Review: 'Omega The Unknown': The Strangest Comic Marvel Ever Published, TwiceA comic review article by: Jason Sacks, Keith Silva
Jason Sacks: Omega the Unknown by Jonathan Lethem, Karl Rusnak, Farel Dalrymple and Paul Hornschemeier (with a cameo by Gary Panter) may be the oddest comic Marvel has ever published, but also maybe the most rewarding.
Before we dive into analyzing this book, we must first acknowledge its debts to the original Omega by writers Steve Gerber and Mary Skrenes and artist Jim Mooney, a perfect wish fulfillment-slash-horror story-slash-satire for precocious tweens when it first was released in the mid-1970s. As our pal Daniel and I discussed, the original series was a deeply strange comic itself, a scream of rage, alienation and angst all couched in a standard tights-and-fights type setting. I summed Gerber's comic at the time by saying, "It's all about trying desperately to kick against the pricks and keep trying, sometimes against desperate odds, to just stay alive and going", which is accurate but also a bit too optimistic.
The latter Omega stays true to the original book while blazing its own very unique trail, and I couldn't help but to play with that dichotomy as I started with this book. It's spooky how the early sections of the book parallel the first issue of the original series, and yet how different it is. Some scenes are direct quotes from the original series - I nearly jumped out of my chair when the boy's father asks "Are you in pain?" or when the doctor's lines from the final two panels are a direct quote from the original. It's shocking to see lines that are practically grafted into my brain appear under slightly different circumstances.
But there are major differences, and the new book never refers to the original. The kid from the Gerber series, James-Michael, is called Alexander by Lethem and Rusnak. Alexander's parents are robots, as James-Michael's were, but his mother's final words to the boy changed from Gerber and Skrenes's "You'll be all right, James-Michael. The world may confuse you, but you'll be all right. Only the voices can harm you. Don't listen to the voices. It's dangerous to listen" to "You'll be all right, Alexander. The world may confuse you, but that's true of everyone you'll meet. Just promise me you'll accept their help. You'll need it." This is a significant change, and clearly one that Lethem made intentionally. And I think it may go to the heart of what Lethem may be trying to accomplish in this series.
Lethem and Rusnak take pains to make Alexander different from James-Michael by inverting the lives of the two boys. James-Michael's literal reality was that he was somehow connected to the bizarre super-hero while his immediate need was getting along in his world. Alexander, meanwhile, is portrayed differently. There's talk of his leaving his home schooled environment, of his opening up to others. It's important for Alexander to become part of the larger world around him, while it was important for James-Michael to be able to find his true self. One is intimately focused inward while the other is focused outward.
Thus the seeming unreality of the new Omega is contrasted with the seeming reality of Gerber and Skrenes's creation. The robots that imperil Alexander seem light and cartoonish under the pen of Farel Dalrymple, while Mooney drew his robots as hulking, ponderous and alien. Lethem and Dalrymple present a super-hero who calls himself the Mink and even drives around a truck with his picture on it, while Gerber and Skrenes’s hero never even is given a real name. (He gets the nickname Omega from the Greek letter omega on his costume, but only the Daily Bugle refers to him by that name).
And in fact, the artwork suggests the same dichotomy. Mooney's artwork was adult, professional and mature, while Dalrymple's artwork has a more immature and improvisational feel to it.
This early dichotomy plays out throughout the book – the solid and classical Marvel base on which Gerber and Skrenes played is replaced by a looser but more complex jagged style in which events are piled atop surreal events like a house of cards ready to tumble under the weight of its own storytelling approach. The effect is a thrilling headlong rush of story, a firehose of narrative that drags the reader along without any chance to react to the absurd events that happen.
If Steve Gerber, Mary Skrenes and Jim Mooney's Omega was the alpha of classic Marvel surreal storytelling, then the Jonathan Lethem, Karl Rusnak, Farel Dalrymple and Paul Hornscheimer's Omega is surely its omega. And what do you make of that omega, Keith?
Keith Silva: Very personal, Sacks, very personal.
Omega The Unknown first came to me through a back channel, Lethem's The Fortress of Solitude which I found in a stack of remaindered books at a regional discount retailer, Ocean State Job Lot, on Cape Cod, a bin there found that if ever there was one. It feels apt, to learn about a forgotten superhero -- sorry, a dead superhero who remains a dead superhero -- from a book found in a store for cast offs, overstocks and odd lots. Omega may have come from out among the stars, but the remaindered bin is his one true home world.
Fortress is Lethem's follow-up to his breakout novel, Motherless Brooklyn. Maybe I'm a soft sell, but after having read (and got) all the madness and esprit of Motherless Brooklyn's tourettic detective, I quickly became a Lethem lifer. Lethem writes like he's always clapping on the one and the three, not as a contrarian, but because he knows how to do so and still make the song sing. He's also a bricoleur in the most Joycean sense, books, movies and music his stardust; not to mention, Lethem's uncanny smarts when it comes to the genius, absurdity and bat-shit craziness of Philip K. Dick. Whatever one assigns as 'it,' Lethem has already sussed 'it' out long before we mere mortals catch on.
Omega makes his first appearance on page 83 of Fortress. Lethem's fictional stand-in (and the novel's protagonist), Dylan Ebdus, buys Avengers #138, Marvel Team-Up #43 and three copies of Omega The Unknown, two to save and one to read, from a newsstand. He pays $1.25. Dylan's initial impression of OTU succeeds as critique and as bald truth: ''The comic is weird, worse than unsatisfying.'' Sort of says all one needs know about Gerber, Skrenes and Mooney's debut doesn't it. And yet … and yet …
A quick smile slipped across my face when I read your opening sentence, Jason. You write the Lethem/Rusnak Omega may be ''the oddest comic Marvel has ever published, but also maybe the most rewarding.'' You're spot-on on 'rewarding;' however, I would add 'second' before 'oddest.' Nothing, Jason, no thing in all the ages or multiverses -- not Danny the Street, not Ambush Bug, not Ego and not even Howard the Duck -- tops Gerber and Skrenes alpha Omega for oddness. In either case (alpha or beta, '76 or '03) Omega The Unknown exists in the subjunctive, an expression of unrealities, wishes and possibilities that have not yet occurred, never indicative and always forever in need of a 'that;' a concept so ahead of its time it rides the margins, on the edge of time itself that we may never catch up. Let's away from this navel-gazing and turn to the first word of beta Omega The Unknown and that 'yes.'
After eight horizontal and (and I would add) silent panels, Omega is ambushed by those cartoonish robots you mention. The story's narration proper spreads across the following eight horizontal panels, a demonstration of the duality of comics: words and pictures. Think Lethem has thought about comics, their bones, their theoretical footings once or ten thousand times before? Lethem/Rusnak 's 'it has all been done before beginning' provides perspective for the dilettante and gives a knowing wink to devotee while it keeps the beat of Omega The Unknown's origin. The final sentence this omniscient narrator presents is the series argument: ''Problem is, the forms at the edges at the edges of your world have their own sense of priorities.'' Try as 'they' might to mass market superheroes, to cram the tights-and-fights-set into corporate lockstep, comics, those 'forms at the edges' find a way to offer something new, other worlds, other concerns.
Perhaps Omega The Unknown feels so odd because it's too familiar, too obvious, a literal manifestation of the superhero comic itself as it forever crashes through windows (real and metaphorical) and into our collective unconscious. Omega The Unknown reads as 'worse than unsatisfying' because the monster at the middle of the maze is ourselves. Weird? Yes and yet … I would argue OTU presents as more 'uncanny' than weird. What Lethem and Rusnak hit upon (prioritize) is that sensation, that response, that experience of the familiar and the alien hand-in-hand, forever uncomfortably strange. The title reads Omega The Unknown and yet everything this series stands for -- all the way down -- is the uncomfortableness, the uncanniness of what we call personal and familiar. It's not 'unknown,' it should read: Omega The Uncanny. I believe Marvel may use that term in a few (dozen) of its other offerings.
As I began to formulate my thoughts about our project, Jason, my intent was to begin with the title and work forwards. What do those three words mean and in that order? From the outside, the title presents as non-grammatical and (almost) nonsensical: Omega The Unknown. Only the editorial copy on the inside flap of the collected trade and indicia to the 2003 collected trade edition lists the title as Omega: The Unknown. Otherwise it's always Omega The Unknown. Why didn't Gerber, Skrenes or original series editor Marv Wolfman include a colon or a comma after 'Omega?' That would have made more sense then again this is Omega The Unknown.
Sacks: Keith, what is more unknown to us than ourselves? I mean not just the ourselves as we see ourselves or as the people who care about us see us, but the secret inner self that we carry in our heart and our souls; the engine that drives those inner existential thoughts, that illuminates the world around us; that veritable four long silent panels over two pages of our inner mind.
There's a space between the world as it is and the way that it appears to us and the way that we deal with it. We all live tangibly in the world as it exists around us. We also always live in a different world or should I say many different worlds; a world of perceptions, of disparate elements flying above and around us; a world of the subjective (as you say) in the midst of an objective reality; past, present and future all existing simultaneously in our minds.
I can tell you I arrived at work today and it was sunny this morning, but the good stuff in life, the things that poets write poems about and that musicians write songs about and, yes, that the great comics creators create comics about, is in the way that I interpret my world; in the way that the light from the sun reflects off my car as I walk from my parking space, in the way that my coffee tastes to me with its explosion of delicious bitterness as I consume it; in the way that I feel about the work that confronts me on my workday.
The world Lethem, Rusnak and Dalrymple create is, as you say, a subjunctive sort of comic. It's a world of inside-your-head and outside-of-your-mind. It's a fever dream of imagination that expands the vocabulary and syntax of comics and forces us to perceive not just with that reptilian front-brain sight that we bring to most super-hero comics but also with the more sophisticated mind for abstraction that we bring to more dreamlike and more subjective alternate comics. That frisson gives Omega: the Unknown (or Omega the Unknown, if you prefer; funny how one grammatical symbol means so much) its considerable power.
Chapter six, for instance, begins with the burial of fourteen-year-old Hugh Gold, whose suicide is his attempt to escape being bullied by a gang of thugs at his high school. In most comics, grief and remorse might have been the order of the day in this issue. In most comics, readers might have witnessed (note the subjunctive mood) characters gnashing their teeth, tearing their hair out, and railing about the injustices of the world. Instead, we see characters merely mumble to each other, "The look on their faces… so sad." "Such untruths are awkward for me," Alexander, our lead character replies, interesting without even any closing punctuation in his word balloon.
Is Alexander's robotic indifference to the rest of the human race simply symbolic of his aspirations? Is it a sign he's just too smart or even mentally ill to engage with others? Is it an objective representation of his dislocation of the world or a subjective representation of the way that he feels inside while acts as expected on the outside? At times it seems Alexander is experiencing life as you or I might experience the events in a comic book. Is writer Lethem making a sly comment about how comic fans experience the characters they read about? Should we see Alexander as a proxy for our fan-ish selves?
If so, is the surreal plot an attempt to subvert conventional narrative? It's clear that the vaguely pathetic hero the Mink is in large part an attempt to present a deliberately hokey Marvel-style hero (or villain) in a way that presents the character as he is "between the panels." The Mink gets a great, mock-Marvel grandiose moment at his father's funeral when he screams, "someone will pay for this" to the (of course) rainy sky as he waves his hook at the heavens in anger. Of course, one lost hand is nothing compared to the real tragedy of the death of a child.
But in a Marvel comic, the positions have to be reversed. The hero must be always greater and grander than any mere mortals. Rain must always fall on his head during tragedies. Photographers and police must follow him around, because he is a great man, at least in the same way someone like Donald Trump is a great man.
So what does Lethem do soon after the Mink is done railing against the injustice of it all? We see the hand has grown feet. It's now bigger than a person's head. In fact, the hand has become a messiah -- or at least a celebrity, who is darn close in modern society -- to the people affected with the nanotech virus. A crowd has gathered around the hand inside an empty building. Hundreds of people seem to be present as the hand stands in front of the crowd, the moment pregnant with tension. The hand is a leader, a legend, a thing that has captured their attention.
Even the moments that seem to be normal have an odd feel to them. Alexander has managed to escape his high school hell and has started college early. He's off to Columbia University, where a wide variety of unusual people seem to be affiliated. Dean of Students Quiller seems like an ordinary college dean, but his assistant, Fenton, has the strangest sort of banal but bizarre look about her. You can imagine her in real life being the sort of woman who stares at her shoes all day long and who spends all night blogging about some sort of bizarre pseudo-intellectual subject like, umm, funny books, perhaps.
With her comments about "always being there" [at the Dean’s office], even more odd thoughts are generated. Is Alexander dreaming Fenton? She's kind of an uber-geek, the sort of girl who might be imagined by a real hyper-intelligent child. Is she a figment of Alexander's imagination or a real flesh-and-blood person? And what should readers make of the strange robotics lab that Alexander and Fenton visit together? The lab is amazingly depersonalized and depressing, a real analogue to a kind of mindless drone life that so many people will experience after college. Is Alexander imagining his future, or should readers see the lab as real in some way? This is, after all, a Marvel comic, so should the sinister vibe of the place be seen as symbolic of the fact that many comic readers postpone their youth in an attempt to live in a fantasy world?
Objective and subjective. Subjunctive. Past, present and future. Everything all at once; as it streams at us in a flurry of surreal uber-reality. That's my Omega, which also makes for a pretty amazing alpha.
Silva: Here I was, Sacks, ready to write about how Dalrymple codifies the uncanny in Omega The Unknown with his style of how-not-to-draw-comics-the-MARVEL-way and now you've got me thinking about something else. Oh well, best laid plans …
I wasn't sure where you were going with the first part of your response … and then I remembered my ancient Greek. Well, first I looked up the English phrase I thought of and learned its etymology. Yep, word nerd tried and true. ANYWAY, the Greek goes γνῶθι σεαυτόν. You (and I) know it as 'know thyself.' For all its what-ifs, subjunctives and outré mysteries, Omega The Unknown is a bildungsroman, a coming-of-age story. Titus Alexander Island and James-Michael Starling want to solve similar mysteries: who am I and how did I get here? Existential boilerplate. I'm unconvinced either protagonist gets the answers they're after. Instead, like the rest of us, they make peace and endure. Who these characters become is as important as where -- the agar they develop in. Place matters, but not in the ways readers are accustomed to in almost any other story and certainly most/all comic books.
Place plays a key role in this series be it Washington Heights, Hell's Kitchen or Waldo, New York. If this were any other series, our analysis could comfortably couch in these familiar environs and we would talk about Joseph Campbell and Carl Jung until The Nowhere Man comes home, but we wouldn't be talking about Omega The Unknown.
The Hagia Sophia isn't as byzantine as this series.
The only simple fact is that there are always two: two protagonists, two caretakers, two writers, etc. a constant and consistent parade of doubles. Everything is always riffing off something else. It's exhausting not to mention frustrating. This is why we need a hero, a nerd like Lethem, who, as I said earlier, is the kind of writer whose greatest strength is his secret knowledge of the source material, its potentials, its weaknesses and the many ways to bend it to his will, to reinvent (invert) the inversion.
One reason location is so central to this story is because Omega The Unknown embraces displacement. Omega and James-Michael (and Omega and Alexander) don't fit. Full stop. To lift a lyric from 'Sunset Strip,' off Roger Waters 1987 LP, Radio K.A.O.S, [Omega, James-Michael and Alexander] ''feel alien and strange // Kinda' outta range.'' As if to drive their isolationist agenda home even further Lethem and Rusnak change their protagonist's name from Gerber/Skrenes's James-Michael Starling to Titus Alexander Island (!!!). What mouthfuls. What symbolism. The latter version smacks of an over-educated over thinker's cleverness (takes one to know one, I suppose) whereas the original hints at the connection (and wish fulfillment) between all twelve-year-old males and super heroes. Why the change? Is it change for change's sake? A (not so) veiled John Donne reference (rave on, rave on) or another unknown, another 'island' in an alien sea? And while I'm in an interrogative mood: who the fuck is Karl Rusnak?
The search to find (to place) oneself in Omega The Unknown requires constant propulsion and never going or looking back. Gerber/Skrenes perfectly encapsulate this idea when Omega blasts off from one planet to the next. The reader is told: ''Escape is impossible … departure is not.'' As Omega lights out for his next destination, Jim Mooney draws four identical panels of Omega framed on the right as the planet (his home?) recedes in the background. In an adjacent and slightly larger fifth panel Mooney places Omega frame left -- the left side of his face a shroud of inky darkness -- as he stares forward. The narration reads: ''So his gaze turns inward and ahead, to what lies beyond the long voyage through the …'' A page turn reveals James-Michael as he wakes up in his hospital bed. The narrator's final (and dramatic) word hangs above him in the: ''blackness.''
In Omega The Unknown one person leads to the next and the next and the next because the displaced person needs a tether, a guide. It's Lydia's dying words to Alexander: ''Just promise me you'll accept their help … you'll need it.'' Omega and Alexander are like stars in need of a satellites, worlds within worlds. There's probably some branch or basic theory of physics that describes how momentum leads to mass. I'll go with something more poetic: wing to wing and oar to oar.
Lethem and Rusnak use the same momentum motif as Gerber and Skrenes with a slight course correction (for time and space) and a bit of more forward-thinking. Alexander's handler is still a cross between Night Nurse and Florence Nightingale, another Mid-west country mouse in the big city, another lost soul swimming in this fishbowl. Edie Fallinger neé Ruth Hart (SYMBOLISM!) is Alexander's earthly guardian. Gone from the original recipe, sadly, is Ruth's roommate, Amber. James-Michael says what Lethem and every other precocious tween at the time was thinking about Amber: ''You're interesting. I think I would enjoy …'' Talk about the subjunctive. Amber's 1970's hubba-hubba-ness from her Chrystal-Gayle hairdo to her love of chunky earrings and, of course, those cuffed pants accented with bra top bustiers is replaced by the more sensible and equally über-confident t-shirt and military surplus jacket wearing Amandla. All that remains is the cuffed pants, odd. Amandla upends comic book S.O.P. She provides Alexander a confidant and a true friend, an equal instead of the sexy roomie who's quick with a one-liner. In addition, let's not ignore Amber's job at the Daily Bugle which allows her (and the series) to be a continuity conduit to the rest of the Marvel Universe.
Amandla deserves more than a passing mention and more than a 'this-not-that' comparison with Amber. So too does Titus Alexander Island's 'His Girl Friday,' the real 'geek girl' of Omega The Unknown, Francis Fenton. Is that a name made for a Marvel or what, Jason? And, oh yeah, she's definitely blogs about comic books or could/should. Two. Again, why always two? I'll talk more about Amandla when I talk about Farel … you know the cartoonist (?) who has to make sense of this combination of doubles and doubles of doubles.
One thing there is more than two of in Omega The Unknown is plot threads. Between the Mink's hijinks, the spread of the nanotechnology virus, the origins of the Omegas, the robots chasing Omega and the giant head and hands sculpture who acts as both (of course!) a Greek chorus and a Watcher-like character not to mention the other 'unknowns' we've already discussed there's a whole lot of going on here. Why? Is it all meta-textual stone soup or a series of distractions (displacements) to keep readers from getting to the bottom of this story and does this story even have a bottom?
Sacks: I've spent a lot of time contemplating what you're asking: is this all meta-text or is it distractions from the main story? And, as crazy (predictable?) as it sounds coming from me, the answer is: yes and no. Is that too Rumblefish, too "choose your battles?" I hope not. Let me explain.
Of course this is meta-text. Amongst our 4000 words (thus far) we've found many places where scenes are rendered more relevant and more compelling because of their resonance against the original, unknown Omega (the alpha Omega, if you will). Unlike any other comics reboot or reimagining, this new Lethem/Rusnak/Dalrymple Omega is a commentary on the initial series. It provides context. It provides grounding. It adds cryptic and fascinating satire on top of an already cryptic and satirical work. And maybe, most resonant of all, it provides commentary on the question of what it means to be a hero, especially a laconic and unknowable hero, in our weird-ass modern world. And it also blows shit up.
Lethem builds on the tradition Gerber created because nobody in comics ever saw existence as absurd in quite the way Gerber did (who else would dress the Hulk in a clown mask and have him rant "Bozos! Bozos! We're all bozos"? Or set an issue of his Guardians of the Galaxy comic on the Planet of the Absurd? Or have an entire issue of Howard the Duck act as an existential rant?). Nobody could possibly be Gerber. Lethem paid Gerber the best possible gift with his take: he provided a satire of a satire, filtered through his own very unique viewpoint.
Lethem remains true to the spirit of Gerber/Skrenes/Mooney while doing his own thing; he creates a copy of a copy as full of riddles and enigmas as the story wants or needs to be. Just as with the original Omega – and completely different from it– the reader is left with a multitude of questions, and isn't it wonderful? The questions aren't only about the nature of what happens to the characters, -- the ultimate fate of Omega leads one to despair; the ultimate fate of The Mink, with its Dark Knight Returns vibe, resonates -- but about more existential topics: how we interact with place, the problem(s) with silencing our internal voices, the very core of what it means to have a unique identity in an indifferent world.
Equally exciting for me is that this graphic novel feels like the exemplar of a different sort of narrative: oblique and confusing, full of sidewise glances and furtive leaps, thrusts and parries that puts the reader in a unique mind-space as they consume a work that somehow feels three-dimensional in a library full of two-dimensional narratives.
I started this piece forever ago talking about how this may have been the most rewarding book Marvel has ever published. If anything, our conversation has only reinforced that impression. With Farel Dalrymple's 'how-to-draw-comics-the-(non)-MARVEL-way style' (what a lovely way to put it, Keith) and the uncanny narrative density Lethem and Rusnak create, Omega: the Unknown is one to return to again and again, to try in vain to unravel and puzzle out its mysteries.
That is an effort fated to fail. This sublime graphic novel is an Omega. It's an End. And it shall always be fated to be Unknown.
Silva: As you know, Jason, I avoid personal pronouns in my writing like Butter Dogs burgers. If a reader wants to know what I think, read what I write, it's all there. As 'I' have spent the last half-an-hour or so, proofreading, deleting and rewriting (Vive clarity) I've gained an insight about this unknowable Omega The Unknown that's been, like my 'I', hiding in the periphery: OTU is a difference engine, a furtive glimpse (as you say) into a subjunctive future, an atypical way of seeing and thinking about mainstream superhero comic books and comics themselves. I feel the same way when I look at Bill Sienkiewicz's work on The New Mutants, anything by Paul Pope and Daytripper by Moon and Bá; confirmation of the promise made by Jack Kirby, Will Eisner, Moebius, Kojima and others that comics by their very nature can (and should) innovate and challenge the reader 's expectations.
I recently read Dylan Horrocks's Hicksville. The epigraph to Chapter One is a Stan Lee quote from 1973: ''From now on, I do not want progress.'' I'd like to research the context of this quote before writing off Stan (Music Lover) Lee … forever; however, with a statement like that what else does one need to know? I get it, Lee had already made his bones. Maybe it was some negative reinforcement for the 'kids' in the Bullpen, maybe he was tired. Either way, I'm as happy as James-Michael in his Three's Company living arrangements that Gerber and Skrenes ignored the boss a couple years later when they loosed their Frankenstein on an unsuspecting public and on devotees like Johnathan Lethem and Jason Sacks.
I was so impressed by Dalrymple's Delusional I expected Omega The Unknown to look as confident, as strong, even though many of the illustrations and strips in Delusional predate OTU. Dalrymple works different muscles in Omega. He has to sustain the sequentials, so to speak, rather than apply his other talents to the page -- would one watercolor have been too much (?). I can see Amandla in the character of Em from the stories about the three girls in Delusional. The image of the three girls performing at Smith's is very familiar to the panel of the O-Thinkers rocking out in chapter VIII right down to the fact Amandla and Em both play guitar. Damn, Dalrymple draws great-looking guitars.
Each of his title pages to Omega The Unknown are masterworks of composition and design. I'm particularly fond of the opening page to chapter three which shows Alexander's first (?) day at Sammy Sosa High School. Alexander is placed (almost) in the center of a frame that's drawn like an optical illusion, one those receding rooms where tall people look short and vice versa. The eye is drawn to the top of the page, to a giant word bubble (Dalrymple letters OTU as well) and then down to Alexander with his left hand raised as if he's pointing at the giant bubble himself. Perhaps it's more like a nuclear explosion like the Trinity test in '45, the word bubble forms the mushroom cloud as the rest of the image radiates out below it to form the classroom and the students. This way to thinking makes the students, many of them with their heads turned to hear Alex, like those researchers and physicists left to wonder what the hell is happening. What is high school other than a proving ground?
Hornschemeier uses the same color blue, a turned down periwinkle, for both set of windows at the back of the classroom and for the teacher's shirt. If one were to draw a line from each of those mullioned windows to the teacher, it forms a 'V' and smack dab in the middle sits our favorite misfit. Draughtsman, cartoonist, codifier of the uncanny, Dalrymple does it all.
Ω Ω Ω
Escape from Omega The Unknown is impossible, but departure is not. Safe to say, there will never be another comic book as weird, as muddled as or as subjunctive as Omega The Unknown, ever. Until, of course, some (as yet) nameless over-thinker, some 'finely tuned organism,' decides the world may (finally) be ready for the sensational superhero called Omega. I doubt it.
''Don't listen to the voices.''