Thundarr City was no longer free.
The once-pulsing metropolis, the heart of Planet Thundarr, had fallen firmly under the grip of the D.E.C. and the vast economic empire of Clown Inc. The people called it the Clown Empire. Its garish logos and silent enforcers sprawled across every district, every avenue, and every home. Surveillance was constant, trust was rare, and whispers of rebellion were quickly extinguished.
Cal Faros, once the fearless sword-wielding vigilante Kestrel, had abandoned the path of a warrior. He was now seen in neon-lit clubs, yachts on the Thundarr Sea, and the penthouse boardrooms of Clown Inc., flaunting his billions as a young playboy. His mansion still loomed high in the rich quarter, but his honor was buried in champagne glasses.
The SouthBank apartment was crowded that night.
In the four-bedroom flat, Ronda Riy moved between the kitchen and living room, her round glasses catching the light as she carried Mira’s blanket. The little girl had fallen asleep in the shared children’s room with baby Sulari, leaving the adults in uneasy quiet.
On the couch, Faro Faros sat with his head low, sweat dripping at the thought of his own lost destiny. Beside him, his aunt Rita Faros—once the fiery Shecon—leaned back in her chair, arms crossed. Across from them, Flint Faros sat smirking in a leather jacket, his presence as suffocating as a snake in the room.
“Falcon the Fourth has been announced,” Flint said, voice dripping with satisfaction. “According to D.E.C. surveillance, she’s been sighted in the Thundarr Desert. A young single female of twenty-two. She carries the Ring of Falcon—and she comes from the Warrior Dames.”
The words sank like stones. Ronda froze in the doorway, clutching Mira’s blanket tighter.
Faro looked up sharply, his jaw tight.
“How can there be a Falcon Fourth,” he demanded, “when I’m still alive?”
Rita turned her eyes toward him, green and solemn.
“The Ring does not wait for the will of men, Faro. It chooses. Always. Even if the bearer still breathes.”
Faro shook his head, anger and disbelief rising.
“But I am Falcon the Third. The Ring can’t simply pass me over—”
Flint chuckled, cutting him off.
“Apparently, it can. Seems the Ring thinks you’re finished. Dead weight. Maybe it got tired of waiting for you to fight again.”
Rita’s voice sharpened.
“Careful, Flint.”
But the venom in his grin only deepened.
“Don’t waste your breath protecting him, Auntie. The D.E.C. already has this girl marked. And Mr. Clown…” He leaned forward. “…Mr. Clown plans to find her before any of you can.”
A heavy silence fell. Faro’s fists trembled, not from fear, but from helplessness. Ronda stepped in quietly, resting a hand on his shoulder.
“Faro,” she whispered, “if there truly is a new Falcon… then she might be the only hope left for Thundarr.”
From the children’s room came the soft sound of Sulari stirring in her crib. Mira murmured in her sleep. The weight of the moment pressed down on all of them.
Somewhere across the burning sands, under the watch of merciless stars, a young woman had taken up the Ring of Falcon. Whether she was a savior—or another pawn in Clown’s empire—remained to be seen.
And Faro, still alive yet stripped of the title that defined him, could only ask himself the same haunting question:
What am I, if not Falcon anymore?