Cal Faros stood in the garden like a man who had learned to wear confidence the way others wore clothes. The white suit fit him perfectly, the red-tinted glasses hiding his eyes, his hands resting casually in his pockets as if nothing in the world could reach him. Around him, laughter and perfume lingered. Three women pressed close, each drawn to a different version of the same man—his charm, his mystery, his power.
But the house behind them was watching.
Rita Faros stood at the top of the mansion steps, arms crossed, her posture rigid with restraint. The breeze lifted her hair, but her expression didn’t move. This was her home. Her legacy. And the son she had raised now stood below, turning her garden into a stage.
Cal felt her before he saw her. He always did. A tightening in his chest, a flicker of irritation masked by a crooked smile. He didn’t turn around. Not yet. Turning would mean acknowledging what he was avoiding.
To him, this moment was freedom—proof that he belonged to no one, that he could live unanchored, untouched by expectation. To Rita, it was something else entirely. A boy pretending to be untouchable, surrounded by distractions because he was afraid to stand alone.
The women sensed the shift. The laughter softened. Someone glanced back toward the steps. No one spoke.
Rita didn’t shout. She didn’t move. She simply stood there, disappointment sharper than anger, letting silence do what words never could.
Cal finally turned his head just enough to meet her gaze through the tinted glass. For a heartbeat, the suit, the charm, the game—all of it slipped. What remained was a son who knew exactly why he couldn’t settle down, and a mother who knew he would have to learn the cost of that choice on his own.
Then Cal smiled again, and the moment passed.
Mother Knows the Green
Rita watched the ball disappear across the green, its path clean and certain, and for a moment she said nothing. Albort stepped back politely, already knowing this was not a conversation meant for him. Cal stood beside his mother, club resting against his shoulder, his smile easy, practiced.
“You swing like you don’t care where it lands,” Rita said at last. “That works in golf. Not in life.”
Cal sighed, half amused, half irritated. “Here we go.”
She turned to him then, really looked at him, the way only a mother can—past the charm, past the suit, past the careless confidence. “I’ve seen the women you surround yourself with. Ambition, beauty, secrets. You call it freedom, but it looks more like noise.”
“They’re just companions,” Cal replied. “Nothing serious.”
“That’s exactly the problem,” Rita said calmly. “Nothing is ever serious. You keep everyone at arm’s length so no one can hurt you. Or expose you.”
Cal’s jaw tightened. “You don’t understand.”
Rita smiled sadly. “I understand more than you think. I know what it’s like to live with danger, to love someone knowing the world might take them from you. But love isn’t a weakness, Cal. Running from it is.”
He looked away toward the mansion, the house that had watched him grow up, that had seen too many late nights and too many empty mornings. “Settling down means giving something up.”
“Yes,” Rita said softly. “It means giving up the illusion that you can live alone forever. And in return, you gain something steadier than thrill. Someone who stands when the parties end and the masks come off.”
The wind moved through the trees. Cal said nothing.
Rita placed a hand on his arm, firm but gentle. “One day, you’ll be tired of being admired and want to be known. When that day comes, I hope you don’t realize you’ve already pushed the right person away.”
She stepped back, leaving him with the quiet and the weight of her words. Cal stared out across the green again, but this time the horizon didn’t look quite as open as it had a moment before.
Rita Faros spent the day at Cal Mansion the way she always did when she was determined to reclaim time from the noise of the outside planet—deliberately, gracefully, and on her own terms.
The morning began in the indoor pool, where sunlight filtered through the glass ceiling and painted the water in soft blues and golds. Rita moved through the pool with calm strength, her red swimsuit cutting clean lines through the water as she swam lap after lap. There was no hurry in her motion, only control. At the edge of the pool, Cal Faros sat quietly, his feet submerged, watching her with an expression that mixed admiration and thoughtfulness. He said little, and Rita didn’t need him to. This was a shared silence—mother and son occupying the same space without performance, without defenses. When she finally surfaced and rested her arms on the edge, she smiled at him, and for a moment he was no billionaire, no vigilante—just her boy again.
As evening settled over the mansion, the atmosphere shifted. The dining room glowed with candlelight, reflections dancing across polished wood and crystal glassware. Rita had changed into a black gown, elegant and understated, the kind that carried authority without demanding attention. Cal sat across from her, relaxed but attentive, holding a glass of wine as if the ritual itself mattered more tonight. Behind them, Albort moved with quiet precision, serving the meal as he always did—present, respectful, and unobtrusive. Conversation flowed gently, touching on memories, small observations, and unspoken concerns. Rita listened more than she spoke, her gaze steady on Cal, as if weighing how much of her advice he was finally ready to hear.
Later, the mansion grew quieter still. In the entertainment room, Cal settled into the sofa, the weight of the day easing from his shoulders. Rita stood nearby, still in her gown, the room lit warmly around her. When she began to host to sing, her voice filled the space—not loud, not performative, but rich with feeling. It was a song meant for one listener. Cal watched her, the edge in his expression softening, as if the melody was reaching parts of him that words never could. For Rita, it was a gift: a reminder that strength could be gentle, that love didn’t always need instruction.
By the end of the night, Cal Mansion felt less like a fortress and more like a home. Rita had swum, dined, and sung her way through the day—not to control her son’s choices, but to remind him that beneath the freedom he chased, there was something steadier waiting for him, whenever he chose to reach for it.
Moonlight filtered through the thick leaves of Thundarr Forest, turning the mist silver and green. The red snake rose from the undergrowth like a living scar in the jungle, its scales glowing dark crimson, its yellow eyes fixed on prey. Its mouth opened wide, fangs dripping venom that hissed when it touched the forest floor.
Ronda Riy screamed and stumbled backward, her white shoes slipping on damp leaves. Fear froze her in place. The forest felt suddenly too close, the shadows pressing in. She could hear her own heartbeat louder than the night insects.
Then Faro moved.
He stepped in front of her without hesitation, placing himself between Ronda and the serpent. His arm came up smoothly, muscle tight beneath his black shirt, the Power Ring of Falcon flaring to life on his finger. Orange light burst outward, warm and fierce, cutting through the darkness like a blade.
“Behind me,” Faro said, his voice steady.
Ronda obeyed instinctively, clutching his arm as she pressed close to his back, still screaming, still shaking. She could feel the heat of the ring, the pulse of power traveling through Faro’s body as if the forest itself had chosen him.
The snake struck.
Its head lunged forward, jaws snapping shut where Faro had stood a heartbeat before. Faro twisted his stance and unleashed the beam. A focused stream of orange energy tore through the air and slammed directly into the creature’s open mouth. Sparks exploded outward, lighting the trees and leaves in flashes of fire and gold.
The snake recoiled, shrieking in a sound that rattled the forest. Its massive body thrashed, crushing vines and snapping branches as it pulled away, wounded and furious. Smoke curled from its scales where the beam had struck.
Faro did not chase it. He held his ground, arm still raised, eyes locked on the retreating shape until the jungle swallowed it whole. Only when the forest fell silent again did the glow of the ring fade.
Ronda’s screams turned into sobs. She pressed her forehead against Faro’s shoulder, breath uneven, hands trembling.
“It’s gone,” Faro said quietly.
She nodded, unable to speak yet, but alive. Safe.
Above them, the moon slipped free of the clouds, casting calm light over the leaves. The forest resumed its breathing. And in that moment, standing together in the aftermath, Ronda understood something she would never forget.
On Planet Thundarr, monsters existed. But so did protectors.
Falcon the 3rd – Issue #3 Shecon is a highly skilled warrior with exceptional stamina, allowing her to run at high speeds and climb with agility far beyond a normal…
Falcon the 3rd – Issue #3
Shecon is a highly skilled warrior with exceptional stamina, allowing her to run at high speeds and climb with agility far beyond a normal female soilman. She wields a power boomerang that always returns to her when summoned, making it a versatile weapon. Her smart goggle, connected to the Thundarr Database Center, grants her access to facial profiles, identity verification, and night vision, enhancing her tactical awareness. Combined with her combat prowess, these abilities make Shecon a formidable force in Thundarr Forest and beyond.
The Thundarr Forest lay cloaked in darkness, the towering trees swaying with the night’s wind. From high above, Shecon—Rita Faros—moved gracefully through the branches, her sleek, skin-tight black leather suit glinting under the moonlight. Her long-heeled boots barely made a sound as she landed on a sturdy branch, scanning the ground below. The orange-toned ski goggles resting on her face enhanced her vision, allowing her to see Hogzilla, a villager on a donkey, traveling with a sack of gold.
His destination was another village—his daughter’s wedding depended on this fortune.
But fate had other plans.
From the shadows, two figures stepped into his path.
Mister Gee, a grizzled 35-year-old thug with a scar running down his cheek, cracked his knuckles, while beside him, Bad Lad, a cocky 16-year-old delinquent, twirled a dagger.
“Hand it over, old man,” Mister Gee sneered.
“Yeah,” Bad Lad grinned. “Before we get nasty.”
Shecon didn’t hesitate. Her power boomerang whirled through the air, striking Mister Gee in the shoulder, sending him reeling.
Bad Lad, however, dodged just in time. He spotted her in the trees.
Before she could react, a sharp stone struck the back of her head.
CRACK!
Her vision blurred, her balance wavered, and before she could regain control, Mister Gee lunged forward, grabbing her wrists and forcing her down.
Bad Lad cheered. “We got her! Let’s take her to the boss!”
As the world faded to black, she heard Hogzilla’s desperate cries for help.
Shecon’s Dungeon
In the depths of the castle, Shecon sat chained to the stone wall. Her wrists ached, but her resolve remained unbroken.
The Evil Master, a purple cloaked figure with glowing green eyes, loomed outside her cell. “You meddle too much, Shecon,” he hissed. “Perhaps a few nights in my dungeon will humble you.”
Shecon smirked despite the pain. “That’s cute. Do you rehearse your evil speeches?”
The Evil Master’s eyes narrowed with rage. Before he could respond, a sudden knock at the dungeon door!
The Evil Master turned sharply. “What?!”
The Evil Master open the dungeon door to find no one there, it was Tiwa the fairy of Falcon who can appear and disappear from anywhere anytime – she was trying to distract the Evil Master from harming Rita the Shecon till Faro arrives at the castle to rescue her alive.
Shecon grinned. “Sounds like some ghost is trying to get your attention.”
Falcon Arrives
Deep in the Cave of Falcon, Faro Faros—the new Falcon—stood by the fire, when suddenly, Tiwa, the fairy of Falcon, appeared in a burst of light.
“Falcon! Shecon has been captured!” she squeaked.
Faro froze.
He had heard the name before. Shecon. A warrior of Thundarr Forest. A legend.
“Where?” he demanded.
“Hogzilla was attacked! Shecon saved him, but she was taken to the Castle of Evil Master!“
Without hesitation, Faro grabbed his Power Ring to turn into the Falcon.
He sprinted to his trusted horse, Lightning, and leaped into the saddle.
“Yah!” he commanded, and Lightning galloped into the night.
At the edge of a moss-covered clearing, the massive, boar-like figure of Hogzillah stood, his muscular frame trembling with grief. The towering pigman, his thick tusks dulled by sorrow, wiped his watery eyes as Falcon landed before him with a silent yet powerful presence.
“Hogzillah,” Falcon greeted, his voice calm but firm. “What happened?”
The pigman let out a guttural, sorrowful snort before falling to his knees. “Falcon… They took it! My gold pouch! I worked for years to save for my daughter’s wedding in the Village of Pigmen—gone, all gone!” He clenched his massive fists, his heavy body shaking with a mixture of sorrow and rage.
Falcon narrowed his eyes. “Who did this?”
Hogzillah sniffled, his large nostrils flaring as he choked back his emotions. “It was Mister Gee and the Bad Lad! They ambushed me on the trade route near the Root Hollow Path. I was carrying the gold when they appeared—Mister Gee with his smooth, smug words distracting me, while that treacherous Bad Lad struck from behind! Before I could react, they were gone, laughing as they fled toward the northern caves!”
Falcon’s fists tightened. Mister Gee—the sly, silver-tongued conman with a knack for deception—and Bad Lad, his ruthless, violent enforcer, had long been a scourge upon the region. This was not a simple robbery. It was an act of cruelty against a father who wanted nothing more than to see his daughter wed in peace.
“Don’t worry, Hogzillah,” Falcon said, resting a firm hand on the pigman’s shoulder. “I’ll get your gold back.”
Storming the Castle
The Castle of Evil Master loomed against the sky, a fortress of blackened stone.
From the shadows, Falcon dismounted and pulled out his grapple hook.
Whoosh!
It latched onto a high ledge, and with a swift motion, he ascended the wall like a phantom.
Once inside, he moved through the halls, taking down guards in swift, brutal silence.
Falcon vs. The Henchmen
Mister Gee and Bad Lad blocked his path.
“You’re dead, Falcon!” Mister Gee growled, drawing a sword.
Bad Lad cracked his knuckles. “Time to finish what we started!”
Falcon dodged Mister Gee’s blade, countering with a brutal kick that sent the older thug crashing into a wall.
Bad Lad lunged at Falcon—only to be caught mid-air and slammed onto the floor.
With both criminals incapacitated, Falcon sprinted toward the dungeon.
Finally, he reached the dungeon.
With a powerful kick, the iron door flew open.
Inside, shackled to the stone wall, was Shecon.
Faro’s breath caught in his throat.
He knew that face.
Even with the ski goggles covering her eyes, even in the battle-worn suit, he recognized her instantly.
Rita Faros.
His aunt.
The Reunion
Shecon lifted her head at the sound of the breaking door.
When her goggles locked onto the man standing before her—the warrior with the Falcon Power Ring—her heart stopped.
She knew that face.
Faro.
Her lips trembled. “Faro…?”
His jaw tightened, emotions battling within him. “It’s me, aunty Rita.”
Tears welled in her eyes as she ripped off her goggles, revealing the raw emotion beneath them.
“Oh, Faro!”
She lunged toward him, her arms wrapping around him as tears streamed down her cheeks.
Faro was momentarily stunned as she hugged him tightly, her body pressing against his.
Then, she kissed him on the lips.
The moment her lips met his, heat surged through his body. He was caught between shock and something far deeper.
Her kiss was not just relief. It was longing. Grief. Passion.
When she finally pulled away, her hands cupped his face, her green eyes shimmering.
“You’re alive,” she whispered. “My beautiful boy… You’re Falcon.”
Faro exhaled, his heart pounding. “And you’re Shecon.”
She smiled, though tears still glistened. “Yes. But right now, we need to get out of here.”
Faro nodded. “Stay close.”
The Battle & The Escape
As they fought through the castle, taking down guards side by side, it felt as if they had been fighting together for years.
When they reached the throne room, the Evil Master stood waiting.
“You think you can take her from me?” his voice hissed
“You’re too late,” he sneered. “This is my domain!”
Falcon and Shecon charged him together. Their combined attacks overwhelmed him, forcing him to retreat into the shadows.
Before they could land a final blow, the Evil Master suddenly disappeared—vanishing into a dark portal.
Shecon scowled. “Coward.”
Falcon exhaled. “He’ll be back.”
With the Evil Master gone, the castle remained standing, shrouded in eerie silence.
“We should burn it down,” Shecon suggested.
Falcon shook his head. “Not yet. We don’t know what secrets lie within.”
Shecon exhaled, placing a hand on Faro’s shoulder. “He definitely will be back; we will get him next time”
Faro looked at her, still reeling from their reunion. “Yes Aunty, we will.”
The Return to Pigmen Village
As dawn broke over Thundarr Forest, the two warriors rode Lightning, Falcon’s powerful black stallion, galloping through the mist-covered trees.
By the time they reached the Village of Pigmen, the entire town had gathered, anxiously awaiting their arrival.
Hogzillah stood at the front, his massive frame trembling with anticipation. Beside him, his daughter—dressed in a modest yet elegant wedding gown—clutched her hands together, eyes brimming with hope.
Then, Falcon raised the gold pouch high into the air.
A wave of cheers erupted through the village. Hogzillah’s eyes welled with fresh tears, but this time, they were of joy. He rushed forward, dropping to one knee before Falcon and Shecon.
“You have saved my daughter’s wedding… and my honor,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “I—I don’t have the words to thank you.”
The villagers surrounded them, their cheers growing louder. The elders of Pigmen lifted Falcon and Shecon onto their shoulders, hailing them as the Heroes of Thundarr Forest.
“The forest has not seen warriors like you in generations!” one villager proclaimed.
Hogzillah’s daughter stepped forward, bowing gracefully before Falcon and Shecon. “Because of you, today will be the happiest day of my life.”
Falcon simply nodded, placing the gold pouch into her hands. “Then let it be so.”
As the wedding preparations resumed, the village erupted into a night of music, dance, and celebration. Around the grand bonfire, villagers chanted the names Falcon and Shecon, ensuring that their heroism would be remembered in legend.
But as Falcon and Shecon stood at the edge of the festivities, gazing into the distant horizon, they both knew…
The forest air trembled as the skull-faced creature crouched on the branch, its blade gleaming in the mist. Rita slid back in the dirt, breath sharp, heart pounding like thunder trapped in her ribs. Beside her, Faro rose to one knee, the Ring of Falcon burning like a miniature sun in his fist. Leaves shook loose from the trees, orbiting him in a fiery spiral. The creature hissed, red hair writhing like furious flames. Faro didn’t blink. The glow spread up his arm. “Stay behind me,” he whispered. Rita clutched the earth. The forest fell silent, waiting for destiny to strike.
The forest seemed to hold its breath. Mist clung to every branch like ghostly webs, and Rita felt it on her skin, cold and invading. Her legs slid across the mossy earth as she scrambled back, breath ragged, dress streaked with dirt. She didn’t dare blink. The thing on the tree was watching them.
It crouched like a nightmare given flesh: a towering soilmen male with muscles knotted like ropes under pale skin, long red hair like wildfire whipping in the wind, and a skull where a face should be. Empty sockets stared down, black and endless. In its fist, a jagged blade glinted, thirsty.
Faro rose to one knee beside her, jaw clenched. He looked impossibly young in that moment, a soilmen boy with red hair and fear in his eyes. But fear wasn’t all. In his hand, the Ring of Falcon began to glow, a trembling spark at first. Then it flared, lighting the trees with a surge of orange fire like dawn breaking in his palm.
Leaves spun around his arm, drawn to the glow as if gravity had shifted. Rita felt the heat lick her cheek, warm and alive. “Stay behind me,” Faro whispered, voice shaking but sure. She heard duty in it. She heard destiny. She heard the echo of every Falcon before him.
The creature shifted. Bark cracked under its weight as it pressed forward on the branch. Its grin stretched impossibly wide across bone, a hollow threat. It raised the blade.
Rita’s fingers dug into the soil. She could not run. Even if she tried, her body refused. Something ancient in the forest was awake now. Something older than fear.
Faro stood, arm outstretched, the ring a burning star in the ruins of the night.
Moonlight clung to the treetops like pale fire, and the clearing below held its breath. Falcon’s boots carved backward through the soil as he dodged, heartbeat rising like thunder in his ribs. He had never seen a thing like this; he had never even imagined it. Murder Dog lunged again, his bare feet silent, his movements too smooth for something so monstrous. The skull that served as his face caught the moonlight, hollow eyes gleaming with a hunger that was not human.
Falcon’s ring pulsed. The orange glow flickered in time with his fear, brightening each time he lifted his fist. He could feel it, like a second heartbeat, like something ancient inside him had woken up just to witness this moment. The forest bent around them, branches twisting like they were afraid to get too close.
Murder Dog’s blade cut the air where Falcon had been only a breath before. He stumbled, stepped wide, barely caught himself. His throat felt tight, his voice locked behind terror, but he managed to raise his hand. The ring’s glow crawled up his forearm like fire made of memory.
“Who are you?” Falcon asked, but the question fell flat, swallowed by fog. Murder Dog offered no answer. The red hair that hung around his skull swayed like bloodied strands of a nightmare, and his chest rose and fell with the quiet rage of an animal denied its meal. Then he moved again—fast, impossibly fast—and Falcon felt the air break beside him. The blade never touched, but he felt its promise.
Somewhere behind him in the trees, a branch snapped. Perhaps the forest wanted to run. Perhaps it prayed. Falcon planted his feet. He did not know how to fight someone like this. He barely knew how to fight at all. But he knew how to survive. And the ring, warm now, seemed to whisper that surviving was enough. For now.
Falcon’s stance changed. His breath steadied. Murder Dog halted mid-stride, skull angled, sensing the shift. They faced each other as the fog thickened, as the moon hid behind thin clouds, as the world trembled on the edge of whatever came next. Falcon’s fist rose, ring flaring.
The first chapter of fear was ending.
And the night, impossibly dark and wide, opened its mouth to begin another.
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:
What am I, if not Falcon anymore?
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