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the world as I knew it shattered.
    And while none could have then known, the information conveyed in that call led directly to the abomination of the July 16 Attacks.

    E xerting every erg of professionalism at my command, I reentered the discussion chamber with a visage of calm detachment.
    As I continued around the circle, the Brotherfly glanced up at me anxiously. For the first time since I’d met him, his face and posture betrayed an emotion other than flip playfulness or hyperscrotal lust. Perhaps his legendary “fly-feel” was tingling, hinting to him the horror of what I was about to reveal.
    “My friends,” I said finally, clearing my throat, “I have…some very difficult news…to share with you.”
    “What, Doc?” asked the Brotherfly.
    “The man…the hero…you knew as the incredible Hawk King…is dead.”
    Everyone stood, their faces focused on mine.
    Jaws unlatched, relatched.
    “Vut?” said Iron Lass at last. “You caan’t be—Frau Doktor, zat’s impossible—Hawk Kink caan’t —”
    “Now ma’am-doctor, you musta gotten yer facts wrong on that one, cuz ev’rabody knows that ol Hawk King can’t—”
    “Miss Brain, I do believe you’ve flipped your substandard lid. Master Hawk King is an Egyptian deity—dying, by definition, is one of the few deeds beyond his potential—”
    “How?” yelled X-Man, standing, the sole voice of non-denial. “How? Kot-tammit, how?”
    “The call came directly from the F*O*O*J,” I explained. “Major Ursa had an audience scheduled at the Hour of the Ninth Gate last night…but the Ka-Sentinels at the Blue Pyramid never showed up to let her inside the retaining wall—”
    “Ze Kingk never missed an appointment,” said Iron Lass. “Not in over fifty yearss, for any reason—”
    “When there was still no response by ten A . M . today, Major Ursa and the Spectacle led a team back to Sunhawk Island. The gate was open, the Ka-Sentinels were in a state of stupefaction…The Pyramid portal was open…
    “They found Hawk King lying on his back inside his Duat Chamber, gripping his crook and flail.”
    They stood silently, but their eyes were screaming.
    “The Spectacle’s preliminary call,” I concluded, “is natural causes.”
    “ ‘Natural causes’?” spat the X-Man. “Closest thing to invincible, closest thing to omniscient, and suddenly, just like that, dead by ‘natural causes’?”
    While the rest of us stood impotently, Kareem lowered himself back into his chair, his face ripped by rage, and then suddenly, horribly blank. And incongruously in that expressionless void, tears seeped from his eyes.
    “No way. No way was this natural causes,” he muttered, staring at the seam where one wall crashed into the next. “Hawk King was murdered, ” he said. “And if someone could kill him, that means all of us, and the world…are in for shit beyond anybody’s reckoning.”

    Into Battle: But Where—and Who—Is the Foe?

    I ronically, at the exact moment that global peace has triumphed, the gravest threat to superheroic mental health has become paranoia.
    Although supercitizens now can bask in the summer sun of safety, the hypervigilance of their careers has cast them into a winter of ODI-CFFB: Obsessive/Defensive Ideation and Compulsive Fight-or-Flight Behavior, much in the way that a satyr or nymphomaniac, if placed in solitary confinement, may fall into chronic masturbation with attendant carpal tunnel syndrome.
    The death of a loved one or a revered icon such as Hawk King is often a trigger for paranoia, but that paranoia speaks to a deeper drive than fear. Paranoia is a defiant charge to a cold, unfeeling cosmos: “Hear me! I exist! I’m important!” Because after all, if someone is actually orchestrating the chaos of the universe against you personally, then you do matter. When no one seems to care anymore, at least “enemies” give you the comforting illusion that you count.
    As we’ll see throughout Unmasked! When Being a