It was very late, or very early, depending on your perspective. The nightlife of the island was just beginning to quiet down, even as the sleep-cycles of most Perditians began to warm their bodies in preparation for their awakening a few hours hence.
Rama Avatar, that newcomer to Vanguard who happened to share much in common with his predecessor, Mason Templar, sighed wistfully as he surveyed the lot where the Vanguard Complex had once stood. It was all that symbolized the once-mighty Vanguard International. It no longer existed, at least in that form, but he was confident that a form of it would always exist, somehow or another. His only concern was his part in it.
He, or Mason, rather, had come to Vanguard for a reason even Rama himself was not exactly sure of. Since Mason’s death, that reason seems to have expired, and Rama came to the team for no precise reason of his own. He supposed it was that last lingering feeling of friendship, of camaraderie, that Mason Templar had experienced through battle and fellowship with the Vanguardians. Rama himself, however, was out of place. He had wondered what his reason was for remaining in Vanguard, and he finally realized that he had none. He could not allow himself to grow stagnant; he thrived on change, on constant novelty. As much as he hated admitting it to himself, he was using Vanguard as a crutch, as an avoidance of his real purpose in life.
It was time to go.
He thought of Grissom Montag, his adventurous counterpart. In a past life he had known of a Montag very much like Grissom, a mighty pirate upon the sea. It was hard to imagine such an inveterate Lothario as Grissom Montag settling down with one woman, but it seems as though this was the case. He held out hope that anyone else could change in turn.
He thought of Brianna Fionghuala, the innocent Irish lass who reminded him so much of his own daughter, a century previous. He hoped that her life would be much happier than his daughter’s was. Perhaps things between her and Grissom could be different, could be successful; he hoped so. He did not want to have to return in order to set things straight once more should Grissom prove to be bad for her.
He thought of Phil Smith, the Unidentified, who took himself so very seriously. The talented Mr. Smith had assets coming out of his ears, was a force to be reckoned with like none other on the team, yet he still seemed to be seeking the approval of the other Vanguardians. He was glad Phil Smith was on his side, and he hoped Phil would still be on the right side when he finally realized his full potential, the identity he had been born to become.
He thought of Edulcore Cicciotto, the hero of many names, and he regretted that he had never gotten over his adversarial relationship with him. Strangely enough they had quite a bit in common; perhaps that was the reason Mason had been so standoffish when he joined the team. Though, come to think of it, Mason was that way with everyone.
He thought of the others: Danny Hearn, whose record of heroism and leadership could never be blotted out by his apparent betrayal of the team. Brute Force, the mysterious young man who seemed to pop in and out like a veteran familiar with the surroundings and not at all like the newcomer to the team he was. And there were so many others: Grimm, Dirk Bell, Blackwulf, Ozzy Baxter, Adem Different, Priest. They had all made an impression on the Legendary Swordsman’s life. Even that mysterious new guy in the red shirt and the irrepressibly lovable RoboSquirrel, Gob bless ‘em. It was difficult, but he had to leave all of them behind.
Rama whistled a soft shrill, and a few moments later, a gigantic pigeon-hawk the size of an elephant swooped down onto the empty asphalt of the street, almost soundlessly, defying reason and reality. Rama and all of his predecessors had always confounded reality, however; could he really allow himself, a born warrior, a lifelong wanderer, to settle down on this island, beautiful as it was? No. His soul could not allow him to rest, to relax. He had missions to perform, and adventures to seek.
The tall Indian warrior brought his arm gently under Erasmus’s beak and said in a low, husky voice, “Come on, girl. It’s time to go.” At that, he placed one foot in the stirrups and hoisted himself up onto the harness between the bird’s wings.
Never officially a Vanguardian except in his previous incarnation, Rama Avatar left La Perdita as an unaffiliated individual as he had been for most of his ancient lives.
As he rose into the nighttime sky, the wide ocean beyond the Caribbean Sea seemed to spread before him, beckoning him ever onward to experience the everlasting adventure of life.
