2019.

Danny’s fingers danced across a few keys, and with a few quick clicks of his cursor, the Crypt’s computer monitors began lighting up with image after image of all the Crimson Wraiths who came before. There were seven in total, many accompanied by their own Wily Wisp. 

“In 2005,” said Kevin. “I became the seventh Crimson Wraith.” 

He pointed to a different Crimson Wraith who did not wear a cape but a red trench coat, its hood up over a white mask that was blank, smooth and featureless. “This is Christopher O’Neill, the sixth Crimson Wraith. He wore the mask from 1997 to 2001.”

“2001?” said Gracie. “Wait, that was when the Zero Hour bombing happened? With the bridges? The Crimson Wraith really did try to stop it?”

“He did. And he succeeded the bomb placed at the Justice Center by Mr. Echo — the second Mr. Echo, that is. It was a distraction, though, from the bombs on the two bridges.”

“I never heard about the one he stopped. Guess people only want to talk about a person’s mistakes.”

“There were a lot of people lost that day,” said Kevin. “And they left behind so many to mourn them.”

Gracie had to admit that was a very good reason.

Danny pointed to another picture of Christopher O’Neill in costume as the sixth Crimson Wraith, standing beside a young woman who looked more ready for a rave than crime-fighting. “Recognize her?”

Blonde hair spilled from the hood of her purple halter top, which bore a yellow “W.” She wore baggy yellow pants with purple stripes, and a purple domino mask covered her eyes.

“Nope,” said Gracie. “Why would I?”

“Because she now holds the rank of Captain with the TCPD.”

“Get the fuck out.”

“It’s true,” said Kevin. “Before she wore a badge, Esperanza Villagrana wore a mask.”

“Unbe-fucking-lievable.” But looking more closely, Gracie could see it was true. That was definitely the woman who appeared at her apartment after her fight with Zack, just twenty years younger.

“Christopher and Esperanza were trained by the fifth Crimson Wraith, who also trained me.”

Kevin pointed to a Crimson Wraith whose cloak and tunic seemed mostly black, with only hints of red accents.

 “From 1989 to 1994 Michael Conroy was the Crimson Wraith.” Then he indicated a man in a black jumpsuit, with a “Z” on its chest. “Before that, he was the Zephyr from  1981 to 1988”

“The Zephyr?” She looked at Stephen. “Like the car?”

Stephen smirked, “He was quite attached to that car.”

“Before becoming the Zephyr,” Kevin continued, “he served as the Wily Wisp for Christopher’s father, Adam O’Neill. Adam died in an accident, and Michael didn’t feel like he could take on the role of the Crimson Wraith right away. The man who did was Hank Mills.” 

The figure Kevin pointed to looked more like a boxer in training than a costumed crimefighter. He wore a red-hooded sweatshirt and pants., and over his face, a black ski mask with a crude skull hand-painted in white. 

“Well, that’s different,” said Gracie.

“Hank picked up the mission without being asked,” said Kevin, “and without being trained. But as the fourth Crimson Wraith, he and his Wily Wisp did a lot of good.” He pointed to a black woman whose sequin costume glittered over wiry muscles. “She was a trans woman named Jasmine.” 

“Ok, she looks fabulous,” said Gracie.

Stephen nodded. “Jasmine was quite exceptional.”

Kevin Continued. “Before Hank and Jasmine in the ‘80s,  Adam O’Neill and Michael Conroy who were the third Crimson Wraith and the Wily Wisp of the 1970s.” 

He pointed to a pair of masked vigilantes that seemed to be wearing the quintessential Crimson Wraith and Wily Wisp costumes, their cloaks rippling in the breeze behind them. These were the two a child would draw if asked — the classic image — just like how children’s books always depict apples as red.

“They picked up the fight from Edward Finn, who carried the mission in the 1960s as the second Crimson Wraith.”

Kevin pointed toward a faded photograph whose colors seemed strangely bright. It was the only one to show the Crimson Wraith in the light of day. He did not cover his face with a full skull mask, just a red domino. His jumpsuit appeared to be like something an old-fashioned circus performer might wear, with a skull image across his barrel chest. 

“Wait,” said Gracie. “Edward Finn… He’s the one who just passed away, right?” It felt weird to point toward the ceiling to indicate someone buried in the ground. “Up there? In the Finn family plot?” 

She saw Danny look to Stephen, and followed his gaze to see a flash of pain reveal in the older man’s eyes. Stephen drew a deep breath, “Yes, that is Edward — my Edward.”

“Your… oh!” Gracie pointed to a younger man standing beside Edward as the second Crimson Wraith wearing a similar costume, but in purple and gold, with a “W” on his chest. “You were the Wily Wisp?”

Stephen laughed, “Oh, no. I never wore that costume. The young man you are looking at is named Tommy James. The less said about him, the better.”

Danny removed that image from the screen.

Meanwhile, Gracie was putting the pieces together. “Edward Finn… Finn Manor… So, his family owned this house? And he made this his base of operations as the Crimson Wraith?”

“Edward Finn was adopted by William Finn,” Kevin answered. “He was the very first Crimson Wraith. When Edward turned sixteen, he started fighting alongside his father as the first Wily Wisp.”

The final photograph he pointed to was in black and white, showing the Scarlet Stranger and sidekick in a grainy, gray image. This Wily Wisp looked so much smaller and younger than any other who came after.

“He was just a kid,” said Gracie.

Kevin said, “He devoted more of his life to our mission than any other — investigating crimes the police couldn’t or wouldn’t, helping those whose cries would go unanswered, trying to give the people of Titan City real justice.”

“Defending the defenseless,” said Stephen.

Kevin turned to Gracie. “This is what you will be joining, the legacy you are going to be taking part in. All these men and women, and now you.”

“It’s a big deal,” said Danny. “A real big deal. You think you can handle it?”

Something in Danny’s voice told her that he wasn’t asking rhetorically. He really wanted to know. Did Gracie really feel ready for this legacy?

Looking at the sweep of heroic figures across eighty years of crimefighting, Gracie knew she should have been awestruck, intimidated, humbled. That would be the natural response. But it wasn’t hers. She looked at all of the masked vigilantes, each determined to fight the good fight in their own way, and felt like these were her people. Their fight was hers, and she belonged up on those screens beside them.

Gracie took a breath.

“Buddy,” she said, “I was born for this.”