ChatGPT Generated Falcon 3rd Gallery is a visual archive of concept art created for the Planet Thundarr universe by Omar Saif, in collaboration with AI as a creative assistant. These images represent evolving character ideas, locations, and story moments from the Falcon III saga — from forest encounters and Thundarr City skylines to Rita Faros’ iconic looks and the world that surrounds her. Each visual is a step in the ongoing development of this universe, blending human imagination with machine-generated interpretation.
In the blazing sunlight of SouthBank City, where life burns with color and contradiction,
Faro Faros walks hand-in-hand with Rita — unaware that shadows trail them like ghosts from the forest.
**LOVE AND SHADOWS IN SOUTHBANK CITY**
*A poem inspired by the moments before destiny returns.*
In SouthBank City, where the sidewalks gleam,
Where summer hangs like a half-remembered dream,
A boy with fire for hair and a falcon on his chest
Walks with a girl whose laughter makes the world feel blessed.
He holds roses like secrets he’s rehearsed in his palms,
Petals trembling like sparrows, like psalms.
His Power Ring glows like a promise half-told,
A story of flames, of courage, of gold.
And she—
Sun-soaked in yellow and bottle-green skies,
Is a sunrise that learned how to walk and disguise
All the wars she has fought in the back of her mind,
All the storms she has weathered, the ghosts left behind.
Their smiles touch without touching, like prayers and like sparks,
Two souls who found daylight after life lost its marks.
But love, on this street, is never alone;
It is watched, it is tested, like metal on stone.
A billboard above gnashes teeth in a grin,
Mr. Clown’s voice slithering, *I am watching*, again.
He is laughter made poison, a carnival’s ghost,
A predator advertising fear like a host.
And farther behind, like a breath held too long,
Stands Ronda Riy—
glass-eyed, brittle, sky-blue and wrong
for this moment so tender,
for this chapter she can’t mend or
undo,
as jealousy stings like a splintering truth.
Yet the couple stays steady—
like dawn and like dusk,
like fate holding hands with both passion and trust.
For Faro and Rita are kindle and spark,
Light in the daylight, flame in the dark.
Her smile is a sunrise he never outran,
His touch is the proof that she finally can
let the forest and battlefields blur in her soul.
So remember this moment
when the thunderclouds come—
for even a hero needs somewhere called *home.*
Faro left Rita’s room, his chest still alive with the pulsing shadow gifted to him. The apartment was silent but for the faint hum of the city outside. The hallway stretched before him like a tunnel of dread, and there—just as before—the dark one-horned figure hovered, waiting. Its jagged horn glowed faintly green, and its cloak of shifting smoke licked the walls like living fire.
Faro stopped before it, his expression no longer trembling or broken. He looked the shadow in the face and spoke with a steady, commanding tone.
“I want more,” Faro said. His eyes burned with unnatural light. “I want them both. Ronda and Rita—together. In the master bedroom.”
The figure leaned forward, its hollow ember-filled eyes widening. For a heartbeat, silence hung in the air like a suspended blade. Then it laughed—deep, echoing laughter that rattled the apartment walls and shivered through the floorboards.
“Ahhh, Faro…” the voice hissed, curling around him like smoke. “You are no longer the frail, broken Falcon who wept on this floor. You are becoming something else. Something darker.”
The shadow raised a clawed hand, brushing the air just above Faro’s head. Sparks of black energy crackled between them, humming like caged lightning.
“To demand not one, but both… the fantasy of your boyhood and the lover of your youth, under the same roof, in the same bed… This is not love, Faro. This is power. This is domination. This is the hunger that carves kings and monsters from men.”
Faro did not flinch. He clenched his fists, feeling the strength surge through him, and repeated, “I want them both.”
The figure’s laughter deepened, its horn glowing brighter. “Very well. Call them. Draw them into the master bedroom. I will grant you the strength to bind their will to your own. But know this, Faro: every step you take down this path pulls you further from Falcon… and deeper into me.”
The hallway darkened further, the very air choking with shadow. Faro’s heart raced—not with fear, but with anticipation. His desire had twisted into resolve. The apartment on SouthBank Avenue was no longer a simple dwelling. Tonight, it was becoming a temple of temptation, watched over by a demon with one horn and a cruel smile.
And Faro, no longer Falcon, was ready to see how far the shadows could take him.
Faro stood in the hallway, the dark power humming through his veins like fire. The one-horned figure lingered just behind him, a smoldering shadow stretching across the walls, whispering in a voice only Faro could hear.
“Call them. Command them. They will come to you.”
Faro inhaled deeply, then walked toward the master bedroom. He opened the door, and the shadows thickened inside as if the room itself had been claimed by the figure’s presence. The bed seemed larger, more imposing, the curtains quivering though no wind touched them.
Faro turned back toward the hallway. His voice was low but carried with unnatural force, vibrating in the air like a summons.
“Ronda. Rita. Come to me.”
From down the hallway, Ronda stirred first. Half-asleep, she rose from her bed, barefoot, her glasses left on the nightstand. Something in Faro’s tone pulled her forward, bypassing thought or hesitation. She walked slowly, dreamlike, toward the master bedroom.
Rita followed soon after, her green eyes sharp but dazed, her steps reluctant yet undeniable. It was as though the power running through Faro reached into their very cores, drawing them both closer, binding them to his will.
When the two women entered, Faro stood at the center of the room, his shadow stretching unnaturally behind him, taller, darker, echoing the figure looming invisibly near. His chest rose and fell with controlled breath, his eyes burning faintly with the energy that wasn’t his own.
Ronda blinked up at him, confused. “Faro… why are we both here?”
Rita’s voice was sharper, suspicious. “What are you doing?”
Faro’s lips curled into a faint, almost cruel smile. “I asked for you both. Together. And you came.”
The air grew heavier. The women glanced at each other uneasily, their confusion mixing with the strange pull they couldn’t resist. The figure behind Faro laughed softly, its horn gleaming as if feeding on the tension.
“Yes…” it whispered, though only Faro heard. “Take them. Bind them. This is the test of your true desire.”
Faro stepped forward, placing a hand on each woman’s shoulder. The power coursed through him and into them, making them shiver as though touched by lightning. Both looked at him with wide, uncertain eyes—one with fear, the other with fragile trust.
And Faro, once Falcon, now something else, stood between them, feeling the full weight of the choice he had already made.
The master bedroom breathed like a living thing. Shadows clung to the corners, thick and shifting, the faint glow of the city outside cut off by curtains that swayed without wind. Faro stood at the center of the room, the force in his veins pulsing outward like invisible chains, binding the space to his command.
Rita lingered near the doorway, her arms folded across her chest, green eyes sharp with suspicion. “Faro… this isn’t right. Why did you bring me here with her?”
Ronda, smaller and softer in her frame, stood closer to him. She tugged nervously at the hem of her nightdress, her bare feet curling against the floor. “Faro… I don’t understand. What’s happening?”
Faro looked at them both. The horned figure was behind him—unseen, but there, its laughter a whisper in his mind. Take them. Show them what you are now.
His hands rose, and without touching them, both women felt the force ripple through the air. Ronda gasped, clutching her chest as warmth spread through her, while Rita staggered slightly, her breath quickening despite her resistance.
“I brought you both here,” Faro said, his voice deeper, carrying a weight it never had before, “because I want you together—with me. I want what I’ve always wanted… all of it, without choosing.”
Rita’s lips parted in outrage, but her body betrayed her—her breath grew heavy, her pulse racing as the dark energy inside Faro pressed against her will. She shook her head, her hair falling wild over her shoulders. “You… you’re not thinking straight. This isn’t you, Faro!”
Ronda looked between them, confused and trembling. Yet when Faro stepped closer to her, placing his hand gently against her cheek, the fear softened into a dazed calm. “Faro…” she whispered, leaning into his palm.
Rita snapped, “Don’t touch her like that—” but before she could finish, Faro turned his other hand toward her, and she froze. A shiver ran through her as though invisible fingers had traced her spine. Her body quivered, her resistance bending under the force of the shadow running through him.
The one-horned figure’s laughter filled the room though only Faro truly heard it. Yes… command them. Make them yours. Together.
He pulled both women closer, Ronda on his right, Rita on his left. The bed behind them seemed to swell in size, its silken sheets rippling as if waiting. His arms wrapped around their waists, and he felt the surge of their conflicting energies—Ronda’s innocent trust, Rita’s reluctant surrender—both feeding into him, making the shadow fire burn hotter.
For a moment, Rita’s eyes locked with his, pleading. “Faro… don’t let this thing control you.”
But Faro’s smile was faint, dangerous, his voice a whisper meant for them both. “I am in control. Tonight, you’re both mine.”
And as he guided them toward the bed, the horned figure’s shadow loomed taller, its single glowing horn casting a dim green light across the room, watching the scene unfold like a dark priest at an unholy rite.
The bed seemed to breathe beneath them as Faro drew both women closer. Ronda leaned into him with a trusting warmth, her small frame trembling, while Rita resisted with words but not with her body—her pulse betraying her, her breath quickening each time the shadow-fire within Faro brushed against her will.
He guided them both onto the silken sheets, the three of them sinking together as though the bed had been waiting. The shadows in the corners of the room thickened, draping the walls like curtains of smoke. Above them, the one-horned figure loomed—half unseen, half real—its horn glowing faintly green as though sanctifying the act in darkness.
Ronda’s voice was soft, fragile: “Faro… I’m here.” Rita’s voice was sharper, defiant even as her body trembled: “This isn’t you… this thing has changed you.”
Faro silenced both with his touch. His hands burned with power, each caress a surge that made them gasp, made their resistance falter, made their trust deepen. What had once been simple love or hidden fantasy now transformed into something larger, more dangerous—an act not of intimacy, but of conquest.
The horned figure’s laughter rippled through the air, low and resonant, as if echoing in their bones. Yes… take them both. This is the altar of your desire, and you are the god upon it.
The night stretched on, shadows weaving around the bed like serpents. The movements, the gasps, the tangled bodies—all blurred into a fever dream of power and hunger. To Faro, it was more than passion; it was rebirth. Every moment fed the dark fire inside him, every shiver from Ronda and Rita fanned the flames higher.
At last, silence fell. Ronda lay curled against his right side, spent, her face peaceful in sleep. Rita remained on his left, awake, her green eyes wide and haunted as she stared at him. Her lips trembled, wanting to speak, but no words came.
Faro lay between them, his chest rising and falling steadily, his eyes faintly aglow. He felt not guilt, not shame, but triumph. The man who had once been Falcon was gone. In his place was something darker—something greater.
At the foot of the bed, unseen by the women, the horned figure still hovered, its horn gleaming with cruel satisfaction.
“You see now, Faro,” it whispered. “You were never meant to be Falcon. You were meant to be mine.”
And Faro did not deny it.
The next morning.
The first rays of sunlight broke through the blinds of the SouthBank apartment, casting long golden bars across the master bedroom. Faro stirred awake, his body heavy, his mind clouded. For a moment, he couldn’t tell if the night before had been real or a fevered dream born from exhaustion and regret.
Ronda lay curled on one side of the bed, her glasses set carefully on the nightstand, her breathing soft and steady. Rita was on the other side, her dark hair spilling across the pillow, one arm draped loosely over Faro as though clinging to him even in sleep.
For a fleeting second, Faro felt a warmth he had not known in years—family, closeness, intimacy—but it was quickly poisoned by the memory of how it all came to pass. The shadow in the hallway. The horn. The deal.
He carefully slipped out of bed, his legs trembling as he stood. In the bathroom mirror, he saw himself differently. His eyes glowed faintly green, the trace of power the dark figure had placed in him. His skin carried a restless energy, like he could lift mountains or call down storms if he wished. And yet… his chest ached with emptiness.
When he returned quietly to the hallway, the one-horned figure was still there, hovering as if it had never left. Its grin was wider in the morning light, though its body still dripped shadows like smoke.
“Well?” it rasped. “You tasted what I gave you. You had both, as you wished. Do you feel like a king, Faro Faros?”
Faro lowered his head, his voice ragged. “I feel powerful… but also hollow. I don’t know if it was me or just your gift that carried me through. And I don’t know what kind of man I am anymore.”
The horned figure chuckled, the sound like dry leaves on fire. “Then you are ready to decide. Keep my power, and you will never doubt yourself again. Refuse it… and you go back to being the broken boy who cries in the hallway.”
From inside the bedroom, the faint voices of Ronda and Rita stirred, calling softly for him. Faro clenched his fists, torn between the warmth of family and the cold promise of unlimited strength.
The morning after was no ending. It was the beginning of a choice that would define the rest of his life.
Breakfast.
The smell of toasted bread and fresh fruit filled the small kitchen of the SouthBank apartment. Morning light poured in through the curtains, glinting off the simple cups of juice placed on the table. Ronda had tied her hair back, her round glasses perched neatly on her nose, while Rita sat across from her in a silk robe, her green eyes sharp and unreadable.
Faro walked in last. His steps were slow, deliberate, as though every movement carried the weight of an unseen burden. He sat between them, his hands still trembling faintly from the lingering energy of the horned figure’s gift.
For a while, only the clinking of plates filled the silence. Finally, Ronda cleared her throat. “Last night… was different.” She avoided his gaze, pushing at her food with the edge of her fork. “You were… stronger than I’ve ever seen you. Almost like another man was inside you.”
Rita gave a low laugh, her tone edged with something between pride and suspicion. “He was more than himself, Ronda. I felt it too. But I wonder…” Her eyes narrowed at Faro. “Was it really you, Faro? Or was someone else whispering in your ear?”
Faro froze, his chest tight. He remembered the glowing eyes in the mirror, the shadow waiting in the hallway. He couldn’t tell them the truth—not yet.
“I don’t know,” he admitted quietly, staring down at his untouched plate. “All I know is… it didn’t feel right. Not fully. I was there with both of you, but part of me… part of me was somewhere else.”
Ronda finally looked up, her eyes wide behind the lenses. “Faro… are you saying you regret it?”
Silence pressed down on the table. Rita leaned forward, her voice low and cutting. “Regret? Or fear? You’ve always been torn between us. Last night, you tried to have it both ways—and maybe you did. But something about you feels… tainted.”
Faro’s jaw tightened. He wanted to tell them everything—that a dark one-horned figure had given him temporary power, that the choice still lingered in the air like poison—but the words died on his lips.
Instead, he simply whispered, “I don’t know what I am anymore.”
Ronda’s hand trembled as she reached for his. Rita pulled her robe tighter around herself, her stare unblinking. The breakfast table became less about food and more about truths hanging heavy, waiting to break free.
Faro lost everything after his chronic liver failure, but in losing all, he gained back what he thought was gone forever—his family life in Thundarr City. For the first time in years, he was living under the same roof with the fantasy of his boyhood and the lover of his teen. Rita, the woman who haunted his dreams since adolescence, was here. And Ronda, the woman who had loved him steadfastly for four years, was here as well.
The apartment was dim that night, the city’s neon glow bleeding faintly through the curtains. Faro had just left Rita’s bedroom. His body still pulsed with the heat of what had just happened between them, yet his mind was a storm. He moved through the hallway, barefoot, intending to slip into Ronda’s room and fulfill his role as the man she trusted and adored.
But halfway down the hallway, he stopped. His knees weakened, his chest tightened. He slumped against the wall and sat down on the cold floorboards. Tears began to well and run silently down his face. The weight of his choices pressed down like stone.
Then, without warning, a shadow unfurled at the far end of the hallway. The air grew heavy, as though time itself slowed. From the darkness emerged a figure—tall, cloaked, with a single horn jutting from its head. Its form seemed more suggestion than flesh, wavering as though part of the void itself.
“What is wrong, Faro?” the figure asked, its voice like a hollow echo inside his skull.
Faro’s heart thumped in terror. He wanted to believe this was a dream, some fevered illusion brought by guilt and sickness. Yet the presence before him was too sharp, too real. He wiped his tears, took a trembling breath, and forced himself to speak.
“I…” His throat tightened, but he continued. “I just made love to Rita. And now… I am going to do the same to Ronda.”
The horned figure tilted its head, a grin curling in the shadows. “Well then,” it said softly, “that should make you a happy man.”
But Faro shook his head violently, clutching his chest as if to rip out the ache inside. “I am not happy,” he whispered. His tears returned, heavier, bitter. “I am no longer Falcon.”
The hallway seemed to darken further, and the figure’s presence grew heavier, pressing in on him. It crouched, bringing its veiled face closer to Faro’s trembling one.
“Then cast off that broken name,” it whispered. “Join me. Walk the path of shadow. If you do, you shall have immense power. More power than Falcon the Fourth could ever dream of.”
Faro stared at the horned silhouette, his breath unsteady. A part of him recoiled at the offer, but another part—broken, aching, desperate—felt the temptation flare like a flame inside his hollow chest.
The apartment was silent but for his uneven sobs and the voice of the darkness offering him everything his lost self craved.
The horned figure leaned closer, its shadow curling along the walls like smoke. Its voice was low, coaxing, each word vibrating in Faro’s bones.
“Very well,” it said. “You need not decide now. But taste what I offer.”
It raised a clawed hand, black as obsidian, and pressed it against Faro’s chest. A surge of energy coursed through him—raw, unfiltered power. His veins burned green like living Thundranum, his muscles clenched and swelled with renewed vigor, and his mind sharpened as though the fog of sickness and despair had been burned away. He gasped, staggering forward, gripping his ribs as the force filled every corner of him.
“These are temporary powers,” the figure said with a cruel grin. “Go now. Finish up with Ronda. Then return to me and tell me if you wish to keep them. If you do, you will never again crawl in shame. You will never again call yourself Falcon. You will be something greater.”
Faro rose unsteadily to his feet, his tears drying against his cheeks. He flexed his fingers, feeling the tremor of strength beneath his skin—strength he hadn’t known since before his liver failed, before he lost Falcon’s mantle. His body felt alive again, more alive than it had in years.
He glanced toward Ronda’s door. Behind it was comfort, warmth, and the love of a woman who still believed in him. But now, with this new fire in his veins, the weight of guilt twisted into something darker—something dangerous.
Faro wiped his face, his expression hardening. He turned back to the figure. “And when I return… you’ll be here?”
The horned silhouette leaned into the shadows, its single glowing horn the last thing visible before it dissolved into the dark. “I will always be here, Faro. Waiting.”
The hallway was silent once more, but Faro’s heart was not. His footsteps carried him to Ronda’s room, each step heavier than the last, his mind torn between love, lust, and the taste of forbidden power now crackling in his veins.
Faro stood before Ronda’s bedroom door, his hand hovering just above the handle. His chest still hummed with the gift the horned figure had pressed into him, every heartbeat thundering like a drum. For a moment, he hesitated. A part of him—the weary, broken man—wanted to slip inside quietly, lay down beside Ronda, and hold her as if nothing had changed.
But another part, the new part, pulsed with heat and shadow, urging him to claim, to consume.
He opened the door.
Ronda stirred beneath the thin sheets, her small frame curled up in the softness of the bed. Her round glasses rested on the nightstand, the faint glow of the city lights outlining her gentle features. She blinked sleepily, then smiled when she saw him.
“Faro?” Her voice was soft, drowsy. “You couldn’t sleep?”
Faro stepped inside, and she noticed something in his eyes—something sharper, brighter, burning where there used to be weariness. He sat on the edge of the bed, brushing a strand of hair from her face. His touch made her shiver.
“I didn’t want to sleep,” he whispered. “I wanted to be with you.”
She reached for his hand, her warmth grounding him for a fleeting moment. But then the power surged again, rippling through his veins, and Ronda gasped as his touch grew firmer, more commanding. His breath came heavier, his hunger unrestrained, and she felt the difference instantly.
“Faro… you feel… different,” she murmured, half in wonder, half in fear.
He leaned close, pressing his forehead to hers. “Do I?” His lips brushed against her ear. “Or is this what I should have always been?”
Ronda’s heart raced, but she yielded to him, her trust unshaken. As he kissed her, the energy within him coursed outward, a shadowy heat that wrapped the room in an aura of strange intensity. The night seemed to thicken, as if the horned figure’s presence lingered even here, watching.
For Faro, every sensation was heightened—her touch, her breath, the rhythm of her heartbeat beneath his hand. He felt invincible, unstoppable, like a man reborn. Yet in the back of his mind, guilt twisted like a knife, whispering Rita’s name, reminding him of the betrayal woven into his passion.
But the power silenced that guilt quickly, smothering it with dark ecstasy.
When at last Ronda lay trembling in his arms, drifting back into slumber, Faro stared at the ceiling, his eyes glowing faintly in the dimness. He could feel the strength still alive in his veins, and with it, the promise of more.
Quietly, carefully, he slipped from the bed. He kissed Ronda’s forehead one last time, then stood, his shadow stretching unnaturally long across the floor.
The horned figure would be waiting.
And now Faro knew he had something to confess.
The apartment hallway was silent again as Faro stepped out of Ronda’s room. His body still glowed faintly with the remnants of the encounter, but more than passion pulsed in him now—it was the hunger for more. The shadows seemed to draw him forward, guiding his bare feet across the creaking boards until he reached the spot where he had first seen the horned figure.
And just as before, the darkness rippled and split. The horned silhouette emerged, its single horn gleaming like a dagger in the void.
“You’ve returned,” the figure said, its voice curling like smoke in Faro’s mind. “Tell me… was the taste of my power sweet?”
Faro’s lips curled into a faint smile. He felt no shame now—only the need to press forward. His voice was low, steady, but dangerous.
“It was more than sweet. It made me feel alive again. Stronger than I’ve been in years.”
The horned figure tilted its head, the grin widening in the darkness. “And yet, you’re not satisfied.”
“No,” Faro admitted, his eyes burning with the same glow that haunted his veins. “I’m not satisfied. I want to test it again.”
The figure leaned closer, the shadows deepening around them. “And who shall you test it on?”
Faro’s breath caught, but his desire pushed him past hesitation. “Rita,” he said. “I want to test my powers on Rita next.”
The horned figure’s laughter rumbled through the walls, a sound both mocking and approving. “Ahh… the fantasy of your boyhood. The forbidden flame. You are already walking the path of shadow, Faro. To claim both women under the same roof—your aunt and your lover—and still crave more… yes, this is the hunger I was waiting for.”
It reached out a clawed hand, brushing the air just above Faro’s chest. “Very well. Go to her. Burn your power into her as you did with Ronda. Then return again. And when you do, you will know whether you are mine forever.”
Faro closed his eyes, drawing in a long breath as the dark fire swelled inside him once more. When he opened them, his pupils glowed faintly in the darkness.
He turned toward Rita’s door.
And with every step, the power whispered louder, drowning out the man he once was—the Falcon—and shaping him into something else entirely.
Faro stood outside Rita’s door, his pulse thrumming with dark energy. The walls of the apartment seemed to breathe with him, alive with the same force the horned figure had given him. He hesitated for only a moment, his hand hovering above the knob, before pushing it open.
Rita was sitting up in bed, her long hair spilling over her shoulders, the faint glow of the city catching the curves of her frame. She had been awake, restless, as though she’d felt his approach before he entered. Her green eyes locked on him, sharp and questioning.
“Faro,” she said softly, though there was a tension in her tone. “Why are you here again…?”
Faro stepped into the room, and the power stirred within him, dark fire beneath his skin. His shadow stretched unnaturally across the floor, reaching toward her like grasping fingers. He closed the door behind him with deliberate calm, his smile faint but unsettling.
“I came back,” he said, his voice low and resonant, “because I can’t stop thinking about you.”
Rita’s brow furrowed—she had seen Faro broken, fragile, a man torn apart by sickness and guilt. But this was different. There was strength in his posture now, a weight to his presence that felt… otherworldly.
She shifted slightly under the covers. “You’ve already had me tonight,” she whispered. “What’s come over you?”
Faro sat at the edge of the bed, his hand brushing her thigh through the sheets. The energy flared at his touch, and Rita gasped—not from fear, but from the strange, electric heat that surged into her. He leaned closer, his eyes glowing faintly in the dimness.
“I’ve been given something, Rita,” he murmured. “Something that makes me feel alive again. And I want to test it—with you.”
Her breath quickened. She should have resisted, pushed him away, demanded to know what he meant—but when his hand slid higher and the strange warmth spread through her body, her will softened. The dark gift worked on her like a drug, stripping her of hesitation.
Faro kissed her, and the power inside him poured into the kiss—fierce, consuming, intoxicating. Rita clutched at his shoulders, her composure shattering as the intensity of him overwhelmed her.
The encounter grew urgent, every motion of his body amplified by the energy surging through him. He felt like a man remade—his strength unyielding, his endurance unending, his passion edged with something primal. Rita, caught between resistance and surrender, gasped his name again and again, until at last the room itself seemed to hum with the force of it.
When it was over, she lay breathless, trembling against him, her green eyes wide with a mix of awe and fear. Faro, however, was not trembling. He sat upright beside her, his chest heaving steadily, his body still alive with shadow. His glowing eyes stared into the dark corner of the room, where the horned figure’s presence could almost be felt, lingering, watching.
Rita touched his arm weakly. “Faro… what happened to you? You don’t feel like the same man.”
He turned his head slowly toward her, and for a moment, the faintest smile curved his lips.
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:
Rita, Faro, and little Sulari step out of the elevator into the polished marble hallway of the new SouthBank apartment complex. Rita holds Sulari’s small hand tightly, while Faro follows behind with a single travel bag slung over his shoulder. The apartment door opens before they can knock.
Standing there is Ronda Riy with her wide round glasses, her hair pulled into a neat bun. At her side is her own daughter— Mira Riy, a thin girl of 4 years old with the same pale complexion as her mother and curious, watchful eyes.
“Welcome, again!” Ronda says, lips curling into a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes.
Rita bends down, hugging Ronda stiffly, her embrace cold and distant. Ronda barely pats her back before stepping away. Faro steps forward and wraps his arms around Ronda warmly, but then she surprises everyone—leaning in and planting a kiss directly on his lips. Sulari blinks in confusion. Rita’s green eyes flash sharply, though she says nothing at first.
Inside, the apartment is spacious, freshly painted, with four bedrooms spread down a long hallway.
Rita takes charge quickly. “Here is how it will be arranged,” she says firmly, her tone echoing through the walls. “I will take the second bedroom with Sulari & Faro. You, Ronda, will remain in the master with your daughter. The third and fourth can serve as spares if need be. As for rent—Faro will soon get a job and will pay my part and Sulari’s share. You will cover yours and Mira’s.”
Ronda stood with her arms crossed, her glasses catching the light as she spoke with quiet authority.
“Listen, Rita, this is my apartment. Here’s how it will be arranged,” she said firmly. “You, Sulari and Mira will take the second bedroom together. Faro stays with me in the master. The other two can stay as spares if anyone visits. As for rent—since you chose to stay here, you’ll cover your part and Sulari’s. Faro is my guest, so his place is with me and Mira.”
Ronda crosses her arms, her glasses sliding down her nose. Then, with a sharper edge, she adds: “You should find a job Rita.”
As for Faro—” she turns, placing a hand on his chest possessively, “he will help me here. In the house. With the children.”
Sulari tugs Rita’s skirt, sensing the tension. Rita’s jaw tightens as she glares at Ronda. “Why,” she asks icily, “does Faro not need to work like the rest of us? Is he your pet now?”
The room falls into silence, only broken by the ticking of the kitchen clock.
Rita’s eyes narrowed, her arms crossing beneath her chest as she stood firm. “Why, Ronda?” she asked again sharply, “should my husband be listed under your expenses, Ronda? He is not your burden to bear. Do not think I will let you claim him in the ledgers as well as the bed.”
The tension hung heavy, Ronda holding her ground, her jaw tight with authority. Before the argument could spiral further, Faro stepped forward, his voice calm but steady.
“Enough,” he said, raising a hand. “Ronda’s conditions stand. You, me and Sulari need shelter, Rita, and this roof of Ronda provides it. Pride doesn’t matter here—safety does.”
Rita opened her mouth to protest, but Faro cut her short by wrapping an arm around her waist, pulling her close in front of Ronda. His lips pressed against Rita’s with sudden intensity, silencing her resistance.
Ronda stood still, her face betraying nothing, but her eyes—dark with jealousy—followed every second of the kiss. The sting of being sidelined in her own home lingered like a silent accusation.
Ronda, still trying to keep her pride intact despite the jealousy boiling inside her, crosses her arms and says firmly:
Ronda: “Let’s not forget something important. Here in Thundarr City, the law doesn’t recognize your… union. Which means, Faro, if anyone asks, I am your wife. Rita can stay here, but only as Sulari’s guardian. That way no officials will question why two women and a child live in my apartment with you.”
Rita’s eyes narrow at Ronda’s words, her tone sharp but not raising her voice in front of Sulari.
Rita: “Pretend, you say? How convenient for you, Ronda. You want the title of wife without the duties of one. Do you think I’ll accept being pushed into the shadows, called nothing more than a guardian?”
Faro quickly steps in, holding Rita’s hand and stroking Sulari’s hair with his other hand to calm the storm.
Faro: “No one here is in the shadows. Ronda is only thinking of survival, Rita. She’s right—this city plays by its own rules, and we need to be careful. Let her carry the name, if it keeps Sulari safe and us under one roof. It doesn’t change what you and I are.”
Rita softens slightly, but the tension lingers in her green eyes. Ronda smirks faintly, masking her jealousy with a sense of victory, though deep down she knows Rita’s bond with Faro runs deeper than any “pretend marriage.”
Later that evening at dinner time.
The candles on the dinner table flickered low, casting long shadows across the plates of roasted duck and spiced roots that Rita had prepared. The children had long since gone to bed, leaving the three adults alone in the quiet of the apartment.
Faro leaned back in his chair, arm draped lazily across the backrest as he studied Ronda. His tone was casual, but the weight behind his words was sharp:
Faro: “So, Ronda… what of Cal? Does he know about this arrangement of ours? You pretending as my wife, Rita as guardian, and me staying under your roof?”
Ronda placed her fork down carefully, her round glasses catching the faint shimmer of the candlelight. She exhaled softly before answering, her voice calm but carrying an undertone of unease.
Ronda: “Cal doesn’t know. And it’s better that way. He’s… complicated, Faro. If he were to find out that you and Rita were staying here—under my roof—he wouldn’t see it as a family necessity. He’d see it as betrayal. You know how he is.”
She paused, glancing briefly at Rita before continuing.
Ronda: “I’ve kept my distance from him for months. He’s drowning in his own secrets and women, pretending to be untouchable. If he knew about this, he’d use it against me—or worse, against you. He doesn’t understand the kind of bonds we’re trying to protect here.”
Rita crossed her arms, leaning back in her chair with narrowed eyes.
Rita: “So, you’re hiding this from Cal… not for us, but for yourself. To keep your pride intact.”
Ronda’s lips tightened, but she didn’t argue.
Faro, sensing the tension building again, tapped the table lightly with his fingers.
Faro: “Enough. We all know Cal isn’t the type to play family. He’s too busy playing the Clowns sidekick.”
At those words, Ronda stiffened, her eyes widening just slightly. Rita’s smirk said she had caught the reaction.
Rita: “So you do know about his little criminal life…”
Ronda quickly composed herself, pushing her glasses up her nose.
Ronda: “Knowing is one thing. Speaking of it is another. Cal’s choices are his own. But Faro, if you’re asking whether he’ll be a problem for us—then yes, he will. The less he knows, the safer we all are from him and the Clown.”
The table fell silent, the only sound the faint crackle of the candle. Faro’s eyes shifted between the two women—his jealous Ronda and his defiant Rita—knowing full well the storm of Cal Faros and the Clown loomed over all of them like a shadow.
The doorbell rang suddenly, its sharp chime breaking the quiet of the dinner table. Faro pushed back his chair and went to answer it, his face still half-focused on the conversation they had been having about Cal.
When the door swung open, Faro froze.
There stood Flint, his brother – grinning ear to ear, dressed in red and blue. In his hands he held two bouquets of roses—one lush red, the other bright yellow.
“Hey there, brother man!” Flint’s voice boomed with forced cheer, the kind that carried an undertone of mischief.
Faro’s eyes narrowed, his hand tightening on the doorframe. “Flint…” he muttered, suspicion and surprise mixing in his tone.
Flint extended the flowers forward with an exaggerated flourish. “One red bouquet for the lovely Mrs. Rita Faros, and the other yellow bouquet… well, you’ll just have to guess who it’s for.” He winked, shifting his gaze past Faro, clearly aware that Ronda and her daughter were inside.
From the dining table, Rita’s eyes darkened. She leaned slightly forward, already sensing trouble. Ronda sat stiffly, her hand brushing the edge of the tablecloth, unsure whether to smile politely or brace for something worse.
The silence at the doorway lingered heavy, the roses looking strangely out of place in Flint’s hands—like a mask for intentions no flower could sweeten.
From behind, Ronda’s voice broke the silence. “Flint? What a surprise!” she said, stepping closer. Her tone carried a playful astonishment, but as her eyes met Flint’s, she gave him a subtle wink—a silent signal to play along and not reveal too much.
“How on Sol did you find out about our new place?” she added, feigning ignorance as though the visit were a complete mystery to her.
Flint caught the wink instantly, his grin widening. “Ah, you know me,” he said, stepping forward with casual confidence. “Word gets around. A little bird must’ve chirped it into my ear.”
“Besides, I figured my little brother and his wife, who is also my aunty, deserved a proper housewarming visit—with roses for the ladies of the home.” he said smoothly.
He extended the red bouquet toward Rita and the yellow one toward Ronda, his eyes glinting mischievously as he waited for their reactions.
Rita narrowed her eyes at the doorway, already suspicious of the exchange, while Faro’s lips parted, unsure whether to feel anger, confusion, or wariness at Flint’s sudden intrusion.
Ronda Riy’s world collapsed quietly, not with one confession, but with pieces of truth slipping into her hands like shards of broken glass. It began when Flint approached her, his tone almost casual, but his words soaked with venom.
“You should know what your husband does when he says he’s ‘working.’”
At first, Ronda dismissed him—Flint was a Faros, and she had learned to distrust the family’s twisted games. But then came the proof. Videotapes, grainy yet undeniable, showing Cal Faros—her husband, the man she thought she tamed with marriage—wrapped in the arms of other women. Not once, not twice, but over and over again. Different cities, different hotel rooms. Each time, Cal smiling, murmuring words of charm that Ronda once thought belonged only to her.
Flint had followed him, tracked him with a secret recording device, a cruelly clever eye behind the lens. He compiled the evidence meticulously, savoring the slow destruction of his cousin’s image. Ronda’s hands trembled as she watched, as she saw Cal’s lies unfold—those “business trips” that kept him away for weeks, the dinners that were supposed to be meetings, the moments he missed with her and their daughter.
The betrayal stung not just as a wife, but as a mother. Cal hadn’t just lied to her—he had lied to their little girl, spinning tales of duty and responsibility while indulging in selfish desire.
In her pain, Ronda turned to the very network Cal once boasted of fighting against. With Flint as her bitter guide, she gained access to Clown Inc.’s vast surveillance and communication technology. The irony was sharp—reaching out through the empire of Mr. Clown, the enemy of the Faros name.
But her message was clear, carved with longing and sorrow:
“Faro, it’s me… Ronda. I need your help. I was blind, and I see it now—Cal was never faithful, not even from the start. He lied to me, to my daughter, to all of us. I can’t stay in that mansion. I don’t want riches, I don’t want lies. I want to go back to when we were real. Our SouthBank apartment, just the two of us. Or three—Rita can come too, with her children. I don’t care if it’s crowded. I just want us to live again. Together. Honest. Free.”
Her voice cracked at the end of the transmission, a mix of desperation and fragile hope. And somewhere, beneath the stars of Planet Thundarr, Faro Faros received the call—his heart torn between memory, desire, and the dangerous path Flint had just opened for them all.
The Oasis of Lovers shimmered in moonlight, its waters still and deceptive, reflecting a paradise that felt more like a prison. Faro and Rita rested against the cool stone, weary, stripped of their powers and the confidence those powers once gave them.
The silence broke with a flutter of delicate wings. A Fairy descended from the palms, her glow painting the oasis in silver. She hovered before Rita, her small hands cupping a glowing mote of light.
“For you,” the Fairy chimed softly, her voice like bells. “A message from far away.”
Rita extended her hand, and the mote dissolved into sound. Ronda’s voice spilled into the air, fragile and breaking, carried on magic rather than wire:
“Faro, it’s me… Ronda. I need your help. I was blind, and I see it now—Cal was never faithful, not even from the start. He lied to me, to my daughter, to all of us. I can’t stay in that mansion. I don’t want riches, I don’t want lies. I want to go back to when we were real. Our SouthBank apartment, just the two of us. Or three—Rita can come too, with her children. I don’t care if it’s crowded. I just want us to live again. Together. Honest. Free.”
The Fairy bowed and drifted back into the night, leaving Rita holding the echo of the words. For a long moment, she did not look at Faro. She only stared at the glowing pool, her jaw tight.
Finally, she turned. Her green eyes glistened, but her voice was steady. “The message was meant for you. But it came to me instead.” She moved closer, kneeling beside him. “So I’ll ask—what do you want, Faro? Do you want her back, with her daughter, with her dream of that little SouthBank apartment? Or do you want me, here, now, even if all we have is this… and no powers left to shield us?”
The oasis was silent again, save for the distant call of night-birds. The question hung between them, heavier than their lost strength, heavier than the chains of the curse itself.
Faro leaned forward, running his hand through the sand, his reflection trembling in the moonlit water of the oasis. The air was heavy with Ronda’s words, but his voice when it came was steady, practical.
“Rita,” he said, “we can’t stay here forever. Not like this. Stripped of our powers, stranded, naked under the sky as though we’re prisoners of fate.” His gaze lifted to hers, sharp with resolve. “The children need a home. A roof, walls, a place where they can sleep without fear. Whatever else we’ve lost, we cannot take that from them.”
He drew a breath, the weight of Ronda’s plea pressing down on him. “SouthBank. It’s not the Cave of Falcon, it’s not a fortress, but it’s something. A place in the city where they can be safe. Where we can be safe… at least for now.”
Then he turned fully to Rita, his eyes holding hers, refusing to dictate the path but refusing to run from it either. “This isn’t just about me—or her. This is about us, about the family we carry whether we chose it or not. You heard her. Ronda is willing. She has a daughter. You have children. They deserve better than this.”
His hand hovered near hers, trembling between pleading and strength. “So I’ll leave it to you, Rita. You make the final decision. Do we take Ronda’s offer? Do we go back to SouthBank, to her apartment, even if it’s only temporary? Or do we try to find another path? Tell me.”
The Oasis of Lovers fell into silence, broken only by the rustle of palms. The stars seemed to lean closer, waiting with them, as if the entire night held its breath for Rita’s answer.
Rita listened to Faro’s words in silence, her green eyes reflecting the shimmer of the oasis waters. For a long moment, she said nothing—only let the wind stir her hair while the Fairy’s glow faded into the night.
At last she spoke, her voice low but firm. “You’re right. The children cannot grow up in the Pigmen village. They deserve a home, not mud huts and fear. But Pifo…” She shook her head, sorrow cutting through her tone. “He cannot stay in Thundarr City. The D.E.C. bars Pigmen at the gates. If he comes with us, he’ll be hunted, caged—or worse.” Her hand curled into the sand, tight with anger.
She lifted her gaze back to Faro. “Still, I agree. We will go to Ronda. A four-bedroom apartment at SouthBank. Enough space for family. But I set one condition—my daughter will not share a room with hers. They each deserve their own walls, their own space, their own place to dream. If Ronda wants to build something new with us, it will be done with respect.”
Faro’s heart leapt at her words, joy bursting through the weariness of exile. He stood suddenly, laughing, the sound echoing off the dunes like thunder against the stars. He reached for Rita, pulling her into his arms. “Yes! Yes, Rita! You’ve made the choice, and it is the right one. A new life waits for us!”
Their laughter tangled together as they stumbled into the soft dunes, the sand cool beneath their bare skin. Faro kissed her deeply, hungrily, the desert’s silence broken by their breath and the rustle of shifting sand. In that moment, stripped of power, stripped of titles, they were only man and woman—clinging to each other, finding fire in the heart of their exile.
The Oasis of Lovers cradled them, its eternal stillness bearing witness as their joy turned to love, their love to surrender.
In the mansion’s high chamber, Ronda sat by the window, the city lights of Thundarr flickering like a restless sea below. Flint’s shadow lingered in the corner, his sly grin never far from her eyes.
“The choice has been made,” Flint told her smoothly. “Rita agreed. She’ll bring her children to SouthBank. Faro too. The Oasis no longer holds them.”
Ronda’s lips curved slowly, her reflection in the glass catching the glint of her round spectacles. She drew in a slow breath, her chest rising, her eyes narrowing as if seeing beyond the walls, beyond the city, straight to the moment she’d been waiting for.
“So it begins…” she whispered. A smile, almost tender, touched her lips. “Now I can make Faro my husband, like destiny meant it to be.”
Her fingers trailed the glass, tracing an invisible circle around the city skyline. The thought of him—no longer poor, no longer trapped—stirred something fierce and determined in her heart. Ronda Riy had suffered betrayal, endured lies, and now she clung to one truth with the grip of iron: the past could be remade, and this time, she would not lose him.
Behind her, Flint’s grin widened, pleased to see his quiet manipulation blooming into resolve.
Ronda’s whisper still lingered in the chamber air—“Now I can make Faro my husband, like destiny meant it to be.”
From the shadows, Flint let out a low chuckle, his arms crossed, eyes glinting with mischief. “My lucky bastard of a brother,” he sneered, “will be living with two wives! Aunty Rita in one bedroom, and you in another—and both of you too blind to see the joke in it.”
Ronda shot him a sharp look, though her smile never fully vanished. “You call it luck,” she said, her voice cool, “but I call it fate. Maybe you’ve forgotten, Flint, but I loved Faro before any mansion, before the riches, before Cal ever laid eyes on me. Besides Rita is his maternal aunt and that marriage is not recognized by the Thundarr City laws!”
Flint shrugged, amused, his grin wide. “Oh, I haven’t forgotten. But don’t mistake my honesty for mockery. Two women circling him, both willing to share his bed, his name, his fire… If that’s not luck, I don’t know what is.”
Ronda turned back to the window, hiding the flicker of warmth and jealousy in her eyes. Flint’s laughter followed her, curling like smoke through the room.
Ronda adjusted her glasses, her eyes still fixed on the glittering city outside the mansion window. Her smile faded into calculation, her voice calm but edged with steel.
“Flint,” she said, turning to face him, “I need you to arrange something for me.”
Flint raised an eyebrow, his crooked grin already anticipating mischief. “Go on.”
“I want divorce papers,” Ronda continued, her tone crisp. “Fake ones. Documents that say Cal and I have separated, so there’s no trouble when it comes to the apartment lease. And while you’re at it, draft fake marriage papers between Faro and me. If the authorities look, everything will appear proper—our signatures, the seals, the dates.”
Flint laughed, shaking his head. “So that’s your grand plan? To play wife on two stages at once?”
Ronda’s smile returned, thin and cold. “I still want to be legally married to Cal. His money is mine, his status protects me. I won’t throw that away just to work for a living like the rest of them. But with Faro…” Her eyes gleamed with desire and spite. “With Faro, I’ll have what Rita thinks she owns. I don’t care if the marriage is fake on paper. All I need is the illusion strong enough to bind him—and to break her.”
Flint leaned against the wall, arms crossed, clearly entertained. “You really are a wicked little genius, Ronda. Playing both men at once… Cal for the gold, Faro for the heat. And poor Rita? She won’t stand a chance.”
Ronda adjusted her skirt, standing taller. “Let her watch. Let her crumble. Once Faro is mine again, she’ll learn what it feels like to lose everything she thought was safe.”
Flint smirked, already plotting the forgery. “Consider it done. I’ll give you your papers, sister-in-law—real enough to fool any clerk in Thundarr City. And when the ink is dry… well, we’ll see how long your little empire of lies holds.”
Ronda’s smile sharpened, satisfied. “Long enough. Long enough to get what I want.”
Faro lay on the hard ground beneath the endless canopy of stars, Rita’s quiet breathing nearby the only sound. Exhaustion claimed him, and soon his mind slipped into the shifting fog of dreams.
At first, the vision was sweet. He was no longer a wanderer or a fugitive of fate—he was a man of wealth and stature. Before him stood a grand mansion, its marble pillars gleaming in the daylight, banners with the Falcon crest fluttering in the wind. Ronda Riy was there wearing her big round glasses, her expensive black dress swaying as she ran toward him with a smile that melted the bitterness of his waking life.
“You did it, Faro,” she said, clutching his hand. “You’re not poor anymore. We don’t have to struggle. We can live here together.”
For a fleeting moment, joy filled him. He saw her laughter echo in the halls of his estate, her presence softening the edges of luxury. The dream wrapped him in warmth—the life he had secretly longed to give her.
In the dream, wealth does not trickle—it cascades. Faro’s mansion stands proud at the heart of Thundarr City, its gardens sprawling like emerald oceans. Fountains of crystal water sing in the courtyards, and servants bow as Faro and Ronda pass, though neither of them need such obeisance.
Inside, the halls glow with warmth. Sunlight pours through vast windows, spilling across velvet rugs and chandeliers. Ronda runs through the corridors barefoot, laughing, her skirt fluttering like a blue flame. She stops only to press her lips against Faro’s, her joy untainted by worry or want.
At night, they dine in gold-lit rooms where polished silver gleams, and the air tastes of roasted duck, sugared fruits, and sweet cola. Ronda leans close across the banquet table, her voice soft and proud: “You gave me this life, Faro. You gave us freedom.”
She leads him to the balcony overlooking the city. Below, crowds chant his name as though he were a king, their cheers rising like a hymn. Ronda takes his hand, rests her head against his shoulder, and whispers: “We’ll never be poor again.”
Together they stroll through art-filled halls, rooms lined with books, gardens where roses bloom even in winter. In the evenings, she curls against him on silk sheets, smiling as though the world has finally given her peace. For the first time, Faro feels whole—his love returned, his dignity restored, his name honored.
But then, as dreams so often do, it shifted. A shadow stepped into the mansion’s bright corridors. Flint. His older brother, smiling with that sly, poisonous grin. Faro’s chest tightened as he saw Ronda’s eyes turn toward Flint.
At first, it was just a glance. Then it was more. Flint whispered in her ear, touched her hand, and soon their closeness burned in Faro’s vision like betrayal carved into stone. Ronda laughed at Flint’s words, her warmth now shared with him, as though Faro were fading into the background.
The mansion, once a monument to triumph, warped into a cage of mockery. Faro stood powerless as Flint’s hand slipped around Ronda’s waist. Her smile—once his—now belonged to another.
And in the pit of his heart, Faro felt the sharp stab of envy, rage, and despair.
He jolted awake under the open night sky, sweat running down his brow. Rita stirred beside him, her eyes half-lidded. “Another dream?” she murmured softly.
Faro didn’t answer. He only stared upward at the cold, distant stars, the ghost of Ronda’s laughter and Flint’s treachery still echoing in his mind.
For the poem (surreal version): “Echoes in the Marble Dream”
He sleeps beneath the sky’s black mirror, and the stars melt into chandeliers. A mansion rises where the soil should be, pillars carved of silver, walls whispering wealth.
Ronda waits at the gates, her round glasses gleaming like twin suns. She is smiling, smiling as though hunger and dust never touched them, smiling as though the world had finally bent in his favor. “Faro,” she breathes, “you are no longer poor.” Her voice drips honey, her hand a promise in his.
The halls echo with laughter not his own. Shadows spill from the corners like ink. From that ink steps Flint, his eyes twin knives, his smile a fracture in the dream’s bright glass.
Ronda turns— not with fear, not with reluctance— but with warmth that was once Faro’s alone. Her laughter rings again, but now it bends toward Flint’s ear. Her hand slips, not into Faro’s, but into his brother’s.
The mansion trembles. Pillars bend like reeds, marble drips into mud. The chandeliers collapse into a swarm of black birds, their wings scattering the light.
Faro reaches, but his arms are stone. He screams, but the air is water. He watches as Flint and Ronda disappear into a corridor that stretches forever, their laughter echoing, echoing, echoing— until it is all the dream holds.
He awakens gasping, the stars above colder than glass, and the earth beneath him harder than betrayal.
Rita Faros had always been a spirited and bold woman, but her life changed forever when she met Falc Faros, the Falcon Second. Falc was the paternal uncle of Faro Faros and a legendary figure in Thundarr Forest. His strength, wisdom, and unwavering commitment to the Falcon legacy drew Rita to him, and their bond quickly blossomed into love.
Their marriage was celebrated with great joy and festivity across Thundarr Village, uniting Rita with the prestigious Falcon bloodline. Though Rita never expected to become entangled in the Falcon legacy herself, she embraced her role as Falc’s partner, accompanying him in his missions and sharing in the burdens of his responsibility. Together, they were a formidable duo, bound by love and a shared vision for protecting the innocent from the threats that loomed in the forest.
One fateful evening, during the Hunaka harvest celebration, the skies above Thundarr Forest were alive with dazzling fireworks. The village echoed with laughter and music as the people gathered to honor their hard-earned harvest. Rita and Falc, seeking a moment of intimacy away from the crowd, retreated to the sacred Falcon Cave, a place of great significance to the Falcon lineage.
Inside the cave, surrounded by ancient symbols of power, they reaffirmed their love. The world outside faded as they reveled in their connection, the bond between them as fiery as the sparks lighting up the night sky. Rita, full of warmth and trust, felt a sense of safety she rarely experienced in the dangerous wilderness of Thundarr Forest.
But their peace was shattered by the sound of the cave bell ringing—a signal of danger. Falc quickly rose, his instincts kicking in. “Stay here, Rita,” he commanded, pulling on his trousers and grabbing his weapon. Rita, still lying bare under the dim cave light, watched him disappear into the night.
Moments later, a scream pierced the air, followed by the sound of a struggle. Panic seized Rita as she scrambled to dress and ran toward the cave entrance. What she witnessed froze her in horror.
There, at the foot of the cave, stood Murder Dog—the twisted and vicious killer who had plagued the region for years. His skeletal face twisted into a ghastly grin, his laughter chilling in the silence that followed. Falc’s body lay lifeless on the ground, blood pooling beneath his head. A crude screwdriver, Murder Dog’s favored weapon, was lodged deep into Falc’s skull. The attack had been quick and brutal—Murder Dog had leapt from the cave’s roof, ambushing Falc with deadly precision.
Rita screamed, her voice echoing through the forest. Tears streamed down her face as she knelt beside her husband’s lifeless body, her hands trembling as she cradled his bloodied head. Murder Dog stood watching her, reveling in the pain he had caused.
“Poor Falcon Second,” he sneered. “He fell so easily. And you, Rita… you’re alone now. Just another broken soul in my wake.”
Rita’s sorrow burned into fury. She rose, her body trembling with rage, and stared Murder Dog down. “You’ll regret this,” she hissed. “You’ve taken everything from me, but you’ve awakened something far worse than you could ever imagine.”
In the days that followed, Rita swore vengeance. She donned the mantle of the Shecon, a mysterious and feared figure who became both an avenger and protector in the shadow of Thundarr Forest. Her transformation was fueled by grief and a determination to uphold the legacy of the Falcons while carving out her own path.
The Shecon became a legend, striking fear into the hearts of criminals and outlaws, including Murder Dog, who now found himself hunted. Rita’s resolve was unshakable, her sorrow driving her to become a force of justice and retribution. Though the pain of losing Falc never left her, it became the fire that forged her into the Shecon—a woman of unrelenting strength and vengeance.
Rita Faros, or Aunty Rita, plays a multifaceted role in the Falcon 3rd storyline. She is not only Faro Faros’ aunt but also the powerful Shecon, a title she earned by becoming a protector of Thundarr Forest alongside the Falcon legacy. Her vibrant personality and alluring appearance often contrast with the heavy responsibilities she carries, making her a compelling and dynamic character. Here’s a deeper look into her character and significance:
Rita’s Personality
Cheerful and Confident: Rita exudes a lively energy and is always ready with a smile or a playful comment. Her confidence shines in every situation, whether she’s battling foes or simply making her presence known.
Maternal and Supportive: Despite her bold nature, Rita shows a deep sense of care and support for Faro. She recognizes the challenges he faces as Falcon 3rd and often steps in to provide guidance or encouragement, even when Faro struggles to manage his attraction to her.
Flirtatious and Free-Spirited: Rita embraces her sensuality without hesitation. Her playful nature adds levity to the intense battles and adventures in Thundarr Forest, but it also sometimes stirs up tension, particularly with Faro’s mixed emotions about her.
Rita’s Role in the Storyline
The Connection to Faro: As the younger sister of Faro’s late mother, Lisa Angel Faros, Rita has a special bond with Faro that deepens over the course of the story. She becomes one of his closest allies, understanding both his struggles and his potential as Falcon 3rd.
A Fighter and Partner: Rita’s transformation into the Shecon came after her marriage to Falc Faros, the Falcon 2nd. Initially drawn to material wealth and luxury, her outlook changed after taking on the Shecon mantle. She now shares the burden of protecting Thundarr Forest and its secrets, standing side-by-side with Faro in battles against the forces of evil.
A Source of Temptation: Rita’s bold personality and physical beauty sometimes create moments of tension, as Faro has been sexually attracted to her since his teenage years. While Rita remains unaware of his deeper feelings at times, her interactions with Faro walk a fine line between familial affection and unintentional seduction, adding complexity to their relationship.
The Voice of Wisdom and Encouragement: Rita is one of the few characters who truly understands the cost of the Falcon legacy. She often serves as Faro’s moral compass, encouraging him to embrace his responsibilities and rise to the challenges of being Falcon 3rd, even when the weight of the role becomes overwhelming.
Rita’s Transformation and Legacy
Rita’s journey from a materialistic woman to a courageous and selfless protector of Thundarr Forest mirrors the overarching theme of redemption and personal growth in the Falcon 3rd saga. Her evolution not only adds depth to her character but also underscores the transformative power of love, duty, and sacrifice.
Chapter: The Quiet Between Storms – Honeymoon of Rita and Faro
With the Stone of Tomorrow spent and Faro’s health restored, Rita and Faro made a rare choice: to pause.
For once, no villains chased them, no war drums thundered. No ringing of a sword, no cries for help. Just time — precious, fleeting time — for themselves.
They left Sulari and Pifo in the safe care of a trusted old Pigmen friend, deep in the inner forest, and mounted their pet woolly mammoth for the journey. Their destination?
The Shimmering Falls of Zephiron — a secret oasis said to be the most peaceful place in all of Planet Thundarr. Hidden within canyons carved by ancient winds, it was a place untouched by evil or ambition.
The Oasis of Lovers
As they arrived, the twin falls spilled glittering water down jagged cliffs into a crystalline pool. Giant orange blossoms floated in the air, and the only sounds were water, breeze, and distant birdsong.
“I can’t believe this place is real,” Faro whispered.
Rita smiled. “It’s real. And for once, it’s ours.”
They undressed and swam together in the warm waters, laughing like children, kissing like young lovers rediscovering what it meant to be whole. They camped by the water in a tent made of Shecon’s old cloak stitched with jungle silk.
That night, under the stars, they made love not as fugitives, not as warriors — but as two souls who had survived everything.
Reflections
The next morning, they sat by the fire sipping berry tea, wrapped in furs. Faro looked at the horizon.
“Do you think we’ll ever have a normal life?” he asked.
Rita rested her head on his shoulder. “We may never be normal, Faro. But we can be free. And maybe that’s better.”
They didn’t talk about Mr. Clown.
They didn’t mention Cal, Flint, or the D.E.C.
They simply let the wind carry their worries away… just for now.
As they lay entangled in the soft linen sheets of their hidden oasis retreat, Rita ran her fingers gently across Faro’s chest, marveling at the strength returned to his body — the vibrant pulse in his veins, the warmth of his skin, the renewed fire in his touch. “You feel like a man reborn,” she whispered with a smile, her green eyes shining with affection and desire, “It’s like the forest forged you all over again just for me.” Faro, overwhelmed with emotion, pulled her close and kissed her forehead tenderly. “You crossed the desert for me… risked your life for me… met the Witch of Westwick, and brought back a miracle. I owe this breath, this moment — everything — to you, Rita. I’ll never forget what you did.” Their embrace was not just of passion, but of a deeper reverence that had grown between two souls weathered by hardship, now rediscovering peace in each other.
Chapter: The Final Farewell to Falcon and Shecon?
The morning sun rose gently over the canyon oasis. Faro was reclining against a sun-warmed rock, shirtless, sipping berry tea, while Rita combed out her long, tangled hair with a carved wooden comb. They felt free. Renewed. Human.
That peace, however, was not meant to last.
A sudden shimmer broke the air beside their camp. A swirl of blue-green sparkles formed into a glowing orb — and out of it stepped Tiwa, the ancient forest fairy and guardian of the powers of Falcon and Shecon.
She looked solemn, her wings fluttering with a heaviness they had never seen before.
“Tiwa?” Rita stood up, wrapping her shawl hastily.
“I’m sorry to intrude,” Tiwa said softly, “but I come bearing truth… and closure.”
Faro rose, already uneasy. “What is it?”
Tiwa looked at them both, with warmth but also with finality.
“By bonding yourselves in love and flesh… by choosing family over duty, and passion over purity of purpose… the Power Ring of Falcon and the Boomerang of Shecon have rejected you.”
Faro’s eyes narrowed. Rita clenched her fists.
“Rejected?” Rita asked. “We gave everything for those roles.”
Tiwa nodded gently. “And you were noble… until you chose yourselves. That choice was not wrong — it was human. But it has consequences. The spirit of Falcon and Shecon must remain unentangled by bloodline or desire. Their power now lies with others.”
“Who?” Faro asked sharply.
“The Fourth Falcon now rises — a boy from the outer cliffs of Thundarr Desert. And Shecon the Second has awakened — a girl raised by the Warrior Dames, pure of mind and unbound by lust or legacy.”
There was silence.
“So it’s over,” Faro whispered.
“For Falcon and Shecon — yes. But not for you.”
Tiwa hovered closer and placed a warm hand over Rita’s belly. “You carry more than life. You carry a new path. One of the heart, not of the sword.”
She turned to leave, fading with the wind.
“Protect your children. Teach them. And remember — love is no less powerful than the blade.”
And just like that, she was gone.
The End of a Chapter
Faro and Rita sat in silence.
“I never thought we’d lose it like this,” Faro murmured.
“Maybe we didn’t lose it,” Rita replied, “Maybe we just outgrew it.”
They held each other as the waters shimmered, their reflections now no longer Falcon and Shecon — but simply Rita and Faro Faros. Lovers. Parents. Survivors.
And perhaps… the founders of a new kind of legacy.
As the sun cast golden rays across the peaceful oasis where Faro and Rita shared their newfound bliss, the air shimmered faintly — and from the mist, Tiwa appeared. Dressed in familiar glowing robes and fluttering with her radiant wings, she spoke gently: “The powers of Falcon and Shecon have been passed on. You are no longer the chosen.” Though bittersweet, Rita and Faro accepted the message, believing it to be part of their destiny. But that night, as they lay under the stars, something felt off. Faro stirred restlessly, haunted by shadows in his dreams — dreams where Tiwa’s voice echoed not with purity, but deceit.
But not all was as it seemed.
Far above, hidden among the ancient palms at the edge of the oasis, a motionless figure loomed — Murder Dog. His fleshless skull face glowed faintly under the moon, a grotesque beacon of death watching from the shadows. With hollow eye sockets and jagged teeth forever clenched in an eerie grin, he observed every move Faro and Rita made, never blinking, but breathing.
The Tiwa who had appeared was not the real fairy of Falcon, but a wicked construct of the Evil Master — a false guide, summoned by dark magic after Murder Dog relayed the couple’s location. The false prophecy was meant to deceive, to mislead them away from their true destiny and leave them powerless — but her message was a lie — a seed of manipulation meant to sever hope, fracture destiny, and leave Faro and Rita vulnerable for the final move in a far greater, darker game.
Though Tiwa’s imposter claimed their powers were gone, the truth whispered beneath the surface of the desert winds: Faro and Rita were still Falcon and Shecon. Their powers hadn’t been taken — only suppressed, lying dormant within them, waiting for the moment they would be truly needed again.
And someone else knew that truth all too well.
From the moment Faro first showed weakness, Murder Dog had never strayed far. Cloaked in shadow, with his skeletal face glinting under moonlight and his curved sickle always within reach, he had been stalking Faro relentlessly. He knew that as long as Falcon lived, the legacy of justice could be rekindled. And the only way to snuff it out forever… was death.
Murder Dog wasn’t interested in games anymore. The Stone of Tomorrow had changed the balance. Rita’s revival of Faro proved they still had something sacred — something powerful.
That night, as Rita slept beside Faro under the open stars of the oasis, the stillness of the dunes was broken by the faint crunch of bone and sand. Murder Dog had arrived.
And this time, he wouldn’t miss.
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