexes and aim to enter the supernatural; then it becomes messy.
Four of the gunmen ceased to exist, as a conical blast of pure roaring disintegration passed through their bodies and left nothing but weighted ashes. Dirge followed by lancing his claws into one of the heavy men on either side of his ribs, and blocking himself behind him to the other six gunmen. One had dropped his gun. Unfortunate. The remaining five unloaded their ammunition into the now puppeted human shield in front of Dirge. Again, Dirge didn't know at what point he was dead, only that he was; there was enough heavy thuds into his body and body mass leaking out his back to confirm.
Then there was the sweetest sound of all; reloading.
It would have been. However, both remaining heavy men launched themselves at Dirge with purpose. Blocking one by shoving the corpse of their dead compatriot in their direction, Dirge was still tackled by the remainder.
The first punch to the face was registered. It could have shattered concrete.
"Try harder."
The second blow to the head came a lot sooner than expected. It fractured the armour.
"Try again."
The third hit took him in the ribs, and hit biological steel.
"Should have stayed on target."
Dirge put two fingers of each hand next to his assailant's temples.
There wasn't the usual noise. Not like the foreboding claxon, but more of an enraged freight train coughing, as the man straddling Dirge's head simply was erased from existence.
Dirge stood up swiftly. He noticed the last heavy man squaring up, and three of the six remaining gunmen had overcome panic to reload finally.

"Last chance. I need one of you alive."

The last heavy man threw off the bullet riddled corpse of his companion and charged him as the rest opened fire.

"Very well."

Dirge angled himself between the now clearly Strongman and the bullets in hope he'd take the brunt. He did. And the bullets he took to the back made him care less if they were paintballs.
Dirge recalled his times fighting against Strongmen, and remembered many things, but remembered the Golden Rule. Flipping over the Strongman whose bearhug he escaped, Dirge weathered the remaining rounds in the gunmens magazines and tore through them with claws swirling. When you are hit with claws a foot long and engulfed in disintegration, it doesn't matter where the blow is struck. Unless you aim just right...
Breathing quite heavily now, Dirge turned from the pile of human mince to address the last target; that being the final Strongma.....

Armour broke. Maybe a rib too. Well, heck.

The Strongman was faster than expected, and Dirge was in what he called 'Timbers Cage'; grounded, straddled, and being punched by enough force to level a granite monument. Dirge did as he remembered; cover up. Get over the shock. Punches that could send nations to war landed on his forearms. Armour cracked. Armour shattered.

"Just. Wait" he thought.

Then he saw it; the raised double handed blow designed to finish him.

"You forgot the Golden Rule... always pin me face down."

A noise only heard by those paying the Ferryman was heard echo throughout the Park.
Dirge's eyes ceased glowing red and black.
He picked himself up. He dusted himself off. He let his armour regenerate briefly.
He turned his attention to the crawling, legless gunman.

"We're going to have a chat."
His claws flexed.
"You attacked me in my home...."